Risa, page 15
Kin. “No, Lady. He …” How to explain at all, let alone quickly? Awake and rested she could not have performed such a feat. She had repeated this story several times already. Where had this woman been all the day?
“Your rescuer, perhaps?” the lady prodded.
Was there mockery in Pacis’s words, or was it just that her exhaustion made Risa foolish?
“He did rescue me, yes.” She tried to stiffen her spine, to bring some dignity to her words and her bearing, but she was a hollow reed, and could only bend.
But Pacis was too set in her own purposes to see Risa’s weariness. “The High King has no greater champion than Gawain,” she said, twisting her long, fine hands together. “It is good to have him here again at such a time. It has been too long since I have seen him.”
What was happening here? Risa felt a current under Pacis’s words, but she could not make out where it came from. “You know Lord Gawain?”
“Very well. He spent a summer in this hall not so long ago, when I was newly married. I have missed him.”
That pricked Risa like a dart, and her mind began to clear to the meaning of Lady Pacis’s conversation. “I can understand how one would.”
Pacis leaned forward. “You know by now, I am sure, how fortunate you are in your protector.”
Oh, God and Mary, this woman cherished some passion for Gawain, and she was looking to Risa to help her polish this heart’s treasure. No. Hospitality and politeness could go hang. “I have thanked Christ and the Virgin many times over for him.” With those words, she stood.
Pacis blinked at the suddenness of the gesture. But then, she also stood. “I am thoughtless. You must be exhausted,” but under the observation was something tart, almost prim. “Holda, attend your mistress. God watch over you this night, Lady.”
“God watch over us all.”
Pacis slipped from the room and Risa stared after her, even as Holda began undoing her laces and removing the sleeves of her dress.
What had she done? What did Pacis think she meant by her gesture of dismissal?
Oh, no.
What if she thought Risa did not want to speak of Gawain because they were lovers?
Risa wanted to laugh. When would they have had time in the madness of the past few days?.
in the woods, her wool-cloaked mind answered her. By the fire, after the kiss …
She tried to push all that aside. What did it matter if this woman loved Gawain from afar? There must be a hundred or more who did. And what matter that there would be rumors about Risa and Gawain? She had known when she arrived escorted only by a single man that the gossips would be instantly busy. Compared to what waited outside these walls, it was nothing. God, Mary and Gawain knew the truth, and that would have to be enough.
Not that the High King’s nephew would ever consider anything more than a dalliance with one such as she, and she had already made it plain that such a thing was not welcome to her.
Despite all her attempts to reassure herself, Risa felt suddenly, horribly sad. She wanted to be at home, among her own things, with her mother setting the hall in order before bed, not surrounded by strangers in danger from within as well as without.
Mother, I pray you, have patience, have courage. I will send you word as soon as I am able. I miss you.
Mother would know what to say about Lady Pacis, and it would probably not be complimentary. Would she know what to say about Gawain, though?
As soon as Holda had undressed Risa down to her borrowed shift, Risa burrowed under the bedcovers and took refuge in warm and blessed sleep.
Chapter Eight
The dawn brought the Saxons. They poured down out of the eastern pass in a river of light and darkness. Risa, standing on the walls with the women of Pen Marhas, watched them come.
Risa had heard mass with Lady Cailin in the darkness before dawn, and climbed up to the palisades as the day broke. She was dressed now in coarse wool that was spattered with the pitch she had helped pour into the kettles. Her emerald ring shone incongruously on her hand. It was a ludicrous gaud to be wearing at such a time, but she had come so close to losing it to the Saxons, she could not bear to leave it behind in the common sleeping room.
The stench of hot pitch mingled with that of offal and slop from the buckets waiting beside the kettles. With them were piles of stones and other refuse, anything that might be thrown down to wound, or at the least, delay and confuse. Risa had brought her bow, but she had only the one quiverfull of arrows. There were just four bows in the whole of Pen Marhas, counting hers, and the arrows had to be shared out between them. The town did have a man who knew fletching, but he had used up all his materials working through the night. Whatever arrows they had with them now were all they would have.
From here, it was easy to see Gawain. Gringolet’s white hide shone like a beacon in the cold, morning light. They had not spoken since he had left the table last night. She wondered if he had asked after her. She had not heard that he had.
A few other things on his mind perhaps, she suggested to herself as she watched him gesturing left and right to other riders. Thedu Bannain rode a chestnut gelding and clutched an axe in his gauntleted hand. Pen Marhas’s lord had mustered ten other men on horseback to meet the Saxons.
The rest of the hall’s able men waited behind the earthworks. At first light, they had been busy as ants shoring up their defenses as quickly as they might. Now with the pounding rush of the Saxons pouring over them, they crouched with their heads down, concealing their numbers, waiting for the river to reach the valley floor.
The horses’ hooves shook the ground as they charged. The war cries shook the air. All at once, she heard Gawain’s voice, clear as a hunter’s horn above the Saxon’s dreadful thunder, and saw him charge out from the break in the earthworks, with the wave of the men of Pen Marhas surging up behind him.
The two armies clashed together in an explosion of sound like a hundred blacksmiths beating madly on their anvils. Gringolet bobbed here and there like a cork in a whirlpool while Gawain laid about him with his sword. Risa could not even see Bannain. She leaned forward as far as the palisades permitted, her hands gripping the wooden pickets until her palms began to hurt, trying to see if Gawain was hard pressed, trying to see if his enemies fell or rallied. There was no way to tell for there was no way to distinguish friend from foe. Around her the women hollered, cheering on their husbands and fathers, brothers and sons, and cursing the Saxons for their arrogance and blood thirst.
The day wore on. The noise ebbed and flowed with the tide of men. Half-a-dozen times the defenders retreated behind their earthen banks. Half-a-dozen times they rallied and charged again to break against the raiders, surge through them, mix with them, clash and crash, cry out and die, or live to rise with the battle’s tide again. The cacophony beat against Risa’s ears until her head hurt as badly as her hands from holding bow and arrow ready. As badly as her eyes did from straining to follow Gawain’s movements through the swarm of warriors.
Risa did what she could from the walls with her bow, but could not tell what effect her arrows had, save for once when her shot, by luck more than skill, transfixed a brawny Saxon warrior in the throat. She imagined rather than heard his gurgling scream as he fell, and flinched away from the horror in his distant eyes, surprised to find that despite this her hands held steady as they reached for another arrow.
The sun crawled across the sky so slowly, Risa felt certain it had stopped in its course. She was hot. She was thirsty. Pain pounded at hands, arms, eyes and head. The wind blew in from the battlefield, bearing all the smells of metal, blood and trampled earth. Her eyes had gone numb from the noise and she wanted nothing more than to creep away somewhere quiet and hide.
This had gone on too long. It had to end soon. It had to.
But it did not. On the field, the warriors milled, separated and retreated, and came together again, raising once more the terrible riot of metal clashing against metal and the sound of voices raised in screams of pain or bloody triumph.
At long last, the sun did sink toward the horizon. On the field, the warriors milled, separated and retreated. The men of Pen Marhas ran back behind their earthworks, and the Saxons loped and limped back up into the hills to wait for the morning, so they could descend again, so the battle could begin again.
Evening and quiet came together, broken only by the cries of the wounded. Those men who could still stand guarded the walls while the gates were cracked open to allow the men to slip in and women to slip out to help retrieve the dead and hurt. Blood mixed with the salt sweat soaking Risa’s dress as she helped a youth with a deep gash in his arm up to the shelter of the inner walls and the stout hall. She had assisted her mother in nursing men who had been hurt by scythes during the harvest, and once with a man whose horse had rolled on him and crushed his pelvis. She had heard these screams before, and she had seen death.
But by the time she and her man entered the hall, there must have been a score of men already laid out in the great hall with their women and children beside them, doing their best to bring ease with water and prayer. The physician and the skilled women moved among them, packing the wounds with wax and cobwebs, or grimly stitching the deeper wounds while those who were still whole held the man down as he screamed around the biting stick. The stench of blood and waste was far worse in here than it had been on the field. Over the work and the prayer hung the knowledge that this was only the beginning. These sons and brothers and fathers were only the first to fall.
Risa felt hatred blossom in her heart.
She worked with the others, fetching and carrying, holding the hands of strong men while they screamed from the healer’s attentions. The torches were long lit by the time the last man was tended and covered in a blanket to find what rest he could. There’d be fevers by morning and poisons of blood. God would take some to him and leave others, and it was all in His hands now.
Suddenly, the heat and the stench, the weeping of the wounded and the women became too much. Risa fled out into the night. She leaned against the wall doing nothing but breathing the fresh air. She could ignore the battle taint on the wind, for out here at least, it was cool, and quiet.
The clouds were thickening overhead. There would be rain before morning, but enough moonlight remained to allow her to separate shape and shadow. With wandering steps she circled the hall, stretching out the cramps in her legs and hand. Even though her eyes adjusted to the fading light of the moon, she kept them lowered. She did not want to see the sentries on the walls, nor yet the black bulk of the hills above them where the Saxons waited.
Ahead of her came the sound of someone sighing and splashing. Risa halted in her tracks. She had come round to the stables, and ahead of her a group of men bent over one of the stone horse troughs. Their backs were bare and they scooped up the water in their hands, rinsing the day’s battle off head and arms. One of them straightened up and brushed his dark hair over his shoulders, causing the water to run in silver rivulets down his back, wetting the bandages that encircled his ribs and Risa realized it was Gawain.
She meant to speak, or to retreat, she was not certain which, but one of the men lifted his head and saw her. He paused in his crude libations, which immediately caused all the others to turn and look as well. Gawain faced her, and Risa found she could not speak at all.
He was beautiful. Not perfect, for he was scarred. Two ragged lines ran down his chest, disappearing underneath the bandages and he was bruised on both his arms from the pounding he had taken yesterday and today. There was no blood on him, thank Christ. His sun-browned skin was whole and sound over the planes of his muscles, his wide shoulders, his trim waste.
You’re staring, you fool.
She was, and she was not the only one who noticed. The other men, half-naked, bearded, bruised, covered in old scars and fresh cuts, also stared, at her.
“Well, here’s a pretty little thing,” said one, wiping his beard.
“I think she’s here for you, my lord,” laughed another, stepping back solicitously so Gawain could get by. Risa felt herself blush deeply.
“See if she’ll come back for me!” roared a third, which set all the men guffawing with sharp-edged mirth.
Gawain set his back to Risa, his shoulders absolutely square and rigid. “I did not hear that, Donyerth.” Although he spoke quietly, Risa could clearly make out every word in the sudden silence. “I trust the jest was not in reference to this lady.”
There was not enough light to see if the man blanched, but his apology was hasty, and sincere. “No, no, my Lord Gawain, I was … it was someone else. Not the lady, of course not.”
Gawain donned his tunic and came to Risa’s side. “Lady Risa.” He bowed formally. “May I escort you to the hall?”
“Thank you, sir.” She took the arm he offered her. Though she knew the men would say nothing in Gawain’s hearing, she still felt their gazes heavy on her shoulders as they walked away. They’d have plenty to say soon enough, and she could easily guess the sort of talk it would be.
The sounds of splashing resumed behind them, growing fainter as they walked the length of the hall. “I’m sorry for that,” said Gawain.
Risa found herself looking up at the sky. There was only the faintest sheen of moonlight left behind the clouds. What little illumination lit the yard came from the guard’s torches on the walls. “There’s no avoiding it. I am a’woman alone with a man who is no relation.”
Gawain halted; and faced her. “They are men fresh from battle, glad to be alive and terrified that they will not be so when evening comes tomorrow.” He lowered his eyes, as if speaking reluctantly of something close to his heart, and perhaps he was. “It produces in the soul a sort of drunkenness, a forgetfulness of the polite and the politic. In normal times, Donyerth would have kept a civil tongue.”
“Do you know him?” she asked, remembering that Gawain had spent some time in this place before.
“A little. A good man, as most of them are, loyal to their lord and their land.” She thought he meant to add something more, about the men, about the hall, but he did not. Risa rubbed her arms. It was growing cold. But that was not what Gawain saw. “You are tired.”
She nodded toward the sheltering walls. “I’ve never been to war before.”
Gawain shook his head. “This is not war. This is a battle. When there are a dozen or so of these all clustered together, then it is war.”
“It sounds like the pox.”
That earned her a small laugh. “But it will kill you far more quickly.” He ran both hands through his hair, and then slumped against the wall. In that posture, with his simple tunic and sandals, he looked more like a cowherder or farmer than the champion of Camelot.
“It is odd the things that come into a man’s head in battle,” he said, looking toward the palisades with their flickering lights. “I heard there was an archer on the walls, and I wondered if it was you, and when I did, I thought of a poem I had once heard, about the pagan god Apollo and a nymph—I’ve forgotten her name—but he was doomed to love her, it seems, and his love caused her to turn into a laurel tree.”
“A filmy rind about her body grows,” recited Risa.
“Her hair to leaves, her arms extend to boughs:
“The nymph is all to laurel gone;
“The smoothness of her skin remains alone.
“Yet Pheobus loves her still.”
“You are well versed.”
She spread her hands. “Spinning and weaving are dull work. In our hall, someone would sing or recite to keep us all amused while we worked. Frequently, I was that one. I was said to have a pleasant voice and I did have a good memory for stories.” She hoped that did not sound too boastful, as she hoped she did not look too haglike from her day’s labors, and then she wondered why she should care, and then she could only hope the flickering torchlight would not show the blush creeping into her cheeks as she realized Gawain was studying her thoughtfully.
Fool, fool, fool. Go to bed. You are too tired. You are dreaming on your feet. You’ll become as bad as Lady Pacis if you don’t take hold of yourself.
“What happened to Pheobus after that?” Gawain asked.
Risa dragged herself out of her thoughts with difficulty. It was growing cold. At first the cool air had been refreshing, but now it began to sink too deeply into her skin, chilling her blood. Despite that, she did not want to move indoors. She wanted to savor this moment. She was certain that when she lay in the crowded room among the strangers her dreams would not be half so pleasant as standing beside Gawain and speaking of poetry. “Pheobus declares the nymph, the laurel tree, will be his sigil from that time on. Then … he goes on being a god, I suppose. He does, I believe, fall in love many more times.”
“Ah,” said Gawain a little wistfully. “But can there be true love again, once that first is taken from him?”
Which was not something Risa had ever considered. “I do not know.”
Gawain folded his arms against his chest. His hand brushed the hall’s wooden wall, and it came to Risa that perhaps he hoped to find something else there, a sleeve or a hand, rather than the hard and unresponsive timbers. “A hard fate for a god.”
So everyone says. “I’ve always thought it was rather harder on the lady. She’s the one who had to give up what she was and be rooted by the river forever, and even then he will not leave her be. He can go on to whatever loves await him, and she is trapped.”
That seemed to startle him. He bowed his head in polite acknowledgment of the declaration. “You may be right.”
But Risa could only hear her sour words ringing in her own ears, along with the reminder that despite his serf’s garb, this was still Lord Gawain in front of her and that if the walls of Pen Marhas stood, she was still dependent on his good will. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For speaking so plain. For … ah, Mother Mary,” She turned her eyes up to the blank, black heavens. “I do not know.”
