Pain surged through Lancelot’s body and wound its way into his tormented mind. Visions of the past and memories of his lost love battered at him in his weakened state. Barely conscious, he opened his eyes one at a time and took in his surroundings. Sparsely furnished and dingy, the place wasn’t even large enough for a separate sleeping chamber.

Where the hell am I?

Vividly aware of a wound festering in his side, Lancelot pressed shaky fingers against his waist and felt the stickiness of blood seeping through a dressing that someone had applied.

None of it was familiar.

And he had no memory of his wound, or who had brought him to this hovel.

Footfalls from outside, the opening of a door, and garbled muttering drew his attention. Across the room, the brightness of the day outlined someone in the doorway. Even though the body hunched with age, it was a decidedly female figure. She shut the door and sent the room into darkness.

“Hmmm. I see you’re awake.”

The woman approached as Lancelot wavered between awareness and the fog of unconsciousness. A shaft of light from a small window fell across the features of Lancelot’s captor—savior? Wrinkles attested to a great age while concern lit eyes of gray that twinkled as they ran the length of Lancelot’s naked body.

“Were I a few decades younger, I’d do more than heal your wounds.” The hag snickered as she set a kettle to boiling on the fire in the hearth.

So many haunting questions. Lancelot struggled to speak, but the effort shot him with another shaft of pain and caused beads of sweat to form on his forehead. Urgency of an unknown danger tugged at his memory and silken strands of gold threaded his consciousness. Unbidden, soft laughter and a gentle touch wove their way into his heart. His struggles increased.

“Here now. Don’t be fashin’ about so, or you’ll undo all me good work.” The hag hastened to make her point by yanking the bandage off the wound.

“Eeyiah!” Lancelot screamed. At least he thought he screamed. More likely it was a mere whisper in the dark, as he was too weak to do much more.

“You’ve been hurt badly. Mortally. But I have ways to heal the work of the devil himself. Course, a price must be paid.”

Her narrowed gaze pinned him to the bed as he tried to ask the questions racing through his mind. She patted his arm and proceeded to apply a foul smelling paste to the wound, all the while muttering nonsensical words. Lancelot’s frustration grew. He hated being so powerless. And how did he know she wasn’t the one who had hurt him? How did he know the paste she applied wasn’t rancid with poison?

The hag snorted and jammed a fresh dressing on the now clean gash. “Hmmm! Save your life and what do I get? Accused of causing this myself, is what.”

She’d read his mind. How?

Adding hot water to a tin cup, the hag brought it to Lancelot’s lips and forced him to drink the bitter concoction. “There. Now you’ll sleep and give your body a chance to heal.”

Dizziness fought pain for supremacy, and Lancelot struggled to remain conscious. His questions needed answers.

Wrinkled features softened, and a gentle—if somewhat calloused—hand rubbed his cheek. “Do not worry. The lady is safely returned to her husband.”

Her husband…her husband…

Agony pierced his heart, accompanied by a name that brought all his memories rushing forth. Guinevere. My love. As intense as the pain draining him was the love he felt for the wife of another. The wife of his king—the wife of his friend.

The herb slowly worked its way through Lancelot, rendered him incapable of movement, mellowed his limbs, and melted his mind. He’d seen the severity of the gash in his side, and he’d seen enough battle wounds to know he couldn’t survive such a slice to his body. The hag was being kind in letting him go easy. He glanced to the window, wanting to capture nature’s beauty one last time. The graceful limbs of the willow tree wafted in the summer breeze, and the sun arced high in the bluest sky he’d ever seen. His breath caught in his throat as consciousness failed him. How low he had come, the mighty Lancelot, defender of the kingdom, advisor to the king, lover to the queen, to spend his last moments in a hovel tended by a hag of unknown name.

“Humph! My name is as changeable as the centuries. I am who I need to be.”

Lancelot tried to hold on to her words, but fog blurred his vision and he did the only thing he could. He gave in to death. But he would leave this world with the face of his true love in his mind.

Guinevere.

Their first meeting had been eventful to say the least. He remembered the barn…

Lancelot rubbed the muzzle of his favorite steed, Nefarious, and offered a tasty carrot which the greedy stallion promptly snatched and devoured.

“Your table manners would not go over well anywhere but in the stable, Nefarious,” Lancelot teased as he reached for another carrot.

“Believe me, his manners are more appropriate than those of many knights who attend my father’s table.”

The sweetness of her voice hypnotized him long before his gaze touched upon her face. Soft and melodious, its tone drifted high in the rafters of the stable, encompassing all and conquering with a sigh. Suddenly very afraid, Lancelot turned to face the daughter of King Leodegrance of Camyliard, the woman he’d come to retrieve for King Arthur of Camelot to wed.

Their gazes met and something shifted in Lancelot. Within that second, he knew he would love and defend this woman with his life. A golden angel, silken strands of gold escaped from her long braid and wisped about her beautiful features. Her porcelain skin lent a hint of delicacy to the sauciness that twinkled in her eyes. Oh, her eyes. They shone bluer blue than the summer sky and at that moment they held him within their grip.

Finally able to speak, emotion set his voice aquiver. “Yes, milady, I’ve seen the manners of some and would tend to agree with you.” He bowed to one knee and bent his head in obeisance.

Awareness and confusion flickered across Guinevere’s face, a child’s face hovering on the edge of womanhood. “Oh, please, do not do that, you make me nervous. Rise, I am not worthy of such a gesture.”

Her hand touched his shoulder and shivers of lust raced through Lancelot’s blood. Heavens, he’d need to control himself or a vindictive father would separate his head from his shoulders. He also couldn’t consider shattering the pact of friendship he shared with the one man he owed his loyalty to—Arthur.

He stood. Nefarious stamped his hooves impatiently, but Lancelot ignored his steed and stepped from the stall to place himself mere inches from Guinevere. The scent of mulberries and cinnamon tickled his nose and he imagined her reclining naked in richly scented bathwater. As if responding to his thoughts, Guinevere’s breathing hastened, her eyes took on a dreamy expression, and her tongue darted from between her lips to wet them slightly. Lancelot’s groin tightened and without thought of consequence, he did the one thing he shouldn’t. He leaned down and tasted the sweetness of that inviting mouth. Lord in Heaven, the sensations assaulting him were mirrored by Guinevere’s moan of passion that vibrated against his lips.

Barely holding a tight rein on his emotions, Lancelot pushed her from him and declared, “Worthy? Lady Guinevere, you are worthy enough to be the daughter of a king and betrothed to another. Royal blood courses through your veins and I am honored to be your escort to the kingdom of Camelot.”

Guinevere gasped and retreated a step. She raised a trembling hand to her throat. “Escort? But I thought King Arthur himself was to come for me. Who are you, if not my betrothed?”

“I am Lancelot, knight of the round table, defender of the kingdom of Camelot, sworn warrior in fealty to King Arthur.”

Pride lent boldness to his words and helped cover the ache in his heart for the loss of a love never meant to be. Guinevere thought she’d been kissing Arthur, so she’d done no wrong. Lancelot was the one who’d betrayed both his friend and his future queen, because he knew exactly whom he’d been kissing and hadn’t stopped. Knowingly and carelessly, he’d robbed her of the innocence of her first kiss. He knew she’d never kissed another, the hesitant exploration of his mouth with her tongue attested to that. He also couldn’t believe that her character would allow her to indulge in that manner of flirtation with anyone besides her betrothed.

All these thought battered his mind and lent strength to his resolve to never again betray those he cared about. He raised his hand toward Guinevere, who took a step away, fear lighting her eyes.

“Please, Lady, do not fear me. I swear on all that is holy, I will never defile you in such a way again.” He knelt one knee on the hard-packed stable floor. “I offer you my loyalty and swear to protect you with my life. This is the same pledge I gave my king and now offer to you.” He raised his gaze to Guinevere, silently pleading for understanding and forgiveness.

“No, Lancelot, it is not fear of you that sets my hands to trembling.” She lowered her voice and glanced about as if her words might be overheard. “It is fear of the fire you’ve lit in my heart. All my life I have felt something missing. Then you appear and with one kiss give wings to my feelings.” She shivered in a silent sob. “Now, to find out that you are not my betrothed and I must deny my heart and close the doors upon what was so sweet—so brief. How can I bear it?”

Blue eyes shimmered with tears, and Lancelot, mighty warrior that he was, felt as helpless as a newborn lamb. Strangled sobs shook Guinevere’s shoulders and Lancelot moved to comfort, caring not where that action may lead. He reached for her arm but encountered only air. Guinevere’s slender form disappeared into a blinding stab of pain.

Struggling to open his eyes, Lancelot fought to shake off the empty feeling of loss. His side throbbed, bringing him to full awareness, and he realized he still lay in the small hovel inhabited by the old hag who professed to have saved his life.

“I did save yer life, you ungrateful ingrate.” She cackled, somehow finding humor in her own words. “You’ve been dreaming. Keeping me entertained over the long passage of time, I must say.”

Her words confused Lancelot. How much time had passed? How did she know what pain haunted his dreams? He reached down to touch the bandage at his side as his gaze moved to the window.

Snow.

Last thing he remembered, the warm breath of summer had caressed the lands. Now, winter held them in its clutches. Unreasoned fear tore at him. What of Guinevere? What of Arthur and Camelot? When the cad, Meliagaunt, kidnapped Queen Guinevere, King Arthur had entrusted Lancelot to rescue her from the castle of his enemy. He couldn’t attempt the rescue himself, as unknown evils were threatening Camelot and the throne could not be left unattended by both king and queen.

Lancelot would have ridden through battalions of warriors to save the woman he could never admit to loving. As it turned out, he hadn’t needed so drastic an act, but the knights guarding the castle of Meliaguant had proven battle savvy enough to lead Lancelot a merry dance. During the rescue, he’d been wounded and barely managed to ride Nefarious from Meliagaunt’s holdings with Guinevere firmly ensconced in his lap.

He had given Nefarious his head, knowing the well-trained steed would head to the stables of Camelot. That’s when his memory failed him. That’s when he ended up here in this dingy place under the care of a hag.

The sound of a lid slamming onto a pot jolted Lancelot from his meandering thoughts. The old woman shuffled about at the far end of the room, her mutterings carried on the stale air and reached Lancelot where he lay on his bed of hay and cloth.

“No appreciation.” She advanced on him, waving her finger in front of his nose. “I saved yer life, and you show no appreciation.”

“I’m sorry. I am.” Lancelot shifted and groaned as a fresh stab of pain wound its way through his body. “I need to go. Camelot is in danger, which means our king is in danger as well.”

“You’ll be goin’ nowhere. Trust me when I say the danger is long since passed.”

“But my king needs me by his side…” Lancelot made to rise but nausea roiled about his stomach and he lay back down.

“Your wound was mortal. I told you I could fix you, but a price must be paid.”

“Yes, I remember something spoken along those lines.”

“You will mend, but the price is great.”

Lancelot grew frustrated and with his depleted strength managed to grab the gray cotton of the hag’s dress. Pulling her down, he thrust his face to hers and demanded, “What is the price I pay, hag?”

A shimmer of admiration and intelligence glinted in the hag’s eyes. She answered. “Time beyond these doors has passed you by. While you remained the same, those you care for have aged and withered.”

Lancelot’s grasp on her dress tightened and her expression flickered with a hint of fear as he choked her. “How much time has passed?” He loosened his grip to allow the hag to inhale a gasping breath.

Her gaze touched him and pity swam in the depths of her eyes. “Twenty-five years in your time.”

“What!” Lancelot exploded, causing himself more pain. Letting go of the hag, he fell back on his makeshift bed and tried to grasp the implications. “How can this be?”

“We are in Avalon. Time passes in a different manner here.”

“Avalon,” Lancelot whispered the revered name. “If that is true, then what you say is indeed possible.” He searched her eyes for a hint of deceit but saw only truth in her soul. Desolation found a home within him.

“Guinevere, my love.”

His quiet whisper must have touched a part of the hag’s heart, because she offered him hope. “She still lives.”

Lancelot’s heart soared. Then he realized that even if Guinevere lived, she’d be much older than he remembered. The possibility of their love had passed, along with twenty-five years wasted in this grimy hut. His wound throbbed, loneliness prodded his senses, and slowly he slipped back into the realm of healing and memories.

“Guinevere, we mustn’t.” Lancelot protested weakly, at the same time drawing her lush woman’s body closer. The smells of hay, liniment, manure, and horses surrounded them, while in the distance rang the horn of the hunt.

“Oh, Lancelot. I know, but I cannot keep myself from you any longer.” With a stamp of frustration, Guinevere tossed her golden locks and clenched her fists by her side. “Each day I must sit upon the throne beside a man I care for but do not love. Each day the sun rises on my empty life and sets in my broken heart. It is you I love. Why is that wrong? The Fates have decided to give us this day alone together, so why should we not take what is offered? By the Fates, we both deserve some happiness, and who would we hurt?”

Her pleading wore away at Lancelot’s resolve, like seawater at the cliffs of Tintagel. “We would know and I think that Arthur would know as well. His powers of perceptions are legend. Besides, he is your husband and my lord. We’ve both sworn ourselves to serving him.”

“Serve him we have, and serve him we will, but I need to find strength to go on in this charade that is my life.”

Her hand caressed his cheek, and with that touch, Lancelot was lost. He had been from the first moment he’d heard her voice in her father’s stable so many years ago. Much had happened since then, but their feelings for each other had raged strong, albeit unbidden until now.

“Guinevere, my love.”

They spoke no more that afternoon. Passion consumed them as they explored the glory of each other’s nakedness. Beyond emotion, steeped in fires of longing, laden with the passion of timeless love, they became one. Lancelot shook with fear, because the act was a splendid fulfillment of self and he knew neither of them could ignore it for long before they succumbed to passion again.

They fell asleep lying in the hay, arms wrapped about each other, until the sound of pounding hooves shook the ground beneath their heads. Hastily they dressed, knowing that the hunting party returned and Arthur would be expecting Guinevere to greet him. Like a shadow, Lancelot slipped out the groom’s entrance and into the bailey where he could pick up a sword and seem to be practicing his swordplay in the absence of the king.

He and Guinevere had no chance to talk to each other after that day, as Twelfth Night came quickly with all the holiday preparations, celebrations, and visitors. Shortly thereafter, Arthur and Guinevere set out with their entourage to visit her father, and Lancelot did not hear from them again until Arthur returned home without Guinevere.

That’s when Arthur told him that she’d been kidnapped and Lancelot’s world crashed to the ground.

He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious this time but awoke to a familiar sound. The sound of steel clashing against steel. Out of habit, he reached for his sword only to grasp at empty air.

Damn!

Angry, demanding voices from outside caused him to attempt to rise. Surprisingly, he found his side hurt not at all. In fact, a quick search of the wound showed nothing but a long ragged scar from hip to shoulder. By the heavens, how had he survived such an injury? Oh, yes, the magic of a withered hag. A hag who’d given him life with one hand and taken his soul with the other. Because that’s what life without Guinevere would be; a soulless existence.

A screech of pain drove him to grab the butcher knife from the rickety table and make haste out the door. His first time outside in how many years, he didn’t even know. The sight of the hag locked in battle with a couple of ragged looking peddlers greeted him. They obviously thought the old one would be easy pickings. Instead, she’d grabbed the axe, which she now swung at the head of one of the bandits.

The scruffy looking man responded by countering her attack with a rusty, blunt-edged sword. The hag held her own easily enough but wasn’t aware of the second man creeping up behind her with a cast iron cooking pan held high, ready to strike.

Lancelot’s long unused instincts raged to full force, and he ran with butcher knife in hand at the man. It was easy. As if he’d never been away from battle. His arm hardly jerked as the sharp blade sank into the man’s chest. A slight upward thrust into his heart and the intruder fell to the ground. Slack eyes stared up at the sky, unseeing, unknowing.

With battle juices flowing full force through his veins, Lancelot gave no thought to the man he’d killed. He wheeled to face the other intruder only to see the old woman sprawled on the ground. Standing over her, the other man gave a toothless grin and raised his sword high above his head, ready to slice the weapon through the air and take her life.

No time for hesitation. Lancelot flipped the knife in his hand, took aim, and sent it streaking across the short distance. The weapon found its mark. The man’s eyes showed a split second of comprehension as blood seeped from the knife in his throat. He dropped his sword and desperately grasped at the knife. In a dance of death, he toppled to the ground and his body gave one final jerk before he lay still.

Silence engulfed the clearing. Lancelot slowly became aware of his surroundings. The hut in which he’d spent these many years past was made of crudely hewn logs and roofed with woven pine branches and willow vines.

Munching quietly on hay were a donkey and a goat, while a couple of chickens and roosters scattered about the clearing. Normal enough, except for the mist that formed an unnatural barrier around the entire area.

“Don’t know how they found their way here. The mist of Avalon is intended to keep intruders out.”

“But…how is that possible?” So many questions and Lancelot suddenly feared the answers. “How long have I been here?”

With a grunt, the hag hoisted herself to her feet and brushed twigs and dirt from her skirt and apron. “It’s been ten years since your last awakening.”

“Ten years,” Lancelot whispered and sank to the ground. “Thirty-five years lost.” A soft breeze blew across the clearing causing the stench of newly fallen blood to reach Lancelot’s nose, and he retched his misery onto the hard-packed earth. The touch of a hand brushing across his brow brought instant relief. He looked into the sympathetic eyes of the hag.

“Thirty-five years gained. You haven’t aged a day since you came here.”

“What good is that if all I knew and loved is lost?” Bitterness lent anger to his tone and the hag retreated a step.

“You saved my life.” She spoke gruffly, as if admitting such proved failure on her part. “Time was I could have waved a hand and taken care of such scum, but I s’pose my powers aren’t what they used to be. Somewhere over the centuries, I’ve gotten old.”

Her voice held regret mixed with sorrow and Lancelot felt pity for the old woman.

“Isolde. My name is Isolde. It means fair one.” She snickered. “Not so fair now, though, am I, me boy.”

Lancelot’s heart went out to her and in an impulsive move, gestured for her to kneel beside him. When she did, he threw his arms about her and hugged her close. She shivered. Pain, regret, loss, sorrow, all these emotions raged between the two, and they cried until they laughed.

Isolde pushed him away and wiped her eyes on the gray sleeve of her blouse. “Ahh, you’re a good lad and you saved my life. I always pay my debts, and I think I have enough magic left…hmmm, yes. She grabbed his hand and, with surprising strength, pulled him to his feet. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Close your eyes and picture your heart’s desire.”

Lancelot shrugged his shoulders and complied. He may as well humor the woman. His heart’s desire, that was easy. He immediately envisioned dancing blue eyes, golden hair, and rounded curves that set his pulse to racing. Bittersweet memories that would need to hold him for the rest of his life, because he’d never see her again. She was lost to him—forever.

“We’re here.”

Pulling himself from his memories, Lancelot was stunned to see they’d left the clearing and now stood in front of a massive structure of rounded arches, sculpted stone columns, and a huge bell tower. An abbey. And the elaborate architecture attested to the fact that it was an important one.

“We’re here? Where exactly are we? And how…?”

Isolde waved her hand. “Do not ask questions. You wouldn’t believe the answers.” She pointed a gnarled finger toward the large oak doors that marked the entranceway to the abbey. With a wrenching sound the doors swung open and a figure stepped from the shadows.

“Look, there she is.”

Lancelot frowned. “There who is?”

“Guinevere, of course.”

His heart thumped. Guinevere. But then he remembered the passage of years. “You brought me here for this? What cruel act do you taunt me with? What of Arthur? Does he still live?”

Isolde’s look of pity gave Lancelot his answer. Pain tore through him and filled his eyes with tears. He whispered, “Goodbye, my friend.”

The scrape of shoe leather upon stone drew his attention back to Guinevere. Lancelot watched her and ached with regret to be so close to his love, yet decades apart. “I would only remind her of a past better forgotten.”

“Foolish lad, have you not yet learned to trust me?”

With those words, Isolde raised her hand in a gesture of beckoning. Close enough to see the gesture, Guinevere hesitated at first, then responded by changing her direction. As Guinevere’s steps brought her closer, Lancelot panicked. She wore a cloak, with the hood pulled up to cover her hair and most of her face, so he was not able to see her. He couldn’t let her see him; she’d run in fear at the lack of age on his face. Lancelot stepped behind Isolde and turned away to face the forest that lined the clearing around the abbey.

“Greetings, is there something I can help you with?”

Guinevere’s voice was as Lancelot remembered, yet more mature in its fullness and certainty.

He trembled.

“No, but maybe I can help you,” Isolde said. “If I were to grant you your heart’s desire, what would you wish for?”

Guinevere laughed. “There’s no need to tell my fortune. If you need food or clothing, I’m sure the abbey will help you.”

“I need no food or clothing. Please answer my question.” Isolde’s voice held threads of steel and hypnotic tendrils of compulsion.

Lancelot shifted his feet and prayed to be anywhere but there. The closeness of Guinevere tugged at him, begging him to face her. Giving in, he turned enough to peak around Isolde and gaze at the face of his beloved. Then wished he hadn’t. She was much older. Beautiful still, but older. Up until then, he’d thought of her as the maiden he’d fallen in love with and seeing her thusly drove a shaft of pain into his heart. So many years gone. So much lost to the harsh reality of time. Curse Isolde for taking his memories from him. He was about to grab the hag and drag her from this place, when Guinevere spoke.

“I suppose I would ask to see my true love one more time.” Her voice throbbed with suffering, and then fell to a whisper. “You see, he was taken from me and I have no idea what became of him. I would wish to know this.”

Lancelot’s heart thudded, threatening to burst from his chest. She still thought of him.

“Simple enough. I can give you that.” Isolde spoke boldly.

“Do not play false with my emotions, old woman. It is not fair.”

“Life is not fair, but I can grant your desire.”

Isolde grasped Lancelot’s arm and with surprising strength, yanked him around to stand between her and Guinevere. Time taunted them both. Young and old. Guinevere’s face whitened to the point that Lancelot feared she might faint. Reaching out, he took her arm. Joy filled him at even that brief contact, and he knew he still loved her regardless of the passage of years.

“How…what…?” Guinevere crossed her fingertips over her chest as her knees buckled beneath her.

Lancelot was quick to gather her close. He reveled in the feeling of her body melding with his and the touch of her hair upon his lips. But he was truly lost when her sweet breath warmed his cheek. He reached to brush her hair from her face.

What he saw stunned him.

Guinevere radiated the beauty of her youth. The beauty he’d fallen in love with, oh, so long ago. His gaze flew to Isolde, who merely smiled at him as she waved and disappeared into a fine mist. Her departure saddened Lancelot. He hadn’t thanked her for saving his life, or for her final act of magic—restoring Guinevere’s youth and giving them a second chance at love.

This time, there were no duties forcing them apart and no Arthur to whom they owed allegiance. A brief spasm of pain for his long ago king troubled him, but Lancelot put it aside to focus on the woman in his arms. He had some explaining to do, lots of explaining. But he had a lifetime to make her understand.

A lifetime to love.