"What would the great Lord Gawain want with such a one as me?" she murmured, yanking him out of the contemplation of the landscape of her face.
He attempted another obeisance appropriate for a monk. "I was hoping you would be able to tell me something of the battle so that I might understand how Bertilak was able to take this place," he whispered.
"Would you care to accompany me back to the kitchens, Brother Gaw?" she said, her voice at a natural volume.
"Certainly, Lady Ragnell," Gawain said.
As they ambled towards the kitchen buildings, Ragnell indicated a dip in the defensive earthworks that Gawain had not yet noticed. "The main attack was from the south. They must have scouted the hill-fort thoroughly before they attacked, and most likely they knew that my brothers were both ill."
"How many men did your father have?"
"Just after harvest and before snow?" she asked in return. "Well under a hundred. War is not normally conducted in winter — there is too little plunder on the road and too great a chance one's own troops will not survive the adventure."
"That may be precisely what Bertilak was counting on," Gawain murmured. "A hill-fort in its peaceful winter sleep."
Ragnell shrugged. "I think he also must have known about the puking sickness that was plaguing us and the surrounding villages, and he decided to take advantage of our weakness. The sickness was not life-threatening, except for the very old and the very young, but it put a swath of warriors besides my brothers in their beds rather than on the ramparts."
He wanted to take her hand, give her whatever comfort he could. He imagined that many of those puking warriors, up to and including her brothers, had died in their beds or not far away.
"I'm sorry about your losses," Gawain said.
"Thank you." She rubbed her good eye briefly and continued. "The green warrior has help of some powerful magic somehow, I am sure of it. But it is not here; he is calling on it from elsewhere."
It appeared she did have some of the powers of the Old Race — unless she was one of those who could recognize magic without being able to cast it herself. "You cannot identify who is wielding the magic?"
She shook her head.
"Have Bertilak's men at least treated you well since they took the fort?" Gawain asked.
Ragnell looked away, and all he could see was the smooth plane of her undamaged cheek, beguiling, alluring. What a beauty she would have been if not for the accident.
"Better than might have been expected, for several reasons." She faced him, gazing directly into his eyes. "How many men would want to rape a monster with this face?"
He held her gaze, not answering immediately. The truth of the matter was, men were not very picky when it came to post-battle rape. Arthur forbade it among his men, but Gawain had seen the victims many times. The one thing most of the victims had in common was that they were female. But not even that was a given.
"Then they left you untouched?" he asked, hoping it was not too intimate a question. On the other hand, it was she who had begun the talk of rape.
Her lips turned up in a bitter, sad smile. "Not completely. The usurper wanted to stake a claim on me. At least I am not pregnant."
Gawain drew in a sharp breath. "I am sorry." At the same time, it occurred to him that this, much more than her disfigurement, was the reason she had not been raped repeatedly by the men in Bertilak's warband. If their leader claimed her, intending to marry her to legitimize his position as new lord in Caer Camulodon, then she was off limits to the rest of his men.
"I am not sorry," Ragnell said.
It took him a moment to realize how she had meant her odd response. "My sympathy is for what you have gone through, not that you are not with child."
She chuckled — an astonishing sound, given the topic of their conversation. Gawain shook his head and looked at her, a question in his eyes.
"Oh, I understood what you meant, Lord Gawain," she said. "It is just that I have a tendency to be perversely literal at times."
To his surprise, he found he liked that about her. There was courage in her that spoke to him, that gave him a feeling of connectedness. It reminded him a little of his aunt Gwenhwyfar, truth be told — Ragnell's dead older cousin who had been requested to appear at the wedding. Ragnell could not have known Arthur's first wife well. He judged her to be no more than in her mid-twenties, although it was difficult to tell with her disfigurement. But surely she was no more than a child when Gwenhwyfar died. It was another indication of her cleverness, using her cousin's name in a letter to the Pendragon, a way to deliver a message she couldn't write, and get Arthur's attention at the same time. Gawain smiled.
Ragnell began to walk along the perimeter of the earthworks, Gawain beside her. "While we have this opportunity, I want to tell you how honored I am that you have come to my assistance," she said quietly.
He shrugged. "You are kin. And your ancestral seat is important strategically for Britain."
"Yes, it is, isn't it?" This time, he couldn't tell if she were bitter or amused. She stopped, lifted a hand to his cheek, and stretched up to kiss him softly on the lips before he even knew what she was about. "You have my thanks anyway."
Then she turned and hurried away in the direction of the kitchens while Gawain stood staring after her, wondering what had just happened.
His lips tingled.
* * *
"I inspected the defenses and spoke with Ragnell about the battle," Gawain whispered to the other warriors that night in the small house they shared. "We need to get word out that the fortifications in the south are weakest."
"It is such a shame about Ragnell," Pabius said. "I had not seen her for several years, and I didn't know about the accident. Such a beauty she was."
Gaheris raised one eyebrow. "I thought Christian priests paid no attention to such things?"
Pabius smiled and shook his head. "I am sure there are such men among the priesthood, but those I know are not blind to the charms of an attractive woman. And young Ragnell was certainly that. But the accident would explain why she never married."
Gawain pulled the priest's garb off over his head, feeling much more himself as soon as the humble robes were on the floor rather than on his back. He found he had no stomach for talking about Ragnell, her misfortunes, and her former beauty with a group of men, even if one of them was a priest. It came precariously close to the kind of talk men shared around the campfire, discussing women as they would a favorite horse or a well-fought battle.
He turned to Gareth and Gaheris. "We cannot expect reinforcements from Caer Leon in much less than two weeks, even if they are riding hard. Any suggestions as to what we can do in the meantime to increase our chances of victory?"
"Do you think there is any way we could secretly weaken the defenses?" Gaheris said slowly.
Gareth propped his chin in his palm. "We would make ourselves suspicious if we tried to do that, even at night. I think our preparations will have to be limited to the village." He turned to Pabius. "Assuming the villagers can be trusted?"
"I believe so," Pabius said. "I will speak with the priest again, but my first impression was that there is much support for Ragnell in Caer Camulodon."
Gawain laid his bedroll out on the mattress of straw closest to the door. "We should consult with Bertilak about what he plans for the wedding festivities. That would give us a good excuse to move back and forth between the hill-fort and the village."
"Yes," Pabius agreed, lying down on his own pallet.
Gawain raised the oil lamp. "We will have much to do on the morrow. Good night."
He blew out the flame and lay down, only to be assaulted by the memory of Ragnell's sad, brave smile. He would do everything is his ability to give her back something of what had once been hers.
And then he realized that his first thought upon seeking his bed had not been of Yseult — perhaps for the first time since she had told him she would be marrying Cador.
Truth be told, he had not tho
ught of Yseult for almost a whole day.
He laced his fingers behind his head and gazed up into the darkness. Was he finally beginning to recover from the most severe bout of disappointed love he had ever experienced? Or was it simply that beauty, ugliness, mystery, and a hill-fort to be retaken were enough to distract him for a time?
3
When that evil lady he lay beside
Bade him turn to welcome his bride,
What, think you, he did?
Oh, to spare her pain,
And let not his loathing her loathliness vain
Mirror too plain,
Sadly, sighingly,
Almost dyingly,
Turned he and kissed her once and again.
Like Sir Gawain, gentles, should we?
Silent, all! But for pattern agree
There's none like the Knight of Courtesy.
George Meredith, "The Song of Courtesy"
Gareth made the most convincing monk among them, Gawain thought at dinner the next day, glancing at his youngest brother as he bowed his head over the first course of duck eggs with pine nut sauce. And he a married man with a steadily increasing family. But there was a perplexing innocence about Gareth, always had been.
Gawain took another bite of the duck eggs. Ragnell had organized an exceptional meal, if this course was any indication. The nutty sauce had just the right hint of honey and vinegar to make it interesting without being too sour or too sweet.
"What kind of wedding festivities are you planning once Ragnell's cousin arrives?" Pabius asked Bertilak as the first course was being cleared away. The priest had been given the seat of honor next to their "host" — while Gawain sat opposite beside Ragnell, squirming every time the warrior in green took his betrothed's hand possessively. He couldn't forget what she had told him the day before, and he couldn't help wanting to jump up and wring the man's neck.
Especially since Bertilak did his very best to avoid looking at her, despite all his show of possession.
Bertilak tried to hide his surprise at the priest's question, and there was a brief moment of embarrassed silence.
"We have not yet given much thought to festivities," Ragnell said, jumping in for a man who deserved no such defense. But of course it was also embarrassing for her that her future husband did not deem their upcoming nuptials worthy of celebration.
Gawain's urge to wring his neck grew stronger.
Next to him, Gaheris laid a hand on his arm. "Is something amiss, brother Gaw?"
"Only that the food is richer than I am used to."
Gaheris nodded knowingly. "It is truly a splendid repast." Then under his breath, so that only Gawain could hear, he whispered, "Calm down, brother; this is not the place to let your temper get the better of you."
"I can have simpler fare brought if such as the last course is too rich for you," Ragnell said.
"Perhaps that would be better, Lady." Gawain had found the dish excellent, but it seemed necessary to go along with the pretense, seeing as he had already drawn attention to himself with his reaction.
She smiled and motioned a servant to her side, and in that moment, Gawain once again saw her face whole as it must have once been, smooth and pure and framed by soft brown hair, glinting in a kaleidoscope of shades from honey to a hint of bronze in the candlelight.
"Will any of your relatives be coming for the wedding?" Pabius asked.
Bertilak flinched. "The only one left to me is my sister, and she is not fit to travel."
Gawain glanced between Ragnell and the green knight — he could have sworn that she stiffened at the mention of Bertilak's sister. Was that perhaps the source of the magic she had alluded to earlier?
"I am sorry to hear it," Pabius was saying now. "Will you be holding a feast day for the villagers? It would be proper to give them a chance to celebrate such an important event for you and your betrothed."
Bertilak nodded. "An excellent idea."
"Might it be possible to obtain a new silk veil for the ceremony from Eburacum?" Ragnell asked.
"Certainly, my dear," Bertilak said, still not looking at her.
Gaheris touched his arm surreptitiously again before Gawain could react. It was beginning to look like he would be very much in his brother's debt by the end of this particular adventure.
* * *
Something had woken him, the faintest of scratchings on the door. He pushed himself up, small sword in hand. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark, and he looked around. To his surprise, none of the other warriors had awoken at the noise. Had he imagined it?
No, there it was again. But the other men continued to snore.
A whisper. "Gawain."
Ragnell.
Gawain pulled on his tunic and slipped out of the door as quietly as possible. Clapping a hand over her mouth, he dragged her out of hearing distance behind a nearby storage shed. Only then did he release her.
"Ragnell!" he said in a furious whisper. "What are you doing here? One of my men could have killed you by mistake."
"But you didn't kill me," she replied.
"I recognized your voice."
"As any of the other men might also have done," she pointed out pragmatically.
She had the right of it. He returned to his original objection. "So what are you doing here?"
"I wanted to speak with you, alone."
"Could it not have waited until morning?"
"We are more likely to be seen then. For what I wish to ask, I do not want to be seen."
It seemed a strange comment — seeking him out alone was more dangerous at night than during the day. "Surely it is not safe for you to sneak out of the main hall at night. You are risking much in coming to me."
There was a slight pause, and he was almost sure she was smiling into the darkness. Her next words seemed to confirm his suspicions. "Less than you think."
"You are very confident." He was becoming more and more convinced that she had some of the powers of the Old Race, just as Yseult did. To his irritation, he felt a frisson of fear.
She touched his elbow, tentatively. "No, I am not confident. Far from it."
He leaned his head back against the stone wall of the hut and crossed his arms in front of his chest, waiting for her to explain. The night was moonless, cold and clear, with only an occasional cloud whispering across the black sky. Stars littered the heavens like jewels scattered carelessly on a dark carpet.
Then he felt her lips whispering across his neck like the clouds flitting among the stars. He should have pushed her away, but the light kisses felt too good; instead, he closed his eyes, enjoying the moment — including the slight rush of danger it held.
She drew away again, and a sigh escaped him. He realized that while she had been kissing his neck, he had taken hold of her waist in both hands, and now his fingers slid down toward her perfectly shaped rump. "Thank you," he murmured.
"You mean it, don't you?" Her voice was disbelieving.
Gawain chuckled, pulling her hips forward against his swollen cock. "Is that answer enough for you?"
Instead of giving him some kind of flippant or defiant answer as he had learned to expect from her, she leaned her head on his chest, and her arms snaked around his back. "Gawain, make me forget," she murmured against his tunic.
He pulled her tighter, an automatic gesture of comfort. Her words were like a fist around his heart. "Ah, Ragnell, you cannot know how many times I wanted to pound Bertilak's face in during dinner this evening — both for what he did to you and for every time he looked away from you."
She raised her head and took his chin in her hands. "I do know, Gawain. Which is why I ask you — take me. Use me well this night. Banish all those other memories."
The raw sexuality of her words had him hissing in his breath — and jumping even more painfully to attention. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. Please. I want to eradicate the memory of what the green warrior did to me. Please. Give me joy to replace the pain and humiliation."
> Gods help him, he needed no more encouragement. He kissed her perfect lips. "I will do my best."
He slipped along the stone wall, one arm around Ragnell, one hand seeking for the door. Once he found the handle, he yanked it down, pushed the wooden door open with his hip, and dragged her back into the hut with him. To judge by the scent, it was a storage shed filled with grain.
Before he could kick the door closed behind them, she laughed out loud.
"Shush, woman!" Gawain couldn't help admonishing.
She kissed his lips. "No one will hear."
Now he was sure. "You are of one the Old Race. What other spells have you cast?"
"None putting you under my power, I swear. Otherwise you would not be here with me, now."
Gawain was not quite sure if he believed her words, but he was beyond caring. He pulled his tunic over his head and threw it on the mound of grain behind them — wheat, barley, rye, he knew not what.
"Good, then we can enjoy ourselves without fear of interruption," he said, pushing her down into a bed of what might be his bread on the morrow.
Ragnell let out a choked sigh.
* * *
Something was tickling his nose. Gawain turned on his back and rubbed the offending orifice, wondering where he was. He lay cold and naked on top of his tunic, and the room smelled vaguely nutty. He sat up. The grain storage hut — and Ragnell was gone. She had worn him out so much that he had not even noticed her leave.
Gawain laughed out loud. But in the next moment, he was scrambling up and pulling his tunic over his head. Milky winter sunlight slanted into the hut through the cracks in the stones and between the wall and the thatched roof. It was day, and he had to make it back to his companions without being noticed.
The Story of Gawain and Ragnell Page 2
