THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY
CHAPTER 11; FIRST INSTALMENT
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CAPTIVE
Gwenellyn made her way back up the crest of the small hill, from where she could see the Squires and pages below pulling the King’s pavilion down. The furs, rugs, and carpets that had lined the floors and walls, were hanging limp on poles, airing in the morning sun. Griflet, King Pellinore’s Squire, oversaw the decamping. The heavy stitched linen tents were bundled up and ready to be packed on the waiting wagons. There were still seven wagons lined up.
They would be the last to leave.
Gwenellyn could see Miriam bending over her father’s prone figure. Probably wiping the spittle that’s constantly running down the side of his face, she thought. It’d been three days since his attack, and so far there were no signs of improvement, even with the Queen’s attending physician leeching the poor man half to death. It had never been a medical practice she had agreed with, and yesterday she and the Queen’s physician had had a terrible row. Pellinore was still unable to speak, she’d declared, and Miriam had been forced to chew her father’s food for him, spitting it into the palm of her hand before forming it into a ball and pushing it into his mouth. She then forced it down with a swallow of wine she had to spit into her father’s mouth after. It pained Gwenellyn to watch the once proud king unable to move. He was only able to communicate with his eyes—one blink for yes, and two for no. She supposed had they lived in a more barbaric time, he would’ve been left at the edge of the forest for the wolves.
The sun stood in a clear blue sky, breaking through the trees and bathing the camp in light. There was a gentle mist covering the ground like a blanket—like the ground itself was letting out its long held breath, she thought. There was a long progression of horses, wagons, men-at-arms, Squires and Knights, ladies, and pages, winding its way South in their search for Launcelot. There’d been rumours, unfounded of course, that he’d been bewitched and held in a castle by four queens of the fairy realms, but no one believed the tales, least of all the Queen. She rode at the head of the procession all the same, surrounded by her Queen’s Guards.
A shadow crossed in front of her and Gwenellyn turned to see Tristram and Mark’s Queen, La Beale Isoude approaching. She was a plain looking woman with a pale complexion and sallow looking hair that clung to her thin, emaciated frame. Her eyes were dark-rimmed and sunken, her smile a wan expression at best. She was quick to whisper something to Tristram before covering her face with a thick veil.
“The Queen would enquire of your uncle, my lady,” Tristram said, bowing low in his saddle.
“My uncle has been stroked by the Hand of God,” Gewnellyn said simply. “We still have plans to make our way to Camelot where Miriam will have to find a husband of good standing, enabling her to care for her father’s needs.”
“And who will serve in her father’s stead?” he asked. “Concerning the proposal?”
“Do you not know her brothers?”
“Certes, my lady. Good knightly men, the both of them,” Tristram smiled. The lady Queen leaned forward and whispered something else, and Tristram nodded.
“And you, my lady?”
“Me?” Gwenellyn smiled. “I suppose I’ll be sent to the nunnery at Almesbury.”
La Beale Isoude leaned forward and whispered again, and Tristram sat back, looking at her before he nodded.
“Nay, lady, say not so,” he said, looking down at her again. “The Queen Isoude promises to send for you forthwith upon your arrival in Camelot; with the success of your kinsman’s nuptials, she would have you serve as her lady-in-waiting.”
“The lady Queen does me a goodness,” Gwenellyn said with a short curtsey and a bob of her head.
“Is it?” Tristram asked her in a softer whisper.
“And why would I think other, Sir Knight?”
“You’ve yet to meet the King,” he said, and jerking his horse about reached out for the Queen’s lead, slowly walking her horse down the hill.
Gwenellyn watched until they were at the bottom of the hill. She watched them stop briefly, speaking to the king—probably offering him their heart-felt blessings before setting off in pursuit of the procession—and then she made her way down the low sloping hill, her canvas shoes wet with the last of the morning’s dew. She lifted the bottom of her gown, the hem wet and dragging the weight of the fabric down, remembering the hot springs she had enjoyed. She hadn’t wanted to climb out of the warm water, and had enjoyed languishing in the bubbling cauldron, letting the water cascade over her.
Miriam ran out to meet her.
“Did you see him? That was Tristram! Oh, why can’t I find someone as handsome as him to be my betrothed?” she asked, reaching down and taking Gwenellyn’s hand in hers.
“How is Uncle?” Gwenellyn asked.
“Miserable. I don’t know how you can understand anything he says,” she added.
“I cannot say how it is,” Gwenellyn confessed.
“Well, he’s your problem now,” she said. “I’m going to visit that hot spring you were boasting off yestermorn.”
“Be careful you don’t lose track of time. You don’t want us to have to send someone out to retrieve you, lest you be caught unawares.”
“And would that be so bad?” she quipped.
“Now you sound like Lam,” Gwenellyn scoffed.
Pellinore lay soundless on his cot, but Gwenellyn could sense him watching her as she stepped around the trees and poured herself a goblet of wine. There was a cool breeze filtering through the trees, and she ran a hand through her still damp hair. Miriam would’ve insisted a page bring her the wine, Gwenellyn knew, and she was certain that if the woman found herself married to some minor duke, or chieftain, she’d insist on having a dozen women attend her. She took a drink and looked at her uncle, trying to gauge the man. Gwenellyn knew there’d be no pages or ladies-in-waiting attending to her needs if she were to marry. She wasn’t fated to marry for political power — her father’s death had sealed her fate as far as her worth was concerned — but all the same, her mother was still indebted to her brother Pellinore’s grace; as such, she’d accept whatever offer or arrangements the king made for her daughter.
She turned to look at Pellinore once more, saw his eyes following her as she walked to the edge of the clearing Griflet had carved out for him. There were trees for shade, and the grass underfoot was cool; the sun came through the trees at a slant and there was a leather cover for when the sun broke through the trees later.
If we’re still here, she told herself.
She took another sip of wine and paused, the goblet half-way to her thin lips. She forced a smile and stepped back, sitting in the small chair Grift had left out. She looked at her uncle and smiled as she sipped her wine.
“Are you parched, Uncle?” she mocked. “And did your ever dutiful daughter feed you? Did she wipe the spittle from your face like she was a mother cleaning up after her child? She did. I know she did. I could see her from the top of that hill over there. Can you see the hill? No? Well, I could help turn your head, I suppose. But why would I?”
She looked off into the distance where the tail end of the Queen’s procession was making its way through the woods. There were flashes of light where the sun caught the chaussons the Knights were wearing, and she wondered if what Tristram had said about the Cornish king was true. To be honest he’d said nothing, she reminded herself, but the implication had been there. She’d heard stories and rumours about the Cornish king over the years; the reckless prince made king under mysterious circumstances. A bounder. No better, and no worse, than any other Knight she’d ever met.
No better than uncle Pelly, she told herself, looking at the man watching her.
“You’ll have to wait for your dear daughter, if it’s a thirst you’re looking to quench,” she said gently. “My lips will never touch yours again, not as long as you still live. And you’ll not be sending me to a nunnery. No. I’ll not be an abbess wasting away, waiting to be raped by whatever bachelor Knight, or Saxon bastard should come across me on the trail. And do you want to know why? Tristram.”
She thought she saw a flash of anger in his eyes, and smiled.
“La Beale Isoude has promised to take me as her lady-in-waiting. It looks like King Mark will decide who I wed, and not you. And Mother will graciously accept — happily, I’d say — when she realizes that she’ll be leaving you and living under my roof, no longer having to answer to you. And even if Mark forces himself on me,” she said, and looked at him “As you did,” she added.
She took another drink of her wine and sat back in the chair, watching him as a silent tear ran down his cheek. She stood up, pouring the wine out in front of him, looking into his eyes as she did.
“I’ll have no tears from you, Uncle. Isn’t that what you said to me? I’ll have no tears from you?”
Oh heart-breaking. Poor Gwen. (Though she probably wouldn’t like to hear that.) and I am curious as to how you will portray King Mark. Hers in my prequel for my series.
A fine episode!The last paragraph was perfect. I delight in a little revenge.