La Damoiselle Arthur 11 (Patreon)

Chapter 11

As they rode along the old farm road, Arthur explained the plan tk Lancelot.  The morning had drawn bright, the air clear and fresh. A light breeze teased the leaves of long, white birch trees that lined the rutted path between low, stone walls. “We travel to Pittenween, in Northumbria. A druid there is said to know all the lore of unicorns.”

“Druid? I thought their kind had passed into history.”

“Some remain, it seems, living in isolated places, deep in the mountains, or practicing their religion in secret.”

“Just days ago, I would have called their Gods false,” Lancelot said.

“I as well,” Arthur agreed.

As they made their way along the rolling hills, they encountered few people- a farmer on a wagon, a lone horseman, a few children walking along, shepherding a flock of baying sheep. The rustic folk were used to the occasional traveller, and used to shunning outsiders.  So, much to the relief of Arthur and Lancelot both, they were greeted only with suspicious nods and an occasional “g’day.”

They made good time, the travel easy. They talked little. Both Arthur and Lancelot had been disturbed by the feelings they’d experienced. Each time Arthur remembered straddling Lancelot, he blushed. Lancelot was not much of a blusher, but he felt instead a quickening of his blood quite unacceptable when thinking of his King.

Shortly after the sun passed its zenith, they spotted a winding brook just down the hill from an old apple orchard. “Let’s rest the horses,” Arthur said.

Lancelot nodded. They led the horses to the water, where there was also some excellent grass, tied them up and found a spot in the shade beneath one of the apple trees, on which a heart had been carved. Arthur had jerky and some dried fruit from his saddle bags, which he nibbled.  Lancelot ate similar food. Once more, they struggled to find words. Yet, without the steady clip clop of the horses, the silence between them threatened to exceed the possible threat of words. In addition, the sparks they felt whenever they looked into each other’s eyes were dangerous, indeed, to their Christian values, so found themselves looking about, pretending to be fascinated by the still, unmoving shapes of the trees around them.

Finally, Lancelot felt it his duty to break the tension. “The weather is most favorable,” he said.

“Indeed,” Arthur answered, relieved to have something innocuous to speak of. “Most favorable.”

“Yet, this is England,” Lancelot said.

“It may rain,” Arthur said.

‘It will rain,” Lancelot countered.

They each smiled. Joking about the rain in England never got old.

Arthur sighed. “I am concerned about Merlin.”

“The old wizard can take care of himself. And mysterious comings and goings are his wont.”

“But what if this witch or goddess ot whatever she may be has done something? To try and prevent him from helping me on my quest?”

“I do not see what you can do now but pursue the unicorn,” Lancelot said. “If I may offer my thoughts. You have little time.”

“Perhaps when we reach Pittenween I can send a message to Guinevere.”

Just then, Arthur spotted a pure white squirrel, clinging to the trunk of one of the apple trees. “Look,” he said, pointing. “A good omen.”

“It blends in most miraculously,” Lancelot said.

Just then, a bushy tailed, brown squirrel came bouncing from the woods and began to climb the tree.  As it approached, the white squirrel skittered a little away. The brown squirrel followed a bit. Pausing. The white squirrel ran a little further up the tree. The brown squirrel followed.  At last, the white squirrel began to run, jumping from limb to limb, pursued frantically by the brown squirrel.

Lancelot laughed. “Looks like she’s not in the mood. Probably has a headache.”

Arthur laughed. “Perhaps she plays hard to get?”

“It would surprise me little,” Lancelot said.  ‘The maiden criest no, when she means make haste.”

Arthur didn’t laugh. The line was from a popular song. “The Muddled Maiden Mind.” It was all about how dumb and dishonest and weak and silly women were, and thinking of it now made him cringe a bit. Am I destined to become another muddle minded maiden? He wondered. If I am trapped in this form?

Just then, the white squirrel seemed to slow, the brown squirrel catching up. Suddenly, the awkwardness returned to the pair, and without further comment on the birds and the bees and the squirrels, they went to fetch their horses.