Gawain (10 page)

But I love him!
she told herself, stepping into the chamber and moving swiftly toward the bed.
And he loves me. He will take me from this dark place, sweep me off to shining Camelot, and protect me from his mother’s vengeance.

Now she knelt beside him on the bed and leaned over him, her hair falling about his face as she brushed his lips with hers. He stirred and sighed, and she kissed him again. This time he responded, still half-sleeping. She teased his lips apart and his eyelids fluttered, then snapped open.

“Aislyn?”

“Shh.” She put a finger to his lips.

“But—”

“You are dreaming,” she said, touching the space between his brows.

“Aye.” He sighed, relaxing back upon the pillow, gazing up at her with a smile. Well, at least he welcomed her into his dreams. For tonight, he would not think of that other one at all. When he woke, he would be bound to her, body and soul—and she would be gone. Then he would finally understand what she had endured for five long years.

He touched her lips, her cheeks. Then his hands wound in her hair to pull her down to him.

He had always been so gentle with her, so sweetly hesitant, as though she was made of some exquisitely delicate substance he feared to shatter. But there was nothing gentle about the way he kissed her now. He did not ask, he demanded, and her whole heart leapt in answer. His hands were warm as they slid up her sides to trail over her breasts, teasing and caressing until she moaned aloud.

He turned, carrying her with him, not breaking the kiss. She wound her legs around his back, thrusting her hips upward to meet him as he filled her in one powerful surge. She cried out; her nails raked his back and he thrust again, more deeply, and again.

This
was what she’d dreamt of through those aching, endless nights,
this
was what she’d longed for all unknowing. Two were one, perfect and complete, a feeling so intense that she cried out again, a wordless cry of wonder that he echoed as he arched against her.

It seemed she floated back to earth, back into awareness of herself and him, held fast in each other’s arms, their legs entwined. His lips moved over hers in a lingering exploration that was echoed by the movement of light fingertips tracing the contours of leg and hip and breast. She made a low sound in her throat and he laughed, then pulled her to him, burying his face against her neck, holding her so tightly that she could feel the beating of his heart as if it were her own. But he had said himself that his heart had never been hers. It belonged to another, one whose death he still mourned.

Finish it,
she thought,
complete the binding. Take from him his will, destroy his precious honor. Make him yours forevermore.
The spell was as clear in her mind as it had been five years ago, for Morgause had forced her to repeat it until each word was indelibly branded in her memory. Aislyn had not used it then, but she would now. She
would
.

She lifted herself on one elbow and looked down at him. “These eyes see naught but you, this tongue speak of naught but you,” she whispered, touching his eyelids, then his lips. “This heart yearns only for . . .” He sighed, turning toward her in his sleep, fingers twining in a lock of her hair as his lips moved to form her name.

Do it,
she ordered herself, then leave him to pine and sigh, every moment an agony of longing for what he can never know again.

“Man to maiden,” she went on, her voice shaking, “heart to heart and . . . and . . .”

He never loved you,
she thought as hot tears slid down her cheeks.
He only took you because he believed it was a dream.

But when she looked into his face, she knew that she could not.

I must go,
she thought.
I cannot stay here.
She rose and poured water from the pitcher, then cleaned herself and him, touching his brow and murmuring a soft command when his eyelids fluttered. He would never know. He would remembered this night only as a dream . . . if he remembered it at all. She sat down beside him and stroked the hair back from his face, then bent to kiss his lips once more. His arms slid round her and drew her down. She laid her head on his breast with a little sigh, her tears falling on his skin as she listened to the slow beat of his heart.

Soon,
she thought,
soon I will go. Soon, but . . . not . . . quite . . . yet.

AISLYN dreamed that she was home again, standing in the hall with her mother and her brother, both of them looking to her as the battering ram pounded against the gates. “We must flee,” she said, and raising her voice, she turned to the people gathered in the hall. “Flee!” she cried. “The gates are breached!” Taking her brother’s hand, she ran through the hall and into the passageway leading to the kitchens . . .

Something touched her face and the dream began to fade. Yawning, she stretched and found herself staring into the green eyes of a cat. Sooty, she thought, reaching out to stroke the gleaming fur—and froze, staring at her hand, her own white hand, as a fist hammered at the door.

Gawain lay beside her, eyes closed and hair tangled over his brow. He stirred, muttered something—

And Aislyn was rolling out of bed, seizing her bag as she dove behind the screen. Her hands were shaking as she pulled pouches and bottles from the bag, dropping them in her haste.

“Who is it?” She started at the sound of Gawain’s voice, still thick with sleep.

“’Tis I, Gawain—Morgana. Don’t tell me you are still abed?”

Morgana.
Morgana? Holy Mother, help me,
Aislyn thought, measuring powder into a cup with shaking hands. Morgana, duchess of Cornwall, Gawain’s aunt . . . and the most powerful sorceress in Britain.

“A moment,” Gawain called, and Aislyn heard the bed creak as he stood. “Ragnelle?”

“Here,” she croaked, stirring frantically before she downed the potion.

“Are you all right?”

“Aye, ’tis just—” She bit her lip against a groan. “Something I ate.”

“Morgana,” he called, “a moment, if you would. My lady is . . . indisposed.”

“Very well.”

Aislyn looked down at her hands. It was done, she was once again the crone. Wiping the sweat from her upper lip, she peered around the corner of the screen to see Gawain pulling a robe over his head. Oh, why had she not gone away last night? She never wanted to see him again, and particularly not like this, with his hair tousled and his eyes heavy-lidded, whistling as he bent to find his boots.

“Toss me my shift, will you?” she said, speaking past the tightness in her throat.

“Are you well?” he asked, obliging her.

“Oh, aye.” Perhaps he didn’t remember. She knew it would be best that way, and yet how could she bear it if he did not? She hesitated, then asked, “How did you sleep?”

“Very well.” His smile faded as he looked toward the bed, and when he blushed, she could not tell if she wanted more to laugh or weep. Before she could decide the door opened.

“Are you decent yet?” a light voice demanded.

“Aye. I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” Gawain said, rising as a dark-haired lady came forward to embrace him.

“That’s all right,” she said, stepping back and peering anxiously into his face. “Are you well, Gawain?”

“Oh, aye. And you?”

“Quite. Is this your lady?”

The duchess of Cornwall looked nothing like her sister, Morgause. Morgana was not much taller than the crone; her features were even but unremarkable . . . save for her eyes, which were dark and very fine.

“It is,” Gawain said. “Morgana, may I present my wife. Ragnelle, this is my aunt Morgana, the duchess of Cornwall.”

“Your Grace.” Aislyn bowed her head briefly.

“Dame Ragnelle.” Morgana’s eyes widened. For a moment she looked on the verge of either tears or laughter; her lips trembled before she compressed them firmly. “I am sorry to have missed your wedding.”

“It was very sudden,” Aislyn said, forcing herself to hold Morgana’s gaze.

“So I heard.” Without turning her head, Morgana said, “Gawain, I will stay and help your lady dress. Do you go break your fast and we will find you in the hall.”

“Morgana,” he began, “I—”

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite her.” Morgana laughed lightly. “I merely want to get acquainted.”

Gawain looked at Aislyn, his brows raised in silent question. “Go along,” she said, nodding toward the door. “We shan’t be long.”

When he was gone, Morgana sat down on the bed. “My sister, the queen of Orkney, is fortunate in her sons. I am fond of all my nephews . . . but Gawain most of all.”

Aislyn hobbled over to the trunk and opened the lid. “I expect you’re thinking it’s an odd match—”

“Why would I think that?”

Aislyn pulled out her overtunic of green wool. “You’re jesting with me,” she said with an uneasy chuckle, “but it’s nothing I’m not used to.”

Ambrose leapt up on the bed and Morgana stroked him between the ears. “I’m not jesting,” she said mildly, gazing down at the cat. “Why should I think the match is such an odd one?”

Aislyn stared at her, nonplussed. “Well, I am a bit older.”

“You are not.” Morgana raised her head. “Oh, come now, did you think
I
would be taken in by your disguise?”

“Disguise?” Ragnelle attempted a laugh. “Who would disguise themselves as
this
?”

“That is the question, isn’t it? Why don’t you give me the answer, Dame Ragnelle—or whatever your true name is.”

Aislyn dropped the overtunic.

“Sit down,” Morgana ordered, “and tell me why you have deceived the king and court, and most particularly my nephew.”

Her voice was still pleasant, but now there was an edge to it. Aislyn sat down beside her on the bed.

Careful, now,
she told herself. From all Morgause had said of her sister Morgana, the two had not been close for years. But nobles were strange; no matter what their private quarrels, they stuck together, particularly against those who might bring scandal on the family name. Best to leave Morgause out of this entirely.

“Do you know,” she began cautiously, “of the king’s meeting with Somer Gromer Jour?”

“I do.”

“As it happens, I knew the answer the king wanted, so I set off to meet him on his way. When I saw Sir Gawain was with him . . .”

This was the tricky part, for she dared speak nothing but the truth to as powerful an enchantress as the duchess.

“Sir Gawain is the noblest of all King Arthur’s knights,” she said, choosing each word with care. “But ’tis common knowledge that he has no good opinion of women. It seems there’s hardly a tale told of him where he doesn’t find some chance to point out how treacherous we are. Of course, he’s not the first man to say
that
, but his words carry more weight than most.”

She halted a moment, waiting to see if she had chosen carefully enough. The duchess nodded and said, “Go on.”

“I grew weary of hearing Sir Gawain’s words in the mouth of every man who wants to keep his wife or daughter in what he’s pleased to call her place,” Aislyn continued. “So I thought—’twas but a jest, Your Grace, a—a lesson to him, if you would, to teach him to be more careful in the future.”

Had she done it? Nothing she had said was a lie . . . she had merely left out certain words in the hope Morgana would supply them for herself.

“I see.” The duchess looked down and smiled at Ambrose, who was curled up, purring, in her lap.

Aislyn had just dared to draw a full breath when Morgana went on. “That was a very interesting story, though more, I fear, for what you omitted than what you actually said. Are you sure you have nothing to add?”

Aislyn widened her eyes. “Such as what, Your Grace?”

“Such as where you learned to wield such enchantments, for a start. This spell is not one picked up from any village wise woman.”

“My mother had some learning,” Aislyn began. “Before her marriage, she studied—”

“Who taught you this spell?” Morgana interrupted.

Aislyn’s shoulders slumped. “The queen of Orkney.”

“Ah, so you know my sister! I should have guessed. Did she send you here?”

“No! Indeed, Your Grace, she did not! Some years ago, she took me on as—well, as her apprentice—”

“Morgause with an apprentice? Holy Mother, have mercy.”

“—And when I left her, I . . . well, I brought a book of hers along.”

“Where is it?”

Aislyn retrieved the grimoire from her bag and handed it to Morgana. The duchess leafed through it, her brows rising almost to her hairline. “It is Morgause’s hand, and she would never willingly have let this from her sight. How long have you had it?”

“Five years,” Aislyn admitted.

“And she has not found you in that time? You must be quite talented.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I never meant to steal it,” she hurried on, “I thought it was my own and did not realize my mistake until it was too late. You won’t—will you tell her where I am?”

“No,” Morgana said. “I will not.”

“Thank you—” Aislyn began again.

Morgana snapped the book shut and handed it to Aislyn, who dropped it back into her bag with a long sigh of relief. “That is,” Morgana continued, “if I am satisfied with the rest of your answers. Now, tell me the real reason you wanted to punish my nephew.”