by Sarah Zettel
‘I do not want to leave.’ murmured Laurel.
‘And you fear to stay.’ Sorrow tinged the flowing music of her voice. ‘The future is long, child, and you must take care.’
For a moment Laurel felt the individual drops of rain, drumming each against her skin like fingers, each cold, fleeting pressure demanding her attention. ‘I will remember.’
Grandmother smiled, and the safe, encompassing warmth filled all the world again. ‘Then go on to your day, Laurel.’
‘Wait!’ cried Laurel desperately. The shining figure stilled for a moment, poised delicately between the worlds. ‘Wait. Merlin was here. What is it Merlin wants of me?’
But Grandmother only shook her head. ‘Choices, my child. Remember. There is always one choice left.’
The wind blew hard and Laurel opened her arms wide again, but the woman was gone. There was only the warm rain, drumming and tapping on stone and filling her up with itself. Then, even that was gone and there was only the darkness of deep, easy sleep.
It was barely light when Meg woke Laurel on her wedding morning. A grey light squeezed through the window’s shutters, bringing the sound and cold scent of the rain drumming outside.
Is that you, Grandmother? Are you sending me some other message?
Laurel barely had time to blink her eyes before serving women flooded the chamber, carrying candles, carrying the great copper bath, carrying the bridal garments that were the gift of Queen Guinevere. Meg put a cup of warm posset into Laurel’s hand and then snapped at the girls and women to hurry with the water. Laurel found herself helped from the bed, efficiently stripped by Cryda and Elsa, washed, doused, dried and clad in an undergarment of snowy linen. Her cup was taken and returned without a word whenever Meg thought appropriate, and Laurel drank the cooling posset as she was able.
Outside, the rain drummed down.
The queen had chosen an array of delicately dyed garments for this day. Laurel had never seen such colours in cloth and wondered where they had come from. The underdress was a rose pink so pale it evoked the thought of apple blossoms as it whispered lightly over her head and arms. The rich weight of the translucent gold overdress was increased by the stiff, scratchy scarlet and gold ribbons trimming its trailing sleeves. Her cloak was a pale green agate, a shade very close to her eyes, embroidered with elaborate chains of white blossoms and clasped with another apple blossom of gold at her throat.
Her white hair was woven with strands of silver and pearls, and left to hang down in a heavy maiden’s braid for the last time, before the spring green veil was laid over it, pinned with gold pins and secured with a band of gold and peridots worked with the figures of leaping dolphins. A girdle of cloth-of-gold embroidered to match the headband secured her waist, and gold-embroidered slippers shod her feet. All perfect, all magnificent gifts signifying her worth to the High King. Under the weight of so much wealth, Laurel could rouse no feeling in herself beyond cold.
Am I afraid? she wondered distractedly. Her dreams of the night before were all about choice. But Merlin stood outside her window, watching in silence.
This was her choice. She did it to aid Lynet and Cambryn, but what if she did wrong?
‘Now, my lady,’ Meg came forward with a golden ring for Laurel’s arm. Laurel seized Meg’s hand suddenly, unable to do anything but hold it tightly and stare at the one familiar face in all this strangeness.
Meg covered her hand with her own. ‘All will be right, my lady,’ she said softly. ‘The queen would not give you over to anyone who was less than honourable. Nor would I.’
These words gave Laurel the strength she needed to release Meg and stand still for the remainder of her ministrations. If the women of Camelot noted what passed, they were well-mannered enough to pretend they did not, for which Laurel was grateful. She felt strange in her own skin, as if she did not belong inside herself any longer, but instead was pushing and pulling to get out of this unfamiliar housing.
What is this? What is this? Nothing unknown is happening. This was all that I agreed to. It is already done. Today is only ceremony.
But it was not already done. Not yet. She could still put a halt to this. Return home, live cloistered the rest of her days, or walk into the sea’s embrace if she chose. She could still choose not do this. Not give herself to a stranger among strangers. There was always one choice left.
A knock sounded through the door, and Laurel jumped half out of her straining skin. Meg shooed Cryda off to answer it while she brushed down the folds of the clothing Laurel had just unsettled. Laurel was certain Meg meant the motion to be soothing, but it could not reach her through the haze of embarrassment that seemed to have descended.
Lady Risa stepped across her threshold. She was resplendent in green, saffron and gold for this day, her red-gold hair shining beneath a bright net of woven gold and a pure white veil that trailed down to the hems of her skirt.
‘Are you ready, Laurel? They are waiting for you.’
Casting a glance at Meg, who returned the barest of nods, Laurel folded her hands. I will give the semblance of dignity at least. ‘Yes. I am ready.’
‘Let us go, then.’
As she had the day before, Laurel schooled her face into the calm she wished to be seen and stepped from the room, dressed in treasure, bearing legacy and bloodline, price and prize. She caught the approval in Risa’s eyes as that lady fell into step beside her.
Today, the procession down the dim, painted corridors and the cool, curving stairs seemed both longer and shorter than it had been before. Risa walked beside Laurel in silence. Laurel found herself wondering what this woman’s wedding day had been like, how she had felt, how she had carried herself and what she had done to keep her countenance. She bitterly regretted not asking while she had the chance. The sound of the rain followed them, growing louder at each window, fading away as the stone walls surrounded them again.
They passed the audience hall by today. As they did, Laurel heard the clamour of the preparations underway within. They would return there for the feast after the mass. They. Her husband and she. Agravain and she.
What were his thoughts this morning? Was he frightened and doubtful too? Did he want to change his mind about this bargain the king and queen had made of them and for them? Her stomach twisted.
She must have hesitated in her step, because Risa touched her arm in reassurance.
Ahead of them lay another hall, the most famed in Camelot. Laurel had only entered here twice before. This was hall of the Round Table.
It was appropriate that it should be here. This was where Arthur’s full council met, and what was done now was done with the approval and the witness of that council, but there was also the table itself, which had come from Cambryn along with Queen Guinevere. It was a moment of neatly staged symbolism, just as it was meant to be.
The doors stood wide open, revealing the hall in all its splendour, filled with the ranks of those honoured enough to be knights of the Round Table. Queen Guinevere waited at the threshold, and stretched her hands out to take Laurel’s the moment she came within reach. Laurel received the kiss of peace, and the queen took her place at Laurel’s right hand, with Risa at her left, to deliver her to her husband.
The cadre was not seated at its table, but stood arrayed along the sides of the chamber, a guard of honour for Laurel’s entry. The bright banners stitched with the symbols of their houses and their knighthood hung from the beams, with the banners of the dragon and the swan in the place of pride over all. To add to the authority of this ceremony, Laurel saw that the sword Excalibur had been laid upon the table. She knew it by its scabbard, which, like the table, had been brought by Guinevere as a portion of her dowry. It was a battered thing, the leather so old it had cracked and flaked, banded and shod in plain bronze. Unlike the elaborate and beautiful table, it was not at all what one would expect as a signifier of kingship. Still, the right of its possession had been jealously held by the women of Cambryn’s royal line for more gener
ations than anyone knew. As the last of those women, it was Guinevere who held it now.
Laurel saw all these things only dimly, crowding at the edges and filling up the back of her vision, for her eyes would not truly attend to anything but Sir Agravain, waiting beside the High King, who smiled benignly at her hesitating there on the threshold.
Sir Agravain wore the tunic she had given him. Cut to ample measure, it still hung well on his lean frame, which pleased Laurel strangely. The saffron cloth with its decoration of brightly coloured threads and ribbons brushed the tops of his boots and sat well across his chest beneath the red cloak he also wore. A belt of gold links shaped like hunting hawks circled his waist and a thin gold band circled his brow. Its red and blue gems shone brightly against his black hair.
Sir Kai stood on the other side of Sir Agravain, in his fine black, with his red cloak and gold chain of office. His eyes were keen, watching her. Sir Gawain was there as well, dressed in the green that seemed to be his favourite colour, and smiling his splendid smile. At her or at his own wife? She could not tell. She did not see any squire beside Agravain and she wondered at that, but she knew also her mind was simply delaying thought of what she must do next.
‘Are you ready?’ murmured Queen Guinevere.
No.
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
‘Come, then.’ The queen took Laurel’s arm and led her forward, leaving Risa to walk behind. The weight of the wealth and spectacle seemed suddenly far too heavy. Laurel tried not to shake, tried to understand where the fear had come from, tried to deny it, to put it aside. She tried to pray, tried to hear the rain reminding her of wind and water and who and what she was beneath the gifted finery. Who and what she had been.
I do this willingly. I do this willingly.
I do this because I can do nothing else to make Lynet and Cambryn safe.
Except for his dress, Sir Agravain was just as he had been the night before, sharp and shuttered, watching her with his impassive eyes.
What do you see in me, Sir Agravain? The table, beautifully crafted, cunningly wrought, unique among all things, a source of pride and honour? Or the scabbard, closely held only because it always has been, and of value only because it has always been closely held?
Sir Kai watched her over Sir Agravain’s shoulder, his smile as crooked as his shoulders. The words he spoke echoed back to her at once. He was the one who tried, and though I may be the only one who does, I believe it was done out of love.
It was only then she realized who was missing from this great spectacle. Merlin was not there.
This made Laurel draw breath sharply, but she could do nothing more. She was at the edge of the table where her marriage contract and her husband both waited. She knelt to King Arthur and he raised her up with a warm and gentle hand, giving her the kiss of peace and an encouraging smile. Her mouth was dry. Her heart hammered at the base of her throat as he turned her towards her husband. She curtsied. Sir Agravain bowed.
What am I doing?
‘You are most welcome to me, Lady Laurel,’ said King Arthur. ‘Of your courtesy, your name is required to seal the compact.’
Two white-robed monks waited nearby. One deftly unrolled the scroll of the contract. Laurel faced the table and the contract, blinking several times. Cloth rustled, mail clinked. Someone coughed. Sir Agravain was a space of warmth near her shoulder. Waiting.
The document had been written out on pure white vellum in many coloured inks; red, blue, green and gold as well as glimmering black marked out the terms of her marriage; the money and goods she brought, the duty of the produce of tin and other metals that would be owed from Cambryn to Gododdin, and herself. In return, from Gododdin, there would be arms and men, ships and sailors, the woollen cloth and hardy sheep for which they were famed.
All correct. All as she had negotiated with Sir Bedivere in her own great hall, so far away from here.
Laurel nodded. The second monk dipped a neatly trimmed quill into ink, and held it out to her. She took it between her fingers, feeling how smooth and delicate it was. Laurel watched her hand with interest, as if it was a stranger who wrote her name and title upon the page, Laurel Carnbrea verch Kenan Carnbrea. The scratching of the quill against the page sounded very loud.
Sir Agravain did not wait to be handed his pen, but took up the quill for himself and wrote in a bold clear hand Agravain mach Lot, Equite. Agravain, son of Lot, Knight. No other title. He caught her gaze as he handed the quill back down, and as she had the evening before, she felt an air of challenge surrounding him. Laurel did not know how to meet it, so she only returned his gaze as calmly and coolly as she was able. If this was how he chose to be known, what challenge was she to make of it?
With that silence hanging in the air between them, both Laurel and Agravain stepped back to make way for the king. Beneath their drying names, Arthur wrote his broad Arturos Rex.
‘And may the blessing of God be upon it,’ said King Arthur as he returned the quill to the monk. ‘And upon you, my lady.’ He took both Laurel’s hands in his. His manner and countenance were calm and confident. For the moment he held her hands, Laurel knew he wished to impart that much to her.
‘And you, Agravain.’ On his nephew’s cheek, the king laid the kiss of peace. Agravain returned the gesture, and as they parted Laurel found herself looking into Agravain’s eyes again. It was almost a dare, as if he wanted to see what she would do now. What was he expecting? That she would show some sign of regret? Perhaps he thought she might be thinking of some lover left behind in Cambryn?
That last idea was ludicrous enough that Laurel felt a small smile form, and in Agravain’s eyes she thought she caught a glimpse of that odd, dry humour he had bestowed the night before.
He loves, my lady.
Then, unexpectedly, Sir Agravain extended his hand. Laurel felt her brows rise a hair’s breadth, and then she reached out. His was a hard hand, one that had known rein and sword and the work of war for many years. It was also warm and ever so slightly gentle, as Sir Agravain turned with her so that they might both make their obeisance to king and queen. There was no cheering from the assembled witnesses. It would not have been appropriate at this time, but Laurel thought she sensed a loosening of the air around them, as if the cadre had been holding its collective breath and now was able to release it.
With King Arthur and Queen Guinevere before them, and the cadre of the Round Table behind, Laurel and Agravain emerged from the hall, where the whole of the court waited in the dim, grey light and the puddles left behind by the morning’s rain. Now, brass horns blared out accompanied by the rolling thunder of drums. A huge cheer exploded from the gathering, ringing off the stones and making the ground shake as people stamped their boots and clapped their hands. Laurel walked through it all as if in a fog. The only real thing was the warmth of the man’s hand holding hers; the utterly silent man who did not so much as look at her as they climbed the stairs to stand before Camelot’s horse-faced bishop, resplendent in his robes of white and gold, flanked by his two priests in their black robes and caps.
The bishop looked down on them, first at Agravain and then at her.
Sizing us up? Deciding if we are worthy to be blessed?
‘I do charge you, Lady Laurel, as you shall answer before God on the Day of Judgment, do you come here freely and of your own will to be given and blessed in marriage to the man Agravain?’
It was the last chance. Even now, with the ink holding her name dry upon the white vellum she could stop this thing. God and Mary could save her now if she but said the word. The clouds hung low, pregnant with fresh rain, waiting for her answer.
There is always one choice left.
‘I do,’ she said.
‘And you, Sir Agravain, as you shall answer before God on the Day of Judgment, do you come here freely and of your own will to be given and blessed in marriage to this woman Laurel?’
‘I do.’
Agravain bowed gravely. Laurel curtseyed, and did
not take her hand away, partly because, if she were honest, she wanted to see what he would do, and partly because there was an unexpected reassurance in holding his hand as they together mounted the steps towards the chapel.
The contrast with the bright sunlight blinded Laurel for a moment, but her vision quickly cleared. With the gentle pressure of Agravain’s fingers against hers, she walked up to the beautifully carved rail where the bishop took up the golden crucifix holding it high.
Agravain let go of her hand and stepped away so they could spread their arms wide in adoration and supplication as the right-hand priest anointed them with holy water from the silver bowl he carried, and the bishop made the sign of blessing. Around them they heard the shuffling and rustling as the other witnesses, and the king and queen, took their places.
‘In nomine Patre, et File, et Spiritus Sancte …’
As she heard the stately and deeply familiar words of the holy mass Laurel felt the gaze of the painted saints and angels all around them. This was the second of the three acts that would make them truly married. They had the consent of their king and now called for the blessing of God. Laurel found her nervousness unaccountably redoubled. She had always entered into the ritual of church from duty more than from deep faith. She knew and had always known that the invisible world stretched beyond the teachings of the bishops and the Book. Now, though, she found herself yearning for some sign that God, to whom she was but another piece of creation, did indeed watch this as he watched the flight of the swallow, and approved.
She took the wafer into her mouth, and swallowed the wine, bowed her head for the final blessing and murmured the final amen of the mass.