Camelot’s Shadow. Sarah Zettel
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.
Rhian 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.
Rhian set the skin down. ‘No.’
‘Your husband then?’ The wariness in him became ever-so-slightly more marked.
Rhian 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 Rhian dropped her gaze again.
‘Would my lady consent to share her tale with her humble servant?’
Rhian 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 Rhian could stop her tongue.
Gawain bowed his head in acquiescence. ‘Then, my lady, you must tell me how I may best be of assistance.’
Rhian 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 Rhian’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?’
Rhian 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 dishonour upon one whom the Lord commands I should honour above all save Christ.’
His expression flickered, and Rhian 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 Rhian 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 on the road, 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 Rhian 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, Rhian 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. Rhian 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 a small bow where he sat. His wry humour, 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 a sorcerer. 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…’ Rhian tried to keep the plea from her voice.
‘I fear I can do no such thing, my lady.’ Rhian’s heart plummetted. ‘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 Rhian’s heart.
Her thoughts must have showed plainly on her face, for Gawain 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 sown, 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.’
Rhian 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