"I saw a knight," Tristan told Gawain after dinner. "He thought he was being sneaky, but he wasn't. I recognized his mark, the Knight of the Silver Gauntlets. Rumor says he was with King Tewdrig, whom rumor says King Arthur just usurped. So he is probably Arthur's man now."
Gawain swabbed the final bit of bread at the bottom of his bowl, chewing on it as he weighed that. "Did you see anyone else?"
Tristan shook his head, setting his still mostly full bowl at the table. "I heard more than one engine revving, however. He definitely isn't alone. There is a fork in the road ahead, according to our map."
"Guess we should get moving then," Gawain said with a sigh. "Full speed ahead."
"Paradoxically, perhaps not," Tristan mused, "Silver Gauntlets saw me as much as I saw him. Arthur can't run too quickly, lest he be seen as a coward."
"Maybe it would balance out. He's won two battles already."
"It is the tragedy of warriors that a thousand victories can be entirely undermined by one defeat or show of weakness," Tristan said, in that melancholic way of his. He was right though, so Gawain could find no fault in it.
"Always living on the sword edge," he sighed, "I'll go tell the others. Get ready to move."
Tristan smiled thinly. "I've already told my servants to tell yours'. Sir Dinadan is helping get things ready as well." He nodded over to Bors and Lancelot. "Agra is sleeping, agitated to exhaustion as she is, so that just leaves letting Sir Lancelot and Sir Bors know it is time to move."
The brothers were in an evidently heated conversation. Lancelot had been in a foul mood since they had left Londinium on this miserable quest, and Bors' desire to be the mediator had hit an impossible challenge.
Swallowing the last bit of bread, Gawain walked up to the two. He started to talk, but realized quickly he'd have to yell to be heard.
"You are being ridiculous," Bors was saying, directly, "you lost that joust against Sir Bedwyr because you had had too much to drink and underestimated a crippled man. Surely your pride can take a little laughter over that."
"I need to settle it, for that exact reason," Lancelot argued back, "I did underestimate him, for a foolish reason, despite his reputation as a soldier and warrior. I need to prove I'm not just a drunken fool."
"People know you aren't just a drunk, brother," Bors said, with the exhausted tone of one who'd made that argument quite a lot. "Was it not you who bested and killed the corrupted Chaos Lord Sir Turquine? You are a hero, the people know it, the bards know it. One mistake doesn't destroy that."
For some reason, Lancelot flinched at that. "Right," he said stiffly.
"You even saved our little brother, Galahad, from a no doubt horrid fate at the hands of that maniac." Bors reached out to pat the other man's shoulder. "So please, Sir Lancelot the Great, focus on that, alright?"
But Lancelot backed away from his brother. He was scowling angrily. "Enough, Bors. I intend to do what I must." He seemed ready to storm away.
"You may not have long to wait, Sir Lancelot," Gawain cut in. Hopefully this would give them both a bit of space from a clearly escalating family argument. "Sir Tristan sighted a Freeblade believed to be with King Arthur. Up the road near the fork."
"And no doubt Sir Bedwyr is near as well," Lancelot said, honing in on that fact like a lance point.
Bors threw his hands in the air. "Well, I'm done trying to convince you otherwise brother. I'll go get the cars ready." He stomped away, grumbling.
"Do you think you're being a bit harsh?" Gawain asked him, once Bors was out of earshot.
"Doesn't strike me as any business of yours," replied Lancelot, "your goal is as harsh, at the whim of your father."
Gawain grinned, past his irritation. "I'm sure I'll be held back from finishing King Arthur's reign permanently."
"I'll be fighting Sir Bedwyr, so don't expect that to be me."
"Surely you have lost a mere bout before?" Gawain pointed out, though he suspected that Bors had argued much the same, "Why are you so focused on this?"
"The name, Gawain, the name Lancelot. After losing that match I had a premonition that I need to beat Sir Bedwyr, or I will not own it. I'll simply be Lionel again."
"Lionel is hardly a shameful name, being that of a Primarch," Gawain pointed out.
Lancelot laughed, bitterly. "So you argue that I shouldn't carry my birth name either?" He considered. "So who would I be then?"
"Perhaps just Sir," Gawain offered, "Sir Blank, if you want to have something to say afterwards."
This time Lancelot's laugh was a bit more genuine. "Sir Gawain, I must say, it is distinctly unfair Sir Dinadan has a reputation for wit while you are around."
"Don't tell him, he'd be crushed." Gawain patted the man's shoulder. "We'll be on our way soon enough. Do what you think is right, old friend, but do try and remember your held in high regard for a reason. Sir Lancelot by the grace of the Damsel Order."
"Haven't heard much from them lately," Lancelot grumbled, "as I've said, I've had premonitions about this."
Gawain shrugged. "Myrddin always said reading the future is a complicated business, and he is the wizard. Me and you, we are but men." He started to walk back to his car, towards a bitter confrontation. "All we can do is be the best us we can be."
****************
The Knight of the Silver Gauntlets waited at the right side of the fork. In his full armor, surcoat, and arms he hoped he made at least a decently dignified sight. He had no horse. He couldn't afford the feed for such a luxury.
His foolish groom was tied to a tree, his slightly less foolish squire flogging him with a switch. The idiot had stopped whimpering, and only let out an occasional groan now.
"Stop," Silver Gauntlets ordered gruffly to the squire. The boy, an orphan he had picked up in some ruined town, backed away, throwing the blood stained switch away. "I hope catching an eyeful of that young lady was worth it." The groom didn't respond.
It galled Silver Gauntlets. He'd been made to look like a clumsy oaf in front of his new Lord, in a moment where he should have become known for great cunning and foresight. He was aware he had much to prove, having been among the crew of Freeblades King Tewdrig had recruited. He'd simply been seeking work, perhaps a chance to form a new line and establish his name, but he'd be the first to admit he'd been working with several bandits and criminals, ultimately following orders from a desperate fanatic, yet he knew he wanted to be more than that. King Arthur gave him that chance.
Sir Bedwyr, nearly twenty years younger than him, annoyed him. It was unfair he had such a lovely creature as Lady Vivian to warm his bed and perform Damsel's enchantment for him. By all rights it should have been a harlot his groom had caught a naked glimpse of, and then there wouldn't be a problem that couldn't be settled by a drink and a laugh.
Instead his half-rate henchman had seen the naked body of a woman who, even if she were common-born, had been taken in by the ancient order and raised up through whatever training they had to be an enchantress. No doubt Sir Bedwyr intended to make her his wife, like King Owain had done with Morgan Le Fey. Even all that aside, Silver Gauntlets thought, Lady Vivian was surpassingly beautiful, and his groom didn't deserve to look at such beauty.
So here he was, waiting for Sir Tristan, to challenge the extremely dangerous knight who bore three hearts and three lions, to try and salvage this. "If this world is to belong to the young, it should have been Lady Cei or Sir Bedwyr," grumbled the hedge knight.
He nearly had a heart attack when the full convoy arrived. Not just the two trios, but the solar pentacle of Sir Gawain, the seaeagle of Sir Lancelot, and a few others he thought he could recognize. Sir Bors, probably, if Sir Lancelot was here, Lady Agra as well, perhaps?
The convoy spread out over the road, the headlights of the lead vehicle boring into him like the eyes of some beast. "Who blocks the road?" an imperious voice boomed. Sir Tristan himself? Or perhaps he had a herald to do that for him.
Scowling darkly, hopefully blocked by his lowered visor, Silver Gauntlets drew his sword. "I am the Knight of the Silver Gauntlets. By my honor as a knight, none shall pass unless they best me in combat!"
There was silence from the cars for a moment. Another voice spoke up, "Well you've chosen a stupid place to make your stand. We could just use the other road."
Silver Gauntlets really hoped that was Sir Tristan, since he should at least be able to get a few knocks on him. "Yet you have turned down this one, so this is where you wish to go."
"Is that man there alright?" A third man.
"Sleeping off punishment." Perhaps they'd think the idiot was a victim of battle, which could help or hinder his true aims.
There was quiet, the group no doubt conversing among themselves. It was the first voice that spoke at last, melodic and calm. "Very well, I, Sir Tristan of Lyonesse, shall face you first. If you are victorious we shall see."
The most polite way to say "You won't win", thought Silver Gauntlets angrily. He mounted his machine, all the while thinking bitterly about idiot servants, cocky young heroes, and beautiful damsels.
