Drilling the King
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We were dressed as peasant farmers—coarse brown linen, sandals, and cropped hair. But clothes do not make the man; the spirit does. King Arthur looked the part, but he couldn't act it to save his life.
He strode with a martial, lordly port. He looked at the horizon, not the ground. I had to drill him, or we would be discovered at the first hut we entered.
"Sire," I said, "you betray too much vigor. You must learn the trick of misery. The cares of a kingdom do not stoop the shoulders, but the sordid cares of the lowly born do. Try to walk like this."
I demonstrated a shamble, a look of fear and submission.