Sarah Zettel - Camelot’s Shadow

Harrik looked around and saw how the eyes of the men on the floor shone with eagerness. He knew then how it would be. There would be hours of talk, some close questioning of Wolfget, perhaps even a few words of wisdom spoken. But in the end, they would all pledge their lives on Wolfget’s naked sword.

Feeling like an old man, Harrik got stiffly to his feet. It would be better if he stayed, of course, if he lied and flattered and foreswore himself. But he could not. He would not.

‘What ails you, my Lord Harrik?’ asked the woman softly.

‘Old wounds, my lady.’ Harrik bowed to her. ‘This assembly will do as it will. We have been brothers in arms before this. I have been proud to say so. But I myself must consider carefully whether the peace that came when we laid down those arms has not benefited our people as it has the Britons.’

He left the tent amid a stony silence. Out in the open air he called for his horse and his sword. The animal was brought to him by a sour-faced man with Wolfget’s blazon on his tunic. Harrik mounted and urged the horse into an easy canter until he was well out of earshot of the assembly encampment.

When he judged he had gone far enough, he pulled up on the reins. The horse halted and Harrik climbed down. Looking sharply about him, he led the animal into the thick of the forest. There, he tethered the horse loosely to an elm tree. He did not want the animal trapped if he did not come back. He tightened the laces on his scabbard so his sword would not jingle. Then, one careful step at a time, he made his way through bracken and fern back to the camp.

He had been uneasy when Wolfget sent his messenger with the invitation to this secret council. He had grown more uneasy each time he contemplated it. It was folly, this idea that the handful of Saxons who remained on the Isle of Britain could defeat Arthur. Worse, it was suicide.

But is it enough for what I do now? Harrik glimpsed the fabric of the tents and the sparkle of studded leather through the trees. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground. Trying not to rustle the carpet of leaves beneath him, he crawled forward on his hands and knees. Is it truly enough to turn spy on your own people?

Apparently, it was, because he lay prostrate on the ground with fern leaves tickling his brow and nose, watching the camp carefully.

And we’ll see who stays and goes, and when and how. If I am wrong about how it will go, so much the better. But if I am right…

He composed himself to patience. To keep his mind from the incessant itch of the ferns, he set about studying the sentries, thinking how he would have posted and armed them in Wolfget’s place.

Men came and went. Servants brought wine and meat into the tent. The guests came out to relieve themselves or check on their horses. The sentries paced, or lounged about. The lounging became more frequent as the time wore on. Harrik shook his head minutely. Wolfget was not well served.

The tent’s flap lifted again. This time, it was the woman who came out. In the full daylight she was even more shatteringly lovely than he had thought. His heart and loins both began to ache with an urgency he had thought himself past.

The woman looked about her. Evidently, she saw nothing that displeased her. She raised one hand and spoke a word Harrik could not understand. In the next breath, he heard the flapping of heavy wings. A raven glided down from the trees and came to rest on the woman’s waiting wrist.

She brought her wrist down until the bird’s eyes were level with her own. She contemplated the raven for a long time, and it stared back unwinking, which a beast should not have been able to do. At last, the woman opened her mouth.

The raven thrust beak, head, and neck well down her throat.

Harrik jerked backward, forgetting the need for silence. The woman and the bird stood still, its head in her mouth, like some foul statuary. He realized the muscles of her throat swelled and contracted. Not swallowing, but pushing something out.

Harrik’s own throat clamped down around his breath.

The raven pulled its head free of the beauty’s mouth. She smiled broadly and lifted her wrist again. The bird spread its shining wings and flew away.

She watched her pet vanish into the sky, turned, and went back inside the tent.

Harrik, struggling to keep his breathing under control, crawled back into the woods on his hands and knees. He moved as far and as fast as he could, but finally, he had to stop and vomit at the roots of a birch tree.

What manner of secret friends have you, Wolfget? He raised his head and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. What alliances have you made for us?

He sat and listened for a moment. No sound of pursuit cut through the small rustles of wind and the forest life. Harrik forced himself to get to his feet and take his bearings. As soon as his knees had stopped shaking enough that he could be sure of his footing, he made his way back to his horse.

The animal was still there, chewing thoughtfully at the undergrowth. Harrik led it back to the road and slung himself into the saddle. To his shame, he found he had to work to keep himself from taking the horse to a gallop to escape as quickly as possible from what he had seen.

You are a fool. A fool! He admonished himself. You have seen far worse things in battle.

But the truth was, he had not. He had heard stories of such horrors, of course, and told a few himself, with great relish. Witches and wizards had their ways and everyone knew it. Did not Arthur have Merlin to advise him and keep watch over his captains and capital? But to see so unnatural a thing…

I grow old. I grow dull. Perhaps this role of spy and traitor is all I am fit for anymore.

The forest thickened around him. The sound of his horse’s hooves became muffled by the unbroken carpet of leaves. The wind freshened and Harrik tried to catch a glimpse of sky between the leafy branches overhead. There might be rain before long, but without a clear view of sky there was no telling. The prospect of concluding his business in a downpour, further darkened his mood, but he rode on.

Up ahead, the road forked, one branch bearing west, the other continuing north. At their crux, a man tended a small fire. A great, pale horse was tethered nearby. Green trappings hung from its reins. A bay palfrey stood beside it, nuzzling a patch of fern. Its reins were also hung with green. The studded shield propped against a tree was covered in green as well.

The man himself was no longer a youth, but neither was he old. He was dark in hair and eye. His beard had been shaved clean off. His shoulders and arms were powerful. Here was a man who had not led an idle life. He could not be taken for anything but a Briton lord. He looked up at Harrik’s approach and raised a friendly hand.

‘God be with you this day, good sir.’

‘God be with you,’ Harrik answered. ‘I’d be glad of a rest. May I share your fire?’

‘You may,’ said the man. ‘If you can tell me my name.’

Harrik gave a show of consideration. ‘I think you are my Lord Gawain, captain of the Round Table and nephew to Arthur, the High King.’

Gawain smiled and got to his feet. ‘My Lord Harrik,’ he bowed deeply. ‘You are most welcome.’

‘And I am most honoured.’ Harrik dismounted and tethered his small hairy horse next to Gawain’s animals. ‘I was stunned to receive word Arthur would send his nephew to me.’

‘He means it as a token of his good will.’ Gawain opened one of his saddlebags which lay on the ground beside his shield. He pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. ‘As you will find written here.’ The document was sealed in red wax impressed with the dragon rampant that was Arthur’s sign.