Camelot's Blood (29 page)

Agravain looked at the empty cup in his hand, as if puzzled by its meaning. Laurel brought the jug forward and poured in a good measure of the liquor. Agravain raised the cup in wordless salute and drank it off in two swallows.

“There is food, my lord. Will you eat?”

He looked up at her, and Laurel saw mute the gratitude in his eyes. “An' I thank you, my lady.”

It was poor enough stuff; pottage with egg and milk stirred in, a small cake of salted oats, and a new cheese. But Agravain had been to war and surely survived on worse. He ate hungrily, and without complaint. Sitting on his low stool, the prince of Gododdin emptied his bowl, mopping the last of the pottage up with the oat cake. When he was finished, she took the bowl from him and set it aside.

“You have done much work today, my wife. I thank you.”

“It was no more than my duty, my husband.”

“It was, and I know it, and I do thank you for it.”

For the first time in all that long, dreadful day, Laurel saw Agravain's real self behind his tired eyes. Alone for this moment, with none but his sleeping father as witness, she went to him and took up his hand.

“I am sorry that you have had such a homecoming.”

He shook his head. The lines on his face had deepened, and he looked older than he should, but not beaten. He was coming to an understanding of his circumstances, accepting the reality around him so that he could begin to change it.

“Truth be told, I am glad it was no worse.” Some of his comfortable irony returned as he spoke, and the constriction in Laurel's breast eased upon hearing it. “There are sound walls at least, and now there are men for defence.” He glanced keenly up at her. “I trust you have eaten?”

“Before I came here.”

“Good. Good.” He scrubbed at his face, as if trying to rub off the beard that had so lately grown to cover his chin. He looked towards the closed door, distracted by some thought.

“Will you go to the hall, my lord?” she suggested carefully. “Pedair and Ruadh would be glad of your counsel, and to learn your plans. I will keep watch here.”

Agravain glanced again at the door, and for once, Laurel found herself able to read his thoughts plainly. She offered him escape from this heavy bedside watch, but it was cowardly and selfish to even desire such escape. Yet, it was true he did need to confer with the chieftains, who must now become the captains for his dishevelled fortress and all the strange assortment of workmen and followers he had brought up with them.

“I will return before dark,” he said as he rose. He bowed to her, and Laurel answered with a deep curtsey. With one last glance of silent gratitude, Agravain left her there.

Laurel sighed, wiping her hands needlessly on her makeshift apron, grateful he had chosen to go. It would do him no good to see what must come next. Her jaw hardened, and Laurel stripped the coverings away from King Lot.

His legs were horrible. Swollen with gross humours, oozing clear matter and pus, they scarcely looked like human limbs anymore. His arms were covered in sores, and there was no chance of his back being any better.

Breathing through her mouth to keep out some of the stench, and praying that the whisky draught would hold him in its grip just a little longer, Laurel took her knife from its sheath and as quickly as she could, she began to cut Lot's clothing from his body.

She practically had to chip the stiff cloth away. The king had been left in his own filth for so long, there was hardly a patch of whole skin on him. Laurel had tended men after battle, and had seen her share of noisome infections, but nothing like this. Her heart split between pity and disgust.

Clamping down hard on both, she soaked her white cloth in the whisky water, and with the cold determination that is the shield of a nurse, she began to wash Lot clean.

She hurt him. She could not help it, and even in his sleep, he moaned and twisted. She managed to dribble some extra whisky down his throat to keep him asleep, but it was a long, slow, uneasy process. Twice Jen and Byrd came to the door, as they had been instructed to do, and twice they had to be sent for more water and more towels.

When it was finished, Laurel was exhausted. None of her other labours had taken so much from her body or spirit. In the end, she had to call all three of her waiting women to her. She simply did not have the strength to turn and lift the weight of the dying king.

But they had made a difference. The stench was all but gone now. Some of the scabs had begun to dry cleanly, and the grime was gone from the raised flesh. His legs and brow were at least a little cooler to the touch. By dint of brute force more than anything else, they had managed to swaddle Lot's waist in clean linen, followed by one of the lengths of striped wool so loved by the people of this country. She washed his hair and beard, and sent Cait running for a comb so that she might put them in order, wishing she dared find a knife sharp enough to shave him with. But she no longer trusted her tired hands to stay steady enough for such work.

He was in all likelihood no better than he had been, but probably he was more comfortable, and his repose had at least some semblance of dignity now.

“Now, Cait,” she said, dropping the last rag onto the pile. “You and Jen go get that chest, you know the one, and bring it here. Byrd …' She blinked her eyes, suddenly finding it difficult to focus on the wizened woman. “Byrd, clean this away.” She gestured feebly at the rags and basins.

Her women scattered to obey. Alone again, Laurel paced to the doorway. She opened it a little, admitting the fresh breezes with their scents of earth and salt. The shadows were long and the sky deep blue. It would be night soon, and the night would bring thicker shadows and darker dangers. The raven was waiting out there, just past the walls, she was sure, waiting to aid its mistress however she might command.

“I remember,” said a voice behind her.

Laurel whirled around, thinking for one incredulous moment she heard Agravain. But there was no one save Lot on his bed. His eyes were wide open and clear, but they did not see her. Not truly.

“I remember when you first came to me here. I remember I worried how you would feel, so far from your home. I took you — do you remember? — up to Jove's Seat above us, so you could see the whole country you were queen of now.”

He was struggling to get his hands under himself, so he could push himself upright. Laurel crossed the room again, meaning to hold him back down, but he caught her hand before she touched him. His eyes stared ahead, blind to all but the memory unreeling itself before him.

“I remember how the wind spread your black hair out, that hair you would gift to all our children, and how your eyes shone as you looked on the river and the firth and all the valley spread out below us. I remember how you saw the beauty of it then, and how beautiful you were in seeing it.”

Laurel's throat tightened and tears pricked at the back of her eyes. She could see it clearly, this moment from so long ago, before the war that had taken his wife and broken him. It was heart-wrenching to think of Lot as a young man, proud and brave, of that other queen, the one whose hair was as black as hers was white, who had consented to ally with him.

Who had loved him. Who had dragged him and his heirs into this war because of the blood in her veins.

“You should rest, my lord,” Laurel murmured, and began to draw her hand back.

But he held tight. “Stay,” he whispered, and Laurel was not certain whether he spoke to his memory of Morgause, or to her. “Stay here a little.”

A tear brimmed in her eye and fell, trickling slowly down her cheek. “If it is what you wish.”

“Just a little,” he murmured. “Just a little.”

She held still, sitting beside him, letting him hold her hand, letting it bring the memories of other times so long gone, while the world outside slowly darkened. Night and shadows. Night and cold creeping in on the stealthy wind's back, wrapping them both in its own blanket, setting skin and nerve on edge. This was not a wind that came to serve, but to spy, to bring the scent of danger to season the smoke from the fading coals.

“I must build up the fire, Your Majesty.” As gently as she could, she extricated her hand from his. He let her go this time. His eyes had closed. Perhaps he slept again.
Good. It would give him a measure of peace. It would be brief enough
.

She added fuel to the fire built in the corner beside the door. There was no place for a proper hearth. Perhaps she should tell Byrd to bring in some braziers, if there were any. She shoved her stray locks back under her veil. There was so much to do. She was sure she was forgetting a thousand things. She wanted to rest, to sleep as she prayed Lot was doing even while he stirred uneasily his clean bed.

Then, Cait and Jen pushed open the doors, struggling to carry the weighty chest between them. She gestured for them to set it down in the corner. They obeyed and straightened, both of them swaying on their feet. Both waited, ready to obey the next order, and both, plainly, prayed it wouldn't come.

Laurel let out a long sigh. “Very well, my women. You've done more than enough today. I want you to go into Ceana. Make sure she shows you someplace clean and safe where you can spend the night.”

Sparrow Jen looked like she might faint with relief. But Cait mustered herself enough to put up feeble protest. “But, Mistress, you … ”

“My place is here tonight. Go both of you. I will send for you if there is need.”

Jen curtsied, plainly a little guilty at her own eagerness to be gone. Cait followed suit, more slowly. Laurel inclined her head, and stayed where she was until they had both closed the doors behind them.

Laurel let out a long sigh. Then, slowly, like an old woman, she knelt in front of the chest, opened the lock, crossed herself, and removed the treasure she had coerced from Queen Guinevere.

“Now, Your Majesty, perhaps I can give you one night of peace.”

She had hoped to lay the scabbard across the threshold, but there was no way for it to be done without the relic being plainly visible. So, as carefully as she could, she slid it under the king's makeshift bed, and drew the coverings down to hide the gleaming silk. Then, she pulled a packet of the precious salt she had taken from the stores out of her girdle and walked three times sunward around the bed, tracing a salt circle around the king. Salt was life and cleanliness. It was a gift of the sea, and one of the most ancient protections there was. She had no idea if it would do any good against Morgaine, but it surely would not hurt.

And its presence would help disguise whatever blessing the scabbard might confer on this night.

When she had finished Laurel straightened and pressed her palm to her forehead. Weariness dizzied her.

Perhaps she cannot come here. This was once a holy place. Perhaps that is enough
.

But that was only wishful thinking. Laurel went to the doors and pushed them open, standing to face the night, as if testing her own nerve.

The courtyard was settling down for the night. The cows and oxen snorted as they lowered themselves to their knees, and the horses in their stables called their good-nights to one another. The wind was filled with the homey smells of animals and straw. She could make out a glimmer of light from the doors of the hall. She hoped Ceana was managing the service all right. She wanted to be there, instructing, helping, but it was more important that she be here, so Agravain could attend to other matters. They could lose no time in establishing his authority with those who remained in the hall, and with those who had followed him so far.

The clouds scudded across the moonless sky. The salt scent of the wind was muted and the air was chilled. Rain soon, coming in over the land in all likelihood. Staring into the summer's dark, all that she had seen, all that Morgaine had forced her to see, rose before her mind's eye; the battle and slaughter, Agravain dead beside his brother, Lynet on her knees, her bloody hands raised to the sky, and herself … not there.

You were gone to the sea years before
.

Movement startled her and Laurel gripped the doorway. A silhouette moved between the shadows of the animals and their keepers. A heartbeat's worth of looking told her it was Agravain.

Oh, husband, why couldn't you have been selfish this once? Why did you come here to face this?

But she knew the answer. He could not do otherwise and be himself.

Why did you come to see me fail before her?
This last thought was soft and treacherous, it prowled the back of her mind as she straightened up and schooled her face into an expression of calm and dignity.

Agravain himself looked anything but dignified as he stepped into the firelight. His hair was rumpled and his eyes hollowed, but the weariness of soul she had seen before was not there.

“How is he?” asked Agravain.

“As you see,” Laurel stepped aside. “He sleeps peacefully.”

“Praise be.” Agravain murmured as he moved to his father's bedside. He looked down, taking the full measure of the man lying there in a stupour of whisky and approaching death. King Lot twitched in his sleep, and his son's shoulders twitched in answer.

“I have seen the miracle you worked in that blighted hall, Laurel,” Agravain said softly. “I cannot thank you enough.”

Laurel at first thought to make some appropriately modest remark, but Agravain raised his head to look at her over his shoulder. In the face of such feeling as she saw there, mere courtesy would be an insult.

“I could not have wished for such help, or from such a steady source.” Agravain spoke softly, as he always did when he was at his most serious. Laurel felt a lump in her throat, made half of need, and half of fear.

You are gone to the sea years since
. What had made her desert him? What truth was there in that lie? It must be a lie, surely it was a lie.

But what truth made her believe she could do such a thing?