Under A Velvet Cloak (10 page)

“Of course. I will be glad to dicker with farmers. You will see that the terms are mutually fair.”

“Then I believe we have an agreement. Tomorrow I start my quest. If you will join me then-do you know where I reside?”

“Yes. I will be with your horses. I trust your spare will allow me to ride him?”

There was a smile in his voice. “If you feed him, he will allow you anything.”

“Thank you. I will be there.” She got up and departed without ado. It was a private pleasure to interact with such a clearly honorable man, so different from the great majority. She was sorry she would have to corrupt him.

Kerena went to a grain merchant who was working late and bought two bags of oats. “You can have extra portions, if,” he said as he got a fair look at her.

“These are for Sir Gawain’s horses.”

He said no more, recognizing the name. Everyone in town knew that the knight did not make untoward deals. The same surely went for his maidservant. But she realized it would be better if she concealed her gender hereafter.

She made her way to the stable, found a dry corner, and used the bags as pillow and footrest, the cloak covering all. It was a reasonably comfortable night.

In the morning she found a refuse trench for natural functions, ate the stale bread she had saved, wrapped the cloak closely about her body and head, and brought the bags to the horses. “Who are you?” the stable boy demanded, appearing from a shed.

“I am Sir Gawain’s servant, bringing feed for his horses.”

“Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.”

And sell some of it to another knight, she knew. “Thank you, I will handle it myself.”

“No you won’t,” he said, putting a rough hand on her shoulder.

So much for concealment. She turned, let her hood fall back to reveal her face and bosom, and smiled at him. He fell back as if struck. “I thought you were a-a boy.”

“I have not recently been mistaken as such.” It was such an obvious understatement that he had no response. He went about his business, leaving her to hers.

She opened one bag and held it up to the nose of the lead stallion, a magnificent creature. He munched contentedly; they were good oats. When he was done, she proffered the other bag to the auxiliary horse, a lesser stallion but still a fine animal. If there was one thing a knight was known for, it was the quality of his horses.

Sir Gawain arrived as the second horse was finishing. “Very good” he said. “I trust you know how to ride?”

“I have never been on a horse alone, only when guided by another rider. I hope it is not difficult.”

He paused. “Perhaps, then, we should best begin slowly. If you fall, try to get your feet under you. I will put you on Service.”

So that was the name of the horse. Sir Gawain led the horses out, and Service stood still while Gawain put his hands on her elbows and lifted her to the blanket saddle. She was surprised by how readily he did it; he had enormous strength of arm.

Then he mounted his lead horse, and they set off. A cord reached back from the lead saddle to Service’s halter, and the horse followed without question. So she had no need to guide him. That was a relief.

They walked slowly away from town. Kerena adjusted to the rolling gait, gradually getting comfortable with it. The horse felt the difference, and moved up to walk parallel to the other.

“Service says you are learning,” Sir Gawain remarked.

“Service is a good teacher.”

They moved more rapidly, and she adjusted to the faster gait. She discovered that there was a certain pleasure in riding. It was somewhat like floating in air, except that she wasn’t floating.

They came to a public water trough, and both horses drank deeply. Sir Gawain dismounted, fetched the ladle, and drank. Then he refilled it and brought it to Kerena where she sat, uncertain how to dismount alone.

“But you must not serve me,” she protested. “I must serve you.”

“Only if you view yourself as servant rather than companion.”

“I do.”

“As you wish.” He took the empty ladle back.

“If I may inquire,” she said as they resumed travel, “where are we going?”

“I would answer if I could, but I don’t know. I seek the Holy Grail. No one knows where it resides.”

“Then how will you find it?”

“I will simply look until it reveals itself to me. That is why this quest may take some time. If you wish to change your mind, I will take you back to town.”

“No,” she said quickly. “I was not expressing impatience, merely doubt. I am not familiar with this sort of search.” But as she spoke, she realized that she was: it mirrored her own search for Morely.

In late afternoon they came to an extensive farmstead. The farmer came out to meet them. “Welcome, Sir GawainI Have you come for a visit?”

“I have, for one night. What service may I do you, in exchange for food and lodging for myself, my servant, and my horses?”

“There is no need of service. Your fame is known here.”

“There is need. I prefer to pay my way.”

“Well, if you insist. There are some ruffians camping in my kindling lot that need to be rousted out. I am not a fighting man, so have been unable to do it myself.”

“It shall be done,” Sir Gawain said.

The farmer showed them where the lot was, and they rode to it. Several surly vagabonds were camping there. “The farmer requests your absence from these premises,” Sir Gawain informed them politely. “Please depart.”

“Yeah?” one demanded, lifting a wicked looking club. “How would your nag like a clout on the snout?”

Kerena kept her face straight. The lout had threatened the wrong member of the party.

“I see I have not spoken clearly,” Sir Gawain said, dismounting. “I apologize, and shall try to rectify the lapse.” He drew his sword from a sheath on the horse that Kerena had not noticed before. The bared metal looked long and sharp. “Depart, or I shall be forced to chastise you.”

The men stared at the sword. Then the leader suddenly charged, swinging his club.

Sir Gawain’s sword flashed. The club flew from the man’s hand. Then Kerena saw that this wasn’t exactly the case: most of the club had flown. The stub of the handle remained in the man’s hand. He was staring at it.

“I hope it is not necessary to draw blood,” Sir Gawain said. “I dislike having to clean my blade. Depart forthwith, and do not return, lest my ire be roused.”

The squatters had finally gotten the message. They fled.

“You could have cut off his hand-or his head” Kerena said, amazed.

“Fortunately that was not necessary. The warning sufficed.”

It had, indeed. Kerena’s knees felt weak; it was just as well that she was mounted. She had just seen another side of this supremely polite knight. There was iron under that courteous demeanor.

They returned to the farmer, who had seen the action from a distance. “You didn’t kill them.”

“I dislike pointless bloodshed. Send a messenger after me, should they return, and I will destroy them. But I doubt it will be necessary.”

The farmer nodded, agreeing.

They had an excellent night, beginning with a feast of a meal. Kerena was given a bed in the servant’s quarters, while the knight had a room to himself. The horses were well fed and stabled. Her only problem was that her inner thighs were sore from the unaccustomed riding.

“I do see the way of it,” Kerena said as they resumed travel next day. “It was a fair trade.”

“That is as I prefer.” He glanced across at her. “How are your legs?”

“Stiff,” she said. “But I will handle it.”

“Is there abrasion?”

“Some.”

“I regret not realizing. I have some balm that should help.” He dismounted, reached into a saddlebag, and produced a glob of something. “Raise your leg.”

She lifted her right leg. He mashed the gob between his hands, then smeared it on her inner thigh, reaching up almost to the juncture of her legs. Then he walked around to the other side and repeated the process for her left leg.

Kerena sat and let him do it. Any other man would be slavering at such intimate touching, but he was methodical. Almost immediately the discomfort diminished; the balm was helping. “Thank you.”

“Now you must learn to guide the horse.” He set a cloth bit in the horse’s mouth with reins coming back to her hand. “Be gentle, always; Service knows the signals. Draw right to turn him right, left to turn him left. Draw both to make him halt. Shake them to make him start.”

She tried the signals, and they worked; the horse was well trained and responsive. She was in charge now, at least to the extent the horse allowed.

As afternoon came, they sought another farmstead. An old woman came out to meet them. “Let me handle this,” Kerena said. She slid off the horse, utilizing a maneuver she had recently learned by observation, and approached the woman. “My master the knight would like food for us and the horses. What is there we can do for you to earn it?”

“I am a poor widow. I have no wood for my hearth. My food is unworthy. All I have is beans.”

“Maybe we can bring in some wood from the forest. Beans will do. May the horses graze the night in your fields?”

“Welcome. The fields are part of the commons.” The commons was land held in common, available to anyone for use. But locals could get annoyed if folk not of their village made too free with it.

They went into the forest and tied small dry fallen branches together so the horses could drag them. By dusk they had a considerable pile beside the house. The widow was thrilled.

They turned the horses loose to graze on the rich weeds, and settled down to a big pot of beans. They were good enough, but had a gastric effect. They endured it. They spent the night comfortably in the widow’s haybarn. Kerena’s legs were tired, but the balm had alleviated the soreness. She remembered Sir Gawain’s strong, competent, gentle hands stroking them. He had not even looked at their juncture. That impressed her as much as anything else.

Next day they moved on through the forest. Things were fine until a sudden thunderstorm came up. They barely had time to get off the horses and huddle under a tarpaulin Sir Gawain produced. It wasn’t quite watertight, but was a lot better than the drenching rain outside it. It also wasn’t really large enough for two; she curled up and he put his arms around her, holding the tarp in place. Again, there was no untoward contact; the man was either saintly or sexless.

It became routine as the days passed. They traveled around the countryside, doing chores for sustenance. When they camped out, she would fetch wood, make a fire and heat or cook something for them to eat. Kerena began to doubt that there was any Grail to find, but didn’t say anything. After all, if it didn’t exist, then her mission had already been accomplished.

Then at dusk, as they were making camp near a forest, close to a town, something happened. Kerena saw a glow hovering at about head height. “What is that?”

Sir Gawain looked. His jaw dropped. “That is the Grail!”

Now she made out some detail. It seemed to be a shining cup, floating not far ahead of them. Sir Gawain walked toward it, and so did Kerena. They did not dare remove their eyes, lest the amazing vision be lost. The cup drifted back, but they were gaining on it, mesmerized.

Then they slipped as they stopped into some sort of pit. They slid down into a large trough filled with-

“Shit!” Kerena exclaimed. She was speaking literally.

It was the town refuse pit. The people dumped their buckets of human manure here, to decay into new soil.

They scrambled out, but the damage was done. Both were soaked in kitchen garbage and fecal matter. They stank.

The image of the Grail, of course, was gone. It occurred to Kerena that it could have been a will
_o
wisp, sponsored by the miasma rising from the rotting substance.

“We have to wash,” Kerena said urgently. “Everything.”

He did not argue.

They spied a river close enough to reach. They hurried to it and plunged in. They removed their sodden clothing and rinsed it repeatedly in the flowing water. They ducked their heads and washed their hair.

Eventually they emerged from the water, naked, chilled, and embarrassed. Night was closing, and their soaking clothing was no good to wear until it dried on the morrow.

“Maybe the horses will share their warmth,” Kerena said.

“They need to be free to graze.”

“I don’t think I can make it through the night like this,” she said, shivering violently. “I’ll make a fire.”

She did so, but there wasn’t enough fallen wood in the vicinity to make a big blaze, and they were still shivering.

“We must share body warmth,” Gawain said. He fetched the tarpaulin and blankets from the horses and made a bed on the ground next to the small fire.

“I’m not sure this is wise,” Kerena said. “You are chaste; can you clasp a naked woman, however innocently?”

“You are suffering; I do not wish that. I will endure.”

They lay close together within it, clasping each other for scant warmth. She curled up facing the fire, and he cupped her from behind. It did help; gradually her shivering became less violent. But she knew she was tempting him. One of his arms passed over her and held her close, and one of her breasts touched it. Her bottom was against his groin, and his groin got hot. He desired her, which was hardly surprising; she had grown into a completely seductive young woman. She could probably seduce him now, but she didn’t try; it would be a betrayal of his trust in her.

She pondered that in her waking moments. Here she was within reach of her mission, to make this man unchaste, yet she was not grasping it. Why did she care about his trust? Because, she realized, with surprise, she was becoming smitten with him. He was a truly noble man, and she respected that and liked him. She did not want to be responsible for his loss of chastity. Which was a crazy attitude, considering her mission.

In the morning they separated. She had hung their clothing on nearby bushes to dry by the fire, and that had been effective. They dressed, and she fixed a breakfast, and checked the horses.

“I have a confession to make,” Gawain said as they rode on, circling the dump.