The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  “Oh, but sire,” said the woodcutter. “What about my stakes and all this wood?”

  “Kay,” said Arthur, without looking up from the map. “Pay the man his due price. As for the wood, we’ll be moving, so we’ve no need for fortifications. Spare lances and firewood would only slow us down. Take it and sell it with my blessing.”

  The woodcutter stood stricken as Kay grumbled and pushed a bag of clinking gold at him and Ulfius took him by the elbow.

  “I thankee, sire, but surely ye can’t expect me to haul all that back through the woods unguarded! With all them rebel ruffians about!” the woodcutter complained, as Ulfius pulled him and his sons from the pavilion.

  “Griflet, saddle Hengroen. My lords, round up your soldiers and prepare them to march,” Arthur directed.

  Balin watched the growing tumult, felt his own blood begin to course and surge. Battle was coming. Real battle!

  As the two old kings went their ways, each sparing the other a worried look, and servants began to break up the pavilion, Balin looked pleadingly at Bedivere.

  Bedivere acknowledged the look with a nod.

  “Sire!”

  “What is it, Bedivere?” Arthur said, rubbing his bare chin and studying the map once more.

  “This is Sir Balin, come from Northumberland to pledge his sword to your service.”

  Arthur straightened and looked into Balin’s eyes. Balin held his breath and went to one knee, bowing his head.

  He glanced up as Bedivere handed Arthur his sword.

  Arthur examined the old weapon, nicked and tarnished by Balin’s father on campaign against the Saxons.

  “You served King Clarivaunce?” Arthur asked.

  “I served his father, Detors, as did my father before me,” said Balin, fighting to keep the quiver from his voice. If Arthur rejected him, what then? He kept his head bowed, and stared at the mud on Arthur’s armored feet.

  “Why did you serve the father but not the son?” Arthur asked.

  “Clarivaunce is a greedy, disloyal man,” Balin said. “He allied himself with the pagan Carados against his father’s friend King Leodegrance, so as to have his lands.”

  “Do you dislike pagans, Balin?”

  Balin wanted to tell Arthur all about his mother, but this was not the place.

  “I hate their sin, and those who encourage that sin in them.”

  “Yet Albion is home to pagan and Christian alike. If I am High King of Albion, I must love and protect all my subjects. Even Carados and Clarivaunce.”

  “Clarivaunce is not the king I pledged myself to.”

  “Yet he is a king. Is it the right place for a knight to stand in judgment of his king?” Arthur pressed.

  Balin swallowed and chose his words carefully, for he felt that he was but a hairsbreadth from having his sword accepted or refused.

  “Only God may judge any man,” said Balin. “But each must follow God’s law first.”

  Arthur stood a moment.

  “You speak true,” he said at last, “and by God, after my own heart. I have no need for knights who fulfill unworthy orders without question. I want men with strength of character. Men who can reason for themselves, and who will argue their hearts, that I may understand them.”

  Arthur held out his sword to him, point down.

  Balin straightened, glad his armor masked the nervous trembling of his limbs. He felt his eyes well, even as they had not when he’d sworn his life to Detors. He didn’t fully understand all that Arthur said, but he knew somehow that it was wise.

  “Take your sword, and swear to obey the High King and defend him against his enemies, to uphold the law of God so long as he does so, and to defend all women against villainy.”

  Balin gripped the blade and touched his lips to the steel, bowing.

  “I swear, my King.”

  “Rise, Sir Balin.”

  Arthur released the sword and Balin stood and sheathed it, brushing the tears hastily from his cheeks.

  “Now,” said Arthur, clapping a hand to Balin’s shoulder. “I have an important task for you.”

  Balin nodded, caught up once more in the thrill of looming battle. Where was he to go? In the vanguard, at Arthur’s side, he hoped.

  “Go to those worthy peasants, the woodcutter and his sons, and escort them safely from here, wherever they wish to go,” said Arthur.

  Balin felt as if the pavilion collapsed on his head.

  “Bedivere, go with him.”

  “Me, sire?” Bedivere exclaimed.

  Arthur took note of their grimaces.

  “If we can put our wants above the needs of our subjects, we are not fit to rule. Guard those men as you would guard me. Go.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Balin and Bedivere rode with the woodcutter’s wagon between them down the Bedegraine Road west, the marshaling trumpets fading far behind them. Even their horses seemed to drag their hooves at the prospect of this mundane duty. Bedivere’s squire, Griflet, had been impressed to go along and could hide his disappointment no better. He sagged in his saddle and drew the hood of his cloak up to hide his morose countenance.

  Only the woodcutter seemed chipper. Even his silent sons looked dour.

  “Not a bad deal by far in the end, eh?” the old woodcutter chuckled, clinking the sack of gold in his palm as he drove the cart with one shaking skeleton fist. “Oh, we lost time and labor sharpenin’ stakes and carvin’ lances, but we been paid all we was promised plus all this wood to sell again elsewhere at a fair price. God bless King Arthur, says I!”

  “Where do you wish to go, sir?” Bedivere mumbled.

  “Oh, I’ll not keep ye from yer war long,” the woodcutter said, stowing his gold beneath his seat. “Just on to Aneblayse Town, in the valley on the edge of Bedegraine, I think. They’re always in need of wood, and the good thing about firewood, it don’t matter what shape it’s in, so long as it can be broken up for the hearth.”

  He laughed to himself, and that mirthful laughter, combined with the dwindling trumpets, compounded Balin’s misery as sure as any ireful taunts.

  He had ridden so far, pledged himself to the High King, and now on the eve of battle, to be so soundly discarded!

  “I wonder how I have displeased the king,” Bedivere grumbled, voicing Balin’s own thoughts.

  Balin looked across the rump of the old woodcutter’s horse at him.

  “You mean to say, why have you been shunted off to a duty like this with me, an unproven knight, in the face of a battle?”

  “In the face of what will likely be the greatest battle in Albion’s history,” said Bedivere. “Yes.”

  “As to that,” said the old woodcutter, “if ye’ll pardon me interruptin’, sirs, I’m no man-at-arms, but it seems like avoidin’ head-on bloodshed’s a blessing ye ought not to discount, lest the Almighty repay yer ingratitude with tenfold troubles.”

  “I’d welcome those troubles, old man,” said Balin. “I came here to fight.”

  “Aye,” said Bedivere.

  “Well, there’s many a man comes to fight,” said the old woodcutter, “an’ none that comes to die, but they does so all the same.”

  “How is it your sons weren’t conscripted?” Bedivere asked. “Every able bodied man in the country’s been marshaled for Arthur or one of these rebel kings, it seems.”

  “My sons do fight,” the old woodcutter mumbled. “And in these troubled times, not on the same side, I fear.”

  Balin looked back at the two drivers querulously.

  “Oh, they’re not my sons,” said the old woodcutter, with a chuckle and a wave.

  His face fell beneath the shade of his straw hat then. He drew the reins back on the old horse, holding up one trembling hand for the others behind to stop.

  A phalanx of armored men was riding toward them. It was too late to pull the carts off the road. There was nowhere to hide.

  “Oh, God,” said Balin at the sight of the three flapping banners, for he recognized two of them. One, th
e flag of Gore, he had seen with Uriens’ attendants at St. Paul’s. The other, sable, a tower argent, he knew all too well, for it belonged to the pagan King Carados. “It’s the enemy!”

  He drew his sword, and Bedivere did the same.

  “Who are they? I don’t know those arms,” said Bedivere.

  “Uriens of Gore and King Carados.” Balin hissed, shaking his head at the irony. Was God punishing him for breaking faith with Northumberland? Maybe he had been wrong to pledge himself to Arthur after all.

  “The other is King Aguysans!” Griflet exclaimed. “Look!”

  Trotting majestically upon uniformly black destriers came Agusysans’ Hundred. The best knights in Albion, all in gleaming black armor, all bearing their master’s black mailed fist emblem upon a white field. Alone among all Albion’s knights, the Hundred surrendered their lands and their names to devote themselves wholly to the life and service of Aguysans as elite paladins. As part of their induction, they hung their own coats of arms in Aguysans’ hall, foregoing personal glory to share the greater honor of the nameless, faceless Hundred.

  Aguysans himself rode at their heads, identifiable by the gold circlet and purple plume on his closed great helm. Behind him rode the captain of the Hundred, the renowned Sir Morganore, with his white plume of rank streaming behind.

  Balin’s heart fluttered. If his service to Arthur were to be cut short here in this road, at least he would die at the hands of heroes.

  “Griflet,” Bedivere said. “Fetch me my helm.”

  “Belay that, sir,” said the woodcutter pleadingly. “I beg ye. Don’t throw all our lives away here.”

  Balin glanced at the woodcutter. The old man was trembling more than usual.

  Griflet, paused in extracting Bedivere’s helmet from his saddle.

  The column had spotted them now, and some of the knights had drawn arms.

  “Who goes there?” someone shouted.

  “Answer true, and we all die.” The woodcutter hissed. “Please, sirs, Arthur bid ye escort us to Aneblayse in due safety!”

  He had, yet here was a chance now to strike a crippling blow against the enemy. In a few hour’s march, they would meet Arthur’s host in the forest. Perhaps they could weaken them here. He and Bedivere and Griflet.

  That did seem foolish, and it would surely end in their death. He hesitated, horse sense stymying his will to act.

  “Please,” the woodcutter said, clasping and wringing his hands now.

  “Ho there!” called King Carados. “Sir Brulen! What are you doing out here?”

  Balin stiffened in his saddle as Carados and his entourage spurred ahead of the column and came to treat with them.

  Balin had guided Carados through the woods of Northumberland on Clarivaunce’s hunting excursions. They knew each other. But Carados had never been to Sewingshields in the days of King Detors, when he and Brulen had been squires. Detors and Carados had been enemies. How then, did Carados know Brulen’s name, and why would he mistake Balin for his brother?

  “I thought you were with King Lot’s forces back in Aneblayse,” Carados said, leaning from his saddle and knitting his white eyebrows together over his pinched face.

  Balin thought hard. Lot of Orkney was the king Brulen served now. Carados must have seen him there. Brulen was at Aneblayse, where they were headed. Now he was conflicted. If he took up arms here, he would die. If he said nothing to correct Carados, he could conceivably escort the woodcutter to Aneblayse and see his brother again.

  But Bedivere spoke first.

  “Your Highness,” said Bedivere. “King Lot sent us to escort these fortifications and lances to Aneblayse.”

  “Who are you, sir? Do I know you?” Carados said, frowning behind his curling mustaches.

  “Sir Amren, sire,” Bedivere said, striking his gauntlet to his chest and bowing his head. “And my squire, Pedrawd.”

  Carados’ flinty eyes moved between the knight and his squire, the woodcutters, and finally to Balin, where they rested a long time, before the king shook his head and chuckled.

  “Lugh’s Hand! But you truly are the mirror image of your brother Balin, Sir Brulen. It is uncanny. Did I tell you I knew him in Northumberland, when I attended Clarivaunce’s invitations to hunt? He was a good guide, but a bit of a brute, if you’ll pardon me.”

  Balin could find no words. He only smiled back foolishly and shrugged.

  “Well, we shan’t detain you,” Carados said, waving back to the train. “You must have passed dangerously close to Castle Bedegraine. Any word of the bastard?”

  The knights and Griflet shook their heads, but the woodcutter cleared his throat and raised a withered hand.

  “You have news? What is it, man?” Carados said.

  “Gauls, sire,” said the woodcutter, bowing his head and averting his eyes.

  “Gauls?”

  “Aye, from across the channel, Gaulish brothers, they are. King Bors of Gannes and King Ban of Benoic, each with oh, hundreds of men, I should think.”

  “Reinforcements!” Carados exclaimed, eyes going wild. “Is this true? How many?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t rightly say, sire,” said the woodcutter in sly, mock innocence. “More than Bedegraine Castle can hold. They was camped all about the outside of the walls, chatterin’ on in that rascally tongue of theirs, and fellin’ trees for their cookin’ fires. Fryin’ up periwinkles, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Halt!” Carados called to the army, and waved Aguysans and Uriens to his side.

  The three kings drew their horses together off a ways and conferred hurriedly in fervent whispers, while Balin and Bedivere glared at the woodcutter and each other, unable to speak in earshot.

  Why had the woodcutter spoken such wicked deception? What had inspired this sudden act of heroism, such as it was? Gratitude to Arthur, for his generosity? He remembered that the peasants had taken up arms in defense of Arthur at Cameliard. If Carados and the other kings believed this story, they could effectively hinder the rebel advance into Bedegraine without spilling a drop of blood.

  The kings finished their discussion. Each withdrew to their respective commands and began shouting orders to turn about.

  Carados returned to them.

  “Sir Amren, take your squire and these loyal men on to Aneblayse,” he said. “Woodcutter, if your intelligence proves true, you shall be paid triple for these carts.”

  The woodcutter’s eyes lit up and he bowed deeply.

  “Thankee, sire!”

  “Sir Brulen, you will accompany King Aguysans and his Hundred on down the road to Bedegraine and scout ahead. Bring back word of these Gaulish reinforcements, if they are there.”

  “As you wish, sire,” Balin said, glancing at Bedivere in wonderment.

  The majority of the column turned, taking the woodcutter’s train in. Balin watched Bedivere and Griflet ride away to Aneblayse as around him, the silent black company of Aguysans’ Hundred waited.

  ***

  Though he was ushered to the front of the Hundred beside Aguysans and Morganore, the ride back toward Bedegraine was a quiet one. The king, as mysterious as his silent men, said nothing to him. Sir Morganore and the Hundred rode in utter quiet. There was no idle soldier’s chatter, no remarks on the countryside, only precise, unified, Spartan discipline. They had their orders, and nothing else warranted attention.

  Balin had dreamt now and again of riding with the Hundred, but never like this.

  They came to a shallow tributary crossing, and there, from the woods on the opposite bank, came Arthur, Pellinore, and Leodegrance with their armies. Balin clearly saw Kay and Ector and Ulfius, riding bareheaded. The Pendragon banner hung limp as a hanged man from a gallows pole.

  Balin stood up in his stirrups and cupped his hands about his mouth.

  “ARTHUR!” he cried, in as loud a voice as he could blow from his lungs.

  Beside him, Aguysans and Morganore started.

  “My God!” said the captain of the Hundred with a snarl, d
rawing his sword. “It is Arthur!”

  “With Pellinore and Leodegrance,” said King Aguysans, muffled behind the steel of his great helm. “We are outnumbered.”

  Across the river, the vanguard of Arthur’s host milled in confusion. Then a lone rider broke from the rest and went charging atop his white stallion right for the enemy, lance leveled.

  Balin gasped.

  It was Arthur himself.

  Several knights fell in behind him. Kay, Ector, Ulfius, Brastias. Then Leodegrance and Pellinore were caught up in the surge. A cry rose across the river.

  “He is in front,” said Morganore, and he kicked his horse. “I will end this villainous bastard myself!”

  King Aguysans held back though, drawing up his reins and watching his captain charge to the riverbank. Then he turned in his saddle and raised his hand to the Hundred.

  They couched their lances.

  Aguysans dropped his hand.

  “Attack!” He roared.

  The black knights rushed around Balin in the wake of Morganore, a rapid river of dark steel and grunting horses.

  Balin held his breath as Arthur’s horse Hengroen splashed into the shallow ford. Sir Morganore hit the river at the same instant.

  The two horses, white and black as opposing chess pieces, rushed at each other, scattering a silvery burst of water. It was not enough to slow their deadly course. Lances met shields, both shivering to pieces. Arthur rocked in his saddle, but Sir Morganore landed in the water.

  The rising cheer from Arthur’s army blew into a soul shaking bellow of exultation.

  The bright host of the High King, emboldened by their lord and master’s audacious success, flung themselves headlong into the black Hundred. There was a shuddering crash as steel met steel and horses collided, and a rapid series of splashes as men fell into the river. These latter rose, shaking their heads, and fell to fighting on foot with swords and maces. Some did not rise at all, but turned and drifted away down to the deep part of the river, where they sank in clouds of scarlet.

  Aguysans clapped a hand on Balin’s shoulder.

  “Ride back to Aneblayse and tell them what you saw!”

  To his credit, The King With A Hundred Knights galloped to join the fray.