The Importance of Royalty

Eliza brought the scythe down on the stalks of wheat, severing them from their roots. It was hard sweaty work. She brought her arm up to her forehead, wiping the sweat off her brow, and then pushing the strands of her dark, brown hair back into the plain scarf she had tied around her head. She raised her scythe to fell even more wheat, when she heard a piercing scream coming from the road.

She looked up to see a beautiful, thin woman in a flowing pink gown running down the road. The woman's jewelry sparkled, but her most spectacular feature was her lustrous blonde hair.

"What do you suppose that is about?" asked Eliza to a squat man working next to her. His name was Eric, and his features where caked with the intermingling of sweat and dirt.

He grunted and then said, "It's just another princess, it is of no concern."

Eliza barked a laugh and then turned back to her wheat. It would be only for a moment before she heard the vast beating of wings, and a massive shadow covered the field. She looked up to see a Roc flying in the general direction that the princess was running. Eliza laughed again.

She was tying up the wheat into a bundle when the clattering of metal and horse hoofs sounded on the road. She looked up again to see a Knight in his full armor riding a very exhausted horse. He pulled the reins to stop, and with a flourish said to the field workers, "I am Prince Wallace of Versase, I am on a quest..."

But before he could finish, Eliza interjected, "The princess ran that way," pointing in the direction she had run.

"Thank you, simple townswoman," he said, urging the horse forward, while Eliza rolled her eyes.

She had barely moved on to the next bundle when they were interrupted by yet another horse. It was yet another knight in full armor. He flashed his gorgeous smile, and ruffled his hand through his blonde hair. "I am Prince Hethcliff of Charos," he said with much pomposity, "I am here to kill the Witch of the Western Woods, do you know where her foul lair is?"

"It's in the woods... to the west," Eric said with much annoyance.

"Thank you," Hethcliff said, very sincerely. "And while I am here, I need to inform you that the tax on your wheat is to increase to 93%"

Eliza looked at him aghast, "93%? We were barely feeding our families on 90%!"

"Well, protecting you from all the horrors of the world is worth a piddly 93% of your wheat, you can deposit it at the mill. Furthermore, My father needs thirty more castles built, so thirty of you need to report to the nearest construction site tomorrow, and another thirty to the nearest quarry."

Eliza looked around her and then, with slight confusion said, "There are only fifteen of us, and if we reported to do construction the field will go to rot and we'd all starve."

"That's not my problem. My father, King Wilmark the Fourteenth of Charos needs to expand the number of castles he has to fit his children. It is your duty to do accommodate."

Eric thought for a moment and then said, "Where's the quarry?"

"I don't know. Do I look like a map person?" asked Hethcliff.

"Very well, we will report, as directed," said Eliza with a sigh.

"Good," the prince said, urging his horse forward towards the west.

The field workers went back to work, this time uninterrupted for a full half an hour. At which point they heard a cacophonous laughter. Eliza looked up to see a gnarled, old hag standing in a massive cooking pot that was flying with absurd speed above the ground. Dragging behind her, in a most undignified way, was Hethcliff. He was tied by his ankle to the handle of the cooking pot and was screaming profanities at the witch.

"I always liked her," Eliza said to Eric, "Excellent sense of humor."

"We can't give the royals 93%," Eric said. Eliza had known him long enough to know he'd obviously been stewing over this for the entire time.

"What choice do we have?" she asked.

"We could just keep it all for ourselves."

"What?"

"Let's not give them anything. They don't actually do anything, do they?"

"Well, they protect us from dragons... and giants," she stammered.

"Really?" he asked, "When was the last time you were attacked by a dragon? By anything, in fact?"

"Never," she admitted.

"They just protect the other royals. They're the ones constantly being kidnapped, or cursed, or attacked. Not us. Let's keep everything."


Two months passed and Eliza was stooped over a carrot field, pulling up the roots and placing them in large baskets. The constant interruptions to their work had slowly decreased. Certainly there were no fewer dragons and ogres, but they seemed fairly content to keep to themselves. If anything they seemed far more cheerful than normal.

The familiar sound of a horse clopping up to the field caused Eliza to raise her head. It was Prince Hethcliff, only he looked quite different. He was wearing only half his armor, and even an untrained expert could see what he was wearing was loose and dilapidated, as if a blind child was now in charge of outfitting him. He also looked quite gaunt, and his blonde hair was oily and stuck to his head.

"You haven't been paying your taxes," he said accusatorily.

Eliza shrugged, "Maybe a giant stole them on the way to your father's castle."

"Don't give me that," he shouted, "Do you know how many giants I have killed these last two months? Dragons? Swamp monsters?"

She tried to suppress a laugh at the fact that he thought killing monsters was all that was required for the supply of food to return.

"No one is paying their taxes anymore," he spat with venom.

"Well," Eric said, "You have to think about the logistics of it. Wheat needs to be cut after four months and rolled into bundles three feet..."

Hethcliff's eyes became unfocused, but then a look of rage crossed his face, "I don't care about whatever it is you people do out here. You just need to pay your taxes."

"We certainly will," Eric said, "We will make sure to take all the flour from our wheat harvest and deliver it to your cooks."

"Good," Hethcliff said, urging his horse forward. "And remember to report at the castle construction site."

As he left, Eliza noticed a small group of gnomes at the edges of the field. She held out a carrot and laughed as the small, funny men ran up to grab it. "Go ahead, there's plenty for all, now."


Four months had passed and the field workers had gathered together in their village's tavern for the winter festival. They each held huge mugs of mead and were singing pub tunes. The frivolity had attracted some of their more eccentric neighbors. Eric was dancing with the witch of the western woods. Fairies were flitting about the rafters. A dragon had stuck its head in through the window and was heating up mead for people, and Eliza could swear it was smiling. An ogre was arm wrestling a squat goblin. Everyone was in high spirits. Food was plentiful, her clothes were no longer the plain rags but rather beautifully colored, even their houses shined from the bricks they acquired when they found the location of the quarry.  She grabbed a swamp monster and kissed him on his slimy lips. Briefly, she thought about the fact that she hadn't seen a royal in months, but she pushed that thought from her mind. She wondered over to the bar where drunken elves were making people shoes and thought about what a wonderful thing life is.

About King Arthur: The History of England

To understand King Arthur, you have to understand the history of England. It is the backdrop to the stories, and what pushes and pulls the evolution of the mythology. King Arthur is unlike virtually all mythic traditions in that many different stages of the mythology's history have been recorded, rather than one final form of the story. As the history of England changes, the stories themselves change with it, recontextualizing to the different times they are told in.

The Roman Empire invaded and conquered England over the course of a decade starting around 40 AD. After a period of ruling the province for three hundred and fifty years, the Roman troops were removed as the empire was in dire need of protection elsewhere and such a faraway and costly province was not considered worth spending effort on. However, the Roman colonists who had made the British isles their home remained, essentially carrying on their business as normal.

With the Romans vacated, England became a prime target for invasion. Specifically the Germanic tribes the Angles, the Saxons, and the Jutes progressively began to invade and resettle the land. The culture clash between the Christian Romans (collectively known as Britons) and the pagan Anglo-Saxons split the islands into a period of tribal warfare between these groups. The basis of much of the early King Arthur stories lies in the gorilla warfare of the British kings against the pagan invaders. In fact, the most likely candidate for a historical King Arthur is Ambrosius Aurelianus, who did exactly that. The oldest poems and stories of King Arthur are Welsh stories, as the Welsh were the final remains of the Roman culture in the British Isles, and King Arthur represented an ethnic hero to them.

In 1066 William of Brittany invaded and conquered England from his home in France. He brought with him a French court and imposed French customs and language on the Germanic peoples. And with him revived the long dormant stories of King Arthur. This was a political and propaganda tactic. The French considered themselves heirs to the Roman Empire, and King Arthur justified their conquest of England. They were liberating the nation from foreign usurpers. Most of the stories most commonly associated with King Arthur are actually a hodgepodge of French myths and innovations grafted onto the existent Welsh stories.

By the 1500s, the French and Anglo-Saxons had achieved unity into a single nation, England. And with that unity came an increasing nationalism. A nationalism that needed heroic, mythic figures, resulting in King Arthur being embraced by the nation in general as a representation of the character of England. This was the period when the vast collection of stories written by dozens of different authors over hundreds of years was coalesced into a single narrative, Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte d'Arthur. which has become the basis of all subsequent interpretations and adaptations.