“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…”

“And as we stood there, a curious thing happened: a kind of window opened in the rain, just as if a cloud had been hitched aside like a curtain, and in the space between we saw a landscape that took our breath away. The high ground along which the road ran fell away through a black, woody belt, and beyond it, for more miles than you can imagine, lay the whole basin of the Black Country, clear, amazingly clear, with innumerable smokestacks rising out of it like the merchant shipping of the world laid up in an estuary at low tide, each chimney flying a great pennant of smoke that blew away eastward by the wind, and the whole scene bleared by the light of a sulphurous sunset. No one need ever tell me again that the Black Country isn't beautiful. In all Shrophire and Radnor we'd seen nothing to touch it for vastness and savagery. And then this apocalyptic light! It was like a landscape of the end of the world, and, curiously enough, though men had built the chimneys and fired the furnaces that fed the smoke, you felt that the magnificence of the scene owed nothing to them. Its beauty was singularly inhuman and its terror – for it was terrible, you know – elemental. It made me wonder why you people who were born and bred there ever write about anything else.”

“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.”

“Robert rode beneath the banner of Carrick, the dragon shield on his left arm. He wore it proudly now in common cause; this symbol of Arthur, the warrior king. As he caught sight of Humphrey, the knight raised his fist in a defiant gesture that Robert returned. Today, God willing, they would finish this campaign. He wanted to return home blooded, to be able to tell his grandfather that he too had won his spurs in the king’s war. Nerves and anticipation battled within him, his breaths coming hard and fast in the tight encasement of his helm.”

“. . . 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.”

“Lugh shines like the sun. That must of made it easy fer them to find him. All they had to do was follow his light.”

“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.”