Sword of the Rightful King

  “There’s to be an expedition,” he said stiffly. “You’re to come.”

  Gawen turned those blue eyes on him. “An expedition?”

  “Into the tor.”

  “At whose behest?”

  Kay opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, like a trout out of water. He was not used to being questioned by boys. “The king’s.”

  Nodding, Gawen said, “I’ll tell Merlinnus.”

  Kay leaned forward. “The king says not to bother him.”

  “But—”

  “King’s orders,” Kay said, laying a finger to the side of his nose and winking. It was his way of pulling Gawen into his small conspiracy.

  “I have to tell him.” There was steel in the boy’s voice, which surprised Kay.

  “Best not,” Kay returned.

  “He will know, anyway. He always does.” Gawen’s usually open face seemed to shut down. “You do not want to anger a wizard.”

  “You do not want to anger the king,” said Kay.

  They stood toe-to-toe, glaring peevishly at each other, when the tower door suddenly flew open. Merlinnus peered out. “Is that my breakfast?” he asked in a wavering voice.

  “Merlinnus.” Gawen turned. “There is an expedition—”

  “I am not well today,” the old man said, waving a hand at them. “Go in my place, child. Tell the king.”

  Gawen went up the last of the stairs, handed the mage the tray, closed the door quietly, then turned to gaze down at Kay.

  Kay stared back.

  They both had triumphant looks on their faces, but neither one spoke a word more as they hurried down the stairs to meet with the king.

  THE SOLDIERS CAME behind the king and Kay and Gawen, marching in the old Roman style: two straight lines, counting off as they went. Captain Cassius marched with them. The counting was to show they were fearless, or so they would have their enemies believe.

  The first four were bowmen; the rest carried spears and swords. Over their outer tunics, they wore their fighting leather tunics, and over that each wore a coat of mail with a leather belt at the waist.

  If the captain had had his way, there would have been double that number of men, but Arthur had refused.

  “We are not at war,” Arthur said.

  “We are always at war,” said Cassius, but Arthur chose not to hear him.

  Behind the soldiers came a ragtag company of townsfolk, all willing enough to venture a ways up the tor, but not into it. They knew all about the tor and its magic. A man might fall into the place, but to go there a-purpose took more courage than any of them was willing to own.

  The tor was slumped on one side, and covered sparsely with grass and sheep droppings. Every few yards was another slide of rocky scree. A single huge oak stood at the top, gnarled and bent with age and the constant wuthering of the wind. Halfway up the tor was the entrance to a cave, for this was a hollow hill, a lonely place, reeking with dark power.

  “Fairy Gate,” whispered Kay, who actually would never have dared go in on his own. It was not that he was afraid of magic or the unknown; he had a positive fear of tight, enclosed spaces. Even the twice-yearly celebrations to Mithras in the dungeon made him queasy.

  Several of the guards were as nervous as Kay, but for different reasons. Yet they did not have the freedom to say so. One man, a hero of three battles, turned the color of whey as they entered the mouth of the cave. But he did not complain. To do so would have meant daring his captain’s scorn, or his fellows’.

  The soldiers, the king, Sir Kay, and young Gawen went in.

  The townspeople stayed outside.

  Clouds covered the sun and all the signs were for rain, but rain did not come.

  23

  Sword in the Stone

  INSIDE THE TOR Arthur led the way as if he knew where to go. No one remarked upon it, but Arthur knew what they must be thinking: that his kingship gave him the ability to find his way through the maze of tunnels. That, or God’s favor.

  Only he knew the truth. He was not king because he had the heart and the mind to be so. He was not king because he had taken the throne by stealth or might. He was king because of magic. Because Merlinnus willed it.

  And he knew the way through the cave because Merlinnus had drawn him a map, which he had studied long night after night.

  Arthur kept going forward—directly, swiftly, surely—into the cavern, where the sword in the stone waited, that bit of legerdemain that would confirm for all time his right to the throne.

  Everyone would believe it.

  Everyone but Arthur himself.

  He ground his teeth and went on.

  CAVES DID NOT trouble Gawen. On the trip down the coast to Cadbury, caves had been the safest places to stay in. Besides, Gawen—along with Arthur—understood the real reason for the expedition into the tor.

  The soldiers knew only of the wonder. And the worry about keeping the king safe. Gawen knew the whole story and was there, surely, to be Merlinnus’ eyes and ears.

  Besides, Gawen had already been in the cavern with the king and Merlinnus and knew there was nothing to fear. Gawen also understood why Merlinnus had acted as if he were too sick to go along. The less people associated the old wizard with the sword-stone thing, the more they would believe the legend on its side. Oh, they would know it for magic, but not the maker. Better so, Gawen thought. Much better so.

  As they walked through a darkness that was lit only by the flickering of torches, Gawen thought of the words to be used later to describe the place to Merlinnus: words like cold, damp, dank, gloomy, murky.

  Should I mention that the shadows of the marching soldiers seem lumpy and dwarfish, capering along the sloping walls?

  Should I say the cave smells of rot and doom, a heavy, musky stink? Gawen shrugged. Probably some of that was really the reek of sheep droppings. And the sweat of fear.

  I can describe the sounds, too, Gawen thought. Merlinnus will like that. I can say that though the men have given up on their marching count, there is a constant shuffle of feet. Now and again someone coughs, or clears a throat. It all echoes in a muffled sort of way.

  Smiling, Gawen realized, I could make a story of it. Or a song. But Gawen had little talent for either.

  THEY CAME to the center cavern, and there, as the shepherd had promised, was the wonder itself.

  Arthur smiled tightly. Certainly coming upon it through the winding tunnels without Merlinnus by his side lent the stone a certain majesty.

  A collective sigh ran around the vaulted room as the men surrounded the object. For a long moment no one moved toward it. Even Captain Cassius was cautious.

  It was Kay who finally walked up to the stone and put his left hand on it, carefully, as if fearing the stone might be searing hot with magic. His right hand—the one that held the torch aloft—did not waver.

  Arthur had never been so proud of him. He knew that Kay hated caves, had always refused to explore them when they were boys. Kay was probably sweating profusely and glad that it was too dark for the men to notice. But his right hand and the torch were rock steady.

  When nothing seemed to happen to Kay or his hand, he bent over and held the torch close to the legend, speaking the words out loud to the men, most of whom could not read.

  ‘“Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone is rightwise king born of all Britain.’” Kay straightened up and cocked his head at Arthur. “But you already are...”

  “... king of all Britain,” Arthur finished for him. “I know.”

  The men grumbled their agreement.

  “But clearly this is meant to be one last test,” Arthur said, pointing at the stone.

  “Never heard of such a—” Kay began.

  “A test is never to be shirked,” Arthur said, his voice strong, regal, forbidding argument.

  “Then, sire, put your hand to the sword,” Cassius urged.

  “Not here, my good captain. Not now,” Kay shook his head vigorously.

  Arthur a
greed at once. “Not here,” he said, “where none but us can see it. Not now, without proper preparation.”

  When it was clear no one knew what Arthur meant, Kay added, in a voice made louder by the echoing cave, “The king needs to go to church and to confession and... and then in full public gaze, so that all men might see, he will take this final test and pull the sword.” He touched the sword with his right forefinger, letting it travel languidly partway down the hilt. “He will.”

  “Not here and not now,” Arthur interrupted, running a hand through his hair, “for I need to think about this.” Though he had done all his thinking already.

  GAWEN WENT OVER to the king and smiled up at him, saying softly so that only the two of them could hear, “The stone does have majesty, Majesty.”

  The king smiled crookedly.

  “But the cavern feels somewhat like a set for traveling players,” Gawen added.

  “I expect only you and I feel that way,” Arthur replied, leaning over. “Look around. What do you see?” Gawen looked at the soldiers and at Kay. “People beguiled.”

  The king nodded.

  “But then, they have given themselves to the idea of majesty already, sire, which is itself a kind of ensorcellment,” Gawen said. “I mean no disrespect.”

  “How old is that head on your young shoulders?” asked Arthur.

  Older than you know, Gawen thought, different than you can ever guess, but did not say it aloud, adding, “I expect all kingship is wizardry.”

  Arthur turned and stared at Gawen. “What do you mean by that?” His voice was not sharp, but still probing.

  “I mean that people need to believe in their leaders and their laws for the things to work,” Gawen said. “And that is certainly a kind of magic.”

  “Ah.” Arthur breathed, then put a hand to his chin and stared at the stone. “I think that is what Merlinnus has been trying to tell me. I wish he would speak plain.”

  Gawen laughed. “Then he would not be a wizard!”

  Arthur laughed as well and Kay, unable to bear being left out of the conversation, came over to hear the joke. When neither of them could explain it to him, he got a huffy look on his face.

  Immediately Arthur put his arm around his stepbrothers shoulders. “Kay, I never saw a braver thing than when you stepped up and clapped your hand on that stone.”

  “Really? Never?” Kays face lost its huffy look.

  Gawen stepped back into the shadows. There were times and places that could not and should not be intruded upon.

  24

  Courtyard

  THEY SENT BACK to the castle for a cart, which took well over three hours. Since neither of the two big dray horses could be persuaded into the high tor, the guards themselves had to drag the wagon in, set the heavy stone onto the cart, and then haul it out again.

  By the time the horses were rehitched to the cart, stomping their enormous feet, it was nearing supper.

  And by the time the creaking cart with its heavy burden was at the castle, it was past time for eating.

  “Put the stone in the throne room,” Kay advised. “It reeks of majesty.”

  “No,” Arthur said, “it will go in the churchyard so everyone can see it. That stone belongs to all the people.”

  SO BY MOONRISE it was set down right where the king wanted it.

  A crowd soon gathered and the few who could read told the legend to the others. Some cried it a wonder, others a miracle. A few said that it was a dark artifact and should be buried at the crossroads, but they were quickly hushed. Several people raised their voices to declare their allegiance to the king as he was, without further testing.

  But not—Arthur noted critically as he stood at one of the windows and listened—not all of them. He sighed loudly. Not even most of them. That hurt, though in their place, he guessed, he would have said the same.

  He noted Gawaine down there with his younger brothers jostling for a sight of the stone, as well as Bors and Bedwyr and several other Companions. Every soldier in the castle seemed to have come for a look.

  “What happens now?” Kay whispered to Arthur.

  “What God wills,” said Arthur, though he was thinking that by God, he probably meant Merlinnus. “We will discuss it in three days with the Companions at the table.”

  “But, Arthur,” Kay said, his hand hovering near Arthur’s shoulder though not—here in the open, where anyone might see—actually touching the king, “Arthur, should we wait till then?”

  “You may do what you will, but I plan to have supper now, bed soon, and then ready the castle for the Round Table with my men.” He waved at the crowd, and then turned and was gone before Kay could properly frame a reply.

  SOMETHING MADE Morgause rise from her bed and go to the scrying basin again. To do such strong magicks twice in three days was hard. Every muscle in her neck and back ached from the work of the day before. She was half blind from gazing so intently in the water. Her nose had bled for hours after the spy-all had scraped it raw. Magic was a hard master and a worse mistress.

  But this new prickle between the shoulder blades made her get up. First she gulped down two raw pigeon eggs, following with a glass of red wine. The eggs for her muscles, the wine for her blood. Then she wrapped her silken robe about her and began the rites for the scrying.

  This time she did not understand at all what she saw: a glimpse of Gawaine’s face, then the twins, and reflected in their eyes some great lump, like a stone boat, with a rudder sticking out.

  It made no sense, yet from the look of awe on their faces, she could see it was important. They did not go closer to the thing, or otherwise explore it. How could she know unless they showed her?

  “Damn!” she cried aloud, and hit the water with the flat of her hand, destroying the image and causing a feedback of magic up through her arm that ran like a jolt of lightning to her heart. Her eyes opened wide and she had to take a deep breath. “Hecate be damned. Odin be damned. I have no idea what it is I see.”

  She would have to send doves to her assassin, and he, in turn, would have to send one back with news. All that would take time. But not right now. Right now she had to sleep. If she was to make any sense in the next days, if she was to do things right, she would have to sleep.

  She barely made it back to her bed before sleep, like a bad habit, grabbed her by the throat and would not let her go.

  GAWEN WAITED until most of the people were gone, especially Gawaine and the twins, who trailed behind him. The one thing Gawen did not want to do was come upon Prince Gawaine again here, in front of the church, with time to contemplate each other. Not that Gawaine would offer any sign of recognition. He had not done so before. And even a small mirror—like the one in the mages tower—showed Gawen how big that difference was now. Besides, Gawaine was never one to look too deeply at a boy.

  Only at women, Gawen thought bitterly. Still, best take no chances.

  Clinging to the shadows, Gawen waited until night had almost completely set in before moving up close to the stone.

  The king had been right to set the stone so, Gawen thought. It looked more majestic, more solid, and less magical in the courtyard. It was infinitely more believable in front of the church.

  Placed right by the front door, on a blue-grey paving stone, the darker grey of the boulder was like a leviathan rising up in a grey sea. The sword gleamed silver in the half-moon light, and the blade seemed to be made now of water, now of steel. Gawen held out a hand toward it, pretended to grasp it, but did not touch the hilt.

  I should tell Merlinnus, Gawen thought. I should go to him now and tell him all. But then, strolling unhurriedly toward the keep, a second thought came, this one out loud. “Let him wait. I shall tell him the truth when I get around to it.”

  25

  Helping a Mage

  IN THE MORNING the castle was a-bustle with the wonder in the churchyard.

  As Gawen went from the tower room down to the kitchen, and back again with a tray of food, the stor
y of the stone was being embellished and enlarged like an old tapestry in the hands of new sewers, till it was nothing like the tale Merlinnus had heard that morning.

  “Do not entertain me,” Merlinnus had warned.

  So Gawen had kept the recitation unadorned and straightforward.

  But what came now from the mouths of cooks and serving maids, from ostlers and soldiers, from men and women and children alike, were tales of the stone all out of keeping with what Gawen knew. They said it had flown to the tor from Eire, from Jerusalem, from the banks of Queen Mab’s faerie kingdom. They said it was big as a horse and shod with iron, as small as a hedgehog and bristly all over. They said the sword was silver, gold, encrusted with jewels. It sang in six voices. It was silent as a tomb. Who pulled it would rule England, Britain, the Continent. Who pulled it would sit at Jesus right hand and Odin’s left. Who pulled it would be king forever, the savior returned to earth, the earth redeemed for good this time. Who pulled it would doom the kingdom, the island, the world.

  Gawen knew the thing was none of these, that it was but a sword in a stone, and a trick.

  In fact, Gawen was well tired of it. What Gawen wanted to talk about was the Round Table, but no one seemed interested in that.

  Gawen had not seen the table room yet, as it was kept locked when not in use. The table itself, though—who in Britain did not know of it? It had been made in France, created a-purpose so that no knight might boast of sitting higher than his peers. That was Arthur’s idea, of course. Or perhaps the idea had first been Merlinnus’. Of what Gawen knew of the two of them, that coin had two heads.

  After asking around for a day, Gawen finally found one of the pages, a boy named Geoffrey, willing to tell more. Of course, first they had to talk of the sword and the stone, and Gawen simply nodded at every wild rumor Geoffrey spun out as truth. Geoffrey was a darkhaired, dour boy, a southerner, and at last he got to the stuff Gawen was waiting for.