Camelot's Blood

by Sarah Zettel

  “How do they fare?” Lot croaked.

  “They are well, Sire. Gareth and Geraint are kings in their own countries now. Gawain has fathered his first son.”

  “Good. Good.” Lot nodded feebly. This seemed to drain his strength so deeply that he had to close his eyes again. “Better than I deserve,” he breathed. He paused, and a thought seemed to strike him. “There was a sister,” he said slowly. “I can’t see her now. Where is my Tania?”

  For a long moment, Agravain could not answer. “She is not here.”

  “Not here,” repeated Lot. “Not here.” His mouth moved, struggling for words. His hands plucked at the furs and his swollen legs kicked weakly. “Not here. You mean she’s gone trysting with her man again. Conniving slut!” The force of Lot’s scream lifted him head and shoulders from the bed. “Foul, sneaking whore! I’ll kill you with my own hands!” As the words left him, his face unclenched, and his eyes opened wide in horror. “With my own hands. With my own hands.” Those hands, with the flesh hanging loose over their bones, trembled and slowly, Lot fell back down onto his pillows.

  Agravain remained still. He could offer no comfort or ease. His father had done this thing and would be judged. Should be judged. All he could do was be sure that Morgaine the Sleepless was delivered up to that same judgment for that same deed.

  “Is the other still here, father?” Agravain asked quietly. “Does she still come to you?”

  But his father did not seem able to hear him. “God, I hurt,” moaned Lot, shifting and twisting his fever-flushed frame. “Christ and Mother Mary take me away from here, or give me strength enough … I had strength enough on that day, why do I not have it now? A knife, a knife. Please God. I am damned already, one more sin is no matter. Let it be clean, let it be over … ”

  “Father.” Agravain bent closer. “Is she here? Does she still come?”

  Lot’s eyes darted back and forth and only slowly did his gaze find Agravain’s. “Oh yes,” he breathed, and there was a horrible, mad eagerness in those words. “She comes. Treacherous, faithless, burning. She comes. Steals breath and flesh and leaves me burning. Bitch. Slut. I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her!” The words turned into a long scream and Lot’s whole body fell once more into the rolling, restless grip of his pain, stretched and tossed by its invisible waves.

  Agravain found he was not breathing. He drew down great swallows of air and stumbled backwards. His heels knocked against a chair he had not realized waited there behind him. He sat down hard, running both hands through his hair, unable to stop his ears against the sound of his father’s agonies.

  I must think clearly. I must think clearly.

  But he could not. The sight and sound of his father permeated his thoughts as surely as the stench of the illness permeated the air. It left no corner to which he could retreat, no door of self that he could close off. He should shift himself, give orders for water, clean bedding, anything. But the thought of bringing back one of those shiftless, shambling, things that had surrounded his father was not to be born.

  Better he should … his knife hung heavily at his side. He could feel the hilt press against his hip as another scream ripped from his father’s throat. It would be murder, but that sin could be absolved. Penance, however harsh, would surely be easier than hearing one more scream.

  Agravain did not know how long he sat there, suspended between awareness of his father and awareness of the knife. At times he was only angry. At other times he felt sick to his soul. It was only the fact that his breakfast had been so long ago that kept him from spilling his stomach onto the cold stone. Helplessness pressed against him like a stone against his chest, smothering breath, hope, reason.

  A footstep sounded behind him. Agravain was on his feet in an instant, whirling around, ready to strike. Laurel froze on the spot, until he could see that it was her. He drew himself up at once, tight and still.

  “With your permission, my lord,” Laurel said evenly. “I would minister to the king, your father.”

  “Yes. Yes.” Agravain was shaking. This was inexcusable. Intolerable. He cast about for something to focus his scattered, wayward thoughts. Laurel held a wooden basin in her hands. “What is that?” The words came out far more sharply than he meant.

  “Clean water,” replied Laurel, setting the basin beside the feeble, flickering fire. “Nothing more.” She faced him. Her clothing was rumpled and stained, and two locks of hair had slipped unnoticed from her braids and now made white streaks across her flushed face. “I can have beer brought, if it seems he can swallow it.”

  Of course. Of course Laurel had seen to these things, and to much more by the look of her. Her hands were stained as well, and her nails freshly broken, but her demeanor was absolutely correct and courteous. She gave no hint that she was disappointed, disapproving or frightened of this place he had brought her to.

  I would minister to the king, your father.

  “If you please,” Agravain said, stepping aside.

  Laurel soaked a clean rag in the water, but as she approached the bed, Lot uttered a weak, keening sound of almost infantile dread. “She is come. She is come!”

  “No, father,” said Agravain hurrying once more to the bedside, in case … in case …

  He could not make himself finish the thought, but neither could he stand for his father, even in his madness to be so mistaken. “This is the Lady Laurel. My wife.”

  That word stopped his father cold, opening his eyes once more. “Wife?” Lot repeated, stunned. “You bring a wife here?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  In the space of a heartbeat, his father’s hand shot out, seizing Agravain’s tunic and hauling him down.

  “Fool!” Lot shrieked. Flecks of spittle landed on Agravain’s cheeks and mouth. “Fool! She’ll break you! She’ll go over to that other one!”

  Which was enough to make Agravain forget these words were spoken in pain and illness. He dug his fingers hard into his father’s wrists, amazed that a hand so strong could feel so fragile. He could snap it in two without effort. He remembered himself in time, and drew back, holding his father’s hand at bay as if it were some enemy’s blade.

  “Father, I will not permit you to speak so of her.” No one, not even this man, this king, would deny Laurel her due.

  He felt Lot’s hand relax in slow, jerking stages. When Agravain dared let go, his father’s arm thudded onto the bed beside him like a dead thing.

  “I burn Agravain,” Lot whispered.

  “I know, father.” Agravain looked up at Laurel where she waited, mute and still, but not placid, nor stupefied. Readiness showed in her stance, her watchful silence, even in the way her fists knotted about the rag she held. Ready to run, or fight, whatever was needed. She waited only to see what she would be called to do.

  When Lot’s arm fell, she relaxed a little, readying herself for a different kind of fight. She walked forward, without hesitation, and began to sponge down Lot’s face and arms with soft, competent motions. She moistened his parched lips and dribbled water into his mouth. All this Lot bore without moving, only breathing hard against the pain that surely accompanied each touch. Laurel moved down his body, carefully examining his swollen belly and legs, returning for more water.

  But something was wrong. She was doing so little. Surely there was something more she could do. Was she satisfying herself on some point? Making sure of something?

  Even as Agravain thought this, Laurel returned the rag to the basin and straightened up.

  “My lord, we must move him.”

  “No,” snapped Agravain.

  Laurel’s face hardened, and he thought he saw a trace of disappointment. That hit him harder than he would have believed possible.

  “He cannot stay here,” she pointed out calmly. “Our people must be fed and housed, and this is the only place where there is room enough.”

  This is the king’s hall! Agravain wanted to shout. He will not be driven from it!

  But she was right.
If there had been space in his thoughts, he would have seen that for himself. Hours ago.

  “The chapel is prepared to receive the king,” she went on more gently. Agravain found that he was grateful for the sympathy while resenting her insinuation that he needed it — and then resenting himself for his irrationality.

  “You and I will do it,” Agravain said. It was the only concession he found himself able to offer. “No one else will touch him.”

  It was not, however, enough for Laurel. “We cannot move him smoothly alone. Let Pedair and Ruadh help.”

  This too he would have seen, if he could see, if he could think. God and Christ, what is happening to me? He stood here beside his father, home at last, to wage for a war he had known for ten years was coming, and in the space of a few hours, reason had utterly deserted him.

  Him, but not his wife, who stood before him, waiting for him to return to his senses.

  “Very well.”

  Laurel curtsied with stiff formality, and went to summon the chieftains, who, he was certain, she had waiting just outside the doors.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to her back. “My wife.”

  • • •

  As gentle as they tried to be, Lot screamed. It was horrible to hear. He twisted and writhed and though they had tried to swaddle him, he soon worked his way free. Twice, Laurel almost lost her grip on the sling. It seemed a mile across the court to the chapel where they could at last lay him down on the bedstead piled high with furs and fleeces.

  As soon as Lot laid down, Laurel dismissed Pedair and Ruadh with soft orders to see to the feeding and quartering of the men, making sure they knew to go to Byrd and Ceana for all they needed. She hoped to spare Agravain the necessity of making more decisions at this moment. He could not seem to tear his eyes away from his father, but neither did he seem able to move. He just stood there, his hands opening and closing on nothing. Laurel shut the chapel door behind the two chieftains. When she turned, it was to see Agravain slumped down on a three-legged stool beside his father’s head.

  The second basin of clean water and the towel she had ordered from Byrd were laid on a small table beside the full pot and plate from the kitchen. She picked up a crockery jug from the floor and uncorked it, pouring an ample measure of its contents into the water and another into a wooden cup.

  “What is that?” snapped Agravain, showing that he was not nearly so absorbed as she had taken him to be.

  “Water of life,” she replied as she recorked the jug. “How the vultures here missed it, I do not know. It will help him sleep, if he can swallow it. It is also said to be good for fever and diseases of the skin.” She sighed, brushing her hair back from her face. “I wish Lynet were here. She is the one with the physician’s training.”

  But as her shadow brushed the king’s bed, Lot shrank back, one hand flailing out as he tried to both fight, and find help. “Keep them away. Keep them away!”

  Laurel stopped in mid-stride. Agravain caught his father’s searching hand, holding it strongly. “No one comes here, father. You are thirsty. Let me help you to drink.” He beckoned to Laurel. She stretched her arm out to its utmost to put the cup into his hand, then retreated to the table. Agravain cradled Lot’s head with one hand and tipped the cup up to his cracked lips. Lot choked and coughed and his eyes rolled. Laurel thought for sure he would refuse the draught, but Agravain kept at the task until the cup was emptied. Lot’s eyelids fluttered and he struggled weakly. This time Agravain let him go. In a short while, his father’s eyes closed, and his mouth went slack, letting out a hoarse, shallow snore.

  Agravain looked at the empty cup in his hand, as if puzzled by its meaning. Laurel brought the jug forward and poured in a good measure of the liquor. Agravain raised the cup in wordless salute and drank it off in two swallows.

  “There is food, my lord. Will you eat?”

  He looked up at her, and Laurel saw mute the gratitude in his eyes. “An’ I thank you, my lady.”

  It was poor enough stuff; pottage with egg and milk stirred in, a small cake of salted oats, and a new cheese. But Agravain had been to war and surely survived on worse. He ate hungrily, and without complaint. Sitting on his low stool, the prince of Gododdin emptied his bowl, mopping the last of the pottage up with the oat cake. When he was finished, she took the bowl from him and set it aside.

  “You have done much work today, my wife. I thank you.”

  “It was no more than my duty, my husband.”

  “It was, and I know it, and I do thank you for it.”

  For the first time in all that long, dreadful day, Laurel saw Agravain’s real self behind his tired eyes. Alone for this moment, with none but his sleeping father as witness, she went to him and took up his hand.

  “I am sorry that you have had such a homecoming.”

  He shook his head. The lines on his face had deepened, and he looked older than he should, but not beaten. He was coming to an understanding of his circumstances, accepting the reality around him so that he could begin to change it.

  “Truth be told, I am glad it was no worse.” Some of his comfortable irony returned as he spoke, and the constriction in Laurel’s breast eased upon hearing it. “There are sound walls at least, and now there are men for defence.” He glanced keenly up at her. “I trust you have eaten?”

  “Before I came here.”

  “Good. Good.” He scrubbed at his face, as if trying to rub off the beard that had so lately grown to cover his chin. He looked towards the closed door, distracted by some thought.

  “Will you go to the hall, my lord?” she suggested carefully. “Pedair and Ruadh would be glad of your counsel, and to learn your plans. I will keep watch here.”

  Agravain glanced again at the door, and for once, Laurel found herself able to read his thoughts plainly. She offered him escape from this heavy bedside watch, but it was cowardly and selfish to even desire such escape. Yet, it was true he did need to confer with the chieftains, who must now become the captains for his dishevelled fortress and all the strange assortment of workmen and followers he had brought up with them.

  “I will return before dark,” he said as he rose. He bowed to her, and Laurel answered with a deep curtsey. With one last glance of silent gratitude, Agravain left her there.

  Laurel sighed, wiping her hands needlessly on her makeshift apron, grateful he had chosen to go. It would do him no good to see what must come next. Her jaw hardened, and Laurel stripped the coverings away from King Lot.

  His legs were horrible. Swollen with gross humours, oozing clear matter and pus, they scarcely looked like human limbs anymore. His arms were covered in sores, and there was no chance of his back being any better.

  Breathing through her mouth to keep out some of the stench, and praying that the whisky draught would hold him in its grip just a little longer, Laurel took her knife from its sheath and as quickly as she could, she began to cut Lot’s clothing from his body.

  She practically had to chip the stiff cloth away. The king had been left in his own filth for so long, there was hardly a patch of whole skin on him. Laurel had tended men after battle, and had seen her share of noisome infections, but nothing like this. Her heart split between pity and disgust.

  Clamping down hard on both, she soaked her white cloth in the whisky water, and with the cold determination that is the shield of a nurse, she began to wash Lot clean.

  She hurt him. She could not help it, and even in his sleep, he moaned and twisted. She managed to dribble some extra whisky down his throat to keep him asleep, but it was a long, slow, uneasy process. Twice Jen and Byrd came to the door, as they had been instructed to do, and twice they had to be sent for more water and more towels.

  When it was finished, Laurel was exhausted. None of her other labours had taken so much from her body or spirit. In the end, she had to call all three of her waiting women to her. She simply did not have the strength to turn and lift the weight of the dying king.

  But they had made a differen
ce. The stench was all but gone now. Some of the scabs had begun to dry cleanly, and the grime was gone from the raised flesh. His legs and brow were at least a little cooler to the touch. By dint of brute force more than anything else, they had managed to swaddle Lot’s waist in clean linen, followed by one of the lengths of striped wool so loved by the people of this country. She washed his hair and beard, and sent Cait running for a comb so that she might put them in order, wishing she dared find a knife sharp enough to shave him with. But she no longer trusted her tired hands to stay steady enough for such work.

  He was in all likelihood no better than he had been, but probably he was more comfortable, and his repose had at least some semblance of dignity now.

  “Now, Cait,” she said, dropping the last rag onto the pile. “You and Jen go get that chest, you know the one, and bring it here. Byrd …’ She blinked her eyes, suddenly finding it difficult to focus on the wizened woman. “Byrd, clean this away.” She gestured feebly at the rags and basins.

  Her women scattered to obey. Alone again, Laurel paced to the doorway. She opened it a little, admitting the fresh breezes with their scents of earth and salt. The shadows were long and the sky deep blue. It would be night soon, and the night would bring thicker shadows and darker dangers. The raven was waiting out there, just past the walls, she was sure, waiting to aid its mistress however she might command.

  “I remember,” said a voice behind her.

  Laurel whirled around, thinking for one incredulous moment she heard Agravain. But there was no one save Lot on his bed. His eyes were wide open and clear, but they did not see her. Not truly.

  “I remember when you first came to me here. I remember I worried how you would feel, so far from your home. I took you — do you remember? — up to Jove’s Seat above us, so you could see the whole country you were queen of now.”

  He was struggling to get his hands under himself, so he could push himself upright. Laurel crossed the room again, meaning to hold him back down, but he caught her hand before she touched him. His eyes stared ahead, blind to all but the memory unreeling itself before him.