Sword of the Rightful King

  The brachet growled, then lay down again.

  “Did you know, old man, that we actually have a law about cat killing that levies a fine of the amount of grain that will cover the dead cat completely when it is held up by the tip of its tail and its nose touches the ground? Kay found it in the Book, of the Law. Who thinks up these things?” Arthur raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “The miller owed the lady over a peck of grain.” He sighed again, and again combed his hair with his fingers.

  “A large cat, my lord,” mumbled the mage.

  “A very large cat indeed,” agreed Arthur with a rueful smile. “And a very large lady. With a lot of very large and important lands. Which she mentioned in every large and important breath. Now, why in Mithras’ name should I care about Latin or a sword on top of a stone when I have to deal with all that?”

  “In Christ’s name, Arthur. Christ’s name. Remember—we are all Christians now.” The wizard’s tone turned sharp, and he held up a warning finger that was as gnarled as an old tree. His eyebrows began to lower again. “If you know Latin, you can know language and history. Know Latin to train your mind. As for the sword, it is in a stone, like a knife in butter, not on top of it. There’s something of great import there. I know it. I know it. Else I would not have dreamed it.” He waggled the finger at the king. “I just don’t yet know what it is I know.” He was convinced of that dream himself now.

  “You can be the Christian, Merlinnus,” Arthur said simply. “Not me. I still have to drink bulls blood with my men in honor of Mithras.” He shivered. “Horrible stuff, bull’s blood.” He shook his head and smiled that sweet smile again, only some mischief lay underneath it. Merlinnus could see the boy still in the young man. “And yet I wonder how good a Christian you really are, my old friend, when you insist on talking to trees. That’s a Druids trick, not a Christian’s. And once a Druid, always a Druid, as Kay says.”

  “Your stepbrother, Kay, is a fool. And once a fool, always a fool,” muttered Merlinnus. “Even if he can read the Book of the Law.”

  Arthur stood and put his arm over the mage’s shoulder, speaking quietly but with passion into the mage’s right ear. Merlinnus blessed him silently for such compassion. His left ear was growing quite deaf.

  “Kay is sometimes a fool, indeed. No one knows that better than I. But even fools have eyes and ears. And—alas—tongues that wag at both ends. Do not dismiss Kay too readily, Merlinnus. He could do us both great wrong if he feels his honor slighted. He can do us much good if he believes himself valued. With the outermost tribes already spoiling for a fight, we need to be happy in our own household at least.”

  “Your Latin may be awful, but you read people the way I read dreams,” Merlinnus said.

  “Never so well, old man. But I thank you for the compliment.” Arthur straightened up and looked at the mage, considering. “Now go away, Merlinnus, and do not trouble me again with this sword and stone dream. I have more important business. Real business; not business of the imagination.”

  “Pah!” Merlinnus spit out his reply. “Imagination is the only real business of a king.”

  Arthur threw his head back and roared with laughter. “So you say until I show some. And then you will tell me, ‘Listening is the only real business...’ or ‘Compassion is the only real business...’ or something else you have just thought up.”

  Merlinnus tried to think of a withering and indignant reply but could not, for this time Arthur had caught him out. They walked down the steps from the throne together.

  “Oh, and tell the guard at the door to send in the next petitioner,” Arthur said. “And my counselors.” He turned back, climbing heavily up the two stairs as if he were himself the old man, though he was scarce twenty-two years old. Sitting down on the throne, he added almost as an afterthought, “Have them send in Kay, too.”

  “Once I was all the counselor you needed,” said Merlinnus before slipping out through the door and, as usual, having the last word.

  8

  May Queen

  KAY PUSHED PAST the guards and into the throne room.

  “That old humbug is up to something again!” he shouted. Kay was always too loud. The brachet stood up and, stiff-legged, made her way to the door, where a guard let her out.

  Kay was still speaking. “Isn’t he? Isn’t he?” He came right up to the steps of the throne but stopped there, his respect for majesty overcoming his eagerness to learn what Merlinnus had been saying.

  Arthur sighed. A real sigh this time, not a cover for a yawn. His stepbrother often affected him that way. He loved Kay and was exasperated with him in equal measure. “Merlinnus had a dream, that is all.” He was careful not to mention anything about spies.

  Kay mulled that over for a moment, his hand toying with the silver brooch on his tunic before asking, “A dream about the assassins? We need to think about them, Arthur. We need to plan.”

  Arthur shook his head. “Not the assassins.”

  “A new dream or an old one?” Kay asked.

  “One he says he dreamed three times in a row,” said Arthur.

  “Then its true. Its true. You know its true. Or will become true soon enough. Anything dreamed three times in a row is...” His voice echoed loudly in the room.

  “... is not necessarily true,” Arthur said.

  “But everyone knows—” Kay abruptly stopped talking. He knew what Arthur’s response would be. The same thing that Merlinnus had tried to drum into both of their heads when they were boys.

  “Not necessarily true in every particular,” Arthur said. “Besides, there’s no knowing if he dreamed the dream or simply said he dreamed it. He lies all the time, Kay, though always with purpose. And that purpose is the good of the kingdom, so I cannot call him on those lies. I can only listen and try to get at what it is he wants me to get at.”

  Kay ground his teeth. It was not one of his more pleasant responses.

  “I worry about how well I can figure things out,” Arthur continued. “I wish he would just say what he means straight.”

  Kay pouted. “You always listen to him and not to me, Arthur. He is the liar and I never lie. So you should listen to me. Besides, blood is supposed to be thicker than water.”

  “We are stepbrothers, Kay. We share no blood.”

  “You know what I mean.” There was a whine in his voice now. A loud whine. It grated on Arthur’s ears.

  Arthur nodded. “I know, Kay. And I do value you. You are my oldest companion. My dearest friend.” It was true up to a point, but Arthur knew better than to go further. Conversations with Kay always tended to go off the track and into the woods. “But, brother, it is time to get on with the day’s business. The real business, not a mage’s dream business. And not a silly worry about assassins who may or may not be arriving. Remember, though, I have already ruled on two dux...” He hesitated, recalling Merlinnus’ correction. “... belli. Met with five tribal chiefs from the north. Considered one large lady and one impossible cook. I am not in a good mood. Luncheon would be a fine idea, and the sooner the better.”

  “It is not near time for eating,” Kay said loudly. “There would be a riot in the hall if I told the crowd out there that you wanted to eat instead of rendering judgment. Some of them have been waiting three days now.” He pursed his lips. “But before we get to all that, I have something to make you happy.”

  Arthur smiled at that. Or at least he showed his teeth. He looked more like a bear—which is what his name really meant—than a man when he smiled that way. It was a smile he reserved for people who annoyed him. And for his stepbrother, Kay.

  “Not like that. A real smile.” Kay understood some things, though it always surprised Arthur when he did.

  Reaching down the front of his tunic, Kay pulled out a piece of parchment. “The men did not like who was chosen for May Queen this year, and they have made a list of those qualities they think she should possess, so we will be better prepared next year.” He handed the parchment to Arthur.
r />   Arthur read aloud slowly. Reading did not come easy to him—not the way riding or swordplay did—and he pronounced each word carefully. Also, the slower he read, the fewer judgments he would have time for.

  “Thre thingges smalle—headde, nose, breests,

  Thre thingges largge—waiste, hippes, calves,

  Thre thingges longge—haires, finggers, thies,

  Thre thingges short—height, toes, utterance.”

  “Sounds more like an animal in a bestiary than a girl,” Arthur ventured at last. “And I am not sure of your spelling.”

  “It is better than yours,” said Kay, which was true.

  Arthur leaned forward. “And what is wrong with this years choice? A nice girl, I thought. Sweet.”

  “She is a pig farmers daughter,” Kay said sniffily. “And she giggles.”

  Arthur sucked at his teeth, something he did only when he was annoyed. “We all raise pigs, Kay. That we pay someone else to clean the sty does not make us the better. And where in this list does it say: Giggles smalle?”

  Kay’s hand went to his mustache.

  “I am not fooled, you know,” Arthur said.

  Kay gazed at the ceiling, which Arthur recognized as his attempt to look innocent. “I do not know what you mean.”

  “I know the Companions are trying to find me a bride. Everyone in court from the cook’s boy on up is looking out for the right girl. But I do not want one of those temporary marriages, a handfast for a year and a day.”

  “And...?” Kay seemed to have found something very interesting in the ceiling, because he was still staring at it.

  “I am not like Queen Maeve of Connacht to change consorts so often that I never have a mate but there is another in her shadow.”

  “And...?” The ceiling must have been utterly fascinating. Kay could not let it go.

  “And I want something more than... than a list of things small and large,” Arthur said. “I want...” But he stopped because, for the life of him, he did not know what he wanted in a bride. Beauty? Wit? Intelligence? Loyalty? Honesty? A large dowry? A good family? A long patience? A gift for song? It was a puzzle for certain. Whoever became his bride would also become the queen at his side. Not a May Queen to serve for the Planting Fest until Solstice Eve, but a queen for all seasons. Someone to talk to, to confide in. To share interests. Someone who could make him laugh. He rarely had anything to laugh at, now that he was king. The list the men had drawn up did not speak to that kind of queen. He wondered if there was any list that could.

  “The men are trying, Arthur,” said Kay, by which he meant that he was trying and had gotten the men to go along with him. Kay could often bend certain kinds of men to his will.

  “Very trying,” Arthur replied quietly, and smiled. This time it was a real smile because he, like Merlinnus, had gotten off a real last line.

  But still gazing at the ceiling, Kay did not seem to notice Arthur’s last line. Indeed, Kay had little sense of humor, especially where it touched upon himself.

  “All right, then,” Arthur said, and sighed. So much for last lines. “Send in the next petitioner.”

  Eager to be doing something official, Kay went back to the door and ushered in a white-bearded man wearing grey woolen breeches and a tunic tied with a leather thong at his waist. Clearly he had not dressed up for his interview with the king. He was carrying a very large bag of millet in his arms.

  9

  Talking to Trees

  MERLINNUS HAD LEFT the throne room and gone directly outside, where he began to mull. over the interview he’d just had with the king. Without thinking about where he was going, he headed toward the grove beyond the north end of the castle. His favorite oak tree grew there.

  The long, cruel winter had heaved up the path, making the footing uneven and treacherous, so he walked with care. Now approaching his sixtieth year, Merlinnus did not dare fall, for fear he might break a bone. Even with his vast knowledge of herbs and potions, he could no longer count on healing easily. He had not been speaking idly when he had told the messenger his bones were brittle.

  If he broke a bone, what good would he be to Arthur? Pain and fever precluded sound judgment. Sound judgment was the base on which all magic rested. And if ever Arthur needed magic, he needed it now.

  How else to guarantee the throne?

  Merlinnus hadn’t needed a messenger to remind him of the restless tribes. He was well aware of the troubling rumors coming down from the north. It was not only the North Witch who sought the throne, though she had the best claim to it. Petty Highland kings with unpronounceable names had refused to take Arthur as their liege lord. And as for the Border lords, hiding behind the Roman Wall—well, for the most part they refused to commit themselves.

  So Merlinnus trod the broken path carefully, and when he got to the roots of the oak, he gazed up at the tree fondly, addressing it rather informally, they being of a long acquaintance.

  “Salve, amice frondifer. Greeting, friend leaf bearer. I am troubled and only your good advice will salve me.”

  A rustle of new leaves answered him, as a tiny wind puzzled through the grove.

  “Here is the problem. The northern tribes in the Orkneys are fussing again, demanding one of Morgause’s sons be named king in Arthur’s stead. And the westerners, around Cornwall—curse them!—simply egg the northerners on. Those westerners are hoping for a standoff so that they might put up a king of their own. Though they would not be unsatisfied if Morgause’s line ruled. After all, she’s a daughter of theirs, sired by the late duke who died defending their Castle Tin-tagel against Uther Pendragon.” He sighed. “So many claimants to the throne. So many angry people.”

  Another small wind ran around the tops of the trees, but only the oak seemed agitated.

  Merlinnus shook his head. “What am I to do? I must make them all follow the boy, make them eager to do his bidding. History demands it. History past and history future. Royal blood runs in his veins. No one else knows, of course, but I do. He shows his lineage in his very looks, though only I seem to note it. And I do not mention it because it puts his fathers reputation in disrepute.” He smiled sourly. “Not that his father’s reputation needs much help in that direction.”

  He waited for some answer from the tree and, getting none, spoke on. “Should I have expected gratitude for setting Arthur on the throne? Should I have expected imagination to accompany his heritage? And how can I dare hope he will fight to retain a crown he finds so heavy?” He drew in a deep breath. “And have I mentioned that he thinks himself unworthy?”

  The oak leaves fluttered as if laughing, and around the grove, larch and beech seemed to join in.

  “Well, bless me, I did expect it. I did hope for it. My brain must be rotting with age.”

  Again many leaves rustled in the grove.

  “You ask what is good about him? Oh, amice frondifer, he works hard. He loves the people. He weeps for the impoverished. Cares for the needy. He longs to right wrongs. Already he is a good king. He could make a great one in time. But tell me, e glande nate, sprout of an acorn, do I ask too much when I hope for vision as well? Vision! That’s what is missing in the boy. If he shows an ounce of it, they will all follow him to the ends of Britain, no matter his parentage.”

  This time the leaves in the grove were still. The wind had died down.

  “Well, maybe you are right to be silent, tree. Blood is blood, but history has no veins. I’ve no other witness to his heritage, and what nobles will believe it, anyway? They will say he was gotten badly by a trick of my conniving. They will say I am both the problem and the solution. Oh, magic! That it proves to be such a hard master.” Merlinnus sighed again, this time sounding much like the wind in the trees.

  He looked up to the crown of the oak. “Arthur must prove his worth—to himself, to all the tribes—in some other way. Sword and stone. It will work. I am convinced of it. But how to convince the king?”

  The tree, the grove, the wind, all remained still.
>
  Merlinnus sat down at the foot of the oak and rubbed his back against its bark, easing an itch that had been there for days. “Winter itch,” he called it, though he actually itched summer and winter alike. “Comes from wearing wool,” he said companionably to the tree.

  Tucking the skirt of his robe between his legs, he stared at his feet. He still favored the Roman summer sandals, even through the dark days of winter, because closed boots tended to make the skin crackle between his toes like old parchment. Besides, in heavy boots his feet sweated and stank, which no amount of herbal infusions seemed to sweeten. Since he felt cold now winter and summer, what did it matter that he exposed his old toes to the chill?

  “Did I tickle his interest at all, do you think?” he murmured to the oak. “Or did I just irritate him. Or bore him. Young men are bored so easily. Especially by the prattling of the old.” He pulled on his beard as if that helped him think. “Such a waste of time, this tickling business. I would rather just say, Arthur—do this and be done with it.’ But I cannot, else he would learn little. He still needs to learn so very much—for the years when I am gone and can no longer teach him. So I must take the time now to teach him to listen and learn. But time is, alas, the one commodity I have so little of.” Remembering the face with the vile things vomiting from its mouth, he rubbed a finger alongside his nose.

  “I had hoped he would wonder about that sword stuck in the stone like a knife in beef. He likes beef. And swords.” Merlinnus almost smiled at that. “He is still a boy, really, for all he has been king these past four years.”

  The grove was still silent, but the old man kept talking. “That sword in the stone, now—a nice bit of legerdemain, that. I am rather proud of it, actually. You see, it was not really a dream.”

  The wind picked up again and the leaves fluttered above him.