“Now!” shouted Gareth, hauling on the oxen’s halter.
The ungainly creature snorted wetly and lumbered forward as the men behind its cart put their backs to it yet again. The reins creaked and the mud squelched, and with a low sucking sound, the cartwheel rolled free of the mud hole, and up onto the track again. The ox swung its heavy head as far as the yoke would permit it, annoyed to find its burden mobile. While Gareth held the beast, the carter crawled beneath the conveyance and came out again, all smiles.
“She’s sound!” he called up to Gareth, and Gareth nodded in return, giving up a silent prayer of thanks. The last thing they needed was the delay of a broken wheel or axle.
“Pass the word to drive around that swamp!” he called as he mounted his horse again. “And catch up as quick as you can. We’re almost to Lan Nanse, and we need to make it before dark!”
The man touched his brow in salute and set about yelling at the remaining carters. Seeing the matter in hand, Gareth urged his horse into a trot, riding the edge of the road, skirting between the unbroken fence of trees and the edge of the procession.
The springtime woods that surrounded them now would have been a thoroughly pleasant ride under other circumstances. The haze of green overhead let the sparse sunlight filter through to light up the snowdrops and fern that poked up everywhere. The first of the herbs had begun to unfurl, softening the countryside and lending their sharp scents to the air that was otherwise overburdened with the pungent smells of working men and beasts. Birdsong was everywhere, and occasionally the rustle and crash of some larger creature. Deer tracks had been seen, and boar, and bear. Sir Lancelot had talked of a hunting party, but the queen would not hear of the delay. If they did not immediately need the meat to feed their people, they were to continue on.
But Gareth did not have much time to admire the wild countryside. His task, along with the other squires, was to ride up and down the length of the procession, being the knights’ eyes, and voices where needed, making sure as much as possible that their caravan stayed together, and moved at a decent pace. He shouted at stragglers, made peace between quarrelling cousins, and helped pull carts from mud holes, reported to his knight, and then turned around to do it all again.
And this was a good day, when they had a road under them. Not a Roman road to be sure, but it was better than the deer rambles they’d been following as they plunged into the great woodland. It would not last much longer. The roads ended at Lan Nanse. After this, they would be crossing the northern edge of Bodmin moor that lay outside of Cambryn. They would be wishing for those deer runs then, anything to find their way between the bogs and the mists. Gareth shook himself to get rid of the shudder that threatened to creep up on him. Gawain had relished in telling him some of the stories Tristan brought with him of the ghosts and demons that haunted that open wasteland. As a Christian man, Gareth did not believe such tales, but the boy was still close enough that he was quietly glad not to have to prove himself in that way. Not yet.
He had almost reached the head of the procession. He could see the backs of the Queen and her women on their horses, their cloaks flowing and fluttering in the damp spring breeze; Dark, prim Mavis, fair and flighty Braith, who the queen really should see married off before her wandering eyes caught the wrong man, and Fiona, with her brown hair and fair skin, and her smiles full of promises that somehow never quite got fulfilled. Before his disgrace, he’d been more than willing to be patient, certain he’d win through in the end, and with Rosy and the others to take the edge off, why not be willing to wait? But since then, he’d only had the barest of glances, and when he’d tried to touch her secretly yesterday as they had touched so many times before, she’d only pulled away. Strangely, he’d found himself comparing her, unfavorably, to Lady Lynet.
She would make no promise she did not mean to keep, he thought, and he found himself wondering what she might promise, and to whom, and when. Then he remembered her tale of murder done in her family and the rough shout at the high king himself when she thought she had been dismissed. She would never act like Lady Fiona, much less like Lady Braith. For her, the flashes of humor were rare. Rarer still seems glimpses of genuine happiness. No, games of love were not for such a one.
Then why do I keep thinking on her that way? he asked himself, and he found he had no answer.
In front of him, Lady Fiona’s horse suddenly stumbled, causing her to fall back behind Lady Mavis whom she’d been riding beside. She reined the mare up and looked about her in seeming confusion. Mavis also made to stop, but Fiona waved her on, coaxing the horse to the side of the road to let the rest of the procession pass. Cursing under his breath, Gareth urged his own horse forward. He swung down and offered Fiona his hand so that she could dismount with matronly propriety.
“I fear she has taken a stone, Squire Gareth,” said Lady Fiona. “Will you look?”
But as she spoke, Lady Lynet rode past them, watching Gareth as he stood beside Fiona. She should have been up front with the queen and the ladies, but it was her habit to ride back down the line several times during the day, to speak with her own captain and his men. Their eyes met and he felt his shoulders straighten a little. He thought to see disapproval or disappointment in her, but what he saw instead was a weary resignation. She turned her face and gaze rigidly forward and urged her dapple-grey palfrey into a faster trot.
“Squire Gareth?” said Fiona. “My horse?”
“Of course, my lady,” Gareth dragged his attention back to the task at hand. The brown mare was a reasonable creature and let him lift her right fore-hoof and rest it on his knee. She whickered, snorted and leaned comfortably on his shoulder while he probed the hoof, especially the soft frog. “There’s no stone,” he said to Lady Fiona. “It was just a stumble. This road is not so smooth as it would seem.”
“As a man may be less devoted than he seems,” Fiona replied with a strained smile.
Gareth patted the mare’s shoulder to warn her she would have to take her own weight now, and set her hoof down. “What sign of devotion should I have sent you from the kitchens, my lady?” he asked softly.
“When you sent not a one to me?”
Anger flared behind her eyes. Gareth knew that was the sign for him to apologize and to compliment. Another day, he would have enjoyed the game. He loved seeing her anger melt away and turn to delight at the merest word from him. But he remained silent, bent double beside her horse, and let her snap at him. “How could I have done that? The queen watches me so close, I can barely draw breath.”
“Then she is sure to notice you standing here now.” Gently, Gareth felt the mare’s ankle and knee, making sure there was no tenderness or sign of swelling. “Why the risk now, my lady?”
“Why do you spend your time mooning over that doe-eyed Lady Lynet?” she shot back.
A cold finger touched the back of Gareth’s neck. He straightened, laying one hand on the mare’s shoulder. “She is in need of help, and it is my duty as the king’s man to offer it.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure she needs a great deal of help from you.” Fiona’s words were needle sharp. “The sort she received from Sir Tristan for helping in the cuckolding of the queen.”
Gareth found himself standing very still. “What?” he asked softly.
“She has so far neglected to mention that, I suppose.” Lady Fiona stepped up in front of him and took the reins he had slung over the saddle. “That it was she who ran messages between the lovers. Perhaps even took money from the king to betray them. A fine lady for you to tip your heart toward.” Ignoring his move to help her, Fiona mounted her horse again. “Be mindful, Gareth,” she said her voice suddenly soft, but the needles were still there, only covered over. “Not all will love you as I do.” She brushed his shoulder fleetingly and smiled her warm smile, still so full of those unkept promises. Then, she touched up her horse, and trotted away to catch up with the queen and the other ladies.
Gareth stayed where he was, feeling very much at sea. He remembered Lynet standing on her injured feet before the queen, refusing to sit or drink or in anyway ease herself until her plight had been heard. He thought of the way she jerked back, so dismayed when he kissed her hand in a salute of respect. How she had looked at him as she passed a moment ago with such heartbreaking resignation.
Fiona declared this maiden, this lady, had taken bribes first from Tristan then from the king? No. It was not possible. Such a deed was not the work of one so deeply wounded. There was another story there.
Which meant Fiona had lied to him as well as warned him away from another woman, a maiden, a woman of rank who had no husband to prevent her from being paid honorable attention.
Where in God’s name does that thought come from?
But before he could begin to answer his own question, he heard Lionel calling his name.
“Gareth!” Lionel cantered down from the head of the procession. “Gareth! Sir Lancelot is looking for you!”
Gareth swung himself back up into his saddle, and followed Lionel, ducking under tree branches, and maneuvering his horse around the larger stones and hump-backed roots. As quickly as he could, he brought himself up to where Sir Lancelot waited, well ahead of the procession, watching it come toward him like some kind of questing beast.
“Blow the signal to halt, Gareth,” said the knight tersely.
“What’s happened, my lord?” asked Gareth, reaching for the horn that dangled from his saddle beside his bags and blankets.
“Sir Ruawn hasn’t come back.”
Gareth’s heart thumped once, hard. Sir Ruawn had been sent out the day before, with three mounted men-at-arms, and Brendon to carry a chest of gold and silver from the queen to present to “King” Telent of the Rosveare, who held this valley. Telent was not a city man, and his people where not a single clan, said Sir Ruawn, whose people had come from south of this place. They were a loose and quarrelsome group of families who were willing to follow Telent and the council of their patriarchs, as long as Telent did not ask much of them in time of peace. As a result, the treasure had to be enough for Telent to share out across a dozen families to keep them pacified long enough for their caravan to cross the valley, and spend the night in relative security, hopefully in the remains of the fortress on the hill.
Gareth felt a sharp prod of guilt. He didn’t like Brendon. He didn’t like his carping and sneering and non-stop insinuations that the only reason Gareth was back in Sir Lancelot’s good graces was because of his uncle’s intervention, which hurt all the more because it was very close to the truth. Still, Brendon was also Sir Lancelot’s squire and Gareth should have noticed his absence before this, rather than just being grateful for the peace.
Gareth blew three long notes on the horn. The leaders of the procession, the ladies and knights and men on horseback, reined their horses in, the men on foot just stopped where they were, cursing mildly, passing questions back and forth, some taking a moment to instantly lean against trees or carts, or just flop down onto their backsides.
“Come with me, both of you,” said Sir Lancelot. “We need to tell Her Majesty. I doubt she’ll like what she hears.” He touched up his roan palfrey, and they fell in behind as he approached the queen. Queen Guinevere, in turn, motioned for her ladies to stay behind her. Lynet though, did not seem to be included in the instruction, and she rode up beside the queen to meet them.
“What is the matter, Sir Lancelot?” asked the queen.
While his knight explained, Gareth found himself watching Lynet. She sat her horse well, as he had seen. She wasn’t watching the queen, or attending to the conversation. She was looking ahead, as if measuring the miles. He could see her counting hours and days in her mind, wishing there were not so many. Her hand strayed time and again to the leather purse that hung beside her small ring of keys, and he wondered what it was she kept there. Then, as if she felt his regard, and turned her face toward him. She did not smile, or blush, or show any sign of surprise, let alone pleasure. Her face held only that same weary resignation he had seen before. It was the face of one who had seen too much battle, and knew there was yet another one coming. What had he done that she should regard him in that way?
Or what has been done to her?
“I will take Gareth, Lionel and three others down to the valley and find out what has happened,” Sir Lancelot was saying and the sound of his name brought Gareth back sharply to the matter at hand. “That should be enough to deal with whatever is there.” Sir Lancelot spoke with easy unconcern. There was even a relish to his words. His eyes were lit in a way they had not been since the tedious march had begun.
“And should you not come back, my lord?” asked Queen Guinevere.
Sir Lancelot grinned at her as he bowed. “Pray for my soul, Majesty. And Sir Ioan can lead you fast around the valley, or back to Camelot for a larger force of arms.”
The queen clearly did not like that answer, or the knight’s grin, she also, however, saw no alternative. “Then God be with you, my lord,” she said curtly She turned her delicate palfrey around and rode back to her ladies with Lynet following silently beside her.
Lynet did not look back at him.
“There’s a lesson for you, my men,” murmured Sir Lancelot. “The greater the love, the sharper the tongue.”
Love? The word slapped against Gareth. What was Sir Lancelot doing speaking of love from the queen, even in jest?
“Bring me Taranis, Gareth,” said Sir Lancelot. “And both of you arm yourselves.”
Gareth was glad to obey. The activity drove his knight’s strange choice of words from his mind. The ritual of securing his leather and bronze armor, and helping the knight into his steel mail, made it clear to his mind and body that there was to be a battle. Excitement surged into him. He buckled on his sword, slung his shield over his back and mounted Achaius, who danced to show Gareth he was ready to stretch his legs and hoping for a real run. Gareth accepted his spear from one of the younger boys. This was no blunt, light practice stick, but the true spear with its iron tip that could be hurled at an enemy or used to spit him. Lionel met his eyes soberly from the back of his own war horse, and together they rode to where their knight was waiting with the other armed and mounted men.
Sir Lancelot towered over them both on his great red stallion. He surveyed Gareth, Lionel, and the three men riding with them and gave a nod of approval. Then, they rode past the silent stares of the procession, and the queen.
And Lynet. He tried to catch her eye but could not tell if he succeeded. Behind her, though, Lady Fiona looked at him with shining eyes. He managed a gallant smile for her, but nothing of the love or anticipation he was used to feel when he looked at her came to him.
The forest thinned quickly as they came to the valley’s rim. The clouds overhead had begun to break apart, sending down shafts of warm sunlight to illuminate the lowlands, making it look like a painting of a saint’s abode on a church wall. One beam lit up the stone-and-timber walls of the old fortress that watched them from the valley’s opposite wall. Gareth could see no movement up there, no watch kept or signal given. All activity seemed to be centered around a cluster of rude dwellings on the valley floor. They were round and straw thatched and smoke drifted up out of the holes in their roofs. There was not even a proper long house let alone a hall.
Patches of the valley floor were cleared for cultivation. Cows, black, white and red, grazed where they would. They rode past these unimpeded. In the village before them, they’d finally been noticed. It wasn’t until they neared the village they were finally noticed. A woman’s scream rose up, and she and her fellows ran, snatching up their children and ducking into their houses.
That doesn’t bode well, thought Gareth and he set his jaw.
Sir Lancelot continued to canter onward, completely unperturbed, even as they could plainly see the men who gathered in the gaps between the round houses begin to cluster and crowd together, watching their approach. The knight reined up Taranis before this uneasy gathering, and swept them with his gaze, sizing them up for what they were, a cadre of unarmed and untrained men, wondering if they should even try to stave off a knight on horseback.
“I seek King Telent,” he announced. “Who here can take me to him?”
“Telent is dead!” called back one man.
The crowd parted, gladly, Gareth thought, to let the speaker through. He was a small, hairy mountain of a man, with arms and legs equally bowed. The tattoo of a bull ran down his right arm, underneath a quantity of red-brown hair. His beard and hair were both long enough to divide into three braids, and his only clothing was leather breeches and boots, and a kind of loose leather kilt over them. He looked up at Sir Lancelot with a pair of piggish black eyes and folded his arms. A bronze torque had been twisted around his neck, and he wore bronze rings on both meaty, bare arms. He wore, unusually for such an outland chief, a sword at his side. Then, with a shock, Gareth realized he knew the blade. It belonged to Sir Ruawn.
“And who are you, Master?” asked Lancelot.
The hairy mountain grinned, showing several black and broken teeth. “You can call me King Enor!” He sniggered as he said it, and several of the men joined in nervously. All of which left Gareth no doubt at all that Telent had not met his death peacefully.
He watched the houses behind the men, seeing only vague movement inside. He scanned the hillsides. They had been stripped of timber long since, and offered few hiding places. He saw no movement. That left the fort. Crumbling as it was, if “King” Enor was going to conceal his fighting force, there was no where else to put them.
“God be with you, King Enor,” Sir Lancelot said, inclining his head politely. “I bring you greetings from the High Queen Guinevere of Camelot. She sent her emissaries out to you a day since, bearing gifts for the Rosveare king and his men. They have not yet returned. Now I am come to ask have you seen them.”
“Emissaries?” Enor scratched his chin. “No … no … unless you mean that stringy piece of eastern beef and his boy with his box come calling yesterday. Hi there, Brengy, bring the boy out.”
Brengy hurried into one of the round houses. Gareth’s horse stamped once. Gareth kept his gaze on the ruined fort. He saw no movement, but his hands itched from more than the frightened and hostile gazes of the men around him.
Brengy and another, younger man came back, and between them they dragged Brendon. Gareth’s fellow squire had been beaten, and badly. His face was a mass of cuts and bruises and both eyes were so swollen that Gareth doubted he could see. His hands were bound before him with leather thongs that had begun to cut into his wrists and left his hands swollen and useless. They cast him down in the mud at Enor’s feet. Brendon groaned weakly and tried to roll over, but could not.
Anger rose up in Gareth. How dare they! How dare this heathen barbarian lay hands on one of the true king’s liege men! How dare he rob the queen? He ground his teeth together, barely able to remember he must keep his attention on the fortress. He must not let surprise overtake them.
Sir Lancelot looked down at Brendon lying in front of the valley king.
“Was this done at your orders?” he asked.
“It was!” Enor folded his arms and stood with his feet spread apart, as if daring Sir Lancelot to do anything about it. Gareth’s guts twisted with anger, and he felt the blood rise in him, but he could do nothing, nothing but sit there while this barbaric excuse for a man grinned up at the knight.
“And where are his companions?” asked Sir Lancelot.
“Hmmmm …” “King” Enor made a great show of tapping his chin. “I think we left them out on the midden heap with Telent.”
“Why would you treat the queen’s messenger this way? Did he give offence?”
Enor spat. “We want none of your queen here.”
Sir Lancelot’s face creased in a frown of mock confusion. “The Rosveare have before this been the friends of Camelot.”
“Telent was Camelot’s friend. What has Camelot to give me for that same friendship?” Enor’s eyes seemed to shrink back into his skull, growing yet more piggish. “What that man of yours carries wouldn’t do for one of my slaves.”
That’s more true wealth than you’ve seen in your life, you whoreson bastard! Gareth bit his lip and kept his hands knotted around his reins. Watch the fort. Watch the fort.
“What is your price then? I will take your words to Her Majesty and you will hear what answer she makes.”
“My price? Pah!” Enor spat again, this time at Taranis’s hooves. The horse stomped once but did not startle. “She’s very anxious to cross my valley. What if my price is Her Majesty?” He leered. “I hear these city women are tasty tidbits who like a few real men of a long night!” He let out a huge guffaw, and more of the men joined in this time.
Sir Lancelot slipped off Taranis, handing his spear back for Lionel to take. The knight crouched down beside Brendon, taking closer measure of his injuries. “Mabus,” he said quietly. One of the men at arms dismounted, and came forward, gingerly he lifted Brendon, who groaned again, and half-carried, half-dragged him backward.
“Now, Your Majesty,” said Sir Lancelot, standing directly in front of the valley king. “You must forgive me. I am from a different shore, and speak a different tongue. I think I did not understand what you said about my queen and my fellow knight.”
Enor leered and spoke slowly. “I said I think if your queen wants to cross my valley, she’d better be ready to spread her legs for it. Is that plain enough for you?”
So swiftly Gareth could not see the blow, Sir Lancelot lashed out, striking Enor across the ear and sending him reeling. He did not fall, though, and when he found his feet again, he was grinning as if this were what he had been most longing for. His drew his stolen sword and grinned at the knight, showing all his dirty teeth.
Sir Lancelot drew his own sword, and swung his shield around to fit over his arm. All the men backed away, some looking terrified, some looking expectant. Back in the houses a babe began to wail. One of Enor’s men ran forward with his own shield, a great, scarred, wooden square bound with bronze and as scarred as the blade of his sword.
Oh yes, they’d been waiting for this.
The men circled each other, and Gareth felt his own fierce grin form as he watched the curious relaxation that always overcame Sir Lancelot in combat take hold.
To watch Sir Lancelot with a sword was to watch the hand of God at work. There was no hurry in him, no matter how quickly his opponent moved. He stepped casually from place to place, somehow failing to be where the blow had fallen, blocking only when he chose, and that was only when he saw opportunity to thrust past his enemy’s defences. Shouts went up, jeers and boos and catcalls, reminding Gareth painfully of his own battle with Sir Kai. But this was something different. This would not end with first blood. This was for the valley all around them, and this monstrous creature was a king. What was more, he had already overseen the deaths of one knight and his men-at-arms. After the first of the knight’s blows drove him reeling backward, the leer vanished from the valley king’s face. He began to fight in deadly earnest, shouting curses and charging in again and again, and the knight dodged and circled, brought down his blows with precise calculation until Enor’s shield shattered and the king stood there, half-naked, his only armor in pieces. Gareth wondered if he might surrender then. But no.
He hung back, Sir Ruawn’s sword in both hands, sweat darkening hair and beard, determined to sell his life dearly. He had a slash on his shield arm, and another cut across his side, bleeding freely.
Movement caught Gareth’s eye. Two men from the back of the crowd had drawn back, slowly, hiding behind the bodies of their fellows, hoping to avoid notice. Lionel’s nodded. He’d seen them too.
Gareth put his heels to Achaius’s sides. The horse broke into a fast trot, swinging wide around the crowd shouting for their king. Lionel did the same, circling the other side. The two men spotted them in an instant, and tried to run, pelting away between the houses. Gareth leaned over Achaius’s neck and brought down his spear. Behind him rose a fresh chorus of shouts. Before him ran two men in loose tunics and sandals, and one carried a horn at his hip, and his was frantically trying to jerk it loose from his hemp belt.
Gareth dug his knees into Achaius’s sides, and the horse flew forward. Lightly, swiftly, He maneuvered horse, spear, and self, and rode hard upon the man’s heels, he cast the spear down and the man screamed and pitched forward. Gareth rode around in front of him. He was unhurt, but sprawled on is belly, pinned to the ground by the leather strap of his horn. Gareth glanced to see that Lionel had already ridden down the second man, who was on the ground and not moving. Then he turned his attention back to his man. He jerked the spear out of the dirt. The man rolled over, and found Gareth’s weapon pointed straight at his chest.
Another shout behind him, and a keening wail.
“When were you to give that signal, villain?” he growled. “How many men? How armed and where are they?”
“Don’t kill me my lord,” whispered the man. “Please. I beg you. Don’t.”
“Answer my questions, and do not lie,” answered Gareth stonily. His guts twisted. Cowardice on top of treachery. He tried to remind himself he could not expect more from such a one, but if the man had the courage to stand with one who would rise up against his king, however petty, he should have the courage to face the consequences of it.
“Thirty men, my lord, with spears and knives, up in the old fort. We were to blow the horn if it looked like the king would be … might be …”
More shouts behind them, another high-pitched wail went up. The man’s eyes went wide with panic.
“You’ve more foresight than your king,” remarked Gareth, stepping back. “They’ll wait for the horn? There’s no other signal for them?”
The man nodded. “Please, my lord. Don’t kill me. I was Telent’s man, I swear. I only …”
Gareth had neither the patience nor the stomach to hear more. “On your feet,” he ordered.
Lionel rode up. “That one’s dead,” he reported, his voice hard. “What’s here?”
“Thirty men with spears up in the fort,” Gareth told him. “Waiting for their signal. We need to get back.”
He slung himself back into his saddle. He and Lionel rode close, driving their prisoner before them, and alternating glances backward. No movement came from the fort, yet. What did they see up there? Not much, he thought. The place had no standing watchtower, and Gareth still could not see any movement.
A scream sounded from out of the crowd, then a wail and a high undulating cry of grief. Over the heads of the crowd, Gareth saw Sir Lancelot standing over Enor, who had lay unmoving in the mud, blood all over his face and chest, and his eyes open and dead.
Sir Lancelot was not even breathing hard.
“Is there any other man here who would slander the honor of Camelot’s queen?” he inquired. “Come then. I stand ready.”
No man moved except to cringe backward. The babe was still crying in its house. Gareth wished it would quiet. He prodded his man forward, riding up to Sir Lancelot and reporting briskly what he and Lionel had learned. The knight looked down on their prisoner.
“Who are you?” Sir Lancelot demanded, disgust making his accent more pronounced, and for a moment Gareth was not certain the man could understand him.
“Sulmed ap Ros, my lord,” whispered the prisoner at last.
“Which of these is your father?”
“I am, my lord.” A grey-bearded man with a blue sun-circle tattooed on his left cheek came forward. He bore himself more bravely than his son, Gareth thought.
“Do you speak the truth to me, old man?”
Ros nodded. “I swear it on my son’s head.”
“A good oath, old man. Now.” Sir Lancelot raised his voice to make sure the whole of the assembled Rosveare heard him. “This son of yours stays here with me, as do all your women and your babes. You’ll go up to that fortress and tell them how it is your vile kingling came to die. You’ll bring them down without their arms, or your son is the first to the sword, and their families will follow.” He spoke steadily and without hesitation. “You’ll be quick, and you will not try to deceive me. I have an army waiting on the hill to come down and take this miserable scrub land and that heap of rocks if I so much as shout. And before I shout your people will lie spitted on the ground.”
Did they believe him? They looked down at the corpse of their usurper king, still bleeding on the ground, and made their decision. Ros, father of Sulmed, bowed his head, backed away, and all but fled toward the fort.
Sir Lancelot sheathed his sword, swung himself once more onto Taranis’s back. He took his spear from Gareth and from that height surveyed the knot of men before him. “Get the men into one of the houses, and bring out the women and babes. As long as all remain peaceful, no one is to be molested, and nothing taken or compelled.” He glance up at the hill where the royal procession waited behind its screen of trees. “Our queen is of delicate constitution, and would not approve.” He touched up his horse, riding back behind the knot of hostages, to take up a post where he could have the best view of village, fort and men. As he passed by Gareth, he said softly. “That was well done, Squire.”
Gareth’s heart swelled with pride, and with those few words, the nagging aching fear that had dogged him since Camelot fell away.
His own battle won, Gareth set about the business of carrying out his knight’s commands.
As easily as that, it was done.
The men holding the fort, upon hearing their usurping king was dead and that their families were hostage to Camelot, were willing enough to lay down their arms and descend in a long line into the valley. One of them even brought Camelot’s gold which Enor had sent up into hiding with them.
While these waited under guard beside their women, Lancelot rode up with one of the men at arms to inspect the fort for himself. There followed a long hour while they watched the hill, fairly certain all was right, but restless all the same, in case it was not. Then, at last, they saw a flicker of movement and a flash of blue and white on the fortress sagging wall as the queen’s banner was hung out for all to see.
The men of Camelot all cheered and Gareth raised his own horn, blowing two high notes to let the procession on the hill know it was safe to begin the journey down into the valley that had been so swiftly won. But the celebration was short-lived, for after that came the task of collecting their dead. Sir Ruawn and the other men were laid out straight and wrapped reverently in their cloaks while the priest prayed over them all, seeking God’s intercession for the men who had died doing their duty. Then, they set some of the Rosveare to digging their graves.
The queen herself had ignored Sir Lancelot’s blunt assessment that the king’s old council should be put to the sword for leading a rebellion against the high king. She instead gathered them, and their families around her, and heard the tale of how Enor had come to power. It was an old, and an ugly story, of a drunken brawl, challenged honor, and a lucky blow, a younger brute overcoming an older leader. No one was willing to come forward with complaints of other crimes, not even King Telent’s widow. Queen Guinevere, holding court from her simple folding chair, urged the king’s council to elect a new leader from among themselves, and ordered that they should go to Camelot to swear their new fidelity to the high king, and if they did not, a delegation from the Round Table would come calling to find out why that was. The treasure, she put in the council’s hands.
“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.
Instead, seeing Brendon quiet on his pallet, Gareth crawled out of the tent and stood up, bending backwards until his back popped.
It was a night full of stars. The waxing crescent moon hung low above the valley walls. He could see the torches of the men outside the walls on watch. Gareth stretched his shoulders until they cracked and swung his arms up over his head, letting the chill air clear his head.
Movement caught his eye. While Gareth watched, a figure in a dark cloak made its way down the ragged aisle between the tents, the banked fires and the sleeping bodies. The figure walked with a slightly rolling, slightly limping stride, and Gareth knew it for Lynet. He smiled. Another chance. He’d be courteous and correct. She’d have his apology, and she’d see he understood her worth.
But, abruptly, Lynet turned away. Walking fast, clearly trying not to break into a run, she hurried toward the fortress’s far corner, where there stood the remains of a lean-to shed stood.
Gone to relieve herself? Gareth thought, a little dazed. But the lady did not emerge, and worry claimed Gareth, though he did not know of what. He followed her path to the ragged shed, angling himself carefully, so that he could pull himself back into shadow quickly, if he was seeing only a private moment’s struggle with nature’s call, he peered inside.
Lady Lynet knelt on a pile of moldering straw. Her hands were cupped together, and a soft silver light unlike anything Gareth had ever seen before shone softly up from them. He gasped, then held his breath, lest he be overheard.
But Lynet heard nothing. She only looked at the light in her hands, her face void of expression, her eyes staring. She did not move. As he watched her for a long moment, his own heart hammering hard, Gareth was ready to swear she had ceased to breathe.
Gareth pulled back until he could not see that faint, fae light anymore. He stared at the shed. Then, he walked back to Brendon’s tent. He sat down beside his fellow squire, and stared at the brazier. There he stayed until the dawn came, not moving, not able to move, only trying again and again to understand what he had seen, and what it could possibly mean.