by J A Cummings
“But… I… I’m not king yet.”
“These people will proclaim you king when they see the sword come out of the stone.”
“Are you so certain?” he asked. “In Londinium, there wasn’t exactly a whole-hearted welcome.”
Merlin smiled. “For the most part, the people here are simple folk. They are not the kings and rulers of great tracts of land. They are Britons, pure and simple, and they know the meaning of magic when they see it.” He turned and continued walking. “It is Christianity that makes people doubt. It leans so heavily on its own mysteries that it blinds people to the other mysteries that surround them.”
They walked until they completed the circle, standing once again in front of the heart stone. Arthur said, “I understand the symbolism, and I understand the magic, but I’m not comfortable with this.”
“Get comfortable with it, and quickly. It is happening in two days.”
“My father won’t approve.”
“I don’t care. This is no longer about what Sir Ector does or does not want. You have larger responsibilities.” He faced the young man and said, “You must be very careful to do as I tell you to do, precisely and without question. We are hovering on a knife’s edge, and one false step will make all of Britannia fall. I know the path that you must follow, and it is narrow. I can guide you. Do you trust me?”
Arthur looked into his eyes and pushed away a niggling doubt. “Of course.”
“Then do as I tell you, even if it’s uncomfortable, or embarrassing. I would never have you do something that would be to your detriment.”
“I know.”
He smiled. “Good.” He led him back out of the circle of stones, saying, “Constantine and his men will be arriving with the stone tomorrow. It will be a busy day.”
As Arthur was beginning to expect, Merlin was absolutely correct about the arrival of Constantine and the cart with the stone. The people watched as the column of soldiers, smartly drilled and in shining armor, marched through the camp to place the stone beside the white tents. Merlin directed the placement of the stone while Constantine watched from astride his pearly horse. The Armorican prince nodded to Arthur when he saw him, but he did not approach, nor did he signal for Arthur to come to him.
Once the stone was in place, with a short log erected as a stand for the contenders, Merlin called Arthur to him. He took his sword from his belt and held it over the stone, preparing to drive it back into place.
“Hold!”
Merlin stopped short and looked at Constantine, irritated. “What is it?”
“Let my druid do it.”
“Your druid cannot.”
“If she can’t, then it proves that this is all trickery on your part.” The prince looked triumphant, as if he had just scored some sort of point. He looked at the watching people and smiled.
Merlin frowned and whispered something under his breath. More loudly, he said, “Fine. Where is your druid?”
Constantine gestured, and from the back of the column of soldiers, a gray-haired woman in a black robe rode forward. She alit from the back of her gray palfrey and stepped up to the stone. She held out her hand for the sword.
“You’re no druid,” Merlin said with a chuckle, “but I suppose a Gaulish witch will have to do.”
He put the sword into her hand and stepped back. Arthur helped her to step up onto the log, and then he, too, stood back. She raised the sword and pressed it against the rock. Nothing happened at first, but then, at a tiny twitch of a finger from Merlin that only Arthur saw, the sword slid into the stone. The observing crowd gasped and a gabble of conversations rose.
The witch held out her hand, and Arthur took it, helping her step down again. She looked at him with hard eyes rimmed in red. “I see much in you,” she said. “Much promise, but much despair. You will die but you will not die, and you will live in pain.”
He was surprised, but he said nothing. Merlin glared at the woman, and she went away cackling.
Constantine addressed the crowd. “Let all who think themselves worthy attempt to pull the sword from the stone. Only he who has been chosen by the gods to be the High King can pull it free.”
A parade of champions from each of the tribes rushed forward, and after much jostling, they arranged themselves in something like an orderly group waiting to take their turns. One by one they stepped up to the stone, and one by one they failed. Even Brastias and Bedivere took their turns, more to amuse themselves than because they expected any sort of success. Each failure was met with shouts and jeers from the crowd, and sometimes by laughter or cheers. It was a festival atmosphere, and it seemed that every man took a turn.
Finally, as dusk was beginning to fall and the sun was fading, Merlin nodded to Arthur. “Take your sword.”
He went to the log and stepped up. An expectant hush fell over the assembly, and all eyes were pinned to him. He could feel the weight of a hundred stares as he wrapped his hand around the hilt. With the barest of effort, he pulled the sword free and held it over his head for everyone to see.
There were no cheers and no grumbling protests. Instead, there was only silent reverence as all of the Britons of every tribe slowly and deliberately knelt before him. He looked at his foster father and brother, and they were on their knees, too; the sight made him unexpectedly melancholy, and tears stung his eyes. Even Merlin bowed to him, although he did not kneel. All around the stone, silent and respectful, he saw a sea of lowered heads.
If this was what it felt like to be king, it was the loneliest feeling in the world.
The reverent silence did not last for long. Revelry came hard on the heels of the crowd’s acknowledgement of Arthur as their king, and the sound of laughter and music filled the plain around the standing stones. With Merlin on one side and Bedivere on the other, Arthur circulated through the camps. He was greeted with enthusiasm everywhere he went, with people competing to see who could speak to him and some trying to touch him. His companions made certain that he came to no harm, but by the time he finished his circuit, he was feeling manhandled and jostled to within an inch of his life.
Relieved to be done with his walk, Arthur sat heavily near the fire that roared in the center of the circle of white tents. On the other side of the stone circle, Constantine’s camp had been erected with military precision, the shelters laid out in absolutely straight rows at such equal spacing that it looked as though it had been measured. He accepted a cup of mead from Brastias, who sat beside him.
“How is your father?” Arthur asked.
His friend sighed and shrugged. “Dying. But he is old. He has had a long and good life.”
“But still…”
“Yes. It hurts.”
Brastias drank deeply from the brew in his horn, and Arthur said, “Do you think you will be reconciled with him?”
“I am as reconciled as I can be. You helped with that, whether you know it or not.”
“I had no idea, but whatever it is I did, I’m glad.”
“So am I.”
Bedivere sat on Arthur’s other side and handed him a parcel wrapped in leather and tied with leather strips. “A gift from the Cornovii.”
“Your tribe.”
He nodded. “I have no idea what it is.”
Arthur opened the parcel and found slabs of venison, neatly butchered and separated by leaves. “Ah! Wonderful,” he said. “Dinner.”
Brastias looked at the gift and muttered, “They could have cooked it, too.”
“Don’t be daft,” Bedivere scolded. “They assume that the king has his own cook.”
Arthur chuckled. “Do I?”
“After a fashion. Lucan is an accomplished camp cook.” At the sound of his name, the squire came to them, and he collected the meat. Bedivere told him, “First and best to the king.”
“And here I thought I’d keep that part for myself.” Lucan smiled and winked at Arthur, then went to the fire to prepare their meal.
The young king drained his mead an
d said, “Not that I’m complaining, but I don’t think I’ve ever been looked at so hungrily by so many women in my life.”
His knights laughed, and Brastias said, “Well, you’re now the most marriageable man in all of Britannia, and if they can’t get a wedding, they’d be happy to get a bastard by you. If it were me, I’d be taking advantage.”
“You would not,” Bedivere objected. “Don’t listen to him. He tells a good story, but his actions are much different. He’s as chaste as a nun.”
“Lies, all lies.” Brastias smiled at Bedivere, and Arthur laughed.
“Thank you for being here with me,” he told them. “I feel much more secure with you by my side.”
“There’s nowhere else we’d rather be,” Bedivere said, and his friend nodded his agreement. They touched their drinking vessels together and drank to loyalty.
Kay made his way to the Ceredigion camp in search of Lionors. He was challenged at the edge of the compound by an armed guard who leveled a spear at his neck.
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“Sir Kay of Caer Gai to see the Princess Lionors.”
“State your tribe.”
He frowned. “I am Deceangi, not that it should matter to you. The Deceangi and the Demetae have been allies for years.”
The guard looked unconvinced, but he said, “She is in the chieftain’s tent, but they won’t let you see her.”
Kay was affronted. “Why not? Don’t you know who I am?”
“I don’t care who you are,” the guard snorted. “I do care that the lady is undergoing preparations for tomorrow night’s ceremony. It’s more important than anything you might want to say to her.”
“What ceremony?” he asked, confused.
The man looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “Tomorrow night is Beltane, fool, and we have a king now. She is the chosen maiden.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
With an exasperated roll of his eyes, the guard leveled the spear at Kay’s chest. “Then go away, Christian. Only followers of the old gods are allowed in here.”
He turned away in embarrassment and anger and stalked a few steps back the way he had come. He turned abruptly. “That king is my foster brother, and you have offended the new High King’s seneschal,” he snapped. “You will regret this day.”
“I doubt that!” The guard laughed in his face, which made Kay go nearly purple with rage. He stormed away, not caring who he trampled in the process.
Merlin appeared beside him and seized his arm, forcing him to stop his destructive stomping. “Hold up, Sir Kay,” he said softly. “I will explain everything to you.”
“Someone had better,” he nearly shouted. “This is intolerable!”
“Quiet yourself and come with me,” the druid said firmly. “This display will only tarnish your honor and cause bad feeling toward the king.”
Kay bit back on the comment he was about to make, and he allowed Merlin to guide him toward the river and away from any prying eyes and ears. When they reached the grassy bank, he finally released his arm.
“Are they going to sacrifice her?” he demanded. “Is that what this is about? You druids and your filthy, bloody ways…”
“First of all, we are not the ones who pretend to drink the blood of our god every Sunday,” Merlin said archly. “Second, she is not being sacrificed. She has been chosen for a very important role, one that will bring her honor and which will benefit all of the people.”
Kay frowned. “You have no right to speak so about Holy Communion.” His hands were shaking, and he very much wanted to throttle the man standing before him, but he knew that he would be dead if he tried. The devil had many tricks.
“Do you want me to explain the ritual, or are you just going to get insulted because I spoke harshly about your ceremony?”
He glowered and crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me.”
Merlin nodded and said, “All right. You need to understand this. As the chosen maiden, she will be playing the role of the Goddess in the Great Rite while Arthur plays the role of the God. They will be re-enacting the sacred marriage of the gods, and the marriage of the king to the land will be completed. It is through this ritual that fertility is granted, the crops grow, and the livestock thrive.”
He had never heard anything so ridiculous. “God sends the rain, and that is was makes the crops grow. He tends to the animals, too. It is God, not your barbaric practices. And what you do mean, re-enacting the sacred marriage?”
The druid looked at him with impatience. “Think, Kay. You are not as stupid as you pretend. What happens on any wedding night?”
The truth dawned in his mind, and the mental image of his brother making love to the lady he desired made him nauseated. His face twisted in a sneer of rage and betrayal. “That’s sickening! That’s whoremongering! That’s -”
“It’s none of that. It’s natural. It’s an honor.”
“For whom? For her? She can’t be wanting to give her maidenhead to some… boy… she’s never met! What if she doesn’t even like him? What if he disgusts her? For Christ’s sake, he’s a sodomite. He won’t even know what to do with a woman!”
Merlin crossed his arms and watched him impassively as he railed. Kay began to pace.
“What about her father? What kind of king allows his daughter to be dishonored in some pagan ceremony? What kind of people take a princess and make her play the whore? This is beneath her! This is an abomination!” Rage shook him, and he pounded his fist into his thigh. “If he touches her, I will kill him!”
“That’s enough!” the druid snapped at him, and it was like a slap in the face. Kay winced from the sound alone and fell into stunned silence. “I am not asking you to accept the old gods and overturn your love of Christ. I am asking you to respect that for many Britons, this is the faith they follow, the faith their fathers have followed, and the thing they believe as firmly as you believe a Nazarene dying on a cross five centuries ago somehow impacts your life in the here and now. If Arthur is to be king, he must be king to all Britons, not just the Christian ones, and if you are going to serve him, you had better get used to that fact.”
He growled, “But she -”
“You can still try to court her when this is over.”
Kay recoiled both inside and out. “She’ll be tainted. I could never court a fallen woman.”
Merlin stared at him in disbelief. “You realize that sex is how you came into being, and that your mother had sex with your father.”
“Within the confines of sacred marriage,” he argued. “That is the only time it’s permitted and right. Otherwise, it’s a sin. It’s fornication.” He shuddered. “And never speak of my parents having relations again. It’s unsettling.”
“Are you a man or a child?”
“A man!”
“Then act like one.”
Kay turned away and paced along the river bank. He had never felt for any woman the way he felt for Lionors, and he knew it was foolishness to feel so strongly after only one conversation. She was all he had ever wanted, though, with her beauty and her kindness, and she was royal, as well. He wanted her. Now his brother, the foster child who had stolen his mother from him, was about to steal his chosen bride away as well. Spite filled him, and he shook with rage. His foster brother, who outshone him in everything he did. Arthur, who was more handsome, smarter, stronger, bigger, a better fighter, a better scholar, even a better singer - Arthur was going to be the one to take his love. Arthur was taking everything away from him.
“Arthur can take anything he likes. He is the king,” Merlin said, as if he had heard Kay’s every thought. He shuddered to think that perhaps he had.
Kay turned and glared at Merlin. “He takes too much.”
“This is not his choice, either.”
His tone was snide. “I’m sure he’ll suffer through it, though.”
Merlin rolled his eyes. “You’re behaving like a jealous child, and ther
e is no time for this. Put your petty emotions to the side and support your king. There is no room for jealousy now.”
He wanted to deny that he was feeling envy, but he could not bring himself to lie. With an exasperated exclamation, he stalked away from the camps, following the river. He looked at the water and didn’t know who he would rather drown: Arthur for being a thief, Lionors for accepting the role of whore, or himself. Knowing that he was helpless to do anything of the sort made it all feel so much worse.
The morning of Beltane, Arthur was taken to a secluded bend in the river where three druids and Merlin were waiting. They looked at him so expectantly that his palms began to sweat.
“My lord,” one of the druids said. His black beard had white streaks that made him look like a badger. “Before we can accept you as our king, we must examine you.”
“Examine me?” he echoed.
“A king must be free of infirmity or defect,” a second druid said. He was younger, with black hair and a carefully pointed beard that reached to the middle of his chest. “No scars, no marks, no flaws.”
He glanced at Merlin, who nodded encouragement. He squared his stance. “Very well.”
He supposed this was one of those times of embarrassment that Merlin had warned him about. He stood silently and allowed the men to strip his clothes away. When he was nude, they ran their hands over his limbs and examined every surface of his body, including the bottoms of his feet. When the oldest of them took his manhood in his hands to study it, he was humiliated when it began to harden at the touch. The druids looked at one another and nodded over his bodily reaction. He wanted to sink into the earth and disappear.
Merlin and the three druids conferred in their secret tongue, and then the four of them turned to face him. They bowed deeply to him.
“Hail, King Arthur Pendragon,” the oldest intoned.
“Hail, King Arthur,” the rest responded.
To his dismay, they proceeded to bathe him next, washing every part of him. They seemed pleased when his body again responded to being touched, and he tried to reassure himself that it was only that they were happy to have a young and healthy king. He was thoroughly embarrassed.