Chapter 53
Fifty-Three
Before we knew what was happening, we were moving north, towards the distant outer bluffs of Camelot. Some knights were on horseback, others on foot. All of us were bleary-eyed and confused.
Gawain and I found Arthur at the front. The constellations were fading into a navy sky.
“It’s King Mark of Cornwall,” Arthur said. “He’s sending his army.”
“How many?” Gawain asked.
“Some four thousand.” He looked down at his horse. “With bolt throwers and a siege engine.”
“You have this on good report?”
“Very good. King Mark’s intended rode five hours to warn us.”
I looked back at our forces, some few thousand strong.
How we’d pulled ourselves together so quickly, I could not fathom.
The battalion was arranged by expertise, the greenest fighters in the front with steel shields.
Half our forces were still drunk, the other half too terrified to think straight. I was a mix of both.
“What of Mark’s intended?” asked Gawain.
“Her name is Isolde.” Then, dropping his voice, he added, “She had her reasons for warning us. Her mother, Lotta, is one of the sisterhood.”
I pictured Lotta’s ermine face, her short hair combed and swept to the side. She had freckled skin, stiff shoulders, and a long neck adorned with a polished emerald neck-ring. Her eyes weren’t hard like Glitonea’s, but they did carry an iron determination that I imagined her daughter shared.
“I feared this day would come,” Arthur acknowledged. “I only wish Merlin were here for guidance. If we engage Mark’s knights at the Borderlands, perhaps we can prevent an all-out siege. How do you feel, Gawain?”
“Like shit.”
“And you, Lancelot?”
“I’ve been better.”
“We can only hope to reason with their leaders—King Mark’s nephew Tristan and a Knight with No Name. Isolde believes Tristan might be persuaded. I don’t know about the other.”
I looked to Gawain. A knight without a name was a dangerous prospect. A knight without a name had nothing to lose.
“Once we get to the bluffs, we’ll set up our own bolt throwers. I want a strong show of force. A deterrent.”
Dawn came. We moved along ploddingly. I had on my white surcoat, chain mail, gloves, a riveted iron hauberk and a helmet.
My shield was on one side, my lance on the other.
I could feel the exhaustion stinging my eyes, the ale sludging through my veins, Samhain gathering as an ache at the base of my skull.
In truth, I was thankful for it. A welcome blunting.
After the dragon, I knew I could stare down death, but the thought of the city’s destruction was too devastating to consider.
Back in Camelot, the drawbridge had been lifted.
The gates were bolted and towers fortified.
For the first time in memory the castle was shuttered, completely closed off from the outside world.
Behind us, rows of foot soldiers were flanked by knights on horseback.
Everyone in Camelot had trained for this moment.
But in the strained light of dawn it felt unreal.
Across the bluffs, I could see the first lines of Mark’s army. Their forces looked formidable. They filled the entire width of the bluffs and flowed over the hillside. I presumed there were more of them than us.
If they took Camelot, they’d easily take Logres. Then they could seize Listenoise, Estrangor and Gore up through Scotland. Rome would install their bishoprics. Temples and shrines would be destroyed. They would snuff out the old ways and destroy its adherents.
Arthur halted. We were an arrow’s bolt from enemy lines. Parched and diminished from the night before, I struggled to access a battle mindset. The swirl of emotions that typically plagued me was dulled by my own exhaustion.
We waited. The wind flattened the grasses.
I could smell the fear emanating from our knights, mingling with the hot scent of breath and other stenches.
Finally, the Cornish army parted for their leaders.
Tristan and the nameless knight rode out into the middle space.
They wore red surcoats and their horses had red barding.
Arthur removed his helmet. “I’m going out there.”
“I’m coming with you,” said Gawain.
I stepped next to him. “So will I.”
“No,” Arthur said. “I need to speak to them alone.”
He rode out to the center of the bluff and dismounted. The one I presumed to be Tristan took off his helmet. He was younger than I expected, with a smooth, stoic face. The three began to speak, but their words were lost to the wind.
I shifted my focus to the Knight with No Name.
His sword was sheathed, but I did not like how he kept a grip on its handle.
I feared he might make a move against Arthur.
I took off my helmet to get a better look, but in doing so I drew his attention from across the bluff.
His helmet was bucket-like, with a cylindrical flat top, slats for the eyes and holes for breathing.
I could feel him piercing me through those eye slats, the world between us shrinking to a needle.
The nameless knight unsheathed his sword. Was he about to charge me? He took a few steps forward, holding my gaze. Arthur and Tristan stopped talking and turned to watch him stagger forward. His sword fell to the ground, swallowed by the wind-whipped grass. Slowly, he removed his helmet.
No, I thought. It can’t be possible.
The auburn hair. The bladed cheeks. Eyes as brown as the rings of a tree. I’d know him anywhere, and I knew him now. It wasn’t possible. But there he was.
In the center of the bluff stood Galehaut.