Under Camelot's Banner (43 page)

Above them all, the queen changed. She seemed to grow in stature, drawing the invisible cloak of royalty about her as she lifted up her arms. “So perish all enemies of God and the high king Arthur!”

The answering cheer was deafening. The women joined in with their own shouts. Only Lynet held herself silent.

“My Lord Lancelot,” cried the queen. “You will tap a cask of strong ale so that all may drink to the might of Squire Gareth, to the glory of the knights of the Table Round and all who follow them!”

Lynet had not thought it was possible for the cheers to grow louder, men now adding the queen's praises to the cacophony. For a moment she thought her head would split open and she swayed on her feet. Daere leaned close to help steady her, and Lynet was grateful for her there. Despite all this, Lynet marked how Lancelot's eyes lingered on the queen's before he bowed his head and stood, bowing from the waist and backing away until he could properly turn and relay the order for the ale to be brought. Gareth knelt where he was a little longer, looking toward Lynet until Lionel shook his shoulder roughly and hauled him to his feet to rejoin the celebrations.

Guinevere watched the crowd go, one hand resting on the pavilion rope.

“Majesty?” said Lady Mavis quietly. “What should be done with …?”

The queen looked down at the grisly trophy. “Let it be scraped and cleaned as best as can be done now. It will make the king a cloak for the winter.” She eyed the crowd gathering around Lancelot who now hoisted an ale keg high to a fresh chorus of cheers. “Despite the fact that the weather is now with us, I think we will not be moving this day.” She paused, considering. “So, my ladies you may as well go down and enjoy the festivities. I will stay here and wait on the lady Lynet.”

A chorus of thanks rose from the waiting ladies and their servants. Only Daere hesitated, but she moved quickly enough once she saw Lynet settled into a chair. When the last of them had gone, Queen Guinevere let the canvas fall, cutting off the sight of the celebration if not its boisterous noise.

“Well, Lady Lynet, you have helped win a famous victory.” The queen turned back toward her. “And there is nothing my lord Lancelot loves so well as victory,” she added softly. Then, she shook herself. “Are you well enough to while away the time and tell us the full tale?”

It was no polite request and Lynet knew it. She mustered her wits and spoke, telling how she had walked the mirror's road to find Gareth, and what had happened on the moor. When she faltered, the queen held out a cup so that she might drink a little.

Queen Guinevere listened to all in silence, as Lynet now knew was her way, asking no questions, making no interruptions and likewise, showing no feeling. Lynet could well understand why some called her cold who did not know all she held beneath the surface.

When at last she was done, the queen spoke softly. “This mirror you carry, what is the price of its use?”

“I don't understand, Majesty.”

“Come, Lynet,” she said impatiently. “All such things demand a price of the one who wields them. The older and stronger they are, the greater the price. What is the cost of the hire of this thing for you?”

“It tires me …”

“And that is all?”

Lynet meant to answer ‘yes,' but something stopped her. She thought of Ryol and his fading garden, of the pull against her soul the last time she entered that place, of how even now as she thought of him, part of her wanted to reach for the mirror. She wanted to be there again, to know what might be learned in that place apart.

“No,” she whispered.

“No.” The queen repeated. “You will give it to me.”

“What!”

The queen only looked at her with cool eyes.

“It is mine!” Lynet said, aware she was pleading like a child for a toy. “It belongs to my family,” she amended.

“Lynet of Cambryn,” the force of the queen's voice cut across her thoughts like a knife. “Do not force me to remind you once more who I am, or that all that is yours is by right mine.”

Lynet shrank back. Her hands trembled. She had no strength left to her to resist, however very much she wanted to. “No, Majesty.”

The queen rose and took the purse from Lynet's belt. She did not open it, but instead tucked it into her own broad woven girdle. When she turned again to Lynet, she was no longer the cold queen. She was a simple woman of middle years, weary from her endless chores.

“I am sorry, Lynet,” she said, running her hand across her brow. “For everything.” Queen Guinevere fell into her own chair as if she suddenly lacked the strength to stand. “I wanted this to be easier. I wanted … Ah, Mother of God.” She shook her head once more. “I should not have left matters so long. You see …” she paused, uncertain, and then went on. “You see, beyond all the reasons of loyalty and pride and peace between the Dumonii and the rest of the Britons, I had my own reasons for leaving Cambryn as it was.

“I had thought by now to have children of my own to return to Cambryn and take up the rule there, so that the right order and fealty might be preserved.”

She spoke calmly, practically, but Lynet saw the tears glittering in Guinevere's eyes. Those tears did not fall. They remained shimmering in her eyes like a false promise, shining bright but never becoming true. “But God, it seems, has declared it is not to be, unless he means to make a second Sarah of me.” She smiled a little at her own jest.

“So. Clearly, among the things that must now be done. The rule in Cambryn must be settled. I would that you had not decided to back up your bets by hazarding Morgaine. It will make things much harder.”

“Yes, Majesty,” was all Lynet could say.

“We can delay no more tomorrow. I will not let Morgaine steal more of a march on us than necessary.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

Queen Guinevere got to her feet. “Now, I too must put in an appearance at the festival outside. I had also better make sure no more than one cask has been drained.” She smiled sourly at the noise that had not ceased for a moment for all their solemn talk. “Come, let us get you to bed.”

As deftly as any lady's maid, the queen rose her to her feet and supported her back to her pallet. She laid down and the queen arranged the coverings over her.

“Let your mind be at ease, Lynet. We will make things right. Try to rest and gather your strength.” The queen touched Lynet's brow once, briefly. Then, she drew herself up, once more becoming the high queen of Camelot, and walked out of the pavilion leaving tired Guinevere behind.

Lynet stared up at the wavering ceiling of canvas overhead and tried not to cry. She did not wish to rest. She wished to be about some business, any business. But her hands ached to deeply to move of their own accord, and the few strides she had taken before had left her weak. Above all though, she felt the absence of the mirror like the loss of a limb.

What will I do?
she bit her lip.
What can I do? Laurel doesn't know about Colan. She won't know anything until it is too late.

Then came the sound of a step outside, and a soft man's voice. “Lynet? My lady?”

Light spilled across her as the canvas opened. She tried to sit up, but could only turn her head to watch Gareth cross the pavilion's grassy floor. He looked down on her. He had thought to wash the blood off himself, but he was still haggard and there were dark circles under his eyes. He was breathing hard, as if he had run some great distance.

Slowly, he knelt beside her, as he had knelt to the queen. There was no mockery or irony in him now, only his soul laid bare behind his eyes. He reached out, hesitantly, plainly fearing to cause her pain, and touched his fingertips to hers.

No word passed between them. There was nothing but that touch so light against her hand. Yet in that moment, certainty came to her and the understanding that opened one human heart fully to another.

A thousand thoughts occurred to her then. This could not be real. It was only the relief of finding herself alive when she should be dead. She could not love, she was condemned by her own actions. This man could not want her as she was, nor was he the kind to wish for one woman only when there were so many others to be had.

Lynet set all that aside so she could look into Gareth's eyes.

“I came to thank you,” he said softly. “Once more you have saved me.”

She smiled, and tried to speak lightly, remembering him dancing about and throwing dirt clods to chase off a demon. “Well, you more than repaid me out on the moor.”

Humor shone in his summer brown eyes. “I had gotten used to being in your debt, my lady. I don't know what I shall do with my freedom.”

A ringing began in Lynet's ears, and her heartbeat grew slow and heavy. “What do you wish to do with it?”

“I wish to show you that Sir Tristan does not stand for all men of the Table Round,” he whispered. He spoke the words as if he had held them long inside. “I wish to show you the faithfulness of one man of Camelot.”

He kissed her then, softly, a brush of the lips and nothing more. It might have been a chaste gesture, a kiss of peace, save that it left within Lynet a burning so fierce that the sea itself could not have quenched it, but it was so sweet, so infinitely, impossibly sweet.

“Gareth …”

“No, Lynet,” he said and from the ache in his voice she knew he felt that same impossible sweetness. “Let it bide. Accept it. Whatever may come next, for this moment, let it be real and be only what it is.” He rose then, and her throat closed to see him move away. “Daere saw me come,” he told her with his smallest smile. “I do not want her to think I had time to commit any dishonorable act.” He bowed, and he was swiftly gone.

In the wake of his leaving, Lynet no longer felt uneasy. She lay, content to rest, and to feel the echo of his lips against hers.
Let it bide. Accept it.
She had heard such words before, and she had never forgotten where.

It had been in the blackest time, when she had returned home from Tintagel, when her father had refused to send her to the convent, but instead had sent her to Bishop Austell to confess and receive penance.

She remembered the bishop's face as she knelt before him in the chapel, telling him all she had done. She had thought at the time it was stoney anger and disappointment at her that had carved the lines so deeply into his face. Now she understood he was trying to keep himself from crying aloud. When she finished, he bowed his head for a long moment, and his lips moved in prayer, for guidance, she thought, perhaps for strength and patience. Even after he breathed an inaudible amen, he stayed as he was, looking at the stones beneath his feet, both his calloused hands wrapped about his crucifix.

At last, he looked up and met her eyes.
He'll release me,
she thought, wild with hope.
He'll tell me I must go to the sisters and spend my life in cloistered penance.

But he did not. “You will walk barefoot to the well of the blessed Saint Menefreda, and you will thank God aloud every step of the way for your life and your repentance.” His voice was hard, but his gaze did not leave hers, not even as her face fell. “There you will wash in its waters and pray three times.” He made the sign of the cross over her head. “And may God and the Holy Virgin walk with you, my child.”

Although it was not the cloistered escape she'd longed for, it was God's word, and Lynet undertook her penance with a will. Barefoot, she walked across the stoney countryside, wearing only a rough, grey, woolen shift and carrying only a pilgrim's staff, her hair unbound and her head uncovered. As she walked she cried out to God, until her voice was no more than a whisper. The rough spun wool rubbed her skin raw, covering her with bright red weals. Her feet, though took the worst of it. By the time she reached the well, her feet were utterly raw. Stones had cut and worn down the skin and frost-hardened earth had torn them and coated them with filth.

The holy well was in a green and sheltered grotto. The wind did not come here. There was only the rush and chatter of the stream where it bubbled from the stoney hillside. The last of summer lingered here, with the ferns and bracken still green and the earth still soft. But she saw little of the beauty by then. The pain in her feet all but made her swoon as she knelt beside the stream where it trickled down its well-worn channel.

As prescribed, she bathed three times in the water, and with what little was left of her voice, she prayed. Night fell and the cold was unbearable. She crept beneath a mound of fallen leaves, seeking for warmth like a wild animal. Shivering from the cold, hunger and pain, she fell into a stupor neither waking nor sleeping, and yet is seemed to her she dreamed. For with her blurred eyes, she saw a shining form step out of the wall that slowly resolved itself into a woman. White hair cascaded down her shoulders and a gown of white covered her. Lynet sat up, open mouthed in her awe, and in the next moment she prostrated herself on the ground.

“Holy Mary, Blessed Virgin, Mother of God….” she babbled and croaked, her mind so stunned she could only gasp out the torrent of titles. But gentle hands raised her up, and lifted her face so she must meet a pair of eyes as tranquil and grey as the sea at rest.

“Such names are not for me, my daughter. Save them for their proper owner.”

“But … but then who …”

“One who cares for your mother's children and answers their call when she can.” The lady smiled a smile of love and deep sorrow. “You will learn my name when you are ready to hear it.”

She knelt then, and touched Lynet's wounded feet.

“I can heal you, but I cannot make you whole. It is your heart alone that can make that miracle. But accept this much child. Accept it and let it bide. The rest will come when you forgive yourself.” She laid her cool hands against Lynet's feet, and she kissed Lynet's brow with a brush like the touch of sea foam, and she was gone.