Camelot’s Shadow

‘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 road took a turn and dipped down a small hill. The men cursed as they tried to negotiate their horses’ way down the mud-swamped slope.

‘Just here, my lord!’ Liath hastened his pony on, although the creature started to balk under him. At last the beast gave up resisting, tucked its hind legs under its tail and slid straight down the hill. Liath gaped like a fish but kept his seat, even when the pony hopped back onto all fours at the slope’s bottom. Rygehil took a moment to wonder if the boy was an extraordinary horseman or a very stupid one. As frantic as he was for Jocosa, he let his mount find its own way down. He could feel its muscles bunching and rolling as it struggled to stay upright. Rygehil tried to tear his attention away from the litter long enough to work on keeping himself in the saddle.

The trees parted at the bottom of the hill, opening on a meadow that sloped gently away from the road. At the top of the rise, Rygehil saw Liath’s shelter. His first thought was that it was far too small to be a fortress or garrison, but the shadows seemed to thicken as he stared at it and he grew uncertain as to which part was wall and which was twilight. But still, he could see the gate right enough. The building looked to be two storeys tall with a peaked roof that in the day’s last light appeared sound. A villa maybe, or an old temple that someone had turned into an outpost or hideaway before Arthur had spread his peace across the isle.

As the horses laboured up the muddy slope, the rain redoubled. Rygehil could see no more than a hand’s span in front of him. Behind him, Whitcomb was trying to direct the men minding the litter. He had to shout to be heard above the torrent. Rygehil dismounted his horse and handed the reins to Liath. Shouldering away the clod who was attempting to handle the balky litter-mule, he caught up the beast’s halter. With a firm hand and soothing words, he led the mule forward. Whitcomb took charge of the other and together they slogged towards the shelter.

After what seemed a thousand years of drowning rain and fading light, Rygehil heard cobblestones clatter under hooves. He lifted the edge of his hood and saw their chosen shelter looming against the dark sky, a black shadow against the thick grey. He could just make out the covered porch and, to his surprise, the open door.

‘Unfasten my lady’s litter,’ ordered Rygehil. ‘Liath, see if you can find some stabling for the animals. You and you,’ he pointed at two indistinct figures. ‘Help with the horses. If nothing else can be done for them, bring them onto the porch.’

The men undid the litter’s fastenings with fingers clumsy with cold. Una, Jocosa’s maid and dearest friend, peeked out from behind the litter’s curtain, taking in the situation with a shrewd eye. She jumped down at once in a cloud of skirts and veils. She was drenched in a second, but if her scolding was any sign, she cared nothing for it.

‘My lady must not be jostled, be careful you oaf, my lord, my lord, you must have greater care how you heave my lady about…’

With her fussing about them like a flustered hen, they gained the porch. Stepping under its roof was like emerging from the ocean. Rygehil shook his hood back, and felt a stream of extra water pour down his back.

They manhandled the litter through the black and open doorway. Rygehil smelled mould and dirt and confinement. His boots thudded on a dirt floor. His eyes all but burst from their sockets in an effort to see through the gloom.

‘Here seems clear enough, my lord.’ Whitcomb’s voice sounded strangely harsh in the darkness.

‘Yes, yes, put my poor mistress down.’ Rygehil heard a flopping noise and imagined Una wringing her skirts out. ‘Oh, not there, for shame, ‘tis right in the draught. Here, here.’ Rygehil made out her shadow and guided the litter towards it. She was right. Jocosa would be better in a corner out of the doorway’s draught until they could get some sort of fire alight.

He and Whitcomb set the litter down as gently as they could. He heard the curtains rustle damply. A form scrambled out. Maia, who was but lately entered into Jocosa’s service, young and plump and gasping from her efforts.

Rygehil took a deep breath. ‘How does your mistress?’

‘I…oh, my lord…’

Rygehil dropped to his knees beside the litter. He tossed his gloves aside and lifted up the sodden curtain with a trembling hand. He could not see anything. He reached out blindly and his fingertips brushed skin as cold as marble.

‘No,’ he whispered. Jocosa’s arm lay under his palm, icy cold. He felt his way along its length to her shoulder. She was so thin, so drawn. He could feel the bones right under the skin. He reached across to her breasts, her beautiful, pale flesh that he had kissed and stroked so many times. Now he lay his hand flat and heavy against them to find her precious breath. But her bosom lay still and fear strangled his heart and brain.

Then, her chest heaved once under his hand, and again, and yet again.

‘She lives,’ he blurted out. ‘She lives still.’

‘Praise be to God!’ cried Una. ‘Haste, now, haste, you men and see what fire we can make. There must be something to be found that can burn. Maia, hold up your cloak, girl, and shelter me from the sight of these ruffians. My shift is yet dry. We can strip off my lady’s wet garments and wrap her in that.’

‘My lord?’ Whitcomb touched Rygehil’s shoulder.

Rygehil lifted his head. Some twenty paces away, towards what Rygehil had assumed to be the back of their shelter, stood an arched doorway. Through it, golden firelight flickered against stone walls and showed a staircase leading down.

Rygehil got slowly to his feet. ‘It seems we are not the first to take shelter here.’

‘Hallo!’ called Whitcomb. ‘Hail fellow traveller!’

They waited for the echo of his voice to fade. In the silence, Rygehil noted how little the new light revealed. He could see the doorway, he could see the first few stairs, but nothing else. He could not see the walls of the room he stood in, nor the doorway behind him. He could not even, he noticed with a start, hear the rain outside anymore.

What is this? He restrained the urge to cross himself. This was a place with a fire for Jocosa. A fire she must have to stay alive.

‘Una, Maia, look well to my lady.’ Rygehil laid a gentle hand on the litter curtain. ‘Whitcomb, you and I will go speak with the maker of that light. The rest of you, stand ready.’ He touched the hilt of his sword as if it were a piece of the True Cross and started forward.

‘My lord…’ Rygehil turned to look at Whitcomb. Whatever he meant to say, he evidently thought the better of it, as he closed his mouth and followed silently after his master.

The light dazzled his eyes that had been too long in darkness. Rygehil had to touch the wall to be sure of his way. The stone was smooth and cool under his hand, and solid under his boots. When his sight cleared, he saw the hollows worn in the centres of the steps from years of feet passing this way. This place was old, whatever it was.

Rygehil counted fifteen steps before his boots found dirt again. They stood in a short corridor of stone that opened up ahead and to the left. Strangely, this cellar smelled cleaner than the room upstairs. It felt dry, and was wholesome with the sharp scent of wood smoke. The flickering light of flames turned the stone walls orange and red and gold.

‘Who is there?’ called Rygehil as he moved forward. Again, silence answered him.

He reached the opening in the wall and peered into the chamber beyond.

First, he saw the fire blazing in its central pit. Its heat wafted over him like a welcome dream. Black against the golden fire stood the silhouette of a tall man. His robes hung in heavy folds all the way to the floor. Rygehil could make out the profile of a craggy face and deep-set eyes, but little else. The man stood completely still and gazed into the fire as if it held the secrets of Heaven.

Gradually, as his eyes grew accustomed to the play of light and shadow, Rygehil began to make out other details of the chamber. Along with the strange, rapt man and his blazing fire, it held a large number of trestle tables. These were crammed with braziers, alembics, retorts, various squat beakers of clay. Among them were vessels made of clear blown glass, more than Rygehil had ever seen in his life. They also held lumps of raw minerals, twisted pieces of metal and other forms he could only guess at, but a raw, animal stench reached him over the clean smell of wood smoke and he decided he would be glad not to draw closer. More beakers hung from the cellar’s wooden roof beams, along with bunches of dried herbs and here and there a dead bird or hare.

All at once, the man turned and fixed Rygehil with a piercing stare. To his shame, Rygehil took a step back and laid his hand upon his sword hilt.

‘Your woman is very ill.’ The stranger’s voice was soft and dry, but its tone was almost musical.

Rygehil swallowed hard. ‘Who are you, Sir, that you know of her trouble?’

The stranger smiled thinly. ‘I am called Euberacon Magus, and, as you see, I am master of this place.’ He waved one long hand to indicate the room about him. ‘I know all that occurs within its confines. Thus, I know that your woman, your lady wife, I believe you term her, is in danger for her life.’

Rygehil realized his hand was still on his sword hilt. He left it where it was. ‘She needs shelter, and a fire. Sir, since you are provided of both, I beseech you to allow us to trespass upon your hospitality…’

‘She needs more than that.’ Euberacon turned his gaze back towards the fire. ‘Death on his pale horse seeks her in the storm outside. He may yet find his way here, if nothing is done to prevent him.’

Rygehil’s stomach knotted painfully at these words. At the same moment, Whitcomb touched his shoulder. ‘My lord, I do not like this. I do not like this man and his guesses and secrets. There is something unclean about this place.’

‘Your man is right to urge you to caution.’ Euberacon turned to them again, with his thin smile showing on his long, lined face. ‘All art, all science and all practitioners thereof should indeed be approached with caution.’

Rygehil waved Whitcomb to silence. ‘Are you a philosopher, Sir? Have you some skill as a physician?’

Euberacon inclined his head modestly. ‘I have, Sir. Bring the woman to me. I will see what may be done.’