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One Hundred and Sixty

The winds at sea could still be a bit brisk, even though the days were approaching their lengths.

Even so, James found the chill refreshing; it helped him think. The relatively flat coasts of eastern Britain amazed him - how different they stood to the rocky, craggy costs he'd grown up alongside on the Eiru Sea coast.

No, these smooth coasts were a different animal, and no Ulster fishers nor tradesmen - nor even raiders would trouble his passage. He feared them not - he'd fought a good number of them single-handedly - but now he had valuable information to relay.

Angtough.

The thought still lingers with him. He clenched the medallion in his fist, partly to make certain it had not vanished like faerie magic - and part out of anger.

How deep does this evil take root? he asked himself, knowing he had not the answer.

Bad enough to be a raider, looting, pillaging and murdering. Bad enough indeed. But this...

He look down at the medallion, and ran his finders along its three sides. He'd seen it before. I pray thee, Laoraighll, have an explanation I can believe.

notes 149-159:
149-150: I hadn't intro'd a counterpart for Chief Wilson, and the name didn't fit anyway, so Zendak gets double-duty for identity theft purposes. Round one with Glorith - a draw, as it should be.
151: With so many characters, it's hard to get to each, so it'll probably be a while before we get back to poor Zoe again. Plus, I wanted a more benign incarnation of the goddess to show up once in a while, not just the Cailleach, who's guaranteed plenty of screen time.
152: Joseph of Arimathea's church undermining Rome's legitimacy wasn't my invention, but it fits nicely. While previously being reluctant about fitting the Terminus Trapper in, it's working nicely.
153: They're on Anglesey, or Mona, as it was known in Roman times. Just off the northwestern shore of Wales.
154: I have no idea how early elephants were brought to Britain, but I've heard of them brought to Europe (and not just by Hannibal) before medieval times.
155: Had to edit "Eboracum" out and "Lindum" in. Got me cities confused! And further along, I managed not to write, "Let's not go there. It is a silly place."
156: La Cote Mal Taile? maybe, but not entirely.
157: Revolt of the Girl Legionnaires!
158: can't have androids, can I?
159: Everyone wants Garth in Cumbria... MZB fans can see I'm borrowing a little here, but it works too well with threads that come afterward not to use it.

Re: 154 - first elephant brought to Britain 43 A.D. by Claudius, according to Wikipedia. Those crazy Romans. (It piqued my curiosity, as well as Querl's....) Love this sprawling great story, Kent!

Ditto what FC said, I love this too Kent. You've created a land populated with fascinating characters that are funny, whimsical, dark and fabulous!

Kent,

No matter how long I find myself staying away from LW, It's a sure bet that when I return, and I always return, this story is one of the first threads I visit. I am always amazed by your skill and inventiveness as you seamlessly intwine the Arthurian legend with The LSH.

Bravo! and just to go all Harbi on you...


MORE! MORE! MORE!

Thanks all! I apologize; it's getting harder and harder to find time to write.

One Hundred and Sixty-one

"So. You've heard of this... Apis before?" Rokk asked skeptically.

"Yes, my liege. In Alexandria, there are still those who keep the old ways. They have designated themselves the keeper of a 'sacred bull,' the Apis, a living symbol of three gods: Ptah, Amon and Osiris. They keep only one Apis bull alive at time, and mark it with a scarab on its tongue, a vulture on its back, a crescent moon on its right flank - and a white triangle on its forehead," replied the newcomer.

James nodded, looking at the symbol the guest had drawn. "It looks remarkably like... this," he held out the medallion.

The newcomer made gestures in the shape of a cross. "Despite Eiru's conversion, some snakes of paganism remain," he said scornfully.

L'ile snorted. "Has Rome not borrowed or co-opted anything not nailed down? Mix not your metaphors - we Druidic snakes are less venomous than some of Rome's devout."

Rokk saw a feud to avoid. "L'ile. Sir Geraint. Both of you would do well to remember that all faiths are protected in my realm."

"Forgive me," said the guest. "It seems unusual to me, having spent so long in Italia, that a civilized kingdom is not -- but again I go to far. Again, my apologies."

Querl, oblivious to the exchange, stood scrutinizing the drawings and medallion. He wished not to believe any ill of Laoraighll, but there were questions to be asked before she should be confronted.

"The medallion is clearly of Gaelic design," he observed. "Hardly an Egyptian tradition."

"That is true, but forget not that many Irish scholars have been traveling throughout the civilized world. It is not unreasonable to believe some have been to Alexandria. I myself have been throughout the East."

"Aye. And you probably know it better than you do your own Cornwall - let alone Eiru," L'ile added.

Rokk was growing annoyed. "As you posit, a group of Ulstermen, following an Egyptian cult, slaughtered the Pict village of Angtough as a sacrifice to a bull-god, and carry about medallions bragging of the deed. And I am expected to accuse a fine warrior-woman of such a deed with only jewelry and supposition as proof?"

Seeing the king's anger, James and Geraint backed away.

"My liege, please..." began Geraint.

"This requires answers," James said, trying to sound as confident as he'd felt walking in.

"It does require answers," Querl sighed. Geraint isn't telling you everything."

"What?"

"My good sir-"

"Let me continue. Yes, the bull is a symbol of fertility in many lands. The Cult of Mithras - long popular among the soldiers of Rome - also uses the bull, as a symbol of sacrifice and renewal.

"Many were the Irish who accepted Rome's coin to serve in the legions. Perhaps they came home as Mithraens - a warrior cult seeking land of its own?" Querl concluded.

"Maybe that's the way of the world now, raid your neighbors, take their land. But again, I see no connection with Laoraighll - even following a bull-cult doesn't make you a slaughterer any more than being a Christian makes you as vile as Vidar," L'ile replied.

Rokk saw Geraint wince at the comment on Vidar. So our old 'friend' has been making friends in the south. Maybe we erred in sending him so.

"But Berach found the same medallion at Roxxius' lair," James blurted.

"Summon Ossian," the king said to Reep. "If this 'white triangle' is widespread in Eiru, he will know." He was reluctant to ban any faith, but whether an involuntary sacrifice or sheer genocidal colonization, the Picts were his subjects, too.

One Hundred and Sixty-two

"Are you sure this is the right way?"

"Of course," Querl scoffed at the presumption of error.

Their companion Gillem grunted in disbelieve - or disapproval. One could never be too sure with Gillem, the serving-man who tended to a supply cart that the three companions were accompanying. An old, hunched man, he steered the cart's horse tem like he had a grudge against them - and against the road itself.

"Our Greek lad is never wrong. Except for the one time he thought he was wrong. But of course, he wasn't," smirked Loomius.

Despite Querl's outer snarl, Ayla sensed that Querl had warmed to the craftsman. Indeed, they had evolved an unlikely friendship.

She smiled at the jesting, but internally was still disappointed. She and Querl had tracked down the were-wolf, who had turned out to be the blacksmith Brin - the "Kartharn" persona having been fictitious.

They had invited him back to court - what's one more noble freak amongst the many? But no, he'd rejected them.

Querl wasn't very bothered, but Ayla... her heart had been touched by the blacksmith who defends the small hamlet that would just assume see him skinned, if they knew - and if they had the courage.

The ride back to Londinium had seemed a long one, even the longer to find Loomius ready to lead them to the new fortress.

The smell of the eastern sea was wafting across the fields, and the path meandered to avoid the salt marshes that pock-marked the seacoast.

And rising over one last hill, they faced the city of Camulodunum - and the new fortress rising before it, already closer to completion than any of them had guessed.

A sea of multi-coloured pavilions surrounded the walls, with banners and crests of seemingly all Britain - and beyond - present.

Beyond, a larger tent city with marketplaces sprawled, though not as big as that from coronation last year.

But the companions' eyes returned to the massive stone-scape at the centre of the vista.

"It's... amazing," Ayla said. "What is it called again?"

"Camelot, my lady," Loomius beamed with pride.

"Camelot," Ayla tasted the word as she said it.

"Camelot," even Querl smiled in approval.

"It's only a model," blurted Gillem.

"What say you?" Loomius asked.

"I... I know not why I said that," said Gillem. "Let's not go there. It is a silly place."

Ignoring the daft comments, they continued their ride, Ayla bursting into a gallop to regroup with her fellow knights, who already were beginning practice jousts a full week before the festivals would begin in earnest.

The row of pavilions bore each knight's crests, and she rode up and down the rows looking for Garth's.

"Greetings, my sister," called a voice, but not Garth's.

"Mekt!" she greeted, dismounting. "It is good to see you, my brother and liege."

He laughed. "How must I beg thee to cease calling me such? Are we not kin?"

She embraced him. "Aye. But you are rightful king of Lesser Britain, are you not?"

"He is that and more," replied a woman emerging from Mekt's pavilion. A man who appeared like a pure-blooded Roman followed.

"My dear sister Ayla, may I present Queen Eva, formerly of Alemannia, and her husband Lavarrus of Venetia. Two very good friends of mine."

Ayla shivered involuntarily, but gathered herself to exchange greetings.

She trusts us not, Eva silently said to her consort.

Then we must have Mekt... show her the error of her heart, he replied.

One Hundred and Sixty-three

Brunor groomed the horse, grumbling to himself.

Back home in Elmet, I would be the knight with a squire of my own, the youth thought. Yet it will all be worth it.

"You do well, Brunus," Thom commended absently, not aware he had mangled the youth's name.

"Thank you," he replied. His sarcasm was so prevalent that everyone was beginning to assume it was just his normal speech pattern and/or his local accent.

"Hello...'kinsman,'" called a voice from outside the makeshift stables.

Brunor's heart skipped a beat. Had he been found out?

"Do I know you?" Thom asked.

"Forgive me; we have never met, as I have lived in Rome these past years. I am Geraint."

Brunor watched Thom's expression fall into a gape.

"Geraint!? I'd heard you- I mean-"

The man laughed. "Yes. Since I've come home, I hear nothing but tales of my various 'deaths' at the hands of the Visigoths... All of them are true, as you can see," he waived his arms wide, mockingly.

"You... certainly resemble your uncle," Thom managed.

"You remember him?" Geraint was surprised.

"Nay. Gorlois died before I was born. But his likeness remains in sculpted form, at Tintagel, our -- Well, your castle."

Geraint laughed. "Marcus has done well guarding Cornwall in my absence. If things work well, he may remain so."

Noticing Thom's relief, Brunor correctly surmised that the newcomer's claim to Cornwall's throne was better than Marcus.'

He also assumed what Thom did not appear to - that Geraint's make-peace held no sincerity at all. The man's mannerisms were too much like Brunor's father's when someone was about to be stabbed in the back.

"I would like to settle waters before they are stirred, however. Where is thy father?" Geraint asked Thom, who in turn led the visitor off, leaving his new squire unattended.

And how much would this Geraint offer to see his rival take a plunge during the jousts? he thought, polishing a saddle's leather straps.

"Hey Bad-Coat! How are you settling in?"

It was Tenzil, his well-meaning benefactor.

"Very well, sir. I-I can't thank you enough for getting me in here."

"Excellent. A word to the wise," he came closer. "Many young squires rush off at the first sign of a quest to prove themselves. King Rokk and his knights are less impressed with squires who leave duties unattended," he said, nodding toward the mostly-concealed sword in the hay bale.

He thinks the blade is for a quest! Mayhap I needn't have bothered hiding it? "I-I guess you're right," he replied, feigning an embarrassed smile.

Geraint is not the only one plotting back-stabbing, he thought, considering the possible approaches to the hall where the knights would be drinking later.

Drink well, Sir Garth. Drink well indeed.

One Hundred and Sixty-four

L'ile suddenly realized that he missed Beren.

The elder Druid was not one for cities, it was true, but the lad from the north isle wished to show his mentor how much care and work was going into the defense of Britain.
But he knew the old man's remaining years were growing fewer, and soon he would be going on to the Summer Country.

It was a bright, cloudless sunny day - again; the kind Britain counts on one, maybe two hands all season long.

L'ile stood alone, atop the western tower, now structurally complete. Below him, the ladies and servants were abuzz around the wooden hall, readying for the midsummer feast. The walls were sound, but Camelot was but a shell - where towers and castle would stand were but foundations and temporary pavilions.

They say Rome was not built in a year, either. Or was that day?

He sighed. Even Reep was busy tending to scouts and messengers. There was no one to talk strategy with.

It's too quiet, he realized. Few are the Khunds - again, nor are Saraid or Tarik causing trouble. Can the world be so easily made to peace? Nay, I say it cannot.

The breeze cascading in from the sea was refreshing, but something did not set well with James' talk of a "white triangle" conspiracy was part of it. James was wrong - he'd have heard of it if it existed - but there was something disturbing.

Egypt.

L'ile suddenly remembered what The Hunter had taught him, all those years ago.

Not a triangle... a pyramid. One side of those great temples.

It was a bright, cloudless sunny day, but it suddenly became very cold.

One Hundred and Sixty-five

"Are you happy?"

"Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Tinya blushed. They strolled through the fair, surrounded by merchants hawking fine cloths and fresh herbs and fruits.

MacKell stood silently, choosing his words carefully.

"Jonah... Gawaine... has become amongst my closest friends since my return. Truly he is a peer that any court in history would consider among the best of knights ever," he began, heart sinking as she beamed with pride.

"But... how do I say this?" he paused again. "If you were my... daughter, I might worry about his... less knightly aspects."

There. It's said, for good or for ill.

Tinya squeezed his hand. "Jonah is neither a eunuch nor a saint of the one-god, it is true. But our hearts are one, and he already treats me like his queen."

And will he do so when he sees young maidenhood elsewhere than your bed, he wanted to say but did not.

He felt a special attachment to Tinya since gaining his freedom, and these feelings had -to his surprise- become more paternalistic than amourous of late.

MacKell smiled. "I am being foolish. Heed not my words," he said, knowing she had anyway.

Looking for a distraction, he pointed up at the tower. "Someone should tell L'ile he does not well this day at remaining unseen!"

One Hundred and Sixty-six

"You say this King Pellam can help us?"

"Aye," replied Balin's companion. Sir Dodinel le Savage, leader of the renegade knights of Man - Lallor, in their tongue- was not one for plentiful words.

The six-knight attack on Glorith was foolish, Balin thought. He should have known better, but he was so outraged that the sorceress had ensnared his brother.

Perhaps it was her spells that led Balan to slay the Lady of the Lake? He had no answers. His fratricidal anger had ebbed since winter, but still his brother must face the judgment of King Rokk - and perhaps that of Avalon too.

While Dodinel's companions kept watch of Glorith's fleets, he and Balin were off to seek the magickal spear that a seer told them would defeat the sorceress queen.

The second prophesy, that Balin's second sword would slay the man he held the most dear, bothered him, but he hoped he could avoid a fatal duel with his brother. At least get him free of Glorith first, he thought.

Dodinel was a beastly man, who hunted with but a short dirk and ran through the woods like a wild animal chasing prey.

That he'd so quickly snared a doe was impressive enough - they had food enough to give to a woodland hermit as well.

Full from a good meal, Balin drifted off to sleep. They were within a day's ride of Pellam's castle, and Dodinel's keen senses would wake them should there be an intruder...

...Balin awoke at the sound of a shriek! A blade, a long sword that belonged to neither of them, was carving Dodinel up in a manner not dissimilar to Dodinel's carving of the doe - yet the blade had no one wielding it!

Glorith's magicks!

He sought to grab the sword away, but an unseen hand barred him - followed by an unseen shove, pushing Balin to the ground.

"L'ile? Pray tell me that isn't you!?" He drew his sword nonetheless.

With Dodinel's death rattle, the sword fell aside, and an unseen set of feet hastened away, thrashing through bush before vanishing under the uncluttered forest beyond.

One Hundred and Sixty-seven

Azura's entourage arrived virtually unnoticed, as she desired. Better to blend into the crowds and observe the court without the airs of diplomacy. There will be plenty of time for ceremony... later. She was not yet as visibly known as Kiwa was; she would use that as an advantage while it lasted.

A trio of Beren's Druids aided in erecting her pavilion, and would guard the tent from both the curious and the devious throughout the festivities.

Azura was content with this; she had but a single priestess along for service and assistance.

"All is in order, Thora?"

"Yes, my lady." The girl, a princess in her Iberian homeland, was a willful student. She decided Thora was too unruly to be left in Avalon - even under the senior priestesses' gaze.

The fair was routine enough, although there seemed to be more Iberian and Gallic goods than some of the northern markets she had been to of late. Perhaps our young king has restored the confidence of the sea trade, she mused.

With Thora in tow, they wandered the temporary streets of the encampment, conducting an informal survey of who was attending the first anniversary of Rokk's rule - or more accurately, his wedding to Imra.

Even without open eyes, the Christians view their king's rule as legitimate from his marriage to the matrilineal queen, she silently gloated, wondering why Kiwa kept Imra's parentage so secret - even from the queen herself.

They strolled by Picts, Irish, Cornish, Angles, and even Khunds in their journeys, witnessing bartering, singing, fighting, jestering, begging, bickering, politicking and even proselytizing.

"Do you take Iesous as your savior. Will you let him be your shepherd?" the young friar asked the old man.

"Oh, yes. G-God, yes, by my troth," the old man said, barely able to contain his weeping. He slowly stood, cautiously straightening his back, which cracked and creaked, as if straightening for the first time in decades.

The crowd murmured in approval and/or delight.

"What's happening? A charlatan 'healing' ritual?" Thora whispered.

Azura motioned or her to keep quiet. It's a time for observation, she thought.

"I did not heal that man. God did it," said the friar. "I knew not what to do, else trust Him to work his miracles." He paused to let his words soak in. "Each of our lives is like that," he kept turning to face different people. "Each of us have our own...miracles from God each and every day, if we know to look for them."

"You're well-fed, young and strong," shouted a woman worn beyond her years. "Easy words for a youth. But where is your god when my children die of pox? Where is your god when the crops are blighted? Answer me that!"

This may test his mettle, Azura smiled.

"My lady, I am sorry for the losses you feel. Yet rejoice! Your children are walking in paradise, and you will see them again in your time!"

"Will she see three years of lost crops, too?" a man jeered, prompting group laughter.

The friar accepted the jest. "Aye, maybe, in a fashion. It is not for us to know his plan," he turned to face the woman again, "Or know why we receive the obstacles and challenges we do. But they are our lot to bear anyway - and it's how we carry them that makes the difference in our lives."

With that, the friar made his impression, and the crowd began dispersing, wandering away or resuming smaller conversations.

The woman still glared at the friar. Azura moved closer.

The woman was speaking again. "You're still young. You don't know true hardship."

"I beg to differ, my lady. As a youth I saw my parents die. In the past year, my monastery - and all its brethren and servants - were wiped out by raiders. Only I lived. I have my share of pain, too - mayhap all of us but the kings and emperors do - any maybe them, too.

"I cannot give you what you've lost. And I see in your eyes that I'll probably never win you over to God's flock. But maybe you can find your own peace someday."

Only Azura noticed a slight glow of his hand directed at the woman's carrying basket.

She scowled and walked away.

"You speak well for a Christian priest," Azura told him.

"Thank you," his smile was warm. He didn't even flinch at Thora's cold stare.

"From your robes... are you from a nunnery?"

"Gods, no," the older priestess laughed. "I am Azura, Lady of the Lake, of Avalon. This is my aide Thora."

"Then I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my ladies. I am Jan, a newcomer to this isle. I have enjoyed Avalon's hospitality in my own hour of need, and the Josephites I've known have always spoken well of you."

"You were the priest Beren invited to Avalon last autumn. You helped rescue MacKell!" Azura, then Kiwa's senior priestess, hadn't recognized him from his more incognito garb of the time. "We called you 'Nameless.'"

Jan laughed. "That you did. I still hold Avalon and her ladies in the highest esteem for your hospitality and friendliness."

"Even though we're heathens?" Thora challenged.

"Especially that you are. We are all God's creatures, even if we have different ways of seeing Him. What use is God's love if not shared?"

Azura smiled. Our appreciation of the god's love is best at the summer bonfires, but I doubt we could celebrate that love, my fair friar?

The conversation was interrupted, however. a commotion rippled through the crowd, as word came of a stable boy who had just saved King Rokk's life!

One Hundred and Sixty-eight

Jonah had begun the day with some friendly jousting. He'd actually beaten Garth - distracted by Ayla's arrival, he claimed. He lost to MacKell, fought Laoraighll to a draw, barely bested Thom, and handily took all other comers.

And Tinya cheered him on the whole time. Reflecting on the day, her smile still warmed him. It would have been a beautiful day to take some wine, fish and cheese, and vanish along the shore - but no.

As the warriors broke for a mid-day meal, he took to wandering among the merchants, looking for something special for Tinya. Their wedding day would be approaching in a few scant months, it was true - but on a day where Rokk and Guinevere would be the centre of all attention, he wanted something to show his fiancée that she was still his queen.

He hunted all the way through the main marketplace, and even two smaller ones, coming to the edge of a small forest he hadn't remembered seeing before.

I've ridden patrols all around these hills, and never have I seen this stand. Why does Reep let it stand so close to the fortress?

And seeing a glint of metal, a sword or axe, he entered the woods.

Is this some faerie wood, that moves about the land? Shall I step outside again, into December snows in Cymru?

The glint of metal receded, looking more like a man in armour, into the deeper woods. With reservation but not fear, he pursued.

Twenty minutes later, he was certain this was no mere thicket. The glint had stopped at a bridge over a stream, and turned to face him.

"Fiend!"

He struggled to contain a primal urge to charge his nemesis. No, he'd been that route before, more than once.

"Tinya is alive. I've foiled your villainy!" Jonah jeered. "I've no vengeance left to waste on you!" He lied, but it was time to put the boot on the other foot.

"You've failed in every effort you've ever made. The only thing you've ever done is distract me!" Jonah continued.

The Green Knight stood still, sword hand trembling only slightly.

"In fact, now that I know it's only you, I needn't have bothered." He turned to walk away. Taking a few steps, he turned one last time. "Be seeing you."

Jonah walked away, sword still in hand, waiting for the reflection of motion behind him on the blade.

It came.

Jonah whirled, ready to strike, but was knocked down from the side -- not the foe before him -- a footman's axe gashed his shoulder and upper arm, and struck a blow to his head.

He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

One Hundred and Sixty-nine

Morgause took delight in how the court ladies fawned over her fifth son.

"What is his name?" asked Jancel. "May I hold him?"

"Oh course," she smiled. "He is Medrod. The seers say he will be a great king."

"Hello, Medrod," Jancel smiled at the three-month-old.

Virginia and Siobhan gathered around as well. Virginia held a poultice to her arm, covering a bruise.

"You were the lady attacked by that vile dwarf?" Morgause asked, sympathetically.

"Girls? Don't you still have preparations to see to?" scolded Laurentia.

"We've been working for weeks," Virginia rebutted. "A few minutes to tend to a baby won't-"

"-Get things done. There'll be time for babies after the feasts."

Zendak's daughters rolled their eyes and resumed their tasks. Jancel handed little Medrod back to the queen of Lothian, or rather her wet-nurse.

"I'm sorry Queen Morgause, but we're well behind schedule," Luornu fretted. "This new hall doesn't at all match the lengths Reep-"

"-Say no more, child," Morgause beamed. "I apologize for interrupting. I was wondering if Guinevere was about?"

"She's downstairs, discussing matters with Reep and Tenzil - and Sir Lucan, who will be the royal butler."

Morgause thanked her and headed for the kitchen stairs. She smiled at Zendak's daughters, at hearing their amazement that she'd given birth at her age. They would do well to retain youth as long as I did, thought the woman who was Jonah's mother.

Downstairs, the kitchen staff hustled under Sir Lucan's command.

Reep and the high queen turned to her - with strangely sympathetic eyes. Morgause could not gage why-

Reep, meanwhile, looked none the happier to see the baby. Has Rokk told him? I'd be surprised, she thought.

Reep departed to let the queens talk.

"My dear kinswoman, I was so sorry to hear of that incident with Yder-"

"-Never mind that," the high queen interrupted "Have you not heard about Jonah?"

One Hundred and Seventy

Lavarrus watched Geraint armour up and ride away. Good. Yet another knight less to deal with.

While the newcomer was off avenging Guinevere and her ladies, the real menace to Britain's royalty could continue unabated.

Two more knights! he was elated. Reep and James were now departing together, with enough gear for several days out.

Lavarrus counted: Rokk, Gawaine, Geraint, Reep, James, Garth and Ayla were all out of the picture, one way or another. With little additional effort, Camelot would die stillborn...

Eva came to him. "The king is wounded. They're in a panic," he told her.

"No, they're not. Not yet," she grinned. "Not even close."

Mekt, too, smiled. He was unable to assist his friends' last venture, but this... this was perfect, and nothing could go wrong.

notes 160-169:
160/161/164: I wasn't going to do any White Triangle stuff, but then a neat idea developed.
161/163: Geraint's been mentioned before, but I couldn't figure out where to inset him til now. He's both historical and Arthurian (where h overlaps with Sir Erec)... and of course I've added a LSH angle.
162: One of my delays in mentally plotting all this was resolving all the little things that I needed to get out of the way to get to the Midsummer story thread. Brin gets bumped off-camera as a result, alas... there were just too many loose threads not coming together... and jettisoning a few mental roadblocks has helped jump-start me again.
165: While I originally had Lar a bit smitten with Tinya, as time went on, this no longer worked for me. so I'm evolving 'them' to fit Lar's age/wisdom... more of a big bro figure.
166: Balin's tale is taking the long way 'round the barn, and Sir D (don't call him Gar Logan) died a bit earlier than I planned (in his first semi-substantial post-cameo intro, no less!). Chalk it up to the loose threads I needed to put aside.
167: This one actually wrote itself. I started out with a vague idea about Azura meeting Morgause at the fair.
168: I'm surprised the Green Knight saga has taken this long to get to this point, actually. It may even be starting to make a little sense by now - or at least to a point where an educated guess is possible.
169: Medrod is probably the closest "authentic" variation on the name of you-know-who. Sir Lucan, right out of Arthurian lore, is there to take household oversight duties away from Reep. Poor overworked guy!

One Hundred and Seventy-one

Rokk grimaced.

He tried, but he couldn't muster the strength. Not without bleeding again. But as it turned out, he didn't have to.

"Kneel, Brunor of Elmet."

The lad complied with the queen's order.

Imra lifted Excalibur, and pointed it at him.

"For service to your king and country," she touched the sword to each of his shoulders and his head," I dub thee Sir Brunor, knight of the round table, member of King Rokk's legion."

Rokk, from the vantage of the makeshift divan, began applauding, until the pain made him stop.

The hall erupted in cheers and applause. Various dignitaries, lords and knights all gathered to greet and commend the youth, but Imra made a point to thank Camulodunum's prefect for the use of his hall and castle. Camelot's sole hall thus far was too entwined in midsummer preparations, and Rokk wanted a proper facility to commend his newest knight.

In fact, as Camelot proper was getting overwhelmed as a site, Reep was transferring more and more operations to the modest existing civic fortress, which in future years would serve as a garrison to support Camelot.

Brunor had been nervous about appearing before Queen Guinevere. He'd heard she could read minds - tales either overblown or fanciful, it seems - or she hasn't bothered to.

All the better.

The lines dwindled down and the feast began. One good meal, and then he would take part in a new custom Rokk devised for his new fort - new knights will stand vigil at the fortress chapel all night and all day, and break fast solely with the king at sundown.

At the tables, everyone gushed and praised how he stepped in and saved the king.

But in truth, he was a bit embarrassed at his deed - intending a running start at the nearby Sir Garth, but instead hitting -

Where was Sir Garth, anyway? Brunor wouldn't slay his quarry here, but still... Where is he?

"Is there any word about...?" asked one of the court ladies.

"Still delusional. His mother hasn't left his side, I hear," answered another.

Brunor felt a pang of self-consciousness, and turned away. He'd no love for the knight he'd struck, but neither did he want to be known as the man who slew the hero of the north.

Still, the gossip was hard to evade.

"No one's even seen his so-called fiancé. Some say she and Mac-"

"-Shhh. You shouldn't talk so-"

"-Well, I heard-"

"-not the first time he turned on his kin-"

Brunor could stand no more. He left his plate half-touched, and made his way with a series of polite excuses to the street. The sticky warmth of June, eased by ocean air, let him breathe.

Patience, Sir Brunor. You're almost there, Eva told him.

"Yes. I get Garth, and you get Britain."

<sits drumming fingers on table>

Waiting...

sorry.. and thanks for missing LoC! I've been running ragged with work and other things lately; it's been difficult to concentrate. I should be back before mid-June ready to rumble again!

One Hundred Seventy-Two

“Do we truly do the right thing?” James asked, very hesitantly.

“I know it seems… harsh. Cruel, even, but it must be done,” Reep replied. “And it must remain our secret, else King Rokk’s good name be smeared.”

James swallowed his distaste for their mission. He knew and trusted Reep with his life, and if something so preyed upon the Seneschal’s heart, it must be true.

They arrived at a little hut, where Reep had fresh horses and equipment ready and waiting.

Donning armours and tunics a far cry from their regular appearance, they now looked like a cross between Tarik’s Elmetian deserters and Angle brigands – too vague to be singled out for retribution. Their horses, too, were of plain Gallic stock, not the proud Iberian steed that mark Rokk’s legion.

And so they doubled back, practicing rough, barbaric grunts, before making camp near the river. Reep had already chosen a spot where the nurse would come – a spot from which he’d already spied her routines.

“She usually comes in the morning, but sometimes in late afternoon instead,” Reep explained.

James, trying to occupy himself while waiting, first tried to pretend he couldn’t hear the background roars echoing from Camelot. Failing that, he tried to pretend he was watching the day’s jousts, if not participating. It wasn’t working. He was bored with waiting.

Hours? later, Reep grabbed his arm, and he silently resumed vigil. A young woman – no a young couple, had come to the glade, seeking privacy, no doubt.

Would they ruin or scheme? Reep fretted. But their quarry turned up not.

The night was not a restful one, as James’ doubts crept back in. Could he do what needed to be done? He wasn’t so sure.

With morning’s first light, Reep awoke, and saw instantly that his friend hadn’t slept at all.

I chose poorly in my choice of accomplices. Tenzil, perhaps. Not James. Reep considered calling the mission off, but regardless of who replaced James, James would now suspect. Better his hand be accomplice, that he may keep his silence, Reep thought, hating himself for it.

While mulling it over, destiny took a hand – it was James’ turn to grab Reep’s arm.

And sure enough, the young maid carried the morning’s laundries to the riverside, along with her charge. Verily, only her mistress would deem Camulodunum’s wells not to her liking, Reep thought.

Hearing the sound of their quarry, the duo sauntered back to their mounts, before racing down the ravine to intercept the woman before she could flee.

She warily observed the approaching riders, not quite believing brigands would venture so close to the city – yet she was no trusting fool, either. She glanced backward, wondering if city guards would hear her scream.

“Scream and you’ll live not,” barked Reep, in a mock ruffian’s voice. “You are not our quarry.”

He pointed his sword straight at her, while James dismounted to pick up the babe. His heart sank. How can I see harm to one so young and innocent?

With James again in saddle and crossing the river, Reep stood guard letting him gain a distance. James rode westward, and would double north to return to the hut. Reep would ride northeast along the shore road before heading inland. With luck, the maid would recall Reep’s path, not James.

With James having a good head start, it was Reep’s turn to flee. And as he expected, the maid screamed her head off, running back for the city.

He laid a rough path for pursuers to follow – in and out of the river, zig-zagging up along crossing streams, and eventually sending the horse on alone while he followed a tributary north, the stream hiding his footprints.

When he’d reached the hut, he found James with the baby.

“Well?” Reep said, exasperated.

“I… couldn’t,” James pleaded with him. “He’s but a babe.”

Reep drew a dagger, and placed it to the child’s face. The sharp metal drew a thin line of blood. But Reep could do no more.

“Damn us!” he exploded.

“Must he truly die?”

“Aye. A child born of the blackest magicks, who is already being used as a tool to undermine King Rokk. Queen Nura of Cornwall, she who sees the future, said that the child will prove the undoing of Britain itself, should it live!”

Reep looked again at the baby. He tried to tell him he was strong enough to do what needed to be done. But he couldn’t make himself believe that untruth.

“Well,” he said at last, “We cannot remain here and be found. Let me change, and we shall ride… north, to Branodunum.”

As he and James were supposedly pursuing the fiendish Yder, to aide Geraint, and could be spared for a few days…

Near Branodunum, they would put the baby to sea, where it would meet its fate without either of them soiling their hands. Yes, that would work…

One Hundred Seventy-Three

“How fares he?”

“He improves,” Morgause replied. “I believe he shall live.”

Dyrk nodded. “T’is well indeed! But why would he so attack King Rokk?”

“Mayhap he was bespelled.”

“Aye. But between various ruses and… other incidents, some question his standing,” it hurt the Roman to put this into words.

“Do you question his loyalties – or say his mind is addled?” the northern queen snapped.

“I question neither,” Dyrk said as warmly as he could. “He is my friend, and I wish to see him cured, of whatever ails him. Where… Where is Tinya?”

“She has not been seen since the morning before… this happened. I truly thought better of her.” She sighed. And Brunor? He who so eagerly defended his king by wounding my son?”

“He… has become quite a quandary. Yesterday, King Zendak offered him a gold armband in reward for his heroism – and he rejected it! Now he seems to labour to have rival knights expelled on various grounds ranging from ineptitude to treason. Rokk has refused to hear his allegations until after tomorrow’s ceremonies, yet still…”

“King Rokk should be more wary of the vipers he allows into his home. I know many of you would include me amongst that breed,” Morgause sounded almost repentant, “but I truly believe King Mekt’s allies are up to ill.”

“Once you would have cheered them on,” Dyrk said, trying not to sound scornful.

“Aye. Once.”

With an uneasy pause in the conversation, Dyrk paced to the window.

He was about to speak one more when to door burst open. “My lady!” One of Morgause’s guardsmen blurted, “The baby Medrod has been seized by brigands!”

One Hundred Seventy-Four

After days of tracking, Geraint heard from a farmer that Yder, believing himself un-pursued into Angle territory, had intended to take part in the midsummer Sparrowhawk Tournament at Castor. He resolved to humiliate the rogue knight at the tourney, and deliver him and his vile dwarf to Queen Guinevere for her judgment thereafter.

Nearing Castor’s marketplace, he spied a beautiful maiden, who carried herself with the airs of nobility, although she was dressed as a peasant.

“Who is yon maiden?” Geraint asked a merchant. Never in all his travels, from Italia to Iberia to Britain, had he been so enchanted with a maiden. “She is clearly a lady of title, yet dresses not so.”

“She is my daughter, Enide,” the merchant replied. “We were the ancestral Celtic rulers of this land, and even as the Angles came, we held on. But no more – our holdings have been carved up by Angle lords seeking to make up for their losses against King Rokk last year, we to the streets we were forced,” he pointed to the castle no longer his.

“Good sir, I am by title and right the heir to Cornwall, and I should like your daughter for my bride. Sir Geraint am I, late of Rokk’s court.”

“I have heard of you, the step-son of Marcus?” Geraint winced at being mistaken for his famous kinsman Thom, but did not want to ruin the deal. “If you prove your worth at the Sparrowhawk Tournament, her hand is yours,” said the merchant.

One Hundred Seventy-Five

“What do you think of Brunor?”

“I think he’s a villain,” Genni said plainly. “I think he schemed his way into Rokk’s trust, and will destroy this kingdom if left to his own.”

“What do we really know of him?” Iasmin asked, trying to sort out fact from rumour.

“He’s from Elmet,” Lu answered. “I’d not heard of him, though, from my time there.”

“”If from Elmet, he may be Tarik’s man,” Saihlough ventured, flying circle-eights around the ladies. “Or Winifred’s. Blagh!”

“Well. We need more information if we’re to act,” Iasmin concluded. “The festivities are a big distraction, as we do not know if all our peers are at any moment. We haven’t seen Garth or Ayla in days… but maybe the same confusion can hide our inquiries.

“Genni… I want you to go to Lindum. Find out from Sir Derek what you can of Brunor… if need be, go to Elmet yourself,” she said.

Genni agreed, and was out on the road within minutes.

“Saihlough. I want you to keep an eye on Brunor. Follow him closely. Watch who he talks to. And hide yourself well.”

“Of course,” the faerie giggled, and flew away.

“Lu, I need you to find Garth and Ayla. I’d start with Mekt’s tents. But watch yourself. He was an ally against Zaryan, but now… who knows? And mind his lady-friend Eva. Her gifts may rival the queen’s.”

Lu nodded, and set out on her assignment.

Iasmin didn’t like circumventing Rokk, but if Eva’s Sight was as strong as she believed, Rokk and Guinevere were no doubt under constant observation. Good. That shall distract them from our roles.

One Hundred Seventy-Six

“Egypt?

Querl and L’ile nodded.

“My family adopted these medallions as our own. I had no idea from whence they came,” said Laoraighll. “Many of my extended family – cousins and kinsmen – all wear them, that any of the Gandr clan may recognize each other.”

“Yet one was found in Angtough, and another in Roxxius’ lair,” L’ile added.

“Querl has theorized that Angtough was raided by Roxxius, yes?”

“It was around the same time, yes. But still, we’re not certain,” Querl said. “Any more than we’re certain of anything, Laoraighll,” he said softly. “No one’ accusing you of anything.”

“No, but my family-“

“-May not be involved. Medallions get sold, traded-“

“NO!”

All eyes turned upon her.

“The medallions… are special. They are a promise… that Eiru shan’t be touched by the ancient evils that drove the Tuatha de Danaan to Eiru.”

An ancient evil… L’ile thought. just as the Hunter said.

“If the Tuatha were gods,” Querl posited, “How did… anyone drive them to Eiru?”

“More powerful rival gods,” L’ile answered flippantly, yet not entirely in jest. “I wonder if MacKell has seen the like in his years of seeing the world.”