by Ben Bova
My escort of knights and I marched up the central aisle, bowed to the High King, and took seats in the front pew. Arthur turned to the carved wooden throne at one side of the altar and sat slowly, stiffly on it. The priests began to say the ritual of the Christian mass.
All through the mass I strove to make contact with Anya, but it was useless. It was as if I were in a bottle of smooth, impermeable glass. No matter how I tried, I could not contact her. Aten was maintaining his blockade, keeping me from reaching or even contacting her.
Once the mass was finished, the ceremony of knighthood began. Arthur rose slowly, with great dignity, to his feet, and I got up to stand before him. Like the mass, the ceremony was in Latin; it was basically designed to test if I was worthy of knighthood. I answered all the priests’ question well enough for Arthur at last to unsheathe Excalibur and order me to kneel before him. Once I did, he tapped me on each shoulder with that matchless blade and pronounced:
“Rise, Sir Orion, and welcome to the fellowship of the Round Table.”
One of the priests raised a hand to his lips and murmured, “But, sire, that’s a pagan name! He can’t—”
Arthur froze the man with a scowl. “It is a Roman name, priest. Your High King tells you so.”
The priest’s face reddened and he lapsed into silence.
Arthur then turned to the page who had been standing behind him, and took a box of polished sandalwood from the lad’s hands. He opened the box, then presented it to me.
Inside were spurs made of gold.
I looked up at him. Arthur was smiling at me. “Remember when you fashioned spurs with your own hands, at Amesbury?”
Something of the old, youthful Arthur shone in his gold-flecked eyes.
“I do, sire,” I said. And I recalled how Arthur had given spurs to Lancelot and from that day forward made spurs the symbol of knighthood.
“Many years have passed since then,” Arthur said, wistfully.
“Sire,” whispered the other priest. “The ceremony—”
“The ceremony is what I make of it, holy one,” Arthur snapped. “I created this ceremony before you were even conceived.”
Both priests looked shocked, but they dared say nothing. I felt saddened. The smiling vestige of youthful Arthur that I had briefly seen had disappeared. The High King that stood before me was a stern old man who would brook no criticism, not even from a priest.
“Go, Sir Orion,” he said in a sonorous voice, “protect the right, defend the weak, and serve your High King with all your heart and strength.”
I bowed and replied, “I will, sire.”
Then I turned and—once again escorted by the six knights—walked out of the chapel, into the bright morning sunlight. The knights said nothing to me; they merely left me outside the chapel, each of them going their separate ways. How different this was from the old days at Amesbury! I missed Gawain and his good humor, Kay’s loud booming voice, even Bors’ rough old sour puss.
And Lancelot. What had become of Lancelot?
5
It took several days for Arthur’s heralds to arrange the trial at arms with King Mark. Mark was no fool: he suspected a trick of one sort or another when he received the challenge from Arthur’s messengers.
Once the heralds returned with Mark’s demands for the trial, Arthur imperiously ordered them to tell Mark that he would select the newest knight in his army, a man who only a few days ago had been a mere squire.
“Tell King Mark,” he said to his chief herald, “that he need not fear facing an experienced knight of the Round Table. I am so sure of the justice of our cause that I am willing to send a mere fledgling against him.”
To this Mark agreed—providing that he could select a champion to represent him. He claimed that he was in ill health, and an old wound in his shoulder was troubling him.
“A champion, eh?” Arthur mused. He had called me into his tent to hear Mark’s demand. “What say you, Sir Orion?”
I recalled a time in the distant past of this epoch, when the wily Odysseos had used me in a trial at arms to stop the blood feud that had erupted after he slaughtered his wife’s suitors upon his return to Ithaca following the Trojan War. He had posed me as a country bumpkin, trying to convince the families he faced that I was no threat to them. In return they produced a champion—who turned out to be my Creator, Aten, in disguise. We fought a savage duel that ended in our killing each other.
“Well, Orion, will you face Mark’s champion?” Arthur prodded, misunderstanding my silence.
“Gladly, sire,” I replied. But I feared that I would be facing one of the Creators, rather than an ordinary mortal.
Waving a hand at the chief herald, Arthur commanded, “Tell King Mark that we will face his champion. The loser of this trial will obey the will of the winner. God’s justice will be done.”
The heralds withdrew from the tent, leaving Arthur and me alone for the moment. I decided to use the opportunity.
“Sire,” I began, “what has happened between you and Lancelot? Why is Gawain seeking vengeance against him?”
A troubled frown came over Arthur’s bearded face. He glanced about the tent, making certain that no one was there to hear him.
“That lad has been like a son to me,” he muttered.
“I know. But why isn’t he here, with you?”
“It’s Modred’s doing.”
“Modred?”
“My loving son,” Arthur growled.
“I don’t understand, sire.”
Arthur went to the table where the wine flagon rested and poured himself a goblet of red. Sitting tiredly on one of the chairs, he motioned me to sit beside him.
“Have some wine, Orion,” he said.
I poured a little into one of the jewel-encrusted goblets.
“You told me that Modred is gathering an army in the north to march against you,” I prompted.
“Yes. And he is clever, devilishly clever. He knows that Lancelot is the finest warrior of all my knights, so he has separated him from me.”
“Separated? How?”
His face glowering with anger, Arthur told me, “Modred spread the story that Lancelot loves Guinevere, my wife. And that she loves him in return, rather than me.”
I waited for more, remembering how Lancelot had seemed mesmerized by Guinevere when we had first met her, at her father’s castle of Cameliard.
When Arthur didn’t speak, I asked, in a near whisper, “Is it true?”
“No!” Arthur snapped, pounding his goblet on the table so hard that wine sloshed out of it. Then he looked at me, his eyes full of sadness, and admitted, “Yes, in a way.”
“He loves your wife,” I said.
“She never loved me,” Arthur sighed. “She married me to please her father.”
I remembered that Arthur seemed troubled by the idea of marrying Guinevere. Terrified, almost.
“I knew that Lancelot was fascinated by her. I gave it no mind; he was young, he had stars in his eyes.”
I nodded.
“But when Modred started circulating his foul lies, I asked Lancelot directly. He told me the truth. Yes, he loves my queen. But no, he had never touched her, never even spoken to her of his love.”
“And Guinevere?”
Arthur shook his head. “She’s a pagan, at heart. I had her baptized, but it did no good. She would bed any man she took a fancy to. For all I know she slept with Modred himself.”
“Your son?”
“I’ve sent her off to a convent, for her own good. Lancelot has gone back to Brittany and married, from what I hear.”
“Then they’re apart,” I said.
“And they’ll stay apart,” Arthur swore. “But the rumors persist. They’ve both been stained, and I’ve been made to look like a fool, or worse.”
“And Lancelot is no longer among your knights,” I said.
“No,” Arthur replied. “Modred has separated him from me just as effectively as if he’d killed Lancelot.”
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I could see the grief in his lined, graying face, the remorse. And more: there was anger smoldering in his eyes.
“If I defeat King Mark’s champion—”
Arthur cocked a brow at me. “If?”
With a smile, I amended, “When I defeat Mark’s champion, what demand will you make of him, sire?”
“Why, I will demand that he confess to the murder of Sir Tristan and do penance.”
“Penance, sire?”
His face set in grim determination, Arthur said, “Mark’s penance will be to take all his men-at-arms and come north with me, to face Modred.”
I nodded. Angry and saddened he might be, but this High King was thinking ahead to his next challenge.
6
The trial at arms was at last arranged. The day dawned clear and bright. Gulls called shrilly as they glided over the waves breaking against the bare stone bluffs. The breeze blew out from the land, warm and moist with the sweet flowery smells of high summer.
Arthur was astride a fine white stallion, looking splendid in chain mail covered with a crisp white tunic emblazoned with his red dragon symbol, a sky-blue cape draped across his shoulders. A squire stood at his stirrup, bearing helmet and shield. Another lad behind him carried a pair of lances.
I nosed my gray charger to Arthur’s side. “It’s a fine day,” I said.
Arthur glanced up at the cloud-flecked sky and replied, “A good day to teach Mark a lesson.”
I had acquired a squire, as befitted a knight. He was a beardless youth who carried helmet and shield for me. My shield bore a crude likeness of a hunter dressed in a bearskin and carrying a club. My squire carried no spears, because the heralds had already agreed that this fight would be on foot. Mark’s negotiators wanted no part of facing one of Arthur’s knights on horseback, charging with a lance in his hands.
“I’ll do my best, sire,” I said.
As I turned my mount toward the narrow neck of land that connected Tintagel with the mainland, Arthur said to me, “Take your helmet and shield, sir knight.”
“They’ll only slow me down, sire.”
“Take them,” Arthur repeated, more firmly. “I don’t want Mark to realize his champion is facing a warrior so superior that he doesn’t need helm or shield.”
For the first time I realized that Arthur had watched me in battle, and understood my superior prowess. More: he wasn’t above a bit of trickery. He’s grown wily over the years, I thought, telling Mark I was a newly fledged knight, letting him think I was little better than a mere squire, while all along he knew that I was an able fighter.
With some reluctance I accepted the heavy shield and padded helmet from my squire. I had a longsword dangling from my hip.
“Good luck, friend Orion,” said Arthur. “May God’s will be done.”
“Thank you, sire.”
As I prodded my mount into an easy trot, I got the impression that Arthur regarded his God’s will as his own.
I followed the three white-clad heralds on their mules across the rock-bound neck and onto the grass-covered cape of Tintagel. A cluster of men stood waiting for us: several heralds in white, a dozen men-at-arms, and husky, barrel-chested Mark himself, in chain mail and tunic bearing his totem of a black raven. His pennants snapped noisily in the strong breeze.
The heralds palavered for what seemed like an hour while I scanned the men-at-arms gathered around Mark. None of them seemed especially threatening. They were all in mail and bore ordinary swords.
But then another group of men left the castle’s main gate up on the hill and started down the meandering road toward us. As they approached, I saw that one of them stood head and shoulders above the others. A giant with a thick mop of hair the color of golden straw.
Once they reached us, Arthur’s chief herald objected, “That man is a Saxon!”
Mark pushed through his men-at-arms and said in a harsh voice, “This man is in service to me. He’s my champion. Saxon though he is, he serves me.”
He was truly a giant, a full head taller even than I. Bare to the waist, golden hair braided down his brawny chest. Arms bulging with muscle. I wondered if this was Aten in one of his guises, but I saw in the giant’s ice-blue eyes no hint of the Creators. He was simply a very large, powerfully built mortal man. A Saxon, no less.
“This is not seemly,” the herald complained. “A Saxon barbarian—”
“Seemly or not, he is my champion,” replied King Mark, in a tone that brooked no further argument.
The herald turned to me, and I nodded my acceptance. Then two of Mark’s retainers carried a pair of huge two-handed broadswords to the clearing between us and rammed them into the ground.
“Since our gracious Lord Mark is the challenged party,” King Mark’s wizened old herald announced, in a high, piping voice, “he has the choice of weapons.” Gesturing to the two blades standing between us, he concluded, “King Mark chooses broadswords.”
I slid down from my horse as Mark’s Saxon champion pointed to my shield and helmet.
“You have need of those, brave knight?” he jeered. “And chain mail, as well?”
Several scars marked his naked chest and bare arms. I thought that a coat of mail could have saved him some pain in the past, but he was probably proud of his scars. Without speaking a word, I let go of both my shield and helmet and let them fall onto the grass; then I unbuckled the sword at my hip and dropped it beside them.
Mark’s herald cleared his throat noisily, then proclaimed, “The combatants will proceed to their weapons. No blow shall be struck until I say, ‘Begin.’”
The Saxon sneered at me, and no one could miss his swagger as he advanced to the heavy two-handed sword sticking up out of the ground.
I went to my sword and stood before it. The others backed away, giving us plenty of room to fight.
“Your coat of mail won’t protect you,” the Saxon said to me, loudly enough for all to hear. “I’ll cut through it as if it were butter.”
Mark and his men laughed. I said nothing.
The aged herald coughed once, then said, “Ready … begin!”
The Saxon yanked his broadsword out of the ground with one hand and twirled it above his golden-haired head as if it were a feather-light reed. I tugged at my sword with both hands. Let this giant-size oaf think he has the advantage over me, I thought.
My senses ramped up, and the world decelerated into dreamy slow motion. I could see the Saxon’s cold blue eyes focusing on me, the muscles of his arms and legs bunching as he moved. For all his size, he was light on his feet. And he handled his heavy broadsword as if it were a wand.
He started a mighty, two-handed overhand swing at me, then changed it in midmotion to a sideways slice. I danced away, not willing to try to parry his blow for fear my blade would snap from the force of it.
Grunting, he came at me, swinging his blade back and forth with what he thought was blurring speed. I watched and backpedaled, waiting for him to tire and change tactics.
“Fight, you coward!” someone yelled. It might have been King Mark, or one of his men.
As if on that cue, I engaged the Saxon’s blade with my own, and with a two-handed twist, tore it out of his hands. It went sailing into the crowd of men around Mark. They scattered wildly to avoid being skewered. The sword struck the ground point first and impaled itself in the grass, quivering.
The Saxon stood before me, puffing, amazed, disarmed.
I pointed with my sword. “Pick up your weapon, man. Unless you want to fight me bare-handed.”
He looked confused for a moment, then his face hardened and he trotted back to the broadsword and yanked it out of the ground.
Now he advanced on me more slowly, carefully, gripping the sword in both hands, weaving its point back and forth, as if trying to hypnotize me.
I saw the muscles of his shoulders bunch as he pulled the sword back slightly and then aimed a mighty blow at my head. I easily ducked under it and tripped him. He went down on his fac
e with a thunderous crash.
He spun onto his back, sword raised to protect himself. I merely backed away and gave him time to get back on his feet.
His lip was cut and bleeding. Tufts of grass were stuck in his yellow hair. I looked into his face and saw fear. He was puffing, blinking, wondering what he could do to get the best of me and fearing that he couldn’t find a way. Fearing that he was going to die. Fearing that I was going to kill him.
And suddenly I was disgusted with the whole business. I, who had been created to be a warrior, an assassin, a killer—I was weary of it all. I saw the faces of other men I had killed, over the ages, from Troy to the interstellar wars, from the Ice Age caves of the Neandertals to the worlds of alien beings. Death and blood. They were my heritage, the reason Aten had created me: over the millennia and parsecs of spacetime, the joy of battle, the bloodlust of killing, had been built into the very fabric of my being.
But now as I faced this frightened flaxen-haired young giant, I saw a terrified youth who was staring at his own death.
Enough! I told myself. He can’t harm you; why should you kill him?
I took a step toward the Saxon. He leveled his sword at me, but I could see the tremor of its point as he gripped it in his trembling hands.
I struck his blade with my own. He backed away a step and then swung his mightiest at me. I dodged the blow and let its momentum carry his blade to the ground. Before he could react, I stamped my booted foot on the end of his blade and swung as hard as I could at it, halfway up its length. The sword snapped in two, leaving my sweating, wide-eyed Saxon foe holding the stump of his sword in his two hands.
Before anyone could react I pointed my sword at his throat.
“Yield!” I commanded.
He glanced around toward Mark and his companions, still clutching the useless broken sword.
I touched his throat with the point of my blade. “Yield!” I repeated.
His face utterly miserable, the Saxon dropped his sword and fell to his knees, head bowed abjectly.
“I yield, sir knight,” he said.
I turned to King Mark. “Are you satisfied, my lord?”
