Sir Thomas the Hesitant and the Table of Less Valued Knights

by Liam Perrin

  As the crowd began to disperse, he announced he'd be playing at several locations throughout Camelot that day including the Fine Pickle, Isolde Park, and outside the Post Office. When the contributions dried up, he gave a final sweeping bow and headed for the gate.

  When it was just him and Philip, Thomas burst.

  "You've got to be kidding me. A labyrinth? Sloppy's dark fortress? Forty brigands? It was an alley! And there were like a dozen eight-year-olds."

  Philip replied, "You seem surprised."

  Thomas stammered. "Well, yeah, I... Wouldn't you be?"

  "Who'd want to hear a song about a knight arresting a bunch of kids?"

  Thomas gaped. "Well, apparently... everyone," he said sweeping his hand at where the crowd had been.

  "C'mon Philip. 'Hope has a fist?' 'Virtue has voice?' Because we broke up a pick-pocketing ring?"

  Philip shrugged. "Wait... We?"

  "Yes," growled Thomas. "We."

  "Ooooh," said Philip, comprehension dawning. "Oh my. You were there."

  Thomas widened his eyes and nodded, "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

  Philip gasped and pointed at Thomas's swollen eye, "You fought Sloppy!"

  The conversation had barreled right through terrain Thomas wanted to talk about straight into areas he didn't want to try to explain. He gave a shrug and tried to divert it, "Well, I... That is–"

  Philip gasped again and actually put his hands on his cheeks. "It wasn't Gawain! It was you!"

  Thomas shook his head frantically. "No, no, that's not what I..."

  "Thomas! This is terrible! You've got to tell someone. You've got to tell Tuttle, or the bards, or... or Arthur! Was Gawain even there at all?"

  "Well, yes. He was... I mean he did all those things... er, not all those things, like I said. But yes, I mean no – he wasn't alone anyway."

  The alarm slipped off Philip's face and was replaced by wonder. "You and Gawain fought together? You and Gawain? Gawain and you? Against all those brigands?"

  "Philip!" shouted Thomas. "There weren't any brigands. They were kids! Orphans! Sloppy himself is just a big, tough kid!"

  Philip looked confused. He shook his head. "It took two of you to take down a bunch of kids?"

  "Well, no. I mean, it was just Gawain – he's the one who fought the kids."

  Philip frowned. "Hold on. Let's start from the beginning."

  Thomas sighed. "Yes. Please. Let's."

  "There was an alley," said Philip.

  "Yes," said Thomas.

  "And a dozen or so small children."

  "Well, not so small I guess."

  "Orphans anyway."

  "Yes."

  "And they were a pick-pocketing ring, and one of them was Sloppy, and Gawain fought them all and arrested Sloppy and broke up the ring for good."

  "Yes."

  "And you were somehow involved in the fight," said Philip, pointing again at Thomas's eye.

  Thomas conceded, "Well, yes and no."

  "See this is where I get confused. You were there. You got hurt. But you didn't fight the kids."

  Thomas took a breath. "I turned the other cheek," he mumbled.

  Philip blinked at him. "Come again?"

  Thomas gritted his teeth, looked Philip in the eye and said, "I turned the other cheek. Because that's what Jesus did and Sloppy beat the tar out of me and Gawain showed up and arrested them all."

  Philip chewed on this.

  "Huh," he said finally. "I don't think that's in the Code."

  "Well no, not exactly," Thomas admitted. "But you've got to admit there are parallels."

  "Aye yeah, I'll give you that. In any case, you've got no right to be jealous if the guy saved your butt."

  "Who, Jesus?"

  "No," said Philip and rolled his eyes. "Gawain."

  Thomas sighed. "I guess not. But I mean, c'mon... Titans?"

  "It's just a song Thomas."

  "I guess so," said Thomas, glaring at the steps where the minstrel had played.

  "You're an odd sort of knight," said Philip after a moment.

  Thomas snorted, "Tell me about it."

  §

  It was their last dance lesson, and Madame Rhapsody was a blubbering mess. "You've all come so far," she kept saying. "I'm so proud," she repeated. "To see you become men before my very eyes," she sighed.

  "Madame Rhapsody's concept of a man scares me a little," said Edgar.

  Even Sir Cuddlington seemed proud of Madame's students. He sat on a high shelf watching contentedly as the dancers moved about the floor. The curses and trips of a week ago were replaced with only the occasional grunts of pain as the Less Valued stepped on each other's feet. In short, they were a picture of patient tolerance and inherent un-talent.

  "You've come so far," said Madame Rhapsody, sighing.

  When Hedley had played the last note of the final dance, Madame Rhapsody lined them up and gave each a bracing hug.

  "I send you off," she said, "into a new world. A world where music moves, where life has a rhythm, where hearts come together and spin apart in a beautiful calypso of love.

  "I send you," she said in her best breathy voice, "to dance."

  Thomas, Edgar, Dedric, and Ox agreed to never discuss the experience with anyone.

  §

  Exiting Madam Rhapsody's, Edgar glanced at the clock on Winchester Mercantile and panicked.

  "Isn't today the day we get outfitted? We should have been at the armory already."

  With Ox leading the way through traffic, they raced to the palace grounds. Thomas noted a distinct lack of pairs of small boys torturing ducks as they cut through Isolde Park. He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse because of it, but was pretty sure the ducks were better off.

  They dashed up a side street, through the palace gates and around the barracks. A small, squat building next to an open forge served as the Less Valued's armory. The good stuff, of course – the gear belonging to the other orders – was kept elsewhere in armories specifically outfitted for the care and maintenance of higher quality materials.

  The Less Valued's armory was a different story. It leaned to the right, and pitched just a little forward. It looked like it had picked a fight with a larger, more athletic building and lost. But it also looked like the kind of building that wouldn't think twice about picking the same fight again. It looked scrappy.

  A blacksmith stood at the forge next to it. He leaned to the right and a little forward as well.

  "Yerrrr," he yelled at them, "late!"

  He glared.

  "And," he sniffed, "ye smell like flawrs."

  "Like what?" whispered Dedric.

  "Flowers," said Thomas.

  The smith bellowed, "Enough chit chat, girls. Line up!"

  One by one, he called them forward – they were all named 'you' or 'next' as far as the smith was concerned – and measured the circumference of their heads with a string. He notched a pole with each measurement and had the head's owner make a distinguishing mark next to the tick on the pole.

  When one of the knights questioned why this was the only measurement needed, the smith replied, "Thahr's two reasons yer skull's th'most impahrtan' pard o' yer head, butterscotch. One: It keeps yer brains in, an' two: it keeps yer nose outta my business. Next!"

  §

  Night was falling, and Thomas sat with his knees tucked up and his back against the wall at the head of his bunk.

  Philip laid on his side on his bunk, flipping aimlessly through a stack of playing cards.

  "I thought we'd actually be getting some gear today," said Thomas.

  Philip shrugged. "One of Arthur's smiths is custom crafting a piece of armor for us. I'm not gonna say no to that."

  The color of the sky through the barracks' windows was slowly changing color from the bottom up.

  "Wonder what Marie and the rest of them are doing," said Thomas.

  "The night before the biggest wedding ever?"

  Thomas looked at Philip, thought a
bout it, and nodded. "Yeah."

  Philip stared back at Thomas for a moment. "All I know is it's best to stay away."

  Philip pointed to two letters lying beside Thomas. "Are you going to open those?"

  "Nope," Thomas said and shook his head.

  Philip laughed. "Oh come on, how bad can they be?"

  Thomas looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

  "Aren't you curious?" goaded Philip. "I am!" he added and reached for the letters.

  Thomas snatched them up. "Fine," he said, and then sat staring at the addresses. One was from Farmer, William; Prisoner, Dungeon at Fogbottom Keep. The other was written in the obnoxiously cute handwriting of a little girl: Farmer, 'Lizbeth, Cottage at the End of the Road, Fogbottom.

  Thomas rolled his eyes. "This can't go well," he said.

  "Nonsense," said Philip with a sardonic grin. "You'll be fine."

  "Oh stuff it," said Thomas and ripped open the letter from his baby sister.

  Dear Thomas,

  It's too bad you had to go to Camelot to save William. If you were here we could play together more. I made a picture for you. It has bunnies but I'm not going to tell you what it is so I can show you when you come home. Are you coming home soon?

  Dad is grumpy and Mum is sad a lot. I tell Mum root paste is good stuff to make her feel better but then she just cries more so I changed the subjects. Grandma is sleeping so I have to be quiet.

  You're the best second biggest brother ever. I love you Thomas. Bye!

  'Lizbeth Farmer

  P.S. If you see a princess in Camelot try to remember what her dress is like so you can tell me. And her crown. If it has jewels and what kinds and how many. Write it down so you don't forget. Okay thanks! Bye!

  Thomas let the hand holding the letter flop down onto the bed, closed his eyes, and banged his head against the wall behind him repeatedly.

  "Lemee see," said Philip and took the letter.

  Thomas didn't move or open his eyes while Philip read.

  "She sounds awesome."

  "She is," said Thomas.

  He pulled his head off the wall, took a breath, and opened the letter from William.

  From: William Farmer, Prisoner of Fogbottom

  Dungeon I, Fogbottom Keep

  Fogbottom

  Dear Thomas,

  You will recall in my last letter, no doubt, how I'd befriended a lovely fellow by the name of Cartwright the Pluck. I regret to announce his passing yesterday morn. I'd been feeding him portions of my rations for some time, as he seemed ill of health from the beginning, but it was all for naught. My cell seems so much larger and emptier without him.

  The other day, Wendsley took me to the courtyard to help load bundles of something or other onto a cart bound for I don't know where. The sun was delicious. I have to say, the novelty of the dungeon experience is beginning to wear thin. Speaking of wearing thin – I can grasp my bicep and touch the tips of my thumb and middle finger. I loaded three sacks of what felt suspiciously like grain onto the cart and promptly fainted from the exertion. I woke up back here in the cell, and there was Cartwright, no longer pluck.

  Oh, and I've discovered the guards who examine my letters can't read, so here it is: There's a shipment of some sort due to leave the keep. I suspect it is most, if not all, of the grain from the storehouses. I don't know when, but if there was ever a time to act – that time is now.

  God's speed little brother,

  William

  Thomas moved to the edge of his bunk and handed the letter to Philip.

  Philip took the letter without a word, read it, and said, "What do we do?"

  Thomas shook his head. "We've got the wedding tomorrow. We can't very well just disappear."

  "You're talking about going to Fogbottom and...?"

  Thomas shrugged. "And I don't know what."

  "You've got to talk to Arthur, Thomas. You've got to tell him how poorly the people of Fogbottom are fairing and how the Baron has it in his power to alleviate that suffering and, even if there isn't some conspiracy going on, how he's not living up to the responsibilities of his title."

  Thomas gritted his teeth, then nodded.

  "I'll talk to Arthur. Tomorrow. At the wedding."

  Philip gripped Thomas's shoulder in silent encouragement.

  Thomas smiled and took a deep breath. "I'm going to turn in. G'night Philip."

  Philip nodded. "Me too. G'night Thomas."

  Thomas found himself staring once again at the words he'd etched on his bunk, and fell asleep worrying about how to approach the King on his very wedding day.

  CHAPTER XX

  The Wedding of King Arthur & Princess Guinevere

  It was the kind of affair that gets pages and pages of fancy prose written about it in storybooks. Words like fairytale and gossamer and the names of half a dozen subtle variations of the color white flapped from onlooker to onlooker like doves. The doves themselves cooed romantically at each other, and did their best to make everyone feel as if everything important in the world was right here.

  It was held outdoors next to St. Stephen's under a flawless sky. A woman in the congregation remarked that there was no cathedral on Earth that was large enough to contain Arthur's love for Guinevere. Her husband replied that he could relate to the sentiment, and indicating a wine glass that looked very small and dainty in his hand, excused himself to go look for a larger, sturdier variety.

  Stringed instruments comprised the majority of the orchestra. They played the kind of music that makes people walk on their toes and turn more dramatically than would otherwise be appropriate. Aside from two brief interludes during the homily and the vows, the orchestra played continuously. The priest spoke of the importance of honest communication, supportive friends, and separate bedchambers for a long and lasting marriage. Arthur's vows were enthusiastic and incoherent. Guinevere's were poetic, enchanting, and pointedly non-specific.

  Everything seemed to be made of flowers.

  The reception that followed continued the floral theme. There were chocolate flowers that tasted of orange, flowers made of icing that confused and delighted passing bumblebees, and flowers that tasted remarkably like flowers, which people all seemed to agree was wonderful and not something they were terribly interested in at the same time. The flowers were contrasted by a scattering of amazingly detailed, remarkably accurate, and wholly inedible reproductions of fruit. The wedding planners concocted all of this on the theory that there is no better way to get people socializing than to upend their understanding of what's safe to put in their mouths.

  §

  "Everyone's talking about Merlin's prophecy," said Philip.

  Thomas was staring at a woman whose hair had been done up so that it was piled straight up, easily doubling her height, and crowned with a model frigate. She was carrying a cane which she used periodically to push and poke at the ship when the whole thing started to lean the wrong way.

  "Which prophecy?" said Thomas.

  "The one that happens here," said Philip.

  Thomas tilted his head as the ship began to slip, then straightened up again as the woman set it aright without missing a beat in her conversation.

  "The one where Merlin dies," said Philip.

  Thomas jerked and looked at Philip. "The one where he does what?"

  "They say he said he's going to die."

  "I don't remember him saying that. I think 'doom' was the word he used. There are all sorts of doom."

  "Really? For instance?" said Philip

  "Well, for instance," said Thomas, "there's the sort of doom where you have to try to explain to a king on his wedding day that one of his trusted lords is probably, actually, quite untrustworthy and his people are suffering for it and, in fact, one of his knight's own brothers is in dire straits for the simple crime of petitioning said lord for some sufferance."

  Philip frowned. "Well, yes I guess there's that sort."

  "And then," continued Thomas, "there's the sort of doom where if you
fail to convince the king that one of his lords is a scoundrel – on his wedding day, at his reception – your entire village along with your dear mother, your war-hero father, your doting grandmother, your kid sister, and your loving and frustratingly noble brother will probably all starve to death in the coming winter."

  Philip blinked and tried to change the subject. "Is that Dedric? Hello, Dedric!"

  "AND," continued Thomas, "then there's the sort of doom where you do, in fact, convince the king that some conspiracy is afoot, and he rallies his troops, and he sends them to your village to roust out the despot, and it turns out you were wrong about everything."

  Philip swallowed and picked at his fingernail.

  Thomas bowed his head and took a breath. In a quieter voice he said, "And then there's the sort of doom where you convince the king, and it turns out you were right, and everyone wants to know why you didn't say something sooner. Why you didn't help out the suffering people in your village the moment you had a chance. Why you let your mother, and your father, and your grandmother, and your kid sister, and your loving and frustratingly noble brother suffer as long as they did while you lived it up like a prodigal son in the land of plenty. Why when you had the chance to be a hero..."

  "Stop," said Philip, and put a hand on Thomas's shoulder. "Whatever happens, happens. And whatever choices you made, you made for reasons that seemed right at the time."

  "I fear that Hell is filled with people who made choices that seemed right at the time," said Thomas.

  "That may be true, but Heaven is full of people who made lousy choices and know they don't deserve to be there. And in any case," Philip grinned and continued, "we're not dead just yet, depending of course on the particular sort of doom Merlin was talking about."

  Thomas smiled and wiped the palms of his hands on his trousers. "What's keeping them anyway? I want to get this over with."