CHAPTER 29

The ride back was as wretched as anything she had ever known. The air of the forest seemed laden with grief and decay. When Camelot’s white towers came into view, the golden turrets and bright banners in the autumn gaze seemed like a mocking memory of another life.

They turned their horses down to the valley below.

“So, Ina, he’s going,” Guenevere said dully. “Well, I suppose it is all for the best.”

Ina bit her lip. “You’ll see him again, my lady, I know you will. Sir Lancelot won’t leave you forever without a word. He loves you too much.”

Guenevere shivered. “Perhaps.” She turned away with another chilling thought: I am quite alone. For sure, Ina has some skills of the Otherworld. But she’s never had a lover in her life.

Camelot rose up to meet them, glaring in the afternoon sun. As they rode into the lower court, the chamberlain hurried up. “The King has been asking for you, my lady. He wants to hold an audience this afternoon. One of the petitioners has been pressing for help, and must be answered now.”

Guenevere held her hand to her aching head. “Forgive me, sir. Please tell the King I shall be ready as soon as I can.”

IN THE CROWDED Audience Chamber, the girl at the front was already on her knees. Her moist dark eyes settled on Guenevere like sticky flies, and her round red mouth was open and ready to speak.

As soon as Arthur and Guenevere were seated, she rose to her feet. Her breasts, her whole body moved invitingly under her light gown. Guenevere looked at her with distaste. This petitioner would have no difficulty in finding a champion, whatever trials she faced.

The chamber was crowded with knights and their ladies, lords and lookers-on. There was no sign of Lancelot. Guenevere glanced around in pretended calm. Which of the knights would Arthur send out on this quest?

“The petitioner may approach!” the chamberlain cried.

The girl dropped her eyes and curtsied low before the throne. Her long dark hair swung down seductively over her breasts as she tossed her head and launched into her tale. In spite of herself, Guenevere found her attention caught by the story of the girl’s older sister, left sole heir to their father’s castle and estate.

It seemed the lady had fallen prey to a rogue knight of the road, swept away by his rough wooing, his white grin, his swaggering laugh. Foolishly she had promised herself to him, and taken him to her bed. Then she had come to her senses, and found out what a brute he was. But now he had turned on her, claiming her as his wife. He was keeping her prisoner in her own castle, to force her to marry him and make him her lord.

The girl ended in tears, on her knees. Would the King send the best knight of the Round Table to do battle with the rogue, and save her sister’s life?

Arthur listened avidly to every word. “Never fear for your sister, maiden! We shall find you a knight worthy of this great task.”

Guenevere looked around. With an ugly start she saw that Lancelot had slipped in at the back. He stood at the entrance to the chamber, plainly dressed and ready for the road. Beside him stood Bors and Lionel, similarly equipped. His eyes were fixed on the girl, and he was watching intently all that went on. Her heart lurched. Goddess, Mother, not Lancelot. Not with this woman.

“Guenevere?” It was Arthur, murmuring quietly at her side. “Who shall we send?”

She forced herself to scan the body of the hall. Already Gawain was grinning coarsely at his brothers, lusting for the girl, it was clear, not for the quest, whatever rewards it might bring. Agravain’s glowering face and jutting chin showed that he longed to challenge Gawain’s bid to defend this maiden in distress. But the girl would have to be protected from them both.

She leaned across to Arthur, and touched his arm.

“Not Gawain,” she murmured. “Nor Agravain.”

“No,” Arthur said softly, and she knew he shared her fears. She knew too that she could trust him to do right. He was a good man, and a good King. The thought made her feel worse.

“Who, then?” Arthur wondered quietly in her ear.

Anyone but Lancelot.

Through a rising mist Guenevere could see the young woman’s bold black eyes, her glistening mouth, her bulging breasts beneath her low-cut gown. The memory of Lancelot’s lean brown nakedness came to her with a sharp catch of pain. The girl must want him, every woman did. He would rescue the sister, and both of them would be duly grateful afterward. They’d do anything for him; he could count on that.

Enough.

She shook her head in disgust. No need for thoughts like these. There were other knights. Her eyes roved over the group nearest the dais. Kay and Bedivere were waiting patiently, secure in the knowledge that they would not be sent. Sir Lucan was holding his handsome face impassively, making sure that he did not catch the King’s eye. With his long red-gold hair and lithe body, Guenevere reflected, Lucan could not help but be a ladies’ man.

But much as Sir Lucan loved women, this knight liked to choose his mistresses for himself. Being chosen to help a damsel in distress was not what Lucan had in mind. Yet perhaps he was still the man. She turned to Arthur. As she touched his arm, he leaned forward and she heard him call out, “Sir Lancelot?”

“Arthur—” she said thickly. But she knew it was too late.

Lancelot broke from the ranks, and came forward down the hall. The girl turned toward him, eyes and mouth open with joy.

“Yes, Guenevere?” Arthur said fondly, as he watched the knight approach. “What did you say?”

She was trembling. “You could have chosen anyone else.”

Arthur laughed. “Lancelot’s the man to make short work of this rogue.”

“Yes, but—” She broke off. What was there to say? Her mind twisted and turned to find a drop of comfort in the desert of her hopes. She and Lancelot had been almost caught in her bed. If he favored a beautiful young girl, that would still any gossiping tongues. It could save both their names, and even their lives. It must be for the best.

I don’t care! her heart wept. Not her! He shouldn’t go with her!

She looked at him, putting all her sorrow and foreboding into her eyes. He looked back with a strangeness that felt like a blow.

I cannot put my life into your hands, said his cold gaze. I must be free to choose.

A mad impulse seized her, and a torrent of bitter reproach poured through her mind. So, Lancelot, was that what you wanted, the right to have your freedom at all costs? Is that why you made love to me, and chose me for your lady above the rest—to keep other women at bay, because you never wanted to marry and settle down?

She gasped, and fought to put away these poisonous thoughts. How could she question his freedom, when she did not have her own? No power on earth could free her from Arthur now. And while Arthur lived, Lancelot could not be hers.

With a leaden heart she watched Lancelot move steadily down the hall, drawing near. But as he came up to the dais, there was a flurry among the knights, and a slight figure stepped out before the throne.

“Sir Mador of the Meads!”

A buzz of excitement ran through the crowded hall. The whispering died away as Mador approached, his face shining with the light of love. A sudden shadow of fear gripped Guenevere’s heart. On the day of his knight-making, Mador had glowed with that same ardor, that radiant flame. How could he sustain that devotion? How could she?

Mador threw her a glance of adoration and fell to his knees. He bowed to Arthur. “Sire, send me!”

Lancelot gave a half-smile and fell back.

“What do you think?” Arthur leaned toward Guenevere. “He’s a good knight,” he added quietly.

“One of the best,” she murmured, struggling to stay calm. “Remember when he defeated Agravain, and showed such chivalry?”

Arthur nodded. “You’re right. And it’s important to give him a chance. Lancelot won’t mind. He’s the first to bring on the younger men.”

He waved his hand and summoned the girl to the throne. “Lady, we grant you Sir Mador of the Meads to take up your cause.”

“Sire—”

It was almost a wail of dismay. The petitioner was looking from Lancelot to Mador with undisguised disgust. Her eyes roamed up and down his short, slight frame, his long fair hair and almost girlish face. Well, he’s not Lancelot, Guenevere found herself thinking savagely, but like it or not, madam, he’s your knight now!

“Sire!”

There was a flurry among the ladies as Sir Gawain stepped forward to challenge the decree. His eyes played over the young woman lasciviously.

“If Lancelot is not to go, send me, my lord!” he implored.

Arthur smiled fondly. “You want an adventure, Gawain? Then you shall go too. Not with this young lady, for Sir Mador is her champion now. But I give you leave to ride out on your own. A knight errant can do much good in the world. See that you do so, Gawain, and come back safe.”

He raised his voice, and spoke to the open court. “Do any other of my knights wish to go out adventuring?” He chuckled. “The rewards are rich, when the ladies are so fair.”

“Sire?”

Lancelot had moved unnoticed to the foot of the throne. Bors and Lionel were standing quietly at his side. He bowed, and threw back the cloak of his traveling dress. Already she could see the woodland greens and browns melting into the landscape, and felt she was losing him, watching him fade away.

He moved toward Arthur, avoiding her eye. “I would have told you this, sire, if you had picked me for the quest. My cousins and I have been called back to Little Britain, where an attack threatens from our overlord of France. We must go at once, and cannot say when we will be free to return. May we have your permission to leave, my lord?”