“Sorry?” said Mrs. Whitaker.
Galaad walked over to her and took her old hands in his. “My quest is over,” he told her. “The Sangrail is finally within my reach.”
Mrs. Whitaker pursed her lips. “Can you pick your teacup and saucer up, please?” she said.
Galaad picked up his teacup apologetically.
“No. I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “I rather like it there. It’s just right, between the dog and the photograph of my Henry.”
“Is it gold you need? Is that it? Lady, I can bring you gold . . .”
“No,” said Mrs. Whitaker. “I don’t want any gold thank you. I’m simply not interested.”
She ushered Galaad to the front door. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
His horse was leaning its head over her garden fence, nibbling her gladioli. Several of the neighborhood children were standing on the pavement, watching it.
Galaad took some sugar lumps from the saddlebag and showed the braver of the children how to feed the horse, their hands held flat. The children giggled. One of the older girls stroked the horse’s nose.
Galaad swung himself up onto the horse in one fluid movement. Then the horse and the knight trotted off down Hawthorne Crescent.
Mrs. Whitaker watched them until they were out of sight, then sighed and went back inside.
The weekend was quiet.
On Saturday Mrs. Whitaker took the bus into Maresfield to visit her nephew Ronald, his wife Euphonia, and their daughters, Clarissa and Dillian. She took them a currant cake she had baked herself.
On Sunday morning Mrs. Whitaker went to church. Her local church was St. James the Less, which was a little more “Don’t think of this as a church, think of it as a place where like-minded friends hang out and are joyful” than Mrs. Whitaker felt entirely comfortable with, but she liked the vicar, the Reverend Bartholomew, when he wasn’t actually playing the guitar.
After the service, she thought about mentioning to him that she had the Holy Grail in her front parlor, but decided against it. On Monday morning Mrs. Whitaker was working in the back garden. She had a small herb garden she was extremely proud of: dill, vervain, mint, rosemary, thyme, and a wild expanse of parsley. She was down on her knees, wearing thick green gardening gloves, weeding, and picking out slugs and putting them in a plastic bag. Mrs. Whitaker was very tenderhearted when it came to slugs.
She would take them down to the back of her garden, which bordered on the railway line, and throw them over the fence.
She cut some parsley for the salad. There was a cough behind her. Galaad stood there, tall and beautiful, his armor glinting in the morning sun. In his arms he held a long package, wrapped in oiled leather.
“I’m back,” he said.
“Hello,” said Mrs. Whitaker. She stood up, rather slowly, and took off her gardening gloves. “Well,” she said, “now you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful.”
She gave him the plastic bag full of slugs and told him to tip the slugs out over the back of the fence.
He did.
Then they went into the kitchen. “Tea? Or lemonade?” she asked.
“Whatever you’re having,” Galaad said.
Mrs. Whitaker took a jug of her homemade lemonade from the fridge and sent Galaad outside to pick a sprig of mint. She selected two tall glasses. She washed the mint carefully and put a few leaves in each glass, then poured the lemonade.
“Is your horse outside?” she asked.
“Oh yes. His name is Grizzel.”
“And you’ve come a long way, I suppose.”
“A very long way.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Whitaker. She took a blue plastic basin from under the sink and half-filled it with water. Galaad took it out to Grizzel. He waited while the horse drank and brought the empty basin back to Mrs. Whitaker.
“Now,” she said, “I suppose you’re still after the Grail.”
“Aye, still do I seek the Sangrail,” he said. He picked up the leather package from the floor, put it down on her tablecloth and unwrapped it. “For it, I offer you this.”
It was a sword, its blade almost four feet long. There were words and symbols traced elegantly along the length of the blade. The hilt was worked in silver and gold, and a large jewel was set in the pommel.
“It’s very nice,” said Mrs. Whitaker, doubtfully.
“This,” said Galaad, “is the sword Balmung, forged by Wayland Smith in the dawn times. Its twin is Flamberge. Who wears it is unconquerable in war, and invincible in battle. Who wears it is incapable of a cowardly act or an ignoble one. Set in its pommel is the sardonynx Bircone, which protects its possessor from poison slipped into wine or ale, and from the treachery of friends.”
Mrs. Whitaker peered at the sword. “It must be very sharp,” she said, after a while.
“It can slice a falling hair in twain. Nay, it could slice a sunbeam,” said Galaad proudly.
“Well, then, maybe you ought to put it away,” said Mrs. Whitaker.
“Don’t you want it?” Galaad seemed disappointed.
“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Whitaker. It occurred to her that her late husband, Henry, would have quite liked it. He would have hung it on the wall in his study next to the stuffed carp he had caught in Scotland, and pointed it out to visitors.
Galaad rewrapped the oiled leather around the sword Balmung and tied it up with white cord.
He sat there, disconsolate.
Mrs. Whitaker made him some cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches for the journey back and wrapped them in greaseproof paper. She gave him an apple for Grizzel. He seemed very pleased with both gifts.
She waved them both good-bye.
That afternoon she took the bus down to the hospital to see Mrs. Perkins, who was still in with her hip, poor love. Mrs. Whitaker took her some homemade fruitcake, although she had left out the walnuts from the recipe, because Mrs. Perkins’s teeth weren’t what they used to be.
She watched a little television that evening, and had an early night.
On Tuesday the postman called. Mrs.
