“What goes on between us is no business of yours or anyone’s. It is an honorable union.”
“It is a denial of life,” she said flatly.
He snorted. “And here I thought your Goddess is in all women!”
Morgana stared at him. “What did you say?”
He did not deign to repeat himself, but it did not matter. She had heard him well enough. And he had spoken a simple truth that took her breath away.
The Goddess
was
all women—maiden, mother, crone. Gawain could not see Her face in his mother, and that was no surprise, given what Morgause was. His obstinate refusal to take a maiden to wife was proof enough that he was blind and deaf to Her in that form, as well.
And that left only the crone.
A slow chill wound down Morgana’s spine. She had thought she did her own will when she enspelled Ragnelle, but now she realized she had been prompted by the Goddess. She knew not what would come of her actions, but that was not in her hands. She had done what she was meant to do.
“Come, Gawain, let me kiss you before I go.”
“Go? But you’ve just arrived!”
“I needed to speak with the king, and now I must away. But I will see you again at Midsummer,” she said, rising to her feet and setting her lips to his brow. “You know I wish you nothing but good fortune.”
He smiled, then, with something of his old affection. “And I you. Take care, Morgana.”
“I always do.” She looked at him a moment, then said, “Your lady—no, don’t frown, I will say no more against your marriage, for it is done. But Dame Ragnelle fancies herself something of a witch, I fear. Do you take her bag from her and lock it in your trunk. It is dangerous for her to be meddling with magic.”
Gawain nodded. “I shall.”
She turned to go, then halted and looked back, feeling there was something yet undone. Her lips and fingertips tingled, and she spoke before she had any idea what she meant to say. “If you would know happiness, you have only to give your lady that which all women desire.”
He looked up from his porridge, brows raised. “Not that silly riddle again! Go on, then, tell me what it is all women desire.”
“I cannot tell you. You must discover it yourself.”
He waved a hand. “I’ve already wasted a full year searching for that answer, and in the end, Dame Ragnelle did not deem me worthy to hear it. So I am afraid I cannot oblige her even if I would.”
“Mark me well, Gawain,” Morgana said, and heard the echo of another voice that spoke through her. “This is more important than you can imagine.”
“If it’s so damn important, she should have asked me plainly. I have no time for games and no patience for them, either.”
“This is no game, but a task given to you to accomplish.”
Something in her tone must have reached him, for he sighed. “Very well, Morgana. If I ever do stumble across the answer—which seems unlikely—I will consider the matter then.”
Chapter 13
BY the time Aislyn reached the hall, it was deserted. She hobbled stiffly through the courtyard to the gardens, where the queen and her ladies sat sewing.
“Ah, Dame Ragnelle,” Guinevere said. “What can I do for you this morning?”
“I was looking for the duchess of Cornwall.”
“She has already left us,” Guinevere said.
“Where did she go?”
“I cannot say.” Guinevere looked past Aislyn, her face brightening. “Perhaps my lord can tell you.”
Aislyn turned to see Arthur walk into the garden with half a dozen of his knights. Gawain was among them. Aislyn’s breath caught when she saw him; warmth suffused her face as she remembered him last night, shaking with passion in her arms.
His gaze passed over her, pausing only briefly to acknowledge her existence before moving on. She felt oddly bereft, but he could hardly be expected to connect her bent and withered form with the woman who had curled against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder as he whispered love words into her hair, and—
Stop. It wasn’t real, he didn’t know . . . oh, holy Mother, what have I done? What am I to do now?
“My lady,” the king said, bowing to Guinevere. “I must away to Kent.”
“Oh, but the tournament—!” Guinevere began.
“I know, and I am sorry, but there is no help for it. I must take counsel of King Aesc at once. Sir Gawain alone will accompany me, and we shall try to return before the end.”
“Is the duchess of Cornwall gone?” Aislyn said to Gawain as he approached.
“Yes, she could not stay. What did she say to you before?”
“Not much,” Aislyn lied. “Do you know where she was bound?”
“Morgana goes where she will. But she will be back for the feast at Midsummer.”
Midsummer? Oh, no, that was far too long to remain as she was!
“Gawain,” she said. “About the duchess of Cornwall. She—she—” Aislyn’s throat closed like a snare, trapping the words she meant to speak.
“Yes?” Gawain said, glancing over toward the king.
“I am—I was—” Damn Morgana! Whatever she had done, it was working all too well.
Gawain drew on his gloves. “My aunt advised me to take your bag from you,” he said, “and I have done so.”
“My bag? But I need that!”
“For what?”
“I—I—my old bones ache sometimes,” she said, “and all my remedies are in there.”
“You can get anything you need from Lady Enid,” Gawain said.
Not devil’s trumpet, Aislyn thought, sown at the dark of the moon and harvested on Midsummer’s Eve. Nor her pierced wolf ’s tooth or the water she had gathered on the first day of May at the very moment the sun fell upon the black lake, bearing it back home beneath the golden bridge without speaking a word to anyone.
But she could hardly tell Gawain that.
“I want my own remedies!” was the best she could manage.
“I am sorry, but my decision is final.”
She glared at him, then remembering Morgana’s words, assumed a meek expression. “Whatever pleases you, husband.”
He sketched her a small bow. “God keep you,” he said, and turned to go.
“Wait!” she cried, hurrying after him.
“Yes?”
“I—I—can I have a kiss?” Aislyn blurted out.
Several people standing nearby laughed, and Aislyn’s face grew hot with mortification. Of course he would not kiss her. It was a wonder he could even bear to look upon her. Most men would not have endured the crone for even this long; why Gawain had was a mystery, and to ask for more was a risk she dared not take.
Yesterday she had wanted nothing more but to see him lose control of his temper, but now, as he turned back, the grim set to his mouth filled her with fear. What if he sent her away to Orkney—or worse, to Lothian, where his mother dwelt? He could. It was well within his power, and no one would blame him in the slightest. The only thing preventing him was a promise.
Men broke promises. They did it every day. Gawain had what he’d wanted from her: the king was safe. He’d have to be mad to keep her by him when he could be rid of her with just a word.
He gazed down at her, then shook his head and sighed a little before bending to brush his lips across her brow.
Aislyn looked down at the crone’s horny toes protruding from holes she’d cut in her slippers. She wiped her eyes across her sleeve as she retreated to the secluded turf bench where she had sat with Gawain. It was still in shadow at this hour and she sank down upon it, watching as the king and Gawain departed.
It hadn’t worked. But then, it wasn’t exactly a
loving
kiss she’d had from Gawain. That he’d done it at all was a surprise—and a good sign, she told herself. She doubted he could have managed it the first day he’d met the crone.
Me,
she thought.
I
am
the crone now.
Don’t weep. It does not become one of your years.
She had to act. And she would. She slumped against the back of the bench. As soon as she figured out what to do, she’d do it, but just now, she didn’t have even the beginning of a plan.
The other knights lingered to talk to Guinevere’s ladies. The queen dismissed the two girls beside her as Lancelot approached. He nodded to them as they went, then cast himself on the grass at the queen’s feet.
The light voices and laughter of the knights and ladies floated through the sun-splashed garden, mingling with the fountain’s song and the birdsong up among the branches of the trees. One merry group had gathered beneath the shade of a willow close beside the gate. Sir Dinadan was in the center, and between bursts of laughter, Aislyn caught the sound of his voice raised in song.
—the clever wight,
To guess the name of this noble knight,
Who can talk the day into the night,
Speaking only of himself, alas!
He loves no one but himself.
The queen bent over her tapestry frame and Lancelot closed his eyes, arms crossed beneath his head. Aislyn thought they looked like an illumination in a book: the lady and her knight.
“What’s ado with King Aesc?” the queen asked. “I thought that was all settled long ago.”
“It was, but now that Aesc has made peace with his kinsmen of Wessex, they are after him to repudiate his treaty with Arthur and join with them against the king.”
“What, to turn traitor to my lord?” Guinevere said indignantly. “After all he has done for King Aesc!”
“So far Aesc is standing firm,” Lancelot said, “and he is doing what he can to bring about an agreement between his kinsmen and the king. Still, Aesc is but one man, and you know how proud those Saxons are. There are many among his own people who are not entirely happy to be under Arthur’s rule.”
“I’m sure my lord will sort it out,” Guinevere said vaguely.
“I offered to go with him, but he
would
take Sir Gawain.”
“Of course he took Sir Gawain. To get him away from . . . her.”
“Have you found out why he married her?” Lancelot asked, lowering his voice.
“Not a thing. And you?”
“No one knows anything,” he said, and laughed. “Save that he must have done something awful to merit
that
. I wonder what it was . . .”
“We are bound to find out,” Guinevere assured him. “Such a dark deed cannot be forever hidden.”
“I suppose the king knows,” Lancelot mused. “And has forgiven him—of course.”
“Of course. He would forgive Sir Gawain anything.”
Lancelot turned over on his side and propped his head in his hand. “So that’s another tournament our first knight will miss.”
Guinevere smiled down at him. “Poor Lance! Well, you’ll beat everyone else.”
“I’ve already beaten everyone else.” He plucked at the grass. “And Sir Gawain refuses to fight me.”
“It isn’t only you,” Guinevere said fairly. “He never accepts private challenges.”
So he still held to that belief. Aislyn remembered him saying long ago that he thought them foolish. “A melee is one thing,” he had said then, “because that’s a chance to learn your strengths and weaknesses—and those of your companions. But these private jousts are all for show, and good men are sometimes injured—and that’s a wicked waste if they are called to battle.”
She had thought it sensible then, though only now did she understand how unpopular an opinion that was to hold at court.
Lancelot rolled over on his back. “Ah, well. He can’t avoid me forever.”
“No, he can’t.”
Aislyn sighed and began to lift herself from the bench, but she dreaded walking through the knights and ladies beneath the willow. Dinadan was still on his feet, and to judge by the laughter, his song was going over well.
A shield that gives you strength tenfold,
Presented by a maid in gold,
Who did his beauty once behold
And promptly fell down dead and cold.
For he would not return her love, oh, fie!
He loves no one but himself.
Guinevere looked over at them, frowning, and Lancelot lifted himself on his elbows. “Why, that damned impudent—” he began.
“Sir Gudrun is here,” Guinevere interrupted him.
Lancelot waved a hand, beckoning to the tall, light-haired Saxon who had sat beside Sir Dinadan at Aislyn’s wedding feast.
“Oh, Lance, must you?” Guinevere said. “He is so tiresome.”
“Weren’t you listening to anything I said before?” Lancelot said as he scrambled to his feet. “He is King Aesc’s brother; now be—good day, Sir Gudrun!”
Guinevere looked up at the Saxon, smiling. “We were just discussing the tournament. Will you compete?”
“Oh, yes, lady,” Gudrun said. “I am to ride on Sir Lancelot’s side. Is that not so?” He nudged Lancelot in the ribs and they turned to look across the garden.
He’s off to battle like a shot,
With a sword, a shield, a lance, a—what?
Oh, come good people, you must wot
His noble name by now; that knight
Who loves no one but himself—not he!
He loves no one but himself.
One look at Lancelot’s face was enough to prove that he, at least, wotted well the subject of Dinadan’s song. He and Gudrun exchanged a glance, then burst out laughing.
“What?” Guinevere said, gazing perplexed from one to the other. “Do you find Sir Dinadan amusing?”
“Oh, very,” Lancelot said. “Good day, lady, we’ve much to do before the tournament.”
“Yes, indeed, we do,” Gudrun agreed, and the two of them went off together, smiling.
Chapter 14
It was a small company that set out for Kent to meet with King Aesc, chief among Arthur’s Saxon allies. A mere dozen men-at-arms followed the king and Gawain through the gate and down into the village. People lined the road as they went by, cheering and calling out greetings, which Arthur returned with somewhat less cheer than was his wont. As they passed into the wood, the king gestured for Gawain to ride ahead with him.