Читать книгу Lancelot and the Lord of the Distant Isles - Patricia Terry - Страница 7

NOT FAR FROM THE BATTLEFIELD was the town of Malehaut, ruled by a widowed chatelaine who took her responsibilities so to heart that her people were as one in their love and respect for her. She cared for the poor and rewarded the charitable; she tended the sick and offered hospitality to the stranger. It was at her castle that Lancelot found himself at the time of the clash between King Arthur’s meager forces and the larger numbers fighting for the Lord of the Distant Isles.

Once assured of his untroubled hold on Joyous Guard, Lancelot had begun to feel that he had nothing further to do there. His men would turn back anyone so foolish as to challenge their new lord. Dolorous Guard no longer existed to offer passing knights an unprecedented adventure, and anyone who attempted to conquer Joyous Guard would find it more than adequately defended. From Brandis’s former seneschal to the youngest of the household knights, all his people were profoundly grateful to the White Knight and ready to demonstrate their devotion. The simple castle-dwellers themselves would not hesitate to give their lives for him.

What Lancelot felt to be his mission meant that once a problem had been solved, he had to move on. Now he had a home to which he could always return, and he would, of course, think of Joyous Guard with pride and affection. But his truest, unspoken, allegiance was to the queen; and for her he was prepared to wander through the world, seeking deeds that would bring him glory in her honor. He had placed Joyous Guard in the hands of his seneschal and set out one day in search of new adventures. He was alone, having determinedly rejected the assistance of a squire.

He had ridden for weeks, ambling alongside streams, galloping across pasturelands, toiling up wooded hills – all without any encounter that might serve his purpose. He found no victims of injustice, no fiercely armed foe, above all no hint of an enchantment; there seemed to be nothing to test his prowess. Late one afternoon, with some discouragement and with the dulled attention that fatigue can bring, Lancelot had entered a pine forest. It was growing dark, but the path seemed clear enough. Thinking he saw a light in the distance – perhaps a house where he could find shelter – he urged his horse to a gallop. That rash move came to a brutal halt! A rope had been strung between two trees. His horse pitched forward, and the last thing Lancelot heard was a sound of mocking laughter, as he landed on a heap of stones, senseless.

It was only shortly after daybreak that a team of foresters happened upon the White Knight’s battered but sleeping body. They woke him gently and did their best to answer his questions. Thieves had been abroad of late, trapping the unwary and carrying off their goods. Lancelot was fortunate: he was still alive and still had his armor, though his shield and arms, like his horse, were gone. The foresters explained that the forest was part of the lands held by the Lady of Malehaut, who would surely receive the injured knight and provide well for his care. Lancelot, in pain, murmured his thanks, and the good men carried him cautiously to the lady’s castle.

The chatelaine was rightly appreciated for her readiness to help. After a quick, wordless examination of the wounded stranger, she gladly accepted him as both patient and guest. It was plain that the knight was a young man of some consequence, even if he was unusually hesitant to speak of anything but gratitude. Although his face had been bruised, he was extraordinarily handsome, a fact that the still-youthful widow did not fail to notice.

The short time he was in her care sufficed for him, whether he desired it or not, to occupy a significant place in her heart. As the knight’s condition improved, conversation became easier, without, however, revealing anything of his background. Blaye, the Lady of Malehaut, had not been able to learn his name, although she tried very hard to do so. She could find no way of countering the young man’s adamant refusal to identify himself, and eventually realized she would need to seek the information elsewhere.

When Lancelot heard news of the battle, which was on the lips of everyone in Malehaut, he appealed to Blaye to judge him sufficiently recovered to join the fighting. He assured her that he would return to her care at night, if he was physically able to do so. She agreed, and, the next morning, gave him a horse and a red shield; he wore his own armor, now cleaned and burnished, with breaks repaired and dents smoothed out.