Sir Thomas the Hesitant and the Table of Less Valued Knights

by Liam Perrin

  When Fogbottom's Parson told the merchant the frond looked like a rotting version of a leaf he'd seen on a palm tree in the Holy Land, the merchant said he'd never been so insulted, packed up his things and left the same day.

  The point, of course, is that the man standing in front of Thomas, hammering the poster into the town's bulletin board, didn't look anything like, and was in fact not, a peacock, though he was quite colorful.

  He wore a pair of thick wooden shoes painted green and decorated with stars, yellow britches, and a blue, knee-length doublet with wide short sleeves exposing a long-sleeved orange tunic beneath. A long line of silver buttons marched up the doublet's sleeves serving no purpose whatsoever. A yellow cape was fastened to his epaulets and a long pointed hood hung nearly to his derrière. A red tri-cornered hat topped off the ensemble, and a thick white plume topped off the hat. He was, of course, a herald, and he'd come from Camelot by way of several other villages where he'd delivered the same news, answered the same questions, endured the same gawking stares, and generally suffered for want of a good chamomile and a vigorous foot rub.

  §

  The peacock turned and cleared its throat.

  "Hear ye, hear ye," it began.

  The scene resolved itself in Thomas's vision with a nearly audible whoosh. He noticed for the first time a pair of armed guards to either side of the pea–... of the herald. They wore steel caps on their heads and a kind of tightly fitted drape made out of tiny metal rings that began under the cap, hugged the neck, ran down over the shoulders and trunk, then split and fastened around the thighs. Tapered short swords dangled at their hips, round shields hung on their arms, and boredom sat on their shoulders. Three gold crowns emblazoned the shields on a blue field.

  Thomas's eyes came to rest on the emblem. "Camelot," he whispered.

  "Look at all that metal," said a voice on Thomas's left.

  He turned to find Smitty gaping unabashedly at the guards. Smitty was the village's farrier. If you collected all the iron in Fogbottom outside the Baron's residence, melted it and poured ingots, you'd have a handful of unhappy, shoeless mules and not much else.

  In the time it had taken for Thomas to catch his breath and figure out what was going on, a crowd had gathered. Everyone who passed by stopped to gape at the spectacle, and word was spreading. People came out of every alley and byway to join the throng. Impromptu assemblies were nothing new for the Herald, but they were for Fogbottom. Church Mass would be the closest experience, but at Mass there were rules to follow and clear expectations.

  While the Fogbottomtons busied themselves with figuring out where to stand and glancing at each other uneasily, the herald unfolded a tiny, hinged platform and stepped up onto it. It raised him about a foot above the crowd – enough for everyone to see his face. He unfurled a scroll and from then on paid it no attention.

  "Hear ye, hear ye," cried the herald, "let it be known across the land and in all quarters that on the occasion of the wedding of King Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther, to the Lady Guinevere, daughter of King Leodegrance, one month hence, King Arthur does hereby pledge to suffer a request, one from each family, for all in his kingdom. Be ye neither ashamed nor hesitant in supplication, for the King wishes it be known that his Highness loves only God and his new Queen more than thee. Glory be to God, to King Arthur, and to Camelot."

  The herald re-furled the scroll with a flick of his wrist, picked up his platform, and nodded to his guards. As they turned to leave, a man in the crowd cleared his throat and said, "Pardon, but what was it exactly, the part about the..."

  The herald raised an eyebrow.

  "So there's a wedding then?" asked the man.

  The herald sighed.

  "The king," he started, then paused.

  Some members of the crowd nodded, so he continued, "is marrying Lady Guinevere." He paused again.

  There was no reaction from the crowd.

  "Arthur's true love."

  "Aah," said the crowd.

  "The wedding is one month from now, and the king is allowing one person from each family to appear before him with a request."

  The Fogbottomtons eyed him suspiciously.

  "Seriously?" said someone.

  The herald nodded, "Seriously." Then he shrugged, picked up his platform, turned, and walked away.

  "What kind of request, exactly?" shouted a woman.

  Still with his back to them, the herald yelled, "Anything you want, within reason of course." He held up a hand in a dismissive wave and without another look, strolled out of town guards in tow.

  The crowd remained, staring variously at each other, their feet, the poster the herald had left, and empty space. Then, slowly, it disassembled. One woman muttered as she departed, "Within reason, eh? That's a convenient clause isn't it? Who's reason I wonder? Not yours or mine I suppose."

  "Probably King Arthur's reason," said her companion.

  "And that's just it isn't it? What's a king to know about what is and isn't reasonable? If I had a farthing for every time a royal wanted to give me something reasonable..."

  But Thomas had ears only for the herald's message which he was replaying over and over in his head. The rest of the Fogbottomtons had returned to the things they were doing, but Thomas remained rooted some distance from the poster. With the herald gone, and the town bustling about as usual, he could almost convince himself he'd imagined it all. But there, across the way, was the poster. He blinked at it, but it stayed put. Swallowing, he walked up to it.

  Thomas, unlike most of his fellow villagers, could read fairly well. Of course, the poster had been made to be as widely comprehensible as possible, which is to say: There were lots of pictures.

  One illustration in particular caught Thomas's eye. It was of a man wearing a crown, surrounded by a dozen knights whose suits of armor made the herald's guards look dangerously underdressed. The king had his hands raised and outstretched over a commoner kneeling before him. Behind the king were stacks and stacks of fruit baskets, bread boxes, and other unidentifiable but assumedly delightful treats. There were also sheep, oxen, and horses behind the king. There was also a very long queue of people behind the kneeling man. Rather than bringing gifts to the king, the supplicants were receiving gifts from him.

  In the bottom, right corner there was a map with a castle in the center marked "Camelot." Several outlying towns were labeled with names unfamiliar to Thomas. Beyond them was a mark indicating, presumably, Fogbottom and the words, "You are here." An arrow pointed from Fogbottom to Camelot.

  Thomas stared at that arrow for a long time. Then he walked home.

  CHAPTER III

  Family

  Thomas's young sister, Elizabeth Abigail, spotted him coming down the lane. "Thomas!" she shouted, and came skipping toward him. Mr. Farmer was out splitting wood for the hearth. He glanced their way and went back to his task.

  "Any news from town?" she asked.

  "Um, maybe," he replied.

  She pulled him down to her by his sleeve and whispered, "Grandma lost her tooth."

  "And that's her last one isn't it?" Thomas said with a wink while his mind raced trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the herald with his parents.

  "Shh!" She patted her chest, and Thomas noticed a cord hanging from her neck and disappearing into her dress. "I've got it right here."

  Thomas reeled back, horrified, "Got what? Her tooth?"

  "Yes!" she said, and skipped to the door giggling. Thomas picked up an armful of wood and followed her in.

  Grandma Farmer was snoring on a chair in the corner under a pile of blankets. Mrs. Farmer was leaning over a pair of cooking pots that dangled above the fire. The cottage smelled of broth.

  Elizabeth announced, "Thomas is home!"

  Grandma Farmer sat up with a start. "Just resting my eyes," she said.

  Mrs. Farmer said, "Good, he can help me with the soup."

  §

  Contrary to popular belief, most cooking in the Middle Ages
was indeed edible and could be, on occasion, quite tasty. Men and women have tongues as far back as history records, so things that people eat tend to be if not palatable at least not repulsive – even when the times don't lend themselves to culinary refinement.

  Thomas's time was one of those unrefined times. It is true that some of the best inventions arise from such environments. Unfortunately for Thomas, none of them arose from the environment of Mrs. Farmer's kitchen.

  The bread could be chewed if you soaked it in the soup. The soup could be swallowed if you diluted it with the bread. That's about as clever as it got. We don't need to talk about the strained beans.

  §

  Thomas grimaced, but headed dutifully toward the soup.

  There was something in there.

  Thomas leaned as far over the fire as he could bear and peered into the kettle. He stirred from the bottom, and tried not to breathe the flavored steam rolling up past him and out the chimney.

  There were definitely bits of something floating around in there.

  "Mum," said Thomas not sure he really wanted to know, "what's in the soup?"

  He didn't have to look, he could tell just by the sound of her voice that she was standing taller when she said, "Your father caught a hare this morning."

  "Huh," said Thomas.

  "What did you say?" said Elizabeth as one hand tucked the tooth back inside her dress.

  "I said you father caught a hare this morning. Probably the only one left in Fogbottom."

  "You're cooking", said Elizabeth, and each word came out of her mouth as if it was ashamed of being in the room with the others, "bunny soup." It wasn't so much a question as an accusation. Thomas stopped stirring.

  The door opened, and in stepped Mr. Farmer with another armful of wood. He hobbled over to a basket near the fire, laid his logs on the stack, and turned to find Elizabeth glaring at him, brow furrowed, and lips tight.

  "What?" said Mr. Farmer.

  Elizabeth's chin began to quiver. Her eyes welled up, and then she burst into tears. She turned and climbed up the ladder to the loft, flounced down on her bed, caught her stuffed bunny up in her arms and cried to it, "Oh Alice!"

  "What just happened?"

  "There's something in the soup," said Thomas.

  Mr. Farmer beamed. "I know! I couldn't believe my eyes when I went and checked the trap this morning and found a–"

  His face froze. "Oh," he said.

  "I won't eat it!" cried a small voice from above. "You can't make me!"

  Mr. Farmer looked up the ladder, and for a moment Thomas thought his father might climb up there and talk to her. Then he saw the weight of the year's hardships settle on him. He slumped. He limped over to the table and sat down.

  "Then you'll go hungry," he said.

  "It's time she gave up that old, dirty thing anyway," said Mrs. Farmer.

  The comment elicited a loud wail from Elizabeth, who threw herself down, buried her face in Alice and continued to cry.

  Thomas resumed stirring the soup, though now he felt like something of a criminal by association. Elizabeth’s muffled sobs grabbed his heart and squeezed.

  Grandma Farmer snorted and woke herself up from another nap.

  "What's for dinner?" she asked.

  §

  Elizabeth wouldn't come down. Thomas thought about trying to convince her it was chicken, but knew she'd ask where they'd got one and for that he didn't have an answer. They'd eaten their last chicken some time ago. It had been delicious.

  It was horrible timing, but he couldn't keep it in any longer.

  "Dad," said Thomas. He continued to stir the soup, not because it needed it, but because Mrs. Farmer required it. It also made a decent prop for pretending to be nonchalant, which Thomas now desperately tried to do.

  Mr. Farmer grunted.

  "There was a herald in town today."

  Everyone stopped what they were doing. Even Grandma Farmer, who had been doing nothing, stopped doing nothing and started now to fidget.

  Thomas stared hard at the soup.

  "A herald?" asked Mrs. Farmer.

  "The conscription's beginning then," started Mr. Farmer. "I knew it would come to this."

  Mrs. Farmer faced Mr. Farmer. "You knew what would come to this?"

  "The war! It's time we showed 'em what's for if you ask me."

  "Show who what's for? What are you talking about old man?" Mrs. Farmer stared at Mr. Farmer as though she'd just spotted a bug in her bread – that is to say, with a mixture of exasperation and familiarity. Thomas wondered how she managed to pull that look off fresh every time the subject of the war came up. The particular conflict Mr. Farmer referenced had ended decades ago but lived on in his gimpy left leg. Mr. Farmer's injury served him sometimes as an excuse, more often as a medal of honor, but always as a reminder of:

  "The French," he said, spitting the word out like it was some of Mrs. Farmer's hare soup.

  "What did the herald say?" It was Elizabeth's voice. Thomas looked up to see her peering over the edge of the loft. Her eyes were puffy and red and her cheeks were stained with tear tracks. She rubbed at them and sniffed.

  Grandma Farmer butted in, "I'm sure it was nothing important. Time for dinner!"

  Everyone looked at her.

  "Worth a try," she mumbled to herself as she shrugged and sat back down.

  "The herald," said Thomas, "was there to announce King Arthur's wedding."

  Elizabeth gasped.

  "It's about time," said Mrs. Farmer.

  "I knew he wasn't right in the head," said Mr. Farmer.

  Mrs. Farmer glared.

  "And," said Thomas, "he said because of the wedding, people could go to Camelot and ask for things, like I don't know, to be made a knight or something."

  Thomas couldn't remember the last time his father had looked as closely at him as he was now. Mrs. Farmer slowly turned to face Thomas. Elizabeth's jaw dropped open with a nearly audible pop. Grandma Farmer looked from one person to the next.

  In a voice that was clearly calmer than the owner, Mr. Farmer asked "What, exactly, did the herald say?"

  §

  Mr. Farmer wanted to go to Camelot and ask for a sword. Mrs. Farmer wanted to go to Camelot and ask for a cow. Elizabeth wanted to go to Camelot and elicit a proclamation for the protection of wild rabbits. Grandma Farmer wanted nothing to do with any of it. She said the Baron of Fogbottom and his son were enough nobility for anyone for a lifetime.

  Thomas thought they were all dreaming far too small. "Think of the things I could do for Fogbottom," he said.

  "Well, I'm going and that's final," said Mr. Farmer.

  "You can't go," said Mrs. Farmer, exasperated. "You can barely hobble across the yard. Unless you've been hiding a horse somewhere I don't know about?"

  "Where would I hide a horse?" He said it like a man who clearly had plenty of hiding places, none of which, unfortunately, actually held a horse. "Well, you can't go either. Who would do the..." He gestured as he tried to find the right words. "...the things you do in the kitchen, and wash the clothes, and take care of Elizabeth – all those things you do?"

  That was the closest thing to a compliment Mrs. Farmer was likely ever to get from Mr. Farmer. She blushed.

  "Well I'm not going," said Grandma Farmer. "And if it was up to me–"

  "Someone has to go," interrupted Thomas. "When will we ever get a chance like this again?"

  Mrs. Farmer began doling out bowls of soup and setting them on the table.

  "Royals marry all the time," said Grandma. "They have more true loves before breakfast than a normal person has in a lifetime."

  Thomas had been breaking off hunks of bread and setting them beside the bowls of soup. He slammed the last one down. "Arthur's not like that!"

  Mr. Farmer hit the table.

  "Enough, Thomas! I know you want to be a hero. I know you want to dress up in shining armor and go save the world from... from what? Dragons? How about saving us all from your ridicul
ous notions? We can't eat dreams Thomas. We can't wear hope to keep us warm. Sometimes being a hero is as simple as passing on bread when there's not enough to go around."

  Thomas quickly counted the hunks of bread and gave a mental sigh of relief when the number came out right.

  Mr. Farmer took a moment to calm down.

  "Talking to royals is always dangerous." As he spoke, Thomas was getting a horrible feeling of déjà vu. "If it's a job for anyone, it's a job for your brother. He can ask Arthur to appeal to the Baron to open up those storehouses of grain he's sitting on."

  "Ah, there we go," said Mrs. Farmer. "If anyone can handle Camelot, it's William." An idea dawned on her. "Maybe William could be a knight," she said.

  "But it was my idea," protested Thomas.

  "Don't be silly Thomas," said Mrs. Farmer. "You're too young." Thomas and his mother both knew he was only a year younger than William. Thomas had to bite his lip though. The last thing he wanted was to be compared to William again. He never won that contest.

  "Besides," she said, "Camelot is no place for a boy to be on his own." Thomas wanted to say that Camelot seemed like the perfect place for a boy to be on his own, but he kept his mouth shut and brooded. This hadn't gone at all how he'd hoped, but it wasn't far from what he'd expected.

  They sat down at the table. Thomas stared at the empty space where William usually sat. The quiet, uneasy feeling he'd gotten earlier was now a great, big, dreadful feeling sitting on his chest.

  Mr. Farmer noticed the empty space too. He chewed for a moment, swallowed and said, "Where is William, I wonder?"

  An unidentifiable sound escaped Thomas. He clamped his hands over his mouth. Everyone looked at him.

  "Thomas?" said Mr. Farmer who was now very calm which meant that inside he wasn't very calm at all. He put down his spoon. "Do you know something about where William might be?"