THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY
Or, THE BEGGAR'S KNAVE?
Accolon and his Saxons entered the courtyard — laughing, and jovial — in high spirits with the fresh memory of a well-fought mêlée coursing through their veins. Three of the women had been defiled, their breasts laid bare through torn bodices, the flesh beneath bruised by rough hands. One woman’s fleshy thighs were exposed as she screamed.
As the riders entered the courtyard they paused long enough to stare at the stately figure of Morgana, her long-flowing hair a dark mantle framing her face where the large bearskin cape enveloped her like a mane. The women were tossed to the ground without a thought, the Saxons quick to follow — one of the woman was dragged away screaming with four men ripping at her clothing — the other women quickly parcelled off.
“Accolon! Ye surly bastard!” Turquine laughed, strutting forward as the Knight pulled up on the reins and dumped Gwenellyn to the ground. She fell hard, and Morgana moved to help the girl up.
“Leave off, there!” the Knight screamed at Morgana, his language a guttural mix of Anglo, Saxon, Gael, and Celtic, as he jumped off his horse. “She’s a right proper bitch, that one. Bit me, she did. Twice!” he added, showing both Turquine and Morgana the purple welt on his hand.
“No doubt well earned!” Turquine laughed.
“An’ wherefore, eh? If not fer havin’ been forcibly ta’en from hearth an’ ‘ome, I mean t’ say, the poor bairn,” Morgana sneered, ignoring the two men and helping Gwenellyn to her feet. She took the bearskin cape off and draped it over the girl’s shoulders. “The gods cursed ye the day ye were first born, Accolon; but may they strike ye down if you’ve ta’en her virtue,” she added.
“Taken her virtue?” the Knight laughed. “Oh no, my Lady. Not I! I know the value of a woman’s beauty. She’s the best of the lot, she is! Just look at her,” he said to Turquine. “Young, an’ headstrong. But have you ever seen such beauty? Aside from your own, dear Lady? No!” he said loudly, his voice echoing through the close confines of the courtyard. “I’ll nae let any man near her. Her beauty alone is worth a fortune, but her virtue? That’s worth a king’s ransom!”
“An’ what would ye know of a woman’s virtue?” Turquine laughed. “A real man cares little for a woman’s virtue; his only need is that she give him sons!”
“Maybe here, Turquine, but the Saracens hold virtue in a woman beyond reproach,” Accolon said. He walked toward her, looking at her wrapped in the great bear cape. She refused to look at him, and he laughed, reaching for her hair.
“Too bad she’s a raven-haired bitch,” he said with a shake of his head. He looked up, and Morgana thought he had his audience now. Turquine was drawn in by every word and gesture.
“Those blue eyes? Aye! Like sapphires, they are! Look at them!” He grabbed her by the chin and she stared at him, refusing to bend. “Aye. An’ worth as much, too. A month’s worth of prayers and pater Nosters by yer monks, ye can be sure! And her skin? Unblemished! Golden haired women do fetch in more gold, but beauty always pays a high price.”
“An’ if I keep her as m’ han’maid?” Morgana asked, watching as Gwenellyn turned to her with a quizzical knit of her brows. The girl was standing up for herself and refusing to be cowed by Accolon, and Morgana liked that about her, but she was frightened half to death, and Morgana could see that as well. She refused to let the fear show, which made Morgana think she was a girl who could be grateful. And a grateful girl would do anything. She lifted Gwenellyn’s chin and stared at her, shaking her head at the sight of such rare beauty.
Accolon’s right about that, she told herself.
Morgana opened the bearskin cape and looked at the fine embroidery on the gown Gwenellyn was wearing; took in her silken slippers, and saw the ripped bodice and how the girl tried to cover herself. Staring hard at Accolon, Morgana pulled the cape closed.
“Is she not pleasing, my Lady?” he smiled.
“An’ ye claim ye ne’er took dotage an of her virtue?” Morgana said.
“Of course I thought about it!” the Knight grinned, looking at Turquine. He reached over, pulled the cape down, and ripped at the already torn bodice of her dress, exposing Gwenellyn’s breasts.
“Just look at those teats! Young and firm. Eh? What’d I say? Not like these other bitches here, with their suckling brats all but hanging off of them. No. Young and firm, I say!”
“Enough!” Morgana said, pushing Accolon aside and pulling the bearskin cape up, securing it in place with a broach. “Yer name, child?” she asked, her tone gentle. She kept a wary eye on Accolon, and watched Turquine as he undid the small catch of his scabbard.
“Gwenellyn.”
“An’ where were ye to, Gwenellyn, yerself with all yer finery?”
“On the road to Camelot.”
“Camelot?” she echoed. “The very place I meself am goin’!” she laughed, and the girl looked up at her. “An’ wherefore would ye be travelin’ to Camelot?” Morgana asked. “An’ with whom?”
“It was my uncle’s hope to find me a husband.”
“A husband? How old are ye, child?”
“Sixteen years this past spring.”
“Ha! See? Old enough!” Accolon declared.
“An’ are ye pilgrims perhaps?” Morgana asked.
Gwenellyn shook her head.
“Oh? Moneyed perhaps? A wealthy merchant, or maybe a Lord?” Accolon asked in anticipation of more riches. He grinned a grimace and Morgana silenced hm with a look.
“There are no riches, as my mother is widowed,” she said with a note of defiance that brought a smile to Morgana’s thin lips.
“But ye have kin?” Turquine asked. “An uncle, ye say?”
“I do.”
“There! You see? She’s not worth anything to them,” Accolon said, as if his point had been made.
Morgana looked at him once more and the man fell silent.
“There is more.”
“There is no more. Her mother is widowed,” Accolon said. “She said it herself.”
“An’ yer uncle, child?” Morgana asked.
“Pellinore.”
“As in, King Pellinore?” Turquine asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Gwenellyn nodded.
“Which makes ye kin to Lamorak an’ Percival?” Morgana said.
“They call me sister,” she replied.
Morgana turned to look at Accolon, who appeared non-plussed; she looked at Turquine, who paled at the mention of Lamorak’s name.
“Ye’ve bandied about with King Pellinore’s train? An’ ye’ve brought yer Saxon horde here? To my Keep?” Turquine said. “Are ye mad?”
“Pellinore’s an old man. What good will it do him to know we’re here? I’ve fifty Saxons with me.”
“Not Pellinore, ye fool! His sons! Oh, but ye have fifty Saxons! Ye think fifty Saxons’ll stand against such as ‘em?” Turquine laughed. “ It’s Lamorak de-fuckin’-Gales! The greatest knight alive — after Launcelot. An’ if it’s not ‘im, it’s ‘is fuckin’ God-lovin’ brother, Percival! He’ll kill ye just as quick, but he’ll pray for yer blackened soul, as ‘e does! Ye’ve brought ruin down on us all!”
“And you think Lamorak will attack this Keep? Are you mad? One man against a Keep?” Accolon scoffed.
“A Keep, aye,” Turquine said with a slow smile. “A man like Lamorak at the gate? What d’ ye think ‘e’ll do?”
“What can he do? Nothing!”
“Nothin’? ‘e’ll burn the fuckin’ place t’ the ground an’ kill ever’ man, woman, an’ fuckin’ child what comes runnin’ out. All that t’ get what ‘e wants. If that what ‘e wants is ‘er? ‘What d’ye think he’ll do? ‘e’ll take ‘er from ye an’ smile at ye as ‘e slits ye fuckin’ open. The man does enjoy his killin’. Now get yer thievin’, rapin’, Saxon scum, off my women.”
“You want me to tell my Saxons that they’re fuckin’ your women! You expect that will hold them back leaving’ off a little pleasure? We made a deal, ye rat-bastard. Leave off with that thinking they belong to you. I took ‘em on the road — ye heard the girl — fair and square, as ye say. I left the villages like you told me. You give me the Knights you’ve captured — as you said per our agreement — and whatever other women you may have — and I’ll pay you a fair price. Whatever women, or captives, I bring along with me, are no concern of yours.”
“And the girl?” Morgana asked. “Pellinore’s kinswoman? What of her?”
“What of her!” he asked, turning to face her. “She’s not yours, dear Lady, to say what will, or will not, be done with her. She’s my property! Nothing more than chattel! I say what will be done with her. If I want to take her virtue, I will. There’s no one here that will stop me.”
“Nay! Ye dinna have that choice!” Morgana said, stepping toward the man and looking down at him. “She’s Pellinore’s niece! ‘e’s not just any king! Pellinore could well ha’ been standing in Arthur’s place, but for ‘is foolish loyalty to m’ brother. She’s not chattel to be bargained for.”
“And you are in no place to say me yeah, or nay, Lady,” Accolon said, his voice low and threatening.
“Think ye not?” Turquine said, the point of his sword pressing against Accolon’s back.
“I’ve killed better men than you, Turquine,” Accolon said over his shoulder.
“I don’t doubt ye have. But not today,” he said, and stepping forward pushed the sword’s length through the man’s body.
“What have ye done!” Morgana screamed at him.
“I’ll not have such a man as ‘im threatenin’ ye, m’ Lady,” Turquine said, pushing Accolon’s body off the length of his sword with his foot. He watched the man fall to his knees, the blood bubbling up from his lips as Accolon gasped for a last breath he was unable to find.
“An’ what of the Saxons?”
“That new Curtain Wall that Pictish bastard of yers put up last week?” he smiled, looking at it. “’Tis a grand place to hide a man with a longbow.”
Turquine raised an arm and three score of archers stood up, bows taut, barbed arrows shining in the sun. He looked at Morgana and smiled, then looked at the wall where his Master-at-Arms stood waiting. He dropped his arm and the arrows split the air.
It’s a bit late but I do like Shield of Locksley.
Brutal. But I was glad to see you took Accolon go down. What a beast.