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“A Lancelot du Lac according to his official registration.”
Arthur made his usual noncommittal grunt.
This Lancelot sounded like an addle-pated arse. “Lancelot of the Lake” indeed. No doubt the man was as pretty as his name and just as useless as all pretty things.
Gawain’s snort confirmed his suspicions.
“You should see him, Bear. Long-white hair braided in this fancy twist tied off with a ribbon. He’s tall, but lean as a reed. I feel like the weight of that hair alone would make him fall over if he didn’t hold himself like he had a pole shoved up his arse.”
Arthur’s lips quirked at the image.
“Pale, smooth skin. Paler than all the fairest maidens in the land. Finer too, from the looks of it. Not a stubble in sight,” Gawain muttered derisively, curling his lip in obvious disdain.
“If not for his height, I would have thought he’s still wet behind the ears and his bollocks haven’t yet dropped. He’s clearly rich enough to enter the tourney, and his clothes look finely made, but no one’s ever heard of him. I asked around.”
They nodded greetings to a few familiar faces as they made their way through the crowds and maze of tents toward the battlegrounds. This tournament was in high attendance. Both the contestants and the spectators.
Good. There should be plenty of action to be had.
A few maids delivered favors to warriors from their ladies, and the men proudly pinned the ribbons to their personsunderneath their armor, or wore tokens around their necks and wrists.
Arthur never accepted any favors for himself. He didn’t want to give any woman the wrong idea. He was not looking for romantic attachment. He steered clear of it as a rule and always made sure his bed partners knew this. If he had any inkling they wanted more, he’d simply walk away.
He was too restless to give promises to anyone. It would not be fair to either of them.
Besides, his bride would likely be procured for the cause of a political alliance. He could hope for respect and friendship in his marriage, as well as many sturdy sons when the time came. But he hoped for unencumbered freedom more. For as long as he could have it.
“No one knows where he’s from,” Gawain was still going on about the mysterious knight, “whose house he belongs to, what his real name is. Because that can’t possibly be his real name.”
Well, as to that, Arthur had heard of stranger things.
Ordinary men who wanted to make a name for themselves at these tournaments and become true knights often invented monikers for people to remember them by. He had to admit that “Lancelot du Lac” had a certain ring to it. As well as fit the pretty picture Gawain painted of the man.
“The strangest thing of all is that he arrived only with a barely harnessed white stallion. No pages. No entourage. No tent or bedroll. No weapon and no armor.”
Arthur was surprised enough to stop and arch a brow at Gawain.
Was the stranger soft in the head to come to a tourney unprepared and unarmed? What did he aim to accomplish here? Did he seek a quick and early death?
“I know,” Gawain agreed.
“Idiot. I suppose he’ll use whatever weapons that are provided for each event as part of the entry fee, but to not have his own tailor-made…”
Arthur knew the implications of that. Experienced warriors always had their signature weapons, the ones they excelled in battle with, the ones that brought out their best strengths, tailor-made to fit their proportions and grip.
Arthur’s sword and battle axe, for example, were honed specifically for him. Gawain preferred the axe and the mace. Kay preferred sword and bow. And Bedivere was known for the long sword. Each of them also had armors designed to fit their bodies and fighting styles. An ill-fitting armor could mean life and death in battle.
“The ladies and troubadours have dubbed him the White Knight,” Gawain went on, rolling his eyes.
“Not terribly original. He’s only been seen around for a couple of hours, and already the tents are a-flutter with whispers and chatter. The gossips have woven outlandish tales about his origins and circulated these rumors through the masses come to witness the spectacle. Women have been said to swoon at the very glimpse of him. They—”
“Perhaps that’s part of his strategy,” Arthur said sardonically.
“To render his opponents unconscious with the might of his pale-faced splendor.”
He and Gawain shared a look, and both men burst out in belly laughs at the absurdity.
Arthur wrapped an arm around Gawain’s shoulder, pulled him in for a quick side hug, then shoved him back playfully.
