Sword of the Rightful King (3 page)

Suddenly she clutched her stomach.
I should not have done that last
, she thought.
It was an indulgence. I shall pay for it tonight
.

4

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, in her tower room, Morgause bent over the cauldron, staring down into the roiling depths. It bubbled so quickly, she could see nothing of the dead cat, or the three tails of baby mice, or the spindly spider legs and the pulped black bodies, or the bitter herbs so carefully measured out. Just the spumy water, as treacherous looking as the seas off the isles.

Long ago she could read the future clearly in her cauldron despite the bubbling roil. It had been easier to read than her books of magic, with their long Latin incantations. She hated Latin. It was a man's tongue. There were more words in it for war and battle than for love. Yet the north magic was worse. When she could, she used the softer, sweeter, Celtic spells, though they were not to be counted on and often went awry.

Long ago magic had been so easy. But with the birth of each new son, her magic had faded. It was the price she had to pay to be a queen. At the time, she thought she had paid it gladly. Yet now, looking into the cauldron's angry bubbles, she was no longer certain. All she could make out in the roiling concoction was a water crossing.

But then, from Orkney,
everywhere
was a water crossing.

The roiling continued, but she left it, to stare out the narrow window toward the open sea. Blue sky, bluer water. A streamer of white cloud, echoed by the streaming tops of waves. The storms of spring were past, and now the sea, like a gentled horse, hardly moved at all.

And on that cold, dark blue sea was a single boat, its brown sails not yet taut with wind, carrying her sons to Arthur's court. All of them but Medraut, of course, her son born after Lot's death, who was too young and too precious to let go from her.

When the boat had left—but an hour before—she had waved to the boys from the shore. But they, so intent on the trip, had scarcely noticed. She had had their backs, not their faces.

For a moment she thought about that, how boys always leave their mothers eagerly, hearts set on the next adventure. She was sure, however, that once the trip had settled into its steady—even boring—progress to the mainland, their thoughts would all return to her.

And their promises.

She took a small red wool cap from her belt, twisted it three times widdershins. Then she spoke the Celtic word for wind. Out on the sea, the waves began to riffle. The boats brown sail pillowed out. The prow of the ship knifed through the water. Away from shore.

Away from the castle perched on the high headland.

Away from Morgause.

She watched until the boat was out of sight, then folded the red cap carefully, tucked it back under her belt, and went down for dinner with Medraut. He was her aptest pupil, always listening intently, his grey eyes on hers, as she talked of kingship and treachery.

 

G
AWAINE
had said good-bye to his mother without promising her anything—except to keep a careful watch on the three younger brothers she had forced him to take to court. He watched gladly, since he suspected that one of them had been charged with the spying he had refused.

At least she was keeping the youngest brat, Medraut, at home.
Just as well
, Gawaine thought, as the boat skimmed over the waves. Medraut was a snot nose, always whining, always wanting more than his share of everything: food, clothes, jewels, attention. He was spoiled, mean-tempered, sly, and even at six still clung to his mothers skirts.

As
she
clung to him, that last sad reminder of his father. Though how the old man, so sick at the end, could have sired another child was beyond thinking.

Standing at the boats prow, his cloak tangling in the wind, Gawaine breathed deeply of the salt air. It was a smell he had known all his life. If there was one thing he missed, living at Arthur's court—which was far inland—it was the joy of riding the sea. Coming back home was always a compromise between his joy of the open waters and his need to please his unpleasable mother.

There were porpoises on either side of the ship, some of them right under the large eye painted on the prow that the superstitious sailors believed brought an easy and peril-free crossing. He shrugged.
Can't hurt
, he thought.
And it keeps the men happy
.

As he watched the porpoises leap joyously ahead, he was strangely content, as if they really were a good omen. But then he heard an odd, brutal sound. Looking around, he saw it was his brother Agravaine bent over the railing and “feeding the fishes” again, which was what the sailors called throwing up. Agravaine had no stomach for sea travel, though he had lived all his life by the sea.

“Give him some hard bread,” Gawaine called to Hwyll. “And some fresh water.” It was the only thing he knew that would ease the spasms.

Ever helpful, Hwyll reached into his pockets and drew out the remedy. But Agravaine waved the man away.

I have never seen Agravaine so green
, Gawaine thought, but hardly cared. He had little love for his brother, who was a bully.

“Hard Hands,” the servants called Agravaine, though never in his hearing. He used horses and men with equal disdain. Gawaine had heard the servants talk. Indeed, they often came to him with their complaints, even Hwyll, who was usually so competent and never tattled. Gawaine always did what he could, which was little enough—sending his own personal physician to deal with black eyes and broken bones, and his horse doctor to spirit away any animals too badly abused.

Hardly out of boyhood, his face still spotty, his hair the yellow of autumn leaves, Agravaine was already feared by his mothers household for his temper and quick fists. Yet Morgause did not attempt to control him. Her boys were always in the right, even when they were in the wrong.

Gawaine made a face.
It is not mete that a prince should act so cruelly
. He shook his head.
Such a thing would never be allowed in Arthur's court
. And then a second thought came to him.
Merlinnus will sort him out soon enough
.

He guessed that of his three brothers going to Cadbury, Agravaine was their mothers spy. It was a role he had been bred up for.

“Keep spewing, then, for all I care,” Gawaine muttered in Agravaines direction, loud enough for his brother to hear. Then he turned back to watch the porpoises.

Suddenly Gareth and Gaheris were at his elbows, speaking, as they often did, in one voice. Few of the servants could tell them apart, but Gawaine could. Even when they traded tunics and linen camisias and breeches and cloaks, disguising themselves as one another, he always knew which was which. It had to do with the way Gareth set his shoulders and Gaheris shrugged. It had to do with the fact that one listened with his head tilted to the right, the other to the left. They had never looked alike to Gawaine, even when they had been babies lying side by side in their cot.

“Do you think they're an omen? The porpoises?” they asked.

Since he had so recently thought that very thing, he nodded. “But like all omens, hard to read,” he answered. “Unless you are a mage.”

“A mage!” said Gaheris, shoulders rising up toward his ears.

“Like Merlinnus!” Gareth breathed.

Neither mentioned their mothers magic. Gawaine wondered if they even knew of it. It was a secret, but not an especially well-kept one. He had discovered it by accident as a ten-year-old, going into her tower room, which was usually hard-warded and locked. He had wanted to show her a doll he had made for the cook's little girl. Wanted to borrow a bit of fine cloth to wrap the thing in. The cook's girl had a harelip and no playmates, and he felt sorry for her. He often gave her gifts.

The door to the tower room had been open, and his mother was gone—off to the high alures to shake her black hair at the sea, no doubt.

She never knew that he had entered the room without permission. But the memory of that cauldron squatting in the middle of the place—empty then but smelling foully, like a violated tomb—still haunted his dreams.

Worse still had been the glass bottles full of dead things suspended in heavy water, things that seemed to turn at the sound of his footsteps, and stare at him with their bulging dead eyes. Unborn creatures, most of them, though one—he was quite sure—had been a human child. He could remember the room and how it had made him feel—soiled and damned—as if it had been yesterday and not almost eight years gone by.

Gawaine folded his hands over his chest, spread his legs apart, keeping his balance without the aid of the boat's rail. “Merlinnus is a mage, yes. But he is a man first.”

“Never!” said Gaheris, shoulders still crowding his ears.

“Does he eat?” asked Gareth.

“He eats.”

“And does he get seasick like Agravaine?” Gaheris asked.

“I have never seen him on the sea,” said Gawaine.

“Clot!” Gareth told his twin. “Mages cannot cross running water.”

“That's fairies,” said Gaheris. “Not mages.”

“That's all magic makers.”

Gaheris drew himself up so that he stood half a thumb's span taller than his twin. “Mother never crosses water. And she works magic.”

Gawaine kept his mouth shut.
So they know
. He wondered how.

“Fool,” Gareth said. “She came from Land's End by boat to be Father's bride.”

Gawaine threw up his hands. “Whatever you two wish to believe, believe.” He could tell it was going to be a long trip. And longer still once they were at the kings court. He had forgotten what incredible bumpkins his little brothers were.

 

G
AWAINE SLEPT
but fitfully on the boats deck. It was not the wind tangling in his hair that kept him awake. Actually he quite liked the feel of it, as if it were scrubbing away all that was Orkney from his mind. But a sound on the wind, a strange moaning, niggled at him. At last he sat up, shaking off the blanket, and looked around.

The twins were close by his feet, spooned together. Hwyll was snoring lightly, well beyond them. In the half-moon's light, Gawaine could make them all out.

But Agravaine was missing.

And the moaning that had disturbed Gawaine's sleep had not been a dream, for he heard it still.

He stood, dropped the blanket, and—walking somewhat unsteadily as the boat rolled on the high waves—headed toward the sound.

It was Agravaine, of course, his head over the side of the boat, heaving dryly into the waves.

For a minute Gawaine thought to leave him there.
Good for him to feel pain once in a while instead of inflicting it
. But Gawaine could not help feeling sorry for any suffering creature. Even a pig like his brother.

He went back for a waterskin and some dry bread, then brought it to Agravaine, who was, for once, too sick to even think of going on the attack. At Gawaine's urging, he took several sips and slowly chewed on a piece of bread, then fell back against Gawaine's chest, exhausted.

Gawaine held his brother in his arms until morning brought a glassy sea. The minute the sea calmed and the sun rose, Agravaine pushed him away, saying, “If you tell anyone about last night, I shall kill you. Slowly. You will cry like a sow in labor.”

Smiling wryly, Gawaine stood and walked away. It was comforting to know that some things never changed.

 

L
ORD
B
EDWYR
had arranged horses for them at the quay, and everyone but Agravaine was glad of it. Agravaine's color had not yet returned and his mood never lightened. Someone who did not know him might have guessed that was from the sour taste in his mouth from several days of vomiting. But Gawaine knew better. Agravaine was always sour. In fact, on landing, Agravaine slapped his manservant for being slow, then after that, whipped the horse he was presented with, when it was not as soft-mouthed as he would have liked, or as handsome. Finally he swore vehemently at Hwyll.

Hwyll, being ever mindful of his station, and wary of his charges temper, bowed and quickly got out of the way.

“You should mind your manners,” Gawaine said quietly, making certain that no one else could hear this caution, “else Cadbury will be an uncomfortable place indeed. If you are so hardhanded, no one will let you in on their secrets. And how will you tattle to Mother if you have nothing to say?”

“Shut up, brother,” Agravaine advised loudly, “or I will whip
you
as well.” That lent a little flush to his countenance, but it was gone in seconds and he was as green as before.

“You will do no such thing,” Gawaine answered, but so low only Agravaine could hear.

Still, Agravaine understood the threat in the quiet steely voice and did not speak further.

As if to emphasize his utter disdain, Gawaine turned away and chivvied the twins to their mounts like a shepherd with sheep. They bounded like lambs.

“Will he try to whip you, Gawaine?” asked Gareth and Gaheris together.

Gawaine guessed they were less curious than hopeful.

“Not if he values his whip arm,” Gawaine said.
And not as sick as he is
, Gawaine thought. He got them settled and then chose his own steed, a sweet-faced gelding the color of good earth, with a white blaze down its nose.

The horses that Lord Bedwyr had sent were good, serviceable ones. Not the heavy horses for battle nor lighter ones like those the Companions rode when boar hunting in Cadbury. These were sturdy ground-eaters who would take them down south with a minimum of fuss, thirty miles a day at least, weather permitting. Fast enough to escape even the most diligent of thieves, many of whom lay in wait in the highland forests.

“Give your lord my thanks,” Gawaine said to Bedwyr's man. “Tell him I will see him in Cadbury when next the Round Table meets.” He handed the man a small ring with a stone worth the price of a horse.