Chapter 13 #2
Guinevere’s expression softened as he spoke. “You would do this? After everything that’s happened?”
In a swift, furtive movement, the knight brought her hands to his chest and drew her closer. To my amazement, she allowed it, leaning in to him so far their bodies must have been touching. His voice shook to its depths.
“Anything for you,” he said. “You know that.”
This time, the gasp escaped me, indiscreet and too loud, catching on Guinevere’s consciousness. She wrenched away in alarm.
“We can’t be here like this. It is too much.”
Her champion remained still, regarding her with the same directness. Hesitantly, as if she could not help it, she raised her hand and put it to his cheek.
“My true knight,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing,” he replied. “I know your heart, and you know mine.”
Softly, he lifted her hand from his face, and slowly kissed first her skin, then the emerald ring on her fingers. There was only one, I noted, not the pair she had always worn.
“My Queen,” he said.
They stood there for so long I began to feel like the interloper I was, but I could not risk withdrawing, nor pull myself away. Somewhere beyond this strange moment, a bell rang. Guinevere separated from him, then paused in her retreat, doubt written across her face.
“Go,” the knight told her. “It’s time.”
She left in a sigh of silken skirts, her companion heading in the opposite direction, past where I stood. I shrank back, holding my breath as he went by, then immediately peered out, desperately wanting to see the man who Guinevere let come so dangerously close.
But he was already gone, his long stride carrying him to the battleground, where he would serve his Queen far beyond what was required of any guiltless heart.
*
“Where have you been?” Alys said when I returned. “It’s about to begin.”
“Nowhere in particular.” Telling her would have to wait until I had gathered my own thoughts. First, the performance of Guinevere’s innocence had to play out.
There was none of the usual opulent fuss: trials by combat were judicial and solemn, their ceremony spare. The Queen sat in the former joust judges’ pavilion, looking suitably grave but unperturbed. She had nothing to fear, after all.
Three heralds trooped onto the field to announce the High King of All Britain.
Arthur’s arrival too was understated—instead of parading through the field, he appeared from the back of the Royal Pavilion with no accompanying retinue.
Still, it held the quality of an entrance, the crowd falling to silence as he strode forth, swathed in blood-red silk and ermine.
The difference that had been wrought in him by the years was obvious, but hard to quantify.
He looked older, but not in any particular way, and stronger, though I could not have said how.
The crown around his temples was larger than the one he had favoured in years past, but still modest for a king of his power and reputation.
Nevertheless, he looked greater, as if his increasing legend had taken root in his chest and grown from within.
He offered no speech to his subjects, and no one joined him. King Arthur took his throne alone, poised as if seated amongst thorns.
A second herald stepped forwards. “Now entering the battlefield, the High Queen’s champion,” he announced. “Sir Lancelot du Lac.”
The name elicited sounds of appreciation and reverence around the stands.
All eyes turned to the arena gate as Guinevere’s champion cantered in amidst a blaze of white—his destrier and spotless tunic, armour so bright it shone like star fire.
The closed helmet he wore was crowned with a crest of snowy horsehair, like a Roman commander.
The knight dismounted at speed, handed off his horse to a squire, and bowed—first to Arthur, then separately, deeper, to his Queen.
Formalities dispensed, Sir Lancelot du Lac stalked a large, impatient circle, as if his opponents were already wasting his time.
In the same moment, the air filled with the sound of bells—Camelot’s cathedral, marking the hour.
“Three worthy warriors defend the charges brought by the Crown,” declared the third herald. “Bring out the first challenger.”
The crowd gasped at the news of three duels; unlike many men who talk of great feats, Guinevere’s champion had not exaggerated.
The first knight stomped out onto the field, wielding a two-handed greatsword.
No names were declared, and it soon became clear why: whoever fought was irrelevant to the matter at hand.
In a calm, sleek motion, Sir Lancelot drew his sword, then ran towards his opponent’s heavily swung weapon.
He carried no shield, but as he pushed and danced and struck, it was obvious such prosaic tools would only have slowed him down.
The first man had barely managed to land a blow on the champion’s blade before he lay unconscious.
As the first challenger was carried from the field, the white knight demanded his second.
This fighter proved stronger, cleverer, with a pent-up aggression in his strikes that seemed to ignite something in the Queen’s defender.
Sir Lancelot increased his speed, using all parts of his sword to bludgeon and smash his adversary.
After a lengthy melee, the beleaguered second knight blocked a dramatic upswing, but the force knocked his sword out of his hands.
He had no choice but to yield, and staggered off, stunned.
By the time the final duel was called, the champion looked almost bored, handling his third challenger with the proficient grace of an exhibition fighter.
The crowd began to talk: words of awe and praise for the magnificent feat of arms; the knight’s strength and prowess.
After the first rout, Guinevere was innocent, then their undisputed High Queen.
By the third, no one mentioned her at all—exactly as he had predicted.
As the last man fell to a blow that would have floored a giant, a great clamour took up—the bells of St. Stephen’s ringing again, marking an astounding, definitive victory. The entire battle had taken less than an hour.
Guinevere’s saviour turned immediately to the judges’ stand, but his Queen was gone, already emerging beside her husband in the Royal Pavilion.
When Arthur placed her crown on her head and offered his arm, beaming with pride as she laid her hand atop his, I knew then that Sir Manassen was right.
Everything had gone as my brother intended.
Thus reunited, King and Queen beckoned to the shining white knight, an invitation to join them in their new harmony.
Sir Lancelot du Lac only stood motionless, closed helmet concealing whatever expression his face held.
With sudden decision, he knelt, crossed himself swiftly, then rose and strode off the battleground.
The crowd drew a shocked breath, but Arthur and Guinevere just watched the knight go, their expressions clouded, strangely alike. Immediately, the heralds began to clap, breaking the audience’s pause until applause flowed unabated around the arena.
“That was quite something,” Alys commented above the racket. “The Queen is lucky to have such a champion.”
“Yes, isn’t she?” I mused, then I took her arm and turned our backs to the tilt field. “Come, we’ve seen more than enough.”