Risa, page 21
More awake, it occurred to Gawain that he had not told the queen his name. She knew nothing of his rank or person, and yet she did all this, and she had nursed him to health. A kind of giddiness seized him and Gawain suddenly felt that he would slay lions with his bare hands if this woman asked him to.
A moment later, the flap that served the pavilion as a door was pushed back. Maid and queen alike curtseyed as two men entered the tent. First came the horseman. This time Gawain saw that he too wore a golden torque. His bore the long, lithe shape of a dragon with ruby eyes. Gawain had never before seen his uncle, but no one else would dare wear the dragon in this country. Seven days ago, he had almost gotten himself killed by High King Arthur.
Behind the king came a lean man dressed in black, who was a good handspan taller than the king, despite the fact that he leaned heavily on a crutch to support a thin and crooked leg.
“What’s this?” said the lame man, looking Gawain up and down. “Surely it’s a fish that needs to be dropped back into its pond.”
“Leave off, Kai,” said Arthur Pendragon amiably. “I’ll wager the boy’s had enough bad luck without adding the rough side of your tongue to his misfortunes.” His right eye closed to Gawain in a half-wink. “Now then, lad, what brought you out in such weather to the king’s maying?”
Maying? It was May Day? He’d been on the road a full month, wandering south and west. “I’m sorry, Majesty,” Gawain stammered. “I didn’t know. I was looking for Camelot.”
“And instead Camelot found you.” The man, Kai’s, eyebrows rose. “How propitious for the fishes.”
“Kai.” This time there was a note of warning in the king’s voice. “What is your business at Camelot then?”
Gawain hung his head. He was going about this completely wrong. He had spent a month on pony back rehearsing his speech for when he met the king and queen. He had pictured himself kneeling, straight-backed in the great hall of Camelot, pledging his fealty. Now he was propped up on a cot, forcing the queen herself to take pity on his weakness and he couldn’t even get the right words out of his mouth.
“Come lad,” said Arthur Pendragon. “Whatever your worries, set them aside for this time being. You have my protection here, and my attention. Tell me who you are and what it is you want.”
Gawain looked up into the king’s blue eyes and saw that he was absolutely serious. He did not know who this was before him, but it did not matter. Whatever Gawain had to say would be heard and closely considered. He saw wisdom there, and patience, honor, and reason. Things he had never seen in his father’s eyes.
“My name is Gawain,” he heard himself say. “And I want to be your champion, sire.”
All these years later, and Gawain still remembered how he felt when he spoke those words. It had been more than a boy’s wish or an attempt at courtly rhetoric. He had given his heart with those words, and never once regretted it. He had thrown himself into learning all he could of martial matters, of riding, and using sword and spear. He studied the old Roman ways of leading men into battle and conducting the fight once it was joined. But it had been much more than that. Arthur had given him over to tonsured monks who forced Latin and a whole range of more vulgar tongues into his reluctant mind until he could read and write them, and speak without tripping over his own tongue. Each challenge, each hurdle his uncle placed before him had deepened Gawain’s love for the man. For in those tasks, even the ones that involved nothing but parchment and ink, Arthur said that he trusted Gawain to keep his promises, that he felt Gawain worthy of his place, that Gawain could be more than a barbarian chieftain whose pride was even more important than the lives of his children. Gawain could be a champion and worthy of the name.
Someone whom one day a woman noble and beautiful like Queen Guinevere would look on with love.
Time and again he thought he had found such a woman, but time and again, he found that he had been deceived, or that he had deceived himself. Gawain knew he had wept as often as he had been wept over.
But now there was Risa, and Gawain allowed himself to hope that this once there was no deception. If he tried to explain to Agravain this time, this lady, was different and above all the others, his brother would only laugh. But no other lady had ever come to his aid, none had put themselves in more than lover’s danger for him. Risa had risked not just her precious reputation but her life, for him.
Even Agravain must in time see that was a true sign of heart’s love.
“My lord Gawain!” a voice startled him out of his reverie. “My lord! Your attention, please!”
A small boy that Gawain recognized as one of the servants in Bannain’s hall came running up to him. Gawain stared around himself, uncertain of where in the ruins of Pen Marhas he was, or how long he had been wandering.
“Sir, you’re needed at the hall,” panted the boy.
Gawain nodded for the boy to lead on. It was time to stop this maundering. He needed to speak with Risa. He had not seen her since yesterday, for she needed rest as badly as he did. He must take counsel with Bannain and afterwards get back on the road to Camelot as soon as possible. When he and Risa were alone again and out from under Agravain’s disapproving glare, he could make the fullness of his heart known to her.
The boy turned at once and ran back the way he’d come, only belatedly remembering to stop and wait for the man he was supposed to bring to catch him up.
The boy led him back into the hall. There, Bannain and Agravain stood at the foot of the dais with a third man. They all turned as Gawain entered. The stranger was a haggard man. His clothing was of good quality—his tunic trimmed with ribbons, his boots whole and his cloak clasped with bronze—but he had a hunted look about him. His beard and hair were untrimmed and wild. His eyes were shot with blood and sunken with exhaustion, and something else.
The boy bowed to Bannain and ran off as soon as he received his lord’s nod.
“Thedu?” said Gawain. “Agravain? What is the matter here?”
Bannain opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Risa entered from the back of the hall. She saw Gawain first, and her brow furrowed. Then she turned to the dais and began to make her curtsey, but her gaze lit upon the stranger before she could complete the gesture.
“Father,” she whispered. It was a statement, not a greeting.
“Risa.” The man’s voice was rough and flat, his face without expression.
“What is this?” demanded Gawain of Agravain.
“Lady Risa ran away from her father’s hall. He has come to fetch her back again,” said Agravain as if remarking on the weather. “As is his right.”
Risa did not go forward to greet her father. She stayed where she was, straight and tall, and absolutely alone. “Is that what you mean to do?” she asked the harried man.
Rygehil of the Morelands, drew his shoulders in, as if he felt some invisible blow fall on his back. “Did you think you could run away from this … from me? I warned you, Risa.” His voice shook with fury as he spoke.
Gawain heard his own blood roaring in his ears. He wanted to move, to grab this man and hurl him to the ground, to break his back and body for daring to come here, for daring to take the light from Risa’s eyes. But he could not move. Law and honor held him, even though his heart cried out for shame.
“Does Mother know you’ve come?” inquired Risa. She sounded calm, almost careless, but Gawain knew she was struck to her core. He could see it in her wide eyes, in the set of her jaw and the way her hands clutched at her skirts.
“Your mother has taken to her bed. Would you spare her more pain?” Something like hope crossed Rygehil’s face. “Come home.”
“Father.” The word was spoken on the edge of tears, but Risa stopped and swallowed her sorrow. “How can you ask that of me?”
Rygehil just shook his head. “You do not know the damage you have done. But you will do your duty, by God, you will.”
Gawain saw his opening. He stepped forward, his hands made into fists and pressed against his sides lest he forget himself and strike this man down. “Sir. If you or yours’is in distress, come with me to the king. He will …”
“The king,” sneered Rygehil. “Do not speak to me of the king. If I had not been so eager to throw myself at the feet of this king, my wife would not have fallen ill. If there had been no child …”
“You blame me for this?” Risa stared at her father. “Mother Mary preserve us, Father, you’ve gone mad.”
“If you will not make the journey to Camelot, then speak to me,” urged Gawain. “I stand here for the king.”
“Not in this hall,” snapped Agravain. “You overreach yourself, Gawain.”
Agravain you are lucky we are in another man’s hall. “Thedu Bannain?”
Bannain turned to Risa. “Is this man your father?”
Risa’s mouth moved, shaping words no one could hear. “Yes,” she said.
“Have you signed a contract of betrothal?”
Risa lifted her chin. Would she lie? It would be a simple enough lie, and take time to verify, for such a document would have to be searched for. It would give Bannain room to make a different ruling.
But that was not Risa’s way. “No,” she said.
Bannain shook his head. “I’m sorry, lady. I cannot bid you stay if your father bids you go.”
“Risa.” Rygehil spoke the name as an order. It said, “Come here.”
As if she were a dog. Two spots of color appeared on Risa’s deathly white cheeks. She did not move.
“I will ask you one thing, in front of these witnesses,” she said, biting off her words. “Who told you where I was?”
“No one told me,” replied Lord Rygehil heatedly. “I followed you.”
Without taking her gaze from her father’s, Risa slowly shook her head. “We were not moving quickly. If you had followed me, you would have caught up with us on the road. I ask again, Father. Who told you where I was?”
The man’s eyes widened, as if he were on the verge of panic. “Do not disgrace our name any further, Risa. You are to come with me now, as you are and return to your home.”
It was too much. There were old, old laws of host and guest at work that rank could not overrule, but Gawain could no longer stand to one side. He circled the man, to stand before the dais, before Risa and even the hall’s master, so that Rygehil must look at him. “She goes to Camelot to plead her case before the high king.”
But Rygehil only drew himself up straight, and to Gawain’s shock he recognized Risa in the gesture. He had not thought to find anything of her in this man. “She is my daughter! She goes or she stays at my pleasure and none of yours. Will you spill my blood here in this hall before its master? Because that is what you will have to do.”
“No blood will be shed here,” said Bannain and his words were solid as stone. He knew his rights in his hall. It would be breaking the oldest laws for Gawain to challenge Rygehil now that Bannain forbid it, and Arthur would never excuse him if he tried.
Gawain felt Agravain’s eyes boring into his back, but he did not turn. He could not relent. He could not abandon Risa to this man who against all laws of nature would risk her death and damnation.
“Come before the High King with us,” he said. This man was a lord in his own land under Arthur’s rule. There must be some respect for law and sanity in him, or Arthur would never have permitted him to keep his lands. “If your case is just, he will pass judgment in your favor.”
“There is no case.” Rygehil spat the word. “She is mine, by law and by right. Unless you can produce the priest that married you, my lord Gawain, you have no claim on her.”
The memory of screams filled Gawain, of pain and barbarity and helpless, helpless rage. Not again. Not ever again. Not to this woman most of all. Gawain faced her. “Risa, you do not have to do this thing.”
“But she does,” said Agravain, each word a cut with a knife. “She belongs to her father, and he has spoken. If she is so impious and wanton as to disobey, then it is his judgment she must face and none of yours.”
Risa rounded on Agravain, her hands clenched at her side, and for a moment Gawain thought she might strike him. His only surprise was that she might be able to land her blow before Gawain landed his.
“No more shame, Risa,” said her father wearily. “You will come with me now.”
Risa looked to Bannain, who only shook his head. He had rendered his decision. It would stand.
Gawain reached out and touched her sleeve. “I will take you from this place,” he said.
She knew what he did with those words, what old faith between liege and lord he betrayed before witnesses.
She wanted to say yes. He saw that in her as surely as if he saw through to her soul. She reached out and took his hand, and gently removed it from her sleeve. It fell to his side like a dead thing.
“Thank you, Gawain,” she whispered so softly that even he could barely hear. “God bless you.”
Without looking back, her head held high and proud, Risa walked to her father’s side. He jerked his head, indicating she should precede him from the hall, and she obeyed. Rygehil followed without even a bow in parting.
Gawain did not move. He could not. Rage burned like madness in his blood and if he moved, it would be to reach for a weapon, to strike Rygehil dead, if he had to claw his way through Bannain and Agravain to do it.
Then, she was gone. Gone. Risa who rode and sang and fought at his side. Who was proud and beautiful and noble of heart and form. How did God permit this? How was such a daughter allowed to have such a father?
Pain reached him. He had been clenching his fists so hard for so long, his hands had begun to ache. “You, Agravain,” he heard himself say. “You of all men, encouraged that to happen.”
But in Agravain’s answer there was no regret. “To do otherwise would be for Arthur to lose a liegeman and perhaps start another small war. He does not need such weakness now.”
“Her father sold her to a sorcerer!” How can you be blind to this? How can you not care?
“It is his right,” replied Agravain evenly.
“No, Agravain. No.” Gawain’s head wagged back and forth, as if he had turned to an old woman. Perhaps he had. He felt that weak.
Agravain grasped his brother’s arm. A moment ago you would have lost that hand, brother. “I did not say it is right Gawain, but it is his right. Let it go. Do you want to help the woman? Finish this nonsense quickly and help drive the Saxons and their friends back into their holes. Then you may ransom her for whatever she’s worth.”
Gawain stared at his brother. No. Not even Agravain’s heart could be as hard as that. But Agravain did not flinch under his gaze, nor did he offer any other solution. He only said, “You are not a fool, Gawain. You see how much may hang in the balance here.”
Resolve took hold inside Gawain. “Oh, yes, Agravain. Yes, I do see.”
Gawain turned to his host and bowed. Bannain had not spoken. What could he say? He had ruled as he must, according to the law. He was a good man, but duty could be harsh.
“You will excuse me, Thedu” he said. “There is much to be done.”
Before even his brother could say another word, Gawain left the hall, heading toward the barracks. There were things he needed to collect, matters to arrange before anything could be forbidden or turned into rumor. It would be a long, long time before he stood under this roof again.
As he passed the women’s quarters, a flicker of movement caught his eye and he looked up involuntarily to see Pacis standing in the doorway. Her eyes were red with weeping, and she seemed faded with the weight of her weariness. And even then, he remembered the touch of her, the scent of her, his sheer, unfathomable need for her that let him fall back into her arms even knowing that she had broken every promise to him she had sworn came from her heart.
“Gawain,” she murmured. “Do not leave me. Not now.”
Gawain stopped and stood. Pacis reached toward him and he looked at her fine, white hand.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” he said. “I cannot do as you ask.”
He bowed, and he left her there. Risa needed him and there could be no more delay.
Kerra was trembling with fury and fear when she returned to Morgaine’s hall. All during her flight, her companions had called anxiously after her, dismayed at her anger and her silence. It was only with the sharpest of orders that they stayed outside the hall, clinging to the eaves and creeling like chicks.
She had been a fool. She had depended too much on her army and had not attended to what must be done herself. She knew better and now she would take her punishment. She deserved it richly.
She did not even acknowledge Talan as she strode past. It did not matter that she had left Wolfget weeping and ready to throw himself on his sword. It didn’t matter that Harrik lay dead on the field and that her friends had feasted upon him for his failure. What mattered was that failure, which was hers so much more than theirs, for she ruled over them.
But not well enough.
Morgaine sat in her great, carved chair. Her eyes glittered in the dim light of the hall. The women drew back and whispered as Kerra passed. She did not care. She knew that Morgaine had already seen the truth of what had happened. There was nothing left to do but what she did now, and kneel at her mistress’s feet.
“I failed, mistress,” the words fell like tears. “I did not look. I did not see.”
There was no answer. She closed her eyes so she would not try to read her future in the patterns of the straw strewn over the hard stones. She would be turned away, cast out, and it would be only just.
But she felt Morgaine’s fingertips touch her shoulder. Hope leapt inside her.
“It would have done no good. I know now the girl was not fated to die in Pen Marhas. She has aid for those eyes of hers and is too well protected.”
Kerra dared to lift her eyes. She could see no anger in Morgaine, only mild regret. It did not matter. She was angry enough for both of them. “I should have snapped Gawain’s neck with my own hands rather than leave him for those barbarians.”
Morgaine shook her head. “I do not speak of Gawain.”
