Gawain (4 page)

“I—I—” Clearly at a loss, Guinevere stared from her husband to his nephew. “Are you quite certain, Sir Gawain?”

“Quite,” he replied with such frigid dignity that Guinevere was silenced. “Would you be so kind as to see that Dame Ragnelle has all she requires?”

“Me?”
The word came out as a squeak, and again, Guinevere looked to her husband. This time Arthur met her gaze straight on.

“I would consider it a personal favor, my lady.” He drew Guinevere aside and added in a lower voice, “Don’t say anything about the wedding yet.”

“As you wish. Well, then, Dame . . . Ragnelle,” Guinevere said with infinite distaste. “If you would step this way . . .”

“Ta, love.” Aislyn waggled her twisted fingers at Gawain. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

She followed the queen inside and up a long corridor. “Not so fast,” she grumbled, “I ain’t as spry as I used to be.” Guinevere slowed, allowing Aislyn to catch up to her.

The queen’s face was a study of revulsion and curiosity. Eventually, as Aislyn had suspected it might, curiosity won.

“This is all so sudden,” she said. She attempted a light laugh, though it came out somewhat strangled due to Aislyn’s close proximity. “How long have you known Sir Gawain?”

“Known him? I can’t say as I know him at all,” Aislyn replied, which was true enough. Once she’d thought she did, but she’d soon learned the folly of that assumption. “What woman really knows her man before they’re wed?”

Guinevere shot her a startled look. “True, but . . .” She hesitated, pearly teeth worrying her full lower lip. “How did you meet?”

“’Twas a lucky chance.” Aislyn cut off further questions by the simple expedient of smiling. Guinevere gasped, one hand flying to her slender throat. “I expect you’re thinking I’m a bit old,” she went on, “and I can’t deny I had my doubts. But I said to myself—Ragnelle, I said, you don’t get such an offer every day—or even every century. If it doesn’t worry him, who are you to fuss?”

Guinevere gazed at her, her face working with some emotion Aislyn could not immediately name. The queen’s lips trembled—was she about to weep? But no, a tiny giggle escaped her before she managed to compose herself. “Yes,” she said. “I see. How very interesting.”

Interesting indeed. So the act had been no act at all. No friend of Sir Gawain could possibly find this situation comical.

That’s something we have in common,
Aislyn thought, wondering why she could not bring herself to like the queen. But then, she doubted Guinevere had many women friends at all, not looking like she did. Aislyn remembered how that felt, and thought that under different circumstances, she and Guinevere might have gotten on well together. For she—like Guinevere, she suspected—had never known what it was to be jealous of another woman’s beauty.

Until today.

Feeling oddly out of sorts, she stomped into a bare chamber with a large cask in the center.

Guinevere pulled a cord and a moment later, a serving girl arrived. “Fill the bath,” the queen ordered. “Have you anything to wear, good dame?” she added to Aislyn.

“Happens I do. My bag’s still on my horse.”

“I will see that it is brought to you. If there is anything you need, just ask one of the serving maids.”

What I need is to change back before I really am as old
as I seem to be,
Aislyn thought moodily as the cask was filled.
What I need is to find some place Morgause won’t look, and get there.
But she couldn’t be safer than she was right here, and until she thought of something better, here she would remain.

The bath was filled and after much vehement whispering among the serving girls, one was pushed forward. She was a frightened little miss of perhaps fourteen, and gulping audibly, offered to help Aislyn bathe.

“Go along,” she said roughly. “All of you. I reckon I can manage on my own.”

Alone, she regarded the steaming bath, longing to immerse her aching joints in its warmth, but she had used the last of her foul asafetida potion earlier. On reflection, though, she thought the point had been made and sank into the water with a sigh, looking down at her slack breasts and wrinkled belly with a shiver of disgust.

“ I am not saying she should leave empty-handed,” Arthur argued. “She can have a manor—
two
manors—a duchy—”

“She refused all those before,” Gawain said patiently, “and I have given her my word.”

Arthur flung himself into a seat. “I know, you are right, but have you considered that you are my heir? What if I die tomorrow? Do you seriously expect to put that—that—
thing
on the throne as queen of Britain?”

Gawain had considered this already, during the ride back to Camelot. It was the reason he had requested this audience with Arthur, fearing that the king had not thought of it himself. “It is a problem,” he said.

“A
problem
? It’s a bit more than that, Gawain.”

“Then you will have to name another heir.”

“Another—? Who, Agravaine? He’d have the clans at each others’ throats in no time. Gareth? Gaheris? They’re just boys!”

“No younger than I was when you—”

Arthur crashed his fist down on the table. “
You
are my heir and as your liege lord, I forbid this marriage.”

“It is too late for that,” Gawain said quietly. “We accepted her help—”

“You mean I did.”

“I mean
we
did. No other choice was possible for us or for Britain. She named a price; I agreed to it. There is no honorable way to withdraw.”

Arthur buried his face in his hands. “How could I have allowed this? How could I have let you—”

“I am not the first man to marry from expediency, or even the first to wed a woman older than myself. It is a common enough arrangement, Arthur.”

“She’s not old—she’s ancient. She is . . .
loathly
. But I don’t suppose she can live forever,” Arthur said, the words coming muffled from behind his hands.

“I expect not.”

“You could send her off to Orkney.” Arthur raised his head, his expression brightening. “You’d never have to lay eyes on her again.”

“That I cannot do,” Gawain said. “I’m sorry—I thought you heard. It was a condition. She said that once we married, we could not live in separate households.”

“And you
agreed
?”

“I did.” Gawain looked down at his folded hands, his chest tightening at the thought of leaving Camelot. “If she is so repugnant to you,” he said carefully, “I could go with her to Orkney—”

“No! It’s bad enough I’ve spoiled your life, I won’t have you exiled, too. I need you with me.” Arthur sighed heavily. “I suppose we’ll just have to put up with the loathly lady.”

The pressure in Gawain’s chest eased. “I am sorry, Arthur,” he began.

“For what? Saving my life? Don’t be a fool.” The king stood and walked to the door. There he hesitated as if he meant to say more, but in the end he walked out without speaking.

Gawain stared at the closed door, then bent his golden head and rested his brow on his clenched fist.

AISLYN had just put the veil over her head when one of the queen’s waiting women arrived to escort her to the hall. She didn’t know the lady’s name; the haughty bitch hadn’t bothered to introduce herself, obviously not finding the crone worth the effort.

So this is Camelot,
Aislyn thought, following the lady’s slim, straight back and wealth of bobbing curls as quickly as she could manage on her aching feet.
I can’t say I care for it so far.

Her opinion was improved when she reached the hall. The company was very fine—as fine as ever she’d imagined. The ladies were all young and pretty—
though none are as beautiful as I,
a small voice whispered in her mind—clad in flowing gowns with ribbons and flowers twined into their hair. Their hands were soft, their faces bright with youth and innocence as they chattered together, their musical voices interspersed with many a burst of laughter as they glanced sideways at the knights.

The objects of their admiration lounged about with studied unconcern, as dashing a collection of young bloods as Aislyn had ever seen. A few were dressed in tunics that rose daringly above the knee, a fashion she had not seen before but wholeheartedly approved, though most wore more conventional robes. Their deep voices provided a pleasant counterpoint to the light laughter of the ladies.

“You don’t think it’s the Saxons, do you?” Aislyn’s escort cried, joining a small group of knights.

“What else?” one said, his face glowing with excitement.

Aislyn stood forgotten in the doorway, watching them go through the eternal ritual of courtship: a sigh here, a smile there; a scarf dropped as if by chance, its owner waiting anxiously until her chosen knight retrieved it or passed by, pretending not to see. She drank it all in greedily, the sounds and scents and brilliant colors, and longed with all her heart to be among them. Oh, to wear such gowns again! To braid her hair with silken ribbons and walk proudly into such a company—why, she could capture any of these knights with just a smile!

Every one of the five years that had been lost to her was like a coal burning in her heart. At twenty-one, she knew herself still beautiful, but she would be among the eldest of these maidens. The first blush of her youth was gone forever, stolen by a faithless knight, and nothing could ever bring it back.

A small ripple passed across the hall and silence fell.

“Good people.” That was the king’s voice, coming from the far end of the hall. Aislyn pushed through the crowd until she glimpsed him standing on the dais before his throne, looking as grave as though he was about to announce a death.