Sword of the Rightful King

  Gawen nodded.

  That pleased Merlinnus. The boy obviously understood what he meant. Not like the other apprentices, boys whose minds had remained closed to his teachings.

  A boy who listens well, he thought, will be well trained. He put a hand on Gawen’s shoulder, feeling the fine bones beneath the jerkin. “Turn here.”

  As they walked, Gawen’s head was constantly a-swivel: left, right, up, down. Wherever he had come from had obviously left him unprepared for such splendor.

  The last hall opened into an inner courtyard where pigs, poultry, and wagons vied for space. As a lone grey mastiff hound walked toward them, Gawen breathed out again in a noisy sigh.

  “It is like home,” he whispered.

  “Eh?” Merlinnus let out a whistle of air, like a skin bag deflating.

  “Only much finer, of course.” The quick addition was almost satisfying, but not quite. It created an unsatisfactory disjunction; a join not well matched.

  A boy traveling on his own from a monastery would not know so fine a place. Would not need to justify his response.

  Merlinnus wondered suddenly if he were using the boy, or the boy using him.

  That was an uncomfortable thought. He put it aside to worry over later, like a bit of the skin that lies aside a torn fingernail.

  It was a puzzle.

  Merlinnus did not like unsolved puzzles. They were dangerous.

  12

  Fledgling

  “TO THE RIGHT,” Merlinnus said once they were inside the castle itself. He shoved his finger hard into the boy’s back. “Right.”

  Gawen turned quickly, wordlessly, as graceful as a dancer, but did not outpace the old man.

  It is a performance, Merlinnus thought, quite masterful in its own way. Now he was seeing the boy in a different light, more shadow than sun.

  Recognizing the mage, the guards at the door to the Great Hall opened it without a moment’s hesitation.

  Merlinnus stepped in front of the boy. “Come,” he said gruffly.

  As they entered the room, with its high wooden ceilings, Arthur looked up from the paper he was laboriously reading, his finger marking his place.

  Merlinnus noted with regret that Arthur was once again reading well behind his finger, like a boy in his first year of tutelage. But at least he reads, Merlinnus thought, unlike his father. Or any of the things before him.

  “My liege,” Merlinnus said, though he did no more than sketch a bow.

  The boy, he noted, did a proper bow, one leg forward, and a fully sketched hand. It did not sit with his being a monastery boy. Or at least not one who had spent years there. That bow came from a court and castle, not a monks’ hall.

  “Ah, Merlinnus, I am glad you are here,” Arthur said, ignoring the boy. “We’ve been worried about you this past week. No one has seen you.”

  Merlinnus knew that Arthur was not meaning the royal “we,” but that he and Kay had been worried. They would have spoken together more than once about his whereabouts. Old as they were, they were still his boys.

  “Are you all right?” Arthur asked.

  Merlinnus nodded. Surprisingly, he suddenly felt more than just all right. He felt completed. The sword in the stone was the key!

  “There is a dinner tonight with an emissary from Gaul,” Arthur was saying, “and you know I cannot speak their language.”

  “Eh?” For a moment, happy in that completeness, Merlinnus had lost the thread of the conversation.

  “The language of Gaul, old man. It simply glides across my ears. I need a translator. If you are indeed well, will you be there to help?”

  Merlinnus nodded again.

  “And there is a contest I need your advice on. Here.” He drew a list from behind him. He had obviously been sitting on it for some time, for the parchment was creased. “The men want to choose a May Queen to serve next year. They do not like this years choice.” He made a face.

  “And why not, my lord?”

  “Kay says she giggles.”

  “Giggles?” Merlinnus sucked on his lower lip. “Of course she giggles. All girls giggle. I do not understand.”

  “How can you, you old celibate? But it is not this year’s girl they are concerned with. I think they are hoping to thrust someone on me as my queen. They have drawn up a list of those qualities they think she should possess, this paragon, this perfect woman. Kay wrote it down.”

  Kay, Merlinnus thought disagreeably, is the only one of that crew who can write. He took the list and scanned it. “Head... waist... hips, calves.” He shook his head in disgust. “It sounds more like a shepherd’s list. Or a butchers.”

  By his side Gawen stifled a giggle.

  “They are trying—” Arthur began.

  “They certainly are.” Merlinnus handed the list back.

  “They are trying to be helpful,” Arthur said curtly. He finally looked at the boy, studying him for a full minute as if trying to fathom who the child was. “And who is this fey bit of work?”

  The boy bowed again, though none such was called for. “I am called Gawen, sire. I have come to Cadbury to learn to be a knight. I know how to ride and I am stronger than I—”

  Arthur rolled his eyes and turned to the old mage, interrupting the boys speech. “Is he to be yours? He is too small for knighthood. And too... slight to even apprentice to a smith or an ostler.” Then he looked back at Gawen thoughtfully.

  Merlinnus knew what Arthur meant. That whatsoever it was the boy had come for, he was certainly not built to be a fighter. Better to claim him now before he breads his heart on helm, aventail, byrnie, gauntlet, greaves. Before he is bullied and broken by the master of swords.

  “Sire, I am not afraid. I will for certain grow.” The boy was almost in tears. “I must learn to be a knight. I must become one of your Companions.”

  Arthur leaned toward him and spoke quietly but with complete authority. “To be a squire takes patience. You must spend years cleaning the leather, polishing the steel. And years more working with lance and sword. Then, and only then, you may become worthy of being someone’s household knight. But even though you make knight, you will perhaps never be a Companion. For the most part they are lords of the realm.”

  Merlinnus was silent throughout this recital, eyes on the boy and his reaction. Gawen stood absolutely still, as attentive as a fox following a hare.

  Arthur continued, “There are but a few places at the table reserved for others, who by heroic effort and not by blood deserve to sit there. Is it not enough, boy, to have come to Cadbury to serve?” By the end of this speech—a long one for Arthur—his voice had softened as if he felt some kind of pity for the boy. Then he turned his steely eyes back to the mage.

  Merlinnus thought, Better to keep the boy close, whoever he is—minstrel, runaway, or fledgling spy. “He is mine, sire.”

  Gawen looked sharply at the old man. “But, Magister, I would learn the sword. Really, I am stronger than I—”

  Merlinnus allowed himself a small smile. “For whatever work you wish to do here, know this: The mind is sharper than any blade. And like a blade, it has edges and a point. Be content with me, child. You shall use your strength in my service and it will serve us both well.”

  Gawen got that sulky look again, like a spoiled child who has been denied a sweet.

  “How old are you, boy?” Arthur asked suddenly. And before Gawen could answer, Arthur began battering the boy with questions, as if proving his own mind sharp as a sword. “Are you a Christer, a Grailer? Or do you worship Mithras or the Mother? Are you well-bred?” He turned back to Merlinnus. “Is he?”

  “Well-bred, certainly,” the mage replied, remembering the Latin and the elegant speech, even without the slip about how much the castle looked like home.

  “I am thirteen,” the boy said.

  Merlinnus had in their walk from the woods already revised his estimate of the boy’s age several times over. He guessed from the boy’s manners, his quickness and ease with strangers, th
at it was two or three years further than thirteen, but said nothing.

  “My own mother follows the Goddess but my father the Grail, so I know both,” Gawen said.

  So... Merlinnus thought, not an orphan sent to a monastery, then.

  “And worship neither?” Arthur leaned forward on the throne. It looked as though he were interested in the boys answer, but Merlinnus suspected he was just shifting position on the hard chair.

  “Pardon me, sire, but that is between me and my god.” The boy’s cheeks flamed red, but otherwise he did not seem discommoded. Just stubborn.

  “I will pardon you, boy, but know this—if you serve me, you serve my god,” the king said.

  So, Merlinnus thought, Arthur is listening. Something about this boy quickens him. That is interesting indeed, and he tucked this item away in his mind’s cupboard with the rest.

  “I thought I made it clear the boy serves me,” Merlinnus put in. And then to soften the rebuke added quickly, “And you, Majesty, have yet to make clear which of the many gods in Britain you will stick with yourself!”

  Arthur leaned back against the chair and laughed. It was a buoyant and boyish laugh.

  Merlinnus began to laugh, too.

  The burly guards at the door smiled at one another, not really having heard the conversation, but just because they loved their king and were pleased when he found something to laugh about.

  Only the boy remained solemn. Merlinnus suspected it was not because he had no sense of humor. Rather he did not yet dare to laugh out loud at the king. Or with him.

  After a moment, Arthur arched his back and put a hand behind him. “Damned thrones too hard. I actually prefer a soldiers pallet. Or a horse.” He stood and stretched like some sort of large sandy-colored cat, scattering several scrolls. “That is enough for one day, I think,” he said, gesturing to the scrolls. “I will look at the rest tomorrow.” He came down the two steps and whispered in Merlinnus’ right ear. “When you gave me this kingdom, old man, you forgot to mention how hard a chair the high throne is.”

  “And would you have made a different choice, sire?”

  Arthur once again roared out that boyish laugh. “No. Probably not. But I would have requested a different throne.”

  Merlinnus pretended shock. “But that is the High King’s throne. All the kings of Britain have sat upon it. Without that throne, you would not be recognized as the High King.”

  Arthur nodded. He turned slightly and looked straight at Gawen then and said, “Of such things is a kingdom made. Hard to credit it.”

  Gawen suddenly spoke up. “Would not a cushion on the seat do, Majesty?”

  Arthur laughed again. “Out of the mouths of children. Would it not do, Merlinnus? A cushion?”

  The mage’s mouth twisted about the word cushion. But he could think of no objection. It was the quiet hominess of the solution that he found somehow offensive. Certainly it would work. But would it make the king less... manly ? Less powerful? Less...

  “It will work,” he said at last. “Only do not let there be any embroidery on it.”

  Arthur laughed again.

  “And now, my lord,” the mage said, “I have more important things to discuss than cushions.” He thought he would have liked a cushion himself at that moment and sat down, rather hurriedly, on the risers that led to the throne.

  Arthur sat down next to him. “The assassins?”

  The mage shook his head. “The sword and the stone, Arthur.”

  “Very well. Let us talk.”

  “In my workroom,” Merlinnus said. “I would not have ears hear that should not. If you will accompany me there.” He tried to stand and found he could not. Unaccountably both his knees were too weak to hold him. Old, he thought. I have suddenly grown old.

  “I will not only accompany you,” the king said, “it looks as if I will have to carry you.” He stood and pulled the old man to his feet, but gently. “Give me a hand with him, boy, and we will see how strong you really are.”

  Gawen was quick to offer the mage his hand.

  “I can walk,” Merlinnus said testily. He certainly had not meant the king or the boy—and especially not the guards—to see his weakness. “I can walk myself.”

  “Then lead the way,” Arthur said and, winking at Gawen, added, “and we will catch you should you fall.”

  When there was no quick answer, Arthur smiled. Finally he had had the last word.

  13

  Dungeon

  THEY WOUND through the castle halls, down three flights of stairs. Often they paused on the steps to let the mage catch his breath. The walls were softened with large tapestries, and the millefleurs on them were made of many-colored threads that seemed to glow against the grey stone. Gawen nodded at the tapestries and several times ran a finger across the stitching as if counting what lay on the cloth.

  When they reached the dungeon, dark shadows danced upon the walls. The entrance to the dungeon was guarded by a large bronze head, its deep eye sockets filled with blue enamel. It was Arthur’s wish that the dungeon stayed empty. Arthur preferred to make friends of his enemies. But the threat was always there.

  At the far end was the darkest cell. They went into it. Merlinnus touched three stones, left, right, center, and then again, then backwards. The stone wall sprang open. Behind it was a wooden door.

  Merlinnus pulled up the keys that were hooked by a golden chain to his belt. It took three keys and a spell spoken in a strange tongue before the door opened.

  “Not Celtic,” Gawen whispered. “Nor Gallic. Nor Latin.”

  “Greek,” Merlinnus told him.

  Gawen shook his head. “I do not know Greek.”

  “I will teach you.” It was a promise, spoken like a threat.

  The king seemed little impressed. “Why so much security, Merlinnus? No one who values his soul would dare come here.” He laughed quietly. “Except me, of course.”

  “Of course,” Merlinnus grumbled.

  “You used to let me wander into your rooms whenever I wanted to, back at Sir Ector’s,” Arthur added.

  Merlinnus turned. “Back at Sir Ector’s I was a simple apothecary and you were the foster son. No one cared what we did there.”

  The door creaked open.

  “And now?”

  Gawen answered for him, piping in brightly. “Now you are the High King and he is the High Kings mage. A spy would be well paid to gain entrance to this place.”

  Arthur reached over and grabbed Gawen up by the collar. “And are you such a spy?”

  “If he were, would he have warned you?” Merlinnus said.

  GAWEN GAZED around the room. It was a hodgepodge of tables both large and small on which stood pottery amphorae, glass bottles, and metal burners encrusted with foul matter. Hanging from the beams were bunches of dried herbs, still fragrant from the last spring: moly and mint, yarrow and lambsfoot, tansy and thyme.

  A small pallet lay in the corner. Gawen guessed it was a daybed for naps. Who would sleep here, surrounded by so much dampness and dark? Gawen knew the answer. The mage slept here when he was deep into his work.

  Merlinnus beckoned with one crabbed finger and Arthur picked up a torch. Then he and Gawen followed the old man down a long hall that seemed carved out of stone, more cave than castle. Gawen put out a steadying hand to one of the walls. It was damp.

  They came at last to a huge vaulted room with stone pillars hanging from the ceiling. A stream ran along one side of the place. Gawen shivered. The room was cold and unwelcoming and strange. In the middle of the place stood a block of white marble with veins of red and green running through.

  “I wrapped the thing with cloth,” Merlinnus said, nodding at the stone. “It took seven men to get it down the castle stairs and into the dungeon. They knew not what they were carrying, of course. They transferred it to a small open wagon with wheels. I hauled it the rest of the way into this cavern myself.”

  This made Gawen wonder even more. The mage did not look strong eno
ugh for pulling any such thing.

  “They were eager enough for the payment of gold coins,” Merlinnus said, “and even more eager to leave the dungeon behind.” He chuckled and Arthur laughed with him.

  Gawen did not see the humor.

  Sticking out of the top of the stone was the hilt of a sword that was covered with wonderful runes. In silver, or so Gawen thought.

  Merlinnus led them right up to the stone. On its white marble face was a legend lettered in gold:

  WHOSO PULLETH OUTE THIS SWERD OF THIS STONE

  IS RIGHTWYS KYNGE BORNE OF

  ALL BRYTAYGNE

  FOR A LONG TIME none of them spoke. Then Arthur read the thing aloud, his fingers tracing the letters in the stone. When he finished, he looked up. “But I am king of all Britain.”

  “Then pull the sword, sire,” said Merlinnus.

  Arthur smiled and shrugged. He knew he was a strong man. Except for Lancelot, possibly the strongest man in the kingdom. It was one of the reasons Merlinnus had chosen him to be king. He handed the torch to Gawen, who held on to it with both hands.

  Then Arthur put his hand to the hilt of the sword, tightened his fingers around it till his knuckles were white, and pulled.

  The sword remained in the stone.

  “Merlinnus,” he growled, furious at the old wizard, “what goes into stone must come out of it.” He bit his lower lip. “This is witchery and I will not have it.”

  “And with witchery you, Arthur, will pull the sword from the stone when all others have failed. You—and no one else.” Merlinnus smiled benignly.

  Arthur let go of the sword. “But why do we need this... this legerdemain? I am already High King of all Britain.”

  Merlinnus looked at him sorrowfully. “Because I hear grumblings in the kingdom. Oh, do not look slantwise at me, Arthur. There is no magic that I cannot counter.” He shook a finger in the kings direction. “I have spies, and they tell me who is unhappy with the High King and who is not. There are those who refuse to follow you, who refuse to be bound to you and so are not bound to this kingdom, because they doubt the legitimacy of your claim.”