Chapter Sixteen #2
Arthur grimaced. “There are many parts of my body I hold very dear to me that are roughly the size of a large turnip.”
“Yes, like your brain,” Gwen hissed, clearly forgetting herself for a second before clearing her throat.
“Sorry, yes, thank you … John. Still, we will endeavor to capture the Beast alive, as it might be a very important specimen.” This was not met with much enthusiasm, so she added, “And we can ensure that it has no parent or progeny that might continue to bother your pigs.”
“What if it’s of the devil?” another man said, clutching his pitchfork fearfully. “Nothing godly would haunt us so.”
“Ah,” said Master Buchanan, stepping forward, the people eyeing his cultist robe with interest. “I’m glad you asked. I think it’s not quite so simple as all that. Is a lion of the devil, simply because it hunts? Can you damn a creature for behaving according to his nature?”
“I think I can speak to this,” cut in Cardinal Richards. “If it is of the devil, then our mastery over it today will only further prove that the king acts with the hand of God guiding him, to smite all those creatures who—”
“Smite?” said Master Buchanan. “I think we’re a little more civilized than that, archbishop.”
“More civilized than God?”
“We’ll capture the Beast first,” Gwen interjected, “and then we can ascertain its godliness, or otherwise. Rest assured, we will look into it.”
This seemed to placate people well enough, and encourage them to disperse in the direction of the perimeters.
John mounted his horse and led the party, complete with a few additional, sensible locals, farther into the wood, with Gwen at his side.
They were talking together seriously, and Bridget was struck again by Gwen’s poise and bearing.
Bridget was reluctantly used to people wanting to be seen with her by now.
It had been a hard adjustment from tourney pariah to trophy knight, but she’d caught on pretty fast when people had started choosing to sit next to her in the feasting tents and conveniently ending up next to her at sign-up tables, striking up conversations.
It meant something, now, to be seen in the vicinity of the knight who’d slain the traitor Willard with the (replica) sword Excalibur. Usually just that Bridget hadn’t been fast enough to realize that someone was attempting to ride on her cloaktail and hurry away.
She’d never understood the urge to position oneself next to greatness until right now, watching Gwen’s face in profile as she talked with authority to a stranger, as the party trotted onward after her into the wood. Bridget wanted to belong by her side.
“Now, the forest is big,” said John, once he’d drawn them to a stop. “And, no offense meant, but you’re quite … loud, all together. Best we split up, each follow one of these game trails, or we’ll be searching all day and night, and the Beast will’ve heard us a mile off and gone to ground.”
“Does it live under the ground?” Sir Leonard asked. “Like a mole?”
“It lives where it pleases,” John said gravely. “And where least pleases us.”
It was decided that they would pair up as before, with more experienced knights and swordspeople matched with softer-handed counterparts, and each with a local guide: Sir Hurst with Gabriel, Florian with Bowen, Leonard with Adah, Sidney with Arthur.
An older man who seemed struck almost speechless with the honor was going to act as guide to the king.
“And I’ll ride with Sir Bridget,” Gwen said quickly, as if getting it out in a rush would stop Arthur from shooting pointed looks at her, which it did not. Bridget didn’t care. In fact, she almost smiled, but caught herself at the last moment and returned to appropriate knightly solemnity.
“The king should not ride so loosely protected,” said Sir Hurst. “I am an able swordsman, but I insist we ride with the guards.”
“If we ride with the guards, we’re not going to have any chance of glimpsing the Beast,” Gabriel said. “And I’d quite like to. Glimpse it, I mean.”
Privately, Bridget agreed with Sir Hurst. His constant suspicion was very affirming.
“Your Majesty, the people here were warned of your coming, and they might have—”
“Perhaps the guards could ride a short distance away,” Gwen suggested, glancing sideways at John to see if he’d noticed that Sir Hurst was implying he and the other villagers might turn traitor any minute. “Not so close they ruin the hunt, but nearby if needed.”
“Fine,” Gabriel said, looking a bit like a child whose game had been ruined by adult intervention.
“Sorry, but it’s not fine,” said Sir Hurst.
“We’ll ride with you,” Arthur volunteered. “Won’t we, Sid? We’re very quiet. Discreet.”
“Oh?” said Sidney. “Yeah. Discreet. Big time.”
Bridget bit her lip, and did not laugh. It would not be appropriate to laugh.
“Sidney’s great with a sword, and I can be a human shield, in a pinch.”
Gabriel was peering questioningly at Arthur, Gwen was waiting for Sir Hurst, and Sir Hurst was looking as if he were about to demand they call the entire thing off—until Gwen clapped her hands and said, “That settles it then.”
It seemed that it did.
“Loud clapping,” John said disapprovingly, as they all reshuffled into their groupings, “is just the sort of thing that’ll drive away any self-respecting Beast.”