by J A Cummings
Arthur put the sword back into the stone and stepped back. Merlin nodded to him and turned to face the throng.
“You have been told that Queen Igraine suffered a stillbirth and that she bore no living child to Uther Pendragon. This is not correct. Before you is the child she bore that day, who was taken from Tintagel under the cover of night to protect him from those who would do him harm. This is Arthur, son of King Uther and Queen Igraine, your rightful king.”
“No!” Lot turned on Merlin, furious. “You created this test and you ensured that this boy - whoever he is - would be the only one who could draw the sword. You are tricking us and I will not have it!” He drew his own sword and advanced on the unimpressed druid. “I should slay you where you stand.”
Lot swung his blade. Arthur pulled the sword free from the stone again and blocked the Norse-born king’s stroke. Merlin smiled at Lot over the crossed steel.
Arthur said, “I suggest you sheath your weapon.”
The King of Lothian roared and swung again, and again Arthur parried. The crowd shouted, and the courtyard dissolved into chaos. Some people rushed the platform, and others ran for the gate. King Lot attacked Arthur, and Merlin pointed at the enraged king’s hand. A blast of green energy shot out of the druid’s forefinger and knocked Lot’s sword out of his grip.
Constantine shouted, “Hold! Stop, all of you!”
Astoundingly, the crowd obeyed, and even Lot stepped back. He retrieved his sword but sheathed it instead of continuing to fight. Constantine stepped forward and looked into Arthur’s face.
“Tell me, how old are you?”
“I am fifteen years old.”
“And where have you been all these years?”
Arthur returned the sword to its stone and said, “In Caer Gai, in Gwynedd.”
“With whom?”
Sir Ector called out, “With me.” He came forward and climbed onto the platform as well.
“Sir Ector,” Constantine said. “I know you as a good and honest Christian man. Tell me what you know of this boy’s parentage and how he came to be with you.”
“Until recently, I was not certain of his parentage, although I suspected that he sprang from an exalted family. In early spring fifteen years ago, in the dead of night, Merlin came to my keep with a babe in arms. The child was wrapped in cloth of gold and other finery that told me he must have been royal-born. Merlin gave me the child on the condition that I raise him as my own, and to keep him safe and hidden from the world until the time came when he was called to be revealed. I have kept that charge, and he has been safe in my keeping.”
Constantine nodded and Uriens and Lot fumed. “And do you doubt that he is the child of Uther Pendragon?”
“My lord, no, I do not.”
The archbishop came forward. “Sir Ector, do you swear upon your soul that this boy is not your own by blood, and that what you say is true?”
Ector raised his chin. “I do so swear, as God is my witness.”
Constantine looked at Arthur for a long moment, studying his face. “Are you a Christian?” he asked the boy.
“I was baptized in the chapel at Caer Gai,” he answered. “But I respect those who follow the ancient gods, as well.”
The prince looked at him intently. “I see my uncle in your eyes,” he said at last. “And I see Igraine in the fineness of your features. I believe what Merlin and Sir Ector have said.” Constantine’s supporters gasped in disbelief as the prince lowered himself to one knee at Arthur’s feet. “My king.”
The crowd erupted in a gabble of voices and a smattering of cheers. Lot left the platform in a fury, taking Huail, Uriens and Escanor with him. Bors and Ban knelt to Arthur, as well, their heads bowed.
Merlin said, “Arthur Pendragon, claim your sword one final time.”
Arthur took the sword’s hilt in one hand and drew it from the stone. The blade gleamed as he held it high over his head. One by one, the people in the crowd began to kneel, following Constantine’s lead. A few men remained standing, and they left the courtyard to follow Lot.
The archbishop looked at the reverent reaction of the men and women before him, and then he looked at Merlin. Arthur saw a silent communication pass between the two men, and then Augustine turned to face the kneeling people.
“Long live the king!”
Ganile opened the door to her lodging and instantly smelled sulfur and sex. Morgana was lying on the bed, sleeping like an angel, but the Saxon enchantress knew better than to believe appearances where her lover was concerned. Morgana stirred at the sound of her entrance and smiled sleepily.
“How were your kings, my dear?” she asked.
Ganile went to her black chest and opened it up. “It was an enlightening conversation.” She hesitated when she picked up one of the black-bound tomes. “Have you been using my books?”
“No.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. She put the book back down and slammed the lid of the chest. She cast a hard look over her shoulder and drew a symbol on the wooden latch, her fingertip glowing red and trailing a line of fire where she touched. The chest sealed as if it had never opened, and she turned back to Morgana.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at but I will not be betrayed.”
Morgana sat up. “You betrayed me first.”
“When?”
“When you went to have sex with those kings.”
Ganile frowned. “They never touched me. I would not have allowed it.”
“I saw you looking at Lot.”
“You must appeal to men’s vanity,” she said, exasperated. “I could be accusing you of the same thing, but unlike you, I would have the right.”
Morgana frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“You know perfectly well. You had a man in here, and you lay with him. I can smell his spunk.” She turned her back and gestured toward the wall. The wood slats shimmered and changed, shifting from solid matter to an open portal opening into Hengist’s longhouse. Ganile gestured to the chest, and it flew through the portal, and she stepped through after it. She turned to close the passage spell just as Morgana rose to her feet.
“Ganile! Wait!”
“Good bye, Morgana.”
She ended the spell and turned away, facing into the longhouse. The connection to Londinium closed behind her as if it had never existed. Ganile beckoned to her chest, and it floated behind her like a trained dog as she went to her chamber.
Londinium was in an uproar.
Everywhere he went, the talk was about the strange beardless boy who had pulled the sword from the stone, and how Constantine had bowed to him. Gawain gathered from the talk that people had expected the Armorican prince to be the next High King, and his obeisance to the strange boy called Arthur was a shock and a guide to many of them. Those who had advanced Constantine as High King would now follow where he led, and they would support Arthur Pendragon’s claim. Others, for reasons as varied as the people themselves, refused to believe what Merlin said and disputed the boy’s right to be king.
Gawain had seen how the sword had stood firm in everyone’s hand but Arthur’s. He believed that the test had been true.
Agravaine walked beside him through the street, muttering, “I agree with Father. The test was engineered so that only Merlin’s boy would succeed. He set it up.”
“Why would a high druid do such a thing?” Gawain asked. “The druids always have what’s best for the land in their hearts, and if he believes that this Arthur was the right person for the throne, then I believe it, too.”
“It should have been Father.”
“Father doesn’t have a clear claim to the throne, no matter who our grandmother is. You know that.” He sighed. “The only way Father will become High King is if he kills this boy and takes the throne by force.”
Agravaine set his jaw. “Father can do that.”
“I know he can. I just hope that he doesn’t.”
His brother stopped short in the street, a
nd a peasant woman nearly collided with him. He gave her a withering look, and she bowed to him and sidestepped, scurrying away. Agravaine turned back to Gawain. “How can you say that?”
“I don’t want Father to get into a war where he will be pitted against Ynys Môn. That is not a fight he will survive.”
“You put too much stock in the power of the druids.”
Gawain laughed harshly. “One minute you’re insisting that druidic magic created a false test, and the next you say they aren’t that powerful. It’s one or the other.”
“Gawain! Agravaine!” They turned to see their little brother Gaheris running toward them, his cheeks flushed. “Come quickly. Mother wants you out of the streets. She says there will be unrest.”
“There is unrest because the wrong man was just proclaimed king,” Agravaine complained.
Gawain rolled his eyes and put his arm around Gaheris’ shoulders. “We’re coming back.”
The youngest boy looked up at him. “Where is Father?”
“Holding council with the other kings at King Uriens’ lodging.” He shook his head. “This will be a long night, I think, and he’s not likely to be home until they decide upon a strategy.”
They walked back toward the river where their ships were docked and where they were staying on board for the sake of speedy escape if necessary. Gawain thought that the strategy he had heard his father and the Saxon woman devise was sound, but wrong-headed. Although the blood in his veins was half Norse, he counted himself a Briton, and he hated to think of a foreign invader taking over their land. If they allowed the Saxons to come into Britannia, there would be no end to them, and all of them - Dumnonia, Elmet, Rheged, even Lothian itself - would be overrun. He thought he would not like to see a Saxon Britannia.
The three boys reached the ships, and Morgause was pacing on the deck, the infant Gareth in her arms. She looked relieved when her sons appeared. Gawain sent Gaheris and Agravaine on board first, then followed them onto the ship.
“Thank you for coming back so quickly,” she said, giving each of them a kiss. Agravaine glowed beneath her maternal affection. “Where is your father?”
“With the other kings in King Uriens’ lodging,” Gawain answered. “He opposes the new king.”
“There is no new king,” Morgause corrected him archly. “There is only a nameless boy who pulled a sword.”
“His name is Arthur, and no one else could pull it,” he said.
“Because Merlin willed it so.”
“Everyone says that, but perhaps…” He saw a warning look on his mother’s face, and he demurred, “Perhaps I will stop speaking of it.”
“Perhaps you should,” she agreed. She walked her boys back into the private cabin that they occupied. It was cramped, but as shipboard accommodations went, it was luxurious. She shut the door behind them and Gawain sat in one of the chairs, slumping down into the set. Morgause looked at him. “Sit up straight. Kings don’t sit that way.”
He obeyed. “Yes, Mother.”
“Now… did you see this boy?”
“I did.”
“Tell me about him.”
Gawain took a breath and considered his words. “He said that he was fifteen, but he is built like a grown man. He is beardless, so the age he gave may be correct. He is tall and broad-shouldered, with black curls and bright blue eyes. He is comely, I suppose. Prince Constantine liked the look of him.”
Morgause chuckled. “I’m sure he did. I’ve heard some stories about dear Prince Constantine. Don’t ever stand in a room alone with him.”
“No, Mother.”
Gaheris frowned. “Why not?”
“Because he eats incautious boys for supper,” she said, smiling.
Agravaine sat down on the bed. “I think this is all stupid.”
Morgause laughed and sat beside him. “Oh, my son, you will learn. There are few things more stupid but more vital than politics. Your father is canny and he will find the best way through for all of us in this.”
“He has allied with the Saxons,” Gawain said.
His mother looked alarmed for a moment before she covered the expression. “Why would he do that?”
“They were supposed to have archers ready to slay whoever was able to pull the sword, but the archers failed. Then Father and King Uriens were to attempt to take the sword away from the boy, but they failed. The Saxon emissary said that King Hengist would support them if they tried to take the throne by force.” Gawain shook his head. “I believe that Father and the other kings are working out the logistics of the attack.”
“This boy who pulled the sword - does he have an army at his back?”
“Only if you count Constantine’s forces, Merlin, and a set of old knights who served the last High King.”
At the mention of Merlin, his mother’s mouth turned down in a sneer. “I hate that meddlesome cambion with a passion. He was the reason my father came to grief.”
“We know,” Agravaine said. “That’s why we hate him, too.”
Morgause kissed his dark head. “That’s my loyal boy.”
Gawain thought for a moment, then said, “What if the things Merlin says are true?”
His mother sniffed. “If the boy is the same child my mother bore to Uther, that doesn’t make him the High King. He was conceived in rape before my mother knew she was a widow, so as far as I’m concerned, he is a bastard just as much as Cador.”
“Then who would be the true heir?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Constantine, I suppose.”
“And he bowed to Arthur.”
“He’s a fool.”
Agravaine spoke up. “I agree.”
Gawain leaned his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. “There will be war, I suppose.”
“I suppose there will.”
“Then I will need to be knighted early.”
Morgause laughed. “My dear son, you are only fourteen years old. You are far, far too young to be a knight.”
“I have the skill and I have the desire,” he said. “I have the knowledge and the aptitude. If there will be war, Father will need all the capable men he can get.”
“Yes, you’ve said it yourself. Capable men. You are still a boy.” She sighed. “Don’t be so eager to leave my side.”
He looked away, listening to the loud voices of the sailors on the top deck. They were full of talk about the boy who had pulled the sword, just like everyone else. Gawain was suddenly taken by a deep urge to meet this boy. He chose to keep that urge unspoken.
Gareth began to fuss, and Morgause opened her dress to feed him. Agravaine watched raptly. Gawain looked at Gaheris. “Would you like to play Mia?” he asked.
Gaheris brightened at the name of his favorite game. “Oh, very much!”
Gawain smiled at him. “Get the dice.”
“He should be crowned immediately,” Merlin said, following the archbishop through the corridors leading to his private apartments.
Augustine shook his head. “No. The coronation of the High King is a very formal affair and will take months to plan. There is the matter of obtaining the crown itself from Tintagel, and then fitting the king with royal robes, and planning the banquet to follow. No, no. There is much too much to do, and I will not have the first Christian High King given a coronation that is less than glorious.”
Merlin scowled and reached past the archbishop to push open the door to his chamber. “If he’s not crowned soon, he may never be. Lot and Uriens and others are plotting against him as we speak.”
The old man said thoughtfully, “There may be another way.”
“And what is that?”
“There are people who doubt that a boy of fifteen could possibly be an effective High King.” Augustine tapped his lip with his finger. “I say we let him prove himself. Name him Dux Bellorum and let him earn his kingdom by putting down one rebel at a time.”
Merlin gestured in agitation and annoyance. “You are consigning him to a lifeti
me of war, and possibly a very short lifetime at that.”
“Such is the way of kings.”
The archbishop sat in the ornate chair by the fire, warming himself from the winter’s chill. Merlin paced in front of him. “I do not accept that plan.” He sighed. “But you’re right. We need his coronation to be a grand affair, and he needs to be accepted by all of his vassal kings. If the only way that he can gain that acceptance is by beating it out of them, then he will need some sort of title to begin with. Dux Bellorum, though antiquated, is as good as anything else.”
“He will need to be knighted,” Augustine said. “And I will be the one to gird him about with his sword and to affix his spurs.”
“That would mean that he would have to swear fealty to you,” Merlin said, frowning.
“He will be swearing his fealty to the Church and to Almighty God.” He smiled. “The King of Kings is above all mortal men. It is only fitting that the new High King should owe his debt of service to Him.”
The druid scowled, but he had to admit that the symbolism was sound. He would have preferred to be the one to receive Arthur’s oath. He said, “What if we both accept his fealty?”
“Impossible.”
“Not at all. As High King, he will have Christian and pagan subjects. By accepting his sword from one of us and his spurs from the other, he will be proclaiming no favoritism and he will be honoring all of the traditions of Britannia.”
Augustine considered his suggestion. “That may be acceptable.”
“I have already supplied him with his sword, so you should be the one to attach his spurs.” Merlin smiled. “Don’t you think?”
The archbishop pursed his lips. “To attach his spurs, I will need to kneel at his feet.”
“I know.”
“You are wicked.” He shook his head. “But you are right. You have already given him his sword. I suppose the spurs must be from me.”
“So you kneel to him, and he kneels to you. King and Church as equals.”
“And yet Ynys Môn does not kneel.”
“No. We stand at his side, also as equals. The symbology is still sound.”
