For Camelot's Honor (16 page)

Geraint walked out on his own two feet. Elen watched him leave with a combination of fear and anticipation. It was her turn now. The hawk sat on her perch, restless and discontent. She had snapped visciously at Urien's offerings of food and refused to be soothed by his touch, something Elen felt grateful for. She did not want that insidious calm distracting her from her purpose now.

The last of the champions stumbled toward the door. All around, the occupants of the hall prepared for sleep, rolling themselves in their blankets, shoving aside benches and tables to make more room rather than taking them down. Urien's stolen bed, of course, was set in its place. Wyx, drunk as he was, would not permit his master to be neglected, but it seemed he could do no more than that. He sat stupidly on the floor and slowly, comically tilted to one side until he was sprawled like a dog at his master's feet

Urien sat on the bench beside the table, nodding and chuckling at some joke that had probably been told a full hour before. Elen stood beside him with the pitcher in her hand. She had been ordered to serve, but had no new order. It was dark. The fires were almost dead. The rushlights and torches had been allowed to burn to nothing. She stood in the shadows, afraid to move, uncertain of what to do. She could see Urien needed to get to bed. The compulsion needled and it nagged, but it stayed in the lower reaches of her mind, and she did not want to show initiative, even now when he was surely all but blind.

Urien's head nodded lower, and lower, until his cheek pressed against the tabletop amid the bones, greasy scraps and spilled beer. His mouth fell open, and he began to snore.

As gently as she could, Elen set the pitcher down on the table. Her hands felt like lumps of clay, her body cold and inflexible. Slowly, she inched her way around the bench, and then through the narrow space between the bench and the bed to the the perch, and the hawk.

She could barely see the bird, but she could feel her, sitting there sullen in the darkness. She burrowed her head under her wing, angry at the noise and riot that kept her from sleep. She did not want to be disturbed again. She wanted only to sleep.

I'm sorry, but we must leave together, you and I.

She wrapped her hand in the sleeve of her dress, and put her hand up to ease the hawk from her perch.

“Come with me,” she whispered. “Come bring my heart.”

The bird lifted its wing and glowered at her. Elen put her hand near the hawk's talons as she had seen Urien do. “Come, step up,” she whispered.

The hawk croaked, and snapped, and didn't move.

“Step up,” she murmured, urgency swelling, and mixing with the hawk's anger. “Step up.”

But the hawk didn't move. Elen's heart beat inside it, fast and indignant. It wanted to sleep. It wanted her gone. Elen tried to think. She backed away to the table and her fingers scrabbled on the splintery wood until she found one of the scraps from Urien's feast.

“Come, girl,” she whispered, holding up the tidbit just out of the hawk's reach. “Come, step up.”

The hawk lunged, flapping its wings. Its beak snapped at the meat, and Elen's fingers, and she snatched her hand back without thought, and the leashes, which Elen had forgotten in her hurry, jerked the hawk back, and the bird screamed in pain, impatience and indignity as it struggled to regain its perch.

Urien snorted hard and jerked his head up. Drunk as he was, he saw her at once.

“What are you doing?” he roared, lurching to his feet.

“I … I …” Elen backed away, her wits deserting her. The hawk had righted itself, but flapped its wing, scolding and cursing her with its cries.
We could have been free!
it seemed to say.

Urien reeled toward Elen. “You will not touch the bird. It is no more yours.” He grabbed her shoulder. She could have dodged him, but she didn't dare. “You understand me? Speak!”

Around them, bleary heads lifted uneasily to see what the new fuss was.

“Yes. I understand,” she answered. He held her hard, his fingers digging deep into her flesh.

He leaned close. His breath was hot against her skin and heavy with the fumes of his drinking. “You are a lovely thing, Elen,” he whispered, his voice full of desire and menace. “Do not make me mark you.”

“No,” whispered Elen.

He smiled, his gaze raking her head to foot. “I could order you to lay down for me, you know. I could order you to like what I would do to you then. I could make you scream your delight so everyone would hear.” He leered at her, shaking her shoulder. “I could do that right now.”

Elen swallowed, trying to get her reeling wits under control. “But then all would know I was spoiled goods,” she said, forcing her voice to be steady. “What of my value as your prize then?” She forced her gaze to drift to the drunken witnesses, who grinned and leered, enjoying the show.

“Ah, yes.” He stroked her hair with one rough finger. “You begin to understand. You begin to accept what you truly are.”

“Yes,” she said, although the word was foul in her mouth. “Yes, I do.”

“Huh. Had your mother been so wise ….” he shook his head and lurched back toward his bed. “Help me.”

So, Elen did what she must, and she blessed the darkness so that he could not see the tears that ran down her face as she pulled off his sandals and tunic and brought him water and yet more ale as he wallowed on the featherbed. She could barely even force herself to look at the hawk without revulsion now. She could remember the plan to take it to Geraint, but it was like remembering a nightmare. Each time her thoughts veered that way, her hands shook and weakness took her.

Maybe all was not yet lost. Maybe she could lead Geraint back here. He could … he could …

But Urien was not done with her yet. As she reached to take his cup away, he dropped it, and grabbed her instead. His hard arms wrapped around her and he pulled her down beside him. “You stay here tonight,” he whispered in her ear. “For tonight, you're mine.
She
said I could take you if I wanted. Maybe I'll do just that.”

The paralysis took her and Elen closed her eyes. She could do nothing now. She was too numb even to despair. She could only lie there and feel his crushing embrace, the smell and rush of his ale soaked breath. Fortunately, the drink was stronger than Urien's lust, and he fell into a stupor. But still she could not move.

I'm sorry,
she thought toward Geraint.
I'm so sorry.

The night settled over her, and Elen could do nothing but wait for the morning and try to remember there was such a thing in the world as hope.

Geraint waited in the darkness of the thicket at the wood's edge. He watched the moonlit hillside and listened to the sounds of the drunken revelry that came from all directions.

Would that we could fly with the speed of wishes,
he thought, looking toward the waxing moon.
If Agravain and whoever he brings with him could be here now, this would be over in a moment. There is not one sober man in this whole cantrev.

He pictured his brother, sour and silent, pushing his mount for all it was worth down the old Roman road to Caerleon. He wondered what Gawain would think when he heard Geraint had stayed behind. And what would Agravain say of his reasons? Would he say it was all because of Elen?

And how wrong would he be if he did?
Geraint shifted his weight silently. Elen's face haunted him. But there was more than just the blow of true beauty there. He'd known beauties before, although he was not the most glorious of knights. If the truth were told, he had few deeds of his own to boast of, and he was certainly not Gawain for charm or Gareth for looks. He was of the Round Table, though, and nephew to the king, and that was enough to ensure that he had no lack of ladies willing to flatter him and offer up their modesty. But in Elen he saw a dignity and a fierceness that reached into his soul and touched its very center. To see her so foully bound to Urien … it was as if someone had put a chain around a lioness.

His mind shied away from thoughts of Morgaine, who had made that chain. The name alone could chill his blood.

Am I such a coward in my heart?
His jaw clenched.
I should be swearing vengeance. I should be vowing to track her to the hills of Hell itself.

It was what Gawain would do, and Gareth. Agravain would stand back, fold his arms and watch them go.

And Geraint?
He looked up to the moon with her tattered skirt of clouds again.
What would Geraint do?

The moon had no answers, and Elen still did not come. Geraint shifted himself carefully again. He ached in every muscle. Some of the bruises were bad, but thankfully none of the cuts were. It had been a long time since he'd been in such a brawl without any sort of armor. It was no help that this was his second night without much sleep. His mind was beginning to feel heavy and slow, and his patience was ebbing.

Where is she?
The moon was inching past the sky's pinnacle, heading down toward the horizon. By this time last night she had been and gone already. Had Urien grown suspicious and stopped her? Had he questioned her? Surely not. They'd be searching for the camp for him even now. That hulk of a man who was Urien's right hand, and his unruly followers would have come to the well by now.

So where is she?

Geraint bit his lip. Unwelcome thoughts flashed through his head. Urien was very, very drunk. Elen said her gaes permitted her to refuse no order …

Suddenly, Geraint could no longer stand still. No one would think it odd for him to be wandering the camp. A number of men were still up and about, looking for willing women, more drink, or just the place where they'd left their own gear.

Geraint strode up the hillside toward the ruined hall, taking care to walk a wandering path, angling only gradually upward so that he might not appear too deliberate or hastey in his actions. He did not want to draw any attention to himself. The noises were winding down now as the fires were dying. One voice raised itself in loud and off-key song,

The singer's companions sniggered and shouted and raised their skins and horns for more drink. Geraint passed them by and not one noted him. He left the tents and camps and came to the houses. He wondered what happened to the folk that had dwelled here. Had Urien slaughtered them all? His throat and hands tightened at the thought. He'd seen no sign of hostages save Elen. Was she all of her folk that remained?

The earthworks were completely unguarded. Geraint threaded his way between the dykes. Fires blossomed here and there across the yard, surrounded by shadows that barked out unsteady laughter and slurred voices. But for all that, the yard was not crowded, and as Geraint made his way forward, none turned to hail him, bound up as they were with their own drunken company.

Ahead, the high house rose black against the night sky. The open doorway looked like an open mouth to Geraint. He shook his head.

No fancies, you fool. Now is the time to see what's in the mortal world.

Fresh voices and laughter erupted from across the yard. Someone had heaved himself to his feet and begun a staggering dance, much to the loud amusement of his fellows. Geraint stole swiftly through doorway, pressing himself into the shadows, listening hard. He heard no break in their laughter or change in their talk around the yard.

Geraint held himself still, letting his eyes fully adjust to the surrounding dark. The hall was a wreak, with tables and benches pushed every which way, men sleeping where they fell, most without even a blanket over them. Geraint threaded the unsavory maze of them, until he was close enough to make out the one bed that had been set in place in the whole hall.

In that bed lay Urien, and with him, Elen. He clasped her tight in his arms. She looked up at Geraint, and he saw tears glitter in her eyes. He reached out, his hand trembling, but she made no move, not even to shake her head. Urien snored so that his whole body shuddered, his breath making such a stink, Geraint could smell it even where he stood.

Geraint looked to the hawk. It slept on its perch, head under its wing. This was the lock for Elen's chain. If he could take it now … but his was a strange hand. He'd never untie its jesses and lift it without waking it. The startled animal would raise a cry, and try to attack, and even if he held onto it, even if that made him the bird's master, what then? In the hall, someone coughed, nearly wretching with the force of it. Someone cursed in their sleep and rolled over again. Could they actually leave this place without rousing the hall? Drunk they might be, but, none of these men were the sort to stand by while Geraint made off with the prize dangled by their new master.

Geraint looked to Elen again, he saw the shame and rage in her tear-filled eyes.

Geraint swallowed. Slowly, he approached the bed, planting each step carefully. Urien snorted and grunted. Geraint froze. Urien shifted, rolling onto his back. Now only one burly arm draped across Elen, and still she lay there, limp as a doll, only her eyes moving, watching Geraint as he approached, the tears flowing freely now.

Geraint bent as close as he dared. “Lady, can you move?” he asked in his lightest whisper.

The mute and helpless look she gave him was answer enough. He nodded to show his understanding.

“Has he hurt you?” He hated himself for asking that question, but he could not stop it. If Urien had ravaged her, Geraint knew he would kill the man, here and now, no matter what the consequences.

But she did not look away, and Geraint felt a knot in his heart loosen.

Why not kill him now? I have the knife. I could slit his barbarous throat, and we could be gone.

Gone into the camp of armed men. They were sleeping all around him, and fresh singing was drifting in from the outside. Could he be sure to do it silently? Could they leave this place without being seen? The singing was getting closer.

“Hey, Hewe! Hey! Is that a keg there?”

Geraint froze again. Panic filled Elen's eyes. Urien's steady snores faltered and he grunted again.

“Away, ye slugs. You've had your fill tonight.”

“Awww …. come on, man. It's bad manners to keep it all for yourself!”

There was a slap, and a crack of wood and a shout. Urien snorted and jerked, and his arm tightened around Elen.

Go,
her eyes said to him, fear overtaking all other emotion there.
Go!

But first, he knelt before her. “Endure,” he whispered, wiping away the tears that trickled down her cheeks with as gentle a touch as he could manage with his calloused and trembling hand, “Know I will not fail you.”

Then, he did the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. He turned away and left her there. Once outside the cursed hall, he strode across the yard and down the hill in a straight line and did not care who saw. He knotted his hands at his side to keep them from his knife.

His rage blinded him. He did not pay attention to where he was going, and it was not until he stumbled over a stone that he was able to make himself stop and look about. The moon would not be up much longer. He needed to get back to his place or he would be wandering among the encampments all night, and then what use would he be to Elen on the morrow?

Geraint took his bearings. He was close to the well and the wood beyond it. He could hear the river. He had drifted too far to the east. If he turned his path …

“It's the Gododdin. He's the danger.”

Geraint started like a rabbit, and then crouched down, trying to be no more than a stone or a stump in the darkness.

“Here, let me see that … ah, you've taken worse in play. Too much drink's blurred your eyes. And don't worry anymore about the Gododdin.”

He saw the small camp where the voices came from. There was a canvas shelter, and a low fire, and two figures moving back and forth, a man and a woman, but he could not see them clearly. The man was burly and bearded and he stretched out his leg to the woman who crouched beside him. She was slender, and her hands moved cleverly, binding a cloth around his shin.

“What have you done, woman?” asked the man so softly Geraint had to strain to hear.

The woman tied a final knot in the bandage. “You should know better than to ask that, husband,” she said archly as she sat back on her heels. “But there are things that may be found out by those with eyes to see and ears to hear.”

The man withdrew his leg. Geraint saw glimpses of pale cloth, brown hair, hard hands resting on naked thighs. “And what do you know now that you did not before?”

“That which our would-be lord Urien will be glad to know,” Geraint thought he heard a smile in the woman's voice. “Now be quiet and let me see how this other is doing …”

The man stretched out his other leg, and the woman bent over it, tending to his hurts in silence.

Softly, slowly, Geraint stole away. He felt as though cold water had been poured over him, turning the heat of his rage to ashes.

What did the woman know? Who was she? Did she know his true name and office?

Has she told Urien?
No, she couldn't have. Not yet.

Geraint came to his own camp. His fire was stone dead. He had not banked it carefully enough. His tent was little more than a canvas awning to keep off the dew. His horse stood nearby, asleep in its hobbles. Nothing here to offer comfort, nothing to offer wisdom.

Geraint wrapped himself in his rough cloak and sat beside his dead fire. He should retreat. He would do no good to Elen if his name and errand were exposed. At best, he would be taken hostage with her. At worst, he would be killed by Wyx or Urien himself. He should not have attempted this foolishness. He should have gone with Agravain, come back at the head of an army.

I should have never come. They were right. This is not work for me. She needs a champion. Gawain, or Bedivere, or even Lancelot.

But none of them were here. There was only Geraint, who, if he had any sense in him, would flee like a thief in the night.

Geraint looked up to the sky. The moon had almost set. The stars shone overhead in their millions, silver, blue red and gold.

Help me,
he prayed.
Lord, who knows when even the sparrow falls, help me. I cannot leave her to him. Not even for my life, I cannot.

No answer came, nor any sign, but a kind of peace stole over Geraint, and he was able to stretch himself out on his blanket underneath his awning, and sleep.

Urien commanded Elen dress as a bride.

Since they had looted the treasury, it now pleased Urien to adorn her with what he had stolen. Mother's green gown of fine wool trimmed with ribbons woven with apple blossoms was taken from Wyx's grumbling woman. It was belted with Elen's own girdle of bronze and enamel, each link in the shape of a small bird with periodots for eyes. The necklace made in the shape of a flowering vine that had been Arthur's gift to honor their family was hung about her neck, while rings of gold and silver were placed on her fingers, with no care as to which was hers, or her mothers, or even Carys's. Her hair was brushed loose to hang past her shoulders and crowned with a wreath of hawthorn and green ribbons. Once this was done, she was set on a stout, brown horse, which was then led by Wyx down to the field.

Through it all, she waited still and silent, because she was ordered to. But even in the midst of the fascination, and the dread, she felt hope, for she remembered how Geraint had come last night. He had seen her shame, her helplessness, but he had not flinched. He had knelt before her instead. He had sworn he would help her.

Today was the day. Today, Urien would lose the first of his prizes, and soon he would lose his life. It would happen. She would make it happen and much more. Wyx too would join his master in death, and there were others … the gory tally rolled through her mind. Then, at last, when her lands were hers again, and her people safe in their homes, she would find a way to repay Geraint's steadfastness.

The morning had dawned bright and clear. The wind blew gently as she followed Urien down the hill. The summer air would have been fresh and glorious, if not for the reek of the encampment with its smoking fires and unwashed bodies. The crowd cheered mightily as they passed, parting for them as they made their way down to the churned and rutted field. The festival mood was palpable and Urien himself expansive. He paused often, greeting men by name, laughing and slapping them on their backs, or striking hands with them, every inch the great leader of men. The hawk on his gauntleted hand flapped and shrieked, and thrust its neck forward when any came too close, snapping at over-eager fingers, and Elen suppressed a grim smile.