The
Heirs of Britain
Session
24: 487, She Sells Sea Shells
_____
Session 24: The Walking Wounded _____
Sir Uhtred bangs, just twice, on the heavy door; the hilt of his heirloom axe casts a resounding echo through the hall. Within, a figure stirs in the dark. It reeks of old sweat, food, and alcohol; a tinge of infection adds a repulsive colour.
“…Hwuuh? Whoe’sit?”
The massive Berroc grunts, and shoulders open the door with little worry.
“What’r.. the…. The’fuc?” a mumble from within; a clumsy hand thrust upward, shielding bloodstained eyes from new light.
Uthred stomps forth, and in three strides is upon him; he shakes firmly, a thick hand on tired shoulder: “Up”, he orders.
“Get offaa mee… ugh…”
“UP. Were thee so incapable when Iwan was thy squire? Up, I say!”
“Wh.. Iwan? Iwan’s dead.. ey!” he mumbles painfully, Uthred wrenching him once more, “E’s dead! Dead!”
The figure throws an arm out weakly, slapping feebly at the huge man.
“Yes. Iwan is dead,” Uhtred rumbles, “and his will I have inherited. It would be his wishes, I figure, to keep thee alive, Sir Myles. Up.”
The shaking is unreleting, Myles’ pained whines and groans accentuate each jerk. Eventually, his eyes peel open, stuck tightly at the corners. They squint, the dull light burning like the summer sun.
“Who’re you!? I’ll…. I’ll..” he lurches for a sword, leaning limply too far away; his weak arm slapping the floor clumsily.
“You ainn’t half an Iwan, you’r …” he slurs.
“No,” the younger man interrupts, “I am not. I was his squire.”
“No y’self!” with a drunken spit; “Iwan’as my squire”
Uhtred rumbles forth his frustration, his disgust: “A KNIGHT!” he roars, “He was a Knight. For many years. Or do you not remember that much?”
“A good knight!” Myles extends, eyes broader, more focused, looking his attacker up and down.
“Waiyt… Yer.. that Saxon fella, huh? Yeah yea… nevr unnerstood why e’ kep a Saxon around….. why’r you ‘ere, eh? Wh…. Wait. Your name is. Waiwaiyt. No no no, I know thee…”
“Yes” Uhtred sighs, “we’ve met several times.”
“Don’t tell me.. no no.. no.. hmuuu……Uhtred! Uhtred, yeah. Lo, standeth Uhtrred. I know thee. Wh’re you ere?”
“Check on you. Iwan’s behalf.”
Uhtred casts his eye around the room; empty bottles, tankards, scattered plates, old food, dark stains: “Should’ve done it more, and sooner.”
Myles groans again, “Iwan sent ye? Are thee… speaking with him? You ‘ear ‘is voice?”
“No,” Uhtred grunts, “but he would’ve wanted this. Well. Not this.”
Myles sinks disappointed into his chair; he reaches for an empty tankard, shakes it, sighs, and tosses it limply.
“Iwan needn’ worry ‘bout that. Nor thee, knight. I’m alive. I ‘ave my sword. Iss Winter, I don’ ‘ave to fight for... Well. God knows ‘ow long. Leave me be.”
Uhtred walks slowly around the room, bothering not to put things in their proper place; simply walking, looking.
“Tell me the truth, Sir Myles. How badly were ye beaten?”
“’E put me in the dirt; what can I say? I’m not fit to be a knight.”
A pause. Myles kicks out his leg, rips up a trouser leg, and reveals a long, ragged scar up the calf, across the shin. Uhtred watches quietly.
“’E carved me up, Uhtrd. I’m surpraasisd th… well… God ‘ad mercy, to let me keep walkin’. But I’m not th’same’s I was.”
“His name?” the giant asks simply.
“No idea. I din’t evn see him. I did chargeth forth, lance seeking Sir Blains, the coward. Next thing I beheld, I was out of mine saddle, one foot caught in the harness, dragged and damn near stomped by mine own steed” he spits, coughing.
“I knowtth not” he continues, “someone managed to pull it back, turn it ‘round, I dunno. Woke up in some bed; cramped dark hall. And my leg was cockentrice.”
“I understand” Uhtred nods, “You fought a man straight, in single combat, and this craven struck thee from aside.”
A pause.
“Spose
that be’eth one take of it.” He shrugs.
“But we were all armed; I should’ve seen him. I dunno.”
“Live and learn, Sir Myles. Thou ought only do better with thy next chance.”
Myles looks into the fire a short moment; “... next chance?”
“Thou art not dead. Myles.”
“No. Wish’I was, some days; but I see thou speaketh true” comes Myle’s quieter reply.
“Blains doth live still; and his champion too. Hence: we have people to kill. Up.”
Myles sighs, coughs, and braces himself. With a grunt and a lurch, he thrusts from his chair, stumbling, wincing, and, bracing once more on Uthred’s arm, tumbles into a second chair.
“Fucking… FUCK. Might as well be maimed!”
Uhtred
regards him for a moment: “Seems you are.”
“No no no… it just… jus hurts. Fucking hurts. Fuck.”
Myles exhales deeply, sets his jaw, and pushes himself back to his feet, favouring one side. He stabilises awkwardly, and stands tall; a small triumph, with a small wince.
“Gimme my sword, where the fuck is it, fucking…”
Uhtred retrieves and delivers it.
Myles nods, holding his eye a moment and, using the sword as a cane, limps past the fire to another door; “Get th’fuck outta here” he says to someone unseen within; he is gone a moment, and returns with a cup, and a jug of ale.
Uhtred stays the man’s hand, mid pour.
“The fuck’s yer problem, Saxon?”
“I will let thee drink, in a moment. But promise me a thing, Sir Myles. I will return on the morrow. And ye will be sober. And I will train with ye, and be thy company. And one day we will slay Blains, and his Champion, together.”
“Why!?
Why not jus’ leave me ‘ere, and YOU go off an’ do it? Why waste the time
training with… with…. Ugh!” He scoffs, gesturing to his leg.
“My bes’ fighting days are over, Uthred,” he sighs, collapsing into his chair.
“A warrior doth deserve to die in combat. Thou wert my master’s master, in his own time. And he would want for thee to meet God in glory, not shame. And he would wish not to see thee like this.”
Myles looks at him, and then looks away, and down. He fills his tankard, drinks, wipes his mouth, and thinks:
“Visit if thee wish it, Uthred. But I cannot promise thee what state I will be in.”
He fills another cup and passes it to the huge man. It is taken in a large fist, with a resigned sigh.
…
Returning the next day, Sir Myles is in a slightly better state. Sleepy, and a little of cups, but up. After some effort, The drunken, wounded warrior is urged to some small practice. It is little, and unimpressive; one wonders how much of his incompetence is injury, drink, or heart. But it is a start.
Weeks
pass. And a day doth come when Sir Uhtred arrives, and Sir Myles is not drunk.
They train, and more weeks pass.
Myles’ progress is not even, and there are as many peaks as troughs, but it is steady. Myles’ leg, it seems, is mangled more in mind than body. He moves a little shy on the back foot, and in part unsteady, but serviceable. He will recover, and he will fight.
__________ Family Matters __________
Sir Vandar is married to the beautiful Lady Elaine; she has given birth to a healthy baby girl: Elinia. The two, deeply in love, are known widely for their public adoration and joy.
Guests arrive in the Winter; travellers displaced by war. A Cymric man, his roman wife, their children, and nephew. They are not particularly wealthy; recently unlanded nobility of good stock. They have come, for they heard of the handsome Aquitanian’s defeat of the barbaric Chief Basa. Their own lands were taken by that barbaric warlord, their knightly brother butchered, his knightly colours added to Basa’s patchwork banner - the banner that now hangs in Vandar’s hall, a symbol of Cymric unity and resilience. This family offers for Sir Vandar to squire their nephew, who is of age for such service. He has gear and supplies, and is trained well. Moreover, if he is taken into service, they'll send the money needed to keep him. The boy is quiet, but seems a good enough sort. Vandar accepts, and offers the family hospitality for as long as they need.
Soon thereafter Vandar visits Sir Vandagild's family and manor at Winterbourne. Things are well - sturdy walls kept have kept the family safe from raids, and a good harvest blessed the lands. Vandagild’s brother, Sir Vandimund, keeps the land safe, while a skilled steward manages the villages. Father Perticus makes regular visits to the children. The eldest twins, Vandric and Vandemir, are approaching paging age; a small relief, as the steward and midwives have a hard time taking care of them energetic swarm.
The youngest do not really understand what has happened; but the absence of Sir Vandagild is being felt. Vandar is honest about the situation - he knows not if Vandagild is dead, but believes he has been called on a quest by God.
“Uncle,” begins little Vandric, “my friend Egil said that if papa never comes back then I get to run the house, and I will be in charge, and the stinky steward has to do what I say!”
“The steward is regent, and you will do is he says,” comes the stern reply.
As
the weeks pass, Vandar visits regularly. He trains with the boys, and his own
family stay for weeks at a time. He builds the steward’s authority, hoping to
keep some stability in the troubled family…
__________ Secrets of Sarum __________
The weight of the Royal court is notably absent, but the city has not yet recovered. The vast fields that housed the Kingdom are now unused, but unrecovered – weeds sprout and seed, and fields of mud remain throughout the well-churned earth. The outer buildings of Sarum, damaged by the wayward energy of the youth and the bored, remain trashed or in disrepair; things are worn out. It will be some time before the lands, granaries, and coffers heal.
Around the court, bubbly murmurs speak to the excitement of a rumoured campaign to the continent! The hopeful speak, with greedy eyes, of the riches that abound there - they have castles filled to the ceiling with gold!
“I heard the Frankish King is so wealthy that his SHIP is wrought of golden planks!”
Many knights are excited by the prospect. After the crippling economic siege of recent years, and the ruthless raiding of the wretched Sir Blains of Levcomagus, it is not just the young and gullible that take stock in such rumours. Many a noble is keen to recover their lost cash.
In the whispering circles and quieter cliques, darker things come in smaller words. Lady Eliri's death is still blamed on Sir Statirius by Sir Hywell, her grieving father, who now has no direct heir. The question of his inheritence is now unanswered, and many schemes emerge. The unscrupulous seek to exploit this chaos.
Some say that Hywell may simply give his wealth and land away, divesting himself of the weight of responsibility among the terrible waves of grief. If so: he is a knight of Sir Roderick, and thus the holdings may revert to the Earl’s control. But did not Sir Hywell have more distant family? Or do the lands turn to the King Uther himself? But yet, the blackest voices wonder aloud if there is not some plot or agreement for the wily widower Sir Statirius, which might set him to inherit, even after the loss of his former wife, Lady Eliri...
Sir Uhtred spends his Spring finding, and conversing, with the knights that support Sir Hywell. He eagerly hears, and shares their words, and it is soon clear to all interested that he has taken a side. Sir Hywell himself has ten knights under his banner, who each support his accusation of Statirius. Sir Rhodri, in particular, stands out: an older knight, he is well-respected, but not wealthy, and terminally unlucky. Sir Uvan, former squire and brother-in-law of Sir Vandagild, is a passionate supporter of the aging Hywell. Uhtred, well acquainted with the young man, speaks at length with him.
Uvan is frank about matters: he simply takes Sir Hywell at his word. Statirius has clearly done something awful, and is making some kind of play at Hywell’s wealth and power. The few times he's witnessed Statirius hismelf, he thought him a suspicious character, and likely up to no good. Statirius, he thinks, is a little too clean, at times, a little too slick. For a hunter like Uvan, he stinks.
For
his part, Sir Vandar worries not for such intrigues. He inquires about the Frankish
campaign, for he is eager to such treasures as might repair and grow his new
lands. Alas, in the excitement he can only discover that someone from
Logres will lead a fleet to fight there. Apparently, King Uther promised the
Roman Praetor Siagrius that he would lend his army, to aid the Roman recapture of
Frankland. With their minds set on gold and glory, Sirs Vandar and Uhtred volunteer.
Of course, they are not the only to do so. Indeed, most knights are keen,
including the brightest knights of Salisbury, who did help Merlin acquire the
King’s fabulous sword: Sir Edar, Sir Garnoc, and Sir Aeren.
__________ Easter Feast __________
At Sarum, the Easter fare is nourishing but modest. All know why, after the King’s choking siege; None are insulted. As servants deploy the first humble courses, Earl Roderick calls the court’s attention.
“I
have heard great interest for the Frankish campaign. My knights, I tell
thee: wouldst I like nought more than for each of thee to fight whither, and
fill thy coffers with riches. God doth know that Salisbury has need for such
gold as she can fairly get, for we have suffered… unfortunate circumstances.
“Alas: This campaign will not require all hands. Prince Madoc himself will lead
the army, and he hath made his will clear: T’will be but a half-muster, for he will
have not the ships for greater. Despite the keen and welcome interest for such
an expedition, he simply cannot accommodate all of thy bold and eager hearts. These
are the wishes of the King and the Prince.”
Sir Vandar glances at the High Table, and there spies the uncommon absence of the Prince in question…
“Thus, and however, there will be a certain force number of men who will accompany Sir Elad thither. As my marshal, and representative on the campaign, Elad will be spots for those of ye who might demonstrate, or have already proven, their loyalty to himself, and Salisbury at large,” he concludes, nodding at the stalwart, greying man across the table.
This sets the room to murmur, but a raised hand quickly ends the erupting conversation.
Alas, throughout the feast all talk is now so drawn: Who will be chosen for the riches? There are few words that do not soon lead to Frankish Gold.
…
Sir Uhtred does not like his chances of being picked; he is a new knight, with as yet few chances to prove his loyalty. Some well-known knights will simply be chosen, of course. But what soon becomes clear, by subtext and intrigue, is that the available positions are being sold - knights can pay upfront, or promise some portion of their gains to the Earl, for the chance to fight. In veiled words, the going rate is dispersed down the tables: The earl asks fifty percent of each knight’s portion. Sir Uhtred, fighting more for glory than gold, quickly accepts the deal. He bullies his way forth to inform Sir Elad, and is soon announced as a warrior of the campaign.
Sir Vandar, who owes loyalty to both King Uther and Baron Duach, has higher hopes for his own initial chances. In his recent duel he vanquished the powerful Royal Constable, Sir Elizier, and thus hopes he sits freshly in King’s mind: indeed, Elizier's still-healing scar may remind the King of Sir Vandar's prowess. However, the handsome knight first approaches Baron Duach, to whom he first swore and has loyally followed, to request his chance to fight.
Baron Duach, in his way, is blunt: he will not be attending the campaign. Sir Duach hath been curiously exempted from many of Uther's campaigns, and seemingly this is one of them.
“That said”, the Baron continues, “you are a good man, Sir Vandar. If you would fight, I will speak with the Earl Roderick. My word carries weight, and I could have you ride with him, in his unit. This, I would do for you.”
Thus, the favour is asked and given; the Baron speaks well. Vandar’s position is conditionally accepted: Duach’s share of the gains will go instead to Sir Roderick.
Sir Vandar is troubled, and questions if the price is too steep; he wishes not to take advantage:
“Sir Vandar” Duach smiles, “Blessed am I by our great God; I am a fortunate man. I need not for thy treasures. Go. Fight. Give thy dues to the good Earl, as he does demand and deserve; I ask only in return for thy continued loyalty.”
Vandar
is gracious in his thanks, and leave the table with an eager grin.
__________ A Tale of Two Tales __________
Before departing, Sir Vandar spends time with his and Vandagild's families, telling them tales of the treasures and glory he will return with. Mustering at Hantonne, Prince Madoc is thither found. speaking with several admirals. As the days pass, more men arrive, each keen. Men boast of their past and future exploits; others pray to their Gods; others drink, game, or wait in peace.
The army is assembled, and yet days pass in stillness. The ships roll idle in the ports; days pass, and the ships sail not. And more days pass. And idle men itch, and grumble, and do not sail.
Word trickles from Sir Elad: we wait for the right tide, and wind, to cross the channel. This will take as long as God deems fit. This time will not count for each knight’s service. Finally, to further caution to the dissenters, he adds sharply: One cannot rush God.
Thus, and hence: Waiting continues; the tides and winds, or God, apparently cruel or elusive. Fully half of the mighty army of Logres is here; half the King’s Horses and half the King’s Men, and yet all are waiting on the weather again.
And there is much time spent waiting around.
While they wait, Sir Vandar tells stories of the continent and faeries. Spake he a tale, learned when he was young, of Undead Kings who roam the Frankish wilderness. These ancient Kings, be they Gaul, Frank and Aquitanian, are doomed each to hunt, forever unto eternity. Each king roams widely in the forests and mountains, and this prey they hunt is whomsoever they find – man, woman, man or monster.
One of these Kings, a Vandal conqueror, is King Elerix, whose armies sacked Rome. These dastardly kings each hunt with a loyal hound of Hell, flaming monsters from an evil place.
A tale of terror and caution, Sir Vandar, whose deep voice is melodious and pleasant, turns to darkness and despair, and thus tells it well. His charming accent giving a continental weight to his fearsome, rumbling tones; his strange, silver eyes twinkling in the firelight. Men from other counties come to listen, enjoying the frightful tales. Uthred sits nearby, somewhat awed; not by the tale, for he believes not such things, but for the man’s skill in the telling. He notes well the tricks, hoping to glean some skill of tale-telling from his Aquitanian peer.
Sir Vandar is asked, again and again, to retell it. But on one occasion, after many days, people leave mid-tale, for another is being told, of some greater thing…
…
Hence: A different campfire, a different tale: Three men, who slew a giant, claimed a blade from a lake, and gave it to the King:
“…thus
we defeated the Nukalayvee, and with that final stroke against the strange water
beast, it did vanished into the ground, just as does the gentle rain. Yet: As
we sheathed our dampened blades, and returned unto the Arch-Druid Merlin, we
found him in a ship, nay, a rowing vessel; paddling calmly to the centre of the
misty lake. And lo: it was there that he did stop, Merlin; and he stood in the
boat, clad in his robe and the awe of his power and station. Magic radiated
from him; friends, I can only tell you of the feeling, for it is indescribable to
mortal tongues.
“From the pristine waters, rose a hand; I tell you no lie! Gentle and delicate,
wet and elegant, this beautiful thing – no doubt the maiden that bore it was
the finest of things; there is no doubt! And in that hand; clutched softly but
surely we did spy it: The Sword of Victory! Yea, that same blade, wielded by King
Uther, God defend him. Which will lead us, men of Logres, men of Britain, to
Glory!
“O!
Friends; If only ye were there, to see it; wouldst ye truly know. I think it
that we were touched by God that day; I do. And I think I do speak true, for
the each three of us, and our fallen companion, when I say that truly our King,
too, was Chosen by God.”
The tale concludes to great cheer, and the teller, none other than the slickly
spoken Sir Aeren, is drowned in questions of Merlin and Monster.
…
Yet it is, Sir Garnoc, of similar size to Vandar, who responds to the bombardment:
“He is remarkable, Merlin; I know not the limit of his power. We did not touch the sword, of course; it is not for such men as we. But we first beheld its beauty; and in that lake it shone brighter than any mundane thing.”
Sir Vandar’s strong voice cuts through the murmurs:
“And who, praytell, is the brave knight that fell, beside thee? Is he honoured by God, as ye claim thou art?”
There
is a brief silence; and the third knight, Sir Edar, answers:
“Yea, Sir. It was uh.. a brave knight. Indeed. His uh... His name was Sir Cai. He was a skilled fighter but... well.. he is in God's hands now.”
He raises his drink; “and May he find warmth wherever he lay now.”
“To Sir Cai, and yeah, to all our fallen companions,” Vandar adds, raising his own chalice, “like those slain by Chief Bassa; that wretched warlord who slew… so, so many of our colleagues and kin, and whose banner now hangs in my hall!”
Many eyes turn to Sir Vandar, at the mention of Chief Bassa – his cruelty has touched many, and the powerful stories have brought emotions to surface.
“To our fallen kin!” the cheer arises!
“Tell us Vandar! Tell us how he fell! Tell us how you slew that dog, and spare no detail!”
And so, he does. With fire in his heart, the silver of his eyes takes fully to his tongue: The story is told to perfection; men are in tears, with the thought of their slaughtered kin. And hence, when Vandar tells of the felling blow, and the flinging of Basa’s head to Prince Madoc, the unknowable pain of familial grief roars forth in the mens’ cries of victory! Sobbing men embrace one another, and Vandar, who is showered in thanks and glory for his felling of that great enemy, and his moving account of the tale.
Men line up to ask if their, or their family’s, heraldry is on the banner.
“You’ll come, good Sir, when we return! You will see the banner for yourself, and we will share in fine Aquitanian wine, and yea: we will cry for thy dear kin! And too, will thou see, that I am the most blessed of men: for my Elaine is the finest Lady in all the land! And thanks to God!” Vandar smiles.
Sir Aeren, for his part, is upset; arms folded petulantly, he dismisses the story. Offhand comments, vile in their intent but feeble in execution, spill forth to unwelcome ears.
“Yes,
come to visit Salisbury!” Aeren interjects; “and… and! While in
Salisbury, why don't ye come to Devizes, to Sir Edar's fine castle, to see
the head of a giant! Didst thou know that eating the marrow from its bones grants
thee a giant's strength!?”
“Sir Edar,” he continues, “do not thoust think it would be a display of, of…
great Christian hospitality, to let these fine knights drink of this giant's
bone?”
Sir Edar, mid drink, lowers his cup, and looks at the man with veiled confusion;
“Ahhh.. Ahh! Y.. yea! Yea, friends… Come and uhh.. feast, drink of the giant's skull!”
“Ha!” Vandar laughs, “The strength of a giant, is it? Incredible! What an ally God has granted us. Surely a demonstration, good Sir? Please, I beg of thee! Here then” he stands, whispers to his squire, and continues, “lift my horse, ye great man! My good squire brings it hence!”
Sir Aeron, normally a beacon of confidence, is flat-footed. Vandar, keen eyed, smiles at the hiccup.
“Ahh.. yes!” the former slaps the imposing Sir Garnoc – “Sir Garnoc, thou hath drank of the skull, yea? Heartily, I do recall? Tell them it is so! Surely, thou canst lift more than any of us! Why don't you show us?
Garnoc
slowly lowers his own drink; his own confusion is obvious:
“Uh.. sure? What errr... what wouldst thou have me lift?”
“Well! Mine squire, good lad as is he,” Vandar stands, “is a tardy fellow, so… Well now; each of us hath heard tale of how Giants fight whole with trees? It is true, how they wield them like great clubs, to crush strong men whole in their armour. If such strength haveth thee, Garnoc Skulldrinker, why dost thou not pluck yon beech from the earth? It is but a small one…” he calls, gesturing to a nearby tree.
Sir
Aeron cannot keep the anxiety from his face:
“Ha ha ha… well... now, Sir Garnoc is not yet a proper giant, Sir Vandar, ha ha… He has only been drinking a short while now! But… but, yes! He… I’m sure he could… The skull does give great power…”
Garnoc shrugs and stands, locking eyes at even high with Sir Vandar, each towering above most normal men.
“I’ll give it my best effort.”
“That’s all any of us can ask, good Sir” comes Vandar’s cheery reply.
And he turns, to see beside him the bearded chin of massive Sir Uhtred, with his Saxon blood, who has the greater of them both. Up, and up, he looks, nodding in respectful recognition of his bigness.
Hence, mighty Sir Garnoc approaches the designated bole; he squats deeply, claps his hands in the dusty earth, and wraps his long arms around the beech, wrapping half the trunk. He plants his feet, and pulls straight up, groaning and roaring, but the enormous trunk does not budge. He steps back, takes a breath, and tries again; with the second effort he rocks the great tree but a little; tiny cracks mark the dirt as the canopy sways, everything in his body tense and shaking... He roars, hefting with all the might at his command… but the tree does not budge!
Breathing heavily, he steps back.
“Well. It doth seem I have not yet quite all the strength of a giant. But lo, I did shake it, and one day I shall the strength!”
“Indeed!” Vandars mirthful reply, “Keep drinking! Keep drinking, Sir Garnoc.
“And well,” he continues, shrugging, dusting his own hands in the dirt, “perhaps the slaying of Mighty Chief Bassa has imbued me with some strength, by Grace of God, if He values such virtues. What harm is there in wondering such things…” he waves on the crowds encouragement as he now approaches the tree himself.
With similar grunts, and shaking, and heaving, Sir Vandar makes his attempt; and the cracks do widen, and leaves do fall as the tree is rattle and wrenched… and though his showing is the greater, he too, cannot shift the sturdy beech!
“Ahh well. Perhaps we are only human, after all, hm?” Vandar huffs.
But
eyes are not on him, for Sir Uhtred, the largest of men, quietly strides past
him. With no word, nor fanfare, nor huff, he wraps his arms around the bole and
heaves… and heaves… and heaves! And the tree lurches, and takes an angle, as
earth bursts around the roots…. But it does not, alas, come loose!
The groan of the crowd as he releases it is a cheerful one; not many believed it possible, and Uhtred’s effort was more than any had hoped. Men bring new chalices to Vandar and Uhtred, clapping the larger on the shoulder for his relative victory, and once more thanking Vandar for his stirring recitation. The handsome Aquitanian thanks them all, and the fire of competition goes out in all men. Vandar feels the victor of the eve, having struck many hearts, and defused the upstart Sir Aeren’s adventurous tale.
...
The next morning, at very long last, the fleet is loaded properly, and the muster of Logres sets sail for the continent. Soon the salty spray of the winds and waters bathes the knight's faces, as they sail south for war, and adventure…
King Arthur Pendragon 5.2
Art is all AI. Sorry, I know. I can't write all this and do the pictures.
