Gawain by Gwen Rowley Page A

would.
    “Well, that’s all for me,” she said, pushing aside her trencher. “Come, husband, let’s to bed.”
    “If you like,” Gawain said with maddening composure. “My lord,” he added, turning to the king, “may we be excused? My lady is weary and wishes to retire.”
    Arthur choked on his wine. “I—I—oh, God, Gawain—”
    “Please, Arthur,” Gawain said quietly. “Don’t. It’s all right.”
    “Then yes,” Arthur said miserably. “Go on.”
    “What?” Aislyn grumbled as Gawain took her arm and helped her toward the door, “Are there to be no songs? No jests and merrymaking as they tuck us up together?”
    Gawain shot her a dark look. “I think not.”
    Oh, really? This was her wedding day; she could insist upon the proper form. She glanced over the hall, wondering which of the ladies was so far out of favor that the task of unclothing Sir Gawain’s loathly lady would fall to them. As for the men . . . her gaze settled on Sir Lancelot. No one would have to order him ; he’d be the first one on his feet.
    She looked at Gawain again. His expression showed nothing, but that fair skin would always betray him. Two spots of brilliant red stained his cheekbones, as though he had been slapped into awareness of her rights. She could do it. She should do it. He deserved no less.
    “I suppose I’m a bit past such frolics,” she heard her own voice say. Cursing herself for her weakness, she smiled, adding, “I’d just as soon have you to myself.”
    And she had the satisfaction of seeing every drop of color drain from his face.

Chapter 7
    THIS cannot really be happening, Gawain thought as he walked down the passageway, slowing his steps to the halting gait of the—the— creature whose claw dug into his forearm. No, not a creature. It wasn’t her fault she looked the way she did. She couldn’t help the warts, nor the wrinkles or the hairs sprouting from her chin. Well, perhaps she could do something about those —and was there really any need for her teeth to be quite that sickening shade of green? But would it really make a difference if she plucked her jutting chin and polished her two remaining teeth to gleaming whiteness?
    Sweat prickled at his neck and armpits. She is just a woman, he told himself firmly, old and bent with age. Her form is . . . roughly . . . human. And she had done King Arthur a great service today, one deserving of reward.
    God help him. There must be some way out. He couldn’t do this—no man could.
    And yet he must.
    Suddenly he remembered his first battle. The king’s army had marched far into the night before they found the Saxon raiders encamped by the smoking remnants of a village. Arthur’s men had snatched a few hours of—not sleep, they were too strung up for that—time to rest the horses and see to their weapons.
    The rain stopped just before dawn, though the sun struggled to break through the heavy clouds. Even when Gawain could make out his own comrades, the far end of the meadow was swathed in mist. He could hear the Saxons—the steady pounding of spear butts on the earth, the guttural war chants—and smell the grease they used to wind their fair hair into braids. The mist began to splinter, giving him quick glimpses of the enemy—but surely they were not so many as they seemed. That was an illusion. It must be. But then the sun burst forth and there they were, rank upon rank of enormous, bearded men. So many men. Three times—four—their own number.
    That morning, standing across the field from the Saxons, the same thoughts had chased each other through Gawain’s mind. I cannot do this—yet I must.
    When the time came, he did.
    He opened the door to his chamber and stood back to let it—her, Ragnelle , God help him, his bride —pass through.
    Two paces in, she stopped dead.
    “What—what are those?”
    He followed her pointing claw— finger —toward the bed. “Cats.”
    Ambrose, the white tom, leapt lightly from the bed to wind about