The Legend of the King (21 page)

Lancelot stood. "Yes, this is Nacien, Archbishop of Canterbury." Then he added bitterly, "I don't know what he's doing here, though."

"Praying, mostly," Archbishop Nacien said. "Sometimes we need fewer bishops and more people who pray." He cocked his head slightly. "In fact, that's probably always true."

"Have you seen what they've done?" Lancelot demanded.

"Do you think me blind, child?"

"Where are the queen and the ladies of the court?"

"The monks say that many ladies were taken prisoner. I do not know which ladies were among them."

Lancelot glared furiously at the old prelate. "And with such deeds happening, you've made me vow to leave England forever!"

"Did I say forever?" Archbishop Nacien asked quietly.

"Eh?"

"I chose my words carefully when I sent you on this pilgrimage, and I remember very clearly that I did
not
say forever. I said you must leave England. That was all."

Lancelot's face was blank for a long moment. Then, as if speaking to himself, he said, "Arthur has loyal vassals in Brittany, and I have knights in Benouic."

"The last messenger who came to me," said Archbishop Nacien, "said that Arthur was marching east, toward Dover."

Lancelot looked quickly at Guinglain. "I must leave you now, my friend. I have to travel quickly." With that he leaped on his horse and galloped away.

Guinglain watched him disappear, then turned back to the old man of prayer. "You said that Dover is east?"

Despite his weariness, Terence made one more tour of the camp's perimeter before going to bed. Two of the sentries were dozing. Terence sympathized but shook them awake anyway. Mordred's raiding parties were swift and numerous, and the king's troops couldn't let down their guard for a second. Done with his circuit, Terence trudged back toward the center of the camp.

It had been over a month since Gawain and Lancelot had met in single combat, weeks spent in near constant warfare with the White Horsemen—not in pitched battle, strength against strength, but rather in daily skirmishing. Although the early scouting reports indicated that Mordred's army was much larger than Arthur's, Mordred had avoided direct battle. Dividing his forces into smaller units, he sent them on lightning raids, trying to kill Arthur's men one by one rather than in a decisive battle.

"I wish I knew what he was getting at," Kai had grumbled after two weeks of this. "Why won't he use his superior forces?"

"Because he knows they aren't superior," Arthur had replied calmly.

"You don't think he has as many men as reported?"

"Oh, I don't doubt the numbers," said Arthur. "But as an army they would lose a pitched battle with us." Kai frowned, and the others looked confused. Arthur explained, "Who does he have in his army? Pillagers, brigands, recreants, ambitious lords who hope to gain lands and titles. All men who joined Mordred for their own benefit. What do you think such fighters will do if their own lives are in danger?"

"Run," said Terence, nodding with comprehension. "Run fast."

"And my army?"

"We stand pat," Gawain said. "To the end."

"You think Mordred doesn't know that? In direct combat, each of my men is worth two of his. So, he's adopted a brilliant strategy. Wear us down bit by bit and wait for us to make a mistake. It's the mark of a good general to know his own troops' weakness, and Mordred is nothing if not a good general."

"So what we need to do," Kai said slowly, "is provoke a full-scale battle."

"It's what I've been trying for," Arthur said. "But we need to choose the ground, an open place with solid footing, with some kind of barrier at our back so we don't have to fight on all sides. But recently I've started worrying about something else. The scouts haven't been able to find his main forces for a long time."

"You think he's drawn them back to avoid the scouts?" asked Ywain.

"I hope that's all it is," replied Arthur. "But I can't help wondering what his main army's been up to while we've been maneuvering about swatting at gnats."

Now, nearly a month after that conversation, Arthur's scouts still had no idea where the bulk of Mordred's army had gone. The king had found the spot he wanted, not far from Dover, where there was a palisade, a beach, and the sea at their back. From that position, the king's forces had waited and continued fighting off skirmishers. Until the day before, these raids had been little more than an annoyance, but yesterday the good knight Bors had been caught alone by one of these bands and killed. Now, as Terence came to Arthur's command center, he stopped for a moment and watched Bors's brother Lionel sitting alone, staring bleakly into a small fire. No two brothers had ever been more different than Bors and Lionel, or had ever depended so heavily on each other. Bors had been the moralist, Lionel the lighthearted care-for-nothing, but now all his brother's gravity had descended on Lionel, bowing his shoulders and crushing his spirits. Terence walked past Lionel, who didn't seem to notice, and entered Arthur's tent.

"All quiet for now," Terence said.

Arthur nodded. "Get some sleep."

"You first," Terence replied.

Arthur smiled faintly. "Insubordinate puppy," he said. "Who gave you the right to command your king?"

"That isn't one of the rights of knighthood?" Terence asked. "I'm new at this, you see. But I still won't go to sleep until you do."

Arthur nodded and turned back to his cot. "Bullied, that's what I am," he muttered. "But you're right."

Arthur was just climbing under the covers when Lionel stepped into the tent. "Your Highness?" he said quickly. "Envoys. From Mordred."

Arthur stood up at once, muttering, "At this hour?" Then he looked up at Lionel. "Get Kai and Gawain and anyone else you can wake. Terence, help me dress."

Terence busied himself arraying the king in garb suitable for a state visit. Then they stepped out of the tent into the firelight. Gawain and Kai were already there, and others were approaching from the darkness. Terence turned to the envoy; it was Sir Mador de la Porte.

"Sir Mador," Arthur said.

"Arthur," Sir Mador replied. Since he had never been a part of the king's inner circle, the use of Arthur's given name without his title was an obvious, calculated insult.

Arthur ignored it. "I gather you come from my son?"

"From King Mordred, yes."

Again, Arthur let the challenge pass. "And what does Mordred wish to say to me?"

"Two things," Mador replied. "First, he offers to accept your surrender."

"That's good-natured of him," the king replied gravely, "but I haven't offered it."

Mador nodded. Everyone knew this first request had been mere posturing, anyway. "As you wish. King Mordred also wished to return to you some property that he believes is yours."

"Indeed?"

Two porters approached from behind Mador, carrying a wooden box. They set it down before Mador, who opened the lid. For a moment no one moved, staring uncomprehendingly at the mangled bits of debris in the box. Then Arthur stepped forward and drew a broken piece of wood from the pile. It was smooth and intricately carved and charred on one end. All who were near enough to see it stood frozen.

"What is it?" asked someone from the back.

"It's a table leg," Arthur said. "From the Round Table. So that's where Mordred's army has been."

Mador smiled. "I told the king you'd recognize it. I think that bit you're holding is the largest piece left."

"And Camelot?" asked King Arthur. His voice was raspy.

"We didn't bring any of those bits to show you, I'm afraid," Mador said apologetically. "Even torn apart and broken in pieces, the stones were too heavy to carry."

"And what of the people who were at the castle?"

"The soldiers and guards who resisted King Mordred's rule were, naturally, executed as traitors. As for the ladies and servants, I really couldn't say. Some of them, regrettably, were killed. A pity, that. I suppose some might have escaped; we didn't count. The rest are safely with Mordred and his troops." Mador smiled blandly.

There was a sick silence in the camp. Terence stared at the splintered wood but saw only the face of his wife Eileen, who was one of Guinevere's ladies. His heart tightened, and he had to force himself to breathe. Even among the men who didn't have wives or families at Camelot, the loss of Arthur's magnificent capital was stunning.

"And Queen Guinevere?" said Arthur.

Mador reached into the box, fished around for a moment, then pulled out a torn bundle of embroidered silk. Even Terence, who seldom noticed clothing, recognized it as one of the queen's state gowns. "She's alive," Mador said reassuringly. "Indeed, King Mordred wishes to keep her so. For all her years, she's rather an attractive woman, and he's taken a fancy to her." He smiled even more broadly. "Mind you, I don't know whether he's decided to keep her as a wife or as a mistress. She has experience both ways, after all."

Arthur's right hand twitched, and for a moment Terence thought he would draw Excalibur and strike Mador down on the spot. Mador took a quick step backwards, but Arthur's hand relaxed.

Mador continued, no longer smiling. "So you see, your castle has been destroyed. Your precious table is in splinters. Your queen belongs to another. Your time is over, old man. Once again, I tell you that the true king is willing to accept your surrender. He will be waiting for your decision at two hours after sunrise just over that row of hills due west of here." With that, Mador turned abruptly and walked away, followed by his escort. Arthur and his knights stood in silence until the sound of the party's horses had died away in the distance.

"Why didn't you kill him?" demanded Kai.

"He was an ambassador," Arthur replied dully.

"An ambassador from vermin, without honor!"

"My own honor is not determined by that of my enemy," said Arthur. "Kai, get the men ready for battle. Terence, follow Mador, unseen, and see if he's telling the truth about where Mordred is. As soon as you're back, we march. And Kai, keep the preparations quiet and keep our fires burning. Let anyone watching us think we're staying here until morning."

Immediately, the crowd dispersed to begin their furtive preparations for night battle. Terence grabbed his knife and slipped off into the night, following Mador at a run. The sky was overcast, and the darkness was nearly absolute, but Terence ran at full speed anyway, avoiding loose stones and treacherous ground by an instinct that he couldn't explain but that he had learned to trust. He had complete faith in his ability to avoid tripping, even in the darkest night, so it surprised him far more than it hurt him when he sprawled face first on the ground.

"Tsk," tutted a voice at his left. "Did him faw down?"

Terence had already scrambled to his feet and whirled around, knife in hand, when the voice registered in his mind. "Robin?"

"This is how we first met," the voice said reminiscently. "Do you remember? I tripped you in the woods. It was a lovely afternoon, and you fell so beautifully."

Terence ignored the irrelevant memory. "I'm glad you're here," he gasped.

"Oh, you
say
that," Robin replied. "But then you point a nasty knife at me."

"Shut up, Robin."

"Yes, your grace."

Terence sheathed his knife. The little elf who had been his most frequent contact with the Faery World was often irritating but had always been a friend. "Where are Mordred's troops?"

"The largest body is due north of Arthur, about a half-hour for a marching army."

"Anything at all over those western hills?"

"Some lovely wildflowers. Periwinkle and—"

"I don't care about the wildflowers, Robin."

"Now, that's just sad," Robin said reproachfully. "You should listen to yourself, your grace! Sad. I say it again: sad."

Terence forced himself to take a slow breath. "Later we'll go appreciate the wildflowers together, shall we? But for now, I just wonder if there are any of Mordred's men there."

"
That's
what you want to see? I can tell you right now that Mordred's men are hardly as pleasant to look at as—"

"Robin."

"No, your grace. No soldiers to the west."

"Thank you, my friend," Terence said.

"You're welcome, my lord," Robin said, his voice suddenly husky. "And Terence? I won't forget your promise."

Terence blinked. "What promise is that?"

"The wildflowers, lad."

Terence hurried back to Arthur's camp and stopped before the king's tent, but before he could report, there came a crash from the beach behind them, then shouts, then a cry of pain. Arthur tore out of his tent, sword in hand. "They're behind us!" he called.

"No, sire!" shouted Terence. "They're north of us!"

Arthur paused, thinking. "North? You're sure?"

"Yes, sire. Someone's on the beach, but Mordred's main forces are north."

Arthur hesitated only a second, then said, "To arms! We march
north!
"

Kai appeared. "North? But the fighting's in the other direction."

"Think, Kai. There isn't room on that beach for an army. It must be a diversion. We march north, now!"

Without further question, Arthur's disciplined army began moving north. Terence caught up his horse and sword, without bothering with a saddle or armor, and fell into line with the rest. At every step the sounds of battle from the beach grew fainter. At last they ceased altogether. Gawain rode up beside him. "So who
was
that on the beach?"

"I don't know."

"Kai says all our troops are accounted for. Whoever it was, it wasn't any of our men."

Terence shrugged, and at that moment Arthur's army topped a hill and looked down onto Mordred's camp. Terence's first impression was horror—there were more men there than even the most pessimistic guesses—but then he realized that the camp was sleeping. This was not an army ready for war. Arthur had taken them by surprise.

Arthur called the charge, and so began the Battle of Dover. It was exactly what Arthur had been looking for, a chance for a pitched battle on his own terms, and Arthur's army cut Mordred's troops in half. Within an hour the White Horsemen were in full flight in every direction, and within two hours the battle was done. Terence had stayed within sight of the king, and when the last of Mordred's men had fallen or fled the field, he walked over beside him. Kai was urging him to pursue the fleeing rebels.