Risa, page 25
Before all this grandeur stood the ones who held its rule.
There was no mistaking them. Circlets of gold encircled their brows and torques of gold encircled their throats. Cloaks lined and trimmed with sable protected them from the brisk wind. High King Arthur was no longer a young man. Silver lightened his bark-brown hair and neatly trimmed beard. Lines had etched themselves into a face gone permanently brown from wind and weather. His body, though, was powerful beneath its clothing of finest linen, all in shades of blue that rippled in the breeze and made him appear to be wearing cloth made of water.
Beside him, Queen Guinevere stood straight, slender and fair as a birch tree in summer, clothed all in white, trimmed and clasped with silver. A great ring of keys hung from the belt at her slender waist. Her rich chestnut hair had been braided and bound with threads of silver that sparkled in the sun and found answering lights in her wide, grey eyes. It was those eyes of hers that were said to have captured the heart of the man who would become the High King of all the Britons, and seeing her now, Risa could well believe it.
Beside the king stood a tall, wiry man with black hair and tawny eyes. Some old battle or accident had broken and twisted his right leg so that he was forced to lean on a crutch. His rich, black tunic was ornamented with a chain of gold and silver with each link made in the shape of a pair of crossed keys. This then must be Sir Kai, King Arthur’s seneschal and foster brother. Beside Kai stood a man who at first glance seemed he must be molded of bronze, so fair and strong he was, with lapis eyes and a square, strong jaw. His cloak was madder red and his coat of silver rings was trimmed with bright brass. The sword he wore at his side had a golden pommel. This could only be Lancelot du Lac, come across from Brittany to join King Arthur’s champions when he heard the tales told of the battle of Mount Badon.
The ladies beside Queen Guinevere were no less impressive than Arthur’s champions, in bright clothing of all the colors the summer had to offer, each ornamented with jewelry of enameled silver, copper and bronze all cunningly worked into the shapes of flowers and animals, or knotted into complex patterns to circle waist and brow.
But even amidst that beauty and wealth, the High King and queen shone forth. Looking at the pair of them, regal and proud in the sun, knowing all they had done and all that they stood for, Risa felt she now understood the true meaning of majesty. Awe filled her. At the same time, terror parched her throat and turned her hands to ice. If she had felt uncouth and bashful entering Bannain’s hall, she now felt that anything would be preferable to meeting these two, with her chapped hands and her hair fit only for birds to nest in, her poor clothes stained and creased by travel, and manners that could barely pass muster in a smoky outlandish hall.
Let me spend the night in a scullery, or the sty, I wouldn’t care. Do not bring me before these.
A small army of grooms and pages swarmed out to surround them, so Risa could go neither forward nor back. The reins were taken expertly from her hands and a step was placed for her feet. She looked desperately at Gawain, but he seemed to have forgotten what he knew of mercy. He swung himself out of his saddle and held up his hand for her. Risa tried to swallow, but her dry throat would not permit it. Gawain was smiling, confident, almost jubilant. He was home, after all, and he came home victorious. His kin and comrades formed up behind him. Risa was uncertain whether she wanted to curse him soundly, or simply pray to God for the ground to open up and swallow her.
As neither thing was going to happen, Risa gave Gawain her hand and let him help her down from Thetis. Still holding her hand, he led her up the marble steps with Agravain walking on the other side of him. Here at least, Risa knew what to do. She stopped beside him, two steps below the royal party and knelt, her head bowed and her gaze properly and firmly fixed on the ground.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the king’s boots and hems descend the steps to raise up Gawain to give him the kiss of peace. He then did the same for Agravain.
“Welcome home to the sons of Lot!” The High King’s voice rang out over the crowd. “They bring with them the praise of the lord and people of Pen Marhas which stands safe and strong because of these men and all their brave comrades!”
A mighty cheer rose up. Surely hoods were tossed into the air and the banners snapped in the breeze and Gawain smiled his dazzling smile. At these thoughts, Risa found she was able to feel something other than bashful. For one, the sharp edge of the marble step was beginning to bite into her shins.
“And warm welcome to you as well, Lady.”
Risa lifted her head. Queen Guinevere stood before her, holding out both hands. She smiled in honest and open welcome. A knowing look shone in her grey eyes that said she understood all that Risa felt. Struck mute, Risa took the queen’s strong hands and stood. Queen Guinevere gave her the kiss of peace. The queen smelled of amber and incense and Risa knew she smelled of sweat and horses, but for that moment it didn’t matter.
Gawain came to Risa’s side. “My queen, may I make known to you Lady Risa of the Morelands, daughter of the barwn, Lord Rygehil. She is in sore need of your grace’s protection, and I will stand surety for her honesty and the truth of her plight.”
Queen Guinevere cocked her head, frankly curious at these words. Risa had the feeling they were not what she expected.
“If she has need of protection, she shall have it.” The queen turned her attention back to Risa and squeezed her hands. “You will tell me your story and we will judge what is best to do. But first—” her glance at Gawain took on an edge “—we will get you someplace you can rest and refresh yourself. Gawain forgets that not everyone is as restored by a public procession and the acknowledgment of glory as he.”
Gawain bowed deeply at these words, but Risa had no time to see if this sign of humility was real or sham, because Queen Guinevere took her arm and steered Risa into the company of her ladies. “Arianwen, Sioned, Idelle, go down to the champions and give them our praise and greetings. Assure all we will let them know the full measure of our thanks at board tonight. This poor lady is ready to faint from all this commotion.”
Perhaps the queen believed this, but she herself seemed unready to make any concession to Risa’s supposed faintness. She stretched her legs out in a stride Risa’s mother would have termed unladylike and whisked Risa through the great open doors into the hall of kings. Risa had the impression of carved stone, of banners and tapestries, of painted statues of wood and stone, and through one arched doorway she thought she caught a glimpse of a great, curved table that took up most of the chamber. Men and women made polite obeisance as they passed, but the queen did not slow down to give her time to take in any details.
After a turn into the western wing of the great hall, Guinevere led Risa to a door flanked by a pair of soldiers carrying spears hung with green banners. There must have been some signal, because as the queen approached, the door was opened by a lady in an ochre gown who stood back and curtseyed to her mistress.
The chamber beyond opened like a lush meadow in the forest. More candles than Risa had ever seen in her life burned in branched sconces of iron that stood as tall as her head. A hearth allowed a fire to burn without filling the room with smoke. Tapestries depicting the virtues and the seasons covered the walls. The floor, rather than being of plain stone, was a sparkling mosaic showing a flock of swans on a broad lake.
The furnishings fit the chamber for elegance. An alcove held a bed curtained in emerald-green and carved with swans and dragons chasing each other around the posts. All about the room were chests, instruments of music and embroidery frames. There was even a desk, inlaid with ivory and laid out with quills, parchments, and a leather-bound book as wide as Risa’s forearm and two fingers thick. The chairs and stools were all of polished and well-fitted wood. The ladies who would occupy them were out greeting the returning knights, but there remained no fewer than four well-dressed maids. All had the round cheeks and bright eyes that indicated good treatment and plentiful food.
If Risa had not already been breathless, the sight of such wealth would have taken that breath from her.
But to Queen Guinevere, it was simply her room, which she entered. Her servants, all of whom were on their feet, dropped deep curtseys. The queen barely paused to ac-. knowledge the gesture before she began giving instructions.
“Elowyn, this lady has traveled hard from sore trial. She is in need of fresh bread and whatever is hot on the hearth. Tressa, get to the wardrobe and bring out the grey wool with the blue trims and a clean shift. Roseen, hot water, towels and brushes. Jana, a good chair and then go see that a chamber is made ready for this lady.”
The servants leapt at once to their tasks, scurrying this way and that. One, Jana, brought a carved chair forward and laid a cushion down on it.
“Sit,” said the queen, and Risa did so at once.
Queen Guinevere reached for her ring of keys, selected a tiny one of brass, and unlocked a casket that waited on a small table beside a pair of silver goblets. Inside lay a bottle of green glass. With a careful, practiced motion, she poured out a measure of tawny liquid into one of the goblets.
“Sip that slowly, lady,” she instructed as she handed the goblet to Risa. “It is a great restorative, but it is strong if you are unused to it.”
Under the queen’s watchful eye, Risa sipped. Warmth and a rich, autumnal taste rolled down her throat, loosening the tightness in her chest and stomach. The queen nodded approvingly.
“Now, then, let’s have a look at that hair of yours.”
“Majesty,” said Risa, timidly. This was not a woman, this was a force of nature. She felt as if she were trying to interrupt a summer gale. “If you please, I must tell you …”
Queen Guinevere waved her words away. “When you are clean and fed, Lady Risa, you may be sure you will tell me all. But I will not permit a guest in this hall to be left with the strains and stains of travel still on them while I satisfy my curiosity. So, drink, and let me have a look at this hair of yours.”
Risa held her tongue, and sipped her drink. With deft hands, Queen Guinevere unpinned her stained and wrinkled veil and passed it to one of the maids. Her braid, trailing all its wisps and loose locks swung free down the back of the chair. The queen pursed her lips and nodded.
“Beautiful, Lady Risa,” she said matter-of-factly. “And of necessity, long neglected. Never mind, we will take care of that.”
The maid Roseen arrived with the hot water, brushes, and towels. Risa was relieved of her dress and helped to wash face, throat, hands and feet. She was dressed again in a gown of pearl-grey wool so fine it felt as light as linen, trimmed and girdled with sapphire ribbons embroidered with white apple blossoms. Bread, a portion of roasted capon and a mug of last year’s cider were brought in by the second maid, Elowyn, and placed before her. While Risa ate, two maids unbound her hair, spread it out across their laps and subjected it to the ministrations of ivory combs and actual bristle brushes such as Risa had never had a chance to use before. The queen supervised all. Risa felt a little like a gown being shaken out and looked over for moth holes and worn hems. The food, however, did much to ease her remaining discomfort. The capon was fresh and sweet, flavored with sage and thyme, and a sprinkling of precious pepper. The bread was a pale, nutty-brown. There had been no chaff in the fine flour that went into its making. She had to work to remember not to lick her fingers and to take small bites so the gravy she sopped did not spill down her chin. She took the cider as slowly as she had the queen’s’ “restorative.” It would not do to grow dizzy now.
“I’ve a mind to let our bard Dilwyn in to see this,” mused Queen Guinevere, smoothing out a lock of Risa’s hair. “He would love to compose a poem in honor of such waves of red-gold.”
Risa blushed and swallowed her mouthful. “Your Majesty is too kind.”
“Never in life,” laughed Guinevere. “I am a grey-eyed witch who enchanted the king and I have a flint where my heart should be.” Risa’s head jerked up, her mouth open to protest, but she saw the queen was smiling, her eyes alight with the tart jest. Guinevere took Risa’s chin firmly between her fingers and directed it downward so that she faced her food, and the maids were able to continue their work unhindered.
Risa was far from the queen’s only business. Other ladies came and went, consulting Queen Guinevere in soft voices. She would nod and make reply, occasionally handing out a key with the instruction. Twice she left in the company of one of her ladies to take care of some pressing matter. Risa wondered at the woman’s energy. There were days her mother’s feet had scarce seemed to touch the ground she was so busy flitting between this task and that. How much more must be required of the mistress of Camelot?
At last, the maids divided Risa’s hair into portions for braiding and bound it up with ribbons the color of those that trimmed her dress. They veiled her again with translucent cloth. Risa felt full, clean, and pampered. For a moment, all feeling of being an oafish country girl dissolved in a glow of well-being. In fact, if she were permitted to sit here much longer before the blaze of the fire, she knew she would fall sound asleep.
Queen Guinevere returned once more, accompanied this time by a boy page bearing a tray with clean noggins, a pitcher, and a plate of honey cakes. The pitcher proved to contain simple watered wine which he served without spilling a drop on the white cloth he carried over his arm. The boy was golden, with eyes of cornflower-blue. There was no mistaking it. He was Saxon and a full-blood at that.
Even before Risa had heard Gawain utter his dire threats to the man Harrik, she had known one way Arthur maintained his peace was to require each of the Saxon chiefs who sued for peace after Badon to send one son to Camelot as surety for their good behavior. This child, though, was too young for that to have been his fate. Unlike beleaguered Holda in Bannain’s hall, he looked vastly content, almost cocky.
“Thank you, Orval,” said Queen Guinevere as she accepted wine and cake. “You take note of our golden boy here, I see, Lady Risa.”
“Your pardon, Your Majesty, I was only …”
“Curious.” The queen finished for her. “Not all the Saxon chiefs desire to stay barbarians. Some have sent their sons willingly to learn what we have here to teach. If he proves himself, one day Orval here will be picked to squire one of the Round Table’s champions. Is that not so, Orval?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” answered the boy and his whole face lit up at the prospect. The queen smiled and the boy bowed and took himself smartly out of the room.
“Thus is peace not only maintained, but increased.” Queen Guinevere sighed as the door closed behind the page. “And that is what those who attacked Pen Marhas would shatter.” A spasm of anger passed across the queen’s fair face, turning her eyes dark as thunderheads. “I was born in the high country, Lady Risa. I barely knew my father, he was so much at war first with this neighbor, then with that. He bargained me away to Arthur because he saw that Arthur was the strongest of the kings of the Britons, a true dux bellorum as the Romans would have styled him. So, for the price of my hand, my father would have an ally that would allow him not just to fight off his neighbors, but to conquer.”
Risa stared at the pale wine in her cup, uncertain of what to say. Here she was in the place of songs, and those songs spoke of the great love between king and queen. If that was not true …
But Guinevere laughed kindly. “Oh, fear not, Lady. It was a bargain I entered into willingly. You see, by then I knew far more of Arthur than my father did. I knew his honor and his dreams of peace.” Her eyes were distant and full of things she was not going to say. “So, I was glad to bring him the Round Table and the scabbard for Excaliber, as well as my own self.” Her attention focused on the room again and her smile became an expression for things present. “Now then, Lady Risa. I promised you would be made to tell me all, and I must not break my word. Help yourself to what is at hand, tell me the whole of your tale.” The queen leaned forward, her face open, her whole attitude saying how ready she was to listen.
Risa sipped her wine. Perhaps it was lack of sleep or sheer comfort that loosened her tongue. “I feel as if I have done nothing else these past days. Everyone wants to know who I am and why on earth I’m alone on the road with the nephew of the High King.”
“But now you tell it to me,” said Queen Guinevere. “And you know that is a different thing.”
So different as to not even be imaginable a short time ago. Risa began what had become her recitation, but the queen listened in such patient silence that Risa faltered, and began to speak of things she had not told anyone. She spoke of the blood, of Whitcomb’s blood on his chest, of the blood of the Saxons she had shot dead so she and Gawain could escape. She spoke of Euberacon’s eyes and how they had held her paralyzed until they drew her forward from the fog her thoughts had become. She spoke of the heartbreak when her father came to Pen Marhas with no word of love or understanding, but only to force her back home to wait for the sorcerer he had sold her to. Of the fear that harm had come to her mother, as he said it would.
When at last, the words ran out she realized there were tears in her eyes and her hands trembled. Gently, the queen took the cup from between her fingers and placed it on the table.
“If you would weep, Lady Risa, it would ease your heart,” she said.
But Risa shook her head. “I don’t want to weep anymore, Your Majesty. I am sick of my own tears.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to go home,” said Risa, ashamed at how plaintive she sounded. “I want to sit with my mother, and go hunting with my hounds.” Words tumbled out of her mouth faster than the thoughts formed in her head. “I want to speak Latin with my father and ride out with Whitcomb and scold Aeldra and run about bareheaded with my cousins in summer. I want to sew my dower cloths and doctor the servants and gossip with the women in the hall and marry …” Just in time she was able to remember where she was and force the correct name from her mouth. “Vernus.” It felt strange to say his name. How many days had it been since she had even thought of him? Since she had imagined taking shelter in his father’s hall?
