Sword of the Rightful King

  “They are already gone,” Arthur said.

  Kay looked up at the ceiling as if the two thieves were there. Then, not finding them, he returned to staring miserably into the fire. “They will say you are soft, Arthur.”

  “Maybe they will say I am honorable.”

  “Those two were stealing the kings horses.”

  Arthur turned and put his hands on Kay’s shoulders. “Those two did not know the horses belonged to me.”

  “They knew the horses did not belong to them,” Kay said sensibly.

  Arthur took his hands from Kay’s shoulders and walked closer to the fire. He felt a sudden chill through his body. Perhaps I was too hasty, he thought. Perhaps only a rich man can indulge in honor. Perhaps I shall never see the two of them again.

  “And now,” Kay was going on, “you have taught the people a fine lesson—that not only is it safe to steal from the king, but that a thief will be rewarded for his thievery.”

  “Only an unsuccessful thief,” Arthur said, trying to make light of the situation.

  “Arthur...”

  “I did not mean any such lesson, and you know it,” Arthur added angrily. But deep inside, he feared Kay might be right.

  EACH CLUTCHING the king’s copper, the two thieves headed north as fast as they could. By evening, alternately walking and trotting, they were thirteen miles along the road.

  At a crossroads Will gave up his copper to his uncle, but not without a hot word, which only served to get him a bruised cheek in addition to the black eyes. The two were standing toe-to-toe in the middle of the road, arguing, which was why they didn’t hear the man on horseback coming.

  By the time they were aware of him, it was too late. He had ridden them down, leaped from his black horse, and—holding his sword at the ready—dared them to stand and deliver.

  “We have naught to give you, my lord,” said James, holding out his empty hands to the fair-haired stranger, for both coins had already been secreted in his shoe.

  “I know you have copper coins,” the man said. “Indeed the entire village of Cadbury knows.”

  “How do they know, my lord?” asked Will, but his uncle laughed bitterly.

  “Rumor goes on wings; the truth limps after,” James said.

  The fair-haired stranger almost smiled at that. Then he came to the point. “I will trade you those copper coins for silver—and a dagger.”

  “That is no trade,” young Will said, “but an angel’s gift.”

  “What murder would you have us do?” James asked, bluntly, for in his experience nothing paid so well in this world.

  “‘Murder,’ Uncle?” Will was appalled.

  This time the stranger threw his head back and laughed. “Fair question,” he said. “And if I spoke murder, would you quail at it?”

  “Depends,” James said, wiping his hands on his coarse tunic.

  “On what?” asked the stranger.

  “On the person to be killed,” James said.

  “I will none of this,” the boy said. “Thievery is one thing, but my mam would kill me if I turned to murder.” He headed off down the road.

  The stranger looked after him with calculating eyes, but the boy did not see this, or he would have returned at once.

  Meanwhile, James had bent down and gotten the two copper coins out of his shoe. He held them to the stranger, who was once more looking at him. “My honor, lord.”

  The stranger put a hand to his leather pocket and extracted two gold coins. “And mine.”

  “So to this bloody business, then?”

  “No blood at all. I have a dagger given me from the Far East, a magnificent thing that only a king should own. But I do not want Arthur knowing it comes from me until later. And there is none,” the fair man said, “in Cadbury who can keep a secret.”

  “And I?” James asked.

  “You have lately been with the king. He will know to trust you if your story be well told.”

  James smiled. “A gold coin will guarantee I be the greatest teller Cadbury has ever known.”

  The fair-haired man smiled, though his eyes did not. “I am sure of it.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a silk-wrapped packet containing the dagger.

  “Can I see it?” James asked.

  “Not till you unwrap it for the king,” said the fair-hair stranger.

  “And what guarantee do you have that I do not just run off and sell the bloody thing?”

  “What guarantee do you have that I not kill you on the spot?” There was no animosity in the threat, just a bare promise. “As I have found you here, I can find you anywhere, should you betray this trust. And unlike the king”—the man smiled broadly this time—“I do not care who likes me.”

  Gulping, James took the silk packet. “The king shall have the dagger by the morrow.”

  THE NEXT DAY, Arthur was once more sitting at his desk, struggling with a piece of parchment and words that did not fit as easily on the page as in his mouth. He slammed his pen down. “Get me some ale. By the rood, this is thirsty work.”

  Sitting by his side, Gawen smiled. “You make it harder, sire, than it ever need be. Just form the words in your head and let your hand take care of itself.”

  “You sound like my old master of the sword,” growled Arthur, remembering the grizzled man with affection.

  “It is the same principle,” Gawen said, and went out for the ale.

  While the boy was gone, Arthur tried to think of the pen as a sword, making it work on its own while he merely thought the words. Then the pen broke, splattering the few words already on the page with splotches of ink.

  Arthur got up, picked up another pen, and went to stand by the fire. As he used to do with his wooden sword, long before the master of swords let him hold the real thing, he held the pen lightly and concentrated on not concentrating. The pen made words in the air. Good words. Solid words.

  Suddenly he remembered that it had taken many long months of wooden swordplay before he had been ready for the steel.

  “But damn it, I wanted the real sword and I do not want the pen,” he told the fire. “Besides, I have scribes who can do my writing for me.” He longed to call one in. He knew what Gawen would say: He had soldiers who could do his fighting for him as well. He did not understand why, but he wanted the boy to think well of him.

  “Where is that ale!” he shouted, looking longingly at the door of the throne room and willing it to open.

  And open it did.

  A guard poked his head in. “Sire, that thief is back. The old one. The one you gave the copper to.”

  Arthur was stunned. How many in Cadbury knew about that copper? And then he shook his head. Hadn’t he wanted it known? Wanted his people to think him a good king, a magnanimous king? “Why is he here?”

  “He says he does not need to wait a year; he has to show you something.” The guard hesitated. “It is a dagger, Majesty. I do not advise seeing him.”

  “Take the dagger; send him in,” Arthur said, thinking, I might be magnanimous, but I am not stupid.

  James came in and went on one knee. “My king.”

  “Back so soon?” Arthur asked. “Or do royal years run somewhat longer than yours?”

  “I have already made a profit on your copper, sire, and thought you should know,” the man said, though his voice seemed somewhat sinister, or at least not inspiring much confidence.

  “Stand up, man. I hate talking to the tops of people’s heads,” Arthur said.

  James stood. “Can I show you?”

  Arthur shook his head. “Any man can make a onetime profit. My task to you was to make the profit last the year.”

  “But this concerns... my honor, sire,” wheedled James.

  Arthur realized that the man, like so many of those who sought his aid, would not go away easily. Better to find out what this amazing profit was, then send him off. He expected within the year that James would be in the dungeon or swinging from a tree somewhere, but that young Will would hav
e bought his mother a farm. He would stake his own honor on that. “Then show me.”

  “It was the dagger, sire. The one I was not allowed to bring in.”

  The man was tiresome. He brought to mind that fat lady of means, the one with the dead cat. Arthur went back to his desk and sat down heavily. “Very well, call the guard in.”

  James went, got the guard, and on the kings instruction was given the silken-wrapped dagger.

  “Bring it here and let me see,” said Arthur.

  GAWEN WAS just coming up the stairs from the kitchen with the mug of ale for the king, when Gawaine and his brothers came galloping down. Agravaine bumped heavily into Gawen, causing the ale to spill.

  “Here there!” Gawen cried. “That’s for the king.”

  “Let me brush it where it’s spilled,” Gawaine said, in way of apology, starting to run his hand over Gawen’s tunic.

  All of Gawen’s long-held hatred of the prince roiled to the fore. “No need. No need.” Gawen turned away violently, and at that very moment, there was shouting beyond the king’s door.

  The guard hastily flung the door open, and Gawen and the guard and the four sons of the North Witch could see the king being set upon by a man with a large jeweled dagger in his hand. It was the man, not the king, who was shouting. Oddly, what he was saying was, “Stop it! Bloody hell! Stop it!” as he struck at the king over and over.

  “Sire!”

  Gawaine and Agravaine dashed in, edging the guard aside. Gawen was right behind them. The twins remained at the door, juggling to see what was happening.

  None of the boys had a weapon, and the guards lance was for show only, not battle, but Arthur was already keeping the assassin away with—of all things—the sharp edge of his pen.

  The man kept striking at him, over and over, clumsily, as if the dagger were doing the ill work and not the hand. Still, those strikes kept getting closer and closer.

  At the last, Arthur aimed his pen like an arrow and flung it as hard as he could right into the assassins face. It hit him in the left eye, and he toppled, just as the deer had done two days before, screaming in agony on the floor. Still his hand and the dagger tried to strike out at a now-unseen enemy.

  Gawen ran to the king, who was red-faced and breathing hard, beads of sweat running down his face.

  “Sit, Arthur,” Gawen said. The use of the kings name lent the command some force, and Arthur sat.

  Gawaine kicked the dagger from the man’s hand, and it spun around three times widdershins, resting near the fire. At the same time, Agravaine, his face a fury, swung his foot up and crunched down on the old thief’s face, sending the pen straight through into his brain.

  “Stop!” Gawen cried. “The mage will want to speak to him.”

  But it was too late. The thief was dead.

  And later, when they went to retrieve the dagger, it had vanished.

  All that was left was a gold coin in James’s hand, minted somewhere on the Continent.

  “THE DAGGER was enchanted, of course,” said Merlinnus afterward. “It used the man and not the other way around.”

  Arthur nodded. He was lying on his bed, though he did not feel a bit sleepy. The infirmarer had insisted on his resting. He had made Arthur drink a posset, which tasted like the sort of thing Sir Ector’s wife had brewed up when he was a child and could not sleep.

  “Who but the North Queen could have made such a spell?” Kay asked.

  “Any of a half-dozen mages from the Far East, I suspect,” Merlinnus said. “Though I agree it was probably she.”

  “Could you?” Kay was in the mood to challenge everyone and everything. The face of the dead man, with the pen through the eye, would not leave him.

  “Why should I?”

  “Arrrr!” Kay turned his back to Merlinnus and spoke to Arthur. “It was all your own fault, you know.”

  Arthur shrugged. “Of course it was. All of it. From start to finish. That I admit. But nothing happened. I am fine. No harm done. Except to poor old James there. And now we must think about what this all means. How this man could have been corrupted by Morgause. How he found that dagger—or was given it. And if given it, then by whom?”

  Kay added quickly, “And why the North Queens boys came in when they did. And why Agravaine killed the man before we could talk to him. And—”

  Merlinnus quickly intruded. “All good questions. Some of which I will try to answer myself. But now, Kay, I think Arthur needs his sleep. Though you might stand guard yourself this night.”

  “That I will!” Kay said. He turned and went to the door, looking over his shoulder. “That I will!” Then he went out.

  Arthur tried to sit up. “A good move, that. It will make him feel useful.”

  “I know, I know,” Merlinnus said, pushing him back down on the bed. “And, Arthur—I was not fooling about sleep. The infirmarer has given you enough syrup of aloe in that posset to put a horse down. So let it take effect, or you will be regretting it in the morning.”

  Arthur yawned. “I am already regretting it.” But he lay back on the bed like a small, bidden child, the smell of violets around him. The infirmarer had sprinkled his pillow with dried flowers known to bring uninterrupted sleep. In minutes the king was snoring.

  BUT MERLINNUS did not sleep that night. Long he looked into his books of magic, his scrying mirror, and the various parchments on which he had made notes about spells. He hummed through his nose as he read, and he coughed and hawked up sputum, wiping his nose and mouth again and again on his voluminous sleeves.

  Soon the floor was littered with things the mage had read and discarded. Gawen kept trying to pick them up and place them carefully away.

  “Go to bed, boy,” Merlinnus said at last. “You are making too much of a fuss for my liking. Magic needs silence and contemplation.”

  Gawen knew better than to point out that Merlinnus himself was a roomful of noise. Instead, shutting the door, Gawen went down the stairs, not to sleep but to relieve Kay at the kings door.

  Merlinnus did not even hear Gawen go. He was too deep in thought.

  “I know Morgause is behind the attack,” he muttered. “I am certain of it.” But he could not figure out how she did it. A dagger that wields the man instead of the other way around? Quite a piece of wizardry, that. He had to admire the skill behind it, even as he hated the maker.

  But his own skill was greater, as she would soon find out.

  And, as Arthur himself had said, no harm done. The assassin died, the king slept, and a larger magic was about to be unfolded.

  When the sun rose, the old mage went to bed. No wiser, but wise enough.

  IV

  PRINCE’S DANGER/KING’S HAND

  Now the sun on the churchyard floor made the slate look like water. The stone with its hard prow and metal rudder seemed some alien boat afloat on a grey sea. Where the boat was headed, though, no one seemed to know. Or care.

  22

  The Marvel

  THE NEXT DAY a marvel was discovered.

  A shepherd named Tom, going after three of his missing sheep, stumbled into the high tor. He went at first daylight; he would never have ventured in otherwise. The small wonder was that he returned, with the sheep and all his wits. Especially because he’d so few of them before, or so ran the gossip. He returned as well with a tale of a greater wonder inside the vaulted chamber.

  “A stone,” he said, “with a sword sticking out of it, like a knife in butter. A sword. Fit for a king. And words.”

  The people in the town laughed at that description and they puzzled about the words, but like Tom, they could not read, so how were they to know what was meant?

  Tom was not the sharpest man in the crowd, but he was smart enough to tell his wife and she went directly to the priest about the discovery. The priest, in turn, was quick enough to tell a guard, who was interested enough to mention it to the captain, who was intrigued enough to tell Sir Kay, who, as always, told everything to the king. Along the way Tom, his
wife, the priest, the guard, and the captain let bits of the marvel loose into the ears of the people of Cadbury until all the castle and the village was abuzz with it.

  WHEN KAY REPORTED what had been told him by the captain, Arthur turned his grey gaze toward the ceiling as if all the answers to life were written there. He had slept well, almost—so he thought—like the dead. Then he crossed himself quickly, in case such thoughts brought bad luck. He doubted Kay had slept at all. “Let us go and see this great wonder.”

  “It might be a trick,” Kay said.

  “Of course it is a trick,” Arthur answered. “But I still want to see it. We will go in force. A guard of fifteen, I think, plus Cassius.”

  “Do I send for the mage?” asked Kay. “We could use his protection.”

  Arthur shook his head. “The last person I want on this little trip is the wizard. But his boy can come.”

  Kay waited for him to explain further. When he did not, Kay bowed and went to form the party. He did not always agree with Arthur, but he knew when not to push.

  So he found the captain of the castle guard, Cassius of the White Hand, so known because he had been wounded badly in a battle as a young soldier and his hand had almost bled out to white before it was tended to. Kay instructed Cassius on the particulars of the mission.

  The captain nodded and was quick to gather fifteen of his best men.

  Next Kay went to the kitchen, where he suspected he might find Gawen.

  “Ye’ve just missed he,” said Cook. “Carrying and fetching for the old man.”

  “A big tray of stuff,” added one of the boys, a snuffling truant with a missing front tooth. “He will be slow a-stairs.”

  Kay turned on his heel and left at a run. He caught up with Gawen on the last set of steps, the ones up to the mage’s tower.