Gawain (7 page)

“Has he really done those things?” Aislyn asked. “Slain giants and whatnot?”

“He has indeed,” Gawain assured her. “Sir Lancelot is a most accomplished warrior.”

He’s no friend to you,
Aislyn thought,
and well you know it. Look at him there, laughing at your expense. Don’t you care? Does
nothing
bother you?

And then she thought of something that would.

“Well, that’s all for me,” she said, pushing aside her trencher. “Come, husband, let’s to bed.”

“If you like,” Gawain said with maddening composure. “My lord,” he added, turning to the king, “may we be excused? My lady is weary and wishes to retire.”

Arthur choked on his wine. “I—I—oh, God, Gawain—”

“Please, Arthur,” Gawain said quietly. “Don’t. It’s all right.”

“Then yes,” Arthur said miserably. “Go on.”

“What?” Aislyn grumbled as Gawain took her arm and helped her toward the door, “Are there to be no songs? No jests and merrymaking as they tuck us up together?”

Gawain shot her a dark look. “I think not.”

Oh, really? This was her wedding day; she could insist upon the proper form. She glanced over the hall, wondering which of the ladies was so far out of favor that the task of unclothing Sir Gawain’s loathly lady would fall to them. As for the men . . . her gaze settled on Sir Lancelot. No one would have to order
him
; he’d be the first one on his feet.

She looked at Gawain again. His expression showed nothing, but that fair skin would always betray him. Two spots of brilliant red stained his cheekbones, as though he had been slapped into awareness of her rights. She could do it. She
should
do it. He deserved no less.

“I suppose I’m a bit past such frolics,” she heard her own voice say. Cursing herself for her weakness, she smiled, adding, “I’d just as soon have you to myself.”

And she had the satisfaction of seeing every drop of color drain from his face.

THIS cannot really be happening, Gawain thought as he walked down the passageway, slowing his steps to the halting gait of the—the—
creature
whose claw dug into his forearm. No, not a creature. It wasn’t her fault she looked the way she did. She couldn’t help the warts, nor the wrinkles or the hairs sprouting from her chin. Well, perhaps she could do something about
those
—and was there really any need for her teeth to be quite that sickening shade of green? But would it really make a difference if she plucked her jutting chin and polished her two remaining teeth to gleaming whiteness?

Sweat prickled at his neck and armpits. She is just a woman, he told himself firmly, old and bent with age. Her form is . . . roughly . . . human. And she had done King Arthur a great service today, one deserving of reward.

God help him. There must be some way out. He couldn’t do this—no man could.

And yet he must.

Suddenly he remembered his first battle. The king’s army had marched far into the night before they found the Saxon raiders encamped by the smoking remnants of a village. Arthur’s men had snatched a few hours of—not sleep, they were too strung up for that—time to rest the horses and see to their weapons.

The rain stopped just before dawn, though the sun struggled to break through the heavy clouds. Even when Gawain could make out his own comrades, the far end of the meadow was swathed in mist. He could hear the Saxons—the steady pounding of spear butts on the earth, the guttural war chants—and smell the grease they used to wind their fair hair into braids. The mist began to splinter, giving him quick glimpses of the enemy—but surely they were not so many as they seemed. That was an illusion. It must be. But then the sun burst forth and there they were, rank upon rank of enormous, bearded men. So many men. Three times—four—their own number.

That morning, standing across the field from the Saxons, the same thoughts had chased each other through Gawain’s mind.
I cannot do this—yet I must.

When the time came, he did.

He opened the door to his chamber and stood back to let it—her,
Ragnelle
, God help him, his
bride
—pass through.

Two paces in, she stopped dead.

“What—what are those?”

He followed her pointing claw—
finger
—toward the bed. “Cats.”

Ambrose, the white tom, leapt lightly from the bed to wind about Gawain’s ankles. Star and Motley soon followed, though Sooty only rose and stretched by way of greeting before turning herself in a circle and settling back down on his pillow.

“Don’t you like them?” he asked, hoping rather wildly that she would ask for a separate chamber.

“I—I don’t mind them,” the crea—, no,
Ragnelle
, answered.

Gawain threw open the shutter. “Out,” he said, and they went—all but Sooty, as always supremely disdainful of anything resembling an order.

“You, too,” he said, scooping her into his arms. He ignored her resentful yowl and tipped her out into the night. What now?
You know what,
he told himself,
don’t pretend you don’t. This is your wedding night.

He cleared his throat. “Shall I send for a woman to attend you?”

“I’ve been getting in and out of my own clothes for years,” Ragnelle said. “I think I can manage it tonight.”

“Right.”

He gazed out at the moon-washed courtyard, wondering how this had all happened. There must be something he could have done—or said—to make it turn out differently. But what? Where had he gone wrong? He couldn’t have refused to save the king’s life. He’d had to accept. Just as he’d had to accept the Green Knight’s challenge years ago. He wished now that he’d let the fiend cut off his head. At least that would have been an honorable death.

“Well?” a voice said behind him. “Are you going to stand there all night?”

He turned. There she was, lying in his bed—
his
bed— her scanty white hair spread out against his pillow, her eyes bright beneath her tangled brows.

God help me.
Drawing a deep breath, he crossed the chamber to the candle.

“Leave it.” His bride cackled, watching him with avid eyes. “I want to see what it is I bargained for.”

It was intolerable. Yet he had wed her. She was within her rights to ask that he show himself to her. That was the point, after all, of the public bedding he had denied her.

But he wished she’d let him blow the candle out. Warm light washed the bed, pitilessly revealing the gross, misshapen features of his wife.

CANDLELIGHT lent Gawain’s hair a ruddy glow, that exquisitely fair hair that one popular ballad had compared to falling rain.

There were many ballads about Sir Gawain. Aislyn, disguised sometimes as a lad, sometimes as the crone, had often stopped outside the village alehouse, arrested by the sound of his name drifting from within, borne upon a cloud of music and stale ale. It was a weakness and she’d known it, but like the drunkard with his ale, she’d been helpless to resist.

She watched him strip off his tunic and hose. Of course she didn’t have to look. She had seen him naked before and it wasn’t a sight she was likely to forget, no matter how much she’d wanted to. He had already attained his height then—or most of it—but had still been a bit uncertain about managing his arms and legs. That slight awkwardness was gone; he was in command of his body, moving gracefully through a world that had been fashioned for smaller men.

His shoulders had definitely broadened, she thought; new golden hairs glittered on his chest. Her gaze drifted downward, past the taut plane of his belly. As though aware of her scrutiny, he turned his back, presenting her with an equally pleasing view.

There wasn’t any harm in admiring his form. In
her
form, she couldn’t do anything
but
admire him. Which was all to the good, because he was indeed the most admirable of men.

She’d thought the same five years ago, standing in the doorway of his chamber. She had gone to him that night at Morgause’s bidding, to fulfill the very special task the Queen of Air and Darkness had set her: to use first her body, then her magic to seduce Gawain and bind him to her will.

He had lain sprawled upon his bed that night, one arm crooked over his head, moonlight gilding his hair and his face innocent and peaceful. Now, as he turned to her, his expression was very different—hard, intent, completely focused on the task ahead.

He slid into bed beside her and settled back cautiously against the pillow. His breathing was unsteady, though he fought to control it as he stared fixedly at the canopy above. Gathering his courage. Steeling his resolve. Oh, she knew exactly what he felt. You thought you couldn’t do a thing, but when you had no choice, you beat back the terror and revulsion and just did it. No one wielded the magic Aislyn commanded without mastering
that
lesson. But what would happen if she insisted he make love to her? Would he?
Could
he?

He turned to her, and suddenly she was aware of the warmth of his bare skin, inches from her own, and the scent that was uniquely his, one she had never quite managed to forget. She gazed into the crystal depths of his eyes, and a treacherous tide of warmth stole through her body as she remembered the last time they had been as close as this. What would it be like to feel his touch once more, his lips upon her . . .

She gave a snort of laughter. “Stop making calf’s eyes at me, I’m too weary to pleasure you tonight.” As she turned her back on him, she heard him release a shuddering breath of relief. “Mayhap I’ll be feeling spryer come morning,” she added nastily and pulled the coverlet over her head.

GAWAIN wasn’t there when she awoke. She hadn’t expected him to be. But his cats were all curled up on the bed, watching her stretch and groan as she tried to work the kinks out of her stiffened joints.

Ambrose. Star. Motley. She had chosen their names that day so long ago. All except the last, the black cat curled up on the pillow beside her own.

“Hello, Sooty,” she said now, and the cat yawned, revealing a pink throat and sharp white teeth, then put out a paw and tapped Aislyn on the chin.

Were these really the same cats they had found that day? Star had been named for the blaze on her chest, and Ambrose appeared to be pure white, save for that one black spot on his belly. They had to be the same. She had forgotten them, until she was well away from Lothian, and had often wondered what became of them. It had never occurred to her that with everything that happened that night, Gawain would have remembered them. He might have left her behind, but he’d thought to take the kittens.

Bastard.

She groaned as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The crone was not made for riding; yesterday had taken its toll.

Her feet dangled far above the floor, large, flat feet with twisted toes and thick, ridged nails. Her own feet were rather nicer, she reflected. They didn’t ache like this.
She
didn’t ache like this.

Stop complaining,
she ordered herself.
You’re safe for now. Just finish what you came here for and you can be on your way.
Where, exactly, she would go was still a mystery, but she would think of something.

She always had before.

Grunting, she stood, one hand at the small of her back. A screen in one corner concealed a chamber pot; she used it and then dragged an overtunic from her bag. It was far too long for the crone, having been made to Aislyn’s measure, but she pulled it on. There was no point in using the comb . . . though after a moment’s reflection, she twisted a few strands of tangled hair into a lumpy braid.