Read Online The Story of Gawain and Ragnell by Ruth Nestvold - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Nestvold
Tags: The Pendragon Chronicles
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at Bertilak's death and their own victory, doing their part to lift the gloom that had darkened the decaying walls of the Roman garrison.
Gawain loosed his hand from Ragnell's, wiped his bloody weapon off on his breeches, sheathed it, and turned to face the warriors who had helped him win this day. "Men, we could not have broken this enchantment without your help. My wife and I thank you from the depths of our hearts. Not only is this a new year, it is a new life."
The volume of the cheering rose, and villagers and soldiers crowded around them, tripping on the headless body of Bertilak in their fervor.
It was certainly an odd setting for the beginning of a new life. But Gawain already found himself nearly reconciled to Ragnell's previous deceit, even without a complete explanation. He would have to do his best not to think about the woman somewhere whose revenge had been thwarted, would not think about how much of his sudden joy might have to do with his wife's extraordinary powers.
There were worse things in life than having a beautiful wife, with a seat fit for a king. That was what he would think of now — and hopefully for some time to come.
END
If you enjoyed the story of Gawain and Ragnell, an expanded episode from Shadow of Stone , you might also enjoy the story of Yseult's youth, and her tragic love for Drystan. Here is an excerpt from the first book of The Pendragon Chronicles, Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur.
Excerpt:
The next day, his leg and the weather were both much improved, and Drystan took his harp and fled the close confines of the rath. With his instrument slung across his back and the blue wool cloak whipping around his ankles, he walked through the winter forest, its trees bare of leaves, until he could hear the pounding of the surf and smell the salt in the air and see the dark gray-green water come up to meet the mottled iron gray sky.
Before the grass gave way to sand and the trees could no longer find a grip in the shifting ground, he found a stump and sat down, settling his blue cloak around him. He liked to imagine that it carried the scent of her fingers, the scent of a life beyond his reach, liked to imagine them working the wool which surrounded him now, long fingers, quick and strong, as capable with a loom as with a sword.
Ah, how would he ever be able to forget her?
He pulled the harp from his shoulder and began to play a random succession of chords, allowing his fingers to drift over the strings at will, picking out a haphazard melody. After a while, he found a pattern which appealed to him and hummed beneath his breath, adding words as they came to him, using the dialect of Armorica, his first language when it came to music. He had discovered his love for music before going into fosterage with Blodewedd and Riwallon, but only with them had he been able to indulge in his passion as he pleased. Good foster parents, they saw that he received the training of a prince, a complete course in arms and horsemanship and Latin, the language of the world, but as long as he completed the required lessons, he was free to spend as much time as he wanted with the bards of Bro Leon, learning whatever they were willing to teach him.
The music he played blended in with the rhythm of the surf and the calls of the gulls, and his soul was soothed, at least for the moment. He remembered how he used to flee to the cave at Dyn Tagell, where all he could see were the sea and the sky, and the only sound was the crash of the waves against the rocky cliffs of his home. Here in Eriu they said the water held spirits, and he could readily believe it; spirits that were sometimes angry, sometimes benign. His song became a paean to the spirits of the sea, the korrigans and sea serpents and water women. He sang, his voice lifting above the bare gray trees and gray waves and gray winter sky.
She was here, he felt it. His fingers stilled and he turned. She stood
Gawain loosed his hand from Ragnell's, wiped his bloody weapon off on his breeches, sheathed it, and turned to face the warriors who had helped him win this day. "Men, we could not have broken this enchantment without your help. My wife and I thank you from the depths of our hearts. Not only is this a new year, it is a new life."
The volume of the cheering rose, and villagers and soldiers crowded around them, tripping on the headless body of Bertilak in their fervor.
It was certainly an odd setting for the beginning of a new life. But Gawain already found himself nearly reconciled to Ragnell's previous deceit, even without a complete explanation. He would have to do his best not to think about the woman somewhere whose revenge had been thwarted, would not think about how much of his sudden joy might have to do with his wife's extraordinary powers.
There were worse things in life than having a beautiful wife, with a seat fit for a king. That was what he would think of now — and hopefully for some time to come.
END
If you enjoyed the story of Gawain and Ragnell, an expanded episode from Shadow of Stone , you might also enjoy the story of Yseult's youth, and her tragic love for Drystan. Here is an excerpt from the first book of The Pendragon Chronicles, Yseult: A Tale of Love in the Age of King Arthur.
Excerpt:
The next day, his leg and the weather were both much improved, and Drystan took his harp and fled the close confines of the rath. With his instrument slung across his back and the blue wool cloak whipping around his ankles, he walked through the winter forest, its trees bare of leaves, until he could hear the pounding of the surf and smell the salt in the air and see the dark gray-green water come up to meet the mottled iron gray sky.
Before the grass gave way to sand and the trees could no longer find a grip in the shifting ground, he found a stump and sat down, settling his blue cloak around him. He liked to imagine that it carried the scent of her fingers, the scent of a life beyond his reach, liked to imagine them working the wool which surrounded him now, long fingers, quick and strong, as capable with a loom as with a sword.
Ah, how would he ever be able to forget her?
He pulled the harp from his shoulder and began to play a random succession of chords, allowing his fingers to drift over the strings at will, picking out a haphazard melody. After a while, he found a pattern which appealed to him and hummed beneath his breath, adding words as they came to him, using the dialect of Armorica, his first language when it came to music. He had discovered his love for music before going into fosterage with Blodewedd and Riwallon, but only with them had he been able to indulge in his passion as he pleased. Good foster parents, they saw that he received the training of a prince, a complete course in arms and horsemanship and Latin, the language of the world, but as long as he completed the required lessons, he was free to spend as much time as he wanted with the bards of Bro Leon, learning whatever they were willing to teach him.
The music he played blended in with the rhythm of the surf and the calls of the gulls, and his soul was soothed, at least for the moment. He remembered how he used to flee to the cave at Dyn Tagell, where all he could see were the sea and the sky, and the only sound was the crash of the waves against the rocky cliffs of his home. Here in Eriu they said the water held spirits, and he could readily believe it; spirits that were sometimes angry, sometimes benign. His song became a paean to the spirits of the sea, the korrigans and sea serpents and water women. He sang, his voice lifting above the bare gray trees and gray waves and gray winter sky.
She was here, he felt it. His fingers stilled and he turned. She stood
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