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

by Sarah Zettel

  Euberacon smiled at the distant Hippodrome some Roman overlord or the other had built. He’d see the real thing soon enough. The end was already in sight.

  But if he was to accomplish anything, he had to work quickly. He wanted to summon his steed and be back in his fortress before the island’s night came with its mutterings and mysteries. Still, he would have that under control soon as well. All things were moving at his direction. This was his day, his hour and here he ruled. And if Arthur, Gawain and Theodora did not know that now, they would very, very soon.

  Darkness came again. Jocosa’s women moved around her, lighting rushes and two good tallow candles. Una came in bearing a bowl that smelled of meat and pepper. Loyal Una. She had used some of the hall’s small fortune of spices to tempt her mistress’s appetite. She should try to eat. It would be a sin to waste such broth.

  “My Lord Rygehil has returned.” Una offered up the news like the bowl of broth, as if one or the other might quicken Jocosa’s melancholic spirits.

  Jocosa looked at the wooden screen that blocked the window now that night had come. A draft curled around the casements, further seasoning the scent of the broth with the hint of yet more rain. Rygehil had gone to find Risa. It was her ladies who told her this, not her husband. There was too little left between them that he should think to mention such a thing to her.

  But if he was back … Slowly, Jocosa’s mind put the two facts together, and understood what was being said. Trembling, she turned toward her waiting woman.

  “Is Risa with him?”

  Una dropped her gaze toward the steaming bowl she held, as if aware her efforts were about to be for naught. “No, mistress.”

  “Oh.” There was in truth nothing to be said. Nothing to be done. She had let her daughter go. That was all there was. Everything else had been done long ago.

  She remembered her wedding day. She remembered how happy she’d been. Not even her mother’s frowns could touch her. “At least he’s blooded,” mother had groused. “You could have gone and set your heart on some goose boy I suppose.” But nothing had mattered, nothing but Rygehil smiling at her, holding out his hand, speaking his vows clearly and without hesitation, kneeling beside him so they could take communion together, to let God witness that they two were now one person.

  One person, one soul, one heart, and that soul was failing and that heart had grown cold.

  “Mistress,” began Una tentatively.

  She’s going to try to make me eat again. Jocosa sighed. The peppery scent was beginning to make her feel ill. She hated to disappoint the woman, but there was nothing to be done about that either.

  “Mistress, I heard him say … I heard him say …”

  “Yes?” If you must speak, Una, please do so and be done.

  “I heard him call her ungrateful, mistress. He’d found her and she ran away again, yesterday on the road from Pen Marhas, she’d gone with …”

  Run away? Risa is free? “But he’s given her …”

  “No, my lady, she’s with Gawain of the Round Table.”

  One muscle at a time, Jocosa straightened up. “Risa is with a champion of the Round Table?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “And her father calls her ungrateful?” He’d had beautiful eyes, once. Eyes full of laughter and wisdom and love. Where had those eyes strayed?

  “He says she does not care whether you die or live. He says she could save you if she did as she was told.”

  “He has said so before.”

  “I beg you my lady, speak with him. It is some madness that seizes him. You are the only one who might bring him to his senses again.”

  Risa’s comb lay on the table. Jocosa stared at it. She wanted to reach for it, to hold it close because she could not hold her girl, but her hands seemed to have lost the will for movement. “I have tried Una.”

  “You must try again.”

  But she remembered his face as he turned away from her that last time, and heard again his voice. My father was right … Love is too inconstant a thing on which to build a life. They had laughed at such words once, in their innocence, their ignorance of the payment God would exact for that laughter. “I cannot. There is nothing left.”

  “There is always something.”

  “No. You do not know what he has done.” Outside, the rain began to fall in slow, fat drops, smacking against the window screen, making a sound like fingers tapping to get in. “Leave me now.”

  Una was not defeated yet. “You will want to get ready for bed.”

  “I said leave.” Perhaps I will be able to apologize one day for this anger. “If I wish to go to bed, I will call for you.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Una.

  “Yes, my lady,” said Aeldra, sounding even more tired than Una.

  The door opened, and the door closed, and Jocosa was alone.

  Will you come to me again, my husband? she wondered. What will you say if you do?

  With slow and clumsy fingers, Jocosa undid the catches on the window screen and folded it back. Then, gripping the stone casement tightly, she thrust her upturned face out into the rain, letting the drops trickle down her cheeks, making use of the sky’s tears, for her own had been long ago drained dry.

  When at last the cold became too much, she drew herself inside again, face, throat, hair, veil and dress all soaked through. To her surprise, she heard a new sound. The flapping of heavy wings.

  A raven, fighting hard against the rain, landed on the sill. It shook itself, flipped its wings onto its back and cawed three times.

  Jocosa blinked at the bird for a moment, and then turned away, leaving small puddles rain behind her. “Well, come in if you wish, Mistress Raven, though there is small comfort to be had here.”

  “Thank you,” said a voice behind her. “I will.”

  A woman stood before the window. She was tall and golden, half hidden by a cloak made entirely of black feathers. She stood still, letting Jocosa stare until comprehension finally came to her, accompanied, Jocosa found herself surprised to note, by nothing so much as relief.

  For did not the angel of death have black wings?

  “Have you come for me?” she asked the golden woman.

  She inclined her head. “Yes.”

  A very little fear fluttered in Jocosa’s throat. “Will it be quick?”

  “If you do not struggle.”

  Jocosa sighed. She wiped the last of the water from her face and smoothed her dress down fussily. Odd to wish to look one’s best at such a time. “I do not want to be a danger to my daughter any more, you see. She may weaken. She may try to return.”

  “She will be in no more danger from you, I promise.”

  “May I say my prayers?”

  “Of course.”

  Jocosa knelt, crossing herself and bowing her head. The woman waited with all signs of patience.

  After the final Amen, Jocosa lowered her hands from their attitude of prayer, but remained on her knees. “I am ready.”

  “Very well.” The woman knelt before her, leaning close, as if she meant to give Jocosa the kiss of peace. Instead, she inhaled deeply, taking in all of Jocosa’s breath as Jocosa expelled it. Jocosa felt a great lightness infuse her blood. All her memories poured through her, a river of pain and beauty, love, wonder and fear. She saw Rygehil as he was when he filled her heart with delight and desire. She saw Risa in all her aspects — infant, sturdy girl, and beautiful young woman. Her heart filled with the music of their voices, and her mind with all the scents and songs of her life.

  But those all ran quickly from her, as the rain had run down her cheeks, and they left behind only peace, only the night full of stars, and Jocosa let them go.

  Jocosa’s body swayed and fell forward. Kerra caught her gently and laid her out on the floor. After a moment’s thought, she folded the dead woman’s hands and closed her eyes.

  The lady’s soul was sweet with its seasoning of sorrow, full and heavy, like the taste of summer’s cream, and r
ich with experience and memory. Kerra felt a melancholy unusual for her. Perhaps because she had never before been welcomed when she came on death’s wings. What a strange, sorry thing, to want to die, although she had known the feeling. How sad it was that Jocosa had no one to come and save her as Morgaine had saved Kerra.

  “For myself, lady, I would have let you live. Perhaps you would have found your way again. But Euberacon was determined to make your man pay for his failure, and I and my friends must have strength for what is to come, so you see, your life was needed by us all.”

  Shaking her head, Kerra left the corpse where it lay, and flew out into the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Gawain and Risa approached Camelot, the road grew ever more crowded, even as it ran through the deep woods. Carters and folk carrying their bundles on their backs moved off the wide high way to let their procession pass, but no one cursed. Instead, heads were raised and hoods were doffed. Cheers went up at the sight of the knights and soldiers, accompanied by cries of “God bless Lord Gawain! God bless Lord Agravain!”

  Agravain just nodded, his face growing ever more pinched. Gawain responded always with his magnificent smile and a wave of his hand to all who called out. Risa felt her head lift and her shoulders pull back as she looked this way and that at the people thronging the side of the road. She felt a great lady on her horse beside her lord with all the town come out to see them pass by.

  Agravain had not only been displeased when Gawain caught up with the party returning to Arthur, he had been livid. The brothers had gone down the road, out of earshot, but Risa and the dozen men, and all the boys and squires who waited on them, could easily see them gesturing broadly and angrily to each other as they spoke. When they at last returned, Agravain was still flushed with his fury. Gawain, however, looked completely at ease as he mounted his riding horse and gave a reassuring smile to Risa.

  Agravain had not spoken another word to his brother, at least none that any could hear. Even when they stopped for the night at the monastery of St. Joseph, Agravain remained as silent as one of the monks who served them their plain supper of soup and bread.

  Gawain was also distant, but not from anger. As soon as they had joined Agravain’s men, he became his most courtly and correct, treating her with rigid deference and respect. She knew he did it for her sake, so that the other men would follow his example, regardless of Agravain’s distaste for her presence. Still, it made her wish they had traveled alone, so they could have talked, and sung, and enjoyed themselves as lovers for a little longer, before they reached the court, and all things would have to change again.

  Still, sometimes Gawain would glance at her, and she would see the delight that shimmered just beneath his gaze, and be content.

  Ahead of the party, the encroaching trees pulled back to make way for sown fields, and Risa saw Camelot.

  It was built on a hill, as she had heard, with Arthur’s great hall at its crown. But none had spoken of how the town spilled down the sides of that hill, flaring out like a woman’s skirt, the roofs of the good stone houses all black and red with slate and tile. Stout walls and banks of earth protected the city. The gates were all guarded by men in leather jerkins emblazoned with Arthur’s red dragon. They cheered as heartily as the folk on the road and lifted up their spears and pikes in salute to the victorious company.

  Past the earthworks and the outer walls, Gawain took the lead with Agravain. With Agravain’s squires riding beside them to carry shields and banners and there was no room for Risa. She found herself surrounded by strange men on tall horses. They cast sideways glances at her, despite the fact that they had had two full days to become used to her. She felt they would have liked to stare openly, but some of the courtesy Gawain had attempted to instill prevented that. Worse than the strangers’ curious glances, though, were the walls. She had never been in a city where the buildings crowded around her shoulders and rose higher than her head on horseback. The shutters on the upper stories flung themselves open so that men, women and children could lean out and cheer. There were strangers above and beside, and even below. Passers-by were forced into doorways and narrow lanes by their passage, and children darted perilously close to the horses’ hooves to snatch up the occasional penny the knights directed their squires to drop.

  Risa patted Thetis’s neck constantly, but she wasn’t sure if she was trying to calm her horse or herself. Bolting did not seem such a poor idea right now, back to the woods and fields she knew. She glanced ahead to Gawain, but saw only his back. He was waving and accepting the greetings that were his. Risa’s throat tightened.

  Despite all, Risa managed to keep Thetis and herself with the procession, although far at the back. The streets broadened as they rose, which was a mercy, but the press of noise grew worse. Word had apparently flown ahead of them, and the folk of Camelot were determined to cheer them all the way to the gates of Arthur’s hall.

  Those gates were the strongest Risa had ever seen. Set in walls that had been old when the Romans came, they were black and grey and grim. Risa, already unnerved, wished she could hesitate and collect her wits, but she was given no time. Gawain at last had seen how far behind she had fallen and raised his hand. The whole of the procession halted. Amid the sound of too many voices, the stamping of hooves and the snorting of the ponies and mules, Gawain turned his horse and rode back to where Risa waited.

  “Come,” he said. He could not extend his hand, but his gaze sparkled with welcome and assurance as he smiled. “There is room enough for us to ride through together. I wish certain persons to meet you.”

  Risa smiled in return and lifted her chin. Taking a better hold of Thetis’s reins, she urged her mare into step beside him. The guards hoisted their pikes and axes in salute as she passed through the gates of the Great Hall of Camelot at the side of their champion.

  Arthur’s hall was finer than any building she had ever seen. Made all of stone with a roof of red tiles, it could have held five times a hundred souls. Its entrance was carved with granite pillars, warriors, twining vines and fabulous beasts. Before it all spread broad steps of white marble and an apron of bright mosaic tiles.

  Before all this grandeur stood those who held its rule.

  There was no mistaking them. Circlets of gold adorned their brows and torques of gold encircled their throats. Cloaks lined and trimmed with sable protected them from the brisk wind. High King Arthur was no longer a young man. Silver lightened his bark-brown hair and neatly trimmed beard. Lines had etched themselves into a face gone permanently brown from wind and weather. His body, though, was powerful beneath its clothing of fine linen, all in shades of blue that rippled in the breeze and made him appear to be wearing cloth made of water.

  Beside him, Queen Guinevere stood straight, slender and fair as a birch tree in summer, clothed all in white, trimmed and clasped with silver. A great ring of keys hung from the belt at her slender waist. Her rich chestnut hair had been braided and bound with threads of silver that sparkled in the sun and found answering lights in her wide, grey eyes. It was those eyes of hers that were said to have captured the heart of the man who would become the High King of all the Britons, and seeing her now, Risa could well believe it.

  Beside the king stood a tall, wiry man with black hair and tawny eyes. Some old battle or accident had broken and twisted his right leg so that he was forced to lean on a crutch. His rich, black tunic was ornamented with a chain of gold and silver with each link made in the shape of a pair of crossed keys. This then must be Sir Kai, King Arthur’s seneschal and foster brother. Beside Kai stood a man who at first glance seemed he must be molded of bronze, so fair and strong was he, with lapis eyes and a square jaw. His cloak was madder red and his coat of silver rings was trimmed with bright brass. The sword he wore at his side had a golden pommel. This could only be Lancelot du Lac, come across from Brittany to join King Arthur’s champions when he heard the tales told of the battle of Mount Badon.

  The ladies beside Queen Gui
nevere were no less impressive than Arthur’s champions, in bright clothing of all the colors the summer had to offer, each ornamented with jewelry of enameled silver, copper and bronze, all cunningly worked into the shapes of flowers and animals, or knotted into complex patterns to circle waist and brow.

  But even amidst that beauty and wealth, the High King and queen shone forth. Looking at the pair of them, regal and proud in the sun, knowing all they had done and all that they stood for, Risa felt she now understood the true meaning of majesty. Awe filled her. At the same time, terror parched her throat and turned her hands to ice. If she had felt uncouth and bashful entering Bannain’s hall, she now felt that anything would be preferable to meeting these two, with her chapped hands and her hair fit only for birds to nest in, her poor clothes stained and creased by travel, and manners that could barely pass muster in a smoky outlandish hall.

  Let me spend the night in a scullery, or the sty, I wouldn’t care. Do not bring me before these.

  A small army of grooms and pages swarmed out to surround them, so Risa could go neither forward nor back. The reins were taken expertly from her hands and a step was placed for her feet. She looked desperately at Gawain, but he seemed to have forgotten what he knew of mercy. He swung himself out of his saddle and held up his hand for her. Risa tried to swallow, but her dry throat would not permit it. Gawain was smiling, confident, almost jubilant. He was home, after all, and he came home victorious. His kin and comrades formed up behind him. Risa was uncertain whether she wanted to curse him soundly, or simply pray to God for the ground to open up and swallow her.