Free In Camelot’s Shadow: Book One of The Paths to Camelot Series (Prologue Fantasy) by Sarah Zettel Page B

neglected place. Piles of twigs and leaves in the corners and the char on the uneven flagstones told him it had lately been more a house of travelers and wild creatures than of God. But the thatch roof and stone walls were still whole and while the presence of another horse and another human would make for a cramped and slightly comical congregation, they would also add greatly to the warmth, and warmth would only aid the lady in her recovery.
    “Come my lady.” Gawain held out a hand. Her hand was ice cold in his and he had to grip it hard to help her down because she had no strength to hold onto him. Trusting that her horse would not stray far, he led the lady through the low, narrow door. Inside, the dying coals of his little fire provided just enough illumination to show the dusty altar and chipped cross. The whole place smelled heavily of horse, and his palfrey whickered and stamped as he entered.
    “Rest you awhile, lady. I will see to the horses.” Keeping hold of her hand, Gawain lowered himself onto one knee so the maiden would be able to steady herself as she sat by the fire. He felt her tremble as she did, her free hand automatically tucking her cloak and skirt under her to guard her from the cold of the cracked flags. He took that as a good sign. He had seen men after battle become like this, too stunned by what they had been through to see the world in front of them any longer. Fire, drink and a time of quiet rallied most of them. He prayed it would be so with her.
    Outside, Gringolet stood alone, nibbling at the bracken. Gawain cursed under his breath and circled the chapel, to find that the mare had sniffed out a springlet and decided to help herself to a drink. He waited somewhat impatiently until she raised her dripping head and allowed him to lead her into the chapel, balking only slightly at the narrow doorway.
    Inside, the lady fallen, stretching out to her full length on the flags. Gawain dropped the mare’s reins and ran to her side, turned her, thrusting a hand under her cloak and leaning close, to search for breath and heart beat.
    To his immense relief, her heart beat steadily under her cloak and her warm breath brushed his cheek and mouth. For a moment, he inhaled a scent like summer itself. This close, he could see the color was beginning to return to her white cheeks. Simple sleep then, was what had claimed her, and Gawain thanked God and the Virgin for it. That would heal her more than any clumsy words he could offer.
    As gently as he could manage, he laid her back down and stood, running his hand through his hair and looking at the face the firelight revealed to him. Her cheeks were round and full, her features regular and delicate. Her hair underneath her veil was the color of the flame, a reddened gold that shone like the setting sun. The few tresses that had come free of the braid trailed almost to her ankles. Her eyes were set wide beneath her clear, white brow, and he wondered what color they would be when they opened.
    He also noted that she was full and fairly grown. No wan and wilting flower she. Then he realized that he was staring, and he turned quickly away.
    The horses were in urgent need of attention. Gringolet had not been unharnessed the whole hard day. The lady’s mare seemed to be fairly fresh, so wherever they had come from, it was not far. He thought again on the dead man left in the wood. Perhaps he could take word to the king of whatever injustice had come to pass here.
    Unsaddling and unharnessing the horses and wiping them down took some time. The lady did not have much gear with her. A quiver of arrows, and the bow with the broken string, and a single saddle bag. Had she been hunting and become lost or distracted? The bag was heavy, but a cursory investigation of it showed she had not brought provisions, not as much as a skin of water or wine, which only deepened the mystery about her.
    Gawain glanced back at her. Instinct had caused her to curl closer to the fire’s