The next fortnight is a chaos of activity for everyone from the queen down. Rooms that haven’t been looked at for eight months are turned out and shaken. Private quarters are commandeered wholesale, and most of us regular residents find ourselves stacked up dozens deep. As two brothers married to two sisters, Gareth and I are packed in together, with one and a half rooms for ourselves, our wives, and brother Agravaine, whose wife Laurel is a cousin of Luned’s. We’re spared Gawain only by Llinos’s pregnancy, which leads the queen to take pity on her, and spare her his snoring. The knights-elect are even worse off: usually they’re two to a room, but now all six are squashed into one dormitory along with the junior squires and even some of the pages. Lamorak bewails the impossibility of ever finding any of his particular possessions again. I tell him it’s character-forming (one of Agravaine’s bouquets), and find it necessary to throw him before he hits me.
The first three times I try courting Luned, she behaves as though I’m in the last stages of insanity. The fourth time, she asks me what I’m up to. The fifth, she hits me, but more in exasperation than in anger; and I make a number of interesting discoveries, not least that there are one or two situations to which brother Gareth’s perfect manners just aren’t adequate.
Mother arrives, with my appalling youngest brother Medraut in tow, and demands of the king that he start his knightly novitiate immediately. Medraut himself responds by forming an instant passion for Laurel, which distracts Agravaine nicely. Luckily for her other sons, Mother is co-opted to help with the castle-keeping, and more or less leaves us alone. Even with her occupied, though, it’s safest to spend as much time as possible as at the far end of the grounds. Some blessed conjunction of circumstances keeps Mother from discovering my exact involvement with this year’s knightings, and for once Kay plays right into my hands by anticipating royal consent, and installing me as deputy.
I find I quite enjoy dropping – and being dropped by – trainees into the mud. Llinos wails at the amount of dirt I trail into our overcrowded quarters, and Agravaine congratulates me on having at last found my natural element. In honour of Mother, I refrain from blacking either of his eyes. Lamorak complains, a little, at having to share my attention, but his heart isn’t really in it. There’s too much going on.
It’s my favourite of all the courts, Christmas. The speaking silence of the midnight mass, with all of us lined up in the cathedral, row upon row, united, at peace. And after it, the revelry, with ranks and quarrels put aside, and pages running riot, and Kay uncertain whether to laugh or curse as the conventions fall down around our ears. And the music, and the dancing, and the sudden sweet flirtations… And at New Year the great tourney, with rebated weapons and laughing conflict. It’s everything, all folded into a ten-day, and played through at speed. Nothing spoils it, not even Mother. I’ve not missed a one, since I first came to Caerleon as Gawain’s squire.
Until this year. The day before Christmas eve, I misjudge a parry, and catch Lamorak’s sword between my shield and my forearm. We’re both off-balance: his full weight comes down on me when we fall. I hit my head hard enough to knock myself out, and break my collar-bone and two ribs. He gets away with a few bruises. It’s an accident, clear enough, though Agravaine growls, and Aglovale de Galis takes to looking anxious. Lamorak acts as if he’s expecting to be tried for murder, and I get to miss most of the festivities. The only consolation is that at least I get a room to myself, on the direction of the court physician. Too much to myself, it turns out, for no one has time to amuse the wounded at this season.
St Stephen’s, Kay comes by to see me. The vigil of the new knights will be the next night, with the investiture the day after. It’s already been established that I’m to play no part in it. A maimed sponsor is an ill-omen. Kay sits down on my bed, hard, and glares. “You’re a bloody trouble-maker, Heris.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Hmm. Of all the stupid, incompetent…”
“I know, I know. Agravaine already told me.”
“Did he? Well, for the first time in his useless life he seems to have a point.”
“I”ll tell him you said so.”
“You do that.” He looks at me, considering. “Maybe not. Your Agravaine’s got nasty, vengeful habits, and I’m getting too old for all that.”
There’s not a grey hair in his head. I look at him quizzically for a moment or two, and we both laugh. This hurts. I wind up clutching my side, and gasping. Kay says “Oh, dear,” in a tone of the utmost insincerity.
“Just wait… till I can use… my arm again!”
“I’ll look forward to it.” His face gets serious. “About Lamorak de Galis. “
I haven’t seen Lamorak for four days, since Amran and Osian helped me off the field. “What about him? Is he all right?”
“It depends,” says Kay, in his worst dark tone, “if you mean all right for normal people, or all right for Lamorak. Whatever that is. He spent half of yesterday howling on your brother Gareth.”
My family haven’t been telling me things. “Oh, Lord.”
“Quite. He wants to wait until Easter. He’s a screaming failure. He has no honour. He wants to die. You hate him. You’d think he’d just murdered his mother, not fallen on an Orkney! Although now I come to think about it…”
“No blood-feud jokes!”
“Oh, if I must. Though it would make my life a whole lot easier if one of you would just tidy him away.”
“Kay!”
“All right, all right. I didn’t mean it.”
“Good. “
“Anyway, I thought I’d come and inspect you, and see if you were even remotely compos mentis.” Again he looks thoughtful. “Although it’s hard enough to tell with you even when you don’t have doctors dosing you to the eyeballs.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. So, are you up to it?”
“To what?”
“Holy Mother! Lamorak.”
“It’s unlucky… “
“I didn’t mean that, you idiot. I meant, are you up to talking to him? He’s been trying to get to see you for days, and your brothers won’t let him, (and very sensible, too), but now he’s started on me…” He shrugs. “I don’t want Lancelot complaining to Arthur that I’m being nasty to the poor little trainees again.”
“As if you would be!”
“Watch it! Well, can I wheel him in?”
“He’s here?”
“Outside the door.”
I’m not feeling at my best, if truth be told. The collar-bone isn’t too bad, now it’s strapped up, but the doctor keeps making me drink foul concoctions that make my head swim, and my ribs ache. I’d love to find an alternative to breathing… Exactly like Kay, to present me with a fait accompli. “Is he sober?”
“Yes, of course.” I catch his eye, and stare. “Well, he’s sober-ish. For heaven’s sake, man, it’s Christmas!”
“Not so I’d noticed.”
“Poor thing! Next time I’ll bring you a piece of holly.”
“Too kind.”
In the brief pause, Kay suddenly grins at me, and produces a half bottle of wine from the floor at his feet. “Just don’t tell the doctor where you got it.”
He’s not such a bad sort, Kay. “I won’t. Thanks.”
He holds it just out of reach. “And Lamorak?”
I must remember not to laugh. “All right. Let him in.”
“I just knew you’d say that. Anyone ever tell you you’re a soft touch, Heris?”
“All the time!”
He laughs, and goes to the door. As I find a suitable – and handy – spot for my wine, I can hear him lecturing. “Right. Prince Gaheris will see you. But no dramatics, no vapours, and no tantrums. D’you hear me?” I can’t hear Lamorak’s answer, but Kay tuts, and says “You’d better mean that, or I’ll tell Sir Agravaine where you are.”
Prince Gaheris. It’s been a while since anyone called me that. Even Agravaine tends to forget his title. Come to it,
Lamorak’s as much a prince as I am. More, maybe: Nordgwalia’s a bigger place than Lothian. Kay ushers Lamorak in, scowling. “Here you are, then. Now, behave yourself.”
Lamorak shuffles, and stares at his feet. “Yes, lord seneschal.” He might be twelve, not nearly seventeen. Kay snorts, and exits, shutting the door. There’s a long silence.
In the end I break it. “Happy Christmas, then, Lamorak.”
He looks up at that, and the snake eyes are tearful. Oh, not again… I smile at him, and say briskly, “Surely Kay isn’t that bad?” He gives a soft wail, and drops to his knees at the foot of the bed, burying his face in the blanket. Fabulous.
Evan has propped me up with a few pillows, but all the same, it isn’t easy to crane my neck to the required angle. “For heaven’s sake, Lamorak… Whatever is the matter?”
He gulps, and says something indistinct in which Kay, Aglovale, dishonour and the castle moat are all muddled up together. It makes about as much sense as one of Mother’s pronouncements on politics. “Lamorak, do stop it, please, and talk to me.” No answer. “Will you at least move down this end? You’re hurting my shoulder.”
At that, he looks up. “Oh, Christ,” he says, more distinctly. “I can’t do anything right, can I?”
Why must the young be so fragile? I say, firmly, “Don’t be daft,” and pat the bed with my good hand. “Now, come here and tell me about it. “
He blows his nose on his sleeve, and obeys. “I’m… I’m sorry, Sir Gaheris.”
“Sir Gaheris? What’s this? Respect?”
“No… Yes… I messed up again, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know. What have you done?”
“What have I done?” He looks at me, appalled. “What haven’t I?”
“Killed someone? Insulted a lady? Perjured yourself?”
“No, but...”
“Well, then. Dear Lord, Lamorak, you have got to learn to stop over-reacting to the least thing, or you’ll draw yourself more trouble than you can handle.” The snake eyes are doubtful, looking at me. “All this, because a middle-aged knight made an idiot’s parry?”
“You’re not middle-aged.”
I’m twenty eight. “Well, maybe not. But I am an idiot.” He opens his mouth to contradict. “Any junior squire knows not to parry like that. I was stupid, and now I’m paying for it. But you haven’t ‘messed up’, or crippled me, or dishonoured yourself. It was an accident.”
“But...”
“Not everything you do will be glorious, or tragic. Sometimes things just happen.” No need to tell him now how much accidents may cost. He’ll find out. “You don’t need to dramatize everything.”
“That’s what Sir Kay said.”
“Well, he’s right.”
“Yes…” He hesitates. “They wouldn’t let me see you, and Sir Agravaine said… If you died, he…”
I’m going to give Agravaine considerably more than a black eye. I have to keep the anger from my voice, answering. “Well, I’m not intending to die. This time.”
“No.” Abruptly, the snake eyes overflow again. “Oh, Gaheris.” He lifts my good hand and hugs it to him. “Kay said you weren’t… and Sir Gareth… but...”
“I’ve done myself more harm falling off my horse. Oh, Lamorak, do stop it.”
He sniffs, hard. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s better. I’m sorry, too. But it’s done, and must be lived with.” I manage to get my hand back, by dint of some wriggling. “I’m afraid I’ve let you down.”
He straightens up somewhat, and seems to be making an effort. “I wanted to wait for Easter, but no one agreed.”
“Quite right, too.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Of course.”
“But...”
“Why delay something so major for the sake of a two-hour lecture while you’re sitting in your bath?”
That makes him laugh. Then he says “But a sponsor… It’s more than that, surely?”
“No. How do you think all the people who get knighted in the field manage?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“Well, then.” I gaze at the foot of the bed, thinking. “It’s… it’s a formality, really. Like checking you’ve got your shield before riding out. To remind you what you’re taking on.” Remember Gawain, looking momentous… “Aglovale’s a fine man; he’ll make a grand sponsor.”
“I’d rather have you.” Lamorak sounds wistful. “What were you going to say to me?”
“I’m not sure… Try to be fair, to yourself and others. Keep your word, to king and country. Remember to parry with your shield, not your elbow.” He smiles. “That sort of thing. What Gawain said to me, more or less (except the bit about parrying).” Strange how some things stay with you. I can still remember the narrow room, the feel of cooling water, Gawain’s face in the firelight…
“What did he say?” Lamorak asks. He’s watching me with an odd intensity, as if he’s waiting for something.
“That’s a long time ago.” All that time as Gavin’s squire. We were closer, then. Before all this blood-letting began. Perhaps I’m silent a long time, for Lamorak begins to look worried.
“Are you in pain?”
“I’ll do.” He still looks concerned. “I was trying to remember, that’s all.” He relaxes a little. “Well, then…” When I try, I still have the accent of my childhood, that we all have in stress, and Gawain more than most. “Something like this: ‘Love your king – and God – and your own kin. Stick by what you know to be right, and don’t go chasing follies. Keep your sword clean, and your honour with it, and never forget whose arms you bear. Be polite to women – all women, not just ladies, mind – and watch your tongue with your elders and betters. Happen you’ll disagree, betimes, but see you keep quiet – and that means you must mind Agrin, as well as me, and don’t go pointing out mistakes we can see by ourselves. Don’t take an insult; but don’t go looking for them, neither. And never refuse an adventure, or a fair request – although mind you don’t go making yourself a martyr to all comers, for you will go letting others put on you. And see you wash regularly, and don’t go doing all the damn fool things I did!” By the end of this, Lamorak’s laughing helplessly.
“Did he really say that – about washing?”
“Aye, man, happen he did.”
He laughs some more. “And you were going to say that to me?”
“Well, maybe not the bits about washing, and listening to Agrin – to Agravaine. And there might have been a thing or two I’d add for you yourself, as Gavin did, when he told me to stand up for myself.” I sigh. “There’s a lesson in that, if you like, for he’s still saying I don’t and telling me I should.”
Again that intensity in Lamorak’s face. “Do you think he’s right?”
“Who knows?” Shrugging is nearly as bad as laughing. “It’s just his way of telling me to do right – and to have right done by me.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Lamorak looks thoughtful. “What would you say just for me, then?”
“Aglovale… “
“I want to know!”
There’s such urgency in his voice that I jump. “Why does it matter so much?” He gazes at me for a long moment, then looks away, shaking his head.
“I can’t explain. I just… I can’t tell you.” I can hear his breathing, quick and ragged. There’s something here I don’t understand.
“You feel things too much. You need more… I don’t know, more sense of proportion. You care too much.”
“Do I?” He laughs mirthlessly.
“Well, maybe you don’t. I don’t know. All I know is that you’re very different to me.”
“Am I?”
“I think so. I’m not very good at understanding people.” Lamorak is silent. Suddenly there’s a tension between us, and I can’t see why.
With sudden ferocity, he says “I don’t want you to understand!” And then, “No, I do want it!” He draws in a long breath, and
turns round. “Tell me: what do you think of me?”
I can’t help smiling. “That you have an incorrigible habit of fishing for compliments.” He bites his lip. “Dear heaven, Lamorak! You’re a very promising young knight.”
I expect him to seize on the compliment, in his usual fashion. Instead, he looks down and shuts his eyes. His face is bleak. I’m afraid for him, suddenly. There’s a shadow across the light that Lancelot spoke of, a darkness. “Lamorak?” He makes no answer. I’m not equipped to deal with this… I need Gareth… He’s right, I don’t understand.
It’s Gawain who breaks the spell, opening the door and entering. I jump. “Rescue squad,” he says, cheerfully. “Kay said you’d need it.” Lamorak beside me swallows hard, and rubs a hand across his eyes. Gawain looks at us. He’s slightly drunk, which emphasises the accent. “Christ, man. Will you look at the pair of you! There’s someone dead, is it? You willna learn, Heris. You will go letting yourself be put on.”
Beside me, Lamorak gives a laugh that turns quite suddenly into a sob.
I persuade the doctors to let me out of bed for the tourney. They don’t argue too hard: maybe even they are softened by the Christmas spirit. My brothers are delighted. Now Gawain can fight, and I (oh, joy!) can field Mother. She’s on form. As I settle myself under the royal canopy, she’s already in full flow, talking and eyeing up the young men. Agravaine holds she’s beautiful. I’ll grant she has a fine way of grabbing attention. I’m a poor substitute for Gawain; she’s already made that plain. One can, I suppose, be thankful for these small mercies.
Her daughters-in-law cluster round her. I’m not really listening, but the giggles suggest that the conversation is typically scandalous. To my left, my aunt catches my eye, and smiles sympathetically. “Poor Gaheris. Are you feeling very left out?”
“Not really.” I smile back. “Look at the company I’m getting to keep. “
She pulls a face. “Quite. I’m relying on you, though. You’ll have to help me judge, since Arthur has abandoned me.” My uncle has, for once, exercised privilege, and taken the field with Gareth’s side.
“I’d be honoured.”
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