by Sarah Zettel
“None, my lady.”
It was the answer Laurel expected. “That will be corrected in due course. Show me the stores.”
“Yes, my lady.” Byrd, sensing Laurel’s dangerous humour, had the good sense not to smile at the thought of further trouble. Instead, she reclaimed the rushlight and took Laurel out a side door, through another walkway, and to a set of stairs leading down into the rock beneath the keep.
The cellars were a low warren of chambers, irregularly shaped with walls so cold and damp they might have been made of ice. Like the rest of the hall, the stores had been permitted to rot. In the flickering rushlight, Laurel could not see a single cask that was properly sealed, nor anything that was decently hung to dry or cure. The smell was more that of a charnel house than of a food store. Sacks of meal slumped on damp earth and apples lay in withered piles in the corners. Loaves of bread lay broken and dusty on the shelves. At a glance, Laurel could tell there was not enough to sustain the hall through a serious storm, let alone through a siege.
“Sorry sight, isn’t it?” remarked Byrd, shaking her head. What relish she had had for the situation had finally melted away.
Laurel put her fists on her hips, letting annoyance cloak desperation. At least two hundred souls were climbing the cliff, carrying with them enough food for a day, at most. And this was what she had to greet them with. “Byrd, is there such a thing as a decent measure or scale in this hole?”
Byrd shrugged. “It may be, my lady. Such things have been … ignored of late.”
“Find it, if you can. And anything that will do for making a tally. We must know what we have and what we lack.”
“Yes, my lady.”
A rusty sconce beside the door could hold the rushlight. A piece of sacking from a pile beside some broken casks was relatively dry and made a crude apron. Thus adorned, Laurel waded into the mess of flotsam that passed for a store room.
Their only blessing was that it was summer, and if the folk they had passed were as effusive with their tributes as they were with their cheers, they might stand some chance of replenishing this place before winter came. If not … it wasn’t more men they’d need from Camelot, but food.
Byrd soon returned bearing an ancient wooden measure, a second, less smoky, rushlight, and, from some blessed hidey-hole, a tiny waxen tally book and stylus. It was all Laurel could do to keep from crying out in thanks. Without hesitation, Byrd made herself a sacking apron to match Laurel’s and waded into the work.
For an hour or more they laboured, heaving open sacks and caskets, stamping at the rats and mice as they fled, disturbed at their feasts. It was fully as bad as it had looked at first. Half the grain was rotten, and there was little meat of any kind, and no fish at all. The only spice was salt, and little enough of that. The rats had been at everything.
Laurel carried on grimly, making the smallest notes she could, carrying running totals in her head, and trying to count weights and measures and calculate coin while a flood of questions swirled through her.
What are the levies and on whom? Is there anyone left to ask? Probably these louts take what they want when they want it … We must get some sort of meal together, for the hall and our people … Where will we sleep them? We cannot keep them in the yard or in the stables. We must have the great hall.
A hunting party would have to be organized and quickly. Judging from the boats they had seen in the village below, they should be able to get fish fairly easily. They could dry that, perhaps smoke it. Salting was out of the question, there was nothing like enough …
The biggest concern was the grain. It would be another month, perhaps two, before the tiny fields below would begin ripening.
How do we make shift until then?
The quick patter of footsteps sounded outside the door. Byrd squinted up over her shoulder at the silhouette that darted into the doorway. “Ceana, what is it?”
Ceana, Laurel could now see, was the square woman she had put in charge of the ovens. She stood panting at the top of the stairs, her skirt gripped in both hands. “My lady,” she gasped. “Come. It’s Sorcha. He’s at her …”
Laurel did not make her finish. “Byrd, go get Lord Ruadh.” Anger and frustration, suppressed so she could keep at her task, boiled up hard. Laurel strode up the stairs, shoving past Ceana.
Once in the kitchens, she found an infuriating but unsurprising sight. One of the youngest women was backed up against the wall by a ruffian in battered leather armour. His hand was already up her skirt and two of his fellows stood in the doorway, cheering him on.
“No!” The girl cried. She struggled and she squirmed as he planted quick, painful kisses on her face.
Fergas, squatting on his stool and struggling with flint and steel grunted. “Oh shut it, Sorcha. Get ‘er out of here, Conal if you can’t keep it quiet.”
Fury burned in Laurel’s blood.
“Stop this!” Laurel bellowed. Her voice echoed through the room. The man, Conal, did stop, looking back, startled, at this sudden interruption of his game.
Laurel stalked forward. She grabbed the girl’s — Sorcha, was it? — wrist and pulled her free, sending her stumbling into another girl’s arms. There, Sorcha cringed, weeping.
Laurel spared her no further glance, but instead faced the attacker, the creature Fergas named as Conal. He was no better than she’d come to expect in this place. His fair beard and hair were a tangled mess. The stench of him was strong, and he did not have a whole tooth in his head, a fact she made out easily as he grinned and bowed to her, mocking her with each movement.
“Hear that, men?” Conal inquired, his brows arching in the semblance of surprise. “Our prince’s fine wife will not have me with another woman in her presence. You flatter me, Highness.”
His words drove Laurel to that still place that is beyond anger. Her mind was perfectly clear, and she felt her own power rise within her. She knew without seeing that the witchlights shone in her green eyes.
Let this creature look on that. Let him know, and turn pale with that knowledge.
Those behind him did pale, and their smiles fell away. But Conal himself was blind. He stood before her grinning his filthy grin while the girl he’d made free with wept out loud sheltered by her friend’s thin arms.
“You want to take a woman?” Laurel said, danger and anger making her voice soft. “Here I am.” She spread her arms. “Come near, sirrah. I’m waiting for you.”
“Oh, my lady,” Conal answered, his own expression turning into a dreadful parody of a lover’s gentle glance. “You should not speak such words unless you mean them.”
Laurel smiled, keen as a knife. “You think I do not mean what I say, sirrah? Come here. Come, lay your hands on me. See how you like what you find.”
He sniggered as he reached for her. Like lightning, Laurel’s hands flashed out, grabbing his wrist and elbow, bending them backward. He howled in pain, but she had him already. With even her slight weight, she could bear down, hear his muscles creak, feel his joints tear.
Steadily, remorselessly, Laurel drove the creature in her hands to his knees.
“Look at me!” she ordered.
He wailed in his pain.
“Look at me!”
Panting, he slit his eyes open. The light within Laurel burned brightly.
Let him see. Let him see. Let him see the ocean at storm, and let him see himself helpless on a stone with the waters rising fast around him. Let him see himself thin and starved and naked. Let him see the wolves circling.
See what it is to be driven out to die alone.
Anger wiped out mercy. Anger at the villains in this place, anger at what had happened in Londinium, anger at Morgaine and fear for her husband alone with his mad, dying father while she must deal with brigands and filth all found release as she drove her dark visions into him.
Conal’s jaw slackened and his ruddy face paled to sick grey. He cried out again, struggling to free himself, and beneath her hands, Laurel felt his elbow
snap. Conal screamed.
Boots slapped against stone. A man running fast. Ruadh burst into the kitchen ahead of Byrd, knife drawn. He skidded to a halt, almost comic in his surprise to find Laurel towering over this squeaking, squirming villain.
Laurel released Conal so suddenly, he fell backwards. He clutched his arm to his chest, huddling in on himself, whimpering in his pain. Neither of his confederates made any move towards him as Laurel drew herself up.
“Lord Ruadh, this man assaulted me, and this girl,” she nodded to Sorcha, who shrank back behind Dame Ceana, “who was not his to touch. Prince Agravain will sit in judgment when he finds it convenient. Take him to where they may be held closely and set good guard over them.”
“With pleasure, my lady.” Ruadh put up his knife and grabbed Conal’s bad shoulder, hauling him to his feet as he wailed. With a single shove, Ruadh sent him spinning into the arms of the two who had moments ago been glad to watch his assault. Laurel held her peace, lest she undermine the chieftain. But these two clutched their former leader hard. It was plain fear was already working a change in their loyalties, and they looked to Ruadh for his nod. When it was given, they unceremoniously hauled Conal away.
“And make sure the rest of them know their prince does not tolerate men about him who act like beasts. There will be law here from now on!” announced Laurel, and her words rang through the stone room.
A smile, small but bright crossed Ruadh’s aged visage. “That word will spread without my voice, I think.”
Laurel returned his small smile. “But not without your hand to it,” she said, her anger fading slowly, leaving her feeling a little weak, and suddenly too warm. “We will rely upon you, Lord Ruadh.”
“I will do my best, Highness.” He bowed deeply.
As Ruadh departed to deal with his new men, as well as his new prisoner, Byrd murmured. “They are dangerous, my lady.”
“Any rat may bite, Byrd,” answered Laurel. “It does not mean they are permitted free access to the grain.” With these words, she rounded on Fergas. “You can quit this place now, with what you stand up in, and count yourself lucky if I never see you again.”
Fergas got slowly to his feet, his round chin trembling behind his filthy beard. “My lady …” he began.
“Get out!” The lights flared in her eyes again, and Fergas lost all strength. As quickly as his bulk permitted, he charged up the back stairs. The door slammed behind him.
Laurel turned, surveying the kitchen. Those who remained were all stunned into stillness by all they had seen. She walked over to the girl, Sorcha, trembling in her confederate’s arms.
“Can you stand, now?” Laurel asked gently.
Sorcha nodded dumbly and managed to push herself away from her protector a little in an attempt to stand on her own. “Have you family nearby?” Laurel asked. “A mother?”
Again a nod.
“Good. Here is what I would have you do. Take your friend here, and the both of you go down to your family. Say that the lady of Din Eityn is in need of honest women and men to serve here. Say that those who are prepared to work hard and will find good reward for their labour. Can you do that?”
Sorcha stared wide-eyed at her, not daring to trust what she heard. Laurel let her look as long as she pleased, keeping her own countenance mild. This would be their first voice to the people outside. She must be true and she must believe.
“Yes, my lady,” murmured Sorcha.
“Thank you. Go now.”
Sorcha did not need anymore urging. She grabbed up her tattered skirts and ran for the back door. But at the foot of the stairs, she paused and turned, and dropped a deep curtsey to Laurel.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said, before she vanished out the door. Her friend made the same obeisance, and moved quickly to follow.
Victory, small but genuine, sang in Laurel’s heart, but there was no time to savour it. “Byrd, we have to finish with the stores. The rest of you,” she turned her hard gaze and voice to the remaining kitcheners, “we will have fire and water in this place before dark.”
“Yes, m’lady.” The words were murmured by half a dozen voices. The people moved like sleepwalkers at first. Gradually, they showed more energy. Indeed, it was as if they had woken up to find themselves in the midst of their own work. They looked at their own hands strangely as they picked up kettle, broom and bucket. A few cast black glances at her. They would most likely be gone before morning, and no loss. She had a pair of ambassadors now in the form of Sorcha and her companion. They would take on one or two new folk to serve here over the next few days, and permit them to come and go freely. These would soon speak the truth of the changes here. Coin given in exchange for grain and other stores would remind frightened men what it was to have an honest lord over them.
Coin. That would be a necessity as this place clearly had nothing else to give to assuage resentment for a levy out of season.
We will also deal with that in its own turn.
Fortunately, the woman she’d taken to thinking of as Dame Ceana was not only a hard-handed, hard-headed woman, but she responded well to having her opinion respectfully sought. She showed Laurel the dairy, which was in surprisingly good condition. The mistress there was Ceana’s cousin and as hard-headed as she. There was cheese, milk and eggs and even some butter. At the sight of this, the sun rose in Laurel’s heart. Pottage could be made, and oatcakes, and possett. Perhaps even some of last year’s nuts might be found to help stretch things out. Laurel suspected that these two cousins had been bartering the hall’s produce back down the hill. It didn’t matter. The dairy mistress insisted she could give Laurel the names of some men, good men, honest men, who could be trusted for wild meats. Laurel sat these two down together to create a plan for how to wage battle against starvation. Let them benefit their friends and families, just so long as that horror of a larder was cleaned and filled.
That left the matter of the hall. Pedair had surely arrived with the men by now. It was most unfitting that they see the king in his current state, even if Agravain would consent to bring them into the hall.
“Byrd. I saw a chapel in the yard?”
Byrd nodded. “There is, my lady, though its in as fully bad shape as this kitchen. The priest is long gone and no one here prays anymore.”
“Take me. We will make a room for King Lot there.”
Byrd’s gaze narrowed. Laurel could see the doubt in her. That did not matter. “As you say, my lady.”
The chapel had no walkway. They crossed the open court, skirting the growing crowd of folk milling there. The clouds scudded across the sky and the salt wind blew hard off the bay, lifting Laurel’s spirits. It smelled of clean life and she welcomed it in this dying place.
Byrd had not exaggerated the state of the chapel. The painted walls were battered and soot-smeared. The plain altar table sagged in the middle and the cross on the wall tipped to the right. There was no sign of cloth or candlestick. The stone basin of holy water was dry and a dusty oak leaf lay in the bottom.
Laurel’s teeth ground together in pure frustration. “We need to clean this place, Byrd. Fetch fire and water, and find out what bed and bedding may be had. My women, Cait and Jen, should have arrived with my luggage by now. Fetch them, and whoever you see standing idle with them. We must make this place hospitable at once.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Byrd hurried away again. Laurel looked about her, despair settling dangerously near in that moment’s stillness. The desolation in this place went straight through her. This was beyond her skills. She did not know how to make this ruined place holy again.
Forgive me. It will be your house again, but I must beg the loan of it this little while.
With that, Laurel tied up her sleeves, and set to work.
Chapter Thirteen
As Laurel walked away, Agravain made himself turn once more to his father. Perhaps the tide of Lot’s pain had ebbed a little, or perhaps his strength had failed, but both the screams and
the brutal contortions had eased. Lot of Gododdin lay still on his bed, breathing harshly. Sweat ran down his gaunt, yellow face.
“My father?” Agravain murmured. Lot’s eyes were tight shut and he made no reply. Agravain spoke again, more loudly. “My father?”
Lot spasmed and twisted. With an effort that seemed to involve every fibre in his frame, he opened his eyes. Agravain leaned close, his shadow falling across his father.
Lot’s lips moved aimlessly for a moment. Then he croaked, “Which of them are you?”
Disappointment sank through Agravain, but he pushed it aside. “I am Agravain.”
“Yes.” Lot slowly closed his eyes again. He swallowed. “Yes. Of course. It would be you.”
“I have come as I promised.” Agravain said, not understanding whether his father was pleased, or if his madness led him to rue this meeting. He almost feared to try to riddle it out.
Lot breathed deeply, once, twice, three times, searching for his strength. “You are grown to be a man, then.”
“You could see as much, Sire, if you opened your eyes.” Agravain hated the peevish, impatient tone behind the words, but it seemed he suddenly had no other voice available to him
Lot shook his head. “No. I cannot see. Not anymore. Only shadows and memory. There’s nothing real. Nothing left.”
“Be easy, father,” said Agravain around the tightness filling his throat. “I am here now.”
Slowly, tentatively, his father opened his eyes. They were brown eyes, and once had been deep and clear. Age and illness now clouded them over, and turned the whites dirty yellow. They flicked back and forth restlessly, nervously.
“I had other sons, did I not?” Lot whispered. “You had brothers once.”
Agravain had to swallow hard before he could speak. “Yes.”
Lot too swallowed, and licked his lips. They were cracked, and lined with scabs. There should be water. He should get some, give an order, but he could not move.