Lancelot (21 page)

“And since when have men wanted what is good for them?”

Lancelot tipped her face up to his. “We’re not all fools, you know. You will come down to the river, won’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered quickly, turning away to hide her sudden confusion. “The moment I am free.”

LANCELOT plunged naked into the river, crying out his shock as the icy water hit his skin. He was a strong swimmer, but today he tired quickly. Just the small amount of practice had done him in. But at least it was a start.

Leading where?
he wondered as he pulled himself up upon the tiny dock and stretched out in a patch of sunlight. The questions he had put off these past weeks now rushed into his mind, demanding answers. Where would he go now? What would he do? His time as a knight was finished. Arthur had accepted his absence with a silence that said more than any words. And having served King Arthur, Lancelot had no desire to offer his sword—whatever it was worth now—to any lesser man. To raise an army and march into Benwick was a hopeless dream without Arthur’s help, and he refused to return to Camelot a beggar.

He knew naught of husbandry or farming, even less about the management of an estate. The thought of returning to Dolorous Gard reduced him to despair. What would he
do
there? How would he fill his days?

Unless . . . unless Elaine was with him.

Which brought him face-to-face with the decision he had avoided making for too long.

He had been waiting, though for what he did not know, letting day after day slip by while he basked in her attention. He loved her. Of that he had no doubt. And he thought that she loved him. But did she love him enough to accept him as he was?

Or did she only love the man she believed him to be?

As he dressed, he wondered what she would say if she knew the truth about the great du Lac. That his victories—particularly his victory over her beloved Sir Gawain—had not been his at all but the sorcery of the Lady of the Lake, who had now cast him off in disgust.

And had she not been right to do so? Would Elaine not
be right to do the same? He was a sham, as hollow as the Green Knight had named him. Through his own folly he had thrown away his one chance at greatness, and his mother’s long suffering and lonely death could now never be redeemed. Arthur, who had given him so much, had been deprived of the magical protector bestowed upon him by the Lady of the Lake.

Lancelot turned and buried his face in his arms, but he could not blot out the truth. He had been given the chance to do something extraordinary, to serve the greatest king the world had ever known in a way no one else could ever do. It was a glorious destiny, just as the Lady said, surely the finest ever offered to a mortal man. But he had not been able to hold onto it.

He had lost everything . . . save Elaine. If she refused him now, he would be finished.

Coward,
he thought.
Tonight you will ask her and have done with it.
If she said no—but he would not think of that. Instead he imagined an end to the torture of being so near her every day, yet not daring to so much as kiss her lest he lose all control and beg her to be his wife.

He pictured her as she had been that day by the river, all rosy and tumbled in his arms, until his thoughts slipped into dreams.

IT was nearly dusk before Elaine was able to escape, a heavy basket over her arm. She was thoughtful as she walked beneath the trees, remembering what Lancelot had said to her before.

She found him sleeping on the dock before the boathouse, a faint smile curving his lips. As she approached, he stirred and stretched luxuriously, his smile deepening when he caught sight of her.

“So you’ve come at last. I thought I would starve to death!”

She set the food out between them: a loaf of brown bread, cheese, a small pot of honey, and half a cold roasted capon.

“A feast!” he declared, helping himself to a leg of the capon.

She shook her head, smiling as she spread a bit of bread with honey. “You are accustomed to far finer fare than this. At court, I mean. They serve all manner of wonderful dishes, don’t they?”

“I suppose so,” he said, accepting the bread with a smile. “I know that Arthur is forever complaining that he cannot stomach the concoctions they keep bringing him. He used to ask for plain meat and bread, but Sir Kay—his foster brother and seneschal—was so insulted that Arthur finally gave it up. Do you know—” Lancelot laughed. “Once I found him in the kitchens, very early, entreating the spit boy to cut him a slice from the roast before it could be spiced and sauced.”

“I think I would like the king.”

“You would. I know he would like you.” Lancelot stilled, the bread halfway to his lips, the merriment fading from his face. Once again, he wore the look Elaine had come to know too well, so sad, so . . . lost that just to see it hurt her.

“But you,” she went on after a time, “you enjoy rich foods. I remember when you were ill, you used to long for goose liver and iced cakes, sweetbreads and roast peacock.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t have eaten them.”

“You could now,” she pointed out.

“What is this about, Elaine? Are you planning me a feast?”

“Would you like one?”

“Not particularly, no. I’d rather eat out here, with you.”

She smiled tightly. “Because you know what is good for you?”

The sun lingered on the tops of the trees, painting them with gold, but the river was in shadow. She could scarce make out the far bank now, though Lancelot’s hand, resting casually on the bleached wood of the dock, was very clear.

“I do know,” he said. “Is there something wrong in that?”

“Of course not. No one can exist forever upon cake and peacock. But having once tasted such dishes, the longing will always be there, won’t it?”

There was a muffled splash as he swept his arm across the space between them, tipping bread and bones and honeypot into the water. A moment later he was on his knees before her, his arms around her neck as he drew her forward.

“You,” he said, “are sweeter than iced cakes. Intoxicating as the richest wine of Gascony. You are far more exotic than any peacock I’ve ever tasted,” he said, dropping a honeyed kiss upon her lips. “And—” He drew back and regarded her with amusement. “—as silly as a peahen! What put such foolish thoughts into your head?”

She laughed, resting her brow against his arm. “It was nothing. Only, when you said before—about Torre—”

“You mean when
you
said that men never want what is good for them? But what if what is good for them is the thing they desire above all?”

Did
he desire her? Tonight was the first time he had kissed her since they returned to Corbenic, but before she could put her arms around him, he had drawn away, leaving her confused and trembling.
It must not be that sort of desire he spoke of,
she thought,
not the same sort I feel for him. Else he could not hold back as he is doing now.

“What then, Elaine?” he insisted gently. “Or was that your way of suggesting I return to court?”

Do you want to? Is it Guinevere who makes you look so
sad? When you kiss me, do you think of her?
“Now it is you who is being foolish,” she said, and in her effort to keep her voice from shaking, it sounded stiff and stilted. “You know you are welcome here for as long as you want to stay.”

“Thank you,” he said, and though he smiled, his voice was oddly flat. “Well, then, should we be starting back?”

He took her hand as he helped her from the dock onto the shore, and kept it in his as they started down the path. “I should never have kept you out so late,” he said contritely as the darkness of the forest closed around them.

“I’m not afraid,” she answered, and it was true. Nothing could harm her as long as he was here. But how long would he stay?

They had gone about half the distance to Corbenic when Lancelot stopped abruptly, lifting his head as though straining to make out some sound beyond the edge of hearing.

“What is it?” Elaine asked.

“Listen. Listen, do you not hear the horns?”

Elaine felt a chill wind down her back. “I hear the wind in the trees,” she whispered. “No more.”

“What night is this?” he asked, gripping her hands hard. “Is it—of course, ’tis Midsummer’s Eve. We should not be out here, not tonight when they are hunting.”

“Lancelot, don’t,” she cried, “you look so strange.”

“Do I?” He laughed a little wildly. “I feel strange—” He caught her close, burying his face against her neck. “Hold me, Elaine, talk to me of—of the harvest or the new bull.”

“Hush,” she said, stroking his hair with wild tenderness. “All is well, it is only the wind in the trees, no more—”

He lifted his head. “They are close now, do you hear them? Elaine, you must! Tell me that you hear the horns and the baying of the hounds!”

“No,” she cried. “I do not. There is nothing there, nothing that can harm you.” Looking into his face, she cried,
“Or is it that you
want
to hear them? Oh, Lancelot, are you not happy here, with me?”

“Yes. Yes, I am happy, you know I am. ’Tis only sometimes—Elaine, do you remember when I told you I thought I would be a great knight?”

“Yes, and you are. You are First Knight of Britain!”

“No! I didn’t mean the best in Camelot or Britain or even in the world, but the best that ever was or ever would be. I told you how I was when first I came to Camelot,” Lancelot went on, speaking very quickly, “how proud and rude. But there was so much I didn’t know. I didn’t understand about family or loyalty or even simple courtesy. I had no idea how to carry on a conversation. No one had ever told me of those things, Elaine, no one had ever shown me how to live among people. I had always been alone, but I told myself I didn’t care because I knew what I would achieve. And now . . .” His voice broke, and he held out his hands, palms upward.

She placed her own in them, holding him tightly. “What was done to you was very wrong, but it cannot be changed. The only thing that matters is what you do now. What is it to be, Lancelot? Will you go back to Camelot? Is that what you want?”

“It is too late. I can never go back.” He bent and kissed her hands. “But it is all right as long as I have you. Then nothing else matters.”

Even before he raised his head, she heard the sound. It could have been the wind in the treetops—had any wind been blowing—or a nightingale’s call carried from the wood . . . or the faint, far-off sound of a horn winding in the distance. The moonlight on Lancelot’s face lent him an unearthly beauty as he stood poised upon the brink of flight. She clasped him round the neck and dragged his mouth down to hers.

He kissed her as he’d never done before, with a fierce, possessive wildness that set fire to her blood. He parted her lips and plundered her mouth, one hand tangled in her hair, the other boldly stroking her breast through the thin wool of her kirtle, teasing the taut peak until she moaned aloud. His hands moved down her spine and, grasping her hips, he pulled her close against him, letting her feel the hard length of his arousal. He dragged his mouth away, his eyes burning into hers.

Yes
. She never knew if she’d said the word aloud or only thought it. It did not matter. The question had been asked and answered, and there was no time for thought, no chance for regret. His mouth found hers again, and she sank deep into the sweet darkness of his kiss, surrendering herself to the magic of his touch.

She was trembling as they lay down together—with excitement, with anticipation of his next touch, and with fear. Yet in the next moment she forgot her fear, for their urgent fumblings with ties and laces were interspersed with bursts of laughter. It was only when the last garment was cast aside and the two of them were naked on the cool grass that all merriment died.

With heart-stopping suddenness he was poised above her. Moonlight gilded the corded muscles of his arms and cast eerie, flickering shadows round his head. At one moment it seemed that he was haloed like an angel; in the next he wore the antlers of a stag. His eyes were fathomless pools of darkness as he waited, perfectly still yet every muscle trembling.