Camelot's Blood (17 page)

“Good.” He pushed himself away from the desk and walked to the shuttered window. It seemed to her he meant to open it, but thought the better of that.

“What was it you think Merlin meant?” he asked harshly. The harshness was not for her, but for their circumstances. She could hardly blame him for that.

“I don't know,” she said again. “I will have to think on it.”

“Yes.” He curled his hand into a fist and raised it to the shutters, and struck them lightly, making them rattle against the hinges. “What can any of us do but think, and wonder if it will do any good …” He shook himself and faced her again. “You should not be alone,” he said briskly. “Your women can make shift to bring your things here. There is not much room or comfort for a lady, but … I would rather you were with me.”

Relief washed through her. At that moment Laurel was not certain she could have stood, let alone walked. “Thank you, my husband. I would be glad of it.”

“Good. I will go get Meg. You rest here.” Agravain laid his hand on the door, and then looked over his shoulder. “Gawain would not have hurt you,” he said softly, then opened the door and left.

Gawain would not have hurt you. He meant two things, and she understood them both. Sir Gawain, prince and gallant knight, would not have hurt her. It would have offended his sense of right. But he also meant that he, Agravain, her husband, would not have permitted any hurt to come to her, even from his own brother.

It might have been honour which made Agravain speak this way, but as she sat alone in his private room, she remembered the flash in his eyes, the strength in his words, and Laurel found she did not believe it was honour alone that made him defend her. Not anymore.

• • •

Much later, Laurel lay in the darkness, with Agravain's arm wrapped around her shoulder. He snored, her husband, and did not respond even when she elbowed him in the side.

Meg had been nearly melting with gratitude when she helped Cryda and Elsa to carry Laurel's chests into Agravain's chamber. The three of them had wrestled with trestles and slats, but managed to assemble a bedstead large enough for two, with mattresses and covers enough.

Sir Kai himself had brought up food and drink for them. Whether Agravain had been required to speak with his uncle about the state of affairs, or the seneschal had seen it for himself, Laurel didn't know and did not feel it necessary to ask. The stuff Sir Kai brought was plain; he went through great and acerbic pains to let the pages who carried up tables and trays know it was only the castoffs and leavings from the tables down in the hall. For all that, the food was wholesome and unsullied and she and Agravain ate together in peace by the light of a fully adequate fire.

Laurel tried to follow her husband to sleep, but in vain. With her three women asleep on their pallets, the room felt stuffy and overfull. She wanted the fresh wind against her skin. She wanted to be alone with Agravain so he could drive away the restlessness in her with his kiss and his caress.

She wanted to do anything but lie there with the memory of Merlin's words and his weeping running back and forth in her mind. But they would not leave, and she could not rest. She kept turning the words over, looking at them from every angle, taking them apart and knotting them together again, trying to see if the new pattern might make any sense.

You bring to him the thing Guinevere brought to Arthur. The thing most precious and least regarded
.

What did that mean? Guinevere was the king's helpmeet, his council, his friend. All this was reassuring, but none seemed to apply directly to this riddle. She brought her dowry, of course, much wealth from her father's kingdom, the lands of the Dumonii. Alliance in a time of war. But that was hardly least regarded. There were her jewels as well, but they were Agravain's for the asking already.

The thing most precious and least regarded
.

Guinevere also brought Arthur the Round Table, of course. It was a masterpiece, but Laurel doubted many thought what a triumph of craftsmanship it truly was. In her mind's eye she saw the Round Table again, with her marriage contract waiting on it beside the magisterial presence of Excalibur in its worn leather scabbard.

Its scabbard.

Laurel's prowling thoughts paused over this, showing her again the stained and flaking leather bound in battered bronze. Could Merlin mean the scabbard?

Excalibur's scabbard was a symbolic thing, without any objective worth it would have had, if, say, it had been gilded or bejewelled. That, though, did not sit easily. No symbol was truly worthless, no sigil completely hollow. The scabbard had belonged to the royal house of Cambryn since before the Romans came. Surely, it was not simply an empty vessel.

The thing most precious, but least regarded
.

Again, her thoughts paused, backtracking, casting about on ground already travelled, uncertain they had caught the right scent.

The empty scabbard had belonged to the royal house of Cambryn. Her house was now that royal house. Her line the line of its kings. Queen Guinevere had given the land and its wealth over to her family a year ago now. This meant that the scabbard, the property and symbol of the royal line, belonged, by tradition, to her bloodline. Belonged to her.

This did not make easy sense, but neither did Merlin fallen into distraction and speaking in prophecy's worst riddles. And neither did the scabbard itself make sense. It never had. Why would an ill-fitting, ancient scabbard of so different a vintage from the blade of Excalibur be gifted apart from the sword itself, much less be worn and used by so meticulous a warrior as King Arthur was said to be?

The thing most precious, but least regarded
.

Mystery upon mystery, and only one way to find any answer. She would have to play out one more scene in this painful mummery and seek an audience with Queen Guinevere. If the queen was able to give the scabbard over easily, it was nothing of genuine importance, and surely then not the thing Merlin spoke of in his broken prophecy.

If, however, the queen refused and denied the request of a traitor's wife, then the scabbard was a thing worth having.

And Merlin knew it was what I should take to bring victory, and yet tried to prevent me from doing so. Why? Why?

What else will I do when I take the scabbard from Camelot?

Laurel shifted uneasily. As if her distress touched him where her annoyance could not, Agravain's snore broke and stopped, and his arm tightened around her.

“What is it, Laurel?”

“Nothing, Agravain.” Laurel laid her hand on his chest. “I think I now know what I must do next.”

He was silent for a moment. “Is it something you can do?”

“Yes. It will not be easy, but I can do it.”

“Can I help you?”

“I don't believe so. I must ask the queen to give me a part of her dowry. How she parts with it … that will tell me whether it is what Merlin meant I must bring to you.”

She heard his head rustle on the pillow. She wished she could see his face. His breath trembled once under her hand and then eased. “God be with you in this, my wife.”

“Amen, my husband.”

Agravain drew her closer then, and Laurel pressed against him willingly. This time, lulled by the rhythm of his heart and the shelter of his arms, it was she who drifted away into welcome oblivion.

• • •

The morning began with Ros making an appearance with his clothes torn, his nose and knuckles bloodied and one eye swollen shut. Agravain examined his messenger's injuries. Another man might have cursed but Agravain kept all his anger close behind his eyes.

“Who were they?” he asked quietly. Ros gave what names he could, and Agravain nodded. He would, Laurel had no doubt, remember each one of them for as long as it was required to bring them to account. Even if it took another ten years.

“All right.” Agravain folded his arms. “We cannot all stay crammed in here, and I cannot leave yet. My lady, can you manage for a day or two without a woman to attend you?”

“I can, my lord.”

“Very well. Ros, you will escort these women down to the quay. I will give you a letter that will allow you to find them a ship and send them home.”

Ros opened his mouth, and Meg started forward immediately. Agravain held up his hand, stopping them both.

“You can both serve best by leaving now, and doing so quickly and quietly. No hurt will come to us here. I have alerted the seneschal. He will take it on himself to make sure we are properly served, and that courtesy is not broken.”

Meg's gaze slid sideways to Laurel. “It is for the best, Meg. The sooner you are gone, the less time rumour has to outpace us.”

Meg made no move to argue. Cryda and Elsa, for their part were plainly delighted, although they did their best to conceal it as they ran at once to gather up their few belongings. As they did so, Agravain gathered a thick stack of letters and put them in a satchel of waxed leather for Ros.

“You know where these must go.”

“My lord.” Ros knelt and Agravain touched his shoulder. Laurel was sure she heard him whisper ‘good man', but was uncertain if anyone else would have. Then he sent him down with the maids to see to the outfitting of horses for riding and for the baggage.

Meg, on the other hand, was not about to begin making ready until she saw Laurel washed, dressed, laced, brushed, braided, pinned and veiled. Only then did she fold her spare dresses and brushes into her leathern satchel and turn to Laurel.

Laurel took her woman's hands and looked into her worried, stubborn eyes. “Meg, make sure Cryda and Elsa get home safely,” she said. “When you arrive, this is what you tell Lynet. Say, Morgaine has left the West Lands. Now is the time those countries may be taken. Tell her I go with my lord to defeat Morgaine in the north. She is to believe no other truth until it is sent by myself, my lord, or the High King.”

Meg nodded once, and then she too knelt. Laurel raised her up and embraced her, giving her the kiss of peace.

When the door closed behind Meg it made a hollow sound, and Laurel found herself blinking away tears. Agravain's silence gave her the time necessary to collect herself, so that when she turn to him, her countenance was as composed as she could manage.

“Will she be able to remember your words exactly?” he asked, in a tone of carefully neutral inquiry.

“Without doubt. I have trusted her with far more complex messages, and she has never forgotten so much as a syllable.”

“A valuable woman.”

“Very much so.” She sighed and set her loneliness aside for later. “I must go to the queen soon. This is when she is most likely to be in her court. With all due respect to the seneschal, I think it would not be good for me to have to hunt about Camelot for her.”

“As you see fit, my lady.” He hesitated for the space of a heartbeat. “Do you require escort?”

Laurel gave him a small smile. “I do not believe so, and this matter is between her and myself.”

Agravain gave a small bow in acknowledgement of this. “You will find me here on your return.”

He sat down at his desk, and began carefully rolling his maps up to make room for a stack of closely written letters. Intent on his task, he did not look up to see her stand there a moment, watching him. Each movement Agravain made was careful and competent, spare and deliberate. He was comfortable in this place, inside these walls, sitting at this desk like a cleric, without servant or squire. Yet he bore the title of knight given by a king who did not give honour without merit. She had already seen danger in him, felt the raw strength of his arm, but neither was his power, nor his personal study. This was. This patient concentration over ink and paper which most men-at-arms would scorn.

Softly, Laurel stepped through the door and closed it behind her, feeling that she had witnessed a mystery.

• • •

When Laurel had been lady-in-waiting to the queen, it had been Guinevere's habit to spend a portion of fine mornings in the Queen's Court, a mosaiced and pillared yard that was part of the Roman villa Camelot had once been. Like the king, Guinevere also had her work to do. The provisioning and maintenance of the walled city that was Camelot was her responsibility. She must hear daily from seneschal and chatelaine, from the masters and mistresses who oversaw the weavers, the dyers, the tanners, the smiths, the orchards, the cattle, sheep, pigs and fowl, the kitchens, and even the monks who made sure of the king's charity. She must meet with the merchant men who travelled from Londinium and places further afield yet with goods bespoke for Camelot's use, or who wished for writ and permission to sell their goods inside Camelot or in the city below. She must meet with those who petitioned for her mercy or intervention, and judge which cases she could mediate, and which must be left for the king.

Laurel made her way down to the Queen's Court. On the way, she met with nothing worse than stony glowers and even the lowest of serving women drawing their skirts aside lest they accidentally brush hers.

My thanks, Sir Kai
.

She found herself in good time. Guinevere sat in her carved chair, dressed simply in shades of blue girdled with gold and lapis. Her golden torque and rings glittered in the sunlight as she bent to examine the wax tablet handed her by a stout, mottled-skinned man Laurel thought she remembered as the master of the ovens. Her ladies surrounded her, spinning, embroidering, working at their hand looms or sewing, all this accompanied by the music of the fountain that splashed merrily in the sunlight streaming down from the uncommonly blue sky.

Lady Risa stood at the queen's shoulder, alert for any order or errand that might be given. It was she who saw Laurel hesitate in the shadowed threshold. Even across the court, Laurel could see the controlled fury in Risa's face. She caught her skirts up in one hand, and strode across the court to block Laurel's way.