THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY
Or, THE BEGGARS'S KNAVE
Locksley reached up, stretching out and grabbing the hand Brennis offered him, surprised at how easily the lad was able to pull him up into the narrow chute. He looked down at the Keep’s wall sloping below him — the garbage a slick stain on the wall — as he felt his hand slipping, and reached up with his other hand. He scrambled in, feet flailing as he slid down the slick chute, crashing into the door. His foot kicked the hook as he slid, dislodging it and sending it to the mound of garbage below. Brennis tried reaching out for the hook, but he was too late. He crawled forward, looking over the edge of the chute at the garbage piled below, where the hook lay on top.
“That pretty well settles it for us,” Brennis said with a laugh, leaning back against the wall and looking at Locksley. “It’s all up to you now.”
“Me?”
“Who else is there? Do you see another Knight here? I’m just a Squire — newly made, let me add — and I have no experience with rescuing knights, let alone princesses. You’ll have to rescue the Princess, free the captive knights, and probably fight all the soldiers we saw lining the wall above.”
“An’ what’ll yerself be doin’ in the meantime?” Locksley asked. “While I’m doin’ all this rescuing’ and gaddin’ about?”
“Someone has to think of a way to get us out of here.”
“Ahh,” Locksley smiled, nodding. “An’ those’re nae soldiers, just so ye know; they’re miscreants an’ mercenaries. They’ll be quick to leave as soon as the pilling’s run out.”
“The pilling?”
“Aye. The coinage; their fee?” Locksley explained.
“And do you know when’s that going to be? Do you think it will it be today?”
“Well, if Launcelot an’ Lam o’ercome Turquine an’ his Knights, it canna be long after that.”
“Are you saying we should just wait?”
“Nae, lad,” Locksley said with a wide grin. “That’d make this a fool’s errand. D’ye count yerself a fool? Nae? Have ye got yer bow?”
“I’m never without it,” Brennis said, reaching behind him.
“Then let’s us go an’ find us a Princess,” Locksley smiled.
“Aye, let’s,” Brennis laughed, and kicking the door, slid out of the chute.
Locksley lost his footing as soon as Brennis jumped down — the chute suddenly tipped and the door opened again. He slid down its length, coming dangerously close to the opening. He managed to grab a length of timber and scramble back up, finding small perches along the sides of the walls until the chute tipped back again. He kicked the door open and fell to the floor with a heavy thump, looking up at Brennis who grinned and reached out a hand to help him up.
“This whole thing is made up of timbered cedar,” Brennis said.
“Ye’d be astonied were ye t’ know most such places’re purfled —”
“Purfled?” Brennis asked, pausing to look at Locksley. “Is that even a word?”
“Ye wot not what purfled is?”
“I don’t,” Brennis said.
“Ach, lad, I canna teach ye now,” Locksley said, a note of impatience in his voice.
“I understand you speak a different tongue up beyond the wall,” Brennis said, “but I don’t live there. I’ve never been this far from The Red Lion before. I was born in a whorehouse, remember? I can understand most of what you say because the Knights that attended to the pleasures of the house came from different places — but I don’t understand all of what you say; not all the time. I usually just nod my head and hope I understood you properly. But if you’re going to be living in Camelot, it’s you that has to change, not me.”
Locksley considered what Brennis said, and nodded.
“Purfle is what the lassies do when they’re sittin’ at the fireside, stitchin’ with their needles, makin’ pretty pictures —”
“Embroidery?”
“Is that what ye say then?”
“Some of the whores were at it when they had the time,” Brennis said.
“Well, if ’tis, it’s what we up beyond the wall call what Lords do t’ their castles an’ Keeps, sealin’ the walls with muck an’ paintin’ ‘em to look like stone.”
“Purfle?”
“Aye.”
“It’s a damnable tongue from what I can tell,” Brennis laughed.
“Aye, ’tis that I’ve nae doubt.”
They made their way down a narrow hallway, coming to a set of wooden stairs made of half cut timbers. Locksley looked up at where the stairs seemed to end at the floor above them. He looked down, looked at Brennis, and then nodded to himself, following the rough-hewn stairs down into the depths of the Keep; Brennis followed. There was little light, what light there was coming through cracks in the walls where the mortar outside had crumbled. Shadowed timbers stretched across the stairs until they came to the main floor where they could see the doors of the Keep thrown open, daylight spilling across the rough floor.
They both crouched down and could see the Mercenaries beyond the Keep’s doors, some of them hurrying through the Courtyard and up carved steps leading to the parapets above. The Courtyard was littered with dead Saxons, and it looked to Locksley as if they may have been caught unaware. Most of the Mercenaries were sorting through the pockets and purses of the dead, cutting off fingers for the rings they wore. The drawbridge was down, the gates wide open, and Locksley could see horses, wide-eyed and frantic — some frothing at their bits, some basted in blood — fighting with groomsmen. Locksley crept down the stairs, keeping close to the wall and using the shadows he found, making his way down to the lower floor.
When they came to the landing they found the door open, and Locksley peered around the corner. There were several torches newly lighted, and several doors that he could see, some open. He heard voices in the distance. A woman was talking, her voice sounding loud and insistent.
“I dinna care what ‘e said. Do ye understan’ me?”
“But, my Lady Queen —”
“Nae! Enough! Accolon was a fool, an’ ‘is Saxons’re dead acause of it — by Turquine’s order, as nae doubt ye saw. Do ye not know what that means? There’s nae man t’ defend this hovel. That’s Launcelot an’ Lamorak out there. Have ye nae seen what they’ve done? Two score men rode out t’ face ‘em. Nae! Two score an’ ten! Two men — against a multitude! Slain, they are! Defeated. Why would ye think I want to stay?”
“But you cannot escape!” the man exclaimed. “There’s no way but for the gate.”
“Of course I can. D’ye think Turquine spent ‘is time buildin’ this shit-hole without thinkin’ of a way out? There’re more’n just dungeons down ‘ere,” she said, her voice trailing off as she made her way down the steps.
Locksley drew his sword, understanding why Lamorak preferred his war axe, and Launcelot his maced club. There was little room for him to swing his weapon in the close confines of the stairs. He looked at Brennis, an arrow notched in his bow, ready for anything.
He could hear a voice in the darkness calling out, and shortly after that, the incessant banging of something against a door. He stopped, trying to determine where the sound was coming from. Brennis stopped to listen, and pointed down a narrow passage. There were more voices calling out in the distance.
“I think we found them,” Brennis grinned.
“Go ye that way, an’ I’ll this. Kill anyone what gets in yer way.”
Brennis nodded, and was soon lost to the darkness.
Locksley kept close to the wall. The stench of wet, dank mud, closed in about him as he came to a barred door. It was shut tight and he pressed his ear against it, listening. He heard nothing, rapped his knuckles on it gently, and waited. When he decided there was no one in the room, he made his way down the passage, looking into three other rooms he came across.
“Is there someone there?” a voice called out. “Hello? Is there someone out there? I’m in here! Help me, please.”
“My Lady?” Locksley said, keeping his voice low.
“Is someone there?” she called out from the other side of the door.
“Quiet!” Locksley said, approaching the door. There was a timber barring the door, and Locksley lifted it up and set it to the side, against the wall. He could hear voices in the passageway — saw the flickering light of a torch rounding the corner— and pushed the door open. He saw her dishevelled figure standing in the shadows. What light there was came from the torches in the hallway and dimmed as soon as he closed the door behind him. Waiting at the door, he was listening to the voices as they grew louder.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Locksley, of Inverness Beyond-the-Wall,” he replied, a hand to his lips hoping to silence her.
“Inverness? Sir Grummer’s kin?” she asked, sounding cautious.
“Aye. Lady Gwenellyn?” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve come to rescue ye.”
“Have ye?” a woman’s voice outside the door said with a gentle laugh. “Such a gallant young man,” she added, pulling the door closed and fitting the wooden plank into place.
“My Lady! What are you doing?” Gwenellyn called out, running to the door and throwing her weight against it. She pounded on the door in frustration. “You cannot leave us here!”
“I canna be takin’ ye t’ Camelot with me now then, can I? I canna let anyone know I was here. Ye’ve gone from bein’ an asset, my child, t’ bein’ a liability. I’m sorry, but it’s for the best.”
“No! You cannot leave us here!”
“Oh, but I can. Bring me that torch,” Locksley heard her say.
“What are you doing!” he called out.
“Turquine’s dead; Accolon, an’ ‘is Saxons’re dead — more the fool ‘im for havin’ trusted Turquine, I say — ‘alf the Knights what rode with Turquine this day, lay assorted in the field. Dead. There are nae tales for the dead the ol’ saw says, an’ well it should. I’m sorry child, but it’s for the best,” she said, tossing the torch into the empty cell. The torch gutted for a moment, and then the straw on the floor caught and the flames leapt up with a thirsting hunger, carrying the fire up to the wooden walls, where the timbers caught and burst into flame.
A cliff hanger! Fun story! You do very well with Locksley's dialect. I will be back for the next installment. ( PS check typo in your title here)