Читать книгу Camelot’s Shadow - Sarah Zettel - Страница 6

Rhian of the Morelands was in the yard when her father told Vernus to remove himself from the hall. Normally, she would have been lurking around a corner or in the shadows of the gallery, but this time she found she could not bear to hear the pre-ordained reply.

So, she stood in the grassy yard with the fresh spring sun warm on her skin. Around her, vassals drove geese and goats to pasture and pigs to root in the forests. Servants toted bales and baskets into the hall and the outbuildings. In the distance she could hear old Whitcomb berating one of the new squires for being slow, or slovenly, or both. All was busy life and full activity.

Except me. She twisted her fingers together. Her handmaid, Aeldra, stood a respectful distance behind her, but she could feel the woman’s quiet disapproval. She should be at loom or spindle. She should be down in the cellar helping with the brewing, or seeing how Gwyneth and her new baby were getting on. She should be doing any of a thousand things.

It is like a verse from a country ballad.

‘And the maid went to her father,

And her knees she bent.

Begging, “Father, dearest father,

will you please relent?”’

She stared at the cloudless sky. Mother Mary, I beg you. Soften his heart.

‘Lady Rhian.’

The sound of Vernus’s voice turned Rhian around. He emerged from the doorway and crossed the yard to her, sidestepping a cluster of squawking chickens. When Rhian saw his shoulders set square and level, she felt her heart rise, but in another moment he was close enough for her to see his face. The lines of bitterness on his brow and around his broad mouth showed clearly.

‘It would seem I have failed in my suit to your father.’ He squeezed his riding gloves in his hands and spoke to the tips of his boots. ‘I am to take myself away and not return.’ He looked up at her. ‘Especially not with an offer of marriage.’

Rhian felt tears sting her eyes even as anger drove the blood to her cheeks. Cruelty. Sheer miserable cruelty. All the worse this time because Vernus was not just some faceless stranger who had sent a letter and gifts. He was a friend from her childhood, who had grown into a tall and handsome young man, well worth the position he would hold in the world. He had even been to Camelot and been presented to the king.

But no. She was not to have him.

‘My father seems determined I should die unmarried and go to run with the apes in Hell,’ she sighed. ‘Vernus, I’m truly sorry.’ And sick and sad and burning with fury. Perhaps I shall burst my heart with grieving and that will be an end to it.

‘Could you speak to your mother? Your father sets much by her counsel, perhaps she could persuade…’ his words trailed away as Rhian shook her head.

‘Not in this, she cannot.’ Tears threatened again. Rhian dropped her gaze to the ground and blinked hard. ‘My father has been turning away my suitors for five years now, and for five years my mother has tried to persuade him of the worth of each of them. But he will not hear of it.’ The heat of her anger dried up her tears. She stared hard at the window of the hall. ‘He will not hear anything from any of us.’

‘I will speak to my father. Perhaps he can persuade Lord Rygehil to part with you.’

Rhian felt a weak smile form. She wanted to touch his hand but decided she had better not. ‘Thank you, Vernus. Perhaps he can.’

Your father will marry you to Melina of White Hill whose father is not insane, and we both know this. Please go away, Vernus. I cannot stand here trading empty words anymore.

‘I must go, Rhian.’ He bowed to her. ‘But I have not abandoned you.’

‘Thank you, Vernus.’ She dropped a curtsey. ‘God be with you.’

‘And with you.’

His cloak swirled as he turned away and marched towards the stables, cutting a straight line through the myriad activities of the yard.

Rhian watched his back for as long as she could stand it. She dropped her gaze and caught sight of her reflection in the horse trough. Her eyes were a pleasant blue and since the age of fifteen, her figure had been rounded and full. She had seen the stablehands and foster boys casting glances at her so she knew she was not uncomely. Her hair was her crowning glory. It was red-gold in colour and even tightly braided as it was, it fell to the backs of her knees.

But it seemed she would have no use for what beauty she might have if her father continued to have his way.

‘Aeldra,’ she said to her maid. ‘Fetch my bow and arrows, and send a boy for my hounds. Meet me at the gate. I expect I shall soon want to be elsewhere.’

She lifted the hem of her skirt and strode into the hall.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior after the bright daylight, but her ears immediately caught the sound of preparations for the midday meal.

He did not even let Vernus stay to eat. Rhian’s teeth clenched together. She stood aside for the servants setting up the trestle tables and bringing the benches away from the walls. Kettles of fragrant stew hung over the fire pits arid a sheep’s carcass turned on a spit tended by ancient Cleve.

Her father, Lord Rygehil of the Morelands, sat slumped in his carved chair at the end of the hall. A wooden goblet dangled from one hand. He looked up when she came to stand before him and dropped the curtsey that respect demanded.

‘Yes, Rhian?’ he said in a tired voice.

‘And the maid went to her father,

And her knees she bent.

Begging, “Father, dearest father,

will you please relent?”’

But she would not beg. Not this day.

‘Why?’ she asked instead.

He sighed and straightened his back a little. His features fell into the hard lines she had come to know so well. ‘Because I did not choose to give you to him.’

As if that were not evident. ‘Lord Father, may I know the reason?’

He looked into the depths of his cup. ‘More ale!’ he called out and one of the servants hastened forward with a pitcher. Rhian wondered how much of that pitcher he had already drained.

‘Lord Father…’ she began again.

He pointed to her with his free hand. ‘Your place is not to question me, Rhian, it is to be silent and obey.’

He downed a prodigious portion of his drink, and when he lowered his cup, Rhian saw something unexpected in his face. Regret, as plain and full as the resentment had been earlier.

She opened her mouth, but all her earlier thoughts had fled her. ‘If you would just tell me what I have done, Lord Father, to merit this treatment.’

He shook his head heavily. ‘Nothing, Rhian. You have done nothing.’

He turned his attention back to his cup.

I have lost. I am lost. Rhian curtsied reflexively. When she lifted her eyes, she saw her mother, Jocosa, standing in the threshold between the great hall and the living rooms. Jocosa gestured to her. Rhian set her jaw again and followed her mother as she walked up the stairs of the stone tower and into the sun room.

‘Now then,’ said her mother, sitting herself down on a cushioned chair. ‘I suppose you will run away and shoot at birds and hares until dark to ease your disappointment.’

Rhian felt her cheeks heat up. ‘That was my intention. What else should I do?’ She threw open her hands. ‘My father consistently denies me other employment for myself.’

‘I know.’ Jocosa took her daughter’s hand. ‘You will forgive your foolish mother. I fear one day you will run off and not come back to us.’

Rhian squeezed her mother’s hand. It felt as worn by years as her face appeared worn by care. In a chest in the treasury Rhian had once seen a miniature of her mother as a young woman. She had been lovely. As a girl, Rhian had wondered where all that beauty had flown. Now, she thought she knew.

‘On my soul, I would never leave without telling you, Lady Mother.’ Rhian let herself smile. ‘Where would I go, in any case? What neighbour would take me in knowing my father?’

Her mother pulled her gently down until Rhian sat upon a footstool. ‘I know, I know, my dear. Perhaps if one of your brothers or sisters had lived, he would not guard you so jealously. Perhaps…’ she stopped herself. ‘Go off to your woods. Shoot what you may. Come back before dark. Then you can amuse yourself with your other skill. Lurking in doorways.’ Rhian opened her mouth to protest, but her mother patted her hand. ‘Do not attempt to beguile me, my lamb. I know in Aeldra you have had an excellent tutor in such matters.’

As hard as she tried not to, Rhian fidgeted. ‘And why, Lady Mother, should I give way to that practice this evening?’

For a moment, her mother’s gaze drifted over Rhian’s shoulder and she seemed to be studying the grey stones of the wall. ‘Because tonight, I mean to have your father announce to you he has reconsidered the suit of Vernus of White Hill.’

Rhian’s heart leapt into her throat. ‘Mother, how?’

Jocosa’s shoulders slumped. ‘Tears, extortion, hysterical fits, threats to bar him from my bed if necessary.’ Her voice sounded drained and dull. ‘I have never, never had to work upon him thus before. Such gross artifice is to be despised. But in this matter, I am afraid your father’s reason has failed him.’ Her gaze came back to Rhian’s face. ‘So now, mine must fail me.’

Rhian said nothing for a moment, she just squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘But,’ she licked her lips. Her mouth had gone unaccountably dry. ‘Forgive me, but why would you want me to witness this…conversation?’

Her mother smiled and some life returned to her voice. ‘Firstly, so you do not hear about it through the general gossip. Secondly, because if nothing else, I am going to force my lord to give his reasons for forbidding you to marry. I want you to hear them from him, whether he knows he is giving them to you or not.’

Rhian let go of Jocosa’s hand and walked across to the window. She stared out across the yard with its people and animals strolling to and fro.

‘I do not like this, Lady Mother.’

‘No more do I,’ said Jocosa. ‘And if you can tell me what else can be done, I am willing to hear you and act.’

Rhian had no answer for her. ‘I will be back before dark.’ She gathered up her skirt and left.

The whirling in her mind did not clear even when she reached the gate in the wooden wall that surrounded the hall and its yards and buildings. Her three long-legged greyhaired hounds leapt to their feet, wagging their tails and baying and straining at their leashes. The boy, Innis, struggled to hold them in check. As she approached, they thrust their noses into her skirt and against her hands. She patted them absently. Aeldra frowned at her, but Rhian did not say anything. She just took her bow and quiver from her maid’s hands and slung them over her shoulder. Innis bowed until his scraggly forelock almost touched the ground.

‘Let us go then. I would see if there are any partridge we can catch unawares today.’ Rhian nodded to Innis and again to the guards who saluted her from either side of the gate. She tucked her skirt into her belt, set her gaze on the meadow past the earthen outer wall and followed the boy through it.

The dogs loped happily forward through the knee-high grasses towing Innis behind them.

‘Let them loose, Innis.’ Rhian unslung her bow and tested the string. ‘Let us see what they find.’

‘Yes, my lady.’ With some difficulty, Innis hauled the dogs to him so he could unfasten their leashes from their collars. With yelps of pure joy, all three sprang into the grass, free to run where they pleased. As she nocked an arrow into the string, Rhian found it in her heart to envy them.

In the next heartbeat, a great flurry of wings sounded from the burgeoning grass. Three brown partridge shot up towards the sky. Rhian drew her string back to her nose and sighted along the arrow’s shaft. She loosed and was rewarded by the sight of one of the birds plummeting back to earth and landing with a loud thud.

‘That one is for Vernus,’ she whispered. ‘And the next is for Aelfric, and the next for Daffydd, and the next for Shanus, and the one after that is for me.’

‘If my lady is thinking of counting her disappointments with arrows, we will be out here all the rest of the year,’ said Aeldra, puffing up behind her.

‘What would you have me do then?’ Rhian watched Innis crouch over the bird and pull out the arrow.

‘It is not for me to say, of course, my lady,’ said Aeldra with the false modesty that irritated Rhian so easily. ‘But there are ways to ensure your father must say yes to your suitor.’

Rhian rolled her eyes and sighed. ‘And don’t think I haven’t considered them Aeldra. But I would have to face my mother also and I’m not yet certain I could.’

All at once, one of the hounds bayed at the edge of the woods. Something flashed white and immediately there was a great crashing of underbrush and bracken as the creature, whatever it had been, fled into the forest. All three hounds barked and howled. They dived forward into the trees. Rhian ran after them.

What is it? A deer? No, it is too white for that…

She broke the treeline and was engulfed in the sun-dappled twilight of the forest. She saw the dogs’ grey backs plunging on ahead of her and again glimpsed the fleeting white form.

The dogs ran into a thicket of fern fiddleheads and Rhian lost sight of them. The wind blew through the forest, rustling the greening underbrush and confusing her further.

‘Orestes! Orion! Orpheus! Here, boys!’ she called, dashing forward. Somewhere behind her she heard Aeldra calling her name. Rhian ignored her. She wanted to find her dogs. She wanted to see that mysterious white quarry they had flushed.

All at once, she broke into a sun-soaked meadow. The sudden light dazzled her and Rhian stumbled to a halt, blinking hard.

When her gaze cleared, she looked around to take her bearings, but then found herself gawping in surprise.

In the centre of the clearing stood a broad, gnarled stump. On it lay a flat board covered with red and white figurines of extraordinary delicacy. Not one of them was taller than Rhian’s hand was long.

To one side, on a fallen tree, sat a gigantic man all of a sparkling green colour, as if he’d been fashioned out of a monstrous emerald. One of his hands could have engulfed Rhian’s waist. The crown of his head brushed the leaves of the oak tree he sat under. Skin, hair, eyes, all shone greener than the sea. His plaited beard might have been grown from dewy meadow grass. His jerkin, mail and hose were so green the fresh leaves paled next to them. Beside him on the ground lay a battle-axe of the same brilliant colour.

Rhian was rooted to the spot, unable to move or think. The great, green giant smiled so broadly she could see that his teeth were indeed emeralds that flashed in the sun.

‘It’s called chess,’ the giant’s voice boomed all around Rhian’s head. ‘And a merry game it is too.’ His eyes glittered as if he had caught two stars in them. ‘Would you learn this game of nations and of power, pretty maiden? Step forward, then.’

Rhian found her feet moving. Without any thought or help from her, they carried her body into the sunlit meadow until she stood over the board. Now she saw the figurines were people, men and women all standing on a board inlaid with neat squares of ebony and ivory.

‘Now, then.’ The giant winked at her. ‘Which side for you, pretty one? The red?’ He pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. ‘I think not, though the red king knows you passing well.’ He plucked a scarlet figurine from its place and Rhian saw a man with a lean, lined face and hooded eyes who wore long robes like a nobleman, or a monk.

‘The white is your side, and the white queen is your protector, I think.’ Another figurine lay nestled in the hollow of his enormous palm, although Rhian didn’t see him put down the first. This one was a woman, perfectly formed, with a circlet on her long hair. Her eyes were wide and her face was wise, somehow. ‘And with her, the white king, but not before the white knight.’ Another figurine appeared in his palm. This was a man on a horse, holding his spear aloft and his shield before him. Rhian could not see his face, but she clearly saw the five-pointed star carved on the shield.

‘Will these three keep you from the red king and the red castle?’ The giant shook his head gravely. His palm was empty.

‘You do not speak, pretty one. Perhaps chess is not the game for you?’ The sparkling green smile grew fierce. Rhian felt her heart fluttering against her ribcage, but still she could not move. ‘Perhaps you prefer riddles? Excellent!’ The giant slapped the stump and all the figurines rattled on their board. ‘Now, answer me this and be quick, pretty one,’ he leaned over her, blocking the sun with his great, green head. ‘What is it every woman wants?’

The scene in front of her began to fade and blur, as if her eyes had filled with tears. The giant laughed again ‘Answer! Answer!’ he ordered. ‘Answer, my pretty one!’

A noise. From the forest. A sharp, high barking. Drawing closer. The dogs. The dogs had found her.

Rhian found her tongue could move.

‘Sweet Mother Mary, save me!’ she screamed.

And she was alone.

All the strength fled from Rhian’s body and she fell backward onto the forest floor.

For a long moment, she lay there blinking stupidly at the leaves above her. She heard the barking coming closer. All at once her hounds swarmed over her, whining, nosing and licking. They put their heavy feet on her stomach, squeezing out what little breath she had.

‘Off, off,’ she grunted. She managed to heave herself upright.

‘Lady Rhian!’ Aeldra’s voice drifted through the trees. ‘My lady, where are you?’

Rhian got to her feet. Her gaze swam, but steadied. The clearing was empty save for herself and the nosing, wagging dogs.

It was nothing. A dream. I have been too long out in the sun. I fainted, perhaps, or sat down to rest and dreamed.

But then her gaze drifted across to the rotting tree stump and she saw on it two figurines, one red, one white. Her heart in her mouth, she crossed to look at them. The red one was a tall woman, the very essence of beauty and perfection. She wore chains around her neck and bracelets on her arms. Her robes fell in heavy folds over her feet.

The white figure was a hag. It stooped to half the red lady’s height. It was a grizzled, toothy horror gaping up at Rhian with a pig’s glaring eyes.

‘My lady!’ A crashing and thrashing sounded through the brush behind her. Heavy-footed and out of breath, Aeldra waded through the grass. ‘Where have you been? I…’ she stepped up beside Rhian and saw the figurines.

‘What are these?’ Aeldra reached out one hand towards the red lady.

‘No!’ Rhian smacked her hand away. ‘Leave them. They are cursed. I’m sure of it.’ She took Aeldra’s arm with one hand and the hem of her skirt with the other. ‘Let us leave here, Aeldra, and find Innis. I would be back at home.’

Rhian set off between the trees. She very carefully did not look back.

Harrik, Hullward’s son stepped into the council tent. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he surveyed the gathering. There were a dozen men, all Saxons, like himself, most battle scarred, also like himself. They squatted or lounged on piles of furs around the smoking central fire.

Dogs, Harrik thought. Dogs at the feet of their master. He lifted his gaze.

Wulfweard, called Wolfget by those who knew his vicious nature, sat in a slatted chair. He alone of the gathering was armed. A naked sword lay across his thighs. The symbol was hardly needed. The menace in Wolfget’s hooded blue eyes shone plain enough.

‘Be welcome to this assembly, my Lord Harrik,’ said a musical voice.

Harrik started. A woman, clothed in a gown of smoky red circled the fire towards him. ‘Let me offer you the guest cup and bid you know my Lord Wulfweard wishes you to sit at his right hand.’

Harrik struggled to keep himself from gawking like a boy. Wolfget had never before taken a wife, let alone one so blindingly lovely. Her golden hair hung to her waist and was plaited with a thread of silver. Her face was smooth and round with blue eyes set wide above a slim, straight nose. Her breasts and hips swelled amply beneath the dark red of the gown which hung from her shoulders as if to call attention to their perfect roundness.

Harrik mastered himself and took the wooden cup from her soft, clean hand.

‘My thanks.’ He took a swallow of the mead.

Wolfget was flanked by two empty chairs. Harrik took his place in the right-hand seat as invited. The woman took the left.

Wolfget swept his cold gaze across the assembly.

‘Brothers.’ His voice was hard. ‘It is ten years since the defeat at Mount Badon scattered our strength. Since then, Uther’s upstart bastard has held us as his vassals, claiming our lands, our sons, our very bodies as his own. We have submitted in silence, knowing ourselves to be weak and divided.’ He laid a thick hand on the sword’s hilt.

‘Wounded to the death as we were, we were wise to do so. But now, our wounds are closed. Our sons grow tall and strong. Our brothers eye the rusted swords and axes hanging on our walls with restless anticipation. Now is the time to force Arthur the Bastard to pay for what he has stolen.’

An angry rumble of assent rose from the assembly. Wolfget smiled and Harrik felt a chill cross his skin. He cast a glance towards the woman. All her attention was fixed on Wolfget in an attitude of rapt adoration. Harrik’s chill deepened. In the flickering firelight he could see the stump of the ear Wolfget had lost at Badon. Harrik himself was missing two fingers from the same battle. The ghosts of them twitched in memory of the blow.

Kolbyr, who’d seen both his brothers ridden down by Arthur’s captains, got heavily to his feet. ‘My heart is with you, my Lord Wulfweard, and I would sooner die in battlefield mud than a vassal’s bed, but how can we wage such a war? The Bastard sits secure in Camelot with a hundred captains who will leap into action at the flick of his little finger.’

‘Truth, truth,’ said Ehrin, whose jaw had been so broken his words slurred in his mouth. ‘Strong of purpose we may be, but we are not so strong of arms and warriors.’

‘Our course is simple,’ said Wolfget. ‘Does the Bastard think us divided? Divided we will appear. In our separate lands we will strike here, there, take this town and that. He will respond with men and arms, as he must to preserve the peace that so boldly bears his name. We will harry those men, wear them down, kill all we can and withdraw. Soon, the Bastard’s forces will be weakened by so many small cuts, they will not be able to defend themselves when we are ready to give the death blow.’

Harrik frowned. This was not the brash, heated Wolfget he knew from the wars. This stranger was a calm-hearted strategist. With a beautiful woman at his shoulder. Harrik glanced at her again. Had he been a young man, he would have stood up and made some fearless speech about rushing into battle, not for Wolfget’s sake, but for hers.

Which was a point to be considered closely.

‘Harrik you sit as silent as stone.’ Wolfget’s soft voice broke Harrik’s reverie. ‘What are your deep thoughts?’

‘My thoughts are of Badon,’ he said, looking into the depths of the guest cup. ‘My thoughts are of lands, and of my son, hostage in Camelot to my word. And he is not alone there.’ Let me see your eyes, ‘brothers’, how many of your sons does Arthur hold? ‘I am thinking of the thousand thousand ways Arthur is entrenched on this island. I am thinking of the kings who are his neighbours and who pay him tribute.’ He gave them all a grim smile. ‘I am thinking we could have more easily bested all the Roman legions than this king.’

To Harrik’s surprise, Wolfget nodded. ‘Your words are sound, Harrik, and they should be weighed carefully. But think of this. Does the Bastard have neighbours and friends? Yes. But so do we. The terms of Arthur’s peace have been hard on many, and many would be glad to see it broken. We have our secret friends in every town and fortress. Do arms and men flow from Arthur? They will flow into our hands.’

Harrik looked around and saw how the eyes of the men on the floor shone with eagerness. He knew then how it would be. There would be hours of talk, some close questioning of Wolfget, perhaps even a few words of wisdom spoken. But in the end, they would all pledge their lives on Wolfget’s naked sword.

Feeling like an old man, Harrik got stiffly to his feet. It would be better if he stayed, of course, if he lied and flattered and foreswore himself. But he could not. He would not.

‘What ails you, my Lord Harrik?’ asked the woman softly.

‘Old wounds, my lady.’ Harrik bowed to her. ‘This assembly will do as it will. We have been brothers in arms before this. I have been proud to say so. But I myself must consider carefully whether the peace that came when we laid down those arms has not benefited our people as it has the Britons.’

He left the tent amid a stony silence. Out in the open air he called for his horse and his sword. The animal was brought to him by a sour-faced man with Wolfget’s blazon on his tunic. Harrik mounted and urged the horse into an easy canter until he was well out of earshot of the assembly encampment.

When he judged he had gone far enough, he pulled up on the reins. The horse halted and Harrik climbed down. Looking sharply about him, he led the animal into the thick of the forest. There, he tethered the horse loosely to an elm tree. He did not want the animal trapped if he did not come back. He tightened the laces on his scabbard so his sword would not jingle. Then, one careful step at a time, he made his way through bracken and fern back to the camp.

He had been uneasy when Wolfget sent his messenger with the invitation to this secret council. He had grown more uneasy each time he contemplated it. It was folly, this idea that the handful of Saxons who remained on the Isle of Britain could defeat Arthur. Worse, it was suicide.

But is it enough for what I do now? Harrik glimpsed the fabric of the tents and the sparkle of studded leather through the trees. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground. Trying not to rustle the carpet of leaves beneath him, he crawled forward on his hands and knees. Is it truly enough to turn spy on your own people?

Apparently, it was, because he lay prostrate on the ground with fern leaves tickling his brow and nose, watching the camp carefully.

And we’ll see who stays and goes, and when and how. If I am wrong about how it will go, so much the better. But if I am right…

He composed himself to patience. To keep his mind from the incessant itch of the ferns, he set about studying the sentries, thinking how he would have posted and armed them in Wolfget’s place.

Men came and went. Servants brought wine and meat into the tent. The guests came out to relieve themselves or check on their horses. The sentries paced, or lounged about. The lounging became more frequent as the time wore on. Harrik shook his head minutely. Wolfget was not well served.

The tent’s flap lifted again. This time, it was the woman who came out. In the full daylight she was even more shatteringly lovely than he had thought. His heart and loins both began to ache with an urgency he had thought himself past.

The woman looked about her. Evidently, she saw nothing that displeased her. She raised one hand and spoke a word Harrik could not understand. In the next breath, he heard the flapping of heavy wings. A raven glided down from the trees and came to rest on the woman’s waiting wrist.

She brought her wrist down until the bird’s eyes were level with her own. She contemplated the raven for a long time, and it stared back unwinking, which a beast should not have been able to do. At last, the woman opened her mouth.

The raven thrust beak, head, and neck well down her throat.

Harrik jerked backward, forgetting the need for silence. The woman and the bird stood still, its head in her mouth, like some foul statuary. He realized the muscles of her throat swelled and contracted. Not swallowing, but pushing something out.

Harrik’s own throat clamped down around his breath.

The raven pulled its head free of the beauty’s mouth. She smiled broadly and lifted her wrist again. The bird spread its shining wings and flew away.

She watched her pet vanish into the sky, turned, and went back inside the tent.

Harrik, struggling to keep his breathing under control, crawled back into the woods on his hands and knees. He moved as far and as fast as he could, but finally, he had to stop and vomit at the roots of a birch tree.

What manner of secret friends have you, Wolfget? He raised his head and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. What alliances have you made for us?

He sat and listened for a moment. No sound of pursuit cut through the small rustles of wind and the forest life. Harrik forced himself to get to his feet and take his bearings. As soon as his knees had stopped shaking enough that he could be sure of his footing, he made his way back to his horse.

The animal was still there, chewing thoughtfully at the undergrowth. Harrik led it back to the road and slung himself into the saddle. To his shame, he found he had to work to keep himself from taking the horse to a gallop to escape as quickly as possible from what he had seen.

You are a fool. A fool! He admonished himself. You have seen far worse things in battle.

But the truth was, he had not. He had heard stories of such horrors, of course, and told a few himself, with great relish. Witches and wizards had their ways and everyone knew it. Did not Arthur have Merlin to advise him and keep watch over his captains and capital? But to see so unnatural a thing…

I grow old. I grow dull. Perhaps this role of spy and traitor is all I am fit for anymore.

The forest thickened around him. The sound of his horse’s hooves became muffled by the unbroken carpet of leaves. The wind freshened and Harrik tried to catch a glimpse of sky between the leafy branches overhead. There might be rain before long, but without a clear view of sky there was no telling. The prospect of concluding his business in a downpour, further darkened his mood, but he rode on.

Up ahead, the road forked, one branch bearing west, the other continuing north. At their crux, a man tended a small fire. A great, pale horse was tethered nearby. Green trappings hung from its reins. A bay palfrey stood beside it, nuzzling a patch of fern. Its reins were also hung with green. The studded shield propped against a tree was covered in green as well.

The man himself was no longer a youth, but neither was he old. He was dark in hair and eye. His beard had been shaved clean off. His shoulders and arms were powerful. Here was a man who had not led an idle life. He could not be taken for anything but a Briton lord. He looked up at Harrik’s approach and raised a friendly hand.

‘God be with you this day, good sir.’

‘God be with you,’ Harrik answered. ‘I’d be glad of a rest. May I share your fire?’

‘You may,’ said the man. ‘If you can tell me my name.’

Harrik gave a show of consideration. ‘I think you are my Lord Gawain, captain of the Round Table and nephew to Arthur, the High King.’

Gawain smiled and got to his feet. ‘My Lord Harrik,’ he bowed deeply. ‘You are most welcome.’

‘And I am most honoured.’ Harrik dismounted and tethered his small hairy horse next to Gawain’s animals. ‘I was stunned to receive word Arthur would send his nephew to me.’

‘He means it as a token of his good will.’ Gawain opened one of his saddlebags which lay on the ground beside his shield. He pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. ‘As you will find written here.’ The document was sealed in red wax impressed with the dragon rampant that was Arthur’s sign.

‘You may assure His Majesty that I will read this with great attention.’ He tucked the document into his shirt.

‘But now you have other news for me?’ Gawain folded his legs and settled by the fire again.

‘I do.’ Harrik sat beside him. He watched the fire for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words he wanted would not come.

‘I have a son at Camelot,’ he said awkwardly. ‘My only boy. They have taken him well in hand there. I visited him not three months ago. He has been taught to read and write Latin. He can use a sword and ride better than I could at his age. He grows into a strong and reasoned man.’ He paused. A stick in the fire snapped in two. ‘Not a brute. Not a barbarian. Not like the men I knew when I was a boy, a world away from here.’

Gawain nodded. ‘I think you will find word of your boy in His Majesty’s letter. I believe my brother Geraint intends to take him as squire.’

Harrik touched his shirt. ‘I like this peace of Arthur’s. I like this land. I do not…’ He clenched his fist. ‘I will not see it die to feed Wolfget’s blood-lust.’

‘You too are a strong and reasoned man,’ said Gawain softly. ‘I ask you, of your courtesy, tell me what you have seen.’

Harrik spoke slowly, sketching the events of the council. Gawain listened attentively. When Harrik named each of the men he saw there, Gawain asked pointed questions about where their lands were, how many men they commanded, and who their allies were. Harrik could see the knight sketching a map of the treachery in his mind.

Then, Harrik told him of the woman and the raven.

Gawain’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That, friend, is an unwholesome thing.’

Harrik gave one short bark of a laugh. ‘Those are milder words than I would use, my lord.’

Gawain smiled. ‘You have not seen the inside of Merlin’s workroom. No,’ he held up his hand. ‘Pray do not ask me. I was a youth when I had my glimpse, and more of a fool than I knew.’

Harrik dismissed the suggestion with a wave. ‘I have no intention of questioning you. As it is, I know more of magic than I care to.’

‘That shows your wisdom as clearly as anything you have yet done,’ said Gawain soberly. ‘My Lord Harrik, it was my intention to linger in this land for a day or two to see what else I could learn, but what you have told me, both about Wulfweard and his nameless lady, shows me I must return to the High King without delay.’

Harrik stood. ‘Let me take my leave of you then.’

They clasped hands and each commended the other to God. Harrik rode away feeling moderately better. The High King’s letter crackled in his bosom. His old loyalties sold for new safety and peace, and his son’s life.

All at once, his horse stumbled. A curse slipped out of Harrik’s mouth. The animal recovered its gait, but not completely. It limped now, favouring its left foreleg.

‘God’s legs,’ muttered Harrik, as he halted the beast and climbed to the ground. He bent down and with a practised hand, coaxed the horse to lift its hoof and show him the bottom.

There, a round stone shoved deep into the soft frog of the hoof. Harrik retrieved the hoof pick from his pack and swearing in each of the three languages he knew, finally managed to pry it loose. There was no question of being able to ride any further, though. The animal was lamed. He would have to walk the rest of the way.

He let the horse drop its hoof and looked at the stone. It was a round-bottomed, sharp-edged chunk of flint that had done the damage.

How does such a thing come to be in a forest? This belongs on some low riverbank.

He drew his arm back to hurl the thing into the bushes.

But as he looked where he aimed, he saw a huge black raven sitting on the branch of a maple tree. The bird gave a rough, mocking croak and flew into the air.

Harrik’s fist closed around the stone. His heart grew chill and inside him a small quiet voice told him the horse’s lameness did not matter now. Harrik, Hullward’s son, would not reach home after all.