Free Gawain by Gwen Rowley Page B

anyway. It was a comfort to know that her suffering had not been entirely in vain. “Ah, well,” she said, sitting down upon the chair, “’twas all in fun.”
    “Fun? Oh, right. Particularly the part about a bride needing nourishment,” he said, raking his hair back from his face.
    She chuckled. “Aye, that was amusing.”
    “Was it?” he said coldly.
    “Oh, go on,” she said, exasperated. “Why don’t you say what you are really thinking?”
    “You have no idea what I am thinking.”
    “I’ll wager that I do. I made you angry today, didn’t I? Go on, admit it. And then there’s that Sir Lancelot,” she went on, without giving him a chance to answer. “Why don’t you give him a good hard smack? You know you want to, and I daresay it would do him good. But no, you just let him go on, making jokes at your expense! You’d best take care or people will start wondering—” she broke off, realizing that she’d said more than she intended.
    “Wondering what ?”
    “Well, wondering if you’re as brave as all the tales make out.”
    He gave her a level look. “No one has ever had cause to complain of my behavior on the battlefield.”
    “What’s all life but a battlefield? Yet you let that boy mock you, and you just sit there and do nothing! Don’t you care what people say?”
    “Not particularly, no.”
    “Even if they’re saying you’re afraid of him?”
    “Anyone who could believe that knows nothing of me,” he answered with a flash of pride. “But look you,” he said, leaning forward, his expression intent. “The knights of Camelot are not mere fighting men, we are brothers. And Camelot itself is not just another castle, it is a—a beacon. You’ve heard of the king’s justice, have you not? That isn’t just a phrase, it is a living force that touches every one of his subjects. When we, the king’s companions, go out into the world, we carry his vision with us—his law, his justice, his mercy—into every corner of Britain. We cannot allow petty quarrels to divide us. We must be one .”
    For a moment, Aislyn could see it once again, Gawain’s shining kingdom built on justice and mercy . . . and then common sense returned. Once that Camelot had been her dream, as well, but when she had reached out to grasp it, she had learned how fragile dreams could be.
    “Pretty words,” she scoffed.
    “The vows we have taken—to the king and to each other—are real. They’re not just pretty words, they matter .”
    “Not to Sir Lancelot,” she pointed out.
    “If one of my brothers in arms treats me with discourtesy, the shame is his, not mine. But each man must look to his own honor. What I have sworn, I do.”
    Aislyn gave it up with an inward shrug. Talking to this new Gawain was like talking to a man encased in mail—no words of hers could make an impression. “So did you at least have a dance after I left?”
    He shook his head. “I told you, I don’t dance.”
    “Why, are you left-footed? Or did you never learn? Or is it just beneath you?”
    He scowled. “I do not care to dance. Is that a crime?”
    “Not a crime, but—”
    “I do not play hoodman’s blind or forfeits, either. Or sing pretty ballads.”
    Aislyn’s mouth twitched. That, at least, was true, though he’d sung her one or two soldier’s songs that had made her laugh, even as she blushed . . .
    Stop, she told herself. This isn’t the same Gawain, remember? And you don’t like this one.
    But still, she was a little curious. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Here you are, a bonny young knight of three-and-twenty, and a prince into the bargain! You have everything a man could want, and yet you mope and droop about, as merry as a rain cloud at a picnic.”
    “I enjoy myself,” he said defensively.
    “When?” she demanded. “How?”
    “Well, when . . .” He frowned. “In battle.”
    “Killing people is fun?”
    “No, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I feel . . . useful then. It is,” he