Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle, Page 2

  They are shouting: “Usurper!” They are demanding his name and lineage. Trickery! they cry. Perfidy! Deceit! They scream like scalded pigs. The holy sanctuary has become a vortex of spite and fear. Arthur stands silent in its center, unmoved and unmoving. He is an effigy carved in stone, and the noblemen are writhing dancers.

  The hate! The hate is like the heat from an oven. It is the thrust of a spear, the blow of a closed fist. It is the venom of a spitting viper.

  I struggle toward Arthur. I do not know how to help him, but I must stand with him. The throng around him is a solid wall. I cannot reach him.

  Arthur stands alone in the fury his appearance has created.

  Swords are thrust in the air; knives glint. I am certain they will kill the boy. They will see his head on a spike before they bow the knee to him. It was a dreadful mistake to bring him here.

  Urbanus, arms above his head, hands waving, shoves close. His face white as death, he is calling for peace, for order. No one hears him. They do not want to hear him. A hand snakes out, and blood spurts from the bishop’s nose. Urbanus falls back with a muffled cry.

  The crowd closes. “Kill him! Kill the usurper!” It is a death chant.

  Arthur’s eyes go grey and hard. His brow lowers. His grip tightens on the hilt of the sword in his hand. It is no longer an offering—it is a weapon once more, and he will use it.

  Kill him!…Kill him!…Kill him!

  The din is horrific. The mob presses closer.

  My sword is ready. Where is Merlin?

  Father God! It is all a dreadful mistake. We are dead men.

  And then, just as I begin to raise my sword to cleave a path to Arthur’s side, there comes a sound like a tempest wind—the blast of a mighty sea gale. Men fall back, suddenly afraid. They cover their heads with their arms and peer into the darkness above. What is it? Is the roof falling? The sky?

  The strange sound subsides, and they glance at one another in fear and awe. Merlin is there. The Emrys is standing calmly beside Arthur. His hands are empty and upraised, his face stern in the unnatural silence he has created…

  * * *

  It did not end there. In truth, it had not even begun.

  “Enough!” Merlin declared, a father speaking to disobedient children. “There will be no life-taking this holy night.”

  The noblemen murmured fearfully, eyeing Merlin with contempt and suspicion. He made them feel small and afraid, and they did not love him for it.

  “You have done this!” someone shouted. King Morcant of Bulgarum pushed his way through the throng. “I know you. This is a trick of yours, Enchanter.”

  Merlin turned to face the king. The years had done nothing to sweeten Morcant’s soul. The hunger for the High Kingship burned in his belly as fiercely as ever. Morcant it was—together with his friends Dunaut and Coledac—who gave Aurelius and Uther such trouble. Dunaut was safely in his grave, his realm ruled by Idris, a young kinsman. Coledac now ruled the rich Iceni lands reclaimed for him from the Saecsens by Aurelius. In consequence, Coledac was of a mind to view Arthur in a kindly light.

  But Morcant, more powerful than ever, was still dagger keen for the High Kingship. He did not intend letting it go without a battle. And his son, Cerdic, had learned the lust from his father. Cut of the same cloth, the boy, no older than Arthur, already saw himself adorning the throne.

  “I recognize you, Morcant,” Merlin replied, “and I know you for what you are.”

  “Trickster!” Morcant sneered. “It will take more than your enchantments to make this whore’s whelp a king.”

  Merlin smiled, but his eyes grew cold. “I will not make him king, Morcant. These lords gathered in this place will do that—and of their own will.”

  “Never!” Morcant laughed bitterly. “On my life, that will not happen.” He turned to those gathered around him, seeking approval for his words. Some gave it outright; others were more uncertain, but on the whole agreed with Morcant.

  Emboldened by this support, Morcant moved to the attack. “We do not know this boy; he is no king. Look at him! It is doubtful he is even of noble birth.” He indicated the sword with a scornful flick of his hand. “Do you expect us to believe that the blade in his hand is the true Sword of Britain?”

  “That,” Merlin told him calmly, “can easily be shown. We have but to step into the churchyard to see the empty stone from which the sword was drawn.”

  Morcant was of no disposition to agree with Merlin. But, having pressed the matter, he could not now back down. “Very well,” he said, “let us see if this is the true sword or not.”

  Pushing, jostling, the crowd, noblemen and all shouting at one another, fought their way out of the church and into the darkened yard, where even in the fitful glow of flickering torchlight everyone could plainly see that the great stone was indeed empty.

  This convinced a few, but Morcant was not one of them. “I would see him take it for myself,” he declared, firm in the belief that it was plainly impossible for Arthur to have drawn it in the first place, and that he would in no wise be able to repeat this miracle. “Let him put it back,” Morcant challenged, “and raise it again if he is able.”

  “Let him put it back!” cried someone from the crowd, and others shouted, too: “Put it back! Let him put the sword back!”

  At Merlin’s nod, Arthur advanced to the stone and replaced the sword, let it stand for a moment, then drew it out again as easily as before.

  “Ha!” crowed Morcant, “that is no true test. Once the spell has been broken, anyone may draw the blade!”

  “Very well,” said Merlin flatly. He turned to Arthur. “Replace the sword.” Arthur did so and stepped aside.

  Grinning wickedly, Morcant seized the sword with both hands and pulled. The great lord grunted and strained. His face darkened, and his muscles knotted with the effort. But the sword was stuck as fast as ever it was before. There was no moving it. He fell back, defeated.

  “What enchantment is this?” Morcant snarled, rubbing his hands.

  “If it is enchantment,” Merlin told him, “it is God’s enchantment and none of mine.”

  “Liar!” screamed Morcant.

  Others crowded in around the stone and tried to draw the sword. But, as ever before, the Sword of Britain remained firm-fixed to the keystone. No one among the greatest in the Island of the Mighty could pull it out, save Arthur alone.

  When all had tried and failed, King Morcant raged, “This proves nothing! I will not be tricked by night. Let him lift the sword in the bright daylight, I say! Then we will know that all is as it should be.”

  Morcant believed no such thing, of course. He merely wished to put off the test a little longer, in the vain hope that he might yet discover a way to win the sword.

  Merlin was of a mind to challenge Morcant in this, but Urbanus came forth with the holy cross upraised, and appealed to all gathered there in the name of the Christ to put off the test until the morning.

  “Tomorrow is the Christ Mass,” the bishop said. “Come inside the church and pray to the Holy King of all men, that in his great mercy he will show some miracle by which we will know beyond all doubt who shall be High King.”

  To some, this sounded like wisdom itself. I could see what Merlin thought of the scheme; I could almost hear his scornful retort: As I stand before God, we have already had our miracle! How many more will you require before you believe?

  But, to my surprise, Merlin politely acquiesced. “So be it,” he replied. “Tomorrow let us assemble here once more and see what God will do.”

  With that he turned and started away. Arthur and I followed, leaving the torchlit crowd gaping after us.

  “Myrddin, why?” asked Arthur, as soon as we were away from the churchyard. The narrow street was dark, and wet with melted snow. “I could do it again—I am certain of it. Please, Myrddin, let me.”

  Merlin stopped in the street and turned to Arthur. “I know perfectly well that you could. In truth, you could draw the sword fifty
times or five hundred—yet it still would not be enough for them. But this way we give them something to think about. Let them worry with it through the night, and perhaps tomorrow they will see things differently.”

  “But tomorrow, Lord Morcant might—” began Arthur.

  “Morcant has had fifteen years to find a way to defeat the sword, or find a way around it,” Merlin explained. “One more night will make no difference.”

  We started walking again. Our lodgings were not far from the church, and we soon arrived. Arthur was silent until we reached the doorstep. “Myrddin, why did you bring me here like this?”

  “I have told you, boy. It is time to see what you will become.”

  “That is no answer. You knew what would happen. You knew there would be trouble tonight.”

  “Come in, Arthur. It is cold.”

  “No,” Arthur refused flatly. “Not until you tell me.”

  Merlin sighed. “Oh, very well. I will tell you. Now, let us go in. Gradlon has a fire. We will drink some of his wine, and I will tell you all that can be told.”

  We entered the house where, as Merlin had said, Gradlon the wine merchant had prepared a fire. In the elegant style of old Londinium, there were chairs drawn up to the fire, a small long-legged table bearing a tray with cups of silver, and a fine glass jar filled with ruby-red wine.

  Gradlon himself was nowhere to be seen, nor did it appear that any of his servants were about.

  “I will see if anyone is here,” I said, and went to look. The rooms of the ground floor were empty. The upper floor contained two rooms—one of them Gradlon’s private chamber. The other he kept as a small storeroom and a place to make his accounting. Gradlon was in neither room. The house was empty.

  I returned to the hearthroom. Merlin and Arthur were settled before the fire. Three cups stood on the hearthstone, warming.

  “There is no one in the house, lord,” I reported.

  Merlin nodded. “Yet he prepared our welcome. No doubt he was called away and will appear shortly.”

  Arthur slumped in his chair, his large hands clasped over his chest. “I thought they would have my head,” he muttered. “They would have, too, if you had not stopped them. But why, Myrddin? Why were they so angry? And where is Meurig? And Ectorius and Cai—where are they? And Custennin and Bedwyr? They should all be here to support me.”

  “They should,” Merlin agreed. “But they have been delayed. Perhaps they will arrive tomorrow. Perhaps not.”

  “What? Do you not care what happens?” Arthur’s voice rose shrilly.

  Patiently Merlin replied, “Do you doubt me? I only say what is: either they will come tomorrow, or they will not. But whether they come or no, there is little I can do about it.”

  Arthur glared darkly, but said nothing. I moved to the hearthstone and poured wine into the warmed cups, handing one first to Merlin, then one to Arthur.

  “Fret not, Arthur,” I told him. “All is as it should be—as it was ordained to be. Meurig and Custennin know well the Christ Mass Council. They know and will come.”

  He accepted this with the wine, gulped down a mouthful. “You said you would tell me everything. You agreed. Well? I am ready to hear it now.”

  Merlin appraised him carefully for a moment. “Are you? Are you ready to hear it all? I wonder.”

  The crackle of the flames on the hearth filled the room. I felt my master weighing out the words carefully in his heart and mind, trying each one as a man might try a grain bag before committing to it the wealth of his harvest.

  “Arthur,” Merlin said at last, “if I have hidden anything from you, forgive me. It appears that the time for hidden things is over. Knowledge must lead you now where I cannot. But I ask you to remember that what I did, I did as I have ever done—for one purpose, and one purpose only: the better to serve you.”

  The young man accepted this readily. “Because you knew I would be a king one day?”

  “Precisely. Because I knew you would be king one day.”

  “By the sword? But I thought—”

  “And I let you think it, Arthur. Believe me, it was not for lack of trust in you, but for mistrust of others.” Merlin paused, considered, sipped from his cup, and said, “Tonight was a test, yes—but not the test you thought it was. You were not merely showing yourself worthy to become a king—”

  “No?”

  “You were showing yourself already a king, Arthur. The High King.”

  Arthur’s brow furrowed as his mind raced ahead. I could see him working on it, struggling to take it all in. Still, Arthur did not question that this could be true; his own heart answered for him that it was so.

  The boy sat dazed, but only for a moment. Then he leaped to his feet. “That is why they were so angry, Myrddin! They hated me for succeeding where they had failed. The prize was far greater than I knew.”

  The young man grinned, as if this were the solution to his woes. In truth, he had already forgiven the small kings their treachery. He was happy once more.

  As he paced before the fire, his face fairly shone with joy. “The High King—oh, Myrddin, it is true. I know it is. I am the High King.”

  This joy was short-lived, however. For even as the idea shaped itself in his mind, Arthur recognized the implications of his newfound nobility. “But that means…”

  His face fell; his shoulders slumped. From the height of happiness, he now appeared utterly downcast and forlorn.

  “Oh, sit down, Arthur.”

  “Who am I? Myrddin, tell me! Who am I that I should be High King? For reason tells me that I am no kin to Ectorius—or Meurig, or Custennin either.”

  Mryddin gently shook his head. “No, you are not of Custennin’s lineage, nor Meurig’s, nor even Ectorius’.” He rose and came to stand before Arthur, putting both hands on the boy’s shoulders. “It has been a long time, Arthur. The Island of the Mighty has been without a High King for far too long.”

  “Who am I, Myrddin?” whispered Arthur. “Tell me! Am I the Pendragon’s son?”

  “No, not Uther’s. Your father was Aurelius,” Merlin told him simply.

  “Aurelius?”

  “Yes, and Ygerna was your mother.”

  “Uther’s wife!” His eyes went wide.

  “It was not like that,” explained Merlin gently. “Ygerna was Aurelius’ queen before she was Uther’s. You are Aurelius’ true son, Arthur. You have no cause for shame.”

  This was too much for the boy to comprehend. “If there is no shame in it, why has it all been kept secret? And do not say it was to serve me better!”

  “To protect you, Arthur.”

  “From Morcant?”

  “From Morcant, yes, and others like him. You saw how it was tonight. I wanted to tell you when your mother died, but you were too young. It is difficult enough now; you would have understood it even less then.”

  Arthur bristled. “I am not liking this, Myrddin. I tell you plainly, I am not liking this at all! If Ygerna was my mother, why—” He guessed even before he could finish asking the question: “Uther.”

  Merlin sighed. “I asked you to remember that what I did, I did to serve you, Arthur. There was no other way…No, there might have been another way; I will not say there was not. But if there was, it was not revealed to me. I have acted by the light I was given, Arthur. No man can do more.” He reached a hand toward the boy. “I do not ask you to approve, lad—only to understand.”

  Young Arthur nodded, but said nothing.

  Merlin picked up Arthur’s cup and handed it to him. The boy took it and held it between his hands, staring into its depths. “Drink your wine,” my master told him. “Then go you to your bed. Let there be no more words; we have said enough tonight.”

  Arthur drained his cup in a gulp, then made his way to his sleeping place. I moved to attend him, but he put out his hand and bade me stay. He wished to be alone.

  When he had gone, I said, “He is right to be angry.”

  Merlin agreed. “We have lived wit
h this moment in our minds for years—hoping, praying that it would come. But Arthur knew nothing of all this until now. We should not wonder that it takes him by surprise. Nevertheless, give him time and he will rise to it. You will see, Pelleas.”

  I refilled our cups and Merlin drank his down, refusing more. “No, enough. Go to bed, Pelleas. I mean to sit here a little longer,” he said, and turned his chair to the low-burning fire. “Perhaps Gradlon will return. I would speak with him.”

  I left him staring into the red-gold embers, searching the myriad paths of the Otherworld for that which would bring him wisdom and courage.

  We would have much need of both in the days to come.

  3

  The morning dawned raw and cold. Snow sifted sullenly from a sky of hammered lead. We awoke and breakfasted by rushlight in Gradlon’s house. Our host bustled around us, ordering his servants, fussing over each small detail, full of the excitement of great events.

  “Eat!” he urged, directing porridge into our bowls and steaming mulled wine into our cups. “It is a long day you are facing. You will need your strength—and your wits. A man cannot think if he is hungry. Eat!”

  In his long life the canny merchant had had many opportunities to be close to momentous affairs. Indeed, truth be known, Gradlon’s had been the hand unseen behind many transactions and negotiations of power.

  Governors, kings, lords might come and go, but always to Gradlon’s profit. Though he held to no one and nothing but himself and his purse, his ability to sense the prevailing side of any contest—often long before the battlelines were clearly drawn or the combatants engaged—made him an invaluable ally.

  Gradlon simply understood the fickle ways of power—though unlike most men he had no desire of it for himself. He much preferred his own life of trade and barter, of gamble, risk, and speculation. With Arthur in his house, Gradlon was in his glory.

  “You can be sure Morcant is eating hearty this morning,” he said, directing his servants to greater industry. “That man never missed a mouthful in his life!”