Chapter 17 A Brief Respite #2
He covered their rear with Gawain, Gwen riding in the middle with Morgan, the two of them whispering all the while, plotting he didn't want to know what.
Everyone thought Arthur and his inner circle of knights were the most dangerous people in the land, but it was the four witches—Morgan, Guinevere, Elaine, and Iseult, the women who ruled the court, who were the real threat.
Far be it for him to correct people, though. Let them be surprised.
The landscape was beautiful, as real as real could be, though the idea that the game was simply a gateway to this almost perfect pocket universe still seemed so strange to him. But was it any stranger than being reborn hundreds of years in the future to continue a battle they'd lost?
All around him were forest and valley, miles of farmland and meadows filled to bursting with wildflowers.
The kind of landscape he'd never see in real life, buried in the slums where everything was brown, gray, and gray-brown.
Even the wealthy would never see beauty like this, not really, preferring to remain in their literal bubbles.
Despite himself, Lancelot let his mind wander, lulled by the quiet travel and the peaceful beauty all around them.
"Sir du Lac!" one of the guards at the drawbridge said, lifting a hand high in greeting, just visible in the light of torches affixed to poles on either side of the bridge. "We're honored to have you here."
"Honored?" Lancelot repeated, too startled to hold his tongue as he should. He dismounted as he reached them, as there was no reason to continue on horse into a likely-busy yard.
The man started to reply, but wilted and stayed silent at a look from one of the knights sent as promised to escort Lancelot to see Galehaut. He'd assumed he'd be going into Galehaut's camp, but instead he'd been escorted a few hours away to Castle Sorelois.
Lancelot smiled at the man and bowed his head, which brightened him considerably as he shyly added, "Of course we're honored to have you here, Your Highness. My mother is half siren. I have very little of her blood, but enough."
"An honor to meet you as well, brother of the deep waters," Lancelot said warmly, taking the man's hands and gripping them tightly, then hugging him briefly. "Well met."
"Well met, Your Highness."
Nobody on land called him that. Very few even knew he carried that title. His royal status in the water mattered little on land, after all.
The man faded off at a look from the first guard, as the second guard saluted and said, "His Highness awaits you, Sir du Lac." He turned and hailed the guards manning the bridge, and moments later it lowered for him. "Merry evening to you, and please enjoy your time with us."
"Thank you. God grant you a peaceful watch."
As he continued onward into the keep, he could hear the guards' whispered fight behind him, a mixture of the guards angrily reprimanding the man who'd spoken up, and the part-siren man staunchly defending himself as he explained who Lancelot really was and why they could mind their own damned business.
Lancelot smiled faintly, but his amusement was overtaken by nerves once more as he passed through the portcullis and stepped officially into Castle Sorelois, seat of Prince Galehaut, crown prince of the Distant Isles, son of a giantess, a fierce, unstoppable force in battle, and never defeated.
Until yesterday.
The sun would not yet rise for a little while yet, more than enough time to hopefully have a proper bath and put on the finer clothes he'd brought with him, as he did not want to fulfill his promise in travel clothes and with only rough camp baths for the past many days.
He was used to being stared at wherever he went, once his identity was known, but it was more disconcerting here because they only stared with open curiosity and not the hostility he'd been expecting.
Every last one of them, Lancelot included, knew that Galehaut would have won that battle.
Even against Arthur and Lancelot and the main force of his army, Galehaut and the might of the Distant Isles would have carried the day.
Now, because of his surrender, the Distant Isles were rightfully and fairly claimed by Arthur, and Galehaut's father… well, that was Arthur's problem. Lancelot had been told to get lost and stay out of it, because he'd more than done his part.
"Welcome, Sir du Lac," said a handsome young woman as she came striding up, hair hidden by a red veil embroidered with myriad flowers, matching the kirtle over a dark green gown.
"We are honored to have you here at Sorelois.
I'll escort you to your chambers, where you can rest before audience with His Highness, who was called away briefly to attend a minor emergency. "
Lancelot nodded and thanked the knights who'd escorted him before following the woman into the keep proper. "Why does everyone stare so?"
She chuckled. "It's not every day we have a legendary knight in our midst."
"Their own prince is a legendary knight."
"True, but not one who can turn into a great silver serpent and command water to do his bidding, who is friends with Merlin the Wild and Mordred the Terrible."
Lancelot snorted. "The only thing terrible about Mordred is their ability to keep their mouth shut."
The woman gaped at him, then pressed her lips together in a futile effort not to laugh.
"They once called a visiting noble from France a rancid toad before punching him dead in the face, breaking his nose quite thoroughly.
Arthur kicked them from court for the rest of the evening, so Mordred waited on the road, waylaid the man on his way to his rented manor, and lambasted him anew before punching him again.
Arthur almost killed them. Not because they were wrong for doing so—the man was entirely too fond of children in the worst way—but because they were completely thwarting Arthur and Merlin's plans for something far more insidious.
Mordred, like their flames, works quickly and brutally.
I suppose that would seem terrible to victims and bystanders with little knowledge of the matter at hand. "
"Quite so," the woman said, then stopped in front of a door. "Your chambers, good knight. Someone will come to escort you when His Highness is ready to see you."
"Thank you, and God grant a good day."
"Be blessed." She curtsied and then strode off in that way of women with things to do and no time for the trivialities of the men always getting in her way. Morgan and the others would love her.
"Maiden, I did not catch your name, if you're willing to share it."
She turned and smiled. "I am Lady Iseult, my mother and His Highness are old friends and he's granted us use of his home for as long as we need. Farewell for now, good knight."
Lady Iseult. Mercy alive. This was where she and her mother had vanished.
Problem for another day.
For the present, he stepped into his chambers and closed the door behind him, leaning against it to take everything in and simply be for the moment.
It was a handsome room, small as most castle rooms were, but well-appointed, with rugs and tapestries to mitigate draft and chill, a bed with the heavy drapes currently drawn back, a small fire to keep the space warm, a wardrobe and dressing table.
There was also a bath waiting, which was the best thing he had seen in days.
Servants brought his belongings just as he was settling into the bath, and the offer one made to wash his hair was too nice to be refused. The water was still hot, fragrant with oil that smelled of flowers, though he couldn't say which ones. Arthur would have known; he loved flowers.
Nearly an hour later, as sunlight was just beginning to hint along the horizon, he stood dressed and ready to face the day ahead of him. A day worth surrendering an entire kingdom. Lancelot still didn't know what to make of that.
Someone knocked on the door and then stepped inside, curtsying before saying, "His Highness invites you to see him in his chambers, Sir du Lac."
Lancelot's heart, already racing, started beating fit to burst. "Of course."
The trip wasn't far, just down the hallway, an open stretch that overlooked the great hall below.
It would be a poor place to fight, too easy to fall or be thrown over the side, and he wondered that the builders would have made such a careless mistake or that the mistake had been allowed.
There was some advantage to being able to see what was happening below, but the defense to sacrifice was too great.
All thought of castle design fled his mind as his escort opened the door at the end of the walkway, curtsied, and bid him good day before walking past him back the way they'd come.
Lancelot stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
It was a large room for a castle, even more beautifully appointed than his own, though not ostentatious and overblown as so many royal apartments tended to be.
There was no bed, so there must be another chamber for that, a luxury indeed.
This room had chairs, two wardrobes, an armor stand and weapon racks, a fireplace, a table already laid with food, and was decorated throughout with rugs and tapestries.
At the desk, back to Lancelot, was Galehaut, attention on something he was reading.
Lancelot stepped forward, purposely scuffing his feet on the stone floor before reaching soft, plush rug that would have taken some poor group of people literal years to weave, and they'd likely been paid a pittance to do it.
Galehaut's short curls seemed to absorb all the light around them, and he was so tall that if he craned up on his toes, his hair would brush the ceiling.
He was broad—delightfully, distractingly broad—and dressed in court finery that even Lancelot would never be able to match, and as Arthur's right hand, he wanted for very little in life.