Camelot’s Shadow

Quiver and bow slung over her shoulders, Rhian followed Gawain through the trees. They had left the horses tethered by the track. Gawain moved cautiously, like a man hunting, peering through the trees and scanning the ground before he took his next step, and she copied his gait and demeanour. The day was now far too warm, and far too quiet. The smoke took on the sweet smell of cooking meat, and the tang of fresh blood. Rhian’s mouth went dry. Behind her, the trees seemed to whisper uneasily. Ahead, the fire crackled and hissed.

Gawain pushed back a final screen of brambles and froze. Through the leaves Rhian saw what made the foully-scented smoke.

It had been a croft. There were countless such on the fringes of the woods. Several families had raised pigs here, perhaps some sheep. They had cleared some little land to put under the plough. If they prospered, more families would join them and perhaps in time they would become a village.

Or they would have, if fate had blessed them. Instead here was a scene of havoc. The cots and outbuildings had collapsed into ash and char. Coals still glowed among the black and shattered timbers. A piebald sow lay sprawled on the churned ground, slit from throat to belly so that its entrails spilled out into the ash among the shards of smashed pots and buckets. There would be worse under the timbers, Rhian knew that in the pit of her heart.

Without a word, Gawain walked forward into the chaos. The cleared ground had been churned into a sea of mud. Lumps of char and streaks of ash and blood were trampled deeply into it. This had been the work of men with horses. The marks of hooves as well as sandals and boots showed clearly on the ravaged ground. Despite the sound of the smouldering fires, the place seemed strangely silent. There should be more noise, Rhian thought, absurdly. There should be echoes of the screaming that had surely happened here, of the shouting and the pleas. There should be something of the life, of the voices, to remain, not just silent patterns in the earth and wisps of smoke to be blown away on the wind.

Gawain picked his way through the smouldering ruin to the wreck that had once been a cottage. His back stiffened and he spoke quietly, but Rhian heard every word.

‘They did not spare the children.’

Rhian crossed herself automatically. Mother Mary pray for us…

Gawain still cast about the ruins. Overhead a raven croaked. Fear took Rhian, although she could not say why. The horror here was done.

But movement flickered in the trees and the wind blew. Rhian’s eyes stung as the fresh ash touched them and through the tears she saw a shape standing at the edge of the clearing, great and green, a giant man leaning on the haft of a battle-axe nearly as tall as Gawain’s shoulder. She saw another man, this one pale as milk and bright as brass, carrying a sword smeared red and black from its work, and that man crept out of the ruined cottage, and slipped up behind Gawain and raised his blade high.

Gawain straightened up and the ghostly sword slashed at his torso. A second ghost fell, clutching its belly, and that ghost was Gawain.

Rhian’s hand flew to her mouth, but the vision was gone, and there was only Gawain, and the noises of the forest. A bird whistled overhead. A coal fell from a roof-timber to the ground. Both the Green Man and the raven were gone.

Gawain was staring at her.

‘I saw…’ she croaked. ‘I thought…’

‘Rhian,’ murmured Gawain. ‘Get to the road and free the horses. Do not look back.’

Rhian nodded and tried to comply. Behind her, she heard the rasp as he pulled his sword from its sheath and fear shot through her. She did not look back, but concentrated on the way forward, trying to remember her woodcraft and slip through the trees, but her fright made her clumsy. She tried not to think of the Green Man. Why should she see him again? Why now in this ruin? What was that ghost that had felled Gawain? Was it a warning from the Holy Mother, or was it the work of the Devil?

Collect yourself Rhian, you’re useless this way.

She reminded herself how to step softly, how to avoid branches rather than plough into them. It was then that she heard the bird call again, and this time she could hear it was not a true bird.

‘Run!’ shouted Gawain.

Rhian hiked up her skirts and obeyed. She crashed through the sea of branches and bracken, every twig becoming a claw clutching at sleeves and hems to hold her back. Behind her, the world exploded into noise such as only humans could make – the hoarse cries of men’s voices among the crash of branches.

The clash of metal.

Rhian looked back without thinking. Three men burst from the forest, short swords in their hands and caps of leather and bronze on their heads. One of them looked at her and his pale eyes glittered as he charged.

‘Run!’ bellowed Gawain again, and he flung himself against the marauders.

The Saxons were not expecting such a fierce attack. They fell back before Gawain’s longer sword and reach. But that advantage would not last, not in the trees. Gawain slashed like a madman, driving the Saxons back before him, not truly landing any blows, just keeping them busy.

Keeping them busy so she could get away.

Get to the horses, get to the horses! she cried in her mind, demanding her feet to flee, despite what she saw. Gawain was fighting to keep her free, and if she stood there, she would not remain so. When he broke free (and he will break free, he must break free), she needed to have the horses untied and ready so they could outrun the surviving Saxons.

Unless…

Metal glinted through the trees ahead of her and the sound of a horse’s angry scream cut through the air. Rhian’s madly beating heart filled her throat.

Unless they had already found the horses.

Instinct took over all conscious thought, and Rhian measured her length in a patch of unfolding ferns. Sheltered by the bracken, she pressed her hands over her mouth, trying to stifle the harsh sound of her breathing. The noise of the battle behind gave her some cover as did the screaming and thrashing of a maddened horse before her. She stared out through the screen of delicate leaves and stems and tried to quell her rising panic.

The Saxons had found the horses, and had put three men to guard them. The guards were greedy though. Goods from the saddlebags were strewn on the ground. One of them also apparently had tried to ride or handle Gringolet, and now the charger was doing his best to bedevil them. He bucked and reared, flailing out with his hooves, while two of the men tried in vain to catch his swinging reins and a third shouted and cursed in their harsh tongue. He had his sword out and was staring into the trees, trying to see through to the melee near the croft, to see if the wrong person had broken free of it.

In that chaos, Rhian saw her chance. She unslung her bow and reached for an arrow. Moving slowly, she pushed herself up onto one knee. Her own soft noises were masked by Gringolet’s outrage, the Saxon’s cursing and the clash of metal and splintering of wood as she pulled an arrow from her quiver, and nocked it into her string.

The Saxon with his sword drawn stood near the treeline. She shifted a little to get a clear line of sight.

It is just like a deer. It is just like a quail. Breathe slowly.

It is a deer. It is not a man. I am not about to kill a man.

Rhian drew the string back to her ear. She sighted along the shaft. Thetis, answering Gringolet’s distress, backed and swung her head, trying to free her reins from the branch where she was tethered. The palfrey whickered, the men shouted at one another. Gringolet reared again. In the woods, Gawain’s voice rang out.

The Saxon turned broad towards her, and Rhian loosed her arrow. It flew straight and true, without a sound, and plunged into the Saxon’s belly. He looked down, surprised to see this unnatural limb that had somehow sprouted from his body. Rhian, breathing now as if she had run a mile, drew another arrow. The Saxon she had shot toppled to the ground, screaming as the pain took him. Rhian nocked the fresh arrow. One of the remaining Saxons shouted to the other. Abandoning the harried and harrying Gringolet, he sprinted to his comrade’s side. Rhian drew back her bowstring and waited. The Saxon’s sword was in his hand and he turned his back to the trees, just for an instant, to shout to the other to leave the maddened horse and come to see. Rhian took her aim again, and again let go the string. She had meant the shot to take him between the shoulder blades, but as the arrow flew, he turned, and it was only luck that he was just a little too slow. The arrow drove itself through his arm and into his side. He dropped instantly, rolling and clawing at the wooden shaft. The third man saw his companion fall and stared at the woods. Gringolet reared again, pawing the air. The Saxon had wit enough to jump back. Rhian fitted a third arrow to the string.

She did not have a chance to fire. The man fled into the trees on the opposite side of the road, not even bothering to draw his sword. With the last Saxon gone, Gringolet calmed down, stamping and whickering but no longer so wide-eyed. His ears tipped forward again, alert, not laid back in fury. His calm eased Thetis and the palfrey and they quieted, easing their stamping and their calls.

At their feet, the men Rhian had shot screamed, their cries growing hoarse and choked with tears.

Rhian lowered her bow, letting the unshot arrow drop from the string. Her hands shook and despite the heat of the day, she felt cold. It was not until then that she realized the noise of the fight behind her had ceased, and footsteps now rustled leaves and undergrowth as they approached.

Rhian flattened herself against the ground again. She could not see clearly into the depth of the wood, she could not take aim, even if she could steady her hands again. The screams of the wounded men confused her mind. She could only huddle in the mud and pray for steadiness and silence. It would be Gawain, it must be Gawain, because if it wasn’t Gawain, she was lost.

The footsteps broke through the bracken and settled into the mud. Rhian dared at last to lift her head. In front of her, Gawain stepped from the woods to the track, his sword in his hand. He looked down at her handiwork, and with two swift strokes, brought the silence Rhian had craved but a moment before.

Rhian pressed her face against her sleeve, shuddering, until she could remember that what Gawain had just done was merciful. Those men were already dead; now they were out of pain.