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As I recall, it was a cold spring and the Saxons had begun early
to raid the borderlands. Word had come to me at Caraelon of an especially
brave group pillaging and raiding within a day’s ride of the castle.
I recall, Kay and a small hunting party had heard of them from the villagers
and had tracked them to a small village just a few hours ride from here.
It was very early in the year for such raiding parties. It caused
me great concern because they must either be foolish or very strong.
I knew that we must act fast or risk great losses, or at best
the raiders would escape. The plan was Kay's and he was the key to
the plan. Unlike the legends and stories, the knights did not go
about in their great suits of armor especially in the cold seasons of the
year. Steel can be most uncomfortable in the cold and mist that surround
Britain. So, some of the stories are quite far fetched.
The raiding party was selected. About thirty of us left
Caraelon in the evening just as the sun was winking past the horizon.
The party was nothing like the fantasies of storytellers. There were
no ranks of soldiers or fluttering banners, no blare of horns and most
of all no pageantry. We were friends setting out to protect what
was ours, to defend to our best the home we loved.
Most were dressed in heavy leather, with great cloaks wrapped about
them to keep out the damp cold. Many carried several weapons slung
from their horses.
Only one man had any "armor" with him, and that was Kay. This was a
large part of our part plan. We went the direct route, by the road
most of the way. When we were within two miles there was a
pause long enough for Kay to don his armor. This was a rather comical
thing to watch, even with the extra liners, the steel was cold and obviously
uncomfortable in many of the most strategic places. After much groaning
and muffled laughter, at last he was ready. He was armed with a great
sword in his right hand, for most men a task with two hands but not for
this giant of a knight. In his left hand he held a long lance and
his arm was fitted with a single layer buckler. He started off down
the road.
The rest of us took to the trees and surrounded the village.
Actually, we formed four groups to come in from different directions.
Kay gave us the time to get set, and then he went in, in his usual
fashion, bellowing like a hurt bull, something about cowards and swine
of the North and other things I shall not mention here.
The poor man on guard had no chance at all. His chest met the lance.
At full gallop Kay's great black horse didn't even feel the impact.
Those around the fire heard his cries and came running to the rescue.
That was a bad mistake on their part, of five, only one escaped the initial
onslaught, only to be pursued into and through one of the small waddle
huts. The building crumbled like sticks, which of course it was.
The occupants were, to say the least, distressed, and at the most dead.
It was an ugly, yet comical sight. It took some doing to turn
the horse, but once it was done he headed back to the fire.
The camp was in turmoil, men running this way and that, women and children
screaming.
Upon reaching the fire, Kay reached down with his lance and with each
pass threw sticks from the fire onto the thatch roofs of the huts.
Fire seemed to be everywhere at once; no one could fight the man. They
were too busy running to save their lives. Between the awesome specter
on the horse and the fire, there seemed nowhere to run.
All was in confusion.
Then I saw him.
Crashing from a hut on the near side of the village was the biggest
Saxon I have ever seen. His long blond hair streaming down his shoulders
was twisted from the braids that usually held it. He was bare from
the waist up and a woman with red hair was clinging to him, begging him
not to go out there.
He shook free of her grip and left her lying in the mud, tears streaming
down her cheeks. His deep voice began barking orders and in very
little time the rout was turning the Northmen had encircled the shining
Knight and the great horse and were closing in for the kill. As they
closed in and just as they were about to crash in on him, Kay reached up
with his sword, threw back his visor, surveyed the damage he had done and
laughed, loud and long.
This alone seemed to confuse his attackers.
Then it came, the horns on four sides of them blasting, us Britons pouring
from the trees. My men fought well, but for some reason, none of
them would engage the huge leader. This seemed to distress him much;
there he stood his heart filled with the fire of his ancestors and no one
would fight him. I had just sent one of his followers to their heaven,
"Valhalla", when I turned to find myself facing the full fury of the blond
warrior.
Already the arc of his swing had started. Instinct took over,
my sword, "Excalibur," leapt up to block the blow. Only the great
mass of the thing saved me from the massive sweep of the blond man's sword.
Again, as so many times, I thanked the powers that had made this weapon.
Though I didn't understand them, I thanked them.
The look on the face of the Northman was almost comical; he knew,
as did I that no man could have stopped that blow. I did not like
using the power of the sword, and I did not like killing, especially one
so great as this man. It seemed to me a waste. Still the look
in his eyes told me there was no choice. He would not yield, neither
would he stop.
Alone I would have been lost.
At this point, I released the power of "Excalibur." Like handling
the weight of a feather, the great sword swung with the mass of two tons
of steel. The great man raised his sword to stop the blow.
No matter how many times I see it, I will never grow accustomed to
the look of a man who knows he is about to die and cannot stop it.
His great sword snapped like ice and "Excalibur" bit through him like curd.
It was over; a great man lay in two pieces on the earth. I felt
ill.
The Northmen lost all heart and within half an hour all life as well.
My heart still pounds within me as I think of that night and the power
of one Great Knight caught up in the lust of the fight.
They were indeed great, these fighters of the Round Table.
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