by Mia West
When Lot’s crew pulled alongside, Gawain addressed them. There followed a longish exchange in the northern tongue. Palahmed could decipher none of it exactly, though the man piloting the other boat didn’t seem to recognize Gawain. For his part, the young hawk’s voice was strong, his words curt and blunt in the way of northmen, and Palahmed was reminded that every man sounded most competent in his native tongue. As well as Gawain spoke Cymrish—possibly longer than Palahmed had done, despite the difference in their ages—this was something else altogether. Made him want to learn this northern language just to hear Gawain speak it more often. And perhaps teach him bits of the tongue Palahmed had been born to. He only ever spoke it with Safir and the very occasional trader from the great middle sea. As painful as his leaving had been, few things gripped a man so strongly as the shapes of the words that had surrounded him as a boy.
A series of barks from the other captain broke into his thoughts. Lot’s boat was sliding past them, intending, evidently, to escort them to the harbor from astern. Their own captain stepped to where Gawain stood at the rail and spoke low to him. Gawain replied just as softly, with a slight tilt of his head toward the island in the distance.
They put the oars back into the water and resumed their approach, Lot’s boat following them. Gawain strode past him down the aisle, and Palahmed heard him talking to Arthur and Bedwyr. He kept an eye on the other boat, discerning what he could while rowing. It held perhaps a dozen men and their weapons but was too light a craft to hold more than a day’s supplies. These were men who slept on the island, patrolling only during daylight. Most seafaring fellows Palahmed had met were scruffy sorts, sporting long hair and beards. But these men were as closely clipped as Gawain usually was. Palahmed had always thought it a personal choice of the younger man’s, but if this group was representative of Lot’s men, perhaps there was a deeper reason for it. There must be, frankly; it was too fucking cold up here to give up the insulating promise of longer hair for fashion alone.
As he made a mental note to ask Gawain about it tonight, the northern captain approached the rail of his boat. Once there, he lifted a sack and swung it in a high circle above his head. Whatever was in the sack was small but solid, filling its bottom, so that when the man released it toward the deeper water to port, the bag’s arc was flat, falling quickly. As Palahmed was wondering what might inspire a man to throw away a perfectly functional sack, someone sprinted past him.
That someone was Gawain, and when he reached the stern, he vaulted over the rail and into the sea.
Palahmed stood, forgetting himself, and the oar struck him across the belly. His benchmate grumbled, but Palahmed didn’t hear the words. His focus was entirely on the form of the young man slicing his way through the iron-colored chop to where the top of the sack was just visible.
He wanted to shout. He wanted to scream. What in the name of God was Gawain thinking, diving into the freezing sea, and after what? A bag of refuse? He stood, rooted to the deck, unable to do anything but watch in horror.
Gawain made it to the sack just as its strings slipped under the surface, and he pushed it back up. The thing seemed to move in his hand, and he lost his grip, but then he had it again. He bobbed there—speaking to the sack, for God’s sake—and Palahmed wanted to throttle him.
“Gwalchmai!” he shouted.
The outburst drew everyone’s attention. He felt their eyes on him, but the only ones that mattered were the green pair that met his. Even from this distance, he saw the defiant flash in them.
Oh, he’d have this one’s arse, he would. As soon as he got him back over the rail.
As both vessels waited, rolling, Gawain swam back toward him. He held the sack above the waves, even when they swamped his head now and again. Every time that happened, Palahmed’s breath was snatched from his lungs, and he’d stare, helpless, chest burning, until Gawain’s dark head surfaced again. When he finally reached the ship, Palahmed found himself clutching the stern rail. He reached over it.
“Give me your arm!”
Instead, Gawain sculled that arm and lifted the sack toward him.
“Fuck that—your arm!”
“Take it!” Gawain said, then coughed as he got a mouthful of water. The sack wobbled and fell into the surf with a splash.
“Grab hold,” Palahmed growled.
But the infuriating fool lifted the sack to him again. Frustrated, Palahmed jerked it from his grip and dropped it on the deck behind him. Then he leaned as far as he dared and took hold of the arm Gawain finally held up to him. Together, he and the captain hauled Gawain aboard.
He landed on the deck with a squelching thump. After a few breaths and another cough, he nodded to the captain. “Thanks. Carry on.” Then he dragged the sack toward him.
Palahmed stared.
The captain gave the order, and their ship lurched. “Back to your station,” the man said.
Palahmed ignored him and knelt next to Gawain. He was clawing at the sack’s strings, but his hands were shaking too much to work them. “Leave it!”
“H-help me!”
The desperation in his voice snagged something deep in Palahmed’s gut, and he took the bag. The strings had been knotted. Soaked with seawater, they were all the tighter now. He picked at them, clumsy in his anger, but after a few failed attempts, he managed to loosen one. Gawain grabbed the bag back and jerked the ties open. Digging inside, he lifted out a small bundle of wool.
No, not wool.
Fur.
A puppy, soaking and limp.
Gawain turned the creature tail-end up and pressed it to his chest. Then he began to rub its back briskly. “Come now. Come, pup.”
“Gawain—”
“Aye, there’s a good one.” Gawain rubbed and rubbed, his features set with a determination as stalwart as a stone wall, even as his limbs began to tremble with cold. “You weren’t under long,” he said. “Let’s hear you now.”
And then they did. The small body flinched and sputtered, spilling a bit more water onto Gawain’s sopping shirt, and then it was wriggling vigorously, as if it hadn’t just been half-dead. Gawain righted it, pressing his nose into its neck.
“What were you thinking?” Palahmed hissed at him. The pup swiped a spotted tongue over Gawain’s chin, and Palahmed wanted to heave them both back into the sea. “You could’ve died.”
Gawain gave him a dubious glance.
“Don’t look at me like that, you idiot. The water’s like ice.”
“Nay,” Gawain said. He smiled—at the pup, God damn the thing. “Only a bit chilly. Eh, girl?”
“You’ll freeze.” Palahmed struggled out of his own cloak and shoved it behind Gawain, tugging roughly until he could drape it forward across his arms. Gripping it in his fists, he gave it a shake. Gawain’s head knocked lightly on the side of the ship, but he didn’t seem to notice. “What have you to say for yourself?”
Gawain didn’t answer for a long moment, only stroked the dog’s wet ears. When he finally looked up, his eyes had that defiant brilliance about them again. “Thank you for your help, shieldmate. We’ll be arriving soon. You’d best get back to rowing.”
Palahmed stared at him, as rigid as if he’d fallen overboard himself. Had the man no care for his well-being? Or even the common fucking sense of a lad half his age? The urge to kill him was strong.
Fortunately for Gawain, the compulsion to drag his body close and warm it forcibly was stronger. That urge got Palahmed moving, finally, away from him. He stalked back to his bench, ignoring the other men’s curious gazes, and took up his oar.
The sooner they were all back on land, the better.
Chapter 11
Gawain stepped onto the dock and took in his father’s stronghold. Its stone walls stood as dark and heavy as they ever had, rising from the wind-scoured slopes of the island as if Lot had carved his fortress out of them. Having now seen the size of Rhys’s settlement, and several others during his years in the south, he could see that this one was
smaller in relation. Even so, it loomed over the docks, making it seem more imposing than it was, and Gawain had no doubt that had been intentional. He knew every crack and crevice of this place, and still it made his skin feel as if tide scum clung to it, clammy and chill. He scanned the top of the watchtower. A man stood there, but no one he recognized. One of the men who’d escorted them called to the dock-keeper, a man Gawain might have known, or perhaps his eldest son. The keeper took off for the gate at a run.
Gawain turned to Arthur. “We’re to wait here.”
Arthur’s keen eyes were taking in the walls. “But you’re family.”
“Sometimes family is only a word.” He couldn’t help glancing at Palahmed then.
He received a glare as stony as the structure behind him. Tucking the pup against his chest, he turned back to it.
He didn’t know if he’d ever intended to come back to this place. His head shouted no! When he’d left these islands and the man who ruled them, it hadn’t mattered that he was leaving as Agravain’s servant. He was headed south—far south—into the territory of the young bear Arthur and his steady shieldmate Bedwyr. He had practically leapt into the ship, half scared his father would force him to remain behind at the last moment.
But his heart knew different. His heart knew that, in secret, he’d wanted to return here someday, proud and accomplished. To prove to everyone in this place that he’d been worth something. As a warrior, foremost. As someone with skills and talents others envied. And, in the deepest wishing pools inside him, as someone who meant all that and more to another man. And to have that man at his back when he stepped ashore.
He did have three men at his back on this day. Against his wildest imaginings, Arthur and Bedwyr were among them. But the two of them were blood-bound to each other. The third man looked as if he wanted to choke the life from Gawain’s body.
So much for secret hopes.
After maybe a quarter hour, the dock-keeper came back through the gate and made his way along the dock. When he reached them, he nodded. “You four, come along.”
Up close, the man didn’t seem as familiar, but then his people aged more quickly than those in the south. Gawain had long since decided it was their way to be free of Lot that much sooner. This man led them through the gate and into the winding passages of the stronghold. Instead of taking them to Lot’s hall, however, he delivered them to Morgawse’s door and left them there. Gawain knocked on the post.
“Enter.”
Stepping into the chamber was like stepping into the past. Everything was the same as it had been then—scents of incense and wax and dried herbs, the fierce glow of the coals in the hearth and the heat they pushed against the skin. And her.
She stood next to the hearth. It was a posture he’d seen her use countless times before, one arm at her side, the other hand resting on the great carved mantel. She looked proud and self-possessed. The mistress of the fort. Wife of the lord of the Orcait.
His mother.
Words failed him, as if whipped away by a rogue gust. What should he say? What could he say? He’d not meant to see her again, and yet he knew he’d wanted to. As much grief as being her pet had cost him.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, she smiled and crossed to him. Her hands framed his face, cool and dry to the touch. “Gwalchmai.”
It came out as a whisper—wonder and pleasure and everything he’d never thought to hear from her again—and when she embraced him, he found himself hugging her tightly in return. He was slightly taller than she was now, which was strange. But she smelled the same, sweet and spicy with the gorse flowers she steeped in oil for the purpose.
The pup wriggled under his cloak and he pulled away. Her gaze dipped to it, then down over his clothing, which was still fairly damp. When she met his eye again, she shook her head. “You always were doing things you shouldn’t.”
There were things under and between the words, and her tone said that if they’d been alone, she might have said more. But they weren’t alone. He stepped back. “Mother, this is Bedwyr—Uthyr’s son.”
“You think I wouldn’t know my own nephew?” She framed Bedwyr’s face with her hands, just as she had done to Gawain, and studied him. “You’re the very reflection of your father.”
“Aunt.”
She smiled. “Shy, are you? Perhaps not quite identical to Uthyr. Perhaps for the better.”
Bedwyr nodded, looking uncertain, then tipped his head toward Arthur. “My shieldmate. Arthur ap Matthias.”
Morgawse laughed, almost a girlish sound. “You all act as if you aren’t legends around these parts. As if we wouldn’t recognize you on sight.” She gave Arthur’s red beard a playful tickle. “Like the rising sun and the setting one all at once.”
Arthur bowed to Morgawse. “Aunt.”
“Ah, yes. You’re bound to my niece. And you shield my nephew. How cozy.”
Bedwyr’s gaze flicked to Gawain.
“Mother, this is Palahmed. My shieldmate,” he added, though it still sounded strange to say so.
Palahmed stepped up next to Gawain as Morgawse turned to them. She closed one hand over the other at her waist and gave Palahmed a once-over. “You shield my son?”
“Yes, my lady.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “And how is that going for you?”
Palahmed looked at Gawain, his expression unreadable, before turning back to Morgawse. “I won’t lie to you, my lady. It’s a trial.”
Arthur snorted.
Arseholes.
But it earned Palahmed a broad smile. “Said every nursemaid Gwalchmai ever had.”
Palahmed chuckled, joining everybody else in the room.
Gawain fought the heat creeping up his neck. “Where’s Lot?”
“Your father and Agravain are on the mainland, hunting. The weather only broke a few days ago, and they leapt at the chance to make the crossing.” She shrugged at the others. “Living on an island can make a man restless. Add winter to the mix and they get downright surly.” She crossed toward the hearth, making a dismissive gesture. “I practically tossed them into the boats myself. Broth?”
“The mainland’s an island too.”
His mother ladled steaming broth into several horn cups. “They’re all islands, son. Some are just bigger than others.” She set the cups on a tray and carried them over.
Each man took one, but no man drank.
Right. Gawain took a healthy sip from his, then another because the marrow broth was rich and hot and very, very familiar.
The others drank then, and Morgawse crossed back to the hearth to hang the tray on its hook.
“Did Gareth and Gahers go with them?”
“No.”
“Are they about?”
“Your brothers are collecting mussels.”
Gawain felt his spine stiffen.
Collecting mussels. What could be more ordinary for lads who lived and played by the sea? But Gawain knew the lie; it was the one Morgawse always told when an outsider asked after the whereabouts of her younger sons. His brothers weren’t in the mussel cove. They were being safeguarded somewhere in the stronghold, because despite the welcome she’d given Gawain and the men with him, they were all outsiders. Even him.
Which was what he’d wanted. So why did it hurt?
“You look weary, Gwalchmai. Come. I’ll show you all to your chambers. I’ll have the kitchen bring food, and you can rest.” She led them to the door with a smile.
Of all the things that had felt familiar, he knew that smile best.
~ ~ ~
Palahmed rapped lightly at the entry post. The voice he’d come to relish hearing every day spoke from within, a couple of sounds he took for permission to enter.
He pulled the curtain aside and stepped into the chamber. He didn’t miss the way Gawain’s expectant expression fell. He sat on the floor before a small hearth, hunched over whatever he held in his lap—the pup, surely. He turned his attention back to it.
Palahmed c
rossed the chamber to stand next to him.
Gawain looked into the fire, then back at the pup, which slept in the crook of his arm. “If you’ve come about your chamber…well, there’s nothing for it. Lot isn’t as wealthy as Rhys. I know it’s not what you’re used to—”
“My accommodations are fine.”
“You can have this one. I’ll swap.”
“I don’t want your chamber, Gawain.”
“So?”
Palahmed settled on the floor. It was cold, and his first thought was to tell Gawain he shouldn’t be sitting on it, that he’d catch a chill. He bit back the words. Rubbed his hands over his knees. “I came to see how you’re faring.”
“Smooth as a full-bellied sail.”
“I’m sorry I shouted at you on the ship.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. You’re a man grown. If you want to dive into the frozen chop, that’s your decision.”
That green gaze found his. “Aye, you’re most supportive.”
“I shouldn’t have treated you that way in front of the others. It isn’t right.”
“Come to shout at me in private then?”
“No.”
“Good. She’s sleeping.” And then, before Palahmed knew what he was about, Gawain was holding the dozy pup out to him. His hands opened on instinct, and the next thing he knew, the small, plump body was filling them. He drew the creature against him. It squirmed a moment, snuffling, then dug its nose into his shirt and went on sleeping.
Gawain snorted softly. “One warm body’s as good as the next, I suppose.”
Palahmed smoothed a thumb down the silky wrinkle of the pup’s neck. “She’s well, too?”
“Seems so.”
“Why?”
Gawain looked at him.
“Why did you do it?”
“You already asked me that.”
“I know. But she’s a dog.”
“Would you toss a dog into the sea?”
“No.”
Gawain tipped his head, as if Palahmed had answered his own question.
