Tales of the Once and Future King

by Anthony Marchetta

  “My lady,” the man said, in a voice that echoed the mist.

  Who was this, she wondered, a knight errant in search of work?

  “Ah,” she said. “Art thou a knight? Prithee, whence comest thee?”

  “I had need of shelter from the storm,” he said. “Hast thou a need, Guinevere?”

  His speech was unnervingly familiar, but she knew naught of who he was. For all she knew, he could be the king’s cousin.

  “Yes,” she said, pushing down her discomfort. “Didst thou hear? I need my cousin Viola. What wilst thou need as a fee to bring her away from Melwas’ men?”

  “Give me thy hand,” he said.

  It was lèse-majesté to touch her, but she could offer her hand freely. She hesitated, then held it out to him. He reached and took it with a fingers that felt as cold as winter, lifted it toward his lips as if he meant to kiss it. Instead, he touched his tongue to a bead of blood, half dried on her knuckle where the brambles had torn through her skin.

  Guinevere shivered, feeling the rise of the mist, smelling the stench of carrion, feeling the sudden clutch of the grave close around her heart. She thought she would fall, but then the dark knight released her hand, and the strange vision was gone, leaving only the dreary courtyard, and the rain, now falling harder.

  “I will do what I can,” he said.

  He seemed to mount then, and his shadow moved through the downpour toward the gate.

  Guinevere shivered and rubbed her hand where he had touched it, feeling her skin still cold as frostbite. She took another step toward the keep, but a shout from the gate caused her to swing around again. It was the boy gatekeeper and three others, returning with her maids.

  The women were all a sight, wet and bedraggled, their hair stringing in the rain and their fine clothes spoiled by the mud. Still, she was overjoyed to see them. It meant the disaster wasn’t all it could have been.

  “My queen,” said the motherly Edna, “how did you get so muddy? You’ll catch your death of cold out here. Quick, come inside. We all need to get out of this freakish storm.”

  Warm and dry, installed before the fireplace and fortified by a cup of spiced mead, Guinevere felt much more hopeful. Still her heart pined for the loss of her sweet cousin.

  “Didst thou see what became of Viola?” she asked Edna.

  The woman shook her head sadly, “No, my queen,” she said. “I did not see. I only heard her screams.”

  Guinevere buried her face in her hands, imagining little Viola violated and murdered by the villainous crew, her body lying in the ditch with her eyes open and unseeing in the rain. Or remaining captive, sold into slavery. It was a terrifying vision. What excuses could she make to Viola’s father? None that would serve, she knew. She rocked in nearly physical pain.

  The afternoon wore on, the rain and wind howling outside the keep. Boys brought in more logs to stoke the fire in the main hall, leaving a trail of mud behind on the rushes. They had an early supper, with dusk already falling outside. Henley, one of the keep’s spotted cats, curled around Guinevere’s ankles, meowing piteously, and she dropped bits of venison for him to capture and gnaw into submission.

  As supper was cleared, the feline climbed into her lap, warming himself as she sat before the fire. She had naught to do but await news—or else the return of the king. The fire burnt lower. Edna came to her finally.

  “My queen,” she said. “Will you take your bed?”

  Guinevere roused, stroked one hand over the cat’s silky fur.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Lay out my night things, please. I’ll tarry here a while longer.”

  Edna bowed her head and departed, leaving the two of them alone in the great hall. Sometime later, Henley moved in Guinevere’s lap. He lifted his head and hissed as if the devil himself were in the room. The cat jumped down, arched his back and bristled his fur. He squalled, disturbed by something the girl couldn’t hear. He hissed again, and then she heard the knell of the great bronze door knocker at the end of the hall.

  She got up from the fire and hurried down the length of the hall, unbarred the door and dragged it open. It groaned on its huge hinges, letting in a breath of the fog, a cloud of moisture from the rain. A shadow stood there.

  “Knight?” she asked. “Hast thou returned?”

  “Queen Guinevere,” he said. “I have brought your cousin.”

  “Oh,” she said, seeing the figure in his arms then. It was Viola, slack and unconscious, with the rain dripping in runnels from her sodden skirts. Guinevere lifted her hands, covered her eyes in terror. “Is she dead?”

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

  He bent and laid the unconscious girl on the threshold. Guinevere knelt and touched her, found she was cold as death, but the girl’s chest rose and fell steadily, her breath warm against her cousin’s hand. Relieved, Guinevere pushed up, stood straight again.

  “Ye have my thanks,” she said. “Needst thou something more in payment?” she asked. “I can ask the king to grant his favors.”

  The torchlight did no more to reveal the knight’s features than the storm had in the day, leaving him a black, looming shadow against the rain. He brought with him the smell of blood and carrion, and dampness like the grave. Behind Guinevere the cat squalled again, hiding under the boards. It was a warning, she thought, with a shiver that was from more than the cold that entered through the open door. She ought to have asked anyone in to shelter from the rain, but this man...

  “I am in need of naught,” he said, “but hast thou not more to ask of me?”

  She was taken by surprise.

  “What?” she said.

  “I can give thee thy heart’s desire,” he said out of the dark, “the Knight Launcelot.”

  She caught her breath, and one hand flew to her mouth. How could he know of her deepest desire, her secret love? She closed her eyes and swayed, feeling the pull of deep magics, the darkness of evil, the storm outside that could have risen from the depths of hell itself. Deep inside of her, a small voice whispered, “Give up thy soul, and thee can have him.”

  But she was a woman grown, a queen. She had duties, allegiance, responsibilities. She needed to keep her soul. She stepped back.

  “No,” she said. “I wilt have naught more from you.”

  He only stood there, his opaque shadow darkening her doorway. Desperate to be rid of him, she traced a rood in the air, a ward against evil.

  “Begone!” she cried.

  The shadow disintegrated into a mass of crows, flapping and cawing in confusion. The birds fell into the puddles, flew into the walls, banged into the portico-finally escaped into the night.

  Guinevere stifled a scream, but that was useless now. She dragged at the girl, the heavy door, slamming it shut against the dark. She was shaking, panting, suddenly unsteady, but for now she was safe.

  “Edna!” she cried. “Come to me! I have Viola!”

  CHAPTER 22

  Maybe the story really had boosted her confidence, or maybe it was just a welcome distraction. Whatever the reason, Maddie could feel the coiled ball of nerves in her stomach relax.

  “Thank you, Fox.”

  Though Maddie had relaxed, Fox looked deadly serious. “Do you understand the story?”

  Maddie was confused. “What’s there to understand? Queen Guinivere had to find a little girl, and a black knight helped her.”

  Fox nodded. “These times are coming back. The queen of Camelot can call on the knight of crows, and now the men and women of Avalon are here. Do you understand this? The one who is to be the queen of Avalon can call on the Knight of Crows.”

  Maddie was starting to get scared again. “Why are you telling me this?”

  Fox’s eyes seemed to stare into her soul. “The Knight of Crows brings aid, but also temptation. You may call on him once. Do not call the knight lightly, Maddie Calvin.”

  Fox was about to say something else when Lance stumbled back in, rubbing his back. He sat down next to Maddie, cracki
ng his neck.

  “Please tell me we’re not going to have to do this again,” Lance said.

  “It isn’t much farther,” Fox promised, “if we do, it will almost certainly be only one more time.”

  Lance looked very displeased at the possibility of having to clear a path again. Maddie dug through her bag. She didn’t like what Fox had told her, and wanted to forget. All she wanted to do was find her father. Avalon and Camelot were never part of the deal.

  “Here,” she said, “Eat something instead of being in a terrible mood, Lance.”

  She handed him an apple. Lance shined it on his shirt and bit into it.

  “I just don’t get it,” he said around the apple, “you break your backs clearing trees through the woods so you can lug this wagon around.”

  “We’re telling the stories of the Pendragon. That’s important.”

  Lance leaned back in his seat. “Ever think about writing it down? Handing out some pamphlets? That’s got to be more practical than this.”

  Maddie looked at Fox. If Lance had been trying to get a laugh out of him, it didn’t work. Fox stared back at Lance, completely serious.

  “It is what Arthur would have wanted,” Fox said, “He had great appreciation for the arts. His love for music was unmatched.”

  Lance, looked skeptical. “He did, huh?”

  “He was in a band,” Fox said dryly, and Maddie couldn’t help but give a small giggle, more out of nerves than actual amusement.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t... King Arthur was in a band?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Fox. “Even kings have hobbies.”

  “And what was the name of his ‘band?’” Lance asked. Maddie had been traveling with Lance long enough now to know that he liked Fox’s stories as much as she did, and was trying to bait him into telling one without saying it outright. She suspected that Fox was aware of this and didn’t care.

  Fox looked at Lance and, without missing a beat, launched into another story.

  CHAPTER 23

  Battle of the Bands at Raventree, by Victor Rodriguez

  Art Highsmith took another sip of nut-brown ale and looked around the table at his friends. Joe sat to his left, the neck of his bass guitar leaning up against the table’s edge between them. Kai, the wiry West German, was annoyingly tapping his drumsticks on the chairs, mugs of ale, Joe’s bass—anything within reach, really. Gavin—thoughtful, kind Gavin—sat patiently to Art’s right with his cup of hot tea, as always.

  “Can you please stop that,” Joe said, shielding his bass by interposing his hand. He was struck by a final tap. “Ow!”

  “Sorry, mate,” Kai said, with a slight German accent. He withdrew his sticks and slid his near-finished mug of ale over to Joe, then stood and called out to the server: “Garçon! Whiskey!”

  Their neighborhood pub, the Raventree, was fairly packed tonight. The lone server was halfway across the darkened, musty room tending to other customers, but he nevertheless looked up and nodded over to Kai to signal he had heard the vigorous shout.

  The place was basically two rooms: a kitchen, and a large dining area with an entrance at one end, a small stage at the other, and a polished wooden bar opposite the entrance. In the center, right in the middle of the scattered small tables and chairs was a huge, old oak tree that grew out of the floor with branches stretching up into the ceiling. The owner, Monty, had decorated it with rings of Christmas tree lights looped around the trunk, and a few two-dimensional tin ravens arranged like they were perched on the branches.

  “Gents,” Art said, “It’s open mic night and we have no other gigs to speak of in the days ahead. These good people are here to see us. We’ve got to do something to keep the fans we’ve earned.”

  “Such as…?” Joe said, rubbing his knuckles where Kai had rapped them.

  “We played ‘Counsel of Trees’ last week, and the week before. What about ‘Music of the Spheres,’ that piece we were working on yesterday?” said Art.

  Gavin nodded and looked up from his teacup, brushing his long, fair hair from his eyes. “The keyboard part’s a little rough, but I can improvise.”

  Art smiled. “What about you, Joe? Are you happy with the bassline?”

  “It’s not bad,” Joe said, casting wary glances at his band-mates. “It’s a brave proposal, but I can see you lot are hell-bent to do this. I won’t stop you.”

  “Music of the Spheres,” Art said, sitting back in his creaky wooden chair, rolling the idea over in his head. It agreed with him the more he thought about it.

  “And you?” Kai said.

  “I’m growing rather fond of the idea.”

  “No, no, I mean what are you going to play? That song has a guitar part—a great guitar part—but yours is back at the house with all the other non-essential equipment we couldn’t fit into the car.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Kai. I asked a friend to bring a guitar for me tonight.”

  “A friend?” Joe said. “But we’re all here. You can’t mean…?”

  “Precisely,” Art said. “The old Martin Dreadnought.” He closed his eyes, remembering. “Signed by Donovan after we opened for him at the UFO Club three years ago.”

  “Oh, Donovan,” Joe said, finishing off the ale Kai had given him. “Where is he now?”

  “Where we should be—touring the world with the Beatles and the Stones,” Kai said, then turned to Art. “Actually I think it was four years ago. 1964. Get your dates right, man! Someday an attractive journalist is going to write a biography of us and you want all the bits to be right, don’t you?”

  “Alright, four years ago,” Art said to Kai, good mood unflagging.

  Gavin, the youngest member, looked up through his bangs. “The Martin guitar. I’ve only heard rumors, really. Deep sound?”

  “So deep,” said Joe.

  The four friends took a moment and nodded to each-other, but then Joe turned to Art and said, “I’ll never know why you decided to give it to her.”

  “It was a different time with Juniper singing with us. I remember her songwriting the most. Challenge to keep up with her, really.”

  “Mostly I remember you two fighting,” Kai said.

  Art looked thoughtful at that. “If not for our… creative differences, we never would have met Gavin. Things happen for a reason, Kai.”

  “You mean shit happens for a reason,” Kai said.

  “What I mean to say is that friendships don’t often last. That’s why we need to appreciate them while we have them.”

  The others looked a bit taken aback by that. Perhaps they had been thinking all this would last forever, Art mused. Good, then they won’t take tonight for granted.

  Art tried to change the subject. “Speaking of old friends, here comes Jean-Paul.”

  The tall, handsome server walked up to the table, glass of whiskey in hand, and placed it before Kai.

  Kai gave him a square-jawed smile. “How’s it hanging, Frenchie?”

  “Good, Kai, good,” said Jean-Paul. JP still had charisma, Art thought. More than anyone else at the table. Perhaps even more than he had.

  “Keeping busy these days?” Kai continued, pushing in his usual blunt (rude) style.

  JP looked a bit embarrassed. “My band days are behind me, but it’s good to be close to the music,” he said.

  “As in serving the musicians drinks?” Kai asked, moving the whiskey glass over to Joe.

  “And what’s wrong with that?” JP said.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Kai chided. “I know it’s the best gig you could find.”

  Jean-Paul inhaled and let out a sigh. “Open mic starts in a few minutes. Monty wants you guys on first. You ready?”

  “Ready as we’ll ever be,” said Joe.

  “We’re going to open with something new tonight,” Gavin said, before the others could stop him.

  “You didn’t hear that,” said Joe, then turned to Gavin. “Oi, loose lips sink ships, man. Shut it.”

  Gavin sank deepe
r into the brown suede jacket he wore around him like armor. “Oh, sorry. It’s just a song, I mean…”

  Kai said, “You’re talking to the man who broke up the band by sleeping with that tart, Juniper back when she was Art’s girlfriend! We don’t want him running back to her and telling her our business, do we? She’s in a rival band now—she’s on her own.”

  “She brought something for you,” Jean-Paul said. “I think I know what it is, too, and I couldn’t be happier that it’s back in your hands.”

  Art smiled warmly. “Thank you, old friend.”

  “Good God, she’s not expecting to play with us, surely?” Joe said.

  “No and no,” said Jean-Paul, straightening. “She has her own band now.”

  Art couldn’t help but think Jean-Paul belonged on stage. If Art ever retired, he hoped Jean-Paul would take over as frontman. People tended to do as Art asked, but Jean-Paul was different than most. Perhaps he had his own ideas for the future.

  “Let me guess… she’s partnered with you?” Joe said.

  “No. She has a new guy now. Xavier.”

  “Zahhviay,” Joe said, mocking JP’s French pronunciation. “Not another Frenchman….”

  “Oui,” said Jean-Paul. “And he’s very well-connected. His father owns a radio station in Paris. I overheard that they invited someone special, one of his father’s friends, to listen to the performances tonight—a Mr. Green from Destiny Records.”

  “Green!? Ian Green?” said Joe. “He’s going to be here?”

  “Oui, his words exactly. If you wish to take my coup de main for what it is, I would suggest you make your song count.” He smiled and walked off.

  Everyone at the table leaned in toward Art.

  “Gents,” Art said. “Our time has come. Let’s get ready.”

  Everyone rose. Joe downed the whiskey his friend had just given him and picked up his heavy bass.

  As a group, they made their way through the crowd and around the festively-lit tree toward the door to the side of the stage that opened to a small “green room,” literally painted a glossy shade of pale green, like the inside of an avocado.