It was still a misunderstanding. Like the traveler without luggage, he had finally found it, the little place where he could grow old in peace. Lost on the shores of the Mediterranean, bathed in sunshine and the colors of the great South, humble among the humble, he tanned goat skins there. But the curse that always follows the fault would catch up with him and the installation of the Saxon people on the sacred land of Logres would unleash the furious wind of the gods and trigger his recall in the kingdom he thought he had left without return. We are in 484, it is ten years since Arthur Pandragon fled Brittany, then Rome; ten years since Lancelot, who succeeded him in power, made his capture his new quest, at the same time as he was ruining the kingdom of his exactions and his taxes to pay the Saxon mercenaries with whom he made reign the terror there ;ten years since the Knights of the Round Table, now a heap of ashes, have been hiding, Excalibur freezes in its rock around which
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