Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (29 page)

Gods help him, he needed no more encouragement. He kissed her perfect lips. "I will do my best."

He slipped along the stone wall, one arm around Ragnell, one hand seeking for the door. Once he found the handle, he yanked it down, pushed the wooden door open with his hip, and dragged her back into the hut with him. By the scent, it was filled with grain.

Before he could kick it closed behind them, she laughed out loud.

"Shush, woman!" Gawain couldn't help admonishing.

She kissed his lips. "No one will hear."

"You
are
of the Old Race. What other spells have you cast?"

"None putting you under my power, I swear. Otherwise you would not be here with me, now."

Gawain was not sure if he believed it, but he was beyond caring. He pulled his tunic over his head and threw it on the mound of grain behind them — wheat, barley, rye, he knew not what.

"Good, then we can enjoy ourselves without fear of interruption," he said, pushing her down into a bed of what might be his bread on the morrow.

Ragnell let out a choked sigh.

* * * *

Something was tickling his nose. Gawain turned on his back and rubbed the offending orifice, wondering where he was. He lay cold and naked on top of his tunic, and the room smelled vaguely nutty. He sat up. The grain storage hut — and Ragnell was gone. She had worn him out so much that he hadn't even noticed her leave.

Gawain laughed out loud. But in the next moment, he was scrambling up and pulling his tunic over his head. Milky winter sunlight shone in through the cracks in the stones and between the wall and the thatched roof — he had to make it back to his companions without being noticed.

Luckily there was no one around when he snuck out of the grain shed. He began to walk slowly in the direction of the house he shared with the other "monks," his head lowered and his hands clasped in front of him. How could he lust for a woman whose face was so ruined — and he a great connoisseur of female beauty? His reaction to Ragnell went far beyond anything he would have expected for an act of comfort.

On the other hand, it had been dark enough in the grain shed. And while her face might be ravaged, her form certainly was not.

"Gaw," his brother Gaheris hissed in his ear. "Where have you been?"

Gawain faced Gaheris. "Out for a morning walk, brother. Why?"

"We are about to go to the village to speak with some of the local merchants and farmers about the wedding feast. Will you join us?"

He dipped his head. "Gladly."

Unfortunately, once they were away from the walls of the hill-fort, Gaheris felt the need to remind him of all the things he was doing to endanger their mission, and couldn't he keep his cock to himself for once?

Gawain just smiled.

* * * *

He listened for her that night, but she didn't come.

Gawain lay awake for a long time, wondering what it meant. He wasn't a man given much to reflection, but he liked to think he wasn't totally ignorant of his own motives. This time, however, he truly did not understand himself. It was logical enough if she did not visit him two nights running — she had said all she wanted from him was to help her forget, and besides, magic or no magic, it was risky for her to slip out of the main hall at night. He knew all that, and still he stared at the thatched roof of the stone hut where answers were hard to find.

He had enjoyed himself with Ragnell. Usually that was enough for him. Not with Yseult, of course, but Yseult he had wanted to marry. Ragnell he barely knew.

But she was plucky and spirited, putting a brave face on tragedy in the same way Yseult would — only with more humor. Yes, her face was ruined, but in profile the beauty she had once possessed was almost unmarred. Perhaps on some level it was even the damage to her beauty that drew him, as unusual as it was.

He had a memory of the scent of dried barley, and his cock stiffened.

He smiled to himself and turned over, wondering how long barley would have that effect on him.

Chapter 15

For he was clad all in green, with a straight coat, and a mantle above; all decked and lined with fur was the cloth and the hood that was thrown back from his locks and lay on his shoulders. Hose had he of the same green, and spurs of bright gold with silken fastenings richly worked; and all his vesture was verily green.

"Sir Gawain and the Green Knight" (Anonymous)

Christmas had come and gone, the New Year according to the Christian calendar was approaching, and, of course, there was still no sign of Ragnell's dead cousin — or the reinforcements Gawain had sent for. Even a rider alone without pack animals would need at least five days to Caer Leon in winter, and probably more if he wasn't able to exchange horses on the way. Reinforcements would need even longer.

Unfortunately, Bertilak was becoming impatient. "That cousin of yours is certainly taking her time," he had complained the night before, after they had finished their evening meal.

Ragnell bowed her head in seeming deference to his words. "Christmas is barely past, my lord, and it is a long journey from Glevum to Caer Camulodon."

"Well, if you are as important to her as she is to you, she had best make haste or she will miss our wedding."

"May I humbly point out that travel is not easy this time of year, my lord?" Pabius said.

"You may, but it does not change the fact that I am growing tired of your interference." At that, Bertilak rose and strode out of the dining hall.

Gawain gazed after him, his mind racing. Did Bertilak suspect something? Or was he merely growing impatient to have the legal seal of possession on what he had already taken by force? If he were suspicious, he might just murder them all in their sleep.

Perhaps it was time to consider further precautions. "We should take up quarters in the village," Gawain said that night in the house they shared.

Gaheris nodded. "We can return to 'discuss final arrangements' once we receive word that reinforcements have arrived."

"But what will we say to Bertilak?" Pabius asked.

"Tell him we no longer wish to tax his hospitality," Gawain said. "It will look like a reaction to his outburst tonight —"

"Which it is," Gareth threw in.

"And he should find it easy enough to believe you," Gawain continued, ignoring his youngest brother.

"Yes, I think that would work," Pabius said. "Unless he insists I carry out the marriage tomorrow."

* * * *

Gawain was in the high-walled churchyard with an assortment of farmers, carpenters and blacksmiths, practicing fighting techniques. The men all had some experience with a sword, trained by their own fathers to defend property and family in case of an emergency, but they relied more on brute strength than anything resembling strategy or the experienced assessment of an opponent. And many of the swords and daggers the men had proudly brought to the church were old and bent, rusted and blunt. December in northern Britain did not offer the best conditions for weapons practice either, with sunlight a fleeting whim of the weather gods whose moods Gawain remembered from his childhood — gray, wet, dismal, depressing. In this part of the world at this time of the year, rain, sleet, and snow were at least as common as dry weather.

The new year was almost upon them and there was still no word of reinforcements. At least today was one of the few dry days.

"Every warrior has preferences and weaknesses — and often they go hand in hand," Gawain said, pacing in front of the volunteers and waving his sword in the air in a snake-like pattern, the blade encased in a leather guard for safety. The long monk's tunic was an irritation, whipping around his ankles, a hindrance he could easily trip over in the heat of battle. Perhaps long gowns were the real reason most women never became warriors. "One of the first things you should learn is to concentrate your attack on the opposite side from your opponent's sword arm."

"But that is where he will be wearing his shield," a promising young farmer protested.

Gawain nodded. "Yes. But for that reason your opponent will probably also judge himself safer on that side. And he cannot attack you with his shield."

"Unless he tries to ram me in the head with it."

"If he does that, he has left himself wide open, and you have an excellent opportunity to land a killing blow."

The young man laughed and Gawain smiled. Perhaps this one had potential to become a warrior in Arthur's army — it could hardly be an easy life eking a living from the land here, especially after the recent hard winters.

Gawain scooped up a sword and tossed it to the dark-haired farmer, who caught it easily. "What was your name again?"

"Donal, Lord Gawain."

"I am left-handed, as you see. How would you attack me?"

Donal sprang to the right, sure-footed, the sword gripped in both hands. "But you do not have a shield?"

"We will practice that as well, but for now, I have another circumstance for you to deal with." He tossed his own sword from his left hand to his right and lunged. "I may be left-handed, but I forced myself to learn how to fight right-handed as well."

The young farmer dodged the surprise attack with a laugh, following through with a lunge of his own, more a sign of good instinct than good battle skills. Gawain parried the attack easily and stopped, facing Donal with swords crossed. "A good move," he said, leaving out the technical weaknesses of the thrust. Criticism came later, when a warrior was confident enough in his abilities to truly understand how to improve his fighting skills.

Donal lowered his sword. "Thank you. It is not every day a farmer has the honor of fighting a warrior of the stature of King Arthur's nephew Gawain."

Gawain was surprised at how the young man referred to Arthur as "King." Perhaps there was little difference for these people between the titles of King and Dux. Besides, Britain had no High King since the disappearance of Ambrosius Aurelianus in Gaul after the battle of Avallon.

"Brother Gaw?"

Gawain turned, an automatic smile coming to his lips at the sound of that voice. Ragnell had entered the churchyard with Pabius, a short, semi-transparent veil covering the top half of her face.

"Here you can use my real name," he said.

She glanced nervously around, her lips pressed thin, and Gawain realized that she was too worried to be thinking straight. "Ah, yes, of course," she said. "May we speak alone for a moment?"

Gawain looked over her head at Pabius. "Is Gaheris or Gareth nearby?"

The priest nodded. "I will fetch them."

"Thank you." He returned his attention to Ragnell. "We need someone else to instruct these eager new warriors, but then I will be at your service, Lady."

When Gaheris arrived, he gave Gawain one of those looks that said
he had better not be making another stupid mistake
. Then Pabius led them to a modest chamber in the church, tiny, gray, cold, and smelling faintly of mold.

Ragnell threw back her veil and began to pace. "Last night, Bertilak told me he was no longer willing to wait for 'my cousin' to arrive. He intends for us to wed by the end of the week."

They had all seen it coming, but nonetheless Gawain felt it like a blow, shuddering all through his body. "There was nothing you could do or say to dissuade him?"

"Nothing."

Gawain sat down on one of the simple chairs in the small room, feeling a little like he had when Yseult told him
she
was to wed. But Bertilak had been Ragnell's "betrothed" ever since he had met her. Besides, Gawain should be considering strategies, not mourning the loss of yet another bed companion.

Ragnell pulled a stool up next to him and sat down as well. "You do not have enough men to retake the hill-fort at this time, do you?"

"No," he said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. "If we had, we would have done it weeks ago."

She lowered her head. "I'm sorry. But if you are willing to take the risk for me, I might be able to help you defeat the green warrior."

There was no fire in the room, and the sweat from weapons practice was growing cold against his skin. He shivered. "How would you do that?"

She looked at him, giving him the full force of her ravaged face, in daylight, up close. "I think you know."

He held her gaze without flinching. "You have some of the powers of the Old Race."

"Which you are familiar with."

"Which I am familiar with. But I still do not know how you think you could help us take back the hill-fort of Caer Camulodon. Taking a fortress is not quite the same thing as slipping away from your guards with some tricks of illusion — as I assume you did today."

Ragnell threw back her head and laughed out loud. "Gawain, I don't think you can possibly know how refreshing your treatment of me is."

"How so?"

She took his hands, and in his mind's eye the devastation of her face faded once more, giving him a glimpse of the ripe beauty she could have been without the accident. "You are staring straight into my ugliness, which fills most people who first meet me with the need to treat me at best with sympathy and at worst with aversion. But you — not only are you willing to fuck me, you are willing to criticize me to my ravaged face. How could she have possibly given you up?"