THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY
Or, The Beggar's Knave
Locksley banged the pommel of his sword against the door—screaming and spitting out curses—then stepped back, and with a solid two-handed swing brought the blade and the full weight of the sword down against the door. A cloud of dust like a breath of fog exhaled from between the panels, and he stood in disbelieve, thinking how such a blow should’ve caused more damage than a small rustling of dust. He struck at the door again; a mighty two handed stroke that would’ve felled an ox. One of the panels moved, split, and he hit it a third time, the sword knocking the panel loose. He stepped forward in one motion—frustrated, angry, frightened—kicking the door and creating an opening large enough to see the timbered beam holding the door closed.
The smoke from the burning cell began filling the narrow hall, sifting down the passage in both directions, finding its way into their cell. Locksley stood still, transfixed by the flames licking at the timbered walls. He turned to Gwenellyn, speechless, and she pushed him aside, reaching her hand through the opening in an attempt to pull up on the board.
“It’s jammed. You knocked the panel into it when you kicked it,” she said, coughing through the smoke. “I can’t lift it,” she added, turning to look at him.
He wondered if she could see the fright in his eyes, and wondered at how a part of him was still that frightened child in the middle of a Saxon raid. It was the last day he saw his father—earlier in the day with memories of mirth and merriment. The last day he held his mother.
And then he was himself again.
“Let me try,” he said, reaching around her. He grabbed the slab and tried lifting; it wouldn’t budge. “Move back,” he said, and with another two-handed swing brought the sword down on the door again. A second panel split and he jammed the tip of the sword into the gap between the panels, working it loose. He stepped back and kicked at the door again. Smoke was beginning to billow into the cell, stinging his eyes.
It took another three swings of the sword to work an opening large enough for them to crawl their way through. By that time, the cell next to them was engulfed in flames. The flames began licking up the walls with a mounting hunger; the smoke was billowing through the cell door in large, blossoming, clouds. Locksley could see the bottom of the wall was not burning, and then he realized the wall was wet. He kicked the cell door closed and dropped the timber on it, plunging the passage into a darkened gloom that made him wonder if they were in Hell.
“Hopefully, Brennis’ll’ve found the others,” he said.
“The women?”
“What women? I mean t’ say the Knights Turquine ‘as locked up.”
“Who’s Brennis?”
“My Squire.”
“That beggar? He’s your Squire?” She said it with an air of amazement.
“Aye, an’ a good lad ‘e is,” Locksley said with purpose, and she stared him down until he grabbed her hand and began leading her down the narrow passage, away from the flames.
“Do you know where you’re going?” she asked, looking behind them where the passage was now a faint, orange glow.
“Nae idea,” he smiled at her in the gloom. “As far away from the fire as can be,” he added, looking down at her, and then at the glow of fire beyond.
“Where’s the moat?” she asked.
“About to crack the wall back there”
“Are we below the water?”
“Aye,” he said.
“We have to go up,” she said, trying not to sound desperate.
“We do, but we ‘ave t’ find Brennis an’ the lot, afore we leave.”
“It won’t do us any good dying in the flames, either.”
Locksley stopped, holding his arms out to stop her. She looked around him. There was a dead man laying in the middle of the hall, and Locksley led her around the body, telling her not to look. She tried not to, but couldn’t help herself, staring at the large man where he lay in a puddle of blood.
“Did your Squire do that?” she asked.
“If ‘e didna do it, ‘e may be in a mite bit of trouble. We ‘ave t’ find ‘im now.”
There was an open cell door, and Locksley looked inside as they passed. There was a woman standing in the centre of the cell, dressed in white; she looked to be waiting for him with her hands folded in front of her. Locksley stopped, and then stepped into the cell, followed by Gwenellyn who voiced a gasp at seeing the woman.
“Who are you?” she said, stepping around Locksley to look at her.
“Ye were bedded with Lamorak t’ other night,” Locksley said plainly.
“I was,” the woman said with a slight smile.
“Ye loped off into the night an’ disappeared.”
“What do you mean she disappeared?” Gwenellyn asked him.
“Aye, vanished, like a ghost ye did, or a Spirit,” Locksley said. He looked at the woman again. “Are ye a spirit, then?”
“I am Nimue.”
“I know that name,” Gwenellyn said, her voice a soft whisper.
“Say ye, then,” Locksley said.
“She’s a Druid witch. A priestess. She was a follower of the Myrddin; my uncle told me.”
“The Myrddin? Arthur’s man?”
“The same,” Gwenellyn said, and stepped toward the woman. Locksley reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Ye canna,” he said softly, and she paused, nodding slowly.
“How come ye t’ be here?” Locksley asked her, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the blade stuck in the ground.
“You need have no fear of me, Sir Knight.”
“I’ve nae t’ fear of ye, Lady Nimue,” Locksley said, lifting his sword up part way and smiling at her with the veiled threat.
“Nor I of you,” she laughed.
“Why are you here? How did you get in here?” Gwenellyn asked. “Wait. Did you kill the Guard?”
“That was Breunor,” she said.
“Who’s Breunor?” Locksley asked.
“That’s the true name of the lad you call Brennis.”
“Is it? An’ what’s ‘e to yerself, then?”
“He is my sister’s son.”
“Yer sister’s a whore?” Locksley asked.
Nimue smiled, shaking her head. “No. She died giving birth to the boy there. There was a caravan. I was not there for her laying in, and so did not have the child under my tutelage. But as I said, my sister died bearing the boy, and the others, they left the child behind.”
“He’s yer kin, then?” Locksley asked. “An’ does he wit it well?”
She shook her head. “I do not want him to know.”
“An’ so ye tell me? If ye nae want ‘im t’ know, ye dinna need tell me,” he said, and looked at Gwenellyn as if he were looking for confirmation. She nodded, and shrugged at the same time. And he nodded as well.
“I told you that to convince you I mean you no harm,” she said.
“An’ why would ye think ye’d do me harm in the first place?”
“You said it yourself,” she said, looking at Gwenellyn. “I’m a witch.”
“So what would ye have wit’ us, then? Bein’ that yer a witch, an’ all?” Locksley said.
“I’ve come to help you.”
“Help us? How?” Gwenellyn laughed. “The Keep is in flames! If we do not leave now, we’ll not be leaving at all. Unless you know a better way?” she added, looking hopeful.
“I do,” Nimue said with a smile.
“Are ye certain for sure where ’tis?” Locksley asked.
“Morgana LeFay shut us in a cell,” Gwenellyn explained.
“I do,” she said gently, smiling at Gwenellyn. “I am not LeFay. You will have to trust me.”
“That’s nae comfort, is what that is,” Locksley said quickly. “Both Launcelot an’ Lam are out there, doin’ battle wit’ a score or more foresworn against ‘em. The Keep is aflamed, an’ the moat looks t’ be breeching the wall. An’ ye say I’m t’ trust ye? At least tell me ye helped Brennis free Grummer an’ Ector, then?”
“That he did alone,” she said, a note of pride in her voice. “I helped free the women,” she smiled, looking at Gwenellyn.
“Are ye tellin’ me true?”
“What have I to gain from you with lies? You’re a Knight, but more than that, you’re Breunor’s Knight and will see him trained.”
“Aye, that I will,” Locksley nodded.
“You said you know a way out?” Gwenellyn said.
“I do. There’s a tunnel.”
“And how do you know about it?” Gwenellyn asked.
“This was once a druid strong-post.”
“I hear voices,” Locksley said in a harsh whisper.
The woman looked at her and then Locksely. He nodded, looking at the walls and wishing he had more room to swing his broadsword. He looked at Gwenellyn and nodded once, then went out into the dark hall.
“Wait here until I get back.”
A moment later he saw Brennis standing in the shadows, his longbow notched and ready.
“An’ have ye done yer Squirely duties this day?” he called out.
“I’ve done better than that, Sir Locksley,” Brennis laughed. “While you’ve been capering about looking for your dear princess, I’ve rescued the Knights—a full two score, I’ll have you know. Two. Score. As well as saving five princesses.”
“Five?” Locksley asked. “Where?”
“They’ve gone on ahead through the tunnel, wouldn’t you think?”
“Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”
Locksley ran back down the dark hall. He thought he saw a white figure up ahead in the darkness, and then he was back in the cell. Gwenellyn was alone. The woman in white was gone.
“She left. She said she had to do something.”
“That’s nae for me t’ say. I’ve found Brennis, and the tunnel.”
“We have to wait for her. We can’t just leave.”
“I’ll nae be waitin’ for the walls t’ be falling’ about us. She’s gone t’ fight.”
“Why would she do that?”
“On account of Lamorak de Gales.”
There was a loud splintering crack in the distance, and they both turned to look at each other, knowing the wall had given way and the moat would be pouring in. Locksley hoped the barred door would slow things down, but he knew that water always finds a way. The door would hold a great deal back until it finally gave way. In the meantime, the water would seep around the door, under it, then under the walls until the dirt was worn away. It would slip through the cell they’d escaped from, the door open for its escape.
Locksley grabbed Gwenellyn’s hand, half dragging her through the narrow hall. He turned his head to see her fighting to pull the shoulders of the dress up where Accolon had ripped them. He heard her curse the jailer for stealing her shoes and Turquine’s cloak.
Brennis was holding the trap door open, waiting. He looked anxious.
“How came ye t’ find it?”
“We saw a woman and a dwarf running ahead of us.”
“Morgana,” Locksley said.
“Morgana LeFay?” Brennis asked.
“Aye. Ye know her?”
“She’s Urien’s Queen.”
“An’ Sir Grummer?” Locksley asked, changing the subject after a moment’s thought.
“All piss and vinegar,” Brennis said with a laugh. “Begging the Lady’s pardon,” he added.
The intensity of your storytelling is incredible!
Love the way you write descriptions! And you spelt Merlin’s name the same way I did in my short story. I’m guessing we’ve probably read the same books