Morgain's Revenge - Laura Anne Gilman [29]
That was it. That was just it. Gerard had tried to heed Merlin’s words. Had tried to be polite. Had tried to hold on to the last scraps of his patience and tolerance, and respect that a knight of Sir Caedor’s years and experience deserved, no matter how he behaved now. But nobody insulted Newt except Gerard. He rubbed again at the wound and spoke his mind.
“We all serve. We were sent on this journey by our king. A journey, in accordance with the code of the Round Table, to protect and defend a damsel in need—a person under Camelot’s protection, threatened by one of Camelot’s foes.” It was as though Sir Rheynold—or even Arthur himself—had taken over Gerard’s mouth, speaking with his tongue. The emotion behind the words, though, was his own. He believed in the code of chivalry, the idea that the stronger protect the weaker. He believed in it with a passion that fueled everything he did, everything he was—everything he wanted to be.
Sir Caedor had the grace to look down, in shame, hearing that reminder of their responsibilities and obligations.
“As to your comments about Newt, you might wish to reconsider them as well,” Gerard went on. “We are traveling light, as you yourself have noted. No tents. No pavilions. No servants to fetch and carry for us. Despite what you may think of Newt, on this he is an equal to me and to you. Not a servant or stable boy.”
That brought the knight’s head back up, his cheeks burning with anger. “You dare speak so to me?”
Gerard was quaking in his saddle, actually terrified at what he was saying—and to whom. Still, the point needed to be driven home, no matter the cost. “I have no choice, Sir Caedor. This must be said.”
The knight took a deep breath, ran one hand over his thick ruff of graying hair, and stared off into the distance. His face was seamed and heavy with age, and his mouth was turned down in a frown. But he was hearing what Gerard had said. Hearing, and thinking. Gerard went on.
“If we had passed an inn last night, or tonight, or any other night, we would have stayed there.” They had to rest, and given the choice between dirt and a bed, not even Newt would choose dirt. “Have you seen any inns along the way?” Gerard asked.
Sir Caedor now looked thunderous. “No.”
“And do you know of any in the near distance that we could arrive at before dark?” Gerard knew that he was pushing his luck, but Sir Rheynold had always taught him that you needed to establish control the first time someone questioned your authority, not the sixth or seventh time. By then it was too late and your weakness was known. Arthur, your wisdom, please. Merlin, your cunning. Now would be a good time for the spell to kick in….
“There are no inns around this part of the countryside,” Sir Caedor said, spitting out each word as though it were bitter. “It’s a desolate, godforsaken land. I know this. I fought here during the battle of Traeth Tryfrwyd.”
Gerard looked around, as much to avoid yet another story of Sir Caedor’s “glorious past” as to figure out what the knight was talking about now.
Sir Caedor had a point. The lands around Camelot were fertile, even where rocky, and the trees were tall, strong things. The farther north they had traveled, fewer things grew, either cultivated or otherwise. Their destination would be, Sir Caedor claimed, even more stark; islands of barren rocks and dry soil, with nothing to recommend it, save access to the seas and a reputation for fierce fighters.
“Yes, it is barren,” Gerard agreed. “And this is the best place we saw for making camp.”
Sir Caedor did not respond.
Gerard took the silence as tacit compliance. He raised a hand as though to officially end the conversation, then turned and walked down to the creek, meeting Newt as he came back with the horses on lead ropes, the mule trailing behind on its own.
“The water cold?”
Newt shook his head, his wet hair spraying drops into Gerard’s face, as intended. “Cold enough. You