King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  “What do you feel?”

  “I feel kind of damp. The rain’s trickling down the walls of this tent. And I feel like … like a pawn. Nothing at all like a king.”

  An overwhelming feeling of love and pity took hold of Nyneve as she watched him. Was it fair, what she was doing? He looked so unhappy, with water dribbling down the tree trunk behind him, bareheaded and barefooted, Bull’s-eye shivering and stinking at his side. He was dressed in the green shirt and trousers he’d borrowed from the village. After all, he couldn’t spend his days permanently encased in armor. … She straightened her legs so they lay one on either side of Arthur’s outstretched right leg and leaned forward to bring her breasts into view under the loose blouse. How do you seduce a future king? she wondered. He’d never shown any sign of noticing she was a woman.

  “Why don’t you stop worrying about all that stuff for a while?” she said softly.

  “Huh?” He raised his eyes to hers. “I wish I felt I belonged,” he said.

  She hitched herself forward so that her groin pressed against his foot. “Why don’t you stop worrying?” she repeated, her voice a whisper.

  He was regarding her in surprise, as though making some slow, radical reassessment of the situation. “Huh?”

  “How does that feel?”

  “What?”

  “Your foot, silly.”

  “Oh. … Oh, God, Nyneve.” His toes moved a fraction, and then were still, stiff.

  “Listen, you must have known something before you woke up in that boat. Otherwise how could you speak the language?”

  “It’s not that.” His foot had withdrawn an inch.

  “What is it, then?”

  “You’re … so young. You’ve been looking after me. It would be wrong to … to take advantage of you.”

  She moved forward again, impatiently, trapping his foot between clenched thighs. “Who’s taking advantage?” There was irritation in her voice. “Doesn’t it occur to you that you’re embarrassing me, sitting there rigid like a corpse? Is that chivalrous, to discomfit a lady in that way? Be honest, don’t I have any effect on you? Yes or no!”

  And on the word no she pushed her own foot into his crotch. When she felt the heated hardness, an uncontrollable shivering took hold of her. She seized his hand, pushed it down the front of her blouse, and pulled herself toward him. He uttered a murmur of protest as his hand became trapped in her clothes, then there was a tearing sound and their position became more comfortable.

  “Oh, Nyneve,” he said.

  “There’s this as well,” she said. “Life isn’t all worrying about one’s destiny.” And she sighed with happiness as she found he hadn’t left all his instincts behind on his old happentrack.

  When morning came, his arms were still around her and she awakened slowly, deeply content. The rain had stopped and the tent glowed with sunlight. She disengaged herself gently, dressed, and made her way to a secluded stream where she bathed. The ice-cold water had never felt so good. When she arrived back at the tent, Arthur was dressed and chatting to a knot of villagers. He, too, seemed to have been rejuvenated by the night’s events. When he saw her, he smiled, and made a point of drawing her into the group.

  “The Baron’s holding a tournament today,” he told her, “but nobody from Mara Zion is taking part.”

  “With Tristan dead, there’s not much point,” Torre explained. “Sir Mador will carry all before him. I’m not giving him the satisfaction of putting me on my back.”

  “Tristan could stand up to Sir Mador, then?” asked Arthur.

  “He used Excalibur,” said Ned Palomides. “And come to think of it, you have Excalibur now.” There was a sly grin on his face.

  “Arthur has more important things to do than enter a stupid tournament,” said Nyneve quickly.

  “In the end,” said Palomides, “Excalibur didn’t do the late Tristan much good. There’s always some kind of a catch with magic swords. If it is a magic sword. That remains to be proved.”

  “Arthur is not entering the bloody tournament, Ned!”

  “What’s he going to do, then? I’d have thought winning a tournament was an essential first step to becoming king of England. I take it you haven’t given up that idea, Arthur?”

  “There’s a quicker way,” said Nyneve. “Arthur is going to draw the Sword from the Stone.”

  The villagers exchanged amused glances. “Second time lucky, eh, Arthur?” somebody said. Palomides guffawed.

  “Come on, Arthur,” snapped Nyneve. “Let’s go and see what’s happening at the Stone. It’s getting crowded around here.”

  It was even more crowded at the Stone. People had been lining up since the previous evening to try their luck, and the queue straggled off into the trees. The hopeful ones were not all men. Quite a few big, burly women were lined up, no doubt recollecting legends of Queen Boadicea.

  Baron Menheniot, Sir Mador de le Porte, and a group of soldiers supervised operations, making sure none of the hopefuls carried illegal aids such as crowbars. The pavilion had been struck, and the Sword in the Stone stood revealed in all its intriguing glory. Merlin was there, and Morgan le Fay; and another woman, middle-aged and running to fat.

  Sir Mador was arguing with a Gypsy who held a huge brown dancing bear on a flimsy leash. “Bears are not allowed,” he was saying.

  The Gypsy, a sallow little man with a monkey’s face, said, “It says ‘Whoso pulleth …I can read, you know. ‘Whoso’—that’s anybody.”

  “This is ridiculous.” Sir Mador was annoyed. “Bears are powerful creatures. I don’t deny the animal could probably pull the Sword from the stone. But what the hell would that prove?”

  “That he is king of England.”

  “A bear? What kind of qualifications does a bear have to rule England? His sole requirement for pulling that sword out is brute strength!”

  “That’s the sole requirement of anyone here.”

  Merlin’s plump companion uttered a scream of laughter. “I wondered when somebody would realize that! If we’re to be ruled by a brainless hulk, then let the bear try, Sir Mador. He’s as good as any man in that queue!”

  Sir Mador gazed heavenward in frustration. “Only humans, Gypsy. Only humans.”

  “Take a look, sir.” The Gypsy stabbed a gnarled finger at the inscription. “ ‘Whoso pulleth …’ Show me where it says, ‘Except bears.’ “

  “It’s implied, you fool. Now get on the road again, or whatever you people do!”

  “We’re staying to entertain the people,” said the Gypsy in dignified tones, “as we have the right to do. We are Gypsies and we go where we please, and if you try to prevent us, we’ll put a curse on you. Let me see, it’s Sir Mador, isn’t it?” And he screwed up his face, making a show of remembering the name. “We Gypsies are citizens of the world, and woe betide he who tries to deny us free passage!”

  “That animal is not a Gypsy.” Sir Mador put his finger on the flaw in the other’s argument. “That animal is a bear. You may think you can go where you please, but the bear can’t. Now get it out of here!”

  He motioned to the soldiers, who seized the Gypsy and began to drag him away. The bear, however, objected to the attack and uttered a spine-chilling roar. The soldiers backed off hastily. The Gypsy raised a finger and pointed it at Sir Mador. Sir Mador swung around and strode rapidly away, assuming the power of a curse was inversely proportional to the distance between cursor and cursee. The soldiers stood by, bewildered.

  “More power to your finger, Gypsy!” shouted the fat lady. “Mador always was a pompous ass!”

  The Baron, who had been observing these events, sighed. “There has to be an answer to this,” he said. “A fool like that Gypsy could turn the whole affair into a farce.” He caught sight of the newcomers. “Hello, Nyneve,” he said. He’d met her some months previously when she’d entertained the castle with stories of King Arthur. “Mador tells me you have a claimant to the throne here—named Arthur, oddly enough.” He laughed. �
�It wouldn’t surprise you to know that most of the men in that queue are called Arthur too. Suddenly it seems to be a very popular name. Even a couple of the women are called Arthur, although that stretches my credulity.”

  “Nyneve,” Merlin interrupted, a crafty expression on his face, “I’d like you to meet someone.” He turned to the plump woman. “This is Nyneve, my Lady,” he said, “handmaiden to my sister Avalona. And this is her friend Arthur, a recent arrival on the scene.” Now his tone became positively gloating. “And this, Nyneve, is Queen Margawse, wife of King Lot of Orkney.”

  Margawse!

  She felt her face whiten, and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. Merlin was watching her intently. Margawse! According to legend, Arthur’s aunt. And again according to legend, the woman on whom he got Mordred. On whom he got Mordred—what a weird expression! There was something biblical about it. And Mordred was to be Arthur’s downfall.

  Somehow or other, this happentrack had to be changed. …

  5

  THE VERTICAL KNIGHT

  “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, MY DEAR?” QUEEN Margawse was concerned. She was almost a head shorter than Nyneve, with a jolly, kindly face. She looked like somebody’s aunt. But not the kind of aunt that somebody would sleep with. Was this one of Merlin’s peculiar tricks?

  “I’m fine, thank you. I just felt a little dizzy for a moment. I haven’t had breakfast yet.” Nyneve stole a glance at Arthur. He was smiling at Queen Margawse in the pointless way one does when introduced to a stranger. There was no sign of lust in the smile, no concupiscent twinkle in his eye.

  Was the legend wrong?

  If it was wrong about this, it could be wrong about other things. Like Guinevere. And like Arthur becoming King of England. After all, this was a different happentrack. But Avalona had said Arthur was destined for greatness. …

  Nyneve didn’t know what to think.

  “I think,” said Morgan le Fay in her calm tones, quite unlike the dead voice of her sister, “that I will try for the sword myself, later today.”

  “What a woman!” said Merlin admiringly.

  “When does the tournament start?” Nyneve asked the Baron quickly, feeling that if she didn’t say something, she would start crying.

  “Within the hour. My knights are at the village now, preparing. It will not be so grand as our Menheniot tournaments but I trust you will find it entertaining.” He smiled, offering his arm. “Would you care to accompany me?”

  After making sure the others intended to come, too, Nyneve agreed. They set off up the path in the direction of the village. Behind them, the crowd began to cheer as the bear tugged ineffectively at the Sword.

  “Go to it, Arthur!” shouted the Gypsy.

  “Arthur! Arthur!” roared the crowd.

  “By God, Mador had better resolve that problem soon if he wants to take part in the tournament,” observed the Baron grimly. “That animal is making a laughingstock of us all. Perhaps it would be a good thing if he did pull the bloody sword out,” he said, beginning to cheer up. “Then we could crown him and have done with it. I could house him at Castle Menheniot and issue edicts on his behalf. I could rule the country through that bear.”

  Nyneve glanced up at him. He was built like an oak; tall and gnarled, with long, strong limbs emerging from the trunk at appropriate places. His face was square, his brow heavy. He exuded an aura of power. Now he was smiling at his fanciful notion of a king bear. “Why did you make an occasion of this?” she asked curiously. “The last thing a man like you would want is a king ruling over you, surely?”

  He chuckled. “A man like me? What do you know about men, young Nyneve?”

  “Answer the question, old Baron.”

  “Not so damned old that I can’t appreciate a pretty girl, and a clever one too. You’re right. The last thing I want is a united England. I’m very happy with my slice of it and I owe fealty to no man. But look what’s happened now. The legend of Arthur—your legend, damn you—has spread far and wide. The idea of a ruler of all England is in every peasant’s mind. It’s become more than an idea; it’s an ideal. And when peasants start thinking in terms of ideals, it means they’re not satisfied with the way things are.

  “Suddenly Camelot looks good to them. Nobody’s poor in your stories. Nobody has to tend the animals or work the fields. And now—here’s this Sword in the Stone. I don’t know how it got there. It could have been there for centuries, perhaps since there was a local ruler called Arthur. I don’t believe for one moment there’s any magic attached to it.

  “One thing I do believe: The Sword is going to stay stuck in the Stone. I’ve tried to pull it out and so has Mador, but we can’t shift it. And neither can Arthur.”

  “Arthur hasn’t tried yet,” she lied.

  “I mean Arthur the bear. And if he can’t shift it, nobody can. So the bubble will burst. People will take it as a sign that nobody is meant to be King of all England, and that a divided country is in the natural order of things. The Arthur legend will be discredited, and we can go back to living like normal people again.” He grinned at her. “You’re a fine storyteller, Nyneve, but you can’t change the natural course of events.”

  “We’ll see about that, Baron Menheniot.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “How are your gnomes settling in?” he asked. “Isn’t it the strangest thing, the way they suddenly appeared?”

  “Happentracks,” said Nyneve vaguely. Arthur was walking with Margawse, talking politely.

  “I want to make sure everybody accepts them for what they are.”

  “And what’s that?” Nyneve’s tone was cold. The Baron’s reputation was far from blameless in the matter of human or any other rights.

  “People. Members of the forest community.”

  “That’s the way they see themselves.”

  “And I want them to accept us for what we are. Bring them to the tournament, Nyneve.”

  “What? They won’t like it. The gnomes are kind and good. They’ll hate a tournament!”

  The Baron gave a bark of laughter. “If we are to accept them, they must accept us. Our strengths and weaknesses, our goodness and badness. We’re human and we’re all different, and they must learn to live with us. Go on now!” He slapped her on the buttocks, the way one might dismiss a horse. “Bring them to the village!”

  By early afternoon the tournament was in noisy progress. Heavily armored knights on horseback clashed, and the earth heaved as they fell. Archers loosed singing arrows at straw butts and yelled their triumph or disappointment. Swordsmen swung their clumsy weapons mightily, smashing opponents to the ground by the sheer weight of their blows, rather than any nimble skill. A notable exception was Arthur—Nyneve’s Arthur—who scorned the heavy armor and fought in leather jerkin, pants, and boots. Much quicker than his adversaries, he began to attract attention.

  “Looks like a bit of a pansy, that Arthur of yours,” grunted the Baron. Nyneve sat beside him on a raised platform shaded by bright fabric stretched between poles. On either side of them sat favored guests. The rear of the platform was hung with a thick tapestry that extended partway around the sides. This tended to obscure the view, and Nyneve asked the Baron about it. “I don’t believe in leaving my rear unprotected,” the Baron replied. “By the time anyone cuts their way through that cloth, I’ve got my sword out.”

  The gnomes sat on a table in front of the Baron. They watched the proceedings with little enjoyment and winced at any show of blood.

  “Which of you little fellows is Fang?” asked the Baron.

  Eight tiny caps bobbed, eight little faces turned to him. “Fang?” repeated Lady Duck. “What do you want with Fang?”

  “Well, he’s your leader, isn’t he? I thought he’d be here. Nyneve’s told me a lot about him.”

  “Fang is nominally our leader, yes,” said Lady Duck stiffly. “On an interim basis. He is of imperfect character, though. Our traditional leader is King Bison. Show yourself, Bison.”

&nbs
p; Bison shot the Baron a terrified glance from behind the protective bulk of his wife.

  “Bison is empowered to speak on behalf of us all,” said Lady Duck.

  “Speak then, King Bison,” said the Baron good-naturedly.

  “W-what shall I say?” The reluctant spokesman’s voice quavered.

  “Oh, anything. Tell me where Fang is.”

  “Fang? Fang? I don’t know where Fang is. Why should I know where Fang is?” Whimpering with fright, Bison looked to the others for support.

  “Fang is training the moles,” said the Miggot firmly.

  “The moles! The moles!” chorused the gnomes guiltily. “Training the moles!”

  Rapidly losing interest in this aspect of gnomish culture, the Baron said, “What’s imperfect about his character?”

  They looked at each other, then the Miggot said, “Nothing.”

  Simultaneously the Gooligog said, “He’s a rash young fool, that’s what!”

  Meanwhile Pong was explaining, “I’m not a gnome who goes in for touching people, but Fang—”

  Spector said, “Leadership material manifests itself in many forms. For instance—”

  Their views were cut short by Lady Duck’s shout: “Fang is a sexual pervert!”

  The embarrassing frankness of this statement stunned the other gnomes into silence and they quickly transferred their gaze to the tourney. Two mounted knights collided with frightening force, crashed to the ground, and lay motionless. The gnomes glanced rapidly here and there, seeking something nicer to look at. Nyneve found eight pairs of desperate eyes fixed on her.

  “A gnomish sexual pervert?” repeated the Baron. “I thought you little people weren’t interested in sex.”

  “Exactly!” cried Lady Duck. “I can’t remember when Bison and I last performed our duty to the race. When was it, Bison?”

  “I prefer not to think about it,” muttered Bison.

  “What about you?” The Baron suddenly realized that one of the gnomes had been silent up to this point. He was different from the others; his cap was a peculiarly unpleasant shade of brown. “What are your views on Fang?”