He fell silent. Lance would have listened to every one of the hundred stories and more. But Arthur’s attention had come to rest, with all its old unsettling thoroughness, upon him. “And I might just tell you a few,” he went on eventually, “once I’ve heard yours. Mind you don’t leave anything out.”
Lance found it surprisingly hard. Unused to finding words for his own situations—for such a long time, he’d had no-one to talk to but children and sheep—he began to stumble through the tale of his own past three years, his journey here, his encounter with Ban in the wilderness outpost on his way. The telling of it all was hampered further by Art’s expectation that he eat as well as talk: a whole pig was roasting on a spit over the fire, and generous portions of this, as well as other delicacies—rich, dark rye bread, slices of black pudding—kept making their way to his wooden trencher.
It was Lance who noticed that their neighbours at the table were growing restless. Art had already waved aside as many interruptions as he diplomatically could. Quickly Lance brought his observations about the strange, burned fields around Din Guardi to a close. “Now talk to Coel and Mor,” he added quietly, “before you undo all your good work in the debates this afternoon.”
“Nonsense, Lance. I’ll talk to whomever I…”
Lance gave him a gentle kick to the ankle. Art’s eyebrows went up, but he glanced around with a rueful half-smile of surrender, then turned to Coel. “Your musicians are in good form tonight, Your Majesty.”
“Ah, yes. A pipe, a drum and three on the strings—there’s nothing to beat it. I call for them whenever I feel melancholy. Now, did I ever tell you about the time when I travelled as far as Caer Lir on the western coast, just to hear a man play a thing called a rebec? Now, a rebec differs from the old lira da braccio, in that the number of strings can vary from one to five, and the tuning should be done in fifths, not…”
***
It was late by the time the meal was over. Even when the kitchen servants began to clear away the last remains, the warlords lingered, reluctant to leave the company and the warmth of the fire. Coel’s long disquisition on instruments and tones had given Lance leisure to look properly at Arthur, and when the old man at last got up to order hot wine to the table, he reached out and touched Art’s wrist. “Is this your first meal down here since you were injured?”
“I was propped on my pillows eating gruel at this time last night. See what a tonic you are?”
“I can’t work miracles, though. You ought to be in bed.”
Art pulled a face. “I can’t, not until this lot clears off. A true king can down his tankard of hippocras and sit up carousing till dawn. I have to try and repair my reputation.” He lowered his voice, brow creasing. “I tell you what, though—there’s a prize for the knight who can make me forget I got pretty much speared through the bollock a fortnight ago.”
Lance considered. There were all kinds of distractions he could offer—questions of military strategy, logistics, the sheer graft of keeping a standing army in hostile terrain. He rested one elbow on the table, laid his chin on his fist. “This duck walks into a tavern.”
Arthur blinked. “A duck?”
“That’s right. And he goes up to the keeper and orders himself a pint of ale. The keeper’s astonished, but he serves him his drink, and the duck goes off into a corner, sits down and settles to read the bill of fare.”
“This is ridiculous, Lance.”
“Next day, the same thing happens. Duck comes in, orders a drink, sits down to read. So the keeper decides to talk to him, find out something about him. And the duck says he’s only in town for a while. There’s a building site over the road, and he’s doing some plastering work over there.”
“For God’s sake…”
“Don’t you want to know how all this turns out?”
“No, I... All right, yes. Go on.”
“The next day, the circus comes to town. Not gladiators and horse-racing—clowns and performing animals, that kind of entertainment. And it occurs to the tavern keeper that they might be interested in this marvellous duck. So when one of the animal tamers comes into the tavern, he tells the man all about him—how the duck can speak, read, drink a pint. The animal tamer thinks this would make a great act. He tells the tavern keeper to get the duck to call in and see him.”
Art shook his head. “I’ll never get it back, will I—the time I’ve spent listening to this?”
“You won’t regret it, I promise. Next time the duck comes into the tavern, the keeper tells him he might have the chance of a job with the circus. The duck says, ‘The circus? You mean the place with the great big cloth tent that they take down every time they move on?’ The tavern keeper says that is the place he means, yes. And the duck looks at him and says, ‘What the hell would they want with a plasterer?’”
Art stared at him in silence for a long moment. Then he got stiffly to his feet and tapped his tankard off the table. His voice was steady enough: perhaps only Lance and Guy could have detected the tremor in it. “Will you excuse us, Your Majesties? My honourable lords and nobles? This day has been a long one, and I must retire.”
He took Lance by the elbow. Lance scrambled off his bench with as much grace as he could manage and followed him through a narrow doorway at the far end of the hall. Silently Art limped ahead of him to a room little bigger than a cell, with the remains of a fire glowing in the corner. A guard’s chamber, Lance guessed. There were no chairs, but like good soldiers they made do with the wooden stools on either side of the fire. Arthur was wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his robe. After quite some time—during which Lance watched him with the greatest satisfaction—he was able to speak. “Well,” he said raggedly. “You succeeded. You did make me forget. What do you want for your prize?”
Desires and hungers ran through Lance’s blood, glittering, fuelled by hot wine. Carefully he said, “I’ll tell you at some other time. Come on, Art—you’ve heard every word of my tale, and the tale of the duck. How fares the legendary Arthur of the Britons?”
“I thought I wanted to tell you all about my triumphs and campaigns. Now I’m alone with you…” He folded his arms, shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “Now I’m alone with you, all I can think of are the times when I’d have given my soul for you to be there with me. I killed both my half-brothers in battle last year, the legitimate sons of Pendragon—contenders for the throne. In fact the first time I met one of them was when I split his head in two with an axe. Not very fraternal, was it?”