MY STONE.
“From this moment, here on Tumber Hill, until the day you die, you will never own anything as precious as this.” That’s what Merlin told me. “No one must know you own it.”
If Sir William knew about it, he’d probably throw my stone away too.
Sir Lancelot is sitting on one side of a blazing fire and a lady is sitting on the other. They’re in a hall with a gallery like ours at Caldicot. Two servants are standing at the foot of the stone staircase.
“To think Sir Lancelot has chosen to stay under my roof,” the lady says. “Well, as you can see, this is only a modest place, and even so I can scarcely afford its upkeep. A swarm of wild bees have taken over the tower room. I shall have to put you in the garret over the gate.”
“Lady Gisèle,” says Sir Lancelot. “You’ve reminded me of a song my foster mother used to sing:
“A swarm of wild bees swirled around this tower. They fizzed through the openings, and nested In the chamber. They made honey here…
“I’m more than happy to stay in a house of such sweetness!”
Lady Gisèle smiles. “And you, Sir Lancelot, have honey on your tongue,” she says. “All I hope is that, when he is old enough, you will be so generous as to knight my young son.”
“A knight who dubs a squire has a duty to him,” Sir Lancelot says very seriously. “To guide him. To support him.”
“But I don’t know whether he’ll be strong enough,” Lady Gisèle says.
“There are good and bad knights of the body,” Sir Lancelot replies, “but no bad knights of the heart.”
Late into the night they talk, and then they stand and embrace. A servant carrying two candles leads Sir Lancelot away to his chamber.
But then my stone began to sparkle and all I could see in it were tiny pins of light. I started to think about being knighted the day after tomorrow, and whether Milon has a duty to me, and then, when I could see into the stone once more, the full moon was already riding high and Sir Lancelot was leaping out of bed.
He looks down from his window and sees a knight pounding on the great oak door with both gauntlets.
“Help!” shouts the knight. “Is no one there? Save me!”
Now I can hear the sound of hooves, and three more knights gallop up. Without a word, they draw their swords, and brandish them and slash at the knight.
Sir Lancelot quickly arms himself, ties his two sheets together, and knots one end to a window bar.
“Three against one!” he shouts. “You shame yourselves.”
Now Sir Lancelot clambers out of the window, slides down the sheets, and lands with a clank.
“Leave them to me!” he yells. “An early breakfast!”
One…two…three…after just six of Sir Lancelot’s strokes, all three knights are lying on the earth. Not one of them even tries to stand up again.
“I yield to you…and I…we yield to you.”
“No!” says Sir Lancelot, turning to the man he has just saved. “Yield to him!”
Now the man raises his visor, and to his astonishment Sir Lancelot recognizes him. It is Sir Kay.
One of the three knights struggles, and creaks terribly, and sits up.
“Sir,” he says to Sir Lancelot, “whoever you may be, I will not yield to Sir Kay. But for you he would be a dead man.”
“Have you no shame?” Sir Lancelot retorts. “Three against one. If any one of you had fought against Sir Kay, he would have worsted you.”
“Sir Kay! He’s all bluster.”
“And blunder.”
“And he’s foul-mouthed.”
“Listen to me!” Sir Lancelot growls. “Either you submit to Sir Kay, or you die.”
“We submit,” the three knights mumble.
“To Sir Kay,” says Sir Lancelot.
“To Sir Kay.”
“Very well,” says Sir Lancelot. “Ride from here straight to Camelot, in time for the Pentecost Feast. Tell Queen Guinevere that Sir Kay has sent you, and she is to do with you as she wishes. Swear it!”
“We swear it,” say the three men.
“On your swords,” says Sir Lancelot.
“On our swords.”
Sir Kay and Sir Lancelot stand and watch as the three groaning knights get to their feet, remount, and quietly walk their horses into the night.
Now Sir Lancelot turns to the oak door, and a servant swings it open, and leads them to the hall.
Lady Gisèle is waiting for them, and Sir Lancelot lifts off his helmet.
“Sir Lancelot!” exclaims the lady.
“It’s you!” exclaims Sir Kay.
“I thought you were asleep,” says Lady Gisèle.
“Lady, I was, but I had to get up to help an old friend.”
Lady Gisèle shakes her head and smiles. “Out of the sweettongued came forth strength,” she says.
“Lady,” says Sir Lancelot, “this is Sir Kay.”
“You are welcome,” says the lady.
“May I take him to my garret, to unarm and wash and sleep?”
“It’s the only room I have.”
“And it’s more than enough,” Sir Lancelot replies.
As soon as they are on their own, the two knights talk.
“Who were they?” asks Sir Lancelot. “Those three knights.”
“Bad, worse, and worst,” Sir Kay says. “A man who betrays his wife. A man who betrays his son. And a murderer. You saved my life.”
“Any knight would have done the same,” Sir Lancelot replies.
“If only that were true,” says Sir Kay.
“I hope,” Sir Lancelot replies, “I always hope a knight will fight for another man if he’s in danger, and so win honor. Let me help you unarm.”
Sir Lancelot unties Sir Kay’s mittens and holds his mail-shirt while Kay steps out of it. And now Sir Kay unstraps his chausses and loosens his quilted cuisses. He looks around the garret, and yawns.
“What a shabby place this is!” he says.
“Be grateful!” says Sir Lancelot.
“Shabby and dingy.”
“Mind your tongue,” says Sir Lancelot. “Lady Gisèle has given me all she has.”
“Really?” says Sir Kay, and he raises an eyebrow. “Out of the sweet-tongued came forth strength! Now what did she mean by that?”
“Not what you think,” says Sir Lancelot.
As soon as Sir Kay is undressed and wearing nothing but his braies and shirt, he gets into bed, leaving Sir Lancelot to unarm himself.
“You’re worn out,” says Sir Lancelot. “You sleep.”
“I am asleep,” Sir Kay replies, and he yawns again.
Within a few moments, Sir Kay really is asleep. He doesn’t even stir when Sir Lancelot gets into bed beside him.
But Sir Lancelot doesn’t blow out the candle. He lies with his head propped up, thinking. And now he has a quick look at his companion, and quietly gets up again. Quietly, as quietly as anyone can put on creaking, squeaking, whingeing armor, Sir Lancelot puts on Kay’s cuisses and chausses, his aketon and mail-shirt. Now, he glances at Kay again, but Kay wouldn’t wake if Lancelot leaned right over him and clapped his hands.
“Well,” says Lancelot to himself, “I think Kay will see the joke. And other knights will find out whether I’m worthy of my name.”
Sir Lancelot tucks Sir Kay’s shield under his left arm, picks up Kay’s helmet and the burning candle, and leaves the room.
But as soon as Sir Lancelot steps out into the passage, a draught blows out his candle. He’s left in the dark.
And my stone lay dark in my right hand.
Tom looks quite like Sir Lancelot. They both have generous, broad brows, and the brightest, unflecked blue eyes. Not as pale as this Venetian sky; not as dark as sapphire. Forget-me-not blue.
Sometimes I think I’m almost at war with myself because I’m anxious and in a hurry, but Sir Lancelot and Tom are both easygoing. I’ve seen how ladies, old as well as young, quicken to Sir Lancelot and hope he’ll dally with them, and it’s the same with Tom. Lady Anne is always spirited when Tom’s around; and Nain peers at him, and blinks, and grins her toothless grin.
If I could choose anyone to be here when I’m knighted, it would be Tom. If only Sir William had brought him, and not Serle.
On Saint Nicholas, the whole of the night sky sometimes seems to jolt and flash, and that’s what happened inside my stone as well. Then at once I could see deep into it again, and I was at court. At Camelot.
King Arthur and Queen Guinevere are sitting on their raised seats, Sir Mordred is standing nearby, and the great hall is packed with knights, squires, ladies, maidens, musicians, servants. Looking into the hall is like looking into fallowfield at Caldicot in July: a mass of poppies and speedwell, cornflowers and fritillaries, greenweed and red clover; one hundred different kinds of long grasses, all of them slightly swaying.
“I am Sir Gauter,” says one, “and my brothers and I recognized Sir Kay. By his shield—azure with two keys argent. We’ve all been on the sharp end of Kay’s tongue, and so we decided to teach him a lesson. With the sharp ends of our spears.”
There’s a gentle rustle in the hall. A light wind from nowhere that no sooner breathes than it’s gone again.
“When he rode past our pavilion,” Sir Gauter says, “I challenged him. But Sir Kay threw me, and my horse broke his neck.”
“I’m Sir Gilmere,” says the second brother, “and I knew that knight couldn’t have been Sir Kay. He could never have thrown my brother. He can’t aim straight! We think this knight killed Sir Kay and stole his armor and shield.”
“I’m Sir Arnold,” the third brother says, “and Sir Gilmere and I rode after the knight, but he flattened us both.”
“I ran after them,” says Sir Gauter, “and then the knight told us he knew we were good knights. ‘Knights of the heart as well as the body.’ We knew he couldn’t be Sir Kay.
“‘Yield to Queen Guinevere.’ That’s what the knight said. ‘Tell her Sir Kay has sent you to her.’”
“It was the same for us!” shouts a knight at the back of the hall, and I recognize one of the three knights who chased Sir Kay to Lady Gisèle’s manor.
All the flowers in the field of many colors, all the leaves and long grasses, are whispering.
Sir Sagramour and Sir Ector de Maris, Sir Uwain and Sir Gawain: Four knights at the Round Table get to their feet.
“We were dozing under an oak tree,” Sir Sagramour says, “when we saw a knight ride past, and because of his shield we thought it was Sir Kay. We thought we’d find out if he was made of anything but hot air. So I challenged him, and at the first end he threw me.”
“And you can see what he did to me,” says Sir Ector, Sir Lancelot’s own brother. “He drove his spear right through this shoulder.”
“When he smacked his spear against my helmet,” says Sir Uwain, “I was so dizzy, my head spun like a top.”
Sir Gawain slowly shakes his head. “This knight turned me and my horse arsy-versy. And you know what? He never said a word, but I could see him smiling through his mouthpiece.”
“Who is he?” demands Sir Sagramour.
“He comes from the devil,” Sir Ector replies, clasping his shoulder.
“And he can go to the devil,” adds Sir Uwain.
“That’s what we thought,” Sir Gawain tells King Arthur and Guinevere. “And I said, ‘It’s Sir Lancelot. I know it is. The way he sits in his saddle! I’ll lay my life on it.’”
Whispers, murmurs, gusts of laughter. Which all die away as a single trumpeter blows three blasts and Arthur-in-the-stone stands up.
“What have we heard?” he calls out. “Story upon story, and pieces of one story. Word-wonders to sharpen our appetites for this Pentecost Feast. Many knights of my Round Table are still away in the wilderness, questing for the Holy Grail, but we have waited long enough. Let the feast begin!”
Now the golden trumpeter is joined by three pipers and three drummers.
And now a hammering! A hammering and then a screeching, and the hall doors are forced open.
Two knights clatter in, and as soon as they enter court, they take off their helmets.
Everyone in the great hall begins to shout—shout and then laugh. Without breaking their step, Sir Lancelot, wearing Sir Kay’s armor, and Kay, in Lancelot’s armor, pass through the fair field of folk, and up to King Arthur and Queen Guinevere.
“Greetings!” says the king.
“I’ve ridden here from Cornwall,” Sir Kay says, “and not one knight has challenged me.”
“And I’ve ridden here through a gauntlet of taunts,” Sir Lancelot says. “Insults and challenges, gibes and jousts.”
“So we have heard,” says Arthur, smiling.
“My path was a smooth one,” says Sir Kay.
“And mine,” says Sir Lancelot, “was sharp and pointed.”
“Welcome to the feast,” Guinevere says.
“There is more to tell,” says Sir Lancelot. “Morgan le Fay put me under a spell while I lay asleep under an apple tree, and the daughter of Sir Bagdemagus saved me. I killed two giants and rescued their prisoners, sixty ladies and maidens. And then there’s Sir Turquine!”
“Tomorrow and tomorrow we will hear all of your story,” King Arthur says. “And you, Kay. You never need a second invitation.”
Kay’s scornful lips tighten into a kind of smile, and he bites on his tongue.
“Sir Lancelot!” says the king. “Little more than a year ago, you were still a squire. But scarcely a week has passed without our hearing about you.”
Queen Guinevere gazes at Sir Lancelot, and her eyes are on fire.
“Little more than a year since you were still a squire,” the king says again, “and you’ve won yourself such honor. Yes, the greatest name of any knight in the world.”