Sleepless Knights (23 page)

“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
'.

 

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 success 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.

†

The demands of the kitchen were such that my moments in the Hall during the feast were few and far between. On the few occasions I was out there helping the waiters, I made eye contact with Geraint only once. He gave me a discreet thumbs-up with his good hand, which put me at ease somewhat. I also observed Mordred as I passed the Round
Table. He was fast approaching his usual obnoxious level of drunkenness, casting sly, satisfied glances at the High Table.

At last the final course was cleared. I put aside my tray and stood at the side of the stage. This was the moment that you appeared, Lucas, through the curtain covering the entrance to the Green Room, to hastily confer with the King. Geraint was talking with the Queen, who was indulging his horseplay, but as soon as you returned to the Green Room, a signal from the King prompted Geraint to hobble down from the dais, and I motioned for him to stand next to me. “A quiet word, Miss B,” he began. But the King had risen to his feet and was clearing his throat.

“Good people of Camelot. You are most welcome on this special day. My Guinevere is fifty years young.” The Hall clapped and laughed, raising their goblets in salute. The Queen put on the indulgent smile she reserved for her husband's lengthy tributes. But this year there was something different about the King. His manner had completely changed from the doting husband of the Tournament, to someone who was now simply going through the motions; his voice hurried, his tone preoccupied. “Well, time's getting on, we have a lot of old favourites in tonight's
Chronicles
, and many toasts to follow. But first, there is the matter of the winner of the Tournament. Knight X, would you step forward.”

Knight X rose from the table where he had dined alone. He made his way down the centre aisle and up the steps to the dais of the Round and High Tables, to a burst of loud applause, marred only by ungracious booing as he passed several of his defeated opponents. Mordred, however, cheered with boisterous enthusiasm, and his round of applause lasted several claps longer than everybody else's.

“This tournament has been yours alone,” said the King. “We respect your right to keep your face hidden, but hope you will one day feel your true self to be welcome here at Camelot.
Accept your prize, as a small token of our admiration.” The Queen held out his trophy, a bronze dagger. Knight X stood before her. He removed the bottom section of his face scarf and lowered his head, as was his right, to kiss her hand. Queen Guinevere held out her arm. Only from where I was standing could one see that her hand trembled slightly at his touch. The King raised his goblet. “To Knight X!” he cried.

“Knight X!” came the rejoinder. All got to their feet and raised their cups, all drank, all sat back down again. All except Mordred, that is. He remained standing, a smile playing upon his thin lips.

“Now, without further ado,” said the King, “the
Chronicles
! The following knight needs no introduction —”

“If I may be so bold, sire,” said Mordred. “I would like to add something to the festivities. In honour of the Queen's special day.”

Geraint leaned on his walking stick and whispered in my ear. “Don't worry about him,” he said, patting me on the arm. “I've sorted it all out.”

“Yes I saw, and thank you, Geraint; you did an excellent job.”

“Cheers Miss B. I'll admit, I was a bit concerned.”

“No need, it was perfect.”

The King looked at his brother with a mixture of indulgence and distrust. “Well, what is it, Mordred?” he said.

“I wouldn't say it was
perfect
,” whispered Geraint. “It's been a while since I've done any close-up magic, but I covered it with a classic bit of misdirection, where I plucked a flower from the Queen's soup bowl with my other hand.”

“Sorry Geraint, you've lost me,” I said.

“A gift, sire” proclaimed Mordred. “A gift, followed by an early toast.”

“The old switcheroo,” whispered Geraint. “I saw the fake was still in my drawer, and assumed you didn't have time to
pick it up. So I made the swap myself, just now. Don't look so worried. No-one saw a thing. See?” He pulled aside his cloak. The fake goblet was tucked under his arm. “The hand is faster than the eye. Ah, I've still got it, fair play.”