Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Arthur showed me to my quarters and bid me farewell.
I flopped across the bed, thinking I’d rest my bones before supper.
The weight of the journey, and the abundance of Camelot, left me exhausted.
I closed my eyes, and when I woke again, my body had formed an indent in the goosedown mattress.
It was morning. I had not stirred. An attendant waited at the door.
“A parcel for you,” he said, handing me a polished case. “From the Distant Isles.”
I ran my hands over the wooden box, still half asleep. The attendant lit the lanterns.
“Bitter cold today,” he said. “Best to layer up with skins. I hear you are to joust Sir Gawain.”
My stomach dropped. Gawain, the knight who’d barged into the assembly, doused in sweat and blood.
He was Arthur’s most favored knight, the daring son of King Lot and Anna.
His quests were unparalleled, as was his supposedly courteous nature.
He’d defended Scotland against Saxon invasions, killed a Roman envoy, which started a small war—a war he ended himself.
He restored the grail lance. Defeated a pirate king.
On the Isle of Women I’d even read of his horse, Gringolet, a steed renowned for its scarlet skirts and gold bridles.
And I was to joust him in front of thousands.
The attendant left, and I unlatched the case, revealing a letter sealed in wax.
Dear Lancelot,
I have enclosed a white surcoat for your armor. Wear it on your quests and think of me.
Elinor sends her love.
Hold tight to your ring.
All my love,
Viviana
I held the surcoat to my nose. The liquid smooth fabric carried traces of pine and apricot. Home.
Tears flooded my eyes. I blinked them away.
If Viviana were here right now, she would grab my chin and lift my gaze.
She would not say a word and she would not need to.
Her eyes would convey everything. That I was loved, my pain was shared.
That others had survived such loss, just look at Elinor.
She would take my hand and we’d walk somewhere quiet, letting the sandaled rhythm of her feet do the work of conversation.
We did not need to talk, and I did not want to talk.
I just wanted to be with her. That was it. I wondered if I’d ever see her again.
Another knock at the door. Camelot, I would learn, was a constant ring of activity and interruption, even before dawn.
“Come in.”
There in the threshold stood a young handsome vassal.
“Hello, Lancelot,” he said. “I am Mordred.”
He was Arthur’s youngest nephew, barely twenty, short and eager with the same gray eyes. He spoke breathlessly as he led me across the fields.
“I have heard all about you,” he said. “How you were raised on the Isle of Women and trained by a giantess. They say you will restore the grail. You arrived just yesterday? Do you have a preference in armor? I found a shield with the Benoic crest, but if there is a different insignia…”
“Thank you, that is fine.”
Mordred guided me through a maze of tents and pavilions, selecting my horse, selecting my armor, peppering me with questions about my training, my approach to riding and fighting, my philosophy about war and gallantry.
I had no meaningful answers for him, but that did not seem to matter.
He knew far more than I did about the ways of tournaments.
“I have competed in seven so far,” he said. “And I have only lost twice.”
“That’s quite good,” I said, and watched his lip quiver at the compliment.
“I should think so. But it is nothing compared to my brothers. I’m sure you have heard of my oldest brother Gawain’s latest streak.”
“No,” I said.
“It’s four now, I believe.”
“Four? Well that is no better than your streak.”
“Four killed. He has killed his last four opponents in joust. Accidentally, of course. Oh, look, here comes Sir Dagonet. You must meet him.”
Mordred grew up in Camelot and knew everyone.
I shook hands with Sir Dagonet, a knight and former jester, who already seemed to know the shadings of my story.
Then there was Sir Morien, who noticed my ring and flashed a matching topaz from Mazoe.
I met Grisadoles, who had the soft face and short stature of a woman, but who moved through the world as a man.
Palamedes, who shared tales from his home of Babylon.
Lucan was kissing his cross and praying to his saints, and Dodinel was still drunk from the night before.
I avoided Galehaut’s uncle Dinadan and the acid tongue of Sir Kay.
The swirl of camaraderie reminded me, with a pang, of Bors and Lionel.
I envied these knights their shared history and wished my cousins were here.
Though I had no experience negotiating such a vast, interconnected community, I was already starting to form opinions and preferences.
A day in, and Camelot was proving a welcome distraction.
Mordred stopped abruptly and clutched my arm. A young woman in a green dress was crossing through the tent, her hands tucked before her in a brown fur muff.
“There is Lady Elaine of Astolat,” whispered Mordred. “Is she not the most beautiful? Astolat is an hour’s ride through Broceliande forest. We grew up together. I should like to take her hand in marriage one day.”
Elaine, my birth mother. Elaine of Corbenic, the grail maiden. Now a third Elaine, of Astolat. The name triangulated me fully.
“Let us talk to her.”
“Oh no, she looks busy.” Mordred made a sound like a gurgle. “I am not even, no, I…” He looked down at his clothes and then up at me. “And you! You are far too busy preparing for the tournament.”
“I am happy to greet her with you, Mordred.”
“Well, if you insist, I suppose I can introduce you.” His eyes darted between me and the young woman. “Oh, Elaine? Lady Elaine? It is I, Mordred.”
The Lady of Astolat turned and brightened.
She made to wave but seemed to have forgotten her hands were locked in the muff.
I could see that she was striking, with rivers of red hair, kind eyes and a cheerful complexion.
But she also seemed to share Mordred’s awkwardness.
She nearly tripped over her dress as we approached.
“Lady Elaine of Astolat, are you hurt?” Mordred clasped her arm.
She flushed and righted herself. “Yes, I’m quite all right, just embarrassed to have tripped in front of the king’s nephew.” Noticing me, her mouth hung open. “And who is… is this really…”
“Lancelot of the Lake,” I said. Then, when she did not respond, I added, “My mother was also named Elaine.”
Wordlessly she extended her hand. I bent over to kiss it. “A pleasure,” I said, a bit unsettled by her fawning gaze.
“It is true what they say of your beauty,” she said, then seemed to flush anew. “Pardon my candor.”
An awkward moment passed, then I said, “Mordred holds you in the highest regard. I have not been in Camelot two days and he has proven a most helpful friend and guide.”
Lady Elaine continued to stare at me. “Come to Astolat and I will be equally happy to show you around.”
“You’ll have to excuse Lancelot,” Mordred said through gritted teeth. “He was just leaving to inspect his horse’s barding.” Glowering at me, he looped his arm through Elaine’s. “Now come, dear one. Let us head to the arena.”
I turned back to the tent, bewildered. I’d done nothing to garner the Lady of Astolat’s admiration, yet the way Mordred glared at me, I worried I’d betrayed him.
I looked around at the sea of strangers, all of them seeming to possess a secret knowledge—of loyalty, honor, courtly regard—that I lacked.
Maybe Sir Gawain would kill me, too. A part of me hoped he would.