Children of the Knight by Michael J. Bowler

Arthur was preferable to being slapped around by his mother every day. Besides, he was turning into an expert marksman, and that excited him.
    “Yes, Arthur?” Lavern asked expectantly, looking a bit comical in the oversized tunic that dropped past his bony knees.
    Arthur indicated the new boys with a wave of his hand. “Taketh our new recruits. Give them food and beds to rest their heads.”
    Lance continued to gape at Jack’s arm draped around Mark. There was something about those two that unnerved him. Jack caught Lance staring and blew a kiss his way when Arthur’s back was turned. Lance bristled with indignation.
    “Yes, sire,” agreed Lavern, and he turned to the newcomers. “Come wit’ me.”
    As the new recruits, still buzzing with excitement, followed the small boy back into the tunnels behind the throne, Mark and Jack sauntered past Lance, who stepped forward to block them. He asked quietly, “You guys fags or what?”
    Mark prickled instantly. “So what if we are, beaner!”
    “Why?” Jack chimed in with a wink and a leer. “You one of us, pretty boy?”
    Rage engulfed Lance, and he reared back to slug Jack, but his upraised fist was grabbed by Arthur’s hand and held in an iron grip. Lance could do nothing but fume.
    “Mark, Jack, follow thy fellows,” Arthur instructed them. “We shalt talk when thou hast rested.”
    Both Mark and Jack smirked at Lance as they purposely swished on past to catch up with the others. Arthur loosened his grip, and Lance yanked his hand away.
    Arthur gazed at his First Knight with concern, but the boy refused to meet his eye. “Thou and I must needs speak, Lance.”
    Lance roughly pulled away from Arthur and moved sullenly down one of the side tunnels. Arthur followed silently. They moved past several round tubs they’d bought at Home Depot that were used for bathing and entered a darker area deep within the tunnel, lit only by a single lantern.
    There were some ancient-looking chairs strewn against the wall beneath the lantern, and Lance plopped himself down on one, ignoring Arthur, refusing to look at him. Arthur carefully sat on a chair beside Lance, but not too close. He vividly recalled the incident in the park and did not wish to frighten the boy.
    He sighed, but his voice remained gentle. “Lance, thou shalt be my First Knight. It be up to thee above all others to set a right and proper example. Fighting amongst ourselves beeth the greatest of evils, for it—”
    Lance jerked his head up and looked right at his king. “They’re queer, Arthur!”
    “And?” Arthur asked softly.
    “And what?” Lance retorted, eyes blazing. “We can’t have them here.”
    “Have they not been cast aside by thy society, just as ye and these others?”
    Lance squirmed and threw his skateboard across his lap. “Yeah, I guess. But what if they….”
    Arthur eyed his protégé appraisingly. There was more to Lance’s anger, he realized. As with all anger, it began with fear. But what was the boy afraid of?
    “If they what?” he asked gently.
    Lance just shook his head. How could he explain when he didn’t even want to face it? “They said I was one of ’em, Arthur! You can’t let guys dis you like that on these streets.”
    Arthur nodded. “Perhaps not. But saying a thing doth not make it the truth.”
    Lance shook his head. “I know what our goal is, Arthur, and I want so much to be like you, but I don’t think I can….” His voice dropped to an embarrassed whisper. “I don’t know if I can work with them.”
    Arthur bent his head so he could look into Lance’s eyes. “They be lost children, Lance, like unto these others we have found. To reject them, to forbid them our love and fellowship shalt make us no better than those whom we oppose. Doth thou understand?”
    “I do,” Lance stated quietly, squirming. “I just don’t know….”
    “Lance,” Arthur began, his voice firm, yet understanding, “thou art my chosen one, thou art my First Knight, he