THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

CHAPTER 4 (PART 2) IN THE CAMP OF THE QUEEN

ii     IN THE QUEEN’S CAMP

“That was Tristram?” Gwendolyn said to Pellinore, slipping her arm through his and looking over her shoulder briefly. “He’s nothing like I imagined he’d be.”

He wondered if that was a hint of disappointment he heard in her voice. She was never a girl to keep her thoughts to herself, he knew, and so much the better for her, he thought. She was never one to not have an opinion.

“Why? What were you expecting?” the old king smiled. Tristram, with his light curls falling down the length of his narrow 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 any one—but Tristram was a man who was devoted to his one true love, being the greatest Knight alive; he may well have been had Launcelot not been thrown into the mix. And then there was his own boy, Lamorak, he reminded himself.

Such a complication, that.

“For one thing, he’s taller than I’d imagined,” Gwendolyn 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 laughed.

“And what would you say he is?” she asked, looking up at him in the fading light.

“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 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.

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

“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? You know my father was talking to Queen Margause about a possible arrangement—”

“And how would you know that?” Pellinore asked. It wasn’t something widely known.

“Surely, you knew that?”

“It doesn’t matter what I know, the question is why do you know?” 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 you want to know about who is doing what, ask the servants. If you want to know who’s looking for a match, it’s not too difficult to sort things out.”

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

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

“And he’s your idea of what a Knight should look like—a Table Knight? Gareth of Orkney?”

“Tristram’s too pretty to be a Knight,” she concluded.

“Now he’s too pretty?” Pellinore laughed, shaking his head. “Isn’t that what a damsel is praying for when a proper Knight comes to rescue her from the clutches of an evil miscreant? You almost sound disappointed,” he added.

“I’m not. I’m just—well, if you lined Sir Tristram up against a wall with ten other men, he’s the last one I’d point to and say he was an Arthur Knight—”

“A what? An Arthur Knight?”

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

“Were,” Pellinore said.

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s ‘What the common folk were calling them.’ Well, in actuality, it should be ‘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,” Gwendolyn laughed.

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

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

“Lamorack? Or Percival?” he asked.

“You have others. What of Bors?”

“Bors? In time, I suppose he’ll present himself at Arthur’s Court. He wants little to do with me, or his brothers. He’s his mother’s son more than he is his father’s.”

“You mean because he’s a bastard?”

“The shame of a man’s weakness.”

“And will you hold that against him?” 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.

“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 Gwendolyn, and as they rounded the last of the knights’ tents, she saw two guards standing at attention in front of the pavilion; Gwendolyn looked at them, and then turned to look at Pellinore.

“Guards?” she asked.

“One must still be wary of the Saxons,” he said, offering a smile as an apology.

“You think the Saxons will attack, here, knowing the Queen 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 for them, might be a reason?”

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

“Well, if all these young knights were to suddenly realize you’re looking for a husband for your daughter—as well as for your niece—they could 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 be telling your mother if that were to happen? 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.

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 her as a child sitting on his lap and asking him to tell her another story. He smiled as he turned away from her. A part of him wondered where that little girl had gone to, and for a moment he thought he might say something about it to her, but decided against the idea.

Inside the pavilion it was warm. There were three dozen candles hanging from a large wheel in the high centre of the tent; sconces on posts with huge tallow candles melting into each other. The floor was covered with tattered old furs, and thick rugs, a small side table set with a pitcher of water, empty wine bottles, goblets, fruit, a dry loaf of bread, wilted cheese, and a bed large enough for three or four people. The light in the room was soft, almost muted, the smoking candles gutting in the light breeze as Gwendolyn 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 Gwendolyn entered.

“No, but I met Sir Tristram,” Gwendolyn 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,” Gwendolyn 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?”

“Your father sent him on his way, without really saying anything to him. It’s funny how that works, isn’t it?” Gwendolyn 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,” Gwendolyn 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?”