Camelot's Blood (19 page)

Agravain shook his head. “I do not care. This is not yours to take, nor is it mine to keep. It should be held by the bishop and the High King. You will take it back.”

It is you who saves him. You who wins his war. You bring to him what Guinevere brought Arthur. “My lord, without this you may very well fail in all you now attempt.”

One muscle twitched high in Agravain's cheek. “That shall be as God wills,” he whispered. “I have seen what comes of defying the divine order.” She opened her mouth once more, but Agravain held up both hands, as if to wave her back. “You will not argue with me in this thing, my wife. You will return this relic to the queen's hands and have nothing more to do with it.”

He meant it. His gaze was completely closed as he looked at her. Slowly, holding that gaze, Laurel curtsied to him. Without hesitation, he nodded, distant and formal, accepting her gesture of obedience.

Laurel walked from the room, the silken bundle cradled like a babe in her arms. Relief still ran through her blood. She did not have to do this. She could give this back to God to whom it belonged. But with each step, that relief ebbed and a tide of fear spread through her to take its place. She could not rid herself of the echo of Merlin's words. They drummed in the rhythm of her footsteps against stone. She felt them in the cool of the silk against her palms and arms.

She could not rid herself of the understanding that without this, Agravain would fall, and without Agravain, Cambryn too could be so easily lost.

A draught curled around the back of her neck, curious, comforting.

Grandmother? Grandmother? What do I do?

Tears threatened. Laurel hardened her heart. She must decide. If she obeyed, she and Agravain kept their honour, but if he lost life and war, if Morgaine raised her arms in triumph over his corpse, and what then?

Relief fled her, but so too did anger. All that was left was a stone in the depth of her heart weighted with decision and determination.

She took my father and my brother. Cost what it may and the sin be on my head, she will not have my husband nor my sister
.

I must find Sir Kai
. Her mind raced. The sun had been low when they crossed the courtyard. It wanted but an hour or two before the evening meal was laid in the great hall. The seneschal would be in the cellars, supervising the selection of the wines and ciders for the high table.

Blessing her knowledge of Camelot's workings, Laurel hastened her steps. She held the scabbard closely, draping her sleeves and veil over the white silk to hide it from the eyes of those she passed.

Down the stairs and down the halls. Ignore the stares and the mutters. Hurry, hurry.

Hurry. Before I change my mind
.

The corridors grew darker. She heard the kitchen's shouts and thumps and smelled the roasting meats for the dinner. Her stomach growled. She could not remember when she last ate. But all this was distant. Only the weighted silk in her hands, and the stone of determination in her breast were present. They drove her need to hurry to the soot blackened door, and pull it open before anyone in the busy, kiln-hot kitchen saw her fleeing form, and shouted to stop her.

And she found herself face to face with Sir Kai, coming up the steps, a red clay crock in his free hand. Their eyes met, and she moved forward, closing the door a little behind her. The seneschal, obligingly, awkwardly, backed down two steps.

“Well, well. It is our noble Lady Laurel. Full as noble as her new husband.” His dark eyes glimmered and his words let her know they could easily be overheard. “Why come here, lady? Is the wine I sent up not to your liking?”

“Sir Kai,” Laurel murmured, looking over her shoulder at the door, half afraid it would be jerked open. “Uncle Kai.”
You are also my uncle now
. “I have a grave favour to beg of you.”

He regarded her silently, his wariness plain even in the darkness of the cellar stairway.

Laurel shook her hand so her sleeve and a corner of the white silk fell away from the scabbard. Kai's eyes widened just a little. “You know what this is,” she whispered hastily. “Merlin has prophesied it is necessary for Agravain's victory. Agravain has refused it, and ordered me to return it to the queen.” She held it out. “I beg you, see it put into my trunks when they are loaded onto the cart.”

Eternity passed in a handful of heartbeats while the seneschal held her gaze. Then, Kai wrapped one long hand around the scabbard and lifted it away.

Laurel dropped a deep and heartfelt curtsey to him. If Kai even nodded she did not see. She only heard the scrape and thump of his crutch as he turned and limped away down the stairs once more.

Forgive me. Forgive me
. Laurel was not certain whether her plea went out to Kai, Agravain, Arthur, or God.
It is what I must do
.

Laurel rose, alone in the darkness now. She brushed down her skirts and sleeves and turned to face the other way, to open the door full and let in the light, and return once more to her husband's side.

Mordred reined his black gelding to a halt and stripped off his gloves so he could blow on his hands. The mists had kept dawn's twilight lingering in the valley, and stopped the sun's rays from warming the world. There was just light enough to see, but it was still cold as midnight.

Mordred had gone out early to talk with the men who had the unenviable, and cold, dawn watch. It was unlikely in the extreme that Din Eityn should try to strike at them, but not unthinkable, so he would not have the watch neglected.

The Westmen and the Dal Riata now camped side-by-side in uneasy neighbourliness. The Pict men consented to come down from their hill, but still kept their faces to the rest of the camp, and their backs to that same hill, as if they thought they might have to retreat quickly.

So far the guards were all men they'd brought up with them. That arrangement would have to change. But the Pict men … they were proving difficult. They did not like the idea of guards at all, alternately boasting that no one could sneak up on them awake or asleep, and demanding to know why they couldn't drift in and out of the camp as they pleased, as they had neither horses nor cattle, nor much of anything else that needed guarding. The Dal Riata would be marginally easier, but they were already bored, and as a people seemed to lack the talent for patience. But they had to be made to feel they were truly a part of this company, this fight. If nothing else, it would help maintain their friendship and keep them convinced that this squatting in the mud was the prelude to something much more.

Because the Dal Riata were beginning to doubt that, with the slow marches, and the long stops. It was not only the Dal Riata either. The mists were excellent for concealing the presence of listening ears, and Mordred had heard more than one uneasy grumble coming from his own men.

The addition of a crowd of restless strangers was no help at all.

“My Lord Mordred!”

Mordred turned his head to see one of his captain's, Corryn ap Rhys, striding out from the teeming mass that was the new encampment. A small crowd of men followed him, all with an air of excited expectation about them.

Mordred watched their approach through narrowed eyes. Corryn was a broad, bluff man. He wore his moustaches long with red and blue threads twisted into them. A little more intelligence gleamed in his stone-brown eyes than in those of most of Mordred's men. This made it right to put him in charge, but it made him less willing to take orders based on faith and friendship.

And, unfortunately, it meant that when it came to patience for their slow progress, Corryn was almost as bad as the Dal Riata.

Corryn stepped up beside Mordred's horse and bowed. “We have word from Londinium. Ros, the messenger from Din Eityn, he's back. Sir Agravain is to meet him there soon.”

Agravain. As she said it would be
. “Any word about how many men might be coming up from Camelot with him?”

Corryn stuck his thumbs in his belt. “We may be in luck there, says our man. Seems there was a falling out with Arthur, and the Bastard let no one come with him. He's travelling alone.”

A smile came to Mordred as he turned his face eastward. “How sad!” he announced, pulling his gloves back on. “We must be sure to give him good welcome!”

The men grinned knowingly at each other. Only Corryn failed to smile. “My lorde …” he began.

Mordred raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”

Corryn shifted his weight. From his height on horseback, Mordred watched his face closely. Corryn was coming to a decision. He had not come to make this announcement in public because it was important news. Rather, he wanted to see what Mordred would do with it.

No. He wants the other men to see what I do with it. “What is it, Captain Corryn?”

Mordred had calculated his overly mild tone to produce a reaction, and he got it.

“Why do we not move now?” Corryn demanded. “We know Din Eityn is all but defenceless. We could go in there, slaughter their mad old king and be in charge of the place by the time they sail round the point.”

“That is not what we have planned.” Mordred allowed the smallest hint of severity to creep into his voice. He paused. “You're frowning, Captain. Why is that?”

Corryn's eyes shifted sideways. “Nothing, my lord.”

Mordred sighed. This had to come. It was inevitable, given the nature of the men he must lead. He found himself genuinely sorry it must be Corryn of whom he had to make the example.

Mordred dismounted, tossing his reins across the saddlebow. His horse stamped once, restlessly, sensing his master's change of mood.

“You do have something to say, Captain.” Mordred faced Corryn, waving his hand languidly. “I'd like to hear it, if you please.”

Mordred's dismissive tone made the captain bold. “I say perhaps we are ruled too much by a woman's plans.”

Ah, Corryn. I thought you better than this
. “Do you?” Standing at his full height, Mordred was as tall as the captain, but Corryn was still a full two stone heavier. It was like being a willow sapling beside the venerable oak.

“And perhaps you think I am too much a child to be leadingthis army?” Mordred cocked his head, keeping his inquiry soft, almost gentle, but his tone had changed from silk to steel. The men at Corryn's back shifted uneasily as Mordred stepped forward. “Perhaps I should still be sucking at my mother's breast?”

Proving he had ears, and some idea to whom he spoke, Corryn hesitated, and made some attempt to duck back after having stuck his stiff neck out so far. “I did not say that.”

Mordred took another step forward. “But it shines in your eyes, Captain Corryn,” he said softly. “You question our lady's judgment; what was she thinking to put a stripling boy in charge of matters best left to men. That he is her son only makes matters worse.”

Mordred laid his hand on his sword. How far are you ready to take this, Corryn? Have sense, man, and beg forgiveness.

But sense of that kind seemed to have deserted the captain. He was determined to take Mordred's measure. What goaded him so? They'd just had the best of all possible news. Agravain was on his own. With no army of knights behind him, he could not hope to hold the rock. They only needed a little time and everything would fall into their hands. Mother would have the death for Lot that she wanted so badly, and they would still have their victory.

I understand it is hard, I do. Make a show at apology, Corryn, and all is forgotten
.

But Corryn's hard hand also wrapped around his own sword hilt. “You may put words into my mouth, my lord, and insult me by doing it. It does not make this plan we follow any better.”

They were alone now, even while the crowd of men grew around them. It was a strangely intimate thing, this matter of insults and accusations, the necessary preparation for the first and last dance of a fighting man's life. Despite his heart's whisper of regret, Mordred found himself savouring the moment. This was where he and Corryn would show who they truly were. Some of Corryn's comrades had backed away, forming a circle around them. Others came up. Shouts sounded in the distance, letting the whole camp know what was happening. Mother herself would know soon, if she did not already.

But she would leave it to him. This was his test. Corryn was intelligent, but he was angry. His strength was a bull's strength, direct and brutal, with no subtlety or strategy.

You hesitate, Corryn. Afraid? Is that caution in your eyes at last? Very well. You've done good service for me, so I will make it easy for you
.

“You say I am not fit to lead, Corryn.” Mordred made voice and eyes leaden. He let the words roll out, implacable and unstoppable. “I say you are not fit to follow. How dare you question your betters? You are a pig-skulled wastrel, fit only to sit in the mud with one thumb in your arse and the other in your mouth …”

It was too much. Far too much. Corryn's sword flashed out and he charged head-on. Mordred had his own blade up in an instant and they came together with a ringing clash. Corryn had a heartbeat's worth of time to look into Mordred's eyes and see the pity there before Mordred's boot lashed out to catch Corryn directly on the knee. The instant he felt the captain crumble, Mordred swung them around, bearing Corryn to the ground. Shouts sounded behind them, and warning gasps, empathetic cries.

Mordred did not give Corryn a chance to rise, but kicked again, this time to his skull. Corryn's head snapped back, and he grunted, sprawling dazed in the dirt. Blood made a gnarled scarlet flower to decorate Corryn's brow and flowed in red threads down his cheeks.

Mordred laid the tip of his sword on the captain's throat. Bending over carefully, he took up Corryn's weapon in his free hand. He straightened then, and gave Corryn a good long moment to let his eyes focus, so that he might understand where he was and what was happening.

At last, Mordred saw comprehension take hold in the other man's eyes. “Look about you, Captain. What friend have you here now that you have spoken against my leadership, and the wisdom of our lady? Who raises a hand to help you?”

Mordred spoke clearly. This was as much for the crowd as it was for Corryn. Mordred scanned the faces of the men who stood silent and stolid at the captain's defeat. None of them met Mordred's gaze. If anything, they sought to back away, to get more distance between themselves and this fallen man who many until this moment had indeed called friend.

The sight sickened Mordred. Any enjoyment he had felt at weathering this test of his authority drained away.

Corryn lifted a shaking hand and wiped at his temple. “Mercy, Lord,” he croaked. “Please.”

“You shall have it.” Mordred sheathed his sword. “Come here, Durial.”

Durial was Mordred's other captain, a small, stony, silent man with a bushy beard and sharp eyes. Mordred had seen him among the crowd, but he had not come with Corryn. Come to see, but not to support.

It was time to warn him against taking such action as Corryn had.

“This is your slave now,” said Mordred, waving contemptuously at Corryn. Gasps and murmurs rose from the watching crowd, but no protests. None at all. Mordred wiped his brow on his sleeve. “Do not let him linger too much in idleness. It is bad for a brain prone to fevers, such as his.”

Durial bowed low in acknowledgement, but not in thanks. He understood then that this was a burden, and a lesson. Good.

“Get up, then,” said Durial to his former warbrother.

The new-made slave still had dignity enough to obey without begging. He rose, and staggered, wiping the blood from his face. Corryn met Mordred's gaze for an instant. Mordred watched his former captain's pride flicker and die just before Corryn dropped his gaze as was appropriate for one standing before his lord. One heavy step at a time, Corryn moved to follow his new master.

The men parted for them, muttering, shaking their heads. Mordred stayed where he was, head up, waiting. Would anyone be bold enough to make objection? Had Corryn any comrade to make an open challenge? The idea brought a fresh sweat to Mordred's brow. If things were so bad that he must face two challenges in the same hour …

But the men only fell away, turning back to their work, talking in undertones. Word of this would spread in its own time. It was a hard punishment for such a man such as Corryn. Mordred expected he would put an end to it by his own hand, and soon.

What a waste
.

Mordred swung himself back up into his saddle. He had meant to finish riding the edges of the camp. But the import of Corryn's challenge settled into his stomach, leaving him with a taste like lead in the back of his mouth. He swung his horse's head around and set it walking back towards the centre of camp, back towards his mother's pavilion.

As he passed the clusters of fires, the men and their women going through the motions of the morning, they looked up at him. They nodded, or bowed their heads in respect, but not one watched him without a question in their eyes, and for each of them the question was the same.

When do we begin this war? When do we
move
?

Mordred gritted his teeth as he reached the leather pavilion. He tethered his horse loosely and pulled back the flap to duck into the dim interior.

“Ahhh, my son.”

Mordred blinked hard, his eyes adjusting to the sudden lack of light. His mother stretched luxuriously on her simple bed, gazing up at him. Mordred stared back, barely able to believe what he was seeing. He was used to the satisfaction and lassitude her workings could bring on her, but now she lolled on her fur bed all but drunk, looking at him with the misty indulgence of a doting mother for a toddling babe.

“Mother!” he said through gritted teeth, barely remembering to keep his voice down. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing, my dear, nothing at all. Just … enjoying.” She sighed wistfully. “I will miss him you know. In his way. He was quite strong. Quite strong.”

In another moment she would giggle. Frustration roiled Mordred's stomach. He strode to her bedside. She sat up as he approached, her face full of innocent surprise.

Anger, brassy and unfamiliar rose in his throat. “Mother,” he said by way of greeting. “I just had to enslave Corryn for saying what the whole of the host has been thinking.”

She smiled as if he had just brought her the finest possible news. “And what might that be, my beloved one?”

“Listen to me, my lady. These new men we have brought in to make up our numbers will not sit still for this plotting. They are not yours, not ours. They want war and they want plunder, and they will not wait here while you nibble on what's left of Lot's sanity!”

She cocked her head, judging his words with the mildest of temperaments. “You are the commander here. What do you say should be done?”

Does she make a game of me?
Mordred turned the thought away. He could not, would not let such suspicion take root. Those roots would poison every other thought in his heart.