by Ben Bova
“If the High Kingship is to mean anything,” Arthur said to them earnestly, “we must use it to bring peace to the land. We’ve got to find a way to stop the wars and the constant fighting and allow the people to prosper once more.”
We were in Arthur’s room, high in the castle’s stone keep. I stood by the door; the others were seated around the trestle table near the foot of the bed.
Bors gave Arthur a scowl. “Stop the fighting, eh? Tell that to the Saxons.”
“Men will fight for what they want,” said Ector, more mildly. Tugging unconsciously at his white beard, he went on, “When men have a dispute between them, an appeal to arms is the natural way to settle it.”
Shaking his head, Arthur countered, “That wasn’t the way the Romans did it. They had laws.”
“And officials with the authority to enforce those laws,” said Kay, jabbing a finger in the air to emphasize his point.
“And courts to decide disputes,” Ector added.
“Then that’s what we must have,” Arthur said flatly. “Laws and courts, instead of constant fighting and bloody wars.”
Ector shook his head. “I don’t see how you can make free and independent men accept such restraints, my son.”
With a wry smile, Arthur replied, “Neither do I, Father. Not yet. But that’s what we must do.”
2
The day Arthur was to be crowned dawned at last. I had been sleeping in his chamber, wrapped in my bedroll on the floor by the chamber door. As usual, I opened my eyes as the first light of the new day crept through the room’s only window.
Arthur was already standing by the window, fully dressed in a crisp new tunic of white emblazoned with the red dragon that was his totem.
As I scrambled to my feet, Arthur turned toward me. “The day is here,” he said softly. The expression on his face was pensive, almost sad.
“You’re about to take on a great responsibility, my lord,” I said as I reached for my clothes, draped across the back of one of the chairs.
“And a wife,” he said. “The High King must have a wife, so that he can have a son and heir.”
“I meant the responsibility of returning Britain to law and peace.”
“Oh, that.” He smiled carelessly. “That will take a lot of effort, but it can be done, I’m sure.”
“Do you truly believe that you can bring these fractious Celts to a law-abiding society?” I challenged.
“The Romans did.”
“They had an army to enforce their laws.”
Arthur rubbed his brown-bearded chin. “Well, we have our own army: Bors, Gawain, young Lancelot, and the others. They bested the barbarians, didn’t they?”
“But will they fight to turn their own people into law-abiding Britons?”
Arthur broke into a wry grin. “That’s the real task, isn’t it?”
I suggested, “You’ll have to give them some goal to inspire them, something greater than their own individual passions.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I wonder what that might be?”
“Whatever it is,” I said, “after today you will speak to all the Britons as their High King.”
“That’s a start, I suppose.”
It was a start, I thought. Arthur had the right instincts, and he understood that what the Britons needed more than anything was peace, the stability to allow people to plow their fields without fear of raiders, to grow their grain and animals and market their goods peacefully, to live their lives and raise their families without the terror of blood and fire hanging over them.
Arthur was pondering how he could turn his little army of knights into a dedicated band that would enforce the law and protect the weak against any who would despoil them, whether they were barbarian invaders or British noblemen who thought it their right to take whatever they wanted by force of arms.
I had an additional worry. Which of those armed and independent noblemen would try to strike Arthur down? Which of them would be Aten’s assassin?
3
The coronation ceremony took almost the whole day, with a high mass in the stout stone cathedral and a tediously slow procession from the cathedral to the castle’s great hall and then a ritual that ended at last with Bishop Bron placing a circlet of gold on Arthur’s brow as he knelt at the bishop’s feet.
All the knights and petty kings packed the cathedral, together with their ladies, dressed in their finest robes, with furs and sparkling jewels, although many of them looked rather threadbare to me. I recalled the coronation of a self-made emperor many centuries in the future of this time: there was splendor.
Of course, Napoleon snatched the crown from his cardinal’s hands and placed it on his own head. Yet the French followed him through decades of war, and even returned him to power when he escaped his exile on the island of Elba. It wasn’t until the slaughter at Waterloo that they finally gave up their dreams of imperial glory.
But for this time and place, in the midst of a dark age, Arthur’s coronation was splendid enough.
“Rise, Arthur, King of the Britons,” the bishop intoned.
And as Arthur solemnly got to his feet every voice in the great hall cried fervently, “Hail to the King! Long live the King! May the King live forever!”
I knew that could not be, but I was ready to give my own life to protect Arthur’s.
4
That evening the great hall was filled to bursting as the nobles and their ladies feasted and raised goblets of tart red wine to Arthur’s health and success.
But no one swore fealty to the new High King, I noticed.
I stood beside the wire-thin chamberlain through most of the feast, off by the side doorway that led into the steaming, bustling kitchen. His darting eyes took in everything, and he directed the serving men and women with abrupt gestures and whispering hisses. Everyone seated at the long tables ate his or her fill, and drank freely. The chamberlain fretted that the wine would run out, but his fears—thankfully—were unfounded.
Remembering the drunken revels of Philip II’s court in ancient Macedonia, I thought that these knights were reasonably well behaved. Perhaps it was because their ladies were with them. Men thought more about their dignity when their women were watching.
At long last, as the candles were guttering and several of the noblemen slouched in their seats, almost dozing, Lancelot got to his feet: young, completely sober, very serious.
Raising his wooden goblet, Lancelot said in a clear voice that carried across the great hall, “I hereby pledge my fealty to Arthur, High King of all the Britons. Command me, my lord, and I will obey.”
Before Arthur could say a word, doughty old Bors struggled to his feet. “Aye! You have my loyalty, Arthur. I pledge it so!”
One by one, at first, and then in knots of threes and fours, the knights and kings swore their fealty to their new High King. I thought perhaps the wine had mellowed them or softened their wits, and some of the pledges were clearly reluctant, but the oaths were made. And witnessed. Arthur would have a cadre of dedicated knights to carry out his bidding.
A good beginning, I thought.
5
For the next several days the noblemen who had gathered at Cadbury castle took their leave of Arthur and started off through the gray winter toward their own homes.
At last King Leodegrance came to Arthur in the castle courtyard to tell the High King that he would depart the next day. The weather had cleared; even though the air was still freezing cold, the sky was a perfect blue.
“My daughter,” said Leodegrance, with his sly smile, “wishes to take her leave of you this evening. Will you take supper with us?”
Even from a dozen paces away, where I was standing, I could see the alarm on Arthur’s face. And I noticed that Leodegrance did not show the deference that was due the High King. As far as he was concerned, he was a father talking to his prospective son-in-law.
“Supper with you and Guinevere?” Arthur said, trying to hide his concern. “Yes, of course.”
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So that evening Arthur put on his finest tunic and repaired to Leodegrance’s chambers in the castle’s keep for supper with his future father-in-law and bride.
I waited outside in the drafty stone hall; a mere squire was not allowed to be in the room with the nobility. I watched the serving wenches carefully, together with the chamberlain fussing beside me. He was fretting about each dish, each bottle of wine. I was worried about poison and the chances that one of those wenches hid an assassin’s dagger in her skirts.
But the supper went uneventfully. Once the last of the dishes had been brought out and the chamberlain hustled his weary team back down to the kitchen, I expected Arthur to come out into the hall.
He did, with a smiling Guinevere on his arm. Once again I realized how slight she was, and how young. Even with a green fur-trimmed robe draped over her shoulders, she looked small, elfin. She was smiling up at Arthur, her bright brown eyes asparkle—from the wine, perhaps, I thought.
“Orion, we’re going out for a walk in the courtyard,” Arthur said to me. “Fetch my warmest cloak, please.”
I stared hard at Guinevere and saw nothing but a very young woman. She was pretty and possibly even intelligent, but I could find no hint that she was one of the Creators in disguise.
With a quick bow I trotted down the curving stone hallway, up the stairs to Arthur’s chamber, then back to them again. I trailed a respectful distance behind the young couple as they went down the winding stairway to the ground floor and out into the frigid night.
The stars glittered like jewels in the dark sky, although my namesake constellation was not visible. Arthur and Guinevere walked slowly along the snow-covered path across the courtyard, lined on either side with growing banks of snow that had hardened into ice. I hoped they would take care to avoid the piles of horse droppings that dotted the path.
I let them stay far enough away from me so that they thought they were out of earshot, but I heard them perfectly well.
“You must be baptized before we can be wed,” Arthur said, his voice low, very serious.
“If that is your wish,” said Guinevere.
“It’s not so much that it’s my wish, lady, but the bishop and all the church hierarchy would refuse to marry us if you were still a pagan.”
For a few paces Guinevere remained silent. Then she said, “A few drops of water and some incantations in Latin make all that much difference?”
The tone of her voice was teasing, almost mocking.
Arthur remained completely serious. “Baptism is an important Christian rite. Without it you could never enter the kingdom of heaven.”
“Have you been baptized, Arthur?”
“So I’m told. I was only a baby; I have no memory of it.”
“Will it make you happy if I’m baptized?”
Now Arthur hesitated before answering. “It’s not about what makes me happy. I’m the High King now. I must have a wife. And she must be a Christian or half my kingdom will rise up against me.”
“What about the other half?” Guinevere asked, her voice more serious.
Arthur sighed. “In time, I suppose, they’ll all be converted to Christianity.”
“Converted by the sword?”
“Never!” he snapped. “Not while I live. Pagans will come to Christ willingly, I’m sure.”
“As I am?”
His voice full of perplexity, Arthur asked, “Well … you are doing this willingly, aren’t you?”
Slowly, Guinevere replied, “My father told me I must marry you. You tell me I must be baptized. No one has asked me what I want, how I feel about this.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I will marry you, my lord. I will accept baptism. I will stand beside you as your queen. But my heart…” She lapsed into silence.
“Your heart?” he prompted.
“I don’t know you, Arthur. This evening is the first time we have ever been alone together.”
“Well, that’s all fitting and proper, isn’t it? A man can’t simply walk up to a woman and carry her away. That wouldn’t be right.”
“Perhaps,” Guinevere replied. “But a woman wishes for something more … more romantic.”
Arthur stopped and stared at her, completely tongue-tied.
“I know that this marriage was my father’s idea, not yours,” said Guinevere. “I get the feeling that you don’t really like me.”
“I … I…”
“And there are stories, you know.”
“Stories?”
“About you and Lady Morganna.”
Even from the distance where I stood, even in the cold winter’s darkness, I could see Arthur’s face flame red. He stood there facing Guinevere, his breath puffing out in little clouds of steam, like a horse that had been run hard.
At last Arthur said, “What is past is beyond change. I am High King now, and I will act as a king must.”
“And a king must be married.”
“Just so.”
“Very well, my husband-to-be. I shall be your queen. Your Christian queen. No matter what my heart feels.” Before Arthur could reply, she added, “And no matter what your heart feels.”
6
Leodegrance and Guinevere left Cadbury the next morning, heading back to castle Cameliard.
“I’ll return in the spring, Arthur,” said Leodegrance cheerfully, “with your bride.”
Arthur nodded solemly.
“But before that,” Leodegrance added, smiling brightly, “I’ll send you a gift. A gift worthy of the High King!”
With that he climbed into the coach beside his daughter and gave the coachman the order to drive off. The horses trudged slowly across the courtyard, clattered over the cobblestones by the main gate, and thundered out across the drawbridge.
Arthur watched the coach until it disappeared around the first switchback on the road. In truth, he looked very relieved.
7
The winter died slowly. Snow and more snow penned us into Cadbury castle.
One morning, as a brisk cold wind swept the low gray clouds across the sky, Arthur trudged across the courtyard with gruff, battle-scarred Sir Bors.
“At least the weather keeps the Saxons in their villages,” Bors said grudgingly as they paced along the shoulder-high banks of snow.
Arthur asked, “Do you think they’ve heard of my being crowned High King?”
With a slow nod, Bors said, “Yes. They must have, by now. Such news travels fast no matter the weather.”
“I want to talk to their leader,” Arthur said. “To all the barbarian chiefs.”
“D’you think they’ll want to talk to you?”
“They will, if they believe it to be to their advantage.”
“And what advantage could you dangle before their greedy eyes?” Bors demanded.
“Peace,” said Arthur. “A lasting peace between us.”
Bors looked dumbfounded.
And I noticed a timid yellow crocus poking up through the snow, nodding in the cold wind. Winter would end, after all. Spring was coming.
That evening, as Arthur prepared for sleep, he said to me, “Orion, I want you to go to the Saxon villages along the coast and seek out their leader.”
Surprised, I blurted out, “Me?”
“You will carry a message from me. I want to meet the leaders of the Saxons and the other barbarians. I want to talk with them about creating a lasting peace between our peoples.”
“But I’m only a squire,” I protested. “Surely you should send one of your knights on such a mission, sire.”
“My knights are fighting men, not messengers. The Saxons would be suspicious of them. A squire, on the other hand, might be received and his message listened to.”
I nodded acceptance. And if the Saxons kill the messenger from the High King, I thought, Arthur has lost only a lowly squire, not one of his fighting men.
Bors thought Arthur’s offer of peace was foolish.
“The barbarians will see
it as a sign of weakness,” he warned, as Arthur’s closest knights sat with him in council in Cadbury castle’s great hall.
There were five of them: Bors, Kay, Gawain, Lancelot, and white-bearded Ector, seated at one end of the long table that had held thirty during the coronation feast. Lancelot had been burning with zeal to take on the messenger’s mission, but Arthur insisted that the messenger could not be a knight.
Ector said slowly, as if thinking it out while he spoke, “The barbarians might indeed see an offer of peace as a sign of weakness…” He hesitated a breath, then went on, “But remember that Arthur and his knights have gutted their tribes of the cream of their fighting power. They might welcome a time of peace.”
“While they grow a new crop of warriors,” Gawain muttered.
“We will offer them peace,” Arthur insisted. “Peace is what we all need.”
Gawain looked dubious, Bors downright disgruntled. Kay glanced at his father and said nothing. Lancelot alone seemed unconcerned: whatever Arthur wanted was fine with the hero-worshipping young knight.
“And how do you propose to establish peace among our own people?” Bors asked. “How will you stop the fighting among the Britons?”
Arthur smiled ruefully. “We’ll have to find a way to bring the rule of law to the land.”
8
On the day before I was to leave for the Saxon territory, King Leodegrance’s wedding gift arrived. A heavy cart lumbered through the castle’s main gate and a quartet of laborers unloaded a large package swathed in fuzzy wool blankets.
Arthur was eager as a young boy at Christmas. “What could it be?” he asked the knights standing with him in the courtyard, watching the unloading. Warmer weather had turned the courtyard into a sea of slushy mud, so Arthur had the workmen lug the heavy package inside the entrance of the castle’s stone keep.
It was taller than a man, taller even than I, who stood several finger widths higher than any of the others. It was also as wide as two men standing together.
Arthur’s impatience spread to Gawain and the others as the workers carefully untied the ropes and began peeling back the blankets.