by Nancy M Bell
“Curse the man, he’s not there, and he’s not here. Where in the nine hells is he?” Gawain growled.
“Eldon says they are sending an envoy to parlay with Lord Melwas’ sister, Lady Arianrhod, to see if they can gain any useful information. We wait until we see what the outcome is before we move.”
Gawain grunted in disgust and pulled the hood of his dark heavy wool cloak further over his head and hunched his shoulders against the fresh onslaught of rain whipping through their hiding place.
He guided Ailim deeper into the forest where the trees were older and grew higher and closer together. Ailim dropped his head to pick at the bits of green that grew under the great trees, but there was not much to pique his fancy. Gawain dug in his pouch for a handful of his supply of jerky and journey bread.
The sound of horses’ hooves and muffled men’s voices shook Ailim and Gawain from their cat nap. A narrow trail, likely an alternate route for supply trains, wound through the wood just a few paces from the leafy bower hiding the warrior and his steed. Gawain leaned forward, peering through the green curtain to ascertain who was traveling in such foul weather and to what purpose.
Slogging through the mud on the twig-strewn path, a company of mules filed past their hiding place. The second to the last mule threw his head up and brayed loud enough to wake the dead when the beast caught Ailim’s scent. Gawain cursed silently and moved to draw his sword. Before his hand closed on the hilt of his weapon, a streak of red flashed under Ailim’s belly and raced across the path of the man riding at the tail of the procession. The man cursed at the mule and pushed him forward with a blow from the cudgel in his hand. Gawain let out a silent sigh of relief and continued to take note of the contents of the packs of the laden mules.
It looked like an ordinary supply train headed to the castle by a less-travelled route than the one reserved for more important and worthy visitors to the keep. There were no bundles which could be a human laid across the bony spines of the mules. Gawain cursed again and settled back into his wet cloak to wait some more.
Chapter Four
The invisible sun set behind the damp dark mists, and Gawain resigned himself to sleeping wet and upright in the saddle. Through the dismal sound of rain falling from the canopy of the trees above and splashing onto the water-laden forest floor, Gawain detected the muffled clink of horses’ bits and the rattle of stirrups as they brushed against the bushes and young trees lining the wider road on the far side of the trail the mules used earlier.
Instantly alert, Gawain inched Ailim forward under the cover of the thunder rolling through the skies overhead. The thought of action warmed his blood and sharpened his cold dulled senses. Out of the darkness and roiling mists came a small company of horses. Two beasts were tethered to a horse on either side of them and armed men rode in front and behind the pair. The night was black and wet; it was very hard to make out the faces of the men who rode with their heads down against the driving rain.
Gawain’s heart leapt in anticipation as the wind blew back the cloak of the rider at the head of the train. Lord Melwas’ coat of arms was emblazoned on his tunic, and in the faint light, Gawain was sure the rider was indeed Lord Melwas himself.
The two horses bearing the huddled figures of what appeared to be women came even with his hiding place. As the horses plodded past, the Lady Nuina’s pale face flashed as she lifted her head and glanced straight at his place of concealment.
Gawain’s breath caught in his throat, and he willed her not to give any sign she knew someone was concealed there. The Lady Nuina dropped her head and leaned forward to pull her sodden cloak closer around her thigh, as she did so something dropped into the mud at her horse’s feet. The men guarding her were wet and weary and more interested in gaining the sanctuary of the castle than in the ladies’ comfort. Impatiently, the man on the right jerked at the palfrey’s bridle and hurried the beast down the road.
Once the group was swallowed by the night, Gawain slipped from Ailim’s back and carefully surveyed the terrain. His ears searched under the sound of the storm, looking for any little thing that would betray an ambush. Finding nothing, and trusting in Ailim’s assertion all was clear, Gawain moved silently out of the forest and searched the trampled footing for the bit of white the Lady Nuina dropped. The pale edge of a cloth stuck up out of a muddy hoof print in the middle of the road, the knight stooped quickly to snatch it up. He darted back into the cover of the trees and silently thanked his gods.
No sooner was the safety of the dark forest reached when the sound of a horse racing along the road reached his ears. The rider was not concerned with secrecy, but speed. The horse splashed noisily through the mud and puddles, his rider’s cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a giant bat.
Gawain looked after the rider in surprise but didn’t recognize horse or rider. He turned the small square of muddy cloth over in his hands and peered at in the darkness. There appeared to be marks on the cloth though nothing Gawain could make out in the present conditions of dark and rain.
“Well, old man, I guess that puts paid to us presenting ourselves at the door of the keep and asking for shelter,” Gawain told Ailim ruefully.
“Perhaps we could go in disguise,” Ailim said thoughtfully. “Lord Melwas does not expect to see you here, and you have grown a fine beard since last you saw him. I will stick to the back of the stable and endeavour to resemble a worn-out plough horse. You can say you are a minstrel who has lost his way on his journey to the court of King March of Kernow.”
“It might work, and it would allow me to get closer to the queen and Lady Nuina. Surely, Lord Melwas would welcome some diversion and entertainment after that horrid ride,” Gawain agreed.
“Unless there is some other amusement planned,” Ailim returned wryly.
“Let us hope the Lady Nuina can aid the queen in thwarting his plans then, whether the queen wills it or no,” Gawain said grimly.
A quarter of an hour later, the gate keeper of the Castle of the Mount received a very wet and cold minstrel and his sorry excuse for a horse at the postern gate. The man took pity on the sodden minstrel, allowed him into the servants’ part of the castle kitchens, and found a spot for his broken down nag at the back of the stable near a rick of mouldy hay. Ailim winked at Gawain and slouched toward the back of the shed, throwing a couple of lame steps in just for good measure. Gawain smothered a grin and stumbled after the grey-haired retainer the gate keeper turned him over to.
Gawain wrapped his frozen hands around the thick pottery mug of hot cider and willed his limbs to cease trembling. The heat from the fire was warm on his face, and a miasma of steam rose from his sodden clothing. A small noise at his elbow caused Gawain to start slightly and then turn his head to smile at the serving wench who placed a trencher of thick stew on the table board in front of him. Gratefully, he spooned up the rich broth with the horn utensil drawn out of his pocket. He finished sopping up the last of the stew with a piece of the thick bread, wiped his horn spoon and slid it back into his trews.
“How come you to be without an instrument to play, and you a minstrel?” The steward of the castle slid onto the bench beside Gawain.
“Ah, now that is a sad story.” Gawain shook his head wearily and did some very quick thinking. “I was set upon by bandits, and in the chase, I managed to escape them, but I lost my mule, which was carrying my harp carefully wrapped in waxed canvas to keep it safe from these damnable rains.”
“How came you to Castle Mount? Where were you bound?” the steward asked, far too casually for Gawain’s peace of mind.
“I lost my way in the forest, couldn’t find a road or a deer path to follow, and by great good fortune stumbled across your fine road, and so came here,” Gawain improvised.
“Well, the keep is full this even, and you can pay for your supper by entertaining the guests at dinner.” The steward pushed himself back from the table and rose from the bench. “You do sing I suppose?” A shaggy brow was raised at Gawain.
“Oh aye, of course,” Gawain said quickly.
This was a stroke of luck, gaining access to the Lady Nuina and the queen, as well as Lord Melwas. But what in the name of the gods was he to sing? It had to be suitable for mixed company and a lady’s ears, which severely limited his repertoire.
Gawain rose quickly as a young page brought him a bundle of dry clothing and motioned him to follow. The boy led the way into a small chamber lit with a rush light. Gawain hesitated at the door long enough to ascertain there was no lock on the wooden door and no way to bar it from the outside. Smiling his thanks to the page, the false minstrel stepped past him into the chamber. The boy bowed slightly and scurried back to his duties. Gawain pushed the door closed, leaving it ajar enough to hear if anyone came along the corridor in the shadows. Quickly he divested himself of his drenched clothes and donned the dry ones.
He made sure to remove everything from his possessions which would mark as anything other than a wandering minstrel or bard and stowed the damning bits in his boot. His fingers found the bit of cloth the Lady Nuina dropped and pulled it out in the dim light of the room. The rush light flickered and flared, Gawain struggled to make out the hastily scrawled message. He narrowed his eyes and then turned the scrap the other way around. His quick intake of breath sounded loud in the quiet of the room. On the scrap was written the words: treachery, King March. Gawain scrutinized the bedraggled scrap again.
So it was March of Kernow, not Lord Melwas, then. What in the name of all the gods was King March doing mixed up in this? Granted the man was as sour as marsh grass, but to defy the High King in this way? Surely March knew Arthur would not rest until he had vengeance for this insult? Gawain had seen the man wearing Lord Melwas’ coat of arms on his chest, or was that false as well? Was King March trying to stir trouble between Melwas and the High King? And to what purpose? It seemed a great deal to risk on such perfidy.
Gawain thrust the note into his boot and turned to the door as a soft knock sounded. The small page boy was back and indicated for Gawain to follow him.
Again Gawain followed the boy without a word and soon came to the large dining hall by way of some narrow, dark passages. Gawain stepped into the dusky light of the hall. A tall man on the dais at the far end of the room beckoned him forward. The light was too bad for Gawain to make out the man’s face. Drawing nearer the dais he saw Queen Gwenhwyfar and the Lady Nuina were seated there as well. His heart leapt in his chest with the knowledge the Lady Nuina was safe and unharmed, if a little bedraggled and tired looking.
Something hardened in his heart as Queen Gwenhwyfar, Arthur’s queen, leaned over and giggled as she fed the man on her left something from her fingers.
Rage straightened his spine and blurred his vision when Gawain recognized the recipient of Gwenhwyfar’s attentions. Here before him was the proof needed to lay the abduction at the feet of King March of Kernow. March smiled rapaciously from under his bristling black brows, his gaze on the queen full of triumph and a cruel possession. Gawain repressed a shiver, realizing the simpering queen saw none of the truth of her situation. This was a direct insult to Arthur, and she was only the means to an end. Gawain avoided looking directly at the Lady Nuina, and she only spared him the briefest of glances. King March paid the lowly minstrel no regard and reached for another cup of mead. The steward motioned for Gawain to sit on a raised platform to the side of the head dais and to sing. Gawain strode casually across to his place and settled himself on a cushion-covered stool. There was a low table with a cup of ale and another small page boy waiting with a jug to replenish it as needed. Mentally cursing King March to the bottom of the nine hells, and himself for getting into this position, Gawain began to sing.
Four hours, and many cups of ale later, Gawain reflected that maybe he wasn’t too bad a singer after all. At least they hadn’t tossed things at him or thrown him back out into the rain. Once Gawain was alone and the inhabitants of the castle retired to their chambers, the knight slipped out to the stable yard to confer with Ailim and to clear his head. It calmed him to be in the presence of the big war horse. Ailim promptly sent a message to Eldon relaying the information regarding King March’s use of Lord Melwas’ coat of arms and confirming King March did, indeed, have the queen in his possession.
Gawain kept the queen’s behaviour to himself for the moment. There was no need to incense Arthur any further. Gawain rubbed Ailim dry as best as possible and, with a quick apology, re-saddled the grey stallion. “I think it best we are ready to leave in a bit of hurry if something comes adrift. There is no knowing who in March’s pockets is close to Arthur; someone is responsible for laying the trail of red herring that led to Melwas.” Gawain rubbed Ailim under his thick forelock.
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stones of the stable yard proper alerted Gawain in time for him to burrow into the mouldy hay rick while Ailim slunk deeper into the shadowy recesses of the horse shed. The light thrown by the hastily lit torches wavered and gave barely sufficient light for Gawain to make out what was happening. King March’s retainers were quickly packing a couple of swift horses with provisions and tacking up another few of the horses including the ladies’ palfreys.
He felt a certain satisfaction his suspicion of an informer in Arthur’s camp was well founded. It certainly hadn’t taken long for the news Arthur knew King March was the perpetrator to reach March’s ear. Gawain wondered briefly who the rat was; in his opinion, Arthur trusted far too completely, seeing only the good in a man and turning a blind eye to his ambitions. The face of Queen Morgause of Orkney flashed across his mind. Arthur’s half-sister would like nothing more than to set her bastard son, Mordraut on Arthur’s throne. Morgause certainly had enough of King Lot’s blood sons among Arthur’s knights, himself included. The Lothian brood could well be at the root of this, though he hated to think that of any of his brothers.
Gawain turned his attention back to the activity in the stable yard, the sound of female voices in odd counterpoint to the harsh complaints of the men saddling the beasts in the dank near-darkness. The queen stepped lightly onto the wet stones, her hand tucked in the crook of King March’s arm. She smiled prettily at him while being handed up onto the back of her palfrey. The man tied her bridle reins to his own stallion’s saddle. Apparently, King March was taking no chances with Gwenhwyfar straying too far from his hand. Gawain fought back the bile rising in his gorge at witnessing anew the queen’s betrayal of Arthur.
A muffled curse and the sounds of a scuffle tore Gawain’s gaze from the sickening tableau of King March and Arthur’s queen. He half rose before gaining control of his emotions and forced himself to subside back into the mouldy hay. The Lady Nuina stood bare-headed in the rain and defiantly wiped blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. March’s burly henchman advanced on her with his uninjured hand raised to strike, his tunic stretched tautly across his muscular shoulders.
“Hold, I have further need of the lady just yet.” Queen Gwenhwyfar’s imperious tones stopped the man in his tracks.
He lowered his hand and tossed the reins of the Lady Nuina’s palfrey to another retainer. His black glare promised retribution once the queen no longer had need of her presence. Another man seized the Lady Nuina by the back of her neck and half-carried, half-dragged her across the slippery cobbles to her horse. Gawain grinned as the Lady Nuina landed some fair blows to the poor fellow attempting to get her on the mare. His grin faded as King March strode over and shook the Lady Nuina by the shoulders until her head rattled loosely back and forth. Unceremoniously, the king shoved her back at the retainer, who hastily heaved the woman unto the back of the mare before she could do the man more damage.
The Lady Nuina grasped the pommel of her saddle and, though she swayed dangerously, managed to stay upright on the horse. The retainer bound her hands to the saddle and attached a line from the palfrey’s bridle to his own horse.
As the mounted horses splashed out of the stable yard, their hooves loud on the cobbles,
Gawain caught the name of what was hopefully their destination.
So, they head to Lyonnesse Castle on the western headlands. With any luck, I can manage to either meet with Arthur or free the ladies before they reach there.
Gawain scrambled quietly out of the hay rick and searched the darkness for Ailim. He was totally unprepared for the heavy blow that knocked him to his knees and set stars reeling before his eyes. In slow motion, Gawain tipped to the side and sprawled in the muck and puddles of the shed.
* * *
“Do we kill the false minstrel?” Ailim heard a rough voice ask.
“Nay, though he won’t stir for hours, King March left no orders to do away with the man.” The man with the cudgel tossed it into the sloppy muck.
Ailim watched as the two men each grabbed a leg, dragged Gawain to the Vassal’s Gate, and shoved him through it. They bolted the stout door behind them and hurried toward the relative warmth of the castle kitchens.
Ailim used the opportunity to slip through the hidden gate by which King March’s party left and had not been re-bolted in the confusion of their departure.
He made his way around to the Vassal’s Gate. With a resigned sigh, Ailim grasped the unconscious Gawain by the scruff of his neck and dragged him toward the shelter of the forest. Once Ailim reached a defensible position in the trees, the horse stood over Gawain’s inert body and blocked as much as the rain as possible from his fallen companion.
Chapter Five
Gawain returned to the land of the living slowly, apparently running through a marsh. Everywhere, brilliant sickly green and yellow lights bounced and twisted in such a way they made his gorge rise in his throat.