THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY
Or; THE BEGGAR'S KNAVE. (End of PART ONE)
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 Launcelot and Lamorak in the distance, their Squires following behind. They made their way across the field at a gentle trot, the 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 the 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 waist 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 and 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 watching the slaughter below.
“It’s Brennis, Sir Grummer,” the lad said, approaching.
He was holding his long bow, dressed in leathers he’d taken from a combination of both the Saxons and the Mercenaries. He’s a quick learner, Grummer thought, looking down at the heavy soled boots the boy was wearing. He’d found two baldrics that held full quivers, the straps sheathed with two throwing knives.
“Can ye toss?” Grummer asked, looking at the four knives.
Brennis pulled one of the knives out and threw it in one fluid motion at a small sapling. He missed, 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, an’ that it ’tis,” Grummer smiled. “Mayhap ye can—as we stan’ afore ye, despoiled and unwimpled—”
“Un-what?” the lad said, and 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’s on her way.”
“The Queen?” Grummer asked. “Wherefore be that?” Grummer asked, looking at Ector.
“Is she here with Launcelot?”
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’d heard how Locksley had done, helping fight off the attack of the Orkney knights. He 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 been 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 so?” he said, looking at Ector.
“Palomides?”
“Aye,” Grummer nodded. “Ye canna unseen such a beastie—not once ye’ve spied it,” he laughed.
“Ye mean the camel?” Locksley asked.
“Ye’ve met then?”
“Aye. ’twas ‘is Immortals what saved Geoffrey’s an’ Godfrey’s lives,” 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 we ye t’ wimple up yer look, ere the Queen comes?”
“Aye, lad,” Grummer said with a grin.
By the time Grummer and Ector had found themselves suitable enough armour, as well as arming themselves with best in weaponry they could find on the field, Palomides sat reclining on his saddle laughing with Lam and Launcelot. 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 rabbits, and several pheasants. He held them up and Mustafa laughed, throwing more wood on the fire and kicking the embers down to make room.
“It really was a grand day,” Lam was saying, taking the flask of wine Palomides held out to him. “I lost count,” he said, swallowing. “How do you explain that? How do you tell someone you lost count of the men you killed in single battle, on a field of plain 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 Launcelot, taking another drink before passing the flask to him.
Launcelot shook his head. “I don’t think it matters that much to anyone,” he said with a flippant wave of the wine flask in his hand.
“Well, of course it does,” Lam said, a note of disbelief in his tone.
“To who? Who cares? They were Saxon scum,” Launcelot said, still waving the flask in the air to make his point.
“No, Launce,” Palomides smiled. “Tell me do, how you really feel about it?”
“Not all of them were scum,” Lam insisted.
“Not all of them, who?” Ector asked, as Grummer reached down and took the wine flask from Launcelot.
“Ye canna drink wine afore ye meet the Queen,” Grummer laughed. “Ye know well she doan take kindly t’ yer drinkin’,” he added, pointing a finger and shaking the wine flask at Launcelot. Laughing.
“She well understands a drink after jousting,” Launcelot 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,” Lam 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 still sorting out rabbits 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,” Grummer smiled. “Ye’ve come just in the nick o’ time, saved the princess—yer cousin, Lam—”
“Ah, yes, Gweneffen,” Lam laughed.
“Gwenellyn,” Locksley said softly. He looked at Lam and said, “‘er name is Gwenellyn, an’ soon’s yer Da’, the King, wakes from ‘is stupor, I inten’ t’ marry ‘er.”
“Marry ‘er?” Grummer said, turning to look at Locksley. “A lass like ‘er, she’s not the kin’ ye can marry. She’s not a real highness, is she Lam?”
“She is not,” Lam said, and Grummer looked over at his friend. Lamorak was looking at Locksley as if he was assessing the lad; Grummer didn’t know what to think about that. As far as Grummer was concerned, the girl wasn’t good enough. She was the daughter of a Thane. Is she’d been Pellinore’s daughter, rather than his favourite, things might’ve been different.
“Yer a prince, lad, an’ bein’ a prince, yer meant t’ marry a king’s daughter.”
“I’ll have nae o’ that,” Locksley said, and turned his gaze to his uncle. “I’ll nae be yer prince, an’ have ‘er t’ hand in spite of ye,” Locksley said.
There was a hardness to his tone and Grummer nodded.
“Aye lad, I believe ye’ll try.”
I finally caught up! Woo! I’ll be all ready for when you resume it.
"He scratched absently at the lice in his beard.." "“Can ye toss?” "No I can't, but they look good."
“Ye’ve nae lived laddie, ’til ye’ve been stood on a chaflet, starin’ at the Axeman,” “Aye lad, I believe ye’ll try.” Great lines. Another exciting episode!