Laurel

by Sarah Zettel

  Softly, Laurel opened the door. Inside the chapel was cool and dim, the air filled with the scents of old perfume and new smoke.

  Agravain stood before the altar, his arms outstretched, his head bowed. He held his attitude of prayer like a statue, never tiring, making no sound.

  She could see Lot’s bier where it stretched between Agravain and the altar. They had laid the corpse on a bed of green broom, yarrow and willow. The fire was gone, and proper lamps now supplied what light and warmth there was in the chapel.

  Agravain had changed that morning. This was no man of the city, not anymore. This was a king in this northern land. The wide gold torque armoured his throat as much as it decorated him. The same might be said for the cuffs of gold on his wrists. A cloak made of black bearskin covered the shoulders of his saffron wedding tunic. His tightly laced trews were also black. His only concession to what he had been was that he had not forsaken his good boots for the sandals the other men wore.

  Laurel entered the chapel, crossing herself as she did. Agravain did not look up at the sound of her step or the rustle of her dress. She walked softly to stand at his right side, so that he could become aware of her when he was ready.

  To her shame, Laurel found herself looking at the fragrant bier to see if it had been disturbed. Excalibur’s scabbard lay hidden among the greenery, protection for Lot until the priest could come and lay the armouring of grace around his corpse. Ros would not be back for two more days, at the earliest. For those two days, the old king must lie in honour here, and it would be very like Morgaine to try to make use of him to torment Agravain.

  Beside her, Agravain’s mouth moved. ‘Amen,’ he breathed. ‘Amen. Amen.’

  He crossed himself and Laurel did the same. But he did not lift his face to her. He contemplated his father’s shrouded form with his heavily-lidded eyes. Whatever thoughts occupied him, they drew his face into the familiar, tight lines of his carefully controlled bitterness.

  ‘My lord,’ said Laurel gently. ‘The men have come. It is time.’

  But he did not seem to hear her. ‘I thought I knew how it would be,’ he murmured instead. ‘I thought I knew what I must do, what I must become. I was wrong. I did not even know how much had been stolen from me.’ He lifted his hand, watching how it shook. ‘Why do I tremble now, Laurel? What is this that seizes me?’

  ‘It is only grief, my husband.’

  His mouth twitched, trying to form his thin smile and failing. ‘I had thought I had finished with grieving for my father long ago.’

  ‘You saw him again, you saw that you were right. You knew all along that the man still waited beneath the madness. You grieve for the years lost to that man.’

  ‘My brothers still do not know what he did for us.’

  ‘You will tell them when this is over.’

  ‘When this is over.’ Agravain repeated with the lightest laugh. Then he threw his head back, his face suddenly contorted with the strength of his anger. ‘God rot these sorceries!’ he cried out, a child’s bewilderment beneath the grinding fury. ‘How can Heaven be called merciful when it leaves such witchery to torment the world!’

  Laurel made no answer to this. Being who she was, what could she say?

  Agravain drew one more shuddering breath, clenching his fists tightly in his attempt to control himself. ‘I’m sorry, my lady.’

  Laurel shook her head. ‘You think I do not understand. I watched my heritage nearly destroy my sister. I watched it bring Morgaine down on my home like a plague to kill father and brother, and tempt me to betrayal. It made my people look blackly at me. It drove me from the throne I had been given, and away from my home in the end.

  ‘Oh no, my lord, I understand your feeling very well.’

  He gazed at her silently. With every breath, his face softened, the harsh lines smoothing and fading, showing the man, rather than the knight or the king.

  Emotion flooded into Laurel’s breast so quickly she could barely breathe for the flood of it. ‘I have never known what you see when you look at me like that.’

  He turned completely towards her. She could feel his warmth, smell the scent of him. He touched her veiled hair softly, drawing his hand down to her cheek, just grazing her skin.

  ‘Beauty,’ he said. ‘I see beauty, and a haven that I never believed my soul would find.’

  She thought he might kiss her then. She saw the desire for it in the depths of his eyes. But instead, he stepped past her. ‘I have … I suppose it is a gift for you. I don’t know why I brought it in here … Perhaps I needed some blessing for this.’

  He opened a lumpish package of soft leather which had been laying on one of the small tables and drew forth the gleaming contents.

  It was a crown. A delicate circlet wrought of silver and sapphires. The craftsman had fashioned dozens of glistening ribbons to frame the midnight blue stones, the smallest of which was the size of her fingernail.

  ‘It was my father’s marriage gift to my mother,’ said Agravain turning the beautiful thing over in his hands. Memory made his voice distant. ‘It is yours now. I am sorry there are no more worthy hands than mine to place it on your brow.’

  ‘Your hands are most worthy,’ she answered. She had not paused to think there might be a real crown for her head in this place of stone and scarcity, and certainly not one so rich.

  ‘We will do this in the great hall, as it should be.’ Agravain folded the leather around the circlet again. ‘And now, it is time I ceased this self-indulgence. You have come to call me to my duty.’

  She inclined her head, straightening her shoulders and putting on the mask of dignity that had served her so well up to this time. ‘If you are ready, Your Majesty.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then let us begin.’

  Laurel moved to the chapel doors and hesitated, listening. Outside, she heard the rumble and murmur of voices outside. She knocked three times, and then took her place beside Agravain at the foot of the bier.

  The chapel doors open. Pedair and Ruadh entered, solemn and dignified, attired in fine woollens and rich furs, with Cait, Jen and ancient Byrd right behind. They had found a drummer, and they walked to the slow, steady beat. An ancient man who might have been Byrd’s older brother walked with the drummer. His voice rang out high and clear as he called to heaven above, for blessing, for peace, for forgiveness.

  For all to witness that King Lot was dead.

  With drum and song circling about them, Laurel nodded to her women. They lifted the white linen shroud with careful hands and folded it aside, exposing Lot’s resting corpse to the flickering lamplight.

  Devi, clad in white, was the next to enter the chapel, and behind him came the men of Gododdin.

  It was not only the folk who had their holdings at the foot of the rock, but those who had been travelling this way for days, since Pedair and Ruadh were able to send out word that Agravain had indeed returned to Din Eityn. They came to get a look at Lot’s heir, to speak with him and determine what sort of man he had become away down in Camelot. They walked in slow procession to see that it was indeed their king laid upon the bier. They saw he had been treated with honour, that his sword lay at his side, and the wealth of kingship decked his wrists, hands and throat. They saw that merciful death had erased the madness from him.

  Then each one of them turned their eyes to Agravain, and to her. This was no time for words of any sort. In silence these men with their hard, weathered faces, their long beards and moustaches, their gold and bronze ornaments and cloaks of striped woollens took their measure. They looked Agravain up and down with eyes the colour of earth or mud or sky. They had to satisfy themselves that he was a whole man, and that he could indeed be the son of Lot. Whatever the shade of their eyes, however young or old, their expressions were all the same. In each face waited doubt worn deep by too many years of uncertainty.

  Agravain did not flinch from a single one of them, but returned calm strength to all those men now stood in silence before him
. He marked each of them, noting the ornaments, sigils and tattoos that surely told what valley or clan they came from, measuring each of them as they measured him.

  Laurel wished she felt half so calm as Agravain seemed. This was a necessary part of the ceremony, and she should be used to being on display by now. But it still chafed at her. The awareness of the hidden scabbard, the approaching army, and the poor showing her house was making unnerved her. Perfume and smoke, and the smells of sweat, earth and leather crowded the small room and prevented fresh air from reaching her, despite the open doors. The beating of the great drum echoed her heart and disordered her thoughts. The steady drone of the singer’s doleful hymn vibrated through her bones. Here was all the solemnity and dignity of death, but here was all the fear and distraction of it as well.

  But there was nothing to do but stand and be still, and try to match Agravain’s cool expression until the last of Gododdin’s men had satisfied themselves that Lot was dead, and that Agravain was alive.

  When the last man had made his respects to the corpse, and made his stony inspection of Agravain, Jen and Cait covered the body again. Ruadh would stand guard here, with the hymn singer and the drummer, watching over his king in death as he had in life. Byrd gestured urgently to Cait, who took up the crown beneath its loose wrappings, and then took her place with Jen and Squire Devi in front of Laurel and Agravain so that they might not walk unescorted into their own hall.

  Out in the yard, the work went on unabated. By the time they reached the bottom of the chapel steps, the smith’s ringing hammers drowned out the mourning drum. The shouts of the men assembling the strange engines of war, the whickering of the horses and the lowing of the oxen overrode the lonely hymn.

  It was wrong. The whole of Din Eityn should have stopped, not for a moment, but for days, to make solemn notice of Lot’s passing, and then to allow Agravain to ascend the throne with all due honour and homage. Messengers should have been sent to the approaching enemy, asking for time so that all ceremonies could be properly observed. It could not be done. She knew that. But she still wished for it, and could not silence that wish. The right order of things was violated by this unseemly haste.

  And Laurel knew after looking in all those weary, earthen eyes, she was not the only one who felt this way.

  Laurel and Agravain and their company reached the great hall, and the crowd parted slowly for them, making an aisle for their small procession. Laurel kept her gaze focused on Pedair’s back. Let them stare.

  There was no dais in the hall. There was only a chair, carved from oak that had gone dark with age. Generations of use had worn its arms smooth and had polished the carvings of ribbons, wolves, cattle and warriors until they shone like silk.

  Across the chair’s arms lay a spear. Its tip was white bone, and its shaft carved with more signs and sigils than Laurel could read. The kings of Gododdin wore no crowns, Agravain had told her. This spear was the true sigil of kingship in this place.

  But Agravain did not take it up. That was Pedair’s place in this ceremony. Agravain stood behind Pedair, while Laurel stationed herself at his right hand with Cait and Jen behind her.

  Pedair lifted the spear reverently, and raised it high over his head, turning so that all could see. The men of Gododdin closed their ranks, watching in silence.

  ‘Here stands Agravain mach Lot mach Lulach!’ cried Pedair, his old man’s voice sounding thin in the cavernous hall. ‘If any man is not satisfied he is a whole man of true lineage, let him speak!’

  A rustling of wool. A cough. The sound of heavy breathing, and in the distance the tinny ring of the hammers heard through wood and stone, but no word was raised.

  ‘Here stands Agravain mach Lot mach Lulach. If any man is not satisfied as to his right to bear the name of his fathers, let him speak!’

  Three score pairs of eyes watched them. Hard eyes that had seen the ravages of war and nature, and all the hardships that could be visited on a people. Men who starved and fought in the winter and feasted in the summer, who knew flood and illness, sun and joy, and had not broken. They looked at Agravain, weighing and measuring his lean form and his unflinching expression. They measured him against themselves, and against their fathers and their heroes. They measured him also against Agravain’s own father, who, for all they knew, had broken down and fallen into the depths.

  ‘Here stands Agravain mach Lot mach Lulach. If any man is not satisfied as to his right to claim the seat and the spear of his fathers, let him speak!’

  Laurel could not breathe. Her lungs seized tight within her. Her blood had turned sluggish in her veins, and her heart beat as heavy as the funeral drum. The moment stretched out. Surely it had already been long enough. It must end, but it did not end, and they all stared at Agravain like the stranger he was, and the hammers rang in the courtyard, reminding them all he had moved with too much haste.

  But no word was raised. Pedair turned and knelt down before Agravain, holding out the spear of kings. Agravain wrapped his long hand around it and lifted it, holding it high. There was no roar of approval, but there rose from the men of Gododdin a bass rumble; a recognition that what happened here was right and just. Laurel found she could breathe again.

  Pedair bowed his head, and placed his hand over his heart.

  ‘My king,’ he said. ‘I beg the right to be the first to swear my fealty to you. My soul and self are yours, to do with as you see fit.’

  For the first time, Agravain’s cool expression flickered. His eyes brightened the smallest amount.

  ‘Rise up, Pedair who has served so faithfully.’ Laurel doubted any but she and Pedair heard the tremor in his voice. ‘Take your place at my side, as you stood at my father’s.’

  Pedair did as he was bid, and again, the bass rumble of approval lifted from the gathering. This too was as it should be.

  A man stepped out of the gathering. He was like an elm tree, tall and gnarled by weather and time. His moustaches hung down to his chest. His brown eyes were keen, and his hard face showed his relief clearly, as he too knelt at Agravain’s feet, laying his right hand over his heart in salute, and his left upon the spear.

  ‘My king. I am Kolad mach Kade. I speak here for the men of the Red Stone, and I do swear my fealty to you. My soul and self, and all that I hold are yours to do with as you see fit.’

  Agravain nodded. ‘The men of the Red Stone are well known for their courage and their honour. Rise up, Kolad mach Kade, and be welcome.’

  With Kolad’s oath, the dam broke, and the others came forward. Some chiefs came alone. Others stood with their sons or brothers at their sides. All swore fealty; hand upon heart, hand upon the spear of kings. They spoke warmly, and hope shone in their eyes more strongly as they saw their oaths acknowledged by this man who bore himself with so much pride. Laurel’s heart swelled with her own pride, and her own relief.

  Then, up stepped a young man alone. He looked to be Agravain’s match for years. His face was tight, controlling some deeply felt emotion. His beard and moustaches were sparse, but his auburn hair was long, and he wore it in two braids down his back. His eyes were green as the sky during the sea’s worst storms. He knelt as the others had, and laid his right hand over his heart, but when he stretched his left hand out to the spear, he hesitated.

  ‘No,’ he said, and he stood, backing away. ‘No. I will not swear fealty here.’

  ‘The time for debate is over, Bryce mach Deuchan!’ cried Pedair, stepping forward. ‘If you had doubts as to His Majesty’s claim, you should have spoken at the right time!’

  ‘I have no doubts as to the claim made here,’ replied the man, Bryce, calmly. ‘I am certain that here stands the son of King Lot, and that he is a whole man and that the right of inheritance is his.’ He looked at Agravain as he spoke. He did not blink or falter. He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. The hall had gone absolutely silent. Even the distant ringing of hammers had fallen away.

  ‘But I ask you, men of Gododdin, what will be
gained by placing the son of such a father over us all? This is Arthur’s man, and Lot’s son. The one has ignored our straits, the other languished for years in madness and waste while we were left to make our own way, without protection, without judgment or intervention.’ Until then, he had spoken to Agravain and Pedair. Now, he swung around and addressed Gododdin’s men. ‘I say the rights of these kings are forfeit, for they did not hear the pleas and petitions of those over whom the right had been given. I say we owe them no oath and no allegiance. I say that had they desired such from us, they should have come before and restored the peace and justice that was theirs to give and hold!’

  Laurel’s breath caught in her throat, and it seemed as if the stones shifted beneath her. But Agravain was not moved. He had been expecting something like this, she realized, and unlike her, he had not let his guard down. Like the warrior he was, he had held himself ready until his opponent had shown himself.

  ‘I hear your rebuke, Bryce mach Deuchan,’ Agravain answered coldly. ‘It is well spoken, and it is not without worth. But I ask you this: where were these pleas and petitions?’

  This took Bryce aback, and for a moment, Laurel thought he might laugh out loud. ‘The men of Gododdin for ten years have lifted their voices.’

  Agravain raised his brows. ‘Have they?’ he asked in mock surprise. ‘For those ten years I and my brothers have been at Camelot. There was not a chieftain in all these lands who did not know that. We went there obedient to the command of our father, and not once in those ten years has a man of Gododdin come to any of us.

  ‘If you wished to speak of right, of justice, why have you waited so long, Bryce? Why wait for the moment when Lot is dead and the spear passes to an unknown hand? Why wait for the time of greatest weakness to make your fine speech about the rights of the ruler and the ruled?’