The Arthurian Fiction Continues

The Black Knight

            The last time I saw the Black Knight was among the shadowy standing stones of old Dover on the rocky cliffs along the coastline. The rain and mist rolled of the mountains and slid down the pocked rocks of the stones. He stood in his tunic a chain black as night and waved as I looked on from my cart. At his side, Valda sat her horse garbed in chain like the knight though hers were of lighter colors. Her travel hood was up and her face mostly hidden. She absently pulled her grey cloak around her to shield herself and her horse from the misting rain. She was a silent as the stones that surrounded her.

            So much had passed by then; so much had passed between them. Sometimes I wondered how the two had met in the first place. They were alike in their austerity and both had somehow disappeared into the personas they had been set to play. Fate had been kind and unkind to each of them. Since those days, especially when I sit on the front stoop of the small house that occupies this neck of Avalon, I think back to that day as the mists rolled off the Channel and goodbye seems to long and wrong a thing to say to the only two people in the world who were left who knew who you were and why you could no longer be what you once were.

            Now I know that I speak in riddles, but I do because of a lifetime of doing so- well one of you, my dear boy, lifetimes anyway. In plain speak; sometimes goodbye just does not cover the emotions that you feel after going through everything the three of us went through. Sometimes there is not a word to describe the way you feel about someone or something. That is how I feel about the enigmatic man and his companion and the lost age of Camelot.

            They are memory now, but then so am I, although Viviane reminds me that I am supposedly locked away in a crystal cave or one of the Standing Stones of Stonehenge or the Worldtree Yggdrasil or under Camelot herself or some such nonsense. Also, if one were to believe such things, then one would have to also believe that Viv’ was responsible for putting me there. Personally, I like the idea of the one woman who I have ever loved locking me away in a stone or tree better than her threatening me with another haircut!

            No men must have their legends and retell them until the original meaning is lost along with what really happened in the mists of time or as Viv’ says the “Mists of Avalon.” Viviane is my wife in as much as the Christians would allow me the consideration. Not being allowed to be anything but the spawn of a demon or incubus did not grant me much in the Court but had they known the truth, it would probably been far worse. Better to be confined to a story or a stone then to lose what I know of myself and about myself!

            Viviane tells me that with as much confusion about happened all those years ago that it’s a wonder that anyone knows anything about what happened. I write this script in hopes that someone will take note that San Michele Du Draconis and his story will not be lost completely.  I only wish now I had asked the Black Knight to tell it his way instead of having to tell it in my own fashion. I am sure I can hear him laughing at me out from the years that have long since been gone by. I can hear him telling me-

            “You are teller of truths and speaker of lies; I am the doer of deeds and the rider of steeds. You tell my story Caerfyrddin, you will tell it well enough to make it worth telling, my old friend.”

How should one tell the story of the original Black Knight? There have been many of the enigmatic men who have worn the armor and title, but this one was the first of them- the one who started it all- well the tradition anyhow. But I digress, where should one start with this tale; start at the beginning or the end or just dive into the middle of it and hope that you figure it out? No I won’t do it- I won’t have it that way.

Archimedes III, my fine feathered compatriot insists that I should write this one in three parts- as his role was crucial to that of the High King and yes even that of the queen too. He informs me that most people should like to start at the beginning but I am concerned with the affect of my own since of hindsight and benefit of wisdom. But the old bird has a point so I will endeavor to start at his beginning- since mine is a whole different story.

So this begins my story of San Michele Du Draconis, possibly the greatest of the knights to sit at the table. Not great as in deeds of renown or in the ranks of tilting and melee. No rather his deeds were known in his loyalty and camaraderie with those of us he served and protected. He redeemed both her and in the end myself from certain doom. His friendship and loyalty went far beyond the requirements of legend. In the end, he was my knight more than any other could claim and what’s more he was my friend.

            Now as to whom I am, if you have not figured that out by now then perhaps you should find some lighter reading like Mallory’s Morte du Arthur or Da Vinci’s Discourses on Tanks. Many have called me a wide variety of names and titles but I have only ever claimed one, King-maker. Of course, when I got started I had no idea what that meant or how one would go about doing it. Now there are some who would dispute this title but even with what has been told of me, I can claim three kings that anyone knows of. I choose only to claim the one who is central to all these stories.

           

            Whence I came and where I am bound is my own affair, but let me say this my mother was a good woman who had the misfortune to fall in love with the unattainable and pursue it until I was born from her purpose and ultimately her demise. The legends have her name as Aldan or more recently Hunith, but the truth of the matter is that I barely knew her. I was taken from her as a suckling babe and given to another whom I grew to call mother instead. She was a Welsh princess which is to say she was an unwanted daughter of my grandfather who was a minor king in old Wales. Let me just point out there were so many kings in Wales that it hardly meant more than Baron or Duke when it came to the point. Hence the need for a High King but that is another matter entirely.

            I digress, by the time I was of age to learn of my parents, my mother had committed herself to the Christians and their new religion, in part to escape the rumors and in part to escape her father’s house and the scorn of her married sisters. In short, she married this new church becoming one of the holy wives of this Christ. I somehow doubt, this Christ would have been impressed by this decision made by the unmarriable women of my lands. Her name as it turned out was Ninane which is to say not all that remarkable since in my lifetime there were many other women to carry that name. She had been named for one of our Faerie ffolk and perhaps that would explain my “father’s” interest in her.  So, I only met with my mother a few times and she remained a stranger to me.

            My father on the other hand is even more enigmatic than the Black Knight. No one not even the Faerie ffolk  can tell me who he was. He could have been their king (if they had kings) or a peasant (if they had peasants), all that is known is that he was one of the ffolk and I am his son. Since people are prone to believe anything, my mother’s religion convinced everyone I was the spawn of this Christian Demon, the Satan. My grandfather practically leaped at the opportunity to disown me and deny me any birthrights that I might have been entitled to. I would like to point out, my mother was the eighth girl in the family line and like the fourteenth child with at least seven sons before her in line for the throne- a big chair in my grandfather’s house. Frankly, I was not impressed then and am still not all that impressed now. To my grandfather, it was very important however.

            My non-birth mother was the village wise woman (whom the Christians later would try to burn for witchcraft- as if they would know anything about magic in the first place).  If she had a name then she kept it to herself. She tolerated me calling her mother or rather Fam as the Welsh were prone to do anyway. She was good to me as far as keeping me fed and healthy. She showed me the nature of things in her world, one that was being driven away by the new religions and strife that filled our lands as these petty kings fought with one another.

            As I mentioned earlier,  there were still ffolk in the land in those days, I would daresay a few remain even to this day, perhaps for all time. It was to these ffolk I was given upon reaching age seven. For me, this is where my life really began, so before you decide who or what I am or was supposed to be remember this. I am of your world and of others. I am all that I was labeled as, rumored to be and more than anyone could even dream possible. I was also smart enough to allow the people to give me other names and thus confuse me with other figures that came before me. In the end, everyone thought they knew me but only a few bothered to find me out. The man who became the Black Knight was the first to find me out and it made all the difference for the both of us and this story.