The Legend of the King (20 page)

"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 the 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.

"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.