Читать книгу Galahad - John Erskine - Страница 10

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Guinevere was quite herself again by the time Arthur came home. She heard his hearty laugh in the courtyard, and listened for his quick step on the great stairway. When he knocked at her door she was prepared to welcome him.

“You can’t tell how happy I am to see you again, Guinevere. And you’re looking better, so much better!”

“Oh, I’m entirely well now! You had a great tournament, I understand.”

“Very exciting,” said Arthur, and settled himself in the end of the couch. “Tristram and Palomides brought novelty to it.”

“I’m glad it turned out as you wished. What did they do that was novel?”

“Oh, without them there would have been only the familiar oppositions. But I didn’t enjoy it altogether.”

“Why not, Arthur?”

“We missed you.”

He looked sharply at her as he spoke, and when she smiled he seemed pleased.

“And besides, Tristram told me right out he bears a grudge for Lamorak’s death last year. Agravaine was present when he spoke.”

“I’m sorry about Lamorak,” said Guinevere, “and sorry Tristram is resentful. I wish the tournament had been altogether happy.”

“It was more than satisfactory, for the most part. I exaggerate the difficulties by speaking of them.”

He sat watching her for a moment, apparently enjoying what he saw, and with the air of being content in his own house. She looked up and returned his smile.

“Arthur, don’t you think these tournaments have served their purpose? The men take them so seriously. Won’t they always breed trouble?”

“You’ve spoken of this before, of course. No, I believe they are useful.”

“For what, Arthur? When you were settling the country you had real things to fight for, and the jousts were good training, but now—”

“They still are, Guinevere. I know your opinion, and I’m sorry I can’t agree. I’m glad we are at peace. We never should have been if we hadn’t known how to fight.”

“I’m glad of the peace, too,” she said, “but can’t we go on to more important business now we are through with wars? Peace isn’t the end, is it? Isn’t there something else to proceed to?”

“I believe, Guinevere, that peace is itself progress. If the tournaments serve no other purpose, they keep the men in health—they are fine exercise.”

“Exercise! Men get killed in them.”

“Yes, they are rough at times—but men get killed accidentally even though they never enter a tournament.”

“When you speak of health, you refer to their bodies, I suppose,” said the queen. “Your men are sinking into habits of gossip and irritability.”

“Some will gossip and some will be irritable,” he replied. “There are always a few small people. It’s no use minding them.”

“Not even when they talk against you—your own men?”

“They don’t.”

“Don’t they! When I was in the garden the other day Gawaine and Meliagrance came with some others to ask after my health. For sheer lack of anything important to talk about they told me you were unhorsed by Palomides. There was a time when none of your men would have admitted that to themselves, not even if it were true. Now they tell it to me.”

“They told the truth.”

“I was hoping they lied.”

“No, I wanted to see what Iseult looked like, without letting her know who I was, so I rode by with my visor down. When Palomides came up I wasn’t ready, but perhaps it would have made no difference. He’s a powerful man.”

“I’m very, very sorry, Arthur.”

“Oh, I’m not. It’s of no consequence.”

“On the contrary. You discredit yourself by silly behavior.”

“Silly or not, I’m glad I did it. A man should let himself go once in a while. If I were such a stickler for the proprieties as you are, I’d be equally a victim of nerves. You’re too repressed.”

She waited a moment, too, before she spoke again.

“So that was when Tristram talked about Lamorak. He might well feel uneasy.”

“I didn’t speak to Tristram then—not till the next day.”

“Was Lancelot with you?”

“Dear me, yes. He was right behind me. He unseated Tristram and we got away before Palomides could trouble us again.”

“If Lancelot got away, as you call it,” said Guinevere, “it wasn’t from danger. He must have been ashamed.”

“He disapproved of my riding by. He says I should have addressed Tristram. He opposed my seeing them again the next evening, though he went along to protect me—or perhaps to protect you. He fears I’m losing my heart to Iseult.”

“Gawaine says you both are.”

“I see. That’s what upset you.”

“No,” said Guinevere. “If you and Lancelot admire Iseult, you ought to do so openly. I told the men that as soon as I was well enough I should have Tristram and Iseult here, where we could all see them. I was hoping you had invited them already.”

“Better think twice about that,” said Arthur. “Iseult is all right—a very fine stately woman—very much like you, Guinevere, except that her hair is black, and I imagine she’s not so intense. But Tristram is extremely blunt. He wouldn’t get on well with our men.”

“Isn’t there something wrong if our men can’t behave properly toward a visitor? Do have them both here! Don’t deny me!”

“He won’t come, I’m sure, Guinevere. He’s afraid of something. Not Lancelot, I think.”

“Why did you look him up that second time?”

“To apologize—and I wanted to see Iseult. Riding by, the day before, I really couldn’t judge. She’s a beautiful woman. I told her so, and Lancelot added firmly that you are still more beautiful.”

“Well, you both seem to have tried hard to make Tristram happy,” said Guinevere.

“It was a blunder, and my fault,” said Arthur. “Let’s talk of pleasanter matters. Has anything amusing happened?”

“I’ve got on very well—there’s been nothing unusual. Arthur, you ought to have Tristram here, just to quiet these rumors.”

“Let’s think it over. He won’t come, but we might ask him, to show good will. When Lancelot gets back the gossip will stop.”

“Why not when you get back?” said Guinevere. “Are you the king, or is he? When I married you, you had a high spirit. Am I the cause of the change? You give orders, not always sensible ones, and Lancelot carries them out. Young though you are, you don’t exercise; you can’t sit your horse as you used to. You ask if anything amusing has helped pass the time. Such thoughts as these. When you order Lancelot to do your work, or allow him to protect you, doesn’t it occur to you that he may—”

“Guinevere, I had no idea you were jealous of Lancelot. I thought you were as fond of him as I believe he is of you. Don’t poison my friendship for him. He is my superior, and always was. If I were as bad as you say, would he remain loyal?”

“If he is loyal by nature, he will be loyal,” said Guinevere. “Perhaps he remembers old times, not so long ago.”

“You are still weak, Guinevere; I’ve tired you out. We’d better talk no more of this now. Before I go I want to tell you some happy news about Lancelot.”

“You spoke of waiting for Tristram till Lancelot returned. Where is Lancelot?”

“He’s here—we came back together—but I’m sending him on another errand to King Pelles.”

Guinevere started at the name, but Arthur did not notice.

“You can’t guess what the news is.”

“How could I?”

“Lancelot has fallen in love. At last. I always hoped he would, but there seemed to be no romance in him. It’s Elaine, King Pelles’ daughter.”

“That’s interesting,” said Guinevere. “When did he tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me himself—it came from a young man named Bromel, who met Gawaine. I can’t make out whether the affair has been going on a long time, or whether it began when he went there just before the tournament. It ought to be of long standing, the way Bromel takes it. He wanted Elaine himself, and accused Lancelot of stealing the girl, and Bors thrashed him for the slander. Now he’s looking for Lancelot to apologize. Incidentally he has confided his story to Gawaine. If Lancelot was trying to keep it a secret, Bromel has his revenge.”

“You haven’t seen Bromel yourself?”

“No—Gawaine told me.”

“It’s probably not true. Gawaine likes to belittle you and Lancelot these days.”

“When has he belittled me?”

“He told that story about Palomides.”

“But that was true,” said Arthur. “No doubt this is true, too. You don’t care to hear good news of Lancelot. I entirely misunderstood your feeling toward him.”

“No you don’t,” said Guinevere. “I’m glad, for his sake, if he is to be happy. He ought to have married long ago. But there’s something about this report—if he loves Elaine, why doesn’t he tell us—tell you, at least?”

“He probably will,” said Arthur. “The match would be creditable to both. Pelles is a gentleman, though he lacks a sense of humor. His wife, I’ve heard, was a brilliant woman. She died young. There’s no reason why the girl shouldn’t be the right wife for him.”

“No reason at all,” said Guinevere, “if he loves her.”

“Of course,” said Arthur, “I always thought Lancelot would fall in love with a woman of unusual place in the world, some unique beauty. Like Iseult perhaps. His destiny would seem to go that way. But if he’s in love, that settles it.”

Guinevere sat with her head leaning back against the deep chair. Her eyes were closed. Arthur realized how ill she must be. He got up to leave her. She opened her eyes.

“Have you seen this girl Elaine?” she said.

“I’m trying to remember. Probably not. She stays mostly at home.”

“Has Bors returned? I’d like to hear his version.”

“So should I. He’ll be here in a week or so. He can tell us—unless we’d rather ask Lancelot himself.”

“I intend to ask him,” she said. She closed her eyes again. Arthur moved toward the door.

“Did you say you are sending him on another errand?”

“Yes. If he has an affair with Elaine I’ll help it along. He probably wants to be there. The business could wait, but I’ll give him his chance. Isn’t that the thing to do?”

“I suppose it is,” said Guinevere. “I haven’t thought of him in such a relation—I can’t say.”

“If you think I’d better not send him, there’s still time.”

“No, let him go. If he loves the woman, nothing will keep him away from her, and if any one is to aid him, it should be you.”

“I’m afraid we’ve been talking too long,” said Arthur. “I’ve been thoughtless, as usual.”

“Before Lancelot goes I’d like to see him.”

“I hope he’ll confide in you,” said Arthur.

“Does he know about Bors and Bromel?”

“How could he?”

“Gawaine may have told him—or Meliagrance.”

“You still worry about Meliagrance?”

“Not worry—but I cling to my opinion,” said Guinevere. “That man is no friend to me—nor to you, if I judge correctly.”