Children of the Knight, Michael J. Bowler [classic book list txt] 📗

Such had been a great aspect of Camelot’s downfall—too much infighting amongst the men, all vying for greater position, all victims of false pride. Children, he knew, even such damaged as these, could yet be guided and molded into something that he hoped would change this city, and its people, into something great. But they were children, he reminded himself, and he’d had little experience with children in his previous life. Perhaps the Lady Jenny might be of help in understanding the hearts and minds of his children.

His musings were interrupted by groans from Mark.

The moaning awoke Jack, who stretched his muscular arms and shook the sleep out of his eyes. “How’s Mark?” was all he asked, sitting up quickly, his tormented brown eyes anxiously searching his friend’s face for life.

“He is better, methinks,” Arthur said in a tired voice, offering Jack a smile of hope.

Arthur’s voice awoke Lance, who slowly uncurled himself and gradually pulled himself up into a sitting position, shaking the sleep from his eyes.

Mark stirred, his bloodless face strained from the ordeal, making him look far older than his fifteen years.

“How do you feel, Mark?” Arthur asked in his calm, soothing tone of voice.

Mark’s eyes flitted from Jack’s grinning face to Arthur’s gentle look. “Arthur?”

“Yes, lad, it be I.”

Weakly, Mark gazed up at the man, confused. “You… you been with me all night?”

“Aye, lad, and much of the day. Thou hast been quite ill.”

Mark appeared bewildered and very unsettled, his voice shaky. “No one ever did… nobody ever did… nothing like that before….”

Now Jack’s face fell. “I was here too,” he whispered, his voice tinged with sadness.

Mark glanced at him and smiled, , but quickly returned his gaze to Arthur.

“Save thy strength,” Arthur insisted, raising the water bottle so Mark could take a few sips. “Rest, now, young Mark, while I thank God for thy deliverance.”

As Mark fell silent, Jack and Lance watched Arthur bow his head in prayer. They wore expressions of sadness, as though both had lost someone he loved.

In Boyle Heights, Esteban and Jaime, and as many of their homeboys as each could round up, met before the wall displaying Arthur’s “A” symbol. “Pray for Peace in the Barrio” and the dove were still dominant, but the angry youths below it had no intention of praying for peace. They wanted war. It was what they’d been taught to do. They hit you, you hit ’em back! That was life in the barrio, not peace.

Esteban and Jaime stood side by side, as numerous other gang members, all under eighteen, hovered excitedly around them. Old pickups and cars and low-riders packed the street expectantly.

The two intimidating boys clasped hands firmly and bumped fists with dramatic flair. Both wore the requisite tank top undershirt to display their intimidating musculature, and Jaime had a bandana wrapped around his head.

“Never thought I see us back on the same side, carnal,” Esteban told his former friend with a nod.

“We gonna kick that guy’s ass, dawg!” Jaime replied loudly. “The others, they be comin’?”

“Sí,” Esteban replied. “But you still the hothead, homie, so let me do the talkin’, ’kay?”

Jaime nodded. “But if the guy pisses me off….” He left the threat unfinished, raising his .38 to finish the sentence for him.

Esteban eyed the weapon soberly and then turned to all those assembled. “Remember, no shootin’ ’less one a us says so. Comprenden?”

The assembled gangsters, young and teen, armed with a variety of firearms, nodded their assent.

All of Arthur’s nearly three hundred children were present, girls and boys. The girls flanked Reyna, outfitted in her full archery ensemble, longbow and quiver slung indolently over her shoulder. Those boys wielding swords had girded themselves with protective armor: chain mail, chest pieces, helms, and shields. Much of the armor fit the young bodies awkwardly, at best, and Arthur and Lance were administering last minute adjustments.

The archers, key players in Arthur’s strategic plan, did not wear armor due to their need for agility and quickness. He recognized the risks, knowing the gangsters could fire randomly into the dark and strike one of them, but he believed his children were as trained and ready as they’d ever be to take on this challenge.

As Reyna adjusted the bows and quivers of several archers, Enrique and Luis popped up to flank her. Enrique spoke first, “You need any help, Reyna, I got your back, no sweat.”

“Forget that fool,” Luis tossed in, causing her to look his way. “I’ll protect you.”

Reyna laughed derisively. “More like the other way around, cholo boys.”

She dismissed them with a wave of her hand, and they high-fived each other.

Lance struggled to adjust his helm. When Arthur stepped forward to help him, Lance shrugged him off and stepped to one side to finish on his own.

Arthur stepped to Lance and leaned in. “Lance, thou hast been moody since we encountered the Lady Jenny last night,” he whispered. “You need fear not, lad, for she, nor anyone, shall ever come between thee and I.”

Helm half on and half off, a startled Lance turned to face Arthur, stunned that the man had somehow read his thoughts. He gulped with uncertainty. “They won’t?”

“Nay,” Arthur assured him, placing one gauntleted hand on Lance’s shoulder. “You have my word.”

Lance dropped his gaze, embarrassed by his behavior and unable to face this good man. “I’m sorry, Arthur. It just be that you… that I never had….” He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished. Because he knew he wasn’t worthy.

Arthur gazed at him in confusion. “Never had what, Lance?”

Lance couldn’t say it. Not now. Maybe not ever. “Nothing.”

“Art thou with me this night?”

Lance smiled for the first time, reassured that he was still wanted and needed. “Truly, sire.”

Arthur smiled back and then reached out to slip Lance’s helm the rest of the way over his head, adjusting his long hair so nothing obscured his vision. Lance grinned from underneath it and gave Arthur a big thumbs-up sign. Grinning back, Arthur returned the sign before turning to his assembled warriors, now prepped and ready and awaiting his orders.

“Attention, my noble knights-to-be! Ye all know the plan. Reyna shall position the archers, while Jack and Enrique will position the swordsmen near Lance and myself should the need for hand-to-hand combat arise. After everyone is in place, Reyna, Jack, and Enrique shall also flank me for our meeting. Be there any questions?”

Little Chris timidly raised one small hand. He wore a billowy tunic and looked like a frightened puppy.

“Yes, Chris?” Arthur asked.

“What shall happen to me if you don’t come back, Arthur?” There was true fear in that high-pitched voice.

The king stepped over to the small boy and lifted him into his arms so they could look at each other eye to eye. “Fear not, young Chris, for we shall return to thee. You have my word as a knight and a king. Okay?”

Chris beamed. “Okay.”

Arthur set him down beside a pallid-looking Mark, who a loose tunic and drawstring pants. The effects of his inner struggle were plainly written across his soft, delicate features like graffiti.

“Sure I can’t go, Arthur?”

“After what you have been through?” Arthur scoffed. “Nay, Mark, though thy loyalty pleases me.”

“I’d do anything for you, Arthur,” Mark replied earnestly.

Jack gazed long and hard at Mark, and his face clouded over with pain.

“Then care for this little one, Mark,” Arthur said, “for he is the hope.”

Mark gazed up at the man lovingly. “Godspeed, Arthur.”

Jack put a hand on Mark’s arm, and the blond youth turned to him as Arthur moved back to the main group. “I’ll see you when we get back.”

Mark eyed Jack uncertainly, taking in the armor and shield, the sword dangling from a sheath around his waist, and then threw his arms around Jack’s broad shoulders impulsively, hugging the bigger boy as though never wanting to let go. “Be careful, Jack, please. You’re my best friend, you know?” He pulled away and looked Jack in the face.

Jack forced a grin. “Jacky’s got this one covered. Nothing but a scrimmage. I’ll see ya later.”

Mark nodded.

Arthur stood up on a chair and surveyed his assembled troops. “Our destiny awaits, my lads and ladies. Let us go forth to meet it.”

Cars and trucks bled their way into Griffith Park from every entrance that wasn’t locked or otherwise gated. Normal operating hours ceased at 10:30 p.m., so the gang members had to sneak into the park by whatever means necessary. To attract less attention, fewer cars were employed, which meant cramming each one with as many homies as possible.

Much as Esteban wanted every homeboy he could get, even from enemy ’hoods, he knew that too many bodies and too much movement would attract undue attention from the cops. The park was patrolled periodically, and he and the guys wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible.

He’d talked a bit with Jaime, but didn’t really know how the black gangs were thinking. Jaime was a hothead, and never thought things through. But Esteban, angry as he was at being “dissed” by this tagger guy, wanted to hear what the man had to say. What proposition did he want to make? And why all the races? That didn’t usually go down on the streets. Blacks and Samoans and even Asians were his enemies, just like Jaime and other Latinos from different neighborhoods. That was how it worked, that was all he’d known growing up, so what stupid-ass fool would try to get them all together?

He’d established a rep throughout the gang community as calm, cool, level-headed, and hella smart, and probably the best “talker” around. He found himself looking forward to this “meeting.”

A full moon cast an almost ethereal glow over the park and its environs. Arthur stood atop a platform within the Boys Camp area. Cabins surrounded them for summer programs, and this platform was center stage for talent shows and other gatherings. Darkness enveloped him. Ominous shapes of normally cheerful-looking cabins and teepees loomed in the shadows, and a cool breeze disturbed the branches of the manzanita and wild sage trees.

Rustling noises drifted in from the darkness, from all around him. To Arthur’s right stood Lance and Reyna, he wielding his sword and shield, while she had her bow cocked and ready. Both had braced themselves, eyes and ears attuned to every possible threat coming at them from out of the enveloping darkness.

On Arthur’s left stood Jack, with a heavy broadsword gripped tautly in one hand, and little Lavern, his bow cocked and ready for action. Of the younger children, Lavern had proven the most adept with a bow and arrow, and he’d begged to be by Arthur’s side. Backing them up were Luis and Enrique with their swords and shields, and several archers named Sergio, Norman, Jose, and Sylvia, a small, usually quiet Hispanic girl, recruited by Reyna, who’d also proven to be a natural with the weapon.

Lance glanced nervously about him, long silky hair spilling from his helm and down his back.

Arthur’s keen eyes expertly scanned the darkness ahead, his bearing regal and strong as he awaited the confrontation to come. He’d had years of experience as a warrior, and those skills had not left him. Tension pulled his muscles tight, his senses into high alert. He glanced at Lance, who met his gaze without fear. Arthur nodded, and the boy returned it. They were ready.

The sound of muffled car engines drifted through the trees. Lance looked up again at Arthur, and the king