Lancelot (36 page)

Poor Brisen,
Elaine thought;
much as I would miss her, it might be better if she did go.
For all she’d claimed that she was over Torre, it was clear he still had the power to wound her.

Elaine finished her meal and stood, murmuring an excuse that no one heard, and went quickly to the nursery. Galahad had seemed to be sickening for something earlier. It was unlike him to fuss at bedtime, yet tonight he’d clung to her, screaming, until she pulled his arms from round her neck and left him to his nurse. He had not been fevered then, nor was he now, she noted with relief. She bent to kiss his curls, and he stirred with a plaintive little cry before settling back to sleep.

“You will watch him?” Elaine said to his nurse.

“Aye, lady,” she said, “don’t you fear. I reckon it’s his teeth that are a-paining him.”

By the time Elaine returned to the hall, the trestle tables had been taken down, and the piper she’d sent for from the vill was blowing out a merry tune. Brisen and Sir Agravaine
were gone, Torre was playing at tables with Lord Pelleas, and Queen Morgause sat watching them.

“Oh, good,” she said when Elaine returned. “I’m afraid I overindulged—the meal was so fine. Will you walk with me?”

“Of course,” Elaine said dutifully.

“I was hoping you might show me yonder tower,” Morgause said when they had walked through the garden. “It looks quite old. Did I understand Sir Torre aright when he said it is rumored to be haunted?”

“So the story goes. There are some chambers that have not been opened for years, and you know how servants are. It’s a bit tumbledown, I’m afraid, but if you don’t mind . . .”

“Not at all!” Morgause hooked her arm through Elaine’s, laughing. “I take it you do not believe in ghosts?”

“No. My chamber is in the tower, you see, and I’ve never seen anything unusual or heard a sound that could not be put down to wind or creaking beams.”

“How very sensible you are, my dear! But I should like nothing better than to meet a spirit! Particularly that of a young and handsome knight!”

Morgause was not so bad,
Elaine thought as they walked together toward the tower. Indeed, she was that most pitiable of beings, a beautiful woman who could not accept the fact that she was growing old. Mayhap if King Lot had lived, it would be different. He’d been something of a scoundrel by all accounts, but Brisen had once said that Morgause always spoke of him with great affection. How sad that they could not have grown old together, she thought, and to her surprise, she felt tears start to her eyes as she led Morgause up the narrow, winding stairway.

I should have brought a torch,
she thought. “Can you see, madam?”

“Oh, yes.” Morgause, behind her, sounded slightly
breathless. “I see very well in the dark. Like a cat,” she added with a little laugh that echoed strangely in the narrow stairway. “Let us begin with the highest chamber. Isn’t that where the ghost is said to dwell?”

“Yes.” Elaine, who had never felt the least uneasiness in this place, felt a strange reluctance to open the door. It had been barred from the outside some years before when a serving lad ran screaming from the tower, swearing he had seen a man in armor floating several feet above the floor. Nonsense, of course, and yet . . .

“Are you sure . . .” she began uncertainly, but Morgause had already reached past her and lifted the bar.

“Quite sure,” she said, and there was something in her voice that raised the hairs on Elaine’s neck. “Quite, quite sure,” she added, and just as Elaine decided that something was very wrong, Morgause flung open the door and pushed her so sharply between the shoulder blades that she stumbled, falling painfully to her hands and knees.

“What—” she began, but she never had the chance to complete her question.

“Farewell, my dear!” Morgause’s voice was harsh, her laughter like a shriek. “Alas, we shall not meet again!”

Elaine was on her feet in an instant, but the door had already slammed shut. Even as she put out her hand, a wall of flame rose before her, reaching to the ceiling.

“What—?” she said again, falling back before the blistering heat. “Morgause! Fire! Help me!”

No answer came. She tried reaching through the flames to seize the latch, but her groping hand met only searing air. She drew it back, frantically slapping at her burning sleeve as she flew to the one narrow window. Before she could scream for help, the fire had spread there, as well.

There was no way out. No hope of rescue, either, for no one save Morgause knew where she had gone. By the time
someone spotted the flames, it would be too late. There was no smoke, she noted with the small corner of her mind that was not swamped in panic. The flames were all around her now, but there was no smoke at all.

She returned to the door, steeling herself against the pain, but though she tried again and again to break through the burning wall, there seemed to be no end to it.

She fell back to the center of the floor and went down on her knees.
“Pater noster qui es in caelis,”
she began, but could not remember what came next. Sweat poured down her face and stung her eyes.
I don’t want to die,
she thought,
not now, not yet.

“Help me!” she screamed with all her strength, though she could scarce hear her own voice over the fire’s roar. She clasped her blistered hands and prayed that if help did not arrive, she would not lose her courage. But even that prayer was denied.

Just before the end, her cries changed. It was no longer help she asked for, or courage, or even a quick death. “Lancelot!” she screamed. “Lancelot!” Again and again she called his name until darkness closed around her.

M
ORGAUSE strolled through the garden, stopping now and then to sniff a blossom. When the moon had risen, she pulled her gown over one white shoulder and carefully untucked a small braid from the intricate arrangement on her brow, draping it so it fell artfully into the bodice of her gown. After a moment, she sighed and dipped her finger in the earth, then drew it across her cheek.

When she reached the garden’s edge, she ran, arriving breathless in the hall. “Fire!” she cried. “Fire—in the tower—”

A handful of servants looked up, their mouths agape. Lord Pelleas leapt from his seat at the high table. “Fire?” he repeated, his voice quavering. “What—where—”

“Hurry!” Morgause cried. “Lady Elaine is—”

“What’s ado?” Sir Torre called from the doorway. He was already half undressed, his unbound hair loose about his face. Morgause’s eyes drifted over his broad shoulders
and muscled chest, bared to the firelight, before recalling herself sharply to the present.

“Fire—in the tower—” she gasped. “Lady Elaine—the torch fell and caught—she would not come away, I begged her—oh, hurry, hurry!”

Torre was already gone, Pelleas following behind him. Morgause arranged herself on the settee, one arm draped across the back, hoping that Sir Torre might return and be moved to comfort her in her distress. She sighed, imagining the form that comfort might take, and closed her eyes. A moment later they flew open and she sputtered a shocked cry. Brisen stood over her, a dripping pitcher in her hand.

“Where is Lady Elaine?”

Morgause sat up, her eyes narrowing. “Why, you—” Remembering herself, she answered faintly, “In the tower—the torch dropped—”

“What were you doing there?”

“She—she was showing me the haunted chamber.”

“Oh, was she?” Brisen leaned close. “If any harm comes to her—”

“I shall be utterly bereft. But she was the one who insisted on going there in the first place. Then she stumbled, the torch dropped and caught a pile of old linen. I told her to come away, I begged her, but she insisted on plunging in. The flames spread and—” Morgause laid a hand on her brow. “I tried to reach her, but . . .”

Before Morgause could finish, Brisen turned and ran from the hall.

Morgause stood and went to her chamber, calling for her maid. “Pack everything,” she ordered curtly. “We leave first thing tomorrow. And bring me wine. I’ve had a fearsome shock.”

She was lying in bed, sipping her wine and regretting that she would not have the opportunity to test Sir Torre’s
mettle on this visit, when the door opened and Brisen burst into the room.

“Why was the door barred from without?”

“Barred?” Morgause widened her eyes. “Oh, no, I left it open—it must have been a draught—” She paused a moment, then said, “Did you reach her in time?”

“We didn’t reach her at all. The bar won’t shift. But she’s alive.”

“How can you be certain?” Morgause asked uneasily.

Brisen’s eyes were sharp upon her face. “Lady Elaine was under
my
protection. She is alive. Now tell me what you did so I can undo it.”

“I?” Morgause drew herself up against the bolster. “What
can
you mean? I have told you already what happened.”

“You lied.” Brisen sat down on the edge of the bed. “A clumsy lie, Morgause. Have you forgotten that the blood of the Old Ones runs in my veins, as well?”

“You speak of what you do not understand,” Morgause retorted coldly. “The fate of kingdoms . . .”

“The fate of kingdoms?” Brisen repeated with a derisive laugh. “Oh, is that what this is about? I would have said you care only for yourself and your ambition—had I an opinion on such matters, which I do not. I am but a simple country lass these days; no longer do I meddle in the destinies of kings. But Elaine is different. She is dear to me, Morgause. I thought I made that clear at Camelot.”

Morgause straightened, her eyes flashing. The air crackled around them as she gathered power around her like a shimmering cloak. One lift of her hand, and Brisen’s head snapped back, striking the bedpost with a crack. Morgause relaxed against the bolster and had just reached for her wine when Brisen’s eyes fluttered open, and she dragged herself upright. The maid’s face was ashen, her hands shaking as she pushed the hair back from her face. The
dark strands now held a streak of white, starting at the center of her brow and running like a silver ribbon through the loose plait hanging past her hips.

A small price to pay,
Morgause thought, reaching for her wine,
to learn respect for her superiors.

Brisen drew an unsteady breath and leaned forward, one hand braced upon the wall beside the queen’s head, dark eyes inches from Morgause’s. Silly girl, had she not learned her lesson yet? Apparently stronger measures would be needed.

Morgause made to lift her hand again and found that she could not. Nor could she look away.
The girl is better than I thought,
she reflected with amusement, and reached for the power that always lay in wait.

Only to find it far beyond her grasp.

“What did you do?” Brisen asked distinctly.

“Called fire into the tower,” Morgause answered, cursing herself but unable to hold back her reply.

“And what do you mean by the greatest knight in the world?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“The placard,” Brisen said impatiently. “’Tis plain enough what it says, but—”

“What placard?”

“The one at the foot of the tower, the plinth with silver letters. Tell me what it means!”

“I cannot. It has naught to do with me.”

Brisen leaned forward, her gaze so compelling that Morgause drew a hissing breath of pain. “You don’t, do you?” Brisen said at last. She straightened and put her hands on her hips, then laughed. “You fool, calling on forces beyond your ken—I would think at your age you would know better. Lady Elaine lives, and one day she will be free.”

“And when might that be?” Morgause asked.

“When the greatest knight in all the world releases her.”

“When that happy day arrives, I shall be the first to drink the lady’s health,” Morgause replied, lifting her hand to cover a yawn. “But in the meantime, I would like to get some sleep.”

Brisen laughed again, the sound pounding against Morgause’s throbbing temples. “You won’t sleep, not tonight or any other night until she’s free. Nonetheless, you will be out of here at dawn.”

S
IR Dinadan picked up his wooden mazer and sniffed, his nose wrinkling with fastidious distaste. “I say, Gawain, I wouldn’t drink this if I were you. It smells of horse piss.” He turned to a passing serving boy. “You! Take this away and bring us wine. Cold meat, as well, cheese—and bread if you have any fresh. I suppose it is too much to hope for fruit.”