Chapter 18
When he awoke and discovered his imprisonment, Sir Lancelot of the Lake made the most enormous fuss I had ever heard from man or beast.
In the hours before the henbane wore off, I had been busy.
I dealt with Sir Galescalain first, putting him under a sleeping spell and having the stable lads ride him to a meadow some miles off, waking beside his armour and horse, refreshed and unscathed.
A slight memory charm meant he would have no knowledge of how he got there, but feel convinced that Lancelot had galloped off towards the cursed vale as promised.
Your eldest son is a credit to you, my next letter to Elaine would say. Please accept my apologies for the mild trick of the mind I used upon him.
Secondly, I rode Belle Garde’s boundary and spent the hours of dawn recasting the protective charms until they hung silver and woven like mail again.
Later, I would give Alys and Tressa a truncated account of all that had happened while they were out of the house, and assure them my actions were necessary.
I told them Sir Lancelot carried a ring that compromised my magic, and I needed to secure it for Belle Garde’s safety.
All true, if not the full scope of my intentions.
Before that, I had the still-sleeping Sir Lancelot put on a horse litter and conveyed to one of Belle Garde’s restored buildings near the northern valley: a small hunting lodge easily secured, nestled in a secluded hollow.
He would be kept in the building’s central room, a high-raftered hall now furnished as a comfortable bedchamber, with heavy doors and unreachable windows.
The chamber was overlooked by a lofty minstrel’s gallery, accessible only through two locked antechambers and an outside staircase.
From there, I could safely view the wildcat in my menagerie without the need for magic.
Hence the hour of noon found me concealed in the shadows above, waiting for my eminent guest to wake up from his haze of drugs.
The first indication he had awoken was a tremendous crash as Sir Lancelot threw himself against the door.
“Morgan le Fay!” he shouted. “What have you done? Show yourself!”
My name in his full-throated roar sent a thrill up my neck, but I resisted the command. More noises ensued, loud bangs and heavy scrapes, the creak of splintering wood. When the racket didn’t stop, I edged towards the minstrel’s gallery balcony.
Already the room was in chaos—bed hangings torn down, furniture dragged out of place, unlit logs thrown from the hearth. As I watched, Sir Lancelot snatched up a chair and flung it at the door, where it crashed into pieces without troubling the unyielding oak.
He stopped dead, as if the action had alarmed him; I could sense his guilt swirling with the dust. Gathering himself, he went and pressed his ear to the door, but no sounds answered his disruption. Eventually, he sagged against the planks and slid to the floor, his silence seething around him.
“At last, you’ve quietened,” I said, and felt his nerves jolt. “I was afraid I’d never get a word in.”
I stepped to the front of the balcony, where he could see me clearly. His face was a glorious sight—a warlike Achilles, full of shock and rage. He scrambled to his feet and marched beneath the minstrel’s gallery.
“What is the meaning of this? Let me out.”
“A pleasure to see you again, Sir Lancelot,” I said. “Despite the circumstances.”
“How dare you,” he snarled. “Where is Sir Galescalain? Is he also trapped in a hell of your making?”
“My nephew is safe and on the road to Sir Gawain, in the belief that you have run on ahead,” I replied. “The only one in Hell is you.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, muttering furiously to himself. “Why didn’t I see this coming? Accepting your hospitality—how stupid could I have been?”
Without warning, he ran at the door again, throwing himself bodily against the wood amid bellows of frustration.
“There’s no point in trying to vault through the woodwork,” I said. “It would also be easier if you didn’t destroy all of the furniture, to make your stay more comfortable.”
“My stay?” he exclaimed. “How long do you intend on keeping me here?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “That depends on how well we get along.”
He shot me a ferocious ice-blue look. “Save your breath, Morgan le Fay. There is no peace to be had between us. Presuming you can even hold me.”
It wasn’t an idle threat. The lodge was as secure as it could be, but according to various tales, Sir Lancelot had been in a hundred traps and sprung every one. To keep him contained while I considered his purpose, I needed to be in full possession of my magic.
Still, I had my bravado. “Oh, I can hold you for as long as I wish, Lancelot du Lac,” I said. “No one outside can hear you, so shouting and crashing about is a waste of strength. However, if you hush and obey what I ask, we can quickly resolve this.”
I may as well have asked a tiger to let me play with its claws. He glared up at me, breathing hard. “I will never negotiate with you.”
Difficult, I had expected, but not quite so intractable.
I arched over the railing to consider him and a glint of light caught my eye against his heaving chest, flashing green and gold.
Amidst his exertions, a silver chain had fallen out of his shirt, carrying a shining object that had hung hidden around his neck.
I did not need to look twice to know what it was. Sir Lancelot was wearing Guinevere’s missing emerald ring.
A rush of power jolted through my chest. Unknowingly, he had just conceded a major piece in his game, but I would not snatch it away yet. I must take my time, decide how best to use my advantage.
“As you wish,” I told him. “I will leave you.”
I stood upright, retreating, and his brow flickered with surprise; he had wanted more of a fight.
“Enjoy your thoughts, Sir Lancelot,” I said. “They are all the company you will have until you and I can speak reasonably.”
With his renewed roars of protest in my ears, I put my back to him and walked away.
*
I left Sir Lancelot alone for three days. Food and drink were delivered through an anonymous hatch in the wall, but otherwise he saw and spoke to no one.
At first, the huntsman reported a great deal of crashing and shouting within the room.
By the end of the second day, our guest had quietened, though from the magpies I learned he paced all day and night, never succumbing to rest. On the third day, however, only silence, so I returned to the minstrel’s gallery that same evening.
Sir Lancelot was awake, the thud of his footsteps echoing through the room. When I approached the balcony, he stilled like a cat at the sight of prey, tracking my movements. One arm reached for an unbroken chair.
“Any tantrums and I will leave this instant,” I said. “Or you can find out the situation you are in. Your choice.”
Slowly, he dragged the chair towards him and rested two hands on the back. He tilted his chin up, and I saw the emerald ring’s chain wink at his collarbone.
“I am ready to listen,” he said. His voice was surprisingly measured, and he attempted a polite smile. I didn’t trust it in the slightest. “How long do you intend on keeping me here?”
“That is up to you,” I said. “Your stay depends on how willingly you cooperate.”
I offered a smile back, sweet and edged with mocking, but he held my gaze. His eyes could have cut diamonds.
“Cooperate. With. What?” he said, jaw tight over every syllable.
I rested my elbows on the balcony rail, taking on a confidential aspect. “All you have to do is tell me something of yourself, and swear to God that it’s the truth.”
“That doesn’t sound too difficult, if it’s not breaking a confidence I have promised to another.” He made a show of considering it, then stood up decisively. “Come down here to me. I will kneel before you and make my oath, as a knight should.”
He sent up another, more powerful smile, and the sudden light it brought to his beauty, the sheer handsome audacity of him, almost made me want to succumb.
“Much as I desire to see you on your knees before me, Sir Lancelot,” I said, “unfortunately I must decline. You might feel compelled to throttle me as a godless witch.”
His pleasant expression dropped a few notches. “I would never do that. Whatever you have done to others, it is beneath my honour to cause a woman harm.”
I believed it—courtesy towards women was one of Arthur’s tenets that all the knights of Camelot swore to, and not even Sir Kay questioned Lancelot’s dedication to his code.
However, putting myself within reaching distance was impossible.
I feared no harm from him, but without my magic, he could easily contain me, then escape with little effort.
“How gallant,” I said. “Put your hand over your heart, and we’ll call it the same.”
He scowled, but raised a large, strong hand and lay it across his chest. “What is it you ask of me?”
“Confess who you are in love with, and I will set you free.”
I have known what it’s like to turn into stone—figuratively on the inside, and literally, through the power of the earthen elements—and the way Sir Lancelot hardened from head to foot was as if I had cast him into marble myself.
His oath-taking hand dropped. “Oh, my lady,” he said, as if my foolishness was astonishing. “If it happened I fell in love, you would not hear of it from me.”
“Don’t play coy,” I replied. “That is not enough to earn your freedom. Tell me who you love, and swear upon it.”
Of course, it was not so simple—mere verbal confession would not be enough to rattle Camelot. But if I could get this famously pious knight to speak his sins aloud to the Lord now, I was halfway to persuading him to put his and Guinevere’s betrayal in writing.
Sir Lancelot considered me hard, then covered his heart once more. “If you want an oath, I’ll give you one. By Almighty God, I swear—that will not happen.”