by Sarah Zettel
The second man, Peran Treanhal, was the taller of the two. His brown hair was thin on top, letting his speckled pate show through, but still long enough behind to make a stout braid that hung down his back. His hawk-like face had been horribly burned on its right side. The flesh was pebbled and puckered and his eye and mouth both twisted and pulled. The back of one long, raw hand was mottled red and white as well. The whole sight made Lynet wince in sympathy.
“I am here for justice, Lord Colan,” Peran said. His voice was painfully harsh, and Lynet looked again at the burns. He was well in the fire that had caused that, and breathed its smoke. “There has been murder done.”
The word dropped heavily from him, and one of the women behind Lynet gasped. Lynet herself went cold. The charge of murder, of death dealt outside the law of God and Man was as vile an accusation as could be levelled. If it were judged true, far more than blood-price would be paid. The shame upon family and clan would follow down the generations. The guilty man might even be declared outlaw, a sentence that was the same as death, only more slow.
Mesek sighed. “It was no murder, Lord Colan. It was the mischance of a young hothead’s impatience,” he said in a tone far too reasonable for words bearing a clear insult.
“This is for my son’s life, and I will be heard!” Peran’s raw shout tore from his heart and made the sinews of his neck stand out like knotted cords.
Mesek barked in laughter, as if this was some bitter jest. At this, Peran’s wounded face flushed red and he looked as though he might have struck out, but only just remembered to stay his hand.
“This is no place to hear such hard business,” said Bishop Austell in a voice of quiet reason. “And no place to make weary travellers comfortable.” He climbed the bank as easily as a much younger man and stopped on the slope before the two chieftains, resting the butt of his crook on the ground before him. It showed his office plainly, and also made a barrier between the new comers and the increasingly uneasy crowd behind him.
Colan moved to the bishop’s side and picked up the bishop’s theme. “You find us here on our feast day. Will you accept a drink in welcome?” He spread his hands gesturing to the kettles. “Then let me take you to the hall where you can rest and be refreshed.”
Laurel scooped up a dipperful of the ale and strode smartly up the slope. Lynet did the same, so there would be equal welcome for both men. The crowd parted for them, murmuring to themselves. The elders pushed the children behind them, but none spoke. Misrule might be the game of the festival day, but this thing was out of bounds. All of Cambryn’s people saw the pikes and the swords. If it came to blows, shovels, picks and numbers might eventually cause the armed men to give over, but there would be a river of blood shed first.
Mesek gaze swept over them all, counting, calculating. His fingers rubbed the leather of his reins and his horse danced uneasily under him. Then, his thin lips twitched beneath the moustache, as if he did not know whether to smile or frown. But, he did slip from his saddle, bow his head to Laurel and drank from the ladle she offered up to him. It was an informal welcome cup, but it would serve. By accepting the drink, Mesek bound himself to the rules of hospitality and guestship. Colan, acting as Cambryn’s lord, must now protect Mesek and his men as he would any of the folk of Cambryn, but Mesek could not now shed blood or offer violence in their home.
“Master Peran?” Colan inquired.
Peran only scowled at the dipper Lynet held out. Fire had made him a fearsome sight. But even beneath the burns she could tell he had been a hard-bitten man. He did not bother to measure the crowd on the river bank. He instead looked at Lynet, looked and wondered. Lynet bit her lip and made herself hold steady under his gaze.
“I will not drink with my son’s murderer,” rasped Peran at last.
“You do not drink with him, Peran Treanhal,” said Colan quietly, taking the dipper from Laurel. “You drink with me.”
Peran’s brows lowered until his eyes were almost lost in their folds, but he did at last dismount to accept the ladle from Lynet’s cold hands. He raised it to Colan, who nodded in return, and watched closely as the chieftain sipped the amber liquid. With that single act, the tension that sang in the air eased. Lean Meg, always the quick one, came up behind the sisters with a bucket of ale drawn from the kettle. She and Lynet moved among the other men, offering each the dipper, welcoming and binding them all to the law with each draught.
Lynet tried not to notice how many of them eyed her with the same hard, thoughtful gaze as their chief.
By the time all had drunk, Colan had reclaimed his tunic and his cloak and, for all he was still soaked and mud stained, looked much more the young lord.
“Now, Masters,” he said pleasantly. “Will you walk with me?”
Mesek looked to Peran, his head cocked and his air so plainly mocking that Lynet shivered to see it.
Who can so calmly make mock of murder?
Colan stepped between the two chieftains, carefully not taking notice of at the hard-eyed men who accompanied them. Those men who shifted their weight, clutched their pole-arms, and eyed each other with the pure and burning anger that came from nothing less than a bloody hatred.
Mesek and Peran both found accord enough to fall into uneasy step with Colan, leading their horses alongside. Their men walked behind, clustering close to their fellows and chieftain and keeping well apart from those of the other clan. Lynet cast a worried glance at Laurel, who only handed her dipper off to Meg, hiked up her skirts and followed their brother.
Lynet, having no other choice, did the same.
Behind them, voices rose and the sounds of work began again, but muted now and more sporadic than before. The arrival of Kynhoem and Treanhal had drained the joy from the celebration, at least for now and it was a stranger and far less merry procession that trooped through the empty castell to the great house.
Cambryn’s great house sprawled on the hilltop with the smaller dwellings spreading around it like a woman’s rumpled skirts. Like the rest of Cambryn, it had grown up unevenly over uncounted years. It was by now, Lynet admitted to herself, a strange and ungainly place. Two separate halls thrust out at right angles from a round tower, which looked as if it stood between two disputing neighbors, keeping them from coming at each other. The oldest hall had stood in its place across a hundred generations, being constantly rebuilt on stones laid down in times too ancient to be remembered. The tower at the ancient hall’s eastern end had been meant as a defence against the Romans, who never did manage to cross the moors to conquer the Dumonii. Instead, the Romans had sailed around the coast to buy their tin openly, and a flood of wealth had come to Cambryn. That wealth had built the second hall in an imitation of the Roman style with tiled floors, limed walls, many rooms, and many hearths to try to keep those rooms warm and dry against their land’s cold and frequent rains.
As they crossed the open fields, Colan kept himself as firmly between Mesek and Peran as their tower kept itself between the two mis-matched halls. Not much talk passed between them, or their men, only black or worried looks. Lynet found herself watching her brother’s broad back, trying to divine some hint of what he was thinking from his posture. Something nagged at her, but she could not have begun to say what it was.
Once they passed the first ring of ditches and earthworks, the horse paddock came into view. Colan paused, bowing in apology to Mesek and Peran both. “I fear our stablemen are down at the tinning,” he said. “For the moment, you must care for your beasts yourself. Darney can show you the stables.” He pointed at the lone boy with his withered arm who had come to hang over the slatted gate and gawp at the strangers arriving with the high family.
Mesek grunted his assent and gestured to two of his men who took charge of the beasts. Peran did the same. Men and horses followed the stooped and openly curious Darney to the muddy yard and thatched stables. Colon eyes narrowed. That much is done, Lynet could all but hear him think. Four men separated. The threat, if there was one, had been re
duced by that much.
Once inside the second ring of earthworks, Lynet could not help but feel a little more at ease. Cambryn’s high house had in its time been home to kings of legend, to Roman traders, and to the lesser kings and greater kings that came in the four generations after the Romans left, and finally to Lynet and her family. This was their place and their people. There was only so much mischief ten strangers could work here.
Colan led the remaining party around to the old hall pushed back the great, black-timbered door. The hall echoed in its emptiness. Only Ross, Dai and Bram, three graybeard brothers, sat around the central fire. The old men all rose stiffly to their feet and made their bows, their dim eyes and deeply-lined faces frankly stunned to see strangers today. Still, Lynet could understand why Colan had brought them all here. This place was the seat of law in Cambryn, empty or full. The dais stood in the middle of one long wall, with the empty throne waiting on its top stair, and the steward’s seat only one step below.
While Laurel directed the brothers to bring extra chairs and benches for their guests, Lynet checked the kettle hanging over the second fire and found there was enough of the milk posset left to share around as a decent warming drink for the men. She sent Bram shuffling off at his best speed to fetch cups, and one of the women who were still at the ovens to help serve.
Peran, however, was in no mood to wait for formalities, or comfort.
“When will the steward return?” he asked bluntly, folding his arms across his chest and nodding toward the dais.
“I cannot tell you,” replied Colan. “Lord Kenan hoped he would only be gone a week, but it is going on ten days since he left. His last message said he did not know when he would return.”
Mesek shrugged. “I don’t know why you dragged us here, Peran. If Kenan’s at Tintagel, then that’s where we should go.”
Peran only looked blackly at him. “Tintagel would suit you well, Mesek, with King Mark’s mind so distracted he hasn’t spoken sense in a year or more.”
That was not entirely true. Lynet ducked her head to hide her thought, pretending to be engrossed in stirring the kettle. “So, you’d you have us wait here on our steward’s pleasure?” Mesek spat into the fire and wiped his moustache. “I have cattle to tend, Peran, and cannot be wasting the spring holed up here with you.”
Peran’s face darkened, his body stiffened and his hands clenched, not over his sword but near enough. Behind him, his men gathered, and every one of them still had their pikes in their hands. Mesek’s men moved too, though their master did not. Suddenly, the guesting laws seemed no more than idle fancy and Lynet found she could not breathe.
Colan held up his hands. “Masters, as I told you, I stand here for my father,” he said, a forced calm in his voice. “If judgment is required, I will hear you.”
At this, Mesek though smiled, a long, thoughtful, unpleasant grin. “Lord Kenan’s son to judge,” he said, drawing the phrase out, giving weight and consideration to each word. “One hears stories of the sound judgment of the Steward’s children.” Mesek looked directly at Lynet, making no pretense of his gaze.
Lynet froze, rooted to the spot as the blood drained away from her face. Her heart squeezed in painfully and she felt the old, sick tremors begin.
“Of what do you speak, Master?” Colan inquired. He held himself too still and too carefully. His hands remained loose and ready. It was a fighting posture, although he had made no observable move.
Mesek eyed Colan appraisingly, judging the seriousness, and the strength of the younger man. Shame twisted itself deeply into Lynet’s belly.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Colan,” he said, although his tone made it plain he did no such thing. “I misspoke. It was nothing.”
“No. Nor was it,” answered Colan pleasantly, relaxing so far as to sit on the nearest chair, gazing up expectantly at his guests. One by one, reluctantly and without any sign of relaxing, they also took their seats. Laurel walked between them to add fuel to the fire, without turning a hair.
Lynet, though, could not move. Mesek was looked at her, his eye twinkling with knowledge and mischief. Footsteps sounded against stone. Lynet forced her head to turn. Bram came through the tower door, with Jen behind him carrying a tray of wooden noggins. Lynet’s hands shook as she filled the cups with the milk posset. She bit her lip and made herself attend to her task. If she could not have pride, at least she could find dignity for her family’s sake.
But the ladle slipped from her fingers and fell clattering to the floor, splattering milk across her hems. Shame burned her as she stooped to retrieve it. When she straightened Laurel was beside her. “My sister, we still have the midday meals and tonight’s feast to attend to. Will you go see how the women get on?”
Lynet knew her cheeks were as red as fire, and as ashamed as she was of her inability to govern herself, she was grateful to Laurel. She left the hall and fled through the inner door to the old round tower. The great, curving chamber was hung with tapestries and shields. A mosaic of fish and the morverch, the mermaids, had replaced the old flagstone floor in an attempt to bring the tower into better harmony with the other, newer wing. She did not, however, go out toward the garden and the ovens. She strode into that newer wing where the chapel waited.
It was a small chamber, but lovingly painted and above the altar hung a wooden crucifix was a breathtaking work of art. It had been made by Yestin the Joiner, whose hands had also crafted the Round Table for King Arthur. It showed the Son of Man with his eyes turned toward heaven, his mother kneeling at his feet. His anguish and hers had been made to look exactly alike and both were so real Lynet sometimes thought she could hear the distant sound of their breathing when she knelt in prayer.
Now Lynet knelt before them at the rail and folded her hands over her breast.
Grant me strength. Grant me strength. Oh, Mary Mother of God, steady my hand …
She had hoped after so much time her transgression might have meant less to her family and to the people of Cambryn. But Mesek’s sneer told her it was not so, and never would be.
Five years earlier, when Lynet was just thirteen years old, she had been sent to the court of King Mark for fostering. There, she was put into the care of Mark’s wife, Iseult.
Lynet could still remember the first time she laid eyes on Queen Iseult. She’d heard so many contradictory stories about the red-haired lady from across the water that she’d trembled like a leaf as she was conducted to the solarium. Lynet knew the bones of her history of course. Iseult was part of the peace treaty made between the kings of Eire and those of the Dumonii. King Mark had wrested the Dumonii lands from Eire’s overlordship, aided principally by Sir Tristan, who was his nephew and a knight of Arthur’s Round Table. In gratitude for the aid given by Tristan and the other men and treasure Arthur had sent for the war, Mark had placed the Dumonii under Arthur’s lordship, gaining him peace with Eire by the gesture. To help set the seal on the great and complex treaty, Iseult had been given over to Mark.
But she had also heard the lady was a witch, that she’d enchanted the king, that she could brew love potions and poisons, or draughts of eternal youth.
What Lynet saw when the door opened for her was a woman sitting on a plain stool. She was so pale she might have been made of snow except for her eyes that shone blue as the August sky when she looked up to see Lynet enter. Her hands, long and slim and yet having the appearance of great strength, paused at their needlework. Her hair was the red of late autumn, rich and warm. She wore it looped and braided beneath a embroidered veil as was the style of the great city ladies.
Queen Iseult smiled and rose at once to take Lynet’s hands and welcome her in a soft, lilting voice filled with the rhythms of her own distant land.
Between one heartbeat and the next, Lynet fell in love.
Lynet had never known her mother, and Laurel had already been gone a whole long year to her own fosterage in Camelot. Lynet’s greatest fear at going to Tintagel was finding herself alone among s
trangers. Queen Iseult seemed to understand her well, for she was more a stranger in Mark’s court than Lynet. She took Lynet under her wing at once, teaching her to read in Latin along with the vulgar tongues. She expanded Lynet’s understanding of the mysteries of courtesy and proper conduct, and the mysteries of scholarship. The queen was as fair as could be, but she was no fainting, posing beauty for a Romanish city man to admire. She was a physician of such skill that the touch of her hand could find an unseen hurt or detect poison deep within the body. She was quick in laughter and understanding, and she shared what she knew readily.
Lynet also remembered the first time she saw Sir Tristan.
She had thought no one could be so fair as the queen, but the young man was Iseult’s match in every respect. Next to him, King Mark, for all his ancient blood and warrior’s prowess, looked gruff and clumsy, a figure of dross beside a man of fiery gold.
After the peace with Eire had been concluded, Sir Tristan stayed at Tintagel as Arthur’s ambassador to his liege lord Mark, and his representative to the Eire-landers. Lynet remembered the sweet sound of his harping the night he came back from an errand for King Mark at Land’s End. Music of any kind was an unexpected skill for a man of war, let alone such expert skill as he showed. She could still feel the warmth that poured from his fair glance and his fair voice whenever he so much as glanced at her.
Oh, she remembered well those looks, those secret words and swift touches. She remembered how each time she turned, Sir Tristan seemed to be beside her, beseeching her to bear some word or token to the queen. He pressed her constantly for news of Iseult’s manner, her conversation, her very look. It was dizzying to be so sought after by a man of such beauty and fame, even if it was because of another, much greater woman, and Lynet had succumbed to this too.
Succumbed? Mother of Mercy, I drowned.