Page 24

A Tale of Two Knights

The new knights at Camelot were returning home to their respective families for the summer reprieve.

The more experienced Knights of the Round Table were remaining to oversee the training and continued chivalrous education of the pages and squires who would stay at the castle for the summer.

Vaughan was among the many who were loading up their horses for the journey home.

As Tristan sauntered over to bid his friend farewell, he swallowed a lump of tremendous regret that this would be the first summer since he had come to live with his uncle at Tintagel that he would not be accompanying Vaughan to Kennall Vale.

“All set?” Tristan handed Vaughan one of the bags that the squire had placed beside the horse, to be loaded with the rest. With an apologetic smile, Tristan said gently, “Give my best to your parents and Elowenn. I’ll miss hunting with you this summer. Shoot a stag for me, huh?”

Vaughan accepted the bag and strapped it onto his horse’s back.

He said stiffly, “Sure thing, Tristan. Enjoy your trip to Bretagne. Bon voyage.” With a nod to Connor, who was already astride his horse, Vaughan mounted his own.

As Tristan waved farewell to see them off, his brother at arms reined his horse, exited the castle grounds, and rode across the stone bridge into the dense forest beyond.

He watched Vaughan retreat into the woods surrounding Camelot, flooded with grief and guilt. By declining the invitation to Kennall Vale, he had not only lost his best friend, but had been replaced as such by Connor. Pain sliced like a knife.

Lancelot joined him as they watched the knights file across the bridge to gallop off into the forest, his quiet presence supportive.

When the last of the knights had disappeared into the woods, the First Knight of Camelot turned to Tristan.

“Our horses are ready. We’ll ride to the coast and board the ship to Bretagne .

A dozen of my best knights—they travel with me every year — will accompany us and stay at the chateau for the summer.

Come, let’s bid farewell to Arthur and take our leave.

” Clasping Tristan on the shoulder, Lancelot led the way back into the castle.

They road south to the eastern coast of Britain, where Lancelot and his knights arranged lodging for the horses in the local stables, to be groomed and cared for until their return in mid-September.

The vessel for the voyage to Bretagne was a square sailed round ship with a crew of twenty, who had stored the supplies they would need below deck in the cargo hold .

As they sailed away across the Narrow Sea towards the coast of France, the knights settled into their berths to rest awhile after the long journey from Camelot.

There was a galley kitchen where meals were served, and cots and benches where the crew slept, but most of the ten-day voyage was spent on the main deck, observing the wind whipping the enormous sail of their ship, the white capped waves rolling and breaking onto their craft, the sea gulls squawking and flying overhead amidst the clouds.

This morning, the sun shone bright and clear, the briny tang of the ocean sprayed by the waves crashing against the hull. Tristan was leaning over the taffrail on deck, gazing out over the vast expanse of ocean, lost in thought, when Lancelot joined him.

The First Knight gazed at the ripples in the sea. “I was raised in Bretagne,” he said pensively, “in the sacred forest of Brocéliande —the heart of the mystical land of druids, fairies, and magic.” Lancelot grinned as Tristan raised his eyebrows, his curiosity piqued.

“The woman who raised me, whom I call mère, or mother, is the fairy Viviane—once the beloved pupil of the wizard Merlin.” Tristan listened aptly, honored to hear the mysterious tale of Lancelot of the Lake.

“Merlin was so enamored of my beautiful mother that he shared all his magical knowledge with her. He taught her all sorts of spells and enchantments. He even created for her a gleaming castle— le Chateau de Comper— in the midst of the sacred forest of Brocéliande.”

Lancelot tossed his brown hair back from his face with a boyish grin.

“ Comper — kemper, in my native Breton language—means “confluence.” And my mother’s splendid castle, where I was raised, lies at the junction of four sparkling lakes in the very heart of the sacred forest. Indeed, that’s why she is called the Lady of the Lake, and I am Lancelot du Lac. ”

He glanced again at Tristan and shot him a promising grin. “I’ll bring you to her chateau this summer. Its pure white stone is so brilliant, it is said to be a castle made of crystal.”

One of the members of the crew came up, offering Lancelot and Tristan a chalice of wine, which they gladly accepted.

Tristan drank deeply from his, savoring the dry, fruity blend of the same fine French bordeaux that King Arthur served in Camelot, granting Lancelot the time he needed to continue his tale.

“As I grew older,” the First Knight continued, after a hearty gulp, “my mother wanted me to be trained as a knight. She brought me to the realm of the Elves—the fiercest warriors in the Celtic kingdoms. On one of the seven islands where they reside, she founded Avalon, a renowned center for healing, where she and eight other priestesses now devote themselves to the practice of natural medicine and the worship of the Goddess.”

They each drank more wine, gazing across the Narrow Sea which would lead them south to Bretagne .

Although he was filled with questions, Tristan listened patiently, knowing more was yet to come.

The ship’s steward returned and filled their goblets of wine.

Lancelot nodded his thanks as he picked up the thread of his tale.

“The Avalonian Elves—the warriors who trained me—are exceptional with the bow and arrow, but unparalleled with the sword. Descended from the gods and endowed with magic, they live throughout the islands of an archipelago off the coast of Bretagne . The realm of Avalon.” He took a long pull of wine. Tristan was enthralled.

“Their master blacksmith Gofannon was the Avalonian Elf who, along with his son Ronan, forged the sword Excalibur for King Arthur. And it was my mother, Viviane, who had Arthur’s sword forged in dragonfire , by the blacksmith of the gods himself, on the mystical island of Avalon.

” Tristan stared at the rhythmic waves, entranced in Lancelot’s past.

“When the sword was completed, my mother sent for Merlin to bring Arthur to Avalon. She vowed that the king would never be wounded in battle, nor lose a drop of blood, so long as he wore the sacred scabbard she’d had crafted, and that his sword Excalibur would never fail him.

” Lancelot’s cerulean eyes gleamed in the sunlight, as brilliant a blue as the Celtic Sea flowing beneath their ship.

“But before my mother gave him the sword and scabbard, she made Arthur swear that he would grant her one request.” Lancelot grinned at Tristan. “Of course he consented.” He drank again from his chalice, as did Tristan, the two men gazing at the expanse of ocean from the deck of their ship.

“Her request was that Arthur would accept an unknown soldier— “the White Knight”—to his Round Table. The king promised to accept the knight, but only if he proved himself worthy by accomplishing a nearly impossible quest. To free Arthur’s illegitimate son, held captive by a brutal Saxon king, in the castle called La Douleureuse Garde— the Sorrowful Keep. ”

Lancelot paused for a moment to take another long pull from his goblet. “The White Knight would have to siege the castle, kill the Saxon king, and banish the evil enchantment cast upon the dwelling. To free the imprisoned boy and return him safely to his father in Camelot.”

Tristan took another gulp of wine. He grinned at Lancelot, nodding in comprehension. “And you, Sir Lancelot, were the mysterious White Knight.”

Lancelot slapped Tristan on the shoulder and boomed with laughter.

“Bravo, Tristan! Yes, I was in fact the White Knight of Avalon. And, as a reward for the safe deliverance of his son, King Arthur appointed me First Knight of Camelot and gave me the infamous Douleureuse Garde —the enormous castle and surrounding territories of the Saxon king I had killed.”

His boyish grin stretched from ear to ear. “I have since renamed it la Joyeuse Garde— the Joyous Keep. It’s now my personal residence, dedicated to what we French call,” he said, raising his goblet to toast Tristan, “ la joie de vivre.”

Tristan clinked his chalice against Lancelot’s. “Here, here. I’ll drink to that!”

Their goblets were refilled, and as the wine flowed freely, so did the words between the two knights, weaving together the strong bonds of friendship with the fabric of their tales.

Lancelot, having completed the story of his past, now turned to Tristan, and inquired with his intense blue eyes.

“And what of you, Sir Tristan? What darkness lurks within and prevents you from seeking the company of beautiful women and the very joie de vivre that we toast right now?”

Tristan huffed, turning to face the choppy sea.

He’d never released all the guilt and anguish that tormented him, not even to Vaughan, who knew only that Tristan’s family had been slaughtered in a brutal Viking raid.

Tristan had always chosen to immerse himself in relentless training, becoming a hardened warrior as he hardened his grieving heart.

Yet, Tristan sensed in Lancelot the same emptiness that hollowed his own soul and felt the need for the first time to unburden his grief.