Brangien gasped, clutching Guinevere’s hand. “He is here!”
“Who?”
Brangien pointed to a new knight who had entered the ring. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore a leather mask that obscured his entire face. His armor was unusual, too, a jumble of metals of different colors. The variety made it look less like armor he wore and more like it was a natural part of him.
“The patchwork knight! That is what they call him. No one knows who he is or where he is from! He comes sometimes, wins every fight, and then disappears. Oh, he is terribly popular. It cannot be long before he earns a tournament and becomes a true knight of the king.”
“Would Arthur do that? Offer a position to a stranger?”
“That is how Sir Tristan got his knighthood! Through his valor in the ring.”
“So anyone could perform well enough and then have a place at the king’s side? A place in the castle?”
“Yes, but aspirants can only compete here once a week. And there are always so many of them. It is only a matter of time before the patchwork knight makes it through, though.” Brangien’s tone was distracted, her attention entirely on the ring as she leaned forward, breathless with anticipation.
Guinevere had a reason to pay attention now, too. Because there could be anyone—or anything—behind that mask. Using it as a way to get close to Arthur.
Though a dozen other fights were happening at the same time, it was clear who the crowd was there to watch. Every move the patchwork knight made was met with cheers, shouted advice, even a few jeers from those loyal to the unfortunate opponent being mercilessly pounded. The fight lasted only a few minutes before the patchwork knight’s would-be rival stumbled out of the ring, admitting defeat. The loser took off his leather armor and threw it.
His theatrics were lost on the crowd. They only had eyes for the patchwork knight. But rather than raise his arms or exult in his victory, he stood perfectly still, his sword tip resting on the ground, both hands wrapped around the hilt. He looked like a statue that would come to life only when challenged.
Another aspirant—Brangien clarified that was what they called those who tried their hand at besting the knights—entered the ring. The aspirants for the week’s matches fought each other. Only the winner among those would be allowed to fight one of Arthur’s knights.
“Most days there are so many aspirants that the knights never end up fighting one. The sun sets before they work through each other,” Brangien explained as another aspirant strode confidently into the ring with the patchwork knight.
“There are that many trying to become King Arthur’s knights?”
“Oh, yes. Those who do well enough can enter his service as a standing army. They are given lodging but still have to work for food and train on their own. Only a handful have made it to his actual circle of knights. And those who have were all trained in other courts. A man used to planting fields would have to work for years to best a lifelong knight. But Arthur’s system gives them training and creates an army of men we can call on in times of peril.”
It made sense. What did not make sense were the patchwork knight’s skills. In the time it took Brangien to explain the system, he had already defeated the confident aspirant. This one had to be pulled insensible from the ring. And again the patchwork knight went back to perfect stillness. It was almost inhuman.
Guinevere leaned out over the balcony, squinting as though she could penetrate his mask that way.
“That is what is so unusual about the patchwork knight,” Brangien said. She was embroidering a strip of cloth, scarlet thread pulled through in a pattern Guinevere could not see yet. Brangien barely looked at it, her deft fingers knowing their business. “He has obviously been trained. All the other trained knights who competed, like Sir Tristan, announced themselves. Their names, their titles, where they came from. The patchwork knight has never said so much as a word.”
“Interesting.”
“Be careful,” a voice said behind Guinevere, startling her so she nearly fell forward. Slender fingers grasped her waist. She looked up into Mordred’s face. He released her, stepping back to a respectful distance. “You should not lean too far out. You might fall. Perhaps the queen should not be so invested in the fights that she risks her own neck to see them better.”
Mordred sat on Guinevere’s right side. Brangien scowled on her left. “Most of the men,” Brangien said, directing her voice to her embroidery, “do not sit in the box. They are too busy training.”
Mordred laughed. “Most of the men have something to prove down there in the dust and the blood, playing at war with blunted blades.”
“Do you watch the fights often?” Guinevere asked, trying to keep the conversation banal and civil.
“Only when there is someone worth watching.” He stared directly at her. She narrowed her eyes, but before she could reprimand him, he nodded his head toward the patchwork knight. “I could not miss this.”
The second aspirant was still on the ground. No. It was a new one. The patchwork knight had defeated his third opponent. His actions were like the other men’s, but more forceful, more efficient. He moved faster, he struck harder, he anticipated every blow before it came. When he did get hit, he twisted away from the pain as easily as if the swords were reed switches.
Guinevere had never before seen fights. Even knowing the swords were blunted and the blows not fatal, she cringed and ached in sympathy at every one. And several times she almost found herself joining the elated shouts of the crowd when the patchwork knight defeated yet another aspirant.
After perhaps an hour, she allowed herself to glance to the side. Mordred was leaning forward, his eyebrows drawn low in concentration or concern. He, too, watched the patchwork knight. Not admiringly, or excitedly, like the crowd. But as though he was studying a foe. Or a threat.
“You seem quite intrigued by the patchwork knight.” Guinevere sat up straight and delivered an artfully fake yawn to imply she was not just as invested in the knight. “If you do not fight, why the interest?”
Mordred leaned back. “Look at the way he moves. Every fight is the only fight for him. He does not want this. He needs it. Anyone that intensely focused on a goal, anyone with a purpose that single-minded, is dangerous.” His words surprised her; it must have shown on her face. He smiled. “Not all of us protect my uncle king with fists and swo
rds. And I am always watching.”