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This Passing Sun by Alexandra Lynch [Reviews - 1]
They blocked the door so he has to squeeze past. He trips over a deliberately placed foot and sprawls into the dirt and the sunlight. There's a snort from the older squire training them. "That kind of grace will get your head separated from your shoulders, Gawain," he comments. "Watch the others and see if you can manage to get it right." The hot flush of rage burns up his cheeks, but he's learned not to give in. He grits his teeth, and stands, shakes off the dirt and the bruise he can feel growing on his knee. He darts a sullen glance at the others. Gaheris sneers back, a wordless statement of mockery quickly blanked from his face by the time Bors turns around and starts handing out the practice swords. The sun's merciless, and so is Bors. They are half-grown boys, awkward as colts and as clumsy, and Gawain is not the only one who's received a slap from a sword flat to correct his position, his footwork, his guard. When they're released to wash, Gawain feels the tension knot his shoulders again. Something's going to happen. Sure enough in the cool darkness of the lavatarium, he is shoved forward, stomach hitting painfully against the near rim of the trough and whacking his head against the far rim. His vision greys out for a moment, world rushing warm and dark despite the cold water his face is in, and then something grabs his shoulders, hauls him out and shoves him to sit retching on the ground. "Hands off!" a clear young voice says. Gaheris's voice is entirely too clear as well. "And what are you going to do, bastard?" There is an assembled hiss from the other boys. They press in, anticipating the fight. "What I have to," the first voice says again, determined and absolutely unwilling to be afraid of seven-to-one odds. "You want to take me on again, Gaheris? Got too many teeth in your mouth?" Gawain manages to wipe the tears from his eyes to see himself being defended by a slender, wiry boy wearing common cotte and hosen. Gaheris has flushed at the taunt. There is a noise in the hallway outside, and they all look, all but the boy standing protective guard between the others and Gawain. "This isn't over, " Gaheris says, moving away as the noise recedes. His moment is lost. "It's over, Gaheris," the boy says. "You want to hit someone, hit me. And if I find out that he's still "clumsy"…." There's a smooth threat in his voice that makes Gaheris unable to look him in the face. The boy turns, and reaches a hand to Gawain's, pulling him to his feet. "I'm Mordred," he says. He looks up. "Your head's bleeding. Come on." Gawain still feels rather sick. "Where are we going?" "To my mother," he says. "She'll make it stop bleeding, and it won't scar either. She's the best at it." Gawain isn't sure if it is a dream, sitting there by the fire, warm, wrapped in a good woolen blanket, his aches vanishing and soup warm in his belly. The small dark woman wearing expensive scarlet wool had bandaged his brow, given him a bitter potion to drink, and stripped him to his braes and washed his bruises with something else. He lets his gaze pass to the other boy sitting there on the bench. Mordred's getting his growth early, too, but it's not the hulking shoulders of Gaheris, but a long-limbed grace and self-possession. He is sitting there gazing into the fire, dark eyes half-shut. The fire paints gold down across the bones of his face, across his clasped hands. When Gawain looks back, he knows this is when he fell in love with Mordred. They are passing from one tourney to another, armor loaded onto the back of packhorses, their retainers riding behind and before in good order. Gawain tops Mordred by a foot, broad shouldered and long-limbed. He keeps sandy brown hair cut close to go under a helm. Mordred is smaller, slightly darker of skin, dark eyed and black haired. His hair is longer, and he wears it tied back from his face. Mordred it is who whistles through his teeth to the outriders and reins in. He tosses the reins to one of his men, and says, "We'll camp here tonight. I'll not ride in the dark, this far from a town." This is only good sense. The woods are dark and heavy on either side of the path that is grandly titled a road. But here there is a clearing, a place to camp. A burn scar shows it's been used before. The men eat and drink, and the dice come out in the firelight, but Mordred is jumpy as a cat. Gawain moves to shed the leathers he rides in, and at the first rattle of the belt, Mordred turns, shakes his head. He has his sword still girded beside his hip. "What's wrong?" Gawain asks. "Strip down, it's no good sleeping in your armor when you don't have to." Mordred shakes his head. "Three quarter moon, and us out here, and the night birds are restless, scared to sing. I know nothing. But I'd rather stay safe." Gawain sits down beside him, stares into the fire, and listens as he learned from Morgan, listening out past the men talking and the fire's hiss and pop, out, and then on the fringes of hearing, he hears movement, stealthy and soft. He turns his head, catches Mordred's eyes. I hear them too. Mordred's body servant looks up, cocks his head in question. Mordred pulls his ear, settles his sword on his hip, casual movements, but his servant's eyes narrow in understanding. He turns back to the dice game, and one after another men shift, gathering themselves, the long daggers and swords they wear loose in their sheaths. Waiting. The attack is undisciplined, ragged men who've been living rough and wild trying desperately for provisions and plunder. But some were soldiers once, and remember. Gawain parries, ducks, and efficiently thrusts, taking another man down. A flicker of movement, half-seen, and he turns, half-blocking a spear and seeing the tip flick, seeing blood on Mordred's face, hears him swear by old gods and swing under the spear and disembowl the man. Suddenly, it is just them, standing in the clearing and panting, blood up from the battle. They have lost no one. Gawain helps the men carry the bodies into the woods away from the camp. They were outlaws, and no one would give them Christian burial. When he returns, the fire has been built up and Mordred's man is stitching up the cut on his face with tiny, delicate, precise stitches. Mordred sits relaxed, eyes wide, staring off into space. He is spattered with blood, grimy, and as the last stitch is tied off, he looks over at Gawain and grins madly. In the end, they all settle, the excitement burning suddenly into deadly fatigue. The watch is set, and Gawain sits there and watches the fire's dying light playing red glints into Mordred's dark hair. If I had not turned, he thinks, and wonders at the sick dread that catches his heart. Mordred's eyes open. "Can't sleep?" he mutters. "Thinking," Gawain says. Mordred grins. "Aye, that's the noise keeping me awake, the rocks crashing about in your head!" Gawain grins, and says, "I'd take you down for that, churl, but I don't fight a wounded man." Mordred laughs and surges over him, moves like a cat and Gawain finds himself laughingly pinned beneath Mordred. His white teeth gleam in a grin in the moonlight. It's a mad grin, and Gawain feels the madness, this lunacy, sweeping over him with the cold light of the moon. "And will you fight now?" Mordred teases. Gawain shifts under him, gathering himself, and freezes as pleasure burns through him, through them both, from a thrust of a hip. Their eyes catch each other, but no one says a word. This isn't a fight, but a dance as controlled as any of the sets of movements they'd been taught. Thrust and parry, shift and turn, but it's right, so right, and Mordred over him is softened, mouth open on a breath, eyes half hooded until he shivers with something that isn't pain and Gawain shuts his eyes as his own release overtakes him. In the morning, Gawain pulls on a clean set of braes and arms himself again, settling the weight of his saddle up on the horse, the men moving quickly to strike camp. If they keep moving, they'll reach the city gates before nightfall. He elbows the horse and it sighs, and he tightens the cinch up. Mordred's gaze is like mail on his shoulders.He does not turn around. But he tosses Mordred the best of the apples to break his fast, and in the quick flash of smile that Mordred gives him he knows that everything's better than right, now. They hadn't needed to say anything between them. Their eyes had met, blue like summer skies to Gawain's green ones, the flush had burnt up her cheeks, and her lashes had dipped once before the hot gaze scorched him. He was unsurprised that he was sent the silken veil she'd worn flying like a banner from her hat, its edges sparkling with gold thread. He wore it to victory, twisted torse-like about his helm. Mordred is there as he rides back, the cheering of the crowd ringing in his ears. His men were there to take his lance, to take the reins, to help him from his tourney saddle, and Mordred offers him a full wineskin with a brilliant grin, and a statement that three knights had already offered to ransom their gear, that they could go back to Camelot and rest up for the rest of the season….or perhaps go on pilgrimage to Compostela, or even to Jerusalem… Gawain makes no reply, for he sees the demure white headcloth and modish blue dress of the lady's maid who waits in the shadows behind Mordred. He knows why she's there. "Right now," Gawain replies, thrusting the skin back in his hands, "I suspect paradise awaits me in a sweet bower." Mordred pauses a long moment, and turned, sees the girl behind him. A bit of color flames in his cheeks, but he nods. His eyes are shuttered and unreadable. "I'll see to things," he says. "When you rouse your arse tomorrow, we'll decide." When Gawain finally slept, his sweat had been washed from him with perfumed waters, his sore muscles eased by the heat of a good hot bath and a warm room, and his appetites had been utterly sated by the rich young widow who had put on the tourney. But in the small space between waking and sleep, as she drew close and murmured sweet words in his ear, he wondered what he'd done wrong, that he felt so very guilty. He doesn't stay with her past Prime, but comes to the inn and rousts Mordred from his sleep. Mordred sleeps like a cat, awakes at once, eyes a bit soft resting on him til he inhales. The dark eyes go cold then, like the deceptively shallow bogs of the northlands. "I want a bath before I ride," he says, rising instantly from his pallet, taking it apart to reveal that he slept on top of his sword and maile, a dirk in his hand under the blanket. "And you need one." Gawain trots along obediently behind. When they're naked and soaking in the hot water of the spring, he wants to say something , but can't think of anything more than, "Were you serious about the Holy Land?" Mordred hears this as he ducks, and rises up spluttering with laughter. "If it worries you that much, then no, Gawain! A crazy notion with all that money in my hands, that's all, the two of us and adventure…." His voice trails off, and Gawain is there for a moment, adventuring with him, to Jerusalem, to the mystic lands of Egypt, and Samarkand, and even perhaps India or Cathay… "But we should return to Camelot. My mother writes that there is still no heir." Gawain nods. He is a nephew, and well within the pool they'll choose the king from, should there be no heir of Arthur's body. It might not be a bad thing to be king. He watches Mordred plunge himself into the cold pool, swimming like a fish, and Gawain finds his body remembers how when he follows. They are the only ones in here this early, and he catches up with Mordred, ducking him, getting ducked, in a childish bout of splashing and laughter. They hoist themselves out, and Gawain stops, contemplating the slender grace of his friend. He feels his eyes on him, and turns. Eyes meet, and then Mordred smiles, almost mirthlessly. "Let's eat," he says. "And then we'll count the money and see where we stand." Over the ale and bread and cold meat, Mordred looks up and says, "I'm surprised you don't want to stay with your lady a while." "She's not my lady." Gawain's reply is instantaneous, and he looks surprised. But he continues. "She's husband hunting, and I'm not in any mood to be shackled yet." Mordred nods, and says, "If we were to wend our way home by the southward route, we could hit the tourney at Troyes, and then a month later surely at Orleans, then at Poitiers, turn north in time for Caen, and take ship at Cherbourg." Gawain nods. "Sounds like a good plan." He sighs. "You've always got a plan. Me, I just do what seems to be a good idea at the time." He is fighting with a piece of gristle in the meat, and doesn't see the look that Mordred gives him. He could not believe that Arthur was not listening to him. What a numbskull he was! Guinevere was sitting among her women, weaving, and she didn't look at him as he passed. Not that he bore her any ill will….he'd been among those that rescued her. But one had to be sensible. Let her stay at the nunnery til her courses return…or til they don't. But Arthur took her straight to his bed, forbade any discussion, pretended nothing had happened. And what now? She'd not eaten that morning, and the fact had gone round the castle like wildfire. His frustration was rising. He made his manners and left, wishing there was something round there to beat on. He breaks a wooden sword on a pell, and sees Mordred coming into the yard. "Things did not go overwell with my lord king, did they?" Gawain shakes his head. "Doesn't he see what will happen? The barons will fracture if there's a doubt about the heir. We'll have war again." Mordred nods. "My mother left for her estates yesterday," he said. "She feels it's better that she have her own hand over her own people, now." Gawain nods. "I've been offered a bride," he says. "Who is her father?" Mordred's question is sharp and quick. "Old Ban, one of Arthur's council. I turned him down," Gawain says. "It doesn't matter. I don't want that, not now." Mordred's eyes search Gawain's face, but he stares off into the distance, watching a crow row clumsily in for a landing, before he speaks again. "I had private speech with my mother before she left," Mordred said. "And?" "The meadows in the north of my land," Mordred says slowly, "are good for horses. My people ride almost as soon as they walk. Do you remember that black stud I brought back from Champagne?" Gawain laughs. "How could I forget him? Tall as a wall and built like a fortress. A man would be unstoppable on him. There's nothing like that in the whole of the land." "He throws true in his colts. He's stood to stud now for five years, and I have horses that no one in the south has ever seen the like of., and a company of men who ride like centaurs in armor." There is a pause. A cold breeze circles round them as the sun lowers towards the trees. The summer is ending. His answer is obvious, really. He somehow always knew. "I'll have to come up, pick one of those colts out," he says. He is feeling a bit cold, and shivers. "Do it now if you're going to," Mordred says. "The autumn will come on suddenly when it comes. I'm returning in two days myself. There's things I need to look over, get ready for." "Want company?" Mordred smiles tautly and reaches out a hand to clap him on the shoulder. Gawain smiles at him in return. The tension is gone. "Yours, always," Mordred replies. Two days later they ride out of the gates of Camelot, their men behind them, and turn north. It is clear, but there is a storm on the horizon. |
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