She did note that Gawain’s position by the table put his back to the other table, where ten men sat. It had the effect of putting them at their ease. An enemy would not put his back to them in that way.
Tegan made a great show of moving to the other end of the full table to study bunches of herbs hanging to dry from a rack by the corner of the inn, where the overhang from the roof would shield them from rain.
It put her on the other side of the big table.
As time ticked on, her heartbeat increased, making her temples thud. She raised the ale to her lips now and then and rested her shoulder against the wall of the inn, and “listened” to Gawain, even though she could barely follow a word he was saying. It was gibberish to her. Her attention was upon the men. She measured the strength of all of them. She noted what weapons they wore openly and the likely places where hidden blades would be.
Uneven bootsteps made her spin to look toward the worn path to the tower. A man, bloodied, his clothes torn, and his head and hands bare, stumbled into the square. He fell to his knees. “Lancelot is taking the tower!” he croaked.
Gawain’s hand flashed to his sword, even as he spun to face the big table.
Tegan leapt, drawing her sword and her knife. She struck the base of her knife against the nearest skull, her sword upon the next.
As she heard the sound of blades clashing, the two slithered to the ground. Tegan brought up her sword, barring the swinging blade of the next man. Abruptly, she was fighting—and not from the safer heights of her horse’s back, with a shield upon her arm—but really fighting, just as Arthur’s men did in the midst of battle, where they faced the enemy eye to eye.
“To me!” Gawain said, his voice a snap of command.
Tegan spun and chopped and sliced. Years of drills and patient instruction and practice served her now. She was shorter and weaker than every man here, but she fought in Lancelot’s way—a ruthless style that gave no quarter and did not rely upon the strength of the wielder to make a blow count.
She made her way step by step to where Gawain stood within a ring of men, holding his own, the bloody fallen at his feet.
Gawain did not look at her, but he was aware of her position for when she drew closer, he said, “Run at me.”
Tegan had no clue why he would give such an order, but she obeyed, anyway. She broke into a sprint, crossing the short amount of ground between them as Gawain slew the only soldier standing between them and shoved him out of the way.
Gawain bent as she came close, gripped her rising lower leg and hoisted her, using her impetus for leverage.
She flew high into the air, her arms and legs windmilling to keep her steady. The table where the four men had sat alone was beneath her. Now she understood what Gawain had planned.
She landed on the table and took a step forward to keep her balance.
“Tegan!” Gawain called.
She spun about.
Gawain picked up a shield one of the soldiers had propped against the other table and tossed it to her, the shield spinning.
She caught it, slid her arm into the straps, and brought the shield before her just as one of Melwaes’ men stepped up onto a stool and swung at her. His sword clanged against the iron hub of the shield.
Tegan’s stance on the table gave her the same height advantage that fighting from Dewi’s back did. Every man but the one with his sword against her shield was trying to reach Gawain. They had their backs to her.
Tegan laughed. He had placed her so she could guard his back, as she did in battle.
“To me,” she called.
Gawain nodded and backed up, step by step, bringing the ring of men with him. They were only eight in number now.
As the ring came up against the table, Tegan attacked the edges of it. This was war as she knew it.
Then the circle broke and Gawain stood with his back to the table and her. Now only five men remained, but they were the stronger, smarter fighters. And they were angry about their fallen companions, too.
Tegan moved up close to the edge of the table, so that she was directly behind Gawain. From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of black and looked up.
Lancelot leapt upon the backs of the five, his bloody sword flashing. Behind him, hugging the corner of the inn, stood Guenivere. Her gown was dirty and torn, and bloody at the neck, but she stood unassisted.
“Tegan, the Queen!” Lancelot cried. He spun to meet another sword.
Tegan leapt from the table and ran around Melwaes’ men. Now they stood back to back instead of penning in their enemy, as they faced both Lancelot and Gawain. She ignored them and put herself in front of the queen, her sword raised.
“Stay behind me,” she told Guenivere.
The fighting was swiftly over, after that. The last two men, one of them the older soldier who had challenged Gawain, dropped their swords and raised their hands.
“It was a foul piece of work to begin,” the older one said. “I’m glad to be done with it.”
“You fought honorably,” Lancelot said. “Go back to Gorre and take what men remain. You will find Melwaes’ body at the top of the tower. His heirs must be informed.” He put his sword away.
“Heirs?” The man nearly spat, then remembered who watched him. He glanced at Guenivere and cleared his throat. “As if that mewling prawn could father a child,” he muttered. He jerked his head at the other man, and they turned and trudged up the hill along the worn path.
Guenivere turned to Tegan. “Thank you,” she breathed, and held Tegan tightly. “I have never been so glad you are a warrior at heart,” she murmured in her ear.
Tegan saw Gawain was watching them. He wore a small smile.
She found herself smiling back.
They took two of the saddled horses they found tied up next to the inn. The markings on the saddle cloths said they were Melwaes’ horses. Lancelot lifted Guenivere up onto one of them, and they walked the horses down the broad path to where Avalon ended, and the white earth began and made their way to where they had left Dewi and Keincalad.
Finally, the four of them could mount and ride as swiftly as the horses could bear under the broiling summer sun. They turned onto the wide road between Gorre and Camelot and trotted toward Camelot.
The great fortified city was in sight, the white walls rising up into the pale blue sky, and the red roof of the palace rising even higher than that, when Gawain directed Keincalad off the road, into a small clearing marked with thick grasses and ringed by shoulder high bushes.
Tegan knew this area very well. At any other time of year except this hot, dry summer, where Gawain sat on his horse would be thigh-high water.
He jumped off Keincalad and dug in the pouches hung over the stallion’s back.
“Why are we stopping?” Tegan asked curiously.
He nodded toward Guenivere as Lancelot pulled the nose of her mount closer to the other three. “The Emperor of Rome’s ambassador sits in Camelot, observing everything. Guenivere cannot ride into the city looking as she does. Some water, a cloth and a comb will help make it appear she has had a strenuous afternoon’s ride, and that is all.”
Guenivere brought her hand to her throat, self-conscious.
Tegan held up her hand. “Here, I will help,” she said. “There is no mirror, so you must let me judge your appearance for you.” She helped Guenivere down.
“Lancelot,” Gawain added. “Get rid of that bloody rag about your arm and wash yourself of the blood you wear. Tegan, you too. We must all appear as though we have been out hunting.”
“With no prize to show,” Lancelot muttered.
“An unsuccessful hunt. It is mid-summer,” Gawain said. He thoroughly wet the cloth in his hands and handed it to Tegan. “See to the Queen first. All eyes will be on her,” he murmured.
They washed themselves and rinsed their clothes of blood and grime as best they could. Tegan reflected grimly that a kettle of boiling water would be useful, right now. She had no comb and was surprised
when Gawain produced one from the depths of another pouch.
“Old campaigner habits,” Lancelot observed approvingly. He scrubbed at his own hair and waited his turn to smooth out the unruly locks.
Guenivere went about the work with silent grimness. A tiny furrow lingered between her brows, marring her smooth features. As everyone reached a state that did not look as though they had fought their way through a hard battle, and were ready to move on, the furrow deepened.
Lancelot brought over her borrowed horse, turning him so she could mount.
Tegan reached for Dewi’s bridle, too.
Guenivere reached for the saddle. Her hand fell away. She closed her eyes. “I cannot. Not just yet. I need…a moment.”
Then she turned to Lancelot and put her arms around his neck and stood trembling against him.
Tegan drew in a startled breath as Lancelot put his arms around the Queen and pressed her even closer. As his lips touched Guenivere’s Tegan made herself look away.
Gawain was also staring blankly at the back of his horse. His gaze met Tegan’s over Keincalad’s back.
She wondered if her eyes had widened as his had.
Lancelot and the Queen.
She closed her eyes. Oh, this was a disaster…!
They had returned to the road and were trotting toward the steep causeway up to the gates of Camelot when Guenivere kicked her stallion to bring him up alongside Tegan. “You disapprove,” she said softly, so that Gawain, riding at the rear, and Lancelot, who rode ahead of them, would not hear.
Tegan shook her head. “He is my brother. I worry, that is all. For both of you.”
“One cannot choose who to love, Tegan.”
Tegan glanced at her. “It is truly love, then? Oh, Jenny…”
Guenivere did not look even a little bit happy. “I wish it were otherwise,” she said, her voice shaking. “I cannot help loving him, but I must not reach for him. You, though, you have that choice.”
Tegan flinched. “What do you mean?”
“Gawain,” Guenivere said patiently. “There is no reason to deny yourself.”
Tegan forced herself to keep her chin forward and not glance around at him. “There is one. He does not want me.”
“I would not be so sure about that,” Guenivere murmured. Above their heads, a great shout went up as she was seen. Horns blew, announcing her return. “Things have changed for all of us,” she added.
The gates were hauled open and the people of Camelot poured through them to reach up for their Queen and welcome her home.
Chapter Twenty-One
Arthur peered into the big mug at his elbow and was startled—and disappointed—to find the thing empty. He had drained it without noticing.
Metella sat at the other end of the family table in the lesser hall, sharing the noon meal. The diplomat had suggested that a more intimate location would facilitate friendship and open discussion, so Cai had arranged this luncheon, and Merlin had sent away everyone but King Mark.
Metella seemed to like the gravelly voiced petty king, with his scarred eye and soft words. The Roman had actually smiled at him once, while Mark showed nothing but deference in return.
Merlin had placed Mark on Metella’s right. Metella’s interpreter stood behind him and ate nothing. Merlin sat on Arthur’s right. Cai was opposite Mark and wisely said nothing, too. He ate and made sure the kitchen staff kept the wine pitchers and platters full.
The surroundings were certainly intimate, yet they failed to induce the open discussion Metella had hinted would hurry along the conclusion of his mission to Camelot.
Arthur pushed the wine cup away. The base scraped over the table with a sour note. He’d drunk far too much of the stuff in the last few days. Metella was still speaking, something about chariot races and blues and greens…
The scrape of the cup silenced Metella, who raised a brow at Arthur and spoke.
“Something vexes thee, King Arthur?” the interpreter said.
“The lack of a conclusion vexes me,” Arthur said. “You implied a small gathering would encourage you to speak your mind. Perhaps you should speak it now, Metella. Why did you come to Camelot?”
The interpreter murmured in Metella’s ear. Metella’s gaze did not leave Arthur’s face. He nodded. Then he raised a beringed hand in a languid movement. “You may go,” he told the interpreter.
The slave bowed and moved across to the door to the great hall.
Cai’s mouth had dropped open as he stared at Metella. Merlin’s eyes narrowed as he considered the man. Mark just snorted a guffaw of laughter and raised his cup to take a big mouthful.
Metella rested his hands upon the table. “Clear speech always induces understanding, yes?” His accent was thick, but he was perfectly understandable.
Arthur gave a sour smile. “After seven days of misdirection, I welcome it.”
Metella nodded. “You will forgive the deception, my lord. It was necessary in order for me to properly assess Camelot. No one notices a man who cannot speak directly to them, have you noticed?”
“No,” Arthur said flatly.
“Everyone notices Arthur,” Cai added. “Even when he was a lad.”
Merlin leaned forward. “You said ‘assess’, Metella. Was that simply a poor word choice?”
Metella reached inside his toga. In the seven days the man had lingered in Camelot, Arthur had not seen him wear anything else, but only now did he learn the costume was capable of storing things.
Mark, on his right, stiffened. His hand drew to the edge of the table from where it was a short drop down to the knife on his belt.
“Hey!” Cai said, alerted.
Arthur put his hand on Cai’s arm, to keep him in his chair.
Metella withdrew a book. It was a tiny thing barely the height of his hand. The ends were metal, not carved wood, and thinner than any book Arthur had seen before.
From the same inner storage place, Metella also withdrew a long, slender object wrapped in a piece of cloth. He unwrapped it to reveal a black stick inside. He laid the cloth and the stick next to the book. Then he opened the book, rolling it until he reached the page he wanted. He held it open until the ends remained still, then picked up the black stick.
“The rumors which reached the Emperor’s ears late last year said that Britain had become a well-founded, prosperous land. In my travels here, I saw nothing to refute that rumor. In the time I have spent in your glorious Camelot, my lord, I have been able to assess for myself that you have brought Britain from utter ruin to thriving industry in a remarkably short time.”
“It only took twenty-five years,” Merlin said, his tone dry. “Barely the blink of an eye.”
Metella glanced at him but did not seem moved by the observation. He looked back at the page under his fingers. “Anatasius is a lenient man. He wanted me to make sure Britain was fully restored and able to pay its proper tribute before delivering a full accounting to you—”
“Tribute?” Arthur said, the word sticking in his throat.
Merlin sat back, nodding, as if Metella had just revealed everything to the druid.
Which he had, Arthur realized.
Metella went on, his tone didactic. “Anastasius will forego the annual tributes. His humility allows him to let such lapses pass. The taxes, though, cannot be forgiven. It is the duty of all states within the Empire to meet their fiscal responsibilities, or the Empire would crumble within a year, yes?” He smiled at Arthur.
The meal Arthur had eaten sat in his stomach like a rock. Hot sickness swirled around it. Arthur made himself speak civilly, as he had been since the man arrived. “You speak of sovereign states, yes?”
Was this the way the Empire would acknowledge Britain? As a self-governing province of the Empire? If it brought the might of the Empire to Britain’s side, Arthur would let Constantinople call Britain anything it wanted.
Metella pursed his lips. “All states are the dominion of Rome,” he said primly.
“An answe
r that is no answer,” Merlin muttered. “Rhetorical trickery,” he added under his breath, in a way that ensured Arthur heard it.
“What taxes do you speak of?” Arthur said, ignoring Merlin.
Metella looked almost happy as he peered down at his book. “My records show that it has been nearly forty years since Britain contributed to the Imperial coffers in any significant way—”
“Forty years!” Cai cried, aghast.
“It would be impossible to assess individual taxes for all those years,” Metella continued. “I am sure we can arrive at a sum that is amenable to both of us. After all, Britain is a well-founded and thriving land now. There is no need to bleed it dry.” He scraped the tip of the stick across the page. Arthur saw the mark it left, which was the same as the others already there. It was a type of pen, one that needed no ink. Whatever it was made of had smeared itself across the page. Coal? Coal smudged, though.
King Mark sat shaking his head. His jaw worked as he watched Metella scratch and mutter to himself. “Enough,” Mark said softly.
“Mark, no,” Arthur said swiftly, in warning.
Mark glanced at him and shook his head again. He got to his feet and threw out his hand to point at Metella. “I said this is enough, Arthur! Britain does not need this. It is usury!”
Metella looked up. “Oh, I do not charge interest, my lord.”
“How can we believe that?” Mark demanded. “You came to us disguised as an ambassador seeking an alliance with Britain—”
“I am an ambassador,” Metella said, looking puzzled. “We are negotiating an alliance right now.”
“Equals arrange alliances without purchasing them. I mean, paying taxes,” Merlin said, also getting to his feet.
Mark turned to Arthur. “I will pay back to you now the debt Kernow owes you for saving my kingdom at Badon, five years ago. I say to you; toss this man out. This arrangement is not for us. Even the might of the Roman Empire at our backs is not worth this…this indenture.”
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 22