Lancelot (11 page)

“’Tis hardly fair to blame him for that,” Elaine protested weakly as Brisen began the second braid. “If he did not love them—those heiresses and princesses . . .”

“True enough. But they say he is in love with a woman he cannot have, the wife of the man he admires above all others.” Brisen’s hands stilled. “If that is so, lady, what better way to throw the gossips off his trail than to feign
devotion to another lady—even if she is the daughter of a poor country lord?”

“I don’t believe it,” Elaine said at once. “He isn’t like that.”

“What
is
he like?”

“He is . . .”
Wonderful. Perfect. Every dream I’ve ever had come true.
“He told me he had made mistakes—done things he regretted—but he is different now.”

“Oh, is he?” Brisen grasped her chin. “He kissed you.” She turned Elaine’s head aside and touched a spot upon her neck. “And more, besides. How much more?”

Elaine jerked away. “I am still a maid, if that is what you’re asking.”

“It is.” Brisen’s eyes softened. “You must
think
. I know it isn’t easy, not when you’re feeling all you do, but please, lady, please be careful. If he will not even give you his name, how can you trust him?”

Elaine stared blindly through the window, thinking how this must look to Brisen. She thought Elaine an innocent, easily seduced by a knight of Arthur’s court—the same knight who had wrought such damage to them all. But Brisen did not understand how it had been. She started to explain, then realized she had no idea what to say. That the knight had refused her his proper name, but it didn’t matter since he was not that man at all? That Galahad was real, and Sir Lancelot—or whoever he might be—was not? It sounded nonsensical, yet at the time she had been so certain it was true.

Even now, a part of her accepted this strange certainty without question, but another part—the part that spoke in Aunt Millicent’s voice—derided her as a credulous fool.
He wounded your brother nearly to the death,
it said,
and mocked him after. He says he’s sorry now, but what good are words? If he really cared for you, he would tell you who
he is. If he felt what you do for him, he would not have asked for your sleeve, but for your hand.

“Oh, lady,” Brisen said gently, “I’m not saying this to hurt you. And I could be mistaken. Mayhap he is some other knight. Or it may be as you say, that Sir Lancelot has changed and that there is nothing between him and the queen save idle gossip. It could well be that none of those other ladies suited him as you do.”

Elaine laughed through the tears stinging her eyes. Sir Lancelot du Lac, prince of Benwick, First Knight of Camelot and the Queen’s Champion—caught by her charms? It was a ridiculous thought, and yet . . . yet . . .”

“There
was
something between us—at least, there seemed to be . . .”

“I’m not saying there wasn’t. I just don’t want you to be caught in the middle of some squalid intrigue. And there is this—” She put her hand on Elaine’s shoulder. “Everyone knows Sir Lancelot never wears a lady’s favor in the lists. Yet he asked for yours.”

And how could Brisen have known that? Elaine could not remember having mentioned it. But there was her sleeve, still lying on the windowsill. It did not take the Sight to reason how it had come to be there.

“You think it is part of his disguise.”

“If that is the case, ’twas ill done not to tell you so straight out. And there is this: when his identity is known, such a break with custom will be noticed. I know how those people think; the entire court will talk of nothing else. Any other gossip will be forgotten . . . for a time.”

Elaine could hardly bring herself to speak. “Then—if you are right—it was a rather clever thing to do.”

“Clever, but not kind. Or honorable. Your reputation—”

Elaine laughed, dragging a sleeve across her eyes. “Oh, Brisen, what reputation? No one at Camelot knows me, no
more than I know them! Why should I give a fig for what a pack of strangers say?”

“You shouldn’t,” Brisen said at once. “But I fear Sir Torre will see it differently.”

“He won’t even notice,” Elaine said, “and if he did, he would not care.”

“He notices more than you might think. And he cares a great deal more than he lets on.”

So do you,
Elaine thought. Fond as she was of Brisen, she suspected it was more than the friendship between mistress and servant that kept the healer at Corbenic, when at any time Brisen could have returned to the luxury of Lady Morgana’s household. It was a pity that once Torre left his bed, he had apparently forgotten Brisen’s existence.

“What should I do?” Elaine asked her now.

“Change your gown, wash your face, and go down to supper. After that . . .” Brisen shrugged. “Wait and see.”

L
ANCELOT remembered well the day of Torre’s knighting. The morning had started badly when the king once again refused him permission to leave court and go adventuring. Instead, Arthur sent him to the lists, thinking to appease him, but this only made matters worse. Lancelot, who once reveled in the excitement of the lists, had at some point—during his match with Sir Gawain, to be precise—developed an intense aversion to the pastime.

This was something he could never bring himself to tell the king, for he dreaded the inevitable explanations.
One day,
he had vowed a hundred times,
one day I will speak to the king of this
. Yet that day never seemed to come. On that morning, his courage failed him once again, and he went off, obedient as ever, to dash the dreams of any knight bold enough to issue him a challenge.

As always, there were many.

Lancelot understood. To a point, he sympathized. To unhorse du Lac was to achieve glory in a single stroke, a
prospect too tempting to resist. They all knew victory was unlikely—impossible, they said, though of course the poor fools did not
quite
believe it. Torre had been the last that day, and by then Lancelot had been weary of the whole depressing business. That the boy went down so easily did nothing to improve his mood. He rode off, disgusted, not bothering to so much as glance at his fallen opponent. He did not remember making the comment that had so offended Elaine, but it was precisely what he had been thinking.

If only he’d told Arthur the truth that day, how different everything would be. Now, watching Torre limp down the passageway before him, Lancelot could not recall what excuse he’d used to justify his silence. It didn’t matter. ’Twas pride alone that had sent him out there to destroy this young knight’s dreams, the same pride that led him to deceive his king about the true nature of his First Knight.

Torre threw open the door of a small chamber and gestured Lancelot to enter. He followed and shut the door behind them.

“I think you came here looking for something more than a shield,” Torre said abruptly. “And as my father won’t think to ask what it might be, that duty falls to me.”

“Sir Torre,” Lancelot said with his most charming smile, “I assure you I had no designs in coming here. I was lost, and very fortunate to find you. Thank you again—”

“You are welcome to my shield; as I said, I have no use for it. But I wonder . . . why
do
you ride disguised, Sir Knight?”

“For my own reasons,” Lancelot answered, “and if you will forgive me for saying so, it would be ill done for a fellow knight to inquire any further.”

“Touché.” Torre limped over to the table and filled two
cups from the flagon by the bed. “A Gaulish term, but I don’t have to tell
you
that.”

Torre was auburn-haired, thin to gauntness, and wore a cynical expression that made him appear far older than his years. When he handed Lancelot the cup, their eyes met, and Lancelot realized that Torre had no need to hear his name. He had already guessed it.

“So long as your reasons touch only yourself and your own honor, you are quite right,” Torre went on, swirling the liquid in his own cup. “But when you involve others in your deception—”

“
Deception
is a strong word,” Lancelot retorted evenly. “It is not uncommon for a knight to ride unknown into a tournament.”

“But we are not in the lists now, are we? We are in
my
home, where you were stealing kisses from
my
sister not an hour past.”

Poor lad,
Lancelot thought, even as he gripped his cup until his knuckles whitened. He has every cause to dislike me. “I did not
steal
anything from Lady Elaine,” he replied, careful to keep the anger from his voice. “Though I admit I gladly accepted a kiss.”

Torre snorted. “You’d be hard put to deny it. But my sister is no court drab to squander her kisses upon a chance-come stranger. It is
ill done
for a knight to take advantage of a maiden’s innocence.”

Insolent young pup. How dare he mimic Lancelot’s own words to his face? “Sir Torre,” Lancelot said, grasping at the fraying edges of his temper, “I assure you I have nothing but the deepest respect for Lady Elaine.”

Torre eyed him narrowly, seeming not at all comforted by this reassurance. “You say you are a knight of Camelot. Tonight all the king’s companions will be with him on the
eve of his great tournament—all save one, who, for reasons he will not give, wanders nameless in the forest. Tell me, if you had a sister, would you trust such a man with her good name?”

“Perhaps I, too, would have my doubts,” Lancelot said, “though I hope I would have the courtesy to learn the facts before passing judgment.”

“The fact is that you and Elly were alone for the best part of the afternoon. The fact is that you were kissing her just now. These are the only facts that interest me, and I warn you, sir, think twice before attempting such a breach of hospitality again.”

Or what?
Lancelot thought.
Will you challenge me?
From the way Torre’s eyes flashed, he realized the same thought was in the young man’s mind.
My God, he’d really do it,
Lancelot thought; lamed as he is, knowing who I am, he’d still offer me a challenge. Would I have such courage in his place?

But that was not a question he wished to pursue at this particular moment. “While your concern does you credit, ’tis a bit misplaced,” he said. “If you really care for your sister, then take the management of your estate from her hands. She is all too young for such a burden, and too proud to ask for help. Yet she needs it.”

Torre’s fair skin flushed. “I fail to see what concern this is of yours.”

Very much my concern,
Lancelot thought,
as it is I who brought you all to this sorry pass.
But even if he were free to explain and make amends, he doubted this beaten, bitter young man would accept either his help or his apology.

“None,” he said heavily. “Forgive me.”

Torre nodded briefly. “We shall eat in a quarter of an hour.” He tossed back his wine and made his halting way across the floor, pausing at the doorway to look back.
“We are somewhat secluded, but not ignorant of the doings in Camelot. My sister is too fine for the games you play at court. Mind that you remember that, Sir Knight-Without-a-Name. Whatever trouble you are in, Elaine is not the answer.”

Lancelot was still searching for a suitable rejoinder when Torre stepped out and shut the door. The reason it continued to elude him, he realized, was that there wasn’t one.

He walked to the window and gazed out across the fields to the forest, silhouetted against the sky as the sun sank behind the trees. When it rose, he would ride off to the king’s tournament. And when it set again, where would he be?

He shivered and turned away from the bloodred sky, his gaze moving over the small chamber that would be his tonight. The bedclothes were patched and mended, the bowl and pitcher of the meanest pottery. Instead of a candle, a rushlight had been placed beside his bed. It seemed that everywhere he looked, he was faced with a fresh reminder of the poverty of the inhabitants.

I should marry Elaine,
he thought,
and set this all to rights. That is the least I can do.
He passed a few moments imagining this chamber transformed, but when he pictured Elaine, lying on the bed with her bright hair spread across the pillow, he forgot his noble motives.
Yes, I will marry her, I’ll do it. How perfect it will be . . . that is, if she will have me.

He remembered her scornful words regarding Sir Lancelot, each one of them deserved.
But I am different now,
he thought.
Or am I?
Today he was, but tomorrow he would be du Lac again, up to his neck in trouble with no good end in sight. The best he could manage was to stay the tide by a clever deception suggested by the queen.

Deception
. Strange how that word kept cropping up. Or perhaps it was not so strange at that. His entire life was a
deception, after all, a glittering edifice built upon a lie. At any moment the whole thing could come crashing down. How could he even think of dragging any lady, let alone Elaine, into such a mire? But now that he had found her, how could he bear to live a life without her in it?