Blood makes the grass grow, and all the world's in bloom. The heavy rain of winter and the constant, if less insistent, rain of spring have given way to roses and primroses, wild buds of every kind, and shape, and hue. And the stands have been full all day, and the contests have been merry.
And there's been more than tilting, ladies and lords. There have been contests of speed, agility, cunning and, yes, strength. There have been races, mock battles, feats of amazing alacrity. All of it is building up to May Day. A few weeks, and everyone will be in a bloody, ruddy, rutty frenzy.
Marvelous.
But there have been a few notable exceptions to today's activities. Lancelot's out on quest. Bors has had to go to Glastonbury. And Drustan, for reasons yet unknown, did not armor up today. Nor was Comet, though seen, ridden at all, nor even tacked beyond a lead.
In fact...
Now that we mention it...
Drustan's rarely been seen out of his tent. Nor a crowd of women going into it. It bodes not well for those in the know...
"Oh, come on!" screams Gawaine, standing at the edge of the main jousting panel. He's gotten the draw today as Master Instructor, and now yells at Ector, who is serving as Squire's Judge. "That pass was not legal!" he demands, seeing his student of the day, Peruel of Lancan, leaning back in his saddle, having been put there by Deron of Middlegast. "For pity's sake, at least pay attention!"
Ector's not impressed, head hanging at his left shoulder as he watches Gawaine rail at him. A sigh and he motions for the two to do a pass again.
For his part, Peruel is not entirely sure he wants to do it again. But as he wobbily regains his seating, coming upright with a lot of clanging and banging, there's a wave of I'm alive and he goes back to his starting place to give it another go.
And maybe this time Deron of Middlegast won't cheat...
It's around that time, as the two combatants take their place and the starting of the pass is imminent that some attention -- quite a bit of it actually -- is drawn toward a stirring in the tents.
Come on, be honest. When the tent flap slapped back and the pavilion's door was opened, you all -- every last one of you -- expected him to come stumbling out, roaring about a hangover and promptly retrieving his 'lord' and taking a piss on the lawn. You've seen it before. And you've seen all the signs of impending lawn pissing throughout the day: the removal from the lists, the lack of tack (not just the tact that is usually missing), the sheer lack of activity from the Boar's pavilion.
But when he comes out, he's glorious. Decked in armor and in red and black, his colors -- exiled status or not -- black hair curly and kempt. Crimson cloak hanging draped Romanesque. Drustan, not of the past year or two years ago. But Drustan of the hundred battles Drustan. The very one that used to send hearts skipping, harps lilting and an Irish princess quite beside herself.
He folds his arms across his armored chest and watches.
Yea, that is right. I am neither dead nor drunk.
Gawaine stands at the edge of the squire's rail, walking back and forth. He watches his youth intently, then glares at Deron and his Master Instructor, Sir Igrel of Northscay. Gawaine sneers, then gives his attention to Peruel again.
"Up, up!" he calls, "Firm and ahead. It's you!" Gawaine calls about the blunted student lance, he now trailing the length of the rail, "If it's not, you're dead!"
It's much better this time. Enough to make the opposing instructor grimace. The clash is louder, and while Peruel wobbles, it's Deron who seems a little stunned in his saddle. But he's not going far. He quickly rights himself and finishes the run to the end, swinging the horse around.
Gawaine sighs, glad that this run was improved. But it's not saying much. Both hands are curled around the rail as he stares at his student, who is working on getting himself into place again.
He watches his friend, eyes crinkling at the corners, making paths for future wrinkles. And suddenly he wishes he had taken on a student. Or ... better yet... had a son. Would that not be amazing, he thinks. Only to do it right. Not as it was done to thee, old soul. There, beneath the armor and the crimson and black there's a little flame of melancholy. But he gives it no fuel just now. No extra thought. No brandywine.
Drustan squints past the sunlight, lifting a hand to shade his gaze, and he smiles. Gawaine, you're a born natural at it. You're going to send yourself into a Caesar-like fit, though, if you grab that railing any more tightly. Lowering his hand, he turns to head toward the stands, strolling back among the tents, taking the scenic route. Even pausing to pick a flower along the way. A nice sprig of broom, which he then sticks in the gathering of his silver boar brooch.
He hangs back, pausing to watch at the far end of the run, waiting for the next, and potentially last, pass.
"This is the only time to get it right today," Gawaine yells. He goes quiet as the junior passes the squire a fresh lance, as the junior is perhaps giving nicer words of encouragement. Gawaine exhales again, bristling in his dressed-down instructor browns today. He turns his gaze to the other side, just in time to see the same scene opposite. Well, at least it confirms someone is a student over there.
"Okay, this is it," he says, walking a few feet along the rail. "Forward," he calls, "...stay firm and up, lean slightly ahead. Lead with the lance," he says in quick reminders. "You start out there...not back in the saddle."
Gawaine claps his hand twice, giving encouragement. As Ector nods, the two youths start another pass, horses hooves digging into the softer dirt of the arena.
"Bear down, bear down!" Gawaine shouts, and indeed, the young Peruel firms lance and arm, leaning slightly ahead....
Letting the horse do the work. Using balance and position to unseat your opponent. First, by cunning and, second, by strength. Strength always second. It is more a matter of strategy and finesse than it looks. Of course, that's on the tournament field. Finesse is nowhere to be found in battle... unless one happens to be God. One imagines that from His vantage point there might be something of finesse to be found.
By the time Drustan is climbing into the stands to join those others who linger to watch -- mostly knights, fathers of sons some of them, but joined by the occasional wife wearing a look of disapproval and wonderment -- there is a sound of contact. And then, finally, he makes his way over to his old friend. "You and I were never that green," he murmurs Cornish, droll and slow, dripping with wry humor like dry wine. Drustan leans upon the railing, arms crossed. He makes a little wince at the action.
The clanging is loud again, but this time both youths are rather rattled. Deron comes out of his saddle and Peruel hangs to right, left foot out of stirrup. He manages to hang on, hands out frantically to give him balance.
But he stays on. In the loosest sense of the word.
"Yes!" Gawaine yips, then winces as his head hangs to the side too as he watches Peruel use hands to get back into his saddle. Well, it's something, at least.
"We had to be," Gawaine says, now that things are done. He looks over to you, brows lifting. "Why are you all dressed?" he wonders. It's a practice-day for goodness' sake. Gawaine returns to the students, smiling only faintly when Peruel's friends rush over to see about him.
"I was contemplating suicide earlier," Drustan says in that usual clip of his. As if he half-meant it. "One shouldn't meet the devil in tatty clothing." And still, one may well wonder. "I'm entertaining my ..." his head tilts, a hand comes up and fingers wiggle, "... own sense of poetic fantasy. So... who lost the bet that I'd be out here crowning the grass...?"
Twisting, he looks at both lads, a pivot of attention given to them both, and he claps his hands, he gives a whistle, a shrill battle whistle at that. Another clapping of hands. "Good show, lads... you're improving Peruel..."
"Truth be told, I'm humoring Jenny," your aunt. And well... when Lance is away, someone has to fill her schedule. If not her...
Well, you get the point...
"He is getting better," Drustan notes, "... he'll have you to thank for that someday. So... I'm thinking of ... not going to Avalon afterall. Do you think Arthur would be disappointed?"
Gawaine glances over at you, never sure what to think. But he's one who tends to keep his own counsel. "God does not like suicides," he replies drolly, nodding eagerly and fishing up a smile when the squires and juniors look over at him for approval. "Go have your supper," Gawaine says, exhaling and turning his back on the scene. He's done, and they know it.
Leaning against the railing, the truth of it can be told. Gawaine's not just in brown, he's spotted here and there in mud. Even his hands are dark from the practice. Hands on, if you will.
"We were that green," he answers again, picking up that thread and seeming to ignore the present on about Avalon. "But we're always that green," Gawaine thinks. "Every situation is new. Thus, we are green in it. In some areas," he looks at the retreating crowd of young men, "...we are no longer green. And in some, we are...nothing but. Age matters not."
"I wasn't expecting to speak to the Almighty," Drustan retorts and he leans back on the railing, eyes skyward for a moment, as if waiting for lightning to strike. It never does. He isn't sure whether or not he should be comforted by that. Either God doesn't exist or he doesn't care.
He chuckles. "Greener. I still am. My body is a stone, steel and leather and flesh and blood and hard-headed rock, but my heart and my soul are tender shoots of grass trying desperately to push up through a cover of manure," he waxes, rolling his head across his shoulder to look at you. "Careful, Gawaine, or you'll reason yourself into a quest." Drustan exhales. "Even a knotty old oak is green on the inside, aye..."
"Why were you going there in the first place?" Gawaine wonders. He is not one for court gossip, but that one he'd heard about. "You'll forgive me for not keeping up," he smiles, hands back on the rail behind him. He does not understand the fascination with the place, or the disconcerting ways many have focused their lives and motives around the place. On many sides. Gawaine kicks the dirt and looks down, waiting for an answer.
Drustan looks at you for a while, then his eyes lift to make another sweep of the upper stands, the tops of trees. "Respite and restoration. Healing, I guess." A pause. "I have been sober. I have been drunk. I have been splendid. I have been soiled. I suppose there's no escaping it in the end, but I don't want to be a total fatalist. I leave that to Saxon minstrels."
But in the end, what would be served by the departure? A few more months of peace in Arthur's court? A few more children for Avalon's cause? "So... I am thinking I should not be an exile within an exile. And maybe in my exiled state I should... carry myself as Cornwall's son and heir, until Cornwall replaces me with a new son. I hear that is to be imminent." A pause, a smirk. "My father assures me of his nightly attempts whenever he sees me. Maybe I should stick close to court in the meantime. I would hate to be forgotten in my own lifetime..."
Gawaine frowns. "You give them too much of yourself," he says quietly. "And that...is a waste." If he had coin for every discussion of his brothers, his mother, his bastard cousin...he'd be wealthy. Avalan shall have none of him.
"But, you look like a son of Cornwall in your armor. It suits you,' Gawain finishes. This from a man some say is not 'so bright.' Ah, well. He grins. "I hear you have been busy as well," he comments.
"I am hoping that 'king' shall one day rub off on me like sunlight," he waxes again, slanting a grin. "To that end, I have been employing the slender hands of a few of Camelot's youngest and brightest as a sort of... polishing. They haven't done a half bad job of it," Drustan remarks, looking down at himself.
He knows it's utterly empty, but you know... sleeping with company at least has its merits of distraction and delusion. He pretends they are her when it is dark. When it is light, he pretends he is not himself. So far, it has at least kept him sober, in the saddle, and marvelous to see.
Drustan looks to you again and reaches out to pat a muddied shoulder. Good on you for your advice. "So far, Mirabella is my favorite. Six and ten and a baron's daughter. She will make some lucky man a wife one day. Guinevere is hoping to marry me off to Gwendolyn of Gwent. I am arguing that she is simply too pure to be any wife to me." A pause. "Maybe the truth of it is that I am bored and need adventure. I should have gone with Lance on his quest for the silver fountain. I would have strangled him come a fortnight, but at least it would be... action..."
"Or Percival," Gawaine suggests, pushing off the railing. "I understand he was going to Saxony...very busy route that," he notes sarcastically. Maybe soon, others will follow. "But, an adventure, is not a bad idea. Put your energies to...other...good use." Though the girls around here do need occupying.
"I am going to the squires' quarter...care to go and show them what they might grow up to be, if they are lucky...."
There's a flash of a grin, a hard pat upon your back and he comes upright. Tall, though not as tall as you for certes, or Ywaine either for that matter, he cuts a striking figure. "I am dressed to impress. Might as well make the most of it..."
There's no more talk of question. Nor any more talk of girls -- we'll see how long that last when he gets to the squires quarters. Drustan pushes off the rail and walks alongside you, red-black-silver in the afternoon glare.
It is a sight for the memory. Let the mind take hold of it. Precious few shall such sights be in the coming years. You cannot know now how the years will go, or how you will miss one another in the end. But hold it for that time, this sight of him beside you. And when he can be seen no more, remember most his laughter.
Posted by rowan at October 01, 2003 09:41 PM
