chatter of voices and laughter, and a wonderful aroma of baked apples and roasting meat. The children once again were in another place and another time.
“Gawain,” the dragon said, “was eleven years old and a page. He had come to Hampton Castle when he was just seven, sent by his father and mother to learn courtly manners and the arts of battle, under the tutelage of the owners of the castle, Lord Charles and Lady Margaret. He spent his days practicing the use of weapons, perfecting his horseback-riding skills, and learning to polish and repair armor. In the evenings, he waited upon the lord and lady and their household as they ate their dinner. Gawain was in training to become a knight. But sometimes knighthood seemed very far away. . . .”
Gawain sat on a step in the doorway of the castle kitchen, kicking his heels, waiting until it was his turn to help serve the guests at the banquet in progress in the Great Hall. Behind him, the cook and his helpers were working furiously, preparing platter after platter of food. Servants swept by carrying roast boars with apples in their mouths, whole peacocks, gilded and trimmed with their own green-and-blue tail feathers, and an elaborate sweet in the form of an enormous galleon with spread sails made of sugar.
Gawain was bored. He hated being a page. He dreamed of the days when he would be a knight, dressed in flashing armor and a helmet topped with flowing plumes, riding off on a white charger to battle the enemy with sword, lance, and shield. He wanted to be like Sir Tristram, oldest son of Lord Charles. Sir Tristram, in Gawain’s opinion, was everything a knight should be: wonderfully handsome, unfailingly courteous, and gloriously brave.
“Gawain!” someone shouted from the kitchen. “More wine! Look alive, lad!” Then there was a startled shriek and a crash of falling crockery.
“Gawain!”
the voice shouted again, louder.
Gawain sighed and rose from his seat. In the kitchen, he stepped around a puddle of spilled gravy on the flagstone floor, then filled a pitcher with wine and carried it carefully to the Great Hall. There, moving quietly behind the guests, he filled each empty goblet. Then he went to stand patiently at Lord Charles’s right elbow, awaiting any instructions from the lord or his lady. As the company ate and drank, a troubador dressed in green velvet stepped forward, strummed upon a lute, and began to sing a song of many verses, all about gallant deeds of war.
Gawain shifted restlessly from foot to foot, rustling the clean straw scattered with rose petals that was strewn on the hall floor. His gaze swept around the high stone walls, hung with crossed lances, swords, shields, and silk-embroidered banners. “Sir Gawain,” he whispered under his breath. His fingers drummed on the wine pitcher. He was very bored.
Only one other person in the castle was as bored and unhappy as Gawain. That was his best friend, Eleanor. Eleanor was ten, the very youngest of Lady Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting. Her parents had sent her to Hampton Castle to learn all the graces of noble ladies. She was to learn to dance and sing, to play upon the lute, and to master the art of fine embroidery so that she could make exquisite tapestries. Eleanor was a poor pupil. She hated it all.
“I will never be a lady,” she told Gawain in despair as they stood on the castle wall, looking out toward the great green forest and the distant blue hills. “Everything I do is wrong. I fall over my own feet when I dance the galliard. I can’t carry a tune. I hate embroidery. All my stitches are crooked, and I keep pricking my fingers. My unicorns look like pigs.”
Gawain made a sympathetic sound. He didn’t know what to say. After all, there wasn’t much else for a girl to do.
“Nobody even talks about anything interesting,” Eleanor went on. “All the ladies-in-waiting talk of nothing but fashions and face paint and the best way to dress their hair. And Sir Tristram.” She
“Gawain,” the dragon said, “was eleven years old and a page. He had come to Hampton Castle when he was just seven, sent by his father and mother to learn courtly manners and the arts of battle, under the tutelage of the owners of the castle, Lord Charles and Lady Margaret. He spent his days practicing the use of weapons, perfecting his horseback-riding skills, and learning to polish and repair armor. In the evenings, he waited upon the lord and lady and their household as they ate their dinner. Gawain was in training to become a knight. But sometimes knighthood seemed very far away. . . .”
Gawain sat on a step in the doorway of the castle kitchen, kicking his heels, waiting until it was his turn to help serve the guests at the banquet in progress in the Great Hall. Behind him, the cook and his helpers were working furiously, preparing platter after platter of food. Servants swept by carrying roast boars with apples in their mouths, whole peacocks, gilded and trimmed with their own green-and-blue tail feathers, and an elaborate sweet in the form of an enormous galleon with spread sails made of sugar.
Gawain was bored. He hated being a page. He dreamed of the days when he would be a knight, dressed in flashing armor and a helmet topped with flowing plumes, riding off on a white charger to battle the enemy with sword, lance, and shield. He wanted to be like Sir Tristram, oldest son of Lord Charles. Sir Tristram, in Gawain’s opinion, was everything a knight should be: wonderfully handsome, unfailingly courteous, and gloriously brave.
“Gawain!” someone shouted from the kitchen. “More wine! Look alive, lad!” Then there was a startled shriek and a crash of falling crockery.
“Gawain!”
the voice shouted again, louder.
Gawain sighed and rose from his seat. In the kitchen, he stepped around a puddle of spilled gravy on the flagstone floor, then filled a pitcher with wine and carried it carefully to the Great Hall. There, moving quietly behind the guests, he filled each empty goblet. Then he went to stand patiently at Lord Charles’s right elbow, awaiting any instructions from the lord or his lady. As the company ate and drank, a troubador dressed in green velvet stepped forward, strummed upon a lute, and began to sing a song of many verses, all about gallant deeds of war.
Gawain shifted restlessly from foot to foot, rustling the clean straw scattered with rose petals that was strewn on the hall floor. His gaze swept around the high stone walls, hung with crossed lances, swords, shields, and silk-embroidered banners. “Sir Gawain,” he whispered under his breath. His fingers drummed on the wine pitcher. He was very bored.
Only one other person in the castle was as bored and unhappy as Gawain. That was his best friend, Eleanor. Eleanor was ten, the very youngest of Lady Margaret’s ladies-in-waiting. Her parents had sent her to Hampton Castle to learn all the graces of noble ladies. She was to learn to dance and sing, to play upon the lute, and to master the art of fine embroidery so that she could make exquisite tapestries. Eleanor was a poor pupil. She hated it all.
“I will never be a lady,” she told Gawain in despair as they stood on the castle wall, looking out toward the great green forest and the distant blue hills. “Everything I do is wrong. I fall over my own feet when I dance the galliard. I can’t carry a tune. I hate embroidery. All my stitches are crooked, and I keep pricking my fingers. My unicorns look like pigs.”
Gawain made a sympathetic sound. He didn’t know what to say. After all, there wasn’t much else for a girl to do.
“Nobody even talks about anything interesting,” Eleanor went on. “All the ladies-in-waiting talk of nothing but fashions and face paint and the best way to dress their hair. And Sir Tristram.” She
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