Lancelot
Authors: Gwen Rowley
A Delightful Dizziness . . .
“My brother rode his first joust against Sir Lancelot,” Elaine said. “It was his last. As I waited by the surgeon’s tent, all the talk was that Sir Lancelot would as lief have stayed at home as waste his skill on such raw country lads—”
“That was your brother?” the knight interrupted. “I—I remember hearing of it.”
“It was a bad fall,” Elaine went on. “His leg was shattered. He very nearly lost it.” What was the matter with her today? She had thought herself long past weeping, yet the knight was looking at her with astonished pity. “I’m sorry. What were we talking about? Oh, it was Sir Lancelot. A subject we generally avoid.”
“I’m not surprised.”
They reached the edge of the forest.
“Wait,” he said. “’Tis a pretty day for a ride, and I’m sure you know all the best paths. That is, if you would like to . . .”
When he smiled, that strange dizziness came over her again. What could a man like this possibly see in her? She was nearly one and twenty, and she did not delude herself about the damage done by years of starvation. Yet he looked as though he genuinely hoped she would accept. All at once her heart lifted, and it seemed anything was possible, even that she might have caught the interest of a young and wealthy knight.
“I would like to,” she said. “Come, we can water our horses by the river.”
LANCELOT
Gwen Rowley
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KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE: LANCELOT
A Jove Book / Published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove mass-market edition / September 2006
Copyright © 2006 by The Berkley Publishing Group.
Cover design by George Long.
Cover illustration by Jaime De Jesus.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-66410-0
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For Michael
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A
LFRED
L
ORD
T
ENNYSON
,
“The Lady of Shallot”
Chapter 1
O
NCE Elaine noticed how like a bull her uncle was, she wondered that she had not marked the resemblance before. The thickly muscled neck, the flaring nostrils and close-set eyes—it was uncanny. Put a ring in his nose, and you could lead the man to market.
“A damned plague, that’s what they are!” he bellowed, pounding a meaty fist upon the trestle table. “Worse than the bloody Saxons, those Corbenic serfs, and I’ll stand for it no longer!”
“It was a hard winter,” Elaine said, holding onto her temper with an effort. She faced her uncle down the length of the trestle, covered with a crimson cloth and crowded with platters of bread and pots of honey, along with two enormous pork and mutton pies made from the remains of last night’s feast. The guests between them had been subdued this morning, but now they were wide-awake and rigid with embarrassment.
“A hard
winter
?” Ulfric roared, his face purpling with
rage. “Every winter’s hard, but that’s no excuse for poaching!”
“Of course it isn’t,” Elaine answered through clenched teeth, “but you know our harvest was poor, and—”
“The same old story.” Ulfric snorted. “But it won’t do, my girl, not anymore. I’ve turned a blind eye in the past, but if you think I’ll just stand by while your villeins invade
my
demesne and make off with
my
game—”
Elaine set her cup down very carefully. “It was one man,” she said, “and one deer. Hardly an invasion.”
“One that I know of! But this is not the first time I’ve caught those thieving ruffians skulking on my lands, and God knows I have enough to do without defending my borders against yon scurvy pack of rogues! Your father is useless, and as for Torre—by God, when I think of all I’ve done for that boy, all wasted now—”
Elaine leapt to her feet. “Keep your tongue off my brother! And my father, too! If you want recompense for the damned hind—”
“Oh, I’ll have what’s due to me. I’ve—”
“Ulfric,” Aunt Millicent said. “That is quite enough.”
Ulfric glanced at his lady and deflated like a pricked bladder. Elaine looked to her aunt, as well.
Hypocrite,
she thought with impotent fury; it was Millicent who had raised the subject of the poacher in the first place, waving it like a red flannel before her husband’s nose.
“I’ve complained to the king, that’s what I’ve done,” Ulfric muttered sulkily. “And not for the first time, either.”
“Elaine,” Alienor said swiftly, looking anxiously from her father to Elaine, silently pleading with her cousin to hold her tongue. Elaine was very fond of Alienor, who looked pale and wan this morning, not the blushing bride at all. The groom stared at his father-in-law with well-bred distaste, as though he was already having second thoughts
about his marriage, not even four and twenty hours old.
Elaine resumed her seat without a word and forced herself to smile at Alienor, who managed a crooked smile in return. Still, the awkwardness lingered, casting a pall over the remainder of the meal.
The moment she could do so without drawing further attention to herself, Elaine stood. “I must begone,” she said, speaking not to her aunt or uncle, but to Alienor, who came forward to embrace her.
“Thank you—for everything,” Alienor said, slipping something into her hand. Elaine looked down at the gold chain and shook her head.
“I cannot take this.”
“You can. You shall. I don’t know what I would have done without you these past weeks. I’m so sorry about Father—”