The Camelot Spell - Laura Anne Gilman [7]
“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