The Legend of the King

  "Excuse me, Lord Ganscotter," called Ywain's clear voice.

  "Yes, Sir Ywain?"

  "You say that good magic has been withdrawn from this world as well."

  "Much of it, yes."

  "What does that mean for King Arthur?"

  For the first time, Ganscotter's face lost its serenity, and a bleak expression took its place. "He will have to fight his battles by his own strength, and by the strength of those who stand at his side."

  "Will he be victorious?"

  Ganscotter did not reply, and Ywain said, "You've shown all these what will happen to them if they stay. Show us what will happen to the king."

  Ganscotter shook his head. "Nay, Sir Ywain. I have only shown what might happen, not what will. What will happen always depends to some degree on your own choices. The future is never seen clearly, only in pieces, but I will show you what I can."

  Then the enchanter waved his arm to where a different set of stones formed a gateway, and as before, the opening darkened and began to show different scenes, one following another in flickering succession. There were villages burning, then towns. A great castle—was it Camelot? Luneta wasn't sure—was torn down and left in rubble. A town filled with corpses—a small girl, perhaps three years old, gazing large-eyed at her father's and mother's dead bodies. A frantic nighttime fight on a beach. A field covered with slain soldiers. Then the images disappeared.

  The procession heading through the gate to the Other World sped up. Now only a few were left at the Henge. One of them was Morgan, who hesitated and started for the doorway, but Ganscotter stopped her. "Lady Morgan, I have already asked much of you, but I wonder if you would stay with me for a while. You, alone, have a third choice."

  Morgan looked severe, but she said, "As you wish, my lord," and walked over to stand beside the Lady of the Lake. Now only Ywain and Laudine stood with Luneta and Rhience.

  "Come, Ywain," Laudine said, tugging at his arm.

  Ywain shook his head. "I'm sorry, my love," he said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I have to go to Arthur."

  "You might be killed!" she shrieked. Ywain nodded. Laudine's eyes grew hot. "This is just like you, with no thought for anyone but yourself! You heard what Lord Ganscotter said. I can't stay here!"

  "My love," Ywain said slowly, "the man you married was a man of honor. What would you want with him if he threw his honor away?"

  Laudine hesitated, and for a moment Luneta saw a glimpse of indecision in her eyes. At that moment, she saw a beautiful woman, but then the indecision was snuffed out. Laudine stamped her foot and said, "All right then! Be selfish!" and ran through the doorway into another world.

  Ganscotter's eyes, as they rested on Ywain, seemed to hold equal parts of compassion and respect. Then he turned toward Luneta. "My dear?" he said, holding his hand toward the gateway.

  "May I ask one question?" Luneta asked.

  "Of course."

  "That little girl we saw, the one standing by her dead parents: will she be all right?"

  "That I cannot see," Ganscotter said.

  Luneta stared at the ground. There had been so many people dead in the scenes that Ganscotter had shown them, but that little girl was alive.

  Beside her, Rhience cleared his throat. "Er, do you think you could tell us how to find her, sir?"

  Luneta caught her breath and looked up quickly into Rhience's face. "Do you mean—?"

  Rhience grinned. "Of course I do, goose."

  Ganscotter smiled, then dropped to one knee before them, bowing his head with reverence. "It would be my honor to serve you, my lord and my lady."

  10. The Pilgrimage

  Guinglain

  Guinglain's hermitage was silent, which normally would have been fine with him. The little forest clearing usually echoed with the shouts of children at exhausting play, which was an excellent noise in its own way, but was still noise. Some days Guinglain felt as if he would do anything for an hour of silence. Today, though, the silence was heavy and oppressive. Three days before, word had come to the nearby village that the White Horsemen were heading their way, and all had fled into hiding. Guinglain sighed. He preferred the silence that meant the presence of God to the silence that meant the absence of joy.

  He had just settled himself in a chair in a sunny spot—taking advantage of the goodness and warmth that no army could frighten away—when a man rode out of the trees and stopped in the yard. He was a large man on a massive horse, and although he wore a penitent's hair shirt, Guinglain easily recognized him as one of King Arthur's knights. Guinglain had visited Arthur's court at Camelot once, before he had settled down to a hermit's life, and though he didn't remember this knight's name, he knew the face. Rising, Guinglain stepped forward and said, "Good morning, sir knight."

  "How do you know I am a knight?" the rider replied.

  Guinglain chuckled. "It occurred to me that a fishmonger might not be riding a warhorse." The knight's rigid expression relaxed, and he bowed in acknowledgment. "Besides," Guinglain went on, "I've seen you before. You're Galahad's father, aren't you?"

  The knight blinked. "I am. But how did you know that?"

  "I'm a friend of Galahad's—was with him when he appeared at court, in fact, and when he left this world, too," Guinglain explained. "I was younger then, going by the name Beaufils."

  Sir Lancelot nodded. "I remember. 'Fair Son.' You were looking for your father, as I recall. Did you find him?"

  "Every day," Guinglain replied, smiling. "Now I live here, in this hermitage, under my true name: Guinglain."

  Sir Lancelot's eyes brightened, and he dismounted. "Are you a holy man?" he asked.

  Guinglain chuckled. "You do realize what a silly question that is, don't you?"

  Sir Lancelot looked confused. "No, I ... why do you say silly?"

  "There's no answer. If I say 'yes, I am a holy man,' then I've just proven I'm not. No one who is holy believes it of himself; no one who believes it of himself really is."

  "Oh," Sir Lancelot said, puzzling over this. "I only wondered if you are the hermit here, at this sanctuary. You're wearing a monk's cowl, after all."

  "That one's easy, anyway. Yes, I'm the hermit here."

  Immediately, Sir Lancelot knelt at Guinglain's feet. "Brother Guinglain, I am on pilgrimage. I seek absolution from my sins."

  Guinglain nodded. "All right, you're forgiven."

  Sir Lancelot looked up, startled. "But you haven't heard my confession yet."

  "Must I? God accepts all repentance, no matter what the sin. So it doesn't really matter. Now if you'd done something bad to me, that would be different. Then it would be best for you to tell me your sin. But you haven't, have you?"

  "My sin was against King Arthur and against God."

  "Well, have you spoken to both of them about it?"

  "Er, yes," Sir Lancelot said. Guinglain raised his eyebrows and waited. Sir Lancelot frowned. "But that is too easy."

  Guinglain sighed. "Forgiveness is easy. The hard thing is convincing people of that. Men have such high opinions of their own sins, you see."

  Sir Lancelot looked grave. "But my sin is indeed vile beyond that of most men."

  With an effort, Guinglain kept from smiling. He didn't think it would be well received. Instead he said, "Really? For my part, I've found sin to be rather routine, even boring. Now, being righteous—that requires imagination! But sin? It's a dull business."

  Sir Lancelot considered this, then nodded. "I perceive that you may indeed be a holy man," he said at last. "But still I must confess. I've taken a vow. Because of my sin, I must travel through England, confessing to every holy man I encounter, then I must leave England forever."

  "All right," Guinglain said, returning to his chair. "If you said you would do it, then you must."

  Sir Lancelot bowed his head. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

  Guinglain decided not to tell Sir Lancelot that he wasn't a priest, that he had just settled in an empty hermit
age to lead a life of simplicity and prayer and had no official status in the church. Sir Lancelot needed to talk, and Guinglain didn't mind letting him.

  "My sin goes back twenty years," Sir Lancelot began. "I was a young knight, newly arrived at King Arthur's court, determined to be the greatest knight ever. I sought glory and fame and applause from men. And women. I hoped to make the most beautiful woman in England my lady, as an ornament to my knighthood."

  Sir Lancelot paused, as if waiting for a response, so Guinglain said, "That was very bad of you, wasn't it?"

  Sir Lancelot shook his head. "I haven't gotten to my sin yet."

  "You were trying to glorify yourself, and you were willing to use others to do so. You don't consider that a sin?"

  "I ... yes, it was, wasn't it? In fact, I suppose that was the little sin that led to my great sin."

  "Then it wasn't so little, was it?"

  Sir Lancelot shook his head and gave Guinglain a speculative look, as if wondering what sort of priest he was. Guinglain remained silent, and after a moment Sir Lancelot went on. "So I seduced the most beautiful woman in England. For many years, I carried on an illicit love with the wife of King Arthur."

  Guinglain felt a heavy sadness descend on him. He had met the king and queen once, and he remembered them with fondness.

  "Because of our betrayal, King Arthur was driven to sin himself, and he conceived a son who now threatens the kingdom."

  "Mordred," Guinglain said softly. He had met the young man years before and well remembered how Mordred's soul glowed with hatred.

  "You know him?" Sir Lancelot asked. Guinglain nodded. "Do you still think my sin ordinary?"

  "Nothing is more ordinary than vanity and lust," Guinglain replied. "But I'll grant that yours were ... badly placed." He extended his right hand and laid it on the kneeling knight's head. "But you've been forgiven, you know. Lift your chin."

  Sir Lancelot raised his eyes and met Guinglain's gaze. Guinglain tried to will strength from his own soul to the knight's. He didn't know if that ever worked, but he didn't think it would hurt. At any rate, after a moment, Sir Lancelot blinked, then stood. "You are an extraordinary holy man," he said at last. "I wish I could spend more time with you."

  Guinglain smiled. "Shall I go with you? It sounds agreeable to me, too. I'm at loose ends just now, since all my neighbors have run away from the White Horsemen."

  "The White Horsemen?"

  "Should arrive tomorrow, I understand."

  "And you're still here?"

  "I didn't have anywhere else to go. Now I do. I'm going on pilgrimage with you. Just a minute while I saddle my mule. You don't mind mules, do you? Clover's not very pretty or very sweet tempered or very comfortable, but I love him."

  They rode north, at first choosing trails through dense forests and swamps so as not to cross paths with the White Horsemen. They passed through stretches of England that had been plundered and left in ruins and other areas that were untouched, in which the inhabitants lived in contented ignorance of the war that surrounded them. On the third day, they came to their second holy man, a rosy-cheeked priest who lived beside a country church far off the main roads. Father Balimbus was bluff and good-humored and welcomed them to his stone cottage. He insisted on showing them his garden and serving them a cup of hot cider before letting them explain the purpose of their visit. Lancelot said, "I am on a pilgrimage, fulfilling a vow."

  "Lovely!" Father Balimbus exclaimed. "A gentleman's word is his bond, what?"

  "What?" asked Lancelot.

  "A gentleman's word is his bond!"

  "No, not that. You said 'what.' What did you mean?"

  "What? Oh, what! It's just what you say, what?"

  "Why?"

  "No, what. What."

  Lancelot hesitated, then let it go. "I have vowed to travel England and confess my sin to every holy man I meet."

  "Right-o," Father Balimbus said. Lancelot looked confused, so Father Balimbus added kindly, "Go on, then."

  Guinglain set down his mug of cider and rose to his feet. "I'll leave you two alone," he said, strolling into the garden. Fifteen minutes later, Lancelot emerged with Father Balimbus on his arm. Lancelot was quiet, but Father Balimbus was telling an involved story about a memorable day of hunting he'd had recently. It was another ten minutes before they could disengage themselves and ride off.

  "How did your confession go?" Guinglain asked.

  Lancelot shook his head. "He said it was a rum thing for me to have done, that I'd acted like a cad."

  "What's a cad?"

  "I don't know. Worse than a sinner, I gather. But then he told me to buck up."

  "To what?"

  "Buck up."

  They rode in silence for a minute. Then Guinglain said, "How does one—?"

  "I don't know. Maybe it's something only Englishmen do. I'm French."

  "Frenchmen don't buck up?"

  "I don't think so. Tell me, Guinglain, what did you think of Father Balimbus?"

  "I thought he was very pleasant and agreeable."

  "But holy?"

  "Who am I to judge someone else's holiness? It's better than being unpleasant and disagreeable, what?"

  Two hours later, they came to another man in clerical garb, a lone traveler in a black monk's robe. Lancelot dismounted when he drew near. "Excuse me, sir, but are you a priest?"

  "Priest, yes! And prophet! And witness of the Last Day! And judge!" His voice was accented in much the same way as Lancelot's. Guinglain smiled. Once, while traveling with Gawain, he had met this man, a hermit in those days. The priest raised his arms and threw back his hood, declaring, "I am the Père d'Arbé! I bear witness to the End of Days! The White Horsemen are here! The seven trumpets have sounded! The springs and rivers will turn to blood and wormwood, and the dragon will soon rise from the abyss!"

  Lancelot looked at the man with frank distaste, but he went on grimly, "Père, je voudrais me confesser."

  The Père d'Arbé kept walking, crying out in English, "It is too late for confession! He who is chosen for life shall live; he who is for the sword is for the sword; he who is for destruction is for destruction! All who have shed the blood of the saints and the prophets shall be given blood to drink! Blood up to their horses' bridles! Just and merciful are thy judgments!" In a minute, he was past them both, continuing to walk and proclaim the end.

  Lancelot remounted, and the two rode without speaking until the voice of the prophet had faded behind them. Guinglain cleared his throat. "Now, he was French, wasn't he?"

  "Yes," Lancelot replied, nodding. "And you know what?"

  "What?"

  "He needs to buck up."

  Over the next weeks, Guinglain and Lancelot met three more holy men, to whom Lancelot confessed. All three offered gracious absolution, although one assigned Lancelot to say a certain number of prayers as punishment. This struck Guinglain as odd, something that would make sense only if one didn't especially care for God, but that evening over the campfire Lancelot did as he had been told and didn't seem to find it unpleasant, so it turned out for the best.

  As they were riding, Guinglain had grown aware that Lancelot was making for a particular destination. At every crossroad and turn, he chose the path without hesitating. So Guinglain was not surprised when one evening Lancelot said, "We should be there tomorrow."

  "I'm glad," Guinglain said. "Where is that?"

  "A gentle hermit I met once," Lancelot said. "I don't remember the name he took when he became a monk, but before then he was a knight named Pedwyr. I almost killed him once, for uncontrolled wrath, but instead I sent him to make confession to the pope in Rome. I intended it as a punishment, but he turned it into something unexpected and became a good man."

  Guinglain nodded. "I told you once, didn't I? To be good is what takes imagination. Unhappy people are all alike; happy people are all happy in their own way."

  The next morning, they rode across a meadow to a dry, rocky plain and came upon a stone house built into t
he side of a small hill. Lancelot reined in his horse and examined the house appreciatively. "Last time I was here, he hadn't finished that room. See how he works? He cuts no stone and uses no mortar. He only keeps trying the stones in different positions until he finds the one that fits perfectly. It has taken him years to build three small rooms, one stone at a time."

  A black-robed old man emerged from the front door. The man smiled but didn't look at them. Indeed, he seemed to be looking at a spot some distance behind them, toward their right. Lancelot glanced over his shoulder to see what the hermit was watching, but Guinglain only said quietly, "We're over here."

  The hermit turned. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

  "Sir Pedwyr?" Lancelot asked.

  "Dear me," the hermit replied, "it's been many years since I heard that name. How do you know me?"

  "How do I know you?" Lancelot repeated, surprised.

  Guinglain dismounted. "How long have you been without sight, friend?"

  "Really just the past few months," the hermit said agreeably. "It was fading already, but it's grown much worse lately."

  "You are blind?" Lancelot said.

  "Not completely," the hermit said. "I still see light and darkness. And who are you, my friends?"

  "My name is Guinglain, a hermit like you, but now traveling with a friend on pilgrimage."

  "And I am Sir Lancelot."

  "Lancelot," the hermit repeated, his smile brightening. "It is good of you to visit."

  "Lancelot?" Guinglain said. "We should care for our mounts and then go inside. Brother? You should be resting, with your feet up."

  "Ah," the hermit said, "you've noticed my swollen legs, haven't you? Yes, it is a nuisance. I will be more comfortable propped up. Come inside when you can." With that, he turned and shuffled back into the house.

  Guinglain and Lancelot rubbed down their animals and gave them fodder from Lancelot's packs, then went inside, where the hermit sat in a low chair, his feet on a stool before him. "Forgive my not rising," he said.