“And in the king the Lord has chosen!” Balin called out, unable to contain himself.
Another round of cheers went up.
Arthur drew Excalibur, and the light of the torches shined red on its clean blade. He turned it over and held it up, cruciform.
“God may fight with us tomorrow, but he will not fight for us. Therefore, pray for the will to face the foe. Steel your hearts. If tomorrow they are to be broken, let their shards cut our enemies deep.”
Every mailed fist raised in answer, and with a roar of unified assent, they broke to the walls, and Arthur, sparing a fond glance at Guinevere, turned to review the plans of the city.
Balin and Brulen insinuated themselves near Arthur’s immediate retinue, which was Kay and Bedivere, Bors and Gawaine. Cleodalis pored over the city’s defense plans, answering Arthur’s pointed questions each in turn.
“It must be said also,” said Cleodalis, “that one of our number has turned traitor. Sir Bertholai.”
“Then Rience will know your numbers and every secret of this city,” said Arthur. “Let every hidden postern and sewer be blockaded, and place a single runner at each to notify the defenders of incursion. We cannot spread ourselves thin. We must form a group of ten mounted men to remain in the city and defend these passageways as they are threatened.”
“Let me, my lord,” said Balin.
“And I,” said Brulen.
Arthur looked to them and nodded.
“What are your names?”
“Sir Ballantyne,” said Balin quickly.
“Sir Gernemant,” said Brulen, taking the name of his old master at Sewingshields.
“As you know the city, take three of your fellow knights. I will assign you five of mine. Command them as you see fit. They are yours.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Balin.
They were given two of the Orkney brothers, Gaheris and Agravaine, as well as a Sir Marrok, and the sons of King Pellinore, Tor and Lamorak de Galis.
Though the two pairs of brothers brought horses and were armored, Sir Marrok came on foot unarmed and wore only a simple tabard emblazoned with an argent wolf’s head cabossed. He was an older man, silver bearded, but hard looking, with rough hands and a weathered face with a crescent scar on his chin and sea blue eyes.
When Balin had explained the nature of their duty, he fixed his attention on Marrok.
“You are a knight, sir? Where is your horse and armor? Where is your sword?”
“Sir Marrok Le Bisclarvet needs none of those things, Sir Ballantyne,” Gaheris volunteered for the older man, smiling wryly. Like all the Orkney brothers, he had a shock of red hair and pale skin that offset the dark pagan woads which intruded upon his face.
Marrok lowered his head at Gaheris’ words.
“I move faster without harness, sir,” he said quietly, in a voice as grizzled as his appearance.
“Do you move faster without a horse as well?” Balin quipped.
He nodded seriously.
“And do you strike harder without a sword?”
“Perhaps not harder, but swifter, yes I do.”
Balin had about decided the fellow was mad when the Cameliard knights arrived, introducing themselves as Geraint, Guy, Landens, and Purades.
“King Arthur bade us report to you, Sir Ballantyne,” said the eldest, Geraint, whom he remembered was Guinevere’s cousin. “And Cleodalis has told us we are to obey your every command.” He saluted and looked at Balin intently, his meaning plain. The Cameliard knights would not divulge his or Brulen’s identity.
“Very well,” said Balin. “For now, I charge you with showing Arthur’s knights the ways we will be guarding. Sir Landens, recruit from the volunteer runners equal to the number of points of entry. The rest of us will begin building blockades.”
In this way, Balin and Brulen were able to surreptitiously learn the city’s weak points under the subtle direction of Guy and Purades.
All of them toiled till deep into the night breaking up furniture and hauling stone into the sewers and escape tunnels to block the passages. They also set bundles of spears and bows and arrows at every entrance on the city side. Runners were culled from the citizen volunteers, and it was decided that Sir Marrok and Sir Landens would act as the hub, relaying information from the runners to the armored knights as needed.
When all the passages had been blocked and assigned a lookout, there was nothing more for Balin’s command to do but wait in the center of the city for dawn as the rest of the defenders busied themselves on the walls.
A servant brought them dinner, the roast carcass of a lamb, and all but Balin and Brulen ate and drank.
The odd Sir Marrok sat alone beyond the edge of the cooking fire and ate quietly.
“Why does Sir Marrok not sit with the rest of us?” Sir Geraint asked.
“Is he truly a knight?” Balin asked.
“Did you note his mark of courage? He was a knight at King Uther’s table,” said Gaheris. Then, a bit lower, conspiratorial, he whispered, “He is a werewolf.”
“You jest with us,” chuckled Sir Guy.
“It is sadly true,” said Sir Tor. “How he came by his curse no man knows, but he must be chained on nights of the full moon for he becomes wild. Other nights, he may change at will.”
Sir Guy laughed and shook his head, sure he was being led.
“He came to Camelot as a gray wolf,” said Agravaine, completely serious. “Arthur brought him home from one of his boar hunts, because the wolf approached his horse and licked his boot in the stirrup like a friendly dog. As a tame wolf, it was an oddity, of course. It rested beside his throne and dinner table, and slept at the foot of his bed. It would suffer the most nervous of ladies to stroke its ears. Children could hang about its neck. Then one day a year ago, a certain knight and his lady came to court and presented themselves. At one look the wolf leapt down from the dais and tore the knight’s throat out. It would have mauled the lady, too, had not Arthur ordered it dragged away, barking and slavering as it never had before.
“The tearful woman confessed all over the body of her dead paramour that the wolf was her true husband, Sir Marrok, whom she had observed stripping off his clothes in the forest one night and transforming. She was a faithless woman and had loved the other knight, so she stole her husband’s clothes and went off with her lover, thinking she would never see Marrok again.
“Arthur ordered that clothes be laid out for the wolf to test the lady’s story. At first the wolf would only sniff and stare at the clothes, but then Merlin suggested the wolf be given privacy, and so it was shut up in a certain chamber. After a few moments, Sir Marrok emerged wearing the clothes Arthur had laid there, and the wolf was seen no more. For seven years, he said he had lived as a wolf, and he swore fealty to Arthur then and there as his savior and the son of the king he had served.”
The Cameliard knights looked at each other and smirked, but none from Camelot smiled, and Agravaine raised his hands.
“By all the gods, it is true,” he said.
“Anyway,” said Sir Landens, “he has a passing odd manner.”
“His manner is not odd to him. He lived in the forest six years, so his etiquette needs some oiling,” said Agravaine.
“Why do you keep your helmets on, sirs?” Sir Gaheris countered, directing the question at Balin and Brulen.
“You should eat and drink,” Sir Tor agreed. “This meal may be your last.”
“We are fasting,” said Balin. “If victory comes, then we’ll partake.”
“Victory?” snorted Lamorak. “How can we hope for survival, let alone victory?”
“We stand a good chance, I think,” countered Agravaine.
“Aye, you do,” Lamorak muttered.
“What does that mean?” Agravaine demanded.
“It means if the siege turns against us, it will be no great matter for the sons of Orkney to go to their father’s side.”
Agravaine and Gaheris both jumped to their feet.
“We have sworn our oaths to Arthur,” said Gaheris.
“So did your father, King Lot, after Bedegraine. But he seems to have had a change of heart,” said Lamorak.
“We may share our father’s blood, but not his heart,” said Gaheris, putting a hand to Agravaine’s breastplate to stop his brother from advancing on the still seated Lamorak.
“Let us hope so,” said Lamorak.
“That’s enough, brother,” said Tor.
“I agree,” said Balin, getting to his feet. “Reserve your ire for the enemy.”
“What if it’s Lot that comes up one of those tunnels tomorrow?” Lamorak said. “Can we trust these two to fight?”
“Lot would not enter a city but by the front gate,” said Brulen. “We’ll be killing skulking Saxons in the morning.”
“What do you know about Lot?” Lamorak demanded.
“I know he’s an honorable king,” said Brulen, “as kings go.”
“Do I know you, Sir Gernemant?” asked Gaheris. “Your name isn’t familiar, but your voice…”
Brulen sat silent for a moment, then rattled at his helm straps.
“No,” Balin said, laying his hand on one of Brulen’s pauldrons.
“Leave off, brother,” said Brulen, wrenching the helmet from his sweat soaked head. “This thing is stifling. Men should not die alongside strangers.”
“Sir Brulen!” Gaheris exclaimed, smiling and coming across to clutch Brulen’s hand, an act which perturbed Balin. Here was the knightly camaraderie he had always coveted from his brother.
“Hello, Gaheris,” Brulen smiled thinly, and to Agravaine he nodded.
“What are you doing here in Cameliard? We thought you perished at Bedegraine.”
“Perhaps I did,” Brulen said stiffly.
“Aye, there’s that old sunshine manner,” chuckled Agravaine. “It is surely Brulen The Sinister.”
Gaheris’ smile fell then, and he turned to look at Balin. He drew his sword, and the other knights leapt to their feet.
“But if this is your brother,” Gaheris said, “then he is Sir Balin The Savage, murderer of the Lady of The Lake.”
Arthur’s knights drew their swords.
“Traitor!” Agravaine spat.
“Villain!” cursed Lamorak.
Brulen stood in front of his brother, and the two Orkney knights wavered, but Tor and Lamorak circled. Marrok’s nose wrinkled, and his lip twitched. Apparently despite his aloofness, he had heard everything, for he entered the firelight now. His anger was so deep he could only growl its expression.
“What foolishness is this?” Sir Geraint demanded, standing beside Brulen. “Will we start the battle early here amongst ourselves?”
“A Christian knight, in a Christian city,” said Agravaine. “Defending the crime of one of his own. Typical.”
“We are Christian,” said Lamorak on behalf of Tor. “And we do not condone the beheading of a woman in the presence of the High King.”
“Is this so?” Sir Geraint said, looking aghast at Balin at the accusation.
“I did what I did,” said Balin, taking off his helm.
Geraint’s eyes lingered on Balin, then he turned back to the others.
“Yet I swore to my cousin, who will be your Queen, to serve this knight who saved Carhaix from destruction only this morning.”
In answer to their quizzical expressions, Geraint explained how Balin and Brulen had slain Rience’s bodyguard and ruined his plot to take the city and Guinevere unawares, and how but for the betrayal of Bertholai they would have the lord of Snowdonia in their dungeon even now.
“You did this?” Lamorak repeated in awe.
Balin nodded reluctantly.
“I and my brother. But grant me this boon, sirs. Do not inform Arthur of my presence here, either by my death or arrest. Let me defend him this last time by your side.”
The two pairs of brothers and Sir Marrok looked at him strangely, then at each other. They lowered their swords.
“Very well,” said Gaheris, speaking for them all. “Put your helmet back on, Sir Ballantyne.”
“Yes,” said Sir Tor. “But do go and fetch your wondrous sword. It may be we will have need of it in the morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The enemy hosts clattered over the horizon as if to welcome the dawn, and the shout of warning rippled the orbit of Carhaix’s battlements down to the ten men waiting by their horses in the city’s center.
From their vantage, they could not see the might of Rience’s army, but a water woman up on the wall shrieked at their appearance and spilled her bucket. Sir Aglovale had to carry her away.
“We will die here! We will all die here!” she screamed, as he clamped a hand over her mouth and took her to the keep where Princess Guinevere commanded the maidens and old women.
Them that were Christian in their number—the Cameliard knights, and Balin, and the sons of Pellinore—knelt and prayed, while Sir Marrok, the Orkney brothers, and Brulen drew their swords.
They saw Arthur ascend the wall and call down words. He was answered from below by the ox-bellow voice of Rience, but what was said between them, Balin couldn’t hear.
They all watched the inscrutable exchange with hearts hammering, when a boy came rushing up to Balin and shook the hilt of his sword in its scabbard.
It was a dirty faced child, yellow haired with wide, scared blue eyes. He wore a threadbare tunic and running hosiery.
“Men in the east postern.” He gasped.
So, whatever parley Rience was engaging in with Arthur was a mere stall as his infiltrators attempted to gain the city.
He rose from his knee.
“How many?” he demanded.
“It was hard to see. More than two dozen,” said the boy.
“The postern!” Balin roared to the others. And to the boy, he said, “Take word to the defenders on the wall.”
The boy raced off.
Purades, Tor, Guy, and Agravaine swung up onto their horses and clattered off to defend the postern.
Almost before they had rounded the corner, the runner from the sewers ran up and screamed shrilly that he had seen men trudging down below. The south passage runner almost collided with him and said the same.
Rience had sent men into all three passages at once.
“Lamorak, Marrok, Landens, and Gaheris defend the south passage,” he ordered.
He clapped a hand on the shoulders of Brulen and Geraint.
“The sewers for us,” Balin said.
“How appropriate,” Brulen snickered.
They mounted and swung their horses about. Balin noted that Marrok ran behind his fellows, stripping his clothes as he went.
He pursed his lips at the madman and the three of them galloped for the sewer entrance.
Geraint led the way, riding down narrow alleyways that cut quickly through the labyrinthine city. They passed through the eerily empty streets till they reached the central entryway down into the old Roman subterranean drainage tunnel and swung down from their mounts.
Brulen pulled open the heavy barred door which led down, and the three of them clattered into the dim tunnel, each grabbing a handful of spears from the bunch they had left there. They splashed up to their ankles in the foul-smelling water which passed over the floor.
The tunnel ahead they had crammed with detritus, but over the edge of the pile they saw the glint of steel helmets and swords and heard guttural Saxon words bouncing off the sloping stone walls.
Balin signed for his fellow to crouch down, and they silently laid their spears at hand on the sides of the tunnel and waited.
The Saxon captain or chief reached the blockade, and after some querulous back and forth with his lieutenants, gave the command to heave to and pull the debris down.
As soon as the first large obstruction was pulled down and the Saxons reached to pull away the next, Balin gave the order and his men thrust over the barrier in unison, driving their spear points through necks and hau
berks and sending three men tumbling backward screaming, to splash in the filthy water.
Balin, Geraint, and Brulen, withdrew their weapons and sprang up then, jabbing again, and sending more confused Saxons howling.
The voice of the commander sounded again and a roar went up in the tunnel.
Answering spears were flung over at them, and they cast their own and reached for the spares, exchanging missiles blindly back and forth.
The Saxon infiltrators were lightly armored, and the defenders’ spears naturally did more damage, whereas the Saxon spears, thrown from confused, close quarters, sailed over the barricade, and for the most part, glanced harmlessly off the knights’ heavy armor.
Yet the Saxon commander hollered again, and the flight of Saxons’ spears ceased. Balin, Geraint, and Brulen kept throwing, but they heard a great deal of diminishing splashing as the enemy retreated down the tunnel.
For a brief moment, they thought they had repelled the invaders, but an instant later they heard the cry of the commander again, a little further down the tunnel, and a deadly whistling was heard.
A volley of feathered arrows came flying over the barricade just as Brulen yelled, “Shields!” and brought his up in time to catch three.
Balin avoided the shafts, but Geraint grunted as one arrow cut his face and a second pierced his shoulder, knocking him on his backside in the water.
Balin helped Geraint to his feet under cover of his shield as a second flight blew like an ill wind over the barricade and pierced his shield.
Geraint brought his own shield to bear and a third flight riddled their shields.
The commander shouted the order to let loose, and his voice grew steadily louder.
“They’re advancing!” Brulen said, and Balin saw blood dribbling from the wound beneath his vambrace where Rience had cut him.
The arrows outranged their spears. They couldn’t hope to reach them without succumbing to the Saxon archers.
All three knights dove for cover behind the barricade and leaned against it as flight after flight whistled through the tunnel, splashing into the water, imbedding in the walls, clattering on the stone staircase lit by the sun shining down on the street above their heads.
The Knight With Two Swords Page 18
