He took another draught of the sour red wine, and shook his head. “Not France. France is our overlord.”
The younger knight laughed. “We are from Little Britain below France, sons of Benoic. But we have been here since our boyhood. We are knights of this island now.”
The landlord nodded. “Then you’ll be traveling to Camelot for the Queen’s feast.” He jerked his head round the room. “Like most of these here. They’ve been thronging the roads this past week and more.” He guffawed. “Not that this rabble’ll be dining in the palace with all the knights and lords. But the Queen will make sure that there’s plenty for all who come. And they’ll see her and King Arthur and all his knights at the tournament, and come back as happy as birds on mating day.” He rubbed his hands, and showed a mouthful of rotten teeth in a reminiscent grin. “Ten years they’ve been on the throne and ten years married. That’s something to celebrate, eh, good sirs? Ten years! And peace and plenty for us all.”
“Sir?” Appearing silently at his elbow, the servant girl surreptitiously slipped a brimming flagon into the landlord’s grasp. If she could keep him happy, or better still, get him drunk, she might escape the worst of what usually befell her in the cellar when the alehouse had closed and his wife was asleep. The landlord’s hands closed around the crock of ale, and he took a long pull before warming to his theme.
“You’ll not remember how it was before, young sirs, you growing up in France so far away. Oh, the Summer Country was always safe enough under the rule of queens, and for my money, Queen Guenevere’s the best of them all. But the Middle Kingdom was a wilderness after King Uther died, what with rogue knights, and warring kings, and all. So when King Arthur came and claimed it back, we all rejoiced to see Pendragon on the throne again. And when Queen Guenevere took him as her king and married him, and then joined her lands to his—oh yes, lords, we have plenty to be thankful for.”
The two knights exchanged a glance. “We do not go to Camelot,” said Bors at last. “We wish the King and Queen well on their great day, but our business calls us elsewhere. We sail for Little Britain by the first boat.”
The landlord stared. “But they’re making new knights this Pentecost, new brothers of yours in the Round Table, in a mighty ceremony. You wouldn’t want to miss that, surely, young sirs?”
Unless—said his prying mind.
A dull light lit his eyes. Unless they had left the court under a cloud. Banished and sent abroad, never to return. What would it be, their offense, drunkenness, lewdness, dishonoring a lady, or what? He reached eagerly for a chair to plump himself down with them. “So you’ve left Camelot, lords? Tell me, then …”
What a fool he is, the little servant thought, with a sick recognition of her employer’s ways. He can’t help himself. He treats the finest knights that ever graced his house like his alehouse cronies, poking his nose into matters beyond his ken. He’ll drive them away with his prying, then punish me.
A sudden uproar broke out by the fire. One of the drinkers, a large local lout, was threatening a traveler, a merchant by his dress. “Who are you calling clodpolls?” he was shouting. “There’s as much brains in this village as where you come from!”
“One moment, sirs.” The landlord hurried off to deal with the fray. Bors looked at Lionel, raising his eyebrows in interrogation, and his brother gave a faint nod.
Both were on their feet as the tall knight reentered the room. “We go?” he asked, without surprise.
Bors nodded. “Time to move on, I think,” he said quietly. “There’s no peace for us here.”
Lionel seconded him with a rueful smile. “Better a night in the open, under the stars. It’ll be warm enough tonight, and far sweeter there.”
“As you will.” The tall knight returned his smile. “We’ve slept out often enough not to fear it now.”
The little servant flew forward in dread. “Oh, sirs, must you go? I beg you, tell him it’s not my fault! And will you leave some money for the wine?” Tears stood in her eyes. “Or else he’ll—”
The tall knight fixed her with his gentle gaze. “My cousin will give you silver for a whole barrel of wine, won’t you, Bors?”
Sir Bors smiled and nodded, and reached for the money pouch at his waist as the tall knight went on. “And he will give you gold for yourself, too. You must leave this man who treats you like a dog. We are riding for the coast to take a ship over the Narrow Sea, or else we would escort you away ourselves. But hear my words. Go to Camelot, and seek service with the Queen. She is the finest lady in the world. I swear on my soul that she will treat you well.”
He lifted his head and looked through the walls of the ale hovel into some magic garden of his mind. “There is a place for you there at court with her, a world of love and grace, and Guenevere is its heart. Say to the Queen that we send our humble wishes for her health and joy. Tell her that she is with us wherever we go.”
The maid nodded, huge-eyed, her chapped lips working as she struggled to fix the words in her memory. “Thank you, sir,” she forced herself to say.
He tried to smile. “May the Great Ones go with you. And may She who is the Mother of them all smile on your journey, and bless your new life.”
He turned and was gone. Sir Lionel was already following him through the door. The maid found herself clutching a piece of silver and a large coin of gold as Sir Bors took his leave.
“Sir!” she gasped. “What shall I say to the Queen?”
Bors’ smile held all the sadness in the world. “Just tell her that you come from Lancelot.”
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Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 53
