Ides of the May (Children of the May 2 - updates weekly)

Chapter Twenty-Three: Neave (part one)

My wonder mixes with the fear. What if, when I wake him, when he opens his eyes, this feeling dissipates and never returns? What if he does not return this astounding feeling of mine? Finally, tentatively, I raise my hand and break Mother’s spell.

He wakes.

‘My apologies, fair maiden,’ he says, and his voice is as strong and warm as I had hoped, his eyes more blue than I could have dreamed. ‘I did not see you. You appeared as if from nowhere.’

I cannot let him go from me. I cannot send him away as Mother ordered. But if I take him to the castle, then would I not be giving a part of him away to the others?

‘Oh sir, I am in distress,’ I say. ‘Will you not come to my aid?’

‘Fair maid, it is my duty and my pleasure to aid all in distress. I am pledged so to do. For I am Sir Lancelot du Lac, of the land of Guyenne.’ He dismounts and comes to me.

His smell is sharp and masculine. I am overpowered. If I tried to defend myself against him I could not. He is the child of another lake far away; our meeting has been fated; love is our destiny.

‘Follow me, Sir Lancelot,’ I say. ‘I will take you to my home, and unfold to you my pains.’

 

* * *

 

There is an abandoned cottage in the mountains, beyond the borders of the Lake. It is a poor place, but Lancelot’s presence makes it lovelier than the grandest palace. I cook meals for him, I provide ointments so he can tend his hurts. He will not let me touch him, though his touch is my only desire. He is much-adventured, and wears scars on his body and in his mind, where foolish knights and sorceresses have sallied.

‘Now will you tell me your woe, lady?’ he asks each time he reaches the close of a tale.

Days have passed. I have not been home. No, this is home. Home is wherever he is now.

‘Hold a little longer, fair Sir Lancelot,’ I tell him. ‘I would do what I can for your hurts, before you do this thing for me.’

‘Would you at least honour me with your name, beauteous maid?’ he says.

‘Do you think me beautiful, Lancelot? Truly?’

‘Aye, my lady. In all the world I have met but one woman who surpasses you.’

A dagger! A dagger to my heart! Does it show on my face? I do not know. He has wounded me.

‘Pray tell, who is this other maid, most fortunate to be thought so lovely?’ There is a tremble in my voice. I do not care for this feeling.

He looks to one side. His tear accuses me. I will kill this other woman. He will be mine.

* * *

 

It is later the same night. Lancelot is sleeping. I wet my hand. I touch his face. She haunts his dreams, and she is a nothing. A squinting, scrawny, curly-haired girl from Cameliard. Yet his heart sings for her: Guinevere. I hate her.

I will leave for her now. She will drown tomorrow. But then... but then will he hate me?

No. He will never know.

No. He will know. He is noble and wise. He will find me out.

I step away from him. I go to the window and look back over the Lands of the Lake. The turrets and towers of my mother’s castle stare back at me. I conjure a mirror of ice, and stare not at myself, but at his reflection in the candlelight.