Time Is Wasting

The knight placed the last stone.

He knelt and bowed his head. A sudden gust flowed over and through him, formless and fleeting as memory. A blind hand pushed hair back from unseeing eyes.

“Farewell.” His voice was autumn leaves and stone. “I—but then—ah. Too soon. As always. I would—though I suppose—yet still.”

He stood slowly and dusted his hands, though they were clean. His rouncey, a sturdy riding horse, butted its head against his elbow, and he scratched its nose without looking. “A small life of small achievement, yet that is no small thing,” he told it, and it did not disagree.

It was as good a spot as any, he supposed. The cairn lay beneath a tree. There would be shade come summer and it would be a gentle place. It would have to suffice.

“Time is wasting.”

He stood a while longer, unwilling to let the moment go. He looked around again and realized it would do no good; there was no action or word that would clearly mark its end or capture it forever like church window glass.

“Time is wasting,” he sighed.

He collected the horse’s reins and led it back to the road, where his courser had been tethered.

The knight rode the grey rouncey, bearing his arms and armor. His dun courser followed behind. The armor was unadorned, and his shield bore the device of three silver moons—waxing, full, and waning—upon a sable field. A sword with a wire-wrapped hilt sat in a plain scabbard.

A fog had risen while he had laid the cairn, veiling the world until it shrank to the three of them, the man and his two horses. They rode a wandering path through pale heather and ghost grass, ever and always upwards into high hills capped with balding tors, leaving the tree and river and cairn to fade into the mist. The slope made the distance stretch and each step more painful than the last, and the way was slow.

Through the mist he saw a low and broad shadow, and as he drew near a great host of trees emerged, not singly or in small groups, but at all once, a wall of wood like an army of pikemen, bristling with spear-tipped branches.

The forest stretched across the horizon. This late in autumn, the bare branches were as crenellated as a castle’s battlements, dotted with the blood-red badges of a few final, stubborn leaves. Green-furred oaks, rowan and hawthorn grew densely and closely together, their twisted trunks and branches contorting in their fight for space and sunlight. They swallowed the road in shadow a few steps from the forest’s edge.

A figure sat upon a mossy, man-high stone by the side of the road, cowled and cloaked in grey so that only his hands could be seen. At the sound of the hoof beats upon the road, he leaped to his feet and raised one hand high into the air, palm out, though in welcome or warning, the knight could not tell.

“Hold squire, hold and heed,” cried the man.

“Squire?” said the knight, easing his horse to a halt. “No squire am I, good sir, nor have I been for many years. Sir Bayard, I am named, knighted by King Ban himself upon the field of Bedegraine some 30 winters past.”

The man’s arm dropped. “Not a squire?”

“Nay, good sir. By the white of my beard, I am over 50 winters of age. My youth is far behind, my squire half a day’s travel back along this road.”

“Half a day’s travel, then that is good. Your pardon, sir, for I mistook you for your squire,” the stranger said, recovering somewhat. “I must have words with him.”

“I would be well pleased to grant your wish, for I too desire that he and I could still speak,” Sir Bayard sighed. “Alas, a fever took him, and no words of ours will reach him.”

“Dead?” the man muttered. “That is passing strange.”

“The last great mystery,” Sir Bayard agreed. “Yet perhaps no stranger than being among the living.”

“You are a knight?”

“I am a knight.”

“A knight of distinction and renown?”

“I am a knight.”

The cowl turned towards the forest, and the man gestured along the road. “You will journey this way?”

“Not by choice, but honor and hunger draw me thence. King Mark of Cornwall calls men to his banner to support his claim against King Anguish. Even an ageing knight might find service. This is the straightest way to his lands.”

“Then beware.”

This seemed wise advice. “I shall,” Bayard agreed.

“Before you lies the Savage Wood. No man enters these woods, but he loses that which he holds most dear, fails to attain that which he most desires, yet gains a gift which he never sought. Beware!”

Sir Bayard laughed and leaned forward, his unease quite dispelled by the strange warning. “I see now why you wished to speak with my squire, for I have little that I hold dear, desire less and seek no gifts at all.”

The man slumped back down upon the stone. “I have done as I was bid.” His tone was stiff and hurt.

“One may do all that is asked, and yet still fall short.”

“It should have been him, and not you.”

Sir Bayard let his shoulders rise and fall, just as a man’s fortunes might. “On that we are in agreement.”

“It is no fault of mine if some evil befalls. I have done as I was bid.”

“I shall hold you entirely blameless. Yet I will go.”

“You are firm?”

“Hardly,” Sir Bayard laughed. “I am filled with anxieties and fears. I doubt my every word and deed. Yet I will go.”

That seemed to satisfy the man. “Our thoughts fly to heaven or hell, yet our paths cleave ever between.” He beckoned again towards the woods. “The path awaits. You have but to tread upon it.”

Sir Bayard bowed as best he could in the saddle, picked up the reins and urged his horse forward. It had not gone more than a few steps before a thought occurred to him. He turned in his saddle, and called back, “Bid by whom?”

But the stone was bare, and the man had gone.

“I should have expected that,” he confided to his horse, patting its neck.

It twitched its coat, exhaled sharply, and shook its head. In amusement, Sir Bayard suspected. “Come, faithless counselor,” he growled, though not unkindly. “Let us see what stirred our guide to such excitement.”

He saw very little. The trees grew thick and close to the winding road, and soon Sir Bayard could see neither the way ahead nor the path behind. The trees were not tall, some little more than twice his height, but their branches were many and low. Their constant buffering and swatting forced him to dismount and walk ahead, leading his horses behind. Their dark eyes regarded him with disappointment.

“I could not turn aside, not after being challenged so,” Sir Bayard explained to them. “What kind of knight would I be, if I shrank from a mere road?”

Dim light pattered down from cracks in the weave of wood over his head. The was little sound but footfalls on the moss-slick flagstones, the patient plodding of his horses, and muffled wind, the breathy sigh of creation. A small nutshell world, barely wider than an arm span, filled only by the endless progression of step upon step.

“They would call me timid.” He thought about that. “If anybody ever learned of it.” A long silence followed. “Well, I would have known. That is what matters.”

The horses listened with weary indifference.

The howling of wolves or the jeering of crows would have been less unsettling than the patient silence, Sir Bayard thought. The stillness wore away at the walls between moments. Time was devoured by repetition, reduced to a single Now that went on and on. It seemed he had always been here; he was forever walking this path.

And then there was a clearing.

A nearly perfect circle of open space, two dozen strides across, under a grey dome of impenetrable cloud. Concentric within the clearing stood a ring of man-high stones, no two exactly alike in shape or color, but evenly spaced and smoothly polished. Within the circle were two figures. One lying on the ground, one sitting beside it.

The figure on the ground was a woman, fair of face, dressed in a regal white dress trimmed in gold. One hand was pressed to her side, and the dress and ground were dark with blood. She lay still.

By the body sat a young girl, no more than 10 winters of age, delicate of feature, with large amber eyes that flashed towards Bayard as he entered the clearing. Girl and knight regarded one another in silence.

“What strange happening is this? Lost treasure, failed desire or unexpected gift?” Sir Bayard whispered to himself. “All three?”

The girl cocked her head but made no reply.

Sir Bayard cleared his throat. Tentatively, he asked, “What has befallen here?”

The girl looked down at the body. Her sharp fingers stroked the woman’s hair in skittering, spider rushes.

“Are you hurt?” He waited. “Were you attacked?” He might have been speaking to himself. He stepped back to his rouncey and drew his sword, looking about the clearing again. No animals moved. No birds sang.

He took a step closer to the girl, another, then stopped. Reluctant to stand within the ring of stones. “Are you—” Sir Bayard hesitated. “Your looks and mien are strange to me. Are you one of the fey folk?”

The girl looked up at him with unblinking eyes. “Are you one of the fey folk?” she asked. It was a musical voice, part songbird, part rushing water, part harp, part choir. It put him in mind of his home over the sea.

“I am a stranger here,” he averred. Better to neither admit nor deny. He feared he had trespassed upon some arcane feud, and that she might cast some glamour upon him. “I am merely passing through. And you?”

“I am a stranger here. I am merely passing through.”

“That is good,” he nodded in relief.

“That is good,” she nodded back.

He wanted to be gone, to put this strange child and whatever woe had befallen her behind him. But could not. What kind of knight would he be, if he abandoned a child?

“Will you ride—” he said, turning to gesture towards his horse. He stopped and blinked. The girl was sitting astride the rouncey. “—with me?”

“Ride with you,” she echoed with a sharp nod.

A bark of laughter burst from his chest in surprise. “What a quick thing you are, little nightingale!” he grinned. “What is your name?”

“Name?”

“Yea, by what name shall I call you? Let us give you a name, then. Nightingale … Abigail perhaps?”

“A-bi-gail,” she said, letting the name linger on her lips, as if tasting it. She nodded once. “Abigail.”

“Very well then, Abigail.” His smile faded. “There is something I must do first. My second burial today, let us hope it is the last. Luckily, there are stones close at hand.”

Sir Bayard turned back to the ring and found it empty. The ground was still dark, the outline of the woman’s form still visible in flattened grass, but of the body there was no sign.

“This is becoming a habit,” he muttered. “All that I see vanishes, as if the world is unravelling behind my heels.”

He squinted back along the road, but it was hidden in oak and shadows. It might still be there. If he turned around, he might find the stone the hermit had sat on, the long slope, the rushing river, the boy’s cairn. It would still be there, surely. It must still be there.

“Well, what of it?” Sir Bayard said aloud. The girl, Abigail, watched him intently. “I am here now, that is all that matters.”

“That is all that matters,” Abigail agreed.

Sir Bayard collected the horses’ reins and led them towards the far side of the clearing, where the road led on, plunging again into the narrow gloom. “Where shall I take you?” he asked the girl. “As far as the forests’ edge?”

“As far as the forests’ edge.”

The knight turned away so she would not see him grimace. Such a simple thing, a songbird in truth, cheerfully echoing back his words. Perhaps the horror of what had happened had robbed her of her wits. A bitter fate, to lose your past. It was like losing a part of oneself.

The trees closed in again. The silence felt twice as oppressive now that he was no longer alone. To relieve the silence and reassure himself that time continued in its normal course, he began to talk.

“We ride to Cornwall, do you know it? I am told it is a fair country, with many pleasant shores and bays. King Mark rules there now.” Sir Bayard turned and looked over his shoulder, and the girl looked blankly at him. “Both king and kingdom are new, his realm carved in the days since the deaths of King Uther and Duke Gorlois.”

She was as still and placid as a lake.

“And well you might be surprised. Yes, the selfsame Duke Gorlois who was husband to Igraine, the mother of King Arthur Pendragon.” His words sank into her depths without a trace.

“King Arthur? Camelot? The Knights of the Round Table? No, of course they mean nothing to you. Well, then. I am no shaper or gleeman, but let me tell the tale as best I can: In the days of Uther Pendragon, when he was king of all England, there was a mighty duke in Cornwall who held war against him. And the duke was called the Duke of Terrabil … or no, was it Tintagel?”

Abigail listened with bright-eyed focus, never interrupting or commenting, only nodding in agreement and acceptance of it all.

Sir Bayard tried to tell her of the sword in the stone, of Merlin and the Lady of the Lake, of Excalibur, and of the Round Table, though he found many of the names and faces had faded. There were too many swords, in stones and lakes and presented by mysterious ladies, too many battles, too much time.

It was strange to think you could stand in a moment, every detail bright and clear and fresh and you could say to yourself, remember this, and in a week or month or a year it was gone, as surely as smoke on the wind. Vanished into nothing. He couldn’t even recall the touch of King Ban’s blade upon his shoulder anymore.

His words floundered and drowned in silence. “Ah, pay me no mind,” he said at last. “What need has a girl your age for stories of magic and knights?”

They walked in silence for a long while.

“Are you a knight?” Abigail asked.

Sir Bayard whipped around, dropping in the reins in shock. “What did you say?”

“Are you a knight?”

“You can speak!” He immediately felt foolish again. He coughed to cover his embarrassment. “Well, yes, I am a knight.”

“Of the Round Table?” she asked.

Sir Bayard winced. It was an innocent question, innocently asked, yet still it stung. “No, my child.”

“Why not?”

“I am neither one of King Arthur’s nephews, nor one of King Bors’ sons,” he laughed bitterly, then instantly regretted his jibe. It was unworthy, as bad as one of Sir Agravaine’s jokes, and it would mean nothing to the girl. Besides, what kind of knight would he be, if he sought refuge in excuses? “In truth, I have not done any deeds of renown, nor had any great adventures.”

That was true, he thought, and surely nothing to be ashamed of. And yet, and yet. The admission stank of mediocrity. What had he achieved, save to let his squire die and then wander lost in a forest?

Abigail seemed cheerfully unconcerned. “What is a ‘deed of renown’?”

Sir Bayard blinked. “Why, acts of bravery, valor, charity, mercy and justice. Such as…” He reached for an example. “Such as Sir Gareth, who bested the Green Knight, the Blue and the Red for the love of the Lady Lynette. And Sir Breunor, who, ah, did much the same thing I suppose. Who else? Sir Lancelot du Lac, who slew the villainous Sir Turquine.”

“Could you have slain Sir Turquine?”

There was a needle sharpness to her voice that made Sir Bayard look back again. If she had been warmly attentive before, now Abigail’s gaze was a hot-black coal burning into him.

“Well, I.” He laughed a little. “Sir Turquine bested many knights, including Sir Ector and Sir Lionel. He was a brute, half again the height of a normal man. Sir Lancelot is the finest knight in the world, and yet even he did not win easily.”

“You would have failed?”

“I would have tried, I suppose. What kind of knight would I be, if I had not challenged him?”

“You would have failed.” She looked away.

“I suppose.” Sir Bayard’s shoulders fell. “Does this—is there—forgive me for asking, but what happened in the glade? Who was the woman? Your mother? Were you attacked?”

“If I said ‘Yes’, what would you do?” She did not look back, and the music in her voice was gone, replaced by dry and sneering cold. “Some deed of renown?”

“I would seek justice. What kind of knight would I be, if I did not?”

“You would fail.”

“You are—any man might—that is unfair.” Almost certainly true, he knew, and that was what stung. If the woman in the glade had been killed by some half-giant monster, an ageing knight would pose little challenge. “These are not the matters a young girl should concern herself with.”

“And what matters should I concern myself with?”

“Ah. As to that.” He frowned. “I am unsure. I have no daughters of my own.”

Abigail nodded curtly, and said no more. He had already failed her, Sir Bayard knew, failed in this as he had failed in all other things, tried to muddle through and ended in disappointment.

The stranger had been right, it should have been his squire, he thought. Two new souls discovering the world together. Not this old and addled man with his faded memories and second-hand glory.

“It will be nightfall soon,” he said to change the subject, looking up and noticing the sky, so long colorless and pale, was swiftly growing dark. He had quite lost track of the time.

“I see.”

“We should find somewhere to camp.”

“Where?”

“I do not know.”

“I see.”

“Somewhere out of the wind and weather, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“A woodcutter’s cabin or lord’s keep perhaps, but where would we find one in a forest such as this?”

Abigail tutted. “Over there?”

“Over—” He squinted through the trees, then his eyes widened. Sure enough, there was a great, square-sided stone tower rising above the treetops, a black pillar against the grey shadow sky. Orange light burned in tall windows. “—how did I not see that?”

“How did the old man not see it? A mystery, truly.”

Sir Bayard inhaled sharply, but let the barb pass. “Come,” he said, leading the horses from the road.

The keep was encircled by a wall of grey and ochre stone that erupted from the ground just over a stride from the last trees. There was no gate, only a bare arch, unguarded. Beyond, Sir Bayard could see a stony inner courtyard, a few wooden buildings huddling against the inner side of the wall, and the tower itself. A path from the gateway lead at a gentle curve to a single door, bound in black metal.

Sir Bayard stood under the archway, and cocked his head. There was faint music, a lyre or harp, something plaintive and slow. It put him in mind of King Arthur, but his mind’s eye saw not King Arthur and the glory of Camelot, but rather King Arthur upon a battlefield, his knights dead about his feet. King Arthur pierced through by a spear, smiling and saying, “Look at what I have accomplished.” Gesturing to the slaughter about him. “Look what I have won.”

Sir Bayard blinked and shook himself. “Do you hear that?”

“What?”

“The music.”

“Well, of course,” Abigail said. “I’ve been listening to it since we saw the tower.”

“Does it not seem—” his fingers felt the air, as if to weigh it. “Sorrowful to you?”

“What of it?” she shrugged. “Are you unmanned by a sad song, Sir Knight?”

There was no answer he could make that would satisfy her, he knew, or even satisfy himself. The vision was a passing fancy, nothing more. With an angry shrug of his own he stamped under the archway, towards the keep. The music grew louder as he approached, each solemn note clear in the night air.

Sir Bayard reached for the door, fist poised. The music stopped. In the silence, he shot a look back at Abigail. She sat with arms folded across her chest, a single eyebrow arched in an impatient, Well? He shrugged and rapped twice, the door rattling against its metal hinges.

Almost immediately, it swung easily and noiselessly open.

A man stood in the doorway, of middling height and build, with a plain and pleasant face and dressed all in grey: A simple, grey knee-length tunic and trousers, with a short grey cloak pinned at the breast by a round, silver brooch.  

“Another guest?” the man said with a smile. There was something instantly familiar about his voice. “And to think I was worried I might have to dine alone tonight! Now my house is doubly blessed.” He bowed and beckoned them inside. “Do come in, good sir knight, and fair maiden. We were just about to begin.”

“Maiden?” Sir Bayard chuckled. “I see that whatever this castle lacks in neighbors, it makes up for in courtesy. Abigail is—” He turned and stopped. Frowned.

In the glade, he had been sure she’d been a girl of no more than 10. But now, he saw he had clearly been mistaken. The figure she cut through the sharp shadows and saffron light was nearly as tall as himself. No mere child.

“Is?” the man prompted.

“My … ward.” Sir Bayard finished lamely, still confused.

“Well, you are both most welcome.”

Sir Bayard hardly heard him. He looked sidelong at Abigail again, as though he might catch her reverting into a child when he wasn’t paying attention. But no, clearly she stood poised upon the cusp of womanhood. The light, yes, that must be it. Some trick of the light. He looked down at the reins still held in his hand.

“Horses,” Abigail prompted.

“Yes?”

“Is there somewhere we can stable our horses?” Abigail asked.

Sir Bayard nodded quickly. Yes, stable. That was right. Good question.

“Your pardon, yes, the stables are over there,” replied the man. “There should still be room for two more. Apologies, but I am without servants. Though I am sure an old campaigner such as yourself is more than capable?”

Abigail wordlessly handed Bayard the rouncey’s reins. The stable was far across the courtyard. Or. No. The stable was in front of him. Getting there had taken forever; it had taken an instant. The building was too low; he could not touch the rafters. There was no space inside; it was echoingly empty. Stable. Stall. Saddle, shield, sword, armor. Feed.

There was another horse in the stable. White, with a long silver mane. Not just white, whiter than white, glowing white, luminous like the moon, illuminating the whole stable. Stars under its skin. It watched him intently as he worked, and its amber eyes reminded him of … something. He raised a hand to run it down the other horse’s muzzle.

Sir Bayard blinked. He was outside the stable. The air was cool on his upraised palm. Abigail was looking at him oddly, so he quickly lowered it, made a show of wiping his palm on his tunic. Fooling nobody.

Their host beckoned again and Bayard was inside. A sailor on a ship, a passenger in his own body. The door floated past, he flowed along a short corridor, towed along in the wake of their ever-smiling host.

“A most curious place,” he murmured.

“It has a certain timeless quality, don’t you think?” their host said. “You’ll see what I mean, by the by.”

“You are alone?”

“Oh, the forest folk look after me. And there are guests, from time to time. It is not so lonely—I barely notice the time pass, aha.”

The corridor opened into the main hall. A fire filled the hearth, and before it was a long table, laden with bowls and plates, fish and bread and stew. Four chairs, one at either end, two on the side facing the fire.

A shadow sat at the far end of the table.

“Sir Breuse,” their host announced. “Please join me in welcoming two more travelers in the night: Sir Bayard and the Lady Abigail.”

The shadow called Sir Breuse stretched, like a pillar of living stone, growing taller, then taller, still taller. He moved with sureness and confidence, and his smile had the easy shine of a courtier.

“Welcome.” His voice was leather and honey, a voice used to both persuasion and command. “You are a knight then, Sir Bayard?”

“I am,” Sir Bayard admitted, though standing before this man he had never felt less a knight than he did at that moment.

“Of the Round Table?”

A miracle: Just when Sir Bayard thought he could grow no smaller, he found a way to shrink into nothing. He heard Abigail stifle a snicker. “No. Not of the Round Table.”

“Ah.” Sir Breuse’s shrug was at once both pleased and dismissive. He sank back into his seat, and Sir Bayard let go of a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding.

“And you, sir?” Stiffly polite. What kind of knight would he be, if he was uncourteous?

“A knight of the Round Table? An amusing thought, but no,” Sir Breuse chuckled.  “Can you imagine me following that lot? No, no. A fox among the hens.”

“They are the greatest knights of the realm.”

“By some measures, I suppose.”

“What others are there?”

“Oh, I only mean I do not hold with the slavish followers of hollow ideals. Mercy, justice, what are these? Mere words.” Sir Breuse sniffed. He tapped his broad chest. “Might is the only true arbiter of rightness.”

“Sit, sit,” their host urged.

“Who is your liege lord then?” Sir Bayard asked as he and Abigail sat, himself on the left and closest to Sir Breuse, Abigail to the right. He glanced at her, and noticed her attention was fixed upon the other knight. He felt a hot-white jab of anger and knew it was unworthy to be jealous of the attention, and the needle grew only hotter.

Their host took up a lyre and struck a thoughtful note.

“Lord?” Sir Breuse echoed.

There was food in front of Sir Bayard and he reached for a knife and remembered what he had heard of the fey and accepting their food and drink. The host seemed human enough, and yet, strangely not. He lowered his hand and let it rest on the table. “Yes, who do you serve?”

“My time is my own to command,” Sir Breuse replied, swatting the question away with a wave of his hand. “All men have but one life, and it is senseless to waste it serving another. Don’t you agree?”

“But—surely—well. Who knighted you?”

“I knighted myself,” Sir Breuse grinned. “I did not wait for others to tell me what I am or am not.”

“That isn’t—I mean you can’t,” Sir Bayard stammered, then turned towards their host. “Does that not seem strange to you?”

The man’s fingers stilled upon the lyre. He tilted his head with a kind of noncommittal who-really-knows grimace. “I have seen many strange things in the—well, in the time I have lived here, but a knight knighting himself is easily the least of them. For example, when you were in the stables, did you see Sir Breuse's horse?” 

“His horse?”

Sir Breuse was nodding, smiling, evidently anticipating this turn in the conversation.

“You did not remark upon it? Truly a wonderous animal.”

Sir Bayard frowned in thought. So long ago, only a few moments surely, but already sunk into mire. It was all a rippling blur, like looking up at the world from the bottom of a pool, but yes, there had been another horse in the stable, now that he thought about it. “The white one with the silver mane? That is yours?”

Abigail looked at him sharply.

“It is,” Sir Breuse nodded.

“Do not be so humble,” their host urged. “Let them hear the tale, just as you told me.”

“What tale?”

“How he won the horse,” the grey man said.

“Won it?”

“The spoils of war,” Sir Breuse beamed proudly. “Mine by right of conquest.”

Abigail clamped an iron hand on Sir Bayard’s arm.

“Spoils?”

“I killed the former owner,” Sir Breuse smiled.

The hand on his arm became a claw.

“It is a fey horse, as you may have noticed. The fey inhabit stone circles in this wood, and they guard their realms jealously. They hide within the circles to ambush lone travelers. A fey knight sprang upon me.” Sir Breuse began to wave his eating knife about the air as he grew more animated. “He smote me a terrible blow on the shield. I was nearly borne to the ground. My shield was split and ruined. I cast it aside and gripped my sword in both hands. Long, long we fought until, at last, he began to tire. I hewed through his neck and he vanished even as his head fell from his shoulders.”

Abigail sprang to her feet. Face pale, trembling.

“Forgive me my lady,” the grey man said hurriedly. “Such bloody talk is not for one of delicate constitution. I should have realized. Forgive me!”

She looked at the man blankly, fists clenched to her sides. Her gaze rendered him utterly insubstantial, a nothing man thin as air. Sir Breuse sat back in his chair, smugly satisfied.

Sir Bayard quickly shoved back his chair and took her arm. “Perhaps I might escort my charge to a room?”

“Certainly. This way, if you please.”

The room was as plain as its owner, a modest chamber of stone with a single small window, hunting tapestries hung upon the walls, and a crackling fire in the hearth. The bed was too small, Sir Bayard noted with a sigh, and resigned himself to sleeping on the floor. Their host bid them goodnight, and closed the door with a heavy thunk.

As soon as they were alone Abigail was before him, speaking low and urgently, “It was him.”

Sir Bayard stood a moment, saying nothing, only nodding, then pausing, then nodding again as matters slid slowly into place. Of course, Sir Breuse’s story had been a lie. There never was another knight, only a woman, lying murdered in the grass. Still, he hesitated.

“You are certain?”

Her mouth tightened in disgust. “Of course, I am certain. Are you afraid?”

“Certainly not,” Sir Bayard stiffened. “No, not that.” He wrung his hands, fingers throttling one another in muted frustration. “But he is a guest here, you see. What kind of knight would I be, if I insulted our host by assaulting his guest?”

“Insult?” she hissed. “Courtesy and manners, are those the highest virtues?”

“High enough. What would you have me do?”

“You have to ask? I want justice.”

“You want me to challenge him?”

“I want him dead. I care not how it is achieved. Find his room here in the keep. A dagger in his sleep.”

“I could never!” Sir Bayard gasped. “What sort of knight would stoop to murder? I would be shamed for life.”

“Honor and politeness. Now I see what kind of knight you are. Too meek to do what is right. This is why you do not sit at the Round Table.”

“Unfair,” he protested. “Very well, you are right. He is young and tall and strong and would doubtless kill me easily. A challenge would achieve naught but my own death. If you wish justice, we must go to King Mark, or else King Arthur.”

 She scoffed at the suggestion. “Both are as far away as eternity. The villain is here. I am here. I will not let—” Abigail shook her head. “Ah, this is useless. Nothing. Pay it no mind. Sleep now, I am sure that is the one thing you can do: Sleep.”

Abigail claimed the bed, and Sir Bayard was in no mood to ask her to share. He curled up as best he could on the rug in front of the fire.

When Sir Bayard awoke, he found himself alone on the cold stone floor. The fire had gone out and lemon light stretched in lazy stripes along the floor. The bed was empty.

Sir Bayard rubbed fiercely at his eyes, but this failed to produce any change. There was a basin of icy cold water, and the touch of it sucked the breath from between his teeth. He splashed it hastily across his face, ran wet fingers through beard and hair, then stumbled his way down the stairs. Their host was seated at the table, strumming his lyre gently.

“The, ah, lady Abigail—have you—did the—have you seen my charge this morning?” Sir Bayard asked.

“Oh, yes, she rode out about an hour past,” the grey man said with a shrug.

“What?” Sir Bayard exploded. He reached to grab the man’s tunic, caught himself just in time, let his hands close on nothing. “Rode out? By herself? Where to? On which horse?”

“Aye, made her way straight to the stables, leaped on your grey rouncey and galloped out the gate as though the west wind was at her back.”

“You saw all this and said nothing, did nothing, did not think to wake me?”

The man frowned at him. “Why such concern? Isn’t this what you wanted?” He placed his hands over Sir Bayard’s, and gently forced them down to his sides. “You never asked for this burden, and now she is no longer yours. You are free, sir knight. Go on, make your way to Cornwall, pledge to serve King Mark, or turn aside, go back to Logres, or else sail back to your home in Ponthieu, do what you will with the time that is left to you. This was never your quest, and it is out of your hands now.”

Sir Bayard’s shoulders sagged. “I suppose,” he sighed. He had proved no better a guardian than he had been a knight, but what of it? The eyes of none were upon him, his failure disappointed none, save only himself and even then, only a little. He should count himself lucky to have lost no more than a horse.

A knife-edged thought pierced him. “What of Sir Breuse?”

“He departed too, shortly before your lady.” The grey man paused, then nodded. “Ah, you suspect she was pursuing him. Well, he is perhaps better suited to serve as the companion for a young maiden. Do not think on it too harshly.”

Sir Bayard brushed past him without answering, heading straight for the stables. His courser still there. Good. It was faster than the rouncey, he might still be in time. Saddle, shield, sword. Armor? No, no time. No time. Never enough time.

The grey man had followed him, and now leaned against the stable door as he watched Sir Bayard throw the saddle across the courser’s back, then bend to tighten the girth strap. “Come now, Sir Bayard, this is madness,” the man said. “What is it that you think you might accomplish?”

Sir Bayard hardly knew himself. He put a foot in the stirrup and swung himself up, took up the reins. “Keep her from harm as best I can,” he said. “What kind of knight—”

“—would you be if you did not?” the other man finished. “What matter? Succeed or fail, your legacy will not change. No one will know.”

“I know.” He was out of the stable, the archway in the outer wall before him. “But what else can I do?” He gave the courser’s body a squeeze with his legs, sending it into a trot, then faster, faster again and faster, until they flew beneath the wall and any response from the other man was lost on the wind.

Winter had come to the far side of the wood. The grass was heavy and stiff with frost, and crunched under the horse’s hooves. Grey skies gave way to a deep, crisp blue, and the sun was a bright nail, burning with cold iron flame that gave no heat. The breaths of Sir Bayard and the courser came in thick, soulful puffs.

There, across the field, were two figures, one mounted, one on foot.

Sir Breuse was there, astride his shimmering charger, clad in steel from head to foot. The visor of his helm was closed, hiding his face. He held a long lance in his hand, and the point of it rested over Abigail’s heart. She stood before the horse, head thrown back, uncaring, defiant. She did not shiver or tremble despite the cold and the steel against her breast, a summer flame amid the frost.

“Abigail!” Sir Bayard cried, spurring his courser forward.

Sir Breuse shifted his attention, swiveling to point the lance at Bayard.

“Ah, the gallant rescuer,” Sir Breuse mocked.

“Coward,” Sir Bayard seethed, reining his horse to a halt. “What kind of knight are you?”

“The kind that does not care what little men like you think.”

 “Face me! Face me like a knight!”

“With what?” Sir Breuse laughed. “You have neither armor nor lance, old man. Turn around and go back. Your time is over, your days are done.”

“And yet I will smite you, if I can.”

He charged forward.

Sir Breuse dug in his spurs. The two plunged together. Sir Breuse did not even bother to aim his lance, but let it hit Sir Bayard’s shield, full and square in the center, over the full moon emblazed there. The impact hammered into his shield arm, wood split and shattered, a dagger rain of splinters flying, then an instant later it felt as though a giant kicked his side.

There was air. The sun. Bright, blindingly bright light. Then darkness.

Blue. Cold and indifferent blue. The sky. He was on his back, on the ground, looking up at the empty hole of the sky and feeling the empty hole in his side. Air. There was air but he could not breathe. Filling his lungs was like a spike in his chest. He could manage only short, gasping pants, and even then, each one was a blade inside.

The sky darkened. A figure stood over him.

“I did tell you,” Sir Breuse said mildly. His voice echoed hollowly behind his visored helm. His sword was drawn, but he sheathed it, and drew a long dirk instead.

“Mercy,” Sir Bayard gasped. “I yield, for pity’s sake.”

Sir Breuse laughed. “Many knights earn names for their deeds or character. Sir Griflet, the Fist of God. Sir Ywain of the White Hands. Do you know what they call me? Sir Breuse the Pitiless.” He gave a sad little shake of his head, an awkward little rattle of the helm. “I did warn you.”

“What else could I do?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” Sir Breuse agreed. “Nothing at all.”

He knelt by Sir Bayard’s side. With his free hand, he lifted his visor, exposing his face. A faint smile pulled at his features. “Farewell,” said Sir Breuse. He raised his blade. And. Stopped.

Sir Bayard lay panting, waiting. He waited.

Sir Breuse was a statue.

As Sir Bayard squinted upwards, he realized the man had not even blinked. No breath passed through his nose. The upraised hand did not waver, the dirk it held did not move even a hair’s breadth.

Abigail stood behind Sir Breuse. Sir Bayard had not seen her approach; she was not there, then she was. She easily plucked the dagger from Sir Breuse’s unfeeling fingers and held it up before her eyes. She ran a finger along the blade and pricked her finger with the tip.

“What—what is—” Sir Bayard tried to force the words between gasps.

“Justice,” she said sweetly, then tuned the dagger around and slid it slowly, gently into Sir Breuse’s neck, between the bottom of his jaw and the top of his mail coif. Right up to the hilt. The man neither whimpered nor cried out, and not even a drop of blood appeared at the edge of the ghastly wound. It was as though she were carving wood.

Abigail stepped back and eyed the knight critically, an artist evaluating their work, and nodded once, sharp and decisive. At the gesture, Sir Breuse suddenly arched his back, gurgling and bubbling and reaching and scrabbling desperately at his throat, eyes bulging, blood now pouring from an open mouth that moved and made no sound and he pitched forward and writhed and shook and kicked and kicked and kicked before he lay still.

“Why,” Bayard began. “Because—because he—”

“Because he stole my horse.”

“Your horse? Only that? What of your mother?”

“Mother? Ah, no, still you do not understand.” Her smile was a little sad, filled with gently pity. A mother despairing over a slow but earnest child. “There is and always has been only me.”

Her hand pulled him to his feet, her strong hand, so cool, so sure, so steady, and he was a feeble reed and the movement made his breath whistle between clenched teeth. Bayard could see now that Abigail’s figure was the figure of the woman in the glade, Abigail’s features were her features.

“Thank you. And farewell.” She turned to go.

“What?” Bayard stood, wobbling and wheezing, blinking in astonishment. “Wait,” he called after her. “Wait!”

“Nothing waits.” She was walking away. “Nothing ever waits.”

“Without any—so sudden—that is all?”

Abigail looked back and tilted her head at him. “What more did you want? I shall take up my guardianship anew. Our paths diverge here. As to your fate, that is in your hands.”

Bayard looked about, utterly adrift. He was lost. He was lost, he was lost, he was lost. His purpose was gone, and he was lost. Alone and hollow and lost. “What do I do?” The white canvas of the world offered no answers. His arms flapped as though to gesture at something, grasping nothing. “Should I continue to King Mark? Or return to Logres? What do I do?”

Her smile was sad now. “The world has changed since you entered my forest, Sir Knight. King Mark is long dead. King Arthur too, and the Round Table is no more. Saxon kings rule Britain now.”

Sir Bayard stared her, words sliding through him clean and hot as a lance. They didn’t make sense. Couldn’t make sense. “It was but a day. Two.”

“Twenty years.”

“I …” He felt sure he had turned to glass. Another breath might shatter him. He could feel the fractures forming, spider-fine cracks running through every part of him that tried to understand what she was saying.

“Time moves slower in the fey.”

“What was the—what did it mean?”

“Mean?”

“A gift. He said there would be a gift.” Sir Bayard squeezed shut his eyes, trying to remember. It had been so very, very long ago. “An unlooked-for gift, he said.”

“And have you not received the greatest gift of all?”

“What?” He tried to laugh, but none would come. “I have spent the last of my life and days guarding a girl who neither asked for nor desired my protection, indeed despised me for all my faults, been wounded near unto death and in return the only gift I receive is to watch her grow into a stranger and leave forever. What kind of gift is this? There is no glory here. None will ever mark what I have done.”

“All very true,” she replied and then she did go, she did walk away and vanished into the woods and the wind stirred and erased her footprints, leaving him old and alone and standing amid the empty field.

The wind howled. Bayard looked around unseeing, recognizing nothing.

He stood there for a long time.

END