Under Camelot's Banner

by Sarah Zettel

  “Be patient, my friend,” she said, still smiling. “You have done all I could ask for.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” he murmured. This time there was no jagged edge to his voice. His words were still rough, but they did not strain, and his breath no longer rattled in his chest.

  With a nod to her retainers, Morgaine touched up her horse and the procession trotted away down the high road with Morgaine’s blue raven banner fluttering in the light breeze.

  Ryol’s hand lay heavy on Lynet’s shoulder, and she felt him warm beside her. For a moment she savored this. She could do nothing else, her mind was so overwhelmed by the love and the desire that filled all the world as Peran watched his lady ride away. But slowly, all the heat, cooled and she remembered blood, and she remembered the face of madness in front of her and she jerked herself away.

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday.” Hurt shone in Ryol’s newly aged eyes, but Lynet could find no word of comfort.

  “We must …” she began.

  He did not let her finish. “You must go, my lady,” said Ryol, holding himself very still.

  “What?” she frowned. “No! We must go to Laurel and warn her …”

  He held up his hand, gazing about him, seeing what she could not. “My lady, trust me in this. We have no time. There is danger without and you must go.”

  Lynet hesitated, but only for a moment. She must either trust him or not. She stepped back yet further.

  “Do not let her take me from you, my lady,” said Ryol urgently, still staring at the empty air. “Do not let anyone. I cannot reach you if they take the mirror. It would be too much for both of us.” With that, Ryol swept all the shadows away with a gesture. He was gone in a heartbeat, and Lynet was alone in the leaden darkness.

  She awoke with a start. She was sprawled on her pallet, the covers in complete disarray, her right hand clutching the mirror tightly. Light flickered across her and leaning close enough to rest a hand her shoulder was Queen Guinevere.

  “You cried out,” said the queen. “Are you well?” She laid a cool hand on Lynet’s brow, checking for fever.

  “Yes, Majesty.” Hastily Lynet scrambled to sit up properly, and thrust the mirror beneath the bed covers. “It was a nightmare.”

  But she was not quick enough. The queen caught a glimpse of what she hid, perhaps a sparkle of light on the glass. “What is that?”

  “Oh.” Lynet brought it out again, cradling it in her palm, trying to hide it without hiding it. “It is a mirror.”

  Even in the faint and guttering light of the brazier, Lynet could see how thoughtful the queen’s face became.

  “May I see it?” Queen Guinevere asked, her voice as smoothly casual as Lynet had tried to make hers.

  Lynet desperately cast about for some reason to refuse, but none came and she had to lay the precious artifact into the queen’s stained palm.

  Queen Guinevere lifted the mirror to the light to examine it better. Lynet clenched her jaw to keep from crying aloud for Her Majesty to take care. The queen ran her long fingers around the frame, and closely examined the way the firelight flickered in the flawless glass. Every heartbeat that passed, it became that much harder for Lynet not to snatch the mirror back again.

  “I have never seen one so beautiful,” Queen Guinevere said as she handed the mirror back to Lynet. “It must be very precious.”

  Lynet’s fingers folded gently but possessively around the mirror, as if they folded around her own heart. “It was a gift from my mother, Majesty. Nothing could be more precious.” Let it be, majesty. It can mean nothing to you.

  But the queen showed no sign of granting that silent wish. She did not seem to mind her undignified position there on her knees before her liege woman disarrayed in her bed. “I have never seen a glass so flat and smooth,” she remarked, sitting back on her heels. “Nor so light. One wonders at the artisan who could make such a thing.”

  Lynet managed a thoughtful nod. “All craft secrets look to be miracles, I suppose.” A thought struck her, a way to divert the inquiry. “They say the Round Table was joined together by enchantment.”

  Queen Guinevere laughed a little at this. “No, merely consummate skill, but you speak the truth. Still,” she went on musingly. “That mirror is a lovely thing. If I knew the craftsman, I would surely bespeak him to make me another.”

  She looked at Lynet, her grey eyes mild, but full of meaning. The queen was asking for the mirror, and Lynet should give it over to her. That was the way of such things.

  But was it for its beauty itself the queen wanted the mirror, or did she guess something more? Do not let her take me from you. Ryol’s words rang in her ears. He had known this would come. He had warned her.

  “I must beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness,” said Lynet carefully. “This was a gift from my mother, but it was not given to me. It was given to my sister. She lent it to me to carry as the dearest token of our home, but on the absolute promise that I bring it back to her. We have so little left of our mother …” She let the words trail off and made herself meet the queen’s soft grey gaze.

  “I understand,” Queen Guinevere said with a smile that said she knew what it was to be so attached to such a trifle. That smile, though, did not reach those watchful eyes. “What was your dream?”

  “My dream?” she repeated, not understanding.

  “You said it was a nightmare that made you cry out.” The queen reminded her patiently. She got to her feet and set the brazier back on its tripod. At the foot of her bed, Lady Mavis stirred uneasily but did not wake. “What was your dream?”

  The feeling of being trapped overtook Lynet. She swiftly chose a story that was close to the truth. “I dreamed I was in Cambryn again. My sister was in danger. I wanted to warn her but I could not …”

  “What was this danger?” The queen sat on the edge of her bed.

  “I could not be sure,” murmured Lynet, hoping that the catch in her throat would be taken for distress.

  “I see.” Queen Guinevere sighed. “Well, we could ask for a better omen. Still, we move as swiftly as we can and we can do no more.” She picked up the brazier’s brass cover from off the tripod’s hook. “Go back to sleep, Lynet. “You will soon be home.”

  Under the queen’s watchful gaze, Lynet returned the mirror to its purse, and laid herself back down on her pallet.

  Lynet drew up her coverings. Only then did the queen cover the brazier, blotting out the light. God Almighty. Could she know?

  This much was certain, Ryol had spoken the truth yet again. Queen Guinevere would take the mirror. She did not believe the story of the dream. She knew something was wrong. Lynet could not risk discovery with it again, but she could not stop keeping her watch over Cambryn. She would have to take greater care. She would have to find another way.

  Lynet lay awake a long time waiting for the queen’s breathing to slow and soften. Only then could she close her eyes. As she did, she felt a fleeting presence, something swift yet undeniable, like the touch of a shadow’s hand on her shoulder.

  Ryol? she thought, but her exhaustion overcame her, and both sensation and thought flitted away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Now!” shouted Gareth, hauling on the oxen’s halter.

  The ungainly creature snorted wetly and lumbered forward as the men behind its cart put their backs to it yet again. The reins creaked and the mud squelched, and with a low sucking sound, the cartwheel rolled free of the mud hole, and up onto the track again. The ox swung its heavy head as far as the yoke would permit it, annoyed to find its burden mobile. While Gareth held the beast, the carter crawled beneath the conveyance and came out again, all smiles.

  “She’s sound!” he called up to Gareth, and Gareth nodded in return, giving up a silent prayer of thanks. The last thing they needed was the delay of a broken wheel or axle.

  “Pass the word to drive around that swamp!” he called as he mounted his horse again. “And catch up as quick as you can. We’r
e almost to Lan Nanse, and we need to make it before dark!”

  The man touched his brow in salute and set about yelling at the remaining carters. Seeing the matter in hand, Gareth urged his horse into a trot, riding the edge of the road, skirting between the unbroken fence of trees and the edge of the procession.

  The springtime woods that surrounded them now would have been a thoroughly pleasant ride under other circumstances. The haze of green overhead let the sparse sunlight filter through to light up the snowdrops and fern that poked up everywhere. The first of the herbs had begun to unfurl, softening the countryside and lending their sharp scents to the air that was otherwise overburdened with the pungent smells of working men and beasts. Birdsong was everywhere, and occasionally the rustle and crash of some larger creature. Deer tracks had been seen, and boar, and bear. Sir Lancelot had talked of a hunting party, but the queen would not hear of the delay. If they did not immediately need the meat to feed their people, they were to continue on.

  But Gareth did not have much time to admire the wild countryside. His task, along with the other squires, was to ride up and down the length of the procession, being the knights’ eyes, and voices where needed, making sure as much as possible that their caravan stayed together, and moved at a decent pace. He shouted at stragglers, made peace between quarrelling cousins, and helped pull carts from mud holes, reported to his knight, and then turned around to do it all again.

  And this was a good day, when they had a road under them. Not a Roman road to be sure, but it was better than the deer rambles they’d been following as they plunged into the great woodland. It would not last much longer. The roads ended at Lan Nanse. After this, they would be crossing the northern edge of Bodmin moor that lay outside of Cambryn. They would be wishing for those deer runs then, anything to find their way between the bogs and the mists. Gareth shook himself to get rid of the shudder that threatened to creep up on him. Gawain had relished in telling him some of the stories Tristan brought with him of the ghosts and demons that haunted that open wasteland. As a Christian man, Gareth did not believe such tales, but the boy was still close enough that he was quietly glad not to have to prove himself in that way. Not yet.

  He had almost reached the head of the procession. He could see the backs of the Queen and her women on their horses, their cloaks flowing and fluttering in the damp spring breeze; Dark, prim Mavis, fair and flighty Braith, who the queen really should see married off before her wandering eyes caught the wrong man, and Fiona, with her brown hair and fair skin, and her smiles full of promises that somehow never quite got fulfilled. Before his disgrace, he’d been more than willing to be patient, certain he’d win through in the end, and with Rosy and the others to take the edge off, why not be willing to wait? But since then, he’d only had the barest of glances, and when he’d tried to touch her secretly yesterday as they had touched so many times before, she’d only pulled away. Strangely, he’d found himself comparing her, unfavorably, to Lady Lynet.

  She would make no promise she did not mean to keep, he thought, and he found himself wondering what she might promise, and to whom, and when. Then he remembered her tale of murder done in her family and the rough shout at the high king himself when she thought she had been dismissed. She would never act like Lady Fiona, much less like Lady Braith. For her, the flashes of humor were rare. Rarer still seems glimpses of genuine happiness. No, games of love were not for such a one.

  Then why do I keep thinking on her that way? he asked himself, and he found he had no answer.

  In front of him, Lady Fiona’s horse suddenly stumbled, causing her to fall back behind Lady Mavis whom she’d been riding beside. She reined the mare up and looked about her in seeming confusion. Mavis also made to stop, but Fiona waved her on, coaxing the horse to the side of the road to let the rest of the procession pass. Cursing under his breath, Gareth urged his own horse forward. He swung down and offered Fiona his hand so that she could dismount with matronly propriety.

  “I fear she has taken a stone, Squire Gareth,” said Lady Fiona. “Will you look?”

  But as she spoke, Lady Lynet rode past them, watching Gareth as he stood beside Fiona. She should have been up front with the queen and the ladies, but it was her habit to ride back down the line several times during the day, to speak with her own captain and his men. Their eyes met and he felt his shoulders straighten a little. He thought to see disapproval or disappointment in her, but what he saw instead was a weary resignation. She turned her face and gaze rigidly forward and urged her dapple-grey palfrey into a faster trot.

  “Squire Gareth?” said Fiona. “My horse?”

  “Of course, my lady,” Gareth dragged his attention back to the task at hand. The brown mare was a reasonable creature and let him lift her right fore-hoof and rest it on his knee. She whickered, snorted and leaned comfortably on his shoulder while he probed the hoof, especially the soft frog. “There’s no stone,” he said to Lady Fiona. “It was just a stumble. This road is not so smooth as it would seem.”

  “As a man may be less devoted than he seems,” Fiona replied with a strained smile.

  Gareth patted the mare’s shoulder to warn her she would have to take her own weight now, and set her hoof down. “What sign of devotion should I have sent you from the kitchens, my lady?” he asked softly.

  “When you sent not a one to me?”

  Anger flared behind her eyes. Gareth knew that was the sign for him to apologize and to compliment. Another day, he would have enjoyed the game. He loved seeing her anger melt away and turn to delight at the merest word from him. But he remained silent, bent double beside her horse, and let her snap at him. “How could I have done that? The queen watches me so close, I can barely draw breath.”

  “Then she is sure to notice you standing here now.” Gently, Gareth felt the mare’s ankle and knee, making sure there was no tenderness or sign of swelling. “Why the risk now, my lady?”

  “Why do you spend your time mooning over that doe-eyed Lady Lynet?” she shot back.

  A cold finger touched the back of Gareth’s neck. He straightened, laying one hand on the mare’s shoulder. “She is in need of help, and it is my duty as the king’s man to offer it.”

  “Oh yes, I’m sure she needs a great deal of help from you.” Fiona’s words were needle sharp. “The sort she received from Sir Tristan for helping in the cuckolding of the queen.”

  Gareth found himself standing very still. “What?” he asked softly.

  “She has so far neglected to mention that, I suppose.” Lady Fiona stepped up in front of him and took the reins he had slung over the saddle. “That it was she who ran messages between the lovers. Perhaps even took money from the king to betray them. A fine lady for you to tip your heart toward.” Ignoring his move to help her, Fiona mounted her horse again. “Be mindful, Gareth,” she said her voice suddenly soft, but the needles were still there, only covered over. “Not all will love you as I do.” She brushed his shoulder fleetingly and smiled her warm smile, still so full of those unkept promises. Then, she touched up her horse, and trotted away to catch up with the queen and the other ladies.

  Gareth stayed where he was, feeling very much at sea. He remembered Lynet standing on her injured feet before the queen, refusing to sit or drink or in anyway ease herself until her plight had been heard. He thought of the way she jerked back, so dismayed when he kissed her hand in a salute of respect. How she had looked at him as she passed a moment ago with such heartbreaking resignation.

  Fiona declared this maiden, this lady, had taken bribes first from Tristan then from the king? No. It was not possible. Such a deed was not the work of one so deeply wounded. There was another story there.

  Which meant Fiona had lied to him as well as warned him away from another woman, a maiden, a woman of rank who had no husband to prevent her from being paid honorable attention.

  Where in God’s name does that thought come from?

  But before he could begin to answer his own question, he he
ard Lionel calling his name.

  “Gareth!” Lionel cantered down from the head of the procession. “Gareth! Sir Lancelot is looking for you!”

  Gareth swung himself back up into his saddle, and followed Lionel, ducking under tree branches, and maneuvering his horse around the larger stones and hump-backed roots. As quickly as he could, he brought himself up to where Sir Lancelot waited, well ahead of the procession, watching it come toward him like some kind of questing beast.

  “Blow the signal to halt, Gareth,” said the knight tersely.

  “What’s happened, my lord?” asked Gareth, reaching for the horn that dangled from his saddle beside his bags and blankets.

  “Sir Ruawn hasn’t come back.”

  Gareth’s heart thumped once, hard. Sir Ruawn had been sent out the day before, with three mounted men-at-arms, and Brendon to carry a chest of gold and silver from the queen to present to “King” Telent of the Rosveare, who held this valley. Telent was not a city man, and his people where not a single clan, said Sir Ruawn, whose people had come from south of this place. They were a loose and quarrelsome group of families who were willing to follow Telent and the council of their patriarchs, as long as Telent did not ask much of them in time of peace. As a result, the treasure had to be enough for Telent to share out across a dozen families to keep them pacified long enough for their caravan to cross the valley, and spend the night in relative security, hopefully in the remains of the fortress on the hill.

  Gareth felt a sharp prod of guilt. He didn’t like Brendon. He didn’t like his carping and sneering and non-stop insinuations that the only reason Gareth was back in Sir Lancelot’s good graces was because of his uncle’s intervention, which hurt all the more because it was very close to the truth. Still, Brendon was also Sir Lancelot’s squire and Gareth should have noticed his absence before this, rather than just being grateful for the peace.