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“Was that wise, Majesty?” asked Sir Lancelot softly. “They will only fight over it.”

“Then they will be fighting over the contents of that box,” she replied. “And not over whether or not they should be coming up to slit our throats and take what we withheld from them.”

They did not linger after this, but proceeded up to the ruined fortress at once. The edifice had been mostly timber, and unlike Camelot, had never been rebuilt. Instead, it had been left to fall apart. But the sun was setting quickly, and the moon was in its final crescent tonight, so there was no going forward from here. There was still a square of stone walls as high as a man's shoulder, and the remains of what had been barracks and stables. It was a defensible position, in case the men of the valley decided to rebel against the queen's mercy and come calling. So, with some difficulty, the tents and the great pavilion were pitched in the yard where the Romans had once marched, trained, fought and lounged. There was plenty of wood for fires, and that which had not rotted to punk was mostly dry.

Even with the dead to think on, the squires would have been fairly cheerful, were it not for Brendon. He'd been cut loose from his fetters as soon as he was in the hands of friends, but the swelling had not eased, and when he did speak, it did not seem he recognized any of them. His breath rattled badly in his throat, and his face was so much raw meat. Gareth found blankets to cover his old tormentor, and a cloak to make a pillow for his head, but they were in rough camp conditions, there was only so much that could be done. Gareth squatted back on his heels as Brendon groaned and tossed, trying to fight off the blanket. This was not good, and beyond what he knew.

Best tell my lord Lancelot.

But even as he thought that, he heard a new voice outside the tent. “Her Majesty has asked I come see to your squire,” she was saying. “I have some physician's training. It may be there is something I can do.”

“If it is her Majesty's wish,” answered Sir Lancelot. “I've seen many such a beating. The blood's mostly stopped, and we've made him a bed. Now, time and God will have the healing of him.”

“Then I must crave your patience my lord, as I am obeying the queen's word.” There was an acid taint beneath that reply, for all Lynet was clearly trying to keep herself calm.

Sir Lancelot made no answer, but Gareth could picture him making one of his sweeping bows and stepping back to clear her path. He felt an odd twinge inside him, but he did not understand where it came from or what part of the conversation he overheard had occasioned it.

A moment later, Lynet stepped into the narrow tent. Gareth made as much room for her as he could. She did not even seem to see him. All her attention was on the man lying before her.

“Hold the door open, Daere,” she called to her maid hovering by the entrance. “I need the light.”

She showed no shock at Brendon's appearance, only rolled back the blankets and looked carefully at him for a long time. She laid her hands on his head, and he groaned in pain, twitching to try to throw her off. She probed carefully through his hair, searching the clots of blood and dirt. She gently touched his swollen face and each eye. Brendon moaned and tried again to struggle.

“Hold him please,” she said.

Gareth put his hands on Brendon's shoulders. “Now, man, hold still, hold still, it'll be over in a moment,” he whispered.

Lynet continued her deliberate examination of Brendon's hurts, laying her hands in turn on his shoulders, his chest and arms. She picked up his grossly swollen hands one at a time, turning them over and peering closely at the discoloration of the flesh, she touched both legs and even bent close over to smell his breath, and his skin.

When all was done, she sat back on her heels, her face grave. “We'll need clean water, and plenty of it. And you must go to the queen and beg one of her crocks of brandywine,” she called to Daere. “I wish to God we had some of the Eirans water of life, but that will have to do. Also, if she has a box of wax and cobwebs we need that, and as many clean cloths as can be found, and three needles, and the finest white thread that is to be had.”

Daere bobbed her head, and then looked sideways at Gareth.

“Go!” snapped Lynet. As soon as the maid was gone, she turned to Gareth. “You'd better find some strong hands, and a stout stick for him to bite on. This will be long, and painful.”

“Yes, my lady.” He scrambled to his feet.

By the time Daere returned with a basket of the things Lynet had ordered, Gareth had found Lionel and Ewen, who had a strong pair of hands, and Gareth hoped a strong stomach. They repegged the tent to give it more room, so they could all fit inside, and twice warned off gathering crowds of idlers. Daere clutched the basket and Lynet knelt beside Brendon. The gash on his face looked green around the edges, and he thrashed and breathed like a man in a nightmare.

Ewen knelt on one side, Lionel on the other, and Gareth by his feet.

“Hold him as still as you can,” said Lynet a little absently. “I daren't tie him again. Not as he is.”

Then, she poured some of the queen's strong wine over a cloth, and set to work.

Gareth had seen men lying on the battlefield, dying of their injuries, while their friends and family did what they could to ease them. He had seen the queen ministering to the sick with her tisane and patience. But he had never seen anything like this patient, methodical work. Lynet washed Brendon with water and wine, a treatment favored by the Greeks who had discovered the humors of the body, she said. Each movement was accompanied by a long, soft flow of Latin, prayers and, Gareth suspected, older incantations. She packed Brendon's wounds with wax and cobwebs, binding them with the bandages. The light faded. Daere ran for torches and a second brazier. Lynet lanced Brendon's hands with needles heated in the fire, to dry up the water and draw out the sluggish humors. She stitched the gashes over his eyes and in his sides. Sir Lancelot came and stood with the torchmen, watching for a long moment, and moved away again. Lynet ignored this, as she ignored Brendon's screams as thoroughly as if she had been deaf, until his passed out. That was the only time she broke her stream of Latin prayers to murmur a heartfelt, “Thank God.”

The air stank of wine and sweat and blood. Lynet's hands were red and black with her work. At the last, she instructed the three men to grab Brendon's tight and hold him absolutely still. She wrapped her hands around his right arm, her face grim.

She pulled. Something snapped with a sound like a whip cracking. She pushed and pulled and turned, and bone grated against bone. She was still for a moment, attending only to what her hands told her, and then a soft smile came to her. “It will heal,” she said. “We bind it and splint it tight, and he'll have the use of it again.”

She quickly suited actions to words, and soon laid Brendon's bound arm down beside his body. He looked pale, Gareth thought, but his breathing was eased. Lynet laid both hands on his brow. “The fever's low,” she said. “If it stays down through the night, he can be carried in the morning, though I doubt he'll enjoy it much.”

“He'll live then?” breathed Lionel.

“That is in God's hands,” answered Lynet, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She took looked pale, and very tired. “But if he is kept from further hurt and his fever does not worsen, then I believe that he may.”

There was a quiet triumph in her voice, as if for the first time in a long time, she had seen an enemy defeated.

“Let me take you back to the queen, my lady,” said Gareth. “You are surely tired.”

She shook her head. “I should stay with Squire Brendon. He needs watching in case his fever begins to burn hard.”

“We will do that, my lady,” said Lionel, quickly. “We've sat beside wounded men before.”

Lynet hesitated, and cast one more long glance down at Brendon, who lay still now, his breathing harsh, but not so fast. The greenish tinge had faded from his swollen flesh, and the smell in the air was clean. “Very well,” she said, both guilt and relief in her voice. “But you will come to me at once if he worsens.”

“We swear it.” Gareth got to his feet and held out his hand. For a moment he thought Lynet would refuse it, but she took it in the end and let him help her to her feet. Her touch was strong, he noted, for such a slim hand. With all he had just seen her do, he should perhaps not be surprised.

Daere glowered at them both, but Lynet either did not notice, or did not care. Gareth held her hand, loosely and properly. Lynet blinked as they left the shelter of the tent, seeming a little dazed to see that night had slipped in from somewhere.

“That was a great thing you did for Brendon,” said Gareth, unable to think of anything else to say, but unwilling to let this stolen moment pass in silence. Her hand might be begrimed, but it was warm against his, and her profile beside him was more comely than he had ever seen it. Work and weariness had relaxed her, making her graceful and strong both at once. At that moment, he did not believe he had ever seen such a maiden before.

“I had good teaching,” she murmured. “And for all he had taken, it could have been much worse. His skull and ribs were left whole.”

“I think no man could fail to heal beneath the touch of your hands,” he smiled and let his gaze slip sideways. “Such beauty is a fine healer of souls as well as bodies.”

He said it thoughtlessly, almost on reflex. She was so beautiful walking there in the golden torch light, he wanted to pay her compliment, see her smile at him in that modest and knowing way a maiden could have.

Instead, she stared at him, mouth slack, shoulders slumped, looking anything but complimented. “Will you never stop!” she cried, throwing up her gore-crusted hands. “Is this what my land needs?” she cried to the heavens. “Another pretty man from Camelot to plague us!”

Startled, Gareth pulled back. “My lady, what …”

“What, what, what?” she snapped. “What have I done to offend? How can I mend matters? And it is all said with a wink and a sly kiss, and there is no intent to amend at all, because you are bent on your conquest and our humiliation! Yes, you learn your lessons well. Did your master also school Sir Tristan in these matters?”

Gareth's temper flared torch bright. “Sir Tristan was a great knight …”

“Sir Tristan has very nearly destroyed a kingdom, and in his dalliance he killed one of the finest …” Tears slid down her cheeks and she could not finish. “Oh yes, the regard of a man of Camelot is such a fine thing that a woman may die of a surfeit of it!”

Before Gareth could make any answer, Lynet whirled around and ran into the queen's pavilion. He stood there, as stunned as if he had taken a blow to the head. His hands flexed a few times while he tried to think what he should do. Nothing came to him. Slowly, walked back to Brendon's shelter.

“What happened?” asked Lionel as Gareth lifted the canvas flap and ducked inside. “I heard shouting.”

“I don't know,” said Gareth, sinking to the ground beside Brendon's pallet. His breathing had quieted, and it seemed like some of the swelling in his face was already going down. “God and Mary stand witness for me, I don't know.”

“Don't tell me there's a woman out there who was less than delighted to see one of your smiles?” asked Lionel in mock-surprise. “Or did you go to far for maiden's pride.”

Gareth shook his head. “I told you, Lionel, I don't know.”

Lionel sat in silence for a minute, then apparently thought the better of pressing the matter. “Well, get some sleep. I'll keep watch here.”

“No. I'll do it,” said Gareth quickly. “You get some sleep. I'll wake you later.”

“If you're sure …” said Lionel, but he was already on his feet. Gareth waved him away, and made himself as comfortable as he could beside Brendon's pallet, adding a few chips of wood to the brazier.

After Lionel left, Gareth sat as he was for a long time, watching the flames, and listening to Brendon breathe. The wounded squire moaned a little, and stirred weakly, but he did not wake. Around them, the torches and the fires winked out, leaving only the little blanket of light cast by the brazier.

What had happened? Part of him sneered that it was only a hysterical maiden, and if she did not properly know how to take a man's compliment, then what was he doing wasting words on her? Then, belatedly, he remembered that it was Queen Iseult who had taught her the healing arts, and that lady must have been very much on her mind at the moment he spoke.

But she cannot blame Sir Tristan for taking what was offered.
He pitched another splinter of wood into the brazier. Then he thought on what Fiona had told him before, that she had been the queen's waiting woman, that she had, perhaps, even aided the meetings between her and Sir Tristan. He did not believe the part about bribes or broken honor. That was jealousy. But if Lynet had been so close to Queen Iseult to risk all to accomplish her ends, then she would have been devastated when Iseult took her life.

Whether reasoned or not, she would lash out where she could. And I had to try to speak lover's words to her.
Gareth weighed another piece of wood in his palm.
Splendid timing, Gareth.

But the question came back to him, why did he care? He sympathized deeply with the lady in her troubles. More deeply than he would admit to himself in daylight, or in company. He pitched the wood into the brazier. It rustled as it fell, and sent up a shower of sparks. She was beautiful. But he lived surrounded by beauties, and he'd had his way with more than one who actively courted his smiles. What was it about this lady, what light or shadow in her green eyes made him unable to laugh at her contempt?

He scrubbed his head hard with both hands, and suddenly wished Gawain was here, or Geraint. They might be able to tell him. He glanced toward the loosely laced tent entrance and thought for a wild moment about trying to talk with Sir Lancelot. He rejected that idea immediately, without allowing himself to think about why he did so.