Balin and Columbine (Children of the May Book 1.5)

Although the stories in this collection, Prince Accolon and Balin and Columbine, can be read as standalone stories, they refer to major plot revelations in the previous book in the series, Children of the May. If you’re concerned about plot spoilers, I recommend that you read Children of the May before the stories collected here.

Prince Accolon

A Children of the May short story

by S. J. Moore

So when Accolon was dead Arthur let send him on an horse-bier, and said: Bear him to my sister Morgan le Fay, and say that I send her a present.

Thomas Malory, Le Morte D’Arthur

Foreword

I thought that I had met Prince Accolon before. I had not. When we were shipwrecked on Avalon there was boy with red hair, green eyes and an exquisite red coat who called himself Accolon. But he was lying. He was really Merlin the wizard, wearing the skin of a boy who had died years before.

After we left the island I didn’t think much of the past – we were fighting our war against Arthur, and after the war was done there was the peace to maintain, and new lives to make for those of us who survived. It is only now, many years later, that any of us have time to remember and record our pasts. But now I am old, and the past seems brighter than today.

Beside me I have the three histories Drift of the Lake wrote about our war. I read them often, but Drift leaves much out. He does not write of anything that he himself did not, in one way or another. I have come to think of it as my task to fill in the gaps Drift left so that the whole story is told.

This is the first of my tales, the true story of the boy whose face Merlin stole.

This, then, is the tale of Prince Accolon, written down as it was told to me by one who was there.

Chapter One: Accolon and Ontzlake

Once there were two friends, Prince Accolon of Caerleon, and Ontzlake of the Dolorous Garde. They were not, in truth, good boys, but given the examples they had around them their behaviour might have been worse. Both lads were bitter young things; each felt that their birthright had been stolen from him.

Accolon was a slender lad, red of hair, with large green eyes that seemed ready to pop out of his head. As if to make up for his strange appearance he always dressed very richly, in a fine red coat of a richer colour than his hair. His ambition was to prove himself the greatest knight in the land by taking back Castle Caerleon, which King Arthur had seized from his father in the War of Eleven Kings.

Ontzlake was small and on the chubby side. He was not as well dressed as Accolon, although he always claimed he would have been if his younger brother, Sir Damas of the round table, had not stolen away the Dolorous Garde, their family’s great castle at the heart of Forest Perilous. When Damas defeated his elder brother in a duel after their father’s death he gave Ontzlake no share of the family coin. Damas was vicious in the way he extorted rents from the tenants on his farms and villages. Ontzlake said he would be a much better master when he won back his lands.

These two disinherited boys rode around the flat, marshy lands of Gore in the east of Britain, a long way from Castle Caerleon, but close to Ontzlake’s home. They told tales to each other of the fights they would fight to reclaim what was theirs. For two years they had been having the same conversation over and over again:

‘Next season, my friend, I will plunge into the forest, slay my brother Damas, and become lord of Dolorous Garde.’

‘Yes, old bean, and I will face Arthur in single combat. I will cause him to spill blood like the underfed swine he is. If it hadn’t been for that dashed sword in the stone. I tell you... If I’d been there that day I would have shown them all the rightful king of Britain. The sword would have slid out of that little rock like my knife from a pat of butter.’

‘I know it, Accolon. Your arm is stronger than Arthur’s. You will be a just king, and give me back my castle.’

They repeated this talk from one spring to the next, but their words were but words. They were young boys, and unused to combat. If the boys ever happened upon a full-grown knight, one or the other of them would develop a mysterious ailment, and allocate an hour some days later, when they would be able to face Sir Lamorak, or Sir Tristan, or even Sir Dagonet. Alas, neither Accolon nor Ontzlake were particularly well-organised, so these chivalrous appointments were always forgotten and never kept. During their journeys together they had managed to fight only against opponents of the lowlier classes: villagers and farm boys who came at them in taverns and at markets, landlords chasing their unpaid bills, outraged fathers of country daughters. And even though they bore strong swords and fine armour, far excelling the weapons any peasant could wield, Accolon and Ontzlake did not always win these fights they started. One night in particular they humiliated themselves in front of a tavern filled with poor villagers from Gore’s marshes. They had been picking on a young fair-haired girl, the daughter of an eel-catcher, who was sharing a bowl of fish stew with her father.

‘What a fat little thing,’ Accolon had pretended to whisper, although he intended the whole room to hear.

‘I know,’ said Ontzlake, ‘it is a cruelty for the father to feed his daughter so. Starve her, good father, if she’s ever to be married.’

Accolon and Ontzlake laughed as the pretty young girl’s spoon dropped from her hand to her bowl, and tears welled in her fair blue eyes. But their laughter soon ceased when the father, a tall and well-built, much used to a rough life, scraped his stool hard against the tavern’s wooden floor and stood to face them. The whole parlour fell silent. Accolon and Ontzlake tried to ignore the change in atmosphere, and the eel-catcher’s heavy footsteps as he came towards their table.

‘Excuse me, sirs,’ said the eel-catcher in his deep, manly voice. ‘Would you care to repeat what you just said?’

Neither of the boys looked up from his food. Accolon waved his hand to dismiss the eel-catcher, who was standing over them with his broad arms across his broad chest. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, rustic,’ said Accolon, his voice much higher in his throat than it normally sat.

‘We were discussing our famous exploits in combat,’ said Ontzlake in a quiet mumble. ‘Not for the ears of you lowly folk.’

‘That is not what I heard, young sirs. I believe you insulted my daughter. If you were men of honour you would admit your incivility and beg her forgiveness.’  

Now Accolon’s bulging green eyes swivelled to regard the eel-catcher, who was as grey as his daughter was fair. ‘I’m afraid, old chap, that we don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The eel-catcher turned to the rest of the room, where the whole assembly was looking on. ‘You all heard it, didn’t you? You heard them insult my Margaret, our own May Queen.’

‘Aye, John, that we did,’ said the landlord, who of all the people in the room might have been thought the most likely to mute the heavy hint of bother in his dining room.

‘And you’ve heard me say before,’ said John the eel-catcher to the company, ‘that knights or not, no man will make my little girl cry.’

‘Aye, that we did,’ said several people in strong voice.

But the acclamation of the crowded peasant room was broken by his own Margaret’s scream of fear. ‘Dad!’ she called out. ‘I doesn’t matter. Leave it – watch out!’

The eel-catcher spun around to find Prince Accolon on his feet, with sword in hand.

‘You can leave quietly now, young knight,’ said John the eel-catcher. ‘Or you can leave with a buffet you’ll never forget.’

Without reply Accolon lunged at the larger man. The point of his gorgeous sword caught the dim light.

As quick as a flash, John whipped the stick he used to crack eels’ skulls from his belt, and delivered two sharp whacks to Accolon: the first to his forehead, and the second to his sword-hand. The second blow caused Accolon to drop his sword on the damp floor, and John trapped the blade under his heavy boot.

The eel-catcher turned to Ontzlake, who remained seated. ‘Do you want some too?’ said John, angry and confident.

Ontzlake kept his eyes to his bowl, and shook his head.

‘Then get out, the pair of you, and don’t come back here.’

‘My sword,’ said Accolon, breathy and upset.’

I’m keeping it,’ said John. ‘And let its loss be a reminder of the way you’ve dishonoured yourself here today. A good knight should be courteous, that’s what we’re told. But you two are cowards, and like all cowards you’re liars too.’

Shamefaced, Accolon and Ontzlake slouched out of that tavern into the misty drizzle, accompanied by the cheers and jeers of the poor people they left behind in the dry warm.

The next day Accolon and Ontzlake rode on through the steaming, stinking land. True to the eel-catcher’s words, they told themselves lies to excuse their failure the evening before.

‘You see, old chap, the peasant is a much debased breed,’ said Accolon, rubbing the big round bruise that had swelled in the centre of his forehead. ‘I would have bested that rogue easily if he hadn’t taken me by surprise.’

‘I know it, my friend, the blows he gave you were most dishonourable,’ Ontzlake agreed. ‘The trouble with peasants is that they have no sense of honour like we do. I wonder if they even have feelings like we folk of better breeds.’

‘Next season, when I have reclaimed Castle Caerleon, I will return to this place with my army, and then I’ll teach the eel-catcher the meaning of knightly honour.’

The two bitter boys’ fantasies of future victory were interrupted by the appearance of a beautiful young lady. She emerged from the rushes in a fine black dress, woven through with a silver thread that shimmered like the mist in a sunny breeze. Her auburn hair fell softly over her shoulders. Her eyes were black, her skin pale. She was loose of limb, with long legs and slim hips. She was very pleasing to the boys’ eyes.

‘Brave and handsome knight,’ said the maiden to Accolon. ‘I see you ride without a sword. I tell you that I have in my possession the finest blade in all the land, a sword made with such magic that its possessor can be harmed by no man alive. I will you give you this sword if you promise to complete a simple task for me.’

Entranced by the maiden, and seemingly blind to the certainty that such a gift as she promised must exact a heavy price, Accolon agreed without further thought.

The maiden beamed a beautiful, if sly, smile. ‘Then follow me, brave sir knights, to the chapel I keep nearby. There I will meet your need for a weapon.’

‘Oh there’s no need for you to walk, my dear girl. Climb up on my horse and you can guide us there.’ Accolon patted a small space in front of him in the saddle, and the slim young woman slipped easily between his legs. Accolon shifted to make himself comfortable, placed his arms tightly around the woman to keep her from falling, and urged his horse on.

If he had been a more sensible boy he would have asked the maiden her name before he went anywhere with her. Unfortunately for him, Prince Accolon had many qualities, but wisdom was not among them.

Chapter Two: King Arthur Rides Out

It so happened that this was the year King Arthur ordered Sir Tristan to invade the island of Erin. Arthur, never the kingliest of kings, always got terrible stomach aches when he commanded the conquest of another nation. The physician at Accolon’s old castle of Caerleon, where Arthur kept the round table in those days, flattered the king that his cramps and vomiting were caused by deep-seated bravery. The king’s body was determined to shed blood with his men overseas, said the man, but obviously Arthur could not be seen to place himself in danger – that might disorder Britain. Luckily, the treatment was simple: the physician advised that Arthur should treat the shortfall in the blood of his enemies with the blood of animals. It was decided that when Sir Tristan departed from Caerleon with the doomed Sir Marhaus, the son of the king of Erin, King Arthur would ride out on a hunting trip.

The king rode in a covered wagon, guarded by Sir Gawain his nephew, Sir Bors and Sir Kay the Seneschal, who was Arthur’s foster-brother from the days when no one but Merlin knew of the king’s destiny. Arthur was sad that his favourite, the pretty Sir Lancelot, whose beauty had the effect of a good charm, could not hunt with him, but the best knight of the round table had taken it upon himself to visit Leo de Grance of Cameliard on an urgent diplomatic mission. Lancelot’s excuse made Arthur and the knights in his party laugh. It was well known that Lancelot had an eye for the ladies, and that Leo de Grance had extremely beautiful daughters.

‘In which direction shall we ride, your majesty?’ asked Sir Kay.

Arthur thought about it a while before making his decision. ‘There is good hunting in the lands of Gore. Let us go to my brother-in-law King Uriens and visit with my sister Morgan. It’s been a goodly while since I looked upon her dear face.’

With that, he drew the curtain of his fine carriage, and relaxed into his soft cushions. He was soon asleep and, as Sir Kay had ridden ahead, Sir Gawain was free to grumble.

‘There’s bugger all hunting in Gore,’ Gawain said to Sir Bors, very quietly so that the soldiers who accompanied the party did not hear his gossip. ‘It’s all bloody marshes for Jesu’s sake. The king doesnea ken the first thing about the hunt, he never learnt as a child like I did on Orkney.’

‘Sir Kay says he never was one for hunting beasts,’ Bors replied in a sarcastic tone, ‘but you can bet he hunts women when he gets the chance.’

Bors fell into giggles, hinting at a not entirely pleasant reason for Arthur’s decision to ride towards King Uriens and his queen. Like a good sibling Arthur loved his half-sisters very much, but the rumour was that he loved them very much, and not as a half-brother should. Gawain was less inclined to find this amusing, however, as the king’s other half-sister, Queen Morgawse of Orkney, was mother to four boys, of whom Gawain himself was the eldest.

In fairness to the king, it was also said that these unsuitable loves had swollen before Arthur learned that Morgan and Morgawse were his blood relations. The king had been brought up by a foster-father, Sir Ector, and kept ignorant of the fact that he was the son of King Uther Pendragon and Ygraine of Gorlois until he drew the sword from the stone. He had encountered his sisters before the truth of his parentage was revealed to him. Being generous, one had to admit that those first unnatural dalliances weren’t Arthur’s fault. But that Arthur had not put his sisters aside after Merlin revealed his true origin… well, those later flirtations were less forgivable.

Bors loved to torment Gawain with the rumour, but would not have intimated any of this if Sir Kay had been in earshot – the seneschal was violently sensitive to slurs against his foster-brother. Gawain had a tendency to treat accusations as so many words – he knew that his mother would never have imperilled their family honour. Sir Kay was not so placid. Happily for Bors, Kay was often out of earshot; it was his job to ride ahead and ensure that each poor town and village gave their king an appropriate welcome. Kay had brought flags and pendants for the villagers to wave as Arthur’s carriage passed by; he kept a supply of money with which to bribe the cheers the king loved to hear from the comfort of his plumped cushions.

The party made its stately progress across Britain, slowed by the heavy wheels of Arthur’s wagon. They had been on the road for three weeks when they made it to the eastern regions of Britain. Sir Gawain was frustrated by the lack of hunting in which he had been allowed to indulge. The party had survived on the hospitality of Arthur’s vassals, and the charity, not always willingly given, of the roadside inns along the way. By the time their horses’ hooves first sank into the sloppy edges of the land of Gore, the son of Orkney was thoroughly frustrated and spoiling to kill something, anything.

Which was why he was pleased when a knight in silver armour rode out of the marsh-mists. Arthur encouraged a good deal of fighting between the knights of the realm, it was the king’s way of ensuring that each seat of the round table was filled by those who were best equipped to protect his person and his interests. Only the most successful fighters gained a seat at the table round. So it was that Gawain listened to the silver knight’s formal challenge with pleasure.

‘Sir knights,’ said the silver knight in his none-too-terrifying voice. ‘Why do you come to these marshes?’

‘We travel to Castle Terrabil to visit King Uriens,’ replied Sir Gawain, Sir Kay having ridden ahead to announce the king’s approach to the royal couple of Gore.

‘You will not go by this road unless you can pass me.’ 

‘Very well,’ said Gawain, urging his horse forward. ‘I accept your challenge, silver knight. Tell me your name so I know whom to inform of your death.’

‘My name is Prince Accolon of Castle Caerleon,’ said the silver knight, ‘son of King Cradelmont, foully dispossessed of his lands by the usurper Arthur in the late War of Eleven Kings.’

‘Jesu’, Accolon,’ said Gawain, ‘you ungrateful little snot. I ken you well. Hasnea the king been good to you? He’s allowed you to live unmolested since the war. You’re no match for me. You’ll fall beneath my horse’s hooves in short order.’

‘You are mistaken, Sir Gawain once of Orkney, rest assured that you are mine to destroy. I will tackle you shortly. However, I fight as champion to Sir Ontzlake, rightful Lord of the Dolorous Garde, nearby in the Forest Perilous. My first fight will be with your master, who hides within his soft wagon. It was Sir Arthur who gave the Garde to Sir Damas, Ontzlake’s brother, out of order of proper succession. It is with Arthur my quarrel lies.’

‘By all that is holy,’ said Sir Bors, ‘you’ve grown big in your boots, Prince Accolon. It isn’t three summers since you were grovelling around the great hall of Caerleon, grasping for scraps that fell from your king’s table. You’re not worthy to face Arthur in combat.’

The mist swirled around the feet of Accolon’s steed. ‘It is Arthur I challenge,’ said the young knight as firmly as his thin voice would allow.

Bors and Gawain laughed at his impertinence. Both knights were surprised when the door of the wagon opened, and Arthur’s boot squelched into the mud. The balding king, not much past thirty years of age, wore no armour. His nightgown and velvet housecoat trailed in the mud, though he had belted Excalibur and its scabbard around his thin waist. The hilt of the sword gave off its strange green glow.

‘Very well, Prince Accolon,’ said the king. ‘Prepare yourself to die.’

Chapter Three: The Black Chapel

The chapel Accolon, Ontzlake and the fair maiden rode to was an unusual one. There were no crosses hanging anywhere that Accolon could see, nor an altar table in its normal place in the chancel. The squat building was made of black brick, and stank of incense. It was staffed entirely by beautiful priestesses, each of whom was almost as pleasing to the boys as the fair maiden herself.

They were kept entertained for several days, and Accolon forgot the beautiful maid’s promise of the magical sword. He was entranced by the strange ceremonies of animal sacrifice the priestesses practised each evening; the hypnotic, abandoned chanting and dancing in which they encouraged their guests to participate. Each night Accolon found himself welcomed into the bedchamber of the fair maiden, where she pleased him with all sorts of lovely enchantments.

‘It is almost time for you to leave this place and take up your task on my behalf, my swordless champion,’ said the maiden in her whispering, enveloping voice on the ninth night of their stay.

‘Just a few more days and I will have sufficiently regained my strength, fair one,’ said Accolon, lying under the fur covers of her bed. ‘Let us stay just a few more nights and then I will take up your quest.’

Her ringed fingers stroked Accolon’s smooth chest. She kissed his bare shoulder. ‘Oh, my great and powerful prince,’ she said, ‘when you have achieved your quest you may order me wherever you please. I will be your own slave. But tonight you must participate in our final ceremony at the black chapel, and receive the gift I promised you at our first meeting. Come.’

Hand-in-hand the two of them went from the maiden’s chamber into the chapel, where the priestesses had arranged themselves in a more formal order than had been usual. They were in two rows, forming a guard of honour, only where knights would have raised their swords to form a roof under which the focus of their ceremonies would pass, the women of the chapel used branches of green leaves. The room was filled with the smoke of burning sprigs of rosemary and thyme.

The fair woman gave Accolon one last kiss on the cheek, and went to the head of the chapel. The prince could see her through the corridor formed by the priestesses. Chubby Ontzlake appeared behind him.

‘This is it, brother,’ said Ontzlake. ‘This gift you’re to receive is what gets you what you’re owed.’

All the candles in the chapel were suddenly extinguished, and the chapel was plunged into darkness. The priestesses began to chant in