The Bright Sword

by Lev Grossman

“A king has to master a country. He couldn’t even master himself. And I’ll tell you something else, it wasn’t Frankish gold in that baggage train, those coins were minted in Cameliard, which means the Eastbrooks. The queen’s family.” No one knew what to say to that. “There’s six keels of Mordred’s Saxons still running up and down the east coast,” said King Cole. He shifted in his chair, trying to ease a gouty foot. “Who’s going to pay them now?” “There’s always money in the monasteries,” Scipio said, “if you shake them hard enough.” “You would plunder the church to pay heathens?” the archbishop of Caerleon said. “Just sell some more indulgences, you old fraud! If God doesn’t like it He shouldn’t’ve left all those gold reliquaries lying around.” “Enough.” Bedivere massaged his forehead as if he had a sudden headache. He must get tired of being the grown-up in the room, Collum thought. “We won today, but the next army of any size that turns up at Camelot will take it. We must act.” “Pray,” the papal legate said. “God’s not listening,” Constantine said. “Another quest then,” the archbishop of Caerleon quavered. “You could find the Holy Lance, no one’s ever found that!” “There are no adventures left in Britain,” Bedivere said.