For Camelot's Honor (3 page)

After all this, Elen barely had time to dress herself, but it was not something she could neglect. Her appearance was also part of the honour of house and cantrev. She had the unmarried women's quarters to herself as she put on her good dress of white wool trimmed with deep blue ribbons embroidered with a complex pattern of waves and knots. She belted the dress with a girdle that was similarly embroidered and tipped with two hollow silver balls that rang pleasantly when she moved. She took her black hair from its customary braids and combed it down until it flowed freely across her shoulders and settled a bronze circlet chased with images of birds on her brow.

Last, she clasped her cuffs about her wrists. These were part of the wealth of the family. Ioan had brought them into the house when he married Adara, and Elen would take them with her when she went to her husband's house. They were cunningly worked into a chain of silver dancing women holding a knotted ribbon of gold. Garnets flashed in the women's flowing hair and topaz made their eyes.

They were beautiful things and Elen always enjoyed the chance to wear them, but today she felt as if she were a warrior girding herself for battle. She hoped she looked well. She felt that she did. They would show these strangers a rich and honourable house. They would show Urien they were not to be intimidated or overwhelmed.

The door flew open and slender Dicra, also in her best woolen dress, hurried in.

“My lady Adara bids you come. It is time.”

Elen drew her shoulders back and picked up her hems so they would not drag in the dirt of the floor. It was time to welcome the guests, welcome the future and all it held.

The long hall was full to the brim by the time Elen arrived. All three fires were lit, as well as the rushlights and stout candles. The head men and women of the cantrev stood before the tables and benches along the walls. Their ornaments of bronze and silver glistened in the bright light. They all contrived to looked stern and dignified, even ancient Daere who bent almost double over her walking stick. Mother sat at the high table clad in a dress of brilliant green embroidered with yellow knot work with sleeves that almost covered her ravaged hands. Golden rings flashed on her fingers where they showed beneath the cloth. A cloak of beaver fur hung from her shoulders and a band of woven silver studded with garnets the size of Elen's thumbnail circled her throat. Another silver band held back the braid of her grey hair. She looked entirely the mistress of house and land and ready to turn back the spring flood with the merest glance.

Urien waited at the foot of the table, combed, washed, cloaked, and looking stern, but not overly so. He appeared ready to allow the welcome to proceed without interference. Still, his presence unnerved Elen, and she was torn between the desire to look away, and the desire to watch him closely for any sign of mischief.

Elen took her place to her mother's left, and glanced to Carys. Her sister-to-be looked fine in her gown of rich blue. She stepped up at once and passed Elen the carved tray that held three of the silver wine cups. The fourth waited before mother. Adara watched Elen with a keen, but cheerful eye. Over her head, Yestin gave Elen a quick and sardonic smile, and Elen found herself returning a smile of her own. Yestin, his young man's beard combed and clean, was all in blue for this ceremony, with a cloak of black bear's skin covering his shoulders pinned with a gold broach in the shape of a running mare. A belt of bronze and silver circled his waist, but it supported no sword. The only sword in the hall for such a feast was now hanging beside her father's shield, and it was a great, gilded weapon sufficient to carry in sacred ceremonies, for treaties and weddings. Should a formal agreement come between their people and Arthur, Yestin would carry that sword to the table where the bargain would be struck. Now, it was just one more reminder of their history and honour. Elen felt the strength of her pride supporting her. Her family were with her, their people surrounded them. Together they could face anything that might come.

Mother inclined her head. At the far end of the hall, square-built Rob pulled open the great door, and the three messengers from Camelot entered, followed by their train of men and boys. These stayed at the rear of the hall while the messengers approached the high table with long, martial strides. They all of them dressed in leather jerkins covered over with silver rings. Madder red cloaks hung from their shoulders and were clasped with gold at their throats. In perfect time with one another, they knelt before Adara, bowing their heads in formal greeting. Mother nodded again, and Elen, moving carefully so as not to spill the wine, circled the table to bring them the guest cups.

“Let me bid you welcome, my lords,” said her mother as Elen reached them. “Please, do you rise and accept the hospitality of this house.”

Finally, finally, Elen was able to satisfy her burning curiosity and look closely on these men.

The senior among them was called Bedivere. Some adventure or accident had taken his right hand above the wrist, but he accepted the cup neatly with the one that remained to him. While his hair and beard had gone winter-grey, his brown eyes were still keen, taking in every detail of their hall. His back and shoulders were both broad and straight. He was said to be one of Arthur's ten champions, who were his high council. Their cantrev might be small, it might even be weak, but the High King was not treating it so. That alone made Elen incline toward hearing well what these men had to say.

She offered the next cup to the man on Bedivere's right. He was Kynon, and was brown skinned, hawk-nosed and brown-haired and had come, gossip said, from Dinas Pwyl. She had heard him in the yard as she'd rushed to and fro, swapping jokes with the men, speaking flawlessly with no trace of eastern accent to his words.

“Many thanks, my lady,” he said now as he took the cup.

The man to Bedivere's left was the youngest. He was Geraint, one of Arthur's four nephews. He was a lean, tall man, with a knight's strong hands and arms. His black hair waved back from a high brow and deep blue eyes. His skin was fair beneath the tanning wind and sun had laid on. He said nothing as he took the remaining cup, but he bowed his head to show his thanks.

Probably he does not speak our tongue.
Elen found herself a little sad at this, and wondering what his voice would sound like if he did speak.

Remember yourself.
As much as she enjoyed the jests and boasts of a flirtation, now was not the time, and this was most certainly not the man. Not while there was the chance that she and hers might soon be at war with these men was as great as the chance she might become a sworn vassal to their lord.

Eyes discretely lowered, Elen returned to her place beside her mother's chair. This did not keep her from catching a glance from Yestin, who lifted one quizzical brow and quirked his mouth as much to say
liked that one, did you?
She wished mightily she could cuff him on the ear.

Sir Bedivere raised his cup in salute to Adara, but it was Sir Kynon who spoke. “My captain, Sir Bedivere, bids me render our thanks for this plentiful hospitality, Lady Adara.” Bedivere drank deeply and the other two did the same. There were mutters of approval from around the hall. Sir Kynon let them die away before he spoke again. “Sir Bedivere bids me say that we bring the Lady Adara of the cantrev Pont Cymryd the greetings of our lord Arthur Pendragon, High King of the Britons. He wishes you and yours joy, prosperity and deep friendship. As tokens of this, he asks you to receive these gifts of him.”

Bedivere beckoned with his cup to the men and boys of the knight's train. These came forward, bearing two heavily carved and banded chests between them, which would have been gift enough. Now came Yestin's turn, and her brother walked down to stand before the chests as they were opened. The first revealed red clay jars sealed in white wax and packed carefully in straw.

“Vintage wine,” proclaimed Kynon. “And white salt for the savour of life.”

The men opened the second, smaller chest.

“For the Lady Adara, the High King sends this belt of silver.” The men lifted the ornament out, and it flashed in the firelight. It was long enough to wrap twice around mother's waist, and each link was worked into the shape of a hunting cat with periodots for eyes. “For young, the Lord Yestin, the High King sends this sword.” The men lifted out a scabbard and Bedivere handed his cup to Geraint so that he might draw the sword and hold it up. This was a princely gift. Even Elen could see the edge was keen and the weapon light and well balanced. The hilt was inlaid with gold and garnets. Elen thought she saw Yestin's hands twitch, itching to take hold of the weapon and gauge its worth.

“For the Lady Elen, the High King sends this necklace.”

It was a heavy and beautiful thing he held up, worked bronze and silver together into the shape of a flowering vine setting off pearls, amythists and garnets. But even with that rich present sparkling in the light of the fire and torches, Elen found her gaze slipped sideways to rest on the blue-eyed knight. A warm shiver went through her as she saw he was indeed looking steadily back at her.

Take care, Elen,
she cautioned herself.
Take great care.

The necklace was returned to the chest, and the ambassadors and their men bowed.

“Most heartily do we thank Arthur Pendragon for these gifts and the friendship they betoken,” said Yestin. He looked a great deal like father as he stood there, one hand on his hip and his head held high, and Elen felt herself smile. “It is the honour and pleasure of this house to accept both.” Kynon murmured into Bedivere's ear, translating Yestin's words for him.

Yestin raised his hand and four of their own men stepped forward to bear away the chests to the treasury. “Most gladdened are we by the presence of such friends. It is in peace and honour we greet you and welcome you thrice more to this house. Now, Sirs, it is our lady's will that you and your men do come sit with us, that we might take meat and bread as well as counsel and conversation.”

It was a pretty little speech and Yestin had been working on it for several days. Words were not what he was best at, but he knew that, and he laboured at them with a will.

Little brother, you make a fine man.

Sir Bedivere bowed. “Our thanks to the lady of the house.” The words fell awkwardly from his unaccustomed tongue, but there was unmistakably dignity in his speech. “We accept with honour and great pleasure.”

Yestin stood aside, and let the knights circle the table to take their places at the board with Sir Bedivere at mother's right hand. Elen wished she could sit with them too, and hear what was said, but her work was a long way from done. Women and boys spread out through the hall with pitchers of cider and beer. The wine was reserved for the high table and Elen and Carys served there themselves. Old Beven sat before the nearest fire with his harp and played sweetly, singing light and gentle airs.

Once the drink was served, the food was processed in. First came her mushrooms stewed with onions and served with plenty of good brown bread. Then came silver trout from the river, cooked in their own broth and served on long wooden platters with fresh herbs sprinkled over and around them. Then came roasted wood pigeons stuffed with more herbs and the very last of the previous years chestnuts and covered with peppery gravy. They'd traded six head of cattle for that pepper, but the way the men of Camelot exclaimed over it made Elen believe her mother had been right to acquire it.

Last came two swine, roasted whole and shimmering in their glaze of broth, thyme and honey, filling the entire hall with their luscious scent. Their arrival, each born in at shoulder height by two boys in white tunics, sent a cheer through the hall. The men of Camelot raised their wine cups to their hostess, and even Urien smiled and clapped his hands in appreciation as the great dish was set on the high table.

The evening passed in enjoyment and fellowship. Urien kept his manners and spoke only to the men on his left and right, although he watched the men from Camelot most carefully. But so too did every other man in the hall.

Slowly, the swine were picked down to the bones. Beven at last began running short of songs and was bringing out his most ancient jokes. Elen's feet ached from running back and forth, and her hands were weary from hefty the jugs of cider and jars of wine, but she was proud and happy. They had shown their house to be a proper one, worthy of respect.

As if to prove her thought, Sir Bedivere rose to his feet. Beven laid his hands against his strings, stilling them.

In the silence, Bedivere bowed toward Adara. “If my lady permits …?” Mother nodded her assent. Sir Bedivere gestured to Kynon who also stood and bowed. He spoke, pitching his voice to carry to all assembled. “My captain, Sir Bedivere bids me speak in praise of this high house, and all within, but first and foremost Lady Adara who has given three outlanders such brave and honourable welcome.”

A cheer went up at these words, and cups were raised. Elen felt herself smiling. She also found her gaze drifting to the silent knight with the blue eyes. He was watching Sir Bedivere and Sir Kynon with all signs of attention. Did he understand the man? She still had not heard him speak once during the entire feast. He only watched.

What do you see?
she wondered.
And what do you make of it?

“True friendship between men is a rich treasure,” Kynon went on. “It is a glory to go in quest of it, and one of the rewards of Heaven to find it.” The speech was beginning to sound rehearsed, but it was pretty and proud nonetheless. “How much moreso then is friendship between great chiefs and kings? For when there is friendship between kings, there is peace and prosperity between their lands, and all of Heaven and Earth must smile upon them and shower them with plenty for as long as their friendship shall last.”

More cheers went up at this, and more toasts were drunk in praise of it. But not by Urien. He too sat in silence and watched Bedivere like a fox watching a hen, waiting for his moment to strike.