Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale (24 page)

Almost as soon as the prince has released me from his embrace, he turns on his heels to acknowledge Ser Geraint and Lady Ffion.

“My lady, my lord. It is wonderful to finally meet you again. Lady Ffion, you look beautiful. Your castle is an honour to you both,” he continues, reeling off his well-rehearsed niceties.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” replies Ser Geraint who, at once, appears humble and dignified, almost as though the mischief has drained from him.

“Your Highness…” interrupts Llewellyn meekly.

“Ah… Llewellyn. You can leave. You are dismissed,” replies the Prince, not even turning to look the man in the eye. Instead, he wanders over to the small group of children in attendance and affectionately ruffles the hair of one.

“But… Your Highness… I… I… Your father…” stumbles  the unfortunate toad-man. Only now, at this display of insurrection, does the prince turn towards him.

“My father has many great virtues and I love him dearly. However, I will not have him, or you, sully my family name. Not today. Not any day. Don’t make me tell you again. You have been such a loyal servant to my family,” the prince says calmly.

The change in the prince is remarkable. Not only has his voice dropped down to the level of a grown man but his tone – slow, measured, exacting – has also changed. Where once he might have panicked or become indignant, he now sounds calm and commanding. Llewellyn, meanwhile, appears to be almost visibly shrinking; blood rushes to his face, poking his ugly bug eyes out even further.

“I… I… am here on the king’s orders… Your Highness… and I will enforce them…” he continues, caught between two forms of cowardice.

“Llewellyn, if my prince has to say one more word in your direction, I am going to kill you…” replies Ser Cai, flushed with righteous anger, “and the saddest thing of it all is that, even if they could, not a single one of your men would try to stop me.”

Instinctively, I reassess the combat options; I’m reasonably sure that Cai and Shara could kill an awful lot of people between them. If Ser Geraint chose to help us, I imagine it’d be more like a massacre than a swordfight.

“Your father will hear of this,” scowls Llewellyn.

“I am counting on it. Be assured that I am doing this for his benefit as well as mine,” replies the prince, the picture of composure. For everyone else, the tension seems to increase as Llewellyn and his men filter out. The true warriors in the room – Cai, Shara, Geraint - watch their exit intently. Meanwhile, Libran wanders around, paying them no heed, trying his best to introduce himself to everyone, regardless of rank. He appears to be the only person not on edge. I look towards Selene, standing next to me. She is trying not to look confused and failing at it miserably.

With the exception of the prince, nobody seems to move a muscle until the last man leaves. There appears to be a collective understanding that things could still change very quickly. Even when he does, it takes a moment before people begin to relax. My eyes move instinctively towards Ser Geraint. He flashes me a satisfied wink. The prince is the first to speak.

“I do apologise for our lateness, Ser Geraint. We needed to pick someone up on the way. I almost forgot with all that excitement. I will go and bring him in,” he declares. There is a purposefulness to his speech and he moves to the door without seeming to consider that he could quite easily have sent someone else.

“It is good to see you again, Ser Cai. Both you and the prince have grown markedly since we last met,” says Ser Geraint. Meanwhile, Selene beckons Leo over towards us. Shara stands fixed and emotionless

“It is good to see you also, Ser Geraint. Although you don’t seem to have grown at all,” laughs Ser Cai. Ser Geraint returns his laughter.

“I must say that, in all seriousness, the prince is rapidly becoming someone we can all be very proud of. I make no secret of my antipathy for the king but I will happily bow before the prince,” Ser Geraint continues.

“He is the fairest, kindest man I know and I love him dearly for it. He will make a wonderful king,” replies Ser Cai. He says this with confident and unashamed emotion. He looks round toward Shara again and smiles. Shara does not react.

In this instant, I realise that there is so much about the prince and his cousins that I have never really noticed. In a class where I was bullied almost daily, these two (and their cousin Howell) were the only ones that never joined in. They never spoke to me either. But then I didn’t speak to them. Indeed, the fact that they were so neutral meant that I never gave them so much as a thought. I never gave myself a chance to notice their fundamental warmth and decency. An outsider such as myself is, I suppose, predisposed to think the worst about everyone.

“So… Ser Gruff… Who would have thought that the first two knights of our class would be you and me?” says Cai.

“Well, I don’t think anyone would be too surprised about you,” I reply, trying my best to sound gracious. As I say it, I’m fully aware that there would have been a time where I would have said the exact same thing but in a much more biting tone.

“That’s very kind of you to say so but I think you do yourself a dishonour. Knowing what I do of you, I don’t think the king could have chosen a better man to undertake the task,” he continues naively. Either he doesn’t realise that I was sent for a punishment or is choosing to ignore the fact. I resist the urge to comment.

“Thank you.”

“Are you going to introduce me to your guests?” he asks. Once again, he looks at Shara and smiles. Once again, she ignores him. The look in his eye unsettles me slightly, rubbing up against a feeling of possessiveness that I wasn’t aware I had. At the same time, I am glad it is not Selene; this is not a man that I can compete with. However, the return of the prince interrupts the conversation. He stands at the door like a herald.

“Be upstanding for Gruffydd Ap Gruffydd, the goatherd of The Green,” he bellows theatrically, obviously enjoying the opportunity to make a bit of a show. It takes me a moment to realise that he is not referring to me but to my father.

My dad steps gingerly inside the reception room. The whole sensation must be entirely foreign to him and he looks like a lost child. In that moment, he appears so sad and old that my heart almost shatters on the spot. Then he sees me and a smile explodes across his face. He runs towards me as fast as he can. Within seconds, I am locked in his embrace.

“I knew you’d be back,” he whispers. I break down in tears.

The ride to the palace at Tallakarn passes swiftly. There are seven of us - Selene, Shara, Leo, Libran, Cai, my father and I. I spend the entire journey lost in conversation with my father who, because he cannot ride, is forced to share my horse. I am so happy to be reunited with him that it is almost as though the others aren’t there. As we move across the land, I try my best to recount to him everything that I’ve seen and done. It is the first time I have told the tale in detail and imagining it from his perspective helps me to truly realise what an incredible experience I have had. It scarcely seems real.

What moves me the most as I talk it through is the number of times that I should have died. There is no doubt I would have done so were it not for my companions. Nowhere is this more true than during my return. I can hardly remember a thing that happened following my encounter with the lion and, with hindsight, I can see that I was effectively half dead until I reached Ser Geraint and the Gors. My father doesn’t really say much as we move forward. Instead, his brown leather face remains still, intent on simply listening. Not wishing to upset him, I do not make much of the hard times.

My emotions as we approach the great white palace are entirely different to how I have ever felt before. The few times that I have been to the city previously, I have approached it with a sense of awe: an amazement that mere humans have been able to create something so formidable, so beautiful. Now, though, having seen not only the civilisation at Brightstone but also the breath-taking achievements of Mother Nature, I understand that it is not
such
a remarkable thing. This is not to detract from it – it is still beautiful. The emotion I feel now is, instead, the excitement of someone returning home.

As we arrive, we are attended by footmen who help us off the horses and stable them for us. This is another new experience for me and, hopefully, one of many reflecting my new found status. Just as I begin to feel slightly satisfied by this thought, I realise that I still have my audience with the king to survive first. I instinctively seek out Selene this point to check that she is well. She has ridden alongside the prince and seems utterly charmed by him. Shara, forced to share with Ser Cai, does not.

As we approach the gates, we receive the first whiff of the king’s dirty tricks. The guard, in as respectful a manner as could be possible, advises that my father is not invited into the palace - he is not deemed of sufficient status to be granted such a privilege. As the guard, a stout and reasonable looking man with a grey moustache, informs Prince Libran of this, it is clear that he feels himself to be in a bit of a bind. It must be awkward to pass orders to the prince, even if it is on the king’s command and especially when it is part of a power game.

Libran deals with the situation in a diplomatic manner, attempting some gentle persuasion before relenting. At this stage, he turns to my father.

“I’m sorry, Gruff, but we’re going to have to let this one go. You have my word that your son will be looked after. Here, take some coin and get yourself off to ‘The Brink’. It’s an inn just across the way. We will come out and join you later.” He talks to my father with such respect and reverence that one would not know it was a prince talking to a peasant. He is so warm that it must surely be a flaw. I cannot believe that he is the king’s son.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I will do as you ask,” replies my father, stiff with formality. He has too much integrity to let the prince’s disarming kindness affect him in any way. Even though he does not drink and has scarcely spent so much as a moment at leisure in his entire life, I know he will do exactly what is asked. He gives me another hug and leaves.

Within moments, we are in the king’s reception room. It is an occasion I have fantasised about ever since I left. Almost every day for months, I have considered this scene. At times, it has been the only thing driving me forward: the desire to walk back into the room and say ‘I did it. You didn’t think I could. You thought I would die. But I didn’t die. Here I am.’

But the problem with fantasies is that they never quite work out in reality. The image in my head had been of an empty room, looking exactly as it was when I was given the orders. When picturing the scene, I imagined there would be no one present but the king, Lady Vesta, perhaps my headmaster and, latterly, my companions. Instead, to my great surprise, it is a full court.

The chamber is packed with almost all the nobility in the land. It is alive with the colour of heraldry; flags and shields seem to jump across the room at us. It looks how I imagine the front line of a battlefield of old might look. There are knights and lords standing around the entire perimeter of the room. They break into a rapturous applause, whooping and cheering, as we step inside. I hear the boy ask Selene if these are his new servants. Selene says no. There is a hint of rebuke in her voice.

As the room continues in its celebration, the prince turns to face me, raises his hands above his head, and joins in the clapping. I am so stunned that I don’t immediately look to the royal bench. When I finally do, I note that there are three seats on it and one throne.

In one seat, at the extreme left, sits an absolute behemoth of a man with a smile so broad that he could quite possibly be the happiest person in the whole of existence. His laugh, and the claps that come rumbling from his hands, are so deep that they can be heard clearly beneath the rest of the noise. I have never seen him before but I know from his heraldry that he is Ser Torryan, The Bull, the leader of the independent people of the Bwlch. There is an empty seat, presumably the prince’s, next to him.

Beside the empty seat sits the king who is trying his best to act happy. His drooping, pallid face is a wonderful picture: the false smile of someone who is furious but not allowed to show it. On the other side of the king, Lady Vesta sits impassive. She makes no pretence whatsoever. The applause continues for a while longer, as the prince takes his seat, before the king gestures for silence.

“Well, Ser Gruffydd. You’ve returned to us as a hero. On behalf of the entire kingdom, I thank you,” he says. I cannot detect insincerity in his voice. In fact, it sounds as though he means it. He is as bald and ugly as ever and, perhaps, even fatter. I relax a little as he speaks; he is not likely to be openly hostile in this environment.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. It is an honour to have undertaken such a journey in your name,” I reply. I bow before him as I give my answer, determined not to make it seem like it is I who is the cold fish.

“And it must be remembered that it was my father’s wisdom to choose you for such a quest. Three cheers for the king!” adds Prince Libran heartily, before launching into the full celebration on his father’s behalf. It seems curious that he should be exalting his father so openly after his earlier show of insolence. Nevertheless, the king beams as the room fills with cries of adulation. As the applause dies down, the prince continues.

“I thank you, father. Thank you for being so wise. There were those amongst us, our enemies, who would believe that our family is small minded enough to have sent him to his death. Ser Gruffydd’s return proves that this is not the case. You sent him because you believed in him didn’t you?” he asks. The room falls silent, awaiting the reply.

At once, I understand. The audience is not here at the king’s behest but at the prince’s; the prince is using the audience to shame his father into contrition, to make him say something, in public, that will end his vendetta against me. The king squirms uncomfortably in his chair, outwitted.

“Of course. I had every confidence in you, Ser Gruffydd. It does not surprise me in the least to see you back,” he stumbles. He must be deeply ashamed to have a son who is so pathologically fair.

“Do you see, Ser Gruffydd? My father truly is a noble and wise man. I could not live thinking that I had done someone a bad turn,” he laments. Having seen him near tears on many occasions as a child, I am able to spot the same cues here now. I have no doubt that he means what he says; equality is too important to him. Before I can respond, he continues.

“Whilst I have an audience, I would like to swear - by blood – that Ser Gruffydd of the Green is a lifelong friend of this family. No harm shall come to him whilst my father and I are alive,” the prince pronounces, stealing the moment from his aghast father. Once again, the king can do nothing but try and hold his composure. Without committing himself, he changes the subject.

“Of course. Now, would you care to introduce your guests?” he replies. His face, once again, is a source of pure delight for me. His smile masks a wounded, impotent wrath that will only be noticed by the one or two of us that are looking for it. I am not sure if the prince understands the private humiliation that he has exposed his father to, or how thankful I am for it.

“This is Shara. She is a lady of Brightstone, trained in the ways of the wilderness. Without her, I wouldn’t have survived,” I begin, gesturing towards her. As with Ser Geraint previously, I have no inclination to announce her true identity.

“This is Selene. She is a lady of the religious order of Brightstone. She was an attendant of His Holiness,” I continue. It is not conscious but I do not linger on her introduction as I do with Shara’s.

“And, most importantly, this is His Holiness, The Emperor Leo of Brightstone. The people of Brightstone believed him to be the Son of God.”

It still galls me to have to introduce him in such a manner. Despite having a long time to get acquainted with the idea, I still feel a fool every time the words leave my mouth. To my great surprise, the rest of the court does not share my cynicism and there is an almost palpable gasp as I introduce him. Several people make the Sign of the Cross on their bodies. The king, with great effort, rises from his seat and drops to his knees. At least half the room join him in this charade.

“Ladies, it is an honour to welcome you to my kingdom. And Leo, Your Holiness, I think I am right in saying that this is a historic day for everyone here. I think you have arrived at the right time; our kingdom has waited an eternity for a moment such as this,” he smiles.

I brace myself, wondering whether Leo will show himself up as he did in front of Ser Geraint and Lord Llewellyn. Instead, he steps forward and presents himself with grace. It is enough to make me wonder whether there is some secret by which people so abhorrent can recognise each other, in order to be polite when they meet.

“Hello, King. I am pleased to meet you. I look forward to working with you,” he smiles, just about making himself understood in his broken English.

“And, I, with you. I hope that, with your help, we can once again bring light to the people of Tallakarn,” replies the king. As he says this, I note a warm smile move across Leo’s face. I have never seen a smile like it. In this moment, I realise that bringing light to people is something that he genuinely wants to do. He may be a petulant, misguided egotist but that smile betrays him; he has a kind heart.

“Ser Gruffydd. It looks as though you are here to stay,” the king continues, “and as that is the case, then I would suggest that your royal service is not yet done. You are, after all, as the prince says, a good friend of my family.” I note now that the menace has returned to his voice. Perhaps the distraction of the introduction has given him a chance to collect his thoughts.

“Your Majesty, it is an honour to serve you. I will do whatever you ask,” I reply. Something is going very wrong here; the carefully orchestrated public nature of my return means that neither of us are allowed to speak as we please. The prince has designed it that way.

“I want His Holiness to meet the people. I want him to travel around our land and spread the message of God. I want to bring salvation to our kingdom in this, our darkest of times,” says the king. There is such warmth and sincerity in his voice that, for a moment, I almost believe him. If it were not for Lady Vesta sitting quietly beside him, I might even have fallen for it. Instead, I see it for what it is – a cynical proclamation designed to buy favour from his audience.

“I would be glad to accompany him,” I reply. I do not add the caveat that he would need to be gagged and bound in order to make a good impression on anyone. Instead, I take a quiet satisfaction in knowing how badly Leo will do at the task laid out for him. It will be less than a month before the wheels begin to fall off. Then, Leo will be left as nothing more than an exotic exile, destined for no greater than a point of curiosity in the king’s court.

“It will not just be you,” the king continues, “there must be twelve. Twelve is your lucky number, is it not? Twelve peasants joined the school and only one remained, twelve heroes set out to Brightstone and only one returned. Will you survive a third time?” he asks knowingly. This question is asked in such a way that I am now certain his antipathy is not yet gone.

“If it is twelve then I humbly suggest that Ser Cai and I should accompany them,” interrupts the prince.

“Then you may, Prince Libran,” replies Lady Vesta on the king’s behalf. Until now, she has been so still and quiet that she hardly seemed to be alive. “But not, Ser Cai. He will have to earn his right alongside any other knight that wishes to ride.”

“Such as I. It would be an honour to join you,” declares The Bull from his seat alongside the prince. The man quite literally looks as though he is carved from a boulder. I wonder whether Lady Vesta would try and deny
him
a place.