Lancelot (4 page)

“Send to Britt and bid him hitch up the oxen,” she ordered crisply. “Have every able-bodied man and woman leave whatever they are doing and go immediately to the north field. Lord Pelleas and I shall join them in one hour.”

“Aye, my lady,” Sir John said, “I will see to it.”

“Thank you. Now, Father, please listen. Uncle Ulfric said—”

“But my jupon!” Lavaine cried.

“In good time,” she said impatiently.

“I need it now!”

“Lavaine’s got it in his head to ride off to a tournament tomorrow,” Torre put in.

“Tomorrow?”
Not yet,
she thought,
it is too soon
. Though she knew it wasn’t really. Lavaine had been knighted just before she’d left for Alston. But he was so young still—just eighteen this year, and even mock battles could be dangerous. One only had to look at Torre to see that.

“What tournament is this?” she asked.

“The king’s Pentecostal festival,” Lavaine began. “Knights have come from all parts of the world to compete—”

“And everyone knows Sir Lancelot will win,” Torre snapped, shooting his brother a scowl that Lavaine had done nothing to deserve. Not that Lavaine was cast down in
the least. He was far too used to Torre’s surly moods to pay them any mind.

“The prize is an enormous diamond!” Lavaine went on eagerly.

“A diamond?” Elaine stopped short. “How strange.”

“Not really,” Lavaine said, “the king always offers something magnificent at Pentecost.”

“And I suppose you think you have a chance to win it!” Torre demanded with a scornful laugh.

“I can try, can’t I? Just because
you
can’t compete doesn’t mean that no one else should!”

“A diamond?” Elaine repeated slowly, and her brothers broke off to stare at her.

“You seem strangely interested in this diamond,” Torre said. “Why? Have you acquired a taste for vulgar jewels?”

“Given half a chance, I daresay I could. But I dreamed last night—oh, it was nothing—”

“Tell me,” her father ordered, looking up from his parchments, “and perhaps we can divine its meaning.”

Dreams! It was always dreams with him! They were as meat and drink to Corbenic’s lord, more real than the filthy courtyard all around him and more pressing than his idle serfs. But he was looking at her so expectantly, his bright blue eyes as guileless as a child’s, that she lacked the heart to chide him.

Poor Father. It wasn’t his fault he could no longer distinguish fact from fancy. Elaine had a sudden, piercing memory of him sitting in the hall on court day, settling each dispute between villagers and manor folk with a few decisive words. And then, later, he and Mother would preside over the feast, while Elaine and Torre danced with the village children in the courtyard.

It was seldom that Elaine remembered any of her
dreams, so she held this one out to him, an offering to make amends for her impatience.

“Very well,” she said as they walked together toward the hall, “this was my dream . . .”

L
ANCELOT was sweating in full armor as he rode toward the tourney field. He longed to strip down to his tunic, but he was too well-known to pass unnoticed through the crowds upon the road. On the deserted stretches, he had removed his helm, but even after all these years the harsh sunlight, so unlike the muted glow of Avalon, troubled his eyes. So he kept that on, as well, with the visor tipped up to allow a tiny thread of air to cool his streaming brow.

At last he drew up his charger on the crest of a hill and surveyed the field below, a broad swathe of meadow surrounded by dense forest, split neatly by a silver ribbon of water. One side of the River Usk was a patchwork of bright color; dozens of pavilions had already been erected, and dozens more were going up. The other held the tilting ground, cleared and fenced, surrounded on three sides by wooden stands. Tiny figures scurried about, and the scent of woodsmoke from many small fires drifted lazily upward on a warm spring breeze.

The Pentecostal tournament had become a yearly tradition in the years of Arthur’s reign. What had started as a solemn ritual during which the king dispensed justice to his subjects, and his companions renewed their vows had become, over time, an event of great magnificence.

Last year the castle had been filled and the surrounding fields crowded with what seemed to be every knight in Britain, along with their servants, squires, and families. There were others, too—knights who had traveled from all corners of the world to compete in the tournament, eager to test their mettle against the Knights of the Round Table—and to win the generous prizes Arthur offered.

With so many competitors, the tournament dragged on for days. Even when it was finally over, no one seemed in any hurry to depart. Quarrels had sprung up between the knights, resulting in private challenges that kept the marshal busy. There had been fights between their squires, too, and their servants, until the castle guards were exhausted with the effort of keeping order.

Yet to hear Guinevere tell it, the real war had been waged within the castle. The ladies fought sweet and deadly battles over precedence in claiming this chamber over that, or a seat at table, or, in one memorable instance, who had the right to bow first to the queen. The last had turned into a furious argument in which a stately dowager completely lost her head and accused her rival of resorting to witchcraft to steal Uther Pendragon’s notice from herself some forty years ago, upon which the second lady used her walking stick to deal the dowager a stunning blow.

“Oh, it’s easy for you to laugh,” Guinevere had said sourly to the king and Lancelot when they dined together in the gardens, “
you
didn’t have to pull the two apart.”

After the last guest finally departed, Sir Kay took to his bed for a week, and the court was reduced to dining on
cheese and increasingly stale bread. It was then Arthur declared that this year’s tournament would not be the traditional combat fought at Camelot but a melee lasting only a single day and held far enough from court to discourage any visitors. To soften the blow, he was offering a prize of such magnificence that any knight put off by the inconvenience soon changed his mind. Judging from the crowd below, their families had all decided make the best of changed conditions.

Lancelot searched the pavilions, finally locating his cousin Bors’s standard floating in the breeze. Bors would keep his secret, little as he might like it. But Lancelot would have to be careful not to draw attention to himself if he hoped to fight unknown. His armor was plain enough; if he kept his visor down, he should pass unnoticed. He took a quick look at his saddle to assure himself there was nothing that could be recognized, and he groaned aloud as his eyes fell upon his shield, covered now in canvas but bearing his own, instantly recognizable device.

He wheeled his charger about, cursing himself for not considering the need for a blank shield, the haste with which he’d pulled his own from the peg, and most of all, Guinevere for putting him in this position in the first place.

But he didn’t want to think of Guinevere. That would only make him angry, which could lead to more mistakes. He would have to ride to Camelot and back again, which meant his charger would be weary before the tournament began. A weary mount was easily injured, and Lancelot was fond of this one. To lose him would mean months of inconvenience while he found and trained another to his ways.

His mood was not improved by the sight of a group of horses approaching down the road. With an irritated sigh, he flipped down his visor, though even so, he felt ridiculously conspicuous. But they had no reason to stop for a stranger;
he should be safe enough—and then he noticed the banner held proudly in the squire’s hands. His gaze moved past the squire and fastened on a lady, her bright blue hood thrown back to reveal auburn hair glinting in the sunlight.

Queen Morgause of Orkney.

Lancelot told himself he had no reason to fear Gawain’s mother—and yet he did. Morgause’s sharp eyes saw far too much, and she had once said that magic was her . . . How had she put it? Oh, yes, her
passion.
He remembered now how she had purred the word, and every instinct screamed a warning he did not stop to question. He pulled his horse off the path and plunged into the forest.

An hour later, he was hopelessly lost. The track he had thought would be a shortcut to Camelot had dwindled into a tiny path and finally vanished in a swamp. Rather than turn back the way he’d come, he’d found another path leading roughly west, and when that veered off to the north, he’d tried another that doubled back upon itself so many times that he was now utterly confused.

But at least he was off the road and far from prying eyes.

This latest path seemed to offer some hope; it had clearly been well traveled in the not-too-distant past. It must lead somewhere, and with any luck, to a place where he could buy or borrow a blank shield. It was blessedly dim beneath the trees, the air pungent with the scents of swamp and loam, and birds chattered busily overhead. Lancelot fell into a half doze as he rode along. “Oh, the broom, the bonny, bonny broom,” he chanted softly in rhythm to his charger’s plodding steps.

As a rule, he had no ear for music, but there had once been a harper in the Lady’s hall in Avalon who played so marvelously that even Lancelot had been enchanted. Thomas, the minstrel’s name had been, sometimes called the Rhymer, and the Lady had said he’d come from far, far
away, which seemed odd because Thomas spoke the tongue of Britian with an accent very like Gawain’s.

Lancelot’s thoughts drifted to Gawain, and a scornful smile curved his lips. The noble Sir Gawain—what a hypocrite he was! He was always so very courteous to Lancelot, at such pains to disguise his resentment and dislike. Not that Lancelot was deceived. Nor did he care a whit. Let Gawain detest him. Why should he care? He remembered suddenly that he had dreamed of Gawain the night before, a vivid dream of their one meeting in the lists on the day Lancelot relieved Gawain of the title of First Knight of Britain. Gawain had fought well that day, but of course he never stood a chance. It was Lancelot’s destiny to gain that title, the great destiny bestowed upon him by the Lady of the Lake.

Lancelot only wished the Lady had mentioned how it would befall that he would win the title. But the Lady kept her own counsel, he reflected drowsily; she never answered any question straightly. About the mysterious origins of her harper, she would only say that miles were not the only measure of distance, which Lancelot still did not understand.

There had been one song he sang that Lancelot liked best of all, about a lass climbing a hill on her way to market fair and the lad who wagered that she’d not come down again a maiden. As a boy, Lancelot had often sung it in his empty courtyard where there was no one else to hear. Now, though, he could not seem to catch the tune, and the words he had once known so well slipped from his mind before he could quite grasp them.

It was happening again. Lately he’d had the oddest feeling that his past was disappearing, the memories blending together like a painted panel left out in the rain. That minstrel’s song—what had been his name? For a moment
his mind was quite blank, then he remembered. Thomas. Thomas, who they called the . . . the Singer? The Harper? No, something else . . . but it was gone.

Had there ever really been a harper?
he wondered with a sudden stab of fear.
Or had that been a dream?
He didn’t know. He could not be certain which of his memories of Avalon were real and which he had imagined.

He thrust the disquieting impression away. The past was not important. It was the present that mattered.

But Lancelot found he did not want to think about the present, either, or how he had come to be lost in this dark forest. Arthur’s face—but no, he would not think of that. Better—safer—to think about the future, a future so distant that today’s disturbance in the queen’s chamber would be quite forgotten.

’Twas folly to doubt that it would be forgotten. He was Lancelot du Lac, beloved foster son of the Lady of the Lake, and through her grace he served King Arthur as no other knight could ever do. Arthur knew his loyalty. How could he not? Had Lancelot not proven himself a hundred times already? His fame had spread throughout Britain and beyond, just as the Lady had foretold. Whenever he rode out, people lined the streets to cheer him, and the minstrels competed to make songs of his adventures. Perhaps by now they were even sung in Avalon itself by that harper of the Lady’s . . . What had been his name? Lancelot searched his mind, but the memory was gone.

No matter,
he told himself, trying to ignore the cold pricking of his spine.
Belike I imagined the whole thing.
Yet a part of him was certain that he hadn’t—that there
had
been a harper in the Lady’s hall—though now, when he tried to picture him, there was only a blank space where he had sat, and only silence when he sought for the song about . . . what
had
it been about? A market? Or had it been a broom?

If only there was someone he could ask, someone he could tell of his days in Avalon and the glorious destiny that was his, someone who could help him understand all the questions that seemed to have no answers, long though he had pondered them in the dark watches of the night. Even Arthur, who knew him best of all, did not really know him. And it was best that way.