CHAPTER 31

From the path below, they were part of the forest itself. Even seen close-up, on the top of the ridge where they lay, the six or eight leafy mounds gave nothing way. All creatures of the woodland know how to make hemselves invisible when they choose. Those lying in mbush were a part of the greenwood now.

But they were men too, and all men have to live. At the sound of hooves, the foremost mound stirred and raised a watchful head. Travelers on the remote woodland track so late on a winter’s day spelled plunder for the outlaw band and nothing but ill fortune for themselves.

The leader swiveled his one good eye through the pile of leaf mold and grinned at what he saw. Two young knights, richly clad, brothers by the look of them, always easy pickings, these soft sons of old lords. Brought up with every indulgence, equipped with the finest weapons, they never knew what real fighting was. But this pair of milksops would soon find out what their swords were for.

The leader prepared to give the signal for the attack. At his side his second-in-command lay poised to strike, and the men were all eager for the coming kill, snuffling for the taste of blood like winter wolves. It would be hard, he knew, to make them act cleanly, take the plunder, and get away. They were starting to show a dangerous preference for dragging out unlucky wayfarers’ deaths.

The leader bared a mouthful of blackened stumps. No one but a madman enjoyed the work of death. And only one who truly wanted to die would linger in the place where he had killed.

His deputy stirred and lightly touched his arm. The two young knights were almost below them now. Both were riding unguardedly on a loose rein, swinging their mailed feet to ease their tired legs. They had ridden long and hard, that was plain. All the easier to make short work of them.

He signaled, and the attackers slid down the slope as swift as snow in March. The knights were given no time to cry out before each was dragged from his horse, beaten, and disarmed. Then they were brought before the leader with their hands bound, one bleeding freely from a cut above his eye, the other dazed and trembling from a cudgeling to the head.

“So, lads,” the leader sneered, “and who are you?”

The two knights shared a glance before the taller replied. “Sons of Sir Bernard of Astolat, lord of the manor by the marsh.”

“Names?”

“My brother is called Tirre, and my name is Lavain.”

“Knights, both of you.”

“Of course.”

“ ‘Of course,’ ” mimicked the outlaw with an ugly emphasis. He jerked his head at Tirre. “And what’s the matter with him? Can’t he speak?”

The younger of the two answered with a trembling start. “Believe me, you villain, I can and I will—”

“Hold on, brother.” Lavain kept his eye firmly on the leader as he spoke. “We are in your hands, it seems. Let us discuss what can be done.”

“So!”

The leader advanced toward the horses that stood snorting and shying in the outlaws’ hands. “Good nags you’ve got here.” He grinned. “Or did have, I should say. They’re ours now.”

“Take them,” said Lavain, with an unconscious toss of the head. He looked at the outlaws’ loamy rags, their wild eyes, pinched faces, and starved mouths. “Take the saddlebags too. There’s clothes and blankets, and some food in there. It’s yours.”

He had spoken more out of charity than fear. But he had not calculated the effect of his careless chivalry on the desperate and deprived creatures all around.

“Who do you think you are?”

The deputy gripped his sword in his hands, moved forward, and with great deliberation, spat in Lavain’s face. A hoarse cheer broke from a handful of the men, and excitement sparked between them, one by one.

The leader felt a tightening around his heart. He had to exert his authority, and soon. Or else he, too, could face the fate that awaited the two young captives, a knife in the guts or the long, slow dance in the air.

Around them the night was gathering through the trees.

“What are we waiting for?” hissed the deputy. “Let’s kill them now!”

Tirre’s eyes flared. “Kill us? Why?”

Lavain lifted his head. “Kill me, if you must,” he said quietly, “but let my brother live. It will kill my father to lose his youngest son.”

“Then you’ll all be together pretty soon.” The leader gave a coarse guffaw. “Because you’re dead men, you and your brother both. We’re condemned already, so it’s nothing to us how many more we kill. But we never leave a soul to tell the tale.” He nodded to his deputy. “Get on with it, then. Hang them.”

“Hang yourself!”

With a wild scream, Tirre burst the rope that secured his hands, and twisted from his attackers’ grasp. In an instant Lavain followed his brother’s lead, though the ropes around his wrists held fast. Yet still he plunged and reared and kicked and fought, ducking out of the grasp of his captors like an eel.

In one inspired move, he succeeded in getting his back against Tirre’s. Back to back, the two brothers fought nobly, but not for long. Both wounded, and one still bound, they were no match for half a dozen brutes hungry for the kill. Within minutes a rain of furious blows had driven Lavain to his knees. Tirre was brought down by a cudgel in the stomach, and lay on the ground coughing blood.

You fools, thought the leader, with something like despair. I’d already given you the chance of a good clean death. Now the men will make your dying last for hours. Well, so be it. There’s nothing can save you now.

Still, he’d give the order just the same. “Hang them!” he said.

The deputy looked at him. “They’ve had their fun,” he said. “It’s our turn now.”

The leader turned away. “Hang them!” he shouted to the men.

All stared impassively. None moved to obey.

“You see?” said the deputy with interest, waving at the grinning ranks.

A dull fear fastened on the leader’s heart. He had felt this moment coming for far too long. He rounded on his deputy, feeling for the cold comfort of his sword.

“Do you challenge me?” he barked.

The deputy stepped toward him, his arms hanging down, his own sword and dagger swinging lightly by his side.

“No,” he said easily.

“Good.” The leader felt an inward spurt of relief. He stuck out his chin as the deputy approached, then glanced around the band. “Let’s hear it, then. Am I the leader here, or you?”

“I am.”

The unseen dagger flashed. The leader’s eyes came to a pinpoint of pain, and blood frothed from his mouth. The deputy pulled the blade from his leader’s heart, and watched the dark red stream as the dead man crumpled slowly to the ground. Nothing moved.

The deputy stirred the heap of rags on the ground with the toe of his boot. Then he advanced on Tirre and Lavain, his hands still dripping blood. His grin was terrible. “Now then,” he said. “Who’s first?”

ON THE EDGE of the forest, thick pools of darkness gathered under every tree. Lancelot drew his horse to a halt and felt the beginnings of despair. Parting from Guenevere had surely been enough. Did he have to send Bors and Lionel away as well?

He shook his head. He knew only that traveling with his cousins had been more than he could bear. Each day he faced the growing sense that his love for Guenevere had blighted their lives too. And he did not know whether Bors’ grim incomprehension or Lionel’s ready sympathy had been hardest to bear. In the end he had sent them away. They had left without protest, a clear sign that they, too, felt the misery they were in.

And now—

He drew a deep breath and looked around without hope. Not an inn or a castle for miles, nowhere for a stranger to rest his weary head. It was not wise, he knew, for a lone traveler to venture by night in the wood, but he did not care. There would be shelter under the trees, and some rest for his aching heart. He closed his heels on his horse’s sides, and the willing beast moved off. “Onward!” he whispered. “On!”

The first he knew of the disturbance ahead was a faint sound or two reaching him through the dark. He slowed his pace, and eased his horse in the direction of the noise. In a clearing ahead he could see two young men tied half-naked to a tree, their bodies covered in blood. Blood puddled around their feet from countless knife cuts to their chests and arms. Surrounding them were a pack of their tormentors, and even from a distance Lancelot could see their savage glee.

Keeping close to the side of the track, he progressed as silently as he could. The horse’s hooves made little sound on the grass above the raucous shouts and laughter of the men. Their attention was divided between their sport with the two young knights and the spoils they had seized from the saddlebags. One cavorted in a shirt of silver mail taken from Lavain’s back. Another was drawing Tirre’s mailed gauntlets on and off with the delight of a child. But none of them noticed Lancelot in the gloaming till the great white horse came down on them with the force of an avenging ghost.

“Benoic! A moi, Benoic!”

Chanting the ancient battle cry of his house, Lancelot put the heavy horse into a gallop and drew his sword. He swept into the clearing, swinging his sword like an ax, then using the point to stab this way and that. One outlaw fell like a stone, transfixed through the throat. A second dropped where he stood, his head almost severed from his neck.

“Every man for himself!” The outlaw band scattered screaming to the winds, with Lancelot in pursuit. Two of the fleeing men were brought down with blows to the head. Another crawled off into the undergrowth to die, a torrent of red spouting from his chest.

“God bless you, stranger!” croaked Tirre, his lips black with blood. Lancelot pulled his horse’s head around in furious haste, and renewed his attack.

At last only the former deputy remained, standing his ground.

“Surrender, wretch!” cried Lancelot from his horse. “You are defeated, throw down your sword.”

“Not so, lord,” the outlaw replied, his eyes bright. “There’s no honor to you to kill a man on the ground. I challenge you to single combat, man to man.”

Lancelot nodded. “Agreed.” He sheathed his sword, and prepared to dismount.

Lavain found his voice. “Beware him, knight!” he called weakly, through a mouthful of blood. “He killed his own leader treacherously without a fight. He’ll do the same to you!”

As Lavain spoke, the outlaw sprang at Lancelot and stabbed him in the thigh. Then he threw both arms around Lancelot’s waist and dragged him to the ground. As he felt himself falling, Lancelot grabbed for his dagger, and struck straight and true. The blade found his attacker’s throat and severed the main artery in the neck. The outlaw expired as his leader had, surprised by death.

Lancelot lay on the ground entangled in his dead adversary’s limbs. Above him, the white flank of his horse was dark with the blood from his leg. Lancelot heaved himself up and limped over to the tree to release Tirre and Lavain. Bloody and deathly cold, they stumbled out of their bonds.

“We owe you our lives,” said Tirre, weak with wonderment.

Lancelot waved away his trembling thanks. “Any knight would have done the same.”

Lavain took his hand. “What may we call you, sir?”

Lancelot hesitated. “My name is nothing. And the life I led by that name is nothing but sadness to me now.” He frowned at them anxiously. “Will you allow me to withhold it from you?”

The brothers exchanged a bruised smile of disbelief.

“Sir, we will deny you nothing in the world,” Lavain said earnestly. “But you must not deny us this. Our father’s house lies on the far side of the forest, not an hour from here. I beg you, be our guest for as long as you please to stay.”

Lancelot looked away. He did not know what to say.

“You must, sir,” Tirre ground out through chattering teeth. He gestured toward Lancelot’s bleeding thigh. “If nothing else, you’ll need treatment for that wound.”

Lavain looked at Lancelot with concern. “The wretch who attacked you cut deeper than he knew.”

Lancelot nodded bleakly. The outlaw’s knife had struck through to the bone. Infection would follow from the rusty blade, he was sure. Grimly he took the girdle from around his waist, pressed together the two edges of raw flesh, and bound up the wound.

“You’ll come, sir, say you will?” Tirre’s young face was full of hope. “Our father will want to see the savior of his sons.”

Lavain smiled. “And our little sister will never forgive us if we let the hero who saved her brothers get away. Like all girls, she dreams of the knights of King Arthur’s court, as I guess you must be. I beg you, sir, to come.”

Lancelot bowed his head. The pain in his leg made it hard for him to speak. “I must accept. But first let me get you some covering from the night air. You are sorely wounded too.”

Hastily they assembled their belongings and retrieved what they needed from the forest floor. Concealing his own pain, Lancelot assisted the two injured knights to mount. With an effort that made him sweat in the bitter cold, he heaved himself onto his horse. Already he could feel the fever invading his bones.

“So, sirs!” he said, summoning up a cheerful smile. “To your father’s house, then?”

“We call it Astolat,” returned Lavain, with an answering smile.

“To Astolat,” beamed Tirre. “Our father and sister will rejoice to see you, sir.”

The night settled on them like a sleeping thing. Slowly they picked their way down the forest path. All the light snufflings of the woodland soothed Lancelot as if he, too, were a forest creature going to his lair.

Ah, Guenevere, he mourned deep in his soul, you fear my adventuring will bring me other women, who will want me in their beds. But tonight I have saved two lives, and my only reward is to tell tales of knighthood to beguile a child. Lavain’s little sister, the young maid of Astolat, will not let me off lightly, I know. But my faith to you will not be threatened by her.

Watching Lancelot carefully, Lavain took up his reins. His heart overflowed with joy. Wait, sister, see who’s here, look who we’ve brought for you!

It was worth it, he decided, the outlaws’ beating, the knife wounds, the attack. For years he had wanted to bring home a knight for Elaine. At last he could make her childhood wish come true.

And though he called her his little sister, she was a woman grown, and a fair one too. Perhaps this handsome knight might care for her? Weaving a gossamer tissue of hopes, Lavain allowed himself to dream.