That broke through her grief and she looked up at him with stark terror in her eyes. Gawain berated himself inwardly for frightening her further, but she did not protest as he raised her to her feet and led her to her mount. The lady’s horse, fortunately, had not bolted, evidently deeming it a safer thing to stay with her mistress, rather than brave the dark forest.
The lady suffered him to help her onto the horse’s back. She huddled in the saddle. The moonlight showed him fair skin and regular features, and a lock of waving hair that had come free from a braid that was as thick as a man’s wrist, but it also showed him a face gone far too pale.
And if you stay here staring, Gawain, she will succumb to the cold as well as her shock. The early spring night was almost as chill as a winter’s day. Trusting the mare to hold steady under her mistress, Gawain went back and retrieved the bow from where it had fallen. He gave it into her hands, and she clutched it like a talisman, which was what he had hoped, because it would keep her from trying the reins. No doubt she could ride well enough, but her eyes had turned glassy and staring. There was no telling if she could guide the animal in the state she was now, nor where she might attempt to lead it. He also retrieved the vanished sorcerer’s knife. There was no point in leaving a weapon lying where it might be taken and used by any who passed.
‘Now, Mistress Horse.’ Gawain took hold of the mare’s bridle and stroked her neck. ‘Shall we be friends you and I? Your good lady is in need of aid from us both.’
The horse seemed to find this a reasonable request under the circumstances and remained quiet. Gawain looked again to the dead man on the ground. It was unseemly to leave him this way, but he must help the living.
What story is this? he wondered as he caught up the reins of his stallion, Gringolet. He had no answers, nor would he until the maiden had more fully recovered herself. It stank of magic, all of it. He’d set the sorcerer’s head on a platter, if he got his way; and that of Harrik’s witch beside it. The thought of Harrik reminded him afresh of the urgency of his errand though, and Gawain gritted his teeth.
God grant we find your friends soon, my lady. Gawain glanced at the sky where the stars shone down clear and brittle. The moon had almost set. For I must be gone come the day, but I would not leave you alone.
Gawain led the horses down the high road, the half-frozen mud muffling their hoofbeats and their breath making silver clouds in the deepening dark.
Euberacon, shrouded by night and magic, watched the rider hoist the weeping woman onto the horse and lead her away. The glittering light of moon and stars gave him a clear view of the device decorating the shield hanging from his horse’s saddlebow.
Well, my Lord Gawain, what do you think of the prize that has fallen into your purse? Is it not lovely and rare? Does it not fill your heart with tender and possessive thoughts?
Under Euberacon’s watchful eye, Arthur’s captain turned down the forest road, leaving behind dark trails of prints. Euberacon smiled briefly, and then turned back to the dead man. There was profit yet to be taken from this night’s work. The deep gouge in Euberacon’s chest where the knight’s spear had stabbed him was painful and the exposure of his ribs made him feel a little dizzy and weak, but it would close soon enough. The source of Euberacon’s life was no longer in his heart, and those who sought it there were bound to be sore disappointed. There was no reason to hurry home. The heart and eyes, the tongue and left hand, these were things not to be wasted. Euberacon drew his second, sharper knife and bent to work.
In the light of the setting moon, Gawain could barely make out the tiny roadside chapel where he had taken shelter for the night. It was a rude and neglected place. Piles of twigs and leaves in the corners and the char on the uneven flagstones told him it had lately been more a house of travellers and wild creatures than of God. But the thatched roof and stone walls were still whole and while the presence of another horse and another human would make for a cramped and slightly comical congregation, they would also add greatly to the warmth, and warmth would only aid the lady in her recovery.
‘Come my lady.’ Gawain held out a hand. Her hand was ice cold in his and he had to grip it hard to help her down because she had no strength to hold onto him. Trusting that her horse would not stray far, he led the lady through the low, narrow door. Inside, the dying coals of his little fire provided just enough illumination to show the dusty altar and chipped cross. The whole place smelled heavily of horse, and his palfrey whickered and stamped as he entered.
‘Rest you awhile, lady. I will see to the horses.’ Keeping hold of her hand, Gawain lowered himself onto one knee so the maiden would be able to steady herself as she sat by the fire. He felt her tremble as she did, her free hand automatically tucking her cloak and skirt under her to guard her from the cold of the cracked flags. He took that as a good sign. He had seen men after battle become like this, too stunned by what they had been through to see the world in front of them any longer. Fire, drink and a time of quiet rallied most of them. He prayed it would be so with her.
Outside; Gringolet stood alone, nibbling at the bracken. Gawain cursed under his breath and circled the chapel, to find that the mare had sniffed out a springlet and decided to help herself to a drink. He waited somewhat impatiently until she raised her dripping head and allowed him to lead her into the chapel, balking only slightly at the narrow doorway.
Inside, the lady had fallen, stretching out to her full length on the flags. Gawain dropped the mare’s reins and ran to her side, turned her, thrusting a hand under her cloak and leaning close, to search for breath and heartbeat.
To his immense relief, her heart beat steadily under her cloak and her warm breath brushed his cheek and mouth. For a moment, he inhaled a scent like summer itself. This close, he could see the colour was beginning to return to her white cheeks. Simple sleep then, was what had claimed her, and Gawain thanked God and the Virgin for it. That would heal her more than any clumsy words he could offer.
As gently as he could manage, he laid her back down and stood, running his hand through his hair and looking at the face the firelight revealed to him. Her cheeks were round and full, her features regular and delicate. Her hair underneath her veil was the colour of the flame, a reddened gold that shone like the setting sun. The few tresses that had come free of the braid trailed almost to her ankles. Her eyes were set wide beneath her clear, white brow, and he wondered what colour they would be when they opened.
He also noted that she was full and fairly grown. No wan and wilting flower she. Then he realized that he was staring, and he turned quickly away.
The horses were in urgent need of attention. Gringolet had not been unharnessed the whole hard day. The lady’s mare seemed to be fairly fresh, so wherever they had come from, it was not far. He thought again on the dead man left in the wood. Perhaps he could take word to the king of whatever injustice had come to pass here.
Unsaddling and unharnessing the horses and wiping them down took some time. The lady did not have much gear with her. A quiver of arrows, and the bow with the broken string, and a single saddlebag. Had she been hunting and become lost or distracted? The bag was heavy, but a cursory investigation of it showed she had not brought provisions, not as much as a skin of water or wine, which only deepened the mystery about her.
Gawain glanced back at her. Instinct had caused her to curl closer to the fire’s warmth. His exercise had kept him from feeling the deepening cold, so Gawain unclasped his cloak and laid it over her like a blanket. He leaned close to see if any token of fever clouded her clear brow. But there was only the summer scent of her, and the deep, regular breathing of a peaceful sleeper.
Against his will, Gawain remembered Pacis. Her skin had been white like this, her cheeks and shoulders this round as she lay sleeping beside him, before she had woken and kissed him lightly and bid him begone before her husband returned.
Before she had laughed when he had begged her to come with him.
Gawain busied himself with the fire to distract himself from those deeply unwanted thoughts. Before he had to look any longer at this beauty who reminded him so sharply of that other.
Agravain