Arthurian Snippet

As Anselm had guessed, the courtyard was empty. What he had not anticipated was the cutting target set up in the center of the yard. Close by was a table with a variety of blades upon it, and unbelievably, Anselm recognized one of them. This was the sword of Sir Gawain, King Arthur’s champion. Wondering, wide-eyed, Anselm edged closer. Slowly, his hand stretched out, and he lightly touched his fingertips to the cold steel of the pommel. Anselm thrilled, his heart hammering in his chest. How many other people in the world could claim to have touched the steel of a knight of the Round Table and lived? So excited was he that Anselm did not hear the crunch of boots on gravel, and then a grip of iron clamped down on his wrist. Caught fast, Anselm whipped his head around and up, his heart leaping up into his throat. The face that looked down at him was as cold and hard as the steel of the sword he had touched. Piercing green eyes bored down into his in an angry frown. The man’s long blond hair was pulled back in a tail, away from his face, giving Anselm a good look at him, and he froze, forgetting to struggle before he had even started to try. Sir Gawain had caught him. “What are you doing,” the champion asked, his tone somehow stern and sharp without being loud. Whimpering, Anselm was about to burst into tears when another voice from behind him called out. “Relax, Gawain. We were watching him.” Gawain and Anselm both looked across the courtyard to see two more men walking forward, away from the shadows of the buildings surrounding them. With a trickle of nervous fear, Anselm recognized both of them as well. On the left, wearing a tunic of bright sky blue, was the youngest member of the Round Table, Sir Tristan, called the Knight of Flowers. On the right, wearing green, was Sir Perceval, the Forest Knight. Both of them wore swords, but while Sir Perceval also wore a small belt knife, a quiver on his back, and carried a longbow, Sir Tristan wore a cloak and carried what looked to be a picnic basket. “If you were watching him,” Gawain asked them, “why didn’t you try to stop him?” The two men came close enough to talk casually, Perceval holding his belt with one hand while the other hand held the bow up over his shoulder. “Curiosity! We wanted to see what he was going to do!” “Funny,” Gawain growled, “I was just asking him the same thing.” Anselm gulped as the older man looked back down at him. Mustering the small amount of courage he had left, Anselm finally managed to speak. “Your pardon, sir; I was just wondering how heavy it was.” “Hmph,” Gawain grunted, finally releasing Anselm’s wrist. “And I suppose my cutting target was no temptation for you at all.” He picked up his sword and sheathed it. Blushing, Anselm dropped his eyes, still shaking his hand to get the blood to flow back into his fingers. “Oh, come now, Gawain,” Tristan said. “Don’t be a mean old man. You can’t be so old that you don’t remember being a brave young lad!” Unexpectedly, Tristan set down the basket, kneeling so that he could look Anselm in the eye. “What’s your name, boy?” The question was asked gently, and it helped Anselm regain a measure of composure before he answered. “Anselm, sir.” That drew Perceval’s attention. “Oh, you’re Aidan and Kiera’s boy!” Anselm nodded, and the other two knights looked for an explanation. “His parents have a farm on the other side of town.” “Well, Anselm,” Tristan replied, turning back to the boy. “I see the look of an adventurer in your eye. Do you want to be a knight?” “Oh yes, sir!” Anselm exclaimed. “More than anything!” “And why is that? Is there a lady whose heart you would claim? Or a treasure you’ve heard about?” Anselm’s smile brightened. “I want to slay dragons!” Tristan and Perceval looked at each other in pleasant surprise. “A dragon slayer!” Tristan exclaimed. “Well then! He who slays dragons has to be very good with a sword. Have you had your lessons yet, Anselm?” Anselm’s smile faded. “No, sir; I’ve only tried to practice what I can watch on my own.” His eyes flicked over to Perceval. “I’m better with a bow.” Perceval raised an eyebrow. “Are you, now? Well, I imagine my bow is a little strong for you to prove your claim.” Tristan straightened, putting his hands on his hips as he grinned down at Anselm. “Is your hand all right?” Anselm worked his fingers, feeling not the slightest twinge of pain. He was just thrilled to actually be inside Camelot, having a conversation with two of the Round Table, King Arthur’s closest friends. “All right, sir. Not a tweak.” “Good!” Sir Tristan used his left hand to draw his sword, offering the hilt to Anselm. “Let’s see what you’ve got, eh?” Anselm’s eyes bugged as Gawain scowled. “Oy, I didn’t say he could have my target.” Ever the diplomat, Tristan looked at him and said “Gawain, in a kingdom where every resident is encouraged to learn how to fight, the guards are trained to fight, the soldiers are second to none, the knights are the stuff of legend, and the Round Table is ranked above all of these, you stand out as the best, head and shoulders beyond the rest of us. I am entirely certain that no matter what magnificent cut this young lad here can make, it will not be enough to completely confound Arthur’s champion.” Subdued, Gawain scowled again. “Go on with you, then.” Hesitantly, Anselm reached for the grip of Tristan’s sword. When Tristan took his hands away and let the weight settle into his own hands, Anselm trembled, and thought he was going to faint. The sword was made for a single hand, but Anselm’s were small enough that he could fit both on the handle. Slowly, he turned to the cutting target, waiting stoically on its stand. Suddenly, Anselm was unsure what to do; a cross cut? Which way? Maybe an upwards diagonal? Those were some of the hardest to make, but he’d been practicing them the most, recently. Tristan bent low, putting his mouth close to Anselm’s ear. “Why not stick with something simple this first time, eh? Downwards, right to left?” Relieved, Anselm closed his eyes, let out a breath he did not know he’d been holding, and gave a small nod. Of course. When he opened his eyes, he squared his shoulders and tightened his hands on the sword. He walked a little closer, just out of cutting range, his left foot forward. Tristan took a breath to say something, but Perceval’s hand on his wrist stopped him. In one smooth, fluid motion, Anselm raised the sword, stepped forward, and made the best cut he’d ever made in his life, the blade passing through the target as if it wasn’t even there the exact moment his foot hit the ground. “Ha!” Tristan clapped as Anselm followed through the cut, using his momentum to circle the sword so that he ended in a guard position, ready to defend himself. “Perfection!” Even Gawain’s lips twitched, suggesting a small smile. “Not half bad.” Anselm’s knees wobbled, and he quickly handed the sword back to Tristan before he dropped it. As Tristan sheathed it, Perceval walked up and laid a hand on Anselm’s shoulder. “Now then. You run home, and do these for me. First, no more sneaking about.” Perceval used his chin and head to indicate the buildings around them. “Camelot is usually open to people who ask. Second, don’t go bragging on yourself to everyone.” Perceval leaned in close, lowering his voice a bit. “The mark of a true hero is humility.” He winked, and Anselm grinned before Perceval finished. “Last thing; whenever you have a bad day, or feel down on yourself, you remember this day, when three knights of the Round Table, and one of them Arthur’s Champion, agreed that you made a fine cut.” “Four,” thought Mordred as he casually leaned against the wall, hidden by the shadows that surrounded the courtyard. “He did well.” Anselm’s chest swelled and Perceval ruffled his hair before sending him on his way. Tristan stood next to Perceval and watched the boy leave. “There goes the next Galahad.” “Sure hope so,” Perceval replied, turning back to the cutting stand. Gawain was just bending down to pick up the cutting target that had fallen with Anselm’s cut. “It really was very good,” Tristan said. “You’ve got to admit that.” “It was,” Gawain replied, looking at the straight line the cut had made. “Will you still be able to practice?” Perceval asked. Gawain said nothing, but removed the part of the cutting target that remained on the stand, then replaced it with the piece that had fallen, now upside down. He shrugged. “The boy was short, so the cut was low. This will work.” “We’ll leave you to it, then,” Tristan said, retrieving his picnic basket. He and Perceval turned to leave as Gawain drew his sword and addressed the target.