Sarah Zettel: Camelot’s Shadow

‘You may assure His Majesty that I will read this with great attention.’ He tucked the document into his shirt.

‘But now you have other news for me?’ Gawain folded his legs and settled by the fire again.

‘I do.’ Harrik sat beside him. He watched the fire for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words he wanted would not come.

‘I have a son at Camelot,’ he said awkwardly. ‘My only boy. They have taken him well in hand there. I visited him not three months ago. He has been taught to read and write Latin. He can use a sword and ride better than I could at his age. He grows into a strong and reasoned man.’ He paused. A stick in the fire snapped in two. ‘Not a brute. Not a barbarian. Not like the men I knew when I was a boy, a world away from here.’

Gawain nodded. ‘I think you will find word of your boy in His Majesty’s letter. I believe my brother Geraint intends to take him as squire.’

Harrik touched his shirt. ‘I like this peace of Arthur’s. I like this land. I do not…’ He clenched his fist. ‘I will not see it die to feed Wolfget’s blood-lust.’

‘You too are a strong and reasoned man,’ said Gawain softly. ‘I ask you, of your courtesy, tell me what you have seen.’

Harrik spoke slowly, sketching the events of the council. Gawain listened attentively. When Harrik named each of the men he saw there, Gawain asked pointed questions about where their lands were, how many men they commanded, and who their allies were. Harrik could see the knight sketching a map of the treachery in his mind.

Then, Harrik told him of the woman and the raven.

Gawain’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That, friend, is an unwholesome thing.’

Harrik gave one short bark of a laugh. ‘Those are milder words than I would use, my lord.’

Gawain smiled. ‘You have not seen the inside of Merlin’s workroom. No,’ he held up his hand. ‘Pray do not ask me. I was a youth when I had my glimpse, and more of a fool than I knew.’

Harrik dismissed the suggestion with a wave. ‘I have no intention of questioning you. As it is, I know more of magic than I care to.’

‘That shows your wisdom as clearly as anything you have yet done,’ said Gawain soberly. ‘My Lord Harrik, it was my intention to linger in this land for a day or two to see what else I could learn, but what you have told me, both about Wulfweard and his nameless lady, shows me I must return to the High King without delay.’

Harrik stood. ‘Let me take my leave of you then.’

They clasped hands and each commended the other to God. Harrik rode away feeling moderately better. The High King’s letter crackled in his bosom. His old loyalties sold for new safety and peace, and his son’s life.

All at once, his horse stumbled. A curse slipped out of Harrik’s mouth. The animal recovered its gait, but not completely. It limped now, favouring its left foreleg.

‘God’s legs,’ muttered Harrik, as he halted the beast and climbed to the ground. He bent down and with a practised hand, coaxed the horse to lift its hoof and show him the bottom.

There, a round stone shoved deep into the soft frog of the hoof. Harrik retrieved the hoof pick from his pack and swearing in each of the three languages he knew, finally managed to pry it loose. There was no question of being able to ride any further, though. The animal was lamed. He would have to walk the rest of the way.

He let the horse drop its hoof and looked at the stone. It was a round-bottomed, sharp-edged chunk of flint that had done the damage.

How does such a thing come to be in a forest? This belongs on some low riverbank.

He drew his arm back to hurl the thing into the bushes.

But as he looked where he aimed, he saw a huge black raven sitting on the branch of a maple tree. The bird gave a rough, mocking croak and flew into the air.

Harrik’s fist closed around the stone. His heart grew chill and inside him a small quiet voice told him the horse’s lameness did not matter now. Harrik, Hullward’s son, would not reach home after all.

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