Gawain (12 page)

“I leave for court tomorrow,” she declared.

And I?
Launfal wondered, his heartbeat quickening. If once he reached Camelot, he would be free. King Arthur was said to be both just and merciful; hearing Launfal’s tale, surely the king would take pity on him. And if he was left behind, he would be free, as well. Who would bother with the queen’s whore when the queen was gone away?

Perhaps there was someone up in heaven after all.

“Be sure to have them pack the amber gown,” he said casually, sprawling in a chair and plucking a handful of cherries from a dish. “It is wasted here.”

“The amber—?” She whirled to face him, and the fine hairs on his arms lifted when she burst out laughing. “Oh, you are good.”

“Am I?” He tried to smile, but his face was oddly stiff. She sat down on the arm of his chair and drew a finger down his cheek.

“You’ll never guess what the messenger told me,” she said teasingly.

“That Sir Gawain is wed?”

“Mmm, yes, but there was more.” Her hand slipped beneath his chin and she lifted his face to her. “It was about Somer Gromer Jour—do you remember him? Apparently when the king gave him the answer, he said something very curious. Can you tell me what it was?”

Launfal’s heart began to thunder in his chest, but he forced himself to hold her eye. “No, madam. I cannot recall having said anything—well, perhaps I cursed a bit, but—”

“He said”—Morgause leaned close—“now, what were the words? Oh, yes, I remember. He said, ‘my
sister
told you that.’ ”

Launfal swallowed audibly. He
had
said those words— blurted them out in shock—though he hadn’t known he had been overheard. His mind raced, trying to find some explanation that would not sound too ridiculous, but he could only shake his head, attempting to look puzzled. “No,” he said, “I don’t recall—”

He saw the blow coming and turned his head to the right, so Morgause’s palm merely brushed his cheek. “You lied to me that day. How many other times have you lied?”

“Never! Oh, very well, I did think it might be Aislyn, and I didn’t tell you because it would only have upset you.”

“And yet you knew full well I was looking for her.”

“I did, but—I mean to say, she
is
my sister, and—”

This time he failed to anticipate the slap. It snapped his head back with such force that his skull hit the wall behind him with an audible crack. One of the knights—whose presence now seemed ominous—laughed.

“After all that I have done for you,
this
is how you repay me! I took you from the stables and gave you all any man could desire.” She stood abruptly. “But it is finished. I have been growing weary of you for some time now, and this is the final straw. I am through with you.”

Launfal stood, as well. His cheek throbbed and his skull was tender, but if that was the worst of it, he’d gotten off lightly. “I—I am sorry that I no longer please you,” he said, nearly gagging on the words. “But I hope—that is, if I ever—” Gritting his teeth, he went to his knees. “For the sake of what we once had, I pray you give me leave to go to—”

“Go? You are not going anywhere! Oh, Launfal, and here I thought you were only
pretending
to be witless! You do not honestly think I will allow you to leave here?”

Hot blood rushed to his face and pounded in his temples. “Why should I not?” he said, rising. “God knows I have earned
some
reward from you.”

She made to strike him and he grasped her wrist, pulling her hard against him. Desire flared in her eyes, and later he thought that one kiss might have melted her—at least long enough for him to consider his options. But his blood was up and he could only think how ridiculous she looked gazing up at him like a moonstruck calf—and in the next moment it was too late, for he had made his fatal mistake.

He laughed.

Morgause wrenched away from him. “Sir Ewan, Sir Col,” she said coldly, “seize this man. He has laid hands upon the queen.”

“Is that a crime?” Launfal said, still laughing. “Then I should have plenty of company in the dungeons!”

His arms were taken and pinned behind him, but he ducked away as Morgause aimed a blow at his face. “You find this amusing?” she hissed.

“No,” he said, his chest still heaving with something that had gone beyond laughter. “I find it pathetic—almost as pathetic as I find you.”

“Hark the churl who dreamed of knighthood! But you are mine, Launfal, my property to do with as I will. Lest you forget it again, I will put my mark on you. Hold him down,” she ordered curtly, and turned to thrust a poker—or no, dear God, it was a branding iron—into the heart of the fire.

Launfal fought, but the two knights were both large and strong. When they had forced him to his knees, Morgause wound her fingers through his hair and jerked his head up. “Such a pretty lad,” she mocked, “such a pity.” She fumbled one-handed for the iron and Launfal let himself sag in the grip of his captors. They shifted, fumbling for a better grip, relaxing their hold on his hands as they hauled him upright.

“Please,” he whispered, “madam, don’t—not that—”

“What, you do not want to bear my mark? Now I call that ungrateful.”

As she passed the glowing brand before his face, Launfal found he did not have to feign the tears rising to his eyes. He shrank back against the two knights, knocking them off balance. “Don’t mark me,” he whispered. “Anything but that.”

Morgause drew the iron back. “Anything? Well, I suppose we could geld you instead.”

The terror was like ice. “No!” he cried, “mark me— please, madam, I—I would b-be honored to wear your brand, I will serve you m-most loyally, I swear it.” He straightened, shifting his weight forward as he lifted his head and shook the hair back from his face.

“I say he should be gelded,” one of the knights said.

“Wouldn’t be much of a loss, though, would it?” the other answered, and they both laughed.

Their hands relaxed fractionally—not enough, but it was the best chance Launfal would have. He forced himself to remain perfectly still as the brand approached his face, but just as its tip seared his flesh, he lunged awkwardly forward and seized the burning end one-handed, twisting it from Morgause’s grasp. Still on his knees, he flipped it and swung blindly behind him. The knight on his left fell back with a shout.

Launfal wrenched himself to his feet, bringing the iron around with all his strength. It struck the second knight full in the face and he went down like a stone. The first knight staggered to his feet and drew his sword. Before it had cleared the scabbard, Launfal felled him with a single blow. Morgause picked up her skirts and ran for the door, but he was there before her, the smoking iron at her throat.

He gestured toward the chair. “Sit.”

His cheek hurt, but it was his hand that was the trouble, for it was seared to the bone. The pain and the stench of charred flesh made him want to vomit.

“Give me your scarf,” he ordered harshly, and awkwardly, juggling the iron and setting his teeth against the pain of his seared palm, he bound her wrists to the arms of the chair. She attempted to rise once and he stepped back, the iron raised.

It would be so much simpler to kill her. More practical, as well. No matter how well he bound her, she would soon be free to raise the alarm. But the truth was that he
wanted
to kill her. He had wanted to for a very long time and he would never have another chance.

She looked into his eyes and sagged back in a faint that he doubted was genuine. Even if it was, what difference did it make? He could kill her just as easily unconscious.

The iron trembled in his grasp as he lifted it, then with a curse he let it fall and bent to jerk the knots tight about her wrists.

He bound both knights and relieved them of their weapons. The daggers he tucked into his belt; one sword he flung from the window, and the other he kept in his hand as he made for the door. It had been a long time since he’d held a sword. He had forgotten how good it felt. How right.

Enjoy it while you can,
he thought,
for you won’t have it
long.
But at least he would go down fighting, not whipped and starved like an animal. He eased out the door, checking the passageway in both directions before heading for the back stairway.

He clattered down the twisting stairs at a dead run, halting with a gasp when he rounded a corner and found himself face-to-face with a young man who gave a startled cry, the book he had been holding falling from his hand.

“Launfal!” Prince Gaheris said, half laughing. “You gave me a start! Where are you—”

He fell silent, his eyes widening as they moved from the sword in Launfal’s hand to his face.

Of the three princes still in Lothian, Launfal had always liked Gaheris best; in part because he was Morgause’s least favorite of her brood, but also for himself. In another life, he’d sometimes thought, they might have been friends.

“What have you done?” Gaheris whispered. “Did you— is she—”

“Alive. Unharmed,” Launfal said harshly.

He froze, looking toward the upper corridor, where the sounds of raised voices and running feet could be heard. He would
not
be taken here, trapped like a beast in its lair. His one remaining goal was to make it to the courtyard, where he would sell his life as dearly as he could.

“Move,” he ordered Gaheris, raising the sword’s point to his chest.
“Now.”

Gaheris’s gaze snapped back to him. “Come with me,” he ordered and plunged through a curtained doorway leading to a storeroom. “Hurry,” he hissed over his shoulder.

Launfal hesitated for the space of a heartbeat before he followed.

MORGANA found Gawain in the hall, sitting with a knight who rose as she approached, bowed to her, and hurried off.

“What ails your friend?” she asked, sitting down beside Gawain.

“He thinks you’ll turn him into a tree if he offends you.”

Morgana gazed after the retreating knight with interest. “Is he so offensive?”

Gawain shrugged. “Dinadan has never learned to guard his tongue. When he sees a jest, he cannot help but share it.”

“How unfortunate for him. But tell him he needn’t run next time. I have never yet turned any man into a tree—or anything else, for that matter.”

After today, she could not say the same of women, but she felt no need to share that information with Gawain.

What Morgana had told Aislyn was true: she was extremely fond of her eldest nephew. What she had not said was that Gawain often annoyed her greatly, or that they had quarreled the last time they met. But now, looking at him, she felt only pride in how well he was bearing up under his disastrous marriage and could not recall why they had argued.

“Welladay,” she said, gently chiding. “I turn my back, and now look at the trouble you’ve gotten yourself into!”

He smiled, albeit a trifle wryly, more in acknowledgment of her tone than of her words. Morgana was not so much older than he was himself, but had always taken her status as aunt very seriously.

“I wed. It happens. And it might as well be Dame Ragnelle as anyone.”

“Does your mother know of this?”

He shrugged. “I suppose she’ll hear sooner or later.”

“And then she’ll come to meet your bride for herself.”

Of course by then, this whole charade would be finished. Despite what she’d said to Aislyn, Morgana had no intention of leaving her as a crone forevermore. She had meant to give the girl a fortnight or so in which to attempt the impossible, just time enough for Aislyn to repent the folly of her actions. Now she wondered if it was fair to make Gawain suffer even for that long.

“Mother won’t come. I don’t want her here and she knows it.”

“And you think
that
is enough to keep her away?” Morgana laughed.

“It has served so far. Now tell me what has kept
you
away for so long. Where have you been?”

“Here and there,” she said.

He frowned. “It isn’t right for you to be traveling about the countryside on your own. It isn’t safe.”

“I can look after myself. And I have work to do.”

“Work!” he said, dismissing all her years of study and labor with a wave of his hand. “You should marry.”

Now
she remembered why they had quarreled.

Angry as she was, she felt the old puzzled sorrow rise in her when she gazed upon her nephew. Much of Morgana’s childhood had been lost amid the turbulent romance between her mother and Uther Pendragon, but once Gawain was born, she had reclaimed at least a part of it. As a child, he had been her shadow, and they had spent many a day wandering the wood or lying in the meadow practicing birdcalls and watching clouds drift by.

Then Morgana had entered fully into her own studies, but she had followed his adventures with no small measure of pride. The Great Mother of them all was watching over him, she knew; testing him, training him, presenting him with the very lessons he had chosen to learn during this life. Whatever might befall Gawain, his spirit never shrank from it, but rose to meet each new challenge. Even when he had gone to meet the Green Knight and it seemed certain he would not return, he had laughed at those who would have sent him off with tears.

But some years ago, Gawain had undergone a strange and puzzling change, and her attempts to win his confidence were fruitless. He no longer looked to her for wisdom or valued her advice, nor was it only she he turned from. Ragnelle spoke truly on that score; Gawain was notorious for his contempt for all things feminine. And despite all Morgana’s prayers on his behalf, the Goddess seemed to have turned her face from him, as well.

“Do I hear aright?” she said, half laughing. “Are you giving
me
advice on marriage?”

“Why not?”

“Tell me, Gawain, have you lain with that . . . woman you have wed?”