Camelot’s Shadow
Sarah Zettel
To all those down the years who have told the tale.
Table of Contents
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