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

by Coney, Michael G.

  “I thought he was supposed to be the Archbishop of Canterbury,” whispered Gwen. “He sounds more like the Archbishop of Calais, for God’s sake.”

  “To join in ’oly matrimony …”

  “Our Church has a strong French influence. Apparently the Archbishop wanted to conduct the ceremony in Latin, but the Baron talked sense into him.”

  “Thank heaven for small mercies. Not that it really matters what language he uses, as long as he gets it over with.”

  The Archbishop, sensing he was losing the attention of the young couple kneeling at his feet, raised his voice to a roar.

  “The state of marriage, blessed …”

  “Do I detect a certain irreverence in you, Gwen?”

  “You could say that.”

  “That’s nice. I have difficulty believing all this stuff myself.” Arthur had raised his head and was squinting through his visor at the Archbishop. “Strange. He sounds quite normal when he shouts.”

  “Maybe that’s why people always shout when they’re talking to foreigners.”

  “No. That’s not what I meant. I’d almost say he had a local accent.”

  Arthur regarded the Archbishop: a slim figure burdened by the enormity of his filthy cassock. The little cap hung over his ears as though dropped by a chance breeze, and his hair was a peculiar bluish shade, as though dipped in woad. The face was narrow, with a long jaw, but the skin was blurred with grime and streaked with crimson so that it was not possible to form an exact impression of the features.

  “He looks as though he’s crawled out from under a raspberry bush,” said Gwen, echoing Arthur’s thoughts.

  “Arise,” said the Archbishop testily.

  Gwen rose gracefully to her feet but Arthur remained where he was, struggling under the weight of armor.

  “Help him up!” snapped the Archbishop. “Are you trying to make a mockery of the whole ceremony?”

  Torre, the best man, grasped the groom under the armpits and hauled him into an upright position. “Do you have the ring?” asked the Archbishop.

  “I have the ring,” said Torre.

  Meanwhile Arthur had tugged off a gauntlet. “With this ring,” he repeated after the Archbishop, “I thee wed.” And he continued, faultlessly, to the end of his piece.

  Tears glistened in Gwen’s eyes as she repeated her vows in a low voice. Arthur watched her, holding his visor open with his free hand. The summer sun speared through the windows of the little chapel, pinning down the moment in time, fixing a nodal happentrack. Whatever else might have happened in the past, or might happen in the ifalong, Arthur did marry Guinevere, and for a while he loved her.

  “Those whom God hath joined together,” shouted the Archbishop, startling the bats from their day’s sleep among the rafters, “let no man put asunder!

  “And that means you, Lancelot, you slimy bastard,” continued the Archbishop unexpectedly, pointing his finger at a startled figure halfway down the aisle, “because the good Lord knows full well what evil dwells within your heart!”

  And so a most unusual ceremony came to an end, and the congregation surged in an unruly mob toward the horses.

  Pan, the Miggot’s elfin adversary, was a curious being. Neither man nor gnome, he had been fashioned by the kikihuahuas as a catalyst for the Sharan. He alone was able to communicate with her telepathically, but he did not always use this ability for the common good of the woodland creatures. All too often he was motivated by spite. On the morning of the wedding he suffered a typical fit of unpleasantness.

  “What do you mean, I can’t go to the feast?” he demanded.

  “The invitation specified the gnomes of Mara Zion,” replied the Miggot. “You don’t qualify. You are neither gnome nor human. You are a lesser being. If you were as successful as the gnome species,” he continued, holding up an imperious hand as Pan was about to object, “your kind would be more numerous. But you’re not. There’s only one. You represent an evolutionary dead end, Pan, and you may as well accept it with good grace.”

  “What’s that got to do with not being invited to the wedding feast?”

  “Well, you can’t go, and that’s all there is to it. Do your duty and look after the Sharan, and I’ll be back in late evening. Drunk, I hope, so you’d better keep out of my way.”

  He mounted his rabbit and rode off, leaving the sole member of a failed species fuming.

  Pan sat beside a particularly charred root of the blasted oak all morning, his back turned to the Sharan, who grazed nearby. He wished all kinds of disaster on the principals at the wedding.

  “Bugger them all!” he shouted angrily.

  Something of his frustration communicated itself to the Sharan, and she looked up, snorting nervously. Pan swung around and glared at her. “And bugger you too!” he yelled, directing a flash of mental hatred at her.

  The Sharan began to trot to and fro, bleating.

  Pan regarded her thoughtfully.

  He’d goaded her into bolting before, and he could do it again. It caused people endless trouble when the Sharan bolted. And particularly now, when the happentracks had joined and the forest was alive with humans. And with everybody at the wedding, the Sharan could be many miles away before the Miggot got back. …

  There used to be a dragon called Morble on the gnomes’ old happentrack. He had been created by the Sharan as a familiar and a protector for Avalona and Merlin. He was a great and terrible creature. The Sharan had squealed with fright when he had emerged as a fearsome embryo from her womb, and she had refused to nurse him. The gnomes had kept him alive for fear of reprisals from Avalona, and as soon as he was able to fend for himself—which was surprisingly soon—they had released him into the forest.

  Since the joining of happentracks, Morble had not been seen. It was thought that he was now living on a world of plants and trees where no other sentient creature existed that might cause a branching of happentracks. That way Avalona could find him whenever she wanted him.

  But the Sharan did not know that. For all the Sharan knew, Morble could be emerging from the trees (and Pan directed the image at the Sharan) right now, huge and hungry and infuriated with the mother that had denied him comfort when he most needed it. …

  With a bleat of terror the Sharan fled.

  “Torre,” said Arthur, “I have to talk to somebody. Sit down and have a drink.”

  The Great Hall of Mara Zion was decked out with bunting and summer flowers, and the women of Mara Zion were dressed to match, looking like ladies for once in their lives. The Round Table, big enough to seat fifty ruffians pleased to call themselves knights, was rapidly disappearing under a steaming burden of platters. Meat there was in plenty: roast beef, venison, lamb, pheasant, partridge—any unwary forest creature that was not humanoid in form had been shot during the past weeks and brought to the Great Hall to hang and ripen for the wedding feast. The platters themselves bore the crest of Menheniot. They were on loan for the day and had been carefully counted.

  Crazed by the sight and scent of so much food, the guests trotted about the Great Hall like excited horses, chattering and drinking, waiting for the signal to be seated. The gnomes sat on a dais out of range of stamping feet, eyeing their own vegetarian dishes hungrily. Beach gnomes and forest gnomes sat at separate tables.

  Beside the Round Table was the head table where Arthur now sat, Bull’s-eye at his feet, joined for the moment by Torre. “What do you want to talk about?” asked the latter, hoping that whatever it was, it wouldn’t delay the eating too long.

  “All this.” Arthur waved an arm at the gathering. “I have mixed feelings, Torre. I feel at the mercy of events. I don’t know who I am or what I am. What do all these people expect of me? Do they really think I’m going to fulfil Merlin’s prophesies? I’ve been in the forest long enough to know Merlin is little more than an old fool. And did he really prophesy anything, or were he and Nyneve simply telling stories around the countryside in return for board and lodging? Are we trying to act out
a work of fiction like strolling players? For God’s sake, why does everyone take those stories so seriously?”

  “You had to be there, Arthur. They were real. ”

  “If they were real, what am I? And what about this girl Guinevere? She’s a stranger to me, Torre, and yet she’s my wife.” He stared moodily across the Great Hall at Gwen, a vision in blue and pale gray, talking to a group that included Gawaine and Lancelot. “And tonight I have to sleep with her.”

  “Not too onerous a task, I hope?”

  “How do I know? I have no real feeling for her. She’s pleasant to look at. Some men might think she was beautiful. And she’s reasonably bright and easy to talk to. But when I’m alone with her, I don’t feel any stirrings. Tonight could be a disaster, Torre. I don’t want to let her down—or myself, for that matter.”

  “You’re not the first new husband to feel like that. She’s probably as nervous as you. Just eat plenty of meat and drink enough wine, but not too much.” A flicker of curiosity crossed Torre’s face. “Forgive my asking, Arthur … but have you ever bedded a woman?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Have you ever felt like bedding one?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I have.”

  “Might I ask who?”

  “You might, but I’m not telling you.” A vision of a young girl danced in Arthur’s mind: dark where Gwen was fair; bouncy and sparkling where Gwen was quiet and reserved. “And there’s another thing,” he said hastily, before the thought could develop any further. “Has it ever occurred to you what people will say if Merlin’s predictions don’t come to pass? Here we are, a crowd of villagers in an overgrown barn, acting like knights and ladies. So how am I going to become king? I have no army; just you people. Sooner or later Mara Zion will get tired of waiting, and then what?”

  “It is in the lap of the gods.”

  “I tell you, Torre, I’m in a tricky position.” He glanced at a dark, smiling man in faultless dress, talking to a more roughly clad villager on the far side of the Great Hall. “What Menheniot must think of us, I don’t know,” he said unhappily. “I wish Governayle had been able to get here—he’d bring a touch of common sense to all this.”

  “What do you think of our wedding feast, Baron?” asked Ned Palomides. “Quite a good show for Mara Zion, eh?”

  “A splendid occasion.”

  “And our new leader, Arthur. Somewhat different from the late Tristan, thanks be to the Lord.”

  Baron Menheniot frowned. “Tristan was a good man, as is Arthur. I regret having killed Tristan. It was a most unfortunate accident.”

  “But all that’s forgotten now. Mara Zion and Menheniot are allies. We stand together against the Irish and the Saxons and anyone else stupid enough to pit themselves against us. And Mara Zion is strong with Arthur as its leader.” Palomides shot the Baron a sly look. “It must be reassuring for you to have such a strong neighbor.”

  “You are quite a devious fellow, Palomides, do you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told. I use my eyes and ears and I learn things. And I look ahead and plan.” Palomides drank deeply from his mug, belched, and swayed toward the Baron. “As should Arthur, if he intends to be Ing of Kingland. Although somehow I don’t think he will be. There are forces at work, Baron, forces to be reckoned with.”

  “Are there, now?” The Baron tried to move away, only to find a sweaty hand clasped around his forearm.

  “Forces to be reckoned with,” repeated Ned, pleased with the expression. “Are you with me or against me, Baron?”

  Infuriated, Baron Menheniot snatched his arm free. “I am totally indifferent to you, Palomides,” he said, walking away.

  “Always remember I gave you the chance,” Ned called after him.

  The Baron, sighting the Archbishop nearby, approached. “That was a convincing performance,” he said quietly. “Although you got carried away toward the end.”

  “That Lancelot is a pain in the ass.” The Archbishop glowered at the perfect knight, who was talking to Guinevere on the far side of the room.

  “All the same, I think you should make your peace before you leave.”

  “Leave?” The Archbishop regarded the laden Round Table. “Who said anything about leaving?”

  “It’s hot in here. You’re sweating. All that stuff’s coming off your face and someone will recognize you any minute. Anyway, thanks for helping us out. When the real Archbishop failed to appear, I didn’t know what we were going to do. I’d given my word to Arthur.”

  “You like Arthur, don’t you?”

  “I trust him. He’s an honorable man. It’s almost a pity the legend is all nonsense. He’d have made a better king than most. Come on, let’s make peace with Lancelot. He has a lot of influence around here too.”

  “So do you think I look pretty, Lancelot?”

  “Enchanting, my dear. Arthur is a very lucky man. Every man in the Great Hall wishes he were in Arthur’s place.”

  “Including you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t lie convincingly, Lancelot.” She sighed. “Why does everybody suppose you and I to be lovers? Isn’t it possible to be friends without climbing into bed together? You know whose fault this is, don’t you? It’s Nyneve’s. Her stories were getting boring and she needed to spice them up a little.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that she may have designs on Arthur?”

  “Of course it’s occurred to me. She once told me as much. But she doesn’t stand a chance—I’ll see to that. She’s just a little village girl, but I’m to be Queen of England. I’ll simply brush her aside. I’ll have her burned at the stake for a witch, if need be,” she added, warming to her theme. “They tell me she has strange powers. She’s going to need them.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, my dear. Either her stories were pure invention, in which case it’s unlikely you’ll ever be Queen of England—or they are true prophesies, in which case Nyneve could be a very dangerous enemy.”

  “The only prophesy that’s come true so far is that I married Arthur. And what a bloody fiasco that was, with Arthur and his armor and that weird Archbishop. No wonder the Church is in disrepute. How could he insult you in public like that, Lancelot?” She sighed. “And here he comes now, with the Baron. Try not to lose your temper.”

  “That’s a thing I’ve never done, Gwen. Hello, there,” he said easily. “This is indeed a distinguished gathering.”

  The Baron raised Gwen’s hand to his lips. “You look beautiful, my dear,” he said. “Marriage suits you.” His smile was genuine, removing any hint of irony.

  “Thank you, Baron Menheniot.” She turned to the Archbishop. “And thank you for an admirable ceremony, considering the circumstances.”

  “The circumstances?” Alarm showed through the greasepaint.

  “I understand you were robbed and stripped during your journey from London. What a terrible experience that must have been!”

  “Appalling.”

  “Why do robbers strip people, do you suppose?”

  “I … to steal their money belts, I think.”

  “And did they steal your money belt?” she pursued relentlessly.

  “Yes. No. We members of the clergy have no worldly pelf.”

  “That’s not what I hear about the Church.”

  “The Church may be rich, but its servants are poor. Our wealth lies in the next world.”

  “You have the ability to jump happentracks?” she asked innocently.

  “I was referring to Paradise.”

  “Is it true nobody wears any clothes in Paradise, Archbishop?”

  With a groan of despair the Archbishop put his head down and hurried away, cutting a swath through the revelers in his haste.

  “Did I say something?” asked Gwen.

  The Baron smiled. “Whatever it was, I’m sure his discomfiture is only temporary. Aha!” he exclaimed as a bell tolled. “I think that’s the signal for us to be seated.”

&nb
sp; Conversations ceased. There was a murmur of anticipation as people turned to the Round Table. It was arranged that forty-eight favored guests would sit at the Table. The remaining guests, numbering several hundred, would sit at the smaller tables, on the stairs, on the floor, or anywhere else where they could find room for themselves and their plate.

  Arthur stood at the head table, which was laid for two. Guinevere hurried to his side, calling greetings as she passed through the multitude.

  The circular bench around the Round Table began to fill quickly. Suddenly there was a commotion. Merlin was on his feet, screeching and pointing.

  “No! Nobody must sit in the Hot Seat!”

  The Baron, who had been about to lower his muscular buttocks onto the bench, froze in mid-sit. Carved into the table before him were the words HOT SEAT.

  “Why not, Merlin?” he asked, amused at the old wizard’s frenzy.

  “It means certain death!”

  “That’s a bit risky, isn’t it? Why have the seat at all?”

  “It’s reserved for a knight who hasn’t yet been born. He will shine like the rising sun above all other knights, and he will champion the oppressed.”

  “Whose oppressed will he champion?” asked the Baron, sitting down nevertheless. “Not my oppressed, I hope.”

  “He will champion the gnomes and will have the knowledge to lead them from the brink of disaster into a place of milk and honey.”

  “Sounds like a giant-sized Drexel Poxy to me,” said the Miggot sourly, glancing at the table where the Gnome from the North and his followers sat.

  “Shut up, Merlin!” shouted Gawaine. “We want to eat!”

  “I’m just a messenger, that’s all,” grumbled Merlin, as others began to echo Gawaine’s impatience. “Just carrying out Avalona’s wishes, as usual. Sit in the bloody Hot Seat if you like, Baron. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Arthur struck the floor a sharp blow with a staff.

  “Eat!” he cried.

  And with a creak of heavy timbers the Round Table and its benchload of guests began to revolve.

  Horses were in short supply on that momentous day. Nyneve tried the village first, where children were celebrating the absence of their elders. But the only mounts left were broken-down hacks, whose owners were ashamed to be seen riding them. The good horses had been taken to the chapel near Pentor. However, the sun was high in the sky, and the guests would by now be riding the forest trails southward toward the Great Hall less than a mile away. Nyneve took one last glance at the sorry group of nags and decided to walk it.