Lancelot and the Wolf

LANCELOT AND THE WOLF

THE KNIGHTS OF CAMELOT

LANCELOT AND THE WOLF

by

SARAH LUDDINGTON

Mirador Publishing

www.miradorpublishing.com

First Published in Great Britain 2011 by Mirador Publishing

Copyright © 2011 by Sarah Luddington

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without permission of the publishers or author. Excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

First edition: 2011

Any reference to real names and places are purely fictional and are constructs of the author. Any offence the references produce is unintentional and in no way reflects the reality of any locations or people involved.

A copy of this work is available through the British Library.

ISBN : 978-1-908200-31-0

Mirador Publishing

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Wearne Lane

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TA10 9HB

To the story tellers, musicians and artists

who inspire me.

Also my own knight in shining armour.

CHAPTER ONE

Lifting my shirt over my head caused me to wince. The muscles still sore and the skin still ravaged. If I dressed as I should, the gambeson then the hauberk would rip the scabs off my back.

I sighed heavily pulling the flesh taut over my ribs. I had to leave today. The nuns protecting me healed all they could and if I stayed, I may endanger them. At least they managed to remove the worst of the blood from my clothing. I rolled the padded undergarment and mail up, moving slowly. The dull steel sucked in the early morning light. Arthur’s mail shone with the light of his soul, he seemed to glow from the inside out every time he went into battle or tourney.

I forced the memory away. I forced Arthur away. I swallowed my need to weep and tried to relax my clenched jaw. A gentle knock at the door focused me on the present.

“
Come in,” my voice sounded the same even if I felt different. Deep, rough, heavy with unspoken emotions.

The door opened and a nun stood in the entrance of the small cell. She looked at me and then at the small amount of things I owned and packed. “So, you are leaving us,” she said.

“
Yes, Sister Eliza,” I straightened. “I think it’s for the best.”

“
You are leaving too soon, those wounds will become infected,” she told me firmly, her hands sitting on her considerable hips. As the one to dress them, clean them and stitch them where necessary, I guess she felt a kind of perverse ownership.

“
I promise I will keep them clean and I promise not to do anything too stupid until they are healed,” I said, dredging up a smile for her.

She blushed, her round face in the nun’s wimple all too obvious with no hair to hide behind. My smile can open doors for me in the most frigid of hearts.

“
Humph, I don’t believe that promise for one bloody moment,” she cursed, then crossed herself. I realised quickly that the world of a nun didn’t come naturally to Sister Eliza. “But if you are going to leave then at a least let me help you pack.”

She hustled me out of the way and began organising my few possessions. She did a better job than I could have done. My pack and saddlebags were tidy in moments.

When she finished she asked, “So, do you have a plan?”

I laughed, a bitter, brittle sound making her flinch, “No, what is there to plan for? I am dishonoured. I am exiled. I have been thrown to the dogs by my King. I have no plan beyond the nearest tavern over the Channel.”

She sighed, “This self pity doesn’t suit you, Lancelot.”

I opened my mouth to snap back at her when I saw the deep well of compassion in her blue eyes. I dropped my gaze, “No, I know. I need God’s Grace but I don’t know how to ask.”

She laid her hand on my bowed head. I stood almost as tall as she could reach, I felt her fingers nestle close to my scalp burrowing through my thick black hair, “You just have to ask, Sir Knight,” she said softly as way of benediction.

“
I cannot ask for God’s forgiveness when I cannot forgive myself,” I said to the stone floor.

“
And you won’t forgive yourself until you have your King’s forgiveness,” she said sadly. Over the last three days, she managed to prise my story from my reluctant lips. A farmer found me in his field, bleeding to death and carried me in his cart. I’d been lucky apparently. The wounds, though open, were treated when I’d been cut down from the flogging post. No infection, no fever, beyond the one in my heart.

In those three days, I’d only really seen Sister Eliza and the Mother Superior of this small community near the monastery at Sherborne Abbey. I’d been deemed a dangerous influence on everyone else. They were probably right. Sister Eliza, after informing me confession would be good for my soul, proved a patient and sympathetic listener. I thought the only thing, which would be good for me, would be an arrow to the heart. I refrained from saying it aloud though; I didn’t want to shatter her illusions.

“
Arthur can never forgive me and I don’t blame him,” I said. “I earned every lash of that whip.”

She opened her mouth to argue, realised how futile it would be and snapped her mouth shut. “Well,” she said more briskly, “you need something more positive to do than wallowing in a tavern for the rest of your life. I suggest you find a cause or a war to keep you entertained.”

I smiled again and caught her fingers to my lips. I kissed them fondly, “Sister, I will do as you command. I shall find a war and fight until I’m done, then perhaps I shall have some peace.” I’d meant the words to be funny, but her eyes filled with sudden tears.

“
I wish you well, Lancelot du Lac, but I fear the darkness in your soul will never see you happy.” She turned away quite suddenly and left me alone, without as much as a backward glance. My last true friend in England.

I took the horse Arthur left me for my ‘escape’, saddled him and walked from the small community heading toward the coast. I wanted to avoid notice at the nearby castle, so I rode through the back lanes until I’d travelled several leagues. It took a day of hard riding to reach the port of Keyhaven. I sold the horse and carried my things to the nearest cargo ship heading for the mainland. Arthur had his wish. I was leaving English shores for good. I stood at the stern as the ship left the harbour on the evening tide. I watched my home for the last twenty nine of my thirty six years, fade under the light of the moon. A washed out shoreline in shades of grey and black with torchlight flashing like fireflies.

My throat tightened, “I will always love you, Arthur,” I whispered under my breath. I closed my eyes and turned my back on England.

The crossing proved quick and easy, the wind kind in our sails and the swells gentle. I’d had some bad ones over the years when I’d been travelling to and from various courts and wars, but this voyage at least proved painless. We arrived late the following day. I stood on deck watching the sun descend behind the headland, the deckhands tying us to the shore.

I disembarked quickly and breathed in the stink of le Havre. For the first time in weeks, I felt alive and grateful for the privilege. The shock of my time in England slipped into the sea to be borne away on the tide. Having been in this town many times, I quickly wove through the docks avoiding the fish guts, grubby children and the cheapest of whores, to find my favourite tavern.

The recent rain meant the mud stank strongly of human waste, horses and rotting food. More than a little fastidious I tried to pick my way through the worst of the muck. The streets were busy, noisy and ignorant of my crimes. Although a man of my height is hard to miss, I felt anonymous. Le Rex, my favourite inn, stood in the centre of the merchant’s quarter of the town, so it made good money. Most of it was built of stone, except for the upper level. Its tiled roof rose like a beacon of hope. The rooms had fresh sheets and the whores were clean. The door stood open as I approached. A welcoming noise and light burbled into the street.

Hours later, I found myself with a beautiful woman in one hand and a bad hand in the other. “Well, play or fold you fool,” came the gruff voice of some sea captain. We’d been playing primo vista for hours and I held most of the coins.

I squinted at the cards once more, they were slightly fuzzy, I then peered up at the woman on my knee. Her fine blond hair snagged me immediately, that and her beautiful smile. “What do you think?” I asked, “Play or fold?”

She smiled back, “If you play and win this hand, as I know you will, I will earn more of your money. So, I say play,” she winked.

I laughed, “The lady says play, so I will play. All in,” I said and she pushed everything I had left into the pot.

She knew her own game well this one. If I won with her help, she knew I’d pay her more of my winnings and the pot had grown large. I looked forward to the challenge of burying myself in her body and fucking until the sun came up.

The gruff sea captain studied us. He’d think I was too drunk to make a wise choice and he might be right. He looked at his own cards, looked at the pile of money in the pot and the pile beside his elbow. He weighed the risks and finally said, just as I’d grown bored and my fingers explored the whore’s cleavage, “Fold.”

“
Really?” I asked surprised. “Great.” Before he could do a damn thing about it, I folded my cards and hid them in the deck. The whore scooped up the horde and we left the table. The sea captain’s curses made us both giggle.

I followed the woman. Her hips swayed and I watched her tight waist in the unforgiving bodice. We walked upstairs and she led us to a room off the main corridor.

She dumped the winnings on the bed and lay back, the coin jingling as it and she landed, making a pleasing sound. I watched her, amused as she wriggled around in the money. I walked to a table. Wine sat warming by the fire and my belongings in a pile alongside. I poured myself a large glass and one for the woman. She’d told me her name but for the life of me I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter, I need her warmth, not her heart.

I heard her rise from the bed and come to join me. Soft lips brushed my neck and soft hands pulled my shirt from my sword belt and hose.

“
Hmm,” she murmured, “I don’t get to play with men as well built as you very often. The finest room, with the finest whore and you are fit enough to fuck into next week. I can’t wait,” she purred, kissing under my collar length tangled hair. “Those dark eyes of yours speak of promises you can do to women most men consider too terrifying to contemplate.”

I turned in her arms and looked down into clear blue eyes, “You are a bad girl,” I told her firmly.

“
You need me to be very bad and very wicked so I wouldn’t complain,” she kissed my mouth.

My desire exploded. I dropped the glass and spilled the wine pulling her hard against my body. She yelped in surprise but reacted as only a professional can and gave back as good as she got. I didn’t have to ask permission or fear rejection. I pushed her back against the bed and had her skirts up before she fell backward on the covers. The coins chimed cheerfully. Her deft fingers undid my hose with wonderful efficiency. I moved from her mouth to her neck. My hands wanted her full breasts but I didn’t have the patience to wait so I just licked and bit the parts I could reach easily. Once she freed me, she raised her hips and opened her knees as wide as they’d go.