Dawn light tinted the walls of Castle Lyonnesse with rose the next time Gawain opened his eyes. All seemed quiet in the keep save for the bristling line of guards on the battlements. Ailim shifted slightly under him, giving Gawain just enough notice to compose himself before King Arthur on his grey charger, Caliburn, appeared at his side.
“How goes it, Gawain?” Arthur clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Your hard head saved your life once again, I see.”
“Better now day has broken and we can put an end to this travesty soon,” Gawain said stoutly.
“Ever loyal you are, Gawain. Lancelot tells me you were able to get in the same room as the queen and March at Castle Mount. What saw you that I should know?” Arthur watched Gawain’s expression shrewdly.
“I played the traveling minstrel lost in the storm, enabling me to gain admittance to the castle where I was asked to entertain in the great hall to pay for my dinner.”
“Did the queen behave like an unwilling guest, or otherwise?” Arthur spoke bluntly.
“The queen did not appear unhappy with her situation.”
“How so?” Arthur’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“I could not believe the evidence of my own eyes. The queen, I am distressed to say, smiled and played the wanton with her supposed captor. The Lady Nuina was most displeased with the queen’s behavior, begging your pardon, Sire.” Gawain held Arthur’s steely gaze with his own.
“My thanks for your honesty. We will see what the queen has to say in her defence when we have her safe in our company this afternoon.” Arthur wheeled Caliburn and trotted off to confer with Lancelot, giving Eldon and Caliburn the opportunity to converse with each other without broadcasting their thoughts to the rest of the stallions.
“What do they say, can you hear them?” Gawain asked Ailim quietly.
“Caliburn says the king has never been this angry and is worried for him,” Ailim reported. “Eldon is worried on Lancelot’s account. Lancelot, as always, seeks to defend the actions of the queen and play the pacifier between the two.”
“It is a dangerous line to walk. If the queen should prove false, Lancelot may bear an equal measure of the king’s fury.” Gawain stroked the heavy grey neck in front of him absently.
Ailim shook his head and rattled his bridle before lapsing into silence. The morning light strengthened and intensified as the sun rose toward its zenith. Finally, there was movement on the battlements of the castle, and King March appeared with Queen Gwenhwyfar at his side. Arthur and his knights cantered over the rough ground separating them and halted within hailing distance of the castle, the horses’ hooves carving great furrows in the soft turf.
“I trust you rested well,” King March taunted Arthur in his opening sally.
“As well as can be expected.”
The queen stepped slightly forward, but was restrained by March’s hand on her arm. A blue veil covered her face, and her hair was hidden by the hood of the cloak she wore, presumably to ward off the chill in the breeze.
“You have been most patient in your wait for your queen’s decision.” King March’s voice was oily with self-satisfaction.
“And yet, still I wait, even though the appointed hour has nearly passed,” King Arthur pointed out. “My patience is growing thin.”
“The queen’s answer is this. She has decided she prefers my company to yours, Arthur, and wishes to remain here with me.” King March turned to leave, drawing the woman with him.
“Something is amiss. That is not the queen,” Lancelot hissed in Arthur’s ear. “It cannot be she.”
“I wish to hear those words from the lips of the queen,” Arthur challenged, his voice ringing like struck steel in the bright morning air.
King March turned back and drew the hood off the queen’s head, revealing her long golden hair shining unbound in the sunlight. The wind chose that precise moment to blow the veil away from the woman’s face. Gawain narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce any glamour that might be present. The woman certainly appeared to be Queen Gwenhwyfar from this distance.
Gawain studied the figure on the battlements. If she really were the queen, where was the Lady Nuina? King March would keep them close. Certainly there was no reason to trust the Lady Nuina would not take any opportunity to cause trouble. Surely, the king should be able to tell if that was in fact his lady queen.
Gawain turned his gaze from the slight figure on the battlements and studied first King Arthur, and then Lancelot’s expression. Lancelot was tight as a bow string, and Eldon trembled beneath him in response to Lancelot’s distress. King Arthur’s face was like carven stone, and Gawain couldn’t fathom what the king’s thoughts were at this turn of events.
“I will stake my immortal soul that woman is not Gwenhwyfar,” Lancelot spoke in Arthur’s ear.
“I would that Merlin were here to strip away any deceitful magics seeking to cloud my eyes,” Arthur muttered.
“She is not Gwenhwyfar,” Lancelot repeated. “At any rate if it is the queen, then she is drugged or enchanted, Arthur. Gwenhwyfar would never willingly leave your court. You must know that as surely as I do.”
“Whether she is willing or no, it matters not. She is my lady wife and Queen of the Realm. We do not return to Cadbury without her.” Arthur’s tone brooked no disagreement, his words flat with finality.
Three ravens burst from the woods behind Gawain and flew low over Arthur’s head, their harsh voices breaking the tense stillness. At the same time, as if in answer to the ravens’ summons, the sun slid behind the bank of clouds gathering in the west. As the sun’s brilliance disappeared, the figures on the battlements wavered and dissolved. In their place stood Prince Tristam and La Belle Isoult, exposed in the grey light, their protecting glamour fled with the sun’s face.
“Treacheries and lies.” The words hissed past Gawain’s lips in a hoarse whisper.
“I knew it must be so.” Lancelot breathed in relief beside Gawain.
“You knew more than I then.” King Arthur turned his dark gaze on Lancelot thoughtfully.
Lancelot’s gaze slid away from the hawk-like eyes of the king, and he fiddled with his gauntlet before finding words for his king. “I know she is loyal to you, and to the realm,” Lancelot said carefully.
It was interesting he did not speak of love for Arthur or the realm, only duty, Gawain noted sharply. Mayhap the rumors of love between the queen and Lancelot were more than idle gossip by her empty-headed ladies. The Lady Nuina recently hinted at untoward meetings in private.
“Kai, Gareth, to me.” Arthur issued the summons in his low, carrying voice which gave no room for disobedience.
The knights in question brought their stallions to stand before their king, their bearing ready for whatever was asked of them.
“Which bolt hole do we ride for, Seven Stone Rocks or Wolf Rocks?” Arthur’s iron gaze pinned them in their saddles and demanded their opinions.
“I favor Seven Stone Rocks,” Kai offered. “There is a town of sorts there and a small keep. I don’t think King March would take the queen to Wolf Rocks where there is no real shelter to speak of.”
“On that point, I must concur with Kai, although I did hear Wolf Rocks mentioned several times. But, Kai is right in saying there is no shelter to be had there, and the queen, begging your pardon, Sire, likes her luxuries,” Gareth opined.
“What think you, Lancelot?” Arthur raised his thick brows at Lancelot.
“I would think Seven Stones Rocks, as well. King March will not choose convenience over comfort.” Lancelot met the king’s gaze levelly.
“Then, let us ride.” King Arthur, High King of all Britain raised his right hand to signal their departure. “Let us make haste and reclaim the queen.”
The stallions streamed across the grassy meadows and entered the road leading south west toward the town at Seven Stones Rocks. Ailim grabbed the bit in his teeth and lengthened his stride. The inactivity of the past hours weighed heavily on him, and the stallion appeared glad to be doing something. The knowledge they raced toward battle and confrontation seemed to fire his blood.
Gawain sat straight in the saddle and calculated the time it would take to reach Seven Stones. Hope stirred in his breast, soon the Lady Nuina would be safe, and he could speak his heart to her. The lump on the back of his head rubbed painfully on his helm, but the discomfort was far less than before. His headache was just a faint echo of what it had been a day earlier.
Farmers looked up from their work in the fields as Arthur’s company thundered past, the High King’s banner snapping in their self-created wind. Wives brought their children to the doorways of the houses and the ends of their lanes to see the glory of the great King Arthur passing by. Memories that would become stories and legends, to be passed down to their own children and grandchildren, of the day King Arthur rode the lanes of Lyonnesse in pursuit of his kidnapped queen.
Arthur slowed the company to a walk as afternoon faded to evening. The stallions lowered their great heads and drank the cooling air in huge draughts. Gawain eased Ailim, allowing him to drop to the back of the troop and stop at the water troughs along the edge of farm fields to slake his thirst a bit at a time.
“Arthur must rest for at least a few hours this night.” Gawain stroked Ailim’s sweaty neck.
“We are strong, but even we cannot run forever, and the pages’ horses are spent.” Tiredness tinged Ailim’s mental tones.
In the distance, the lights of a crossroads inn glimmered in the gathering dusk. Arthur sent Bors on ahead to arrange food for his men and stables and provisions for the horses. When Gawain pulled up in the stable yard, there was a young boy waiting to take Ailim’s reins. Gawain dismounted gratefully and handed the awe-struck youth his reins.
“Water him sparingly and give him his fill of hay; make you sure no harm comes him.” Gawain passed the lad a copper coin along with the reins.
“Yes, Sir Knight.” The ragged boy bowed quickly without taking his eyes from the grey stallion. “Sit with him, aye I will. Until you come for him,” the lad promised and ran a reverent hand down the horse’s shoulder.
“Go on with you. I will be right as rain. The boy thinks I am a god,” Ailim assured Gawain with a chuckle in his mind voice.
“I’ll hold you to that.” Gawain smiled at the boy.
He watched until Ailim’s broad haunches disappeared into the stable before following the tail end of the company into the smoky tap room. A sour odour rose from the trampled rushes on the floor, but the tables were relatively well scraped, and the food did not smell burnt.
Having been forewarned of his royal visitor by Bors, the inn keeper had emptied the room behind the huge fireplace of the wenches who usually plied their trade there, and set up trestles and chairs for the thirteen members of Arthur’s party.
A blonde girl with eyes older than her chronological age smiled at Gawain as she set a large mug of ale in front of him, making sure to brush his arm with her hand and give him an eyeful of her ample bosom that threatened to spill out the top of her nearly clean bodice. Gawain kept his gaze on her face with some little difficulty and pressed a copper into her hand. The girl’s smile widened, and she gave him a saucy wink. She disappeared, and reappeared an instant later with a bowl of thick broth, vegetables, and meat.
As she set the bowl on the rough table in front of him, she whispered in his ear. “There is a room at the back of the kitchen, on the left. I will await your pleasure, although anything out of the ordinary will cost you more than a copper.” She flounced out of the room along with the rest of the ladies pressed into service as serving wenches.
Gods, I didn’t mean for her to think I wanted to swive her. Gawain grimaced. She will just have to wait in vain as I have no more intention of lying with her than I do of resting until the Lady Nuina is safe.
Gawain pushed the thorny problem of the wench out of his mind and turned his attention to the food in front of him. He ate because his training insisted. His strength would be needed for the battle ahead, and who knew how long it would be before there was hot food and tolerable ale to be had again. Gawain half-listened to the conversation flowing around him. More than half of it revolved around the serving wenches, what they might or might not be persuaded to do, or not do, and for what payment.
“You mean swiving a Knight of the Realm is not payment enough.” Young Agravain jested, setting his ale down on the table and slopping half of it onto the stained surface.
“Aye, you would think they should pay us for the privilege of spreading their legs for us,” Gatheris agreed.
“Who do you think is paying who, March or the queen?” The question rose out of the throng of voices at the far end of the table, and Gawain could not make out who actually spoke those words.
Silence fell like a heavy blanket over the knights, and all eyes followed King Arthur rising swiftly from his place. The only sound in the room was the snapping of the fire and scrape of Arthur’s spurs on the scarred floor. Lancelot surged to his feet a mere second behind Arthur, eyes blazing and his face scarlet with the heat of his anger.
“Who dares to sully the name of our queen with such a slanderous jest?” Rage burned bright in Lancelot’s words.
Gawain felt the bottom drop out of his stomach at the sound of Lancelot’s blade as it drew clear of his scabbard and danced in the firelight at the whim of Lancelot’s rage. Lancelot challenged each of the knights in turn with his blazing eyes, his blade whispering dangerously in the warm fire-lit air of the suddenly small room. No knight would meet another’s eyes for fear of the sudden fall of Lancelot’s sword.
“‘Twas only meant in jest, Lancelot, though granted, in very poor taste,” Bedivere broke the tense silence. “Mordraut meant no offense to the queen. Blame it on too much ale and the upbringing received at Lot’s Orkney court.”
“Indeed, I apologize most profusely to my king.” Mordraut rose, somewhat reluctantly in Gawain’s opinion, and bowed to King Arthur.
“You have overstepped yourself more than once, never more so than tonight, my sister’s son.” Arthur pinned Mordraut with his black expression. “It is the queen you will apologize to in front of all the court once we are safe back at Cadbury.” Arthur bit the words off, turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room, anger flying like sparks behind him.
Lancelot followed Arthur from the room without another word, pausing only to sheath his blade before the heavy door slammed shut in his wake. Quiet talk broke out as the sound faded. Gawain was suddenly tired of the whole charade and wished only for a soft bed, preferably with no one else in it, and all the time in the world to sleep until his head and his body quit aching. To make matters worse, his nose was red and running like a tap, courtesy no doubt, of his escapade in the rain at the Castle of the Mount. Gawain rose quietly from the table and slipped out the door.
Bedivere’s words troubled him. Gawain was raised in Lot’s court as well, yet he was not the snake that Mordraut was. Once in the dark hall, he stopped to take a deep breath and compose himself before entering the public room on the other side of the fireplace. As suspected, the room was full of curious folk from the village. News of the illustrious guest at the crossroads inn travelled fast in the small community. Gawain made a point of stopping at the bar and buying a round for those gathered in the public room.
He headed for the door and stepped out into the darkness of the stable yard. The night air was cool and fresh after the heat of the tap room and the smoke of the fire. Gawain tipped his head back and let the moist wind brush over his face. The stars were bright in the sky. Gawain sought and found the Great Bear with the stars of the head pointed to the north.
Artos, Arthur, the Great Bear. The Druids linked Arthur’s claim to his realm by his connection to the constellation. Looking to his left, Gawain found the stars that were the constellation of Cassiopeia, the woman in the chair, which to Gawain looked nothing more than like the letter W.
W for woman or for witch, and she rides higher in the heavens than the Great Bear. I begin to think it is Gwenhwyfar who holds the upper hand in our present situation as well.
The stew sat uneasily in Gawain’s stomach the more he thought about the scene in the great hall of Castle of the Mount. Gwenhwyfar flirted with King March and moved freely about the room, while the Lady Nuina was kept firmly in place between Tristam and a man-at-arms on the high dais. Subjected to the haughty Isoult’s disapproving regard.
Despite the evidence, what was Mordraut thinking to make such a remark, even in jest, in the hearing of Arthur and Lancelot? Though it would not be the first time the snake sought to cause trouble among the men and sow dissent in the minds of Arthur’s companions.
Gawain shook his head in disgust and pushed himself away from the wall of the inn. The large man walked silently across the yard and entered the dark stable. Unerringly he found Ailim, using their special mind bond to locate the stallion in the dark. True to his word, the stable urchin was curled in the straw at Ailim’s feet.
“Don’t wake him,” Ailim said quietly. “‘Tis the first safe night’s sleep the urchin has enjoyed since his uncle sold him to the inn keeper.”
“What bothers him?” Gawain settled himself in the straw on the other side of Ailim.
“Two of the older stable boys have a liking for youngsters,” Ailim said succinctly. “The child has been quite good to me, and as I said before, regards me as equal with the gods.”
Gawain studied the grimy face of the young boy relaxed in sleep. The remains of a deep bruise showed faintly purple on his temple, and where his sleeve rode up leaving his arm bare the outline of fingers showing purple and yellow on the fair skin.
Gawain rubbed his aching temples with his fingers and rooted in his pouch for a piece of willow bark. He gave up trying to put two coherent thoughts together and laid his head on top of his crossed arms resting on his drawn-up knees.
“Time enough in the morning to figure things out and sort out the child as well.”
Gawain slipped into an uneasy slumber with Ailim’s nose resting on his head, the stallion’s warm, sweet breath disturbing the loose strands of Gawain’s hair. Gawain allowed himself to drift into a deeper sleep, secure in the knowledge Ailim watched over him.