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“We now present,” one of the puppets
cried out in a squeaky, exaggerated voice, “the story of our great King Arthur!”
Children pressed in, eager to watch. The two puppets disappeared, and in their place were puppets of a battered knight, a child, and a baby. “I am Sir Ector!” the battered knight said, weaving drunkenly around the small stage.
“I am Sir Kay!” the child said.
Sir Ector bopped Sir Kay on the head. The children watching roared with laughter. “You are not Sir Anything yet, rat!” Their fight continued until they noticed the baby. A booming voice from offstage declared, “This is Arthur. He is yours now. Take care of him.”
Sir Ector and little Kay looked at each other, then looked at the baby, then looked at each other, then looked at the baby, continuing the repetition for far too long. The children giggled, shouting, “Take the baby! Take the baby!”
Finally, the puppets complied. They wandered offstage.
Interesting that there had been no puppet for Merlin, only a disembodied voice. And it had not happened exactly like that. There had been violence, pursuit, simmering threat. There had been those who wanted to kill the baby simply for existing. And Arthur’s mother was left out entirely. Though Igraine’s sad fate was hardly fodder for a children’s play.
Various stages of puppets progressed through Arthur’s childhood as a servant to Sir Ector and Sir Kay. Then they came to a tournament in Camelot where Sir Kay’s sword broke. Desperate to replace it, Arthur pulled Excalibur out of the enchanted stone that held it fast against all other attempts to retrieve it. The stone that would only release the sword to the true future king.
The audience gasped and clapped when the tiny puppet held up the knife-sized sword. Then they laughed as he tripped and the sword skidded away. Sir Kay and Sir Ector chastised Arthur for a dizzyingly silly few minutes.
In reality, the three had fled. Uther Pendragon, the king, wanted no heir. No usurper. Sir Ector had thrown Excalibur into a lake to get rid of the evidence of Arthur’s right to rule. The inky depths claimed it. Until…
The backdrop of the puppet play was replaced with a blue cloth. The Arthur puppet was larger now. A hand—a real hand—shot up out of the blue cloth, holding the miniature sword.
This version acknowledged the magical elements—the story could not be told without them—but made them so minor they were afterthoughts. The Lady of the Lake was merely a prop to get the sword back to Arthur. Not one of the few magical beings who had sided with him against the Dark Queen was present. But Camelot had abandoned magic; perhaps even its stories were pushing it away, as well.
A huge puppet with a black, spiky crown roared onto the stage. The kids screamed, jeered, and shouted curses at Uther Pendragon.
“Come.” Arthur took her elbow. His eyes were still kind, but there was something hard there. “There will be gifts.”
She wanted to see the rest of the play, see how Arthur’s citizens decided to interpret and spread his story. See if Merlin ever came back into it, if they acknowledged his part in the next scenes after ignoring his role in the first ones. And she was very curious as to how puppets would re-create the Forest of Blood and the battle with the Dark Queen. Not to mention the banishment of Merlin.
But she could not very well demand to be left with the children. She followed Arthur.
* * *
The lakeshore was lined with boats. Flat ferries, narrow vessels made of hollowed-out logs, rowboats that looked as steady and dependable as a leaf caught in a maelstrom.
“Are you nervous?” Arthur asked. For the last two hours, he had celebrated among his people while she sat with Brangien at her side, bowing her head and smiling as people laid gifts on a table. Food, mostly, though some lengths of cloth and cleverly twisted pieces of metal. She had touched each item. None bit her. None sang to her. They were all safe.
Now it was evening and the festival was being dismantled. The boats awaited. Camelot awaited. No king would be married on the shore of a lake.
“Our Lady Guinevere does not care for water.” Mordred’s voice winked brightly as the daylight faded. Somehow he always ended up at her side.
“Is that true?” Arthur asked.
She nodded, wishing she could lie and pretend to be strong. What would he think of her?
Arthur turned to their company. Though Mordred was closest, all Arthur’s knights were gathered around them. She had already lost track of which ones had accompanied her here and which ones she had only just met. So many faces! The forest had seemed lonely, but now she longed for the simplicity of her life there.
Arthur’s voice was as warm as his smile. “My bride and I will take another boat. We wish to arrive first so we can watch the procession.”
“But my king, is it proper?” Sir Bors frowned dubiously, his mustache drooping. “To be alone with her before you are wed? Women’s passionate natures cannot be trusted.”
Annoyed, she forgot to be a painting. “I shall protect his honor with my life,” she answered drily. There was a brief silence, and then the men broke out into raucous laughter at the idea of this slip of a girl protecting their king. If only they knew. Sir Bors, however, did not seem amused.
Mordred clapped him on the back. “Fear not, valiant Sir Bors. I will attend them.”
“Thank you, nephew,” Arthur said. It was odd, hearing Arthur call Mordred—who was a year older than the king—nephew. Arthur’s family tree was gnarled and diseased, filled with twists and betrayals and pain. How it had produced him, she did not know.
