by J A Cummings
Ector nodded in agreement. “Would you consider her then?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I don’t know.” He picked up the bowl, chuckled ruefully over its emptiness, and put it aside.
“You are right not to think about such things for now, for there are more pressing matters. Get cleaned up and dressed, then join us in Constantine’s tent. We have things to show you.”
Arthur nodded. “Of course.”
Sir Ector left the tent, and he put his green cloak aside. He looked down at his body and saw smears of paint, relics of the sigils that Lionors had worn upon her skin. He touched one of the marks and smiled at the memories of the night before, despite the stinging in his lip. He would have good thoughts to keep him warm for many nights to come.
Merlin left the camp as soon as Arthur was safely returned to his people. With a whisper of magic and a shift in direction, he took himself to Londinium and Archbishop Augustine’s private chapel. As he expected, he found the great man dozing in the front pew, his hands clasped loosely around a wooden cross that threatened to slip out of his grip completely. Merlin pulled the cross free and held it for a moment, amused by the almost painful way it tingled against his skin.
The archbishop awoke with a start, and as soon as he recognized the druid, he glared. “Demon,” he said. “Myrddin ap Satanas.”
“I’ve told you, that’s not my name.” He held the cross out to Augustine, who took it churlishly, as if he was feeling betrayed that it had not burst into flame in Merlin’s hand. “Time is short and there is no more reason to wait. He has been accepted by the people and it is time for his coronation.”
The old man rubbed his thumb against the cross, the wood shiny and stained from a hundred touches. “Are the enemy marching on Londinium?”
He saw no reason to lie. “Most likely.”
“How soon?”
“They just landed. It will take them a few days to reach the city.”
Augustine rose, his knees creaking. “With your magic, how soon can you have him and his entourage here in the cathedral?”
“In an hour.”
He blinked, then shook his head. “You amaze me. The powers of the devil must be very strong.”
“They are, but these powers are mine and mine alone.” Merlin leaned against the communion rail. “How long before you’re ready?”
“Give me a day.”
“You may not have a day.”
“Then you may not have a coronation.”
Merlin weighed the options in his mind. “What do you need to put in place?”
The archbishop sighed. “The feast needs to be cooked, and the appropriate people invited, and the trappings arranged…”
“If you invite the people, I can handle the rest.”
He frowned and chewed on his lip. “I should say no. I should have no part in whatever magic you have determined to use, for you are a sinner and a demon and destined for Hell, and I do not want my flock to follow you.”
Merlin nodded. “But?”
“But you are right that time is short. I will send the criers. Bring the boy.”
The druid straightened. “Do not call him ‘the boy,’” he said. “Have respect.”
“I will respect him after I have put the crown upon his head.” The old priest made his way back to the abbey, not waiting for the druid to take his leave. “Two hours, and this will be done.”
Merlin let his magic whisk him away. It was time.
Arthur was lacing his trousers after taking another bath when the druid returned. He looked up when he came in, and Merlin’s eyes widened when he saw the mark on the young king’s mouth.
“What happened to you?”
“I had an argument with Kay.” He shrugged. “Pay it no mind.”
“Pay it no mind? How dare he strike you!”
Arthur sighed. “He’s upset. He’ll calm down, and this will all be nothing tomorrow.”
“You can’t be crowned with a fist mark on your face.”
“It’s not that - I can’t be what?”
“Crowned. Your coronation is today, in Londinium.”
He took a deep breath. He was filled with a rush of fear and anxiety, which was followed quickly by grim determination. Ready or not, his destiny had found him. He nodded. “All right. Take me there.”
Merlin nodded. “Let’s gather your people.”
The preparations were finalized in a mad rush. The best and the brightest of Londinium society assembled in the cathedral in their finest clothes, glittering with jewels and gold. The common folk thronged outside, jostling for a view of the noblemen as they went inside. In the archbishop’s chambers, Arthur paced, clad in clothing conjured by Merlin. He was entirely dressed in white, accented with gold thread and elaborately embroidered dragons on his tunic. He rubbed at his wrist where the golden cuff rubbed against the skin, and he could feel magic tingling all around him. It was empowering and distracting at once, and he wished that the coronation was over.
Merlin had busily used his magic to ferry allies and kings to Londinium to witness the coronation, and at Arthur’s request, the servants from Caer Gai were brought, as well. They sat in the pews with Sir Ector and Sir Kay, the only family that Arthur had ever known. The rest of the pews were filled with kings and queens, dukes, lords, ladies, chieftains and warlords. Some of them were friendly to him, many were not. To his surprise, King Lot and King Uriens had arrived with their sons in tow. Neither king brought his queen.
There was one queen Arthur would very much have liked to be here, but he suspected she would not have come even if she had been personally invited. Queen Igraine, the mother he had never known, would have been a welcome guest. He wondered if he would ever get to see her face.
The archbishop and two altar boys came into the room where he paced alone. “Have you considered the mighty burden of kingship in a Christian land?” Augustine intoned.
“I have,” he said, and it was only partially a lie. “It is daunting, but with the Lord as my ally, I cannot fail.”
The old priest folded his hands primly atop his round belly. “I have heard that you participated in a pagan ritual at the Giant’s Dance.”
Arthur felt his face burning with embarrassment, but he was surprised to find that he was not ashamed. “Yes, Your Grace,” he admitted. “I was advised that it was required of me, as I will be king of pagans as well as Christians.”
“Who advised you so? Merlin?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The corners of the priest’s mouth turned down. “I would not trust him so much, my lord. He is the High Druid of Ynys Môn, as you know, but he is also something infinitely worse.”
“And that is?”
“A cambion. The offspring of a human mother and a demonic father. Has he not told you this? Have you never heard the tale?”
Arthur smiled. “In truth, Your Grace, I have heard many tales about many people. I do not believe everything that I hear.”
The old man seemed far from mollified, but he relented. “Are you ready to confess so that you may go before the Lord with clean hands?”
He knelt before the archbishop and made his confession, omitting things for which he felt no remorse. He would not ask forgiveness for lying with Lionors. As for the rest of his sins, they were small but heavy, and the words were easily given. The archbishop did not absolve him, though, until he finally added his participation in the Beltane ritual to his list.
When at last the old priest was confident that Arthur had fully unburdened his heart, he blessed him and prescribed penance for him to perform after the coronation. Arthur rose, and the archbishop smiled upon him for the first time.
“Come, my lord,” he said. “It is time.”
A golden throne had been placed before the altar, and Arthur sat there, facing out at a sea of people, only some of whom he recognized. A few of those familiar visages were set in looks of anger and of hatred, and he knew that they would rather celebrate his funeral
than his coronation. All things in good time, he supposed.
An ermine-lined cape was placed around his shoulders and tied with golden cords, over which the priests and monks intoned solemn chants of blessing. An orb was placed in one of his hands, and a scepter in the other. He was anointed on his head and on his palms with holy oil, and then the crown was placed upon his brow.
He was surprised by how heavy it was. It was golden and ringed with jewels, and it was the gaudiest, most overly-decorated thing he had ever seen. The congregation prayed for him, or most of them did, and he raised his head and looked down the red-carpeted aisle.
Just inside the cathedral, standing at the double doors that led out to the narthex, the white stag stood. It stared at him with its intelligent dark eyes, and when he looked at it, it inclined its heavily-antlered head toward him. He nodded in return, the motion made awkward by the unfamiliar weight of the crown. The stag stamped once, then leaped away and vanished into mist.
The prayer ended, and the archbishop declared, “I present to you Arthur Pendragon, King of Logres, Cambria, Cumbria and Cornwall.”
Most of the onlookers applauded, but a few glares peppered the gathering. Arthur spoke.
“No. That is not my name.”
The archbishop looked confused. “My lord?”
“I am Arthur Pendragon, High King of the Britons, and I give my life to you.” There were murmurs among the crowd, and he continued. “Good people, I do not pretend to be the king that you have hoped for. I am yet too young and untried to be the answer to your fervent prayers. But give me time. I will promise you that for as long as I have a heart within my breast, it will beat for Britannia. For as long as I have blood to shed, I will shed it for your protection and your glory. I swear to you all that I am, and all I will ever be, and all the love that I have. For you are not Atrebates or Iceni or Dumnonian or any other tribe to me. In this moment, you have all become my family. I will be as good a king to you as I know how to be. We are all one tribe, one Britannia. Let us unite and stand together against our common foes. Let us see not what divides us, but what connects us. We are beset from the east by the Saxons, and from the west by the Irish, and the Picti and the Norsemen come upon us from the north. We are encircled, and some might say that we have no chance to stand. But we will stand. We will face these invading waves, and we will be the rock that breaks them before the shore. We will be the immovable face of strength and determination, and with our hands united to our common purpose, we will keep Britannia free.”
He took a deep breath and looked at Lot and Uriens, who sat together with their confederates in a long row of enmity. “I know that not everyone here has good wishes for my reign, and many of you may wish me ill. I hope in time that I will win your loyalty. Know, though, that if I cannot turn your hearts, and if you raise your hands against me, I will meet you on any field, at any time, in any number. I will fight you. I will defeat you.”
He rose. “All of you who reject me, go now. But all of you who are with me, good people, look upon my face, for it is the face of a king who loves you. May the God of Christians and the gods of our forefathers have mercy and shine their blessings on us all.”
The nave erupted with applause, and men stood and cheered. Unmoved, Lot and his fellows rose and left the church, turning their backs on Arthur in spite.
He would see them again, he knew.
The coronation feast was held in the great hall of what used to be the governor’s palace in Londinium. Arthur was given a pearl-white horse to ride, and he made his way through the streets with his crown still on his head, letting the common people have a good look at this boy who was now king. They gaped at him as he and his four bodyguards - Kay, Brastias, Bedivere, and Ector - rode by. Arthur wanted to look back at his companions, but he was so afraid the crown would topple that he held rigidly still.
The orb and scepter were already packed away into a box intended for the royal treasury. It occurred to him that he had no idea where that treasury was kept, or where the king’s castle was, if such a thing existed. He made mental notes to ask Merlin all of his questions.
The druid rode behind him on a black steed, his white robes stark against the color of his mount. The knights who rode with him wore armor that gleamed in the May sunlight, and with his own gold-embroidered tunic, he was certain that they made quite an impression on the citizenry.
Well, he thought to himself. You said you’d give them a display.
The hall was filled with courtiers and aristocrats when he arrived, more than had been at the church. Banners with the rampant dragon, which he presumed must be his new symbol, hung over the great doors and festooned the walls. Minstrels and bards were already playing their tunes, and the roar of idle chatter fell silent when a page shouted, “The King!”
Arthur dismounted in the courtyard and allowed a groom to take his new horse. He waited while his honor guard also alit, and then the six of them walked in together. As soon as he entered the great hall, everyone knelt before him, their heads bowed. At the end of the room was a high table, and at the table was an ornate wooden chair. He glanced at Merlin, who nodded to him. He continued forward and stepped up onto the dais. Arthur walked to the chair and stood before it, facing out at the kneeling people. He sat, and Merlin stood at his right shoulder. His guards sat as well, two on one side and two on the other.
“Rise. Please, continue as you were.” To Merlin, he whispered, “Is that what I’m supposed to say?”
“You’re the king,” Merlin smiled. “You can say anything you want.”
“I don’t know anything about protocol.”
“You don’t need to. You’re the king.”
He was losing patience. “I know I’m the king, but help me. What do I do now?”
His foster father took pity on him. “Now you let us put that crown aside and give you a lighter one, a little less grand but still kingly. Then you will ask to hear petitions. It is tradition that on your coronation, and on every anniversary of it, as well as on special celebrations like your wedding or the christening of your first child, that you will grant a boon. Anything anyone asks for, you are required to give, so long as it is within your power and not immoral or dishonorable to do so.”
Merlin left his side, then returned with a golden casket. He put it on the table beside Arthur, then opened it. A golden circlet rested inside, lying on a velvet pillow. It was beautifully made, with a red jewel in the center held in the teeth of interwoven dragons. Merlin removed the heavy crown from his head and Sir Ector replaced it with the circlet while the druid carefully packed the first crown away.
“Where are you taking that?”
Merlin smiled. “I will show you soon enough.”
Ector sat at his side again, and the druid vanished into a room off the great hall. Arthur’s palms sweated as he looked out at the sea of expectant faces lifted toward him. He cleared his throat and inwardly kicked himself for his show of nerves. His druid advisor returned to his side, and he spoke as calmly and clearly as he could.
“I will hear your petitions.”
The crowd of nobles and court hangers-on surged forward, competing for position in front of the new king. Arthur’s eyes widened at the onrush of humanity. Raised voices stated grievances on every side of him.
“My land was stolen!”
“My son was killed!”
“My daughter was taken against her will and now she’s borne a bastard!”
“My husband died, and the duke stole my castle and forced me out into the cold!”
The last complaint brought a wince to the young king’s face, and he held up his hands. “Please, one at a time. Sir Kay, you are my seneschal. Please sort this out.”
Kay rose from where he sat, and in an authoritative voice, he commanded, “One at a time. Form a queue.” He walked down to stand between the people and the king’s table. “Come here, one at a time, and state your business clearly.”
Sir Ector chuckled behind his hand and
said softly to his sons, “Well done.”
Obediently, the people stood and waited their turn to present their petitions to the king. During the time since Uther’s death, in the absence of a High King, every petty noble with armed forces at his beck and call had been preying upon his weaker neighbors. Arthur’s head spun with the sheer number of complaints. It took hours to get the petitions heard and settled, and in the end, Arthur ordered the monks to record all of the land disputes and compare them to the ownership deeds in the cathedral. The personal slights and wrongs were redressed as well as he could manage, and finally the business was over. Dinner was served and polite conversation took the room.
While Arthur was occupied, Merlin acted once more as ferry service, bringing Lady Garwen and her brother Griflet to the feast. Chairs were added to the High King’s table, and they sat with Arthur and his friends as food was brought out of the kitchens.
At one of the tables before him, Princess Lionors and her father, the King of Ceredigion, were dining with their retainers. She was as beautiful to Arthur as she had been at the Giant’s Dance, but it was clear as she cast another furtive glance toward the high table that her attention was devoted to someone else.
“Kay,” Arthur said, leaning toward him with a smile. “The Princess of Ceredigion fancies you, I think.”
His brother refused to look up, choosing instead to concentrate on sopping up meat juices with his bread. “Don’t be stupid. She’s looking at you.”
“No, I don’t think so.” He looked around. “Did we bring Caden?”
The puppy from the Ceredigion contingent had been meant for Arthur, but he had clearly chosen Kay as his master. His brother hesitated, then said, “I left him in the kitchen.”
“Could you bring him in here, please?” Kay shot him a resentful look, and Arthur added quickly, “When you’re finished with your meal, of course.”
He finished wiping up his plate, put the bread in his mouth, and left the high table for the kitchens. Arthur turned to Sir Ector, who was looking intently at the company before them.
