Sir Kay cast his eye back over the scroll. “You’re right. Hang on, though. It couldn’t have been Arthur. He was next to the Grail at the mast. He had to be, in order to speak to it, remember?” I tried to cast my mind back to the episode in question, but found, as I often did, that my own memory of events was overlaid by the many subsequent revisions of Sir Kay’s story.
“I shall make the necessary changes,” he said.
“Before you do, perhaps I might come to the reason —”
“Hold your horses, Lucas. I’ve not finished the story yet:
IV
Not forever could the brave knights be born aloft on the wings of their escape. And so it was, that the mountain of water upon which the Prydwen perched came foaming down, as all waves must, into the sea.
The ship gave up her ghost and began to split from stern to prow. “Land ahoy!” shouted Perceval, and lo, white cliffs filled the horizon. But the falling wave was full and mighty and would surely dash them onto the rocks without mercy.
“I have not been to Hell and back to be smashed and strewn like driftwood!” said King Arthur. It was then that Sir Kay had another of his justly famous great ideas. This being that each knight should tear up a plank from the disintegrating deck, and by means of balancing upon it, traverse the surf to the safety of the shore.
“As fine a plan as any I’ve heard!” said Sir Gawain, and with his axe he cleaved seven boards from the deck, while the King unlashed the Grail from the mast, at which the cauldron hovered amidst the splintering chaos, awaiting the event.
And so from out of the shipwreck of the Prydwen there passed a sight most strange. Seven knights balanced on boards of wood, sliding down the tumult of surf as it curled and broke on the shore, the Grail flying ahead like a stone skimming the surface. The wave snatched the dragon-headed prow of the Prydwen from out of the wreckage and threw it after them, like some last remnant of the Otherworld still snapping at their heels. In this manner did the seven pass through the deep and crashing waters and into the shallows, where the prow ran aground. The knights rode the surf until they could ride no more, wading out of the water and flinging themselves down upon the sand.
King Arthur coughed so mightily that Sir Lucas began to beat upon his back to dislodge the brine blocking his breath. But the King pushed the old fuss-pot away, and all then realised that he was seized by a fit of mirth. Tears of laughter mingled with the salt water still running down his cheeks. “Riding the back of the surf! Like mermaidens!” he wheezed.
“Speak for yourself, sire,” smiled Lancelot, “I felt like a flying fish.”
“But you looked like a mermaiden,” said Gawain.
“Nonsense,” said Pellinore. “We haven’t got the right bits.”
“Oh I dunno, Perceval’s developing quite a bosom.”
“All I need now are your long ginger locks, Gawain, and I’ll be quite a catch.”
“Stop, stop,” said the King, laughing so hard he really did seem on the brink of suffocation.
“I was merely making the basic anatomical observation that we have no tails,” said Pellinore, shaking his head as Lucas helped the King to his feet.
“I appreciate the importance of such banter in releasing the accumulated tension of our recent perils, and am loath to bring it to an end,” said Sir Lucas.
“Well don’t do it, then,” said Sir Kay, which set the King off again.
“However, we do not appear to have arrived back at the same shore from whence we departed.”
“Thanks for that, Sir Laughsalot.”
“What I mean, Sir Gawain, is that the rock type does not resemble the coastline in the vicinity of Camelot.”
“Lucas is wise where he is not witty.”
“Thank you, Sir Lancelot.”
“These white cliffs do not resemble our own.”
“Whereas that,” said Sir Kay, pointing to a veil of smoke besmirching the summer sky above the headland, “does indeed resemble trouble.”
†
Wise Sir Kay had put his finger on it yet again. Trouble it certainly was, and of the troll-shaped variety. The seven knights lay hidden in the tall reeds by the side of a stream and watched the beast rampage through a small village. Several dwellings were alight, and many more flattened, some with lifeless limbs protruding from within.
“Well, Pellinore?” said the King.
“Adult male. Mountain species. A grey-back. But there’s something about him that’s not quite right.”
“Apart from the smashing and the killing and the smell?” said Perceval.
Sir Pellinore scratched his chin. “I don’t like the look of this.”
“Good. Because you’re not taking it home,” said Lancelot.
“Grey-backs are rare enough in the mountain regions. They keep to caves and crannies, cool dark places where they can stay out of sight. Can’t think for the life of me what one would be doing on the coast.”
“Visiting relatives?”
“Hush, Perceval. What do you suggest, Pellinore?” said the King.
“Ach, leave this to me,” said Sir Gawain. “All I need is my trusty sling.”
Sir Gawain selected a pebble from the stream. Striding towards the troll, he set his sling a-whirling, loosing a stone that hit the creature full in the forehead. Whereupon the troll did set his arm a-whirling, loosing a fist which hit Sir Gawain full in the face. By such means did Sir Gawain return to the stream, in a much less dignified manner to that in which he left. At his splashdown the knights made great mirth, save for Sir Lucas, who fished him out, and Sir Pellinore, who stared at the troll, deep in thought.
“I’m alright, Lucas. I thought that might happen,” said Gawain. “Just gives me the chance to pick out pebbles for you lot, that’s all.”
“Us lot?” said Perceval.
“Aye. We hit him with seven stones at the same time. That’ll change his tune!”
“To what? The Ballad of Pulling Our Limbs Off?”
“Pellinore has it under control,” said King Arthur.
Sir Pellinore was indeed walking towards the troll, slowly and quietly, as if approaching a frightened horse. The giant creature snorted and grunted and beat upon its chest, then flung a handful of mud and stones at Sir Pellinore, who calmly dodged aside. He untied his sword belt and made a great show of casting it away. The rest of the knights emerged from their cover, ready to spring into action should their comrade’s plan go awry, save for Sir Perceval, who was instructed to remain hidden and guard the Grail.
Sir Pellinore uttered a series of soft clucks and coos. The troll stood very still. Only when Sir Pellinore came up close to the creature did it move, lowering its head so that the knight could whisper something into its ear. Then Sir Pellinore stepped quickly aside as the troll toppled over, hitting the ground with a slam big enough to make the trees jump. At the sound of its falling, several villagers emerged from their dwellings. The man foremost amongst them threw his arms around Sir Pellinore.
“Thank the good Lord, we are saved! You killed the beast!”
“No,” said Pellinore. “He wanted to die. All I did was tell him he could.”
“I do not understand,” said the King.
“Neither do I. It is hard to put into words. More of a feeling I got. As if the creature no longer had any place in this world.”
“Whatever the means of its downfall, I beg you to tell us to whom we owe our lives,” said the man, finally releasing Pellinore from his embrace.
“Do you not know us, sir? We are —” began Sir Lancelot.
“Travellers,” said the King, swiftly. “Concerned passers-by. Tell me, friend, why do no knights patrol this district?”
“Knights?” The man’s mood soured. “A knight brought this beast upon us! The good-for-nothing knight who owns this land and keeps putting the rent up, then unleashing his troll when we cannot pay.”
“But this land is free land,” said the King.
“Not according to Camelot.”
“You truly have travelled far,” said the man in wonder.
“Far enough at that,” said Arthur. “If there is trouble in this part of the kingdom, why did you not send word to Camelot? I promise you, the King would see to such an injustice personally.”
The man started to laugh. “The King? I spit on the King’s name, and I don’t care who knows it.”
Sir Lancelot drew his sword. “I will not warn you a third time.”
“Peace, Lancelot,” said the King. “What manner of grievance have you and your kinsmen against King Arthur?”
“Arthur? Good sir, King Arthur has been gone for seven years.”
“Seven years?”
“Dead, most men say. Perished on a quest, along with his best knights. And if he isn’t dead, he might as well be. There’s a price on his head no man would turn down in such lean times. A bounty — by order of King Mordred.”
V
King Arthur stood in silence, weighed down with thought. The Grail, as if sensing its master’s mood, hovered low to the ground and hid beneath the King’s horse. In gratitude for their deliverance, the villagers had provided the knights with steeds, a thankfulness that only deepened when the King announced that Gawain, Pellinore and Perceval would be staying to help them rebuild their homes, while the rest of the company went on to the west.
“A difficult road lies ahead. We must proceed with caution,” said King Arthur.
“Caution my arse! We should ride like the wind to Camelot and kick that snake to kingdom come!” said Gawain.
“Mordred has had seven years to build up his army, to strengthen his position.”
“Seven years riding roughshod over our home, you mean. Over all we hold dear,” said Lancelot.
“Aye, Lancelot’s right! Who knows what’s become of them?”
“All the more reason not to go charging in. I will not forfeit our advantage for the sake of letting off steam.”
“Letting off steam?!”
“That is an end to it, Gawain. You three will wait here. If we do not return or send word by dawn the day after tomorrow, then ride west. But before then, you do not move by so much as a furlong. Is that clear?”
Sir Gawain walked off, muttering and shaking his head, picking up the stones from a collapsed wall with demented gusto.
“I agree with you, sire,” said Perceval. “I will see to it that we wait.”
†
And so King Arthur, Sir Lancelot, Sir Kay and Sir Lucas the Butler rode westward. As they travelled, it was as if they were back in the most forsaken plains of Annwn. The fields were untilled and overgrown, choked with brambles. Those few dwellings that were not run down and ramshackle showed no signs of life. A shroud had fallen upon the bright hues of summer, obscuring all their vitality. Not a soul did they meet upon the road, and not a breath of breeze refreshed the stifling air of that blighted wasteland.
Then Kay, who was in the lead, saw a sight most curious in a passing paddock. “What manner of demon is this?” he said. Demon was the word, for the animal foamed at the mouth and fixed them with glowing red eyes.
“That is no demon,” said Lancelot. “That’s a unicorn. Or rather, it was.” He drew his sword to put the creature out of its misery. But no sooner had Sir Lancelot alighted from his horse than a long shadow spread out on the ground around the knights, and the sound of a mighty falling object filled their ears. “Move!” said Lancelot, and all scattered as a large dragon dropped out of the sky. The beast hit the ground and burst open, showering its innards over the road. The knights recoiled, choking at the stench of rotten flesh. In the paddock, the unicorn went out of its mind with fear at the sight, legs splaying out in a skittering run. Lancelot took out his bow and delivered a single arrow to its head, whereupon it tumbled to an ungainly rest.
“Like the troll,” said Kay. “As if it no longer had any place in this world.”
“I am beginning to understand how they feel,” said King Arthur, to no-one but himself.
Moving across country they picked up their pace. By nightfall they had reached a vast forest, and here they made camp, in a glade hidden by a thicket of trees from a crossroads.
“My bones ache fit to snap,” said Lancelot. “I feel like I’ve ridden for years without a minute’s rest.”
“That may not be so fanciful a notion,” said Sir Lucas. “I have been observing us closely as we travelled. It is as if we have taken on the seven years of our absence within the space of a single day.” And each knight looked at his reflection in his shield, counting off new wrinkles and grey hairs.
The night was sultry with no need for a fire, but Kay lit one anyway against the dark, and made a pot of the few vegetables they had been given by the villagers that morning. The Grail hovered by his side, watching him prepare the meagre meal. Before Kay could place the pot over the fire, the Grail nudged him aside and settled itself upon the flames. At this a most wonderful smell filled the nostrils of every man, causing their stomachs to gurgle in unison. The cauldron of the Grail was filled to the brim with a rich and wondrous stew. Upon eating it, each knight tasted whatever food it was that he loved the most.
“So this is what the Grail does?” said Lancelot, when he had eaten his fill.
“Something of its power, yes,” said King Arthur.
“A treasure indeed,” said Kay. “But I am loathe to think we quested so hard for a glorified cooking pot.”
“It is more than that. Much more.”
For the first time since returning from the Otherworld, the King was all vigour. He leaned into the firelight and his eyes shone with zeal. The other three knights moved in closer. “When I knelt before it in the Glass Fortress, I asked the Grail how it could serve me. It told me something of its power.”
“And?” said Lancelot.
The King lay back on the grass and the light left him. “And I would sooner die than see such a treasure fall into the wrong hands. Which is why I think we need to modify our plan a little.”
†
So it was that dawn saw Sir Kay and Sir Lucas the Butler on horseback, riding cross-country towards Camelot, attempting to fashion two disguises from a leaf and a clump of moss. Of this Sir Kay made a fine example by tying the leaf around his head with horsehair, creating a patch over his left eye.
“Well, Lucas? How do I look?”
“The very model of a modern knight errant, Sir Kay.”
“I’m surprised you can see me, with your head tilted back like that. Anyone we meet will think you’ve broken your neck.”
“I take your point, Sir Kay, but if I lean forward any more, it will dislodge my false beard.”
“You’re being too ambitious. Try tearing off a piece of the moss and clenching it between your nose and lip as a moustache.”
“I shall endeavour to do so, Sir Kay.”
“Now then, here’s the road. We need new names and a cover story, for anyone we happen to meet. I shall be Sir Howard, seasoned traveller and lover of women. No, beloved by women. Returning to the place of his birth… his family seat, perhaps… yes, yes… in… Tenby. And you can be my dogsbody, Culver.”
“Very good, Sir Howard.”
“For a moment back there, I thought Sir Lancelot would insist on coming with us.”
“As did I. But I am glad he saw reason. His concern is understandable, but the Master’s circumspection is wise, not least because of the bounty on his own head.”
“I suppose. Let’s just find out how the land lays and get back to them. For one thing, I want some more of that Grail food. Nothing but a simple stew to look at, yet it tasted like roast suckling pig, with apples and onions and fresh spring greens.”
“My own repast was strongly reminiscent of a boiled egg with bread and butter,” said Sir Lucas.
“You are a funny old bird, Lucas,” said Kay. “Look sharp! Som
eone’s coming.” Sure enough, Sir Kay’s gimlet eyes were not mistaken. A cloud of dust cleared to reveal a galloping knight coming up the road towards them.
“Greetings, Sir Knight!” shouted Sir Kay.
The approaching knight drew his sword and held them both at its point. But the hearts of Sir Kay and Sir Lucas lightened with joy, for this was none other than Sir Gareth — kinsman of Sir Gawain, and as dear as a brother to them both.
“Names?” said Sir Gareth.
Kay turned to Lucas. “A warm welcome for visitors to a new land.”
“Forgive me, sir,” he replied. “These are cold times.”
“If cold be the times, then shiver we must. I am Sir Howard, and this is my servant Culver,” said Sir Kay.
“You’re a knight?” Fear creased Sir Gareth’s eyes at the corners. “Of the old King’s company?”
“I could hardly claim to be. I have not been in this realm since I was a mewling whelp.”
“Then, if I were you, I would turn your horse around and seek your welcome elsewhere,” said Sir Gareth.
“Why so?”
“This is a country on the verge of war.”
“With whom, may I ask?” said Lucas.
“With itself,” said Sir Gareth. “This land was once ruled by King Arthur, the most noble King who ever lived.”
“I have heard legend of his name,” said Sir Kay.
“A legend is all that remains. He went away on quest seven years ago with six of his best knights, my own brother among them, and never returned. Arthur’s half-brother Mordred wasted no time in securing his advantage. Within half a year, he proclaimed Arthur dead and took Queen Guinevere as his wife.”
“But what of the Knights of the Round Table? The legends I’ve heard speak of good men, steadfast and true. How could they let this happen?”
“For every knight loyal to the King, there were ten who served Mordred. Those barons who despised Arthur from the very first days of his coronation were suddenly among us, like wolves in the fold. Before we knew it, Mordred’s rot had spread deep into the Round Table. All it took for it to crumble was the slightest pressure from his boot. Those who opposed him were quickly silenced, or found life at court unbearable and fled.”
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