by Sarah Zettel
“I would hasten to reassure the bride that no deeds such as those achieved by his roving brothers are sung of Sir Agravain,” Kai went on. “Knowing that such glory is a most oppressive burden, he has sensibly shielded himself from it. Much as an oyster shields itself from sea water by never leaving its shell.”
How did Sir Agravain receive all this? Laurel could not see. She could only see the king smile benignly. The queen, on the other hand, was making an attempt at good humour, but her brows drew more closely together as Sir Kai warmed to his recitation.
“But the trifling fact that Sir Agravain has remained his usual oyster-self about both bride and wedding, has in no way stemmed the flow of wise words through our court.” Sir Kai cast an owlish glance towards Laurel. Laurel could not keep her mouth from hardening, even while she prayed her cheeks would not shame her by blushing. The ladies tittered delicately, many making a great show of attempting to decently suppress their laughter behind jewelled hands.
“It is, after all,” he continued, his voice subtly changing, both warming and sharpening, “absolutely necessary that both king and bridegroom have the finest and most learned of advisors to study such matters.”
There was a little more laughter at this, but it began to sound nervous. The glances between the ladies showed their humour growing uncertain. Laurel felt herself sit up a little straighter.
What is the man doing?
“Let me call your attention to the example of Lady Aylwen, one of our court’s most tireless counsellors.” Sir Kai bowed towards a black-haired, round-faced woman with mottled skin and watery blue eyes who sat three chairs away from Risa. “By tireless exercise of her peerless wisdom, Lady Aylwen would have us all to understand, as she does, that this marriage was a love match conceived — forgive me, Lady Aylwen, perhaps one of us should have chosen a more fitting word — ” A bark of laughter went up from somewhere in the hall. “When Lady Laurel was here in Her Majesty’s service. I must congratulate the lady on the keenness of this observation. So sharp is her sight, that she ferreted out the existence of a passionate affair without recourse to witness, or writing … indeed without reference to any communication of any kind between the principals that could be recalled by any other person. I am astounded!” Sir Kai laid his hand over his heart. “However, I must say, it speaks well of Lady Laurel herself. That she struggled so long and so silently against such a passion as Sir Agravain is known to arouse in all tender hearts surely speaks of a strength of character seldom known in woman or man! Ah, well. The waters are cold in the Dumonii lands. Perhaps that accounts for it.”
More laughter rippled through the court, a little darker than it had been, and touched by the slightest edge of malice. Lady Aylwen’s mouth pursed so tightly her lips turned quite white.
Sir Kai paused only a heartbeat to take in this seemingly satisfactory sight. “But even more surprising were the deep observations of Lord Derryth.” The seneschal waved his cup towards a brown-bearded man in linens of fawn and ochre. “Whom I confess that I had underestimated. So rare, and so sagacious a counsellor is he that he was able to accurately calculate the whole of the price the lady had paid to be married to the high king’s nephew, and to whom she had paid it, without having been privy to any one of the negotiations. I am sorry to report, too, that Lord Derryth finds her a very poor bargainer as she could obtain no better set of goods for her outpouring of wealth than Sir Agravain. Indeed, he most generously offered himself as better suited to the exquisite tastes of so rare a bride.”
Fresh mirth erupted around the hall. Lord Derryth was elbowed in the ribs as he laughed, but it was plain from his thunderous expression that the laughter was forced. The king was looking on him with a mild and interested expression. Derryth did not miss this, and instantly hid his face by downing a large quantity of wine.
“Not to be outdone in these counsels — for you know, such counsellors must ever vie with each other like knights on a festival day — Lady Moire has added her considerable wisdom to the debate.” Sir Kai gestured broadly to a bony woman with a long, needle-thin nose who sat at a table below the dais, and who had gone as white as the linen of her embroidered veil. “It is well known that when any find themselves considering matters for which no fact can be perceived by other, dimmer eyes, Lady Moire is the first who should be consulted. Where others see only air, this grave lady sees the whole of the tale pure and perfect laid out before her.
“Lady Moire tells us with absolute certainty that the bride is possessed of the power of witchcraft, and it is this that made the match, rather than the wisdom of their majesties. Witchcraft!” Kai spread his arms wide in astonishment. “The signs and symbols of that science being known so intimately to Lady Moire that she can discern them across the length of our island. Such heights of wisdom are beyond the scope of my feeble imaginations, and I am left truly humbled in her wake.” Sir Kai set his cup down and laid his hand on his breast, bowing so deeply to Lady Moire that his hair brushed the tablecloth. By the time he straightened, Moire had gone from white to red. Indeed, thought Laurel, the lady looked in danger of succumbing to apoplexy.
“Think on it, as Lady Moire did, while the rest of us sat dumb and blind. Let us now think on this same Lady Laurel, who waits so patiently here. Lady Laurel, so obviously impoverished, and so enfeebled in her temporal powers by the great peace she and her sister wrought against the king’s enemies. So crabbed and unlovely is she, with such squintings and pockmarks, that she must hunch over a bowl of herbs and mumble spells in order to captivate a man so rare, so highly prized, so besieged by lovers, as is Sir Agravain!”
The whole court was in stitches now, with ladies laughing into their sleeves, knights and lords slapping each other on their backs, their guffaws ringing from the walls. Queen Guinevere did not, however, join in the general merriment. Her frown had not changed, but it was no longer directed at the seneschal. Instead, she turned her quiet, even displeasure towards the Lady Moire. Moire did not miss this and attempted to hold herself upright under the double weight of the queen’s glare and the court’s laughter rolling over her. King Arthur leaned close to murmur something into the queen’s ear. As Guinevere bowed her head to listen, Laurel was at last able to glimpse Sir Agravain.
Sir Agravain watched Sir Kai, his eyes narrowed, and his whole body tensed and ready. But ready for what? Challenge? Flight? No, not flight. There was none of that about him. Sir Agravain was holding himself ready in case he must act, while at the same time judging how to act, acutely aware of where he was and who he was. She felt certain of this, as she was certain of the stone floor beneath her feet. Then, Gawain and the king shifted their positions to converse with each other, and Laurel could see nothing but that lean, brown hand, still on the tablecloth, still curled into its fist. Still waiting.
Kai, evidently pleased by his success, had opened his mouth again.
“Enough, Kai,” announced the king firmly, and he raised his cup to the musicians who waited attentively near the hearths. They struck up a merry tune at once, and now the servants did come forward to clear away cloths and tables to make room for the brightly clad dancers to assemble in the centre of the hall. King Arthur gave his hand to the queen to raise her to her feet while their thrones were moved forward a little so they could better view the entertainment. The great crowd of the court stood as well, shuffling, murmuring, reassembling themselves into new, smaller gatherings for enjoyment and conversation. Risa touched Laurel’s hand and gestured for her to come a few steps down the dais to where she could stand amid the other ladies.
“May I ask what your impression is?” Laurel did not need Risa’s nod to know she meant her impression of Sir Agravain.
“I do not know,” murmured Laurel, but this was only partly the truth. “You have lived beside him. What manner of man is he?”
Lady Risa hesitated a long moment. For my sake or for the sakes of all these listening ears? Women pressed close. They were surrounded by rustling skirts and light ladies’
whispers.
“He is an honourable man,” said Risa at last. “He will not give much demonstration when he is pleased, and that can make him seem hard.”
Laurel frowned. This was very near what Gareth had said, and she could see that like Gareth, Risa held something back.
She could see Sir Agravain easily now. He stood on the edge of the dais in stern conversation with Sir Kai, who still had his crooked smile on his face. Gawain was there too, saying something, but whatever his brother was telling him, it did not effect Sir Agravain’s wary and disapproving countenance.
What is it? What about you has everyone so careful of their words?
As this thought formed in her mind, Sir Agravain turned, and saw her watching him.
A flush instantly burned Laurel’s cheeks, but she forced herself to hold steady. Sir Agravain’s brows drew together, slightly puzzled. Displeased? She could not tell. She inclined her head towards him, and he did the same to her.
Risa touched Laurel’s arm, giving her a valid excuse to turn away. Two heavily carved wooden chairs with blue cushions had been set on the dais, two steps below the thrones. Sir Agravain caught her eye again, and somehow Laurel felt the slightest air of challenge from him as he walked down the dais steps to stand beside one. Head held high, Laurel allowed Risa escort her down the steps. She curtsied gravely to the knight, aware of the queen’s eyes, the king’s, the whole of the court’s watching her every move. She took her seat, investing each movement with a lifetime’s worth of practice at dignity. Although his expression did not appear to change, Laurel felt an air of amusement brimming just below the surface, and the corners of her mouth turned up in a tentative smile. Sir Agravain saw this, and bowed deeply, holding her gaze as he made the courtesy. Only then did he sit down beside her.
Once more Laurel found her heart quickening and a faint feeling, almost too tentative to truly be called hope, fluttered within her.
A clap sounded overhead, probably made by the king, and the musicians struck up a jaunty air and the assembled entertainers began their dance. They were a large troupe, six men in blue tunics and six women in cream gowns. They skipped and slipped through their formal patterns with merry grace, now bowing, now turning, all to the happy accompaniment of bells and tambours, cymbals, pipe and harp.
Beside her, Sir Agravain sat rigid, formal and correct. Now that the first tentative exchange had been made between them, Laurel found herself restless. Sitting still felt increasingly impossible. She should say something, do something, and yet she could not. Gathered about them was every listening ear and watching eye that could possibly be crammed into this suddenly too gaudy, too warm, too bright hall. All of them potential gossip-mongers with nothing better to do than to note how she and Sir Agravain sat together and did not speak, did not even look at each other.
Laurel had to stop herself from grinding her teeth in her frustration.
At last, Sir Agravain broke the silence, “I trust that your journey was not overly difficult.”
“No, an’ I thank you.” Laurel replied smoothly, ruthlessly smothering the frustration that churned inside of her. “We had good seas, and your brother was well prepared to escort us from the port.”
“Yes.” Sir Agravain’s glance slipped to where his brother stood at the side of the dais looking over their heads, probably at Risa. “Gawain is famed for his preparations.”
Silence fell once more. The dancers on the floor came together, palm to palm, turned towards the dais and skipped two steps forward and two back. Turned again, clapping merrily as they did.
Say something! Laurel ordered herself. “I have brought with me a letter from your brother Gareth.”
Agravain’s brows rose a hair’s breadth. “A minor miracle, for Gareth to take pen in hand. The estate of marriage has made a man of him.”
“Say rather he feared what you would think if he did not write so manfully,” replied Laurel, unable to keep the tartness out of her rejoinder, even as she instantly wished she could take it back.
Whatever other effect they may have had, her words did make Sir Agravain look directly at her. This time she thought she saw a new expression there, a change in the set of his shoulders and the way creases met at the corners of his eyes.
“You will forgive me, my lady,” he said softly. “I am not … I am not practiced in the ways of courtship.”
“There is no need to make apology, my lord,” she said, lifting her chin to hide the unexpected relief she felt at these gently serious words. “I fear I have never been able to master those arts of glancing and smiling that are considered necessary when responding to the attentions of gallants.”
“Good. Above all things, I feared to disappoint on the field of light flirtation.”
This was spoken with a humour so dry it might have crumbled to dust, but there was something underneath it, something tentative that might have been a crack in Agravain’s shuttered self.
“I am in no way disappointed, my lord,” answered Laurel.
Sir Agravain remained silent for a moment at this, gazing down at her, his face set as stone.
“Thank you,” he said, at last.
Then, he turned back to the dancers, weaving an elaborate figure-eight pattern on the floor. He fixed his attention unwaveringly on them, looking neither left nor right, his mouth tightly closed. Sir Kai’s image of the oyster flitted through Laurel’s mind and she felt the breath of gossip curling around her neck like a cold draft. She gripped the chair arm tightly.
Mother Mary, why did I agree to this?
Memory overwhelmed her, in a single great flood, and suddenly she was in her home, in her private room, standing by the fire with Lynet at her back, flushed with her own frustration.
“Laurel, why are you doing this?”
Laurel just looked at her and said nothing. The blood drained slowly from Lynet’s face. “Oh, Laurel, not because I married Gareth.”
“No, sister, but because you married him under the aegis of a bargain with the sea. There is a spirit watching over you now, and if that spirit decides the bargain is not kept …” Laurel turned away. “What then, sister? You will not even know you have broken faith until disaster falls.”
“I trust Gareth’s heart, Laurel.” Lynet opened her arms. “Do you not trust mine?”
Laurel did not move. Lynet wanted her embrace, to be told all was well. But Laurel could not give her that, not without her understanding. “I trust you as I trust myself, Sister. It is the sea I do not trust. It is the blood we come from.” She watched Lynet’s eyes dart eastward, towards the distant ocean. “You see? You fear even now we are overheard by the unseen. No. If we are to hold this land we’ve been given, we must have more earthly guardians, and we must have legitimate heirs who belong fully to the land, and we must have them soon.”
“Who belong fully to the land. What do you mean by that, Laurel?”
Laurel had not been able to answer, and Lynet had stepped forward. “It’s not me you’re afraid of, Laurel is it? It’s not anything I’ve done. You’re afraid of yourself, that you might … that you might go back to our grandmother.”
For this was the secret between them, the truth that hovered just beneath the surface in their family. Their mother, the beautiful Lady Morwenna, was no mortal woman. Morwenna had been the daughter of the bucca-gwidden, the White Spirit of the Sea. The ocean itself was their lineage, and the power and the compulsion of it sang in each of them.
But most strongly in Laurel, for she was first born. It was the sea’s lineage that gave her hair the colour of sea foam and eyes of pale agate green. It was the sea’s heritage that allowed her to speak to the wind and to work upon the invisible world with a word and a gesture.
Laurel bowed her head, biting her lip. “I will try, Lynet. I swear I will. But it has been hard.” She trembled. “Since Morgaine the Sleepless forced me to draw on the legacy of our blood last year, the sea has pulled more even strongly.”
Last year Morgaine had attempte
d to overthrow the rule of Cambryn. She had succeeded in causing their father’s death. She had almost brought open war to their country. It was their mother’s legacy, and Laurel’s workings, that had prevented that.
But it was a struggle to live in the mortal world while feeling the power of the immortal and the invisible. That struggle had weakened their mother, causing her to die after the birth of her third child. It was the struggle Laurel had felt in some form every day since then.
If that struggle was to end her life as well, it would not be before she had done all she could to secure their kingdom for Lynet and her heirs.
Laurel could not stand apart from her sister any longer. She moved close to Lynet, taking her outstretched hands and folding them closed. “Lynet,” she spoke to those hands. She did not have the strength to meet her sister’s eyes. “Let me do what I must do, and let me face myself and my fate, as you must now face yours.”
“Not alone, Laurel.”
Now Laurel was able to look up, to show Lynet the tears shining in her eyes. “No, not alone, my sister. Not while you live. But on my own nonetheless.”
Lynet embraced her, long and tightly, as if it was for the last time. When she straightened, Laurel saw in Lynet the queen she must now become. “Make your contract, sister,” Lynet said firmly. “I will stand by you.”
Now Lynet was scores of miles away, and Laurel sat amid strangers. The dancers had joined hands, women on one side, men on the other, to trip down the hall. Here beside her was the man she must depend upon to impart the safety she sought for her sister and her home, and she couldn’t find a way to talk with him. Laurel was ready to curse each one of the dancers, and the whole of the court into the bargain. What way was this to begin? Surrounded by hawks, ravens and hounds in their gaudy clothes, waiting for any tit-bit they could snatch up to worry over and tear to pieces. How was she to understand anything of this man? How could he speak for himself, let alone have anyone speak about him? Tomorrow she would be married, married, before God and the law, and she knew nothing, nothing at all of the man!