Merlin's Booke (15 page)

“I will have my men take this and place it before the great cathedral so that all might see it.
All
my people shall have a chance to try their hands.”

“All?”

“Even the ones who paint themselves blue or blow into bladders or do other disgusting and uncivilized things.” The king smiled. “I shall even let mages try.”

Merlinnus smiled back. “Is that wise?”

“I am the one with the strong arm, Merlinnus. You are to provide the wisdom. And the witchery.”

“Then let the mages try, too,” Merlinnus said. “For all the good it will do them.”

“It is a fine sword, Merlinnus. It shall honor its wielder.” He put his hand back on the hilt and heaved. The sword did not move.

The soldiers, with no help from Merlinnus, moaned and pushed and sweated and pulled until at last they managed to remove the sword and stone with a series of rollers and ropes. At the king's request it was set up in front of the great cathedral in the center of the town outside the castle walls. News of it was carried by carters and jongleurs, gleemen and criers from castle to castle and town to town. Within a month the hilt of the sword was filthy from the press of hundreds of hands. It seemed that in the countryside there were many who would be king.

Young Gawen took it upon himself to clean the hilt whenever he had time. He polished the runes on the stone lovingly, too, and studied the white marble from all angles. But he never put his hand to the sword as if to pull it. When the king was told of this, he smiled and his hand strayed to the cushion beneath him.

Gawen reported on the crowds around the stone to Merlinnus as he recounted his other lessons.

“Helm, aventail, byrnie, gauntlet, cuisses …” he recited, touching the parts of his body where the armor would rest. “And arch-mage, there was a giant of a man there today, dressed all in black, who tried the sword. And six strange tribesmen with blue skin and necklaces of shells. Two of them tried to pull together. The sword would not come out, but their blue dye came off. I had a horrible time scrubbing it from the hilt. And Sir Kai came.”

“Again?”

The boy laughed. “It was his sixth try. He waits until it is dinner time and no one is in the square.”

The old mage nodded at every word. “Tell me again.”

“About Sir Kai?”

“About the parts of the armor. You must have the lesson perfect for tomorrow.”

The boy's mouth narrowed as he began. “Helm, aventail …”

At each word, Merlinnus felt a surge of pride and puzzlement. Though the recitation was an old one, it sounded new and somehow different in Gawen's mouth.

They waited until the night of the solstice, when the earth sat posed between night and night. Great bonfires were lit in front of the cathedral to drive back the darkness, while inside candles were lighted to do the same.

“It is time,” Merlinnus said to the king without any preliminaries.

“It is always time,” answered the king, placing his careful marks on the bottom of yet another piece of parchment.

“I mean time to pull the sword from the stone.” Merlinnus offered his hand to the king.

Pushing aside the offer, the king rose.

“I see you use the cushion now,” Merlinnus said.

“It helps somewhat.” He stretched. “I only wish I had two of them.”

The mage shook his head. “You are the king. Command the second.”

The king looked at him steadily. “I doubt such excess is wise.”

Remembering Morgana, the mage smiled.

They walked arm in arm to the waiting horses. Merlinnus was helped onto a gray whose broad back was more like a chair than a charger. But then, he had always been ill at ease on horseback. And horses, even the ones with the calmest dispositions, sensed some strangeness in him. They always shied.

The king strode to his own horse, a barrel-chested bay with a smallish head. It had been his mount when he was a simple soldier and he had resisted all attempts to make him ride another.

“Mount up,” the king called to his guards.

Behind him his retinue mounted. Sir Kai was the first to vault into the saddle. Young Gawen, astride the pony that was a present from the king, was the last.

With a minimum of fuss, they wound along the path down the hillside toward the town, and only the clopping of hooves on dirt marked their passage. Ahead were torch-bearers and behind them came the household, each with a candle. So light came to light, a wavering parade to the waiting stone below.

In the fire-broken night the white stone gleamed before the black hulk of the cathedral. The darker veins in the stone meandered like faery streams across its surface. The sword, now shadow, now light, was the focus of hundreds of eyes. And, as if pulled by some invisible string, the king rode directly to the stone, dismounted, and knelt before it. Then he removed his circlet of office and shook free the long golden mane it had held so firmly in place. When he stood again, he put the crown on the top of the stone so that it lay just below the angled sword.

The crowd fell still.

“This crown and this land belong to the man who can pull the sword from the stone,” the king said, his voice booming into the strange silence. “So it is written—here.” He gestured broadly with his hand toward the runes.

“Read it,” cried a woman's voice from the crowd.

“We want to hear it,” shouted another.

A man's voice, picking up her argument, dared a further step. “We want the mage to read it.” Anonymity lent his words power. The crowd muttered its agreement.

Merlinnus dismounted carefully and, after adjusting his robes, walked to the stone. He glanced only briefly at the words on its side, then turned to face the people.

“The message on the stone is burned here,” he said, pointing to his breast, “here in my heart. It says:
Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone is rightwise king born of all Britain.”

Sir Kai nodded and said loudly, “Yes, that is what it says. Right.”

The king put his hands on his hips. “And so, good people, the challenge has been thrown down before us all. He who would be king of all Britain must step forward and put his hand on the sword.”

At first there was no sound at all but the dying echo of the king's voice. Then a child cried and that started the crowd. They began talking to one another, jostling, arguing, some good-naturedly and others with a belligerent tone. Finally, a rather sheepish farm boy, taller by almost a head than Sir Kai who was the tallest of the knights, was thrust from the crowd. He had a shock of wheat-colored hair over one eye and a dimple in his chin.

“I'd try, my lord,” he said. He was plainly uncomfortable having to talk to the king. “I mean, it wouldn't do no harm.”

“No harm indeed, son,” said the king. He took the boy by the elbow and escorted him to the stone.

The boy put both his hands around the hilt and then stopped. He looked over his shoulder at the crowd. Someone shouted encouragement and then the whole push of people began to call out to him.

“Do it. Pull the bastard. Give it a heave. Haul it out.” Their cries came thick now and, buoyed by their excitement, the boy put his right foot up against the stone. Then he leaned backward and pulled. His hands slipped along the hilt and he fell onto his bottom to the delight of the crowd.

Crestfallen, the boy stood up. He stared unhappily at his worn boots as if he did not know where else to look or how to make his feet carry him away.

The king put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “What is your name, son?” The gentleness in his voice silenced the crowd's laughter.

“Percy, sir,” the boy managed at last.

“Then, Percy,” said the king, “because you were brave enough to try where no one else would set hand on the sword, you shall come to the castle and learn to be one of my knights.”

“Maybe not
your
knight,” someone shouted from the crowd.

A shadow passed over the king's face and he turned toward the mage.

Merlinnus shook his head imperceptibly and put his finger to his lips.

The king shifted his gaze back to the crowd. He smiled. “No, perhaps not. We shall see. Who else would try?”

At last Sir Kai brushed his hand across his breastplate. He alone of the court still affected the Roman style. Tugging his gloves down so that the fingers fitted snugly, he walked to the stone and placed his right hand on the hilt. He gave it a slight tug, smoothed his golden mustache with the fingers of his left hand, then reached over with his left hand and with both gave a mighty yank. The sword did not move.

Kai shrugged and turned toward the king. “But I am still first in your service,” he said.

“And in my heart, brother,” acknowledged the king.

Then, one by one, the knights lined up and took turns pulling on the sword. Stocky Bedevere, handsome Gawain, Tristan maned like a lion, cocky Galahad, and the rest. But the sword, ever firm in its stone scabbard, never moved.

At last, of all the court's knights, only Lancelot was left.

“And you, good Lance, my right hand, the strongest of us all, will you not try?” asked the king.

Lancelot, who disdained armor except in battle and was dressed in a simple tunic, the kind one might dance in, shook his head. “I have no wish to be king. I only wish to be of service.”

The king walked over to him and put his hand on Lancelot's shoulder. He whispered into the knight's ear. “It is the stone's desire, not ours, that will decide this. But if you do
not
try, then my leadership will always be in doubt. Without your full commitment to this cause, the kingdom will not be bound.”

“Then I will put my hand to it, my lord,” Lancelot said. “Because you require it, not because I desire it.” He shuttered his eyes.

“Do not just put your hand there. You must
try,
damn you,” the king whispered fiercely. “You must really try.”

Lancelot opened his eyes and some small fire, reflecting perhaps from the candles or the torches or the solstice flames, seemed to glow there for a moment. Then, in an instant, the fire in his eyes was gone. He stepped up to the stone, put his hand to the sword, and seemed to address it. His lips moved but no sound came out. Taking a deep breath, he pulled. Then, letting the breath out slowly, he leaned back.

The stone began to move.

The crowd gasped in a single voice.

“Arthur …”
Kai began, his hand on the king's arm.

Sweat appeared on Lancelot's brow and the king could feel an answering band of sweat on his own. He could feel the weight of Lancelot's pull between his own shoulder blades and he held his breath with the knight.

The stone began to slide along the courtyard mosaic, but the sword did not slip from its mooring. It was a handle for the stone, nothing more After a few inches, the stone stopped moving. Lancelot withdrew his hand from the hilt, bowed slightly toward the king, and took two steps back.

“I cannot unsheath the king's sword,” he said. His voice was remarkably level for a man who had just moved a ton of stone.

“Is there no one else?” asked Merlinnus, slowly looking around.

No one in the crowd dared to meet his eyes and there followed a long, full silence.

Then, from the left, came a familiar light voice. “Let King Arthur try.” It was Gawen.

At once the crowd picked up its cue. “Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!” they shouted. And, wading into their noise like a swimmer in heavy swells breasting the waves, the king walked to the stone. Putting his right hand on the sword hilt, he turned his face to the people.

“For Britain!” he cried.

Merlinnus nodded, crossed his forefingers, and sighed a spell in Latin.

Arthur pulled. With a slight
whoosh
the sword slid out of the slot. He put his left hand above his right on the hilt and swung the sword over his head once, twice, and then a third time. Then he brought it slowly down before him until its point touched the earth.

“Now I be king. Of
all
Britain,” he said.

Kai picked up the circlet from the stone and placed it on Arthur's head, and the chant of his name began anew. But even as he was swept up, up, up into the air by Kai and Lancelot to ride their shoulders above the crowd, Arthur's eyes met the mage's. He whispered fiercely to Merlinnus who could read his lips though his voice could scarcely carry against the noise.

“I will see you in your tower. Tonight!”

Merlinnus was waiting when two hours later the king slipped into his room, the sword in his left hand.

“So now you are king of all Britain indeed,” said Merlinnus. “And none can say you no. Was I not right? A bit of legerdemain and …”

The king's face was gray in the room's candlelight. “Merlinnus, you do not understand. I am
not
the king. There is another.”

“Another what?” asked the mage.

“Another king. Another sword.”

Merlinnus shook his head. “You are tired, lord. It has been a long day and an even longer night.”

Arthur came over and grabbed the old man's shoulder with his right hand. “Merlinnus,
this is not the same sword.”

“My lord, you are mistaken. It can be no other.”

Arthur swept the small crown off his head and dropped it into the mage's lap. “I am a simple man, Merlinnus, and I am an honest one. I do not know much, though I am trying to learn more. I read slowly and understand only with help. What I am best at is soldiering. What I know best is swords. The sword I held months ago in my hands is not the sword I hold now. That sword had a balance to it, a grace such as I had never felt before. It knew me, knew my hand. There was a pattern on the blade that looked now like wind, now like fire. This blade, though it has fine watering, looks like nothing.

“I am not an imaginative man, Merlinnus, so I am not imagining this. This is not the sword that was in the stone. And if it is not, where is that sword? And what man took it? For he, not I, is the rightful born king of all Britain. And I would be the first in the land to bend my knee to him.”