The Story of Gawain and Ragnell (4 page)

But he did know that she was plucky and spirited, putting a brave face on tragedy in the same way Yseult would — only with more humor. Yes, Ragnell's face was ruined, but in profile the beauty she had once possessed was almost unmarred. Perhaps on some level it was even the damage to her beauty that drew him, as unusual as it was.

He had a memory of the scent of dried barley, and his cock stiffened.

He smiled to himself and turned over, wondering how long barley would have that effect on him.

4

   
Itt fell againe the Christmase
Many came to that Lords place,
   To that worthye one,
With helme on head and brand bright,
All that tooke order of knight;
   None wold linger att home.

The Greene Knight
(Anonymous)
   

Christmas had come and gone, the New Year according to the Christian calendar was approaching, and, of course, there was still no sign of Ragnell's dead cousin Gwenhwyfar — or the much more real reinforcements Gawain had sent for. It was not all that surprising, truth be told. Even a rider alone without pack animals would need at least five days to Caer Leon in winter, and probably more if he was not able to exchange horses on the way. Reinforcements from Caer Leon heading north would need even longer.

Unfortunately, Bertilak was becoming impatient. "That cousin of yours is certainly taking her time," he had complained the night before, after they had finished their evening meal.

Ragnell bowed her head in seeming deference to his words. "Christmas is barely past, my lord, and it is a long journey from Glevum to Caer Camulodon."

"Well, if you are as important to her as she is to you, she had best make haste or she will miss our wedding."

"May I humbly point out that travel is not easy this time of year, my lord?" Pabius said.

"You may, but it does not change the fact that I am growing tired of your interference." At that, Bertilak rose and strode out of the dining hall.

Gawain gazed after him, his mind racing. Did Bertilak suspect something? Or was he merely growing impatient to finally have the legal seal of possession on what he had already taken by force? Assuming he really was getting suspicious, he might just murder them all in their sleep.

Perhaps it was time to consider further precautions.

"We should take up quarters in the village," Gawain said that night in the house he shared with the other warriors.

Gaheris nodded. "We can return to 'discuss final arrangements' once we receive word that reinforcements have arrived."

"But how shall we justify our move to Bertilak?" Pabius asked.

"Tell him we no longer wish to tax his hospitality," Gawain said. "It will look like a reaction to his outburst tonight —"

"Which it is," Gareth threw in with a laugh.

"And he should find it easy enough to believe you," Gawain continued, deliberately ignoring his youngest brother.

"Yes, I think that would work," Pabius said. "Unless Bertilak insists I carry out the marriage tomorrow."

* * *

Gawain was in the high-walled churchyard with an assortment of farmers, carpenters and blacksmiths, practicing fighting techniques. The men all had some experience with a sword, trained by their own fathers to defend property and family in case of an emergency, but they relied more on brute strength than anything resembling strategy or even the experienced assessment of an opponent. And many of the swords and daggers the men had proudly brought to the church were old and bent, rusted and blunt.

Late December in northern Britain did not offer the best conditions for weapons practice either, with sunlight a fleeting whim of the weather gods whose moods Gawain remembered from his childhood — gray, wet, dismal, depressing. In this part of the world, at this time of the year, rain, sleet, and snow were at least as common as dry weather. And usually more.

The new year was almost upon them, but there was still no word of reinforcements. At least today was one of the rare dry days.

"Every warrior has preferences and weaknesses — and often they go hand in hand," Gawain said, pacing in front of the village volunteers and waving his sword in the air in a snake-like pattern, the blade encased in a leather guard for safety. The long monk's tunic was an irritation, whipping around his ankles, a hindrance he might easily trip over in the heat of battle. Perhaps long gowns were the real reason most women never became warriors. He had seen with his own eyes the way his former lover Yseult could wield a sword, making up for what she lacked in strength with quick thinking. "One of the first things you should learn is to concentrate your attack on the opposite side from your opponent's sword arm."

"But that is where he will be wearing his shield," a promising young farmer protested.

Gawain nodded. "Yes. And for that reason, your opponent will probably also judge himself safer on that side. But he cannot attack you with his shield."

"Unless he tries to ram me in the head with it."

"If he does that, he has left himself wide open, and you have an excellent opportunity to land a killing blow."

The young man laughed and Gawain smiled. Perhaps this one had potential to become a warrior in Arthur's army — it could hardly be an easy life eking a living from the land here, especially after the recent hard winters.

Gawain scooped up a sword and tossed it to the dark-haired farmer, who caught it easily. "What was your name again?"

"Donal, Lord Gawain."

"I am left-handed, as you see. How would you attack me?"

Donal sprang to Gawain's right, sure-footed, the sword gripped in both hands. "But what if you were carrying a shield?"

"We will practice that as well, eventually. For now, I have another circumstance for you to deal with." He tossed his own sword from his left hand to his right and lunged. "I may be left-handed, but I forced myself to learn how to fight right-handed as well."

The young farmer dodged the surprise attack with a laugh, following through with a lunge of his own, more a sign of good instinct than good battle skills. Gawain parried the attack easily and stopped, facing Donal with swords crossed. "A good move," he said, not mentioning the technical weaknesses of the thrust. Criticism came later, when a warrior was confident enough in his abilities to truly understand how to improve his fighting skills.

Donal lowered his sword. "Thank you. It is not every day a farmer has the honor of fighting a warrior of the stature of King Arthur's nephew Gawain."

Gawain was surprised at how the young man referred to Arthur as "King." Arthur was Dux Bellorum, leader of battles, the Pendragon of Britain, named to the post by his uncle, Ambrosius Aurelianus, the last High King of Britain. Ambrosius had gone missing after his defeat at the battle of Avallon in Gaul, when Gawain was only a young man, barely tried in battle; there had been no High King in Britain since. Many regional kings, yes — too many — but no king who ruled over all of Britain. Perhaps there was little difference for these people between the titles of King and Dux. Arthur was the strongest military leader in Britain, after all.

"Brother Gaw?"

Gawain turned, an automatic smile coming to his lips at the sound of that voice. Ragnell had entered the churchyard with Pabius, a short, semi-transparent veil covering the top half of her face.

"Here you may use my real name," he said.

She glanced nervously around, her lips pressed thin, and Gawain realized that she was too worried to be thinking straight. "Ah, yes, of course," she said. "May we speak alone for a moment?"

Gawain looked over her head at Pabius. "Is Gaheris or Gareth nearby?"

The priest nodded. "I will fetch them."

"Thank you." He returned his attention to Ragnell. "We need someone else to instruct these eager new warriors. As soon as on eof my brothers is here to take my place, I will be at your service, Lady."

Gawain returned to instructing the farmers, while Ragnell looked on. He could feel her gaze on his back, surprised at how it inspired him to do better.

When Gaheris arrived, he gave him one of those looks that said
he had better not be making another stupid mistake
. Then Pabius led Gawain and Ragnell to a modest chamber in the church, tiny, gray, cold, and smelling faintly of mold.

Ragnell threw back her veil and began to pace. "Last night, Bertilak told me he was no longer willing to wait for 'my cousin' to arrive. He intends for us to wed by the end of the week."

They had all seen it coming, but nonetheless Gawain felt it like a blow, shuddering through his body. "There was nothing you could do or say to dissuade him?"

"Nothing."

Gawain sat down on one of the simple chairs in the small room, feeling a little like he had when Yseult told him
she
was to wed. But Bertilak had been Ragnell's "betrothed" ever since he had first met her. Besides, Gawain should be considering strategies, not mourning the loss of yet another bed companion.

Nonetheless, he could not allow it to happen. He was here to save her, not allow her to marry the man who had killed her family.

Ragnell pulled a stool up next to him and sat down as well. "You do not have enough men to retake the hill-fort at this time, do you?"

"No," he said, unable to keep the anger out of his voice. "If we had, we would have done it weeks ago."

She lowered her head. "I am sorry. But if you are willing to take the risk for me, I might be able to help you defeat the green warrior."

There was no fire in the room, and the sweat from weapons practice was growing cold against his skin. He shivered. "How would you do that?"

She looked at him, giving him the full force of her ravaged face, in daylight, up close. "I think you know."

He held her gaze without flinching. "You would use your power of changing and assist us with illusion."

"Which you are familiar with."

"Which I am familiar with. But I still do not know how you think that could truly help us take back the hill-fort of Caer Camulodon when we are outnumbered. Taking a fortress is not quite the same thing as slipping away from your guards with some tricks of illusion — as I assume you did today."

Ragnell threw back her head and laughed out loud. "Gawain, I don't think you can possibly know how refreshing your treatment of me is."

Gawain shook his head, surprised at her reaction to his skepticism. "How so?"

She took his hands, and in his mind's eye the devastation of her face faded once more, giving him a glimpse of the ripe beauty she could have been without the accident. "You are staring straight into my ugliness, which fills most people who first meet me with the need to treat me at best with sympathy and at worst with aversion. But you — not only are you willing to fuck me, you are willing to criticize me to my ravaged face. How could she have possibly given you up?"

Despite himself, Gawain winced at the crude word coming from her perfect lips, although in the company of men, he was known to use the term just as any other man would. It almost distracted him from that last sentence, an obvious reference to his former lover. An odd non sequitur and a leap in intimacy she was forcing yet again. Yes, they had spent a night together — "fucked" as she had said, when most women would refer to "playing merry," if they even went so far as to refer to the act in words at all.

And she had read his mind and brought Yseult into their relationship, such as it was. There was no one else she could be referring to who had "given him up" — a wound not only to his emotions but also to his pride. Before Yseult,
he
had always been the one who left.

And since as well. Gawain was not one to go long without a woman in his bed.

He released her hands and rose, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Any former relationship of mine is unimportant now. You still have not told me how you think you could help us take back your family seat."

She gazed up at him, a lopsided smile on her perfect lips. "Ah, but it is important."

Women! Could they never keep to the point?
"Why?"

"Because I would like to ask you something, and how you feel about her will have a bearing on your answer."

He shook his head. "What could you possibly ask me that would have anything to do with how I feel about Yseult?"

As soon as the question was out of his mouth, he realized how stupid and thoughtless it was — he had spent a night with this woman. A very pleasant night. Since she was neither a camp follower nor a whore, that made her something at least resembling a lover.

The silence between them stretched out, but the lopsided smile still had not left her face. Finally she spoke. "Gawain, would you consider marrying me?"

He stared down at her, speechless.

"I realize I am a monster, but at least you now know from experience that in the dark it doesn't matter." She swallowed. "You made me forget and more. I had the impression you enjoyed it as well?"

He owed her at least that — it was only the truth, after all. "Yes. Very much."