Chapter 2
An hour later Lancelot was summoned to the great hall where was held all meetings and mealtimes of the knights. When he arrived he found all of the others already seated around the table. This table, though, was no ordinary table. It was very peculiar indeed. It was large and round and had no head seat. Arthur had it built and said upon its finishing that in order for men to be men they must first all be equal. That was the way he thought. No man is better than another and all shall be equal, a right God had given men from the time of their creation. He fought for equality and freedom, a cause his fellow Romans had long since forgotten.
Lancelot seated himself in his usual spot at Arthur's right side.
"The Bishop has called us," said Arthur, "He wishes now to speak to all of the knights."
"Where then is Maelien?" questioned Lancelot as he glanced around the hall. "Surely he wishes her to be here." But as soon as the question had escaped his lips, the fair woman of question made her entrance much to the pleasure of Lancelot. Shed of her armor and attire of battle, her beauty shone across the room more vividly than it ever could have hidden under the cold shell of a knight. She looked around the great hall, her eyes straying to the great round structure that dominated the room, and she smiled. Clearly she was impressed by the table of Arthur.
Arthur signaled for her to join him and sit on his other side. She nodded and joined the knights already assembled.
"How is your room?" asked Arthur when she was seated. "I did not know you would be joining us but I ordered it to be made ready for you when we arrived."
"It is fine," she replied, "I am very comfortable, thank you."
Arthur smiled and said, "Good. But if you need anything just ask Baras, he will be happy to fetch it for you."
She nodded and fell silent.
Lancelot glanced at her. She was gazing aimlessly around the room taking in her new surroundings. She had a look of tense expectancy on her face. Lancelot guessed that she was still anxious to see just what the Bishop had to say. He like her also suspected that the Bishop had a scheme in mind. He knew Romans well, and knew they took no interest in the knights of Sarmatia unless to lay a task of great measure, of which they loss of life would be at no cost to them or any of Roman blood.
Soon after, Baras, a loyal servant to Arthur and his knights, led the Bishop into the hall. He smiled as he walked in but his face fell as he glanced around the room. Clearly he was displeased.
"A round table?" he questioned disapprovingly as his gaze fell upon Arthur.
"Yes," said Arthur simply. "It gives a sense of equality and unity."
"I see," he smiled again but it was the same fake disapproving smile he had worn earlier that day upon the battlefield. "But do you think that wise, Arthur? To establish such a relationship with those of which are under your command?"
Arthur scanned the Bishop, whom had been a great friend of his father's. "Yes, Bishop Jarmanius, I do think it wise," he replied quite coolly. He had never felt the same bond to the Roman leader as his father had and held little love for the one who condemned his knight's to such vile tasks. "And I advise you not to question my way again."
The Bishop stared a moment at him. A slight wrinkle appeared in his brow as he beheld the great Arthur, a great captain of Rome, loyal to his country and religion, a name held in high honor among the people of his homeland. None in Rome would have dared to threaten him so, he that was great among the great and wise. But glimpsing the hate-filled stares aimed at him from those in the room not of the high blood of Rome, he quickly dropped the furrow in his brow and no further questioned the ridiculous antics of one who had once been held in eminent among those of Christian beliefs. Arthur beckoned him, though with no great enthusiasm, to sit down but he chose to walk around the table as he began to speak. "Fifteen long years you have been in service to the Roman Empire and each of you has done great deeds for Rome. But now at last we come to your final days and-"
"Days?" cut in Lancelot coldly. "Surely you mean day as I have spent my fifteen promised years and as I have kept to the oath I expect you shall hold to your end."
The Bishop continued as though he had not heard. "The Pope has taken a great interest in you. Your bravery and deeds did not go unnoticed by him, serving with valor, strength, and courage. His highness wishes to extend an offer to you if you have converted to Christianity-"
This time Arthur cut in. "My knights have chosen to keep their own religion, Bishop Jarmanius. I respect that and so shall you." He said it with such finality that the Bishop did not touch on the subject again.
"Well then," he continued stiffly, "a toast to them." He waved then for his servant to pass around goblets, wrought richly of pure gold, to each of knights. He himself filled them with wine that gave off a potent scent that filled the hall and found its way to each corner of the room. He lifted his own goblet and said, "To the knights of Sarmatia, who have long served Rome with daring and gave not into the temptation of cowardice-"
Lancelot snorted rudely then and made no attempt to hide the absurdity he found in the statement.
"I wish you the best," he finished, again not heeding the likes of Lancelot.
Though he spoke words of kindness the note his voice held clearly told them he meant not a word of it and the loss of such decorated slaves to Rome was no such reason for celebration. It was as if he were but a splendid horn, made of beautiful craft and encrusted with only the finest jewels that gleamed brightly in the sun, but upon its ringing erupted only a long note that held no beauty and gave a sound that pained the ears to hear.
He lifted his goblet and the knights all drank with him but half heartedly so.
"Now," he continued sharply as soon as they had all lowered their drinks, "I must speak privately with your commander."
"I keep no secrets from my knights, Bishop," said Arthur. "Say what you must."
"But I would, ah, rather..." he muttered turning his focus solely to Arthur.
Lancelot then stood up, anger over coming his heart. "Come," he said as he raised his goblet again. "Let us leave Roman business, to Romans." He took one last drink from the cup and set it down upon the table with a loud thud that echoed through the hall. He walked swiftly from the room closely followed by Maelien. The others followed their lead and left the room but all except Dagonet took the golden goblets, which were of great worth, with them.
They took refuge in a small tavern outside the hall. It was located in a small courtyard, much smaller than the one they entered when they first reached the city. Along the far end of the pub was a long bar and a man was pouring drinks and giving them to waitresses to serve to the people. There were many people there mostly Britains and Sarmatians. They called out to the knights as they entered.
Lancelot took a seat at a table with Bors and Tristan He watched as Maelien looked unsure where to go but then sat at a table with Dagonet when he waved her over. Something about this seating arrangement bothered him and he wished she had come to sit with him instead.
"Lancelot?" He tore his eyes away from Maelien and looked at Bors and Tristan. They were both looking at him with strange looks on their faces.
"What?" he questioned.
"What do you want to drink?" replied Bors sounding annoyed. "We've asked you three times."
"Yeah," agreed Tristan in the same tone his voice always bore that suggested he cared not. "What are you looking at anyway?"
"Nothing," lied Lancelot.
"Well, what do you want to drink?" Bors asked again.
"Nothing," repeated Lancelot.
"Come on now," said Bors with a laugh, "you don't want nothing to drink? You're usually so drunk by now that you can't even remember your own name, let alone the name of the girl that goes home with you."
When Lancelot finally convinced them he didn't want a drink they began once again to talk about home and their new freedom. Galahad and Gawain soon sat at their table and joined the talk, but Lancelot remained silent through most of this conversation. He was still wondering the words of the Bishop and the nonappearance of their release papers. And his insistence that he speak alone with Arthur was drawing more suspicion to the matter.
Lancelot was not alone in sitting silently through all the conversation around him. Had he been not so deeply occupied with his thoughts, he would have noticed that beside him Galahad had also fallen quiet.
His eyes lay focused solely on the table where Dagonet and Maelien sat. Though time seemed to be passing him by he seemed frozen in that very moment. The young knight watched the graceful movements she made as she talked with Dagonet. Her beauty fascinated him and her voice warmed him. He unlike the other knights did not take to women and charming them only to associate with them for a single night. He, instead, put his heart and efforts into his knightly duties and serving the commander whom he loved more than any woman. So he was altogether confused why this new woman enthralled him so. He watched her long and became lost from the talk around him, giving only a short, "I agree with Gawain," every time he noticed that his name was mentioned. He only vaguely knew what was going on around him and was totally engulfed in her loveliness.
Lancelot, still deep in his own thoughts, was pulled from them at the mention of his own name. Bors, who was quite drunk himself by this time, was speaking loudly and he seemed to be getting a great reaction of laughs and applause from the inhabitants of surrounding tables.
"...yeah and our Lancelot, who has never lost a fight with a Woad, almost got killed by one. He was flat on his back with no sword and one of those savage bastards standing right over him, an arrow pointed straight at his chest."
"How did he get out of that that one?" called a man, who was so engulfed in a fit of drunkenness he fell out of his chair as he spoke.
"He didn't," laughed Bors, "she had to save him!" He pointed at Maelien who looked quite taken aback at the sudden mention of her. Great roaring laughs broke out all around to the displeasure of Lancelot.
He stood up and everyone fell silent. Though the people laughed, they were quite terrified of Lancelot, for they knew he was fierce and strong and the greatest of the knights that Arthur commanded. They were all half frightened of what he would do and half hoping the story would continue. From his belt he drew a long sharp knife and glared around the room until at last his eyes fell upon Bors. He pulled back the knife and with a great swish brought it down hard. It stuck in the table inches from Bors' hand and Lancelot leaned over it and said in a snarling whisper that echoed through the yard for everyone to hear, "That's enough of that story."
Bors' face was etched with a look of disbelieving fear as Lancelot's eyes bored into his own. And once more he spoke in that echoing whisper. "Understand?" And as he spoke the fierceness left his face and his devious smirk replaced it.
The room erupted once more in laughs this time at the look on Bors' face. And he joined in the laughter too once he saw that Lancelot's face had formed into a grin.
Sitting down again Lancelot was glad to see that Maelien had joined in on the laughter.
"So did she really save you," asked Vanora, who as well as being the mother of all Bors' little bastard children was a waitress in the tiny pub.
"No," Lancelot replied firmly, the note of arrogance one again present in his voice.
"Who is she and why is she here then?" she asked curiously.
"She is a knight," replied Lancelot. "She is Sarmatian also. The Bishop has assigned her to our company for the little time we have left. She has served all of her fifteen years in Rome, but now is here. Why, I cannot say."
"It's strange of him to assign her here on the very day you are to be released, isn't it?" she questioned eagerly.
"Yes," agreed Lancelot. "That is exactly what she thought."
More time passed and still Arthur did not come to the courtyard tavern as they expected, nor had he summoned the knights back into the hall. Lancelot began to get suspicious as he wondered what could have kept Arthur. But just as the knights began to voice this fact aloud their commander made his entrance.
"Arthur," called Bors happily, "come, have a drink, and tell us what has become of our discharge papers."
But Arthur looked the opposite of joyful. He wore a look of pained foreboding upon his face that clearly told Lancelot what he feared had come to pass. He walked toward the knights with each step the look of pain increasing.
"What is it Arthur?" asked Dagonet, who above all the knights, except Lancelot maybe, loved Arthur and was loyal to him and his will.
"Have you killed the Bishop?" asked Lancelot, his hatred of the Bishop flowing through him once more, "because that's not a bad thing." He smirked slightly but seeing the look on his friend's face wiped it off quickly.
"Knights," said Arthur, a determined sadness leaking into his voice, "the Bishop has asked for your services once more before he grants you the freedom that is rightfully yours."
At these words a thick silence fell over the courtyard. No one spoke until Galahad, who at the entrance of Arthur had finally torn his eyes from Maelien, broke through the haze and said, "What does he wish of us?"
A fierce battle seemed to be raging behind Arthur's eyes as he debated whether to tell his knights what he must. He wished he would not have to ruin this their night of glory and joy but he knew he must.
"The Bishop wishes us to bring to him a high ranking Roman family," began Arthur. "Mainly he wishes to bring him Allector, who is godson to the Pope and important to the Roman Empire for he himself is in line to become Pope."
"Where is this family?" asked Lancelot fiercely, fearing he knew the answer.
"They live on a large piece of land given to them by the Pope himself. The land is north of here deep in the land inhabited by the Woads and Saxons. They are trapped. They Saxons are about to wage war on Hadrian's Wall and claim all the island of Britain. They have already begun to march south. They will reach the Wall in four days time."
"Four days!" shouted Bors. "We will surely be killed on this journey! And does the Bishop wish us to fight this war for him as well and defend this useless isle longer yet?"
"No," answered Arthur. "He only wants us to rescue the family. After that we will be free to go."
"So what of the war?" asked Gawain. "Surely there are not enough Romans here to defeat thousands of Saxon warriors."
"No," agreed Arthur. "The Bishop does not wish to fight at all. After we return the family to the Wall, he will evacuate the whole of Britain and leave it to the Saxons."
"Leave it to the Saxons?" said Galahad, the bitterness he felt surged through him, for being the youngest of the Sarmatian knights his memories of home and hatred of Rome were fresh in his heart and he longed for freedom. "Then I have risked my life for the last fifteen years to defend this country just so it could be left to the Saxons. We have risked our lives for nothing!"
Arthur looked at the ground. He could not bear to look upon the faces of his knights and see the anger and fear. But with all the strength he could muster he did so.
"Will you come?" He asked the question he had been dreading to ask. "Will you set out for the last time to defend a will not of your own and claim the freedom that is rightfully yours?"
Dagonet stepped forward and said, "Never yet have you led us to death. I am with you."
Tristan stepped out of the shadows, nodded calmly, and before taking another drink of ale said, "As am I."
Arthur's gaze fell upon Galahad and Gawain, who stood right in front of him. Best friends they were just as Arthur and Lancelot. Gawain looked up at his commander's face and said, "I will come." Then he looked at Galahad and said, "Galahad as well." Arthur glanced at Galahad, who nodded, though it angered him to do so...though it angered him to give in to the orders of the Romans. He then threw down the glass he held and walked swiftly from the courtyard without a look back.
Last Arthur looked at Bors. "Will you come?"
Perhaps it was the drunkenness but the only way Bors could think of answering was by shouting. "Yes of course I'm coming!" he roared. "You'd probably all get yourself killed if I didn't!" He took Galahad's lead and smashed the glass in his hand, but remained where he stood.
Arthur could not even bring himself to look upon Lancelot, for he could not condemn such a friend to such a grave fate. Instead of offering him the freedom that was rightfully his, all Arthur could give him was death.
A ringing silence once again hung over the courtyard. Nothing pierced it not even the rustle of the trees in the wind. But then loud and clear yet hardly above a whisper Maelien spoke. "I shall come also." She stepped out of the shadows and everyone's gaze fell upon her.
Bors uttered a short stiff laugh and said coolly, "This is no task for a woman."
"No," she agreed, "it is a task for a Sarmatian knight."
And everyone watched as she too walked proudly from the pub.
Arthur sighed and while everyone watched her go turned and walked quickly from the courtyard also. Lancelot watched him and followed silently behind.
Arthur walked quickly through the streets of the city until at last he took refuge in the stables. The smell of hay reached his nose and the soft swish of the horses' tails broke the silence every few seconds. He stood silent for a moment and then, throwing aside the saddle that he held, spoke loudly into the dim light.
"Oh Merciful God, I have such need of your mercy now," he said. "Not for myself but for my knights. If you get them safely through this task I will offer you any sacrifice you wish even if it be my own life, for then my death will have purpose-"
"Why do you speak to your invisible God and not to me?" questioned Lancelot fiercely, stepping out of the shadows and looking at Arthur. "Why do you have faith in something you cannot see?"
"My faith is what protects me, Lancelot," answered Arthur turning to look at his friend, whom he was right in guessing would follow him. "It gives my life meaning and purpose. And I have faith that if I trust in God and honor his will above my own then I will look upon him in Heaven."
"Ah yes," said Lancelot, his voice now cold and angry. "Your God, your Heaven. Well, Arthur, I do not believe in your Heaven, I have lived too long in this Hell. Too long on this earth full of deceit and malice. Too long in this awful life your God says we are blessed to have."
Arthur looked at him, unable to answer to such a statement, so he said nothing.
"Tell me," Lancelot continued, "does your God promise to protect you on this journey? Do you really have faith in this task? Faith enough to get your knights, your friends, who bound their lives to you, through this task and to the freedom your country wrongfully takes from them?"
When Arthur spoke it was in a voice of forced calm. "How many times, Lancelot have we snatched victory out of the very hands of defeat? Out numbered and still we claimed victory? Never yet have we failed to lose a battle."
"Yes, Arthur," snarled Lancelot, "but this is no ordinary battle. These are Saxons. They are cruel and vile beyond any other creature on this Earth. They take joy only in misery and death. Violent and devious they are in battle, never stopping until they have claimed victory and all their foes have been slain. They show no mercy. The Bishop does not intend us to come back. He offers us certain death. There is no way we will make it back alive."
"So will you stay here while we all ride out tomorrow," Arthur said, the anger he had been fighting now rising in his own voice. "You will stay here and condemn yourself to a life of imprisonment. You will not fight for the freedom that is rightfully yours? You will give in to the weakness and cowardice of your heart and not fight as I know you to? Do you not love your freedom and home enough to muster the valor to hide your pride and share the fate of your fellow knights and fight one last time, one last time to at last claim what has been taken from you for the last fifteen years?"
Arthur stared at Lancelot. Anger was etched on his face and hatred his breathing heavy. Long had he suffered and it hardened Arthur's heart to have to bring him more pain. "Lancelot," he continued his voice softening, "you are brave beyond any other knight ever under my command. You do not fear certain death, this I know. So ride, ride with me tomorrow for you will return to this Wall alive, even if it costs me my own life."
Lancelot glanced at Arthur. There was a great pain upon his face. But Lancelot spoke once more, in anger. "Arthur, I am going to die in battle. Of that I am certain. But I hope it is a battle of my own choosing. Promise me one thing, though, if it is this which claims my life. Do not bury me in our pitiful little cemetery. Burn me. Burn me and throw my ashes to a strong east wind." With that he left the stables without a glace back at the friend he had so long fought beside.
Hours later, long after everyone had gone to get what little sleep they could and the city lay silent as death, Lancelot wandered about, not knowing where his feet were carrying him. He had been unable to sleep lying in his bed. His mind was so full of thoughts and feelings and his shoulder, which had not been tended to yet, was throbbing painfully, so he had decided to take a walk to try to clear his mind. Carelessly he walked into the now empty tavern where he had only mere hours ago heard the grave news of the hopeless journey that awaited him upon the new dawn.
He glanced around the courtyard and found it was not empty as he had first thought. At a small table, half hidden in the shadows, sat Maelien. She looked weary and thoughtful with her head in her hands, but she looked up when Lancelot entered the court.
"I see I am not the only one troubled by the day's events," he said as he sat down opposite her at the table.
"No," she agreed. "I guessed the Bishop Jarmanius had some task to lay upon us but I did not guess he would dare to ask such a task as this."
"We have long served the Romans," said Lancelot. "What the Bishop asks is unjust and ruthless." Lancelot looked at Maelien. In her presence he found it hard to be angry even at the Roman Bishop who had long dictated his life.
"How is your shoulder?" she asked.
He gazed at her and said, "I will live I promise you." Although, he felt as though he may never use his shoulder again. It pained severely every time he made to move it and throbbed intensely even when he lay still. But for his pride he would never admit to feeling the slightest twinge of discomfort.
Maelien could see through his stern face. "May I see it?" she asked suddenly.
Lancelot did not know why she asked such a thing. But catching the look on his face she explained. "I was trained as a healer in Rome and I may be able to ease the pain. But if you would rather suffer..."
Lancelot smirked at her and said, "If you insist."
She walked up behind him and scanned the wound thoroughly. "I can mend it," she said. "Now if you will remove you tunic I will be glad to tend it and bandage it."
With help from Maelien, Lancelot was able to pull his shirt over his head, leaving his exposed skin subject to the cold fall chill. The wind bit at his back and sent a violent shutter through his body, which made his shoulder throb all the more painfully.
Maelien smiled and placed her warm hands on his wounded shoulder. From the spot where her finger tips made contact a warmth began to spread over Lancelot like the ripples in water after a stone has been tossed into a lake. It was an oddly satisfying sensation, the like of which Lancelot had never felt before. His tense muscles relaxed and for some reason he felt as though the sharp pain that had plagued him all day was beginning to fade from his shoulder.
Maelien bathed the wound with a mixture of warm water and a remedy that was stored in her pocket. It smelled strongly, but of what Lancelot did not know. It was a pleasant fragrance that danced around the courtyard, driving the smell of ale and smoke from the old tavern. Lancelot found himself comparing it to the scent of a meadow upon a new dawn, while the dew still clung to the colorful pedals of the flowers and the thin green blades of grass. It was altogether refreshing and wholesome smell that seemed to fill his body with relief and drive away the pain.
After the wound had been cleaned, Maelien wrapped it with a thick bandage to prevent infection and allow it to heal properly. When she had finished, the pain, Lancelot noticed, was no more. Had he not known there was a wound under his bandages he would not have known he was injured at all.
Lancelot watched Maelien's face as she worked. He could have tended the wound himself, in fact he had meant to but, having Maelien heal it seemed to be a much better option.
She was very beautiful, more beautiful than any maiden he had ever held in his gaze. The moonlight cast a warm glow about the small tavern and lit up her face. Her eyes, so cold yet so warm, caught his gaze. It was true, Arthur's words of her. Her eyes held a story, a story so sorrowful that none could bear to read it. They were focused upon his own shoulder as she wrapped the bandage carefully around the wound. He couldn't help wondering the warm feeling that had settled in his heart. It was quite unlike the lust he felt for other women. Never before had he experienced such a feeling as this.
Before helping Lancelot back into his shirt, Maelien fell silent and began to run her fingers down the familiar scars present on his back. His expression fell into a look of remembrance as he felt her fingers cross his body. With each new scar a different memory formed in Lancelot's head. Each memory was filled with pain as he ran through the past fifteen years of his life.
A long slash across his back, a reminder of the first battle he had fought along side Arthur. Young he was then, just a boy, no more than 15 years old. A round scar on his right shoulder was a reminder of the wicked arrows of the Woads. Many pained memories did he have, much too many.
"You bare the true marks of a knight," said Maelien softly. "I too have scares as these. Reminders of a life I wish I could forget."
Lancelot looked upon her fair face. She didn't look knightly now as she did upon their first meeting. She looked like a child, a child who was lost and longing to find peace, to find home. It saddened him to know that she had been forced to live as he had been made to. Looking upon her made him understand more the cruelty and pain that was all the world had to offer.
Maelien removed her fingers from his back, so full of stories, and helped him back into his shirt. Wordlessly she walked around the table and sat down opposite him.
Silence hung in the air for a few moments and Lancelot became lost in thought again. He again pictured the scene hours earlier when Arthur asked his knights if they would join him on their last and most dangerous quest as knights in service to Rome. He remembered Arthur asking all the knights except himself and Maelien. She had announced her coming of her own will.
"Fair Maelien," Lancelot said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her eyes fell upon his face and he continued. "Why do you willing agree to come on such a perilous journey into certain death when none expect you to do so?"
She stared at him and when she answered her voice became cold as ice and fierce once more. "Am I not also a knight?" she questioned. "Have I not the right to fight for the freedom that is wrongfully denied me? If none expect me to come then you know me not, for I have gone on many perilous journeys into hopelessness and from none yet have I never returned. And as for certain death I fear it not."
"What then do you fear?" asked Lancelot, curiously, but his voice also held a note of coolness.
"I fear the death of those whom I love and having to bare the pain of living without them," she replied, sadness drifted over her face but her voice remained strong.
Lancelot did not know what to say to this. But he did not have to reply because Maelien got to her feet then and said still with a note of frost, "I am beginning to feel weary. I believe I am going to get a few hours sleep before dawn. Goodnight, Lancelot." And she walked out of the courtyard for the second time that night and left Lancelot to wonder the things she had said.
Though he knew it not another had been present in the tavern that night. Hidden among the shadows, Galahad had been about to make his entrance when Lancelot had appeared. He watched Maelien as his beloved fellow knight sat down across from her. For a brief moment he would have sworn that a faint smiled flickered across her oh so beautiful face when the handsome knight joined her.
Galahad silently watched as they talked and Maelien tended the wound. And as he watched a feeling began to mount inside of him. The longer he stood the stronger it got until, though he doubted it, he could not fully deny it.
Galahad, who had no devotions but to the knights he loved, and felt especially loyal to Lancelot, who had befriended him upon their very first meeting, was jealous. He could not bear to watch the content grin upon Lancelot's face and see the beautiful smile Maelien flashed him each time their eyes met. He found it hard to feel love for the knight whom he respected so much as he watched him with the woman, who had stirred up such an unexpected but ultimately pleasant emotion inside of him. He watched longer and the envy grew.
He could see that Lancelot thought differently of her than he did other women. There was a respect and intrigue present in his tone as he spoke to her instead of the usual lust and counterfeit charisma he used upon other woman of great loveliness, though none could compare to the magnificence of Maelien's allure. And their topic of conversation was that of which Lancelot would have never spoken to any but Arthur and most certainly not a woman he had come into acquaintance with only mere hours before. But even more prominent was the look on upon his face. For as long as Galahad had known Lancelot, which was the better part of his life, the part of which he could remember best, there had been a cold, even fierce look to the hardened knight. His eyes held no warmth and his love was given only to a select few. But now it looked as though Lancelot had forgotten the hate that had long held his heart captive. He looked upon Maelien as if she were his freedom from the life he hated so. There was something in his eyes that said she had melted some of the frost away and held a place in his heart.
Galahad could not guess, but in his heart he feared he knew. Love he questioned, just as Lancelot himself had earlier in the day. No he concluded. Not yet. Though he knew it could not be far off considering the spark that had settled in his friend's eyes.
He turned from the tavern and left the court as he had earlier. He knew now that the feeling that had awakened in him upon glimpsing the maiden was challenged, and greatly challenged at that. And for the first time in his life he regretted his allegiance to the knight, who, throughout the land, was second only to Arthur.