Keepers of the Western Forest

Keepers of the Western Forest

   

   

  Chris Kennedy

  Copyright 2012 Chris Kennedy

   

   

  For Imogen and Dylan.

  Better than never?

  Table of Contents

  Keepers of the Western Forest

  Part 1: The Knight with the Closed Visor

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part 2: The Phantom Knight

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part 3: The Axe

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  A Letter from Robert Westwood to his Grandson

   

  Part 1: The Knight with the Closed Visor

  Chapter 1

   

  An arrow hissed through the forest glade and planted itself—thwack!—smack in the middle of the cross Darin had daubed with clay on the trunk of a dead oak.

  Ten shots out of ten, right on target, for the first time ever! Eagerly, Darin shouldered his bow and stepped out to retrieve his arrows. As he left the shadow of the trees, sunlight made a sudden halo out of his tousled head of yellow hair. Tall for his age—fourteen years—he had a stubborn jut to his chin and a mouth that curled slightly at the corners when he grinned. He grinned now and slid the last arrow into the quiver on his back. Picking up his game bag, he set off for home.

  It was April; the woods were bright with young leaves. He was in high spirits as he marched along, whistling the tune his mother always liked so much. How pleased she would be with the rabbits in his bag! He was getting to be such a good hunter these days, Brogan the forester would no longer have to leave them his gifts of game.

  Before long, the towers of the abandoned castle came into view, ruddy in the late afternoon glow. As he neared the last bend in the forest path, shouts echoed through the trees. A man’s voice, raised in anger; not Brogan’s—but who else could it be? Darin took the last few yards of the track at a run and broke into the open, opposite the cottage where he lived with his mother.

  Three riders were stationed by the door. Two of them were dressed in brown tunics, with long swords at their sides. The third, astride a glossy chestnut charger, wore a surcoat of yellow and brown over chain-mail armour; a gleaming steel helmet hung from his saddlebow.

  A knight—a real live knight, here!

  The knight kicked at the cottage door. “I will be back, Lady Etaine,” he shouted. “You can’t hold out forever.”

   “We could force our way in easy enough,” one of the other men said.

  “Stop! Leave my mother alone!” Taking hold of his bow, Darin took a step forward. He was shaking, but he nocked an arrow and drew it back. “I know how to use this.”

  The knight turned in his saddle and squinted at Darin through narrowed eyes.

  “Ha! You must be Karman’s brat.” He gave a short bark of laughter. “Don’t worry sonny, we’re leaving—for now. So you can stop waving that thing at me. You can’t take on all three of us.”

  There was something about the voice, the short black beard, the thin-lipped sneer. Then Darin remembered. “You are the knight who came to tell us my father was dead.”

  “Indeed—and your mother still refuses to believe it. It’s been nearly ten years. Time she stopped hiding herself away.”

  “What do you want with her?”

  “You’ll have to ask her that yourself.” The knight shook his reins and turned his horse’s head towards the road along the edge of the forest. As the three men passed by, one of the knight’s companions snatched the bow out of Darin’s hand, jerking his arm roughly. Contemptuously, he threw it to the ground and laughed.

  Darin watched them ride away. His wrenched shoulder was hurting and he was dizzy with rage. As a four year-old boy, peeping round the doorway into the castle hall, he had been afraid of the big knight standing at the head of the party from Camelot and haranguing his mother and her attendants. Now he felt nothing but hatred for him.

  He ran to the cottage. “Mother, they’ve gone. Open up.”

  The door swung half-open. By the dim light within, his mother’s wide grey eyes seemed even larger than usual. She stared at him for a moment, then her gaze flickered past him to the bright world outside.

  “Oh, Mother!” Darin pushed his way in and put his arms around her. She was trembling. “Are you all right? What did they want?”

  She held him close. Gradually her breathing became steadier. “That was Agravain, Darin. Don’t worry. Go and get ready. I’ll tell you all about it over supper.”

  In his room, he dragged a comb through his thick, curly hair, remembering how he had carved it out of some antlers he had found in the old castle hall. It had been a present for his mother, but later he made her a far grander one; he kept the first for himself.

  What had Sir Agravain been saying to her? He gave up struggling with his tangled locks and tossed the comb aside.

  There was no mirror in the room for him to admire the results—indeed, there were no mirrors anywhere, either in the house or the castle. When he was a little boy, and they were still living in the castle, a big looking glass stood in his mother’s chamber. She would sit in front of it brushing her waist-long auburn tresses and he would climb up beside her to peer at his own impish little face. Then he would wrinkle up his nose, tossing his golden curls, and she would laugh that irresistible laugh she had in those days.

  But the night King Arthur’s messengers came from Camelot, she smashed the mirror into a thousand pieces and made a solemn vow. One day her husband would return, despite what the rest of the world might think; until then, no living person but her son would ever see her face again.

  The next morning there was not a soul left in the castle. Darin and his mother moved into the cottage just outside the big gates. Since that day, neither of them had set eyes on anybody, apart from the occasional glimpse of Brogan as he left a brace of pheasants or some rabbits by the gate, trying his best not to be seen.

  As he left his room to go for supper, Darin was thinking about the story the messengers had told that night. Sir Crevan, a false knight of the Round Table, had betrayed the expedition Darin’s father was leading against rebel armies in the north. Despite the ambush, the rebels had finally lost the day, but Darin’s father had been cut off from his men. He had last been seen riding away from the field of battle with Crevan and a number of northern knights in pursuit. As a year had passed with no further sign of him, it was assumed he was dead.

  Nearly ten years had gone by since that night, but Etaine still refused to accept the verdict. As for Darin, he did not know what to think.

  In the kitchen, his mother was putting two bowls of rabbit stew on the table.

  “Tell me about this Agravain,” he said.

  “Not yet. First eat your supper.”

  He was hungry despite his cu
riosity, so he sat down and picked up his spoon. His mother ate little. She had that look he knew so well, the unfocussed gaze that told him she was thinking about his father.

  After eating in silence for a while, he pushed aside the remains of his stew. “Please, mother, tell me now why that knight was here.”

  She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “He wants me to be his wife.”

  Darin heard again that scornful laugh. Karman’s brat, he called me. “Him? Never! That’s impossible. How could he think such a thing?”

  “When I was a girl, my family promised me in marriage to a knight. A kinsman of Sir Agravain’s.”

  “But you married my father.”

  “Yes. I was always against the arranged marriage. I pleaded with my parents, but it was only when King Arthur took my side that they allowed me to marry Karman.”

  “Why did he do that? The king, I mean.”

  “I was an only child. The man who married me would become lord of the Western Forest. Arthur loved your father and had great faith in him. I don’t think he trusted the man my parents had chosen for me enough to let him take control of land so near Camelot.”

  “And now Agravain thinks he can walk in here just because he is a relative of the knight you were promised to?”

  “It would be the alliance our families wanted for years.”

  “Yes, but why him? Why not the knight you were originally supposed to marry?”

  “He . . . he disappeared years ago.”

  “Disappeared? What was his name?”

  His mother regarded him steadily with wide, sorrowful eyes. “Sir Crevan of the Marshes,” she said.

  Darin shoved his chair back from the table and jumped to his feet. “Crevan? The traitor who led my father and his men into ambush? And Agravain dares come round here!”

  “Agravain was never implicated in the treachery, son.”

  Darin was striding round the room. “The whole thing is ridiculous. Anyway, he can’t force you to marry him.”

  His mother was silent for a moment before answering. “He said he would give me a month to think about it. To come out of retirement and marry him publicly. Otherwise, he will bring a priest here to perform the ceremony—and witnesses to swear we were married with my consent. I would be powerless to resist.”

  Darin stopped pacing and stared at her. “I’ll put an arrow in him first!” He thought for a while. “If he is so sure of himself, why has he waited so long?”

  “I suppose he hoped I would have accepted your father’s death before now and that I might have listened to his case.” Suddenly, there were tears in her eyes. “But I will never believe it. I would know if he were really dead.”

  “In a year’s time, I shall be fifteen. Then I will be lord of the Western Forest, at least in name. Is that why he is in such a hurry now?”

  “Ah, Darin! When I swore that vow, I thought it would be but a matter of months before your father came home. These last years have been a time of peace, though. Brogan and the council of villagers were well able to govern the region without me. But Agravain says things are changing.”

  “Changing—how?”

  “There is talk of rebellion again. These lands must be strong. Agravain has men-at-arms enough to garrison the castle.”

  “And does the king trust him?”

  “Apparently.” She frowned. “But I’m not so sure he should.”

  Darin was thinking hard. “Then you must go to Camelot,” he said finally. “Tell King Arthur—he surely won’t allow Agravain to bully you like this!”

  Etaine averted her gaze. “I don’t know. Agravain and his kinsmen form a powerful branch of Arthur’s fellowship. He will be unwilling to risk losing their loyalty.” She hung her head. “Besides . . .”

  “Your vow,” muttered Darin. He knew what he must do. “I shall go, then. I’ll seek out the knights who were my father’s friends. I’m sure one of them will agree to be your champion.”

  “Champion?”

  “Yes. You know, like in all those stories you used to tell me about Arthur’s knights, always ready to defend ladies in distress. He could challenge Agravain, trial by combat—and be there to advise me when I come of age.”

  His mother frowned again. “I suppose it might work.”

  “Agravain was right about one thing, though,” Darin said. “It’s time you stopped hiding away like this.”

   She sighed. “Very well, if you succeed in finding a champion, I shall stand before the people as Lady Etaine once more. But I can never break my vow. I shall wear a veil always—no one but you will ever see my face until your father returns from his quest.”

  Darin sat down again opposite his mother and put his hand over hers where it lay on the table. “Mother, it’s been ten years. Don’t you think he would have come home by now?” All at once, he was struck by the words she had just used. “What quest do you mean? I thought he was leading an army against rebels in the North and that his men defeated them, despite Crevan’s ambush.”

  “They did—but this was something else. He had long been determined to find a wonderful axe he had heard about.”

  Darin began to remember. “Yes! You told me about it years ago. What was the story again?”

  “I really don’t know very much. Your father was full of foreboding that this realm of Logres would one day be torn apart by rival factions. When that dark time came, he said, the axe would play a crucial part in the struggle.”

  “How could one axe possibly make such a difference?”

  Etaine shrugged. “I have no idea,” she said.

  Darin took his mother in his arms and kissed her cheek. “Well, good night. Tomorrow I must get ready to go. I have one month in which to bring you back a champion.”

  “Oh, son, the day had to come, that you would leave.” She smiled for the first time that evening. “You have grown tall for your age—why, soon you’ll be a man! It was your father’s plan that you should go to Camelot one day and swear allegiance to King Arthur.”

   Before going to his bed, Darin took a lighted taper from the kitchen and walked over to the castle, to stand in the great deserted hall one last time. It was many months since he had visited the old place. As a lad, he had roamed the corridors, finding all manner of dusty treasures there: cooking pots and silver drinking vessels, knives with horn handles, a huge book bound in vellum. Best of all had been the three longbows in different sizes, together with a plentiful supply of arrows he had taught himself to sharpen and fletch.

  He peered into the shadows around him. Would the great banqueting hall ever again echo with laughter, as it did when his father was Lord of the castle? Now, only the owls came here.

  The moon was rising as Darin made his way back to the cottage. I’ll never be able to sleep, he thought. What adventures will tomorrow bring?