In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy)

by Sarah Zettel

  He also noted that she was full and fairly grown. No wan and wilting flower she. Then he realized that he was staring, and he turned quickly away.

  The horses were in urgent need of attention. Gringolet had not been unharnessed the whole hard day. The lady’s mare seemed to be fairly fresh, so wherever they had come from, it was not far. He thought again on the dead man left in the wood. Perhaps he could take word to the king of whatever injustice had come to pass here.

  Unsaddling and unharnessing the horses and wiping them down took some time. The lady did not have much gear with her. A quiver of arrows, and the bow with the broken string, and a single saddle bag. Had she been hunting and become lost or distracted? The bag was heavy, but a cursory investigation of it showed she had not brought provisions, not as much as a skin of water or wine, which only deepened the mystery about her.

  Gawain glanced back at her. Instinct had caused her to curl closer to the fire’s warmth. His exercise kept him from feeling the deepening cold, so Gawain unclasped his cloak and laid it over her like a blanket. Heand leaned close to see if any token of fever clouded her clear brow. But there was only the summer scent of her, and the deep, regular breathing of a peaceful sleeper.

  Against his will, Gawain remembered Pacis. Her skin had been white like this, her cheeks and shoulders this round as she lay sleeping beside him, before she had woken and kissed him lightly and bid him begone before her husband returned.

  Before she had laughed when he had begged her to come with him.

  Gawain busied himself with the fire to distract himself from those deeply unwanted thoughts. Before he had to look any longer at this beauty who reminded him so sharply of that other.

  Agravain would have a whole sermon to preach if he could but see you now, he thought ruefully. Of his three brothers, Agravain was closest to him in age, and his harshest critic. Gawain had once heard that when the ancient emperors of Rome rode through the streets to display their spoils of battle, a man rode beside them whose job was to whisper in the conqueror’s ear ‘remember thou art mortal’. Agravain seemed to have taken that role on himself with respect to Gawain.

  What will you do when one of your dalliances forgets her undying love for you and shows up at court in tears with a big belly and a witness to your pretty words? Agravain would say, and had said, more than once, his sharp face creased with anger. How much will our uncle have to settle on that cuckolded husband, or petty chieftain’s daughter? You could always refuse to acknowledge the truth of their claim, I suppose, but that would stain some of that virtue you polish up like your arms before you go into battle …

  The situation was only made worse by the fact that Agravain’s scoldings were not without merit. Gawain poked at the fire with one of the damp sticks he had gathered and frowned. It wasn’t that he was unmindful of his responsibilities. He took them most seriously. Arthur was a great king and a great man. Living up to his example was a life’s work which Gawain set himself to with a good will. If it was love that led him astray, surely there were others who had done far worse?

  Gawain grimaced as he thought of the colors Agravain’s face would turn if he spoke that light verse. And there were others who would not approve. He winced and glanced up at the cross above the altar.

  Penitent, Gawain knelt in prayer, hands clasped before him. He carefully recited his pater noster and added, Father, forgive my sins and help me strive to be more worthy of the grace You showed through your Son, Jesus Christ. Mother Mary, guide this foolish sinner and show him how he may amend his faults. Amen, amen, amen.

  Gawain crossed himself. Resolutely, he sat down facing the door with the fire and the lady at his back and his sword naked on his lap, in case the villain who pursued this maiden and killed her protector should attempt to return, in case the villain who pursued this maiden and killed her protector should attempt to return, and so that he would not have to watch her sleeping there and think again of Pacis.

  Risa woke slowly and reluctantly. The first thing she saw was a low fire smoldering on a floor of rough flagstones. The smell of horse hung in the air, overwhelming the smell of smoke.

  Memory rolled over her like thunderclouds across a summer sky. She pushed herself instantly upright and became aware of a stiff neck and a sore back. A cloak slithered off her shoulders, but she paid it no mind. Across the fire she made out Thetis standing beside a great white charger and a small bay palfrey. The saddles and tidy piles of harness waited beside the splintered wooden door.

  “God be with you this morning, my lady,” said a man’s voice, pleasantly, as if she had just walked into the great hall to break her fast. Risa nearly jumped out of her skin, and she stared. Beside her sat the rider who had come to her aid. He regarded her with patient courtesy, and in the firelight Risa could see that his eyes were the color of dark amber, warm and deep. His grecian nose was somewhat crooked, having been broken at least once. His chin was clean-shaven in the old Roman style but it had clearly been several days since he had seen a barber. His mouth was wide and his black locks brushed the shoulders of a plain brown tunic trimmed with simple blue embroidery.

  Risa realized that her own cloak lay beneath her, protecting her from the cold stones of the floor. It was this man’s mantle that had fallen from her shoulders.

  She tried to bring some order to her thoughts, but her mind did not seem fully hers to command yet. She swallowed to clear some of the sand that seemed to clog her throat. “God be with you, Sir.”

  She meant to add, “where am I?” but the sight of a cross over an ancient and dusty altar answered her question, at least in part. Before she could stop herself, she thought to tell her father this place was in need of repair so he could send Whitcomb to see what could be done.

  Whitcomb, helpless on the ground, the flash of a knife in the moonlight …

  For you now there is no God, no savior, no father, no mother, no protector save for me.

  A man on a tall horse, his sword drawn …

  Whitcomb still and dead, his blood staining the snow black.

  That evil memory robbed Risa of any polite words. As if discomfited by the silence, the white war horse stamped once. The knight got to his feet and went to the charger, patting its sides.

  “Gringolet reminds me he has not yet broken his fast,” he said in that same pleasant, comfortable way. “With my lady’s permission, I will take the horses outside to see what they can make of the foraging nearby.”

  Risa nodded dumbly. The man pulled a light halter from the pile of gear. He looped it over Gringolet’s head and led the animal out into the crisp, grey morning. Thetis and the palfrey both followed, docile and comfortable, leaving the room more airy, but also much colder. Risa wrapped her own cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

  What have I done? Oh, Whitcomb, my friend. I have been the death of you.

  Peace, she counseled herself. The fault was none of yours.

  Was it not?

  No, she told herself firmly. It was the sorcerer who held the knife. It was he who corrupted your father and broke your mother before you were even born.

  The chapel door opened again and Risa’s head jerked up, startled. The man paused in the doorway,

  “My lady.” He bowed. “Your humble servant can only hope it was not he whom you were thinking of with such fury.”

  Risa blinked and tried to smooth her features. He was tall, this man. He’d had to stoop to enter the chapel and his shoulders almost filled the doorway. His mail shirt and other arms lay beside the horses’ harness, but he still wore his sword at his narrow waist.

  And she had slept the night away beneath his cloak.

  Risa almost wanted to laugh, but she knew if she began, not only would it be hopelessly rude, but it might swiftly turn to tears. She cleared her throat, and tried to remember her manners. First of all, she stood, and picked up the cloak he had graciously loaned her.

  It was a rough wool, but well-dyed a deep green and lined entirely with fur. Not at all t
he garment of a poor man. “I would know, Sir, to whom it is I owe such thanks. You surely saved my life this night.”

  The knight bowed, a smooth and studied gesture. “I am Gawain, son of Lot Luwddoc of Gododdin, and companion to Arthur the King at the Round Table.”

  Surprise tightened Risa’s fingers around the cloak. This was Gawain? Nephew and heir to the High King? The acknowledged champion of all the High King’s chosen and the one who sat at his right hand when the cadre of the Table Round met together?

  “Have I said something to give offence to my lady?” inquired Gawian, as he straightened up.

  “No … no … I … forgive me.” Risa cursed herself for her stammering, and for her inability to stop staring. “It’s just … I had not heard word of your being in this country,” she finished. Feeling the fool, she held the cloak out to him. She could think of nothing else to do.

  Gawain’s smile was small, and the arch of his brows said he knew this was not what she had first thought to say, but he was too polite to remark on it. “I am glad to hear that. I am meant to be traveling in secret.” He smoothly accepted the cloak and slung it around his shoulders. He must have been freezing without it all night, despite the warmth the horses provided. Risa felt her hands would go numb any moment. “As there are none here to introduce us properly, lady, may I be so bold as to ask the favor of your name?”

  Manners, forgotten again. “I cry you mercy, Sir, for my country ways,” she said, dropping her gaze and reminding herself sternly that she did in fact know how to comport herself before visitors of rank. “I am Risa, daughter of Rygehil of the Morelands who is the barown of this land. My lord, I render you humble thanks for all you have done.” She spread her skirts and curtsied deeply.

  Gawain acknowledged the gesture with another stately bow. “I have heard Rygehil of the Morelands spoken of most fairly.” He crouched down before the fire, poking renewed life into the modest blaze with a charred stick. “If my lady would care to refresh herself …” he handed her a wineskin that had been warming by the coals.

  Risa took it with thanks and drank the sweet, watered wine gratefully. It coursed through her, strengthening her blood and clearing her mind. She lowered the skin to find Gawain watching her thoughtfully. In the daylight streaming through the open chapel door, she could see his eyes were lit from within by sparks of wit, and, for all his courtly words, a bit of wariness.

  “Was it your father you rode with last night?” he asked.

  Risa set the skin down. “No.”

  “Your husband then?” The wariness in him became ever-so-slightly more marked.

  Risa wondered briefly if she should lie, but found she did not have the heart for it. “No. My father’s steward.” Whitcomb. Fresh sorrow filled her heart.

  Her answer caused Sir Gawain’s brows to arch sharply, and Risa dropped her gaze again.

  “Would my lady consent to share her tale with her humble servant?”

  Risa bit her lip. The tears which had watered the ground beside Whitcomb’s corpse had made her rage against her father fresh and green. Still, it was hard for her to think of speaking openly to a representative of the High King. To tell this story would bring shame not only upon father, but also upon mother. But, it was not only that. To her surprise, a part of her still longed to hear her father’s horse outside, to have him come to tell her it was a mistake, that all was forgiven, that she could come home now and she would be safe, and all would be well and right. That part still knew the love between father and daughter, and could only weep.

  Seeing her hesitate, Gawain said delicately. “If my lady prefers, I could simply escort her back to her father’s hall …”

  “No!” The word was out before Risa could stop her tongue.

  Gawain bowed his head in acquiescence. “Then, my lady, you must tell me how I may best be of assistance.”

  Risa looked at him again. This was a man of whom songs were made. No doubt they exaggerated freely, but still, if he was even half as noble as the tales claimed, he would take serious note of her distress, and there were advantages to him being the king’s man. He could order the convent to take her, where they might not take a woman alone….

  He could help make sure Whitcomb got a Christian burial.

  And if he did decide to take her back to father after all? The thought stiffened Risa’s spine even as it brought on a fresh wave of fear. Well, these were woods she had known since she was a girl, and Gawain was on some important errand. He would surely tire soon of trying to chase her through them on horseback.

  “My lady,” said Gawain once again, this time with a trace of exasperation in his voice. Impatience seemed to bring out the extremes of formality in him. “Forgive your servant, but, his errand is urgent, and he fears if he must endure the steel of your gaze any longer he will be wounded so gravely that he will be unable to complete his appointed task. I ask you again, for the sake of that God we both love, how can I be of service to you?”

  Risa drew the shreds of her composure together. She had to answer him.

  It was pride and nothing else that also made her choose to match his formality of speech. “Again I cry you mercy, noble sir. I would have answered you before, but I must speak of dark and shameful matters, and I hesitate to bring dishonor upon one whom the Lord commands I should honor above all save Christ.”

  His expression flickered, and Risa thought for a bare instant he looked impressed. “Speak freely, my lady,” he told her. “Be assured your servant will listen discreetly and advise you as best he may.”

  So Risa squared herself against the tumult within her, and told Lord Gawain all that had happened to her the day before — how her father had refused her best and final suitor, how her mother had arranged matters so that they came to know the strange and dreadful promise her father had made, and how Whitcomb had agreed to help her in her flight.

  As she spoke of how the sorcerer Euberacon had waylaid them in their flight, the memory of his hooded eyes, and how he seemed able to take command of her, sent a deep chill through her, but she still forced herself to speak calmly. She felt glad that Sir Gawain had seen the sorcerer vanish as he had. Otherwise he might think her a mad woman, or worse, a witch.

  As he promised, the knight listened discreetly. In fact, he scarce moved a muscle for the length of her tale. Only his eyes narrowed. Did he accuse Risa of having steel in her gaze? His own was nothing less than cold iron.

  At last, there was nothing more to tell. Gawain turned his eyes away and stared a long while out of the chapel door.

  When he finally spoke he said, “Lady, these things you tell me of are most strange and of grave import. I am not sorry I came to your aid.”

  Despite the return of her fears, Risa felt her mouth quirk up. “And I am right glad to hear it.”

  Her tart remark startled Gawain. For an instant he looked annoyed, caught out, but then a smile spread across his face. Risa felt her throat tighten. She had thought him fair before, but that smile of his brightened the very air around him.

  “Now it is I who must cry you mercy, my lady.” Still smiling, he gave small bow where he sat. His wry humor, though, quickly faded. “But you give me tidings that match with those I already carry to the High King. I have just heard tell of a witch from a man I trust, now you speak to me of another. I must make haste back to Camelot. There are darker councils abroad in this land than Arthur suspects.” These last words he spoke more to himself than to her.

  “Then, Sir, we must not linger here. If you can delay your errand long enough to see me to the sisters …” Risa tried to keep the plea from her voice.

  “I fear I can do no such thing, my lady.” Risa’s heart plummeted. “I must be importunate and instead ask you to ride with me to Camelot and give witness of these matters to the High King.”

  And what would King Arthur do after that, but send her back to her father? Panic squeezed Risa’s heart.

  What she thought must have showed plainly on her face, for Gawai
n said, “At court you may plead your case to Queen Guinevere. Her majesty is of a generous and discerning heart. I promise, she will not fail to hear you.”

  The queen will hear, and the king will hear, and all the world will know what father has done. God and Mary why do I care? Let him reap the shame he has sewn, and let us be gone, because it is morning. He will be searching for me by now, if he cares even that much.

  She wanted to be able to hate. She wanted there to be nothing in her but anger, but other feelings twisted inside her, bringing with them nothing but pain.

  Beyond this, there were other matters of cold law that might remove from her hands what little hope she still clutched. “And if it is judged that I am my father’s and his to do with as he pleases? What then?”

  For a moment, bare anger showed in Gawain’s eyes, as if she had spoken insult. “You do not know Her Majesty, or you would not speak so,” he said, and his words had an edge to them. Belatedly, he seemed to notice this, and his voice grew gentle again. “She has never turned away any who ask for her protection.”

  Risa swallowed. There was no time to argue. The sky outside was brightening. She could see it through the cracks in the chapel’s roof. Whitcomb would already be missed. A search would be sent out soon, and there would be fresh tracks on the muddy road for them to follow.

  “I will go with you, then, Sir,” she said, glancing at the chapel door as if she thought the sorcerer’s shadow would cross the threshold at any moment.

  Gawain did not miss the gesture. “If my lady will permit, I would say we ride on to the town of Pen Marhas. The master there is Arthur’s man and will give our horses and ourselves good rest before we reach the final road to Camelot.”

  “With a good will, Sir,” said Risa, although she felt none. She did not want this. She only wanted the impossible — for all of this not to be. She wanted to be home in her bed and waking up to find that father had consented to let her marry Vernus after all, and for mother to be planning the betrothal feast.