CHAPTER 36

THE SUMMER OF LOVE

This is NOT being PAYWALLED…

Go ahead, ask me what I did this time…

I published it out of sequence. I was confused with all the funeral stuff going on around us — cooking, viewing, cleaning, driving — that I missed this one and put the next one (chapter 37) up, rather than this one.

I don’t expect anyone is going to up-grade, knowing I mis-posted, but it’s the least I can do. I discovered it because I was updating my table of contents.

CHAPTER THRITY-SIX…

THE SUMMER OF LOVE

“T’was in the buddin’ of the summer—”

“The Springtime,” Bedivere said, turning to look at the girl. She smiled and thanked him with a nod, but he went on, regardless. “I’m sorry but…where’s Lam?”

“Do you mean De Gales?” she asked.

“Sir Lamorak de-fuckin’-Gales,” Grummer said, “if ye’ll be forgivin’ me language, that is.”

“Of course, Sir Grummer. But you were right about him. He did prove to be a handful. All hands, all over,” she said with a shudder. “I mean,” she said looking at Bedivere. “Doe he know how old he is? He’s not an attractive man. A girl like me is more or less going to be attracted by a younger man.”

“Aye, an’ therein turns the twist o’ the tale. Sir Gareth. Is he young?”

She nodded: “Oh yes. Only two years older than myself.”

“An’ ‘andsome, I’ve nay doubt?”

“Without a doubt. And he’s rugged, like he was chipped out of stone. He’s not too banged up, but then, he’s young, isn’t he? Sir Lamorak is…scarred,” she said, and left it at that.

“Aye, that ‘e is,” Grummer smiled, knowing that the old injury was to his thigh, and he was always telling the ladies that it shaved three inches off his pecker, and that he was willing to show them. He laughed to himself when he realized how many women were curious enough to say yes.

It looked like Lady Eleanor had seen the scar.

“I’m afraid you’ve forgotten the question,” Bedivere reminded her.

“Oh? You mean the where is he part?” she smiled. “It seems that Sir Gareth had words with Sir Lamorak and the two decided to joust it off. King’s Rules and all. Well, in all honesty Sir Lamorak was outwitted, because Gareth had the same lance the King’s Blacksmith crafted.”

“Eric made ‘im the elance?” Grummer said.

“How many has he made?” Bedivere asked.

“Thirteen Knights are so armed.”

“Thirteen?” Grummer said, and looked at her. His look hardened. “Ken ye who this Baker’s bunch be?”

“No. I wasn’t there everyday. It was only when I went there with Sir Gareth and overheard the two of them. Sir Gareth asked the same questions. The Dane said he was told by a page, and word came down from the King’s lips. He was to make a lance and deliver it to the castle.”

“Alright,” Beddy said, looking at the girl. “Sir Gareth and Lam decide to joust…and?”

“Sir Lamorak fell and broke his leg being hit by Gareth with a new-made lance gifted him by the King,” she said.

“And the Quest? What about the Quest? It’s been this Winter past and into Spring, now giving way to Summer. We’ve been waiting here, in Aquae Sulis, and who shows up?”

“T’is nay Lamorack.”

“No, it isn’t.,” Bedivere agreed. “Care to explain?”

“Well, when Lamorak realized what had happened, he told Sir Gareth to take his arms and pretend to be him. Anyone he met, he was to pretend to be Sir Lamorak—”

“Sir Lamorak de-fuckin’-Gales,” Bedivere said.

“Aye, Beddy, that ‘e is, the bastard,” Grummer laughed. He sat back and took a long sip of his wine, swilling it about in his mouth. He looked at her and swallowed. “Tell me? Did Gareth overget the Quest?”

“He did,” she smiled.

“And was your father, the King, happy?” Beddy asked.

“No.”

“Nay?” Grummer asked.

“He was expecting to see Sir Lamorak, and was instead met with Sir Gareth, or, as Sir Kay named him as with a bird he sent out, Beaumanis.”

“So why are you here, and not Sir Lamorak?”

“It was decided, with the seriousness of his leg, that he’d receive better care at Glastonbury. But he, I mean Sir Lamorak,” she said.

“Glastonbury? Why would you not send him to the restorative baths, here at Aquae Sulis?”

“We had no notion as to you three being here.”

“Three?”

“Did I not see Sir Locksley anon?”

“Anon, or ago?” Bedivere asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“Was it anon, or ago?”

“I cannot say as to which it was,” she said, sounding unsure.

“Ago is that time in between now, and then. As in, it was a while…ago; or it was some time…ago,” he said. “It’s really very simple. Anon meaning as it does, straight away and at once. What you are saying, or meaning, it would have to be ago. That you saw him a while…ago. For he’s not here, but is in fact, gone to Glastonbury to see to — oversee — the Lady Gwenellyn’s laying in.”

“Laying in?”

“Lady Gwenellyn has been with child this past year.”

“Aye, an’ Lamorak sits as ‘er uncle an’ her King, an’ can ‘ave ‘er sent off t’ Camelot t’ marry Uwaine, as was first sorted out ‘tween him an’ King Urein. T’is well better had ‘e did his stay wit’ us, here.”

“Sir Lamorak is pained with his leg and cannot stand. He will not come across her,” she said.

“And where is Sir Gareth?”

“Gone to hire a rider to take a message to the King.”

“An’ what missive be that?” Grummer asked.

“That he might ask the King’s permission to take my hand in marriage.”

“Marriage?”

“Ach, girl! What ‘ave ye done?” Grummer said.

“Only what I was meant to do,” she replied.

“What’s that?” Bedivere asked. “And what was it you were meant to do?”

“By bringing Sir Lamorak to my father’s Keep that he might be achieved, whatever that means.”

“Killed,” Bedivere said. “And who was it what told ye so? Gareth?”

“Oh no,” she said slowly. “T’was outside Camelot, e’er we came. We met him outside the Gates.”

“An’ ken ye him then?” Grummer asked.

“I do. It was Sir Gareth’s brother.”

“Harry?”

“Which one is he?”

“The one what’s wounded,” Grummer grinned.

“Oh no, not him. I’ve seen him and can say for certain, t’was not him. It was the skinny one.”

“Modred?”
“Yes. He has a limp now, and suffers great pain for it.”

“That’ll happen if a horse falls on you,” Bedivere smiled.

“An’ ye were meant t’ lure Lamorack. Where’d ye get the story?”

“Modred said it on me to heed what he said. He said it twice.”

“And why Lamorak?” Bedivere said. “Why not one of us?”

“I cannot say for real, but I heard the brothers talking — without Gareth — sending him as it were, across the town on a search. But they met with the four of ‘em—”

“Four? But you counted two brothers: Gaheris and Modred. What other two were there?”

“Oh, Sir Gawain came in accompanied by the fat brother—”

“That’d be Aggie.”

“Did ye hear?”

“Aye. They said Lam would follow me wherever I led him.”

“An’ it was nay yer father ye spoke to?”

“No. I don’t know who he was,” she said.

“And Gareth knows different?”

She shook her head. “Only Sir Brendal and Lady Penelope knew. Sir Brendal said it spoke ill of us as it were.”

“An’ wherefore would ‘e say that on ye?”

“They meant to kill Lamorak.”

“And now Gareth is walking about wearing Lamorak’s armour?”

She nodded.

“And brother sets upon brother,” Bedivere laughed lightly.

“Not just any,” Grummer said.

“What do you know, then? You know who it is?”

“Gawain.”

*

Locksley watched as the three Huntsmen rode into Glastonbury, acting as an escort for an unknown Knight lying prone on a wagon drawn by two horses. Another Huntsman sat up on the seat urging the wagon around in a circle. Someone called out, and Locksley wondered how they thought they hadn’t been seen or heard in their approach. He’d seen them the moment they first crested the hill.

Locksley watched as the Abbess stepped out of the dormitory, directing the men to follow her as she led them across the yard, toward the Chapter House. Three of the sisters stepped out to follow, one bent over talking to Lamorak. She reached down and held his hand as they walked.

Locksley recognized one of the men four men following, as the King’s Fool, Dagonet; one of the others, was Gareth. He didn’t know the other two, but one was a Knight, and the other a Squire. Dagonet came cantering in on his black and white Shetland, the horse decorated with a saddle blanket made of cloth of gold and long tassels hanging as low as his stirrups. There were bells braided into the horse’s long white mane, sending out a high pitched melody as he bounced across the yard. It wasn’t difficult for Locksley to recognize the Huntsmen as Pellinore’s men, and then realizing that Pellinore was dead, knowing that they’d be Lamorak’s men.

Does that mean it’s Lamorak in the wagon? Oh, that’s just great, he thought. Gwenellyn laid up in her birthing bed, her cries loud enough for all to hear, and who should show up, but Lamorak?

It wasn’t as if there was anywhere for him to hide. Dagonet might not recognize him, having met him just the once, but Gareth was certain to know him. And the Huntsmen? They’d be sure to recognize him as well, all of them having left Camelot together. He ran to the stables ahead of the riders and climbed up into the hay loft, trying to get a better look at who was in the wagon-bed.

Locksley heard a scream and a grunt and then another scream, wondering what they were doing to the poor girl. He watched as all of the men paused as they were about to dismount. It’d been going on for longer than Locksley cared to think of — all through the night last night, and into this morning — as the sisters chased him from the dormitory, telling him he could sleep in the stables, treating him as if it was all his fault. A part of him wondered if maybe they were right.

He looked down from the loft as the Huntsmen lifted the pallet the man was lying on, and recognized Lamorak. What was he supposed to do now? If Lamorak discovered that it was Gwenellyn giving birth, well, there was no knowing what the man would do, was there? He could send her back to Camelot under guard, and there was nothing Locksley could do about it, except to stand up as her champion and challenge them. All of them. And what did he hope to get out of that? Three knights and three Huntsmen? And Dagonet would not sit idly by.

He waited as the Huntsman on the wagon unhitched the horses and led them into the stable. He crawled across the loft, a haze of straw dust rising above him like a cloud. He could see the man as he led the horses into the stalls, giving them oats and water. His back was to him, but there was something familiar about the man. And then he saw him.

“Eamon!” he called out, and the man jumped, startled, as Locksley climbed down the ladder and greeted him.

“What’re you doing here, lad? Are ye not with Grummer an’ Beddy?”

“T’is Gwenellyn.”

“What about her?” he asked, suddenly serious.

“That’s ‘er screamin’ ye hear about.”

“What?”

“That’s ‘er in ‘er confinement,” Locksley said. “She be bearin’ a child.”

“And do you think I don’t recognize a woman screaming out a bairn?” the man said with a slow shake of his head. “I’ve heard it enough times, if I can say.”

“T’is it nay Lamorak, I saw hobbled?”

“Indeed. His leg’s busted up bad.”

“Howso?”
“Gareth.”
“An’ what of the Quest?”

“Gareth rode out as Lamorak, an’ fulfilled the duty.”

“Gareth did?”

“Aye, but it was a trap.”

“What say ye by that? Howso?”

“The Orkneys stood by as we approached. Gareth was dressed as Lamorak, and they attacked him. Gawain came out with four on hand, and Gareth unhorsed them all.”

“Did he now?”

“The King gifted ‘im with one of them long lances —”

“Elance,” Locksley said.

“It may have been when he first gifted yerself with it, but elance sounded so much as ‘a lance,’ it just stuck.”

“An’ the King gifted Gareth?”

“An’ he rode against his brother with it, and unhorsed him. It was a brilliant sight, as Gawain unhelmed himself and Gareth laughed, showing hisself to his brother. Gawain was wroth, seeing how Gareth was dressed as Lam and the curse he held against him for their father’s death.”

“An’ what said Gareth on that?”

“The lad is the only one of ‘em what understands that men die what go off to war, as much as Kings do. He rode off, seeking out Lamorak and saying that we had need to get him to Glastonbury. He felt Gawain would ne’er search out the monastery, not knowing how serious Lamorak’s injuries are.”

“He cannae walk then?”

“He’s been abed this past month.”

“Then ‘e need ne’er know t’was Gwenellyn lyin’ in ‘ere while ‘e was convalesced,” Locksley said with a smile. “Were ‘e t’ know, ‘e’d send ‘er back t’ Queen Moragna an’ ‘er dastardly son.”

Eamon smiled. “Dastardly?”

Locksley shrugged, smiled, and looked out of the stable doors. The young Squire would be coming in with a pack full of horses, if he knew the world of Knights, he thought. He didn’t know where he should go, or whether he should hide from the others until Gwenellyn had the child. And what would he do then?

“Ye said ye know about child rearin’?” Locksley said.

“No, I didna say anything like that,” he smiled. “I said, I knew the sound of a woman screamin’ at the birthing of a child.”

*

Morgan lay on the bed, the fur wraps wrapped about her, looking up at the ceiling as Meligrant pushed himself into her. She tried reaching up to meet his thrusts — or at least trying to meet him and feel his girth within her — but her mind was elsewhere. It wasn’t a matter of him being a good, or bad fuck, she told herself, but she’d been distracted by a mark on the ceiling. Looking up at it, her mind had wandered, until she found herself within a birthing room, watching a woman give birth. It wasn’t as if it was something she’d never witnessed before. She’d had a child.

This was different because she didn’t recognize the room, or the women —except that she could see they were nuns, belonging to one of the orders of the White Christ. That meant it had to be in a nunnery, she told herself, and once she’d accepted that, everything seemed to fall into place.

She gasped as she realized who it was, and Meligrant called out a low moan at the same moment as he spent himself within her, his body tensing. She could feel the muscles on his back and rubbed her hands along them, smiling. She assumed he’d think she was pleased with him, and she let him think that as she reached for the rag she kept near at hand, and began wiping herself clean.

“I have something for you to do,” she said, waiting for him to sit up against the wall. He looked at her and nodded.

“I thought so, thinking maybe ye weren’t as involved as ye normally are,” he said with a nod.

“Ye canna sense that?”

“Any man that canna feel that is lyin’ to hisself,” he said.

“And ye ne’er thought t’ stop an’ ask fer what?” she said.

He smiled at her. “Have ye ever known a man with his dick slipped within the soft warmth of a wet cunny, t’ stop an’ ask the woman if she was na havin’ it?”

She laughed at the crudity of his explanation, but told herself she could well understand what he meant. No, she couldn’t blame him for wanting to fuck her properly, it was her own thoughts that kept her from the ecstasy she so often sought.

Perhaps after, she told herself.

“I’m needin’ ye t’ do me a service,” she said.

“I thought I just did?” he grinned.

“The time ‘as come fer the Ladies of Avalon t’ pick a new priestess. The Breinchwiban Avalon, a princess born o’ pure blood. An’ I ken where ye can find ‘er.”

“And do what?”

“Bring ‘er t’ me,” she said.

“A child?”

“A babe.”

“Ye want for me to steal a child?”

“I’ve nay doubt ye will as soon’s I say who,” Morgan smiled.

“Ye canna expect me t’ steal a babe. I know nothin’ ‘bout babes, or the care of ‘em.”

“Hire a bower woman — a wet-nurse — an’ let ‘er tend t’ the child.”

“Ye canna ask this of me.”

“An’ were I t’ say t’is the maid-child of Sir Locksley an’ his paramour, the Lady Gwenellyn? That self-same wench what took yer eye. What say ye then?”