Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
Then they came upon the Lady of the Lake, who was passing beautiful and a noble age, and she hosted them in her great chamber, and changed them with all her subtle crafts, and sent them away different than they had been before.
—FROM AN EARLY DRAFT OF THE QUESTS OF KING GAbrIEL AND HIS ROUND TABLE BY SIR FLORIAN ARDEN
The next day, the schedule took a dramatic turn for the worse.
They were to cross the border into the independent territories of Wales—a perfectly pleasant proposition in and of itself, with international tensions long diffused, but it was to be a week’s ride, their progress slowed by the inconveniences of a large traveling company.
“I don’t see the point,” Neil said, hungover and in a griping mood as they packed.
He seemed to be approaching this entire venture as a sort of consequence-free holiday for young lads, and had fallen in with some of the guards, pages, and squires who behaved badly after hours and loved to egg each other on.
“Gabriel’s not the King of Wales, so who cares? ”
“Lady of the Lake is a biggie,” said Bridget. “People want us to confirm if she’s real. Also, it’s good to be friendly.”
“Is it?” Neil hissed. “That’s never been your motto. Or mine. It’s good to be unfriendly. Then you don’t have to talk to anyone.”
“You talk to everyone.”
“Not,” Neil said, suffering immensely, “in the morning.”
In the courtyard, Bridget came across Gwen and Arthur deep in serious conversation, heads together.
It was still quite funny seeing them like this, after all the animosity of their childhoods, the dramatics of last summer.
Bridget could see why Lord Best might look at them, great friends now completely at ease with each other, and have no idea why they hadn’t turned said bond into a politically advantageous marriage and a brood of stubborn, headstrong babies who’d grow up to be exactly five feet and nine inches tall.
She wondered if they were perhaps talking about her, and stopped finding the scene quite so sweet.
She busied herself checking Fiona’s tack, as if Neil wouldn’t have done it twice already, and when Gwen sidled up to her she felt another twinge of shame.
“Faring well?” she said, her tone casual.
“Yep,” Bridget said immediately. “Fine.”
“You know you don’t have to be—”
Bridget released the girth strap. “Sorry, I know. I’m good today. Thank you.”
Gwen smiled. She looked tired. Bridget’s shame turned to guilt.
She had enough on her plate without Bridget falling apart all over her; she was the one keeping this expedition going, and Bridget had no doubt that she was also the only thing keeping Gabriel upright and on his horse.
It was too much for one person to bear. There had been enough moments of weakness from Bridget’s side; she had dealt with it, and it was done. From now on, she would do better.
“Good,” Gwen said. “That’s a very nice hat, Neil.”
Neil managed a smile, but Bridget knew it was only because he was in the presence of royalty. “Thank you, Your Highness. Arthur took a liking to it too. He offered me your hand in marriage in exchange. I hope you won’t be offended that I said no.”
“He did, did he?” said Gwen. “That’s nice. No offense taken. To you anyway.” She turned to Bridget, gave her a squeeze on the arm, and said, “I have to ride with Gabriel. We’ll talk when we make camp?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” She released Bridget’s arm, turned to squint across the courtyard until she spotted Arthur, who was now talking to Sir Florian, the two of them laughing together about something, and then raised her voice to a shout. “Arthur Delacey—did you try to trade me for a hat?”
The days were long and repetitive. The countryside changed, but it was the same rotation: field, forest, field, village, field, field, field.
Everybody was so tired by the end of each day that only the hardiest now stayed out by the fire; everyone else took their meals in blessed quietude.
Bridget ate with Gwen sometimes, but they didn’t talk about much more than what they’d seen riding that day.
Gwen was so exhausted that sometimes she’d fall asleep halfway through a meal, or a sentence—once, even a mouthful.
She wasn’t used to this kind of travel. She was a good sport about it, but it was tough, even for those with staff to attend to them, and the strain showed. They all washed in bracingly cold streams, ate rabbit and game bird for supper, rose with the sun, and slept like the dead.
By the seventh day, spirits were higher.
The end of the journey to Wales was in sight, and the land had risen up around them until they were riding through the valleys of rugged hills and small mountains.
Everything just felt better when you were next to a mountain; the journey more prestigious, the quest more historic.
Or, as Arthur put it, “Flat land is boring. Hills go up and down. A jig for the eyes.”
The lake, when they reached it, was long and windswept, the rocky hills on either side exposed to the elements, a mountain peaking in almost a perfect triangle beyond the north bank.
The sun was making a rare appearance, lighting up the land in shades of brown, green, and gold and lending a touch of color to the water, but the wind was frigid; waves rippled across its surface, and Bridget watched them and shivered.
“So is the Lady … in the Lake,” Adah said doubtfully, as they stretched their legs by the shore, “or…?”
“I’ll be disappointed if she’s not,” said Sidney. “Commit to the bit or resign in disgrace.”
“All we’ve been asked to do is confirm if she’s of magical provenance or just a … woman,” said Sir Hurst.
“How are we going to do that?” asked Adah. “Ducking stool?”
“Of course not.”
Florian, who seemed surprisingly practical, shook his head. “She wouldn’t last long in the water, in these temperatures. Perhaps that’s why she thinks she’s fae? Long-term impacts of shivering sickness?”
“Are you a cultist or not?” Sidney groused, sounding very disappointed.
“Yes, but you’ll forgive me if I refuse to believe that the Lady of the Lake appears so often and to so many people that she’s readily available to take meetings.”
Sidney sniffed. “I won’t forgive you actually.”
Everybody was irritable and cold, and there was much griping and kicking of pebbles until Sir Hurst took out his maps and consulted them with Sir Bowen’s help. They determined that the valley beyond the lake was where they would find the promised Lady.
It was a beautiful view from the top. The land fell steeply away, twin rivers wending their way through grassland and trees, small stone settlements billowing smoke in the distance. Beyond, there was another lake.
“Is she the Lady of that Lake or the Lady of this Lake?” said Adah.
Arthur, grumpy and disheveled, said, “Perhaps she casts a wide net.”
“We’ll try over there,” Sir Hurst said, pointing.
There was a wooden hut set into the side of the hill, small and simple, smoke snaking from the chimney; no visible path led to it, and it would be far too treacherous by horses and unnavigable by cart.
“No sense in us all going. I’ll lead a party, everyone else find tree cover and get warm. ”
“Get warm?” said Sidney. “How? Wind’ll kill any fire we try to start up here. Look, there’s one going in there. That looks warm.”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “And how are we going to fit everyone in a little hut?”
“We’ll just stand up very straight.”
There was a brief round of bickering after this, and in the end, Gwen, Arthur, Gabriel, Bridget, Sidney, Florian, and Adah were the ones who left their horses behind and started the trek down the mountain, led by Sir Hurst.
“If she’s buxom,” Adah said to Bridget in an aside, “it’ll all be worth it. Think buxom thoughts.”
Bridget was concentrating on where she was putting her feet, and watching Gwen, to make sure she was too. “I won’t, thanks.”
Arthur was the least steady, and spent half the time leaning on Sidney.
Bridget observed Gabriel watching him closely, thought of Gabriel throwing himself at the mercy of the blacksmith knight in Arthur’s stead, and wondered what the hell was wrong with both of them that they were still keeping a careful twenty paces apart in all circumstances.
“Use a stick!” Gwen shouted at Arthur over the wind, when he stumbled for the third time.
“I don’t need a stick!”
“You’re being stubborn for no reason! You’d love a stick! You could hit things with it!”
“That’s a good point actually! If you see a stick, chuck it over!”
By the time they reached the hut, the sun was gone, and nerves were frayed to breaking point. If they knocked on the door and didn’t find the Lady within, Bridget suspected that unchivalrous tantrums might ensue.
Sir Hurst was the one to rap three times.
When the door opened, a middle-aged woman with tawny skin, a mass of dark, curly, unbrushed hair shot with gray, and deep laughter lines was looking back at them expectantly.
She was wearing an old tunic with an apron thrown on top, flour smeared across her thighs, greenish copper bracelets clinking on her wrists.
“Aha!” she said, her voice faintly accented, although Bridget couldn’t place the origin. “Come in, if you can all fit.”
There was no bowing, no acknowledgment at all that the King of England was on her doorstep.
“She’s not what I was picturing,” Adah said in Bridget’s ear, “but she’s got a certain something about her.”
“Don’t try to bed the Lady of the Lake,” Bridget replied, and Adah chuckled quietly in response, which wasn’t very reassuring.
Inside, Bridget was surprised that the little hut had more than one room. There wasn’t much furniture, but what was there was covered in shells, acorns, smooth pebbles, bundles of herbs, hollow wooden bowls, sticks of incense, small animal bones, the cores of apples, and half-finished knitting.