by Sarah Zettel
But he knew the wrong was there now, both without, and within. He had spoken the words in her presence, and he had believed them. All this waiting was pure folly. All his mother’s reassurances could not wash it away. It had been growing in him for some time, this niggling, nagging suspicion that it was nothis mother’s visions, or even the revenge he wanted as badly as she did that prevented them moving against the living King Lot.
What if, what if she enjoyed her nightly visits to him too much? Got some woman’s pleasure out of it that she was loath to give up, the way a drunkard could not give up his whisky?
What if he, Lot, had managed to seduce her somehow? He had done as much to her sister …
Mordred’s jaw clenched. He should not doubt her. Shame crawled through him at the very thought. But he did doubt. He had seen her power, knew its strength and its worth better than any man living, but the deeper they drew themselves towards the reality of war, the less he liked depending on it. What was done in smoke and darkness could be undone by fire and daylight. It was not foolishness to make sure they had a position to safely fall back to.
This was his war. He could not leave victory to the whim of his mother’s need and power, however strong those might be. There was far too much that could go wrong here, now, in the visible world.
“You,” he said to a passing man with the raven’s silhouette on his leather jacket. “Find the messenger from Londinium and bring him to my fire.”
The man bowed and strode off on his errand. Mordred took up his horse’s reins again and led the beast through the maze of the encampment, trying not to look like he was leaving in haste. He hated the feeling that his mother could hear his thoughts, the idea that she sat in her shadows this very moment, frowning at the turn his ideas had taken.
Mordred had no pavilion for himself. The only difference between the place beside his little fire and all the others surrounding it was the blue banner with its black raven fluttering in the morning’s fitful breeze. He wanted to be sure his command was respected because of his actions, not through display of wealth or rank. He had enough wealth to be generous when occasion demanded, but otherwise, he lived as his men did; sleeping out in the open and caring for his horses and his gear himself. When it rained, he was wet. When it was cold, he huddled beside his fire and sent up his curses in white clouds of frozen breath.
Mordred removed his horse’s saddle and bridle, hobbled it loosely, set down some oats for it to graze, and squatted down beside his fire to lay on a handful of extra fuel.
“My lord, here is Oeric.”
Mordred stood, dusting his hands and nodding his thanks to the soldier. Oeric could not have been hard to find. His hair shone like gold amid the sea of muddy brown and midnight black heads belonging Mordred’s company. Likewise his skin showed bright red where the sun had burned it and his eyes icy blue. Oeric had a sailor’s hard, crooked hands, bulging arms and straight legs. He looked Mordred up and down, weighing and judging, and not thinking much of what he saw.
That was all right. “Do you go back to Londinium now?” he asked in the Saxon’s language.
The man’s eyes widened, startled to hear his own harsh tongue in a Briton’s mouth. “I do,” he answered. “Got my own to keep, haven’t I?”
Mordred nodded. “So do we all. Well, I thank you for the pains you have taken so far.” He slipped the silver cuff off his own wrist and held it up. “For you, for what you’ve done, and for another service I’d ask of you.”
Oeric took the ring, openly weighing it in his hand as he had weighed Mordred in his gaze. Evidently, both satisfied him, and he slid the cuff onto his own wrist. “What can I do for you, Lord?”
Mordred took the gold ring from his finger. It was decorated with a midnight black stone, etched with a raven in flight. It had been his since he had come to manhood. He did not like the thought of parting with it now, but it was the most recognizable sigil he had about him.
“Take this ring to the Jarl Sifred of Londinium. You tell him that Mordred ap Morgaine pledges him twelve rings of gold, and lasting friendship besides, if Sir Agravain never leaves his city.”
Oeric closed his hand around the ring. “It will be done, Lord.”
Mordred nodded. “Good. Tell him to send me word by you when it is.”
Oeric made his salute and tucked the ring into his broad belt. Mordred watched him march away with the rolling gate of one who lived more on water than on land.
And it is done. If Agravain gets himself killed in Londinium, everything just becomes that much easier. If he makes it out alive, well, we will be here waiting for him.
It was not really betrayal. Not really doubt. He was aiding the cause of their family, as he had always done. That was all.
That is all. Mordred turned to his fire again and tried his hardest to believe that.
• • •
Agravain held out his hand to help Laurel step from the boat onto the stone slab of the quay. She lifted her brows at this courtesy — it was not as if she must worry about her stout boots taking a wetting — and received the slightest quirk of his mouth in reply.
It had taken three days to sail from Camelot to Londinium. Their single-masted, round-bottomed boat was crewed by a pair of dour men; an uncle and nephew as near as Laurel could make out from their infrequent comments. What she did know was that Ros had hired them, and they had, it seemed, been waiting for Agravain impatiently for some three days by the time he and Laurel arrived at the harbour from Camelot.
It had been an easy voyage with fair winds and a calm sea. Laurel felt certain this was a gift from her grandmother, but she had not been inclined to call attention to the fact. They spent the nights in fishing villages on the shore where the headmen were more than willing to host a prince on his way to his own country, especially one who would freely reward such courtesy with a ring of bronze or silver, or a length of good cloth from his wife’s chests.
The days were spent mostly sitting side-by-side in the prow of the boat, keeping out of the way, and singing.
This had been Agravain’s idea, his way of teaching her the language of his home, of which she knew precious little. He would sing a verse of an old ballad, tell her what it meant, and sing it over again with her, until her pronunciation met his exacting standards. For all that, he was a surprisingly patient teacher, and his voice was of a pleasant, middling range. They even laughed sometimes when her tongue stumbled in a particularly egregious fashion, or, far more rarely, his memory failed him.
Sometimes at night when he held her, he hummed beneath his breath, so that this was the last thing she heard before she fell asleep.
Laurel found herself looking at him with growing wonder. She suspected not even Sir Kai knew this part of him. But as with the serene weather, she feared to call attention to it, lest somehow she break the peaceful spell that swaddled their voyage.
Despite this pleasant idyll, she was not at all surprised to see Agravain’s more familiar, more wary aspect take firm hold as they slogged up the muddy shore of Londinium’s low, broad river. Here, he had said, was where they began to learn how well his long preparations had taken hold.
Londinium was a strange place. The riverbank had become a kind of permanent market. Men of a half-dozen lands — Aquitaine, Bretagne, Languedoc, Andalusia, even one or two of Byzantium and Rome — moved about between crowds of yellow-haired Saxons. All the voices, all the languages mixed together with the calls of hundreds of animals into an indecipherable gabble. The whole world seemed occupied in either getting cargo off ships, or loading it on, where they were not sitting down with jugs of liquor. Men hefted jars, chests, and bulging sacks. The scents of spices and spirits rivalled the smells of sweat, manure and mud. A trader with earth-brown skin led a string of horses with such delicate legs Laurel wondered how they could bear their own weight. Other men herded fat, red cattle that the chieftains in her home country would have traded their daughters, or perhaps even their sons, for. Still others held the leash
es of huge, shaggy hounds that could bring down an elk, or even a bear.
The few women in evidence were dressed in the plainest stuff, their braided hair decorated with baubles of bronze or brass, or a few bright ribbons. They tended fires and pens, and poured out measures of liquor for the men. They cast as many measuring glances at Laurel as their menfolk did.
What was truly strange about the place was the way it was even now taking shape over the bones of the older city. Broken walls stuck out of the mud here. She could seen the remains of Romanish carvings, tiles and mosaics, but all of them seemed to be incorporated into something else. A wattle and daub hut had been built on a floor of baked bricks. The field stone and timber watchtower that rose up to dominate the scene owed its neat square to the smooth Roman stones at its base. A design in shining blue glass gleamed under the muddy boots of two men sitting under no more roof than the sky, sharing a jug. A curving wall carved with dancing women was now part of a crude warehouse, and a fluted column made one pillar for a pen for squealing, brown pigs.
None of this mis-matched enterprise, nor the crowd and crush of those who on other ground would gladly run him through, seemed to give Agravain any pause. He craned his neck this way and that, plainly looking for some person or thing, frowned because it was not instantly in evidence.
Then, Laurel saw a slender man in a forest-green tunic, his left arm crooked strangely against his chest, making a beeline toward them. She touched Agravain’s arm and pointed. Agravain did not smile, but she knew his face well enough to see that he did relax, just a little.
“Sir Agravain,” said the man in court Latin as soon as he was close enough. He bowed deeply, if not gracefully. “It is good to see you, my lord.”
“Squire Devi. You are in good time.”
Squire?
Laurel found herself staring at the man. Devi was a brown-haired young man, but no longer a youth. Indeed, he looked perhaps only a year or two younger than Agravain himself. Like his master, he dressed plainly and went clean shaven. His only ornament was a bronze brooch in the shape of a soaring falcon, the sigil of Agravain’s own house. What set Devi apart though, was that his left arm had met with some accident of birth or misadventure, and the fingers on that hand were twisted twigs, and plainly useless. His good hand, which Agravain now clasped, was stained with an odd mix of mud and ink.
Agravain turned to her. “This is the Lady Laurel,” he said to Devi. “My wife.”
Devi stared at her, exactly as she stared at him, plainly stunned to find that there existed such a creature. He swallowed and bowed hastily. “God be with you, my lady.”
“And with you, squire,” she replied gravely. “I am glad to meet one who has plainly looked after my husband’s business so ably.”
The squire flushed a little, but at the same time his hunched shoulders relaxed. “It has been my privilege, my lady.” From someone else, this might have been mere politeness, but Devi spoke the words with a wealth of feeling.
It was loyalty. Pure and simple. It shone in the man’s eyes. She had never yet seen anyone show this towards Agravain, with the single exception of Sir Kai. What else are you hiding out here in the hinterlands my husband?
This, however, was all the time Agravain was prepared to allow for courtesy. “How much is ready?” he asked Devi.
“Everything, my lord,” answered the squire, his chest puffing out with pride. “We can begin loading as soon as we have the ships to take the cargo.”
Agravain nodded once in sober approval. “Have you found us some likely masters?”
“I have, but they were reluctant to believe one such as myself,” he shrugged so that his withered arm jerked a little, “could give them something worthwhile for their troubles.”
“Well, we shall see if we can change their minds on that score. We must find …”
The squelch and slap of sandals in mud cut off Agravain’s words. A boy splashed through the crowd, dodging men, beasts and drowning cobbles, but plainly heading towards their little gathering. His fair hair and blue eyes marked him as Saxon and his deep blue tunic spoke of some wealth or rank.
“Jarl Agravain mach Lot?” the boy asked breathlessly, giving Agravain’s title in their guttural tongue.
“I am,” Agravain acknowledged in the same language.
“I am sent by Jarl Sifred Hunwald, the holder and protector of Londinium. He welcomes you to his city, and salutes you in brotherly greeting. He invites you and yours to share bread and hearth with him tonight.”
Sifred Hunwald. Laurel knew the name. Sifred was the one who made treaty with Arthur and ended the war between the Britons and the much-diminished band of Saxons. He had not joined the Great Peace, neither had he disturbed it. There were many who said the High King was a fool to allow him holding on the island, especially one encompassing this rich river port. But once given, Arthur would not break his word, and so far, Sifred Hunwald had not broken his.
Agravain’s face remained neutral upon hearing the invitation, but Laurel could all but feel the quick calculations thrumming through him. This was unexpected, but having come, could not in courtesy, or indeed safety, be refused.
“Tell Jarl Sifred we will not fail him.”
“Then you will know his thanks, worthy sir.” The boy bowed hastily and loped off once more, expertly dodging men, carts and animals as he made his way back up the long, shallow slope.
“And his purpose too, I hope,” murmured Agravain.
Laurel considered. “Perhaps he hopes to find out what yours is, now that you are here.”
“It may be.” But Agravain was plainly not convinced of this. “However, it makes us more formally guests here, at least until we have heard him, and that is no bad thing.” Having determined this, he set it aside at once. He was itching to get to his main business. “My lady, I fear I must ask you to wait with the boat. There is no suitable escort or company I can leave you with while Devi and I see to what is needed.”
“Of course.” In truth, Laurel was not sorry for the excuse to retreat. She had not been prepared for this teeming, stinking, half-built place, and neither was she ready for her own reaction to the sight of so many yellow Saxon heads, or the flash of light in their clear blue eyes. Anyone who saw her white hair and pale skin might think her at home here, but these were not in any way her kindred. These were the enemy, who crashed up against the bulwark that Arthur and his knights made. These were the ones, who, if allowed, would flood the whole of the isle and leave no more alive than they needed for slaves. Laurel had found herself moving closer to Agravain, trying hard not to cringe as so many curious, hard blue gazes lit her way. The ship’s master was at least a known quantity. If he was silent, he was steady and exacted steady work from his nephew.
Agravain walked Laurel back to the boat, and helped her over the rail. The master heard his charge of her without either complaint or enthusiasm. As soon as his nephew came trudging back with two bowls of a powerful smelling eel stew, the two of them hunkered down on the quay to eat, and block the way of anyone who might approach with business or mischief in mind.
Without looking back, Agravain, with Devi all but running to keep up, strode into the surging crowds of Londinium, and was lost to her sight.
Laurel let out a sigh and brushed her trailing veil back over her shoulders. The boat rocked under her as she sat down on the bench, gazing out at the rippling brown water. Abandoned once again. The thought flickered through her mind, and she swatted it angrily aside. It was unworthy. If she chaffed at idleness, she should find some way to busy herself. It was not Agravain’s role to always provide her company.
But it was more than that, if she admitted it to herself. The whole journey had been strange, not like the feeling of homecoming she was used to when she travelled the water. It was as if she must hold some part of herself back, in defence or deference. But in deference to what? Agravain? The marriage? She twisted her hands together.
And is it really me that holds back, or is it
you? She wondered towards the river. What did Merlin say to you?
The water made no answer. It lazily rocked the bobbing boats, lapping at both ship and shore, its soft voice unheard under the roar and gabble of so much mortal activity. Even by her.
It occurred to her wonder if Agravain’s ease had been bred by the water itself. She had been so caught up in wondering what her oath of marriage meant for herself and her future, she had forgotten to wonder if it worked any change in him to now be blood of her blood and flesh of her flesh.
It was a strange thought, and not entirely a comfortable one. Laurel shook herself. She could not sit here and brood. That Agravain must now plunge back into preparations for Din Eityn after their brief interlude should not come as any shock to her. She was no whey-faced child bride. She was wife of a prince, soon a king. She must start to act like it.
Laurel looked left and right, seeking some way of distracting herself. The only means that came to hand was her chests. She’d had no opportunity to inspect their contents on the journey. Now, she opened them, shifting the contents carefully, examing fabric, ornament and treasure for signs of damage from insect or, more pertinently, from water.
That, and the evidence of Agravain’s labours kept her from having to dwell too much on her own thoughts. Their quay quickly became its own small market. An hour or so after he left with Agravain, Squire Devi returned and stationed himself at the foot of the dock. Every few minutes another man would come up and greet him, usually a trader or merchant with a stylus and a tablet hanging from his belt. Ships lifted their anchors, moving themselves closer to their tiny craft. These were not little cogs like the one they travelled in, but great, oared long ships with square, striped sails. They let down their gangways to allow the merchant’s crews to begin their laiding.
