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

by Sarah Zettel

  Jana opened a plain door set in the left-hand wall. On the other side waited a chamber that was simple in comparison with the queen’s but to Risa looked to be the very essence of comfort. This room too had a hearth. Two stout wooden chairs covered in tapestry sat before the gently crackling fire, along with an inlaid table where refreshment might be placed. Fresh rushes strewed the floor, and there was even a small knotted carpet beside the stout bed all curtained and canopied with sage green. A tapestry of knotted ribbons and roses completed the decoration.

  “Is it to your liking, my lady?” inquired Jana.

  “Yes, yes, it’s beautiful.” Risa stepped in hastily. “I wonder … if I might lie down for just a few minutes. I know the queen excused me from board, but, just in case …”

  “Of course, my lady. I would suggest we remove your dress, so it will not wrinkle.”

  Jana was an efficient maid and the laces were soon undone at bodice and sleeve and Risa was able to slip beneath covers of fur and velvet in her shift and sink down onto clean beds of eiderdown so soft she felt as if she were being cradled by the wings of angels.

  Oh, Mother Mary thank you for these blessings. Thank you for …

  But Risa fell asleep before she could finish her prayer.

  From the place where he stood beside the king, Gawain saw Queen Guinevere take Risa by the hands and lead her into the hall. His heart found room to contain a little more gladness. Now Risa would learn what a proper welcome was. Agravain still wore his displeasure plain on his face, even when their uncle presented him to the crowd as ‘the great champion’, and ‘hero of Pen Marhas’. Gawain, to his shame, did spare a glance at Lancelot. The knight of Brittany did not look at all pleased at having been left behind from a chance at honor and glory.

  Well, if the signs were right, there would be plenty more chances like Pen Marhas before the snows fell in winter.

  The ladies and their attendants glided among the champions, graceful as deer every one, welcoming them home with cups of wine and fair words. Gawain accepted a silver cup from Lady Kelyn, who arched her brows as he took a welcome drink of the sweet wine. She was longing to ask about Risa, he was sure, but, thankfully, was too courteous to do so.

  The High King raised his hand once more to the cheering crowd and then with a nod to Gawain and Agravain, swept back into the hall. Gawain gave Lady Kelyn a parting shrug, handed the cup back and followed his uncle and brother inside.

  Gawain turned to Arthur, but the High King did not wait for him to speak. “As soon as you have refreshed yourselves, Gawain, I will see you and Agravain in the war council chamber.”

  They both bowed deeply and the king gave them leave to depart. Agravain strode down the corridor at Gawain’s side, his eyes pointed straight ahead and his mouth clamped tightly shut.

  “Agravain,” Gawain began.

  But Agravain just quickened his pace and drew ahead. Gawain sighed and let him go.

  Gawain shared a room with his brother Geraint. Agravain preferred to be closer to Kai and the secretaries, while Gareth was required to live in the dormitories with the rest of the squires. So, Gawain was a little surprised to find his youngest brother sitting on his bed when he opened the door to his chamber.

  “Gareth.” He embraced the young man warmly.

  “Brother.” Gareth was grinning and relaxed, and lounged backward, taking a moment to enjoy being off-duty and among family. If he was worried about what he had surely already heard, he did not show it. “You’re looking well after your travels.” He paused, and then added with an over-abundance of casualness. “They’re saying you’ve brought a lady home.”

  Gawain rolled his eyes as he stripped off his boots and travel-stained tunic. “I’m sure they are. She’s a witness to some important events that the king will need to hear of.” Gareth, diligent squire that he was, had filled the wash basin and laid out a fresh towel. There was also beer and bread on a plate. Gawain had to give Lancelot this, he was training the boy well in more than fighting.

  “They’re saying the Saxons are practicing witchcraft,” Gareth went on, clearly fishing for news.

  “There’s not a horse in the world can run so fast as people’s tongues.” Gawain frowned at his younger brother in overly stern disapproval. “I hope my Lord Lancelot is not teaching you the art of listening behind doors. No, wait.” He held up his hands to stop the boy’s coming protest. “What more could you be taught of such art?”

  Gareth threw a sandal at him. Gawain ducked it easily and grinned at his youngest brother.

  “My Lord Lancelot says the Saxons can’t even practice swordcraft correctly, how skilled can their witches be?” Gareth chuckled, savoring his mentor’s joke. “He says …”

  “Where’s Geraint disappeared to?” Once Gareth warmed to the theme of Lancelot’s sayings, he could talk for hours.

  “The High King has him down by the walls with Sir Bedivere reviewing defenses and the men’s readiness. I said it was impossible the Saxons would attack here, because you and Agravain would stop them at Pen Marhas. But Lancelot said that it is necessary to check all defenses when an enemy threatens.”

  Unusually sagacious of him. Gawain scooped up the clean water Gareth had provided and scrubbed the dirt from his face.

  “Do you think we will go to war, Gawain?”

  Gawain turned and regarded his brother. Gareth perched on the edge of the bed, torn between eagerness and apprehension at this idea. He was too young to remember the last uprising of the Pictish men at home in Din Eityn. What he knew of war he had heard from glory-seekers, like Lancelot, and hard, old men, like Grimore.

  “I hope not Gareth, but I fear we may have no choice.”

  Gareth nodded, his seriousness making him look older than his years, but then, he added. “My Lord Lancelot says …”

  Gawain threw his dirty tunic, catching his brother square in the face.

  Washed, dressed in clean linen and an autumn brown over-tunic, Gawain hurried to the war council.

  It was strange to see the chamber that held the Round Table so empty. Usually, there were at least the ten champions, Arthur’s war leaders and advisors. The place seemed echoingly silent with only the High King and his servants there.

  The Round Table itself dominated the room. Made of ingeniously fitted and inlaid woods, it was hollow at the center so that chairs might be placed around both the inner and outer rims. Two hinged flaps could be lifted to allow the cadre or their servitors access to the center. The object had become so much a part of his world, Gawain had almost ceased to think of it any differently from any other table at which he sat, but seeing it now, broad and empty, it brought back the first day he had taken his place there, all the pride, and all the fear, and how his voice had shaken when his uncle had turned and asked him his thoughts.

  Arthur stood beside one of the room’s other tables. It was a far smaller, far plainer circle. Its ornamentation was the beautifully drawn and painted map stretched out across its surface. Carved wooden markers in the shape of horses and colored tokens were scattered here and there across the kingdoms, indicating the position of ready forces and the levies that could be quickly called into action. The small army of secretaries and servitors who were the constant train of kingship had retired a polite distance and Arthur stood in relative isolation with his thoughts.

  Gawain knelt before his uncle, who raised him up with an absent gesture while he studied the map. Agravain arrived a moment later, to make the same obeisance, and receive the same leave to stand.

  They waited in silence until Arthur had finished his contemplation of the lands represented before him and beckoned to the crowd of servitors, who came forward at once with chairs for them. Arthur sat, inviting his nephews to do the same.

  “Now, Gawain.” Arthur laced his fingers together. “Tell us what has happened, and begin with your meeting with Harrik.”

  “I think perhaps I should hear these counsels as well.”

  The doors had opened soundless
ly on their well-tended hinges, and Merlin entered the room. He moved slowly, with an old man’s gait, leaning heavily on his wooden staff. It was a deceiving appearance, Gawain knew. In dire moments, he had seen Merlin move with a speed that a man in his prime would have been hard pressed to match.

  “Merlin,” Arthur hailed him. “What news have you?”

  “My own, my Lord King.” Merlin was the only councilor who would even think to give Arthur such an answer. It was one of the many reasons why it had taken Gawain so long to trust the sorcerer when he had first come to Camelot. “May I sit with you?”

  “Always.” Arthur indicated that another chair should be brought and Merlin lowered himself carefully into it. The High King nodded to his nephew, and Gawain began his tale. He tried not to look too much at his brother as he spoke. Agravain was still frowning deeply. Even making allowances for his brother’s essential nature, Agravain’s constant disdain was beginning to grate on Gawain.

  When Gawain had finished Arthur made no comment, but turned to Agravain. “And what is your news?”

  Agravain’s account was shorter, in part because he had less to tell, in part because he was always more sparing with his words. He told of the ride to Pen Marhas, of the battle and how it became a rout. He handed across the letter from Lord Bannain detailing those needs of the ruined town that had not yet been accounted for. Arthur handed the document to one of the waiting secretaries who retired to hold it for his lord’s later attention.

  Agravain went on, speaking of the councils he had held with Thedu Bannain, how his men would set their patrols through the hills and send word of what had happened to his neighbors as quickly as they could. If the Saxons were minded to continue their assaults, they would find they had lost the element of surprise on which, according to Harrik, they had counted.

  Which raised a question that had been long simmering in the back of Gawain’s mind.

  “Majesty,” he began carefully. “Harrik’s son …”

  Arthur’s demeanor was stern. Without intervention, the boy was forfeit to the king, and the laws of that forfeit were ancient and harsh. “Do you truly believe that Harrik was coerced?”

  Gawain spoke as steadily as he was able. “I saw his eyes as he stood before me, Sir. It may well be he was bewitched.”

  “Merlin?” The High King kept his gaze on Gawain.

  The sorcerer tapped his fingers against his staff for a moment. “There is much of that kind abroad this day. Harrik could well have fallen victim to the powers.”

  Arthur nodded. “Then it shall be so judged. The boy will be given the choice to remain or return to his people.” Gawain was not surprised to hear the lightest trace of relief in his uncle’s voice. There were duties of kingship Gawain did not relish the thought of assuming.

  “Tomorrow I will convene the Round Table,” Arthur went on. “Then we will hold the celebrations for May Day and have a last moment of joy and peace with our ladies before we must turn our hands to war.”

  Gawain made to kneel, but Agravain was not ready for their business to be concluded. “Sir,” he said, and Gawain found himself groaning inwardly. There was only one thing Agravain could be bringing up at this time. “The Lady Risa …”

  “I have not forgotten,” said Arthur patiently. “The queen will hear her story and we may trust her judgment.”

  This was not enough to content Agravain, however. “Sir … the law has been broken.”

  To Gawain’s surprise, it was Merlin who answered. “There is more here than a simple matter of law, my Lord Agravain.”

  “At the very least, it is clear to me that further investigation must be made.” Arthur stood, causing the rest of them to get hastily to their feet. “Be at peace, Agravain. The law will be observed in this matter. Thank you both for your news. We will speak further on these matters tomorrow. Merlin, stay here with me awhile yet. There are points I would discuss with you.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  “Yes, Majesty.”

  Gawain knelt with his brother and rose to take his leave as Arthur and Merlin returned to the map table.

  Out in the corridor, Gawain grabbed his brother’s shoulder, forcing him to turn. “Agravain, there is no need for this.”

  Agravain’s cheek twitched, an expression of controlled anger Gawain had not seen on him in years. “You will have this your own way, Gawain, let that be enough.”

  “No, brother, it is not enough. Why are you doing this? Even for you this conduct is outrageous.”

  Agravain barked out a harsh laugh. “My conduct is outrageous? You are the one who will choose to indulge himself regardless of the rights and privileges of others. My God, Gawain, you had better hope the men of this country have short memories or their women clever lies. To steal the woman out from before her father …”

  “You heard what was said in council and you still think this is because I …” Gawain found he could not even finish the phrase. “You think me some prating coxcomb then?”

  “No, Brother.” Agravain sighed. “I think you nothing more than one of God’s great fools. For it is a fool who cannot learn the fire is hot after his hand is burnt.”

  With that, Agravain stalked away. Gawain did not even try to follow him.

  You are wrong, Brother, he said in his mind. You do not understand. You never did. There never has been another fire like this. Not in my life, not in the life of any man. In time, you will see that.

  But the silence Agravain left him with began to ring in his ears, and Gawain strode down the corridor to escape it. He must find his way to rest. Tomorrow would be a very long day.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Risa did not see Gawain for much of the next day. Arthur had called all his cadre to council. Several of the wiser ladies whispered the word ‘war’. It seemed certain that Arthur would not leave those who supported such treachery unpunished. But all must be done carefully, and with sober judgment, for there were treaties in place that could not be broken without a great price.

  Even though she slept so late her mother would have declared it sloth, no one could say Risa’s morning was spent in idleness. Queen Guinevere commanded her presence in the royal wardrobe.

  “There is the May Eve feast this night, Lady Risa, and the hunting of the white stag on the morrow,” she said, as Risa stared in unabashed amazement at the rich cloth, that surrounded her. “We must find you something fitting to wear.”

  The queen brushed aside Risa’s attempts to select from among the simplest dresses. When she saw that her guest truly had no idea where to begin, she held up gown after gown against Risa, and discarded them all as not doing her justice, until she at last settled on a pair that she said ‘would do admirably’.

  She was about to turn her attention to the matter of a veil and jewels, when one of the waiting women opened the door to allow in a page boy wearing the scarlet dragon emblazoned on his over-tunic.

  The boy knelt before the queen. “His Majesty the High King Arthur bids the Lady Risa of the Morelands attend him now and give her witness.”

  Risa, her mind already awhirl from spending the morning amid more luxury than she had ever dreamt of, felt her knees buckle at the idea of speaking before the High King and all his council, whether Gawain was one of their number or no.

  “You have information your king requires,” said the queen, guessing Risa’s thought, and fear. “Speak the truth. These men have all known many wonders and terrors in their time. I promise, all there will hear you with respect and sound judgment.”

  You will not be called a hysterical woman, she meant. You will not be called a witch.

  Risa had hoped Queen Guinevere would accompany her on this task, but she realized that was selfish to the point of outrageous. Her Majesty had already spent hours on Risa this morning. Risa followed the page down the bright, broad corridors, and was followed in turn by the maid Jana. She was grateful for the fine grey dress. It helped her remember she was a daughter of rank, and one well-taught at that, and
that she knew her manners and her duty. She had faced her enemies, she had faced her own heart, she could face her liege lord.

  But it was not only her lord she must face. The guards opened the doors to the war council chamber, and all within turned to look at Risa.

  It was a large room, and it needed to be to hold all the men within it. The cadre of the Round Table numbered one hundred and ten, and it seemed that every one of them was there today, plus their squires and servants and a host of guards with pikes and polearms to line the walls. Over their heads hung the bright banners which would tell her exactly which of the cadre was in attendance if she knew all their signs. She saw the royal dragon first, and picked out Gawain’s star amid the garden of birds and beasts, swords and crosses. There were as many colors on these walls as in the wardrobe.

  The men to whom those banners belonged crowded the outer and inner rims of the Round Table. They ranged in age from little more than a boy to an ancient, white-haired sage who looked at though he could not have lifted a feather, let alone a sword, but who watched her keenly as she followed the page into the room.

  King Arthur sat in a carved chair on the outer rim of his table. Gawain sat at his right hand, and golden Lancelot on his left. Risa knelt before the High King and bowed her head.

  “Rise, lady.”

  Risa did as she was told, and stood with her hands neatly folded and her eyes modestly downcast. God alone knew what these men had heard of her. Rumor flew far faster than fact, even here. If nothing else, she would show them she knew decorum.

  “Now. Lord Gawain tells us you were witness to certain events that have a bearing on this council. Speak, Lady Risa and tell us the whole of what you have seen.”

  Risa looked at the hundred faces, all of them studying her intently. They were dark and they were fair, broad and lean, some as handsome as Gawain and Lancelot, others scarred, battered and even maimed from their adventures. These were the survivors of Badon and dozens of other battles she had never heard of. These were the protectors of her land and her king.