Taken from The Shards of Arthur’s Shield
Written & Edited by A.B. Timothy
The room was filled with those same glass instruments Thomas had seen in his dream. They covered arched tables that lined either side of the circular room. Thomas looked around and saw a man in small clothes huddled against the wall near what appeared to be a chest that had been flung open. Thomas recognized the chest and then turned. Across from the chest, there was a table with a dozen books open and strewn about. There was a space in the middle of the books where the sword he had seen in that same dream must have been recently.
Thomas took note that the only sounds were his knightly armor creaking and shifting as he moved, and the sobs of a man in the corner. “You, man, you aren’t the one I saw in my vision. Who are you?” Thomas asked the man huddled in the corner. He was covering his face and weeping.
Thomas heard him say, “I betrayed my king and killed so many of my people. I am nothing, I am dirt, I am the worms beneath the dirt, I am the invisible creatures upon which the worms feast. Oh LORD, GOD, Forgive me.” His ramblings were those of a madman. Not another one. Thomas silently prayed.
“Come to man, the chest is open, you are free. If you wish to atone, start by helping the Lord’s servant in his quest.” Thomas took several steps closer to the man.
“NO!” The man cried. He flung out a hand, and Thomas felt a force of air crash into him. It almost threw him backwards, but he managed to recover his balance before falling. “Don’t come any closer! You are his spirit returned to kill me. Old Friend, I’m sorry, PLEASE HEAR ME, what I did to you, and the weakness of my flesh, they torment me.” He broke into sobs, “plea-e-e-ese.”
“I assure you, I have not come to kill you.” Thomas put his sword away as a sign of trust. “I’ve already killed one man, and watched a good friend die, I don’t intend to suffer the sight of another man’s death, at least not this month.”
“You, aren’t you him? I recognize his spirit in you.” The man uncovered his face and pointed a shaky finger at Thomas. “Arthur, please, return to your place in the West. I-I will join you there once Merline says I have atoned. Go, please.”
“I can’t do that, Lancelot.” Thomas realized who he was speaking with. Arthur’s best friend turned betrayer was the madman of the tower. “I have come for the shard of my shield that resides here.”
“Your shield?” Lancelot clawed at his head, like he was trying to physically pull a memory up from the depths of his mind. “No, no, you can’t have that!” The man was suddenly furious. “I won this piece from you in our battle at Alnwick. It’s my prize!” The man went from mournful sobs to screams of rage in a flash.
Thomas stepped back as the man stood from his cowering state against the wall. As Lancelot rose, he went from wearing rags to being covered in gleaming steel armor. He and Thomas were transported. The room around them fell away, and Lancelot grew distant. The place elongated as it filled with sand and dirt. Above them, the roof disintegrated to reveal a bright grey sky. In the middle of the room was a long railing. At either end of the railing were horses clad in haraldry, one the three bendlets of Lancelot’s own and the other had the mended shield on a field of blue, almost black, speckled with stars. Thomas also realized that his armor had gone from the shining grey of steel to a stained dark black. His Lady Alice’s favor was still on his arm, its decorated white stood out against the black.
Thomas looked to where Noah was standing off to his side and saw that the boy was holding a helmet and a lance. The helmet had a wreath around it that was black and white. He took the helmet and put it on. The first thing he noticed about the jousting helmet was how limiting the field of vision was. He worked through his instincts and mounted his horse before taking the lance from his squire. As he settled into the saddle, he felt a strange extra object hanging from his belt on his backside, a dagger? He did not have time to check.. Noah stepped back, the shock on his face slowly diminishing into acceptance. Thomas looked down the field and saw Lancelot take his helmet and lance from the air.
Thomas mounted his shield onto his shoulder and, when a horn blew, he kicked his horse’s side. The mare started on a trot. Lancelot had begun his own trot. Thomas had to calm his nerves and empty himself again, just as he had done with Sword Breathing. He let the horse, the lance, and the field take all the space in his mind. He called upon some deep instinct, the same that had given him words to say in times past, now guided him as his horse began to gallop.
Thomas lowered his lance and felt the tip strike true. In the same moment, he too was struck in the shoulder with a mighty blow. Both riders were thrown from their horses. The squires ran and found the reins of the horses before they could trample their riders and pulled them off the field.
Thomas was groaning on the ground where he had landed. His shoulder was blackened; he could just tell from the pain, and the air had fled his lungs at the impact. He steadied his breathing first, then began to rise. When he rose from the ground, he found that Lancelot was already on his feet and walking towards him. The knight of legend had lost his helmet, but Thomas’s had remained attached to his head. The difference in fields of vision would be apparent in the fight, so Thomas quickly threw his own away.
The next motion was to take his sword and shield from Noah, who had brought them to him. He flexed his grip on the sword and stood ready for Lancelot’s attack. Lancelot continued marching towards Thomas, now having collected his own sword and shield. Thomas had not realized before, as the mounting of the horses and the joust were so quick, but the stands around the arena were not empty. They were filled with people Thomas recognized: his family and friends from Alnwick and clergy who had ministered to him both in Alnwick and Camelot. Even Jonathan and, strangely enough, Darek. The Steward of Camelot presided over the duel, and his family was there too, including Princess Alice.
Thomas heard the creaking and groaning of Lancelot’s armor as he raised his blade to strike. That warning was enough to allow Thomas to raise his shield. The Mad Knight’s sword bounced off Thomas’s defense.
“Sir Lancelot, you would risk your life for a souvenir? A piece of a shield that does not even belong to you?” Thomas asked.
Lancelot had no words, only striking at Thomas again. This time, the young knight caught his opponent’s blade with his own and carried it around so he could get close and shove the man. Thomas managed to put Lancelot on the back foot. As this old man stumbled back, Thomas saw a vision, no, a memory. He had shoved him like that before. A rage filled his muscles as he began an offensive. “You betray me, then raise an army against me?” Thomas yelled, indignant. “You would rebel against your king who so graciously let you walk, a free man, out of his castle. I could have hung you!” Thomas struck at the old man’s defense. This was not right, this was not him. Thomas was a spectator in his own body, but the pain and the rage felt so real.
He took in a deep breath, sucking in all of the pain, anger, and betrayal. He let them go and saw only a weak, frail old man whose defenses were dwindling. Lancelot had acted on lust, Thomas could recall the story now: Lancelot had bedded Queen Guinevere and emotionally crippled his king. The rage that filled him made sense with that revelation, but it was not made right by it. Forgiveness is The Way. Punishment, by God, inflicted by His church, on both the Queen and the knight, and perhaps a stripping of rank, were due, but death? That was for the Church to decide, not Arthur.
Something broke through his practiced breathing and screamed. “I showed you mercy before, I gave you grace after you sold me for less than even thirty pieces of silver. What did I get, poisoned? Cursed to die away from my beloved home, because of your lusts.”
“Perhaps you had first betrayed your wife, neglected her as her husband, always waging your constant campaigns in the north and against the Saracens. Your wife was cold. I just gave her warmth.” Lancelot pushed back, youth returning to the frail old man.
They went back and forth like that for several minutes. The duel became one of silent ice-cold hate. Thomas knew that this would not end peacefully. He also agreed with Arthur. Lancelot had been given grace twice, and both times he had gone behind Arthur’s back. First to raise an army against him, then, after that army had been crushed, he fled the field of battle, Arthur specifically commanding the archers not to kill him while he fled, and went straight to Merlin in this very tower, only to disappear and never be seen or heard of again. His cowardice and dishonor enraged Arthur.
Thomas had resigned to the fact that this man must die. He has lived an unnaturally long life, and it must be ended. The pair were in each other’s faces and had been pressing into one another with their shields. Thomas broke away from the press only to grab Lancelot’s shield and twist it off his arm. Even after that, one-handed, the legendary knight kept up his defense. Thomas had his own shield ripped off his arm, the pain leaving him groaning as he fought on with just his sword.
Thomas knew that he alone was no match for Lancelot and was, at that moment, thankful for his spiritual heritage. Arthur’s spirit maintained the combat, Thomas reasoned, as nothing else would have explained it. In the last moments of the duel, Thomas had his sword stripped from him, and he rushed inside Lancelot’s defense to wrestle the older man to the ground. Thomas’s youthful strength and Arthur’s know-how managed to disarm Lancelot and tackle him to the earth. Thomas straddled the knight and began laying punches into the man’s face. His right would strike the hardest, and Thomas knew the heart of Arthur was in those strikes. His left hand would hit almost as hard; those coming from Thomas’s own convictions.
“You betrayed my love for you.” His right fist fell.
“You betrayed the land of my fathers.” His left fist fell.
“You poisoned me.” His right.
“You killed the best of them!” His left.
“You broke my shield.” Right.
“You nearly killed me in the joust.” Left.
With a scream that was produced from centuries of pain, rage, and betrayal, Thomas ripped the dagger from his back and raised it into the sky. Both of his hands held the hilt as the sun glinted off the blade. Together, Thomas and Arthur plunged the knife downward. Thomas fell forward as his dagger sank into the sand where Lancelot had been.
In a blink, the blade was gone, the sand was gone, the arena was gone, and the spectators were gone. The world dimmed as the only sources of light became the tinted glass window of the tower’s room and the torch Noah still held. Thomas was in the middle of the room, kneeling, his fists holding one another as the dagger had vanished from his grip. Thomas looked and found the old knight sitting by the chest again, bloodied and bruised but breathing. The young knight stood to find his sword still at his side. Had the entire duel been an illusion? Clearly not, the old man was full of bruises, and Thomas could feel his own shoulder again, hot with pain from the jousting bruise.
“I have decided you are to die, Lancelot. I will not change my mind now that the dream is over. You are still at my mercy.” Thomas pulled his sword from his scabbard and readied himself to run the old knight through when someone tapped his shoulder.
“Sir Thomas,” It was his squire, Noah, tapping him, “open your eyes, look.”
Thomas blinked hard and saw that the old man had propped himself up against the wall and was holding something out in his hand. “You’re right, of course.” Lancelot coughed up blood. “You were always right, Arthur. All those years ago, your wars were just and true, your bed was cold because your people needed you elsewhere. I conspired against you and betrayed your love and trust. You trusted me with Camelot itself, and I… I failed you. My lusts overwhelmed me, and your wife did not resist me. I do not pretend to know her motives, but you were so benevolent. You let me leave with my head.” He shook that same head and bowed it.
“You are dying, are you not?” Thomas asked softly as he began putting away his sword.
“I am. When I fled the battle of Alnwick and watched my castle burn, Merlin offered me penance after I confessed to him. He told me my penance was to stay in that chest,” He gestured at the chest that was still open near which he had been huddled when Thomas first entered the room, “until the time was right. I offered him the piece of the shield I had taken from you, but he told me to keep it and to only give it to you.”
“He knew me?” Thomas asked.
“Not by name,” Lancelot explained. “Well, at least he knew you not then. He said that there would come another soul who, like the Baptizer and Elijah, would embody the spirit of Arthur, noble and true. He also said that it would be someone willing to kill me for what I did.”
“That doesn’t sound like Arthur,” Thomas admitted.
“No, it does not.” Lancelot agreed. “But have no shame in that, Thomas, I knew Arthur when he was a lad, he was not always so noble and pious. He killed Sarcens for less than what I did.” Lancelot began spitting up blood. When the fit passed, he spoke again, “Take the shard, boy, and remember the story of Lancelot the Betrayer.”
Thomas reached out and took the shard.
“Become the Arthur Britain needs you to be.” With these words, Lancelot, the four hundred and seventy-three-year-old knight, passed away.
Thomas said a prayer for the man’s soul, hoping that his penance had truly been paid and that his soul could rest with God. “Go with God.” He said. The young knight watched as Lancelot’s body fell to dust in a blink, armor, skin, bones, and blood all just faded into a cloud of dust. At that, he stood with the shard, a much larger wooden piece lined with silver and covered in Celtic decorations, and turned to thank his squire.
“Thank you, Noah. You opened my eyes and saved me from the rage that threatened to consume me. You may yet sit at the round table.” Thomas approached the boy and showed him the shard.
Noah did not even look at the shard as his eyes grew wide, “Really?”
Thomas scruffed the boy’s hair and laughed, “One day, when you’re taller. For now, say a prayer for the dead and let us be off. The Shield of Britain must be mended.”
