Camelot’s Shadow. Sarah Zettel
of the fire that made that smoke.
Gawain peered through the trees across the track. Rhian could see little through the greening branches, only some dark shapes that could have been anything from standing stones to an overgrown Roman fortress.
‘Wait with the horses, lady.’ Gawain did not look back at her as he spoke. He did, however, loosen his sword in its sheath.
With the smell of smoke and the sound of fire in the wind, and the knowledge that the Saxons were planning to begin their wars once again. Rhian did not want to walk forward to find out what was burned in these woods, but neither did she want to stand here alone.
She covered her fear in bravado. ‘You urge me to follow the example of Queen Guinevere. Would she remain behind at such a time?’
He turned to stare at her. She made herself look determined, although inside she was beginning to feel ill.
But her countenance must have been strong enough. ‘Agravain is ever reminding me to guard my tongue more closely,’ Gawain muttered. ‘Did you bring a spare bowstring?’
‘I did.’
‘Then restring your bow, Lady Rhian, and come.’
Quiver and bow slung over her shoulders, Rhian followed Gawain through the trees. They had left the horses tethered by the track. Gawain moved cautiously, like a man hunting, peering through the trees and scanning the ground before he took his next step, and she copied his gait and demeanour. The day was now far too warm, and far too quiet. The smoke took on the sweet smell of cooking meat, and the tang of fresh blood. Rhian’s mouth went dry. Behind her, the trees seemed to whisper uneasily. Ahead, the fire crackled and hissed.
Gawain pushed back a final screen of brambles and froze. Through the leaves Rhian saw what made the foully-scented smoke.
It had been a croft. There were countless such on the fringes of the woods. Several families had raised pigs here, perhaps some sheep. They had cleared some little land to put under the plough. If they prospered, more families would join them and perhaps in time they would become a village.
Or they would have, if fate had blessed them. Instead here was a scene of havoc. The cots and outbuildings had collapsed into ash and char. Coals still glowed among the black and shattered timbers. A piebald sow lay sprawled on the churned ground, slit from throat to belly so that its entrails spilled out into the ash among the shards of smashed pots and buckets. There would be worse under the timbers, Rhian knew that in the pit of her heart.
Without a word, Gawain walked forward into the chaos. The cleared ground had been churned into a sea of mud. Lumps of char and streaks of ash and blood were trampled deeply into it. This had been the work of men with horses. The marks of hooves as well as sandals and boots showed clearly on the ravaged ground. Despite the sound of the smouldering fires, the place seemed strangely silent. There should be more noise, Rhian thought, absurdly. There should be echoes of the screaming that had surely happened here, of the shouting and the pleas. There should be something of the life, of the voices, to remain, not just silent patterns in the earth and wisps of smoke to be blown away on the wind.
Gawain picked his way through the smouldering ruin to the wreck that had once been a cottage. His back stiffened and he spoke quietly, but Rhian heard every word.
‘They did not spare the children.’
Rhian crossed herself automatically. Mother Mary pray for us…
Gawain still cast about the ruins. Overhead a raven croaked. Fear took Rhian, although she could not say why. The horror here was done.
But movement flickered in the trees and the wind blew. Rhian’s eyes stung as the fresh ash touched them and through the tears she saw a shape standing at the edge of the clearing, great and green, a giant man leaning on the haft of a battle-axe nearly as tall as Gawain’s shoulder. She saw another man, this one pale as milk and bright as brass, carrying a sword smeared red and black from its work, and that man crept out of the ruined cottage, and slipped up behind Gawain and raised his blade high.
Gawain straightened up and the ghostly sword slashed at his torso. A second ghost fell, clutching its belly, and that ghost was Gawain.
Rhian’s hand flew to her mouth, but the vision was gone, and there was only Gawain, and the noises of the forest. A bird whistled overhead. A coal fell from a roof-timber to the ground. Both the Green Man and the raven were gone.
Gawain was staring at her.
‘I saw…’ she croaked. ‘I thought…’
‘Rhian,’ murmured Gawain. ‘Get to the road and free the horses. Do not look back.’
Rhian nodded and tried to comply. Behind her, she heard the rasp as he pulled his sword from its sheath and fear shot through her. She did not look back, but concentrated on the way forward, trying to remember her woodcraft and slip through the trees, but her fright made her clumsy. She tried not to think of the Green Man. Why should she see him again? Why now in this ruin? What was that ghost that had felled Gawain? Was it a warning from the Holy Mother, or was it the work of the Devil?
Collect yourself Rhian, you’re useless this way.
She reminded herself how to step softly, how to avoid branches rather than plough into them. It was then that she heard the bird call again, and this time she could hear it was not a true bird.
‘Run!’ shouted Gawain.
Rhian hiked up her skirts and obeyed. She crashed through the sea of branches and bracken, every twig becoming a claw clutching at sleeves and hems to hold her back. Behind her, the world exploded into noise such as only humans could make – the hoarse cries of men’s voices among the crash of branches.
The clash of metal.
Rhian looked back without thinking. Three men burst from the forest, short swords in their hands and caps of leather and bronze on their heads. One of them looked at her and his pale eyes glittered as he charged.
‘Run!’ bellowed Gawain again, and he flung himself against the marauders.
The Saxons were not expecting such a fierce attack. They fell back before Gawain’s longer sword and reach. But that advantage would not last, not in the trees. Gawain slashed like a madman, driving the Saxons back before him, not truly landing any blows, just keeping them busy.
Keeping them busy so she could get away.
Get to the horses, get to the horses! she cried in her mind, demanding her feet to flee, despite what she saw. Gawain was fighting to keep her free, and if she stood there, she would not remain so. When he broke free (and he will break free, he must break free), she needed to have the horses untied and ready so they could outrun the surviving Saxons.
Unless…
Metal glinted through the trees ahead of her and the sound of a horse’s angry scream cut through the air. Rhian’s madly beating heart filled her throat.
Unless they had already found the horses.
Instinct took over all conscious thought, and Rhian measured her length in a patch of unfolding ferns. Sheltered by the bracken, she pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to stifle the harsh sound of her breathing. The noise of the battle behind gave her some cover as did the screaming and thrashing of a maddened horse before her. She stared out through the screen of delicate leaves and stems and tried to quell her rising panic.
The Saxons had found the horses, and had put three men to guard them. The guards were greedy though. Goods from the saddlebags were strewn on the ground. One of them also apparently had tried to ride or handle Gringolet, and now the charger was doing his best to bedevil them. He bucked and reared, flailing out with his hooves, while two of the men tried in vain to catch his swinging reins and a third shouted and cursed in their harsh tongue. He had his sword out and was staring into the trees, trying to see through to the melee near the croft, to see if the wrong person had broken free of it.
In that chaos, Rhian