The Legend of the King

by Gerald Morris

  "Your Highness!" the hag said hoarsely, tugging at Mordred's arm. "If this is Terence, then he is the other one of the two! Your mother said—"

  "I know perfectly well what Mother said," Mordred replied calmly. "That there are two who must be killed at once, on sight."

  "Then let him be killed. When My Lady says for something to be done, then—"

  "Hag Karnis," Mordred interrupted in a silky voice. "I ask you to remember who is to be king in England. Is it to be me or my mother?"

  The hag dropped to her knees and groveled at his feet. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, but My Lady—"

  "Yes?"

  "Nothing, Your Majesty."

  Mordred looked at the knights around Terence. "Tie him," he said. "Hands, feet, legs, but leave his mouth free." Terence stood immobile while Mordred's men made him fast. His legs were bound from the hips to the ankles, and his hands crossed and tied behind his back. When they were done, Mordred stepped up to him and gave him a gentle push. Terence fell backwards like a cut tree, landing on his back with a force that drove the air from his lungs. Mordred chuckled with a humor that never touched his eyes, then said over his shoulder, "Oh, and Hag Karnis?"

  "Yes, Your Highness," gasped the ancient sorceress.

  "You may, of course, go off now and send a message to my mother that I have disobeyed her instructions by not killing Sir Terence at once, but before you do that I would ask you to consider how such an action would be viewed by your future king, and if it will really conform with your hopes for the future to do so."

  "Yes, Your Highness," the hag mumbled. "It's just that—"

  "I am not a fool," Mordred said. "But I need to speak with him first. Don't worry; I'll kill him when he's no longer useful. Did I not do so to Dame Lyonesse?" He paused briefly, then added slowly, "It is what I do to anyone who ceases to be useful." He smiled at the hag, then nodded to two guards. "Put him on the floor in my tent."

  Five minutes later, prone on the floor of Mordred's tent, Terence was joined by Mordred, who turned him over gently, testing each rope and knot individually. Only when that was done did Mordred stand, light a lantern, and look into Terence's eyes. "Who are you?" he asked.

  "You know who I am," Terence replied.

  Mordred shook his head. "No. You are more than that. You are one of the only two people in the world whom my mother has ever feared, she who fears nothing. Why?"

  "Who's the other one?" Terence asked.

  "You are not in a position to ask questions."

  Terence tried to shrug but, trussed as he was, found it impossible. "I'm not in much of a position to do anything. If it comes to that, why should I answer questions either? You've already made it clear that you plan to kill me when you're done."

  Mordred was silent for a moment, then he continued as if Terence had said nothing. "Every plan I've made, you were the one who brought it to naught. From the moment I arrived at Camelot last year, you distrusted me. Why? My disguise was perfect. All believed in me, especially Arthur. Only you knew that I was pretending. What did you see?"

  Terence said nothing.

  After a moment, Mordred continued. "How did you know that I killed Bedivere? No one else suspected me."

  "And that you poisoned the emperor Alexander?" Terence added, speaking of a foreign ruler who had visited Arthur when Mordred first came to court.

  "You know that, too?" Mordred asked, his face briefly registering surprise.

  Terence nodded.

  "Do you have someone who tells you these things? But that's impossible. Mother said she halted all commerce between worlds."

  "She was wrong. Perhaps she isn't as powerful as you think."

  Casually, without any evident malice or anger but with great force, Mordred leaned down and cuffed Terence across the cheek with a gauntleted hand. Terence's head slammed hard against the floor and lights flashed behind his eyes. Mordred sat down on a campstool and watched for a moment.

  "She will win," he said mildly. "Arthur was never a threat to her, and once she had learned how to bind the faeries and keep them from this world, there was no one left to stand in her way. But then you did."

  "Actually," Terence said stiffly through a swollen lip, "I've done it several times. I forget how many. She does keep coming up with her little plots, doesn't she? I've often had to take time off from my busy schedule to send her packing."

  This time Mordred struck him on the other cheek. Once again Terence felt his lips growing puffy and tasted blood.

  "You should not speak slightingly of a lady," Mordred said. He waited a moment, then began again. "You were the one who knew that she was my mother. How did you know that? No one in this world knew that."

  Terence said nothing. Mordred waited for a few minutes, and for a second Terence thought he saw a flash of genuine amusement in Mordred's eyes. "Do you have any idea," he said, "how unusual it is to find a man who feels no need to talk about himself?"

  Silence.

  "I wonder," Mordred said suddenly, "if, as you followed me, you came upon any of the signs of my army's passage?"

  "Do you mean children and farmers and villagers butchered and left to rot?"

  "Yes," Mordred replied affably. "That's exactly what I mean. Would you believe me if I told you that I hated doing all that?"

  "No."

  "But it's true. I get no joy from killing."

  "You feel no remorse at it, either."

  "No, of course not. But it's a terrible way to win a war, killing the weak. It just leaves the land that much less profitable. I may have been raised with no other purpose than to murder, but believe me, I would never have set about such a slaughter if I had had any other choice."

  Terence could only stare at Mordred, who almost sounded as if he believed what he said.

  "So you could say that all those deaths were really your fault," Mordred concluded.

  "My fault?"

  "My first plans were much more humane. If you had left well enough alone, only Arthur would have died, and I would have been crowned peaceably and legitimately."

  "Except for the bit about murdering your father, you mean?"

  "Well, I wouldn't have done it so that anyone would ever suspect me. I'm not a fool." Terence said nothing, and Mordred went on. "But you had to reveal that I was the son of Morgause the Enchantress, and so I had no choice but to make open war. All these deaths are really your doing."

  "Or you could have chosen not to become king," Terence pointed out. "Arthur was willing to claim you as his son and make you his heir. You would have become king legally—and without one murder—as soon as Arthur died. You simply had to wait."

  Mordred stared at him, his eyes uncomprehending. "I don't like to wait," he said simply.

  "You mean your mother doesn't like to wait," Terence corrected.

  "Same thing. We think alike."

  "Do you? I just heard you disobey your mother's orders. Weren't you supposed to kill me on sight?"

  Mordred raised one eyebrow. "Are you complaining?"

  "I'm just pointing out that you don't seem to be in such unity with your mother as you pretend. Do you really think that when all this is over, if you defeat Arthur, she will let you rule as king? Do you really think she's done all this for your sake?"

  Mordred eyed him speculatively, but this time he was the one who said nothing.

  "Arthur's kingdom may fall," Terence said quietly. "No kingdom lasts forever. But whatever happens, I'm glad to have served a king who thought first of others, a king I could turn my back on without fear."

  "Sounds tedious," Mordred said lightly, but there was the suggestion of a crease on his brow. A faint motion from Mordred's side caught Terence's eye, and looking more closely, he noticed, to his amazement, that the carved ebony snakes on the haft of his own knife appeared to be moving. Quickly he averted his eyes so as not to draw attention to them. Mordred scowled at his inert form and said, "Look here, you aren't going to tell me what I want to know, are you?"

  "No
t on purpose," Terence replied. "Are you going to tell me what I want to know?"

  "What you want to know?" Mordred repeated, blinking. "What is that?"

  "What is your plan? Why are you waiting here instead of pressing your attack? Are you waiting for more troops?"

  Mordred stared for a second, then barked with a humorless laugh. "Aren't you precious. Still trying to complete your mission, even though in a few minutes you'll be dead."

  "Tell me what I want, and I'll tell you what you want." The snakes on Terence's knife were definitely coming to life. Terence had carried that blade since he was barely more than a child, and he had never had any reason to think it was enchanted.

  Mordred hesitated, then nodded. "You go first. How do you know so much? How did you know who I was? Was there some flaw in my act?"

  "No. Your pretense was perfect. If I were not the Duke of Avalon, son of the enchanter Ganscotter, I would have sensed nothing."

  "Avalon," Mordred repeated breathlessly. "Yes, I see why Mother hates you. And how did you know my mother?"

  Terence shook his head. "Your turn," he said. The snakes had reached out, found some purchase on the campstool where Mordred sat, and were slowly writhing their way out, lifting the long blade from its sheath behind them. "Are you waiting for reinforcements? Or for something else?"

  "I'm waiting for something to happen. Very soon, Arthur's armies will be split in half."

  "How?" Terence asked.

  "No. Your turn. How did you know who my mother was?"

  "From a blind seer in another world."

  "You lie," Mordred said. "I told you, my mother stopped all movement between worlds. It was her greatest enchantment ever. Even Avalon was held at bay."

  "I didn't say it was Avalon. Did you think that her spell bound every world?"

  Mordred shook his head. "No, you're lying. I think our game is over. You've told me enough. Mother was right. All I need to do is kill you, and I no longer have to fear anyone."

  "I thought you said there was one other whom your mother feared," Terence said, stalling for time. The knife was almost clear of the sheath.

  "Not anymore. Mother sent an army to the north to see to it. We've already received word that the other is dead. So you're the last threat." He rose to his feet and reached to his side for the knife, but it was gone, already slithering down the leg of the stool. His hand felt the empty sheath; he frowned, glanced out the door of the tent as if looking for something, then stepped outside.

  Terence dared not speak. He fixed his gaze on the wide yellow eyes of the two-headed knife. It slithered near, and Terence rolled over on his side to make the bonds on his wrists accessible. A second later his hands were free. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, then reached out to the coiling haft of the knife, which slithered into his palm. For a second, he felt the cool, dry softness of snake scales, and then the haft was wooden again. He cut the rest of his bonds, the cords melting under the blade as if they were burnt flax, and then crept to the back of the tent, cut a slit in it, and slipped out.

  It was an hour before Terence felt safe enough to stop running. He leaned against an oak tree in a dark forest—a real forest this time—and, still gasping for air after his frantic run, drew his knife from its sheath to examine it. Black wood and dark metal. Nothing more.

  "You may have been made for murder," Terence whispered, "but not everything becomes what it's meant to be. Thank you."

  Then, as his breath slowly grew more regular, he turned his mind to something that had been puzzling him since his capture. Terence had not been made a knight until after Mordred's banishment from Camelot, and yet Mordred had called him Sir Terence. Who at Camelot, Terence wondered, was in communication with the White Horsemen?

  6. The Trial

  Arthur

  The guard outside the queen's chamber was a young man whose name Arthur didn't know, so as he approached he said, "Forgive me, but I don't believe I know your name."

  "Caedmon, Your Highness," the guard replied stiffly.

  "Caedmon. Thank you. And has everything been quiet, Caedmon?"

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "Excellent. I would like to enter and visit the queen, Caedmon."

  Caedmon immediately stepped back from the door and took the key from his belt. "Yes, Your Highness," he said.

  Arthur didn't move. "Caedmon? I believe your orders are to allow no one to enter without searching him first." Caedmon nodded but looked confused, so Arthur added gently, "I am not above the law, Caedmon."

  Caedmon's eyes widened as he realized what the king was saying. Then he shook his head. "I'm sorry, sire, I can't search you. You are my king."

  "Even at my own command?"

  The young guard shook his head decidedly. Arthur considered trying to explain to the guard why he insisted on being searched—so that there could be no shadow of suspicion that he had bent the law to help Guinevere—but he sensed that even this would make no difference to Caedmon. Fortunately, at that moment the captain of the guard himself appeared at the end of the corridor and approached the guard's station.

  "Ah, Alan," the king said. "I wonder if I could prevail upon you to search me."

  "Search you?" Alan repeated. He blinked, but then Arthur saw understanding in his eyes. Alan glanced once at Caedmon, then nodded. "Of course, my liege." While Caedmon stood rigidly by, Alan examined his king's pockets and boots. Then he stepped back while Caedmon unlocked the door and Arthur entered his queen's chambers.

  Guinevere sat in a chair by the window, a shawl over her shoulders. She didn't rise or speak at Arthur's entrance. Arthur closed the door, heard the key turn in the lock, then said quietly, "How do you, my love?"

  "How do you think, Your Majesty?" Guinevere replied coolly. "I'm a prisoner in the rooms where I was once a queen."

  "You are still a queen, Gwen."

  "Queens don't have to beg permission from peasant guards to have fresh water. Queens aren't locked up in their own bedchambers like common criminals."

  "Not common, surely," Arthur said gently. Guinevere's jaw tightened, and she glared balefully at her husband. "My love," the king continued, "you have been accused of treason against the Crown."

  "Treason?" Guinevere repeated blankly. "I thought you were just angry at—" Then her eyebrows snapped together. "Accused by whom?"

  "Officially by Sir Mador de la Porte, but at least a dozen knights have signed the accusation."

  Guinevere was thoughtful for a moment. "Another plot of Mordred and Morgause?"

  "Undoubtedly," Arthur replied. "An attempt to divide the court, or—at the very least—to distract us."

  "Who else signed the accusation? All cronies of Mordred's?" Guinevere asked.

  Arthur shook his head. "Some, but not all."

  "How am I said to have committed treason?"

  "Through your long-standing affair with Lancelot," Arthur said evenly. Guinevere stared at the wall, and Arthur continued. "The statement that Mador drew up asserts that the king is the state, and that to betray the king is therefore treason. It further alleges that the two of you were meeting in secret the other night to plot my murder so that the two of you could marry."

  "Arthur, I told you why we were together. We both received false letters—supposed to be from the other—asking to meet. All you have to do is show those letters—"

  "The letters have not been found," Arthur said.

  Guinevere blinked. "But I told you; my letter was on the writing table."

  "It is there no longer, however."

  "Then Lancelot can show his letter!"

  "Lancelot, too, is here no longer," Arthur said. In the silence that followed, he walked across the room to the window where Guinevere sat. He gazed from the window at the rolling English countryside beyond. "It appears," he said, "that after the battle Lancelot left the court. My huntsmen followed his trail east for half a day before coming back. Perhaps he's headed for his castle in the Midlands."

  "Lancelot ran away?"
Guinevere breathed. "To Joyous Garde?"

  "Let us say that he made a strategic, if not necessarily wise, retreat," Arthur replied. "His room was searched, and there was found no sign of the letter that you described. But another letter was found, half written, on his desk. It was a letter to Mordred, promising his assistance in the 'Great Undertaking' that Mordred was engaged in, once I was dead."

  "Arthur, no! Lancelot would never betray you!"

  Arthur glanced quizzically at Guinevere, then turned back to stare out the window again. Against his own will, against every determination of his soul, the old crushing weight of anger had descended once more on his shoulders. During the years of Guinevere's attachment to Lancelot, Arthur had lived with that weight. Once they had ended their affair and Guinevere had returned to him, Arthur had thought that all the anger had been dispelled. But he had been wrong.

  Guinevere, her faced flushed with shame, said meekly, "I didn't mean that."

  "No," Arthur said. "I suppose you wouldn't."

  "Was I right after all? Is that what this is about?" Guinevere asked suddenly. "Am I, at last, to be punished for being a foolish girl and playing at romance with a handsome hero?"

  "No," Arthur said. "This is about the king following his own laws. You have been accused of treason, and by my own decree anyone so accused must be tried in public and kept under guard until that trial."

  "You aren't just anyone! You're the king! You should not be treated like others!"

  "Don't you mean that you should not be treated like others?" Arthur asked. He had to fight to keep his voice gentle.

  Guinevere stood abruptly and strode across the room. "This is why I had that cursed affair in the first place," she snapped. "If I could have just been sure, even once, that you cared more for me than for anything else, I would never have turned away! But everywhere I looked there was something that you put before me: the law, England, the throne, your Round Table. I was never first to you, never even second or third."

  "And so, to make me love you more than anything, you betrayed me?"

  "Lancelot always put me first," Guinevere said. "It was nothing more than that, a girl's childish wish to be treated as a ... a..."