THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

CHAPTER TWO

In CHAPTER ONE we met our hero, young Locksley, a newly made Knight by the hand of King Pellinore, during what proved to be the final battle in what has been called THE WAR OF THE TWELVE KINGS. We found out it was a war that had dragged on for more than ten years. It was the war that followed THE SAXON WARS, which came with Arthur’s coronation following his pulling the Sword out of the Stone.

Arthur has been on the throne for more than twenty years.

Locksley is on his way to Camelot to participate in THE TOURNAMENT OF YOUTH. He’s traveling with his Uncle, Sir Grummer Grummurson, also known as THE BEGGAR KNIGHT, a Scots Pagan from Beyond-the-Wall, known to be a drunk and a womanizer more likely to be found in a brothel, than in a battle. With him are The Boys, his two loyal Footmen. Grummer is telling Locksley about PALOMIDES, a Saracen Pagan from the Arab lands who rides a camel…

Instead, they run into ECTOR DE MARIS, half brother and companion of Lancelot.

CHAPTER TWO

AT THE INN OF THE RED LION

It was an hour before Ector was ready, an hour in which Grummer, wearying under the heat of the afternoon sun, climbed off his horse and sat under the shade of a large elm. He’d finished the last of his wine, and so watched Ector packing up the camp with the help of Geoffrey and Godfrey. He took off his mailed helmet and undid the surcoat he was wearing, enjoying the cool breeze sifting through the trees. Locksley, seeing Grummer laying in the shade, climbed off his horse and led it to the stream, also enjoying the cool breeze that filtered through the trees.

“An’ tell me Uncle, d’ ye know Launcelot, as well as ye seem to know ‘is kinsman?” Locksley asked, tying his horse beside Grummer’s as he sat under the shade of the tree.

“Launcelot? Oh, I know ‘im, an’ all his strain that was about.”

“What do you mean was? Are they no longer about?”

“They’ve gone about their lives as much as any man can in these unstable times.”

“Unstable? Why say ye that?” Locksley asked as he leaned against the tree. “The king is in his realm, an’ all is well,” he laughed. “That’s what yer friend Galen says.”

“My friend? Why say ye that?” Grummer laughed.

“It seems t’ me, the two of ye are always in yer cups t’gether.”

“To be true, it’d seem so, but ye’ve asked nothin’ of Galen from me, did ye? It’s Launcelot yer askin’ on.”

“And so it was, Uncle,” Locksley smiled.

“Ye canna be callin’ me as such,” Grummer smiled. “I’ve nae been about long enow for ye t’ respect me as a right proper uncle fer one thing.”

“An’ yet, yer sister spoke highly of ye.”

“Yer mother, is it?Aye. That she did,” he smiled, sliding into the silence of memory. “’Twas at Dane Hill when first we met Launcelot. That was t’ be Arthur’s first big battle durin’ the War of the Kings. He’d been tried an’ tested in the Saxon Wars afore that, but ’twas there at Dane Hall we met the Saxon horde — a full two thousand of ‘em — an’ they gave us a fair wallop an’ chase, out numbering us by three an’ one, havin’ sacked yer father’s holdings the week to-fore. It was a great day o’ misery, that. We weltered ‘bout the hill that day, I tell ye, with the rain fallin’ like a spate an’ ruin, an’ all the mud an’ muckin’ about with all it made underfoot. He came on us with all his kith an’ kin, Launcelot did — Ector was then a lad, not much older’n yerself — a knight now newly Christened. The whole lot of ‘em come up from Benwick, which is in Brittany, an ye don’t know it.”

“I know where Benwick is,” Locksley said softly.

“Aye. Helped turn the day for us, ‘e did,” Grummer said with a nod. “A full fifty riders he brought — all Knights good an’ true — swearin’ an’ cursin’ the day ‘e ever met a proper Saxon. A full three score ‘e brought down hisself, alone, e’er the battle even begun. Bedivere said he ne’er saw a man as feloniously bent as Launcelot that day, an’ to be true, he was.”

“Is it true what they say about him?” Locksley asked after a moment.

“That he’s the greatest of Arthur’s knights?”

“About the Queen,” Locksley offered, looking to see if the others were still at a distance.

Grummer shook his head, looking at the youth from under a beetled brow.

“Say ye not on that, lad,” Grummer said. “Stories an’ rumours do a man nae good in a place like Camelot. There’re stories spread about by noisome villains, the most of whom are Lot’s kin.”

“D’ ye mean Gawain? His kith an’ kin?”

“Aye. Not so much Gawain as the others.”

“But Arthur’s uncle to all of them.”

“An’ yet, ‘e’s not,” Grummer said, selecting a dry stalk to chew on. “Gawain, to be sure, is his nephew — as he is his father’s eldest son. As for the rest, Lot was not a man known to keep his own pecker down, let alone ‘is wife turn a man from ‘er bedpost. Always lookin’ fer someone t’ put it into her warm an’ hollow ‘eart. Agravaine as her second, is Lot’s son in the truest sense of the word. A right fuckin’ bastard. As for Gaheris? Who knows? But the next son? Modred. It’s been noised about that Arthur is the boy’s father.”

“Is not the Queen his own blood?”

“Aye, t’ be sure,” Grummer said, eyeing the boy closely. “Stories an’ rumours do a man nae good, as ye see. If ye were t’ hear an’ believe all ye heard, an’ believed all ye saw, ye’d be puttin’ yerself in peril. Are ye gonna be sayin’ t’ Gawain that ‘is mother is nae ‘is brother’s mother? The man’s as like t’ slay ye as ye stand, an’ rightfully so an ye say on a mother’s virtue.”

“Who would spread such a tale?” Locksley said with a slow shake of his head.

“One need not look far,” Grummer smiled.

“Are ye saying to me that ye know?” Locksley asked.

“Aye, that I will ye. Fer so it seems t’ me, that most of the stories noised on ‘bout Arthur, or the Queen — or e’en Launcelot — only come from one place.”

“And where is that?”

“The Queen, Morganna le Fay.”

“I know her for the King’s sister!”

“There’s a reason I’m loathe t’ be at Camelot yearly,” Grummer said softly. “The abased sayin’s ye may think ye know,  tales ‘twixt the Queen, an’ Launcelot, have divided the Court asunder. There’re those who’ll brook no truculence when it comes t’ such things, an’ are Hell-bent on discoverin’ the truth as they find it, an’ thus report it t’ the King.”

“The truth as they find it?”

“Aye. But there are others, like Launcelot, willin’ to defend the Queen’s honour against all comers.”

“Others? Is it nae Bedivere t’ defend the honour of the King? As the Sword of the King, it’s for ‘im to stand in the King’s place.”

“Launcelot now stands as the Sword of the King.”

*

Ector’s pack horse was trailing behind the sometimes staggered line of riders. Ector rode up front for the most part, between Grummer and Locksley — three knights abreast — with Geoffrey and Godfrey following. The land opened up into a long, low valley where the trees faded into the distance and the game trail they were following gave way to a proper path that might have been mistaken for a road. The grass was tall, swaying in the gentle breeze, while the creek gave way to a widening stream that slowed to a crawl. The sun slowly slipped across a clear blue sky, the shadows lengthening as the day progressed.

They rode at an easy pace, at times galloping across the open fields, and just as often slowing to a gentle trot. It seemed whenever they slowed to a stop, Grummer took the time to piss. They laughed, and spoke of battles past; Ector talking of Camelot, and Arthur’s residence at Cardueil. There were stories of Launcelot, and Lamorack, as well as jousts fought and Knights killed — both by mischance, and through ill-desire. And then there was Sir Tristan, the Cornish Knight come out of Mark’s Court, now come to Camelot with La Beale Isoud.

“Is that why Launcelot left?” Locksley asked.

Ector looked at him briefly before he answered with a laugh.

“Launcelot had already left by then,” he said. “Tristan’s a noble Knight — the second best in the kingdom. But there’s no envy, or jealousy, on either man’s part. There will definitely come a time when the lad surpasses Lance — bests him at a Tourney, knocks him on his ass — but that’s more a matter of age. It’s the greatest equalizer of us all,” he laughed. “Isn’t that so, Grummer?”

“Ye need not talk ‘bout age with me,” Grummer laughed. “I remember when yerself was as much a boy here, as the boy is now. Ye were just a bachelor — a lad, still — but still bent on errantry, e’en though there was a war t’ fight. When first ye came t’ these shores…” and he paused, as though thinking of a past memory. “How many years have gone since?”

“Too true!” Ector grinned. “I’d like nothing better than to have some of those years ahead of me, rather than in back of me.”

“Where I look t’ the day when I can hang up m’ helm an’ buckler, mayhap put aside me scabbard? It’s a youthful game, knight-errantry is, t’ be sure. I canna count the scars an’ wounds I’ve endured, nor the aches the cold wind brings when I wake on a winter’s morn.”

“And how many years has it been for you, then?”

“It’s been a score an’ three years since first I was knighted,” Grummer said. “I’d come to Camelot full of piss an’ vinegar. It was with the intent of seekin’ adventure. But Pellinore, he set me on my path t’ knighthood when he put me on my ass, not once, but twice in the same day…I’d squired for him in my youth.”

“Ye served as squire to Pellinore?” Locksley asked. “Ye’ve said naught of that to me.”

“Ye never asked,” he smiled.

“An’ how came it about?”

“That I squired?” Grummer laughed. “The same as everyone else. I started as a page boy in Listionese —”

Ector said, “How long before you were Christened?”

“I was nae Christened like yerself, with Churches an’ banners. It was before the War of the Twelve Kings. Lot was in the middle of his Lothian conquest; Arthur in his Saxon Wars. Lot wanted the Thanes that were once loyal to Vortigern, to bow to him. Pellinore was the ally of one of the losing kings. Poor man had his head cut right off — because that’s what they do in these kinds of things. So if ye ever get lost inside a conspiracy, ye’d better be fer certain.”

“You were knighted on the field?”

“Aye.”

*

The Red Lion was a square manor built of sturdy timbers more than fifty years ago. Since that time, it had been reduced, rebuilt, and redressed in mud, lime and water, then painted white a dozen times over. In that time, ivy had encroached on its walls, moss grew fat on its timbered roof, and wildflowers adorned the open spaces. It had the appearance of looking like stone from a distance. And it must’ve been a fancy sight fifty years ago, Grummer thought as they trotted into the yard where several children were playing, but were quick to scatter when the riders appeared. One of the children ran into the Inn.

With turrets and chimneys and clear slate for windows, the inn towered above the small courtyard where storage bins and stables, as well as a Smith and Ferrier once held sway. The Smith had long since moved on, as had the Ferrier, and everything was overgrown with weeds. But he knew there were clean rooms above, and a large common room below, where food and ale were plentiful.

It once served as a place of distinction during the War, Grummer smiled to himself, remembering. It was a place people recognized as reputable — whatever that’s supposed to mean. It was deemed the best whore house outside of five days’ ride.

And now look at it…

There had always been horses in the stables back in those days. Sometimes a Squire, or Footman was wandering about — and he always hoped he’d run into Bedivere — they’d promised to meet yearly — or if not Bedivere, at least his man, Edenson. But in all the years they’d known each other, they’d only met at the Inn twice — and neither time had been spent inside.

The stable was in the back of the Inn where a milk cow was kept in one of the dozen stalls. Low lying trees had encroached on the yard, but there were still three distinct trails leading through the surrounding trees and countryside. The stable was an old wooden structure, covered in moss, where stores were now kept, rather than horses. The small smithy stood in the shadows, unused and cold. Grummer couldn’t remember the last time anyone had used it; he was almost certain the smith hadn’t seen flame since before the War, and doubted if the bellows even worked anymore. He could see bars of sunlight where they broke through boards and a patched roof in need of real repair, pulling up on his reins as one of the older children ran out to stable his horse.

“Brendan, is it?” Grummer asked, nodding at the boy.

“Aye, Sir Grummer, but it’s Brennis,” the boy corrected him, forcing an uneasy smile.

“Brennis? Aye. Ye’ve grown lad, since last I’ve seen ye.”

“That he has!” Ector laughed.

“Locksley? Are you still Squire then, Sir?” Brennis asked, looking up at Locksley who nodded a greeting.

“I’m a newly made Knight now Brennis,” Locksley laughed.

“Newly made and newly minted!” Ector called out.

“Made a Knight of the Field by Pellinore hisself!” Grummore said, sounding proud.

“So you’ve got no one Squirin’ for you then?” Brennis said, turning to look up at Locksley, and then back at Grummer.

“Are you lookin’ to fill in?” Ector asked.

“I am,” the boy said. “I’m sixteen now, Sir,” he said to Grummer. “After three years of Squiring with you, I’ll be ready to be a knight mesself. You could make me a knight, Sir. You said when I came to age, you’d consider it,” he reminded him.

“Did I now?” Grummer asked.

“You did,” Brennis said.

“You’ve got nothing you can offer, Grummer, nor promise well to the lad,” Ector said to Grummer, sounding serious as he stepped down from his horse. “You don’t do any more than drink and whore about these days. You’ll be learning nothing from the likes of him, lad,” he said, looking at the boy.

He was a large lad, broad shouldered, with an equally broad chest. His arms were large and well-defined through his tattered clothes. His hands were big, and calloused, the knuckles hard-fought and scarred.

“Och, not so, Sir Ector,” Locksley said, stepping down from the saddle as well. “I could use someone helpin’ me in an’ out of this maille. I’ll teach ‘im what ye taught me,” he said to Grummer. “We all will,” he added, stopping to wait for Grummer to swing his leg out and climb down from his saddle. “Do ye wanna leave ‘im ‘ere?” Locksley asked, his voice a harsh whisper. “Do ye? D’ye think ‘e deserves t’ die workin’ in a whore house — because where else can ‘e go — when ‘e can die with honour, fightin’ for the King?”

“So, Brendan —”

“Brennis,” the lad corrected him.

“So ’tis,” Grummer smiled, standing beside his horse and looking at the boy .

“It seems Sir Locksley thinks he’s in need of a Squire,” Grummer said. “He’ll be yer Liege, more ’n Roger that bastard Whore-Monger could ever —”

“Roger’s dead.”

“Pity that,” Geoffrey said with a smile.

“Locksley’ll be Lord an’ ruler over yer mis’rable life. Ye’ll be helpin’ The Boys with settin’ up the pavilions — an’ Ector’s, too. Ye’ll be ‘spected t’ help get meals prepared. Can ye use a bow?”

“Aye.”

“Can ye hit anythin’?”

“I can take a pheasant down winging out from under the brushes,” he said.

“Can ye then?” Godfrey asked, as he began the task of unsaddling the horses.

“I can.”

“Then ye’ll come out huntin’ with me,” he said, “as soon as ye finish with the horses.”

“Am I yer Squire, then?” the boy called out to Locksley who was crossing the yard with Ector.

“If ye come back with dinner, ye are,” Locksley grinned.

Brennis looked at Grummer and grinned. Grummer smiled.

“Ye’d best find out if ye get on with ‘im,” Grummer said. “He’s not one for bein’ patient. D’ye know how to use a sword?” he called out as Brennis started to cross the yard.

“I do.”

“Good. He’ll want to see that,” he said under his breath.

Geoffrey stood beside Grummer, holding the completed staff which was at least a head taller than he was. He looked at Grummer and nodded.

“The boy claims t’ be the son of a King,” Geoffrey said, nodding in Brennis’s direction as he crossed the yard. “Ye know that well enow. I’ve heard-tell ye’ve asked after ‘im in regard t’ yerself? Are ye thinkin’, mayhap, he may be yer own bairn?”

“Ye doan need t’ be talkin t’ me on such nonsense. His mother’s still a whore.”

“Aye. But his Da’ was a King,” Geoffrey repeated.

“Bloody right, he was,” Grummer laughed, looking at Ector and Locksley crossing the yard. “We’re all Kings when we lay with a woman, eh Ector!” he called out. “Wife ‘r whore, it makes nae wit o’ difference to we kings,” he said to Geoffrey, before turning and making his way toward the Inn with a limp.

“Here,” Geoffrey said to Grummer, testing the weight of the staff in his hands before giving it to him.

“Ye’ve been workin’ on this overlong.”

“It’s come t’ mind that ye’ve been limpin’ about a lot more of late. That last hit ye took, it ‘most broke yer leg.”

“Ye saw right, aye,” Grummer nodded.

“Well, it’s not good, is it? Not with yer bein’ a Knight an’ of a sudden not up t’ defendin’ yerself — not when it matters most, an’ that’s in the back alleys yer most likely to be crawlin’ about in, with me,” he added with a grin. “Ye’ll stand a better chance of things comin’ out in our favour, if ye can help. And if the others think ye need it more than ye do, show ‘em what it does.”

“I’m thankin’ ye, Geoffrey. Yer a right good man,” Grummer smiled, taking the staff and measuring its weight in his hands. He looked at the man and smiled, nodding.

“Now, how long d’ ye feel we might tarry this eve?”

“We’ll get the night in, Sir,” Geoffrey said with a smile.