“It sounds wonderful.” It sounded chaotic. And like the perfect place for a magical attack against Arthur. The more she walked through Camelot, the more she saw how inhospitable it would be to the Dark Queen’s fairies and minions. All these people, this ancient, sleeping stone, the metal on doors and windows. What threat had Merlin seen coming? Why could he not have been more specific? The Dark Queen was dead and defeated, but her type of magic—wild and devouring—lived on. Guinevere had seen it herself on the way here.
“Is there anything you need today?” Brangien asked. “Most things we will have to get at the markets, but some of the shops might have a ready supply.”
“No, thank you. I cannot think of anything I lack.” Nothing that any of the shops would sell, anyhow. Though she would have to go through her box of jewels. Certain stones held magic in special ways. And no one would look askance at a king wearing jewels.
It would be her next task. For now, they were midway through the city. The shape of the slope evened out here before dropping again dramatically closer to the lake. It was the flattest ground they had been on. Guinevere heard shouting and whirled, alarmed.
“Oh!” Brangien said. “I can show you something truly exciting.” Brangien turned down a side street and they came to a round building. It was the largest Guinevere had seen besides the castle.
“This is newer than the castle, but still old. Before Uther Pendragon. He built nothing.” Brangien led her through a dark stone arch and into the brilliant sunlight.
It was not a building, exactly. There was no roof. The walls encompassed a flat, dirt-packed circle. Several levels of seats were built into the walls. Those seats were nearly all filled, and they held the source of the roaring shouts. Around the circle, various rings had been set up, marked by chalk in the dirt. Weapons lined the walls. And within the rings, men battled.
“Come on, there is a special box. I have never been able to sit in it before!” Brangien pulled her swiftly past the steps and benches. They climbed to the top of the wall, nodded at a guard there, and entered a wooden structure. It was built out so that when they reached the open front, they were suspended above the fighters. Between the cushion-covered benches and the roof above to provide shade, they were the most comfortable people in the arena.
Certainly more comfortable than the men beneath them. The warriors pounded and hacked at each other. Their thick leather armor, sewn with metal plates over the most vulnerable areas, absorbed the blows. But Guinevere screamed and covered her mouth as a man near them took a brutal hit.
“The swords are blunted,” Brangien said, patting her hand. “There are still injuries—sometimes terrible—but no one has died.”
“What are they doing it for?” There were more than a dozen men down there, performing war like a minstrel performed songs. Guinevere’s heart raced. It was terrible, and exciting, and she did not understand the purpose of it.
“Training, some of them. See, there are Sir Tristan and Sir Caradoc. Sir Bors is directing the fights.” Brangien deftly identified each man, though to Guinevere they all looked the same: like helmeted, armored death.
“Is Mordred down there as well?”
“Oh, no. He never fights. He thinks much too highly of himself to train with his brother knights, even though King Arthur often joins them.”
“And who is—”
Brangien gasped, clutching Guinevere’s hand. “He is here!”
“Who?”
Brangien pointed to a new knight who had entered the ring. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore a leather mask that obscured his entire face. His armor was unusual, too, a jumble of metals of different colors. The variety made it look less like armor he wore and more like it was a natural part of him.
“The patchwork knight! That is what they call him. No one knows who he is or where he is from! He comes sometimes, wins every fight, and then disappears. Oh, he is terribly popular. It cannot be long before he earns a tournament and becomes a true knight of the king.”
“Would Arthur do that? Offer a position to a stranger?”
“That is how Sir Tristan got his knighthood! Through his valor in the ring.”
“So anyone could perform well enough and then have a place at the king’s side? A place in the castle?”
“Yes, but aspirants can only compete here once a week. And there are always so many of them. It is only a matter of time before the patchwork knight makes it through, though.” Brangien’s tone was distracted, her attention entirely on the ring as she leaned forward, breathless with anticipation.
Guinevere had a reason to pay attention now, too. Because there could be anyone—or anything—behind that mask. Using it as a way to get close to Arthur.
Though a dozen other fights were happening at the same time, it was clear who the crowd was there to watch. Every move the patchwork knight made was met with cheers, shouted advice, even a few jeers from those loyal to the unfortunate opponent being mercilessly pounded. The fight lasted only a few minutes before the patchwork knight’s would-be rival stumbled out of the ring, admitting defeat. The loser took off his leather armor and threw it.
His theatrics were lost on the crowd. They only had eyes for the patchwork knight. But rather than raise his arms or exult in his victory, he stood perfectly still, his sword tip resting on the ground, both hands wrapped around the hilt. He looked like a statue that would come to life only when challenged.
Another aspirant—Brangien clarified that was what they called those who tried their hand at besting the knights—entered the ring. The aspirants for the week’s matches fought each other. Only the winner among those would be allowed to fight one of Arthur’s knights.
“Most days there are so many aspirants that the knights never end up fighting one. The sun sets before they work through each other,” Brangien explained as another aspirant strode confidently into the ring with the patchwork knight.
“There are that many trying to become King Arthur’s knights?”
“Oh, yes. Those who do well enough can enter his service as a standing army. They are given lodging but still have to work for food and train on their own. Only a handful have made it to his actual circle of knights. And those who have were all trained in other courts. A man used to planting fields would have to work for years to best a lifelong knight. But Arthur’s system gives them training and creates an army of men we can call on in times of peril.”
It made sense. What did not make sense were the patchwork knight’s skills. In the time it took Brangien to explain the system, he had already defeated the confident aspirant. This one had to be pulled insensible from the ring. And again the patchwork knight went back to perfect stillness. It was almost inhuman.