In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) (20 page)

For now it was the Saxons who would be trapped. If the hall had held out. If the inner gates had stayed shut. If Gawain had been able to hold the men together …

If Gawain was still alive.

The fresh cascade broke against Pen Marhas. Some turned to follow the now fleeing Saxons, riding them down easily. Men on horseback took up positions outside the earthworks, guarding the way out. Others dismounted, leaving their horses in the charge of their fellows and went into the town on foot to deal with what they found there. The clash of steel, shouts of command and shouts of fear overpowered the sounds of the fire and looting.

“Should we go down?” murmured a woman behind her. “Can we go home?”

“Nay, wait,” answered an old man. “There’s work for the knights awhile yet.”

The sun climbed up over the hills. Every so often, a cluster of men ran out from the gates, to be taken up or cut down by the sentries. Risa’s hands itched for her bow. Her feet wanted to run down, to search the fires and the ashes for Gawain. At the same time, she wanted nothing more than to sink into sleep. Her eyes seemed to have forgotten how to blink. The whole of her body ached with exhaustion, cold and long waiting.

The day warmed. It seemed it had been a long time since any raiders had tried to break free of the town. The fires grew old, sinking back into themselves, their rage softening to sighs. Risa noticed something odd. She had not seen one raven the whole long morning. Not a single bird circled the battlefield.

A lone man emerged from the encircling walls. One of the sentries approached him. They stood together for a time, gesturing in various directions. Then, the man mounted one of the waiting horses, and turned its head toward the hills. Toward them.

Risa could not have held back those with her, even if she had wanted to. They ran past her, leaving her to stagger in their wake. Within moments they surrounded the rider, a lean, weather-beaten man with a scar on his forehead and ancient blue tattoos on his cheeks, shouting a hundred questions. The rider held up both hands.

“Pen Marhas is saved!” he called out. “By grace of God, your enemies are fled and the king’s men hold your streets!”

This was the answer to all questions, and it raised a cheer from every throat, including Risa’s.

“Which of you is the lady Risa?” he asked.

Risa pushed her way to the front of the crowd. “I am she!”

The rider bowed in his saddle. “My Lord Bannain bids you and your charges return to Pen Marhas.”

My Lord Bannain. Risa’s heart sank.

“What of my Lord Gawain?” she blurted out.

“I have not seen him,” said the messenger. “Come, my lady. Come home, all. Every hand is needed.”

I have not seen him
. That was all that he had said. It meant nothing. Gawain was one man, even if he had been at the hall, it must be crowded with every survivor from the town. He might not even be there. He might be on the walls, or chasing the Saxons back to their camps.

With the rest of the women, Risa followed their messenger back down to Pen Marhas. They cheered the sentries waiting by the earthworks, and were waved on and cheered in return.

The cries of celebration died the moment they entered the charred and pitted gates. The smoke still hung heavy in the air. If Risa had thought the remains of the burnt-out croft in the woods were foul, the corpse of Pen Marhas was a thousand times worse. Children sat in the mud and howled. Men wailed over the bodies of wives, wives over husbands. Animals lay everywhere, dead or dying. Fences, sheds, whole houses had been smashed like eggs by fire and axe. The stench was abominable. Risa clapped her sleeve over mouth and nose.

Her ‘charges’ evaporated, running every which way into the streets to find what remained of home and family without a backward glance, their wails and cries fading into the cloud of mourning. Soon, there was only Risa to follow the messenger and trudge through the destruction, trying not to see any of it, because there was nothing at all she could do. All the strength had drained from hands and mind. It was all she could do to keep walking and try not to choke on her own breath.

But the further they went, the less damage appeared. Houses, even a few of the warehouses stood whole, except for some singed straw and planking. Animals bellowed, but it was in confusion rather than pain, and the ashen wind grew a little clearer.

The inner walls lifted themselves ahead, and the gates stood open, still stout and strong. The yard behind them was filled with horses and men in mail, talking with each other or taking care of their beasts.

On the steps of the hall stood Bannain, and beside him, covered in soot and grime, waited Gawain.

Before any thought of propriety or restraint could enter into her mind, Risa ran up the steps and threw her arms around him. He returned her embrace at once, lifting her up onto her toes and burying his face in her hair so that she felt his breath against her neck, felt his mouth move as he said, “Thank Christ, thank Christ,” over and over.

“Gawain.”

The sound of that voice stiffened Gawain’s back. He set Risa down on her feet and straightened. The man behind them had Gawain’s amber eyes and his rich, black hair, but he was more slender, and time had hardened his face into a look of permanent disapproval. He turned the whole of that disapproval toward Risa.

Gawain sighed and stepped away, taking Risa’s hand in a belated gesture of propriety.

“Lady Risa, daughter of Lord Rygehil,
barown
of the Morelands, may I present to you my brother, Agravain.”

“Who is she Gawain?”

Gawain stared at his brother for a moment, slow to understand what he was talking about. He had been at the hall, breaking his fast with Bannain and some of his captains, although it was nearer noon than dawn, when a boy had come running to tell him Agravain needed him out at the walls. Gawain had thought it was to discuss the ordering of further patrols to track any of the raiders who might be escaping back into Saxon lands.

Instead his younger brother stood under a sky grey and heavy with rain clouds with his arms folded, surveying the battlefield as if it were a badly rendered painting. A few men were out wading in the mud, with hoes and shovels, looking to see if there was anything of the new planting that could be saved. Around them, fearless gore crows picked through the mire, looking for food, and looking so like ravens from this distance, that Gawain had to suppress a shudder. He would find this witch who plagued them, and she would pay for all her damning mischief.

But that was not the ‘she’ of whom Agravain spoke.

And you did not want any at the hall to hear this conversation. Discreet of you, Brother
. Gawain sighed. “Her name is Risa of the Morelands. She’s the daughter of that
barown
. She’s beset by a sorcerer and needs protection.”

Agravain raised one eyebrow. “A sorcerer this time, is it? Well, at least their stories are getting more entertaining.”

Gawain’s jaw clenched. “I saw his powers, brother. The lady does not invent or dissemble.”

“Surely not,” said Agravain blandly. “Have you bedded her yet?”

“Agravain!”

Agravain did not blink. “Have you?”

“It is beneath you to ask that question, Agravain.”

Another man would have looked away. Another man would have sighed, or made some other gesture to show he was tired, or that he did not relish this conversation. Agravain made no such concession. “I only want to know how far you mean to carry this one.”

Gawain forced himself to hold his temper. “She comes with us to Camelot. She means to ask for the protection of the queen.”

“And this was her notion, this daughter of an outland
barown
?”

“What is your meaning, Brother?”

Agravain’s face twisted as it did when he was trying not to speak. Anger clenched his fists. He set his foot on the bank of the earthworks, resting his arms on his thigh and scowling out at the workers and the crows. “Our uncle sends you out on a mission of delicacy, to find out what dangers threaten the peace of our lands,” he said to the world at large. “Does Gawain go swiftly and return swiftly as he is instructed? Oh, no. Gawain must stop and find a pretty little liegeman’s daughter to rescue so he can bask in the glow of her gratitude and relieve her of her maidenhead …”

“Agravain, if you do not stop this …”

“I hope she’s deep in love, Gawain.” Agravain paced back toward the palisade. “Because we do not need her father at the great hall claiming his rights with his daughter beside him, her belly full of your bastard and her eyes full of tears.”

“Agravain …”

“What?” His brother whirled around. “What, brother? How dare I? How dare I speak the truth to the valiant, stainless Gawain, champion of the Round Table and of women wherever he finds them?” Rage shook Agravain’s frame. “I swear to you brother, our uncle has more to fear from you than from any of these barbarians clamoring at his gates. If you stuck to milkmaids it would be no great matter, but you
insist
on taking your privileges with wives and maidens of rank.”

Gawain took a deep breath, unclenching the muscles of his jaw and arms one by one. “Agravain, you do not understand.”

“Then explain it to me Gawain.” Agravain threw his arms out wide. “I am here, we have the time.
Explain
it to me.”

Gawain met his brother’s angry eyes. Did he dare speak the truth? To say the words out loud, now, to Agravain in his anger?

But Agravain saw his hesitation and only groaned. “God’s teeth,” he swore. “If you have the gall to tell me you are in love, I swear, I will knock you flat.”

A different spark lit in Gawain at those words and his voice grew low and dangerous. “Then you had better do it on the first blow, because you will not have the chance to strike a second.”

They stared at each other, two warriors on the edge of the broken and trampled field of battle with the crows calling insults overhead. It occurred to Gawain that anyone who looked down from the palisades could easily have taken them for enemies rather than brothers. Conscience pricked at him, deflating his anger just a little.

“Come, Agravain,” he said. “This is beneath us both. Such a quarrel can bring no honor to any.”

“Honor.” Agravain turned the word into a sneer. “Always it comes down to that with you. What is honor? Does it win battles? Does it settle disputes or put money into coffers? Does is undo an ill-conceived dalliance?”

“No,” said Gawain. “It merely wins hearts. That is a lesson you would do well to learn from our uncle.”

With those words, Gawain turned and marched through the gates into a town that was still filled with the smell of smoke. He strode between the ruined houses, ignoring those who called out his name and hoping vaguely that they thought him on some important errand. Folk were out with rakes and with barrows to try to clear the ruins. Bannain was going to spend much of the coming weeks sorting out the ownership of cows and pigs that had survived the fire, but strayed from the wreckage of their pens. Most of those still here were women and children. The men had gone to the forest to cut new timber to rebuild the wooden walls. Arthur, ever mindful, had sent Agravain with a full purse and word that new seed would be sent from the High King’s granaries as soon as Bannain asked. News of these provisions had spread quickly, and as a result the mood of Pen Marhas was more hopeful than otherwise. Its folk were ready to believe they could remake their homes and lives. He could even hear the sound of singing over the clamor of shifting timbers and neighbors calling to one another for help.

Damn, Agravain! At a time like this, how could he be speaking as he had? Gawain ran his hand through his hair. There were more important things to think about. Why had Harrik turned again? Had he survived the assault, and where had he gone? What were they planning in the southlands, and what were their movements, and how far gone were what plans they had? Damn, Agravain.

Damn him for being even a little right
.

Agravain would have taken Risa to the convent as she asked. He would not have seen a lovely face and been unable to let her go. Without her, Gawain would have been able to make all speed back to Camelot and warn the king that the Saxons had help from a witch, and were no longer licking the wounds dealt them at Badon.

And Pen Marhas would have fallen, and perhaps the raven spy would have led its masters to him on the road.

But it was not in Agravain’s nature to think of such things, nor to listen to them, especially when it was Gawain who spoke. Agravain was a worthy knight, and when he had come to Camelot to learn the duties of a ruler from Arthur rather than their father, Gawain had been delighted. He soon found, however, that life had made Agravain cold. Sir Kai had once quipped that Agravain’s head was so hard the armorers declared he had no need of a helmet. Gawain sometimes wondered if his heart were not even harder than his head. It was certain he had no time for ladies and their charms. He could not be distracted by childish fancies, he said. When the time came for him, he would choose a wife carefully and for the proper reasons.

Which was right. Agravain also was heir to a throne. One day he would return to Gododdin and Din Eityn and take up their father’s rule. He would need the alliances a good marriage would make.

The time
was
wrong for concerns of the heart. Agravain was right about that as well. The High King might soon have to ride to war again. All his champions must be ready and not in any way distracted, and first among them must be the sons of Lot.

Gawain shook his head toward the wind, as if its breath blowing through his hair could bear away unwanted thoughts like autumn leaves. Did he truly wish for a heart as hard as Agravain’s? Did he wish to be so safe, so right in matters of responsibility, not even duty, but responsibility?

Did he want the life of his heart to end and as it began, in Pacis’s game?

Yet Arthur himself loved deeply and was loved in return by his queen. Agravain might accuse him of being blind and boyish in his loyalties, but Gawain could not believe that if Arthur did a thing it was incompatible with kingship.

Gawain remembered when he first arrived at Camelot. He’d been little more than a boy, gangly and awkward. He came alone, on a broken-winded pony with a woolen blanket around his shoulders instead of a cloak against the weather. Arthur was going to send for him in a year or two, but Gawain could no longer wait. He had witnessed his father’s barbarity for the last time and he would not stay at Din Eityn any longer. The morning was grey with rain and fog. Gawain was coughing worse than his enfeebled mount and his head felt flushed with fever. Worst of all, he was lost. Cursing himself, cursing his pony, the weather, his father, Agravain who had let him leave alone, and anything else he could think of, Gawain bowed his head under the misting rain and tried to urge the exhausted pony a little further.

Then, he heard hoofbeats, and like a specter or a dream, the dark shape of a man on horseback formed out of the fog, bearing down fast on Gawain. Gawain had barely time to see him, let alone to goad his pony to action, but the horseman must have been an expert, for he swung his great mount to the right, close enough that the breeze of his passing flapped the edges of Gawain’s sodden blanket-cloak.

The horseman wheeled around and came trotting back. Gawain saw a man with a neatly trimmed beard, a thick cloak and kind eyes.

“Are you all right, lad?” the man asked.

Gawain promptly fainted.

When he woke again, it was to warmth that had nothing to do with fever, but belonged instead to the pallet bed underneath him and the thick blankets of fur piled over him. Around him were the snowy walls of a fine pavilion. A fire burned cheerily at its center, filling the air with the scent of apple wood.

Gawain struggled to sit up, appalled at how weak he felt.

“Steady, young man,” said a soft voice, while soft hands pushed him forward so that he might sit. “You’ve been ill these past seven days.”

The speaker moved into his field of vision. It was a grey-eyed woman in a simple green dress. Gawain stared, no, he gaped, for he had never seen anyone so fair in his whole life, and then she smiled and her beauty doubled. It was a long moment before he realized the gleam of gold at her throat was from a torque made in the shape of a swan with its long neck curved around her throat.

Torque. The old symbol of kingship. Gawain’s befuddled brain started and stumbled like a reluctant horse. He was closer to Camelot than he had hoped, or feared.

“Your Majesty,” he tried to bow, and clutch the furs to him at the same time, for, he belatedly realized, he was naked.

Queen Guinevere accepted the gesture with a regal nod, as if he had been properly attired and armed and in the great hall, instead of on a cot shivering with the effort of sitting up.

“Please, Majesty, I need to speak with the High King. I have come from Gododdin to see him.”

The queen held up her hand. “He is already on his way. He asked to be sent for when you woke.” She gestured to a maid who had been in the pavilion’s shadows. The girl came forward with a tunic of soft, white wool for Gawain to slip over his shoulders. The queen herself piled furs and pillows behind his shoulders so that he might sit without strain. She directed her woman to hold a cup of warm wine and herbs for him to sip.

More awake, it occurred to Gawain that he had not told the queen his name. She knew nothing of his rank or person, and yet she did all this, and she had nursed him to health. A kind of giddiness seized him and Gawain suddenly felt that he would slay lions with his bare hands if this woman asked him to.

A moment later, the flap that served the pavilion as a door was pushed back. Maid and queen alike curtsied as two men entered the tent. First came the horseman. This time Gawain saw that he too wore a golden torque. His bore the long, lithe shape of a dragon with ruby eyes. Gawain had never before seen his uncle, but no one else would dare wear the dragon in this country. Seven days ago, he had almost got himself killed by High King Arthur.

Behind the king came a lean man dressed in black, who was a good handspan taller than the king, despite the fact that he leaned heavily on a crutch to support a thin and crooked leg.

“What’s this?” said the lame man, looking Gawain up and down. “Surely it’s a fish that needs to be dropped back into its pond.”

“Leave off, Kai,” said Arthur Pendragon amiably. “I’ll wager the boy’s had enough bad luck without adding the rough side of your tongue to his misfortunes.” His right eye closed to Gawain in a half-wink. “Now then, lad, what brought you out in such weather to the king’s maying?”

Maying? It was May Day? He’d been on the road a full month, wandering south and west. “I’m sorry, Majesty,” Gawain stammered. “I didn’t know. I was looking for Camelot.”

“And instead Camelot found you.” The man, Kai’s, eyebrows rose. “How propitious for the fishes.”

“Kai.” This time there was a note of warning in the king’s voice. “What is your business at Camelot then?”

Gawain hung his head. He was going about this completely wrong. He had spent a month on pony back rehearsing his speech for when he met the king and queen. He had pictured himself kneeling, straight-backed in the great hall of Camelot, pledging his fealty. Now he was propped up on a cot, forcing the queen herself to take pity on his weakness and he couldn’t even get the right words out of his mouth.

“Come lad,” said Arthur Pendragon. “Whatever your worries, set them aside for the time being. You have my protection here, and my attention. Tell me who you are and what it is you want.”