by Sarah Zettel
“There is wine,” she said, a little desperately, seeing the brass ewer and its matching cups on the rose-strewn table. “Will you drink?”
“An’ I thank you,” he replied.
She filled both cups with the amber brandywine, her mind working furiously, but to no purpose at all. Should she praise him. Remark on the feast.
What do I do. What do I do?
Laurel handed Agravain a goblet, grateful that years of practice at serving kept her hands from trembling.
“Will you sit?” she said, and in the next heartbeat she cursed inwardly. Some wit had removed the chairs.
Agravain looked about, and saw this too.
“If it pleases my lady?” he inquired, gesturing towards the bed with mock gallantry and the same dry humour he had displayed so briefly at the betrothal feast.
Keeping her countenance as grave as she could manage, Laurel curtsied once more. Agravain took the cup from her, and she sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing her skirts and sleeves out fussily. Agravain stood there for one moment, looking from her to the wine cups. Then, he set them both down on a small table beside the candles. He sat down on the edge of the bed, a polite distance away from her.
“My lady …” he began, and then stopped, and began again. “My lady, I had hoped that some words would come to me at this moment, but … but words were not ever my friends.”
“Then we find ourselves at the same impasse,” Laurel answered. “My sister is the orator in our family.”
“She will suit Gareth well, then. He always enjoys a fine speech.”
Laurel’s mouth was dry. She wished she could reach for the wine, but it was too far away. “And you, my lord?”
“I, my lady?” he whispered to his hands, as if he did not dare to look at her. “I would that I were mute. Then I would not have to struggle to say I am glad it is you here beside me at this moment.” Laurel held her breath, fearing that the smallest movement would break his determination. “I have never cared what other men thought of me. But when I saw you … I became afraid I was not enough man for the honour that had come to me.”
He drew in a deep breath, but she could not breathe. Not yet. Not yet. “But if you find …” he stopped. The words were too heavy for him. He was straining to bring them forward. “If you find you cannot … like … me, I will ask nothing more of you tonight.”
He glanced at her, mistook her stunned stillness, and heaved himself to his feet. “Forgive me,” he said, running his hand through his hair, and looking towards the door. “I was counselled … I meant to be gentle, but it is not in my nature …” He was going to leave.
He was going to leave if she did not breathe, did not move, did not find what to say.
“My lord.” Laurel reached out and touched his sleeve of fine linen, feeling the strong, lean arm beneath. “My lord, do not go.”
He stiffened. He was breathing hard, but he turned and met her gaze.
“Stay with me,” she said. “I want nothing else.”
She meant it. She did not know for certain until the words left her, until she felt how her hand gently pulled him towards her, urging him to sit with her again, closer this time, so that she could easily hold both his hands. His was a warm scent, leather and strong soap, spice and gentle wines. The kiss he gave her was light, almost chaste. It might have been the kiss of peace between them. Laurel’s newborn certainty faltered and she found she did not know what to do next. She could not stop or she would break this oh-so-delicate thread being spun between them.
Tentatively, awkwardly, she laid her hand her hand on his chest, feeling the hard planes of its surface beneath the thin cloth. He pulled back, and regarded her a long time in silence. It was as if he would never have enough of looking at her. She did not move her hand, but left it there to feel his quickening breath rise and fall beneath her palm. She liked that feeling, that simple, warm sign of life.
He lifted his hand to her face, tracing her cheeks. His fingertips were calloused, and she felt the strength that waited in that hand, so controlled lest he be too rough. A kind of fear rose in her, for he was strong, far stronger in arm and body than she. His fingers brushed her chin, her throat, tracing the vein where her pulse beat so strongly just beneath her skin. His face tightened, the lines made by wind and care deepening, but his eyes shone more brightly.
Suddenly, Laurel realized her own breath was quickening to match his, and that in her fading fear was the desire that he kiss her again.
She leaned forward and he cupped her face with his rough-palmed hand, drawing her to him, lifting her chin so that he could kiss her again, and so that she could put her arms around his lean shoulders and bring herself closer still. His body was hard, his kiss was hard. There was no softness about this man, no spare flesh beneath the cloth, no featherbed of a body for her to lie against. Yet all she wanted was to press against him, to let his hands have the freedom of her body, to do all that she had known she must never venture until this moment, with this man, her lord, her husband.
“Agravain.”
She was not aware she had spoken his name aloud until he pulled away, holding her by the shoulders. In his searching gaze, she saw that he too was afraid of what he felt and what he wished for. He was afraid of what he would see in her. She made no answer. There was none she could make. She could only let him see her as she was.
His lady, his wife.
“Laurel.”
He kissed her again, caressing her, letting her feel the strength she knew was there. Her own hands seemed beyond her control, pushing at the fabric of his tunic, trying to find bare skin, to feel the heat of it, to know if he was rough or smooth there, if he was as strong and scarred on his body as he was on his arms. He was leaning her back and she was falling as if into the water to float free. Her hair spread out upon her shoulders, bare now as he pushed her lacings open and drew the linen down over her arms, down to her breasts which would be exposed to his searching eyes and hands in another moment.
“My lord Agravain! My lord!”
Agravain shot to his feet. Laurel scrambled backwards, snatching at linen and bedclothes, at anything that would cover her.
A man had broken into the room, not a reveller, a man spattered with mud and wet with rain, out of breath as if he had run for miles to be here, to see this. One of Camelot’s page boys stood in the doorway, stark white with terror.
Agravain’s face twisted in rage, flushing crimson red. “Who in the devil’s name are you!” he roared.
“Forgive me, lord, forgive me.” The man dropped onto his knees, and Laurel thought for a moment Agravain would have struck him but for that obeisance. “I am come from Gododdin, my lord. The king is dying.”
Agravain froze. For a dozen heartbeats, a dozen breaths, he did not move. It was not that it took him so long to understand, Laurel was certain, but it took him that long to believe. He turned to stare at her there on the bed, half-undone by his own hands. While she watched, all expression bled slowly from his face.
Then he strode from the room without another word.
The messenger looked at her mute with apology and regret, and followed after.
And Laurel, crouched on her rose-hung marriage bed, was left alone.
Chapter Five
The king is dying.
Agravain strode down the dim corridor, with the messenger and the page both stumbling behind him.
“My lord …” stammered the boy, a rangy youth, not yet old enough to shave. “My lord, I am so sorry. I never would have … but your standing orders said should any messenger come from Gododdin …”
The page was terrified, and that would not do. Agravain mastered himself and stopped in his tracks.
“You did right.” Colour rushed back into the boy’s cheeks. Quite likely the page was afraid of being dismissed in disgrace. Agravain was known to be harsh in that respect. “Take this man to the barracks,” he said gesturing to the messanger. “Find him food and drink, and dry clothes. If
he has any hurt, it is to be tended. Send two men to my chamber, immediately. Spread the word that any summons will find me there.”
The king is dying.
He faced turned to the messenger. Agravain could not see his face well in the corridor’s dim light, but he could make out that the man sagged under the weight of weather and weariness. In the old tongue of Gododdin, Agravain said, “You will be called on soon to give your whole message to the High King. Be ready.”
The man did his best to bow, and Agravain nodded his acknowledgement. The boy also sketched a hasty bow, and, sensibly, offered the messenger his arm to support him down the corridor.
Agravain watched them go, briefly, before turning away.
His first instinct was to march into the great hall and drag Gawain out to tell him the news. But that would not answer, not in his current state of undress. Besides, Gawain might already know. So might the king. Someone had given this man entry. Sir Kai would have notified King Arthur of the arrival of such a messenger.
The situation rapidly clearing in his fogged mind, Agravain continued down the corridor. His stockinged feet padded ridiculously on the stones and rushes. It was cold. He was cold from foot to head. He had to stop every few steps to shake off the rushes that clung to the bottoms of his woollen stockings, and could only be grateful there was no one to witness his clownish progress. The soles of his feet cringed with each step on the cold stones. There might not have been a fire left in all the world, and the wind from outside found its way through the stones to touch his thinly clad back and brush his hands.
The king is dying.
His father, King Lot of Gododdin, was dying. Sharply and brutally, the image of how his father had looked the last time Agravain had spoken to him came to his mind; the wild blue eyes, unkempt hair and beard. His harsh voice had been a cracked and broken whisper, but he still had enough strength to all but crush Agravain’s hand as he gripped it. Strong still. Lucid sometimes. Driven by his demons always. Driven now to death.
His eyes were stinging. Agravain wiped them hard with the back of his hand. He forced himself to continue towards his own chamber before any could come upon him to witness his lack of control.
It is good this is come at last, he told himself harshly. Now all promises will be kept and all debts finally paid.
That the summons should come tonight, at this time, was just one more black irony in the invisible battle consuming his past, and his future.
Agravain, by his rank, was entitled to a room within Camelot’s main keep that was not far from the place he had just left.
Just left his wife. Laurel.
Agravain gritted his teeth against the memory of that interrupted moment. For all the tight, physical ache of it remained with him, he could not permit himself to think on it now. Laurel was of noble birth, raised to the royalty by the queen’s hand, and by her marriage. She understood that duty came before all else.
If she does not now, she must learn.
The grim reality of that cut him unexpectedly, and Agravain winced. But he set that aside as well. There was nothing else to be done.
Agravain’s apartment was small and spare, but not without elements of comfort. A woven carpet from the Pyranee mountains covered the floor. A shelf beside the carved bed held three books covered in wood and leather. A writing desk stood beneath the shuttered window. Beside that waited a flat chest specially made to hold the maps, charts, letters and documents that he had collected in his time here. The understanding of history was Agravain’s special study. He pursued it whenever his other duties gave him leisure. He studied to understand the minds and movements of men as well as of armies. Without Gawain’s happy talent for making friends, he must gather his knowledge of his fellow beings as best he could.
The silence of his empty room was deafening. It smelled of cold and damp from having stood unattended all day. Agravain uncovered the coals in his hearth and prodded the fire into giving up some feeble light and warmth. Then, he went to his clothing chest. His wedding tunic lay crumpled on the bed where it had been summarily discarded by the revellers. He did not reach for it. It would be inappropriate for this new turn of events. Instead, he donned trousers and tunic of plain blue wool, and reclaimed his boots and leather belt.
Dressed, Agravain felt calmer, more ready to face what would come next. Before anything else could be set in motion, he must speak with King Arthur. All the plans he had laid across the long years of his preparation must wait until he was given formal leave to go home.
Agravain looked again at his wedding tunic in its untidy heap. Its bright colours flickered in the firelight. With precise motions he smoothed the cloth down, looking for damage. If it had been marred in any way, he’d have words with those idiots who had tossed it so lightly aside. It was a rich gift, and painstakingly made. A gift to show respect and wealth. It should not be treated with less than care. He noted the close stitching and the fineness of the cloth as he folded it. He found himself wondering if Laurel’s hands had worked the hawks that flew over the glittering waves.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Enter.” Agravain turned from the gift, his fingers trailing across the embroidery as he did.
The door opened. Leoan, Gawain’s oldest squire, came in, accompanied by two soldiers who were both far more tousled and bleary-eyed than they should have been. Agravain opened his mouth to deliver a reprimand, but remembered the feast. It was his wedding that had led to this state of affairs, and the men were not so far gone that they were unaware of their condition, and did their best to straighten themselves.
Leoan, looking alert and spruce beside these other two, bowed. “My lord Agravain, the High King commands you attend him in his private chamber. My lord Gawain will join you both there.”
Agravain nodded. To the nearest, tallest soldier he said, “Go and say I am coming.” To the squire he said, “Go to my wife and tender my apologies. I may not return tonight.”
My father is dying, perhaps dead already. My new wife sits alone where I must leave her to attend this business. God above us, is there to be any part of this that is not cursed?
The boy kept his countenance firmly in check as he bowed and hurried away. Agravain found he had to allow his brother this much; Gawain trained his squires well.
“You,” Agravain said to remaining soldier ‘Go make sure that the queen has been informed as to what has occurred and request, in my name, that she send some competent woman to tend my wife.”
The soldier appeared less than pleased with this errand, but he too complied, which was all that mattered at this moment.
But I will remember that reluctant face, sirrah, for later days.
The proper messages sent, Agravain marched down hallway and stairway to wait upon the king.
The fire burned brightly in King Arthur’s private room. Its gold light played across the richly carved furnishings and soft carpet. The High King stood beside the hearth and stared into the flames. Perhaps he divined omens, or perhaps he just visited the vast countries of the past that a king must carry within himself. King Arthur still wore his ceremonial wealth; the dragon crown decked with rubies weighed down his head, and the dragon torque guarded his throat. How long had he been standing there lost in thought, not bothering to change from his celebratory finery? The king was a man with a fine sense of ceremony and appropriate conduct. It was one of the things that made Camelot the great court it was. Disturbance stirred softly in the back of Agravain’s mind as he moved to kneel.
King Arthur turned one blue eye towards him and stopped him with the smallest gesture of his hand.
“Your father was a great man and a good friend to me, Agravain,” said Arthur softly. The rubies in his crown shimmered like drops of fresh blood on his brow. “I am sorry.”
Agravain felt a muscle high in his cheek twitch. It had been many years since Lot was either thing to Arthur, and they both knew it. Since Agravain’s mother Morgause had vanished, Lot had become a madman. A
ceaseless, unreasoning fire had burned in him, hot enough to drive him to murder.
Hot enough to kill a daughter and drive four sons away.
“There is no need, Sire,” said Agravain, keeping his voice sober and neutral. “This has been long in coming.”
“Nonetheless, I am sorry.”
Agravain inclined his head, more disconcerted than he would have thought possible. Not only by Arthur’s soft words, but by the way the king’s face fell into deep and unfamiliar lines as he spoke. The red-gold of the firelight showed the grey in Arthur’s hair and beard too plainly. Exactly what was he sorry about? Not this death. Lot was more a burden than an ally.
What, then?
The arrival of both Gawain and Kai saved Agravain from having to follow that thought any further. They too made to kneel and were stopped. Agravain met the seneschal’s eyes and saw unfamiliar compassion in their usually edged gaze. Only then did he dare look to his brother. Gawain’s eyes were dry, but red, and his face was flushed.
Agravain could not tell whether he was appalled at this evidence that his brother had so recently wept, or if he envied Gawain his ability to do so.
“Risa has gone to Laurel,” murmured Gawain.
“Thank you,” Agravain replied, surprised at the depth of the gratitude he felt at this.
Fortunately, Gawain read his own mood accurately and did not now waste time on sentimental words. “Shall we bring in the messenger?” he asked the king.
Arthur nodded, and Gawain moved back to the door, beckoning into the corridor. A moment later, the messenger from Din Eityn walked in to kneel before the High King. In the bright firelight, Agravain could see him better. He was not young. His hair and moustaches were still as wild as they had been when he burst into Agravain’s wedding chamber, but his eyes were calmer now, and both his hands were swathed in clean white linens. Every part of him had been toughened by hard living in rough weather. The dirt rubbed into the pores and pockmarks of his face might have been part of his skin. Agravain could not put any name to him, but he discerned the marks of his unforgiving homeland in that tough skin and scarred cheeks.