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Well, boy-man at most.
Arthur had gathered that the warrior was only fifteen summers, three whole years Arthur’s junior. He couldn’t begin to fathom how much more powerful and skilled Lancelot would become with time. He wanted this man by his side.
Neededit.
It was all he could think of that night. He barely touched his ale, and didn’t accept or extend invitations to willing females to join his bed. He was utterly captivated—obsessed—with the silver-eyed warrior.
He thought of how he would recruit the mysterious man. Would Lancelot be tempted by gold? Fame? Property? Did creatures of magic, as he surely was, yearn for anything? Lack anything?
Arthur decided that he had to discover more about the warrior before he could approach him. So, on the second day of the tournament, he spent just as much time, if not more, watching Lancelot compete as he did his own competing.
The man was a demon in the foot race, so swift he practically flew across the field. There were obstacles in the race as well. The men had to climb rock hills and cross fast-moving streams, balancing on rocks and fallen trees that provided tenuous footholds between one side and the other.
Lancelot moved as if he were dancing, leaping gracefully from tree to rock; his feet barely seemed to touch the surfaces he stepped on. While everyone else grunted and groaned as they clambered and staggered on. At least half of the contestants lost their balance and fell into the stream.
When it came to swimming, Lancelot was half fish by Arthur’s estimation. Or perhaps, all fish.
From one side of the large lake to the other, he barely rose above surface twice or thrice to take breaths. He didn’t swim with his arms and kick with his legs like other men did.
Arthur noticed. He saw how Lancelot moved beneath the water: He swam with his whole body, undulating his spine and limbs up and down in perfect coordination like a dolphin.
Like a merman, if such a creature truly existed. There was no competition with Lancelot at all when it came to water sport.
Dueling was the last event on day two. Because Lancelot didn’t bring his own weapons, he used whatever was handy against his opponents. Club, sword, mace, staff, spear, even a whip. It didn’t matter what his weapon was, or how ill-suited for his hands. He employed them with precision and enviable skill, as if each one was made just for him.
As expected, the final contestants of the duel were Arthur and Lancelot once again.
Arthur wore a light leather armor and gloves, forgoing battle gear as most of the other knights wore—chain mail, metal plates, helmets and shield. He wanted to move more freely. And he was weary from the day’s trials. The extra weight would only hinder him, though he was less protected.
He didn’t mind the risk. He even welcomed it. Got his blood rushing; sharpened his focus.
But Lancelot one-upped him again even in this. The man wore his usual outfit of finely-fitted tunic and trousers and no other protective covering. He didn’t even have a shield, though a battered wooden one was there for the taking on a side table with a selection of rented weapons.
Arthur circled him in the dirt arena. The spectators crowded on makeshift stands around them, holding their breath.
The King himself was no longer in attendance. He might return for the final event, the joust, but only long enough to crown the victor of the tournament.
Uther was not an old man, but he was battle worn, and unhealed wounds continued to plague his health. The Saxon invaders even called him the “Half-Dead King.” Arthur had been training all this time, in mock and real battles, to succeed him.
He was ready.
“You like tempting fate with your negligence?” Arthur threw out at his opponent presently.
“At least put on a leather vest and gloves. Take the shield.”
“Don’t need them to best you,” came Lancelot’s low response.
There was no arrogance in his demeanor or voice. He was simply stating fact.
Arthur huffed a breath and hefted two of his favorite swords that he always carried with him, one in each hand.When fighting on foot, he preferred to wield them both at the same time. When on horseback, he used only one.
He decided on one of the swords to give Lancelot a small advantage. Or, at least lessen his disadvantage. After all, he didn’t want to maim or kill the man. He wanted Lancelot to join his elite guard.
Lancelot cocked his head slightly, assessing the newly sharpened sword in Arthur’s hands. He perused the table of weapons on the side and chose the Morning Star and a dagger.
As they face off to begin the duel, Lancelot unexpectedly said:
“That blade will fail you before long. All of the swords I have seen here are flimsy at best. The metal is weak. And further weakened by the process by which they are made into weapons.”
