“No, you have not met him yet, my lord. My sister Megan, who sits beside me, found you drowning in the river pool. Did you try to cross the river in the flood?”
Megan. That must be the redhead’s name. His heart sank. Gradually his memory stirred and events slipped back into their places. Yes, he remembered coming to the ford well past dark, having failed to find any place to shelter from the wet. Farouk had refused to cross at first, but he had forced the animal out of sheer frustration and against his better judgment. “My horse—did you find him?”
“Yes, my lord,” Megan replied eagerly. “He has been enjoying himself in our paddocks these seven days.” She blushed suddenly. “We have only mares, and two of them in season.”
Galahad smiled weakly and both girls watched him, entranced. “Good for Farouk. Let him have his reward. He has earned it.”
“Who are you?” Megan asked, coming to his side. “Are you a prince?” The elder sister shushed her. “Are you strong enough to eat some bread? You’ve been nearly a week without sustenance. We thought more than once we might lose you.”
He shook his head. Sleep—calm, dreamless sleep—was pressing against his eyelids. “No one,” he said softly, sinking rapidly. “I am no one of significance.”
Ariane and Lilia had the evening shift. Now that their patient was reviving, Germaine judged it best that they should nurse him two by two.
“I think we should find out who he is, since he isn’t going to tell us,” Ariane announced as soon as they were seated. “No one of significance, indeed!”
“How can we? We know nothing about him.”
“You wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Lilia sat by the bowl of steaming soup covered with a cloth and gazed at the sleeping solider. He was pale now, and his breathing was still ragged, but he slept a peaceful, healing sleep. She wished he would open his eyes. Megan had told her he had eyes as blue as the sky in summer and a smile that could melt the heart.
Ariane returned with Hugh.
“Here,” she said, placing the bundled weapons in his arms and drawing back the blanket. “What do you think of these?”
Hugh knelt on the floor, cast his crutch aside, and reverently laid the bundle down. Gingerly, he put his hand to the jeweled hilt and drew the sword. Both girls gasped as the long blade glinted in the candlelight, its edges honed to killing sharpness.
“This—” Hugh choked, then cleared his throat gruffly and began again. “This is a weapon I know. I could never mistake it. I fought with the Breton at Autun. This is Sir Lancelot’s sword.” He raised the dagger into the light. “See the carving? That’s the Hawk of Lanascol. These are Lancelot’s weapons.”
All three of them looked toward the bed.
“Well, that’s not Sir Lancelot,” Ariane objected. “This man’s not fiveand-twenty.”
Hugh grabbed his crutch and hobbled to the bedside. Not since he had helped carry in the senseless, mud-spattered soldier had he taken a good look at his face. He scanned it now. “For the love of God,” he whispered. “If it isn’t young Galahad!”
“Who?” Ariane and Lilia cried in unison.
“Galahad. Lancelot’s son. Last I saw him was at Autun. He was but fourteen at the time. And that was, let’s see, nigh on nine years ago. My God, I’d not have known him. Just look how the boy has grown!”
Ariane’s face lit. “If he’s Sir Lancelot’s son and has his father’s sword, that must mean his father is dead. And Galahad is king of Lancelot’s kingdom.”
Hugh shrugged. “Or perhaps retired. I’d heard he’d gone home to Lanascol after Camlann. But everyone knows that Sir Galahad stayed in Britain to carry on the fight.”
Ariane frowned. “We didn’t.”
Hugh bowed politely. “Begging your pardon, I’m sure. It’s tavern talk I heard in Battle Valley when I went in to buy supplies. Galahad is well known around Britain.” He glanced at the girls’ rapt faces. “Among other things, they call him the Virgin Knight.”
Ariane gasped. “That must be a jest! A man like that?”
“Aye,” Hugh said cautiously. “So you would think. But he’s different. He’s unattached.”
Ariane burst into angry tears. “Oh, the cruel fates! Wouldn’t you just know it!”
Hugh frowned, puzzled, but Lilia enlightened him. “That means he won’t want to marry any of us.”
When Galahad awoke in the middle of the night, he was alone. The candle had gone out and the brazier shed only a pallid light. Gingerly he pushed himself up, testing his strength. He could sit up; he could stand, although moving made him light-headed. Some thoughtful person had left him a wastepot. Feeling much better after he had relieved himself, he turned to take up the candle and froze. Across the table a pair of pale eyes glinted in the darkness, watching him. His hand went instinctively to his sword hilt, met his hipbone, and dropped loosely to his side.
“Who is there?”
Someone moved with a rustle of cloth. Out of the shadows came a slender young woman clad only in a thin linen shift. Golden hair fell about her shoulders and her pink lips parted in a smile.
He reached for the blanket to cover himself, but she walked up to him and pushed his hand away. “There’s no need, for me,” she said softly into his ear. “Not after what we have been to each other.”
She pressed her lips against his and her body, so warm beneath the thin fabric, molded to his own. A groan escaped him. Shreds of memory surfaced. She had done this before. She took his free hand in her own and lifted it to her breast.
“Don’t you remember?” she whispered. “My beloved Galahad? My sweet betrothed.”
“Betrothed?” The word stung and he sank down on the bed. “How do you know my name?”
“Dearest.” She placed a hand on each side of his head, a movement that seemed suddenly too familiar. “You told it to me. Don’t you remember? Right here in this bed.”
He paled as she kissed him, and pushed her gently away. “You must give me time,” he said slowly. “I remember nothing. Not even your name.”
“Bella!”
The girl whipped around and Galahad covered himself with the blanket. A middle-aged woman appeared at the edge of light, rubbing her eyes.
“Bella, you wicked child! Get away from him this instant! I beg your pardon, my lord; it seems I cannot so much as close my eyes before the little wanton is at her tricks again! Bella, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! In your nightdress, you little hussy? Where’s your gown? When Germaine hears of this—”
But Bella only tossed her head, sat beside Galahad on the bed, and placed her hand on his thigh. “Never mind your hysterics, Gillie. There is no shame in nakedness between a man and his betrothed.”
Gillie stopped dead. She stared at them unbelieving. Then she turned to Galahad. “My lord?”
Galahad’s face flamed. He wished to deny it. He would have given a limb to be able to deny it. But the hand on his thigh stirred other memories, of blazing passion and seeking hands, of the glorious, soul-searing joy of union and release. Of dim light against the dark cave wall, of smooth skin beneath his fingers, of withering fever and things seen in the night. He lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t remember.”
Germaine and Megan appeared at midnight when the watch changed. Bella released Galahad’s hand reluctantly, waiting until she knew her sisters were watching before she kissed him a gentle farewell. Gillie stayed behind to murmur furiously to Germaine while Megan approached the bed.
“You shouldn’t let her do that, my lord Galahad,” Megan announced matter-of-factly, taking a seat in the nearest chair. “Never let Bella take advantage. She doesn’t know when to stop.”
“Does she ever tell falsehoods?” Galahad asked tentatively.
“All the time.” Megan grinned at him. “You don’t want to pay attention to anything she says.”
Galahad attempted a smile. “I would like very much to believe you.”
His
eyes followed Germaine as she closed the door behind Gillie and came to his bedside. He remembered her calm voice and reassuring touch, but he had never really looked at her before. She was plain-featured and soberly gowned, with no special charms beyond her thick, dark hair and her cool voice, yet he found himself warming to her. Her manner was so open, so completely without artifice. He could detect neither fear nor desire in her, and none of that coy archness he so detested. “Germaine.” Even her name sounded mellow on his tongue.
“My lord Galahad?”
“How did you learn my name?”
“Hugh knew you by your sword, or rather, by your father’s sword. He fought with the Breton armies at Autun.”
“Did he, indeed? Will you send him to me? I should like to speak with him.”
Germaine smiled. “Of course. He is eager to be of service to you, and I know you must be tired of female company.”
“Not of yours,” Galahad replied, and then stopped as a crimson blush mottled her face. “Take no offense, Germaine. I only meant you are an easy companion. But one of your sisters”—he shuddered—“I would be happy to do without.”
Germaine’s color deepened. “I beg your pardon for Bella. I believe Hugh suffers from her attentions as well, as he is the only man around even near our age.” She hesitated. “Hugh says you are called the Virgin Knight.” Heat rose to Galahad’s face, then drained away, leaving him paler than before. “I cannot help what people call me. But I pray you will not—it gives me no pleasure to hear it.”
Germaine came closer. “Is it true, as Bella claims, that you and she have . . . that you are betrothed to her?”
Galahad flushed. “The truth is, I know no more of it than you do. I remember nothing. I only know what Bella tells me happened between us.”
Relief washed Germaine’s features and she drew a trembling breath. “Gillie thought as much. It is Bella’s own invention, my lord. Pay her no mind. It’s just that, being five sisters alone in this prison, five sisters of marriageable age . . .”
“Are there are no men around at all, then?”
Germaine swallowed painfully. “You have hit upon the essential problem, my lord. I am afraid that you have come to a house of women—women so desperate for a husband, we alight upon any passing stranger like a spider upon a fly. It is not cruelly meant, but there is a degree of seriousness in it.”
“I see.” Galahad paused. “But where is your father? Surely he should be your protection and your support. Has he no interest in finding you husbands?”
“Alas, my lord, he does not. I am afraid his interest runs quite the other way. All he asks is to be left alone in peace to read his books. He would be perfectly content to be tended by his daughters all his life.”
“He thinks only of himself.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than bright color washed his face. He recalled his flight from the cave and the abandoned princess, the auburn-haired beauty of his dreams, screaming curses at his fleeing back.
“Oh, but he is a good man,” Germaine cried, misunderstanding the reason for Galahad’s sudden discomfort. “It’s just that he has never forgiven our mother for her death. But he is kind at heart. Or he used to be before grief settled on him.”
“I should like to meet him.”
Megan and Germaine exchanged uncertain glances. “I’m sure you will,” Germaine said. “Sooner or later.”
Galahad was two more weeks recovering his strength. The dousing he had undergone had settled in his chest and was a long time clearing. Hugh waited upon him now instead of the sisters. Galahad vaguely remembered him as a decent enough soldier serving in Sir Sagramor’s company. Hugh was so elated at the honor of this recollection that he could scarcely contain his gratitude and begged Galahad to allow him service.
Having less opportunity to be near Galahad, Bella found her influence waning. None of her sisters believed her tale of betrothal. Germaine had even told him he was free to go as soon as he was strong enough to travel. Something had to be done. But Galahad was always in the company of Hugh, who worshiped him, or in the stables with Old Cam, or with Germaine. It was impossible to get near him, and he never so much as looked her way.
When he was strong enough to be on his feet all day, Galahad took walks along the moor with Germaine. Sometimes they talked; sometimes they walked in silence. He found that he could tell her things he had never told anyone. She listened, nodded, and kept her counsel. One day she asked him, “Why did you say you were someone of no significance when you are Lancelot’s son?”
The question struck like a blow and he struggled with himself to dredge up the truth. “Because although Lancelot is my father, I am unworthy to be his son. I can never go home. I deny the relationship as much as I can. To spare myself.”
Germaine eyed him thoughtfully. “That’s an honest answer.”
“It’s a coward’s answer.”
“Hugh tells us, my lord, that you have a reputation which outshines that of any other knight in the land, including the High King. You cannot be unworthy. Surely your father must be proud of your exploits.”
But he shook his head. He could not go further. He could still see Lancelot’s face on the evening before the Battle of Autun as he asked Galahad to forgive him his transgressions. He could still see him standing before the gates of Avalon asking one last time for Galahad’s forbearance. He could not yet acknowledge the wound he had given Lancelot, the depth of the pain between them. And he could not bare his soul to Germaine when he had not yet bared it to himself.
During the sixth week of his visit Bella began to pale. She was often absent at meals and when she did come to table, ate very little. One morning, when she did not appear at breakfast, Germaine asked if anyone knew why she was behaving so strangely.
Lilia shrugged. “Oh, she’s always sick in the mornings. I told her to ask Gillie for some chamomile.”
Germaine froze.
“Oh, no!” Megan looked like she was going to cry.
Ariane slammed down her cup. “She’s faking!”
Galahad looked from one of them to another in frank bewilderment. Germaine saw his expression and smiled faintly.
“Don’t worry, my lord. She’ll be better shortly, I’ll be bound. I’ll speak with her.”
Two days later, on his return from a gallop across the moor, Galahad found Germaine waiting for him in the stableyard. He slipped off the stallion’s warm back and after a firm pat on the black neck, handed the reins to Old Cam.
“Good afternoon, Germaine. Isn’t this a brilliant day? Why, what’s the matter? You look as if you’d been weeping.”
She hooked her arm through his without a word and led him to the far side of the tower where only one window, high up under the roof, overlooked them.
“I have bad news, my lord. I’ve been watching Bella closely. So has Ariane. Her sickness is real. I thought perhaps she was sticking her fingers down her throat, but she is not. The spasms are real, and she suffers from them.”
“I am sorry for her suffering. Cannot something be done to relieve her of it?”
Germaine stared up at him, fumbling for words. “My lord . . . that is not . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
“I noticed an herb garden behind the kitchen. Surely she can take some concoction for her pain.”
“A soothing brew? Ah.” Germaine exhaled with relief. “That has been tried, my lord. But she cannot keep it down.”
“Would you like me to ride to Battle Valley for a physician? I am strong enough now, and so is Rouk.”
Germaine frowned up at him. Was it possible for eyes that guileless to deceive? “She will not need that kind of help until her time comes. What she needs, my lord, is a priest.”
“A priest! My God, is she dying?”
Tears filled Germaine’s eyes even as her lips split into a smile. She held his hands hard. “No, my lord. She is with child.”
Galahad stood as if struck. No expression at all crossed his features. His wide eyes seemed to
look into the next world, and beyond. Germaine let go of his hands and they fell lifelessly to his sides.
“I know you have no memory of it,” she said gently. “But something must have happened between you in your illness. It is all Bella’s fault, I do not doubt. But nevertheless, it has happened. And the child is your responsibility.”
He nodded dumbly.
“The nearest priest is at the Christian monastery in Battle Valley. But the brothers do not come here anymore, since Father”—she gulped—“since Father took up reading his books on pagan magic and prophecy. So you must take Bella to them.” She gazed into his eyes, liquid azure wells of infinite sadness. “She will be leaving her father’s house still unwed. We must trust you, my lord, to do right by her. We must bind you with a ceremony of betrothal, and then let you go. You do see, don’t you, that it must be done?”
Galahad drew a long breath, his first breath in this new world of eternal lamentation. “Yes.”
Germaine nodded. “Then we will arrange it as soon as we can.”
A noise overhead made them both look up. A shutter flew back and a gray head peered out the window above them.
“Who’s that? Who are you, sir? By what right have you encroached upon my land? I’ll set the dogs on you if you won’t answer!”
“Father!” Germaine gasped, and then quickly, under her breath, “We have no dogs, my lord.”
Galahad stepped forward and bowed low. “Sir Fortas!” His voice sounded strangled and he pitched it louder. “Sir Fortas! I beg your pardon for coming unannounced. My name is Sir Galahad. I have fought with Arthur and Constantine against the Saxons, and with the kings of Wales and the kings of the north against the Anglii and the Picts. I have come . . . I have come to ask for the hand of your daughter in marriage.”
The old man glared down at him and finally scratched his head.
“Which one of them do you want? Not Germaine—I’ll not let Germaine go! She’s too much like her mother.”
Galahad glanced swiftly at Germaine. The longing and regret in that fierce gaze robbed Germaine of breath and made her heart sing. “No, my lord! I ask for Bella.”