The Camelot Spell

by Laura Anne Gilman

  “Some more equal than others,” Gerard said to himself, reaching up to stroke the neck of his master’s beast, a roan gelding with a surprisingly sweet disposition, despite a wicked-looking eye. “A good horse will trump a wise man every day,” he murmured into the horse’s ear, quoting something his master often said—especially when Gerard’s actions or words failed to please him.

  “Here now, away from him!”

  Gerard turned, astonished. A stable boy stood not a foot from him, hands fisted at his hips, a scowl on his face. He wore dark trousers and a shirt made of a rough homespun and streaked with sweat and dirt. Shaggy black hair fell over his forehead and into his eyes, for all the world like a pony’s forelock.

  “Away from the horse,” the boy repeated slowly, as though speaking to a dullard who could not be expected to understand his words. In the dim light, the boy was unable to see Gerard’s tunic, which was marked in the upper corner with his master’s colors, proclaiming him a member of that knight’s household.

  On a normal day, Gerard would have remembered the manners expected of him, and the responsibility lectured into him from his first hour with Sir Rheynold. On a normal day, he would have informed the stable boy that he was squire to the man to whom this horse belonged, and thus within rights to touch such an expensive beast. On a normal day, he would even have thanked the boy for keeping such good watch, above and beyond his duties to shovel and polish.

  But it wasn’t a normal day. And it certainly wasn’t a good day, considering that he had been up and running errands since dawn as though he were still a page. It rankled the competent squire, emphasizing the fact that he wasn’t considered man enough to go on the Quest. And Gerard suddenly very much wanted someone other than himself to share his unhappiness. A stable boy, someone so low in Camelot’s pecking order as to be almost invisible, was perfect.

  “Begone, sirrah,” Gerard said, drawing himself up to his proud height. Although he hadn’t reached his full growth yet, he looked far more imposing than the scrawny boy before him. “I’ll do what I please, as I please, with my horseflesh.” And the horse was his, in a way. That was part of the oath Sir Rheynold made in return for his services. To teach and to care for Gerard, and to give to him as if he were the man’s own son.

  “Sure,” the other boy said scornfully. “You’ve the look of the d’Abmonts, that’s certain.”

  Gerard flushed. Sir Rheynold d’Abmont was a huge bear of a man, ruddy-faced and red-haired; nothing at all like his own more fair and slender form.

  “I am his squire, Gerard of Abmont.” He might have claimed his family name—he was of the bloodline of Sir Kay, the foster brother of the king himself—but that was bragging, and he had done nothing to earn it save be born. His place in the Abmont household he had earned.

  The stable boy snorted, sounding a great deal like a horse himself. “It wouldn’t matter if you’re the king’s own nephew; you’re not touching the beasts in my care.”

  “Your care?” Gerard could feel himself spluttering, outraged to be dismissed like that. “Yours? You dung-smeared, rear-faced, snot-nosed…peasant!”

  As easily as that, they were down on the straw-strewn ground between the wooden stalls, wrestling to get the best hold on the other. Gerard thought he had the upper hand, managing to land a solid elbow into the other boy’s face. But the stable boy was agile, slipping from his grasp again and again. He got in a blow with the heel of his hand first to Gerard’s jaw and then solidly into his nose.

  Gerard tasted blood in the back of his throat and spat straw out of his mouth as they rolled, the sound of nervous horses snorting and shifting in the stalls around them.

  “Enough!”

  A hand reached down and grasped Gerard by the collar of his shirt, lifted him off the other boy, and tossed him onto his backside. It soothed the blow only slightly to see the stable boy treated in the same manner. But that sense of justice faded when he recognized the newcomer.

  Sir Lancelot, his ugly-handsome face set in lines of absolute exasperation, glared down at them.

  “Gerard, for the love of God, what were you thinking—assuming you were thinking at all…I expect far better behavior of you than to be scuffling about like an ill-bred child.”

  Gerard’s complexion flushed again and he bit his tongue to keep from responding like the sulky child Sir Lancelot accused him of being. A perfect day: first running errands like a mere page, and now this.

  He knew full well that fighting with a stable boy was not acceptable behavior for a squire who was almost ready to be considered for knighting. He knew that and had done it anyway. And in front of Lancelot! The respectable man was everything that Gerard hoped someday to be—a great warrior and Arthur’s most trusted knight. Or at least he had been until recently. Lancelot spent more time away from Camelot now, almost as though he were avoiding the place.

  The thought of having disappointed the most famous Knight of the Round Table was more bitter than any scolding or punishment he might receive. But still—Gerard fought down the anger that rose in his throat—it wasn’t fair! He had been provoked!

  “And you, Newt. Thirteen’s old enough to leave off childish ways.” Lancelot looked down at the stable boy, who had scrambled to his feet, and cuffed him across one ear. “I despair of ever teaching you manners.”

  Newt grinned up at the knight and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Maybe I’m no gallant, but I speak the truth, Lance. You know that.”

  Gerard almost choked on his outrage then, that this…nothing dared use the king’s own nickname for the greatest knight in all Camelot. But Lancelot didn’t seem to mind. “Back to work, you. And Gerard, go clean yourself. The banquet will begin soon and I’ll not have you disgracing your master further by appearing with straw in your hair as well as a bloodied nose.”

  Gerard got to his feet, brushing straw out of his hair and off his backside.

  “Go on,” Newt said, mimicking Lancelot’s tone perfectly. “Must be tidy for the castle.”

  “Newt!” Another crack across the ear, this one harder. But not hard enough to suit Gerard.

  The squire left, shooting a sharp look at Newt as he went. Scolded like a puppy, and that boy got away with such familiarity!

  “It’s not fair,” Gerard muttered to himself, kicking at a clod of dirt and watching it skitter across the stones of the courtyard.

  “It rarely is,” Lancelot said from behind him. Gerard jumped, startled. He had been so wrapped up in his own misery, he hadn’t heard the knight catch up to him. The knight’s eyes were kind with sympathy. “Life, that is. But you’ll find your way around it,” Lancelot continued, matching himself to Gerard’s slower pace. “Or, if you don’t, it will be a failure of your own, not your birth or education, neither of which Newt has. Keep that in mind, young Gerard. We who have the benefit of our station in this world must never forget it, even in the face of provocation.”

  Gerard thought about that for a few steps. Sir Kay had said that honesty was a knight’s best virtue (even if that did make Merlin laugh).

  “I was angry,” the squire said finally. “Not at him, I mean. When I went in there. And he was…”

  “There?” Lancelot asked.

  “Annoying.”

  “That he is,” Lancelot agreed with a laugh. “Second only to his skill with horses. And you saw him as the first available target, didn’t you?”

  Gerard opened his mouth to deny it, then shrugged.

  “It happens,” Lancelot said. “Yes, even to me. You should hear some of the arguments Merlin and I have had. And yes, I know what sort of an idiot that makes me, to quarrel with an enchanter.” Lancelot smiled briefly. “Fortunately, Arthur has thus far kept him from turning me into a particularly pink-eyed rat.”

  Gerard felt his lips turn up in a smile at the thought of Lancelot as a rat, but the sense of unfairness still burned inside him. There was no way Lancelot could understand, not really. He had everything he wanted.

 
Then Gerard looked sideways at Lancelot, noting the exhaustion in the knight’s face and remembering the weeks and months he spent away from Camelot. Some said he was on the king’s secret orders. Some claimed he was chasing a woman. Others merely narrowed their eyes, putting a finger to their lips and looking wise. Whatever his reasons, it seemed that only the Grail Quest could bring Lancelot home, looking even sadder than he had when he left.

  Maybe even Sir Lancelot didn’t get everything he wanted. Not all the time. It was something to think about.

  “And off you go,” the knight said as they reached the inner wall of the castle, not the door Gerard had used earlier, but a wooden gate that led to the east wing of the castle, where the King’s guests were housed. “Scurry, and I won’t have to make any excuses for you with the most fearsome Gracelan.”

  Since everyone knew that the chatelaine, the woman who oversaw the daily keeping of Camelot, was sweet on Lancelot, Gerard wasn’t too frightened of the threat. Lancelot would avoid her the way squires avoided Sir Bors.

  Shaking his head at what a strange, confusing day it had already been, Gerard hurried across the common area and up the narrow stone staircase and headed for his own pallet in his master’s room. If the bells hadn’t rung yet, he would still have time to wash up before dinner, but not much.

  Twenty minutes later, his hair slicked back, the blood, straw, and mud washed from his skin, and the worst of his bruises treated with salve, Gerard skidded to a stop outside the great carved doors of the Feasting Hall. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to the guards standing on either side, and stepped inside.

  Chaos immediately engulfed him, and a harried-looking server shoved a platter of pies into his arms and pushed him toward the rows of trestle tables set up along the far wall.

  “And don’t be slow about it!”

  The hall itself, so huge and daunting to Gerard when he first came to Camelot as a page, was now simply huge. It was difficult to feel daunted when you were being run off your feet.

  But tonight, with all the banners of the knights in residence hung on the walls, it seemed even more impressive somehow; the colors fighting with the sounds and smells for his attention. This was the largest feast Gerard had ever seen. The addition of the squires to the usual serving pages was barely enough to keep everything running.

  There were more than a dozen long, wooden tables set up, each one crammed with as many honored guests as could fit on the carved wooden benches, and each table was piled with plates and knives and goblets. The walls rose four man-heights to a beamed ceiling that curved in such a way as to swallow much of the noise rising from the tables. The tapestries and banners on the walls muffled even more, but it was still impossibly noisy.

  Despite that, every page and squire was expected to hear every word said to them, and respond promptly and courteously with the speaker’s correct name and title.

  Gerard hoisted his tray and set to work, dodging another page and almost colliding with a serving maid before he found the rhythm. Making his way carefully among the other servers, and darting around the minstrels and players who used the space in front of the tables to perform, Gerard was exhausted within an hour. And rumor had it this feast would go on until well after midnight!

  “Boy, sit a moment.”

  The voice cutting through the babble was familiar and Gerard didn’t need to be told twice. He knelt by his master’s side, resting one elbow on the edge of the table. Sir Rheynold was highly placed, as befitted one of Arthur’s oldest followers, down somewhat from the formality of the high table where Arthur and his queen sat, but well above the great silver salt dish. Below the salt, the unproven knights and commoners worked on their food, and the younger, less-schooled pages served them.

  “They’ve got you all going in every direction save down,” Sir Rheynold said, passing Gerard a sip from the knight’s own goblet. The ale was cool and thick, and went down smooth.

  “Everyone’s a bit on nerves,” Gerard agreed, enjoying the rest as much as the drink. Some knights wanted their squires to be seen and not heard—and seen only when needed—but Sir Rheynold had always been a good and patient teacher; he welcomed Gerard’s questions and observations.

  “Tcha.” Rheynold shook his head and stroked the bristles of his beard with an index finger. “This Quest of Arthur’s…it’s a grand idea, to be sure. A fine noble cause to get all the hotheads out of the castle and doing something useful for a change. The Grail will help cement Arthur’s hold outside of the Isle, where people have not met him or are leery of the power Merlin and his magic might have over him. Those who don’t trust Arthur may yet trust the man who holds the Grail.”

  “Why?” Gerard asked, not wanting to seem ignorant but genuinely curious.

  “The Grail is more than an object, Gerard. It is a symbol. And in these times—in all times—men respond well to symbols. Especially when the symbol is in the possession of a strong leader.” The old knight took back his goblet and swallowed a heavy mouthful. “But I’m glad to be out of it, I am. Quests and cavalcades…they’re nasty things for a man my age. Leave it to the young and bold.”

  I’m young and bold, Gerard thought but didn’t say. It would have done him no good. Rheynold was a fair master. But even he would not take well to what could be considered insolence from one of his charges.

  “Psssst!” A piercing whisper came from another squire standing a few feet away, just far enough to be polite. He was gesturing urgently and his expression indicated the need for haste.

  Rheynold looked up, a smile on his age-lined face. “Go on, boy. They’re in need of you again.”

  Gerard ducked his head and got back to his feet, tugging at his fancy tunic so that it hung properly, the gold and silver thread of Arthur’s crest displayed proudly. It felt strange to be wearing the king’s livery instead of Sir Rheynold’s, but Gracelan wanted all the servers to look the same tonight to keep confusion to a minimum. If Gerard spilled anything on this, he thought bleakly, the washerwomen would tear strips off his hide.

  “Where to now?” he asked Mak, the squire who had signaled him.

  “Cook’s ready to bring out the soltetie—wants us to usher it in.”

  The soltetie was a “disguised” dish, in this case a huge pig roasted and decorated with feathers and antlers to appear like some fanciful beast. Cook typically used adult servants to bear the heaviest dishes, but servants weren’t grand enough for this banquet.

  “I don’t suppose Cook would believe I’ve an old battle wound keeping me from lifting anything heavier than a stuffed duck?” Gerard said hopefully.

  “A battle wound? That’s a good one. What, did the king’s fool plant an arrow in your backside?”

  Gerard aimed a mock cuff at Mak’s head. The other squire ducked it easily, making a disgusting face at him after first making sure no adults were watching.

  “Perhaps if you carry your share gallantly, the king will demand you join the Quest for him personally to return the Grail to civilized hands.”

  “Can you imagine it,” Gerard began, forgetting everything else to return to his favorite topic. “To be a part of…to actually lay hands on the Grail itself? They say it’s magical, that it can heal, that it can grant your heart’s dearest wish….”

  “Will it make you better at your sword drills? That would be miracle indeed!”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” A girl’s voice, light and pleasant in tone, if not in the words, intruded into their conversation. “Grail this, Grail that. None of you has a lick of sense about it.”

  Gerard made an irritated face at Mak, but smoothed it out before turning to face the newcomer. Ailis might be only a girl, and a servant at that, but she had come to Camelot after the battle of Mount Agned, where both her parents died. Everyone knew that the queen looked after the orphans of that battle as if, some whispered unkindly, they were the children she had never been able to give the king. And those whom Guinevere favored had a certain kind of protection, in that everyone took c
are to please the queen. To anger the queen was to risk Arthur’s wrath as well.

  Gerard and Ailis had both come to Camelot as tearful eight-year-olds the same week, and there was a bond of sorts in that. (Even if neither would ever admit that one of them had gotten lost in the winding stone-and-wood hallways of the castle, and had to be led out, in tears, by the other.) Gerard would take that secret to his grave. Ailis might only be a servant-girl, but her parents had been honest land-holders who died for their king. And she was a good sort, for a girl.

  “What do you mean?” Mak demanded. “How are we not sensible? I’d say we’re being plenty sensible—can’t go on a Quest without planning, and lots of it!”

  Ailis had pretty brown eyes that could practically sparkle with laughter, but right now they looked dark and worried. “The Grail is not to be won, is it? It’s a thing that’s given.” She tugged at the end of her braid, which was dark red and long enough to coil around her shoulder and hang almost down to her elbow. “You can’t just go off and search and take it, no matter how shining your armor or fancy your horse, or full your heart with Glory-to-King.”

  “And pray tell: Who gives it, then?” Mak scoffed.

  “I don’t know,” Ailis admitted, looking troubled by the question. “But someone more than a knight.”

  “You know nothing about it.” Gerard couldn’t believe that she was dismissing all the knights that easily. Lancelot himself was on this Quest! It was all anyone had talked about for months!

  “Nor does any of us,” Ailis pointed out. “Everything we’ve heard so far…it’s just legend. And myth. But all the stories say that the one who holds it cannot be defeated on this earth.”

  “All the more reason for Arthur to hold it,” Gerard said.

  “But what if we’re not the ones meant to find it? Might it not be better for it to stay lost?” Ailis suggested.

  Mak was scornful. “You’re a servant. What do you know about any of this?”

  Ailis gulped, her cheeks going pale and then flaming red with shame. “Is that what you think? That a servant can’t know any better?”