In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) (14 page)

Then Gawain saw who walked behind her and his heart broke in two.

Lady Pacis had changed not one whit in the two years since he had last seen her. Her chestnut hair still shone with lights of red and gold. Her deep brown eyes were still shy and yet rich with woman’s knowing. His fingertips at once remembered the silken touch of the skin at the hollow of her throat, now modestly hidden behind a string of garnets and freshwater pearls. Her form and carriage were still as refined and graceful as a swan’s.

Had anyone told her he was here? She lifted her modestly downcast eyes, and her gaze went through him like lightning. He saw in that instant that she did know he was in this hall, and the revelation made her sorry. But was that sorrow caused by his return, or by the fact she had sent him away?

The moment passed. Pacis looked down again at her hands. Gawain was left to collect himself as best he could and bow to Lady Cailin while her retinue took their places at the table. Risa was given pride of place beside Lady Cailin, while Pacis was seated somewhere beyond Risa, obscured by a number of anonymous profiles, so that it was difficult to see even which hands were hers.

It did not matter. He knew that she was there. He ate, but did not taste the meat or bread. He answered his host’s polite questions, but had no idea of what he said. Memories crowded his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.

Soon after Gawain had come to Camelot from Gododdin, Arthur conceived the notion of sending him to the halls of various liegemen — not for fostering, he was years too old for that — but to learn the ways of the men and their people, and to learn the lay and the languages of the land he would one day rule. Without trust in their king, and their king’s honor, their loyalty would not hold, Arthur said. He was right in this, as he was in so many things.

It had been high summer then, and Pacis had come to the hall, newly married to a man named Oran, who was greasy and fat and seemed content to put her in the weaving rooms and never think on her again, as if she were a worn-out garment to be stored in a chest. Gawain spoke with her at dinners, at the hunts, and in the evenings when there was music and poetry. He had soon found himself wondering how any man could be insensible to her laugh, her smile, the music of her voice.

Oh, he had fallen fool in love with her, older and married as she was. He had gone out of his way to stand at her side, to do her what small favors he could, to bring a little sunlight into the life that made her sigh so wistfully.

When she permitted him to kiss her, he thought he had understood what awaited man in Paradise.

Then what happened?
he asked himself grimly, as he took another swallow of his ale, startled to realize he had drained the mug.
Remember that as well
.

From that first kiss, their meetings quickly became amores. Now she sighed in his arms from pleasure and his love soared to heights he was certain no poet had ever visited. When the day came for him to leave, he begged her to come with him.

“Your husband is no fit man. The High King can free you. We can be together as man and wife.”

She had looked into his eyes for an endless moment, and he had believed he read the whole future spreading before him, as paradisiacal as that first kiss had been.

Then, she laughed. Not a pleased or startled gasp, but a long and hearty sound, as at an excellent jest.

“Away with you,” she said, patting his arm as if he were no more than a boy on some minor errand.

“Pacis, I am in earnest.” He reached across the pallet that was their bed, taking her slim hand in both of his.

She withdrew it instantly. “As am I. The house will be stirring soon.”

“Pacis, do not send me away. All will be well, I promise. My uncle …”

“You mistake me, Gawain. I do not mean to stand before your uncle except properly, at my husband Oran’s side.”

Cold filled him to the rim. His hands began to tremble. So did his voice. “You said you loved me.”

“Which will teach you not to believe what a woman says in her bed.” Her gaze had softened for a moment, and her fingers traced his cheek. He could still feel them. “A devoted husband would soon break both himself and me, Gawain. Go, and understand that I am well content with what I have.”

Someone had refilled his mug. His host’s face had gone a little grave, and Gawain wondered how long it had been since he had spoken, and what had been said in the meantime.

“Forgive me,
Thedu
Bannain,” he said, setting the mug down. “I am a sorry guest. I must cry your patience and plead the fatigue of two days hard ride.”

“It is I who must ask your forgiveness, Lord Gawain,” replied Bannain at once. “A place has been prepared for your rest.” Clement was on his feet without Bannain having to say any more, along with the boy — what was his name? Calder — who had been assigned to wait on him. Gawain rose and bowed to the company. He caught Risa’s worried glance and wished he could reassure her. Pacis was looking down at the trencher before her, and he found he was glad. He did not know if he could keep his countenance if he had to look into her eyes at this moment.

Clement led him to the sleeping chamber for Bannain’s captains. Chests and beds had been rearranged — no doubt hastily — to make room for the stout frame piled with feather beds and blankets of wool and fur. Gawain had slept in similar rooms most of his life and there was comfort in its familiar feel and its odors of leather and humanity.

The boy, Calder, waited on him with the nervous over-caution of a child anxious to do a good job. Gawain wished he had a coin to give him. He climbed into the bed and fatigue fell against him like a weight. His eyes closed at once, but his mind found a moment to wonder where Risa was, and if she was comfortable in this house that was utterly strange to her.

Then, he wondered where Pacis was, and if she was still happy in her life.

Sleep dragged at him and he surrendered willingly, for oblivion was far preferable to the thoughts that filled him now.

Risa watched Gawain depart, and bit her lip. Should she try to follow? She had never in her life been alone among total strangers before. She did not know what to do. The parts of her story she had chosen to tell had already been eagerly taken apart and examined by the hall’s ladies. Her appetite was gone, leaving only the aches and formless fears of her time in the wilderness.

Thedu Bannain’s wife, Lady Cailin came to her rescue. “Lady Risa, you must also be exhausted. Let me take you to rest.”

“Thank you, lady,” said Risa, with honest relief. “I would be glad of that.”

Cailin stood, taking Risa’s arm to raise her to her feet at the same time. “Husband, you will excuse us.”

“Of course,” Bannain stood and politely bowed. Risa curtsied in reply. Formalities seen to, she was able to follow Lady Cailin from the hall.

Risa’s weariness shamed her. Every other woman in the hall seemed swept up in the flurry of activity.

Every available vessel was to be filled with water, in case of fire, or siege, or both. Stores had to be assessed, and rearranged to make room for the people who would have to be housed within the hall in the event of attack. The kitchen fires would be lit all night, since as much as possible had to be baked, salted, or preserved in case of siege. The animals were already being herded within the walls. She could hear the squeals and bleatings.

Beddings and blankets must be prepared, and medicines and dressings for the sick and the wounded. The least of servants had to be given their tasks, not only because there were a thousand details to be attended to, but to keep them calm and reassure them that their lords would meet any assault that was to come.

“The Saxons will starve before we do,” said Lady Cailin grimly. “My mother told me of their ways. They will not take my home.”

Coldly, she ordered the largest of the kettles to be hefted up to the palisades before the light failed. As soon as the dawn came, they would be filled with pitch and fires would be lit beneath them. She had a lash for a tongue, this gracious hostess, and her people moved as much in fear of it as they did in fear of the Saxons’ arrival. Risa could not help but think what her mother would do at such a time. She would have been in the thick of things, helping wherever a hand was wanting, Risa was sure. Cailin, though, arranged and watched, and scolded.

An extra bed had been erected in the women’s quarters, but except for Risa and the girl Cailin directed to wait upon her, the room was empty. Cailin told her to sleep as long as she wished, and at once hurried away to supervise one of the thousand tasks she had set in motion.

At a loss, Risa turned to look down at the girl who stood beside her. She had dirty-blonde hair and deep blue eyes. With a shock, Risa realized that one of her parents must have been Saxon. The girl curtsied, spreading her skirts wide, and waited for Risa to say something.

“Stand up,” was all she could think. “What is your name?”

“Holda, my lady,” she said, keeping her gaze rigidly on the floor.

Take hold of yourself, Risa
, she ordered herself.
The child cannot help her parentage, or do you think this little one is going to stab you in your bed?

To keep herself from mulling that over, she said. “Will you help me unlace, Holda? I’m ready to fall asleep where I stand.”

But as Holda moved to obey, and Risa schooled herself to the stillness required for efficient removal of sleeves and bodice, a voice sounded softly from the doorway.

“Lady Risa?”

Holda scuttled to the room’s corner, seeking to vanish like a good servant. A willowy woman glided into the room.

“I came to see if you had need of anything,” said the lady.

“No, thank you …” Risa groped for the woman’s name. She had been introduced to so many people so quickly. Barely in time, she remembered. “Lady Pacis.”

“I fear it is only a hasty welcome you have had from my aunt.”

To Risa’s dismay, she realized this woman meant to stay and make companionable conversation, and Risa had no choice but to go along. If she were in any way impolite, it would reflect badly on Gawain as well as on herself. Her body ached. Her head felt like it was stuffed with uncarded wool.

“Lady Cailin is your aunt?” she said, hoping she did not sound like a half-wit.

Pacis nodded, sitting in one of the neatly made chairs that furnished the room between the beds and the chests. “And you are kin to my Lord Gawain?”

Her gesture compelled Risa also to sit, and nearby so that they might both comfortably continue their talk. Risa’s knees burned as she bent them. She wished desperately for her mother’s unguent of mint and goose grease, and at the same time tried to remember what she had been asked.

Kin
. “No, lady. He …” How to explain at all, let alone quickly? Awake and rested she could not have performed such a feat. She had repeated this story several times already. Where had this woman been all the day?

“Your rescuer, perhaps?” the lady prodded.

Was there mockery in Pacis’s words, or was it just that her exhaustion made Risa foolish?

“He did rescue me, yes.” She tried to stiffen her spine, to bring some dignity to her words and her bearing, but she was a hollow reed, and could only bend.

But Pacis was too set on her own purpose to see Risa’s weariness. “The High King has no greater champion than Gawain,” she said, twisting her long, fine hands together. “It is good to have him here again at such a time. It has been too long since I have seen him.”

What was happening here? Risa felt a current under Pacis’s words, but she could not make out where it came from. “You know Lord Gawain?”

“Very well. He spent a summer in this hall not so long ago, when I was newly married. I have missed him.”

That pricked Risa like a dart, and her mind began to clear as to the meaning of Lady Pacis’s conversation. “I can understand how one would.”

Pacis leaned forward. “You know by now, I am sure, how fortunate you are in your protector.”

Oh, God and Mary, this woman cherished some passion for Gawain, and she was looking to Risa to help her polish this heart’s treasure. No. Hospitality and politeness could go hang. “I have thanked Christ and the Virgin many times over for him.” With those words, Risa stood.

Pacis blinked at the suddenness of the gesture. But then, she also stood. “I am thoughtless. You must be exhausted.” But under the observation was something tart, almost prim. “Holda, attend your mistress. God watch over you this night, lady.”

“God watch over us all.”

Pacis slipped from the room and Risa stared after her, even as Holda began undoing her laces and removing the sleeves of her dress.

What had she done? What did Pacis think she meant by her gesture of dismissal?

Oh, no
.

What if she thought Risa did not want to speak of Gawain because they were lovers?

Risa wanted to laugh. When would they have had
time
in the madness of the past few days?

In the woods
, her wool-cloaked mind answered her.
By the fire, after the kiss …

She tried to push all that aside. What did it matter if this woman loved Gawain from afar? There must be a hundred or more who did. And what matter that there would be rumors about Risa and Gawain? She had known when she arrived escorted only by a single man that the gossips would be instantly busy. Compared to what waited outside these walls, it was nothing. God, Mary and Gawain knew the truth, and that would have to be enough.

Not that the High King’s nephew would ever consider anything more than a dalliance with one such as she, and she had already made it plain that such a thing was not welcome to her.

Despite all her attempts to reassure herself, Risa felt suddenly, horribly sad. She wanted to be at home, among her own things, with her mother setting the hall in order before bed, not surrounded by strangers in danger from within as well as without.

Mother, I pray you, have patience, have courage. I will send you word as soon as I am able. I miss you
.

Mother would know what to say about Lady Pacis, and it would probably not be complimentary. Would she know what to say about Gawain, though?