Under Camelot's Banner (28 page)

“I thank you, but no …” She searched hard for some way to make light of this, but none came. “Thank you.”

“Then, perhaps, if my lady has no other appointment, she might permit me to walk with her aways, and show her something of my home?”

Lynet looked up into his face, and his warm, restful eyes. Slowly, it occurred to her that for once, here was a man who did not know who she was and what she had done. The tales they told at Camelot of Sir Tristan and Queen Iseult might not include the name of one gulled waiting lady. She might, this once, be able to pass a pleasant hour here, in simple talk and rest her mind for just this small space of time.

But before she could form a reply, Daere spoke up. “The lady is needed elsewhere, Squire Gareth.”

Gareth raised his brows at the maid. He plainly did not believe her, but he was not going to call her out in the lie. He only bowed again. “Perhaps another time, if circumstances permit.”

“I expect the lady will be far too busy for that. Have you no feeling?” Daere sniffed, and turned away. “Please, my lady, we are wanted.”

Mutely, Lynet turned to follow her maid, who strode off across the yard with a most determined stride. Lynet had to work to keep up with her, and her feet began to twinge and creak in protest. “Why did you do that, Daere?”

Daere's face puckered with distaste. “It would not suit my lady's honor to be seen with that one.”

“What has he done?”

“It is not what but who,” replied Daere meaningfully. “And how often. No, my lady, he is not a safe companion.”

Lynet glance backward. The squire still stood there, watching the men marching past with their shields on their backs and raising his hand to some acquaintance. The breeze had caught his raven black hair and blown it back from his fine face. It seemed to her that she could see Sir Tristan's golden shadow beside him. So, Squire Gareth was another one. Another of Camelot's fair men, just like that other. Her heart hardened within her at this understanding.

But it was not without a little regret that she turned to follow her diligent maid to somewhere else, somewhere safe this time.

“Lady Laurel!” Hob Trevith burst into the new hall, his jerkin askew and his breath ragged. “She is come, and she brings …” Hob was panting too hard to finish his exclamation.

Laurel set down her shuttle. Around her, the women engaged with spindles and hand looms looked at her, expectantly and uneasily. Laurel just regarded her own loom. A bare inch of broad twilight-blue fabric hung completed in the simple wooden frame before her. The draught of Hob's entry set the threads swaying so hard their weights rattled. From the corner of her eye she saw Mesek at his side of the hall and Peran at his. Both stirred uneasily, like dogs who have gotten an unpleasant scent. They had been lounging on their benches with their men about them, tossing the bones, drinking the hall's beer and idling, trying not to look bored, or impatient, or at each other.

Normally, Laurel abominated the endless work of spinning and weaving. She hated being confined the still dank hall amid the stink and scratch of the wool, and the flurry and flutter of constant small gossip. But for the past few days it had been a haven of calm as well as a way to discomfort her captors. The work kept her hands busy and her eyes focused on something other than the guards who hovered so near. It also forced these men to sit still indoors to be by her. She saw no reason why their confinement should be any more comfortable than hers. It was a petty revenge, but for the moment it was all she had.

The guardsmen who flanked them for the purpose of keeping her in her place looked to their masters for instruction and received none. How could they? None of them knew what was happening. Another triumph, as petty as the other, but Laurel accepted this as well.

“How many with her?” Laurel inquired of Hob. The watchman gulped down air and astonishment at her calm. He was, fortunately, remembering her instruction that no name should be given to this particular arrival.

“Ten, my lady, eight men and two waiting ladies both, but …”

Laurel did not wait to hear anymore. “Meg.” She turned to the grey-haired woman who had been acting as her chatelaine for the five days since Lynet left for Camelot. Meg stood immediately, passing off her spindle to the girl beside her. “You and Jorey will see that welcome cups and a good meal are prepared for our guests along with all else that might be needed for their comfort. Hob, you will go and see they are properly escorted to the old hall. I will meet them there.”

“So, Masters,” Laurel said to the chieftains as she brushed the lint from her hands. “Which of you will come with me to welcome the lady Morgaine back to Cambryn?”

Her calm declaration was rewarded by the sight of both her captors dropping their jaws.

Laurel swept from the hall. They would follow, or they would not. It did not truly matter. What mattered now was to see how Morgaine chose to present herself, and how she returned Colan.

Laurel had known for three days that the sorceress was on her way. Lynet had brought the news, although she had not been able to tell Laurel much more than that Morgaine had sailed from her home. Even Lynet had more sense than to spy too closely on Morgaine the Sleepless. Guild moved heavily in Laurel. For all that she had repeatedly warned her sister not to look too often into the mirror, she did not truly try to make Lynet stop. Laurel had her own powers. Her ways of knowing and warding came from the blood in her veins, but none of her arts were as strong those Lynet now had at her command. If they and Cambryn were to survive this time, they needed what Lynet could learn, and what she could do.

Laurel entered the audience hall with her guards trailing behind. She did not permit herself any hesitation as she climbed the dais to the steward's chair one step below the throne. She sat herself down in the place that had belonged to her father for as long as she had been alive. The strangers among her guard looked at each other uncertainly, but the men of Cambryn took their sign from her and mounted to their places beside her, flanking her with dignity and staring the strangers coldly down.

A heartbeat after they were assembled, Peran entered to the hall. He had taken a moment to pull his bronze-clasped cloak onto his shoulders and it billowed out behind him as he strode to the dais, and put his foot on the lowest step.

“No higher, Peran Treanhal,” snapped Laurel.

A kind of smile formed on his scarred face, a warped and devilish grin. “Who are you to stop me, my lady?”

Laurel felt the witchfires kindle within her. It was a hard light, akin to that which shimmered on the masts and the rails of ships on the sea that were blessed, or were doomed. “Do you say you are master here?”

He cocked his head just a little. “Your ladyship has put her keeping in my hands.”

What drives this? You've betrayed your mistress, or said you will. Why should her coming make you bold?
“Yet I remain who I am, Master Peran, and I have my rank and my birth, and this place is yet mine. Will you take it from me here and now?”

He was able to meet her eyes for a full dozen heartbeats before he relented. Whether that was from what he was able to see within her, or from the movement among the men of Cambryn as they stood straighter, and changed their grip on spear and pole-arm Laurel could not say and did not care. Peran removed his foot from the dais and stood to the side. For now that was all that mattered.

You are not ready for such a contest yet. Neither am I.

Laurel once again composed her face to the cool mask that she had worn continuously over the past few days. Inwardly, she had never felt more alone that she did at this moment. She told herself she was surrounded by the souls of those who loved her. She knew her men were loyal to her, for her father's sake of if not yet for her own. She held the right to be where she was by the laws of God and man. Those truths, though, seemed fragile as moth's wings as Hob and the other watchmen pushed open the doors and Morgaine entered the hall.

The sorceress was dark of hair and eye, as Laurel had always been told. She dressed simply in a cloak and dress of rich blue, with silver for her girdle and the circlet that held the linen veil over her braided hair. She comported herself with absolute certainty of place and power as she strode up the center of the audience hall. In her train came two women, dark like their mistress, and like her dressed in rich blue. Behind them, as Hob had reported, marched eight men. These all wore caps and corselets of leather, and all went unarmed at this time, making a peaceful entry into the hall.

The last of them dragged Colan Carnbrea.

Colan's raw hands were bound behind him and rough hemp rope hobbled his legs. His guard thought enough of his rank that they allowed him to find his feet so he could stand as the whole procession came to a halt at the foot of the dais.

Rage filled Laurel at the sight of him. She had thought herself ready for this moment, but this farce of him being hauled before their father's seat in the semblance of a captive burned through her. It was all she could do to keep from ordering the nearest man to impale her faithless brother on his spear so she could watch him die in this place where he had killed their father.

What would you say to that Morgaine?
she wondered, almost idly toward the sorceress's who now made her curtsey at the foot of the dais.
If I removed one of your spy and best barter coin?

But what Laurel said was, “Welcome to Cambryn, Lady Morgaine, an' you come in peace.”

Morgaine straightened. “I thank you for your welcome, Lady Laurel.” Her voice was low and rich, with a lilt to it that Laurel could not place. “I do come in peace, and to return what is rightfully yours.” She motioned to her men. The two closest to Colan grabbed his arms roughly, half-pushing, half-carrying him forward. When they reached the foot of the dais, they shoved him to his knees so hard that he bit his lip to keep from crying aloud.

Laurel felt one muscle in her cheek twitch.

“He came to me begging shelter,” said Morgaine. “But the truth of his deeds was soon discovered. I will not shelter one who so betrays his own blood.”

Laurel looked for a moment into Morgaine's black eyes.
In faith, Morgaine, I don't believe you would.
That understanding surprised her, but she kept it deep within herself. Instead she looked down at Colan. He hunched on the stones at her feet with his head bowed. She could see nothing of his face. Her jaw clenched and she held her peace until she was certain she could trust her voice to remain steady.

“Is there anything you would say to me, Colan No Man's Son?” Laurel inquired.

He raised his head and met her eyes, and she saw that there was. There was a wellspring of words within him. Either his own wisdom or Morgaine's council kept him silent, however, and he bowed his head once more.

“You may claim the bounty for returning him to us,” said Laurel to Morgaine.

“I will take no such price,” replied the sorceress, gravely, as Laurel had been next to certain she would. “I regard it as enough that the thing is done.”

“Then please accept my thanks for the return of this outlaw,” Laurel replied.
Though if you truly meant what you say why you bothered to return him rather than kill him is past understanding.
“I invite you and yours reside with us this night before you must begin your journey home.”

Regally, Morgaine inclined her head. “Thank you, my lady. I do accept.”

That done, Laurel made herself look once more at Colan. He had not made any move. Seeing him crouch there turned her stomach. “Take him to his chamber,” said Laurel to Hob and Joss. “Let him be loosed, but make sure a good guard is kept. Let no one save myself speak with him under any pretext. Sentence will be passed in good time.”
Lest you doubt that, Colan.

If Colan had thought to find any gentleness upon his return, he was disappointed. Hob and Joss hauled him upright and dragged him bodily from the hall before he could get his feet under him. He would, no doubt, find himself in possession of a few new bruises before his fetters were cut, but Laurel could not find it in her to order more care to be taken. She had far greater concerns. She turned her attention back to the patient Morgaine.

“I believe, Lady, you know Peran Treanhal.” Laurel turned toward the chieftain who had waited still and silent throughout.

Morgaine looked toward Peran as if noticing him for the first time. She inclined her head to him, as he did to her.

“The Treanhal have been good friends of my people,” said Morgaine. “I am pleased to see their chief made welcome here.”

“I am come on a matter of law, Lady Morgaine,” rasped Peran. “Alas the treachery of the outlaw delayed that justice.”

Morgaine looked concerned, but not overly so.
After all, what could the business of such a minor ally matter to you?
“I am certain the lady will rule soundly in her father's name. I was deeply sorrowed to hear of your father's death, Lady Laurel,” Morgaine was saying. “Will you, of your courtesy, permit me to visit his grave?”

“Of course.”
Let us keep on with this mummery.

“After which I trust you will be pleased to rest and take what poor refreshment we here may offer you.”

“Again, I thank you, Lady Laurel.”

“If you will walk with me?”

So, Laurel walked the length of the hall beside the sorceress with Morgaine's two silent ladies following behind. Laurel made no remark or attempt at conversation. The fewer words that passed between them, the fewer chances her rage would betray her. The whole way through the hall and down the corridors, she concentrated on keeping her distance as best she could, to not permit even the hem of her garment brush Morgaine's.

Outside, the day was chill and the wind brisk. The clouds promised more rain and soon, perhaps another spring storm.
Not all the storms to come are in our hall,
thought Laurel to herself as she led Morgaine out to their father's cairn. The first stones for a proper tomb had yet to be brought. She would send men out for them as soon as this … time … had drawn to a close. Until then, Lord Kenan lay like one of the ancients, in his grave beneath a great pile of undressed grey rock.