THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

The FINAL CHAPTER of Part One

Sir Locksley, Prince of Ivanor, First Knight of Inverness; Knight of the Field.

This is the Last CHAPTER!

Locksley will be going behind the PAYWALL after today for my 27 PAID Subscribers to read. Today is also the last day of the Sizzlin’ Summer Sale at 80% off. Take advantage of it while you can, after all, it’s only been up for 15 weeks. As of Sunday, Subscriptions will be going back to their original price of $30 for the year, or $10 per month.

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As of next WEDNESDAY, Part Two of THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY will be going up ONCE a week only, as: THE TOURNAMENT OF YOUTH. Each chapter will be posted in its entirety, one chapter at a time. (I asked your opinion, one person responded and said she preferred it that way, so…majority rules!) Chapter 19 is divided into five parts, much the same as Chapter 4 was here. There will be a total of 14 entries, which should take us into mid November.

I’m writing Part Three right now, and enjoying it immensely.

As this is its own genre of Historical Fantasy, I will try to be as accurate as I can with whatever “History” is involved, but I do ask that you suspend your believe and leave it at the door. I mean, you didn’t believe PRINCE VALIANT was real, did you?

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THE WOMAN IN WHITE

Brennis made his way through the dark passage, recognizing the tell-tale signs of an animal that has been penned up and neglected; there was a stench of shit in the air. The ground was wet with water from the moat that had somehow seeped through the walls, turning the soft dirt into an ooze he could feel squishing under his wet boots with every step.

There was the light of a torch ahead and he bent low to the ground, keeping to the shadows, where he came across the jailer. A large man, his clothes ragged and ill-fitting, the man looked up, caught by surprise. He was quick to regain his senses though, and drew a long broadsword out of a rusty scabbard he kept close at hand — a prized weapon taken from some long-forgotten Knight, Brennis was certain — and rushed at the young Squire with the sword raised and ready to strike.

As the jailer ran toward him, Brennis fell back against the wall and loosed the notched arrow in his bow. It caught the jailer in the shoulder and the man screamed out in pain, the heavy sword falling as the man’s left arm dropped uselessly to his side. He’d somehow managed to hold onto the sword however, and swung it out wildly with a wide, curving arc, screaming with pain and frustration. Brennis reached for another arrow as he rolled into the shadows and came up on one knee, the arrow notched and ready. Drawing the bow back and letting it go, the arrow’s barbed tip pierced the man’s chest and he fell to his knees, clutching at it as he dropped the sword. Brennis reached out for the sword and his hand slipped around the hilt, grasping it; he brought the sword around with a slice, cutting into the man’s thick neck. A shower of blood pulsed out of the man as he fell to the ground, slamming the arrow in his chest out through his back.

Brennis sat back against the wall, looking down at the man, while trying to collect himself. He took a couple of deep breaths, and fought a flood of gasping tear as he watched the man’s blood seep into the ooze. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a dead man — nor was it the first time he’d killed a man — but it wasn’t something he was practiced at, and it made him wonder if he’d ever be a Knight. 

He remembered in the forest with the Orkneys just — God, he didn’t even know how many days ago that was — but he stood on the edge of the woods shooting arrows as Locksley rode down on the two Squires. He didn’t have time to think it through. He saw the threat and reacted. Did he mean to kill the man? He knew he did but couldn’t say any more than that. It had all gone by so fast.

He looked at the dead guard again, and told himself to stand up. He wiped his tears away with his ruddy shirt, stepping over the man and taking up the torch, holding it out in front of him. He looked at the sword and walked to where the man had been sitting, where the scabbard and baldric hung from a wooden dowel. He picked up the scabbard, sliding the sword inside. He wrapped the belt around his waist, liking the weight of it.

He could feel the cold coming through his wet clothes, and shivered, his feet feeling numb. There were several doors ahead of him on both sides of the passage, and he pounded on the first one, calling out. He heard voices, and removed the large, carved timber holding the door closed. Stepping into the low-ceilinged cell with the torch, he saw a clutch of bedraggled women pressing up against themselves in a dark corner.

“You’re not Knights,” he said, surprised to find a cell full of women. “Well, I doan suppose it matters, does it? Let’s go,” he said, making a sweeping gesture toward the door.

“Where to?” a voice called out from the shadows. There was something familiar about the woman’s voice he couldn’t quite place.

“What? I doan know. Out of here, though. There’s a battle raging outside.”

“We’ll take our chances here,” another woman called out. There was a note of defiance in her voice, and Brennis smiled.

“Will you? Well, if that’s what you will,” he said, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” a voice called out. It was the woman’s voice he thought he recognized.

He turned.

“Are you not Turquine’s man?” one of the other women asked. “Ye doan look like one of those Saxon scum.”

“No. I’m Sir Locksley’s Squire.”

“And who is Sir Locksley?” someone else asked. He could understand their hesitation. He knew what Knights could be like. Entitled, he thought. They’d come into The Red Lion and make demands, as if their needs were all that mattered. Food, wine, women — and sometimes boys, he reminded himself, grateful his mother had never been forced to offer him up.

“I said who is he?” the woman asked again.

Brennis looked up. “Sir Locksley is prince and heir of Ivanore Castle; First Knight of Inverness, Beyond-the-Wall; Knight of the Field, newly-made by the hand of King Pellinore. We’re here with Sir Lancelot and Lamorak deGales to find the Knights being held prisoner — well, I suppose I am now — Sir Locksley’s looking for Pellinore’s niece.”

“She’s not here. They took her elsewhere,” the woman explained.

“Know ye not my name…Breunor?” It was the voice he thought he knew; a figure stepping out of the shadows.

Brennis felt himself sag back against the door. He held the torch up higher, shielding his eyes and looking at the woman in the dancing light. The light seemed to flow around her and hold onto her; it went through her as if her skin were somehow translucent. He saw the other women drawing away from her. A few crossed themselves, according to the new god, while some of the older women kissed their thumbs and pressed them to their foreheads — warding off the evil spirits in the Druid way.

“I know you,” he said, his voice somehow under control.

She looked at him and cocked her head, as if stricken by something curious as she nodded and said, “Good.”

Brennis looked at the woman closest to him. “Do you see her, too?”

The woman nodded.

“She does not see me as you do; she does not hear me as you do,” the woman in white said.

“What’s she look like?” Brennis asked the woman, and she gave him a questioning look. “Tell me,” he said again. “Is she dressed in white? Like a priestess? As bright as the light of a full moon,” he said, his voice faltering as he spoke. “She isn’t, is she?”

The woman shook her head.

“What’s she look like?” he asked again. “Tell me,” he said, raising his voice.

“She looks like one of us.”

Brennis was silent for a moment, looking at the torch as it reflected against the muddy floor. She was a witch. He knew that about her the first time he met her, when she stepped out of Lamorak’s pavilion. The Druid High Priestess; an enchantress — it didn’t matter. The Druids were all but gone — a dying breed — driven Beyond-the -Wall to practice their magic and sorcery among the hill people. The Scots and Picts Grummer and Locksley claimed as their own.

Strange how the world works, he told himself.

“I must tell you something more.”

“You forgot something?” he laughed.

“Do not mock me, boy,” she said.

“Mock you? You’re a witch. I should take your head off. I have a sword, now. One I can call my own.”

“Yes. Your father’s blade,” she acknowledged.

“What? How can you? You never knew my father!”

“I knew him. His last words were meant for you.”

“No! I will not listen to you,” he said, turning away from her and trying to cover his ears. She reached out and touched him, and he could feel her energy coursing through him. His heartbeat quickened.

“You know this, Breunor. You are the hero of your own story. You will be La Cote Male Taile, and you will know your brother.”

“I have no brother,” he said.

“All men are your brothers,” she said, and dropping the veil she wore, vanished.

“No! I will not have this!” he screamed, and crossing the cell picked up the veil as if the woman might be somehow underneath. He turned and looked at the women cowering behind him — some were on their knees, crossing themselves and muttering prayers. He tied the veil around his waist as if it were a sash and strode toward the door.

“Come with me if it’s freedom you’re looking for.”

Found on Pinterest , Artist unknown

Locksley banged the pommel of his sword against the door — screaming and spitting out curses — then stepped back, and with a solid two-handed swing brought the blade and the full weight of the sword down against the door. A cloud of dust like a breath of fog exhaled from between the panels, and he stood in disbelief, thinking how such a blow should’ve caused more damage than a small rustling of dust. He struck at the door again; a mighty two handed stroke that would’ve felled an ox. One of the panels moved, split, and he hit it a third time, the sword knocking the panel loose. He stepped forward in one motion — frustrated, angry, frightened — kicking the door and creating an opening large enough to see the timbered beam holding the door closed.

The smoke from the burning cell began filling the narrow hallway, sifting down the passage in both directions, finding its way into their cell. Locksley stood still, transfixed by the flames licking at the timbered walls. He turned to Gwenellyn, speechless, and she pushed him aside, reaching her hand through the opening in an attempt to pull up on the board.

“It’s jammed. You knocked the panel into it when you kicked it,” she said, coughing through the smoke. “I can’t lift it,” she added, turning to look at him.

He wondered if she could see the fright in his eyes, as he stood transfixed, a part of him that frightened child again, lost in the middle of a Saxon raid. It was the last day he saw his father — earlier in the day with memories of mirth and merriment. The last day he held his mother.

And then he was himself again.

“Let me try,” he said, reaching around her. He grabbed the slab and tried lifting; it wouldn’t budge. “Move back,” he said, and with another two-handed swing brought the sword down on the door again. A second panel split and he jammed the tip of the sword into the gap between the panels in an attempt to work it loose. He could feel it move, stepped back, and kicked at the door again. Smoke was beginning to billow into the cell, stinging his eyes.

It took another three swings of the sword to work an opening large enough for them to crawl their way through. On the fourth attempt, the blade shattered. He kicked at the door again, and the again, until the timber finally fell off. By that time, the cell next to them was engulfed in flames. The flames began licking up the walls with a mounting hunger; the smoke billowing through the cell door in large, blossoming, clouds. Locksley could see how the bottom of the wall was not burning, and then he realized the wall was wet. He kicked the cell door closed and dropped the timber on it, plunging the passage into a darkened gloom that made him wonder if they were in Hell.

“Hopefully, Brennis’ll’ve found the others,” he said.

“The women?”

“What women? I mean t’ say the Knights Turquine ‘as locked up.”

“Who’s Brennis?”

“My Squire.”

“That beggar? He’s your Squire?” She said it with an air of amazement.

“Aye, an’ a good lad ‘e is,” Locksley said with purpose, and she stared him down until he grabbed her hand and began pulling her down the narrow passage, away from the flames.

“Do you know where you’re going?” she asked, looking behind them where the passage was now a faint, orange glow.

“Nae idea,” he smiled at her in the gloom. “As far away from the fire as can be,” he added, looking down at her, and then at the glow of fire beyond.

“Where’s the moat?” she asked.

“About to crack the wall back there”

“Are we below the water?”

“Aye,” he said.

“We have to go up,” she said, trying not to sound desperate.

“We do, but we ‘ave t’ find Brennis an’ the lot, afore we leave.”

“It won’t do us any good dying in the flames, either.”

Locksley stopped, holding his arms out to stop her. She looked around him. There was a dead man laying in the middle of the hall, and Locksley led her around the body, telling her not to look. She tried not to, but couldn’t help herself, staring at the large man where he lay in a puddle of blood.

“Did your Squire do that?” she asked.

“If ‘e didna do it, ‘e may be in a mite bit of trouble. We ‘ave t’ find ‘im now.”

There was an open cell door, and Locksley looked inside as they passed. There was a woman standing in the centre of the cell, dressed in white; she looked to be waiting for him with her hands folded in front of her. Locksley stopped, and then stepped into the cell, followed by Gwenellyn who voiced a gasp at seeing the woman.

“Who are you?” she said, stepping around Locksley to look at her.

“Ye were bedded with Lamorak t’ other night,” Locksley said plainly.

“I was,” the woman said with a slight smile.

“Ye loped off into the night an’ disappeared.”

“What do you mean she disappeared?” Gwenellyn asked him.

“Aye, vanished, like a ghost ye did, or a Spirit,” Locksley said. He looked at the woman again. “Are ye a spirit, then?”

“I am Nimue.”

“I know that name,” Gwenellyn said, her voice a soft whisper.

“Say ye, then,” Locksley said.

“She’s a Druid witch. A follower of the Myrddin; my uncle told me.”

“The Myrddin? Arthur’s man?”

“The same,” Gwenellyn said, and stepped toward the woman. Locksley reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Ye canna,” he said softly, and she paused, nodding slowly.

“How come ye t’ be here?” Locksley asked her, his hand resting on the pommel of his broken sword.

“You need have no fear of me, Sir Knight.”

“I’ve nae t’ fear of ye, Lady Nimue,” Locksley said, lifting his sword up part way and smiling at her with the veiled threat.

“Nor I of you,” she laughed. “Should we call you The Knight of the Broken Sword now, or do you prefer the Beggar’s Knave?”

“Why are you here? How did you get in here?” Gwenellyn asked. “Wait. Did you kill the Guard?”

“That was Breunor,” she said.

“Who’s Breunor?” Locksley asked.

“That’s the true name of the lad you call Brennis.”

“Is it? An’ what’s ‘e to yerself, then?”

“He is my sister’s son.”

“Yer sister was a whore?” Locksley asked.

Nimue smiled, shaking her head. “No. She died giving birth to the boy there. She was travellin’ overland with a caravan. I was not there for her laying in, and so did not have the child under my tutelage. But as I said, my sister died bearing the boy and the others decided it would be easier if they left the child behind.”

“He’s yer kin, then?” Locksley asked. “An’ does he wit it well?”

She shook her head. “I do not want him to know.”

“An’ so ye tell me? If ye nae want ‘im t’ know, ye dinna need tell me,” he said, and looked at Gwenellyn as if he were looking for confirmation. She nodded, and shrugged at the same time. And he nodded as well.

“I told you that to convince you I mean you no harm,” she said.

“An’ why would ye think ye’d do me harm in the first place?”

“You said it yourself,” she said, looking at Gwenellyn. “I’m a witch.”

“So what would ye have wit’ us, then? Bein’ that yer a witch, an’ all?” Locksley said.

“I’ve come to help you.”

“A good witch, are you? Come to help us? How?” Gwenellyn laughed. “The Keep is in flames! If we do not leave now, we’ll not be leaving at all. Unless you know a better way?” she added, looking hopeful.

“I do,” Nimue said with a smile.

“Are ye certain for sure where ’tis?” Locksley asked.

“Morgana LeFay shut us in a cell,” Gwenellyn explained.

“I do,” she said gently, smiling at Gwenellyn. “I am not LeFay. You will have to trust me.”

“That’s nae comfort, is what that is,” Locksley said quickly. “Both Lancelot an’ Lamorak are out there, doin’ battle wit’ a score or more foresworn against ‘em. The Keep is aflamed, an’ the moat looks t’ be breeching the wall. An’ ye say I’m t’ trust ye? At least tell me ye helped Brennis free Grummer an’ Ector, then?”

“That he did alone,” she said, a note of pride in her voice. “I helped free the women,” she smiled, looking at Gwenellyn.

“Are ye tellin’ me true?”

“What do I have to gain with lies? You’re a Knight, but more than that, you’re Breunor’s Knight, and I will that you see him trained.”

“Aye, that I will,” Locksley nodded.

“You said you know a way out?” Gwenellyn said.

“I do. There’s a tunnel,” she said, looking at the girl.

“And how do you know about it?” Locksley asked.

“This was once a Druid strong-post.”

“I hear voices,” Gwenellyn said in a harsh whisper.

The woman looked at her and then Locksely. He nodded, looking at the walls and wishing he had more room to swing his broadsword. He looked at Gwenellyn and nodded once, then went out into the dark hall.

“Wait here until I get back.”

A moment later he saw Brennis standing in the shadows, his longbow notched and ready.

“An’ have ye done yer Squirely duties this day?” he called out.

“I’ve done better than that, Sir Locksley,” Brennis laughed. “While you’ve been capering about looking for your dear princess, I’ve rescued the Knights — a full two score, I’ll have you know. Two. Score. As well as saving five princesses.”

“Five?” Locksley asked. “Princesses, no less? Where?”

“They’ve gone on ahead through the tunnel, wouldn’t you think?”

“Wait for me. I’ll be right back.”

Locksley ran back down the dark hall. He thought he saw a white figure ahead in the darkness. He didn’t care; she didn’t matter. When he got back to the cell, Gwenellyn was alone.

“She left. She said she had to do something.”

“Aye. I spied ‘er out, but that’s nae for me t’ say. I’ve found Brennis, an’ he’s foun’ the tunnel.”

“We have to wait for her. We can’t just leave.”

“I’ll nae be waitin’ for the walls t’ be fallin’ about us. She’s gone t’ fight.”

“Why would she do that?”

“On account of it being Lamorak de fuckin’ Gales.”

There was a loud splintering crack in the distance, and they both turned to look, knowing the wall had given way and the moat was now pouring in. Locksley had hoped the barred door would slow things down — and perhaps it had? But water always finds a way, Galen had told him. And he believed him now. The door would hold a great deal of the water back, but eventually it would give way. And through it all, the water would seep around the door, under it, and then under the walls until it tore the dirt away. It would slip through the wall and burrow into the cell they’d escaped, the door open for its measured escape — he imagined it a wet and wounded animal gathering strength.

Locksley grabbed Gwenellyn’s hand, and half dragging her through the door, ran down the narrow hall. He turned his head to see her trying to pull the shoulders of the dress up where Accolon had ripped them. He heard her curse the jailer for stealing her shoes and Turquine’s cloak.

Brennis was holding the trap door open, waiting. He looked anxious.

“How came ye t’ find it?”

“We saw a woman and a dwarf running ahead of us.”

“Morgana,” Locksley said.

“Morgana LeFay?” Brennis asked.

“Aye. Ye know her?”

“She’s Urien’s Queen.”

“An’ Sir Grummer?” Locksley asked, changing the subject after a moment’s thought.

“All piss and vinegar,” Brennis said with a laugh. “Begging the Lady’s pardon,” he added.

                *

Water from the moat poured through the breech in the wall and began eating at the base of the foundation, causing the north wall to collapse. The flames leapt high into the air, the sparks spiralling up like the sudden gasp of a drowning man, filling the smoke-filled sky with a thousand-thousand embers; filling in the void where the wall once stood.

Grummer watched, marvelling at the sight. He was standing on a low-sloping hill, watching the flames leap into the sky. Several of the Mercenaries, trapped on the high walls by the flames behind them, threw themselves off the parapet, some shattering bones and screaming in pain. The once captive Knights came across a store of weapons near the mouth of the natural cave where the tunnel came out. They armed themselves and went onto the field, killing those few of Turquine’s men who had survived the day. Grummer could see Lancelot and Lamorak in the distance, their Squires following behind. They made their way across the field at a gentle trot, their horses exhausted.

Grummer looked at Ector, and was surprised to see how much weight the man had lost. It’s probably the same for meself. Weeks locked in a dungeon with little food will do that to ye, he thought. He scratched absently at the lice in his beard, and then fought the urge to scratch; it’s something ye have to bear with at times in your life, he told himself. It was for the same reason that he’d rubbed mud in his hair during the first days of captivity. He found himself reshaping the Pictish spikes of his youth. He was dressed in little more than a cloth — a twisted, dirty rag — the blue Pictish tattoos on his arms, chest, and back, lost in an eddy of scars and whorls.

“If I had the energy, I’d go down there and kill a few of the bastards myself,” Ector said, looking out over the killing field.

It was a good day to die but an even better day to kill, Grummer thought. “Aye, t’would do ye well t’ kill the lot of ‘em,” Grummer grinned. “Aye! Brendan!” he called out, seeing the young Squire across the way, watching the slaughter below.

“It’s Brennis, Sir Grummer,” the lad said, approaching.

He was holding his long bow, dressed in a mix of leathers he’d taken from a combination of both Saxons and Mercenaries. He’s a quick learner, Grummer thought, looking down at the heavy-soled boots the boy was wearing. He’d found two baldrics with full quivers, the belt on each sheathed with two throwing knives.

“Can ye toss?” Grummer asked, looking at the four knives strapped across the lad’s thin chest.

Brennis pulled one of the knives out and threw it in one fluid motion at a small sapling. He missed the tree entirely, and the knife lodged into a stump off to the left, at a distance, and partially down the slope.

Brennis shook his head and looked at Grummer.

“No. I can’t,” he smiled. “But they look good.”

“Aye, t’is that they do,” Grummer smiled. “Mayhap ye can — as we stan’ afore ye, despoiled and unwimpled —”

“Un-what?” the lad said, as he started to walk down the slope to retrieve the knife. Grummer turned to Ector who smiled, and called out to Brennis.

“He says we need clothes.”

“I would think you do — as I understand the Queen is on her way.”

“The Queen?” Grummer asked. “Wherefore be that?” Grummer asked, looking at Ector.

“Is she here with Lancelot?”

Locksley approached and Grummer could see how much the lad had changed over the last two and a few weeks. Locksley looked as if he’d seen and done more in the past eighteen days than he’d done in all the years Grummer spent training him. He was dressed in his Huntsman’s leathers, and Grummer asked himself how a man could lose an entire coat of maille. He’d heard how Locksley had done though, helping fight off the attack of the Orkney knights. He’d even killed a man — which was something any man would be proud of, Grummer told himself — but Locksley had chosen not to talk about it. Grummer told himself he understood, even though he didn’t. He’d reacted the same way after winning the praise of Pellinore and being named Knight of the Field.

“The Queen approaches,” Locksley said, and Grummer turned and looked Southward.

“I canna say, lad, but methinks — be it…?” he said, looking at Ector.

“Palomides?” the man said.

“Aye,” Grummer nodded. “Ye canna unseen such a beastie once ye’ve spied it,” he laughed.

“Ye mean the camel?” Locksley asked.

“Ye’ve met then?”

“Aye. ’Twas ‘is Immortals what saved Geoffrey an’ Godfrey,” Locksley nodded as the small party slowly came into view. He could see Mustafa and Amal leading their horses where both Geoffrey and Godfrey were tied  on a litter being dragged between both horses.

“But think ye Uncle, with all these Saxons layin’ about, ye might not seem so daffish were ye t’ wimple up yer look, ere the Queen comes?”

“Aye, lad,” Grummer said with a grin.   

                *

By the time Grummer and Ector found themselves suitable armour, as well as the best of the broken, shattered weapons they could find on the field, they found Palomides reclining on his saddle laughing with Lamorack and Lancelot. There was a pot of stew on the fire, and Grummer could see Brennis walking up the low-lying hill with a three-brace of hares, and several pheasants. He held them up and Mustafa laughed, throwing more wood on the fire and kicking the embers down to make room. He said something to Palomides, and the Knight turned to look at the young Squire and laughed.

“What’s that ‘e’s sayin’?” Grummer asked, walking up the low lying slope.

“The boy’s torn coat suits you more, as it’s The Beggar Knight you’re known to be,” Palomides grinned.

“Aye, but e’s Squire t’ The Beggar’s Knave, now,” Grummer laughed.

“It really was a grand day,” Lamorak laughed, taking the flask of wine Palomides held out to him. “I lost count,” he said, swallowing. “How do you explain that to anyone listening as you recount your deeds? I mean honestly, how do you tell someone that you lost count of the men you killed in single battle, on a field of gore, before a keep? They’ll write songs about this. Don’t you think?” he asked Palomides. “Do ye think we should send Vergil and Baudwin out there to count the dead?” he asked Lancelot, taking another drink before passing him the flask.

Lancelot shook his head. “I don’t think it matters that much to anyone,” Lancelot said with a flippant wave of the wine flask in his hand.

“Well, of course it does,” Lamorak said, a note of disbelief in his tone.

“To who? Who cares? They were Saxon scum,” Lancelot replied, still waving the flask in the air to make his point.

“No, Lance,” Palomides smiled. “Tell me do, how you really feel about it?”

“Not all of them were scum,” Lamorak insisted.

“Not all of who?” Ector asked, as Grummer reached down and took the wine flask from Lancelot.

“Ye canna drink wine afore ye meet the Queen,” Grummer laughed. “Ye know well enow she doan take kindly t’ yer drinkin’ with me,” he added, pointing a finger and shaking the wine flask at Lancelot. Laughing.

“She well understands a drink after jousting,” Lancelot said.

“It was hardly jousting,” Lamorak said, and reached out to take the wine flask from Grummer. “You can’t be drinking this after having been locked away and starved for two weeks —”

“Eighteen days,” Ector corrected him.

“Two and a few,” Grummer grinned.

“Whatever it was,” Lamorak said with a shake of his head. “Your guts’ll get all twisted up in knots. You know it’s true, because you’ve been there before,” he added.

“You’ve been locked up in a dungeon before?” Brennis asked. He was standing with Mustafa, sorting out the hares and the birds.

“Ye’ve nae lived laddie, ’til ye’ve been stood on a chaflet, starin’ at the Axeman,” Grummer laughed. “Ye did well today, laddies,” he smiled. “Ye’ve come just in the nick o’ time, saved the princess — yer cousin if ye remember, Lam —”

“Ah, yes, Gweneffen,” Lamorak laughed.

“Gwenellyn,” Locksley said softly, coming up from behind. He looked at Lamorack and said, “Her name is Gwenellyn.”

“Is it then?”

“Aye, an’ soon’s yer da’ wakes from ‘is stupor, t’is my intent t’ ask ‘er t’ marry me.”

“Marry ‘er?” Grummer said laughing, turning to look at Locksley. “Ye’ve nae hope of that, Sir Knight-Of-The-Broken-Blade. Ye canna claim ‘er of a King with nae glory draped ‘bout yer own crown. A lass like ‘er, she’s nae fer ye t’ marry. She’s not a real highness, is she Lam?”

“What?” Lamorack asked, looking confused. He saw the look Grummer levelled at him and then looked back at Locksley. “No, she’s not for you, lad,” he said with a slow shake of his head. Grummer looked at his friend, beaming at the simplicity of the obvious lie, and sitting back against a log smiled, nodding. Lamorak was still looking at Locksley, looking as if he was assessing the lad Grummer thought, and didn’t know what to think about that.

As far as Grummer was concerned, the girl wasn’t good enough for Locksley. That she was beautiful there was no denying, but she was the daughter of a minor Lord, himself the brother of a king to be sure — a king no less than Pellinore himself — but whatever alliance Locksley’s uncle may have had in mind for the lad, Grummer knew better than to step into the middle of it. It was too much for him to sort through in his own mind. If she’d been Pellinore’s daughter, rather than his favourite niece, things might’ve been different.

“Yer a prince, lad, an’ bein’ a prince, yer meant t’ marry a king’s daughter, an’ not ‘is niece. Take her if ye will, but marry ‘er ye canna.”

“I’ll have none o’ that, nor that kind of talk’, an’ ye will,” Locksley said, turning to look at his uncle. “I’ll nae be yer prince of Ivanore, if I canna have ‘er t’ hand, in spite of yer distressin’ prattle,” Locksley said.

There was a hardness to his tone and Grummer nodded.

“Aye lad, I believe ye’ll try,” he said softly, “An’ it’ll prove yer undoin’ if ye do, fer I can see nae good comin’ of it, an’ ye will.”