The Shadow Companion (2 page)

“
Y
ou have the manners of a crow and the voice of a cockerel, wrapped in the body of a mewling coward.”

“And you, sir, are white-necked, flower-hearted, and weak-kneed.”

The two men glared at each other, hovering near their swords.

“Hold!” A strong, masculine voice rang out under the arched stone roof, echoing impressively.

Sir Matthias was older than many of the knights on the Quest, but he had a pair of lungs that had lost nothing over the years, and he knew how to project his deep voice over an entire battlefield. Filling the hall of a relatively small monastery was no difficulty at all. Even the carvings of saints in niches on the wall seemed to stiffen and stand a little straighter at
Matthias’s bellow. The two knights who had been exchanging insults did likewise, but did not back down completely.

Soon after leaving Camelot, it had become evident that the group of forty-seven knights and squires was simply too large to move smoothly on such a far-ranging quest. Squabbles had broken out over whose tent was placed where, or whose squire did which group chores. Within days, factions began to form within the band of knights—even among those who should have known better.

Sir Matthias, whom Arthur had assigned to oversee the Quest, came to a rapid decision: to break the Quest down into four smaller, more mobile groups, and send each off in a different direction, under a trusted and sensible lieutenant.

He thought that would make the knights in each group focus on what they were meant to be doing. It hadn’t quite worked that way.

Sir William glared at Sir Bart. The gaggle of monks backed away from the two men, looking to Sir Matthias for help in keeping violence out of their sacred halls.

“Take it outside!” he ordered his knights, then turned to make an apology to the abbot without
waiting to see if his command was obeyed.

“We gave you hospitality for the nature of your Quest,” the religious man said, his cowl pushed back as he spoke to Sir Matthias. “And this is how you repay it, by bringing discord into a house of the Lord?”

The rumor that the Grail had once rested in the stone chapel of this monastery on the fog-shrouded coastline had brought Sir Matthias’s group westward. But there—as in so many places before—the rumor had faded into ancient mist. The monks did have a story of a man dressed in strange clothing, who had come to the chapel when it was new-built. He stayed the night. But other than a shred of white fabric that might once have been an Apostle’s robe—or the hem of some kitchen maid’s apron—they had nothing to show for it.

The disappointment had pushed several of the knights into squabbling about their worthiness, suggesting that various sins—real or imagined—were the reason why their group had not yet discovered any trace of the Grail’s whereabouts. It was at this point that Sir Matthias had stepped in.

“I apologize, good Father. We shall remove ourselves at once, and leave you to your prayers and contemplations.”

The abbot looked sternly at Sir Matthias. “You are men of sword and blood, seeking a thing beyond your ken. Not even the High King has the right of ownership of the Grail. It is a thing of faith, of a greater glory than that of this mortal world. Remember that, and perhaps your own faith will be rewarded.”

Gerard, standing at Matthias’s left side, had a fleeting thought that he would like to set this abbot against Merlin when the enchanter was at his most obtuse, and see who cried for mercy first. He kept that thought to himself, however. Newt and Ailis would have appreciated it. But Newt and Ailis were not with him.

The abbot left the hallway, and Sir Matthias indicated to his men that they, too, should depart. As they walked through the great stone doors of the monastery, Sir Matthias gazed up at the pale blue autumn sky and shook his head.

“Sir?” Gerard stood by the knight, looking into the sky for whatever had caught the older man’s attention. A midday storm would delay their departure and make the men even more unhappy, but it certainly wasn’t cause enough to make Sir Matthias appear that troubled.

“Nothing, lad. Nothing. Come, I’ll need you to help me prepare.”

That was Gerard’s job on this Quest. Since his master, Sir Rheynold, was not on the journey, he had been assigned to Sir Matthias by the king himself. He was to be a sort of aide to him, assisting in the running and organizing of the Quest.

Gerard had assumed at first that the new title was just a fancy, courtesy term for squire, and that he would, in fact, be shining armor and cleaning boots, among other familiar chores. But Sir Matthias had a squire already who did those things, a young boy named Jon, who was bright and eager and very green.

Instead, once Sir Matthias discovered Gerard could write, he found himself oft as not with quill in hand, taking notes while the knight paced and spoke, or carrying highly sensitive messages to and from the other knights, or—as was the case this day with the abbot—asking to arrange a meeting.

In the weeks since the Quest had ridden out of Camelot, Gerard thought that he had learned more of how to manage men than he had in all his years with Sir Rheynold. Not to dismiss his master’s talents, but Sir Matthias was a leader, rather than a warrior.
His way involved not the swing of a sword, or even the rallying of men to his side, but the more subtle coaxing and chivvying of men to propel them the way he wanted them to go.

And, when that failed, he had a strong sword-arm as well.

The walk back to the encampment was a quiet one. The first thing a squire learned was to speak only when there was need, and to never, ever interrupt a knight while he was thinking. Sir Matthias was clearly thinking, and thinking hard.

“The trouble is,” the gray-haired knight said finally, as they were climbing the last yards of rock-lined path to the meadow where their encampment had been settled, “the trouble is that our Quest, our journey, is too vague. ‘Find the Grail,’ we were told. As though the very virtue of our noses might direct us to it. It led the men to believe that the task would be simple, as though they were on one of the queen’s May Day jaunts to fetch flowers, not a long-lost holy artifact!”

Gerard hesitated, his need to show himself worldly warring with his promise not to divulge anything of what Merlin had said before sending the three young friends to join the Quest. The desire to
impress Sir Matthias won. “Merlin said that magic might be—”

Sir Matthias rested a heavy hand on Gerard’s shoulder, cutting off his words. “I will speak no word against Merlin, who has proven himself in service to our king. But magic has no place on a Holy Quest. It profanes the search, and I am ever thankful that Arthur understood this and did not allow his enchanter to interfere in our search.”

Gerard wasn’t sure Merlin could have done anything that directly, even if he were asked. He had seen enough to know that magic, while fabulous and a little frightening, also had limits. If Merlin
could
whistle up the Grail, Arthur would already know of its location. Suddenly, Gerard wondered how much of Arthur’s original dream of the Grail and his decision to send knights in search of it was of his own inspiration—and how much was he influenced by advice from Merlin.

“I don’t know how he does it, Gerard,” the knight said. “I don’t know how the king keeps us all in line.”

They passed by a number of other pavilions. Squires were seated outside working on equipment, walking horses to the stream, or running various
errands, waiting for new orders. In the distance, toward the center of the encampment, four or five of the twelve knights Sir Matthias had kept with him were gathered in a tight knot, clearly focused on something on the ground.

That sight did not improve Sir Matthias’s mood at all. As they reached the larger tent which served as his home and headquarters, Sir Matthias shook his head, this time in resignation.

“Either gambling with dice or fighting. I have a desire to take them all out and horsewhip them, save it would do no good but make them surly.”

“Sir, if I may be so bold…”

“Go ahead,” Matthias said, lifting the door-flap of the simple canvas pavilion. He gestured for Gerard to go before him.

“Is it always like this? When they’re not being watched, is it always thus?”

As he entered, Gerard saw Ailis out of the corner of his eye. She was seated on rugs piled four deep, putting something away. Her expression was one of deep thought and mild discontent.

At the very beginning of the Quest, Sir Matthias had taken one look at her—Ailis being much the same age as his own daughter back home—and had
insisted that she sleep in a corner of his tent, for propriety’s sake.

Ailis hadn’t done anything other than curtsey and say “thank you,” but Gerard got the feeling she wasn’t happy staying here. He didn’t understand it—he’d gladly have traded the discomfort of sleeping on roots and dirt for one of those rugs underneath him at night and a roof, however simple, to keep out the rain. Hadn’t the three friends complained of exactly those things during their mad rush to find Morgain the first time? They still rode together most days, when Sir Matthias didn’t require him, and Newt wasn’t helping out the various pack animals elsewhere….

“No,” the knight said, distracting Gerard from his thoughts. Sir Matthias unbuckled his sword belt and dropped it carelessly on his cot for his squire to put away. One did not carry a blade into a monastery—not without extreme cause—and so he had left his great sword in the wooden stand inside the pavilion by his bed. From there it could be taken up at a moment’s notice, even if Matthias was just waking from a deep sleep. “No, it’s not always like this. When men have purpose, when they have a direction, they are magnificent creatures.

“You know this from your own adventures. The sense of life that fills you, the surge of inevitability, knowing that the day can only end one way.”

Ailis was shamelessly eavesdropping now, her expression less gloomy. Her hair was braided and pinned up on her head. Gerard missed the sight of her red plait swinging freely over her shoulder, the way she wore it back in Camelot when they were younger.

Sir Matthias saw Gerard watching Ailis and moved his body between the two, an obvious move to break Gerard’s study of his friend. Despite his growing fondness for the girl, Sir Matthias had clearly decided that any deepening of the relationship between Gerard and Ailis would be unsuitable.

The knight went on with his commentary as though nothing had happened. “But for now, chasing after this dream of ours, we are lacking that surge, that sense. And so men find other things to do with their energy. And that will include bragging and brawling, if I do not give them direction. Lord, to think that this is the best of Camelot!”

He pulled off his formal surcoat and replaced it with a more comfortable, worn one. To this he added a simple belt, and an ivory-handled knife in an
unmarked leather sheath. “I must go speak to two particular troublemakers now, to make sure they do no further damage to each other. Do not hold up the evening meal for me.”

With a nod to Ailis, he walked out, sure that his unspoken reminder to Gerard—that he was not to spend too much time with the girl—was understood.

Gerard understood. But despite his respect for Sir Matthias, it went unheeded.

“You think he will succeed?” he asked Ailis, referring to both the two troublemakers and the Quest in general.

“Not without a horsewhip,” she said grimly. He stared at her, but she merely went back to whatever she had been doing over in her corner. She pulled a small wooden box the size of her palm out of her pack, slipped her shoes back onto her stockinged feet, and followed Sir Matthias’s path toward the doorway.

“Where are you going?”

“Must I account for my every movement to you?”

Gerard was taken aback by the sharpness in her voice. He knew that Ailis had a temper, but it seemed extreme in response to a simple question. He had never thought that she would be the one to heed Sir Matthias’s objections, and turn away from
him
.

She saw his confusion, and her face softened. “I’m sorry. It’s…female things,” she said, and lifted the box as though that would explain everything. Suddenly Gerard didn’t want to know. Female things were not anything a squire needed to know about.

Ailis left the pavilion with an air of relief. The more time Gerard spent with Sir Matthias the more like the knight he became. While there was nothing wrong with Sir Matthias—she certainly preferred him to Sir Daffyd, who stank of stale herbs, or Sir Ballin, a man who never missed a chance to make a comment about the “inferiors” on the Quest—she missed the old, less self-conscious, less officious Gerard. The Gerard who had once waded into a creek to battle a bridge troll only to require rescuing himself, and was even able to laugh about it afterward. Knowing that things had changed for all of them didn’t make the results any easier to bear.

From the way the two of them had been talking when they came in, she assumed that discussions with the monks had not gone well. She could have told them that the night they arrived. The stone walls of the monastery were fine, indeed quality work that would doubtless stand a hundred or more years, but
there was no feel of magic to them; no sense of the awe or wonder that Morgain said permeated any area where a magical object had spent any length of time.

The Grail was magical, even if it was not magic itself. Too many people believed in it for it not to be magical. Faith was power.

Ailis believed that magic was power. Not physical strength, but the ability to do, to create. She once shared these thoughts with Gerard. She told him that the Grail is supposed to embody power—the ability to create a High King. She said, “So that’s magic. Because the source of magic is belief. You know it exists, the way you know the wind and rain are real. And so you trust in that belief. Merlin said that. You have to believe.”

“The Grail is more than magic,” Gerard had retorted. “It’s faith. Something you don’t know and can’t prove. You simply have to…have faith.”

Faith might not be magic, but Ailis knew enough now to understand that belief was essential to both. And if you did not believe, you did not succeed.