RIDING TO THE GREEN TRUNK, I WAS SO EAGER AND anxious: It felt as if I were making the whole journey while holding my breath.
But after I promised my mother I’d come to Catmole soon, very soon; after she reassured me she’d be waiting for me, and stepped away into the gloom so lightly…
I felt very strong as I rode to Gortanore. And very tired too. I didn’t want any more to happen! Twice, I almost fell asleep in the saddle.
Haket, Lord Stephen’s priest, was right when he told me many people behave like animals. I’ve seen that for myself. But surely he was wrong in saying none of us can enter Jerusalem until everyone is truly Christian in word and deed.
Jesus was merciful. He died on the cross to redeem my sins.
And Sir Perceval, Sir Galahad, and Sir Bors: They quested in the wilderness, and suffered, and achieved the Holy Grail not for themselves but for each of us.
Sister Cika told me Saracens and Jews believe a person who saves the life of another saves the whole world. I believe that too.
I believe each of us can make a difference.
It’s people like Wido and Godard and Giff, following each other like cattle, never questioning, never thinking for themselves, becoming numb to bloodshed and other people’s pain, who turn our world into a wasteland.
Sir John’s right. Each person does have his own position, her own duties—in a family, a manor, a kingdom. But what I want at Catmole is one fellowship. One ring of trust. I want everyone in the manor to know we all need each other and each one of us makes a difference.
That doesn’t mean there won’t be cheating and complaints and arguments and rivalries and anger. Of course there will.
But there are all kinds of ways of preventing and punishing without spilling blood, aren’t there?
That boy in the mangonel, and the Venetian whose nose I sheared off, and Nasir and Zangi and the women with no names: Not one day passes without my seeing them.
I think I was wrong to threaten Thomas and Maggot with hanging. I knew it the moment I said it. After Sir John struck off Lankin’s left hand, all Caldicot suffered and festered for a long time.
Sometimes I think how Saladin could easily have killed the Christian pilgrims who journeyed to the Holy Land, but he chose what was honorable and much more difficult: He gave them safe passage.
My stone! My seeing stone!
I’ve seen in it my own thoughts and feelings. All I hope to be; all I must never be.
I’ve seen my mother in it. And Tom, and Winnie, and Serle, and Merlin…
But the last time I looked, I couldn’t see anything in my stone at all.
King Arthur has gone into the hill.
“Without you, what will become of me?” Sir Bedivere cried.
What will become of him?
And Sir Lancelot! Will he sail back from France after he hears Sir Gawain’s letter?
What will happen to the half-moon, lying on her back—the shining rock crystal with the names of all the knights cut round the rim?
What will happen to Queen Guinevere?
There’s so much to discuss now with Tom and Lady Alice.
About Winnie, of course, but before that we have to divide Sir William’s land and livestock and belongings. Tom hasn’t seen the manor in Champagne; he has never left the Middle March. And I’ve never seen Catmole.
“Why don’t you ride over there first?” Lady Alice said. “Before we bloat our heads with arrangements and numbers and duties and everything.”
“On my own?”
“You’re ready, aren’t you? You’ve proved yourself.” Lady Alice smiled. “They’re waiting to welcome you.”
“Do you know,” I said, “just before he died he slung an arm round my shoulders?”
“Who?” Tom asked.
“Sir William. It’s the only time he ever did anything like that.” I shook my head. “Even then, it may just have been because I was walking too fast!”
“Oh Arthur!” said Lady Alice. She touched my right cheek. “Only you would say that.”
“Anyhow, he was complaining about all the delays and arguments in Zara, and about being sixty-eight, and maybe not…not seeing you again. And then he began to talk about Catmole. I can remember exactly what he said:
“‘The river in loops. The shapely mound, yes, the manormound, and the greenness of the green in the water-meadows. I’d be glad to ride there again, boy.’”
The three of us leaned forward a little and looked steadily at one another. Then Tom laid his right hand over Lady Alice’s hand, and I laid my left hand over Tom’s.
We drew ourselves up and smiled.
“It’s a strange name,” said Tom. “Catmole.”
“Not really,” I replied.
I remembered how I said “Catmole, Catmole” to myself over and again, almost three years ago now, and how all the letters began to seethe: catmole, catmole…cometale…mot…malecot…elmcoat…comelat…camelot…
Camelot!
“Good!” Lady Alice said. “It’s decided, then. I’ll send a messenger.”
“Not Thomas,” I said.
“Certainly not!” Lady Alice exclaimed. “I’ve told Thomas and Maggot not to go anywhere near the place, and they know what will happen if they do.”
Tom drew his forefinger across his throat, and grinned.
“They’ve got work to do for you here, haven’t they?” Lady Alice asked.
“Did they tell you?” I asked.
“What work?” asked Tom.
“I told them to find Emrys’s bones,” I said. “Before I do.”
“They asked me to tell you they can help you…,” Lady Alice began.
“That’s what they always say.”
“…and give you what you wanted.”
“Oh!”
“Yes,” Lady Alice said very brightly. “A messenger. I’ll send myself! I’ll ride over to Catmole early, and tell everyone you’re coming.”