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

by Sarah Zettel

  That thought gave her the courage she needed and Risa told them of Euberacon Magus and her father’s old bargain. She told them of the Saxon’s ambush, and saw Gawain nod in agreement. She even told them of how the raven spy had vanished after its death, and how the raven’s cry had alerted her in the night to treachery at Pen Marhas.

  “Did you see anything unnatural about these birds?”

  The question came from the corner of the chamber, not from the Round Table. A man she had not before noticed rose from a chair. He wore robes like a monk, although they were black rather than brown, and belted with silver. A close-fitting cap embroidered with silver thread covered his head so that only a few wisps of white hair showed at the edges. His white beard covered his chest and he leaned on a long staff of pale wood.

  Merlin the Magus. Merlin the Cunning-Man. Arthur’s closest councilor, and, some darkly whispered, the true power of Camelot. Risa swallowed hard, for when she looked at him, she could not help but see Euberacon.

  He was waiting for her answer. “No, Sir.” She had no idea what his real title was or how it was proper to address such a person. “They appeared as natural birds.”

  He nodded, coming closer until he stood before her. He was hunched over with age or care, perhaps both. His eyes were bright blue and seemed to glitter as they looked at her from under heavy lids.

  “You have seen other marvels, I think, lady.”

  Risa dropped her gaze quickly. She did not like those eyes. They could take the breath from her, take the will from her limbs. She gripped her skirt to keep her hands from trembling. “Yes, Sir.”

  “I would be grateful if you would tell me of them some time.” He spoke gently, even pleasantly. What was it that filled her with such trepidation? “But I will not take up any more of this council’s time with an old man’s curiosity.”

  Merlin returned to his corner seat. The further he withdrew, the easier Risa’s breathing became, and the fear washed from her blood so quickly she wondered if she had even truly felt it at all.

  Which is the illusion? The fear or the calm? Risa found herself wishing she had not thought of that.

  “You have our thanks, Lady Risa,” said the king. “You may depart while we give our careful consideration to your words.”

  Risa knelt again, and took her leave, but as she turned, she managed to catch a glimpse of Gawain. He was smiling, and gave her a quick nod. She had done well then. Assurance brimmed warmly in her heart, and Risa returned to the women’s chambers with a light step and head held high.

  Her new-won confidence buoyed her all the rest of the day, even as Jana readied her for the feast under Guinevere’s strict supervision. The queen had selected for her a gown of dark ruby red, trimmed and laced with silver and garnets. Garnets served as the centers of the lilies that made up the girdle, the golden necklace at her throat, and the circlet that was laid over the tissue of gold veil that covered her hair. The queen had determined she would wear it loose tonight, as was the fashion for a maiden of her rank at the court, so out came the combs and brushes again, and her hair was worked over until it seemed to shine with its own inner light. It hung down her back and shoulders like a luxurious cloak. When the queen stood Risa in front of the polished bronze mirror in her chamber, Risa had to touch her own face to determine that the image was real. The emerald ring on her hand was the only thing she recognized.

  “Yes, my dear,” said the queen when she saw the stunned expression on Risa’s face. “That is you, in truth. God has given you great beauty. Rejoice in it.”

  “Is that not pride, Majesty?”

  The queen’s smile turned mischievous. “Perhaps. But perhaps it is only displaying appropriate appreciation of all the gifts Our Father has seen fit to bestow upon us.”

  Risa found herself wondering what Camelot’s bishop thought of the queen’s theological interpretations.

  Guinevere herself wore scarlet, a shimmering fabric so light it did not seem possible that human hands had woven it. The ladies said it had been brought from Constantinople, but the art of its makings originated even farther to the east. Gold trimmed the sleeves that were long enough to brush the floor, as well as the hems and the collar. Her girdle was a chain of golden roses. In addition to her torque, the queen wore a crown in her sigil shape crusted with pearls.

  Before Risa had a chance to grow nervous again, one of the waiting women entered the queen’s chamber and curtsied. “Your Majesty, the High King sends his compliments and requests your presence at his board.”

  “You may tell His Majesty we are most pleased to attend him and will arrive presently,” answered the queen with the same mischievous spirit she had displayed before. Clearly such formalities were something of a jest between her and her husband, and one she enjoyed.

  “Come, my women.” She slipped her arm companionably through Risa’s. “Let us see what has been prepared for us.”

  The remaining ladies assembled according to their ranks and all of them proceeded down the corridor, the sounds of merriment and anticipation wafting around them.

  The doors to the great hall had been thrown open wide. Torches and candles flared, turning the room as bright as day. Musicians played, filling the air with the sound of flutes and harps. The singer was holding forth with a poem of Persephone and Ceres, and Risa would have loved to listen, but there was so much else to take her attention.

  Long tables covered with cloths of white and green stretched the length of the hall. It seemed no one could have been denied a place, be they ever so humble. The cadre of the round table, of course, sat nearest the dais, and the champions occupied the high table with their king. Also there was Merlin, and a man in bright robes who must have been the bishop.

  As the queen and her ladies entered, all stood and cheered. Arthur himself, dressed in gold and scarlet to match his queen, stepped down from the dais, and Guinevere released Risa’s arm to go forward to meet him. To Risa’s utter surprise, the king knelt at his wife’s feet, and she laid her hands on his head as if in blessing. Then, he stood and kissed her soundly, raising another cheer that seemed as if it must shake the tiles from the roof.

  Then the champions left the high table and came down to the floor, each of them to take a lady’s hand and lead her to the table. Gawain presented himself before Risa, and bowed.

  He looked more like a figure from legend than any living man had a right. His curling black hair flowed across his shoulders, his chin had been shaved completely smooth, and his hands washed clean of all signs of battle and hard riding. He wore a tunic of brilliant emerald green that had been slit at the sides to show the snow white undertunic beneath it. A belt of golden stars circled his waist and a chain of stars hung across his shoulders, only partly covered by a summer-green cloak embroidered with trees that had yet more stars caught in their branches.

  But his eyes and smile were his own, and both shone for Risa alone as he took her hand and led her to her place at the table.

  The feast was worthy of a song of its own. Each course was accompanied by jugglers, acrobats, poets or dancers. Mummers masked as goats and outraged Saxons chased each other about the hall, causing Risa laugh until she wept with merriment.

  Then there was the food. Risa could only taste a little of what was set before her and she was still more full than she had ever been in her life. There were dainty pastries, light as clouds, whole salmon roasted in butter, geese and peacocks cooked in golden crusts accompanied by eggs in aspic, last year’s apples stewed with raisins, cinnamon and cloves and served with fresh cream, roasted pork flavored by a foreign herb called garlic which set Risa’s eyes to watering afresh. To accompany it all there were endless jugs of beer and half-a-dozen precious wines brought from across the Christian world and even past its bounds for the delight of the king and his lady.

  There were speeches, of course. Time and again, one of the cadre or the champions stood and told some tale of the valor of himself or a companion, or spoke of the love and beauty of th
eir ladies. The ladies themselves were not silent. At the queen’s order, one or another would sing, or speak a piece of some epic. But as the feasting continued on, Risa felt a sense of anticipation rising from the high table, as if all were waiting for some overdue event. Even Agravain seemed to feel it, a thin smile playing about his pinched mouth.

  Then, it came.

  Kai the seneschal who sat between Gawain and Lancelot, smiled expansively at Risa and turned to Gawain, raising his wine cup.

  “A beauty you’ve brought to us, Gawain. A rare treasure. It never ceases to amaze, Lord Agravain,” he went on conversationally, “just what your brother finds by the roadside.”

  A chuckle rose from many at the table, but not from Agravain. “It is a talent that seems to have possessed him since he came to the south,” he said in perfect soberness.

  “The first of many things to possess him, so I hear.” Kai pursed his lips. “It is a wonder that you do not send for a priest that he might be exorcised.”

  “If I thought that would help with what ails him, I would.”

  “Perhaps it is only too much feasting. A luxurious diet can cause such heartburn.”

  Risa felt her cheeks begin to heat up. Gawain carefully set his cup down as if he were afraid it would spill. Arthur only sighed, and Guinevere gave Risa a look that seemed to advise patience.

  Agravain eyed Risa as he stabbed his knife into a piece of pork. “I would not say his diet is too rich.” He popped the dainty into his mouth. “Too poor, perhaps.”

  “Ah!” Kai raised one long finger. “But what one man finds worthless, is priceless to another, and who can say how well he sees?”

  “It is said God knows all things,” replied Agravain.

  “Yes, but does one have to be God to know the price of a roadside treasure, or only Gawain?”

  That earned a round of full-fledged laughter. Clearly the court felt Kai was in rare form, and it was more than Risa could stand in silence.

  “Tell me, my Lord Kai, in all the treasures you have known, is courtesy among them?”

  That raised yet another laugh, and even Arthur chuckled.

  Kai looked rather less pleased and Risa began to fear that in answering she had made a grave mistake. “Your lady is most well spoken, Gawain,” said Kai, apparently oblivious to the mounting anger in Gawain’s expression. “Clearly they instruct their ladies well in the outlands.”

  “Not so well as in Pen Marhas,” added Agravain. Gawain’s fist curled on the cloth.

  “I had thought myself learned indeed,” said Risa, forcing pleasantry into her voice. “But there is no poet’s verse that speaks the truth of my Lord Kai’s matchless wit.”

  “Indeed?” Queen Guinevere leaned forward. Risa also noted she pulled Gawain’s fisted hand from the table as she did. “And what do the rhymes say of our brother Kai?”

  “Why, Majesty, they call him tailor, for each guest in Camelot is measured up by my lord, and then cut down to size.”

  Laughter and a smattering of applause went up. “Tailor Kai!” cried one of the champions, and that cry was taken up by the others. Risa faced the seneschal sunnily, feeling she might actually have scored some small victory.

  But Kai had gone suddenly and completely serious. “There are many cuts to be made and taken, my lady, and not all enemies are Saxons.”

  Arthur raised his brows. “Do you say this lady is an enemy, Kai?”

  “Never in life, Majesty. Gawain would not knowingly bring such a one to this hall.”

  “And Heaven knows it is his sagaciousness my brother is renowned for,” added Agravain.

  “As my brother is known for his merry moods and fulsome disposition.” The jest of Gawain’s words was completely drowned by the hard warning in them.

  Kai leaned across to Risa, whispering elaborately behind his hand. “As we speak of poetry, my lady, here, I believe is where you clasp your bosom and cry ‘Alas! That I should be the cause of strife between brothers!’”

  Risa’s back stiffened. “I think I am ill-suited for that role, Sir,” she replied warily.

  “Then what part shall you play, lady?” Kai leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. “The blushing bride, perhaps?”

  The ladies shrieked in delight at that thought, and the men waggled their fingers at Gawain. “My part shall be as it pleases God,” was all Risa could think to say.

  And it was exactly the wrong thing. Kai’s eyes glowed and he smiled a long, sly smile. “And which part shall be found so pleasant, I do wonder?”

  The cheers this time were loud and ribald, and finally too much. Gawain shot to his feet.

  “Nephew,” said Arthur, pleasantly but the warning was clear in his eyes.

  Gawain did not sit down. Risa turned quickly to Guinevere.

  “Excuse me, Majesty,” she said. “I find I am not well. I beg your leave to retire.”

  “Of course, Lady Risa.” Guinevere glowered at Kai. “Lady Marie and Jana will take you back to your room. I will be up shortly to see you are well.”

  She looked to Gawain, trying to plead with her eyes, Leave it. Let me go. He gave her a small nod, but she had no idea what that might mean.

  What she did know was that her dream was over and reality returned. However welcoming the queen might be, whatever she and Gawain might feel in their hearts, there was no place for her here, and no other place for him.

  For the second time in as many days, Gawain watched Risa be led away to the care of Guinevere’s ladies. This time though, he felt no relief as he had before. The whole of the high table watched him, waiting for him to sit down. From the look on Kai’s face, he had some new jest brewing.

  It was not a blow Gawain was prepared to let fall. “A word, my uncle.”

  “Gawain …” Arthur sighed.

  “A word, if it please you.”

  “Very well.” Arthur set his cup down and kissed Guinevere’s hand. “My wife, will you see these ruffians remember their manners as well as their wits?”

  “It shall be as you say, my husband.” She was looking daggers at Kai. The coming clash between these two would be the talk of the court for months, Gawain was sure. He would have been worried had he not known his aunt more than capable of holding her own against the seneschal.

  The king stood and the whole of the hall with him. A train of whispers and murmurs swept behind him and Gawain as they left. Oh, there would be a gossips’ feast to follow this one, that was certain.

  And I will give them a fine dainty to chew over.

  Arthur’s private chamber was warm and richly furnished, and seldom empty. When they entered, it was populated by two secretaries, three servitors and two pages. Arthur dismissed them all, an unusual gesture. As Gawain faced his uncle in absolute privacy, he was not sure whether to be worried or hopeful.

  Arthur folded his arms. He did not sit down. “Your word, Gawain?”

  When the king was in this mood, it was best not to embroider or explain, not even on such a matter as Gawain brought to him now. “I wish to marry the Lady Risa.”

  Arthur sighed and hung his head. Gawain had the distinct feeling he was not in the least surprised. “Gawain, your gallantry has always done you credit, but if we were moved to marry every lady Kai made public sport of, we should each of us have more wives than the kings of Arabia.”

  But Gawain was ready for that, and had his counter in place. “Uncle this has nothing to do with Sir Kai and his barbs. It has to do with my heart. I would take Risa of the Morelands to wife. I am asking for your permission and blessing for that undertaking.”

  Arthur was silent for a long moment. He studied his nephew. Gawain knew he was turning over the words in his mind, weighing and judging how they were spoken, measuring them against what he knew of the speaker. Gawain had watched his uncle do this same thing many times in court, but seldom had he stood himself before such scrutiny. He suddenly felt as nervous as a new-made squire whose master was inspecting his work in the stables.

>   Arthur turned away from him then and folded his hands behind him, gazing out of the narrow slit of the window. The screen had not yet been folded into place. Night’s cold crept in, brushing against his throat and the backs of his hands.

  “I committed grave sins while founding Camelot, Gawain,” the king said. “The blood of innocents is on my hands. It is under the stones of my great hall.”

  This startled Gawain, it was so far from any answer he’d imagined. “So may all warriors say.”

  “Perhaps.” The word lacked any conviction. “I have prayed to God for forgiveness, for some sign of mercy, if not for me, then for Camelot itself, for the Britons. I pray that He not let my weakness, my pride be the shifting sand that brings all that is good here down to rubble.” He faced Gawain again. “I walk the halls at night, taken by the fear that we will become but a confection of words and distorted deeds to be told on a winter’s night to drive away the dark.”

  Gawain swallowed. “Only God can know the future.”

  “That is the simple truth. When I look at you, though, Gawain, I feel as if I can glimpse that future, and it is good and stalwart, strong and honest.” Arthur laid his hand on Gawain’s shoulder, and Gawain felt himself reflexively straighten. “Men such as you and I must think beyond our pleasures, our simple needs. We must look always to the future, to the good of the realm and the maintenance of its peace.”

  “Yes, uncle.”

  “This woman, Risa, she is fair and mannered and she comports herself with dignity, but is she true of heart? Is she wise as well as brave? Any woman you marry will stand beside you one day as queen. Can you tell me truly that she a worthy successor to Guinevere?”

  Gawain met Arthur’s gaze unflinchingly. “I will do more than tell it, I will swear it, on my honor, and on my love of God and Your Majesty. The only question in my heart is whether I am worthy of her.”