by Sarah Zettel
And he spoke of Morgaine. Morgaine the Sleepless, Morgaine the Goddess, who held sway in shadows of her own, and who, as a little girl had lived in Cambryn, alongside Queen Guinevere.
Colan remained as he was for a while, rubbing his hands and looking up at the pattern of the clouds overhead. Reading the weather or the future there? Lynet’s own teeth were bared now and anger flooded her blood, filling her with its heat and coloring the world red before her eyes. She longed to run out there, to confront her brother and demand to know what devil drove him to such treason. But she held her ground. She had never feared her brother before, but now fear of him and for him pressed against her breast like a stone, smothering the heat of her fury and holding her in place.
At last, Colan sauntered away, his boots crunching the old, dread grass, heading for the old hall. Lynet still stayed where she was until she could no longer hear any sound beyond the ringing in her ears and the pounding of her heart. Then, she gathered up her hems tightly in fingers aching with cold and made her slow stumbling way back to new hall, the stairs and her chamber.
Laurel had built up the fire and was sitting beside the hearth wrapped in layers of coverings. She rose at once as Lynet shuffled in, and flung a fur over her shoulders.
“What is it, Lynet? What happened?” Laurel lowered her into a chair.
Lynet swallowed several times, clutching at the fur over her shoulders. Her mouth had gone completely dry. A draft brushed her ankles, as if warning her of the presence of other ears. Laurel drew her chair close and took up Lynet’s hand. “Tell me, Lynet.”
So, Lynet did, her words trembling and stumbling as her feet had in the darkness.
“We must send a messenger for father,” said Lynet when she had told everything else. “He must return with all speed.”
But Laurel just sat back, her jaw set and square. Lynet knew that attitude well. Laurel had seen a hard choice to be made and would make it now from a heart as hard and as steady as the granite beneath their feet. “No.”
“But …”
Laurel did not let her finish. “Who could we send in secret? If all is as you say, what would Colan do to us if he found we knew? No.” She shook her head. “We must wait for father to return, then we will tell him all we know.”
Lynet gaped at her. Did you hear nothing at all? She swallowed this angry report and tried to speak calmly. “But if we stand together, if we speak before witnesses, what could Colan do?”
Laurel simply cocked her head toward Lynet. “Who else knows of his plans against our father?”
Lynet closed her mouth. No answer came to her. “You don’t know, and neither do I,” said Laurel. “What we do know for certain is that many of father’s most trusted men are away with him at the coast.”
Lynet raked both hands through her hair, as if trying to comb out all the fear and fury welling up from her. “I cannot believe this of Colan. I cannot.”
“You doubt your own ears, Lynet?”
Lynet’s hands stilled, and then fell into her lap, their strength utterly gone. “I wish that I did.”
“So do I,” Laurel whispered, and for the first time, Lynet heard how tired she also was. Lynet reached out and took her sister’s hand. Laurel gripped her fingers tightly, gratitude plain in her eyes. “Whatever we may wish, Sister, we must not deny what is before us, or we will be in vastly greater danger than we are now.”
Their eyes met, and all the helpless fear Lynet had felt in the shadows returned, and redoubled. “Why is he doing this?” she asked plaintively.
Laurel was silent, but her hand tightened hard around Lynet’s. “There are rumors in the countryside, sister. You have heard them as well as I have.”
Lynet felt her eyes widen. She had ears, and she knew the art that every high born lady mastered to some extent, of listening while pretending not to hear. Morgaine, and Morgaine again. She was stepping up her campaign against Arthur, bringing more folk under her wings, reaching out to other chieftains more openly. “But is it Morgaine that prods him, or he that reaches out to her?”
Laurel considered for a moment. “I am not certain it matters. This much we know. Cambryn is set between King Mark’s land, and King Arthur’s. Morgaine would surely love to make a wedge of her old home between these two.”
“Mother of God.” Lynet crossed herself, but at the same time, hope flickered within her. “Could … could Colan be possessed? Could Morgaine have brought this about?” She let the words trail away.
Laurel was looking at the fire. Her sea green eyes shone in the golden light and the shadows made the fine bones of her pale face stand out sharply. “No,” she said at last. “It is his own heart that has done this to Colan.”
Lynet bowed her head, what little hope she held dying in an instant. She did not question Laurel. There were secrets Laurel held close in her own soul, and there were things she could bring to pass that neither of them spoke of openly.
“So, we wait?” Lynet watched her own hands marked with the red crescents where her own nails had cut her flesh earlier.
Laurel put her finger under Lynet’s chin and lifted her face so that Lynet must look into her green eyes. The fire flickered in them and for a moment, Lynet was afraid of her sister as well.
“We wait,” said Laurel firmly. “We keep our tongues still, but our ears busy. If Colan comes to you again, put him off as best you can. Let him believe you are considering what he said before, but are afraid. Father will return soon. Sooner than Colan expects even, and we must be ready. Everything that we know will aid us in making our case.”
She was right, but Lynet found herself desperately wishing she was not. Laurel did not seem to require any answer. She just raised Lynet to her feet, leading her to the bed. “Rest you now, sister. I will keep watch a little while.”
Lynet made no protest. It was not the weariness that kept her silent while she shucked her dress and drew on the woolen robe for sleeping. It was the knowledge that the sooner sleep came, the sooner the thoughts roiling through her would be stilled. She laid herself down on the bed’s feather mattress and let Laurel draw up the furs. Laurel planted a kiss on Lynet’s forehead, as if Lynet was a child, and she managed a smile. Laurel smoothed her brow with one cool hand, humming tunelessly. Lynet’s eyes grew heavy and she could not hold them open. Sleep covered her over and she sank deep beneath it.
Some time later, Lynet dreamed. She dreamed of her sister standing on the watchtower, tall and pale as a ghost in the wild night wind. She faced into that sea wind and it blew her shining white-gold hair out behind her. She did not speak, and yet in her dream Lynet knew something was said, and that something was a deep call, and it was heard and, more, it was answered, and Laurel smiled.
Chapter Three
The morning came far too soon for Lynet’s liking. She rubbed her eyes hard. She must rise and dress, and go out to the ovens to assist with the breakfast. The tables must be laid, the people must be fed. The tinners first of all so that they might be early to the streams.
It was then that Lynet realized Laurel was not in the bed.
She scrambled out from beneath the furs and coverlets. Her knobbly, scarred feet cringed at contact with the cold floor. She threw on her grey overdress and shoes and threw open the door. Comically, she almost collided with Laurel, who was reaching out to push the door open. Lynet gaped for a moment. Her sister was dishevelled and even more pale than was her wont. Laurel met Lynet’s surprised gaze briefly, and then walked past her to take a seat in front of the banked fire.
“Mother of Mercy, Laurel!” exclaimed Lynet as soon as she found her voice. “Did you sleep at all?”
Laurel shook her head and reached for the poker. “It was better that there be ears, and eyes awake in the house with all that has come to us.” She stabbed at the ashes, looking for coals.
“You should have woken me!”
Laurel looked up at her. Shadows made her eyes seem sunken into her skull. “I see that now, sister,” she said in a
tone that was both bland and over-serious.
Lynet firmly took the poker, stirred the coals, and laid more fuel on the fire. “By Heaven, Sister, you cosset me and exhaust yourself. There will be nothing left of any of us by the time this is done.”
As soon as the words left her, Lynet wished them back. But Laurel made no remark. She just squeezed Lynet’s free hand briefly. They were both tired. They were both frightened. “You must play hostess this day. I fear I’m done in. Come for me when father returns.”
“Will it be today?” asked Lynet cautiously.
Laurel nodded, keeping her gaze turned toward the young fire. “And soon. We only need to keep our countenance a little longer.”
Lynet caught up her sister’s hand. “Thank you, Laurel.”
But Laurel, drew. “We do not yet know more may come.”
Lynet finished dressing, and hurried to the chapel to make her morning devotions. Bishop Austell looked quizzically at her as she knelt alone in prayer, but he did not question her. While he recited the liturgy, she had toyed with the idea of telling him all that had happened. but decided against it. Father would be back today. That would be soon enough for the Bishop to find out about Colan’s scheming.
Outside, the world was wrapped in a blanket of fog. Cold, grey mist rose from the land and descended from the sky. The sun was nothing but a pale blur above them and drops of water covered each surface. Despite its chill that reached down her throat, Lynet welcomed the fog. It was a sign of warmth to come, and of the thaw beginning in earnest.
The fires roared in the ovens and Lynet lingered near them, although Meg had the day’s baking well in hand. Those who had spent the night bedded down in the hall were beginning to stir, scratching and stretching, Women poked up the three fires and sent children scampering for fuel and for water. Slowly, the slouching, shuffling folk began clearing pallets to make way for the tables and benches. Some could not manage so much, and hunched in the darkest corners, holding their heads.
Lynet helped with the breakfast. Kettles were hung over the fire to boil the porridge of oats, nuts and dried apple. Malted bread was set on the tables alongside soft, white cheese fresh from the dairy and slabs of bacon and smoked fish. Jorey, the ancient stores master, had an unusually sour face as he saw the bounty filling the boards, with still more coming in the form of crockery jugs of small beer, cider and milk. Well, the roads would be drying soon. There would be trade and tribute, and not all the trouble in Christendom could stop the spring and the harvest it brought from woods and sea.
Praise God.
When Peran came to the hall, he had four men in train behind him. Lynet steeled herself.
“God be with you this morning, Master Peran.” She moved forward to greet him with what she hoped was a placid countenance. “Will you come to your place?” She gestured toward the high table on its dais. “The food is laid to break your fast. I hope you will find it to your liking.”
“An’ I thank you,” he said, his answer remained as plain and courteous as her question. “The hospitality of this house is all that I was led to expect and I am grateful.”
You have good reason to be. Out of the corner of her eye, Lynet saw Peran’s men helping themselves from the kettles and settling down peaceably at the lower tables. Reassured, she led Peran to the high table. She filled his cups with cider and ale. Peran raised a cup politely to her, but watched her appraisingly over the rim as he drained it. Lynet felt a furious blush spread across her cheeks. Because of her part in the drama of Sir Tristan and Queen Iseult, she was no longer seen as an honorable maiden. She could be readily considered as something for any man’s taking, willing or no.
Lynet set the cider jug down within Peran’s reach and returned to the kettles, pretending to concern herself with judging the amounts that remained within them.
Before she could reach any decision, Mesek stumped into the hall. He too had his men with him, but, much to Lynet’s relief, Bishop Austell walked beside him, making companionable conversation that she could not hear over the rest of the voices in the hall.
God bless you, Bishop. Decorum and precedence meant she could seat the Bishop between the two chieftains, letting him take up the role of diplomat for the table. From the slight smile Bishop Austell gave her she saw that he understood this. She hoped he saw the silent “thank you,” she returned.
“God be with you, Lady Lynet,” boomed Mesek, tucking his calloused thumbs into his belt. “Are we in time, or are all the dainties gone?” He was watching some point over her shoulder, and she knew he must be looking toward Peran, already seated and served.
The suggestion that their house was poor or miserly left a sour taste in Lynet’s mouth. “I regret our house has only humble fare to offer, Master Mesek,” she said. “But such plenty as the land can offer, we, by God’s blessing, may share with all our guests.”
It was a stiff and overly-pious answer, and served only to make Mesek smile. With a wave he dispersed his men to their own meals. “And your brother, my young Lord Colan?” Mesek’s eyes turned to slits as he gazed about the hall. “He is not here yet?”
“I fear some of our house may be late to rise after our feast day,” Bishop Austell said pleasantly, as steering Mesek to the table. “You must forgive us, Master.”
“Must I?” Mesek cocked his brows at Lynet, ignoring that it was Austell who spoke. He sat in the chair she indicated, stretching out his arms and resting his hands on the table, so that he might claim possession of as much of the board as possible. Peran abandoned all pretense of paying attention to his food and drink and instead watched his enemy make himself comfortable. “Tell me, my Lady Lynet, what else must I forgive you?” Mesek went on.
“I had not realized you’d taken holy orders, Master Mesek,” said the bishop before Mesek could go any farther. “Do you turn confessor for my lady?”
“It was the lady I spoke to, Bishop.” A warning note crept into Mesek’s voice.
Where are you, Colan? Lynet concentrated on filling Mesek’s mug with small beer. She suddenly felt very much in need of her brother’s easy smile and quick courtesy. “Have we offended, Master Mesek?”
“Offended?” Mesek pushed his chair back, his air all mocking surprise. “Offended? When your brother offers justice with one hand and deals with my enemy from. the other? What perfect courtesy is that! Surely learned from that king of courtesy, Arthur himself.” Mesek’s grin spread out as broadly as his reach. “But no, it was from someone else you learned all your ways, was it not, my lady?”
God have mercy. Lynet flinched as if she had been struck. She could hear Peran’s hard, ragged breathing, but she did not dare turn toward him.
“It does not suit with your honor to insult the blameless lady of the house, Master Mesek,” said Bishop Austell coldly.
“Oh, I would not worry, your eminence.” Mesek leaned back, crossing his ankles beneath the table and his arms across his chest. “From what I have heard, it has been a long time since honor entered here.”
“You certainly brought none with you,” grated Peran.
“Now then, now then, Peran.” Mesek waggled one thick, dirty finger at the other man. “You’ve settled your quarrel. Wait in patience for the judgment you bought.”
“Mesek,” Peran’s voice was so low and so hoarse, he barely sounded human. “Do you accuse me?”
“Accuse you!” Mesek let out a bark of angry laughter. “Aye, I accuse you. Your son’s death has driven that weak mind of yours madder than old king Mark. You know you’re a liar, but you won’t accept the consequences. You must recruit a boy too drunk with his own little power too …”
But Peran was already on his feet, his hand closing around the table knife. Before she had time to think on what she did, Lynet dodged sideways, putting herself him and Mesek.
“For shame, Master Peran!” cried Bishop Austell who was also on his feet. “Would you break the laws of God and man?”
The hall around them had gone still. Her peop
le and her father’s men filled this place. All of them would be at her side as quick as man could move, but at that moment the gulf between her and them seemed wider than the sea. Every line of Peran’s wiry form said he was ready to strike. His chest heaved hard with the force of his rage. Behind her, Mesek just grinned.
“Master Peran, you will put down that knife,” Lynet said, her voice low, her hands gripping the crock she carried so tightly she feared for one ludicrous moment she might shatter it. “You will not break the law here and lose all hope of judgment.”
It was his good hand that clutched the knife and held it ready a handspan above the table. His wounded hand flexed, also ready, to block or to shove, or to hold. “I will not be insulted by the man who murdered my son!”
She did not know what strength kept her there, but she held her place. “Nor will you turn murderer in front of witnesses.” Mother of Mercy, keep Mesek silent. “You will not become what you hate.”
She watched her words sink into him, watched the anger and hatred on his face shift to unwanted understanding. Then, slowly, as if it took all his strength, Peran loosened his grip on the knife. It clattered onto the board.
“Well done, my lady,” snickered Mesek. “But then, you’ve learned well how to charm a man, haven’t you?”
Lynet rounded on Mesek, patience, shame and fear all gone. “Say what you will to me and of me, Mesek Kynhoem. It is no more than I deserve. But you will not break the peace of this house!”
“Peace.” Mesek stuck his thumbs in his belt and spat out the word. “How much we hear of peace these days. Mark’s peace. Arthur’s peace. The whole of Dumonii united in a great peace with those pirates of Eire. Peace is a woman’s skirt to hide behind while men take up a knife and poison against those they cannot defeat in a fair fight. Meantimes, our lords and their dogs stand about and say how great this peace is that spreads so wide.”