Their sides were slick and the animal reek hung in the sluggish, cool air sharper than the smell of earth. The open cart jerked and creaked along. He wondered if he might not have done better to walk. The cold water splashed over his hood and spattered his reddened face. The heavy-bearded monk, face obscure in the shadow of his full cowl, held the reins with chapped fingers. His long body swayed with each lurch and tilt as they moved across the open, rolling, flooded fields through the oppressive, unrelieved gray daylight… “King Arthur’s been dead over a year’s time,” the monk was just saying as the cart labored through a grove of bedraggled, autumnal apple trees. “As long as that?” Broaditch reflected, without great interest. “Over a year’s time, brother,” the other confirmed. “And you say you seek the famous knight Parsival of the Grail? But what can your business be with such a one?” Broaditch cracked his big knuckles.
