Children of the May (Children of the May Book 1)

Chapter Twenty-Four: Melwas (part two)

I am riding through the great forest at the heart of Britain. I have heard of a giant in the north who had taken a princess captive, and am riding to rescue her. Thus far the stories of my adventures have been corrupted by their tellers. Because I wear his green armour and carry the family shield they have mistaken me for my father, the great Sir Meliagraunce of Gaul. They must witness that it is not he, but I who now rides under our crest now. I will teach them.

On the far side of a small stream I spy a sleeping man. His horse grazes beside him. As I approach, I begin to suspect I know who he is. The golden hair, the finely decorated armour, the skin unblemished save for a teardrop mole at the corner of his left eye. 

They say no maiden can look upon Sir Lancelot without falling instantly in love. But I am no maiden: I am a warrior. Their precious law of chivalry prevents them putting sword to shoulder and dubbing me knight, but that is what I am. Lancelot is pretty enough, I suppose, but I would rather have the honour of besting him in a duel than taking him for husband.

His heavy eyelids flutter open as I approach.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he says sleepily. ‘I’ve heard of you. Melwas, yes? The girl who would be knight.’

I am filled with pride. The most famous knight in Christendom has heard of my adventures. 

‘Oui, Sir Lancelot,’ I say. ‘I seek honourable combat.’

He grimaces. Lancelot has a fine grimace, though he does not look me in the eye. He stands, tall and well-formed. ‘That’s really not the best idea, fair one –’ he sees that he has offended me – ‘that is, maiden, I mean – Melwas. That’s not the best idea, Melwas. I am loath to kill a lady.’

I dismount from my horse. The beast has no name other than that she gives herself. I do not impose human names on these creatures who need none.

I pull off my glove.

‘Now I’m really not certain you want to do –’ he says.

I throw my glove at his feet. 

He looks at the glove. There is no fear in him, only resignation at what he thinks he must do. I smirk inwardly. Let him try.

‘As you’re a lady, I will let you take that glove back up and ride on if you will. If not, I will have to accept your challenge, best you, and if you survive take you prisoner to Caerleon and King Arthur.’ He looks hopeful. ‘Will you take it back up?’

I stand my ground. Eventually he bends down, picks up the glove, and hands it back to me. ‘Very well,’ he says, ‘I will do my best not to kill you.’

‘Have at it, Sir Lancelot.’ I cannot help my huge smile as I run back to my horse. This is what will make me famous. Sir Lancelot is good, but he is not unbeaten. I am strong and skilled enough to take him.

I mount. I take my helm. ‘But remember: it is Melwas of Gaul, not Sir Meliagraunce her father who defeats you.’ I snap down my visor.

Lancelot has also mounted his white charger. He has not bothered to put on his helm. I decide that is an insult for which I will repay him many times over.

Neither of us is carrying lances, so we engage with swords. I am a better rider than him, releasing and reining my beautiful horse with the slightest taps of my feet and squeezes of my thigh, freeing both hands for my two swords. He grasps his reins and fights one-handed, in the old style. But I am impressed by how quickly he adapts to my innovations. By the second pass, he realises that he needs both of his hands free and twists himself from his saddle to the ground. I follow him.