Chapter 11 Honor By Knight – Leon: A Tapestry of Sorrows Part I

Leon sat motionless in the grand sitting room, gazing out the mullioned window with a heavy heart. Weak sunlight filtered into his father's estate of Meadow Manor, casting the room in a somber grey hue. His twin girls played a quiet game of stick and hoop on the ornate Myrdean rug, their giggles ringing hollowly against the oak-paneled walls.

Nearby, his parents – Sir John and Lady Isabella – were engrossed in a round of Merels, their marble game pieces clacking lightly atop the strategy board between them. Leon shifted in his cushioned chair, the dark bruises beneath his eyes betraying many sleepless nights since returning home.

"You mustn't be away from the children, Lee," his mother gently insisted, not looking up from the game. "It's been only three weeks since ..."

"It's well to speak it, mother," he admonished gently, turning to look at her. "The children must understand."

She thinned her lips, pressed her hands in her lap. "They need you now more than ever."

Leon sighed, rising slowly to his feet. He crossed the room to pour hot water from a kettle into a small, ornate wooden cup, steeping dried herbs from a jar.

"I agree with you, however," he said, cradling the steaming tea in his hands, motivation beyond the coronation weighing heavily on him. There was a young boy in Camelot to whom he desperately owed amends.

"Then you're staying," his father stated, settling back comfortably into his chair, a wide grin of his lips. "I'm about to defeat your mother."

"No, father. I'm taking them with me. We can mourn on the trail together."

His parents exchanged worried glances, his mother suddenly gathering her skirt as they rose, both hurrying to him.

"It's too soon for travel," she pleaded. "The girls have only just stopped their night terrors."

His father squeezed his shoulder. "We worry for them, son, and for you. This journey may reopen wounds not yet healed."

Leon watched his daughters play, their smiles not yet meeting their eyes. "I must make amends, father, though my heart feels rent in two."

His parents exchanged sorrowful looks this time; his mother then tilted her head. "Though we love Queen Guinevere and pity the little boy, we had not the heart for crowds and festivities," she said. "But if we cannot persuade you to remain here, then we will remain at your side and accompany you."

His father nodded solemnly. "Your purpose shall be ours, Lee. I'll inform the servants."

It had taken a full day to prepare for their journey, his parents bringing a small contingent of household staff to ease the rigors of travel. Leon estimated another four nights with a party this size to reach the northern border of the Darkling Woods instead of three he had previously planned, now arriving one day before the coronation rather than two. A much larger company than he had first desired, he was still happy for the presence of his family.

He lifted his twin girls into the wagon, Tillota taking the reins of the pull horse. He straddled his mare and rode beside them as it gently lurched forward. Ahead and astride horses, his parents led the way with two more carts following them.

Leon guided his horse in familiar patterns now, the sojourn east as memorable as a lullaby. Having traveled this path since he was a child, the first night his party camped on the trail, and then lodged in Ridgeford and Bricksburg the second and third nights. As dusk would soon approach on their fourth night, he thought of the many times he had ridden eagerly towards Camelot or westward where the comfort and need of roots awaited. He had kept pace with the wagons' gentle gait this time – everything he needed with him right now.

He glanced at his girls, arms linked as they sang simple songs, their grandmother's voice rising in harmony. The shadows in their eyes pained him though, hinting at sorrows that should not yet touch ones so young. Had he done right in bringing them on this pilgrimage?

"We're no more than a league from Darkling Woods," Leon said to Tillota, adjusting in his saddle.

"Camp near the edge tonight, my lord?" she asked.

He nodded, knowing there would be other travelers to join the celebrations already settled near the tree line – or soon to be – before traversing deeper into dark woods. "We'll enter the northern gate before the seventh hour tomorrow."

"See you soon," she replied, snapping the reins as he trotted his horse ahead to his father, still leading the small caravan.

"How's mother?"

"Let's just say we'll both be happy to make camp, Lee," he replied, his face and words weary. "We'll pick up the pace."

"Good idea. I'll ride ahead with Guido. We'll start a fire."

Dawn crept over the camp like a feeble tide, swallowing the darkness by weak inches. Leon stirred, slumber having eluded him in the crawl of night. His thoughts lingered on one small boy alone – Herschel. Guilt and helplessness warred within him because of his negligence.

What had become of the child he no longer protected? Was he well? Did his family survive? Was he under their care? Being loved …? Leon had vowed not to fail him, yet grief had driven all else from his mind. Did Herschel believe himself abandoned? Specters of the boy wandering frightened in the dark haunted Leon's waking thoughts. He had erred greatly; now he only hoped it was not beyond all remedy.

Camp was broken by daybreak and they neared the castle by only an hour now. He looked at his twins in the wagon bed. Rosalinda, the oldest, slept curled on a blanket, the treacherously bumpy road not interfering with her nap. Leonora sat beside the bundles of wildflowers he'd picked for her as she played with one of her dolls, instructing it on manners, and also not minding the rigorous journey.

Leon looked ahead and breathed into a smile as the forest thinned of trees, more sunrays streaming in wide swatches. "We're not far now," he said. "You can almost see the castle spires through the trees, Leonora. A great many flags bode us welcome."

He looked to find her climbing onto the buckboard to sit next to Tillota, sunlight dancing across her red ringlets. Along with the doll, she clutched the wildflowers, wilting and drying. Leon smiled.

"I don't see them, father," she said, tilting to look around trees.

"Very soon then, my little bluebell."

Since losing mother and wife, sorrow had clouded their home like an endless rainstorm. His relationship with the girls had strengthened, his love for them deeper than ever. Yet, the children clung to him now, wept often, and fearful they would lose him too.

Adding to his worry was that his parents, though fit for their years, were aging, and that Meadow Manor was in need of tighter management, a few more hands. As fate dealt its cruel blow and changed his life three weeks ago, time crashed in upon him, forcing him into facing his inheritance now.

The duty of securing Meadow Manor jarred against his unmoored grief, the sedentary path colliding abruptly with his life of adventure. Truly, was he riding toward his legacy in Landshire or fleeing dear memories of what had been home in Camelot? He gazed toward the distant spires, fluttering flags beckoning like a lover's wave. Camelot called to parts of him, his love for it embodied in ancient and towering stone.

It had been home, and a sense of belonging enveloped him. Memories of his time there teemed in his thoughts – squiring at twelve, early training with Sir Lucan and now with Arthur and the men; of returning from perilous quests – that well-earned ale and playing cards with friends in the barracks or tavern. Home there had also included Mylla in their castle chambers and then later the girls, always waiting, always grounding him.

Yet, Camelot could not be home anymore. Now it was just a place he'd lived once. Where he'd abandoned a child. Where Mylla's newly lit flame – having just begun shining her warmest light – was tragically ripped away. Where he could not save her. He'd failed them. Leon's eyes burned; tears escaped. He abruptly steered the mare to come between carts, remaining there, swallowing his pain until they left the woods and the landscape changed.

Leon recalled that when he left to care for his family, allied army tents had stretched from the castle walls to the forest's southern edge, the open field between filled with foreign soldiers. Now no trace of the armies remained – ordered home by Arthur. The city's recovering citizens had grown uneasy of their presence after the recent threat, even if they were allies.

The first signs of inviting, more colorful tents and flags were in view. They trotted slowly through the commoner and peasant structures on the outer edges of the field, partition from the nobility nearer the southern wall and gate. Familiar banners waved in this tent city now, emblems of Camelot's great houses and vassals. Merchants and food stalls also be dotted among them – all come to rejoice in the celebrations of a new queen's ascension.

There were many tents, Leon observed. He hummed, slowing his horse to ride alongside his children's cart again, worry ticking about accommodations. Although the pigeon he'd sent in reply would have reached the quartermaster long before now, he hoped their delay and company size did not jeopardize enough lodging for him and family.

Rosalinda stirred in the back, the revelry levels of the camps rising as they drew near the middle. She pulled herself up to stare at him, her eyes drowsy. "Good morning, Father," she yawned, stretching her arms with her mouth wide. "Have we reached Camelot?"

"Almost," he replied, trying not to grin at his daughter's ill manners. "We'll be within the walls soon. Did you sleep well, my water lily?"

She yawned again, and this time like a lady, covered her mouth. "Pardon me, father," she apologized. He winked and smiled. "I was dreaming about mother."

He forced the smile to remain steeled on his lips, though his eyes fluttered shut for a split moment. "Is that so?" He kept his voice as merry as possible. "Were you swimming in the lake again?"

"No." Her face scrunched with confusion. "Mother was sleeping and many beautiful flowers was around her. I called her but she would not wake up."

Leon's throat tightened; his eyes burned. How does he again remind a child that her mother would never wake up? Did she even understand? Sheltered through all the wars and strife that plagued their kingdom since their birth, they had not seen death before. "I know, buttercup. Mother will sleep forever now, remember? She was beautiful, though, yes?"

"Yes, father." Rosalinda's lips quivered, her eyes watered, and Leon snatched her from the cart bed and nestled her upon his saddle. He held her close as possible as she cried. Tillota and Leonora glanced mournful eyes upon them, silent in solidarity. Leon too remained wordless, offering only the comfort of his embrace.

They were through tent city, trotting slowly through the gate and into the lower town. Rosalinda had settled in his arms, both of their sorrow temporarily paused when the joyous buzz of more music, voices, and laughter reached their ears. He navigated the mare to the front, leading his caravan.

Lanes were decorated with colorful streamers and flowers – and dragons emblazoned on crimson flags. Shops and taverns welcomed visitors with open doors. Aromas of meats and breads wafted on the breeze. But Leon noted the dense crowds, larger than any as first knight he'd supervised within the city. Concerns for order nagged at him, a point to check in with Percival soon.

Rosalinda giggled with glee as she pointed to something ahead, and Leon craned to see jugglers thrilling spectators – until one missed his baton, took a dramatic smack to the face, and tumbled to exaggerated laughs. Leon looked behind him, hoping that Leonora could see them, too. Her squeal and clapping hands said that she had. It warmed him to hear his girls laughing with pure joy again, even if for a short time.

They slowly moved forward with the throngs, passing through the lower town and into the vibrant middle-class section, alive with spectacles and revelries as well. But his heart clenched viciously. He strained to steer away from one particular lane to avoid one particular house, but the flow wouldn't allow it. His grief and anguish suddenly felt as fresh and raw as the day it happened.

His breath became shallow, his chest heaved with sorrow heavier than stone. He wished he could speed past the wretched cottage – but the streams of people, the little girl on his lap, the one in the wagon, and his parents behind him restrained him from charging forward as if something wicked chased him. He was thankful the tears on his face had dried by the time they reached the courtyard.