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

by Coney, Michael G.

  “We’ll take the north side of the ridge,” Arthur murmured to Governayle, immediately behind him. “We’ll work our way east and then climb over the top. The tents will be below us.”

  “I thought I was going to drown in that bloody river. There was a pit in the bed, and my armor took me down. What a way to die!”

  “Quiet. We’re nearly there.”

  Arthur lifted his head and peered through the reeds. He jerked down again. Soldiers stood a few feet from the ditch. The trees were twenty feet farther. He crawled on, and soon overhanging bushes provided better cover.

  “All right. This is far enough.” He climbed out of the ditch. Trees were all around him; spreading oaks and chestnuts. Not the best of cover because the trunks were few and far between, but the leafy canopy cut down the fading daylight. He grasped Governayle’s hand and hauled him from the ditch. Others followed. An owl hooted like a woodwind.

  “Hurry!” Governayle whispered urgently into the gloom of the ditch. Fifteen men gathered. Sixteen.

  Arthur said, “I heard something.” It was a stealthy sound; a faint chink of armor, as though somebody had begun to move, then thought better of it. Everything was still again. Across the river, men and horses could be seen moving. Occasionally someone would shout an order, but there was no sound of fighting; no screaming or clashing of metal on metal. The battle was over for the night. Somewhere a minstrel plucked at his lute and began to sing a slow Welsh song.

  Some twenty-five men stood shivering in the woods.

  “Now!”

  It was more of a scream than a shout; a frenzied and triumphant scream from the south. A mob of soldiers ran yelling from the nearby forest and ranged themselves along the ditch, stabbing downward with pikes. Another group spread through the trees to the north, cutting off Arthur’s retreat. A third force moved from behind the trees to the east and began to advance slowly down the forested slopes.

  “Arthur!” Another shout, and a young man ran into view, laughing insanely. Arthur didn’t recognize him in the dim light, but there was something familiar about his appearance. He carried a sword, but he didn’t approach any closer. “You’ve lost, Arthur!” cried the youth. “Do you know who’s beaten you?”

  Arthur said to his men, “I’m going to fight. You do as you like, but I think they’ll kill us whatever we do. Who’s that laughing fool, by the way?”

  “I think it must be Mordred,” said Governayle.

  “We’ll stand in a circle,” said Arthur. “We’ll be broken up in the end, but at least it’ll protect our backs for a while.”

  “Yield!” cried Mordred.

  “How’s Excalibur working these days, Arthur?” asked Governayle.

  “Good enough. Here they come!”

  The attackers rushed them from all sides. Outnumbered ten to one, the little circle contracted. Yelling, two soldiers attacked Arthur simultaneously. Excalibur flickered twice, and they staggered away, swords drooping, clutching their wounds. Governayle fought beside Arthur like a man inspired, and the rest of the force gave ground only grudgingly. But for every man they beat off, several more arrived to take his place. Gradually Arthur’s force dwindled, fighting tiredly now, the circle contracting further as men fell.

  On the other side of the river, Gareth said to Lancelot, “Arthur’s fighting over there. I can hear him. They’ve been caught on the edge of the forest.” He peered into the gathering dusk. “We’d better get over there quickly!”

  “We can do no good.”

  “We can save Arthur!”

  Lancelot shook his head violently; not in disagreement but to silence an imp of a voice speaking in his mind. “They’re expecting us to do that. We’ll lose an army trying to ford the river. Their archers are in position.”

  “You don’t know that!” Gareth was outraged. “You’re a bloody coward, Lancelot!”

  Lancelot shut his eyes, hearing the voice in his mind, wondering what was happening to him. He shook his head again. “I’m going mad,” he muttered. “I’m possessed!”

  Keep your men out of the river, said the voice again. The river is certain death for them all.

  “I will go alone,” he said. “One man can cross the river without being seen. A thousand can’t.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” Gareth was contrite. “I spoke without thinking.”

  “I don’t intend to mount a one-man frontal attack,” said Lancelot sarcastically, “but at least I can scout out the situation. They won’t kill Arthur. He’s more use to them as a captive—a symbol of our defeat. I may have a chance to get him out of there. I can try.”

  “I’m coming with you, Father,” said Galahad.

  “May God be with you both,” said Gareth.

  “If we don’t come back,” said Lancelot, “you must yield to the Saxons. There’s been enough killing.”

  “Are you conceding?” asked Morgan, surprised.

  “This is just one battle. The war will last thirty thousand years, and I’ll be fighting you all the way.”

  “But why are you sacrificing your key figures? You’ve lost Arthur and Governayle. Why send Lancelot and Galahad after them?”

  “To bring the battle to a quick end,” said Nyneve. “The Britons can’t fight without leaders.”

  Morgan was puzzled and mistrustful. “But the Saxons will massacre your people.”

  “We’ll see. And remember, Morgan, the Britons are no more my people than the Saxons are. I’m on the side of the human race.”

  “Mordred is going to have a wonderful time. He likes his enemies weak.”

  “Mordred is half human. He may let you down.”

  “And what about Arthur? When you were human, I got the impression you were attached to him.”

  “I’m prepared to make sacrifices.”

  “He’s good in bed.”

  “I know. What’s Mordred like?”

  “That’s a strange question to ask.”

  “You’re a strange person, Morgan. But just keep quiet for a moment, will you? I have one last move to make down there.”

  It was the one thing Arthur hadn’t expected. As he raised Excalibur to parry the blow, he felt the power go out of the sword. Only half deflected, the enemy’s thrust entered him. “Governayle!” he cried.

  There was no reply. He stole a quick glance to his left. Governayle lay motionless on the ground.

  “That’s enough!” came a scream from Mordred. “They’ve lost. I want Arthur alive!”

  Arthur found himself on his knees. A terrible weakness swept through him, and he felt warm blood washing down his belly and thighs. He dropped Excalibur and felt himself. His hand was wet and dark in the twilight.

  “You’re finished, Arthur,” said Mordred.

  Ignoring him, Arthur turned to Governayle. He saw the eyelids flicker, and the eyes shone momentarily as one of Mordred’s men swung a lantern close.

  “Well, now, it hasn’t been a bad life,” whispered Governayle.

  “We’ve done more than most men.”

  “Whatever they may say about us in the ifalong, it’s been worth it.” Governayle began to cough weakly.

  “Mordred,” said Arthur, “be good enough to bring a priest for my friend.”

  A bubbling sound came from Governayle. He seemed to be laughing. “I can handle it myself, thanks,” he said at last. “I have a nodding acquaintance with the Almighty.” Then his eyes closed and he sighed the last of his breath away.

  “And how about you, Arthur?” asked Mordred. “Are you going to live long enough for me to parade you through the streets of Cirencester?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What!” Mordred dropped to his knees. “Hold that lantern close, soldier!” He examined the fallen king and saw the wound. “God damn you, Arthur!” he cried. “What the hell happened to the legend?” He picked up Excalibur. “In the end this wasn’t much use, either.”

  There was a commotion nearby, then a group of soldiers appeared, holding two me
n pinned by the arms. “We caught them trying to creep through our lines, Sir Mordred.”

  “You’re not wearing armor, Sir Lancelot,” said Mordred. “What were you hoping to achieve?”

  “We have come for the body of our king,” said Lancelot. “If there is any humanity in you, Mordred, you will let us take him.”

  “And give you a figurehead? Why should I do that?”

  “Because he is your father. You must allow him the dignity of a proper burial in Mara Zion.”

  “He’s my father? Where did you get an idea like that?”

  “Look at him. Look at yourself. Can’t you see the resemblance?”

  “Coincidence.”

  “What has your mother told you about your conception?”

  A flicker of doubt. “She said my father was a warrior who took her by force.”

  “You mother is Morgan le Fay, Mordred. Would she allow any man to take her by force?”

  “Are you calling my mother a liar?”

  Lancelot smiled. “I said she was Morgan le Fay. You know her better than any man alive. What do you think?”

  Mordred was silent, thinking. Eventually he said, “It’s really not relevant. What matters is that Arthur is here and he is dying. He is little use to me dead. Perhaps we have the makings of a bargain.”

  “We could save a lot of lives.”

  “A simple truce does not interest me, Lancelot. The lives of soldiers are immaterial.”

  Lancelot said, “Exchange me for Arthur.”

  “You? But I could kill you right now.”

  “I will be a living emblem of your victory. You will be able to haul me through Cirencester in a cage, if that’s what you want.”

  “That, and surrender of your forces?”

  “Yes. Remember, Mordred, the more men who live through this battle, the more men will be your subjects in the years to come. With me as your captive and a famous victory to your credit, there is little doubt that you will become King of England in Arthur’s place.”

  “That is certainly possible.” The idea began to shape up pleasantly in Mordred’s mind. “The cage will not be necessary if you’re prepared to be cooperative, Lancelot. You are a respected man in Cornwall, and that could be useful. In time I might even grant you lands.”

  “As you please, Sir Mordred.”

  Mordred glanced at Arthur, now motionless on the ground. “You take him back to your lines, you … what’s your name?”

  “Galahad, Sire.”

  “Take him away, Galahad.”

  On Dumden Hill, Morgan le Fay said, “You bloody fool, Mordred!”

  “He was human, after all,” said Nyneve. “There aren’t many humans who would refuse a kingdom. And there’s not much point in a kingdom if you don’t have any subjects. And now that he’s thinking of being King of England, you can see what his next step will be, can’t you, Morgan?”

  “I don’t have your affinity for the human race, Nyneve.”

  “Well, he’ll be needing a queen, won’t he? And there’s one ready-made for him, waiting there at Camelot. Marriage to her will go a long way toward legitimizing his claim to the throne, in the eyes of a lot of people.”

  “That sniveling little shrew? Surely he could do better than her!”

  “I’m sure he could, and I’m sure he will. But just for the sake of appearances, he could do worse than have Guinevere at his side.”

  Unexpectedly Morgan laughed. “You cunning little wretch, Nyneve. You’ve made a fine Dedo. It’s a pity we have this stupid disagreement about the human race. But when Mordred is king, he’ll be in a position to do all kinds of damage. And I have thirty thousand years to play with. I’ll win in the end, you’ll see if I don’t.”

  “You’re supposed to say, ‘Where am I?’ “ said Nyneve.

  Arthur stared at her. “I was wounded. I thought I was dying.”

  “Well, I can take care of little problems like that. Don’t you remember how Avalona healed Lancelot’s finger? A mortal wound is nothing to a Dedo.”

  He looked around. “This is your cottage. How did I get here?”

  “Galahad and I brought you. You lost a lot of blood and you’ve been unconscious for two days. I couldn’t do anything about that, and I thought it best not to try.”

  He tried to sit up. “I’m as weak as a kitten. What’s been happening—”

  “Don’t even think about all that stuff. Things have changed a lot, Arthur. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Who is leading our forces?” he asked in a tone that allowed no evasion.

  “We have no forces, Arthur.”

  “You mean we’re beaten?”

  “Not exactly. We’ve disbanded. Some of our people have gone north with the Saxons to throw the Picts out of Northumbria.”

  “Please stop dodging the issue, Nyneve. Who’s in charge of England?”

  She said, “Mordred and the Saxons. And before you start complaining, Arthur, remember this: You were fighting for a united England. Well, now we’ve got it. Isn’t that worth something?”

  “But what about Cornwall? We’ll never survive under Saxon rule.”

  “Mordred and Lancelot came to terms, and Lancelot is ruling the west from Camelot, subject only to Mordred as England’s king.”

  Dissatisfied, Arthur was trying to struggle out of bed. “I must go to Gwen.”

  “She’s with Mordred,” said Nyneve.

  He stiffened. “With Mordred? Do you mean held hostage by Mordred? Or do you mean in bed with Mordred, for Christ’s sake?”

  “The latter.”

  “By God!” exploded Arthur. “The young swine defeats me in battle and now he has to disgrace me. And Gwen’s old enough to be his mother. This is a question of honor, Nyneve. Bring me Excalibur!”

  “I’m afraid he has Excalibur too.”

  “Bring me my horse!”

  “And the horse.”

  “The dog?”

  “He doesn’t have the dog.”

  “Faithful old Bull’s-eye.”

  “Bull’s-eye took a fancy to Gareth. They’re in Wales somewhere.”

  “What a flock of shytes! Don’t I have anything left at all?”

  “You have me.”

  He eyed her gloomily. “It’s no good, Nyneve. Gwen is my wife. What you and I did was wrong. That’s probably what cost me the battle. I committed adultery in the sight of the Lord, and he visited retribution on me.”

  “Arthur, you are the most irritating man, and I can’t think why I love you. You have the most amazing capacity for getting everything wrong. Firstly, the Lord wasn’t looking when you and I made love; I can tell you that for a fact. And secondly, it was Gwen who cost you the battle when she blabbed your strategy to Mordred. And thirdly, it wasn’t adultery. You and Gwen were never married.”

  A methodical man, he worked his way steadily through Nyneve’s points, nodding as he found himself able to swallow them. The final point stuck in his craw, however.

  “What was that last one again?”

  “You and Gwen were never married.”

  “Of course we were married. The Baron brought the Archbishop all the way from Canterbury.”

  “That’s what I thought too. But Governayle came to me before he rode for Camlann. Something had been bothering him for years, and he felt he had to tell someone in case he didn’t survive the battle. It seemed that the Archbishop never did get through, after all. The Baron was at his wit’s end, because he’d promised you and Gwen a fine wedding. Well, you know what Governayle’s like. He volunteered to play the part of the Archbishop to avoid having to cancel everything and send people home. The idea was that the Baron would tell you later, and you could have a secret wedding to legalize things. But then the Baron died at the feast, and Governayle decided he might as well keep his mouth shut. So”—she smiled happily—”you never were married to Gwen, Arthur.”

  His face was dark with fury. “And you expect me to fall into your arms?”

  “Yes.”


  “Bring me my clothes!” he shouted. “Or did Mordred take those too?”

  “Merlin took them. He’s washing them.”

  “Well, then … !” he cried, looking around for something at which to vent his temper.

  “Well then, what?” Nyneve slid a hand under the blanket and began to twiddle the hairs on his chest.

  He looked at her. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said more quietly. The look lengthened. “Perhaps you’d better get into bed with me, Nyneve. I seem to be at a loss.”

  “You’re in no shape, my love.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Nyneve turned her head away for a moment. When she looked at him again, she was smiling. “Love me now, Arthur,” she said. “I need a memory I can keep for a long time.”

  17

  THE DAY OF ASCENSION

  FANG WAS MORE UNHAPPY THAN HE’D EVER BEEN. Head down, he stumbled along the forest path, burdened by a fear and a guilt so powerful that he could hardly think. The words of the kikihuahuas kept coming back to haunt him: “ … that the incentive to procreation is a last resort, and that having used it, the gnomes must return to the spacebat within fifteen years or die.”

  And tomorrow was exactly fifteen years from the day he’d removed the sexual block from the minds of the Mara Zion gnomes.

  Arriving at the blasted oak, he was surprised to find the weekly market in progress. He paused at the edge of the trees and, unnoticed, watched the bustling scene for a while. These were the amiable folk who had been put on Earth to fulfill the gentle wishes of the kikihuahuas. These were the creators of life, the harmonizers of the forests and moors. Their children played around their feet. There were almost as many youngsters as adults these days. All living together in the forest. These were his people, the gnomes.

  “You bastard!” the Miggot of One was yelling. “You cheated me and you know it. You’ll suffer for this, Spector. I should have stuck with Clubfoot. When he sells a flask of beer, you get beer, not vinegar.”

  “Let the buyer beware,” said Spector, keeping calm. “Isn’t that so, Bison?”