THREE DAYS and TWO KNIGHTS an Amusing Arthurian Adventure By
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THREE DAYS AND TWO KNIGHTS An Amusing Arthurian Adventure By Scott Davis Howard © 2015 Scott Davis Howard PJPF Press www.piedmontjpf.com 42 The Final Day: 10 DAWN, CATHBAD‘S HENGE After relieving his bladder in the tall grass, Alanbart yawned and walked back toward the henge. He passed the pile of still-warm ash and twisted metal where the wicker giant had been, crunching brittle grass under his feet as he did so. The fire had blackened and crisped a ten-foot circle of vegetation. In its center, the charred and warped remains of Gawain‘s once-elegant armor seemed a sad and pathetic monument to Arthurian knighthood. It cast the faintest amorphous shadow in the predawn light. Alanbart thought of the gold, garnets, and possibly even rubies that might be buried in the ash and made a mental note to revisit the spot after it had sufficiently cooled. He paused to listen to a thrush trill a beautiful morning song from deep in the heather. Enchanted by the cheerful innocence of the melody, he sat on a rectangular slab of stone and took in his surroundings. His gaze was drawn to the gathering dawn in the east, and remained fastened there for a time as he went over the events of the previous evening in his mind. After the sacrifice and reading of the omens, the druid had gathered them round the fire and outlined his scheme to recapture the king. First and foremost, he planned to send Scot and Alanbart to defeat the banshee in her bog. He claimed that she guarded a trove of magical treasures that would amplify their powers and improve their chances for success against Radborath. Cathbad desired three particular things: The Hammer of Autumn, an ancient weapon that could sunder anything crafted of dead wood with one blow and which would grant them immediate entrance to the palisade and the tower; The Staff of Väinämöinen, which would multiply his magical abilities tenfold; and the Ring of Mudarra, which reputedly held the power to cure blindness. Alanbart saw this all as more than a little self-serving on Cathbad‘s part, as he reaped ninety percent of the benefit with no danger to his person, but realized, as did everyone else, that the druid stood a better chance of defeating a wizard if he increased his power and regained his sight. The necessity of the hammer was also obvious. Alanbart would have protested, of course, at being included in the party (if you can call two a party) that would venture into the bog after the banshee, except that Gonoth grinned at him evilly. He‘d swallowed his objections for that reason and also because of his confidence that he could convince Sir Gawain to go in his stead— which, of course, he accomplished once Cathbad, Gonoth, and Bruuzak retired for the evening. The chief danger, according to Cathbad, was the scream of the banshee, which had the power to sever the soul from the body, slaying a person and binding his corpse to the demonic creature in an un-death of eternal servitude. The solution, Cathbad said, was to deafen oneself by shouting and by loud banging of metal on metal, directly next to the ears, until they began to bleed. At this point, the ear canals would be dried and filled with warm beeswax. The two warriors then could commence their attack, impervious to her scream, but would be unable to use the sense of sound to coordinate their attack. 43 The druid also warned them that many powerful warriors served as the guards of the banshee‘s inner sanctum. Each great warrior who faced her over the generations (many of whom originally owned the aforementioned magical artifacts) succumbed to her fatal scream and served her in death with all of the martial ability that he possessed in life. Scot seemed excited at the prospect of combat with ancient heroes, an idea that chilled Alanbart to his bones. Heather‘s interactions with Sir Gawain also interested Alanbart. Arthur‘s knight appeared to be nearly twenty years her senior, but their relationship seemed more romantic than friendly. They shared secret glances and, after the sacrifice, talked in hushed tones. Alanbart felt something rare and unexpected while watching them: a twinge of jealousy. After Alanbart had solved the two dilemmas in the Gloamwood—how to save Gawain and how to placate Scot—Heather thanked him and complimented him on his intelligence, even placing her hand tenderly on his arm, a gentle and warm touch that, inexplicably, he could still feel. He laid three fingers against the spot; strange, he thought, that she should affect him in this way. He‘d always considered himself impervious to the charms of women and sought to keep himself aloof from love and romance. He mentally rebuked himself. Love was a dangerous emotion and too many knights (all of them better than he) had or would die for it: Paris, Siegmund, Tristan, and probably Lancelot next. To Alanbart, the physical sensations were not worth either the emotional angst or the negative outcomes. Still, he felt the unbidden beginnings of something for Heather, and despite the fact that he could step outside of himself, look down on those feelings as dangerous and ridiculous, compare himself to Sir Gawain and note his utter deficiency, and judge himself to be the worst possible example of manhood, love, and chivalry, those feelings of affection took root nevertheless. ‗That‘s just one more reason to escape from this absurd situation before it gets more serious.‘ He sighed and shifted positions on the cold rock. A light breeze ruffled his hair, and his mind returned to Heather. The climactic moment occurred as Alanbart tried to fall asleep, wrapped in a pair of borrowed blankets, too thin to warm him. He closed his eyes and made an attempt to control his breathing, but found himself unable to nod off, probably because of the cold and because he hadn‘t a drop to drink. Alcohol was his crutch, of late, in combating chronic insomnia. As he lay there, cold and uncomfortable, he listened to the quiet conversation between Heather and Gawain. ―It can never be,‖ the knight insisted gently. ―I know that‘s what you believe,‖ she replied, bitterness in her tone. ―But you didn‘t think so once.‖ ―It is difficult to speak of it,‖ he said. ―I am a Knight of the Round Table, and I have placed a lifetime of belief in the code of chivalry. What we had was not chivalrous and can never be so now.‖ She remained silent. He continued, his voice gaining power and speed. ―You loved me because I was forthright and courteous. Your feelings for me were and are bound up in who I was on that day. That man was honorable. He was a man of his word. He kept his vows. He respected himself, and that was why you respected him. When we…‖ he cleared his throat. ―When I betrayed my chivalric values, I betrayed myself and in so doing, I betrayed you. I ceased to be the man you desired—the man who deserved you—and doomed our love from its very inception. 44 ―It is a sad paradox, I confess it,‖ he continued after a pause. ―If we admit to a love that is founded on shame and embrace our base desires, we betray ourselves and commit to living a life founded on desire and deceit. And if we do not, we maintain our honor and self-respect by betraying our love. And then we willfully choose to live in agony. What fool chooses the agony?‖ ‗I chose the agony of lying on this damned root,‘ Alanbart thought bitterly, torn between an overwhelming desire to shift positions and a compulsion to eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation. His curiosity soundly defeated his discomfort, and he remained still. Gawain paused again, waited. Heather replied with stony silence. The hiss of the dying fire and the droning crickets filled the void. An owl hooted somewhere beyond the henge. ―A knight chooses the agony,‖ he added at last. ―A lady chooses the agony. We may have been weak for a moment, but we will not commit to a life of weakness and lies, no matter the physical or emotional reward. I will not, in any event.‖ ―You are morally right, of course,‖ Heather responded finally. Her voice, too, was filled with emotion. ―And the irony is that this decision will make you more desirable. And my acceptance of it will amplify your love for me.‖ She sighed. ―This is the kind of thing, I suppose, that troubadours sing tragic love songs about. I always thought they were just fiction.‖ ―They are,‖ he sighed. ―Love is always a fiction, written in the heart of a man or a woman—only when two fictions align do we call it ‗true.‘ Most romances are short and trite, many are passionate, some are farcical… and…a very few are tragic.‖ ―Enough of this,‖ Heather said, cutting him off, turning away, and putting a note of finality in her voice. ―If this is to be the way of it, I am content. I will always have my memories—many women don‘t even have that comfort. At the moment, however, we have a king to rescue and on the morrow you may have two battles to fight. Get your sleep, Sir—I‘ll take the first watch.‖ She walked away, and the conversation ended. Alanbart‘s jealousy returned as he thought of it.