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

by Sarah Zettel

  Risa wanted to laugh. When would they have had time in the madness of the past few days?

  In the woods, her wool-cloaked mind answered her. By the fire, after the kiss …

  She tried to push all that aside. What did it matter if this woman loved Gawain from afar? There must be a hundred or more who did. And what matter that there would be rumors about Risa and Gawain? She had known when she arrived escorted only by a single man that the gossips would be instantly busy. Compared to what waited outside these walls, it was nothing. God, Mary and Gawain knew the truth, and that would have to be enough.

  Not that the High King’s nephew would ever consider anything more than a dalliance with one such as she, and she had already made it plain that such a thing was not welcome to her.

  Despite all her attempts to reassure herself, Risa felt suddenly, horribly sad. She wanted to be at home, among her own things, with her mother setting the hall in order before bed, not surrounded by strangers in danger from within as well as without.

  Mother, I pray you, have patience, have courage. I will send you word as soon as I am able. I miss you.

  Mother would know what to say about Lady Pacis, and it would probably not be complimentary. Would she know what to say about Gawain, though?

  As soon as Holda had undressed Risa down to her borrowed shift, Risa burrowed under the bed covers and took refuge in warm and blessed sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  The dawn brought the Saxons. They poured down out of the eastern pass in a river of light and darkness. Risa, standing on the walls with the women of Pen Marhas, watched them come.

  Risa had heard mass with Lady Cailin in the darkness before dawn, and climbed up to the palisades as the day broke. She was dressed now in coarse wool that was spattered with the pitch she had helped pour into the kettles. Her emerald ring shone incongruously on her hand. It was a ludicrous gaud to be wearing at such a time, but she had come so close to losing it to the Saxons, she could not bear to leave it behind in the common sleeping room.

  The stench of hot pitch mingled with that of offal and slop from the buckets waiting beside the kettles. With them were piles of stones and other refuse, anything that might be thrown down to wound, or at the least delay and confuse. Risa had brought her bow, but she had only the one quiver-full of arrows. There were just four bows in the whole of Pen Marhas, counting hers, and the available arrows had to be shared out between them. The town did have a man who knew fletching, but he had used up all his materials working through the night. Whatever arrows they had with them now were all they would have.

  From here, it was easy to see Gawain. Gringolet’s white hide shone like a beacon in the cold, morning light. They had not spoken since he had left the table last night. She wondered if he had asked after her. She had not heard that he had.

  A few other things on his mind perhaps, she suggested to herself as she watched him gesturing left and right to other riders. Thedu Bannain rode a chestnut gelding and clutched an axe in his gauntleted hand. Pen Marhas’s lord had mustered ten other men on horseback to meet the Saxons.

  The rest of the hall’s able men waited behind the earthworks. At first light, they had been busy as ants shoring up their defenses. Now, with the pounding rush of the Saxons pouring over them, they crouched with their heads down, concealing their numbers, waiting for the Saxons to reach the valley floor. The horses hooves shook the ground as they charged. The war cries shook the air. All at once, she heard Gawain’s voice, clear as a hunter’s horn above the Saxon’s dreadful thunder, and saw him charge out from the break in the earthworks, with the wave of the men of Pen Marhas surging up behind him.

  The two armies clashed together in an explosion of sound like a hundred blacksmiths beating madly on their anvils. Gringolet bobbed here and there like a cork in a whirlpool while Gawain laid about him with his sword. Risa could not even see Bannain. She leaned forward as far as the palisades permitted, her hands gripping the wooden pickets until her palms began to hurt, trying to see if Gawain was hard pressed, trying to see if his enemies fell or rallied. There was no way to tell for there was no way to distinguish friend from foe. Around her the women hollered, cheering on their husbands and fathers, brothers and sons, and cursing the Saxons for their arrogance and blood thirst.

  The day wore on. The noise ebbed and flowed with the tide of men. Half-a-dozen times the defenders retreated behind their earthen banks. Half-a-dozen times they rallied and charged again to break against the raiders, surge through them, mix with them, clash and crash, cry out and die, or live to rise with battle’s tide again. The cacophony beat against Risa’s ears until her head hurt as badly as her hands from holding bow and arrow ready. As badly as her eyes did from straining to follow Gawain’s movements through the swarm of warriors.

  Risa did what she could from the walls with her bow, but could not tell what effect her arrows had, save for once when her shot, by luck more than skill, transfixed a brawny Saxon warrior in the throat. She imagined rather than heard his gurgling scream as he fell, and flinched away from the horror in his distant eyes, surprised to find that despite this her hands held steady as they reached for another arrow.

  The sun crawled across the sky so slowly, Risa felt certain it had stopped in its course. She was hot. She was thirsty. Pain pounded at hands, arms, eyes and head. The wind blew in from the battlefield, bearing all the smells of metal, blood and trampled earth. Her ears had gone numb from the noise and she wanted nothing more than to creep away somewhere quiet and hide.

  This had gone on too long. It had to end soon. It had to.

  But it did not. On the field, the warriors milled, separated and retreated, and came together again, raising once more the terrible riot of metal clashing against metal and the sound of voices raised in screams of pain or bloody triumph.

  At long last, the sun did sink toward the horizon and dusk reached down from the hills. The men of Pen Marhas ran back behind their earthworks, and the Saxons loped and limped back up into the hills to wait for the morning, so they could descend again, so the battle could begin again.

  Evening and quiet came together, broken only by the cries of the wounded. Those men who could still stand guarded the walls while the gates were opened just wide enough to allow the men to slip in and women to slip out to help retrieve the dead and hurt. Blood mixed with the salt sweat soaking Risa’s dress as she helped a youth with a deep gash in his arm up to the shelter of the inner walls and the stout hall. She had assisted her mother in nursing men who had been hurt by scythes during the harvest, and once with a man whose horse had rolled on him and crushed his pelvis. She had heard these screams before, and she had seen death.

  But by the time she and her man entered the hall, there must have been a score of men already laid out with their women and children beside them, doing their best to bring ease with water and prayer. The physician and the skilled women moved among them, packing the wounds with wax and cobwebs, or grimly stitching the deeper wounds while the irons were heated to sear those hurts that could not be stitched. The ones who were still whole held the men down as they screamed around the biting stick. The stench of blood and waste was far worse in here than it had been on the field. Over the work and the prayer hung the knowledge that this was only the beginning. These sons and brothers and fathers were only the first to fall.

  Risa felt hatred blossom in her heart.

  She worked with the others, fetching and carrying, holding the hands of strong men while they screamed from the healer’s attentions. The torches were long lit by the time the last man was tended and covered in a blanket to find what rest he could. There’d be fevers by morning and poisons of blood. God would take some to him and leave others, and it was all in His hands now.

  Suddenly, the heat and the stench, the weeping of the wounded and the women became too much. Risa fled out into the night. She leaned against the wall doing nothing but breathe the fresh air. She could ignore the battle taint on the wind, for out here at least,
it was cool, and quiet.

  The clouds were thickening overhead. There would be rain before morning, but enough moonlight remained to allow her to separate shape and shadow. With wandering steps she circled the hall, stretching out the cramps in her legs and hand. Even though her eyes adjusted to the fading light of moon, she kept them lowered. She did not want to see the sentries on the walls, nor yet the black bulk of the hills above them where the Saxons waited.

  Ahead of her came the sound of someone sighing and splashing. Risa halted in her tracks. She had come round to the stables, and ahead of her a group of men bent over one of the stone horse troughs. Their backs were bare and they scooped up the water in their hands, rinsing the day’s battle off head and arms. One of them, straightened up and brushed his dark hair over his shoulders, causing the water to run in silver rivulets down his back, wetting the bandages that encircled his ribs and Risa realized it was Gawain.

  She meant to speak, or to retreat, she was not certain which, but one of the men lifted his head and saw her. He paused in his crude libations, which immediately caused all the others to turn and look as well. Gawain faced her, and Risa found she could not speak at all.

  He was beautiful. Not perfect, for he was scarred. Two ragged lines ran down his chest, disappearing underneath the bandages and he was bruised on both of his arms from the pounding he had taken yesterday and today. There was no blood on him, thank Christ. His sun-browned skin was whole and sound over the planes of his muscles, his wide shoulders, his trim waist.

  You’re staring, you fool.

  She was, and she was not the only one who noticed. The other men, half-naked, bearded, bruised, covered in old scars and fresh cuts, also stared, at her.

  “Well, here’s a pretty little thing,” said one, wiping his beard.

  “I think she’s here for you, my lord,” laughed another, stepping back solicitously so Gawain could get by. Risa felt herself blush deeply.

  “See if she’ll come back for me!” roared a third, which set all the men guffawing with sharp-edged mirth.

  Gawain set his back to Risa, his shoulders absolutely square and rigid. “I did not hear that, Donyerth,” Although he spoke quietly, Risa could clearly make out every word in the sudden silence. “I trust the jest was not in reference to this lady.”

  There was not enough light to see if the man blanched, but his apology was hasty, and sincere. “No, no, my Lord Gawain, I was … it was someone else. Not the lady, of course not.”

  Gawain donned his tunic and came to Risa’s side. “Lady Risa,” he bowed formally. “May I escort you to the hall?”

  “Thank you, Sir.” She took the arm he offered her. Though she knew the men would say nothing in Gawain’s hearing, she still felt their gazes heavy on her shoulders as they walked away. They’d have plenty to say soon enough, and she could easily guess the sort of talk it would be.

  The sounds of splashing resumed behind them, growing fainter as they walked the length of the hall. “I’m sorry for that,” said Gawain.

  Risa found herself looking up at the sky. There was only the faintest sheen of moonlight left behind the clouds. What little illumination lit the yard came from the guard’s torches on the walls. “There’s no avoiding it. I am a woman alone with a man who is no relation.”

  Gawain halted, and faced her. “They are men fresh from battle, glad to be alive and terrified that they will not be so when evening comes tomorrow.” He lowered his eyes, as if speaking reluctantly of something close to his heart, and perhaps he was. “It produces in the soul a sort of drunkenness, a forgetfulness of courtesy. In normal times, Donyerth would have kept a civil tongue.”

  “Do you know him?” she asked, remembering that Gawain had spent some time in this place before.

  “A little. A good man, as most of them are, loyal to their lord and their land.” She thought he meant to add something more, about the men, about the hall, but he did not. Risa rubbed her arms. It was growing cold. But that was not what Gawain saw. “You are tired.”

  She nodded toward the sheltering walls. “I’ve never been to war before.”

  Gawain shook his head. “This is not war. This is a battle. When there are a dozen or so of these all clustered together, then it is war.”

  “It sounds like the pox.”

  That earned her a small laugh. “But it will kill you far more quickly.” He ran both hands through his hair, and then slumped against the wall. In that posture, with his simple tunic and sandals on, he looked more like a cowherd or farmer than the champion of Camelot.

  “It is odd the things that come into a man’s head in battle,” he said, looking towards the palisades with their flickering lights. “I heard there was an archer on the walls, and I wondered if it was you, and when I did, I thought of a poem I had once heard, about the pagan god Apollo and a nymph — I’ve forgotten her name — but he was doomed to love her, it seems, and his love caused her to turn into a laurel tree.”

  “A filmy rind about her body grows,” recited Risa.

  “Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs:

  The nymph is all to laurel gone;

  The smoothness of her skin remains alone.

  Yet Pheobus loves her still.”

  “You are well versed.”

  She spread her hands. “Spinning and weaving are dull work. In our hall, someone would sing or recite to keep us all amused while we worked. Frequently, I was that one. I was said to have a pleasant voice and I did have a good memory for stories.” She hoped that did not sound too boastful, as she hoped she did not look too hag-like from her day’s labors She wondered why she should care, and then she could only hope the flickering torchlight would not show the blush creeping into her cheeks as she realized Gawain was studying her thoughtfully.

  Fool, fool, fool. Go to bed. You are too tired. You are dreaming on your feet. You’ll become as bad as Lady Pacis if you don’t take hold of yourself.

  “What happened to Pheobus after that?” Gawain asked.

  Risa dragged herself out of her thoughts with difficulty. It was growing cold. At first the cool air had been refreshing, but now it began to sink too deeply into her skin, chilling her blood. Despite that, she did not want to move indoors. She wanted to savor this moment. She was certain that when she laid down in the crowded room among the strangers her dreams would not be half so pleasant as standing beside Gawain and speaking of poetry. “Pheobus declares the nymph, the laurel tree, will be his sigil from that time on. Then … he goes on being a god, I suppose. He does, I believe, fall in love many more times.”

  “Ah,” said Gawain a little wistfully. “But can there be true love again, once that first is taken from him?”

  Which was not something Risa had ever considered. “I do not know.”

  Gawain folded his arms against his chest. His hand brushed the hall’s wooden wall, and it came to Risa that perhaps he hoped to find something else there, a sleeve or a hand, rather than the hard and unresponsive timbers. “A hard fate for a god.”

  So everyone says. “I’ve always thought it was rather harder on the lady. She’s the one who had to give up what she was and be rooted by the river forever, and even then he will not leave her be. He can go on to whatever loves await him, and she is trapped.”

  That seemed to startle him. He bowed his head in polite acknowledgement of the declaration. “You may be right.”

  But Risa could only hear her sour words ringing in her own ears, along with the reminder that despite his serf’s garb, this was still Lord Gawain in front of her and that if the walls of Pen Marhas stood, she was still dependent on his good will. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For speaking so plain. For … ah, Mother Mary.” She turned her eyes up to the blank, black heavens. “I do not know.”

  “I do.” Gawain pushed himself away from the wall. “You are sorry you are so tired that you cannot say what you wish and can only say what you mean.” He took her hand. “Come. Let us return yo
u to Lady Cailin. Your heart and hands will be needed come the dawn.”

  They walked to the great doors in a silence that felt to Risa surprisingly companionable. Weariness, the peace of night and a fresh wind that smelled for a change of nothing but the coming rain were hard to resist. Gawain’s hand was warm, though roughened from his day’s work.

  What would he do if she turned to him now and took back that kiss he’d had from her? For an instant she thought, what harm? Her reputation here was already tarnished. If she was to face the penance, why should she not commit the sin?

  Because she did not want to be the woman who would behave so, and she did not want Gawain to see her as that woman.

  They’d reached the hall’s steps. Gawain paused again, and Risa felt, rather than saw him looking at her. His face was lost in shadow, and she felt strangely glad. Her heart was beating slowly and heavily. She could feel his warmth, and he was standing strangely still, almost as if he was afraid to move. “You were the archer on the walls today.”

  “Yes.” She tried to speak plainly, simply, but again, she felt currents beneath the words, and between the two of them, with Gawain standing so close and so still.

  “You did not have to go.” His words were little more than a whisper.

  Risa felt her mouth twist into a tight smile. “If the Saxons break the gate, they will not stop to realize I am only a guest here.”

  She had meant to make him laugh at that, or at least smile back there in his shadows, but he remained completely serious. “You are wondrous brave, Risa.”

  No. Oh, no, she was not. She wanted so badly to run away. If death did not wait outside these walls in so many forms, she would have. “I am only doing as I must.”

  “No. It is more than that. I have seen necessity, and desperation both. Your actions spring from a courageous heart.”

  Do something, say something. Turn away from this. If you don’t you’ll choke on your own breath. “You need to sleep, Sir.”