The Life of Sir Archambeau: Ch. 1 - One of Many Paths
Lively in his youth and eager to prove himself, the good knight Archambeau sought adventure. Of young blood and a restless mind (the two often go hand in hand, yet time and again, they prove a dangerous pairing), within him stirred stories of battles fought by men of unusual courage and of the fair ladies of striking beauty who loved them.
Sir Archambeau proudly rode atop his chestnut warhorse, Vainqueur, as they proceeded toward the town of Villaruiss; rumor was men were gathering there for a grand hunt to find the Holy Grail. Those simple rumors had been enough to spark Archambeau’s imagination, and since embarking for the town two days earlier from Ains, he’d spent his hours dreaming of journeys to other lands, traveling through cloud-high mountain passes and dense forests, hunting with his companions, and fighting bandits in marshlands. For most of those hours, one could see a smile lighting up his young face. Thoughts of cold nights, harsh rains, and the dull taste of rations were absent from his fantasies.
Donned in a simple, long-sleeved green tunic, brown pants, and boots, he wore a chainmail hauberk and coif over his clothes. The hauberk was a single piece of armor that covered his torso, with the sleeves extending to the elbows and a skirt stopping just below the knee; the skirt was cut so he could sit in the saddle. Draped over his head, the coif protected the back and sides of his neck while leaving his face open. Over the coif he wore a conical helmet with a nasal guard. Sheathed at his hip was an arming sword, and in the crook of his arm was an eight-foot spear, the butt resting on the toe of his boot.
A few clouds dotted the sky, and though the sun shone down on the knight, the day was chilly. The cold metal nasal guard of the helmet reddened the tip of his nose and made it feel like it was running. Holding the reins loosely in his off hand, Archambeau dragged a leather-gloved hand across his nose, then repositioned the spear.
Horse and rider marched along the road to Villaruiss as it passed through a forest. It was a wide thoroughfare with little traffic that morning. Ahead, the road made a lazy S. Close to an hour ago, a merchant had rolled by, and since then, Archambeau had seen not one other person. Alone, he kept alert, maintaining an eye on the woods with the occasional rearward glance to make sure nothing sneaked up on him, being wary of enemies both human and foul.
The forest was large, several miles in all directions, and he had only covered maybe a mile so far. Around him, the leaves of the trees were beginning to change color; the reds, yellows, and oranges blended with the green of the pine trees. Brown leaves skittered across the dirt road on a faint wind. The only noise came from the round shield tied to Vainqueur’s saddle as it thumped against his hindleg like a man slapping his thigh.
With the weather and the tedium of travel, Archambeau saw why minstrels glossed over the day-to-day life of adventurers. It was only his third day out and he wanted action, or at least a change in scenery. Soon. Preferably now.
As if in answer to that unspoken prayer, a scream rippled the trees and seemed to shake the ground. Squawking birds took flight, and a warren of rabbits dashed across the road in front of him. All those details the good knight ignored, instead latching on to the scream, a scream that sounded distinctly feminine and in need of assistance, coming from deep within the woods to his right.
Heart leaping to his throat, Archambeau dug his heels into Vainqueur’s sides and off they tore in a shower of dirt, dashing up a low bank and into the forest where who knew what waited to kill—or worse, kidnap!—the distressed woman. Beasts of legend, wolves, bandits, anything could be waiting for him. He grabbed the spear firm and held it at the ready, the tip hovering above the horse’s head.
Dull colors greeted the knight as he tore through the forest: The sun itself seemed too dim, deepening the shadows, making the trees less alive, and wilting the flowers. Round a clump of shrubbery they went, going down a shallow slope and back up the other side. All the while, the shield smacked against the horse’s side as they thundered on.
“Oh God!” came another scream.
The knight redirected left toward the point of origin. The trees were so tightly spaced he could barely move, much less see; fleeing deer leapt out in front of him as he and his steed took a crooked path toward the damsel. Everything was a blur. Vainqueur sprinted over bumpy terrain and bounded over rocks and bushes. Archambeau dodged low branches. The butt end of the spear bounced off a trunk and smacked the horse’s back leg. Archambeau hoisted the spear higher, holding it almost parallel to the ground, his elbow sticking out. This whole rescue was becoming very dangerous.
Through a grove of birch and silver fir trees, Archambeau saw a flash of pure white. A wider gap in the trees brought another flash of white—and a flash of gold chasing. Archambeau slowed Vainqueur to allow him to see through yet another gap that the flash of white and gold was really a young lady in a pure white dress, her golden hair flying behind her as she ran away from what appeared to be bees—large bees the size of butterflies, their fat bodies of strange greenish blues zipping in erratic directions as they hounded her, their wings glittering softly in the dim light.
“Help!”
This third scream brought him into action. Knowing the threat, and knowing it was futile to try and fight the bees, however large, Archambeau slipped the spear behind his left calf so that his leg pressed it against the saddle, then launched himself into the fray. For whatever reason, he yelled as he rode up next to the lady. Sticking out his hand, she grabbed his arm, and he lifted her up onto the saddle behind him. The blue-green bees darted toward them, flying up to sting their faces. Giving another yell, Archambeau snapped the reins, and Vainqueur went off at a gallop, leaving the bees in their dust.
Off through the forest they sprinted, across dirt and grass, under a maple and over a fallen beech tree, not slowing until they had put a good distance between themselves and the bees.
Archambeau finally glanced behind and, seeing no sign of any chasing bees, slowed to a trot. The lady clinging to his waist had said not a word since her rescue, and blissfully, she had stopped screaming; otherwise, he would have gone deaf. In truth, she was calm and breathing evenly, a stalwart companion after how she had acted before. He, on the other hand, was sucking in air from that burst of excitement. Weren’t her hands cold from gripping his armored waist? Her hands were nicely placed on his waist and—No! It wasn’t the time to think of things like that.
Once he got his breathing under control, Archambeau had to stop himself from shaking his head. Going off the beaten path and galloping through a forest on horseback without knowing the risks was dangerous and brash. He had been taken in by the moment, overly eager for action and at the opportunity to rescue a maiden in distress like the stories told of. He knew only too well what his old master Sir Guarin would say: “You were stupid.” Uneven ground could sprain or break a horse’s leg. A fast-approaching branch could have smacked Archambeau on the head and thrown him out of the saddle. He could have unknowingly ran into the center of an encircling enemy.
Up ahead, the ground sloped down and into a grove. Pulling back on the reins again, the knight walked them into the grove which ran the length of a jousting field—over two hundred yards of lush grass and wildflowers, with the perimeter ringed by purple aster. When they entered it, the forest was suddenly a much brighter place and warmer too. The sun was an hour from its apex in the pale blue sky above.
With one last tug of the reins, they stopped in the center of the grove. Vainqueur snorted. Retrieving his spear from under his leg, Archambeau dismounted and offered a hand to the lady. She took it and descended to the ground. The forest floor felt soft under his boots.
“Are you injured, my lady? Did they sting you?”
Up close, Archambeau saw how pretty the young woman was. And she looked young, a year or two younger than himself—and far prettier too. Sweat glistened on her square face and pointed nose. Beneath some baby fat still filling out her cheeks, there was the hint of a jawline. Her long, golden locks glowed in the light, half caught in her hood and hiding a high forehead. The white dress was linen with billowy, pocketing sleeves; not the sort of thing you would wear on a brisk day like today, yet she seemed unaffected by the chilly air.
“Are you not cold?” he asked, reaching for his blanket on the saddle. If he knew one thing about women, it was that they always seemed cold.
She stood as tall as his shoulder, with large brown eyes staring up at him. “I am uninjured, sir knight; their wicked swords did not touch me. And I am quite warm after that ordeal, though I lost my cloak,” she said, shivering. “You have flawless timing. I thank you for saving me.”
“Take my blanket,” he said, dancing around the compliment.
Archambeau unrolled the scratchy wool blanket as the lady untangled her hair from her hood. From her clothes, he second-guessed his earlier assumption that the woman was a lady. More likely, she was a maid or servant sent out to pick flowers, herbs, or mushrooms. But then, where was her basket? She must have dropped it when the bees attacked. But then, why was she so far out in the woods? The nearest village was a couple hours east of them (it had no name; it was that small), and Villaruiss was still hours away to the west. He didn’t know of any other settlements around. It was questionable if a lady lived in Villaruiss at all, but if one did, it was doubtful she would send her maid this far away, and if she would even have need of a maid. Then again, a lady always had a need for a maid, he reminded himself. And where was her horse?
The questions floated around his skull. His eyes had trouble focusing on her face—and other areas—so he kept his head moving, scanning the forest for danger in case the bees, or worse, found them. Vainqueur nibbled on the grass. When the woman was satisfied her golden ringlets were smooth, the knight threw the blanket around her shoulders and pulled it tight. Part of the blanket spilled onto the grass.
“What happened? Did you disturb their hive?” he asked, taking special interest in an oak tree.
“A beehive? No, those were not bees; they were faeries,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Did you not notice their blue-green bodies and sharp, tiny swords?”
“Faeries?” exclaimed Archambeau, abandoning the organized scanning for wild looks instead as he now searched the forest for the small, fast-moving creatures. That explained her comment about swords; he had thought she was being poetic! How was she so calm? “We must get out of here!” he said, glancing over the saddle: no faeries—yet.
“I believe we are safe. You scared them off.” She gave him a droll look. “You were surely brave for rescuing me.”
Archambeau barely heard the second compliment—or the sigh that followed—he was so worried about the wretched creatures. Faeries were mischievous and not to be messed with. Vainqueur, sensing his fear, raised a front leg and pricked his ears in preparation. But before his panic got out of hand, Archambeau took hold of himself and stood up straight.
He declared, “Whether or not I scared them off, we may still be in their territory. Best to leave, for disturbing faeries is never good.” He patted the stallion’s back to ease him, but his eyes stayed on the forest. “Where is home for you?”
“You are right,” the woman said, unconcerned. “Could I perhaps call upon you one more time? When the faeries swarmed me, my horse ran off to the west.” She spoke as if losing a horse wasn’t important, and its retrieval an afterthought. Maybe she was a lady after all. Anyone but a lady would be stricken at losing a horse and the cost of buying a new one.
“Are you certain? Your horse could be anywhere. They don’t tend to stay in one place when panicked or harassed by faeries.” His motivations were, he was afraid to say, entirely self-obsessed. He wanted to escape the forest as quickly as possible before more of those creatures found them and put a curse on them.
“It ran west and we shall find it,” she said.
She was a lady indeed. Suppressing a sigh—minstrels neglected to mention situations like this in their tales—Archambeau offered his steed. “You can ride while we search. I will walk.”
The lady nodded as if that had never been in question and then, with the knight’s assistance, threw a leg over the saddle. Her dress was divided for riding such that the hem of the skirt wouldn’t ride up to her knees immodestly.
Once she was comfortable on the saddle, she held out a hand. “I will hold your spear.”
The knight raised an eyebrow. “I’ll carry it.”
“Nonsense,” she said, and from her tone, she believed it was nonsense for him to hold his own spear. “There’s no need for you to carry a sword and a spear.”
Archambeau looked at her out of the corner of his eye: She was serious, and she was pleasing to the eye sitting atop his horse. These, though, were not appropriate thoughts for a knight to have; what had gotten into him?
“The spear and the sword keep the animals away.”
“Nothing will attack us.”
“I doubted there were faeries in these woods, and I was proven wrong. Besides those creatures, there are also wild animals and perhaps bandits, although I doubt bandits are here so far from town.” And bandits are smart enough not to traipse through faerie territory. From the way she watched him, he almost believed he had said the remark out loud.
The lady appeared much older as she sized him up, eyes twinkling.
“Your safety is important to me,” he said. “We will find your horse and I will see you home.”
She acquiesced with a nod. Turning his back to her, he grabbed the reins, and they started off after her horse, heading west. He swore he could feel her staring at the back of his head.
Neither said more than a few words to each other after that. Archambeau wasn’t the best tracker, but he could trace after an almost thousand-pound beast walking on four legs through the woods—except that he couldn’t find any hoofprints to track. Undeterred, the maiden told him to keep heading west. Aruspice was a light horse, she explained, who walked with a light step. Only expert trackers ever made out her hoofprints. He kept his eyes peeled for a white-grey dappled horse while at points trying to convince the lady that they should search in another direction. Horses moved about, he stressed, but she ignored him. Not only did Aruspice have a light step, but she also had a superb sense of direction; if she ran west, she would continue west until she discovered a town or a human or found it impossible to keep going west. In truth, the lady admitted, she had never seen her horse run any direction but west.
A half hour turned into an hour. Now midday, the forest was pleasantly warm and quiet. The dead leaves which layered the ground crunched under Archambeau’s boots, and the saddle jingled. The trees had thinned, and he noted less underbrush, allowing for farther sight lines. Still, not a single horse had shown itself.
A high-pitched screech came from the trees above. Archambeau’s head jerked up at the branches. The screech came again. It was what he assumed an insect sounded like when in pain.
“A common swift,” the lady stated, seeing him tense up. “Ease your muscles. You have been alert since you rescued me. As I have said, nothing will happen to us.”
The knight glanced back at her. The blanket covered her knees and dangled past the saddle. He didn’t know bird-watching was an interest ladies pursued, and he wished to know where her confidence that no animals would attack them came from. Many things lived in forests (including faeries—he couldn’t stop thinking about them), and it paid to be cautious. Especially when he had been so brash earlier.
The common swift screeched a few more times before he responded, “Better to be ready than to not be.” Even so, he relaxed a fraction. Though he accepted that it was a bird—he could see no reason for her to lie—it would be more intriguing if it was an insect.
“Better, I suppose. Preparedness is an admirable quality for some,” she said, then sighed. From her tone, she thought it could be taken too far. “My horse should be just over this rise.”
Ahead, the land rose slightly and then dropped off abruptly. Archambeau went on with Vainqueur following behind, then suddenly, his horse trotted forward to come even with him. The knight reached up and patted the steed’s neck, but something out of the corner of Archambeau’s eye caught his attention.
Turning around, he found the saddle empty, the blanket draped across it.
Archambeau spun on the spot, looking for the woman in white. Where had she gone, and how had she done it so quietly? The trees were too narrow, the bushes too meager, and the land too flat for there to be any place for her to hide. Vainqueur turned his long head left and right and looked as flabbergasted as the knight felt by the disappearance.
Letting out a grunt of frustration, he stabbed the earth with the flat end of his spear. Had he been had? Tricked by a faerie who took human form, wanting to get him lost for a bit of fun? What a fun way to pass the time by wasting a good portion of a man’s day. What other explanation was there? For she couldn’t have vanished out of thin air!
He stared at the dirt. This diversion had taken him an hour out of his way to search for some horse that didn’t exist. Putting a foot in a stirrup, he hesitated. “Just over this rise,” she had said. It didn’t appear there wasn’t anything beyond the hill except more forest. He should trace his footsteps back to the main road and get to Villaruiss before evening. The road had to be less than two miles south of him. Then why did he want to take a peek? “Just over this rise,” he thought, then planted his foot back on the ground. Vainqueur breathed in his ear. It wouldn’t hurt to see more forest, to make sure it was empty and there was no horse. Then he would know for certain if he had been duped.
His curiosity had got the better of him, so he grabbed the spear and his horse’s reins and started up the shallow rise.