THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY
Or, THE BEGGAR'S KNAVE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE WOMAN IN WHITE
Brennis made his way through the dark passage ahead, recognizing the tell-tale signs of an animal that has been penned up and neglected; there was a stench of shit in the air. The ground was wet with water from the moat that had somehow seeped through the walls, turning the soft dirt into an ooze he could feel squishing under his wet boots with every step.
He could see the light of a torch ahead and bent low to the ground, keeping to the shadows, when he came across the jailer. A large man, his clothes ragged and ill-fitting, the man looked up, caught by surprise. He was quick to regain his senses though, and drew a long broadsword out of a rusty scabbard he kept close at hand — a prized weapon taken from some long-forgotten Knight, Brennis told himself — and rushed at the young Squire with the sword raised and ready to strike.
As the jailer ran toward him, Brennis fell back against the wall and loosed the notched arrow in his bow. It caught the jailer in the shoulder and the man screamed out in pain, the heavy sword falling as the man’s left arm dropped uselessly to his side. He’d somehow managed to hold onto the sword however, and swung it out wildly with a wide, curving arc, screaming with pain and frustration. Brennis reached for another arrow as he rolled into the shadows and came up on one knee, the arrow notched and ready. Drawing the bow back and letting it go, the arrow’s barbed tip pierced the man’s chest and he fell to his knees, clutching at it as he dropped the sword. Brennis reached out for the sword and his hand slipped around the hilt, grasping it; he brought the sword around with a slice, cutting into the man’s thick neck. A shower of blood spurted from the man’s body as it fell to the ground, slamming the arrow in his chest out through his back.
Brennis sat back against the wall, looking down at the man; trying to collect himself. He took a couple of deep breaths, watching the pool of blood seep into the ooze. It wasn’t his first time seeing a dead man — but he was almost sure it was the first time he’d killed a man. He found it strange that he couldn’t be certain. There’d been the fight in the forest with the Orkneys just — God, he didn’t even know how many days ago that’d been — but he’d stood on the edge of the woods shooting arrows as Locksley battled the two Squires. Did he kill one of them? Did he even hit one? He didn’t know. It’d all gone by too fast.
He looked at the dead guard and forced himself to stand up, stepping over the man and taking up the torch, holding it out in front of him. He looked at the sword and walked to where the man had been sitting, where the scabbard and baldric hung from a wooden dowel. He picked up the scabbard, sliding the sword inside. He wrapped the belt around his waist, liking the weight of it.
He could feel the cold coming through his wet clothes, and shivered, his feet feeling numb. There were several doors ahead of him on both sides of the passage, and he pounded on the first one, calling out. He heard voices, and removed the large, carved timber holding the door closed. Stepping into the low-ceilinged cell with the torch, he saw a clutch of bedraggled women pressing up against themselves in a dark corner.
“You’re not Knights,” he said, surprised to find a cell full of women. “Well, I doan suppose it matters, does it? Let’s go,” he said, making a sweeping gesture toward the door.
“Where to?” a voice called out from the shadows. There was something familiar about the woman’s voice he couldn’t quite place.
“What? I doan know. Out of here, though. There’s a battle raging outside.”
“We’ll take our chances here,” another woman called out. There was a note of defiance in her voice, and Brennis smiled.
“Will you? Well, if that’s what you will,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Wait!” a voice called out. It was the woman’s voice he thought he recognized.
He turned.
“Are you not Turquine’s man?” one of the other women asked. “Ye doan look like one of those Saxon scum.”
“No. I’m Sir Locksley’s Squire.”
“And who is Sir Locksley?” someone else asked. He could understand their hesitation. He knew what Knights could be like. Entitled, he thought. They’d come into The Red Lion and make demands, as if their needs were all that mattered. Food, wine, women — and sometimes boys, he reminded himself, grateful his mother had never been forced to offer him up.
“I said who is he?” the woman asked again.
Brennis looked up. “Sir Locksley is prince and heir to Ivanore; Knight of Inverness, Beyond-the-Wall; Knight of the Field, newly-made by the hand of King Pellinore. We’re here with Sir Launcelot and Lamorak deGales to find the Knights being held prisoner — well, I suppose I am now — Sir Locksley’s looking for Pellinore’s niece.”
“She’s not here. They took her elsewhere,” the woman explained.
“Know ye not my name…Breunor?” It was a voice he thought he knew; a figure stepping out of the shadows.
Brennis felt himself sag back against the door. He held the torch up higher, shielding his eyes and looking at the woman in the dancing light. The light seemed to flow around her and hold onto her; it went through her as if her skin were somehow translucent. He saw the other women drawing away from her. A few crossed themselves, according to the new god, while some of the older women kissed their thumbs and pressed them to their foreheads — warding off the evil spirits in the Druid way.
“I know you,” he said, his voice somehow under control.
She looked at him and cocked her head, as if stricken by something curious as she nodded., and said, “Good.”
Brennis looked at the woman closest to him. “Do you see her, too?”
The woman nodded.
“She does not see me as you do; she does not hear me as you do,” the woman in white said.
“What’s she look like?” Brennis asked the woman, and she gave him a questioning look. “Tell me,” he said again. “Is she dressed in white? Like a priestess? As bright as the light of a full moon,” he said, his voice faltering as he spoke. “She isn’t, is she?”
The woman shook her head.
“What’s she look like?” he asked again. “Tell me,” he said, raising his voice.
“She looks like one of us.”
Brennis was silent for a moment, looking at the torch as it reflected against the muddy floor. She was a witch. He knew that about her the first time he met her, when she stepped out of Lamorak’s pavilion. A Druid high priestess, or maybe less — it didn’t matter. The Druids were all but gone — a dying breed — driven Beyond-the -Wall to practice their magic and sorcery among the hill people. The Scots and Picts Grummer and Locksley claimed as their own.
Strange how the world works, he told himself.
“I must tell you something more.”
“You forgot something?” he laughed.
“Do not mock me, boy,” she said.
“Mock you? You’re a witch. I should take you head off. I have a sword.”
“Yes. Your father’s blade,” she acknowledged.
“What? How can you claim that? You never knew my father!”
“I knew him. His last words were meant for you.”
“No! I will not listen to you.”
“Know you this, Breunor. You are the hero of your own story. You will be known as La Cote Male Taile, and you will know your brother.”
“I have no brother.”
“All men are your brothers,” she said, and dropping the veil she wore, vanished.
“No! I will not have this!” he screamed, and crossing the cell picked up the veil as if the woman might be somehow underneath. He turned and looked at the women cowering behind him — some were on their knees, crossing themselves and muttering prayers. He tied the veil around his waist as if it were a sash and strode out of the door.
"The light seemed to flow around her and hold onto her; it went through her as if her skin were somehow translucent. He saw the other women drawing away from her. A few crossed themselves, according to the new god, while some of the older women kissed their thumbs and pressed them to their foreheads." Wow, Ben, this is so good. I really need to make time to go back and read this story from the beginning! Excellent.