Sword of the Rightful King (7 page)

Thre thingges short
—
height, toes, utterance
.”

 

“Sounds more like an animal in a bestiary than a girl,” Arthur ventured at last. “And I am not sure of your spelling.”

“It is better than yours,” said Kay, which was true.

Arthur leaned forward. “And what is wrong with this years choice? A nice girl, I thought. Sweet.”

“She is a pig farmers daughter,” Kay said sniffily. “And she giggles.”

Arthur sucked at his teeth, something he did only when he was annoyed. “We all raise pigs, Kay. That we pay someone else to clean the sty does not make us the better. And where in this list does it say:
Giggles smalle
?”

Kay's hand went to his mustache.

“I am not fooled, you know,” Arthur said.

Kay gazed at the ceiling, which Arthur recognized as his attempt to look innocent. “I do not know what you mean.”

“I know the Companions are trying to find me a bride. Everyone in court from the cook's boy on up is looking out for the right girl. But I do not want one of those temporary marriages, a handfast for a year and a day.”

“And...?” Kay seemed to have found something very interesting in the ceiling, because he was still staring at it.

“I am not like Queen Maeve of Connacht to change consorts so often that I never have a mate but there is another in her shadow.”

“And...?” The ceiling must have been utterly fascinating. Kay could not let it go.

“And I want something more than... than a list of things small and large,” Arthur said. “I want...” But he stopped because, for the life of him, he did not know what he wanted in a bride. Beauty? Wit? Intelligence? Loyalty? Honesty? A large dowry? A good family? A long patience? A gift for song? It was a puzzle for certain. Whoever became his bride would also become the queen at his side. Not a May Queen to serve for the Planting Fest until Solstice Eve, but a queen for all seasons. Someone to talk to, to confide in. To share interests. Someone who could make him laugh. He rarely had anything to laugh at, now that he was king. The list the men had drawn up did not speak to that kind of queen. He wondered if there was any list that could.

“The men are trying, Arthur,” said Kay, by which he meant that
he
was trying and had gotten the men to go along with him. Kay could often bend certain kinds of men to his will.

“Very trying,” Arthur replied quietly, and smiled. This time it was a real smile because he, like Merlinnus, had gotten off a real last line.

But still gazing at the ceiling, Kay did not seem to notice Arthur's last line. Indeed, Kay had little sense of humor, especially where it touched upon himself.

“All right, then,” Arthur said, and sighed.
So much for last lines
. “Send in the next petitioner.”

Eager to be doing something official, Kay went back to the door and ushered in a white-bearded man wearing grey woolen breeches and a tunic tied with a leather thong at his waist. Clearly he had not dressed up for his interview with the king. He was carrying a very large bag of millet in his arms.

9

M
ERLINNUS HAD LEFT
the throne room and gone directly outside, where he began to mull. over the interview he'd just had with the king. Without thinking about where he was going, he headed toward the grove beyond the north end of the castle. His favorite oak tree grew there.

The long, cruel winter had heaved up the path, making the footing uneven and treacherous, so he walked with care. Now approaching his sixtieth year, Merlinnus did not dare fall, for fear he might break a bone. Even with his vast knowledge of herbs and potions, he could no longer count on healing easily. He had not been speaking idly when he had told the messenger his bones were brittle.

If he broke a bone, what good would he be to Arthur? Pain and fever precluded sound judgment. Sound judgment was the base on which all magic rested. And if ever Arthur needed magic, he needed it now.

How else to guarantee the throne?

Merlinnus hadn't needed a messenger to remind him of the restless tribes. He was well aware of the troubling rumors coming down from the north. It was not only the North Witch who sought the throne, though she had the best claim to it. Petty Highland kings with unpronounceable names had refused to take Arthur as their liege lord. And as for the Border lords, hiding behind the Roman Wall—well, for the most part they refused to commit themselves.

So Merlinnus trod the broken path carefully, and when he got to the roots of the oak, he gazed up at the tree fondly, addressing it rather informally, they being of a long acquaintance.

“
Salve, amice frondifer
. Greeting, friend leaf bearer. I am troubled and only your good advice will salve me.”

A rustle of new leaves answered him, as a tiny wind puzzled through the grove.

“Here is the problem. The northern tribes in the Orkneys are fussing again, demanding one of Morgause's sons be named king in Arthur's stead. And the westerners, around Cornwall—curse them!—simply egg the northerners on. Those westerners are hoping for a standoff so that they might put up a king of their own. Though they would not be unsatisfied if Morgause's line ruled. After all, she's a daughter of theirs, sired by the late duke who died defending their Castle Tin-tagel against Uther Pendragon.” He sighed. “So many claimants to the throne. So many angry people.”

Another small wind ran around the tops of the trees, but only the oak seemed agitated.

Merlinnus shook his head. “What am I to do? I must make them all follow the boy, make them eager to do his bidding. History demands it. History past and history future. Royal blood runs in his veins. No one else knows, of course, but I do. He shows his lineage in his very looks, though only I seem to note it. And I do not mention it because it puts his fathers reputation in disrepute.” He smiled sourly. “Not that his father's reputation needs much help in that direction.”

He waited for some answer from the tree and, getting none, spoke on. “Should I have expected gratitude for setting Arthur on the throne? Should I have expected imagination to accompany his heritage? And how can I dare hope he will fight to retain a crown he finds so heavy?” He drew in a deep breath. “And have I mentioned that he thinks himself unworthy?”

The oak leaves fluttered as if laughing, and around the grove, larch and beech seemed to join in.

“Well, bless me, I
did
expect it. I
did
hope for it. My brain must be rotting with age.”

Again many leaves rustled in the grove.

“You ask what is good about him? Oh,
amice frondifer
, he works hard. He loves the people. He weeps for the impoverished. Cares for the needy. He longs to right wrongs. Already he is a good king. He could make a great one in time. But tell me,
e glande nate
, sprout of an acorn, do I ask too much when I hope for vision as well?
Vision
! That's what is missing in the boy. If he shows an ounce of it, they will all follow him to the ends of Britain, no matter his parentage.”

This time the leaves in the grove were still. The wind had died down.

“Well, maybe you are right to be silent, tree. Blood is blood, but history has no veins. I've no other witness to his heritage, and what nobles will believe it, anyway? They will say he was gotten badly by a trick of my conniving. They will say I am both the problem and the solution. Oh, magic! That it proves to be such a hard master.” Merlinnus sighed again, this time sounding much like the wind in the trees.

He looked up to the crown of the oak. “Arthur must prove his worth—to himself, to all the tribes—in some other way. Sword and stone. It will work. I am convinced of it. But how to convince the king?”

The tree, the grove, the wind, all remained still.

Merlinnus sat down at the foot of the oak and rubbed his back against its bark, easing an itch that had been there for days. “Winter itch,” he called it, though he actually itched summer and winter alike. “Comes from wearing wool,” he said companionably to the tree.

Tucking the skirt of his robe between his legs, he stared at his feet. He still favored the Roman summer sandals, even through the dark days of winter, because closed boots tended to make the skin crackle between his toes like old parchment. Besides, in heavy boots his feet sweated and stank, which no amount of herbal infusions seemed to sweeten. Since he felt cold now winter and summer, what did it matter that he exposed his old toes to the chill?

“Did I tickle his interest at all, do you think?” he murmured to the oak. “Or did I just irritate him. Or bore him. Young men are bored so easily. Especially by the prattling of the old.” He pulled on his beard as if that helped him think. “Such a waste of time, this tickling business. I would rather just say, Arthur—do this and be done with it.' But I cannot, else he would learn little. He still needs to learn so very much—for the years when I am gone and can no longer teach him. So I
must
take the time now to teach him to listen and learn. But time is, alas, the one commodity I have so little of.” Remembering the face with the vile things vomiting from its mouth, he rubbed a finger alongside his nose.

“I had hoped he would wonder about that sword stuck in the stone like a knife in beef. He likes beef. And swords.” Merlinnus almost smiled at that. “He is still a boy, really, for all he has been king these past four years.”

The grove was still silent, but the old man kept talking. “That sword in the stone, now—a nice bit of legerdemain, that. I am rather proud of it, actually. You see, it was not really a dream.”

The wind picked up again and the leaves fluttered above him.

“Yes, yes, I know I
said
it was a dream. But it was not. I now know I shall have to build the thing before he will understand, though not in my tower room. I shall construct it in the catacombs under the high tor. And let some wandering shepherd find it, so I will not be connected to it. At least not directly.”

Once again the leaves above him began to shake in the slight wind.

“Ah—I see I have at least caught
your
interest. Why—anyone with a bit of Latin can read the old Roman building manuals and construct a ring of stones. Or rebuild the baths under the castle. It's just that so few have the ability to read anymore. There's the pity. Or those who
can
read, won't. Like Arthur.”

The fluttering leaves made a sound like women laughing.

Merlinnus smiled. “They call what I do magic, but we know better, old friend. It's knowledge and experiment, really. A little lore, a little light, and a lot of patience. Magic! It doesn't change history with a finger snap. Little by little does it. Little by little.”

An acorn left over from the last season dropped down by his side.

“Well, of course I am proud of the sword in the stone. He will be, too. You are right, though. Arthur needs to do something more than just rule on quarreling dukes and silly cooks and grasping widows, more than grip the hands of small tribal chiefs. He has to fire up these silly tribes; he has to give them a reason to rally around him. He's got to be more than just another petty chieftain, more than a simple chief of chiefs. A High King does not just sit on an elevated throne. He has got to be the Rightful King of all Britain. He needs...”

A cuckoo called down from an overhead limb.

But, exhausted from his mental labors, the old man did not hear the cuckoo. Or he chose to ignore its obvious message. Instead he drifted into sleep.

This time he really did dream.

 

 

 

 

II

The churchyard was deserted, but the dawn was beginning to light the sullen square. The stone in the center blushed with the rising of the sun, and the sword in the stone's middle sprang to uncertain life. The sword's shadow was a long stain along the bulge of the stone
.

10

I
T WAS NEARLY
a week later, a week of spring skies, which in Britain meant alternating drowning rain and startling sun. The king was in a foul mood, his brother walked about as if on eggshells, and everyone in the castle had snotty colds. Cook had done a fine business in hot, spicy wines, and the infirmarer was kept busy with tisanes and compresses. Only the brachet, who seemed renewed by spring, was happy.

Merlinnus did not have a cold, but he was exhausted. His work had tired him. Day and night he had labored over his dream, hardly eating, barely sleeping. He had sent notes excusing himself from Arthur's company. He had sent Kay away with a rough word. He had even forgotten to worry about the North Queens assassins, so caught up as he was with the sword and stone. Even a young man would have tired from such labor, and Merlinnus had not seen his own youth for ages.

But he was done. The thing was made. Morgauses sons were not yet there, so he now had time to worry. And so he went out to the oak at sunrise for a renewing sleep. He felt neither the hard ground nor the upheaved roots beneath him. That uncomfortable bed put him right to sleep.

He slept through breakfast and well into the morning without dreams.

 

“W
AKE UP
. Wake up, old man.”

It was the shaking, not the soft-spoken sentence, that woke him. Merlinnus opened his eyes. A film of sleep lent a soft focus to his vision. The young person standing over him seemed haloed in mist.

“Are you all right, grandfather?”

Merlinnus sat up. He realized, belatedly, that he was getting too old to be sleeping out of doors. The ground cold had seeped into his bones. Like an old tree, his sap ran sluggishly. He could feel a sharp, stabbing pain in both his hips.

But being caught out by the youngster made him grumpy. “Why shouldn't I be all right?” he answered gruffly.