Camelot's Blood (31 page)

“Do not think on it any more. It is over.”

“She never died. Not really. I kept hoping …” He squeezed his eyes shut.

At last Agravain found his voice. He gently pressed his father's hand between both his own. “Rest, father.”

“Yes,” Lot nodded, his eyelids drooping. “There is nothing else now. Forgive me, my son. I leave you only ruin.”

Another man would have denied this, murmured some comforting lie. Not so Agravain. “I forgive you,” he said quietly.

Lot breathed a few harsh, ragged breaths, trying to muster the last of his strength. His fingers twitched against Laurel's palm. “Take my blessing, both of you. Poor thing that it is … I … I hurt, Agravain.”

“It will be over soon.”

Lot's eyes opened once more to gaze on his son, and there appeared over his face a look of pure trust, of utter innocence.

“Yes,” Lot murmured. “Yes.”

His eyes closed, finally peaceful, all the ravages of pain and madness wiped away as his frame sagged down, no breath of life left to fill it.

With his son holding his hand, Lot, King of Gododdin, died.

Laurel staggered back to the chapel doors. Once more she pushed them open and stood blinking in the light of dawn.

She filled her lungs with the sweet morning air. “Lot is dead!” she cried out. “God save King Lot!

“Long live King Agravain!”

And from the high walls, her cry echoed back, caught up by a dozen throats, a score, a hundred.

“God save King Lot! Long live King Agravain!”

“Long live King Agravain!”

• • •

In her own pavilion, the smoke of her brazier mingling with her misted breath, Morgaine rose slowly from her bed. No smile lightened her visage. Pain throbbed in her head and in the joints of her hands. She stumbled towards the brazier and nearly fell, catching herself on the table, rattling the wine jar there.

“How is it possible?” she whispered to the dim morning light. “How is it
possible
!”

Laurel Carnbrea was not that strong. Morgaine had the girl's measure from their previous engagements. She had no learning, no gift of sacrifice or need. Laurel could not have held her back, not if she had drained all the blood in her veins and shouted out the whole panoply of saints in the great cathedral of Rome itself.

Morgaine's fingers curled into talons, digging into the splintering wood. She wanted to stand straight, but she was not certain her knees would hold her. The weakness was humiliating, and it fuelled her anger.

How? How did she keep him from me? How did she drive me out? She is not that strong!
Morgaine slammed her hand down. The jar rattled, turned and toppled onto the ground, spilling out the red wine like blood into the dirt. Morgaine found herself staring at it, her breath high and harsh against her throat.

Omen
, whispered an unwelcome, long-buried voice in her mind. A child's mischievous voice in her ear.
It's an omen for you, sister
.

Slowly, Morgaine realized what lay underneath her anger. It had been so long, she was slow to understand.

Fear. Morgaine, the Sleepless One, the Goddess, the Fey. She was afraid.

Afraid of an untutored child who had the gall to stand before her in her ignorance and aid a bastard, a murderer and the child of a murderer.

Who had stood before her with an ordinary knife, and a little blood, and a name or two, and had driven her away from her vengeance.

She wanted to scream, to run out beneath the morning sky and call down the storm wind and the ravens, and all else in her power. It was not possible. It was not
permissible
that this misbegotten creature should keep her from what was hers by right of blood and vengeance.

Morgaine held herself still. With the strength of a well-trained will, she forced her breathing to slow. She would not act in anger. That way led to defeat. She would do nothing without forethought.

Moving slowly and deliberately, Morgaine picked up the fallen jar and reclaimed its lid. She set it once more on the table.

The action steadied her. The spilled wine had already soaked into the damp earth, leaving only a vague odor behind. Morgaine turned. One step at a time, she crossed to her chair. She sat, smoothing her skirts. Her distaff and spindle lay in her workbasket. She picked them up and let the spindle drop. The wool prickled at her fingers as it twisted. The rhythm of it, as familiar as the pulse of the blood in her veins, gave order to her thoughts, calling them back from anger and from fear.

Laurel Carnbrea did not have the strength to do what had been done. So, there were two possibilities. Either she had not done it, or she had help.

Breathing deeply, Morgaine closed her eyes to draw her concentration into herself. She searched her senses. Her fingers spun the wool and her mind spun her thoughts, binding them tightly, making a smooth, strong thread of them that would not break.

Had there been another there? A presence, a spirit or a fey? No. She had felt nothing. There had been Agravain, and Laurel, and Lot, poor Lot lying there wanting her so badly and that creature keeping her back.

It was not the
bucca-gwidden
who aided Laurel. So great a spirit could not have entered that place without Morgaine sensing it.

Now that her mind had calmed she could consider the possibilities without flinching. Even so, the next came only slowly, and her hands faltered in her work.

Was it Morgause? Reaching down through her son? The tie of blood is strong. Blood and bone prevent you, the little girl said
.

The idea of Agravain accepting any aid from the invisible countries was laughable.

Not so. He is her son, and he did bind himself knowingly to this other
.

Riddle me. Riddle me
. Morgaine's hands found the trick of the thread again, pulling and twisting, measuring the weight of the spindle as it turned.
Did I neglect to believe you would come prepared for all aspects of this war?

No. I did not believe your preparations would be effective. Ah, my sister
. She turned her smile northwards.
You can be proud of your son, Morgause. Cold he may be, but he is not blind. Indeed, he may see the most clearly of them all
.

Very well
. Morgaine set her jaw. If Laurel did not have an ally, what aided her?

She must know. She must know. If Laurel was able to work her will effectively over the invisible … then there was danger that Mordred's forces might be defeated in this war, and if that happened …

The thread snapped off sharply between Morgaine's fingers, and the spindle thudded to the ground. Morgaine did not even look down to it.

It cannot happen. She can raise the whole of the sea against me and it will not be enough!

Why then this fear that shook her? Why this anger that would not relent and let her think?

She closed her eyes again, swallowing, forcing herself to breathe. For a moment she thought to call Mordred to her, but what would she tell him? That she feared to be alone? That she had retreated from one small sortie, and it left her trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale?

She laid her distaff in her lap. It was cold. She was cold. The damp snaked through her skin and left her hands aching. There would be rain soon. She was hungry. Where were her women? There should be food here, and wine to replace what was spilled.

Why am I alone?

She pressed her brow against her palm.
Stop this. Stop this. You are alone because you bid them leave you. Because you could not work as you must while someone watched you. Nor is your work done
.

Which was true, but that truth sent a fresh wave of exhaustion and anger through her. She forced it away from her. She must think. She must consider clearly. She did not have the strength or the clarity of mind now to send her spirit walking again. She could not risk becoming lost while she traveled in that way. But there were other ways.

With the merest flicker of a thought, she touched a small mind, dark and restless, mischievous and ready for flight, for the hunt. She showed him the bulk of the great rock, the square, unnatural shape of the fortress squatting on top of it.

Always ready for sport, the raven launched itself. Morgaine felt the play of the wind through her feathers, the joy of flight, of the hunt, pouring through his mind. The wind above the great rock was tricky: warm and cold, weak and strong, its currents required great skill and the raven laughed for the delight of it.

What do you see, little brother?

I see nothing
.

No
. She pushed the raven's mind, pushed its sight. It could see, it must see, it carried her spirit's vision. It was so close now …

But the raven only croaked, voicing its pain and displeasure as it wheeled on the wind. It saw nothing. There was nothing to see.

Somehow, Morgaine's vision had been blinded.

Son and stone bar your door … She does not have the strength!

Her binding to the raven snapped as suddenly and violently as the thread had in her fingers. She gasped at the pain of it and for a moment could only sit, dazed and blinking in her dim pavilion.

Slowly, so slowly, she gathered her spilled and scattered thoughts together.

Very well. Very well
. The child thought herself protected behind her walls. She thought she had sheltered her man with her paltry words and her little workings. But what was hidden could be found, and whatever thing she had brought with her to loan her such power … that could be taken.

Once more, Morgaine called to her raven.
Little brother, I have an errand for you. I need you to find our friend, little brother. I have a message
.

“My lady … Your Majesty?”

Laurel whirled around, spoon clutched in her hand as if it were a sword. Pedair stood there, looking awkward in his bright formal clothing of leather jerkin and trailing cloak of beaver pelts.

“What is it?” She did not want to sound cross, but the truth of the matter was, she had awakened with the sun, and already felt overwhelmed by the day. It was three days since Lot's death and today at last they held both his funeral and Agravain's ascension. There was barely enough food to go around, even though, thanks to the arrival of so many women in the train of Agravain's army, there were finally enough hands to prepare and serve it. Byrd, Cait and Jen were doing their best to supervise, but despite all their work of the day before, chaos still threatened the hall. To add to this, the knowledge that the king's death brought war loomed over them all as heavy as storm clouds.

She did not feel like a queen. She was stirring thin gruel over an uneven fire because every other hand was either busy clearing away the detritus of the hundred souls who had slept the night in the great hall or was busy shoveling out the stores. She was hot, and annoyed, and worried that one more thing would go wrong. That they would not find enough cups to give all the new arrivals proper welcome. That the whisky and milk could not be stretched far enough to give each a swallow. That her silk would be stained despite the thick overdress she wore, and she would look like a slovenly serving woman when she must stand in her dignity beside Agravain today. That someone else who did not relish the idea of actually working to serve their new lord had crept away and left some vital task undone.

Pedair must have seen at least some of this, because he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking more like a nervous boy than the sire of a clan. “The folk have come to view King Lot and make their oaths. They wait at the gate. My lord — His Majesty — is in the chapel and has told myself and Ruadh to not disturb him.”

Laurel closed her eyes briefly, gathering her patience for what must have been the thousandth time that morning. She was in truth not surprised to hear this. Agravain had risen from their bed before the sun had risen in the sky, waving her back when she had made to follow him.

“Very well.” Laurel set the spoon back in the kettle. “Byrd! Byrd!”

Through the milling bodies, she saw the old woman giving orders to a cluster of amused young men who carried away a board that had recently served as a table. The sound of her name made her crane her neck, causing her to look for a moment very much like her namesake. When she saw it was Laurel who called, she hurried over, looking far more spry and alert than Laurel felt.

“Go find Jen and Cait.” She drew off her overdress, revealing the gown of blue silk she had worn on her wedding day. She handed the coarse garment to Byrd. “We need the welcome cups brought to the gate. They are to greet all comers in our name. Make sure everyone takes a cup, and if anyone refuses or is shorted, you are to come get me at once.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Byrd bobbed a quick curtsey and scuttled off once more.

Thank God for her
, sighed Laurel. “Lord Pedair, find Lord Ruadh. Lead all concerned to the yard before the chapel. Wait for my knock, then open the doors. I will go speak with the king.”

The king. It sounded so strange. She had called him by so many names now: Sir Agravain, my lord, husband, that one more should not make any difference. But this one did, for it made her queen, on a throne that was even more uneasy than the one she had abdicated.

It made a difference because today was the day they would find out if this title would be acknowledged by those who were not his own men.

Outside the hall, the yard teemed with life and activity. Half-a-dozen makeshift forges had been set up. The din of hammering set her ears ringing, and the hot metal left its tang in her mouth. Horses waited to be shod. Carpenters worked with adzes, hammers and axes, fastening gears and bolts and ropes to great timber beams. Soldiers worked with their whetstones and their leather rags. Devi, wearing a tunic of white wool belted with white leather, was arguing with an ancient whose hands were stained grey and white with ash and grease.

Those who saw her made brief obeisance, and went straight back to their tasks. She in turn waved to them in barest acknowledgement. Din Eityn would not pause to mourn the loss of its king. This was Agravain's order. The war was on its way. They would be ready to meet it.

The chapel's doors had been shut tight. She took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. Laurel had spent much of the day before in this place, washing King Lot's body and preparing it for burial with such poor perfumes as Din Eityn and her dower chests had to offer. There was, thankfully, enough linen to make a proper, though plain, shroud. Ros had been sent yesterday to sail down the coast to the monastery of St. Joseph so that a cleric could be brought to perform the rites of Christian burial.

Softly, Laurel opened the door. Inside the chapel was cool and dim, the air filled with the scents of old perfume and new smoke.

Agravain stood before the altar, his arms outstretched, his head bowed. He held his attitude of prayer like a statue, never tiring, making no sound.

She could see Lot's bier where it stretched between Agravain and the altar. They had laid the corpse on a bed of green broom, yarrow and willow. The fire was gone, and proper lamps now supplied what light and warmth there was in the chapel.

Agravain had changed that morning. This was no man of the city, not anymore. This was a king in this northern land. The wide gold torque armored his throat as much as it decorated him. The same might be said for the cuffs of gold on his wrists. A cloak made of black bearskin covered the shoulders of his saffron wedding tunic. His tightly laced trews were also black. His only concession to what he had been was that he had not forsaken his good boots for the sandals the other men wore.

Laurel entered the chapel, crossing herself as she did. Agravain did not look up at the sound of her step or the rustle of her dress. She walked softly to stand at his right side, so that he could become aware of her when he was ready.

To her shame, Laurel found herself looking at the fragrant bier to see if it had been disturbed. Excalibur's scabbard lay hidden among the greenery, protection for Lot until the priest could come and lay the armoring of grace around his corpse. Ros would not be back for two more days, at the earliest. For those two days, the old king must lie in honor here, and it would be very like Morgaine to try to make use of him to torment Agravain.

Beside her, Agravain's mouth moved. “Amen,” he breathed. “Amen. Amen.”

He crossed himself and Laurel did the same. But he did not lift his face to her. He contemplated his father's shrouded form with his heavily-lidded eyes. Whatever thoughts occupied him, they drew his face into the familiar, tight lines of his carefully controlled bitterness.

“My lord,” said Laurel gently. “The men have come. It is time.”

But he did not seem to hear her. “I thought I knew how it would be,” he murmured instead. “I thought I knew what I must do, what I must become. I was wrong. I did not even know how much had been stolen from me.” He lifted his hand, watching how it shook. “Why do I tremble now, Laurel? What is this that seizes me?”

“It is only grief, my husband.”

His mouth twitched, trying to form his thin smile and failing. “I had thought I had finished with grieving for my father long ago.”

“You saw him again, you saw that you were right. You knew all along that the man still waited beneath the madness. You grieve for the years lost to that man.”

“My brothers still do not know what he did for us.”

“You will tell them when this is over.”

“When this is over.” Agravain repeated with the lightest laugh. Then he threw his head back, his face suddenly contorted with the strength of his anger. “God rot these sorcereries!” he cried out, a child's bewilderment beneath the grinding fury. “How can Heaven be called merciful when it leaves such witchery to torment the world!”

Laurel made no answer to this. Being who she was, what could she say?

Agravain drew one more shuddering breath, clenching his fists tightly in his attempt to control himself. “I'm sorry, my lady.”

Laurel shook her head. “You think I do not understand. I watched my heritage nearly destroy my sister. I watched it bring Morgaine down on my home like a plague to kill father and brother, and tempt me to betrayal. It made my people look blackly at me. It drove me from the throne I had been given, and away from my home in the end.

“Oh no, my lord, I understand your feeling very well.”

He gazed at her silently. With every breath, his face softened, the harsh lines smoothing and fading, showing the man, rather than the knight or the king.

Emotion flooded into Laurel's breast so quickly she could barely breathe for the flood of it. “I have never known what you see when you look at me like that.”

He turned completely towards her. She could feel his warmth, smell the scent of him. He touched her veiled hair softly, drawing his hand down to her cheek, just grazing her skin.

“Beauty,” he said. “I see beauty, and a haven that I never believed my soul would find.”

She thought he might kiss her then. She saw the desire for it in the depths of his eyes. But instead, he stepped past her. “I have … I suppose it is a gift for you. I don't know why I brought it in here … Perhaps I needed some blessing for this.”

He opened a lumpish package of soft leather which had been laying on one of the small tables and drew forth the gleaming contents.

It was a crown. A delicate circlet wrought of silver and sapphires. The craftsman had fashioned dozens of glistening ribbons to frame the midnight blue stones, the smallest of which was the size of her fingernail.

“It was my father's marriage gift to my mother,” said Agravain turning the beautiful thing over in his hands. Memory made his voice distant. “It is yours now. I am sorry there are no more worthy hands than mine to place it on your brow.”

“Your hands are most worthy,” she answered. She had not paused to think there might be a real crown for her head in this place of stone and scarcity, and certainly not one so rich.

“We will do this in the great hall, as it should be.” Agravain folded the leather around the circlet again. “And now, it is time I ceased this self-indulgence. You have come to call me to my duty.”

She inclined her head, straightening her shoulders and putting on the mask of dignity that had served her so well up to this time. “If you are ready, Your Majesty.”

“I am.”

“Then Let us begin.”

Laurel moved to the chapel doors and hesitated, listening. Outside, she heard the rumble and murmur of voices outside. She knocked three times, and then took her place beside Agravain at the foot of the bier.

The chapel doors open. Pedair and Ruadh entered, solemn and dignified, attired in fine woolens and rich furs, with Cait, Jen and ancient Byrd right behind. They had found a drummer, and they walked to the slow, steady beat. An ancient man who might have been Byrd's older brother walked with the drummer. His voice rang out high and clear as he called to heaven above, for blessing, for peace, for forgiveness.

For all to witness that King Lot was dead.

With drum and song circling about them, Laurel nodded to her women. They lifted the white linen shroud with careful hands and folded it aside, exposing Lot's resting corpse to the flickering lamplight.

Devi, clad in white, was the next to enter the chapel, and behind him came the men of Gododdin.

It was not only the folk who had their holdings at the foot of the rock, but those who had been traveling this way for days, since Pedair and Ruadh were able to send out word that Agravain had indeed returned to Din Eityn. They came to get a look at Lot's heir, to speak with him and determine what sort of man he had become away down in Camelot. They walked in slow procession to see that it was indeed their king laid upon the bier. They saw he had been treated with honor, that his sword lay at his side, and the wealth of kingship decked his wrists, hands and throat. They saw that merciful death had erased the madness from him.

Then each one of them turned their eyes to Agravain, and to her. This was no time for words of any sort. In silence these men with their hard, weathered faces, their long beards and moustaches, their gold and bronze ornaments and cloaks of striped woolens took their measure. They looked Agravain up and down with eyes the color of earth or mud or sky. They had to satisfy themselves that he was a whole man, and that he could indeed be the son of Lot. Whatever the shade of their eyes, however young or old, their expressions were all the same. In each face waited doubt worn deep by too many years of uncertainty.

Agravain did not flinch from a single one of them, but returned calm strength to all those men now stood in silence before him. He marked each of them, noting the ornaments, sigils and tattoos that surely told what valley or clan they came from, measuring each of them as they measured him.

Laurel wished she felt half so calm as Agravain seemed. This was a necessary part of the ceremony, and she should be used to being on display by now. But it still chafed at her. The awareness of the hidden scabbard, the approaching army, and the poor showing her house was making unnerved her. Perfume and smoke, and the smells of sweat, earth and leather crowded the small room and prevented fresh air from reaching her, despite the open doors. The beating of the great drum echoed her heart and disordered her thoughts. The steady drone of the singer's doleful hymn vibrated through her bones. Here was all the solemnity and dignity of death, but here was all the fear and distraction of it as well.

But there was nothing to do but stand and be still, and try to match Agravain's cool expression until the last of Gododdin's men had satisfied themselves that Lot was dead, and that Agravain was alive.