Gawain Read Free

of him in words honed to perfection during five long and lonely years! The temptation was near unbearable, save for the fact that her satisfaction would be short-lived . . . as would she, most likely.
    But now that she had seen the king, she would not let him pass without such help as she could give him.
    Well, there was only one thing to do, though she sighed a little to remember the care she had taken with her appearance today. If she was going to meet the king—as she had been almost sure she was—she’d wanted to look her best. It had been a long time since any man had seen her as she really was, and she’d been looking forward to the king’s reaction when she stepped out of the trees.
    Leave it to Gawain to spoil all her fun.
    Well, she amended, hurrying back to the oak where her satchel hung upon a branch, perhaps not all . Now that she came to think of it, this could be even more amusing than she’d hoped.
    She mixed the potion with the ease of long practice and downed it in a gulp, grimacing at its bitterness. A small moan escaped her as it began to work, but she was accustomed to the pain of transformation now. A few moments later, she reached out a gnarled hand to fumble in her bag, and sighing, emptied the contents of a small vial over herself, her nose wrinkling in distaste as a sickening odor stung her nostrils. Taking up a stout stick, she turned back toward the path.
     
“I almost have it,” Arthur was saying when Aislyn hobbled between the trees. The king’s tawny head was bent as he probed the hoof with his dagger. “Son of a donkey! Stand still! I won’t hurt you, if you would just—Gawain, hold his head for me, would you?”
    Gawain dismounted and took hold of the bridle. The king’s horse stilled instantly at his touch.
    “It’s deep . . . but if I can just . . . There!” Arthur set the hoof down and sheathed his dagger. “I don’t think any harm’s done, but—”
    “Arthur, King of Britain!”
    Arthur turned. Aislyn had to give him credit; he did not scream or even flinch . . . much. And he controlled his instinctive start almost instantly. He even managed a smile; a rather sickly smile, true, but she was impressed that he had made the effort. Most men, confronted with the crone that was Aislyn’s particular creation, turned tail and fled.
    “Grandmother,” he said politely. “How may I serve you?”
    “Oh, how courteous!” Her laugh was a truly hideous cackle, one in which she took great pride. “But it is I who desires to serve you.”
    “I thank you,” Arthur said, and amazingly, he did look grateful. “But I have no need—”
    “Do not be so quick to spurn my gift, Arthur, King of Britain, he who rides to his own death!”
    No sooner had the last word left her lips when Gawain’s sword was in his hands. He braced himself and cast a quick, assessing glance to either side of the path.
    “Put up your weapon, Hawk of May! I bring not danger, but salvation to your king. Would you know the answer you have sought, King Arthur? I can give it to you!”
    “You can? Well, I call that lucky—see, Gawain, I told you it would turn out well! How very kind of you, Grandmother.” The king’s smile was so unaffected and so charming that Aislyn felt the warmth of it even where she stood.
    “Come here, Arthur King,” she croaked, crooking one twisted finger. “What I have to say is for your ear alone.”
    “Don’t do it.” Gawain stepped before the king, drawn sword at the ready. “Sire, I mistrust this . . .”
    “Lady?” Aislyn suggested.
    “Witch,” he finished flatly.
    “Gawain, what are you thinking?” Arthur cried, pushing him aside. “Pay him no mind, good dame. He’s a bit unreasonable about magic, but he means no harm.”
    “Does he not, my liege? I beg leave to differ. Men always seek to slay that which they fear.”
    Gawain lifted his perfectly sculpted chin. “I fear no woman.”
    Aislyn smiled. Arthur fell back a pace; Gawain paled, the sword trembling