Sleepless Knights (22 page)

“I have a question, concerning gifts,” I said, wrinkling my nose against the pong of the stuff.

“Fire away. So to speak.”

“How easy would it be for a cursed item to reach the King or Queen?”

“Ho, well, you've asked a question there, Miss B. I try to check every one of them myself, but with the best will in the world, I won't make it through this lot by tonight. What I could really do with is an apprentice. But nobody wants the work, not when so many people are having a pop at the King. Not that you can find many suitable candidates anyway.
It's all jousting and questing with young people nowadays. Which reminds me — Sir Perceval and Sir Gareth are back.”

“Ah, that is good news! Lucas will be pleased.”

“Aye, they've gone off to find him.
Tch
, those kids! Full of it, they were. Wouldn't go into details, said I'd have to wait for tonight's
Chronicles
.” Geraint put the ointment back on the shelf with a wistful look in his eye. “Always wanted to have a go at that myself. Some of the things that've happened to me would make blinding stories, the wife is always saying I should –”

“Geraint.”

“Hm?”

“The curses.”

“Oh right; yes, sorry. My own tests are as rigorous as I can make them, but they're not foolproof. Thing is, before he left us — way back before your time, Miss B — Merlin installed a load of enchantments, to protect Camelot from all manner of curses, jinxes and hexed objects. And for a while, they worked a treat. But magic's moved on so much since then. Practically all of the spells are out of date now, easily beaten by new magicians trying to make a name for themselves. And that's just the young 'uns, never mind the old pros — believe me, the hexmanship on some of these is out of this world. Take that Scorch Cape just now. That kind of fire-power could only come from a very powerful sorcerer indeed. Not to mention all this lot.” He pointed at the items in the Hazard Box. “Already this morning I've turned up three bags of Coughy Apples, a set of Paperback Dragons, and a hand-held Mirror of Madness and Maelstroms.”

My attention drifted at this point, for my eye had been caught by a set of ladies' undergarments of exquisite design and delicate weave, and I reached out to pick them up. “Don't touch those!” shouted Geraint, slamming the box lid shut. “Underwear of Doom. Very nasty. Believe me.” The few
un-scorched patches on his skin turned as red as the rest of him. “Er, moving on, about that question of yours — why do you ask?”

“I am concerned about Mordred.”

“Aren't we all. I was meaning to have a word with you and Mr L about that Tribe of his.”

“Tribe?”

“Aye, that gaggle of young knights who follow him around like sheep. Hanging around the Gatehouse, mocking everyone who turns up, doing impressions of the older knights as they walk by. Behind their back, of course. Time was, they'd be taken down a peg by one of the old guard. The Tribe would keep their cheek in check, if Sir Lancelot was around more often! No respect, the lot of them. Mind you, to be fair, one of them's got Sir Gawain down to a T.” He chuckled, briefly. “But that's not the point.”

“Has Mordred submitted anything for testing?”

“He has, as a matter of fact. This.” Geraint handed me a non-descript toasting goblet. “With specific instructions that it's presented to Her Majesty for the toasts after the feast.”

“And have you checked it for hexes?”

“I should say! It was top of my list. But so far I've come up with nothing, and I subjected it to the full works, believe me. I've no choice but to give it the all clear and let him have it back.”

“Hmm.” I turned the goblet over in my hands. It seemed perfectly normal; tasteful, unostentatious, refined. In short,
nothing
like Mordred.

“I do have one theory, as it happens, Miss B. Only, it's a bit, er… delicate.”

“You can speak freely with me, Geraint.”

“Well… it's like this. They do tell of a goblet hex called The Cup of Shame. You curse a goblet so that it spills the wine of an unfaithful lover. My cousin Will knows a man who knows
a man who saw it used once, on the bride-to-be of a baron up North. She took one sip and copped a face full of red, all down her white dress. Hilarious, it was; not for her, mind, she was burnt at the stake. You don't think Mordred's got his hands on one of those?”

†

At this point, I was compelled to interrupt my deputy's story.

“Come now, Beaumains! The King has nothing to fear concerning the Queen's fidelity. I would not have expected you to lend credence to the millers of rumour.”

“Excuse me, Lucas, I do no such thing!”

“Well, then.
You
had nothing to fear from such a trinket.”

“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?”

 

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.