Under Camelot's Banner (31 page)

Gareth who caught her eye with the barest flicker of his own. In confusion, Lynet dropped her gaze to her hands on her lap. Had she been staring at him? Lord God, she was more tired than she had realized.

“Will you take a cup of wine with me, Sir Lancelot?” asked Queen Guinevere at last, but Lynet could not miss the undertone of reluctance in the invitation.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Sir Lancelot bowed. “You do me yet another honor.”

There then began a complex dance between the squires and the waiting women as another chair was found, a table placed, wine and cups and a bowl of nut meats was brought. As Lynet was no servant, she had nothing to do but watch, and she did not miss how time and again, Squire Gareth seemed to find himself next to Lady Fiona, and how he touched her, softly, secretly, brushed her hand or her sleeve, and how she turned away from him each time.

Is this what Daere was shielding me from?

When the flurry of activity settled down again, Sir Lancelot sat beside the queen, his legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle. His boots were still crusted with mud, as was the hem of his maddar red cloak, but otherwise the day's hard travel seemed to have had little effect on the knight. He watched appreciatively as Lady Braith poured his wine. She blushed under his regard, and Lady Mavis, exiled on the other side of the queen, smoothed her skirt irritably.

The queen missed none of this, and a frown flickered across her face before she could swiftly smooth it away.

“Tell me, Lord Lancelot, how are our men and supplies faring?”

This was clearly not what Sir Lancelot was expecting to hear, and it took him a minute before he was able to answer. “Tolerably well, Your Majesty. The rain's in nearly everything, but the food casks and the bread are still dry, so we won't be marching on air …”

Lynet tried to focus politely on what the knight was saying, but it was difficult. Despite her vow to stay awake, his voice quickly became a monotonous drone. Two of the squires had moved back to chat with the serving maids. Lynet supposed she should tell Daere to help her move closer to the queen, so she could attend better, as she was nominally one of the queen's women for this time. Those others listened with every appearance of fascination to Sir Lancelot, except for the queen, who was sipping quickly at her wine, and Lady Fiona, who cast annoyed glances back and forth.

“God be with you, this evening, Lady Lynet,” said a soft voice beside her.

Lynet jumped. Squire Gareth had circled round behind her at some point. “Daere, your mistress's cup is empty,” he said.

Daere opened her mouth to make some tart reply, but Lynet cut her off. “If you please, Daere.” The maid closed her mouth and glowered again, moving to the wine jar. Lynet did not intend to drink. She just wanted to avoid drawing more attention to herself. “God be with you, Squire Gareth,” she said, politely.

“I hope you have not found the journey too hard.”

No one was paying particular attention to her, except Lady Fiona, who was staring daggers at Squire Gareth's back, and Daere, who was motioning to the serving girl to hurry and fill the cup.

“I have endured worse, Squire.” Daere moved across the tent as quickly as she could without spilling the wine. “Do not alarm yourself on my account.”

“I find I cannot help myself.” He spoke the words soberly, but with a smile in his brown eyes.

“I am well protected, Squire, I assure you,” she answered evenly. She might not be Laurel's match for distant propriety, but she could muster her own dignity when required. When she did not dip her eyes or show any maidenly coyness, and the smile in his eyes wavered.

“Right glad I am to hear it.”

Was he giving polite answer to her refusal to practice flirting banter with him, or did he actually mean those words? Lynet found she could not tell, and that troubled her.

“I thank you,” she said, and could think of nothing else.

He searched her eyes for a moment longer. What he read there she could not say, but he bowed his head and stepped back, making room for Daere who handed her the brimming wine cup, gave the squire a dark glower and began fussily to rewrap Lynet's feet.

As the maid's tacit disapproval did not seem to be shifting the squire, Lynet cast about for some subject of conversation that could not be mistaken for an attempt at intimacy. Her gaze lit on Sir Lancelot sitting beside the queen, much as Gareth now sat beside her.

“So, Squire Gareth, tell me of your knight,” she said. “How is it a man of Gaul came to be at Camelot?”

She wondered if he would be scathed by her interest in Sir Lancelot, but Gareth's face only brightened. He spoke of Lancelot's father, a kin in Britaigne across the water who had sent his son to join the cadre of the Round Table, and how Lancelot had decided to prove himself worthy by facing the hazards of the journey alone.

“It was the most amazing thing,” Gareth said. “My lord barged right through the gates, ignoring the guards. He had a whole string of Saxons with him, a dozen of them, all roped together like horses for sale, and he brought them right up to the door of the keep, declaring he had a gift for Arthur, greatest of all earthly kings.” He swept his hand out, but at the same time glanced behind him, as if to make sure his knight had not overheard him in this brief imitation.

Lynet's brows lifted. “How did he come by a dozen Saxons as travelling companions?”

“That's the best part of it,” Gareth said eagerly.

“This clot of Saxons had ambushed him and dragged him off to their camp. You see, it is there way, when they wish to take the measure of an enemy, to take one of his men hostage and put him to fight their champion in single combat, so they can gauge his strength and training, and the mettle of the man.

“He fought their first champion, and my lord slew him. They put forth another, and he slew that one too, and then a third, and a fourth. By then, it became clear to the Saxon chief, Harrik was his name, that Lancelot was prepared to keep killing his men as he kept sending them, and he just surrendered them all and himself with them.”

“A bold tale,” acknowledged Lynet. But while she searched for something more to say, the queen drained the last of her cup, and set it down on the table. “You must forgive me, my lord Lancelot.” Queen Guinevere stood, her demeanor all politeness and apology. “I find I am tired, and would go to my rest.”

The rest of the company got to its feet at once. “Forgive me, Majesty,” said Sir Lancelot. “I forget sometimes that not all are soldiers who can stay awake all night and still march well in the morning. God be with you.” He bowed deeply.

“And with you,” replied the queen with utmost politeness, but nothing more.

Sir Lancelot nodded to the squires. Gareth bowed to Lynet with his smile all in his eyes. Then, he followed his knight as he swept out of the tent, his red cloak billowing behind him.

“There goes one who knows his own worth a little too well,” murmured Daere at Lynet's side, and Lynet found she could not fault her maid's assessment. “Squire's like the master, it should be no surprise to any.”

It was another of her warnings, and it was well-timed, for already Lynet found herself wondering if that were true. Fortunately, she was spared from having to answer. As soon as the pavilion entrance closed behind the knight and his squires, the serving and waiting women began to move away and dismantle the chairs and tables and in their places unroll beds and coverings, both woven and fur. Daere helped Lynet out of her overdress and left her her sturdy woolen underdress. The maid knew by now to return Lynet's girdle to her, so she could tie it once more around her waist, keeping her purse and its contents beside her.

She lay down on her bed and let Daere lay the covers over her. One by one, the serving women banked and covered the braziers, leaving them all in darkness. Lynet lay on her back and stared up at nothing. She flexed her toes repeatedly, letting the pain help keep her awake. Around her, breathing slowed and the rustlings of the women rolling over and burrowing deeper into their bed coverings gradually stilled. The night sounds outside the pavilion held sway now, and her eyelids tried to close yet again. She could not wait anymore. This was the first time in days she'd had a bed to herself. Who knew where they would be tomorrow night or what the circumstances would be. She must try now.

Lynet opened her purse and drew out the mirror. She raised herself up on one elbow to lean over it, but there was not even enough light for her to catch sight of her reflection in the surface. She touched her fingertips to the glass.
Ryol. Ryol. Come to me. I need you. Hear me, Ryol.

Did the glass soften beneath her touch, or was that only another seeming? All Lynet knew clearly was the deep compulsion seized hold of her once more, pulling spirit from flesh and she welcomed it, giving herself over to it wholly and falling forward into that deeper darkness.

When her eyes could see again, she stood in the now-familiar garden. Its sunless light poured down on her as a warm and welcome balm. Her weariness had fallen away with the darkness, and she was whole and well again.

She was also alone. “Ryol?” she called, and for a moment, only the rustle of leaves replied. Then, Ryol stepped out from under the birch tree. He passed a wild rose as he came to her, brushing one of the blossoms with his hip. Three pale petals fell onto the grass, leaving the flower lopsided. It was, she realized the first imperfection she had seen in this place.

Something was wrong with Ryol as well, although she could not put a name to exactly what it was. He looked as he always did, but she found herself remembering how it was to stand in the old hall to greet her father when he returned once more from helping defend the coast lands. He would look much the same, but little things would be altered; his eyes sunken a little further, his hair a little more grey, a new scar perhaps, but mostly it was in his manner. He came back older from these times, no matter how famous the triumph. His blood, he said, ran a little thinner, and the nights felt a little colder. That was how Ryol looked, as if the night even in this unending daylight, felt a little colder.

“My lady.” He grasped both her hands, pressing them to his brow.

“Ryol, what is the matter?”

“Nothing, Lady. It is fear only.”

“Fear? Of what?”

He licked his lips, as if trying to decide what to say. “You have been speaking with the sorcerer Merlin.”

Lynet drew back. “He is Arthur's man,” she said uneasily, remembering the gathering shadows that had hung so heavily over her shoulders in Merlin's house. “If I want Arthur's help, I must speak with his people.”

“Beware him,” said Ryol softly.

She frowned. She did not want fear in this place. This was a haven from fear and worry, her bright summer garden from which she was free to see and do and act without constraint. “Why?”

“He trusts no power save his own, my lady, and would bring all under his own heel.” Ryol had not let go of her hands, but only gripped them more tightly, as if he could will his urgency into her. “He has stolen power before, and far greater power than what you hold.”

“What do you know of Merlin?”

“Enough, lady. I beg you as your loyal servant. Beware him.”

“Be easy then,” she said, in the stiffly reasoned tones she used with Jorey when he was dithering about how much was being laid out for the tinning feast. “He is far behind us. The ladies seem to think the queen does not trust him either.”

“Have you told her anything?”

“I have spoken the truth.” She pulled her hands away. “Do you say I should lie to my queen?” She said this to prod at him, searching for argument or apology, anything that would give her an excuse to dismiss that worry that slowly bled from him to her.

Ryol would not be drawn. “You have not told her of the mirror, of myself?”

“No.”

He bowed his head, perhaps giving thanks. “Pray do not then. She will take me from you.” He spoke with utter certainty, as if he said the sun would rise tomorrow.

“She would not rob me of my mother's gift,” Lynet said staunchly. But she remembered the steel flash to those grey eyes. Queen Guinevere would do what she believed necessary, whatever that might be.

“I beg you believe me, lady,” said Ryol earnestly. His face was drawn, and she could see the lines of weathering and age in it. It was, she realized, very like Bishop Austell's. “While I have waited for your return, I have seen, I do see many things.”

“You travel of your own will?” It was not something she had considered before, and tales of airy spirits and demons of the night came to her. She shook them back. “I thought you … remained here.”

“This garden is another shadow, Lady,” said Ryol. “It is here for you. When you leave me, there is only darkness and the shifting world around. I can feel the currents and breezes that are the motion of time. I may be anywhere and nowhere at all. The man of me exists only when you are here.”

“What else have you seen?” she asked.

“I will show you.” He extended his arm, and she took it. Lynet walked with her servant through his garden of shadows. They turned beneath the trees, passed the sound of running waters, and walked through the gap in the hawthorn hedge, out onto the open heath, with Cambryn and its keep rising up behind him. A black-haired woman in a gown of blue and cloak of black rode at the head of a small procession of ladies and men-at-arms. Morgaine. Lynet shivered at the sight of the smile on the sorceress's face. She looked satisfied, as if at a deed neatly accomplished.

Hoofbeats drummed in the distance. “My lady!” cried a hoarse voice. “My lady!”

Morgaine turned to watch Peran, riding so quickly he looked almost comical, with his elbows flapping and his too-small pony's ears laid flat against its skull.

“My lady!” He reined the pony up short to come level with her. He was breathing nearly as hard as his mount. Morgaine regarded all this coldly.