"It's not much, but it seemed appropriate," Bors said, taking the tabard from the woman and offering it to Alymere. Suddenly Alymere knew what the knight had been doing while he ate in Maeve's kitchen. He didn't know what to say. What words could he offer, save thank you? The gesture went beyond simple kindness. In giving him his father's tabard Bors had, in no small way, given him part of his own identity back. "It was your father's." Bors explained needlessly. "Put it on, lad, and let's see what you really look like."
Alymere pulled the tabard on over his head. Bors nodded approvingly, then helped strap the heater onto his left arm and handed him the sword.
"Come here, Katherine, and tell me, what do you think? Have we made a knight of him or does the poor lad still look like some waif we dragged from the fields?"
The maid came to stand beside the knight and took his measure, looking Alymere from head to toe and back to head again. Her smile was genuine when she said, "He looks most noble, sir."
"He looks nothing short of his father's ghost, come to haunt these hallowed halls once more," Bors said. "If I didn't know better I'd think it so. The likeness is uncanny." He made the sign of the cross over his chest, then grinned that infectious grin of his.
To the maid he said, "Thank you, Kate. You can leave us now."
She curtseyed and slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Then the big man turned back to Alymere. "Come on then lad, away to bed. You've got a big day ahead of you tomorrow."
And that was more true than either man could have known, for tomorrow was where the third surprise would reveal itself.
Three
"Move your feet!" Bors' voice boomed from the side-lines.
Two dozen spectators manned the ropes around the combatants, knights and their squires come to see how Alymere acquitted himself. A smattering of applause rippled through the onlookers. It wasn't for him.
"Get your guard up!" another voice added helpfully.
The others sucked in their breaths as one, as the crack of wood on wood reverberated across the practice field. The rhythm of the fight changed, growing faster and faster, the blows merging into a single sound as the echoes hit the high walls of Camelot and folded back on the practice field.
"Better, lad!" Bors encouraged. "Keep your eye on him! Watch the way he moves! Read his body! That's it, lad. That's it!"
But for all the encouragement, the blows kept coming without any hint of letting up, and there was no way he could hope to ward them all off. Alymere was outmatched in every way: his opponent was a head taller, and faster of foot and eye both, blessed with a longer reach, and quite simply more accomplished. Had this been a real fight, out there on the field, there would only ever have been one winner, and the fight would have been over a long time ago.
Alymere had known he was going to lose before they had traded more than a dozen blows. What he had not understood was that this in itself was the true test. Sometimes it was not how one won, but how one lost that revealed most about a man's character.
Alymere gritted his teeth against the pain as another blow rapped off his knuckles and his practice sword went spinning from his hand. It hit the dusty ground and rolled to a stop more than ten feet away. He clenched his fist, shaking his hand as his eyes darted toward the fallen weapon. The momentary distraction earned him a sharp jab with his opponent's sword in the stomach. The blow was hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Unbalanced, Alymere's feet scuffed the dirt as he stumbled back a step, trying desperately to get away from the next huge swing.
Instead of finishing the bout as he had every right to, his opponent inclined his head toward the fallen sword, allowing Alymere to retrieve it.
That stung more than the initial rap across the knuckles.
Alymere swallowed his pride and stooped to pick up the sword. His opponent's next blow nearly took the wooden blade straight back out of his hand again, but he managed to roll his wrist with the impact and cling onto it. His hand was numb from the cracks it had taken in the last few minutes and his knuckles were bloody.
They came together again, wooden swords clashing.
His opponent darted in, delivering three quick blows, the third of which nearly took his head from his shoulders. Alymere felt the displaced air rush over his face as the blade missed by nothing more than a whisker. His mind raced. Baptiste had drilled the need for a cool mind in combat into him over and over; fear, doubt, all served to undermine the fighter, and all were a more fearsome threat than the opponent's sword. A fighter had to keep his mind clear, to become one with the sword in his hand, transforming it into a natural extension of his arm.
He was too aware of the onlookers, too worried about the outcome of this fight. His mind, like his body, was on the back foot, reacting instead of acting. When he needed it most, all of the poise, all of his training abandoned him, the mocking voice of doubt filled his head with thoughts of failure and exile, of losing everything he had let himself hope for.
Raw instinct took over.
And for a few minutes more he matched his opponent blow for blow, but always fractionally too slow to work any sort of advantage. He was tiring quickly. Every new swing, block, thrust and parry drew on his dwindling reserves of strength. He was breathing hard, sweat running down his face and into his eyes. He blinked it away, but it stung nonetheless. His father's mail shirt weighed heavily on his shoulders, slowing him down.
The bystanders had stopped with their shouts of encouragement, or he had stopped hearing them.
"You're predictable," his opponent said matter-of-factly as they broke once again. They circled each other warily. The man, Alymere realised sickly, was barely out of breath. "Your body announces your intention whenever you so much as think about countering. You over-compensate, you lean, putting too much weight on your right foot. It's obvious if you know what to look for. It'll also get you killed." The man's wooden sword darted in, cracking off Alymere's shoulder. The impact forced several of the chain links into his skin. He felt blackness well up, threatening to drown him. He backed up a step, doing his best to shake it off, and brought his own sword to bear, aiming a scything swing at his opponent's skull. The wild swing was easily dealt with. It was never meant to connect. It was only meant to buy him a few precious moments of respite, and in that it succeeded. "You're quick, I'll give you that, but you're crude," the man said. There was no hint of mockery in his voice, but still Alymere flinched at the words. The words stung, but only because they were true. "You don't read my body, you're so intent on the sword, so you are always reacting and on the defensive, instead of watching my body, reading my intentions, predicting and countering accordingly. There's no doubt you've got some skill, but as I said, you're crude, and your mastery of the sword is lacking. In short, there is much yet you need to learn."
Alymere swallowed hard, his pride urging him on. "And you talk too much!" he said, throwing himself forward. He slashed at the air between them wildly, once, twice, three times. The man skipped away from the blunt sword, rocking back on his heel as the third swing whistled past his face.
Alymere had let himself get riled, and in turn had left himself exposed.
The man came on again, smiling this time.
Alymere grunted, expecting a blow to the chest, a jab or a thrust, something to take advantage of his imbalance, but instead, going against everything he could reasonably have anticipated, the man dropped to one knee as though ceding the bout.
Alymere hesitated, and his opponent whipped his sword around to crack off his ankle, bringing stunned tears to his eyes. Alymere threw himself to the ground, scrambling away before the wooden sword could smack down across his shoulders.
Another furious blow swept in, this one coming in high, with the blazing sun behind it. He mistimed the parry and took the full weight of the blow on his forearm.
This time, when the sparring sword went spinning away, his opponent offered no concession. He closed the gap between them quickly, reversing h
is blade to deliver a stinging rap across the side of the skull that left Alymere's ears ringing and his eyes watering.
"Enough!" someone bellowed from the side-lines. Alymere didn't recognise the voice. He sank to his knees gratefully and lowered his head.
The wooden sword lay in the dirt a few feet beyond his reach. Trying to focus on it, he shook his head. A wave of nausea rose up inside him, and the horizon canted treacherously, the world and his grasp on his place within it rushing away from him. He fell, reaching out blindly to catch himself, felt the welcoming impact, and tasted the dirt on his tongue. He lay still for a moment, trying desperately to gather his wits, then lifted his head.
He saw the man's back as he walked away from him, leaving him lying in the dirt, and felt impotent fury rise up like bile. Without thinking, Alymere leaned forward, scrambling in the dirt until his fist closed around the sparring sword, and surged to his feet, closing the gap between him and his opponent in five unsteady steps. Even as the crowd shouted out its warning he delivered a savage blow across the back of the unsuspecting man's shoulders, driving him down to his knees.
Before he could deliver the coup de grace, Bors came between them, crushing Alymere in a huge bear hug and forcing him to drop the practice sword. Others gathered around the fallen squire who had been his opponent, helping him.
Bors growled, "You will never do that again. Never. Do you understand me?"
Alymere was shaking. He stared down at his bloody knuckles, trying to understand what he had done.
"There are no answers there, lad," Bors said, his tone softening, but only slightly. "The king was watching, and half the knights of Camelot, and what you showed them was that you don't know when you're beaten. That makes you dangerous, lad. Courage is a good thing; spirit is a good thing. Being able to dig deep and fight on even when you're hopelessly outmatched is a good thing. There's no shame in being beaten by a better man. But listen to me now, because I may never say a more important thing to you: there's nothing but shame in striking an unarmed man, and from behind no less."
It was the disappointment in his voice that cut Alymere. It was worse by far than the anger. In defeat, Alymere had revealed more about himself and his nature than a hundred victories might have. He pulled his father's tabard off over his head and screwed it up in his fist. In less than a day he had brought shame to it, to his father, to Baptiste and to everything he held dear. He had let them all down. He lowered his head, unable to look Bors in the eye as he said, "I'm sorry."
"Then maybe there's hope for you yet."
Four
The third surprise awaited Alymere in the Great Hall that night.
He had spent the remainder of the day with Bors. The big knight worked him to exhaustion and beyond, pushing him every step of the way. They ran for miles across the open ground, side by side, Bors urging him to dig deep and find another burst of speed, to stretch his legs, to push on, and then, bathed in sweat, they stripped to the waist and began sword practice. Bors tried to explain how the body moved, demonstrating the most common moves he was likely to face so Alymere could learn to read his intentions before the blows came. Bors delivered cuts and thrusts, urging Alymere to watch his legs and torso for tell-tale signs of where his strength was being directed. It was enlightening. And as the day wore on, Alymere began to make sense of what his opponent had meant, but making sense of it and being good at it were two distinct things. When Bors put him through his paces an hour before sunset Alymere was disarmed again and again and again, the knight sending his wooden blade spinning with a roll of the wrist or a rap on the knuckles. Each time, though, Alymere came a little closer to anticipating the move before it caught him.
Bors seemed pleased as they packed up their things.
As they walked back through the bailey into the castle it seemed almost as though the morning's bout had been forgotten and Alymere walked tall, new-found pride in each step. He belonged here. He might not be the knight his father had been, and he might still have a lot to learn, but neither was he the boy who had embarked upon this journey only a few days ago. He had changed.
One of the guards drew Sir Bors aside as they approached. Alymere couldn't hear the words being exchanged, but Bors returned with a face like thunder. He pushed open the great double doors, grinding them back heavily on their iron hinges, and strode into the hall. In that moment there was no doubting Sir Bors's nobility. He commanded the room and seemed to stand a head taller as he swept down the central aisle toward the great Round Table that dominated the middle of the vast chamber. Alymere hurried five steps behind him, eyes everywhere as he tried to absorb it all. He had imagined this room, but never in his wildest dreams had he come close to the reality of it.
Huge kite shields hung around the wall, a hundred or more, each painted with a distinct crest. Baptiste had schooled him in the coats of arms of all the noble families of Albion as well as those of Breton and beyond. Ignorance, the man had always maintained, was worthy of scorn, nothing more. So now, as he walked into the Great Hall, Alymere found himself naming the devices in his head as his gaze moved from one to the next; Sir Dodinal the Savage and the brothers Sir Balan and Sir Balin, Sir Helian le Blanc, Sir Clariance, Sir Plenorius, Sir Sadok, Sir Agravaine of Orkney and Sir Ywain of Gore among so many of the others. It was a humbling sight; one that reminded him very much of his place. Here he was, surrounded on all sides by the shields of every knight who had ever taken the vow of fealty to Arthur; of every knight who honoured the tenets of chivalry and upheld them to the highest order; of every knight who had risen to take a seat at the fabled Round Table through the years since its formation. Here, in this room, was the true history of Albion.
And among them, Alymere saw his father's leaping stag on the wall. He swelled with pride at the sight of it, side by side with the likes of Galahad and Kay and, perhaps the greatest of them all, Lancelot du Lac.
It did not last.
There were two men in the chamber. Arthur himself, seated at the great oak table, the other with his back to Alymere. There was something uncannily familiar about the man, he realised, as he knelt before the king. Arthur rose to stand over him. He said something, but the words did not carry.
Bors stopped shy of the men, and turned to face Alymere. The big man blocked his view of the two men behind him. "This is your second test, lad, do not fail yourself," he said when Alymere was close enough to hear his low-pitched warning. "Not when the sting of this morning is still so keenly felt."
Alymere did not understand what was happening.
Bors stood aside to let him approach the king.
He walked slowly down the aisle toward Arthur's chair.
Again, Alymere was struck by the familiarity of the penitent's shape, even with his head down and shoulders stooped, although it wasn't until the armoured man rose and slowly turned to face him that he recognised who it was. In that moment the world ceased its turning, and then the man broke the silence.
"Nephew," he tilted his head slightly in place of a bow. "You truly are my brother's ghost, standing in his old clothes. For a moment I could almost believe…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head slowly, in seeming disbelief. "Remarkable."
Alymere's mouth refused to obey him. In his mind he offered the simple acknowledgement — "Uncle" — in response, but shock would not allow him even that little dignity. He tried to cling on to Bors' warning, not wanting to fail twice in the eyes of the king in a few short hours. But it was hard. He could not move. He could not talk. He stared at his uncle's face, looking for murder in those cold grey eyes. He saw only gentle mocking amusement, which was in its way far worse.
Arthur rose from his seat. "Well met, Alymere. I trust you have had a good afternoon with Sir Bors?"
"Yes, sire," Alymere said, unable to take his eyes off his uncle.
"Good," the king said. "Upon learning of your intentions to take the oath and pledge yourself to Camelot, your uncle rode day and night, arriving but a few short hours ago. He w
as keen to bear witness to the ceremony."
"Your father would be so proud to see you now," Sir Lowick said, and Alymere's mind reeled. He wanted to scream. He felt as though he had been punched in the throat. He couldn't breathe.
"Kneel, lad," Bors urged, placing a meaty hand on his shoulder. Alymere felt his legs buckle. He stumbled forward a step and sank to his knees. The big man stepped back as the king moved to stand before him.
Arthur drew the huge blade, Excalibur, from the sheath at his hip and held it over Alymere's head like the threat of execution. "I asked you privately if you knew the Oath, but now, in this most sacred place, the heart of Camelot and in turn the heart of our great nation, and before blood witnesses, I would hear you swear to uphold it. Think hard before you do this, boy, for believe me, I will hold you to every part of it. These are no rash promises you make today; with these words you bind yourself to me and to Camelot for the rest of your days. Do you understand the importance of such a pledge?" Alymere nodded. The king held his gaze. He thought for a moment he glimpsed a flicker of pity there, but it was gone before he could be sure. Pity, because surely Arthur knew what Alymere would have to forego to uphold the promises he was a being asked to make, and pity because there was no way he could refuse to make those promises, either. "In making the oath you swear to set aside personal disputes and live by the Oath of Pentecost," the king explained. Again Alymere nodded his understanding. There was nothing else he could do. This was why he had come to court. "Then, Alymere son of Roth, tell me, do you swear to hold life sacred above all else?"
"I do so swear," Alymere said, trapped by that simple promise. The king was no fool. In demanding his oath he was bound now, and all thoughts of justice for his father, of reclaiming his birthright, were stymied. To raise a sword against his uncle now would be tantamount to treason and raising his sword against the king himself.
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