Excalibur by Colin Thompson Read Free Book Online Page A

squire,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘What think you my illness may be?’
    â€˜You are in love, my lord.’
    â€˜Surely not,’ said the brave knight. ‘Are you absolutely sure? I thought I had a natural immunityto all that sort of thing.’
    â€˜No one is immune to love, my lord, apart from politicians and geography teachers and the entire population of Germany,’ said Grimethorpe.
    â€˜Well, I’m certainly none of those,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘Gosh.’
    â€˜Indeed, my lord.’
    â€˜So what do you think I should do?’
    â€˜Well, my lord, this is the Days of Yore,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘The standard procedure is to Plight your Troth.’
    â€˜Absolutely. No problem,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘I shall do it this very day. Now, be a good fellow and nip down to the market and get me one.’
    â€˜One what, my lord?’
    â€˜A Troth,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘And make sure you get the very best. Spare no expense. My lady Morgan le Fey deserves only the very finest that money can buy.’
    â€˜You don’t exactly know what a troth is, do you, my lord?’ said Grimethorpe.
    â€˜Not exactly, but I’m sure I shall recognise it when you return with one.’
    â€˜Let me explain, my lord,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘Youshould probably sit down.’
    Grimethorpe sat just out of arm’s reach from his master and explained. Sir Lancelot went white, then red, then white again, then a colour that hasn’t got a name but is much paler than white.
    â€˜So it’s not something a horse drinks out of?’ he said.
    â€˜No, my lord, that is a trough.’
    â€˜Or a serving wench with very white skin and black hair?’
    â€˜No, my lord, that is a goth.’
    â€˜Right, so no need to go down to the market then?’
    â€˜Indeed there is, my lord,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘I think Troth Plighting always works better when accompanied by a bunch of flowers and a nice box of choccies.’
    â€˜I see,’ said Sir Lancelot. ‘So first thing tomorrow or the day after we shall go to the market and procure them.’
    â€˜The market is closed tomorrow and the day after, my lord,’ said Grimethorpe. ‘It is the Feast of Saint Intestine and they are public holidays.’
    â€˜Oh dear, so they are.’
    â€˜The market is open today, my lord. I shall fetch your horse this very moment,’ said Grimethorpe and ran out of the room before Lancelot could say anything.
    Sir Lancelot came over all faint and had to lie down. The idea of being in love was as foreign to him as a Belgian recipe for Hungarian Goulash. He had heard the word love before, but then he had heard a lot of words including dandelion , trousers and persecute without understanding what any of them meant.
    He knew what love meant. It meant you couldn’t talk properly in front of the person you were in love with and you went red all over and got a tummy ache that even a badger pie could not relieve. It meant you didn’t know if you were coming or going or about to do neither or both. It meant you put your socks on the wrong feet which made you walk round in circles.
    It meant, oh I don’t know what it meant, I mean, means , Sir Lancelot thought as he lay on the daybed by the window.
    Maybe I need a strong cup of tea , he thought, except that tea is just a rumour and we won’t know if it’s real for at least two hundred years when a strange mancalled Sir Walter Riley will return from a long sea voyage with a bag of dried leaves that my descendants will be stupid enough to drink when he boils them up in a kettle.
    So maybe I’ll just have a glass of strong water.
    As he lay there in this delirious state, the object of his love knocked softly on the door and came into the room.
    â€˜Oh my lord,’ said the staggeringly beautiful Morgan le Fey, seeing Lancelot lying there in a swoon, ‘are you