The king snorted. “And they are right, old man. I am king because the arch-mage wills it. Per crucem et quercum.”
Gawen seemed startled at Arthur’s use of the Latin.
Merlinnus was startled, too. “How did you know that?”
“Oh, old friend, you are not the only one with reliable spies.” He laughed, but little mirth was in it this time. “And some of them even know Latin.”
Merlinnus stared into Arthur’s eyes. “Yes, you are king because I willed it. But also because you earned it. This bit of legerdemain, as you call it—”
“This witchery!” interrupted the king.
Merlinnus persisted, “This legerdemain will have them all believing in you, as I already do.”
“And I,” whispered Gawen.
“All of them,” Merlinnus said, ignoring the boy’s obvious adoration. “To bind Britain you will need all the tribes.”
Arthur looked away to stare at the stream, which was making a soft shu-shushing sound as it wound by the side of the wall. He looked at it for a very long time. At last he smoothed down his tunic, as if wiping his hands, and turned back to stare at the mage.
“Do those few tribes matter?” he asked Merlinnus. “The ones who paint themselves blue and squat around small fires. The ones who wrap themselves in filthy woolen blankets and blow noisily into animal bladders, calling it song. The ones who dig out shellfish with their toes and eat the fish raw. The ones who hang their enemies in wooden baskets from trees and let them starve. Do v/e really want to bring all of them into our kingdom?”
Merlinnus turned to Gawen. “Can you answer him, boy?”
Gawen drew in a deep breath, as though he knew this was a test he dared not fail. For a moment he seemed to be framing his answer in his mind, testing it for clarity, then said, “They are already part of your kingdom, Majesty. They just do not know it yet.”
Merlinnus smiled. “The kingdom of which you are the king now and for the future,” he added. “It is not you who has to be convinced, it is the people.”
Arthur said softly, “I thought the people loved me.”
For a moment it looked as if Gawen was going to reach out and touch the king on his arm but then, as if thinking better of it, pulled his hand back, saying simply, “The ones who know you do.”
Arthur smiled at that, then shifted his eyes back to the stream. “Are you positive I will be able to draw the sword at the proper time?” He looked back at Merlinnus and the boy. “I will not be made a mockery to satisfy some hidden purpose of yours.”
“Put your hand on the sword once more, Arthur.”
Arthur turned slowly, as if the words had a power to command him. He went back to the marble stone, which now seemed to be glowing with power. He reached out, but before his hand actually touched the hilt of the sword, he stopped, which took an incredible act of will.
“I am a good soldier, Merlinnus,” he said over his shoulder. “And I love this land.”
“I know,” the old man told him.
With a resonant slap, the kings hand grasped the sword.
Merlinnus muttered something unintelligible in a voice soft as a cradlesong.
Arthur gave a tug and the sword slid noiselessly from the stone.
Holding the sword high above his head, Arthur turned and looked steadily at the mage. “If I were a wicked man, I would bring this down on your head.”
“I know.”
Gawen drew a breath and held it.
Slowly the sword descended. When it was level with his eyes, the king put his left hand to the hilt as well. He hefted the sword several times and made soft, comfortable noises deep in his chest. Then carefully, like a woman threading a needle, he slid the sword back into its slot.
“I will have my men take this and place it in the chapel courtyard so that all might see it,” he said. “All my people shall have a chance to try pulling the sword.”
“All?” Merlinnus asked.
“Even the ones who paint themselves blue or blow into bladders?” added Gawen.
“Even the ones who do other more disgusting and uncivilized things,” Arthur said, laughing. “I even have in mind to let the kingdoms mages try.”
Merlinnus smiled back. “Is that wise?”
“I am the one with the strong arm, Merlinnus. You are the one who provides the wisdom.”
Merlinnus nodded. “Then let the mages try, too. Even the North Witch. For all the good it will do them.”
Arthur put his hand back on the sword’s hilt.
“But one thing more,” Merlinnus said.
Arthur looked over his shoulder. “It is always one thing more with you, old man.”
Merlinnus smiled. “We will leave the sword and stone here and let them be discovered by a shepherd.”
“Why?” asked Gawen. “Does that not make things more difficult?”
Arthur smiled, too. But his smile suddenly had much sadness in it, as if knowledge and kingship lay heavy on his shoulders. “He wishes to be removed from the sword and stone. He wants no one to know that he had a hand in it. In that way it will not be magic that names me king—but fate.”
“But you are already the king,” Gawen said. “And a great one.”
“No, boy, I am a good king. But I would be a great one.”
“With my help,” Merlinnus said.
“And mine,” added Gawen, passion in his voice.
Once again Arthur’s fingers curled around the hilt. “It is a fine sword, Merlinnus. It shall honor its wielder. Whoever he may be.” He pulled at the sword.
This time it did not move.
14
Hard Work
ARTHUR TURNED and left and they followed.
As they walked back through the dungeon, Merlinnus said, “I shall find a shepherd and make his sheep lead him here, through the tor.”
Arthur turned and glared at him. “Do it,” he said to the old man. “Only do not tell me when or how.” He left them, taking the steps two at a time.
Merlinnus, with Gawen following, made his way back to the inner room.
“I do not understand,” Gawen said.
“Admitting one does not understand is the beginning of wisdom,” Merlinnus said. He smiled paternally at the boy. “What is it that puzzles you particularly?”
“How King Arthur could not pull the sword at all, and then a second time and it slid out easily,” Gawen said.
Merlinnus gave a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Magic.”
But Gawen was not so easily satisfied. “I know it is magic. But what kind? Surely if I am to be yours...” He stopped and a shadow passed across his face. Then he resumed speaking, “Yours, and not pledged to the master of swords, I should know this.”
The mages face turned dark and a series of deep lines suddenly etched across his brow. “That I will not tell you,” he said. “I was once guiled by a child to reveal more than I should. And now she squats like a toad on that knowledge.”
“The North Witch?” breathed the boy.
Merlinnus nodded. “So I will not be beguiled again. I like you, boy. You are quick and subtle and know when to be quiet and when to make noise. That last, by the way, is an admirable quality not usually found in a boy your age. But—”
“But you do not yet know me well enough to trust me.” Gawen’s voice was soft.
“I trust few,” the wizard said softly. “And even those few I trust I tell little.”
The boy’s face grew thoughtful. At last he said, “I, too, Magister.”
Merlinnus knew better than to pursue that gift. But he tucked the information away to think about it later. “Come, we must clean this place of its secrets so that when the shepherd finds this miracle”—his hand gestured broadly at the stone wall, which was now grey in the fading light—“there will be no other secret for him to steal.”
“He would not dare...” Gawen said.
“Would he not?” Merlinnus’ voice was suddenly hard. “Then you do not understand the real world, bo
y, shut up as you were in a monastery.”
“A monastery?” The boy’s voice broke on the words, and then his eyes shuttered. “Yes,” he said quickly, “we had little knowledge of spying in a monk’s cell.”
But it was too late. Merlinnus knew then for certain what he had already guessed. This boy, whoever he was, had not been trained by monks. Which meant he was some sort of noble runaway come to Cadbury to make his name. Living rough in the woods for a while would explain the callused hands. He was possibly a second or third son. Which, of course, meant more politics. Merlinnus sighed.
“Anyone would dare,” he told Gawen, “but they would not know what it is they see. Still, if they sold their knowledge to a mage...”
“Like the Witch of the North...” Gawen added.
“... my secrets could be discovered.” Merlinnus did not add what they both knew, that if young Gawen was a spy, the secrets were already compromised. But he did not for a moment believe that behind such an innocent face stood a wicked master, no matter what else lay hidden in the boy’s past. And if he were wrong about the boy—well, boys disappear all the time and no one finds them again. He shuddered. It compromised his magic to think that kind of thought.
THE BOY and mage worked well into the evening, hauling bottles upstairs to the tower room, settling them into the oak livery cupboards. Then they took down hanging herbs to be wrapped in soft cloth and stuck in the cupboards as well. All the scrolls that had been littering tabletops were rolled tight, tied with ribands, and stacked in a large wooden chest that was carved with runes of power. A covering of wool and silk topped the scrolls. It was heavy for just the two of them, but they managed.
“Why was this not all put away when the stone was first brought down here?” the boy asked.
Good question, Merlinnus thought. I like a boy who asks good questions. Such a boy will listen to answers.
Aloud he said, “It was only a simple stone when it was carried here, and well disguised. It could be dropped with no more than a broken toe to result. Besides, I had much still to do before the stone was ready to receive the sword. And after—well, I had no boy to help me clean up.”
“But now you have a boy to do the work?” Gawen’s smile eased the sting of what he was saying.
“Your coming is clearly a godsend. I do not have much time.” He did not say how little. Sometimes saying such out loud proved it true.
Gawen nodded, clearly at ease with this explanation. He glanced around the room as if studying it. Not like a spy, Merlinnus thought, but like a contented housewife checking her work.
“A bit more, my boy, till we are done.”
When all was put away to his satisfaction, Merlinnus had the boy sweep the floor of the tower room and carry the detritus upstairs in a basket. There they emptied it over the wall, scattering the pieces to the winds.
“Now go to the kitchen and fetch me some dinner.”
As Gawen went out the door, he added, “And something for yourself as well.”
THE KITCHENS had the wonderful yeasty smell of bread. There were several dozen loaves of good-quality white cooling on a long table near the ovens. About the same number of black were just now being taken out of the ovens with the long bread paddles. On another table sat the trencher breads made for the servants. Gawen was unsure which Merlinnus would want.
Ale had been recently brewed, too. The heavy malt smell attested to that. Gawen had also passed barrels of wine, marked WHITE or RED or MALMSEYN.
Fresh game hung in a separate room: rabbit and pheasant and geese and woodcock, and large hams and mutton and joints of beef as well. Soon it would be time for the early lambs to be slaughtered. In a smaller pantry were rounds of cheese and vats of milk ready to be skimmed, as well as amphorae full of olive oil. A castle had many mouths and, Gawen knew, all of them were hungry.
Coming into the main kitchen, Gawen spotted the cook, a broad man with a spectacular wen on the side of his nose. The cook sat on a chair that reminded Gawen of King Arthur’s throne, and he was directing his minions rather than doing the actual cooking himself. His face dripped with sweat, even though he was stripped down to his camisia and leather breeches.
“Cook,” Gawen shouted over the noise of the kitchen, for there was no other way to be heard in the place, “Magister Merlinnus would like his evening meal.”
Cook nodded. “Hungry from all that plottin’ and plannin’ is he?”
Gawen nodded back.
“I’ll gie ye summat fer he, but ye will have to carry it oop yersel’.”
Gawen nodded again.
“And best ye tak summat fer yersel’. That old wizard’ll ferget to feed ye.”
“He already said I could...” Gawen started.
However, it was clear Gawen’s audience with Cook was over. Two of the kitchen boys gave Gawen a hand choosing what to put on a tray.
“Here, ye try that mutton,” said one, shoving a large slab toward Gawen’s face, while the other popped several boiled potatoes onto a trencher for him.
Only then was Gawen ready to go back up the many stairs to the tower, with a tray overflowing with a chine of mutton, a quart of beer, a quart of wine, a dish of buttered eggs, and a half loaf of the black.
“He likes the black, do our mage,” said one of the boys. None of them volunteered to help carry the heavy tray.
Gawen managed to get the tray to the tower without spillage, but it was a close thing. By that time Merlinnus was fast asleep on the bed, snoring, his mouth wide open and showing a full set of yellowed and broken teeth.
Setting the tray down on a nearby table, Gawen drew a coverlet over the old man and left. But not before snatching another potato from the mage’s tray. It had been a long day.
III
KING’S HOPE/PRINCE’S DANGER
The stones of the churchyard and the stone of the church walls and the stone with the sword were all one color: the grey of sin, of celibacy, of mourning. The sword in the stone was grey as well, but it had a life to it, the blade the grey of lake water and the hilt the grey of vapor rising over the lake.
15
Riding South
FIVE DAYS OUT found Morgause’s sons camped near a river. It was the first time they had found such a good spot. Gawaine wondered if it were too good and set three men to stand watch, including Hwyll, who was handy with a dagger if not a sword. He could always count on Hwyll’s even temper not to get them into a brangle unless he was certain of danger. Unlike Agravaine, who always found danger even when there was none.
Agravaine complained, of course. He had been complaining every step of the way, since he had been expecting to stay in castles with some great lords, or at least in comfortable inns each night. He felt insulted and ill used and was not choosy about whom he whined to. Gawaine suspected that he was still feeling sick from the crossing.
However, the twins enjoyed the freedom of camping from the start.
“Mother would never have allowed...” they began together, then smiled at each other. That Mother would not have allowed seemed to be the biggest compliment of all.
Gawaine had nodded. “But Mother is not here now. She is busy at home ruling other folks’ lives.” (And ruining them, he thought bitterly.) “We want to get to Cadbury on the fastest road possible. Besides, as long as we are still in the Highlands, what few inns there are, are scarcely safer than the road. Often they are run by cutthroats and thieves. And the great lords hereabouts are not all friendly to Arthur.”
The twins had listened, but whether they heard him or not, he could not tell. Still, they at least seemed happy enough with the arrangements.
THIS NIGHT the twins were exhausted and, wrapping themselves in their woolen cloaks, fell asleep quickly.
Gawaine sat up by the fire, trying to think about what he should tell the king about his mother, about his brothers. Or wondering if he should say anything at all. Loyalty to family had been drummed into him from birth. But loyalty to the king was something he had learned on h
is own.
Hearing a noise, he turned. When he saw it was only Agravaine, he looked back to the fire.
“Tell me about Arthur,” his brother said, making no attempt to dress up his interest. He sat down heavily by Gawaine’s side.
For a moment Gawaine thought to ask if Agravaine wanted to know for himself, or for their mother. But then he decided it did not really matter if Agravaine were the spy. He would speak the truth, but only such truth as his brother needed to hear. Agravaine would know what he wanted to know soon enough, anyway. Cadbury kept few secrets.
“The king is my size, but bigger all around,” Gawaine began.
“Fat?”
“Muscle.”
“And...”
“He is four years older than I am, but already the veteran of many battles.”
Agravaine smiled. “A good man to have at ones back, then?”
Sighing, Gawaine nodded and added, “He is honest, caring, and totally without vanity.”
Agravaine chuckled. “No man is without vanity.”
“So speaks a vain little boy,” Gawaine said.
“I am no boy.”
“You are fifteen.”
“I have a dog, a horse, a house, and a woman at home. What more makes a man?” Agravaine asked.
“Mother gave you the dog and the horse. Your house is a cottage by the river, where you played as a child. And the woman...”
“Be careful what you say, brother.” Agravaine was still looking at the fire, but Gawaine knew he was also watching every movement from the corner of his eye.
“The woman was given you by Mother, too. To make a man of you.” Gawaine said it carefully but not without intent to hurt.
Agravaine threw a stick at the fire. “And it worked.”