‘I did indeed, sir,’ said the jester.
‘Well, good sir, if you will tell me the name,’ said Spikeweed, knowing what the answer would be, ‘I will be happy to fly you and your money safely back to your home.’
‘Bloat,’ said Malmsley. ‘The boy called him Bloat.’
‘And the boy’s name,’ said Morgan le Fey, who had been listening to the conversation. ‘I don’t suppose you got that, did you?’
‘I did indeed, my lady,’ said Malmsley, ‘though I say I did, but it could just be what the young dragon called him. I mean, Brat isn’t a real name, is it?’
‘Oh yes it is,’ said Morgan le Fey. ‘It is indeed.’
The second act was –
Armoire was built like a small castle, not a tall elegant castle with pointy spires, but a square block with narrow slit windows and one very small door. While his assistants set up his equipment, Armoire strangled five sets of bagpipes with his bare hands.
Once everything was set, Armoire climbed up a wobbly bamboo tower until he was standing one hundred feet above a very sharp, pointy rock that had been placed directly beneath him. Then a beautiful assistant climbed the tower to blindfold him while two male assistants followed her up carrying four donkeys.
When all was ready, Armoire walked out to the end of a narrow plank, caught the four donkeys and began to juggle them.
Even though the dragons had made a peace treaty with the humans, there were a few distant dragon cousins who had come to Avalon for the coronation, who thought life had become quite dull now they were not setting fire to things and attacking Noble Knights. Two of these young dragons were hiding on the roof of a tall tower and as Armoire began to juggle, they began to blow. There were no flames, just big gusts of hot wind and these big gusts of hot wind were aimed right at Armoire’s bamboo tower.
The whole structure began to move, very slightly at first, but as the dragons blew harder, it gathered momentum until it was swaying backwards and forwards like the pendulum of a big clock. Some of the knots holding the whole thing together became untied and gradually all the string began to unravel.
Armoire’s three assistants scrambled back down to the ground as the entire structure began to come to bits. Everyone, including the King and his party, fled as bamboo began to rain down round them.
The donkeys looked terrified, not the normal everyday-looking terrified that being juggled a hundred feet up in the air brings, but the special kind of terrified brought by the realisation that they were probably all about to become very flat rugs on the rocks below.
Being blindfolded, Armoire didn’t realise any of this was happening. Of course, he could feel the tower swaying backward and forwards, but he though it was just happening inside his head and tummy because of the powerful curried archaeopteryx he had eaten for dinner the night before. All he knew was that he couldn’t hear anyone cheering, because they had run away out of earshot, and it made him very upset.
I’ll show them, he thought, and in the split second when all four donkeys were in the air, he began to do a strip tease while singing the Belgian National Anthem in such a deep booming voice that it made the entire bamboo scaffold vibrate as well as sway violently at exactly the right pitch to make all the remaining bits of string come untied.
‘I think I can say, without fear of contradiction,’ said Merlin as everyone peered out of the castle windows to see what was going to happen, ‘I think I can say, it will end in tears.’
Unbelievably, it didn’t.
The wind gave one almighty gust and the whole construction – the bamboo, the string, Armoire with his trousers half off and the four donkeys – was lift ed into the air, carried over the castle walls and dumped into the lake.
And yet there was even more to come. As the bamboo and string fell towards the lake the wind whipped it up and down and threw it around until it all wove itself into an unsinkable raft with Armoire and three of the donkeys in the middle of it.14
The applause was staggering, probably the loudest noise ever heard anywhere in the whole world. A boat was dispatched to tow the raft ashore. Before the boat reached them, the three donkeys panicked and threw themselves into the water. Armoire, who still had his blindfold on, hadn’t the faintest idea what had happened, but the applause told him it must have gone fairly well. When his beautiful assistant told him what had happened, he fainted.
‘That is the most amazing act I have ever seen in my life,’ said King Arthur when Armoire regained consciousness.
This didn’t really mean much, because up until then the only act he had ever seen had been Malmsley Cohen.
‘I hereby dub thee Lord Armoire Of The Scaffolding and grant you seventeen acres of freehold land, five potatoes a week and a quart of ale every fortnight.’
Anything that followed Armoire’s act was bound to be an anti-climax. The fire-eaters ate not just their fire, but the entire pizza oven down the last brick, and barely raised a cheer.
Even –
failed to excite the audience. The show’s high point, a life-size model of Athene the Goddess of Love made entirely out of the finest cheddar cheese, totally failed to excite them. Even when a huge flock of magpies swooped down and ate it they were bored. All they could think of was the amazing Armoire and his donkeys flying through the air towards the lake. Only when the magpies, smelling cheese on the Myth Buskers’ fingers, actually pecked them to death and ate them did they show any signs of interest.
‘That was a bit violent,’ said a visiting Queen, but it was the Days of Yore, when being pecked to death by cheese-crazed animals happened all the time.
‘You should have been around in the Dark Ages,’ said her husband, King Mozzarella. ‘We had exploding cheese in those days. Everyone got covered in it. It was wonderful except for the bits of Myth Busker that kept getting caught in your teeth.’
As the festivities were drawing to a close and most of the guests were wending15 their way back across the bridges to the mainland, an old man came staggering through the castle into the courtyard, where he collapsed. His clothes were torn and covered in blood and the hem of his coat was smouldering as if it had been recently set on fire. The crowd parted as Merlin went over to the man.
‘Tell me, old man,’ said the wizard, ‘how dare you come to our great King’s coronation in such a disgusting state?’
‘I am not as I look,’ said the old man. ‘I am King Kasterwheel of Westerland come to join in the celebrations and honour King Arthur.’
‘But what had happened to you, my poor man?’ said King Arthur.
‘We was robbed,’ he said. ‘Set upon by highwaymen and all our worldly goods was taken from us.’
‘These highwaymen…’ Morgan le Fey began.
‘Not so much men as children, my lady,’ said King Kasterwheel.
‘A boy and a dragon?’
‘Indeed so, and a big walking potato all covered in cuts and bruises,’ said the King. ‘They took all my money and the great ruby I was bringing as a gift to the King and they took my most treasured and beautiful possession, my daughter the Princess Floridian.’
‘Who, I have no doubt,’ said Merlin, ‘they mean to hold for ransom.’
‘Indeed, sir. I have already received a note that the dastardly fiends forced my beloved daughter to write. It was brought to me by carrier pigeon as I crawled here.’
While a servant took the old man away to get his wounds seen to and fit him out with new clothes, Morgan le Fey and Merlin made plans.
‘When they make the arrangements to collect the ransom,’ said Merlin, ‘we shall be ready for them. No mere boy and baby dragon shall get the better of us.’
‘You know who this boy is, don’t you?’ said Morgan le Fey.
‘No.’
‘It is the vile child who pretended to be the King,’ said Morgan le Fey. ‘The Cook tells me he ran away a few days ago. As you know, he is a craft y, evil child.’
‘Indeed he is, but I think he is no match for us,’ sai
d Merlin. ‘Methinks it will not be too hard to capture him.’
Me also thinks, thought Merlin, that rescuing the Princess Floridian should bring a nice reward.
‘No doubt, you’ll be thinking of the handsome reward for rescuing the Princess?’ said Morgan le Fey.
‘It never crossed my mind, your highness,’ said Merlin. ‘Though I must admit it is a very beautiful idea.’
‘I don’t imagine it did cross your mind, my friend,’ Morgan le Fey said with a smile. ‘I imagine it entered your mind and stayed there.’
‘Handsome reward?’ said Sir Bedivere, the famous Mercenary Knight who had sold his own mother eleven times.16 ‘When we do we start?’
‘We are not here to discuss the reward,’ said Morgan le Fey, who had far more money than she would ever need. ‘We are here to make plans to rescue the Princess Floridian, who I have no doubt has golden hair around an angelic face of porcelain beauty and two large blue eyes filled with sweet innocence and trust and a beautiful rosebud mouth that has never kissed another, as all traditional kidnapped princesses do.’
King Kasterwheel, returned with his wounds washed and wearing a borrowed dressing gown, hung his head and nodded.
‘She is as you say, my lady, a precious jewel next to which all other jewels appear as dull pieces of glass,’ said the King. ‘Yourself excepted, of course, my lady.’
‘Fear not, my friend,’ said Morgan le Fey. ‘Our noble knights shall rescue your daughter and restore her to your safekeeping.’
‘I thank you, my lady,’ said the King. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any food left from the great banquet, is there? Bit of venison or swan, or even a rat’s leg. No food has passed my mouth since early this morning.’
‘Oh, sire, what were we thinking? A servant shall take you to the kitchen for a partridge burger and chippies while we make plans to rescue your beloved child.’
‘Thank you, your highness, your kindness will not go unrewarded.’
Ooh, I like the sound of that, thought Merlin and Sir Bedivere unanimously. They knew that the visiting King was just about one of the richest Kings in the entire world.
‘I think I need to make you aware of the Royal Decree that says any rewards for highwaymen-capturing or hostage-rescuing automatically become the property of the King and will be used to set up an orphanage for destitute baby unicorns,’ said Morgan le Fey, who could read minds, particularly men’s minds, which she said were as hard to read as a two-year-old’s bunny rabbit book. ‘That is the tradition.’
‘Tradition?’ said Merlin. ‘Since when?’
‘Since about thirty seconds ago,’ said Morgan le Fey. ‘All traditions have to start somewhere.’
Merlin and Sir Bedivere both looked extremely annoyed, even when Morgan le Fey said there was a good chance that whoever did rescue the Princess would probably be given her hand in marriage, which was another, much older tradition.
I’m too old for a young wife, thought Merlin. All that dancing and jousting and carousing, and then she’d probably run off with a younger man and end up with half my fortune.
I do not want the expense of a young wife, thought Sir Bedivere. All that dancing and jousting and carousing, and then she’d probably run off with a handsome man and end up with half my fortune.
‘Well, my lady, we will leave it for you to sort out a plan,’ said Merlin, sliding off towards his private quarters.
‘Indeed, though of course, if you need a hand, just give us a call,’ said Sir Bedivere, climbing on his horse and galloping away very fast in all directions.
Morgan le Fey sent for Sir Lancelot who, as it has already been stated, adored her in the same way the King adored Lady Petaluna, which was incredibly. He was not as shy as the King. Over the years his noble deeds of legendary bravery in far off, quite near and really a long way away lands had brought him many, many girlfriends of every shape, size, colour and species. He had swept them all off their feet with his dashing good looks, amazing charm, razor-sharp wit and a large broom. He had never been lost for words whatever the language or situation and always knew exactly the right thing to say to win a lady’s heart. But now, all that talent had deserted him. In the presence of Morgan le Fey he was as useless as his King. He blushed. He stammered and he knocked his knees together.
‘I cannot understand it,’ he said to his squire, Grimethorpe, later. ‘I have no trouble with women. They fall at my feet like socks.’
‘Socks?’
‘Not new socks, but old ones that have been washed in water that was too hot so they won’t stay up any more and keep falling down inside your boots,’ Sir Lancelot explained.
‘Ah, those socks, my lord,’ said Grimethorpe, ‘the ones you kindly give to me.’
‘Indeed so.’
‘They do indeed, sire, I can vouch for that,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘When we were abroad in those hot, romantic countries, I was forever tripping over them.’
‘What, my socks?’
‘No, my lord, all your girlfriends.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Lancelot. ‘So how come I am so tongue-tied and useless in the presence of my lady Morgan le Fey?’
‘I can only think of one reason, my lord.’
‘Pray tell. Do you think I have some dreaded ague, some mysterious oriental disease that maketh even the greatest of men as feeble as a puppy?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Think you that I may have caught ladybug pox17 or piglet flu?’18
‘No, my lord.’
‘Not the dreaded Whooping Sneeze.’19
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then I am confused, good squire,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘What think you my illness may be?’
‘You are in love, my lord.’
‘Surely not,’ said the brave knight. ‘Are you absolutely sure? I thought I had a natural immunity to all that sort of thing.’
‘No one is immune to love, my lord, apart from politicians and geography teachers and the entire population of Germany,’ said Grimethorpe.
‘Well, I’m certainly none of those,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘Gosh.’
‘Indeed, my lord.’
‘So what do you think I should do?’
‘Well, my lord, this is the Days of Yore,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘The standard procedure is to Plight your Troth.’
‘Absolutely. No problem,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘I shall do it this very day. Now, be a good fellow and nip down to the market and get me one.’
‘One what, my lord?’
‘A Troth,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘And make sure you get the very best. Spare no expense. My lady Morgan le Fey deserves only the very finest that money can buy.’
‘You don’t exactly know what a troth is, do you, my lord?’ said Grimethorpe.
‘Not exactly, but I’m sure I shall recognise it when you return with one.’
‘Let me explain, my lord,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘You should probably sit down.’
Grimethorpe sat just out of arm’s reach from his master and explained. Sir Lancelot went white, then red, then white again, then a colour that hasn’t got a name but is much paler than white.
‘So it’s not something a horse drinks out of?’ he said.
‘No, my lord, that is a trough.’
‘Or a serving wench with very white skin and black hair?’
‘No, my lord, that is a goth.’
‘Right, so no need to go down to the market then?’
‘Indeed there is, my lord,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘I think Troth Plighting always works better when accompanied by a bunch of flowers and a nice box of choccies.’
‘I see,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘So first thing tomorrow or the day after we shall go to the market and procure them.’
‘The market is closed tomorrow and the day after, my lord,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘It is the Feast of Saint Intestine and they are public holidays.’
‘Oh dear, so they are.’
‘The market is open today, my lord. I shall fetch your horse this very
moment,’ said Grimethorpe and ran out of the room before Lancelot could say anything.
Sir Lancelot came over all faint and had to lie down. The idea of being in love was as foreign to him as a Belgian recipe for Hungarian Goulash. He had heard the word love before, but then he had heard a lot of words including dandelion, trousers and persecute without understanding what any of them meant.
He knew what love meant. It meant you couldn’t talk properly in front of the person you were in love with and you went red all over and got a tummy ache that even a badger pie could not relieve. It meant you didn’t know if you were coming or going or about to do neither or both. It meant you put your socks on the wrong feet which made you walk round in circles.
It meant, oh I don’t know what it meant, I mean, means, Sir Lancelot thought as he lay on the daybed by the window.
Maybe I need a strong cup of tea, he thought, except that tea is just a rumour and we won’t know if it’s real for at least two hundred years when a strange man called Sir Walter Riley will return from a long sea voyage with a bag of dried leaves that my descendants will be stupid enough to drink when he boils them up in a kettle.
So maybe I’ll just have a glass of strong water.
As he lay there in this delirious state, the object of his love knocked softly on the door and came into the room.
‘Oh my lord,’ said the staggeringly beautiful Morgan le Fey, seeing Lancelot lying there in a swoon, ‘are you unwell?’
And before the great knight could reply she sat herself beside him and began mopping his fevered brow with a delicate lace handkerchief dipped in rosewater that she just happened to have been carrying.20 Of course this made Sir Lancelot swoon even more.
‘Oh my lord,’ Morgan le Fey cried. ‘What ails you?’
‘Gibber, gibber, gibber, mumble.’
‘If I may be so bold, my lady,’ said Grimethorpe, who had followed Morgan le Fey into the room. ‘I can explain. My lord is in love.’
‘Surely not,’ said Morgan le Fey. ‘Sir Lancelot’s affairs of the heart are legendary. He is the most handsome man in the whole world. Why, it is said that he falls in love more oft en than he changes his socks and I am told he changes his socks once a month.’
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