THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

CHAPTER FOUR (in its entirety.)

The Lady Gwenellyn, niece of King Pellinore

Before we start, a little jog of the old brain-box, as Grummer might say.

In our last episode, our hero’s Uncle, Sir Grummer, traps Locksley in one of the rooms of The Red Lion, while he and Lancelot’s half brother, Ector de Maris, are over powered by the Orkney Clan and given over to Sir Tarquin, who has use for them as slaves...

And just a little more…

This is a large chapter. It’s long. It’s broken into sections as a sort of homage to the old Serials of the past. Those ones full of rollicking adventures, with Porthos, striding into the room twirling his moustaches.

If you haven’t already, consider taking advantage of the Sizzlin’ Summer Sale of up to 80% off if you up-grade. The price will revert to normal after a year, with the low price of $30 for the year, or, if you’d prefer to pay by the month…$10.

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CHAPTER FOUR

THE QUEEN’S GAMBIT

I

THE LADY GWENELLYN

Gwenellyn sat atop her horse on a low sloping hill overlooking the Queen’s camp. She was watching the sun as it set behind a plodding layer of cloud cover that had crept up over the horizon with surprising speed. One moment the sun was there — all bright-coloured and golden-hued — and the next moment it was lost to view behind a volume of discordant clouds that seemed to come out of nowhere.

Even so, the sun spreading through the clouds is breath-taking — a vast array of colours, she told herself with a slow shake of her head. A vast array of colours — as if people talk like that. It’s all very pretty, just the same, she thought at the same time. But the colours were already fading, and she knew the sight wouldn’t last much longer.

Like all beauty, it’s starting to fade — fast.

It’s time I got back to camp, she told herself, looking at the young page-boy who had been sent to accompany her. A boy of no more than twelve, she knew he’d be of little use should the need arise. Still, her uncle had insisted he go with her. Uncle doesn’t like it if I’m gone too long, and I’m sure Miriam will be more than happy to remind him — but I do have to tell her about the hot spring I found!

She observed the lay-out of the camp below her one last time. She had no way of knowing if she’d ever get away from the castle once they reached Camelot, but knowing the Queen sometimes left the castle gave her some hope for the future. What she’d learned from her father years ago was that a camp was always laid out in the Roman fashion, with two very distinct and singular lanes meeting in the middle—where a small open air market now stood. The market was an opened-front tent, where makeshift tables lay covered with fresh greens and small game; there were two full water barrels at either end of the tables. There was also a small smithy to the left of the market, the sing-song echo of the ringing hammer softened almost into melody where it was lost in the distance.

The lanes were wide enough to allow two riders to sit on each side of the six wagons and coaches the Queen had in her entourage. The lanes were dotted with campfires in front of the Knights’ pavilions that were lining the lanes, as well as long open fields for mock tourneys behind, and what looked like a curtain of blue smoke clinging to the surrounding trees like evening mist. Hobbled horses grazed in the open fields.

At least twice the size of the average pavilion, the Queen’s easily dwarfed the other pavilions around it — including that of her uncle’s, Gwenellyn noted, and the Cornish Queen, La Beale Isoud.

It was said that Guenivere always rode with a stable of five horses, one of which was to be saddled and ready to ride at all times, “should the need for a quick gallop through the hills be in order,” was said to be her reasoning. Gwenellyn could see no evidence that told her the story was true. With the aid of four of her ladies-in-waiting — two of whom were young girls new to Court-life — the Queen could be dinner-dressed and ready in under twenty minutes. It was a feat to be reckoned with, Gwenellyn knew.

And that’s a position to be envied, she told herself, being one of the Queen’s Dressers.

There were easily a hundred Knights in the camp at any one time, she’d noticed earlier; they were members of the Queen’s Guard for the most part, as well as escorts for both the Cornish Queen and her uncle, Pellinore. They were always coming and going through a thorn and bramble gate that was constantly being pulled and pushed back into place. Those who weren’t in the camp at the moment, were probably out scouring the countryside in search of Lancelot. It was, after all, the reason the Queen had come out this way in the first place, or so her uncle had told her. That, and keeping Tristan and La Beale Isoud, away from the Court gossip at Camelot. Isoud was journeying back to Cornwall to re-join her husband, King Mark — an obstinate ally as far as her uncle Pellinore was concerned — and she wondered if the stories about the man were true.

With her shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, Gwenellyn knew enough to keep her head down as much as she could as they made her way back into camp. The page had a small flag displaying her uncle’s arms so that the briar and bramble gate was pulled back at their approach.There was an abundance of young Bachelor Knights in the camp hoping to one day be admitted to the Round Table — together with their Squires, and Men-At-Arms — and they proved quite the distraction for a young girl on her way to Camelot in search of a husband.

And now I’m right in the thick of things, aren’t I? Sir Tristan  and La Beale Isoud — supposedly the most beautiful woman alive — at this moment laying in the tent beside mine. Queen Guinevere leaving the castle to help search for her secret lover. And my own bastard Uncle complicit in the affair.

Does that make me complicit as well?

She wondered if her simply being here could be construed as treasonous?

She climbed off the horse as the page waited patiently to take the animal from her. She rewrapped her shawl around her shoulders again, shivering in the night chill as she made her way toward the nearest campfire. She put her hands out in front of her, feeling the warmth seep through her body, the smell of smoke stinging her eyes so that she had to turn away.

“And did you see everything you wanted to?” a voice asked her from somewhere in the shadows.

Gwenellyn turned at the suddenness of the voice. Not recognizing it, she wondered who it could be. The sun had all but set — in fact, it was nothing now but a fading glow in the western sky — with the first stars of the night poking out of a twilit sky of azure clouds. As long as the man remained in the shadows, she had no way of knowing who it might be.

“Reveal yourself, good Sir. Are you a Knight, or perhaps some miscreant bent on taking from me that which is only mine to give —”

“And what’s that you’re saying?” the voice asked with a light lilting laugh, stepping out of the shadows and into the fire’s light. “A tone made for the King’s court at Camelot, no doubt, if I may be so bold?”

By the quality of his maille and the surcoat that he wore, it was obvious he was a Knight of some renown, she realized. He bowed low, his long hair obscuring his face, and he swung it back with a hand as he straightened up and looked down at her from his great height. He had a bent nose that had probably been broken once upon a time, and a thin-lipped smile framed by high cheek bones.

“What do I take you for? The same as I would take the voice of any man hiding in the shadows, waiting upon a woman unawares.”

“You really don’t paint a very nice picture of me, do you?” the man said with another laugh.

“Should I?”

“I’m certainly not about to attack you as you stand in the middle of the Queen’s camp,” the man said. “Outside your uncle’s very door. If ever there was a charge to be laid against a man, believe me, being charged with an assault against the niece of a king isn’t something any man strives for.”

“No, I would think not,” Gwenellyn replied, trying to hide the smile she could feel pulling at the edge of her lips. “Tell me your name, Sir?”

“Tristan, of Lyonese,” he said, bowing once again.

“Gwenellyn,” she replied with a soft whisper, hoping he didn’t notice the catch in her voice.

“And are you here with my uncle, or the Queen?” she asked.

“Neither, as well you know,” he smiled.

“And how would I know?”

“Because your pavilion is next La Beale Isoud’s — my uncle’s wife. The Queen can hear every word you speak, as well you know. I’m here to escort her back to Cornwall, where she is to re-join my uncle having of late been with her sister,” Tristan  said. “I’m afraid a number of the Knights here, are with me. We were set to leave on the morrow when your uncle asked if we might serve as your escort part of the way.”

“You’re to be our escort?”

“Just until we reach the Wastes of Cornwall. I stepped out — much like yourself — to see that the camp was set and sealed against any possible attack.”

“Who would be foolish enough to attack the Queen’s camp?” Gwenellyn laughed. “Or two queens for that matter?”

“A great many would be tempted, I’m afraid to say.”

“Again? Who would dare accost a Queen, let alone two!”

“There are a great many miscreants and Bachelor Knights yet in hope of making a name for themselves.”

“Fools all,” Gwenellyn stated.

“Perhaps, but a Queen needs a protector against the evil misdeeds of others. Lancelot has been named The Sword of the King and is the sworn protector of the Queen. It is my hope to serve La Beale Isoud in much the same way — by the order of the King, of course — who seems not to hold to such standards.”

“Not mine, I trust,” a deep voice said, rumbling out of the shadows.

“Uncle,” Gwenellyn said, startled at Pellinore’s sudden appearance. She made a timid attempt at a curtsey, bending low, before looking up at the old man from under delicate lashes. He was dressed in a large cape of fine ermine, with a brocaded tunic underneath made of cloth of gold that caught the firelight and shimmered with every step he took. His hand rested on the pommel of his long sword, hanging at his side. Only a King could walk in the queen’s presence fully armed.

“Have you come to check up on me, or your girls?” Tristan asked, bowing slightly.

“I always know where to find my Miriam,” Pellinore said, trying to hide his smile.

“Ah, then it’s the lady Gwenellyn you seek?” Tristan coughed.

“She’s always been one to be bandying about,” Pellinore said with forced laughter.

Gwenellyn asked. “And am I bandying about, uncle?”

“I fear it’s something you’ll always do, child. My only wish is that once we reach Camelot, you exercise some degree of caution,” Pellinore said darkly.

“Caution? In the castle of the King?”

“Especially in the castle of the King,” Tristan said with a laugh.

Pellinore smiled, reaching out for Gwenellyn’s hand and taking the girl away.

“Good night, good Knight,” Gwenellyn called out over her shoulder.

“And to you, my lady Gwenellyn,” Tristan  replied, bowing slightly. She could hear the laughter in his voice ringing in the night.

The Lady Gwenellyn returned from her ride.

II   

  IN THE QUEEN’S CAMP

“That was Tristan?” Gwenellyn asked, looking up at Pellinore. She slipped her arm through his and looked over her shoulder again. Pellinore was watching her, and for a moment he supposed she had allowed herself to dream — just like any woman would meeting Tristan for the first time, he reminded himself. “He’s nothing like I imagined him to be.”

No, he wouldn’t be.

He wondered if that was a hint of disappointment he heard in her voice. She had never been a girl to keep her thoughts to herself, he knew, and so much the better for her, he told himself. She’s never been one to not have an opinion, much to the chagrin of her mother. He knew finding a husband to break her of her ways would prove difficult, were it not for her beauty. There was no dowery, except for what lands and holdings he offered in her name, as her guardian.

“Why? What were you expecting?” the old king smiled.

Tristan, with his light curls falling down the length of his wide back, had long been admired by many a damsel for the beauty of his hair, as well as the depths of his clear blue eyes. He was a handsome man by all accounts — the which Pellinore wasn’t about to deny by any means — but Tristan was a man devoted to his one true ambition, being the greatest Knight alive. He may well have been had Lancelot not been thrown into the mix. And then there was his own boy, Lamorak, he reminded himself. And there was Percy, as well.

Such a complication, that.

“For one thing, he’s taller than I imagined,” Gwenellyn said, and Pellinore looked down at her, his thoughts brought back to the present. He smiled into the twilight.

“He’s what? Taller than you expected? I didn’t know there was a height requirement to being a Knight,” he said, smiling.

“I mean, I know a Knight is usually tall. And he has to be strong, for obvious reasons. But this man…he’s so thin. Deceptively thin. Lithe, I suppose you’d call it.”

“You might, but I wouldn’t,” Pellinore said.

“Oh? And what would you say he is?” she asked, looking up at him in the soft light of the distant torches that lined the way.

“I wasn’t going to say lithe,” Pellinore said after some thought. “I was thinking more along the lines of flinty, or grizzled, maybe even wiry. But hearing you say lithe, I’m going to have to change my mind and say lethal, instead.”

“You can’t change your mind and tell me you’re changing it,” she said with a lilting laugh. He’d always loved that about her, her ability to laugh so freely, even with all that had happened between them.

“Of course I can change my mind, it’s a king’s prerogative,” he said, laughing.

“I’m thinking there’s not a pinch of fat on him, not like other Knights I’ve seen when they’re not wearing their maille,” she said, trying to sound thoughtful. “Gawain’s brother is a fine example of that.”

“And by that, I take it you don’t mean Gareth?” Pellinore smiled.

“Now why would you say that?” she asked, pausing to look up at him. “You know my mother was talking to Queen Margause about a possible arrangement, don’t you?”

“Yes. But how do you know that?” Pellinore asked. It wasn’t something widely known.

“Surely, you knew that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I knew, the question is how you knew?” he asked again.

“Och, Uncle,” she said with a mock bravado he knew had more to it. “When you live in the North, there’s not a lot that isn’t open to discussion. If I want to know who’s doing what — or even whom — I ask the servants. If I want to know where my mother’s looking to for a match, it’s not too difficult to sort things out.”

“And your mother told you she was talking to Queen Marguase about a possible betrothal, did she? Is that what I’m led to believe?”

“No, silly,” Gwenellyn laughed, slapping the old man’s arm. “I saw the messenger when he came in; I followed him and listened at the door like any other fourteen year old girl would do when she sees the messenger is from the House of Lot.”

“It’s been two years and still no betrothal, though. Is he not your idea of what a Knight should look like — a Table Knight? This Gareth of Orkney?”

“Tristan ’s too pretty to be a Knight,” she said, thereby all but changing the subject he noticed.

“He’s too pretty?” Pellinore laughed, shaking his head. “Isn’t that what a lady is praying for when a proper Knight comes to rescue her from the clutches of some evil miscreant? You almost sound disappointed,” he added. “Why? Was Gareth too pretty? Or not pretty enough? Is that it? Too much of his father’s blood?”

“No…I’m not…I’m just…well, if you lined Sir Tristan  up against the wall with ten other men, he’s the last one I’d point to and say he’s an Arthur Knight —”

“An Arthur Knight?”

“That’s what Miriam said the common folk were calling them.”

“Were?” Pellinore asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“You said: ‘That’s what the common folk were calling them.’ When in actuality it should be: ‘That’s what they are calling them.’ But there’s no need to confuse the issue — or you.”

“The only one confusing the issue, is you, Uncle,” Gwenellyn laughed. “Now they call them Table Knights.”

“Nothing confusing about it, as long as you remember Tristan ’s probably one of the greatest knights alive. One of the finest,” Pellinore said. “After Lancelot.”

“And what of your own sons? Do you not hold them in as high regard?”

“Lamorack? Or Percival?” he asked.

“You have others. What of Bors?” she asked.

“Bors? In time I suppose he’ll present himself at Arthur’s Court. But at the moment, he wants little to do with me, or his brothers for that matter — well, maybe just Lam? All I can say is he’s more his mother’s son than he is his father’s.”

“Is that because he’s your bastard?”

“You mean the ignominious misery of a man’s weakness?”

“Will you hold that against him like everyone else?” she asked.

“I hold nothing against any of my sons. It’s what they hold against me that matters in the long run.”

“And what does Bors hold against you?” she laughed.

“We all take our secrets with us as we age,” he said after some thought. “Some of us take them to the grave; some of us travel with them our whole lives, and refuse to confront them. We avoid them, as we have,” he added, hoping she would rise to the bait.

He saw her looking up at him, but still, she said nothing. It almost felt as if she was studying him — perhaps she was judging him, condemning him for his earlier misconduct. His transgressions, as he liked to think of that time of his life. Or maybe she had already? He sensed that with her, the deeds of his transgressions with her were the one true shame in his life. As a result, she was the only woman he was wary of. His brother’s death five years ago had hardened her, or had it been his seduction of her following the man’s interment?

“Bors hates both me and the fact that I’m his father,” he said in a low voice.

They approached the pavilion he’d ordered set up for Miriam and Gwenellyn, and as they rounded the last of the knights’ tents, she saw two guards standing at attention in front of the pavilion; Gwenellyn looked at them, and then turned to look at Pellinore.

“Guards?” she asked.

“One must always be wary of Saxons,” he said, offering a smile of apology.

“You think the Saxons will attack, here, knowing the Queen’s Guard is with us?”

“What better time to attack than when the Queen is with us?” he replied.

“Are you sure that’s the only reason?”

“What other reason could there be?”

“Oh, I don’t know…maybe bringing your daughter and niece to Camelot, in hopes of finding a husband, might be a reason?”

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Well, if all these young knights were to realize that you’re looking for a husband for your daughter — as well as for your kinswoman — they might very well be sitting at the door of our pavilion in hopes of wooing said girls.”

“Which is precisely the reason I’ve placed two guards at the door,” he smiled.

“Which is precisely my point,” she said.

“You’ve caught me out,” he laughed. “The last thing I need is for some would-be Knight cutting the back of the tent open and stealing either one of you away. What would I tell your mother were that to happen? My own wife’s sister? What would I tell my Queen?”

“I’m certain you’d think of something,” she said, standing on her toes and kissing his bearded cheek. It was a cold, and distant touch, not at all like the kisses she gave him when she was a child.

He looked at her in the soft light of the campfire as she sank back down and looked up at him. He rubbed at his cheek softly, smiling, remembering when she was a child sitting on his lap, asking him to tell her another story. He smiled as he turned away from her. A part of him wondering what he had done to that little girl, and where had she gone? For a moment he thought he might say something about it to her — call out into the night — but decided against the idea.

The Queen’s pavilion

Inside, the pavilion was warm. There were three dozen candles hanging from a large wheel in the high centre of the pavilion. Several sconces on timber posts, with huge tallow candles melting into each other. The floor was covered with tattered old furs, and thick rugs, wax, and a small side table set off to one side with a pitcher of water, empty wine bottles, goblets, fruit, a dry loaf of bread, and wilted cheese. On the other side of the room, a bed large enough for three or four people. The light in the room was soft, almost muted, the smoking candles guttering in the light breeze as Gwenellyn entered. She looked about slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the semi-darkness.

“Well, did you see her? The Queen?” Miriam asked. She’d been laying on the bed and sat up the moment Gwenellyn entered.

“No, but I met Sir Tristan ,” Gwenellyn replied.

“Oh, Gwen,” Miriam laughed gently. “Just because a knight says he’s someone you want him to be, doesn’t mean he is.”

“I know that,” Gwenellyn smiled. “But your father was there and he seemed to know who he was.”

“You mean it was him!” the girl said, unable to contain the excitement in her voice. “Is he still out there? If I peek my head out, will I see him?”

“We were on the other side of the camp. Your father sent him on his way, without really saying anything to him. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it? He was making his rounds, he claimed,” Gwenellyn said as she sat on the edge of the large bed.

“Do you want me to call Katherine in to help you undress?” Miriam asked.

“I’m sorry, I was thinking I’d be able to do it on my own,” Gwenellyn said. “But I don’t think I’ll be able to do it myself,” she admitted.

“Maybe I can help you?” Miriam asked, jumping up on her knees and crawling to the edge of the bed. “How difficult can it be?”

III

THE QUEEN’S BREAKFAST

Dawn came in with a subtle hint of colour, alive with the echo of birdsong. The trees caught the morning light, stretching their shadows across the valley where a stubborn mist seemed to cling to the branches before melting away. The grass sparkled with dew; like diamonds they glittered in the light while a blue miasma of haze ascended over the camp as a multitude of campfires were coaxed back to life.

There were the usual sounds of a military camp coming to life, Pellinore thought as he stood at the entrance to his pavilion: horses whinnying in the distance as grooms and page-boys brought out loose bales of hay; there were the sounds of men coughing, laughing, teasing each other; that of others wandering off into the woods where they washed themselves in a small stream; they pissed; they shat; they made hearty breakfasts; and teas, with the bitter leaves of dandelion, milk thistle, and chamomile; they fought; they made love. There were children screaming, and more laughter, as families slowly stirred themselves awake and father-soldiers set about their duties; tired, worn-out whores crawled under old furs to lay on lumpy mattresses stuffed full of reeds. 

Somewhere, someone picked up a lute and music narrated the morning.

This is the life Pellinore remembered as being a part of his youth, he thought. In those days, knight-errantry was what every young bachelor-knight sought. It was how you proved yourself, and still is, he thought. Once, he had been among the best in that once upon a time of his youth. It was a young man’s game now, but he wasn’t a young man anymore, he was quick to remind himself. It was just as likely that what he’d heard this morning was the stirring of a memory, he told himself as he wandered off into the woods.

It was that life which had led him on his hunt for the Questing Beast. It took years before he realized it had been a suggestion placed in his mind by the Myrddyn; there had never been a Questing Beast. In the meantime, he’d spent years chasing shadows. He laughed at it now, but back then, he had failed to see any humour in it at all.

It’s funny how time changes your perspective on life, he thought. I mean here I am, in the Queen’s camp while she searches for Lancelot, and I’m supposed to be on my way to Camelot.

But with that many knights out and about, searching for Lancelot was probably the last thing they were doing. He knew what could happen to a man on the road with less than a handful of knights, escorting two women. Traveling with the Queen was probably the best thing he could be doing under the circumstances. He told himself he was getting too old to joust over some pretended insult to protect his daughter’s virtue — or Gwenellyn’s, he reminded himself.

There’s still the threat of Gawain and those other Orkney bastards waiting to lop my head off. It wasn’t something I would’ve concerned myself with thirty years ago, but I’m not thirty anymore, am I? Closer to seventy, I’m thinking.

He found himself standing outside the pavilion where Miriam and Gwenellyn were. He looked at the two guards — both of whom were standing tall, not daring to look at him — and he cleared his throat as he approached, thinking the girls would know it was him.

“Are they awake?” he asked the older of the two guards.

The man simply nodded.

Pellinore answered the man with a grunt as he approached the pavilion. He couldn’t decide whether to knock on the post, or call out. He decided he should stand back and clear his throat again, thinking to himself,  They must’ve heard that, what? When they didn’t respond, he raised a hand and thought about pounding on the post. He cleared his throat again. One more time, he thought, this time with purpose. He looked at the two guards who stood silent.

He reached out and knocked on the post, a light, almost tentative knock, as if he were aware that he might be disturbing them; that what the guard heard was not them stirring about, but something else.

“Are they alone?” he asked the older guard.

“Do you mean is the dressing girl in there with them?” the man asked.

“Is she?”

The man nodded.

Pellinore shook his head, muttering to himself, before pushing the felt doorway aside and striding in. They were both of them sitting on the large bed, fully dressed, as the girl helping them was tying Miriam’s hair into a long plait. She was wrapping the hair around the top of Miriam’s head — pinning it into place— but had paused. All of them were watching, waiting, laughing as Pellinore stepped into the pavilion.

“I told you!” Miriam laughed.

“You told her what?” Pellinore said.

“That you wouldn’t know what to do if we didn’t respond. I told them it would take no time at all before you simply barged in, because you didn’t know what else to do.”

“And you find that amusing?”

“Amazingly so!” Miriam laughed. Pellinore looked at Gwenellyn who put her head down but was unable to stop herself from smiling and laughing.

“The Queen has sent message asked us all to break fast together,” he said, turning and walking out of the pavilion to the echo of gentle laughter. Even the guards standing outside were smiling.

*

Throughout her life, Guinevere had always been considered lucky. If there was something foul lurking about — like some feeling, or curse, or even a plague — she was either the first to know about it, or the first to sense it. They said she had always been lucky that way. Luckier still that she was born a King’s daughter, they laughed.

Yes, that was lucky, she reminded herself. Had she been low-born, there was every possibility she might’ve been condemned as one of the newly outlawed Druids, rather than praised for having brought the White Christ to Pagan lands.

They’d also agreed that she’d been lucky with her quick betrothal and even quicker marriage. Politically, it had been a good marriage, her father said. She knew it made sense at the time. It was for a good reason, her father emphasized, and she told herself she understood that as well, but still, people laughed and mocked her just the same, saying the old princess finally got to  spread her legs, in regal fashion, as if it were a new position they’d just invented. Still, it was cruel, and it hurt. She was twenty-five when she married Arthur, but Arthur neither said, or did, anything about what they were saying about her. Even though there were still festivals and feasts going on outside the marriage tent, he’d had it moved from the celebrants and declared her to be sick.

She still heard them though — the celebration of laughter, singing, and music — and had to remind herself that it was her wedding they were celebrating. She missed it all though because Arthur wouldn’t let her leave the pavilion. He told her he was determined to prove himself a true king and promised to plant his seed in her by fucking her raw until she cried out in pain.

Gawain had stood in the Honour Guard that first night.

She should’ve known any marriage proposal at her age was too good to be true. There had been no child, nor would there ever be. She knew it was her fault because Arthur would plant his seed elsewhere to find his heirs. But her loss of identity, her pain, and her suffering, had all been pushed aside in the course of the next year, with the biggest gift any of them could’ve hoped for: War. It was breaking out all around them. It was a general uprising against the upstart king. You’d think it was all that it was all that mattered. It’s what they all wanted.

He ran off and left me though, didn’t he? And wasn’t I the lucky one, transporting huge segments of the table father gifted his new king; risking life and limb for someone else’s perverse belief in himself?

No, I was lucky to have been there; lucky to have seen it.

But was I?

She wondered.

She would always wonder until the day Lancelot arrived.

*

Looking up, she saw Pellinore pushing his daughters through the felt curtains and into her quarters. She smiled, grinned, and then laughed, genuinely happy to see him. The old man was muttering to himself — much the same as he did every time she saw him — and a part of her wondered if it was the same old story he always muttered to himself.

She was on her knees when they entered, and smiled as she slid some of the cushions about, rearranging them. After digging about, she found a rug the girls could share to keep themselves warm. She’d hoped Pellinore’s talking to himself was something he’d gotten over, but it was obvious it was something he wasn’t even aware of, and the girls simply ignored.

She stood up, straightened her dress, and called out to the old King.

“Pelly, you old curmudgeon!” She moved toward him and kissed him lightly on the cheek, happy to see him as she stood back to greet him. Pellinore had always been her favourite among the Northern Kings. She put her arm around him and guided him to a cushioned chair beside her. She looked at the girls and smiled, genuinely. She felt sorry for them, but just for a moment. The fact Pellinore was escorting them to Camelot in search of husbands for each of them didn’t mean they’d live the same miserable life she had.

“Sit down girls, sit. I found a rug for you to share. It’s cold in here until the sun heats things up in the afternoon. They made me a larger pavilion — thinking that’s what I need to feel more regal. What do you think?” she asked, spreading her arms and looking about at the expanse. “They didn’t have time to make me a bench long enough, or a table to match. I thought, fuck it, we’re going out into the countryside anyway. I’m willing to give up on certain luxuries — who needs a table when you can sit on the ground? But when it comes right down to it, you still have to break your fast properly — especially when you’re out in the field. You can’t expect me to live on camp rations. Listen to me carrying on. I’m sorry. I do go on and on sometimes. Forgive me, please,” she laughed. “Sit. Sit.”

She turned to look at Pellinore and neither of them spoke for a moment.

“Are your not going to introduce your daughters?” Guinevere asked him.

“Daughter,” Pellinore said. “I only have one daughter. The other one’s my niece.”

“That may be, but which is which? By the Christ, Pelly! I swear. You’re just as scatter-brained as you were the last time I met with you. Does it not make any sense to you, that if you bring two girls in to have breakfast with the queen, it’s only natural you tell her their names? You said one’s your daughter and the other’s your niece. Well? Which is which?”

“Of course,” Pellinore said with a chuckle. “I was — I mean, my mind was somewhere else — there’s always so much to consider when travelling. This is my daughter. Miriam.”

The girl looked young, but then, she’d been once young too, Guinevere reminded herself. She was fifteen when she was supposed to marry Gawain. How many years ago was that? That had fallen apart with the War of the Saxon Kings, and in hindsight, she’d been grateful. That war had lasted seven years, and by the time it was done, Lot had sided with the Saxon invaders and betrayed the Northern kings. She’d never been overly fond of Gawain and the Orkney clans. There was only the one Orkney brother remaining now. Gareth. The youngest, and by all accounts, the best of them all.

Well, there’s him and the Bastard, she reminded herself.

She smiled and raised a toast Pellinore was quick to share.

“Thank fuck you took that bastard Lot’s off head when you did!”

“Thank fuck for that!” he laughed. “And to The Knight of the Field!”

“To The Knight of the Field!” she echoed, wondering what had become of the boy.

Both girls hesitated to raise their glasses, and Guinevere laughed. She knew what it meant to be overwhelmed. She settled herself down as two young serving girls brought out trays of food and drinks. She and Pellinore talked, and they all laughed at the stories she told. She listened as Pellinore spoke of his sons. She’d always liked Lam and Percy.

And Lam’s so easy to look at, she thought, wondering if the rumours about him and Lot’s widow were true.

“So, Pelly, finish that story you were telling me before. Do you remember it?” she asked. She looked at the girls, who shook their heads. “It’s really quite an amazing story, I mean, there were these two brothers. Knights obviously,” she laughed, “or why tell it? Now come on, Pelly, finish it and tell me what happened?”

“Do you mean Balin and Balan? There really isn’t much to say, is there? They’re both dead.”

IV

KING PELLINORE’S TALE

Pellinore looked at Guinevere, smiling through his food and nodding slowly. He tore a bite of stale bread, dipping it in his watered wine and sucking on it briefly before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He looked at the two girls, nodding again. A part of him wondered if the girls might prove to be too sensitive, and then he gave a light chuckle as he remembered he was taking them to find husbands. The days of them being sensitive were over.

He looked at Guinevere again.

“This is Gwenellyn, my niece. My brother’s daughter,” he added. Guinevere smiled at the girl briefly, and then turned back to look at Pellinore. Servants entered the pavilion and began to pack things up, making room in the already roomy space. Gwenellyn and Miriam were able to stretch their legs, like the girl’s they were. They both looked at Pellinore and waited.

“Are you going to tell us?” Guinevere asked.

“The Delorous Stroke?”

“Is that what you call it?” she asked.

“I don’t call it that,” he smiled. “That’s the Myrddin’s wording. He was always the one coming up with those things — a name for this, and a name for that, as Lam likes to say. He even called his own crypt the Crystal Cave. Who does that? He never told any of us where it was, so we don’t even know if he’s really dead, do we? I suppose not having seen him in years is a pretty good indication, but he was older than dirt when first we met, so he must be. Or so one would think, right?”

“And what does he have to do with any of this?” Guinevere asked.

“You never did like him, did you?” Pellinore smiled.

“And why would I?”

“Was he wrong? About anything he may have said? Was he wrong?”

“He was wrong about the Questing Beast,” Miriam reminded him. “You hated him for that.”

“I did,” he agreed.

“And well you should have,” Guinevere said. “I can’t see how you could have ever forgiven him for that.”

“Age is the great leveller,” he said softly. “Had I not gone on that great quest, I would have never had my youngest, would I?”

“I doubt Mother would agree with that sentiment,” Miriam said.

“You learn as you get older that men are wont to have their dalliances,” Guinevere said softly. “Sometimes, it’s easier not to question them about it. Sometimes a woman has her own.”

“Yes, well, better not to go there,” Pellinore said, shifting in his chair and looking as uncomfortable as he felt. “Perhaps I should finish the tale? The girls have heard it a time or two before. So here goes.

“Balin fought with King Pellam because he killed the King’s brother, and Pellam was determined to have his revenge. He broke Balin’s sword.”

“Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself?” Miriam asked.

“What? Maybe,” Pellinore said, laughing. “You’re right. I’m sorry,” he said, looking at Guinevere. “Sometimes, I get distracted. It seems that my mind isn’t always where it should be these days.”

“Try starting from where you last left off the last time,” Guinevere said.

“I would, if I knew where that was.”

“I can tell you exactly where it was,” Guinevere smiled. “You left off with such a purpose, I’ll always remember that last time. You said it was my Lord husband, the King, with whom Balin had been last seen. But then, he’d set off with such mad intent — or so you said — in pursuit of that knight who had refused to pay homage to my Lord husband, the King. Balin, being the good knight that he was, had set off to right the course — or words to that effect,” she said with her perfect smile.

“Ah, that it was,” Pellinore smiled. “ ‘Words to that effect’. The knight had approached Arthur, but refused to halt and salute the King. Arthur would’ve set off in pursuit himself, but he’d taken ill that morning — ”

“No doubt, something he ate,” Guinevere smiled.

“One would think that, but for the fact that his Squire and Footmen drew ill as well. And it so chanced that Balin came along a short time later, and stopped because he recognized the King’s flag where it fluttered above his pavilion. There, the king’s Squire met with him, hunched over and wrapped in a heavy fur, shivering; as well as his Footmen.”

“And would that same Squire have been Gawain?” the queen asked.

“By that time, Gawain had taken to the shield himself,” Pellinore said. “The King’s Squire at that time would have been Allesandor.”

“A goodly man,” she smiled.

“Balin found Arthur inside the pavilion resting on his pallet where he heard the King’s complaint. Balin told Arthur he’d right the insult and bring the man back, either willingly, or by force if he must, and set off immediately in search of the man.”

“Of course he did. And let the heaven’s condemn any man for not paying homage to my King,” Guinevere scoffed.

“Is that not as it should be?” Pellinore asked.

“In your world, perhaps,” she said, forcing a smile. “But is anything the way it should be?”

“Seldom.”

There was a moment of silence that seemed to drag on, and Gwenellyn smiled and said, “Perhaps Uncle, if you actually spoke the words out loud?” she said.

Guinevere tried not to laugh.

“Pelly!” she said, and the old man jumped, startled.

“It was at the internment of good King Lot — ”

“Good King?” Guinevere interrupted.

“Did you know him?” Pellinore asked. “Did you fight with him? Did you Squire with him, as I did? If he was a good man, it follows that he was a good king. And fuck he was a good man. I wept for him when he died.”

“But you slew him,” the queen reminded him.

“I did? Yes, yes, I did. But I’ve wept for a great many in my day. I wept for The Knight of the Field that same day, even as I knighted him.”

“Wept for him?” Miriam asked. “Why would you weep for such as he?”

“It tells me that I can still love, knowing that I can cry.”

“And who is he that you should weep for him?”

“It was his stroke that claimed the Kingdom.”

“His?” Guinevere said

“It was Lot that slew his father.”

“Are you saying the son avenged his father?”

“Would it were that simple,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “Still, those of us who knew Lot came to praise the man and all he stood for. He kept his keep well-stocked for the winter. His peasants didn’t freeze to death. The livestock were tended; the coops sealed tight. There was enough wood with the forest close by that the castle walls could be extended. And then the war came and we all chose our sides, except, the kings nominated Lot to lead them. He waged a war that lasted ten years. It was a Greek tragedy right from the outset.”

“What does that mean?” Miriam asked. “A Greek tragedy?”

“A catastrophe,” Gwenellyn said.

“I don’t know what that is, either.”

“A shit-show,” Pellinore said.

He ran a hand though his beard and looked at his wine goblet. He reached for the wine pitcher and filled his goblet. His hand was shaking. The wine was sour and burnt the back of his throat, but he drank it anyway. He’d had worse. His hand was still shaking.

“What’s wrong?” Guinevere asked.

“What do you mean, what’s wrong?”

“Your hand? It’s shaking. Can’t you feel it?”

“It will go away. It always does.”

“You mean you’ve had this before?” she asked.

She reached out and grabbed Pellinore by the arm, squeezing his forearm and digging her nails deep. He could feel the muscles in his arm contracting, like the pulsing beat of an animal’s heart newly slain. He looked at her, knowing she felt the same contractions of his muscles, and tried pulling his arm away, but she held him tight.

He looked at her, trying to speak, but couldn’t form his words. His tongue felt too large for his mouth. He tried to stand, but stumbled, clutching his arm and trying to roll to the side. He was falling, he knew he was falling, and still, there was nothing he could do to stop himself. He was grateful they were in the queen’s pavilion and not the cold, unforgiving, stone heart, that is Camelot.

“Uncle!” Gwenellyn screamed.   

V

THE BEGGARS’S KNAVE

Andrew watched the four riders approaching from the South, riding toward the camp at a maddening pace. At least one of them looked to be a knight, he thought. While the other two — Huntsmen by any other name — he knew to be Sir Grummer’s Footmen. The Boys. It was the last one however, the one dressed in tattered clothes that was a concern. He had the look of the wanted about him. There was a feral hunger in his eyes. Covetedness, Andrew thought; certainly a sin. They weren’t carrying a flag; and there was no coat of arms on the Knight’s shield, which he wore strapped across his back. They came to a halt at the makeshift wall of sticks and brambles. There’d been no time to make a proper abattis. The dust settled just as soft around them as they waited for the gate to be opened.

“Open the gate!” the young knight cried out, sounding anxious.

“Who goes there?” a voice called out.

“Sir Locksley, of Inverness Beyond-The-Wall.”

“What do you want, Sir Locksley, of Inverness Beyond-The-Wall?” the man called out, his voice mocking.

“Business with the Queen. Our group ‘as been attacked an’ my companion knights taken prisoner.”

“And who are your companion knights?”

“Sir Grummer Grummerson an’ Ector de Maris.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the bushes and thorns were pulled back out of the way. Locksley spurred his horse into a gentle walk, followed by Geoffrey, Godfrey, and Brennis, all one behind the other. He told himself to sit up tall. He didn’t know these knights anymore than they knew him, but apparently they knew Sir Ector, and Sir Grummer.

“That’s the Queen’s flag,” Godfrey said softly, leaning forward in his saddle.

“Are ye sure?” Locksley asked.

“Aye. A dragon wrapped around a white rose? Hard not to miss that,” he added.

“Why exactly is she here? I forget.”

“Ye didn’t forget, ye weren’t listenin’ t’ begin with, or ye woulda heard Sir Ector. He said she’s out lookin’ fer Lancelot.”
“That’s Pellinore’s flag,” Brennis said, pulling up on his reins and looking at the pavilion across a narrow field. There was a large crowd gathered in front of the pavilion. The people in the back gathered themselves up, trying to look over the heads and shoulders of those in front of them. It was hard to say what was happening, but a sudden hush fell over the group when the Queen stepped out with two other ladies, both of them looking upset.

“That’s Pellinore’s girl,” Geoffrey said, pointing at the three women.

“Which one?” Locksley asked.

“The plain one? That’s Miriam.”

“An’ the other one?” he asked

“That’s the Queen.”

Locksley shook his head deliberately, turning his attention back to the two women. As plain as the one girl was, the other was telling. He found himself catching his breath at his first sight of her. Her hair was a black, glossy sheen, hanging the down the length of her back and rippling as she moved. He could see it had been tied up earlier, but the plaits had fallen for whatever reason, framing a face that was long and narrow, with a bottom lip that was full and pouty; and the brows that arched above her deep blue eyes looked delicate.

The other girl’s face was rounder, but she had a flat nose that looked as if it may have been broken a time or two. She had thick lips, with crooked teeth, and thick eyebrows. Her hair was mousey. A plain brown that caught the light like a tattered halo surrounding her patchwork dress. There was a haughtiness to her that appeared put on, Locksley thought; a disdain that told him she was worthy and he was not. A dismissive contempt all visible in one look. It made him shudder to think of what the woman was like behind bedroom doors.

“A wild ride that one, I would think,” Locksley said with a smile.

“That’s Miriam,” Geoffrey said.

When the woman caught Geoffrey’s eye, she turned her head again.

“I thought she knew ye? Did she know ye? It looked like she knew you. Let me ask her.”

“And who doan know The Boys out here?” Geoffrey asked. “Nae. She knows me, alright. Can’t say it’d be for anythin’ nice.”

“What’s that s’posed t’ mean?” Locksley asked.

“If I may, Sir?” Godfrey said, kicking his horse ahead and approaching Locksley with a pleasant smile. “May I offer to say that he knows her quite well, Sir, as the two have twice been caught up in scandalous arms, shall we say?”

“Scandalous arms!” Brennis laughed, drawing the eye of every man and woman circled about them, including Miriam who appeared horrified by the word.

Locksley turned and looked at Brennis, grabbing the reins out of his hands. “The first rule about being a Knight’s Squire that a Squire learns, is to sit on his mount—whatever that mount may be—and shut the fuck up. Once again, let me remind you, we want to have an audience with the Queen. We gain nothing if you draw the wrong kind of attention to us. Now, once again. Who are the women?”

“The one on the left is Gwenellyn. The other one’s Miriam.”

“Sisters?” Locksley asked. There was some resemblance.

“Cousins. The good looking one is Pellinore’s niece — she’s ‘is brother’s child. Her father died some few years after the War. Pellinore’s dedicated himself to the girl, since. He took in both the mother, an’ ‘er daughter, an’ practically raised her as his own.”

“An’ the girls get along?”

“Like the sisters you mistook them for.”

“Ye have to tell the Queen,” Geoffrey reminded him.

“An’ how do ye propose I do that?” Locksley asked. “I can’t just approach her — ”

“Milady?” Godfrey called out, and Guinevere turned to look at the four riders sitting in the middle of the field. Locksley was quick to dismount but not so quick to approach. He fell to a knee in front of her, picking up the hem of her dress when she approached and pressing it to his lips.

“Who are you?” she asked, startled and pulling the hem of her dress out of Locksley’s hand. “Godfrey? Who is this boy?”

“Sir Locksley, heir to Ivanore Castle, Son of Ambrose; Knight of Inverness Beyond-the-Wall; Knight of the Field, Highness,” Godfrey said, stepping down from his mount. Geoffrey was quick to follow suit, falling to a knee and bowing his head. Brennis stepped down uneasily.

“Geoffrey? You as well?” Guinevere smiled. “And him?” she asked, seeing Brennis.

“Majesty,” the boy replied, head bowed.

Geoffrey looked at Brennis still standing, and punched the boy behind the knee, dropping him to the ground unexpectedly. “A Squire.”

“A Squire? And where is Sir Grummer?” Guinevere asked, trying not to smile as Brennis climbed up to one knee.

“He’s been ta’en prisoner,” Locksley replied. “With Ector de Maris — ”

“De Maris? Both of them? Where?”

“At The Red Lion.”

“The Red Lion? Of course,” she said with a slow shake of her head. She turned and was about to walk away, when Locksley called out to her again. He was confused, he said; he’d thought the Queen would do whatever she could to save one of her knights — especially if one of them was Lancelot’s brother, or half-brother. There was a hush that came over the gathered crowd.

“Are ye not goin’ t’ send ‘elp, then?” Locksley asked, and all three of the women looked at him. Geoffrey hissed a warning.

“Ye can’t talk to the Queen like that.”

“Send help?” Guinevere laughed, turning around to fully look at him. He certainly looked the part of a Knight, she thought, realizing he was the one Pellinore had made Knight of the Field. Grummer being held in a whorehouse was hardly her idea of being held captive. From what she knew of Sir Grummer, being rescued from a whorehouse would be the last thing he’d want.

“I thought by some strange device you had come here to seek out Pellinore. But no. Instead, you tell me of Grummer and Ector. Two men known to like wine almost as much as they like women. Now you tell me the two of them have been taken prisoner in a whore house, Sir, and you expect me to send help? If I send any of these men to help rescue them, I won’t see them for days. It’s probably the Whore-Monger himself taking them in because they failed to pay the last time they were there. Both of them are beggarly at best — ”

“It wasn’t the Whore-Monger,” Locksley said in defiance.

“Sir,” Geoffrey said again, daring to look up at the Queen. She looked discomfited.

“I’m sorry. Who are you again?” she asked, looking at him, squinting into the sun. She raised a hand to block the light, taking in the young man’s handsome features. The sun had come up from behind the hills, breaking through the trees; the light caught the chaussons Locksley was wearing, reflecting it like an aura.

“Sir Locksley, from Inverness Beyond-The-Wall,” he replied quickly.

“Inverness Beyond-The-Wall?” Guinevere said. “Now I remember you,” she said with a slow shake of her head. “You’ll want to know that Pellinore’s suffered a fall, then.”

“And why would he need to know that, Majesty? This man is nothing to my father.”

“A fall? Do ye mean he was jousting?” Locksley asked, ignoring the Princess.
“My uncle no longer jousts,” Gwenellyn said, sounding petulant.

“Then ‘ow did ‘e fall?” Locksley asked, his eyes locked on her.

“You will address her as My Lady,” the Queen added, her voice severe.

“My apologies, Highness. Then how did he fall, M’ Lady?” he added, bowing his head slightly, making every effort to sound at least half-educated and do the memory of his mother proud.

“Stroked by the Hand of God, we believe,” Gwenellyn said.

“You don’t have to talk to him, Gwen. He’s obviously an ill-mannered knave, to say the least. Are you Sir Grummer’s Squire?” Miriam asked. “Oh no, that would be the ragamuffin trailing behind you, wouldn’t it?”

“I told ye. I’m a knight. Fully made. Sir Locksley of Ivanore Castle — Prince, an’ Heir t’ Ivanore; son of Ambrose; Knight of Inverness Beyond-the-Wall; Knight of the Field, made so by the hand of Pellinore, hisself.”

“You? You’re no more than Knaves. The both of you,” Miriam said, looking up at Brennis who merely grinned.

“Silence, girl,” Guinevere snapped. “The man is a Knight, honourably made by your father’s hand, and will be addressed with respect.”

Miriam was looking at the ground and Locksley wondered if maybe she was reading something in the stir of the leaves. He’d heard of witches who could do that; people who still followed the Old Gods and the Druid way. She nodded though, grunting, looking up at him as though she remembered him.

“He Knighted you in the field? I remember, now,” she said, and gave him a brief curtsy.

“Aye, that ‘e did,” Locksley said, remembering the horror of that, his first battle. He’d realized early on that he’d probably die if he stopped for even a moment. Armed with his lance and shield he’d defeated twenty men and challenged a king.

“Aye,” he said once more, and bowed his head.

“And what would you have me do for you then? The knights I brought with me are looking for Lancelot. Do you think they’re going to give off searching for him — with the promised reward of our sworn King — so that they might have the chance to rescue Sir Grummer, who offers no promise of a reward?”

“An’ what of Sir Ector, then?” Locksley asked.

She stopped and turned to look at him, slowly making her way back toward him. Gwenellyn followed.

“Ector de Maris is Lancelot’s half-brother, both of them, in their way, uncles to Lionel. I can’t even think of where to start for that story. But it wasn’t Ector who rode off with him this time, was it? It was Lionel. Off, on an obvious search for adventure — or misadventure, I imagine. Sir Ector, and Sir Grummer, have no status either here, in the field, or in Court. He may be a member of the Table, but his bearing holds no sway with the king. They’re not what we’d call titled Knights; neither one of them. In fact, between the two of them, they couldn’t afford to buy a proper suit of maille. I’d suggest, Sir Locksley of Inverness, Knight Beyond-the-Wall, that you rescue them.”

“Yes, let the Beggar’s Knave rescue the Beggar Knight,” Miriam laughed. “Come along, Gwenellyn,” she added, taking her cousin’s hand and following the Queen.