King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (18 page)

“The purpose of the Round Table,” said Arthur, “is to ensure that all knights are equal. The table has no head, therefore nobody can sit at it.”

“All knights may be equal,” said Torre, “but you are our leader. So what we really need is an oblong table with you sitting at the head.”

“Or possibly,” suggested Governayle, “a table in the form of an isosceles triangle with you sitting at the apex.”

“That won’t work,” said Arthur. “The knights sitting nearest the apex will feel they are in some way favored.”

“Well, aren’t they?” asked Governayle. “I mean, if you don’t favor Torre and I, for instance, why didn’t you bring Palomides along to discuss this problem?”

Arthur found the implications of the question too complex, so he dismissed it brusquely. “Palomides is a jackass. Nevertheless, he is equal. Accept it. The table must be round, obviously;
otherwise it wouldn’t be the Round Table.”

“Tristan found he couldn’t sit at the rim of a round table,” said Torre, “because somebody would have to sit next to him, and they would be looked on as favored. He tried to get over the problem by cutting a hole in the middle of the table and sitting there. But that wasn’t too successful, either, because he had to crawl through everybody’s legs to get there, or walk over the table, which some people viewed as appalling manners, and inappropriate for a leader of men.”

“The Round Table became a liability,” said Governayle. “And the women began to laugh, because we spent a lot of time discussing ways to make it work. Then one of the women suggested suspending Tristan from a harness and swinging him in a circle so that he kept passing before each person sitting at the Round Table. Unfortunately, by then we were all rather tired, and some people took her seriously.”

“
You
took her seriously,” said Torre. “You said that Tristan could have a table suspended, too, swinging with him.”

Governayle flushed. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yes, you do. You said that Tristan’s food and wine would stay in place on his swinging table, because of some law of physics Merlin told you about.”

“Centrifugal force,” muttered Governayle. “The table would tilt inward as it swung, and his plate and mug would stick to it.”

“There you are, you see. And then the women started to laugh, and we realized we were being made fun of. It was an embarrassing moment, and Tristan avoided using the Round Table after that. It had become discredited, and we didn’t talk about it anymore.”

“The Round Table is a potent symbol of chivalry,” said Arthur, “and it’s a great shame that it should fall into disuse because of a few practical difficulties.”

“The women
see it as a potent symbol of stupidity,” said Torre.

“That will change. I propose to resurrect the Table.” He thumped the heavy oak, raising a puff of dust. “But this time it will be constructed according to sound principles of engineering. Does the Great Hall have cellars?”

“It does. The stairs are against the north wall.”

Arthur strode across the hall. Torre and Governayle followed, glancing at each other unhappily. The great Tristan, too, had sometimes become obsessed with appearances instead of victories. They remembered his famous speech following the Battle of Callington, when his forces were routed by the Welsh. “It matters not who won the battle,” he had intoned from a makeshift platform on the village green, “it matters only who is
perceived
to have won.”

And like many of Tristan’s utterances, it had sounded pretty good at first hearing, and his men had cheered him resoundingly. But as the shouting died, a lone voice had called out, “But we are perceived to have
lost!
” And the men returned to reality with a jolt, and their wounds began to pain them again.

“I really think, Arthur,” ventured Governayle, a reasonably sensible young man who lived in fear of being correctly identified as the Lone Voice at Callington, “that it would be better to forget the Round Table. It’s brought us nothing but grief. We invested all kinds of time into building this place, and where has it gotten us?”

“I shall need a team of carpenters,” said Arthur firmly, “and a team of horses. Make a note of that, Torre.”

Torre, too, had been remembering Callington. The reason for their defeat had been apparent to all. Tristan, obsessed with the need for presenting a smart and disciplined appearance on the field of battle, had ordered his foot soldiers to burnish their armor and his cavalry to dubbin their saddles. The Welsh had attacked while both men and horses were undressed.

“You need a team of horses,” he said, “and a team of carpenters. It shall be done.”

“No,
Torre,” said Arthur patiently. “A team of carpenters and a team of horses.”

“That’s what I said.”

“The sequence is important. A team of carpenters. Then—after a reasonable interval—a team of horses. And within the month,” Arthur cried in ringing tones, “the Round Table shall live again!”

He had paused at the top of the cellar steps in order to deliver this pronouncement. The effect was spoiled somewhat by a crash as the main door flew open. Nyneve ran into the Great Hall, her black hair flying like a mane.

“Arthur! The Irish are coming! The Irish are coming!” She halted before them, breathless.

“The Irish?”

“Their ships are approaching the beach. I’ve alerted the men. They told me I’d find you here.”

“It’s Arthur’s job to alert the men, Nyneve,” said Torre sternly. “You’ve exceeded your authority.”

“You did well, Nyneve,” said Arthur reassuringly. “Do we propose to fight the Irish, or invite them to a feast?”

It was a good question. “By the time we find out,” said Governayle thoughtfully, “it could be too late.”

“Then obviously we should assume they’ve come to fight us, and act accordingly,” said Torre. “Meet the bastards on the beach and hurl them back into the sea! Tristan did it once.”

“Sometimes I feel I’m living in the shadow of Tristan,” said Arthur sadly.

“Ambush them in the forest,” said Governayle. “Lie in wait beside the path. Allow them to pass, then take them from the rear. As they turn, bring in a second force to attack their flank. That way we can wipe out every last man!”

“Won’t they be expecting that?”

“No. They’ll expect to take
us
by surprise. Nobody lives near the beach, you see. You get the most fearful cold winds funneling up the valley in the winter. So there’s nobody to give the alarm. Who did give the alarm, by the way?”

“Pong,” said Nyneve.

“That’s the
gnome who lives in the cliff cave, isn’t it?” said Arthur. “Those little fellows are already proving their worth as allies. Size is no measure of courage.”

Torre, a huge man, said, “Pong is reputed to be an unusually cowardly gnome. No doubt he fled from the Irish.”

“He told me he fled from the lopster,” said Nyneve. “But all this is beside the point, isn’t it? You must get your armor on, Arthur. Your men will be waiting for you.”

“I need no armor,” said Arthur. “I have Excalibur.”

“Excalibur!” shouted Torre enthusiastically.

“Come on, then!” said Nyneve.

Sometime later the forces of Mara Zion crouched in the undergrowth near the path to the village, Governayle’s plan having prevailed. It was raining steadily, dribbling down the necks of the men and causing mutterings of discontent.

“There’s fifty of us here getting wet,” observed Palomides, “all because we’ve accepted the word of a frightened little bugger called Pong.”

“He can’t help his name,” Torre pointed out.

“It’s not his name I’m objecting to. It’s his size. Never trust a small man, that’s been my watchword, and it’s served me in good stead.”

“I’ll grant you small men are often untrustworthy,” said Torre, “but where you make your mistake, Ned, is in thinking of him as a man. He’s not. He’s a gnome. Different rules apply. For all you know, it’s
big
gnomes that are untrustworthy.”

“So maybe he
is
a big gnome. How can you tell unless you see a bunch of them all together?”

Arthur, crouched nearby, said, “This is not the kind of talk I like to hear from future knights. Remember this, and remember it well. All intelligent creatures are equal—men and gnomes, large and small. We must treat them all with equal respect and we must give them all the benefit of the doubt—until we find we’re mistaken, of course. They are innocent until proven guilty.”

“Why are we waiting here to kill the Irish, then?”

“The Irish are different,” said Arthur.

Governayle
helped him out. “For the purpose of this day’s work, we may regard them as slightly subhuman. Unless, of course, they become our allies. That would put them on the side of God and everything that is right and just.”

“Sometimes I don’t know what the hell you people are talking about,” complained Ned, baffled. “To me there are just two kinds of people. There are your enemies, who you kick in the teeth. And there are your allies, who you watch like a hawk. How can anyone change sides? It makes the whole concept of war meaningless.”

“I’ve just remembered something,” said Governayle. “The Irish
are
our allies.”

“What!” Arthur rose slowly from concealment, shedding leaves and water.

“In the excitement we all forgot. In past years the Irish have certainly been our traditional enemies. That’s how this misunderstanding has arisen. They made a habit of raiding the village and carrying off food and women.”

“How did the village survive through the generations, with the women gone?” asked Arthur, interested.

“They took only the best-looking women. I’ll say this for the Irish: They had good taste. All we were left with were the aged and infirm women, and a handful of younger ones who were not considered well favored. With these we bred. It was an intolerable burden, but we lacked a leader to organize us to counter it. Then came Tristan.”

Palomides took the story up. “With Tristan as our leader, we defeated the Irish. But even the late Tristan had his shortcomings. Instead of executing the Irish forces to a man, he welcomed them as our allies, giving us something else to worry about. To cap it all, he took an Irishwoman, Iseult, as his wife. This had the effect of cementing the unhealthy relationship between Mara Zion and Ireland.”

“So what you’re saying,” said Arthur slowly, “is that we’ve been waiting here to ambush our friends.”

“You could put it like that,” admitted Torre.

“It’s a disgraceful situation.”

“I would
prefer to call it an honest misunderstanding, Arthur.”

“We can’t afford misunderstandings. I must be able to trust my lieutenants to give me accurate information. It would have been a terrible thing indeed, if we’d slaughtered our friends. If we are to bring chivalry to the world, we must practice it ourselves.” His voice rose as he spoke, carrying to the rest of his force as they scrambled to their feet and gathered around him. “This is not a good start,” he said.

The Irish chose that moment to attack.

The first sign that Arthur’s force was under pressure came in the form of isolated shouts and the clash of metal from nearby. Then came a rising chorus of Gaelic yells of discovery: “Here’s another one! By Christ, the forest’s alive with them! Attack, men!”

“That sounds like our friends the Irish,” observed Palomides nervously.

“There seems to be yet another misunderstanding,” said Governayle.

Everybody looked at Arthur.

“Right, men,” he said. “Fall back quickly to the junction of paths and regroup there. Governayle, Palomides, and Torre, come with me.” He began to push his way through the undergrowth toward the sounds of battle. “Does anyone have some kind of a white flag?” he called over his shoulder.

Nobody had. The little group pushed on, Arthur in the lead. “This is where we need the dogs,” whispered Governayle to Torre. “Dogs have a habit of running on ahead. You can get a very good idea of an enemy’s frame of mind by the way he treats a dog appearing suddenly from the bush.”

But they had no dogs, so it was without prior warning that they emerged into a clearing occupied by Irish soldiers.

“We come in peace,” said Arthur quickly.

“That’s bad luck for you,” responded the Irish leader, a large, heavily armored man, “because we don’t. We come in anger. Our purpose is vengeance.”

“Vengeance poisons
the mind,” said Arthur mildly. “It’s a sickness that can corrupt every moment of your day. Of all human emotions, harboring a grudge is the most destructive. Far better to talk it out, to get it off your chest.”

“That depends on the extent of the grudge,” snapped the Irishman.

“Intelligent men do not think in terms of revenge.”

“Actually, Arthur,” Governayle said, breaking in, “intelligent men do. The capacity to harbor a grudge and act on it is what distinguishes us from animals. You don’t get dogs, for instance, harboring grudges. Kick a dog and he’ll forgive you within seconds. I know. I’ve tried it.”

“The last time I kicked my dog,” said Torre, “the bastard took a snap at me. I gave him a bloody good thrashing, I can tell you.”

“Your dog’s snap didn’t constitute revenge. It was an instinctive reaction. The thrashing was revenge.”

“It was a well-earned punishment, to teach him an important lesson.”

“Did you feel better after doing it?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then it was revenge,” said Governayle.

“Exactly,” said the Irishman, growing impatient with the discussion. “And we Irish want to feel better. Right now we feel bad. Reports have reached us that Iseult, the daughter of our king, is dead. She was entrusted to the care of your leader, Tristan, and he betrayed that trust, allowing her to be brutally slain. Men of Mara Zion, you have a lot to account for. Draw your swords!”

“Stay out of this,” Arthur said to his men, abandoning hope of talking his way out of it. He drew Excalibur. “May I know who I am about to kill?” he asked politely.

“Marhaus,” replied the big Irishman. Quickly he added, “I already know Torre and Governayle, and the donkey Palomides. But who are you? Shouldn’t you put some armor on before you start waving that thing around?”