Camelot's Blood (2 page)

“My lady? Their Majesties summon you.”

Laurel Carnbrea, until lately the Queen of Cambryn, turned away from the window that looked over Camelot's yard. The sun was just setting and the rich light of the summer's evening warmed and gilded the world. The two girls sent up from the great hall were dressed to match, in fine linen and golden girdles. Their relative youth made Laurel think they must be new to their positions. Their youth, and the way they openly looked Laurel up and down, weighing her appearance against their own. Laurel smiled a little at this. It was not these two whose judgment she needed to worry about.

“Well, Meg?” she said to her own woman. “Am I fit to be presented?”

Meg, an aging, bone-thin woman more soberly dressed in brown and cream, looked Laurel up and down herself. Her eyes narrowed to slits, the better to discern a wrinkle in sleeve or neckline, or an ill-considered fold of cloth in Laurel's trailing skirt. For the past three hours, Meg had circled the room like a hawk. Laurel's handmaids, Plump Cryda and little brown Elsa were both flushed and fluttery from Meg's constant stream of orders intended to make sure Laurel's layers of rich dress and ornament were displayed to perfection.

All of which had made Laurel feel like nothing so much as a horse being readied for sale.

It was, however, necessary. Cambryn, the land which Laurel personified at this moment, must make a good showing of its wealth before the great court. To that end, she wore an underdress of rich, black wool that turned her translucent skin nearly pure white. Over this was laid a gown of vibrant blue silk brought from Byzantium. The sea at midday never saw such a colour. Its sleeves brushed her fingertips like the lightest of whispers and trailed down to the floor. This had been one of her mother's treasures, laid away against such a time. A heavy golden girdle with links shaped into sun disks and studded with blue Turkish glass belted her waist. This matched the necklace at her throat. Golden cuffs circled her wrists and a gold band held the delicate black veil embroidered with bright blue thread that covered Laurel's startling white-gold hair, which itself had been braided with sapphire ribbons and golden beads.

Meg had tried to get Laurel to leave behind the ring of small keys that belonged to her dowry chests, on the grounds they made her look more like a merchant's wife than a queen, but Laurel refused. She had carried keys at her waist since she was nine years old. These few were all that were left to her, but she would not lay them aside. The idea made her feel as if she were being asked to walk into the court stark naked.

At last, Meg nodded judiciously. “You'll bring us no shame, my lady.”

“Well then.” Laurel drew herself up. “Let us go meet the man I am to marry.”

Trusting Meg to marshal Cryda and Elsa into a proper procession to carry the betrothal gifts, Laurel schooled her expression into one of calm dignity. She lifted her hems, and followed Queen Guinevere's ladies out through the corridors of Camelot.

This was not the first time Laurel had walked these arched and painted corridors. She had lived with King Arthur's court for three years as a waiting woman to the queen. She could have chosen to stay longer, but at the time she had thought her place and her duty lay in the land where her father served as steward. Queen Guinevere had respected that decision and let her return to her father's house.

Since then, the world had turned over. Father was dead, murdered by his son and heir. War had almost come to their home, but Laurel and her sister, in concert with the queen and the knights Lancelot and Gareth, had just managed to turn it aside. For this service, Queen Guinevere, heirless and likely to remain so, had given over the throne of Cambryn to the family line of Carnbrea. She had also given Laurel's younger sister, Lynet, in marriage to the newly knighted Sir Gareth.

This tumultuous progression of events left unmarried Laurel with the title of queen, but with no current means of producing a legitimate heir. Without an heir, she could rule, but could not provide long-term stability for her now royal family, or their fractious kingdom. Even before the high king's ambassadors had come with their marriage proposal, Laurel had made up her mind to abdicate the throne in Lynet's favour. She had not wanted to give their neighbors and chieftains the chance to decide they should make the change in a less civilized fashion.

“You're being a fool, Laurel,” Lynet had said. “You are known and respected for your strength and your wisdom. No one would dare try to bring you down.”

“Strength and wisdom are all very well, but our allies and our lords want safety. You and Gareth can give them that. I, as I am, cannot.”

“Then marry where you may stay in Dumonii lands.”

“Who, Lynet?” Laurel had replied coldly. “After what I have done, and what they have heard, which of our worthy neighbors will have me?”

Lynet had bitten her lip at that, and made no answer.

Laurel had left the bed chamber they shared, and went to meet Sir Bedivere, the high king's ambassador in Cambryn's great hall. There, she gave her assent. She would come to Camelot and give herself in marriage to Sir Agravain, King Arthur's nephew, the second of the sons of Lot, and heir to the throne of Gododdin.

Now, Laurel descended the curving stairs at a sedate pace, following Guinevere's ladies and attempting not to tread on her own hems. She tried once again to call Sir Agravain's face to mind, and once again, she failed. Sir Gawain, the eldest of Lot's sons, she remembered well enough. Dark-haired and handsome, with a ready smile, Sir Gawain was the subject of great gossip among all the ladies of the court, and not a few of the men. He had been the one to head the procession that met Laurel at the quay. There, Laurel found his smile and charm had not dimmed during her absence, and this cheered her nervous spirits.

Sir Geraint, the third of the brothers, Laurel remembered mostly as a figure in the distance while training for war, or participating in some race or game. He was silent to the point of taciturn, but if one looked into his clear blue eyes, one could see the depth of warmth and humour there. Sir Gareth, the youngest, and now her brother by law, was an unduly handsome, cheerful, surprisingly stubborn man, dizzy in love with her sister.

Laurel had asked Gareth about his brother Agravain. She watched his face while he chose his words with utmost care.

“His wits are keener than any man's I know. He is brave, in his way … He keeps much to himself.” Gareth hesitated. His lower lip tucked itself beneath the upper, as if he had meant to bite it, but stopped himself. Laurel saw anew how young this husbandman was. “He will not suffer any fool, and acts more on his own counsel than that of others. This makes him seem hard. It is to my shame that I cannot say whether this is real or merely what he wishes men to see.”

With all this echoing in her memory, Laurel Carnbrea allowed herself to be led to the doors of Camelot's great hall. The elaborately carved portals stood closed, flanked by an honour guard of six soldiers in shirts of shining mail with red ribbons tied about their spears. Between them stood four pages, all of them as nervously solemn as only young boys can be. This bright assemblage all bowed to Laurel and her entourage, and Laurel nodded solemnly in response.

Let this ceremony begin
.

As if hearing her thought, the boys lined up and all four of them pulled open the doors to reveal the splendour of the great hall.

Dazzling light from torches, fires and tapers spilled out over Laurel in a wave of warmth. Gold flashed everywhere, reflecting the brilliant light and the stately music that rose in solemn and disciplined measure from harp, pipe and deep-bellied drum. Dazzled after the dim corridors, all Laurel could make out at first was a blur of scented colours; waxen scarlet, rush-tinged green, tallow blues, smoky grey and black, all the shades of stone and skin blended with lavender and lemon.

All this wreathed her round in a garland of heat and rustling cloth, setting her blood pounding. It seemed she had to step down a long way before the thin sole of her slipper found the mosaiced floor and she was able to walk forward. Laurel steeled herself and kept her pace stately. She knew her rank and worth. She was the one who had been entreated to do this thing. No one here would see her awed.

The whole of Camelot's court filled that hall. Where before she had travelled dim corridors of stone, now Laurel walked down a straight aisle of particoloured humanity. Dark Britons and pale Saxons; the knights of the Round Table in their cloaks of madder red; lords and ladies in linen and silk, silver, bronze and gold. All of them watched her, craning their necks even as they made their polite bows. Despite the drum beats and lilting pipes, Laurel clearly heard her heart hammering.

What do they see, all these people? What have they heard of me?

It does not matter. I am here at the king's command and the queen's behest
.

She fixed her gaze on the dais. It was no less crowded than the rest of the hall, but at least these were faces she knew. Her dazzled and unnerved eyes could rest a moment on Queen Guinevere. Dignified and tall beside the High King, the queen wore her raiment of scarlet, white and gold easily. Her swan crown circled her wide brow lightly, as the companion torque did her throat.

Arthur, High King of all the Britons, also wore his wealth and dignity with an ease that came from familiarity and assurance. The scarlet tunic, the dragon crown decked with rubies, and the dragon torque at his throat; these were symbols of a majesty that was both God-given and hard earned. Awareness of this truth gave Arthur his majesty as much as any show of wealth and temporal power.

At the king's left stood the crooked seneschal, Sir Kai. In his black garb and gold chain of office, he was a shadow waiting behind the light of kingship. The broad, handsome form of Sir Gawain, Arthur's heir, all but obscured the seneschal, but Laurel knew Sir Kai watched her approach carefully. Sir Kai watched all things carefully and did not remain silent about what he saw. A fresh, cold, finger of fear touched Laurel's spine.

Beside Gawain, stood Sir Bedivere, King Arthur's one-handed ambassador who had brought the king's offer to Laurel, and beside him stood the bronze and gold form of Sir Lancelot whom she remembered well, standing like a living testament to knightly glory.

But beside Sir Gawain stood another man. He was as lean as the seneschal, but as straight and black-haired as Sir Gawain. A Round Table knight's madder red cloak fell across the shoulders of his green and silver tunic.

That was him. That was Sir Agravain, and Laurel had no time for more than that single glance. She had reached the dais now and must kneel in respect and obedience.

The musicians made their final roll and flourish. Her veil fell over her face, making a screen for her heated cheeks. Her breath was coming short. She needed to calm herself. She was no nervous child. She could not be seen to be afraid.

Footsteps touched against marble. A pair of embroidered slippers appeared in Laurel's field of vision. A fine hand, the palm marred by some old stain, reached down to raise her up. The smile Queen Guinevere gave Laurel was small but fond, and showed mostly in her shining grey eyes.

“My lord king,” said Queen Guinevere in her mellow voice. “I ask you to make welcome Laurel Carnbrea, the lady of Cambryn.”

Arthur inclined his greying head regally. It was easy to discern the humour and sympathy in his bright blue gaze. “Be welcome once more, Laurel Carnbrea. May God bless your arrival and the purpose which brings you here.” These words were pitched to carry, a speech for the court, but the understanding in his eyes was for her, and for that moment at least, Laurel felt some measure of composure return. “Let me now make known to you Agravain
mach
Lot, knight of the Round Table, and heir to Gododdin.”

The brief calm the king imparted deserted her immediately. Laurel's pulse jumped and her breath stuck in her throat. Sir Agravain walked down the four dais steps and for the first time, Laurel stood face to face with the man who would be her husband.

Sharp as a sword,
the thought flitted through her mind. All about him was wiry and lean, as if God turned miserly with this creation's flesh. Like his brothers, Sir Agravain was tall and had a wealth of raven-black hair, but where Gawain and Gareth were broad and open, Sir Agravain was closed. His face, while regular in its features, held no hint of either frankness or good humour. His dark eyes remained cool as they looked her over. Laurel was sure he missed no more details of her person than Meg had.

Despite her best resolve, Laurel's composure trembled. At once, she fell back on ceremony, and made a deep curtsey. “God be with you, Sir Agravain,” she said, grateful that her voice remained steadier than her nerve.

Sir Agravain returned a deep bow. “And with you, Lady Laurel.” His voice was lighter than she expected. Each word was clean and precise, with only a trace of the accents of the north. “It is a great honour you do me and my house.”

She met his earth-brown eyes again. They seemed clear and honest, but she could see nothing deeper than his words in them. All about Sir Agravain was shut tight and bolted. She thought again of Gareth's words. Here was a man who would show no more than he wanted the world to see.

Manners. Manners. They are all watching you
. Indeed, while she hesitated, the queen's smile had faltered the smallest amount.

“It is my hope you will accept this token from my house to yours.” Laurel signalled Meg to bring her maids forward. Between them, Cryda and Elsa carried a package wrapped in undyed cloth. This Meg unfolded to reveal a garment of saffron-dyed silk stitched over with costly threads in many colours.

Laurel had carefully questioned Gareth regarding Gododdin's marriage customs. As it transpired, Gareth had left his home while still a child, and so knew very little first hand. He had, however, told her tradition dictated that the bride give her bridegroom his wedding tunic. So, with patience, if not with enthusiasm, Laurel set about making the garment. She now let Meg lay it across her outstretched arms so that she in turn could give it to Sir Agravain. Its saffron silk had come from Cambryn's treasury, of the same origin as her blue. She had seen it cut generously, broad-collared, full-sleeved, and long-hemmed. Under her direction, and with her help, it had been richly worked with threads of emerald, scarlet, cobalt and gold, to shape a design of open-winged falcons, which were the sigil of Gododdin's high house, and of sea waves, the sign of her own.