Argument: The Royal Tournament on a cold afternoon – Lathynarn discovers that being known once is not enough to be known again.Our ponies stoppled up to the field where the Royal Tournament was held – the clouds dipped low and the towers disappeared and, yes, just as I told him and had feared: the queue was long, long, long – a holiday of subjects all huddled along.
“The queue
is a bored one –
we’ll wait here for all of a week
‘till we get through and in.
And what’s the point?”
He snorted at me.
A boy before us on his father’s shoulders; a mother scalding her child – yes, with a flask of hot tea; list upon list of lovers a-courting, kisses a-floating and hands all a-flutter; the Kingdom Young Team a-fighting with the Borough Boys – hammers in hand and blood in their bottles; a line stretched to the entry point with children and elders and inbetweeners all hunting a small but real entertainment.
A fortnight of sparrows swarmed above us, ignoring the fact of their number – a crowd’s well and good when crowding the ground, but crowding the air is a matter for others.
We waited for hours and arrived at the ticket gate.
“Two, please.
(… I asked…)
My master here
is Sir Lathynarn, Dwarfish Knight,
and we seek to enter
to serve the King.”
Having no money, of course, we failed and instead rode around to an empty part of the perimeter, tied our ponies to the wire, and sneaked under towards the action.
Milling and bashing, the crowd a fluid around us – some drifted to the shows, the King’s Wizard and his magic tricks (his pick-a-card-whatever-card) – some picnicked on the ice, the winter ground a frosted hard – some shopped at the stalls – some talked at the piles of rubbish building up.
We crawled to the arena, moving through the legs – I reached up to grab a programme from an unobservant mother and flicked the pages at the colour and importance of it all.
And oh-oh-oh that tournament rag! the crowds of bottles of food and bread and sausages cheered their way at the gallops of the knights – swift left dives and rights to their opponents - the noise hit us as their maces fell on painted armour, sparking gold flecks to glitter that caught the light from Lathy’s eyes.
Leaning on the bottom spar of the barrier, he sang:
“Witness
the gathered knights,
all tottered on their armoured steeds
set to die for the King
and the King’s needs.
“Armour
gold and blueing
on the sky, take the enemy’s
eye and sun it over
the battle field.
“Sing out:
glory, glory,
view the baldrics supporting horns
to call the brave to fight –
hear the horns blare.
“See there:
a sword on shield
a shield flung across the great face
of the one the crowd loves
least – hear them boo!
“And who
would not be them?
They are the soul of the nation,
the ones who would keep us
so entertained…
“Armour
shielding the world
that would damage a nation full
of those who love nowt more
than these great ones!”
Yes, they entertained and I was jaw-dropped - this was so much more than our chess games - but I said:
“Don’t talk
like that, Lathy.
You sound a fool, and a fool sounds
from out your vocal chords
and we’re laughing.”
He ignored me and asked for the names of the knights – I read from the programme:
“'RUFUS
THE MIGHTY KNIGHT –
slayer of the worms of the north –
mess around with his might
and be sorry.'
“'SIR JOE
TEN-FINGERED KNIGHT
OF NO THUMBS – and he uses them.
Watch as he wields his axe
in the RUMBLE.'
“'SIR TIM
THE TIMEOUS –
always on time, always kindly
and certain of the way
to kill moments.’
“’THE GREAT
SIR CHRISTOPHER –
knowledge and skill and vanity
combine for us to hate
his wicked ways!’”
It went on, knight after knight – a days worth had I been interested.
So I returned to watch the field and catch the jousting and the foreplay and the circling of swords and shields and men in armour – whirl upon whirl, their planetary motions.
More knights came out to the field - Lathy asked:
“The cheers
are for whom, squire?
The noise rose when that silver one
came riding to the field.
His name – tell me.”
I found the shield in the programme:
“’GAWAIN
CELEBRATOS -
you all know his worth to the King –
his right hand, his greatest,
watch his future.’”
A change happened - two sides formed and faux-battle began – flourishes of horsemanship lifting the crowd to Ooooh – brandishings of arms for crowd pleasing effect – they ran and smashed, their eyes turning to take the applause, their bows after successful blows a glory in battle.
“Join them!
(… Lathynarn, under his breath, his eyes looking at something other than the battle…)
I must ride out.
Society’s all well and good
but give me only me,
myself alone.”
I tried to hold him back – but the clanking of his armour trapped my fingers at a joint – he pulled his sword from his green metal thigh and ran out screaming to the knights.
Security rushed to him – a blanket spread over his helmeted head as they circled and collapsed on his dwarfishness – he escaped once, ran a circle and tripped over Gawain’s feet, then butted Sir Joe’s axe resting on the ground.
The knights all stopped their battling.
I shouted:
“Lathy!
The other way!
(But he’s blinded and cannot see
what other way to go
in any case…)”
The guards caught him – how couldn’t they? – his little legs, his metal legs, his iron legs clanking slow – his face covered and blind, but he still ran to the knights, sword and shield displayed – his blade magnetising to their belts and cuffs.
(The crowd must have whooped or booed – but who would listen to them?)
Lifted over a shoulder, hiked up, perhaps, in celebration – Lathynarn was paraded out of the arena; I felt his pride from under the blanket – and then a red-balloon face appeared, lifting its visor:
“Hunt me.
Take me from here.
Do whatever you need to me –
But never forget me.
No, not ever!”
I chased after the guards who took him past the King staring down from his box – Lathy’s eyes met the Queen’s, and the Queen’s, it must be presumed, met his.
prev - 1.2 Squire, armour, sword and steed
next - 1.4 Overhearing the Queen
