Sword of the Rightful King (9 page)

The other guard was silent.

Gawen was silent as well, but his small silence was filled with a growing wonder. Glancing sideways, Merlinnus saw the boy taking in the stoneworks, the Roman mosaic panel on the entry wall, all the fine details the mage had insisted on.

“An awed emissary,” he said to the boy, as he had said to all the boys he had trained, “is already half won over.

Gawen nodded.

That pleased Merlinnus. The boy obviously understood what he meant. Not like the other apprentices, boys whose minds had remained closed to his teachings.

A boy who listens well
, he thought,
will be well trained
. He put a hand on Gawen's shoulder, feeling the fine bones beneath the jerkin. “Turn here.”

As they walked, Gawen's head was constantly a-swivel: left, right, up, down. Wherever he had come from had obviously left him unprepared for such splendor.

The last hall opened into an inner courtyard where pigs, poultry, and wagons vied for space. As a lone grey mastiff hound walked toward them, Gawen breathed out again in a noisy sigh.

“It is like home,” he whispered.

“Eh?” Merlinnus let out a whistle of air, like a skin bag deflating.

“Only much finer, of course.” The quick addition was almost satisfying, but not quite. It created an unsatisfactory disjunction; a join not well matched.

A boy traveling on his own from a monastery would not know so fine a place. Would not need to justify his response.

Merlinnus wondered suddenly if he were using the boy, or the boy using him.

That was an uncomfortable thought. He put it aside to worry over later, like a bit of the skin that lies aside a torn fingernail.

It was a puzzle.

Merlinnus did not like unsolved puzzles. They were dangerous.

12

“T
O THE RIGHT
,” Merlinnus said once they were inside the castle itself. He shoved his finger hard into the boy's back. “Right.”

Gawen turned quickly, wordlessly, as graceful as a dancer, but did not outpace the old man.

It is a performance
, Merlinnus thought,
quite masterful in its own way
. Now he was seeing the boy in a different light, more shadow than sun.

Recognizing the mage, the guards at the door to the Great Hall opened it without a moment's hesitation.

Merlinnus stepped in front of the boy. “Come,” he said gruffly.

As they entered the room, with its high wooden ceilings, Arthur looked up from the paper he was laboriously reading, his finger marking his place.

Merlinnus noted with regret that Arthur was once again reading well behind his finger, like a boy in his first year of tutelage.
But at least he reads
, Merlinnus thought,
unlike his father. Or any of the things before him
.

“My liege,” Merlinnus said, though he did no more than sketch a bow.

The boy, he noted, did a proper bow, one leg forward, and a fully sketched hand. It did not sit with his being a monastery boy. Or at least not one who had spent years there. That bow came from a court and castle, not a monks' hall.

“Ah, Merlinnus, I am glad you are here,” Arthur said, ignoring the boy. “We've been worried about you this past week. No one has seen you.”

Merlinnus knew that Arthur was not meaning the royal “we,” but that he and Kay had been worried. They would have spoken together more than once about his whereabouts. Old as they were, they were still his boys.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked.

Merlinnus nodded. Surprisingly, he suddenly felt more than just all right. He felt completed. The sword in the stone
was
the key!

“There is a dinner tonight with an emissary from Gaul,” Arthur was saying, “and you know I cannot speak their language.”

“Eh?” For a moment, happy in that completeness, Merlinnus had lost the thread of the conversation.

“The language of Gaul, old man. It simply glides across my ears. I need a translator. If you are indeed well, will you be there to help?”

Merlinnus nodded again.

“And there is a contest I need your advice on. Here.” He drew a list from behind him. He had obviously been sitting on it for some time, for the parchment was creased. “The men want to choose a May Queen to serve next year. They do not like this years choice.” He made a face.

“And why not, my lord?”

“Kay says she giggles.”

“Giggles?” Merlinnus sucked on his lower lip. “Of course she giggles. All girls giggle. I do not understand.”

“How can you, you old celibate? But it is not this year's girl they are concerned with. I think they are hoping to thrust someone on me as my queen. They have drawn up a list of those qualities they think she should possess, this paragon, this perfect woman. Kay wrote it down.”

Kay
, Merlinnus thought disagreeably,
is the only one of that crew who
can
write
. He took the list and scanned it. “Head... waist... hips, calves.” He shook his head in disgust. “It sounds more like a shepherd's list. Or a butchers.”

By his side Gawen stifled a giggle.

“They are trying—” Arthur began.

“They certainly are.” Merlinnus handed the list back.

“They are trying to be helpful,” Arthur said curtly. He finally looked at the boy, studying him for a full minute as if trying to fathom who the child was. “And who is this fey bit of work?”

The boy bowed again, though none such was called for. “I am called Gawen, sire. I have come to Cadbury to learn to be a knight. I know how to ride and I am stronger than I—”

Arthur rolled his eyes and turned to the old mage, interrupting the boys speech. “Is he to be yours? He is too small for knighthood. And too... slight to even apprentice to a smith or an ostler.” Then he looked back at Gawen thoughtfully.

Merlinnus knew what Arthur meant. That whatsoever it was the boy had come for, he was certainly not built to be a fighter.
Better to claim him now before he breads his heart on helm, aventail, byrnie, gauntlet, greaves. Before he is bullied and broken by the master of swords
.

“Sire, I am not afraid. I will for certain grow.” The boy was almost in tears. “I
must
learn to be a knight. I
must
become one of your Companions.”

Arthur leaned toward him and spoke quietly but with complete authority. “To be a squire takes patience. You must spend years cleaning the leather, polishing the steel. And years more working with lance and sword. Then, and only then, you may become worthy of being someone's household knight. But even though you make knight, you will perhaps never be a Companion. For the most part they are lords of the realm.”

Merlinnus was silent throughout this recital, eyes on the boy and his reaction. Gawen stood absolutely still, as attentive as a fox following a hare.

Arthur continued, “There are but a few places at the table reserved for others, who by heroic effort and not by blood deserve to sit there. Is it not enough, boy, to have come to Cadbury to serve?” By the end of this speech—a long one for Arthur—his voice had softened as if he felt some kind of pity for the boy. Then he turned his steely eyes back to the mage.

Merlinnus thought,
Better to keep the boy close, whoever he is
—
minstrel, runaway, or fledgling spy
. “He is mine, sire.”

Gawen looked sharply at the old man. “But, Magister, I would learn the sword. Really, I am stronger than I—”

Merlinnus allowed himself a small smile. “For whatever work you wish to do here, know this: The mind is sharper than any blade. And like a blade, it has edges and a point. Be content with me, child. You shall use your strength in my service and it will serve us both well.”

Gawen got that sulky look again, like a spoiled child who has been denied a sweet.

“How old are you, boy?” Arthur asked suddenly. And before Gawen could answer, Arthur began battering the boy with questions, as if proving his own mind sharp as a sword. “Are you a Christer, a Grailer? Or do you worship Mithras or the Mother? Are you well-bred?” He turned back to Merlinnus. “Is he?”

“Well-bred, certainly,” the mage replied, remembering the Latin and the elegant speech, even without the slip about how much the castle looked like home.

“I am thirteen,” the boy said.

Merlinnus had in their walk from the woods already revised his estimate of the boy's age several times over. He guessed from the boy's manners, his quickness and ease with strangers, that it was two or three years further than thirteen, but said nothing.

“My own mother follows the Goddess but my father the Grail, so I know both,” Gawen said.

So
... Merlinnus thought,
not an orphan sent to a monastery, then
.

“And worship neither?” Arthur leaned forward on the throne. It looked as though he were interested in the boys answer, but Merlinnus suspected he was just shifting position on the hard chair.

“Pardon me, sire, but that is between me and my god.” The boy's cheeks flamed red, but otherwise he did not seem discommoded. Just stubborn.

“I will pardon you, boy, but know this—if you serve me, you serve my god,” the king said.

So
, Merlinnus thought,
Arthur is listening. Something about this boy quickens him. That is interesting indeed
, and he tucked this item away in his mind's cupboard with the rest.

“I thought I made it clear the boy serves
me
,” Merlinnus put in. And then to soften the rebuke added quickly, “And you, Majesty, have yet to make clear which of the many gods in Britain you will stick with yourself!”

Arthur leaned back against the chair and laughed. It was a buoyant and boyish laugh.

Merlinnus began to laugh, too.

The burly guards at the door smiled at one another, not really having heard the conversation, but just because they loved their king and were pleased when he found something to laugh about.

Only the boy remained solemn. Merlinnus suspected it was not because he had no sense of humor. Rather he did not yet dare to laugh out loud at the king. Or with him.

After a moment, Arthur arched his back and put a hand behind him. “Damned thrones too hard. I actually prefer a soldiers pallet. Or a horse.” He stood and stretched like some sort of large sandy-colored cat, scattering several scrolls. “That is enough for one day, I think,” he said, gesturing to the scrolls. “I will look at the rest tomorrow.” He came down the two steps and whispered in Merlinnus' right ear. “When you gave me this kingdom, old man, you forgot to mention how hard a chair the high throne is.”

“And would you have made a different choice, sire?”

Arthur once again roared out that boyish laugh. “No. Probably not. But I would have requested a different throne.”

Merlinnus pretended shock. “But that is the High King's throne. All the kings of Britain have sat upon it. Without that throne, you would not be recognized as the High King.”

Arthur nodded. He turned slightly and looked straight at Gawen then and said, “Of such things is a kingdom made. Hard to credit it.”

Gawen suddenly spoke up. “Would not a cushion on the seat do, Majesty?”

Arthur laughed again. “Out of the mouths of children. Would it not do, Merlinnus? A cushion?”

The mage's mouth twisted about the word
cushion
. But he could think of no objection. It was the quiet hominess of the solution that he found somehow offensive.
Certainly it would work. But would it make the king less... manly ? Less powerful? Less
...

“It will work,” he said at last. “Only do not let there be any embroidery on it.”

Arthur laughed again.

“And now, my lord,” the mage said, “I have more important things to discuss than cushions.” He thought he would have liked a cushion himself at that moment and sat down, rather hurriedly, on the risers that led to the throne.

Arthur sat down next to him. “The assassins?”

The mage shook his head. “The sword and the stone, Arthur.”

“Very well. Let us talk.”

“In my workroom,” Merlinnus said. “I would not have ears hear that should not. If you will accompany me there.” He tried to stand and found he could not. Unaccountably both his knees were too weak to hold him.
Old
, he thought.
I have suddenly grown old
.

“I will not only accompany you,” the king said, “it looks as if I will have to carry you.” He stood and pulled the old man to his feet, but gently. “Give me a hand with him, boy, and we will see how strong you really are.”

Gawen was quick to offer the mage his hand.

“I can walk,” Merlinnus said testily. He certainly had not meant the king or the boy—and especially not the guards—to see his weakness. “I can walk myself.”

“Then lead the way,” Arthur said and, winking at Gawen, added, “and we will catch you should you fall.”

When there was no quick answer, Arthur smiled. Finally he had had the last word.

13

T
HEY WOUND
through the castle halls, down three flights of stairs. Often they paused on the steps to let the mage catch his breath. The walls were softened with large tapestries, and the millefleurs on them were made of many-colored threads that seemed to glow against the grey stone. Gawen nodded at the tapestries and several times ran a finger across the stitching as if counting what lay on the cloth.

When they reached the dungeon, dark shadows danced upon the walls. The entrance to the dungeon was guarded by a large bronze head, its deep eye sockets filled with blue enamel. It was Arthur's wish that the dungeon stayed empty. Arthur preferred to make friends of his enemies. But the threat was always there.

At the far end was the darkest cell. They went into it. Merlinnus touched three stones, left, right, center, and then again, then backwards. The stone wall sprang open. Behind it was a wooden door.