THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

iii THE QUEEN'S BREAKFAST

iii THE QUEEN’S BREAKFAST

Dawn came in with a subtle hint of colour, echoing with birdsong. The trees caught the light and stretched their shadows across the valley while a stubborn mist seemed to cling to the branches before melting away. The grass sparkled with dew; like diamonds, they glittered in the light while a blue haze hung over the camp as a multitude of campfires were coaxed back to life. There were the usual sounds of a military camp coming to life: horses whinnying in the distance as grooms and squires brought out loose bales of hay; the sound of men coughing, laughing, teasing each other; others wandering into the woods where they washed themselves in a small stream. They pissed; they shat; they made breakfasts, and teas, using the bitter leaves of dandelion, milk thistle and chamomile; they made love. There were the screams of children, and more laughter, as families bestirred themselves, the fathers now soldiers who set about their duties, as the whores crawled under old furs and lay on lumpy mattresses stuffed full of reeds. 

Somewhere, someone picked up a lute and music narrated the morning.

This was what Pellinore remembered of his youth, he thought, in days when knight-errantry was what every young bachelor-knight did. It was how you proved yourself. He was the best, once upon a time. But it was a young man’s game and he wasn’t a young man anymore. It was just as likely that what he’d heard was the stirring of a memory.

It was what had led him on the hunt for the Questing Beast. It took years for him to realize it had been a suggestion placed in his mind by Myrddyn; there was no Questing Beast. In the meantime, he’d been chasing shadows. He laughed at it now, but back then, he didn’t see the humour in it at all.

It’s funny how time changes your perspective, he thought. Here I am in the Queen’s camp helping her search for Launcelot, while I’m supposed to be on my way to Camelot marrying off my girls.

But with that many knights out and about, searching for Launcelot was probably the last thing they were doing. He knew what could happen to a man on the road. Traveling with the Queen was probably the best—and safest—thing he could do under the circumstances. He was getting too old to joust over some pretended insult, or to protect his daughter’s virtue—and Gwenellyn’s, he reminded himself.

There’s still the threat of Gawain and the other Orkneys waiting to take my head off. It wasn’t something I would’ve concerned myself with thirty years ago, but I’m not thirty anymore, am I? Closer to seventy, I’m thinking.

He found himself standing outside the pavilion where Miriam and Gwenellyn were. He looked at the two guards—both of whom were standing tall, not daring to look at him. He cleared his throat as he approached, thinking the girls would know it was him.

“Are they awake?” he asked the older of the two guards.

The man simply nodded.

Pelinore answered the man with a grunt as he approached the pavilion. He couldn’t decide whether to knock on the post, or call out. He decided he should stand back and clear his throat again, thinking to himself,  They must’ve heard that? When they didn’t respond, he raised a hand and thought about pounding on the post. He cleared his throat again. One more time. With purpose. He looked at the two guards who stood silent.

He reached out and knocked on the post, lightly, almost tentative, as if he were aware that he might be disturbing them; that what the guard heard was not them stirring about, but something else.

“Are they alone?” he asked the older guard.

“Do you mean is the dressing girl in there with them?” the man asked.

“Is she?”

The man nodded.

Pellinore shook his head, muttering to himself, before pushing the felt doorway aside and striding in. They were both of them sitting on the large bed, fully dressed. The Queen’s Dresser was tying Miriam’s hair into a long plait, wrapping the hair around the top of her head and pinning it into place. She paused. All of them were watching, waiting, laughing as Pellinore stepped into the pavilion.

“I told you!” Miriam laughed.

“Told her what?” Pellinore said.

“That you wouldn’t know what to do if we didn’t answer. I told them it would take no time at all before you simply barged in because you didn’t know what else to do.”

“And you find that amusing?”

Amazingly so!” Miriam laughed. Pellinore looked at Gwenellyn who put her head down but was unable to stop herself from smiling, or laughing.

“The Queen has asked us all to break fast together,” he said, turning and walking out of the pavilion to the echo of gentle laughter. Even the guards standing outside were smiling.

All of her life Guinevere had been considered lucky. If there was something foul lurking about—some feeling, or curse—she was either the first to know about it, or the first to sense it. They said she was lucky that way. Luckier still that she was the King’s daughter, they laughed.

Yes, that was lucky.

They’d all agreed that she’d been lucky with her quick betrothal and quicker marriage acceptance. Politically it was a good marriage; they knew it made sense. It was for a good reason, they all knew that too, but still, they laughed and mocked her just the same, saying the old princess finally gets to spread her legs, regal-style, as if it were a new position they’d just invented. It was cruel and it hurt. She was twenty-five when she married him, but Arthur neither said, or did, anything about what they were saying. Even though there were still festivals and feasts going on outside the marriage tent, he’d moved it away from the celebrants and declared her to be sick.

She still heard them though—the celebration, the music—and had to remind herself this was her wedding. She’d missed it all because Arthur wouldn’t let her leave the pavilion.

Gawain had been more than happy to stand first Guard.

She should’ve known it was all too good to be true. But her loss, her pain and her suffering, had all turned out to be the biggest gift any of them could’ve hoped for. War. It was breaking out all around them. You’d think it was all for them; all that mattered. It’s what they all wanted.

They ran off and left it all to us though, didn’t they? Wasn’t I the lucky, transporting the huge segments of the table; risking life and limb for someone else’s perverse belief in himself.

No, you were lucky to have been there; lucky to have seen it.

But was I?

She wondered.

Looking up at Pellinore pushing his daughters through the felt curtain and into her quarters, she smiled, grinned, and then laughed, genuinely happy to see him. The old man was muttering to himself—much the same as he did the last time she saw him—and a part of her wondered if it was the same old story. She was on her knees when they entered, and smiled as she slid some cushions about, rearranging them; after digging about, she found a rug the girls could use to keep warm with. She’d hoped his talking to himself was something he’d gotten over, but it was so obviously wasn’t. She stood up, straightened her dress, and called out to the old King.

“Pelly, you old curmudgeon!” She moved toward him and kissed him lightly, was happy to. Pellinore had always been her favourite among the Northern Kings. She put her arm around him and guided him to a cushion beside her. She looked at the girls and smiled, genuinely.

“Sit down girls, sit. I found a rug for you to share. It gets cold in here—at least, until the sun heats things up in the afternoon. They made me a larger pavilion—what do you think?” she asked, looking about at the expanse. “They didn’t have time to make a bench long enough, or a table to match. I thought, fuck it, we’re going out into the countryside. I’m willing to give up certain luxuries—who needs a table when you can sit on the ground? But when it comes right down to it, you still have to break your fast properly—especially when you’re out in the field. You can’t expect me to live on camp rations. Listen to me; I do go on and on sometimes. Forgive me, please,” she laughed. “Sit. Sit.”

She turned to look at Pellinore and neither of them spoke for a moment.

“Are your not going to introduce your daughters?” Guinevere asked him.

“Daughter,” Pellinore said. “Only one of them’s my daughter. The other one’s my niece.”

“And which one is that? By Christ, Pelly! I swear. You’re just as scattered brained as you were the last time I saw you. Does it not make any sense to you, that if you bring two girls in to have breakfast, it’s only natural you tell the hostess their names? You said one’s your daughter and the other’s your niece. Which is which?”

“Of course,” Pellinore said with a chuckle. “I was—my mind was somewhere else—there’s always so much to consider. This is my daughter. Miriam.”

The girl looked young, but then, she’d been young too, Guinevere reminded herself. She was fifteen when she was supposed to marry Gawain. How many years ago was that? That had fallen apart with the War of the Twelve Kings, and she was grateful. She’d never been overly fond of Gawain and the Orkney knights. There was only one of the Orkney brothers left now. Gareth. The youngest.

Well, him and the Bastard.

She smiled and raised a toast Pellinore was quick to share.

“Thank fuck you took that bastard’s head!”

Both girls hesitated to raise their glass, and Guinevere laughed. She knew what it meant to be overwhelmed. She settled herself down and two young girls brought out trays of food and drinks. They talked, and they laughed at the stories they told. She listened as Pellinore spoke of his sons. She’d always liked Lam and Percy.

And Lam’s so easy to look at.

“So, Pelly, finish that story you were telling me. Do you remember it?” she asked. She looked at the girls, who shook their heads. “It’s really quite an amazing story, I mean, there were these two brothers. Knights obviously,” she laughed, “or why tell it? Now come on, Pelly. What happened?”

I hope you liked the picture of Pellinore I made using AI. I can’t remember what program it was, but it was free…until it wasn’t.

If you liked it, you can always make a small donation of $5/month so I can actually pay for the program. If you think the writing’s worth it, support the writer. I’d offer you a deal, but it’s the “Canuck Buck” people, and $5 Canadian is what? $3.50 American? Isn’t that less than breakfast at Denny’s?