Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
I awoke to a cold cloth dabbing my temple. I was lying in the goosedown bed.
A woman hovered above me.
“You won,” she said.
The red hair, the sweet pale face. The Lady of Astolat.
“What happened? Why am I here?”
“You unhorsed Sir Gawain. But then you fainted. It was very dramatic. You hit your head.” She removed the cloth from my temple. “You’ve been out for hours. I mixed up a salve.”
“Thank you,” I managed.
“It is my privilege to attend to you,” she said. “There were many who wanted to help, but I thought you would prefer a familiar face.”
“Where is Mordred?”
“Mordred? I am not sure. Is there something you need? Are you hungry? I shall call a page to bring you dinner.”
“No, no. Thank you. I am not hungry.”
She rose abruptly and grabbed my helmet from a table. It must have been buffed and polished since my fall. She tilted it so I could see the red embroidered cloth now lining it. “I have affixed it with my sleeve,” she said. “So that when you ride, I might always be on your mind.”
I nervously eyed the closed door. I appreciated her concern, but I worried the Lady of Astolat had the wrong notion.
Fortunately, there was a knock. She went to answer it.
“Oh.” I heard the surprise in her voice. She gave a startled curtsy. “Queen Guinevere. Lancelot has just woken up.”
Guinevere took a seat on the edge of my bed. She turned to Elaine, dismissing her with a weak smile.
“If you need anything at all—”
“He is fine, Lady Elaine. Thank you. And please close the door.”
Guinevere turned back to me. “You took my advice.” She touched the wound on my forehead. “And look where it got you. In the care of Lady Elaine of Astolat.”
She gave me a wicked smile, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“She seems very nice,” I said.
“Nice is not a compliment.”
Guinevere wore a purple dress with open sleeves that draped elegantly from her arms. Her hair was plaited in a matching purple ribbon, gold locks falling in a braid down her back. The joust came back to me in pulses.
“Did I kill him?” I asked.
“Kill who?”
“Sir Gawain.”
Guinevere produced a bottle of oil and began to rub it against my sternum.
“Yes,” she said.
I tried to prop myself up, but she nudged me gently back down.
“Killed his confidence, that is. He is quite embarrassed.”
A rush of relief. “So he is well?”
The ointment loosened my muscles. Guinevere’s hands were thin and cold. I wondered why she was here.
“His streak is ruined, but yes.” She capped the ointment. “You really just smashed into his whole body.” She mimed the thrust of a lance. “Quite the technique.”
“I was well taught,” I said.
“Bagotta the giantess. I never knew her, but I am sorry to hear what befell her. And I am grateful you won. Gawain needed to be knocked down to size. Is Camelot to your liking?”
“It is grand,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Your manners may work with others, but not me,” she replied. “Perhaps I should ask instead how you are faring here in Camelot.”
She was hovering over me, pinning me to the bed with her hard emerald eyes. I sensed that she would settle for nothing less than the truth.
“I am grateful for the distraction that Camelot provides,” I said, carefully choosing my words. “But in truth, I am not doing well at all.”
She sat with this for a moment. Then she said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For your honesty. I am sorry that you are struggling. I knew from the second I saw you that I liked you.” I flinched and she quickly added, “What I mean is, I hope you will come to see me as a friend.”
I thought back to my lake vision, when I had felt her hollowness and all-consuming anxiety. I decided to take a risk.
“How are you faring here in Camelot?”
She laughed, paused. Then, echoing me, she said, “I am grateful for the distraction that Camelot provides. But in truth, I am not doing well at all.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What are we to do about it?”
“That is an excellent question,” she said. “If you are Arthur, you throw a banquet. You host a festival, plan a stag hunt, a tournament, a hawking day. You ensure you are never alone, even for a second.”
“And if you are you?”
“You find a friend you can confide in.”
“Am I that friend?”
“If you so choose.”
“Why me?”
“Because I declare it.”
“And if you are me?”
She eyed the bruises on my arm. “I’d start with the baths. You could use a good soak.”
With that she kissed me on the cheek and slipped out the door, and I was left to wonder what had just occurred.
The baths were housed in a domed building beyond the keep. I hobbled behind an attendant who showed me the way. Inside, the air was warm and humid. I hung my cloak on a peg by the door. The water, sourced from a hot spring, was reheated in a reservoir and pumped beneath the marble floors.
Before me, a tiled swimming pool glowed between colonnades.
There were cold pools and a room of steam, as well as a hot smaller tub where I planned to soak.
To the right of the swimming pool I noted a wrestling ring, as well as punching bags and weights, which would be set up in the practice fields during the warmer months.
The baths were mostly empty, save for a few knights.
I left my clothes and walked self-consciously into the hot pool.
Fortunately, I had the space to myself. I lowered my body into the water, letting the heat work its way into my muscles.
The soothing effects were immediate, and as my neck and shoulders loosened, so too did my thoughts.
I winged my arms out and closed my eyes.
After some time, another bather slipped into the pool. I was thankful for the layers of steam between us. I did not want to socialize.
“Feels great, doesn’t it?” he said.
I recognized the voice. Deep, resonant, self-assured. My eyes shot open.
“Oh,” Sir Gawain said. “It’s you.”
He was wiry and long, with wide shoulders and protruding collarbones above a chest hardened by years of training. He lifted his arm onto the ledge and I could see the bruises purpling his ribs where I’d struck him.
“Sorry about that,” I said, nodding to the bruise.
“That’s not the worst one.” He stood up, the water dripping down his torso. He pulled his leg above the water, revealing the black-and-blue marks racing up his thigh.
“From the fall. I’m lucky I can still walk.”
Was he looking for pity? For an apology?
If so, I had no intention of giving it. Even with Guinevere’s suggestion, I’d defeated him fairly.
But as he slowly ran his fingers over his bruised ribs, inspected the dense striation of his thighs, I sensed his intentions were more direct.
He took pride in his body. He wanted me to see it.
But I could not bring myself to look. Not fully.
“It makes me wonder,” Gawain said as he shrugged off the bruise and sunk back into the water, “whether you had help.”
“Excuse me?”
His mouth curled as he said this. Was he ribbing me? Accusing me of cheating?
“You were raised by Viviana. The Lady of the Lake. Her sorcery exceeds Merlin’s.”
“You believe Viviana somehow aided me today? Cast a spell against you all the way from the Distant Isles?”
“It is not so far-fetched.”
“Does Glitonea do such a thing for you?”
“Oh, come now, Lancelot.” He sculled closer. “It’s not proper to speak of our sisterhood lineage. And surely in your case there was some enchantment.”
I pressed my hands against the tiles. “Is it inconceivable that you simply lost today?” I snapped. “Are you truly that arrogant?”
Gawain looked surprised. He pinched his nose and dunked under, resurfacing with slicked hair. He pulled through the water until we were face-to-face.
“What was that for?” he asked.
“You’re accusing me of cheating.”
“I was playing. You misunderstand.”
“I’m not here to play. I’m here to defeat the Roman legionaries that killed people I loved. It is my destiny.”
His eyes bored into me. “You think it’s your destiny? All of this? That you are entitled to it?”
The sudden touch of Gawain’s hand on my wrist, coarse and delicate, sent a shock through my body. Gently, he lifted my palm to the surface. He flipped my hand over.
“What’s this ring?”
I pulled back and Gawain chuckled.
“Others have such rings,” I said, remembering Sir Morien’s.
“But others weren’t raised as you were. Your upbringing intrigued me. I must say I had high hopes for us. I thought we could be friends.”
I felt his knee touch mine and flinched.
“I can’t,” I said.
“Can’t what?”
Staring into his bright green eyes, I could see what the bards sang about. Gawain was charming, strong, beloved, famous. The way he dug into me—it reminded me of Galehaut.
“I prefer to be alone,” I said.
His expression darkened and I knew I’d upset him. I looked down, avoiding his hardened glare.
“You come here with your white surcoat and your magic jewel and your stoic focus,” he said. “And you think this is your fate. All because of a prophecy.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” I replied, barely a whisper.
“Well, Arthur did.”
My brow knitted in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Arthur pores over Merlin’s prophecies. Casting some aside to make room for others. It was Merlin who set up Arthur for greatness, he believes.”
“The sword in the stone. I’ve heard.” And seen, I didn’t add.
“It was an anvil. An anvil sitting atop a stone. These prophecies are both specific and amorphous.”
“What is your point?”
Gawain dunked his head under again. Droplets of water clung to his eyelashes. He was aggressively handsome, but in a different way than Galehaut. Even the idea of comparing their beauty made me ache. “You think you’re the only one with a prophecy?”
I felt a pressing need to leave the pool, but could not bring myself to move.
“The grail will not be restored without the firstborn nephew of the king.” He recited his own prophecy. “The golden grail will be held by the green one.”
“Who’s the green one?”
“Good question. I keep chasing down every knight I see wearing a green surcoat. Every hermit in a green tunic. Anyone wearing an emerald necklace. I have green eyes. Am I the green one? It’s maddening.”
“Lotta of the sisterhood is associated with emerald,” I offered.
“Of course I know this. I have searched all across Ireland. Nothing.”
I sensed his desperation, and the threat I now posed to his legacy. Was this what happened on the grail quest? Did it consume those who sought it?
Gawain rose from the water, revealing the rest of his body. The way he stood made it impossible to look anywhere else. Is that what he wanted? My adoration, and the weakness it exposed? A weakness Gawain could wield to his own ends?
Gawain leaned into my ear, his words like icicles. “If you don’t want my friendship that’s fine. But go after the grail in earnest and I’ll kill you.”