“I dub thee Sir Brulen.”
Brulen accepted his sword and spurs from Sir Gernemant and rose. Balin felt a flush of pride in his brother. He, too, had not stumbled, though his legs were surely as dead as Balin’s own, which now prickled as the blood returned. Sir Gernemant affixed Brulen’s belt, and Balin looked across at his brother and smiled.
Brulen did not notice. He was staring at Gallet.
The priest smiled placidly beside the king, hands folded before him. He was an old man now, thin and wraith-like, his ears overlarge and strands of white hairs sticking out like unruly cat whiskers.
Sir Gernemant rose and stepped back to King Detors’ side.
Brulen took a step toward the altar and thrust the point of his sword into Gallet’s belly just above his hands, with a sound like a spade sinking into wet earth.
It was as though Brulen had stabbed the entire congregation, for everyone present let out a collective gasp.
Gallet’s smile trembled, but did not fail. He blinked at Brulen. Brulen gripped the front of Gallet’s cassock in his fist and pulled the priest forward on the blade, until it burst from his back. The gathered clerics moaned in impotent distress.
His face mere inches from Gallet’s, Brulen spit on his cheek. The action was punctuated by another gasp of horror from the audience. The knights nervously, livid in outrage and yet paralyzed by the sacrilegious audacity of the moment, crossed themselves.
Still Gallet’s expression did not change. His eyelids fluttered. Blood dribbled down his lips.
“May the fires that burn you burn hotter and slower than those that consumed my mother.” Brulen hissed and with the last, he put his hand to Gallet’s chest and shoved him off his sword.
Blood cascaded from the priest’s wound. He made no outcry as he fell back sprawling over the altar table and lay spread eagled, staring like some ghastly pagan sacrifice.
Brulen held up his red-stained sword and backed away. His eyes darted to the king and his two knights, who appeared stupefied.
Balin drew his sword and stepped in front of the king.
“Brother…” Brulen faltered. There were tears in his eyes.
“Do not call me brother,” Balin said through his teeth. In his heart, he prayed a final time that Detors would not order Brulen seized.
Brulen backed away down the aisle, the tears running freely down his cheeks now, blood dripping from his blade. His left hand and his white vestments were spotted with Gallet’s blood. He turned to the men at arms in the pews, but although some had risen and put their hands to their hilts, no one moved against him. They all feared his prowess, and knew that even if they managed to best him, the possibility of inciting Balin’s wrath might be their only reward. They, too, prayed their king would not order them into action.
Detors was either shocked into silence by the depth of Brulen’s sacrilege, or he valued his knights too highly.
Balin watched his brother turn and run from the chapel.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two years after Balin’s accolade, Old King Detors died in his bed and his son Clarivaunce was crowned.
As a boy, Balin impressed the knights of Belande with his woodcraft and even taught the royal gameskeeper certain tricks of stalking. He soon gained renown as the most skillful hunter in Northumberland. King Clarivaunce selected Balin for the dubious honor of guiding the royal person and the emissaries of neighboring nobility on an endless series of pleasure hunts. These were mere courtly entertainments, unlike the hair-raising boar hunts of his squire days, which he and Sir Claellus had undertaken on foot with spears. The lack of sport bored Balin. Yet, being in such constant close proximity to the new king, he quickly learned what type of ruler Clarivaunce aspired to be.
Clarivaunce began discussing the possibility of war with their neighbor, King Leodegrance of Cameliard, a good Christian and an old ally of Detors. Balin soon realized that Clarivaunce was a Christian only in the chapel. Ambition was his one true god. He wished to expand his lands and wealth and didn’t care a whit for honoring his late father’s timeworn alliances. He even began negotiating with the pagan King Carados to invade and divide Cameliard between them.
At the same time, word came to Northumberland of the existence of a strange wonder: a sword in a stone had appeared outside a church in Londres. The sword supposedly bore a legend which decreed that whosoever removed it would be crowned high king of all Albion.
Normally, Balin would have dismissed such a thing as deviltry of Avalon, but the Archbishop Dubricius was said to have ratified the sword in the stone as a true miracle, an answer from God to the bickering of petty rulers and the outcry of the people for a benevolent monarch to unify all of Albion in peace. The outer boundaries of Londres swelled with the pavilions of warriors and nobles who came to joust for the right to draw the sword. Everyone expected that the true king would step forward any day now.
Apparently, no one had so far been able to do so.
When Clarivaunce heard that King Leodegrance had traveled to Londres and failed to draw the sword out of the stone, one of the king’s counselors asked him if he, too, would make the pilgrimage.
Clarivaunce laughed and said, “Why bother? It doesn’t take a single sword to claim this land. It takes ten thousand. And soon I will have them.”
Balin saw more and more that he served a king far different from the one to whom he had pledged his heart.
He had prayed long and hard, and contemplated his oath.
Then word came that the sword had been freed, beyond belief, by a boy of seventeen years.
When this news reached Clarivaunce, he dismissed it with another infuriating chuckle.
Balin was unable to remain silent. “But sire, if the sword really was immovable by other men, and the Archbishop identified it as a miraculous test, then…”
“Sir Balin,” Clarivaunce had said, smiling like a patronizing father though they were both the same age. “You’re the best hunter among my knights and a rare swordsman, but you’d do well to leave the affairs of state to those bred to understand its intricacies. This sword is no miracle from God, it’s a scheme to convince the fool peasants to support a puppet ruler. A fatherless boy out of nowhere with no name and no lands claims the high kingship, and we nobles are meant to bow? Preposterous! Dubricius has been bought and paid for, likely by this backcountry Lord Ector of Caer Gai, who I understand was the boy’s foster father. It’s a clever plan to win the loyalty of the poor, but carving knives and pitchforks won’t stand long against swords and halberds.”
A counselor of Clarivaunce spoke then.
“Sire, King Lot of Orkney has come out against the bastard, as well as Aguysans and a few others. They have pitched their pavilions outside Londres.”
Clarivaunce looked thoughtful.
“It may be we situation to our advantage,” he mused. “Ready my men and prepare my royal train. We shall travel to Londres to see this great sight. What say you, Sir Balin?”
But Balin was nowhere to be seen.
He had slipped from the throne room, gone straight to his chambers, gotten his armor, sword, and shield.
While Clarivaunce waited for word from Carados and amassed his troops, Balin rode from Belande, never to return.
***
The tournaments at Londres had ended now that the sword had been drawn from the marble block, but the kings and nobles had almost unanimously stalled the coronation of the boy, each demanding to see the feat repeated with their own eyes and to have their own respective champions try.
The boy, as a squire, had not participated in the jousting, the nobles argued, and so every knight must now be given the same opportunity. Scheduling a demonstration for the arrival of each dissenting noble and his coterie had dragged the whole affair out for months. Three times now the boy had drawn and replaced the sword before a crowd. Yet still, only a few of the kings and nobles had pledged allegiance to him.
Leodegrance, Balin heard, was one of them.
Bali
n arrived in time for Pentecost and waited in the packed courtyard with an assortment of curiosity seekers, knights, and rowdy peasants, while the Archbishop held mass inside St. Paul’s for the boy and the nobles.
Anyone had free access to the sword now. It took an hour for Balin to get near it as unruly queues of men from every station tried their hand at drawing it and shuffled off in sullen defeat.
It was a four-foot stone of pure white marble with a gleaming new anvil atop it. Sprouting like some metalworker’s crafted flower was the golden hilt of a Roman-style sword.
“It’s Macsen Wledig’s sword,” said a regally dressed, white bearded noble at his side, when he noticed Balin staring admiringly at the ancient weapon.
Sir Gernemant had taught him and his brother about Macsen. He had been called Magnus Maximus, a great general in Albion who had taken the Roman Empire from Gratian by force of sword. Macsen had dreamt of a beautiful Welsh woman and gone seeking her. The woman was Elen, a Lady of Avalon, with whom he formed a dynasty and whose father Eudaf he appointed High King, granting him his sword as a ceremonial symbol of authority.
“The sword has been passed down for centuries,” the noble intoned reverently. “It hung in Vortigern’s hall, and in the hall of Ambrosius, then Uther’s. It was thought lost, stolen by the Saxons. All the more reason its reappearance is a miracle.”
A burly peasant gripped the handle of the sword with both hands and strained to pull it free, until the tendons stood out on his arms and his face blazed so red it looked about to burst. Though his rowdy friends cheered him on, he released the sword with a gasp and walked off laughing and shaking his head.
“In the annals of the kings,” the noble said, smiling, unperturbed by the profane chides of the peasants, “only Excalibur is as highly regarded.”
Excalibur. The legendary magic sword.
Balin found himself pushed to the forefront.
“You look like a strong one! Try! Try!” someone hooted.
Embarrassed, he squinted at the letters engraved in gold on the pommel.
The noble was in his ear then, a gentle voice, a calm hand on his shoulder, having seen his difficulty on his face, perhaps.
“Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all Albion,” he whispered.
Swallowing, Balin remembered his mother’s tales of Excalibur and how he had longed to possess a magic sword. Macsen’s blade was a symbol, nothing more. It was not the weapon Excalibur was said to be. But to bear something of such beauty! He had no thoughts of kingship as he tentatively reached out and gripped the handle.
It was like trying to uproot an old tree with his hands.
He strained for all he was worth, but knew it was not to be, and backed away at last with the jibes of the rowdies in his ears.
The noble pulled him close. “Don’t be ashamed, sir knight. I tried myself, and I have seen hundreds of men do the same. I have also three times seen the true king pull it forth like a blade of grass from the ground.” He glanced up as a cheer made its way through the crowd, and pointed as the doors of the church opened. “And here he is. Here is King Arthur!”
The old man raised his voice with the rest, forgetting ceremony and decorum, as though he were just another boisterous commoner in the throng.
The crowd split before a retinue of seven knights, who gently pushed back the curious for the trio at its center and the line of sour-faced nobility marching behind. Five highborn doubters and their knights, come to scoff at this supposed miracle.
The foremost knight, about Balin’s age, a blonde haired, rough looking fellow in a backcountry warrior’s armor, shouted loudly:
“Make way for the king!”
Of the three directly behind the knights, the first was an austere looking ecclesiastic with a golden staff, resplendent in the robes and tall, elaborate miter of an Archbishop. This was Dubricius. In contrast, on the other side walked a fearsome, wild looking figure in a barbaric robe of shining black bear skin. This man had a feral head of silver-flecked, black hair and beard, and reminded Balin of John the Baptist in the wilderness. A glittering torc encircled his throat, and he gripped a gnarled ashwood staff in his fist.
“Who is that?” Balin asked the nobleman at his side.
“That is Arthur, the rightful High King, chosen of God,” the nobleman said.
But the man wasn’t talking about the wild man in black fur.
The two impressive robed figures, one like the embodiment of darkness and the other of light, had completely distracted Balin from the slight figure walking between them.
An upright, solemn, bright-eyed boy in a simple tunic and white silk diadem stepped up to the stone.
Balin and the nobleman stood exactly opposite the boy and watched as he gripped the sword of Macsen one-handed and drew it out easily with a resounding ring. He held it above his head and turned in a slow circle, and wherever he faced, the crowd genuflected.
When Arthur looked directly at Balin, it was like facing a terrible angel. Balin’s knees buckled unbidden, and he threw himself to the flagstones, the noble doing the same at his side.
“Long live King Arthur!” The black bearded wild man roared, raising his arms. The Archbishop repeated the cry. It burst from the throats of the multitude.
This was God’s chosen king. He felt it in his heart. His eyes spilled tears.
“You nobles and kings, do you still doubt?” the blonde knight demanded.
When Balin saw the men in question were still standing aright with expressions of naked doubt, he felt his own anger mount. He wanted to charge among them and force them to their knees.
“Pellinore of the Isles and all his sons, born and unborn, swear fealty to King Arthur!” called an old man in bright armor, and he held aloft a naked sword.
“Cameliard pledges its loyalty to God’s king!” The nobleman at Balin’s side called out, and he stood and drew the ornamented sword, raising it defiantly to heaven.
Balin realized with a start that this was King Leodegrance.
Several knights did the same, and every peasant gathered. Why Balin did not add his voice to theirs, he didn’t know. Something held him back. It was the black garbed man with the golden torc. There was something in that dreadful figure that gave him pause.
Of the five richly attired men who had not bent their knees, one, a thin, black bearded wraith who towered over the rest, called out, “Who is this beardless boy that he should be our king?”
The blonde knight stepped forward, ready to answer, but the man in black touched his shoulder.
“I will tell you,” said the man in black. “He is Arthur, the son of Uther, begotten on Igraine!”
“The duke of Tintagel’s wife? A bastard, then!” scoffed another one of the kings.
“He was born in wedlock, King Uriens,” the Archbishop interrupted. “Conceived after the death of the duke and born thirteen days into the marriage of Uther and Igraine. The church recognizes his parentage. Does the King of Gore refute the Church’s authority in these matters?”
Uriens grumbled but said nothing.
“What say you, Lot of Orkney? Your own wife is the duke’s daughter. Arthur is her half-brother.”
Lot, the tall, hollow-cheeked king, stroked his thick beard.
“Pardon your grace, but I rule Orkney, not my wife.” He whirled and marched out of the courtyard with his guards, and the other four nobles followed.
Arthur stepped down to confer with Dubricius and the man in black.
Leodegrance rammed his sword back in its scabbard and shook his head. “Those fools! Do they not see? Whether they worship God or not, Arthur is by blood High King. Even the Merlin acknowledges it.”
Then Balin knew.
The wild man in black with the golden torc bending to Arthur’s ear was the magician, Merlin. Gallet had called him the Cambion; the son of a witch and the Devil himself. He was the antichrist. Brulen had doubted this, and when they had once asked their instructors a
t Belande about him, Sir Claellus told them it was true his father was a demon, but that a holy man called Blaise had intervened and baptized him on the birthing bed, foiling the Devil’s plans for him.
Their mother had told them of Merlin, too, and by her tone he was not quite on the best terms with Avalon. But the Bible spoke against the counsel of magicians and soothsayers. Could God choose a king and allow a son of the Devil to advise him?
Leodegrance moved closer to Arthur. Balin backed away, until he was out of the press of the crowd.
He went back to his tent outside of Londres and knelt there in the grass, praying for some sign. He had come to see this chosen king, felt in his heart this truth. But the Merlin…was this wizard’s presence enough to drive him back into the service of an unworthy king like Clarivaunce? Perhaps not. But neither did it win him fully to Arthur’s side. Had he been rash in leaving Northumberland? Was he to be a knight errant like his dishonored brother, wandering the countryside, selling his sword and lance to the ambitions of the petty under-kings? The last he had heard, Brulen was in the army of Lot of Orkney. If he joined Arthur, he might very well meet his brother on the battlefield.
Brulen had been excommunicated by the bishop for killing Gallet on the altar, and his shield had been hung upside down in disgrace in the hall at Belande. He hadn’t seen his brother in two years, not since the happiest and saddest day of his life.
Balin remained in his camp for weeks, praying and pondering, listening for news, looking for a sign from God.
Then, one June morning, both came at once.
It was known that Arthur and his small body of supporters had retired to Caerleon as guests of Leodegrance, and that the five rebellious kings had mustered their knights and gone there to besiege him. King Clarivaunce had ridden down from Northumberland to partake in the slaughter to follow, no doubt as part of some dark room plan with one of the other kings to seize Leodegrance’s territory.
Six armies against Arthur.
Balin had fought his desire to ride out to Caerleon and partake in the battle. He could not. He did not yet know on which side he truly belonged.
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