Under Camelot's Banner (34 page)

“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 groaned 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 unmoving 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.”

Gareth's heart swelled with pride, and with those few words, the nagging aching fear that had dogged him since Camelot fell away.

His own battle won, Gareth set about the business of carrying out his knight's commands.

As easily as that, it was done.

The men holding the fort, upon hearing their usurping king was dead and that their families were hostage to Camelot, were willing enough to lay down their arms and descend in a long line into the valley. One of them even brought Camelot's gold which Enor had sent up into hiding with them.

While these waited under guard beside their women, Lancelot rode up with one of the men at arms to inspect the fort for himself. There followed a long hour while they watched the hill, fairly certain all was right, but restless all the same, in case it was not. Then, at last, they saw a flicker of movement and a flash of blue and white on the fortress sagging wall as the queen's banner was hung out for all to see.

The men of Camelot all cheered and Gareth raised his own horn, blowing two high notes to let the procession on the hill know it was safe to begin the journey down into the valley that had been so swiftly won. But the celebration was short-lived, for after that came the task of collecting their dead. Sir Ruawn and the other men were laid out straight and wrapped reverently in their cloaks while the priest prayed over them all, seeking God's intercession for the men who had died doing their duty. Then, they set some of the Rosveare to digging their graves.

The queen herself had ignored Sir Lancelot's blunt assessment that the king's old council should be put to the sword for leading a rebellion against the high king. She instead gathered them, and their families around her, and heard the tale of how Enor had come to power. It was an old, and an ugly story, of a drunken brawl, challenged honor, and a lucky blow, a younger brute overcoming an older leader. No one was willing to come forward with complaints of other crimes, not even King Telent's widow. Queen Guinevere, holding court from her simple folding chair, urged the king's council to elect a new leader from among themselves, and ordered that they should go to Camelot to swear their new fidelity to the high king, and if they did not, a delegation from the Round Table would come calling to find out why that was. The treasure, she put in the council's hands.