Camelot's Blood (36 page)

His hands gripped the ancient stones and he stared out into the night. It was clear and winter-cold. The crescent moon hung amid the stars like a curving silver blade. He knew where he was. He knew the feel of the stones under his hands and under his boots. He knew the sigh of the wind past the cliffs below. This was the place. He had come here once again, unknowing, or perhaps knowing far too much.

This was where Tania had died.

Oh, it was clear as moonlight that moment, after all these years. He remembered the bite of the wind against his skin. He remembered the frenzy in his father's face as he bent Tania over the stones, his fingers dug into her hair and her arm to hold her down. He remembered Gawain's fear turning him white while begging for mercy, trying to appeal to their father's honor.

He remembered himself. A youth, awash with sickened horror. Aware that he held the secret that could save her, that she had made him swear to reveal to no one.

He'd learned it a year before her death. She'd come to him in early morning, while their father and his men still sat at their meat. He was in the stables, looking over the horses that would be used for the coming journey.

“Agravain, father takes you to Rhegid tomorrow?” Tania had pale skin and raven-black hair, and blue eyes just like their mother. Like her she was usually filled with grace and confidence. Not then. As she entered the shadowed stone enclosure, she was breathless, and she looked over her shoulder. “Will you give this letter to King Owein?” She pressed a tiny packet into his hand, a single piece of parchment, folded over and tied with red thread until it could fit into a man's palm.

He remembered looking at it, and how cold dread had run through his veins. “Tania, what manner of letter is this?”

She's smiled, attempting careless mirth. “Do not ask, my brother, it is better that you do not know.”

Agravain looked up into his sister's blue eyes and saw doubt there, and fear. Tania was taller than he was still, slender but not fragile. She too had endured their mother's loss and their father's decay. But more, she had taken their mother's place as mistress of the hall. Agravain had seen how she stood between her father's wrath and her brothers. He saw the bruises on her face and arms from his blows, and burned with shame that he could not spare her.

And for all her too-intimate knowledge of their father's strength and fury she was giving him such a missive. “Tania. You cannot be doing this. You are promised to …”

She cut him off, her face going cold. “I know full well to whom I am promised, Agravain.”

“Then why?”

She laughed, a bitter sound, and hung her head. “You think to hear me tell some besotted tale of maiden's love, don't you, my brother? Like one of Gawain's romances. Well.” She brushed a wisp of straw from her skirts, her tone and demeanor going strangely brisk. “I fear I will disappoint. I do love him. Owein is a great man and a great king. But it is more than that. The wealth and position of his land will do us greater good when father dies than any other.”

She stepped forward and took his hand, folding it around her letter. “You are the clever one, Agravain. You have seen the truth. I've heard it when you've tried to reason with him.” Their father. There was no need to name him. “We are growing weaker, every day. We can do nothing here while father lives. We must be ready for the time he is gone, and then you and I, Agravain, you and I together, must be ready to raise fallen Gododdin up.

“This is where it begins. There is more than one way to make a marriage, and I mean to take advantage of the law if I can. A child in my belly undoes any other bargain.” She held his closed hand in both of hers now. Her touch were cold, but steady. “Take my letter, Agravain, please.”

His mouth had gone dry. He felt weak and far too young for this burden. “Tania, he will kill you if he finds out.”

“Then we must see that he does not.” Her smile had been small and hard, taking no delight in conspiracy. “It is you who will be king one day, Agravain. Let this be your first undertaking in that office.”

His first undertaking, begun in a stable and ended on this wall. Tania had scrabbled at the stones, Gawain dived for her, seeking to snatch at her sleeves and skirt where they fluttered in the breeze, but his fingertips only brushed the cloth and she fell, screaming long and high.

Gawain leaned over the parapet, calling her name again and again, until the scream was gone.

Agravain had not moved. Could not move. Strength and heart were shattered. No word, no breath, no thought was left to him.

Agravain realized his cheeks were wet. He wiped at them. He had not wanted to come here. He had been forced, by the burning within him, and by the knowledge that threatened to crack his mind in two. He felt himself reeling, reason teetering in precarious balance, and terrible understanding clinging hard against his back.

Had Laurel been up here rather than in the chapel below, he might have done it. Might have thrown her to her death. He had been angry enough. There had been a heartbeat, more than a heartbeat, when he could have, would have done it, and called it justice.

I know that by your actions we may suspect that the madness that haunted your father has got its first claws into you
.

It was Morgaine who killed her. Not father. It was Morgaine who killed Tania
.

And who was it who moved you to betray the one secret she gave you to keep?

Never had he felt so alone, not even in the first days, when Gawain had left and Tania's corpse had not been found, and he and Gareth and Geraint had hidden in the cellars to keep out of their father's way. Then he had his brothers beside him. Then he had a purpose. He had to protect Geraint and Gareth. Now, all purpose seemed hollow, burned away by the fire that would not cease. The rage had served him well, but now he could not close it off. It tortured and tormented, as fearsome as the memories that fed it.

When will the battle come? When will Morgaine and Mordred be here? When can I draw my sword and cut free these hollow memories
.

Make amends for that betrayal. For the one committed in the chapel below
.

No, it was she who betrayed! She did!

I know that by your actions we may suspect that the madness that haunted your father has got its first claws into you
.

It cannot be. God Almighty
. Agravain lifted his eyes to Heaven.
I did right. She was … she had …

Oh, Christ
. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying from the depths of his battered soul.
Mother Mary, give me a sign. Give me succor. Please. Show me the right. I can't see anymore
.

Look then, brother
.

Agravain spun around. He stared about wildly, fear and the most painful hope strangling his breath. As he did, his eye caught movement in the moonlit yard.

Below, he saw a dark figure, little more than a shadow among shadows. Only its motion rendered it visible, and that motion was hindered by the presence of so many men camped out beneath the stars. It clearly did not want to disturb any of them, and picked a careful path to the chapel steps.

Who was going to the chapel at this hour? What could they want there? It came over Agravain that something else might be done to the king's body, some new desecration …

He did not pause to consider whether this was a logical thought at all. He had been driven by the whips of fear and doubt all this night, and this final scourge sent him running. Careless of his ankles or his neck, Agravain ran down the narrow steps and across the yard, stumbling over the sleeping bodies, earning curses from the men so rudely woken and not knowing by whom.

Agravain vaulted up the steps, and into the chapel, throwing the doors open wide to let the starlight pour through.

The cloaked figure whirled around, hugging its arms to its chest. The shadows clung so thickly to this place, it took even Agravain's dark-adapted eyes a moment to make out little, wizened Byrd. Ruadh, slumped against the wall, asleep on his feet, struggled to wakefulness.

“Wha …” Ruadh began, and horror sent his jaw slack as he realized he had fallen asleep, and that Agravain stood there with him.

But Agravain did not attend Ruadh. He only watched Byrd, as she moved to kneel, still huddling in on herself.

“What are you doing here?” Agravain spat.

“Forgive me, Majesty,” Byrd gasped. “I only wanted to see if my lord Ruadh needed anything on his vigil. I wanted … to make amends if I could.” She bowed her head. “I wished to pray for forgiveness.”

Agravain wiped at his eyes. This would not do. None of this. Pedair was more right than he knew. Madness. Replaying old wrongs, screaming at old women. What had happened to him?

His father's corpse lay shrouded in moonlight. Father would have understood exactly what was happening to him.

No. Morgaine drove him. I drove her out. I am not … I have not …

“Sire?” murmured Byrd. “Sire, is there … how may I serve?”

Something wrong. Something missing. Something he was not seeing. It knocked on the walls of his mind and skittered off the edges of his thoughts. Her voice brought it back. Byrd's voice, that had summoned him to the chapel, as urgently as that other voice had called him to look down from the murderous parapet. Voices, voices, speaking secrets, speaking truths, speaking lies …

His own voice, croaking more harshly than any crow. “How did you know what she meant to do?”

Byrd frowned. “Who, Majesty?”

“My … the lady Laurel. How did you know she meant to desecrate my father's body?”

Byrd bowed her head, her hood falling over her face. She still held her arms tight to herself, as if praying, or huddling against the cold. “She told me, Majesty. She had come to trust me and she said what she meant to do.” When she looked up again, her black eyes were bright, as with tears. “I'm sorry. I should have come to you at once but I was afraid.”

Certainty rose in Agravain, a great ballooning mass buoyed by a wealth of feeling that began and ended with anger. As if from a great distance, he watched himself straighten, and take one step forward. Byrd swallowed, which set her dewlap wagging, but held her ground and her humble pose.

“You lie.”

That snapped her head up. Her round, black, red-rimmed eyes turned fearful for a moment, but for a moment only.

“No, Sire,” she said sadly. “I was afraid. I beg your forgiveness, I …”

“No.” Agravain shook his head slowly. “She would never have told you such a thing. She kept her secrets to herself.” A hundred memories flitted through him: Laurel choosing her words with great care. Laurel deep in her own thoughts, taking her own time, waiting for her moment, keeping her counsel.

Byrd had made her mistake, and she knew it. The humble, helpful mask of her countenance slipped just the tiniest amount. Agravain returned to himself with a rush. Whole again and at one with his solid flesh, his thoughts both clarified and quickened.

“She lied to us all, Majesty,” Byrd said softly. “Forgive an old fool for believing in her.”

It was a good feint, meant to bring his mind back to Laurel's perfidy, and take his attention from what was in front of him. It might have worked, but for that tiny slip, that moment when she had to put her mask back into position.

If it had not been for Tania's voice that had come in answer to his prayer.

“Yes, there has been more than one kind of fool awake this night,” he made himself say. “You may go.”

“Thank you, Sire.” The relief in her voice was palpable. She got up to her feet with difficulty, because she would not put her hand out to steady herself. Agravain watched her from half-lidded eyes.

“What have you there, Byrd?” he asked softly.

Byrd started. It was a moment's hesitation. It did not leave enough time for eye to blink or heart to beat.

But it left time enough for Agravain to lunge forward, to grab her skinny hand and wrench it out from under her cloak, sending the flag of white silk flying into his face.

Time enough for the scabbard to clatter to the floor.

Agravain stared. The scabbard. The moonlight lit gently on the flaking leather and battered bronze, and the long, dark stain that was black even against the old leather in the shadows. He met Byrd's gaze, words dying on his lips.

She threw back her head and she laughed, a screeching bubbling sound. She yanked her arm from his grasp with surprising strength and raised her arms wide. White silk fluttered to the floor. Ruadh dived forward, but it was too late. The woman was gone, and a black shape streaked past, cawing and rattling its wings. The raven flew unerringly for the door, and out into the night.

Leaving the men behind, gaping.

Shaking, Agravain knelt. Shaking, he crossed himself, and reached for the scabbard.

“Sire, what is it? What happened?” gasped Ruadh.

“She brought it. I told her not to, I commanded her, but she brought it.” The holy thing, the humble thing lay in his hands.

“But what …”

“Worth ten of the sword. He who carries it will not bleed. She brought it to this place, and laid it here.” Agravain looked up at Ruadh. “God stood beside her while she worked, and I did not see it, Ruadh.”

Ruadh stared speechless, and crossed himself.

Agravain stood. He carried the scabbard to the altar and laid it there, then stepped back, around his father's bier. All that he had remembered, all he had thought, all he had done that hellish day came back to him with a clarity that cut through his soul.

He had been deceived by Morgaine's spy. Laurel had only been trying to do as he himself had bid her. And she had sought the aid of Heaven to protect him, and his father.

And he had not seen. She had walked so proudly from this place, unbowed by all his words, all his violence. He was the one who had been struck down then. Struck deaf and blind.