For Camelot's Honor (21 page)

“And what then?”

“That will depend on how well you play your part.”

He did not like being called an actor in her mummery, she saw that plain enough, and it sharpened her mind against her. “You are a bold woman, Morgaine.”

“I am as I must be.” That much at least was unvarnished truth.

“As are we all,” answered Gwiffert, and for the barest instant, Morgaine heard genuine sympathy in him.

She looked him full in the face. Heed me Gwiffert. Hear all I say. “You would do well to kill them and quickly, Little King. There are four lives here that they may change, and do they change them and do they save them, all that you have woven will unravel.”

He heard, and he thought, and while he kept his face careful and closed, he had already dismissed her words. “Leave this matter to me. They may reach this place, but they will go no further.”

Ah, well. None can say I did not behave as I ought toward my host.
Morgaine curtsied toward him. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I knew I would find faith with you.”

Gwiffert bowed, and Morgaine saw the gleam in his eye as he did so. Why not? He believed he had her gratitude now, and in his heart he was surely already dreaming of how he would spend that coin. So, she only smiled, and let the Little King dream.

Geraint woke with the sunrise, dishevelled and content. The air against his skin was cold with morning, and heavy with dew and the promise of rain. Their rude awning had begun to sag above them and it brushed Geraint's head as he sat up. Beside him, Elen slept, curled in on herself, her arms crossed protectively over her breasts. She was scarred there. He had kissed that scar afterwards, and she had told him how it had come to be, and he held her while she cried.

In sleep, her face regained its nobility and was without air of a hunted she-wolf that overcame her in waking hours. In sleep, at least, she was as she should be.

God be my witness. She will be free and we will stand before my uncle and all the world as man and wife.

Man and wife. Geraint drew up his knees and rested his forearms on them, looking out at the brightening world. Dew drenched cobwebs covered the hill like a blanket of mist. Flowers lifted their heads here and there, opening themselves cautiously to the leaden sky.

What was this thing he had done? This vow he had sworn? His love was true, he had no doubt, and he would stand by her. But what would they face when he returned to court?

What of my uncle, Arthur? What of Agravain and Heaven help us, Uncle Kai? Will even Gawain understand? Will she be able to stand firm when they counsel me to set her aside?
He smiled.
Yes. That much I think will happen.

What of the rest? What of all I have not said?
He shook his head.
Her enemies are my enemies. She knows that. It will be enough.

Will it? Be sure of that, Geraint.

Elen stirred and stretched. She opened her forest brown eyes, looking up to him. For a moment, Geraint's heart beat hard. What would she see? Did she regret the choice she made? Did her dreams speak to her of evil done?

But no, she smiled at him, and her smile lit the world.

“Good morning, my husband.”

Husband.
The word swelled Geraint's heart with pride. “Good morning, my wife.” He brushed his fingertips down the length of her arm where it lay atop the blankets, taking delight in the smoothness of her skin. “You are well?”
Do you regret what you have done?

Her smile did not falter. “I am well.” She sat up, brushed her dark hair back from her face and made as if to pull the blanket aside, but she paused. “Husband?”

Worry touched Geraint. “Yes?”

Elen was looking at the edge of the blanket he'd spread beneath them warily. “There is … another thing you should know.”

He quirked his eyebrows up. There was a hint in her voice seemed to say she was teasing, but he could not be sure.

Elen gathered the upper blanket closer, sheltering her scar, or hiding it. “It is the custom among my people that the wife is permitted to ask for a gift from her husband before she leaves their bed on the first morning. If she does so, whatever it is, he must grant it.”

“Very well,” Geraint said solemnly, but he suddenly felt keenly aware of his own nakedness. Not just in the matter of clothing, but of possession, of friend, of sign of rank and title and property. He had only himself now. He waited. Elen licked her lips, looking at the edge of the blanket, listening to some argument within herself. This was real then, not just some tease on the part of a new wife.

The whole of her body had tensed. “If anyone steals Calonnau from me … you will kill her.”

Geraint froze, stunned. A dozen possibilities had flitted through his imagination, but this … “Will that kill you?” he asked.

“I believe it will, yes.” Elen replied softly.

“You ask this of me?”

She did. She faced him squarely and spoke without flinching. “I cannot again be under the command of an enemy. I cannot again be made to work against my home … or you. This is what I ask, Husband.”

No!
With an effort, Geraint quieted the refusal that threatened to burst from him.
I do understand. It is only selfish desire that makes me wish to refuse. But oh, Elen, it is a cold and bitter thing you ask.

These thoughts too, Geraint shut away. He left off poring over his own desire and looked instead into Elen's eyes. “I promise before God and Jesus Christ and Mary who is his mother, that if I must, I will do as you ask.”

“I would that I never had to speak so to you, Husband.”

“I know,” he answered simply. What more was there to be said?

She scrambled out from under the blanket and reclaimed her battered and rumpled dress. Clothed once more, she went out to the fire, poking about in the ashes with a gnarled stick to see if any coals remained. Geraint let her go.

It will not come to it,
he tried to assure himself.
God is kind. It will not be so.

God was kind, but Morgaine was cruel, and the wrongs done blood to blood were very strong.

Repeating quickly the sin of doubt, Geraint pulled his tunic and breeches on and and he too left their shabby wedding bed.

There was little enough with which to break their fast. They ate bread and drank the small beer. Gooseberries grew at the edge of the woods. Elen had gathered some to help eke out the meagre meal while Geraint led the horses to the stream for a drink. The mundane task of caring for the beasts helped settle his spirits. The invisible world was always near. He and his brothers had more cause to know that than most. There was nothing to be done but face it. Gawain had done so, and his bride was safe at Camelot, waiting to be delivered of their first child, and Gawain had seen at least as much as Geraint.

Hasn't he?

It is no accident that you are the one who inherited your mother's eyes,
Merlin had said.
From whence came the eyes that see what you see?
the elven lord had asked.

The past closed over him so suddenly, Geraint felt as if he would drown. He was standing again in the wide stone hall, in the dark, his bare feet twitching against the frigid stones. He saw his father reeling from his chamber.

He saw his mother follow. His mother who was years dead, and saw how she laughed soundlessly at his father, who fell onto his knees, grovelling before her.

And how that vision turned to look at him, and he saw that in his mother's eyes had turned black.

Geraint shook himself hard. Now was not the time for such memories. Now he must focus on the way before him. There would be a lifetime and more for the dark past.

Elen insisted she be allowed to check Geraint's wounds. The cut he took on his arm seemed to be healing cleanly and the bruises had already begun to fade. The same could not be said of her hurt. Beneath the binding, the tears on her wrist remained fresh and open, just as they had been the day before.

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But it is nothing I cannot bear.”

Neither of them spoke the thought that what if, as she was, she could not heal?

Merlin will solve this riddle. I will see her safe to Camelot and all will be set to right.

But the road was long between here and there, and where it ran … Geraint frowned at the distant hills.

“Even Gareth would have something to say to me about my choice of priorities,” he sighed. “Elen, do you know where we are?”

Elen smoothed her sleeve over her re-bandaged wrist and looked north. The mountains that had been misty blue yesterday were today grey with low clouds and the threat of rain. She looked south, where the land was more gentle and green.

“I think Pont Cymryd is far on the other side of those.” She pointed toward a trio of green mountains that clustered together as if gossiping. “You can see them in the distance when you stand on the bridge. They are the highest of the Black Mountains. More than that, I cannot say.”

Geraint puffed out his cheeks, considering their options. There were, in truth not many.

“North and west then,” he said.

She cocked her head. “To seek a thing neither of us knows anything about, we should go to a place neither of us knows?”

He nodded. “If we follow the stream down the valley …” He pointed to the sliver thread meandering through the valley's dark green fabric. “It may be we come to folk who have heard of this Little King.”

Elen folded her arms, her lips pursing in approval. “It is as sound a plan as any.”

Geraint felt his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Faint praise from my wife.” Elen bowed her head in such a show of humble apology, he could not help but laugh.

While Geraint saddled and harnessed their horses, Elen packed up their meagre camp. Her hands seemed clumsy this morning, and she dropped the bowls and spoons more than once. When she saw Geraint's questioning glance, she turned away, her unbound hair falling across her face, hiding her from him.

“It is Calonnau,” she said. “She knows we are leaving. She did not want to be out in the gloom when hunting will be poor.”

For a moment, Geraint had allowed himself to forget the hawk. She had sat still and invisible in her tree since he had woken. Elen, however, could not forget her for even a moment.

“She will obey,” said Geraint. “She will accustom herself to these things. You are her mistress.”

“No, I'm not,” answered Elen, and her voice was very small. “Her keeper, perhaps, or her fellow prisoner, but I do not master her. If anything …” she would not finish the thought. She only bowed her head again so he could not see her face and continued to pack the saddlebags.

But Geraint found he could not let it go at that. “Does this … way of being pain you?”

“No. It frightens me.” Elen looked over her shoulder toward the wood. What did she see there? “We talk of noble beasts. What I feel in the heart she carries for me … there is no nobility. There is no thought. There is hunger and fear and anger. She is content when fed, and when she kills … it is all mindless. Being close to this … I fear that I will never lose the taint of it, even if there is a way to break this curse.” She rubbed her arms and hands, trying to wring warmth from them. Her flesh had been cool beneath his hands the night before, growing warm only slowly. He had not thought before how very cold she must be.

“There will be a way. Merlin will know it if no other man does.”

“I pray you may be right.” There was no faith in her voice. She pulled the laces on the saddlebag tight and knotted them, and would say nothing more.

She insisted he take the grey horse they between them dubbed “Donatus,” although he offered it to her. She was no horsewoman, she said, and the Lady had given the beast to him. She let him tie the reins of the small brown to his saddle and was content to be led as they made their way down the sharp slope toward the northern valley. He could not help but eye her seat, and agree, she was clearly unused to horses. The people of her country kept few ponies, using the rivers or their own feet to make their way through the mountains. Perhaps, when they returned to Camelot, the queen would agree to tutor for her. The thought of riding with her to the hounds and on May Day made him smile.

The weather did not threaten for long, but fulfilled its promise. By the time they reached the valley floor, a cold, misting rain began, the sort that seemed to rise up from the ground as much as it fell from the sky. The grassy hillside quickly turned slick, requiring Geraint to get off his horse and lead both animals to help them keep their feet. The broad valley held no trace of human house and the rain had silenced even the birds. To keep their northward course, they had to climb the next hill, and descend again. The birds had all gone silent and the animals stayed in their small shelters, turning the day eerily silent. No cloak was thick enough to keep the rain out and soon they and the horses were all soaked and shivering. Calonnau could not fly in this to follow them, so Elen carried the hawk on her gauntlet. The bird hunched miserably in on itself. Elen was beginning to pale with the cold and she bit her lips constantly. They would have to find shelter and fire soon.

This new valley was sharp and narrow. The hills rose like earthworks on either side. The horses would not be able to manage them. So, Geraint set them to following the chill, pebbly stream that snaked through the grass and reeds. The brown fish that swam beneath its waters had pressed themselves against the bottom, trying to escape the falling rain. The ground was level, so Elen and Geraint could ride again, but the horses plodded so listlessly, walking might have been faster.

Geraint began to eye the stones scattered here and there, wondering if any were large enough to put their backs against for some slight shelter. Then, he caught a faint scent on the wind. Elen caught it too. She lifted her head, equal measures of fear and hope kindling in her.

Smoke. There were hearthfires burning nearby.

“I'll ride ahead.” Geraint told her. She slipped the knot that tied her horse to his. He urged Donatus into a canter, kicking up clods of mud with every step.

At last the rain began to slacken. The wind picked up, sending the grey clouds rolling across the sky. It also blew straight through their sodden clothes. Hills and stream bent, forcing the valley around a corner, but then the way broadened. The stream spread out to become a small, reed-choked lake. Through the sullen mists, Geraint saw the shape of a small crofting — half a dozen houses crowded between forest's edge and new cleared field. No more half the acres were green with grain, the others still sprouted stones and burnt stumps.

In the middle of this detritus, an old dame and her man struggled with a large stone. They had tied it with ropes and while the old man pulled, the dame tried to slip a sapling pole underneath it to lever it out of its bed. They were alone in their labors, and Geraint guessed that whatever fellows they had in this place had sensibly taken shelter. He found himself shaking his head at the fact that these two oldsters were left to this heavy work on their own.

Elen caught up with him, reining her horse to stand beside his. She saw the aged pair and the distant houses. There was hunger in her face for that shelter, but she nodded her answer to his unspoken question.