"Mayhap," the young knight said, looking uncomfortable. "Though 'tis hard to believe a piece of paper can be worth all that gold. There was enough coin in these bags to buy an indulgence from the Pope himself."
"But a check's just like real money. Trust me on this."
"Oh, I've no say in the matter. But when Launcelot hears of this trade... Well, begging your pardon, but I hope you're better at selling gold than you are at riding."
Hal laughed. "I hope so… Oh, God, riding!" He pulled up short, and his stallion reared up. Hal was slipping precariously of the saddle when Bedwyr finally calmed the animal down. "We've got to get rid of the horses," he said.
Bedwyr chuckled. "You'll get the hang of it soon enough. It's practice with the hands you need, that's all. Now, when—"
"No, I'm serious. We can't keep the horses."
Bedwyr shook his head. “Well, then how do you propose we travel once we get to York, on foot?"
"New York, I keep telling you! And I don't know how we'll get around. But it can't be on horseback. There's a law or something."
"A law against horses! Do you take me for a fool? I suppose there be a law against swords in this godforsaken swamp of yours as well."
"As a matter of fact..."
Bedwyr rode off without him.
"A scrap of paper!" Kay boomed when Hal got back to camp. "Aye, young Bedwyr's told us, so there's no point in denying it."
"And about the horses, too," the young man named Agravaine said, sharpening his hook.
Kay slapped him across the back of his head. "I'll handle this." He gave Agravaine an evil glance, and the young man walked away.
"No, I will." Launcelot walked forward and beckoned Hal toward a cluster of trees out of earshot of the others. When they were alone, the knight's sad eyes searched Hal's. "We want to be of help to you," he said softly. "But you'll have to explain yourself to me. You can start with the coin."
Hal sighed. "Okay. I traded the coins for modern currency. This," he said, showing Launcelot the check. "I can take this to a bank—sort of a counting house, I suppose you'd call it. And the bank will give me ten thousand pounds for it."
"Ten thousand pounds of gold?" The knight looked incredulous. "Even the King's own treasure house does not contain that much."
"It's not the same kind of pounds," Hal said. "But it's still a lot of money, and it's waiting for us." He saw that his explanation wasn't reaching Launcelot. "Because that money has already been placed in the bank by the guys who gave me this piece of paper."
"Were these noble and honorable men?"
"They seemed all right," Hal said. "Actually, they were the twins who came into the pub this morning."
Launcelot stepped back a pace. "The ones who attempted to raise an army against us?"
"Well, they were going to call the police, but they changed their minds after seeing the coins."
"No doubt they did!" The knight wiped his hand across his face. "Galahad, I fear your purity of heart has blinded you to the ways of men."
"No, you don't understand," Hal explained. "It was business, that's all. People don't have to like each other to do business. It's just like buying a pig."
"I would not buy a pig from a man who wished to have me imprisoned."
"The point is, if he stole your money you could have him imprisoned. There are laws that take care of people doing business."
"And the keeper of the counting house? Is he also ignoble and dishonorable?"
"I'm telling you, it doesn't matter. The money's all kept track of through compu—machines that count. Anytime we want to take it out, we can. Please trust me on this, Launcelot. I know what I'm doing."
The knight took a deep breath. "I'll have to take you at your word, since what's done is done. But the horses—"
"We've got to sell them," Hal said. "We can't take them where we're going."
"Then how shall we move about?"
"In taxis, I guess. Cars. Machines with wheels that can move faster than any horse."
The knight blinked. "You ride on a machine. A machine counts your coin. A strange and frightening land, indeed."
Hal felt his uncertainty. "That it is," he said quietly. "Frightening." He looked away. "Hell, I shouldn't even be taking you. It's a different world now, filled with problems you guys have never dreamed of. But I don't know what else to do. I've got to get to Arthur..."
"Have your machines not yet driven the wicked from the earth?" Launcelot asked.
"No," Hal said, smiling. "Not by a long shot."
"Then we shall come with you." The knight touched Hal's shoulder. "This time you will not be made to face this strange new world alone."
Launcelot ordered that the horses be sold, and sent Curoi MacDaire to locate a farm where they might be of use. Meanwhile, Hal took a pouting Bedwyr back into town to see about renting a truck to transport them all to London.
"Does the machine resemble a horse, at least?" he asked despairingly.
"Not really, it's got... well, there's one." He pointed to a car coming toward them down the road.
"I've seen them!" Bedwyr shouted. "Bloody little moving houses. A man wouldn't so much as feel the wind on his face in one of those." He scowled. "And the smell! A great smoky farting thing."
"We're here," Hal said when they approached the E-Z Trail Discount Truck & RV rental agency. Bedwyr was looking with disdain at the small wagons that dotted the front of the establishment, as well as the automobiles of its employees. It was, Hal realized, the hurt pride of a young man who had lost a hard-won position of honor. Bedwyr had been Master of Horse for the Round Table. Now he was nothing more than a common foot soldier.
"I don't suppose you'd like to look at one up close," he said.
Bedwyr turned his back.
After arranging for the rental, Hal drove the truck around front and swung the passenger door open. “Get in."
Bedwyr blinked at the truck. "'Tis of greater girth than the others," he said, unable to conceal the admiration in his voice as he stepped up into the cabin.
"It's a big mother, all right." Hal let out the clutch and they rolled into traffic.
"Zounds! We are moving more swiftly than the very wind!" Bedwyr clutched the dashboard.
Hal laughed. "Just wait," he said, downshifting as he veered onto the open road. "Turn that crank. It'll open the window."
Bedwyr leaned into the rushing wind, whooping in exultation. "This machine is faster than even Launcelot's stallion!" he screamed, flinging his arms over his head.
"It's faster than six hundred horses pulling at the same time."
The young man pulled his head back into the cab, his hair wild, a red glow in his cheeks. "Six hundred horses! And as gentle a ride as a baby's cradle."
Hal turned on the air-conditioning. "You're going to love this," he said.
Bedwyr was awestruck by the suddenly cool breeze. "It changes the weather, too."
Hal turned on the radio. They were blasted with a chorus of Steppenwolf singing "Born to be Wild." Bedwyr gasped, shrinking back into his seat and staring at the glowing numbers on the dial.
"Sorry," Hal said. He turned down the volume and switched on a station playing sedate chamber music.
"No." Bedwyr pushed Hal's fingers aside and adjusted the dial back to "Born to be Wild." "It is warrior music," he said reverently, closing his eyes and shaking his head to the beat.
Hal smiled as he turned onto a country lane with a vista clear of traffic. "Want to drive?"
Bedwyr looked at him in amazement. "I?" he asked quietly. "You would permit me this?"
"You're Master of Horse, aren't you?"
"I…" His lip trembled. "Aye, Galahad. That I am."
Hal stopped the vehicle. "Just do what I tell you. And call me Hal."
They screeched to a halt a half hour later to the strains of Aerosmith exhorting the battalion to "Dream On."
"What wonder is this?" Fairhands asked as Bedwyr leaped out the driver's side with a swing of hi
s blond hair.
"This is our new transport," he said, opening the hood with a flourish. "It has the power of six hundred horses."
Fairhands touched the engine, then withdrew his hand with a yelp. "Tis fiercely hot," he said.
"The inner place of it is for the Master of Horse alone," Bedwyr said loftily. "And for Sir Galahad, of course," he demurred. "Hal," he added with a smile.
Chapter Fourteen
By nightfall the entire clanging, cursing company reached London. They tumbled out the back of the E-Z Trail, stiff from squatting in the cargo area throughout the jostling ride.
"Power of a hundred horses. Pah!" Dry Lips spat, hobbling over to Hal. "'Twas like riding in a barrel."
"Find us an alehouse, Galahad, and be quick about it!" Hal groaned as one of the men pointed enthusiastically to a sign bearing the picture of a coat of arms.
"Hey, come back, all of you!" he shouted as the knights stampeded past him and darted into the street to the accompaniment of blaring horns and cursing drivers.
"It's no use stopping them," Curoi MacDaire said with a grin. He looked around. "So this is Londinium. It looks a sight more habitable than it did."
"You've been here before?" Hal asked.
"Aye. Many a time, and I've got the scars from cutthroats to prove it."
"That bad, huh?"
"All the cities left by the Romans turned into cesspools, so they did. Nothing but thieves and murderers in them." MacDaire cocked his head. "Good for a spot of fun, though, if you knew where to look."
Hal laughed. "Go on into the pub," he said. "Have the Companions wait for me there. Oh. Here's some money." He handed the Irishman a fistful of notes. "If the bill comes to more than that, I'll pay the balance when I get back."
"Saying your good-byes to a ladyfriend?" MacDaire gave Hal a lewd wink.
"No such luck, I'm afraid. I've got to find a way to get passports for all you guys."
"Passports?"
"Documents that allow people to travel to other countries."
"Letters of safe conduct." MacDaire nodded sagely. "But you haven't got the King to sign them. That's the problem."
"What? Oh. Yeah. Something like that." Plus the fact that none of these jokers actually exists, Hal thought glumly. The British passport office was going to love that.
The hood of the truck popped open. In front of it, Bedwyr stood with the owner's manual in his hands, comparing the engine with a diagram at the front of the book. "What is the purpose of sparkplugs?" he demanded.
Hal closed the hood. "Take him with you," he told MacDaire.
"Passports?" Antonia repeated. "For eleven men?"
"Eleven men with no proof of citizenship in any country," her husband Franco said, chuckling.
"I thought there might be a problem with that." Hal turned back to Antonia. "So I wanted to know what you did at the passport office when people came in without proper documentation. People who don't legally exist." "Ah, yes," Antonia said. "There are many from my village who can boast neither a driver's license nor a birth certificate. They have lived in the old way."
"That's exactly the case. How would people like that get passports?"
Antonia shook her head. "They would not," she said softly. "Unfortunately, all governments are quite insistent on correct documentation. In my office, we have even had to turn away grandmothers who wished to visit distant relatives because they could not produce any papers. It is quite sad."
"Are these eleven men ancient ones also, my friend?" Franco asked.
Hal cleared his throat. "Well, they're older than they look. That is, they're in good shape. For how old they are," Hal fumbled. "They're athletes."
"A team of some sort?" Franco asked.
"A team? Oh, right." Hal brightened.
"What is their sport?"
Hal's face went blank. "Er..." His eyes fastened on a photograph on the wall showing the hills of central Portugal. "Skiing. They're a ski team. I'm training them for the Olympics."
"How wonderful, Hal!" Antonia's face broke into a warm smile. "I had thought you to be a lonely man with no connections."
"Well, this… came up suddenly."
"Skiing," Franco mused. "An odd sport for the English. Their country has no mountains."
Hal coughed. "That's why I have to get them to the United States. To practice."
"Ah." Antonia frowned. "And not one of them has ever worked, or voted, or been in military service?"
"Nope." Hal said, rising. "They just ski." It was clear that this was not working. "Well, thanks for your time. I've got to get going."
"I am sorry we could not be of more help to you," Antonia said.
"Please," Franco said, pressing his business card into Hal's palm. "Come to my store. Select a jogging suit. I will not rest until we can repay our debt to you."
"Sure. Thanks," Hal said.
At the pub, the knights had taken over the bar, shouting noisily and throwing back pints of Guinness as fast as the barman could serve them.
"That's him," Dry Lips shouted, wiping a foam moustache off his mouth. The barman moved toward Hal, crooking his finger at him sternly.
"Beg your pardon, sir, but these men say you'll be paying for their drink. I should tell you there's been quite a bit of it."
Hal looked around. "Where's MacDaire?" he demanded.
Bedwyr wiped the foam off his mouth. "He told me to come in on my own. Said he had business to attend to."
"What the hell kind of business would he have in London?"
Bedwyr shrugged.
"Another tankard this way, if you please!" Dry Lips shouted, thumping his glass on the bar.
The barman narrowed his eyes. "I gave one of the guys the money to pay the tab," Hal said. The barman set his jaw. "Oh, forget it." Hal doled out a hundred pounds. "Will that cover it?"
"For the moment," the barman said. "What'll you have?"
"A gun. To shoot myself."
"Beg your pardon?"
"Nothing. I don't want anything." He turned around and leaned backward against the bar. He had no idea where to begin looking for MacDaire. Like the rest of the knights, the Irishman was as innocent of the world as a newborn baby, and a lot more likely to get into trouble.
"I'll be back," he told the barman, laying out another hundred pounds as a deposit on the next hour's refreshments. He had almost reached the door when MacDaire walked in.
"Hail, brother!" he called out heartily, slapping Hal on the back. "I'll wager you'll be glad to see me."
"Where in hell have you been?"
"Why, I was off being of service to you, methinks." He smiled slyly. "Were you able to get our letters of safe conduct?"
"That's nothing you have to be concerned with."
"Well, did you?"
"No," Hal said miserably.
"Then my time wasn't wasted." He reached into his tunic and extracted a brown envelope. "Fine paper they make here," he said, rubbing his fingers along the flap. Then he opened it. Inside were a pile of British passports. "Fine work, wouldn't you say?"
"What?" Hal blinked once, then closed the flap quickly. "How did you get these?" he whispered.
MacDaire chortled. "We're in Londinium, lad! The place may have changed summat, but there's still no shortage of rotters who'll supply a man with whatever he wants for a price."
Hal flipped through the pages of one of the passports. They were blank. "These are illegal," he hissed. "We could be put in jail for just having these, let alone using them."
"Then again, we might get away with it." MacDaire winked.
"Oh, brother." Hal pictured all twelve of them with numbers across their chests.
"We've got to find the King," MacDaire reminded him softly. "That's what this is all about, isn't it?" The Irishman put his arm around Hal. "Galahad, me boy, you're a good fellow. I know you were picked by no less than the ancient gods themselves to find the Grail because of your pure heart. But when your path takes you smack in the middle of a tree, you can
take the time to cut it down, or you can just go around it. Which do you think will take you where you've got to go faster?"
Hal looked at him, thinking.
"Aye," MacDaire said softly. "And methinks the old gods wouldn't mind, either. After all, it was them put the tree in your way in the first place, to see if you can think on your feet."
He patted Hal's back. "By the way, the swine that sold these to me wants more gelt. Says he'll fill in the missing parts as soon as we bring him pictures and five thousand pounds. 'Five thousand,' says I, 'why, ye must be a thief!' And he laughs. Wouldn't come down in price, though. So I figures we'll take Lugh along to persuade the gentleman to be more reasonable."
"No... no, we'll pay him." Hal peered again at the illegal passports. "I just hope your gods keep us ahead of the cops."
Three days later, outfitted by Antonia's husband, Franco, who received a whopping commission for selling most of the merchandise in his store, the unofficial Ski Team of Great Britain boarded a British Airways jet en route to New York.
Chapter Fifteen
Taliesin and his two wards spent nearly two weeks in the hold of the cargo ship where they had gone to seek refuge from the killer on the docks in Tangier.
The life of stowaways was not the hardship they had expected, since the old man quickly found a way onto the poopdeck, and Arthur and Beatrice both turned out to be excellent burglars. Within a few days they had all the blankets they needed, more food than they could eat and, since the discovery of a box of candles in the ship's galley, did not have to live in total darkness.
"I've got you now," Beatrice said, moving a chess piece made out of candle wax on a board drawn with charcoal on the floor.
"Are you sure you want to move your queen there?" Arthur asked.
"Oh, is that the queen? I thought it was the bishop's pawn." She picked up the piece and examined it in the candlelight. It melted in her fingers. "Oh, dear, I've killed her," she said, giggling.
Arthur smiled. "That's okay. She was a drip, anyway."
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