Camelot's Blood (5 page)

Sir Kai the Jester, and Kai the Cruel, she'd heard him called. Kai the Cruel who had nonetheless contrived to warn her of the worst of the gossip slithering through the stream of rumour that watered the high court.

The pages opened the doors, the guards saluted, the doors closed, and there was nothing around them but cool stone. Laurel walked forward into the blessedly dim and silent corridor. She drew in a great breath of cold, fresh air and let it out slowly.

Sir Kai cocked his head towards her. “My lady seems a trifle piqued.”

“And what do you make of it, my lord seneschal?”

Kai shrugged one shoulder. “That depends on what the reason may be. If it be the wine or the company I fear there is little that can be done. It was the best our poor house had to offer.” His face was utterly serious, but his eyes gleamed.

They walked on for a moment, his thumping crutch and shuffling foot making a counterpoint for her rustling skirts and lightly pattering soles. If she had asked any in the glittering hall behind them, they would have said the last person she should confide in was this man. And yet his speech had given her warning about who she should particularly watch in the court. That would seem to mark him as a friend, and she very much needed friends.. “Perhaps,” she ventured, though it took every ounce of nerve she had left. “It is because none here see fit to say more than two words to me about the man I am to marry.”

“Ah.”

He said nothing more for another score of paces. Long enough for Laurel's temper to reassert itself. “What? Does the subject silence even you, Sir Kai?”

Kai's harsh features softened for just a moment. “I fear it does,” he answered quietly. The keen edge was gone from his voice, as if he had just sheathed the knife of his spirits. “You see, my lady, none wish to lie to you about Sir Agravain, but none know the exact truth about him.”

It was too much. At the foot of the stairs, Laurel turned and faced him. “If you seek to soothe me, my lord, riddles are a bad way to begin.”

“It is not in my nature to soothe, as you may have noted. No.” He sighed. “You want the truth?” He turned all the power of his gaze upon her. Laurel met it, matched it, and Sir Kai nodded. “Very well. My nephew, your husband-to-be, is cold, difficult, acerbic, short-tempered and hard-headed. He is possessed of the second sharpest wit in the whole of Camelot, and cares little for whom he wounds with it if they strike him as foolish. This includes his brothers, and I would not expect it to except you. The only reason he is not possessed of the reputation for raillery that some are …” here Sir Kai smiled with bitter modesty, “is that there are few he cares to talk to, or at.” He looked at her, waiting for her face to betray her heart. Laurel held herself impassive, waiting for him to finish. In response to her silence, Sir Kai's voice dropped to so low a whisper, Laurel had to lean close to hear it at all. “He is also a man of deep and closely held feeling. He loves, my lady. Hard and fearfully. He would die for any of his brothers, without question, or for his poor, crippled uncle. He alone made a last stand to help his father who had gone mad. He failed, but he was the one who tried, and though I may be the only one who does, I believe it was done out of love.”

For a long moment, Laurel could not speak. When words did come to her again, they were only grave formalities. She hoped the seneschal understood she meant them. “Thank you, Sir Kai, for your honesty.”

“I owe that much to my nephew, Lady. Let me tell you this, too.” His whisper was the soft sound of that knife sliding once more from its sheath. “What I have never seen Agravain do is forgive.” He stepped back, bowing once again with too-elaborate courtesy. “Now I beg your pardon, my lady. I must resume my duties.”

With that, Sir Kai turned, and left Laurel alone with Meg in the dim and empty corridor. Fear bit into Laurel then, fear and loneliness as she watched the lame knight limp away.

“Well,” breathed Meg. “What are we to make of
that
?”

“We will see, Meg,” Laurel murmured. “We will see.”

Laurel and her ladies continued up the stairs, and reached the shelter of the apartment they had been allotted. While Meg directed Cryda and Elsa to build up the fire and light the candles and braziers, Laurel drifted toward the window. The shutters were closed against the coming night, but she folded them open. She wanted the fresh air against her skin after being so long closed in the great hall. She wanted to think about what she had seen and done, and all the things that had been said to her.

The night was dry outside, but would not stay so. She could smell rain on the wind and the moon, a fattening crescent, was already drawing a veil of clouds across its face as if to make itself decent. The diamond stars shone dim from behind the high haze. There was little movement down in the darkened yard. The court was either at celebration, or asleep.

Then, a shadowed form caught Laurel's eye. It stood still, so it had taken her time to realize it was not a stack of wood, or a stock or stone. It was a man. Laurel looked harder. It was a man holding a white staff, and staring up at her window. At her.

Startled, Laurel looked down on Merlin the sorcerer.

He wore his black robes and cap, as he always did. His beard was as white as his staff. Laurel drew back, but he made no answering move, just stood like a forlorn lover gazing up at his beloved. She could not think what to do. This was so strange, so absurd, her thoughts refused to compass it.

Then, slowly, King Arthur's cunning man turned away, shaking his head. Stooped and slow like the old man he was, Merlin walked across the yard into the thickening darkness.

Laurel swallowed. Her throat had gone completely dry. She lifted her hands to fold the shutters closed against what she had just seen, and she saw her hands were shaking.

“Is something the matter, my lady?” demanded Meg.

“No.” Laurel collected herself. “Nothing.”

She latched the shutters firmly and faced the warm and brightly lit room, and the familiar faces of her women. “Nothing at all.”

Summer's short night settled in over the rough northern lands. In one of the country's few broad valleys waited a camp of armed men. They slept deeply, or kept watch beside their fires, making, mending and talking as soldiers at rest do. This was not a place for war, but an occasion of parley between would-be allies, and the men were easy in their minds and actions. They trusted their ultimate protection to their lady, though in the darkness none could see her. They knew she was with them, and that was enough.

A newcomer to the camp might have been hard pressed to choose which was the lady's shelter. There was no queenly enclosure, no bright flag or special guard, only a simple pavilion of wood and well-tanned leather. The lady, Morgaine, called Morgaine the Goddess and Morgaine the Sleepless, lay on a bed that was nothing more than a pile of furs. A fire burned in a brass brazier, producing a fragrant smoke to hang in the air over her. Its faint orange light shone in her wide open eyes. Morgaine the Sleepless lay still and staring, and she smiled.

After a while, the leathern walls stirred as the pavilion's flap of a door was unlaced. Morgaine neither blinked nor stirred any part of herself. The flap was lifted, and a youth stepped carefully in. He saw Morgaine and how she lay, but it gave him no pause. It was how he expected to find her.

The resemblance between the woman and the youth was strong. He had her black eyes and delicate bones. He'd begun to fill out early, though, and it was easy to see the sturdy man he would soon become. The dark dusting of his first beard coloured his chin. In his own eyes there shone a fierce intelligence, startling in one still so young. He dressed all in good black cloth with a black cloak trimmed in blue hanging over his bony shoulders. It was a quiet and dignified display of wealth, showing a surprising maturity for one who had not yet finished his sixteenth year.

Mordred caught up a plain stool, set it beside the brazier and sat down patiently to wait for his mother's return.

Eventually, Morgaine's eyes blinked, and then closed for a long moment. She stirred, sighing for all the world like one waking from a most restful sleep. She stretched luxuriously, and slowly opened her eyes once more. When she saw her son, her smile widened. Mordred stood and held out one black-gloved hand, helping his mother to sit up.

“And how fares King Lot this night?” Mordred asked as he poured Morgaine a drink of watered wine from the ewer that waited nearby.

Morgaine accepted the goblet from her son and took a sip. “Poorly.” She blew out another sigh and shook her head. “It would be that much easier on the man if he would let himself be gone.”

Mordred studied the toes of his boots for a moment. “You know I do not question your wisdom in this matter,” he said, carefully. “But it would have been simpler if we had killed their messenger. It could have been easily done.”

“That might have gained us Din Eityn, but it would not have weakened Camelot,” she reminded him. “We must do both if we are to gain and hold the Gododdin.”

Mordred met his mother's eyes, a thing few men dared to do. “Then kill Lot before they come. We can meet them from inside their own walls.”

She smiled over the rim of her cup at him. “There is no need. If Lot dies before Camelot arrives, then Gododdin falls into chaos. This will aid us in our advance. If Lot lives, his son can take no real power without hastening his death. Every day the true seat of power is in question drives allies from the Gododdin to our side. The longer uncertainty lasts, the stronger our advantage grows.”

Mordred sat with her in silence for a moment, watching the coals burning in the brazier, considering these words and their wisdom. “I hear what you say, but uncertainty is no friend in war.”

“Which is how a leader should think,” Morgaine nodded her approval. “I must ask you to trust me in this, my son.” She stared at the brazier for a moment. There were no flames left, just hot, orange light and ashy shadows crawling across the surface of the coals. “There are times when the greatest wisdom is knowing not to attempt too much.”

Mordred bowed his head over his cup, acknowledging this, and hiding the trace of impatience in his own eyes. “Which son will it be, do you suppose?”

Morgaine answered with a light laugh, and drank off the rest of her wine. “Oh, it will be the second son, Agravain the Sour.”

“Pity,” said Mordred, draining his own cup and gazing pensively at the pavilion's loose door flap where it fluttered in the night breeze. “I would have liked to meet Gawain on the field.”

Smiling indulgently, Morgaine patted his hand, a gesture she no longer made when there was any other to see it. “You will, my son. Gawain, and after him Arthur. But you must test your mettle against this other first.” She held up a finger, suddenly serious. “Do not mistake him, or underestimate him. His wits are keener than the others, and less clouded by sentiment. He will give good sport, but he will be dangerous the moment you turn your back.”

“You see all this?”

She nodded. “I do.”

Mordred's jaw shifted back and forth and he rolled the cup between his palms for a moment, watching the dregs swirl in the faint light. Then, as if reaching a decision, he set it down with a click on the table. “They will not find us less than ready,” he said as he stood. “With your permission, I will survey the camp and retire.”

“You go to meet with the Dal Riata again tomorrow?”

“One more exchange to seal the bargains.” Now it was Mordred's turn to smile with satisfaction. “Their ties with the men of Eire are still strong. They do not like Arthur and his Britons, and are as eager to deal them a blow as the Pict men are.”

“Well done, Mordred. Well done.” Morgaine stood as well. “Go to your duty and then take your rest, my son. I will watch here awhile yet. The night may yet have news for us.”

Mordred bent down, swiftly kissing his mother's hand. Then he backed away, executing a bow that would have done him credit in any court. Morgaine smiled at her son, grown so tall, as he strode from her pavilion tent to take up his duties as war leader for their people. Then, she turned back to the darkness.

Beyond the pavilion's leathern wall, the owls quarreled in the trees and the ravens croaked sleepily. There was a word on the wind. She could sense it. It told secrets to the trees and the trees murmured to each other, passing the news along. The smell of salt this far inland was rare, but it was there in the drafts that wormed their way through the pavilion's seams. The voices of the birds spoke of the distant sea, telling stories of water and sky, and the winds from the south readied their northern brethren for a new arrival.

“So,” said Morgaine to herself. “She is to come too. Oh, very good. Very good indeed. We have a score between us, Laurel of Cambryn. I look forward to our debt being settled.”

• • •

Laurel Carnbrea dreamed.

She stood on the western-most watch tower of her home at Cambryn. The rain poured over her. It soaked her clothing and her skin. It flowed into her eyes and mouth. She was not cold. She was as warm and comfortable as if she stood in the sun on a spring day.

She was home.

She was home, and she opened her arms to embrace the rain that flowed down like a river from the silvered sky. The world rippled and blurred before her eyes, and she knew she was not alone.

A woman stood with her. The warm and giving rain filled Laurel's eyes so she could not see clearly, but she made out a form of translucent whiteness that rippled and changed as the wind blew. She was the rain, this other woman, she was the wind, and she was herself.

Grandmother. The
bucca-gwidden
, the White Spirit of the Sea.

“Congratulations my granddaughter,” said Laurel's grandmother. Her voice was the drumming of the rain and whisper of the wind. “I wish you all happiness.”

“You do?”

Grandmother inclined her head. “Even so.”

“But I left you.” In the manner of dreams, Laurel now stood with this woman of water beside herself and Lynet in their old chamber, listening to herself proclaim to Lynet she had no trust in their blood. She knew too well how a blood tie to the invisible countries could turn in the blink of an eye from blessing to curse.

“Who belong fully to the land?” Lynet asked. “What do you mean by that, Laurel?”

Did I say all those things?
She could not remember. She knew though that she had meant them.

But Grandmother was smiling. “It is a fair choice, openly made with thought and foresight. Do not hold your doubts too tightly.”

“I did it for Lynet.” The words flowed from Laurel as if the rain that flooded her had lifted them to the surface, all unlooked for. “I did it so she would be safe when I must leave.”

Grandmother cupped her hand. The rain filled up her white palm until it spilled out in thick ribbons of blue, green, brown and silver. “Granddaughter, know this. If you leave the mortal world for reason other than the death which must come to all, it will be because of the choice you make. It is not your blood which compels you to forsake your sunlit country. It is your choice which will compel your blood.” She closed her fist, encasing the water within her ice-white fingers. “Even the highest God leaves human kind a choice. It is this that changes and turns. It is this that robs and does not give back.”

“I do not want to leave.” murmured Laurel.

“And you fear to stay.” Sorrow tinged the flowing music of her voice. “The future is long, child, and you must take care.”

For a moment Laurel felt the individual drops of rain, drumming each against her skin like fingers, each cold, fleeting pressure demanding her attention. “I will remember.”

Grandmother smiled, and the safe, encompassing warmth filled all the world again. “Then go on to your day, Laurel.”

“Wait!” cried Laurel desperately. The shining figure stilled for a moment, poised delicately between the worlds. “Wait. Merlin was here. What is it Merlin wants of me?”

But Grandmother only shook her head. “Choices, my child. Remember. There is always one choice left.”

The wind blew hard and Laurel opened her arms wide again, but the woman was gone. There was only the warm rain, drumming and tapping on stone and filling her up with itself. Then, even that was gone and there was only the darkness of deep, easy sleep.

• • •

It was barely light when Meg woke Laurel on her wedding morning. A grey light squeezed through the window's shutters, bringing the sound and cold scent of the rain drumming outside.

Is that you, Grandmother? Are you sending me some other message?

Laurel barely had time to blink her eyes before serving women flooded the chamber, carrying candles, carrying the great copper bath, carrying the bridal garments that were the gift of Queen Guinevere. Meg put a cup of warm posset into Laurel's hand and then snapped at the girls and women to hurry with the water. Laurel found herself helped from the bed, efficiently stripped by Cryda and Elsa, washed, doused, dried and clad in an undergarment of snowy linen. Her cup was taken and returned without a word whenever Meg thought appropriate, and Laurel drank the cooling possett as she was able.

Outside, the rain drummed down.

The queen had chosen an array of delicately dyed garments for this day. Laurel had never seen such colours in cloth and wondered where they had come from: The underdress was a rose pink so pale it evoked the thought of apple blossoms as it whispered lightly over her head and arms. The rich weight of the translucent gold overdress was increased by the stiff, scratchy scarlet and gold ribbons trimming its trailing sleeves. Her cloak was a pale green agate, a shade very close to her eyes, embroidered with elaborate chains of white blossoms and clasped with another apple blossom of gold at her throat.

Her white hair was woven with strands of silver and pearls, and left to hang down in a heavy maiden's braid for the last time, before the spring green veil was laid over it, pinned with gold pins and secured with a band of gold and peridots worked with the figures of leaping dolphins. A girdle of cloth-of-gold embroidered to match the headband secured her waist, and gold-embroidered slippers shod her feet. All perfect, all magnificent gifts signifying her worth to the High King. Under the weight of so much wealth, Laurel could rouse no feeling in herself beyond cold.

Am I afraid?
she wondered distractedly. Her dreams of the night before were all about choice. But Merlin stood outside her window, watching in silence.

This was her choice. She did it to aid Lynet and Cambryn, but what if she did wrong?

“Now, my lady,” Meg came forward with a golden ring for Laurel's arm. Laurel seized Meg's hand suddenly, unable to do anything but hold it tightly and stare at the one familiar face in all this strangeness.

Meg covered her hand with her own. “All will be right, my lady,” she said softly. “The queen would not give you over to anyone who was less than honourable. Nor would I.”

These words gave Laurel the strength she needed to release Meg and stand still for the remainder of her ministrations. If the women of Camelot noted what passed, they were well-mannered enough to pretend they did not, for which Laurel was grateful. She felt strange in her own skin, as if she did not belong inside herself any longer, but instead was pushing and pulling to get out of this unfamiliar housing.

What is this? What is this? Nothing unknown is happening. This was all that I agreed to. It is already done. Today is only ceremony
.

But it was not already done. Not yet. She could still put a halt to this. Return home, live cloistered the rest of her days, or walk into the sea's embrace if she chose. She could still choose not do this. Not give herself to a stranger among strangers. There was always one choice left.

A knock sounded through the door, and Laurel jumped half out of her straining skin. Meg shooed Cryda off to answer it while she brushed down the folds of the clothing Laurel had just unsettled. Laurel was certain Meg meant the motion to be soothing, but it could not reach her through the haze of embarrassment that seemed to have descended.