The Table of Less Valued Knights Read online

  ‘Who?’ said Elaine.

  ‘The men you heard?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Elaine vaguely. ‘They must have run away when they heard us coming.’

  There had been women in his life, of course. Plenty before Cecily and plenty since. Serving maids these days mostly, though there was nothing wrong with that, they were as sensible and good-humoured as any other girl, indeed more so than some ladies he could think of. When he’d sat at the Round Table, the bored wives of other Round Table knights, or the ambitious wives of Errant Companions, sometimes made it clear that his attentions would be welcomed. He’d try to avoid them, disliking their lack of sincerity and not wanting to risk his companionship with his brethren. Of course, once he got demoted to Less Valued, he was suddenly invisible to those very same ladies who’d so admired him the day before. So he was no naïf. He could tell what Elaine wanted him to do, and he knew he wanted the same thing. But something about this situation was paralysing him.

  ‘The stars are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?’ said Elaine. She wasn’t looking at the stars, though, she was looking at him. He was almost sure he could see the invitation in her eyes. He cast his misgivings aside.

  ‘I couldn’t care less about the stars,’ he said, and he leaned over and kissed her.

  Sometimes a kiss can hit you harder than a lance with the force of a galloping horse behind it. This was one of those times. But suddenly Elaine pushed him away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, almost yelping in distress. ‘I can’t do this.’

  And he realised that this was her true voice, and that everything else she had said since waking him up had come from a place of falseness. A hole opened up in his soul and his heart fell through it.

  ‘Lady Elaine,’ he said, looking away, across the water. ‘Surely you know that I will follow this quest through to the end, no matter what? You don’t have to repay me in this way.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Elaine, in a voice of anguish. ‘I wanted to … I mean, I felt … I truly felt … But my intention was base. Please forgive me.’

  ‘Of course I forgive you,’ said Humphrey. ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  ‘I wish I could explain,’ said Elaine. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She reached towards him for a moment, then drew her hand back without touching him. ‘But I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I understand. You are betrothed to Sir Alistair,’ said Humphrey.

  ‘It’s not that,’ Elaine said again.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  Elaine shook her head. She wiped tears from her eyes. Then she got up and ran back to her tent, on her ankle which was not at all injured, leaving Humphrey alone under those stars which were indeed beautiful, but so cold.

  Twelve

  The next day, Elaine rose for breakfast early. By the time Humphrey emerged from his tent she had finished her meal and returned to her own tent to pack up for the day’s ride. Conrad was still chattering about the woman who had unhorsed Humphrey, because in his world that had happened the day before, and not a lifetime ago. Both Humphrey and Elaine took extra care over the grooming and saddling of their horses that morning, thoroughly brushing manes and tails, closely examining hooves for mud and stones, ensuring the perfect alignment of bridle straps. If they didn’t speak to each other it was perfectly normal because they were preoccupied with the journey ahead.

  The road took them along the riverbank that had been the setting for the scene of the night before. By daylight the river seemed innocuous enough, the water twinkling prettily under the sun, the road lined with chestnut trees which provided welcome shade. It should have been a pleasant ride. But the silence between Humphrey and Elaine grew until it was a fourth companion which even Conrad couldn’t ignore. First he stopped teasing Humphrey, put off by the lack of response, and started to sing instead. Then, when Elaine didn’t join in, he stopped that too. A heavy sleeper, he had no idea that his master had been woken by Elaine in the night, or what had passed between them. All he knew was that both Humphrey and Elaine had gone to bed angry and that they appeared to have got up even angrier. He fretted that he had done something wrong. Was it the food? Was it just him, causing annoyance merely by being himself? He placed one of his hands palm down on Jemima’s warm neck, trying to take comfort in her steadfastness, but it wasn’t enough for the elephant to like him. He needed his companions to like him too. Meanwhile, for Humphrey and Elaine, enormous, anxious Conrad on his waddling elephant had no more presence than a cloud.

  Shortly before noon they reached a point where the river diverted into a wood which grew so thick that Conrad and Jemima would not be able to pass without uprooting dozens of trees. Humphrey stopped, and the other two drew up alongside. Conrad looked down at him, awaiting instruction. Elaine gazed straight ahead.

  ‘I’m sure we can skirt around it,’ said Humphrey, in a light voice that sounded unnatural to him. ‘It doesn’t look that big a forest.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ said Conrad.

  Elaine only nodded.

  So Humphrey led the way across the heath that bordered the wood. As he rode, he tried to think of the words he might say to Elaine that would make everything normal again. It was only a kiss. How many maidens had he kissed? He had thought her willing. He could simply apologise. But she had leaned into him, had responded, he was sure of it. Then why had she pushed him away? This was the path that his thoughts had been following all day, and it circled back on itself, over and over. There was only one other direction his thoughts were inclined to go, which was to remind himself of what he knew, that women were not to be trusted, and what happened when you followed your heart instead of your head; but that was a road he had fifteen years’ practice in ignoring, and he was able to turn away from it now.

  As his thoughts started around the circle yet again, a horrifying scream came from the direction of the trees. Before he had fully registered that a man was galloping directly towards him brandishing a huge black sword, blows were already raining down on him. Just in time he managed to draw his sword. As he fought for his life he realised that it was the man who was screaming, that he was, in fact, barely more than a boy, and that, even as he hacked at Humphrey with his sword, he had his eyes screwed tightly shut.

  PART TWO

  Thirteen

  A week before Pentecost, the morning of her father’s death, Martha had been awoken by the sound of bells. This was wrong. Generally Martha woke up and rang a bell, and her maid Deborah came. Having been woken up, she did ring her bell to find out what was going on, but the delicate sound was drowned out by the clang of the louder bells outside, and nobody answered.

  Growing tired of waiting, she pushed back her bed curtains and got out of bed. It was still dark in her room, and no one had been in yet to light the fire, so it must have been unfathomably early. She wrapped herself in a long, moss-green cashmere dressing gown, opened up a pair of shutters blinkering a window, and peered out into the icy morning. In the pre-dawn light she could see a few figures hurrying from one place to another, but no sign of an army, mob or fire. Nothing important, then. She yawned. Pulling the shutters to, she shuffled back towards her bed.

  Just then, the door to her bedchamber burst open and Deborah flew in and prostrated herself on the floor. This was also wrong. Deborah usually strolled in chatting, as if she and Martha were already mid-conversation. There was never any prostrating.

  ‘Deborah, what –’ began Martha, but Deborah interrupted her.

  ‘The King is dead, long live the Queen!’ she said.

  Martha sank down on the edge of her bed, while Deborah alternated bowing, curtseying, trying to make her mistress drink a cup of hot brandy, and saying ‘The King is dead, long live the Queen,’ over and over. Martha waited for grief to come, but it too was drowned out by the incessant ringing of the bells.

  The death of her father should have come as no surprise. He had been ill for many years, a feebleness of the mind that had taken hold not long after h
er brother, Jasper, had died. At first, the court had taken his confusion and mood swings for grief. By the time the King could no longer tell the difference between Martha and her dead brother, calling her Jasper and enquiring about her exploits at the Round Table, it was impossible to hide the severity of his condition, and a Regency Council had been established to take on the day-to-day business of ruling.

  As far as Martha was concerned, it was pretty easy to tell the difference between her and Jasper, for reasons quite aside from him being male and dead. Jasper had been tall and muscular and handsome, witty and intelligent and accomplished. He had been a Knight of the Round Table in Camelot, with all the goodness and bravery that implied. He had travelled all over the land on quests, having experiences and gaining wisdom and meeting people, one of whom was a Pict he was supposed to be civilising in Scotland, who hadn’t wanted to be civilised and who had cut off Jasper’s head. But if that hadn’t happened, he would have had all the attributes which would have made him a wonderful king.

  Martha, on the other hand – even Martha didn’t know what Martha was. She presided over jousts, opened country fairs, exclaimed at the beauty of babies and judged vegetables. She shook hands. She sat at banquets next to foreign dignitaries who talked across her to other foreign dignitaries or lectured her on their own achievements. She bestowed favours upon and accepted love poetry from knights and the sons of lords who had never actually spoken to her. She wore stiff dresses and uncomfortable shoes. She smiled.

  But after her brother died, she woke sometimes in the middle of the night, with her heart pounding and her mouth dry. She would think I am going to be queen one day, but she had no idea what qualities she would bring to the role. Would she be a fair queen or a cruel one? She didn’t know if she was cruel or fair. She didn’t know how she was going to exude authority and actually rule, because unlike her brother, who was born to be the King, she was a nothing person with nothing to offer except that she existed. And now her father had died and she was the Queen and the one thing that she did know was that she wasn’t ready yet.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ she said.

  Sir John Penrith, the Chancellor and head of the Regency Council, bounced into the room and gave a jaunty little bow. Deborah curtseyed. This was her day for curtseying to everyone.

  ‘The King is dead, long live the Queen,’ said Sir John in cheery greeting. He was a skinny man with a pot belly and long white eyebrows that grew like a peacock’s tail feathers.

  ‘Good morning, Sir John,’ said Martha.

  She didn’t know Sir John particularly well. Mainly she saw him in chapel, where she noticed he had the habit of sticking his tongue in the Communion wine.

  ‘Everybody’s waiting,’ he said, raising one of those eyebrows at the sight of her robe. ‘I think it would make a better impression if you were dressed.’

  ‘Waiting?’

  ‘For you, my Queen. Deborah, would you fetch an appropriate dress for Her Majesty?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Deborah. She bobbed a curtsey at Sir John, then one at Martha, realised that the one for Martha had not been lower than the one for Sir John, curtseyed again lower to Martha, felt that was uneven somehow, gave Sir John another curtsey but made sure it was a smaller one this time, bowed to Martha, and backed out of the room.

  ‘It’s just a short meeting,’ said Sir John, ‘nothing to frighten the horses. Would you mind if I sat down?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he hitched up his leggings and sat on Martha’s favourite armchair by the fireplace, leaning back with a contented sigh and crossing his legs at the ankle.

  ‘I must say,’ he said, ‘I’m rather looking forward to retirement. I’m thinking of France. The weather’s lovely in the south.’

  ‘Retirement?’ said Martha.

  ‘The French can be a little stand-offish, it’s true,’ Sir John continued, ‘but the cuisine! Richer than Midas, but the sauces are exquisite.’

  ‘You’re stepping down?’

  ‘I might take up boules. I’ve always fancied it. My parents forced me into book-learning, but I have the soul of an athlete.’

  ‘But who’s going to be my chancellor?’

  ‘Why, my dear, anyone you like. You’re the Queen now.’

  The door opened again and in came Deborah, curtseying elaborately with every step. She had some black fabric draped over one arm, around which a few moths drifted.

  ‘I’ll leave you ladies to it,’ said Sir John. ‘I’ll wait right outside the door until you’re ready to go downstairs. Le Roi est mort, vive la Reine, as they say in France.’

  After Sir John went out, Deborah held up the fabric, which turned out to be a somewhat old-fashioned dress.

  ‘This was your mother’s, from the plague era,’ she said. ‘She was never out of mourning then. Well, until the plague got her.’ She gave the garment a suspicious glance, then brightened. ‘It’s been in the attic a good long while. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’

  Martha removed her dressing gown and nightgown and stood in her underwear, her arms raised as Deborah slipped the dress over her head. The garment was cold and damp against her skin and smelt of mould.

  ‘There we go!’ said Deborah. ‘Oh, wait.’ She reached out and pulled something away from Martha’s armpit. ‘Spider! What a big one! Hairy, too.’

  Deborah ejected the arachnid out of the window.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, turning back to Martha. ‘You look exactly like your father just died.’

  Fourteen

  Once Deborah had pinned up her heavy red hair, Martha joined Sir John outside her bedchamber and he led her to the throne room, which had been co-opted by the Regency Council as a meeting space during her father’s illness.

  Most of the room was taken up with a long wooden table piled high with papers, along both sides of which were seated richly dressed elderly men, whom Martha recognised from around the castle. So many of the men had ear trumpets they looked like a brass band.

  ‘The King is dead! Long live the Queen!’ the men chorused.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ said Martha.

  There were two empty seats at the table. Sir John made his way towards one of them, so Martha headed towards the other.

  ‘Not there, Your Majesty,’ said Sir John. ‘There.’

  He pointed to the dais at the far end of the room. Of course. There was the throne, ornate in gold leaf and red velvet. This was where she belonged now. Stacked up next to it, and detracting from its grandeur in a way that, at that moment, Martha found reassuring, was a teetering pile of papers and scrolls. Next to it was another pile of papers, and next to that, another one. Next to that one was another pile of papers, and next to that pile of papers was a pile of papers.

  Martha picked her way up the steps to the dais and looked at the throne. Am I really going to sit here? She turned and sat down. There was a huge puff of dust. She arranged the folds of her mother’s dress, which swamped her skinny frame, and surveyed the room. There were a lot of bald pates.

  ‘Are we waiting for someone?’ she said, looking at the vacant seat.

  ‘Pardon me?’ said Sir John. ‘Oh, no. That chair belongs to the Crone.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘To be honest, we’re not sure. She hasn’t been to a meeting since Christmas. We’re keeping her chair free in case she decides to come back. She never contributed much anyway, we just felt we needed a woman, for balance. But we have a new woman now, don’t we?’ He raised his voice. ‘A very warm welcome to Queen Martha on behalf of all the members of the Regency Council!’

  ‘Speech!’ cried one of the men.

  The others took up the call. ‘Speech! Speech! Speech!’

  Martha cleared her throat.

  ‘It is an honour –’ she began.

  ‘Sir John!’ interrupted the first man.

  ‘Sir John! Sir John! Sir John!’ chorused the others.

  ‘Oh, well, if you i
nsist,’ said Sir John. He climbed up onto his chair. ‘Your Majesty, my lords, bishops, gentlemen, and, in absentia, the Crone. It is the dawning of a new era for our nation. We have new hands on the reins. New boots urging the Horse of State on, from walk to trot to canter to gallop. It is a good horse. A noble horse. Glossy of coat and frisky of tail. A hacker. A jumper. Strong enough for a warrior, gentle enough for a child. Perky ears. Excellent teeth. Huge brown eyes. And a foaming, stinking lather of honest sweat. A great horse can make a great rider of any man, or, to a lesser extent, woman, if he, or if necessary she, trusts in the horse. But the rider must also guide the horse, guide it with wisdom, empathy, compassion, and the occasional application of spurs. One beloved rider has fallen at the fence of life today, but another has risen from the paddock. Queen Martha, we entrust you with this sacred saddle. Good luck, and giddy up.’

  The men whooped and cheered, banging their fists on the table, aside from one fellow at the end of the table closest to Martha, so lined and wrinkled that he looked like a crumpled handkerchief recently pulled out of the bottom of a boot. He said loudly to his neighbour over the applause, ‘I didn’t catch any of that. What was the part about the ears?’

  ‘Thank you all,’ said Martha. ‘I will endeavour to ride this horse as best I can and –’

  ‘Three cheers for Queen Martha!’ said Sir John. ‘Hip hip!’

  ‘Hooray!’ chorused the men.

  ‘Hip hip!’

  ‘Hooray!’

  ‘Hip hip!’

  ‘Hooray!’

  ‘Now, where to begin?’ said Sir John, climbing back down off his chair. ‘There’s so much to get through before we leave you to it.’

  ‘Leave me to it?’

  ‘Of course. The King is dead.’

  ‘Long live the Queen!’ said the men.

  ‘You are the monarch now, and in full possession of your faculties. There is no need for a Regency any more. Of course, I would suggest that you appoint some advisers to assist you with your decision-making, particularly in areas that are inappropriate for a female – the archbishopric, for example. But the men of this chamber are advanced in years, and ready to pass the burden, and gift, of power on to the next generation.’