Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  "I'll meet you at the river ford in two days, sir," Galahad promised. "With more support for the king. I swear by St. Michael and St. George."

  "Support or no, bring yourself back or your mother will do away with me." He made light of it, but in truth he'd never be able to face Elaine if anything happened to her son.

  Galahad shot him a grin. "God be with you, sir, and mother, too." Then he kicked his horse and joined up with the dozen mounted men who would ride with him. Off to another keep to give the king's word to the lord there and hopefully hold him to their side.

  It was so damned frustrating.

  Arthur still ruled, but only just, for his court had been poisoned by dissension and betrayal. It had been years in the making, but his bastard son Mordred had finally pulled together enough malcontent lords to make a challenge to take the throne. All that had been so perfect and stable was being torn apart by one man's foolish greed. All that Richard and Sabra helped to build was crumbling.

  It was a hard blow for them both, harder still for the kingdom, which would fracture into smaller holds easily conquered unless they moved fast to stop it. Like Galahad they were also on a journey to summon together allies for the king, to keep them heartened. Richard would have gone with the boy—a man, now, by God, for he'd lately turned fifteen—but knew he would not be welcomed by that particular noble. Too much history and bad blood were in their past, and the man was petty enough to let it influence his duty to his liege.

  Galahad, though, was a great favorite with most of the lords of the land, admired for his courage and piety. He'd proven himself as a warrior, and his devotion to God seemed to make him more than half priest, yet he had a good-humored humility that somehow touched hearts. Rough rogues who only went to church to nap would smile when they saw the lad. It was because of his buoyant, confident spirit that loyalty to the king remained strong in some.

  These days Richard was rather less admired than he had once been, those rumors about himself and the queen being at the core. All distorted out of hand with telling and retelling, but the damage was done. Yes, he had been with her, but not in the way others thought, and certainly not in the times or places they'd given in their accusations. That's how he knew Mordred and his followers had been spreading lies. They didn't know the truth, else they'd have seized on it instead, and Richard would have been hounded away or destroyed by now.

  According to the stories that were abroad Lord Lancelot had committed adultery with the queen every time the king chanced to nap on his side of the royal bed. One had their fornication concealed only by the tapestry hanging behind the throne itself while the king obliviously held court. Never mind that the thing cleared the floor by a good twenty feet and was backed by a solid wall, people actually believed the ridiculous lie—even the ones who had seen the throne room and knew better.

  It did not help that the queen had made Lancelot her favorite above all the other lords. He really should have talked with her about that, but any pass between them created more rumors. Ignoring the situation made it worse. By the time Sabra had a chance to influence her to temper her conduct it was too late and the lies were rooted and growing quick as weeds.

  No help for it now. It was their lot to keep things going. Richard took a lesser seat to Galahad, providing him with advice and escort as needed on his rounds. He was content with that role, for he loved his foster son well, proud that one so young was accomplishing so much. There was hope yet for saving the kingdom from Mordred.

  This day had been muggy and dark, threatening rain, which had been a relief to Richard and Sabra both, for they'd been exceptionally busy. The rain never fell, though, and they were thankful for that as well. The roads they traveled had not been made by the Romans, and consequently became mud wallows when it got wet, slowing them.

  They'd avoided an encounter with Mordred's people only the day before. Sabra's Sight proved very helpful, but of course they had to pretend it did not exist. There were quite enough rumors about the queen using witchcraft, no one needed to think any of her ladies were practicing as well. It was up to Richard to think up a good reason to keep his party camped one more day on this side of the forest until the enemy force moved elsewhere. Not hard, there was always something to do or repair when on the move, and the horses as well as the people needed the rest.

  Though Richard was absolutely certain of the loyalty of every man under his command, he was less sure of the camp followers. One couldn't sit down and influence them all. Not quickly, anyway. Besides, if they were spies, they could report little to help the enemy; as though this was a tourney, everyone was in good spirits and full of cheer.

  Most of which departed with Galahad.

  Those who remained were uneasy and trying not to show it. Richard understood it was because of the division of their forces, with the greater number of them gone off. Sabra assured him there was no danger from Mordred's men while they remained in place. He would have given much to be able to pass that on to the others.

  They would leave in the morning for the ford, and preparations were going on, saddles and tack repaired or oiled, traveling food cooked. Richard made the rounds of the now much smaller camp himself, debating on whether to send the followers away yet. There was fighting ahead. He didn't have Sabra's Sight, but felt it in his belly. The others seemed to think this would be like a tourney, where yielding if outmatched meant only the loss of your gear or the payment of a ransom. Mordred and his men had no such honorable notions; they were warring for booty, property, and power, and you didn't acquire those by a fair contest.

  Richard told his people again and again that real battles meant ugly death, and though they nodded somber agreement, he could see they didn't believe him. The peace in the land had been so strong during Arthur's long reign that this new crop of warriors did not know what war was like.

  Their first real fight would be the only cure for that innocence, and he prayed they would live through it. He'd trained them hard enough, but training was never truly the same thing.

  As evening came on he sensed the sun's departure with his skin, not his eyes, for the dull gray sky showed no change. The thick air turned chill, and fog gathered in low areas and began to fill the surrounding woods like lost spirits. A long way off, but still too close for those nervous of heart, a wolf howled at a moon it could not possibly see.

  Across the camp, Sabra paused in her task of rubbing down her horse, and glanced toward Richard, not smiling. After a moment, she continued her work. There were pages for such jobs, but she liked tending her own animal, saying it eased her heart. The wolf howled again, and the horse stirred, restless. She whispered, and it calmed down. If there was a pack of wolves in the area, they'd not come near, Sabra would see to that, but there was little she could do to stop their song of hunger.

  So long as it's not Annwyn's hounds a-howling, he thought. That never boded well.

  "Riders, my lord!" One of the pages came pelting up to him out of the dark, red of face and excited.

  "How far?"

  "A quarter mile," he puffed. "Walking, not running. All armed. There's a priest with them, armed, too."

  Which meant nothing. Priests were everywhere, with the king's men and the traitors alike, and everyone went armed these days. "How many?"

  "Fifteen, my lord. They look foreign."

  "How so?"

  "Their banner colors. I never saw the like before."

  "Describe them."

  The page did, with great accuracy, rattling off every detail he'd seen from his hiding place near the main road.

  Richard searched his memory, but there were no lords in Britain with such a banner, nor in Wales for that matter, only across—oh, good God, it couldn't be . . .

  Sabra left off work and came over. "We have visitors."

  "A ghost from my past, I think." Richard's heart felt ready to burst, it beat so hard and quick. If what he thought was true . . .

  She put an hand on his. "Don't worry, all will be well."
<
br />   "But the last time anyone came here from Normandy—" It still hurt to think of that awful day; it would always hurt.

  "All will be well."

  One of his warriors came up, having heard. "Shall we arm, my lord?"

  "Yes. Prepare, but make no move unless I order it. Let's see them first. They could be friends."

  Sabra, apparently unconcerned, went back to her horse. Some of the more perceptive women in the camp took that to mean no trouble was afoot. Had she gone to put on her sword, they'd have been scrambling like the men.

  Strangely, there was not a lot of noise from their stir. It was as though they were quiet to catch the first sign of the horsemen's approach. There was no point to it, though. In a very short time the fog had turned thick as porridge, muffling and distorting sound. Even Richard had trouble discerning anything until the traveling party was quite close, the thud of hooves, the jingling of a bit.

  Challenge was issued and answered, the reply in a familiar accent, a familiar, but long-unheard voice. Richard stepped eagerly forward, then halted suddenly as speaker—who was the priest—pushed back his cowl and revealed his face.

  My God, he's an old man. Richard's heart swooped, freezing him in place as he recognized his brother Edward.

  "I seek Lancelot du Lac," he said, looking right at Richard.

  Does he not know me? "You've found him, good father," he whispered.

  Edward's blue eyes flashed. His face was ancient, he must have been close to fifty by now, but his eyes were sharp and knowing. "Glad I am to have found thee. May we stay here for the night?"

  "You are right welcome if you are friends of the king."

  "We are friends of all good men, which includes the king."

  "Then rest and break bread with us."

  At a sign from Richard a page came forward to hold Edward's horse while he stiffly dismounted. He and his men were muddy from long traveling, but looked alert. They had a modest pack train with them, their two-wheeled carts filled with gear, but able to roll along fast if need be.

  "May I speak with you apart, Lord Lancelot?"

  "This way." Richard led off to his pavilion, and they ducked inside. He let down the flap, allowing them privacy. When he turned it was to be swept up in Edward's overpowering bear hug.

  There were tears in his voice. "Dear God, I hardly dared hope you were to be found."

  Laughing, Richard returned the embrace, thumping his brother on the back and was himself unable to speak for a few moments. When they broke apart, Richard lighted candles from the flame of a small oil lamp on a table and they were able to get a good look at each other.

  "Life with the Britons agrees with you," said Edward. "You don't look a day older than when I saw you last."

  "There's no sun in this land of rain to bake the skin to a crust," he said, shrugging dismissively.

  Edward snorted. "I must be overdone, then."

  Richard made no reply. This was hard, bitter hard. Sabra had warned him he would outlive everyone he knew, and the harshness of that truth was very visible on Edward's seamed face. The last time Richard saw his brother had been soon after the defeat at that last tourney at castle d'Orleans. He'd been thirty-five then, Edward just a few years older. Now Richard had the eerie feeling he was seeing his own face as it might have been had he not taken the path Sabra had offered him.

  "What brings you so far from home?" he asked.

  Edward found a cushioned stool and eased down onto it with a pleasurable groan, shifting his sword belt around out of the way. "You call this summer? Ohhh, my bones think it's winter already."

  Remembering his manners, Richard found a skin of wine hanging from the central tent pole and handed it over. "Warm them with this, then. I'm sorry there's no cup, but—"

  Edward waved off the apology and took a swig, grunting his approval. "We both know what the road is like. Except for one night under a roof, I've been eating my bread in the saddle for I don't know how long. Before that I ate none at all because I was hanging over the side of a ship while we made the crossing from Normandy. The next time you decide to lose yourself could you do it on the same side of the sea that I'm on?"

  He smiled and promised he would, then went to the flap and ordered meat and bread brought to his guest. The cook fires had been going all day, so food was ready. In a gratifyingly short time Edward had a special folding table in front of him along with a roasted fowl and a flat, weighty loaf with a bowl of hot drippings to dip it in.

  "You won't partake?" Edward asked.

  "I've eaten. Please, fill yourself." Richard burned with questions, but forced himself to polite patience, sitting on another low stool while his brother happily gorged like a field peasant at harvest.

  "By God, that was good," he said, giving a well-mannered belch. "I've not had better for a very long time." He sucked the last grease from his fingers and wiped them on the hem of his traveling robe. He looked to be only a priest, but Richard knew he'd risen to archbishop, perhaps higher. "You've done well for yourself, Dickon."

  "Would that we were at my keep and I could show you better."

  "In truth, I went there first to look for Lord Lancelot. Your lady Elaine was exceedingly kind in her courtesy. By the way, she is in good health and sends you her love and instruction to look most carefully after yourself and your son."

  "Thank you. How recent is the news?"

  "Two weeks and a day. You—a father." Edward looked pleased.

  Richard was well practiced at hiding the ache that word sometimes caused him. "Foster-father. Galahad is not my son by blood, though he is in my heart. I've raised him as my own since he was so high—" He held his hand palm-down to indicate the height of a small child.

  "Galahad." Edward smirked. "Better here than in Normandy."

  The boy's name had ever been a sore point with Richard, but he'd learned to live with it. "His mother picked that one, not I."

  "That goes without saying, but I've heard of him, of you both. The tales of the good you've done here under the name of Lancelot have traveled even to my humble monastery."

  "And the bad, too, no doubt."

  " 'Let he who is without sin' and all the rest, brother. Aside from myself, you've been the only truly decent man in the whole of our family, and I know how enemies love hurtful gossip—and you've not asked about them, our family, that is."

  "I thought you'd get 'round to it in your own time."

  "Yes, and me with little time to spare."

  "What do you mean?" He sharply looked Edward over for signs of ill health. Although old, he seemed hearty enough, his movements quick and decisive, his eyes and speech clear. Certainly his perpetual dry humor was yet firmly in place, along with his appetite.

  "I've come to fetch you home—for a visit only," he added after seeing Richard's horrified reaction.

  "Why?"

  He grimaced. "Because our father is dying."

  Though Richard kept himself apprised of second-, even third-hand news of Edward, he had little interest in the doings of the d'Orleans court. He'd rather thought old Montague had already passed away years ago. "That is nothing to me. You know how we parted." Not the whole story, but enough of the truth to satisfy Edward at the time.

  "That is why he wishes to see you. He wants to make amends."

  Richard was not successful at stifling his bark of laughter. "Toward what end? To finish what he tried to do? Murder me? Has he become addled and forgot the night he tried to gut me with his knife?"

  "No, he is not addled, and yes, that was a terrible thing he tried to do."

  Achieved. Had Sabra's gift not changed him, Richard would have died at his father's hand. Had he not stayed his own rage, he'd have drained the wretched man of all his blood, and have that murder forever on his soul. With Richard's agelessness and long memory, forever could be a merciless torment.

  "But he is dying and would see us one more time," said Edward. "For his soul's peace."

  "No. I bade him good-bye those years ago
and closed that door. I will not see him on this side ever again. I'll light a candle toward his soul's peace, but that's all I can bring myself to do." Richard knew he'd have no heart behind the prayer, either. For his own peace he always tried not to think about his father at all. Edward coming in like this revived pain he thought to be dead.

  "Do you think I've forgotten the evils he's done? Or that I'll ask you to forgive him for all that he's done to you?"

  "Edward, you're too wise to ask that of me knowing I could end up lying to you or lying to God, or worse, to Father. My lack of sympathy is as close as I can come to forgiveness. I've worked very hard to bring myself this far."

  "He's a dying man with a last request. I know you—you'd give as much comfort to a beggar wretch fallen on the side of the road. Father's committed many sins, but your being there will lift some of that weight from his—"

  "That's what your place is about. Ego te absolvo, brother, and that's as easy as you can make the passing for him, and it's better than he deserves."

  "Now you sound like Ambert."

  Richard took no offense. "We are as Father made us. And as he made us, so now does he come to appreciate the kind of work he's done."

  "At least think about it."

  "I have. I can't leave, anyway, not with this war brewing. I won't leave my king."

  "Your king will grant you a release from your obligations for this. You've but to ask."

  "You overestimate my influence in court. Some of them barely tolerate me."

  "The king's will is all that matters."

  "And you overestimate that power as well. He may release me to go, but still needs me. If the others see the king's own keeper seeming to desert him when he's most needed at his side . . ."

  "You can explain—"

  "It's not to happen. Even if we were at peace with no Mordred to trouble the land I would not leave."

  "That's a hard thing, Dickon. You'll have to live with it all your life, and then endure it when you yourself pass the veil and are judged."

  "I will have to live with it, yes." He'd gotten very good at ignoring certain aspects of the future.