Under Camelot's Banner (16 page)

That shore, green, curved and welcoming approached fast. The boat skimmed over the breakers, lifted on a dozen unseen hands. Its prow cleaved the shallower waves, rushing toward the shore. The, the waves and their daughters flung the vessel and all its occupants up onto the strand.

The hull ground against stone and sand, and the sound of splintering wood grated against Lynet's ears in the second before the boat jerked to a halt they were all flung head first into the bilge and flotsam.

Lynet dragged herself free of the chaos as quickly as she could, one hand still tangled in the rope. The
morverch
spat at her, but could do nothing more. As the bilge ran from the split hull, the sea-woman sank backward, panting hard, as if the air itself pinned her to the ruined deck.

Lynet struggled to push herself into a sitting position, retching up yet more sea water, when overhead curved a great green wave. She stared up at it in a moment of mute terror before it crashed down on her head. Robbed of sight, of sense, of everything but the horrible roaring of endless water pouring over her, and the frantic, desperate need to breathe.

The waters pulled back, dragging her with them, stretching her out her full length on the sand, but somehow, incredibly, leaving air behind. Lynet gasped and gagged and vomited water, and breathed. Once and again, she breathed, drawing air into her ravaged body, fighting against the pain to keep breathing.

After a small eternity, Lynet was able to dig the heels of her hands into the sand an push herself up on trembling arms. A little further inland, she saw the master and his brothers, and the Trevailains, Lock and Hale. She counted them slowly. Yes, they were all there. She knuckled more water out of her eyes.

The boat was gone, and the
morverch
with it. They were safe on this shore, drenched and broken, but safe. She stared out at the restless, green ocean.

“Bishop Austell?” she whispered. A wave slipped up and touched her fingertips. She jerked back at once, then, away out on the open waters, she saw them lift their heads, a crowd of
morverch
, each identical to all the others. They stared at her, all alike in a pure unleavened hatred.

From amid the cluster of her sisters, one sea-woman lifted her head. A red welt around her white throat marked her as Lynet's former prisoner.

You are all that he said,
a voice echoed in her thoughts.
We will not forget this. Come to our realm again, little cousin and you will not leave it.

The other sea-women closed around her. The waves came up and the rain came down, and they were gone.

Lynet swallowed. She was empty of strength, frozen almost to death, and water-logged to the core. But the men were climbing to their feet, and she must do the same. She must stand, she must not think about Bishop Austell gone and drowned beneath the waves. Another corpse to add to her own charnel yard.
Ah, God, am I never to be allowed to play for lower stakes?

All the men were battered and dripping wet. Stef and Rory both had blood on their hands. Three of the four ship's brothers had bruises and gashes on their heads and arms. There was something wrong with the way shipmaster held his shoulder.

And there was nothing she could do, nothing at all except lead them onward.

Stooped with pain and shock and cold, she trudged past them, walking inland toward cliffs and rocks, where there might be some kind of shelter, where they might huddle together to pray for Bishop Austell, and for themselves.

Numbly, they all of them followed her, and not even Lynet dared look back.

Spring's thaw had finally taken firm hold in the vales near Camelot. For Gareth, son of King Lot and nephew to the High King Arthur, that meant freedom. Freedom from a world bounded by snow, ice, cold and stone walls. To be sure, a long winter's night had its pleasures, but for all that, Gareth loved the day, and the wide sweep of the world, especially from the back of a horse at full gallop.

Gareth rode hard. The wind still touched with winter's spite slapped his face. Despite that, sweat already dampened his padded leather training armor and ran down from under his banded helm. His shield slapped against his back in time to the drumming of his horse's gallop. Hooves thundered behind him as his fellows, now his rivals, rode fast to catch up with him. His gelding's legs pumped and its sides heaved from its exertions as Gareth bent low over its head. They careened between the well-spaced orchard trees, Gareth guiding the horse with a firm hand and a fast word. Sir Lancelot had taken on a new boy to train, and had declared that all his squires should ride out with him to put the newcomer through his paces. Gareth grinned, and dug his heels into his horse's yielding sides once more so the beast put on a fresh burst of speed. Handling the reins while keeping hold of the flimsy wooden stick he carried in place of an actual spear was difficult, but he kept that toy tucked under his arm as he pressed forward. As first among the great knight's squires, he was not about to let any of the others win this race.

Out of the corner of his right eye, Gareth could just see the new boy, Ewen, pull even with Lionel, and ease then ahead, but he couldn't maintain his lead and Ewen fell back with the others.

Not bad, though
, Gareth thought, bending that much lower over his horse's neck.
Come on, Achaius, let's show them what you can really do.

The edge of the orchard was drawing near, along with a tree that had come down with the winter storms. With knees, reins, and nerve, Gareth sent Achaius hurtling over the trunk and out into the open fields. Mud spattered up from under the horse's hooves as he dug in his heels. Achaius barrelled forward without missing a step. The other hoofbeats fell back and mingled with shouts, and not a few curses.

One last set of hoofbeats, though, thundered nearer. A blur of bronze and red swept easily past Gareth as his knight, Sir Lancelot of the Lake, took the lead of the small troop. He shot across the field toward the next rise. Would he take them over it? No. He checked abruptly, wheeling his great red horse around, and riding straight for Gareth. Achaius spooked at the sudden approach, and danced sideways, but Gareth kept his seat and regained control of his mount as the knight charged into the crowd of boys following him, wheeled, and charged Gareth again. This time, Sir Lancelot had the blunt and flimsy spear down and pointed right at Gareth's chest.

Gareth brought up his own false weapon charged, he held his mock spear out sideways, hoping he could slip past the knight's spear and knock Sir Lancelot from the saddle. It was a chancy move, but if he could just keep on the straight path …

But his aim was off and Sir Lancelot's spear struck home first. The hammer force of the blow shattered the light wood, but still bowled Gareth out of his saddle. The world spun until the hard ground slammed against his back and stopped it forcibly. As soon as breath returned to his lungs, Gareth, thankful for the leather and quilting that cushioned him, scrambled to his feet, swinging his shield off his back and yanking his wooden practice sword from its sheath. Lancelot, grinning with a ferocity that made even Gareth's blood go cold, charged again, spear out and down in a way that would have spelled grim death if it had been a real weapon.

Man and horse bore down on him. Gareth stood his ground, shield up and sword ready. Sir Lancelot had also drawn a wooden sword and aimed it at Gareth's head. Gareth parried, pivoting aside as he did. His vision wobbled dangerously, but he kept his feet, ready for the next pass. The other boys had formed up in a rough line, staring, the youngest of them pop-eyed, obviously not sure how frightened they should be.

The next pass didn't come. Sir Lancelot reined in his horse, and turned, the fierce grin still in place. “Good! That's how it should be done. On your feet and weapon out.” His outland accent made the words tilt and lilt musically. “The man on horseback always has the advantage, but there's nothing you can do sprawling in the mud crying about your bruises.”

Lancelot dismounted then, and Gareth put up his sword. The Gaulish knight was a fair man. His hair and neat beard shone like brass in the sunlight, and his eyes flashed bright blue. He was not a great man with words, but it was not words that brought such a man fame. Men said that Gareth's brother Gawain was the greatest of the cadre of the Round Table, but it was beyond Gareth's understanding how anyone could say that who had seen Sir Lancelot fight. With sword and shield, none could stand before him. On horseback, he was a storm wind and utterly fearless. No show of force could even slow him down. When he sparred in the practice yard, work stopped so all could watch him dismantle his opponent's defences and drive them to the ground. Not one knight in all of Arthur's host had ever made Lancelot yield. Not Geraint, not Gawain. Agravain had never even tried.

“Now!” Sir Lancelot roared. “Which of you will stand up to Gareth here! Who will show us what you're made of?” The knight looked expectantly at the ragged line of boys on horses. Gareth thought Lionel or Brendon might step up. But before either of them could move, Ewen had dismounted and stepped forward.

“Ewen! Good,” boomed Lancelot folding his arms and standing aside. “Make your try!”

Ewen was a full head shorter and at least two stone lighter than Gareth, but the boy had his shield down and pulled his sword, charging before Gareth had chance to get his sword up for a proper parry. He had to duck fast and dance back to buy himself room and time. The boy fought fast and hard, raining down his blows, not prepared to draw breath or give Gareth a chance to draw it, continuing to force him back by sheer speed. Wood creaked and thumped. The blows jolted up his arms to his shoulders as Ewen hammered on him again and again, evidently trying to make up for lack of reach by closing in.

All right.

Gareth turned, angling and curving his path, until he put Ewen's back to the hill. Then, Gareth began to advance, not really attacking, but driving, easing forward with each deliberate parry and short thrust. Ewen, so intent on getting in one clattering blow, and one more, and one more after that, didn't feel what was happening, until Gareth lunged forward under his guard, shoved his shield hard against him and sent the boy hurtling backward over a big white stone. Gareth leapt over that same stone, and stood with his sword at Ewen's throat.

“Do you yield?” Gareth panted.

Ewen, sensibly, lifted his hand off his sword hilt. “I yield me.”

Gareth sheathed his sword, and reached down to help Ewen up. The boy smiled, and rubbed his shoulder, taking the whole incident with good grace.

He'll do, this one. Do well, in fact.

Sir Lancelot seemed to think so too. “Not bad, boy.” He clapped Ewen on his good shoulder. “But you let your opponent take charge of the fight. You had a chance to use that move of Gareth's against him.” Sir Lancelot put himself directly in front of Ewen. Gareth swung his shield onto his back and stepped away so he stood with Lionel and the others.

“Now, see, you stood, so.” Sir Lancelot bent back, raising his arm in imitation of Ewen's previous posture. “Here. You're balance is gone. All he had to do was this …” Sir Lancelot swung around and twisted, slamming his shoulder into Ewen, sending him sprawling once more into the spring mud. This time he was a little slower to rise. “Stand up, Ewen. You're a man, no sheep,” chided Sir Lancelot. “Try on me.”

Ewen stood, but hesitated to obey the rest of the instruction. Gareth couldn't blame him. He knew from experience that trying to shift Sir Lancelot was like trying to shift a standing stone. Before too long though, the boy showed his spirit. He eyed his opponent's stance before he swung his body and struck, trying to make use of what weight he had. He did make Sir Lancelot, who was grinning over his head, stagger a little.

“Good! Good!” cried the knight. “You've got the idea. You used your head, and your eyes. But you see, I, your man, stood so …” He pushed Ewen into a fighting stance. “Now, for that, this is where you take him.” Sir Lancelot clapped great hand on Ewen's shoulder and one on his waist.

The praise had made Ewen daring. “But a sword …”

But Sir Lancelot did not let him finish. “Didn't that first fall teach you? A sword's a good tool for man and knight, almost as fine as horse or spear, but there will come the day that all has been taken from you. Then all you've is what God gave you, and you must be ready. Come, get that sword there and you'll see what I mean.”

Ewen swallowed. Gareth grinned down at Lionel, who was already shaking his head in sympathy. Ewen was proving once more he was quick on the uptake, because he'd gone pale. As before, though, he faced it well, reclaiming his training weapons and holding them up and ready. He kept his attention on his opponent and teacher, and tried not to let himself be distracted by the sniggers and quiet bets going on behind him.

Sir Lancelot lunged forward, and Ewen was able to parry, but not to hold. The knight drew his sword back with a hard twist that yanked the blade out of Ewen's gauntleted hands and sent it spinning onto the trampled grass.

“Now what, Sir Ewen?” inquired Lancelot, not even out of breath, and not lowering his guard a single inch as he circled his newest boy. “Now what?”

Gareth expected the boy to try to feint and run, maybe thinking to get behind the knight. He'd tried something of the kind when he'd been in Ewen's place. But the boy drew back his shoulders and knelt, bowing his head in surrender. Lancelot laughed hard at this and walked up to the boy, sheathing his practice sword as he did. He slapped Ewen's bony shoulder hard.

“You'll do, boy, you'll do. But you've got to learn not to give up so easy. Come,” He heaved Ewen to his feet easily with a one armed grip. “Walk with me. Gareth …”

But Gareth did not need to be told what to do. As the oldest of Sir Lancelot's current squires, the great red stallion, Taranis, was Gareth's personal responsibility, and Gareth had studied his duty diligently. Ignoring the laughter and talk around him, he removed the bit from Taranis's teeth and loosened the saddle girth. He gave the horse's legs a cursory check, and did the same for hooves. Finding Taranis to be in good condition, he turned and did the same for Achaius. The horses were all hot and blown from the wild ride. Walking them back would cool them down and keep them from stiffening up.