Under Camelot's Banner (2 page)

The procession descended the steep river valley. They stormed into the forest, their singing shaking the branches that made a living roof overhead and causing the birds to cry out in angry response to this racket. At last they reached their destination. Up ahead, the river Camel ran chattering down the rocky hillside, as clear and cold as the morning around them. The weirs and sluices waited open and empty. The great kettles of ale that had been warming all night with wrinkled crabapples bobbing in the amber brew stood on the bank. The ale's smell lung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of the warm bread that had been brought down from the hall.

Lynet's stomach growled, but she hung back with the others, waiting for Bishop Austell. The sturdy churchman marched into the stream. As the frigid water lifted up his robe's hems and swirled around his knees, he raised his holly-twined crook once more.

“
For thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands: happy shalt thou be, and it shall be well with thee.
” he cried. “
Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides of thine house: thy children like olive plants round about thy table! Behold! That thus shall the man be blessed that feareth the Lord!
”

Laurel stepped forward, took up a ladle full of the warm ale from the nearest kettle and passed it to the bishop. He poured a long libation into the river waters, and then drank down the rest himself. When he had emptied the dipper, he lifted up his head, ale still dripping down his beard. Lynet then moved to stand beside her sister, handing Bishop Austell a honied cake from the basket of breads. He crumbled the cake into the river.

“
In nomine Patre, et File, et Spiritus Sancte.
” Bishop Austell drew the sign of the cross over all.

At this sign, the folk of Cambryn surged forward, lowering their festival king and queen to receive their own offerings. Laurel refilled the ladle so they might drink. Lynet popped pieces of sweet, sticky cake into their mouths. With each motion the crowd roared its approval. Deane and Nance kissed again, clasped their hands and shook their bells. The folk cheered once more and planted the king's and queen's chairs on the riverside, so “their majesties” could oversee the work and celebration, and give blessing or pass judgment on what they saw. The rest of the folk danced in and out of the river, barefoot, never minding the cold. They swung their shrieking, giggling children from bank to bank. Lynet and Laurel remained by the massive kettles and baskets, offering food and drink to all who demanded it. The people kissed and laughed and partook eagerly of what was offered.

In the midst of this revelry, the men stripped off their shirts, took up their picks, and began attacking the ragged hillside, loosening great chunks of earth and stone down into the sluices and the baskets. There were not as many of them as there had been in years past. War and raiders had carried off husbands and sons alike. So a number of the goodwives and their daughters waded into the stream beside their men, their hems tucked into their waistbands so they could wield the baskets and the sieves.

Colan stepped briskly up for his ale and his cake. He gave Lynet a broad wink before he stripped naked to the waist and waded into the river with the rest of the men. He'd toil beside them all day, adding his sweat to the libations already offered for the river, the tin and God's blessing.

The great sieves rattled as hands shook them hard, sifting out the dirt and the dust. Then, one woman dipped her hand in and pulled out a rock with silver flecks that glinted in the rising sun. The first of the ore had been found.

Another mighty cheer went up. The festival king and queen kissed long and lustily. Lynet added her voice to the cheering and raised a dripping ladle. Bishop Austell drank deep once more, and Lynet sipped. The brew was warm and welcome, but she had only had opportunity to eat a mouthful of bread as of yet, and she did not need the strong drink's dizziness added to the effects of a sleepless night.

All at once, a man's voice rose up over all the clamor and the laughter. The tone of command and warning was so clear and so different from the merry riot about them that all went silent in an instant.

On top of the fell stood a small host of men, ten in number, Lynet counted. Two on horse, the rest on foot. She did not know any one of them. All of were dirty and windblown. Their hair stuck out in all directions where it was not braided tight, and travel had heavily stained their dull woolen cloaks. The men on horseback had swords and knives at their belts, and those on foot carried pole-arms that had been used at least as hard as the men.

The two leaders rode their horses forward to the very edge of the hillside.

“We seek the Steward of Cambryn!” boomed the right-hand man. He had the coloring of a fall fox, all dark red hair with keen black eyes. His chin was stubbled by only a traveller's scrubby beard, but his mustaches hung down almost to his waist.

Colan, soaked to the knees, his dripping arms filthy with mud straightened up. He surveyed these newcomers, and saw, Lynet was sure, how they all went armed.

“Steward Kenan is not here,” he said. “He has gone to Tintagel to take council with King Mark.”

Discreet of you brother,
thought Lynet, half with admiration and half with irony.
Gone to plead more like, and all Mark's other vassals with him.

“I am Lord Colan, the steward's son, and I stand here for him at this time.” He hoisted himself out of the stream, mustering what dignity he could, filthy, dripping and half-naked as he was. “I do bid you welcome, Chief Mesek Kynhoem, and you Chief Peran Treanhal.”

Kynhoem. Treanhal. Now she could place these men. Their peoples lived to the north and east on Cambryn's boarders. They lived by their kyne mostly, growing some small crops to feed the beasts and themselves. They did come up from the moors from time to time, to trade and reaffirm their loyalties to the steward and the absent queen. There had been trouble between them recently, she remembered hearing. A raiding that had left some men dead. But she thought the blood-price had been settled before Lord Kenan had left. What brought them here now?

The second man, Peran Treanhal, was the taller of the two. His brown hair was thin on top, letting his speckled pate show through, but still long enough behind to make a stout braid that hung down his back. His hawk-like face had been horribly burned on its right side. The flesh was pebbled and puckered and his eye and mouth both twisted and pulled. The back of one long, raw hand was mottled red and white as well. The whole sight made Lynet wince in sympathy.

“I am here for justice, Lord Colan,” Peran said. His voice was painfully harsh, and Lynet looked again at the burns.
He was well in the fire that had caused that, and breathed its smoke.
“There has been murder done.”

The word dropped heavily from him, and one of the women behind Lynet gasped. Lynet herself went cold. The charge of murder, of death dealt outside the law of God and Man was as vile an accusation as could be levelled. If it were judged true, far more than blood-price would be paid. The shame upon family and clan would follow down the generations. The guilty man might even be declared outlaw, a sentence that was the same as death, only more slow.

Mesek sighed. “It was no murder, Lord Colan. It was the mischance of a young hothead's impatience,” he said in a tone far too reasonable for words bearing a clear insult.

“This is for my son's life, and I will be heard!” Peran's raw shout tore from his heart and made the sinews of his neck stand out like knotted cords.

Mesek barked in laughter, as if this was some bitter jest. At this, Peran's wounded face flushed red and he looked as though he might have struck out, but only just remembered to stay his hand.

“This is no place to hear such hard business,” said Bishop Austell in a voice of quiet reason. “And no place to make weary travellers comfortable.” He climbed the bank as easily as a much younger man and stopped on the slope before the two chieftains, resting the butt of his crook on the ground before him. It showed his office plainly, and also made a barrier between the new comers and the increasingly uneasy crowd behind him.

Colan moved to the bishop's side and picked up the bishop's theme. “You find us here on our feast day. Will you accept a drink in welcome?” He spread his hands gesturing to the kettles. “Then let me take you to the hall where you can rest and be refreshed.”

Laurel scooped up a dipperful of the ale and strode smartly up the slope. Lynet did the same, so there would be equal welcome for both men. The crowd parted for them, murmuring to themselves. The elders pushed the children behind them, but none spoke. Misrule might be the game of the festival day, but this thing was out of bounds. All of Cambryn's people saw the pikes and the swords. If it came to blows, shovels, picks and numbers might eventually cause the armed men to give over, but there would be a river of blood shed first.

Mesek gaze swept over them all, counting, calculating. His fingers rubbed the leather of his reins and his horse danced uneasily under him. Then, his thin lips twitched beneath the moustache, as if he did not know whether to smile or frown. But, he did slip from his saddle, bow his head to Laurel and drank from the ladle she offered up to him. It was an informal welcome cup, but it would serve. By accepting the drink, Mesek bound himself to the rules of hospitality and guestship. Colan, acting as Cambryn's lord, must now protect Mesek and his men as he would any of the folk of Cambryn, but Mesek could not now shed blood or offer violence in their home.

“Master Peran?” Colan inquired.

Peran only scowled at the dipper Lynet held out. Fire had made him a fearsome sight. But even beneath the burns she could tell he had been a hard-bitten man. He did not bother to measure the crowd on the river bank. He instead looked at Lynet, looked and wondered. Lynet bit her lip and made herself hold steady under his gaze.

“I will not drink with my son's murderer,” rasped Peran at last.

“You do not drink with him, Peran Treanhal,” said Colan quietly, taking the dipper from Laurel. “You drink with me.”

Peran's brows lowered until his eyes were almost lost in their folds, but he did at last dismount to accept the ladle from Lynet's cold hands. He raised it to Colan, who nodded in return, and watched closely as the chieftain sipped the amber liquid. With that single act, the tension that sang in the air eased. Lean Meg, always the quick one, came up behind the sisters with a bucket of ale drawn from the kettle. She and Lynet moved among the other men, offering each the dipper, welcoming and binding them all to the law with each draught.

Lynet tried not to notice how many of them eyed her with the same hard, thoughtful gaze as their chief.

By the time all had drunk, Colan had reclaimed his tunic and his cloak and, for all he was still soaked and mud stained, looked much more the young lord.

“Now, Masters,” he said pleasantly. “Will you walk with me?”

Mesek looked to Peran, his head cocked and his air so plainly mocking that Lynet shivered to see it.

Who can so calmly make mock of murder?

Colan stepped between the two chieftains, carefully not taking notice of at the hard-eyed men who accompanied them. Those men who shifted their weight, clutched their pole-arms, and eyed each other with the pure and burning anger that came from nothing less than a bloody hatred.

Mesek and Peran both found accord enough to fall into uneasy step with Colan, leading their horses alongside. Their men walked behind, clustering close to their fellows and chieftain and keeping well apart from those of the other clan. Lynet cast a worried glance at Laurel, who only handed her dipper off to Meg, hiked up her skirts and followed their brother.

Lynet, having no other choice, did the same.

Behind them, voices rose and the sounds of work began again, but muted now and more sporadic than before. The arrival of Kynhoem and Treanhal had drained the joy from the celebration, at least for now and it was a stranger and far less merry procession that trooped through the empty
castell
to the great house.

Cambryn's great house sprawled on the hilltop with the smaller dwellings spreading around it like a woman's rumpled skirts. Like the rest of Cambryn, it had grown up unevenly over uncounted years. It was by now, Lynet admitted to herself, a strange and ungainly place. Two separate halls thrust out at right angles from a round tower, which looked as if it stood between two disputing neighbors, keeping them from coming at each other. The oldest hall had stood in its place across a hundred generations, being constantly rebuilt on stones laid down in times too ancient to be remembered. The tower at the ancient hall's eastern end had been meant as a defence against the Romans, who never did manage to cross the moors to conquer the Dumonii. Instead, the Romans had sailed around the coast to buy their tin openly, and a flood of wealth had come to Cambryn. That wealth had built the second hall in an imitation of the Roman style with tiled floors, limed walls, many rooms, and many hearths to try to keep those rooms warm and dry against their land's cold and frequent rains.

As they crossed the open fields, Colan kept himself as firmly between Mesek and Peran as their tower kept itself between the two mis-matched halls. Not much talk passed between them, or their men, only black or worried looks. Lynet found herself watching her brother's broad back, trying to divine some hint of what he was thinking from his posture. Something nagged at her, but she could not have begun to say what it was.

Once they passed the first ring of ditches and earthworks, the horse paddock came into view. Colan paused, bowing in apology to Mesek and Peran both. “I fear our stablemen are down at the tinning,” he said. “For the moment, you must care for your beasts yourself. Darney can show you the stables.” He pointed at the lone boy with his withered arm who had come to hang over the slatted gate and gawp at the strangers arriving with the high family.