The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight

by Gerald Morris

  "By all that's holy...!" Sir Kai muttered sharply.

  "She alone of all the daughters of Lady Igraine was not an enchantress." Lady Morgan shrugged slightly. "It sometimes happens that way, I believe. For all that, she was beloved by her mother and her next oldest sister—me. Our eldest sister, however, had little use for her. Indeed, she despised Dioneta and persecuted her ruthlessly, especially once our mother died. In the end, it was too much. Dioneta ran away with a passing knight.

  "I do not know why, but this infuriated my sister. She set out to find Dioneta and the knight. Eventually, she found the knight, but Dioneta disappeared, taking with her a newborn girl."

  "Me," Sarah said.

  "Just so."

  "What happened to the knight—my father?"

  "She killed him, I believe." Lady Morgan's eyebrows raised. "My dear, surely you are not going to grieve over a man you could not possibly remember?"

  Sarah swallowed. Her mother must have loved this knight. "What was his name?"

  "I haven't any idea," Lady Morgan said calmly. "The rest of the story you know. Dioneta was found by your cloth merchant, who took you both in and did, I suppose, his best with you." Sarah bristled but held her tongue. "All that is left to say is that while my older sister never found you, I did. I have known for some years now where Dioneta was hidden and have even visited you on occasion. Dioneta claimed to be happy where she was, and, although I cannot imagine why, I never—I say it again—interfere with other people's choices."

  Sarah nodded slowly. "Why were you there the night of the fires?"

  Lady Morgan's lips set grimly. "It was not by design. I have, shall we say, a fondness for my half brother, King Arthur, and I had been for some time aware that there was some enchantment brewing against him. By my own arts, I had found that the enchantment centered on a person, and I had begun to suspect that my elder sister Morgause, who was supposed to have died years ago, was alive and brewing evil again."

  "Yes," Sarah exclaimed. "She was here! That was the enchantress you told me about when you were a crone?"

  "Yes. Gawain's mother. My sister. Your aunt. The one behind Meliagant. The one ultimately behind your mother's death. The one behind it all. I traced the enchantment to the village of Milrick, but there the spell's power was too strong for me. I was able to save you, but I could do nothing for Dioneta."

  Terence's quiet voice broke in. "A spell too strong for you, Lady Morgan?"

  Lady Morgan's face grew solemn. "Yes. Morgause is stronger than ever. This time, she centered her power in the person of Meliagant—perhaps so as to hide herself. That's why all her spells came apart once Meliagant was dead."

  "But next time..." Terence murmured.

  Lady Morgan lifted her chin. "We shall deal with that when it comes. For now, we must complete what we began. I have hidden behind a haggish crone's face for months in order to bring all to rights. Sarah, I ask you again, what priest was it who told the village that Jews had poisoned their well?"

  "Why?"

  An implacable light glimmered in Lady Morgan's eyes, and for a moment she looked much more like the crone. "Because he must be informed of his mistake—just as you informed the knight of the fires and Meliagant of theirs."

  "No," Sarah said slowly. "I don't know what priest Meliagant meant, and I wouldn't tell you if I did. What are we to do? Kill everyone who had a hand in it? The whole village of Milrick? The farmers who gave Mordecai bad directions so that he got lost and ended up camped there? No. I do not choose to hate anymore."

  "But, my child, your mother—"

  "And you, Lady Morgan," Sarah said, pressing on ruthlessly, "never interfere with other people's choices."

  Just over a week later, they set off for Camelot. All of Sarah's friends and companions went but the Lady of the Lake, who had returned to her own world, and Charis, who stayed to care for her father. King Bagdemagus was still keeping to his bed, although he had recently begun show some interest in living again. Sarah was partly responsible for this improvement. Charis had taken Sarah to see him, to get the king's official approval of giving Sarah the Vavasour's old castle. The king had agreed, somewhat lackadaisically, upon which Sarah—struck either with inspiration or madness, she wasn't quite sure—had suggested that when he felt better he should come help her decorate some of the rooms. Since then, his stream of mournful sighs had been increasingly interrupted with reflections like, "I wonder if she should like puce carpets." Charis predicted that he would be up and around and dressing his servants in embarrassing clothes again in no time.

  Leaving Charis had been hard, but Sarah enjoyed being back on the road after the long time of convalescence at Logres Castle. It was a formidable traveling party—Sir Kai and Gawain leading the way, followed by Guinevere, Sarah, Ariel, Lady Morgan, Jean, Piers, and Terence. There was no question of danger on the road. Riding with King Arthur's three greatest knights—not to mention an enchantress—probably made Sarah safer than King Arthur was in his castle at Camelot. Such a guard was suitable, though, since it was escorting royalty: the Queen of All England. And Sarah.

  Sarah was royal, too. It still felt unreal, but Sarah was gradually accepting the fact. Her grandmother, Lady Igraine, was not only the mother of Morgause, Morgan, and her own mother, but also of King Arthur himself. Sarah was, in fact, the king's niece. As she had said in wonder to Sir Kai the day after Lady Morgan's revelations, "Then I really am a princess!"

  "Of course you are," Sir Kai had growled. "Haven't I been calling you that since I first met you?"

  "Yes, of course," Sarah had admitted. "But you didn't know then who my relatives were."

  "Didn't need to," Sir Kai had replied.

  They traveled slowly and stopped often, so as to rest Sir Kai's hip, which was still irritated by riding, but Sarah enjoyed the ride as she had not enjoyed anything since her mother and Mordecai had been killed. She was liked and treated as an equal by all her companions, whom she liked in her turn. Even Lady Morgan, who could seem so distant and inaccessible when she wished, was a gracious companion. Lady Morgan and Gawain took turns riding with Sarah and telling her about the alarming number of relations she had acquired. Some of these sounded wonderful. For instance, Sarah found herself eager to meet her cousin Gaheris, Gawain's favorite brother. Other relatives sounded less interesting, though. "Sorry, Sarah, but that's the way it is," Gawain said. "You're family now, and that means you're stuck with the lot of us."

  Less than a day's journey from Logres, they stopped for a brief visit at Sarah's new home, the castle of the deposed Vavasour. Queen Guinevere, with an awe-inspiring display of royal hauteur, introduced Sarah to the remaining castle servants as their new mistress. No one expressed any objection, especially after Gawain presented himself and said that he himself would be bringing a new troop of soldiers for his cousin's castle. This information was well received. The lack of armed men in the castle had been acutely felt, as none of the servants remaining felt up to dealing with an infestation of badgers. "I must beg your pardon for that," Lady Morgan told Sarah. "Had I known this castle would become yours I would have turned the Vavasour's guards into less troublesome creatures."

  On the fourth day, they came to the village of Milrick, or what was left of it. Every house was deserted. Only a few scrawny chickens pecking vainly at the barren dirt of the street indicated that anyone had ever lived in these desolate buildings. "What happened here?" Sarah asked. "The village was full and bustling when I was here last—just a month or so ago."

  "Look over there," Terence said, pointing to a patch of earth beside one of the nearest houses. There in the dirt were four small mounds of earth and one larger mound.

  "Graves," Lady Morgan said, satisfaction in her voice. "It can only have been the plague. How appropriate, that the village that killed my innocent Dioneta for causing a plague should be stricken with the disease after all. How fitting!"

  Sarah looked at the spot in the village green where her mother and Mordecai had died, then back
at the house. She remembered the house. She had stolen food from it more than once, and had rejoiced to do so, but that had been a long time ago. She looked again at the children's graves. She saw nothing appropriate, nothing fitting. "Let's go," she said.

  On the last day before they were to arrive at Camelot, the cavalcade came upon a fair in a town. Sarah smiled reminiscently at the booths and tents and wagons set up on the town green. Once she would have been there, helping Mordecai show his cloth to the crowds. There was a juggler, a very bad minstrel, a man sharpening knives, another mending shoes, and assorted other typical fair denizens. Gawain parted from the rest to listen to a traveling preacher, a man in a coarse woolen cloak who wailed and waved his arms over his head, but after a few minutes Gawain came back. "I was just checking," he explained. "All this began with a fortuneteller promising that Arthur would be overthrown, but this one is just promising the end of the world. The usual stuff, in fact."

  Suddenly, a familiar, whining voice reached Sarah's ears. "Gawain? Terence?" she said. "Isn't that—?"

  "It is! Our old friend Adrian the Pardoner!" Gawain exclaimed.

  Sarah turned, and there he was, as fresh-faced and unctuous as ever, standing on a stump and addressing a crowd of women. "This water," he was declaring, "comes straight from Canterbury itself, where it wells up on moonlit nights from the grave of our holy, blissful martyr Saint Thomas himself! Use it on your face, and it will clear freckles! Use it to reduce the swelling on your piles! But I must warn you! If you have been unfaithful to your husband, do not buy this miraculous water from me! It will make you grievously ill, for it cannot endure such baseness! There, I see several of you women to the left holding back. I beg of you, ladies, if you have betrayed your husbands, have naught to do with this water!"

  Sarah nodded slowly and said to Gawain, "He's actually very good at what he does, isn't he? Look at those women, pushing up to buy his worthless water, if only to prove to their husbands that they have nothing to hide."

  "He deserves no such respect, my lady," said Terence sternly. "Come away."

  They started to turn, but just then Adrian's voice rose again over the crowd. "Yes, yes, ladies! There is enough for all! And I haven't even told you the most powerful effect of this water! It is an infallible remedy for poisoned wells! As everyone knows, the despicable Christ-killers, the Jews, have come from distant lands with poison to put in all good Christian wells! But drink this water, and you cannot be harmed! Saint Thomas will not permit it!"

  Sarah caught her breath, and her heart faltered. Slowly she looked back at Adrian. As before, he was wearing black robes of a clerical cut. "Not a priest at all," Sarah murmured slowly. "Just a man pretending to be one."

  Lady Morgan caught her breath. "This is the one? The priest who started it all?"

  Sarah nodded. Without knowing exactly why, she was certain of it. "Yes," she said. "But he didn't start it. Your sister did."

  "He played a part, though," Lady Morgan said. "That's enough for me."

  Sarah placed her hand on Lady Morgan's arm. "Let me."

  Together the knights and ladies rode their horses through the gathered crowd, right up to the stump where Adrian stood. The pardoner squinted at them, then smiled in bright, fawning welcome. "My lady! So good to see you again!"

  "It isn't so for me, fellow," Sarah said. "I have not missed your lies."

  "Lies? But my lady, by the collarbone of Saint—"

  "I just heard you say that Jews poison the wells of Christians. I say it is a lie, and a lie that has caused great harm. Not two days' journey from here is the village of Milrick, where an honored Jewish man and a noble princess of the family of King Arthur were both murdered because of this lie of yours."

  Adrian's mouth gaped, but he knew what Sarah was talking about. She saw the memory flicker in his eyes.

  "That noble lady," Sarah continued, "was my mother. You did not kill her, but if it had not been for your lies, she would be alive today."

  Adrian's eyes flickered from Sarah's face to the faces of her companions. What he saw in them made him turn pale. "My lady, I assure you that I meant no harm to anyone!" he bleated.

  Sarah looked away, at the wide-eyed villagers who stood near her. "The man is a fraud," she said. "His bones are sheep bones, his pardons are useless, and his miracles do nothing. Take his wares and destroy them! Take his money and keep it for yourselves!" She gestured at the shivering pardoner. "Go on!"

  Five minutes later, the newly impoverished Adrian stood in his underclothes, nearly fainting with fear, before Sarah. Everything he owned of value had been torn from him by the eager villagers. "See that you never again make your living with lies," Sarah said. "Go!"

  "What?" demanded Lady Morgan. "You're not letting him go! He must die!"

  Adrian cringed, and Sarah was silent. After a moment, Gawain said, "As much as I hate to agree with my heartless auntie, I think she's right. I once thought this pardoner was a vile but harmless creature who hurt only those foolish enough to believe his lies. But no more. He is a murderer. What say you, Terence?"

  "I never thought his lies harmless, milord," Terence said.

  Sarah didn't wait to hear the others' judgments. Leaning forward in her saddle, Sarah withdrew her sword and held it over her head. Adrian swallowed several times, his Adam's apple bouncing spasmodically about his throat, as his eyes followed every movement of the sword. "By bloodright, this man's life is forfeit to me!" Sarah said. "I took up this sword for no other purpose than to avenge my mother's death!"

  Sarah paused, still holding the sword high, then deliberately returned it to its scabbard and handed it to Piers. "I renounce that purpose today," she said. "Piers, please give this sword back to your father. It has done enough." Then she turned back to Adrian. "Go on, little man! Run!"

  And he did. Holding his linen under-breeches in both hands, he fairly flew across the green. When he was out of sight, Sarah turned back to the others. Ariel's eyes were misty, and Terence was smiling, but Lady Morgan's face was suffused with rage.

  "And this is how you honor your royal mother's memory, little Sarah? By letting her killer go free? What kind of a daughter would do that? What kind of a princess are you?"

  Sarah met her blazing eyes without flinching. "Like my friend," she said, "I am my own damned princess."

  Then she turned her horse back to the trail and kicked it into a canter, leading the rest down the road toward Camelot.

  * * *

  Author's Note

  One of the earliest, and certainly one of the best, of the Arthurian storytellers was a French poet named Chrétien de Troyes. His romances (that's what they're called, even though they're not all about love) started a new style and inspired a generation of imitators. He was a great artist, but like all artists could still drop the occasional clinker. His romance Le chevalier de la charrette (The Knight of the Cart) was one of those clinkers.

  The story itself isn't that bad. It begins with the abduction of Guinevere and the wounding of Kai by the evil Sir Meliagant and continues through the parallel quests of Gawain and Lancelot, focusing on Lancelot. Chrétien tells of the shameful cart ride, the knight at the ford, the Vavasour, the Hermit of the Tomb, the Underwater and Sword Bridges, the false accusation of Guinevere, and the trial by combat. All of that seems to me to hold together pretty well, which is why I decided to retell this story. It's just that Chrétien also packs his story full of weird extra details that don't fit the plot—don't fit any plot, really. For instance, in Chrétien's tale, while Lancelot is imprisoned in the tower and left there to die, he gets special permission to leave for a while to fight in a tournament. Sort of a weekend pass. Then he goes back to his cell to die. Well, you see what I mean. I just get the feeling that Chrétien wasn't concentrating on this one.

  But as I say, once you get past the silliness, it's a pretty good story, and I've followed the original plot pretty closely. To fill it out, though, I've also borrowed from other Arthurian tales when it suited me. For in
stance, from Sir Thomas Malory's Morte d'Arthur, I've taken the stories of Lancelot and Sir Turquin, Lancelot and the falcon in the tree, and Lancelot and Sir Pedivere (whom I call Sir Pedwyr). Finally, to spice it up and make it my own, I've put it all in the context of my primary hero, Sarah, and my secondary hero, Charis, along with some other people I invented in earlier books, such as Terence, Piers, and Ariel.

  Sometimes it can be difficult to piece together the relationships of Arthurian characters, partly because there never really was a standard genealogy that the original tellers had to follow. For instance, when a fourteenth-century Welsh storyteller, author of The Birth of Arthur, needed the famous enchantress Morgan Le Fay to have a sister, that artist just invented one and named her Dioneta. I've done the same sort of thing, borrowing this Dioneta, giving her a daughter, and adding her to Arthur's family, not because it's accurate but because I felt like it. But, just in case it gets confusing, here is Arthur and Gawain's family tree, borrowed mostly from Sir Thomas Malory, then adapted for my own purposes.

  One more thing. The medieval stories of Arthur are not historically accurate. What I mean is that while there may have been a leader named Arthur, he would have lived long before the time of armored knights on horseback and jousts and so on. The Arthurian legends are a gleeful mix and match of characters and customs from nearly a millennium of history. Knowing that, I've never made too much effort to be historically accurate. In fact, it always makes me squirm a bit when people tell me that I do a good job of presenting the real Middle Ages, because I've never tried to do anything of the sort. I tell stories about an imaginary world, and the only historical side to my work is that historical people told tales about the same world. In this story, though, I did introduce one piece of historical realism: the brutal murder of a Jew.

  In 1348, the year that the Black Death swept through Europe, terrified villagers who were looking for someone to blame settled, as people usually do, on a group they didn't understand. The Jews lived apart, followed their own rules, didn't worship in the same way, and (maybe most important) didn't have equal protection under the law. Jews were not permitted to file complaints against Christians, which made them easy targets. Rumors spread throughout Europe that Jews were causing the plague by poisoning wells, and thousands of innocent men, women, and children were rounded up and burned. In some places, whole communities were destroyed together and, not coincidentally, their property taken over by the local lord.