“But tonight we have seen that I did have something to fear, and from bigger things than spilt wine.”
“That was a full-blown assassination attempt, on a different scale entirely. Why were you so concerned about a cursed toasting goblet?”
“You know I would never do anything based on idle gossip alone. I told Geraint as much, and I was about to tell you, if you had not butted in.”
“Sorry.”
“I was concerned about what this goblet represented. Something that smelled bad, and yet another in an increasingly wide variety of odours coming from Mordred.”
“Of course.”
“Good. So I can continue with my story?”
“Please.”
“Thank you. Now, where was I?”
III
Geraint took the goblet back from me and held it up to the light.
“Trouble is, Miss B, there’s no way of telling a Cup of Shame from an ordinary goblet until an unfaithful lover drinks from it. And by that time, well, it’s all academic, isn’t it? But listen, you know the Queen better than anyone, apart from the King. She’s got nothing to worry about on that score, has she? I mean, granted, that time the King was away sorting out the Giant business, she and Sir Lancelot did seem to be getting, well, closer, but —”
“If it is cursed then it has no place in Camelot, Geraint. That is my bottom line. It should also be yours.”
“Miss B, if I’ve ever said so much as a hint of a bad word against the Queen, then you can kick my arse from here to Annwn. But that doesn’t change the fact that people talk. If Mordred’s looking to ignite a scandal, then something like this goblet could do more harm than any Scorch Cloak. Point is, you’ve got to be careful. Alright, let’s say for argument’s sake it is a Cup of Shame, and we confiscate it. All Mordred will do is put it about that the Queen’s got something to hide, then the rumours just get worse, and then — well, I don’t want to go there, truth be told. No, I can’t see any way around it, except to let things take their course. The Queen’s got nothing to be ashamed of, so what’s the worst that can happen?”
“It is a potential security breach, Geraint, and I do not want it near the Queen, full stop. What if we were to swap it for another, identical goblet?”
“No, I don’t reckon that’d work. Mordred seemed to hint that he’d know if it was tampered with; made a big deal about its ‘unique ancient craftsmanship.’ At the time I thought it was just more wind, but that must’ve been what he was getting at — warning me, like, in case I decided to switch it.”
“OK then… What if I swap it after it is given it to the Queen, but before it is filled with wine for the toasts?”
“That might work. The toasts won’t be ’til later… You’d be serving at the High Table anyway, and Mordred will be on the Round Table. If the old switcheroo was made fast enough… You’ll have to be very quick, mind, he’ll be expecting something like that.”
“Can you make me a copy by this evening?”
“Aye, I reckon I could. It won’t pass muster close up, but it should fool him at a distance.”
“Then I will call in for it later.”
“Righto. Leave it with me, Miss B. If I’m not here, I’ll stash it in the bottom drawer of my worktable, out of sight.”
†
Even before leaving Geraint and the Gatehouse, I could hear the noise of the crowd. I made my way along the outer walls, past the Castle and down towards the tournament ground, chants and cheers rising and falling on the summer breeze. There was still half an hour to go before the games began. It was obvious from the noise and from the multitudes filling the streets below that the final day of the contest would be a fitting way to commemorate the Queen’s fiftieth year.
But if Her Majesty was pleased or flattered in any way, she did not show it: I found her in the awning at the back of the Royal Box, in the state of mind which I call ‘shield up.’ I have encountered this barrier enough times not to take it personally, and to know it can only be lowered by careful indifference. Show too much concern too soon, and the shield will be pulled all the closer. Show too little, and you risk causing offence. Today, however, I did not need to be as attentive as usual to its shifting tones and textures, for I knew that the instant Knight X appeared, her mood would change. So I went through the motions of our daily lesson in swordsmanship in silence. Besides, the only time I had dared to ask her what use she might find for such martial arts, her reply was as sharp as her blade. “There’s nothing else to do around here,” she had said, and attacked me with such vigour that I resolved never to ask again. The Queen is a fast learner, and there are few moves left in my repertoire that she does not know. Before long she will be a warrior equal to any Knight of the Round Table. So, for an hour we practised, hidden from view, as the tournament grounds filled up to capacity.
A creaking from the wooden steps leading up to the Royal Box spoke of King Arthur’s approach. The Queen passed me her sword, and I hid it with my own in a place under the floorboards. I had collected her midday meal en route, so I busied myself transferring bread and meat from platter to plate while she reclined on the divan, surrounded on all sides by her many presents. She picked up her needlepoint, and made a great show of being absorbed in embroidering a neat border of crosses on a quilt. On the table in front of her, a magic chess set played itself.
King Arthur entered with a spring in his step. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, but she made no move towards him, forcing him to lean over the divan at an awkward angle in order to make his greeting.
“Happy birthday, darling,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You like the gifts?”
“Love them.”
“I’m so glad,” said the King, and sat beside her, brimming with glee. “You deserve no less than the very best.” The Queen sat up straight on the couch and continued with her stitching. “And, who knows, there may be more to come later in the day,” he added. The Queen smiled and nodded. The King tapped the side of his nose. “But my lips are sealed.”
“OK, then.”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies, Ginny.”
“I won’t.”
“You will just have to wait and —”
“Please, Arthur. I’m trying to work.”
“Sorry, sorry.” The King smiled and winked at me as if I were his co-conspirator, though I had no idea what he was talking about. The pattern on the quilt then caught his eye, and some of the bounce left him. “It seems no-one is immune from the charms of Knight X,” he said. The Queen’s needle halted mid-stitch. She looked down at her work and the border of crosses.
“Kisses,” she said.
“Ah.”
“It’s for our chamber.”
“You’re such a romantic.”
He leaned over for her cheek again, but at that moment a horn sounded from outside and the Queen jumped up like a startled deer. The King found himself puckering at thin air. He smacked his lips loudly, as if that had been his intention all along. “Time for lunch,” he said, and made a hasty exit. The Queen moved to her seat out on the balcony to observe the competitors emerging from the entranceway beneath our feet.
As the undefeated victor, Knight X was obliged to take a lap of honour before his opponents were allowed onto the field. He performed this without relish, and I found myself musing once more on the sombre note this champion struck. From boots to helmet he was dressed in black, giving him the appearance of one in mourning, a fashion that extended to his black stallion, saddled with the bare minimum of accessories. His helmet was without a visor, but his face was masked with scarves wrapped around his head, with only a blank strip for the eyes. Sword and lance were dark and dull, as was his shield, except for a large ‘X’ painted in silver grey. He led his horse at a funeral pace without a scrap of flamboyance, as if even the briefest wave would be the height of self-indulgence.
All this was in total contrast to the reaction of the crowd. Every man,
woman and child were united in praising his name. Knight X banners dominated all four stands. Silver Xs were painted on faces and tunics. Knight X flags and half-scale models of his famous black sword were snapped up faster than the delighted vendors could make them. Only once did the object of all this adoration acknowledge his surroundings. Passing by the Royal Box, he turned and inclined his head in respect to the Queen, before taking up position at the end of the field, his lance at rest.
The first challenger took to the pitch. Sir Mordred and his cronies in the knights’ enclosure stamped and brayed for Sir Bagdemagus as loud as they could, but their cheers were drowned out by the jeers of the crowd. Another horn sounded. Knight X and Sir Bagdemagus lowered their lances and readied their steeds. Although the appearance of Knight X had animated the Queen, it seemed to have done little to raise her spirits. I decided to attempt conversation while I moved around behind the balcony seat, tidying up gifts and clearing away the untouched food. A mound of crumbs moved under the table, revealing a blue mouse, presumably one of Geraint’s creations.
“Fancy, Sir Bagdemagus being booed. I never thought such a poor reception would be given to a Knight of the Round Table,” I said.
“That accolade fades with every Baron my husband lets his brother sneak in through the back door.”
“The King has his reasons, I am sure,” I said.
“Oh, I’m sure of that, too. I just wish they were good ones.”
A final bugle blast signalled the start of the bout. From my half-stoop behind the Queen’s seat, I could see the top row of the opposite stand settle down in anticipation.
“Perhaps you should say something to him, ma’am.”
“Perhaps I should. Perhaps I should also ask the sun not to shine.”
There was a drumming of hooves as the two knights spurred their horses into the first pass. An intake of breath from the crowd. A splintering crack. A roar of disapproval. I peered over the rail in time to see Sir Bagdemagus throw aside a broken lance and shift a fresh one to his duelling hand. At the opposite end of the pitch Knight X threw away the remains of his shield. “Two lances?” I said. “Surely that should be disallowed?”
“By whom, exactly?”
“Your Majesty could intervene.”
“You’ve seen Knight X joust. A hundred lances won’t help Bagdemagus.” The Queen smiled for the first time. The second pass began. I returned to my work and attempted to change tack.
“People love this Knight X,” I said.
“They do,” said the Queen.
More thundering of hooves. A twang, a prang, and this time a sharp exclamation of delight from the crowd. When next I looked, Sir Bagdemagus’s second lance was stuck handle-down into the ground, the knight hanging from the tip and flailing about like an armoured trout. The Queen clapped her hands loudly.
“A mask captures the imagination, I suppose,” I said. “People want to know what it hides.”
The Queen stopped clapping abruptly. “We all have something to hide,” she said. I looked at her, and immediately wished I had not. “Well? Isn’t that what you want me to say? ‘We all wear masks, we all have secrets, blah blah blah.’ Why don’t you take whatever you want from that, and share the scraps among the staff as you see fit? I’m sure they drool over your every morsel of gossip like dogs under the dinner table.”
You are wrong, I said to myself, and thought of the goblet.
“I’m sorry, my lady —”
“Oh, just get me some wine,” she said, returning to the divan and her needlework.
Knight X retired until the next round. I made to leave, colliding with the King in the doorway. His previous deflated look had swollen with so much optimism that I worried he might go pop at any moment.
“It’s time, it’s time,” he said, grabbing me by the hand as he called to his wife, “Ginny, get up, look!” The Queen sighed, put down her embroidery, and allowed herself to be dragged back to the balcony.
Up in the sky, standing bold against the clear blue, letters and words were writing themselves in coloured smoke. The audience on our side saw them too, and started to point, and then to laugh. The spectators on the other side followed their gaze, enjoying the unexpected visual treat, turning the words into a chant that was taken up by the entire ground, the baffling nature of the message only adding to its festive appeal. The Queen tutted and shook her head.
“You really shouldn’t have. Forget the wine, Beaumains, I’ll get it myself,” she said, and left.
“Ginny, wait,” said the King, as if there was still a chance that the plumes of red, white and green in the sky could spell out something other than ‘DEATH BY VINEGAR’.
IV
I had been unloading barrels of mead from a lift behind a tapestry in the Great Hall, when I saw Mordred place his goblet among the other gift items on the High Table. Then he left, at the prompting of Enid, following the rule that only serving staff are allowed in the Hall for the hour preceding any feast. Mordred did not go without some reluctance, but Enid’s broom brooked no argument. For a second he looked as if he might change his mind and take the goblet back. But, presumably not wanting to draw Enid’s attention to it, he made his exit.
As soon as the door was barred behind him, I took a closer look at this goblet, scarcely daring to believe my luck. What was to stop me from switching it now, before any guests arrived? Then I could relax and attend to my duties, without having to worry about making the swap under Mordred’s watchful eye. However, my most pressing concern was not to arouse any suspicion. There was nothing to stop Mordred from taking a last peek at his gift, and noticing it had been swapped for a duplicate. Everything would depend on the quality of Geraint’s copy, so I decided to check this first, before I moved the real one. I made my way to the Gatehouse and, finding no Geraint within, took the liberty of entering the small back room that served as his workshop.
As promised, the copy was in the bottom drawer of his worktable. And not just any copy. Geraint had surpassed himself. To my untrained eye, this goblet could have been the other’s twin in every respect, save its lack of cursedness. That settled it. I picked up the fake one from the drawer, returned to the Great Hall, and in one move made the swap, stuffing the real goblet into the wide front pocket of my tunic.
But I was not in the clear yet, for there was now the matter of what to do with the cursed object. It would be highly unwise, I thought, to keep it upon my person. And so I went back to the Gatehouse for a second time, hoping that Geraint might have returned, so that I could entrust the cup to his care.
“Geraint. It’s Beaumains,” I whispered, “Geraint, are you back?” The door creaked open and a ray of evening sun lit up the empty room, every gift having now been transferred to the Great Hall. I weighed the Cup of Shame in my hands and ran my mind back over recent events, to check if there was any flaw in my plan. I was standing by the empty worktable drawer, absorbed in my thoughts, when I heard the Gatehouse door creak open and close abruptly. Like a cornered thief I shoved the cursed goblet into the bottom drawer and slammed it shut, spinning around on my heel to see the panic-stricken face of Enid.
“Oh Beaumains, there you are, thank Merlin I’ve found you! It’s the Round Table, it’s ruined, all ruined!” she wailed.
“Please, just calm down,” I said, although in truth I was talking to my own wildly thumping heart. I closed the workshop door and left the Gatehouse, following Enid’s flustered path back to the Hall.
†
Well, from her tone you would have thought the Round Table was on fire. Of course, I understood where her alarmist nature came from. To lose her beloved Eric to a poisoned apple meant for the King’s table would put anyone on edge. But for the sake of my own nerves I have made it my custom to always divide Enid’s panic by a factor of four, to get a more accurate sense of the scale of the problem. What vexed her on this occasion was only the usual rigmarole of the seating plan. I would have preferred to spend my time finding Geraint to tell him of the s
uccess of the ‘switcheroo’ and congratulate him on his workmanship, but it would not be long before the first guests arrived. Besides, one glance at the place names on the Round Table told me it required serious reordering. Enid wrung her hands and kept looking at the door.
“Enid? What kind of order is this?”
“Bedwyr’s. He’s sat them all according to Grail experience.”
“This will not do. Did you get my instructions?”
“Yes, but the seating plan makes my head swim at the best of times. I was finally getting there, when I left to get some more cushions for Sir Aliduke on account of his bad back, and by the time I’d returned, Bedwyr had mixed them all up again. And now there’s no time left, and the knights will be here any minute, and —”
“Enid. We have time. Now hush, and let me see.” I made a swift circle of the table’s fifty seats, reading off the wooden place-names slotted into the back of each chair.
Enid’s alarm was more justified than I had given her credit for. If the knights remained in this order, bones would be broken with bread, and blood would flow with wine. It is a shame that a seating system invented to ensure equality among knights now has to be ordered according to a list of squabbles that only gets longer with every passing feast. But it is a challenge that I relish, for all its frustrations, and I set about rearranging the table according to my initial plan, un-slotting and re-slotting place names as I made a second circuit.
“Sir Agravain apart from Sir Balin, on account of the blood feud. Sir Balin out of earshot of Sir Lamorak, who is still making allegations about Balin’s relations with his lady. Likewise Sir Balan, who will fight to the death in his twin brother’s name. Lamorak suffers with heat rage, so cannot go too near the fire, so… yes… here. No. No, no, no… that puts Lamorak in eye contact with Sir Menaduke, lest we forget their duel over the Maiden of the Apple Trees… But if I swap him with Sir Agravain… fine. Now, after the debacle of the Quest of the Fountain, there should be at least a knight’s width between Sir Agravain, Sir Bors and Sir Accolon. But that puts Bors in a better seat than Menaduke, who was knighted before him. So, I put him here, next to Sir Marhalt, who — saints be praised — has no quarrels to speak of, now that Sir Mador is no longer with us. So we shall put him here, as a buffer between Sir Mordred and his ilk, and the rest of the knights. Oh, and no carving knives to be left unattended here, here, here… here, and here. We do not want a repeat of the many stabbings of Sir Mador. Voila.” I stood back and surveyed my handiwork. The doors at the end of the Hall creaked open and the first guests poured in, and Enid and I returned to Lower Camelot.
Sleepless Knights Page 17