Grailblazers (30 page)

The Graf lifted his head and roared with laughter.

‘A fight,' he repeated. ‘Well, they've come to the right place, then, haven't they?'

‘Yes, sir. Only we haven't.'

‘Apparently not.' The Graf turned to his pages and shouted, ‘You lot! Search the castle, understood. Two dangerous knights. Jump to it.'

Then something thudded into place in von Weinacht's brain, and he swung down a hand and grabbed the dwarf.

‘You,' he growled. ‘Who are you supposed to be, then?'

‘Toenail, sir. I'm a dwarf.'

‘I can see that.'

‘Attendant on the knights, sir. I came with them from Albion.'

‘I see.' Von Weinacht breathed out fiercely through his nose. ‘And why are you betraying your masters to me?' he asked.

Toenail squirmed slightly. ‘Oh, no reason,' he said. ‘I just thought, blow this for a lark, all this mending things and cleaning things. I have nothing to lose but my chains, I thought, and—'

‘What chains?'

‘Figuratively speaking, sir.'

‘Right,' said the Graf. ‘I'll deal with you later. Follow me.'

He released the dwarf, smashed up a coffee table for good measure, and strode out of the door. Toenail didn't follow him at once; he darted back to his knapsack, retrieved something from it, and then followed as fast as his legs could carry him.

 

‘Will this do?' the girl asked.

They were standing in the main courtyard. Because the entire staff was occupied in searching for intruders, the place was empty except for an abandoned and rather beat-up looking sleigh.

‘Yes, that's fine,' said Boamund. ‘I suppose we'd better get on with it.'

Although he was still burning with pent-up fury and rage, he was doing it rather more sheepishly than he had been a few minutes before. True, Sir Galahaut had wronged him quite unforgivably, and the shame would have to be washed out in blood; nevertheless, when you thought about it, it was a dashed silly way to settle an argument, chopping the other fellow's head off. Or getting your own chopped off. And a fellow you'd been at the dear old Coll with, into the bargain. He couldn't help feeling, deep down, that there might be a better way of dealing with situations like this. A really aggressive, hard-fought game of squash, for example.

Galahaut had taken off his jacket and was doing flamboyant practice sweeps with his sword. The girl was sitting on the sleigh. She had picked up a box of chocolates from somewhere, and was eating them avidly.

‘Ready?' Boamund asked.

‘Just a tick,' Galahaut called back. ‘Um - got a bit of cramp in the forearm, I think. You don't mind if I just loosen up a bit, do you?'

‘Not at all.'

‘Jolly decent of you, old man.'

‘Not a bit of it, Gally. Have as long as you like.'

The Haut Prince did a few more practice sweeps, and then some arm-flinging exercises. Not, he assured himself, that he wasn't eager to get on with it and give young Snotty the hiding he'd been asking for ever since he could remember; but there wasn't any rush, was there? All the time in the world.

‘Excuse me,' said the girl, ‘but why haven't you started yet?'

The knights looked at her.

‘We aren't ready yet.'

‘Can't rush these things.'

‘Wouldn't be sporting.'

‘Oh.' The girl shrugged. ‘I see. Sorry.'

The knights circled gingerly. Once or twice they tried a few very tentative lunges, but not without asking the other fellow whether he was ready first. The Grafin, meanwhile, finished her chocolates and started clapping. Slowly.

In desperation, Boamund attempted a double left-hand reverse
mandiritta,
a fiendishly complex and difficult manoeuvre which, as he remembered only too well once he'd started, he'd never quite managed to master. It involves a duplex feint to the right side of the head, a slow pass to the left body, and finally a long lunge, executed by the fencer on one knee with his left hand passing behind his back until it touches the inside of his right knee.

‘Help,' he said. ‘I'm stuck.'

‘Oh, hard luck,' exclaimed Sir Galahaut, sheathing his sword and helping him up. ‘Better?'

‘I think I've sprained my wrist.'

‘That does it, then,' said Galahaut quickly. ‘No earthly good fighting if you're not feeling a hundred per cent. Wouldn't be right.'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Pity,' Galahaut went on, ‘but there it is. We'll have to call it a draw, I suppose.'

‘Good thinking.' Boamund levered himself to his feet, winced, and put up his sword. ‘Just when we were getting back into the swing of it, too.'

‘Can't be helped,' said Galahaut sympathetically. ‘Hey, where's that dratted girl gone?'

They both looked round. They were alone.

‘Got bored, I expect,' said Boamund with contempt. ‘That's girls for you, of course. I never did meet one who was really interested in Games.'

 

When the Graf came thundering down the main staircase into the Great Hall, he found his daughter sitting on the steps of the dais crying into a small lace handkerchief. He dropped his axe and hurried over to her.

‘What's the matter, precious?' he said. ‘Tell Daddy all about it.'

‘It's those silly knights,' the Grafin sniffed. ‘They won't fight. They're just standing there chatting.'

‘There, there,' said the Graf. ‘Don't upset yourself over a couple of silly knights. They're not worth it really.'

‘And I thought they were both so brave,' the girl went on. There were little tears, like pearls, on her cheeks. She blew her nose loudly.

‘Huh!' The Graf snorted contemptuously. ‘Knights! They don't know the meaning of the word.'

‘And they just left me sitting there,' the Grafin said, ‘after I'd given them tea and everything.'

‘Young blackguards,' said von Weinacht. ‘I'll soon teach them a thing or two.'

The girl's eyes lit up and she smiled.

‘I love you, Daddy,' she said.

‘I love you too, Popsy,' muttered von Weinacht, gruffly. ‘Right, where are those knights? Dwarf!'

Toenail, who had been standing on a chair and looking out of the window at the courtyard, jumped down and ran over to him.

‘Yes, sir?'

‘You got any idea where those knights are?'

‘In the courtyard, sir. Not fighting,' he added, thoughtfully.

 

‘Where's that dratted dwarf got to?' said Boamund. ‘Always wandering off somewhere, I've noticed.'

‘Typical,' Galahaut said, putting on his jacket. ‘Especially when there's work to be done.'

‘And he's got the luggage.'

The two knights looked around the huge courtyard.

‘Could be anywhere,' Galahaut said at last. ‘Big place, this.'

‘Gloomy, though.'

They started to stroll towards the main hall.

‘I vote,' said Galahaut, ‘that we find this Graf von Weinacht, make him tell us where the Socks are, and buzz off. How does that sound to you?'

‘Pretty shrewd,' Boamund replied. ‘Where shall we start?'

‘How about over there?'

‘Good idea.'

They pushed open the doors of the main hall and walked in. They stared.

‘Toenail?' they said, in unison.

In front of them, sprawled on the hearthrug like a pile of bright red bedclothes, was the Graf von Weinacht. An enormous Danish axe lay by his right hand. Standing over him, grinning and holding an aerosol can of chemical Mace, was the dwarf.

 

‘I suppose,' the Graf said, ‘I'd better begin at the beginning.'

It had been a long day. Acting on the information received, he had gone dashing off to Atlantis in search of Grail Knights, had been beaten up twice and rolled down a spiral staircase, crash-landed his sleigh in the middle of nowhere, arrived home to find the place knee-deep in knights, been Maced by a dwarf and tied up with his own dressing-gown cord. It was enough to make you spit.

‘Is that necessary?' yawned Galahaut. ‘Only ...'

‘Yes,' the Graf snapped. ‘Absolutely essential. All right?'

‘Fire away, then,' replied the Haut Prince. He leant back, put his feet up on a stuffed bear, and helped himself to a big, fat bunch of grapes.

 

Simon Magus turned the page and settled his reading-glasses comfortably on his nose.

It was a hell of a story. If it wasn't quite the greatest story ever told, that was just because the Graf wasn't quite in the mood to give it the full treatment.

... About how, getting on for two thousand years ago, he packed in his promising career as a weather-god to study astrology at the University of Damascus. About how he and three of his fellow students, looking through the University's electron astrolabe, discovered what at first they took to be a bit of dirt on the lens, and then realised was an entirely new star.

About how they set off to observe it from the University's hi-tech observatory near Jerusalem. About how there was the inevitable cock-up with the hotel bookings, which meant that they arrived in Galilee one cold, wet night to find that their rooms had been given to a party of insurance salesmen from Tarsus, and they were going to have to doss down in the stables.

And how, just as they were squelching across the courtyard and muttering about suing somebody, young Melchior happened to look up and notice that the star was slap-bang over their heads; and that the group of shepherds who'd just come out of the stables were looking very worried indeed ...

 

‘And another thing,' said the shepherd, grinning insanely. ‘I don't know if you're superstitious or anything, but if you are, don't go in there. The place is knee-deep in angels, okay?'

‘Angels?'

‘I don't want to talk about it.'

The shepherds hurried away, leaving Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar and Klaus standing in the rain.

‘Did that man just say the Angels were in there, someone?' Balthazar asked.

‘I thought so.'

They groaned. As if they didn't have enough to put up with without sharing their sleeping accommodation with a gang of greasy, leather-clad, foul-mouthed, camel-riding hooligans.

It was dark in the stable. The oil lamp flickered atmospherically in the slight draught. Suddenly, all four of them felt this very great urge to kneel down.

‘Hello,' Balthazar called out. ‘Anybody here? Hey, lads, I don't like this, it's kind of spooky in here ...'

It grew lighter; there was a soft golden glow coming from the far manger.

‘Hush,' said a woman's voice, ‘he's asleep.'

It was Melchior who spoke first. Very gently, he crept forward towards the crib, peeped into it, and then rocked back as if he had been stunned. Then he knelt down and covered his head with the hem of his cloak.

‘Lady,' he said.

The woman's face was in shadow. ‘Welcome,' she said. ‘Blessed may you be for ever, for you are the first to look on the face of the Son of Man.'

Melchior rocked backwards and forwards on his heels. ‘Lady,' he said again, ‘is it permitted that we might offer gifts to your son?'

The woman smiled, and nodded, whereupon Melchior searched in his satchel and produced a small, shiny box. The woman nodded, as if she had been expecting it.

‘Gold,' Melchior explained. ‘Gold is a fitting gift for a king.'

The woman took the box without looking at it and laid it down beside the crib. Caspar stepped forward, fell on his knees and offered the woman a little alabaster jar.

‘Frankincense, lady,' he said shyly. ‘To anoint Him who shall be crowned with thorns.'

The woman nodded, and put the jar down by the box. Balthazar, his knees trembling, now stepped forward, knelt, and held out a silver phial.

‘Myrrh, lady,' he whispered. ‘To embalm Him who shall never die.'

Again, a trace of a smile crossed the woman's lips. She took the phial from Balthazar's hands, looked at it for a moment, and put it with the other gifts.

Why didn't they tell me, Klaus muttered to himself. The bastards. Why didn't they say something?

There was a moment's pause, while the other three looked at him. He decided to improvise. He grabbed something out of his satchel, tore a page out of a book to wrap it in (the book was a treatise on ornithology, and the page he had selected had little pictures of robins on it) and stepped forward.

‘Um,' he said, and thrust the parcel into the woman's hands.

She gave him a long look, then slowly unwrapped the parcel.

‘Socks,' she said. ‘Just what He always wanted.'

The expression on her face told a different story as she held up two knee-length stockings to the light. Klaus winced.

‘They're probably a bit big for him right now,' he said, as lightly as he could, ‘but never mind, he'll grow into them.'

The woman gave him another long, hard look; then she rolled the socks up into a ball and dropped them. ‘You may go,' she said.

‘Thank you,' Klaus mumbled, backing away. ‘Oh yes, and a happy ... happy. The compliments of the season, anyway.'

He banged his head on a rafter, reversed out of the door, and ran for his life.

 

‘A fortnight later,' the Graf went on, breathing heavily, ‘I got a parcel. It contained a pair of socks, and a letter. It was delivered by an angel.'