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Before Maraud could discover what Mennah was weeping about, there approached heavy footsteps. Maraud looked up and gave a start when she saw Armand. She could, of course, not hear what he mouthed, but she could recognize it as Mennah’s name. Hesitantly, she rose and took a step away from Mennah.

“Sir Armand,” she nodded softly in greeting, looking at the bold knight with a somewhat pained gaze. She had suffered much guilt over what had happened between them in the Lord’s chamber of Iweret’s (now Marrik’s) castle. It had been her fault… she had made an advance to another man while she was attached to Roryn—a catastrophic event that lead to her love’s brief death, then resurrection. But one good thing had come out of it: she hadn’t touched another man since—besides her dear Roryn.

Now, she could look at Sir Armand without longing, even though he was just as handsome—and in fact, he was more handsome, having matured some during the two years that had passed. Besides being devoted to Roryn, she also knew (both instinctually and from seeing the new ring on Mennah’s finger), that Armand was engaged to Mennah. The thought of a union between the two was even pleasing to Maraud. They were closer in age, closer in species, and both were good-looking, and would produce fine children.

Of course, Maraud was not currently rejoicing over the union, for she could sense that Armand was the cause of Mennah’s sadness. And, just as Maraud herself had upset her sweetheart by the intent to be unfaithful, Mennah was upset by the suspicion that Armand had been consorting with other women. Maraud sighed as her fairy intuition gathered all of this. But she could not condemn Armand for a lifestyle that she herself had once engaged in. Her look of regret turned to one of sympathy for the Lord of Getonsburg.

----

Mabuz’s breath caught in his throat. The last time he had seen Sir Armand, it was after he had attempted to behead him. His nerves were on edge with the current situation. He was hiding behind a tree, having seen Mennah in tears, and now Sir Armand had approached, and he was still mute. Mabuz was the man who had deprived him of his voice in the first place.

If he wished to avoid discord, he would leave at that moment and never again return to Rozeshire. But that would also make him a coward. But Mennah was already upset, and Armand was clearly troubled… it would be an inopportune time for him to reappear after two years. He argued with himself internally. He looked to Roryn and Aurora. He wanted their respect. He wanted to respect himself…

He left the cover of the tree. He fortified himself with a deep breath and stepped closer to those he feared to meet. He did not confront—he stepped forward to make peace. Maraud turned to him. It was not ideal timing; that was certain. But she didn’t stop him. This meeting had been long overdue.

“Lady Mennah… Sir Armand,” he bravely entered his voice. “I have come with Maraud and Roryn. I… I hope to gain your forgiveness. What has happened between us has been most unfortunate. I hope that now that time has passed, that we may be civil to each other.”

Mennah had been greatly surprised by the appearance of Maraud, and for a moment, was speechless. However, she quickly caught her bearings and wiped the offensive tears away from her face, though there was little she could do against the redness that had so unevenly spread. She gave a weak smile up at her old teacher, hoping to distract her a bit from her previous question. Mennah didn’t want to trouble Maraud with the story (though she’d probably hear it from all the gossip in the village anyway), nor did she wish to retell it. She’d been tempted to ask Maraud to leave her be, but it would have been rude when she was trying to help.

“Oh it’s nothing really…just over reacting. It’s wonderful to see you again Maraud.” Mennah said in an attempt to change the topic, her voice not fully back to normal. In a since it was true, she’d not even heard the words from Armand yet, and already she was weeping. That thought comforted her a bit, the thought Armand would come deny the whole thing. Highly doubtful, but still a nice thought. And then she saw Armand, and her heart skipped a beat. It was finally time to hear the truth, if the baby was truly his, if he still intended to marry her instead of the mother of his child, and if so what they were to do about this. He seemed nerves, not a good sign. She was terrified of what he might say, those words only she could hear. She wondered if she’d seem like lunatic if she busted out in tears if Armand called of the engagement while no one else could hear him. She was sure she would if he did, not because she cried often, (for other than Sir Ollrick’s death she’d found no sadness in the last two years) but she wouldn’t be able to bare it if he did, audience or not.

Then to only add to her agony Mabuz came from behind the trees asking for forgiveness and civility. She did not hate Mabuz, quite the contrary, he’d always felt like a brother to her, but now had not been the best time for reunions. She’d blamed herself for the horrid happenings of that duel to years ago, but she doubted Armand would be happy to see him.

“It’s nice to see you too Mabuz.” Mennah said kindly, she wanted to quickly talk to Armand in private, but not snub her guests. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to mend old wounds, but for the moment I must speak with Armand. We’ll be sure to speak before the wedding…assuming here’s still going to be one…” She said the last part quietly to herself, and then turned to Armand, and walked over to a more private bunch of trees where they could speak away from the others. Her eyes were downcast, but taking a deep breath she looked up and stared him in the eyes. She might as well ask the question that troubled her most deeply.

“Are you leaving me for her?” She asked quietly, managing not to choke on the words.

"Mother, I need a new gown."

Guinevere's azure gaze drifted over to the source of the sweet-voice statement, her budding flower of a daughter. Keridwen had her delicate hands laced into the folds of her gown, just as her queenly mother did, and her smooth chin was lifted gracefully as the two women walked together. The queen smiled softly, looking back in the direction they were moving, and replied with a soft question. "And why is that, my dear?"

"Father shall be returning soon, and I shall be embarrassed to greet him and his men in the same dreary old thing I bid farewell to him in!" Keridwen's lips pushed out in a quiet pout at the thought of being considered drab. She was not overly vain, of course, but she was a young lady who was attempting to live up to the standards of her beautiful peers. And she was a princess. There were certain things expected of princesses, and appearing in lovely new gowns for grand (or even minor) affairs was one of them!

"Then I suppose you should hurry along to the royal sewers, and ask that they commission you something suitable, dear." Guinevere smiled, with no trace of anything less than maternal affection as she reached out and lightly touched Keridwen's elbow. The princess beamed subtly, leaning over to kiss her mother's cheek before hurrying in a most lady-like fashion along a different hallway towards the royal seamstress' chambers. Once the girl was gone, Guinevere's smile faded somewhat and she resumed her quiet, pensive walk towards her knights' hall. She felt just the slightest touch of queenly guilt...a sort of cold stone that settled in her stomach years ago and had caused her grief ever since. She loved her daughter, and her daughter's twin brother, as any mother loved her children. And she loved her kingdom, and all those within it who viewed her as their queen. And she loved her king, who so cared for his people and fought so bravely to preserved their freedom. But in the end of it all, there was a deeply guarded secret that was truly known only to a select few, and never discussed at length.

Guinevere did not love her husband.

He was a fine man, a glorious man. The sort of man she had always imagined that she could love. But she had not chosen him as her husband, nor had she chosen to become queen. She had been given little say in the matter, but had gone along as though it was a great honor...for it was...never uttering the slightest complaint. And she had no reason to complain, for Arthur was a dutiful and gentle husband. She did not dislike Arthur, nor feel any bitterness towards him for choosing her as his bride. But there was lacking between them that specific warmth that so few couples were fortunate enough to share...she felt nothing but respect and duty towards her husband, and even the many years as husband and wife and the birth of their twins had done nothing to kindle anything more. And it was times like this, when her child so eagerly went off to prepare to welcome home her beloved father, that Guinevere wished dearly that she could show her children that she felt the same warmth for the man. But no matter how she tried, she did not.

With another inaudible sigh, Guinevere reached the room where her Order usually met. There was no reason for them to be gathered that moment, of course, so she did not expect any of them to be sitting within the room. This was precisely why she was going there, actually, for she wished a moment's peace. She would be meeting with the Lady of the Lake soon, and looked forward to the meeting...but she still needed time to gather herself for the feigned extra glee she needed to emit when the king returned.

But to her great surprise (and mild dismay), the chamber was not unoccupied. There, leaning against the wall, was the unfortunately noticeably handsome Sir Mordred. For reasons she daren't share with anyone, Guinevere always attempted to keep some distance between herself and the dark featured knight.

"Ah, Sir Mordred. Forgive me, did we have an appointed meeting?" Guinevere asked softly, absent-mindedly touching her sleeve as though to remind herself of her position.

Alanna had gladly accepted Lancelot's proposed rest, guiding her charger to a small plot of dry grass where he could nibble at his hunger while she dismounted to rest on the enormous rock nearby. In fact, she had gladly accepted anything Lancelot suggested since they had left Greensbury. So pleased was she with the sound of his voice as it improved the silence, and the shade of his hair in the sunlight, and the shape of his mouth with each different syllable, that she could not imagine refusing even the most inane request that he might think to issue. Perhaps he might suggest that she slice off all of her hair, or that she cease bathing forever. If he thought it wise, then it would have been brilliant! Alanna was simply thrilled with every little thing her betrothed--her betrothed!--did, and had yet to see anything he did as insufficient. Her heart felt as though it were glowing constantly, even in the miserable bog they traveled through. And as she rested on the rock alongside Bors, who had been preoccupied the entire week by watching his brother to ensure the ladies were not overly bothered, she smiled and gazed upon the crouched form of her beloved as though she were watching him do something extraordinary...rather watching him casually examine a large set of tracks that led into the lake.

What happened next, Alanna could not be certain. She had paused her amorous watching to face Bors as he made some humorous comment regarding the Lord's approval over the drenched area they had been traveling through. The next thing she knew, there was some brief movement in the corner of her eye and the large and manly shape that was Lancelot was gone. Then there was splashing, struggle, and she heard a desperate gargle for help. This all happened in a matter of seconds, before Alanna even had time to turn and face the situation entirely. But she did glimpse Lancelot struggling, and the writhing of some large mass beneath the water.

"Lance!" Instantly, she was terrified. Her entire being stiffened with horror as she shrieked his name, entering an extremely rare instant of helplessness. But it lasted merely and instant, and was then replaced by righteous fury at the audacity of this foul beast that dared to attack her dearest love. Without another word, Alanna launched herself off of the rock and sprinted to the water's edge. Sword drawn, and taking a giant gulp of air, Alanna dove smoothly into the disturbed surface of the lake after her lover and the monster that had taken him.

Bors was only halfway to the water's edge by the time he watched Alanna plunge in, not even bothering to remove any of her water-sensitive clothing or belongings. It wasn't that he was any less concerned over his cousin's well being, of course, but more a matter of his entire happiness not lingering upon Lancelot's survival. He was shortly diving down into the depths after them, however.

With her blade held upside-down in her grip so as to not slow her strokes, Alanna kicked and swept her arms forward and back to launch herself further down into the lake, her brown eyes hard and trained upon the struggling forms below. Her long golden hair billowed gracefully out behind her like a large watery halo, and the glint of her sword set off by the watered down sunlight looked like the wand of a vengeful fairy. It would have been an odd sight, had anyone been in a proper mindset to appreciate it, but as it was she swam without an audience to criticize how unusual the armed woman looked. Unbeknown to Alanna, Bors was swimming quickly after her, though much more clumsily. He had not had the opportunity nor need to learn to swim as well as she had, and it was occurring to him that this might not be his most successful mission. He should have paused to gather more air in his lungs!

At last, Alanna was within striking distance of the water creature. She could not see Lancelot, but she had noticed his faithful steed, and took care not to get in the path of Clarric's thrashing hooves. Instead, she reached to the bulbous rear of the water beast that seemed so determined to drown Lancelot. Trusting the monster to be distracted by her struggling lord, Alanna positioned herself so that she was gently resting against its body, her feet spread and her legs crouched so that she was close and not easily swatted away by its angry movements. Then, she carefully and swiftly switched her grip on Justice and raised it above her head in preparation. Finally, she thrust the trusty blade downwards, embedding it in the creature's flank.

There was no roar, of course, as they were under water...but there was an eerie and traveling sound that seemed to emanate from the monstrous brute. Alanna did not feel any give or halting that suggested she might have hit anything more than excess skin, but it was clear she had gained the creature's attention. The narrow head swiveled on the long neck, the bead-like vile eyes catching onto the source of its torment. Alanna glared furiously as the enemy beast, loathing it even as she raised the blade out of its flesh and prepared to strike again. If she had not been a Christian woman, she might have thought that the nasty creature actually had a light of dark intelligence in its eyes...and looked to be loathing the sight of her in return.

Vivienne was flattered by the words of her former teacher, but she nobly brushed them aside with a graceful wave of her green hand. “Ah, I have not done so well as you, Master Merlin.” She watched him as he reminisced. It was then that his vast age became apparent. Vivienne, in truth, did not know Merlin’s exact age, and it was even possible that she was older than him (for she had not been very young when he taught her). But she did know that he had lived long enough to be the advisor of three kings. Yes, his accomplishments had been many—revealing the dragons under Vortigern’s tower, arranging the birth of Arthur, transporting Stonehenge. As of late, however, it seemed that he waning in his vigor.

She was somewhat disappointed. Morgan showed more interest (minimal at that) in Niniane than Merlin did. Vivienne nodded at Morgan’s flat recognition of her half-sister. The energy in the room had suddenly dropped, as Morgan sank into boredom and Merlin withdrew into the past. Vivienne was not inclined to linger longer in such company, and so she rose from her seat.

“Pardon my exit, my... colleagues,” she spoke, almost condescendingly. “It is time for me to meet with the Queen. But I shall leave Niniane here to stay longer in your company. Perhaps you may even begin one of your lessons? Morgan—you may show her some of your shape-shifting, if you would be so kind.” Then, she gathered her skirts and left abruptly.

However, as Vivienne was striding through the hall, she heard the trumpets of Arthur’s return. She was caught up in the movement of those around her, who insisted that she greet the High King first. She agreed, and went with them to the the castle green, where they would meet Arthur and his men. Vivienne stood tall and waited, gathering many complementary looks from the onlooking citizens of Camelot.

-----

Mordred stepped away from the wall when Guinevere entered. He bowed to his Queen, then laid his dark eyes upon her. He had to put a conscious strain on himself to keep from smiling. He had multiple reasons for wanting to show glee, most of which were devious. She was a beauteous queen, and he had caught her alone—which was impossibly difficult, mainly because she seemed to want to avoid him.

Mordred had already had several affairs with married ladies. He had gotten away with all but one, in which he was caught in flagrante by the husband. He had no trouble slaying the mediocre knight in a duel. But the High Queen posed an interesting situation for him—the wife of his father, eight years his senior, mother of two children, High Queen of all Logres, the lady which he served as a knight...

Absolutely forbidden.

And yet, Mordred desired her more than any other lady. The blaring fact that she was untouchable only heightened his natural attraction to her long golden hair, her regal, blue-eyed face, and her figure, tastefully accentuated by her fashionable French gown and floor-touching sleeves.

Mordred was well aware that he was a foul person. He imagined that he was born with the natural impulse to do ill, as being punished by God for the wicked deed between his parents. His mother was a hedonist, and had been a fine example to him in failing to control her lascivious impulses. His step-father, King Lot, had taught Mordred much about aggression and cruelty. Mordred was pleased that the boorish king had been slain by King Pellinore. When his brothers were not looking, Mordred spat upon his step-father’s grave.

But, as Mordred faced Guinevere, he was not thinking of these sores of his past. He was indulging in the surprised expression on her face, which she was so adept at concealing with an air of politeness and queenliness. He felt his temperature rise as he stepped closer to her.

“Nay, milady. We have no such meeting,” he replied matter-of-factly. But, after he spoke, his pupils dilated and his eyes smoldered. In his mind, he was contemplating how to go about pursuing an illicit relationship with the Queen. It was always a creative endeavour to bed a married lady. He had been refused once, by a lady who decided to be faithful to her husband at the last moment. Mordred had been so humiliated that he vowed never to let it happen again.

But the fact that Arthur had been away made him more restless. And he heard that Arthur was on his way home. He also had the inkling that Guinevere requited his desires. As far as he knew, she had been a faithful wife. There were no rumors at court. He knew she avoided him. But when he did meet eyes with her, there seemed to be something there that even the Queen could not hold back. Of course, a lady’s passion did not ensure that she would betray her husband, as he had so sorely learned.

But, against his better judgement, he stepped closer to Guinevere—a step beyond the respectable space allotted to knights. He noticed her touching her sleeve, and while glancing across her gown, he was close enough to observe the fine weave of her brocade. He lifted his eyes and inhaled softly, detecting the faintest hint of Guinevere’s scent. He hoped he was making her nervous; he hoped to see her finger her wedding ring. That would be sign enough that she was tempted.

“I hope all is well between us, milady,” he finally spoke. “If I have given you offense to avoid me, I will formally apologize if you name your charge. As your knight and nephew, I feel we must be on more familiar terms. Do you not agree, my Queen?”

His question was designed to make her squirm. But he did not pose it in an intimate manner. He would not reveal too much of his own motives, not when he was still unsure as he was. And, in all irony, seconds after her spoke, the trumpets sounded throughout the kingdom. Arthur had returned. But Mordred ignored the fanfare as if he had not heard, and continued to press Guinevere with his closeness. He merely raised one of his brows to show that his question still stood.

Morgan heard the trumpets as well, but refused to stand and greet her half-brother before dinner was served. She detested the thought of being left for Gueneviere, but supposed it was her own fault for sulking. She watched Merlin as he stood stiffly to go and recieve his King. She couldn't help but roll her eyes at the great magician, although she could see why he felt he must go.

Merlin turned to Ninlane before departing, extending his hand to her and speaking in his usual ruffled voice. "Please excuse my distraction My Lady, but I feel I must consort with Our King Aurthur before everyone has the chance to cyphan the energy from him. I do apologize, but would be more than happy to tutor you in future, in fact... I think I do." He laughed, as this was one of his favorite jokes on his own behalf. He bowed rigidly and left the room, pressing through the prosession.

"Well, I must say you put up with your half-sister well." Morgan teased Ninlane. "But she is a dear, especially to speak with me, even after seeing into our future." She looked directly at her now, once sharp green eyes had become a bit clouded, as if hiding themselfs in mist. "Fate can not change my dear, this is your first lesson; if you have not learned already."

As Alanna had been distracted by Bors, Lionel had been distracted by the lady he so admired. He had been asking her if she was in need of new shoes—for traveling could wear on one’s shoes, although he had insisted that she ride with him on his horse. He looked up when he heard the noises as Lancelot was pulled into the water and struggled for his life.

Lionel clambered off the rock, but did not leave the side of the two sisters. He turned to them after drawing his sword. “I will protect you, ladies! Calmez-vous! Stay calm!” He crossed himself as he watched Alanna and his brother jump into the lake. He was accustomed to them running into fearsome beasties—but it was not often that Lancelot was so easily overcome. He walked closer to the lake shore and eyed the prints from Lancelot’s boots intermingled with the much larger footprints of the monster. He also picked up Arondight from where it had fallen, which gave him an unsettling feeling knowing that his cousin was without his sword in the fray… At least Alanna and Bors had their swords.

---

Lancelot’s lungs were aching horribly as he held as breath while he was continually struck by the creature’s large dorsal fins. The tail smacked him up the head—it had quite a bit of force to it—and pushed Lancelot into a tangle of kelp and reeds, virtually netting him. Despite all of the panic of what was happening, he could think straight enough to pull out his dagger, and cut himself free of the underwater plants. The monster had not pursued him. Clarric was close-by. Lancelot grabbed his bridle and allowed the kelpie to paddle him up to the surface, where he was allowed a much-needed breath of air.

He spent but a moment to wipe the water out of his eyes, when he saw that Alanna and Bors were missing from the surface. He knew immediately that they had jumped in to save him, and were still wrestling with the beast below water. The thought of losing his fiancée and cousin to the lake monster doubled the chilling effect the water had on his bones. Lancelot was still a clumsy swimmer—like Bors—but he had improved enough after some coaching from Alanna. After the disaster that had arose from trying to leave the Lake, it was time enough that he learned to swim. His inexperience wasn’t enough to keep him from releasing his horse’s bridle and submerging himself with dagger in fist.

The monster had turned his aggression on Alanna after being stabbed. As he had recognized the gauntlets that had once been used against him, his memory was even more vivid of the sword Justice, which had once attacked him twenty years ago, and left a scar that still remained on his right dorsal. He had no care for the identity of the wielder—only that they had just now delivered another wound to his flank. His long neck lashed out, and his teeth clamped down on Alanna’s sword arm so as to debilitate another strike.

Lancelot had plunged deep enough to reach the monster again. Seeing that Alanna’s arm was in the creature’s teeth, he managed to avoid being struck again by one of the hefty flippers, and latched onto the creature’s backside as Alanna had done. He stabbed the blubbery flesh with his dagger. The monster flinched when he removed the knife, and out came a diffused cloud of blood. Lancelot was thrown aside by the tail. It was a nonfatal wound that Lance had inflicted—but the monster decided to retreat. He had only lived so long because he knew when to abandon a struggle. And so, he released Alanna’s arm and swam off into the darker depths of the lake.

Not bothering to pursue his assailant, Lancelot grabbed Alanna’s free arm and pulled her up with him to the lake’s surface. Once he breached the surface—and before he even managed to fully catch his breath—he threw his arms around Alanna in gratitude and relief. It was easy enough to swim deeper, since he was weighted down with his drenched armor, but he certainly couldn’t buoy himself up for long.

Luckily, Clarric appeared right when he needed him. Lancelot took hold of the reins. He shifted his arm in a different position around Alanna—and quite accidentally laid his hand upon her breast. He retracted his hand in an instant, but he was very embarrassed and his heart was beating as quickly as it was when he was being throttled by the creature. It was one qualm he had about going about fighting side-by-side with a ladyknight—bodily appendages could at times get in the way. Ah, but how he longed for a time when such gestures could be made more intentional.

Blushingly, he handed Alanna the reins, as he grabbed the seat of the saddle. They stayed afloat a moment, with Clarric treading water. “Where’s Bors?” he asked, hoping that his cousin was in their proximity.

Alanna choked and gasped as she suddenly found herself released from the grip of the beast and the grip of the lake's cold depths. She felt powerful arms around her, and knew instinctively that it was Lancelot. He had drawn her up from the watery battle grounds, which meant that he was well enough to do so, and so despite the great pain in her recently gnawed upon arm she was pleased. So she laughed breathlessly and wrapped her unoccupied arm around his shoulders, pressing her nose into the crook of his neck and enjoying the warmth of his body pressed to hers. Her one arm was in a very poor state, and leaving a disturbing red fog wherever it trailed from the lost blood, but she was still able to use it to sheathe her sword. To her great relief, Clarric swam alongside his master and they were both soon being towed to the shore. But not before...

Alanna's face became a bright scarlet as she felt what she was sure was an accidental brush. The wetness of her clothing did not help to make the matter any less noticeable, of course, but it was over and done with so quickly that she decided to simply assume that Lancelot had not even noticed (though in truth this seemed a bit more insulting than if he had merely misplaced his hand). Of course, perhaps it would have been more lady-like had she shrieked and attempted to slap his face...but she felt no such inclination. Besides, as Lancelot mentioned, they were still missing a comrade...

"Bors?" Alanna asked, her voice tight with alarm. "I swear he came after me--after you--after that thing, but I did not see-"

She was interrupted by another bursting from the water and a good deal of spurting and spraying as Bors erupted from the surface. He had nearly chased after the beast into the murky depths, but upon seeing his cousin and his female companion rising relatively unharmed, had changed his mind. Murmuring shocked statements in his native language, Bors swam clumsily after the pair and the kelpie in a great rush to leave the lake. It was odd to think of, but he had yet to experience a moment where swimming from a lake would leave happy memories for him to dwell upon...

"Alanna, you are bleeding?" Bors asked with evident concern despite his weakening efforts to stay afloat. When he was finally able to touch his feet to the ground, he did so with great relief.

"Nay, 'tis nothing," Alanna replied warily, breathing deeply and clutching her bitten arm as she too reached a walkable depth. "Lancelot, darling, are you well?"

Armand had been relieved to see that Mennah was not so furious with him as to refuse to be in his presence. That at least was a start. And it seemed that the reminder of his previous near-dalliance with Maraud was not enough to press her anger, either. That was also a start. But oh, those tears! He had not felt such guilt for a single act even since his most daring escapade with a particular lady who had been betrothed to...but that did not matter, for those tears! Each one seemed to cry out to his responsibility for his lady's woe, and weighed upon his soul like a lead weight upon a grimy feather.

But before he could reach her, an even more unexpected face turned up. Mabuz! At the sight of the slightly-green man, Armand instantly sneered and reached for his blade. The man had insulted his lady, and then attempted to cheat in a proper duel so as to kill him! He had failed, and been banished by his own mother, of course...but Armand was not called 'Armand the Forgiving.' The reason he could not publicly voice his devotion to Mennah was standing scant feet away! However, before Armand could even fully draw his sword, Mennah had...accepted Mabuz's apology. And Armand was in no position to question her decisions. So he grudgingly clicked the sword back into its scabbard and acknowledged Mabuz's presence with a simple nod. Finally, he received his private conference with Mennah.

They walked a short distance to the solitude of another patch of apple trees, and Armand was quick to take hold of Mennah's hands so as to reassert himself as her loving lord. And to prevent her from slapping him, should the thought occur to her. "Mennah, I swear to you-"

“Are you leaving me for her?” She asked quietly, managing not to choke on the words.

Armand's jaw dropped, his passionate oath ending in a stunned stumble. His grip on her hands weakened for a moment as he attempted to register what she was suggesting. Leave...for her? The woman who claimed to have born his child? In all truth, it was not a foolish conclusion. It had been suggested, even. Leaving a half-fey woman for a human woman who had already provided him for an heir...perfectly logical. And completely unacceptable.

"No! Nay, no, never! By God, Mary and all the saints, Mennah! You truly believe I would do such...no!" It was a good thing that Armand could only be heard by the lady to whom he spoke, for he was indeed speaking rather loudly at that moment. "Mennah, I swear to you, if this child IS mine then he is older than he appears! Upon my father's grave, I have been faithful to you throughout our courtship."

He made no attempt to deny the possibility that Liam was, in fact, his son. For there was a perfectly good chance of it. But he would hear no talk of their engagement ending...and it did not occur to him to ask if she would have preferred it, though that might have been the more honorable thing. He tightened his grip upon her hands, his eyes nearly feverish as he leaned forward and spoke more softly as though there were a chance the others might hear.

"Mennah, I have no intention of wedding Claris...any woman who is not you. And I swear to any God who listens, I shall discover the truth of this matter. But do not think me unfaithful, for I have felt no lady's touch but your own since we left Sir Lancelot's lake!" Armand decided, in a rare moment of keenness, not to make mention of the other woman's name...Clarisin. Or of the name of his alleged son, Liam. It did not seem like information that Mennah would have been interested in at the moment.

Juliana had been about to reply to Lionel’s question about her slightly wore shoes, when she and Mary were given a start by Lancelot being pulled under by a sea monster, and Alanna and Bors jumping in after. Juliana was greatly comforted by Lionel’s words but still concerned about her new companions. A few tense moments passed Alanna and Lancelot emerged, closely followed by Bors. Mary wasted no time in grabbing a few blankets from their supplies, and running over to the water’s edge to hand them to her drenched companions. She also wanted to take a look at their wounds, she wasn’t a skilled healer, but she was decent at cleaning and wrapping wounds.

“Are you all alright?” Mary asked somewhat timidly, but loud enough for them all to hear.



Mennah waited for Armand’s response, braised for the worst, but instead the impossible outcome she’d wished for happened. He swore no intention of marriage for any but her, and promised the child must be older than he appeared if it were his, for he had been faithful for the past two years. Tears did fall from her eyes, but not those of pain or agony, but of relief and joy. It took almost no time at all for her to fling her hands out of Armand’s grip and wrap then behind his neck and kiss him passionately within his embrace. It was like the morning that had brought such pain and despair had never happened, not while she was held lovingly in his arms.

Lancelot left the lake in a muddled state. In truth, he was grateful that he, Alanna and Bors had escaped the clutches of the mysterious beast. But there were several things that racked him with guilt about the general experience. As he stepped out of the lake, he felt absolutely leaden with weight, as frigid water drained steadily out from under his armor. The weight felt equally matched in the state of his heart.

One was that Alanna was injured, and he had initially failed to notice. In fact, it was Bors who inquired first of her condition. Besides that, he always hated it when she was injured, and he felt guilty that he had not prevented it from happening.

“I’m fine. Your father’s gauntlets saved my hand from getting chewed, but… Ah, your arm, Alanna. It is certainly not nothing!” he said worriedly as he went to her side and held up her arm, examining just how much damage had been done. It was bleeding, sure enough. And there appeared to be teeth marks. Alanna must have been injured to this particular arm innumerable times—burns, wolf bites, sword wounds…and now a new bite from a lake monster.

Being injured was also a more serious matter to the party now that Mennah was not among them. There was not only the risk of loss of blood—but a nasty condition called infection. And who knew where that monster’s mouth had been? Some beasts, even, were cursed to have bites that never healed.

Fortunately, Lady Juliana appeared to have skills in healing. He dried himself with the blanket she offered, and allowed her to cleanse and wrap Alanna’s arm. They still stood on the shore, sopping wet despite the blankets. Lionel was urging that they leave the lake’s proximity before the monster attacks again, but Lancelot was more concerned over Alanna’s injury. After Juliana did what she could, he assured Alanna that they would look for a healer to care for it as well.

But before they left, he looked back at the lake with misgivings. “We failed,” he lamented dejectedly. “That aggressive beast still lives, and will no doubt make more victims upon those who come upon the lake.”
Lionel handed Lancelot Arondight. Lancelot looked down at his sword, and then back to the lake in consideration. “Nay,” he finally decided. “It is too foolhardy. If the beast dwelled on land, I would surely pursue it.”

Feeling like a failure, Lancelot took off his dripping armor, leaving himself in his moist gambeson and chausses. He gave the two pairs of dry clothes he had to his cousin and his betrothed. He was standing next to his horse, with eyes averted as his lady dressed. Clarric was licking his head and nibbling on a bit of kelp that was in his hair. Lancelot noticed that there were two black leeches on the underbelly of his horse. He knew better than to pick them off, however. With leeches, it was advised to let them finish their sucking and fall off of their own accord.

As he waited, he was feeling guilty over another matter: inadvertently touching Alanna’s bosom. He had said nothing and she had said nothing—which didn’t sit right with him at all. He didn’t want her to think that he had groped her on purpose, and yet she had not called him on it. He really should apologize… but it seemed like it would create even more tension if he brought it up—especially when she was wet, and the sight of her made him wonder just how much she wore under that tunic.

When everyone was dry enough, they set out from the lake. That evening, they came upon the Abbey of Beale—a large monastery with fortified walls. The sight of it pleased Lancelot greatly. Surely they would be given shelter for the night, and they would have a doctor who could heal Alanna.

Being Christian pilgrims, they were welcomed into the monastery, and given rooms in the guest house. The first time Lancelot had been to a monastery (sometime a year ago), he had been awed by the monks and their piety. This time, again he admired their virtuous lifestyle, but he did not wander all over it as he had done the first time. They were fed in the refectory, attended a brief service in the chapel, and then Lancelot took Alanna straight to the infirmary, where the doctoring monk graciously agreed to look at her wound. He was abhorred to be told that she had been bitten by a monster—which he instantly inferred to be a demon. He not only gave her a poultice made of healing herbs, but also blessed the wound. He would check on her again in the morning, he said.

Lancelot walked with Alanna to the woman’s guest house, feeling better that her wound had been adequately cared for. The monks seemed to approve of her more than any other type of people they had come across. It did not seem to bother them that she wielded a sword, as long as it was for justice. In fact, it sounded that Alanna was not far from the Bible’s perception of a virtuous woman. “She girdeth her loins with strength, and strengtheneth her arms,” they quoted Proverbs. “Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come… She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness… Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the LORD, she shall be praised. Give her of the fruit of her hands; and let her own works praise her in the gates.”

He stopped outside the door of her room. He thought that being in a monastery and just hearing the words of God would further inspire the will to be chaste in him… but instead, he found himself admiring her even more heartily after thinking of what a strong and virtuous woman she was. And from what was quoted of Proverbs, it sounded as though being virtuous was not about chastity; but about being ‘a crown to her husband.’

He made the mistake of lowering his eyes from her face to her chest. He was racked with guilt and temptation anew. His eyes returned guiltily to hers, and he opened his mouth to apologize for what he had done earlier by mistake. What he really deserved was to be slapped across his face, he suddenly thought. But surely she would not slap him for an action so belated. He would have to do it again—but this time on purpose. It was very backwards thinking, and it would make him doubly guilty—but he needed to be trained.

He lifted his hand partway—and then he nearly jumped out of his skin when a monk appeared just around the corner. Lancelot cut himself off before he could utter the Lord’s name in shock. His hands flew behind his back. He felt guilty as sin. What had he been thinking? Repeating his offense! Of all the madness! Luckily he had not done it.

“Well… goodnight, Alanna,” he said quickly after the monk had passed. He kissed her cheek, and then left, trembling with all manner of emotion. He returned the men’s guest house. He took Bors aside and led him by the shoulder to a chamber in which he could speak to him alone.

“My cousin,” he sighed as he stood before Bors. He had wanted to speak with Bors especially—he was the purest man he knew.

“I have been tempted,” he said outright. “And I have wronged my love Alanna. While we were in the lake, I blindly grabbed her about her bosom… and I have yet to apologize. When I was going to apologize to her tonight, I was tempted to do it again—and on purpose. Bors, I am much too distracted by her bosom… how do I keep my hands off her? Ah, coz, I feel so vulgar…”

It was not the first time Lancelot had come to Bors with advice on such matters. And if it was not Alanna’s bosom he was obsessing over, it was her legs, or her posterior, her eyes, her lips or even her hair. But it was only to Bors whom Lancelot would make such confessions.

They had left the beast alive, but it had left them alive, as well. It was a strange matter, but little could be done without the likelihood of a death in the group. There followed the usual fussing over injuries that often came with the end of a quest or battle, and Alanna guiltily allowed her fiance to examine the painful and rather frightful looking bite on her limb. She loathed being injured...no even so much due to the pain and inconvenience, but because she knew Lancelot tended to blame himself for the matter, and she was left to regret being so careless as to cause him worry. But soon the comrades were traveling again. Poor Lancelot had no dry clothes for himself, offering them up to his cousin and Alanna herself instead. Such nobility! But at least it was not long that he would have to suffer the inconvenience. In any case, she was pleased to be with monks again. It was a splendid thing, spending time with individuals who viewed her wielding of justice--in various senses--in a positive light. They even praised her actions, which none save Lancelot and her fellows ever did. Though she strove to remain humble, it was still nice to receive praise every once in a while...and the healing done to her torn arm was truly wonderful. The monks knew their way around matters of the flesh, ironically...and it was a great comfort to know that just in case, she had had the wound blessed.

Alanna's arm felt much better, though her mind was heavy with both guilt for causing Lancelot worry and...the matter of what had surely been an accidental grab. Should she have said something? Should she have demanded an apology...or at least inform him about it? From the awkwardness that had stretched between them since climbing out of the lake, she assumed he knew. Perhaps he had just realized some time afterward?

As they stood outside of the door that led to her chambers-to-be, where likely the women they traveled with were asleep already after such a trying day, Alanna found her mind completely absorbed with thoughts of chastity, and just where the line lay that meant it had been broken. She had never purposefully shown Lancelot her bare skin, nor had he purposefully shown her his. Certainly, sometimes their kisses lingered longer than perhaps they should have...on very rare occasions, when they caught themselves alone with no one to account for their actions but themselves...and perhaps she dwelt for longer upon thoughts of just how firm the muscles of his arms and chest were beneath his armor, and of whether or not he noticed if she bothered to leave the last lace of her tunic undone, and of how miraculously good tasting a man that had dined upon slugs could possibly be...and perhaps when they embraced she did ponder, only very rarely of course, on how fine it would be to press herself up against his bare chest...

But they had never lain together! They still remained pure, did they not? When they were married, she could wear blue to symbolize her purity in all honesty, could she not? One or two minor slips could not possibly count when they refrained from that greatest of unions, pending their marriage...

Alanna's lips were slightly parted and her gaze warm as she stood in silence with her paramour, lost in her own thoughts. She vaguely noticed his hand rising for some purpose she could not guess, but she felt as though her body's warmth increased dramatically the closer he drew. But before Lancelot's unnamed goal and Alanna's clarity could be reached, they were both interrupted by a monk crossing peacefully by. Alanna's cheeks burned as she blinked herself back into the present...in a monastery, with her fiance, standing outside a room with other women inside. Lancelot quickly kissed her cheek and bade her good night, to which she mumbled a reply and pressed one hand to his cheek in shy affection. Once he had hurriedly vanished down the hall, the confused lady knight turned and allowed herself into the room with shaking hands.


----


Bors had just been reading one of the more ancient manuscripts available from the abbey, one that was actually in his language. It was interesting and very pious, and he was enjoying it a great deal...but all of the sudden, Lancelot burst in and was dragging him aside. Bors was actually somewhat accustomed to this treatment...he knew what it signified. By the state of Lancelot's dress, nothing serious had occurred...once, Bors had been made to worry when his cousin had approached him with tussled hair and rumpled clothing, but this too had been merely a...well, it was in the past now. So Bors stood patiently and listened, allowing Lancelot to begin his confession without interruption. Bors had learned to fight off the rise of a blush to his cheeks (he was not accustomed to speaking openly about the pull of a woman's...whatever it was that Lancelot had become determined to feel, kiss or smell at any given moment) and had also learned to nod sagely when Lancelot seemed finished. He did so then.

"Assiez-vous, s'il vous plait...sit, coz, sit.." Bors invited gingerly, guiding his kinsman to sit in hopes that it would calm him some. He cleared his throat, seating himself and looking to the floor as he sought words of wisdom. "Lanzelot, you are...you love the Lady Alanna beaucoup, I know...we all know. And it iz a great struggle for you, zis fighting of ze...ze desires of ze flesh. And yet you have not...indulged, in zese desires. Zat iz a good start, coz! But perhaps, what you need iz...somes'ing else to think of, when you are alone with Lady Alanna. If you think of nothing but her...her physical beauties, then it iz no wonder you find yourself distracted."

Bors frowned and rubbed his chin, his eyes becoming vacant as he receded deep into thought. He was not an overly romantic being, which was perhaps why it was so much easier for him to maintain chastity than it was his cousin. Finally looking up, he held out his hands as though offering a gift. "Lanzelot, what if when you find yourself thinking of Alanna's...beauties, you instead make yourself to think of her spiritual beauties? Surely zey are many, non? Come, tell me what, beyond ze mortal form, it iz you love of your intended. Make a list for yourself, and think of it whenever ze need arises, oui?"

Mabuz was pleasantly stunned by Mennah’s kindness. ‘It’s nice to see you,’ she had said. His heart that had once ached so sorely was healing miraculously by these few words. He didn’t mind that she only spoke shortly to him, or mentioned a wedding, which he could only assume was to make her the wife of Sir Armand. It was enough to be greeted with benevolence. He held on to her words as if they comprised a wondrous enchantment.

“I thank you, Lady Mennah,” he uttered in awe.

Armand reacted with a bit more animosity, as he sneered and partially drew his blade. It was as Mabuz had expected, after all. Mabuz had wronged the knight greatly, even he would admit. But Armand seemed to change his mind with Mennah’s example of tolerance, and silently addressed him with a nod of no particular warmth. Mabuz reciprocated the nod, but said nothing more to his former rival.

Mabuz stood next to Maraud once Mennah and Armand left for their moments of privacy. Maraud had relieved Roryn of holding Aurora by setting the child on the ground. The girl immediately began to explore. Maraud kept her eye on her until Mabuz turned to her and spoke.

“I can hardly fathom the goodness of Lady Mennah. After all I have done—after I behaved in such a way that even my mother could not forgive me… Mennah greets me as if I am a friend.”

Maraud wrapped her arms around Mabuz and gave him a warm hug. She had come to appreciate him much more after living with him for two years. And his disposition had definitely improved after his training from Roryn.
As she was murmuring words of encouragement to him, she failed to notice that her daughter had disappeared, waddling over to the apple trees where Armand and Mennah had secluded themselves. Aurora stepped closer to the kissing couple. Her eyes were wide and curious, as she gently lifted her small hand to grasp the hem of Mennah’s dress.

Niniane had done much watching—she saw Merlin rise, stiff with age, and Morgan roll her eyes at him. It was one thing to hear the names of these people and be shown glimpses of them in Vivienne’s seeing pool—but it was another to see them in person. Niniane, like most half-feys, was more of an empath than a visionary. She would have the occasional vision, but in truth she knew little of her fate.

She stood when Merlin spoke to her and excused himself. He extended his hand to her. It was an ambiguous gesture, but Niniane did what felt natural in the moment—she grasped his hand in her right and patted it gently with the finger tips of her left. She tittered lightly at his quip—a laugh that sounded like that of a small, tinkling bell.

“I will look forward to it, Lord Merlin,” she said good-naturedly. She made a small, approving noise when he bowed to her. After he left, she remained in the room with Morgan. She sat down and fingered a decorative unicorn broach she wore on the front of her gown.

She met eyes with Morgan, her long lashes blinking twice as Morgan spoke of Vivienne. “Oh. Is your future inauspicious, Queen Morgan? My half-sister has not made mention of it. As for fate being set… well, I will leave that to Lord Merlin to tell me if such is really true.”

She said nothing for a moment—only appraising Morgan, who she found to be an intriguing woman, but not altogether likable.

“Are we not to greet the king?” she asked expectantly after more trumpeting sounded. “I hear that Arthur is the noblest of all kings, trumped only by the King of Kings Himself. Or so the Christians say. But the pagans like him as well. Vivienne sings nothing but praises for Arthur Pendragon. She even plans to retire from the land when he ends his reign. Queen Morgan, do you believe he is as good as people say? I’m sure you know him very well, being his sibling.”

Lancelot took a seat, but only because Bors suggested it. Otherwise he would have paced the room. As he sat and listened to his cousin, he shifted several times—first hunched, with one hand grasping his head, then straight and rigid with fists balled on his knees—and finally in a posture that was normal and attentive. But throughout, he stared intently and desperately at Bors. He leaned forward again when Bors held out his hands as he voiced his advice.

“Ah! What brilliance!” he burst when Bors finished. He finally released himself of his seat and grabbed his cousin’s shoulders excitedly. “I could easily spend all night listing Alanna’s spiritual beauties! It only shows how base I am that I have allowed myself to be so distracted by her corporeal beauties—when her spirit is such a wealth of virtue!” He let go of Bors’s shoulders, and now began to pace about with a light step.

“But where should I begin, coz? Well, I can not forget her adherence to the code of knights, which would not normally be accepted of a lady, but in which my dearest Alanna does excel. Altruism, for example! How quick she is to risk her own health for the life of another. She will do anything to protect children—or any innocent person, for that matter. But she especially champions children—and I believe that tells greatly of her goodness. Altogether she has outstanding courage, unquaking mettle against any man or beast or peril. And she has a heart for adventure.”

He took a breath and continued his verbal listing. “Humility! Never does she boast, and never does she lie about her origins. Piety—she is ever devoted to the Lord and Mother Mary and all the saints. Rationality, patience, wisdom; her temper is incredibly even and mild. Bold as a lioness, and gentle as an ewe. Sincere; a woman of integrity and honesty. Loyal—ever so loyal. And kind. And noble. And respectful to all who deserve it. She is decent to animals and all of the Lord’s creatures. She is fair and just in all matters. Is she not so, coz?”

“But! She is not so stern in disposition that she will not laugh and be jovial. But she is not wanton! Nor does she have a wandering eye. She has been utterly devoted to me—never have I seen her look with want upon another man. She has maintained her purity and chastity, and I intend to help her preserve it—even when I am tempted myself.”

He paused a moment, and his eyes softened and smile brightened even more. He made an attempt to express the very essence of Alanna—the strongest feeling he felt whenever he thought of her. “But what I love most about Alanna… is her tenderness and warmth. It was not immediately apparent to me that she could be so giving of her affection. But the longer I have known her, the more she exudes… the more I am certain that her heart is void of all malice, and so full of care and female sensitivity and the greatest of love. I can not think of her as lacking at all in feminine genteel, just because she exerts herself like a knight. Indeed, she is everything that is good and wholesome in a lady. And everything that is good and wholesome in a knight. She is my dearest lady knight…”

Lancelot was so overcome with emotion, that his eyes began to tear. “Ah, Bors—now I must tell her I love her! I can not possibly tell her enough!” He rushed across the room, but then stopped in the middle and turned back to face his cousin, wiping his eyes. “Nay, I shall let her sleep. Surely she is tired. It was only this morning that we struggled with that lake beast.”

He sat back down and blew his nose in a handkerchief. “It appears to me that Alanna is as close to perfection as a mortal person can achieve. Do I even deserve to be loved so heartily by her? I imagine she would be more deserving of a saintly knight… like you, coz.” But he smiled guiltily after saying this. “But I only speak so in speculation. In truth, I would be in an inconsolable despair if I lost her love… whether I deserve it or not. If she is happy with me in my flaws, that is what is important.”

Armand was taken by pleasant surprise when Mennah seized him and kissed him so passionately. Had he been a more modest being, he might have been concerned about the close proximity of the visitors in the orchard...but he was not an overly modest being, and so he wrapped his arms more firmly around her and returned the kiss vehemently. It was rare that such intensity occurred in their relationship; he assumed that Mennah was either naturally shy or wished to maintain her purity to the greatest level possible. Either way, he was glad for moments like these when...

His dim, love-muddled train of thought was interrupted as he felt a tugging upon Mennah's skirt. Forcing himself to separate their lips, he blinked several times and searched for the source of the unwanted disturbance. He glanced around all directions, then finally looked down. There, standing on chubby little legs and blinking lovely eyes up at them, was a previously unnoticed little girl. Armand came very close to jumping clean out of his skin.

"I-it isn't mine, I swear it!" He yelped, pointing at Aurora as he might the signs of an infestation. He didn't know where the baby had come from, but given his recent matters involving small children...he was not entirely pleased to see her.

Guinevere trembled at Mordred's proximity. She had hoped that he would deny their having had a meeting, then bow respectfully and hurry off to do...whatever it was that a young knight did those days. But nay, he had leaned in close, removing any acceptable space between them and caught her with a burning gaze. His smell, so typical of that of a knight and yet with a certain extra something, seemed to creep up around her like a paralyzing grasp from an unseen giant's hand. And though she fought with every bit of her self control, the faintest of blushes rose up in her cheeks. Though she banished the urge to take a step away and resume the appropriate stance for a communication between the two of them, the High Queen still felt her heart flutter like that of a much younger lady. She did not know that Mordred was attempting to make her nervous, but if she had she would have been unable to deny that he was succeeding.

He was younger than she, and that was by far the least of the blockades between them. She was not only mother to a daughter than was nearly old enough to be considerable as a wife for this man, but was herself the wife of another! The High King, no less! To even ponder upon the appeal of another man was nearly treason. True, she held no romantic love for her husband...but her respect for him had kept her dutiful throughout the years. Yet she had never been so sorely tempted as she was with each passing glance from this man, a knight within her own order! What was it that bothered her so when he gazed at her, or when he spoke so smoothly as he did now? The darkness of his eyes, or even the creaking of the leather portions of his clothing when he moved? Whatever it was, she worked valiantly to at least keep her distance, to avoid so much as lingering upon the thought of the temptation whenever possible.

Yet here it was, standing closer than even her ladies in waiting did when helping her to undress, and holding her fast without so much as lifting a finger. It took Guinevere several moments to ease her dizzy mind back into her body enough so as to respond. She swallowed delicately, her lips tightening as she determinedly touched her wedding ring with soft fingers.

"I have no charge, Sir Mordred. As you are aware, a Queen's duties are ever and all consuming. My time is not my own, I hope you are not offended by my lack of attentiveness to any of your...needs. Perhaps we may have private moments with which we may meet in the future." She ended weaker than she had started, and wished that she had been able to think of a less influential word to describe what she had deprived him of. After all, what business did he have questioning her whereabouts? None of the other knights in her order murmured when she was unable to meet with them! Of course, none of her other knights were ever avoided at great lengths. For none of her other knights had the ability to make her feel unfaithful with a single piercing gaze.

And Mordred's words only made matters worse. Her nephew! Her disobedient heart palpated most painfully as this word rang through her mind. Completely inexcusable! And to toss her soul into further turmoil, the trumpets rang out to sound the return of the king...

"Ah, my husband has returned. Come, Sir Mordred, won't you greet your king with me?" Guinevere spoke still weakly, but with a bit more strength than before. She specifically called Arthur by his titles, rather than his name...though whether it was for Mordred's sake or her own, she was not certain.

By the time Lancelot had finished his list of all that caused him to love his intended, he was not the only one with moist eyes. Though he was not altogether romantic, Bors could still feel great joy at the fortune of his cousin. And he had grown close to Alanna throughout their travels as well, and seen first hand the virtues that shown through the unusual woman's personage. To hear how deeply Lancelot cared for her, or indeed for any being, would have brought tears to even the eyes of the most celibate monk. Bors rubbed at his eyes and smiled as Lancelot stopped himself from dashing off to rouse Alanna and profess his love. Lancelot, like Lionel, was a being of essence. He could lunge into the most inadvisable plots at the first inkling, and damned be the consequences. This did mean that Bors was often responsible for the work afterwords, but he had spent such a great deal of time picking up after Lionel that Lancelot was not much of an added burden. Nay, in fact Bors oddly found himself loving his kinsmen all the more for their great passions. And to see his cousin so content was a reward in itself.

"Aye, coz, she shall enjoy her earned rest and we ours. Let us prepare for what comes with ze dawn, for ze Lord has afforded us comfortable beds, let us make ze most of it!" Bors replied with a nod as he began to remove his boots and surcoat. The surcoat he carefully folded, placing it in the most secure place he could think of in preparation for the morrow. Bors wrapped his belt into a loop and tucked it into his boots, and his sword was placed on top of a chest that was provided to each guest for storage of valuables. While he prepared for his nightly prayers, Bors smiled to hear Lancelot continue on praising his lady love. His smile turned somewhat sheepish as Lancelot suggested that Alanna deserved a man more like himself, and he waved away the idea.

"Nay, Lanzelot, Alanna iz devoted to you by her own choice...and zat iz some'sing zat so few knights can say in zis day. I am certain, should someone ask, zat she could provide a list of her loves for you just as lengthy as you for her. I do not foresee any inconsolable despair from you as a result of losing ze love of lady Alanna! Nay, coz, to look upon thy lady iz to look upon a woman who iz full of gaiety and joy. Despite your flaws, you have indeed made ze lady happy." Bors added this last with a teasing grin, tossing a spare blanket over his cousin like a net before settling back down for a well earned night's rest.

----

Alanna exhaled deeply. She then inhaled, only to exhale once more. She was preparing her nerves, readying herself for what she dearly hoped would be an un-stressful morning meeting. She had already met with the monk who had bandaged her wound, and any pain earned through the night was abated and the area with teeth markings was now surprisingly comfortable. Whatever the monk had done, he had been well aware of what he was doing. She had even gone to the stables to see to her charger, rubbing the horse between the ears and feeding him a borrowed apple. The steeds had already been groomed and fed, but she felt uncomfortable ignoring the faithful creature altogether.

Now, she wished to speak with Lancelot.

Since the previous night, Alanna had spent a good deal of time meditating and praying. She had managed to bury her nearly unsurfaced emotions and desires once more, and felt certain that she could face him without being reduced to a gawking vegetable. She had even decided to put behind her the accidental brush of his hand upon her chest...determining that it had been entirely accidental and that he had not noticed. She just needed to face him to prove to herself that all of these matters were forgotten. So she lifted her hand, and just as she was preparing to knock on the door and summon him out...she remembered that there were likely other men inside, who did not wish to be disturbed by a woman seeking one man!

With her cheeks burning at the near folly, Alanna turned on her heel and attempted to quickly walk away. At least she was comfortable enough to have tried.

"I do believe," Morgan began, a little spark enhabitting her eyes. "that he is a great and wonderful king. I knew that he would be beloved by all, even without the use of my crystal." A languished hand gestured to the large glassious orb in the center of the table. "But I beliee him to be too trusting, too aimiable in my opinion." She couldn't help but laugh a little, knowing they were not as close as they could be, but she'd come to accept more things about him in his reign. He'd done great things as a King, this she could not deny. What lay in store, she wouldn't think of quite so soon, but disolved the thoughts like vapor.

Bors’s advice had worked like magic. After taking such advice to heart, Lancelot found that he could sleep unperturbed and at peace about being chaste. He was only thinking of the wonderful merits of Alanna’s internal being. He was entirely appreciative to have the love of such a lady.

She was the first thing he thought of when waking the next morning. He greeted Bors cheerfully and told him that he was sure he was spiritually enlightened as a result of their discussion last night. Instead of relishing upon the curvature of her bosom, he had been reflecting upon her audacity when facing peril, or the sound reason in her judgments.

He was in the greatest of moods as they dressed and prepared to leave. He was with his cousins and Kantus. Then they left to seek the ladies. Just as he opened the door he spotted a familiar wave of golden hair. It was Alanna-but she was retreating down the hall. He was surprised to feel a nervous sort of flutter in his gut—as he had felt when he first saw her as Lady Etain.

“Alanna!” he called after her cheerfully. He caught up to her, but stopped short of hugging her. Her cheeks were rosier than normal, and her eyes were brightened from rest. He tried to conjure a spiritual merit to keep from doting upon her looks—but in face of her beauty, his mind unfortunately went blank. For a moment, he stared dumbfounded, and then he regained thought enough to ask her such ordinary questions—did she sleep well? And what was the state of her most recent wound? He was pleased to see that the monster bite on her arm was healing nicely.

At breakfast, Lancelot was finding that thinking of how charitable Alanna was could barely distract him enough from graceful slope of her shoulders. Even after witnessing her temperance and table manners, he was still drawn to the pleasing shape of her lips. Perhaps he was not as spiritually enlightened as he thought…

After breakfast, they met with the abbot to bid farewell, for they were to continue their journey to Rozeshire. The abbot was a goodly older monk. He requested that the party speak with him in the sacristy of the chapel. There, he said: “I wish to speak with the sons of King Bors and King Ban in the sanctuary.”

“Goodly abbot! How did you know that those men were our fathers?” Lancelot asked in disbelief. He had not introduced himself as the son of King Ban. But the abbot hushed him, and gestured for the three kinsmen to follow him through a decorative door, and into the holiest part of the chapel.

Lionel complied first, and after solemnly crossing himself with the holy water, he stepped inside. Lancelot was hesitant; he looked back at Alanna, Kantus and the two sisters, apologetic that they were not invited to follow after. Then he crossed himself and followed after Bors. The sanctuary was dimly lit with candles, and thoroughly furnished with gold and red velvet. It held an array of religious objects—most notably the sacramental wine and a stunning crucifix. Lancelot avoided studying all of the treasures. He had never been in a space so sacred, and felt that his eyes were undeserving of what he saw.

“I trust that you are descended from Bors and Ban. I recognized the three bendlets on the shields of you two knights,” he gestured to Bors and Lionel. “And you, Sir Knight, bear such a semblance to your father, I knew I must not be mistaken,” the abbot said softly, appraising Lancelot once more with his owlish eyes.

“You knew King Ban?” Lancelot asked, his voice hushed in both amazement and reverence for the space.

“For a brief time,” the abbot nodded. “But he and his brother did such a favor for this monastery, that I cannot forget him, even after all these years.”

“But I thought he lived in Brittany,” Lancelot brought up.

“Yes, of course—but more than twenty years ago, the two French kings sailed to Logres for a time, and traveled about and fought in the war with the Eleven Kings. They were allies of Arthur. And while they were in Logres, they lodged in this very monastery for a night.”

Lancelot’s eyes were wide and glistening. He never thought he would ever walk in the steps of the father he had never known—and here this monk was telling him that this father had once stayed in this very monastery—perhaps in the very bed that Lancelot had slept in! It was a revelation that brought him joy—but also a grave ache in his heart. There were times when he wished so vehemently to have known his father. And now he was told that he shared a semblance with him… with Ban. The terse name brought him a strong sense of filial yearning—and yet he knew nothing of the man.

The monk continued. “Our abbey is blessed to hold much wealth, including three sacred relics.” He gestured to three large decorative boxes sitting on pedestals. They were golden and bejeweled and wonderfully ornate. “The day Ban and Bors came, we were suffering from having one of our relics stolen—the cloak of St. Alban. The two kings vowed to retrieve it. Miraculously, they did find it and they returned it safely to the chapel. And now, just as the Lord would have it, the strapping sons of the strapping kings have come to Beale—and again, we are sorely missing one of our relics!”

“What iz it? We will retrieve it,” Lionel sprung upon the task.

“It is the sacramental chalice of St. Congar of Congresbury,” the abbot said, opening the door of the reliquary to show the empty niche inside. “It has the holy power to heal the mute, and it is crafted of silver. But it was undoubtedly taken because it is our only relic that had not been stolen—until now.”

“It heals the mute?” Lancelot inquired excitedly. “We have a good friend who is mute! But he is in Rozeshire. Oh, how wonderful it would be for him to speak again!”

“Never mind Sir Armand,” Lionel shook his head. “I want to know what Satan-serving villain would steal a relic from a monastery!”

“The sorceress of the Chapel Perilous has done it,” the abbot supplied, his brows furrowing. “You will find the Chapel Perilous if you go beyond Winteringham, across the rope bridge and into the Deleable forest. You will recognize it by the shields upon it, which are turned right side down. Those belong to the knights who have met their doom. I know not of the perils within the chapel. All I can warn you is from its name: the Chapel Perilous. But if you do succeed in this quest, as your fathers did, then as a reward, you may heal your friend with the relic. I only ask that it be brought back to the abbey eventually. God be with you, young knights.”

When Lancelot and Lionel left the sanctuary and returned to the rest of their party, their faces were set with determination. Lionel’s eyes were blazing and Lancelot’s jaw was tight. They had a new quest on their hands—one that they were duty-bound to, as Christian knights, and as the sons of the kings who had braved the same peril twenty years before. Lancelot was also motivated out of friendship for Armand, who could be healed with the relic they sought to retrieve.

With this mindset, they reverberated the words of the old abbot to their companions.

“I want you to stay here in ze monastery, Lady Juliana,” Lionel said to her firmly. “It iz too dangerous for you and your sister to come with us on ze quest. It iz not that you are a woman. Alanna is a lady, and we take her on every quest. But zat is only because she has been trained, and she knows how to use her sword. I hope you will understand… we will return for you when we bring back ze relic.”

Lancelot, meanwhile, spoke to Alanna. “The abbot told me that my father once came to this monastery. I can’t believe it… and he told me that I share my father’s likeness. I must fulfill this quest, if I am to know anything more about King Ban. Just as you carry your father’s sword, Alanna… I believe this is my chance to carry on my father’s legacy… Let’s ready our horses and be off.”