King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) (22 page)

“Yes, what were his first words?” pursued the Miggot. “That’s always important, a stranger’s first words.”

Spector thought. “I believe his first words were ‘Greetings, gnomes of Mara Zion. Bugger it!’ Then there was a heavy thud, and he said nothing else for quite a while.”

“And later?”

“He groaned
a few times, then he said, ‘I am Drexel Poxy. They call me the Gnome from the North. This is your darkest hour? Leave everything to me.’ “

“That’s rather … presumptuous, isn’t it?” said Fang. “How did the gnomes respond?”

“Bison said, ‘Thank God.’ But then Bison could visualize the weight of office being lifted from his shoulders. Lady Duck said, ‘Who in hell calls you the Gnome from the North, anyway? I certainly don’t, my good fellow!’ Bart o’ Bodmin kept shouting, ‘We’re saved, gnomes!’ until it began to get on people’s nerves, so the Gooligog pulled his cap down over his face. Elmera—”

“Yes, yes,” said the Miggot testily. “What Fang wanted was a general impression. You don’t have to demonstrate your memory to us, Spector.”

“The general impression was that he was welcome. According to Bison, it
was
our darkest hour, and now here he was, just like Bart had foretold. They’d have welcomed your Cousin Hal at that moment, if he’d come riding in on a white rabbit.”

“I don’t understand why the white rabbit is so bloody important,” said the Miggot. “White rabbits are genetically damaged, and the shytes tend to circle over them—a sure sign of an inferior beast.”

“We had to fight the shytes off before we could bring Poxy and his rabbit around,” agreed Spector. “They were on him in a flash. But you can’t deny the symbolism, Miggot. White is good.”

“White is the color a predator can see a mile off,” objected the Miggot. “White is the color of doom, in my books. White is the color of dead flesh. Your father’s been looking pretty damned white lately, by the way, Fang.”

“He washes a lot. It’s an obsession of his.”

“Guilt,” said Spector.

“About what? My father’s never felt guilty about anything in his life. He’s not the guilty type. Bart o’ Bodmin’s the guilty type. But Bart has quite a ruddy complexion. Probably because he’s a moorland gnome, used to living in open spaces.
I’m not too happy about Bart,” said Fang boldly, “and I can well believe he has a guilty secret. But he hasn’t washed since he nearly sank in Pong’s boat. He said he never wanted to see or touch water again.”

There was a somewhat startled silence. Spector’s theories were not usually challenged in so forthright a manner.

The Miggot got the discussion back on track. “Drexel Poxy? There’s something about that name I don’t like. Mark my words, no good will come of this Gnome from the North!”

“I think he’ll challenge Bison for leadership,” said Spector.

“He doesn’t have to challenge Bison. He just has to ask him to step aside.”

“Exactly.”

The gnomes looked at one another uneasily. The Sharan opened its eyes, snorted, and considered the giant’s finger. The sun swiveled its shadows slowly across the glade.

It was a day of important events in Mara Zion. In years to come, Avalona was to speak of the nodal happentracks of that day. By evening the Sharan’s unique organs had analyzed the genes of the finger. Drexel Poxy’s headache had abated. Completing the significant branches of the happen-track, a carriage was drawing to a halt on the road south of Pentor Rock.

The coachman was alert and wary. He’d been expecting a suitable reception for Guinevere: a few knights and a couple of ladies’ maids, and a carriage to take her on to Mara Zion.

But the pair at the roadside could well be highwaymen.

“We have no valuables!” he called, which was not the strict truth. Apart from Guinevere’s jewelry, he carried gold for Castle Menheniot, being the pay for certain mercenaries. One of the strangers sat tall in his saddle, strong and well armed. The other, more reassuringly, presented no threat, being shrunken and ancient, straddling a moth-eaten mule and leading another that was even less prepossessing.

“That’s beside
the point,” shouted Merlin irritably, having waited for several hours in the company of a knight whose pristine goodness was matched only by his supreme self-confidence. “We have come to meet Lady Guinevere!”

The carriage door swung open and Gwen looked out, hand clutching a scarlet cloak around her neck. “Oh, hello, Merlin,” she said.

“My lady,” murmured Lancelot, removing his hat with a sweeping gesture.

Merlin glanced at him in annoyance, then addressed the girl: “I have instructions to take you to Arthur.”

A succession of expressions chased one another across the narrow face: surprise, doubt, puzzlement. “I thought I was to stay with Nyneve,” she said. “Who is this Arthur you’re talking about?”

“A local fellow,” replied Merlin, at the same instant as Lancelot said, “The future King of England.”

Lancelot’s reply being the more promising, Gwen turned her attention to him. “You don’t mean Arthur, as in the stories?” she asked.

“Yes. And you are Guinevere, as in the stories,” he said, smiling. “And I am Lancelot.”

After a long pause she said, “I don’t think I want to come with you. Where’s Nyneve? This is too strange for my taste.”

“You needn’t worry about
him,
Gwen,” Merlin reassured her. “He’s nothing like the legendary Lancelot. He’s a real pain in the ass.”

“I’m not worried about him.” The blue eyes were troubled. “It’s the whole thing that worries me. Are you trying to tell me I’m
that
Guinevere? How can I be? It was just a story, using the names of real people to make it more interesting, nothing more.”

“But parts of it are beginning to come true,” said Merlin. “A lot’s happened since we were in Camyliard. You could be Queen of England, if all goes well.”

“And if it doesn’t go well, I could be burned at the stake.”

“What is life without
adventure?” said Lancelot.

“What is life without life?”

“It might never happen,” said Merlin. “Nothing is working out exactly the way it’s supposed to. You’re supposed to fall instantly in love with this shining fool, for instance.”

She regarded Lancelot steadily. “I feel nothing.”

“You will,” he said, smiling magnificently. “It will come.”

“How much longer are you going to be talking down there?” shouted the coachman. “I have a schedule to keep. I should have been at Castle Menheniot by now!”

The sun lay low over the sea, gilding the panels of the carriage. A warm breeze brought the scent of wild roses, and somewhere a wolf cried. “This Arthur,” said Guinevere, “what’s he like?”

“Red-haired,” said Merlin. “Tall. Good with a sword.”

“Lacking in confidence, perhaps,” said Lancelot judicially, “but not a bad fellow. His men seem to like him.”

“Why isn’t he here?”

“He was called away to put down a rebellion.”

“I’m supposed to be a guest of Nyneve,” said Gwen helplessly.

“Nyneve knows Arthur well,” said Merlin. “Everything’s arranged. A room is waiting for you at the Great Hall of Mara Zion.”

“A Great Hall is a funny place to stay at, isn’t it?”

“Arthur’s castle is still under construction, my dear. Great empires must have small beginnings.”

She regarded them both for a long moment, then some imp of mischief made her laugh aloud. “Is there room for me on that horse, Lancelot? I have no intention of arriving in Mara Zion on muleback!”

A
S THE
ROMAN CITIES DECLINED, THE BRITON WAR
-lords set themselves up in the hills, prepared to fight against any invader, be he Pict, Irish, or Saxon. Many warlords renovated the Celtic Iron Age hill forts such as Cadbury, Glastonbury, and Badon, which had been lying unused since the Roman conquest. Others, such as King Lodegrance at Camyliard and Baron Menheniot, had always lived beyond direct Roman influence and merely strengthened their existing fortifications.

The Britons eyed one another with hostility from their forts, making frequent forays into their neighbors’ territory and carrying off cattle, sheep, and women. They eyed the Saxons with even more hostility. These onetime mercenaries had settled in Kent and the southeast, and were spreading inexorably westward.

And just as inexorably, the legend of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table was spreading eastward.

Historians of later years would ponder over the curiously low birthrate of those years when humans and gnomes walked the English byways. For many years the population remained static. Kings fought kings, barons fought barons, and all fought the Saxons. If there was a truce, it would be for the purpose of uniting against the Picts, the Scots, the Irish, the Danes, or whoever else was lured by the green and fertile land.

Any male
above the age of puberty and below the age of death might find himself a soldier at any moment, at the whim of his warlord. So far as women were concerned, a good man was hard to find—or any man, for that matter. All too often, they were either fighting or dead. Lonely spinsters abounded.

One such was Elaine, the beautiful woman of Trevarron Isle.

The Norman warriors had recently stopped by, landing on the island to capture sheep. They found a middle-aged couple who offered no resistance and were therefore speared amid laughter. Their daughter escaped and hid among a tumble of rocks at the eastern end of the island. Here a lone Norman found her. In the space of a day he gained her confidence because he seemed more gentle than the others. Then he left, leaving her unharmed but not untouched, swearing that he would return for her one day.

Elaine buried her parents and resumed her life, raising sheep and a few vegetables, occasionally sailing to the mainland to trade with the villagers of Mara Zion. In due course she became less mobile.

One midsummer day when the sun baked the rocks until they crackled, she lay in the shade panting, feeling the child kicking the walls of her belly. Around noon she saw a sail approaching from the north. Even as her heart gave a huge thump, she realized the craft was far too small to carry human cargo. Sighing, she climbed ponderously down to the sandy beach. The tiny boat grounded. Four gnomes stepped out, straightened their caps, and regarded her purposefully.

“Are you Elaine?” one asked.

“I am she.”

“We are Pong the Intrepid, the Miggot of One, Spector the Thinking Gnome, arid Fang.”

“Isn’t Fang anything?”

“He used to be our leader, but he was deposed. He has taken it well. There’s no rancor in Fang.”

“I’m so
glad.” Elaine knelt awkwardly before them. “So what brings you to my island?”

“We’d like to see your house,” said the Miggot.

“Of course.” She was pleased. “I don’t often get visitors.”

“Fang,” Spector murmured, “she’s—”

“I can see that. Avalona told Nyneve she would be. That’s the point of the whole thing.” Fang regarded Elaine sympathetically. “Lead the way but don’t walk too fast, please.”

“Of course.”

The gnomes followed Elaine along the beach, then over rolling, close-cropped grass, past well-maintained fencing and neat vegetable patches, to a gray stone cottage staring sternly out to sea from under a heavy brow of thatch.

“Looks a bit gloomy, doesn’t it?” observed Pong.

“That’s what giants’ dwellings look like. They have no feeling for the landscape,” Spector told him. “They build anywhere it suits them.”

But the interior was cool and cheerful, and the gnomes’ spirits rose. A table wore a bright woven cloth, with a jug of lavender sprigs set in the center. The fire burned low, just enough to simmer a pot of aromatic stew. A chair by the window was covered with sheepskin, and beneath the second window was a newly built crib in which lay a knitted woolen blanket, dyed blue. The gnomes nodded at one another approvingly.

“What news is there from Mara Zion?” asked Elaine.

“The rabbit compound is complete,” said Pong eagerly, “and Fang and the Princess are living near where Fang’s old dwelling used to be. Clubfoot Trimble has been elected innkeeper. The moles built Bart o’ Bodmin a burrow near the racetrack, and the Gnome from the North is living with him temporarily. The Gnome from the North talks of riding south.”

“With luck he’ll ride into the sea and that’ll be the end of him,” said the Miggot.

“I
really can’t understand why you’re so impressed by this Drexel Poxy, Pong,” said Fang.

“He came from the north, riding a rabbit white as snow.”

“What’s so good about that? I’m sure Jack o’ the Warren could breed anyone a white rabbit, if they wanted one.”

“But he came from the north,” protested Pong.

Fang couldn’t let that pass, either. “The north’s over that way.” He pointed. “Are you saying it’s any better than
that
way? Or
that
way?”

Spector explained. “It’s the
combination
that counts, Fang. Coming from the north on a white rabbit, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t see, Spector, not really. Supposing I chose to ride into gnomedom from that direction, on a white rabbit Jack had lent me. Would Pong be so impressed?”

“Probably not. You don’t represent the mystical.”

“What’s mystical about a gnome with a name like Drexel Poxy?” snapped the Miggot.

“I meant what
human
news is there from Mara Zion,” said Elaine plaintively.

The gnomes remembered their manners. “Guinevere is living at the Great Hall,” Fang told her, “and she and Arthur will be married in the autumn.”

“Unless Lancelot gets her first,” said the Miggot nastily.

“That’s just a giantish rumor. Gnomes don’t think that way, Miggot.”

“Infidelity is a concept alien to gnomes,” Spector remarked.

“That may be our bad luck,” said the Miggot.

“
I
certainly can’t understand infidelity,” said Fang. “Anyway, Arthur and Guinevere are getting along very well, and Arthur is building a new Round Table in her honor, to be ready for the wedding. But Nyneve is terribly upset about the whole thing. She calls Guinevere a treacherous bitch. Nyneve loves Arthur, you see.”