Under Camelot's Banner

by Sarah Zettel

  He glanced up at her, his brows raised. “You know of that then? Yes, you would. It does not matter,” he waved his hand wearily. “It was at my urging they rose to prevent her.”

  “Say murder her, Colan. You have not shrunk from the word or deed before.”

  Colan picked up a crumb of peat from the floor and pitched it into the hearth. It flared briefly, sending up a scattering of sparks. “As you will,” he said. “Perhaps it is only because I can be reached and they cannot. It makes no difference. It was at my urging, and it did not happen. So, by the reckoning of my lady, the fault is mine.” He spoke the words mildly, as if mentioning some small piece of gossip at a feast.

  “You seem most resigned to this.”

  He shrugged again. “I am damned Laurel,” he said in a hollow voice. “I know this. I knew it the moment the knife was in my hand. I thought what there might be was good result, much as I thought I had risen above the need I have of her, but there I was wrong once again.” He turned, lifting his gaze once more to her. “I ask you only one thing.”

  Laurel folded her arms in front of her. “What is that?”

  “Do not give me to the sword,” he said softly, the frightened boy looking out of the man. “Cast me alive into the sea.”

  “Why would you wish such a thing?”

  The ghost of a smile flickered about his mouth. “I promised the morverch a life in return for their raising the storm for my purposes. If I do not give them my own, they will reach out here seeking another.”

  This surprised her, but she was certain he meant what he said. In this one way he meant to do right. “Why should you care?”

  He shrugged. “Believe what you will, sister, but all I have done is because I do care — for this land, for my kin and all that we have been and might be. I have been wrong in each attempt, but it was not because I did not care.” His voice broke on the last word. “This last debt is mine, and I will pay it as best I can.”

  She had wanted this to be swift. She had wanted the distance she could put between herself and the world to come to her aid. She had, of all things, not wanted to feel the tormenting ache in her heart or to add one more rage against necessity to her other angers. “I will consider what you have said.”

  “Thank you.”

  She could not speak. All her words choked her. She marched past him and slammed the shutters closed, slapping the latch into place. Why she did this, she did not know, especially as she could not look at him as she turned on her heel and strode out the door.

  The small flock of guards stood there in the hall, waiting for her to make some move or declaration. Stranger and friend alike she looked at them, and saw only ox-like immobility and mindlessness staring back at her. Her teeth ground together in seething frustration. How had it come to this? What sin had she committed that God should punish her thus? What penance would make it right?

  Please, she prayed desperately. Give me some sign. Any sign. Thy will be done, only show me what it is!

  A draft from the storm outside curled around the back of her neck, raising the small hairs. A sense of movement turned her head and in the shadows beside the door, Laurel saw the flicker that meant Lynet was nearby.

  She swallowed, uncertain as to whether this was the sign she had begged for, or more punishment.

  “I am going to the chapel,” she announced to any who needed to hear. “I would pray before I retire.”

  She swept before them, leading her permanent, personal parade down the empty corridors. The storm had brought night early, and the only reasonable thing to do was to seek one’s bed. The very thought of sleep weakened her hands and blurred her eyes, but that blessed oblivion was not yet for her.

  Her guards could not go armed into the chapel, and were themselves tired enough of the day and of their duty that they did not seek to follow her inside. Instead, they stationed themselves by the door where they could doze and grumble to each other without committing blasphemy.

  Laurel took the failing rushlight from little Tag. With a distracted pat, she sent the yawning, blinking child to find his pallet. She used the last of the light to ignite two of the chapel’s precious tapers. The flickering orange tallow flame blinked out and the brighter golden candle light blossomed around her. Above the altar, the light moved the faces of the Savior and Holy Mother so that their eyes almost seemed to blink, as if to hold back their tears. Lynet turned swiftly from them. She glimpsed Lynet again, beside the altar, so translucent and still she might have been another of the fading images of angels and prophets that adorned the walls.

  Laurel knelt in front of the altar rail, bowed her head and crossed herself. She felt Lynet move closer, felt the warmth of her presence that was the warmth of a living body. Despite this Laurel shivered, for that approach was utterly soundless. There was no breath or footfall or whisper of cloth, just the inescapable sensation of another being beside her.

  “Laurel.” Even Lynet’s voice was a frail ghost. Laurel had to strain her ears to hear her sister speak.

  “Lynet. What have you seen?”

  “Peran and Mesek have begun to search for the mirror. That is how Mesek kept himself busy while you were receiving Morgaine. He has been asking for tales of the night our mother died.”

  I should have guessed it. Laurel’s fingers knotted briefly together. Well, I had a few other things to distract me. “Does Morgaine know of this?”

  “If she does not now, she will soon. He is less than subtle.” A sort of amused anger weighed down Lynet’s words. “You should know Bess and Jen have both taken bribes.”

  Laurel breathed against her icy fingertips. “I wonder what game she is playing with our chieftains.”

  “Her game with them may be done,” said Lynet. “They have gotten her all she wanted. Our hall and our family are well and truly breached.”

  “Perhaps.” Laurel pressed her forehead to the knuckles of her hands. She was so tired. It was so hard to think with Lynet’s shade beside her like this. She was forgetting something vital. She knew it. “Are any of her people abroad now?”

  “No. Sister … will you look at me?”

  Laurel screwed her eyes more tightly shut. “No, sister, I will not.”

  “Why?”

  She had only honesty left. Her mind was too crowded and cramped for anything else. “It frightens me, Lynet.”

  “I …”

  “Yes, I know.” Laurel tried to be brisk and strong. They needed this sacrifice of Lynet. They needed the knowledge she could bring and the watch she could keep. She could keep telling herself that, and it would still be wrong. She lifted her eyes to the Holy Mother so perfectly carved above her. The wind blew, the candles flickered, and it seemed as if the Virgin’s hand moved, as if she wanted so much to reach out to her Son, but did not dare. “Lynet …”

  “What is it?”

  “Lynet, do not tell the queen that Morgaine is here.”

  “Why not?”

  What word? … Tintagel … She would give me Tintagel sister. She would murder you, but thinks I would accept fortress. There was something that had been said … something Colan had said that was important to this, but her mind was too dizzy with weariness and anger to remember it clearly now. “Because I do not know enough yet. Because for all our brother firmly believes she came here just to throw him to his death, I do not believe that is the only reason.” Those dark eyes looking at her over their father’s cairn, the memory that it was only days ago they were still talking of making an alliance with this woman, the sick nagging feeling that she was forgetting something, the way her sister’s presence caught up her fear, touching it, smoothing it, redoubling it until it folded around her like an extra cloak.

  “Laurel this is dangerous.”

  “Yes, I know.” Oh, I do know.

  “I have already told them here of how Morgaine sought to use Peran and Colan, and I have told the queen of the morverch.”

  Laurel nodded. She clenched her fingers so tightly together pain spre
ad all the way down her hands. “That is good. She will believe you have told her all there is then.”

  Lynet was still for a moment and the fear evened out and loosened, allowing Laurel to breathe more easily. “Very well. I will hold my silence for as long as I am able.”

  “I can ask no more.”

  “Be careful sister.” Love, in bright waves rolled around her now, easing her, embracing her, and yet for its intensity frightening her all the more. “We leave tomorrow, and will be with you before a fortnight has passed, if all goes well.”

  What of this has gone well? “I will keep watch for you sister. God be with you.”

  “And you, sister.”

  She was gone then, and Laurel was alone save for the stray wisps of storm wind that snaked across the floor. Taking up one of the tapers for light, she walked through drafts, scarcely feeling the cold. She had felt so much worse this night. When she reached the corridor, her guards joined her, stumping along behind. She was too tired and to worried to care for them. She needed sleep. She needed desperately to think.

  Laurel had given over her chamber to Morgaine’s use. She wanted to isolate the sorceress from Cambryn’s folk as much as possible, and to make it difficult for either Mesek or Peran to speak with her unobserved. So now Laurel walked down to the new hall. There was just enough light left in her guttering candle to show her the sleeping bodies on their pallets and let her make her way around them to the great bed that had been set up for her in the place nearest the hearth. Meg waited for her, drowsing, but she woke herself instantly when Laurel approached. With the help of her daughter, the waiting woman removed Laurel’s outer dress, and helped her into the bed, smoothing down the covers to her own satisfaction so that she could say her duty was done and seek out her own bed.

  The curtains fell into place, and darkness closed over Laurel. The storm was far away here. The sounds of deep breathing and the occasional snore drifted into her. Despite this, sleep did not come. It was buried under a thick blanket of memories. She remembered the foul smell of sickness that twisted her insides. She remembered the swan-white form of her mother as her women, Meg among them, rolled her gently onto her side to try to ease her breathing. She remembered the touch of her mother’s hands, strangely hot, light as feathers and dry as autumn leaves, as she gave over the mirror and warned Laurel of its promise, and its danger.

  “Forgive me Laurel,” Mother had said, her voice a harsh whisper. Her belly was bloated under the layers of her gown as if she were pregnant with another child. “I meant to stay with you, truly I did.”

  Laurel felt the eyes of the women on her, waiting for her to say something pious and comforting to ease her mother’s passing. She couldn’t say anything. She wanted her mother to talk, and to never stop talking. She wanted to drink in every bit of her so Mother would be inside her forever and never leave her, not even for God and Heaven and Judgment Day.

  “You are closest to the sea, Laurel. This will be your protection, but it will also mean you must make choices the others do not.” Mother’s breath left her then and she was unable to speak for a long sickening moment as her chest wheezed and struggled. “Choose wisely, my daughter, for there are some choices you will be able to make but once.”

  “I will,” whispered Laurel. “I will try.”

  Mother’s fingers tightened around hers, so weak, so hot and dry, not like herself at all. It was as if she was already gone. The soul must be a heavy thing, Laurel remembered thinking. If its leaving makes the body so light.

  “Promise me, whatever else you choose, my daughter, my first child, you will protect Cambryn. It is your father’s place, and I have loved it always for his sake. Promise me, you will protect this place and your kin within it.”

  This was a choice, Laurel had realized then. One of those mother was warning her of. This was real somehow, beyond the speaking of words or the laws of the world. She knew it in the depths of her heart and in the fearful look in her mother’s pale green eyes.

  “I swear,” she whispered, clutching the cool mirror. “I swear I will protect this place and my kin within it.”

  Mother drew one slow easy breath. She spoke no more, and Laurel held her mother’s hand until it slid from her fingers.

  Now lying in that same bed, Lynet could only stare into the darkness and think of her promise. She had sworn to protect this place and her kindred in it, but from what? So many powers besieged them, how could she tell which alliance would make them safe, and which would bring them greater danger.

  Tintagel. With the sea, her mother’s home, spread out at her back, she could keep them all safe, from whatever came. She would never be suffocated inside a house of dead stone again. Lynet had lived through the morverch’s attack. If Laurel agreed to help Morgaine, what reason would the sorceress have to try to take Lynet’s life again. She would be saving her sister if she gave Morgaine what she wanted. Saving her sister and herself. Morgaine would protect Cambryn, better than Arthur and Guinevere had.

  All she had to do was pretend. Pretend that she did not know it was Morgaine who ordered Lynet’s murder. Pretend that it was too late for Guinevere to be of any help them. She could have the freedom she had always yearned for and still keep the only promise that had ever truly mattered.

  It was a staggering choice she was offered. Some choices can only be made once.

  With her mother’s words echoing round her head, exhaustion finally took her, and Laurel slid uneasily into sleep.

  Chapter Fifteen

  For the first five days, the journey from Camelot was as easy as could be wished for. The weather held, except for spits and spatterings of rain The gentle country was well-populated and the Roman roads straight and broad. They slept each night on stout beds beneath a roof and hot food, well-prepared and plentiful, waited for them when they rose. The best of everything was brought out for Camelot’s queen, and all her people shared in the bounty her presence produced.

  After that, though, they came to the edge of inhabited country. The way grew progressively steeper. The lowlands gave way to a country of round hills and sharply creased valleys that made the going difficult and caused them to have to dismount and lead the horses so often that Lynet was ready to swear walking would be faster. The trees crowded thick along the ragged tracks, making a loose roof of interwoven branches for the sun to filter through. When there was sun. The weather also ceased to favor them. The overcast sky poured down rain, stopping only long enough for the drenching mists to rise up from the ground. When these got too thick, the rain would fall again, helpfully dampening them down. Their fine and orderly procession turned into a straggling line stretched out across the countryside with not even the waiting women able to keep beside the queen. Cold and damp worked their way into Lynet’s boots and wrung enough pain from her feet that she was cursing through her teeth as much to keep her tears back as to give vent to her anger.

  They halted while there was still something left of the rain-drenched daylight. Men struggled against mud and weather to raise the pavilion that had been brought. The maids laid the out the rugs and set up the cunningly carved furniture while the waiting ladies held an extra cloak over the queen’s head, trying in some measure to keep the rain off her. When at last the pavilion was standing and Lynet was able to join the other women in the relative dryness, she was ready to cry a blessing on the weavers of such stout cloth. While the serving women struggled to light the braziers on their tripods, and the waiting women opened wine for warming and stripped the queen of her wet things, Daere found a chair for Lynet to collapse into. She closed her eyes, revelling in the simply sensation of not moving. Daere eased off her sodden boots with extra care. The maid was now fully accustomed to the sight over her feet by now and gently but efficiently dried them off and wrapped them in a clean cloth.

  After a time, the fires did their work clothes and carpets began to dry and warmth began to creep back into Lynet. Outside, the rain slowed and stopped, and the noise of the camp outside
rose in its place; men and the very occasional woman calling out, complaining, and laughing. Bread, pottage, bacon and beer were served, and while it was not luxurious fare, it was filling and Lynet ate with a will. Afterwards, the queen commanded that one of the brandywine jars be unsealed and even the serving women were served a little of the strong and warming drink. As the last of the daylight faded away, stories, jokes and gossip unfolded, mostly about places and people Lynet had never heard of before. She sat with her feet wrapped warmly and her cup of strong wine, and tried her best not to nod off. She was exhausted. She ached. She could not fall asleep. Not yet. She had shared a bed with Daere and Lady Mavis every night since Camelot. She must find her way back to Cambryn tonight. She had not spoken to Laurel in days. She did not know what was happening at her home, what Peran and Mesek had done.

  She could not sleep until she knew.

  Outside the pavilion, the guard barked a challenge. Lady Fiona was on her feet first, making her way to the door. Then, the loosely laced flap was pulled open and the guard leaned open a moment and murmured something.

  “Who is it, Fiona?” asked the Queen.

  “Lord Lancelot, Your Majesty.”

  This answer startled the queen a little, but she motioned to her waiting lady, who opened the pavilion entrance wide enough to permit the knight to enter. He was not alone, Gareth, and two other squires — one a thinner, and slightly shorter, the other broader with narrow, calculating eyes — walked behind him.

  “Your Majesty,” said Sir Lancelot, as all four knelt.

  “My Lord Lancelot,” said the queen, gesturing for them to rise. “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing, Majesty.” He bowed to the rest of the company. “As your champion for this time, it was only my wish to make sure you were as comfortable as you could be made, and that you had all that you needed. And to make known to you, as I have not had the chance to do before now, how grateful I am for your choosing my humble self for your knight at this time.”