Lunwyn said, “Oh!” and stepped over at once to their herb garden for bettony. Guillus only laughed.
“How many times must this happen before you learn, brewery-boy? Punishment is quick for those who disobey the Corona.” He made a disdainful salute to them and set off down the road for the King’s house. “Second-punishment is always worse, remember,” he called merrily over his shoulder.
Mauregal had withdrawn the splinter, and was sucking at the wound. Lunwyn gave him bettony to hold against it, and leaned in to murmur, “Don’t reply to him like that, it’s not worth it.”
“I know it isn’t,” he whispered. “I just feel in my heart it’s the right thing to do.”
“Please be careful,” she said softly. “I do want to hear later what you were going to say.” And she brushed her lips against his cheek.
The glow from his sweetheart’s half-kiss only lasted a few minutes. He fumed all the way to the orchard, a good hour’s walk up the valley to the end near the waterfall and its pond. His hand ached in spite of the bettony, all because of the King’s pointless orders-which would surely lead him to further punishment at the Corona’s whim when he got back—and on top of that, would set him back nearly the whole day’s work. Even worse, the fool’s errand interrupted what promised to be the most important talk of his life, and made him appear subservient at the moment he most wished to appear manly and masterful.
The chore at the orchard did nothing to improve his temper. There would be no ripe fruit to satisfy the King’s preposterous fancy, but he would have to inspect every tree nevertheless: to “make sure”, or at any rate to be able to say he had done so when he returned to his inevitable blame, for if the King commanded truth-telling, the Corona would punish any prevarication.
He went up and down the orchard till the sun was high in the sky, picking a few fruits here and there, trying unsuccessfully to get some less green ones. Suddenly he realized someone else was nearby, and left off his muttering—of which he had scarcely been aware—to listen. Peering through the trees, he was amazed to see two men descending the trail that went up and out of the gorge, and thus, presumably, out of the valley and the kingdom of Palavel altogether. (No one Mauregal knew of had ever tried to leave the kingdom, and these two must be the first to have entered it in years.)
The one on foot was about twice Mauregal’s age, with thinning hair and paunchy stomach, wearing clothes far finer than anyone in Palavel, even the king or that insufferable peacock, Guillus; and yet his bearing seemed to mark him the servant of the other. The other man rode a great horse, carried arms, and wore armor.
They had seen him, and the man on foot waved at him. He waved back, and came out of the trees where he could meet them.
Part 2: Visitors from Another World
The knight nodded to his squire, and commanded him, “Introduce us.”
The squire gave a faint roll of his eyes before announcing, “Good stranger, I am Kincarius, squire of Sir Sagredur,” gesturing in the rider’s general direction without looking at him, “Knight of the Table Round. May we inquire ’ow we should call you?”
“Ah—I’m Mauregal. I’m an apprentice to Bodlaut, a brewer.”
“God’s grace be with you, Mauregal,” said Sagredur. “I wonder that you collect damsons so early.”
“Er, yes,” said Mauregal, embarrassed. “Only because our king has commanded that I bring him some.”
“I see,” said the knight gravely. “Plain enough, then. For my part, I am on a mission from my own king, Arthur, who sent me to kill a ferocious boar that has been aggrieving the people of the lands nearby. We tracked the beast into this valley. Can you tell me aught of where I might find it?”
“No, sir. No boar hereabouts that I know of.”
The knight considered this. “Very well. You would certainly know of him if he were near, for he is huge out of all nature, and vicious. We must return to our search, then. Peace be upon you.” The knight made as if to go on.
“But, sir!” Mauregal protested. “Please, our king, Caredan, has commanded very strictly that we bring any strangers in the valley to him, forthwith. Won’t you accompany me to the village, down the river? Please, sir, or it will go very hard for me.”
Sagredur turned back and inclined his head. “No need for your concern, sirrah; if your king commands it, why then we shall present ourselves to him with goodly gree, and afterwards continue on our quest. Pray you, lead the way.”
The knight’s courtly manners were new to Mauregal. He seemed superior, but not haughty, like Guillus. He wasn’t using his position self-indulgently; his formality was his own obedience to a protocol governing even the minute happenings of ordinary life, like meeting a stranger on the way. As if meeting strangers was an everyday occurrence, Mauregal thought.
Having company made the walk back more agreeable. They hadn’t gone a hundred paces before the squire asked him, “A brewer’s apprentice, are you? What might you have in that bottle at your side?”
“Really, Kincarius,” said the knight.
“I mean to pay him, I do,” said the squire. “You see, friend, Sir Sagredur here, ’e’s taken upon ’imself an oath, to drink only well-water till the day he kills this boar. So all we carry with us is water, an’ though I took no oath meself, it’s all I’m a-drinkin’ either.”
“Naturally, since we share all our provisions,” Sagredur frowned.
“There’s no need to pay me,” said Mauregal, taking the bottle’s strap from his shoulder. “It’s just small beer. Help yourself.”
Kincarius accepted it with evident pleasure and tipped his head back. He appeared ready to take a long pull but stopped at a mouthful, savoring it. He knew better than to criticize the local brew where he’d just arrived, but remarked, “That’s—quite good, it is. What do you put in it?”
“Water, malted grain, honey, and lambic,” the youth answered. “And a little mugwort, that adds flavor and helps it stay fresh longer.”
“That must be what I’m a-tasting.” He took another, longer pull at the bottle. “Thanks. It caught me by surprise at first, but I like it.”
“I supposed all the world used mugwort. We use it in all our potations here: beer, mead, cyser, rubamel, pyment, and all.”
Kincarius and Mauregal talked awhile of the beverages the latter had brewed and those the former had sampled on his journeys, which he described with great relish. Sir Sagredur listened in stoic silence, now and then sighing but otherwise keeping whatever thoughts he had to himself.
For his part, Mauregal began to feel how his life confined to the valley had limited his experience of the world. “But how have you been able to visit so many places?” he asked at last. “Do the kings of all these lands allow you to go freely from their kingdoms?”
“They would be unwise to try to hold a knight of King Arthur against his will,” said Sir Sagredur.
“Why,” said Mauregal, “but you couldn’t defy the Corona.”
At this they both looked blank. “What’s this ‘Corona’?” asked the knight.
Mauregal was even more amazed. “The light on the king’s head, of course. Do you call it something else? The light that marks him as the king.”
Sagredur and Kincarius looked at one another. “Could it be like the nimbus ’round a holy saint’s ’ead?” asked the squire.
“Don’t be foolish,” scoffed the knight. “Neither saints nor anyone else have nimbi in actuality, but only in modern art.”
“But, if your king has no Corona, how do you know you must obey him?”
“We obey him because he’s the king,” said Sagredur. “When foes attack he leads us into battle, divides the spoils with his knights, and protects all the common folk. We owe him our loyalty.”
“Sometimes our king protects the kingdom,” said Mauregal. “In my grandfather’s day a group of bandits wandered into the valley, twenty-six of them, and the king commanded them to desist from their plundering.”
“Commanded?” said
Kincarius, grinning. “And did these gentle bandits obey?”
“Not at once, though he ordered them very severely. One of the thieves fell and broke his arm, and one lost seven gold pieces in the lake. Then one accidentally stabbed himself in the throat and died, and another drowned in the river. Three more died other ways.
“All suffered calamities until finally they all obeyed, and settled here and became subjects. One became a miller, the father of the miller, Caredan, who is our king now.
“Say,” he said, not noticing the look Sagredur and Kincarius exchanged at the news their king was born a miller, “I’ve never understood that about the story, why they imagined they could disobey with impunity. But if the kings elsewhere have no Corona, does nothing happen to you if you disobey them?”
Kincarius, round-eyed, shook his head and crossed himself, and the knight asked, “Do such things happen oft when folk disobey your king?”
“Something does, always,” said Mauregal. “The first punishment of a day might be just a barked shin, a stubbed toe…a splinter. But the second-punishment is much harsher: perhaps broken bones, losing valuable property; and if the subject persists in disobedience, it might come to crippling injury or even death. Of course, disobeying a more serious command might jump to a harsher punishment even if it was the first of the day.”
“How did this Caredan get his Corona?” asked Sagredur. “Surely his father, the miller, was not king before him?”
“No,” said the young brewer. “When a king dies, the Corona moves to another man, but it’s not the old king’s son, or his chosen successor, or anything you could predict. Once there were several men who supposed the Corona would pass to the man closest to the king the moment he died, and each strove mightily to be that one—we still tell tales of the treacheries they committed in their strife—but when the time came, the Corona went to someone else.”
“Does it, perchance, choose him who will best rule the kingdom?” asked Sir Sagredur.
Mauregal trudged on. “When I would be about my work, he sent me to fetch him damsons. And it’s the hay-making moon,” was all he said at last.
The three went on in silence, each in his own thoughts. After another quarter mile, Kincarius dug a few coins from his poke and pressed them upon Mauregal in exchange for what was left in the bottle.
As they approached the village, the path widened into a rutted road, went over a wooden bridge across the stream and into the village proper: a few houses leading up to the clearing where they held market days. There were a few stands even today, and then more houses.
“Where dwells the King?” asked Sagredur.
“There,” Mauregal pointed to a house on the other side of the market, near the Goose. It was taller than the other houses, the only one with a sloping slate roof.
“A house?” frowned Kincarius, hoping for a castle. “It doesn’t seem much better than many of the others.”
“Perhaps not much. But no one would build a house better than the King’s, or the King would just take it. Oh, here’s my friend! Hoy, Senne!” He grinned and waved at a skinny, freckled youngster walking their way and gaping at the outlandish strangers.
Senne was the youngest son of one of the farmers who sold barley to Bodlaut. He worked a stand in the market square today. “Hoy, Mauregal! Strangers? You’d better get them to the King, right away!”
“I know it, that’s where we’re bound. Is he at home?”
“No, his litter was going through the market.” Senne shaded his eyes and peered to the far end, and pointed. “There.”
They saw the litter, covered by a kind of tent of linen against the afternoon sun, born by the resigned foursome of Argudanus’s sons. Sagredur, Kincarius and Mauregal made their way there, while Senne followed at a distance he probably imagined was discreet.
They were picking up other curious folk as well, including Ettarona, the herbwife, now carrying a few small loaves in her basket. Her ferret, Vorrex, tensed suddenly on scenting the horse, and dodged around to her farther shoulder.
“Why, it’s Mauregal, and two strangers such as this valley never sees,” she said, and was so bold as to address the knight. “And whence come ye to Palavel, gallant rider?”
Mauregal felt alarmed at the casual imposition on such a formidable figure as Sagredur, and cast a beseeching look at him. But the dignified knight replied respectfully, “I address my steps even now to your king, old woman, to tell him my name, my land, and my business. No doubt he will weigh in his good judgment whether ‘tis meet to share it with all his subjects.”
Mauregal inwardly felt amused to watch Ettarona’s respect for the Corona, which could only approve of the gentle words, fight with her gossippy curiosity. The old woman’s mouth shut with an almost audible click, and she gave a thin-lipped smile to the knight as he rode on. Still, she was part of the loose gathering of onlookers when the little party overtook the King’s sedan chair. The knight dismounted and removed his helmet, holding it under one arm, and Kincarius took the reins to hold the horse.
When Guillus, walking beside the King’s litter, turned to see the approaching hubbub, his eyes widened and he leaned in to whisper to Caredan. The King poked a quizzical face out between the curtains, and Kincarius gasped at his first sight of the Corona. Its brilliance stabbed the eyes like a spotlight. Strangely, it shed no light on Caredan’s surroundings, only on his own features: plump cheeks, pug nose, downturned mouth, squinting eyes. At a barked order from the King, Ganuan, Gautius, Idwallo and Imanor lowered the chair so he could step out.
“What’s all this, then?” he asked testily.
Mauregal swallowed, approached and made an awkward bow. “I was collecting damsons at your command, King Caredan, and met two strangers. I brought them to meet you.”
Sir Sagredur made a dignified inclination of his head, Kincarius a more demonstrative though less graceful show of respect, eyes never leaving the Corona’s awful glare. While they waited for the King to speak, Caredan looked them up and down appraisingly.
“Sooo,” he said, rudely. “What have we here? An armored warrior, like something out of a tale of Belinus and Brennius?”
“I am Sagredur, Knight of King Arthur,” said that worthy, frowning. “This is my squire, Kincarius. We are passing through your kingdom on a mission—”
But the King interrupted with a churlish guffaw. “Passing through, are you? Let’s get the General Orders out of the way right now. Listen up, both of you,” and his face became grimly serious: “You will never harm the King. You will never leave this valley. If you meet any stranger in this valley, you will bring him to the King at once. Got that?” The King turned away as Sagredur’s face began to darken with ire. “You’re subjects of King Caredan now. You,” he gestured at Kincarius “take that horse around to my house, it’s a fine animal. We’ll fill you in more later. Now, Mauregal, what about those damsons?”
The boy stepped forward, unhappily aware of the little crowd around them, and held forth his basket. “These are the best I could find, so early in the season.”
Caredan curled his lip into a sneer as he poked his finger through the basket, and then shook his head with a contemptuous laugh. “These are hard as rocks! Here,” he said, holding one to Mauregal, “you eat this.”
Shamefaced, Mauregal took the damson and bit into it, the King laughing merrily as he crunched the sour fruit. Some of the villagers chuckled nervously, but Sagredur glowered, and Kincarius looked on anxiously.
Then the King punched up at the bottom of the basket, knocking all the fruit onto the ground. “Look, you dropped them! Pick them all up, quick, now!” And he laughed as Mauregal, helpless, began gathering up the fallen damsons.
“Find one good fruit and give it me,” said the King maliciously. “If I eat it, you’re forgiven for everything, but if I don’t, you’re to eat it and all the rest of them. And the basket too!”
“This is unseemly!” exclaimed Sagredur, which made many bystanders gasp and everyone sud
denly turn quiet.
But then, Kincarius suddenly cried out, “OWWW!” and everyone turned to him. He was hopping on one foot, holding the other. He nodded at the horse, “Stepped on my foot, ’e did!”
Sagredur was amazed. “Be more careful, man!”
The King exclaimed, “And why are you still here? I told you to take the horse to my house!”
“He is still here because he answers to my orders, not to yours,” said the knight furiously, bringing groans from those nearby. But he went on unheeding, “And the horse is mine, and I require it for my mission, because of which I am passing through your kingdom, if indeed it is a kingdom, and if you are indeed its king. For my part, I’ve never met a man less kingly in my life, and were it not that Arthur, a true King, has commanded me to respect those counted as royalty in all the lands we visit, I would be inclined to lay the flat of my sword on your back, seven or eight times. King!”
Mauregal looked up from his damson-hunt for a moment in frank admiration. But Ettarona’s hand had flown to her mouth at the disrespect, and many in the crowd shook their heads, waiting for the Corona’s inevitable reprisal.
The King was amazed. “Are you mad? Telling your man to disobey me? Small wonder his foot got mashed a bit!” He turned to Kincarius and said, “Stay here, then! You don’t need to go to second-punishment on this one’s account,” then back to Sagredur, “You take the animal to my house! Don’t you see this Corona about my head?”
“I see nothing about your head but hair, and not much of that. Do the folk here call the gleaming of the sun on your scalp a Corona? For if that’s all they mean, you can see I’ve as much a one as you, and as good a claim to be king here.” He shook his head and chuckled.
“B-but, sir,” said Kincarius. The Corona still gleamed brightly about the King’s head.
“What, don’t tell me you’re as daft as the rest here?” said Sagredur.
“Oh, I wish I had something stronger than well water about now,” muttered the squire. Guillus, nearby, raised his eyebrow.
Tales of the Once and Future King Page 25