What will you do when one of your dalliances forgets her undying love for you and shows up at court in tears with a big belly and a witness to your pretty words? Agravain would say, and had said, more than once, his sharp face creased with anger. How much will our uncle have to settle on that cuckolded husband, or petty chieftain’s daughter? You could always refuse to acknowledge the truth of their claim, I suppose, but that would stain some of that virtue you polish up like your arms before you go into battle…
The situation was only made worse by the fact that Agravain’s scoldings were not without merit. Gawain poked at the fire with one of the damp sticks he had gathered and frowned. It wasn’t that he was unmindful of his responsibilities. He took them most seriously. Arthur was a great king and a great man. Living up to his example was a life’s work which Gawain set himself to with a good will. If it was love that led him astray, surely there were others who had done far worse?
Gawain grimaced as he thought of the colours Agravain’s face would turn if he spoke that light verse. And there were others who would not approve. He winced and glanced up at the cross above the altar.
Penitent, Gawain knelt in prayer, hands clasped before him. He carefully recited his pater noster and added, Father, forgive my sins and help me strive to be more worthy of the grace You showed through your Son, Jesus Christ. Mother Mary, guide this foolish sinner and show him how he may amend his faults. Amen, amen, amen.
Gawain crossed himself. Resolutely, he sat down facing the door with the fire and the lady at his back and his sword naked on his lap, in case the villain who pursued this maiden and killed her protector should attempt to return, and so that he would not have to watch her sleeping there and think again of Pacis.
Rhian woke slowly and reluctantly. The first thing she saw was a low fire smouldering on a floor of rough flagstones. The smell of horse hung in the air, overwhelming the smell of smoke.
Memory rolled over her like thunderclouds across a summer sky. She pushed herself instantly upright and became aware of a stiff neck and a sore back. A cloak slithered off her shoulders, but she paid it no mind. Across the fire she made out Thetis standing beside a great white charger and a small bay palfrey. The saddles and tidy piles of harness waited beside the splintered wooden door.
‘God be with you this morning, my lady,’ said a man’s voice, pleasantly, as if she had just walked into the great hall to break her fast. Rhian nearly jumped out of her skin, and she stared. Beside her sat the rider who had come to her aid. He regarded her with patient courtesy, and in the firelight Rhian could see that his eyes were the colour of dark amber, warm and deep. His grecian nose was somewhat crooked, having been broken at least once. His chin was clean-shaven in the old Roman style but it had clearly been several days since he had seen a barber. His mouth was wide and his black locks brushed the shoulders of a plain brown tunic trimmed with simple blue embroidery.
Rhian realized that her own cloak lay beneath her, protecting her from the cold stones of the floor. It was this man’s mantle that had fallen from her shoulders.
She tried to bring some order to her thoughts, but her mind did not seem fully hers to command yet. She swallowed to clear some of the sand that seemed to clog her throat. ‘God be with you, Sir.’
She meant to add, ‘where am I?’ but the sight of a cross over an ancient and dusty altar answered her question, at least in part. Before she could stop herself, she thought to tell her father this place was in need of repair so he could send Whitcomb to see what could be done.
Whitcomb, helpless on the ground, the flash of a knife in the moonlight…
For you now there is no God, no saviour, no father, no mother, no protector save for me.
A man on a tall horse, his spear held high…
Whitcomb still and dead, his blood staining the ground black.
That evil memory robbed Rhian of any polite words. As if discomfited by the silence, the white warhorse stamped once. The knight got to his feet and went to the charger, patting its sides.
‘Gringolet reminds me he has not yet broken his fast,’ he said in that same pleasant, comfortable way. ‘With my lady’s permission, I will take the horses outside to see what they can make of the foraging nearby.’
Rhian nodded dumbly. The man pulled a light halter from the pile of gear. He looped it over Gringolet’s head and led the animal out into the crisp, grey morning. Thetis and the palfrey both followed, docile and comfortable, leaving the room more airy, but also much colder. Rhian wrapped her own cloak more tightly around her shoulders.
What have I done? Oh, Whitcomb, my friend. I have been the death of you.
Peace, she counselled herself. The fault was none of yours.
Was it not?
No, she told herself firmly. It was the sorcerer who held the knife. It was he who corrupted your father and broke your mother before you were even born.
The chapel door opened again and Rhian’s head jerked up, startled. The man paused in the doorway.
‘My lady.’ He bowed. ‘Your humble servant can only hope it was not he whom you were thinking of with such fury.’
Rhian blinked and tried to smooth her features. He was tall, this man. He’d had to stoop to enter the chapel and his shoulders almost filled the doorway. His mail shirt and other arms lay beside the horses’ harness, but he still wore his sword at his narrow waist.
And she had slept the night away beneath his cloak.
Rhian almost wanted to laugh, but she knew if she began, not only would it be hopelessly rude, but it might swiftly turn to tears. She cleared her throat, and tried to remember her manners. First of all, she stood, and picked up the cloak he had graciously loaned her. It was a rough wool, but well dyed a deep green and lined entirely with fur. Not at all the garment of a poor man. ‘I would know, Sir, to whom it is I owe such thanks. You surely saved my life this night.’
The knight bowed, a smooth and studied gesture. ‘I am Gawain, son of Lot Luwddoc of Goddodin, and companion to Arthur the King at the Round Table.’
Surprise tightened Rhian’s fingers around the cloak. This was Gawain? Nephew and heir to the High King? The acknowledged champion of all the High King’s chosen and the one who sat at his right hand when the cadre of the Round Table met together?
‘Have I said something to give offence to my lady?’ inquired Gawain, as he straightened up.
‘No…no…I…forgive me.’ Rhian cursed herself for her stammering, and for her inability to stop staring. ‘It’s just…I had not heard word of your being in this country,’ she finished. Feeling the fool, she held the cloak out to him. She could think of nothing else to do.
Gawain’s smile was small, and the arch of his brows said he knew this was not what she had first thought to say, but he was too polite to remark on it. ‘I am glad to hear that. I am meant to be travelling in secret.’ He smoothly accepted the cloak and slung it around his shoulders. He must have been freezing without it all night, despite the warmth the horses provided. Rhian felt her hands would go numb any moment. ‘As there are none here to introduce us properly, lady, may I be so bold as to ask the favour of your name?’
Manners, forgotten again. ‘I cry you mercy, Sir, for my country ways,’ she said, dropping her gaze and reminding herself sternly that she did in fact know how to comport herself before visitors of rank. ‘I am Rhian, daughter of Rygehil of the Morelands who is the barown of this land. My lord, I render you humble thanks for all you have done.’ She spread her skirts and curtsied deeply.