One Knight to Remember?

?????? A new entry in my series of mini-mysteries set in the fictional English village of Little Avalon, and 'starring' amateur detective Miss Rudwell-Horace.

My aim – for the Brit expat newspaper I first did this series for – was light, cosy, small-village-y Agatha-Christie-ish, no murders, c. 1950, and just a bit idealistic.

?????? This is one of many 'light' stories I've done that also draw on serious history, that of WWII. A bit of an experiment, it requires some suspension of disbelief. Still, I tried to make it ring true from my characters' points of view!

~??~??????????????~??~...

'One Knight to Remember...?' by Winnie Czulinski (set in late-Feb. 1950)

...Lady Colleen of Little Avalon was a law unto herself at the Lunch and Mhor (that word indicating “great” in Gaelic). The blunt-spoken, often-smoking proprietress of an eatery that offset rather than competed with The Majestic Tearoom and The Balls and Meadow Pub had taken on a cook who knew little English.

Not so surprising, after the war, when there were a lot of people looking for work. And he must be good, as Lady Colleen (who no one was ever quite sure did have noble blood) didn’t suffer fools or beginners very well.?That being said, it was known she had a heart big as a cauldron.

She also had a damaged leg, from recently tripping over her stirrup pump. Hence, the need for kitchen-and-other help. Little Avalon residents like Millie Clapperton, Miss Rudwell-Horace, and Ina Sharp helped enormously. As for the cook, only a few villagers had seen him, as he was usually in the kitchen – but the speculation was rampant.

“Looked angry,” or "Looked sad," was what people said. Or "Must've been some soldier." There were so many, after all, now living in a world that had not a shred of resemblance to what they must have endured.

Miss Treadwell, the village's inquisitive and obsessed spinster, said excitedly, "A spy, mark my words. The war may be over, but there's still plenty going on, I'll warrant."

Old Mr. Oddie at The Balls and Meadow pub sucked on his perpetual cigarette stub and said, "You could be right, my dear lady. Could be some criminal, bringing his past with him…”

Both Miss Treadwell and Mr. Oddie usually were wrong with their pronouncements, just as they had been of the affair of the mysterious painted pub sign, and the story that had tumbled out from that, and so many other happenings.

"And dumplings," the old man added. "Making dumplings, that's what they say. "Some foreign food." And he shook his head sadly as he quaffed his beer.

"Rather have a bit of Yorkshire pud," put in Mr. Stokes the farmer. "A good Cornish pasty. Or good bread...not that bloody National Loaf," he said, shuddering at the government's wartime offering.

~~~

A bit of a new cuisine, perhaps. Miss Rudwell-Horace enjoyed the Lunch and Mhor. It was good to support local establishments, especially when rationing was still on, and there might be a bit of a struggle to present the tastiest meal, with the best ingredients available.

Near her, sat ex-London actress Nelda Berrington and her elegant artist friend Ellen Thorn-Rosen, having what sounded like a light lunch. Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled. There was a time when she, too, was more concerned about slimness, and prone to ‘banting.’?

The door from the kitchen swung open, and the new cook came stalking out, wiping his apron. Miss Rudwell-Horace studied him without seeming to. He had a limp, something not uncommon after the war. Hair dark as coal, a piece falling over the forehead, eyes that looked slate grey. A composed face, but an alert one. One hand fumbled in a pocket, presumably for cigarettes. The door swung behind him.

?There was what seemed a shocked silence from the two women at the table next her, then they began chattering in low voices.

Miss Rudwell-Horace had seen the intense way both Nelda and Ellen looked at the man. And their whispering had been somewhat agitated. Had they known him in another time? One might well believe that either woman could be involved with a handsome man like that.

~~~

A few days later Miss Rudwell-Horace’s village collaborator entered her kitchen for a mid-morning cuppa. “Ta so much." Mr. Trotter put down his Majesty’s Post letter-bag.?"Cold and damp really gets into one's bones this morning.“ He sipped and closed his eyes a moment. And then: "Another stranger in town," he said. "And a foreigner." A slight pause. "German, I’m guessing.”

?Miss Rudwell-Horace passed the plate of oat biscuits, made fresh that morning, to the little postman. There was no question Mr. Trotter was right – he knew the ins and outs of the village. “Did you hear him talk?”

?“Didn’t have to. It was the way he walked, and stood. His face, his hair...Just had that look. Putting up at the Balls and Meadow, so he is. That’s what Jenkins said. He’ll gladly take any business today.”

Miss Rudwell-Horace frowned. Occasionally strangers passed through the village, but not many stayed. And not many one would call a foreigner. Could this new arrival have anything to do with Lady Colleen’s new cook? Was the recent stranger pursuing the first?

~~~

This mysterious new man, she soon found out, was spending some time in the library. Looking at books, but through the local papers and other accounts. Miss Bookley the librarian shook her head, and said to Miss Rudwell-Horace. “Odd, that’s what it is. Coming here and looking at our history section, such as it is. And yes, also the Courier, and other papers. Like he's looking for someone. Or perhaps he just wanted to be quiet. People must be, in my library.”

Miss Rudwell-Horace suppressed a smile, as Miss Bookley continued to whisper sternly. All of Little Avalon knew the head librarian – who had portrayed Britannia in the recent village theatre pageant – was not to be trifled with.

All of a sudden Miss Treadwell, the village's most inquisitive and impressionable spinster, popped up. "Are we talking of that very distinguished gentleman? Rather...Teutonic-looking? But yes, something odd about him. Could be a spy. Just like the other, Lady Colleen's cook." She quivered.

"We've had the war," said Miss Bookley in her stern whispery voice.

"That may be," Miss Treadwell hissed back. "But there's always some, still wanting to make trouble."

Miss Rudwell-Horace said good afternoon to them both, and went to the history section. She saw there were several books, barely returned to the shelves. Books on mythology, a summary of medieval historian Geoffrey of Monmouth's influential 1136 Historia Regum Britanniae. In it, he wrote of a warrior-king gravely wounded at the Battle of Camlann, and taken to recover at...

One book had a piece of paper protruding. She pulled it out and frowned. The scrawled words read "May 1944" – and then what looked like "Artur" and a scribble of a king's crown. She frowned. The war...there was still much going on at that time, in Britain, in France, in Poland...in Italy.

She closed the heavy book, letting the thoughts mingle. Was this too fanciful to give credence to? There were facts, established history, her brain drew up. But this seemed almost incredible. She thought the same again when, at the greengrocer’s, she stopped and rested her eyes upon a bushel of apples, some small, a little wizened. Wartime apples, the joke was. The apples of an island, the island of post-war Britain. But that was not the only island she was thinking of.

Miss Rudwell-Horace put through a call to the ever-obliging Dermot Brashley at The Big Avalon Courier. The eager reporter had assisted her with other puzzling matters. “Do you have any colleague who speaks Polish? Or could you find someone who speaks English and Polish – and German?”

?There was a short silence on Dermot’s end. The young reporter prided himself on not showing surprise. And doubtless he appreciated the opportunities she had given him to employ and excel in his deductive, journalistic skills, And then, “Right you are, Miss R.H.," he said. "Apart from the United Nations, I'm thinking perhaps a club. Press club or such. I'll try London."

Miss Rudwell-Horace reflected, not for the first time, that the local residents were fortunate to have a newspaperman who might have taken himself off to Fleet Street – and indeed might still, but for the time being was content to serve villages like Big Avalon and Little Avalon. But then, any village had plenty of doings under its sedate thatch and rock gardens.

And that night as she sought sleep, she saw images, of a wounded man, a king or knight. A battle. An army scattered. Blood everywhere...

~~~

It was when she was returning from the village meeting for the spring fête (a meeting which had included some careful talk about the two men new in the village), that Miss Rudwell Horace's sharp eyes saw, outlined by moonlight, the forms of Lady Colleen, with her bound leg, and the man named Miko?aj, both gesturing in a dramatic way. She frowned. Another disturbing encounter? Was this some of Lady Colleen’s past, returned to haunt her? And was there a connection with the new stranger?

Next day she tucked a bottle of her blackcurrant wine in her capacious handbag and set off to the Lunch and Mhor. Lady Colleen's eyes lit up, and she was only too happy to pour a glass for them both. She sat down and hoisted up her bound leg.

"Thanks ever so, Miss Rudwell-Horace. And yes, I'm hobbling along as well as can be expected. Miko – er, my cook – is gone for the day." Her eyes briefly looked overhead, where she had her rooms. "And Millie Clapperton and Ina Sharp...a few others, too...have been absolute trumps. Can't do enough for me. It's a good village, this one."

They sipped companionably. "All goes well with your cook?" said Miss Rudwell-Horace.

"Oh, lord, yes. The man knows his stuff...even if he didn't do a lot of cooking during the war. And somehow, we communicate." She gave an approving glance at her glass.

“Lady Colleen,” said Miss Rudwell-Horace, “You have a Polish connection with your family, do you not?"

The younger woman shrugged. "My grand-dad." Her eyes were evasive. Despite her injury, she piled up plates and cups and somehow slid them into the cupboard.

After a moment, “But that is not all, I think, my dear,” said Miss Rudwell-Horace.

Lady Colleen shrugged her shoulders, then put a hand to her eyes. 'You always know, don't you? I'd call you a busybody, but you also have a heart."

Miss Rudwell-Horace put a weathered hand on the younger woman's arm. "So your cook is really that good?" she said, after a moment.

Lady Colleen straightened. "Like I said. Miko?aj – or Artek as he sometimes calls himself – "

"Artek?"

"His middle name. Knows how to make a meal, and better than Brits, I sometimes think. But I'm afraid he's being followed by somebody. The new stranger. Saw him one day just outside, looking. One can't be sure of anything, even though the war is long over."

Miss Rudwell-Horace frowned. "I am aware of this other man. Thank you for telling me. Perhaps Constable Bland..."

"I'll not let anyone hurt him!" Lady Colleen blurted out, her hand closing on a nearby knife. Then she flushed. "Ever so sorry. It's just...things can be so bloody difficult. That man suffered so much at the hands of – well, both Russians and Germans. I just get blinkered with rage now and then. I'd do anything to save him from – "

Miss Rudwell-Horace looked at the flushed face of the younger woman with compassion.

Lady Colleen gave a short laugh. "Over-dramatizing, I might be. In any case it's bloody good luck he came along when he did, with my rotten leg and all. Such a good cook, even if he's a bit exotic for our Little Avalon."

Soon after, Miss Rudwell Horace took her leave. There was really nothing. she thought, that could be done. From the sound of it, the man had not approached the cook Miko in any sort of threatening way. Yet there might still be some trouble.

~~~

The next day, on her morning constitutional, Miss Rudwell-Horace walked over the little bridge and past the Lunch and Mhor – and there she heard a shot, explosive on this grey chill day. She stood, stock-still, feeling for once in her life quite helpless. And then she saw Lady Colleen coming out of her establishment, hobbling on her stick. Miss Rudwell-Horace put her hand to her substantial chest.

There was the continued sound of gunfire, one, two, three. And yet, to judge from Lady Colleen's demeanor... Miss Rudwell-Horace said a prayer, and walked purposefully closer, positioning herself behind the oak tree at the side of the Lunch and Mhor.

She had a clear view now – of the cook, the man Miko?aj. From the look of it, he had set up a target, a crude board painted with a small circle. Another shot blasted the wood, sending slivers and wood dust dancing into the air. His body was tense, hard, but when he stopped, he seemed to be shaking.

Lady Colleen hobbled up to him, and put a hand on him. He yanked it off, stood a moment, then grabbed her hand. It was an intense moment, but not, Miss Rudwell-Horace trusted, a dangerous one.

Then, as she watched, Lady Colleen took the gun from Miko?aj, and fired three fast shots into the target. She then dropped the gun, turned with her awkward leg, and put her arms around the man. They seemed to be embracing.

Miss Rudwell-Horace carefully made her way back. There were a few shouts in the village, heads protruding from upper windows. She waved at them, with what she hoped was a reassuring all's-well. Many people did have old service firearms (old Mr. Oddie had shot himself in the foot when demonstrating his Boer War revolver). But the way Miko?aj had looked...was there some danger at hand? And was it possible he was being pursued?

As she turned to leave, she caught sight of a figure, just behind the crumbling remnant of Little Avalon's old mill. The stranger, the German man. His posture was stiff, his focus seemingly on the Lunch and Mhor. He had his hand inside his jacket.

Perhaps it was up to her, to call another meeting with Mr. Addington the vicar, Constable Bland, and a few others. But first, she waited upon Dermot Brashley, who, she knew, was quick to act.

~~~

Next day the reporter's scratched-up little car came to a stop outside Miss Rudwell-Horace's cottage. His eyes blazed with triumph. Through putting a small ad in The Times, he had found Piotr, a Polish-speaking reporter, who also knew German, in London. The two men had exchanged letters by England's ever-efficient post. This young man was keen to write for a paper, but had had no luck in London.

"I couldn't have hoped for more, when it seemed an unlikely task," said Dermot. "And it's all cleared with my head, old Branston. The Big Avalon Courier will have its first 'foreign' correspondent – right in the village. I can show him the ropes. And he'll be putting up nearby."

"Oh, my dear young man, you are impressive. How you get things done!"

The next step, they agreed, was to get Piotr to meet both of the men, Miko?aj and the new stranger, separately. That might take some doing, especially as no one even knew whether the second man would even speak to anyone. Or if he had come to the village of Little Avalon with his own deadly purpose...

~~~

?And then, fate. Whatever else might be going on, as Miss Rudwell-Horace and Mr. Trotter knew, there was no place better in town for a mid-day repast than the Lunch and Mhor. The eatery was well-packed (with even Constable Bland there), with the tantalizing smells of food – surely not quite English? – wafting through.

The door opened. People looked up. It was the newer stranger. He was tall, with hair a dull gold, like straw. And he was breathing hard.

The clatter of cutlery on utility china ceased abruptly.

Lady Colleen dashed to the back. There was the sound of arguing, then Miko?aj strode through from the kitchen, flinging down a towel, to confront the stranger. Every eye was on the two of them. The younger man, who seemed to be breathing hard, thrust his hand inside his coat. There was a gasp, a chair scraping back. The atmospheric was electric.?The man's hand remained in his jacket. The two men stood, facing each other, with all the tension of a duel.

"Here, now," said the deep voice of Constable Bland.

The newer stranger's face twisted a little. Miko?aj watched every flicker of motion, his own eyes now glittering like rain, his head cocked a little, as though trying to remember. And then the other man spoke. “Artek.”

The blood seemed to drain from Miko?aj's face.

~~~~~~~~

?When all was known, via the interpreting newsman Piotr that Dermot Brashley had found, the two young reporters went off with the two men.

For Dermot, this was a scoop like none other,?eclipsing the lost son returned to a father at the Balls and Meadow Pub, the mystery of Lady Beamish in the village fortress, and the briefly lost-(stolen)-then-found jewels of Cyril Foxworthy, the village’s King Charles I re-renactor.

It was a shared scoop, perhaps, but that added a nice twist – and as an intro to the new Big Avalon Courier reporter.

~??~??????????????~??~

On Miss Rudwell-Horace's step, Mr. Trotter brushed the snow from his sturdy boots. "Mrs. Atkinson might be getting her garden going," he announced, "but it's still winter to me."

"No one knows that better than a postman," Miss Rudwell-Horace said with a smile.

With Mr. Trotter were the reporter Dermot Brashley and his new colleague Piotr.

There was the smell of savoury soup, rich with its vegetables from the allotment. Miss Rudwell-Horace gave it a final stir, and began to pour it into four mugs.

"And so we have our mystery solved." She glanced up a moment at the two young newspapermen sniffing appreciatively at the steaming cups. Both motioned for her to continue. "Two young men," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "One, Mikolaj, was a young man, who loved the legends of King Arthur. Britain is filled with such places.

"Recently, he somehow found Little Avalon, our very own village. Avalon, in mythology, was a place where the sword Excalibur was raised, and where King Arthur had been taken to recover from his wounds, after the Battle of Camlann. And now, after this war? Many men had recovered, many never would. Miko?aj carried a gun, long after he had been with a settlement camp nearby, and found the name of Little Avalon...and also found work."

?"And Lady Colleen?" said Mr. Trotter. "She had some Polish associations."

"Through her grandfather – and she also had fallen briefly in love with a young man she never really got to know. He was training in England, as many Poles were. Perhaps it was merely an infatuation, and they also were separated by a language barrier – Lady Colleen's grasp of the language was rudimentary."

"And had Mikolaj known her young man?"

"It doesn't seem so," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "But she wanted to help this man. Perhaps she had a feeling for him, to replace her grief of the other."

Mr. Trotter drank the last bit of his soup. "And Miss Bookley and Miss Treadwell seemed intrigued by Miko?aj's and the new man's presence."

"Yes. Our librarian thought there might be some mystery to do with history – and in a way she was right. Miss Treadwell is a little too ready to believe in sensation, but that could not be ruled out, in a still-anxious post-war world."

“As for Jenkins at the pub?” said Mr. Trotter. “After all, he put up the stranger in his rooms. Guess he was a bit wary."

“He was," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, “But because of the letting business being in a bit of a slump, he was glad to have the guests, though not surprisingly, there is still some anti-German sentiment in Britain. And in truth it seems his pub is the home for some mystery.” She was silent for a moment, remembering the odd affair of the mysterious pub sign and all that had come out of it.

"And Nelda Berrington and Ellen Thorn-Rosen?" said Mr. Trotter.

"Yes." Miss Rudwell-Horace tapped on the table. "What of our resident ex-London actress Nelda and her artist-friend Ellen? Something, I thought, that day in the Lunch and Mhor. Did either know Miko?aj, or wish to know him? Both women seemed impressed with what they had seen of him. Or perhaps there was a connection with Ellen Thorn-Rosen, as her father was Polish.

"And both women also had noticed the stranger, the fair one."But In the end, there was no familiarity other than that our actress Nelda wondered about the 'role' each of them might play – and artist Ellen would have liked to paint – or photograph – either or both of them. In their faces, she could see a story. Nelda and Ellen simply responded professionally, albeit also with feminine appreciation."?

“And Miko?aj Abramowicz had been a soldier in Poland, in Italy…” said the little postman.

?“And certainly had done his job.” Miss Rudwell-Horace shook her head. “But this other man surely could not be pursuing Miko?aj as an enemy – not so many years after the war, and little more than a boy at the time. Unless it was something personal."

The two were silent for a moment, as were Dermot and Piotr. They all now knew Miko?aj was from Siedl?cin in Poland, known for its castle with its legends of King Arthur. And Mikolaj’s middle name was Artek, the Polish for ‘Arthur.’ His friends likely had called him that.

"But by 1939 in Poland, Camelot and Avalon – also known as the Island of Apples – must have seemed very far away," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "Fairy tales were for children. Miko?aj had lost his parents, who had had a small food business. He had been captured, imprisoned, but later would become 2nd-Lieutenant Abramowicz, a soldier with the Polish Army.

"And afterwards," said Piotr in his accented voice. "He could not go back to what had been his home, Poland, if his village was even still there. He could not be openly Polish, but would have to align himself with the new communist government." His eyes narrowed, his lips tightened. "And that is something many, many Poles could not do."

"So, already in England, no longer part of a disbanded Polish Army, he somehow found his way to Little Avalon, and to employment with Lady Colleen," mused Miss Rudwell-Horace. "She had a Polish connection. And because they were not as respectively fluent as they could have been, they often spoke by charades." She smiled a little, remembering that moonlight night.

"And he can cook," acknowledged Mr. Trotter.

"As a youngster Miko?aj learned how to make specialties like the Polish pierogi, the dumplings, in his parents' home business. And in his war time, he likely mixed with others of the Allies, and learned more food skills. He made the most of his situation, as a Pole, and one who now had their homeland taken from them.”

There was another silence. Those in Little Avalon – though contributing to the war effort, rationing, losing young men to the cause, and hearing the drone of the planes overhead – had never really had to worry about losing their homes, or lives...

*★*★*★*

“And now," said Mr. Trotter, “He was pursued not for any malevolent purpose, but – “ And he seemed quite overcome.

This time Dermot took up the narrative: “...But to be thanked for a life spared. Jürgen Horstvald was little more than 17. A Hitler Youth or not, he had dreams of being a teacher, but he was in the German military, a paratrooper – the fallschirmj?ger. In the later years of the war, with its adult-male decrease, there were many such, in their Forces, who were young, teen-aged, untried.

"At the end of the capture of Monte Cassino in Italy in May 1944 by the Poles and Allies, Jürgen and a few comrades were wounded in the ruined abbey high on the hill. He lay there, bloodied, helpless, and terrified to see his opponents come in."

There was silence in Miss Rudwell-Horace's kitchen, punctuated only by breathing.

?"Jürgen lay, his hand inside his jacket to try to stop the bleeding," went on Dermot. "Miko?aj – who had a gun – and the others arranged for the wounded to be carried out. He himself had been hit, and was in his own pain, but still could walk. He limped, and said to his comrade that it was not quite their Camlann, the scene of battle to be carried from – and that they would need only a ‘little Avalon.’

"In that place of carnage – scene of one of the grimmest battles of the war – he did not know that the young man understood some Polish and English.?And, wounded and helpless, he now expected to die."

“Instead," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, “a Polish soldier spared his life.” She took a deep breath. "This young German man became a prisoner, and ultimately found his way home after the war.

?“And Jürgen resumed his studies to become a teacher. He was clever with words, good at doing research. Eventually, whatever 'Hitler Youth' indoctrination he may have had fell away. And always, he apparently remembered what he had heard the Polish soldier say, 'Avalon.' And had the postcard, of Britain, that had fallen out of Miko?aj's jacket pocket.”

Yes," confirmed Piotr, who had been mostly silent till now. "He informed me of all this. To some it might seem a story that was...crazy. But it was a strange time." His eyes were sombre, perhaps seeing another place and time, with terrible things that had happened to his family, friends, countrymen.

"And," the young man continued, "Jürgen's country also was in ruins, after defeat. Bombings, devastation, starvation, suicide...and people now being shown that the ideology they had lived under was the most evil regime of history."

?Miss Rudwell-Horace pushed aside her soup-cup, and reached for her bottle of currant wine. She poured it out into four glasses.?They all drank in silence for a few moments.

Mr. Trotter shook his head wonderingly. “But that he should have found out where Miko?aj Abramowicz had gone…”

?“It is remarkable, I know,” said Miss. Rudwell-Horace. “Impossible." She sipped her wine. "But throughout the war, it seems, there were many ways people managed to get information, to track others. And this had become an obsession with him. Some may have thought him demented, even. He would come to England, and leave no stone unturned. It was also a journey of risk. The feelings ran high against Germans after the war. But, after much research and travelling, he finally found little 'Avalon.' And, once here, Jürgen could not get up the courage to approach Miko?aj.

"So there were the two mysteries – the seeming pursuit of Miko?aj by a stranger – and what happened to the young German man whose life Miko?aj had spared."

?“Five, six years ago,” said Mr. Trotter, his eyes seeming far away. "And now? Will they be friends?"

?“In spite of these remarkable circumstances, there may be too much separating them. But Jürgen found the soldier who had refused to shoot him, who had given him his life. He accomplished what he set out to do, to find that person. Even if he did little more than acknowledge him, perhaps understanding he could not push further. And, years after the war, he is now a teacher. Let us hope that is one thing good that has come from this war."

She sighed a moment. "As for what I know of the legends of Camelot and Avalon – and known also as the Island of Apples – there was little of peace in that world, either."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was no one more enthusiastic about the Lunch and Mhor's recent menu item than Piotr, the new local, and trilingual, reporter (who had almost immediately been assigned a feature on resettlement-camp Poles who had elected to stay in Britain and were carving out new lives for themselves)..

The little Polish dumplings named pierogi, with their diverse fillings – of potato, bacon, tangy creamed cheese, mushrooms, sauerkraut – now would be a regular feature at the Lunch and Mhor. They were a delicious testament to the culinary skills of Miko?aj Artek Abramowicz.

Earlier that day Miss Rudwell-Horace had seen and heard him with Lady Colleen outside, gesticulating and smoking – with occasionally the sound of shared laughter, ringing like a bell in the clear air of late winter. Mikolaj still lived above the kitchen, and it seemed that this new arrangement would continue.

Perhaps, Miss Rudwell-Horace thought, as a Pole he might never be at peace again. But he had, it seemed, found some succor, and from the look of it, love. Lady Colleen, her leg on the mend, too...

With Mr. Trotter at her side, the village's amateur detective gazed now in respectful, expectant silence at her plate, heaped with golden-brown dumplings. Artfully crimped around the edges and streaked with fresh sour cream from Stokes’s farm dairy, with a pile of spicy-smelling cabbage at the side...it was a meal fit for a king.

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