“It is called peace and plenty, Cai,” Tegan said, as Guenivere tried very hard not to laugh. “By the way, the tables directly in front of Arthur are crooked. Have you noticed?”
Cai sighed. “No, I had not,” he said, his tone brusque. He raised his voice. “You! Ban. Bede…what is your name?”
The servant settling the Corneus table looked up, startled.
“Move the thing a pace that way, will you?” Cai said, striding over to the table. “Is there no Roman blood in your family, for you to know what a straight line is? Look at the other tables, man, and line it up!” He gripped the table with both big hands and lifted it all by himself and dropped it where he wanted it.
Tegan watched the display of strength, awed. “He must have been a terror on the battlefield.”
“You were on the battlefield. You did not see for yourself?” Guenivere asked.
“I was too busy,” Tegan admitted. “And Cai fought under Arthur’s banner right in the midst of the field, while the Cohort remained on the edges. What do you want me to take care of, Jenny? Apart from the ribbons, that is?”
Guenivere didn’t answer. Her gaze was on something behind Tegan. Tegan didn’t whirl to look, for that would signal to anyone watching where Guenivere’s attention had shifted. Instead, she shifted on her feet in a movement that looked unstudied, until she could turn her chin enough to look from the corner of her eye.
Lancelot stood just inside the big doors, watching the industry in the room. He wore black as always.
As Tegan turned to watch, Cai called out. “Lancelot. Here!” He waved.
Lancelot moved down the length of the hall and Cai clapped him on the shoulder, talking swiftly. Cai turned and moved back to where Guenivere and Tegan stood, bringing Lancelot with him.
Guenivere let out a breath heavy enough to be considered a sigh.
Tegan kept her face immobile, hiding her puzzlement, and watched the two men instead.
Lancelot gave a formal bow to Guenivere. “My lady,” he said, his tone cool.
“Lancelot,” Guenivere acknowledged, her own tone icy compared to her usual warmth.
“Cai!” The call came from the door to the lesser hall.
Cai turned and beckoned once more. “Just the man I wanted to speak to,” he added to himself.
His turn let Tegan see the door for herself. Gawain was winding his way through the tables to where they stood.
As Tegan was already controlling her expressions, none of her irritation seeped through, yet her middle tightened.
“Arthur said you wanted to speak to me,” Gawain said, stopping on the other side of Cai from where Lancelot stood, which put Gawain next to Tegan.
She realized she had stiffened in reaction and tried to make herself relax. Anyone with sharp eyes might have noticed her response. Guenivere had her head turned away from Lancelot, which meant she was staring directly at Tegan.
Tegan cursed her inability to not react to the man, especially when he stood this close. When he was this close, she noticed how tall he was and the earthy solidness of him. It was a reminder of another time, one she hated to recall. The reminder itself would make her cheeks heat and the flesh under her arms and along her back prickle with discomfort.
Gawain might feel indifferent about ever hewing down another enemy with his sword, but he was very good at it. Once, Tegan had stood this close to him while he had chopped down a Saxon.
That had been at the Battle of Mount Badon, which had been only her third official battle, and the most chaotic and disordered battle she had ever participated in. Very early on, Cara had broken ranks and ridden into the thick of the fighting field, only to jump off her horse and tackle Saxons one-on-one, as if she was as strong as any man.
The breaking of the ranks had confused the Cohort, despite Lowri screaming orders and shouting at them to close ranks and maintain discipline. They were supposed to protect the flanks, but there were no flanks to protect, for the Saxons surrounded the fort on Badon Hill, and Arthur’s army surrounded the Saxons. Everywhere was the field of battle.
The Cohort roamed the edges of the battle, watching for Saxon flanking or circling movements. The Saxons caught the Cohort in a pincer movement and, suddenly, the women were fighting on two fronts.
The Saxons considered women on the field to be sport, rather than enemies to slaughter. They laughed as they pulled the Cohort from their saddles and tossed them to the ground.
Tegan landed heavily and couldn’t breathe. Her chest was locked. Yet she could see the Saxon’s war boot from the corner of her eye and the toes were facing her. He was right over her and might at this very instant have his axe up in the air, ready to bring down on her back.
She rolled over, trying to make her chest unlock so she could take a breath and saw that the Saxon did having his axe swung up high, ready for a death blow. His dirty blond hair and beard melded together. The furs he wore over his shoulders were the same color. He was a dun, smelly mountain of muscle and fury.
Fear tore through her, along with a calm voice telling her to wait for the axe to start downwards, then roll toward him and use her knife to reach the belly he had exposed with his mighty upward swing.
The axe began to descend, slower than she thought it might. She rolled, bellowing out her breath in effort…and was able to draw in another. Her muscles and chest unlocked. She put her left hand on the ground and with a great grunt of effort, pushed herself up on it, her right hand and the knife swinging in a hard arc.
As her blade buried itself in furs and soft belly, the tip of a great sword tore through the center of the Saxon’s chest, thrusting out from behind. The sharp tip of the sword was dipped in blood. It was shoved a handspan farther, as the Saxon coughed and flailed weakly at the sword and Tegan’s knife blade.
Tegan pulled out her knife as the sword was withdrawn. The Saxon collapsed onto the earth, his eyes open and blood running from his mouth.
She looked up to see who had saved her.
Gawain was already spinning away to tackle the next Saxon, his great sword Durandel whistling as it sliced the air and buried itself deep in a Saxon neck.
Then Durandel sang again and struck home.
Three Saxons fell to Gawain’s blade while Tegan watched, fascinated, before the sound of battle around her registered. She scrambled to her feet and worked her way back to where Lowri held her horse for her. She and Lowri and the reforming Cohort returned to patrolling the line.
Badon had been a hard-won victory. The Saxons lost all their great warrior leaders that day. Defeated, they scurried back to their shores. Many of them didn’t linger there but climbed aboard their long boats to cross the sea to their native lands, to whimper and lick their wounds.
That night, Arthur’s army camped in and around the fort on Badon Hill. The fort could not contain the entire host, but there was no danger of the Saxons returning, so the encampment at the base of the steep road up to the gates was a merry place, for Mark, the King of Kernow, had opened the cellars of the fort, which had been stocked to outlast a siege. Food and wine flowed freely.
Tegan checked upon Cara, who had been injured and laid in the yard of the fort with the many other injured fighters, with Bedivere sitting beside her. She lingered long enough for Merlin to shoo her away, with a comment about the stench of war that lingered about her, even though Bedivere was as begrimed as she.
Tegan found a bowl and water and washed the blood and grime away, put aside her armor and combed her hair. She found a cup and a tapped wine barrel to fill it with. Then she moved around the camp, looking for friends to share the cup with.
The camp was laid out as it normally was, including the white tent, which was Arthur’s command post, even though the King was in the fort itself. The High King’s companions and senior officers were all in their usual places, too. They sat in a circle around the fire in front of the white tent, passing wine skins around.
The officers included Gawain, who sat beside Gaheris and Cai.
When Tegan stopped behind him and said his name, he turned very slowly to look at her, while Cai guffawed and dug his elbow into Gawain’s side.
Gawain’s eyes were bloodshot, but he looked at her steadily enough. “Tenith, yes?” he said, frowning to recall her name.
“Tegan,” she replied. “You saved my life on the field today. I would offer you wine as a mere token of my thanks.” She held the cup out toward him.
Cai got to his feet. “Here, sit on my pack. I need to make room for more wine, anyway. Sit. Sit.” He was a tower of a man and pushed down on her shoulder, forcing Tegan to fold and sink down upon the pack and the saddle cloth thrown over it, while Gawain watched with narrowed eyes.
She managed to sit without spilling the wine, for it was still mostly full. Then she held the cup toward Gawain once more. “Just a sip, so I know that you are aware of the service you did me today.”
“I don’t remember it,” Gawain said. His voice was low and controlled, but rough at the edges and thick with drink.
“I know,” Tegan said. “You didn’t see me at all. You were focused only upon the Saxons. It is a lesson I learned in that moment that I will not forget—to stay focused.”
“Not that it will do you any good at all,” Gaheris said on the other side of Gawain. “The war is over.”
Gawain still studied her with slow deliberation. “War might be over,” he said, “but battles go on, just the same.” He reached out for the cup. His hand was steady enough, too, but his movements were as slow as his speech. “I’m pleased to find the life I saved is such an agreeable-looking one.”
Gaheris leaned around Gawain’s shoulders, grinning. “He means he likes that you’re pretty.” He shoved Gawain’s shoulder. “Woo the girl properly, oaf.”
Tegan’s cheeks burned. “I do not offer the cup for that reason,” she said quickly.
Gawain had the cup to his lips. He hesitated and his gaze met hers over it. “I know that,” he said, and for those three words he sounded utterly sober.
He drank.
Tegan reached for the cup as soon as he lowered it and scrambled to her feet. “I bid you good night, Prince.” She moved away from the fire, the tension in her belly making her breath come too fast and making her feel a little ill, too.
“Wait,” Gawain said, behind her. She could tell from the sound of his voice that he was on his feet and following her.
When the sound of Gawain’s boots didn’t halt, she paused well beyond the light the big fire was throwing out and turned to face him. He was as relentless when drunk as he was in the midst of battle.
Perhaps he was not that drunk, for his gaze was sharp as he stopped before her. “I really saved your life?”
“You save lives with every blow of your sword. It is right that you don’t remember the strike which saved mine,” she told him. “Go back to your fire and your friends, Prince Gawain. I wanted only to acknowledge what you did.”
He didn’t move. “Which Saxon?” he demanded. “Where?”
“He was tall, blonde, dirty, smelly and wore furs, which distinguishes him not at all from the dozens of others you must have slew today.” Impatience touched her.
“I remember every single one of them,” Gawain replied, his voice low.
“He had his axe up to strike downward,” Tegan said. “To strike me. You took him in the back. Straight through, then a second thrust to make sure of it, then you spun and chopped another—”
“In the neck,” Gawain finished. “The one after that, in the belly.”
“Yes,” Tegan said, amazed. “You do remember.”
“As should you,” Gawain replied. “Wars should not be forgotten once they have been fought, or we will be doomed to fight wars forever.” He stepped closer. “Is there more wine?” His voice dropped to a soft, deep tone.
She looked down at the forgotten cup in her hands, then lifted it toward him. “Here. It is yours.”
He drank deeply but did not give the cup back to her. Instead, he put it on the ground between them. He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her flesh.
Tegan could not move, not even to protest or move away from him. This moment was one out of her deepest, most private fantasies. She had dreamed of one day standing before Gawain like this and having him look at her with the same expression he had once used when staring after Rhiannon.
His gaze now was not the one Tegan yearned to see. There was a calculating light in his eyes, but there was a warmth, too. “I fight in the perimeter around Arthur. What were you doing so deeply inside the field of battle, Cohort? You should have been safely on the edges.”
“I…” Words failed her. She could not think beyond the pleasant sensations he was generating with his touch.
“You are a brave one, aren’t you?” he added.
“I was terrified,” she admitted.
“That is what makes you brave.” He paused, then added softly, “I admire courage.”
Her heart came to a stuttering stop. Her lips parted. Nothing emerged.
Gawain bent and kissed her, stealing her breath and thoughts, and making her chest ache as it tried to contain her wildly strumming heart.
It was not the first kiss he gave her that night. He had a tent of his own, apart from his quarrelling brothers, and a soft saddle cloth for them to lay upon. In those few magic-filled hours, Tegan experience the ways of men and women for herself, which explained much about the guffaws and innuendos around the campfires when wine was flowing well.
When she woke at the first watering light of dawn, the pallet beside her was empty and cold. Her cheeks burning even as her heart skipped with possibilities and happiness, Tegan searched for the garments that Gawain had removed, and dressed.
From beyond the tent, which had only cloth walls to shield the occupants from prying eyes, but in no way diminished the sound of voices, Tegan heard the quiet murmur of male voices, and the crackle of a small cooking fire. The scent of warming meat and something sweet—oats with honey or fruit, she guessed—wafted through the tent.
Her stomach rumbled. She was very hungry, for she had not eaten last night. Gawain had removed that opportunity by bringing her here to his tent.
Another low comment sounded, too low for her to understand the words, but chuckles sounded in response.
Gawain spoke, his voice lifting, as if he was defending his position in response to the laughter-filled cajoling. “No, no! I tell you, there is a difference. Give me a woman who is soft and charming and can soothe a man’s soul. They are easier to be around.”
“Says the man who bedded a warrior last night,” came another voice, filled with laughter. The northern accent told Tegan it was likely one of Gawain’s brothers.
“See, that is the entire point,” Gawain replied, sounding just as amused as his brother. “Hellcats keep nights interesting. Besides…just who did I bed last night?”
Tegan froze with her hand reaching for the tent flap. Pain gripped her heart and squeezed. Her middle congealed with coldness.
As the men sitting with Gawain about the fire laughed at his ignorance, Tegan closed her fist and rested her hand upon her aching chest, her breath coming fast.
He didn’t remember her at all. Not even her name.
How could she have been so wrong about the evening? She had thought Gawain’s attention had been upon her, not upon the distraction she could provide.
She had made that mistake because she had been stupid enough to hope that, unlike every other woman who had ever shared his bed, Gawain would treat her differently.
Tegan hung her head, as hot, sickly shame swirled through her. Her hope had made a fool out of her. She would never have made this mistake with another man.
Her shame and deep embarrassment stopped her from stepping out of the tent, as she had intended, to scoop a bowlful of whatever was warming over the fire, before heading for her own family’s encampment. She could not expose herself out there, now. She could not bear to even look at the man and measure yet again
the degree of her stupidity.
Tegan whirled and snatched her knife from her hip and strode over to the back of the tent. The knife was sharp, for a good warrior kept their blades in fighting shape at all times. She ran the tip from top to bottom, creating an informal portal.
The camp behind the Lothian one—she could not remember whose camp it was, and she had carefully avoided any gazes—all looked up at her, startled.
She strode away, trailing behind her an invisible cloud of heated mortification, to creep back into her own camp to find a bucket and hot water to wash away the stench of humiliation.
Tegan had thought that would be the last of it, but to her horror, Gawain sought her out only a few hours later. His eyes were no longer bloodshot, and his words were crisp.
“You tore out the back of the tent,” he said, without greeting.
“I’m surprised you knew it was me who did it.” Tegan kept her tone cool, even though her heart was jumping about and making her feel ill, again.
Gawain’s eyes widened.
“Yes, I heard you, soldier,” Tegan added. “Every single word, and not one of them my name. It is Tegan, by the way, not Tenith.”
“I know that,” Gawain said, his tone irritable. His cheeks were tinged with red.
She had embarrassed him. Good. It was a tiny point in return. “You know it only because someone reminded you of it.”
His jaw tightened.
“Why are you here?” she demanded. “Did you seek me out to reacquaint yourself with my appearance?”
Gawain’s eyes narrowed. “I should not have bothered,” he growled.
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
His hand squeezed around the hilt of Durandel. “If you heard me, then you know how I feel about women like you, and now you prove my point. A bur under my armor would be more pleasant. Good day, my lady.” He whirled to stalk away.
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 7