I wrote this a couple years ago, before I began to be seriously interested in the Matter of Britain. So this is a bit outdated, but I enjoyed writing it and I'd like it to see the light of day. :-)

The three children of Astolat were scattered in various positions about the room, as if their father had flung them over his shoulder when he rode out from the castle. Lavaine sat knees-up on a cushion beside the window. Torre leaned beside him, gazing after the retreating figure. Little Elaine stood alone, arms dangling and face dejected. "When will he be back, Torre?" she asked without turning around.

"Not long," the older boy answered. "Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after. He wouldn't leave us alone otherwise."

Lavaine pursed his lips and continued to stare through the window. Torre shrugged and tossed his dark hair. "What's the good of moping? Come, let's have a game."

"I thought you were grown too old and tall for games," Elaine said, turning her big blue eyes on her brother's face. Laughing, he tousled her hair.

"I may have passed my fifteenth year, but I'm not too aged for a game with my young sister. Here's Lavaine, now—he's scarcely lived twelve years on this earth, and already he considers himself so high above you."

"Nine is younger than twelve," Elaine said softly. "It may be he does not care for my games."

"You hear this?" Torre glanced merrily at his brother. "Come and join us in a frolic before our sister resigns you to the grave."

Lavaine giggled in spite of himself. "A game it is then," he said, getting to his feet. "Why do you wait, Elaine? Fetch the blindfold!"

Late that night, Elaine tossed and turned in a troubled sleep. Occasionally she moaned and flung out her arms. Ghostly visions drifted through her dreams, frightening her. Riderless horses…terrified faces…blood-stained lances…with a strangled cry she sat straight up in her bed.

The room was silent except for her brothers' steady breathing. Moonlight streaming in through the latticed window formed a checkered pattern on the floor. Somewhere far off a night bird called.

"Father?" Elaine whispered.

There was no answer. She put her hand to her mouth, her blue eyes large with fear.

The sun streaming through the window awoke Lavaine. Throwing back his coverlet, he yawned cavernously. "What o'clock is it?" he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

"Late in the morning," Torre groaned, sitting up and flinging off his blankets. "If old Anna was here she would have had the cold water on us long ago."

"Did she leave us anything for breakfast?" Lavaine asked as he pulled on his leggings.

"I doubt she did," Torre said. "Likely I'll have to prepare breakfast myself. I'll have Elaine to help me."

Lavaine glanced across the room. "She's up betimes," he said, buttoning his jerkin.

Torre raised his eyebrows. "Is she? That's unlike her. Perhaps she's already breakfasted."

"Her clothes are still here," Lavaine said, puzzled. "Except for her cloak. Why would she take her cloak to the kitchen?"

Fear gripped at Torre's heart. He pushed it back with an effort. "I'll search for her downstairs," he said. "You look in these rooms. If you find her, tell me so."

Ten minutes later they met back in the large bedroom, hearts thumping and faces pale. Elaine had left the castle.

"She may have gone to her tree," Lavaine suggested after the first stunned silence.

Torre nodded. Elaine's tree was a stalwart oak with widespread branches. Beside it she and her father often sat together during the cool of the evening. When her heart was troubled, she waited there for the sound of his footsteps and his comforting voice. It was indeed the likeliest place for her to be found. But when her brothers approached it, their souls cold with dread, no golden-haired child greeted them.

Lavaine caught his breath in a sound suspiciously like a sob.

Torre bit his lip. "Where can she have gone? Why would she leave us?"

Lavaine said nothing, but took a few steps forward, his eyes on the ground.

"Anything?" Torre asked, following him.

"Nothing." Lavaine's voice faltered. Suddenly Torre grasped his brothers' arm. "Lavaine, look there."

"It's her cloak," Lavaine gasped. The brothers exchanged glances.

"There are footprints here," Torre said. "They could belong to any traveler. But they point north, in the direction of her clasp, and there is little wind."

"It is all we can do," Lavaine said.

The brothers ran north, hair flowing, eyes determined, cheeks flushed. Lavaine tore off his cloak the better to run; Torre had neither cloak nor cape, having left the castle in a reckless hurry without even his jerkin. It was late in the autumn, and the air was chill, but he pressed on resolute. At last Lavaine drew to a stop, and Torre, with a quick catch of breath, did the same.

They were near the door of a stone building, dark and foreboding though not lofty of height or breadth. "It is scarce worthy to be called a castle," Torre said, gazing at it.

Lavaine held up his hand. "Listen."

Sounds as of a fierce quarrel wafted from the windows. A male voice, loud and deep, figured most prominently. Another voice, softer and higher, seemed to protest. The brothers moved closer until they could make out the words.

"If you stay still, no harm will come to you," came the male voice.

"I do not understand this!" The higher voice was close to tears. "Please let me go. I have never hurt you, have I?"

"It matters not if you yourself have hurt me. Your father shall pay for his sins."

Stealthily Torre pushed open the door of wood. His eye fell on a man all in armor, who looked up as the door creaked on its hinges.

"What do you here?" he cried, lunging forward.

Torre stood his ground. "I have come to ask," he said bravely, "if you know the whereabouts of my young sister. She left—"

"Torre!" the soft voice cried. Torre broke off his sentence and stood staring.

Lavaine blanched. "Elaine, is it you? I can't see."

"I'm here," Elaine said, beginning to sob. "I'm here, Lavaine. In this corner."

Torre started forward, but the man laid a hand on his shoulder. "You are a son of Astolat?" he asked, almost fiercely.

"I am," Torre answered. "Why do you hold my sister here?"

The man ignored his question. "And this is your brother?"

Torre grew perturbed. "He is indeed. What business have you with us?"

"More perhaps than you think," the knight answered. "I knew your father."

"Many did," said Torre, glancing across at Lavaine. Unnoticed, he was moving closer to the dark corner. "Is this the reason you hold my sister captive?"

"Your father," the knight continued deliberately, "caused the death of my only son. When they laid my child's limp body in my arms, I vowed then to repay Astolat—eye for eye, tooth for tooth, son for son."

Torre caught his breath. "You are mad! Our father told us nothing of this."

"Perhaps because it was a tale not fit for children's ears." Torre opened his mouth to protest, but the knight held up his hand. "If you would save your sister's life, either you or your brother must give up your own."

Lavaine stopped where he stood, horror draining his face of all hue. Torre shot his brother a quick glance of pain and bewilderment.

One of us must die this day. And the death—unneeded, unlooked for—will break our father's heart. Oh, my God, the boy prayed silently, guide my words. Give me wisdom to save our lives.

The darkened room was still as death. Torre stood with his head bowed; Lavaine stared into space, his lips tightly drawn; Elaine wept softly in her corner. The knight waited, shifting from one foot to the other. Soon he tired of the silence. "Make your—" Before the man could say more, Torre's clear voice interrupted him.

"Sir Knight!" he cried, lifting his head. "I cannot believe that any calling himself by the honored name would wield his power like an axe-head against three defenseless children. Is there no quality in your manhood that condemns this foolishness? Is there no voice that cries shame to you? If you are determined to take a life, face me in fair fight." He stepped forward, spreading his hands. "You see me. I am younger and weaker than you; I have no weapon except what you can provide. Will you do this much for the title you bear?"

The man hesitated, his dark brows tightly drawn. Again the room was silent; again the silence was broken by Torre's voice. "Have you made your decision?"

"I will fight you," the man said slowly. He lifted his head and for the first time looked directly into Torre's brown eyes. "But be warned: you will lose this battle. No power in the world can stand before those of justice and vengeance."

Torre nodded. "It is fair enough. Have you a sword for me?"

Turning on his heel, the knight made for Elaine's corner and returned bearing a burnished blade. "Let it not be said that Sir Gahere of Morveuse was treacherous in a tilt. This weapon will serve you well."

"I thank you," Torre said, in his voice a touch of irony.

Not ten minutes later they faced each other in the outer courtyard, swords drawn and ready. Lavaine stood on one side of them; Elaine, bound to a tree, on the other. Lavaine had been chosen to give the word. He raised high his hand, lips quivering, and glanced at Torre, who nodded slightly. Squeezing his eyes shut, Lavaine brought his hand down. "Now," he cried.

Metal clashed against metal. Torre leapt to the right, barely missing the other man's forceful stroke. He countered with a skillful swing, and Lavaine laughed aloud.

"Do not laugh so soon," the knight murmured as he caught Torre off guard with a stroke to the shoulder. The tip of the blade pierced far enough to draw a little blood and to give Torre angry alertness. Furious, he lunged forward and swung to the left. But his opponent was quick enough to dodge the blow and return it with two of his own. Torre was hopelessly overmatched.

Even Elaine, young as she was, could understand this. She watched from her tree, biting her lip to keep back the tears. To her the duel was a dance of death; she did not understand how anyone could see such a thing with pleasure. Lavaine, at first hopeful and proud of his brother's strength, grew gradually more nervous. This was no fair fight. Already wearied from his long run, Torre had tried to make up in energy what he lacked in skill. But as the minutes wore on, his vigor grew less.

Then it happened. With an expert underhand twist of his blade, Sir Gahere stabbed Torre in the leg.

Elaine's scream pierced the air. Without a moment's thought, Lavaine rushed forward to help his brother, and instantly Gahere pushed him back.

"This is not your fight," he said through clenched teeth. Then he moved closer to Torre—sword raised, eyes bright with the fierce joy of revenge. Lavaine gave an involuntary cry. "God, help him!"

"What is this?"

All eyes were riveted on the owner of the deep voice. Sir Gahere stopped where he stood; Lavaine's eyes grew large. He had not expected this answer to his impulsive prayer.

The man stepped forward. He was tall and well-built, attired in simple rustic's clothing. Though he bore no weapon, his eyes flashed fire at the knight who now stood facing him. When no answer was given to his demanding question, the man continued. "Why do you, who are in your full strength, contend with this young lad? It is a shameful sight!"

"He fights because he seeks to kill my brother," Lavaine broke in, unable to restrain himself. "It is because of a grievance he has against our father, Astolat, that he would kill one of us."

Realization dawned in the man's face. "And why is this young girl tied to a tree?"

"He kidnapped her to demand my life as ransom," Torre said through heavy breaths. "Mine or Lavaine's."

The man turned to Gahere. "Do they speak truth?" he demanded.

"Only a part," Gahere said, holding his head proudly. "They forbore to mention that their father killed my son, and I seek only to avenge his death. Now get you gone, stranger. My duel is with this boy."

The man moved closer, eyes glinting. "Sir Gahere of Morveuse," he said quietly, "I know you of old, and your cause is unjust. I demand a reckoning. If you will not meet me in fair fight, I must bind you and bring you before the king."

"I know not you," Gahere said, still haughty.

"Hereafter you shall," the man retorted. Stooping, he took Torre's sword in his hands and motioned to Lavaine. "You there, tend to your brother. This man is mine."

Gahere lunged forward with an outstretched blade, but the stranger was ready. He countered with an dexterous stroke that grazed the knight's face. Elaine clapped her hands, and the man flashed her a quick smile before he jumped to the side.

Lavaine tore a wide strip from his cloak and wound it round his brother's leg. Tightly he tied it saying in a low tone, "Have you seen that man before?"

After a quick glance at the stalwart figure, Torre replied, "No, never. He does not look like a countryman."

"Perhaps it is a knight come to rescue us," Lavaine said softly, "in answer to my prayer. Father told me that some of Arthur's court do walk about in simple dress and lend aid to those who need it."

With a nod, Torre fell silent. The duel had lasted but several minutes, and already sweat was dripping from the knight's face. Though the other man had begun to breathe heavily, he showed no other signs of exertion.

Finally the stranger leapt back and stood still, as if waiting. Gahere approached, chest heaving and muscles tensed. The stranger lowered his sword, exposing himself. Lavaine wrinkled his brow and glanced at Torre. "What is—" he began, but Torre motioned him to be quiet.

Gahere touched the man's chest with the tip of his blade. Instantly the man swung away to the side. In the ensuing moment of surprise, he struck down with his blade and sent the other weapon flying. Before a second had passed, the man's sword was at Gahere's neck. The knight dropped to his knees.

"I do not ask for mercy," he said sullenly. "I ask only for justice."

The stranger looked at him pityingly. "Justice would kill you. Why do you not ask for mercy? It would spare your life. But the decision is not mine to make. I'll ask these young ones whom you sought to injure." He glanced across at Torre. "What is your verdict?"

"I would spare him," Torre answered after a moment's hesitation. "His grief must have been great, though he was wrong in what he did."

Lavaine said nothing, but nodded in agreement.

"And this young maiden here," the man said, turning to Elaine. "What say you?"

Elaine lowered her gaze. "If he will promise not to hurt us," she said finally, "I do not want him to die."

After a searching look at Elaine's face, the man turned to Gahere. "I will give your life," he said, "because these youths wish to spare you justice. They do not follow your leading; they are strong enough to be merciful. Think on this, and be ashamed." He lifted the sword from Gahere's neck and dropped it on the ground. "If after this warning you harass these children again, your life is forfeit. Remember this, and be fearful." With a last look at the still-kneeling knight, he walked across to Torre. "Will your leg support you, my son?" he asked.

"I don't know," Torre said. He struggled to rise, but sank down again, breathless.

The man took Torre's right arm with a nod to Lavaine, and together they lifted the boy to his feet. "If we support you, can you walk?"

"I could try," Torre said. "The wound isn't deep."

"But it's far to our home." Lavaine wrinkled his brow in worry. "He could never walk that distance with a wounded leg."

"Sir Knight!" the man called. "Have you a mount?"

Gahere, by now on his feet, nodded sullenly.

"Fetch the animal so that this youth may ride," the man commanded.

Gahere dared not disobey.

"You can untie the maiden," the man said, drawing a knife from his belt and handing it to Lavaine. "How pale she looks—God grant she does not swoon!"

Loosing Elaine was the work of a moment, and soon she was mounted behind Torre on the sturdy horse. At a glance from the man, Lavaine took the reigns.

The journey home was for the most part silent. The children were too stunned from the morning's happenings to chatter as was their wont, and Torre was beginning to feel faint from his wound. Though the stranger asked after Torre's leg when a minute or two had passed, he mostly seemed content to brood over his own thoughts.

When the small castle was in sight, Lavaine broke the silence with a question. "Are you—are you a knight?"

The man's eyes twinkled, but his voice was serious. "Is my appearance like a knight's?"

Lavaine blushed. "You do not wear a knight's clothing, but you won the duel so quickly, and you came just at the moment we needed you…" his voice faltered.

"I will say this much," the man answered after a moment. "I am no rustic, and I do dwell at Camelot. There is a purpose in the clothing I wear, but it is not—" he caught his breath, then continued with an apologetic smile. "It is not that I may roam the countryside redressing wrongs. And that is all you need know, my too-curious ones."

"We are home," Torre said, relief in his voice.

"Home," Elaine echoed softly. "I wish that father was here."

"He will be soon," Lavaine reminded her. "And what a tale we shall have to tell him!"

"Almost I would rather he need not know," Torre murmured.

The man's quick ear caught the half-whisper. "Not so! He will wonder how you came by this wound on your leg, and would you invent a falsehood?" His face grew solemn. "Tell him rather how God has spared you through—through so unworthy a instrument."

After Torre and Elaine dismounted, the man slapped the horse's near wither and watched as he trotted back to his master.

"How was it that you were captured?" he asked Elaine.

The girl blushed. "I awoke in the night," she said, "and I went to the place where my father is always. I was too frightened to know what I was doing, or I would not have gone. The man—Sir Gahere—came up behind me and carried me off. He seemed to have been waiting."

"Strange," the man mused. "Strange, if he expected you to be there. Perhaps earlier in the day he saw your father ride off, and took his opportunity. I believe he would have broken into the castle somehow if you had not gone out to him, as it were."

There was a pause. "Thank you," Torre said at last. "Thank you for helping us. Our father will be grateful."

"He should offer thanks to God," the man said gravely. Then he roused himself. "But I must leave you. God keep you, children! Perhaps one future day our paths will cross again."

Torre nodded and lifted his hand in farewell. Lavaine stood beside him, waving forlornly. Before the man moved out of sight, he turned and raised his hand with a smile.

And as Elaine stood watching him, her golden hair lifted by the wind, she knew in her heart that they would meet again. The leaves would fall for seven more seasons before his eyes looked again into hers. Changed they both would be, and neither would know the other; but from that day on their lives would be inextricably intertwined.

Later Torre would learn the name of their rescuer. He would learn also the reason for his happening upon them that day in rustic's dress, and the reason would prove his sister's destruction. If he had known then that the undisclosed name was the highest and most honored in the court of knights, and that he was keeping tryst with a woman whose name was reckoned pure and fair among all others, would he have been scandalized and disbelieving? Or was there already in those days a whisper of rumor, on certain names a shadowy taint that time would only deepen?

Elaine would refuse to believe it. She could scarcely believe ill of any man, and least of all the one who had saved her brother from certain death. That day, as his form disappeared from her sight, there was nothing but love and gratitude in her heart. She would never feel anything else towards him, not even when death threatened. And so Sir Gahere was wrong in another way: there is indeed a power that is stronger than justice and vengeance. This power made itself known to Elaine that day, and it took possession of her heart forever.