For Camelot's Honor (20 page)

When the bird was cooked, they ate it gingerly with their fingers, sopping its juices with the good bread and sharing the beer skin between them.

Through the whole meal, Geraint kept his silence. At first, Elen did not mind, but gradually the silence began to weary her. She wanted, no, she needed, human contact, to wash away the memory of the hawk's hunt and the elation it brought her.

She looked toward the bird. The sun was sinking toward the horizon now, and she was sinking toward sleep, secure, well-fed, content. Her heartbeat grew slower and heavier.

“Calonnau,” said Elen, almost to herself.

Geraint looked up.

“Her name.” Elen nodded toward the tree where the hawk waited. “Calonnau.”

Geraint appeared to consider this. “Heart?”

Elen nodded. “You speak our tongue well.”

He set his bowl of bones aside. Elen looked away from them, concentrating on Geraint's face. “My uncle Arthur insisted we learn as many of tongues of the land as the monks could stuff into our heads. I'm not as fluent as Agravain, or Gawain.” He paused, watching the shifting colors of the coals for a moment. “There was something Urien said, when he held us together I did not understand.”

Elen knew exactly the words he meant. They were old, and not commonly spoken. She pulled her knees up toward her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The cold deepened within her.
“Kynnywedi ar liw ac ar oleu.”

Geraint nodded, and waited.

She could lie. He did not know, and he did not have to know. His ignorance could keep her free of this much at least. But no lie would come to her, and Geraint was still waiting. “It means … many things. It means given without consent, or abducted …” She bit her lip, and then she said. “It means because he is lord of the land, I may be given to whomever he dictates without my consent or that of my kin.”

Geraint's face and silence were stony. “That is not law.”

“It is.” Tears stung her eyes.
I will not cry.
“He is …” Mother, dead on the floor. Yestin's sword in Urien's fist. “He is made chief of Pont Cymryd by conquest. By the law of our people, for seven years, I am your wife.” Given before witnesses, hooting and jeering at her, with her people killed, captured and scattered, her mother dragged away and buried she knew not where, if she had been buried at all. But still, there was not a judge or chief in the west lands who would say that Urien had not conquered and held what he had taken.

“For seven years?”

She nodded. “At the end of that time, I may leave you if I wish it.” She looked at the stained and batterered skirt covering her knees as she said this. Somehow she could not look at his face and speak of leaving him.

After a long moment, Geraint said, “I think the bishop at Camelot would not approve of these laws.”

“Then tell him to argue with Urien,” snapped Elen. “Arthur does not rule here yet and your white Christ did nothing to stop the slaughter of my family. For seven years no man of my people will see me as other than your woman.” The tears came now, for anger and for loss, that Urien had stolen even this from her, and for the part of her that rendered unable to lie to this man about this thing.

But Geraint just accepted her anger, absorbed it and acknowledged it for what it was. It neither startled nor shocked him. “Lady,” he said softly. “What would you of me?”

“Nothing.” She wiped the tears away for shame. He had seen too much of her tears. She looked at the twilight sky instead, and listened to the sounds of the nightjar rising from the meadow. Soon the evening star would shine and the moon would rise. It was getting colder. “There is nothing to be done but what we do now.”

Geraint laid another stick on their fire. He watched the flames cradling the fresh wood. Her gaze traced the line of his jaw beneath its black beard. She saw the way the firelight reflected in his eyes, the broad slope of his shoulders and the way of his arm rested on his thigh. She told herself to look away again, but she could not make her gaze leave him, and so she was still watching him when Geraint turned, and met her eyes.

“I stood beside my brother Gawain when he was married,” said Geraint. His voice was hoarse and Elen felt her lungs, throat and hands all tightening at his slow, careful words. “He wore green silk and a gold belt about his waist and a gold chain over his shoulders, and his bride Risa was all in red and gold. Queen Guinevere walked with her. The court ladies sang in chorus to accompany Risa to my brother and even … even Agravain looked content as the High King put their hands together and took their pledge one to the other. She was so brave, so proud, so beautiful, and smiling as if she looked on Heaven itself, and my brother's face shone with the pride and wonder of it all.” He paused. “When I stood with you, that is what I wanted for you. That was what was in my heart, and I promised …” He dropped his gaze, looking down to his calloused, sun browned hands. “I promised God that was what you would have one day. That when the work we had was done, I would …” He faltered. “I did not know what he had done then. I did not know …” Abruptly, Geraint got to his feet and walked away.

Elen stared after him. He waded out into the meadow grass, and stood there, his back to her, facing the southern mountains. At his sides, his hands opened and closed, knotting themselves over and over again into fists. His shoulders heaved and shuddered with the strength of his breathing.

Leave him be. You have no place or right to do otherwise. You will only make things more difficult.

Despite this counsel, she got to her feet, and she crossed the distance between them. She stood beside him, looking over the retreating foothills, doing nothing but be next to him, feeling the cooling air and the evening breeze, hearing the noises of night growing louder as the light grew dimmer.

“I told myself I would not speak of this.” Geraint hung his head. “I have never before had trouble guarding my own tongue.”

“How could we not speak of it?” She tried to say the words lightly, and failed. “We are here, together. What happened … happened.”

“Yes. What happened.” He whispered those words to the evening, and then he turned to face her. “Elen … Lady … I must know. Do you see yourself as wife to me, here, now, as we are?”

Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth.
No,
she meant to say.
No, of course not. What happened was forced and false.

Yet, she knew the law. She had watched her father, and her mother uphold those laws. She had always known one day she would sit in judgement herself and she had striven to learn how to judge well. She had never thought to live outside her people and her lands, or to be governed other than by the old ways.

But she was not the Fair Lady. Law was not blood and bone to her. It could be broken. She could deny it. People did. Judges and chiefs denied it and bent it as they chose. She was trying to deny it even now. She was a human being and free to make that choice. What had happened was not right. It was one more wrong worked on her by her enemy.

But it was real, and she had not lied. It was she who had told Geraint that what had happened had its foundation in law. If she held that law in such light esteem, why had she done that?

“Yes,” she whispered. “I do.”
Because I am daughter of my people and cannot be otherwise. To even try
would be the ultimate falsehood. I will not give Urien that. Never that.

Geraint let out a long shuddering breath. He still did not look at her.

She tried to guess at what he must be feeling. His sense of duty was strong, she knew that much, but they had not been married according to his customs, or the dictates of his god. He could not feel as she did. But surely, he would at least look at her as he told her that. If he did not acknowledge the marriage, that would give her freedom. He could cut this cord. He did not have to wait the seven years. That would be best. Surely that would be best.

Surely.
She could tell him that. Her tongue did not move.

“I thought I knew hatred before,” whispered Geraint. “I thought I knew it when I saw you in his arms. But that was just the shadow. This is hatred. This is the wish to see another soul in Hell. That he should force you …” Words choked him. His face was livid. “That he should force what would have been the sweetest of all gifts, what I would have striven for with all my might.”

The fervor in him rocked Elen back. She wanted at once to comfort him. He did not deserve this pain. But what comfort could she offer?
Tell him. Tell him there is a way out for him.
“You will not feel so for long,” she tried. “You do not …”

“No.” He cut her off, shaking his head. He looked to the woods, he looked to the heavens, and in the end, his gaze came back to her. “Elen, I love you.” His voice cracked. He was close to tears. He stood before her and he trembled. But slowly, slowly, that trembling eased, and he was master of himself again, and yet the strength of of his words did not diminish. “I loved you when I first saw you at your mother's side. I loved your grace, and your strength and the light in your eyes when you looked toward me. It was because of my love I made the high king let me return to Pont Cymryd and because of my love that I did not leave with my brother. All I have seen of you has only deepened that love. If it is a fool's love, then so be it. I am a fool, and I will live and die one, for I will live and die with my love for you.”

What could she say? She could not turn this away … and yet she could not accept it either. To do so would be to accept what Urien had done to her, to them. Worse, it would be to welcome it. No good could come from his evil.

Tears threatened again. She felt split in two, as when Morgaine had plunged the sword into her, but this was worse, because this was as if she'd begged for the blow. Her mind was so full of swirling, raging thoughts, she felt as if it would burst. Her hands had gone cold as ice.

“I don't even know if I can love,” she said bitterly. “Love is ruled by the heart, and my heart was taken from me.”

“So was mine.”

She did not deserve this pain. Neither did he. He loved, she did not, could not doubt that, but what did he love? She was shattered and bloody. How could she ask him to cleave to her as she was?

“Elen,” Geraint turned fully toward her. “What do you want?”

The question startled her. She wrapped her arms around herself. What did she want? She wanted blood. She wanted Urien and Morgain dead as pheasants at her feet. But he knew that, and she did not think that was what he really meant, and there was more she wanted beneath that base hatred. “Warmth. Wholeness. Freedom. I want … to be free of my hate, and my shame.”

“You have done nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Perhaps not, but it is there all the same.” She looked up into his blue eyes and saw how exactly their color mirrored the color of the darkening sky over them. “I want you to have never seen me helpless or afraid. I want to be rid of this geas and this need for vengeance. I want to be fair and proud and easy in my home with you seeing all that is best of what I have and what I am.” This was not reason. It was beyond reason. Now she was the one who was trembling because the truth was threatening to burst free, and she could not with all her strength hold it back. “I want to be free to love you, Geraint.”

Whose hand reached out first? Elen didn't know. She just knew Geraint pulled her close and he kissed her, and she returned that kiss, and in it was her pain, her desperation and her confusion, but it also held all that was the depth of her need for him.

Then it was over, and he drew back, but he did not let go.

“I'm sorry,” he breathed, because it was right that he do so. He was giving her the chance to pull away, to stop this thing here. If she did, he would stop too. She saw that in his eyes. “I had no right. I'm sorry.”

Let him go. Let him be free.

But she did not want him free, and she did not want to stop. She wanted the passion she saw in those blue eyes. She wanted the love that lay beneath it. She wanted to give him the love and the need that ran through her veins. She wanted so much she could scarce breathe for the strength of her wanting.

“Be you my husband, Geraint” she whispered. “I will be your wife.”

He smiled. She realized she had never really seen him smile before, and that smile was full and warm and it lit his face even in the darkness. “Be you my wife, Elen,” he answered. “I will be your husband.”

They kissed again, and it was joyful. Life itself was in that kiss and the sweetness wrapped around her with his embrace and Elen pressed against him and his heart beat against her breast and she took that heartbeat into herself and returned it over and again as the night covered them in its darkness and the stars came out to stand guard over the marriage bed they had made for themselves.

Customarily, when Morgaine, called the Goddess, the Sleepless and the Fae, rode out from her home, she went in stealth and disguise. This time, she chose to ride in state. Two score men marched in procession with her, wearing bright blue cloaks trimmed with beaver fur. Her tall, black horse had a blue blanket beneath its saddle and blue ribbons hung from its gleaming harness. Blue ribbons also adorned the spears her men carried, showing them to be ceremonial, for all their tips were sharp and keen. The four women who rode behind her on grey palfries also wore blue, with more blue ribbons plaited in their dark hair and woven into crowns.

Morgaine herself wore a gown of rich black. The sleeves fell to her fingertips and the hems trailed nearly to the ground. Silver girdled her waist and wrists and banded her brow. Straight and proud, she rode through the open gates into Gwiffert's stronghold.

For all he was called the Little King, Gwiffert pen Lleied was a man of stature, golden-haired, blue-eyed and of lean and delicate bones. Frequent and warlike exercise, had made him strong and broad in the shoulders and trim in the waist. The clothing he wore was of deep, blood red, well-fitted. A golden chain hung from his shoulders, the links made in the shapes of hunting hounds. A golden torque circled his throat, made to look like a tusked boar, chased with silver and with garnets for eyes. In his right hand, he held a spear as another man would have held a staff. Its tip glittered black and keen in the summer sun. Its butt resting on the toe of his boot. Its shaft was banded with silver and carved with runes that Morgaine itched to read and understand.

With Gwiffert stood an impressive host of disciplined men, all in leather corslets and armed with sword and spear. Closest to him, however, were eleven men in mail coats with silvered grieves on their shins and silver cuffs on their wrists. Each of them wore a helmet that concealed their face down to their jaws. Each was made differently, and gave the wearer the appearance of a horned demon. Their swords were naked in their hands, held in salute for her procession as they came to a halt before the master of the stronghold.

A servant hurried forward and placed a stool for her feet. Morgaine dismounted and came forward, making her curtsey before Gwiffert, who bowed in return.

“Morgaine, Uther's Daughter,” he said. “You are, of course, most welcome here.”

Morgaine arched her brows. “Of course?”

At that, Gwiffert only smiled. He beckoned to another servant who came forward with a silver tray holding gilded cups of red wine. Morgaine took the one offered her and she and Gwiffert saluted each other and drank. The wine was warm and richly spiced, but all the tastes were familiar ones. Morgaine smiled now. She had not in truth thought Gwiffert would offer poison, but he was not one to be trusted, or underestimated.

“Come,” he said, holding out his free hand. “A feast has been prepared for us. My people will see to the comfort of your men and the beasts.”

Impatient, but understanding well that courtesy must be followed, Morgaine allowed her host to take her arm and lead her into his hall, her women trailing two paces behind.

Gwiffert's fortress was a strange and labyrinthine place of branching corridors and many walled courts. It was rumored to have been built or stolen for him by the various demons under his command. The great hall to which he lead her now was painted over with fantastic designs. Great hearths blazed in each of the long walls, filling the hall with the smells of smoke and apple wood. A table had been set on the dais and laid with brilliant white cloths. On those waited a variety of fragrant meats — salmon in butter, wild boar and parsley, and roasted goose. These they ate with breads of flour, oats and herbs spread with new butter and honey. To accompany these homey dishes were delicacies made of truffles, and softly boiled eggs and pine kernels. For drink there was small beer and bright white wine. The food was all excellent, and Morgaine did not stint in her enjoyment of it. There was no reason not to find pleasantry in the moment, even when there might be discord in the future.

Gwiffert did not once set down his spear. As he ate, he laid it across his lap. When he finished, he took hold of it again, nestling it easily in the crook of his arm as the servants cleared away the dishes and departed. Morgaine nodded to her women, and they withdrew from the dais to sit on the benches before the nearest hearth, alert for their mistress's signal, but out of hearing of her words.

“Now then, Morgaine,” Gwiffert said pleasantly. “What great business brings you to my home?”

“I have come to deliver a warning, Your Majesty.” If Gwiffert wanted to style himself a king, it did not harm to give him the use of the name. “There are thieves approaching your door.”

“Thieves?” His surprise was false. Morgaine did not know if this was because he already knew who was coming to his lands, or because he suspected her of hidden motives. Still, it was best to play this game as it had begun.

“Two are coming from the lowlands who seek to achieve your spear.”

Gwiffert's hand strayed to the spear's shaft, touching it gently, as a man might touch his new bride's hand, just to make sure she was still with him.

“I see.” He laced his fingers together, and contemplated her for a long moment. “Tell me, Morgaine, why do you come so far to deliver me this warning?”

Morgaine pulled back. Now it was her turn to show suprirse. “Surely, Majesty, it is to our mutual benefit that we aid one another. We who live on the borders between day and night have common cause.”

“On the borders, we do.” His mouth stretched into a sly smile. “But you do not intend to remain in the borderlands.”

Morgaine shrugged slightly and Gwiffert sighed. He was ready then cease his pretence. Good.

“You are playing a dangerous game, Morgaine. You need Arthur strong when your son is grown. It is so much easier to lop off one head than deal with a hydra of squabbling kinglets. But he is growing stronger than you anticipated, and rather than lopping off heads himself, he's leaving them in place to pay him tribute. This is his genius, and it is serving him well.” Gwiffert lifted one finger to make his point, “If, for a small price, kings such as Mark and Lot can keep and hold their thrones, and have aid against their enemies, why should they rebel?” He levelled that finger at her, sharp as a law man in high court. “You cannot risk Arthur's lordship spreading further north and west than it has already gone. You will be found out if it does.”

Morgaine was expecting all of this, and said nothing, but could not hide her eyes quickly enough. Gwiffert of course saw the flicker in her glance and leaned forward. “Unless you have already been found out?”

“They have seen a shadow, and are starting at it. They know nothing in truth.”

“Your shadow?” Gwiffert cocked his head. “Or only your lover's?”

You are as insolent as you are clever. Be careful Gwiffert. My patience with your play will last only so long.
“They are one in the same.”

“So you would have Urien believe, I am sure.”

Morgaine felt her blood warm.
Softly, softly,
she counselled herself.
Let him believe he knows what brings you here.
“You are very blithe, Majesty, in your mists and glamours,” she answered sharply. “But it is Arthur who sends these thieves. One is his own nephew. It is only the first attack. When Arthur himself comes marching in the full blaze of sunlight with Merlin and his knights and his laws, then what of you? I know well his willingness to do whatever he must to hold and keep his lands, whether it violates the laws of man or his own god. Can you be certain Arthur will recognise these borders where you live? Or will you pay him the small price that he asks?” Her face went hard as stone. “Remember well, the price he asked of me was the life of my son.”

Gwiffert's mouth twisted into a smile of wry humor. “Why should I allow them into my lands at all? The last enemy you sent me has been a sore trial to me.”

“Do not fault me for your weaknesses, Majesty,” Morgaine added the title slowly. “I do not send these two.”
But it would behoove you to ask who does.
This thought she kept to herself. If Gwiffert was going to play the fool, the fool's reward was what he deserved.

Gwiffert sat back. Morgaine nodded. He was angry at her slight, she could see as much in the set of his jaw. Nonetheless, she had reached him. His next question confirmed this.

“What are their names, these thieves?”

“The man is Geraint. The woman is Elen. It is she of whom you must take the most care. There is magic within her, and for all she bears my curse, she still walks free.”

Gwiffert got to his feet, planting the butt of his spear on the floor. “Let us see what comes, then. You will excuse me for a moment, my lady.” He bowed, not without a trace of mockery. Morgaine tipped her head toward him and waited just long enough to see the anger and concern rising in his eyes. Then, she nodded her assent at being left. Gwiffert was uneasy at her calm acceptance of his command. He left the hall, marching with stiff shoulders and a tight grip on his treasured spear.

She smiled as he disappeared through the archway and composed herself to patience. She would not delve the secrets of her host, at least, not while she was his guest. But let him fear she would. Those who feared what would not come grew careless with what might.

Gwiffert's home held many secrets, even more than Morgaine's own. The place was a marvellous warren of doors locked with keys and enchantment. As to what waited within, she had only yet been able to discover a few secrets.

Do you venture into one of those sanctums?
She wondered idly as she took a sip of the red wine remaining in her goblet.
Or is it to one of your towers you go? Perhaps to that empty mews you keep? What flies from there, little king? What returns?

You have worked so very hard to make this place.
She drank again, smiling at the place her host used to be.
You hold it so tight and fast. Surely you are secure from all enemies and prying eyes.

It was no hardship for Morgaine to wait. She had learned patience long ago, and under circumstances so far worse than these that this might be a heaven of comfort by comparison. Her ladies sewed on their fine work. Folk came and went from the hall, never looking up at her, their shoulders hunched, their backs ready for a blow. They always hurried, even the children, as if they feared they might be noticed if they stayed in one place too long.

She shook her head slightly at this.
Those who do not follow willingly will betray when they can, Gwiffert. This is the open door to your hall, but you don't see that, do you?

Eventually, Gwiffert returned. His eyes were glassy, and his steps faltered a little. Perspiration shone on his brow. Wherever he had ventured, it had taken him far away. She signalled one of the waiting women, who scurried forward with a jar of wine to fill her king's cup as he sat down.

The wine revived Gwiffert quickly, bringing him wholly back into the room.

“So, Majesty.” Morgaine smiled. “What do you see?”

Irritation crossed his face, but was smoothed quickly away. Of course she knew, she could all but hear him thinking. “I saw a man and a woman. He carries the burden of blood. She carries a hawk and the burden of hate. I strength and weakness. I see honor that may yet crack in the firing. I see hope and fear and blood and love. I see the balance and the balance may tip.”

Do you seek to riddle me?
“What would tip that balance?”

Gwiffert smiled, sly and tired all at once. “What will tip the balance for most men. Gaining what they believe is their greatest desire.”

Morgaine nodded.
It does not take an oracle to see so much. You could have spared yourself your efforts.
“Can you make use of this knowledge?”

“Oh yes, with a little extra that can easily be found.” He wiped his brow, and looked shrewdly at her. “Tell me of the hawk.”

Ah. You've seen that too have you? So gifted.
Morgaine hesitated for a few heartbeats, as if choosing her words. “The hawk holds Elen's heart. Whoever is master of the hawk is her master.”

“But she carries the hawk. She herself has mastery of it.”

“Clever girl that she is, yes,” admitted Morgaine, not without grudging admiration. “But what she does not know is should she lose the hawk, or should it stray to far from her, her sensibility will leave her, her caution and her righteousness. She will become a wild thing of unmoderated feeling that feeling will overwhelm her. She will die eventually, but she will run mad first.”

Gwiffert returned her a look of wonder, and, Morgaine thought, a little fear. “All this to one girl who crossed you.”

Do not let his fear grow.
“Urien's life was not hers to take,” she said bitterly.

Fear turned quickly to cleverness. “Is it yours?”

Morgaine was silent at that.

“Is it?” asked Gwiffert again. “You know there will be a price for this thing you ask of me.”

She turned her head. “If there is a price, I will pay.”

Gwiffert considered her carefully for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, I expect you will.”
It is you who should beware the unpaid debt, Gwiffert, not I.
She kept this thought silent, and Gwiffert, confident in his power and prowess asked a question that must have seemed good to him. “Tell me, how might this fearsome spell you have be broken?”

“Oh, no, Gwiffert,” she answered flatly. “That you shall not know.”

“So be it.” Gwiffert got to his feet, cradling his spear. “I know what must be done here. What of you?”

Morgaine unfolded herself smoothly and stood without aid.
See, I am strong even here.
“Urien readies his army. I will help as I may. We will stop Arthur's men at the river and drive them back into their own lands.” She smiled. “You were right. He overreaches, and too soon. My son is not yet ready for the throne, although it will not be much longer.”