Gawain (19 page)

He had been right. It
was
a mistake to look back; he already knew everything that mattered. Aislyn had
used
him. Her kisses were sweet poison that robbed him of his wits; every lie a new betrayal of his trust. For whatever reason— be it the one she had given him or some secret purpose— she needed to leave Lothian; he was the means of her escape. Her words of love were as false as everything about her.

Unless . . . unless she had been honest with him that last night.

“I’ll never know now,” he said aloud.

Ragnelle stirred beside him. “Eh?”

“It was nothing. How do you feel this morning?”

She sat up and knuckled her eyes. “Well enough for an old woman. But what were you saying before?”

“Oh, I was remembering what we spoke about last night.”

“The lass, you mean?” Her eyes were on his face, those clear, light eyes that were so incongruously beautiful. “The one they told you was drowned?”

He nodded. “I was just thinking that I’ll never know why she came to me and told me all she did.”

“Oh, I think you do. Listen to your heart, the truth is there.”

No.
His heart had misled him before, why should he believe it now? Aislyn had
betrayed
him.

But his heart refused to be silenced.
She loved you,
it said,
she trusted you with her life. The ultimate betrayal was not hers, but yours.

“God forgive me,” he breathed, “I left her and she—but I did not
know
—”

“’Course you didn’t,” Ragnelle said roughly. “How could you? It takes a wise head to sort truth from lies, and you were but a lad. She should have understood that. And you went back, didn’t you?” Her gnarled fingers closed over his. “That was a fine thing, Gawain, a—a noble act, and ’twas no fault of yours you were too late.”

Her words eased something in him, as though a splinter had been drawn from a festering wound he’d borne in secret, hiding it even from himself.

“Ragnelle,” he asked, “do you think the dead can see us? Do you think she knows that I am sorry now?”

“Oh, she knows,” Ragnelle said, and her voice was oddly choked. “And I—I reckon she is sorry, too.”

EVEN Gawain’s return from Lothian five years ago had not been so painful. Then he had done everything in his power to put Aislyn from his mind, but now his defenses had crumbled and the grief poured in, as unbearable as though but a moment had passed since he first learned of her death.

Everywhere he looked, he saw her: sitting at the high table in the hall, clad in green with ribbons in her hair; walking in the courtyard, laughing beside the fountain, so beautiful it made his heart ache to remember.

Yet he did not push his memories aside. Instead, he gave himself over to them, visiting each place he had described to her, imagining what she would have said to him and he to her, constructing entire conversations in his mind that set him first to smiling and then to sighing, and finally to sink down on a bench and stare blankly at the fountain.

Five years Aislyn had been gone, and he might as well have leapt into the millpond after her for all the living he had done. It seemed now those years had been a dream, a frozen wasteland without laughter or music . . . and certainly without women. But it wasn’t as though he
aspired
to celibacy, not like that young Sir Bors or some other knights he had met. Gawain had always been susceptible to a fetching lass and had thoroughly enjoyed his share of amorous adventures— until he met Aislyn and tumbled headlong into love.

It was more than the startling beauty of her face, or the deliciously soft body that had driven him half mad with desire, or even the kiss that had convinced him he must marry her or die. At eighteen, these had seemed paramount, but every lad of eighteen was a rutting fool. Now Gawain could appreciate the time they had spent talking, more precious than even that soul-searing kiss. Aislyn thought about the same things he thought about, pondered the same questions, and if their conclusions had sometimes been at odds, her ability to debate an issue only added to her fascination.

For five years he had told himself that every word she had spoken was a lie, but looking back, he could only shake his head in wonder. The falsehoods she had told him stood out in such stark contradiction to the rest of her words that only a fool could ever have muddled the two— a fool or a callow youth so deep in love that he could not see the difference between a lie born of desperation and a complete rejection of his heart, his soul, and his body, offered to her without reservation.

At eighteen, Aislyn had seemed to him a woman grown, but at twenty-three, Gawain knew she had been little more than a child. For all his adventures in the bedchamber and on the battlefield, he had been no wiser. He could blame her or he could blame himself, but the truth was that love had not been enough to keep them both from making irrevocable mistakes.

And so, at last, the tale was told in full. He knew what had happened, and why, but that knowledge did not make the pain any easier to bear. Perhaps in time it would. He even thought it might. But right now he could not even imagine an existence in which Aislyn was not foremost in his heart and mind, the memory of her laughter so clear that each breath was an effort.

“Gawain.”

He looked up to find the king watching him. How long had Arthur been there? He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had not even noticed his arrival.

“I have been waiting for you,” Arthur said. “We were to meet before the council assembles.”

“Yes, sire, of course,” Gawain said. “Forgive me.”

“Readily.” Arthur sat down beside him. “How—how fare you today?”

Gawain did not know how to answer. A part of him wanted to tell Arthur the whole tale, if only for the sake of speaking Aislyn’s name aloud, yet another part shied away from exposing a wound so fresh, even to a friend. Before he could decide, the king added, “That was a nasty fall you took.”

“Fall?” Gawain wrenched his mind back to the present. “Oh, that. A couple of bruised ribs was the worst of it, and Ragnelle bound them. I hardly feel them today.”

Arthur’s face tightened at the mention of Ragnelle’s name. “I cannot see how you can bear for that—that creature to touch you,” he said in a low voice.

Gawain was surprised by the force of his anger. “Her looks are against her—as she would be the first to admit— but I would hardly call her a
creature
.”

Arthur shook his head. “You are very brave—”

“Oh, rot, I’m nothing of the sort. Look you, sire, Ragnelle is no monster. She is an old woman with a peculiar sense of humor, but kindly for all that.”

“
Kindly?
To force you into marriage—”

“I was neither forced nor tricked,” Gawain said, annoyed. “You made it very clear the choice was mine and I made it with full knowledge of the consequences. If I have no complaint, I cannot see why anyone else should.”

“Yes, of course,” Arthur murmured. “Well, if that is the way you want it—”

“That is the way it
is
.”

Arthur patted his shoulder, gazing at him with a sympathy that made Gawain long to strike his hand away. “Very well, then, we shall say no more about it.”

“Thank you.” Still unaccountably annoyed, Gawain stood. “We should talk about what King Aesc said before we see the others. I believe the alliance can be saved if we—”

“That will wait. Sit down, Gawain, I want a word with you about yesterday.”

Gawain obediently resumed his seat, though he wasn’t happy about it. If he could not be left alone in his sorrow, he didn’t see why he should be forced to relive a day he would just as soon forget. These private jousts were ridiculous; a warrior fought in the service of his king, not for his own vanity, but neither had he enjoyed being beaten, and particularly by Sir Lancelot.

“Sir Lancelot’s behavior toward Sir Dinadan was very wrong,” Arthur said, “and I have spoken to him at length. He is truly sorry and has apologized.”

And what has that to do with me?
Gawain thought with a fresh spurt of annoyance. Dinadan was a friend—a good friend—but he was also a knight, blooded in battle and quite capable of settling his own affairs. It was for Ragnelle’s sake Gawain had thrown down the glove—surely that was obvious! But apparently it was not, at least to Arthur, for he made no mention of the apology that was owing to
her
. Gawain wondered if he even knew of Ragnelle’s involvement, and thought briefly of explaining, but the effort seemed too great.

“I am glad they have settled things between them,” he said neutrally.

Arthur nodded, looking unhappy. “If only you and Lancelot knew each other better, I am sure you would be friends. He might be a bit rough around the edges, but at heart he is a good lad.”

Gawain barely repressed a derisive snort. How many times had he heard
that
before? Arthur had said the same about Agravaine, and though Gawain had wanted to believe it, he had never been quite able to make that leap of faith. Unlike Arthur, Gawain had known Agravaine from the cradle, and as far as he could tell, his little brother had always been a spoiled, sullen little bastard and a bully into the bargain, which was the one failing Gawain could not abide.

But that was Arthur, determined to see the good in everyone. Gawain had always tried to emulate this touching belief in the inherent decency of all humanity, but today his emotions were too raw to even attempt it.

“When you consider Lance’s peculiar upbringing,” Arthur persisted, “it is no wonder he is a bit wild. He doesn’t really mean any harm, you know, it’s only that he doesn’t understand our customs.”

That was one way of putting it. Another would be that Sir Lancelot, having been brought up among the fey folk, completely lacked the human qualities of humility and compassion—though to be fair, he made up for it with extrameasures of pride and malice. But Gawain knew from long experience that to point out these truths would be a waste of breath.

“So long as you are satisfied with him, there is no more to be said,” was the best that he could manage.

“I think there is. Lancelot is proud, but I know he values your opinion more than he lets on. If you would only—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Arthur, he detests me! Just let it be!”

He broke off, ashamed of his outburst, which had surprised him as much as it had the king, but his tongue seemed to have taken on a life of its own. “If Sir Lancelot really cared a whit for my opinion—which I wholly doubt—he knows what he must do: make a full apology to Dame Ragnelle. Should he abase himself properly to her— a sight I would pay good gold to see—I would think better of him. But he never will.”

“Dame Ragnelle?” Arthur frowned. “What has she to do with this?”

“Ask Sir Lancelot. Such a good-hearted lad will be eager to tell you the whole tale. Now, shall we talk about the Saxons? That is why you came here, isn’t it, to discuss King Aesc and his Wessex kin?”

“You disappoint me,” Arthur said. “I had such hopes that you and Lance could finally learn to know each other. I had not realized you would be so inflexible—”

“Well, you know it now.” It seemed a part of Gawain stood off, horrified by the words that kept springing from his lips, yet at the same time, it was an almost unbearable relief to finally speak the truth. “I am not like you. I cannot find good where none exists, and yon preening whelp has tried me beyond what any man should bear.
You
took him as a knight—well and good, I will say naught of your decision, though it is passing strange to me that you would accept a man who knows so little of respect or common decency into your service. But let it go. I will not speak of his monstrous pride or the intolerable insolence he has displayed—not only to me, but to every man at court, and a good many of the ladies, too. I—”

Arthur held up a hand. “For a man who means to say nothing, you are strangely garrulous. But I think your point is made.”

Gawain stood a moment, then dropped onto the bench and covered his face with his hands. “Sire, forgive me. I do not know how I could have been so discourteous.”

“I do. And to tell you the truth, I am not at all surprised. You are under far more strain than you will admit, and it was bound to come out some time. Since your marriage—”

“Nay, nay, it has naught to do with that.”