THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

Chapter One (second part)

a brief synopsis

On the Road to Camelot with Sir Grummer Grummerson, and Locksley, as well as the Boys—the Footmen who have been with Sir Grummer for countless years—Sir Grummer states that he hopes to meet up with his old riding companion, Sir Lamorak de Gales, in hopes of meeting Palomides, the Parthian knight who rides a beast from out of the desert…instead, they meet someone else.

Having walked and rested the horses they set off at an easy trot, passing through dark avenues of forest 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. In the distance—in a clearing surmounted with a copse of trees—was a Red Deer with an unusually 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 by?” Geoffrey asked.

“If by that ye mean code for whore house? Then indeed, there is,” Grummer laughed. “The Inn of the Red Lion.”

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

“How could you possibly hate a whore house?” Locksley asked.

“Too many Saxons?” Grummer asked.

“That’s because it is a Saxon Inn!” Godfrey exclaimed.

“It is,” Grummer nodded. “Even so, it’s not the Inn we’re looking for, is it Geoffrey?”

“If not, then what?” Locksley asked.

“The ale house, if I know Sir Grummer!” Geoffrey called out with a laugh. “The girls there give it away for free!”

“To be sure!” Grummer echoed, and slowed the horses down to a walk.

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

“It’s not the ale that’s bothersome, lad. Have ye ever had 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, looking up from the staff he was carving.

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

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

“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’ to do but look around,” he said, corking the bottle and stuffing it back inside his hauberk.

“It looks a pack horse,” Locksley said.

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

“A knight? You mean a right proper one? Like Launcelot?”

“Yes. But it’s not his.”

“How do you know it’s not his? Do you know Launcelot’s pack horse?”

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

“How do you know it’s a knight’s horse, then?” Locksley asked.

“Well, it’s hobbled, for one thing, isn’t it? No self-respecting knight is going to forget to do that, because only a knight would do that. It’s also well fed. Can you imagine a farmer owning a horse like that for pulling a plow? No. That horse, is Ector’s horse.”

“Ector’s horse? Who is Ector, and how do you know it’s his horse?”

“Ector de Maris. He’s Launcelot’s brother, well, half-brother, but brother 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 the element of surprise. A large destrier was hobbled in the field behind the pavilion, a long lead tied to its halter and staked to the ground beside a worn saddle. There was a limp flag being stirred by the gentle breeze, the simple 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 he’s never had the money to pay for their upkeep. His father doesn’t support him on account of his mother.”

“Who’s his mother?” Locksley asked.

“Not his wife,” Grummer smiled. “He still counts Arthur as his friend, though—enough so that he sent his sons and his army to help win the War of The Twelve Kings. You’re not the only one who won that day. Ye were lucky ye never made it to Lot when ye had the chance.”

“How can ye say I’m lucky?”

“How? Ye saved Pellinore! Ye gave ‘im the chance he needed to slay Lot when ye lifted yer shield an’ diverted the blow meant for the old king. Ye also saved yerself the trouble of making Gawain an’ ‘is brothers yer enemies—Ector! Ector!” Grummer called. “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 you ever known a wooden shield to stop a crossbow bolt?”

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

“Savin’ Pellinore, ye’ve made Lamorack an’ Percival yer defenders—an’ for life, at that. Ye’ve managed t’ save yerself the trouble of havin’ the Orkneys after ye—but ye’ve not made friends of them, either—not with them swearin’ their vengeance against Pellinore. But savin’ him as ye did, he dubbed ye a Knight in gratitude. It might not’ve been Arthur dubbing ye, but ye can’t say no ill of it bein’ Pellinore’s choice, either.”

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 another 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 hanging on his shield, beside you,” 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 are 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 here with yer shield out an’ ready to challenge all comers?”

“I’m looking for Lance,” 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 there somewhere; but so are the Orkneys,” he added, as he finally stood up, tying his pants tight. He was tall, and thin—he had the regal touch, Grummer thought—while his body looked hard and tight through years of battle. There were three massive scars on his torso, and Grummer smiled to think he was there for two of them. His hair was a light blonde, and hung on his shoulders in loose-flowing curls, while his eyes were dark.

“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’d always been one.”

“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?”

“And when was he last at Camelot? Or I, for that matter?” Grummer laughed.

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

“Sons? You mean Palomides has brothers?”

“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 Safere, rode together for a time.”

“And the other brother?”

“Segwarides?”

“I don’t know him.”

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

He came out of the pavilion a moment later, wearing a rough homespun shirt pocked with holes. He walked to the tree and began to dress himself, pulling the gambeson over his shirt and tying it tight in front, so that it 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 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 mid-thigh. It was a lighter mail, made with a smaller ring size, and the fact he was without leggings—like the chaussons Grummer wore. It got so that every time he saw the old Pict, Grummer was looking more like a Knight of the Round Table than he did, Ector thought. Next, he took down the Roman lorica segmentata that had seen better days, and slid it over his head, 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 belt around it with an iron loop instead of a scabbard, and passed his sword through. He pulled on the hauberk as he walked out to the field to fetch his horse.

“And 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 here all morning if ye plan to have us wait while ye pack yer camp.”

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

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