Gawain took a deep swallow of the mulled wine. It soothed his throat. The herbs were unusual. Exotic. More of Lancelot’s refined taste, Gawain presumed. But there was nothing dangerous among them. “The more I consider the matter, the more I think it unlikely that Guenivere would bolt in that way, even with help. She is too…” He frowned.
“Honorable,” Lancelot finished softly.
“Yes.” Gawain looked at the man. “You believe so, too.”
Lancelot nodded. “Would you help me find her?”
“Me?”
“You are as disillusioned with Metella as I. And you are one of the few who thinks well of the Queen. You will not stint yourself in the search as others might. And Arthur…” He paused. “Arthur is worried,” he said softly. “The private apartments look as though a wild winter storm has swept through them. He misses her, although he would never say so.” He drank, the cup hiding anything his gaze might reveal.
“Did Arthur ask for me to help you?”
Lancelot hesitated. “No. I am asking. Will you help, anyway?”
Gawain tilted his head. “Direct speech. I had not realized until now how I miss it. Diplomats never say what they mean.”
Lancelot grimaced. “Then I will gift you with more bluntness. You do not like me, Gawain—”
“If it seems at times that I dislike you, it is merely resentment showing its fangs. A man grows weary of comparing himself to another and always finding he is far short of the mark.”
Lancelot raised his brow. “I see.”
“Among your shining, untarnished qualities, though, you are also a good brother to Tegan,” Gawain added. “Even though the relationship is via a marriage that is now gone, you remain true to her and for that, and because Arthur wants it so, I will help you find Guenivere.”
Lancelot drew in a breath and let it out. “Thank you.” The words were heartfelt.
Gawain drained the cup and licked his lips. It really was excellent wine. “So, where do you intend to search which has not already been trampled by a hundred courtiers looking to earn Arthur’s favor?”
Lancelot pointed at him. “Exactly,” he said. “They have eagerly ridden across the land, but none of them have really looked. And it occurs to me that I have not seen Melwaes anywhere near the palace, when he was always underfoot, before. The glitter and glory of Rome should have pulled him here, to strut and puff. Among his many other virtues, Melwaes has pretensions well beyond his rank.”
Gawain thought that simple statement summed up Melwaes far better than the many tittering sarcasms that had been directed at him over the years from members of the court. The quality Lancelot ascribed was what let Melwaes approach Guenivere with familiarity.
“Everyone has always considered him to be harmless,” Gawain murmured.
“He is,” Lancelot said dismissively. “But he is a petty king, with warriors at his call, which we should not overlook.”
Gawain thought it through. “Melwaes lives in that island fort, south of Avalon. I’ve only ridden by the place once. It is remote.”
“Accessible only to those who know the ways,” Lancelot added. “We will have to find a local that knows the byways, who doesn’t count Melwaes his overlord.”
Gawain nodded. “I know just the man.”
When Gawain took her arm and drew her away from the big cauldron in the middle of the yard, Tegan followed him without protest. She was more than happy to leave the stoking of the fire beneath it to the boys and women standing about it with washing paddles in hand.
Moving the washing activities out of the kitchens had been met with relief by both parties. The cooks returned to their stoves and the washerwomen rolled up their sleeves with an air of industry. The cauldron, a giant thing that reached the level of Tegan’s waist, had taken hours to half-fill with water, which was now heating in preparation for the washing of a small mountain of linens and garments.
Gawain drew her right over to the side of the yard, where a little shade from the outside walls of the kitchen shielded them from the sun high overhead. It was a very warm day.
Gawain rested his hand on Durandel’s hilt. “Lancelot and I are going out to search for Guenivere.”
Tegan closed her eyes, her relief making her shaky. She opened them again. “Just the two of you?”
“Any more, and Metella and his people will notice,” Gawain said. “Besides, no one else cares to find her.”
Tegan swallowed. “Poor Jenny…”
“You care, though,” Gawain added.
Her pulse jumped. Tegan stared at him, hope stealing through her veins creating a cool, fizzing sensation.
Gawain nodded. “Yes, I am asking you to help me,” he said softly, as if she had spoken. “You know the ways around these lands better than any man I know, and I need a warrior I can trust.”
Tegan pressed her fingertips to her lips, holding in her fierce joy. When she thought she could speak without tremor, she said, “I will help you. When do you leave?”
“As soon as you have your sword on your hip,” Gawain replied.
She spun, to rush back to their chamber.
“And Tegan…”
She looked over her shoulder.
“Best wear your armor, too. I am not certain what we will meet, out there.”
Tegan nodded and ran.
Chapter Seventeen
The sun was high in the sky as the three armed warriors set out from Camelot and heard the gates thud shut behind them. No one remarked upon their leaving for all of Camelot was focused upon the Roman visitors and their demands, which stretched the resources of the entire city.
Even the gate guards did not ask where they fared, for Tegan was constantly in and out of the gates and no one dared question Lancelot.
Tegan rode ahead of Lancelot and Gawain, so the dust kicked up by their horses’ hooves did not obscure her view of the land and the markers she sought, for the earth was dry and hardened by the broiling sun, changing the appearance of everything.
She knew the way to Melwaes’ watery fort. A firm path, interrupted in only two or three places by long footbridges across dells and river tributaries, led almost directly from Camelot to the stronghold on Gorre.
It was mid-summer, though, and a dry, hot summer, too.
After a few hours of slow walking, for it was too hot to tax the horses with anything more, the square spire and high rounded hill of Avalon was tall upon the horizon, lying to their right. Lancelot kicked Belenus forward to bring him alongside Dewi. “We have turned off the path.” His tone was mild.
“Yes.”
The way was firm enough and clear of bushes, and also thick with weeds which normally grew with their feet in water. There was enough room for Lancelot to ride abreast. After a moment, when Lancelot did not drop back again, Gawain pushed Keincalad forward to join them. “There are cairns ahead. Look.” He nodded.
“They are markers,” Tegan told him.
“Where are you taking us?” Lancelot asked.
“It occurs to me that if Melwaes did abduct the Queen, then he will be expecting someone to come by, sooner or later. He would watch the one path from Camelot to Gorre. I thought it might be wise to not use that path. And see, the land is dry and firm underfoot, which lets us approach the fort from any angle we choose.”
“Can you bring us around to the far side of the fort?” Lancelot asked.
“I can, but why should I? It will take time to circle around and the sun is getting low. We can approach from this side and still take an unexpected route.”
“Because the far side is not only unexpected, it will most likely be unguarded, too,” Gawain said. “Melwaes will be watching the road from Camelot. He will pour all his energy into watching it.”
“If he is the one who took Guenivere,” Tegan replied, although in her heart, she knew the little king had.
“He has been absent from Camelot for days,” Lancelot said. “It was him. Circle around, Tegan. Bring us in from the other side.”<
br />
She changed her course by a small margin, which would let her skirt the high hill with the green palisades and old-fashioned round buildings upon the crown. They crossed the line marked by the stones.
“There is a whole line of them,” Gawain observed as they passed. “What do they mark?”
“That is the line beyond which is it is not safe to build.”
“Build?”
“Anything,” Tegan told him. “Houses, stables, barns. Nothing should be built past those markers.”
“Why?” Gawain asked, his tone curious. “I’ve never seen them before,” he added.
“Because at any other time of the year, the stones are either beneath water, or marking the edge of it,” Tegan replied. She nodded to their far left, where bone-white earth devoid of weeds could be glimpsed between small bushes. “That is the causeway that Melwaes would expect us to take.” She frowned. “For part of the way, we must use it, or else ford the Camel…twice.”
“The river flows too deep and swift here,” Lancelot said. “We will use the road and depart from it as soon the way allows.”
Gawain glanced ahead and around. “I do not like the lack of trees, here. I can see the fort clearly. They can see us just as clearly.”
“People get lost here all the time,” Tegan reminded him.
Gawain scowled at her.
“We are only three horsemen,” she added. “Picking our way back to the causeway. The road leads to the Fosse Way, which lies just west of Gorre. We could be on our way to travel the old Roman road.”
“Three horsemen with their weapons glinting in the westering sun,” Gawain growled. “That will not alert them at all.”
“Let them fear our approach,” Lancelot said, sounding unmoved. “If they are guilty, they can quail and drain their strength before we meet them.”
They coaxed their horses to climb the short sharp incline up onto the hard surface of the causeway and turned their horses to the west. The way went easier, then, but grew dusty once more.
They came to the flat bridge across the main tributary of the Camel. The water flowed strongly beneath the minimal pilings on either side of the planks. Their horses’ hooves tapped with flat echoes on the bridge.
“The country lies quiet around us,” Lancelot said, keeping his voice down. “It is as if it waited.”
“Not even midges to disturb the air,” Gawain added.
“This is the perfect place to waylay us, if they intend to,” Lancelot breathed.
“As soon as we are beyond the bridge, we must leave the road,” Tegan added.
They fell silent as they trotted across the long bridge, which crossed the river at an angle, making the bridge even longer. The building of low, flat bridges was well understood in this country, so the length of one did not dismay the builders. Tegan did wonder where the trees had come from to make the planks that surfaced it, for what trees did dot the land were spindly and short.
As soon as the land rose up to meet the road, Lancelot, who was on Tegan’s right, nudged his horse down the short decline into the loamy soil beyond, to pass through an opening in the bushes.
Alarm burst through her. “Lancelot, no! Stop!” she cried out, just as timbers cracked and groaned.
Lancelot gave a great shout as Belenus whinnied and pawed his forefeet over nothing. Then both horse and rider crashed forward and down into the pit that had opened up beneath them, when the weak timbers were broken by Belenus’ weight.
Gawain galloped forward, his sword out, to come to a slithering halt at the edge of the pit. He slid off Keincalad’s back, ran to the edge and peered down. “Lancelot!”
Tegan halted Dewi beside Keincalad and ran to the pit, too.
It was a deep maw, with moist, dripping sides. At the bottom lay black water. Dozens of stakes had been driven into the mud at the bottom of the water. Their sharp tips thrust up above the oily surface.
Belenus lay on his side, pierced by many of them. He made whimpering sounds of pain that squeezed Tegan’s throat, and helpless, weak movements with his front legs, as if he was trying to rise once more. His eyes rolled whitely.
Lancelot laid on top of the horse, which had saved him from being pierced by many of the stakes. His arm, though, was outflung. The tip of a stake, red with blood, had run through his upper arm.
He groaned.
Gawain went back to Keincalad and took a length of rope from the saddle and brought it to the pit. “I will hold the rope. You can lower yourself down,” he told Tegan. “Do what you can. Tie the rope around Lancelot, and we can bring him up that way.”
He wrapped the end of the rope around his waist. Tegan gripped the rope and clambered down, trying to rest most of her weight upon the rough edges of the pit and spare Gawain.
He made not a single sound.
As she neared the stakes, she positioned her feet with care and tested the water with her toes, to determine if there were more stakes beneath the surface. She settled her boots into the mud and released the rope.
Just as carefully, she moved over to where Lancelot lay and shook him. He gave another great groan. Then, “Belenus!” He tried to sit and cried out as he felt the shift of the stake in his arm. He clutched at it.
“The stake has punched right through,” Tegan told him.
“Lift my arm off,” Lancelot said, his voice hoarse. “I cannot lift it myself.”
“What?”
“Pull it off.”
Tegan swallowed.
“Hurry,” Lancelot added. “Belenus is in pain.”
Tegan gripped his arm on either side of the bloody stake and paused. “Ready?”
“Yes.”
She pulled the arm up as directly as she could, but she could not lift Lancelot, too, so the stake shifted and ground against the bone. She shuddered at the sensation she could feel through his arm, while Lancelot did nothing more than hiss softly.
The stake pulled back through and his arm was free, but blood dripped freely from it. She pressed the arm against Lancelot’s chest. “Give me your other hand,” she instructed, intending to lift him to his feet, then lead him to the wall where the rope dangled.
Gawain stood at the top of the pit, now, watching.
Lancelot shook his head, pushed himself with his good hand and got to his feet, swaying. More blood dropped into the water. He turned to consider Belenus, his jaw working. Silently, he fumbled with his left hand for the knife on his belt, as he moved carefully through the water, over to the horse’s head.
Belenus gave a soft snicker as Lancelot stroked his nose. “My old friend,” Lancelot whispered, his voice breaking. “I already miss you.”
“Turn away, Tegan,” Gawain called.
Tegan turned her head away, for she knew what Lancelot intended to do. Her heart ached as she heard the soft sound of the knife slicing. Then, nothing.
She closed her eyes.
When Lancelot and she were standing upon the earth beside Gawain once more, she tore strips from her cloak and bound Lancelot’s arm. “It is your sword arm,” she said. “We should return and have Merlin look at it.”
“No. We’re on the right path,” Lancelot said. “I will not turn aside now. The pit was freshly dug.”
“New turned earth,” Gawain added, stamping his feet.
“Right where someone might leave the road to cut across the country to the rear of Gorre,” Tegan added. “That’s the thought which flashed through my mind, when you stepped off the road.”
Lancelot nodded. “Your warning came a heartbeat too late, but I thank you for it. And now we know we are on the right trail. Tegan, would Dewi take the two of us?”
“He has carried wounded soldiers behind me many times.” She moved over to Dewi, patted his nose and climbed into the saddle, then bent and held out her arm for Lancelot to use to swing himself up behind her.
Gawain was also patting Keincalad’s nose and fussing over him, before he mounted.
The thunder of hooves, many of them, fil
led the air.
“They’re not on the road,” Lancelot shouted, as Gawain spun on one foot to locate the direction. Lancelot turned and swatted Dewi’s flank. “Run! It is Melwaes’ men!”
Dewi shot forward, nearly unseating Tegan. He pounded across the earth, dodging bushes and twisting around clumps of taller weeds, snorting, his eyes rolling. Tegan clung to him, as she tried to draw his reins up properly and gain control of him once more.
Behind her, she heard the clash of iron and shouts. Lancelot and Gawain were facing Melwaes’ men alone.
Tegan brought Dewi to a halt and he stood bellowing. She bent and patted his neck to calm him, which possibly saved her life, for a lone horseman burst through the bushes just ahead, his war stallion pawing the air above her head with iron-shod hooves. Tegan had only to drop her hand to the hilt of her sword and draw it.
She spun Dewi to the left with the pressure of her knees, around in a great circle, to avoid the flailing hooves. It put her up against the rider. He grinned in pleasure as he measured the strength of his opponent, seeing only a woman without helm or shield.
Tegan heard Belenus’ pain-filled nicker in her mind as she gutted the man with an anger-filled blow.
He looked down at his stomach and entrails as they fell upon the neck of his horse. He died trying to hold it in.
Tegan watched him with nothing but cold anger in her heart. When the man tumbled from his horse, her gaze lifted. She took in the view beyond the bushes. Climbing above the skyline, looming over her, was the conical hilltop of Gorre.
She frowned as she studied the round huts and buildings, and the palisades made of poor local wood. “Back to the others, Dewi!” she cried.
They thundered back to where she had left Lancelot and Gawain.
Only Gawain remained. He was still on his feet and leaning upon his sword with a weary stance, as his breath blew hard. At his feet a dozen men laid.
He stiffened as Dewi galloped into the clearing beyond the pit, then relaxed.
“Where is Lancelot?” Tegan cried.
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 18