He prepared himself and took a firm grip on his lance, ignoring the smirk from the peasant. ‘Are you sure this is it?’
The peasant nodded. ‘In here… definitely.’
Sir Gawain studied the cave entrance. ‘It’s a bit small.’
‘Are you worried your lance is too big to fit in the hole?’ The peasant smiled helpfully.
The squire snorted and doubled over.
‘Sorry, sire… I… er… sneezed.’
‘You’ll do more than sneeze when you get in there.’ The peasant seemed to relish the prospect. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Aren’t you coming?’ Sir Gawain fiddled with his visor.
‘No… I’ve got…..’ The peasant looked around the mist-shrouded landscape, what they could see of it. ‘It’s harvest time.’
‘What, this time of year?’ Sir Gawain knew little of farming. In fact the only thing he knew about agriculture was not to fight a battle in a field recently vacated by livestock… it was a bugger to get those sort off stains off armour. The latter thought made him wonder just how fearsome a dragon could be. He didn’t want to be trapped in a suit of armour with those sorts of smells on the inside.
‘Shall we go, then Sire?’ The squire helpfully stepped to one side holding her flaming torch up just inside the cave entrance.
‘Peasant. I order you to go first!’
‘Fuck off… I’ve got a harv….’
Sir Gawain swapped the lance to his other hand and drew his sword.
‘Oh, bollocks,’ the peasant said, grabbed the flaming torch from the squire and stopped into the cave. ‘Come on then.’