The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  Then, while at the well in Londres to draw water for his horse, a yellow-haired barefoot boy leapt upon the rim ringing a cowbell for all he was worth and yelling, “King Arthur has routed the rebels!”

  “How?” an old man with a wheelbarrow demanded.

  Balin was thunderstruck. Six armies against Arthur and Leodegrance! How could Arthur have triumphed?

  “It was the people!” the boy shouted, his voice breaking in his shrill excitement. “The people at Caerleon took up whatever they had and helped him drive them back across the river!”

  The people in the square around the well sent up a cheer and leapt about, hugging each other as if a war had ended and not begun.

  Balin grabbed the boy by the arm. “Where is the King now?” he asked.

  “The rebels are regrouping, and five kings have joined them. Arthur’s army is pulling back to Castle Bedegraine to await the arrival of King Pellinore, and Merlin has gone to Gaul to bring back the brother kings, Bors and Ban.”

  Balin left the revelers of Londres, refusing offers of drinks and celebratory feasting, and even the embrace of women.

  He broke camp and rode for Bedegraine.

  As his father had said, no man who is false can stand against one who is true.

  He had found his king.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Balin followed the mighty wake of King Arthur’s army through Sciryuda Forest, but he did not find the host at Castle Bedegraine. The captain of the garrison there told him that the rebel armies of Orkney and Cornwall had retreated across the River Erewash at word of Arthur’s advance and now he, Pellinore, and Leodegrance were headed west across the forest after them.

  As he was about to depart, Balin espied a train of three carts piled with high ricks of cut wood parked outside the castle gate. An ancient man sun brown and dry as the wood he shuttled struggled to climb into the seat of the lead cart and nearly tottered to the ground.

  Balin could well imagine the old peasant tumbling and snapping in pieces in the road, so he went over and helped the trembling man onto his perch.

  “Thankee, sir knight.” The old man gasped when he was settled, mopping his wrinkled face with the end of a threadbare black muffler that dangled between his bony knees. He was a scarecrow, all white beard and eyebrows over beady black eyes set deep in parchment skin, dressed in a straw hat and patchy rags. “Wither are ye bound? Across the river?”

  “I’m riding to join King Arthur,” Balin answered.

  “Arthur goes to war,” the old man coughed.

  “I know.”

  “Do ye, do ye. Well, ye may as well ride along with us then,” said the old woodcutter, “for we’re headed to the king’s camp. Come and protect an old woodcutter’s precious cargo.”

  Balin eyed the man’s cart of wood poles dubiously. The two able-bodied drivers of the other carts, presumably the woodcutter’s sons, waited patiently, armed with nothing more than hatchets through their belts.

  “I don’t believe anyone will accost your goods, old man,” said Balin. “I have to make haste.”

  “Oh, there’ll be plenty of blood left for you to spill, Sir…?”

  The old man let the sentence trail off expectantly and raised his bushy white eyebrows.

  “Balin,” said Balin.

  “Ah, Balin. But tell me, what do ye want with King Arthur, Sir Balin, for are ye not a knight of Northumberland? And is not yer master King Clarivaunce, one of the rebels?”

  “How did you know that?” Balin demanded.

  “Oh, my business has taken me to Northumberland now and again, and I hear things wherever I go. But come now,” the old woodcutter said in a low tone. “Tell me what ye’re after, for it’s a loyal king’s man I am, and I ain’t afraid to cut short my twilight years shoutin’ up to the castle guards if it means stoppin’ an assassin’s sword from strikin’ down Good King Arthur.”

  “I’m no assassin!” Balin said, aghast. “I left Clarivaunce’s service to pledge my life to God’s one true king.”

  The old man’s dark eye twinkled beneath the curling webs of his eyebrow, and he nodded to himself and smiled.

  “Well, then I beg ye, Sir Balin, if it’s a true champion ye be, escort us, for Arthur commissioned us personally, and I know the shortest route to the king’s camp.”

  Balin hesitated and looked across the river at the woods beyond. He knew he could find Arthur’s army on his own. He knew no wandering enemy patrol would bother with the old woodcutter’s kindling, but the old man had requested his help, and believed he needed it, whether he did or not.

  Balin sighed. It could heap a full day on his journey, traveling with this slow moving train.

  “Why is this wood so important?”

  “Why?” the old man exclaimed. “Have ye no knowledge whatever of fightin’ tactics? Do ye not know archer’s stakes when ye see ‘em?”

  The old man twisted around in his driver’s seat and pulled a slim sharpened wood pole off the stack and thrust it at him.

  Balin took the pole and looked it over.

  “Ye plant ‘em in the ground and angle the points at horse’s chest. Good sturdy line of ‘em could turn the cavalry of Aguysans’ Hundred.”

  Aguysans’ Hundred.

  Aguysans was the King With A Hundred Knights. The Hundred Knights were the most feared fighting force in all of Albion following the dissolution of Uther’s Table. They had made their name against the Saxons and were the particular bane of their chieftain, Osla Big Knife. Some said that more than a few of Uther’s former champions had in fact joined the anonymous esteemed ranks of the Hundred. They only ever numbered a hundred, and competition to join their ranks was fierce.

  Balin handed back the stake.

  “That’s it? Three wagons of archer’s stakes?”

  “No, the second is replacement lances for the cavalry,” said the old man, setting the stake back in the pile and gesturing to the two wagons behind, “and the third is kindling for the cook fires. Can’t fight on empty bellies and can’t eat raw rabbit, can they?”

  Balin wrinkled his nose and looked once more across the river, longing to just bolt across and follow the trail.

  “Will ye refuse an old man’s call for protection, Sir Balin?” the woodcutter said quietly.

  Balin closed his eyes.

  “No, of course not, sir,” Balin said, though he had to force the words. “But when can we be off?”

  “Right now, if ye like,” said the old woodcutter, flashing a surprisingly clean grin.

  ***

  The most arduous part of the journey came first, fording the Erewash without losing a stick of the woodcutter’s coveted goods. Balin had to fight the stubborn old horses more fit to the plough than the harness, and he and the woodcutter’s two sons all got a good wetting before they reached the far bank.

  Their progress was as slow as Balin feared, and the woodcutter liked to talk.

  “Tell me, Sir Balin, do ye know the nature of the rebels’ grievance against Arthur?”

  “I saw Lot and Uriens call Arthur a bastard in the courtyard of St. Stephen’s. As for Clarivaunce and King Carados, they want to annex the land of King Leodegrance. I don’t even know who else opposes Arthur.”

  “There are seven more,” the woodcutter chuckled, and he ticked them off on his crooked fingers. “King Aguysans and his Hundred, as you know, King Brandegoris of Stranggore, King Pinel, King Idres of Cornwall, King Cradelment of North Wales, King Nentres, Anguish the High King of Hibernia, and King Rience of Snowdonia. Aye, and many a slaverin’ duke or count besides, hopin’ to snatch up a crown for themselves if enough go a’rollin.” He cracked the reins and urged a little spirit into his team. “Pride and ambition, greed and power lust,” said the woodcutter. “That’s what drives mighty men to fall, an’ sometimes, to act against their own best interest.”

  “But each of them is a king in his own land,” said Balin.

  “Aye, each one the biggest frog in their pond, an’ none wantin’ to
hear of anything greater. It hurts their pride to think of bending their knee to a boy. An’ some of them, well, a man who’s got everything can want for nothin’ but more of the same,” said the woodcutter. “Now, best to ride on ahead and show your charge, state our business official-like, for here we are.”

  Balin looked ahead and was stunned to see a pair of armored, bareheaded knights ride into their path and bar their way.

  They had only left the river behind a short time ago. Was it possible they had arrived already? Maybe Arthur’s pursuit of the rebel kings had slowed.

  “Who goes?” called one of the knights.

  “Sir Balin of Northumberland,” Balin replied without thinking.

  At that, the knights drew their swords.

  “King Clarivaunce is our enemy!” declared the younger of the two sentries, a grim, sandy haired man with pale skin, who might’ve been Balin’s age or a little older.

  “Please sirs, I have foresworn my oath to Northumberland and come to offer my sword to the one true king.”

  “And who is that?” demanded the other knight, a scowling graybeard.

  “King Arthur,” said Balin, “whom I saw draw the sword of Macsen with my own eyes at Londres.”

  “No, who is that with you?” the elder knight said, gesturing to the old man with the point of his sword.

  “A woodcutter and his sons, sir,” said Balin, “commissioned by the king to provide…wood.”

  “Hold out your arms, if you speak true,” the first knight called.

  Balin drew his sword and held it out by the blade.

  The younger knight rode up and took it. Up close, his unkempt hair and beard belied the hardship of the campaign. His shield blazon was Or, a purse, gules. Balin recalled that charge from his heraldry lessons with Brulen.

  “Are you Duke Corneus?” Balin ventured.

  The knight started and glared at him sharply.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Your charge,” Balin said.

  The knight’s expression softened and he glanced down at his own shield.

  “I’m his son, Bedivere. You have a command of heraldry.”

  “It’s one of the only studies I really took to,” Balin admitted.

  Bedivere gestured to the older knight.

  “This is Sir Ulfius.”

  Balin had heard of him. He had been a knight of the High King Uther.

  “Don’t get so friendly,” Ulfius warned, eyeing Balin like an unlikely deal in the marketplace.

  “We were told to expect a woodcutter,” Bedivere said.

  “A woodcutter yes, but not in the company of a knight of Northumberland,” said Ulfius warily.

  “You’re right,” said Bedivere with an expression so deadpan Balin wasn’t wholly sure he was joking. “This woodcutter must surely be an imposter.”

  “What if he is?” Ulfius said ignoring Bedivere’s tone. He urged his horse to circle the old woodcutter’s load. He poked the pile of stakes with his sword, then glared at the two sons.

  “Careful!” begged the woodcutter. “That is my livelihood, sir knight!”

  “I say we leave the wood and the wagons,” Ulfius declared, “and let’s take these men to the king.”

  “Oh, but sir!” the woodcutter protested. “I was ordered to deliver my product in a timely fashion to the king himself! Say ye won’t molest me when I’m so close.”

  “Show me your order then,” Ulfius said, coming back around to the woodcutter.

  The woodcutter fished in his rags a bit and came out with a scroll.

  Balin stared. The wax seal was imprinted with the crest of Pendragon. Balin looked to the woodcutter, holding it out to Ulfius, apparently innocent of its import. He had thought the old man was putting on heirs. Surely this could be no mere peasant bearing an official order. Some spy of Arthur’s with a secret message for him? Or had he been entrusted with an official missive because he was illiterate and truly believed it to be an invoice?

  Ulfius’ eyes widened at it, and he put away his sword.

  “Who gave you that?” demanded Bedivere.

  “I was made to swear by the Virgin not to say,” the old man said.

  “I cannot break the seal of Pendragon,” Ulfius said. “Let’s escort these men to the king.”

  The woodcutter put the scroll back in his tunic.

  Bedivere shook his head as Ulfius trotted to the lead of the train.

  Balin fell in line behind Bedivere and beside the woodcutter once more, as their cart wheels began to squeak and rumble.

  “Who are you, sir?” Balin whispered to the woodcutter. “Really.”

  “Just an old man, doin’ his part for king and country,” said the woodcutter humbly. “And if I lay down a bit of security to keep me own house an’ home in the meantime, who’s to say I shouldn’t?”

  “Not I,” said Balin.

  They found Arthur’s three armies camped in a clearing. The rich smell of the cook fires reminded Balin that he had not eaten since the day before. Knights and men at arms alike looked over at the appearance of the wagons, and Bedivere hailed a skinny young squire leading the finest bit of horseflesh Balin had ever seen, a white stallion whose muscles rippled beneath its hide.

  “Griflet!” Bedivere called.

  The boy jogged over with the horse behind.

  “Where are you taking Hengroen?”

  “To Arthur, sir,” said the boy. “He expects to ride out soon.”

  Balin sucked in his breath. Of course the young king would choose such a fine white stallion to ride against his enemies. He admired it as if he were in Arthur’s presence already.

  “We’ll go with you,” said Bedivere, and turned in his saddle to gesture to the woodcutter and his sons. “Leave your carts here.”

  The old man and his sons dismounted and followed, though the woodcutter kept glancing back suspiciously at the carts.

  Finally, he croaked loudly so that all the men in camp glanced over.

  “Let no man lay a hand on them carts till what’s in ‘em’s been duly paid for!”

  There was a bit of laughter, and the carts were ignored.

  “Where’s Lucan?” Bedivere asked.

  “Your brother’s in the kings’ pavilion,” said Griflet.

  The place in question was a large purple silk tent, the skirts raised to let in air. The three kings and their numerous attendants and captains stood around a table staring at a map of Bedegraine and Cameliard.

  A hulking old shaven-headed knight stepped into their path and held up his hand, regarding Balin and the woodcutters with violent blue eyes.

  “Who are these with you, Ulfius?” He growled.

  “Let them in, Sir Brastias!” called a young voice behind him. “I’ve been waiting for them.”

  Brastias of Tintagel. Another name Balin knew from stories of Uther’s knights. Supposedly he had been the most unquestioning, the most loyal to the High King. Balin had no time to marvel at this legend come alive, for Brastias stepped aside dutifully, revealing Arthur, Pellinore, and Leodegrance.

  The polished, ornate armor of the two Christian kings, adorned with golden crosses, easily outshone the piecemeal plate harness that had been apparently hastily donated from at least a half a dozen knights to protect the boy king, yet something in Arthur’s bearing, the sight of him bedecked for battle, affected Balin, as the sight of the other two ostentatious monarchs did not. He wished he could suddenly contribute a gauntlet or helm to Arthur’s costume. There was something innate in the boy king’s presence. He commanded all attention, and the knights around the map seemed to lean close to him. His armor was ill-fitting and his face was bare and almost girlish. Any other boy would have been a source of mockery. Instead, Balin thought, this was how young David must have looked trying on King Saul’s armor before he dismissed all soldier’s arms and went out to meet the Philistine Goliath naked. He almost believed Arthur could do the same, if he wanted. But Arthur had no use for a sling and a shepherd’s staff.
The sword of Macsen hung from his side in a rich leather scabbard, claimed once and for all.

  “Sire, this woodcutter bears an official scroll with your own seal,” Ulfius began.

  “I know. I’ve been expecting it,” said Arthur.

  The old woodcutter took off his straw hat reverently and gestured to his two sons.

  “May we approach, yer highness?”

  Arthur looked at them and nodded.

  The woodcutter handed over the scroll. Arthur broke the seal and scanned the contents. He glanced up at the woodcutter and his sons, then kept reading.

  “Is it word from Merlin?” Pellinore asked excitedly.

  “Has he secured the alliance of the Gauls?” Leodegrance asked, looking as if he wanted to pull the scroll from Arthur’s hands and read it himself.

  “Bors and Ban are with us,” Arthur announced.

  There was a cheer from the men in the pavilion, but Arthur did not smile and held up his hand for silence.

  “But there is a storm in the channel, and they may not arrive in time.”

  He held the woodcutter’s message to a candle flame and watched it burn.

  “We should wait then, until they arrive,” said a graying knight with a fluffy beard.

  “No, father, the more we wait, the more troops the rebels will amass,” said Arthur. “We have to cross the river and hit them fast.”

  Balin looked at the pained expression of the man Arthur had called father. King Uther was dead of course, so this must be Sir Ector de Maris, the knight who had raised him, according to Clarivaunce. By the similarity of the arms of the knight at his side, Balin knew him to be Arthur’s stepbrother, Sir Kay. Balin recognized him as the same outspoken blonde knight who had loudly proclaimed his younger sibling’s kingship at St. Paul’s.

  “Don’t be stupid, Arthur!” Kay snapped, to the chagrin of Ector and the other men in the tent. “You think Lot and Idres abandoned Castle Bedegraine out of fear of you? They want to lure you in. We should wait for reinforcements.”

  Arthur seemed unfazed by the comment. Probably he had grown up used to an older brother’s ill treatment.

  “No, we’ll ride and take the fight to them. I want to face them before they cross the Trent.”