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“Your Majesty,” the visitor announced grandly, after kneeling in front of the dais, “I am Onfrois de la Grande Plaine, and I come bearing a gift, should my king graciously accept.”
The evening, if Kay did say so himself, had been going quite well. As feasts went, this one was of no particular importance or splendour—but saying so would have annoyed the seneschal, who understood that any banquet was a great feat of organization and was pleased with himself for its execution, no matter how minor the occasion. The required materials had arrived on time, no one had yet started a drunken duel in the castle, and Kay had spent a pleasant afternoon in the kitchens, overseeing the construction of the dishes and listening to idle gossip. His mood was even high enough to lend him patience while Arthur greeted his guests and received their gifts and doted on their babies.
It wouldn’t last, of course. He wasn’t a bloody saint, and he was getting hungry. But the evening had been going well.
Like the last dozen times, Arthur smiled and told his visitor, “I welcome you, friend, to our Great Hall,” and gave him permission to approach. Back in the tumultuous beginning of his reign, at the height of his naivety, it had taken him half a year and one unfortunate curse to learn not to touch the things his guests brought him. Now he allowed the young man to brandish his gift for all the hall to see—it was a small silver mirror with delicate plaits around the edges and down the handle—then hand it carefully to a servant.
“This mirror I gift to you, my lord, is the denouement of a journey, a specimen of the finest workmanship—”
Kay was not listening very well. He was still thinking about the spice-crusted pork to be served after the formalities. And anyway, if you had seen the whole affair once, you’d seen it a hundred times.
“—just so happened to travel at my side along the Way of Saint James, from which, by the will of God, I was turned to a new destination—”
He swirled the remaining ale in his goblet and raised it for a sip, wondering whether he might later break into the newest shipment of wine.
“—and in return for her rescue the dear old priestess offered me a blessing, so that I might say I have crafted the most revealing mirror in the world!”
He paused. Around the hall, suspicious murmurs sprung up.
The visitor mistook this for curiosity, and beamed. “Truly, my lord! For this mirror will show only the image of a wife faithful in mind and body.”
In another castle, such an artefact might have been met with awe and fascination. It might have been the court’s first encounter with magic. It might have even garnered some respect for the gift-giver, and for those husbands whose wives saw success with the mirror.
But this was the court of Arthur and Guinevere. So, as one, the Round Table groaned.
What followed was so near a replica of past incidents that it might as well have been protocol. The queen took the first turn with the mirror, which went as well as such trials always did. This was met with the customary mixture of amusement and righteous malcontent, quickly forgotten as the mirror started to make its way around the room and the revelers crowded in to see the results. The drink flowed freely, to mollify the less-than-fortunate husbands among them and give the rest a quick path to a rowdy celebration. Not one but two drunken duels broke out in the courtyard. At the height of the disorder, Sir Lancelot slipped away from his place at the king’s side and vanished for the rest of the night, too self-conscious to be seen in connection either to the mirror or to the monarchs. And Arthur presided over the chaos with a cup of wine that was never allowed to reach empty; and hours after the outset he called an end to the feast with a cheer that suggested he had no idea how badly it had gone, and dragged Kay back to his chambers for more ill-conceived merrymaking.
Kay was in quite a sulk about it all—partly because his hard work had been turned all upside-down, and partly because he’d lost money this time round, betting on who would end up in possession of the mirror. Some men might have learned a lesson from this, but he was too cross for self-reflection and was already plotting for the next incident. He was considering drawing up a list, to keep track of who had already failed such a test. He thought it might be in bad taste.
“It’s your fault,” he proclaimed, taking a swig from his goblet. “All these perfectly good feasts, ruined.”
“Oh yes? How so?” Arthur was eyeing him with amusement, his cheeks flushed and his gaze a little hazy. He had drunk as much as all the poor bastards in the hall and seemed to have no bitterness to temper it with.
Kay glowered. “You know how.”
“I do not.”
“You do. If you didn’t let your knight run around doing whatever he likes—”
“He’s quite polite about it.”
“—then no one would come looking to challenge you on it. Arthur I am sorry to be the first to tell you that no one cares how courteous he is, which is,” he jabbed a stern finger in Arthur’s direction, “for the record, not very. I’m the one who has to order your broken bed posts fixed, don’t forget. And table legs. And the curtain rod.”
“Yes, there is that,” mused Arthur, smiling stupidly into his drink.
Kay rolled his eyes. “It’s besides the point.”
“What was the point?”
“It was that—” he paused for a sip— “that it’s bad for morale.”
“The curtain rod?”
“No!”
“The feasts!”
“Yes. Well, no. It’s only—”
Kay abruptly lost his train of thought at about the same time Arthur set down his cup too close to the edge of the desk. Working together, they managed to get the cup onto a solid surface, upright, with a new serving of wine mostly inside.
“Right,” said Arthur.
“Now listen,” said Kay. “Listen, I mean it. It’s bad for morale.”
“Hm?”
“When guests come bearing magical cups or cloaks or– or rings or bloody mirrors that’ll only cooperate for a faithful wife, and then everyone stares until Guinevere tries it and fails, and then everyone else has to send their wives up to try and half of them end up in a foul mood for the rest of the night.”
Arthur laughed. “It’s a harmless little game!”
“No one else thinks it’s fun,” Kay pointed out. “It has been happening for twenty-five years. It’s tedious.”
“They do. Gawain thinks it’s fun. He likes games.”
“Gawain isn’t married.”
“Yes he is! Yes, he—” Arthur hiccupped. “Oh, I wasn’t meant to say that. You won’t tell anyone, will you? Perhaps I have had a bit much…”
“Gawain? Married?” Kay made a face. “Like in a church?”
“Oh, God, no.”
That was more believable. Kay was fairly sure that the boy only went to mass for the free wine. “Well never mind that. You’re the king, outlaw it or something. No more cursed artifacts in the Great Hall.”
“He said it was blessed.”
“No more of those, either.”
“And why would I do that?”
Arthur still wore a look of mild, unconcerned confusion. It meant he understood so little that he didn’t know there was anything to understand. Kay, who did understand and had been quietly worried for some time, was abruptly sobered by a flash of frustration.
“It is embarrassing, Wart,” he snapped. “Listen, you aren’t listening. It’s embarrassing for you and for your court and for Guinevere when you let your subjects come in and make a fool of you.”
Arthur’s gaze cleared in surprise, then hardened. “I am not embarrassed.”
“It doesn’t matter how you feel!”
“Doesn’t matter—”
“It is about respect!” Kay insisted. “What do you think will happen when your adversaries come to realize that you can’t control your own court? And worse yet, your allies?”
For a moment Arthur glared, as if biting his tongue against the sorts of harsh words that Kay himself wouldn’t hold back. Then he drew a deep breath, and drank, and his expression turned to one of grudging compassion. Kay hated when he did that.
“Come now,” he sighed, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “How long have we worked to build a world where men aren’t killed for the sake of pride?”
Frowning at the carpet, because Arthur was being noble again and it always resulted in yet more work, he nonetheless allowed Arthur to placate him. “I’m only trying to keep you alive. Fool.”
“I know.” Arthur had on the innocent little smile that Kay knew from their days running wild in the Forest Sauvage, and as always, it put a swift end to their spat. “But what am I to do, Kay? A bit of teasing at my expense is a fine price to pay for love.”
“Yes, well.” He drained the rest of his goblet, sighed deeply, and proclaimed, “Only you, Wart, would accept being branded a cuckold as a corollary of love.”
Arthur laughed, open and joyous. “Perhaps the mirror and I simply have different ideas of fidelity. Here, come, have some more wine. Tell me how the old castle has been faring…”