Terence Hanbury White - THE ONCE & FUTURE KING Five Volumes in One: The Sword in the Stone, The Queen of Air and Darkness, The Ill-Made Knight, and, The Candle in the Wind + The Book of Merlin

On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays it was Court Hand and Summulae Logicales, while the rest of the week it was the Organon, Repetition and Astrology. The governess was always getting muddled with her astrolabe, and when she got specially muddled she would take it out of the Wart by rapping his knuckles. She did not rap Kays knuckles, because when Kay grew older he would be Sir Kay, the master of the estate. The Wart was called the Wart because it more or less rhymed with Art, which was short for his real name. Kay had given him the nickname. Kay was not called anything but Kay, as he was too dignified to have a nickname and would have flown into a passion if anybody had tried to give him one. The governess had red hair and some mysterious wound from which she derived a lot of prestige by showing it to all the women of the castle, behind closed doors. It was believed to be where she sat down, and to have been caused by sitting on some armour at a picnic by mistake. Eventually she offered to show it to Sir Ector, who was Kays father, had hysterics and was sent away. They found out afterwards that she had been in a lunatic hospital for three years.

In the afternoons the programme was: Mondays and Fridays, tilting and horsemanship; Tuesdays, hawking; Wednesday, fencing; Thursdays, archery; Saturdays, the theory of chivalry, with the proper measures to be blown on all occasions, terminology of the chase and hunting etiquette. If you did the wrong thing at the mort or the undoing, for instance, you were bent over the body of the dead beast and smacked with the flat side of a sword. This was called being bladed. It was horseplay, a sort of joke like being shaved when crossing the line. Kay was not bladed, although he often went wrong.

When they had got rid of the governess, Sir Ector said, After all, damn it all, we cant have the boys runnin about all day like hooligans after all, damn it all? Ought to be havin a firstrate eddication, at their age. When I was their age I was doin all this Latin and stuff at five oclock every mornin. Happiest time of me life. Pass the port.

Sir Grummore Grummursum, who was staying the night because he had been benighted out questin after a specially long run, said that when he was their age he was swished every mornin because he would go hawkin instead of learnin. He attributed to this weakness the fact that he could never get beyond the Future Simple of Utor. It was a third of the way down the lefthand leaf, he said. He thought it was leaf ninetyseven. He passed the port.

Sir Ector said, Had a good quest today?

Sir Grummore said, Oh, not so bad. Rattlin good day, in fact. Found a chap called Sir Bruce Saunce Pit choppin off a maidens head in Weedon Bushes, ran him to Mixbury Plantation in the Bicester, where he doubled back, and lost him in Wicken Wood. Must have been a good twentyfive miles as he ran.

A straightnecked un, said Sir Ector.

But about these boys and all this Latin and that, added the old gentleman. Amo, amas, you know, and runnin about like hooligans: what would you advise?

Ah, said Sir Grummore, laying his finger by his nose and winking at the bottle, that takes a deal of thinking about, if you dont mind my saying so.

Dont mind at all, said Sir Ector. Very kind of you to say anythin. Much obliged, Im sure. Help yourself to port.

Good port this.

Get it from a friend of mine.

But about these boys, said Sir Grummore. How many of them are there, do you know?

Two, said Sir Ector, counting them both, that is.

Couldnt send them to Eton, I suppose? inquired Sir Grummore cautiously. Long way and all that, we know.

It was not really Eton that he mentioned, for the College of Blessed Mary was not founded until 1440, but it was a place of the same sort. Also they were drinking Metheglyn, not Port, but by mentioning the modern wine it is easier to give you the feel.

Isnt so much the distance, said Sir Ector, but that giant Whatsisname is in the way. Have to pass through his country, you understand.

What is his name?

Cant recollect it at the moment, not for the life of me, Fellow that lives by the Burbly Water.

Galapas, said Sir Grummore.

Thats the very chap.

The only other thing, said Sir Grummore, is to have a tutor.

You mean a fellow who teaches you.

Thats it, said Sir Grummore. A tutor, you know, a fellow who teaches you.

Have some more port, said Sir Ector. You need it after all this questin.

Splendid day, said Sir Grummore. Only they never seem to kill nowadays. Run twentyfive miles and then mark to ground or lose him altogether. The worst is when you start a fresh quest.

We kill all our giants cubbin, said Sir Ector. After that they give you a fine run, but get away.

Run out of scent, said Sir Grummore, I dare say. Its always the same with these big giants in a big country. They run out of scent.

But even if you was to have a tutor, said Sir Ector, I dont see how you would get him.

Advertise, said Sir Grummore.

I have advertised, said Sir Ector. It was cried by the Humberland Newsman and Cardoile Advertiser.

The only other way, said Sir Grummore, is to start a quest.

You mean a quest for a tutor, explained Sir Ector.

Thats it.

Hic, Haec, Hoc, said Sir Ector. Have some more of this drink, whatever it calls itself.

Hunc, said Sir Grummore.

So it was decided. When Grummore Grummursum had gone home next day, Sir Ector tied a knot in his handkerchief to remember to start a quest for a tutor as soon as he had time to do so, and, as he was not sure how to set about it, he told the boys what Sir Grummore had suggested and warned them not to be hooligans meanwhile. Then they went haymaking.

It was July, and every ablebodied man and woman on the estate worked during that month in the field, under Sir Ectors direction. In any case the boys would have been excused from being eddicated just then.

Sir Ectors castle stood in an enormous clearing in a still more enormous forest. It had a courtyard and a moat with pike in it. The moat was crossed by a fortified stone bridge which ended halfway across it. The other half was covered by a wooden drawbridge which was wound up every night. As soon as you had crossed the drawbridge you were at the top of the village street it had only one street and this extended for about half a mile, with thatched houses of wattle and daub on either side of it. The street divided the clearing into two huge fields, that on the left being cultivated in hundreds of long narrow strips, while that on the right ran down to a river and was used as pasture. Half of the righthand field was fenced off for hay.

It was July, and real July weather, such as they had in Old England. Everybody went bright brown, like Red Indians, with startling teeth and flashing eyes. The dogs moved about with their tongues hanging out, or lay panting in bits of shade, while the farm horses sweated through their coats and flicked their tails and tried to kick the horseflies off their bellies with great hind hoofs. In the pasture field the cows were on the gad, and could be seen galloping about with their tails in the air, which made Sir Ector angry.

Sir Ector stood on the top of a rick, whence he could see what everybody was doing, and shouted commands all over the twohundredacre field, and grew purple in the face. The best mowers mowed away in a line where the grass was still uncut, their scythes roaring in the strong sunlight. The women raked the dry hay together in long strips with wooden rakes, and the two boys with pitchforks followed up on either side of the strip, turning the hay inwards so that it lay well for picking up. Then the great carts followed, rumbling with their spiked wooden wheels, drawn by horses or slow white oxen. One man stood on top of the cart to receive the hay and direct operations, while one man walked on either side picking up what the boys had prepared and throwing it to him with a fork. The cart was led down the lane between two lines of hay, and was loaded in strict rotation from the front poles to the back, the man on top calling out in a stern voice where he wanted each fork to be pitched. The loaders grumbled at the boys for not having laid the hay properly and threatened to tan them when they caught them, if they got left behind.