Camelot’s Shadow. Sarah Zettel
wanted to find her dogs. She wanted to see that mysterious white quarry they had flushed.
All at once, she broke into a sun-soaked meadow. The sudden light dazzled her and Rhian stumbled to a halt, blinking hard.
When her gaze cleared, she looked around to take her bearings, but then found herself gawping in surprise.
In the centre of the clearing stood a broad, gnarled stump. On it lay a flat board covered with red and white figurines of extraordinary delicacy. Not one of them was taller than Rhian’s hand was long.
To one side, on a fallen tree, sat a gigantic man all of a sparkling green colour, as if he’d been fashioned out of a monstrous emerald. One of his hands could have engulfed Rhian’s waist. The crown of his head brushed the leaves of the oak tree he sat under. Skin, hair, eyes, all shone greener than the sea. His plaited beard might have been grown from dewy meadow grass. His jerkin, mail and hose were so green the fresh leaves paled next to them. Beside him on the ground lay a battle-axe of the same brilliant colour.
Rhian was rooted to the spot, unable to move or think. The great, green giant smiled so broadly she could see that his teeth were indeed emeralds that flashed in the sun.
‘It’s called chess,’ the giant’s voice boomed all around Rhian’s head. ‘And a merry game it is too.’ His eyes glittered as if he had caught two stars in them. ‘Would you learn this game of nations and of power, pretty maiden? Step forward, then.’
Rhian found her feet moving. Without any thought or help from her, they carried her body into the sunlit meadow until she stood over the board. Now she saw the figurines were people, men and women all standing on a board inlaid with neat squares of ebony and ivory.
‘Now, then.’ The giant winked at her. ‘Which side for you, pretty one? The red?’ He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. ‘I think not, though the red king knows you passing well.’ He plucked a scarlet figurine from its place and Rhian saw a man with a lean, lined face and hooded eyes who wore long robes like a nobleman, or a monk.
‘The white is your side, and the white queen is your protector, I think.’ Another figurine lay nestled in the hollow of his enormous palm, although Rhian didn’t see him put down the first. This one was a woman, perfectly formed, with a circlet on her long hair. Her eyes were wide and her face was wise, somehow. ‘And with her, the white king, but not before the white knight.’ Another figurine appeared in his palm. This was a man on a horse, holding his spear aloft and his shield before him. Rhian could not see his face, but she clearly saw the five-pointed star carved on the shield.
‘Will these three keep you from the red king and the red castle?’ The giant shook his head gravely. His palm was empty.
‘You do not speak, pretty one. Perhaps chess is not the game for you?’ The sparkling green smile grew fierce. Rhian felt her heart fluttering against her ribcage, but still she could not move. ‘Perhaps you prefer riddles? Excellent!’ The giant slapped the stump and all the figurines rattled on their board. ‘Now, answer me this and be quick, pretty one,’ he leaned over her, blocking the sun with his great, green head. ‘What is it every woman wants?’
The scene in front of her began to fade and blur, as if her eyes had filled with tears. The giant laughed again ‘Answer! Answer!’ he ordered. ‘Answer, my pretty one!’
A noise. From the forest. A sharp, high barking. Drawing closer. The dogs. The dogs had found her.
Rhian found her tongue could move.
‘Sweet Mother Mary, save me!’ she screamed.
And she was alone.
All the strength fled from Rhian’s body and she fell backward onto the forest floor.
For a long moment, she lay there blinking stupidly at the leaves above her. She heard the barking coming closer. All at once her hounds swarmed over her, whining, nosing and licking. They put their heavy feet on her stomach, squeezing out what little breath she had.
‘Off, off,’ she grunted. She managed to heave herself upright.
‘Lady Rhian!’ Aeldra’s voice drifted through the trees. ‘My lady, where are you?’
Rhian got to her feet. Her gaze swam, but steadied. The clearing was empty save for herself and the nosing, wagging dogs.
It was nothing. A dream. I have been too long out in the sun. I fainted, perhaps, or sat down to rest and dreamed.
But then her gaze drifted across to the rotting tree stump and she saw on it two figurines, one red, one white. Her heart in her mouth, she crossed to look at them. The red one was a tall woman, the very essence of beauty and perfection. She wore chains around her neck and bracelets on her arms. Her robes fell in heavy folds over her feet.
The white figure was a hag. It stooped to half the red lady’s height. It was a grizzled, toothy horror gaping up at Rhian with a pig’s glaring eyes.
‘My lady!’ A crashing and thrashing sounded through the brush behind her. Heavy-footed and out of breath, Aeldra waded through the grass. ‘Where have you been? I…’ she stepped up beside Rhian and saw the figurines.
‘What are these?’ Aeldra reached out one hand towards the red lady.
‘No!’ Rhian smacked her hand away. ‘Leave them. They are cursed. I’m sure of it.’ She took Aeldra’s arm with one hand and the hem of her skirt with the other. ‘Let us leave here, Aeldra, and find Innis. I would be back at home.’
Rhian set off between the trees. She very carefully did not look back.
Harrik, Hullward’s son stepped into the council tent. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he surveyed the gathering. There were a dozen men, all Saxons, like himself, most battle scarred, also like himself. They squatted or lounged on piles of furs around the smoking central fire.
Dogs, Harrik thought. Dogs at the feet of their master. He lifted his gaze.
Wulfweard, called Wolfget by those who knew his vicious nature, sat in a slatted chair. He alone of the gathering was armed. A naked sword lay across his thighs. The symbol was hardly needed. The menace in Wolfget’s hooded blue eyes shone plain enough.
‘Be welcome to this assembly, my Lord Harrik,’ said a musical voice.
Harrik started. A woman, clothed in a gown of smoky red circled the fire towards him. ‘Let me offer you the guest cup and bid you know my Lord Wulfweard wishes you to sit at his right hand.’
Harrik struggled to keep himself from gawking like a boy. Wolfget had never before taken a wife, let alone one so blindingly lovely. Her golden hair hung to her waist and was plaited with a thread of silver. Her face was smooth and round with blue eyes set wide above a slim, straight nose. Her breasts and hips swelled amply beneath the dark red of the gown which hung from her shoulders as if to call attention to their perfect roundness.
Harrik mastered himself and took the wooden cup from her soft, clean hand.
‘My thanks.’ He took a swallow of the mead.
Wolfget was flanked by two empty chairs. Harrik took his place in the right-hand seat as invited. The woman took the left.
Wolfget swept his cold gaze across the assembly.
‘Brothers.’ His voice was hard. ‘It is ten years since the defeat at Mount Badon scattered our strength. Since then, Uther’s upstart bastard has held us as his vassals, claiming our lands, our sons, our very bodies as his own. We have submitted in silence, knowing ourselves to be weak and divided.’ He laid a thick hand on the sword’s hilt.
‘Wounded to the death as we were, we were wise to do so. But now, our wounds are closed. Our sons grow tall and strong. Our brothers eye the rusted swords and axes hanging on our walls with restless anticipation. Now is the time to force Arthur the Bastard to pay for what he has stolen.’
An angry rumble of assent rose from the assembly. Wolfget smiled and Harrik felt