Gwenhwyfar_ The White Spirit - Mercedes Lackey [158]
But if she did that, if they did that . . . it would be the murder of part of themselves. Duty and responsibility had made them what they were. Could they still love each other when they both would have betrayed that? Would they be the same people? And even if they were, knowing that they had forsaken that, there must then always be the doubt, the wonder, if they would forsake each other . . .
No, they must endure this. And she must endure it without weeping. She must have let a single sniff escape, though, for in the next moment, he had wrapped his arms around her. She turned her face into his chest and gave herself a single moment of weakness.
“This is the hardest thing I have ever done, to go back to him, after—” Her eyes burned with tears. She blinked them back.
“I know,” he murmured into her hair. “And to see you, and not be able to touch you—it will be like death, a thousand times a day. But I will never leave you. Even if all I can do is look at you, I will never leave you. I love you, Gwen.”
“Oh, how very touching.”
The sarcastic voice, hatefully familiar, cut across the clearing.
She felt as if someone had dropped her into the heart of winter. Her pulse fluttered erratically, and she felt sick as she slowly turned her head.
Just where the path they were going to take began, Medraut stepped out from under the trees, sword held loosely in his hand, wearing a carelessly sardonic expression. Except for one thing. His eyes were furious. Gwen stared at him, mind going numb but her own hand reaching for her sword. With almost the same motion, she and Lancelin drew their weapons and stood side by side, prepared to defend each other.
“How charming,” Medraut sneered. But as his eyes rested on Gwen, she clenched her hand on her sword hilt. He was never, ever going to forgive her this. “How delightful. You love each other. And how long, I wonder, have you been so enamored? Months? Years? What a lovely couple you make. Don’t they, my King?”
To Gwen’s horror, Arthur stepped out of the shadows to stand beside him.
And so did an entire half-circle of warriors, all of Medraut’s brothers among them. She felt choked; she could scarcely breathe.
Arthur’s face was black with rage, but he said nothing. Perhaps he was too furious to speak. And all that Gwen could do was stare, helplessly, all of her plans in ruins at her feet.
There was only one thing she thought she could salvage from the wreckage. He can’t charge us with treason. We never conspired to take his throne. Not like the last wife—
“So, when were you planning to take the High King’s throne along with his wife, Lancelin?” Medraut asked, poisonously, as if he was reading her mind. He smiled at her, his eyes dancing with malice.
“Never.” Her heart thrilled with pride at the steadiness of Lancelin’s voice. “I never wanted a throne, not Arthur’s nor that of any other king.”
“Ah, but the wife?” Medraut grinned. But that grin goaded her as nothing else had until now. That hateful grin—she had been forced to suffer it for months, that grin that said I won, you lost, and there is nothing you can do about it.
Her mind unfroze as a flash of rage fired it, and in a flash, she assessed the situation. They—well, Lancelin—had one chance to escape this. He was a superb horseman. She had seen him leap into the saddle and ride off at full gallop. If he did that now, no one would be able to stop him. The warriors around them were carrying bows, but they had swords in their hands, not the bows. They were also, some of them, still in a state of shock and disbelief; and many were his friends, and for the moment, they would hesitate to attack him. He could get away as long as he didn’t hesitate or pause for anything. If he stayed long enough to pull her up behind him, though—
“Lance,” she whispered urgently, making sure not to move her lips too much. “Get on Idris and get out of here.”
Shock at her words made him glance down at her, though he did not move