The Legend of the King

"But of course, Sir Pedwyr," Lancelot replied.

  "Please, I have not been Pedwyr for so long that it sounds as if you're speaking to a stranger. Call me Constans."

  "Brother Constans," Lancelot said. "That's it. I had forgotten your new name, you see. Brother Constans, I have ridden for many days to find you."

  "Have you come to stay?"

  Lancelot said softly, "No. I'm sorry. I've come to tell you that I cannot."

  Brother Constans said nothing, and after a moment Lancelot continued, "And to confess to you my sins."

  "I am not a priest, you know," Brother Constans said. "Only a monk."

  "I don't care. I wish to confess to you. You see, I've taken a vow. I am to travel England, confessing my sin to every holy man I meet, then leave England forever."

  "Leave England forever?" Brother Constans said, his brows lifting.

  "I am afraid so."

  Guinglain sensed that there was more meaning in this exchange than the words themselves conveyed, but it was a message between the knight and the hermit and did not involve him, so he said nothing. After a moment of silence, Lancelot turned to him. "My friend Guinglain, do you see that door behind you?"

  Guinglain nodded.

  "It leads into a cavern at the center of the hill. You always excuse yourself when I am confessing. Perhaps you could wait in that place. Take a light with you."

  Guinglain rose and said, "If you like." He found a lamp and lit it from the small fire that burned on the hearth, then walked to the heavy oaken door, opened it, and went in. Even with the small lamp, it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust to the utter blackness within. When they did, though, he saw that the stone walls were intricately carved with the words and letters of a language he didn't recognize. At the far end of the circular room was a low stone structure, roughly the size of a bed. Guinglain had seen ornate graves before and recognized this as a tomb. He walked across to the stone and read the inscription: "Here lies Sir Lancelot du Lac, of King Arthur's fellowship, the sternest knight ever to lay aside his weapons, the kindest knight ever to take them up. Laid here by one to whom he gave life."

  Guinglain was still looking at the tomb when the door opened and Lancelot joined him. "You see why I wanted to come here. I knew that Brother Constans had built this place to honor me, and I wanted him to know that I could never be laid in it because of my vow to leave England."

  Guinglain nodded. "Are you finished?"

  "Yes," Lancelot replied. "Brother Constans is as uninterested in hearing the details of my sin as you were."

  "You aren't offended, are you?" Guinglain asked. "We don't mean any disrespect."

  "I'm not offended," Lancelot said with a wry grin. Then his face grew somber. "But I am finished. Now I will start for France."

  "All right. Which port?"

  "Plymouth," Lancelot said. "I would like to ride by Camelot one more time and bid adieu to the queen. Arthur sent her there for protection as he prepared for war."

  They rode southwest, toward Camelot, making good time and stopping only to eat, sleep, and—when they encountered hermit, monk, or priest—confess. Three days after leaving Brother Constans, they came to their last hermitage, but this time there would be no confession.

  Their first sign that something was horribly wrong was the cloud of carrion birds that circled a thick area of forest. Lancelot looked grim and said, "There is death there. A battlefield perhaps."

  "There may be life as well," Guinglain said. "Come."

  He kicked Clover into as much of a trot as the old mule would agree to and headed into the forest. Before they had gone a league, they came upon the first bodies. This had been no battle. The bodies were of women, children, and old men. None were armed. All wore the rough clothes of the peasantry, and all were dead. Guinglain and Lancelot slowed, picking their way among the corpses. There were dozens of them, and they had been dead at least a day, perhaps two. They found no knights or men with weapons—only farmers and villagers. Then they rode out from the trees into a large clearing with a stone cross at its center, bounded by the blackened foundations of four log cabins. Dead bodies lay strewn over half of the clearing; the other half looked as if it had been plowed for planting, with freshly turned earth.

  "Get off your beasts," came a voice from the woods behind them. "And take off your shoes. This is holy ground."

  They turned quickly to see a middle-aged man emerge from the forest carrying a shovel. He wore a rough cowl that was much too big for him, and both man and garment were covered with mud and clay.

  "What happened here?" Lancelot asked.

  "The White Horsemen. This was a sanctuary. All these had come here to hide from the war. They were no harm to no one. But the White Horsemen cut them down anyway. They run off into the trees, but they chased them down and left them dead where they found them."

  "And you're burying them."

  "Ay, where they fell."

  "What's your name?"

  "Adelbert," the man said. "Once I've buried them, I'll start building again. I'll be the new hermit here."

  "You were not a hermit before?"

  "Nay, the old hermit was Godwulf. I buried him first, over by the far cabin where he used to brew ale. He'd like that, I reckon."

  "I have heard of this Godwulf," Lancelot said softly. "He was a good man, they say."

  Adelbert's face twisted, but no tears came. Guinglain supposed that his tears had been used up long before. "Ay," Adelbert managed to gasp. "More than he ever knew. One day he put a soup ladle in my hand and gave me life."

  "Do you have another shovel, Brother Adelbert?" Lancelot asked.

  "Nay," the man said. "It's my task. Go with God, my children."

  Camelot was no more. Guinglain and Lancelot sat on their mounts at the edge of the forest and stared, speechless, at the mound of rubble that covered the hill where Arthur's court had once been. A few houses still stood in the town that had surrounded the walled castle, but the castle itself—walls, battlements, towers, stables, keep—had been pulled apart, stone by stone. Guinglain thought about Brother Constans meticulously taking years to build a tiny stone cottage; destruction happened so much more quickly.

  For several minutes there were no words. Then Lancelot whispered, "Why?"

  He didn't have to say more. The single word encompassed all the senselessness of Mordred's campaign. Had Mordred truly been seeking power, he would have left the great castle alone, to be his own fortress and the center of his own court. But just as the massacre at Godwulf's hermitage had been murder for its own sake, this was destruction for its own sake.

  "Mordred didn't attack Arthur at Joyous Garde," Lancelot said after several more minutes. "Terence brought word that he was on the march, but he didn't go to Arthur after all. He came here. And the queen was here. And all the families."

  "Where would those people go?" Guinglain asked.

  "The abbey," Lancelot said quickly. "Glastonbury Abbey. Dieu, let them have left the abbey alone." He spurred his horse and rode past Camelot, over the hill. Guinglain followed as quickly as Clover allowed, and at the crest of the hill he saw the stone structure of the abbey in the distance. It looked intact. Evidently the White Horsemen had not taken the time to destroy it along with the castle. He trotted down the hill and along the trail until he came to the abbey gate, where Lancelot was on his knees before an old priest. The priest looked up.

  "Hello, who's this?" he asked. "Is he with you, Lancelot?"

  "Yes, this is Brother Guinglain, a hermit who has been riding with me on the pilgrimage you sent me on."

  "This is the one who sent you off to make confession?" Guinglain asked.

  Lancelot stood. "Yes, this is Nacien, Archbishop of Canterbury." Then he added bitterly, "I don't know what he's doing here, though."

  "Praying, mostly," Archbishop Nacien said. "Sometimes we need fewer bishops and more people who pray." He cocked his head slightly. "In fact, that's probably always true."

  "Have you seen what they'
ve done?" Lancelot demanded.

  "Do you think me blind, child?"

  "Where are the queen and the ladies of the court?"

  "The monks say that many ladies were taken prisoner. I do not know which ladies were among them."

  Lancelot glared furiously at the old prelate. "And with such deeds happening, you've made me vow to leave England forever!"

  "Did I say forever?" Archbishop Nacien asked quietly.

  "Eh?"

  "I chose my words carefully when I sent you on this pilgrimage, and I remember very clearly that I did not say forever. I said you must leave England. That was all."

  Lancelot's face was blank for a long moment. Then, as if speaking to himself, he said, "Arthur has loyal vassals in Brittany, and I have knights in Benouic."

  "The last messenger who came to me," said Archbishop Nacien, "said that Arthur was marching east, toward Dover."

  Lancelot looked quickly at Guinglain. "I must leave you now, my friend. I have to travel quickly." With that he leaped on his horse and galloped away.

  Guinglain watched him disappear, then turned back to the old man of prayer. "You said that Dover is east?"

  11. Barham Down

  Terence

  Despite his weariness, Terence made one more tour of the camp's perimeter before going to bed. Two of the sentries were dozing. Terence sympathized but shook them awake anyway. Mordred's raiding parties were swift and numerous, and the king's troops couldn't let down their guard for a second. Done with his circuit, Terence trudged back toward the center of the camp.

  It had been over a month since Gawain and Lancelot had met in single combat, weeks spent in near constant warfare with the White Horsemen—not in pitched battle, strength against strength, but rather in daily skirmishing. Although the early scouting reports indicated that Mordred's army was much larger than Arthur's, Mordred had avoided direct battle. Dividing his forces into smaller units, he sent them on lightning raids, trying to kill Arthur's men one by one rather than in a decisive battle.

  "I wish I knew what he was getting at," Kai had grumbled after two weeks of this. "Why won't he use his superior forces?"

  "Because he knows they aren't superior," Arthur had replied calmly.

  "You don't think he has as many men as reported?"

  "Oh, I don't doubt the numbers," said Arthur. "But as an army they would lose a pitched battle with us." Kai frowned, and the others looked confused. Arthur explained, "Who does he have in his army? Pillagers, brigands, recreants, ambitious lords who hope to gain lands and titles. All men who joined Mordred for their own benefit. What do you think such fighters will do if their own lives are in danger?"

  "Run," said Terence, nodding with comprehension. "Run fast."

  "And my army?"

  "We stand pat," Gawain said. "To the end."

  "You think Mordred doesn't know that? In direct combat, each of my men is worth two of his. So, he's adopted a brilliant strategy. Wear us down bit by bit and wait for us to make a mistake. It's the mark of a good general to know his own troops' weakness, and Mordred is nothing if not a good general."

  "So what we need to do," Kai said slowly, "is provoke a full-scale battle."

  "It's what I've been trying for," Arthur said. "But we need to choose the ground, an open place with solid footing, with some kind of barrier at our back so we don't have to fight on all sides. But recently I've started worrying about something else. The scouts haven't been able to find his main forces for a long time."

  "You think he's drawn them back to avoid the scouts?" asked Ywain.

  "I hope that's all it is," replied Arthur. "But I can't help wondering what his main army's been up to while we've been maneuvering about swatting at gnats."

  Now, nearly a month after that conversation, Arthur's scouts still had no idea where the bulk of Mordred's army had gone. The king had found the spot he wanted, not far from Dover, where there was a palisade, a beach, and the sea at their back. From that position, the king's forces had waited and continued fighting off skirmishers. Until the day before, these raids had been little more than an annoyance, but yesterday the good knight Bors had been caught alone by one of these bands and killed. Now, as Terence came to Arthur's command center, he stopped for a moment and watched Bors's brother Lionel sitting alone, staring bleakly into a small fire. No two brothers had ever been more different than Bors and Lionel, or had ever depended so heavily on each other. Bors had been the moralist, Lionel the lighthearted care-for-nothing, but now all his brother's gravity had descended on Lionel, bowing his shoulders and crushing his spirits. Terence walked past Lionel, who didn't seem to notice, and entered Arthur's tent.

  "All quiet for now," Terence said.

  Arthur nodded. "Get some sleep."

  "You first," Terence replied.

  Arthur smiled faintly. "Insubordinate puppy," he said. "Who gave you the right to command your king?"

  "That isn't one of the rights of knighthood?" Terence asked. "I'm new at this, you see. But I still won't go to sleep until you do."

  Arthur nodded and turned back to his cot. "Bullied, that's what I am," he muttered. "But you're right."

  Arthur was just climbing under the covers when Lionel stepped into the tent. "Your Highness?" he said quickly. "Envoys. From Mordred."

  Arthur stood up at once, muttering, "At this hour?" Then he looked up at Lionel. "Get Kai and Gawain and anyone else you can wake. Terence, help me dress."

  Terence busied himself arraying the king in garb suitable for a state visit. Then they stepped out of the tent into the firelight. Gawain and Kai were already there, and others were approaching from the darkness. Terence turned to the envoy; it was Sir Mador de la Porte.

  "Sir Mador," Arthur said.

  "Arthur," Sir Mador replied. Since he had never been a part of the king's inner circle, the use of Arthur's given name without his title was an obvious, calculated insult.

  Arthur ignored it. "I gather you come from my son?"

  "From King Mordred, yes."

  Again, Arthur let the challenge pass. "And what does Mordred wish to say to me?"

  "Two things," Mador replied. "First, he offers to accept your surrender."

  "That's good-natured of him," the king replied gravely, "but I haven't offered it."

  Mador nodded. Everyone knew this first request had been mere posturing, anyway. "As you wish. King Mordred also wished to return to you some property that he believes is yours."

  "Indeed?"

  Two porters approached from behind Mador, carrying a wooden box. They set it down before Mador, who opened the lid. For a moment no one moved, staring uncomprehendingly at the mangled bits of debris in the box. Then Arthur stepped forward and drew a broken piece of wood from the pile. It was smooth and intricately carved and charred on one end. All who were near enough to see it stood frozen.

  "What is it?" asked someone from the back.

  "It's a table leg," Arthur said. "From the Round Table. So that's where Mordred's army has been."

  Mador smiled. "I told the king you'd recognize it. I think that bit you're holding is the largest piece left."

  "And Camelot?" asked King Arthur. His voice was raspy.

  "We didn't bring any of those bits to show you, I'm afraid," Mador said apologetically. "Even torn apart and broken in pieces, the stones were too heavy to carry."

  "And what of the people who were at the castle?"

  "The soldiers and guards who resisted King Mordred's rule were, naturally, executed as traitors. As for the ladies and servants, I really couldn't say. Some of them, regrettably, were killed. A pity, that. I suppose some might have escaped; we didn't count. The rest are safely with Mordred and his troops." Mador smiled blandly.

  There was a sick silence in the camp. Terence stared at the splintered wood but saw only the face of his wife Eileen, who was one of Guinevere's ladies. His heart tightened, and he had to force himself to breathe. Even among the men who didn't have wives or families at Camelot, the loss of Arthur's mag
nificent capital was stunning.

  "And Queen Guinevere?" said Arthur.

  Mador reached into the box, fished around for a moment, then pulled out a torn bundle of embroidered silk. Even Terence, who seldom noticed clothing, recognized it as one of the queen's state gowns. "She's alive," Mador said reassuringly. "Indeed, King Mordred wishes to keep her so. For all her years, she's rather an attractive woman, and he's taken a fancy to her." He smiled even more broadly. "Mind you, I don't know whether he's decided to keep her as a wife or as a mistress. She has experience both ways, after all."

  Arthur's right hand twitched, and for a moment Terence thought he would draw Excalibur and strike Mador down on the spot. Mador took a quick step backwards, but Arthur's hand relaxed.

  Mador continued, no longer smiling. "So you see, your castle has been destroyed. Your precious table is in splinters. Your queen belongs to another. Your time is over, old man. Once again, I tell you that the true king is willing to accept your surrender. He will be waiting for your decision at two hours after sunrise just over that row of hills due west of here." With that, Mador turned abruptly and walked away, followed by his escort. Arthur and his knights stood in silence until the sound of the party's horses had died away in the distance.

  "Why didn't you kill him?" demanded Kai.

  "He was an ambassador," Arthur replied dully.

  "An ambassador from vermin, without honor!"

  "My own honor is not determined by that of my enemy," said Arthur. "Kai, get the men ready for battle. Terence, follow Mador, unseen, and see if he's telling the truth about where Mordred is. As soon as you're back, we march. And Kai, keep the preparations quiet and keep our fires burning. Let anyone watching us think we're staying here until morning."

  Immediately, the crowd dispersed to begin their furtive preparations for night battle. Terence grabbed his knife and slipped off into the night, following Mador at a run. The sky was overcast, and the darkness was nearly absolute, but Terence ran at full speed anyway, avoiding loose stones and treacherous ground by an instinct that he couldn't explain but that he had learned to trust. He had complete faith in his ability to avoid tripping, even in the darkest night, so it surprised him far more than it hurt him when he sprawled face first on the ground.