Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles) (31 page)

He knew well enough — it couldn't. He had no political clout in the south other than the ear of the Dux Bellorum and no property other than his small villa. Strangely enough, here in the north he had more status. Yes, he and his brothers had been passed by for the kingship, but they were still part of the kinship group from which future kings would be chosen. With this marriage, Gawain had made it possible for his descendants to become king where he had not — not only here in Elmet but among the Gododdin as well.

Ragnell squeezed his elbow, bringing him back to the present. Pabius spoke a final blessing, followed by "Amen," which the smattering of guests echoed. Then Pabius switched to the British tongue. "Gawain and Ragnell, you exchanged vows in writing this afternoon in the marriage contract you drew up together and signed. You now have the formal blessing of the church as well. Would you care to repeat your vows in front of those gathered here today?"

Ragnell nodded and threw back her veil defiantly. He smiled at the stubborn tilt of her chin as she faced him and took his hands; if she only knew how little the scars covering the left half of her face bothered him now, how used to them he had become in the few weeks he had known her.

"I, Ragnell, take you, Gawain, as my spouse, to share hold and house, bed and board, and face the future together from this day forward."

He liked her simple words; he would take the same as his own. "I, Gawain, take you, Ragnell, as my spouse, to share hold and house, bed and board, and face the future together from this day forward."

Finally she smiled, and in his mind's eye her beauty glowed once again across her whole face. He enfolded her delicate neck in his warrior's paws and leaned over to kiss her.

He was married. How very strange.

The wedding guests came forward to congratulate them, shaking their hands and kissing their cheeks and thumping Gawain on the back.

"Congratulations, brother!" Gareth said, his grin wide and his happiness obviously sincere. "And Ragnell! Welcome to the family." He gave her the kiss of peace on both cheeks, apparently not the least bit disturbed by the eroded landscape of one half of her face. "I know many would not agree with me, but
I'm
sure Gawain will be a good husband to you."

"Gareth!"

But Ragnell laughed merrily at Gareth's teasing, and Gawain could not long be offended at the ribbing.

Gaheris gripped his hand. "Congratulations, Gawain."

"Thank you."

His brother turned to his bride, taking her hand and placing a formal kiss just below the wrist. "Congratulations, Ragnell. I wish you and my brother joy of each other."

Gawain stared after Gaheris as they all filed out of the church to the nearby inn for a modest wedding "feast" — consisting of what the villagers could throw together from their meager stores. That was an odd well-wishing, even from Gaheris.

"He is bitter," Ragnell murmured, as if she had read his thoughts. Which she probably had.

"Yes," Gawain agreed. "He was married once, for less than a handful of years, but he repudiated his wife when he found her in bed with another man."

She squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry."

"It's hardly your fault."

"I'm sorry for
him
. I am sorry that he is not brave enough to find happiness."

Gawain blinked; Gaheris was not a man many people felt sorry for, with his brash confidence and his obvious qualities as a leader — Gareth was the one usually pitied, the one regarded as weak. But seeing his brothers through Ragnell's eyes, he realized that wasn't the case. Gaheris's strength often amounted to denial of pain, while Gareth's "weakness" demonstrated a resilience and emotional strength Gawain knew he himself did not possess. He and Gaheris had both despaired for Gareth's marriage when they first heard his intended's sharp tongue.

Now Gareth, wed when he was barely twenty, had been married for a dozen years and appeared one of the happiest men in Britain, with a slew of children who left him no time to brood like their middle brother was wont to do. Marrying so young, he never had the chance to sample the wares the length and breadth of Britain as Gawain had — since it was quite clear to anyone who knew her that Lyonors would never put up with infidelity, not even an innocent incident with a whore or a camp follower. "What does a man have a hand for?" Lyonors would say. But Gareth had never given the impression that he missed not having acquired more experience, strangely happy with his sharp-tongued wife. And Gawain had to admit, the charms of camp followers and whores left something to be desired, while Lyonors was as beautiful as they came.

Gawain squeezed Ragnell's hand. "Thank you for showing me that about my brothers."

Rather than denying it, she just smiled.

They walked from the church to the nearby inn without incident. It appeared she was right that Bertilak would not miss her until evening. Would he come searching for her at night or wait until day?

"Fear not, Gawain," Ragnell murmured next to him. His wife. "I think I can keep him and his men in the hill-fort from searching for me until we are ready."

The fare spread out on the table at the inn was modest, consisting mostly of pies of winter vegetables, onions, and chicken, but Gawain was impressed nonetheless: these people had little, but they had given much for Ragnell's wedding feast.

The meal went by in a blur, a dream of strangeness, unfamiliar but friendly faces speaking in the accents of his childhood, pressing his hand, gratitude and even joy in their expressions. Just as dusk was falling — late afternoon in these parts this time of year — the wedding party walked Gawain and Ragnell to the old Roman fort, where they would spend their wedding night, such as it was. Their modest band of warriors, trained and untrained, would camp at the entrances to the garrison and outside the principia.

It was almost dark when they reached what was left of the Roman fort — where Gawain had first entered Arthur's service as standard-bearer and warrior-in-training. Abandoned nearly a decade before, when Ragnell's father had taken over and chosen the hill-fort over the garrison, the former fortress was crumbling — and the authority of Britain with it. It occurred to Gawain that they were all seeking legitimization these days.

He wandered the perimeter, inspecting the defenses. In places, walls were completely dismantled, the villagers using the deserted garrison as a convenient quarry for raw materials when building a new house or adding to an old. But even such sacking had not made it useless yet; at least half the buildings still had roofs, including the former principia where Arthur had lived with Gwenhwyfar and their son Llacheu.

Gawain held the torch high and looked around the crumbling former glory of their lodgings. "I would fain have offered you something better for your wedding night."

Ragnell untied the bedroll she carried and shook it out. "What, better than one of the greatest champions of Arthur, Dux Bellorum of all Britain?"

He laughed and stuck the torch in a sconce in the wall. Turning, he strode back to her and took her up in his arms. "Ragnell, thank you. You are wonderful."

She placed her right hand against his left cheek, shaking her head, and he could swear he saw tears shimmering in her eyes. "No, Gawain, it is you who are wonderful. Look at me."

He smiled. "Yes?"

"Don't you see how ugly I am?"

"Ugly? No." He kissed her perfect lips. "What I see is remnants of great beauty, and a spirit even greater."

She looked away. "Your last lover is reputed to be one of the most beautiful women in Britain, and still you say that?"

He wondered at her daring to mention Yseult, on their wedding night of all times. "Yes. What does her beauty have to do with yours?"

She looked back at him again, her smile one-sided, much like her beauty. "Tell me, do you always have the right answer?"

"I sincerely doubt it. I would be as happy as Gareth else."

She slung her arms around his neck. "I swear on what is left to me that I hold dear, I will do my best to make you so."

He took her face in both hands. "Thank you."

Hunger flared between them, and within moments they were both naked. Ragnell knelt on the bedroll on all fours, the hairs around her cunt glistening with her excitement, beckoning him, as did the sweet, soft moans that filled the reverberating emptiness of the former principia. And then he was taking her hips in both hands and spreading her thighs with one knee.

He pulled her ass towards his cock and slid in with a gasp. Sweet, so sweet. His cock surrounded by tight, slippery heat, his hands gripping hipbones, his fingers digging into smooth skin, the curve of her back and her rump beneath him, a perfect shape. And he was driving in, forgetting everything — or if not everything, at least some things, for a while.

* * * *

The day came slowly, the sun barely fighting its way through clouds and fog and dark skies pregnant with cold winter rain. Shadows were odd, non-existent and omnipresent, shifting and disappearing and taking over. Gawain and his men and the volunteers from the village had taken up strategic positions scattered throughout the ruins, on the lookout for an enemy they were not even sure would come in search for them here.

But Ragnell had assured him the green warrior would follow her call. There was something very unreal to waiting in the crumbling Roman fort that had once been his home for an enemy who was himself a mystery, with his blank standard and his refusal to name sept or tribe or land.

And then he heard it, the call of a kestrel from the south, the quick "kee kee kee kee kee."

There would be fighting this day. He could only hope that with the help of the ruins and Ragnell's magic they would be strong enough.

The fog was growing thicker. And then a cry came echoing through the stone walls of the Roman garrison and was cut off short — hopefully one of Bertilak's men. Gawain had no way of knowing. Since he and his men were outnumbered, the only advantage they had was in stealth, in taking out individual warriors from places of concealment, in doorways or behind half-ruined walls. If they tried to face their enemy in open combat, they would never have a chance. Unfortunately, with the fog so thick, their enemy was nearly as concealed as they.

Gawain strained to hear more of what was going on, but it was as if his hearing was as full of fog as his vision, everything muffled in the cloak of mist drifting between the ruins. Then he heard an eerie voice, as if it were speaking into his mind.
Find backup and make your way towards the former principia. The green warrior and his men are headed in that direction.

The voice was Ragnell's. Did he trust the magic? He didn't know. But he did trust Ragnell, in particular her hatred of Bertilak, whom she would not even call by name.

He crept along the wall in search of Donal and Gareth. Gawain found himself relieved that Gaheris and his skepticism were on the other side of the garrison — he would be much harder to persuade with the argument of magical voices.

"Gareth!" he whispered when he was close enough.

Gareth turned. "What is it?"

"We must make our way to the principia," Gawain murmured under his breath. "Bertilak is headed that way."

Gareth did not even question from whence he had his information, he simply nodded shortly and followed, motioning Donal to do the same.

Together they crept towards the center of the garrison. Ragnell continued to talk into his mind, warning him whenever one of the enemy scouts drew near. Nonetheless, the walk through the crumbling and dismantled walls was filled with ghosts stranger than the fog that whispered among the ruins, shifting shadows in the midst of a place Gawain had once called home.

There, at the corner of the former baths, a fragment of memory took shape, Arthur twenty years younger, his blond-brown hair free of gray but his eyes just as intense, raising his sword to attack.

Gawain stopped in his tracks. Was he going mad?

No, Gawain, it is not as you think. It is one of the enemy! They are channeling some magic of illusion to confuse you, the magic I mentioned before. You must attack!

"We must dispatch him," Gawain said, facing the image of young Arthur.

"Who?" Donal said.

"I see no one," Gareth echoed.

And then Gawain's sword met that of the memory slipping between him and his enemy. At the sound of clashing blades, the other two warriors were beside him, despite being blind to their opponent. But even with that disadvantage, they soon left the man bleeding his life out at their feet.

The sound of battle brought other warriors running — in likenesses of Cai, Bedwyr and clanking mist.

"Do you see any of them this time?" Gawain called out.

"I see one who looks like you as a boy," Gareth said.

"Attack him!"

Donal sliced into what looked to Gawain like a patch of shifting fog in human shape, while he himself fought off the young Bedwyr. He couldn't trust what he saw — or what he remembered either, for that matter.

If it continued to go this way, they would have no chance against combined illusion and greater numbers. If only there were something Ragnell could do.

I am trying. But there is powerful magic at work here.