Orion and King Arthur

BOOK II

King of the Britons CHAPTER EIGHT The Sword of Kingship

1

Leaving Guinevere at castle Cameliard, Arthur, Bors, and Gawain—accompanied only by their squires—galloped south toward Cadbury castle and the dying Ambrosius Aurelianus. Guinevere and her father, King Leodegrance, were to follow us at a slower pace, escorted by Arthur’s foster brother, Kay, and the rest of his knights—including Lancelot.

In truth, I thought that Arthur was glad to leave Guinevere and all thoughts of marriage behind him as we speeded toward Cadbury and his dying uncle.

By the time we finally reached Cadbury castle, its high main gate was draped in black. Ambrosius was dead.

His body lay in state in the castle’s great hall, lying on a high catafalque with four armed knights standing at its corners, their heads bowed in grief. Ambrosius was decked in his finest mail and helm, his two-handed broadsword clutched in his mail-gloved hands. Its pommel was at his chin, the tip of its scabbard reached below his knees.

Even though the hall was wide and its ceiling so high it was lost in shadows, we could smell the sour-sweet odor of decay as soon as we entered, despite the heaps of sage, rosemary, and thyme that had been laid all around the bier. Arthur, Gawain, and Bors approached the body respectfully, while I stood by the entrance to the tapestry-covered stone hall, as a squire should. Even at that distance, though, I could see that Ambosius’ cheeks were sunken beneath the heavy steel helmet that had been placed on his gray-bearded head.

Once we left the hall, Ambrosius’ chamberlain led the knights to their quarters in the high stone keep of the castle. I followed at a respectful distance, alert as always for possible treachery.

The chamberlain seemed harmless enough, though. He was a man in his late thirties, I judged, his severely trimmed dark hair just beginning to show touches of gray. He was wire thin and fairly quivering with nervous energy. As chamberlain he must have eaten well, but it seemed to me that he burned off whatever he ate; he would never get fat.

“Kings and knights from all over the land are hastening to Cadbury,” he said, in a clear tenor voice that sounded totally free of grief. “I don’t know where we’ll be able to put them all.”

Arthur nodded solemnly. “They’ll want to elect a new High King once Ambrosius is buried.”

Walking behind them, I couldn’t see the chamberlain’s face, but I heard the surprise in his voice. “A new High King? Not likely! Who could replace Ambrosius Aurelianus?”

Gawain said, “He died without leaving an heir, I understand.”

“He has no acknowledged sons,” the chamberlain replied tactfully.

“Then someone must be named to take possession of this fine castle,” Gawain said.

“I suppose there will be battles fought over it, yes,” said the chamberlain, his tone now rueful.

Bors said, “Arthur is his nearest living relative. Arthur should have the castle and all its lands.”

The chamberlain was silent for many paces along the stone-floored corridor. At last he said, “Perhaps so. But there will be others to contest his claim.”

“No,” Arthur snapped. “We must not fight among ourselves.”

Bors shook his doughty head. “There’s no other way, my boy. You’ll have to fight for your rightful inheritance.”

2

The chamberlain was right. Knights and self-styled kings from all the corners of Britain descended upon Cadbury castle. Ostensibly, they came to pay their last respects to the High King. Actually, they were looking for a way to gain possession of Ambrosius’ estate. And title.

Through the next several days, while the old man’s body rotted so badly that all the sweet-smelling herbs in the kingdom could not disguise the odor of decaying flesh, the growing number of noblemen quarreled and squabbled over Ambrosius’ inheritance. Good-natured practice bouts in the courtyard often turned into bruising fights that drew blood.

Arthur stayed clear of such engagements.

“I wish Merlin were here,” he sighed as we watched a pair of self-styled kings thwacking each other with wooden staves.

Standing beside him in the chilly courtyard, Bors said, “The wizard has gone. Who knows when he will return? If ever.”

“But I need him!” Arthur said. “We’ve got to find a way to settle this inheritance peacefully.”

I told him, “You’ll have to find the way for yourself, my lord.”

He looked at me doubtfully.

“You can do it,” I encouraged. “I’m sure you can. And by doing it, you will prove your right to be High King.”

Arthur shook his head dejectedly and turned to pace the snow-covered castle courtyard in the bone-numbing cold of early morning, with Bors and I on either side of him.

“We’ve got to get the body into the ground before he stinks up the whole castle,” Bors grumbled.

The sun had barely risen and the sky was a wintry dull gray, oppressive and dismal with the threat of more snow. The two battlers stopped their thwacking, breaths puffing steam in the cold air. Immediately their squires threw heavy fur-trimmed robes over their heaving shoulders.

Nodding to Bors, Arthur said, “I’ll speak to the chamberlain. I know that Friar Samson has been making arrangements for the funeral with the bishop, from the cathedral.”

The cathedral was little more than a stout stone church off in one corner of the courtyard, built more like a Roman fort than a place of worship.

“Kay should be bringing your bride and her father soon,” Gawain said, almost smirking when Arthur visibly winced. “You can hold the wedding right after the funeral.” With a laugh, he added, “Any leftovers from the funeral feast you can use for the wedding banquet!”

Arthur looked at his friend and companion for a long solemn moment. Finally he said, “There will be no wedding until we settle who gets Cadbury castle for his own.”

Gawain laughed even more heartily. “I see. You want it for a wedding gift to Guinevere.”

Arthur looked as if he could have throttled Gawain at that particular moment.

3

The funeral could wait no longer. Arthur asked Bishop Bron to conduct the ceremony. Stooped with age though he was, the bishop looked magnificent in his finest gold-threaded robes as he led the funeral mass. The dark thick-walled cathedral was so packed with the nobles who had come to Cadbury that mere squires were not admitted inside the church. I fretted out in the wind and snow, fearful that someone would try to assassinate Arthur during the funeral.

The mass ended without incident, though, and the bishop led the long procession through the beginnings of a snowstorm to the burial grounds outside the castle walls. Ambrosius’ broadsword was placed atop his grave, fastened to the stone slab by rivets hammered in by a pair of beefy blacksmiths.

Once the bishop gave his final blessing to the kneeling knights, King Mark of Cornwall got to his feet and asked in a powerful voice, “Well, who gets the castle?”

Not be outdone, Bors bellowed, “Who will be the next High King?”

“We have no need of a High King!” said Mark. He was a powerfully built man: not tall, but wide in the shoulders and with a body shaped like a barrel. Dark of hair and eye, his face was pockmarked, his beard thin and lank.

“Yes we do!” Arthur shouted. “We must be united if we expect to drive out the barbarian invaders.”

“Easy enough for you to say, lad,” King Mark said. “Old Ambrosius favored you, everybody knows.”

“He is Ambrosius’ nephew,” said another. “Of course the old man favored him.”

“In truth, Arthur is not really Abrosius’ nephew,” Friar Samson pointed out. “The lad is a bastard.” Turning to Arthur, the emaciated friar said more softly, “No offense, my lord, but the truth must be spoken.”

Arthur stared at the friar and the older men surrounding him, bewilderment clearly written on his youthful face. I wished that I could push my way through the crowd to be closer to him. If this argument grew worse, blood could be drawn and Arthur struck down easily enough.

At last Arthur said calmly, “I am the son of Uther Pendragon,”

“Indeed!” King Mark scoffed.

“My foster father, Sir Ector, will vouch for that once he arrives here,” Arthur insisted. “Merlin will tell you!”

“The old wizard?” one of the knights countered. “Why should we believe him?”

“A pagan,” said Friar Samson.

“Where is he, anyway?” another voice demanded. “Why has he disappeared?”

Why indeed, I wondered. Apparently Hades had withdrawn from the contest, leaving this nexus in spacetime for Aten to handle as he sees fit. Anya would have few allies among the Creators, if any. But I vowed to myself all over again that I would defy Aten and protect young Arthur to my last breath.

Bishop Bron raised both his hands, silencing the noblemen. In a surprisingly strong voice he said, “This is not a matter to be decided in the snow and cold. Let us return to the castle and discuss it by a good warm fire.”

A few chuckles rose from the assembled nobles. Heads nodded. Someone said, “The good bishop has more sense than we do.”

Thus we returned to Cadbury castle.

Despite the blaze crackling in its huge fireplace, the great hall was scarcely warmer than the graveyard outside and still smelled faintly of decay.

The nobles asked the bishop to mediate their argument. They all remained standing, crowding around the bishop, who was still decked in his fine robes spun with gold thread. All of the nobles were armed with swords at their sides, all of them eager to have their say in the matter. The talk went on for hours, some of the knights insisting that a new High King must be named, most of them refusing to accept the need for a High King. Arthur’s seemed to be the only voice raised that called for a united campaign against the Saxons and other invaders.

“You’re the Dux Bellorum,” said King Mark. “You raise an army and fight the barbarians. But stay out of Cornwall! I can handle the invaders by myself.”

“None of the barbarians has landed on Cornwall’s shores,” a knight pointed out.

Mark smirked at him. “That’s because the pagans know that I am king in Cornwall, and will deal with them sharply.”

“Or perhaps,” Gawain suggested, with a chuckle, “they know that Cornwall’s so bleak it’s not worth raiding.”

Everyone laughed. Except King Mark.

At length even the bishop gave up and suggested that they have dinner and continue the discussion later in the evening.

“Discussion,” Bors muttered as the knights and petty kings broke into small groups and headed for their quarters. “This isn’t going to be settled by talk, Arthur. You’re going to have to fight for what is rightfully yours.”

Arthur shook his head. “We mustn’t fight among ourselves. We’ve got to settle this peacefully.”

Gawain clasped Arthur’s shoulder. “Not among these men, my friend. Ambition and greed always outweigh common sense.”

Before we could get out of the hall a serving boy scurried up to Arthur and, after bowing low, announced, “King Leodegrance and his daughter have arrived, my lord! The king asks for you, sir.”

With the expression almost of a martyr, Arthur followed the boy out of the hall, heading toward the courtyard. I followed close behind.

4

A gentle snow was sifting through the chill air as we stepped into the courtyard to greet Arthur’s future bride and her father, together with the knights who had escorted them from Cameliard castle.

Leodegrance looked tired from his journey, his gray beard bedraggled, his perpetual smile drooping. Guinevere seemed bright and pert as ever, although she hardly glanced at Arthur as she descended from their wagon.

Even Lancelot, normally eager and energetic, appeared drained and weary. “I’ve brought your bride safely to you, my lord,” said Lancelot, avoiding Arthur’s direct gaze.

Glancing at his foster brother, Kay, Arthur smiled at the younger knight. “I thought that Sir Kay was in charge of your journey.”

Lancelot’s youthful face flamed red. “Yes, of course, my lord. I simply meant…” His voice trailed off into an embarrassed silence.

Grasping Lancelot’s shoulder, Arthur said, “Good work, sir knight. I thank you.”

As the other knights dismounted from their steeds and the wagons creaked through the castle’s open gate, Arthur offered Guinevere his arm, to lead her inside the castle. She took her father’s instead. Without saying a word, Arthur turned and led them toward the doorway, where the overwrought chamberlain stood in the stone doorway, out of the falling snow, his hands on his hips and his face clearly showing dismay as Arthur’s knights filled the courtyard.

“Where am I going to put them all?” he wailed. “The castle is already filled to bursting.”

Arthur said, almost apologetically, “These men have followed me the length and breadth of Britain. They have dealt the Saxons and other barbarians many heavy blows.”

“But there isn’t any room for them!” the chamberlain complained. “Where can I put them? How can I feed them?”

Lancelot said bravely, “We are accustomed to sleeping in the open. Find quarters in the castle for King Leodegrance and his daughter. The rest of us will camp in our tents here in the courtyard.”

“Not in the courtyard!” the chamberlain exclaimed. “There are too many of you!”

“Outside the walls, then,” said Sir Kay, with an irritated edge in his voice. “We wouldn’t want to cause you any problems.”

The chamberlain didn’t feel his sarcasm. “And how can I feed such a host?”

“We’ll hunt for game!” Lancelot replied eagerly. “We’ll organize a gigantic hunt.”

Before the chamberlain could reply, Arthur said, “Well spoken, Lancelot.” Turning to the fussing chamberlain, he added, “You see? My men can take care of themselves.”

5

Despite the chamberlain’s grumblings, Arthur saw to it that fully a dozen of his knights were invited inside the castle to have dinner with all the others in Cadbury’s great hall.

I waited patiently in Arthur’s quarters, watching as he changed into a fresh white tunic for dinner, wishing that I could sit beside him, fearing that among his rivals for Ambrosius’ inheritance there was probably an assassin. Or perhaps more than one. Bors and the others were in rooms nearby, also preparing for dinner—and the debate about kingship that was to follow.

But just as Arthur was ready to leave his room for dinner, King Leodegrance rapped once on his door and entered, uninvited.

Without so much as a greeting, Leodegrance said bluntly, “I’ve been talking with the other nobles, Arthur. Many of them are unhappy that you are claiming Ambrosius’ title.”

Arthur nodded wearily. “I know.”

His smile turning crafty, Leodegrance said, “I have a way to settle the matter, my boy.”

Surprised, Arthur blurted, “You do?”

“Yes.”

Impatiently, Arthur demanded, “Well, what is it?”

Looking as if he could part the Red Sea, Leodegrance explained, “You bow to the will of the assembled knights and withdraw your claim to be Ambrosius’ heir.”

“Withdraw…?”

“Hear me out,” Leodegrance said, raising both hands. “You withdraw, and throw your support to me.”

“You?” Arthur looked stunned.

“Yes, me!” Leodregrance’s face was wreathed with self-satisfaction. “You support me as High King. The others will agree, knowing that I am already a king among them.”

“But—”

“You will continue to be my Dux Bellorum,” Leodegreance want on. “You will marry my only daughter. When I die you will quite naturally inherit my title and powers. You will be High King!”

Leodegrance’s smile was full of teeth. Arthur looked perplexed. I could read his mind, almost. All Arthur had wanted was to continue as Dux Bellorum and keep on trying to drive the Saxons and other barbarians out of Britain. Sly Leodegrance was offering him just that—at the price of helping Leodegrance to be named High King. I could see the conflict on Arthur’s face. He was asking himself, Can I trust this smiling man? And must I marry his daughter?

6

As before, the evening’s deliberations about Ambrosius’ heritage settled nothing. The noblemen assembled in Cadbury’s great hall were about evenly divided over the idea of naming a new High King. Some of them saw the necessity for unity; others cherished their individual rights and privileges more than anything else.

As Arthur had told me more than once, the curse of the Celts was their stubborn individuality, their inability to unite even in the face of looming catastrophe.

At times the arguments turned into nasty, snarling quarrels, with one knight challenging a rival’s right to claim the castle or even to dream of being named High King. Bishop Bron, frail in body though he was, stepped between the angry men and made them back down.

“Civility,” the bishop demanded. “This matter will not be turned into a brawl.”

At length the knights and petty kings retired to their chambers, Arthur frustrated and disconsolate.

“If only Merlin were here,” he said to me as he entered his bedroom. “Merlin would know what to do.”

I said nothing, knowing that Hades, the Creator who had helped young Arthur as Merlin, probably now agreed with the Golden One that Arthur’s usefulness was approaching its end.

I wanted to stay with Arthur, but the squires were quartered in the stables. Even so, that was better than Lancelot and most of Arthur’s other knights had to endure, sheltering in flimsy tents against the cold of the winter’s night.

“Sleep lightly, my lord,” I said to Arthur. “And keep Excalibur close to hand.”

He gave me a wry smile. “Would you prefer to sleep here, Orion, so you can guard me?”

Surprised that he took my warning seriously, I blurted. “Yes, my lord, I would.”

“Fetch your sleeping roll, then,” said Arthur, sounding resigned, regretful. “You can sleep on the floor by the door.”

I did so gladly. And once I closed my eyes, I found myself transported to the realm of the Creators once again, to their timeless city of eternal monuments, on the flower-dotted slope beside the bright, calm sea. The sun shone warmly out of a nearly cloudless turquoise sky. Seabirds glided across the waves, hardly a wing’s span above the water.

But beneath its shimmering dome of energy the city was empty, lifeless. Its monuments stood mute, the colossal statues staring blankly. Even Phidias’ incredible statue of Athena, helmeted and clutching her spear—my Anya—was cold and dead.

I called to her with all my soul, but received no answer. The gods and goddesses are busy at other tasks, I told myself. They have universes and worldlines to tend to. The problems of Arthur and Orion are too insignificant for them to worry about.

“Don’t be foolish, my love.”

Anya’s voice! Speaking in my mind.

“Even though I am far across the sea of stars, Orion, you are in my heart and in my thoughts.”

“And you in mine!” I shouted.

“Aten seeks Arthur’s destruction,” she said. “It would be wise for you to bow to his will.”

“Never!”

“Then you must use your wits and your strength to help Arthur to pass this test that faces him.”

“Test?” I asked.

“Use your wits and your strength, Orion. Find the way to pass this test.”

The scene blanked out. Instead of that warm, sunny hillside I was stretched out in my sleeping roll on the stone floor of the castle chamber, in the cold and dark, an infinity away from the goddess that I loved.

But I knew what I had to do. The question in my mind was, could I do it?

7

A squire could not even raise his voice among the assembled knights, much less offer them a way to settle their dispute. I needed an ally, a mouthpiece.

Lancelot.

In the cold and gray morning I found him in the courtyard, standing alone in a corner, looking disconsolate. Other knights were hacking away at each other merrily, the cracks of their blows and the grunts of their exertions echoing off the courtyard’s high stone walls.

“Sir Lancelot,” I called to him. “Why so glum, my lord?”

Like an unhappy little boy he confessed, “None of the other knights will face me.”

“None?” I asked. “No one at all?”

“They all claim I’m too good. Too eager to win.”

I nodded knowingly. Lancelot was faster than any of them, I knew, and obsessed with proving himself, despite his youth. Or perhaps because of it.

“I will practice with you, my lord,” I said, “if you will accept a humble squire as your opponent.”

He broke into an eager grin. “Gladly!”

So we faced each other with wooden practice swords. I took a shield and helmet from the storeroom at the far end of the courtyard; it would have hurt Lancelot more than a thrust through the heart if I had faced him without a protective shield or helm. My senses went into overdrive automatically, but I deliberately allowed Lancelot to hit me now and then as we danced back and forth along the courtyard’s snow-covered ground. Many of the other knights stopped their banging at each other to watch us as we hacked at each other.

By the time he at last cried, “Enough!” we were both puffing steam into the frigid air and our shields were well dented.

As we headed back inside, I said, “My lord, how do you suppose we can get all these others to support Arthur’s rightful claim to kingship?”

Lancelot shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

He was sincere, I knew. He worshipped Arthur, who had raised him to knighthood.

I began carefully, “I wonder if it would be possible…”

By the time the nobles gathered again in the great hall to resume their disputation over Ambrosius’ legacy, Lancelot was aflame with the idea I had planted in his thoughts.

“A contest?” King Mark asked, once Lancelot had spoken to the assembled knights and kings. “You mean, like a joust?”

“Nay, my lord,” said Lancelot respectfully. “Not a contest of arms, but a contest of God’s will.”

“God’s will?” King Leodegrance’s usual smile vanished into a befuddled scowl.

Bishop Bron, wearing a plain black robe this day, looked troubled. “And how do you propose to fathom the will of our Lord and Savior, lad?”

His face beaming with enthusiasm, Lancelot explained, “The old High King’s great sword lies upon his grave. Let he who can pull that sword from its scabbard be recognized as God’s choice to be High King of the Britons!”

The bishop’s parchment-skinned face wrinkled into a suspicious frown. “That sword is riveted to the stone slab covering Ambrosius’ grave. It cannot be removed.”

“It could be,” Lancelot retorted, “by the man God has chosen to be our High King.”

“But…”

“Nothing is impossible to God, my lord bishop,” Lancelot coaxed. “Is that not so?”

The bishop nodded warily, unable to disagree but still unconvinced of Lancelot’s plan.

It took nearly two more hours of discussion, of voices raised sometimes to the point of violence, before the bishop finally conceded, “Why not? If it be God’s will, which of us can oppose it?”

Thus the knights and kings gathered in the frost-covered graveyard around Ambrosius’ headstone, staring at the heavy two-handed sword riveted to the stone slab covering the old High King’s mortal remains.

One of the castle’s blacksmiths was summoned to examine the broadsword and affirm that it was riveted solidly in place.

“It cannot be moved, your grace,” the burly blacksmith told the bishop, “without the proper tools … and a great deal of sweat.”

Satisfied that it was impossible to remove the sword with a man’s unaided strength, the bishop raised his hands in prayerful supplication. As the noblemen knelt on the snowy ground, Bishop Bron intoned, “Oh Lord, we humbly beg that Thou showest Thy favor to the one You choose to be King of all the Britons.”

A deep chorus of “Amen” answered the bishop’s plea.

Then the old man turned to Lancelot. “This is your idea, lad. You try first.”

“Me?” Lancelot squeaked with surprise.

“You,” said the bishop, with a beatific smile. From where I stood, on the outskirts of the gathered nobles, I thought the bishop’s smile masked a subtle humor. He seemed to be saying to Lancelot, You thought up this nonsense, let you be the first one to be humiliated by it.

Glancing warily at Arthur, Lancelot stepped up to the headstone. Arthur smiled at the young knight, warmly, without malice or any trace of jealousy.

Lancelot placed both his hands on the greatsword’s hilt, planted his booted feet firmly on the edge of the stone slab, and pulled with all his might.

The sword did not budge.

One by one, for more than an hour, the knights and self-styled kings trudged up to the sword and tried to pull it out of its scabbard. One by one they strained, red faced and grunting, until they admitted defeat. King Leodegrance accepted his failure with a wry smile. King Mark tugged and huffed until I thought he would pop a hernia.

The sword remained in its scabbard.

The moment was coming for Arthur to try. It was the moment when my test would come.

I had seen Aten and Anya create a stasis, freezing the flow of time to suit their whims. They were Creators, with godlike powers. I was a creature, made by Aten to do his bidding. I had learned how to translate myself from the point in spacetime where I existed to the eternal city of the Creators, far in the future of the place and time where I dwelt. Aten always scoffed at my skill, claiming that he or one of the other Creators had aided me.

But I knew I could translate myself across the worldlines. Now a different task faced me. Could I create a stasis? Unless I could, my plan for Arthur would turn to ashes.

8

Praying silently to Anya for help, I brought up in my memory the times that Aphrodite and Hades had created a stasis, once at the megalithic monument of Stonehenge, and then again when we’d been at Sir Ector’s castle at Wroxeter.

Humans think of time as a river that flows in one direction, I recalled. But time is like a vast sea, with currents that surge this way and that, eddies and whirpools, and great surging waves. Create a whirpool, I told myself. You have experienced it before; now use the power of that knowledge to suspend the current of this timeline.

I realized that every time I faced battle, my sense of time slowed, stretched like taffy being pulled into a languid stream. I had that capability, Aten my Creator had built it into me. Now I would use it to create a stasis. Without help from Aten or Anya or any of the Creators. I would do this myself.

I hoped.

I reached out with my mind and sensed the flow of time, the streaming current that was carrying these people through their lives. Closing my eyes, I willed the current to be still, to freeze in place. I did not want a whirpool, I wanted this timeline to stop where it was.

I opened my eyes. Arthur stood frozen at the edge of the stone slab covering Ambrosius’ grave, his hands reaching for the greatsword. Bishop Bron stood near him, his creased parchment face staring intently at Arthur’s strong, youthful figure. King Mark, Lancelot, Gawain, King Leodegrance, Bors, and Kay and all the others stood motionless, not breathing, as if encased in invisible ice.

I rushed through the motionless courtyard, past the frozen knights and squires, past Friar Samson, standing at the edge of the crowd and staring sightlessly like a statue made of petrified flesh, and headed for the blacksmith’s shop. Not even the air moved; the courtyard was silent and still. Birds hung unmoving in midair.

I rummaged through the blacksmith’s tools as the burly smith and his two young apprentices stood stock-still, unblinking, unbreathing. Back to the gravesite I hurried, with a stout pry lever in my hands. Wondering in the back of my mind why I felt this urge to rush, I worked on the rivets that fastened the greatsword inside its scabbard. They popped loose at last, and I bent down to replace their broken ends in their proper holes.

I realized as I raced back to the smithy that I couldn’t maintain the stasis indefinitely. Perhaps Anya or another of the Creators could, but I felt in my mind the subtle, insistent power of the time flow gnawing at the edges of my stasis, eroding it like a river wears away solid rock.

By the time I returned to the crowd of noblemen gathered around the grave, the stasis gave way and time resumed its flow. Men breathed and stirred. The chill winter breeze gusted. Birds flapped across the pewter-gray sky.

And Arthur bent down to grasp the hilt of Ambrosius’ sword. For an instant it did not budge, but then suddenly the rivets I had broken popped loose and the sword slid easily from its scabbard.

For an instant no one moved, no one spoke. It was if another stasis had frozen the moment in place.

Then Arthur raised the greatsword over his head and every man in the graveyard raised a heartfelt cheer.

“Hail to Arthur,” the bishop bellowed, “rightwise King of all the Britons!”

From the back of the crowd, Friar Samson shouted, “Deo lo volt!” God wills it.

Every man dropped to his knees, except Arthur, who still held the sword exultantly in both his raised hands.

High King of all the Britons. Deo lo volt.