Under Camelot's Banner (11 page)

Beside her stood a stripling boy, a brown, lithe whippet of a youth. That boy had his mother's eyes and saw all that she did. He smiled at Colan. The image of a questing hound came to Colan more clearly than ever, as the boy leaned over and whispered something to his mother. She nodding her agreement. Then, she touched his hand, and the boy flashed Colan another mischievous, knowing grin and ran away, vanishing out the hall door and into the sunlight.

It was a small moment, a single heartbeat of domestic life, but something there left Colan disquieted. Something too knowing about that gangly boy, something in the fire sparking behind Morgaine's eyes. Colan set these thoughts aside. He was here now, and it was far too late to be disconcerted by so little. He knelt, bowing his head.

Morgaine was clearly done testing his patience. She turned all her attention to him. He could feel her gaze although he could not see her face. “You have travelled hard and come alone, Colan Carnbrea,” she said. He could see her long, brown hands. Her fingers never ceasing to twist the thread. The spindle bobbled and twirled at the end of its thin leash, like a captive insect still weakly struggling for escape. “I would not expect this of someone of your station. What has happened?”

You know.
He was certain of it. Though there was no earthly way for the news to have flown ahead of him, but she knew, and she was still going to make him say it.

“I am declared outlaw from my home and people for the crime of murder.”

“Oh?” There was no surprise in her voice, only mild curiosity. “And did you do this murder?”

“I did.” Memory bit hard. Rage, blinding rage at his so solid father, standing by his word, his useless oath though he condemn them all to death. Had he really meant to kill the old man? Or only to make him see, finally and forever that he was
wrong
?

“My men tell me you come begging mercy.”
You mean to taunt me with that word. You will have to poke harder than that, my lady.
“Tell me, Colan, why I should welcome a hunted man into my home?”

At these words, Colan lifted his head. “I come, Lady Morgaine, because I have nowhere else to turn, and no other friend who will raise a hand for me. My sisters hold Cambryn now. They will entrench themselves in it, following my father's word though it mean the death of the land itself. You are the only one who understands what Arthur and Camelot truly mean to our land and I beg you not to turn away from me for the mistake I have committed in furthering a cause that is also yours.”

The rhythm of her spinning changed, growing slower, steadier. “Such flattery. Such honor,” Was it some trick of the light, or did her eyes grow even darker? “But as even having you in my house is an act of war. Why should I risk my men and myself for you?”

Colan did not shrink before that black gaze. This woman had swallowed up and swatted down great kings. He was powerless and alone before her and he knew it. He had nothing left to lose and that left him reckless.

“Because I offer you Cambryn,” he said flatly. “Your home of old. It will make you a fortress to stand between Mark and Arthur. Take Cambryn, and Tintagel falls soon after. You hold the coast then, the trade and the tin. You can reach out to the men of Eire for the sake of their old grudges. They will swell your ranks for the time when you are ready to meet Arthur in open battle.”

“Those grudges that are older than you know, my young lord.” Morgaine spoke softly, other thoughts running through her spider's mind. Then she sighed, looking modestly down at her spinning as if she were no more than a goodwife in her cot. “Why do you not do this thing yourself? Why not take charge with those young man's hands?”

He spread his hands. They were filthy, but at least the blood was long gone. No, it would never be gone. Yes. His deeds would wash him clean. No, never clean. He silenced his contradicting thoughts with great difficulty. “I had thought I would take charge as you say, but none will follow me now.”

“Ah!” she sighed. “So, you are honest at least.”

His mouth twisted up into a grim smile. “I hope that much I can be. I tried my hand at deception and because of it I am damned.” His head was beginning to ache. He was tired. He wanted nothing more than to lie down on this dirt floor and sleep. “Cambryn is set to tear itself apart. Mark will not help. Guinevere cannot. It is yours to take if you wish to.”

Morgaine watched her thread winding around her spindle for a long moment. Then, she shook her dark head. “Cambryn will not fall to any force of arms I can raise at this time. If it could, I would sit in the great hall now.”

“Then I waste your time, and mine.” Slowly, painfully, Colan stood. His knees ached, and his hands shook with weakness. Where now? What next? There was nothing. Hasty death at his own hand might be best. That was mortal sin. So was murder. Could he be damned twice? He needed the Bishop. This was one of those thorny points that Austell loved to chew over.

Behind him, Morgaine spoke again. “Whether you have wasted your time depends on what you do next.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, sitting in her great, carved chair, the white thread dangling from her fingertips making a shining line in the shadows. He met her eyes again. There were depths there, and there was power. A man could fool himself into believing that he might understand that power, that sharp-edged beauty if only he could get close enough. Perhaps he could even take it into his own hands and hold it for his own ends, if only he dared, if only he came closer.

Colan had taken a step without even realizing it.

“You make me a great offer, but I hear no love in it. No loyalty comes with your handing over the land I know you want for your own.” Her voice was low. He had to strain to hear her. It seemed to move to the rhythm of her spindle that never ceased winding. “What do you want Colan Carnbrea?”

“I told you.” Another step toward her. Why did he move? He did not know, he only knew that he did. “I want my land whole. I want an end to these overlords and their madness.”

“What else? What did you seek when you shed your father's blood, little boy?'

Colan swallowed. He was insulted. He should leave, but he had gone too far and he could only answer. “Revenge.”

“On who? For what?”

“On Arthur who took our queen away. On the queen for abandoning us to besotted old men and over-loyal fools and then forgetting we make their wealth.”

“And why, Colan Carnbrea, should I believe you will not seek such revenge on me if I disappoint you as well?”

“I swear you have my loyalty.”

“An oath is air and nothing more without something to bind it. What will you give me, Colan Carnbrea?”

He felt himself poised on the knife's tip, teetering, ready to fall. Could he be damned twice? Looking into her darkness he saw that he could. Twice, thrice, as many times as he chose, but he must choose. Choose here and now. Choose at last and forever. Choose the murder he had done in the raw anger of his heart, choose the bloody future that waited if he tried to reclaim something from the wreckage he had made.

“What will you accept of me?”

She smiled, and it was like the heat of the hidden coal deep within the ash. “A kiss, Colan. Give me a kiss and your oath is sealed.”

One more step, two, three. She lifted her face to him. Her lips were very red and her eyes so vivid with her power and her secrets he could not look into them any more. He closed his own eyes and leaned forward. His mouth found hers. It was a chaste kiss, as gentle and brief as he might give one of his sisters, and yet he felt something drawn from the depths of his soul. A wave of weakness washed over him. In the next instant, the weakness was gone, and he was standing straight before Morgaine, just as he had been.

She rose. “Very good, my Lord Colan. Now we will talk.” She stood, holding out her hand. Colan took it and bowed over it with careful courtesy. Morgaine smiled, and led him away, and Colan followed.

The funeral for Lord Kenan was held three days after his death. It took that long for the grave to be dug in the half-frozen earth and stone. Men brought their picks from the tinning. They worked with a will at the unyielding ground to make a place where their steward could be laid to rest. In all that time, no word of Colan came by land or water.

The bier bearing Lord Kenan's shrouded corpse, along with his sword and shield and the many rings he had won in his life, was lowered into the earth in the early, grey morning. The clouds hung heavy overhead. The wind from the sea carried the smell of salt so strongly they might have stood on the shore. As Bishop Austell read the book over the grave, Laurel lift her head and turned her face toward the sea wind. Distracted in her grief, Lynet could only wonder bitterly what the winds told Laurel this time and what fresh disaster would come of it.

All of Cambryn came to stand beside them, to hear the blessed words and say their reverent farewells. All but Colan, and Captain Hale. Hale had gone to Port Yzack to find a ship that would sail Lynet and her small party of protectors up the channel and into Arthur's lands.

Bishop Austell would go with her, and Hale's son, Lock, along with three other men that Lock and his father chose. Meg had wanted to come to wait on her, saying Lynet could not go to the great court without at least one woman in her train, but Lynet had insisted Meg stay at Laurel's side.

“I am going to safety,” she told Meg. “Laurel stays in danger. It is she who needs all our friends about her.”

She did not say it was vital that they travel lightly. Meg was many things, but she was no horsewoman. When they came to shore and to the roads again, and they would have to ride hard and fast. Speed was everything. A great show had been made by Mesek and Peran to each send out one man to tell their folk what had happened, and how they would be waiting at Cambryn for the queen's arrival. But who could know what messages were passed in the dark, and what secret instructions each man carried in his heart. Already some of Cambryn's folk had begun to quietly slip away. They'd take their chances in the wilderness, or with distant family under a stranger's protection rather than trust that Lord Kenan's daughters could hold Cambryn for even a handful of days.

Bishop Austell was saying the amens. As he closed the great Book, his eyes shone with the tears he held back. Lynet crossed herself and knelt for the final blessing, and when it came, she crossed herself again. She followed Laurel to the grave's ragged edge, and tossed her share of clay and stones onto her father's shrouded form. It was too early in the year for blossoms yet, so they also threw down holly branches, bright green and shining to lie among the earth and the relics, and remind all that life was eternal.

Eternal. But not on this earth. Given the damage we do, I suppose it is better that way.

The wind blew hard. For a moment, Lynet thought she smelled spring in it. But then that too was gone, and she turned with her sister from their father's grave.

The funeral breakfast had been as lavish as they could manage. Laurel and Jorey had already been in conference, Lynet knew. If a war was to come, stores would be the main concern. They had to replenish the cellars, one way or the other. Which would mean sending out yet more men and praying they would return back in time.

She and Laurel both had passed the feast withdrawn in their own thoughts, eating little, saying less. Fortunately as they were grieving, this was expected of them. A funeral day was a holy and separate time, and it was tendered with respect by all present. Even Mesek and Peran shared the table peaceably. For now. Until Lynet and her party left, and the power shifted again.

Lynet stayed in her place as long as she could, but at last she could not stand anymore. She stood, made some excuse, and all but ran back to her own chamber. She closed the door, and stood there for a time trying to catch her breath, trying to swallow the tears that threatened to burst out yet again. No more. She was done. There was no time. They were to leave as soon as the meal was finished.

The last time she waited to leave her home it had been to make the day's ride to Tintagel. The night before that adventure, though, she had eaten her dinner beside her father, and Colan had kept her company when she couldn't sleep; singing, telling old stories, and re-reading Laurel's letter that the traders had brought with them from Camelot.

This time there was only Laurel among her blood kin left beside her, and soon even Laurel would be too far away to reach. Lynet slumped onto the bed. Her feet already ached from cold and from standing so long, and her heart ached in anticipation of the loneliness to come.
How will I do this without Laurel?
She bowed her head into her hands.

As if summoned by the thought, Laurel pushed open their door. She carried a small wooden casket with her, and there was an unusual wry smile on her face. As the door swung shut behind her, Lynet glimpsed a man with a spear taking up station beside the door.

“Whose?” Lynet asked, flicking a finger toward the portal.

“Everyone's.” Laurel replied as she crossed the room. “No one will trust the others, so I am to be followed by one of Peran's men, one of Mesek's, and one of ours. I am, however, given leave to speak in private with you for this one moment.” She set the casket carefully on the small table. It was plain and flat-lidded but bound in shining brass. “They are sending for more men, and for some women to watch me when they're men cannot.”

An entire flock of uneasy thoughts followed this news. Would Mesek or Peran decide to use Laurel herself to obtain the power in Cambryn? There were ways to gain legitimacy for an ambitious man. A marriage, along with much else, could be forced. Even on Laurel.

“You should be the one to go,” said Lynet hoarsely. “They know you at Camelot. They will listen to a friend.”

“And that is why I must stay. They know me. I believe the queen cares for me. That will add fervor to the plea you must make.” Laurel's jaw hardened and the light behind her eyes glittered brightly for a moment. “And I am the eldest, Lynet. I may speak with authority where you cannot.” She lowered her voice. “And in their eyes I am still a maid and unsullied. It will stay them from turning their hands to the worst, at least awhile.”