THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

PART 3 THE BOOK OF LAMORAK DeGALES..... CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR PT VIII: THE KNIGHT AT THE STREAM

THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY as designed by myself using AI.

viii

THE KNIGHT AT THE STREAM

Locksley left The Prancing Pony as the sun began to set with a dazzling display of colours that set the sky ablaze. The high cliffs and their crenellated crags cast shadows that stretched across the face of the mountains like a veil, while the light painted the walls of the castle’s high towers with a rosy hue. The flags that crested the walls fluttered in the evening breeze as birds crossed the wide expanse of a darkening sky, their ceaseless calls echoing through the valley to be made almost mute by the distance. He sat astride his horse — Lamorak’s horse, he reminded himself — and once again cursed the man for having set into motion the circumstances he now found himself in.

He was at a loss for words, he’d realized, having discovered Gwenellyn was removing herself from his life by retiring to a monastery. There was little he could do, or say, that’d convince her otherwise. Her fear of facing Morgan Le Fay outstripped her desire for whatever life he had to offer. She needed the anonymity a monastery life had to offer, she’d said. He told her she could have that and more, Beyond-the-Wall — if she agreed to be his wife.

“And what would you have me do, up there Beyond-the-Wall?” she asked.

“I’m the Prince of Ivanore,” he said, as if just saying it would be enough. “Ye well can do whate’er ye will.”

“Whate’er I will?” she said, gently mocking him. “And what will I do with that? Will you lock me up in your castle to keep me safe? A prisoner of love is still a prisoner, you understand.”

“An’ will ye be m’ love then? If e’er ye do, I couldna hold ye as m’ captive, but would sing m’ heart out an’ so invite the world. T’is yerself what’s captured me an’ holds me in servage as a prisoner of the heart,” he said, and looking over his shoulder, saw that Grummer and the others were paying little attention to them. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold her in conversation for very long, and told her as much. Withal, he thought, he wanted to reach across the table and take her hands in his, so he could press them to his breast, he thought, and let her feel the tattooed beating of his heart.

“If we were t’ leave ‘ere, I could well set up with ye, an’ say ye ‘til in m’ dotage, of the love I have for ye,” he said, a shy smile skirting the edge of his lips.

She laughed.

“Leave? And go where?” she asked.

“Away from the prattlin’ an’ pryin’ eyes,” he smiled. “Meet me at the bridge what spans the brook.”

And she nodded after a moment, as though in thinking about it she’d convinced herself. He watched her as she left, and noted that Eamon did as well. The man turned to look at Locksley, caught his eye and nodded briefly as he poured more wine for the Knights. Locksley stood up and moved toward the door.

“And where are you off to, sir Knight?” Lamorak called out. “Come!

Share a flagon of wine with us.”

“I’ve nay desire t’ sit an’ drink with ye on this night, or any, Sir Knight,” he said. “Soon enow, it’ll be the Dog Star comin’ out an’ yappin’ at Orion’s heels,” he said. “I needs must go,” he added, thinking he sounded short and dismissive.

“An’ are ye a poet now, speakin’ in a cadence none ‘ere can forstand?” Grummer laughed, looking at Lamorak. “See how the poor lad’s all perplexed?” he added. “Truly carking tosticated!”

“No more than myself,” Bedivere grinned.

“Ye’ve nay desire fer our comp’ny, is it?” Grummer laughed. “Then be off with yerself, lad. Get ye gone. I’ll nay have ye moonin’ over yer lost love, an’ blamin’ Lam for ‘im ‘avin’ made ‘er a Queen.”

“Are ye thinkin’ I should be thankin’ ‘im fer that? Is that it?” Locksley said. “Ye all three of ye knew m’ standin’ on it…an’ still,” he said with a disappointing shake of his head.

“There’s not a handful, but a land full,” Lamorak laughed. “She’ll be a Queen in her own right. Would you begrudge her that honour? With her having nothing to offer?”

“Have ye forgot m’ own standin’ in life, Sir Lamorak? Have ye forgot where I stan’, Beyond-the-Wall, as the Prince of Ivanore?”

“Aye, but a Prince is not a King,” Lamorak said, smiling.

“Aye, nor is every King a princely man,” Locksley remarked, and walked out of the room to the sounds of the raucous laughter from both Grummer and Bedivere behind him. Locksley made his way around the small tavern to the hut where the horses were stabled, throwing his saddle on the horse.

Riding through the still crowded streets, it felt good to be out in the open air again. The tavern was too cluttered for his liking. The smoke and stench of the candles and torches weighed heavily on his leathers, and he spurred his horse ahead, looking to the bridge. The streets were still heavy with the end of commerce. The vendors and their stalls were closing, the fresh cut meats left to stand as they were, overnight; the fruits and vegetables wilting, waiting for a fresh dousing of water in the morning.

There were those who recognized him as The Beggar’s Knave, and others as the victor of the Tournament — the Hero of the King — so that some called his name to great acclaim, and others scoffed at him. Sometimes, he felt that if he were a bitter man he’d charge through the streets with his spear and lance those who laughed at him, but to what end, he asked himself?

He saw the bridge ahead, in the distance, a small stone archway wide enough for three men riding abreast. It was spanning the tumbling waters of a stream that broke over smooth rocks and struggling greenery. Gwenellyn stood off to the side, her face covered with her scarf, her cowled cape fluttering in the early evening breeze. Her long hair had fallen to her shoulders, and captured by the wind it swirled about her covered face. She looked much the same as any Huntsman standing in the distance, he thought, only now he could see she was a woman. Her figure was slight, but he could see the unmistakable contour of her hips and the subtle roundness of her breasts. For a moment, he thought of what it would be like to peel off the layers of clothing that hid away the mystery of her.

He pulled up the reins and swung himself down from his horse, walking to her side as she waited. He greeted her much the same as he would any other man — a simple nod, a grasp of the hand and shoulder — and walked with her through the narrow street, leading their horses. He looked up at the tall-reaching buildings around him, the shadows they cast stretching across the narrow paved streets. There were storefronts, with signs hanging from iron angles swaying back and forth in the gentle breeze. Some of the buildings were fronted with moss and ivy that clawed its way upward in search of the sun. He could see steepled roofs and gables, chimneys, and shuttered windows, thinking there was no other place in the whole country that could compare to what Camelot had to offer.

“What can I say t’ convince ye? This is nay the way?” he told her.

“For whom? You? Because it’s not wrong for me, I’ll have you know. It’s the only way I can think of to save myself,” she said.

“But t’is nay true,” he said. “An’ well ye know it.”

“And still, you tell me to come with you, Beyond-the-Wall. Are you forgetting Le Fey lives Beyond-the-Wall, as well? Or had you forgotten? How will you protect me if you go away on a Quest?”

“An’ why would I durst leave ye an’ go on a Quest?”

“Why are you going now?” she asked.

“The King commands it.”

“And if he commands you come to Court? You cannot defy the order of the King. Even now, you dare not stand against him.”

“T’would be diff’rent were I t’ be Beyond-the-Wall.”

She smiled. “And in ten years? If I have a child? Or even four? What if Morgan comes looking for me then, and steals one of my brood? What will you do then?”

“Kill ‘er,” he said.

“Kill a Queen in her own home?” she smiled. “You’d be fool to act so rashly. There are laws against that sort of thing, even up there Beyond-the-Wall. It’s called regicide.”

“Then somewhere else? Somewhere she canna find you?”

“And where do you imagine that being?”

“Mayhap Lancelot? His da’ is still King in Benwick.”

“Even there she may still reach out her hand to me. Her lover was from Gaul. Do you not think she knows of others there?”

Locksley fell silent. He told himself there had to be somewhere they could go. Maybe if he spoke to Palomides? The lands to the East were magical, or so he’d heard. With monsters that swam in rivers as wide as the day, and domes of glittering gold.

“You!”

A voice called and Locksley turned as the crowd separated. He saw Agravain seated on his horse as they approached the bridge. He was carrying the Orkney flag, riding with his young Squire who took the flag from the Knight.

“T’ die!” he screamed, and spurring his destrier, attacked.

Locksley drew Pellinore’s Rimharfoir and faced the raging beast. He could see the long spear Agravain held, the point of it catching the last of the sun. The crowd scattered out of the way and once safe, turned to watch the sworded Knight face the charging animal. Locksley crouched low, grabbing a handful of dirt and pebbles, waiting for the last possible moment, then dodging the spear, threw the grit at the destrier, which rose up on its hindquarters. The crowd screamed as Locksley swung his blade at the horse and it screamed in pain, falling.

Locksley leaped to the side as the animal fell to the stones; Agravain barely able to roll free. There was a snap, and he tossed his broken spear to the side. He stood up and looked down at the horse gasping, its mouth frothing with blood. He turned and looked at his Squire who was quick to come to his Knight’s aid, but even as the boy gathered his horse into a gallop, he fell to the ground with an axe buried deep in his shoulder. The crowd was abuzz as the boy screamed in pain. Locksley turned to see Gwenellyn standing beside him, a throwing axe in her hand as she waited.

“An ‘orse fer an ‘orse, ye bastard fuck!” Locksley screamed at him. Agravain looked at the beast going through its death throes and dropped one knee on the horse’s neck, drawing his knife out and slitting the animal’s throat.

“Yer a dead man, dear Prince,” Agravain said, looking up from the grizzly sight.