"What's that?" Sarah asked.
"A castle," the monk replied. "Do you mean you haven't heard of it?" Sarah shook her head. "Well, let me begin there, then. At that time, there was a mighty knight by the name of Sir Turquin, who held a great hatred for King Arthur and all his knights."
"Why?" Sarah asked.
Brother Constans shook his head. "I do not know what reason Sir Turquin would have given, but it doesn't matter. He hated because he was a man who hates, and that was his own choice. It is the same with every hatred. So, because of his hatred, Sir Turquin would ride about England looking for knights from the Round Table, and when he found one he would defeat that knight and drag him off in chains to his castle, which was called Dolorous Garde. Many of Arthur's knights found themselves in those dungeons, including even Sir Kai the Seneschal. If you haven't heard of Joyous Garde, I suppose you haven't heard of Sir Kai, but—"
"But I have," Sarah said.
"Ah, then you know that any knight who could defeat Sir Kai was indeed a mighty warrior. Sir Kai spent nearly six months in prison, where he was Sir Turquin's prize captive. Sir Turquin fed him with slop left from the hogs, gave him no blankets, even in winter, and heaped upon him all the abominations he could imagine. I am told that he forced Sir Kai to share his cell with every sort of outcast he could dredge up."
"What do you mean?" Ariel asked.
"He searched the land for all the most despised sorts of people, then put one of each in Sir Kai's cell with him: a leper, an old Egyptian woman, a Jew, and a raving madman.
"King Arthur sent out his greatest knights to find Sir Kai, but since no knight had ever met Sir Turquin and returned to tell of it, no one knew where to look. At last, though, Sir Lancelot found him. Sir Turquin was on his way back to Dolorous Garde, nearly at the gates, bringing a captured knight—I forget which one—"
"Gaheris," Jean said.
Brother Constans nodded. "Yes, that's right. Anyway, Sir Lancelot killed Sir Turquin, set the prisoners free, then renamed it Joyous Garde and made it his own home in England."
"He didn't have one already?" Sarah asked.
"Sir Lancelot was originally from Benouic, in France, you see. And so the king's enemy was defeated, and Sir Lancelot became the most honored knight in England."
Sarah nodded slowly. "More than Sir Gawain?"
"Sir Gawain was away at that time, thought to be dead, but even if Gawain had been at court, Sir Lancelot would have eclipsed him," Brother Constans said. "Do you not agree, Jean?"
"Sir Lancelot was not worthy to buckle Sir Gawain's armor for him," Jean said quietly. "But come, how does all this lead to you? How did Sir Lancelot inspire you to enter the monastic life?"
"That came, as I said, just after Joyous Garde. I was a knight then, though not of the Round Table, and a man of bitter gall and choler. Then I was called Sir Pedwyr."
"You?" Jean exclaimed. "Sir Pedwyr?"
Brother Constans nodded serenely. "I," he said. "I was a different man, then, I hope. I was quick to see offense, and eager to avenge it, and no one felt my wrath more than those I most loved. It is often that way, I believe. Most of all, I loved my wife, the Lady Serena; therefore, I suspected all men of wanting to take her from me, and I suspected her of unfaithfulness with every man who bowed to her."
Sarah remembered Adrian the Pardoner's holy bones for people who wanted to betray their spouses. "You didn't love her at all," Sarah said, "if you didn't trust her."
Brother Constans's eye rested on Sarah approvingly. "You are right. I loved her as far as I understood love," he replied. "But, as you say, it was not a love that is worthy of the name, and it ended as such a love can only end. One day, for a reason that I no longer remember, I came to believe that Serena had betrayed me, and I set out to kill her. She saw me coming with my sword drawn and, knowing me, ran. I had just caught up with her when Sir Lancelot came upon us.
"He drew his sword and stopped me, then made me promise not to kill her. I promised, and Sir Lancelot sheathed his sword. He should not have done so: he didn't realize that people who cannot trust others cannot themselves be trusted. I cut off my Serena's head before his eyes." The monk's voice was sober but calm. Sarah gasped, and Ariel's eyes filled with tears. Jean's face was utterly still. Brother Constans glanced at him, then continued.
"Sir Lancelot beat me, angrily and severely. He never drew his sword, but when he was done, I was covered with bruises and hardly able to move. When he was done, he broke my sword and said that if I did not do what he said, he would beat me again, more severely."
"What did he say to do?" Ariel asked.
"He bid me take my wife's head to Rome and present it to the Pope, begging forgiveness."
"And did you?" Jean asked.
"I did. On the long journey, I learned to be horrified of what I had become, and kneeling in Rome I found forgiveness. It was the beginning of my life. I have often suspected that Sir Lancelot meant only to give me a punishment horrible enough to fit my crime, but he gave me new life instead. All that I used to be died that day at the holy city. The marks of Sir Lancelot's fists were but the scars of new birth." Brother Constans looked at Ariel. "And that is why I was chosen to guard this place. It is a way that I may show gratitude to the one who was midwife to my salvation."
Jean shook his head slowly. "He little deserves such gratitude, Sir Pedwyr. He was—Bah! Quel hypocrite!— that he should presume to judge you for your wrath, when he himself was betraying his own king! Have you not heard that of your Sir Lancelot?"
"I have heard that he loved the king's wife, Queen Guinevere," Brother Constans said gently, "but I no longer listen to reports of others' sins."
Sarah frowned at a sudden memory. "But it might be true. When Sir Meliagant abducted the queen, he said that she would learn to love him, and when she said she was already married, he laughed at her and said that she had not cared about that when Sir Lancelot was at court. I didn't know what that meant, but now I see. The queen was unfaithful to the king, with Sir Lancelot, wasn't she?"
"I cannot say, princess," the monk replied.
"It was true," Jean replied, "but do not blame the queen. The fault is Sir Lancelot's."
"Is that why Sir Lancelot went away from the court?" Ariel asked Jean.
"Yes."
"How do you know that?" Sarah demanded.
Jean glanced at Brother Constans, who smiled and said nothing. Jean looked back at Sarah and shrugged. "I was once called by the name Sir Lancelot," he said.
"I came to the court of King Arthur—it was almost fifteen years ago—filled with the lust for fame, desirous of being called the greatest of all his knights," Jean said.
They had moved from the table and were now sitting together around the hermit's large fireplace. Jean and the hermit sat in plain but well-made wooden chairs, and Sarah and Ariel sat together on a rug before the fire. It wasn't really cold, but the muted sound of the wind outside made it pleasant to sit there in the stillness and warmth.
"But that was my problem, you see. I did not wish to be the greatest knight, only to be called so by others, and so I did whatever other people thought the greatest knight should do. The world decreed that the greatest knight should be the greatest fighter—that was easy for me—but also that he should be a graceful dancer, should wear the finest clothes, should have a private priest, should walk with a dainty step, and above all, should languish for love." He glanced at the monk. "That was my scripture, bon frère, to do ... to do whatever was la mode des chevaliers—the fashion of knights. I did not seek to be, only to seem.
"And so I had to languish for love, but my love could not be for an ordinary woman. She had to be one whose beauty and grandeur would adorn my knighthood. No woman was so beautiful or grand as the queen, so I languished for the queen. For seven years, I mooned over her so that I could be in every way comme il faut."
"Then you didn't love Queen Guinevere at all," Ariel said softly. Her dark eyes glittered with the depth of her concentra
tion, reminding Sarah again of Squire Terence's eyes.
Jean hesitated, then looked at Brother Constans. "It is as Sir Pedwyr said. I loved her as I understood love to be, but it was not enough. It was nothing like the king's love for her."
"The queen didn't tell you to leave her alone, though, did she?" Sarah asked abruptly. "She has to take some of the blame, don't you think?"
Jean said nothing, and after a moment Brother Constans said gently, "He can tell only his own story, my child. Please, Jean, continue."
"I cannot describe the fear I lived with," Jean said ruminatively.
"Fear?" Sarah asked. She thought of the calm, unhurried manner with which he had dispatched the knight at the ford, without even drawing his own sword. "But what could you be afraid of?"
"Everything, don't you see? I had become what I sought to be: the knight called perfect in every way. But to maintain such a reputation! Impossible! Had any man ever seen me in shabby clothes, had I ever stumbled on the dance floor or trod on my lady's toe, my name for perfection would have collapsed altogether. Especially, I had to win every tournament. I could not be put to shame.
"One day," Jean said, his eyes darkening and his expression growing severe, "as I rode in the forest, I came upon a woman sitting beneath a tree, crying. Her falcon, she said, had flown away and was caught in that tree. Her husband had given her the bird, and now it was lost, its leather tresses tangled in the branches. Could I not climb up the tree and rescue it for her? So, of course, I did. It was always my duty to help maidens. One cannot climb trees in armor, so I removed my armor and went up, only to hear a knight beneath me shout in triumph. It had all been a trap, a way to catch me in the tree without my armor or weapons. The knight wished to become famous as the one who slew Sir Lancelot."
"What did you do?" Ariel asked.
"I broke a branch from the tree to use as a cudgel, then leaped upon him. I beat him, took his own sword away, and killed him with it." His eyes were bleak. "I did not have to kill him, you understand. But I could not have it told how I had been put in such an embarrassing position." His jaw tightened convulsively, and he whispered, " Salaud."
Then his eyes cleared, and he looked at the others. "Your pardon, my friends. I have lived alone so long that I have grown much in the habit of speaking to myself."
"But how did that come about?" asked Ariel. "Living alone, away from the court, I mean."
"It had to happen one day, of course. I fell from my lofty heights. It was shortly after the falcon episode. Sir Gawain returned from a great quest, having earned so much glory that I grew jealous, and the king called a tournament. At this tournament, I defeated Gawain but then was defeated by an unknown knight. Then, to make my shame greater, the queen rejected me before all the court and turned her eyes back to her husband. Like a house of sticks when one stick is removed, my honor collapsed."
Ariel said, "What was it you said to that knight back at the ford? Something about honor?"
Jean nodded. "If your honor is so frail that you can lose it in one defeat, then it is not worth keeping. I left the court, vowing to live the rest of my life alone in some hermitage." He glanced at Brother Constans, and his severe expression lightened. "That was the worst fate I could imagine, you see."
"A dreadful prospect," Brother Constans replied placidly. "Did you find a hermitage?"
"Nearly. I found an empty woodcutter's cottage in Cornwall, and I've lived there ever since, hunting for my food and cutting wood for the nearby villagers. It was there I took the name Jean. I have cut wood for seven years now. It has not been an easy life, but it has been my own life, and I have been content."
"And no one from the court knew where you were," Ariel said wonderingly.
"That would be too much to ask," Jean said, "but I was fortunate, and the only people from Camelot who discovered me were men and women of honor who told no one. Sir Gaheris and Lady Lynet, his wife, know me. Squire Terence, of course. What secrets are hid from that one? Also, Sir Parsifal and his page boy, Pierre—or Piers, I should say."
"Piers?" Sarah and Ariel repeated, in unison.
"Yes. Piers is the one who came to me two—or is it three?—days ago and asked me for the love of King Arthur—and also of Queen Guinevere—to dig up my armor and help Sir Gawain search for the captives. Piers said he was supposed to find Sir Parsifal, but he did not know where to look for him. He knew where to find me. He told me to keep the quest secret, then gave me directions and his horse. The horse was weary already, but I rode it until it could go no farther, and then I set it free and began to walk."
"Except when you rode in a dung cart," Sarah said.
"Yes, except for then," Jean replied.
"And so you are a knight again," Brother Constans said.
Jean shook his head. "No. I am a woodcutter with a sword. I am Jean Le Forestier. Sir Lancelot ... he did not ride in dung carts. I do."
VII
The Custom of the Land
Sarah walked beside Jean, casting him occasional sideways glances but too bashful to ask any of the thousand questions that the story he had told the night before had evoked. How could a man who had been so famous as a knight be "content" cutting wood? Had he never had regrets? Did he still love the queen? Is that why he took up his armor again? And, more immediately, what had gone through his head when Brother Constans showed them the tomb that awaited Sir Lancelot? But, shy before the famous knight, Sarah held her tongue. Instead, she rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, stretched her legs into a longer stride, and watched the horizon for the towers of a castle.
Before they had left the hermitage that morning, Brother Constans had told them how to get to the home of a nobleman, whom he simply called the "Vavasour," who might be able to help them. The Vavasour was a sworn vassal of King Bagdemagus and of his son Sir Meliagant and should be able to direct them to Bagdemagus's home, the Castle Logres. And, so long as they didn't tell the Vavasour their purpose, he might even help them on their journey. "Beware, though," the monk had said. "Beware of this land. It has changed in the past year. I don't know how, but it has become a place of threat and omen. In this land, darkness is the natural condition; even the sunlight has to force its way in."
Ariel had looked very serious at this, but Sarah thought it made no sense and had barely repressed a shrug. Then Brother Constans had looked at her and said softly, "Yevarekh adonai veyishmarekh."
Sarah stared. The monk's pronunciation was strange, but the words were familiar. Mordecai used to say them to her at night as a blessing. "How do you know those words?"
"A hermit has time to study," Brother Constans had replied. "I cannot play with rocks all day, you know."
Sarah's reverie was interrupted suddenly. "Castle ahead," Jean said. "This must be the home of that Vavasour fellow. Let us hope he can guide us to Sir Meliagant."
Half an hour later they came to the castle gate, where they sent a message by the guard and shortly afterward were being welcomed by the Vavasour himself. He was a portly fellow in a velvet blouse that was trimmed with the finest ermine but showed the outlines of old grease stains on the front. He rushed out of the castle keep, his face beaming. "Visitors! Good gracious, how delightful! You've no idea how rare it is to have noble guests these days!" Then he stopped as he looked at their little retinue. "But, you are nobles, aren't you? My guard said a knight and two ladies were at the gate."
"I am a knight," Jean said calmly. "And these are indeed ladies. We have come to you for help on our quest."
"You're on a quest?" the Vavasour asked dubiously.
"We are."
"Without a warhorse? And with no lance?"
"I left my horse behind three days ago," Jean explained. "It could carry me no farther."
"Three days? You've been on foot for three days? A knight?" the Vavasour was clearly shocked.
"Not all the way," Jean replied evenly. "Some of the way I rode in a dung cart. Gould you give us directions to the Castle Logres, please? We must see King
Bagdemagus and his son."
"A dung cart," the Vavasour said, almost in a whisper. Then he shook himself and his troubled expression disappeared, replaced with a beaming smile. "Forgive me. I've quite forgot my manners. You must dine with me and my sons. We shall be serving a midday meal soon, and any questing knight is welcome to join us, even one who ... well, never mind that."
Jean bowed politely. "We thank you, sir, for your offer, and we certainly would not refuse any assistance you gave us, but our quest is of an urgent nature. We should be on our way at once."
The Vavasour's smile turned at once into a scowl. Sarah had never seen anyone change moods so quickly or so often, much more often than he changed shirts. "It is the custom of this land," the Vavasour said indignantly, "that an invitation to dinner is sacred. You refuse my hospitality at your own peril."
"This is the custom of the land?" Jean asked. "We must fight for the right not to dine with you?"
"It is our custom. Now, accept you my invitation or no?"
Jean sighed very softly. "But of course we accept, sir."
The Vavasour's face cleared at once and again assumed a jovial expression. "Capital!" he cried. "I shall inform the household that we have three more for luncheon. Make yourselves at home!" Then he disappeared into the castle, leaving them alone in the courtyard.
"Curious notion of hospitality," Jean murmured. He helped Ariel from the mare's saddle, then said sharply, "What is it, my lady?"
"I don't know," Ariel said softly. Her face was pale, and her fingers trembled. "Something is not right." She tried to smile. "Perhaps it is something I ate."
Jean took her arm. "Let us walk about for a moment," he said. "Sarah, could you bring the mare? We will find some feed and water for her."
They walked along the castle wall until they found the stables. Ariel had more color after her walk, but when Jean turned from her to help Sarah with the horses, she grew pale again. The faery's ashen cheeks looked ghastly, and Sarah swallowed hard, experiencing the unfamiliar feeling of being anxious about another person.
The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight Page 10