by Sarah Zettel
Gareth blew three long notes on the horn. The leaders of the procession, the ladies and knights and men on horseback, reined their horses in, the men on foot just stopped where they were, cursing mildly, passing questions back and forth, some taking a moment to instantly lean against trees or carts, or just flop down onto their backsides.
“Come with me, both of you,” said Sir Lancelot. “We need to tell Her Majesty. I doubt she’ll like what she hears.” He touched up his roan palfrey, and they fell in behind as he approached the queen. Queen Guinevere, in turn, motioned for her ladies to stay behind her. Lynet though, did not seem to be included in the instruction, and she rode up beside the queen to meet them.
“What is the matter, Sir Lancelot?” asked the queen.
While his knight explained, Gareth found himself watching Lynet. She sat her horse well, as he had seen. She wasn’t watching the queen, or attending to the conversation. She was looking ahead, as if measuring the miles. He could see her counting hours and days in her mind, wishing there were not so many. Her hand strayed time and again to the leather purse that hung beside her small ring of keys, and he wondered what it was she kept there. Then, as if she felt his regard, and turned her face toward him. She did not smile, or blush, or show any sign of surprise, let alone pleasure. Her face held only that same weary resignation he had seen before. It was the face of one who had seen too much battle, and knew there was yet another one coming. What had he done that she should regard him in that way?
Or what has been done to her?
“I will take Gareth, Lionel and three others down to the valley and find out what has happened,” Sir Lancelot was saying and the sound of his name brought Gareth back sharply to the matter at hand. “That should be enough to deal with whatever is there.” Sir Lancelot spoke with easy unconcern. There was even a relish to his words. His eyes were lit in a way they had not been since the tedious march had begun.
“And should you not come back, my lord?” asked Queen Guinevere.
Sir Lancelot grinned at her as he bowed. “Pray for my soul, Majesty. And Sir Ioan can lead you fast around the valley, or back to Camelot for a larger force of arms.”
The queen clearly did not like that answer, or the knight’s grin, she also, however, saw no alternative. “Then God be with you, my lord,” she said curtly She turned her delicate palfrey around and rode back to her ladies with Lynet following silently beside her.
Lynet did not look back at him.
“There’s a lesson for you, my men,” murmured Sir Lancelot. “The greater the love, the sharper the tongue.”
Love? The word slapped against Gareth. What was Sir Lancelot doing speaking of love from the queen, even in jest?
“Bring me Taranis, Gareth,” said Sir Lancelot. “And both of you arm yourselves.”
Gareth was glad to obey. The activity drove his knight’s strange choice of words from his mind. The ritual of securing his leather and bronze armor, and helping the knight into his steel mail, made it clear to his mind and body that there was to be a battle. Excitement surged into him. He buckled on his sword, slung his shield over his back and mounted Achaius, who danced to show Gareth he was ready to stretch his legs and hoping for a real run. Gareth accepted his spear from one of the younger boys. This was no blunt, light practice stick, but the true spear with its iron tip that could be hurled at an enemy or used to spit him. Lionel met his eyes soberly from the back of his own war horse, and together they rode to where their knight was waiting with the other armed and mounted men.
Sir Lancelot towered over them both on his great red stallion. He surveyed Gareth, Lionel, and the three men riding with them and gave a nod of approval. Then, they rode past the silent stares of the procession, and the queen.
And Lynet. He tried to catch her eye but could not tell if he succeeded. Behind her, though, Lady Fiona looked at him with shining eyes. He managed a gallant smile for her, but nothing of the love or anticipation he was used to feel when he looked at her came to him.
The forest thinned quickly as they came to the valley’s rim. The clouds overhead had begun to break apart, sending down shafts of warm sunlight to illuminate the lowlands, making it look like a painting of a saint’s abode on a church wall. One beam lit up the stone-and-timber walls of the old fortress that watched them from the valley’s opposite wall. Gareth could see no movement up there, no watch kept or signal given. All activity seemed to be centered around a cluster of rude dwellings on the valley floor. They were round and straw thatched and smoke drifted up out of the holes in their roofs. There was not even a proper long house let alone a hall.
Patches of the valley floor were cleared for cultivation. Cows, black, white and red, grazed where they would. They rode past these unimpeded. In the village before them, they’d finally been noticed. It wasn’t until they neared the village they were finally noticed. A woman’s scream rose up, and she and her fellows ran, snatching up their children and ducking into their houses.
That doesn’t bode well, thought Gareth and he set his jaw.
Sir Lancelot continued to canter onward, completely unperturbed, even as they could plainly see the men who gathered in the gaps between the round houses begin to cluster and crowd together, watching their approach. The knight reined up Taranis before this uneasy gathering, and swept them with his gaze, sizing them up for what they were, a cadre of unarmed and untrained men, wondering if they should even try to stave off a knight on horseback.
“I seek King Telent,” he announced. “Who here can take me to him?”
“Telent is dead!” called back one man.
The crowd parted, gladly, Gareth thought, to let the speaker through. He was a small, hairy mountain of a man, with arms and legs equally bowed. The tattoo of a bull ran down his right arm, underneath a quantity of red-brown hair. His beard and hair were both long enough to divide into three braids, and his only clothing was leather breeches and boots, and a kind of loose leather kilt over them. He looked up at Sir Lancelot with a pair of piggish black eyes and folded his arms. A bronze torque had been twisted around his neck, and he wore bronze rings on both meaty, bare arms. He wore, unusually for such an outland chief, a sword at his side. Then, with a shock, Gareth realized he knew the blade. It belonged to Sir Ruawn.
“And who are you, Master?” asked Lancelot.
The hairy mountain grinned, showing several black and broken teeth. “You can call me King Enor!” He sniggered as he said it, and several of the men joined in nervously. All of which left Gareth no doubt at all that Telent had not met his death peacefully.
He watched the houses behind the men, seeing only vague movement inside. He scanned the hillsides. They had been stripped of timber long since, and offered few hiding places. He saw no movement. That left the fort. Crumbling as it was, if “King” Enor was going to conceal his fighting force, there was no where else to put them.
“God be with you, King Enor,” Sir Lancelot said, inclining his head politely. “I bring you greetings from the High Queen Guinevere of Camelot. She sent her emissaries out to you a day since, bearing gifts for the Rosveare king and his men. They have not yet returned. Now I am come to ask have you seen them.”
“Emissaries?” Enor scratched his chin. “No … no … unless you mean that stringy piece of eastern beef and his boy with his box come calling yesterday. Hi there, Brengy, bring the boy out.”
Brengy hurried into one of the round houses. Gareth’s horse stamped once. Gareth kept his gaze on the ruined fort. He saw no movement, but his hands itched from more than the frightened and hostile gazes of the men around him.
Brengy and another, younger man came back, and between them they dragged Brendon. Gareth’s fellow squire had been beaten, and badly. His face was a mass of cuts and bruises and both eyes were so swollen that Gareth doubted he could see. His hands were bound before him with leather thongs that had begun to cut into his wrists and left his hands swollen and useless. They cast him down in the mud at Enor’s feet. Brendon groa
ned weakly and tried to roll over, but could not.
Anger rose up in Gareth. How dare they! How dare this heathen barbarian lay hands on one of the true king’s liege men! How dare he rob the queen? He ground his teeth together, barely able to remember he must keep his attention on the fortress. He must not let surprise overtake them.
Sir Lancelot looked down at Brendon lying in front of the valley king.
“Was this done at your orders?” he asked.
“It was!” Enor folded his arms and stood with his feet spread apart, as if daring Sir Lancelot to do anything about it. Gareth’s guts twisted with anger, and he felt the blood rise in him, but he could do nothing, nothing but sit there while this barbaric excuse for a man grinned up at the knight.
“And where are his companions?” asked Sir Lancelot.
“Hmmmm …” “King” Enor made a great show of tapping his chin. “I think we left them out on the midden heap with Telent.”
“Why would you treat the queen’s messenger this way? Did he give offence?”
Enor spat. “We want none of your queen here.”
Sir Lancelot’s face creased in a frown of mock confusion. “The Rosveare have before this been the friends of Camelot.”
“Telent was Camelot’s friend. What has Camelot to give me for that same friendship?” Enor’s eyes seemed to shrink back into his skull, growing yet more piggish. “What that man of yours carries wouldn’t do for one of my slaves.”
That’s more true wealth than you’ve seen in your life, you whoreson bastard! Gareth bit his lip and kept his hands knotted around his reins. Watch the fort. Watch the fort.
“What is your price then? I will take your words to Her Majesty and you will hear what answer she makes.”
“My price? Pah!” Enor spat again, this time at Taranis’s hooves. The horse stomped once but did not startle. “She’s very anxious to cross my valley. What if my price is Her Majesty?” He leered. “I hear these city women are tasty tidbits who like a few real men of a long night!” He let out a huge guffaw, and more of the men joined in this time.
Sir Lancelot slipped off Taranis, handing his spear back for Lionel to take. The knight crouched down beside Brendon, taking closer measure of his injuries. “Mabus,” he said quietly. One of the men at arms dismounted, and came forward, gingerly he lifted Brendon, who groaned again, and half-carried, half-dragged him backward.
“Now, Your Majesty,” said Sir Lancelot, standing directly in front of the valley king. “You must forgive me. I am from a different shore, and speak a different tongue. I think I did not understand what you said about my queen and my fellow knight.”
Enor leered and spoke slowly. “I said I think if your queen wants to cross my valley, she’d better be ready to spread her legs for it. Is that plain enough for you?”
So swiftly Gareth could not see the blow, Sir Lancelot lashed out, striking Enor across the ear and sending him reeling. He did not fall, though, and when he found his feet again, he was grinning as if this were what he had been most longing for. His drew his stolen sword and grinned at the knight, showing all his dirty teeth.
Sir Lancelot drew his own sword, and swung his shield around to fit over his arm. All the men backed away, some looking terrified, some looking expectant. Back in the houses a babe began to wail. One of Enor’s men ran forward with his own shield, a great, scarred, wooden square bound with bronze and as scarred as the blade of his sword.
Oh yes, they’d been waiting for this.
The men circled each other, and Gareth felt his own fierce grin form as he watched the curious relaxation that always overcame Sir Lancelot in combat take hold.
To watch Sir Lancelot with a sword was to watch the hand of God at work. There was no hurry in him, no matter how quickly his opponent moved. He stepped casually from place to place, somehow failing to be where the blow had fallen, blocking only when he chose, and that was only when he saw opportunity to thrust past his enemy’s defences. Shouts went up, jeers and boos and catcalls, reminding Gareth painfully of his own battle with Sir Kai. But this was something different. This would not end with first blood. This was for the valley all around them, and this monstrous creature was a king. What was more, he had already overseen the deaths of one knight and his men-at-arms. After the first of the knight’s blows drove him reeling backward, the leer vanished from the valley king’s face. He began to fight in deadly earnest, shouting curses and charging in again and again, and the knight dodged and circled, brought down his blows with precise calculation until Enor’s shield shattered and the king stood there, half-naked, his only armor in pieces. Gareth wondered if he might surrender then. But no.
He hung back, Sir Ruawn’s sword in both hands, sweat darkening hair and beard, determined to sell his life dearly. He had a slash on his shield arm, and another cut across his side, bleeding freely.
Movement caught Gareth’s eye. Two men from the back of the crowd had drawn back, slowly, hiding behind the bodies of their fellows, hoping to avoid notice. Lionel’s nodded. He’d seen them too.
Gareth put his heels to Achaius’s sides. The horse broke into a fast trot, swinging wide around the crowd shouting for their king. Lionel did the same, circling the other side. The two men spotted them in an instant, and tried to run, pelting away between the houses. Gareth leaned over Achaius’s neck and brought down his spear. Behind him rose a fresh chorus of shouts. Before him ran two men in loose tunics and sandals, and one carried a horn at his hip, and his was frantically trying to jerk it loose from his hemp belt.
Gareth dug his knees into Achaius’s sides, and the horse flew forward. Lightly, swiftly, He maneuvered horse, spear, and self, and rode hard upon the man’s heels, he cast the spear down and the man screamed and pitched forward. Gareth rode around in front of him. He was unhurt, but sprawled on is belly, pinned to the ground by the leather strap of his horn. Gareth glanced to see that Lionel had already ridden down the second man, who was on the ground and not moving. Then he turned his attention back to his man. He jerked the spear out of the dirt. The man rolled over, and found Gareth’s weapon pointed straight at his chest.
Another shout behind him, and a keening wail.
“When were you to give that signal, villain?” he growled. “How many men? How armed and where are they?”
“Don’t kill me my lord,” whispered the man. “Please. I beg you. Don’t.”
“Answer my questions, and do not lie,” answered Gareth stonily. His guts twisted. Cowardice on top of treachery. He tried to remind himself he could not expect more from such a one, but if the man had the courage to stand with one who would rise up against his king, however petty, he should have the courage to face the consequences of it.
“Thirty men, my lord, with spears and knives, up in the old fort. We were to blow the horn if it looked like the king would be … might be …”
More shouts behind them, another high-pitched wail went up. The man’s eyes went wide with panic.
“You’ve more foresight than your king,” remarked Gareth, stepping back. “They’ll wait for the horn? There’s no other signal for them?”
The man nodded. “Please, my lord. Don’t kill me. I was Telent’s man, I swear. I only …”
Gareth had neither the patience nor the stomach to hear more. “On your feet,” he ordered.
Lionel rode up. “That one’s dead,” he reported, his voice hard. “What’s here?”
“Thirty men with spears up in the fort,” Gareth told him. “Waiting for their signal. We need to get back.”
He slung himself back into his saddle. He and Lionel rode close, driving their prisoner before them, and alternating glances backward. No movement came from the fort, yet. What did they see up there? Not much, he thought. The place had no standing watchtower, and Gareth still could not see any movement.
A scream sounded from out of the crowd, then a wail and a high undulating cry of grief. Over the heads of the crowd, Gareth saw Sir Lancelot standing over Enor, who had lay unmo
ving in the mud, blood all over his face and chest, and his eyes open and dead.
Sir Lancelot was not even breathing hard.
“Is there any other man here who would slander the honor of Camelot’s queen?” he inquired. “Come then. I stand ready.”
No man moved except to cringe backward. The babe was still crying in its house. Gareth wished it would quiet. He prodded his man forward, riding up to Sir Lancelot and reporting briskly what he and Lionel had learned. The knight looked down on their prisoner.
“Who are you?” Sir Lancelot demanded, disgust making his accent more pronounced, and for a moment Gareth was not certain the man could understand him.
“Sulmed ap Ros, my lord,” whispered the prisoner at last.
“Which of these is your father?”
“I am, my lord.” A grey-bearded man with a blue sun-circle tattooed on his left cheek came forward. He bore himself more bravely than his son, Gareth thought.
“Do you speak the truth to me, old man?”
Ros nodded. “I swear it on my son’s head.”
“A good oath, old man. Now.” Sir Lancelot raised his voice to make sure the whole of the assembled Rosveare heard him. “This son of yours stays here with me, as do all your women and your babes. You’ll go up to that fortress and tell them how it is your vile kingling came to die. You’ll bring them down without their arms, or your son is the first to the sword, and their families will follow.” He spoke steadily and without hesitation. “You’ll be quick, and you will not try to deceive me. I have an army waiting on the hill to come down and take this miserable scrub land and that heap of rocks if I so much as shout. And before I shout your people will lie spitted on the ground.”
Did they believe him? They looked down at the corpse of their usurper king, still bleeding on the ground, and made their decision. Ros, father of Sulmed, bowed his head, backed away, and all but fled toward the fort.
Sir Lancelot sheathed his sword, swung himself once more onto Taranis’s back. He took his spear from Gareth and from that height surveyed the knot of men before him. “Get the men into one of the houses, and bring out the women and babes. As long as all remain peaceful, no one is to be molested, and nothing taken or compelled.” He glance up at the hill where the royal procession waited behind its screen of trees. “Our queen is of delicate constitution, and would not approve.” He touched up his horse, riding back behind the knot of hostages, to take up a post where he could have the best view of village, fort and men. As he passed by Gareth, he said softly. “That was well done, Squire.”