THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

PART 3: THE BOOK OF LAMORAK DeGALES

THIS IS PAYWALLED…

It’s Christmas once again — well, you didn’t need me to tell you that — and just my luck that I have a part of my story coming out on the one day of the year where you can pretty well be guaranteed that nobody will be reading it. But that’s okay. I don’t mind it.

The best part about Christmas this year is that it’s one of those Niña kind of years, so no cold weather, and no snow. I can hear all of you out there saying they want a white Christmas, and I get it. I just don’t want one. The people that want it are usually those people snuggled up in their beds all toasty-warm. I had breakfast with me brother and said I was glad there was no snow, and he said that he liked the idea of four seasons. I looked at him and said how he may have worked outside, but that he’d had a roof over his head. I said I never had a roof over my head. Working outside in the snow is no fun at all. But right now, the sun is out, it’s bright, and it’s about 9 c, which is about 48 f. Nothing to complain about with that kind of temperature. There is supposed to be rain and wind later, but who doesn’t like a good wind storm? As long as it’s not a hurricane.

So, now what do we have planned for the next year?

I’ve got my feelers out wondering about maybe publishing one of my stories. I’m looking at one of three: THE BASHFUL COURTESAN; THE DAWN PATROL; or THE TRUTH OF WHO WE ARE. Maybe I should let you decide as to which one you’d like to see published? It’s from someone here who has a publishing company of his own, and if he says no, I guess I’ll have to look at POD. We’ll just leave it open for the moment…

As for the rest of the year? Well, I’ll have to write a story or three, won’t I? I’ll be reworking CINDERELLA AND HER SISTERS. I should finish with Locksley by late January I’d think. The publishing part of it on my ‘stack will last until the end of October. I’m going to actually try and see if I can get an agent this year, and maybe even get it published. I’m not holding my breath because it is too long. When it comes out, it will be anywhere from 700-750 pages.

Of course, I’ll have to find an editor…

Anyway, the story so far…

Locksley is somewhat depressed and despondent at the idea of Gwenellyn having left Camelot for parts unknown. He meets a Huntsman who has news for him about mercenaries looking for gainful employment, knowing they will need armed men when they set out on their quest…

Well, now that we’ve got that out of the way, let’s get back to the story, shall we? (The story being the story of the book.) My big ambition is to get this story printed up. I will try to get an agent, and I do want to have it published, legit, but I’m willing to go the self publishing route, if I can pre-sell copies and get my investment back out of it. There are ways of going about this, one of which is a Kickstarter campaign. That’s where you offer incentives for people to invest in your project. I had been looking into this earlier, and feel that there are several packages I can offer investors. AMAZON has a lot of deals I can put together, and they will deliver them as well. Problem with that is you have to reach your goal amount. If I need $2500-$3000 to publish 100 copies, well, I don’t think anyone here is going to want to invest that kind of money on something as whimsical as a book, are they? And I’m going to need more than 100 people spending $10. I’m going to need more than 100 people spending more than $25. The thing with Kickstarter is you have to put a package together that people are going to see and then want to invest in. If you fall short of your goal by $5, you don’t get the money you raised. There are those that exceed the amount they ask for, but it’s best not to go into something like that thinking you’re going to be one of those people.

Bottom line is, I’m going to look into what I can find on AMAZON, put a package together by looking at other Kickstarted campaigns, and just dive into it once I have it figured out. First though, I have to get it edited. I have a small amount of money from my PAID subscribers, but not enough yet to cover the costs of editing a book of this size. I can not use “household” money support my needs here, because I made a deal with myself that I would only use the money I earned from writing to cover the costs of self publishing, which makes sense.

So hopefully, by my birthday in March, I’ll have enough money to cover the costs of hiring an editor. Even at a dollar a page, (I’m already sitting at 547 pages), that’s getting off cheap.

SIR BEDIVERE First made Knight; Sword of the King A picture from Pinterest

v

THE RECLUSE

Gerald lived alone, beyond the walls of the castle, in a small hovel deep inside the depths of the forest. He made a living selling furs he trapped and whatever information he might pick up along the way. He lived beyond the farthest of the local farmsteads, and came into Camelot to sell his wares once a week; some months were leaner than others. He’d pick up whatever supplies he needed to get him through the next month, and then stop in at the small ale house before starting on the long trek home.

“Come by for your cider, have you?” Ambrose, the owner of The Prancing Pony called out.

“Just doan water it down like ye did the last time,” he called out to the big man.

“Ach, leave off with that!” Ambrose laughed.

A grizzled old man, Gerald had watched the castle rise up out of the rocks and forest around him, the hand of the Myrddin like a spell cast about that no one could explain. Like most men of an indeterminate age, he’d answered the call of his King and fought in a dozen different battles against warring Saxons and Norsemen when the King was still a young man. He had the scars to prove it if anyone bothered to ask; the problem was, no one did.

He sat in a darkened corner of the ale house, grateful to be alone as he searched the shadowy depths of the small room — not that it wasn’t something he hadn’t done before, but more out of habit. There were three paving stones on the dirt floor after the door that ended abruptly, and many a man had fallen after too many drinks and a misstep. There were still only the six tables, each with two benches that easily sat four men to a side. The room was ill-lit, what light there was coming in through a small window made up of several mismatched pieces of horn. He liked that he could hide in the darkened shadows and not be seen. It seemed the only thing Camelot prided itself on — aside from the open air markets — was the amount of brothels within the confines of its massive walls. At least here, there were no whores to push up against him, and for that he was grateful.

Ambrose was probably the largest man Gerald had ever known. He’d fought at the big man’s side through countless battles. He watched him as he walked about the room with his head stooped, mindful of the beams that held the ceiling in place, as well as the paving stones on the floor. A veteran of The Saxon Wars as well as The War Of The Twelve Kings, Ambrose had a scar on his chest that was visible in the darkness of the room. Gerald knew the only reason for that was because of the size and width of the injury; from what he could remember of it, it was the width of his index finger. It started at the base of the man’s collar bone and was quickly lost within the loose folds of the tattered shirt he wore. There were other scars — on his hands, on his forearms, a finger tip had been severed — amounting to what Gerald would’ve called nicks and cuts; the sort of injuries a soldier picks up over the years fighting for his King.

The door opened and a small, thin man dressed in oversized leathers much like a Huntsman would wear, entered the room. The light breaking across the uneven floor made Gerald squint, and Ambrose bellowed at the man to shut the door. The man looked up at the giant, startled at the size of him, and kicked the door shut as he slowly pushed his way to the opposite side of the room and sat down with a swirl of the hooded cape he wore. He shifted his small sword to the side as he sat down, pulling out three knives sheathed in a wide baldric that was too large for him. He set the knives on the table in front of him. The hooded cape he wore cast his face in a veil of darkness, and under that he wore a black scarf wrapped about his face that left only his dark eyes visible.

Gerald smiled at the sight of the boy. Another farm boy trying to hide in plain sight, he thought.

Ambrose brought over a pitcher of ale and the Huntsman looked up, said something, and Ambrose brought three more pewter tankards to the table. No sooner had he set them down than the door opened again and three more men entered the room. They were dressed much the same as the first man — with hooded capes, leather breeches, jerkins, as well as doublets. There were belts holding sheathed weapons — swords, axes, throwing knives — and they sat down without saying a word. The first man grabbed the pitcher and began to fill the mugs as if he were eager to fit in.

“And what time o’ the clock did ye tell ‘im?” one of the newcomers asked another man, reaching for the ale the first man offered.

“I didn’t,” the man beside him said.

“You didn’t?” The man shook his head in what could only be disbelief, Gerald thought. He grinned as he picked up his pewter mug and hid his smile behind the rim.

The door opened again and two more of the Huntsmen entered. Loud, laughing and raucous, they pushed themselves out of each other’s way as they made their way to the table.

“And so where are these three Knights ye promised me, Eamon?” one of the men said as he sat down.

“They’ll be here.”

“I thought you said there were four of them?” another man asked.

“What difference does it make? Three? Four? As long as they pay?”

Mercenaries, Gerald thought.

“He just won the Queen’s own Garter, so you know he’ll pay.”

“We’re not sell-swords hiring ourselves out to the highest bidder,” the man Eamon said. “You’ll be paid the King’s own wages much as you always have, and that’s that.”

“And if the King dies before he makes it to Listinoise?”

“Then we’ll wait,” Eamon said

“Wait? For what? Who’s gonna pay for the upkeep of my room?” one of the men complained. “Or do you expect me to sleep outside like I’m on campaign?”

“I said we’ll wait,” Eamon said.

“Hurry up an’ wait. It seems t’ be the motto of the old King,” someone said, and Eamon turned to look at him, pushing the hood off his head as he took another drink of ale. He looked over his shoulder at Gerald sitting in the corner and turned to look at the man once more.

“If the King says for you to ride up to the highest peak for a cup of snow, you’ll do it, and be glad of it,” Eamon said. “He’s the King, and though he may be stroked and taken to his bed, he’s still the King.”

“Well, I doan like it, us leaving him as we did,” someone else said. “Who’s to say Lamorak’ll even hire us?”

“We’re not looking for him to hire us,” Eamon said. “We’re offering our services to him in the name of the King, his father. Lamorak’s the heir, true and proper, so he’ll do what’s true and proper.”

“He may be the heir, true an’ proper as ye say, but the man’s a right fucked bastard, at the best of times.”

“And what d’ye mean with that?” Eamon asked, turning his head to look at the man.

“Ye saw him at Tarquin’s Keep, same as I did. Bathed in gore he was — and the killin’ he did? The man enjoys it too much. And that frightens me.”

“That may be so, but since when is killing in battle deemed too much?” another man asked.

“The man’s one of the best Knights in the land, and has been for nigh on thirty years,” Eamon said. “They say Gawain’s leg is busted on account of him riding against Lamorak. He brushed him aside like a bug. Gawain’s too young and hot-headed to think he’s that good. They’re all full of themselves, those Orkney fucks. I remember when he got Knighted at the end of the Saxon Wars. He got real full of himself being the oldest son. He thinks now that his da’s dead, calling a fiach against Pellinore is gonna avenge the spirit of his dear, dead da. The man’s a fool.”

“It’s up to Arthur to end it then, isn’t it?” someone said.

“It’s too late for that,” Eamon said. “He should’ve called it eiric the day it happened — the very day Pellinore took Lot’s head.”

“That was an ill-fought day,” someone said.

“And you were there, were you?” Eamon laughed.

“All the same, Gawain was there at Arthur’s side.”

“He was his Squire in the SaxonWars I said. Where else would he be?” Eamon said, and laughed again.

“He had to know it weren’t going to end well,” the man said. “Not with his father being the leader of a rebellion against the one true King? What did he expect? Had he been taken alive, he still would’ve lost his head.”

“It might’ve been better that way.”

“Might have? As High King, Arthur could’ve stopped it right then and there — called the eiric — but what does he do, instead? He thanks his Knights and names half a dozen as Table Knights, before the table is even in his hands.”

“And where was Lamorak through it all?”

“Probably fucking Lot’s widow!” one of them called out.

“I was there,” Ambrose said, picking the empty pitcher up and replacing it with another.

They all looked up at him.

“When Lot died? I was there. I saw him die,” he said.

“King Lot?” Eamon asked.

“That must’ve been a battle,” one of the men said. “I hear Pellinore was a cunt on the field when he was younger. That’s where Lamorak gets it from.”

“It wasn’t Pellinore who killed him,” Ambrose said, and Gerald sat forward, hidden in the shadows. He’d been in the same battle, but hadn’t seen the two Kings battle it out. He only saw Pellinore carrying Lot’s head off the battle field. Why hadn’t Gerald told him this before?

“Then who was it?” Eamon asked.

“A Northerner,” the big man said.

“A Norseman?” someone asked. “Do you mean Bluetooth?”

Ambrose shook his head. “I mean a Knight of the North. He came from up Beyond-the-Wall.”

“There’s nothing Beyond-the-Wall except for Pagans and Picts,” someone laughed.

“That’s true,” the big man said. “And they battle like demons. Why do ye think the Romans put the Wall up in the first place? And not one, but two?”

“And who was this mysterious Knight?” Eamon asked. “Why do we not know his name?”

“Everyone knows his name. He was made Knight of the Field that very day,” he said, and Gerald saw how the first of the Huntsmen — the one who first sat down — turned to look up at the big man.

“And Gawain thinks it’s Pellinore?” Eamon said.

“Only a King can kill a King,” the big man said.