Under Camelot's Banner (18 page)

Gareth bit his lip and he realized he was actually contemplating running away.

I've work to do,
he reminded himself.
Work to do. It's not my fault if my duties matter more than my dinner.

Geraint was out of sight, so there was little chance Gareth would catch up to him. He strode back into the keep, heading once more toward the stables, answering those who hailed him with a silent wave. He needed to check Taranis one more time, make sure he was properly bedded down and fed. Then he needed to go find Sir Lancelot, and help him dress, and apologize for his tardiness. God's Legs, what would the knight say about that?

But Gareth found his knight far sooner than expected. Sir Lancelot stood beside Taranis's box, stroking the beast's strong neck. The knight was washed, combed, and dressed in a clean tunic of deep blue with saffron and scarlet embroidery on the chest and hems. Gareth froze on the threshold, but it was too late. Sir Lancelot turned as soon as Gareth's shadow broached the doorway, leaving no chance of retreat. Gareth could only make his bow, and try frantically to think of something to say, some way to explain.

“Sir Geraint tells me he's the cause of your absence, Squire Gareth.” Sir Lancelot gave Taranis a final, firm pat. “Just what was it your brother had to say to you at such length?”

Gareth stood silent and stared at the tips of his own boots. He felt about ten years old, and a bare yard tall.

Sir Lancelot snorted and leaned his shoulder against the roof tree. “Been at you about your women, hasn't he?”

Gareth's jaw dropped. Was the whole court keeping track of his dalliances? “I've taken nothing that wasn't given,” he muttered belligerently, before he remembered who he spoke to, and bowed his head again. Perhaps he should kneel.

But Sir Lancelot only smiled. “Good,” he said firmly. “You come out of the shadows then. I'll not have it said one of my men hid from a fight just because it was one of his brothers offered the insult.”

Pride surged through Gareth, lifting head and heart. “No, my lord!”

Sir Lancelot looked past Gareth's shoulder and then gave Gareth a wink and a grin. “And you don't forget, a man uses words when there's no sword left under his belt.” A laugh escaped Gareth. He stifled it quickly, but Sir Lancelot made no comment about that. “It's only fools and weak hearts can't stand up to jibes, whoever they come from.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Get on then,” Sir Lancelot pushed himself away from the roof tree. “You're my man and I expect you to act like it. I'll see you at board with the others tonight.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Sir Lancelot strode out the open doors, slapping Gareth's back as he passed. Gareth pulled himself up straight. Yes. His knight would see him at board. So would his brothers, and the rest of court who cared to be there. Some of what Geraint said nagged at him; about the noble girls rendered suspect, and the difficulty in forming alliance with their marriages. Well, he might be more circumspect in the future, but that was not anything Geraint or Agravain needed to be informed of. They would see how a man carried himself. Sir Lancelot was right. A true man did not hide in the shadows when a fight was offered.

Gareth turned on his heels and followed the path his knight had taken.

Gareth lived at the far end of the barracks with the other squires. By day, they had benches and chairs in front of their hearth. At night, those who did not sleep in the stables beside a sick horse or one in foal, rested in front of the banked fire on pallet beds. Each had a single chest for their spare clothes and few possessions. King's son or Saxon hostage, it was Arthur's declaration that all should be held equal while they learned from his cadre.

Of course that was not how it was. The oldest boys held themselves above the younger, and each knew whose father was a man of worth and whose was not. King's son and High King's nephew, as well as one of the oldest among the squires, Gareth seldom had to fight the others anymore, although before he'd gained his full height he'd nursed plenty of bruises and black eyes.

Upon reaching the barracks, Gareth readied himself with care. He belted his finest green tunic with his best silver. He washed his face hard and slicked his hair back. Feeling about his chin he found no stubble. His beard was not a matter for regular barbering yet, a fact which pained him a little, but tonight was just as well.

I will meet all with dignity,
he assured himself smoothing down his sleeves and hems.
I have done nothing wrong and no man can say I have. Not Geraint, not Uncle Kai.

But as he turned, he found Brendon ap Huel standing in the barracks doorway. Brendon was the third of Sir Lancelot's squires, and, unlike Lionel, was a man Gareth had never been able to like. He had a thin mouth and slitted eyes which always had far too much going on behind them. It was probably him who washed and dressed Sir Lancelot when Gareth had failed to appear, and he'd probably used every moment of it to talk him down as far as the knight would allow.

Now, that thin mouth was smiling like a cat who'd found the cream unguarded.

“Is something amiss, Brendon?” asked Gareth as coolly as he could.

Brendon shook his head without taking his gaze off Gareth. “Nothing at all, Gareth.”

“Then what are you standing there for?”

His fellow squire shrugged. “No reason.” But Brendon was grinning so wide Gareth could see both his missing teeth, and Gareth knew Brendon was not done.

“It's only that wouldn't be you for a whole kingdom,” Brendon went on, as Gareth had been certain he would. “Sir Kai's been working the theme of your absence for days. I think there's not a lady left in the place who isn't permanently red. He almost started a fight the other day when he said you'd tumbled Sir Hayden's lady Arliss …”

“Shut it, Brendon.”

Brendon shrugged. “I just thought you might want know how things stand.”

Gareth stalked up to him, letting his shadow fall across the younger man's face. “You take care with your warnings, Brendon,” he murmured lightly. “Or Sir Kai might have just find out which field you've been plowing in these past months.”

Brendon blanched. “You wouldn't.”

But Gareth just turned away from him and joined the loose procession heading across the open yard toward the great hall.

You are my man. My man.
The echo of Sir Lancelot's words carried Gareth forward and kept the bite of the evening wind from reaching him.

A wave of warmth washed over him as he entered the hall. Fires roared in both the hearths. As this was not a feast day, nor other particular occasion for ceremony, the squires were not required to serve their knights at table, but could eat in their own company. Gareth took his place on the bench beside Lionel. Brendon joined them a moment later, but he had sense enough to keep his mouth shut, for now, at least. The youngest boys had the farthest end, closest the doors and the drafts. Gareth remembered sitting there, his toes just brushing the floor, looking with awe and envy at his older brothers who already rode with the cadre of the Round Table and served the High King in his wars and his peace. Now his three brothers sat at the high tables, Gawain and Geraint beside their wives, and here he sat still looking on.

The difference now was that his own knight, Sir Lancelot, sat beside them, and Sir Lancelot smiled and raised his cup, just a little, as Gareth caught his eye.

Gareth nodded in grateful reply but had no time to do more. A door at the far end of the hall opened and a voice called out. “His Majesty Arthur, High King of all Britons!”

The whole company stood at once. In walked Gareth's blood uncle, Arthur the King. Age had begun to silver his hair but it had not sloped his shoulders, dimmed his eye, or weakened his hand. Beside him walked Queen Guinevere. Though nearly Arthur's match for age, she remained one of the most beautiful women Gareth had ever seen. More than one of the squires sighed in their most secret hearts for the warmth of her grey-eyed regard. Arthur held her slender hand in his strong one as he helped her to her seat beside him, and she had no regard at that moment for any but the king.

Behind them came a far different figure; Sir Kai, who was the high king's foster brother, and his seneschal. He was clothed in black except for the golden chain of his office, and stooped over so far that he appeared almost hunch-backed. Sir Kai limped as he stepped up to the high table, leaning heavily on his crutch. One of his legs, thin and twisted, dragged behind the other. One might have thought he was the court fool or talisman. Many kings kept some malformed person by to amuse them, and indeed there were some who knew no better who claimed that was Kai's role in the court. Sometimes, Kai even let them think this, though how he could stomach that was beyond Gareth's comprehension.

Now, though, Uncle Kai's keen eyes swept the great chamber, and skewered Gareth down the length of the hall. Gareth lifted his chin and met his foster uncle's gaze. Sir Kai simply smiled as he eased himself into his seat at the high king's left hand.

Gareth ground his teeth together.
I'll not let him play me for the fool. He cannot make anything of me if I do not respond, and I will not. Not until I see my moment. Then, I'll cut him with his own knife.

The food's arrival put a temporary end to gloomier thoughts. There was roast pork, chickens stuffed with onions, last year's apples roasted with raisins and honey. There was wine, cider and small beer to drink and good brown bread for sopping up the gravies.

The training ride today had left him with a good appetite. Gareth helped himself liberally, ignoring the sideways glances from his fellows.
It'll be over soon, and I'll take care of anyone who decides to take up Uncle Kai's themes for themselves.

Lionel tried to make some talk, but soon gave it up. Everyone was waiting for the meal to finish. Everyone knew what would come.
Well, let it come. I am not afraid. I will not be afraid.

At last, the meats were only bones and the bread only crumbs. Fortified wines were poured out to the high table, and the talk flowed freely everywhere but between the squire's table. Gareth fought the urge to squirm like a child, and pecked at the crumbs remaining in front of him, avoiding the eyes of his fellows. He was not afraid. He would not be afraid, but he did wish it would begin, so it could end, so everyone would stop
looking
at him.

Then, it did begin. Uncle Kai took a swallow from his cup, and rested his arm lazily on the table cloth.

“I see your wandering squire has returned to us, Sir Lancelot,” he remarked, in a voice pitched to carry. “What a relief! Tell us, which bed did you find him in?”

Laughter rippled through the hall. Despite his resolutions, Gareth felt his face begin to heat up. That damnable fact was not missed by Sir Kai.

“Why, you blush, Squire Gareth!” the seneschal cried, ensuring that now every eye in the hall was directed at Gareth. Gareth kept his own gaze fixed on his empty plate. “Surely, your brother Gawain has told you what a fine thing it is to be so widely welcomed!”

I will not give hint that I hear. His jibes are not worthy of answer.

“Surely, that is enough, Sir Kai,” murmured a woman. The queen. Coming to his aid. This was almost worse than the taunting. What if they said he needed a woman's aid to defend himself?

“Enough, Majesty?” repeated Sir Kai, full of surprise. “There's a word I'll wager young Gareth doesn't often hear!”

Laughter burst out again, including from the boys end of the table. Gareth glared at the youngsters, who all promptly closed their mouths and tried to look abashed. Not Brendon, though. He just grinned his thin grin at Gareth, relishing each word, memorizing them, and storing them away to repeat later.

You dare to mention this night again, Brendon, I will make you regret it.

Despite the queen's intervention, Sir Kai was far from finished. “Of course, the fact that he's gone through so many of our fine ladies so … quickly … It doesn't say much for his stamina. Is it you that wears your squires out so?” He quirked his eyebrows at Sir Lancelot. Lancelot went very still and his face was thunderous. “Ah, no, of course not,” Sir Kai went on judiciously. “It is known that you love only the ladies, and, as the gallant you are, your horse.”

The king was frowning now, but he had not yet made any admonishment. Someone was holding onto Gareth's shoulder. Lionel. Gareth hadn't realized his hands were at his sides, clutching the air where his sword would have been. Let Kai humiliate him if it made him feel more the man, but that he would
dare
turn his vile humor on Sir Lancelot …

“Sir Geraint, perhaps you will take Gareth with you into the West Lands when you go,” Sir Kai continued amiably. “It would be good for him to see more of new places, as it was good for your brother there.” He nodded at Gawain, producing many reminiscent sniggers. Gawain's red-haired wife did not even have the decency to blush at this, and Gawain just looked blandly, almost bored, at his mocking uncle. “If we keep him here, I'm afraid that we'll soon run out of willing women, and have to begin telling the stable boys to keep their backsides to the wall …”

In the roar of laughter that erupted, Gareth shot to his feet. “Were you a true man I would spill your guts on the ground!”

The shout echoed across the hall. All the rude and outrageous guffaws died away and every eye turned to Gareth. Gareth did not think on any of this. He saw only Sir Kai at the high table, a smug grin on his lean face, another jest ready on his fool's tongue.

Kai lifted his brows. “Do you say I am no man, Squire Gareth?” He spoke quietly now, but Gareth heard every word. He thought he also heard a murmur that meant caution, but insult burned too deeply for him to understand it.

“I say you are a cripple who gained his seat from my lord king's pity, and who exercises his tongue because he cannot exercise any other part of himself! I say that if you could stand I would make you pay for every word out of your crooked mouth!”