In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) (34 page)

Then she returned her hands to her lap, and bowed her eyes in modesty, waiting, her sleeves draped over her wounded hands.

“Good.” Euberacon sounded genuinely pleased. “It is obedience to my word brings all rewards to you now. That is your next lesson. My other servants will take you back to your cell. You will wait in patience until I send for you again.”

She felt them beside her, left and right, invisible presences, brushing her skin like cobwebs, ready to grab hold of her with their taloned hands. He was showing her his power, showing up her helplessness. Risa turned without a word and walked back into the corridor, following it around the dimming courtyard and back down the stairs. All the while, she felt the invisible ones beside her, in the breeze that fluttered against her cheeks, in the pricking of the hairs on the back of her neck.

But none of them grabbed her hands. None of them pulled at her sleeves. They were doing just what they had been told. They were taking her back to her cell, and as long as she went that way, they would do nothing else.

They would not take from her the knife she had removed from the dining table and that she held now in her modestly folded hands, concealed by the flowing sleeve of her festival gown.

You can never be fast enough
, the witch’s voice spoke calmly from memory.

So you say
, Risa answered that memory fiercely.
Let me show you what I can do if I must
.

Risa let herself be returned to her cell. She had been given no candle, nor any other way to make a light. The door was closed behind her, and this time she was sure that if she tried it, it would be barred.

With shuffling steps, Risa found the bed, and lay down upon it. Alone in the silent darkness, she curled around her hidden knife.

Do you say Gawain will not come for me? That he is weak, and weakness makes him false? You may be right, but his are not the only hands that can strike a blow against you
.

Then there was nothing to do but wait for day and mourn.

Oh, my mother, I will avenge you. I will.

The rain began soon after Gawain left Camelot. Light, cold, relentless spring showers soaked his clothing and skin within minutes. They turned the roads first to mud and then to streams running down to join the becks forming in every gully and crevice. He tried to hurry, hoping speed would give him a sense of purpose. Even a false certainty would be better than the bewilderment he felt now.

He traveled almost exactly as he had when he first found Risa, riding the black gelding Pol in place of the palfrey, and leading Gringolet. He did not know what he would come to. He did not know but there might be a battle or some matter of honor and he would be sorry not to have the steady, trained animal with him, and he wanted Risa to recognize him at once. She’d told him she’d seen the sigil on his shield and knew he was the answer to her prayer. He displayed that shield now, and he prayed to the one whose sign it was to intercede, to let him find her, to have mercy. To understand that he loved her.

Pol, was less patient with the conditions of travel and whickered and whinnied almost constantly to let his master know the state of his displeasure.

Gawain had left the high road long ago, and the trails he followed north were mud up to the ankles. Frequently he had to get off the horse and pick his way across the worst of the holes and small swamps. Still the rain came down.

It was close enough to Camelot that his name and face were well known, and folk were generous when he paused at house or cot, with warm soup for him and dry blankets for the horses, but when he asked of the Green Temple, none had heard its name, not even the oldest graybeards in their corner by the fire.

Gawain rode on.

Twilight thickened and worked with the rain to turn the world into a blur of grey. Pol and Gringolet hung their heads and struggled to pull their hooves free from the slopping mud. Stands of trees began to merge with one another to become true forest. Their branches provided some shelter from the rain, but fat drops collected on leaves and fell off, splashing on head and hands, constantly startling the horses until Pol began to balk.

Feeling he would choke on his impatience, Gawain turned the horses, doubling back to a rickety hut he had before passed by in the hope that the rain would clear. The place smelled of old hay and new rot, but these odors were soon overlaid with the scent of steaming horses as Gawain unharnessed the animals and rubbed them dry. By the time he was finished there was barely enough light left to make a fire by. After many curses, he finally managed to make a small and smoky blaze by which to eat a rude meal of bread and smoked fish. Rain dripped through the roof, making pools of mud on the floor. Gawain shivered, and bowed his head.

This then is my punishment for arrogance. I accept it. I accept it. But Dear God, send me some sign it is not my doing that makes Risa suffer. Let me know that she will be found and brought safe home. If not by me, then by Arthur. Please, dear Father. Do as you will with me, but do not desert her
.

Gawain huddled by his fire, drawing what warmth he could from the flames and prepared to wait out the night. He tried to make some pleasant vision of the future, but could not, and in the end sank into a fitful dreaming in which Risa ran in and out of his vision, calling his name, but each time he turned toward her, there was only emptiness. Through it all Tania screamed, and screamed again until he could not tell her voice from Risa’s.

Morning dawned heavy and grey. The woods were as full of dank mist as they had before been full of rain. Gawain readied the horses with stiff hands and an aching head. He knew it to be cold, but he felt hot. Perspiration mixed with the beads of fog on his face.

Between the mist and the mud, the way was even more difficult than it had been before. There was no way to take his bearings, so Gawain had no choice but to follow the river of muck that in drier times was a narrow, rutted track. Pol seemed no fresher for his night’s rest and even Gringolet walked with his head hung low, his breath blowing out in silver clouds to add to the dense mist that surrounded them. It clung in drops to his hair and face, as wet and cold as the rain had been. His ears had begun to ring and his tongue felt heavy and swollen. The pain in his ribs flared and reached up to join with the pain in his head. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly trying to clear them. The forest was shifting behind the mist, the trees rearranging themselves into more pleasing patterns, skittering across the path to gossip with each other more comfortably. The birds called out, saying that a guest was coming, that he brought news and gifts, and all the world watched him pass by with great interest. Pol shifted uneasily and Gawain slumped forward, barely catching himself before he slid from the saddle. He tried to straighten, but his back had no strength, and he fell forward across the horse’s neck. Pol balked, and Gawain fell groaning into the mud.

He struggled to rise, but his head was too heavy and his arms were too weak.

I have been here before. I have done this before. I have come home then as now
.

At last, Gawain pushed himself onto his knees. Up ahead, he heard the sounds of hooves, and the mist curtains parted to let through a horse and rider. Gawain blinked up at him, struggling to rise, but the trees were moving again, leaning close to hear what he had to say, raising their branches so the birds and the beasts might have a better look at this comical stranger covered in dirt and calling a woman’s name.

Oblivion rose, and Gawain fell forward, and for a long time he knew nothing more.

Gawain started awake, clammy from his own sweat. Stone walls illuminated by pale rushlight surrounded him. Furs covered his nakedness and thick feather pillows raised his head.

He struggled to sit and after a time managed to do so. He was weak as a kitten, but at least his eyes were clear and if his head throbbed, it was an easier pain than he had known before.

He was on a wooden bed in a small windowless room. Rushes and more furs covered the floor. His clothes lay on a carved chest with his boots, sword, shield and saddlebags beside them. There was a chair and table, and little else beside. Past the foot of the bed, was a plain wooden door, tightly closed.

Gawain swung his feet over the side of the bed, ignoring the sudden wave of dizziness that washed through him. He planted them on the floor, but they seemed to grow further away as he stared at them.

The door opened. A fair-haired woman carrying a wooden tray took two steps into the room, and stopped, apparently surprised at seeing a naked man attempting to climb from his bed and not quite remembering the required motions.

Gawain did, however, remember something of modesty and pulled himself back under the bed coverings.

“I am glad to see you awake.” She set the tray down on the small table. It held a basin of steaming water, a clean towel and a wooden noggin. “We were …”

Although it was poor manners, Gawain interrupted. “How long have I been …?”

“One night only. Rest, my lord. You are not well.” She held out the noggin.

Thirst itched in Gawain’s throat. He drank. It proved to be nothing more than water with just enough wine to make it palatable. “I cannot rest. I have … I must …”

“You cannot,” said the woman firmly, paying back his interruption with another. “Your horse is lame and you are ill. Stay where you are, or you will do one of us an injury.”

The fact that she was able to push him back onto the pillows so easily much more than her words convinced Gawain to do as she said.

His head began to swim again. He drained the noggin and felt somewhat better. “My horse is lame?”

“The black. The white is merely … perturbed.” Seeing Gawain’s alarm, she held up both hands. “Do not fear, my lord, our men are expert with horses. They are both well-cared for. The black only needs a poultice. Our stable master will see him to rights.”

Relief rallied Gawain’s wits. “I thank you, my lady. It is certain you have saved my life. Will you do me the courtesy of telling me …”

Before he could finish the question, the door slammed open and a bluff, dark man sailed into the room like a hearty thundercloud

“So!” He planted his fists on his hips. “This is the young eagle who has fallen from the nest and set all the ladies hearts aflutter with tender feelings!” He laughed heartily. Gawain saw the blue tattoos on his hands, complex knots faded with time and overgrown with hair.

He was, in fact, one of the hairiest men Gawain had ever seen. A rich brown thatch sprouted from his head and overran most of his face and neck.

And they call Arthur ‘the bear’
, he thought, and then reminded himself that he had already known this man’s hospitality and had better show his manners.

The man, however, spoke first. “Well, my lord, I am Belinus and this is my hall and my woman here who nurses you so diligently is called Ailla. That is who we are. Who might you be and what is so important you must seek it in my lands in the rain and dark?”

Gawain gave his name and titles. Belinus did not look impressed. Gawain added. “As to what I seek, I seek the Green Temple, or any man who can tell me where it might be found.”

Belinus pursed his thick lips. “The Green Temple? A strange name. Is it something you’ve heard of, my wife, with all your women’s lore?”

Ailla just looked at her hands in her lap. “If my lord has not heard of it, then I most surely have not.”

“There you are, I fear, my Lord Gawain. But now, the morning had turned fair and I must be away to the hunt with my men. You rest here as long as your please. Speak with my wife. Perhaps something will jog that lazy memory of hers, and I will ask after this Green Temple of yours among those of my lands. I promise to give you whatever I gain when I return, if you will do the same for me, eh?”

It was an odd request, but from the way the man was looking at him, Gawain realized his host expected an answer. “Surely, my Lord Host.”

“Well then.” He slapped his hands together, satisfied. “To the hunt! Take good care of our young eagle, Ailla. Rest well, Gawain.”

As swiftly as he came, Belinus departed, letting the door slam shut behind him. Ailla winced and Gawain’s face creased in sympathy. That was a harsh man to be paired with so delicate a lady.

As soon as Belinus left, Ailla rose to her feet. She filled a basin with water and took up a cloth. Quickly, lightly, she began to dab his face. It was most refreshing. “Why do you ask of the … this Green Temple, my Lord Gawain?”

How to explain?
“I have an errand there that must be completed, a matter of honor.”

“I wish you success then.” Ailla took up her basin and turned from him, but as she did, he thought he saw some deep sorrow on her face.

“Lady?” She looked back over her shoulder at him. Her face was bland, but her eyes were haunted.

She does know of this place. She does
. “
Y
ou will consider the name, will you not? To see if you can remember what you might have heard of it?”

“I know nothing that my lord does not, Sir,” she repeated. “I must let you rest now.”

She closed the door behind her and Gawain was alone.

Gawain slammed his fist against the bed covers, and that sudden movement seemed to drain away all the strength his arm had left. He was still feverish, damn it, damn him, damn the Green Knight and Euberacon Magus and Rygehil of the Morelands all. He fell back on the pillows.

But, he was in a place where the Green Temple was known, if he could convince the lady to speak of it.

But why should I? Why am I not out seeking Risa instead? There is time enough to die after she is found and safe
.

Because he had made a bargain with the fantastic, and such must always be kept, even if Arthur had not stood surety for him before so many witnesses. If he did not keep to his word … he might curse Risa so that she could never be found, he might break the very treasure he sought to cherish.

And perhaps, just perhaps there would yet be a way through this thing. The Green Knight knew of Risa, he was sure. He had taunted Gawain deliberately. Perhaps there was some way for him to survive this challenge, and then he and the Green Knight might have a more even contest, and he could compel his answers …

Kindling his hope in his heart, Gawain drifted awhile into a light sleep. He thought he heard the rush of the wind in the trees, and felt the rocking of a horse’s gait beneath him. Ahead, he saw the hunched back of a black boar, crashing madly through the trees. Soon it would turn, soon it would fight. Soon there would be blood and death and life and promise and all would begin again …

Gawain started awake. The door to his room was opening, the wood scraping over the rushes, and Ailla was coming in again with a tray holding a bowl, a cup and a lump of bread. Still befuddled by his dream, it seemed for a moment the sides of the bowl ran bright red with blood, but he blinked hard, and the vision was gone.

“My Lord Gawain?” She set the tray down swiftly and laid her hand on his head. “You are white. Do you feel worse?”

“No, no, my lady. It was a dream, a dream only.” Her hand was cool against his brow, and she smelled of something sweet … at first he thought it might be sandalwood, but it was not. Something sweet and smoky.

“Your fever is gone,” she announced with satisfaction as she straightened up. “You will feel weak for awhile yet. Broth and bread will help strengthen you.” She deposited the tray on his lap. “Tomorrow you should be able to walk without help.”

“Tomorrow I must continue with my quest.” The broth was rich and flavorful and smelled of sweet venison and onions. Gawain drank it gratefully.

Lady Ailla shook her head. “If you do, you will do so without your horse. He will not be fit to travel for another day at least. If he is ridden too soon, the swelling will start again, so says our man. You must compose yourself to patience, my lord.”

Gawain dipped the good bread in the broth and chewed on it to keep his aggravation silent. Patience was not what he wished for right now, but he could not complete his quest for the Green Temple or for Risa on foot.

“I will leave you to your rest.” Ailla dipped him a small curtsey and moved toward the door.

“Stay awhile, lady, if it please you,” said Gawain quickly. “I have some questions I would ask, if you will permit.”

An odd look flickered across her face, as if she were both concerned and relieved at the same time. “I will answer as I can, Sir.” She took the chair beside the bed, folding her hands, waiting politely for the questions.

Gawain sopped some more broth, looking in the bottom of the bowl for a place to start. “I fear my fever took my sense of direction from me. I do not even know where I am.”

“You are in Caer Ceri. Two days ride north and you will come to Calchfynedd.”

He had come that far? Gawain found it suddenly difficult to swallow his bread. He must have been fevered longer than he knew.

He collected himself. “Lord Belinus is not a name I have heard of before.”

“No.” It was a soft statement, almost a sigh.

Gawain cocked his head as if it might help him see her better. “He calls the High King his liege, though.”

But Ailla just looked away. “Who my lord calls liege is a delicate question.”

“I see.”

“No, my lord, you cannot.” She bowed her head quickly, biting her lip. “I should not have said that.”

Gently, gently, Gawain. This one is a fragile spirit. Press to hard and she will only break
. “I cry you mercy, lady. I am being hopelessly rude. What would you speak of to pass the time with your invalid?” He settled back on the pillows and smiled in what he hoped she would find an encouraging fashion.

She did not answer for a time, but he saw her slip a glance at him. At last, she seemed to take courage and lifted her head. “You have come from the hall of the High King?” Gawain nodded. “Tell me of Camelot.” She whispered its name, and Gawain was not certain whether she thought it a word of blessing or a curse.

Whatever it was to her, Gawain was glad to oblige her request. He told her tales of the proudest names, of Arthur, Lancelot and Bedivere. She asked him shrewd questions that told him she’d heard some of the wilder stories and sensibly doubted their veracity. He was pleased to be able to tell her the far finer truths. He spoke of feasts and pageants, and of the queen, of course. All the while, he saw Risa’s image before him, how she stood so fair and proud beside Guinevere, how she kept her face so solemn as she made some jest, how she held her own even with Kai playing against her.

But this lady knew something. There was something about her lord that kept her from speaking even though she knew he could not hear. If he could make her his friend, if he could bring her to trust him, she would speak. If she could tell him what she feared, he would help, and in return she would tell him where the Green Temple was.

Where, despite all his hopes and his pride, he would face his death.

Gawain’s tale faltered.

Ailla rose from her seat, leaning toward him. “Is your fever returning, Lord Gawain?”

“No, lady.” He held up his hand, although it would have been pleasant enough to feel her hand on his brow again. “It was … an unwelcome thought.”

She sank back into her chair. “Because you seek the Green Temple?”

“Yes my lady.”
What made you ask that, my hostess?

Flustered, the lady looked down again at her hands. Her fingers twisted tightly together. “It is only … such a place as that must be … no one would seek such a place save for some great and terrible need.” She stood abruptly. “I must see to the ordering of dinner. I will have one of my women bring you your meat.” She turned her back to him, and Gawain suddenly felt that she did not want to have to look at him anymore.

“Then let me bid you goodnight, my hostess, since I am not to see you again.”

Her shoulders sagged for a moment and then straightened. “God be with you this night, Lord Gawain.”

She was gone, and Gawain was alone with a rushlight and the remains of the broth and the bread and his own uneasy thoughts. He tried again to stand, but he made it no more than two steps from the bed before his knees began to buckle under him. He could do nothing but lie in his bed and stare at the boards and buttresses over his head, and wonder — what did his hostess know, and where did Risa bide, and what did she suffer.

Be brave, be brave my love. God grant me my strength again. Let me find her whole
.

There was no way to tell how much time passed before he heard the thudding of bootsoles on stone. The door slammed open and Belinus strode up to the bed, a bloody bone in his hand.

Without concern or ceremony, he tossed the object onto the bedcovers. It was a boar’s curling tusk.

“The whole of the beast is in the yard. I did not think my lady would like me to drag it up to the sick room!” He bellowed with laughter at his own joke. “A poor thing, skinny from winter and not yet fat for summer, but fought like a tiger. I’ve a man who will be showing his scars to his grandchildren.” He folded his arms in great satisfaction. “That is what I have gained today, my lord. And you?”

“Several hours fine conversation with my most courteous hostess,” said Gawain promptly. “I will do my best to return them to you my host, but I may have to beg you to have mercy on my weakness.”

Belinus laughed heartily at that. “We must get you well soon, my lord, I should dearly love to hear how you spoke to my wife! But although I’ve hunted a boar today, I’ve an appetite like a bear and my meat waits in the hall. Goodnight, my Lord Gawain. We will talk soon, you may be sure of it!”