Camelot’s Shadow

‘No,’ she said, looking up at Aeldra. ‘It is wrong and it is wicked.’

‘What do you mean, my lady?’ asked Aeldra, confused.

Rhian’s mind felt as clear as it had been cloudy before. She would not be handed over like a bribe to a corrupt seneschal. She would not stay and watch her father do this, nor would she watch her mother break her heart over what her husband had done.

‘Aeldra.’ Rhian gripped her maid’s hand. ‘Aeldra, are you my friend?’

Aeldra stiffened, shocked at such a question. As she looked into Rhian’s eyes, however, a measure of understanding came to her. ‘I hope my lady knows how well I regard her.’

‘Then as a friend, much more than as my maid, I am asking for your help. You must bring old Whitcomb here to my room. Neither of you must be seen, by anyone, but most of all not by my father, do you understand?’

She did not. The expression on her lean face said that plainly enough. She folded her hands primly before her. ‘I am sure my lady knows what is best…’

‘No, she doesn’t.’ Rhian shook her head. ‘Your lady is terrified, for her life and her soul, and she is trying to save both. Will you help her?’

Again Aeldra searched Rhian’s eyes, looking deeply. ‘Very good, my lady.’ She curtsied. ‘I’ll see to the matter.’

Aeldra shut the door behind her. In the silence left in her wake, Rhian fancied she could hear her own heart beating like the hooves of a galloping horse, spurred on by the temerity of what she meant to do.

Whitcomb was her dearest friend among her father’s servitors. Where her father would not, or could not, love her, Whitcomb had. He was the one who had taught her to shoot and to ride. He had helped her train her hounds and taught her to hunt. He told her all manner of stories he’d learned from the freemen and serfs, most of which Rhian was quite certain her mother would have been appalled that she knew. But despite years of such daring secrets, Whitcomb was always the first to insist she learn to be a proper, God-fearing lady and be a source of pride to her parents.

But at the same time he was staunchly loyal to his lord. Rhian bit her lip. There lay the danger, but she needed him. He could go without question where she could not, no matter how dark the night or how thoroughly she disguised herself.

Rather than simply pace about, Rhian sought action. She pulled a square of fine linen out of her sewing basket. She had meant to broider it into a veil. Now she upended her jewellery box into it. She did not have much, but she had some gold, a string of amber beads, a brooch of pearl and rubies, and several rings, one set with a square emerald the size of her thumbnail her mother said had come all the way from Rome. The whole of her wealth. She tied the cloth tightly and stowed it in the leather satchel she took with her when she went out shooting.

She’d have to leave her hounds behind. Rhian’s heart twinged at the thought. Odd – it was a small thing compared to leaving her parents. She rubbed her forehead. She must not distract herself with such thoughts. She must keep her wits about her, or she was lost.

A soft knock sounded on the door.

‘Come,’ she called.

The door opened. In the threshold stood old Whitcomb. He had been her father’s right hand for longer than Rhian had been alive. His hair and long beard were iron grey turning to white, but he was still a bluff man with hard hands and eyes that could see a lazing stablehand through a stone fence.

Those eyes took in the bulging leather satchel as she beckoned him inside, and they surely saw how white her face had gone.

‘So,’ he said with a sigh as he closed the door. ‘It’s come home at last, has it?’

Rhian started. ‘What do you know of this?’

The lines on Whitcomb’s kind face deepened until he looked as old as Methuselah. ‘I was there, my lady. I heard your father speak his bargain with that black sorcerer. I knew one day there would be a reckoning.’ His gaze hardened. ‘I have searched the land whenever I had leave, hoping I might find him and put an end to this thing one way or another before…’ It seemed he could not make himself finish.

Rhian felt her hands begin to shake once more. ‘I thank you for all you have done for me, though I knew of none of it. Now I must ask for your help again.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I mean to leave tonight to seek sanctuary with the holy sisters at the monastery of St Anne. I will take holy orders if I must.’ She laid her satchel down beside the empty jewellery box. Surely there was enough inside to dower herself to Christ, if that was the only way the Mother Superior would shelter her. ‘I need you to go down and saddle a horse for me. Not Agamemnon,’ she said, with another pang of regret at leaving behind her favourite steed. ‘That would cause too many questions.’ Whitcomb could make a hundred excuses to ride out at any hour. She could not. It would be hard enough for her to sneak out into the yard without being seen. To ready a horse in the stables with the hands sleeping in the loft, or playing bones in the stalls would be impossible.

If she was seen, she would be stopped, she was certain of that. Whitcomb was her one chance.

‘I will see to it, my lady,’ said Whitcomb gravely.

‘Thank you.’ She grasped both his hands and kissed him swiftly on his rough cheek. ‘I will be behind the brewing shed as soon as I may after the household goes to sleep.’

‘I will not fail,’ he said, squeezing her hands.

With that, he turned and opened the door. He looked sharply left, then right before he stepped into the corridor, leaving Rhian alone once more.

Rhian swallowed. All her limbs felt suddenly heavy as lead. Are these my choices? To be taken away by a black sorcerer to live or die at his whim, and who knows which would be worse? Or to live in silence behind stone walls swaddled in black and grey and to know only work and prayer?

She squeezed her eyes shut, to stop the tears that threatened to flow freely. Mother Mary, there must be another way. I beg you, send me a sign, some messenger that I may know what to do.

But if the Holy Virgin had an answer for her, Rhian could not hear it.

Harrik opened his eyes. Light flickered against pale canvas. Outside the wind whistled through the branches of the trees, rustling their new leaves. He lay on a bed of furs. A good fire burned in the centre of the pavilion, scenting the enclosure with smoke…and something else. Something rare and unfamiliar that at once disturbed his mind and made him feel profoundly awake.

Harrik sat up. His hands were not bound, which he would have expected, for surely he was a prisoner. He had no memory of how he had got here. He remembered finding the stone, and seeing the raven, but then all was darkness.

The unfamiliar scent reached him again and he breathed it in. It was like cloves, and like amber, but neither of these. It appealed, like the scent of a good meal just cooked, or, even more, the scent of a woman close by.

Harrik shook his head. It was distracting. If they had left him his hands, whoever brought him here, they would learn they should not, even though they had thought so far as to deny him his sword.

He got himself to his feet, but before he could take a step, the pavilion opened to reveal a woman. The rich scent grew suddenly sharper, as if she carried it with her, and for a moment Harrik felt dizzy. Then he recognized the slim form and the golden hair. This was Wulfget’s woman. What was her name? Had he even heard it?

But it meant that Wolfget held him, and it meant he must be careful still what he said.

The woman, however, spoke first. ‘Welcome Harrik, Hullward’s son,’ she said and her voice was low and clear, and truly did seem full of welcome. Her eyes that reflected the firelight also seemed to hold welcome, but of a very different sort.

Harrik reminded himself again that he was not a boy nor a fool and pushed himself to his feet. He towered over her. She had not seemed so small nor so delicate when he had seen her before as she did now, moving to a table where cups waited with a skin of wine. Harrik stared, fascinated. He had not remembered her skin being so fair either, nor her hands so supple as they lifted the skin and deftly poured the wine, red as blood, red as her gentle mouth, into the cups for them to share.

‘Why have I been brought here?’ he remembered to ask. ‘Where is Wulfweard?’

‘My husband will be along presently.’ She lifted a cup in her pale hand and held it out to him. She seemed luminescent, absorbing the firelight and returning it softened and a more pure white than it had been. Her mouth was so red…had she already drunk some wine? Was that what stained her lips and turned them so inviting a shade?

She saw where his gaze lingered. How could she not? Harrik cursed himself and tried to look away, but she moved towards him with the grace of a doe. Her dress was simple, a plain fawn wool. It outlined her round breasts and a flat belly that had never yet known children. The braided belt served only to draw the skirt more tightly over her full, smooth hips that swayed ever so slightly as she approached, bringing all the scents of wine and spices, smoke and amber with her.

‘Will you drink with me, Hullward’s son?’ she asked softly, her eyes dipped, almost shy as she held out the cup. He should not take it. He must not. There was something wrong here, in the air, in his blood, in this woman’s presence. He tightened his hands into fists. If only he could think what it must be. If only her perfume were less strong, if only she herself were less lovely.

‘Surely there is no harm in sharing what is offered?’ she said with a small smile. ‘I shall drink myself and you will see.’ She lifted the cup to her full and smiling mouth. Harrik could not help but watch the way her tongue parted her red, red lips just a little in anticipation of the wine’s touch. She sipped delicately but long. He watched the way light and shadow played across her throat as she swallowed and. his clenched hands ached to trace the wine’s path down between her breasts to her belly and lower yet, to know what she kept between her round thighs, to hear what she said in love…

‘Now, you drink for me, Harrik.’ She held out the cup and looked boldly into his eyes, her mouth still parted just a little so he could see her white teeth. A drop of wine clung to the corner of her mouth. It shimmered there like a ruby and he stared at it, mesmerized.

The woman noted that his gaze lingered there on her mouth, and her eyes widened, playfully, knowingly. With her free hand, she reached up and wiped the drop away, then held up the tip of her wine-stained finger before him.

‘Drink, Harrik,’ she murmured, her voice rich with promise. ‘Let me know what manner of man you are.’

Slowly, as in a dream, Harrik touched his lips to the tip of her finger. The wine tasted sweet, like honey, and her skin beneath was soft and warm. She sighed at his kiss, her eyes closing in pleasure. He took her hand between his own. It was light as the petal of a white rose and smooth as silk. Like silk, it was sensuous to the touch, inviting the hands to caress it, to press it, to wrap one’s whole self in its luxury.

She opened her eyes and all her pleasure of him seemed to shine in the sparks lit by the fire.

‘Take what you want,’ she whispered to him. ‘It is all before you, and then I will be yours and you will be mine. Come, Harrik my love. Hold nothing back.’

Her words undid him. Harrik laced his fingers in her golden hair and pulled her to him, kissing her hard. Her mouth opened eagerly to his, her tongue touching lips and teeth even as she made a sound like a laugh and threw her arms around him. She tasted of wine, salt and myrrh. Harrik felt himself rise and harden and his blood sang as the whole of her body pressed against him, rubbing, teasing, promising, ready. He could think of nothing else, desired nothing else but the silken warmth of her skin, the salt and sweet of her body. The thought of her surrounding him aroused him as if he were a youth again, and as she laid herself down onto the furs, he knelt as if in fealty and followed willingly where she led.