“Hic Jacet Arthurus Rex Quondam Rexque FuturusArthur is gone…Tristram in CareolSleeps, with a broken sword - and Yseult sleepsBeside him, where the Westering waters rollOver drowned Lyonesse to the outer deeps.Lancelot is fallen . . . The ardent helms that shoneSo knightly and the splintered lances rustIn the anonymous mould of Avalon:Gawain and Gareth and Galahad - all are dust.Where do the vanes and towers of CamelotAnd tall Tintagel crumble? Where do those tragicLovers and their bright eyed ladies rot?We cannot tell, for lost is Merlin's magic.And Guinevere - Call her not back againLest she betray the loveliness time lentA name that blends the rapture and the painLinked in the lonely nightingale's lament.Nor pry too deeply, lest you should discoverThe bower of Astolat a smokey hutOf mud and wattle - find the knightliest loverA braggart, and his lilymaid a slut.And all that coloured tale a tapestryWoven by poets. As the spider's skeinsAre spun of its own substance, so have theyEmbroidered empty legend - What remains?This: That when Rome fell, like a writhen oakThat age had sapped and cankered at the root,Resistant, from her topmost bough there brokeThe miracle of one unwithering shoot.Which was the spirit of Britain - that certain menUncouth, untutored, of our island broodLoved freedom better than their lives; and whenThe tempest crashed around them, rose and stoodAnd charged into the storm's black heart, with swordLifted, or lance in rest, and rode there, helmedWith a strange majesty that the heathen hordeRemembered when all were overwhelmed;And made of them a legend, to their chief,Arthur, Ambrosius - no man knows his name -Granting a gallantry beyond belief,And to his knights imperishable fame.They were so few . . . We know not in what mannerOr where they fell - whether they wentRiding into the dark under Christ's bannerOr died beneath the blood-red dragon of Gwent.But this we know; that when the Saxon routSwept over them, the sun no longer shoneOn Britain, and the last lights flickered out;And men in darkness muttered: Arthur is gone…”

“She always did like tales of adventure-stories full of brightness and darkness. She could tell you the names of all King Arthur's knights, and she knew everything about Beowulf and Grendel, the ancient gods and the not-quite-so-ancient heroes. She liked pirate stories, too, but most of all she loved books that had at least a knight or a dragon or a fairy in them. She was always on the dragon's side by the way.”

“. . . and it came out that this King Arthur and his knights had done nothing of real note but to kill innocent dragons all around Britain: almost certainly a pack of lies, as Forthing admitted they had not possessed even any guns at the time, and unpleasant lies at that.”

“Yes, every evening. Your mother enjoyed it. That evening she chose Inkheart. She always did like tales of adventure – stories full of brightness and darkness. She could tell you the names of all King Arthur's knights, and she knew everything about Beowulf and Grendel, the ancient gods and the not-quite-so-ancient heroes. She liked pirate stories, too, but most of all she loved books that had at least a knight or a dragon or a fairy in them. She was always on the dragon's side, by the way. There didn't seem to be any of them in Inkheart, but there was any amount of brightness and darkness, fairies and goblins. Your mother liked goblins as well: hobgoblins, bugaboos, the Fenoderee, the folletti with their butterfly wings, she knew them all. So we gave you a pile of picture books, sat down on the rug beside you, and I began to read.”

“Hic jacet Arthurus Rex quandam Rexque futurus - the once and future king.”

“The next day, to the joy of all of Arthur's court, Sir Gareth was wed to the fair Lady Lyonesse of Cornwall. All who beheld the couple declared that ne'er had so handsome a knight wed so beautiful a maiden. At the same time, Sir Gaheris was wedded to the Lady Lynet, younger sister to the Lady Lyonesse. They looked alright too.”