The country became strange and wild, something
evil had settled in. Looking for lodging,
the knight chanced on a cottage, where a gentlewoman
put him up in a garret above the gate.
Ensconced in sleep, Lancelot waked at a pounding
outside. From the window, he saw a fellow knight,
lit by the moon, fist in the air as he beat,
turning to face three horsemen from the dark.
Coursing down on him, swords lashing,
the three thundered around the one fellow
who had tried to raise a warning. A steward
of Camelot, he was yet a brave knight.
But Lancelot wouldn’t allow those odds.
He leapt down from his room and joined the battle,
shouting to the steward he had done enough
and to step aside. Reluctant, the steward agreed.
Lancelot was a force of nature, awesome
as a storm of fire that sweeps the land and forces
seeds to open in the flames. The horsemen were like
three sick branches that blight the tree.
The masterful knight struck down the traitors
and gave them a choice to yield to the steward or die.
They objected. The steward had no standing,
they said. He was nothing at all to them.
The steward and I are one, Lancelot replied,
choose the steward or choose nothing. He pressed:
Yield to the steward, then ride to Camelot and surrender.
Vow you’re sent by the steward to serve the realm.
The horsemen listened, and they bowed to Lancelot’s command.
That evening, Lancelot and the steward slept in the garret.
Lancelot woke early and left, taking
the steward’s armor and shield and riding his horse.
When the steward awoke, his gear was gone,
but Lancelot’s was there. The steward knew why.
The cast of the country was darker and heavier still.
The new mantle would let him ride at will.
Copyright © 2025 by Sam S. Dodd