Chapter Thirteen

E rec hurried from the bedchamber. As he passed the anteroom, he beckoned to one of his squires.

"Go to the armory and bring back my best suit and weapons. You understand? The finest. Hurry and come right back. There." He pointed down a passage to an out-of-the-way chamber. The boy ran off.

The room was used for storage. A rolled-up carpet lay in the corner. Erec lugged it over to spread it open on the floor. He stared at the multicolored geometric pattern and felt the thick wool under his stockinged feet. The thing smelled like old mushrooms.

If she was suffering, she should have said something.

She did. She told you to fix it. She's sick of being ashamed—

Ashamed. Of him.

As well she might be. She thought she was marrying one of the greatest knights of the Round Table. Not whatever he had become.

The boy came running in, loaded down with armor better suited to a better man.

"Very good," Erec said. He gestured to the carpet. "Put it all there."

The boy splayed out his burden.

"Help me dress."

The squire looked up, startled. Erec recognized he had unwittingly bestowed an enormous honor: dressing the prince for a knightly quest. Ha! So reduced a prince. It was the first time he had put on his armor in months.

Yet how it gleamed. Others had not been neglecting their duties.

The squire laced the greaves over Erec's shins and calves. Then he helped fit his lord into the hauberk. The fine piece was woven of tight silver mesh, as comfortable as a silk chemise.

"My helmet," he said.

The boy's expression was openly curious as he lifted it from the floor and carried it to his master.

"I'll do the rest," Erec said. "You run to the stable and tell them to saddle my bay steed. And send my valet to me."

When the squire left, Erec picked up his sword. He looked around the room. A few crates were stacked near one wall. He had no idea what they held. Over the window, one shutter was tightly latched, but another hung limply on broken hinges, allowing light into the room. He bent his knees and swooped the sword. The noise it made cutting the air gratified him. He plucked his scabbard from the rug and buckled it, then sheathed his weapon.

The valet entered. "Sire?"

"Go to the tower where my wife is. Tell her she doesn't need that much time to pick out a dress. I'm tired of waiting."

There. That ought to do it. He was not some namby-pamby lovesick courtier. He was…well, he'd hurry and meet her in the courtyard by the stable.

*

Enide entered the courtyard wearing a magnificent brocade gown, a sable cloak, and jewels in her hair. He had loved her in rags, Erec remembered. She saw him—she must have, because she tried to smile. It broke his heart, seeing the effort it took.

He was doing what she wanted, wasn't he? Proving himself?

Just then, his father came running out the door and, behind the king, half the household followed. Erec didn't want to make a grand speech about his reason for leaving. Probably they would all think he was running away.

Drawing himself up, he gestured for them to stay back, except, of course, for the king. Shorter and stouter than Arthur, King Lac, once a formidable warrior, was beginning to look his age. Erec was not ready to acknowledge that this meant "old".

"Sire," he said, "I must take my leave of you."

His father hunched his shoulders with irritation, then puffed out his cheeks. "You're taking an escort, I hope. You're not in Camelot anymore. These roads aren't safe for lone travelers."

"I wish no companion but my lady."

His father frowned, more worried than angry. "At least tell me where you're going." As Erec started to shake his head, the king said, "All I ask is that you take a few good men with you. And provisions. Load up some mules, for Heaven's sake. You are a king's son!"

"I don't want cartloads of fine stuff to slow my passage," Erec said impatiently. "I don't need squires or knights to serve me." He stopped. This quest was different. He had a wife to protect. "Father, should anything happen to me, I beg you to treasure Enide as your daughter."

Erec saw tears in his father's eyes and regretted all the more that his own behavior had brought them to this. He turned to Enide, whose eyes were as wet as the king's. All this weeping was absurd. All around, everyone was now wailing and sobbing. Maidens collapsed to the ground. His mother and Margret clung to one another for support. He wasn't dead!

Taking Enide by the arm, he drew her toward the two horses. His bay steed waited, stamping its feet, a magnificent specimen. But beside it stood the slow-as-a-snail dapple-gray.

He clenched his teeth and looked over at his wife. She wasn't crying anymore, was she, but likely having herself a little chortle at his expense. Order your best palfrey to be saddled. Even his own wife mocked him.

It was not a good start for a quest.