Under Camelot's Banner

by Sarah Zettel

  “If you are a man, Gareth,” said Gawain at last, “act like one, and use the sense God gave you.”

  “And what do you mean by that, Brother?” This time Gareth could not keep the heat from his voice.

  “I know my lord Lancelot is not a great one for strategy, but there are some points of this battle that you should perhaps consider.” Gareth opened his mouth to remind Gawain that Lancelot was a finer warrior than he, but Gawain gave him no time. “The first is that our Uncle Kai is not, despite what he may sometimes appear, a fool.” He pushed himself away from the door. Gareth snorted. This caused Gawain to raise one eyebrow, but he did not pause in his lesson. “The second fact you should be pondering,” he held up a finger for emphasis, “is that it was Sir Kai who taught our other uncle, the high king, to use a sword.”

  Gareth found no reply to that. Sir Kai taught the king? Uncle Kai was the older of the two. They’d fostered together with Lord Ector, he knew. But, Arthur was the best swordsman among the Britons, greater even than Sir Lancelot. Kai was … Kai was …

  Geraint must have read the thoughts behind Gareth’s hesitation, and shook his head. “Kai was not always a cripple, Gareth,” he said quietly. “Before his leg was crushed, there was not a man alive who could touch him when it came to sword play. His deeds in the twelve battles are legend.”

  Despite all his resolve, a chill crept over Gareth’s confidence. “I’ve never heard this.”

  “That’s because you don’t listen,” sneered Agravain. “Do you think any speak of such things to his face? Would anyone close to Arthur be so discourteous as to remind Kai of what he once was?”

  Gawain put his boot up on the bench and leaned both arms on his leg, so that he also leaned over Gareth where he sat.

  “I’ll add this for you to think on, Gareth,” he said. Time had been at work on Gawain. His face had grown heavier, hardened and its lines had grown deeper. Gareth found himself looking at this serious man as if he was a stranger, and somehow, his words sank in more deeply than words that came simply from Gawain ever had. “There stood Sir Kai racked by the kind of pain you, if you’re lucky, will never know, and yet, he stood.” Gawain brought his foot down and folded his arms, in clear mockery of Gareth’s own posture. “He is not weak, brother, and he is not a fool. If he let himself be challenged by you, it is not because he thinks you can beat him.”

  This bald statement dropped into Gareth’s mind like a stone. He had not stopped to consider that his uncle Kai might have might have been ready for in any way for his challenge.

  “You will go and apologize,” said Agravain flatly. “And if at all possible, stop being a fool before you do yourself a real mischief.”

  Anger, bright and sharp returned in a rush. Gareth stood slowly, letting Agravain — who seemed to have temporarily forgotten that Gareth was no longer ten years old, and no longer smaller than he — see his full height.

  “Oh very good, Gareth,” said Agravain wearily. “You’ve grown tall. I hadn’t noticed. Will you be demanding to fight me next?”

  But before Gareth could make his reply, footsteps sounded on the dirt of the yard outside. Sir Lancelot stepped across the threshold. He showed no surprise at finding all the sons of Lot gathered together before the hearth.

  “My lords.” Sir Lancelot bowed smoothly. “I’d have a word with my squire.”

  “He is yours,” acknowledged Agravain, but sarcasm tainted the words.

  “Thank you, my lords,” replied Lancelot as if he had not heard Agravain’s tone. He passed between the brothers to stand beside Gareth. Gareth could not help but notice how reluctantly Gawain and Geraint made way, but make way they did. “He has duties tonight. I trust you will allow him to be getting on with his work soon.”

  “Of course,” answered Gawain. Gareth repressed a smile. Not even Gawain would stand and face Lancelot.

  No sooner had he formed this thought than, to Gareth’s utter shock, Agravain stalked up to Sir Lancelot. Next to the Gaulish knight, Gareth’s lean, dark brother looked like a sapling beside a golden oak. “Do not think I have forgotten it is your teaching that has brought my brother to this, Lancelot,” muttered Agravain through clenched teeth. “If he is sore wounded tomorrow, you will answer to me.”

  Gareth’s jaw dropped. Before Sir Lancelot could make a reply, Agravain marched past the other three, out into the deepening night. Gawain and Geraint glanced toward each other and then toward Gareth. Together they hurried after Agravain, doubtlessly to try to talk some sense into him now.

  “Well, he’s some fire in him after all, that brother of yours.” Lancelot jerked his chin over his shoulder at Agravain’s retreating back.

  Gareth nodded, still unable to quite believe what had happened. And Agravain had accused him of having lost his mind?

  But there was no time to think on that. Sir Lancelot faced him squarely. “You know what I expect of you tomorrow, Squire?”

  Gareth drew his shoulders back. “I do, my lord,” he answered firmly.

  “Good.” Sir Lancelot nodded once. “Then there is nothing more to be said.”

  Nor was there. Sir Lancelot kept Gareth by him that night, but there was no mention made of what was to come. Gareth simply went about his duties; making sure his knight’s gear and clothes were cleaned and stored, going to the stables one last time to see that Taranis showed no hurt or strain from the day’s exercise. Both his fellow squires were reluctant to question or chaff him in Sir Lancelot’s presence, and the younger boys only looked on him with a kind of stunned awe. This wrapped Gareth’s evening in a strange, almost reverent hush.

  It was told around the court that the night before Sir Lancelot was made a member of the Round Table’s cadre, he did not sleep. He stayed in the church, praying and fasting, thanking God for this chance to prove himself to the greatest king in the Christian world. The callous, Sir Kai included, said Sir Lancelot was actually waiting for some woman who never showed herself. Despite this envious jeering, some of the younger men had taken to keeping such a vigil in imitation and respect. To Gareth, this night felt like that time, a time apart, solemnly readying himself for a great change. It seemed so even as he lay down on his own pallet by the banked fire, as he did every evening, with the boys and youths all around him, already drowsing and snoring.

  Oddly, before sleep claimed him, the last thing his mind’s eye saw was lean, furious Agravain standing before Sir Lancelot without a trace of fear.

  Gareth did not even consider going to board the next morning, and, thankfully, Sir Lancelot did not order it. He drank his small beer and ate his pottage on his own in the barracks. He cleaned and honed his sword, a plain, but sharp and well-balanced gift from Gawain. It did not really need the attention, but he needed something to do. He was a little surprised that none of his brothers came to rail at him one more time. Perhaps they were with Sir Kai, trying to talk him out of the challenge.

  After a time, Lionel poked his head around the doorway, peering at Gareth like a spying child.

  Gareth snorted. “Get in here, Lionel. What did you think you’d find? Agravain hasn’t taken my head off yet.”

  Lionel sauntered in. “I knew that much. He’s down at the field, looking like he’s swallowed an orchard’s worth of crabapples.”

  “With Brendon right next to him grinning like a hungry hound at the sight of meat, I’ll wager,” said Gareth, putting down the whetstone and wiping the blade with the soft, oiled leather one more time.

  Lionel nodded. “You’d best get down there. Brendon’s already taking bets that you won’t show yourself.”

  “Brendon would say I’d run from a crippled man.” Gareth’s mouth twisted into a tight smile. “It’s what he’d do.”

  The smile Lionel returned was fleeting. “Gareth …”

  But Gareth cut him off, shaking his head. “Don’t, Lionel. I’ve said I will do this thing, and I will.”

  “I know. Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” They gripped each others�
� hands and looked into each others’ eyes. They had both already fought in pitched battles with their knight and their king. They had the scars to prove it. This was different, though, and Lionel knew it as well as Gareth.

  Lionel played squire for him after that. He helped Gareth into his leather jerkin and boots and cinched on his belt. Gareth was hanging his sword on the belt just as Sir Lancelot entered the barracks. Both squires knelt, but he bid them stand at once.

  Sir Lancelot surveyed Gareth with a critical eye, and then nodded his approval. Without a word, he turned and marched out into the yard. Gareth, head up and shoulders back, followed close behind, with Lionel right behind, carrying his helm and his plain, square shield.

  The day outside was clear though still cold. They crossed the strangely empty keep going out through the gates, and down to the bowl of the practice yard. When the Romans had owned this broad hilltop, they had made an amphitheater for their sports and assemblies. The round space with its moss-etched stone steps was now used by the high king as a training ground for his men, and for occasional entertainments, most of which were of a merrier sort than this.

  Still, it was not a thing that any in the court intended to miss. The people Gareth had not seen as they crossed the yard crowded onto every inch of the yard’s gently sloping sides, all brightly dressed as for a holiday. Voices shouted and cheered as he passed by, and Gareth found his heart beating fast with excitement, and with fear. The familiar faces seemed transformed into strangers for this time, all watching him not as Gareth, Lot’s youngest son, but as a raw contender come to battle for a prize, and they were all eager to see whether he stood or fell by it. Despite the solid presences of his knight before him and his friend behind him, Gareth’s guts twisted uncomfortably.

  Only his brothers seemed unaltered by the coming contest. Geraint and Agravain flanked the high king’s chair which had been placed on a red cloth at the field’s edge. They watched Gareth as he came down the cracked stone steps. From this distance, Gareth could not tell whether Geraint wished him well or ill, and that made his guts twist all the more sharply. Agravain, however, wore his contempt openly. Seeing this brought a welcome rush of anger. Anger brought back the certainty that walking through this crowd had taken from him.

  Sir Kai had gotten to the field first and was now seated on a bench beside the green. He wore the maddar red cloak with the gold clasp that showed him to be a knight of the Round Table, an affectation Gareth had never seen on him before. His stretched his whole leg out before the bench and tucked his crippled limb beneath it. Both were encased in boots of fine leather that rose almost to his knees. His crutch waited beside him.

  For a moment, Gareth felt a twinge of doubt. What would be thought of Sir Kai when he came limping out onto the field on that crutch? Would there really be honor in fighting a man who couldn’t even stand on his own? For all his display last night, he’d still needed to lean on the table just to get to his feet. But then the seneschal looked up at Gareth and smiled his mocking smile, making a half-bow where he sat.

  “Pay him no mind,” murmured Sir Lancelot as they reached their own trestle bench on the opposite side of the field. “He is neither the seneschal nor your uncle today. Here, in this place, he is only your enemy.”

  Gareth nodded and tried to hold those words close, but he knew that as soon as he looked again at Sir Kai they would fly away.

  The rumble of drums heralded the high king’s arrival. All knelt, save Sir Kai on his bench. With a procession of musicians and a flag-bearer holding up his scarlet dragon, King Arthur walked down the steps with Gawain following close behind. King Arthur settled himself in to his great chair and the drummers arrayed around him stilled their instruments. With a curt gesture, he bid all assembled there to stand. He then looked to the crowd, and the men waiting beside the field, his face set in a stern frown. With a second sharp gesture, he commanded the combatants to approach.

  Gareth obeyed, leaving Sir Lancelot and Lionel behind. His heart hammered harder than he would have wished, and his hands were beginning to sweat inside their leather gauntlets. Sir Kai picked up his crutch, and limped across the green to stand beside Gareth. Then, in a slow, careful, fashion, the seneschal knelt before the king, just as Gareth completed the same gesture of obeisance. Gareth tried not to wince as doubt churned in him again. Sir Kai deserved his honor, as did any man. True, he wasn’t a blood relation, but the seneschal had been as close as blood family to both Gareth and Geraint when they first came to Camelot. And despite his foolish displays in the hall, Kai was a cunning and trusted advisor to the king. To add to that, if Gawain was right — and this was not a matter about which Gawain would be wrong — he had once been a great warrior and his injury one come by bravely.

  Am I being a true man to put him through this?

  “This is a matter of honor,” said King Arthur solemnly, the disapproval of his demeanor not altering one whit. “Therefore, I will not command either of you to withdraw, though this goes against my better judgment. I will ask, however, as your king, Gareth, and your brother, Kai, will you give up this quarrel over a slighting jest of little courtesy and less import?”

  Sir Kai shrugged his crooked shoulders. “I am the one, challenged, Majesty. It is not for me to end this thing.”

  The king looked to Gareth. An idea came to him, born on a faint breath of hope. Perhaps this could be ended off the field. “Were Sir Kai to offer apology, Majesty, honor would be satisfied.”

  “Kai?” asked the king.

  Sir Kai regarded Gareth for a moment with hooded eyes. His wide mouth twisted into yet another of his store of endless grins. Was it also a pained smile, or was that only Gareth’s imagination? “I too have been insulted, Majesty,” he said. “If Squire Gareth wishes to make apology for that, and for the challenge, then the matter would be closed.”

  “Squire Gareth?”

  Gareth struggled for a moment. It would be easy enough. If he searched his heart, he knew had gone too far in the hall, and had spoken from a temper roused when Sir Kai sneered at Sir Lancelot. His uncle’s barbs were sharp, and Gareth should have remembered he was being goaded. But then, Gareth caught Sir Lancelot eye from across the green. His knight did not shake his head, or give any such overt signal, but he was frowning as deeply as the king, and Gareth knew what was in his silence. He, Gareth, had committed himself to battle, and if he took the easy way now, Sir Lancelot would not forget, nor would he forgive. Then there was Rosy, and Amanda, and Lady Fiona Jessup in the crowd. It was their honor he defended, as well as his own.

  “Squire Gareth?” said the king again. “Will you give Sir Kai your apology?”

  Gareth licked his lips. “I cannot, Majesty.”

  The king blew out a deep and weary sigh. “Very well. The combat will be to the first blood, or until I judge the matter finished. You will start at my word.”

  They bowed their heads once more. From the corner of his eye, Gareth saw how gaunt Sir Kai’s face was, and how the sun shone on the streaks of silver in his brown hair.

  If only you were not so stubborn, he thought toward his uncle. Why are you making me do this to you?

  The moment had come. The king bid them rise. They did, bowing a final time. Gareth strode out onto the field. Sir Kai, dragging his useless leg behind him, limped slowly across the grass and carrying his shield awkwardly in his free hand. A ripple of high-pitched laughter drifted on the wind at the sight of him, but it was quickly silenced.

  Oh, my uncle.

  Gareth couldn’t watch any more. He kept his attention on Lionel who came forward with his shield. Gareth fitted the strap of his shield to his arm. Then because he had no choice, he looked up to show the king and Sir Kai both that he was ready. Sir Kai now was directly in front him. He looked Gareth up and down, taking his measure, exactly as he had in the hall the night before. Then, the seneschal opened his hand, let his crutch fall to the ground, and for the first time in his life, Gareth saw his uncle stand up straight.


  God’s Legs!

  Gareth knew Sir Kai was called Kai the Tall, and he had seen often that even while he was hunched over, the seneschal’s eyes were level with the king’s, but somehow, it had never dawned on Gareth what that would mean if Sir Kai no longer had to lean on his crutch. It was as if his opponent had turned suddenly from an old man into a giant. His long, lean shadow fell across Gareth’s stunned face. Kai’s eyes glittered as he lifted his shield painted with the crossed keys and fitted it to his arm. His very long arm, with a reach that must surely be a full foot farther than Gareth’s own.

  “Well, Squire?” Sir Kai inquired.

  All the world watched him, but most of all Sir Lancelot, wondering what Gareth would do, faced now with this new, straight and terribly alert Sir Kai. Gareth closed his mouth and lifted his blade.

  Watch your man, Sir Lancelot’s voice came ringing back to him from a hundred practices. Watch him close! How’s he hold himself? Where’s his balance? Front? Right? Left? He knows his strengths better than you, he’ll lean into them without realizing it. See that. Feel it. See what he steers away from, and what he pays no heed to. That’s where you’ll find your way in.

  And Gareth remembered Ewen the day before, charging in, hammering away, letting himself be led. That was a mistake he, Gareth, would not make. Slowly, Gareth began to circle Sir Kai. Kai turned to follow him, pivoting on his sound leg, sword and shield up, beads of sweat already forming at the rim of his helm. Gareth darted in, swinging for Kai’s shoulder. The seneschal blocked him swiftly, his blow jarring Gareth’s arm up to the shoulder. Shouts exploded, some calling his name, some Sir Kai’s. Gareth backed away swiftly, circling again. Kai met his gaze, and he was still smiling.

  Kai’s great strength was his reach, and from that testing feint, Gareth now knew he had speed. His weakness his immobility. The question before them both then was how long could Kai maintain his readiness? Gareth’s other great advantage was the same as he’d had yesterday against Ewen’s untrained enthusiasm. Gareth had time.