Sword of the Rightful King (27 page)

A breath, a sigh, ran around the courtyard.

“The crown,” someone whispered, and the word went from lip to ear, over and over, till it had circumscribed the entire yard.

Arthur stood again and this time placed the thin gold crown on top of the stone so that it lay just below the angled sword. Then he turned and, with his back to the stone, said plainly, “This crown and this land belong to the man who can pull the sword from the stone.” His voice was louder than he had intended, made louder because of the silence that greeted him.

Or because it was Midsummer Eve.

“So it is written—here!” he said, gesturing broadly with his hand back toward the runes on the stone.

“Read it!” a woman cried from the crowd.

“We want to hear it again,” shouted another.

A mans voice, picking up the argument, dared a further step. “Let the mage read it.” Anonymity lent his words power, and the crowd muttered its agreement.

 

M
ERLINNUS' SMILE
was little more than a grimace, though he was thinking that things could not have been better had he seeded the speakers in the crowd. Adjusting his robes, he squared his shoulders and walked to the stone. He glanced at the legend only briefly—for who knew better than he what was written there?—and then turned to face the people, his back to the rock.

“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.'”

Kay was standing nearer to the stone than all but the mage and the king. “Yes,” he said loudly, “yes, that is what it says.” As if his confirmation of the message made it true.

Putting his hands on his hips, Arthur said, “And so, my good people, the challenge has been flung down before us all. He who would rule, who would sit on the hard throne of the High King, must come forward and take the first step. He must put his hand upon the sword.”

“And pull,” Kay added.

Arthur glared at his stepbrother. “Of course,” he muttered under his breath, but not so Kay could hear.

 

G
AWEN COULD
not hear, either, but unlike Kay was watching Arthur's lips and read the kings displeasure there. “Of course,” Gawen echoed, liking the king especially for this small display of pique. And his unwillingness to say it aloud and shame Sir Kay.

“The sword,” the king continued, “has been here for a month waiting its freedom. It has not been drawn yet from its rocky sheath. We all know that on this day, this night, what was pale becomes flushed, what was weak becomes strong.”

Kay added, “What was old becomes new—” He would have gone on but Merlinnus shushed him.

Arthur did not even then turn toward Kay, but continued, “So now is the time for someone to pull the sword, even if he has tried before.”

The Companions looked silently at one another, as if guessing which of them had already put a hand to the hilt.

Into the silence the king suddenly thundered: “So who will try?”

38

A
T FIRST
there was no sound but the dying fall 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, others with a belligerent tone.

“Robin—you have the arm for it.”

“Not the head, though.”

“Come, Rob, or you, Trys. Here's my hand on it.”

“Trys, go on. I'd like being a king's mother.”

“Let go my arm; I ain't no king.”

“Nor kind.”

The battle rose to a roar. Some of it was in Gaelic or Erse. Some in French. Some in the Saxon tongue.

“You pushed me!”

“None but Arthur should be king.”

“I would try.”

“
Moi aussi
.”

“It is the mage who will decide.”

“The mage! The mage!”

And suddenly the crowd was calling for Merlinnus again. He held his arms up, waved his two pointer fingers at the milling mob, and they went unaccountably silent.

Gawen suddenly remembered Merlinnus saying that magic was mostly belief. Clearly the crowd must have thought the mage had bewitched them.
Otherwise
, Gawen thought,
they would never have quieted down so easily
.

Just then a rather sheepish farm boy was thrust from the crowd. He was taller by almost a head than Sir Kay, who was himself the tallest of the knights. Gawen recognized the boy—he had been at the dinner the night the queen had ensorcelled them all. The boy had a shock of wheat-colored hair that hung lank over one eye, and a dimple in his chin. His arms bunched with muscles. He did not look terribly bright.

“I'll try, my lord,” he said. “For me mam's sake.” He was plainly uncomfortable speaking up to the king, and he bobbed his head as he spoke. “I mean, it wouldna do no harm.”

“No harm at all, son,” said Arthur. He took the boy by the elbow and escorted him to the stone.

The boy put both his hands around the sword's 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 for him.

“Do it!”

“Pull the bastard!”

“Give it a heave, boy! A right heave!”

“Haul 'er out!” The last was a woman's voice.

Perhaps
, Gawen thought,
the boy's mam
.

Buoyed by the crowd's enthusiasm, 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 on his bottom, to the delight of the crowd.

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

Arthur put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “What is your name, boy?” he asked, and the gentleness in his voice silenced the crowd's raucous laughter.

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

“Then, Percy,” the king said, “because you were brave enough to try where no one else would set a hand upon 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 across the kings face and he turned toward the mage. Merlinnus shook his head almost imperceptibly, but at least two people saw it—Gawen and the king.

Arthur shifted his gaze back to the crowd and smiled broadly. “No, perhaps not. We have yet to see who is to be the High King. Now, who else will try, then?”

It was a long, agonizing moment. The only sound was the snap of a branch breaking in the fire.

“I will try.” It was Agravaine. He walked out quickly to the stone, put one hand on its backside a bit timidly, as if fearing some contagion. Then he put his left hand upon the sword hilt, and his right hand atop the left, and with a loud huffing sound, rather like a colt first let out to pasture, pulled. When the sword did not move a bit, he grinned broadly and, still grinning, went back to his place. “Mother,” he mouthed to Gawaine, “has no power here.”

Then Kay brushed his hands across his breastplate and tugged the gloves down so that the fingers fit snugly. Walking to the stone in a casual stroll that belied his nervousness, he placed his right hand on the hilt of the sword. He nodded at the king, smoothed his mustache with his left hand. Then he moved the left hand over the right, and gave the sword a small pull.

It was more for show than for real, Gawen realized. Kay already knew he did not have a chance.

Shrugging in an exaggerated manner, Kay turned to Arthur. “I am still first in your service, brother.”

“And in my heart,” Arthur acknowledged, fist on his breast.

Then, one by one, at Arthur's urging, the Fenians lined up and took turns pulling on the sword. Then the Highlanders. The Saxons and the old soldiers tried next. Several of the Picts gave the sword a pull, with their friends standing around the stone, cheering. Three of the four minor tribal kings placed a hand to the hilt. But neither of the barons tried, and after watching the others attempt and fail, they looked at one another, shrugged, and rode off home.

As though
, Gawen thought,
they care little who is king. Or assume it will be Arthur
.

Finally Bedwyr, Gawaine, Tristan—maned like a lion—cocky Galahad, and the rest each put a hand to the sword, one after the other, and pulled. And while a few made the stone shudder, and Galahad managed to move the stone an inch, the sword never moved out of its solid scabbard.

At last, of the Companions, only Lancelot was left. He stood but a handbreadth from Gawen, watching as one after another of the men had a try at the sword. He did not speak to Gawen nor Gawen to him, but it was as if they lent one another strength, standing there together.

“And you, dearest of friends,” said Arthur, coming up to Lancelot, “my right hand, the strongest of us all, will you try to pull the sword now?”

Lancelots ruined angel face looked oddly seamed with sorrow. He ran a hand through his dark hair and the white streak disappeared, like the top of a wave disappearing in the trough, only to reappear at once when he put his hand down. “I have no wish to be king, Arthur. I only wish to serve.”

Gawen shivered at his words as though having caught a chill, though the night was warm and there was no wind.

Arthur walked to Lancelot, put a hand on his shoulder, and whispered, “It is the stones desire, not ours, that will decide this.”

Gawen heard every word clearly as if they—and not the swords legend—had been carved in the stone.

Arthur continued, “If you do not try, Lancelot, then my leadership will always be doubted. I need you as I need no other. Without your full commitment, the kingdom will not be bound.”

“Then I shall put my hand to the sword, my lord,” Lancelot said, “because you require it. Not because I desire it.” He closed his eyes.

Gawen wondered if he wept, could not believe it, then saw tears at the corners of the man's eyes.

“Damn it, do not indulge me,” Arthur whispered hoarsely. “Do not just put your hand there. You must
try
, Lancelot.” His voice was fierce. “You must
really
try.”

Lancelot opened his eyes and they were like deep wells wherein a spirit lives, like the Holy Well of Saint Madron's. All of Britain was spotted with such spirit wells. Gawen knew that some spirits were good and some were evil, and often it was difficult to know one from the other.

“As you wish,” Lancelot said to Arthur, his voice as fierce as the kings. He bowed his head, stepped to the stone, put his hand to the sword, and seemed to address the thing, his lips moving but no sound coming out. Then slowly he let his breath out and leaned back.

The stone began to move. An inch as Galahad had done. Then an inch further.

The crowd gasped in a single voice and Gawen felt hot, cold, then hot again.

“Arthur...” Kay said, his hand over his mouth so the words were muffled. “Arthur... what if...”

Sweat appeared on Lancelots brow, and the king had an answering band of sweat on his own.

Lancelot pulled some more, and every man in the crowd—every woman, too—felt the weight of that pull between his shoulder blades.

The stone began to slide along the courtyard mosaic, gathering speed as it went, but even as the stone moved, the sword did not slip from its mooring. It had become a handle for the stone, nothing more.

Suddenly the gold coronet slid down the rounded prow of the stone and stopped the glide of the rock. Lancelot withdrew his hand from the hilt, bowed briefly to the king, and took two steps back.

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

Merlinnus stepped between the two men and slowly looked over the crowd. “Is there anyone else who would try?”

Not a person in the crowd dared meet his eyes, and there followed a long silence.

Gawen counted the seconds silently—
One... two
...
three
...—and when the count hit fifteen, cried out, “Let King Arthur try!”

Merlinnus turned his head slightly as if trying to find the source of the cry, though Gawen was sure the mage knew all along who had spoken, and approved.

At once the crowd picked up its cue. “Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!” they shouted.

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.

All eyes were on the king but Gawen's. Only Gawen noticed the mage crossing his fingers and sighing a spell in Latin.

Arthur's right hand clutched the sword hilt and his knuckles went white with the effort.

He first leaned into the sword, then back—and pulled.

With a slight
swoosh
, the sword slid out of its slot, and the silver blade caught the last light of the Midsummer fires.

Then the king put his left hand above his right on the hilt and lifted the sword over his head, swinging it once, twice, and then a third time, in an all-encompassing circle. Slowly the sword circumscribed the courtyard. Finally, Arthur brought the blade down slowly before him until its point touched the earth.

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

Kay nudged the gold circlet from the front of the stone, reshaped it quickly between his gloved palms, then placed it back on Arthur's head, and the chant for the king began anew.

“Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!”

The old soldiers began the chant, and the minor tribal chiefs took it up next. The Highlanders roared approval in their Scots tongue. Saxons said the words, though their eyes did not. The Picts nodded. And the Fenians threw their caps in the air.