THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

Chapter One: ON THE ROAD TO CAMELOT

This is the 1st Chapter. I plan to put up a chapter (in its entirety) every Wednesday and Saturday, until it’s done. It will be FREE to read.

When I put up PART TWO of the story, it will be behind the PAYWALL. I suggest you take advantage of the 80% discount on now, if you want to read the rest. That makes it $6 for the year, after which the price WILL revert back to its original price of $30 for the year.

Ector de Maris

         THE BEGGAR’S KNAVE

          PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE 

ON THE ROAD TO CAMELOT

“Have ye nae seen ‘im, then?” Grummer asked.

Locksley laughed, shaking his head. “Nae. I’ve nae seem ‘im.”

“Boys?” Grummer called out, looking over his shoulder. His voice echoed in the open valley around them, losing its way in the trees. “Now, not ‘pon my honour, but yerselves it is. Am I nae tellin’ ‘im the truth?”

“Aye, that he is lad —” Godfrey called out.

“That’s Sir to yerself, ye Saxon scum,” the other soldier, Geoffrey, said with a low laugh, not raising his head from the large staff he was carving.

“Leave off, there! Beggin’ yer pardon…Sir Knight,” Godfrey added in apology, with a mock bow that was a touch more than exaggerated, Grummer thought.

The pause between the begging for his pardon and actually apologizing to him — the proper use of address with Sir, and all — that seemed like an excessive amount of time, Grummer thought. But then, the Boys ‘ave known ‘im since ‘e come t’ Inverness a frightened child, he reminded himself. Makes it more believable an Godfrey sounds resentful sayin’ it, Grummer told himself.

“Do we have nae beer?” he suddenly asked, looking at both is Boys. “Wine? An ye will,” he said, looking at Godfrey.

“Shouldn’t it be food yer askin’ after?” Locksley called out.

“That’s nothin’ more than a difference in age talking, that is. Food’s the last thing on ‘is mind, boy,” Godfrey called out. “I mean, Sir Knight,” he added, and Grummer laughed.

“The lads know me, boy!”

“Sir Knight!” both of them called out to him and Grummer laughed harder.

They rode in a stilted silence, the only sound the sound of their horses’ hooves pounding the hard packed trail. Luckily for them the way was tree-lined and cool. There was a small stream they were following on their right, with open pastures they crossed at a gallop. It was a warm day — a clear day — the kind of day where Grummer was usually overwarm whenever he rode in his maille. It might not be as bad if he could take the hauberk off, he told himself. He was definitely not going to be wearing it tomorrow. Or maybe he could take the sleeves off and wear it vested? It seemed unlikely they’d be attacked, but one could never be too careful out in the Wilds.

He’d learned that lesson the hard way.

I think I’ve learned most things the hard way.

It was a long road to Camelot, with Inverness Castle already a two day ride behind them. They kept a gentle pace, mindful of the horses. They didn’t want to wear them down. The winter before had been a long, hard, winter for everyone, it seemed. One of the whores had a child that was said to have froze to death, and for some reason that saddened him. He didn’t know if it was true — he doubted it — but it’s what people claimed. For all he knew, the Brothel Master sold the child, or had it killed.

Grummer pulled up on the reins and they all followed his lead. He slowed to a gentle canter and finally a walk, letting the horses graze through a wide patch of clover. He looked up at the sky and shifted in his saddle, then he lifted his right leg and crossed it in front of himself, rubbing an ache in his thigh that had been bothering him for some time. Godfrey climbed off his horse, giving his reins to Geoffrey who again was carving his enormous walking stick to pass the time. Opening one of the saddle bags, Godfrey pulled out a link of sausage as well as the last bottle of wine.

“Best way to hear any story yer tellin’, is on a full stomach, Sir,” he said, cutting off a large piece of sausage and handing it up to Grummer, along with the wine. He cut another piece for Locksley, then cut the last piece in half, passing one end up to Geoffrey as he took the reins back and walked his horse.

“Ah yes, my story,” Grummer said. “Did I tell you the man’s a Saracen? Do you know what that is? A Saracen?”

“He’s a Pagan,” Geoffrey called out without looking up from his carving.

“Pagans doan just come from up Beyond-the-Wall, I’ll have ye know,” he said, ignoring Geoffrey. “The man’s a Parthian. That means ‘e comes from Parthia, ‘e does. D’ ye know where that is?”

Locksley stared at him.

“No? Well, I’ll have to be talkin’ to yer friend Galen when we get back, then, won’t I?”

“And you know where a Parthian comes from?” Locksley exclaimed, sounding more than a little doubtful, Grummer thought, listening to the boy’s perfect pronunciation.

“Aye, ‘e comes from a part o’ the world where the sun burns hot e’er the day long, an’ the land freezes at night. T’is a land made of sand, fer as far as the eye can see, where ‘eat rises off the sand like the ‘eat rises up in a smithy’s fire. They have rivers with livin’ monsters in ‘em, what can bite a man in half. That’s Parthia.”

“And ye know this, how?” Locksley asked with a laugh.

“I know it from talkin’ t’ merchants. I know it from talkin’ t’ sailors; I’ve met men who’ve seen the vastness of the oceans, an’ men who’ve been to places with exotic names, like Timbuktu an’ Zanzibar. Ye have to talk t’ people if ye want to learn what the world has to offer ye.”

“An’ what’s this strange man’s name? What’s ‘e have t’ offer me?” Locksley asked.

“He is hight Palomides, ‘e is. How’s that for a name? It verily rings off a man’s tongue, it does…like surgery. That’s another good word, that one is. It’s a new word, ‘ave I told ye that?”

“Aye. An’ ye say he rides a great big beast of the desert? Larger than any horse ye’ve ever seen?” Locksley asked, not letting himself be taken in by Grummer’s obvious need to tell him about his new word, or else how it was important for him to read every moment he could.

“Aye, that he does. It’s enough to put a fright into the bravest of men, isn’t it Boys?” he called out.

“To be sure, it’s a beast to give the heartiest man a fright,” Geoffrey called out, not looking up from the walking stick he was carving. “I’ve ne’er seen such a beast in all my years,” he added, sounding unconvincing.

“An’ how many years is that, Geoffrey?” Locksley laughed. “D’ ye even know?”

“Enough to have turned my hair grey, an’ for Godfrey to have lost most of his,” the man laughed, looking up, his voice ringing in the pasture. “Long enough t’ have known Vortigern all personal-like, an’ the Saxon sell-swords he brought with ‘im, givin’ ‘em land — the very land my father worked on all the live-long days of his life. Old enough t’ have fought for yer father, the good King Ambrose, out of Inverness Castle. An’ old enough t’ have known Grummer when there was no girth there, an’ he was not so round as he is round-about!” he added, turning his attention back to his carving.

“Och, leave off there!” Grummer laughed, patting his large belly.

“Old enough that Inverness was nae a Castle when ye were still a lad!” Godfrey added.

“Aye, that too!” Geoffrey nodded, not looking up.

“An’ with all that travel, an’ all that ye’ve seen, an’ done, ye’ve nae seen such a beast tofore?” Grummer asked him.

“Nae,” the man said, pausing briefly as he looked up from his carving.

“There! Ye see?” Grummer said, his point proven.

“An’ ‘is name is Palomides, ye say?” Locksley asked.

“It’s a Christian name he claims ‘e wants t’ be takin’,” Godfrey called out.

“Why would ye say that?” Locksley asked.

“Because it’s true,” the man declared.

“He’s come out this way t’ give up his Satan ways an’ follow the White Christ,” Geoffrey laughed, and looking up said: “Once a Pagan, always a Pagan; or, so I says.”

“That may be true with yer Saxons — they’re the scum o’ the earth, t’ be sure —but ye can’t be speakin’ the same for a Parthian,” Grummer said. “I’ve met me share of Saxons o’er the years, an’ there’s not a one of ‘em I’d be trustin’, or takin’ at his word — ‘ceptin’ for Godfrey here — but none other, mind ye, d’ye ken me? But this man? This Parthian? He’s far grander than the likes of ye twain Boys t’gether. He speaks the languages of old Rome, that bein’ yer Latin an’ Homer’s Greek. Reads poetry from Araby, as well. He’s not a Pagan in the Pagan sense of the word. Aye, he follows a different god — afar different one from yer wanton Saxon’s Pagan gods.”

“An’ there’s a difference?” Locksley asked.

“Boy!” Grummer called at him. “It’s well known yer Saxon drinks the blood o’ the babies ‘e kills! Still. To this day! They make their sacrifices t’ gods we doan claim t’ know. But yer Parthians? They have but One God, like yer Christians — or whoever else. May the old Gods spare me an’ the Boys fer want o’ the White Christ, I say.”

“Aye, that we don’t,” Godfrey said.

“Self righteous Pagans, are ye?” Locksley laughed.

“We’re Pagans, just the same as yerself,” Grummer grinned. “In name only. But as long as there’s Priests insistin’ that people nae read the Scriptures fer theirselves, I’ll be reading the Scriptures fer meself, an’ thankin’ ye very much, just the same. The Boys though, they tend to believe more in the meliorism —”

“And what’s that!” Locksley laughed. “I tell ye, it’s them books yer always readin’ what does that to ye.”

“Does what?” Grummer asked.

“Makes ye think that ever’one ye know, understands yer meanin’.”

“Which is exactly what meliorism is, isn’t it? A belief that the world — an’ by that, I mean all o’ this around ye — can be improved ‘pon with effort,” Grummer laughed. “Ye’ve but to make the effort.”

“So this Palomides is such a man as yerself, then? A philosopher?”

“If ye mean did ‘e make the effort? Aye, ‘e’s travelled ‘ere overland, hasn’t ‘e? A man much in line with me own intellectual bent. A man what reads Marcus Aurelius.”

“Tell me, when ye met ‘im, where was he?” Locksley asked.

“Ridin’ with Lam, ‘e was,” Grummer replied.

“Lam? Who’s Lam?”

“De Gales!” Grummer said with a note of disbelief. “Lamorak-de-fuckin’- Gales. Surely even yerself knows the name?”

“I’ve heard tell of ‘im,” Locksley admitted with a grin.

“Heard tell of ‘im. They were all t’gether,” he said, still shaking his head. “He had four footmen with him — Palomides, I mean, not Lam — what call themselves the Immortals. The most amazin’ ‘orsemen an’ archers ye’ll ever come across. An’ ‘is Squire rides a similar beast to ‘is. It’s a spectacle, t’ be sure.”

“T’ be sure it is, Sir,” Geoffrey called out with a laugh, not looking up from his carving.

“T’ be sure,” Godfrey echoed.

The Immortal on horseback

Having walked and rested the horses they set off again at an easy trot, passing through dark avenues of tall forest trees where the sunlight battering at the canopied branches failed to break through all the way. There were patches of light that caught the rippling waters of the creek where Grummer could see otters at play on slick rocks as well as broken logs and stumps. The air was cool, while a lazy breeze stirred the trees around them with a gentle rustle. There was birdsong that filled the air around them, along with rabbits, squirrels, and martens, dodging in and out of the undergrowth. He heard a rustle in the undergrowth to his left, and watched as a fox darted out with a dead thing in its jaws. In the distance — in a clearing surmounted with a copse of trees — was a red deer with a large rack of antlers. Raising its head and standing majestic, it watched the small group following the game trail with what Grummer imagined was a sense of curiosity.

“Is there not an Inn close to hand?” Geoffrey asked.

“An’ by that, if yer meanin’ code for whore house, then aye, indeed, there is,” Grummer laughed. “The Red Lion.”

“Nae! Ye know how much I hate that place,” Godfrey said.

“How could ye possibly hate goin’ to a whore house?” Locksley asked.

“Be it too many Saxons there for yer likin’?” Grummer asked.

“There’s too many Saxons there, because it’s a Saxon Inn!” Godfrey exclaimed.

“Aye, t’is that indeed,” Grummer nodded. “Even so, t’is nae the Inn we’re looking for, is it Geoffrey?”

“If not, then what?” Locksley asked.

“It’ll be the ale house we seek, if I know Sir Grummer!” Geoffrey called out with a laugh. “The girls there all but give it away for free!”

“T’ be sure!” Grummer echoed, and slowed the horses down to a walk again.

“An’ what’s wrong with Saxon ale?” Locksley asked.

“It’s not the ale that’s bothersome. Have ye e’er had real Saxon food?” Godfrey replied. “It’s all kidneys an’ livers, an’ sweetbread, as well. Blood sausage. It’s offal they eat. I hate offal.”

“That’s because it’s awful,” Geoffrey grinned, and reaching back, pulled out the staff he was carving.

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Grummer laughed. “A good blood pudding’ll put ye in good standing — ”

“There’s a horse in the field,” Locksley said, stopping and looking ahead.

“Aye, an’ so there is,” Grummer said, nodding. He searched the wine bottle out of his hauberk and forced the cork out, taking a drink. “It’s hobbled. Nothin’ t’ do but look around,” he said, corking the bottle and stuffing it back inside his hauberk.

“It looks t’ be a pack horse,” Locksley said.

“A Knight’s pack horse,” Grummer corrected him.

“A Knight? Ye mean a right proper one? Like Launcelot?”

“Aye, but it’s nae ‘is.”

“An’ how do ye know it’s nae his? D’ ye know Launcelot’s pack horse?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, an’ that’s not it,” Grummer said, pointing at the animal.

“How d’ ye know it’s a Knight’s horse, then?” Locksley asked.

“Well, it’s hobbled, fer one thing, isn’t it? Nae self-respectin’ Knight is goin’ to forget t’ do that, because only a Knight would do that. It’s also well fed. Can ye imagine a farmer ownin’ a horse like that for pulling a plow? Nae. That horse, is Ector’s own horse.”

“Ector’s horse? Who is Ector, an’ how do ye know it’s his horse?”

“Ye wot not the name of Ector de Maris? He’s Launcelot’s kin, well, ‘e’s ‘is half-brother, but kin all the same.”

“Launcelot? Is he here?” Locksley asked.

“There,” Godfrey pointed, laughing with Geoffrey as Locksley trotted out into the field.

A small pavilion was set up under a heavy canopy of trees, lost in the depths of the shadows, and close to the stream. Locksley waved and called out, and Geoffrey muttered something about losing the element of surprise. A large destrier was hobbled in a field behind the pavilion, a long lead tied to its halter and staked to the ground beside a well-worn saddle. There was a limp flag stirred by the gentle breeze, the design an azure sun on a yellow field. As well, there was an ancient Roman lorica segmentata that had seen better days, hanging from the tree next to a large wooden shield. A limp hauberk of maille lay puddled on the ground in a mound, as well as a torn gambeson hanging off the brach of a smaller tree.

“That’s not Launcelot!” Locksley called out to Godfrey, and the man laughed louder. “He doesn’t even have a Squire, or a single Footman,” Locksley asked.

Grummer shook his head. “That’s because ‘e’s never had the money t’ pay for their upkeep. His da does nae t’ support ‘im on account of ‘is mother.”

“Who’s his mother?” Locksley asked.

“Not ‘is father’s wife,” Geoffrey laughed.

“He still counts Arthur as ‘is friend, though,” Grummer went on. “Enough so that ‘e sent ‘is sons an’ ‘is army t’ help ‘im in the War of The Twelve Kings. Ye’re not the only one who won that day. Ye were lucky ye made it to Lot when ye had the chance.”

“How can ye say I’m lucky?”

“How? Ye killed a King boy, an’ saved a King on the same day! Ye gave Pellinore the chance he needed when ye lifted yer shield an’ diverted Lot’s grand hammer, Ulric, meant as a killin’ blow for the old King. Ye also saved yerself the trouble of makin’ Gawain an’ ‘is brothers yer enemies by claimin’ Pelly gave the Kingly Stroke ‘isself — Ector! Ector!” Grummer called out of a sudden. “Godfrey, go tell ‘im we’re here.”

“An’ if he’s waiting inside with a crossbow pointed at me?” Godfrey asked.

“Ye have a shield,” Grummer was quick to point out

“Have ye ever known a wooden shield t’ stop a crossbow bolt?”

“Just do it,” Grummer said. He turned and looked at Locksley.

“By yer savin’ Pellinore, ye’ve made Lamorack an’ Percival yer worthy defenders — an’ for life, at that. Ye’ve managed t’ save yerself the trouble of havin’ the Orkney Clan after ye — but ye’ve nae made friends of ‘em, either — not with ‘em swearin’ their vengeance against Pellinore, an’ all who stand with ‘im — as yer like t’ be thought. By savin’ ‘im as ye did, he dubbed ye Knight of the Field in gratitude. It might not’ve been Arthur dubbin’ ye, but ye canna say ill of yer bein’ Pellinore’s choice, either. Aye, that I would say, is the very meanin’ of the word lucky.”

Godfrey walked to the front of the pavilion and paused. He looked back at Geoffrey carving his walking stick and Grummer, who was pulling the stopper out of the wine bottle before taking a last drink. Godfrey scratched on the outside of the pavilion, before knocking the shaft of his spear on the pole.

“Ector de Maris? Sir Grummer Grummerson, come to call.”

“Why don’t you blow the horn?” Locksley called to him.

“What horn?”

“The one hangin’ on ‘is shield, aside ye,” Grummer said with a slow shake of his head. “Saxons,” he added with a note of disbelief.

Godfrey stepped to the horn and picked it up. He looked at it and then looked back at Grummer, who nodded. He lifted the horn, put it to his lips, and blew. He replaced it and stepped back. He looked at it nervously as it banged against the shield. It took a moment before the pavilion door flapped opened and a man rushed out of the tent, stumbling and falling to the ground, his pants up to his knees, and his bare ass on the brittle grass.

“What’re ye doin’, lad?” Grummer asked, leaning over and looking down at the man.

“I was sleeping,” Ector said, trying to pull his pants up.

“Let me rephrase that. What are ye doin’ campin’ out ‘ere with yer shield out an’ ready to challenge all comers?”

“I’m looking for Lance, if you must know,” he said, staring up at Grummer.

“Out here?”

“He’s left Camelot and no one knows where he went. There’s about ten of us looking for him. Lam’s out here somewhere, as well; but so are the Orkneys,” he added, as he finally stood up, tying his pants tight. He was tall, and thin — he has the regal touch, Grummer thought — while his body looked hard and tight through years of battle. We’re none of us as young as we once were, he thought. There were three massive scars on his torso, and Grummer smiled, thinking he was there for two of them. His hair had once been a light blonde, though most of it had gone to grey, and it hung on his shoulders in loose-flowing curls, while his eyes were dark. He was unshaven and the scratch of beard on his face was mostly grey.

“Is he still with that Saracen?” Grummer asked.

“Who?”

“Lamorack? Is he still with Palomides?” Grummer said.

“You mean the Parthian prince?”

“Is he a prince now?” Grummer smiled, wondering when that had come about.

“What do you mean now, he’s always been one.”

“An’ who is his father-king?” Grummer asked, curious.

“Father-king? Is that one of those Scots words you’re always goin’ on about? Astlabor, you daft fool. You didn’t know that?”

“King Astlobar? And when was ‘e last at Camelot? Or I, for that matter, in Parthia?” Grummer laughed.

“I doubt he’s ever been there, but his sons have, as you may know.”

“Sons? Ye mean Palomides has brothers?”

“By the gods! Yes, he has brothers. I have brothers, you have brothers — or is it sisters?” he roared.  “It’s hard to tell with their moustaches. Wait. Why are you asking? Are you planning to kill him? Afraid his brothers will avenge him? Is that it?”

“Will they?”

“Perhaps,” he shrugged. “The three brothers rode here from the lands of Araby. He and Safir, rode together for a time.”

“And the other brother?”

“Segwarides?”

“I doan know him.”

“Does it matter then?” he asked, turning his back and entering the tent.

He came out of the pavilion a moment later, wearing a rough homespun shirt, pock-marked with moth-eaten holes. He walked to a nearby tree and pissed, then began to dress himself, pulling the gambeson over his shirt and tying it tight, so that the two front pieces overlapped. He pulled the sleeves of his shirt down as he adjusted the sleeves of the gambeson, windmilling his arms and bending his elbows. Satisfied, he bent over and picked up the maille hauberk, sliding it over his head and settling it into place by jumping up and down and shaking his arms; the hauberk came down to his mid-thigh. It was a lighter mail, made with a smaller ring size. The fact he was without leggings — like the chaussons Grummer was wearing — served as a reminder to him that every time he saw the man, he looked more like a Knight of the Round Table than Ector did. Next, he took down the Roman lorica segmentata that had seen better days, sliding it over his head and letting it settle into place. He pulled it down, and then pulled on the leather straps once it was in place, cinching it tight as he laced up the front. The next thing he put on was the bascinet — the mailled helmet and aventail — which hung on his shoulders like a stain, front and back. When he was done, he put on his surcoat with its faded azure sun on a sun-bleached yellow background. He tied a worn-out belt around his middle, with an iron loop instead of a scabbard, through which he passed his sword. He pulled on the hauberk as he walked out to the field to fetch his destrier.

“An’ that, dear boy, is how a knight dresses hisself, without the aid of a Squire,” Grummer said, looking at Locksley.

Ector came back a moment later, picking his saddle up off the ground and tossing it on the huge horse; then stepping underneath, he cinched the saddle tight.

“We’ll be ‘ere all mornin’ if ye plan t’ have us waitin’ while ye pack yer camp.”

“And where are you off to in such a rush?” Ector asked as Godfrey went out into the field to bring back the pack horse.

“How ‘bout we help ye look for Lance?” Grummer asked.

The Road to Camelot