SWORDS AND SORCERY SATURDAY

CHAPTER 20 THE KNIGHT OF THE ROSE

I wasn’t going to put it up here, but it was too long for a NOTE. This is Chapter 20 of my serial THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY. It’s our young Knight taking part in THE TOURNAMENT OF YOUTH. Suited up in a ‘new’ kit, he arrives late to the party, but makes an impression.

CHAPTER TWENTY…

THE KNIGHT OF THE ROSE

Morgan LeFay looked out across the fields at the three tilting alleys and felt her heart stutter at the thought of her son on his destrier — spear down, shield up — thinking he could unseat the man coming at him with the same ill-intent. As a mother, it was the last thing she wanted; as a Queen, it did her heart proud to have their son representing the Kingdom of Moray.

A mother is ever proudful about these things, she heard the voice of the Revered Mother — the High Priestess of her youth in Avalon — saying somewhere in her memory. She wondered when exactly it had been.

She found herself feeling conflicted though, sitting as a witness to the first tournament her son had yet to be involved in…and at Camelot no less. It was his moment to shine, she’d reminded him, and gave him a token of her love, a scarf he would wear upon his sleeve. She was never as concerned when it was her husband riding against some well-known nobleman. She’d often found herself hoping to see Urein falter; unhorsed and maybe trodden under the hooves of his own steed.

Just to make sure, she thought. That would put an end to all my problems, she told herself. It was a fantasy she’d often played over and over again in her mind. Urein was a more than capable jouster though, and she hoped he’d passed some of that knowledge on to their son. She told herself she shouldn’t fret at the thought of her son’s defeat, or worse, worry about possible injury.

Still.

A mother never stops worrying about these things.

The voice was more than a reminder.

There were often injuries, and upon occasion they led to deaths, or permanent damage, and she could only pray to the gods that her son wouldn’t embarrass himself with an ignoble defeat at the hands of a lesser man. On that we agree. Not like Kay, Arthur’s half-brother — and hers as well, she admitted, albeit reluctantly. Kay had suffered an injury years ago. He still had a limp from the injury, as it had failed to heal properly; there was that, and the ignominy of having suffered his defeat at the hands of Dagonet, Arthur’s Fool. A Dwarf.

She hated tournaments and how she was always compelled to attend them because she was a Royal member of The Court and really had no choice. She could feel the thundering hooves vibrating through her body as the Knights and their Squires charged down the field to face and salute the King. Arthur stood, slowly — the pain of old injuries come back to haunt him, she thought — and with a bent smile, still managed to welcome them to Camelot, calling them the Flower of Youth. The Next Generation, he called them, and the Knights let out a cheer that was echoed by their Squires ,and then the crowd.

Just another reminder of how much I hate crowds, she told herself. There was the stench, and then the overwhelming heat that came with sitting under a heavy wool canopy and layers of old fur rugs. She hated how the crowd screamed whenever two combatants came together — the screaming horses as much as the people watching — and she’d watch in horror as spears shattered when they burst against ornate shields. The splintering slivers of wood were often driven into the horses’ flanks, or necks. She always pitied the poor animals.

Urein would tell her the horses were trained to face such onslaughts. She knew it mattered little to him if a horse should live, or die. She once witnessed him draw his sword and slay the horse he was riding because it had fallen and he’d lost the contest as a result. It was the same ruthlessness she hoped he’d passed on to their son; it would take that much to win the people of Camelot.

She tried not to look at the man seated beside her. He might have been her King, and the youngest of Lot’s brothers, but there was little of the brothers about him. Lot had proven himself to be the most capable of the Clan. Her sister had the better deal there, she thought. Urein betrayed his brothers by joining Arthur’s campaign. For that, Morgan could never forgive him. Lot had also been the more capable lover, which was another thing for which she would never forgive the man.

A woman never stops thinking about those things.

“You seem tense, my Lady,” Urein said, reaching out for her hand, which she calmly withdrew from his grasp. He looked at her and sighed — hopefully he’ll resign himself to the fact that I’ll never love him again, she told herself. Better he should get over me now.

“I fear for our son,” she said after a moment.

“Why? He’s well trained. If he should fall, let it be to a better man,” was all he said.

“Is that what ye have t’ say on it? Let ‘im fall t’ a better man?”

“What would ye have me say? All the great sons of Camelot will be riding today. Thirty young Bachelors waiting to prove themselves the next up an’ comer. The next Lancelot. Or maybe another Lamorak? My brother’s youngest son rides among them somewhere. As does Bagdemagus’s son, remember him? Meligrant. A craven child, that one. I hear they call him Melagiant now, the boy’s so tall.”

“Let our son at least defeat him,” she said softly.

She tried to appear dismissive by turning away from him, seeing one of the riders — a late arrival — approaching from the farthest end of the field. He was dressed in a mix of Old Roman fashion, and something new, his armour dull but newly crafted. It winked in the sunlight where straps and buckles glittered.

“Who is that?” she asked Dinaden, sitting to her left.

“Locksley. I’m sure ye remember ‘im? The young Prince of Ivanore?” the Jester said with a note of worry and a tremor in his voice that made Urein laugh. Morgan could see the man was being sincere.

“Ivanore?” Urein asked. “You mean Ambrose’s whelp? I had no idea he’d even survived the attack. Is he not the one they called The Beggar’s Knave?”

“The very self-same Knight, Sire,” Dinaden replied.

“Doan seem like such a beggar, now, does he? Does anyone know him?” he asked.

“He is yet untried,” Dinaden said with a shrug.

“Was ‘e nay made Knight of the Field?” Morgan said. “Ending that damnable war, by savin’ Pellinore?”

“Oh that rhymed; that’s good,” Urein said, and laughed. Then: “Yes. I seem to recall something like that. Stepped in between the two Kings, and gave Pellinore the Killing Swing. See that? I made it rhyme, too. Know the man, do ye?” Urein asked, in an off-hand tone.

“I know he is kith an’ kin t’ Sir Grummer, the Pictish Knight from Beyond-The-Wall.”

“That drunken lout?” Urein scoffed.

“Drunken lout he may be, but Grummer is well a Table Knight. An’ as ye know,” she reminded him, “he counts Bedivere an’ Lamorak, amongst ‘is friends. Think ye the lad’ll be untried, or untrained with such a pedigree?”

“As is our son,” Urein said, trying to sound harsh, but failing. “Tried and trained by my own hand.”

“Is he unbending?”

“He would rather die than take the knee.” He said it with a calm determination, and she wondered in part if it was the father’s wish, or the boy’s blame.

“That’s what frightens me,” she said.

“Why? They’re not jousting today,” he laughed. “That will be overmorn.”

“What?”

“On the morrow? This is only the first day. Today will be tilting. Hardly exciting, but a test of skill Uwain should do well with. He’s quite accomplished with the spear and war-hammer.”

“Does a warhammer often come up in single battle?” she asked.

She turned to see the first of three Bachelors approaching. There would be ten lists. Urein was watching his son as he sat poised and ready. He was dressed in the House colours of blue and white, and lowered his spear, letting his Squire remove the banner draped around the shaft of his spear.

In the second lane was Meligrant, who would start his run as soon as Uwain passed the first marker. His chain mail glittered under his jerkin, and his gambeson was made in colours of green and blue. There was white trim on the edges.

“Is there a reward for the prettiest?” she teased.

He was riding a large draft horse he made look small. His spear she was almost certain, had to be as wide as her own arm, and a part of her wondered what it would be like to have those arms of his holding her down and not letting her go until she surrendered herself to him.

She smiled at the thought of it.

“No, there is no prettiest,” Urein said, seeing her smile and then laughing himself. She tittered like the woman she knew he wanted her to be, but all the while she fantasized about the son of Bagdemagus looking down at her through his dark curls, and told herself there was a prize for prettiest..

A woman must always remind herself of these things.

He stood up in his stirrups and his shadow appeared enormous — a raptor blotting out the sun. She watched him hesitate as he raised his arms and brought just as many cheers from the crowd as he did jeers. With his reins in one hand, and his knee pressed against the left shoulder of his horse, he slowed the beast to a canter, and then sat down and spurred the horse on to a maddening gallop.

Some of the crowd of more than three thousand — families from the surrounding towns, hamlets, and farmsteads — the entire populace of what made Camelot, cheered. They were standing behind newly woven ropes, the front rows holding back those who stood behind. The front of the crowd was made up of sturdy men, and young toughs, the future soldiers and hopeful Knights of the King. There were young boys making their way through the crowd, hoping to get a closer look at some famous Knight. There were mothers in the crowd as well, with their daughters dressed in their best finery, hoping there might be a young Squire, or Knight to entice with the prospect of marriage.

Someone said they saw Lamorak de Gales.

It’d do good to find a brood mare for my son, she thought, watching the mothers and daughters wending their way through the crowd. A daughter will be needed for the Sisters of Avalon, and who better than Pellinore’s niece, the lady Gwenellyn? She’d address the issue with Lamorak herself if she had to, but she was quite certain Urein would do the right thing once she pointed her out to him. He’d lust after her much the same as he lusted after any woman he ever came across.

Of course he’ll do the right thing.

She managed to turn her attention back to the Lists. As there were only three lanes the Lists were divided into three’s; there were ten runs. The six best riders would face each other, and then the last three. Morgan watched her son take his place in the lead lane of the sixth race. He’d be out first, and when he crossed the marker the second rider, Meligrant, would ride out, and finally the last, Locksley.

Uwain and Meligrant were making their first circuit of the tilting field, both approaching their Squires who stood at the ready holding up a second spear. Uwain was in the lead, and he threw first as Meligrant was spurring his horse on into a merciless lather. He was a remarkable horseman. She felt it was a dance with clods of dirt, and mud, raining over the front row of spectators.

The last to throw was Locksley. His was the position that was most likely to lose. But it was also said to be an advantage because a Knight knew how the other two fared ahead of him. She knew all he had to do was hit the target. She watched as Uwain stood in his saddle and threw his spear. He’d mistimed his throw and the spear hit the outside edge of the target. He’d be lucky to even have it declared as a hit. Meligrant was quickly at the target and she watched as he rose to his great height and cast the spear which passed through the target as witnessed by a single shaft of sunlight.

Morgan found herself rising to her feet to get a better view of the field below.

Locksley was riding an ebony-coloured Arabian, with a cuirass of hardened leather. A sanguine colour that was almost black. In the centre of the cuirass was a crest. A singular white rose. It was made of embossed metal, so that were a spear to hit it, it would most likely bounce off. The wide leather straps had been riveted together, the straps overlapping and covering both the horse’s withers, as well as its hindquarters. It was the chamfrom protecting the horse’s face that made hm a crowd favourite. It was a piece of modelled metal made to look like a Hydra’s head. On the crown of the mask were two smaller heads growing out at angles, with glass beads for eyes.

He retreated to the end of the field and tossed his spear to his Squire. The boy caught the spear and ran to a pre-determined spot as Locksley lashed the horse to a full gallop by the time Meligrant hit the first marker. Just as he entered the field at a full gallop, he leaned down and snatched the spear from his Squire. He came up out of stirrups that were purposely shortened, giving him an added height — but was already whipping the spear as fast and as hard as he could without pausing, or hesitating. He made the turn in a shower of mud and dirt and Morgan heard the crowd screaming and knew, without even looking, that he’d hit the target dead centre.

She saw him as he passed by the stands. She could see his newly fashioned lorica segmentata. It was a flat black colour that caught the light and reflected it back with a muted, murky, pulse of light that was gone in the matter of a heartbeat. It looked to be made of thin metal strips overlapping each other. All of it riveted and tied up tight with leather ties, belts, and straps. The buttons and buckles were made of brass and burnished to a golden sheen. The leather gambeson he wore underneath the lorica was inlaid with iron strips, with sleeves of mail were strapped to the shoulders of the lorica; being loose, they offered him a freedom of movement other Knights could only imagine.

He was fast approaching the second target and released his spear when he was well behind Meligrant — the arcing weapon passing over the two riders while Meligrant was now side by side with Uwain — and Locksley’s spear passing through the target at the same moment Uwain’s did, but he’d released his at a closer distance.

The crowd roared its approval, as did Arthur.

Morgan looked up the Field where she could see that Uwain’s horse wasn’t going to make the jump that had been put up, and sat down in relief as the horse managed to keep its footing. But Locksley’s horse soared ahead, leaping the structure that had been placed on the tilting field, as if it had wings.

Locksley was bearing down on Brennis who was holding out the handle of a three foot mace to him, at the same time holding the barbed ball in his other hand and releasing it when he heard Locksley call out to him. Morgan watched the Squire dressed in his tattered cuirass, reach for the throwing axes next, the blades of which were stuck into a small knot of wood. Locksley would be lucky if he managed to get one out of the block, she told herself. She watched him riding toward the quintain with its outstretched arms, the mace in his hand striking the shield five times before Uwain finally approached. She knew Uwain would have to hit the shield six times, with each strike being a point.

She could see Locksley pause, watching Uwain as he approached, and then he struck the shield twice more before urging his horse ahead at a maddened gallop. Uwain’s horse was growing weary she could see; Meligrant was passing the second target and rounding the course, but his horse failed to clear the obstacle and both the Knight and the horse fell.

Locksley grabbed the axe handle that was on the left hand side of the block of wood Brennis held up for him. The axehead had been driven into the block with force. There were four more axes in the block and Locksley pulled them out one at a time, throwing each axe at the target while still at a great distance. He missed with the first axe, but as he closed in on the target he hit it with the next three axes in rapid succession. The crowd was cheering madly.

Uwain only managed to get a firm grip on one axe, as he fumbled and dropped the second one; and when throwing, he missed the target completely. She could hear Urein screaming out in rage at his son’s failure.

The crowd was entirely behind Locksley and at the end of the event he was given the day by the grace of the Queen herself.

Gareth, the youngest of the Orkney Clan, placed second, and Griflet, the newly Knighted, and one-time Squire of King Pellinore, placed third.

Morgan stood and left without a word; Dinaden was quick to follow.

*

“I told you,” Lamorak said, his flagon of ale held high as he toasted Locksley yet again “A finer horse you’ll never find!”

“T’ be sure, that’s so!” Locksley called out. “A fine mount!”

“And no finer armourer than the King’s own!” Bedivere laughed, looking down the long table where Eric, the large Viking sat, grinning. There was a great shout by all — the stable hands, serving boys, as well as Ambrose the Ferrier. The armour was unlike anything ever seen before, with plates of embossed metal on the breast, and shoulders.

“Ye did yerself proud today, boy!” the man said, rising his flagon with the others. “Valhalla! Open your doors wide! A hero awaits!” the big Viking called out, draining his flagon of ale and slamming it down on the oaken table.

“Valhalla!” he screamed again.

“Valhalla!” the eager boys screamed, echoing the big Viking’s words.

“Aye, but all fer naught had ye shewed yerself with th’ othern as they presented theirselves t’ the King,” Grummer laughed. “Yer comin’ in like that, wit’ all eyes on ye as ye rode the Field,” he laughed. “A master-stroke!”

“Ye say it like it was yer own thinkin’,” Locksley laughed, “When it was Brennis what said it worked best with the whores that kept the doffs they catered to, waitin’— as well ye should know!” He looked at Brennis who was into his third flagon of ale and feeling none the worse for it. Locksley reached down and took the flagon from the young Squire. “Ye’ve had yer share, an’ then some,” he said. “Ye must be spry overmorn, with the jousting’ t’ be done.”

“Aye lad,” Grummer grinned, looking at Brennis and laughing. “Ye canna think t’ be one o’ The Boys, Brendan, not without their bein’ ‘ere t’ show ye the way of it. Ye’ve a full day of it overmorn. It’s a Squire’s tale as much as yer Knight’s,” he said. “Certes, ye’ll ‘ave nothin’ t’ say on the lasses if’n ye doan see t’ yer Knight’s needs.”

“And do you know who you will be facing?” Bedivere asked.

“I canna say on that,” Locksley smiled. “As there are thirty of us,” he added. “I should think the last man standin’ll be Gareth.”

“Certes! Ye canna face Gareth first off,” Grummer grinned. “Ye’ll want t’ be facin’ ‘im as the Field fails. The crowd’ll demand it.”

“Aye lad,” Lamorak said. “It’s a fool who’d pit the two of you against each other, even before the Field has a moment to itself.”

“It’s not the Meleé we’ll be joinin’ yet,” Locksley laughed.

“No, it may not be, but the crowd wants what the crowd wants, and they’ll be wanting to see the two best Knights on the Field,” Bedivere said. “You both proved your worth today. They’ll make it so you two are the last to face each other.”

“Ye make it sound as though we’re dispossessed,” Locksley laughed. “Ye canna say who I’m t’ face, or by how they’ll fall, if they’ve yet t’ fall,” he said. “Ye canna control such.”

“An’ who taught ye t’ throw yer spear as such?” Grummer called out. “Who was it, boy? Aye, tell them all,” he said, looking around the room. “It’s a young man’s game, Tiltin’ is. But it’s yer joustin’ where yer prowess will out. Ye’ve been well-versed in that, ye have. But so ‘as that Orkney bastard —”

“The boy’s no bastard, Grummer,” Lamorak said with a slow shake of his head. “He’s not the least like any of the other Orkney scum — yes, and I mean Gawain when I say that —” he added, levelling a look at Bedivere. “He was your friend long before I came here, and I can’t fault you for the quality of your friends, can I? Not with Grummer here!” he added with a raucous roar of laughter.

“An’ ‘ow well do ye reckon the lad?” Grummer asked.

“Enough to know where his faults lay,” Lamorak smiled.