Comedic Arthurian Bundle: The Adventures of Queen Arthur

by John P. Logsdon

  Sir Gaheris leaned against the wall beyond the end of the table. He was the tallest of all the knights, and probably the strongest as well. He had mussy brown hair and a full beard to match, and he wore a permanent look of a man who had become a master at grumbling. He was gruff and often irritable, but his skill in fighting was a thing of legend. Arthur had seen him single-handedly skewer five seasoned fighters who were all attacking at once, and the overgrown oaf hadn’t even broken a sweat. Plus, of all the knights under Arthur’s command, Gaheris was one who rarely questioned orders. He would sometimes ignore them, but he seldom questioned them. One of the primary orders that he seemed to find difficult to accept was that of maintaining a proper bath schedule, which made it a point of discussion each year at the knight’s annual review. The fact was that cleanliness and Gaheris did not get along.

  “Everyone, quiet down,” Lance-A-Lot said. “Our king wishes a word.”

  “Thank you, Sir Lance-a-lot.” Arthur gathered his wits and cleared his throat. “Knights, hear me. We have the potential of going on a quest that is unlike any we’ve been on before.”

  “Is there going—hic—to be any fighting this time?” said Sir Bedivere in his drunken way.

  “It may come to that, of course.”

  “I heard—hic—that last time there was...was...wasn’t any fighting.”

  Purcivale wiped his nose and turned to Tristan. “We did a bit of a go ‘round with a couple of highwaymen, ain’t we, Tristy?”

  “Wasn’t much of a tumble, Percy,” Tristan said, “but enough to warrant a touch of battle with the ting-tings.”

  “The what?” said Bedivere in a half-burp.

  “Ting-tings, guv,” answered Purcivale.

  “Eh?”

  “Come now, Beddy,” said Tristan. “You know what the ting-tings are. Long butterknives, they is.”

  “Oversized cutlery,” agreed Purcivale.

  “Huh?” said Bedivere.

  “They’re talking about swords, Sir Bedivere,” offered Lance-A-Lot.

  “Well, why don’t they say—hic—that?”

  Purcivale leaned back and crossed his arms. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Right,” Arthur jumped in, hoping to curb the conversation before it fell into a massive debate. With Purcivale and Tristan at the helm, the true discussion would never get started. “Well, let’s get back to the task at hand, shall we? This will be an arduous journey that will test our will. It will require a strong resolve…” Arthur stopped, noting that the bard had his hand up. “Yes, Sir Gareth?”

  “Sire, do you know how long this journey will be?”

  Arthur was taken aback by this question. He shouldn’t have been, since it was asked almost every time he attempted to put a quest together, but he couldn’t help feeling that it was inconsequential. Quests took however long they took. All the knights knew this.

  “Uknown at this time,” he replied smoothly. “It could be hours, days, or even weeks. Why?”

  “It’s just that my new band is slated to headline this coming weekend and we’ve all worked very hard to get here.”

  “Sorry, your new band?”

  “Yes, sire,” Gareth said, sitting forward excitedly. “We’re called Death Knight. We play Heavy Wood music.”

  “Heavy Wood?” said Arthur, glancing slightly at Sir Lance-A-Lot.

  “Rubbish,” Bors said with a snort.

  “That it is,” agreed Kay.

  “Excuse me,” Gareth fumed, “but do I put down your silly plays?”

  “Silly?” Bors looked serious. “They’re not silly.”

  “Agreed,” Kay said, “and besides now, of course, I have never heard you say a disparaging word regarding our work.”

  “And do you know why?”

  Sir Kay pondered for a moment. “I’m assuming it has something to do with your desire to keep your head attached to your person.”

  “No,” said Gareth. Then he bit his lip and added, “Well, yes, that’s true. But it’s also because I respect the both of you.”

  “Hic—Why?” said Bedivere.

  “Because of that respect,” continued Gareth, “I do not sully the things that you are involved in. What have you to say to that?”

  “That your music is rubbish,” Bors answered with a shrug.

  “Precisely,” said Kay. “It’s a disturbing cacophony of noises that rival only that of angry tomcats.”

  Gareth’s jaw hung open for a moment. “How rude.”

  “You see, Sir Gareth,” Bors told the smaller man, “we are free to speak our minds on the subject for two reasons. Kay?”

  Kay smiled. “We’re not afraid of losing our heads at the end of your blade.”

  “And?” said Bors.

  “We have no respect for you.”

  “Ouch,” said Gareth, looking suddenly downtrodden.

  “Right,” said Arthur, making a mental note to have a word with Sir Lance-A-Lot to have a word with Sir Bors and Sir Kay in the manner with which they treat other artists who don’t contain themselves to the interests of the theater. “So Gareth won’t be joining our trip. Neither will Bedivere.”

  “I—hic—won’t?”

  “You won’t,” affirmed Arthur. “However, if we come across a quest that requires someone to be perpetually sloshed, you’ll be top on the list of recruits.”

  Bedivere raised his mug and gave a solitary, “Hear, hear!”

  Arthur knew well that there would only be a few willing to tear themselves away from whatever their personal interests were in the area. They would drop everything to defend Camelot, of course, but when it came to quests, only a few of them seemed to enjoy the concept. Lance-A-Lot had often claimed that the men were bored, but Arthur never spotted supporting evidence for that claim. Regardless, each of them was expected to pull their fair share of the duty, so while a few of them remained behind during the Scotland quest, they would have to step up this time.

  Still, he would hear their say.

  “Anyone else looking to stay behind?”

  “If it’s all the same to you, sire,” said Lamorak, “I have been supporting young Gareth and his band of noisemakers—”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry,” Lamorak amended, “I meant instrumentalists. I have a touch of an investment to oversee in their future.”

  “An investment?” questioned Arthur.

  “He’s the band’s manager, sire,” Gareth said with a grumble that relayed he was not fond of Lamorak’s description of the band.

  “Ah.”

  “I’m out, too,” said Gawain.

  “And your reason, Sir Gawain?”

  “Mostly that I can’t stand hanging around Sirs Purcivale and Tristan,” Gawain stated. “I know they’ll be going because they always do, and I just can’t take it. The both of them are fiercely annoying and they smell of soured cheese.”

  “Sir Gawain,” Lamorak chastised his fellow knight, “what have we said about your blurting issues?”

  The blood exited Gawain’s face. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” His head drooped and he blew out a breath before turning to Sirs Purcivale and Tristan. “I implore you to accept my most profound apologies. May I trip and fall face-first into a puddle of sludge, drowning slowly and with much pain and anguish.”

  “There,” said Lamorak, “that’s better. Disturbing, but better.”

  “What’s wrong with smelling like cheese, Tristy?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest, Percy. Much better than the roses that Borsy and Kay smell like.”

  “What’s that?” said Bors.

  “Ignore the cheese twins, Sir Bors,” Kay said, placing a restraining hand on the larger man’s shoulder. “Simply not worth the effort.”

  “Enough of this,” Arthur demanded as he scanned the faces seated at the table. These were supposed to be the best of the best. Men of honor. Men of integrity. They shouldn’t be attacking each other with a constant onslaught of rude quips. “I shall decree who is to attend an
d that will be that. The names are: Bors, Kay, Gaheris, Galahad, Percivale, Tristan, and Mitch.”

  “That’s Lance-A-Lot, sire.”

  “Hmmm?” said Arthur and then realized what he had said. “Oh, yes, right. Sorry.”

  “Don’t forget about me, Arthur,” came the voice of Guinevere, who had walked out of the shadows.

  “Right, and Guinevere...” Arthur started and then stopped. “What are you doing in here, my persimmon? This is not a place for a lady.”

  “Or someone who dresses the part, I would imagine,” she countered.

  Arthur’s eyes widened. “What’s that?”

  “Nothing.” Guinevere yelped, bringing her hand to her mouth. A moment later, appearing even more uncomfortable, she squared her shoulders and painfully muttered, “My love, I ask that I be allowed to go due to the subject matter at hand. I am in a unique position to understand the ladies.”

  “Me, too,” stated Lance-A-Lot.

  “Very true, Sir Lance-A-Lot,” Guinevere said, batting her eyes, “but I’m talking beyond mere conquests.”

  “Ah.”

  “Fine,” Arthur said as if making a decree, “I shall allow it.” Guinevere gave him a sharp look, which caused him to quickly say, “Uh, my pudding.”

  She looked away irritably.

  Arthur took a deep breath and glanced around at his knights once more. Everyone was waiting for his final commands, except for Bedivere who had finally succumbed to the effects of alcohol. His head was resting in an almost empty bowl of stew and he was snoring like he’d not slept in weeks.

  “Get your packs packed and be at the ready,” he commanded. “We leave at daybreak.”

  APPROACHING TOWN

  The sun was coming up as Arty and his small contingent of kilt-wearing soldiers approached a large castle.

  There was a bunch of hubbub coming from the town ahead, signaling that there were merchants about. Dust was on the rise as carriages headed to and from the castle. The king of England definitely had this place moving.

  “That’ll be this Camelot place, I’m guessin’,” said Arty, feeling somewhat awed at the enormity of the building.

  “Considerin’ that it’s a big castle with the points and whatsits,” answered Ceallach, “and considerin’ that big sign back a ways read Camelot - Straight Ahead on it, I’d wager yer after being correct.”

  “Yer startin’ to pick on me nerves, Calle,” Arty said without bothering to look at the man.

  “Sorry, sire,” Ceallach replied. “It’s me way.”

  “And it’s me way to put me foot in the arse of any man who gets on me nerves.”

  “Aye, me lord. Apologies.”

  Arty pulled the horses to a stop. Best he could tell, they were far enough away to not be considered a threat. Even if there were a sentry on one of those parapets, seeing a band of less than twenty wouldn’t be worth worrying over. Still, Arty wasn’t interested in causing a commotion.

  “Tell the men to stay back and make camp. I’m not after wantin’ the nets to come rousin’ while thinking we’re up fer battle.”

  “Nets?”

  “Aye,” Arty affirmed as he jumped down and began fastening the packs on the horse. “Not that I don’t think we can take ‘em, but no point in testin’ the theory.”

  “I’m pretty sure that even our worst could fend off a net, me lord.”

  “I’ve seen their nets, Calle,” Arty replied. He was struggling to cinch up one of the packs. The leather was still new, making it tough to bend into place. “Ye’d be well advised to not underestimate ‘em.”

  “We are talkin’ ‘bout ropey things, yeah?”

  Arty stopped and looked at Ceallach. “What are ye, daft? I’m talking about their soldiers with the blades and the silver suits.”

  “Oh, knights.”

  Arty bit his lip and then finished cinching the strap in place.

  “Yer temptin’ a foot in the arse, Calle.”

  “Sorry, sire.”

  “Get to the men and set up camp. I’m going into town.”

  Ceallach stepped in front of the king. “Alone, me lord?”

  “Aye.”

  “Shouldn’t ye at least have guards?”

  Arthur understood where the man was coming from. It was his duty to protect the king of Scotland, after all. But the logistics behind it were silly at best.

  “Nay. Nobody’s gonna know it’s me unless I say it’s me and even then, what would guards do for me?”

  “Protect you from—”

  “They’d die tryin’, but if they want to take me out, it’d only take a couple of nets.” He pointed warningly at Ceallach. “Don’t be after correcting me again.”

  “But—”

  “Save it, Calle. Ain’t gonna change me mind.” Arty took one last look around. “Now, get the camp set up. I’ll be back soon.”

  READY TO GO

  Arthur had been to Merlin’s place of residence numerous times, but he’d never been beyond the main living area.

  Currently he was standing on a metallic disk of sorts that was embedded into a carved-out alcove. His selected knights were on the platform as well, along with his lovely Guinevere. Merlin, however, was standing over by one of the tables that housed a silver box, a rectangular device that the wizard was clicking away on, and squarish-looking thing that displayed a bunch of characters that looked to be a poor attempt at proper calligraphy.

  The place was surprisingly dry for being a cave. All of the mountain innards that Arthur had explored when he was a lad had a dank smell to them. Their walls were always tattered with wet patches and most had trickles of water dropping every few seconds.

  Still, there was a smell in the air that seemed tangy, and it wasn’t the soured cheese odor that followed Sirs Purcivale and Tristan, either.

  “Okay,” Merlin said as he kept his eyes focused on his task, “you are all about to see things that will likely terrify you. These are things that dwell in the world of magic—”

  “Well,” interrupted Galahad, “in a manner of speaking.”

  “Silence, apprentice!”

  “Apprentice?” said Arthur, feeling rather confused.

  Merlin looked up. “You haven’t told him?”

  “I haven’t told anyone,” Galahad admitted.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I wanted to keep my knight job in the event that this magic hoopla—to use your term—didn’t work out.”

  “You have a night job, too?” Arthur was feeling quite vexed at that.

  “K-N-I-G-H-T, sire,” Galahad corrected. “I mean my normal job as a knight, not a nighttime pursuit.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” Arthur took inventory of the thought again, though. Something was assuredly amiss. “Wait a moment, here. Are you saying that you’ve been moonlighting as a wizard, Sir Galahad?”

  “Mostly just been reading trade journals and the like, sire, but I’ve been doing a bit with electric—”

  “He’s been studying the basics of magic,” Merlin interrupted. He did not seem pleased with Galahad’s explanation in the least. “Runes, lines, eyes of newt, bones, hair... Things of that nature.”

  “Uh, well—”

  “And if Galahad wishes to continue his studies, he’ll know when it’s best to agree with his master’s words.”

  “Right,” Galahad murmured. “What he said.”

  Arthur wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with one of his knights learning the ins and outs of magic. On the one hand it could prove rather useful in battle; on the other hand, it could just mean that he’d end up having to deal with the idiosyncrasies of two wizards. One was bad enough.

  “Anyway,” Merlin continued, turning his attention back to the glowing box, “we are going to be entering a domain that is vastly different than our own. There will be horseless carriages, enormous metal birds, and all sorts of wondrous devices that are beyond your wildest imagination.”

  “Sounds like he’s tipped a few, Percy,” said Tristan.


  “More than a few, I’d wager.”

  “Maybe it would be best if I showed you all a few pictures,” Merlin commented as he clicked away with his fingers.

  “No offense, Merlin,” Bors said, “but I’ve seen your drawings and they aren’t… Oh my.”

  The box in front of Merlin lit up with an image that could only have been drawn by the finest artisan. It was colorful, vivid, and crisp. Never in all of his years had Arthur seen such a rendition, except for those launching directly from his own eyes, of course.

  “What is that?” Kay asked.

  “This is what’s called an automobile. It’s also known as a car. Some refer to it as an auto, or clunker, or jalopy, or… Well, many things.”

  “What’s it do?”

  “As to that, Gwen,” Merlin replied kindly, “it acts much like our horse and buggies do. It pulls people around conveniently. Although, I have heard Allison say quite a number of negative things about them, too. ‘Gas guzzler’ comes to mind, but don’t ask me to explain what that means.”

  He clicked on the little square thing that sat under his right hand. If Arthur recalled correctly, Merlin had said it was a rat. It didn’t look anything like the rats Arthur had seen in his years, but the wizard had a way of his own when it came to naming things.

  “This is an airplane. It flies through the air like a bird.”

  “It’s a damn dragon,” Bors cried, pointing.

  “No, it’s not,” Merlin argued swiftly, “and I don’t want any of you getting funny ideas either. The last thing we need is the TSA blocking us from flying, should it come to that.”

  “The what?” asked Arthur.

  “Forget it, Arthur, there isn’t time. Just promise me that you’ll all keep yourselves in check during this quest.”

  “Are you suggesting that my knights would be anything less than professional?”

  “Obviously, yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “This is a waste of time,” Gaheris said. While the rest of the knights had looks of awe on their faces, Gaheris remained as impassive as always. “We don’t need to know the particulars. We go where we go.”

  “Well said, Sir Gaheris,” Arthur agreed. “Let’s just get along with it, shall we, Merlin?”