Post by Morreion on Dec 5, 2008 21:22:55 GMT -5
This was the first of a projected trilogy of tales about honor that were to all converge at the end. Never finished it, but years later, I still have some ideas about it. It's not good to walk away from these situations.
He first glimpsed the city from a rise in the road near Cotswold.
Camelot.
The Briton lad put his pack down in the dusty lane, looking at the far towers. He had traveled far, having walked a fortnight from his small hamlet in the Black Mountains. In the eighteenth year of his life, he had been trusted with a task by the people of his village. He had never felt more proud than on that day, when the village elders had given him the pack he carried, containing food and water, plus a letter and a small pouch. He was to journey to Camelot, bringing a humble but hard-earned offering from the poor villagers whom he had lived among all his life. He had been orphaned young, when the White Sickness had carried off his parents. But he was comforted by the fact that they were looking down upon him with great pride from Heaven. He was to bring an offering of money to the Church of Albion, and offer his services to the Realm. The letter he carried was from the one old man who could write; it spoke well of him as a hard-working lad that would take up training to defend Albion from its enemies.
Camelot, the young man thought; the seat of Arthur Rex in the days of old, when noble knights upheld justice and righted wrongs; the city of the Church of our Lord, the center of all that was good, a mighty symbol for all to revere.
The young man hoisted his pack for the last time and walked towards the city.
As he passed through the city gates, he looked around in wonder: Guardsmen clad in bright armor striding purposefully; merchants hawking their wares from stalls; crowds of people jostling through the narrow streets, beggars with bowls in front of them pleading for alms; rough-looking men sizing up others with careful glances; laughing women, immodestly dressed, leaning from balconies and calling to those below. He stepped around a drunkard, passed out in the street. He came to a halt soon after, looking first one way and then another.
"Lost, laddie?" a voice said behind him.
He turned to see a man with a kindly smile, clad in a simple tunic and leggings.
"Yes, good Sir. Could you direct me to the Church? I have business there."
"Ahhh! New to Camelot, are ye? My name's Lummkin, at yer service." The man took off his cap and bowed low.
The lad bowed awkwardly in return. "I am Gareth...I have come to make an offering at the Church, and seek service to the Realm."
"A grand thing!" Lummkin stated. "P'raps you should rest up for a night and get cleaned up before goin' to the Church, yer lookin' on the worn side, friend."
The lad nodded, knowing that was true. "I do not know anyone here..."
Lummkin held up his hands in interruption. "I know a little room where a man ken get a meal, wash up and be among friendly folks! C'mon, lad."
He hesitated a moment, then followed the man.
They moved out of the crowd, down a street past the Guild of Shadows; it was a much quieter area.
Lummkin strode up to a door, and knocked thrice upon it; the door opened, and they were ushered inside a room with a fireplace and a few tables, with flickering lamps hung along the walls. Several men and women were there talking among themselves, many with drinks in their hands.
"Hallo! This here be Gareth, come to Camelot today for the first time!" Lummkin yelled.
A chorus of voices welcomed him; the lad smiled and sat at a table, as Lummkin ordered a drink for them both. He started to object, but was shushed by his companion; a young woman in a russet skirt smiled at him from across the room. His head swam with a rush of feelings.
Lummkin waved the lass over, smiling; the young woman came over to him and sat in his lap, to his great surprise. A mug was pressed into his hand.
"To Camelot!" Lummkin said loudly, hoisting a mug of his own; "Camelot!" came the response from everyone in the room, as all drank the toast. The young man drank deep, and almost coughed at the power of the ale.
Lummkin laughed at him; but he was only aware of the woman on his lap, her arms around his neck, the scent of her...she kissed his ear, his skin tingling as he felt her breath upon his neck. He had never touched something so fair before...
The room started to spin, to lose focus. He slumped forward, the woman leaving his lap suddenly. He could not move; he was only dimly aware of hands seizing him by the jerkin and dragging him out the back door, into a dark alleyway. From far away, he heard voices.
"A pouch in the pack! I've got it!"
"Look through his clothes, the bumpkin might have something on him."
"Bah! A handful of silver! Well, that will give us a few days among the sleepers, at least. Beggin' yer pardon, Milady!"
There was a harsh laugh. Hands stripped his shoes off of his feet.
"Only a letter, nothin' else on 'im! I oughta stick him for all the trouble he's put me through!"
There was the sound of paper being torn to shreds, and then he was kicked sharply in the side by a booted foot. The pain slowly seeped into his mind.
"Nay Lummie, don't want the guardsmen askin' around. Let's dump him by the fishmongers."
He was dragged off, and eventually thrown into a pile of garbage in a dark corner.
He lay there for hours.
When he regained use of his body, he did not know where he was. Everything he had owned was gone, save his patched jerkin and leggings. He stumbled through the alleys, eventually finding a street. He attempted to speak to a guard, but the man grimaced at the sight of him and shook his spear at him, yelling "Drunkard, begone!".
He wandered the streets in a fever; others avoided him. He did not know what to do; no one would speak to him. He could not make it home without food, or shoes.
Two days later, he desperately snatched a loaf of bread from a merchants cart and ran away. He found that he could take things by guile, or by force if necessary.
He hated those that had robbed him; but he became one of them.
He became a part of the city.
He first glimpsed the city from a rise in the road near Cotswold.
Camelot.
The Briton lad put his pack down in the dusty lane, looking at the far towers. He had traveled far, having walked a fortnight from his small hamlet in the Black Mountains. In the eighteenth year of his life, he had been trusted with a task by the people of his village. He had never felt more proud than on that day, when the village elders had given him the pack he carried, containing food and water, plus a letter and a small pouch. He was to journey to Camelot, bringing a humble but hard-earned offering from the poor villagers whom he had lived among all his life. He had been orphaned young, when the White Sickness had carried off his parents. But he was comforted by the fact that they were looking down upon him with great pride from Heaven. He was to bring an offering of money to the Church of Albion, and offer his services to the Realm. The letter he carried was from the one old man who could write; it spoke well of him as a hard-working lad that would take up training to defend Albion from its enemies.
Camelot, the young man thought; the seat of Arthur Rex in the days of old, when noble knights upheld justice and righted wrongs; the city of the Church of our Lord, the center of all that was good, a mighty symbol for all to revere.
The young man hoisted his pack for the last time and walked towards the city.
As he passed through the city gates, he looked around in wonder: Guardsmen clad in bright armor striding purposefully; merchants hawking their wares from stalls; crowds of people jostling through the narrow streets, beggars with bowls in front of them pleading for alms; rough-looking men sizing up others with careful glances; laughing women, immodestly dressed, leaning from balconies and calling to those below. He stepped around a drunkard, passed out in the street. He came to a halt soon after, looking first one way and then another.
"Lost, laddie?" a voice said behind him.
He turned to see a man with a kindly smile, clad in a simple tunic and leggings.
"Yes, good Sir. Could you direct me to the Church? I have business there."
"Ahhh! New to Camelot, are ye? My name's Lummkin, at yer service." The man took off his cap and bowed low.
The lad bowed awkwardly in return. "I am Gareth...I have come to make an offering at the Church, and seek service to the Realm."
"A grand thing!" Lummkin stated. "P'raps you should rest up for a night and get cleaned up before goin' to the Church, yer lookin' on the worn side, friend."
The lad nodded, knowing that was true. "I do not know anyone here..."
Lummkin held up his hands in interruption. "I know a little room where a man ken get a meal, wash up and be among friendly folks! C'mon, lad."
He hesitated a moment, then followed the man.
They moved out of the crowd, down a street past the Guild of Shadows; it was a much quieter area.
Lummkin strode up to a door, and knocked thrice upon it; the door opened, and they were ushered inside a room with a fireplace and a few tables, with flickering lamps hung along the walls. Several men and women were there talking among themselves, many with drinks in their hands.
"Hallo! This here be Gareth, come to Camelot today for the first time!" Lummkin yelled.
A chorus of voices welcomed him; the lad smiled and sat at a table, as Lummkin ordered a drink for them both. He started to object, but was shushed by his companion; a young woman in a russet skirt smiled at him from across the room. His head swam with a rush of feelings.
Lummkin waved the lass over, smiling; the young woman came over to him and sat in his lap, to his great surprise. A mug was pressed into his hand.
"To Camelot!" Lummkin said loudly, hoisting a mug of his own; "Camelot!" came the response from everyone in the room, as all drank the toast. The young man drank deep, and almost coughed at the power of the ale.
Lummkin laughed at him; but he was only aware of the woman on his lap, her arms around his neck, the scent of her...she kissed his ear, his skin tingling as he felt her breath upon his neck. He had never touched something so fair before...
The room started to spin, to lose focus. He slumped forward, the woman leaving his lap suddenly. He could not move; he was only dimly aware of hands seizing him by the jerkin and dragging him out the back door, into a dark alleyway. From far away, he heard voices.
"A pouch in the pack! I've got it!"
"Look through his clothes, the bumpkin might have something on him."
"Bah! A handful of silver! Well, that will give us a few days among the sleepers, at least. Beggin' yer pardon, Milady!"
There was a harsh laugh. Hands stripped his shoes off of his feet.
"Only a letter, nothin' else on 'im! I oughta stick him for all the trouble he's put me through!"
There was the sound of paper being torn to shreds, and then he was kicked sharply in the side by a booted foot. The pain slowly seeped into his mind.
"Nay Lummie, don't want the guardsmen askin' around. Let's dump him by the fishmongers."
He was dragged off, and eventually thrown into a pile of garbage in a dark corner.
He lay there for hours.
When he regained use of his body, he did not know where he was. Everything he had owned was gone, save his patched jerkin and leggings. He stumbled through the alleys, eventually finding a street. He attempted to speak to a guard, but the man grimaced at the sight of him and shook his spear at him, yelling "Drunkard, begone!".
He wandered the streets in a fever; others avoided him. He did not know what to do; no one would speak to him. He could not make it home without food, or shoes.
Two days later, he desperately snatched a loaf of bread from a merchants cart and ran away. He found that he could take things by guile, or by force if necessary.
He hated those that had robbed him; but he became one of them.
He became a part of the city.
