The Knight With Two Swords

by Edward M. Erdelac

  CHAPTER TEN

  For two years Balin languished forgotten in the dungeon of Castle Bedegraine.

  But that just confinement was nothing compared to the shame at having failed his beloved king so utterly. He had wept like a boy as he walked into the clearing with the body of Culwych cradled in his arms, and laid him at the king’s feet. Arthur’s anger had been all the more terrible because in the face of Balin’s mortified tears, the young monarch had said absolutely nothing. He had merely lifted his cousin’s body and walked away, leaving the fool Dagonet and one-handed Bedivere to tie him without protest.

  They had led him, a prisoner from the forest, at the back of the train, behind even the butchered boar bouncing on a pole between Kay and Brastias.

  In all, four carcasses had been borne from the wood that day, for what was Balin without his king to serve? Little more than a dead man.

  Balin had never been brought before any court, never heard any pronouncement. He had simply been stripped of his arms and horse, of all honor and position, and deposited in the belly of Bedegraine Castle. There he had remained, fed and watered by the jailer daily, like some caged pet.

  No man had visited him, and he had no word of the world.

  Despite his anger at his brother’s sin, he pined for Brulen’s company. Yet he knew they would likely never meet again. On the field of Bedegraine, he had sought him among the Orkney knights, but hadn’t found him, not during nor after the battle, among the dead. Brulen was damned for killing a holy man, so they would not even meet in heaven. The knights of Northumberland who had trained him thought him a traitor for taking arms against Clarivaunce, though his oath had been to Detors. Yet how could he stand in judgment of Brulen now, when not even the High King, chosen by God Himself, looked on Balin with favor.

  He was utterly alone.

  In his first year of confinement, he took a penitential oath of silence and did nothing but grow his hair and beard like Samson. He ate and drank only enough to sustain himself and spent his days in quiet contemplation of the act that had landed him in durance vile.

  For a long time, he could not quite decide if he had killed the Welsh prince on purpose or if it had been an accident. He had never protested his innocence, or made excuse, though in replaying the memory of the moment in his mind, he swore the man had fallen on the point.

  Still, Culwych’s harsh words pounded like war drums in his ears. When he thought of the insult to his dear mother, Balin supposed he must have thrust the spear into Culwych’s chest and murdered him in a rage.

  This made him feel sympathy for his brother, Brulen. Confronted with the man whom he had blamed for their mother’s death, he must have felt a similar rage.

  Murder of course, was against the Lord’s commandments. As a knight, he was given the right to bear arms and kill in the name of justice and in the protection of the defenseless, but no man was blameless in killing out of mere provocation. He was not some street brawling boy. A knight must be more.

  By the end of his first year, he had decided it did not matter whether he had murdered Culwych or not. He was imprisoned, and so God must have seen the anger in his heart, the flaw in his knighthood, and thrust him into this maddening furnace of burning stillness to temper him.

  The lack of news was a torture in itself, though. When the door had swung shut on him, his king’s rule was still in question. The eleven rebel kings had retreated to their lands, and there had been word that Saxons had been mustering there. In a year’s time, the kings had either repelled the invasion or been defeated. Maybe, as old Vortigern had, they had even struck a bargain with the Saxons. Whatever the end result, the threat to Arthur was not gone, it had simply been delayed.

  How long before the winds blew war to Arthur’s doorstep again? And here he was, negligent on his oath to protect his king due to his own childish folly.

  Into his second year, he had found resolve.

  He would not die here. Of that he was sure. God would not allow it. Eventually he would be released, or lightning would strike this castle and shake it down, and like Peter liberated from Herod by the angel, he would be freed. He was sure of this.

  Then Arthur would need him once more.

  So, he trained as best he could in his confines. He rebuilt his wasted body, consuming all the jailer passed him, and regained his strength through hard, relentless labor. He also found his quickness once more, hunting the rats that he had passively allowed to scurry over his sleepless body on their way to his leftovers, until perhaps, news of his terribleness spread through the colonies of vermin that wormed their way through the castle, and they visited his lair no more.

  He began to speak in a hoarse and humble voice to the man who brought him food, and from him he learned Arthur was still king and loved all the more by his people. He had taken up his court in Camelot, the ancient city of the Black Cross, where the pagan King Agrestes had once sacrificed Christians in the time when Joseph of Arimathea had first carried the word of God to Albion. Now, the man assured him, good King Arthur had brought Christ to that once dark place, and he had erected a church to St. Stephen The Protomartyr to honor the nameless souls who had met their deaths in sacrifice to Agrestes’ evil gods.

  This news had filled Balin with pride once more. Pride in the king to whom he had sworn his life. He redoubled his efforts to be sure he was a knight worthy of such a ruler when at last he was released.

  He spoke daily with the jailer, whose name was Matthew, and asked of the rebel kings and the Saxons. Matthew knew only rumors, that many had fallen against the wild invaders, but that one, Rience, had either united all the survivors and driven off the Saxons, or parleyed with the enemy and was now amassing a combined force to enact revenge upon Arthur for his earlier defeat.

  Balin also came to know the names of the many good and wondrous knights who flocked to Arthur from around the realm.

  Some he knew from his own brief career, such as Griflet, who had been a chased squire to Bedivere and was now made knight. Bedivere’s brother Lucan was Arthur’s butler now. Sir Kay had been made seneschal, and a count of Anjou besides. Old Ulfius was chamberlain at Camelot, and he heard that Brastias had retired to a hermitage. Dagonet, whom he had thought a fool, was said to now serve the court in exactly that capacity.

  Some came to Arthur with royal blood. Serving as knights were Prince Marhaus of Hibernia and; Prince Bors The Younger of Gannes, son of the Gaulish king whom Merlin had disguised as a woodcutter’s son at Bedegraine; Lamorak, Aglovale, Dornar, and Tor, the sons of King Pellinore of Galis; and Owain, Arthur’s nephew by his sister Morgan and his former enemy King Uriens. Also in his service who had once counted him an enemy were the sons of King Lot, Arthur’s nephews from Orkney: Agravaine, Gaheris, and Gawaine. Gawaine’s strength, Matthew said, due to some enchantment perpetrated by his enchantress aunt Morgan, ebbed at noon and waned at dusk.

  This word of pagan knights so near Arthur filled Balin with dread. There were also three heathen Saracen brothers: Safir, Segwarides, and Palomedes, by name.

  The Lady of Avalon still spun her strands into the king’s court like a lurking spider trapping souls. Matthew said that she had even bestowed upon Arthur the magic sword Excalibur, to replace the sword of Macsen, broken in battle. The old jailer said this last with pride. For all his Christian propensity, he still saw the endorsement of Avalon as some kind of honor. But Balin saw the replacement of Macsen’s sword with a pagan treasure as harrowing. How long would the insidious evils of the dark Lady infect the folk of Albion?

  Balin grew frantic. He needed to be free of this jail. Arthur needed him sorely. Perhaps, as a boy of only nineteen, the young king was unaware of the danger he was in. Perhaps the rumored threat of this Rience and the Saxons distracted him from the enemy infesting his court, no doubt whispering seductive evils in his very ears under the guise of advice.

  There was something else, too, of which he was keenly aware. He was missing this golden age.

  Camelot and Ar
thur were precariously balanced, as though God and the Devil were vying for control. It would take only a slight nudge to plunge the land into darkness or light. There was no other place for Balin but in the center of this holy conflict. He had to win the soul of Arthur and Albion for the Lord.

  And for every new name that Matthew whispered to him through the bars—Sagramore, Maleagrant, Colgrevance, Dinadan—he wondered which were good men and which were bad. Which lions and which serpents?

  When at last word came that he was to be transferred to the dungeon at Camelot, he rejoiced, for he knew his captivity was ending.

  When Matthew opened the old door, Sir Dagonet strode in, wearing a richly embroidered but surpassingly bright tunic with a somewhat ridiculous heraldic device: Or, a cockerel’s head erased, gules. He was much as Balin remembered him, long haired and trim-bearded, with a smirking lilt to his mouth, and yet now there was a dullness in his eyes, as though a deeper, more bitter jest hid there. It diminished his previous resemblance to Christ somehow. He made a show of pinching his nose against Balin’s stink.

  “Well, Sir Balin, like a green apple forgotten at the bottom of a bushel, you have surely ripened during your incarceration,” he quipped.

  “Sir Dagonet,” Balin said, rising. “Have you come to free me?”

  “Only the king can do that,” Dagonet said. “Every Pentecost since he drew the sword from the stone, my lord Arthur has held court at Camelot and invited people from around the realm to come and air out their grievances. You could use an airing out, I think.”

  “I don’t have any grievance with the king. It’s quite the opposite.”

  “Let me finish,” said Dagonet, leaning in the doorway. “As part of the Pentecostal celebration, he also evaluates every prisoner and frees them if their offense is deemed not so severe.”

  Balin lowered his head.

  “Mine is very severe.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Arthur’s cousins have proven to be equal blessing and bane at Camelot thus far,” said Dagonet. “And Culwych wasn’t even his favorite. I suspect his anger has cooled in two years’ time.”

  “You mock me, sir.”

  “I mock everything, Sir Balin,” said Dagonet. “You should be grateful that at last someone has included you in their catalog of everything, for I think that your situation has been an unfortunate case of misplacement, rather than lasting grudge. You’re a good knife lost too long in the back of the drawer.”

  ***

  He bade goodbye to old Matthew and was led to a waiting cage on a wagon, where two knights sat on horseback, one a black Moor in the singular garb of English armor and Saracen head wrap, with a thick curved sword at his side, the other a slight, handsome fellow with a head of long black hair and fearsome blue eyes, a mantle of green plaid flung about his shoulders in the manner of a Hibernian. The former looked at him with silent curiosity, whereas the latter curled his lip at the sight.

  Dagonet walked beside Balin, bearing his clanking harness, sword, and shield, which he moved to strap to a bow backed pack horse.

  “I apologize for the conveyance,” said Dagonet. “It’s more suited to nightingale than knight.”

  Balin moved to the back of the cage wagon, saying nothing. He didn’t care if he were brought to Camelot in a chicken coop, so long as he was at Arthur’s side again.

  The Moor jumped down lightly and unfastened the bolted door to the cage.

  “Sir Balin, may I present my companions Sir Safir and Sir Lanceor,” said Dagonet, indicating the Moor and the Hibernian, respectively, as he ported Balin’s goods to the boot of the wagon.

  “Balin The Savage?” said the Hibernian, grinning. “Is this the one killed a priest at his own accolade?”

  Balin gritted his teeth behind his lips as he pulled himself into the cart and settled in the straw, but made no reply.

  “You’re mistaken, O Prince,” said Dagonet, climbing into the driver’s seat and taking up the reins. “That was Sir Balin’s brother, Sir Brulen The Sinister.”

  Sinister? Was that what Brulen was called now? Was it because of his deeds or merely his left handedness?

  “Ah,” said Lanceor, looking back over his shoulder through the bars at Balin. “Then this is the one mistook the king’s cousin for a wild boar.”

  “Yes,” said Dagonet, “Have a care, Sir Lanceor, for Sir Balin is a danger to all wild boors.”

  Sir Safir smiled as he locked the door.

  “You are wicked, sir,” he said, mounting once more.

  Lanceor frowned, still staring at Balin.

  “Why are we wasting our time fetching this ragamuffin back to Camelot?” Lanceor asked.

  “Because I have no hope for promotion with so many of the king’s relatives at court,” said Dagonet, cracking the reins, “and I hope Sir Balin’s wild ways will thin out their number.”

  Lanceor and Safir both laughed and gave spur to their mounts as the cart lurched forward and Balin gripped the iron bars to keep his balance.

  It was August, a full ten months before Pentecost came around again. But at least he would be nearer to freedom.

  He had prayed for a liberator such as the angel that had come to Peter.

  God had sent him a fool.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The woods were dark, and Sir Dagonet, Sir Lanceor, and Sir Safir gathered about the fire eating while Balin watched from the darkness of his cage, hungry not only for the savory stag the Moor had shot, but also for the companionship they enjoyed. He had been too long alone, with only scuttling vermin and the voice of an old man through a bolted door for company.

  They passed a flagon between them, and when they were of a mood, they clamored for Dagonet to produce his harp and play a tune.

  “One day hence you two will mark this night you shared meat and reddish with the king of all Hibernia,” said Lanceor.

  “Radish?” said Dagonet, feigning to look about as he set his harp in his lap. “Have we garnish for this meat?”

  “Reddish,” Lanceor repeated slowly, and looked at Dagonet as if he were addle-minded.

  Safir shook his head and laughed.

  “I have never understood the custom of inheriting such a great thing as a kingdom,” said Dagonet. “A bow, or a cabinet, that I understand. But to leave something so important as a country and its people to one’s child, whether that child be unworthy or no, is something that has long befuddled me.”

  “Should we elect rulers by popular opinion, as the ancient Romans did?” Safir asked.

  Dagonet shrugged.

  “I have no head for such matters,” he said. “Only God the Father ever had a son worth the kingdom, and some say Uther Pendragon, though it remains to be seen. As to all else, it is a few short letters from nepotism to despotism.”

  Lanceor took the flagon from Safir.

  “What is nepotism?” he asked, but by the time he had upended the flagon, he had ceased to care about the answer, and Dagonet had begun to play.

  It was not the lively song they had requested, more a sad and solemn dirge. It was well suited to staring into a fire, and made Balin think of the one which had consumed his mother and of the happy times before.

  When Dagonet had finished, Lanceor gave voice to his approaching drunkenness with a deep belch. “Well that was just fine,” Lanceor grumbled, “for a funeral.”

  “It was in honor of the stag Sir Safir slew,” Dagonet said after a moment.

  “Play something…better,” Lanceor urged.

  “Your pardon. My fingers are greasy,” Dagonet begged off, stowing the harp away.

  From observing them, Balin gleaned that of the three, Lanceor was the dullest. He was one of these knaves who depended like a woman on his beauty than on any real wit or even skill at arms. Dagonet had called him prince, and Balin wondered if that were just a joke or true. Dagonet had always been difficult for him to read. He knew the man to be a coward and had never understood how he had come to be a knight. But the alacrity of his speech an
d the mirth it seemed to engender in others made Balin think he must house some craft. Safir, the Moor, appeared appreciative of his verbal gambols but did not possess the cutting tongue of the fool.

  The Moor was a source of boundless fascination for Balin, who had never before seen a black skinned man or lady in person. He wondered if this Sir Safir were a Moslem, and his curiosity overcame his discretion.

  “Sir Safir?” he called to them.

  The three of them turned to look in his direction.

  “What is it, Sir Balin?” the Moor answered.

  Balin was at a loss as to what to say next.

  “I thought I might beg some of your meat, if there is any to spare.”

  Dagonet smiled, and Lanceor, looking like a pup at Dagonet, smiled too, though he obviously knew not why.

  “Go on, Sir Safir,” said Dagonet. “Take our charge some hart. He has gone long without, I think.”

  Safir carved a shank of meat from the carcass over the fire and stepped from the light.

  Balin marked his progress by the sound of his boots, for when he came around the cage with only the dark forest behind him, only the glint of the moon on his breastplate was visible.

  “Here you are, sir,” said Safir, pushing the meat through the bars. “I regret that I cannot leave you my dagger.”

  “I will not begrudge, sir,” said Balin, taking the hot venison in his dancing fingers and setting it on his knee. “Sir Dagonet is right. I have eaten only such gruel and pork as the jailer prepared. I haven’t tasted a fresh kill in two years.”

  “I will leave you to it, then,” said the Moor, and Balin heard his heel scrape as he turned away.

  “Oh? Will you not stay?” he blurted, then regained himself. “That is, will you not talk a bit?”

  “If it please you, sir.”

  “My news has been spotty at best. How fares Arthur?”

  “Well, well. I am afraid my own knowledge of the events in this area may prove as sparse as your own. I am only recently arrived from Hibernia with my brother.”

  “Oh? You…you are Hibernian?” Balin said.