In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) (25 page)

“She will be in no more danger from you, I promise.”

“May I say my prayers?”

“Of course.”

Jocosa knelt, crossing herself and bowing her head. The woman waited with all signs of patience.

After the final Amen, Jocosa lowered her hands from their attitude of prayer, but remained on her knees. “I am ready.”

“Very well.” The woman knelt before her, leaning close, as if she meant to give Jocosa the kiss of peace. Instead, she inhaled deeply, taking in all of Jocosa’s breath as Jocosa expelled it. Jocosa felt a great lightness infuse her blood. All her memories poured through her, a river of pain and beauty, love, wonder and fear. She saw Rygehil as he was when he filled her heart with delight and desire. She saw Risa in all her aspects — infant, sturdy girl, and beautiful young woman. Her heart filled with the music of their voices, and her mind with all the scents and songs of her life.

But those all ran quickly from her, as the rain had run down her cheeks, and they left behind only peace, only the night full of stars, and Jocosa let them go.

Jocosa’s body swayed and fell forward. Kerra caught her gently and laid her out on the floor. After a moment’s thought, she folded the dead woman’s hands and closed her eyes.

The lady’s soul was sweet with its seasoning of sorrow, full and heavy, like the taste of summer’s cream, and rich with experience and memory. Kerra felt a melancholy unusual for her. Perhaps because she had never before been welcomed when she came on death’s wings. What a strange, sorry thing, to want to die, although she had known the feeling. How sad it was that Jocosa had no one to come and save her as Morgaine had saved Kerra.

“For myself, lady, I would have let you live. Perhaps you would have found your way again. But Euberacon was determined to make your man pay for his failure, and I and my friends must have strength for what is to come, so you see, your life was needed by us all.”

Shaking her head, Kerra left the corpse where it lay, and flew out into the night.

As Gawain and Risa approached Camelot, the road grew ever more crowded, even as it ran through the deep woods. Carters and folk carrying their bundles on their backs moved off the wide high way to let their procession pass, but no one cursed. Instead, heads were raised and hoods were doffed. Cheers went up at the sight of the knights and soldiers, accompanied by cries of “God bless Lord Gawain! God bless Lord Agravain!”

Agravain just nodded, his face growing ever more pinched. Gawain responded always with his magnificent smile and a wave of his hand to all who called out. Risa felt her head lift and her shoulders pull back as she looked this way and that at the people thronging the side of the road. She felt a great lady on her horse beside her lord with all the town come out to see them pass by.

Agravain had not only been displeased when Gawain caught up with the party returning to Arthur, he had been livid. The brothers had gone down the road, out of earshot, but Risa and the dozen men, and all the boys and squires who waited on them, could easily see them gesturing broadly and angrily to each other as they spoke. When they at last returned, Agravain was still flushed with his fury. Gawain, however, looked completely at ease as he mounted his riding horse and gave a reassuring smile to Risa.

Agravain had not spoken another word to his brother, at least none that any could hear. Even when they stopped for the night at the monastery of St. Joseph, Agravain remained as silent as one of the monks who served them their plain supper of soup and bread.

Gawain was also distant, but not from anger. As soon as they had joined Agravain’s men, he became his most courtly and correct, treating her with rigid deference and respect. She knew he did it for her sake, so that the other men would follow his example, regardless of Agravain’s distaste for her presence. Still, it made her wish they had traveled alone, so they could have talked, and sung, and enjoyed themselves as lovers for a little longer, before they reached the court, and all things would have to change again.

Still, sometimes Gawain would glance at her, and she would see the delight that shimmered just beneath his gaze, and be content.

Ahead of the party, the encroaching trees pulled back to make way for sown fields, and Risa saw Camelot.

It was built on a hill, as she had heard, with Arthur’s great hall at its crown. But none had spoken of how the town spilled down the sides of that hill, flaring out like a woman’s skirt, the roofs of the good stone houses all black and red with slate and tile. Stout walls and banks of earth protected the city. The gates were all guarded by men in leather jerkins emblazoned with Arthur’s red dragon. They cheered as heartily as the folk on the road and lifted up their spears and pikes in salute to the victorious company.

Past the earthworks and the outer walls, Gawain took the lead with Agravain. With Agravain’s squires riding beside them to carry shields and banners and there was no room for Risa. She found herself surrounded by strange men on tall horses. They cast sideways glances at her, despite the fact that they had had two full days to become used to her. She felt they would have liked to stare openly, but some of the courtesy Gawain had attempted to instill prevented that. Worse than the strangers’ curious glances, though, were the walls. She had never been in a city where the buildings crowded around her shoulders and rose higher than her head on horseback. The shutters on the upper stories flung themselves open so that men, women and children could lean out and cheer. There were strangers above and beside, and even below. Passers-by were forced into doorways and narrow lanes by their passage, and children darted perilously close to the horses’ hooves to snatch up the occasional penny the knights directed their squires to drop.

Risa patted Thetis’s neck constantly, but she wasn’t sure if she was trying to calm her horse or herself. Bolting did not seem such a poor idea right now, back to the woods and fields she knew. She glanced ahead to Gawain, but saw only his back. He was waving and accepting the greetings that were his. Risa’s throat tightened.

Despite all, Risa managed to keep Thetis and herself with the procession, although far at the back. The streets broadened as they rose, which was a mercy, but the press of noise grew worse. Word had apparently flown ahead of them, and the folk of Camelot were determined to cheer them all the way to the gates of Arthur’s hall.

Those gates were the strongest Risa had ever seen. Set in walls that had been old when the Romans came, they were black and grey and grim. Risa, already unnerved, wished she could hesitate and collect her wits, but she was given no time. Gawain at last had seen how far behind she had fallen and raised his hand. The whole of the procession halted. Amid the sound of too many voices, the stamping of hooves and the snorting of the ponies and mules, Gawain turned his horse and rode back to where Risa waited.

“Come,” he said. He could not extend his hand, but his gaze sparkled with welcome and assurance as he smiled. “There is room enough for us to ride through together. I wish certain persons to meet you.”

Risa smiled in return and lifted her chin. Taking a better hold of Thetis’s reins, she urged her mare into step beside him. The guards hoisted their pikes and axes in salute as she passed through the gates of the Great Hall of Camelot at the side of their champion.

Arthur’s hall was finer than any building she had ever seen. Made all of stone with a roof of red tiles, it could have held five times a hundred souls. Its entrance was carved with granite pillars, warriors, twining vines and fabulous beasts. Before it all spread broad steps of white marble and an apron of bright mosaic tiles.

Before all this grandeur stood those who held its rule.

There was no mistaking them. Circlets of gold adorned their brows and torques of gold encircled their throats. Cloaks lined and trimmed with sable protected them from the brisk wind. High King Arthur was no longer a young man. Silver lightened his bark-brown hair and neatly trimmed beard. Lines had etched themselves into a face gone permanently brown from wind and weather. His body, though, was powerful beneath its clothing of fine linen, all in shades of blue that rippled in the breeze and made him appear to be wearing cloth made of water.

Beside him, Queen Guinevere stood straight, slender and fair as a birch tree in summer, clothed all in white, trimmed and clasped with silver. A great ring of keys hung from the belt at her slender waist. Her rich chestnut hair had been braided and bound with threads of silver that sparkled in the sun and found answering lights in her wide, grey eyes. It was those eyes of hers that were said to have captured the heart of the man who would become the High King of all the Britons, and seeing her now, Risa could well believe it.

Beside the king stood a tall, wiry man with black hair and tawny eyes. Some old battle or accident had broken and twisted his right leg so that he was forced to lean on a crutch. His rich, black tunic was ornamented with a chain of gold and silver with each link made in the shape of a pair of crossed keys. This then must be Sir Kai, King Arthur’s seneschal and foster brother. Beside Kai stood a man who at first glance seemed he must be molded of bronze, so fair and strong was he, with lapis eyes and a square jaw. His cloak was madder red and his coat of silver rings was trimmed with bright brass. The sword he wore at his side had a golden pommel. This could only be Lancelot du Lac, come across from Brittany to join King Arthur’s champions when he heard the tales told of the battle of Mount Badon.

The ladies beside Queen Guinevere were no less impressive than Arthur’s champions, in bright clothing of all the colors the summer had to offer, each ornamented with jewelry of enameled silver, copper and bronze, all cunningly worked into the shapes of flowers and animals, or knotted into complex patterns to circle waist and brow.

But even amidst that beauty and wealth, the High King and queen shone forth. Looking at the pair of them, regal and proud in the sun, knowing all they had done and all that they stood for, Risa felt she now understood the true meaning of majesty. Awe filled her. At the same time, terror parched her throat and turned her hands to ice. If she had felt uncouth and bashful entering Bannain’s hall, she now felt that anything would be preferable to meeting these two, with her chapped hands and her hair fit only for birds to nest in, her poor clothes stained and creased by travel, and manners that could barely pass muster in a smoky outlandish hall.

Let me spend the night in a scullery, or the sty, I wouldn’t care. Do not bring me before these
.

A small army of grooms and pages swarmed out to surround them, so Risa could go neither forward nor back. The reins were taken expertly from her hands and a step was placed for her feet. She looked desperately at Gawain, but he seemed to have forgotten what he knew of mercy. He swung himself out of his saddle and held up his hand for her. Risa tried to swallow, but her dry throat would not permit it. Gawain was smiling, confident, almost jubilant. He was home, after all, and he came home victorious. His kin and comrades formed up behind him. Risa was uncertain whether she wanted to curse him soundly, or simply pray to God for the ground to open up and swallow her.

As neither thing was going to happen, Risa gave Gawain her hand and let him help her down from Thetis. Still holding her hand, he led her up the marble steps with Agravain walking on the other side of him. Here at least, Risa knew what to do. She stopped beside him, two steps below the royal party and knelt, her head bowed and her gaze properly and firmly fixed on the ground.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the king’s boots and hems descend the steps to raise up Gawain to give him the kiss of peace. He then did the same for Agravain.

“Welcome home to the sons of Lot!” The High King’s voice rang out over the crowd. “They bring with them the praise of the lord and people of Pen Marhas which stands safe and strong because of these men and all their brave comrades!”

A mighty cheer rose up. Surely hoods were tossed into the air and the banners snapped in the breeze and Gawain smiled his dazzling smile. At these thoughts, Risa found she was able to feel something other than bashful. For one thing, the sharp edge of the marble step was beginning to bite into her shins.

“And warm welcome to you as well, lady.”

Risa lifted her head. Queen Guinevere stood before her, holding out both hands. She smiled in honest and open welcome. A knowing look shone in her grey eyes that said she understood all that Risa felt. Struck mute, Risa took the queen’s strong hands and stood. Queen Guinevere gave her the kiss of peace. The queen smelled of amber and incense and Risa knew she smelled of sweat and horses, but for that moment it didn’t matter.

Gawain came to Risa’s side. “My queen, may I make known to you Lady Risa of the Morelands, daughter of
barown
Lord Rygehil. She is in sore need of your grace’s protection, and I will stand surety for her honesty and the truth of her plight.”

Queen Guinevere cocked her head, frankly curious at these words. Risa had the feeling they were not what she had expected.

“If she has need of protection, she shall have it.” The queen turned her attention back to Risa and squeezed her hands. “You will tell me your story and we will judge what is best to do. But first,” her glance at Gawain took on an edge. “We will get you to a place where you can rest and refresh yourself. Gawain forgets that not everyone is as restored by a public procession and the acknowledgement of glory as he.”

Gawain bowed deeply at these words, but Risa had no time to see if this sign of humility was real or sham, because Queen Guinevere took her arm and steered Risa into the company of her ladies. “Arianwen, Sioned, Idelle, go down to the champions and give them our praise and greetings. Assure all we will let them know the full measure of our thanks at board tonight. This poor lady is ready to faint from all this commotion.”

Perhaps the queen believed this, but she herself seemed unready to make any concession to Risa’s supposed faintness. She stretched her legs out in a stride Risa’s mother would have termed unladylike and whisked Risa through the great open doors into the hall of kings. Risa had the impression of carved stone, of banners and tapestries, of painted statues of wood and stone, and through one arched doorway she thought she caught a glimpse of a great, curved table that took up most of the chamber. Men and women made polite obeisance as they passed, but the queen did not slow down to give her time to take in any details.

After a turn into the western wing of the great hall, Guinevere led Risa to a door flanked by a pair of soldiers carrying spears hung with green banners. There must have been some signal, because as the queen approached, the door was opened by a lady in an ochre gown who stood back and curtsied to her mistress.

The chamber beyond opened like a lush meadow in the forest. More candles than Risa had ever seen in her life burned in branched sconces of iron that stood as tall as her head. A hearth allowed a fire to burn without filling the room with smoke. Tapestries depicting the virtues and the seasons covered the walls. The floor, rather than being of plain stone, was a sparkling mosaic depicting a flock of swans on a broad lake.

The furnishings fit the chamber for elegance. An alcove held a bed curtained in emerald green and carved with swans and dragons chasing each other around the posts. All about the room were chests, instruments of music and embroidery frames. There was even a desk, inlaid with ivory and laid out with quills, parchments, and a leather-bound book as wide as Risa’s forearm and two fingers thick. The chairs and stools were all of polished and well-fitted wood. The ladies who would occupy them were out greeting the returning knights, but there remained no fewer than four well-dressed maids. All had the round cheeks and bright eyes that indicated good treatment and plentiful food.

If Risa had not already been breathless, the sight of such wealth would have taken that breath from her.

But to Queen Guinevere, it was simply her room, which she entered. Her servants, all of whom were on their feet, dropped deep curtsies. The queen barely paused to acknowledge the gesture before she began giving instructions.