Chapter 50
Fifty
I woke the next morning to violent bars of light. Gawain had flung open the shutters.
“It’s almost time for morning assembly,” he said. He was dressed in silk, his hair combed and clean. He looked impossibly handsome—and entirely unaffected by the news of the grail.
“I don’t know if I can face the Round Table today,” I admitted.
He ripped the blanket off my body. “You have no choice.”
I washed my face and donned a fresh tunic, fighting through waves of shame.
“Are you not the least embarrassed?” I asked.
He was sitting by the window, playing with a piece of string. “No.”
“But all those banquets…”
“So what?”
It was true that Arthur was constantly arranging feasts and celebrations.
After a while they tended to blur together.
The gold reserves of Camelot were unfathomable, and Arthur was generous to all who called him their king.
Between his largess and the sisterhood’s magic, no one in Camelot went hungry, and the gates to the castle were always open.
As I followed Gawain to the great hall, I tried to channel his cool indifference. He walked onto the dais with his head held high. I envied his poise.
The knights settled in, passing around pitchers and sweet fruits. But the convivial chatter that normally permeated the table was absent. The mood was off. Minutes passed, punctuated by nothing more than awkward murmurs. No one would look us in the eye.
Finally, Kay spoke. “Gawain, Lancelot.”
Slowly, he lifted the cup in front of him, tilting it for all to see. “Is this the grail?”
The table went silent. Kay put the cup down and lifted another. “No, wait. It’s this one, right? Oh, never mind. Here it is.”
No one laughed, no one said a word. The entire assembly was looking at us. I did not move a muscle. Finally, Gawain spoke.
“Oh, Kay, you are so foolish,” he said, as his hand dropped below the table. Was he reaching for a weapon? I held my breath.
“The grail is right here,” he said, and pulled up his middle finger.
The Round Table erupted, the tension snapped. I howled with laughter. We went on with the morning’s assignments.
During the day we were discreet, couching our affection in banter and bombast. But at night Gawain and I could relax into our truer selves.
His sharper edges, I’d come to realize, belied a constellation of delicate contradictions.
He kept a pristine facade but distrusted grandeur.
He desired to do good but did not always believe he could be good.
He relished his privileged place as Arthur’s favorite nephew, but he did not always hold Arthur in the highest esteem.
“He is a great king because he is a good king,” Gawain said. “But I worry sometimes that his goodness will be our downfall.”
I respected Arthur’s generosity, his mercy, the way he always reached for peace. But I shared Gawain’s concern about his limpid approach to our enemies. I wished Arthur would take a stronger position. And I still wondered what stance he took regarding me.
“The night at the hunt,” I said. “When Arthur pulled you from the tent. What did you two talk about?”
We were lying in bed, our bodies oiled and flushed. Sometimes I had Gawain, sometimes he had me, but that night we both had each other and now we lay on our backs, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, eased by the release of our want. Gawain entwined my fingers in his.
“What if I told you I am not allowed to say?”
I turned to my side. “I would ask you why.”
“Arthur swore me to secrecy.” Gawain flipped over to face me. “You are upset.”
“I worry Arthur does not like me,” I admitted.
Gawain sat up, face knitted with amused bafflement.
“You’re kidding.”
“Is that not why he pulled you from the tent that night?”
“No. What we discussed had nothing to do with you.”
“But you cannot speak of it.”
“Not specifically.”
“Broadly then.”
He smirked, happy to take the bait. “I don’t think it is a betrayal to say that Arthur is weighing the possibility of war.”
“That is common knowledge,” I said. “He doesn’t want to mount a larger campaign unless Camelot is attacked. The threat would need to be imminent.”
Gawain chose his words carefully. “Let’s just say a new piece of information may be changing his mind.”
“Now you have me intrigued. Does it involve the grail?”
“No.”
“The sisterhood?”
“Also no.” His fingers danced along my ribs. In a soft voice he added, “Please do not ask me to say more.”
I could see the tortured look in his eyes and I did not wish to press him further. I kissed him on the forehead. I loved him, but did not yet know how to say it. He rolled onto his back and I held him tight.
The summer passed in a glorious haze. There were quests and tournaments, and I slept with Gawain every single night.
When I think back on Camelot, I think of that season, and I’m struck by the bittersweet pain of my memories.
The pulse of insects, the star-chipped nights, the lingering salt of a swim in the ocean—these were the sensations of my youth, and they harmonized that summer with the vivid new beats of my life.
I felt, at times, like I was reenacting my training, swapping out Galehaut for Gawain.
When we sat beneath a willow tree, stole moments in the stables, floated naked in the sea, I felt a tinge of guilt.
I had done these things with Galehaut and now I was sharing them with another.
I told Gawain as much. I told him everything about Galehaut. He understood.
As summer faded into fall, I admonished myself for feeling so happy, but I knew that Galehaut would have wished this for me. My memories of him would never fade; I would always love Galehaut as deeply as I had the moment I first saw him.
But I also loved Gawain.
A knight must have two hearts.