Knight of the Blue Surcoat - IN EDITING HELL - SLOW

Chapter I: King's Daughter

"The sun's set and there is still no sight of Sir Gawain." Sir Kay shook his head at Melora. "We should send them home."

"Them" referred to the motley group of peasants and gentry gathered in the dim oak hall. Torches burned in sconces along the wall, and a roaring fire at the far end provided enough light to make out the impressions of faces and expressions of the people filling the room. Conversations hummed and throbbed, reverberating through the high arched room to make a blanket of comfortable sound.

Melora was seated on the lower dais, where she could observe the room. The other guests sat at long wooden tables, undivided by rank, gender, or race, a living picture of King Arthur's vision for Britain. A picture on the edge of dissolving into a disgruntled mob, as they would have to wait to feast until Gawain returned.

Melora looked from the hungry, restless people to Sir Kay's craggy face. "Gawain will come," she said, though her stomach twisted with worry. Her cousin had been in the Witchwood for three hours, anything could have happened to him. At last month's feast, one knight had returned from the forest with extra arms and no nose, much to his wife's dismay. It had taken a week's worth of Myrddin's undivided attention to restore the man, and Melora couldn't help picturing Sir Gawain dead and bleeding on the forest floor.

"He will come," she repeated, frowning back at Kay.

Kay jerked his chin at King Arthur, seated to Melora's right. "He knows they only come for the food, correct?"

Melora felt her cheeks flush and she forced her voice to be calm. "My father, your king, is the best man in the world."

Kay's brow twitched. "A bold claim. He's raised you right, at least."

Melora turned away in frustration, looking over at her father instead. King Arthur Pendragon beamed on his people like an elder god of yore, illumined by thousands of fat tallow candles. No gray streaked his golden hair and curling beard, and his face was bright with youthful joy and enthusiasm. He did not look worried, though Gawain was his favorite nephew.

Melora settled back in her stiff wooden chair. "Is it just your stomach talking, Kay, or are you concerned?"

Kay snorted. "Oh, aye, my lady." His voice dripped with scorn.

As they were speaking, the tantalizing aroma of roasted meat drifted in, causing a pause, and then a swell in the excited buzz of conversation. Selected servants rolled in enormous platters on carts sagging under the weight of multiple dishes. The servers were chosen by lottery each month, and were comprised of both poor and rich members of court. As soon as the food was placed on the tables, they would join the feast in a rotation system managed by the head cook.

"See." Melora leaned forward with everyone else in the room, trying to get a better glimpse of the featured dishes, "Here is the food. Gawain must be on his way."

The Red Hall's monthly feasts were legendary, attended by Britain's most illustrious warriors and visiting royalty. The food inspired poetry (aided by free-flowing mead, beer, and wine). It was well worth waiting for.

Sir Mador, a handsome Spanish knight with exquisite manners, seated himself beside Kay. "It smells like heaven. Gawain had better hurry."

Kay rolled his eyes. "Mayhap one of the witches found him. Everyone knows that forest is infested."

"Absurd." Mador shook his head. "Gawain's half Fae himself. He is too smart for that." He smiled at Melora, flashing perfect white teeth that were a bit too small for his mouth.

Kay shook his head. "I don't know why we keep up this senseless tradition. Sending a man into the Witchwood to 'seek a wonder,' with which to entertain us. Most of them probably use their time to think up fanciful nonsense."