Camelot’s Shadow

He left the tent amid a stony silence. Out in the open air he called for his horse and his sword. The animal was brought to him by a sour-faced man with Wolfget’s blazon on his tunic. Harrik mounted and urged the horse into an easy canter until he was well out of earshot of the assembly encampment.

When he judged he had gone far enough, he pulled up on the reins. The horse halted and Harrik climbed down. Looking sharply about him, he led the animal into the thick of the forest. There, he tethered the horse loosely to an elm tree. He did not want the animal trapped if he did not come back. He tightened the laces on his scabbard so his sword would not jingle. Then, one careful step at a time, he made his way through bracken and fern back to the camp.

He had been uneasy when Wolfget sent his messenger with the invitation to this secret council. He had grown more uneasy each time he contemplated it. It was folly, this idea that the handful of Saxons who remained on the Isle of Britain could defeat Arthur. Worse, it was suicide.

But is it enough for what I do now? Harrik glimpsed the fabric of the tents and the sparkle of studded leather through the trees. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground. Trying not to rustle the carpet of leaves beneath him, he crawled forward on his hands and knees. Is it truly enough to turn spy on your own people?

Apparently, it was, because he lay prostrate on the ground with fern leaves tickling his brow and nose, watching the camp carefully.

And we’ll see who stays and goes, and when and how. If I am wrong about how it will go, so much the better. But if I am right…

He composed himself to patience. To keep his mind from the incessant itch of the ferns, he set about studying the sentries, thinking how he would have posted and armed them in Wolfget’s place.

Men came and went. Servants brought wine and meat into the tent. The guests came out to relieve themselves or check on their horses. The sentries paced, or lounged about. The lounging became more frequent as the time wore on. Harrik shook his head minutely. Wolfget was not well served.

The tent’s flap lifted again. This time, it was the woman who came out. In the full daylight she was even more shatteringly lovely than he had thought. His heart and loins both began to ache with an urgency he had thought himself past.

The woman looked about her. Evidently, she saw nothing that displeased her. She raised one hand and spoke a word Harrik could not understand. In the next breath, he heard the flapping of heavy wings. A raven glided down from the trees and came to rest on the woman’s waiting wrist.

She brought her wrist down until the bird’s eyes were level with her own. She contemplated the raven for a long time, and it stared back unwinking, which a beast should not have been able to do. At last, the woman opened her mouth.

The raven thrust beak, head, and neck well down her throat.

Harrik jerked backward, forgetting the need for silence. The woman and the bird stood still, its head in her mouth, like some foul statuary. He realized the muscles of her throat swelled and contracted. Not swallowing, but pushing something out.

Harrik’s own throat clamped down around his breath.

The raven pulled its head free of the beauty’s mouth. She smiled broadly and lifted her wrist again. The bird spread its shining wings and flew away.

She watched her pet vanish into the sky, turned, and went back inside the tent.

Harrik, struggling to keep his breathing under control, crawled back into the woods on his hands and knees. He moved as far and as fast as he could, but finally, he had to stop and vomit at the roots of a birch tree.

What manner of secret friends have you, Wolfget? He raised his head and wiped a shaking hand across his mouth. What alliances have you made for us?

He sat and listened for a moment. No sound of pursuit cut through the small rustles of wind and the forest life. Harrik forced himself to get to his feet and take his bearings. As soon as his knees had stopped shaking enough that he could be sure of his footing, he made his way back to his horse.

The animal was still there, chewing thoughtfully at the undergrowth. Harrik led it back to the road and slung himself into the saddle. To his shame, he found he had to work to keep himself from taking the horse to a gallop to escape as quickly as possible from what he had seen.

You are a fool. A fool! He admonished himself. You have seen far worse things in battle.

But the truth was, he had not. He had heard stories of such horrors, of course, and told a few himself, with great relish. Witches and wizards had their ways and everyone knew it. Did not Arthur have Merlin to advise him and keep watch over his captains and capital? But to see so unnatural a thing…

I grow old. I grow dull. Perhaps this role of spy and traitor is all I am fit for anymore.

The forest thickened around him. The sound of his horse’s hooves became muffled by the unbroken carpet of leaves. The wind freshened and Harrik tried to catch a glimpse of sky between the leafy branches overhead. There might be rain before long, but without a clear view of sky there was no telling. The prospect of concluding his business in a downpour, further darkened his mood, but he rode on.

Up ahead, the road forked, one branch bearing west, the other continuing north. At their crux, a man tended a small fire. A great, pale horse was tethered nearby. Green trappings hung from its reins. A bay palfrey stood beside it, nuzzling a patch of fern. Its reins were also hung with green. The studded shield propped against a tree was covered in green as well.

The man himself was no longer a youth, but neither was he old. He was dark in hair and eye. His beard had been shaved clean off. His shoulders and arms were powerful. Here was a man who had not led an idle life. He could not be taken for anything but a Briton lord. He looked up at Harrik’s approach and raised a friendly hand.

‘God be with you this day, good sir.’

‘God be with you,’ Harrik answered. ‘I’d be glad of a rest. May I share your fire?’

‘You may,’ said the man. ‘If you can tell me my name.’

Harrik gave a show of consideration. ‘I think you are my Lord Gawain, captain of the Round Table and nephew to Arthur, the High King.’

Gawain smiled and got to his feet. ‘My Lord Harrik,’ he bowed deeply. ‘You are most welcome.’

‘And I am most honoured.’ Harrik dismounted and tethered his small hairy horse next to Gawain’s animals. ‘I was stunned to receive word Arthur would send his nephew to me.’

‘He means it as a token of his good will.’ Gawain opened one of his saddlebags which lay on the ground beside his shield. He pulled out a folded sheet of parchment. ‘As you will find written here.’ The document was sealed in red wax impressed with the dragon rampant that was Arthur’s sign.

‘You may assure His Majesty that I will read this with great attention.’ He tucked the document into his shirt.

‘But now you have other news for me?’ Gawain folded his legs and settled by the fire again.

‘I do.’ Harrik sat beside him. He watched the fire for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words he wanted would not come.

‘I have a son at Camelot,’ he said awkwardly. ‘My only boy. They have taken him well in hand there. I visited him not three months ago. He has been taught to read and write Latin. He can use a sword and ride better than I could at his age. He grows into a strong and reasoned man.’ He paused. A stick in the fire snapped in two. ‘Not a brute. Not a barbarian. Not like the men I knew when I was a boy, a world away from here.’

Gawain nodded. ‘I think you will find word of your boy in His Majesty’s letter. I believe my brother Geraint intends to take him as squire.’

Harrik touched his shirt. ‘I like this peace of Arthur’s. I like this land. I do not…’ He clenched his fist. ‘I will not see it die to feed Wolfget’s blood-lust.’

‘You too are a strong and reasoned man,’ said Gawain softly. ‘I ask you, of your courtesy, tell me what you have seen.’

Harrik spoke slowly, sketching the events of the council. Gawain listened attentively. When Harrik named each of the men he saw there, Gawain asked pointed questions about where their lands were, how many men they commanded, and who their allies were. Harrik could see the knight sketching a map of the treachery in his mind.

Then, Harrik told him of the woman and the raven.

Gawain’s eyebrows lifted. ‘That, friend, is an unwholesome thing.’

Harrik gave one short bark of a laugh. ‘Those are milder words than I would use, my lord.’

Gawain smiled. ‘You have not seen the inside of Merlin’s workroom. No,’ he held up his hand. ‘Pray do not ask me. I was a youth when I had my glimpse, and more of a fool than I knew.’

Harrik dismissed the suggestion with a wave. ‘I have no intention of questioning you. As it is, I know more of magic than I care to.’

‘That shows your wisdom as clearly as anything you have yet done,’ said Gawain soberly. ‘My Lord Harrik, it was my intention to linger in this land for a day or two to see what else I could learn, but what you have told me, both about Wulfweard and his nameless lady, shows me I must return to the High King without delay.’

Harrik stood. ‘Let me take my leave of you then.’

They clasped hands and each commended the other to God. Harrik rode away feeling moderately better. The High King’s letter crackled in his bosom. His old loyalties sold for new safety and peace, and his son’s life.

All at once, his horse stumbled. A curse slipped out of Harrik’s mouth. The animal recovered its gait, but not completely. It limped now, favouring its left foreleg.

‘God’s legs,’ muttered Harrik, as he halted the beast and climbed to the ground. He bent down and with a practised hand, coaxed the horse to lift its hoof and show him the bottom.

There, a round stone shoved deep into the soft frog of the hoof. Harrik retrieved the hoof pick from his pack and swearing in each of the three languages he knew, finally managed to pry it loose. There was no question of being able to ride any further, though. The animal was lamed. He would have to walk the rest of the way.

He let the horse drop its hoof and looked at the stone. It was a round-bottomed, sharp-edged chunk of flint that had done the damage.

How does such a thing come to be in a forest? This belongs on some low riverbank.

He drew his arm back to hurl the thing into the bushes.

But as he looked where he aimed, he saw a huge black raven sitting on the branch of a maple tree. The bird gave a rough, mocking croak and flew into the air.

Harrik’s fist closed around the stone. His heart grew chill and inside him a small quiet voice told him the horse’s lameness did not matter now. Harrik, Hullward’s son, would not reach home after all.

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