It had happened before that a seat was empty because of murder and treachery, but the treachery did not often come about by poison. Mador, curse him, was already planning the epitaph for his cousin’s tomb, in which he would name Her Grace as a destroyer of good knights.
Gawain’s gathering was to take place two hours after dinner. There was one other person I wanted to see before that: Dame Lynette.
* * * *
The court has more dames who pretend to sorcery than who can actually practice it. Most of those with any real skill choose to spend the greater part of their time elsewhere. Dame Lynette is the exception. She probably has more knowledge of necromancy than she lays claim to, but, like Dame Nimue, she practices what she has for purpose rather than display.
I had enjoyed Dame Lynette’s company since she first came to court to find a champion for her sister and, on being presented with a kitchen-boy (who knew then that Beaumains was anything else?) very sensibly gave Beaumains, the King, and everybody within earshot a good tongue-lashing. She reminded me of my old nurse.
She was alone in her chamber. Probably she had been at her prayers. “My lord Sir Gaheris has already gone to join his brother,” she told me. Since they kept separate chambers, the remark implied that he had been visiting her this afternoon, and that she chose to assume I had heard of it and come to find him.
“I have no use for Gaheris right now.”
“Have you any use for Lancelot now? Or did you not know they are planning a new search for him?”
“They won’t all make their vows and fly away from London before I join them. I’d like to know if there’s any use in starting out.”
Lynette whistled one of her brachets to her, took it into her lap, and began slowly stroking its hair. “If I could tell you there was no use in seeking Sir Lancelot, do you not think I would have told my husband?”
“No,” I said. “I think you’d rather see him away from court knocking his brains loose on a wild-goose chase.”
She smiled. “I will not say you are right. A wife should speak no ill of her lord, even though he deserve it. But I do not advise you to linger with me. Tongues clack, and Sir Gaheris can be jealous even of what he does not prize.”
“My tongue can clack as loudly as anyone else’s. But call in your pages or your gentlewomen.”
“Do you think my lord Gaheris would believe anyone who is devoted to me?” She shook her head. “If you insist on staying long enough for gossip to link us, I would rather it be a private chat.”
With more than half of our court dames, that would have been an invitation to bed. With Lynette, it was an invitation to a game of wits. Her nails were long and sharp, her fingers heavy with studded rings that she deftly kept from tangling in the dog’s coat, and the small meat-knife at her belt was not strapped into its sheath between meals. Some tongues had even clacked to the effect that her marital troubles with Gaheris were more her fault than his.
“Gaheris aside,” I said, “is there any chance of finding Lancelot in time to save the Queen?”
“Now Heaven be praised, I have lived long enough to see a wonder. Kay wishes to find Lancelot! Why not champion her yourself, now you have the chance at last?”
“Maybe I will. Let the mightier-than-thou take second place for once.”
“Then do not come forward until the last moment, preferably not until the torch is at the faggots. Nothing will bring Lancelot back sooner than news that someone else is to fight for Dame Guenevere.” Lynette smirked as if she had hinted at some profound secret.
“If someone else doesn’t play Meliagrant’s trick and ambush him on the way.”
“Meliagrant’s prison did not keep him from appearing in time to absolve the Queen of the charge of sleeping with you.”
“Meliagrant’s mistake,” I said, “was leaving Lancelot alive in his prison.”
“Have a care, Seneschal. You will involve yourself in the death of Lancelot as well as in that of Patrise.”
“Is he dead, then?”
“My opinion would not make him less alive or less dead.”
“I’m not asking for your opinion, Dame,” I said. “I’m asking for a little of your magic.”
She rolled the dog over in her lap and began to rub his belly. “Magic is an idle toy. I have put it away with the other toys of my childhood.”
“Your old man-at-arms can be grateful you didn’t put it away any earlier.”
She had sent one of her men, years ago, to attack Gareth when he tried to bed her sister a fortnight or two before they were officially wedded. When Gareth cut his attacker into pieces, Lynette gathered up the pieces, put them back together like a broken crock, and mortared them with a magic salve of hers which restored the man to life.
“What a fool I was in those days,” she said, “to think I could keep other folks’ morals pure with a few scraps of murder and magic. And the jest of it is that it was Gareth, the purest of the brothers, whom I meant to keep clean. I knew more of death than of life in my youth, did I not?”
“At least you knew your own mind. I suppose you had only so much of that salve of yours to waste?”
“I could have made more. It requires many days and much privacy, but where men devise means of killing, women can perhaps find worse ways to waste their time than in devising means of restoring life.”
“Especially if they’ve been the ones to send men into the fight. Why don’t you make more of the stuff, Damosel Savage?”
“If I did,” said Dame Lynette, “I might someday have to use it on my lord Gaheris.” After giving me a long look, she returned her attention to her brachet, this time fondling his ears. “Did you come to beg my magic salve against the… accidents… you are likely to meet with? Or did you come to learn where to find Lancelot?”
“I’m not going to meet any accidents, and if I strike a man down, it won’t be so that I can help him up again.”
“So you think you will find a man you can strike down? Will he be knight or churl?”
“Is that a prophecy?” I said.
She shook her head. “It is mere mortal prediction. I doubt that anyone can gaze into the future. Mage Merlin pretended to, but his prophecies can be interpreted however you will. Nor can I see into the past, except with my own memory. Perhaps Dame Nimue can pick other folks’ memories, but I cannot. I can sometimes see what is happening elsewhere at the moment it happens, but most of it is tedious and the rest might be better not to know.”
“So, by your reasoning, if Lancelot is dead, it would be better not to know it, so we can squander our time looking for him?” I got up and started for the door. “Forgive me for asking you to interrupt the exciting routine of your monotony with a few moments of tedious magic, Dame.”
“Seneschal.” She spoke quietly and sarcastically, like my old nurse. I turned back. She went on, “My magic is not as strong as you may think. If I were to look for Lancelot in a candle