by Liam Perrin
All the knights who were left, numbering just over one hundred, were inducted into the Table of Less Valued Knights which for obvious logistical reasons was seated not at one but at all of the tables in the back of the hall. Each knight received a handshake from Sir Tuttle, the table's Captain, and a manual penned by him, The Code of Service of the Table of Less Valued Knights.
Philip shook Tuttle's hand with vigor. Dedric the Diplopian asked why he was only getting one manual when everyone else had gotten two. Ox the Monosyllabic said, "Thanks," and in his enthusiasm accidentally cracked several small bones in Tuttle's shaking hand. Marrok, who'd been helping hand out manuals, offered his hand to Thomas while Tuttle recovered from Ox's handshake.
Marrok had a curiously proud glint in his eye that made Thomas smile but look away. He looked down at their hands instead and noticed a jagged scar around Marrok's forearm where his sleeve had pulled up. The scar looked terribly familiar. He glanced back at Marrok's eyes as they let their hands go, and that's when it hit him. He'd seen those eyes before, and he'd seen the wound that made that scar. But the last time he'd seen them, they'd been on a majestic silver wolf.
A thousand questions competed to get out of Thomas's mouth, but none of them made it. They must have played across his face though, because Marrok smiled, winked, and then turned to the next in line leaving Thomas awkwardly alone and flabbergasted. He moved to stand next to Philip.
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
Thomas shook his head. "Not a ghost," he said. "I think Marrok's a..."
But it was Bane's turn in line, and the sight drove all other thought from Thomas's mind. Bane was visibly furious. He looked like the kind of volcano you don't want to build your tranquil fishing village beneath.
"I think someone is a wee bit upset," said Thomas nodding toward Bane.
When Marrok handed Bane his manual and shook his hand, Bane held his grip longer than was appropriate and gave Marrok a look that would've reminded tranquil fishermen of molten lava and caused them to politely excuse themselves and flee for their lives.
Through clenched teeth Bane hissed, "I don't belong here."
Marrok dropped his grip and his smile but held his gaze. With a firmness a mountain would admire, he replied, "No, you don't."
As Marrok and a recovering Sir Tuttle moved on to congratulate other less volcanic inductees, Philip said, "I'm liking that guy more and more. You were saying, you think he's a..."
"Oh," said Thomas. "Yes, um. I think Marrok's a fine fellow."
Thomas felt odd. As he watched Bane stomp out of the hall, his brain spun trying to resolve what his gut felt. There were puzzle pieces here that wanted assembling.
§
Arthur tried to conclude the evening with some final words before he went off to do the things a king does the week of his wedding, but Merlin had one last go at upsetting everyone's equilibrium when he announced that a strange and troublesome event would befall the wedding reception. The result, of course, would be the glory of some and the doom of others including, possibly, Merlin himself.
To which Arthur, who hadn't completely been paying attention replied, "Splendid. Let's get on with it, shall we?"
And that was that.
§
Later, Thomas remarked to Philip that the final assignments were not surprising. That is, he felt he could have predicted at least who would be sitting in the front half of the room and who'd be sitting in the back without all the fuss and bother of the tournament.
Philip replied by pointing out a section in The Code under the heading, Duties and Responsibilities. It read:
Whenever, and being in all places and circumstances, it is the duty of the foresworn Less Valued to make his betters look better even be it a tarnish to himself and his own reputation. In all things, the character and manner of appearance of the higher orders must be preserved.
"You're missing the point of the tournament I think," said Philip. "We're here to make the heroes look good."
After a moment, Thomas sighed, "It's not surprising. It's just... I guess I'd hoped for more. It doesn't quite seem fair, in this day and age, for there to be this impenetrable order of things, you know? And it makes me angry that they made us believe we had a chance at one of the other tables when all along we were just..."
He sputtered and searched for the word, "We were just the entertainment."
"Did you think you did well enough to make it to another table?" asked Philip.
"Well, no, but–"
"Did you think anyone did well enough to make it to another table?" asked Philip.
"Well, no, but–"
"Did you think that smashing an egg on Bane's head was going to land you a seat on the Round Table?"
"No," said Thomas, laughing at the unexpected memory, "but it's worth something isn't it?"
After another quiet moment, Thomas said, "I just hate to be strung along, you know?"
Philip flipped to a section of The Code titled "The Twelve Basic Rules" and pointed to number six which read:
Rule VI: Expect to be trifled with, caboodled, shucked, and/or generally strung along – oftentimes quite severely.
Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but just then the door of the barracks slammed open and a lanky boy with a pockmarked face lumbered in carrying a heavy bag. "Mail call," he yelled, his voice cracking.
Thomas's heart sank. He was sure if there was anything in that bag for him, it wouldn't be pleasant. Halfway through the bag, the post-boy called his name "To: Thomas Farmer, of the Fogbottom Farmers; From: His Mother." Several of the other LVK sniggered. Thomas made his way dutifully to the boy and accepted the letter like a man accepting a sentence. He imagined that was exactly what was inside.
Thomas sat on his bunk, sighed, and opened the letter.
Dear Thomas,
We expected to have you home by now. Have you spoken with King Arthur? I'm sure he's a very busy man. I imagine the palace is wonderful.
All is well here. We've run out of meat and grain, but I've managed to make a kind of paste out of roots from the cellar. Your father complains, but that's nothing unusual. William, of course, still languishes in prison. The warden is gracious and has allowed him to write to us nearly every day. I've told William not to worry – that you're in Camelot petitioning for us. When can we expect news from you?
Grandma is her old self, but Elizabeth is taking all of this rather poorly. She spends most of her time in the loft with that old stuffed rabbit. I have half a mind to toss it just to snap her out of it.
You remember Ackerly and Royden – two of William's chums. They came around shortly after you left looking for William. Apparently he didn't tell them what he was up to either. Your brother is so noble. I don’t know where he gets it. Anyway, when they heard what had happened and that you were off to Camelot and what with your Father's gimp, they were distraught for us and have been coming around to help with your and William's chores and anything else that needs doing. They helped your Father mend the roof yesterday. I gave them some root paste, and they were so grateful. I don't know what their mum's been feeding them, and they said they didn't want to talk about it.
How are things in Camelot? Write soon.
Luv,
Mum
Thomas folded the paper, hung his head and sighed again.
"Letter from home?" asked Philip.
Thomas nodded.
"I know how those go." Philip was holding a flowery lavender flyer from a place called Madame Rhapsody's Dance Emporium. "Say, are you going to be dancing with Marie at the wedding reception?"
He held the flyer out to Thomas who took it, groaned, and collapsed on his bunk. On top of it all, here was a whole new world of worries to explore.
CHAPTER XIV
Doubt & Redoubt
Madame Rhapsody's Dance Emporium was the sort of place to which few men went willingly. The oil lamps had sparkly things dangling from them. The chairs were flowery and plush. The air had a tinkling sound i
n it, and it smelled nice. There was even a cat who lived on the premises. His name was Sir Cuddlington. Madame Rhapsody called him Sir, or Cuddles, and he rubbed his cheek a lot on her chin. Thomas was about to turn around and make a fast escape when she came around the corner and spotted him.
"Well, hello!" she crooned. "Classes begin at half past eleven. You're welcome to wait." She smiled. She was the kind of large woman who knows it and isn't afraid of it.
"I, um," said Thomas, his body still half turned toward the corridor. He sighed and turned back toward Madame R. "I'm here for a, er, I'm a knight you see." He started ruffling through his pockets for his identification.
"Oh I could've told you that, honey. You move like one." She winked and sauntered back around the corner.
Thomas grimaced, sat down, and waited.
Sir Cuddles decided Thomas was his new best friend and planted himself on Thomas's lap, purring like a toneless bagpipe.
§
Once things had gotten going, it wasn't nearly as bad as Thomas had dreaded it would be. Dedric and Ox had shown up, among others. There were no girls in the class, so they took turns leading and being led around the studio floor while Madame Rhapsody corrected their feet, hands, hips, heads, shoulders, and alarmingly, buttocks. She had a skinny, wrinkled old man for an assistant. His name was Hedley, and he played the harpsichord. Thomas had found the music actually rather pleasant and tried to focus on it rather than what would otherwise have been a grossly inappropriate lack of distance between himself and his partner, Ox.
The lesson was just ending, and Thomas's spirit was just beginning to rise when Madame Rhapsody thanked them for coming and told them she'd see them all again on the morrow.
"Again tomorrow?" asked Sir Edgar the Erstwhile, looking as distraught as Thomas felt.
Madame Rhapsody laughed, and her whole body participated. "You didn't think we were through here, did you? You've all got a long way to go before you're ready to dance publicly let alone at an affair like the King's wedding! You represent Camelot! We've got less than a week, and I've got to get you looking like you've danced all your lives."
She put her hands on her hips and shook her head at them. "An impossible task, some might say. But those people wouldn't be Madame Rhapsody! Mm-mm. I make princes out of frogs, mountains out of mole hills, and I can make you all into dancers." She said the word "dancers" with a flare, a gleam in her eye, and an especially breathy voice, even for Madame R.
"You just get here tomorrow, and let Madame Rhapsody do the rest."
Thomas was pretty sure it wouldn't work out just as she described it, but he resigned himself to returning. He didn't want to embarrass Camelot, Marie, or himself – not necessarily in that order anyway.
Steeling himself for the days ahead, he began the walk to the barracks where the LVK slept, ate, washed, and did just about everything really. On the way, he decided to take a street he hadn't yet explored and came upon the post office, closed for Sunday. A jolt of guilt struck him like a spear. He surprised himself by feeling suddenly rather homesick as well. He saw his whole family in his mind's eye, waiting on word from him, their hope. Thomas... his family's hope.
Well that's something new, thought Thomas.
When he got back to the barracks, he found a quill and some clean parchment and tried to figure out what to say. An hour later when Philip burst in, the page was still blank.
§
"We're going to be late," blurted Philip. "What are you doing? You smell like–" Philip took a whiff. "Ugh, you smell like flowers."
Thomas bolted to his feet and splashed his face with water from a bowl near the window. He took a last look at the blank parchment on his bunk.
"Let's go," he said. And they went, arriving just in time at St. Stephen's cathedral for the inaugural Orientation & Briefing of the Table of Less Valued Knights.
§
St. Stephen's was huge. All one hundred – plus or minus – of the LVK sat comfortably in the sanctuary's transept. Enormous, stained-glass windows lined the walls and decorated the floor with colored sunlight, contrasting the rich, earthy hues of the stone tile floor and wooden pews. The apse of the cathedral, behind the altar, shimmered. A countless array of tiny golden discs were affixed to the wall in a way that let them wiggle when the air was disturbed. With preparations underway for Arthur's wedding and all the workers coming and going, they were wiggling incessantly. It looked like someone had managed to mount a golden pond vertically on the wall. A crucifix hung in front of the shimmer. St. Stephen's Jesus was easily three times Thomas's height.
The wedding workers hauled in piles and piles of decorations and other accoutrements, passing them up to more workers on scaffoldings. They showed no sign of letting up as Sir Tuttle stepped up into the chancel and disappeared behind the ornate mahogany pulpit. A few seconds later, his head appeared over the speaker's stand. He pulled a cord attached to a shutter high above, and a beam of light illuminated the stand.
"Welcome, Less Valued Knights," said Tuttle. "We have a full agenda, so let's get started."
§
They started with a roll call. Two knights were absent: Sir Mendhel the Misfortunately Placed – who'd been missing from the beginning – and Sir Remi the Imperturbable.
"I couldn't wake him up, sir," said Dedric, who bunked next to Remi.
When it was Bane's turn to sound off, Thomas could tell from his tone of voice that "Here" was the last place Bane wanted to be.
Tuttle began by outlining general rules and regulations for palace employees. Thomas's mind kept drifting to the blank parchment on his bunk. It needed to become a letter to his parents.
While Tuttle droned on, Thomas found himself staring at an ornate stained glass window. It depicted Pontius Pilate enthroned before a recently arrested Jesus. The question, "Are you the King of the Jews?" was worked into the window near the bottom of the scene. Thomas knew it to be the first of the fourteen Stations of the Cross. The chapel in Fogbottom had the same stations, though Fogbottom's weren't stained glass; the Parson had carved tiny figures and set up mini-dioramas in niches around the sanctuary. Every Easter for as long as Thomas could remember, he and his family had dutifully walked the stations, meditating on Jesus's death.
Somewhere off to his left, a Less Valued Knight stood at Tuttle's behest and recited an article from the Code of Service. Maybe it was the sunlight ebbing and flowing through the stained glass as clouds passed by, or maybe it was just the sheer overwhelming size of the windows compared to those tiny scenes in Fogbottom – Whatever the case here in St. Stephen's, Thomas found himself caught up in the artistry.
Philip elbowed him in the ribs. Tuttle had stopped talking. Tuttle was, in fact, staring directly at Thomas. He raised his eyebrows and said, "I say again, the Ninth Article if you would please Sir Thomas."
Thomas stood and cleared his throat. Somewhere behind him Bane sniggered. Thomas glanced at Philip looking for help.
Philip, eyes wide, shrugged.
Panicked, Thomas shot a look back at Tuttle who was now glaring at him and tapping his quill against the lectern. At the edge of his vision, the image of Pontius Pilate interrogating Jesus brightened with a surge of color and pressed on Thomas's mind.
Memory stirred, and with it, a wash of relief. He cleared his throat and began, "The Ninth Article of the Code of Service of the Order of Less Valued Knights..."
Tuttle stopped tapping, lifted his chin and frowned.
"It's not about you," said Thomas.
Tuttle lowered his head in a nod of approval.
Encouraged, Thomas continued, "It's never about you."
Behind him, Bane snorted.
"Except, of course," finished Thomas, "when it would be better for your superiors that whatever it is be not about them."
Tuttle said, "Excellent." And Thomas sat down.
Philip looked stunned. "Where'd you pull that from?" he whispered. In answer, Thomas simply pointed at the stained glass.
While Tutt
le worked his way through more of the Less Valued and the rest of the Code, Thomas stared at the windows. He returned again and again to two in particular: one of Jesus taking up his cross and another of a Roman soldier striking him on the cheek. The second was inscribed, Præbe illi et alteram – "Offer him the other".
Someone was reciting Rule X – "Choose your battles wisely." – when the thought struck Thomas.
"Philip," he whispered. "Do you think..." started Thomas, then sat, mouth open, staring intently at the stations.
"You're kind of freaking me out Thomas."
"Do you think Jesus," he nodded at the stations. He started over. "Philip, I think Jesus was a kind of Less Valued Knight."
"That's ridiculous Thomas, the order's only just begun."
"I don't mean he was a Less Valued Knight," said Thomas, frustrated but excited. Behind them, Bane stood up and moved to the other end of his pew and sat down again. Tuttle paused, frowned at him, and continued.
"I mean, our Code is rather like what he was trying to say don't you think?"
Tuttle was growing increasingly agitated at the noise coming from the vicinity of Thomas and Philip.
"Philip," said Thomas, "if this is what we are. If our lot is cast..." Thomas looked again at the glass depicting Jesus taking up his cross on the road to Golgotha. "I'm going to be the best Less Valued Knight I can be."
"SIR THOMAS OF FOGBOTTOM," roared Tuttle. "Would you please stop your incessant chattering, or is there something you'd like to share with the rest of us?"
And at that moment, Bane the Appropriately Named stood up, turned his back on Tuttle, and started walking.
"Who is that?" said Sir Tuttle. "Is that Bane? Bane! Halt! Halt, I say, and return to your post – your seat I mean – this instant."
