Come, friends, round the fire: evening is falling, and the night is cold, and what better occupation than a tale to warm your hearts? It is an old tale, older than you can imagine, and the events have passed into legend, and even into myth; there are Grail-romances aplenty, all of them different, and yet none of them are quite correct. You must judge for yourself if this Grail story – unpolluted by the anachrony of the Crusades, unpolluted by all who came since – is any better or worse than the others. The one thing I know is that it remains nearly untold – this is the tale of the Camelot Grail, from the pen of Geoffrey of Monmouth, whose narration I am very much inclined to trust, for he apparently had an important position in Camelot's court, and access to all of its lore and documentation.
Dear friends, do not shuffle; I know that my introduction has been long, but it was required, lest the apparent inaccuracy to the well-known legend were commented upon. Oh! you are here purely for the story? Do sit back, then, friends, and let me begin.
Geoffrey of Monmouth had been Camelot's record-keeper for longer than anybody could remember – including Gaius, who had been Court Physician since the dawn of time, if the castle-folk were to be believed. Geoffrey's was a curious job, cooped up in a dusty room that few ever visited, sometimes just sitting at his desk, sometimes writing, and sometimes, for dramatic effect, poring over a dusty old tome with his face half in shadow. The handful of people who did come, and who weren't royalty, never paid him much attention: he was just there, as much a part of the furniture as the haphazard shelves and the myriad heavy volumes, as the creaking desks and chairs that looked as if they had existed before the fall of Rome.
Sometimes he stood up, and ventured between the shelves. He knew the books' arrangement like the back of his hand now; he had not read them all (though he was almost there), but he had run his fingers over their spines, brushing off clouds of dust, trying to reveal the titles that had not been viewed for a long time now. Sometimes he looked lovingly at them, lifted one from its alcove, cradled it almost. Occasionally his curiosity would be piqued to the extent that he would take the book over to his desk, and spent the next few hours reading it. But usually he just revelled in the dusty scent, the browned writing, the crisp spine. Some people said of Geoffrey of Monmouth that he had never loved a person as much as he loved his books. He himself would have admitted that there was a certain truth to that.
That particular day he had wandered further than he usually did, into the next room, which few did not realise existed, and which was accessible only with his permission. Some of the volumes here were those that nobody would have read even if they had had the chance. The History of Paving and the Mediterranean Influence on Flagstones. A Record of the Farmsteads of Albion, 412-456. He didn't know which poor scribe had been made to copy such thrilling volumes out, but he reckoned that it had been a punishment. Beyond these dull books were, in stark contrast, some very interesting ones indeed: the most valuable of the lot, the ones he didn't like people looking at unless they really needed to. Some of them were worth that much solely because of the gorgeous handwriting inside; in the case of others, it was the information they held.
He meandered to the other side of the room, bent down – feared he wouldn't be able to get back up again, but ignored it for the moment – and began to look through the books on the bottom shelf. That was when his eye fell on an unfamiliar volume.
Perhaps it had just been too dusty last time he had been here, and something had brushed against it, revealing the title. He would have remembered a title like The Fall of the House of Pendragon, and Other Startling Prophecies.
It was an old book, so old that it was less a book, more than a bound collection of loosely-stitched scrolls of paper. A heady cloud of dust flew straight up his nose as he pulled the volume from the shelf. The resultant sneeze surprised even him, and he hoped that the people on the next floor down hadn't heard it. With a glance about him, as if he were robbing his own library, he tucked the book under one arm and took it over to the nearest desk. This looked like it might be not only interesting, but also essential reading.
Half an hour later, he had scarcely scratched the surface, but nevertheless he managed to draw himself out of his reading, pull out one of the scrolls, and, claiming to be on extremely urgent business, head straight to the quarters of the King himself.
King Arthur spent a lot of time reading for someone who didn't much like reading. Naturally, as a great monarch, he was required to keep up with the latest news of foreign affairs, home affairs, and whatever else should be sent to him on paper, usually in the form of a long manuscript such as the one he was currently scrutinising.
It was evident to Merlin, who was standing in the corner, and watching his master out of the corner of his eye, that this manuscript had not been written recently. Indeed, it looked somewhat ancient. Leastways, Merlin was mildly intrigued, but not enough to question him about it, for the moment at least.
He dusted the mantelpiece, cleaned the windows and mopped the floor, and then, on realising that Arthur was still reading the manuscript, asked:
'What is it?'
Arthur started, and at length said pointedly, 'None of your business, Merlin.'
'It's just, it seemed interesting, and I was interested.' Merlin shrugged. 'I was going to offer to help you read it, because you were spending so much time over it that I thought you were finding it difficult, but –' and if he never got to finish his sentence, it is because narrowly dodging a flying paperweight can turn one's attention rather. 'Sorry. Sire. I... what do you want for lunch?'
'Is there a choice today?' asked Arthur.
'Same as yesterday, or the same as the day before,' replied Merlin.
'So there isn't a choice.'
'There also isn't much food. You know how difficult this year's been.' Merlin gestured vaguely towards the frosted window. 'If you're going to insist on fruit every meal, expect shortages.'
'Bring me whatever there is.'
Merlin hesitated, still extremely curious, but said nothing and left the room. It wasn't a good idea to disturb Arthur when he was in one of those moods.
He returned with two cobs of bread, a pat of butter, some jam and three rather sad-looking apples. When he entered the room, Arthur had evidently finished with the scroll, and was scrutinising a map that seemed to be mostly sea. Merlin squinted at it. It was not an area he was familiar with.
'Where are you going?' he asked, breezily.
Arthur scowled at him and folded the map so he couldn't see it.
'There's no use hiding it from me,' Merlin shrugged. 'If you end up going... wherever it is... I'll be coming with you. So you may as well tell me.'
His logic was, Arthur realised with a sigh, as impeccable as usual. He was far too good at persuasion for a servant. 'We are not going anywhere. This is ridiculous superstition and in a few minutes I shall be asking you to return this to the Hall of Records.'
He reached across and picked up the plate that bore his rather sorry lunch, and began to butter a roll. Merlin stood by his desk in the hope of finding out more just by being there; at last Arthur became fed up with being watched; he tied up the scroll and handed it to him. 'Here. Geoffrey knows where it goes.'
As soon as Merlin had left the room, he ducked into one of the window-alcoves and untied the scroll. A voice floated from within the quarters: 'And don't read that scroll; I expect you to return within two minutes!' Merlin jumped and, knowing that he wasn't going to get away with sneaking a look at this curious document, took it reluctantly to the Hall of Records.
Geoffrey of Monmouth was far too used to Merlin's presence. There were few other citizens in Camelot who visited the library quite so much, and he had to admit that he was quite pleased by this. He had on a couple of occasions tried to engage Merlin in conversation regarding the joys of books, but on those particular occasions the boy had happened to be in a hurry. He wondered what sort of things he liked to read. He rarely borrowed anything, merely read in the quiet of the back section, which had desks and chairs: seeing that somebody was actually using this section from time to time, Geoffrey had added a couple of cushions and an extra candelabrum.
This time Merlin was on business, however, which was obvious from the fact that he was holding the very book that had earlier been given to Arthur. The boy approached the desk, and, handing over this precious document, said:
'The king says that this is ridiculous superstition, and that he wants it putting back wherever it came from.' He tried to look apologetic but ended up just looking a bit jaded.
'Then the king does not know what he is dealing with.' Geoffrey startled Merlin with this statement; the old record-keeper stood, and, clutching the book to him, emerged from behind his desk, and swept out of the Hall of Records.
Merlin watched him leave, his interest now absolute. His mind, unbidden, began to concoct plans to get hold of that book; he dismissed these thoughts in mild annoyance, rather wishing he weren't so curious. It would save him a lot of bother. Then, figuring it would be best not to join Arthur when he was discussing these secret matters with Geoffrey, he decided he would sit and read until the keeper returned.
When he did, Merlin was disappointed to see that he was empty-handed and that his face was trying desperately to hide something. Therefore, despite everything, he had to give up, and hoped very much that he would find out eventually. News spread quickly, after all, among the gossip-mongers of Camelot, especially now that they were in a time of remarkable peace, and there was hardly anything to talk about otherwise.
You are shuffling again; perhaps you think that I hesitate because I have run out of story. That is not the case. I am inviting reflexion. Oh! was this not a suitable place to stop? Perhaps not. – How goes the story? Will you continue to sit with me, round this fire? I say, don't leave, my good lad, it is just getting interesting. For this time of remarkable peace is Camelot's Golden Age. – My dear girl, you are quite right, things rarely do happen in Golden Ages. Is that a bad thing? – What do you think, though, dear friends? Shall I continue?
