Sarah Zettel: Camelot’s Shadow

‘Will these three keep you from the red king and the red castle?’ The giant shook his head gravely. His palm was empty.

‘You do not speak, pretty one. Perhaps chess is not the game for you?’ The sparkling green smile grew fierce. Rhian felt her heart fluttering against her ribcage, but still she could not move. ‘Perhaps you prefer riddles? Excellent!’ The giant slapped the stump and all the figurines rattled on their board. ‘Now, answer me this and be quick, pretty one,’ he leaned over her, blocking the sun with his great, green head. ‘What is it every woman wants?’

The scene in front of her began to fade and blur, as if her eyes had filled with tears. The giant laughed again ‘Answer! Answer!’ he ordered. ‘Answer, my pretty one!’

A noise. From the forest. A sharp, high barking. Drawing closer. The dogs. The dogs had found her.

Rhian found her tongue could move.

‘Sweet Mother Mary, save me!’ she screamed.

And she was alone.

All the strength fled from Rhian’s body and she fell backward onto the forest floor.

For a long moment, she lay there blinking stupidly at the leaves above her. She heard the barking coming closer. All at once her hounds swarmed over her, whining, nosing and licking. They put their heavy feet on her stomach, squeezing out what little breath she had.

‘Off, off,’ she grunted. She managed to heave herself upright.

‘Lady Rhian!’ Aeldra’s voice drifted through the trees. ‘My lady, where are you?’

Rhian got to her feet. Her gaze swam, but steadied. The clearing was empty save for herself and the nosing, wagging dogs.

It was nothing. A dream. I have been too long out in the sun. I fainted, perhaps, or sat down to rest and dreamed.

But then her gaze drifted across to the rotting tree stump and she saw on it two figurines, one red, one white. Her heart in her mouth, she crossed to look at them. The red one was a tall woman, the very essence of beauty and perfection. She wore chains around her neck and bracelets on her arms. Her robes fell in heavy folds over her feet.

The white figure was a hag. It stooped to half the red lady’s height. It was a grizzled, toothy horror gaping up at Rhian with a pig’s glaring eyes.

‘My lady!’ A crashing and thrashing sounded through the brush behind her. Heavy-footed and out of breath, Aeldra waded through the grass. ‘Where have you been? I…’ she stepped up beside Rhian and saw the figurines.

‘What are these?’ Aeldra reached out one hand towards the red lady.

‘No!’ Rhian smacked her hand away. ‘Leave them. They are cursed. I’m sure of it.’ She took Aeldra’s arm with one hand and the hem of her skirt with the other. ‘Let us leave here, Aeldra, and find Innis. I would be back at home.’

Rhian set off between the trees. She very carefully did not look back.

Harrik, Hullward’s son stepped into the council tent. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he surveyed the gathering. There were a dozen men, all Saxons, like himself, most battle scarred, also like himself. They squatted or lounged on piles of furs around the smoking central fire.

Dogs, Harrik thought. Dogs at the feet of their master. He lifted his gaze.

Wulfweard, called Wolfget by those who knew his vicious nature, sat in a slatted chair. He alone of the gathering was armed. A naked sword lay across his thighs. The symbol was hardly needed. The menace in Wolfget’s hooded blue eyes shone plain enough.

‘Be welcome to this assembly, my Lord Harrik,’ said a musical voice.

Harrik started. A woman, clothed in a gown of smoky red circled the fire towards him. ‘Let me offer you the guest cup and bid you know my Lord Wulfweard wishes you to sit at his right hand.’

Harrik struggled to keep himself from gawking like a boy. Wolfget had never before taken a wife, let alone one so blindingly lovely. Her golden hair hung to her waist and was plaited with a thread of silver. Her face was smooth and round with blue eyes set wide above a slim, straight nose. Her breasts and hips swelled amply beneath the dark red of the gown which hung from her shoulders as if to call attention to their perfect roundness.

Harrik mastered himself and took the wooden cup from her soft, clean hand.

‘My thanks.’ He took a swallow of the mead.

Wolfget was flanked by two empty chairs. Harrik took his place in the right-hand seat as invited. The woman took the left.

Wolfget swept his cold gaze across the assembly.

‘Brothers.’ His voice was hard. ‘It is ten years since the defeat at Mount Badon scattered our strength. Since then, Uther’s upstart bastard has held us as his vassals, claiming our lands, our sons, our very bodies as his own. We have submitted in silence, knowing ourselves to be weak and divided.’ He laid a thick hand on the sword’s hilt.

‘Wounded to the death as we were, we were wise to do so. But now, our wounds are closed. Our sons grow tall and strong. Our brothers eye the rusted swords and axes hanging on our walls with restless anticipation. Now is the time to force Arthur the Bastard to pay for what he has stolen.’

An angry rumble of assent rose from the assembly. Wolfget smiled and Harrik felt a chill cross his skin. He cast a glance towards the woman. All her attention was fixed on Wolfget in an attitude of rapt adoration. Harrik’s chill deepened. In the flickering firelight he could see the stump of the ear Wolfget had lost at Badon. Harrik himself was missing two fingers from the same battle. The ghosts of them twitched in memory of the blow.

Kolbyr, who’d seen both his brothers ridden down by Arthur’s captains, got heavily to his feet. ‘My heart is with you, my Lord Wulfweard, and I would sooner die in battlefield mud than a vassal’s bed, but how can we wage such a war? The Bastard sits secure in Camelot with a hundred captains who will leap into action at the flick of his little finger.’

‘Truth, truth,’ said Ehrin, whose jaw had been so broken his words slurred in his mouth. ‘Strong of purpose we may be, but we are not so strong of arms and warriors.’

‘Our course is simple,’ said Wolfget. ‘Does the Bastard think us divided? Divided we will appear. In our separate lands we will strike here, there, take this town and that. He will respond with men and arms, as he must to preserve the peace that so boldly bears his name. We will harry those men, wear them down, kill all we can and withdraw. Soon, the Bastard’s forces will be weakened by so many small cuts, they will not be able to defend themselves when we are ready to give the death blow.’

Harrik frowned. This was not the brash, heated Wolfget he knew from the wars. This stranger was a calm-hearted strategist. With a beautiful woman at his shoulder. Harrik glanced at her again. Had he been a young man, he would have stood up and made some fearless speech about rushing into battle, not for Wolfget’s sake, but for hers.

Which was a point to be considered closely.

‘Harrik you sit as silent as stone.’ Wolfget’s soft voice broke Harrik’s reverie. ‘What are your deep thoughts?’

‘My thoughts are of Badon,’ he said, looking into the depths of the guest cup. ‘My thoughts are of lands, and of my son, hostage in Camelot to my word. And he is not alone there.’ Let me see your eyes, ‘brothers’, how many of your sons does Arthur hold? ‘I am thinking of the thousand thousand ways Arthur is entrenched on this island. I am thinking of the kings who are his neighbours and who pay him tribute.’ He gave them all a grim smile. ‘I am thinking we could have more easily bested all the Roman legions than this king.’

To Harrik’s surprise, Wolfget nodded. ‘Your words are sound, Harrik, and they should be weighed carefully. But think of this. Does the Bastard have neighbours and friends? Yes. But so do we. The terms of Arthur’s peace have been hard on many, and many would be glad to see it broken. We have our secret friends in every town and fortress. Do arms and men flow from Arthur? They will flow into our hands.’