Sarah Zettel: Camelot’s Shadow

To all those down the years who have told the tale.

Cover Page

Title Page Camelot’s Shadow Sarah Zettel

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

Preview

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By Sarah Zettel

Copyright

About the Publisher

The rain pelted down through the trees as if to make a second Flood. Its noise muffled Jocosa’s moans. The oaks had provided some shelter when the rain fell softly, but now they were as useful for stopping the water as a sieve.

Lord Rygehil eased his horse backward a few steps and lifted back the curtain of Jocosa’s litter. Rain ran in rivulets down onto the cushions and their occupants. Jocosa tossed restlessly beneath her woollen cloak, lost in her own tortured imaginings. The two maids who flanked their fever-racked mistress looked up at him in mute distress.

Rygehil’s throat closed on his breath. He let the curtain fall.

Curse this rain. He pounded his fist against his thigh and glared at the darkening sky from under the hood of his cloak. Curse King Arthur and his coronation, curse his useless physics and curse me, curse me for taking Jocosa so far from help!

The rain fell implacably on his head and shoulders. His horse stirred restlessly under him, shaking its mane and stamping its hooves. The animal was soaking wet, and no doubt cold. He could smell, rather than see, the steam rising from its back. The men-at-arms around him were at least as badly off, if not worse.

Forgive me, God. Forgive me. Rygehil bowed his head low over his horse’s neck. Mother Mary deliver my wife. I love her, I love her. Take me. I’ll go gladly to the grave, but spare my Jocosa, the radiant, the incomparable. I beg of you!

‘Hoofbeats, lord,’ said Whitcomb. Rygehil jerked his head up. ‘Liath is back with us at last.’

Without waiting for an order, Whitcomb urged his horse out onto the road. Sea of mud, more like, he thought ruefully as his horse sank up to its fetlocks in the mire.

Even though the clouds had brought night down far too early, Rygehil could make out young Liath, urging on his dun pony for all the poor beast was worth.

‘A fortress, my lord!’ Liath cried as he drew close. He brushed at his hood and sent an additional gout of water down his own shoulders. ‘An old Roman garrison. The roof is still good in spots. We shall have some shelter at least, and a place a fire can be made.’

Hope sparked in Rygehil’s heart. A fire, a dry place to rest, it could make all the difference to Jocosa.

‘Lead on, then, boy.’ Whitcomb’s voice called before Rygehil could get the words out. Rygehil glanced behind to see Whitcomb checking the thongs that held the litter to the mules’ backs.

‘On the road, then,’ Whitcomb cried, with one eye on the litter and the men and one on his lord. ‘Be quick, and careful with my lady!’

Rygehil let his men-at-arms pass him by. They were so soaked that even their mail no longer jingled. He took his place beside Jocosa’s litter and rode at the very edge of the road. The thrashing of rain, the squelch of hooves in mud and the hundred small thumps, rustles and mutterings that filled the night kept him from hearing whether she still moaned or not.

Surely, she has not fallen silent yet, not within moments of shelter and warmth. No. She is not that weak yet. Not yet.

His mind filled with a thousand memories: of how the sight of her beauty struck him a blow when he first saw her; of how his heart soared when he first kissed her lips; of how she moved about his hall with such grace and confidence, ordering everything to the very best advantage; of waking from a long, slow fever to the sight of her brown eyes gazing down at him.

Rygehil’s heart squeezed tight inside his chest. He had been chided many times by his father and brothers for laying so much store by one woman. He had never even wanted to listen to their words.

Rygehil forced himself to look away from the litter and its limp curtains. He pointed his attention down the mired road, hoping to catch some glimpse of Liath’s fortress.

The road took a turn and dipped down a small hill. The men cursed as they tried to negotiate their horses’ way down the mud-swamped slope.

‘Just here, my lord!’ Liath hastened his pony on, although the creature started to balk under him. At last the beast gave up resisting, tucked its hind legs under its tail and slid straight down the hill. Liath gaped like a fish but kept his seat, even when the pony hopped back onto all fours at the slope’s bottom. Rygehil took a moment to wonder if the boy was an extraordinary horseman or a very stupid one. As frantic as he was for Jocosa, he let his mount find its own way down. He could feel its muscles bunching and rolling as it struggled to stay upright. Rygehil tried to tear his attention away from the litter long enough to work on keeping himself in the saddle.

The trees parted at the bottom of the hill, opening on a meadow that sloped gently away from the road. At the top of the rise, Rygehil saw Liath’s shelter. His first thought was that it was far too small to be a fortress or garrison, but the shadows seemed to thicken as he stared at it and he grew uncertain as to which part was wall and which was twilight. But still, he could see the gate right enough. The building looked to be two storeys tall with a peaked roof that in the day’s last light appeared sound. A villa maybe, or an old temple that someone had turned into an outpost or hideaway before Arthur had spread his peace across the isle.

As the horses laboured up the muddy slope, the rain redoubled. Rygehil could see no more than a hand’s span in front of him. Behind him, Whitcomb was trying to direct the men minding the litter. He had to shout to be heard above the torrent. Rygehil dismounted his horse and handed the reins to Liath. Shouldering away the clod who was attempting to handle the balky litter-mule, he caught up the beast’s halter. With a firm hand and soothing words, he led the mule forward. Whitcomb took charge of the other and together they slogged towards the shelter.

After what seemed a thousand years of drowning rain and fading light, Rygehil heard cobblestones clatter under hooves. He lifted the edge of his hood and saw their chosen shelter looming against the dark sky, a black shadow against the thick grey. He could just make out the covered porch and, to his surprise, the open door.

‘Unfasten my lady’s litter,’ ordered Rygehil. ‘Liath, see if you can find some stabling for the animals. You and you,’ he pointed at two indistinct figures. ‘Help with the horses. If nothing else can be done for them, bring them onto the porch.’

The men undid the litter’s fastenings with fingers clumsy with cold. Una, Jocosa’s maid and dearest friend, peeked out from behind the litter’s curtain, taking in the situation with a shrewd eye. She jumped down at once in a cloud of skirts and veils. She was drenched in a second, but if her scolding was any sign, she cared nothing for it.

‘My lady must not be jostled, be careful you oaf, my lord, my lord, you must have greater care how you heave my lady about…’