Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle Page 3

  “Sit,” Merlin ordered. “I would hear of your discussion with Governor Melatus. You were late returning last night.”

  Gradlon rolled his eyes and puffed out his cheeks. “Melatus is impossible, of course—a spine like a willow wand, and a mind like a sieve.”

  This brought a chuckle from Arthur, who alone among us possessed an appetite. The boy heeded Gradlon’s advice and ate with zeal. If it were to be his last meal, I reflected, at least it would be a good one.

  “The problem, of course,” Gradlon continued, breaking the hard bread and dipping the crust in his porridge, “is that the governor is of no certain opinion about the matter. He has no opinion because he is living in the past. Tch! Melatus and his cronies believe the emperor will come in the spring with four cohorts.” The merchant withdrew the crust from his mouth. “Four cohorts! Why not a hundred? A thousand!”

  Merlin shook his head. Gradlon laughed. “Which emperor, I asked him? Oh, he is a fool, I tell you. Gaul is finished. The Empire is a memory. Eat! You have not touched your food.”

  “He will not side with us?” asked Merlin.

  “No more than he would side with the Saecsens. God’s mercy, the man thinks you are Saecsens! Melatus believes anyone not born behind the crumbling walls of Londinium is a barbarian or worse. As I say, he is impossible.”

  “Then at least he will not side with the others,” I ventured.

  “Do not be overcertain of that, my friend,” Gradlon answered. “Melatus is a fool and practices a fool’s wisdom. He may side with the others simply to confound you. Also, Morcant styles himself an emperor, and that looms large with Melatus.”

  “Then it seems we cannot ignore him,” Merlin replied. “This is going to be more difficult than I thought.”

  “Leave Melatus to me!” declared Gradlon. “I will deal with him.”

  Arthur finished his porridge and pushed his bowl away. He took up his cup and sipped the spiced wine. The steam rose from the rim as he drank. Gradlon’s glance lingered on him for a moment, then he said, “Aurelius’ son—who would have thought it, eh? Hail, Artorius! I salute you.” Gradlon raised his palm in an informal but genuine salute.

  Arthur grinned. “I am not king yet.”

  “Not yet,” Merlin agreed. “But perhaps by the end of the day we will all say otherwise.”

  Still, despite Merlin’s hopeful words, it was not to be.

  * * *

  Arthur had little stomach for appeasement, or for the schemes of men like Morcant. Given a choice, I think he would have preferred settling the matter with the edge of his sword. Better the short, sharp heat of open battle than the cold poison of intrigue.

  Merlin sympathized, but knew there was no other way. “You were born to contention, boy,” he said. “What is a little strife to you? Bear it lightly; it will pass.”

  “I do not mind that they hate me,” replied Arthur. I believe he meant it, too. “But it angers me that they refuse me my birthright.”

  “I will tell you something, shall I? They treated Aurelius no better,” Merlin confided, “and him they loved. Think on that.”

  Arthur turned his eyes to the throng gathered in the churchyard. “Do they hate me as well?”

  “They have not decided yet.”

  “Where are Ectorius and Cai? I do not see them.” Ectorius and his son, Cai, had arrived in Londinium and found us as we were making our way to the churchyard.

  “I told them to find Morcant and stand with him.”

  “With him?”

  “Perhaps he will not rail quite so loudly if his own is the only voice he hears.”

  Arthur smiled darkly. “I do not fear Morcant.”

  “This is not about fear, Arthur, but about power,” Merlin said seriously. “And Morcant holds the very thing you need.”

  “I do not need his approval.”

  “His acquiescence.”

  “It is the same thing,” snapped Arthur.

  “Perhaps,” allowed Merlin. “Perhaps.”

  “I would liked to have talked to Cai.”

  “Later.”

  “Why are we waiting? Let us get on with it.”

  “We will wait a little longer—let Morcant and his crowd stew in their juices.”

  “I am the one stewing, Myrddin! Let us do it and be done.”

  “Shh…patience.”

  Despite the cold, people continued to crowd into the yard. Arthur, Merlin, and I stood out of sight inside the archway of the church, waiting while the kings and lords gathered to witness once more the miracle they would neither accept nor acknowledge. But they came anyway. What else could they do?

  I scanned the crowd, too, wishing in my heart that Meurig and Custennin had arrived, and wondering why Lot was not here. What could have detained them? I could not help feeling that their presence would make a difference somehow—even though I knew this hope to be futile.

  In any event, Merlin had already decided the way the thing would go.

  Urbanus, bald and jowly, bustled up, his sandals slapping the wet stone at our feet. “All is ready,” he said, slightly out of breath. “All is ordered as you have asked.”

  Arthur turned to regard the bishop. “What is ready?” The question was for Merlin.

  “I have asked Urbanus to prepare us a place where we may sit and talk like civilized men. I do not propose to haggle in the churchyard like horse traders in a market. This is too important, Arthur. When men sit down together they are likely to be more reasonable.”

  “Yes,” replied Urbanus. “So, when you are ready…?”

  “I will give you a sign,” answered Merlin.

  “Very well. I will take my place.” Urbanus pressed his hands together and hurried off, his breath puffing in the icy air.

  Arthur stamped his feet. The restless crowds shifted in the cold. Some of the lords gathered around the keystone were talking loudly and looking around pointedly. In a few moments the shout would go up for Arthur to appear. If he did not, there would be a riot.

  Arthur felt the tension in the throng and sensed it shifting like a tide against him. He turned to Merlin and implored, “Please, can we get on with it?”

  In the same instant, the crowd began to shout.

  “See? They are tired of waiting, and so am I.”

  This, I think, was why Merlin had been waiting. He wanted the emotions of the people, and Arthur’s too, to be prickly sharp; he wanted them alert and uncomfortable.

  “Yes,” agreed Merlin. “I think we have kept them waiting long enough. Let us go. Remember what I told you. And whatever happens, see that you do not release that sword to anyone.”

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

  Merlin pushed toward 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 appeared forever 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, he 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 so
rcery.”

  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. Placing both hands on the hilt, he 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 Ogryvan, his neighbor king; Morganwg, following his son’s example, and faring no better; old Antorius 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 color 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 in 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 honor 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 Uther’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 his 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 the fragrant haze of incense, fairly 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.

  He concluded, “All-Wise Father, 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 and said, “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 and said, “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, Morcant,” 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 po
wer 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 rigidly 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 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 center 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 leaped 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 outright 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.”