Lancelot (28 page)

“I am so pleased to see you again,” he said. “Sir Torre, Lavaine,” he nodded to them courteously as he offered Elaine his arm, “would you like to wait in the garden? I was just going there myself. The air in here,” he added, flashing a look of icy contempt across the hall, “does not agree with me.”

It was only when the door was closed behind them that Elaine began to shake.

“Thank you,” she said, “that was a bit . . . awkward.”

Gawain’s lips twitched. “A bit, yes. Here, step inside,” he said, unlatching a low gate leading to a small pleasance nestled between two wings of the castle. Roses overhung a stone wall that overlooked the forest below. A small fountain bubbled into a marble pool where golden fins flashed between water lilies.

“Sir Torre.” Gawain gestured toward a group of stone benches. Torre looked to Elaine, who nodded, then moved off toward the benches with Lavaine and Brisen. Galahad squirmed, crying fitfully, and Elaine bounced him in her arms as she walked toward the low wall, crooning nonsense syllables.

“May I?” Gawain said, and scooped the child into one arm with practiced ease. “That’s enough, now, we’ve all heard you. You’ve nothing to complain about.”

Galahad stilled. The two studied each other with mutual interest.

“Well, you’re a handsome fellow, aren’t you?” Gawain said. He sat down on the wall and held out a finger that Galahad seized in one small fist. “A good grip, as well. The king will be pleased to have you at his table in a few years.”

Galahad let out a gurgle of delighted laughter. For the first time in what seemed like days, Elaine smiled. “You’re very good with him.”

“He’s a fine lad,” Gawain said. “You must be very proud of him.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Elaine’s eyes filled, and she looked away quickly, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“Now, here is what I suggest,” Gawain said, suddenly very brisk. “Sit down and rest yourself—no one should disturb you here—and I will arrange for some refreshment.
Sir Lancelot went off after the king; likely they’re down in the mews. I will see he joins you shortly. Would you like your brothers to stay, or shall I—”

But Elaine was no longer listening. Over his shoulder she had seen a man walk out of the shadow of the trees. He moved slowly, his dark head bent, but even before he looked up, she knew that it was Lancelot. He did not see her; he was staring straight ahead.

Gawain turned to look over his shoulder. “Ah,” he said, his voice neutral. “Here he is now.”

Elaine took a step forward, her hands clenched between her breasts, every muscle trembling. She tried to call out to him, but no sound came from her lips.

Lancelot turned as if he meant to walk into the orchard. But he stopped at the first tree, braced a palm upon its bark, and rested his brow against his outstretched arm, every line of his body etched with despair.

“Shall I . . . ?” Gawain asked in a low voice, but before Elaine could answer, Lancelot turned his head, and their eyes met.

For one terrible moment, she was sure he had not recognized her. His expression did not change nor did he move. Then his arm fell slowly to his side; he straightened, the dark wings of his brows drawing together in a frown. Elaine’s heart lurched—the air left her body in a sickening rush. Lancelot’s eyes grew very wide. Then he was running up the slope, a blur of gold and crimson against the green grass. He vaulted lightly over the wall, only to halt half a dozen paces from her.

“Elaine?” he said, as though even now he was not quite certain she was really there.

She nodded helplessly, and before she stopped to think, her arms rose, reaching for him. He did not move, or smile,
or speak again. A blazing rush of heat suffused her face, and her arms fell stiffly to her sides. She was aware of Gawain rising to his feet beside her, of Torre and Lavaine moving forward, and she knew that she must speak, say something, anything to defuse this unbearable tension, but before she could force her numb lips to move, Lancelot took a few steps forward, one hand outstretched.

“Elaine?” he said again, and she saw his hand was shaking as he reached out and touched her cheek, his callused fingertips rough against her skin. “You—it really
is
you—” he said, and then he made a sound that was only half laughter and seized her in his arms, crushing her against him, burying his face against her neck.

“Of course it’s me,” she said. “Did you think I was a wraith?”

“I thought I was—it doesn’t matter now, you’re here—” He drew back and looked into her face as though assuring himself that this was true, and then he laughed and kissed her cheeks and brow and eyes before his lips found hers.

Elaine forgot the others. She forgot everything in the wild rush of joy sweeping through her. How could she have ever doubted him?

“Lancelot,” she said at last, drawing away. “Lancelot, wait—no, wait, look at me, I have to tell you something.”

Galahad, ignored by everyone, gave a sharp, demanding wail.

Lancelot raised his head. “What—”

He looked around, bewildered, his eyes narrowing when he noticed Gawain, who immediately thrust the baby into Elaine’s arms. “Forgive me,” he said, “I did not mean to intrude.”

“Who—?” Lancelot said, staring from Galahad to Gawain. “What—?”

“Lancelot,” Elaine said swiftly, “this is your son.”

The moment the words were spoken, she wished them back again. This was not how she had meant to tell him. Every trace of color drained from his face, and she instinctively tightened her hold on Galahad, gripping him so fiercely that he let out an indignant squeak.

“My son?” Lancelot repeated hoarsely. “My . . . ?”

“Ours,” Elaine rushed on. “He was born just before Easter. His name is Galahad.”

“Galahad?” Lancelot raised his eyes to her; they were shimmering with tears. “Our—oh, Elaine,” he whispered, “is it so?”

She nodded silently.

“You were—and I left—why did you not tell me?”

“I did not know.”

Lancelot touched one of Galahad’s curls, then pulled his hand away. “Look at him, Elaine,” he breathed, “is he not beautiful?”

“Yes,” she said, laughing through her tears. “He is. Do you want to hold him?”

Lancelot drew back. “Oh, no—do you think I should? He’s so small.”

“Nonsense, he’s enormous. Take him—he won’t break, I assure you. Just put your hands here—and here—that’s right.” He held Galahad stiffly before him, an expression of such mingled pride and terror on his face that even Torre, who had been regarding Lancelot with wary disapproval, burst out laughing.

Then they were all laughing, standing among the roses with the fountain singing and the sunshine warm upon their heads. Slowly, carefully, Lancelot drew his son closer until Galahad’s bright curls rested on his heart. Elaine leaned against him, her cheek upon his shoulder, as they gazed down on their child.

The others fell silent, and as one they turned and left the garden. Torre was last, and as he shut the gate behind him, he blinked, a little dazed, as though he had stared too long into the sun.

I
T was only much later, as she and Lancelot lay entwined, that Elaine realized they had not spoken a word since they left the garden. Brisen had been waiting at the gate to take Galahad to his wet nurse, who they had lodged in a small tavern in the village. Lavaine and Torre were nowhere to be seen. Lancelot had simply led her to his chamber and just as simply she had gone, moving as if in a dream.

The dream had shattered only once, when he untied the laces of her gown with shaking fingers.

Galahad’s birth had altered her in ways that went far beyond the physical, though it was the outward changes that were uppermost in her mind as Lancelot eased her gown from her shoulders and bent to her. Even as she gasped at the piercing sweet sensation of his lips against her breasts, a small part of her was aware that they were not as firm and high as they had been the last time Lancelot kissed them.

She tried to lose herself in the pleasure of the moment,
yet when he sought to remove her shift, she resisted, knowing too well what he would find. During the weeks following Galahad’s birth, the flesh had melted from her bones, sharpening cheek and chin and digging hollows above her collarbones. Her hipbones jutted outward, yet between them, the soft skin of her belly sagged like an empty wineskin. It helped matters not at all that their separation had only heightened his beauty. For the first time she saw him as the warrior he was, the muscles of his arms and thighs and belly as sharply defined as though they had been cast in bronze. But he was so sweetly insistent that at last she allowed him to draw off the shift.

As she stood naked before him, she tried to steel herself against his disappointment, masked though it might be by concern. As the silence lengthened, she grew a bit indignant—after all, it was in bearing
his
son that she had changed. She stole a glance at him beneath her lashes, searching his face for any sign of disappointment and finding none. But surely he must notice! How could he not when was devouring every inch of her, first with his coal-bright eyes, then with featherlight touches of his callused fingertips and finally—God help her—with his mouth?

It was then her self-consciousness vanished. She was as she was—and, sweet blessed Lady, what she was, had always been and always would be: his. And he was hers to do with as she would.

His skin was warm and smooth as he slid onto the bed to lie beside her. He cupped her face in his hands, looking deep into her eyes as he had done so many times before, as though seeking something he could never bring himself to ask for.

There was nothing she could give him but herself, but that she offered without reservation, and it was enough. Slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, he joined with her.
When they were one, his smile wrenched her heart, it was so filled with astonishment and gratitude, as though he could not quite believe that anything so wonderful could possibly be happening to him. It fit so precisely with her own feelings that once again she knew beyond a doubt that the two of them had been fashioned for each other.

What need had they of words?
None
, she thought dizzily as he began to move within her, first slowly and then with a gathering urgency as his lips brushed hers in a kiss made all the sweeter for its uncertainty. What they shared could never be explained. It simply was, as natural as the soft rain tapping against the windows and as much of a miracle as the child they had created.

“The birth,” he said at last, drawing her more closely into his arms, “was it . . . ?”

“Rather awful,” Elaine said. “It went on and on—in the end, Brisen had to turn him.” She shuddered at the memory, and his arms tightened around her.

“I’m sorry. I wish I’d been there.”

“Better you were not. I wasn’t feeling very kindly toward you at the time.”

“Elaine, if I had known—”

“You would still have had to go. And even if you’d been with me, there was naught you could have done. I think it is the same for all women at such times,” she added, smiling as she touched his cheek. “Men have all the pleasure and none of the pain . . .”

“
All
the pleasure?”

“Well, half,” she amended.

“Just now, was it . . . all right?”

“Not bad,” she said carelessly, then laughed. “It was wonderful, you noddy.”

“You got my gifts?” he asked. “The sheep and swine and—why are you laughing?”

“I’ll tell you later. The gifts were very thoughtful. But I would rather have had a message.”

“I did not know what to say,” he admitted. “I hated leaving you like that. And after the way we quarreled, I wasn’t sure you’d want to hear from me. I am so sorry—”

“So am I. Let’s not talk of it. Tell me of the battles!”

He grimaced. “They were battles. The king won. That’s what matters.”

“You haven’t changed, have you?” she asked, laughing. “At least I cannot accuse you of conceit!”

“I would much rather hear about you,” he said swiftly. “Are you sure you are well?”

“Do I look so very different?”

“Yes. You are far more beautiful than I remembered, which I would have sworn impossible. But I would like to see a bit more flesh upon your bones.”

“Then you will have to let me up so I can eat.”

He heaved a sigh. “Yes, I suppose . . . or no, I’ll have something brought to us. If you would like.”

“Mmm, yes, I would.” She stretched, feeling every muscle thrill with pleasure. “Wake me when there’s food,” she said, and turning on her side, fell instantly asleep.

Lancelot pulled on a chamber robe and belted it loosely around his waist. Elaine lay upon her side with one knee drawn up and one hand extended, palm upward. He stood by the bed, watching her, then went down upon one knee and took a lock of her hair between his fingers, gently so as not to wake her. He raised it to his lips and inhaled the scent he had dreamed of for so long.

He could not lose her. Not again. Nothing had changed; all the reasons he had given himself to stay away were as true as they had been before, yet everything was different. There was more at stake than his broken heart or even Elaine’s sorrow if they were to part. He was a father. Elaine
had given him a son. The three of them were bound by ties even death could not dissolve.