Camelot's Blood

by Sarah Zettel

  “Gododdin, an army is coming. It is on the move, now. You all know this, and you came here in part to learn what would be done in the face of it. You looked to find a gathering of soldiers and knights. Instead you have seen strange engines being built in the yard, and strangers’ hands at work upon them, broken men, half men, ancient men. You have smelled sulpher as well as the honest scents of the forge. And you wonder if what you do is right.

  “Let me tell you what I know of this army. It outnumbers us five to one, at the very least. Its ranks include the Dal Riata and the Picts, and they do not mean to leave a man among us standing. We cannot take our lesson from the bear or the boar and stand to face our foe sure of our strength. But we can take our lesson from the hawk, which hovers silently, waiting for the moment its prey relaxes to strike, and from the wolf which stalks and watches and waits until it is ready to attack.

  “The engines my men build are strange to our eyes, but would not have been to our grandfathers’. It was such engines that allowed the Romans to take this rock from our fathers.”

  This raised a mutter of unease from the assembly. Agravain did not give it time to grow.

  “The Romans took this place,” he went on. “But they could not hold it, because it was not theirs. God would not permit their hold over this place of ours. Now, once again, an invader comes. They come from the west, and deceit is in their vanguard. They think to play upon our pride and tempt us into a fight we cannot win.

  “But we will not be fooled. We will not fight with strong arms alone. We will fight with the cunning our grandfathers bequeathed us, using the lessons from the history of our people. We will take the tools from those old thieves and turn them against the new, and we will hold, for this place is ours, by right, by blood and by the unbending will of God.”

  This was what Arthur could not match; the soul-deep pride of place; the understanding that this single stretch of stone was like no other. It was here that the blood and bone, story and history of all the generations lay. That was the cord of sympathy that bound Agravain tightly to these men.

  Arthur had severed that tie in himself to become an emperor, and Gawain had done the same. But not Agravain. Nowhere and nothing was more important to him than this one place.

  Bryce did not move. He stood, turned half towards Agravain, half towards the men of Gododdin, who watched him now, waiting to see how he would respond.

  Bryce nodded once. “Well spoken, King Agravain,” he acknowledged. “But it is only one way. If we fight this war, the loss to all standing here will be great. It will be greatest to those who have given their oath, for with your defeat they lose their honor with their blood.”

  Bryce smiled, sharp and grim. “But why should we make war at all?” He spread his arms wide, making the words ring against the stones. “Why should we not treat with those who come this way? The word of the men of the north and west is as sound as that of Arthur and of Lot. Their kinship with us is as close, if not closer, than that of the men from further south, and their power is as fair. Their quarrel is not truly with us, but with Arthur. Why should we not let them pass us by and leave our fields our cattle and our people unmolested?”

  No one moved to answer the question, not one voice lifted itself in either agreement or dissent. But Bryce was not prepared to wait until someone did make an answer. His needle-sharp gaze flickered to Laurel, and Laurel felt fear touch the back of her neck. She saw what he meant to say in the curl of his lips and the cold gleam in his eye.

  “And why, should we permit another sorceress of the Dumonii to hold sway over our land and king?”

  There it was. Spoken aloud in the great hall, and the stirring and the murmuring answered it. The tension in the air thickened. Many here wished to hear the answer to this question, and, surely, there were as many who expected a poor answer as hoped for a sound one.

  Over the beating of her heart, Laurel heard Byrd suck in a sudden breath. “Her doing,” the old dame murmured. “Should have known.”

  Agravain’s cold anger brushed Laurel’s skin, but she could not permit him to make this answer.

  She stepped forward, unafraid, closer to the assembly, closer to Bryce, whose smile faded with each step of her approach.

  “I am Laurel Carnbrea, the Lady of Cambryn,” said Laurel. “I am kindred to Queen Guinevere. It was at the request of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere that I came in marriage to King Agravain. It is beyond me to bring dishonor to this marriage, or to his person. If it is my presence that stands between the men of Gododdin and this fight, then I will remove it immediately.”

  She faced Agravain, dropping at once to her knees, head bowed and both hands over her heart, for it would not have been seemly for a woman to lay her hand on the warrior’s symbol. “I am Laurel Carnbrea, the Lady of Cambryn, wife to Agravain of Gododdin, and I do swear my fealty to you. My soul and self, and all that I hold, are yours to do with as you see fit.”

  She lifted her eyes to Agravain, and saw a crowd emotions there: anger, relief, pride, and love. Oh yes, hidden, unspoken, but most definitely she saw love there and her heart constricted.

  Now she saw that Cait stood just a little behind him, holding out the crown of silver and sapphires. Agravain took it into his hands, and set it gently on Laurel’s brow.

  “And may God bless the wearer and the wearing.” Agravain reached down and raised her up, putting her at his right hand.

  “So you have heard the oath of my queen,” said Agravain evenly. He spoke over Bryce’s head, to the waiting assembly. “And now you shall hear mine. I swear before God Almighty and Jesus Christ Our Savior that all I do, from this day until the day I die, will be for the strength, the honor and the preservation of this land of Gododdin. No king, no emperor, no force under Heaven will change this.” He lowered his eyes and met Bryce’s gaze. Bryce’s smile was gone, and there was only anger shining in his storm-green eyes. “You have heard my oath, Bryce mach Deuchan. You have heard that of my wife and queen. What oath do we hear from you?”

  They stood like that, facing each other as if they stood alone, Agravain strong, and absolutely assured, Bryce trying to shore himself up with his anger and his righteousness.

  To her, it was no surprise that Bryce shrank in on himself and took a step backwards.

  “I will take no oath in this den of wolves!” Bryce shouted. Turning on his heel, he marched from the hall.

  One man followed, him out. Then, another stumped after him, trailing a pair of sons who looked nervously over their shoulders at the remaining company. A third man humphed, wavered, and then he too walked out.

  But that was all. Three men and two boys, no more, and not one who had taken the oath of fealty.

  Agravain did not permit minds to linger over those who had left, nor over what they had said. “There should be a feast at this time,” he admitted. “But our enemies will not wait while we fulfill that ritual. My lords and chiefs, you must come sit with me so that we may discuss our resources and our plans. All others, you shall be made as welcome as my house is able. When peace and safety are ours, we will feast in celebration. Not before.”

  The growl that answered was a low and dangerous rumble. It was the sound of approaching thunder, and yet there was clearly approval in it. The assembly dissolved, the chiefs giving orders to their followers and their sons. These took their leave, while their lords moved towards the throne. Laurel feeling keenly the new weight of the crown circling her brow, turned to the duties of lady and hostess. Food and drink, the laying of the tables and the filling of cups. These were all her arena. Outside, the sound of the armorer’s hammers rang once more.

  That was Agravain’s concern now. Her concern was as it had been when she laid down last night and rose this morning. The food. Every hand that was not turned to the work of arms must be turned to the provision of food, and that work must begin at once. Starving men could not fight. An empty fortress could not hold, though it had the finest weapons in the world.

  As so
on as she was able, Laurel retreated to the kitchens and the dairy. The mistress there had rallied ten lean, brown huntsmen. Every one of them had bright eyes and clever hands. These hunters all boasted of their prowess with net, snare and arrow, but when she spoke plainly to them about the amount of game required, they blanched. To their credit, under the hard eye of Dame Ceana, they rallied and faced the facts.

  She gave them cider to drink and a small jug of whisky to carry down with them. These were paltry gifts, but necessary. Din Eityn’s reputation would begin to mend on the strength of such small gifts.

  Along with the food, they would need herbs too, and all the resources required for tending the wounds of war. Standing in the midst of the dairy, surrounded by crocks of milk, butter and cheese, Laurel tried to rally herself against despair. It was a list of needs that would grow longer as the days progressed, not shorter, and she could not fail, even though her feet ached and her head was spinning.

  “Ceana, go make sure all things are in hand in the kitchen, and send Byrd to me here.”

  Ceana made her obeisance and left. Laurel sat abruptly down on the dairy’s plain stool, glad for a moment’s peace. It was likely to be the last she would have for many days to come. Laurel pressed her hand to her brow and felt the hard metal of the crown she had forgotten to remove.

  With a sigh, Laurel lifted the beautiful ornament from her head. It felt so foolish to be sitting here now in her finery, consumed with worry about quantities of meat and cheese.

  She turned it over in her hands as Agravain had done, watching the play of lights on the silver. It should have tarnished after all this time. Agravain must have had one of the smiths polish it. It was very like him to see to that detail, even in the midst of all the other, more vital tasks that he must complete now.

  What had Queen Morgause felt when this beautiful thing was placed on her head? A draught curled around Laurel’s hems, and wrapped itself around her neck. Had Lot crowned Morgause as Agravain had crowned her?

  Was Morgaine there in disguised flesh or spirit, watching her sister, her soul brimming with its unspeakable gall?

  What would you tell me, if you were here? What would you say I should do to help my husband, your son?

  What was it you tried and failed to do, Morgause?

  The patter of Byrd’s footsteps sounded on the walkway outside, and the ancient dame hurried in, bending her knee as far as she was able.

  Laurel looked up to see that no one else lingered in the doorway. She listened hard for a moment longer to be sure.

  There was another battle that was Laurel’s responsibility, and that she did not forget.

  ‘Byrd,” Laurel murmured. “When Bryce spoke in the great hall, you said it was ‘her doing’. What is it you meant?”

  “I think Your Majesty knows.” Byrd peered up into Laurel’s bewildered face. Her eyes were tiny, black and cunning. “Look at you,” the old woman clicked her tongue. “Did you think you drove her out the other night. You’ve been listening too hard to your own hopes.”

  Byrd shuffled closer. “Forgive me Majesty, but I will say what I know. She is still here. That was a distraction that night, so she could work her true will. That’s what we saw in the hall.”

  “Byrd, how … ”

  Byrd snorted. “You think you are the only one with eyes that see?” She wagged her head heavily back and forth. “Oh, there were plenty of us once who knew, about the black-eyed ghost in the queen’s shape. I am the last.” Her mouth quirked up, finding some irony in that truth. “I only stayed because I had nowhere else to go.”

  Laurel looked again to the empty doorway. Softly, so softly that Byrd had to shuffle even closer to hear her, Laurel whispered. “Byrd, do you know what became of Queen Morgause? How she meant to defeat Morgaine?”

  “No, Majesty.” Byrd’s face fell. She stood so close that Laurel could see that her black eyes were rimmed with red. “I would that I did. No one here could answer that now. Save …’ Her head lifted, questioning, as if she had heard her name called from a distance.

  “Save what? Who?”

  “No.” But Byrd did not look at her. She was seeing some other place, hearing some other voice in her mind. “It is too much.”

  “Speak, Byrd. We cannot win this war if we remain in ignorance.”

  Slowly, Byrd lowered her gaze, meeting Laurel’s eyes. Her own glittered, knowing and dangerous in the dim light. “King Lot would know.”

  Understanding she did not wish to possess rose in the pit of Laurel’s heart. “He is dead, Byrd.”

  Byrd shrugged her crooked shoulders. “What matter? The oldest blood sings in you. For you, he would speak of what he sees in Death’s realm.”

  “I cannot do that.”

  “I know,” the old woman answered simply.

  “We will find another way. Morgause too can be made to speak.”

  Byrd shrugged again. “By what relic would you call her? That crown? This is a working that requires far more than figured metal.” Byrd straightened for a moment. Then, weariness overtook her and she settled again, small, bent, and so old. “Ah. I wish this had happened when I was younger, when I could still walk these hills. But I am old, and half-blind now, and I’ve made too many of my own bargains …’ She blinked rapidly, remembering where she truly was, and to whom she spoke. “I am sorry, Majesty. You do not need my regrets now.”

  Laurel waved her hand. “It is no matter, Byrd. Go. Make sure everything’s all right in the hall. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Byrd shuffled forward, and to Laurel’s surprise, laid a light, wrinkled hand on her hair, a gesture of conciliation, and understanding. “You’ll do as you must, Laurel Carnbrea. Never fear that.”

  Byrd left, and Laurel looked again at the lights that played in the crown’s precious gems.

  The vision took her so strongly and suddenly that Laurel had no chance to prepare. She saw a woman, saw Morgause. There was no mistaking her, for she knew the shape of her face and her form, and she saw Agravain in the depths of her blue eyes.

  Morgause lifted the crown from her black, unveiled hair, and pressed it into a man’s hands. That man was Lot. But not Lot as she had ever seen him. This man was broad and blunt, and as solid as the stone cliff that held Din Eityn. His hands were thick from the strength of the sinew within them. Morgause pressed the shining crown into those hands, and it suddenly looked as fragile as a dream.

  “You must hear me, Lot. If I do not return, another will come. You will know her when she does. You must tell her what you know. All of it. She will finish what I have begun.”

  And Laurel was back in the dairy again, watching, aghast, as the crown slipped from her numbed hands and clattered onto the floor.

  “Byrd!” she cried. “Byrd!”

  Light footsteps, more shuffling than running, sounded along the passageway, and Byrd scurried back in, the trailing ends of her head cloth flapping like wings behind her.

  “What is it, Majesty?”

  Laurel swallowed, trying to collect herself, and failing. Her thoughts were filled with Agravain’s stern image, with the knowledge that she had already lied to him. She saw him once more as he stood beside his father’s bier, heard him cursing the sorceries that had plagued his family.

  She knotted her hands into fists. “I need a bowl of water, Byrd, from the sea. I am going to ask King Lot what became of Morgause.”

  She did not look up to see the smile on Byrd’s face as the ancient dame made her obeisance once more. “Yes, Majesty.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The silence of the chapel fell over Laurel like a veil. After all the endless noise and hurry of the preparation that filled the outside world, it felt as if some essential element was missing from the air.

  Laurel found she was cold too, for the first time in a long, hot day.

  King Lot lay shrouded on his wilting bier. Laurel had already sent away Ruadh and the hymn singer, telling them she would keep vigil here for awhile. They went with grati
tude. The hymn singer because he was exhausted, Ruadh because he could no longer bear to keep still in the chapel while around him his home, and his living, king, prepared for war.

  Laurel had seen little of Agravain for the past two days. She had heard his name attached to orders, some praise and some grumbling. Every so often, she would catch a glimpse of him talking, usually with this captain or that group of workers, while around them the angled, attenuated timber frames of the war engines rose to the sound of straining ropes and thundering hammers.

  Once, she had seen him as she was hurrying across the yard, dodging men and oxen. He had been standing high on the parapet over the cliff. He leaned on the stones, not moving, just staring out across the valley. It was not the direction from which Morgaine’s army would come.

  With a shudder, Laurel realized where it was he must be standing, and what he must be thinking on.

  Much later, Agravain had climbed reluctantly into their bed. He was sent by Pedair, he said, who had insolently claimed his king could not longer see straight for exhaustion. She had pressed herself close to his side.

  “What became of Tania?” she asked quietly.

  He started at that, shifting in the darkness. “She died. What else?”

  “No, what became of her body. Where is she buried?”

  She heard him swallow, and felt him tense. “I do not know. I went down … as soon as I could, with some … others. But her body was already gone. No one then was willing to admit they had buried her, and I cannot blame them for it.”

  “It may be time to ask again.”

  He lay in silence for a long time. “When this is finished,” he whispered at last. “When I have finally avenged her, then I will go, and I will bring her home.”

  He had said nothing more, and she had not asked any further. But those words had followed her into sleep and out again. They were with her now as she stood alone beside Tania’s father, and murderer.

  Laurel had hesitated to the last instant. It was a dire thing, seeking to speak with the dead. It was far beyond anything she had ever done, or ever thought to do. But each time she tried to turn away she felt again the force of the vision. Everywhere she went, she heard the endless hammering and shouting. She saw the men out upon the cliffs and the pass, working until they dropped from exhaustion, getting up and working more.