Chapter Twenty One.

I wanted to change into Guinevere's English maid and slip up to her room the next morning, but as soon as I was out of my bedroom door, Kay jumped out, as though he had been waiting for me, and grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me back into the room with him and kicking the door shut.

"I don't know what new game you were playing last night, Morgan, but it has to stop," he hissed.

I pushed him off me.

"I don't know what you are talking about," I replied. He looked as though he had slept in his clothes overnight. He was just in his shirt and breeches, his hair ruffled still with sleep.

I could see Kay straining to find the words for his anger.

"Morgan," he whispered, tersely, "I don't know if you're trying to punish me, or if you have just got so deep into your black magic that it has eaten away your mind, but trying to drug Lancelot? What has he ever done to harm you?" When I did not answer, Kay stepped further into my room and I rushed to block his way. I had left my book of medicine recipes open on the desk. "What did you use? What was it?" Kay cried, jumping for the book. I grabbed it as he did, and we both pulled hard towards ourselves. There was an awful crack, and I thought the book would break in two, but it held. Kay was surprised enough by the sound of the binding cracking that he let go just enough for me to s.n.a.t.c.h it off him, and I hugged it to my chest.

"Morgan," Kay growled, "give me the book."

I shook my head, stepping back.

Kay lunged forward and grasped the book again. He was stronger than me by far, but my arms were wrapped tight around the book. I stumbled back, and we crashed back together against the wall, and for a moment we struggled still for hold of the book. But then as suddenly as we had begun fighting, we were kissing. Hard, angry kisses. I did not know who had begun first, if it was he or I, but I could not pretend that his body pressed up close against mine in anger had not brought to my mind vivid memories of us pressed together in that same room in the depths of pa.s.sion. We were different people now, and that love was gone, but it was a long time since I had felt the love of a man. Kay pulled the book from my hands, and this time I let him, and he threw it away, down to the floor beside us, pushing me harder against the wall. For a moment, I didn't care that he probably wasn't thinking of me. I didn't care that he must have been imagining thick coils of red hair between his fingers rather than my own fine brown strands. I, too, was thinking of another. But then, all those imagined images of him with her crowded around me, and my memories, too, of him with Morgawse, and all at once his mouth hot against mine and his hands wrapping around my waist and pulling me against him repulsed me, and I shoved him back.

"You should go, Kay," I said, coldly.

His eyes were unfocussed, his mind lost in some far-off dream of another, and I seized the opportunity. I reached down and picked the book up from the floor where he had thrown it, and wrapped my arms around it once more. Kay's look hardened. He never smiled at me anymore. He never laughed. From across the courtyard, I had seen him laughing with Guinevere, favouring her with his charming smile. That was lost to me now.

"It is not too late to give up the Black Arts, Morgan," he said.

He reached out towards the book, and I stepped back from him, fast.

"Leave," I snapped.

He stepped through the door, and I slammed it shut behind him.

After that, I kept a wary eye on all that happened around me. I did not try to put anything in Lancelot's drink again, because I felt Kay's eyes always upon me, but I watched him. I watched as Lancelot and Guinevere began to ignore each other more and more concertedly in public. At first, I thought she was angry with him. I had seen her anger, tense and pa.s.sionate as it was, and the more I saw, the more different I thought this was. As spring broke around us, I could not understand how everyone else around could find it bearable, the way they would never look at one another. Kay, too, was often around Guinevere, but her way with him was friendly, and easy, and he seemed the same with her, despite the feelings he had confessed to me, thinking I was Lancelot.

Something was going on. Had Lancelot warned her off Kay, as he had tried to do with me? Was that what made her angry? Nimue told me that news had come that Mark in Cornwall was being besieged by a giant and had sent to Arthur for help. She told me that Kay had named Lancelot to go. I thought this might be why Guinevere was angry, but why would she then not be angry with Kay? I was determined to find out what was spoiling my plan. Arthur called the knights to his council, for the decision to be made who would go to Cornwall. Mark. Mark had taken what was mine. I did not know why Arthur should help him. Mark had, too, married Isolde of Ireland, the people in Camelot were saying, who was almost as much younger than him as Morgawse had been younger than Lot when she had married. Just another thing a king was owed, I supposed a young wife.

I was not called to the council, though Nimue was, so I would know what had happened there. I waited until I saw Kay walk across the courtyard, and stepped out into his path. He looked angry, upset.

"I'm sorry, Kay," I said, grasping his hand and pulling it across my eyes. The Otherworld was strong enough in his blood that I would get from him what I could have given to him through just my touch on his skin. I felt the little lurch, and then we stood there, he and I, looking at him and Lancelot and Guinevere, sat around the Round Table. Kay lounged in his seat beside Guinevere, who was staring hard at Lancelot, who was looking shyly down, away from both of them. Kay was not practised in magic, so the image we saw before us was blurry, and I could not hear what any of them were saying, but I could see well enough what was going on. Guinevere wanted to talk to Lancelot, but Kay would not leave. Kay was teasing her, and made a playful grab towards her. I saw the name Gareth on Kay's lips, and I knew what he was teasing her about. She slapped his hand away and shouted at him. Somehow, wordless and silent, her anger was all the more powerful. Kay, visibly hurt even through the blur of his unpractised memory, pushed back his chair and walked angrily out. We did not follow his memory. I glanced beside me. Kay looked confused, and worried, his eyes fixed on the scene before us. I felt a flutter of nerves in my stomach, and I was not sure why. There was something about the way Lancelot and Guinevere sat across the table from one another in silence, him looking away from her gaze, which felt unbearably tense. I noticed, too, that Arthur was not there. Where is Arthur?

Lancelot stood to leave and Guinevere moved into his path, crossing her arms stubbornly across her chest. They were arguing. They must have been arguing about Cornwall. Or perhaps they were arguing about Kay. Lancelot turned away from her in frustration and she stepped towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder, though not in comfort. It was demanding. It was the hand of a queen commanding her champion to listen to her. He turned fast, grabbing her by the wrist. She jumped back, and he let her go. I glanced at Kay again. His eyes were fixed on the room in front of him. Lancelot turned away from her, closing his eyes and bracing himself against the back of one of the chairs, as though he was trying to get his anger under control. What was she saying to make him so angry? I did not think I had ever seen Lancelot angry. But then I realised, he was not angry. While she was still shouting at him, he turned in a flash and pulled her against him, into a kiss. I could not tear my eyes from their lips coming together. I had felt that kiss, I had felt its sensual pa.s.sion, the intoxicating touch of Lancelot's lips, soft yet overwhelming. She melted in his arms, her anger, like his, becoming pa.s.sion, and she wound her hands into his hair. He pushed her back against the table, his lips against her neck, and lifted her lightly on to it. She leaned her head back at his touch, her eyes fluttering closed, and her lips parted slightly in a sigh of longing. I felt the blush rise in me at the sight of it, but I could not look away. I had never seen Lancelot like that; never so bold, never so wild. I barely recognised him. Suddenly, they jumped apart, hearing something that was missing from what Kay and I could witness, Guinevere pushing her skirts back down to the ground, Lancelot turning away, and Arthur strode into the room.

That was when it faded, and Kay and I stood face to face in the courtyard, in the cool spring night, the stars bright above us, both shocked, shaken, betrayed. I could not take it in. When I had encouraged Guinevere to take a lover, I had not intended for her to take mine. Oh no, I thought. Oh no, no, no. The day he had come looking for her in Arthur's camp. That it had been he who caught her when she fell from her horse; he had been watching her. It was he, not Kay, for whom she had jumped to her feet as she watched them fight. Everything he had said: I have a lady, he had said. One whom he could not be with, for the sake of others. It was not me.

"Morgan," he breathed, "is what we saw... the truth?"

I nodded, and Kay rubbed his face with his hands.

"Well," Kay said, "then he must go to Cornwall, mustn't he?"

But it seemed that Kay did not need to push Arthur to send Lancelot, for Lancelot had volunteered himself. Arthur seemed to have no idea what he had walked into the night before, but was his usual cheery self, clapping Lancelot on the back and congratulating him on his bravery for volunteering. Guinevere was quiet and showed nothing.

I could hardly believe that it was true. I walked through the castle like a ghost. The day before I had been on the brink of a love-affair, and now I was rejected once more.

I had to see Guinevere again. I had to go and look at her, see what she had that I lacked. Why had I dreamed of us together, Lancelot and I, in the clear dreams of the future, if it was not to be? I set off towards Guinevere's room. I would not have to pretend to be someone else just to look at her. All I wanted to do was look. But I was caught on the way by the sound of her voice coming from the little walled garden that sat at the foot of her tower. As I crept closer, I heard that Lancelot was with her. Was she so bold? So reckless? They were arguing again, but their voices were soft and I could not hear the words until I came to the entrance to the garden and hid behind the stone archway that led inside.

"No. You don't have to come to me, I'll come to you. I have gone out hunting in the woods before; Arthur won't deny me. No one will suspect. Go up to my room, and take the book of Ovid. Send it to me, when you are ready, and I will find you." She paused for a moment. Perhaps he spoke, but his voice was too soft to hear. They made a strange pairing; him shy and quiet, her angry and demanding. But then, I would think myself the better match, would I not? "Tell me it's not what you want, that you don't love me, and I will not ask you again," I heard her say, softly. They were talking in English. I was sure that Lancelot understood at least a little Breton. It was foolish of them, reckless. What if I were Arthur?

There was a sudden quiet from the garden, and, my heart thudding, I peered through the archway. I could see them clasped together in a kiss, her hands in his hair, his around her waist, both lost in it. I could see the petals tucked into the plait of her hair, twisted up into a bun. I had seen that hair loose and wild, and he had not, and I had known him in my dreams in a way she had not yet known him, and neither of them knew the intimacy I had had with them both, and neither of them saw me. She not at all, he not really. She had taken a lover from her husband's knights, as I had, and yet hers would live. No man not even Arthur would kill Lancelot. He was mine, too, and she had taken him for her own. But she was bolder than I had ever been, wilder and far more lovely. What was left for me, for women like me, when there were women like her?

I forced myself away. Suddenly, awfully, I was filled with same feeling that I had had when I had stood before Accolon with Excalibur drawn in my hands. This is a moment of destiny, I thought. I had not seen this moment, but with a sudden cold dread I realised that I had seen the moments afterwards. Lancelot, the pavilion, the springtime. My skin, pale white and unmarked by woad. It was her skin. I was her in my own dream. Was that really something I would do? Something I could do? I thought, once again, of the Lady of Avalon, long dead now, and her words about Arthur's conception. He does not know it, but he is a child of rape. I was not sure I was capable of it, and yet I knew, I knew with a deep and empty dread, that I was, and that it had to be.

Chapter Twenty Two.

I did not have to wait long. Every day, I waited in the shape of the clumsy English maid at the foot of the stairs until the book came back. It was less than a week. Lancelot was, then, more eager even than he had seemed.

On a bright spring morning, I stood at the bottom of the stairs when a grubby peasant boy, paid for the errand with a shiny silver coin I pressed into his hand, handed me the book of Ovid. I glanced down at it. I had seen it before among Guinevere's books. I could see why she was not hesitant to hazard it. It was a paltry thing a small volume of Ovid's stories, translated into French and b.a.s.t.a.r.dised with clumsy morals tacked on the end. I took it back to my bedroom, and opened it. Inside the front cover, Lancelot had written something in French. It said, Edge of the woods. Seven miles north. I felt my heart flutter within me.

Whose will was I doing? My own? I was not sure I wanted it this way. I wanted Lancelot to want me, not to have him in the guise of someone else. But perhaps it would be good to prise him from his affection for the Queen. Better for everyone. Suddenly, as clear as the time I had seen it first, I saw once more the vision I had had in Avalon of Arthur, his head bare, fallen from his horse, and Lancelot standing over him with his sword drawn and lifted, ready to strike. Would this be my revenge on Arthur? And something for myself? What did destiny want from me? If I turned back from this moment, all that I had seen might not come to pa.s.s. I would never stand on the sh.o.r.es of Avalon with Excalibur in my hand. It had to be. It all had to be.

Once I was sure, I went back in the shape of the maid Margery again, and from the rumpled sheets of Guinevere's bed, I took her nightdress, and tucked it among my own belongings.

I took my leave of Arthur, saying I had to return to my own kingdom. Arthur seemed sorry that I wanted to depart, but my young son was enough of an excuse to sway him. I had not brought a retinue no ladies, no knights so it was easy for me to gather my belongings and leave. I did not know the place, so I had to ride north until I found it. I felt tense and sick inside, but sure that this was the only path that I could take. It was what destiny demanded.

When I came upon the pavilion it was empty. I had some of the mixture I had made before left, and I took the opportunity to pour it into the skin of wine I found among Lancelot's things. It would be for the better if he was hazy, and unquestioning.

When I had had a good sight of the place, I closed my eyes and pictured myself back in the stables of Rheged. They were not empty when I opened my eyes and found myself there, but that was all to the good. My own people knew I was a witch, and were afraid of me. No one questioned me anymore; no one suggested that a woman should not govern her dead husband's lands and castle. I did not mind that the quality of their respect was tinged with fear, only that I had it, and had it without question. I took my belongings back to my room, and locked the door. I pulled out Guinevere's nightdress. It was soft, thin silk, and the scent of it, oddly familiar. Had I spent so long around her, come so close, to know so well the delicate smell of rose petals in her hair, of the fresh gra.s.s? I shrugged away the strange, unsettling feeling of it, and pulled off my own dress, and the nightdress on, and stood before the mirror to watch myself become the woman who had everything. My hair, brightening from dark brown to deep, rich red, the patterns fading from my skin, the lines of my face softening, just a little, and my body shrinking, my long limbs moving more into lithe, feminine proportions. I smoothed down the dress over the body that was newly mine. I felt tense, but the sight of myself as her was oddly comforting. We were not so different. We were both angry. We both loved Lancelot. We would both stand on the sh.o.r.es of Avalon, with Excalibur. I knew so much of her, I had dreamed so much of her, I wondered if I was not, already, fading into her. It is easy to lose oneself in another's shape.

I closed my eyes, and pictured Lancelot's pavilion on the edge of the woods. I saw the light in the pavilion before anything else, glowing dark purple through the silk fabric of its walls. Then I saw the trees around it, as I had pictured them, and the low, soft gra.s.s around it in the little clearing. The night was dark, and clear. I could see the stars bright overhead, and a sliver of the growing moon. A good time for it. I began to feel the world more solidly around me, the gra.s.s beneath my bare feet, the light spring breeze on my cheeks, and through the thin silk of my stolen dress. It was strange to see my hands before me without the blue of the woad, to feel the different movements of another's body. She was a little stronger, a little more lean and muscular than I. But it was not really her body tonight. It was mine.

I walked over slowly, and stepped into the pavilion. For a moment, Lancelot did not notice, as he sat in a small wooden chair, staring into the low coals of the brazier. They lit his face orange, casting shadows against his high cheekbones, his thoughtful mouth. A gust of breeze flapped the tent door, and the noise of it made him look up. He saw me then, and as though unconsciously, as though moving in a dream, he stood to his feet. Taken with a sudden rush, he strode across the pavilion towards me. He gently took my face in his hands, and pressed his forehead lightly against mine. I could feel the fluttering of my heart within me, the heat already kindling deep within. I forced myself to push away the thought that it was not me that he saw. I turned my face up towards his, closer, and I felt his nose brush against mine as he leaned down to me.

"Guinevere," he whispered, but I did not care. He drew me into a kiss. On his lips I tasted the wine, and the heady spice of the herbs that I had given him in it. I felt the slightest tremble of desire run through me, like a spark of fire. I pushed him back gently towards the pile of silk cushions beside the brazier and the chair. I slid my hands up under his shirt, feeling the hardness of muscle beneath, the softness of his skin, and the brush of the soft, inviting hair that ran down from his navel. I should have held back, I should have been more cautious, but I had waited so long, and the desires of my body were clouding my mind. I had dreamed long ago of this, and I had waited and waited and this was the moment, and I could not hold myself back from it. I pulled the shirt up over his head, and threw it aside. He drew away then, holding my face gently in his hands.

"Guinevere," he whispered, his voice thick with anxiety that I had not expected, "I have to tell you, I... You are used to a man who has known many women. There has been I have known no other woman. I... I am not sure that I know exactly "

I rested my fingertips lightly against his lips, and shushed him gently. He closed his eyes for a second, and I felt his lips yield slightly under my touch. I took a step back from him, and unwound my hair. I was half-surprised to see it fall, thick and red, in curls around me. I was already forgetting that I had come in another's shape. Then I reached down and slowly pulled the fine silk dress up over my head, and stood naked before him. I saw his eyes mist over with desire, and a low sigh escaped his lips.

"I am sure nature will take its course," I replied softly. The voice when I spoke was her voice; low and sweet with its Breton tones.

Lancelot did not need any more prompting. I expected him, however, to rush at me all at once the way all the others had done, wild with desire. He no longer hesitated, but his touch was light and teasingly slow as he ran his hands over me. I had never been touched like that; not by a man whose eyes were full of wonder, not by one who wanted to know every inch, not by one who was not hasty to have his own pleasure. He let me wait until I was wild for him, my body aching, though no longer because he did not dare. I slipped him from his clothes and pulled him down among the silk cushions with me. And then it was all the cool silk of the cushions, and the fresh smell of the gra.s.s, and his hands sliding up my thighs, still making me wait; and though I had thought that I would have to lead him through this, I found there was greater delight in committing myself to this sensuality that I had not known before. And when I took him inside me at last, it was with all the rapturous relief that my dreams of him had promised. Everything else fell away, but the pleasure of the moment.

In the darkness afterwards, he whispered, "I love you."

He does not mean you, I told myself, but I could not stop myself from believing it.

I dreamed strange dreams that night. I dreamed of Guinevere, lying out in the gra.s.s of the clearing, asleep in the moonlight in the nightdress I had stolen. It was she, but her pale skin was traced with blue-green woad, and when I went over to her, and knelt beside her, she stirred and murmured my name. In her sleeping hands she held Excalibur, clasped tight in her grip, and when I reached for it, the dream faded away.

I woke suddenly in the morning, my heart racing, as though from a bad dream. I sat up sharply in the pile of cushions, and Lancelot murmured beside me and turned over in his sleep. It was cold. I felt the dewy spring morning against my bare skin and shivered. I should not have slept there. I still wore her shape, still saw pale white limbs free from the lines of woad before me, dark red hair falling in front of my face. What was I going to do? I could not just leave. He would speak to her about it, to Guinevere, and they would work out that it had been me. He knew my powers, and he would hate me. His memory would be hazy, his mind clouded with the drink I had given him, but he would not be so befuddled with it that he would think he could have confused a woman painted with woad with one who was not.

Then, I thought, Elaine. No one at Camelot had met her. No one knew who she was. She had been a comely girl, and Lancelot would have a hard time convincing anyone at Camelot that he had not desired her for her own sake. She was a cousin of mine. He could not put her away, nor me if I wore her shape. I could bear it.

I closed my eyes, and pictured her as I had last seen her. Big brown doe-eyes, long shiny chestnut-brown hair, small, delicate frame. When I opened my eyes, I saw that it had been accomplished.

Lancelot stirred again beside me, and I put a hand against his chest. He, still half-asleep, took it and pressed it to his lips.

"Good morning," I said, softly. I saw his brow wrinkle in confusion. He took his hand from mine and rubbed his face, and when he drew his hands away and opened his eyes to see a woman he did not recognise, he cried out, jumping up in surprise and s.n.a.t.c.hing his sword into his hand.

"Who are you?" he shouted, grabbing his shirt from the ground and pulling it over his head, still keeping hold of his sword. I pulled my knees up and wrapped my arms around them, casting him a pitiful look.

"Sir, you do not remember?" I said. I could feel tears gathering at the back of my eyes, strange tears. I did not know why I should cry, but at once I felt sad and vulnerable. Perhaps it was the thought of the awful thing that I had done, or it was the knowledge that he would be even more dismayed if he knew it was truly I.

"What did you do to me?" Lancelot demanded. I could see the fear in his eyes, I could see that he was trembling. What had I done? I pushed it away. I had to. The tears came suddenly then, and at the sight of them I saw Lancelot weaken, and he dropped his sword and came back to kneel beside me, picking up the nightdress and handing it to me gently so that I could pull it on. He did not seem to notice that, while the woman had changed, the dress was the same.

"Who are you?" he asked, more gently, taking my face in his hands, turning it up towards his. "How did you come to be here... with me?"

I wiped the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. "It is a part of our destiny," I said, shakily. I could not think of any other explanation, and it seemed inadequate. The words seemed foreign, too. "My name is Elaine, sir. I am a cousin unto King Arthur."

Lancelot leaned away, and I saw the frustration and the despair pa.s.s across his face. He knew that whatever there might have been with him and Guinevere was over now, before it had begun.

He gave a slow nod.

"I know that you thought I was the Queen, sir," I said, putting my hand over his. He jumped slightly, and looked nervous.

"Elaine," he replied. "I am sorry. I will take care of you, I promise. I must go, for Cornwall, but I will give you any protection you need from me. May I... take you anywhere?"

I shook my head. I did not want him to take me to Elaine's father's castle only to find there were two of the same girl.

"I live close by," I lied. "I should like the walk."

He nodded.

"Come back for me," I told him, putting a hand against his cheek. I could see him soften, could see he was sorry.

He nodded again, and leaned down to kiss me, softly. There was no pa.s.sion in it, no love, but there was kindness, and I felt that wrench within me. I had tricked a kind man, and I would be sorry for it, always.

I stepped from the tent, and pictured myself back in my bedroom in Rheged. When I opened my eyes, I was there, and I was myself. The days pa.s.sed, and I wrote to Elaine's father. He accepted all of my requests, and committed himself to obedience to me. Elaine must have told him what a witch I was. I was glad.

I began to feel sick, and weary. I knew what this was. I thought of Morgawse, and her child, far away in the North. I had not written to her, had not heard from her or seen her, in a long while. I ought to, soon. But not now, not yet. I was too ashamed of what I had done.

Chapter Twenty Three.

When news came that Lancelot had pa.s.sed out of Cornwall, I took my place at Elaine's father's castle, in her shape. I chose dresses that showed well my swelling belly, and I waited for the moment to come. It was the very height of summer, and the sun was hot and low, and gorgeously warm when he came. Five months he had been away, from the very beginning of spring to the full ripeness of summer, and it showed on me well.

Lancelot rode through the gates of the small castle with a woman at his side. Mark's Queen by the look of her. This was the woman that Arthur had turned down in favour of Guinevere's magic blood and sharp wit, which little did he know was turned against him now. She was truly a beautiful creature; pale golden hair down to her waist, big, blue eyes and a soft, pink full-lipped mouth. She had a placid expression, and a dreamy look in her eyes. I had not yet heard her speak, but I would not have been surprised if Kay's estimation of her as simple were accurate. Still she was lovely, and dressed richly and beautifully. She wore a circlet of white gold, set with sapphires and pearls which I recognised with annoyance as my mother's crown and a dress of pale pink silk, sewn with pearls. I wondered what she was doing with Lancelot. Surely it was not just any queen that he wanted.

He jumped from his horse to greet me and Elaine's father, then helped her down and introduced her. She gave me a look of disdain. I wondered what she knew. Lancelot's eyes, when they saw the swell of my belly, did not register surprise, only resignation. I had at least thought he might be pleased. A child is a child. Everyone had expected me to feel joy at the conception of my son.

"Sir Lancelot," Elaine's father greeted him, brusquely, "I trust you intend to stand honourably by my daughter."

He played his part admirably. Lancelot nodded, fl.u.s.tered.

"A man cannot be constrained to love, nor to wed, but I expect you to take my daughter with you to Camelot, and acknowledge this as your child. She was a maiden, sir, when she came to you."

Lancelot nodded again, his face tense and set. He knew the anger that would be waiting for him when Guinevere heard.

The journey back to Camelot was short, and tense, and when the castle came in sight over the hills, Lancelot said we had to stop and make camp. I knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to sneak ahead and make his apologies to Guinevere. Well, it was too late. Elaine's father had written to Arthur before we left and I, and my child, would be expected.

The next morning, they were gathered in the courtyard to greet us as we came through the gates. I saw Arthur first, dressed to meet us in all the grandeur he had. I supposed he wanted Isolde to go back to Cornwall and tell her husband what a fearsome king Arthur was. Gawain stood beside him, dressed in his armour, as he always was. The other side of Arthur, Guinevere stood, squinting into the sun at us riding towards her. She did not look as angry as I had expected her to, and I was a little disappointed. In the summer heat she wore a dress of blue and white silk, sewn with silver thread that glinted in the sun, and a circlet of fine gold glinted, half-hidden in the thick curls of her hair. The delicate dress looked wrong along with the fierceness of her looks. I thought she had suited much better the hunting leathers that had made the women of Camelot whisper behind their hands.

Lancelot jumped from his horse first to greet Arthur. Arthur pulled him into a hearty embrace, clapping him on the back. Of course Arthur would be pleased that Lancelot had returned with a woman carrying his child. I was surprised to see that Kay was smiling, too. I would have thought he would be jealous. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but I was sure that it was about me, and I was glad.

Isolde beside me had tried to get down from her horse, but had tangled her foot in the stirrup, and the horse was whickering and stumbling away from her. I saw Kay step forward to take hold of the horse's bridle, as Lancelot came towards me to lift me gently down from the horse. Elaine's little body was small and light, and even with the child growing strong inside, he lifted me easily down. I was pleased. I wanted Guinevere to see him put his hands on me.

Arthur greeted me first, kissing me on the cheek and making some kind of meaningless compliment that I was not paying attention to. I could feel Guinevere's eyes against my skin.

I turned to Guinevere and she took my hand with all politeness, but then I felt in the pit of my stomach the feeling I had felt once before, when I had seen her on her wedding-day. Up close again, and my own dark power working within me, I was overwhelmingly aware of the ancient Otherworld blood in her, and it seemed to recognise the dark magic in me, and both bridled at one another. I could see her feel it, see it pa.s.s across her face. I saw her breath catch. But it pa.s.sed, and she said nothing. She did not see through me, as I had feared for a moment she might. She kissed me on the cheek, and we gave each other the proper greetings, commending each other's beauty. I could see her eyes measuring my form, testing Lancelot's excuse.

Since Isolde was here, and Queen of a rich if no longer powerful realm va.s.sal to Arthur, some court had to be paid, and Guinevere led the small group of women that we made into her walled garden. It was a lovely place, small and intimate, smelling of roses and honeysuckle. Someone had set out silk cushions and thick silk rugs over the gra.s.s, and we Isolde, Guinevere, her three ladies, and I sank down among them. I was glad to sit down after the long ride. I had forgotten, too, how tiring it was to have a child growing inside me. Guinevere lay back among the cushions and, closing her eyes, turned her face up to feel the hot summer sun against it. I could see Isolde beside her chattering away, her soft pale-pink lips moving strangely slow. I suspected that Guinevere was not listening.

There was a lute player there, and Isolde stopped talking to watch him, and I saw Guinevere put a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun, and gaze up at Isolde. She was, certainly, avoiding looking at me.

Her maid Margery was sat beside me, the girl who did not know I had taken her shape many times to spy on her Queen and mistress. I turned to her and gave her the sweetest smile Elaine's pretty little face could manage, and she smiled back, at first warily and then, glancing towards Guinevere and seeing her engaged in some conversation with Isolde, leaned down close to me to whisper.

"You are lucky, lady, to have had Sir Lancelot as your lover. He is a very handsome man. I do not doubt that there are many women," she could not hide her eyes' unconscious sweep back towards Guinevere, "who envy you that."

I gave a gentle nod of agreement, and a smile of complicity.

"Tell me what it was like," she whispered, leaning even closer, encouraged. "I don't know what it is like to be with a man, and no one will tell me."

At the other end of the garden, I could hear Isolde beginning to sing.

"Well," I began coyly, "not all men are the same, or so I have been told. Some are rough and mean, but the man I have known, he was gentle and loving."