Authors: Laura Anne Gilman
Then Gerard looked sideways at Lancelot, noting the exhaustion in the knight’s face and remembering the weeks and months he spent away from Camelot. Some said he was on the king’s secret orders. Some claimed he was chasing a woman. Others merely narrowed their eyes, putting a finger
to their lips and looking wise. Whatever his reasons, it seemed that only the Grail Quest could bring Lancelot home, looking even sadder than he had when he left.
Maybe even Sir Lancelot didn’t get everything he wanted. Not all the time. It was something to think about.
“And off you go,” the knight said as they reached the inner wall of the castle, not the door Gerard had used earlier, but a wooden gate that led to the east wing of the castle, where the King’s guests were housed. “Scurry, and I won’t have to make any excuses for you with the most fearsome Gracelan.”
Since everyone knew that the chatelaine, the woman who oversaw the daily keeping of Camelot, was sweet on Lancelot, Gerard wasn’t too frightened of the threat. Lancelot would avoid her the way squires avoided Sir Bors.
Shaking his head at what a strange, confusing day it had already been, Gerard hurried across the common area and up the narrow stone staircase and headed for his own pallet in his master’s room. If the bells hadn’t rung yet, he would still have time to wash up before dinner, but not much.
Twenty minutes later, his hair slicked back, the blood, straw, and mud washed from his skin, and the worst of his bruises treated with salve, Gerard skidded to a stop outside the great carved doors of the Feasting Hall. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to the guards standing on either side, and stepped inside.
Chaos immediately engulfed him, and a harried-looking server shoved a platter of pies into his arms and pushed him toward the rows of trestle tables set up along the far wall.
“And don’t be slow about it!”
The hall itself, so huge and daunting to Gerard when he first came to Camelot as a page, was now simply huge. It was difficult to feel daunted when you were being run off your feet.
But tonight, with all the banners of the knights in residence hung on the walls, it seemed even more impressive somehow; the colors fighting with the sounds and smells for his attention. This was the largest feast Gerard had ever seen. The addition of the squires to the usual serving pages was barely enough to keep everything running.
There were more than a dozen long, wooden tables set up, each one crammed with as many
honored guests as could fit on the carved wooden benches, and each table was piled with plates and knives and goblets. The walls rose four man-heights to a beamed ceiling that curved in such a way as to swallow much of the noise rising from the tables. The tapestries and banners on the walls muffled even more, but it was still impossibly noisy.
Despite that, every page and squire was expected to hear every word said to them, and respond promptly and courteously with the speaker’s correct name and title.
Gerard hoisted his tray and set to work, dodging another page and almost colliding with a serving maid before he found the rhythm. Making his way carefully among the other servers, and darting around the minstrels and players who used the space in front of the tables to perform, Gerard was exhausted within an hour. And rumor had it this feast would go on until well after midnight!
“Boy, sit a moment.”
The voice cutting through the babble was familiar and Gerard didn’t need to be told twice. He knelt by his master’s side, resting one elbow on the edge of the table. Sir Rheynold was highly placed, as befitted one of Arthur’s oldest followers, down somewhat
from the formality of the high table where Arthur and his queen sat, but well above the great silver salt dish. Below the salt, the unproven knights and commoners worked on their food, and the younger, less-schooled pages served them.
“They’ve got you all going in every direction save down,” Sir Rheynold said, passing Gerard a sip from the knight’s own goblet. The ale was cool and thick, and went down smooth.
“Everyone’s a bit on nerves,” Gerard agreed, enjoying the rest as much as the drink. Some knights wanted their squires to be seen and not heard—and seen only when needed—but Sir Rheynold had always been a good and patient teacher; he welcomed Gerard’s questions and observations.
“Tcha.” Rheynold shook his head and stroked the bristles of his beard with an index finger. “This Quest of Arthur’s…it’s a grand idea, to be sure. A fine noble cause to get all the hotheads out of the castle and doing something useful for a change. The Grail will help cement Arthur’s hold outside of the Isle, where people have not met him or are leery of the power Merlin and his magic might have over him. Those who don’t trust Arthur may yet trust the man who holds the Grail.”
“Why?” Gerard asked, not wanting to seem ignorant but genuinely curious.
“The Grail is more than an object, Gerard. It is a symbol. And in these times—in all times—men respond well to symbols. Especially when the symbol is in the possession of a strong leader.” The old knight took back his goblet and swallowed a heavy mouthful. “But I’m glad to be out of it, I am. Quests and cavalcades…they’re nasty things for a man my age. Leave it to the young and bold.”
I’m young and bold,
Gerard thought but didn’t say. It would have done him no good. Rheynold was a fair master. But even he would not take well to what could be considered insolence from one of his charges.
“Psssst!” A piercing whisper came from another squire standing a few feet away, just far enough to be polite. He was gesturing urgently and his expression indicated the need for haste.
Rheynold looked up, a smile on his age-lined face. “Go on, boy. They’re in need of you again.”
Gerard ducked his head and got back to his feet, tugging at his fancy tunic so that it hung properly, the gold and silver thread of Arthur’s crest displayed proudly. It felt strange to be wearing the king’s
livery instead of Sir Rheynold’s, but Gracelan wanted all the servers to look the same tonight to keep confusion to a minimum. If Gerard spilled anything on this, he thought bleakly, the washerwomen would tear strips off his hide.
“Where to now?” he asked Mak, the squire who had signaled him.
“Cook’s ready to bring out the soltetie—wants us to usher it in.”
The soltetie was a “disguised” dish, in this case a huge pig roasted and decorated with feathers and antlers to appear like some fanciful beast. Cook typically used adult servants to bear the heaviest dishes, but servants weren’t grand enough for this banquet.
“I don’t suppose Cook would believe I’ve an old battle wound keeping me from lifting anything heavier than a stuffed duck?” Gerard said hopefully.
“A battle wound? That’s a good one. What, did the king’s fool plant an arrow in your backside?”
Gerard aimed a mock cuff at Mak’s head. The other squire ducked it easily, making a disgusting face at him after first making sure no adults were watching.
“Perhaps if you carry your share gallantly, the king will demand you join the Quest for him personally to return the Grail to civilized hands.”
“Can you imagine it,” Gerard began, forgetting everything else to return to his favorite topic. “To be a part of…to actually lay hands on the Grail itself? They say it’s magical, that it can heal, that it can grant your heart’s dearest wish….”
“Will it make you better at your sword drills? That would be miracle indeed!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” A girl’s voice, light and pleasant in tone, if not in the words, intruded into their conversation. “Grail this, Grail that. None of you has a lick of sense about it.”
Gerard made an irritated face at Mak, but smoothed it out before turning to face the newcomer. Ailis might be only a girl, and a servant at that, but she had come to Camelot after the battle of Mount Agned, where both her parents died. Everyone knew that the queen looked after the orphans of that battle as if, some whispered unkindly, they were the children she had never been able to give the king. And those whom Guinevere favored had a certain kind of protection, in that everyone took care to please the queen. To anger the queen was to risk Arthur’s wrath as well.
Gerard and Ailis had both come to Camelot as tearful eight-year-olds the same week, and there was a bond of sorts in that. (Even if neither would ever
admit that one of them had gotten lost in the winding stone-and-wood hallways of the castle, and had to be led out, in tears, by the other.) Gerard would take that secret to his grave. Ailis might only be a servant-girl, but her parents had been honest land-holders who died for their king. And she was a good sort, for a girl.
“What do you mean?” Mak demanded. “How are we not sensible? I’d say we’re being plenty sensible—can’t go on a Quest without planning, and lots of it!”
Ailis had pretty brown eyes that could practically sparkle with laughter, but right now they looked dark and worried. “The Grail is not to be won, is it? It’s a thing that’s given.” She tugged at the end of her braid, which was dark red and long enough to coil around her shoulder and hang almost down to her elbow. “You can’t just go off and search and take it, no matter how shining your armor or fancy your horse, or full your heart with Glory-to-King.”
“And pray tell: Who gives it, then?” Mak scoffed.
“I don’t know,” Ailis admitted, looking troubled by the question. “But someone more than a knight.”
“You know nothing about it.” Gerard couldn’t believe that she was dismissing all the knights that
easily. Lancelot himself was on this Quest! It was all anyone had talked about for months!
“Nor does any of us,” Ailis pointed out. “Everything we’ve heard so far…it’s just legend. And myth. But all the stories say that the one who holds it cannot be defeated on this earth.”
“All the more reason for Arthur to hold it,” Gerard said.
“But what if we’re not the ones meant to find it? Might it not be better for it to stay lost?” Ailis suggested.
Mak was scornful. “You’re a servant. What do you know about any of this?”
Ailis gulped, her cheeks going pale and then flaming red with shame. “Is that what you think? That a servant can’t know any better?”
On another day, Gerard might have tried to smooth things over, as he so often did when Ailis spoke her mind in front of his fellow squires. But he was still upset at the stable boy’s actions, and her dismissal of his heroes rankled him. “You’re a girl,” he said instead. “Maybe that’s why—”
“Oh!” Ailis looked as though she’d like to smack them both, but settled for a parting shot before she turned away. “Two of a kind, you are; overfull of
yourselves and your positions—such as they are, as neither of you is actually being taken along on this grand Quest.”
They both winced as the bolt struck home.
“Ailis, I…” Gerard began awkwardly.
“Oh, go on, they’re calling you,” Ailis said, spotting a commotion near the main door. “Hurry!”
Ailis watched the two boys move across the crowded floor to where one of the under-cooks was waiting, and sighed in relief when they made it without further delay. She hated to see anyone get into trouble. Then, recalling her own duties, she lifted the refilled pitcher of spiced wine and made her way carefully back to where her ladies waited. At fourteen, Ailis was one of the youngest of the queen’s servants, chosen for her quick eyes and steady hands. Unlike the pages and squires, she had only to serve wine and set out fresh napkins at this feast. But it took all her concentration to anticipate their needs without appearing to eavesdrop on them. Especially when they said such interesting—and gossipy—things.
“Do you not think Sir Gawain has the greatest chance? He is…very religious.”
“So religious he will seek the Grail only in churches and monasteries,” another woman at the table suggested, waving her bejeweled hands in dismissal. “If the Grail were there, it would have been found already.”
Ailis kept her gaze lowered and her mouth shut as she refilled her lady’s goblet and replaced stained napkins with new squares of cloth. It was one thing to argue with Mak and Gerard, despite their squire’s rank. Responding to an adult was out of the question. No, she was a servant, and as such would never dare speak her mind to any of the court, not even if they asked her. That would lead to dismissal, and no matter that the queen had been known to smile upon her from time to time.
Someday soon, she knew, Mak and Gerard and the others would earn their spurs and go off to be knights in the service of the king, but she would still be here, serving at the castle. That was the fate of a landless, family-less orphan.
“Oh, stop feeling so sorry for yourself,” she scolded herself quietly. A practical girl, Ailis knew it wasn’t a bad life. Lonely? A little. But she was well treated and fed and cared for, and was learning skills that would be useful as she got older. She had a fine hand
with her stitching. That might earn her a place as a seamstress, eventually, in the queen’s cozy, comfortable solar. But…
“I want more than to be a seamstress or the mistress of the linens in some lord’s manor house,” she whispered fiercely to the food-stained napkins in her grasp. “I want…”
Her thought was interrupted by something odd. Her head lifted, like a doe scenting the air, and her young lips creased in a frown. The musicians…that was it. The musician playing the lute—his tune was off somehow. Not much, perhaps nothing most in the crowd would notice, but Ailis had a good ear as well as a pure singing voice, and music she knew well.
Ailis shrugged. Perhaps he had drunk too much mead. Or he was tired. They had been performing for hours now, and it was far more difficult work, she knew, than any observer would think. Either way, it was no concern of hers.
But still. Something was odd, now that she looked about her. It wasn’t a specific thing, exactly—a smell that was off in the air, maybe, like wood smoke, only not as familiar or comforting as that. Movements were also off, slowed somehow, as though it were just a bit too much effort to carry on as usual.
Worried now, Ailis instinctively looked over her shoulder to check on the queen. Others might think the sun rose and set on King Arthur. He was the lion of the court indeed, but Ailis had long ago learned that Guinevere’s moods set the temper of the castle, not Arthur’s.