The Once and Future King

Chapter XXII

King Pellinore arrived for the important week-end in a high state of flurry.

‘I say,’ he exclaimed, ‘do you know? Have you heard? Is it a secret, what?’

‘Is what a secret, what?’ they asked him.

‘Why, the King,’ cried his majesty. ‘You know, about the King?’

‘What’s the matter with the King?’ inquired Sir Ector. ‘You don’t say he’s comin’ down to hunt with those demned hounds of his or anythin’ like that?’

‘He’s dead,’ cried King Pellinore tragically. ‘He’s dead, poor fellah, and can’t hunt any more.’

Sir Grummore stood up respectfully and took off his cap of maintenance.

‘The King is dead,’ he said. ‘Long live the King.’

Everybody else felt they ought to stand up too, and the boys’ nurse burst into tears.

‘There, there,’ she sobbed. ‘His loyal highness dead and gone, and him such a respectful gentleman. Many’s the illuminated picture I’ve cut out of him, from the Illustrated Missals, aye and stuck up over the mantel. From the time when he was in swaddling bands, right through them world towers till he was a-visiting the dispersed areas as the world’s Prince Charming there wasn’t a picture of ’im but I had it out, aye, and give ’im a last thought o’ nights.’

‘Compose yourself, Nannie,’ said Sir Ector.

‘It is solemn, isn’t it?’ said King Pellinore, ‘what? Uther the Conqueror, 1066 to 1216.’

‘A solemn moment,’ said Sir Grummore. ‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’

‘We ought to pull down the curtains,’ said Kay, who was always a stickler for good form,’ or half-mast the banners.’

‘That’s right,’ said Sir Ector. ‘Somebody go and tell the sergeant-at-arms.’

It was obviously the Wart’s duty to execute this command, for he was now the junior nobleman present, so he ran out cheerfully to find the sergeant. Soon those who were left in the solar could hear a voice crying out, ‘Nah then, one-two, special mourning fer ’is lite majesty, lower awai on the command Two!’ and then the flapping of all the standards, banners, pennons, pennoncells, banderolls, guidons, streamers and cognizances which made gay the snowy turrets of the Forest Sauvage.

‘How did you hear?’ asked Sir Ector.

‘I was pricking through the purlieus of the forest after that Beast, you know, when I met with a solemn friar of orders grey, and he told me. It’s the very latest news.’

‘Poor old Pendragon,’ said Sir Ector.

‘The King is dead,’ said Sir Grummore solemnly. ‘Long live the King.’

‘It is all very well for you to keep on mentioning that, my dear Grummore,’ exclaimed King Pellinore petulantly, ‘but who is this King, what, that is to live so long, what, accordin’ to you?’

‘Well, his heir,’ said Sir Grummore, rather taken aback.

‘Our blessed monarch,’ said the Nurse tearfully, ‘never had no hair. Anybody that studied the loyal family knowed that.’

‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Sir Ector. ‘But he must have had a next-of-kin?’

‘That’s just it,’ cried King Pellimore in high excitement. ‘That’s the excitin’ part of it, what? No hair and no next of kin, and who’s to succeed to the throne? That’s what my friar was so excited about, what, and why he was asking who could succeed to what, what? What?’

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ exclaimed Sir Grummore indignantly, ‘that there ain’t no King of Gramarye?’

‘Not a scrap of one,’ cried King Pellinore, feeling important. ‘And there have been signs and wonders of no mean might.’

‘I think it’s a scandal,’ said Sir Grummore. ‘God knows what the dear old country is comin’ to. Due to these lollards and communists, no doubt.’

‘What sort of signs and wonders?’ asked Sir Ector.

‘Well, there has appeared a sort of sword in a stone, what, in a sort of church. Not in the church, if you see what I mean, and not in the stone, but that sort of thing, what, like you might say.’

‘I don’t know what the Church is coming to,’ said Sir Grummore.

‘It’s in an anvil,’ explained the King.

‘The Church?’

‘No, the sword.’

‘But I thought you said the sword was in the stone?’

‘No,’ said King Pellinore. ‘The stone is outside the church.’

‘Look here, Pellinore,’ said Sir Ector. ‘You have a bit of a rest, old boy, and start again. Here, drink up this horn of mead and take it easy.’

‘The sword,’ said King Pellinore, ‘is stuck through an anvil which stands on a stone. It goes right through the anvil and into the stone. The anvil is stuck to the stone. The stone stands outside a church. Give me some more mead.’

‘I don’t think that’s much of a wonder,’ remarked Sir Grummore. ‘What I wonder at is that they should allow such things to happen. But, you can’t tell nowadays, what with all these Saxton agitators.’

‘My dear fellah,’ cried Pellinore, getting excited again, ‘it’s not where the stone is, what, that I’m trying to tell you, but what is written on it, what, where it is.’

‘What?’

‘Why, on its pommel.’

‘Come on, Pellinore,’ said Sir Ector. ‘You just sit quite still with your face to the wall for a minute, and then tell us what you are talkin’ about. Take it easy, old boy. No need for hurryin’. You sit still and look at the wall, there’s a good chap, and talk as slow as you can.’

‘There are words written on this sword in this stone outside this church,’ cried King Pellinore piteously, ‘and these words are as follows. Oh, do try to listen to me, you two, instead of interruptin’ all the time about nothin’, for it makes a man’s head go ever so.’

‘What are these words?’ asked Kay.

‘These words say this,’ said King Pellinore, ‘so far as I can understand from that old friar of orders grey.’

‘Go on, do,’ said Kay, for the King had come to a halt.

‘Go on,’ said Sir Ector, ‘what do these words on this sword in this anvil in this stone outside this church, say?’

‘Some red propaganda, no doubt,’ remarked Sir Grummore.

King Pellinore closed his eyes tight, extended his arms in both directions, and announced in capital letters, ‘Whoso Pulleth Out This Sword of this Stone and Anvil, is Rightwise King Born of All England.’

‘Who said that?’ asked Sir Grummore.

‘But the sword said it, like I tell you.’

‘Talkative weapon,’ remarked Sir Grummore sceptically.

‘It was written on it,’ cried the King angrily. ‘Written on it in letters of gold.’

‘Why didn’t you pull it out then?’ asked Sir Grummore.

‘But I tell you that I wasn’t there. All this that I am telling you was told to me by that friar I was telling you of, like I tell you.’

‘Has this sword with this inscription been pulled out?’ inquired Sir Ector.

‘No,’ whispered King Pellinore dramatically. ‘That’s where the whole excitement comes in. They can’t pull this sword out at all, although they have all been tryin’ like fun, and so they have had to proclaim a tournament all over England, for New Year’s Day, so that the man who comes to the tournament and pulls out the sword can be King of all England for ever, what, I say?’

‘Oh, father,’ cried Kay. ‘The man who pulls that sword out of the stone will be the King of England. Can’t we go to the tournament, father, and have a shot?’

‘Couldn’t think of it,’ said Sir Ector.

‘Long way to London,’ said Sir Grummore, shaking his head.

‘My father went there once,’ said King Pellinore.

Kay said, ‘Oh, surely we could go? When I am knighted I shall have to go to a tournament somewhere, and this one happens at just the right date. All the best people will be there, and we should see the famous knights and great kings. It does not matter about the sword, of course, but think of the tournament, probably the greatest there has ever been in Gramarye, and all the things we should see and do. Dear father, let me go to this tourney, if you love me, so that I may bear away the prize of all, in my maiden fight.’

‘But, Kay,’ said Sir Ector, ‘I have never been to London.’

‘All the more reason to go. I believe that anybody who does not go for a tournament like this will be proving that he has no noble blood in his veins. Think what people will say about us, if we do not go and have a shot at that sword. They will say that Sir Ector’s family was too vulgar and knew it had no chance.’

‘We all know the family has no chance,’ said Sir Ector, ‘that is, for the sword.’

‘Lot of people in London,’ remarked Sir Grummore, with a wild surmise. ‘So they say.’

He took a deep breath and goggled at his host with eyes like marbles.

‘And shops,’ added King Pellinore suddenly, also beginning to breathe heavily.

‘Dang it!’ cried Sir Ector, bumping his horn mug on the table so that it spilled. ‘Let’s all go to London, then, and see the new King!’

They rose up as one man.

‘Why shouldn’t I be as good a man as my father?’ exclaimed King Pellinore.

‘Dash it all,’ cried Sir Grummore. ‘After all, damn it all, it is the capital!’

‘Hurray!’ shouted Kay.

‘Lord have mercy,’ said the nurse.

At this moment the Wart came in with Merlyn, and everybody was too excited to notice that, if he had not been grown up now, he would have been on the verge of tears.

‘Oh, Wart,’ cried Kay, forgetting for the moment that he was only addressing his squire, and slipping back into the familiarity of their boyhood. ‘What do you think? We are all going to London for a great tournament on New Year’s Day!’

‘Are we?’

‘Yes, and you will carry my shield and spears for the jousts, and I shall win the palm of everybody and be a great knight!’

‘Well, I am glad we are going,’ said the Wart, ‘for Merlyn is leaving us too.’

‘Oh, we shan’t need Merlyn.’

‘He is leaving us,’ repeated the Wart.

‘Leavin’ us?’ asked Sir Ector. ‘I thought it was we that were leavin’?’

‘He is going away from the Forest Sauvage.’

Sir Ector said, ‘Come now, Merlyn, what’s all this about? I don’t understand all this a bit.’

‘I have come to say Good-bye, Sir Ector,’ said the old magician. ‘Tomorrow my pupil Kay will be knighted, and the next week my other pupil will go away as his squire. I have outlived my usefulness here, and it is time to go.’

‘Now, now, don’t say that,’ said Sir Ector. ‘I think you’re a jolly useful chap whatever happens. You just stay and teach me, or be the librarian or something. Don’t you leave an old man alone, after the children have flown.’

‘We shall all meet again,’ said Merlyn. ‘There is no cause to be sad.’

‘Don’t go,’ said Kay.

‘I must go,’ replied their tutor. ‘We have had a good time while we were young, but it is in the nature of Time to fly. There are many things in other parts of the kingdom which I ought to be attending to just now, and it is a specially busy time for me. Come, Archimedes, say Good-bye to the company.’

‘Good-bye,’ said Archimedes tenderly to the Wart.

‘Good-bye,’ said the Wart without looking up at all.

‘But you can’t go,’ cried Sir Ector, ‘not without a month’s notice.’

‘Can’t I?’ replied Merlyn, taking up the position always used by philosophers who propose to dematerialize. He stood on his toes, while Archimedes held tight to his shoulder – began to spin on them slowly like a top – spun faster and faster till he was only a blur of greyish light – and in a few seconds there was no one there at all.

‘Good-bye, Wart,’ cried two faint voices outside the solar window.

‘Good-bye,’ said the Wart for the last time – and the poor fellow went quickly out of the room.