Sword of the Rightful King

  Silently, Gawen drew him out and around to the far side of the crenellated wall. The old man peered down.

  “Ah,” he said. “But there is more to this than blood.”

  “Magic,” Gawen whispered, holding out the cloth Morgause had flung at him. “Treachery.”

  “One an oilier smell than the other.” Merlinnus took the cloth, sniffed it, looked back again over the wall at the body below. “Who is it? My old eyes cannot see so far.”

  “Hwyll.”

  “Ah, the witch’s man.” Merlinnus nodded again, turning back to the boy.

  “You knew?” Gawen’s mouth gaped open.

  “He was besotted. It did not take magic to see that.” Merlinnus’ hands curled around one another and wrangled together, the cloth between.

  “I could not.”

  “But you saw something else. Something troubled you.”

  And then it all came out, the confrontation with Gawaine at the stone and Kay’s poor attempt at pulling the sword, the curse, the transformation. Everything except the trip to the kitchen and Gawen’s second visit to the stone.

  Merlinnus suddenly laughed. “What a night you have had, child. And no sleep. It is lucky I do not know your mother or she would have words with me.” He put a hand out and tousled Gawen’s fair hair.

  Gawen could not stop a yawn.

  “Go to bed. I will deal with the rest. Arthur shall know of Hwyll’s unfortunate accident. And with the North Witch gone, her spell over him will no doubt be gone, too; otherwise I shall have to spend valuable time canceling it.”

  “Time!” Gawen said, hand on mouth. “She said something about time.” What was it? Then suddenly: “She said that time was on her side, not yours.”

  Merlinnus shook his head. “Time is always on the side of the young,” he said. “Which is why they spend it so recklessly. And recklessness will be her undoing.” He put a hand under Gawen’s elbow and gave a little push. “Now to bed, I say.”

  Gawen needed no more urging.

  NO SOONER had Gawen fallen asleep than Merlinnus got dressed in his best robes and went down at once to visit the king.

  The king was already sitting on his throne and listening to Kay. When he saw Merlinnus enter, Arthur looked up gratefully. “Here is a puzzle,” he said. “Kay would have an answer and I have none. But I said that surely my mage would know. Do not fail me, Merlinnus.” His voice sounded sincere, but a smile played around his lips.

  Kay turned his thin face toward Merlinnus and put a hand to the flowing mustache as if stroking it lent him some wisdom.

  “The women,” he said. “They are gone. Stolen by magic, perhaps.”

  “The women?” For a moment Merlinnus seemed confused.

  “The May Queens,” Kay said passionately. “We must gather the Companions and—”

  “Oh, those women,” Merlinnus said, and smiled. “The birds have flown.”

  Kay turned back to Arthur, who was already shifting on the throne, seeking a more comfortable seat. “You see—I told you Merlinnus is too old for this, Arthur. It is not the women but his wits that have flown.”

  Merlinnus added, “Gone with their queen, back north.”

  “She is gone?” Arthur asked, with some mixed emotions.

  “For the time being,” Merlinnus said.

  “Without a word of farewell?” Kays voice was pouty as a boy’s.

  “Oh, she sent me a message,” Merlinnus said.

  “Can I read it?” Kay asked.

  “Only if you can read the air,” Merlinnus told him.

  Kay threw his hands up in the air. “He is impossible!” And with that, he turned and walked out of the room.

  Arthur chuckled. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Impossible.”

  “Only to men like Kay.” Merlinnus came up the steps to the throne and leaned forward. “There is much you need to know.”

  “About...”

  Merlinnus resisted saying the word that was on the tip of his tongue: everything. Instead he said, “About the North Queen and what she had planned.”

  Arthur sighed and leaned back against the chair. “I am afraid there is much about the North Queen I do not know and may not wish to know. But still I have to know. So—tell me.”

  And, except for the cursing of Gawen and the threat of time, Merlinnus did.

  BY MIDMORNING, when the rest of the castle had awakened and was already playing at the Solstice fair, the queens sons were gathered in the kings chamber. They had been told of Hwyll’s death and that he had planned to poison Arthur.

  Of Morgause’s hand in the plot Merlinnus said not a word.

  Typically, Gawaine was the most disturbed by the news. Running a hand through his fair hair, he shook his head. “Are you certain, my lord?”

  Merlinnus answered for Arthur. “Quite certain. He was overheard plotting and the contents of the vial, that little not soaked into the ground, have been checked.”

  “Plotting with whom?” Agravaine asked. His hand went to his side, where a sword would have rested were swords allowed in the king’s chamber. “I will kill anyone, my lord, who would harm you.” His nervous fingers played with the hem of his jerkin.

  The twins glanced at him, and then each other, as if agreeing that Agravaine was their first and only suspect in the plot.

  “What matters is that the king is not harmed,” Gawaine said at last. “And that we take responsibility for burying Hwyll quickly.”

  Agravaine turned on him. “Why should we? Let him rot. Stick his head on a pike and let the crows have his eyes.”

  “He was a man,” Gawaine began. “Our man.”

  “I never liked him, brother.”

  The twins said together in eerily similar voices, “But you did, Agravaine.”

  “Did not,” Agravaine said, his face turning a burnt color.

  Arthur raised his hand. “The deed is done, the doer dead. He has already been buried quietly outside of the castle, at the crossroads. We have put out that it was an unfortunate fall and have spread fresh earth where he landed. No more will be argued about it. Nor will any more be spoken of this. It will be a days wonder in the town, no more if we say nothing. Though I thank you for your honesty, Gawaine. And you, Agravaine, for your passion. And you, my young friends”—he bowed his head to the twins—“for keeping us all on our toes.”

  Merlinnus thought that well said. For some things Arthur had a positive genius. He added his own weight to Arthur’s. “We have other important matters now. Today is Solstice Eve and there is a fair in the castle forecourt. In case anyone has forgotten.”

  Arthur drew himself up till he seemed twice as tall as the others, though Gawaine and he were of a height and Agravaine was closing the gap quickly. “Then it is time.”

  “The sword.” Again the twins spoke as one. “The stone”

  “Ah.” Agravaines color dropped to a shade of white. Then he flushed again. It did not take a genius of any kind to guess what he was thinking.

  Gawaine dropped to one knee before the king. “I will not put my hand on it, sire. I do not desire it.”

  Arthur bent over and pulled him up. “Do not be so foolish,” he said. “You must try. Else your mother will trouble me over it forever.”

  Gawaine nodded. It was true. He would have to be seen to try.

  “And you, too, Agravaine,” Arthur said, glancing at the ruddy-faced boy. “I do not want men around me who will not try.”

  Agravaine nodded and flushed even deeper, and Merlinnus thought, Genius indeed. There is one who will be with the king from now till the end of the kingdom, whatever his mother thinks.

  37

  Out to the Stone

  THE DAY was already shredded and thrown away. The fair had been a success, though Arthur and Merlinnus and Gawen had not visited it. Sales had been brisk, and no merchants would have to go home with leftover produce.

  Birch and fennel, mugwort and orpine, twisted about with white lilies, hung
on all the doors. Honey wine had been drunk in large quantities. There were few who walked about the forecourt sober.

  Now huge bonfires of oak logs—oak for endurance and triumph—were lit in front of the church. They were used to signal the desire to drive away the dark. Inside the church, women lit candles to do the same.

  Dressed in fanciful orange and red costumes, the good folk of Cadbury gathered close to the fires. Then one, then two and three began leaping the flames and crying out in ecstasy as the hot tips licked the bottoms of their bare feet.

  Gawen watched the fire jumpers uneasily. Such excess, such loss of self, was frightening. I must hold close the reason I have come to Cadbury. Not to fall under Arthur’s spell. Nor to find a father in the old mage. I came to restore Mariel’s honor. And yet, had that honor been compromised by Gawaine? Or had it, rather, been someone else’s fault?

  “You look troubled, lad,” Merlinnus said, coming over, a mug of ale in his hand.

  For a moment Gawen did not answer, remembering a phrase from childhood: To have but a mile to Midsummer. It meant that a person was a little mad. But these jumpers seemed entirely mad, not just a little, crazed with the fire and its unleashed power. “I do not understand what all this commotion has to do with the sword and the stone.”

  “It is Midsummer madness,” the mage told him. “Surely you celebrate the Solstice where you are from.”

  “The Solstice day, yes—with prayers and thanksgiving and a fast,” Gawen said. “And that night, with a feast to break our fast. But this smacks of bedlam. I fail to understand what it has to do with the kingdom of Britain.”

  Merlinnus said seriously, “All magic—good and bad—is deemed more potent on this eve, boy. Why do you think the North Witch wanted to dose the king tonight? Why do you think I have declared this very night the time of pulling the sword?”

  “And is it true?” Gawen whispered, still staring out at the people who were now driving cattle past the fires as well. The beasts were lowing their distress and several tried to turn away. But the oddly dressed herdsmen forced the cows straight ahead so that they were soon wrapped in the tatters of smoke from the flames.

  “Is what true?” Merlinnus had turned all his attention to Gawen.

  “That magic holds better this night.” Surely madness does, Gawen thought.

  Merlinnus smiled to himself. The boy asks good questions. “If the people believe that hawkweed and vervain, mullein and wormwood, plucked this midnight are more efficacious, then they are indeed. If the people own that rubbing their eyelids with fern seed gathered at the stroke of midnight lets them see the fey—then they will. If the people think that dreams dreamed tonight are more likely to come true, they do. If they hold that natural waters have special virtue this eve, then they will be strengthened by bathing in the rivers and streams before dawn.”

  Gawen thought a long time on this, before sighing and asking, “Are you saying that magic is merely a matter of belief?”

  The old man touched his right pointer finger to the side of his nose. “Not merely. Still, belief is a large part of magic, surely. Just as history is and kingship is and—”

  But what else he might have said was suddenly overpowered by men rolling burning disks past them. The roar of the flames and the heat parted the boy and the mage, and when the men had passed by to fling the disks down the embankment, the moment of truth-telling was over.

  “IT IS TIME.” Merlinnus had left the fire jumpers and had gone to find Arthur in the throne room.

  The king was alone, placing his careful marks on the bottom of yet another piece of parchment.

  “It is always time with you,” Arthur said. “You are obsessed with time.” He did not look up from his task.

  “I have so little of it,” the mage said quietly. “But what I mean now, Arthur, is that it is time to pull the sword from the stone.” He offered his hand.

  Pushing aside the hand, Arthur arose. The cushion he had been sitting on was plain, without embroidery.

  “Does it help?” Merlinnus asked, nodding at the cushion, which had kept the shape of the kings backside.

  “Somewhat.” Arthur stretched. The kink in his back was there for a moment, then gone. “I only wish I had two of them.”

  Shaking his head, the old man said easily, “You are the king. Command it.”

  Arthur looked at him steadily. “I doubt such excess is wise.”

  Merlinnus only smiled.

  THEY WALKED arm in arm out through the stone doorway and—with guards both leading them and following—made their way to the churchyard. Kay was in the very front of the group, his full breastplate shining. He of all the Companions still affected the Roman armor.

  Seeing the kings approach, the fire dancers ceased their motions, the cattle were shepherded back to their byres, and the last fire disks were left to burn circles into the short summer grass.

  In the fire-broken night, the white stone gleamed before the black hulk of the church. Darker veins in the stone meandered like streams across its surface, and grains of thin glittery minerals sparkled like fairy lanterns across the stones broad face.

  The crowd hushed, and the sword—now shadow, now light—suddenly became the focus of hundreds of eyes.

  Arthur did not like ritual, but he knew how to command a crowds attention. That command was a gift, not something he thought about consciously. Dropping the mages arm, Arthur walked directly to the stone through two lines of guards. He nodded at Captain Cassius, who signaled the men to each take a step back.

  For a moment Arthur stood still, as if waiting for some command that only he could hear. Then he knelt slowly, while at the same time reaching up to remove his circlet of office. Once it was off his brow, he shook free the sandy mane it had held so firmly in place.

  A breath, a sigh, ran around the courtyard.

  “The crown,” someone whispered, and the word went from lip to ear, over and over, till it had circumscribed the entire yard.

  Arthur stood again and this time placed the thin gold crown on top of the stone so that it lay just below the angled sword. Then he turned and, with his back to the stone, said plainly, “This crown and this land belong to the man who can pull the sword from the stone.” His voice was louder than he had intended, made louder because of the silence that greeted him.

  Or because it was Midsummer Eve.

  “So it is written—here!” he said, gesturing broadly with his hand back toward the runes on the stone.

  “Read it!” a woman cried from the crowd.

  “We want to hear it again,” shouted another.

  A mans voice, picking up the argument, dared a further step. “Let the mage read it.” Anonymity lent his words power, and the crowd muttered its agreement.

  MERLINNUS’ SMILE was little more than a grimace, though he was thinking that things could not have been better had he seeded the speakers in the crowd. Adjusting his robes, he squared his shoulders and walked to the stone. He glanced at the legend only briefly—for who knew better than he what was written there?—and then turned to face the people, his back to the rock.

  “The message on the stone is burned here,” he said, pointing to his breast. “Here in my heart. It says: ‘Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone is rightwise king born of all Britain.’”

  Kay was standing nearer to the stone than all but the mage and the king. “Yes,” he said loudly, “yes, that is what it says.” As if his confirmation of the message made it true.

  Putting his hands on his hips, Arthur said, “And so, my good people, the challenge has been flung down before us all. He who would rule, who would sit on the hard throne of the High King, must come forward and take the first step. He must put his hand upon the sword.”

  “And pull,” Kay added.

  Arthur glared at his stepbrother. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath, but not so Kay could hear.

  GAWEN COULD not hear, either, but unlike Kay was watching Arthur’s lips and read the kings disple
asure there. “Of course,” Gawen echoed, liking the king especially for this small display of pique. And his unwillingness to say it aloud and shame Sir Kay.

  “The sword,” the king continued, “has been here for a month waiting its freedom. It has not been drawn yet from its rocky sheath. We all know that on this day, this night, what was pale becomes flushed, what was weak becomes strong.”

  Kay added, “What was old becomes new—” He would have gone on but Merlinnus shushed him.

  Arthur did not even then turn toward Kay, but continued, “So now is the time for someone to pull the sword, even if he has tried before.”

  The Companions looked silently at one another, as if guessing which of them had already put a hand to the hilt.

  Into the silence the king suddenly thundered: “So who will try?”

  38

  Trying the Sword

  AT FIRST there was no sound but the dying fall of the king’s voice. Then a child cried, and that started the crowd. They began talking to one another, jostling, arguing, some good-naturedly, others with a belligerent tone.

  “Robin—you have the arm for it.”

  “Not the head, though.”

  “Come, Rob, or you, Trys. Here’s my hand on it.”

  “Trys, go on. I’d like being a king’s mother.”

  “Let go my arm; I ain’t no king.”

  “Nor kind.”

  The battle rose to a roar. Some of it was in Gaelic or Erse. Some in French. Some in the Saxon tongue.

  “You pushed me!”

  “None but Arthur should be king.”

  “I would try.”

  “Moi aussi.”

  “It is the mage who will decide.”

  “The mage! The mage!”

  And suddenly the crowd was calling for Merlinnus again. He held his arms up, waved his two pointer fingers at the milling mob, and they went unaccountably silent.