The Once and Future Con (Nick Madrid)

by Peter Guttridge

  I withdrew before they noticed my presence. Hey, nothing wrong with affection between brother and sister. Especially when they have no living parents. Nothing wrong at all.

  I was back in the barn at six. The banquet was due to start at seven thirty. Actually it was a barbecue, and outside near one of the barn's entrances an enormous barbecue had been set up, piled high with steaks, chops, and, of course, Excaliburgers. The chef had dressed the barbecue fire with rosemary, thyme, and other herbs so a wonderful aroma drifted into the barn.

  I was surprised to see half a dozen other knights in suits of armor standing to attention at intervals along each side of the barn. I was having a pleasant conversation with the nearest one when Mort came over, lifted up the front of the knight's hinged helmet, and showed me there was nobody inside it.

  "Easy mistake," I said. Mort shook his head wearily.

  Philip and I were supposed to stay out of sight until it was time for our joust but we needed to get the armor on. A stage had been erected at one end of the barn and the space behind curtained off as a changing room.

  He showed me how to put the armor on over the loose pair of leggings and long cotton tunic I'd been given. There were about a dozen different bits and mostly I had to fasten them on with leather straps and buckles. I started with the greaves-the shin armor. They stopped about six inches below my knee.

  "Armor's made to measure," Philip said. "Donald had that made to fit him perfectly. You'll just have to make do as best you can." I'm sure he looked at my crotch as he said that. Bastard.

  I strapped the knee armor on-called poleyn for some reason. The gap between the big metal knee-pads and the greaves made me look as if I was wearing soccer shin-pads. The cuish or thigh armor went right round my thighs. It hung off a kind of suspender belt round my waist.

  I thought I'd better get the foot armor-two long sheaths of metal called sabatons-on next while I could still bend. They pinched my toes a bit but I thought I could manage. Everything was going okay until I put the coif on. That was the chain mail hood and it was seriously heavy. By the time Philip had tied on my back plate and breast plate and I'd added the armor for my arms I was feeling weighed down and hot. The armor on my arms was the wrong length too, so there was a gap between the elbows and the metal strips running down my forearms. My gauntlets-steel gloves-were a tight fit.

  I picked up the helmet. Philip's had a long pointed snout sticking out in front. Mine, he'd told me, was a barrel helmet. It was a cross between an inverted waste-paper bin and a colander and covered my entire head. There were two horizontal slits to see through. The bottom half had a dozen or so breathing holes punched in it. A brass cross reinforced the face and the eye-slots.

  "Sixteen grams of cold-rolled steel," Philip said. "Made to measure by craftsmen."

  "It's the made to measure that's the problem," I said, my voice muffled. The problem being that my eyes were about half an inch too high for the eye slits. I could see down immediately in front of me but if I wanted to see ahead of me I had to tilt my head back.

  "You'll be fine," Philip said. "Now if you'll excuse me I need some time alone to prepare spiritually for our combat."

  "Spiritually?" I said, twisting my body to see how articulated this armor actually was. Not very was the answer.

  "It's something we special troops used to do in the Viking army," he said, clanking out of the changing room by the barn's side exit, his helmet under his arm.

  "What kind of special troop were you?" I called after him.

  "What?" he said, turning.

  I shouted the question again.

  "A berserker," he said, disappearing into the night.

  I would have slumped if the armor hadn't held me so rigid. Fucking great. Berserkers were the most feared men in the Norse armies. We get the word berserk from them. A berserker would fight in a mad frenzy, unable to feel pain, never getting tired, never stopping until either he or his opponent was dead.

  "I've got to see Mort about this," I muttered. I tilted back my head and peered through the curtains. People were already crowding in. Mort was down at the far end of the barn. He was ... I believe the word is capering, in a jester's cap and bells, shaking a pig's bladder on the end of a stick. He still had his glasses on.

  I was supposed to keep out of people's view until the joust, but I figured that I could nip round the outside of the barn and catch his attention at the entrance.

  I made slow progress. The armor was clunky-not to mention clanky-so I had to walk in that legs spread, simianroll-of-the-hips way beloved of yobs everywhere. My neck was starting to ache with tilting my head back but I discovered that I could see out of one eye-slit at a time if I tilted my head to the left and the right. To anyone watching, my head must have resembled a golf ball circling the rim but refusing to drop in the hole.

  It was cold out there and I soon discovered that walking around in a tin suit exaggerated the coldness. In short, I needed to pee. Urgently. I know I should have gone before but putting a suit of armor on isn't something I do every day and I hadn't thought it through.

  My gauntlets seemed to have contracted in the cold. There was no way I was going to get them off. I fiddled around with the catch under the codpiece with cumbersome fingers, the urgency increasing by the moment. At last I managed to lift the lid.

  The next problem was actually extracting my virile member-I can have an opinion, can't I?-with a set of chilly metal digits. I'll say only that it really didn't want to come out but I managed to relieve myself. After a fashion.

  I had turned and was closing the lid of the codpiece, hoping there was some kind of rust warranty on the armor, when I heard Reggie Williamson's voice.

  "If he can't shag it, shoot it, or bet on it, he's not interested," he said, laughing loudly.

  I was standing right at the corner of the barn. I peered round the corner. Reggie was standing with Rex some ten yards from the entrance. His upraised voice had obviously drawn attention from people going into the banquet because Rex took his arm and drew him away from the entrance. Toward me.

  I jerked my head back and stood stock still, confident that I was completely hidden from view.

  "What's that?" Williamson said.

  Well, almost completely. As I looked down through the eye slits I realized that the codpiece was jutting out past the end of the barn.

  Although the helmet muffled my hearing as well as my voice, I could hear their footsteps crunching on the gravel as they approached. A moment later I could see two pairs of dress shoes standing before me.

  "A suit of armor," Rex said. "Don't be so paranoid, Reggie. Mort has them scattered all over the place. I must say, he might be an irritating little prick, but he knows his business."

  Williamson tapped my codpiece. Damned cheek.

  "I'd like to have known the fellow that fitted this." He chuckled. "It's nice to meet someone you can see coming a mile off."

  "Yes, well, if you can keep your prick in your pocket for a minute, we've got more urgent matters to discuss. If this deal doesn't come through, I'm finished, you know that. So no slip-ups."

  "You're finished? I think I'm in a rather more vulnerable position than you, old stick. I'm looking at jail if anything goes wrong." He paused. "Or am I not the only one with that prospect in mind?"

  "Rex! Cooey! There you are."

  It was Bridget's voice but I wondered for a moment if she'd been taken over by some alien pod person. Cooey? What was wrong with her usual shout: "Hey, fuck-face?"

  I had to stand there for five more minutes while Bridget, Rex, and Williamson were joined by other people. Neville, the estate-manager, turned up with a bloody great wolfhound. I knew this when I heard a noise like rain on a tin roof and felt something hot and liquid running into the gap between my left leg's greave and sabaton.

  When it was safe to make a move I set off back to the other end of the barn. My metal joints had stiffened in the cold so progress was slow. My mind was racing over what I had heard. Willia
mson being gay was neither here nor there. But Rex being in financial difficulty certainly was.

  I was helped onto my horse by two blokes dressed as peasants. My shield was strapped to my arm. One of the serfs sniffed suspiciously at my left leg.

  "Smells like a dog's pissing post," he said with a guffaw.

  I pulled on the horse's reins. It stepped to the left, barging the peasant to the floor.

  "So sorry," I said.

  I'd been having bad experiences with horses in the past couple of years so I was wary of this one, trained or not. And the lance was heavier than I expected, Philip's remarks notwithstanding. So for that matter was I. The coif and armor really dragged me down. I tilted my head and tried to see down to the other end of the barn where Philip/Lancelot would be entering. I had the sound of the sea in my ears, which I took to mean that the banquet was appropriately boisterous.

  Mort, in cap and bells, was a few yards away from me on stage. I tilted my head so that I could see him.

  "Lords and ladies, serfs and wenches, let us put on the motley," he declared. His voice reverberated through the barn out of speakers hooked on wooden posts. He leered at one of the wenches bending low over a table.

  "I'd like to firkytoodle her. You know, I'm a great traveller me. I'd like to visit her Low Countries. Her Netherlands, if you get my meaning. I'm not saying she's easy but most men around here know her old hat-I call it that because it's frequently felt. How are you sir? You're looking a little pale. Have you been playing the one-holed flute. Galloping the maggot? Come on, we all like to flog the bishop once in a while. No? Is that why you're pinching the cat now?"

  I was wondering who wrote his script-Chaucer?-when I heard him announce the joust. My horse heard, too. She moved forward of her own volition. I clanked a little. I was sweating heavily. I knew the horse was a professional and I was just along for the ride but I had visions, therefore, of her rearing up to do little two steps on her hind legs, her front hoofs pawing the air while I slid down her tail. I reassured myself. All I had to do was cling on, point the lance at Philip's shield, and, after two passes, dismount.

  It was probably because I couldn't see out of my slits as I set off that I didn't angle my shield properly to receive the first blow. I felt my lance jar against his shield and slide away then I felt this jarring pain in the side of my head and the next thing I knew I was flat on my back on the ground.

  I could hear the cheering but I could see bugger all. My head was pulsing. I supposed I should get up, although I wasn't sure how I'd get to my sword. I assumed that me falling off meant that we'd move on to the sword fight. That was the next part of the tourney. Tourney-see I was getting into it now.

  When I tried to sit up, I couldn't. My fall from my horse had been sudden and unexpected. I'd been as relaxed as a drunk falling over-no cheap comments please-so I didn't think I'd done myself much damage. But the weight of the chain mail and the helmet was holding me down.

  I rolled onto my side, then got slowly onto all fours. I stood up and looked round, which was a waste of time because I couldn't see anything. I felt a big dent in my helmet just above the left ear, where I'd been walloped.

  I was wrestling with the helmet when I heard the audience start to boo. Tilting my head and squinting I saw Philipexcuse me, Lancelot-lumbering toward me, broadsword in hand, clearly about to whack me whether I was ready or not.

  Oh shit. He was in berserker mode.

  I still had my shield attached to my right arm-I felt like it was welded to me-but my sword was hanging from its scabbard on the horse, which was standing about twenty yards behind me.

  I guessed that if I called she was trained to come. The problem was what to call. Lancelot was ten yards away. I backed toward the horse. Lancelot got nearer. I backed faster. Nearer. I stood my ground and held up my shield and he swung his sword at me two handed. When he was committed to the swing, I jumped back.

  Actually, jumped back is too ambitious a term for what I did. Given the weight I was carrying around, I sluggishly got one leg back and then the other. It was enough. The sword arced down in front of me and cut a large groove in the sawdust.

  I turned and ran-excuse me, lumbered-for the horse, to the sound of laughter and applause. I was half expecting her to edge away from me when I got close. But she really was a trouper. She stayed as I pulled the broadsword out of its scabbard and turned to face Lancelot.

  My impression was that playing patta-cake with swords and shields was no longer an option. Phil was in frenzied mode. But if I was to stand a chance I needed to get my helmet off so that I could see what he was up to. I'd worry about him lopping my head off once I could see him.

  I dodged round the back of the horse and tugged at my helmet with my free hand, the one with the shield stuck on its forearm. I gave it an almighty wrench and it popped off as if it had been greased. I've never rated ears much anyway.

  Philip had followed me round the horse. He wasn't going to strike at me while I was near it. I immediately thought about marrying the horse but remembered we were putting on a show. I backed away from my mount, holding my sword two-handed up against my right shoulder. Philip put his sword in the same position and stepped toward me.

  Having decided all bets were off as far as play-fighting was concerned, I went for his legs, swinging my sword down and across at the level of his knees. I knocked his legs from under him.

  The crowd cheered but I didn't dare look at them. I should have brained the guy there and then but I let him get up. He swung his sword high at my unprotected head. I parried desperately but his attack was just a feint. He did to me what I'd done to him. I buckled at the knees.

  He didn't let me get up. Instead he swung again, aiming at my head. I rolled and he overbalanced with the power of his attack.

  Getting to my feet proved harder than I expected. I realized why. He'd dislodged my knee guard. What was the proper name? Right-who gives a fuck? The knee guard had slipped down and so had the thigh armor. That meant I couldn't bend my right knee.

  I hobbled back and parried another swing to my head as best I could. The power of the two swords connecting vibrated down my arm and through my body. The other knee pad dropped and the thigh armor dropped with it, right over my other knee.

  Terrific. This was exactly the moment I wanted to move like a stiltwalker.

  I took a swing at his midriff and connected. He grunted then swung at me. I parried but, given my inflexible legs, struggled to keep standing. He closed in on me. Breastplate to breastplate, he tried to bash me in the face with the snout of his helmet.

  "You don't fucking learn, do you?" he shouted.

  Startled, I stepped back a pace. That didn't sound like Philip. It sounded like the man who had attacked Crow and me at Wookey Hole.

  "Pinching the cat?" Bridget said.

  "Means he was palping his genitals," I croaked.

  "Palping?"

  "You know," I said wearily. "Playing pocket billiards."

  Bridget sighed.

  "Palping his genitals. Nick, how come you're such a tosser but I still love you?"

  "Would you still love Rex if he was skint?" I said. Or did I? Perhaps I only thought I did, for she didn't seem to register the question, and the next moment Rex, smiling, came into my field of vision. He lowered a large glass of wine in front of my face.

  "I believe knights brave in battle received a goblet of wine," he said, grinning. "And, of course, a beautiful damsel."

  Genevra's head replaced his in my line of vision. She leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips. It was okay, if you like that sort of thing. Woof.

  I was lying flat on my back on the sofa in the drawing room. Mild concussion the doctor said. Yeah, well, I'd lost but I'd lived. When the armor on my arms had slid down so that I couldn't bend my elbows the fight became even more ridiculous. I must have looked like Pipe-cleaner Man, legs stiff, arms stiff.

  Fortunately, as I was flailing around, dazed, trying to keep both my balance and Lancel
ot away, Mort, ever the showman, decided we were boring. So he sent in jugglers, fire-eaters, and a couple of exotic oriental dancers to break us up. My opponent managed to get in a couple of heavy blows with the flat of his sword to the top of my head before being absorbed into the motley group of performers. Thank Christ he hadn't wanted to kill nie-if he'd delivered those blows with the edge of the sword, chain mail hood or not, it would have been goodnight, sweet ladies, goodnight.

  I learned later that Philip had gone to the chapel to prepare spiritually and somebody had locked him in. Nobody knew who the man was who'd replaced him. Philip's armor was found abandoned.

  The doctor had recommended I stay in bed for a couple of days.

  "Alone," Bridget said as, later that evening, she and Genevra tucked me in. Genevra pouted. I was obscurely relieved.

  I was pretty much out of it for the next forty-eight hours. I'd been walloped on my head so many times in the past few days I was sure my skull was beginning to resemble the one in Arthur's tomb. In my delirium I had many strange thoughts about Rex and Genevra. I kept remembering the way Rex had said that he and his sister were, "So close."

  I had a little dream. I was wandering in an unfamiliar part of the house and came to a half-open door. I knew what I would find on the other side even before I pushed it open. The soft candlelight. A black woollen dress discarded on the floor beside a man's trousers and shirt. Genevra and Rex, coiled on the bed, asleep in each other's arms.

  I felt no jealousy. They were both beautiful in their nakedness. My eye fell on Genevra's lean thigh, crossed her belly to her breasts. When I looked at Rex's face I saw a flicker of movement behind the curtain of his eyelashes. He was examining me as I examined him.

  "Join us." Whispered so softly. I looked again at Rex. His lips were parted. Had he made the invitation? Had I imagined it? I stayed a moment longer, the tableau before me, then silently withdrew, closing the door behind me.

  Everybody else flew off to Venice while I was still laid up. I was to follow two days later, still in time for the main carnival event on Fat Tuesday. Genevra came to my room the night before her departure and slipped into bed beside me. I wasn't in any shape to do anything physical and the dream still lingered in my mind so I lay unmoving and pretended to be asleep. She stayed beside me quietly for a time then I really did fall asleep. When I awoke I was alone.