Tegan hauled once more. She could see Gawain was putting in as much effort to free himself as she was, for his jaw worked and his throat strained. His strong wrists flexed.
He came free suddenly and staggered forward, splashing water and mud and cursing freely.
“Don’t stand still!” Tegan warned him, as he waved his arms to avoid dropping into the water.
He moved forward again, taking quick, small steps so his weight did not linger upon any section of mud for too long, until his boots hit the solid ground which Tegan stood upon. He stepped up and stamped the black, thick mud from his boots, while water ran from him in rivulets.
Tegan held onto to Durandel and did not let the point dig into the ground, for that was disrespectful. She waited to hand it back while Gawain resettled the cloak around his shoulders.
“You named my sword properly,” he said as he peered down at the front of his cloak and adjusted the folds.
“I should not have?”
“I’m surprised you know the name.”
“Why would I not know the name?”
“Women don’t, as a rule.”
Tegan clamped her teeth together, irritation touching her. As Gawain rehung his bow and quiver, she said, instead, “There isn’t much to hunt, at this time of year.”
“There is even less reason to linger in Camelot right now,” Gawain replied absently. Then he straightened and his gaze met hers. “I mean no disrespect,” he said softly. “Your stepmother was a great lady and her passing has affected us all.”
Tegan nodded. “Thank you.”
“Is that why you are out here?” Gawain added.
“Something like that,” she said, for Guenivere’s concerns were no business of his.
Gawain fingered a rent in his cloak, which the blade of the sword had sliced through. “If you were a lady, you would offer to mend the damage you have imparted.” There was a quirk to the corner of his mouth and a twinkle in his blue eyes that she had often seen when he was wooing yet another lady of the court.
Tegan thrust the hilt of the sword at him, her irritation increasing. “You and I have both agreed I am not a lady.”
He reached for the hilt with a startled look.
“Besides,” Tegan added, “the tear in your cloak is your fault. If you insist upon wandering about country for which you have not taken the time to learn the lay, then find a needle and thread and mend it yourself.” She brushed passed him and stalked down the path.
“Wait…Tegan! Princess!” Gawain called out behind her. “I need you to show me the way back.”
“Pay a local. I am not for hire.” She kept moving, regretting that she had stopped to help him at all. Dealing with Gawain never provided a happy outcome for her. She had learned that far too often in the past.
The first time she had ever seen Gawain was when she was ten years old, the year her mother, Princess Maeve of Ireland, had died. Her father had brought her and Cadoc to Arthur’s court. At the time, Arthur’s official headquarters was no more than an armed encampment for his army and senior soldiers, and the support cadres which travelled everywhere with him.
Gawain had been barely a man himself, then, although to Tegan’s eyes, he was a giant with a loud voice and fast, strong movements, an easy laugh and blue eyes which glittered with merriment more often than not.
He had fought his first battle for Arthur, who had only been Britain’s War Duke back then—oh, the details were so very clear in her mind! She doubted Gawain even remembered the battle or the day, but she did. Or rather, she remembered what came after the battle.
She had been hiding in the trees which sheltered the rough-and-ready camps where the soldiers rested, for the loud voices slurred by wine and the big bodies, the harsh clash of iron and the carousing had frightened her. It was her first experience with an army camp of any sort, let alone one releasing tension after a hard day of fighting.
Tegan saw Gawain emerge from deeper inside the trees running along the other side of the rough track where she had found herself. Gawain was with a man who Tegan guessed was his brother, judging by their similarity of appearance. Later, Tegan had learned the man was Gaheris, the future king of Lothian.
Tegan ignored the men. Her gaze and all her attention were caught by the woman with them. The woman had long dark hair, so unlike Tegan’s wheat-colored curls, and a firm chin. Like Gawain and Gaheris, she wore trews and armor and a sword strapped to her hip. A knife jutted from her boot. The woman was beautiful in a dark, intense way, but the quality that had caught Tegan’s attention that day and had lingered with her ever since, was that of power. The woman looked as strong and as competent as either of the two men she stood with. She was shorter, of course, but that did not in any way diminish her power.
Tegan had only been ten, but even then, she sensed that this woman would not quail before anything. She would not be pushed hither and yon by men or enemies. She would hew her own path, her chin lifted and her hands held in fists.
Tegan half-hid herself behind a slender tree and drank in every detail about the woman. Her hair, her clothes, the armor she wore. The way she stood and moved her hands. The hilt of her sword and the length of it—which looked impossibly long to Tegan’s young eyes.
The three warriors had spoken for a moment as they stood upon the worn path they had stepped out onto, their voices low. Then the woman had smiled at the two men and walked swiftly along the road, away from the white tent that was Arthur’s and from Tegan’s hiding spot.
Gawain watched her go, a strange expression on his face. “If you do not court and marry her, brother, I will,” he told Gaheris, still watching her walk away.
“Arthur’s sister? You’re mad,” Gaheris said. “Don’t let our father’s delusions of grandeur infect you. She is not for us.”
“More’s the pity,” Gawain replied with a deep sigh. “For that is a woman worth fighting for.”
Tegan caught her breath. Gawain had been captured by the woman’s qualities, just as she had been!
The two of them turned and walked down the road in the other direction, passing Tegan where she stood by the tree. As they passed, Gawain spotted her. He winked as he went by.
Tegan was struck with instant, innocent adoration. In that moment, in her childish heart, she loved Gawain with an obsession that a merely adult heart could not possibly contain.
From that moment on, Tegan dedicated herself to becoming the type of woman Gawain would find worthy of courting and marrying—a woman like the one she had watched. A woman like the one Gawain had admired.
She learned everything she could about Rhiannon, the future king’s stepsister, and determined to become just like her—for Rhiannon was a mighty warrior in the Queen’s Cohort.
Many years later, Tegan had earned her own place in the Queen’s Cohort, but by then, Rhiannon had become Queen Rhiannon of Strathclyde, and lived in the northern reaches with Idris, the Slayer King.
It was at that time Tegan learned that a warrior wasn’t the type of woman Gawain was drawn to at all, but by then, it was too late—the metal had been cast and cooled. She could no more change her nature than a plowshare could.
As Tegan stalked along the narrow paths of the Summer Country, between still, disguised pools of water, recalling that first momentous meeting, she heard Gawain’s heavier tread behind her. He caught up with her, but there was little room on the path for two people, forcing him to walk behind her. That suited her just fine.
“I apologize,” he said roughly.
“For what?” Tegan kept her tone airy.
“For whatever slights and ills I have committed which make you scowl that way.”
“You do not know what to regret,” she replied. “You apologize because you don’t know how to find your way back to Camelot and not dump yourself in mud once more.”
Gawain did not speak for a few more steps. Then he growled, “Damn it, yes. It seems to me my presence alone irritates you. I cannot amend that. Not right now.”<
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“Alas.” She did not glance back at him.
They walked in silence for a way.
“You come out here a great deal, don’t you?” Gawain said.
“No more than many.”
“Enough to know your way around these pools.”
She did look at him, then. “I learned the ways.”
Gawain considered her frankly. “Is that why we are moving away from Camelot at the moment? Because the path bends that way? Or are you leading me astray in an effort to return whatever insult I have delivered upon you lately?”
Tegan turned to confront him, her fury overflowing. “I should push you into a pool!” she cried.
Gawain lifted his hand, palm outward. “Again, I apologize for my loutish ways. Lead me to Camelot, then we can both return to ignoring each other once more.”
Tegan fought to bring her breathing back to normal. She was almost bellowing, her anger pulsing through her veins. She realized she had tightened her hand into a painful fist. She loosened the fingers.
Guenivere won friends with honey, not iron, she reminded herself.
Gawain waited for her to turn and continue on, wearing the polite expression he used with everyone he did not know well, which did not soothe her anger in any way. “I ignore you, Northman, because I know your smooth ways are a lie. You hide your true nature from everyone. Right now, you seethe because you must depend upon me to find your way back. You would rather force me to it at sword point and assert your control that way.”
His polite expression shifted. His jaw flexed. Gawain’s eyes narrowed. “In truth, I would be more comfortable following Morgan the Goddess out of this labyrinth. You speak of hiding true natures, Tegan the warrior, but you wear gowns and veils every day.”
Tegan straightened, stung. “There is no need for armor. Britain is at peace.”
“Alas,” Gawain said heavily, using the same tone she had a moment before.
Tegan stared at him, her heart thudding as she realized that the enmity between them had not diminished in the slightest in the last five years.
She whirled and walked quickly. She ached to return to Camelot now and rid herself of his presence. “Then it is true, what I suspected of you,” she said over her shoulder as Gawain trod behind her once more. “You really do miss war.”
“Perhaps I merely miss the sight of a woman in armor.”
“We both know that is not even a little bit true.”
He did not dispute her. For a long moment, he did not speak at all. When he did, his tone was reflective. “I spoke without thought, back there, but now I think about it…yes, I think I do miss war.”
“You are not the only man grown restless for lack of a sword in his hand,” Tegan pointed out. “So why do you sound as though the idea is distasteful to you?”
“It is not the act of war itself that I miss,” Gawain muttered. “I could happily live another lifetime without spilling another’s blood. That is not something which could be said for some men—those you call restless.”
“You hold yourself apart from them? You are Arthur’s greatest warrior.”
“Lancelot is Arthur’s greatest warrior. It was his ways that won Badon for Arthur and earned the peace that followed.”
“I remember,” Tegan breathed, for Mount Badon had been one of her first battles…and had been her last, too.
“Aye, so do I, in detail,” Gawain replied, his tone dry. “If you recall that day, why do you ask why I hold myself apart from such deeds?”
“You consider yourself a peaceful man…” Tegan breathed, understanding coming to her.
“Why does that surprise you?”
She stole a glance over her shoulder as she rounded a bush that grew out over the path. One day, when she had time, she would trim the bush out of the way. But not today.
Gawain followed her steps carefully, his head down, the red in his hair gleaming in the sunlight. He was not a stupid man. He would not repeat the error which had dropped him into the water in the first place. He would place his feet exactly where she put hers.
“I am surprised you think you are a peaceful soul,” Tegan said, her voice lifting, “because you are the most unsettled man at court.” She did not finish the thought aloud, but instead, quick images cascaded through her thoughts—of Gawain drinking. Fighting. Even singing, in a fine voice that had surprised her the first time she had heard it, despite being marred by wine. He ate with gusto. He bedded women with the same reckless enthusiasm, as if the next meal or fight or woman or cup of wine would satisfy him…as soon as he reached it. “There are not enough wine cups or women at court to ever make you happy,” she added.
Gawain looked up, startled, then cursed as he brought his foot down too close to the edge of the path and his heel sank in the mud. He jumped sideways, extracting the boot.
Then his eyes narrowed and his focused shifted away from her. “Listen,” he said softly.
Tegan heard then what he had heard. Horse hooves. Many of them.
“On the road to Camelot,” she breathed. “We are but minutes from the road ourselves, here.”
“Then we’d best hurry,” Gawain said. “Such a large party…if it is not Lancelot, come a day early, then it might be an enemy we can slow from reaching the gates before they’re closed.”
“There are no enemies left in Britain,” Tegan scoffed. Arthur’s patrols and ceaseless vigilance saw to that.
“If you believe that, then you are more foolish than I thought.” Gawain sounded suddenly very old and wise…and tired. “Lead on,” he added, his tone grim and his hand on Durandel.
Tegan glanced at his hand. “And you are not spoiling for war?”
Before he could answer, she whirled and hurried along the path, heading for the road and Camelot. If it was indeed Lancelot heading for the fort, then she would be there to greet her half-brother and the man who had made her a warrior…to her eternal regret.
Chapter Three
The party of travelers did reach the high gates of Camelot before Tegan and Gawain did, their colorful banners flapping in the breeze of their passage. Tegan pointed to the last banner to pass through the gate, the great oak outlined upon it in golden stitches. “Brocéliande. It is Lancelot.”
“And that is the green Guanne banner ahead of it. I do not think just Lancelot has arrived,” Gawain added. “They will present themselves to Arthur before they do anything.”
Tegan nodded. It meant they must both be on hand when the Lesser Britain lords and kings stood before the High King.
They hurried through the gates after the last horses and immediately separated—Gawain to head to the Lothian house located by the training arena, while Tegan strode along the high street, then through the narrower side streets to where her family’s house stood.
As she walked and dodged people frantically responding to the arrival of the great caravan of travelers, Tegan attempted to school her heart into a steady rhythm, then gave up the attempt and cursed Gawain softly and aloud. Ever he vexed her—why had she even bothered helping him? She should have anticipated that he, of all men, would not thank her for the effort.
She had learned this fact thoroughly after the Battle of Mount Badon. Yet she failed to remember it when in his company and constantly emerged with seared feelings. Gawain was not a considerate man.
It baffled her why most of the court judged him to be a thoughtful and loyal companion. His company was sought after. Did they not see the truth? Why were they so blind to his true nature? He had just now, in the fens, admitted he was bored with court life and constant peace. He had confirmed that the jovial exterior he presented to everyone was a lie.
Tegan realized she was almost stamping her boots as she walked, her frustration rising. She slowed her steps, despite the pressure to appear at court in a presentable state as swiftly as possible. She must shrug off the effects of Gawain’s company, if she was to stand beside the Queen and appear as though she belonged there and greet her half-brother upo
n his return.
Lancelot.
She sighed, thinking of the tall man with black, curly hair, black eyes and a roguish grin…
Two years after Teagan had first seen Gawain and Rhiannon, and determined the shape of her future, Lancelot and his mother had arrived at Arthur’s court, along with Nimue, the Lady of the Lake, and her companion, Vivian, and Lancelot’s half-brother, Hector.
Their arrival had gone unnoticed by Tegan, for she was kept apart from political affairs. Her father had arranged a companion to watch her and Cadoc and teach them their letters, which both of them had already learned. The companion was an old woman who preferred to doze in the sun, which made it easy for Tegan and Cadoc to slip away from the camp and explore with complete freedom.
The first time Tegan had become fully aware of Lancelot was when he walked into their family’s encampment one morning shortly after breakfast. Lancelot had his black cloak pulled in around him against the cold and moved with complete silence.
Cadoc jumped up from the log he had been sitting upon and fumbled at the knife at his belt. “Who-who are you?” he demanded of the tall, dark man.
“Lancelot du Lac. Or Lancelot of Benoic. Take your pick,” the man said. “At ease, boy. I am a friend.”
Cadoc didn’t relax. He was six years older than Tegan. Their father had given Cadoc the responsibility of watching over her, which he took seriously, for he longed to join the army and fight properly. Guarding her was as close as he could get, for Bricius would not hear of him fighting in a real battle before he turned twenty. Cadoc would not wait another two years, though. Tegan sensed that the constant battles Arthur faced were filling her brother with an adult frustration she found uncomfortable. When Cadoc became an adult in the eyes of the world, he would no longer be her friend and constant companion. He would leave her, just like their mother had.
But she knew Cadoc would soon find a way to fight, with Father’s permission or without it, and even understood why.
Cadoc quivered beside her as he confronted Lancelot, his hand white upon the hilt of his knife. “You are the one from the Perilous Forrest, that they say is haunted?”
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 4