THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

CHAPTER 12

Morgana Le Fay looked out over the courtyard — a dirty, squalid, patch of mud reminding her more of a pig sty than a courtyard — remembering how Turquine’s captive Knights had been forced to work on the construction of his new Curtain Wall. There’d been a torrent of rain that week, cold and hard, and she’d watched as their steaming bodies placed the rocks down in what could only be called the haphazard semblance of a wall. They were beaten men for the most part, she could see that — anyone could see that — but there’d been a surge of resistance that rose up among the Knights at the most unexpected time, Turquine told her.

And that time had come with the building of the wall. Large rocks had been found and brought back for the task — the search had gone far afield, he told her, and at great expense — as the captive Knights were meant to build the wall within a given period of time.

“An’ goddamn if there wasn’t one man who rose up t’ the challenge ever’thin’…an’ it always bein’ the same man.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Who? That goddamned Pict!” Turquine swore.

“What Pict? D’ye mean Grummer?”

“Aye, Grummer!” he yelled. “The man refuses t’ give up an’ bend ‘is will t’ mine. I’ve had ‘im beaten so that ‘e couldn’t stan’, an’ still, in the mornin’, ‘e’s there t’ toe the line. I hate the man an’ ever’thin’ ‘e stands for!”

“Why would ye hate a man that shows such resolve?”

“Are ye mad, woman! A man that brings resolve, brings ‘ope t’ the others! A man like that ‘as t’ be broken, an’ made t’ fear me as much as any other man fears God Hi’self!”

“And ye’d do this with Grummer? A confessed Pict?”

“Confessed? To whom?

“Arthur, you dolt.”

He crossed the room and struck her — hard — without hesitating, catching her off-guard as well as off-balance. She stumbled, falling against the wall and to the floor. She looked up at him from her hands and knees, through the dark curtain of hair covering her face, the grey of her eyes darkening to a leaden colour.

“I’ll break ‘im, or I’ll see ‘im dead!” Turquine shouted, standing over her, his fists pounding against the wall until they bled.

“Then ye’d best do it now, or kill him, because ye’ll never break him. We’re two of the same breed, him and I,” she added, throwing her hair back and feeling the soft swell of her lip. There was no blood, but that didn’t matter. Not now, she told herself, standing. “Let’s hope ye don’t live to regret that,” she added, standing up straight and looking down at him in defiance.

Turquine looked up at her and laughed, mocking her, walking to the table where a large flagon of warm ale waited for him. He took a drink and looked at her; she could see him assessing her. She could be a formidable foe, she knew, just as she knew she’d never be broken — not by him, or by any man — which was why she knew Grummer would never break.

And he hadn’t; he’d been captive for almost two weeks now, Turquine told her.

Grummer’s latest feat had been the construction of the wall. It was supposed to have lasted ten days, so Turquine could show his captors to his buyer; Grummer did it himself in under four days. Turquine was livid, which was why he had taken his frustration out on her, she knew.

A part of her understood that about him. Turquine could be stubborn, a man set in his ways; a little too unpredictable. She told him it was only a matter of time before the captives rose up against him. All that was needed was a leader, she thought, and Grummer of all people, had proven to be that man.

There was a sense of pride in knowing that Grummer had come from Beyond-the-Wall, but that was as far as it went. Grummer would have to be killed because of the threat he posed to her plans against the throne. It was all political, and she knew Turquine would never understand — or that he himself would be sacrificed as a pawn in her desperate bid for power. Had Turquine listened and raided the surrounding countryside, using peasants to help with the construction of his Keep instead of Knights, things wouldn’t have gotten so far out of hand.

It wasn’t something she would’ve advised, capturing Bachelor Knights, or those out Questing in the name of the King, but Turquine wasn’t a man to be dissuaded by sense, or reason, was he? She told him it was only a matter of time before some rogue Knight showed up in search of a kinsman — or two.

And what if that rogue is Launcelot? You don’t have to be a Druid, to see that, she told herself — not with both Lionel and Ector captive.

It was bad enough knowing there were two dozen Knights being held, but it was worse knowing that her nephews were somehow involved. It was more than just a little distressing. It wasn’t something she wanted to delve into too deeply, but knowing Agravain and Modred were involved had been enough to make her pay attention. The fact they’d made the effort to capture Grummer — and for their own reasons — was more than a little curios, she thought.

What could their reasoning be? she wondered.

She had no desire to be here, not now, not having discovered that Launcelot’s kin were held captive. But on her way to Camelot to celebrate the Tournament of Youth, Morgana had made the mistake of agreeing to ride with Accolon the Gaul, as well as his Saxon followers.

They’d journeyed across the channel to raid smaller holdings inland, and he’d sent word to her. They needed slaves to sell to the flesh merchants of Damascus, he’d said, but there were still riches he was willing to shower her with, if only she’d agree to meet him. And she had. It was foolishness on her part, and she knew it; so many things could go wrong. But that womanly need of hers cried out for him, and wouldn’t be denied. She could picture herself on her back, her creamy thighs spread wide, and Accolon thrusting himself into her.

She balked, startled to see the Gaul and his Saxon horde cresting the low lying hills in the distance. Eventually, she counted five women among them, and wondered what small town, or hamlet, they’d ravaged along the way? Does it matter? she asked herself. The women would eventually be cast into the dungeon with the others. How many was that Turquine said? Almost a dozen women? And two dozen Knights? The women were bound for a better life he’d said, rather than the life of penury and squalor the Knights would find themselves in. The women would be sent to eager husbands, or maybe even a harem — if they proved pretty enough — or if they had the gold coloured hair so highly desired — while the Knights would find themselves condemned to the galleys.

And how is that a better life? she asked herself. Only a man would think a life in wanton servitude is what every woman secretly wants.

The women would be raped — if they hadn’t been already — and those that were too old would be put to work in the fields, or serve as scullery maids in dark kitchens, or serve in a whorehouse in the outlying areas. It wasn’t a life she’d wish on her worst enemy — not even the Queen. She was well aware that she might’ve suffered the ignominy of such a life herself, had she not been half-sister to the King, and wed to Uriens, both a king himself and a trusted ally of Arthur.

If Lot had proven himself victorious during the War of the Twelve Kings, life would’ve been very different indeed, she told herself.

She made her way down the thick-slabbed cedar steps of the Keep, the cold timbered walls seeming to close in around her. She wrapped her arms around herself, breathing in the fresh scent of cedar as she hurried down the stairs. Two servants standing at the doors of the Great Hall pulled them open for her as she approached, stepping outside and feeling the bite of cold air cutting through her.

She waited as Turquine appeared, coming out of the stable and standing beside her. Sliding an arm around her waist he buried his face in the volume of hair that fell about her shoulders and down her back. She could feel his hot breath on her neck and smiled.

The drawbridge fell with a hollow echo that vibrated through her feet.

“It’s the Gaul, Accolon,” Turquine said, sounding curious. “He’s early.”

“Ye were expecting him, my Lord?”

“I’d ‘eard it noised about for some that ‘e an’ ‘is Saxons were out an’ about, but one canna put too much stock in such tales, eh?”

“And yet, here he is,” she said, a shudder of anticipation running through her body.

“Are ye cold, Lady?” Turquine asked, looking down at her. She nodded and he threw the great bearskin cape he was wearing around her narrow shoulders. The cloak stank of wood smoke, and musk — the sweat of a thousand days gone — but it was warm and smothered her in its grip.

I hope you’re enjoying the story so far. I know I am. Writing with no set plan except for the TABLE OF CONTENTS, I’m just as surprised as you are at the turn of events. But I do have a couple of questions to ask.

I don’t like the title. It was something I came up with years ago when I first thought of the story. It was one of those projects that never got off the ground, though. I’d like to suggest another title: THE BEGGAR’S KNAVE struck me as soon as I wrote it.

The second Question. Should I create a Cast of Characters? Are there too many names? Would it make it easier to follow the story?

As always, please help by subscribing to my PAID Page. $5/month (Can.) is all I need, or I may have to go out and find myself a part time job. This living on a pension isn’t quite doing it for me.