As it is Saturday, there is usually a post for Warriors, Swords and Sorceries, or something like that. It’s for Fantasy posts. So I picked out a random number, with the promise of putting it up for FREE.
It’s number 37!
And it’s free for you to read.
It’s a teaser. A tickler.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN…
SIR LANCELOT’S QUEST FOR ADVENTURE
With the summer season slowly slipping away, and the sun hanging low in the Western sky after the Solstice, the seasonal celebrations and the harvests were soon complete; Camelot nestled into the coming rituals of a new Christian Church endorsed by the Queen and her court. It was a far cry from the early Spring festivals of the King, with their orgies of drink, food, and wanton lust; the Christians held to a more sombre celebration, rooted in prayer, confession, and ritual forgiveness.
It was a time when most Knights absented themselves from Court, excusing themselves by claiming a need to tend to their land holdings and families. Those that had families travelled overland in long caravans of wagons that fought their way along the well used hi-ways and by-ways, hoping to beat the autumnal weather. The rain, when it came, was soft and light, usually falling as the evening covered the sky with heavy clouds that painted the sunsets purple and promised portends of foreboding.
There were those who had oversea holdings in Gaul, and to the North, and they’d travel overland to the coast for the last available ships of the season, hoping to make the arduous journey and reach landfall before the sun set too low in the sky. It was, at best, a day’s travel into the wind that required excellent seamanship and a sturdy hand on both the tiller, and the sail. The waves rose high, threatening to breach the gunnels of even the most sturdy of ships, the wind whipping the sea-foam on the cresting waves, obscuring the last visions of the White Cliffs as they fell behind a veil of cloud and fog.
Lancelot stood on the deck of The Holdom, a merchant ship sailing out of Portus Dubris, with an overall length of fifty paces and a beam of about a dozen. The boards on the hull over-lapped each other, fastened into place with tight wooden pegs, making the vessel more water-tight, and secure, which Lancelot appreciated. He hated the water, which was why he seldom made the trip homeward.
He stood beside Ector and Lionel, both of them holding on to a side rail as the ship pitched to the left and then the righted itself, coasting over the smooth rollers with the ease of a leaf on a stream. The sail was up and the wind coming from the South-East, making it an easy journey for the thirty rowers. There was a plume of spray that caught the wind at times, spewing a gentle mist of water that covered the boat. Lancelot looked down at the puddles of water washing around his feet. He looked back at the three horses, all of them tied and secured, looking nervous and frightened at the wide expanse of endless ocean around them. He knew exactly how they felt, he told himself.
“It’s been some years since last we made this trip,” Ector said slowly.
“We’ve spent longer over there, than we ever lived here,” Lancelot reminded him. “Thirty-six years. That’s more than half my life,” he nodded. “A lot more. I was a boy when I left. No more than eighteen summers if I were to hazard a guess. And look at what we accomplished. Peace in our time,” he laughed. “Can you believe it? Did you ever think something like that was even possible?”
“To be honest, no,” Ector laughed.
“I swore I’d never come back, and said as much to mon pere,” he added. “And now he’s gone.”
“Are you regretting it? Staying away, I mean?”
He shook his head. “No, not really. I mean, I have regrets, we all have those, but I’ve made a life for myself there. I have land, castles. A son,” he added.
“Just not by the woman who matters most to you,” Ector reminded him. “At least you’ve acknowledged Galahad as your own.”
“The world has enough unclaimed bastard children,” he said. “You of all people should know that,” he smiled.
“I doan think on it overmuch,” Ector replied.
“Overmuch? So you do, is what I’m thinking that means,” Lancelot smiled.
“We’re going home to bury our father,” Ector said. “The same man who fathered me and left me unclaimed. What would you have me say?” He looked up at Lionel, standing silent and looking out at the water. “Even our uncle proved unforgiving to his brother’s failure in acknowledging me. One only wonders how your mother feels about me? Is it hatred for our father’s unfaithfulness? Or does she feel the failure is hers, at not keeping her husband to her bed?”
“You could always ask her,” Lancelot smiled.
“She’s not my mother,” Ector pointed out. “Somehow, I think if that were the case, it would’ve been even worse for me — not if she was my mother, but if she raised me instead of my mother. To be reminded everyday, that this is the boy whose mother your husband fucked because he tired of you. That’s gotta have to play on you.”
“You’re right, you were lucky,” Lancelot laughed.
The wind picked up and the sail flapped, and Lancelot pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He looked to his left and saw the darkening sky, looked back at the Merchant-Owner and sensed something wasn’t right. He looked off to his right and saw white caps dancing on the ridges of the waves, the tops of the waves blown into mist by the wind as it seemed to pick up.
“There’s a storm coming,” he said, looking at both Lionel and Ector. “Best see to the horses,” he said to Lionel.
“And what do you expect me to do with them?” he asked.
“How ‘bout you stand by ‘em an’ make sure they doan try an’ jump out?” Ector suggested.
Lancelot looked at him and nodded, motioning for the youth to go.
“What is it with the youth of today?” Ector said.
“He’s no different to us, than we were to our elders,” Lancelot smiled.
“I s’pose yer right,” Ector replied.
The wind picked up and the waves grew in size. It was no longer a matter of the ship rolling over the smooth topped waves; now they were crested waves, with sharp peaks that bit at the hull, slapping against the sides. The clouds were quick to block out the sun and the rain came down of a sudden, at a slant, both hard and unforgiving. There was no place to take cover.
Lancelot wrapped his hand around a rope tied to the gunnel, and widened his stance, rocking with the motion of the boat. He looked at Ector and nodded at him to latch on to something. He looked out to where the land had been just a scant time ago, and saw nothing but an endless curtain of rain. The sail flapped above him, fluttered and then billowed out with a cache of wind as the mast bent with the force of the sudden gale.
The horses panicked and tried to rise up, but Lionel held them tight, trying to comfort them. He stroked their thick necks and pressed himself close to their faces. They slid, and fought to right themselves, their hooves echoing through the length of the ship. There was a flash of lightning and a low rumble of thunder almost at the same time, and Lancelot realized they were directly in the middle of it. There was nothing he could do except hope that the Merchant-Owner knew what he was doing.
“Is this what you were hoping for?” Ector called out, laughing. “A bit of adventure on the crossing instead of the usual boring sail everyone else seems to talk of whenever they make the trip?”
“It wouldn’t be an adventure if it wasn’t a little arbitrarious,” Lancelot called back, his words taken by the wind and carried across the water. “Let’s just hope we hit landfall before the sun goes down. I’d hate to get lost out here, with no sun or stars to guide us.”
The land came up out of the water without warning. They were at the foot of an unknown fishing village, a small dock pointing out into the water as straight and thin as one of those new lances Artie had gifted him. Lancelot could feel rocks grating under him as the ship bounced off of them, and then he heard a shout from the Merchant-Owner as the oars dug into sand and the ship hit the shore with a lurch, settling on its narrow keel before leaning over to the left. The small bags they brought with them slid across the deck and perched on the side of the ship. Ector looked over the side.
“It was a breakwater,” he said to Lancelot. “We’re luck the ship didn’t bust up on them. I s’pose they were put there to support the pier. It’s quite a nice one,” he said, looking down the length of it.”
“Lionel! The horses,” Lancelot called out to the youth as he picked up the bags. He tossed one to Ector and looked at the Merchant-Owner. “Any idea of where we are?”
“Gaul?” the man replied with a grin. “I doubt we’ve gone too far north.”
“And Benwick?” Lionel asked, untying the horses and urging them to jump over the side of the leaning ship, onto the sandy beach. It took him some time to get them over the side — one of the horses tried to nip at him — but he managed all the same.
The Merchant-Owner laughed and pointed to his left. “That way. To the South.”
“And what place is this?” Lancelot asked.
“Caletum, I hope,” he said with a grin.
“Who rules here?” Ector asked as he jumped over the ship’s side and waited as Lancelot tossed him the three bags.
“That’s a hard one to say in these parts,” the Merchant-Owner said, scratching at his beard. “The Franks, last I heard. But Clovis died some months back, as I said: last I heard. His sons has been in dispute over the lands that were left them, so there’s no real knowing who comes to collect the tax, but you can be rest assured, someone will be along sooner or later.”
“Sounds like it’s gonna be a nice, peaceful, country ride,” Ector laughed, tossing the bags to Lionel who tied them behind the saddles of the three horses.
“Have ye got ‘em on the right horses, this time?” Ector grinned.
*
The clouds were quick to break as they left the small village behind, cresting the first of the low hills. The sun came out as they made their way through the low lying land. They could see the high-rising cliffs they left behind looming in the distance and brushing up against the ocean much like the White Cliffs, but these were painted with moss and lichen, and there were landslides pyramided at base of the cliffs where the water brushed up against them. The distant beaches appeared smooth and golden in the sun.
They followed an old Roman road at an easy trot, the forest slowly reclaiming the land about them, the trees swaying in the gentle breeze. There was wildlife aplenty, and Ector set out to hunt, returning an hour later with a two-brace of rabbits and three grouse. They spent their first night in a broken Roman villa that had been laid siege to during the Frankish invasion under Theuderic. He was one of the sons of Clovis as far as Lancelot knew, and had been his own father’s rival. He’d died but two summers gone, leaving an empty throne with no heir. From what he knew through merchants and traders he’d spoken to in Camelot, Theuderic’s brother Chlothar had usurped his brother’s crown.
All well and good for him, he thought.
They built a small fire in what had once been the impluvium of the villa, which was offset from the atrium; the last light of the day came down through the opening in the roof above. There were branches and dried leaves scattered about, and it was nothing to find more with the woods encroaching on the villa. There was an old orchard on the hill, and Lionel filled his cloak full of apples they used to stuff three grouse Ector shot.
It would be a long trip out to Benwick. From what Lancelot remembered, it was at least twenty days. He didn’t mind the trip, he told himself. They’d spend their nights under cover as much as they could. There were monasteries and villages where they could put up for the night, as well as abandoned farmsteads and villas.
“The land is much changed,” Ector said, stirring the fire and throwing more wood on the flames. The fire choked out a cough of sparks that danced up and dissolved into the darkness, the flames licking upwards.
“There’s plenty of game about,” Lionel smiled, helping himself to another breast of grouse. He’d stuffed the birds with some of the over-ripe apples he found, as well as chestnuts, and wild mushrooms. There was sage, rosemary, and thyme, and their scents filled the air.
“Hello, inside!” a voice called out from the darkness.
“Who calls?” Lancelot replied, unsheathing his sword.
“A weary traveller,” the man called.
“He sounds more wary than weary,” Ector said. “Lionel, go around behind him and find out if he’s alone. I’m not about to spend time in some bastard’s dungeon again, waiting to be sent to the slave ships of Constantinople.”
“State your name,” Lancelot called out.
“Sigismund, of Hal,” the man called back.
“I know that name,” Ector said in a low voice.
“Show yourself,” Lancelot called, “and I pray ye be alone, lest ye feel the length of my blade.”
“I am not alone. I have a wench, I sometimes call her my wife,” he said with a laugh.
“What else do you call her?”
“The bane of my existence!” he said with a laugh.
“One can say he certainly knows women,” Lancelot said with a grin. He looked up and called out again. “I’ll not have no trickery, Sigismund of Hal!”
“We’re just weary travellers—”
“Yes, you said that,” Ector called out.
“And d’you think me overly-cautious, a lone man on the road with none but a woman for companionship? I’ll come in when I’ve determined you mean me now harm.”
“I swear on the word of the True King, that I speak the truth,” Lancelot said.
“And which King is it what claims himself the True King?” Sigismund called out.
“Arthur of the Isles.”
“I know that name well,” the man replied. “And are you knights of that famed table?”
“We are. I am Lancelot, travelling with my brother Ector and our nephew, Lionel, who serves as Squire to both of us.”
“Lancelot, is it? Well, I know that name,” the man said with a smile, stepping over the fallen rubble of broken columns and roof tiles. He was tall and overly thin, with a beard that hung low on his naked chest, and grey-streaked hair tied back into a single braid. His eyes were a steely grey, looking out from under hooded lids and thick brows. His smile seemed genuine, although his teeth were blackened and broken and the scars that lined his face too numerous to count.
His woman was skeletal thin. Her hair was cut short, her eyes deep-sunken and dark. She may have once been beautiful in her youth, but time had been hard on both of them, Lancelot did not doubt. She was burdened with a leathern pack she carried on her shoulders, and set it down easily, leaning back against it as she sat close to the fire. Her feet were unshod, the bottoms of them hard and calloused, and he supposed the only time they were clean was when she walked through the morning dew.
“Have ye feasted or fasted, of late?” Lancelot asked.
“It’s been a long time since either of us’ve feasted,” Sigismund laughed.
“And you say you are travellers?”
The man nodded as Lancelot leaned forward and cut a piece of grouse, offering it to the woman, who took it hungrily, and then nodded in thanks almost in afterthought; he tossed the rest of the bird to the man.
“And where are you to?” Ector asked the man.
“To the coast and a ship is our thinking,” the man said, tossing small bones into the fire. He bit and cracked the bigger bones, sucking on them before throwing them into the fire as well.
“A ship?”
“We mean to Briton and seek sanctuary,” he said, and Lancelot saw the woman level a glare at the man.
“The bane of my existence,” he said with a grin. “She trusts no man, and Knights even less,” he said. “And who can blame her? Women are always the victims of war, more-so than we are.
“Responderem, si scirem quem ad modum parare,” she said.
“She speaks the Roman tongue of old?” Ector said.
“Do you know it?” the old man asked. “She speaks it to me knowing I doan understand a word of it.”
Ector shook his head, looking at Lancelot. “It’s something I heard from Grummer, while in Tarquin’s Keep.”
“Grummer?” the old man said.
“D’ye know the name?” Lancelot asked.
“It cannot be the self-same man, it was so long ago now. I was but a youth then, full of piss and vinegar, and he was quick to put me down, yet spared my life. He was a formidable man, and of an equal age, I think. He was from the North, in the lands Beyond-the-Wall, he called it. I never knew what wall he meant. There is no wall.”
“Not here,” Lancelot smiled. “But there is in Briton.”
Lionel came back in and sat down in silence, staring at the woman.
“What’s in Briton?” he asked.
“Grummer,” Ector said. “This man says he knows Grummer.”
“Leave off, there,” Lionel laughed. “How’s that then?”
“Grummer and Bedivere made their way to Rome and as far East as Constantinople in their youth. I’ve always envied that about those two,” Lancelot said. “Tell me, Sigismund of Hal, how is it Grummer spared your life? It’s not like him to spare any man the sword in the heat of battle.”
“I was, in that day, the newly anointed Burgundian King — before the Franks came and took our lands.”
“Poteras mori ut heros, sed regnavisti ut rex,” the woman said.
“What did she say?” Lionel asked.
“‘You could have died a hero, instead, you lived as a King’,” Sigismund said.
“Better to live as a King than to die as a hero,” Ector responded. “A King answers to no man, while a hero pleases no man.”
“Tell that to my mother,” Lancelot said.
“Do you know the story of Damocles?” Sigismund said. “He was the servant of a King who envied the man his position. One day, he said to the King: I would rather live your life than be stuck in the squalor of mine. The King said he’d let him be King for a day. When he went to bed that night, he looked up and saw a giant sword over the bed, hanging by a single thread. The next morning the King asked him how he slept. He said he didn’t, because he was afraid the thread would break and he would die as a result. The king said that was what it meant to be a King. There is always a threat of death hanging over you.”
“And which is it you prefer?” Ector asked.
“I think it is better to be a King,” he smiled. “At least if you die by the Sword of Damocles, you die in the comfort of your own bed.”