At the Crossing Places (5 page)

I
DON'T LIKE THAT MAN'S FACE,” WINNIE SAID AS SOON AS
she saw my clay tile. “He's watching me.”

“He's beautiful and horrid,” I said.

“No,” said Winnie. “Just horrid!”

When I showed Winnie all the sheets of parchment covered with my writing, she was amazed.

“You wrote all this?”

“I have to practice each day,” I said. “Haket the priest tells me what to copy out.”

“I'm glad I don't have to read or write,” Winnie observed.

“But sometimes I just write what I want to write.”

“Want to write!” repeated Winnie, wide-eyed. “What about?”

“Anything,” I said. “Yesterday. Tomorrow. I want to write about my colt. What he looks like and everything about him. I want to find out his name.”

“Winnie!” boomed a hollow voice from far below.

“I wouldn't like to work up here,” Winnie said. “Nothing's happening.”

“Everything is,” I replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Winnie!” boomed the hollow voice again. “Are you coming?”

“I'd better go,” said Winnie. “Aunt Judith's a buzzard!” Then she looked at my tile-man again and stuck out her tongue at him.

As soon as Winnie had clattered down the stone staircase, I raised the short floorboard and lifted my precious saffron bundle from the hollow in the joist. In the palm of my right hand I held my cool dark stone, my shining obsidian, and I covered it with my left hand until I felt it begin to grow warm…

Arthur-in-the-stone. Merlin. Quietly waiting for me.

“Merlin,” I say. “I have no sword.”

“You have the sword in the stone,” Merlin replies.

“I can't quest with that. It's far too heavy.”

“That's easily solved,” says Merlin. “I know of a sword fit for a king.”

Now Merlin and I canter side by side, we ride up a valley between dark hills and come to a lake. The water's like a sheet of silver, a metal mirror gazing up at the drifting clouds.

A hand rises from the lake, grasping a sword. A hand and then an arm dressed in rich white silk.

“Ah!” says Merlin. “There's the sword I was thinking of.”

A misty wreath…a floating wraith…a beautiful young woman glides across the water.

“The Lady of this Lake,” Merlin says quietly. “There's a huge rock at the bottom and inside the rock a cavern as fine as any palace, and that's where she lives. When she comes over here and talks to you, ask her to give you that sword.”

Almost at once, as if she has heard Merlin's words, the Lady comes gliding across the skin of the water.

“Lady,” I say, “whose sword is that, held high above the water?”

“Mine, sire,” replies the Lady.

“I wish it were mine,” I say. “I have no sword.”

“If you'll give me whatever I ask for,” the Lady of the Lake says in a low, husky voice, “you may have it.”

“You have my word,” I reply.

“All right!” says the Lady. “You see that little boat there? Row yourself out and take the sword and its scabbard from the hand. I will ask you for what I want at the right time.”

“I will row you out,” Merlin says to me.

As we come close to the outstretched hand and arm, Merlin ships his oars, and I grasp the sword by its crossguards, the sword and its scabbard. At once the arm and hand vanish. They sink into the waiting water.

I cradle the sword across my lap, and Merlin rows us back to the bank.

“What strange patterns on this blade,” I say. “They're like woven water.”

“
Ekk!
” Merlin exclaims. “
Ekk! Kss! Ka!
There's nothing watery about those sounds. The name of your sword is Excalibur.”

“Excalibur,” I murmur.

“Which do you prefer, the sword or the scabbard?”

“The sword, of course,” I say. “That's like asking whether I prefer a person or his clothes.”

“And that shows how much you have to learn,” replies Merlin. “This scabbard is worth ten Excaliburs. Wear it wherever you go, and even if you're wounded, you'll never shed a drop of blood.”

L
AST NIGHT, WINNIE AND TOM AND I SAT AND SWUNG
on the lowest branch of my climbing-tree on Tumber Hill, and it dipped so low that the underside scraped the ground.

“I dragged a long ladder from the hay barn,” my half brother said, “and propped it up against the manor wall and climbed up on to the roof and plugged the vent.”

“You didn't!” hooted Winnie.

“The whole hall filled with smoke,” said Tom, happily.

“When Sian went through the ice and almost drowned,” I said, “I bellied out and helped to save her.”

“Everyone's done that,” said Winnie scornfully.

“There are iron hooks under the high bridge at Gortanore,” said Tom, “and I crossed the bridge on the underside, dangling and swinging from hook to hook.”

“Sir William and I crossed swords,” I said, “and he wounded me.”

“That's true,” said Tom, “and once I was so angry with my father, so furious, that I shouted at him and told him to apologize.”

“That's really brave,” Winnie said quietly.

“I've seen the Sleeping King in the heart of the mountain…” I announced.

“You mean magic?” asked Winnie.

“…and I've pulled the sword from the stone. Anyone can if he knows how.”

Tom scratched his left ear with a twig. “You're too clever for me,” he said.

“You're strange, Arthur,” said Winnie, frowning and smiling at the same time.

“Who's the winner?” demanded Tom.

“I don't know yet,” said Winnie.

That was when I woke up.

W
HEN I WENT OUT TO THE
Y
ARD THIS MORNING,
the armorer was there. He's tall and bony, with watchful black eyes.

“Alan!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

Without really smiling, Alan parted his lips and pulled them back a little, so that he looked like a wolf. “I'm going to watch you. And parry with you,” he added, rather threateningly.

First, I practiced my sword strokes against the pel. I can thrust all right, but each time I whack the post with a side stroke, my right forearm aches, and there's a stab in my right shoulder where Sir William wounded it.

“Too light,” said Alan.

“What?”

“Your sword.”

“Too light!” I cried. “It's too heavy. It makes my muscles ache.”

“That's the idea,” snapped Alan. “You little runt. You suppose the Saracens will feel sorry for you? You suppose they'll kiss it better and send you back home?”

“Of course I don't.”

“Kiss my arse they will!” said Alan. “You're a milkweed!”

“I'm not,” I said hotly.

“Your brother's twice as strong.”

“Serle's not my brother,” I replied, raising my voice.

Alan looked down his nose and pointed his little black chin beard at me. “So I've heard,” he said slyly.

“What?”

“And you won't last long on crusade. You'll get…mulched!”

After this unpleasant conversation, Alan watched me with his dark eyes as I practiced my somersaults and headstands and cartwheels, and swung from the ring suspended from the old oak tree, and walked along the raised, narrow plank, and he made me feel more and more uneasy.

“Child's play,” said the armorer. “Now, what about the quarterstaff?”

The staff's at least two heads taller than I am. I reached up with my left hand and down with my right hand, and gripped it.

“The other way round,” Alan said.

“I'm left-handed.”

Alan bent down, picked up the other staff, and suddenly leaped at me. I was taken completely by surprise, and as we crossed staffs, my left heel caught the ground. I tripped and fell on my back.

Alan pounced on me. He planted the quarterstaff across my neck.

“
Pax!
” I croaked.

Alan glared down at me. “Pulp!” he muttered.

“
Pax!
”

“I'll…mince you.”

“Why? What have I done?”

Alan's beard was full of spit. “I'm not good enough,” he growled. “Is that it?”

“What…” I began. Then I coughed and began to choke, and Alan slightly relaxed the pressure on my neck.

“Is that it? Is it?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Why him?”

“Who?”

“The armorer from Ludlow. Turold.”

I gripped Alan's staff with both hands and levered it away. Then I sat up, gingerly fingering my neck, while Alan squatted beside me.

“I didn't choose,” I said. “Sir John did. Turold made a new helmet for him last year.”

Alan sniffed and stood up. His eyes were dark slits. Then he turned and stalked away.

Alan will tell Lord Stephen I'm not a good swordsman, and it's true I'm not much good at tilting at the ring either. I might be, though, if I were allowed to use my left hand. I wish squires needed to be good at archery, because I'm good at that—I can even beat Sir John.

I know Alan is upset because Sir John didn't choose him to make my armor, but he almost strangled me. I can't tell Lord Stephen, though. He might think I'm too weak and not really able to look after myself.

I'm not a milkweed! But will I be strong enough when we're crusading? I'll have to fight grown men. Men like Sir William—except he's not a Saracen!

Once, when I went to Gortanore, Sir William showed me the shield of a Saracen he had killed. It was circular, and at the center
was a man's face with glaring eyes and wild hair and a long, curling mustache. His mouth was open, as though he were yelling terrible threats or bloodcurdling cries…

If I were at home—at Caldicot, I mean—I could talk to Merlin about all my worries, or even to Oliver. I could go and give Gatty a hand, or elbow-wrestle with Howell and Jankin, and play with Sian. But here there's no one like that. Only my chestnut colt, and I haven't taught him how to talk yet.

It's already three days since Winnie went home.

“When are you coming to Verdon?” she asked. “You can ride over with Lady Judith.”

“I'll ask Lord Stephen.”

“I'll tell him I want you to come,” said Winnie. “Arthur, you know your writing?”

“Yes.”

“When you write what you want?”

“What about it?”

“Will you write about me?”

W
HEN I STARED INTO MY STONE, I SAW KING ARTHUR
and Merlin riding together.

“I'm as bad as my brother,” says Arthur-in-the-stone.

“Why?” asks Merlin.

“I've forgotten my sword. Kay did that once.”

“Arthur!” says Merlin in his dark voice, and he reins in. “I told you to wear Excalibur and its scabbard wherever you go.”

“Well, we can't go back now. I'll be all right in this armor.”

“And at your coronation,” says Merlin, “I told you that however many men swear oaths of allegiance to you, others will be against you. Britain has been without a king for so long that many men have taken the law into their own hands.”

“You said I need to be seen amongst my people.”

“And to prove yourself with adventures,” Merlin adds. “Not just to hold court.”

King Arthur and Merlin ride side by side until Merlin's palfrey begins to make very strange sucking and gurgling sounds.

“He's thirsty,” says Merlin. “I'll catch up with you.”

Merlin rides down to the riverbank, and three fishermen scramble to their feet.

“Come on!”

“Get him down!”

“On his back.”

While Merlin yells for help, two of the fishermen pinion him with their stout rods across his shoulders and his shins, while the third goes fishing in Merlin's pockets.

As soon as Arthur hears Merlin shouting, he gallops back to the river, and the three men yell and throw themselves in the water.

Arthur's destrier stamps on the bank and whinnies.

“Let them be!” says Merlin. “They've got little enough except for their own lives.”

“If I hadn't heard you,” Arthur says, “you would have been a dead man.”

“Not at all,” Merlin replies. “I can save myself when I want to. You are much nearer to your death than I am to mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Work it out, Arthur,” Merlin says.

“You mean I'll die young?”

“I didn't say that,” Merlin replies.

Under the midday sun, Arthur-in-the-stone and Merlin ride on. They enter a beech wood and there, in a glade, is a canvas pavilion with a huge armed knight sitting on a tree stump outside it.

“Don't tell him who you are,” Merlin says.

The knight stands up. “You cannot pass,” he says. “Not before you joust with me. And yield to me.”

“Who are you?” asks Arthur.

“That's for you to find out,” the knight replies. “You can call me Thew-Hit.”

“Sir Thew-Hit,” says Arthur, “let us pass in peace. This is the king's highway.”

“The king!” scoffs the knight. “The wart! The milksop!”

“You're breaking the law.”

“What law?” demands the knight. “The king's as green as a beech leaf. I make the rules round here.”

“Then I'll make you change them,” says Arthur.

“You!” snorts Sir Thew-Hit. “How old are you? You're as pretty as a newly minted penny.”

“Test me, then,” says Arthur.

“Test you!” says Sir Thew-Hit. “I'll deface you!”

“I have no lance.”

“You can have as many as you need,” the knight replies. Then he bellows like a bull, and at once a squire comes out of the pavilion carrying two lances.

Sir Thew-Hit mounts, and he and Arthur-in-the-stone ride away to opposite ends of the glade, and when they charge back toward each other, I can hear their saddles creaking, their armor clinking and scraping, the soft
thud-thud
of hooves on beech mast.

Each of them aims well, right into the heart of the other's shield. Each of them splinters his lance.

“Many young men begin better than they end!” Sir Thew-Hit calls out. Then he roars again, and his squire emerges from the pavilion with two more lances.

For a second time, they trot away to the opposite ends of the quiet glade, in and out of shadow and sunlight; they charge at each other and shatter their lances.

“Few knights survive a third end,” Sir Thew-Hit says.

When they charge at each other for a third time, Sir Thew-Hit's lance hits the very center of King Arthur's shield, and his destrier rears up. He throws the king right over his crupper.

The knight stares down at Arthur-in-the-stone; he squints at him fiercely through his visor. “Swords!” he says in a cutting voice.

“I have no sword,” Arthur says.

“No sword?” scoffs Sir Thew-Hit. “Are you a knight at all?”

The squire walks across the glade from the pavilion and proffers Arthur a sword, and at once Arthur raises his shield.

“You little fool!” Sir Thew-Hit growls. “You think you can fight me on foot?” Then he levers himself out of his saddle, swings down, and faces his king.

Arthur's strokes are light, but each time Sir Thew-Hit swings his sword, Arthur thinks it may shear right through his armor. He throws himself at the knight, and their helmets crack against each other. Blood trickles down from the crowns of their heads over their faces.

Sir Thew-Hit and Arthur raise their swords again. They flash and hiss, and Arthur's sword fractures.

Sir Thew-Hit stares at the pommel and hilt in Arthur's hand.

“Well, now!” he says. “Either surrender and beg for your life, or else die.”

“I'll never surrender to a lawbreaker,” says Arthur in a low voice.

With that, he leaps at Sir Thew-Hit. He catches him off guard and topples him, and tries to hold him down. But he can't do it; the knight's as strong as Wayland the Smith. They wrestle on the ground and the knight pinions the young king.

Roughly, Sir Thew-Hit drags off Arthur's helmet and draws his dagger…

“Wait!” calls Merlin.

“I'll slit your throat,” the knight growls.

“Stay your hand,” says Merlin. “If you kill this young man, you'll be putting our whole kingdom in jeopardy.”

“Why?” asks the knight. “Who is he?”

“King Arthur,” says Merlin.

The knight glares down at Arthur through his visor. His eyes are like troubled wasps, angry and afraid. He raises his dagger again.

But at once Sir Thew-Hit's eyelids begin to droop. He sighs and the knife drops from his hand, and he falls over sideways.

“Rise, King Arthur!” says Merlin, smiling and unsmiling, pulling Arthur-in-the-stone to his feet.

“You haven't killed him with your magic?”

“He's asleep, that's all,” Merlin replies.

King Arthur stares down at Sir Thew-Hit. “Because I've fought him,” he says, “I respect him.”

“You need this man and men like him,” Merlin says. “He's only taken the law into his own hands because England has been lawless for so long. Many knights have done the same.”

“Why did he try to kill me, then?”

“He was afraid you'd have him put to death for threatening you.”

“Who is he?” asks Arthur-in-the-stone. “What is his true name?”

“Sir Pellinore,” Merlin replies.

“Sir Pellinore? I didn't recognize him.”

“We all go by many names,” Merlin says.

At this moment my seeing stone began to silvershine, as glass shines when the rising sun looks sideways at it. Merlin and Arthur-in-the-stone grew dawn-pale, and then they disappeared.