Gawain (9 page)

“Not particularly, no.”

“You look sodden,” she said. “And here I thought you never drank to excess. Beneath your dignity, isn’t it?”

He rested his elbows on his knees. “I am not sodden. But after today, I haven’t much dignity left to lose.”

So he
had
minded. Well, that was something, anyway. It was a comfort to know that her suffering had not been entirely in vain. “Ah, well,” she said, sitting down upon the chair, “’twas all in fun.”

“Fun? Oh, right. Particularly the part about a bride needing nourishment,” he said, raking his hair back from his face.

She chuckled. “Aye, that was amusing.”

“Was it?” he said coldly.

“Oh, go on,” she said, exasperated. “Why don’t you say what you are really thinking?”

“You have no idea what I am thinking.”

“I’ll wager that I do. I made you angry today, didn’t I? Go on, admit it. And then there’s that Sir Lancelot,” she went on, without giving him a chance to answer. “Why don’t you give him a good hard smack? You know you want to, and I daresay it would do him good. But no, you just let him go on, making jokes at your expense! You’d best take care or people will start wondering—” she broke off, realizing that she’d said more than she intended.

“Wondering
what
?”

“Well, wondering if you’re as brave as all the tales make out.”

He gave her a level look. “No one has ever had cause to complain of my behavior on the battlefield.”

“What’s all life but a battlefield? Yet you let that boy mock you, and you just sit there and do nothing! Don’t you care what people say?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Even if they’re saying you’re afraid of him?”

“Anyone who could believe
that
knows nothing of me,” he answered with a flash of pride. “But look you,” he said, leaning forward, his expression intent. “The knights of Camelot are not mere fighting men, we are brothers. And Camelot itself is not just another castle, it is a—a beacon. You’ve heard of the king’s justice, have you not? That isn’t just a phrase, it is a living force that touches every one of his subjects. When we, the king’s companions, go out into the world, we carry his vision with us—his law, his justice, his mercy—into every corner of Britain. We cannot allow petty quarrels to divide us. We must be
one
.”

For a moment, Aislyn could see it once again, Gawain’s shining kingdom built on justice and mercy . . . and then common sense returned. Once that Camelot had been her dream, as well, but when she had reached out to grasp it, she had learned how fragile dreams could be.

“Pretty words,” she scoffed.

“The vows we have taken—to the king and to each other—are real. They’re not just pretty words, they
matter
.”

“Not to Sir Lancelot,” she pointed out.

“If one of my brothers in arms treats me with discourtesy, the shame is his, not mine. But each man must look to his own honor. What
I
have sworn, I do.”

Aislyn gave it up with an inward shrug. Talking to this new Gawain was like talking to a man encased in mail—no words of hers could make an impression. “So did you at least have a dance after I left?”

He shook his head. “I told you, I don’t dance.”

“Why, are you left-footed? Or did you never learn? Or is it just beneath you?”

He scowled. “I do not care to dance. Is that a crime?”

“Not a crime, but—”

“I do not play hoodman’s blind or forfeits, either. Or sing pretty ballads.”

Aislyn’s mouth twitched. That, at least, was true, though he’d sung her one or two soldier’s songs that had made her laugh, even as she blushed . . .

Stop,
she told herself.
This isn’t the same Gawain, remember? And you don’t like this one.

But still, she was a little curious. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Here you are, a bonny young knight of three-and-twenty, and a prince into the bargain! You have everything a man could want, and yet you mope and droop about, as merry as a rain cloud at a picnic.”

“I enjoy myself,” he said defensively.

“When?” she demanded. “How?”

“Well, when . . .” He frowned. “In battle.”

“Killing people is fun?”

“No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I feel . . . useful then. It is,” he said carefully, “something I do well.”

“Aye, I’ve heard that. But we’re talking about
merriment
.” She rapped his knee with her knuckles to emphasize the point. “Having a laugh with your mates, flirting with the lasses . . .”

“You want me to flirt?” He smiled without humor as he turned back the coverlet. “That’s odd advice for a wife to give her husband.”

“I’m an odd wife,” she said. “So where have you been all this time since I left you, then? The truth.”

“I fell asleep in the chapel.”

She rolled her eyes. “Have you ever thought of taking holy orders?”

He smiled briefly, surprising her. “One must have faith for that, and I . . .”

“You are not a good Christian knight?” Aislyn demanded mockingly.

“I serve my king; my soul is my concern. If indeed I have one,” he added in a lower voice.

Aislyn barely stopped herself from reaching out to him. This was a change she had not expected; some of their most passionate arguments had been the result of Gawain’s refusal to agree that belief in some invisible deity was the refuge of the weak and childish. Despite the combined prayers of her family and household, the God Aislyn had been brought up to believe was omnipotent had been either unwilling—or worse, powerless to help them. That their house priest had attributed this to some fault on their part only added insult to the injury.

Strange that it should hurt her to realize his simple faith was lost to him. She had never been able to share it, but it had given him such joy that she could not but regret its loss for his sake.

“Then why go to the chapel?” she asked.

He looked achingly young for a moment, a bewildered sorrow in his eyes, but then he shrugged, his expression hardening. “ ’Tis quiet there; a good place to think.”

“And to sleep,” she observed and he smiled wryly.

“That, too.”

“Can I ask you something?” she said, surprising herself, and he shrugged again, stifling a yawn. “You are the king’s heir. Should you not have taken a bride years ago?”

“If I had, we would not be here now.” He lifted his gaze to her, his expression bleak. “I never meant to wed.”

“Never?”

“Once, I’d thought to, but . . . no.” He fell back upon the feather mattress.

Aislyn pulled herself to her feet and looked down at him, her heartbeat quickening. Was it possible he regretted what he had done five years ago? That he still had some feeling for her after all?
Leave it,
she told herself,
let it go, it doesn’t matter now . . .

“Why didn’t you?” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

Gawain laid his forearm over his eyes. “She died.”

She must have made some sound, for he said roughly, “No more. For pity’s sake, Ragnelle, just let me sleep.”

AISLYN sat, clutching the arms of the chair, each breath an effort. What difference does it make? she asked herself. He isn’t the same. It doesn’t matter if he’s mourning some dead lass.

“Once I meant to marry . . .”

It all rushed back so clearly, the nights she’d spent kneeling by the window, imagining Gawain declaring himself to her. She’d gone over it a hundred times, the words he would use, what she would say, how happy they would be. For five years, she had been certain he was on the brink of asking her before that terrible night.

But he had never meant to marry her at all.

She didn’t know how to feel or what to think. The great love of her life had been a mere infatuation on his part. It was some other woman who had changed him from the merry lad she knew to this grim stranger.

Yet had he not always been a stranger?

She had risked Morgause’s wrath for a man she had not known. For his sake, she had very nearly lost her life. Everything she had done and been and felt since that night had been based upon a lie.

He had never loved her.

Her breath rasped in her throat as she stared at him, marking the long, straight limbs, the broad chest and flat belly, the angles of his face, and the moon-bright hair that spilled across the pillow. Yes, he was beautiful, but his beauty was no more than a shell. She had never known the man beneath, and if she had once loved him desperately, her love was nothing to the hatred that consumed her now.

She stood, hobbled over to the chest, and took up her bag. It didn’t take long to mix the potion, and when it was done she gulped it down in a single draught.

She had forgotten how much it hurt. She fell to her knees, biting her lips against the pain as bones lengthened, straightened, as skin stretched and joints popped.

At last it ended. She stood, throwing off tunic and undergown, then raised her arms over her head and felt each muscle stretch. Oh, it was good to be herself again! She ran her hands across her face, fingertips tracing her own nose and lips and eyes, reveling in the smooth suppleness of her skin. She smoothed the shimmering waves of hair falling over breasts and hips to curl about her knees.

Padding barefoot to the bed, she looked down at Gawain. Dark golden lashes lay motionless against his cheeks. Save for the slow rise and fall of his chest, he could have been the effigy of a knight carved of alabaster and touched with gilt.

Just so had he looked that night in Lothian when she had gone to his chamber, sent there by the queen.

He has to know,
she thought. He would understand that she had never meant to deceive him, that she had only said what she had been told to say—and not said those things she had been ordered to conceal. Once she explained how it had been for her, how helpless she had felt when she arrived at Lothian with nothing but her own wits standing between her and a life of servitude, he would realize that she’d really had no choice.

He would surely believe that she had not known Morgause was planning to overthrow King Arthur—although she should have realized it long since, and had she not been blinded by the dazzling prospect of a crown, she would have.
And what would you have done?
a small voice demanded mockingly.
Until you met Gawain, would you have cared?