The people of Cardiff had been preparing to welcome Sir Dagonet since the early morning; the square outside Castell Caerdydd had long since been turned into a stage for him.
Street vendors lined the roads leading up to the square, the smell of all manner of foods filling the air as people already milled about.
The air was filled with a mix of excitement and impatience, with the sound of countless cheerful voices.
All of Wales loved their King and his, or her, Knights.
And why wouldn't they?
The English could try to claim her all they wanted, but Arthur Pendragon was Welsh!
Even Camelot itself was closer to Cardiff than it was to London!
And while things like Wales and England didn't really mean much anymore, as everything had become one kingdom, same king, same flag.
It wasn't because Wales had become English, but because England and Scotland had become Welsh!
At least, that was what the proud Welsh would say, and few could argue with them.
So it was only natural that they would welcome Dagonet, one of the king's knights, with open arms.
As noon approached, the excitement reached a fever pitch. The crowd grew larger, their cheers and applause growing louder and louder.
Then, he appeared.
He rode in on a white horse, dressed in a suit of shining armor, a jester's hat perched jauntily on his head.
He looked every bit the part of the heroic, slightly ridiculous knight that he was.
The crowd went wild. They cheered, they applauded, they threw flowers at his feet.
Dagonet dismounted, his horse trotting off to the side, as he took the stage. He looked out at the sea of faces, a wide smile on his face.
"My good people of Caerdydd!" he called out, his voice booming. "It is good to see you!"
The crowd cheered again, their voices a deafening roar.
Dagonet let them have their moment, their joy infectious, a warm feeling spreading through his chest.
This was what he lived for, this was what he fought for, this was what he would die for.
To see these people happy, to see them safe, to see them free.
"I have a tale for you today," he said once the crowd had quieted down. "A tale of a brave knight, a fearsome dragon, and a beautiful princess."
"No, no, my good people, not a tale of one of my own, though I dare say I have known a fair few princesses in my time." He flashed the crowd a smile as he jested. "No, this tale isn't about one of my noble friends, no Knight of Camelot, but a knight who would indeed have been worthy of the Round Table."
Dagonet paused, waiting for the crowd's reaction to his story.
A good jester, he knew, had to have a good sense of timing.
He let the silence hang in the air for a moment, letting the anticipation build.
"I speak of the noble, the honored, Saint George. I tell you, few knights can fight a dragon, even my king has only ever fought one, and I dare say that was the most fearsome battle I have ever witnessed. So let's hear it for good old George!"
The crowd cheered again, their voices a mix of excitement and patriotism.
Saint George was not just a saint to them, but a hero, a champion, a symbol of their own strength and courage.
He was one of their own, and they were proud of him.
And Dagonet, being the master storyteller he was, knew just how to weave a tale that would capture their hearts and minds, to make them feel as if they were there, right alongside Saint George as he faced the dragon.
It also didn't hurt that Sir Dagonet wasn't merely a storyteller; he was a Knight of the Round Table and, as such, possessed magic of his own.
Not the sort of magic Merlin wielded.
There were no grand circles carved into the earth, no glowing runes turning slowly in the air, no staff striking stone as the world bent itself unwillingly to the will of a troublesome old wizard.
Sir Dagonet's magic was far gentler than that.
Far stranger too.
He smiled, lifted one hand, and the little bells on his cap rang once.
The sound was light.
Clear.
Almost silly.
Yet it carried across the square like the first note of a song everyone had known since childhood.
The air changed.
Castell Caerdydd still stood behind him, proud and ancient. The crowd remained where they were, children on shoulders, parents holding hands, vendors leaning over their stalls, police officers smiling despite themselves. The sky did not darken, the streets did not vanish, and no one was truly taken anywhere.
And yet, everyone felt it.
The square became a stage.
The stage became a road.
The road became a kingdom far away, where the sun was warm, the fields were golden, and the people lived under the shadow of a terror too great for laughter.
A painted backdrop of distant hills shimmered into being behind Dagonet. At first, it looked like cloth, the sort of thing one would expect from a traveling performance. Then the grass upon those hills began to move in the wind.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Dagonet's smile widened.
"Ah, there it is," he said, looking over his shoulder. "Always takes the scenery a moment to remember its lines."
The crowd laughed.
He took a step forward, and as he did, his armor shifted. Not truly, not in any way that would hold if touched, but to the eyes of the crowd, it changed all the same. His polished armor became duller, simpler, marked by the dust of a long road. His jester's cap remained, because of course it did, though it now sat beneath a shining helm far too noble to be worn with bells.
"Now, Saint George," Dagonet began, "was a knight of great courage, deep faith, and considerable good fortune, which is a quality all knights pretend is less important than it is."
He leaned toward the crowd.
"Remember that, children. If a knight tells you he won because of skill alone, ask him how many arrows missed him by accident."
A few adults laughed knowingly, while several children nodded with the grave seriousness of those receiving important wisdom.
Dagonet straightened and swept his wooden sword toward the shimmering hills.
"George rode for many days and many nights, though, to be fair, most tales say that about knights because nobody wants to admit half of chivalry is being lost, hungry, and arguing with your horse."
A white horse appeared beside him.
It was not his own mount, nor was it even terribly dignified. It had the proud bearing of a noble steed, the shining mane of a legendary charger, and the deeply unimpressed expression of an animal that had heard all of Dagonet's jokes before.
Dagonet turned to it.
"Do not look at me like that. I once saw Sir Lancelot ride in the wrong direction for half a morning because he was too proud to ask a farmer where the road was."
The horse snorted.
"Exactly."
The crowd roared with laughter.
Dagonet climbed into the saddle with surprising grace, and for a moment, he truly did look like a knight of legend. His back straightened, his eyes sharpened, and the wooden sword in his hand caught the light as though it were a blade worth singing about.
Then the horse took one step forward, and he nearly slid off.
"Still testing the saddle," he said quickly, righting himself. "Very important. I dare say dear old Sir Agravain would have scolded me something fierce had he seen me fall off a horse."
The horse trotted forward.
The square seemed to move with him.
The stage stretched, becoming a dusty road leading toward a city in the distance. Its walls rose pale and beautiful beneath the sun, though no banners flew from them. No music echoed from its gates. No children played outside its walls.
The crowd quieted slightly.
Dagonet noticed, because Dagonet noticed everything.
So he softened the moment with a smile.
"And so, our noble knight came upon a city that had forgotten how to be happy. A terrible thing, that. Cities should be noisy. Smelly, yes, and usually full of someone selling questionable sausages, but noisy. A quiet city is either asleep, cursed, or being ruled by someone with no appreciation for musicians."
He looked around Cardiff.
"Thankfully, you good people are in no danger of such a fate. I have heard three different drums, two flutes, a fiddle, and one gentleman near the back who believes clapping slightly off rhythm is a sacred calling."
A man somewhere in the crowd raised both arms proudly.
The crowd applauded him.
Dagonet bowed toward him from horseback.
"Stand tall, sir. Every army needs a drummer. Even if no one knows which army you are with."
With that, he turned back to the city in the story.
At the gates stood people.
Not real people, but figures woven from light and color, clear enough to see, soft enough to remain kind. Men and women in simple clothes, children hiding behind them, guards standing with spears that trembled in their hands.
Dagonet dismounted and became two men at once.
The first remained Saint George, noble and road-worn.
The second became an old gatekeeper with a bent back, a long beard, and a hat that looked as though it had survived several wars and lost all of them.
George approached the gatekeeper.
"Good sir," Dagonet said in George's voice, noble and clear, "why does sorrow hang over this city?"
Then he spun, hunched his shoulders, and became the gatekeeper.
"Because, noble knight," he croaked, "we are plagued by a dragon."
He spun again, returning to George.
"A dragon?"
Back to the gatekeeper.
"Aye, a dragon."
Back to George.
"A large dragon?"
Gatekeeper.
"Large enough."
George.
"How large is large enough?"
Gatekeeper.
"Large enough that when it sneezes, three rooftops apologize."
The children screamed with laughter.
Dagonet held up one finger.
"Now, let us pause here. If ever a man tells you a dragon is 'large enough,' that is the time to leave. Not ask follow-up questions. Not inspect the cave. Not say, 'Well, I have fought large dogs before.' No. You turn around, thank the man for his honesty, and find another road."
He nodded solemnly.
"I dare say, even a knight like myself wouldn't dare face a dragon on my own. If I heard such a thing, I would ride away as fast as my horse could carry me, and come back with my fellow knights and king; only then would I dare face a dragon."
He paused, as if suddenly remembering something.
"Well, unless you are someone like good old George here, or my dear friend Sir Galahad, for those two rides with hearts heavy with the faith of God, while someone like me simply rides with my belly heavy with wine." He said, patting his stomach.
Many adult men laughed at that. After all, who didn't like a good drink?
Sir Dagonet smiled, and with a flourish of his arms, continued his tale.
(End of chapter)
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