The King locked eyes with the knight. “I told you, take that horse to my house. Immediately!”
“I won’t,” replied Sagredur.
They stared at each other for a minute or more, and their audience grew restive waiting to see what the Corona would do. “Nothing’s happening,” one of the peasants said uncertainly in a loud whisper. The King angrily scanned the crowd, trying to see who it was, then turned red-faced back to Sagredur.
“Kiss my foot!” he screamed, holding his foot forward.
The knight only laughed, and said, “Come, Kincarius. We’ve shown this miller all the courtesy our King could require of us.”
He turned away and, using both hands, raised his helmet to put it on. His eyes were covered for a moment, and Caredan, seeing his chance, rushed up behind him and managed to wrest away his sword before the knight understood he was being accosted.
The King brandished Sagredur’s own sword at him unsteadily, for it was quite heavy. “Well, then, this is your reprisal,” he shouted, and with difficulty swung it around to try to strike off the knight’s head.
But Mauregal, still bent down looking for the fallen damsons, cried out, “Nooo!” and hardly thinking what he was doing, flung one hard at the King.
All that was in Mauregal’s mind was to stop the King before he could kill Sagredur, and if he had put his plan into words, he would have said he wanted to hit Caredan on the forehead in the forlorn hope of knocking him unconscious. This obviously meant disobeying the first of the General Orders, but the boy was acting impulsively and not thinking of the consequences.
But in spite of Mauregal’s excellence at throwing games, honed by years of practice with friends at the sign of the Goose, the unripe projectile veered lower than he intended. It flew into Caredan’s mouth, which had dropped open in surprise at hearing resistance from one of his own people, and proceeded thence down the throat.
And there it lodged itself firmly into the royal trachea.
Caredan dropped the sword, having inflicted no harm with it, and clutched at his throat, but could make no sound. Guillus and the others moved closer as he fell to the ground, supine, but no one knew what to do as his face turned color. To Sagredur’s horror, and the dismay of all Caredan’s subjects—yes, let us say it was to their unmixed dismay; what harm can come of saying so?—the King’s life ended there, almost before anyone realized what had happened.
“He’s dead,” said Guillus, stunned, and his eyes—and the eyes of all present, except Sagredur—followed the Corona, as it rose from the King’s head.
“Surely not,” said Sir Sagredur. “He has perhaps only fainted. Someone, get water to throw on his face.”
But the knight’s perplexity increased as no one paid attention to him, all eyes following an invisible something passing through the crowd toward him, until at last: “It’s him!” someone cried out.
“Who?” said Sagredur, “What are you all talking about?”
“The new king,” cried Ettarona, her ferret climbing to the top of her bonnet to look. “It’s your squire! King-Kincarius!”
Kincarius was standing, open-mouthed, still holding one foot in his hand. Like a flock of birds that decide all at once to take flight even though no one of them could be said to have started the movement, everyone in the crowd made a deep bow to him. Only Sagredur remained erect, setting his arms akimbo at the absurdity of it all.
Part 3: The Squire
In the end Sagredur had to admit that Caredan was indeed dead, after he himself splashed water onto the latter’s face from one of the leather bottles hanging from the saddle. Kincarius was more astonished than anyone else at his promotion, and had no idea what to do about it. People began pressing about him, asking him questions he couldn’t answer, or even, sometimes, understand: offering advice and making requests about matters that meant nothing to him.
He was beginning to feel completely overwhelmed, when one figure standing a bit apart from the rest, said quietly but in a voice that cut through the confusion, “Why don’t you tell everyone to back away?”
“’Ere, now, that’s sensible,” said Kincarius, “Back off, everybody, give a man some breathing space.”
The crowd immediately withdrew from their king, leaving Guillus closest to him. “If I were you,” said that experienced advisor, “I would tell everyone to stop bothering me with their concerns for an hour, and have someone fetch me a good, hearty ale.”
“I’ll get it,” said Senne, and trotted off.
“Thank ’ee, there, good fellow,” the new king said to Guillus. “You’re a square one, you are.”
Mauregal, shaken by the events, had sat down in the shade under the awning of Senne’s stand with Lunwyn. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Lunwyn, I just killed the king!”
She patted his hand, and held it.
Gautius and his brothers were with them. He said, “We all saw how it happened. It was an accident, no one could blame you.”
“But I killed the king! Accident or not—and I will tell you, I was upset enough with him right then—I broke the first General Order! Will not the Corona condemn me for it?”
“Nay,” said Ettarona, coming up. “That’s the wonder! You heard the King’s command: ‘If I eat the damson you bring me, you’re forgiven for everything.’ He ate it all right, and now thanks to you we have a new king!” She cackled. For such an ardent monarchist she seemed pleased enough with the outcome.
“He didn’t exactly eat it—he choked on it,” said Mauregal doubtfully.
Ettarona shrugged. “It went in his mouth and didn’t come out again. That’s eating.”
“Squire,” said Sagredur ironically, “if I may offer the suggestion to your majesty, some villagers should be dispatched to preparing Caredan’s remains for burial, or whatever heathen rites for the dead they practice here. And then, once you have refreshed yourself, we should get on with our quest. We were tracking a wild boar before we became distracted, if you recall.”
“Er, yes,” said Kincarius, wiping foam from his lips. “Could someone take charge of the King here?-I mean the old king, what’s-his-name, Caredan. You four, you there!” He beckoned to the four brothers who had carried the litter. “One last time for old King Caredan, step up, that’s right.”
Guillus moved to Kincarius and spoke lowly. “Sir, you are clearly an honest man with a fine sense of responsibility. But don’t you think this new situation changes your duties?” The squire looked at him blankly. “I mean, you are accustomed to giving good service to this excellent knight, and have doubtless settled into a comfortable relationship of respect and habitual obedience to him. But now, you are the king of Palavel, and have subjects who depend upon you, for wisdom, guidance, protection. Can your life ever be the same again?”
“No, that’s true, it really can’t,” said Kincarius. He pondered the question, and took another long pull from his mug.
“Am I to understand, Kincarius, that you are seriously considering giving up your life as a squire in Camelot to remain in this valley—which we saw for the first time only this morning—playing at being a king?” asked Sagredur, incredulous. “You have seen Arthur acting as king in Camelot. Can you be to this people what Arthur is to his subjects?”
“No,” said the squire. “No, I surely couldn’t.” He took another drink, emptying the mug. Guillus beckoned for another, which was promptly brought and set before the King, who beamed a grateful look to the server. “Though as for that, Arthur ’imself was a squire once.” He took another drink, and then admitted, “True, he was just a boy then.”
“I don’t know this Arthur,” said Guillus, “but you have seen the king we have been living under. Cannot you be a better king than Caredan?”
“Well, there you make a goodly point,” said Kincarius. “I could do that, no fear.” And he took another drink.
“And the Boar of Glenmorrel?” said Sagredur. “Arthur gave the quest to us both, you being my squire. Am I to continue alone?”
This stumped Kincarius. He looked for help to Guillus, who shook his head sorrowfully. “He is a good man, but he cannot even see the Corona. He cannot understand the new way of things.”
“No,” said Kincarius sadly, and took another pull at his mug. Then, to Sagredur: “I will think on these matters, sir. I will certainly think carefully on all these matters.” He emptied the mug, and belched, and thanked the server again for another fresh one.
Sagredur, irritated, turned and stalked off. Mauregal followed.
“Sir,” he said, “Bodlaut and I have lost the day for brewing already. I’d be happy to accompany you to the place I found you this morning, and help you recover the trail.”
The knight strode silently for a bit, fuming and looking off into the distance before he replied. “Thank you,” he said briefly. “I would appreciate that.”
It was already mid-afternoon when they left the village for the north end of the valley. They picked up the boar tracks, which were clear and so large that Mauregal wondered at the size of the creature that could have left them. Nevertheless, he bravely followed after Sir Sagredur, hoping at least to catch sight of the boar and perchance render some assistance in destroying it.
Passing through the damson trees made Mauregal thoughtful. At length he ventured to say to the knight, “You must have killed people before.”
“Of course,” said Sir Sagredur. “Otherwise I would not have lived to my present age, as a knight of the Table Round.”
Mauregal blurted, “Was I right to kill King Caredan?”
“You were remarkably lucky to kill him,” smiled the knight. “Damsons are not normally mortal weapons.” Then, more seriously, he asked, “Did you intend his death?”
“No. I don’t know what I intended, but I feel so badly about what happened that I’m sure that wasn’t it. I had no plan at all,” he confessed. “I wanted to help you. But he died because of what I did. Did I do wrong, Sir?”
“Hmm,” said the knight. “Was over so quick, hadn’t really thought about it.” He gazed at the distant hilltops and meditated a moment while his horse plodded along. “I would say it was a mistake. The fellow had the sword swooping at me as slow as a falling pine tree. If he had followed through I would simply have grabbed the blade and taken it back.”
“But it would have cut your fingers off!”
The knight chuckled. “This?” he said, tapping his sheathed sword. “’Tis duller than the knife a scullery-maid uses to cut onions. Wit ye, the knights I contend against are also in armor. Sharpening a sword would be wasted effort.”
“Oh,” said Mauregal, his stomach sinking, and they walked on for a while.
“But, Mauregal,” said the knight, “there are times that call for action, and in such times men are threshed, as it were, into two types. One type waits for someone else to act, the other type acts. You,” he pointed at the youth, “saw a need for action, and you acted.
“Now, certes, men of action should strive to act rightly. But they mustn’t paralyze themselves and call it prudence, and stand rooted to the ground, trembling in self-doubt, lest in acting they should ever make a mistake. That would be like a knight fleeing from battle lest he suffer hurt.”
Mauregal swallowed hard, and decided he was glad he had asked.
The tracks led into a glade in the woods, but there they lost the trail. There were a few smaller prints, and then nothing. The glade was full of herb bennet, foxglove with blooms withering and drying, and even some mugwort, but decidedly empty of gigantic boars; and yet, no tracks led out of the clearing again.
The sun had gone below the ridge of hills enclosing the valley on the west, and though there would be light another hour, the shadows were deepening. Nevertheless, Sagredur, who was evidently a fine tracker, declared positively that the boar could not have emerged from the glade without leaving tracks he would see.
“But then he should still be here,” observed Mauregal, feeling discouraged.
“Yes,” agreed the knight. “It is a mystery.”
Something else was bothering Mauregal. “I’m surprised at the mugwort here. I don’t usually see it in the forest, only on the side of the road.” He stooped down to examine one of the plants.
The knight grunted. “The flower you put in your beer? Gather some if you like, but it’s not likely it has aught to do with the disappearance of my boar.”
“Ettarona gathers for all of us brewers,” said the youth. “I wonder if she lives around here? I think some of these blooms have been harvested recently.”
“That’s the crone who spoke to us?”
“Yes, everyone is fond of her. Bodlaut, my master, says she supplied our herbs when he was an apprentice, and she was already an old woman.”
“I know the type: lean, hard-working old women, who seem to live forever.” Mauregal chuckled and nodded.
The knight went on, “She won’t, though. If you listen to me, you’ll find where she lives and see that someone checks on her from time to time. She may need help sometimes that she won’t ask for.”
Mauregal reflected how a stranger could make him see his world with fresh eyes.
He looked at the trees around the clearing, oak and ash and a solitary old thorn tree, swaying quietly in the breeze. They seemed to embody the cruel indifference of the woods. In the descending twilight Mauregal began to feel the shuddering fear of the uncanny. “Let us return south,” he said. “This end of the valley is sacred to Nerthus; I would not be here at night.”
The knight regarded him steadfastly. “I am a follower of the Christ. Ancient gods have no terror for me.”
“Who is this Christ?” asked Mauregal curiously.
Sagredur retrieved a square bit of cloth from his saddle-bag. He unfolded it and Mauregal saw it had a picture embroidered on it: a woman holding a child. “This is the Christ,” he said.
“The Christ is a woman?”
“No, the woman is Mary, Mother of God,” said Sagredur. “The Christ is the baby.”
Mauregal inspected the image curiously. It was a fine piece of stitching, and had some fancy writing broidered at the bottom. “Is it-something like Mithras?”
The knight pursed his lips. “I would say, not like at all. Worshipping Mithras is-well, to be generous, at best pointless; and at worst, a grave sin.”
Mauregal handed it back, saying, “What we do here, I think, is merely pointless. In any case, I think we should return. We can find no more in this glade tonight.”
The knight sighed. “That’s plain enough,” he agreed, and they set forth.
But trudging into the village by starlight they were surprised to see there were people still out, gathered around the end of the market square by the Goose and the king’s house. Mauregal saw by the glaring light before the house that the King was in the crowd.
“There’s your squire,” he said, pointing at the glow.
“Where? You can see him through the gloom?” asked Sagredur.
Mauregal looked at him amazed. “You truly cannot see the Corona blazing as it is, even in the dark?” The knight shook his head, frowning.
As they went toward the light they passed, coming their way, a man walking with the help of a walking-stick, beside a mule-cart with a barrel on it.
“Why, it’s Bodlaut! My master! And Aercus!” Mauregal patted the mule’s flank. “What news? I’m sorry, I’ve missed the day’s work.”
“Oh, yes, Lunwyn told me of your errand to the orchards,” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t seem upset about anything. “Quite a day, this has been! We’ve a new king now, and my, but he’s a thirsty one! He’s been knocking them back all afternoon and I’m still getting sent back for more.”
“Scandalous!” said Sagredur. “But never fear, good fellow, I will see that you are paid.”
“Oh, he’s been paying,” said the brewer. “He paid from his own purse till it ran out, and then when he found he hadn’t any more he shouted a command to everyone, ‘Stand in a row and open y
our pokes!’ So everyone did, and he went down the line checking what each had on him, and found Guillus’s purse was the heaviest; and then if he didn’t take what he pleased of Guillus’s money and give the innkeeper enough for the rest of the day, and even bought a round for every man there! And gave a few coins to the sad-faced blokes what he’d seen hadn’t a copper to their names!”
“He stole money from this Guillus fellow?” The knight shook his head, looking grim.
“Aye, well…” said Bodlaut reluctantly, confused for a moment by the question. He had never thought of it that way before. “Well, he’s the king now, you know, he can do as he pleases. And Guillus, after he’d been sitting with the King and making like best friends with him all day, I seen him swallow hard and thought for a moment he was going to say something rash, but then he leans back his head and laughs louder than anyone. And longer, too.”
Sagredur was quietly furious. “This behavior is inexcusable. I shall certainly put a stop to it at once.”
“It’s not really that bad, for one of our kings,” said Mauregal.
“Well, that was before they came outside,” said Bodlaut. “Then our King Kincarius took to admiring his new house’s roof, because it’s slate, you know, and he started making people almost as drunk as himself to climb up on it.” He chuckled at the memory.
“On the roof?”
“Sure, on the roof, on account Guillus remarked to him it’s strong enough a man can stand on it. Not that it’s such a good idea, at night, and after drinking. Hennian dislocated his shoulder, and the King is still on about it with other men.”
“Hennian? He fell from the roof?”
“No, he refused to do it, even disobeying the King and all, and as he was leaving the house he lost his balance, grabbed the top of the door for support, and it swung back and popped his shoulder out.”
Sagredur’s face was dark, and he spurred his horse to a gallop toward the house, bellowing, “Kincarius!”
Mauregal hastily bade goodbye to Bodlaut and ran after him. As he came up he found Sagredur heatedly berating his squire, while Kincarius faced him with uncharacteristic boldness. It was hard to look at Kincarius, the Corona shone so bright.
Tales of the Once and Future King Page 26