A Tail of Camelot (3 page)

A
gain and again, Galahad remembered the last thing his mother had said to him before he left the only home he'd ever known.

“When you get to Camelot, remember to be polite and respectful to everyone, be they knights or the lowest servants.”

His mother's fingers had snagged on a knot in Galahad's hair, and she untangled it gently. Her own dark braids were tucked away under a white wimple that cascaded down her back.

“Act like you belong there, and you will.”

“But I belong
here
,” Galahad had said, trying to quell the tremble in his voice, “with you and the sisters.”

Lady Elaine looked her son in the eyes. “You are Sir Lancelot's son. You belong at Camelot.”

She kissed him good-bye on the forehead and then turned him to face the two men who had come for him. They were Sir Lancelot's men-at-arms, who'd sworn allegiance to the greatest knight the land had ever known—and the father Galahad had never met. Lancelot was so busy adventuring, he couldn't even come in person to fetch his only son.

“Act like you belong. Act like you belong.” Galahad now chanted this as he threw open the doors to the dining hall. They had arrived late to the castle, and the rest of the pages and squires were already seated for breakfast. Long tables lined the hall on both sides. Trenches of gray-looking porridge were emptying faster than Galahad could blink. The space echoed with laughter and conversation.

The chatter quickly quieted, however, as all heads turned to face Galahad. He turned around and realized with a sinking feeling that Lancelot's two men-at-arms had followed him into the dining hall.

“Attention, young sires!” one of them called. This one had chattered nonstop during the journey. He had wanted to make very clear to Galahad how lucky he was. Galahad
had heard at least four times how they'd pulled many strings to get the training master to take on Galahad at his age. Most pages started at the age of nine, and he was already eleven. But with so many knights gone from Camelot recently, the castle was undermanned, and Sir Kay finally made an exception.

“This is Galahad, son of Sir Lancelot! He joins us from St. Anne's Nunnery. I trust that you all will give him a warm welcome! And”—he turned to Galahad—“I hope you show these pages a thing or two about proper manners.”

There was a stunned silence followed by low snickers. A few muttered halfhearted hellos.

“There, properly introduced,” the man said, smiling broadly. He clapped Galahad on the back and then turned to leave the hall. “Don't forget. We expect great things from Lancelot's son.”

Mortified, Galahad slowly made his way toward the nearest table, his ears and cheeks burning hot. So much for acting like he belonged.

One of the last open spots in the dining hall was next to a boy with a single eyebrow that extended across his forehead. But as Galahad moved to sit down, the boy slapped his palm down on the bench.

“This seat's taken,” he said. “I don't care
who
your father is.”

Galahad looked around, but there was no room to sit anywhere, since each of the pages spread out along the benches.

Keeping his head high, Galahad reached the end of the hall with the double doors. He would either have to go back and face everyone again or skip breakfast entirely.

“Did you see his face?” someone whispered. “Looked like he wanted to run back under his mother's skirts!”

Galahad decided maybe he wasn't that hungry after all. He all but ran through the doorway.

W
hat little bravery his grandfather had inspired that morning had evaporated by the time Calib put on the armor Sir Alric had assigned him. He scurried into line behind Devrin and strapped his breastplate over his tunic. Since he was a bit smaller than most mice who faced the Harvest Tournament, it had taken a while to find chain mail that would fit him. And now he was late, with only a dented helmet, a wooden sword, and a too-large breastplate to show for it. Doubt crept back into Calib's heart like a poisonous black spider.

The paw traffic in the tunnel grew thicker as he approached the arched doors of the Goldenwood Hall. Calib dodged through the crowds of mice, larks, and other castle inhabitants streaming through the passages. Fur crushed up against fur, and whiskers tickled Calib's face. Making a beeline for the staging room, Calib ran headlong into Sir Percival Vole.

“Careful, mousling!” The portly brown vole popped a candied seed into his mouth and smiled. Calib tried not to make a face. Sir Percival's teeth were black with rot. The water vole was famous for loving sweets. “You don't want to injure the only trained healer right before the tourney!”

“Apologies, s-sir!” Calib stammered as he scooted past. He made sure to keep a good six inches between him and Sir Percival's rotten-egg breath.

Calib stepped inside a long hall with rounded ceilings, and benches on the left and right sides. Every mouse-knight in Camelot's history had once taken this same path to face their Harvest Tournament challenges. He spotted Devrin and Warren standing by the doors to the arena. He scurried into line behind Devrin.

“Thought we'd have to march in without you,” she said, fiddling with her tailguard. She looked irritated. The guard did not fully cover her long tail. Warren's armor, on the other hand, shone like polished silver and fit him like a glove.

Calib opened his mouth to respond when a reedy voice sounded out.

“Greetings, contestants!”

Sir Alric skittered into the room. As Camelot's premiere engineer and metalsmith, the white mouse had designed contraptions that many credited as instrumental in defeating the Darkling forces. He was also responsible for designing the Harvest Tournament challenges.

“I just wanted to assure you three, I haven't had a page die in one of my challenges yet,” Sir Alric said, blinking his pink eyes rapidly. Calib's stomach dropped another few inches. “A few injuries here or there, yes. But all have survived! Just make sure to keep your armor on at all times.”

No,
Calib wanted to say.
I've changed my mind.
But it was too late. The arena musicians trumpeted a bright tune. Already, Warren and Devrin were shuffling forward.

Calib's heart pounded as he clanked clumsily behind Devrin. He tried to step in time to the music but was too nervous to follow its rhythm.

A riot of noise and color greeted him. Calib couldn't help admiring the Goldenwood Hall for the hundredth time. Quarried underneath King Arthur's own throne room, the stone hall served as the highest court and tournament arena for Camelot's allied creatures. The black-iron ceiling beams curved together high above his head like a bear's rib cage. Tall wooden grandstands lined both sides of
the arena. They curved like parentheses, ending on the opposite sides of a raised stage.

In the center of the stage stood the Goldenwood Throne—in truth, a broken wooden goblet rumored to have been discarded by Merlin. The bowl of the cup was cracked open, one side missing entirely. Velvet pillows lined the inside so that a mouse could sit comfortably. Tonight, the throne glistened in the firelight.

All of Camelot's allied creatures were present this evening, from the larks who lived in the bell tower to the moat otters, from the red squirrels who lived in the orchard trees to the moles who burrowed under the gardens.

Calib scanned the stands and noticed Cecily waving her pennant at him.

“
Bon chance
, Calib!” she shouted, her voice barely audible above the din.

Distracted, Calib accidentally trod on Devrin's tail. She gave him a withering look over her shoulder. “Step to the beat, Cal. Ever heard of it?”

Warren snickered.

The march halted before the stage. The three pages turned to face the arena. Calib surveyed the oval-shaped pit before him, barricaded on the longer sides by the crowded stands. He thought about dashing across the dirt-packed floor and fleeing past the doors from which he'd just come. But that would be as good as admitting he
would never be a knight.

From her chair next to the throne, Sir Kensington Knaps stepped forward to address the crowd.

A fearsome knight, Sir Kensington was Commander Yvers's second-in-command. It was rumored that she had single-handedly defeated an entire battalion of rats in the Great War. With a pointed nose and crosshatched scars along her face, Kensington now looked more wolf than mouse.

“All quiet in the Goldenwood Hall!” Her voice pierced through the noise like a finely pointed needle. She fixed those who dared ignore her command with an icy glare until they quieted. “All rise for Commander Yvers Christopher the Valiant, Darkslayer, and Master Knight of Camelot!”

The crowd stood and applauded as Calib's grandfather emerged from behind the curtain. He was dressed in wine-colored robes—the Christopher family color. With his golden fur brushed back like a lion's mane, Commander Yvers seemed so fearsome that Calib felt insignificant just looking at him.

“Lords and ladies, my bannermice and my people, this autumn marks the tenth year of peace and plenty among the creatures of Camelot,” Commander Yvers began. Atop his head was a silver crown that had once been a ring of Queen Guinevere's. “It is truly a time of celebration.”

He waved his arms to calm the resounding cheers that followed. His eyes became grave and resolute.

“However, we must never let peace lull us into carelessness. It took the sacrifices of many warriors to shepherd us to safety. We owe it to them, and to ourselves, to preserve what they fought for. We must uphold the sacred oath made to Merlin, even at the cost of our lives.”

Generations ago, the mice of the castle had made a promise to the wizard Merlin. In return for Camelot's shelter and bounty, they were to protect the castle. (Two-Leggers were too unobservant and slow to notice that their pantries were being raided.)

Calib felt his grandfather's gaze fall briefly on him. He shivered. How could he ever be brave enough?

“The true purpose of the Harvest Tournament is to find those worthy of protecting the realm. In our three challenges this evening, we shall test our pages for bravery, strength, and wisdom. Those who rise above their fears this day will find themselves in the pawsteps of our mightiest warriors. Tonight, we will begin with the challenge for bravery.”

The hall was filled with murmurs of excitement. A team of five apprentices wheeled a contraption the size of three Two-Legger dinner plates into the arena. A gasp rose up from the stands. Calib felt as if his legs had been replaced by pudding.

Before them stood the most terrifying mousetrap he
had ever seen. A small chunk of cheddar cheese sat in the center of a spring-loaded wooden platform. The platform was encircled by three rows of serrated metal teeth, like the maw of a giant sea lamprey. The sharp edges looked deadlier than any of the knives in the Two-Legger kitchen.

“Each page must remove the cheese from the platform successfully. Once the cheese is removed, the trap is triggered. In order to proceed to the next challenge, he or she must jump out of danger before the blades close,” Commander Yvers said.

Devrin gave a long, low whistle. Warren's ears began to twitch.

“And so, my sons and daughters of Camelot,” Yvers said, “let the first test begin!”

“D
evrin Savortooth, please step forward!”

Calib tried to cheer along with the rest of the spectators as Sir Kensington motioned for Devrin to step up, but his mouth was too dry.

Devrin raised her wooden sword in salute to Commander Yvers. Then she turned and marched toward the trap, her eyes narrowed in concentration. Calib could see the slight quiver of her whiskers betraying her nervousness.

As she approached the trap's outer ring, the audience quieted. Calib's heart quickened as Devrin placed her
sword between her teeth and broke into a galloping run, charging the trap head-on. At the last moment, she released the sword into her paw. Using it as a vaulting pole, Devrin soared over the rows of sharp metal.

Calib cringed, certain that she would slice herself on the jagged edge of the innermost row. But Devrin narrowly missed the blades and landed safely. The onlookers burst into cheers. Devrin took a quick moment to wave at the audience.

Everyone waited with bated breath to see what she would do next. Calib squinted, too afraid to watch but too embarrassed to cover his eyes entirely. After a few seconds of contemplation, Devrin grabbed her own tail and tied it into a loose lasso.

She swung her tail gently back and forth, calculating its weight. Then, with a nimble toss, Devrin looped her tail around the cheese and yanked it off the platform.

With a terrific clang, the metal teeth snapped shut like a jaw. The crowd shrieked. For a few precious seconds, Calib couldn't look, certain he would see Devrin severed in two. But when the dust cleared from the arena, he saw that she had curled into a ball. The rows of teeth had closed shut only a few whiskers' length above her. The tip of her tail was bloody—but it held the cheese tightly.

Calib felt the wind rush out of him as the crowd broke into a triumphant frenzy—horns blared, pennants fluttered wildly, and hats flew high into the air. Two mice ran out to
Devrin with a canvas stretcher and bandages. Shakily, she eased herself onto the stretcher and cradled her tail. She was carried to the champions' circle below the pages' section of the stands. As she passed the other contenders, she gave Calib a big wink and took a bite out of the cheese.

“Peesh ohf cake,” she said with a full mouth. “Er, rather, peesch ohf Swissh!”

Commander Yvers stood up from the throne to speak, his eyes shining with pride.

“Devrin Savortooth, you have shown valor like the knights who came before you,” he said. “For successfully passing the first test, Sir Kensington will present you with the Blue Badge of Bravery!”

Sir Kensington walked down from the stage to Devrin's stretcher and pinned a blue silk ribbon on one shoulder of her breastplate.

The crowd finally quieted, and Sir Alric's apprentices reset the trap.

Merlin, if you're still out there, please find a way to stop this tournament,
Calib prayed silently to the legendary wizard.

“And the next challenger will be . . . Warren Clipping!”

Warren sauntered up to the trap, waving to the stands. Circling the outer ring, the gray mouse stopped at the hinge that linked the rows of metal teeth. He did a few muscle flexes and lunges, making a great show of stretching out his legs.

“Come on,” Calib muttered, even as a few mice tittered in the audience.

Finally, Warren climbed on top of the hinge. He licked his paw and tested the air, as if gauging the wind.

From his tunic pocket, he removed a candied cherry. With deft aim, Warren threw the cherry at the cheese, knocking it off the platform. When the trap clapped shut, Warren leaped easily off the hinge and out of the trap's way. Danger avoided, he walked to the center and retrieved the cheese from the ground. Dusting the dirt off, Warren held it up like a trophy. The crowd went wild.

“Very resourceful, Warren,” Commander Yvers remarked. “There is more than one way to clear a trap, and courage goes hand-in-hand with cleverness. Sir Percival will present you with the Blue Badge of Bravery.”

Warren bowed smugly and took his place next to Devrin in the champions' circle on the far side of the arena. Sir Percival came down from the stage and pinned the ribbon. He patted Warren encouragingly on his shoulder.

“Calib Christopher, please approach the arena!”

Panic poured over Calib's head like ice water. His paws were slick with sweat. His nose had gone numb. He could barely feel his body.

“Calib Christopher,” Commander Yvers repeated. Was it Calib's imagination or had his grandfather frowned? “Approach!”

Trembling, Calib stepped jerkily down from the platform, his head pounding as hard as his heart. The sea of cheering spectators only made him feel more like an impostor. He knew he would not succeed in getting the cheese from the trap. He would likely not make it past the first ring of metal teeth. He was not bold like Devrin; not cunning like Warren. He looked back at his grandfather. The warmth and encouragement coming from Commander Yvers's gaze was the worst of all.

Calib knew he would have to drop out of the tournament. He wasn't ready. He didn't have the courage. He
wasn't
brave.

He was a poor excuse for a Christopher.

As Calib opened his mouth to withdraw himself, a gust of wind blew through the Goldenwood Hall. All the torches extinguished at once, plunging the hall into darkness.

For a few seconds, everyone was silent. Then the yelling, coughing, and shoving began.

“Wot's just happened?”

“That was a magicked wind if I ever felt one!”

“Is this some beast's idea of a joke?”

Calib could not believe his luck—his prayer had been answered! The tournament could not go on without light!

His eyes adjusting to the surrounding darkness, Calib could just make out the patchy silhouettes of his fellow
mice grasping in the dark. He wiped his brow and let out a shaky laugh. He had time now—to plan, to think of an excuse.

“Friar Burrows, my tail! Ow!”

“Someone get Sir Alric up here!”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Calib spied a skulking shadow emerging from behind the stands. Tall and lithe, it bounded swiftly toward the stage on four paws.

The silhouette of a curved blade sat between its teeth, and a sudden terror slammed like a crushing weight against Calib's chest. As the shadow came closer to the stage, Calib shouted.

“Guards! Grandfather!
Look out
!”

But his cries were drowned out by the confusion of other voices. Smoke caught in Calib's lungs. He pushed toward the stage, still shouting, but the shuffling and shoving blocked his way. He was buffeted in all directions, like a leaf in a swirling current of water.

“Guards! Grandfather! Look—
Oof
.”

Calib tripped over a hedgehog's drum and fell on his chin. He watched helplessly as the shadow leaped onto the stage, nimble as an acrobat. With unnatural speed, it crouched and pounced on Commander Yvers. His grandfather's silhouette twisted in pain.

“Grandfather!”
Calib cried out.

“I've got a torch!” someone shouted in the distance,
and a torch reignited in a far corner of the arena. Faint, wavering light trickled back into the hall.

Now, torches were springing up, like fireflies in the dark. At last the light made its way to the stage, illuminating Commander Yvers as he fell to his knees. A dark, wet stain blossomed beneath his fur.