by Nancy M Bell
Without another word, Lancelot and Gawain slipped out of the stable by the back and by luck came across the laundry yard just upwind of the kale yard. Quickly they stripped suitable garments from the line and bundled their own clothes into a corner where the castle walls met and created a convenient cubby hole.
Gawain wished for his great sword at his side, but there was no way to hide it. He checked and rechecked his throwing knives and his short sword, which were concealed under the rough sacking of his borrowed tunic. Lancelot grinned at Gawain as they muddied their faces and hands to a satisfactory griminess, and then they slipped into the unguarded narrow doorway.
The hallway was narrow and stank of urine and mouse turds and gods only knew what else. Gawain breathed through his mouth to avoid the worst of the stench. Lancelot felt his way along the dim corridor, and Gawain kept his hand on his back to stay close.
With no more sound than a soft grunt, Lancelot brought a kitchen wench down as she hurried past the doorway that hid them from view. He laid her on the floor while Gawain rescued the tray of food she carried before it spilled from her limp hands and unto the floor. Swiftly Lancelot bound and gagged the wench and shoved her into a small unoccupied side room off the corridor.
“‘Twould be safer to kill her and buy her silence with blood,” Gawain said unnecessarily.
“True, but I am loath to kill her only for that purpose.” Lancelot looked down at the woman’s slack features.
“It is not my purpose to commit murder of an innocent either Lance, so long as we both agree to accept the danger of leaving her breathing,” Gawain said in relief.
Lancelot pulled the door to the tiny chamber closed, and Gawain walked ahead of him toward the twisting staircase at the end of the hallway. The knight took a deep calming breath and began to climb. Gawain rounded his shoulders and hunched his back to hide his height and breadth, letting the sleeves of the rough sacking drop down to hide his hands on the trencher and praying the guards were either old or very drunk.
They reached the small landing without attracting any undue attention, and Gawain let out a small sigh of relief at the absence of a guard. Lancelot reached around him, lifted the latch of the door and pushed it inward. Gawain took a step into the room and ducked as a heavy pottery pitcher was dashed to the floor at his feet. Lancelot leaped past him and drew his short sword in the same motion.
He froze and then laughed softly in relief at the sight of the Lady Nuina defiantly wielding the broken leg of chair as she stood in front of Queen Gwenhwyfar on the far side of the chamber.
“Gwen, ‘tis me, Lance.” Lancelot’s voice was heavy with unvoiced emotions, causing Gawain to stare at him in disbelief.
“What flower did I wear in my hair at May Day?” Gwenhwyfar asked him suspiciously.
“Primroses, Gwen, yellow, white, and red ones. Tied with a green ribbon,” Lancelot answered quickly, producing a bit of green ribbon from his belt pouch.
Gwenhwyfar flung herself across the room and buried herself in Lancelot’s embrace. The Lady Nuina dropped her improvised weapon on the pile of blankets on the bed and smiled tremulously at Gawain. Gawain set the trencher of food down on the floor and crossed the floor in two long strides to clasp the lady by her outstretched hands. Gawain’s heart stopped in his chest as the Lady Nuina trembled at his touch and melted into his arms, her body quivering with silent sobs. Gawain held her back from him and wiped her tears with his large hands.
“We must go at once, before the guard remembers to leave off watching the goings on in the Great Hall and return to his duty, or worse yet, King March decides to taunt Arthur and display his prize.” The Lady Nuina took firm charge of her emotions and began to hurry them toward the door.
Ailim’s silent cry of alarm registered in Gawain’s mind seconds before the sound of raised voices from the courtyard below. Lancelot glanced out the narrow window and cursed under his breath.
“Alain and the pages have taken the queen’s mare and the Lady Nuina’s palfrey from the pasture and reclaimed them as King Arthur’s property.” Lancelot shoved Gwenhwyfar toward the door.
Gawain grasped the Lady Nuina by her hand and pulled her after him, racing down the stairs. He drew his short sword with his other hand and prayed they could make the door to the laundry yard before they were discovered. Skidding through the filthy rushes on the stone floor Gawain took the last of the steps in a bound and caught the Lady Nuina as she jumped behind him. Lancelot came bounding down the last of the stairs with Queen Gwenhwyfar thrown over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
Gawain and the Lady Nuina raced down the narrow corridor with the knight counting off the doorways and passageways as they ran, depending on his survival skills to help him remember which one to open. He stopped, pulled on the latch and gulped mouthfuls of fresh clean air as the door swung open on the laundry yard. Leaving the door ajar behind him for Lancelot and the queen, Gawain sprinted for the cubbyhole and his gear.
The knight wrapped the Lady Nuina in his cloak and gave her one of his small throwing knives. She hid it the pocket of her skirt and gave him a glittering feral smile before she kirtled up her skirts and raced beside him through the kale yard. They skidded to a muddy halt at the back of the stable, and Gawain searched the interior for any sign of Alain or Ailim.
“We come.” Ailim’s mind voice was high with excitement. “Rose is with us, and Alain has managed to find gear for her.” Ailim was quite pleased with himself.
Gawain and the Lady Nuina dashed to the entrance of the stable that opened onto the courtyard. Everything was in chaos—horses raced wildly about rider-less and crazed; Arthur’s knights were everywhere with their bright swords flashing. The cobbles ran red with blood, and Gawain thrust the Lady Nuina behind him to shield her. Suddenly, Ailim appeared right beside them along with Alain and the two horses. The main gate stood ajar, and Gawain could see the gate keeper struggling to close it as Arthur’s men fought to open it. Gawain closed his eyes briefly as Gaheris ran the old man through with his sword. He pulled his mind back to the moment at hand and lifted the Lady Nuina onto the back of her palfrey. Thrusting Alain at his own chestnut lady, he caught Ailim’s reins as the page tossed them in his direction.
“Get the lady free of the castle and hide until I come for you. Guard her with your life, Alain,” Gawain commanded the lad.
“Aye, Sir Knight, have no fear, the lady will come to no harm in my keeping,” Alain’s eyes flashed in excitement at his first taste of battle. The lad looked as wild as the mare beneath him who rolled her eyes until the whites showed.
The lady in question wheeled her mount with expert hands and drew Gawain’s short sword holding it ready to use. “Aye, Sir Gawain, have no fear,” she repeated Alain’s words with a dark smile, “the lady is not defenceless.” The light of battle glittered in her eyes and bathed her face with an unholy joy.
Gawain would have fallen to his knees at her feet in reverence except for the small matter of the battle at his back. “Goddess keep you, Lady. I see the Morrigan’s hand on you this day and Epona at your side.” Gawain gave her his heart with his eyes.
“Later, Gawain, we will have later,” she promised as she wheeled her mare again and neatly leapt over a fallen body on the stones.
Gawain watched until they were safely out of the castle gate, the Lady Nuina’s cloak flying behind her as the mare took the makeshift barrier March’s men hastily erected across the gate in a graceful leap and soared out of sight.
Chapter Eleven
He turned his attention to the matter at hand and made a flying leap unto Ailim’s back. The great grey stallion screamed in rage and joined the battle. Gawain plunged into the fray with the sweeping strokes of his broad sword cutting a wide swath through the enemies in his path. Ailim’s deadly hooves accounted for more than a few of the bodies strewn on the cobbles.
Gawain came even with Gaheris and cut down the man trying to hamstring his war horse. Gaheris gave him a wild smile, brilliant wi
th the joy of battle rage. Gawain stayed at his side and the pair forced the castle militia back toward the stairs to the great hall. “Where is Arthur?” Gawain asked of Gaheris, cleanly slicing a militia man’s head from his shoulders.
“Still above in the keep, hunting that rat, March,” Gaheris grunted in reply, kicking a man off his horse’s shoulder with his booted foot.
“Alone?” Gawain was incredulous.
“He sent us out to fight clear and find the queen.” Gaheris spun his war horse, and the fierce stallion trampled a man with a spear aiming for Gawain’s back.
“Lancelot has the queen, or did when last I saw them. The Lady Nuina is already outside the castle walls.” Gawain spitted a stable lad whose pitchfork was in danger of doing damage to Ailim.
“Let us pray the queen is safe. Arthur will be wild if she is harmed or lost.” Gaheris reached the bottom of the castle stairs and put his stallion at the wide steps.
Gawain and Ailim followed hot on their heels, iron shod hooves shooting sparks every which way in the fury of their assent. The pair gained the landing and passed through the high archway. Gawain was forced to set Ailim back on his haunches as Gaheris halted abruptly in the doorway to the great hall. Gawain stood in his stirrups to get a better view of what was hampering their progress in time to see King Arthur run his legendary sword through King March’s middle.
Arthur’s face was suffused with rage and the exhilaration of battle, past the fear of pain or dying, wishing only for the fight to continue. Warriors stride the balance between life and death with no shadow of fear or regret upon them. If death came at such a time, Gawain knew he would welcome it and carry the glory of the fight with him into the Summer Country.
For that single moment, time stopped for Arthur and March. Gawain knew well the sensation of being outside of the present and the strange, intimate communication which exists between the man with the sword in his hand and the man with the sword in his guts. The metal of the blade connecting the two, their minds open to one another. Arthur pulled his sword free, and March slumped to the ground like a disarticulated puppet. Raising his eyes from the bloody and pathetic heap at his feet, Arthur met Gawain’s gaze. The fire of battle blazed between them, Arthur raised his bright blade high and called his knights.
“To me,” he roared, and the tumult in the Great Hall ceased for a heartbeat at his call.
Gawain and Ailim leaped into the great hall to join Gaheris, moving to flank Arthur on either side. Gawain reached down and grasped Arthur by the forearm, and the king sprang onto Ailim’s back behind his faithful knight. Ailim reared on his hind legs and pivoted in the confined space cleaving a man’s head with his iron shod front hooves before leaping over a trestle table. Gawain wielded his blade on one side to clear the way for the great stallion, and Arthur returned the favour on the other. Ailim crashed through the overturned table in the doorway and cantered down the short corridor to the archway at the top of the courtyard steps. Gawain checked behind him, glad to see Gaheris. Arthur was not exposed for possible attack from the rear. Ailim didn’t hesitate at the top of the stone steps, and Gawain’s head swam for a sickening minute as the big stallion courageously navigated the steep stairs, his hooves striking sparks from the top to the bottom.
The fighting in the courtyard was sporadic; the news of King March’s demise being quickly relayed by the castle grapevine. Most men were only too willing to lay down their arms and make amends to King Arthur. They cherished no love or loyalty for King March. Arthur slid from Ailim’s back landing softly on his feet. The High King reached up and clasped Gawain’s hand.
“My thanks for the ride.” Arthur grinned up at Gawain and tightened his fingers.
“At your service, as always, My King.” Gawain returned the grin and the grip.
Gaheris stopped his stallion beside Ailim and wiped the sweat from his forehead after removing his helm. A satisfied smile broke across his face as he met Gawain’s gaze.
“I haven’t had this much fun since we fought the Saxons in the north.” Gaheris clapped Gawain on the shoulder.
“Think you the bards will make us a song about our glorious entry into the great hall of King March to assist our liege lord and king in his quest to avenge the kidnapping of his queen?” Gawain replied with a grin.
The heady drunkenness of battle was fading from his blood, and Gawain blinked his eyes as the pain in his head came back in waves. He surveyed the courtyard and saw the other knights had things well in hand, and some of the castle ladies were circulating and tending to the wounded. There was no sign of Lancelot or the queen in the melee of the crowed courtyard.
“Where are Eldon and Lancelot?” Gawain laid his reins down on Ailim’s neck and rested his elbows on the pommel of his saddle.
“Eldon is outside the walls with Alain and the Lady Nuina. Lancelot is not with him,” Ailim’s mind voice sounded perplexed.
“Can he bespeak Lancelot? Where is the queen?” Gawain felt alarm curl in his stomach.
“Lancelot is wounded, and the queen tends him.” Ailim threw his head up in alarm and whinnied in dismay. “They are in a yard with cloths hanging on lines.” Ailim’s thoughts were puzzled at the image passed on from Eldon. Gawain wheeled Ailim and pointed him toward the stable. The great grey stallion responded without question and plowed through the throng between him and his goal.
“Lancelot is wounded, and the queen is with him.” Gawain raised his voice in an effort to be heard over the babble of sound in the courtyard.
“I have told Caliburn we have found the queen. Arthur comes.” Ailim squeezed through the narrow gate of the kale yard, stepped daintily down the rows of vegetables, and then into the laundry yard. His mental spurt of amazement amused Gawain. “So this is what Eldon was trying to show me.” Ailim chuckled his horse version of laughter.
Gawain slapped the stallion on the shoulder in appreciation, jumped from the saddle, and cast around between the lines looking for Lancelot and the queen. “Lance, where the devil are you hiding? The battle is over, and Arthur comes for his queen,” Gawain called softly.
“By the door to the castle.” Queen Gwenhwyfar’s voice came from the direction of the cubby hole where they had hidden their gear.
Gawain made his way in that direction and pushed through the last line of washing to find Lancelot leaning half on the grey stone wall and half on the queen’s lap. A bright splash of blood stained his left thigh above the knee, and Lancelot’s face was ashen, his lips blue. Gawain knelt beside Lancelot and took his hand. He exchanged a quick glance with the queen who shook her head slightly before turning her face away to hide her tears.
“Can you stand, Lance?” Gawain asked quietly.
“I can if you need me to. Is the fighting done?” Lancelot’s eyes were overly bright with the shock of his wound.
“The battle is over. Arthur has delivered justice to March.” Gawain stole a glance at Gwenhwyfar’s face, which turned a whiter shade of pale.
“Where is the Lady Nuina? She has some skill with healing and may be Lancelot’s only hope.” Queen Gwenhwyfar spoke softly.
“The lady is safe outside the walls with my page and Lancelot’s war horse.” Gawain sat back on his heels and tore a strip off his tunic to fashion a tourniquet to help stem the flow of blood pooling under Lancelot’s leg.
Arthur appeared from behind the lines of laundry to kneel at Lancelot’s other side. The king spared Gwenhwyfar a speaking look that told her firmly his knight was of more importance than her person at the moment. Gawain shuddered slightly at the coldness and accusation in that look. For the first time, he feared for the queen’s safety once the imperative matters at hand were taken care of. The knight acknowledged Arthur had every right to be furious with her, but it was still hard to be near a man as powerful as the king, knowing her life was in his hands. No one would have the courage to disobey his orders.
“Well, old friend, it appears I owe you a huge debt of gratitude for rescuing my lady wife and yo
ur queen,” Arthur said gently.
“I would do the same again; you have only to ask.” Lancelot smiled thinly through his pain.
Ailim poked his nose between two sheets of linen hanging on the line and snorted inquiringly at Gawain. The stallion managed to wriggle under the line without causing any of the washing to come free from its moorings. Gawain gestured for him to come closer, and the great war horse carefully sidled up to the small group gathered around Lancelot.
Arthur and Gawain each supported Lancelot under an arm and lifted him to his feet. Lancelot made a heroic effort to stand on his own but could only manage to lean on the wall at his back and hang sagging in their grip. Gawain felt fear blossom anew in his chest as Lancelot’s breathing became laboured and fast and then just as suddenly became almost non- existent. Gawain exchanged a grave look with Arthur, and together they lowered Lancelot’s huge frame back unto the soft grass. Gwenhwyfar knelt quickly beside him and wiped the sweat from Lancelot’s unconscious face with the hem of her cloak. Arthur watched her ministrations with a dark frown on his features.
“Get Eldon to bring the Lady Nuina here as quickly as is safe,” Gawain bespoke Ailim.
“They are on their way already.” Ailim’s mind voice was grave with worry. “Alain rides with them to protect the lady and will scour the castle for March’s leech and access to the castle still room for any medicines the lady deems she requires.”
“The Lady Nuina comes with Eldon,” Gawain told Arthur and Gwenhwyfar.
Arthur pulled a bed sheet from the line behind them and sliced it into strips with his short sword. Gawain knelt by Lancelot’s side and wadded the strips into a thick pad to apply pressure to the wound on Lancelot’s thigh.
“How came he to be injured?” Gawain asked Gwenhwyfar, without raising his eyes from the spreading stain on the white cloth in his hands.