‘I don’t think I can keep this up much longer,’ growled the griffon, balancing precariously on one hind leg.
‘Just a few more minutes and then you can have a break,’ replied the artist. ‘Sir Morris wants a ‘griffin rampant’ with an extra leg in the air on his new shield.’
He wiped the brush on his sleeve, smearing the golden brown paint into the kaleidoscope of other colours. The huge, winged creature across the studio wriggled uncomfortably but continued to hold the pose.
‘There! Finished for today,’ said the painter. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at about eleven. Sir Morris isn’t in too much of a hurry for this. You can have a lie in, if you like.’
‘I’d like to see a lion have you!’ muttered the beast under his beak. Although he stood seven feet high at the shoulder with massively powerful talons at the end of his forelegs, the griffon knew he was bound by his Heraldic Model’s Oath not to harm any human, no matter how tiresome.
Griff (somehow you knew he’d be called that, didn’t you) flew lazily back to his lodgings, still feeling a little stiff in his left hind leg. With a bit of luck, the other beasts would have already returned from their labours. He really needed someone to moan with tonight.
‘I know exackly wot you mean,’ the wyvern said as they sat around the tavern table for a quiet drink. The wyvern, Warwick by name, was having some difficulty with his drink as he lacked forelegs. Two legs is good, he thought, but forelegs would be better.
‘Here, have a straw.’ Griff passed one over and helpfully popped it into Warwick’s jug of ale. ‘The trouble is we’ve been far too accommodating recently. I know we have to pose while the painter does his stuff, but some of the poses we’re being asked to hold these days are just impossible.’
‘And degrading!’ added Gale the yale. His surprisingly mobile horns were twirling angrily around his head. ‘Last Thursday I had to lie on my back and wave all my legs in the air. I ask you, is that any way to show respect to our noble and ancient breed?’
‘Ee’s got a point, you know,’ said Warwick. ‘Some of these knights are asking a bit too much for their shields designs now.’
The serving maid passed by the table and the griffon caught her attention with a fearsome roar.
‘I’ll have the vegetable lamb, eggs cockatrice and a side of fried martlet wings.’ He put the menu down and whispered conspiratorially to his companions,’ Don’t worry, lads, I know what we can do.’
Mervin the magician had taken over temporary kitchen duties while Elgar the chef was away visiting his very sick, very wealthy, only living relative.
‘Come back soon,’ Mervin had called out as he left in an indecent hurry.
‘Yeah, right,’ he’d replied over his fast-disappearing shoulder.
Tonight he was supposed to be serving vegetable lamb and eggs cockatrice served with plenty of martlet wings fried just the way King Arfa liked them. For some reason Mervin could not quite fathom, he was failing spectacularly.
‘It can’t be that hard,’ he complained, ‘Elgar can do it, and he’s got the brain of a dehydrated newt!’
‘Have you put the oven on?’ asked Croak, Mervin’s faithful old raven familiar.
‘Would that help?’ answered the wizard.
‘It’s usual when preparing hot food,’ was the bird’s final contribution to the meal as he then proceeded to fly straight up the chimney on ‘urgent feather-related business’.
Mervin was on hands and knees, casting a small fire spell on the kindling, when Gerald the herald came into the kitchen in a most agitated state.
‘Hello Gerald,’ said Mervin from the floor, ‘We don’t often see you down here. Anything the matter?’
In reply, Gerald leant heavily against the table and began openly weeping. It was some time before Mervin could get anything resembling rational speech out of him.
‘It’s the beasts!’ he wailed, ‘they’ve gone on strike! How am I going to tell His Majesty? Mervin, you’ve got to help me! Without heraldic beasts to model for them, the shield artists won’t be able to paint any equipment for the knights.’
‘Outrageous!’ declared Mervin, without fully grasping the situation. ‘I’ll go up and see Arfa right now. You carry on with dinner.’
Even though Mervin had been Arfa’s magician fro many years there were still times when he seriously underestimated the king’s capacity for rage. Arfa had won awards for it and a row of smooth, golden statuettes adorned the throne room. If Mervin had known about the king’s mile-wide losing streak at the racetrack that day, he might have waited a little longer before bringing up Gerald’s problem. As it was, he had to disentangle himself from the armour rack, straighten up his grotesquely bent wizard’s hat and check he still had sensation in his right arm.
‘I’m not standing for this!’ roared the king. ‘The knights need new shields every three weeks. How can they get fresh devices if the bloomin’ creatures won’t pose! Send for the artist.’
Vincent was maintaining his artistic aloofness under considerable pressure.
‘Once again, I tell your majesty, nothing can be made without a suitable model; there simply must be a beast in the studio for me to work from or the shield is meaningless. Meaningless!’ This last word was emphasized with a quick toss of his long, glossy black hair.
‘And I’m telling you that unless we get a full set of shields by the end of next week, there’ll be a certain artist missing more than just an ear!’ Arfa was referring to Vincent’s accident from a while ago when his palette knife slipped as he was putting the finishing touches to a particularly complicated dragon portrait.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Vincent said as he backed out of the king’s chamber, his mouth suddenly quite dry,
‘He used to be a prince, you know,’ beamed Arfa to Mervin, knowing he’d just got his own way again.
Mervin raised his eyebrows and hurried back to the kitchen. With a bit of luck, the evening’s feast would by just about ready.
‘Oh come ON! You cannot be SERIOUS! It’s an INSULT. I’ll never be able to show my face on the jousting circuit AGAIN! I’m deeply, DEEPLY hurt.’
These and other similar outbursts could be heard floating from the knight’s quarters a few days later. Vincent had worked furiously in his studio following Arfa’s warning and, right on cue, every knight now had his latest shield freshly painted with just a slight variation to the requested designs.
‘Nobody’s going to respect me with THIS on my shield!’ grumbled Flimbert, holding up the, admittedly beautifully painted, Toad Rampant to the critical eyes of the other knights.
‘Begs the question about what they think of you now!’ giggled Sir Morris.
‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at, Sir ‘Seated Squirrel’,’ said Flimbert.
And he wasn’t the only disgruntled knight in the castle. ‘I’ve got a Leaping Platypus on mine’ said Sir Bedwetter.
‘I’ve only got a little worm,’ muttered Sir Turgid.
To which the assembled knights could think of no suitable reply.
‘We’ll have to escalate,’ said Griff to a hastily-convened meeting of heraldic beasts assembled, as usual, in the tavern.
‘Why do we have to go upstairs?’ asked Warwick. He was ignored by all.
”Vincent is still managing to produce shields even with us refusing to pose,’ said Griff. ‘We need to stop those other creatures getting into the studio. I vote we picket.’
‘Pick what?’ said Warwick, for which he was sent to the corner to think.
A quick show of claws, paws and wings settled the matter.
That afternoon, just as a motley group of amphibians and rodents was approaching the studio, the heraldic beasts formed a non-human chain across the entrance.
Banners were waved:
FAIR PLAY FOR BEASTS!
I’M REALLY NOT HAPPY!
DOWN WITH THIS SORT OF THING!
I WANT CAKE!
Feeling intimidated, the replacement beasts scurried off back to their forests, lakes and holes.
Vincent appeared at an upstairs window. ‘Clear off, beasts. Arfa will have my head on a stick if I don’t get these shields painted.’
‘You’d better talk to the knights, then,’ said Griff. ‘We’re not going to put up any more ridiculous poses.’
The king scowled on his throne, hands gripping the armrests as if he were trying to break them off. The sound of his grinding teeth echoed from the far side of the hall and one of his feet was tapping out a rhythm like an army in the march. Arfa’s patience had run out.
‘I have an idea,’ said Mervin.
Arfa stood up, bringing the armrests with him.
Mervin continued. ‘We need some creatures the beasts wouldn’t dare to stop. So terrifying, so terrible not even a griffon would get in their way. I know just the thing. Or, rather, things.’
On the third day of the strike of the Heraldic Beasts a sound was heard through the town that sent shivers through the hair of all the folk who heard it. (Hair can shiver, trust me) It began as a rumble that became a much bigger rumble and ended as the rumbliest rumble that had ever rumbled in the land.
Griff and Gale looked nervously at each other. ‘That had better not be what it sounds like,’ said Gale.
‘I fear it is,’ replied Griff, shaking his head and looking at the ground.
There was a sudden silence as if the cause of the commotion had stopped in its tracks having seen a delicious cake in the window of the bakery and gone in to purchase it. Then the rumble redoubled as the source of the sound rounded the corner into Artist’s Lane.
Half a baker’s dozen of the meanest, fiercest, wickedest penguins stood together. Their leader was a little ahead of the others. He had a patch over one eye and a squint in the other. He waddled straight up to Griff and the rest of the beasts, saying nothing. All the heraldic beasts stood aside, letting their banners drag in the dirt. The penguins disappeared into the studio.
‘Explain that again,’ said Croak to Mervin back in the wizard’s workshop cell below the castle. The old raven was not easily confused but this idea of his master’s needed careful consideration.
‘They are penguins. They can’t pose. You teach them. Simple,’ said Mervin.
‘I am a raven. I can’t pose, either. You teach them. Even simpler,’ said Croak.
‘I am a wizard. I can’t pose, but I can turn a raven into a writing desk if I have to.’
So it was that Croak found himself in the studio trying to get the penguins to copy the heraldic attutudes he was displaying.
‘Look, it’s not difficult: this is called regardant. Just turn your head completely around and look backwards,’ said Croak.
The line of silent penguins did not move, did not speak, did not so much as blink.
‘Very well, let’s try something a bit simpler. This one is called dormant.’
Croak attempted to lie flat on the floor, head down, eyes closed. Not easy for a raven, when you think about it. This time the penguins responded instantly and all promptly fell into a deep, comfortable sleep. And there they stayed.
The knights called a strike of their own the very next day. The primary complaint was that all the shields now had penguins on them. And they were all asleep. They refused to pay Vincent for the work and refused to ride out for the king with penguin dormant shields.
The heraldic beasts were unhappy (No work).
The artist was unhappy (No pay).
The knights were unhappy (No shields).
The king was unhappy (No knights).
Mervin was unhappy (No cake, as the penguins had taken up temporary lodgings in the bakery and were eating everything as soon as it came out of the oven).
Only Croak had anything to smile about, which he couldn’t do, being a raven, but the feeling was genuine. He flapped into the throne room, hoping to catch Arfa in a less-than-terrible mood. He was lucky. The king was just enjoying a bucket of fried phoenix wings. They were a bit burnt, but that’s how he liked them.
‘I think I’ve got a solution to this whole ‘strike’ business,’ said Croak.
The king pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.
‘A way of keeping everyone happy,’
The king widened his eyes but kept his lips tight.
‘We need to have a meeting of the Roundabout Table.’
By the time Croak had finished outlining his idea to Arfa, the king had a broad smile on his face, a glimmer in his eye and sticky sauce dribbling down his chin.
The meeting began badly. The clamour around the table was deafening as each group complained loudly that it was everybody else’s fault. Arfa had to bang the table with the hilt of his magic sword, Excatalog. The bolt of lightning that shot out of the sword and onto Sir Turgid’s armour created first silence then roars of laughter from all except Turgid himself. That improved the mood considerably and gave Croak the chance to speak.
‘It all comes down to the knights,’ he began. ‘If you would agree to allow the beasts to choose their own poses, we could all get back to work.’
‘But how will our enemies know who we are?’ said Sir Morris. ‘Everyone knows me when they see the star-jumping wyvern on my shield.’
Warwick spoke up. ‘Yeah; about that …’ he said. He stood up from the table failing once again to star-jump due to having only hind legs. ‘Unreasonable.’
‘That’s why the beasts should choose,’ said Croak. ‘We all know they are honourable creatures with a proud and noble history.’ Mutterings of approval came from the beasts and also more than a few knights.
‘I come from a long line of lion goat snakes,’ chimed Kim the chimera, to reinforce the point.
‘Exactly. So you can trust them to do a good job.’
‘What about the penguins?’ said Sir Bedwetter. ‘They’re not going to like it if they lose their livelihood.’
‘Leave the penguins to me,’ said Croak. ‘I think I know what they want.’
Life slowly returned to normal after the meeting. The beasts were happy to pose again for Vincent. The knights were very pleased with their new equipment and volunteered to carry out extra duties as long as they could take the shields with them. The penguins were persuaded to stay in the town and open a rival bakery which did a brisk trade in coconut-based cupcakes. The fact that the shop was called ‘Buy Our Cakes Or Else…’ might have also contributed to their success.
‘You did a good job, there,’ said Mervin. ‘It seems you have a talent for settling disputes.’
‘I know. I surprised myself. I’m out this afternoon, by the way,’ said Croak.
‘Somewhere nice?’ said Mervin.
‘There’s a troll and three goats who are arguing over a bridge. I said I’d help them sort it out.’ And away he flew.