Lancelot

by Giles Kristian

  Parcefal was a great fighter, strong and fierce, while Gofan was fast and precise, but both were deadly. As for myself, the Saxons seemed slow and cumbersome against my spear. They fell for my feints and they swung wildly and they died and went to their ancestors one after another.

  I was killing while Bors and three others were lifting the thick beam out of the brackets, trusting the rest of us to keep the Saxons off them. A man beside me staggered backwards, clutching the spear in his chest which had been thrown by a Saxon above us on the bank.

  ‘Get it open!’ Parcefal roared, taking an axe on his shield before thrusting his sword into a bearded face. The Saxon dropped. ‘Get it open now!’

  A loud creaking announced the opening of those big gates and the first face I saw was Arthur’s, his wolf grin lit by flamelight. He and his thirty men poured through the gap, some of them helping us to kill the remaining defenders while others formed a shieldwall facing into the town.

  ‘Up there,’ I said to Arthur, pointing my spear at those Saxons atop the ramparts who were still a threat, lobbing stones and spears down at us.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Bedwyr said, and led a knot of men up the bank to claim the high ground and secure the gate so that more of our spearmen could come through unopposed.

  ‘Here they come,’ Gawain called to us over his shoulder. He stood in the middle of the growing shieldwall beyond which the Saxons swarmed in the dark, coming from all parts of the town now they knew that the battle was here, at the south gate.

  There was another fight going on, at the western palisade where the fire had caught and our men had pulled down enough stakes to make a breach. But most of Arthur’s army was here.

  ‘If they make a decent wall we won’t be able to hold them,’ a man beside me said. ‘Not if Aella has all his people here.’

  ‘We’re not going to hold them,’ Arthur said, ‘we’re going to kill them.’ He turned to me, the scales of his armour shining red, the red plume trailing from his helmet just as the white one hung from my own. ‘Lancelot, see there by the smithy,’ he said, pointing Excalibur to the left of the growing Saxon horde. I saw a huge man swathed in furs, his beard braided into a rope thick enough to use as an ox halter. He carried a long axe whose massive crescent head silently promised mutilation and death. ‘That must be King Aella,’ Arthur said.

  I nodded. Even in the darkness I could see that the best-armed Saxons, the ones in mail and helmets and carrying swords, were gathered around that giant of a man, whose arms bore warrior rings and whose face was broad and craggy as a cliff face.

  ‘Can we get to him, Lancelot?’ Arthur asked. I knew what Arthur was thinking. If we could kill Aella quickly, before the Saxons built their enormous shieldwall, we might break their resolve and win. For a king is a gift-giver, a bestower of silver, but only if he is alive. If a warrior is not going to earn silver because his lord is dead, he is more likely to seek the next best thing: survival.

  I held my own lord’s eye and nodded, even so feeling the worm of doubt squirm in my stomach. I did not care for silver. Maybe there were plenty of men like me, who revelled not in riches and rewards but in war itself. Men who would fight over Aella’s body until they won or were themselves cut down.

  Only one way to know.

  ‘Kill Aella!’ Arthur said.

  ‘Kill Aella!’ Mordred echoed, shining in scales like his father, his sword dark with gore.

  I ran at the Saxon king. Others ran with me. I could sense them at my back, one of them almost on my shoulder, yet even had they stood rooted to the earth like oaks I would have gone for Aella.

  The Saxons had not expected us to attack. They were still building their shieldwall, preparing for that hot, stinking, shoving match in which blades come at you unseen; the scramasax beneath the shield into the groin. The spear blade in the eye as a man risks a glance over his shield rim. Now a knot of them tried to close round their king, raising shields to me and coming forward as one.

  Boar’s Tusk in my right hand, I spun the spear shaft in my left and thrust the butt end against the bottom half of a man’s shield, tilting the whole thing so that suddenly the man’s face was there before me, eyes bulging with horror as Boar’s Tusk filled his mouth, bursting from his neck.

  A Saxon to my left fell back with a grunt and a spray of blood, his sword falling to the mud, and I knew it could not have been Bors who killed him, for Bors could not have kept up with me across that ground. I spun my spear and thrust the blade into a neck while sweeping a spear point aside with Boar’s Tusk. And I moved like wind on that still day. I moved without thought, without fear; muscle, sinew and bone so alive in the midst of death as I performed the strikes and parries which over the years had become as natural as breathing.

  I stabbed and slashed, spun and dropped low to cut the hamstrings of a young Saxon who screeched in shock. Then I was up and driving towards Aella, who I could see through the press was waiting for me with his huge axe and a grin.

  Not yet. Too many men and shields between us. I felt a blade cut the air by my right cheek and I drove my spear down into a warrior’s foot, then punched Boar’s Tusk into another man’s belly, twisting the blade to free it from the sucking flesh, just as Pelleas had taught me so many years ago. A half-breath later it was in another man’s throat and blood struck my face, hot and salty, sweet and cloying.

  I was strong and fast. The fight around me was the tune but I was the harp and the Saxons’ blades could not touch me.

  Yet I was not the only one sending those men from across the sea to feast with their grandfathers in Woden’s hall. The man who had hit the Saxon line a heartbeat after me was killing and maiming as easily as fire. I snatched glimpses of him, of his iron helmet and his breastplate of hardened leather, as he drove into the enemy, carving through them, like me, fighting with spear and shield. Like me, cutting a path towards the Saxon king.

  There were others with us too now, Bors and Gawain and even Mordred, who fought beside Arthur, the two of them gripped by the battle lust. But this broad-shouldered killer with me was weaving a song for the bards. He was inexorable and relentless. Somehow he had pushed ahead of me, so that as I put a grey-bearded Saxon down, leaving my spear in his belly, I saw that this unknown warrior was now face to face with Aella.

  The Saxon king was looping his great axe through the air, that wicked sharp blade sighing its own battle song. I saw the unknown warrior hurl his spear. Saw the Saxon’s luck as that spear blade glanced off the axe’s long haft and flew harmlessly wide. Then the king stepped forward and, roaring, swung the axe at chest height, and the unknown warrior, having no shield, threw himself at the king to avoid that crescent blade. Yet the haft itself struck him, sending him flying past the king to land in the mud.

  I was there. I ducked the king’s back swing, reversing my grip and twisting at the waist to bring Boar’s Tusk up into the man’s wrist, severing his hand, though that hand still gripped the haft which dropped to the ground by the king’s feet.

  The king bellowed in fury, hoisting the spurting stump to take a closer look at it, as I drove up with my legs and buried Boar’s Tusk into the underside of his bearded chin, my momentum pushing the blade up until it lifted the helmet off his head. I let go the sword then, for I knew it would take some work to free it, and the huge warrior’s legs gave way and he fell as I pulled my knife, turning to face the men who were surely rushing to avenge their king.

  But I knew those men around me. They were my sword-brothers. Each of them sworn to Arthur and now driving on with shields and blades, on like a flood tide, swamping the enemy, calling Arthur’s name as they killed.

  The Saxons fought on for a while, but word of their leader’s death spread like a bloodstain amongst them. Warriors will always look for omens. Even in the midst of battle they look for them, they seek portents that will give them a glimpse of their own likely fate. Seeing their axe-wielding lord cut down before they could make the shieldwall was the blackest of omens and I sensed i
t clawing at their resolve.

  They broke. Not straight away, but soon enough. They died or they ran, and many of those who fled into the darkness lived, but many more were cut down by Arthur’s horse warriors who slaughtered them by the light of the flames which had taken hold of the palisade and some of the dwellings inside the town.

  When it was over and Venta Belgarum was ours, I sought out the warrior who had fought so well, laying Saxons low with sword and spear work which was as a mirror to my own. I found him with Arthur, who was commending the warrior for his skill and courage, the two of them standing over the Saxon king’s body because Arthur would not have it further mutilated by his eager young spearmen.

  ‘Lancelot,’ Arthur called to me as I stepped over corpses to reach them, ‘this man says he knows you and I believe him, having seen him fight. By the gods, he’s another you!’

  He didn’t kill Aella though, I thought, keeping that petulance to myself. Then the warrior removed his helmet and turned to me and I heard the curse escape my lips, though it was drowned by the roar of nearby flames.

  ‘Lancelot, I would have killed that big lump of dung had you not slunk in to steal my glory.’

  ‘It seemed to me you were telling the worms that I was preparing a feast for them,’ I said, at which he managed a sour grin.

  We did not shake hands, though if Arthur thought that strange he said nothing, turning to speak with Gawain who had brought him word of some Saxons who had made a stand in woods east of the town.

  I should have known when I saw the way he fought. I had faced him myself times beyond counting, but the helmet’s cheek pieces had hidden his face and there was neither moon nor starlight, and besides, I had not expected to see him.

  But I saw him now and even with my blood still thrumming hot in my veins from the fight, there was a cold undercurrent as I looked at him.

  Melwas.

  The victory feast celebration shook the timbers of Arthur’s hall. The sound of our revelry must have carried from Camelot’s summit far and wide into the cold, damp night. Owl, fox, badger and deer must have shuddered at the sound, wide eyes turned towards that great hill looming over forest and field.

  Likewise, folk in nearby rounds would have heard the singing and the chanting and the thumping of hands on the boards when men recounted their deeds and triumphs, or when someone lifted his cup towards our lord and evoked booming acclamations of ‘Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.’

  And perhaps those folk of Dumnonia raised their own cups towards Camelot and spoke Arthur’s name in awe and reverence, because they need not fear the Saxons the way the flock fears the wolf.

  We had won back Venta Belgarum and made a great slaughter. While the kings of Britain sat by their hearths and talked of fighting the Saxons come the spring, Arthur had led his winter army and all but driven the enemy from Caer Gwinntguic. For in the days after the butchery within that old Roman town, we had ridden through the land to scour it of Saxon war bands. Some fought us, most surrendered. Those who ran, we killed. Those who surrendered, we disarmed and sent east, though not before taking their right hands so that they could never again wield a blade against us.

  ‘Why not just kill them?’ Mordred asked Arthur. He was after more Saxon heads for his collection. Merlin had already begun work on a great fence along Dumnonia’s eastern border with Caer Gwinntguic, upon whose stakes he set dozens and dozens of heads taken from the Saxons we had killed. But Mordred wanted more. I could not say which of Merlin or Mordred had the greatest fondness for collecting heads.

  ‘Because dead men cannot spread word of our victory here,’ Arthur said patiently.

  And it was a rare victory. Though the man I had killed was not King Aella. We learnt from the surviving Britons of Venta Belgarum, whose enslavement had not outlasted one moon, that the big, axe-swinging warrior had been King Aella’s younger brother, Aebbe.

  ‘They say Aella is bigger,’ Bors told me, smiling.

  ‘For his sake I hope he’s better with a long axe,’ I said.

  Yet Aella, who it turned out was in Rhegin settling a dispute between two lesser warlords, must have reeled from the news of what had befallen his brother and so many of his warriors. The Saxon king sued for peace and Arthur, who did not have the spearmen to take the war to Rhegin, which was now firmly in Saxon hands, accepted.

  ‘In the spring we will march again and kings will march with us, Lancelot,’ Arthur said, throwing his arm around my shoulder that night when the victory fires blazed and harps and flutes and lusty voices filled the hall from floor reeds to thatch. ‘King Masgwid and the men of Elmet,’ Arthur said, ‘King Cyngen and his men of Powys and the spearmen of Caer Gwinntguic, who crave vengeance for poor Deroch. And perhaps we can even tempt King Meirchion Gul to bring an army from Rheged, and together we will drive Aella back to his ships.’

  ‘And then will you take your rightful place on Dumnonia’s high seat?’ I asked him.

  ‘We’ll see, Lancelot,’ he said, drinking of his best red wine, which was all the sweeter for our victory. ‘We’ll win some more fights and we’ll see.’ Yet, sweet as the wine was, I lost my taste for it later that night.

  Arthur’s closest friends and brothers-in-arms thronged his hall for that feast, and Guinevere was there too, looking a queen in all but name, her dark hair tamed, combed straight and imprisoned by a criss-crossing arrangement of delicate gold chains and brightly coloured glass beads. She sat on her husband’s left and when Arthur was deep in conversation with Merlin, I saw her watching the young harpist and I wondered if she was remembering herself in the girl’s wistful eyes and nimble fingers.

  And I wondered if she remembered other things too, or if her past was nothing more than a deep breath taken of a rose then exhaled and lost. Or water running beneath a bridge; once passed, gone for ever.

  To my surprise, Melwas was there too. Impressed with his courage and skill, and perhaps thinking that Melwas and I were friends, Arthur had invited him to take his place amongst us. It was a great honour and Melwas revelled in it, feigning embarrassment when Arthur, staggered with drink, re-enacted Melwas’s charge for the benefit of those who had not seen it. He all but danced through the throng, cutting down imaginary foes with cup and fleshy bone, eliciting cheers and gestures which saw the rushes soaked with wine and ale.

  ‘I served the Lady Nimue of Karrek Loos yn Koos, my lords,’ Melwas explained to Gawain, Bedwyr, Parcefal and the rest, ‘but when word reached us that you were taking the war to the Saxons, I had to come. Taranis spoke Lord Arthur’s name to me in a thunder clap and I knew I must come.’

  Merlin’s eyebrow hitched at that. ‘And Lady Nimue did not mind your leaving?’ the druid asked him. ‘I am sure it is a loss to the Guardians of the Mount. A fighter of your skill.’

  Melwas turned to Arthur. ‘I came with the Lady’s blessing, lord,’ he said, ‘and she sends you her compliments.’

  Lies. Melwas had absconded. I knew it. Bors knew it. Having lost myself and Bors to Arthur, the Lady would never have allowed Melwas to leave too. With Benesek injured, Melwas would be invaluable, as a Guardian in his own right and as the leader of the younger men, who would still look to him as they always had.

  ‘What need has Lady Nimue of young warriors?’ old Ector asked us all, dismissing the very idea with a flap of his hand.

  ‘Well, we are glad to have you, Melwas,’ Arthur said. ‘And I am sure you, Lancelot and Bors must have much to talk about.’

  The three of us nodded at each other across the table. In truth, our ancient quarrels seemed petty things there in that golden hall, after the butchery of Venta Belgarum and in the face of Arthur’s dream to remake Britain.

  ‘Pelleas taught you all well, I’ll say that for him,’ Ector said. ‘He was a rare fighter himself. We could have used him in Gaul.’

  ‘He was the best swordsman I have ever seen,’ I said, and Gawain and Bedwyr nodded solemnly, perhaps indulging me, perhaps not.

  ‘It is a pleasure to be with my br
others again,’ Melwas said, then turned to Guinevere and raised his cup towards her, ‘but it is an honour to see you again, my lady.’ He gave his best smile, the one that had ever accompanied his triumphs on Karrek. Broad enough to reach his ears. ‘I always knew you would have a golden future.’ He moved his eyes to Arthur. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘Lady Guinevere and Lancelot must have shared with you many stories about their time on the island.’

  I looked at Guinevere and she looked at me. The oil lamps might have guttered for the movement of heads in Arthur’s direction.

  ‘We were but children,’ Bors said, punching my shoulder to wake me from my stupor. ‘Those days feel like another life, hey, cousin?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Lancelot was a wild little thing when I first met him,’ Melwas said. ‘He had a hawk, my lord. A vicious, screeching thing she was. You remember, my lady?’ he asked.

  ‘Enough of this idle musing, Melwas,’ Merlin said, filling his own cup from a wine jug. ‘Do you think we wish to hear about your childhood? About every sword stroke you and Lancelot made against some splintered post? Perhaps I should regale this hall with tales of how I went about learning the stories of Britain by heart? Of the twenty years spent mastering the art of divination, of how I can read a man’s future in a pile of innards or precisely when mistletoe must be cut if it is to be used to cure barrenness?’ He shook his head and drank.

  ‘I’d rather fight a score of Saxons here and now,’ Parcefal told Merlin, which had men grunting and murmuring agreement. The druid dipped his head at Melwas as if Parcefal and the others proved his point. But Arthur’s eyes lingered on me as he smoothed his neat beard with fingers and thumb. It was just a moment. Three heartbeats, no more, yet long enough.

  Bors banged his cup against mine, spilling wine across the boards. ‘Drink up, cousin. If my skull is going to ache like it’s been split with an axe come the morning, I don’t see why yours shouldn’t too.’