After that Bloat threw himself off the cliff without waiting for his dad to do it, and within six months he had even learned how to take off by running along the ground and waving his wings.
When Bloat had fallen on her, Gorella had undergone a strange transformation. Instead of talking to the stain on the cave wall she thought was her dead husband, she thought she was a geography teacher and began swearing at the wall for not doing its homework on the river systems of Brazil. This was more than strange because geography would not be invented for several hundred years.
Bloat’s sister, Depressyng, took to flying like a duck takes to water, though at first it was like a roast duck in apple and mushroom sauce. But she was smaller and lighter than her brother so she got fewer broken bones and bruises, and soon the two young dragons were soaring through the skies, dropping unmentionable things on terrified travellers and dribbling down the chimneys of peasants’ cottages into the cauldrons of soup they had roasting on their fires.
Sir Lamorak was the only one of the four messengers who was really keen on the mission. He couldn’t wait to get going and was determined to be the one who found the Brave Knight. It wasn’t the wonderful dinner plates or the tabard, but the glory that it would bring and all the new girlfriends it was sure to get him.
When the Royal Messengers reached the mainland, Sir Lamorak took a quick look at his compass and raced North. As night fell, he continued to ride and as dawn arrived, he was still riding. He put his horse on automatic while he took power naps, and for food he plucked skylarks out of the air. For drink, he opened his mouth as he rode through a ferocious storm. Only when his horse collapsed with exhaustion did he stop. Then he stole a fresh horse from the nearest field and set off again at top speed.
For five days and nights he rode on. He reached The North, but still he did not stop. He left the borders of Avalon behind and rode on into Scotland. The snow, which grew forever deeper, did not slow him down and neither did the ferocious cold. He did not even stop to go to the toilet.
On the seventh minute of the seventh hour of the seventh day on his seventh horse, he finally reached the very northernmost tip of the country and fell off.
To distract everyone from the smelly drain problem, Merlin suggested to the King that he should order the making of a Great Round Table where all the Knights of Camelot could sit and feast without anyone feeling more important than anyone else.
‘But I am more important than anyone else,’ said Arthur. ‘So where shall I sit?’
‘Sire, everyone knows that you are the most important person in creation,’ lied Merlin, ‘and they all love you for it, but the Great Round Table would only serve to enhance your popularity and unquestioned wonderfulness.’
‘I don’t see how,’ said the King. ‘If there isn’t a seat that’s more important than the rest of them, where shall I sit?’
‘Sire, surely you must realise that something as humble as a seat would have no effect on your greatness,’ said Merlin. ‘No, your majesty, by sitting as an equal with your knights – and of course we all know that you are far, far above them in every way – you will show your people that for all your greatness, you are also a caring, humble person.’
‘Is that good?’ said Arthur. ‘I mean, being humble and caring doesn’t seem so great to me.’
‘I promise you, sire, it will make the people love you even more,’ said Merlin.
‘Is that possible?’
‘There is always room for more love, your majesty,’ said Merlin. It certainly couldn’t make them love you any less, he thought.
‘Oh, very well, then. Order the Castle Cabinet-maker to build a really big shiny round table and tell him to make sure that it is bigger and shinier and rounder than any other round table ever built,’ said the King.
‘Indeed, sire, I shall go to him immediately,’ said Merlin, rushing out of the room before he threw up. I don’t know how much more of this dreadful little brat I can take, he thought.
So the Great Round Table was ordered.
Chisyl, the Castle Cabinet-maker, scoured the land for the finest timber, a rafter from a famous theatre, a drawbridge from a great castle, seven ancient oaks from the forests of Savernake and, for the pegs to hold all the pieces together, he took the wooden leg from Bluebeard the Pirate. Such a table would take at least two years to plane and cut and join and carve before it was finished, so Merlin assisted Chisyl and his carpenters with a few well-chosen bits of magic and a week later it was finished.
The Great Round Table was assembled in the mighty dining hall of Camelot by the fifteen Table Carriers, who had to take the doors of the dining hall off to even get it into the room. And on the eighth day, before all the assembled important people of Camelot, King Arthur unveiled it.
‘This is the greatest, most beautiful, most perfect table ever and it was designed by me,’ said the King.
The Table Unveilers – three beautiful maidens, semi-finalists from Avalon’s Got Talent who had been trained especially for the purpose – pulled the dazzling sheet away and the assembled gathering cheered.
All except the King. He walked round the table thirteen times and then stamped his feet, making the bells on the end of his slippers tinkle.
‘I said a round table!’ he screamed.
‘It is round, sire,’ said Chisyl.
‘No it’s not,’ said the King. ‘There’s a huge bump. Look.’
‘I realise that your majesty has royal eyes that see far better than those of a humble cabinet-maker,’ said Chisyl, running his hand along the table’s edge, ‘but I can feel no bump.’
‘Are you blind, man?’
‘I am, sire,’ said Chisyl.
‘Ah,’ said the King. ‘In that case we have a problem. As the King I cannot touch a lowly carpenter. Otherwise I could take your hand and put it on the bump.’
‘Might I make a suggestion, sire?’ said Merlin.
‘I don’t know,’ said the King. ‘Might you?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Very well, then, you have my permission to suggest.’
‘Well, sire, am I not the Top Wizard of Avalon?’
‘Indeed,’ said Arthur. ‘Apart from me, of course.’
‘Yes, um, exactly, sire,’ said Merlin. ‘So you, the King, as the, er, topmost wizard of all wizards, could take my hand, could you not?’
‘Where?’
‘Sire?’
‘Take your hand where?’ said the King.
‘No, no, sire. I meant, you could take my hand in your hand,’ said Merlin, ‘then you could show me the bump. Then I could take the carpenter’s hand and show him the bump.’
‘You would do that for me?’ said Arthur. ‘You would touch a peasant?’
‘I would, sire,’ said Merlin.
‘You are a true and wonderful servant,’ said Arthur. ‘Here, have another knighthood.’
‘You are too kind, sire.’
‘Oh, am I? You think I should keep the knighthood?’
‘Oh no, sire,’ said Merlin, well aware that each one of the forty-seven knighthoods the King had given him carried an income of fifteen shillings and three pence a year.
Arthur put on a silk glove, took Merlin’s hand in his and led him over to the table.
‘See, it’s obvious, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Sire, it may be obvious to one as sensitive as you, but to a mere mortal like myself, I cannot feel the deformity,’ said Merlin.
‘But it stands out a mile,’ said Arthur. ‘Oh, no, hold on, I put your hand in the wrong place. Now can you feel it?’
Merlin shook his head. This happened three more times until the wizard lied and agreed that there was indeed an imperfection.
‘I think, sire,’ he said, ‘that we should mark it with a piece of chalk so that less sensitive beings than yourself can find it.’
Merlin then took Chisyl’s hand and led him over to the table. As he did so, he spelled out with his finger in the carpenter’s hand: I know the tabl
e is perfectly round. You know the table is perfectly round. We both know the famous King Arthur is an idiot, but he’s the King and he has several executioners with very big axes. And remember, these are dangerous times. Repeat this to anyone and I will kill you.
‘What are you writing in the peasant’s hand?’ said the King.
‘He was writing, sire? I am but an ignorant peasant and cannot read,’ Chisyl lied.
‘Are you sure?’ said the King.
‘Oh yes, sire,’ said Chisyl. ‘My hand was itching and the noble Merlin was scratching it for me.’
‘True, your highness,’ said Merlin. ‘The lower classes itch a lot.’
‘Do they really?’ said the King. ‘How fascinating. So Mother was right, the peasants are like mangy dogs.’
‘Oh yes, sire,’ said Chisyl. ‘Mange is an old tradition in my family.’
At this the King jumped on a chair and began waving a lavender-scented handkerchief in the air, but he calmed down when Merlin assured him that only the lower classes could catch it.
‘Now see here, my man,’ said Merlin, guiding Chisyl’s hand round the outside of the Great Round Table. ‘Surely you can feel the bump now.’
‘Oh yes, master,’ said Chisyl. ‘How could I have missed it?’
‘Exactly,’ said the King. ‘But I am a wise and just King so I will overlook it this time.’
‘The bump?’ said Chisyl.
‘No, you low creature,’ said the King. ‘I will overlook your missing such an obvious fault in this exquisite table, a table that all shall know was designed by me, King Arthur, the greatest table-designing King who has ever lived.’
‘Indeed, sire,’ said Merlin.
So the fifteen Table Carriers were summoned. The two doors were taken off their hinges and the Great Round Table was carried back to Chisyl’s workshop. As the table was already perfect, it occurred to the cabinet-maker to simply pretend he’d done something and send it back, but he made it a bit smaller in case the King realised it hadn’t been touched.
The next day the table was brought back and once again King Arthur insisted there was still a bump on it.
‘But it’s in a different place,’ he said. ‘You are a fool. You have removed one bump, but in doing so you have created another.’
So the fifteen Table Carriers were summoned. The two doors were taken off their hinges again and the Great Round Table was carried back to Chisyl’s workshop in the special cart towed by four great elephants.
The next day the table was brought back and this time King Arthur insisted there were two bumps.
And so it went on.
And on.
And on, until:
‘Finally,’ said the King. ‘It is as perfect as I am. At last I have a table that is fine enough for me to sit at. Bring me a bowl of pheasant soup that I may be the first to eat off my wonderful Great Round Table.’
‘But, your majesty…’ Merlin began. The King waved him away and called for his soup.
The soup arrived and the serving wench placed the perfectly round china bowl on the perfectly round Great Round Table, where it promptly fell straight into the King’s perfectly placed lap.
Screaming in pain was followed by screaming in anger, which was followed by more screaming in anger because all the baths were full of disgusting fifteenth-hand bath water because of the blocked drains, which was followed by huge amounts of swearing as Nana Agnys was summoned and took the King up to the roof to get washed off in the rain, which wasn’t so much rain as very cold driving snow.
The Great Round Table, which had always been perfectly round from the first day it was created, had been planed and shaved so much that it was now the Great Round Stick. It had been cut down so much that it was pushed quietly into the corner and renamed the Great Round Pepper Pot Stand. It had ended up so small there was not even room to stand the salt next to the pepper.
Once again Merlin saved the day. A few quick spells to wipe the whole fiasco from the young King’s mind, followed by another to recreate the original Great Round Table, put things right. Although Arthur kept wondering why he had burnt legs.
‘If I didn’t know better,’ he said to Nana Agnys, ‘I’d swear someone had tipped hot soup in my lap.’
‘Oh, you and your vivid imagination,’ said Nana Agnys.
As King Arthur’s nanny, she was bound to love and protect her young charge, but she wasn’t blind and was only too aware what a revolting little child he was. Like Merlin, she was growing more and more convinced that Arthur was not the great King Uther-Pendragon’s son. The boy did not have one saving grace, apart from his lovely legs and mauve tights, of course. There was not one trait of his father’s quick-witted and fearless character, nor anything of his mother’s cold determination.
Maybe, thought Nana Agnys, I should try to discover the truth.
Maybe, thought Merlin, I should try to find out who stole the true King and put this idiot in his place.
And why, they both thought.
Or not, they also thought, deciding that maybe an easy life with no complications was the way to go.
The fourth Royal Messenger, Sir Bedivere, had actually been away from Camelot on many occasions. Each time he had slipped away under cover of darkness and avoided the castle gatekeepers by using a small boat he kept hidden under a bush at the back of the castle. His ‘little holidays’, as he called them, always had one very simple aim. To transform other people’s gold and jewels into his gold and jewels. Because of his totally unscrupulous nature, he had become the richest person in Camelot.
So if all else fails, he thought, I can always bribe someone to take on the dragons, though parting with any of his money would most certainly be the very last resort as it always gave him an upset stomach.
‘I haven’t got where I am today by giving money away,’ he said.
‘Indeed, master,’ said his squire, Barnakle, who had not been paid a single groat in the past year.
This was exactly how long he had been Sir Bedivere’s squire and in that time his master had borrowed everything his servant owned, including his socks. This was the Olde English meaning of the word ‘borrow’, which means ‘take and not give back, ever’.
There had only been one occasion when Sir Bedivere had returned something after he had borrowed it from Barnakle. It was a sticking plaster that he had worn on a very nasty pimple for seven weeks, though he borrowed it again a few months later before handing it back for good, by which time it had lost all its sticking ability and it was impossible to tell which side was which.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Barnakle had said as he scraped the residue off.
Sir Bedivere was not stupid. Other things he was not included nice, popular, conscientious, hardworking and honest. He was probably the nastiest of the Knights of Camelot and therefore the most likely to lure an unsuspecting knight back to venture into the dragon’s cave, except to do so would require quite a bit of effort, something Sir Bedivere was not fond of.
Once they had left the valley a few hours behind them, Sir Bedivere left the main road and travelled along a pleasant lane until they were out of sight of everything, except the bushes on each side of them, four sparrows and a dragonfly.
‘Right,’ he said, pulling out a scroll. ‘Let’s have a look.’
‘At what, my lord?’ said Barnakle. ‘All I can see are some bushes and four sparrows. There was a dragonfly, but it’s just flown off.’
‘Not that, you idiot,’ said Sir Bedivere. ‘My hostel guide. I’m looking for a nice remote inn where we can go and take our ease for a couple of weeks while the other idiots rush round looking for a knight.’
He may have been tighter than a baby mosquito’s left ear, but life with Sir Bedivere was a lot more relaxed than it was with any other knight. Although he had never been paid, Barnakle was envied by all the other squires, who spent all day rushing round and all night polishing armour.
‘This looks like the perfect place,’ said Sir Bedivere, pointing t
o the scroll. ‘The Owl and The Cauliflower. It is seventeen miles from any other building, hidden in the middle of a thick forest and, as luck would have it, is fifteen miles along this very track.’
‘Excellent, my lord,’ said Barnakle, well aware that the next few weeks would be ones of pleasant luxury followed by a very rapid running away in the middle of the night to avoid paying the bill.
Still, he thought, it’s nothing we haven’t done before.
‘Indeed, master, I packed the Cloaks of Invisibility just in case,’ he added.
People like Sir Bedivere, who lie and cheat their way through life, gathering large amounts of money as they go, seldom get what people think they deserve. They steal crown jewels and get away with it. They rob banks and then get paid a reward for false information that gets someone else arrested for it. They run away with other people’s wives, sheep and cauliflowers, and instead of being condemned for it, everyone thinks they are exciting and romantic like Robin Hood45 or Ned Kelly, who were both common criminals with very good public relations.
So it was that when Sir Bedivere arrived at the inn and had booked the finest suite and had a bit of a rest in the huge comfy bed with a glass of champagne and a bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries and then gone downstairs for dinner, the only other guest at the inn turned out to be the Bravest Knight in the Whole World. He was EXACTLY what Sir Bedivere had been sent out to look for.
Tall, dark and handsome yet at the same time of medium height with a head of golden hair and skin like polished porcelain yet at the same time with a hint of a beard that was just enough to show he was a fearless superhero.
Bit too perfect to let him get burnt by a dragon, really, thought Sir Bedivere. Still, business is business and I can see it now as the King hands me a huge bag of gold sovereigns for being the one to bring back THE Brave Knight to kill the evil dragon.
‘Good Sir Knight,’ said Sir Bedivere. ‘Well met and with whom do I have the honour of dining?’
‘I am Sir Lancelot,’ said the Bravest Knight in the Whole World.
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