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Chapter Twelve

The Beginning, Ten Years Later

Winter lay heavy on the land, like guilt on the head of a sinner. Snow covered all the great tor of the Isle of Apples; drifts taller than a tall man could reach buried its base. The surrounding fens had frozen solid; anyone with a mind to do so could walk across dry-shod like the Children of Israel.

Nothing moved on this dim dawn, though. It was too cold for even the woodcutters to venture forth. The sun hardly dared to show itself and wrapped up in clouds even as the shivering folk below wrapped themselves in blankets.

Richard drew away from the narrow window, pulling the shutter in and securing it. He let fall over the opening the thick woolen flap that was meant to cut the draft. Cold air came in regardless. A large brazier crackled with flames in the center of the round stone chamber where his servants huddled. Away to the side were the horses, dozing on their feet, lending their warmth to the gathering. Until he got quite close to their circle he could see his breath hang in the air. The fire made most of the light, though some of the pale gray sky was visible through the smoke hole in the thatch above.

Several skins of wine had been passed around in an attempt to find another kind of warmth. The morning meal had come and gone along with whatever work that had to be done. All were content to sleep the day through until time for the evening prayers and meal and then sleep again.

As would I, if sleep would come to me.

Of late, true rest was not an easy thing for Richard to achieve, yet weariness saturated him to his bones. Even the blood he supped on failed to rouse him for long from his lethargy. He'd departed from the king's court after that last tourney, claiming he'd been called to retreat from the world for the good of his soul. None had hindered him. Those with eyes to see had noticed the change in him. Some rumored it was du Lac's impossible love for the queen that made him leave. Others loyally maintained it was his dire wounding that had caused his withdrawal from all court life. Though he'd recovered miraculously quick, they said he still bled in his heart.

At first, he'd gone to the lands granted to him by the king for his service. There, Richard had a fine keep of his own filled with rich furnishings, men, and weapons, the surrounding farms growing bounty enough to support all. He stayed there, alone, shunning the company of his fellow lords.

Sabra had tried to console him.

But . . . he shunned even her.

And then she'd departed, and he was truly alone.

He left his private chambers only at night to stalk the fields and forests like a lost ghost. Any hapless wanderers who happened to see him, pale of face, grim in aspect, clad wholly in black, crossed themselves and fled.

The comforts of his own hall brought no succor. After the harvest was in, stored, and allotted, he gathered a company of servants to see to his needs and took to wandering. He pitched his tent near a road or in a fallow field, or sheltered in some abandoned villa left by the Romans, never staying in one place for more than a few days. When his presence was noticed by the local lord, he would courteously decline the offered hospitality and move on.

He thought the passage of time would lessen his pain, but contrariwise, it only seemed to increase.

For the Goddess had betrayed him.

His servants, long used to his habits, took little notice when he went to bed an hour after dawn. They placed a smaller brazier of coals in the curtained-off area he claimed for his own and withdrew. One of the girls was curled in the bed to warm it and await his pleasure.

Today it was Ghislaine, ripened now to a comely woman. Richard climbed in next to her, pulling the covers almost all the way over their heads. She burrowed against him, sighing with contentment. Her firm flesh pleased him, a little, but he was not hungry, having supped the day before.

"Why do you smile?" he asked, once they'd settled.

" 'Tis nothing, my lord."

"I can see 'tis something and naught to do with me."

"I mean no offense, my—"

"And none has been taken, unless you deny me your reason to smile."

She hesitated, then yielded. "I've a small happiness of my own, I think. The next moon will tell me for sure."

"You're with child again?"

"I think so, the Goddess willing."

In the years from their first meeting she'd borne two children, both of whom had died. "And this is a happy prospect to you?"

"Yes."

"How so is it happy?"

"It just is, my lord."

He could see none of it. In the short hours that he'd known fatherhood, he'd felt only shock, regret, agony, and grief. Since that time he'd felt little else but anger, which he held carefully in check.

Why did Ghislaine not feel the same? Had not the Goddess taken her two babes before they'd lived even a year? And now she longed for a third chance to add to her sorrows.

"Know you the father?"

She giggled briefly. "Of course I must know him, else I'd not be this way."

He was in no mood for jest, but she did not notice, so diverted was she by her own thoughts. "If the babe lives we may marry, if my lord permits."

If it lives. So, she was aware of the possibility of loss. "And if the Goddess takes this child from you?"

"We may marry anyway. 'Tis not good to be alone. He's a fine strong man. His get will also be strong, I'm sure."

How do they endure it?

Richard had been in this changed life for only a decade and already felt impossibly removed from the rest of humanity. To him, their lives seemed short and shallow as they toiled one day to the next, starving or feasting, living and dying, accepting such as their lot with few complaints, for that was the way of things, and it would ever be so.

I will live on, they will die. But how they waste their little lives! Their world is so small, they're like farm animals with speech. Can they not see themselves? 

Ghislaine made bold to caress him, smiling her woman's smile. "Does my lord wish to be pleasured?" she whispered.

What he wished for was a lifting of the blackness from his heart. Even Ghislaine with her sweet body so willingly given could not do that. All that stirred within him now was despair and impossible loneliness.

"Sleep, child," he said. "Sleep and dream of heaven."

If she was disappointed by his reply, she made no show of it, obediently lying down again. Perhaps she expected some attention from him later to make up for it. True, he could go through the forms of love, mount and ride her to fulfillment, but would mock himself from beginning to end for his emptiness of spirit.

He lay still, holding her, until her breath lengthened into that of slumber. How he envied her that kindly rest. He'd not truly slept in months. He continued well in health; the blood he took kept him so. Would that it could as easily heal his soul.

When he thought he could move without waking her, he slipped from the bed and dressed. Gooseflesh plucked at him, but he hardly felt it. I must be as cold within as the world is without. But to avoid comment, he covered and cloaked himself, then quietly left. Though it was odd that he be up and about during the day, his drowsing people had long grown used to their lord's silences and night rambles and hardly stirred as he passed them.

The knife-sharp air made short work of his heavy finery, cutting its way into any careless opening. Well, a good walk would cure the chill and, he hoped, utterly tire him out.

It was hard going through the drifts. There were some paths trodden through this small village, though no one had used them much in the last few days. Richard's party had arrived just in time to shelter from the coming snowstorm in a hospice the nearby church maintained for travelers. It was a relic from the Romans, old now, but kept in repair. No one knew what they had used it for; it could have been anything from a temple for one of their gods to a granary.

The sun was well hidden, but the light still pained his sensitive eyes. He'd heard tales about how certain wild men of the north knew how to keep the snow glare from blinding them. They had a secret way of masking their faces, or was it just their eyes? No matter. Richard had nothing but his hood for protection. It would have to be enough.

In the distance he spied the humped shape of a church on a rise and set out for it. The village was an important one to have such a structure. That it was so close to the Goddess's sacred tor was interesting. The two faiths could work together if their believers tried even a little, but there were zealots on both sides that frequently prevented it, or so Sabra had said.

No. I've no wish to think of her today. 

He did not wish it, but it happened. Often. Not an hour went by that she did not hover in his thoughts or that her name came to his lips. Sometimes, when the black despair all but consumed him, he thought he'd see her standing quietly in the deepest shadows, her beautiful face marred by that same sadness. Her arms would be stretched toward him, as though longing to relieve his suffering.

Then would he turn away.

He did not hold Sabra responsible for the betrayal, but she was still a servant to the Goddess. Her unquestioning faith was not something he could endure now that his own had been shattered.

But what has led me here to the Goddess's stronghold? In all his wanderings his steps always seemed to be drawing him to the great tor. He would resist and take another path, but as the seasons waxed and waned he would go south or east or west or north and eventually come within sight of it time and again.

Finally, this year, he gave in and came to the little village in its shadow. That was as far as he would go. If the Goddess really wanted him, then she could come the rest of the way herself.

But the days and nights passed with no sign from her. It was as he'd expected, so his disappointment was neither deep nor especially bitter. It simply was, like the weather.

The church was farther than he'd thought, until he realized it to be larger than he'd expected. Most were small and made of wood, empty inside, with perhaps a simple table to serve as an altar. This one looked comparable to the grand one in his father's keep, made of cut stone, built to last for centuries. As he drew closer, he saw some of the stones were not matched in color, meaning they'd probably been taken from older, unused structures and thrown together where needed. Sure enough, he saw some Roman lettering cut into one of them. Whatever word it had been was broken off in the middle and was upside down.

The door was of stout oak and fitted well. It pulled open easily, the balance indicating the hand of a master carpenter. He went in and pulled it shut.

The church was very large, a full thirty paces from the door to the altar, and fifteen from side to side, the thatched ceiling gracefully high. Two long, narrow windows, hardly more than a handspan wide, were placed on either side of the altar. At this time of year, they were covered over with oiled parchment, allowing in light, but keeping out the drafts.

On Sabbaths and feast days the building could hold a very large congregation indeed. Now it held only Richard, but he'd wanted to be alone. Though his servants usually kept a silent, respectful distance, it wasn't the same as true solitude.

He slowly approached the altar, pushing his hood back. Above hung a very large cross, nearly mansize. Cut into it was the crucified Christ, His tortured body twisted just so. The wood was stained nearly black, so that one had to come quite close to see the equally black figure emerging magically from the background. His wounds had been painted red. The one from the spear thrust bled profusely. Richard's hand stole toward his own long-healed wound, recalling the blasphemous jesting of the other lords on that bleak day. Unlike the Christ, he had no scar to show for it, not to see, anyway.

He'd come here, seeking comfort from the faith he'd been born to, but the crucified man had nothing to say to him.

Below was the altar table, bare now, but the sides were beautifully carved with scenes from the Bible. He recognized Abraham offering his son Isaac up as sacrifice, knife in one hand, the other holding the boy down, his face raised to heaven.

Richard backed away, suddenly sickened. Can I never escape? 

He quickly turned to leave and was brought up short, colliding with a stooped old man who had been directly behind him. With a surprised cry, the ancient toppled over and would have fallen hard to the flagged floor had Richard not instinctively caught him.

"I'm sorry, old one," he said, righting him. "I did not know you were here."

The fellow chuckled at his obvious chagrin. "Nor did I, but I perceive that you must be gently raised to show a poor stranger such courtesy."

" 'Tis nothing."

"'Tis much in this harsh world, especially for me."

Richard suddenly noticed the thick film that covered the old man's eyes along with the long staff he held to steady and guide his faltering steps. What he did not understand was why he'd not heard him.

"May I ask one more boon?" said the ancient. "Would you show me to the altar? I'm turned around."

"Of course."

He took the old man's arm and slowly led him over. The staff tapped noisily now, his sandal-shod feet shuffling. "Here it is." He placed the man's hand on the table.

"Ah, this is a comfort to me, to be able to tell myself the stories again." His questing fingers ran along the carvings like spiders.

"I should think you'd know them well enough by now."

The man smiled, something he did frequently to judge by the hundred creases in his leather-dark face. "Ah, but does one ever tire of dancing to a favorite song?"

Richard made no answer.

"Who are you, good sir, that I may thank you?"

He could say Lancelot, but was weary of that fame. He wanted no distinction today. "I am Richard."

"I thank thee, Richard of . . . ?"

"Just Richard."

"Then I am just Joseph."

He was a courteous man to take no title, place name, father's name or trade, so as to be no better or worse than Richard in his life station. His apparel was ragged and humble, his white hair and beard untrimmed like that of a hermit, but fairly clean. Perhaps he was a holy man with this church. They wore their vestments only when required by their duties.

"Why are you out on such a bitter day as this, friend Richard?"

"My legs wanted stretching."

He chuckled again. "Not by much, for I judge you to already be an uncommonly tall fellow."

"So I've been told."

"Come and sit with me a little while, would you? Perhaps you will tell me a tale of the road, and I will tell you one of our village." Joseph eased himself down, seating his creaking bones on the one shallow step that led to the altar. He seemed very much at home and not likely to move.

Richard gave up all hope of reclaiming any solitude without seeming to be boorishly impolite. He sat on the step as well, knees near his chin, arms bridging them, hands clasped. "My road is long and has no ending."

"That is their nature, is it not? My village is small and has no ending—in its own way, of course. It is very famous for this church, though. This is the first ever built in the land, did you know? Many pilgrims come here to pray. Are you such a pilgrim?"

"No, my people and I are only sheltering in the hospice until the snow melts enough for us to travel again."

"But you did come here to pray?"

"I may have."

"May have?" he laughed. "I like thee, friend Richard. Few are so brave as to admit the truth, even here in God's house. Have you tried praying elsewhere?"

"Yes, my words go up, but my thoughts remain as in a grave. Heaven does not hear me."

"That sometimes happens."

The comment startled Richard. He expected a reproof that perhaps he'd not been listening well enough.

"It is an awful thing when heaven is silent to us. It's happened to me many times." He seemed strangely cheerful about it.

"Indeed? What did you do?"

Joseph shrugged. "I just went on until God took notice and spoke in such a way as I could hear. There were times when He was wickedly slow about it, but I always forgave Him."

"You forgave God?"

"Oh, yes, all the time." His seeming conceit was boundless. "Do you smile?"

"Yes." Richard could not recall when last that had happened. "I hope you don't let others hear you speak thus."

"Pah! I care not. What can they do to me that God has not done already? If I can forgive Him, then I can forgive them. What? Do you laugh?"

"Were this summer I'd say that the sun had touched your head."

"I've had that as well. A good, long life I've had so far. I'm sure whatever comes next will be just as interesting."

Richard thought the man's advanced years would preclude that.

"You think me too old?" he countered, as though he'd heard the thought spoken. "Fie on thee, good Richard. I've time left in me to do many things."

"What would you do, then?"

"I'm not sure, there's much to choose. I could walk the road like you and find out if it is truly endless. Think of the stories I would hear on the way! How the traveling poets would envy me!"

"Or you could stay and let them bring their stories to you."

"True. Come, tell me your story."

"All of mine are sad."

"For one so young? How wretched."

Richard had not thought of himself as being young for a very long time now. A decade had passed since his change, and though he did not look any older he often felt quite aged. But seated next to him was a man easily twice his years. Why did they not weigh him down?

"Tell me one anyway," said Joseph. "Perhaps the sorrow of it will make me more content with my lot in life."

"I would not burden you so—might I ask a question instead? You seem to know much."

Joseph, staring ahead and seeing naught, waved one hand, palm up. "Perhaps. Ask away."

"I have heard from the holy men that no one may serve two masters, but what of serving both a master and a mistress?"

"Are they of the same house?"

"I think so."

"Then I would say yes, if both are in accord with each other for your welfare. I'm sure you already knew that, though. Why did you ask?"

"Because my mistress betrayed me, and now I wonder if my master will do the same."

"It's been known to happen. How did she betray you?"

"She demanded too much of me and would not tell me why, so I left her service."

"You must love her deeply to feel such pain."

"I love her not now. I may even hate her. She gave me everything I desired, and much that was beyond any of my dreams, but then . . . what she then did was most pitiless cruel. She allowed someone important to me to die."

"And there is a hole in your spirit from that."

"Yes."

Joseph turned as though to look at Richard, then gestured at the figure carved in the cross behind them. "Did He not suffer a great betrayal—and forgive?"

"It was not my life sacrificed, but that of another. I could have borne it had I been in his place."

"You seem to have dealt with that grief, just not with the betrayal."

"Yes. I wanted to know why, and she had no answer for me. I was told she had no answer for herself either."

"So your faith in her died."

"And I came here."

"But He also gives you no answer, hm?"

"None that I can hear. If it must ever be so for me, then why should I live on?"

The old man nodded, thinking long. "I can speak for myself only. My future is as veiled to me as my sight, but I move forward, because I do not know what is in my path. I may stumble off a cliff and break all my bones, or I may happen upon a great treasure that will buy comfort to last me all my days. What I cannot do is hold myself mired in place. You are mired, friend Richard."

"I've a right to be."

"For a while. But that you came here tells me even you know the while is past. You wish to break free."

"I've wished it from the first! I wished it, prayed for it, demanded, begged, shouted to the skies for it. Why has it not happened?"

"Because until now it was not the right time."

Richard snorted, then sagged. An answer that was no answer. Not to him, anyway. "I thank thee for listening, Joseph. You have been kind."

"You think I've not helped you?" He laughed. "You will see, child." With some effort, Joseph boosted himself up. "Ah, but those flags are cold on my bones. I shall take myself to a good fire now. God keep thee, traveling Richard."

"And you. Here—take this token to remember my thanks." Richard pulled a gold ring from his small finger and pressed it into Joseph's hand. "It will buy you wood enough to warm thee."

"An old man's blessing on thee in turn do I give. Be of good cheer. The road has many twistings." He bowed his head once, turned, and shambled from the church. Richard could hear the tap of his staff on the frozen ground for a time, then full winter silence fell. He was quite alone again, dwarfed by the emptiness around him.

It is too easy for me to feel sorry for myself. 

Compared to blind Joseph, he had all there was in the world.

Everything but blind faith? 

To that he had to answer yes. And he still did not know what to do about it. Falling on his knees before the altar would seem but empty posturing now. He had a disturbing feeling that he'd somehow moved forward, all without noticing. Well, he would see if the road had a twisting ahead soon enough, when the snow melted.

He departed the church, pushing the door shut. The day was still dark, but he kept his hood well forward and shrugged his sleeves down to cover his hands. Just because he could not see the sun did not mean it wasn't there to burn him.

He looked about for some sign of where Joseph had gone, spying footprints in the snow, leading back toward the hospice. They sometimes crossed the ones Richard had left. He wondered where the old man had come from, for there were no other tracks. Perhaps he'd been sitting in a dim corner near the door all along.

But such speculations left him about fifty paces from the church. On one side of the path stood a strong young sapling, its straight trunk nearly his own height. The same height, in fact, as Joseph's staff.

He cast about for Joseph, but the old man's steps halted here.

That the little tree had not been there earlier was strange enough, but what reduced Richard to gaping astonishment was the fact that it was thickly foliaged as though at the height of summer. The tender green leaves seemed to glow against the virgin snow, bathed in a light from a hidden elsewhere.

He touched one, and found it to be real. He plucked it away and smelled the fresh sap.

And on this sunless day a glint of gold winked brightly at him from the green. At the base of one of the slender limbs was his ring. It fit around the wood exactly; indeed, the bark was beginning to swell and grow over it.

The leaves rustled in the wind like warming laughter, but a chill seized Richard, and he ran the rest of the way back to the hospice.

He wanted to tell someone, but could think of none. There were many in his company, but servants all. They would accept his story without demur. He'd not be able to discuss its meaning or ask questions. They would only shrug and call him blessed and continue on with their own little tasks. Telling even Ghislaine would not be right.

For the first time in years he wanted Sabra with him, not to pour out his bitterness, but to share his wonder. She, of all those he knew, would absolutely understand. How he ached for her.

It was time to go home.

He pushed noisily into the hospice, drawing breath to tell them to get ready to decamp. They would obey willingly enough once they knew their destination.

But he never gave the order. Standing but a few paces inside was the richly cloaked figure of a woman. His heart stopped for an instant and a smile of true joy broke upon his lips.

Sabra? 

She turned round, pushing back her scarf. His heart resumed its beat, but sank low. She was not Sabra, only some noblewoman also stopping here to rest.

Richard quickly gathered his wits, pushed his hood back, and made a low bow. "Greetings, lady."

She curtsied in turn. "Greetings to thee, Lord du Lac."

Damnation, she knew him. He wanted no part of courtly life just now. He had much to do and think about.

"I heard in the next village that you were traveling to here," she said. "I am glad to see they were right, for long have I searched for thee."

He had no ready reply, puzzling over the familiarity of her voice and face. "And you have found me." He hoped she had not sought him out for some errand, for he would have to disappoint her.

Her smile faltered. "You do not remember me? It's not been too long, I hope. Recall you Elaine, daughter of Lord Pelles Bernard?"

He managed to shut his gaping mouth, go forward, and bow over her hand. "Of course I do. I could not see you well coming in from the light outside. How fare you, good maid?"

She laughed—and he'd have recognized that sound at least—and touched her free hand to his cheek. "Maid no longer, my lord."

Of course, she'd have married after all this time. He saw something of the change in her, now that he knew to look. Her bearing was sedate, as befitted any dame past twenty. Her figure was more lush and there was a maturity in her eyes only experience brings. "My congratulations, good lady."

She retained her impish smile. "We are at cross purposes. Come without, I would speak with thee."

Which meant no servant was to hear. He held the door for her. She swept out, pulling her cloak tight. "Glad I'll be when spring comes. This is the worst winter I've ever known."

"What brings you out in it, then?"

"Something of import to you, I hope."

"What? A message from the king?" That did not seem right. If the king wanted him, there were other messengers to send.

"No, from me. I've been trying to find you for a very long time. You've wandered to and fro so quickly that any missive I sent to you was lost or arrived too late. Only a week ago a minstrel come to sing for his supper at our keep claimed to have seen you on the road heading this way, so we rode hard to catch you up."

"We?"

"My brother Lavaine is with me as escort and protector."

"And your husband?"

"I have none."

"Ah. So why have you sought me out? What message would you impart?"

"An important one. It is your own fault that it arrives so many years late."

"I'm sorry—"

"Never mind that, Lord Lancelot. Come this way and you will know all."

She had grown into quite the imperious lady, but then he recalled she'd been as sweetly demanding in bed as well. He followed her to where her party had paused on the road. It was a small group, half a dozen armed squires, their horses, and a supply cart. The latter puzzled him, for if they'd wanted speed, they should have had pack animals along. As he approached, he recognized Lavaine, who seemed no worse for wear for the intervening years. They exchanged greetings, Lavaine as cheerful as ever, Richard more reserved. It had been an honest mistake on Lavaine's part, but Richard found it damned hard to look on the face of the man who had killed Michel.

"Does he—" began Lavaine.

"Hush, brother," she said, waving him back. "And let me do it in my own way."

"I shall be here." The way he spoke, the statement would serve equally as reassurance or warning.

"What is this about?" Richard asked as Elaine drew him toward the supply cart.

"You are overdue to meet someone. I hope you will like him." She was positively enjoying herself.

"Who?"

The cart was covered over with woolen blankets and furs. She lifted a protective hanging and held out her arms, reaching in. When she drew back, she held a strapping child of four or five years, rosy-cheeked from the cold, but smiling. She whispered something to him, and he squirmed to be set down, which she did.

He looked fearlessly up at Richard, then executed a miniature version of a courtly bow. "God keep you, sir!" he piped. "My mother told me to say that!" Then he beamed, laughed at his own cleverness, and threw his arms around his mother's skirts. His hood got pushed awry at this, revealing a bright crown of sun-gold hair.

"God keep you, young master," he returned. "Elaine, what is this about?"

The imp had left her expression. She was most serious now. "I wanted you to meet your son and he, you."

"My son?" he said blankly.

"You've only to see his hair and eyes to know. He is yours and no one else's."

Richard looked, and did mark a certain surface resemblance, but no more than that. This land had many blond, blue-eyed children. He released a great sad sigh, bowing his head. Just when he thought himself beginning to break free of his sorrow and anger, the Goddess or Fate or whatever decided to heap another cruelty upon him.

"You are not pleased," Elaine said. She sounded as downcast as he felt. "I had hoped better from you."

"No . . . you misunderstand."

"Then explain." She seemed to be bordering on anger as well.

It took him a moment to master himself, and another moment to find the words. All the while he knew they would not be adequate. "You quite break my heart, Elaine."

"How so?"

"Because if this beautiful boy were my son, I would have a happiness beyond all measure and love and honor you forever."

His raw sincerity took her aback, but her clouded brow did not clear. "You say he is not?"

"I know he is not."

"But his face, his eyes—how can you deny him?"

"I wish to God it were otherwise, but I must be truthful with you. He cannot be my son. You had another lover at the same time, did you not?"

She colored deep red to the roots of her hair. "And what of it? The boy looks like you. He is your get as surely as the sun rises. I have no shame of him, why do you?"

"The only shame I'd have would be in lying to you. Were he my child I would shout it throughout all the world. You've no idea how I wish I could do that."

"Then why are you this way?" Tears choked Elaine's rising voice, and the boy looked anxiously up at her, his own face crumpling in sympathy.

Richard extended some of his force of will upon her. "Calm yourself. I will tell you, but you must not upset him."

The appeal to her mother's protective instinct had more influence on her than his will. She broke off and put her attention on the child. "There, now, all is well. Go find your uncle. Tell him to give you a ride on his horse."

This had an instant curative effect. The boy's face came alight, and he tore away on chubby legs calling shrilly for Lavaine.

"Lord Lancelot, what you say makes no sense. You want him but you deny him? Is that it?"

He came close and took her hand. "Elaine, listen to me and know the truth."

"What truth? That my eyes and heart have deceived me all these years?"

"Yes."

She shook her head, exasperated.

"Hear me out. Before I came to serve at court, before I met you, I suffered a fever that nearly killed me. I healed, but eventually came to realize that it had taken the fertility from my seed, burned it out of me."

"How do you know?"

"I bedded many women then. None of them conceived from me afterwards. None."

"It takes only one seed to make a baby."

"And had I that seed I would have chosen you to keep it." Easy words to say, and who knows but he might have proved them true once upon some other time. Here and now, Elaine needed an illusion for the sake of her pride.

"You give me that honor, at least," she said. "I so wanted—believed—you to be his father."

"Who was the other man? If I may ask?"

"It matters not. He was Grunaius. Lavaine's squire."

Her taste ran to large, muscular fellows, then. "Is he yet a squire?"

"He will always be so. He was knocked from his horse in battle practice that summer and broke his neck. I wept for days for him and for losing you."

"I'm sorry. Had I known . . ."

"It's past."

"How did you fare?"

"As well as may be. When the household noticed my belly I refused to name the father. I wanted to speak to you first and said as much. Lavaine took my side against the rest—we were always close as children—and eventually I was left in peace. But even before the babe was delivered, there was talk that you had known me. Afterward, once they saw the child, they simply accepted it. My father was even pleased."

Yes, Pelles would be, but then he was a most practical man. Having even the bastard son of Lancelot under his roof was quite a treasure, in both coin and prestige. "I'm sorry, lady."

"And I said it's past. But are you absolutely certain he's not your son?"

"Upon his life and mine I wish he were."

"But his looks? Grunaius was dark."

Richard shrugged. "I know not. Sometimes one's looks come from a grandsire—or great-granddam and not the parents at all. But you are fair yourself."

"Not that fair." She sighed. "What am I to do? What are you to do? I believe you, but no one else will. They've lived with it too long."

"We will find an answer in time. If it will ease things for you, then I'll claim him to anyone who asks."

"You would commit falsehood for me?"

"For all of us. My conscience will not be troubled."

"Would you . . . think perhaps to . . . marry me?"

"I don't know. What do you wish?"

"To give the boy a father. I'm not sure if I want to give myself a husband. To hear the other women talk, husbands are a terrible lot, always making more trouble than they're worth."

He laughed, for she spoke with weary honesty. "I'm sure the same could be said for wives."

"But if we did marry, then I could not give more children to you," she said.

"No. Yet there are children enough to be had in the world."

"Fostering others? That's not the same as having your own."

"How so is it not? If God casts some poor babe into your care what matters who bore him?"

She'd clearly not considered that before. "There is more to you than I thought, du Lac."

He nodded sheepish agreement. "More than I thought as well. You find me at a strange time, lady, but at the right time, it seems."

"Indeed?" She lifted her chin, expecting an explanation.

He did not want to share his story with her, though. Again, it would not be right. "Never mind. What is the boy's name?"

"Galahad."

He had to close his mouth again. "You jest."

"You don't like it?"

"I confess it would not have been my first choice, but I'm sure I'll grow used to it."

"You will come back with us?"

"Yes, but what is it you wish me to do? Acknowledge him as my own or speak the truth?"

"I think . . . speak the truth to my family. Let the rest of the world believe what it likes."

"So be it." To seal the pact, he bent and kissed her cheek, which delighted her. Then they both looked toward Lavaine, who had placed little Galahad on his charger and was leading him around.

Beyond them, in the distance, Richard saw the flash of green from the sapling tree, a reminder of summer out-of-time—and something else was there. He shaded his eyes, squinting. Standing next to the tree was a small, lithe form in a russet cloak trimmed in gold. It raised one arm high. An achingly familiar gesture.

His heart leapt. It was she, and no mistake.

As he stared, long-forgotten joy flooded him. The figure lowered her arm, turned, and trudged up the gentle rise to the church. She would wait there. He had much to do right now, but she would wait for him . . . as she'd done all along.

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Framed

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Chapter Twelve

The Beginning, Ten Years Later

Winter lay heavy on the land, like guilt on the head of a sinner. Snow covered all the great tor of the Isle of Apples; drifts taller than a tall man could reach buried its base. The surrounding fens had frozen solid; anyone with a mind to do so could walk across dry-shod like the Children of Israel.

Nothing moved on this dim dawn, though. It was too cold for even the woodcutters to venture forth. The sun hardly dared to show itself and wrapped up in clouds even as the shivering folk below wrapped themselves in blankets.

Richard drew away from the narrow window, pulling the shutter in and securing it. He let fall over the opening the thick woolen flap that was meant to cut the draft. Cold air came in regardless. A large brazier crackled with flames in the center of the round stone chamber where his servants huddled. Away to the side were the horses, dozing on their feet, lending their warmth to the gathering. Until he got quite close to their circle he could see his breath hang in the air. The fire made most of the light, though some of the pale gray sky was visible through the smoke hole in the thatch above.

Several skins of wine had been passed around in an attempt to find another kind of warmth. The morning meal had come and gone along with whatever work that had to be done. All were content to sleep the day through until time for the evening prayers and meal and then sleep again.

As would I, if sleep would come to me.

Of late, true rest was not an easy thing for Richard to achieve, yet weariness saturated him to his bones. Even the blood he supped on failed to rouse him for long from his lethargy. He'd departed from the king's court after that last tourney, claiming he'd been called to retreat from the world for the good of his soul. None had hindered him. Those with eyes to see had noticed the change in him. Some rumored it was du Lac's impossible love for the queen that made him leave. Others loyally maintained it was his dire wounding that had caused his withdrawal from all court life. Though he'd recovered miraculously quick, they said he still bled in his heart.

At first, he'd gone to the lands granted to him by the king for his service. There, Richard had a fine keep of his own filled with rich furnishings, men, and weapons, the surrounding farms growing bounty enough to support all. He stayed there, alone, shunning the company of his fellow lords.

Sabra had tried to console him.

But . . . he shunned even her.

And then she'd departed, and he was truly alone.

He left his private chambers only at night to stalk the fields and forests like a lost ghost. Any hapless wanderers who happened to see him, pale of face, grim in aspect, clad wholly in black, crossed themselves and fled.

The comforts of his own hall brought no succor. After the harvest was in, stored, and allotted, he gathered a company of servants to see to his needs and took to wandering. He pitched his tent near a road or in a fallow field, or sheltered in some abandoned villa left by the Romans, never staying in one place for more than a few days. When his presence was noticed by the local lord, he would courteously decline the offered hospitality and move on.

He thought the passage of time would lessen his pain, but contrariwise, it only seemed to increase.

For the Goddess had betrayed him.

His servants, long used to his habits, took little notice when he went to bed an hour after dawn. They placed a smaller brazier of coals in the curtained-off area he claimed for his own and withdrew. One of the girls was curled in the bed to warm it and await his pleasure.

Today it was Ghislaine, ripened now to a comely woman. Richard climbed in next to her, pulling the covers almost all the way over their heads. She burrowed against him, sighing with contentment. Her firm flesh pleased him, a little, but he was not hungry, having supped the day before.

"Why do you smile?" he asked, once they'd settled.

" 'Tis nothing, my lord."

"I can see 'tis something and naught to do with me."

"I mean no offense, my—"

"And none has been taken, unless you deny me your reason to smile."

She hesitated, then yielded. "I've a small happiness of my own, I think. The next moon will tell me for sure."

"You're with child again?"

"I think so, the Goddess willing."

In the years from their first meeting she'd borne two children, both of whom had died. "And this is a happy prospect to you?"

"Yes."

"How so is it happy?"

"It just is, my lord."

He could see none of it. In the short hours that he'd known fatherhood, he'd felt only shock, regret, agony, and grief. Since that time he'd felt little else but anger, which he held carefully in check.

Why did Ghislaine not feel the same? Had not the Goddess taken her two babes before they'd lived even a year? And now she longed for a third chance to add to her sorrows.

"Know you the father?"

She giggled briefly. "Of course I must know him, else I'd not be this way."

He was in no mood for jest, but she did not notice, so diverted was she by her own thoughts. "If the babe lives we may marry, if my lord permits."

If it lives. So, she was aware of the possibility of loss. "And if the Goddess takes this child from you?"

"We may marry anyway. 'Tis not good to be alone. He's a fine strong man. His get will also be strong, I'm sure."

How do they endure it?

Richard had been in this changed life for only a decade and already felt impossibly removed from the rest of humanity. To him, their lives seemed short and shallow as they toiled one day to the next, starving or feasting, living and dying, accepting such as their lot with few complaints, for that was the way of things, and it would ever be so.

I will live on, they will die. But how they waste their little lives! Their world is so small, they're like farm animals with speech. Can they not see themselves? 

Ghislaine made bold to caress him, smiling her woman's smile. "Does my lord wish to be pleasured?" she whispered.

What he wished for was a lifting of the blackness from his heart. Even Ghislaine with her sweet body so willingly given could not do that. All that stirred within him now was despair and impossible loneliness.

"Sleep, child," he said. "Sleep and dream of heaven."

If she was disappointed by his reply, she made no show of it, obediently lying down again. Perhaps she expected some attention from him later to make up for it. True, he could go through the forms of love, mount and ride her to fulfillment, but would mock himself from beginning to end for his emptiness of spirit.

He lay still, holding her, until her breath lengthened into that of slumber. How he envied her that kindly rest. He'd not truly slept in months. He continued well in health; the blood he took kept him so. Would that it could as easily heal his soul.

When he thought he could move without waking her, he slipped from the bed and dressed. Gooseflesh plucked at him, but he hardly felt it. I must be as cold within as the world is without. But to avoid comment, he covered and cloaked himself, then quietly left. Though it was odd that he be up and about during the day, his drowsing people had long grown used to their lord's silences and night rambles and hardly stirred as he passed them.

The knife-sharp air made short work of his heavy finery, cutting its way into any careless opening. Well, a good walk would cure the chill and, he hoped, utterly tire him out.

It was hard going through the drifts. There were some paths trodden through this small village, though no one had used them much in the last few days. Richard's party had arrived just in time to shelter from the coming snowstorm in a hospice the nearby church maintained for travelers. It was a relic from the Romans, old now, but kept in repair. No one knew what they had used it for; it could have been anything from a temple for one of their gods to a granary.

The sun was well hidden, but the light still pained his sensitive eyes. He'd heard tales about how certain wild men of the north knew how to keep the snow glare from blinding them. They had a secret way of masking their faces, or was it just their eyes? No matter. Richard had nothing but his hood for protection. It would have to be enough.

In the distance he spied the humped shape of a church on a rise and set out for it. The village was an important one to have such a structure. That it was so close to the Goddess's sacred tor was interesting. The two faiths could work together if their believers tried even a little, but there were zealots on both sides that frequently prevented it, or so Sabra had said.

No. I've no wish to think of her today. 

He did not wish it, but it happened. Often. Not an hour went by that she did not hover in his thoughts or that her name came to his lips. Sometimes, when the black despair all but consumed him, he thought he'd see her standing quietly in the deepest shadows, her beautiful face marred by that same sadness. Her arms would be stretched toward him, as though longing to relieve his suffering.

Then would he turn away.

He did not hold Sabra responsible for the betrayal, but she was still a servant to the Goddess. Her unquestioning faith was not something he could endure now that his own had been shattered.

But what has led me here to the Goddess's stronghold? In all his wanderings his steps always seemed to be drawing him to the great tor. He would resist and take another path, but as the seasons waxed and waned he would go south or east or west or north and eventually come within sight of it time and again.

Finally, this year, he gave in and came to the little village in its shadow. That was as far as he would go. If the Goddess really wanted him, then she could come the rest of the way herself.

But the days and nights passed with no sign from her. It was as he'd expected, so his disappointment was neither deep nor especially bitter. It simply was, like the weather.

The church was farther than he'd thought, until he realized it to be larger than he'd expected. Most were small and made of wood, empty inside, with perhaps a simple table to serve as an altar. This one looked comparable to the grand one in his father's keep, made of cut stone, built to last for centuries. As he drew closer, he saw some of the stones were not matched in color, meaning they'd probably been taken from older, unused structures and thrown together where needed. Sure enough, he saw some Roman lettering cut into one of them. Whatever word it had been was broken off in the middle and was upside down.

The door was of stout oak and fitted well. It pulled open easily, the balance indicating the hand of a master carpenter. He went in and pulled it shut.

The church was very large, a full thirty paces from the door to the altar, and fifteen from side to side, the thatched ceiling gracefully high. Two long, narrow windows, hardly more than a handspan wide, were placed on either side of the altar. At this time of year, they were covered over with oiled parchment, allowing in light, but keeping out the drafts.

On Sabbaths and feast days the building could hold a very large congregation indeed. Now it held only Richard, but he'd wanted to be alone. Though his servants usually kept a silent, respectful distance, it wasn't the same as true solitude.

He slowly approached the altar, pushing his hood back. Above hung a very large cross, nearly mansize. Cut into it was the crucified Christ, His tortured body twisted just so. The wood was stained nearly black, so that one had to come quite close to see the equally black figure emerging magically from the background. His wounds had been painted red. The one from the spear thrust bled profusely. Richard's hand stole toward his own long-healed wound, recalling the blasphemous jesting of the other lords on that bleak day. Unlike the Christ, he had no scar to show for it, not to see, anyway.

He'd come here, seeking comfort from the faith he'd been born to, but the crucified man had nothing to say to him.

Below was the altar table, bare now, but the sides were beautifully carved with scenes from the Bible. He recognized Abraham offering his son Isaac up as sacrifice, knife in one hand, the other holding the boy down, his face raised to heaven.

Richard backed away, suddenly sickened. Can I never escape? 

He quickly turned to leave and was brought up short, colliding with a stooped old man who had been directly behind him. With a surprised cry, the ancient toppled over and would have fallen hard to the flagged floor had Richard not instinctively caught him.

"I'm sorry, old one," he said, righting him. "I did not know you were here."

The fellow chuckled at his obvious chagrin. "Nor did I, but I perceive that you must be gently raised to show a poor stranger such courtesy."

" 'Tis nothing."

"'Tis much in this harsh world, especially for me."

Richard suddenly noticed the thick film that covered the old man's eyes along with the long staff he held to steady and guide his faltering steps. What he did not understand was why he'd not heard him.

"May I ask one more boon?" said the ancient. "Would you show me to the altar? I'm turned around."

"Of course."

He took the old man's arm and slowly led him over. The staff tapped noisily now, his sandal-shod feet shuffling. "Here it is." He placed the man's hand on the table.

"Ah, this is a comfort to me, to be able to tell myself the stories again." His questing fingers ran along the carvings like spiders.

"I should think you'd know them well enough by now."

The man smiled, something he did frequently to judge by the hundred creases in his leather-dark face. "Ah, but does one ever tire of dancing to a favorite song?"

Richard made no answer.

"Who are you, good sir, that I may thank you?"

He could say Lancelot, but was weary of that fame. He wanted no distinction today. "I am Richard."

"I thank thee, Richard of . . . ?"

"Just Richard."

"Then I am just Joseph."

He was a courteous man to take no title, place name, father's name or trade, so as to be no better or worse than Richard in his life station. His apparel was ragged and humble, his white hair and beard untrimmed like that of a hermit, but fairly clean. Perhaps he was a holy man with this church. They wore their vestments only when required by their duties.

"Why are you out on such a bitter day as this, friend Richard?"

"My legs wanted stretching."

He chuckled again. "Not by much, for I judge you to already be an uncommonly tall fellow."

"So I've been told."

"Come and sit with me a little while, would you? Perhaps you will tell me a tale of the road, and I will tell you one of our village." Joseph eased himself down, seating his creaking bones on the one shallow step that led to the altar. He seemed very much at home and not likely to move.

Richard gave up all hope of reclaiming any solitude without seeming to be boorishly impolite. He sat on the step as well, knees near his chin, arms bridging them, hands clasped. "My road is long and has no ending."

"That is their nature, is it not? My village is small and has no ending—in its own way, of course. It is very famous for this church, though. This is the first ever built in the land, did you know? Many pilgrims come here to pray. Are you such a pilgrim?"

"No, my people and I are only sheltering in the hospice until the snow melts enough for us to travel again."

"But you did come here to pray?"

"I may have."

"May have?" he laughed. "I like thee, friend Richard. Few are so brave as to admit the truth, even here in God's house. Have you tried praying elsewhere?"

"Yes, my words go up, but my thoughts remain as in a grave. Heaven does not hear me."

"That sometimes happens."

The comment startled Richard. He expected a reproof that perhaps he'd not been listening well enough.

"It is an awful thing when heaven is silent to us. It's happened to me many times." He seemed strangely cheerful about it.

"Indeed? What did you do?"

Joseph shrugged. "I just went on until God took notice and spoke in such a way as I could hear. There were times when He was wickedly slow about it, but I always forgave Him."

"You forgave God?"

"Oh, yes, all the time." His seeming conceit was boundless. "Do you smile?"

"Yes." Richard could not recall when last that had happened. "I hope you don't let others hear you speak thus."

"Pah! I care not. What can they do to me that God has not done already? If I can forgive Him, then I can forgive them. What? Do you laugh?"

"Were this summer I'd say that the sun had touched your head."

"I've had that as well. A good, long life I've had so far. I'm sure whatever comes next will be just as interesting."

Richard thought the man's advanced years would preclude that.

"You think me too old?" he countered, as though he'd heard the thought spoken. "Fie on thee, good Richard. I've time left in me to do many things."

"What would you do, then?"

"I'm not sure, there's much to choose. I could walk the road like you and find out if it is truly endless. Think of the stories I would hear on the way! How the traveling poets would envy me!"

"Or you could stay and let them bring their stories to you."

"True. Come, tell me your story."

"All of mine are sad."

"For one so young? How wretched."

Richard had not thought of himself as being young for a very long time now. A decade had passed since his change, and though he did not look any older he often felt quite aged. But seated next to him was a man easily twice his years. Why did they not weigh him down?

"Tell me one anyway," said Joseph. "Perhaps the sorrow of it will make me more content with my lot in life."

"I would not burden you so—might I ask a question instead? You seem to know much."

Joseph, staring ahead and seeing naught, waved one hand, palm up. "Perhaps. Ask away."

"I have heard from the holy men that no one may serve two masters, but what of serving both a master and a mistress?"

"Are they of the same house?"

"I think so."

"Then I would say yes, if both are in accord with each other for your welfare. I'm sure you already knew that, though. Why did you ask?"

"Because my mistress betrayed me, and now I wonder if my master will do the same."

"It's been known to happen. How did she betray you?"

"She demanded too much of me and would not tell me why, so I left her service."

"You must love her deeply to feel such pain."

"I love her not now. I may even hate her. She gave me everything I desired, and much that was beyond any of my dreams, but then . . . what she then did was most pitiless cruel. She allowed someone important to me to die."

"And there is a hole in your spirit from that."

"Yes."

Joseph turned as though to look at Richard, then gestured at the figure carved in the cross behind them. "Did He not suffer a great betrayal—and forgive?"

"It was not my life sacrificed, but that of another. I could have borne it had I been in his place."

"You seem to have dealt with that grief, just not with the betrayal."

"Yes. I wanted to know why, and she had no answer for me. I was told she had no answer for herself either."

"So your faith in her died."

"And I came here."

"But He also gives you no answer, hm?"

"None that I can hear. If it must ever be so for me, then why should I live on?"

The old man nodded, thinking long. "I can speak for myself only. My future is as veiled to me as my sight, but I move forward, because I do not know what is in my path. I may stumble off a cliff and break all my bones, or I may happen upon a great treasure that will buy comfort to last me all my days. What I cannot do is hold myself mired in place. You are mired, friend Richard."

"I've a right to be."

"For a while. But that you came here tells me even you know the while is past. You wish to break free."

"I've wished it from the first! I wished it, prayed for it, demanded, begged, shouted to the skies for it. Why has it not happened?"

"Because until now it was not the right time."

Richard snorted, then sagged. An answer that was no answer. Not to him, anyway. "I thank thee for listening, Joseph. You have been kind."

"You think I've not helped you?" He laughed. "You will see, child." With some effort, Joseph boosted himself up. "Ah, but those flags are cold on my bones. I shall take myself to a good fire now. God keep thee, traveling Richard."

"And you. Here—take this token to remember my thanks." Richard pulled a gold ring from his small finger and pressed it into Joseph's hand. "It will buy you wood enough to warm thee."

"An old man's blessing on thee in turn do I give. Be of good cheer. The road has many twistings." He bowed his head once, turned, and shambled from the church. Richard could hear the tap of his staff on the frozen ground for a time, then full winter silence fell. He was quite alone again, dwarfed by the emptiness around him.

It is too easy for me to feel sorry for myself. 

Compared to blind Joseph, he had all there was in the world.

Everything but blind faith? 

To that he had to answer yes. And he still did not know what to do about it. Falling on his knees before the altar would seem but empty posturing now. He had a disturbing feeling that he'd somehow moved forward, all without noticing. Well, he would see if the road had a twisting ahead soon enough, when the snow melted.

He departed the church, pushing the door shut. The day was still dark, but he kept his hood well forward and shrugged his sleeves down to cover his hands. Just because he could not see the sun did not mean it wasn't there to burn him.

He looked about for some sign of where Joseph had gone, spying footprints in the snow, leading back toward the hospice. They sometimes crossed the ones Richard had left. He wondered where the old man had come from, for there were no other tracks. Perhaps he'd been sitting in a dim corner near the door all along.

But such speculations left him about fifty paces from the church. On one side of the path stood a strong young sapling, its straight trunk nearly his own height. The same height, in fact, as Joseph's staff.

He cast about for Joseph, but the old man's steps halted here.

That the little tree had not been there earlier was strange enough, but what reduced Richard to gaping astonishment was the fact that it was thickly foliaged as though at the height of summer. The tender green leaves seemed to glow against the virgin snow, bathed in a light from a hidden elsewhere.

He touched one, and found it to be real. He plucked it away and smelled the fresh sap.

And on this sunless day a glint of gold winked brightly at him from the green. At the base of one of the slender limbs was his ring. It fit around the wood exactly; indeed, the bark was beginning to swell and grow over it.

The leaves rustled in the wind like warming laughter, but a chill seized Richard, and he ran the rest of the way back to the hospice.

He wanted to tell someone, but could think of none. There were many in his company, but servants all. They would accept his story without demur. He'd not be able to discuss its meaning or ask questions. They would only shrug and call him blessed and continue on with their own little tasks. Telling even Ghislaine would not be right.

For the first time in years he wanted Sabra with him, not to pour out his bitterness, but to share his wonder. She, of all those he knew, would absolutely understand. How he ached for her.

It was time to go home.

He pushed noisily into the hospice, drawing breath to tell them to get ready to decamp. They would obey willingly enough once they knew their destination.

But he never gave the order. Standing but a few paces inside was the richly cloaked figure of a woman. His heart stopped for an instant and a smile of true joy broke upon his lips.

Sabra? 

She turned round, pushing back her scarf. His heart resumed its beat, but sank low. She was not Sabra, only some noblewoman also stopping here to rest.

Richard quickly gathered his wits, pushed his hood back, and made a low bow. "Greetings, lady."

She curtsied in turn. "Greetings to thee, Lord du Lac."

Damnation, she knew him. He wanted no part of courtly life just now. He had much to do and think about.

"I heard in the next village that you were traveling to here," she said. "I am glad to see they were right, for long have I searched for thee."

He had no ready reply, puzzling over the familiarity of her voice and face. "And you have found me." He hoped she had not sought him out for some errand, for he would have to disappoint her.

Her smile faltered. "You do not remember me? It's not been too long, I hope. Recall you Elaine, daughter of Lord Pelles Bernard?"

He managed to shut his gaping mouth, go forward, and bow over her hand. "Of course I do. I could not see you well coming in from the light outside. How fare you, good maid?"

She laughed—and he'd have recognized that sound at least—and touched her free hand to his cheek. "Maid no longer, my lord."

Of course, she'd have married after all this time. He saw something of the change in her, now that he knew to look. Her bearing was sedate, as befitted any dame past twenty. Her figure was more lush and there was a maturity in her eyes only experience brings. "My congratulations, good lady."

She retained her impish smile. "We are at cross purposes. Come without, I would speak with thee."

Which meant no servant was to hear. He held the door for her. She swept out, pulling her cloak tight. "Glad I'll be when spring comes. This is the worst winter I've ever known."

"What brings you out in it, then?"

"Something of import to you, I hope."

"What? A message from the king?" That did not seem right. If the king wanted him, there were other messengers to send.

"No, from me. I've been trying to find you for a very long time. You've wandered to and fro so quickly that any missive I sent to you was lost or arrived too late. Only a week ago a minstrel come to sing for his supper at our keep claimed to have seen you on the road heading this way, so we rode hard to catch you up."

"We?"

"My brother Lavaine is with me as escort and protector."

"And your husband?"

"I have none."

"Ah. So why have you sought me out? What message would you impart?"

"An important one. It is your own fault that it arrives so many years late."

"I'm sorry—"

"Never mind that, Lord Lancelot. Come this way and you will know all."

She had grown into quite the imperious lady, but then he recalled she'd been as sweetly demanding in bed as well. He followed her to where her party had paused on the road. It was a small group, half a dozen armed squires, their horses, and a supply cart. The latter puzzled him, for if they'd wanted speed, they should have had pack animals along. As he approached, he recognized Lavaine, who seemed no worse for wear for the intervening years. They exchanged greetings, Lavaine as cheerful as ever, Richard more reserved. It had been an honest mistake on Lavaine's part, but Richard found it damned hard to look on the face of the man who had killed Michel.

"Does he—" began Lavaine.

"Hush, brother," she said, waving him back. "And let me do it in my own way."

"I shall be here." The way he spoke, the statement would serve equally as reassurance or warning.

"What is this about?" Richard asked as Elaine drew him toward the supply cart.

"You are overdue to meet someone. I hope you will like him." She was positively enjoying herself.

"Who?"

The cart was covered over with woolen blankets and furs. She lifted a protective hanging and held out her arms, reaching in. When she drew back, she held a strapping child of four or five years, rosy-cheeked from the cold, but smiling. She whispered something to him, and he squirmed to be set down, which she did.

He looked fearlessly up at Richard, then executed a miniature version of a courtly bow. "God keep you, sir!" he piped. "My mother told me to say that!" Then he beamed, laughed at his own cleverness, and threw his arms around his mother's skirts. His hood got pushed awry at this, revealing a bright crown of sun-gold hair.

"God keep you, young master," he returned. "Elaine, what is this about?"

The imp had left her expression. She was most serious now. "I wanted you to meet your son and he, you."

"My son?" he said blankly.

"You've only to see his hair and eyes to know. He is yours and no one else's."

Richard looked, and did mark a certain surface resemblance, but no more than that. This land had many blond, blue-eyed children. He released a great sad sigh, bowing his head. Just when he thought himself beginning to break free of his sorrow and anger, the Goddess or Fate or whatever decided to heap another cruelty upon him.

"You are not pleased," Elaine said. She sounded as downcast as he felt. "I had hoped better from you."

"No . . . you misunderstand."

"Then explain." She seemed to be bordering on anger as well.

It took him a moment to master himself, and another moment to find the words. All the while he knew they would not be adequate. "You quite break my heart, Elaine."

"How so?"

"Because if this beautiful boy were my son, I would have a happiness beyond all measure and love and honor you forever."

His raw sincerity took her aback, but her clouded brow did not clear. "You say he is not?"

"I know he is not."

"But his face, his eyes—how can you deny him?"

"I wish to God it were otherwise, but I must be truthful with you. He cannot be my son. You had another lover at the same time, did you not?"

She colored deep red to the roots of her hair. "And what of it? The boy looks like you. He is your get as surely as the sun rises. I have no shame of him, why do you?"

"The only shame I'd have would be in lying to you. Were he my child I would shout it throughout all the world. You've no idea how I wish I could do that."

"Then why are you this way?" Tears choked Elaine's rising voice, and the boy looked anxiously up at her, his own face crumpling in sympathy.

Richard extended some of his force of will upon her. "Calm yourself. I will tell you, but you must not upset him."

The appeal to her mother's protective instinct had more influence on her than his will. She broke off and put her attention on the child. "There, now, all is well. Go find your uncle. Tell him to give you a ride on his horse."

This had an instant curative effect. The boy's face came alight, and he tore away on chubby legs calling shrilly for Lavaine.

"Lord Lancelot, what you say makes no sense. You want him but you deny him? Is that it?"

He came close and took her hand. "Elaine, listen to me and know the truth."

"What truth? That my eyes and heart have deceived me all these years?"

"Yes."

She shook her head, exasperated.

"Hear me out. Before I came to serve at court, before I met you, I suffered a fever that nearly killed me. I healed, but eventually came to realize that it had taken the fertility from my seed, burned it out of me."

"How do you know?"

"I bedded many women then. None of them conceived from me afterwards. None."

"It takes only one seed to make a baby."

"And had I that seed I would have chosen you to keep it." Easy words to say, and who knows but he might have proved them true once upon some other time. Here and now, Elaine needed an illusion for the sake of her pride.

"You give me that honor, at least," she said. "I so wanted—believed—you to be his father."

"Who was the other man? If I may ask?"

"It matters not. He was Grunaius. Lavaine's squire."

Her taste ran to large, muscular fellows, then. "Is he yet a squire?"

"He will always be so. He was knocked from his horse in battle practice that summer and broke his neck. I wept for days for him and for losing you."

"I'm sorry. Had I known . . ."

"It's past."

"How did you fare?"

"As well as may be. When the household noticed my belly I refused to name the father. I wanted to speak to you first and said as much. Lavaine took my side against the rest—we were always close as children—and eventually I was left in peace. But even before the babe was delivered, there was talk that you had known me. Afterward, once they saw the child, they simply accepted it. My father was even pleased."

Yes, Pelles would be, but then he was a most practical man. Having even the bastard son of Lancelot under his roof was quite a treasure, in both coin and prestige. "I'm sorry, lady."

"And I said it's past. But are you absolutely certain he's not your son?"

"Upon his life and mine I wish he were."

"But his looks? Grunaius was dark."

Richard shrugged. "I know not. Sometimes one's looks come from a grandsire—or great-granddam and not the parents at all. But you are fair yourself."

"Not that fair." She sighed. "What am I to do? What are you to do? I believe you, but no one else will. They've lived with it too long."

"We will find an answer in time. If it will ease things for you, then I'll claim him to anyone who asks."

"You would commit falsehood for me?"

"For all of us. My conscience will not be troubled."

"Would you . . . think perhaps to . . . marry me?"

"I don't know. What do you wish?"

"To give the boy a father. I'm not sure if I want to give myself a husband. To hear the other women talk, husbands are a terrible lot, always making more trouble than they're worth."

He laughed, for she spoke with weary honesty. "I'm sure the same could be said for wives."

"But if we did marry, then I could not give more children to you," she said.

"No. Yet there are children enough to be had in the world."

"Fostering others? That's not the same as having your own."

"How so is it not? If God casts some poor babe into your care what matters who bore him?"

She'd clearly not considered that before. "There is more to you than I thought, du Lac."

He nodded sheepish agreement. "More than I thought as well. You find me at a strange time, lady, but at the right time, it seems."

"Indeed?" She lifted her chin, expecting an explanation.

He did not want to share his story with her, though. Again, it would not be right. "Never mind. What is the boy's name?"

"Galahad."

He had to close his mouth again. "You jest."

"You don't like it?"

"I confess it would not have been my first choice, but I'm sure I'll grow used to it."

"You will come back with us?"

"Yes, but what is it you wish me to do? Acknowledge him as my own or speak the truth?"

"I think . . . speak the truth to my family. Let the rest of the world believe what it likes."

"So be it." To seal the pact, he bent and kissed her cheek, which delighted her. Then they both looked toward Lavaine, who had placed little Galahad on his charger and was leading him around.

Beyond them, in the distance, Richard saw the flash of green from the sapling tree, a reminder of summer out-of-time—and something else was there. He shaded his eyes, squinting. Standing next to the tree was a small, lithe form in a russet cloak trimmed in gold. It raised one arm high. An achingly familiar gesture.

His heart leapt. It was she, and no mistake.

As he stared, long-forgotten joy flooded him. The figure lowered her arm, turned, and trudged up the gentle rise to the church. She would wait there. He had much to do right now, but she would wait for him . . . as she'd done all along.

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