Session 22: 487, If Passion Drives thee, Let Reason Hold
the Reins...
_____ Session 22: Sir Vandagild; a campfire;
outside the walls of Sarum Rock _____
Twigs and acorns crackle and pop in the morning fire; a dense, black mess of charcoal and wood, glowing angrily in self consumption. I toss in another: A casual flick. The seed flies for a moment; it bounces from some charcoal’d log, tumbling unpredictably, stick to log to ground, rolling away in the dirt. It comes to rest beyond the fire; I sigh. The smoke does turn hence; it hath heard my lament and now cometh for me. I close my eyes, hiding from the acrid cloud, turning my new grimace groundward. I wince away the pain. No tears flow; a small victory.
I recall my incredulous conversation from the evening before: I apologised to the young Sir Porkins, for Devizes; I had not wished to reveal his secret to the Marshall. He has new companions now, it seems: Sir Edar, Sir Garon, and Sir Arnoc; the Knights of the Sword; pawns of the demon-kin Merlin. He did not accept; his chin high, stance wide, a boy full of pride. I was stunned a moment, huffed a stifled laugh, and left. I need not his forgiveness; he will likely die a fool.
Days have passed, and weeks, since the first feast of easter. Though the regular trappings of easter feast are present, surrounded, are they, by a tension of malicious hospitality and dwindling splendour. The Earl tells not his plans for the year; even were he to wish so, he has not the time. Beside: The savvy men of Salisbury know well Roderick’s plans: Survive. A glance at the commoners shows me gaunt faces and weary eyes; their suffering is unseen by the paranoid king.
In the choking darkness, I wonder for the Prince, and the troubled Lady Rhianneth. What scheme playeth she? The outcome of her machinations was predictable; she wore her ploy plain for the court to see. Her fate rests now with a vengeful husband, wronged in plain sight. I sigh again; smoke pinches at my throat; I growl it away. The Prince was disgusted, angry. Know well, do I, his disdain for court and its tricks; I feel a new echo in my own heart. There is no honour in the intrigue of Uther’s court; a snarl builds at the dangerous thought; I swallow it.
Idly I touch my scarred face; it heals no more. Some men speak that knight’s pay the cost of their glory in blood. Here, now, sit I in Sarum, crushed and starved by the weight of Uther’s court, strangled by his paranoia; the darkness of court feels the costlier. I shake away these thoughts too. I brave the smoke, turning my head aside: Behold: my tumbled acorn, off in the grass. It does not pop. It does not burn. The smoke turns again, blowing away, up the sturdy walls of Sarum Rock, up and away, free of court.
I stand, stretching away the evening’s weight; my neck cracks. Atticus, my squire, has saddled once more my courser: The forest’s bounty dwindles, and those hunters permitted must care to scourge the place of game entirely. I fetch my bow; as I string it, another procession of finely clad knights passes the camp into Sarum. I growl without thinking, wrenching the limb back harshly, deftly looping the nock. I flex it; twice; feeling the heavy, dangerous tension in the limbs. I nod; good. Every two days, or three, the King holds audience once more, demanding his vassals re-swear the oaths. He stands proud before them, the sword of Victory held bare. Different knights each time; there are many vassals. It is an affront, but one that must be borne. Apparently.
__________ __________
Another week passes; knights and nobles have begun trickling free of the increasingly wretched place; the aroma brings nauseating memories of Londinium. I have seen nought of Rhianneth; I have held some mercy for her, should I learn that she has been done poorly; but yet my heart do hath little warmth left for the petty affairs of noble strangers. One thing I have heard though: King Uther, in such wisdom as he wields, grants not permission for his knights to leave. Indeed his strongest barons, his Dukes and Bannerets, all still dwell in Sarum. I have learned a thing: This is specifically at the request of the King. Sir Blains must salivate, on his knees in Ulfius’ chambers: Salisbury will be bled dry, and there will be nothing left for sieges. The buzzard will descend, and claims these bones as his own. I must act.
Battling patiently the bureaucracy of court, soon standeth I before the Constable of Salisbury: Sir Godifer. He is a mess; exhausted, overwhelmed. He is shouting orders, deep in the halls of Sarum, sputtering contradictory and urgent demands of the gaggle around him.
“My Lord; how best might I assist thee? Wish thee for me to leave, for fewer mouths to feed; and take my modest stable with me? Shall I ride forth to seek food farther abroad? I can help thee with steeds?”
“Vandagild!” he replies, looking much like a coney among foxes, “we bleed dry, man. A week more and yon larders will be stocked of nought.”
I nod; I know this.
I offer him a choice: Shall I help thee with horse, or take mine own plans to ease the burden?
Sir Godifer, proud and eager to maintain his primary responsibility, sputters some dismissal and acknowledgement.
I
nod, turn on my heel, and set out to scheme. My jaw is tight; I hear the grind
of mine own teeth as I strid. I relish not the prospect of acting so furtive,
alas. But Uther is not a forgiving King, and his word is Law; subterfuge by
necessity.
__________ __________
Without thinking, I march to the throne room: The stairs to one side hold one Prince Madoc, who rests easily with some wine, talking quietly with Sir Jarren. I sigh some relief and approach.
“My Prince, your Grace,” I bow, “and good Sir Jarren; do I find thee well?”
“Vandagild! Apart from my attempted murder at the hands of Sir Cuckhold, ye do find me dreadfully bored.”
He pushes a cup into my hand, and invites me to sit; I take it and do.
“Aye, I believe it. It has been a time. If I may be so bold; I may have for thee some respite: Shall we hunt? For the boredom? I have been coursing whence; the deer still run.”
I sip; the wine is good.
“Rather, would I, do anything but still one breath longer in this hall.” He begins, sighing, drinking; “But my King tells me I must stay here. And not yet, am I, in the habit of disobeying my father.”
“You will be in Salisbury, Prince Madoc; it would not be disobeyance at all!”
“Hah,” he begins, drinking thoughtfully, “I wonder: What know ye of the orders of my father, Sir Vandagild? Jarren, have ye been blabbing? Or have thee spies, good hunter? Are thee so keen to have me leave Sarum?”
I sense an edge; something is amiss here.
“My Prince: I want to hunt. ‘Tis a failure, and true, of Hospitality to leave thee unentertained. I enjoy conversing with thee, and hunting; and some conversations are better in the forest than in the castle, with such folk as dwell here.”
“Truly? If interested in my boredom, are thee, then put on a show for me. Find a lute; play me a song.”
I keep my face still; Madoc knows well I am no luthier.
“Perhaps some poetry? I did hear some fine words from a fine Lady Gwen at the first feast; I recall them well!”
“This is about my entertainment, Sir Vandagild, not thine!”
I shrug; I feel some game is already lost, and I like it not. I return with a lute, and play poorly. I try to spin the fumble as parody, and hope he findeth well the comedy in it: He does not.
I sigh, lean the fine instrument on the wall, and finish my drink.
“And that, my Prince, is why I suggested not humming but hunting.”
Madoc swills his own wine. With a wide eyed look at Jarren, and back to me.
“Yea; I see clear that is not thy forte; I am sure. Twas something, Sir Vandagild, though not quite entertaining.”
He stretches his neck a little as I simmer.
“Now that that's out of the way,” he continues, “why do ye not say true thy purpose?”
I sigh, lower my head a touch, drink; and find the goblet dry. I nod once, and hold the Prince’s gaze. My voice is low.
“Madoc, the King mistrusts. The Earl is a good man. Here we suffer, by the malicious word of black-hearted courtiers; they do feed paranoia and have only selfish designs at heart. I seek an end, but God hath not granted me the heart for intrigue. Clearly.”
Madoc listens carefully; he is inscrutable: “I think I've had enough, don't you Sir Jarren? I hate politics.”
He starts to stand.
I know not his full meaning; but I hold my ground: “Yea, my Prince. I hate it too. All of it. I wish to hunt and fight battles and raise my children. The Saxons loom, ready to ravage and rape and destroy, and I wish us, all of us, to be ready. I wish not to rot, and languish, while witches trickle lies into our King’s ear; while wolves bay at our door.”
The Prince halts his rise a moment, and sits.
“I'm sorry. I cannot help thee. Frankly, it's not something I care about.”
I nod slowly, and sigh again.
“You know Jarren,” he continues, turning to the swordsman, “I recall that time, somewhere in… Kent? You remember this, Jarren. You remember that Saxon chief? He had just started importing horses; he and his lot were holed up in their castle. We couldn't get them out. You remember, Jarren?”
Jarren, a curious, uncertain look on his face, nods along, unsure of why.
“It must be the food here, reminding me of our camp there. I think not of why it reminds. Not sure why I mention this now; perhaps the food reminds me of then.”
He finishes his drink, allowing the strange moment to linger.
“We burned their stables.”
He nods, deep in recollection.
“They came running out then! So many of them were… I digress. That's neither here nor there! No reason, anyway. Horses are expensive, are they not, Sir Jarren? If there was any risk that they were unwell... I digress! Knoweth thee what? I think I would like another.”
He
takes the pitcher, pours a drink, and waves me away.
__________ __________
I march to the stable. There are some who regard me among the finest horsemen in the county, and many trust my opinion in equestrian matters. I have some familiarity with their feed and fodder, their parasites and pathogens. I resolve, without serious consideration, not to harm any beast, of course; but surely one could present the risk of some contagion or malady? Perhaps such a thing would drive men from the county in droves? And no real harm.
I seek the foodstocks, and set out to gather the offest feed I can spy.
I round a corner, and I see, looming high, the colours of Sarum; the colours of Earl Roderick. I halt, turning to the great hall. Therein: Roderick, and King Uther. I sigh deeply, set my face in one hand, and lean heavily on a nearby fence. For what strange manner does this fall to humble Vandagild? These are Roderick’s lands; and here I risk some accusation of subterfuge and treason for he? And where does Earl Roderick sit now; we warned him of the threat; weeks of notice! No plan, hath he; no strategy. Grain from Cornwall? Insipid! Are we to sit, and starve? Wait in humble misery, begging for the blade of Blains or Ulfius to come deliver the mercy blow? Such wretched webs of loyalty, oaths, intrigue, and paranoia. Have not the leaders of Logres the valour, the honour, to stand behind their misgivings? Or must these knights dwell in foetid swamps of deception, protected by the exploited, abused promises of decades past?
I groan, audibly; in melancholy, in frustration, in disappointment. I sink to the floor, heavily, displacing the mud with my own messy collapse. There I wait, head low, breathing rapid and shallow, a tangle of despair and indignation.
None disturb me; I know not how long I sit.
Rain begins to splatter my head, flicking mud up to coat my humble attire. I sigh once more and, driven mostly by the cold, stand. I will not sit idly here, awaiting a death, real or allegoric, by bureaucratic poison and prowling foxes. My plan is good; I proceed.
Alas; my heart is broken; broken by the failure of a system I once loved; broken by the failure of men I admired and respected; men I fought, bled and killed for. The despair is apparently evident: Though I try to find some ripe target for my rumour of rancid, infectious fodder, the looks I get from all folk are troubling. I sigh again, shaking my head. I know not where now I stand; perhaps near the stable still? Approaching some unknown camp of nobility? It matters not; I see now the futility of my task, but my resolution to complete it remains. Our lords have failed us, as I will fail us; but at least I will have tried.
I grab the collar of a man nearby; I know not who:
“Man, listen. Stop thy struggling, I am a knight; If that means anything... Stop it. Harken, thee, and harken true.”
I can hear the tension in my own voice; my heart is broken, and I thank the rain for hiding the tears which soon burst forth.
I press a fistful spoiled grain into the man’s chest, heavily:
“The fodder, man. It’s rancid. Like the Kingdom, like this farce of a feast, like the spectre of intrigue that dwelleth joyously in this land. The horses will di- stop it. Stay still; listen, wretch; my news is urgent. Rancid; like Blains. Like those of us who remain, who have not starved once the King deigns for men to leave, when that dog lunges with his pack of so-called-knights, the horses will die. Or the Saxons. Whomsoever wishes to feast on the gaunt remains of this once fine land. The horse food is rotten; Logres is rotten; everything is lost, the chargers, the nobility, the oaths of good men. If the lords do not leave, this is.. wait! Come bac… I will… I am... A… Ugh… yes. Fine. Go! Tell the nobles! Tell them. Rancid….”
I stumble to the side of… something. I lean into it, of sorts, though the impact hurts; once more I seek the sweet embrace of mud. I sit; the rain falls; and my scheme is complete. The rumour will spread, the nobles will fear for their horses, and they will leave. Probably.
I laugh; a strange sounding thing; the sarcasm is thick.
A man stops; kneels beside me, he who weeps and laughs in the snow and mud.
“Hey, Man! Get…. Sir? A knight, are thee? A wretched one. Up! You’re in the path. Get thy senses, fool, and show thy status some respect. Up! I will not have thee muck-”
I feel my face twist sharply, and oddly. Madoc’s words punch through the strange malaise: I hate Politics. They echo, echo, echo; hate, hate hate. What is this? Here sit I; full of hate, by mine own choice, for is this meddling not intrigue, not politics? Where are the knights of my childhood, of Good King Launcelot of Aquitaine? My father… his friends, his companions… good men, honourable and kind and just. And I sneak through rain and mud, clutching fistfuls of rot to ply dishonest schemes? For what? This system, ridiculous, of feudal bonds and noble oaths? Stupid, foolish oaths, to men who will abuse them, and betray their hounourable soule? For a King to starve his own Kingdom, knights, nobles, folk strong and fair, to appease his own petty concerns, so easily twisted by scheming rats to betray his own kin and kingdom? No time for talk, man to man? But to bring thousands into poverty, ripe to be plucked and feasted upon by prowling wolves and snickering foxes? To make despair and pain, to beg oaths that need not be begged? For what; his own capricious insecurities? Purposeless! I like these games not; and I play them no more! I wish for the forest, where a good man might ply his own work for nourishment and favour; and to the forest I will go!
I
burst to my feet, spying a saddled courser; I start to move toward it; the
brash man before me grasps at my arm: I had forgotten him. I strike like a lion;
my fist lances through his jaw; he slaps into the mud, twisted and unmoving. In
two leaping strides I am beside his horse, and in a third atop it. Spur it; go;
ride; free of this evil place, and these evil designs; there is a yelp beneath
me; something is caught under a hoof; spur again; the horse is fleet, and I
love her; go, Vandagild, man of goodness, man of the forest; go! Ride; ride! Rid
thee of this charade; rid thee of this knightly devilry! The rain slaps my
face; it is cold, and brings a sharp joy to my heart. At some point, I have borne
myself free of the shouting men, the squalid stench, the ugly walls, and my
horse, I love her, she does drink greedily of some stream; the trickling rain
is more beautiful than any chamber strings, the weeping willows more graceful
than a dance. And I, a hunter once more, more deadly than any knight. Here, I
may find the truth of goodness, untricked by the insidious designs of so call
noble men…
__________ __________
King Arthur Pendragon 5.2
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