Winter, 534 CE, Roman Fort city of Verulamium (near present day St Albans, Hertfordshire), Britain
“Poisoned?” The 15-year-old boy whispered, eyes wide in a face already pale with exhaustion. “But how? My father... no one could defeat...how could...”
“King Uther Pendragon did defeat the king of Kent, the Saxon Octa, son of Hengist,” said the old man with a flowing white beard, who’d just brought him the news. “He stopped outside the city for a drink in the stream but … the Saxons had poisoned it.”
“Scoundrels,” murmured a tall man with chiselled features, dishevelled from the recent fighting. “When I have taken the throne...”
“If, you mean, Lord Aurelianus,” Emrys, royal counsellor, interrupted smoothly.
“You dare contradict me, Emrys?” The tall man’s hands crept to the sword at his waist. His men, watchful in their chain mail, steel armour and helmets, moved, producing a nervous jangle. The boy shrank a little. “Do I not have the right to the crown? Am I not Uther’s older brother who ought to have ruled in his stead, even...”
Emrys’s mind raced: Aurelianus might have every right to the throne of Camelot, but that didn’t mean that he should ascend it — he was known to be a tyrant; he preferred war and disdained peace; he was not a popular choice amongst his own people.
“No one doubts your right to rule, my lord,” was Emrys’s bland answer. “And your coronation shall be carried out at once... subject to retrieving the sword from the stone, of course.”
“What?” Aurelianus demanded, face blooming with fury.
“We must assemble at Westminster, in London, for the ceremony that shall determine Albion’s next king,” Emrys backed away. “And now, if you will excuse me, we have a battle to end, and survivors to rescue.”
The town was reeking of smoke and charred flesh; screams echoed everywhere as men and women stumbled through streets; Aurelianus watched as Emrys vanished into the fray dragging Uther’s young son. “I wonder what mischief he’s brewing,” he muttered uneasily. Then, he squared his shoulders. “Not that he can do anything. Camelot is in my hands.”
The test
Three days later, a motley crowd gathered in a paved courtyard near the church. But, it was the object within the courtyard that snagged everyone’s attention. For it was a large, solid block of stone, with a gleaming sword thrust in it.
The whole of the royal family was assembled, Aurelianus included, and Uther’s son, looking impassive, clearly having thrust the recent ordeal behind him. The boy had character, Emrys mused. Despite losing his father, he had used his quiet dignity, a trait inherited from his father to bring some semblance of order. He’d stayed in full view of a shattered public, distributing food, water and medicines from royal stores. Unlike Aurelianus who’d simply spent the last 48 hours drowning in wine. Equally unlike Aurelianus, however, he lacked confidence, unsure of his ability to take control.
“Good people of Camelot,” Emrys stepped forward, voice echoing off the stone walls. “Behold the means of deciding our next king!”
Aurelianus stirred uneasily. “There is no contest...”
“The Gods,” Emrys bellowed, cutting him off. “Came to me in my dreams last night!” The people murmured in awe. “They brought me this stone and the sword thrust in it, and gave me this message: Whosoever pulleth this sword from this stone, is destined to rule all of Albion!”
Aurelianus stalked forward. “Madness!” he barked. “To pull a sword out of... let me just...” He placed a large, brawny hand on the shining sword and gave a mighty heave. Nothing. Aurelianus wrapped both hands around it, sucked in a breath and pulled again. The sword stayed in place.
“You are not destined for the throne, my lord,” Emrys shouted, amidst growing murmurs. “Do you all agree?” The crowd roared its rejection with enthusiasm. When the courtyard was finally silent, simmering with anticipation sharp as a knife, Emrys turned to Uther’s son, so far a mute spectator. “Come,” said the old man. “Try your luck.”
The boy hesitated. “I’m just 15,” he objected. “How can I...”
“Doubt, is the enemy of success,” Emrys announced, before his uncle could object. “Step forward, now, and know your destiny.”
The boy came up, and placed halting hands on the sword. Moments before he pulled it, came a tremendous noise like a thunderclap crashing over the heavens. Smoke belched over courtyard and within seconds everything vanished under a white haze.
When it finally disappeared, the boy stood tall — with the sword in his hand.
The crowd went wild with delight. So convinced had they been that the dreaded Aurelianus would succeed that they let their joy go to their heads. “Your Highness!” shrieked enthusiastic men and women. “Prince Arthur! Sire!”
“The Once and Future King,” whispered Emrys, as he escorted the dazed and smiling boy into court. “Long may you live and rule.”
“How wonderful for the boy to just pull out the sword like that,” commented one of the knights by his side — a certain Knight Kay, who’d been loyal to Uther.
“Truly blessed,” agreed Emrys.
“No, fortunate, to have a counselor such as you,” said Knight Kay as he smiled and crossed his arms. “I managed to switch the stones without raising suspicion. The trick worked perfectly. Aurelianus never knew, and Arthur will be our king. But …” he paused, by a shadowy nook in the court. “Why, Emrys or should I call you Merlin? He’s Uther’s son, after all. Could he not have ascended by right.”
“He could have,” Merlin nodded. “But he lacked the confidence to assert himself against a man experienced in statecraft, such as Aurelianus. Sometimes, Sir Knight, you need to physically dig the treasure from deep underneath. That is what I have done.”
“May king and counsellor be successful.”
“I think we will.”
