A Tail of Camelot (5 page)

G
alahad glanced at Sir Kay, seated in the balcony. The fat knight was nodding off in his chair, his helmet slipping low over his eyes.

Today, Galahad and his fellow pages were supposed to demonstrate their horsemanship skills to Sir Kay, in hopes of being chosen as his squire. Sir Kay was King Arthur's elder foster brother, and now, he was keeper of the castle while the king was away. Long ago, Arthur himself had been Kay's squire. Even then, people could tell he was bound for great things. In no less than a year into his
training, young Arthur had pulled out the Sword in the Stone and became a knight. These days, it was still a great honor to serve Sir Kay, even if he was cranky as a goat.

“Okay, Beatrice,” Galahad sighed, patting his pony on her nose. “Let's wake that old dog up and show him some new tricks.”

But when he went to mount the saddle, the pony shied away and shook her head, as if to say no.

Puzzled, he tried again. Beatrice backed away farther.

The pages waiting for their turn began snickering under their breaths.

“Beatrice,” Galahad pleaded quietly, “not today.”

Galahad put his left foot firmly in the stirrup and grabbed the pommel, but as he tried to kick his right leg over, the saddle straps broke off with a snap. Galahad and saddle slid off the pony and fell straight into a puddle of mud with a squelching plop.

Laughter broke out among the pages, startling Sir Kay from his nap. Only one of the younger pages, a redheaded boy named Bors, looked sympathetic.

“Wh-what's happenin' here?” Sir Kay pulled up his helmet and then looked around.

Galahad tried to stand up before the knight saw anything, but half his uniform was already covered in stinky brown slime.

Sir Kay squinted down at the boy and then began to
laugh with the others. His large stomach jiggled in time with his guffaws.

“Send this one to the kitchen,” he said, crossing a big line through Galahad's name with a quill. “A sorry show, indeed. Next!”

Before Galahad squelched away, he examined the broken saddle. The straps holding it together were chewed nearly all the way through. Something—something
very
small
—had just ruined his chances of being Sir Kay's squire.

“T
hese rocks won't fly at all and you know it.” Macie Cornwall kicked over a basket of round river pebbles. The stones spilled out at Sir Percival's feet, and the clatter echoed in the empty Goldenwood Hall. Calib winced.

“The rocks on this island don't make good arrowheads,” the red squirrel continued, snatching up a half-shaped arrowhead that Calib had been carving all morning. She thrust it under the vole's nose. “They are too heavy and hard. We need clamshells from the beach.”

Sir Percival shrugged as he popped another candied seed into his mouth. “I'm afraid these are the best my apprentices could do, given the restrictions.”

It had been a week since Commander Yvers's funeral, one of the saddest and dreariest days in Calib's memory. The crowds had gathered on the riverbank to watch Commander Yvers's body, laid out in a varnished canoe and surrounded by flowers, disappear over the waterfall. Just as the ceremony ended, the clouds had broken, drenching everybody. It was as if, Calib thought, even heaven was weeping for the loss.

Now, Camelot was on high alert. The Harvest Tournament was postponed indefinitely. No mouse was allowed outside the borders without permission from a high-ranking knight such as Sir Percival. Sir Kensington's rules were ironclad. And Macie Cornwall wasn't the only one feeling cooped up. All week, fights and arguments had been breaking out in the halls of the castle. Tension hung thick in the air like a storm cloud.

“I'm sorry,” Sir Percival said, his voice petal smooth and sounding not very sorry at all. “Only expeditions of a
critical
nature are approved. And these rocks look perfectly serviceable to me.”

Macie marched up to Sir Percival and stood toe-to-toe with him. Her bushy tail unfurled to its full length.

“We're working with dried reeds for the shafts
and donated feathers from the bell-tower larks for the fletching,” Macie said, and broke a reed between her fingers to illustrate. She cast the broken bits aside with disgust.

“Why, if I didn't chew the leather off the Two-Legger saddles myself, we wouldn't have any arm bracers to speak of! Archers are going to be the first line of defense if there's an attack. We need arrows that actually reach the far side of the moat!”

“Careful how you talk to me,
squirrel.
” Sir Percival bared his rotted canines. “If I were you, I would be much more mindful of the tone you take with a
knight
.” He turned and walked away.

Macie waited until Sir Percival was out of earshot before she began her tirade. “Why, that stink-breathed, rat-whiskered piece of vermin!” she yelled, kicking the empty bucket.

“I'm sorry,” Calib said quietly. Although he tried to avoid it, his eyes were drawn as though by magnetic force back to the stage, where Commander Yvers had fallen. Even though Sir Percival had the area mopped up immediately, Calib was still haunted by visions of the pool of blood and the giant paw prints that had led away from the scene.

Macie sighed and patted Calib distractedly on the shoulder. “Tell you what—why don't you collect more
reeds? Give me a few minutes to cool off.”

Calib nodded and left the Goldenwood Hall. He was relieved to put some distance between himself and the scene of his grandfather's assassination. Making his way toward the moat, his heart was as heavy as the stones he'd been carving all morning. While the other pages were running exciting errands, he'd been saddled with Barnaby as a partner and given the most menial tasks. It was as if the other mice knew how he had failed and wanted to punish him for it.

If only he could find some way to prove himself worthy of the Christopher name, Calib thought, and honor the memory of his grandfather. . . .

“Hey, Calib! Wait for me!”

Calib turned to see Barnaby coming toward him. He carried two empty rucksacks in his paws. Huffing and puffing, Barnaby handed one of them to Calib.

“Sir Owen's asked us to collect crooked nails from the cobbler! Can you believe it? Our first task in town! There's a farmer's wagon in the courtyard—it could leave any minute. We need to catch it!”

An idea dawned on Calib. The cobbler's hut was in the south of town, only a league from the beach. Macie had been talking for days about their desperate need for clamshells. If Calib was quick, he could gather some to bring to her.

For the first time in a long while, Calib's spirits lifted just a little. It would mean disobeying the rules. But it would be worth it to provide the archers with the clamshells they desperately needed. He could come back a hero, at least to Macie and the archers.

After all, his own father had done plenty of dangerous missions on behalf of Camelot. Once, Sir Trenton even went to the owls and convinced them to help in the Battle at Rickonback River, the turning point in the Great War. If Calib wanted to be more like a Christopher, he would need to start taking some risks—and breaking some rules.

Less than an hour later, Calib and Barnaby were tucked under a canvas bag full of turnips, passing over the drawbridge in a farmer's wagon and heading down the southern road to town.

“And then there was the porridge and gingerbread, and a piping hot cup of cider to go with it.” For the past ten minutes, Barnaby had been regaling Calib with stories of all the treats he'd eaten in the previous week.

“Y'know, I think Ginny the kitchen mouse might be sweet on me.” Barnaby chuckled. “Get it,
sweet
?”

“That's very interesting, Barnaby,” Calib said, although he hadn't been listening. Now that he was out of the castle, he was too nervous to make conversation. He kept telling himself that breaking the rules for a good reason wasn't really breaking the rules—but he knew the knights
would feel differently if they found out what he was planning to do.

He could see the cobbler's hut coming up around the bend. He maneuvered to the edge of the cart, clutching the railings as they bumped along the muddy dirt road.

“Get ready to jump!” Calib called over his shoulder. “We're almost at the haystacks!”

“I hate this part,” Barnaby grumbled. He got up and positioned himself next to Calib.

The cart rolled to a stop to let some cows cross the path.

“You first!” Calib said, and took a quick step backward to let Barnaby barrel past him.

Barnaby landed softly on the bale of hay and scampered to the ground.

“Hey!” When he saw that Calib hadn't followed, he gestured to him frantically. “Quick! Before you miss your chance!”

“Oh, I forgot, I have to, er, m-make another stop,” Calib stuttered. “Just go on without me, okay?”

“Wait—” Barnaby began, but by then the clatter of the wheels drowned out the rest of his protests.

Calib slumped back against a turnip, exhaling. He felt bad about abandoning his partner, but Calib knew Barnaby had no stomach for danger. To be honest, Calib wasn't sure if he did either.

The cart had reached the outskirts of town and was now picking up speed. Calib could see a sliver of the beach in the west, peeking over the next hill. Beyond that, there was nothing but the open sky.

The farmer driving the cart showed no sign of stopping, and Calib hadn't exactly thought through how he would disembark. Any faster and he'd never make the landing. If Calib was going to go, he needed to do it now, before he lost his courage—and his chance.

He eyed a nearby hillock covered in clover. With a running start, Calib leaped from the cart and flew through the air. He opened his rucksack like a parachute and tried to use it to slow his fall.

But he had miscalculated the distance! Instead of landing in the clover, he landed on the far side of the hillock, tumbling into a muddy rut and rolling down the slope before coming to a stop with a small “oof.”

Slowly, Calib sat up, his head spinning as fast as if he had twirled on a frozen pond. He took stock of his limbs as Sir Owen had taught them to do. He wiggled his footpaws, patted his ribs, and checked for scratches. Everything seemed to be in order. Tossing his sack over his shoulder, he began his journey.

Calib could almost smell the beach air—the briny smell of salt and fish—when a peculiar tingling sensation came upon him. He slowed his running down to a trot. The air felt
heavy and electrified, like the calm before a thunderstorm. As he cleared the next knoll, Calib saw why.

In front of him, illuminated by a weak ray of winter sunlight, was a Two-Legger broadsword wedged into a jagged slab of granite.

Calib blinked hard. The Sword in the Stone!

He darted over to the rock to examine it. The stone that held the sword was unmarred except for a single long fissure from which the weapon protruded. The crack ran all the way down the rock, and it looked as though someone had thrust the blade into it until it stuck.

Or perhaps the stone had once been unbroken and the incredible force of driving the sword through it had created the opening—Calib couldn't tell.

The sword was the stuff of legends, only ever appearing in Camelot's darkest hour. When it had last appeared, the Saxons invaded from across the sea, seeking greener lands since their own rocky plains couldn't grow enough food. The invaders had brought with them half-tamed weasels and stoats. These vicious beasts stripped the farmlands and nearby woodlands of vegetation so that the Britons would be weak with hunger when the Saxon armies finally attacked.

And attack they did.

The Saxons had defeated the Britons and enslaved all the Two-Leggers while they let their beasts free in the
woods, terrifying both forest and castle creatures alike. Britain became a country torn apart by war and unrest, until one day, a young boy named Arthur pulled the sword free from the stone and made his claim as the rightful king of Britain.

With Merlin's help, Arthur pushed the Saxons and their weasels back across the sea and established Camelot as his capital. Britain had lived in prosperity ever since.

Calib scrabbled onto the rock to examine the hilt of the broadsword; a large white diamond winked in the pommel. Beneath it, the sharp-edged blade gleamed like liquid moonlight. Mysterious runes were engraved on the flat of it.

Reaching out a tentative paw, Calib felt the cool metal beneath his pads. A vibrating tingle traveled up his spine, and he quickly snatched his paw back.

Old magic—perhaps the
oldest
magic—protected this sword.

Grandfather would have loved to see this.

Yvers had told him many legends of the mice of Camelot, but his favorite stories to tell had been about the
old
old days, when the world was young and still wild with magic.

Calib's whiskers twitched, and his heart beat a funny jig in his chest.

If the Sword in the Stone had appeared again, it could only mean one thing: danger was coming to Camelot and King Arthur could not save them.