The morning came far too soon for Lynet’s liking. She rubbed her eyes hard. She must rise and dress, and go out to the ovens to assist with the breakfast. The tables must be laid, the people must be fed. The tinners first of all so that they might be early to the streams.
It was then that Lynet realized Laurel was not in the bed.
She scrambled out from beneath the furs and coverlets. Her knobbly, scarred feet cringed at contact with the cold floor. She threw on her grey overdress and shoes and threw open the door. Comically, she almost collided with Laurel, who was reaching out to push the door open. Lynet gaped for a moment. Her sister was dishevelled and even more pale than was her wont. Laurel met Lynet’s surprised gaze briefly, and then walked past her to take a seat in front of the banked fire.
“Mother of Mercy, Laurel!” exclaimed Lynet as soon as she found her voice. “Did you sleep at all?”
Laurel shook her head and reached for the poker. “It was better that there be ears, and eyes awake in the house with all that has come to us.” She stabbed at the ashes, looking for coals.
“You should have woken me!”
Laurel looked up at her. Shadows made her eyes seem sunken into her skull. “I see that now, sister,” she said in a tone that was both bland and over-serious.
Lynet firmly took the poker, stirred the coals, and laid more fuel on the fire. “By Heaven, Sister, you cosset me and exhaust yourself. There will be nothing left of any of us by the time this is done.”
As soon as the words left her, Lynet wished them back. But Laurel made no remark. She just squeezed Lynet’s free hand briefly. They were both tired. They were both frightened. “You must play hostess this day. I fear I’m done in. Come for me when father returns.”
“Will it be today?” asked Lynet cautiously.
Laurel nodded, keeping her gaze turned toward the young fire. “And soon. We only need to keep our countenance a little longer.”
Lynet caught up her sister’s hand. “Thank you, Laurel.”
But Laurel, drew. “We do not yet know more may come.”
Lynet finished dressing, and hurried to the chapel to make her morning devotions. Bishop Austell looked quizzically at her as she knelt alone in prayer, but he did not question her. While he recited the liturgy, she had toyed with the idea of telling him all that had happened. but decided against it. Father would be back today. That would be soon enough for the Bishop to find out about Colan’s scheming.
Outside, the world was wrapped in a blanket of fog. Cold, grey mist rose from the land and descended from the sky. The sun was nothing but a pale blur above them and drops of water covered each surface. Despite its chill that reached down her throat, Lynet welcomed the fog. It was a sign of warmth to come, and of the thaw beginning in earnest.
The fires roared in the ovens and Lynet lingered near them, although Meg had the day’s baking well in hand. Those who had spent the night bedded down in the hall were beginning to stir, scratching and stretching, Women poked up the three fires and sent children scampering for fuel and for water. Slowly, the slouching, shuffling folk began clearing pallets to make way for the tables and benches. Some could not manage so much, and hunched in the darkest corners, holding their heads.
Lynet helped with the breakfast. Kettles were hung over the fire to boil the porridge of oats, nuts and dried apple. Malted bread was set on the tables alongside soft, white cheese fresh from the dairy and slabs of bacon and smoked fish. Jorey, the ancient stores master, had an unusually sour face as he saw the bounty filling the boards, with still more coming in the form of crockery jugs of small beer, cider and milk. Well, the roads would be drying soon. There would be trade and tribute, and not all the trouble in Christendom could stop the spring and the harvest it brought from woods and sea.
Praise God.
When Peran came to the hall, he had four men in train behind him. Lynet steeled herself.
“God be with you this morning, Master Peran.” She moved forward to greet him with what she hoped was a placid countenance. “Will you come to your place?” She gestured toward the high table on its dais. “The food is laid to break your fast. I hope you will find it to your liking.”
“An’ I thank you,” he said, his answer remained as plain and courteous as her question. “The hospitality of this house is all that I was led to expect and I am grateful.”
You have good reason to be. Out of the corner of her eye, Lynet saw Peran’s men helping themselves from the kettles and settling down peaceably at the lower tables. Reassured, she led Peran to the high table. She filled his cups with cider and ale. Peran raised a cup politely to her, but watched her appraisingly over the rim as he drained it. Lynet felt a furious blush spread across her cheeks. Because of her part in the drama of Sir Tristan and Queen Iseult, she was no longer seen as an honorable maiden. She could be readily considered as something for any man’s taking, willing or no.
Lynet set the cider jug down within Peran’s reach and returned to the kettles, pretending to concern herself with judging the amounts that remained within them.
Before she could reach any decision, Mesek stumped into the hall. He too had his men with him, but, much to Lynet’s relief, Bishop Austell walked beside him, making companionable conversation that she could not hear over the rest of the voices in the hall.
God bless you, Bishop. Decorum and precedence meant she could seat the Bishop between the two chieftains, letting him take up the role of diplomat for the table. From the slight smile Bishop Austell gave her she saw that he understood this. She hoped he saw the silent “thank you,” she returned.
“God be with you, Lady Lynet,” boomed Mesek, tucking his calloused thumbs into his belt. “Are we in time, or are all the dainties gone?” He was watching some point over her shoulder, and she knew he must be looking toward Peran, already seated and served.
The suggestion that their house was poor or miserly left a sour taste in Lynet’s mouth. “I regret our house has only humble fare to offer, Master Mesek,” she said. “But such plenty as the land can offer, we, by God’s blessing, may share with all our guests.”
It was a stiff and overly-pious answer, and served only to make Mesek smile. With a wave he dispersed his men to their own meals. “And your brother, my young Lord Colan?” Mesek’s eyes turned to slits as he gazed about the hall. “He is not here yet?”
“I fear some of our house may be late to rise after our feast day,” Bishop Austell said pleasantly, as steering Mesek to the table. “You must forgive us, Master.”
“Must I?” Mesek cocked his brows at Lynet, ignoring that it was Austell who spoke. He sat in the chair she indicated, stretching out his arms and resting his hands on the table, so that he might claim possession of as much of the board as possible. Peran abandoned all pretense of paying attention to his food and drink and instead watched his enemy make himself comfortable. “Tell me, my Lady Lynet, what else must I forgive you?” Mesek went on.
“I had not realized you’d taken holy orders, Master Mesek,” said the bishop before Mesek could go any farther. “Do you turn confessor for my lady?”
“It was the lady I spoke to, Bishop.” A warning note crept into Mesek’s voice.
Where are you, Colan? Lynet concentrated on filling Mesek’s mug with small beer. She suddenly felt very much in need of her brother’s easy smile and quick courtesy. “Have we offended, Master Mesek?”
“Offended?” Mesek pushed his chair back, his air all mocking surprise. “Offended? When your brother offers justice with one hand and deals with my enemy from. the other? What perfect courtesy is that! Surely learned from that king of courtesy, Arthur himself.” Mesek’s grin spread out as broadly as his reach. “But no, it was from someone else you learned all your ways, was it not, my lady?”
God have mercy. Lynet flinched as if she had been struck. She could hear Peran’s hard, ragged breathing, but she did not dare turn toward him.
“It does not suit with your honor to insult the blameless lady of the house, Master Mesek,” said Bishop Austell coldly.
“Oh, I would not worry, your eminence.” Mesek leaned back, crossing his ankles beneath the table and his arms across his chest. “From what I have heard, it has been a long time since honor entered here.”
“You certainly brought none with you,” grated Peran.
“Now then, now then, Peran.” Mesek waggled one thick, dirty finger at the other man. “You’ve settled your quarrel. Wait in patience for the judgment you bought.”
“Mesek,” Peran’s voice was so low and so hoarse, he barely sounded human. “Do you accuse me?”
“Accuse you!” Mesek let out a bark of angry laughter. “Aye, I accuse you. Your son’s death has driven that weak mind of yours madder than old king Mark. You know you’re a liar, but you won’t accept the consequences. You must recruit a boy too drunk with his own little power too …”
But Peran was already on his feet, his hand closing around the table knife. Before she had time to think on what she did, Lynet dodged sideways, putting herself him and Mesek.
“For shame, Master Peran!” cried Bishop Austell who was also on his feet. “Would you break the laws of God and man?”
The hall around them had gone still. Her people and her father’s men filled this place. All of them would be at her side as quick as man could move, but at that moment the gulf between her and them seemed wider than the sea. Every line of Peran’s wiry form said he was ready to strike. His chest heaved hard with the force of his rage. Behind her, Mesek just grinned.
“Master Peran, you will put down that knife,” Lynet said, her voice low, her hands gripping the crock she carried so tightly she feared for one ludicrous moment she might shatter it. “You will not break the law here and lose all hope of judgment.”
It was his good hand that clutched the knife and held it ready a handspan above the table. His wounded hand flexed, also ready, to block or to shove, or to hold. “I will not be insulted by the man who murdered my son!”
She did not know what strength kept her there, but she held her place. “Nor will you turn murderer in front of witnesses.” Mother of Mercy, keep Mesek silent. “You will not become what you hate.”
She watched her words sink into him, watched the anger and hatred on his face shift to unwanted understanding. Then, slowly, as if it took all his strength, Peran loosened his grip on the knife. It clattered onto the board.
“Well done, my lady,” snickered Mesek. “But then, you’ve learned well how to charm a man, haven’t you?”
Lynet rounded on Mesek, patience, shame and fear all gone. “Say what you will to me and of me, Mesek Kynhoem. It is no more than I deserve. But you will not break the peace of this house!”
“Peace.” Mesek stuck his thumbs in his belt and spat out the word. “How much we hear of peace these days. Mark’s peace. Arthur’s peace. The whole of Dumonii united in a great peace with those pirates of Eire. Peace is a woman’s skirt to hide behind while men take up a knife and poison against those they cannot defeat in a fair fight. Meantimes, our lords and their dogs stand about and say how great this peace is that spreads so wide.”
Peran’s breath rasped hard in his wounded throat. The blood drained from Lynet’s face and hands. Peran might have come here ready to buy his vengeance, but Mesek came ready to start a war.
“What is God’s name is this!”
Every head turned. Relief poured through Lynet. Lord Kenan, the Steward of Cambryn, strode into the hall. He was a tall man, square and broad. His great sword slapped at his hip with each step. Laurel and Colan both hurried behind him, and behind them came a host of familiar faces; Hale, their granite-grey Captain, his wiry son Lock, and a dozen men at arms, men she had known since childhood and who had followed her father on every campaign only to come back again with new scars and new tales. Lynet was seized with the desire to leap from the dais and take shelter behind their backs, and their blades.
“And here comes the one who sired these pups,” muttered Mesek.
Lynet ignored him. She moved out from behind the table to make a deep courtesy to her father. “God be praised for your safe return, Lord Father,” she murmured.
Father rested his hand briefly on her head in blessing, then tilted her chin up, studying her for signs of hurt or fear. If his wife and eldest children were of the sea, Kenan was of the earth. He was solid and craggy as the cliffs and the standing stones, with brown hair, brown beard, brown skin, brown eyes, and hands strong enough to lift a boulder the size of a man’s head and hurl it thirty paces. “And glad I am to be home, Lynet,” he murmured softly. “I’m sorry you were left to bear this much more.
“Mesek! Peran!” Father raised his voice to carry past her. Lynet, quickly and gratefully slipped aside to take her place next to Laurel. She did not dare glance at Colan.
“I am told there exists some quarrel between you,” their father boomed as he looked from one of the chieftains to the other.
Hearing this blunt understatement seemed to rob both men of their voices. Belatedly, they remembered they owed the steward at least the sign of their obeisance, and both bowed.
“What’s the news from Tintagel?” breathed Lynet to Laurel. Father’s hands were on his hips, and she could read nothing but annoyance in his stance.
Laurel shook her head minutely and Lynet swallowed a curse. King Mark had been unmoved by the pleas of his lords. He would not break from his self-made cloister.
“Aye, a quarrel there is,” said Mesek as he straightened from his bow. “And we were promised we would be heard in all fairness.” He stared daggers at Colan, who seemed not to notice.
“That you shall. Clear the hall!” Father called to his men. The men Mesek and Peran had brought with them hesitated, but the men of Cambryn spread out at their steward’s word. Captain Hale moved about the hall, politely but persistently herding those who did not move quickly enough toward the door, reminding some of their work, mentioning to others that they should stay close to Mesek’s folk, or to Peran’s, to prevent mischief. Lynet’s heart was weak with relief. It felt as if after a full day on a storm-tossed sea she stood firm and safe on land again.
“You stay with us, Bishop,” said father as Austell too moved to go. “It may be we need to hear God’s word in this matter.”
The bishop bowed his head in assent, and moved to the end of the table.
“And Colan?” whispered Lynet to Laurel. But she was not quiet enough, for their brother turned toward her, his glance knowing, hopeful, assured. She bent her lips into a smile for him, and could only pray he did not see it was false.
“Our brother greets our father with all joy,” murmured Laurel.
Captain Hale closed the doors with a resounding thump. He and his son Lock flanked the portals while the others ranged themselves about the hall. The fact of their isolation descended onto Peran and Mesek, and that brought a return to proper manners. In movements so perfectly matched they might have been part of a ritual mass, the chieftains descended the dais steps, one on each side, trying to eye each other and the steward at the same time.
Had the situation not brought them so close to war and tragedy, Lynet would have laughed.
The remains of the food lay everywhere, filling the air with tempting smells, but none moved toward it save father. Apparently satisfied that his authority had been remembered, Lord Kenan mounted the dais and sat himself in the center of the table. He lifted a cup and Lynet hurried to reclaim her crock and fill the silver vessel to brimming. As she withdrew, he touched her arm in reassurance, and Lynet smiled.
Lord Kenan drank off his cup of cider and set the mug down. “Now.” He wiped his mouth and beard. “What business could not wait for my return?”
“Well Peran?” Mesek folded his arms, stepping back so he could view the other man more clearly. “You’ve been quick enough to speak before now. Will you tell our lord steward what brings us here?”
The fingers of Peran’s good hand rubbed together, searching for the knife left behind on the table, Lynet was sure. “Lord Kenan,” he said, each word grating against his wounded throat. “It was in the day of the first thaw that we drove our cattle down to the river to drink. Mesek and the men of Kynhoem fell on us there, and after much fighting they stole the better part of our herd. We left two dead behind us as we pursued them, but darkness prevented our catching them.”
He dragged in a long, heavy breath. The burn on his face seemed to darken as he spoke, growing redder as if his skin remembering the fire which wounded it so terribly. “We went to Mesek next day, not for the return of the kyne, but for bloodprice for those men dead at the hands of his people. He denied us. Denied the raid was his doing, and that the dead were laid low by his hand. He bid us leave without any other answer.
“Honor would not permit such cowardice.” Peran’s voice rumbled lower, the words rasping and hissing, like the sea speaking to stones. “Instead, we followed the trail his men had taken after the raid and in so doing we found the hidden paddock on the moor where they kept the beasts, they thought, from our eyes.” His hands twitched, and he coughed, and coughed again. Lynet felt her own breath grow shallow in sympathy. “My son led the way to the gate while I and my men circled behind. In the fighting, a fire began, burning the barn, and while … and while my son Tam worked beside Mesek’s men to save the herd, both ours and those lawfully theirs, Mesek came up … he came up behind my son who was trying to save his wealth and he hoisted Tam into his arms and tossed him onto the fire as if he were a fagot for the burning.”
This then was where his burns had come from. Lynet closed her eyes against the image of a desperate Peran diving into the fire, striving to pull his son free, and failing.
Father was silent for a moment, acknowledging the death for what it was. Bishop Austell crossed himself, murmuring his own prayer. Lynet glanced at Laurel, and at Colan. Laurel permitted no emotion to disturb the set of her face. Colan … Colan was clenched tight and all his attention was on their father.
“This is a foul deed you speak of,” said Lord Kenan seriously. “If it is true, the angles must weep at it. I wonder you did not take your vengeance at that instant.”
“I wish to God that I had. I stayed my hand.” Peran held up his ravaged and crooked hand. “I was too wounded to strike back as I should, and more, I wanted all the world to know Mesek was a liar and a murderer. I would have his goods forfeit! His followers driven from their hovels! There is not blood enough in him to pay for this thing!”
Father waited, patient, unmoved. It was only when Peran fell silent, and all could see the tears of pain and loss streaming down his ravaged face that the steward turned to the other man standing there.
“You are quiet, Mesek. What do you say to this charge?”
Mesek shrugged. “I say it does not matter.”
Kenan raised his brows. Lynet had to work to keep her jaw from dropping. Her skin crept across the back of her neck.
“How is it that this does not matter?” asked Father softly.
Mesek shook his head. “Peran, I wonder that God let you live this long. With that eloquent plea of yours you might have moved our tender lord or his tender son to tears, and you would have had your way and my head. But no.” Mesek faced the steward squarely. “No. Lord Kenan, Master Peran Treanhal must drag me here because he did not see this thing he claims I did. He must meet with your only son in the middle of the night — where God and any with ears can hear it — and bribe him with the promise of fifty men to aid in your overthrow which has been so long plotted by this true scion of your body.”
God and Mary, does the man have ice water in him? Mesek stood as easy as if he surveyed his own lands while Lord Kenan rose from his chair and stalked around the table. Colan’s hands clenched into fists. He made no other move. Lynet wished she could reach for Laurel, but she did not dare move either.
The steward of Cambryn towered above Mesek. “Be sure of what you say, Mesek. Be very sure.”
Mesek only tucked his thumbs into his belt. “I am that, my Lord Steward. I have no need of lies or bribes. There are fools enough here to smooth my way.” He glanced across at Peran, speaking those last words in a tone of utter disbelieving disgust.
Father stood where he was, and for a heartbeat, Lynet saw indecision in him. Then he remembered duty. He drew his shoulders back and with heavy dignity cloaking him, he walked to stand in front of his son.
“An accusation has been made against you, Colan Carnbrea, son of Steward Kenan,” he said, letting each word be heard plainly so that all would know he did not fear the answer.
“Did you do as Mesek Kynhoem says?” Lord Kenan asked.
Lynet’s heart squeezed tight until she felt as if she could not bear the pain. If Laurel felt anything at all, she gave no sign. Colan simply looked at their father. “No,” he said, flatly. “Master Mesek is mistaken.” Mistaken, not lying. Colan did not seem ready to say that much in open court. “It was Lynet I met and talked with,” he went on, and Lynet’s strangled heart sank into the floor. “She was upset by what had been said during the day, and I sought to comfort her.”
Lynet’s breath caught in her throat. She saw the plea in Colan’s eyes. She saw what he was doing, and she understood it. Here was Father, come yet again with no good answer from King Mark. Here before them was plain evidence that Camelot’s inattention and Mark’s fall were set to split their own land apart, and yet their father would cling to oaths already betrayed.
Beside this, she saw Father, tired, aging, angry alone. What if her words broke him? He might fall under the weight of his son’s treachery, as Mark had fallen beneath his wife’s. Her lies had brought down one great man. Could her truth bring down another?
Beside them both stood Laurel, her own gaze hard and uncompromising. Laurel knew the whole, long truth and knew the choice Lynet faced. This time, however, Lynet knew her sister would not forgive the lie. Lynet was no child now, run half mad with intrigue and love. If she lied now, she did so for herself and of her own free will, and Laurel would not forgive.
“Speak, Lynet,” said her father, his voice as stern and uncompromising as Laurel’s gaze. “Is it as your brother says?”
Lynet bowed her head. Not again, brother. Be your cause so just God himself must smile on it. I cannot lie again. “No, my lord father, my Lord Steward, it is not.”
As she spoke, disbelief welled up in her brother’s face, with hot rage burning it fast away, but she did not stop. “I was awake that night, and I was troubled, yes, but I did not speak with my brother. I overheard Colan give his promise to Master Peran that he would rule in Peran’s favor, whatever the matter laid before him.” Her throat was dry, her words soft and harsh. She wished with the whole of her heart that she could die. “In return, Peran offered him fifty men to aid in the overthrow of … in the overthrow of …” She couldn’t say it. It was beyond her power to force one more word into being.
Lord Kenan’s shoulders sagged and Lynet swallowed hard against the bile welling up in her. God, why, why must it be me?
All in an instant, Kenan reached across the space that separated him from his son, grabbed the young man up by the collar and cast him to the floor.
“Dog!” Father shouted. “I would call you bastard and son of a whoremaster, but I know all too well what flesh sired this treachery.” Though Father’s hands clenched into fists, only his words struck and they struck hard. “Dishonor the name you own if you will, but you will not dishonor the office we hold by the grace of God! What answer have you, sir?”
Colan picked himself up from the floor slowly and with a dignity Lynet did not know was his. Barely contained fury smoldered in his eyes. But Colan’s gaze was not on their father. It was Lynet he watched. She saw the violent nature of the promise in that gaze, and her heart quailed.
“Since you see fit to ask with such courtesy, my lord father, I will answer,” Colan said. “Why did I do this terrible thing? What my sister heard,” he made a broad and courtly gesture toward Lynet, “was nothing more nor less than that I feared you would return from King Mark without answer. And this has happened,” he added as if it were only a small matter. “But I feared more than that, father.” All pretense at lightness fell away from him and Colan also lifted his voice, to make sure every man there heard all he had to say. “I feared that with the spring, news of our weakness must wing its way across land, and sea. What do the kings of Eire say about what happened at Tintagel, with the death of their beloved daughter? They have unleashed their raiders already to regain their share of our wealth and the slaves they make of our bodies. what will they try to regain next?” He spread his hands, now the anguish in him rising up to choke at his words. “We are abandoned my father, by those we have served most diligently. We must be ready for the war that is to come of it. We must find allies who will truly stand with us, not just take the riches of our land and return empty oaths.
“It was Peran I dealt with, but Mesek has the right of it. We are cast off and squabbled over because we will not fight back!”
This last word rang through the hall. Colan faced their father, his head held high. In that moment Lynet saw the man he was to become; strong in his own right and no fool, but his blood burned hot in him, hotter than reason and hotter than right.
“So, this is your wisdom?” sneered Father flatly. “The fears and rantings of a miser who would keep all his gold for himself and give none to his master who keeps the house?”
But Colan would not yield one inch. “You know I speak the truth.”
“I might have once, Colan.” Lord Kenan’s shoulders slumped and for the first time that morning, Lynet saw how tired her father truly was. He must have ridden half the night to stand here now. “But now I know nothing except that you would rise up against me and the lords of this land.” He spoke sadly, but implacably. “You are no more son of mine, Colan Carnbrea. You bear no name. You have no place in this house nor any claim on that which is mine.”
Disbelief widened Colan’s eyes and loosened his jaw. As Father stood there offering no other word, no explanation or condition, Colan’s face turned slowly white. His hands trembled at his side. “Father, do not do this,” he whispered. “I may have acted rashly, but I acted because I feared for our house. I beg you, do not turn away from this.”
Father shook his head. “It is done,” he said. “By your own action, and now by mine.”
Lynet expected Colan to least to bow his head in the face of their father’s finality, but he did not. He held his ground, and his pride.
“What action should I have taken?” Colan asked evenly. “When you leave us to sniff like dogs at Camelot’s feast, looking for scraps, to be used like whores for the lust of their men …”
At this, all father’s rage blazed afresh. “Enough!”
But Colan was not done yet. “Would you have been so meek if it had been Laurel and Lynet Sir Tristan seduced?”
“You know nothing,” Father grated. “You are a babe bleating that it has not been fed. Get out before you shame me more.” Father shoved Colan backward, sending him staggering backwards toward the doors.
Colan righted himself, blood showing bright on his mouth where he had bitten his cheek. “Or having seen them dishonored, would you have just killed my sisters and gone bowing and scraping back to our false queen …”
“Get out!” bellowed father. “You are no more son of mine! This is no more your house! Get out!”
What happened next came so fast Lynet barely saw it. Colan launched himself at their father. Father turned, quick and graceful, grabbed his son and tossed him aside. But Colan bounced off the wall, and charged again, crashing against father, who threw him back once more. This time, Colan kept his feet, even as the men surged around him, even as Bishop Austell leapt out from behind the table to help grab Colan’s arms and drag him backward.
She could not see father. She could not see father anywhere.
Lynet thought it strange that Colan should be smiling when he was held so firmly by father’s men. She noted there was murmuring behind her, and that a tight knot of people still stood before her though Colan was in the guard’s hands. Then she realized that Laurel was not beside her any more.
While Lynet slowly took all this in, Laurel pushed out of the crowd in front of her.
“Lynet!” When Lynet did not move, Laurel grabbed her hand and dragged her through the press of bodies to their father’s side.
He lay on the stones, clutching his belly, and he screamed, a loud ringing scream torn from the depths of pain. Red. There was red everywhere. It fountained out over the handle of the dagger protruding from his belly.
Red. Blood. Stabbed. Father.
Lynet dropped to her knee. Father screamed again in his agony, clawing at the knife.
“Hold him!” she shouted. “Get him something to bite on!”
A cloth was pressed into her hands and she tried to mop at the blood and staunch it. Another cloth was twisted into a rope so father could bite down against the pain.
The blood would not be stopped. It flowed thick and salt over the embroidered linen. Worse, with it came a foul stench. The knife had pierced the bowels. Lynet’s heart froze within her. She lifted her head, and met her father’s anguished eyes, and knew he saw she could not heal this blow.
He reached out one bloody hand to her, and she clasped it, her finger’s dripping red with his gore. He choked around the cloth, trying to speak. Laurel, ever swift in her understanding, removed the cloth from his mouth.
“Be strong.” Father gasped, clutching Lynet’s hand so hard she feared her bones would snap. “Do not fall to … fall to …” He shuddered, and his head dropped back. Austell caught father’s head before it could thud onto the stones. A groan of pain robbed father of speech and he tried again to tear at his wounds. Two men grabbed his clawed, desperate hands. Lynet looked up to meet her sister’s eyes, and saw tears streaming down Laurel’s hollow cheeks.
“Is there anything …?” Laurel choked the words out.
Lynet’s tongue was slow but the stillness of her hands allowed for no answer but the truth. “Nothing,” she said hoarsely. “His belly is breached. Even if I could stop the blood …”
Father screamed again. “God!” he wailed. “Oh, God! Stop this! Stop this!”
“Lynet,” Laurel said her name again, this time so softly, Lynet was not sure how she heard it.
Oh, no. She could not do this. Not this. Not this way. But father was screaming, again and again, and his face awash in fearful agony as the floor was awash in his blood. Watching her hand as if she stood outside her own body, Lynet reached out and pulled Colan’s dagger from his belly. More blood, so much blood, too much blood, how much blood could one man lose and still scream for the pain of it? Voices all around her, voices behind and before, and motion she could not understand. There was only her hand and the knife as she pressed the edge against father’s throat in the place where the pulse beat. Father looked at her, his brown eyes clear, his reason strong despite the pain, and he, warrior that he was, understood the only help she could give. He wrenched his great hand free of those who held him and grasped her wrist, not to hold her back, but bearing down, helping her break the skin and cut the vein even as he screamed.
More blood spilled, and the scream was cut off in a gargling, drowning sound. Lord Kenan, Steward of Cambryn, sagged onto the floor. His eyes closed for the briefest of moments, and then rolled open, seeing nothing.
Lynet stood. Her father’s blood covered her dress. It smeared her cheeks. It dripped from her hands and the ends of her hair. She could taste it on her lips. She was an apparition of blood. She burned with its fire. She turned, raising the dagger she had pulled from her father’s death wound and pointed it at her faithless brother.
“Murderer!” she cried. “Murderer!”
“No!” he shouted, struggling to regain that power of speech and truth that had so briefly compelled them all to listen. “It was Arthur who caused the murder here! He who betrayed …”
She would not let him finish. She would not let him pollute this blood, these stones with his lies. “False son!” she cried. “Father slayer! Your hand did this and you would fob off the blame on our liege lord! God strike me dead before I ever call you brother again!”
“You are outlaw.”
It was Laurel. Laurel, standing straight and pale as a statue of alabaster. She too had blood spattered on her dress and her on throat, but this flaw only seemed to make her shine more brightly. “Outlaw,” Laurel said again. “No law, no protection, no sanctuary.” Her words tolled relentlessly. “No man may aid you. Any man may strike you dead without penalty and claim bloodprice for the deed. Run Colan, No Man’s Son. Run and hide while you can!”
Color drained from Colan’s cheeks leaving them ashen grey. He looked about him, to Peran and to Mesek. Neither man moved. Captain Hale and the others stood back. Laurel had said the traitor, the murderer could run, and they would let him. But they did not relax their vigilance for a moment. Let him make any movement against his doom and he would not live another heartbeat. In the heart of her rage, Lynet prayed he would run, that he would not seek the clean, quick death that Hale and the others would give him. He deserved no such mercy.
Let you envy Cain himself as the wilderness takes you.
Then, he did run. Colan ran down the dais, fled the hall, and his motion broke the silence. A roar rose from the throats of the men gathered there, and they surged after him, suddenly a mob, crying out his name, cursing, driving him out the door as a hunting pack drives a deer. But they would not kill him. She was icily sure of that. They’d drive him out to the mile stone, turning him loose in the wilderness. God would take him there, or a man guided by God’s hand.
Lynet began to tremble. Her arm dropped to her side and the cursed dagger fell clattering to the floor beside their father’s bloody corpse.