THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY
Chapter 11
It’s Wednesday, and time for another chapter!
Remember, there are only THREE chapters left before Part Two, which will be going up behind the paywall. If you haven’t paid your 6 Bucks yet, you won’t be reading any more of this. If you’re not sure, pay $10 for the month and make your mind up after. But by then, the price will go back to its original $30 for the year.
In our story so far…
Grummer and Ector de Maris are in the Keep, prisoners of Turquin. That’s when Ector discovers that Lionel, his younger brother is a prisoner as well….
Lancelot in the meantime, comes across the camp of Lamorak, Locksley and Palomides. Lancelot sees The Boys laid up and asks what happened. Lamorak explains they were attacked by the Orkney Knights…
Brennis and Lancelot’s Squire, Baudwin have a bit of a disagreement.
Lancelot finds out the Queen is out looking for him; hears news that Pellinore lays ill and unable to move, having been Stroked by the Hand of God….
As Locksley makes haste to ride to Turquin’s Keep…
CAPTIVES
Gwenellyn made her way back up the crest of the small hill where she could see the Squires and pages below pulling down the last of King Pellinore’s pavilion. The furs, rugs, and carpets that had lined the floors and walls, were hanging limp on poles, airing in the morning sun. The furnishings, including the large bed she and Miriam shared, were being loaded onto wagons, as Griflet, King Pellinore’s Squire, stood off to the side overseeing the decamping. The heavily stitched leathern tents were bundled up and ready to be packed on the waiting wagons. There were still seven wagons waiting to be loaded.
They would be the last to leave; the last to join the Queen’s train.
Gwenellyn could see the long progression of horses, wagons, and men-at-arms; Squires, Knights, ladies, and pages; all of them winding their way South in the Queen’s desperate search for Lancelot. There’d been rumours, unfounded of course, that Lancelot had been bewitched and was being held in a castle by four queens of the fairy realm. No one believed the tales, least of all the Queen. She rode at the head of the procession all the same, surrounded by her Queen’s Guards.
Miriam was bending over her father’s prone figure under the shade of a screen Griflet had erected to protect the old man from the sun. She’s probably wiping away the spittle that’s running down the side of his face, she thought with a note of disgust. It’d been three days since his attack, and so far there was no sign of improvement, even with the Queen’s attending physician leeching the man half to death. It had never been a medical practice she’d agreed with in the past — her own father had undergone a leeching that had left him weakened and close to death — but now that it was Pellinore, she embraced it, hoping the little slugs would drink him dry. Miriam however, could not accept it, as yesterday she and the Queen’s physician had had a terrible row.
Pellinore was still unable to speak. Miriam was forced to half chew her father’s food, spitting it into the palm of her hand and forming it into a ball she pushed into his open mouth. She forced it down with a swallow of wine she had to spit into his mouth. The kiss of life, Miriam had called it, and Gwenellyn shuddered at the thought of it.
It should have pained Gwenellyn to watch the once proud King unable to move — and before her own father’s death maybe she would’ve felt something for him — but not now, she told herself. Not with all that he had done to her. She would never forgive him for his transgressions; she could not. He was only able to communicate with his eyes now — one blink for yes, and two for no, and she supposed that had they lived in a more barbaric time, he would’ve been left at the edge of the forest for the wolves.
A fitting end for the man, she thought.
The sun stood in a clear blue sky, breaking through the trees and bathing the camp in light. There was a gentle mist covering the ground like a blanket — like the ground itself was letting out its long held breath, she thought. She could see a shadow cross in front of her, and Gwenellyn turned to see Tristan and the Cornish Queen, La Beale Isoude approaching on horseback. The Queen was dressed in a plain green gown, something that was more in line with a Lady than a Queen, Gwenellyn thought, as she gave a graceful curtsy. Her eyes were dark-rimmed with khol, and her cheeks dusted with chalk and highlighted with a berry rouge. Her hair was tied up in long looping rings and curls, strung through with gold bands and shimmering jewelry — emeralds, rubies, and pearls. She was quick to whisper something to Tristan before covering her face with a thick veil.
“The Queen would enquire of your uncle, my lady,” Tristan said, bowing low in his saddle.
“My uncle has been stroked by the Hand of God,” Gwenellyn said simply. “We still have plans to make our way to Camelot where Miriam will have to find a husband of good standing, thus enabling her to care for her father’s needs.”
“That may prove more difficult than it sounds,” he said.
“I am most certain she will make a good, sound choice.”
“And who will serve in her father’s stead, then?” he asked. “Concerning the proposal, I mean?”
“Do you not know her brothers?”
“Certes, my lady. Good knightly men, the both of them,” Tristan smiled.
“There are more brothers than just Lamorak and Percival.”
The lady Queen leaned forward and whispered something else, and Tristan nodded.
“And you, my lady?”
“Me?” Gwenellyn smiled. “I suppose I’ll be sent to the nunnery at Almesbury if I cannot find a husband. And with the King now stroked, who will see to my needs? I remain dowerless.”
La Beale Isoude leaned forward and whispered again, and Tristan sat back, looking at her before he nodded.
“Nae, lady, say not so,” he said, looking down at her again. “My lady the Queen promises to send for you forthwith upon our arrival in Cornwall; with the success of your kinsman’s nuptials, she would have you serve as her lady-in-waiting.”
“The lady Queen does me a service,” Gwenellyn said with a short curtsey and a bob of her head.
“Does she?” Tristan asked her in a softer voice. “I wonder.”
“And why would I think other, Sir Knight?”
“You’ve yet to meet my uncle, the King,” he said, and jerking his horse about reached out for the Queen’s lead, slowly walking her horse down the hill.
Gwenellyn watched them until they were at the bottom of the hill. She watched them stop briefly, speaking to the king and probably offering him their heart-felt blessings before setting off in pursuit of the procession. Gwenellyn made her way down the low sloping hill, her canvas shoes wet with the last of the morning’s dew. She lifted the hem of her dress, now wet and dragging the weight of the fabric down, remembering the hot springs she had enjoyed. She hadn’t wanted to climb out of the warm water, and had enjoyed languishing in the bubbling cauldron, letting the water cascade over her.
Miriam ran out to meet her.
“Did you see him? That was Tristan ! Oh, why can’t I find someone as handsome as him to be my betrothed?” she asked, reaching down and taking Gwenellyn’s hand in hers.
“How is Uncle?” Gwenellyn asked.
“Miserable. I do wish there was more I could do for him. It breaks my heart to see him so,” she added.
“I cannot say how it is you can do as you do,” Gwenellyn confessed.
“Well, he’s your problem now,” she smiled. “I’m going to visit that hot spring you were boasting off yestermorn.”
“Be careful you don’t lose track of time. You don’t want us to have to send someone out to retrieve you, lest you be caught unawares.”
“And would that be so bad?” she quipped.
“Now you sound like Lam,” Gwenellyn scoffed.
Pellinore lay soundless on his cot, but Gwenellyn could sense him watching her with his blank stare as she stepped around the trees and poured herself a goblet of wine. There was a cool breeze filtering through the trees, and she ran a hand through her still damp hair. Miriam would’ve insisted a page bring her the wine, Gwenellyn knew, and she was certain that if the woman found herself married to some minor duke, or chieftain, she’d insist on having a dozen women attend her. She took a drink, looking at her uncle and trying to gauge the measure of the man. Gwenellyn knew there’d be no pages or ladies-in-waiting attending to her needs if she were to marry. She wasn’t fated to marry for political power — her father’s death had sealed her fate as far as her worth was concerned — but all the same, her mother was still indebted to Pellinore’s grace; as such, she’d accept whatever offer, or arrangements, the King made for her daughter.
She turned to look at Pellinore once more, saw his eyes following her as she walked to the edge of the clearing Griflet had carved out for him. There were trees for shade, a leather tarp strung up between trees, and the grass underfoot was cool. The sun came through the trees at a slant and she was grateful for the leather cover when the sun finally broke through the trees.
She took another sip of wine and paused, the goblet half-way to her thin lips. She forced a smile and stepped back, sitting in the small chair Griflet had left out. She looked at her uncle and smiled as she sipped her wine.
“Are you parched, Uncle?” she mocked. “Did your ever dutiful daughter not feed you? Did she wipe the spittle from your face like she was a mother cleaning up after her child? She did. I know she did,” she smiled. “I could see her from the top of that hill over there. Can you see the hill? No? Well, I could help turn your head, I suppose. But why would I when I can sit here and enjoy my wine?”
She looked off into the distance where the tail end of the Queen’s procession was making its way through the woods. There were flashes of light where the sun caught the chaussons the Knights were wearing, and she wondered if what Tristan had said about the Cornish king was true. To be honest he’d said nothing, she reminded herself, but the implication had been there, hadn’t it? She’d heard stories and rumours about the Cornish king over the years; the reckless prince made king under mysterious circumstances. A bounder. No better, and no worse, than any other Knight she’d ever met.
No better than uncle Pelly, she told herself, looking at the man watching her.
“You’ll have to wait for your dear daughter, if it’s a thirst you’re looking to quench,” she said gently. “My lips will never touch yours, not as long as you live. And you’ll not be sending me to a nunnery. No. I’ll not be an abbess wasting away, waiting to be raped by whatever bachelor Knight, or Saxon bastard should come across me on the trail. And do you want to know why? Tristan.”
She thought she saw a flash of anger in his eyes, and smiled.
“La Beale Isoude has promised to take me as her lady-in-waiting. What do you think of that? It looks like King Mark will decide who I wed, and not you. And Mother will graciously accept — happily, I’d say — when she realizes that she’ll be leaving you and living under my roof, no longer having to answer to your every whim and fantasy. I will willingly go, even if Mark forces himself on me,” she said, and looked at him. “Even as you did,” she added.
She took another drink of her wine and sat back in the chair, watching him as a silent tear ran down his cheek. She stood up, pouring the wine out in front of him, looking into his eyes as she did.
“I’ll have no tears from you, Uncle. Isn’t that what you said to me? I’ll have no tears from you?”
Miriam could hear the melodious pounding of hoof beats in the distance, and looked up at the bushes where she’d lain her clothes. She’d disrobed entirely — remembering how Gwenellyn had told her how exciting it was, and how freeing it felt — and had enjoyed the feel of the hot spring bubbling over her. Gwenellyn was right about that, she thought. She was also thinking how she’d never know such freedom again in her life, and it saddened her, thinking how her life would never be the same because of her father’s condition. She remembered swimming as a child — along with her brothers — and while the spring wasn’t deep or wide enough for her to make a proper go of it, it was still warm enough for her to lay partially submerged on the rocks and let the warm water wash over her.
She rushed to the bushes she’d lain her gown, trying to dress herself, and struggled with it. She told herself it would be quicker to hide the dress, and stuffed it into the undergrowth making certain it was hidden from view. It would be easier for her to dress once the danger had passed, she reasoned. All she had to do was stay hidden. She’d grown up in a time of war and suffering, and deprivation. She knew full well that a woman bathing in a stream was a temptation no man would turn away from. She’d heard stories of serving girls and maids who’d been attacked by gangs of thieves, or ravaged by rogue Knights, and vowed she’d never let it happen to her. She knew what happened when besieging armies stormed castle walls and breached defences. She could feel her heart beating in her breast as she looked about for a place to hide, not knowing which direction the sound was coming from.
A voice somewhere in the back of her mind told her not to panic. She had to think things through if she expected to survive. As long as she remained hidden, she’d be safe. If it’s a large group of Knights, they’ll have no choice but to use the main trail, she reasoned. And there was only one direction that could be. She was far enough away from the trail to be out of sight. She crawled along the rocks, slipping on the lichen, scraping her knees — the trail always in view, always in front of her — and kept her head low enough so that if anyone spotted her, they’d think she was just another rock. She could hear the snort of anxious horses, the pounding of their hooves on the hard-packed earth, as well as the call of the men where they gathered on the top of the hill, looking down at the camp.
She was too frightened to move. She’d crawled far enough downstream that the water had cooled, and she didn’t know if she was shivering with fear, or because she was cold. She could see the flanks of the horses through the bushes, and ducked down, wary enough to know that if she could see them, they’d be able to see her. She told herself it was better to remain hidden and wait for them to leave. There was no way to know how many riders there were without exposing herself; no way for her to warn Griflet, and the others. She was afraid for her father, and just as worried that Gwenellyn would fall prey to the attackers.
And as quick as she thought it, she dismissed the thought, justified it by telling herself that Gwenellyn wouldn’t give her a second thought if their places were reversed. All she could do was to pray that Griflet and his men-at-arms would be strong enough to repulse the attackers.
Does that make me a lesser person? she asked herself.
She could hear the sound of broadswords being drawn out of leather scabbards, followed by the thunderous pounding of hooves, and the war-cry of Saxon marauders — a haunting cry she was far too familiar with. She scrambled out of the water and made haste to dress herself. Hugging the trees, she made her way down the low-sloping hill, hidden behind the trees. She could see pieces of the battle through the trees, flashes of sunlight reflecting off maille. She saw Gwenellyn make a mad dash for the trees, only to be ridden down by a Knight with a powder blue cape. She held her hand to her mouth to stop the scream she felt building up inside of her, as the man raised his sword and brought it down on the hapless girl without hesitation. Gwenellyn fell to the ground.
Griflet was organizing the wagons in front of the clearing where her father lay, and Miriam approved, talking to herself that the man had been well trained. Standing on one of the wagons, the brave Squire began shooting arrow after arrow at the oncoming invaders. Some of the invaders pitched headlong to the ground where the pages and men-at-arms made short work of them. The attackers circled the camp once, and then regrouped and came again; Griflet rallied the defenders and beat them back yet again. A young page was bringing out more arrows and Miriam held back a scream as one of the attackers threw a war axe, cleaving the boy’s skull.
Miriam watched the Knight with the blue cape dismount and approach Gwenellyn once more, kicking her in the ribs to rouse her. Gwenellyn jumped up, lashing out at the man with a long knife, almost plunging the blade into his thigh. The man laughed, leaned over, and hit her hard with his fist. He picked her up in one quick motion and threw her dazed figure over his shoulder, walking back to his horse as she fought him weakly. He bound her hands with a length of rope and threw her up on the saddle before climbing up behind her, wrapping his arm around her and grabbing the reins. Several of the camp followers were taken as well — as was the supply wagon — before the invaders made for the woods once again.
Miriam lay behind a fallen tree, hoping the steady hammering of her heart wouldn’t betray her. She saw Gwenellyn struggling, trying to fight loose of the man’s grasp, but he held her tight, laughing at her attempts to escape. She watched in horror as the man ripped the bodice of her dress, exposing Gwenellyn’s small breasts.
Making her way down the low rolling hill and out of the trees, Miriam stumbled into the ruined camp. There were a dozen dead Saxon invaders that she could see, and only three of the defenders — one of whom was the boy with his quiver of arrows. She stood looking down at the child, thought of removing the axe where it was still lodged in the child’s skull, and decided it was not something for her to be doing.
“Thank the Lord Jesu, you’re safe!” Griflet said, coming out from between the wagons.
“My father? Is the king safe?”
“He lives.”
“We have to get moving as quick as we can, in case they return,” she said, walking across the field of slaughter. Griflet pulled the war axe out of the child’s skull, and followed.
“You can’t be serious?”
She stopped to look at him, saw the axe, and turned to continue walking.
“We have to go after them,” he said, following her; imploring.
“Go after them? Are you mad?” she asked, spinning to face the man.
“They’ve taken captives,” he said. “They’ve taken your kinswoman, as well as several of the women —”
“Camp followers. You’d risk the lives of everyone here, in an attempt to rescue five women?”
“She’s your kinsman.”
“And what of it?”
“The King would set out —”
“The King’s in no position to say yeah, or nae, is he? I’m his daughter. Are you going to question my reasoning? The King must be protected, at all costs. If that means not splitting our limited resources by giving chase to Saxon invaders, then so be it. We simply have to catch the Queen up and mount a search then, when we will have the resources. Does that not sound like the more prudent thing to do?”
“As you say, my lady,”
“Then the sooner we get underway, the sooner we can get your whores back.”
Locksley and Palomides came upon the small caravan of wagons shortly after mid-day. They were in the hills above, looking at the valley below, hidden from view by the trees lining the ridge. They’d see a flash of light at times, the reflection dancing along the close confines of a line of dust. They could see a tight-knit collection of wagons with what appeared to be wounded stragglers following. There was an elaborate coach in the lead, as well as a body laid out in the second cart that was being pulled by four men. Palomides sent Amal, the Immortal, ahead to investigate, while Locksley suggested that Brennis go with him. When Palomides bristled at the suggestion, Locksley said the group was obviously armed and would likely attack the man, thinking they were being attacked themselves.
“And why would they think to attack Amal?” the Persian asked, looking down at Locksley from the camel’s great height.
“Why?” Locksley smiled up at him. “The man does nae speak the King’s tongue, an’ the Knight nearest ‘im is ridin’ some fabled beast none ‘ave heard tell of.”
“Granted,” the Knight said with a nod.
“He’s nae apparelled like a man about here.”
“Apparelled?”
“His arms?”
“He is Immortal,” Palomides explained.
“Aye. Immortals are nae from hereabouts now, are they?”
Palomides thought for a moment and nodded, then said something in Persian to Amal, and the Immortal pulled up on his reins and waited for Brennis.
“Go,” Locksley said. “Mayhap they wist o’ the Queen?”
“I can see why Sir Lamorak struggled to understand you,” Brennis grinned, kicking the horse’s flanks; together the two men set off at a gallop along the trail.
“Ye ha’ nae issue with my tongue? My clatterin’ tongue, as Lam likes t’ say,” Locksley asked Palomides, the two of them watching Amal and Brennis follow the trail down the long sloping hill.
“I’m knowing yer uncle for a many of years,” Palomides grinned.
“An’ is a ‘many of years’ a long time, then?” Locksley laughed.
“Many long times,” Palomides smiled.
“An’ is ‘e a goodly man, my uncle?” Locksley asked after a short silence.
“As goodly a man as ever I’ve met.”
“A lettered man,” Locksley pointed out.
“That he is. He knows the words I mean to speak, even afore I say them. He can quote a great many tropes of a great many scholars.”
“An’ say ye that again? Tropes?” Locksley said.
“Any of the ten arguings used in skepticism, to refute dogmatism.”
“An’ think ye then that I’m my uncle’s flesh made whole? I wot not what that is…dogmatism?
Palomides laughed. It was loud, and sudden, and he slapped his thigh as he looked down at Locksley. “Dogmatism! It is a big word, no! It’s meaning is to affirm a judgement, linked to principles which are true — a priori — and not truth as seen with evidence.”
“By all the gods old an’ new!” Locksley said with a laugh. “Ye be Grummer’s twin bairn brother as ever I saw!”
“I have heard it noised about some,” Palomides smiled. “It’s the Papish words, aye?”
“Aye,” Locksley smiled. “An’ about ever’ other word therein,” he added.
“What it means, a priori, is this: Were I to say, ‘Every apple is a fruit,’ it is a priori, because it shows reason. It is reasoning. Do you see? It is not a statement, or a fact about a specific, because we know all apples to be fruit. Yes? Were I to say “Apple are sweet,” it is a posteriori, which is something you know. It does not have to be proven, it is known.”
“Which means what?”
“Those men down there, are in flight.”
“An’ ye ken this, how?”
“They have wounded. As can well you see. A priori. Those more grievously wounded men are tended to by others. Those not, tend to theirselves. A posteriori. It does not have to be proven. It is seen.”
“Then why send riders out?”
“Details.”
“I dinna ken,” Locksley said with a slow shake of his head. He was thinking Palomides was worse than Grummer when it came to speaking in riddles. The men were meant for each other, he told himself, but at least with Grummer there was laughter, and whoring, and jousting. Palomides was from another world Locksley would never understand.
“What details?” he finally asked.
“They were attacked.”
“So ye said,” Locksley replied.
“But by whom? And wherefore?”
*
“King Pellinore ‘e says?” Locksley smiled, looking at Palomides as Amal nodded. “An’ Brennis ‘as gone off t’ hunt for ’em?”
“This one says they have no food. Their wagon was stolen. They are in danger still, and so must flee,” Pellinore translated.
“An’ Guenivere?”
“She will not tarry, she says. This one has asked of her. She searches for Lancelot, and no alarm, says, will keep her from her prize.” He said it without hesitation, and Locksley thought maybe it was from some past experience he’d shared with Grummer.
“But Lancelot is ahind of us! Did Brennis nae say this?”
“To whom? Pellinore lays ill-stricken. His daughter rules in his stead — or at least, until Lamorak should arrive — and this one says she will not abide by the rule of men.”
“Which means what?”
“Lamorak is her liege lord, and she will heed no other but he.”
“She what? An’ what about the other woman?”
Palomides turned and looked at Amal. Locksley watched the man as he listened, his brows quizzical as he shook his head slowly, speaking again. Amal nodded, pointed to the East, and sat silent. Locksely turned to look up at Palomides once again.
“This one says there was no other woman,” Palomides reported.
“But there were two women, both bound for Camelot. Pellinore’s daughter, an’ his brother’s bairn. A kinswoman. Lamorak knows her well. What of her?”
Palomides turned to Amal again, speaking at length; he nodded when the man answered. Locksley watched as Palomides slowly stroked his beard, lost in thought. Locksley wished the man would say something, but waited until Amal the Immortal was finished talking. He looked up at Palomides high on his camel, still stroking his chin and looking at his booted leg where it sat crossed in front of him on the saddle.
“An’? What did ‘e say?” Locksley asked at last.
“They were Saxons, but it is more than that; there was a man among them, wearing a blue cloak.”
“An’ what of it?”
“He is known.”
“Known?”
“He is the paramour of LeFay. Know you the name LeFay?”
“Who is he?”
“He is in reality, the sister of the King. And this man, Accolon of Gaul — an enemy to all and sundry — has taken this other woman you seek.”
“We have t’ rescue ‘er,” Locksley said.
“And so we shall. Be it known that Morgana LeFay is by turns the lover of both Sir Turquine, and this Accolon of Gaul — with neither man knowing the other’s intent,” he said with a smile. “And also, it is noised about in the villages, that this Turquine has a Keep, and therein this self-same Keep is where Grummer and Ector are held.”
“Ye dinna can know that,” Locksley said with a sneer. “The man speaks what he speaks, nae a Saxon tongue.”
“Nae, not a Saxon tongue, but a Gallic one, for we were one and twenty years in good standing with Gaul. And this man in the blue cape is called Accolon the Gaul. And his Saxon soldiers are from Gaul-abouts, across the way.”
“And so ye say, but how?”
“One of the Gallic horde lay wounded on the field, and ere the King’s Squire could put the man to sword, Amal spoke to him. The man spoke of a great Keep. It is this castle to which the Saxon horde has fled.”
“An’ so we ride, endlong of each, ’til we find this Keep?”
“Aye, but first we needs must wait,” the Saracen said, looking down at Locksley.
“Wait? For what?”
“Would you attack a castle unarmed?”
“We have arms.”
“That we do, but erst shall we send for Lamorak and Lancelot. Then shall we be fully armed with the two greatest Knights of the realm. Mustafa!”
“Will they come?” Locksley asked.
“It is a sworn duty.”
Locksley smiled. “D’ye mean the Code they prate so highly of? Aye, they do as it fits their needs. There’s nae man among ‘em what lives by that code anon. There’s nae loyalty among the lot of ‘em, ‘cept for Bedivere an’ Grummer. They seek vengeance ‘pon the wrongs done ‘em in years gone by. The courtesy they show t’ damsels is more like t’ lead t’ rapin’ an’ killin’ ‘em, than it is t’ gentleship.”
“And ye know not the heart and love of Lancelot, nor Lamorak.”
“T’is true I know not of Lancelot, but Lamorak I’ve seen as a womanizer.”
“An’ yerself, then?”
“I am nae more, an’ nae less than the best of ‘em.”
“If it be so as ye say, it is an end of the truest love of all.”