Sleepless Knights

by Mark Williams

  I waited until the Great Hall was clear, and took her to one side. “A quiet word, concerning Mordred. Be sure that his appearance is made known to you, and keep an eye on him. The King has asked that his needs are met, within reason. But as you just heard, reason to Mordred is often a grey area.”

  “Do not worry. I know his type and how to handle them.”

  “All the same, there is some delicate family history you should be aware of. You have heard, I take it, about the business with the sword in the stone?”

  “Of course. Our minstrels never tire of singing of how Arthur pulled Merlin’s sword out of the stone, proving his royal birth.”

  “But what minstrels are not permitted to sing of — by strict Royal decree — is how humiliated Mordred was by the affair. For this, I blame no one so much as Merlin himself. Not that he is around anymore to take responsibility for his actions.”

  At the mention of the wizard, predictably enough Beaumains’ jaw had dropped. “You knew Merlin?”

  “My first job was serving in the Court of King Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon, to whom Merlin gave counsel, such as it was. At that time, Arthur’s mother, Igraine, was married to the Duke of Cornwall. Self-control was never one of Uther’s virtues. Desiring Igraine for his lover, Uther waged a petty war on the Duke. While the Duke was away fighting Uther’s forces, Uther had Merlin transform him into the exact physical likeness of the Duke, so that he might, er… with Igraine. That is to say, so that he could, um…”

  “Know her intimately.”

  “Yes, thank you. Merlin’s one condition was that the result of this adultery — namely, Arthur — would be given over to his care, until the boy came of age.”

  “But why?”

  “Because Merlin did what Merlin did, regardless of the consequences.”

  “Surely there was a reason? He was a magician, he was wise.”

  “That is a matter of opinion. Suffice to say that the Duke of Cornwall died in battle on the very night Arthur was conceived, widowing Igraine. Uther, to his debatable credit, took Igraine as his Queen and her only other child, Morgan, as his adopted daughter. Nine months later Igraine gave birth to Arthur, who was taken away to be raised in secret. Shortly after that, the Queen had another son by Uther — Mordred — but sadly, Igraine did not survive childbirth. If only she had, it would have been better for Morgan. Lacking her mother’s guidance and detesting her stepfather, she left home, swearing vengeance on Arthur for the sins of his father. It is said that she took to the dark arts and made her home in the depths of the Otherworld.

  “As for Mordred, he spent his formative years believing himself to be the rightful heir to the throne, little realising that the first born was, in fact, Arthur. When Uther died and the sword in the stone appeared, Mordred was convinced he would be the one to pull it out, and was not deterred by his total inability to do so. For seven days and seven nights, without food or rest, he tried to remove that sword. He became a laughing stock, and his efforts were in danger of creating an even bigger spectacle than the sword itself. Until, of course, Arthur turned up and removed it without so much as breaking a sweat.”

  “Poor man. To suffer so publicly. I feel quite sorry for him.”

  “Your pity is admirable, Beaumains, but misplaced. The King has bent over backwards to make amends to him ever since, and Mordred has wasted every opportunity that has come his way. If he could hear your kind words, rest assured he would think them the very least he deserves for being so hard done by.”

  “I understand. I will be watchful and wary, Sir Lucas,” said Beaumains, and she followed after Eric to the kitchens.

  III

  I strode through the Gatehouse door, and stopped in my tracks when I almost walked into a tree. I was about to ask Geraint why a major walkway was so obstructed, when the offending foliage spoke and revealed itself to be a man. A giant, to be precise; and no ordinary giant at that. From tunic to jerkin and face to feet, he was entirely green. Geraint the Gatekeeper stood his ground in front of him, like a sapling struggling for sunlight in the shadow of a mighty oak.

  “Goad me not, Gatekeeper! My patience wears thinner than a beggar’s blanket,” bellowed the giant.

  “Come on, sir, be reasonable. It’s not a matter of goading, it’s simply a question of formality.”

  “I — demand — an — audience — with — King — Arthur!” A branch-like finger prodded Geraint in the chest with every word.

  “There really is no need for that. Let me get you some ale from the Reception Pavilion — oh, Mr L, thank the blessed beard of Merlin!”

  “Good morning, Geraint. And who might this be?”

  “This gentleman here is the Green Knight.”

  “Welcome to Camelot, Sir Green Knight,” I said. With a loud creak the giant bent down to scrutinise me with an emerald glare.

  “And who are you?”

  “Sir Lucas, Royal Butler. At your service,” I said, giving a small bow.

  “Then buttle me to the Knights of the Round Table! Much chatter have I heard of their splendid skill, and wish to put it to the test — with a challenge.”

  “I am afraid that will not be possible.”

  “Ho! So! You dare to stand in my way?”

  “Not at all, Sir Green Knight. My team and I provide a full and comprehensive support package for every quest, challenge and adventure to arrive at the gates of Camelot. There will be ample opportunity for you to present yourself to the Round Table during the course of the feasting period. Please give full details of your challenge, including terms, conditions and expiry date, to Geraint here, and we will fit you in — Geraint, when is the first available time slot?”

  “Day after tomorrow, between the indoor falconry and the love poems of Sir Tristram,” said Geraint, consulting his notice board.

  The Green Knight reached behind his massive back and produced a double-bladed axe, which he hefted from hand to hand. “If this be a jest, butler, then it is a feeble one, and may prove to be your last. Do you expect me to wait?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Good.”

  “You misunderstand me, Sir Green Knight.”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “I do not expect you to wait,” I said. “You will wait.”

  A growl started to rumble in the depths of his throat. The Green Knight raised himself up to full height. He swung the axe back over his shoulder. The weapon whistled through the air and halted a sword’s width from my neck. I knew the distance to be the width of a sword, because that was precisely what had stopped the Green Knight’s axe in its path. My sword. The Green Knight gave a startled cry at the sudden appearance of the blade. He lowered his weapon.

  “Ha!” he cried, and clapped me on the shoulder. “This is no mere butler, eh Gatekeeper? Then wait I shall. But not for long, mark you. Now, where is this ale?”

  “The Reception Pavilion is located in the second courtyard to your left,” I said. “Ask for Granville the Brewer. I highly recommend the cask honey beer.”

  The Green Knight stomped out and Geraint fairly shook with relief. “Phe-eew. Thanks for that, Mr L! I tell you what, I’ve seen it all this morning. One woman was in here earlier, convinced her baby boy’s gonna find a magic cauldron that’ll bring eternal glory to Camelot. Insisted she present him and his so-called ‘Grail Quest’ before the King.”

  “I hope you set her straight, Geraint.”

  “Certainly did. Told her to wait until he could walk, at least. She didn’t like that. Kept going on about how it was her precious Perceval’s destiny, written in the stars. If you ask me, there’s so much written in the stars you could pretty much read anything in ’em. I’ve just started omens in my magic studies, bad ones and good ones, and how to tell the difference, like.”

  “What you do in your own time is none of my business, Geraint. I would appreciate it if we could stick to professional matters.”

  “Right you are, Mr L.”

  “Has there been
any reduction in the number of arrivals since yesterday?”

  “An increase, if anything! Already this morning we’ve had Sir Uwaine, Baron Sagramour, Sir Meliot, Baron Bagdemagus and Sir Partridge from the Kingdom of Pear Tree. No, I made that last one up. But here’s the thing — Sagramour and Bagdemagus both said they were here to see Mordred knighted. That’ll be the day, I said! That Red Knight vanquishing was a set-up if ever there was one, and if they had any sense they’d bet their family gold on Gawain being a Sir before sundown. Well, we had a few words over that, but it ended with them insisting point blank to be put straight into the West Wing.”

  “I see. Where are they now?”

  “With Mordred. I was all for letting them wait outside until I’d squared it with you, but he said he was dealing with it on the King’s behalf. But I thought Sags and Bags were on the list of Banned Barons?”

  “You thought correctly, Geraint. The West Wing is being cleared this morning for emergency accommodation, but priority will be given to those who got here before them. Make a list of all the guests so far and give me a copy by noon.”

  “Will do. But now, what about the horses? We’re having a hell of a time finding room, it’s nose to tail out there. If only Merlin were still knocking around! He’d sort it out.”

  “Perhaps, Geraint. Unfortunately, Merlin considers it more important to dote on the enchantress Viviane, allowing her to seal him under the earth.”

  “He’d do one of them space-making spells, like when he conjured up that stable with all those different levels, remember?”

  “Yes, I do. I also remember spending three days trying to return the horses to their rightful owners, after it transpired that Merlin made no provision for their identification or efficient retrieval.”

  “Still, it made the King laugh.”

  “Speaking of the King, did he pass through the gates this morning?”

  “Aye, he did as a matter of fact. Went out before dawn, on his own. Said something about hunting, and to tell you not to worry, he’d be back for breakfast.”

  “Forgive me, Geraint, but that cannot be so. The King’s sword is in a state of severe disrepair.”

  “Yes, I did wonder about that, but he took it anyway. Reckoned it was good for a few more quests yet.”

  “I see. Still, I suppose if there is nothing enchanted involved, it is not so bad. I will send a squire out to him with a new sword from the armoury. Did he happen to say where he would be hunting?”

  “He mentioned something about the Enchanted Glade in the Enchanted Forest.”

  “Thank you, Geraint. I will catch up with you later.”

  “Hang on, who shall I send out with the sword?”

  “Only a magic blade will suffice in the Enchanted Forest. I will go myself.”

  “But where you gonna find one of those? I mean, it’s not as if they grow on trees, is it?”

  IV

  The snow-topped trees of the Enchanted Forest spread out below me as Plum trotted out of the Camelot rear gates. It had been no small task to locate my steed, pushed as he was to the back of his stall and squashed between a piebald colt and an asthmatic old mare. But, with the kind of skilful hoof-work that made me bless the day I chose him, he extricated himself from the stable and we were soon on our way.

  Once I was confident he had hit his stride on the hill, I clicked my tongue and he sped up to a medium canter. The forest path levelled out ahead of us. My limited and never pleasant experiences of the Enchanted Forest had taught me to hold Plum back for a high gallop until it was absolutely necessary. Nevertheless, time was of the essence.

  The morning mists were starting to clear, and the King had at least an hour’s head start. I was not at all confident that his sword would survive even one encounter with a magical opponent, and the very thought filled my heart with dread. This dread was useful, in that it overwhelmed my apprehension at venturing into such unpredictable territory, where even the most meticulously planned routine could be thwarted in a heartbeat. Geraint was correct in his assumption that magic swords do not grow on trees. I was instead pinning my hopes on their existence under water. No-one forged a finer magic sword than the faerie folk, and their nearest known habitat was the Enchanted Lake. I pulled my hood tighter over my head and urged Plum into the forest, steeling myself for whatever it might throw in our path.

  The griffins were hibernating, so their nesting grounds were easy to negotiate for a horse as nimble as Plum. Their deep snores were disturbed by not so much as a single twig snap, and once safely through I rewarded him with a handful of oats. The Enchanted Marsh stretching ahead of us might have posed more of an obstacle, but thanks to a particularly bitter winter, the surface was almost entirely solid. A lone Marsh Wisp poked a spectral head out of a rare patch of unfrozen ooze, made a half-hearted attempt to point me in the wrong direction, then sank shivering back to his foul bed. Our progress was slow and slippery on the icy ground, but clumps of marsh grass provided traction, and we reached the other side without mishap.

  We emerged from the trees onto the shore of the Enchanted Lake and I took down my hood. Immediately I pulled it back up again as clouds of sprites swarmed into my face, pulling at the short hairs of my beard and making obscene gestures. I swatted them away and dismounted by the misty waters. Not a single sound of fish or fowl came from that bewitched place. I felt a queer sensation passing down my spine and swatted my back; several sprites yelped in pain and dropped to the ground. A peculiar music filled the air. I tried to block it out, fearing its purpose was to bedazzle the unwary listener, and started to hum a boyhood ditty to counteract any malign influence.

  My fears were confirmed by the appearance of a ghostly arm in the centre of the lake. The arm started to beckon me forwards in time to the music. I hummed louder. When it could see, or rather sense, that I was not about to move as instructed, the arm was followed by the rest of the body. There before me stood a lady and, to my great relief, in her non-beckoning arm she held a sword.

  “Who approaches the Lady of the Lake?” she said.

  “Sir Lucas, madam, of King Arthur’s Court.”

  “Why do you approach me, Sir Lucas of King Arthur’s Court?”

  “I seek a magic sword, faerie-forged and fit for a King.”

  “Why does King Arthur not seek such a sword himself?”

  “He is otherwise engaged, but I come as his envoy.”

  “You are his greatest champion?”

  “No, madam.”

  “A powerful magician?”

  “Certainly not, madam.”

  “A bard?”

  “Not I, madam.”

  “Then, who are you?”

  “I am the King’s butler.”

  “Ah,” she said. For some reason, I cared even less for that “ah” than for the peculiar music. “Then, step into the barge,” she said.

  Before I could ask “what barge?” a small boat silently and smoothly parted the mists of the lake and came to rest at my feet. I carefully stepped into it, and slowly — much too slowly for my liking — it conveyed me to where the lady stood on the water, cradling the sword like a beloved child.

  “Behold — Excalibur,” she said. As she did not immediately offer it to me, I beheld it for what I hoped was an appropriate interval. “This sword cannot be broken while it is wielded by the hand of the just,” she said, eventually.

  “That is good to know, madam,” I replied, and made to take it. But she was not finished.

  “Far more precious than the sword is the scabbard. It will protect the wearer from shedding blood and cause his wounds to heal. ”

  “Understood, madam,” I said.

  “Know also that Excalibur cannot be used against another who has wielded it. If it is, then the sword will shatter and a curse fall upon he who struck the unjust blow. He will be doomed to wear the scabbard for the rest of his days, or else suffer all the wounds from which it has ever saved him!”

  “I fully comprehend the terms and condi
tions.”

  She nodded and gave me the sword in the scabbard, which I tied securely around my waist. The peculiar music faded away and the Lady of the Lake sank beneath the misty waters.

  If anything, the boat’s return passage was even slower. Although it would have been the height of stupidity to jump out and wade through the enchanted shallows, the temptation to do so was almost unbearable. At last I was back on the shore, where Plum was trying to shake off a posse of sprites who were making imprudent use of his saddle. I brushed them away, placed my foot into the stirrup and fell backwards to the ground as the untied saddle came loose in my hands. Accompanied by much spritely laughter, I re-fastened the saddle girth and tried again. In the corner of my eye I saw one particularly amused culprit, doubled up with mirth at my fall. I shot out my hand and grabbed him before he could fly away, tying him into a cloth purse in my saddlebag. “Plum,” I said, “it is time for a high gallop.”

  V

  The Enchanted Glade was a favourite spot of the King’s. Most of my previous excursions into the Enchanted Forest had taken me there, and it was the one place I knew I could find in a hurry. Even if this were not the case, there were no shortage of signs leading me in the right direction. Most of the trees surrounding the glade had been uprooted and lay splintered on the path, requiring several athletic jumps from Plum. The ground had been churned up as if by a giant plough, and from ahead came the sounds of a frantic skirmish, interspersed with the loud bellows and squeals of a cornered animal. Plum galloped into the clearing and instinctively reared back at the sight before us.

  The glade was dominated by a large wild boar, which I estimated to be twice the size of a cow. Its tusks were long and sharp, its hairs coarse and brittle, its eyes bloodshot and angry. Half of this anger was directed at the figure of King Arthur, who stood before it, the hilt of his broken sword in one hand, his red hunting cape in the other. The other half of the boar’s anger was focused on a knight attempting to scale its bristled back by gaining a foothold on the remains of the King’s broken blade sticking out of the animal’s rump. This knight clung on for a few moments, bucking and bouncing around, before being thrown off by a spasmodic kick from the boar’s hind legs, the front pair continuing their complicated dance of retreat and advance with the King.