Free Gawain by Gwen Rowley Page A

their hands. Not Sir Dinadan, either, who fixed Aislyn with his bright eyes, his expression so reproachful that she could not hold his gaze. It could only be himself Gawain deceived. No one else believed his ridiculous pretense of sympathy.
    Aislyn least of all.
    “Well, that was jolly,” she said. “It’s been some time since I had such fun!”
    Sir Lancelot led the queen to the center of the green. Others followed, arranging themselves in two lines. As the music began, Lancelot called, “We’ve room for one more pair, Sir Gawain! Do you and your lady join us!”
    Something flickered in Gawain’s eyes, and for a moment Aislyn thought that this was it, he was finally going to lose his temper, but then he mastered himself and said, “I think not.”
    Aislyn was tempted to press the point, but she could not bring herself to do it. All she wanted now was to find some cool, shady chamber where she could soak her feet.
    “Would you like to retire for a time?” Gawain asked.
    “What, and miss the fun? Or do you just want me out of the way so you can dance with one of them?” she said, jerking her chin toward the weepers.
    “I do not dance,” he said indifferently.
    Liar. She’d seen him outdance every man at the court of Lothian; whirling around the targe, leaping to land neatly with one foot on either side of the spiked shield. She’d danced with him herself, their bodies moving in unison to the pipes and drums until dawn dimmed the torchlight. They had gone laughing to the stables then, and raced their horses over the hills, the rising sun on their faces and the wind in their hair . . .
    Even the memory exhausted her. It seemed like something that had happened to someone else in a far-off age; a girl she could remember, but one that seemed to have no part of her.
    Gawain belonged to that time. Her Gawain, the dazzling young knight who had galloped into Lothian five years ago and laid waste to the glittering edifice of her ambition. The man beside her now was a stranger. She did not love him— she didn’t even like him. A great weariness overwhelmed her until she felt as ancient as the crone’s form she wore. What point was there in punishing either of them for things that had happened in another life to two entirely different people?
    “I think I will have a lie-down,” she said. “Nay, you needn’t come with me.” Without looking at him again, she hobbled from the garden.
     
BY the time she reached Gawain’s chamber, Aislyn could scarce drag herself inside. What am I to do now? she thought, dropping down upon the bed. Her jest had fallen flat; she had no desire to linger here at Camelot . . . and yet, there was nowhere else she would be safe. If I were to change back and confess all to the king . . . Yesterday, that might have served, but today it was too late. She and Gawain were wed . . . or no, he was wed to Dame Ragnelle . . . it was all muddled in her mind, and she was no longer quite certain who she was . . . Sighing, she closed her eyes and succumbed to sleep.
    It seemed but a moment later that she bolted upright to find the chamber filled with shadows.
    “Who’s there?” she cried.
    Gawain started back, stumbling over one of the cats. It yowled and vanished through the window in a streak of black and white. “Ragnelle! I didn’t see you.”
    She slid from the bed, groaning as her feet hit the floor. “Why were you cursing?”
    “I barked my shin. Go back to sleep.”
    She squinted against the sudden light of a candle, taking in his disheveled hair and flushed cheeks. He sank onto the trunk and rubbed his shin.
    “Out making merry, were you?” she asked, eyeing him with interest.
    “Not particularly, no.”
    “You look sodden,” she said. “And here I thought you never drank to excess. Beneath your dignity, isn’t it?”
    He rested his elbows on his knees. “I am not sodden. But after today, I haven’t much dignity left to lose.”
    So he had minded. Well, that was something,