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I am shocked that you would even imply such a thing. We’re not having this conversation. Not another word.
His last words to Crowley echoed in Aziraphale’s mind as he prepared to meet with King Arthur and the rest of the Knights of the Round Table. He wished he and Crowley had had some time alone, possibly in a warm inn, eating and drinking before a fire. He was sure Crowley would appreciate hearing tales about his fellow knights; watching him laugh was always such a pleasure. Maybe one day. He sighed deeply and began to fabricate a story for Arthur describing how happy his subjects were.
He had fomented peace and tranquility the entire way back to Camelot after meeting the Black Knight, and he had discovered that his goal of spreading cheer and goodness had indeed been cancelled out by Crowley’s fomenting of dissent and discord.
His entire trip had been for naught. The villagers were no happier and the crops grew as poorly as ever. The air felt more damp. His page had made pointed comments about him not wanting to fight the Black Knight. Even his horse had seemed annoyed with him. Aziraphale was glad to be back at court.
He walked towards the Great Hall with a spring in his step; it was pleasant to not need armour in the castle, and riding a horse was always so hard on his buttocks. All eyes turned to him as he entered the hall, before the inhabitants of the room continued with their hushed conversations.
The hall seemed more crowded than usual for what he thought would be a regular meeting to discuss the business of the Kingdom, and learn about updates on the search for the Holy Grail; even the Queen and her ladies-in-waiting were present. He looked around the scarred table and observed that every seat was taken. To his surprise, Lancelot was sitting at Arthur’s right hand…Aziraphale’s spot.
As he walked towards the King, he felt a demonic presence. He scanned the hall and his senses were drawn to the Queen, who was deep in conversation with a hooded figure; the hood didn’t completely hide wisps of red hair. Apparently, Crowley’s business of stirring up trouble in the land had finished, and he had brought his mischief to court. Well, Aziraphale would not have it. As soon as the meeting was over, he would usher Crowley out. After a good meal, of course. And mead. Perhaps some time to catch up, too.
“Sir Aziraphale, how wonderful to see you,” Arthur said, unenthusiastically. “Sit and tell us about your travels.” The knights muttered among themselves, glaring at Aziraphale. He saw Crowley peeking at him from underneath his hood.
Aziraphale dragged a chair up to the table, and squeezed in between the King and Lancelot. He accepted a cup of mead, and began to tell his tales of villagers who were pleased to learn of the King’s protection from famine and war.
Before he got too far, the King interrupted. “I heard that you declined to fight the Black Knight.”
“Oh no, that’s not quite how it went. In fact—” Aziraphale began.
“Rumour has it that the two of you spoke and were quite friendly. Are you in league with him, working against my court?”
“Not at all, Sire!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I can explain!” He thought quickly, but was unable to come up with anything. A discussion about the inefficiency of their combined goals and the dampness of the air didn’t sound very impressive. Even the fact that Aziraphale had gotten the last word in their argument was unlikely to convince the King of anything.
“I have asked Lancelot to take your place. I hereby revoke your knighthood. Leave my castle. Now.”
Several hours later, Aziraphale mounted his horse and set off north, destination unknown. Somewhere without knights, he thought. And with square tables.
Crowley appeared alongside him on his own horse.
“You can stay at my place, if you like.”