Merlin's Booke: Stories of the Great Wizard

by Jane Yolen

  “Ah, Merlinnus, I am glad you are back. There’s a dinner tonight with an emissary from the Orkneys and you know I have trouble understanding their rough mangling of English. You will be there?”

  Merlinnus nodded.

  “And there is a contest I need your advice on. Here.” He snapped his fingers and a list was put into his hand.

  “The men want to choose a May queen to serve next year. I think they are hoping to thrust her on me as my queen. They have drawn up a list of those qualities they think she should possess. Kai wrote the list down.”

  Kai, Merlinnus thought disagreeably, was the only one of that crew who could write and his spelling was only marginally better than his script. He took the list and scanned it:

  Thre things smalle—headde, nose, breestes;

  Thre things 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, my lord,” Merlinnus ventured at last.

  Gawen giggled.

  “They are trying—” the king began.

  “They certainly are,” muttered the mage.

  “They are trying … to be helpful, Merlinnus.” The king glowered at the boy by the mage’s side. “And who is this fey bit of work?”

  The boy bowed deeply. “I am called Gawen, sire, and I have come to learn to be a knight.”

  The king ground his teeth. “And some of them, no doubt, will like you be-nights.”

  A flush spread across the boy’s cheeks. “I am sworn to the Holy Mother to be pure,” he said.

  “Are you a grailer or a Goddess worshipper?” Before the boy could answer, the king turned to Merlinnus. “Is he well bred?”

  “Of course,” said Merlinnus, guessing. The Latin and the elegant speech said as much, even without the slip about how much a castle looked like home.

  “Very well,” the king said, arching his back and putting one hand behind him. “Damned throne’s too hard. I think I actually prefer a soldier’s pallet. Or a horse.” He stood and stretched. “That’s enough for one day. I will look at the rest tomorrow.” He put out a hand and steadied himself, using the mage’s shoulder, then descended the two steps to the ground. Whispering in Merlinnus’ right ear because he knew the left ear was a bit deafened by age, the king said, “When you gave me the kingdom, you forgot to mention that kings need to sit all day long. You neglected to tell me about wooden thrones. If you had told me that when you offered me the crown, I might have thought about it a bit longer.”

  “And would you have made a different choice, my lord?” asked Merlinnus quietly.

  The king laughed and said aloud, “No, but I would have requested a different throne.”

  Merlinnus looked shocked. “But that is the High King’s throne. Without it, you would not be recognized.”

  The king nodded.

  Gawen, silent until this moment, spoke up. “Would not a cushion atop the throne do? Like the crown atop the High King’s head?”

  The king’s hand went immediately to the heavy circlet of metal on his head. Then he swept it off, shook out his long blonde locks, and laughed. “Of course. A cushion. Out of the mouth of babes … it would do, would it not, Merlinnus?”

  The mage’s mouth twisted about the word. “Cushion.” But he could think of no objection. It was the quiet homeyness of the solution that offended him. But certainly it would work.

  Merlinnus put aside his niggling doubts about the boy Gawen and turned instead to the problem at hand: making the king accept the magic of the sword in the stone.

  “I beg you, sire,” the old mage said the next morning, “to listen.” He accompanied his request with a bow on bended knee. The pains of increasing age were only slightly mitigated by some tisanes brewed by a local herb wife. Merlinnus sighed heavily as he went down. It was that sigh, sounding so much like his old grandfather’s, that decided the king.

  “All right, all right, Merlinnus. Let us see this sword and this stone.”

  “It is in my workroom,” Merlinnus said. “If you will accompany me there.” He tried to stand and could not.

  “I will not only accompany you,” said the king patiently, “it looks as if I will have to carry you.” He came down from his throne and lifted the old man up to his feet.

  “I can walk,” Merlinnus said, somewhat testily.

  Arm in arm, they wound through the castle halls, up three flights of stone stairs to Merlinnus’ tower workroom.

  The door opened with a spoken spell and three keys. The king seemed little impressed.

  “There!” said the mage, pointing to a block of white marble with veins of red and green running through. Sticking out of the stone top was the hilt of a sword. The hilt was carved with wonderful runes. On the white marble face was the legend:

  WHOSO PULLETH OUTE THIS SWERD OF THIS STONE IS RIGHTWYS KYNGE BORNE OF ALL BRYTAYGNE

  Slowly the king read aloud, his finger tracing the letters in the stone. When he had finished, he looked up. “But I am king of all Britain.”

  “Then pull the sword, sire.”

  The king smiled and it was not a pleasant smile. He was a strong man, in his prime, and except for his best friend Sir Lancelot, was reputed to be the strongest in the kingdom. It was one of the reasons Merlinnus had chosen him. He put his hand to the hilt, tightened his fingers around it until the knuckles were white, and pulled.

  The sword remained in the stone.

  “Merlinnus, this is witchery. I will not have it.” His voice was cold.

  “And with witchery you will pull it out in full view of the admiring throngs. You—and no one else.” The mage smiled benignly.

  The king let go of the sword. “But why this? I am already king.”

  “Because I hear grumblings in the kingdom. Oh, do not look slantwise at me, boy. It is not magic but reliable spies that tell me so. There are those who refuse to follow you, to be bound to you and so bind this kingdom because they doubt the legitimacy of your claim.”

  The king snorted. “And they are right, Merlinnus. I am king because the arch-mage wills it. Per crucem et quercum.”

  Startled, Merlinnus asked, “How did you know that?”

  “Oh, my old friend, do you think you are the only one with reliable spies?”

  Merlinnus stared into the king’s eyes. “Yes, you are right. You are king because I willed it. And because you earned it. But this bit of legerdemain …”

  “Witchery!” interrupted the king.

  Merlinnus persisted. “This legerdemain will have them all believing in you.” He added quickly, “As I do. All of them. To bind the kingdom you need all the tribes to follow you.”

  The king looked down and then, as if free of the magic for a moment, turned and stared out of the tower window to the north where winter was already creeping down the mountainsides. “Do those few tribes matter? The ones who paint themselves blue and squat naked around small fires. The ones who wrap themselves in woolen blankets and blow noisily into animal bladders calling it song? The ones who dig out shelled fish with their toes and eat the fish raw? Do we really want to bring them to our kingdom?”

  “They are all part of Britain. The Britain of which you are the king now and for the future.”

  The king shifted his gaze from the mountains to the guards walking his donjon walls. “Are you positive I shall be able to draw the sword? I will not be made a mockery to satisfy some hidden purpose of yours.”

  “Put your hand on the sword, sire.”

  The king turned slowly as if the words had a power to command him. He walked back to the marble. It seemed to glow. He reached out and then, before his hand touched the hilt, by an incredible act of will, he stopped. “I am a good soldier, Merlinnus. And I love this land.”

  “I know.”

  With a resonant slap the king’s hand grasped the sword. Merlinnus muttered something in a voice as soft as a cradle s
ong. The sword slid noiselessly from the stone.

  Holding the sword above his head, the king turned and looked steadily at the mage. “If I were a wicked man, I would bring this down on your head. Now.”

  “I know.”

  Slowly the sword descended and, 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 in the stone.

  “I will have my men take this and place it before the great cathedral so that all might see it. All my people shall have a chance to try their hands.”

  “All?”

  “Even the ones who paint themselves blue or blow into bladders or do other disgusting and uncivilized things.” The king smiled. “I shall even let mages try.”

  Merlinnus smiled back. “Is that wise?”

  “I am the one with the strong arm, Merlinnus. You are to provide the wisdom. And the witchery.”

  “Then let the mages try, too,” Merlinnus said. “For all the good it will do them.”

  “It is a fine sword, Merlinnus. It shall honor its wielder.” He put his hand back on the hilt and heaved. The sword did not move.

  The soldiers, with no help from Merlinnus, moaned and pushed and sweated and pulled until at last they managed to remove the sword and stone with a series of rollers and ropes. At the king’s request it was set up in front of the great cathedral in the center of the town outside the castle walls. News of it was carried by carters and jongleurs, gleemen and criers from castle to castle and town to town. Within a month the hilt of the sword was filthy from the press of hundreds of hands. It seemed that in the countryside there were many who would be king.

  Young Gawen took it upon himself to clean the hilt whenever he had time. He polished the runes on the stone lovingly, too, and studied the white marble from all angles. But he never put his hand to the sword as if to pull it. When the king was told of this, he smiled and his hand strayed to the cushion beneath him.

  Gawen reported on the crowds around the stone to Merlinnus as he recounted his other lessons.

  “Helm, aventail, byrnie, gauntlet, cuisses …” he recited, touching the parts of his body where the armor would rest. “And arch-mage, there was a giant of a man there today, dressed all in black, who tried the sword. And six strange tribesmen with blue skin and necklaces of shells. Two of them tried to pull together. The sword would not come out, but their blue dye came off. I had a horrible time scrubbing it from the hilt. And Sir Kai came.”

  “Again?”

  The boy laughed. “It was his sixth try. He waits until it is dinner time and no one is in the square.”

  The old mage nodded at every word. “Tell me again.”

  “About Sir Kai?”

  “About the parts of the armor. You must have the lesson perfect for tomorrow.”

  The boy’s mouth narrowed as he began. “Helm, aventail …”

  At each word, Merlinnus felt a surge of pride and puzzlement. Though the recitation was an old one, it sounded new and somehow different in Gawen’s mouth.

  They waited until the night of the solstice, when the earth sat posed between night and night. Great bonfires were lit in front of the cathedral to drive back the darkness, while inside candles were lighted to do the same.

  “It is time,” Merlinnus said to the king without any preliminaries.

  “It is always time,” answered the king, placing his careful marks on the bottom of yet another piece of parchment.

  “I mean time to pull the sword from the stone.” Merlinnus offered his hand to the king.

  Pushing aside the offer, the king rose.

  “I see you use the cushion now,” Merlinnus said.

  “It helps somewhat.” He stretched. “I only wish I had two of them.”

  The mage shook his head. “You are the king. Command the second.”

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

  Remembering Morgana, the mage smiled.

  They walked arm in arm to the waiting horses. Merlinnus was helped onto a gray whose broad back was more like a chair than a charger. But then, he had always been ill at ease on horseback. And horses, even the ones with the calmest dispositions, sensed some strangeness in him. They always shied.

  The king strode to his own horse, a barrel-chested bay with a smallish head. It had been his mount when he was a simple soldier and he had resisted all attempts to make him ride another.

  “Mount up,” the king called to his guards.

  Behind him his retinue mounted. Sir Kai was the first to vault into the saddle. Young Gawen, astride the pony that was a present from the king, was the last.

  With a minimum of fuss, they wound along the path down the hillside toward the town, and only the clopping of hooves on dirt marked their passage. Ahead were torch-bearers and behind them came the household, each with a candle. So light came to light, a wavering parade to the waiting stone below.

  In the fire-broken night the white stone gleamed before the black hulk of the cathedral. The darker veins in the stone meandered like faery streams across its surface. The sword, now shadow, now light, was the focus of hundreds of eyes. And, as if pulled by some invisible string, the king rode directly to the stone, dismounted, and knelt before it. Then he removed his circlet of office and shook free the long golden mane it had held so firmly in place. When he stood again, he put the crown on the top of the stone so that it lay just below the angled sword.

  The crowd fell still.

  “This crown and this land belong to the man who can pull the sword from the stone,” the king said, his voice booming into the strange silence. “So it is written—here.” He gestured broadly with his hand toward the runes.

  “Read it,” cried a woman’s voice from the crowd.

  “We want to hear it,” shouted another.

  A man’s voice, picking up her argument, dared a further step. “We want the mage to read it.” Anonymity lent his words power. The crowd muttered its agreement.

  Merlinnus dismounted carefully and, after adjusting his robes, walked to the stone. He glanced only briefly at the words on its side, then turned to face the people.

  “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.”

  Sir Kai nodded and said loudly, “Yes, that is what it says. Right.”

  The king put his hands on his hips. “And so, good people, the challenge has been thrown down before us all. He who would be king of all Britain must step forward and put his hand on the sword.”

  At first there was no sound at all but the dying echo 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 and others with a belligerent tone. Finally, a rather sheepish farm boy, taller by almost a head than Sir Kai who was the tallest of the knights, was thrust from the crowd. He had a shock of wheat-colored hair over one eye and a dimple in his chin.

  “I’d try, my lord,” he said. He was plainly uncomfortable having to talk to the king. “I mean, it wouldn’t do no harm.”

  “No harm indeed, son,” said the king. He took the boy by the elbow and escorted him to the stone.

  The boy put both his hands around the hilt and then stopped. He looked over his shoulder at the crowd. Someone shouted encouragement and then the whole push of people began to call out to him.

  “Do it. Pull the bastard. Give it a heave. Haul it out.” Their cries came thick now and, buoyed by their excitement, the boy put his right foot up against the stone. Then he leaned backward and pulled. His hands slipped along the hilt and he fell onto his bottom to the delight of the crowd.

  Crestfallen, the boy stood up. He stared unhappily at his worn boots as if he did not know where else to look or how to make his feet carry him away
.

  The king put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What is your name, son?” The gentleness in his voice silenced the crowd’s laughter.

  “Percy, sir,” the boy managed at last.

  “Then, Percy,” said the king, “because you were brave enough to try where no one else would set hand on the sword, you shall come to the castle and learn to be one of my knights.”

  “Maybe not your knight,” someone shouted from the crowd.

  A shadow passed over the king’s face and he turned toward the mage.

  Merlinnus shook his head imperceptibly and put his finger to his lips.

  The king shifted his gaze back to the crowd. He smiled. “No, perhaps not. We shall see. Who else would try?”

  At last Sir Kai brushed his hand across his breastplate. He alone of the court still affected the Roman style. Tugging his gloves down so that the fingers fitted snugly, he walked to the stone and placed his right hand on the hilt. He gave it a slight tug, smoothed his golden mustache with the fingers of his left hand, then reached over with his left hand and with both gave a mighty yank. The sword did not move.

  Kai shrugged and turned toward the king. “But I am still first in your service,” he said.

  “And in my heart, brother,” acknowledged the king.

  Then, one by one, the knights lined up and took turns pulling on the sword. Stocky Bedevere, handsome Gawain, Tristan maned like a lion, cocky Galahad, and the rest. But the sword, ever firm in its stone scabbard, never moved.

  At last, of all the court’s knights, only Lancelot was left.

  “And you, good Lance, my right hand, the strongest of us all, will you not try?” asked the king.

  Lancelot, who disdained armor except in battle and was dressed in a simple tunic, the kind one might dance in, shook his head. “I have no wish to be king. I only wish to be of service.”

  The king walked over to him and put his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. He whispered into the knight’s ear. “It is the stone’s desire, not ours, that will decide this. But if you do not try, then my leadership will always be in doubt. Without your full commitment to this cause, the kingdom will not be bound.”