Chapter Text
The Western Marches
rain...
rain, Rain, RAIN
Rain was a constant feature of Pellinore's life. The Marches, the rough, wild borderlands where he was born and raised in, were always raining, but Pellinore had seen nothing but rain for the past week. The small, abandoned temple or chapel he had set up camp in dripped with water from the roof in the corner, seeping through the cracks, as it drizzled, showered and poured constantly. But the worst of the rain was kept out, and it was dry mostly. More importantly, the location of the building was much more important to Pellinore than the watertight nature of the roof. A tributary road to the great Greenroad passed by the temple, below in the valley. As part of the Greenroad, it was trafficked thoroughly by the great and wealthy of the realm, but was not well defended or patrolled by the various forces of the kingdoms it passed through. It was the perfect place for bandits and brigands, the perfect place for Pellinore.
As a landless robber knight, Pellinore had been born out of luck. His father was a knight in the marches, but his mother died of complications soon after his death. His father was a good man, he remembered his smiling, guiding nature, but also his strength. One day his father was called to go to war, he saw him leave Castle Flintwood where they lived, Pellinore remembered waving him off.
He never saw him again, he was told by their Lord, Baron Harold Flintwood that he had died in a skirmish, leaving Pellinore alone, in the care of his lord.
The next few years he was fostered in the castle of his liege, mostly used as extra help for the castle staff, and target practice for the other more Noble squires in the keep. He took it without complaint when they beat him for a job poorly done, when they scolded him, when the Lord's daughters played their tricks on him, when his sons and their friends, ambushed him, when the hot poker came out that night. The Lord put an end to most of it after that, though they still looked at him sometimes, with hatred or with anger. Pellinore kept that mark on his arm, and thanked his Lord for his mercy in stopping his children's actions. The lessons he learned those years were valuable, to blend in, to not complain, to be resilient and to honour his patron. The years of fighting and training gave him much in the way of skill, but he did not know much in culture or of the arts.
His knighting at 15 was a quick affair, as war was upon the marches and men were needed. King Leodegrance of Cameliard was going to war on the petty kingdoms of the Gwynish in the north, and as one of his vassals, Lord Harold was bound to answer. He went with many of his household knights to serve in the armies of Cameliard. For Pellinore the campaign was not one of great action or glory, as the Marchers were used as scouts and flank guards, knowing the terrains better than the inlanders of the Kings main force. The one time he saw action was a minor skirmish. Pellinore was in the rear of the marching column when the Alarm was sounded. Ambush at the bridge. The Gwynish were raining arrows on the vanguard, and the King had sent Pellinore's company of marchers further down to cross the river and flank them. The charge was quick and routed the enemy quicker, driving them into the deep river. Pellinore remembered burying his sword into the head of a Gwynish archer who was running from the slaughter. He screamed, collapsed into the water and off he went, carried by the current and trailing a red trail, mixing in with the other blood shed in the water. In the aftermath he found the body of his Lord, a powerful Gwynish arrow through the eye of his helmet, killing him instantly.
The campaign soon ended and Pellinore was dismissed from the service of the King and of his Lord, finding himself without a home. He had in his possession a rusted coat of mail and helmet, a chipped sword a horse and 3 coppers short of penniless.
He had travelled further up, sleeping under trees and bridges, following old overgrown paths and roads. He had once rode past a woman washing clothes, he had waved in greeting as he went by, and asked where the castle was. She pointed further down the road and hurried back to her village. Moving away from the castle he came across a shepherds shelter, and slept there for the night. The blast of a horn jolted him awake. The knight that owned this land apparently had little tolerance for trespassers, especially armed ones, and was charging at him, dressed for battle. He had little time to put on his armour and helmet, and was mounting his horse when the knight ran it through. Dodging his sword strikes, he drew his own rusted blade and parried the mans swing, levering away his arm and throwing him off balance and dragging him to the ground, knocking him senseless. Stripping the man of armour and of weapons, tying his hands and feet, he mounted his horse, and rode down to the castle, his prisoner on back of the horse. The lady of the castle was desperate to have her husband back it seemed, as she gladly paid the ransom Pellinore demanded delivering a bag of coin down to him as she watched from the battlements. He released the man into the care of his servants and rode off with new armour, new weapons a new horse, and new purpose. Robbery, and ransom, it seemed, was a lucrative process for a man such as he, and survival was assured for now. For the next two years he had gone from village to village, tower to tower, capturing and ransoming the great and mighty, or getting money in return for their safe passage. The money from this life of banditry had managed to sustain him throughout, and selling extra weapons or armour gave a healthy sum too. The marches are one of the best places to carry out such a life, as while the area was populated and heavily trafficked by nobles and merchants, the political upheaval gave him the ability to avoid any response. In Camelot, Benwick or Lyonesse, he would have had a dozen knights drop out of the sky to hunt him down and he would be in chains or swinging from the gallows, but here there was no organised threat.
He had come to the green road, and finally set up camp in the temple there. It was his perfect location, as both winter quarters and for the season of travel now upon him. Down by a bend in the road, on a rise, a great old oak tree stood and it was there he laid in wait. Many Merchants and Knights and Ladies had come through here, and pickings were rich. The merchants readily paid his toll, even selling goods to him, as he discovered to his initial surprise when he tried to rob a merchant called Alf of Aldham and ended up spending half his coin buying supplies from him, and hosting him in his temple for the night. Banditry was common enough for them, he explained, and a lot of 'robberies' were bribes in all but name. The knights on the other hand were always determined to beat him, charging at him with lowered lances. He had gotten skilled at fighting by now, and many, many had fallen victim to him. Pellinore, suspected it was overconfidence or brashness, a desire to protect and impress their ladies that doomed them often, as he looked ragged as always, in dull armour and drab colours, not a proper knight in any field except in combat. He had taken money, or armour or weapons, jewellry from them or their ladies and sent them on their way, taking their shield or surcoat as trophy, nailing it to the tree. By now dozens of shields and rags of surcoat were hanging and fluttering, at that tree. In his eighteenth year of life, a year after his rule of his little dominion in the road had been carried out, and now the atmosphere had begun to change.
Many knights he had defeated and taken prisoner, had declared their intention of beating 'the Knight of the Trophy Tree' and bringing him to justice, either from the orders of the king or their own initiative to gain fame and glory. One night, drinking a flagon of the barrel of Clarencean wine he had bought from Alf the merchant, it occurred to him that the more men he imprisoned or defeated, the bigger the target he made for himself, and the greater his legend became, the more knights would come to take him down. The 'Knight of the Trophy Tree's growing legend would be a tempting target, and many would be eager to cut his young career and life short. Just last week, a knight he fought a Knight by the name of Sir Grifflet. He was, he had declared to him, "A knight of Camelot, in the service of the king, Arthur Pendragon." He had beaten him, robbed him and sent him packing, but the news was disturbing for Pellinore. He had heard of Arthur when he was growing up, everyone had. The long lost boy king of Camelot, who announced his accession to the throne by pulling the sword from the stone, and then fighting essentially alone against the neighbouring kingdoms and saved the Camelot from internal collapse. If his eyes were on Pellinore's obscure part of the world, or worse, on Pellinore, then that was dire news indeed. Pellinore was getting worn thin, and the knights kept on coming.
Sitting under the great oak tree, Pellinore was waiting for any travellers on the road. The morning had seen the rain finally, finally lessen and stop, the leaves dripped with water and the sun shone through the clouds and morning mist as the wind blew through the tattered remnants of the surcoats nailed to the tree. He sat and relaxed at the tree, manning his post. The landscape was beautiful, no doubt about it, it was a perk to the otherwise, crude and brutish lifestyle of his.
Glinting metal caught his eye, two men were coming down the road, out of the mist. Knights, thought Pellinore, it was time to take up arms. He picked up his helmet, mounted his horse and waited.
A fight would come soon, and Pellinore was ready for it.