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

… no … I … forgive me.” Risa cursed herself for her stammering, and for her inability to stop staring. “It’s just … I had not heard word of your being in this country,” she finished. Feeling the fool, she held the cloak out to him. She could think of nothing else to do.
    Gawain’s smile was small, and the arch of his brows said he knew this was not what she had first thought to say, but he was too polite to remark on it. “I am glad to hear that. I am meant to be traveling in secret.” He smoothly accepted the cloak and slung it around his shoulders. He must have been freezing without it all night, despite the warmth the horses provided. Risa felt her hands would go numb any moment. “As there are none here to introduce us properly, lady, may I be so bold as to ask the favor of your name?”
    Manners, forgotten again. “I cry you mercy, Sir, for my country ways,” she said, dropping her gaze and reminding herself sternly that she did in fact know how to comport herself before visitors of rank. “I am Risa, daughter of Rygehil of the Morelands who is the
barown
of this land. My lord, I render you humble thanks for all you have done.” She spread her skirts and curtsied deeply.
    Gawain acknowledged the gesture with another stately bow. “I have heard Rygehil of the Morelands spoken of most fairly.” He crouched down before the fire, poking renewed life into the modest blaze with a charred stick. “If my lady would care to refresh herself …” he handed her a wineskin that had been warming by the coals.
    Risa took it with thanks and drank the sweet, watered wine gratefully. It coursed through her, strengthening her blood and clearing her mind. She lowered the skin to find Gawain watching her thoughtfully. In the daylight streaming through the open chapel door, she could see his eyes were lit from within by sparks of wit, and, for all his courtly words, a bit of wariness.
    “Was it your father you rode with last night?” he asked.
    Risa set the skin down. “No.”
    “Your husband then?” The wariness in him became ever-so-slightly more marked.
    Risa wondered briefly if she should lie, but found she did not have the heart for it. “No. My father’s steward.”
Whitcomb
. Fresh sorrow filled her heart.
    Her answer caused Sir Gawain’s brows to arch sharply, and Risa dropped her gaze again.
    “Would my lady consent to share her tale with her humble servant?”
    Risa bit her lip. The tears which had watered the ground beside Whitcomb’s corpse had made her rage against her father fresh and green. Still, it was hard for her to think of speaking openly to a representative of the High King. To tell this story would bring shame not only upon father, but also upon mother. But, it was not only that. To her surprise, a part of her still longed to hear her father’s horse outside, to have him come to tell her it was a mistake, that all was forgiven, that she could come home now and she would be safe, and all would be well and right. That part still knew the love between father and daughter, and could only weep.
    Seeing her hesitate, Gawain said delicately. “If my lady prefers, I could simply escort her back to her father’s hall …”
    “No!” The word was out before Risa could stop her tongue.
    Gawain bowed his head in acquiescence. “Then, my lady, you must tell me how I may best be of assistance.”
    Risa looked at him again. This was a man of whom songs were made. No doubt they exaggerated freely, but still, if he was even half as noble as the tales claimed, he would take serious note of her distress, and there were advantages to him being the king’s man. He could order the convent to take her, where they might not take a woman alone….
    He could help make sure Whitcomb got a Christian burial.
    And if he did decide to take her back to father after all? The thought stiffened Risa’s spine even as it brought on a fresh wave of fear. Well, these were woods she had known since she was a girl,