In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy)

by Sarah Zettel

  “What do you mean, my lady?” asked Aeldra, confused.

  Risa’s mind felt as clear as it had been cloudy before. She would not be handed over like a bribe to a corrupt seneschal. She would not stay and watch her father do this, nor would she watch her mother break her heart over what her husband had done.

  “Aeldra.” Risa gripped her maid’s hand. “Aeldra, are you my friend?”

  Aeldra stiffened, shocked at such a question. As she looked into Risa’s eyes, however, a measure of understanding came to her. “I hope my lady knows how well I regard her.”

  “Then as a friend, much more than as my maid, I am asking for your help. You must bring old Whitcomb here to my room. Neither of you must be seen, by anyone, but most of all not by my father, do you understand?”

  She did not. The expression on her lean face said that plainly enough. She folded her hands primly before her. “I am sure my lady knows what is best …”

  “No, she doesn’t.” Risa shook her head. “Your lady is terrified, for her life and her soul, and she is trying to save both. Will you help her?”

  Again Aeldra searched Risa’s eyes, looking deeply. “Very good, my lady.” She curtsied. “I’ll see to the matter.”

  Aeldra shut the door behind her. In the silence left in her wake, Risa fancied she could hear her own heart beating like the hooves of a galloping horse, spurred on by the temerity of what she meant to do.

  Whitcomb was her dearest friend among her father’s servitors. Where her father would not, or could not love her, Whitcomb had. He was the one who had taught her to shoot and to ride. He had helped her train her hounds and taught her to hunt. He told her all manner of stories he’d learned from the freemen and serfs, most of which Risa was quite certain her mother would have been appalled that she knew. But despite years of such daring secrets, Whitcomb was always the first to insist she learn to be a proper, God-fearing lady and be a source of pride to her parents.

  But at the same time he was staunchly loyal to his lord. Risa bit her lip. There lay the danger, but she needed him. He could go without question where she could not, no matter how dark the night or how thoroughly she disguised herself.

  Rather than simply pace about, Risa sought action. She pulled a square of fine linen out of her sewing basket. She had meant to broider it into a veil. Now she upended her jewelry box into it. She did not have much, but she had some gold, a string of amber beads, a brooch of pearl and rubies, and several rings, one set with a square emerald the size of her thumbnail her mother said had come all the way from Rome. The whole of her wealth. She tied the cloth tightly and stowed it in the leather satchel she took with her when she went out shooting.

  She’d have to leave her hounds behind. Risa’s heart twinged at the thought. Odd — it was a small thing compared to leaving her parents. She rubbed her forehead. She must not distract herself with such thoughts. She must keep her wits about her, or she was lost.

  A soft knock sounded on the door.

  “Come,” she called.

  The door opened. In the threshold stood old Whitcomb. He was had been her father’s right hand for longer than Risa had been alive. His hair and long beard were iron grey turning to white, but he was still a bluff man with hard hands and eyes that could see a lazing stable hand through a stone fence.

  Those eyes took in the bulging leather satchel as she beckoned him inside, and they surely saw how white her face had gone.

  “So,” he said with a sigh as he closed the door. “It’s come home at last, has it?”

  Risa started. “What do you know of this?”

  The lines on Whitcomb’s kind face deepened until he looked as old as Methuselah. “I was there, my lady. I heard your father speak his bargain with that black sorcerer. I knew one day there would be a reckoning.” His gaze hardened. “I have searched the land whenever I had leave, hoping I might find him and put an end to this thing one way or another before …” It seemed he could not make himself finish.

  Risa felt her hands begin to shake once more. “I thank you for all you have done for me, though I knew of none of it. Now I must ask for your help again.” She took a deep breath. “I mean to leave tonight to seek sanctuary with the holy sisters at the monastery of St. Anne. I will take holy orders if I must.” She laid her satchel down beside the empty jewelry box. Surely there was enough inside to dower herself to Christ, if that was the only way the Mother Superior would shelter her. “I need you to go down and saddle a horse for me. Not Agamemnon,” she said, with another pang of regret at leaving behind her favorite steed. “That would cause too many questions.” Whitcomb could make a hundred excuses to ride out at any hour. She could not. It would be hard enough for her to sneak out into the yard without being seen. To ready a horse in the stables with the hands sleeping in the loft, or playing bones in the stalls would be impossible.

  If she was seen, she would be stopped, she was certain of that. Whitcomb was her one chance.

  “I will see to it, my lady,” said Whitcomb gravely.

  “Thank you.” She grasped both his hands and kissed him swiftly on his rough cheek. “I will be behind the brewing shed as soon as I may after the household goes to sleep.”

  “I will not fail,” he said, squeezing her hands.

  With that, he turned and opened the door. He looked sharply left, then right before he stepped into the corridor, leaving Risa alone once more.

  Risa swallowed. All her limbs felt suddenly heavy as lead. Are these my choices? To be taken away by a black sorcerer to live or die at his whim, and who knows which would be worse? Or to live in silence behind stone walls swaddled in black and grey and to know only work and prayer?

  She squeezed her eyes shut, to stop the tears that threatened to flow freely. Mother Mary, there must be another way. I beg you, send me a sign, some messenger that I may know what to do.

  But if the Holy Virgin had an answer for her, Risa could not hear it.

  Harrik opened his eyes. Light flickered against pale canvas. Outside the wind whistled through the branches of winter trees, rattling their twigs. He lay on a bed of furs. A good fire burned in the center of the pavilion, scenting the enclosure with smoke … and something else. Something rare and unfamiliar that at once disturbed his mind and made him feel profoundly awake.

  Harrik sat up. His hands were not bound, which he would have expected, for surely he was a prisoner. He had no memory of how he had got here. He remembered finding the stone, and seeing the raven, but then all was darkness.

  The unfamiliar scent reached him again and he breathed it in. It was like cloves, and like amber, but neither of these. It appealed, like the scent of a good meal just cooked, or, even more the scent of a woman close by.

  Harrik shook his head. It was distracting. If they left him his hands, whoever brought him here, they would learn they should not, even though they had thought so far as to deny him his sword.

  He got himself to his feet, but before he could take a step, the pavilion opened to reveal a woman. The rich scent grew suddenly sharper, as if she carried it with her and for a moment, Harrik felt dizzy. Then he recognized the slim form and the golden hair. This was Wulfget’s woman. What was her name? Had he even heard it?

  But it meant that Wolfget held him, and it meant he must be careful still what he said.

  The woman, however, spoke first. “Welcome Harrik, Hullward’s son,” she said and her voice was low and clear, and truly did seem full of welcome. Her eyes that reflected the firelight also seemed to hold welcome, but of a very different sort.

  Harrik reminded himself again that he was not a boy nor a fool and pushed himself to his feet. He towered over her. She had not seemed so small nor so delicate when he had seen her before as she did now, moving to a table where cups waited with a skin of wine. Harrik stared, fascinated. He had not remembered her skin being so fair either, nor her hands so supple as they lifted the skin and deftly poured the wine, red as blood, red as her gentle mouth, into the cups for them to shar
e.

  “Why have I been brought here?” he remembered to ask. “Where is Wulfweard?”

  “My husband will be along presently.” She lifted a cup in her pale hand and held it out to him. She seemed luminescent, absorbing the firelight and returning it softened and a more pure white than it had been. Her mouth was so red … had she already drunk some wine? Was that what stained her lips and turned them so inviting a shade?

  She saw where his gaze lingered. How could she not? Harrik cursed himself and tried to look away, but she moved toward him with the grace of a doe. Her dress was simple, a plain fawn wool. It outlined her round breasts and flat belly that had never yet known children. The braided belt served only to draw the skirt more tightly over her full, smooth hips that swayed ever so slightly as she approached, bringing all the scents of wine and spices, smoke and amber with her.

  “Will you drink with me, Hullward’s son?” she asked softly, her eyes dipped, almost shy as she held out the cup. He should not take it. He must not. There was something wrong here, in the air, in his blood, in this woman’s presence. He tightened his hands into fists. If only he could think what it must be. If only her perfume were less strong, if only she herself were less lovely.

  “Surely there is no harm in sharing what is offered?” she said with a small smile. “I shall drink myself and you will see.” She lifted the cup to her full and smiling mouth. Harrik could not help but watch the way her tongue parted her red, red lips just a little in anticipation of the wine’s touch. She sipped delicately but long. He watched the way light and shadow played across her throat as she swallowed and his fisted hands ached to trace the wine’s path down between her breasts to her belly and lower yet, to know what she kept between her round thighs, to hear what she said in love …

  “Now, you drink for me, Harrik.” She held out the cup and looked boldly into his eyes, her mouth still parted just a little so he could see her white teeth. A drop of wine clung to the corner of her mouth. It shimmered there like a ruby and he stared at it, mesmerized.

  The woman noted that his gaze lingered there on her mouth, and her eyes widened, playfully, knowingly. With her free hand, she reached up and wiped the drop away, then held up the tip of her wine-stained finger before him.

  “Drink, Harrik,” she murmured, her voice rich with promise. “Let me know what manner of man you are.”

  Slowly, as in a dream, Harrik touched his lips to the tip of her finger. The wine tasted sweet, like honey and her skin beneath was soft and warm. She sighed at his kiss, her eyes closing in pleasure. He took her hand between his own. It was light as the petal of a white rose and smooth as silk. Like silk, it was sensuous to the touch, inviting the hands to caress it, to press it, to wrap one’s whole self in its luxury.

  She opened her eyes and all her pleasure of him seemed to shine in the sparks lit by the fire.

  “Take what you want,” she whispered to him. “It is all before you, and then I will be yours and you will be mine. Come, Harrik my love. Hold nothing back.”

  Her words undid him. Harrik laced his fingers in her golden hair and pulled her to him, kissing her hard. Her mouth opened eagerly to his, her tongue touching lips and teeth even as she made a sound like a laugh and threw her arms around him. She tasted of wine, salt and myrrh. Harrik felt himself rise and harden and his blood sang as the whole of her body pressed against him, rubbing, teasing, promising, ready. He could think of nothing else, desired nothing else but the silken warmth of her skin, the salt and sweet of her body. The thought of her surrounding him aroused him as if he were a youth again, and as she laid herself down onto the furs, he knelt as if in fealty and followed willingly where she led.

  Daylight faded from the world with painful slowness. Risa lingered over her sewing while the rushlights and the hour candle burned low around her. She sent Aeldra running for wine, for a posset, for a lavender-rinsed cloth for her brow, pretending that a headache kept her from seeking sleep.

  At last, because she could think of nothing else, she sent Aeldra for a bed warmer. Alone, she tried to think. Risa did not want to tell Aeldra any more than she already knew. When the household discovered Risa gone, Aeldra would be the first one questioned, and Aeldra would not lie to her lord and lady. To do so was to risk being turned out of the hall to fend for herself in the hedgerows. Which left the question of how Risa could send the maid away long enough to make her escape. She could not even allow herself be put to bed in her nightclothes, because she would have to dress alone and in the dark afterwards. It would take an age when every second would be precious.

  Aeldra, however, solved her dilemma for her. She returned, not with the bed warmer, but with a brown cloak draped over her arms.

  “If my lady were to choose to wear this,” Aeldra said quietly. “Anyone who saw her might think they were seeing one of the serving women instead.”

  Stunned, Risa accepted the cloak, a lump rising in her throat. “They will question you.”

  Aeldra folded her hands in her familiar way. “And I will say my mistress said she went to meet young my Lord Vernus in the charcoal burner’s shed by the well of St. Ethelrede.”

  “It will be a lie,” Risa whispered.

  “Not if you say it now.”

  Slowly, Risa repeated her maid’s words. “I’m sorry, Aeldra,” she said, laying the brown cloak in her lap. “I knew you were my friend, but did not realise how true a friend.”

  The maid’s smile was kind. “Young women seldom understand such things. Especially when the friend is apt to be exacting and sharp of tongue.”

  Risa glanced at the slash-marked candle beside her bed. It had been burning for three hours, and had been lit at twilight. “Is it safe now, think you?”

  Aeldra leaned toward the door and put her hand to her ear in a practiced gesture. “I hear no one.”

  Risa drew the cloak about her shoulders. A full handspan of her dress showed out underneath it, as she was some inches taller than Aeldra, but hopefully no one would be able to discern the color or quality of the exposed fabric from one swift glance in the dark.

  Aeldra fussed with the carved bone clasp and then, unexpectedly kissed Risa on the cheek. “God be with you, my lady.”

  “And with you, Aeldra.”

  There was no time to linger. Risa squeezed Aeldra’s hand, claimed her satchel, and opened her chamber door. The corridor outside was still and dark. She could not risk a light. She laid her hand on the cool stones of the left-hand wall and hurried ahead, trying to step only lightly on the rushes underfoot.

  Behind her, Aeldra closed her door, cutting the golden candlelight off sharply, and leaving Risa alone in the dark.

  Risa faltered only briefly. She called to mind what awaited her if she were caught, and that thought lent her speed. Her fingertips found the threshold leading to the staircase and her foot found the first stair. Feeling her way carefully, she began her descent.

  Light flooded the world suddenly, making Risa blink and miss her step. She stumbled, and looked back before she could stop herself, and found she looked up into her mother’s face.

  Mother stood at the top of the stairs, frozen in the flickering light of a tallow candle. Only her eyes moved, as she took in the maid’s brown cloak, the satchel, and Risa’s face peering out of the shallow hood. Risa lifted her chin.

  A single tear glistened on Jocosa cheek. Her mouth shaped words. Risa thought she said, “God be with you.” Then, her mother turned back the way she had come. Within two heartbeats, she vanished into the corridor’s shadows.

  Risa drew the hood down further over her face, more to hide her tears than her visage, and hurried out into the warm, summer night.

  Whitcomb had indeed not failed her. Risa rounded the corner of the brewer’s shed to see him standing in its shelter, well out of the silver-grey light the curved quarter-moon sent forth. His gloved hand, however, held the reins for not one horse, but two. One was Thetis, a grey mare, the horse Risa had learned to ride on. She was no longer
so fast or so spirited, but she was still strong and steady, and she knew Risa well. The other was Blaze, a chestnut gelding with a white forehead and fetlocks which Whitcomb often rode as he surveyed the lands for her father.

  Risa stared accusingly at Whitcomb, now seeing that he wore his old leather hauberk and hood, and that he had his long knife at his waist and his bow and quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. He said nothing, but even in the darkness she could read his face plainly enough.

  I am coming. I will not let you do this alone. If you order me back, I will follow you.

  “Father will be angry with you when he finds out,” she murmured.

  “I have braved my lord’s anger before,” replied Whitcomb with a grim smile. “And never with greater cause.”

  There was no time for argument. The moon was already well up, and if mother had been stirring, others might be about. In truth, Risa had no heart to try to order him away. His solid presence would make what she must do less lonely.

  Whitcomb held Thetis’s head while Risa stowed her satchel in the saddle bag. Inside she found a number of small but useful items Whitcomb had thought to add — a hunting knife, a spare bowstring, a pair of riding gloves. She mounted the horse and Whitcomb passed up her bow and quiver and handed her the reins. Then, expertly, if a little stiffly, he swung himself up onto Blaze’s back. The horses were longtime stable mates and old friends with their riders, so they stepped up quickly in answer to the lightest of urgings. Despite this, their hoofbeats on the packed earth of the yard sounded to Risa like thunder. She could not help but glance back toward the hall that had been her only home. No light shone in any of the windows, not even her mother’s.

  Tears threatened again, and Risa turned her face quickly toward the night beyond the yard.

  They rode across the cleared fields where the damp air was heavy with the scent of freshly plowed earth. They crossed the chattering beck, its clear water flowing like liquid moonlight over round stones. Both deeply familiar with the countryside, they had no difficulty in finding the track through the forest that would lead them down to the broad Roman road. The rustles of the night-waking animals accompanied them. An owl hooted once overhead. The stars in all their millions filled the sky with glory and the wind blew chill, but soft, across Risa’s skin. Slowly, she felt the ache in her throat begin to ease.