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Arthur might as well forfeit his place in the tournament now. There would be no besting that man.
He went with Gawain to Bedivere’s side to see how his friend fared. The knight was in the process of tearing off his armor with help from his squire. He was short of breath, practically wheezing.
“Are you well?” Arthur asked, laying a steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder.
Bedivere’s chest rose and depressed with great gulps of air.
Wordlessly, he gestured to his chest, now covered only in his undershirt.
Arthur lifted the hem and whistled low.
The entire center of Bedivere’s chest was already purple with a deep, ugly bruise. All from that one hit from Lancelot’s lance.
“Th-that man is a demon unlike any I’ve seen,” Bedivere rasped, catching his breath.
“He strikes fast as lightning, hard as god’s hammer. I hope you intend to recruit—”
“Trying,” Arthur said.
Bedivere collapsed finally onto a bench, his legs buckling beneath him.
“Try harder,” he advised.
“I would not want to meet this man across a battlefield. He could take on the whole army, and I wouldn’t be certain we would triumph.”
Arthur looked across the jousting field to Lancelot on the far side. He still sat upon his horse, patiently awaiting his next challenger, for he was now the leader in the joust. Anyone who wanted to take the top spot would have to defeat him.
Unsurprisingly, no one stepped forth after the display he put on.
Neither did Arthur. He was no suicidal fool.
The rest of the joust played out amongst other knights for the second and third spots in order to determine who would win the other prizes in the tournament, all things considered. Because Arthur didn’t bother to joust at all, and thus was disqualified, Gawain won overall second place, and Bedivere won third.
Of course, the mysterious newcomer, Lancelot du Lac, won the grand prize, which was a clasp of precious stones. He received the reward from King Uther with no emotion at all, as far as Arthur could tell. He looked neither pleased nor displeased, simply tucking the clasp into a small travel blanket upon his horse.
Arthur intercepted him as Lancelot mounted his stallion in the descending dusk and nudged it away from the tournament camp without a backward glance.
“Leaving so soon?” he called out, catching up to the other man on his own chestnut.
“Not staying for the festivities tonight?”
Lancelot didn’t look his way, intent upon his departure.
“I have seen all I came to see. And have done all I came to do. King Uther is not the king I am destined to serve.”
Arthur was surprised, and said so.
“Uther is the most ruthless warlord in these isles. Everyone fears him.”
“And that makes a mighty king?” Lancelot asked.
“He keeps order,” Arthur hedged. “He protects our borders from the Saxons and other lawless invaders.”
Lancelot shrugged.
“I will not serve him,” he said with finality.
They were traveling farther from camp. Arthur couldn’t simply follow the man, but he didn’t want Lancelot to leave without a sign…a promise…that they might meet again.
