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  Arthur nodded once, curtly. He understood without being told.

  Merlin pushed towards the keystone and was recognized at once. The Emrys! Make way for the Emrys! Make way!' And a path opened before him.

  We came to stand before the keystone. As if to thwart and defy us, Morcant and his friends stood directly opposite, haughty sneers and scowls on their faces. Their enmity seethed within them, escaping in the steam from mouths and nostrils. The day seemed to have grown darker.

  The stone, with its, thin dusting of snow, appeared immense and white and cold… so cold. And the great sword of Macsen Wledig, the Sword of Britain, stood plunged to its hilt, solid as the keystone that held it; the two were for ever joined, there would be no separating them.

  Had I only dreamed that he had drawn it?

  In the starved light of that bleak day, all that had gone before seemed as remote and confused as a faded dream. The stone had defeated all who set hand to the sword. On this drear day it would conquer Arthur, too. And Britain would go down into the darkness at last.

  Merlin raised his hands in the attitude of declamation, although the throng had stilled already. He waited and, when every eye was on him, said, 'The sword has already been drawn from the stone, as many here will testify. Yet it will be drawn again by daylight, in full view of all gathered here, that no one may claim deception or sorcery.'

  He paused to allow these words to take hold. The wind stirred and snow began to fall in earnest – huge, powdery flakes, like bits of fleece riding the shifting wind.

  'Is there a man among you who would try the stone? Let him try it now.' The steel in Merlin's voice spoke a challenge cold and hard as the stone itself.

  Of course, there were some who would try, knowing what they already knew in their hearts – that they would be defeated as they had been defeated before. But, like ignorance and folly, they would not be denied their opportunity to fail yet once more.

  The first lord to try was the young viper Cerdic, Morcant's insolent son. Lips curled in a sneer, the fool thrust his way to the stone, reached out and grabbed the hilt as if laying claim to another's wealth. He pulled with all the arrogance in him – and it was no small measure. The crowd urged him on with cries of encouragement, but he fell back a moment later, red-faced with exertion and defeat.

  Maglos of Dumnonia, Morganwg's son, came next – more out of curiosity than hope. He touched the hilt diffidently, as if the thing might burn him. He was defeated before he pulled, and gave in good-naturedly.

  Coledac shoved his way forward. He glared at the sword – as if it were beneath him to touch it – wrapped his hand around the hilt and pulled, releasing it almost at once. He turned and pushed back into the crowd.

  Owen Vinddu, the Cerniw chieftain, stood next at the stone, gazing earnestly. And, placing both hands on the hilt, gripped it with such strength his knuckles went white as he pulled. With a mighty groan he fell back, vanquished.

  Others crowded in: Ceredigawn of Gwynedd and Ogry-van, his neighbour king; Morganwg, following his son's example, and faring no better; old Antonius of the Cantii, stiff with age, but game to the end… and others – lords, kings, chieftains, each and every one, and their sons as well.

  All who had a mind to rule tried that day, and all went down in defeat to the stone until Arthur only was left. The cheering, jeering throng fell silent as they turned to him.

  Arthur stood tall and grim, his eyes the colour of the lowering sky, his shoulders straight, lips pressed to a thin, bloodless line. The hardness in him surprised me, and others saw it, too. Yes, he would be a match for the stone – he looked as if made of the very stuff.

  He put forth his hand and grasped the hilt as if retrieving it from the gut of an enemy. There came the cold rasp of steel on stone as he pulled, and the gasp of the crowd as he lofted the great weapon and brandished it in the air for all to see.

  A few, to their everlasting credit, bent the knee at once, recognizing their king. Most did not. They could not believe what they had seen. Men had waited long years for this sight and then failed to acknowledge it.

  What did they expect? An angel hi shining raiment? An Otherworld god?

  'Trickery!' The voice was one of Morcant's chieftains who had no doubt been instructed to start the uproar. 'Usurper!' Others salted through the crowd did likewise, trying to raise the rabble against Arthur. But Merlin was ready.

  Before the thing could come to blows, he nodded to Urbanus, who stepped up beside Arthur and spread his arms in a gesture of conciliation. 'Silence!' he cried. 'Why do you persist in doubting what you have seen with your own eyes? On this day of Christ Mass let there be no dissension among us. Rather let us enter the church and pray God's guidance as Christian men ought. Then let us sit together and take counsel with one another, and so determine what is best to do.'

  This was unexpected. The dissenting lords had thought only of rebellion and bloodshed, and were unprepared to answer the calm reason of Urbanus' suggestion. Ectorius was quick to ratify the plan. 'Well said!' he shouted. 'We are reasonable and temperate men. Where is the harm in sitting down together? And what better place than this holy church?'

  The dissenters were hard-pressed to answer. If they refused, the people would know them for the traitors they were, and would proclaim Arthur. Yet conceding to Urbanus' suggestion admitted Arthur's claim as genuine. They were neatly trapped.

  Urbanus saw their hesitation and knew its cause. 'Come,' he said reasonably. 'Put aside strife and vain contention. On this high and holy day let there be peace among us. Come into the church.'

  The people murmured their approval, and the small kings realized that this particular battle was lost. 'Very well,' said Morcant, rallying his forces, 'let us take counsel and decide what is best. I invoke the Council of Kings.' He hoped with this to imply that the matter was far from settled, and that he was in authority. So saying, he turned and led the way into the church.

  If he hoped to benefit by taking the seat of honour for himself, that hope died stillborn in his breast. Merlin had instructed Urbanus to arrange the kings' chairs in a large circle inside the sanctuary – as had been done in Aurelius' and Other's time, but never since.

  Thus seated, no king stood above his brothers; therefore, no lord's opinion counted for more than another's. This lessened Morcant's hold on the lords below him.

  Morcant did not like it, but there was nothing he could do. He stalked to bis chair, turned, and sat down with as much superiority as he could command. Others took chairs on either side of him as they chose, their advisers and counsellors ranged around them, and the more curious of Londinium's citizens filled in behind. Within moments the vast room, alight with hundreds of candles and fragrant with the haze of incense, buzzed like a hornet's hive. Urbanus could not have imagined a larger gathering for Christ Mass.

  Consequently, he could not allow the opportunity to go unmarked. So he began the council with an admonitory prayer – both in Latin and in the British tongue, so that no one would fail to understand what he said. And he said it at some length.

  'All Wise Father,' he concluded, 'Great Giver and Guide, lead us in wisdom and righteousness to the king you have chosen, and grant us peace in the choosing. Bless our counsel with the light of your presence, and let each man among us please you in thought and word and deed.'

  His prayer finished at last, Urbanus rose and turned to the assembly: 'It is many years since this body has gathered in accord; many years since a High King ruled in Britain – much to our hurt, I declare.' He paused and allowed his gaze to sweep across the entire throng before continuing. Therefore, I charge you: let not this council depart hence without redressing this wrong by establishing the High Kingship once more.'

  The people liked the sound of that and chorused their approval. Urbanus then turned to Merlin. 'I stand ready to serve in any way you deem useful.'

  'Thank you, Bishop Urbanus,' Merlin said, dismissing him. He addressed Morcant at once. 'As you have called this council, Mor
cant,' he began, 'perhaps you should tell us why you will not accept the sign by which we all agreed the next High King of Britain should be recognized. For, unless you have discovered some compelling reason why we should disregard the thing we have seen with our own eyes, I tell you all that the High King stands before you this day with the Sword of Britain in his hand.'

  Morcant frowned. 'There is every reason to disregard what we have seen. This is, as we all know, an evil age; there is much sorcery in the land round about. How do we know that what we have seen with our own eyes,' he mocked the phrase, 'was not accomplished by enchantment?'

  'How by enchantment, Morcant?' demanded Merlin. 'Make plain your objection: do you accuse Arthur of sorcery?'

  Morcant's frown deepened. To imply sorcery was far simpler than proving it. He had no proof and knew it. 'Am I a sorcerer that I know such things?' he fumed.

  'You were the one to name the sin among us. I put it to you, Morcant, is Arthur a sorcerer?'

  His face twisted with rage, Morcant nevertheless held his temper and answered reasonably. 'I have no proof save the sword in his hand. If it was not gained by sorcery, I demand to know by what power it was obtained.'

  'By the power of virtue and true nobility,' Merlin declared. 'The same power given to all who will choose it.'

  The people cheered at this, and Morcant realized he was losing ground to Merlin's wit and logic. Yet he could not help himself. Spreading his arms to the assembly, he demanded, 'Do you malign the nobility of the good men here assembled? Do you impugn their virtue?'

  'The words are yours, Morcant. I merely uphold the virtue and nobility of the one standing before us,' Merlin lifted a hand to Arthur standing rigid beside him. 'If you feel maligned and impugned in his presence,' he said, 'no doubt it is the truth working in you.'

  'Are you God that you presume to know the truth?' sneered Morcant.

  'And are you such a stranger to the truth that you no longer recognize it?' Merlin made a dismissing gesture with his hands. 'Stop this foolishness, Morcant. If you have objections, speak them out.' He included the others in his challenge. 'If anyone knows just reason why Arthur should not receive the High Kingship he has won by right, I command you to speak now!'

  The silence in the great chamber was such that I might have heard the snowflakes alighting in the yard outside. No one, Morcant included, held a single legitimate reason why Arthur should not be High King – save for his own ambitious pride.

  Merlin's golden eyes gazed over the assembly and the gathered crowd. The time had come to force the issue. He rose slowly and stepped to the centre of the ring. 'So,' he said softly, 'it is as I thought. No one can speak against Arthur. Now then, I ask you, who will speak for him?'

  The first to answer was Ectorius, who leapt to his feet. 'I speak for him. And I own him king!'

  'I also own him king.' It was Bedegran.

  'I own him king,' said Madoc, rising with him.

  Those who had already bent the knee now proclaimed Arthur once again. The throng cheered at this, but the acclamation died in their throats. For no one else recognized Arthur or held him king. The Council of Kings remained divided, and not enough supported Arthur to allow him to claim the throne in spite of the dissenters.

  Morcant wasted not a moment. 'We will not accept him as king over us,' he crowed. 'Someone else must be chosen.'

  'He holds the sword!' shouted Merlin. 'And that has not changed. Whoever would be king must first take the sword from Arthur's hand. For I tell you truly, none among you will be king without it!'

  Morcant's fists balled in his anger. As carefully as he tried to steer the issue around that fact, Merlin managed to guide it back.

  'Arthur, come here,' summoned Merlin. The young man joined the Emrys in the circle.

  'Here he is,' said Merlin, stepping away. 'Who among you will be first to try?'

  Arthur stood alone in the centre of the ring of kings. In the flickering light of the Christ Mass candles, holding the sword easily by the hilt, alert, resolute, unafraid, he appeared an avenging angel, eyes alight with the bright fire of righteousness.

  Clearly, anyone wishing to take the sword by force would have a fight on his hands. Fools they were, perhaps, but not fool enough to risk single combat with this unknown young warrior. Merlin's challenge stood.

  Even so, Arthur could not demand the High Kingship outright. He had no lands, no wealth, no warband; and his supporters were too few. The issue remained in deadlock. Nothing had changed since the night before.

  But Merlin was not finished.

  FOUR

  All that winter's day and far into the night the kings' twisted and squirmed, but Merlin held them in his iron grasp and would not let go. He became first a rock, and then a mountain in Arthur's defence. Arthur stood equally unmoved. No power on earth could have prevailed against them…

  … just as no power on earth can make a man honour another who does not himself desire it.

  In truth, the petty kings did not desire to honour Arthur. He would have to earn their honour and their loyalty. Merlin's great care was to make that possible.

  This he accomplished through reviving the tide Dux Britanniarum, Duke of Britain – Uther's old title from the time when he was war leader for Aurelius – and conferring it upon Arthur.

  The council agreed to this in the end, for it saved them from having to make Arthur king outright. But once he obtained this compromise, then did Merlin sow his scheme: a warband supported by all the kings equally, for the benefit of all. A free-roving force dedicated to keeping the lands of Britain secure. Beholden to no king, supported equally by all, this roaming warband could strike wherever and whenever needed – without regard for the restrictive pacts and alliances of the petty kings.

  Since, it was reasoned, Britain faced a common enemy we would field a common warband, led by a war leader owing allegiance to no one, but serving all equally as need arose.

  This, of course, was far less readily agreed upon, for it meant that kings like Morcant and Coledac would have to give up their warring ways – else they would find themselves facing Arthur and the warband they themselves helped to support.

  Thus, making Arthur Duke of Britain enforced the peace. This was the beauty of Merlin's plan, and also its greatest weakness. For, in truth, the kings who had no intention of swearing fealty to Arthur would not support him to their own hurt.

  Other kings saw a different menace: a free-roving warband they could not rule was scarcely less dangerous than the Saecsen raiders this selfsame warband was supposed to hold at bay.

  Yet, as they had already conceded Arthur's title, there was nothing they could do in the end. A War Leader implied a force to command. And no one could deny the need. Arthur would be the War Leader, and the warband would be raised from the pledged support of the council.

  True, it was not the High Kingship. But Merlin's scheme gave Arthur what he needed: leave to act to win the kingship. And he did.

  When Arthur left the church that night – cold and bright it was, and windy, the black ice shining in the white moonlight – his long legs striding, hastening him away, the Sword of Britain on his hip for good, he was no longer the young man who had entered that morning. The malice of the petty kings, their narrow spites, their biting rancour and jealousy had hardened him. But the All-Wise Spirit moves in mysterious ways: Arthur now knew them for what they were.

  In this he had the better of them, for they knew him not at all.

  Arthur has always learned quickly. When as a boy in Ectorius' house he laboured at his Latin and numbers with Melumpus, the Gaulish tutor from the abbey at nearby Abercurny, Arthur needed only to be told a thing once and he understood it, twice and it was his for ever.

  As often as not, when I came for the boys in the afternoons, to ride or take weapons practice, there would be Arthur patiently explaining a word or sum to Cai while Melumpus dozed in the sun, his hands folded over his paunch. Arthur could teach as well as learn, though he always preferred doing
to thinking.

  If a thing could be done, Arthur wanted to do it. If it could not be done, better still – that was the thing he wanted most to do.

  Nothing comes so vividly to mind in this regard as when we journeyed to Gwynedd on our way to Caer Myrddin to visit Tewdrig. Ectorius and Cai were with us, and Merlin of course, along with a small escort.

  It was the summer of Arthur's eleventh year, I believe, and there had been reports of renewed Irish raiding along the western coasts. Merlin wanted to discuss the situation with Tewdrig and Meurig, and see for himself how things stood. He had planned to go quietly, alone. But, once Arthur heard of it, he quickly included himself and Cai, and there was no gainsaying him. Since we could in no wise risk travelling with Arthur unprotected, it was decided that we would all make the journey together.

  All went well until we reached Yr Widdfa. Upon seeing those great cold looming mounds of slate, Arthur nearly fell off his horse in astonishment. 'Look at that one! Have you ever seen a higher mountain? There is snow still on it!'

  'It is a sight indeed,' agreed Merlin.

  'Does it have a name? What is it?'

  'It does. All this is Yr Widdfa, Region of Snows.' Merlin pointed to the highest peak. 'The one you are gawking at isEryri.'

  'It is… ' he searched for words,'… enormous! Enormous and beautiful.' He gazed in wonder at it, filling his eyes with the sight. 'Has anyone ever climbed it?'

  The question caught Merlin off guard. 'I do not believe so,' he answered. 'I do not think it possible.'

  That was the wrong thing to say, certainly. 'Good! Then I will be the first,' Arthur declared. He meant it, too. And he meant to begin at once. With a lash of the reins, he rode towards the mountain.

  Merlin made to call him back. But Cai intervened. 'Please, Lord Emrys, I would like to climb it, top.'

  'You, Cai?' Merlin turned and looked into the ruddy face. The clear blue eyes held all the hope any one human creature can bear. To dash it would have been unthinkable.