A Tail of Camelot

by Julie Leung

  “Can you make out their banners?” Calib squinted at the two knights who stood at the tip of the formation. Their sigils were too far away for him to see.

  “The leader bears three crowns against a blue backing, his lieutenant bears a white banner with three red stripes,” General Gaius reported.

  “It’s King Arthur and Sir Lancelot!” Calib said excitedly. “The knights have come home!”

  The horns sounded a second time. This time they were joined by a powerful rallying cry from the knights defending the castle.

  King Arthur and his fearsome knights rushed down the hill toward the stunned Saxons. Their horses pounded the ground with their hooves, kicking up mounds of dirt. Their spears glinted red in the sun.

  General Gaius turned a graceful circle in the air, and Calib saw that inside the castle, the badgers already had most of the Saxon weasels running while a large, stocky page led a surprise attack on the northern tower. A new energy surged through the defenders with the arrival of the human knights, and the battle turned quickly.

  Fighting on two fronts, the Saxon army lost what ground they had gained. Many of them found themselves trapped between the advancing armies.

  King Arthur had brought at least a hundred more knights with him, the finest and strongest in the land. Each knight was worth ten of the Saxons. There was Sir Yvain, who once tamed a lion, and Sir Bedivere, who had once defeated a giant.

  Slowly at first, and then quick as the retreating tide, the Saxon forces began to fall back. Calib let out a ragged cheer as General Gaius continued to sweep over the battlefield, giving Calib full view of Camelot’s victory. A grin broke out across Calib’s face, one that was so big that he wondered if his whiskers had fallen off to make room for it.

  “Oh no!”

  The cry had come from General Gaius, and Calib grabbed wildly at tawny feathers as the owl banked hard. He looked down at the battlefield to see what had made the owl shriek.

  His heart stopped.

  Arrows had lodged in Berwin’s armor like porcupine quills. The bear’s mouth was foaming. He bled from many gashes across his arms and legs, but his eyes were focused as he galloped straight on.

  Calib swiveled his head to see what had so gripped the bear and saw that a last group of Saxons were preparing a trebuchet against the castle. One that would release a boulder big enough to take out the corner tower where Queen Guinevere was reattaching Camelot’s flag to a rampart.

  Just as the Two-Leggers prepared to slice the rope and let the boulder fly, Berwin lunged.

  The entire structure crashed to the ground, crushing the Saxons underneath. The bear stood on his hind legs and gave a victorious roar.

  But from Gaius’s back, Calib could see what Berwin could not. One of the Saxons was not yet dead.

  “Watch out!” the mouse yelled, but he was too high up to be heard.

  As Berwin towered over the Saxon, the Two-Legger pulled himself up into a crouch and drove his sword up under the bear’s breastplate, burying it to the hilt.

  Calib’s scream was lost somewhere between his heart and his throat as Berwin looked down, his face changing from surprise to great pain.

  “Go! Go!” Calib yelled, urging Gaius toward the bear.

  Berwin dropped down on all fours and tried to limp to the shelter of the Darkling trees. The wounded Saxon crawled away, but Berwin ignored him. With every step he took, a terrible grimace flashed across the bear’s face.

  As Gaius dove down to the bear, Berwin collapsed, massive paws sprawling in the snowy dirt.

  Calib vaulted off General Gaius. “Get a healer!” he yelled to the owl before he even hit the ground. Gaius nodded and flew to the castle while Calib raced to the bear’s side.

  “Berwin,” the mouse said, skidding to a stop before the great beast. “Please don’t try to move. General Gaius has gone for help.”

  “No need,” the bear growled through clenched teeth. Dark, sticky blood trickled from his wounds into his fur. “No healer can fix this.”

  “Just stay still,” Calib said stubbornly. “I’ll find something to help.” Calib turned to run back to the castle, but the bear held the mouse in place by his tail. He twisted and pulled, but Berwin’s grip was too strong.

  “Why are you doing this?” Calib demanded. Hot, desperate tears began pouring down his cheeks. “Why won’t you let me save you?”

  “Shed no tears for me, little mouse,” Berwin said, managing a small smile. “Before you came into my den, I had nothing to live for. I am the last bear in Britain, Calib. I have known this for many years.”

  His voice grew quieter and gentler. His eyes became soft and sad. “I must return to my kinfolk, in a land where the living cannot tread.”

  “No,” Calib said, stifling the sobs that welled up in his throat. “You can’t die. We’ve won the war.” He clutched Berwin’s giant muzzle and rested his own snout on top. “Please. I promised to find you another bear.”

  “You have given me something better, Calib Christopher—a chance . . . to die . . . with honor.”

  Snow began to collect on the bear’s fur. Berwin let out a long exhale, surrounding Calib in the warm steam of his breath. The light left the bear’s eyes like a dying ember of coal. Berwin, the last bear of Britain, saw no more.

  CHAPTER

  47

  That evening, Camelot held a victory feast of such grandeur, bards would sing of it for years to come.

  In the human hall, flaky, juicy meat pies and smoked legs of mutton were stacked high on the Round Table. Red mead and golden lagers flowed freely from wooden barrels. Trenchers of roasted potatoes and turnips drizzled with gravy and glazes lined the outer tables. There was even a table full of sweets, from treacle tarts to honeyed oatcakes.

  The music and chatter blended together in a pleasant harmony throughout the throne room. An ambitious musician played a rapid-fire fiddle tune as knights and ladies danced and twirled in celebration of King Arthur and his knights’ return. Sitting on his throne, King Arthur beamed at the castle’s inhabitants. He tilted his head often in the direction of Queen Guinevere as she leaned into him. Her braids were wrapped around her head like a coronet, and Galahad thought she had never looked more beautiful, or more happy.

  In fact, Galahad had never seen the castle so full of merriment. He marveled at how much had changed from the Camelot he thought he knew. No longer suited up like a drab kitchen boy, Galahad was dressed in the nicest robes that his mother had sent with him from the nunnery—a thick velvet tunic with Sir Lancelot’s crest embroidered on the back.

  At his side, the Sword in the Stone hung in a plain leather scabbard he had taken from the armory. The weight of it felt good, like it was already a part of him. But it was also heavy, and even a little frightening. Even with the blade concealed, the sword drew stares from everyone around. He did not know what his future would bring, but he knew that drawing the sword had changed it in ways that could not be undone.

  As he left the table to get seconds, knights and servants all clapped him on the back, congratulating him.

  All the attention felt strange to him. Or maybe it was just the fine clothing. Galahad found himself missing the ridiculous server’s outfit he had had to wear. At least in that, he didn’t feel like he was pretending to be something he was not.

  Galahad was debating whether he should retreat to his quarters and change when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a tall, blond man with a matching coat of arms on his chest. His face was handsomely bearded. A bittersweet expression, somewhere between pride and sadness, played at the corner of his lips.

  “Your reputation precedes you, young Galahad,” he said in a deep voice, his gray eyes beaming. “And you wear the colors well.”

  Galahad was speechless. He had replayed this scene in head so many times through his life. Sometimes, he imagined he’d say words of anger and accusation. But now, nothing seemed adequate for a father he had never met.

  All he could say was, “Hello.�
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  Sir Lancelot placed both his hands on Galahad’s shoulders and wrapped him in a hug. Galahad felt his throat tighten and willed himself not to cry.

  “I’m sorry, my son.” Lancelot’s voice was thick with emotion. “I will explain everything in time. Just know that I had not meant to be gone as much as I was.”

  Looking past his father, Galahad spied a small mouse watching him from the ledge above. The two exchanged knowing glances. Then the mouse scurried along the edge of the dome, dropped down to a window ledge behind the throne, and squeezed through a missing pane in a stained-glass window.

  “Excuse me,” Galahad said, wiggling out of his father’s grip and bowing. “I have someone, to um, thank first.”

  Ducking out of the throne room, Galahad wound his way through several side passages until he emerged into Queen Guinevere’s garden. His breath made clouds in the frosty night air. The mouse was there, waiting on the stone wall overlooking the cliffs. Galahad recognized the circle of white fur on his right ear, in contrast to the tawny brown of his face and paws. The mouse was dressed in dark-red robes with a tiny gold goblet stitched across the chest, and he wore a needle-like sword at his side. He looked up at Galahad with curious black eyes, and twitched his whiskers in what seemed like a friendly gesture.

  Galahad kneeled before him and bowed his head. “I owe you everything,” he said solemnly, straightening up, “but I don’t even know your name.”

  In the white snow that had collected, the mouse scrawled something with his tail.

  “Calib?” he asked, reading the tiny letters in wonder.

  The mouse nodded appreciatively.

  Galahad unsheathed his sword.

  This time, Galahad knew what to expect. As the sword reflected the pale-blue moon and wide ocean, he felt himself being swept away by the current of voices. He felt the dreams of slumbering animals in hibernation.

  “You must name the sword,” a new voice came to his ears. It sounded familiar, like an old man’s. Galahad closed his eyes and concentrated on the voice until a blurry outline of a wolf appeared in his mind. One eye was blue; one eye was green. “All heroes name their swords.”

  “This sword’s name is Excalibur,” Galahad said aloud, holding out the sword so that Calib might scurry onto it. “For the noble mouse who helped the castle in its darkest hour.”

  “Galahad!” Bors stuck his head outside a nearby window. “What are you doing out here? They’re about to make another toast in your honor!”

  “Tell them I’ll be there in a moment,” Galahad replied. Boy and mouse smiled at each other. The Two-Legger boy stuck out his left finger, and Calib shook it.

  “Where would you like me to take you?”

  Galahad gripped the hilt of the sword and focused on Calib, clearing out all the voices until the one voice he wanted came through.

  “The chapel, please.”

  CHAPTER

  48

  Calib darted up the wooden beams that led to the supporting rafters of the chapel. He had taken this path countless times before. And yet, as he entered the tapestry hall, Calib felt as if he were seeing everything with new eyes.

  The large battle scenes no longer looked majestic. Having seen what war was truly like, he knew the tapestry did little to truly capture the chaos, no matter how finely stitched. Calib eyed the blank space on the wall where Commander Yvers’s portrait would hang one day. There was still much work to be done to strengthen and repair the castle.

  And worries still weighed on Calib’s mind. The Manderlean and his army were still out there, defeated but not vanquished. And now they had a new adviser who knew all of Camelot’s secrets: the traitor, Percival Vole.

  The mouse once again made his way to the spot where he felt most at home in all of Camelot. On the surface nothing about his father and mother’s tapestry had changed. Sir Trenton still stood strong with his sword held high. Lady Clara still clasped her needle and thread primly. However, their eyes seemed to gaze upon Calib with a newfound sense of pride.

  In many ways, Calib knew it wasn’t the tapestry that had changed, but him. He was a different mouse now. The tapestry only reflected what he saw inside of himself.

  Calib studied the embroidered goblet that formed the Christopher crest on his new set of robes. The seamstresses had used gold thread to stitch the rays of sunlight shooting forth from the goblet.

  He looked around to make sure he was alone in the hall. The mouse picked up the bottom corner of the tapestry and gave it a long sniff. The scent of lavender filled Calib’s nose. It reminded him that spring would arrive before long.

  “I thought I might find you up here,” said a merry voice behind him.

  Calib turned to see Cecily walking toward him. She looked beautiful in a dress colored plum and opal white. For a moment, Calib was speechless.

  “Everyone’s waiting for you in the Goldenwood Hall,” Cecily continued. “Are you ready?”

  “I think I am.” Calib looked one last time at the blank space on the wall. “It’s just . . . I wish my grandfather were here to see everything turn out all right. See me as I am now.”

  “Commander Yvers always knew how to find the best in everybody, even if they didn’t believe it themselves. I don’t think he ever doubted that you would live up to his name,” Cecily replied. “He was a great mouse, and I think you are too.”

  Cecily leaned over as if to tell him a secret, but she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek instead. Calib flushed hot from ears to tail tip.

  The bells began to toll for eventide.

  “Come on,” Cecily said, grabbing his paw. “You can’t be late to your own party!”

  The Goldenwood Hall was a magnificent scene. Large picnic tables had been wheeled in to accommodate the new guests. Valentina and the rest of the crows were stringing colored paper streamers over the ceiling beams as Sir Alric supervised their placement.

  All around him, Camelot and Darkling animals were working and playing together. First-year pages were learning how to box from Lylas Whitestripe. Valentina and General Gaius were exchanging stories of their travels. Even Lucinda the cat was there, purring throatily next to Leftie. The Darkling leader seemed a little bemused by her attentions.

  Madame von Mandrake and her kitchen staff had prepared a feast unparalleled in the history of the Goldenwood Hall. Piping hot ladles of smashed pea soup were dished into hollowed-out acorns. Baked fish pies made from fresh sardines and minced mushroom stalks were served with savory bread pudding made from crusts.

  The hares nibbled on a crunchy salad of carrot tops, watercress bits, and radish heads. Desserts ranged from crushed blueberry tarts glazed with honey to lemon peel cakes. Wheels of fine cheeses and flagons of elderberry wine passed freely from creature to creature. Gourds and thimbles were filled to the brim. Barnaby looked like he might topple from overeating. Even Warren was striking up a conversation with Two-Bits the black squirrel, who could only sip broth.

  Calib stopped for a moment, raising his glass to Warren, who returned the gesture with a smile that seemed uncharacteristically free of mockery.

  “Oy, young Christopher!” Two-Bits the black squirrel clapped Calib on the back. “I never did thank ye properly for clearing my name.” He took a sip of broth. “Not that I care what a bunch o’ pompous Camelot ninnies think, mind ye. It’s just, well”—he scratched his head uncertainly—“maybe ye’re not all a bad sort.”

  The Round Table from the council room had also been moved to the stage so that the Darkling and Camelot leaders could sit side by side. Every seat in the hall was filled. Only the Goldenwood throne stood empty, Commander Kensington opting to sit in her old chair instead.

  On cue, the music quieted, and Leftie and Kensington stepped forward to address the crowds.

  “We raise our glasses this evening not as only victors of our battles, but as mourners for our fallen,” Commander Kensington began, the candlelight illuminating her old and new battle scars. “We gather here to honor the many w
e lost on the battlefield. May they never be forgotten for their sacrifices.”

  Lylas Whitestripe began to read through a list of all who had died in battle, including General Flit, Sir Owen Onewhisker, and Berwin the Brave, friend to all.

  For each name, a white banner with a golden paw print was unrolled from the ceiling. Soon, the space above the arena was filled with gently swaying swaths of white and gold. The room was hushed as each animal placed a paw over their hearts or saluted with their wings.

  Leftie stepped forward to speak. The lynx had cleaned up nicely. His spotted fur was untangled and brushed. His eye patch had been recently repaired with fresh leather, and his ear wounds were dressed.

  “We also raise our glass in celebration this evening, for the peace treaty between Camelot and the Darklings has been restored and will remain in effect as long as there are creatures who will fight for what is right,” Leftie said. “Our losses would have been much greater if not for the actions of one mouse who asked questions and uncovered the truth.”

  “To new friends and allies! And to Calib Christopher!” Kensington and Leftie said together. They bowed deeply to Calib, and soon the entire arena was cheering.

  “To Calib Christopher!” chorused a multitude of voices.

  Overwhelmed, Calib could only whisper a wholehearted “thank you.”

  A Darkling hedgehog-bard and Ginny came onstage. The hedgehog cleared his throat and began strumming a rousing tune on his lute. He was joined by Ginny’s singing. Their voices intertwined in a soaring harmony as a troupe of hedgehogs contributed drums and bagpipes:

  Whether ye make ye home in stone and mortar

  Whether ye prefer to roam in woods and water

  Warriors are born in all sizes and shapes

  No matter the colors on their flags or their capes

  Together in paw and tail, lest divided we fall and fail

  As long we stand together, the good in all prevails

  The applause in the Goldenwood Hall was deafening, with twice the number of paws clapping together.