As he approached, he recognized Lavaine, who seemed no worse for wear for the intervening years. They exchanged greetings, Lavaine as cheerful as ever, Richard more reserved. It had been an honest mistake on Lavaine's part, but Richard found it damned hard to look on the face of the man who had killed Michel.

"Does he-" began Lavaine.

"Hush, brother," she said, waving him back. "And let me do it in my own way."

"I shall be here." The way he spoke, the statement would serve equally as reassurance or warning.

"What is this about?" Richard asked as Elaine drew him toward the supply cart.

"You are overdue to meet someone. I hope you will like him." She was positively enjoying herself.

"Who?"

The cart was covered over with woolen blankets and furs. She lifted a protective hanging and held out her arms, reaching in. When she drew back, she held a strapping child of four or five years, rosy-cheeked from the cold, but smiling. She whispered something to him, and he squirmed to be set down, which she did.

He looked fearlessly up at Richard, then executed a miniature version of a courtly bow. "God keep you, sir!" he piped. "My mother told me to say that!" Then he beamed, laughed at his own cleverness, and threw his arms around his mother's skirts. His hood got pushed awry at this, revealing a bright crown of sun-gold hair.

"God keep you, young master," he returned. "Elaine, what is this about?"

The imp had left her expression. She was most serious now. "I wanted you to meet your son and he, you."

"My son?" he said blankly.

"You've only to see his hair and eyes to know. He is yours and no one else's."

Richard looked, and did mark a certain surface resemblance, but no more than that. This land had many blond, blue-eyed children. He released a great sad sigh, bowing his head. Just when he thought himself beginning to break free of his sorrow and anger, the Goddess or Fate or whatever decided to heap another cruelty upon him.

"You are not pleased," Elaine said. She sounded as downcast as he felt. "I had hoped better from you."

"No... you misunderstand."

"Then explain." She seemed to be bordering on anger as well.

It took him a moment to master himself, and another moment to find the words. All the while he knew they would not be adequate. "You quite break my heart, Elaine."

"How so?"

"Because if this beautiful boy were my son, I would have a happiness beyond all measure and love and honor you forever."

His raw sincerity took her aback, but her clouded brow did not clear. "You say he is not?"

"I know he is not."

"But his face, his eyes-how can you deny him?"

"I wish to God it were otherwise, but I must be truthful with you. He cannot be my son. You had another lover at the same time, did you not?"

She colored deep red to the roots of her hair. "And what of it? The boy looks like you. He is your get as surely as the sun rises. I have no shame of him, why do you?"

"The only shame I'd have would be in lying to you. Were he my child I would shout it throughout all the world.

You've no idea how I wish I could do that."

"Then why are you this way?" Tears choked Elaine's rising voice, and the boy looked anxiously up at her, his own face crumpling in sympathy.

Richard extended some of his force of will upon her. "Calm yourself. I will tell you, but you must not upset him."

The appeal to her mother's protective instinct had more influence on her than his will. She broke off and put her attention on the child. "There, now, all is well. Go find your uncle. Tell him to give you a ride on his horse."

This had an instant curative effect. The boy's face came alight, and he tore away on chubby legs calling shrilly for Lavaine.

"Lord Lancelot, what you say makes no sense. You want him but you deny him? Is that it?"

He came close and took her hand. "Elaine, listen to me and know the truth."

"What truth? That my eyes and heart have deceived me all these years?"

"Yes."

She shook her head, exasperated.

"Hear me out. Before I came to serve at court, before I met you, I suffered a fever that nearly killed me. I healed, but eventually came to realize that it had taken the fertility from my seed, burned it out of me."

"How do you know?"

"I bedded many women then. None of them conceived from me afterwards. None."

"It takes only one seed to make a baby."

"And had I that seed I would have chosen you to keep it." Easy words to say, and who knows but he might have proved them true once upon some other time. Here and now, Elaine needed an illusion for the sake of her pride.

"You give me that honor, at least," she said. "I so wanted-believed-you to be his father."

"Who was the other man? If I may ask?"

"It matters not. He was Grunaius. Lavaine's squire."

Her taste ran to large, muscular fellows, then. "Is he yet a squire?"

"He will always be so. He was knocked from his horse in battle practice that summer and broke his neck. I wept for days for him and for losing you."

"I'm sorry. Had I known..."

"It's past."

"How did you fare?"

"As well as may be. When the household noticed my belly I refused to name the father. I wanted to speak to you first and said as much. Lavaine took my side against the rest-we were always close as children-and eventually I was left in peace. But even before the babe was delivered, there was talk that you had known me. Afterward, once they saw the child, they simply accepted it. My father was even pleased."

Yes, Pelles would be, but then he was a most practical man. Having even the bastard son of Lancelot under his roof was quite a treasure, in both coin and prestige. "I'm sorry, lady."

"And I said it's past. But are you absolutely certain he's not your son?"

"Upon his life and mine I wish he were."

"But his looks? Grunaius was dark."

Richard shrugged. "I know not. Sometimes one's looks come from a grandsire-or great-granddam and not the parents at all. But you are fair yourself."

"Not that fair." She sighed. "What am I to do? What are you to do? I believe you, but no one else will. They've lived with it too long."

"We will find an answer in time. If it will ease things for you, then I'll claim him to anyone who asks."

"You would commit falsehood for me?"

"For all of us. My conscience will not be troubled."

"Would you... think perhaps to... marry me?"

"I don't know. What do you wish?"

"To give the boy a father. I'm not sure if I want to give myself a husband. To hear the other women talk, husbands are a terrible lot, always making more trouble than they're worth."

He laughed, for she spoke with weary honesty. "I'm sure the same could be said for wives."

"But if we did marry, then I could not give more children to you," she said.

"No. Yet there are children enough to be had in the world."

"Fostering others? That's not the same as having your own."

"How so is it not? If God casts some poor babe into your care what matters who bore him?"

She'd clearly not considered that before. "There is more to you than I thought, du Lac."

He nodded sheepish agreement. "More than I thought as well. You find me at a strange time, lady, but at the right time, it seems."

"Indeed?" She lifted her chin, expecting an explanation.

He did not want to share his story with her, though. Again, it would not be right. "Never mind. What is the boy's name?"

"Galahad."

He had to close his mouth again. "You jest."

"You don't like it?"

"I confess it would not have been my first choice, but I'm sure I'll grow used to it."

"You will come back with us?"

"Yes, but what is it you wish me to do? Acknowledge him as my own or speak the truth?"

"I think... speak the truth to my family. Let the rest of the world believe what it likes."

"So be it." To seal the pact, he bent and kissed her cheek, which delighted her. Then they both looked toward Lavaine, who had placed little Galahad on his charger and was leading him around.

Beyond them, in the distance, Richard saw the flash of green from the sapling tree, a reminder of summer out-of- time-and something else was there. He shaded his eyes, squinting. Standing next to the tree was a small, lithe form in a russet cloak trimmed in gold. It raised one arm high. An achingly familiar gesture.

His heart leapt. It was she, and no mistake.

As he stared, long-forgotten joy flooded him. The figure lowered her arm, turned, and trudged up the gentle rise to the church. She would wait there. He had much to do right now, but she would wait for him... as she'd done all along.

Chapter Thirteen

Dallas, Texas, the Present

The first breath was the hardest, like the first breath after being born. No one remembers that one, and it's just as well. It is a terrible struggle to inflate new lungs, to exchange the comfort of warm fluid for harsh, cold air, screaming at the unfairness and pain.

Richard wanted to scream, but was too consumed with the effort of trying to take a second breath.

He couldn't quite work out what was wrong beyond being paralyzed. His mind was separate from his inert body; he was a sleeper on the edge of waking, unable to move, and panicking at his helplessness. He could only focus on the absolute necessity to move. If he could shift but a finger it would break the spell holding him, and he'd wake from the nightmare.

Alas, it didn't work that way. He had to take a third breath.

Then a fourth.

Air shuddered reluctantly into him and too easily departed. In between, he endured the terror that he would stop altogether. That gave him impetus to try again.

Days later, it seemed, the process gradually became less of a fight. The panic receded.

After a month or so, he didn't have to think about it at all, only drift and dream. They were sad, those dreams, and always fled from him when he tried to take hold of one to find out why.

He wanted to turn over in his sleep, to interrupt the mild frustration of the not-dreaming. Eventually, he thrashed out with one arm, cracking his knuckles against something cold and hard. The floor.

It broke the spell.

He groaned, a clumsy, thick sound, his voice box responding sluggishly to express his discomfort. He was sprawled where he'd fallen in the kitchen, bathed in the cold downdraft from the open refrigerator. Its overworked motor hummed a loud complaint at the abuse.