Lancelot (5 page)

There is only one question that need concern you now,
he told himself sternly,
and that is how to get out of this wretched forest.
A moment later he had the answer, when he glimpsed a stone tower rising above the treetops. With a sigh of relief, he turned his charger’s head toward the tower and kicked the beast into a canter.

T
HEY had nearly reached the hall when Elaine realized they were not alone. A knight stood before the mounting block, holding his horse’s reins. She halted, thinking at first that Cousin Geoffrey had remembered his promise, until she realized that this was no knight she’d ever seen before. Even Geoffrey did not have armor half so fine, and his charger, the envy of five manors, was like a cart horse compared to this blooded beast.

The knight’s helm, adorned with a blue plume, turned in their direction. Though the visor was up, the face beneath remained in shadow.

Her father stepped forward. “Good day to you, Sir Knight, and welcome to Corbenic.” He gestured proudly across the shabby courtyard to the crumbling tower. “I am Pelleas, lord of this demesne. Whence comest thou, my guest, and by what name?”

Elaine held her breath, dreading the strange knight’s mockery, yet when he spoke, there was no laughter in his
voice. “I am a knight of Arthur’s hall,” he answered with grave courtesy, “and tomorrow I joust as one unknown to win King Arthur’s diamond. Hereafter you shall know me, but I pray you ask me not today.”

At his last words, Elaine’s smile died upon her lips. It was unheard of for any stranger to refuse to name himself. Why, he could be any sort of outlaw—Bruce sans Pitie, who had abducted dozens of maidens to his stronghold, or the infamous Sir Turquine—he could be anyone at all! Elaine and Torre exchanged a look, but before either of them could speak, their father forestalled them.

“As you will,” Pelleas replied easily. “I hope that for tonight, you will remain with us.”

“Thank you,” the knight said with a little bow. “And if I might ask another favor . . .”

“Please do.”

“By mischance, I came out with my shield. I pray you to lend me one, blank if such you have, or at least with some device not mine.”

Elaine glanced at the shield in question, strapped to his saddle in its canvas cover. What device did it bear, that its owner was ashamed to show? She threw her father a warning glance, but he was smiling at the stranger as though his extraordinary request was no great matter.

“Oh, that we can give you easily. My elder son, Torre, was hurt in his first tilt. His shield is blank enough.”

Elaine sensed Torre’s shocked anger at this casual bestowal of his equipment upon a nameless stranger, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “Why not?” he said, “you may as well have it; ’tis no use to me.”

“Fie, Sir Churl!” Pelleas chided, laughing. “What sort of courtesy is that? I beg you to forgive him, sir.”

The blue plume dipped as the knight inclined his head. “I am grateful for the loan, Sir Torre.”

Torre nodded briefly, still unsmiling.

“Now, my younger son, Lavaine,” Pelleas continued, “who is but lately knighted, he would ride with you to yonder joust. Why, he is so full of lustihood that he will win yon diamond in an hour, then bring it home to set it in this damsel’s hand! Is that not what you were telling us, Lavaine?”

“No, Father,” Lavaine protested, “do not mock me before this noble knight! I was only joking, sir,” he said earnestly to the stranger, “I but played on Torre—”

“Enough,” Torre ordered sharply, but Lavaine hurried on.

“He was so sullen, vexed he could not go—”

“Did I not say,
enough
?” Torre growled, and aimed a blow at his young brother’s head. Lavaine skipped nimbly away.

“And so I jested with him—for you see, Sir Knight, my sister dreamed that someone put this diamond in her hand, but it was too slippery to hold—”

“Lavaine!” Elaine cried, but he ignored her, too.

“And she dropped it in some pool or stream—belike the castle well—and so I said that
if
I went, and
if
I fought and won it—but it was all a jest, a joke between ourselves—that she must keep it safelier. It was all in fun. But Father,” he cried, “do give me leave to ride to Arthur’s tourney with this noble knight! I shan’t win, but I will do my best to win. I know I am young, but I would do my best.”

“He won’t want to be bothered with you,” Torre began.

“On the contrary,” the stranger cut in smoothly, “I would welcome a friend and guide. And you shall win this diamond if you can—for I hear it is a fair large diamond—and yield it to this maiden, if you will.”

Whoever he might be, his manners could not be faulted. He had a lovely voice, as well, deep and musical and tinged with the faintest suggestion of an accent she thought might be Gaulish. Surely no man who spoke so prettily could be evil.

Torre was not so easily won over. “A fair large diamond is for queens, not simple maids,” he said, both his tone and his expression conveying an unmistakable warning.

“If what is fair belongs only to the fair, what matter if she be queen or not?” the knight retorted coolly. “This maid could wear as fair a jewel as is on earth and never violate the bond of like to like.”

Ha!
Elaine thought, shooting a triumphant glance toward her brother.
He’s put you in
your
place!
She nearly laughed aloud—until the knight removed his helm.

Coal-black hair was plastered to his high brow and heat-flushed cheeks in little whorls. His features were perfectly symmetrical: large, dark eyes and high, chiseled cheekbones, full, ruddy lips above a jaw at once delicate and strong.
No man should be so beautiful,
Elaine thought, the breath catching in her throat. No man
was
. On that she would have sworn an oath. Yet here he stood before her, like some mythical creature who had wandered out of legend into their humdrum little world.

Her last suspicion vanished. Impossible to believe a man so young and fair—for he could not be more than three or four and twenty—and so well-spoken could be anything other than he claimed to be.

“A pretty speech, Sir Knight,” Torre said, and by the amusement in his voice she knew he had reached the same conclusion, “but wasted, I fear, upon my sister. Just as that fair diamond would be wasted upon her. Knowing you, Elaine, you
would
drop it—likely in some drainage ditch—and never even notice.”

There was laughter at that, and Elaine glanced to the knight, meaning to make some light answer. But when their eyes met, a curious stillness fell over the courtyard, and she forgot the words she meant to speak. In the timeless space between one heartbeat and the next, the world as she had
known it shifted, then realigned into a pattern that included this young knight, not a stranger any longer but an essential part of her existence.
Yes,
she cried silently,
yes, at last—where have you been?

She blinked, and the impression vanished. The world was as it had been, though perhaps a bit more dreary, for the knight was a stranger once again.

“Kind words are never wasted, Torre,” she said, and if she was a little breathless, she doubted anyone would notice. “Lavaine, our guest has no squire to attend him; be so kind as help him from his armor and see to the stabling of his horse.”

“Yes, of course,” Lavaine said, “this way, sir.”

The knight smiled at her and bowed slightly before following Lavaine toward the stables.

“Elaine!”

She jumped as a hand touched her shoulder.

Torre shook his head, half laughing. “That’s the third time I called you.”

“Is it? I was just thinking . . .” What? She hardly knew, save that it was nothing she wanted to share with her brother.

“We don’t know who he is or anything about him. Tomorrow he will be gone.”

“Yes. Of course.” Elaine gave herself a little shake. “Where did Father go?”

Torre shrugged. “Back to his studies. Or to the hall—he’s been talking about a hidden stairway.”

Elaine groaned and slipped the chain from round her neck. “Here, Torre, take this to the village. Alric of Bedford has a ram for sale. If you can wangle a few ewes out of him, as well, so much the better.”

Torre let the links slide through his fingers. “Nice. Where did you get it?”

“I nicked if off Aunt Millicent.” Elaine laughed at his expression. “It was a gift, you dolt.”

She thought she’d handled that rather neatly. Given what she’d learned of her brother earlier, she suspected he might not be so willing to sell the chain if he knew whose gift it was.

She shook her head, sighing. Love was all well and good, but if next winter was anything like the last, any man of sense would rather have the sheep.

E
LAINE found her father lingering in the passageway leading to his chamber, standing stock-still and staring into space.

“Father,” she said, “a moment, if you will. Uncle Ulfric is full wroth with us.”

“Ulfric?” Pelleas blinked as though coming out of a deep sleep. “That is ill news. Have I offended him in some wise?”

“He says our serfs have been poaching on his estate. I did tell you last winter that they were taking deer from the forest, and—”

“Did you? Well, a hind or two is no great matter, and ’twas a cruel, hard winter. Still, if they’ve strayed onto Ulfric’s lands, I’d best have a word with the reeve.”

“Martin Reeve is dead,” Elaine said. “Don’t you remember?”

“Ah, yes, so he is. God rest him.” Pelleas signed himself with the cross. “Yes, that’s right, I’d meant to . . . but it is so difficult, you know, to find the
time
 . . .”

“Never mind that now, Father. The point is that Uncle Ulfric hanged Bran Fletcher.”

“Bran Fletcher? Hanged?” Pelleas drew himself up, his eyes flashing. “Ulfric laid hands upon my fletcher without consulting me?”

“He says he did consult you,” Elaine admitted. “He says he sent you two messages, but they were not answered.”

“Ah.” Pelleas’s shoulders fell. “Yes, well, perhaps he did. With you gone, Elaine, I’m afraid I got rather in a muddle. I was hoping you’d straighten it all out . . .” He gazed down at the stone beneath his feet. “Bran Fletcher. I knew his father—aye, and his grandsire, too. Ulfric should not have hanged the man. He could have come to me himself, not sent some message that he knew I hadn’t time to read.”

“You are right. And now he has—”

“I know we never got on, Ulfric and I, but still, ’twas ill done to treat a kinsman so. You’d think that for your mother’s sake, he would have come to me himself. He loved her well, you know, but she chose me. He had to make do with Millicent, instead.”

He laughed, and the pride in his face was as fresh as though he’d won his lady only yesterday. “Ulfric was at the wedding feast,” he went on, “and your mother made us join hands and swear friendship. But I don’t suppose he ever quite forgave me. Millicent is nothing like your mother, God assoil her sweet soul . . .” His smile faded, and tears filled his eyes. “What must I do, Elaine? Shall I challenge him?”

Elaine’s throat tightened. “No, Father,” she said gently, “I’m sure he meant not to offend you. Belike when you did not reply, he only did what he believed you wanted.”

“I would not have wanted the man hanged. Not Bran Fletcher.”

“I know.” Elaine wiped his cheeks with her sleeve. “’Tis
a shame, but such things happen. We’ll have Masses said for him.”

Pelleas smiled tremulously. “Aye, let’s do that.”

“With your leave, Father, I will appoint a reeve today, and then we’ll have no more of this poaching.”

Pelleas laid a hand upon her shoulder. “As you will, Elaine. You must do as you think best. ’Tis a pity Torre does not take an interest . . . Poor Torre, he was such a likely lad . . . Do you remember when he won the squire’s tournament at Alston Manor? Even Ulfric said that he seemed destined for great things.”

“Aye, Father, I remember.”

“He was a goodly knight, was he not, the man who overthrew our Torre?”

“The best,” Elaine assured him.

“Sir Lancelot . . . His father was King Ban of Benwick,” Pelleas said suddenly. “Do y’know, I was thinking of Ban just now, though it has been years since I remembered him. He was but a passing knight himself, though nicely spoken. We spent some months together when we were young. His wits were astray,” he added confidentially, tapping his brow. “Not then, but later in life I heard he went quite mad. A terrible thing it was. Benwick taken, the castle burning, Ban falling dead upon the ground—and the infant stolen away by some witch who claimed to live in a . . . what was it, now? A lake? Aye, du Lac, he calls himself, Lancelot of the Lake. Should be Lancelot of Benwick, of course, but he’s just du Lac. Poor lad,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “’Tis a great pity, Elaine, when a king loses his wits.”