THE SHIELD OF LOCKSLEY

Chapter four: section iii

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iii

THE QUEEN’S BREAKFAST

Dawn came with a subtle hint of colour, alive with the echo of birdsong. The trees caught the morning light, stretching their shadows across the valley where a stubborn mist seemed to cling to the branches before melting away. The grass sparkled with dew; like diamonds they glittered in the light while a blue miasma of haze ascended over the camp as a multitude of campfires were coaxed back to life.

There were the usual sounds of a military camp coming to life, Pellinore thought as he stood at the entrance to his pavilion: horses whinnying in the distance as grooms and page-boys brought out loose bales of hay; there were the sounds of men coughing, laughing, teasing each other; that of others wandering off into the woods where they washed themselves in a small stream; they pissed; they shat; they made hearty breakfasts; and teas, with the bitter leaves of dandelion, milk thistle, and chamomile; they fought; they made love. There were children screaming, and more laughter, as families slowly stirred themselves awake and father-soldiers set about their duties; tired, worn-out whores crawled under old furs to lay on lumpy mattresses stuffed full of reeds.

Somewhere, someone picked up a lute and music narrated the morning.

This is the life Pellinore remembered as being a part of his youth, he thought. In those days, knight-errantry was what every young bachelor-knight sought. It was how you proved yourself, and still is, he thought. Once, he had been among the best in that once upon a time of his youth. It was a young man’s game now, and he wasn’t a young man anymore, he was quick to remind himself. It was just as likely that what he’d heard this morning was the stirring of a memory, he told himself as he wandered off into the woods.

It was that life which had led him on his hunt for the Questing Beast. It took years before he realized it had been a suggestion placed in his mind by the Myrddyn; there had never been a Questing Beast. In the meantime, he’d spent years chasing shadows. He laughed at it now, but back then, he’d failed to see any humour in it at all.

It’s funny how time changes your perspective on life, he thought. I mean, here I am in the Queen’s camp while she searches for Lancelot, while I’m supposed to be on my way to Camelot.

But with that many knights out and about, searching for Lancelot was probably the last thing they were doing. He knew what could happen to a man on the road with less than a handful of knights, escorting two women. Traveling with the Queen was probably the best thing he could be doing under the circumstances. He told himself he was getting too old to joust over some pretended insult to protect his daughter’s virtue — or Gwenellyn’s, he reminded himself.

There’s still the threat of Gawain and those other Orkney bastards waiting to lop my head off. It wasn’t something I would’ve concerned myself with thirty years ago, but I’m not thirty anymore, am I? Closer to seventy, I’m thinking.

He found himself standing outside the pavilion where Miriam and Gwenellyn were. He looked at the two guards — both of whom were standing tall, not daring to look at him — and he cleared his throat as he approached, thinking the girls would know it was him.

“Are they awake?” he asked the older of the two guards.

The man simply nodded.

Pellinore answered the man with a grunt as he approached the pavilion. He couldn’t decide whether to knock on the post, or call out. He decided he should stand back and clear his throat again, thinking to himself, They must’ve heard that, what? When they didn’t respond, he raised a hand and thought about pounding on the post. He cleared his throat again. One more time, he thought, this time with purpose. He looked at the two guards who stood silent.

He reached out and knocked on the post, a light, almost tentative knock, as if he were aware that he might be disturbing them; that what the guard heard was not them stirring about, but something else.

“Are they alone?” he asked the older guard.

“Do you mean is the dressing girl in there with them?” the man asked.

“Is she?”

The man nodded.

Pellinore shook his head, muttering to himself, before pushing the felt doorway aside and striding in. They were both of them sitting on the large bed, fully dressed, as the girl helping them was tying Miriam’s hair into a long plait. She was wrapping the hair around the top of Miriam’s head — pinning it into place — but had paused. All of them were watching, waiting, laughing as Pellinore stepped into the pavilion.

“I told you!” Miriam laughed.

“You told her what?” Pellinore said.

“That you wouldn’t know what to do if we didn’t respond. I told them it would take no time at all before you simply barged in, because you didn’t know what else to do.”

“And you find that amusing?”

“Amazingly so!” Miriam laughed. Pellinore looked at Gwenellyn who put her head down but was unable to stop herself from smiling and laughing.

“The Queen has sent a message asking us to break fast together,” he said.

“And will Le Beale Isoud be there as well?” Miriam asked.

“I doubt it,” he said, turning and walking out of the pavilion to the echo of gentle laughter. Even the guards standing outside were smiling.

Throughout her life, Guinevere had always considered herself lucky. If there was something foul lurking about — like some feeling, or curse, or even a plague — she was either the first to know about it, or the first to sense it. They said she had always been lucky that way. Luckier still that she was born a King’s daughter, they laughed.

Yes, that was lucky, she reminded herself. Had she been low-born, there was every possibility she might’ve been condemned as one of the newly outlawed Druids, rather than praised for having brought the White Christ to Pagan lands.

They’d also agreed that she’d been lucky with her quick betrothal and even quicker marriage. Politically, it had been a good marriage, her father said. She knew it made sense at the time. It was for good reason, her father emphasized, and she told herself she understood that as well, but still, people laughed and mocked her just the same, saying the old princess finally got to spread her legs, in regal fashion, as if it were a new position they’d just invented. Still, it was cruel, and it hurt. She was twenty-five when she married Arthur, but Arthur neither said, or did, anything about what they were saying about her. Even though there were still festivities and feasts going on outside the marriage tent, he’d had it moved from the celebrants and declared his young bride to be sick.

She still heard them though — the celebration of laughter, singing, and music — and had to remind herself that it was her wedding they were celebrating. She missed it all though because Arthur wouldn’t let her leave the pavilion. He told her he was determined to prove himself the True King and promised to plant his seed in her by fucking her raw until she cried out in pain.

Gawain had stood as the Honour Guard that first night.

She should’ve known any marriage proposal at her age was too good to be true. There had been no child, nor would there ever be. She knew it was her fault because Arthur would plant his seed elsewhere to find his heirs. But her loss of identity, her pain, and her suffering, had all been pushed aside in the course of the next year, with the biggest gift any of them could’ve hoped for: War. It was breaking out all around them. It was a general uprising against the upstart king. You’d think it was all that it was all that mattered. It’s what they all wanted.

He ran off and left me though, didn’t he? And wasn’t I the lucky one, transporting huge segments of the table father gifted his new king; risking life and limb for someone else’s perverse belief in himself?

No, I was lucky to have been there; lucky to have seen it.

But was I?

She wondered.

She would always wonder until the day Lancelot arrived.

Looking up, she saw Pellinore pushing his daughters through the felt curtains. She smiled, grinned, and then laughed, genuinely happy to see him. The old man was muttering to himself — much the same as he did every time she saw him — and a part of her wondered if it was the same old story he always muttered to himself. Sometimes, she swore it was.

She was on her knees when they entered, and smiled as she slid some of the cushions about, rearranging them. After digging about, she found a rug the girls could share to keep themselves warm. She’d hoped Pellinore’s talking to himself was something he’d gotten over, but it was obvious it was something he wasn’t even aware of, and the girls simply ignored him for the most part..

She stood up, straightened her dress, and called out to the old King.

“Pelly, you old curmudgeon!” She moved toward him and kissed him lightly on the cheek, happy to see him as she stood back to greet him. Pellinore had always been her favourite among the Northern Kings. Ruthless as much as he was relentless, which he’d proven in his questing of the Beast. She put her arm around him and guided him to a cushioned chair beside her. She looked at the girls and smiled, genuinely. She felt sorry for them, but just for a moment. The fact Pellinore was escorting them to Camelot in search of husbands for each of them didn’t mean they’d live the same miserable life she had.

“Sit down girls, sit. I found a rug for you to share. It’s usually cold in here until the afternoon; then you swelter. They made me a larger pavilion — thinking it’s what I needed to feel more regal. What do you think?” she asked, spreading her arms and looking about at the expanse. “They didn’t have time to make me a bench long enough, or a table to match. I thought, fuck it, we’re going out into the countryside anyway. I’m willing to give up on certain luxuries — who needs a table when you can sit on the ground? But when it comes right down to it, you still have to break your fast properly — especially when you’re out in the field. You canna expect me to live on camp rations. Listen to me carrying on. I’m sorry. I do go on and on sometimes. Forgive me, please,” she laughed. “Sit. Sit.”

She turned to look at Pellinore and neither of them spoke for a moment.

“Are your not going to introduce your daughters?” Guinevere asked him.

“Daughter,” Pellinore said. “I only have one daughter. The other one’s my niece.”

“That may be, but which is which? By the Christ, Pelly! I swear. You’re just as scatter-brained as you were the last time I met with you. Does it not make any sense to you, that if you bring two girls in to have breakfast with the queen, it’s only natural you tell her their names? You said one’s your daughter and the other’s your niece. Well? Which is which?”

“Of course,” Pellinore said with a chuckle. “I was — I mean, my mind was somewhere else — there’s always so much to consider when travelling. This is my daughter. Miriam.”

The girl looked young, but then, she’d been once young too, Guinevere reminded herself. She was fifteen when she was supposed to marry Gawain. How many years ago was that? That had fallen apart with the War of the Saxon Kings, and in hindsight, she’d been grateful. That war had lasted seven years, and by the time it was done, Lot had sided with the Saxon invaders and betrayed the Northern kings. She’d never been overly fond of Gawain and the Orkney clans. There was only the one Orkney brother remaining now. Gareth. The youngest, and by all accounts, the best of them.

Well, there’s him and the Bastard, she reminded herself.

She smiled and raised a toast Pellinore was quick to share.

“Thank fuck you took that bastard Lot’s off head when you did!”

“Thank fuck for that!” he laughed. “And to The Knight of the Field!”

“To The Knight of the Field!” she echoed, wondering what had become of the youth.

Both girls hesitated to raise their glasses, and Guinevere laughed. She knew what it meant to be overwhelmed. She settled herself down as two young serving girls brought out trays of food and drinks. She and Pellinore talked, and they all laughed at the stories she told. She listened as Pellinore spoke of his sons. She’d always liked Lam and Percy.

And Lam’s so easy to look at, she thought, wondering if the rumours about him and Lot’s widow were true.

“So, Pelly, finish that story you were telling me before. Do you remember it?” she asked. She looked at the girls, who shook their heads. “It’s really quite an amazing story, I mean, there were these two brothers. Knights obviously,” she laughed, “or why tell it? Now come on, Pelly, finish it and tell me what happened?”

“Do you mean Balin and Balan? There really isn’t much to say, is there? They’re both dead.”