“The horse and burro would have trouble getting here,” protested Diane. “All those stairs.”
“Then I’ll go and see them.”
“You know, sire, you must not exert yourself.”
He grumbled at her with mumbling words. He said to Duncan, “This is what happens when a man grows old. You can’t exert yourself. You can’t walk to the water closet. You must squat upon a pot to pee. You must move slowly and you must remain in bed. You must eat soft foods because your gut will not handle honest meat. You must be sparing with the wine. You must do not a single thing that you may enjoy, but many that you don’t.”
“In a short while,” said Duncan, “it would be my hope and prayer that you’ll again be doing all the things you most enjoy. But you must take what care you can…”
“You’re in league with her,” Cuthbert accused him. “Everyone is in league with her. She can twist a strong man about her little finger. Look at her, the hussy, all that golden hair and the way she bats her eyes.”
“You know, sire,” said Diane sharply, “that I never bat my eyes. And if your behavior does not improve considerably I shall cook you up a mess of greens and feed them to you for supper. And see you eat them, too.”
“You see,” Cuthbert said to Duncan. “A man hasn’t got a chance. Especially should he grow old. Take care you do not advance beyond the age of thirty. And now suppose you tell me about your little band and this great battle.”
“We would not have survived the battle,” Duncan said, “had it not been for Diane and her griffin and the Wild Huntsman…”
“Ah, the Huntsman–a stout fellow, that one. I well remember the time…” He speared Duncan with a sharp glance. “Don’t tell me you’re the Huntsman. A close relative, perhaps, but surely not the Huntsman. You can’t fool me with your tales. I know the Huntsman. You can’t palm yourself off…”
“Sire,” said Diane, “I told you of this gentleman. He’s not the Huntsman nor did he claim to be. You’re imagining again. Duncan Standish is the scion of a great house in the north.”
“Yes, yes,” said Cuthbert, “now I do recall. The Standish, you say. The Standish, yes, I have heard of them. If you are of that house, what are you doing here? Why did you not tarry in the safety of the north, behind the castle walls?”
“I go with messages to Oxenford,” said Duncan.
“Oxenford? Oxenford. Yes, I know of Oxenford. A great company of distinguished scholars. I have friends in Oxenford.”
He let his head drop back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Duncan looked questioningly at Diane and she signaled patience.
After a time the wizard stirred on the pillows, opened his eyes and hauled himself into a more upright position. He looked at Duncan.
“You’re still here,” he said. “I thought you might have left. You sat throughout my nap. You must excuse me, sir. Unaccountably, at times, I fall into these little naps.”
“You feel better now, sire?”
“Yes, much better now. Diane told me you had a question for me.”
“It’s about the Horde of Evil. My archbishop told me…”
“And what archbishop might that be?”
“His Grace of Standish Abbey.”
“A fuddy-duddy,” said the wizard. “A blathering fuddy-duddy. Do you not agree?”
“At times I have thought him so.”
“And what does he say of the Horde of Evil?”
“Very little, sire. He knows not what it is. He believes it feeds on human misery and that the devastations, which come at regular intervals, may be periods when it rejuvenates itself.”
“You would have me tell you what the Evil is?”
“If you know, sire.”
“Of course I know. What do you think I and my band of now-dead brethren have been doing all these years? The answer, of course, is that we have been performing many tasks and digging deep for truth. In the course of our work we have not ignored the Evil. What would you know of it?”
“What it is, sire. Where it came from. Where did it start?”
“It came here from the stars,” the wizard said. “This we do know. Why it came we are not certain. It may have been driven from the stars by a stronger force against which it could not stand. Or it may have run so rampant in its rapacity among the stars that there was nothing left for it to feed upon and so, rather than face starvation, it sought out another world and by pure chance, or perhaps not so much by chance, came upon this poor world of ours, where it found the teeming life that could provide the misery that it needed to feed upon and grow. Apparently it has done well here. With the weight of this world’s misery it has increased in strength and numbers with the passing of each century. If something is not done soon it will swallow all the life of Earth and then, perhaps, be forced to go again among the stars to seek another world.
“It came here an untold time ago. Of the years that it’s been here, we have no measure. When man arose, with his greater capacity for misery–a greater capacity than our friends, the beasts, although they, too, can suffer misery–it began to reap a richer harvest and in consequence has waxed the fatter, and now there seems but little prospect that it can be stopped or stood against. That is why I treasure so greatly the stand you made against it, the evidence that there are men who still will stand fast against it, with no fear in their hearts.”
“But you are wrong,” said Duncan. “I did have fear.”
“And yet you stood.”
“Sire, there was nothing else to do. We had no place to run.”
“You’re a truthful man,” the wizard said. “It takes a truthful man, and a courageous one, to confess the fear within him. But, then, you are a puissant warrior.”
“That I’m not,” said Duncan. “Trained in arms, of course, but until this journey I had never drawn a blade in anger. Rather, I am a farmer. I’m much more interested in growing better beef and mutton, raising better crops…”
“It is well,” said Cuthbert. “Britain, and the world, has need of farmers such as you. More need, perhaps, than for those who can wield a mighty blade. And yet, also, you are proficient with the blade.”
He said to Diane, “Greens, you say. I will not eat your greens. Greens and pottage and sometimes gruel, that is all you ever feed me.” He said to Duncan, “How can you expect a man to keep up his strength with such hog slop as that?”
Duncan said, “It may be that your stomach…”
“What does a minx like her know of a grown man’s stomach? Meat, that’s what I need. Good red meat, not done to a crisp, but pink throughout and with blood upon the trencher.”
“I fed you meat,” Diane reminded him, “and you threw it up.”
“Badly cooked,” he said. “Very badly cooked. Give me a properly cooked haunch of beef or a saddle of mutton and…”
His mind seemed to jump. He said to Duncan, “You asked me another question. What was it, now?”
“I had another question. Several other questions. But I had not asked them yet. My archbishop…”
“So, we’re back to that old woman of a churchman once again.”
“He said that the devastations the Evil causes may be for the purpose of rejuvenation, setting up an area where there will be no interference in their rejuvenation procedure. That there they grow in strength, and perhaps in numbers, so they’ll be ready for more centuries of their evil-doing.”
“I’ve heard the theory,” said the wizard, “and in certain instances there may be some truth in it, although it seems more likely that the devastations serve another purpose, probably designed to block developments that might, in the long run, improve the lot of mankind.
“In this instance, in this present devastation, I am certain that the devastation is not for rejuvenation if, in fact, it ever is. This time the Evil is running very scared. It is frightened of something that will happen. It is gathering its forces to prevent the happening. And yet, for some reason, the Evil appears very much confused, uncertain of itself, as if some unforeseen event had come about that makes all its planning go for naught.
“I was pleased, to tell you the truth, when the devastation started in this area, for now, I told myself, it would be easier to study it at firsthand rather than from old records and the observations of others, who may not have been as accurate in what they had written down as might be desirable. Here was the chance of a lifetime for such a one as I, but I was hampered greatly by the lack of trusty associates. I told myself, however, that I could do the work alone, for I had many years of experience in such a labor. So I worked on it…”