Once there were two friends, Prince Accolon of Caerleon, and Ontzlake of the Dolorous Garde. They were not, in truth, good boys, but given the examples they had around them their behaviour might have been worse. Both lads were bitter young things; each felt that their birthright had been stolen from him.
Accolon was a slender lad, red of hair, with large green eyes that seemed ready to pop out of his head. As if to make up for his strange appearance he always dressed very richly, in a fine red coat of a richer colour than his hair. His ambition was to prove himself the greatest knight in the land by taking back Castle Caerleon, which King Arthur had seized from his father in the War of Eleven Kings.
Ontzlake was small and on the chubby side. He was not as well dressed as Accolon, although he always claimed he would have been if his younger brother, Sir Damas of the round table, had not stolen away the Dolorous Garde, their family’s great castle at the heart of Forest Perilous. When Damas defeated his elder brother in a duel after their father’s death he gave Ontzlake no share of the family coin. Damas was vicious in the way he extorted rents from the tenants on his farms and villages. Ontzlake said he would be a much better master when he won back his lands.
These two disinherited boys rode around the flat, marshy lands of Gore in the east of Britain, a long way from Castle Caerleon, but close to Ontzlake’s home. They told tales to each other of the fights they would fight to reclaim what was theirs. For two years they had been having the same conversation over and over again:
‘Next season, my friend, I will plunge into the forest, slay my brother Damas, and become lord of Dolorous Garde.’
‘Yes, old bean, and I will face Arthur in single combat. I will cause him to spill blood like the underfed swine he is. If it hadn’t been for that dashed sword in the stone. I tell you... If I’d been there that day I would have shown them all the rightful king of Britain. The sword would have slid out of that little rock like my knife from a pat of butter.’
‘I know it, Accolon. Your arm is stronger than Arthur’s. You will be a just king, and give me back my castle.’
They repeated this talk from one spring to the next, but their words were but words. They were young boys, and unused to combat. If the boys ever happened upon a full-grown knight, one or the other of them would develop a mysterious ailment, and allocate an hour some days later, when they would be able to face Sir Lamorak, or Sir Tristan, or even Sir Dagonet. Alas, neither Accolon nor Ontzlake were particularly well-organised, so these chivalrous appointments were always forgotten and never kept. During their journeys together they had managed to fight only against opponents of the lowlier classes: villagers and farm boys who came at them in taverns and at markets, landlords chasing their unpaid bills, outraged fathers of country daughters. And even though they bore strong swords and fine armour, far excelling the weapons any peasant could wield, Accolon and Ontzlake did not always win these fights they started. One night in particular they humiliated themselves in front of a tavern filled with poor villagers from Gore’s marshes. They had been picking on a young fair-haired girl, the daughter of an eel-catcher, who was sharing a bowl of fish stew with her father.
‘What a fat little thing,’ Accolon had pretended to whisper, although he intended the whole room to hear.
‘I know,’ said Ontzlake, ‘it is a cruelty for the father to feed his daughter so. Starve her, good father, if she’s ever to be married.’
Accolon and Ontzlake laughed as the pretty young girl’s spoon dropped from her hand to her bowl, and tears welled in her fair blue eyes. But their laughter soon ceased when the father, a tall and well-built, much used to a rough life, scraped his stool hard against the tavern’s wooden floor and stood to face them. The whole parlour fell silent. Accolon and Ontzlake tried to ignore the change in atmosphere, and the eel-catcher’s heavy footsteps as he came towards their table.
‘Excuse me, sirs,’ said the eel-catcher in his deep, manly voice. ‘Would you care to repeat what you just said?’
Neither of the boys looked up from his food. Accolon waved his hand to dismiss the eel-catcher, who was standing over them with his broad arms across his broad chest. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, rustic,’ said Accolon, his voice much higher in his throat than it normally sat.
‘We were discussing our famous exploits in combat,’ said Ontzlake in a quiet mumble. ‘Not for the ears of you lowly folk.’
‘That is not what I heard, young sirs. I believe you insulted my daughter. If you were men of honour you would admit your incivility and beg her forgiveness.’
Now Accolon’s bulging green eyes swivelled to regard the eel-catcher, who was as grey as his daughter was fair. ‘I’m afraid, old chap, that we don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The eel-catcher turned to the rest of the room, where the whole assembly was looking on. ‘You all heard it, didn’t you? You heard them insult my Margaret, our own May Queen.’
‘Aye, John, that we did,’ said the landlord, who of all the people in the room might have been thought the most likely to mute the heavy hint of bother in his dining room.
‘And you’ve heard me say before,’ said John the eel-catcher to the company, ‘that knights or not, no man will make my little girl cry.’
‘Aye, that we did,’ said several people in strong voice.
But the acclamation of the crowded peasant room was broken by his own Margaret’s scream of fear. ‘Dad!’ she called out. ‘I doesn’t matter. Leave it – watch out!’
The eel-catcher spun around to find Prince Accolon on his feet, with sword in hand.
‘You can leave quietly now, young knight,’ said John the eel-catcher. ‘Or you can leave with a buffet you’ll never forget.’
Without reply Accolon lunged at the larger man. The point of his gorgeous sword caught the dim light.
As quick as a flash, John whipped the stick he used to crack eels’ skulls from his belt, and delivered two sharp whacks to Accolon: the first to his forehead, and the second to his sword-hand. The second blow caused Accolon to drop his sword on the damp floor, and John trapped the blade under his heavy boot.
The eel-catcher turned to Ontzlake, who remained seated. ‘Do you want some too?’ said John, angry and confident.
Ontzlake kept his eyes to his bowl, and shook his head.
‘Then get out, the pair of you, and don’t come back here.’
‘My sword,’ said Accolon, breathy and upset.’
I’m keeping it,’ said John. ‘And let its loss be a reminder of the way you’ve dishonoured yourself here today. A good knight should be courteous, that’s what we’re told. But you two are cowards, and like all cowards you’re liars too.’
Shamefaced, Accolon and Ontzlake slouched out of that tavern into the misty drizzle, accompanied by the cheers and jeers of the poor people they left behind in the dry warm.
The next day Accolon and Ontzlake rode on through the steaming, stinking land. True to the eel-catcher’s words, they told themselves lies to excuse their failure the evening before.
‘You see, old chap, the peasant is a much debased breed,’ said Accolon, rubbing the big round bruise that had swelled in the centre of his forehead. ‘I would have bested that rogue easily if he hadn’t taken me by surprise.’
‘I know it, my friend, the blows he gave you were most dishonourable,’ Ontzlake agreed. ‘The trouble with peasants is that they have no sense of honour like we do. I wonder if they even have feelings like we folk of better breeds.’
‘Next season, when I have reclaimed Castle Caerleon, I will return to this place with my army, and then I’ll teach the eel-catcher the meaning of knightly honour.’
The two bitter boys’ fantasies of future victory were interrupted by the appearance of a beautiful young lady. She emerged from the rushes in a fine black dress, woven through with a silver thread that shimmered like the mist in a sunny breeze. Her auburn hair fell softly over her shoulders. Her eyes were black, her skin pale. She was loose of limb, with long legs and slim hips. She was very pleasing to the boys’ eyes.
‘Brave and handsome knight,’ said the maiden to Accolon. ‘I see you ride without a sword. I tell you that I have in my possession the finest blade in all the land, a sword made with such magic that its possessor can be harmed by no man alive. I will you give you this sword if you promise to complete a simple task for me.’
Entranced by the maiden, and seemingly blind to the certainty that such a gift as she promised must exact a heavy price, Accolon agreed without further thought.
The maiden beamed a beautiful, if sly, smile. ‘Then follow me, brave sir knights, to the chapel I keep nearby. There I will meet your need for a weapon.’
‘Oh there’s no need for you to walk, my dear girl. Climb up on my horse and you can guide us there.’ Accolon patted a small space in front of him in the saddle, and the slim young woman slipped easily between his legs. Accolon shifted to make himself comfortable, placed his arms tightly around the woman to keep her from falling, and urged his horse on.
If he had been a more sensible boy he would have asked the maiden her name before he went anywhere with her. Unfortunately for him, Prince Accolon had many qualities, but wisdom was not among them.