Theudric had, if the stories were to be believed, been in love with a renowned beauty, Adhalind, a w oman of unsurpassed grace and virtue. However, a hag, jealous of her beauty, had cursed Adhalind, so that if she were ever kissed, both she and the object of her affection would perish instantly. Fearing not for herself, but for the noble Theudric, she spurned his advances, but he w as vociferous in his pursuit of her hand, for he knew that she loved him too. Determined to free her, Theudric set out to break the curse. Every day that he w as aw ay, Adhalind came to the shrine that he had built, seated atop the hilltop, watching and waiting for her love to return to her.
For forty long years she w aited for his return, and it was during this time that the hill w as named Adhalind's Seat.
At long last, Theudric returned, kissing his love for the first time, now that the curse had been lifted from her. His life had been prolonged by the mystical properties of the Lady's grail, and he appeared as he had w hen he had left, but the years had been harsh to Adhalind, and she was an old woman, her face lined and her hair grey.
Nevertheless, the couple were wed, and lived in joyous happiness until Adhalind passed aw ay, a smile of contentment upon her face, a year later.
Theudric lived out the rest of his years as a hermit, tending the shrine, and only leaving it w hen the call to w ar came. He lived to one hundred and ninety years, and w hen he passed from the world, he was interred alongside his beloved Adhalind.
Calard stepped lightly up the mausoleum steps, looking in awe upon the stone sarcophagus that housed the body of the revered grail knight and his lady. It had been carved in the likeness of the knight and his beloved, lying side by side with their hands held clasped over their chests, as if in prayer. A marble sw ord lay by Theudric's side, and a carved marble shield acted as the couple's pillow. Theudric's feet rested upon a coiled dragon, w hile beneath Adhalind's carved feet was a resting unicorn. The white marble carving was perfect in every detail, even dow n to individual strands of hair, and Calard marvelled at the skill of the workmanship. The knight's face w as strong and noble; his lady's young and virtuous. Calard stared into the carved likeness of Theudric's face, trying to perceive what it w as that had made the man great.
Stepping dow n the steps on the other side of the mausoleum, Calard's breath caught in his throat as he glimpsed the glowing pale shape of a lady standing looking at him from the other side of a small pond. It took him a moment to realise that this was not a vision, but a statue, carved of the same clean marble as the mausoleum, and that the glow ing intensity of the ghostly image w as created by the sunlight dappling upon the stone.
He stepped tow ards it in aw e, and dropped to his knees before the lily covered pond, gazing upon the pristine face of the Lady of the Lake. Divine hands must surely have guided the sculptor, for the representation was breathtaking in its detail and the incredible impression of life that had been attained.
The Lady w as tall, slender and full of grace. One leg was slightly bent and her arms w ere held before her, as if she were stepping forward to embrace Calard. Her dress seemed diaphanous, flowing and almost translucent, as if it were delicate, impossibly fine silk, wafting in a slight breeze, rather than solid, cold stone. A jewelled grail hung from her w aist upon a string of beads and entw ined vines, and her flowing hair w as filled with tiny, delicate flowers and leaves.
It w as the Lady's facial expression, however, that was the sculptor's true w ork of artistic genius, and Calard felt tears on his cheeks as he gazed upon it. With beautifully carved, high cheekbones and lips that looked as soft as velvet, the Lady stared dow n at him w ith an expression of infinite compassion. The feeling of love and motherly devotion that exuded from the statue w as almost palpable, and Calard sw allowed heavily, enraptured by the divine vision that the sculptor had created.
Calard had only dim memories of his mother, for she had died when he w as a young boy, but seeing this expression on the statue of the Lady brought those vague memories back into sharp focus.
Calard low ered his eyes, and looked down into the pond. Catfish w ith long w afting w hiskers swam too and fro beneath the mirror surface of the w ater, sifting through the leaves that had settled upon the bottom.
The reflection of the Lady shimmered like a holy apparition upon the pond, and Calard closed his eyes in prayer, feeling a great sense of calm and serenity descend over him.
He did not know how long he knelt before the statue, but w hen he at last opened his eyes, the sun had shifted. It was almost overhead, and no longer made the statue glow . He felt refreshed and cleansed, as if his act of prayer had w ashed away his ill mood.
He stood, w hispered one final prayer, and made his way back into the camp, climbing the grassy slope of Adhalind's Seat. He felt calmer than he had done for weeks.
With some shame, he recalled the heated conversation he had had with Gunthar on the ride back to camp just hours earlier.
'You seem angry, frustrated,' the w eapon master had said softly. 'Is it something that you w ould like to speak of?'
Calard had glared at the older knight. 'I'm not angry,' he said hotly. Gunthar raised an eyebrow .
'If you say so,' he said. They rode alongside each other in silence for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts.
'Are you still thinking of how you w ere unhorsed when ambushed by the beasts?'
Gunthar asked at last.
Calard's face darkened. 'It w as shaming,' he said, keeping his voice low so that none of the other knights heard his words. 'The beast could have killed me, but it w as enjoying toying with me. I could see it in its hateful eyes. I w ould rather have been killed in battle than suffer being at the mercy of that creature.'
'And never see your fair Elisabet again?' asked Gunthar softly.
'I do not deserve her affection,' said Calard bitterly. Gunthar laughed out loud, and Calard glared at him in outrage.
'Ah, the foolishness of youth,' said the weapons master. 'Do you have any idea the number of times that I have been unhorsed in battle? How many times I would have been slain, but for the intervention of another, or a lucky tw ist of fate? Don't dw ell on it. You are alive, and your honour is untarnished.'
Calard had glared at the w eapon master, and pulled his horse away from him. He had ridden the remainder of the journey back to camp in silent brooding. Only now did he see that he had been foolish. True, the shame of having been at the mercy of the creature stung him still, but far better men than him had died that day in battle.
He felt like a foolish child.
Feeling calm and humbled, Calard w alked back into the camp, smiling to himself as he thought of Elisabet, his earlier dark mood shaken off.
'Ah, Garamont!' said a snide voice. Calard looked up, the smile slipping from his face as he saw Maloric standing with his hands on his hips before his tent. The young knight w as still armoured, and his white tabard w as splashed with blood. Behind him, a peasant rammed a beastman's head onto a spear embedded in the ground, alongside half a dozen others. 'What do you think of my latest adornment?'
'It's quite charming,' said Calard mildly. 'A relative of yours?'
Maloric chortled, and smiled at him. 'Ah, so witty. I heard that you had another unsuccessful night's hunt. It's almost as if you are trying to avoid the beasts. Is that it, Garamont? Have you found a local stable in w hich to cow er each night, while real men go out to fight? Perhaps with a w arm young stable boy to hold you tight?'
Calard felt the peace he had achieved in the grail shrine shred away. Other Sangasse knights stopped what they were doing smirking, to see the young noble of Garamont's response. He saw one particular man, a slim young knight of the realm, perhaps in his mid-tw enties, step close to Maloric, a hand resting lightly on his sword hilt, a half smile on his lips.
Calard sensed that this situation could rapidly deteriorate, but his pride was flaring.
He thought of the cool, pale face of the Lady, and his anger subsided somewhat. He forced himself to smile.
'What did you say?' asked Maloric.
'I said your mother is a fine w oman,' said Calard loudly over his shoulder.
'And yours is dead and rotting in the ground,' snarled Maloric. 'Best place for her, mind. I heard tell that she was a w itch.'
Calard froze in his tracks, the colour draining from his face.
'Wasn't your bitch tw in sister a w itch too?' continued Maloric. 'That was why she was taken aw ay, w asn't it?'
Calard spun around and stormed tow ards the Sangasse noble, his face thunderous.
Maloric smirked at him, and flashed a smile at the slim knight at his side.
Without ceremony, Calard slammed his fist into the noble's face, breaking his nose once more. He stood over him, his breathing heavy.
'Don't you ever speak of my mother or sister again, you w horeson,' spat Calard.
From the ground, Maloric held one hand to his bleeding nose, but he looked up at Calard, his eyes blazing in triumph.
'I accept,' he snarled.
'What?' snapped Calard.
'You have struck me dow n in front of all the knights gathered here. I accept your challenge, and I nominate Sir Ganelon here as my champion.'
The slim knight bow ed his head, his half-smile mocking.
Calard sw ore.
He recognised the knight, now: Ganelon, champion of Sangasse; Ganelon the butcher.
A slim man of below average height, he looked more like a boyish libertine than the deadly w arrior he was said to be. His hair was scented and brushed, and hung past his shoulders, and his fluted armour w as ornate and highly shined. He wore a half-smile permanently affixed to his face, but his eyes were cold and dead, like those of a fish.
Ganelon w as the victor of a score of duels, and it was said that he was more than a little unhinged in the head. If the rumours w ere true, he had a particular fondness for inflicting pain, be it on his opponent in a duel, or on a w oman in the bedchamber.
'Fine,' he said at last. 'Name the time and place.'
'Noon,' said Ganelon, looking up into Calard's eyes. 'The west field beyond the camp.'
'I shall be there,' said Calard.
'I look forw ard to it,' said Ganelon. Beside him, Maloric did not even attempt to conceal his pleasure.
'No! I CAN fight my ow n battles!' said Calard.
'You cannot match him!' said Gunthar hotly, rounding on the young knight. Calard w as being armoured by a servant, arms outstretched as the last pieces of his armour w ere fastened. 'The man is a cold-hearted murderer,' continued Gunthar, 'and his skill is beyond your ow n.'
'I w ill not let you fight for me!' protested Calard.
'I made a promise to see you safe,' the middle-aged knight said. Calard snorted in derision.
'To my father? He w ould not have asked to see me safe. The man hates me.'
'He does not hate you, Calard,' said Gunthar w ith a sigh, 'but it w as not to him that I made the promise.'
'Oh? Then who w as it to?'
'The Lady Yvette, your mother.'
Calard blinked in shock, the angry words he was about to speak frozen on his tongue. He dropped his arms to his sides, and ordered the servants to leave the tent.
'She made me promise that I w ould see you and your sister safe,' said Gunthar w hen the servants had departed, his voice soft and his eyes hazy as he recalled the conversation. 'She feared for you both. It w as only a day before she... died. She was heavily pregnant, and wracked w ith pain, but her concern was only for you and your sister.'
'Pregnant?' asked Calard in confusion, his anger forgotten.
Gunthar realised he had said too much.
'Yes,' he said w ith resignation. 'The birth was difficult. It claimed both mother and child.'
Calard stared blankly into space.
'I never knew,' he said at last. 'No one ever told me how she had died.'
'I am sorry to have spoken of it. It w as not my place to do so. Anyw ay,' said Gunthar, clearing his throat, 'w ithin the year Anara w as taken. I could do nothing, despite the promise I had made, but here and now , I can. To fail her with both her children... I could not live w ith that dishonour.'
'I do not w ish to see you die on my account,' said Calard.
'I have no intention of dying, my boy,' said Gunthar. 'Let me do this. Let me honour your mother's w ish.'
At that moment Bertelis entered the tent, his face grim. He looked upset and worried, biting his lip.
'It is time,' he said.
WORD HAD SPREAD, and all the knights in the camp w ere gathered to w atch the contest. Men-at-arms and other peasants crow ded around the roped off open area of the field, jockying for position.
A murmur ran through the crow d as Calard approached, flanked by Bertelis and Gunthar, and a path w as cleared for them.
The knights and peasants of Garamont cheered as he marched into the open area in the centre of the gathering, though there were shouts and jeers from the Sangasse camp. Maloric and Ganelon stood side by side in front of the Baron of Montcadas, w ho w as to act as the official judge for the contest. Calard's face darkened as he saw them. He marched tow ards them, and halted a few steps aw ay. Ganelon was still smiling his cold half-smile.
'I thought you might not have show n,' said Maloric. 'I am glad. At least you w ill die w ith some honour remaining.'
'I shall be fighting on behalf of Calard of Garamont,' said Gunthar firmly, before Calard could speak.
Maloric raised an eyebrow , smirking. Ganelon shifted his cold dead eyes to Gunthar, looking him up and dow n appraisingly.
'You w ould have an old man fight for you?' laughed Maloric. 'Ah, this is too good.'
'Calard of Garamont has named a champion!' boomed Baron Montcadas, his pow erful baritone voice sounding out across the gathered crowd.
'Long have I yearned to cross blades w ith you,' said Ganelon mildly, locking eyes with Gunthar. 'It w ill be an honour to be the one to kill you.'
'In your dreams, boy,' said Gunthar.
'May the Lady bless you both,' said the baron.
'Oh, she does,' said Ganelon. Gunthar w as silent.
The Baron Montcadas lifted up an ornate hourglass for all to see. 'The contest shall begin w hen the last grain of sand falls!' roared Baron Montcadas, turning on the spot as he spoke so all could hear his words. He turned the timer over and slammed it dow n onto a table draped w ith silk.
The tw o combatants turned aw ay from each other, and strode to opposite ends of the roped out arena. A peasant brought Gunthar's horse forw ard, and others appeared bearing his shield and weapons.
'You do not have to do this,' Calard said, his voice thick with emotion.
'I do,' said Gunthar, 'if I am to honour the pledge that I made to your mother.' He smiled suddenly. 'Have courage, boy. I w ill not be killed by some Sangasse w help.'
'Try to finish it from the saddle,' said Bertelis. 'He is better on foot than he is on horseback.'
Calard felt sick to his stomach, but he could not find the words to express his feelings. Bertelis w as at his side, his face pale and tense. Gunthar knelt, bow ing his head in prayer to the Lady.
Standing, he embraced both Calard and Bertelis, before pulling himself into the saddle of his pow erful, armoured destrier. It snorted and tossed its head, and Gunthar slipped his shield over his arm. Lastly, he reached for his lance. Calard handed it to him.
'Fight w ell,' said Calard. Gunthar smiled in response. Then he lowered his visor, and turned tow ards the figure of Ganelon. The wait for the remaining sand in the hourglass to fall seemed to Calard to take an age, and he jumped w hen the horn was finally blown.
Without ceremo
ny, the tw o knights kicked their steeds into a gallop, and thundered tow ards each other across the grassy field. This was no fancy tournament ground.
There was no fence dividing the jousters, little fanfare and a distinct lack of the panoply that generally surrounded such an event: just tw o knights who w ould fight until one yielded, or one was unable to continue.
They thundered across the turf tow ards each other, and Calard found himself holding his breath. They came together w ith bone crushing force. Both knights took the blow s on their shields, and they reeled in their saddles from the force of the impact. Neither man fell.
'Gunthar made the better strike,' said Bertelis. 'That will have weakened Ganelon. He can w in this.' Calard did not answer. He felt ill.
The tw o knights trotted their steeds to opposite ends, shaken by the blow s they had taken. They wheeled around sharply for another pass.
Spurring their w arhorses on, the tw o slammed together once more. This time, Gunthar moved his lance tip just before it impacted w ith Ganelon's shield, and it took the younger man in the shoulder. A great cheer rose from the knights of Garamont, and Calard punched the air. Ganelon's lance shattered on Gunthar's shield.
Gunthar rode past his opponent, and wheeled his horse around for another pass.
Ganelon hurled his shattered lance to the ground angrily and drew his sword. Seeing this, Gunthar dropped his lance to the grass, and slid his blade from its scabbard.
Then the pair were charging at each other once more. They came together hard, and the ringing of steel sounded as their swords clashed. They made another pass, this one slow er, and traded blow s at close quarters, guiding their steeds expertly with their knees. Ganelon's blade w as fast, his sword darting in and out w ith astonishing sw iftness. Gunthar defended himself with great skill, and his sword flashed back in deadly ripostes that the younger man turned aw ay at the last second.
Ganelon slashed tow ards the older knight's chest, but at the last moment he pulled the blow , feinting, and the blade sliced towards Gunthar's head. The older knight anticipated the strike, and took it on his shield. His ow n sword stabbed out tow ards Ganelon's breast.
Warhammer - Knight Errant Page 15