Alymere nodded. 'Every day, sire.'
'The martial arts? Sword and shield? Lance? Maces and morning stars? How broad was your education? Do you know your letters?'
Again, Alymere nodded, though in truth it was difficult to call the bits of broken wood they sparred with anything other than branches. 'Yes, sire. I have read the Holy Book chapter and verse. I can write and reckon. We only had practice weapons, sire, but I believe Baptiste did his best to see to that aspect of my education as well. He raised me to be my father's heir.'
'I would expect no less. Did he school you in the Oath?'
Alymere nodded.
'Tell me, then. I would hear it from your mouth.'
Alymere closed his eyes and began to recite the lesson Baptiste had drilled into him over and over, the Knight's Code. The code by which his father had both lived and died. The words were ingrained upon his soul. 'A true man must never do outrage, nor murder. A true man must flee treasons of all kind, making no room for treachery in his heart. A true man must by no means be cruel but rather give mercy unto him who begs it. A true man must always give ladies, gentlewomen and widows succour, and never must he force himself upon them. A true man must never take up arms in wrongful quarrels for love or worldly goods.
'Though never will a true man stand by idly and watch such evils perpetrated by others upon the innocent, for a true man stands as last bastion for all that is just. A true man is the last hope of the good and innocent. A true man must hold fast to this code above all things. Only then might a true man do honour to Albion and stand as a true knight.'
Bors nodded, appreciatively. 'Well said, lad.'
'Are you a true man, Alymere son of Roth?' the king asked.
'I believe so, sire.' Alymere told him.
Arthur stretched out his hand. It took Alymere a moment to understand, and then he gripped the king's hand, trying to grapple with what, exactly, the gesture meant.
'Good, because I have as much need of false men as I do stablehands and scullery boys. Welcome to Camelot, Alymere,' Arthur said, releasing his hand. He turned to Bors. 'See to it that he is fed, then take him to the armoury and equip him for the practice fields. Come dawn, run him through his paces. We will talk again when you are done.'
It was a dismissal, but Alymere found himself asking one last question of the king. 'Forgive me, sire, but might I ask, did you know my father well?'
'Know him well? As well as any might know another. That is to say, I counted him as a friend. Does that answer satisfy your curiosity?'
Alymere nodded. 'A little, sire. I find it hard to remember him.'
'That is understandable. It has been a long time, and memories fade, especially for the young. But I will tell you something now, young Alymere: this day you give me the opportunity to do something I should have done many years ago, and that is to honour the memory of a good friend. For that, I thank you, and in your father's honour I pledge now that I will make a place at the Table for you if you prove yourself worthy. It is the least I can do.'
Alymere did not know what to say to the king's promise. He felt the emotions broiling inside him. He struggled to find the words. Any words. Finally, he made a pledge of his own. 'I will not disappoint you, sire.'
'It's not me you would be disappointing, boy.'
Two
The coming days brought three surprises, each greater than the last, and only two of them pleasant.
The first came in the form of simple generosity. Random acts of kindness are things to be treasured, as they so often come when most needed.1 In this instance the kindness was nothing more than a few words, reminiscences about his father, but that didn't diminish the impact it had on young Alymere. There was something immediately comforting and familial about the hour spent in the company of Maeve, the ruddy-cheeked cook, and the scullions. He felt as though he belonged; it was something he hadn't felt for a long time.
Maeve sat him at the big table and fed him chunks of cheese and freshly-baked bread with a thick buttery crust, the remnants of a haunch of venison — really little more than a few bites left on the bone — and a mug of honeyed mead. It wasn't exactly a meal fit for a king, but after more than a week on the road the mead might have been ambrosia and the meat nectar. Grease ran down his fingers and smeared his chin as Alymere worried away at the meat stuck between his teeth. His belly ached long before he had finished feeding his face. He couldn't help himself; he ate like it might be his last meal, because that was how he had always eaten, bolting the food down.
Maeve's hands were never still. She kneaded dough, shaping oat cakes and loaves for the morning. She stoked the oven's fire. She sliced and diced and peeled without looking down at the vegetables she threw into the stew pot. She had the bold air of a seasoned veteran, although her weapons of choice were the cleaver and rolling pin. She was the absolute and uncontested mistress of this place.
And all the while she didn't stop talking.
She maintained a stream of cheerful babble in between shouting instructions at the scullions and scattering them left and right with culinary purpose. The focus of her conversation was reminiscences of his father. This was where the kindness lay. She could simply have cut off a hunk of bread from the loaf and a slab of cheese and been done with it, but instead this busy woman chose to talk about the only thing they had in common. She seemed to know everything about everyone in Camelot, as surely all stories made their way down to the kitchens eventually when hungry bellies brought fighting men below stairs. She had a hundred recollections of Roth, from his first day in the service of the king when he was little older than Alymere was now, to his proudest moment, taking his seat at the Round Table side by side with Sir Kay, Gawain, Bedivere and the others. Her pronunciation of their names was distinctly Gallic. Indeed, everything she said, as she diligently worked away, was touched by her foreign tongue. He found it strangely comforting to know that he was not the only refugee in the castle; that the old woman had not only made it her home but had become a vital part of the place. To hear these stories, and within them, glimpse his father's life through the eyes of a stranger had to be one of the most precious gifts he had ever been given.
Dusting the flour from her hands, Maeve started to tell him how his parents had first met, in that very room, with the help of the brothers Percival, Lamorak and Aglovale playing Cupid, but then, seeing Bors return, she promised to tell the story another day, but only if he promised to tell her a few stories of his parents' life after Camelot. It was a promise he was only too happy to make.
He left with Bors.
The second surprise came in the armoury.
Bors unlocked the heavy oak door and slipped the brace beam, pushing it open, and Alymere followed him inside. The room itself was somewhat smaller than the kitchen, and replaced the scents of cooking with the metallic tang of mail and goose grease. All manner of swords were stowed in racks along one wall, from single-handed broadswords polished to a shine, through hand-and-a-half bastard swords and great two-handed longswords to short one-handed stabbing blades for close combat. Three windows filled the armoury with the dying light. Motes of dust turned lazily in the dwindling shafts of sunlight. One shaft struck a breastplate, transforming it from simple metal into something breath-taking. There were twenty-five such harnesses around the room, but only one captured the sun. Alymere walked across to it and placed his hand over the heart, feeling the sun's heat thrill through him. It was almost as though the empty metal were alive, as though somehow it held the spirit, the essence, of the warrior it protected.
Bors moved to stand beside him. 'I do not think Lancelot would take kindly to your greasy hand-print in the middle of his chest, lad. So best not touch. Just between us, those Bretons can be a touchy lot and they're not exactly renowned for their sense of humour. Put it this way, lad, it'd be a crying shame if I was picking bits of you up off the practice field come sunrise because of one of Maeve's greasy roasts.'
Alymere recoiled, pulling his hand away as though suddenly scalded by the metal, and stood there staring in horror at the greasy outline of his palm planted in the middle of the breastplate and then down at his treacherous hand.
