Shadow of Stone (The Pendragon Chronicles)

by Ruth Nestvold

  Cador nodded and turned away, his hands clenched at his sides.

  Medraut stared after him. Many cheeks in the crowd were not dry, and the quiet weeping blended in with the hiccoughing sobs of his young brother-in-law. No, Cador was a tender-hearted weakling, that was all.

  He felt rage begin to gather in his gut again, but he repressed it. He had to remember — now he was free.

  * * * *

  For Cador, there was no question of not attending Cwylli's funeral. Her death had left him drained and disbelieving. For the time being, he had no energy to deal with Yseult's accusations, no initiative to avert the shadows creeping into his marriage.

  And so they traveled to Caer Leon for yet another funeral.

  At Illtud's suggestion, Medraut arranged to have Cwylli buried near the monastery school where Gildas could easily visit his sister's grave. The site had the added advantage that it was not far from Caer Leon. Labiane came from Armorica for her daughter's funeral, but when Cador tried to express his condolences, she turned away, leaving him standing stupidly outside the churchyard.

  Yseult took his elbow and led him away from the other mourners. "Labiane has never forgiven me for taking Marcus Cunomorus away from her," Yseult murmured. "And now that you are married to me, you are guilty by association."

  It appeared his guilt was compounding, be it by association or real.

  "I was in fosterage with Labiane. We fought and played like brother and sister."

  "But you have not been close to her for many years, have you?"

  "No."

  In his guilty grief, Cador made a stupid mistake. Shortly before he and Yseult were to return to Lindinis, he mentioned to Cai his fear that Medraut might have been responsible for Cwylli's death.

  Cai shook his head. "Why would you say that?"

  Cador couldn't tell him that Medraut might have found out about his affair with Cwylli. "Their marriage was a mess — you know that as well as I," he said instead.

  "True. But nearly a hundred people were there when Cwylli had her accident. Medraut was riding nearby. He would have needed powers unknown to us to have caused that cat and dog to fight."

  Cai was probably right, and Cador did not mention it again. Nonetheless, before he and Yseult left Caer Leon, he heard the rumor whispered in the streets that Medraut had murdered his wife.

  * * * *

  It was almost August by the time they set off for Lindinis — most of the summer had been consumed by combined wedding and funeral preparations and the travel involved. At least Cador knew he could rely on his mother and Alun to make whatever decisions were necessary regarding the farm. The weather had been drier and warmer than in the last few years; they might even have two hay harvests again. The currants and gooseberries would be ripe now, and he hoped the harvest was good enough that his mother had been able to start her special fruit wine. Perhaps in Lindinis their lives would calm down enough that he could begin to woo his wife.

  Cador had never needed to woo a wife before. Terrwyn and Edain both came to him willingly, without the pressure of the Dux Bellorum for marrying and bedding — but neither one had Yseult's experience of love and loss.

  And neither one knew Yseult would have been his choice as wife if he'd had one.

  He glanced over at her riding not far away, her proud back straight, her pale blond hair glinting in the summer sun. They might have the marrying and bedding behind them, but he still had much to do to win her. It did not help that they'd gotten off to a bad start. Or that Cwylli's death had affected Cador much more than he would have expected.

  But once he was back in his beloved villa and could return to the life of the land, growing crops and caring for livestock, surely those simple things would give him strength again.

  They were in the thickest woods between Caer Gwent and Glevum when a warning cry went up from the front of their party.

  "Bandits!" Ricca called out, riding fast to Yseult's side.

  Cador drew his sword and tried to make his way to Yseult, but he was surrounded by his own men-at-arms. Travel had grown more dangerous since the British forces had defeated the Pict invaders; rather than returning to their homes, much of the enemy not captured or killed had formed bands of roaming outlaws. The situation in the north was still just as precarious, starvation still a real threat, and the people just as desperate. Attempts to root out the bandits were only marginally successful.

  Their would-be robbers were stubborn; even though the outlaws had fewer men, they did not melt back into the woods like any sensible bandits would when confronted by a superior force. Cador was beginning to get worried when he heard pounding hooves on the Roman road from Glevum. Hopefully one of the patrols Arthur and the local kings had established.

  When Cador saw who was coming to their aid, he almost wished for an enemy.

  Gawain came riding into the fray like the hero he was, sword arm swinging, golden hair gleaming in the sun. With two dozen more mounted warriors on their side, they made short work of the bandits not smart enough to flee.

  The threat banished, Cador pulled up next to Gawain. "Thank you. Those outlaws were fighting like madmen."

  Gawain nodded, his gaze straying to Yseult; she had dismounted and was tending to the injured. "There've been a number attacks on this stretch lately."

  "And you have taken over the patrol?"

  "Yes. I think it best if we accompany you the rest of the way to Glevum."

  Gawain had not been in Caer Leon for Cwylli's funeral; presumably he'd taken this post to stay out of Yseult's way. Instead, he'd ended up saving her.

  Then Cador noticed the blood dripping down his former friend's hand and onto his horse's hide. "You seem to have a nasty gash in your forearm, Gawain. You should probably seek out my — Yseult."

  Gawain looked down at the blood on his hand and the reins. "Oh. Perhaps I should. Excuse me, Cador."

  For a moment, Cador watched as Gawain rode over to Yseult, but he saw no point in tormenting himself, so he joined the captain of the guard and Gaheris. They had not lost any men, but four had serious stab wounds and would require more attention than Yseult could provide.

  Cador looked around for his wife to see how she was getting along — but she was nowhere to be found. He turned back to Gaheris, trying to ignore the fear that settled in the pit of his stomach.

  "Your men can be treated in Glevum," Gaheris was saying now. "There you can also hire soldiers to replace them for the rest of the journey."

  He nodded, barely listening. All he cared about now was getting away to go in search of Yseult and Gawain.

  * * * *

  "Tell me quickly what it is you think I need to know before we are missed." Yseult had not wanted to go with Gawain, but he had whispered in her ear that he would tell every last man under his command of their affair if she did not. And he seemed angry enough to do it, the pent-up aggression not lessened by the recent road-side battle.

  "This," he said, taking her shoulders in both hands and pulling her into a kiss.

  Yseult was so stunned that he would try such a thing on the Caer Gwent road, barely out of sight of over fifty men, that she didn't immediately react. He'd gone mad! She'd never allowed such a thing before, how could he think she would allow it now?

  She shoved him away, and he stumbled back. "Never do that again, do you hear me?"

  "You were responding to me," he said. "You were kissing me back."

  It was true; her first impulse had been to take his face in her hands. That might have been part of the reason why it took her so long to push him away. It was automatic; he had been her lover, her lips knew his, the slanting game they played was a long-established habit.

  She raised her chin. "And what of it? I respond to my husband in the same way when he kisses me."

  Just as she intended, Gawain's expression grew dark and he flung away.

  Yseult rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger, sighing. Hopefully in Lindinis she and Cador could find some peace.
r />   * * * *

  Cador turned away from the sight of Gawain kissing his wife and strode back to where the other men were beginning to remount. Yseult's hands had been limp at her sides, it was true — but she had been kissing him back. Even from the bushes where he stood, that had been obvious in the way her mouth moved beneath his.

  Had his marriage been a mistake? If the pain in his chest was any indication, it was.

  He wondered when he would be in the mood to woo his wife now.

  Chapter 14

  And as he rode over a moor,

  He saw a lady where she sat

  Betwixt an oak and a greene hollen;

  She was cladd in red scarlett.

  Then there as shold have stood her mouth,

  Then there was set her eye;

  The other was in her forhead fast,

  The way that she might see.

  Her nose was crooked and turned outward,

  Her mouth stood foule a-wry;

  A worse formed lady than she was,

  Never man saw with his eye.

  Child's Ballads, "The Marriage of Sir Gawain"

  Gawain's mount made slow progress on the muddy road north from Corinium. The old Roman road had washed out along this stretch on the edge of civilization, where only few still tried to uphold the ideals of romanitas — not to mention maintain the paved roads. Each fall of hoof sucked up muck and sludgy water, making it impossible for their party to travel as fast as the situation merited.

  It was a cold, gray land this time of year, the villas few and far between, the struggling villages they passed obviously suffering from the bad harvests of recent years. Even city marketplaces had little to offer, and the luxury of inns was nearly non-existent. Gawain was glad they had several well-laden pack animals in their train.

  If only he'd had the sense to resist this adventure. But no, he had jumped at the opportunity, had wanted to play the hero after he heard the news the unexpected messenger brought to Caer Leon. It was shortly after All Hallows according to the Christian calendar (or Samhain according to the old ways), when the priest from Rheged had sought out Arthur, asking for help. Father Pabius had been contacted by Ragnell, a cousin of Arthur's first wife, requesting he come to perform the marriage ceremony for Ragnell and her betrothed.

  "But there was something in both the message and the messenger that didn't fit," Pabius had said, handing a writing tablet of thinly sliced wood to Arthur. "For one, he was no servant of Ragnell's, with his manners and his accent. For another, the message asked me to bring her cousin Gwenhwyfar for the wedding, if she could find the time to come. But Ragnell knows perfectly well that Gwenhwyfar is dead. I am sure Ragnell is trying to send a message for help."

  Gawain wondered if anyone else saw Arthur's jaw tighten at the mention of his first wife. And he couldn't help wondering if he himself would still be reacting to Yseult's name in the same way twenty years from now, if by the grace of the gods he lived so long.

  Arthur opened the tablet and scanned the lines, frowning. Done, he looked up. "You were right to come to me, Pabius. Ragnell does not even name her betrothed in this letter. Something has happened. We will need a troop of warriors to go north."

  "May I suggest we proceed carefully?" the priest said. "Ragnell may be in danger. A priest and his escort will be expected, but not a troop of fighting men. I am a king's son and a trained warrior myself; that may be part of the reason Ragnell sent to me."

  "Good point," Arthur said, nodding. "I will send an escort north with you. Once we know the situation — and have someone inside — a larger band of warriors will follow."

  Heartsore and in need of distraction, Gawain stepped forward. "I would be happy to lead such a party, Arthur. Gwenhwyfar was my aunt, after all, and I have ties to the north."

  If Arthur suspected the true reason he had volunteered, he didn't show it.

  And so now Gawain was on his muddy way north with a weary priest and a score of warriors — in winter, no less, when the cold rain could turn to snow any day. It was surprising how much mud and muck and bone-shattering cold was involved in adventure.

  Gawain wiped a combination of sleet and dirt out of his face, accumulated spatter from the hooves of the horses around him. He caught his youngest brother Gareth gazing at him, an infectious grin on his face, as if this were the greatest adventure they had ever set off on together. Without looking, he knew Gaheris's expression would not be so merry. While Gareth saw everything through the distorted lens of his own good nature, including his well-loved wife — a woman most men would call a bitch or worse — Gaheris tended towards the opposite extreme, naturally seeing the worst in everything.

  Gawain hoped he fell somewhere between the two extremes represented by his surviving brothers. He was well aware that in the last few months he had tended more towards Gaheris's view of the world than Gareth's.

  Which was why he had welcomed the grueling journey, the exertion and exhaustion that had him concentrating more on physical discomfort than the emotional pain that would not leave him, the feeling of rejection and anger at Yseult's betrayal — how she had so readily agreed to Arthur's suggestion to marry Cador, when it was well known the length and breadth of Britain that she had no intention of marrying again.

  But while the freezing rain might have been a welcome distraction at first, now he just wanted it to stop. Perhaps losing one's patrimony was not such a bad thing if it meant escaping from this weather. As he pondered the kingdom that might have been his if not for his loyalty to Arthur, the cold, thick, sleeting mist began to turn to snow. Gawain found himself smiling.

  Ceincaled snorted and shook his head, and Gawain leaned forward to stroke the neck of his favorite stallion. "There, boy. Hopefully we won't have to spend much time in this irritating white stuff."

  The horse snorted again, louder this time, obviously agreeing.

  Ragnell's family held a hill-fort known as Caer Camulodon on the old Roman road halfway between Deva and Eburacum. Situated on the border between Elmet and Rheged on the main road, strategically Caer Camulodon was of immense importance. Although at the moment, the road did not strike Gawain as anything resembling "main." In this region of small kingdoms, no one was powerful enough or responsible enough to be bothered with the maintenance of a paved road, and rather than being flat and even, for long stretches, it was full of such an impassible combination of stone and rainwater and muck, they had to ride next to the old Roman road rather than on it, where a muddy, alternate path had developed.

  It felt strange to be heading in the direction of his former home again. Gawain had not been in this part of Britain since he had ridden with Arthur against the rebel kings in Din Eidyn — one of whom had been Lot, Gawain's own father. Over ten years ago now. Gawain should have been a king in this region himself, either he or one of his brothers. Instead, the kinship group had elected one of their cousins king.

  As they began to climb the Pennine Mountains, Pabius rode abreast of him, cutting short Gawain's reflections on the past. "On the other side of the mountains, there is a monastery where your men can leave their war horses and find garments appropriate for the humble retinue of a priest. From there, it is perhaps another five miles to Caer Camulodon."

  Gawain grimaced. "I hope the monastery boasts mules that are both brave as well as strong."

  "I do not doubt it, my lord," Pabius said with a smile.

  Gawain patted Ceincaled's smooth hide. "I will miss you, true companion."

  Ceincaled tossed his head, making Gawain smile.

  "One other thing, Lord Gawain," the priest said. "In order to gain some time, it occurred to me that we could claim Ragnell's cousin could not come until after the Christmas holidays, which would also give Ragnell time to prepare a wedding feast. Hopefully her betrothed will not object to a celebration for the villagers on such a joyful occasion."

  "I see you still have the mind of a strategist," Gawain said with a chuckle.

  Pabius shrugged. "I may be a king's
son and a trained warrior, but I was never a military strategist. I have always, however, had a very active imagination."

  "Imagination is a rare but brilliant characteristic in a war leader," Gawain said, thinking of the way Arthur seemed to be able to imagine the course of a battle even before the enemy had taken the positions he anticipated. "Perhaps you missed your true calling."

  "No, I don't think so," Pabius said. "You see, I have no stomach for killing other men, even when they are the enemy."

  * * * *

  Gawain found it hard to believe how uncomfortable he felt on the back of a mule, stripped of all the signs of his identity as warrior other than a short sword strapped close to his body, hidden beneath the folds of his monk's robes — where he could barely reach it if threatened. Clothed from head to foot in the garments of a Christian holy man, Gawain felt naked, not himself, ripped of everything that made him who he was. He wondered what it meant, this reaction to being without the physical trappings of his life, his identity as one of Arthur's most respected warriors. How much of himself was just the weapons and the armor he wore?

  Hopefully they would be able to be help Ragnell even without such trappings.

  When they came out of the Elmet forest on the eastern side of the mountains, the hill-fort of Caer Camulodon was clearly visible. Below, stretched between the hill-fort and the ruined Roman fort, was a straggling village of farms, houses and other buildings, including a marketplace, a blacksmith, an inn, and a church.

  They stopped at the church first; Pabius wanted to speak with the village priest. When he returned to their party, his expression was grim. "It is as I suspected — the hill-fort has been taken by a strange band of warriors. Ragnell's brothers and father are all dead. She has been kept alive to legitimize the kingship of the outlaw leader who killed her family. On Ragnell's instruction, the priest here claimed he had no authority to perform the holy rite of marriage, which is why I was sent for."