Max Fomitchev-Zamilov | Poetry and Prose

Максим Фомичёв-Замилов | Поэзия и проза

Sir Lancelot was old. His horse, a white mare, was every bit as gray and old as he himself looked. His armor, well made, shiny, and no doubt expensive, had fit him very well. Sir Lancelot was stocky and stout, and despite his ripe old age of forty-nine, he was still strong. His long sword was no Excalibur, but it was a fine sword befit his master, and Sir Lancelot had wielded it well enough to live this long. For thirty-some years a knight, he’d served various liege lords of his as he rode into countless battles under many different banners. Much to Sir Lancelot’s dismay and the disappointment of many other knights, the wars had become a rarity of late as good old lords proffered to stab one other in the back and squabble behind closed doors to calling banners and laying siege to castles. Those were the good old days, Sir Lancelot thought, sighing. In those days it was easy for a knight to find purpose, gold, and glory. Almost too easy. Of late, however, his gold was running low, and Sir Lancelot was riding to a tournament, hopeful and in good spirits. He heard that King Arthur had called a tourney to honor the summer solstice that his druid warlocks so cherished, and the winner’s prize was five hundred gold. Five hundred gold! No small sum for any knight, and a huge bounty for Sir Lancelot. But would he win? He sure hoped so, although he’d never won a tournament before, he was always sure that he’d win the next one. He was sure this time as well, and he never felt otherwise. It seemed that this unwavering faith had given him additional strength to make up for his age. Even if I don’t win the tourney, I come away with gold, he thought, remembering past times when he was showered with prize money, for often he’d come fourth, or fifth, or even third once.

Sir Lancelot thought of the last tourney he attended. When was it? Has it been five years already? Time flies quickly for one in the saddle, and Sir Lancelot could now feel the passage of time: it ached in his back, squeaked in his knees, and popped in his shoulders. When did the ache start? He could not quite remember, but he was still strong and thanked the gods for that. The last tourney did not disappoint him, for he came fifth and won one hundred gold. He should have been the fourth with one hundred and fifty, but he had tied with noble Sir Barrow. The Lord Duke of High Elm had broken the tie with the help of the crowd, which cheered a bit more for Sir Barrow with his bright blue shield with a golden stag than for Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelot’s shield was not as fancy, as he wished it was, but he had no money to pay a goldsmith to make his armor and the shield a tad shinier and more ornate.

It is quite fortunate that the good King Arthur has called this tourney, the knight thought, I only have nigh half a gold coin left, this prize money would come in handy. Sir Lancelot ungloved his hand and rummaged through his money sack. Much to his surprise and pleasure, his figures came upon not half but two whole gold coins, his last treasure. His growling stomach had reminded him why he had two gold coins, rather than one half, and his elbows and back were quick to reflect upon this recollection too. For two past fortnights now, the knight had been avoiding the inns with their drunken squalor and mouthwatering hot meals and opted for sleeping in the fields instead. He was too proud to sleep in stables along with common drunkards, smelly horse masters, and dirty stableboys. Instead, he preferred to set camp by the side of the road, far enough from towns and hamlets, such that nobody could see him. A poor knight’s last treasure is his honor, he thought, and so got used to making bed in the fields and the woods, under open air, with his mare tied securely to the nearest tree or a milestone. He always slept with his sword by his side, often with his hand on its hilt.

This past month Sir Lancelot subsided on whatever he could muster to catch along the side of the road: his long sword was ill-fitted for hunting, so he chiefly relied on his dagger, using it to kill a rabbit or a squirrel. But last night he was not so lucky, his improvised hunt had left him empty-handed, his stomach rumbling. The stones he slept on last night were coarse and dusty and had given him a sleepless nightmare his body was remembering all too well now. At least the mare ate good grass and drank cool water, and this was all he needed now to get to the tournament arena only four short miles down the road.

The old custom called for a tournament to begin at high noon, and it was morning still, so even with a leisurely trot he’d get there in time. There was no need to rush the mare, he needed her strength for the tournament, and somehow, he felt that she was grateful to him for his consideration. He knew his horse too well, she was his closest company, his soulmate and best friend, and she’d never failed him before. She won’t fail him now, not if he remains kind to her. And he was.

A whole one hour before noon Sir Lancelot had reached the tourney grounds, they were bustling with people: commoners and knights alike. It’s been a while since Lancelot had seen so much commotion, and his heart had skipped a bit excitedly. The knight coughed pointedly as he approached a registrar. He lifted his helm’s visor and announced himself in a loud coarse voice as befit the knight, “Sir Lancelot of High Castle is here for the tournament!”

The registrar looked at him warily, yawned, and asked: “Where is your squire, sir?”

“I have no squire,” Sir Lancelot replied, trying to hide his annoyance at the obvious question, for he could not afford one, not for the past six months, “I traveled fast, my squire fell behind”, he lied, but dishonorable lie this was not, “I hereby wish to enter myself into the tournament!” he demanded still sitting high on his horse.

“As you wish”, the registrar scribbled something on a piece of parchment, then lifted a small chest from under the oaken table he was seated at, opened it, gold coins gleaming inside lifted his head, and addressed the knight, “That would be one gold, Sir”.

“One gold?!” the knight had nearly fallen off his horse, “One gold??” he repeated the question, he was expecting only a few of silver, maybe half a gold, but one gold sounded too much to him, “What kind of a thievery is this?” he protested.

“It is one gold, Sir”, the registrar insisted, “All the knights must pay their tribute”, he lifted and shook the gold chest, coins clanking inside. He set the chest down and stared at the knight for a moment, then asked “Have you got the money, Sir?”

“Have I got the money? What kind of question is this?” Sir Lancelot replied indignantly, dismounting. It was clear to him that he would have to part with one-half of his treasure now. Thank God he had two coins. He rummaged in his money sack that was tied to his belt and produced a coin. He threw it at the registrar in disdain, “Here, one gold. Now go and write down my name properly, you knave!”

“But of course, my lord”, the registrar replied politely, showing him the parchment, “The stables are that way”, he gestured broadly in the direction from which the wind had brought the smell of horses and manure, “and the Knights’ canteen is there”, he gestured in another direction, from which Sir Lancelot could here laughter of the knights and chatter of the armor.

Sir Lancelot took his horse and brought it to the stables, a stable boy had tied it, gave it oats, and started brushing. At least she gets the oats, thought Lancelot, remembering his last gold coin. He had to win the tournament. You are only as good as your last tourney! He remembered the words of his old master-in-arms, his voice echoing in his head. You are only as good as your last tourney! Repeated the voice.

The knight proceeded to the canteen, his stomach would very much welcome a hot meal by now, and his mouth could use a good mead, too. An old fat lady was cooking and serving, and must have been her husband, also old, fat, and unshaven, with a face dirty from soot, was roasting deer meat. The lady brought Sir Lancelot his meal. He bit into it hungrily, warm juice flowed over his graying mustache and beard. Lancelot looked at the other knights. Seated in packs they were busy eating, drinking, and talking. The pack closest to him was made of noble knights with black hair, and wearing grey tunics. These must have been the knights of the Grey Woods; he recognized their house sigil on their armor. The pack further away had knights with blond hair and white coats, Lancelot saw a mark of the house of White Water on their shields and tunics.

Sir Lancelot was sitting alone at his table, an outsider at this tournament, which was organized for the benefit of the two main houses lording over this principality. Nevertheless, the olden rules were clear: anybody could participate as long as they were a knight, but few would travel this far for a handful of gold coins. But not Sir Lancelot. He needed this tournament, and he needed to win.

There were three categories: the sword fight, the dagger combat, and good ole horseback jousting with a lance. Sir Lancelot was fond of swordplay and confident in his wielding of lance, the dagger fight he despised and found it to be a low art of hand brawl. Alas, the local folk must have enjoyed this form of entertainment that he abhorred.

At last, the trumpets called the knights to the arena, and Sir Lancelot followed them into the tourney yard. Their horses were already there, brought in by stable boys, all brushed up and clean, their harnesses gleaming in the sun. He mounted, and all the other knights had done the same. They circled the arena and saluted the king when their names were called.

The sword fight was first. In the few short minutes before the tourney Sir Lancelot managed a good rest, his stomach was no longer growling and he almost had forgotten about his sore back. Somehow fresh and rested, he did well. His sword still faithful to his grip had clawed and marked the armor of his opponents angrily. The stabs and slashes that he had gotten in return were few and light. Lancelot was sure of it as he ended all his matches pleased with himself. Now that he was moving vibrantly, his knees hurt very little and his elbow did not feel sore anymore. The knights he faced were all young, much younger than he was, perhaps only half his age or less, but where Sir Lancelot could not compete with them on vigor, he could outdo them in the strength of his blow and reach of his sword. Today he had particular luck in luring the inexperienced youth into the fury of his counterattacks. It was a good start, and will be a great tourney, he thought. He was not wrong in his appraisal of himself: the crowd cheered and roared every time his long sword slashed and hacked at the armor of his foe. He’d even downed one, a thin, blond-haired knight in a white tunic, but no crowd roar had reached his ears that time, much to Sir Lancelot’s dismay. The little one was King Arthur’s nephew, forbidden from the tournament on account of his young age. He must have snuck in somehow and was unfortunate to face Sir Lancelot’s full fury. The crowd and the king found no honor in that – like it was Sir Lancelot’s fault – the bout did not count.

Still, Sir Lancelot moved on to the dagger altercation in high spirits. However, the dagger fight, a filthy business of blood, sweat, and close combat, wore down heavily on Sir Lancelot. He was slashed more times than he slashed in return, and many of his dagger swings had failed to find its target. The youth had an advantage over him, for he was not as swift and apt at keeping balance as they were. At one point a dark-haired knight with bad breath and many broken teeth had had his dagger right at Sir Lancelot’s throat, a hair width away from spilling blood; it took the knight all of its remaining strength to wrestle the dagger away from his chin. The crowd booed, and he was hoping they’d booed the other knight…

The final competition was a horseback joust with a lance. By then Sir Lancelot was tired, sweat running down his face and burning his eyes. An acrid smell of a horse’s entrails and manure had hung in the air, an unfortunate accident of a joust just before his, when one inexperienced knight managed to impale a horse with his lance, much to the horror of all. He even overheard the king curse. The poor thing was put to death, but not before it had offended all the ears with its agonizing neighing.

A bad sign, Sir Lancelot thought, preparing for the joust. A stable boy helped him onto his mare and handed him a wooden tourney lance. The lance seemed heavier than Sir Lancelot could remember. He straightened it up, holding fast onto his horse, trying to find balance. The trumpet sounded in icy silence, and the knight on an impossibly large black destrier had charged at him at lightning speed. It struck him as a thunderbolt. Like in a dream, Sir Lancelot observed the earth float away from under him, the horizon turning in front of his eyes slowly, counterclockwise. The seats full of spectators and the distant line of the woods were still turning, twisting, when a large grey mass entered his field of view blocking out his vision. Dust and dirt rushed into his visor filling his mouth, plugging his nose and eyes.

Two squires rushed to the field and lifted Sir Lancelot, his legs were strangely rubbery and would not support him. The squires noticed that and tightening their grip proceeded to drag the knight away from the arena. Sir Lancelot tried moving his legs to mimic walking, but his limbs were too limp and too slow to catch up to the squires. They dragged him all the way and seated him gently under a wooden post under a seating deck. A stable boy had brought his mare and tied it nearby. The mare was limping, although nothing looked broken on her, except for the harness. The saddle tiled to a side, reigns torn and ripped in several places.

At least the mare is alive, thought Lancelot, his mind still in the arena, huge red circles floating in front of his eyes. He tried to stand up but felt the ground spin beneath him and had to lean back to the wooden beam he was sitting under, finding support in its mute obedience. He rested for a few minutes until the circles in front of his eyes grew smaller and all but disappeared, then proceeded to inspect his harness and his mare closely. She was alright. Shocked, maybe, but alright. He straightened the saddle noticing a deep gash left on the mare’s side by his spur. The gush was bleeding, but not profusely. He sighed and proceeded to mend the harness. He managed albeit crudely. The entire right side of his body and especially his neck was burning, but nothing seemed to be broken. He tied the harness here and there. The horse snorted. This was the quickest horseback joust he’d seen, and he’d seen quite a few.

There was no point in waiting for the tourney’s end now. He knew he would not be taking any gold today, for there could be no prize money for the losers of the horseback joust. Sir Lancelot had mustered all his strength and got into his saddle, his back was aching again, everything was aching now, especially the neck, and he’d discovered that his ribs hurt too, for each breath he was taking felt like something sharp inside him was catching on something soft.

Damn ribs! He cursed silently as his white horse limped from under the bleachers like a forgotten ghost, heading towards the exit. Her mane glistened in the sun; the brushwork of the stable boy was magic. The knight did not say ‘goodbye’ to the registrar and did not listen to the voices calling him as he was leaving the arena grounds. He wanted to ride away as far from this wretched place as he could. He wanted to flee from his deafening defeat in the arena, if a such thing was even possible.

Somehow Sir Lancelot never thought once that he might not win, win something that is. Although he never won an entire tournament before, he always came back with gold, but not this time. The mare’s limping got worse. Sir Lancelot dismounted and proceeded on foot, holding the reigns in his left hand. He patted her shining white mane. The sun was setting, and she snorted back at him, grateful that he eased the load on her injured foot. You’ll be fine, my lady, he said to the mare in his mind’s voice. You’ll be fine.

Late at night, he’d reached an inn, which turned out to be a brothel full of drunkards and wenches celebrating the sins of life. The knight was too tired, and the mare needed hay, so he shelved his honor and knocked on the door. The appearance of a noble knight in such a place had broken up the celebration, if for a moment. The owner, a short balding man, unshaven and shrewd, barked orders at a stable boy to take the knight’s horse, then measured the knight’s sorry appearance with a thoughtful glance, noting dried blood on his face and dirty streaks of sweat across his forehead. The owner waved at the two henchmen to take the guest upstairs to their best room (if there was such a thing at this place). “Jane will tend to you, Sir…” he looked at the knight inquisitively. “It is Sir Lancelot,” the knight replied barely standing, still in his full armor. “Jane, come quick! Sir Lancelot is waiting for you. Don’t make the good lord wait!” he heard him slap her on her buttocks, the sound came from somewhere downstairs.

In a minute a puffy wench of uncertain age, questionable cleanliness, and long-faded beauty had showed up with a large tin pail and a rag for a towel. The two henchmen unexpectedly turned valets had brought a large wooden bathtub. They struggled to get it through the door, but finally, they managed. Jane filled the tub with water by pulling on a rope just outside the window. The rope brought in one pail of water at a time, someone on the ground floor must have been filling them.

She helped Sir Lancelot out of his armor and undergarments. She looked surprised to see that the entire right side of his body was one huge bruise, red and brown, and blue. She was gentle with him. Jane helped him into the tub and proceeded to dab him with the rag. Sometimes she used her apron, which was not much cleaner. Her blouse was untied, and her huge breasts swung unceremoniously in Sir Lancelot’s face as she was trying to tend to him. “I beg your pardon, m’lord”, she said blushing. The knight was surprised to see her blush as much as she was surprised at herself. When her breast had slapped the knight into his face again when she bent over the tub to scrub his knees, she blushed again (a second miracle), stood up straight, and asked, her voice was unsteady, shaking: “Would your lordship require any other tending tonight?” she was holding one hand to her chest, her other hand clasping the ties of her greasy gown, thinking whether or not she should bare her top completely.

Sir Lancelot did not answer. He was fast asleep in the tub. You are only as good as your last tournament, the voice of his old master echoed in his dream.

Leave a Reply

Discover more from Max Fomitchev-Zamilov | Poetry and Prose

Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.

Continue reading