Page 80 of The Dragon Ring
A group of men already clustered round the stone, and as we watched, one of them seized the hilt and tried to pull it out. Of course, the sword didn’t budge. One of his fellows elbowed him out of the way and tried his luck with the same result. That sword was going nowhere.
Arthur had no idea what was going on. The only expression on his face was one of puzzled surprise.
“See what I mean?” Cei said with an air of triumph. “I told you something strange had happened.”
“Where did it come from?” Theodoric asked as a third man wrestled with the sword to no avail. “How can something like that have appeared overnight?”
“Exactly.” Cei looked pleased to be vindicated. “No one knows.”
I looked round at the crowd. They weren’t just the local inhabitants; all the kings and their followers seemed to have gathered there, too. In fact, bold young King Cynfelin of Cynwidion, his dark auburn tail of hair swinging with the effort, was now trying to draw the sword out of the stone. I could have told him not to bother.
His muscles bulged, the tendons in his neck stood out and his face went from red to purple, but nothing happened. Of course. Only one man would ever be able to pull that sword out.
Cynfelin released his hold on the sword and stood back, panting. “It’s no use. The cursed thing won’t budge. If magic put it here, then magic will be needed to pull it out, whatever it says on the stone.”
There was writing?
Masgwid the Lame’s five sons pushed forward for a chance to try their strength. Someone in the crowd shouted. “What does the inscription say? Read it out, can you?”
Llaenog, the oldest son, his hand already on the hilt, bent down to read, then straightened up, his hand still on the sword, keeping his brothers at bay. “‘When the time is right, he who draws this sword from this stone shall be the true born High King of all Britain’.” He gave a shrug. “I might as well try my hand. It could be mine as much as anyone’s.” He bent and set his back to it, heaving as hard as he could, but again, nothing happened apart from him looking as though he might have a heart attack.
Arthur looked at Cei. One thing about my husband– he was quick on the uptake. “’When the time is right’,” he quoted. “So not now. Futile to try to draw this sword from its stone before the time is right. The Council has just voted to institute the title of Dux– so why would we want or need a High King now?”
He was right. I saw it clearly. And I knew who’d put that stone there. Merlin, of course. He’d stolen my telling of the modern legend and created history. Was this how it came to be a legend in my time? Because I’d made it happen? Had I just changed something, my butterfly wings of knowledge molding the course of history?
The crowd filling the road to the Imperial Palace parted, and Cadwy, flanked by the Palace Guard, arrived, Morgana accompanying him. She wore a flowing, creamy white gown, adorned only with a chain of heavy gold links about her slender waist, and a white cloak lined with pale fur. Cadwy didn’t hesitate but strode up to the stone, Morgana following close behind. The men around it stepped back respectfully– this was his city, after all. He walked around the stone, examining it. Morgana stood still and scrutinized the inscription for several minutes.
Cadwy stopped, his bulk making her look delicate as a flower.
“Well?” he said to her, his voice deep and gruff and full of irritation. He was a man who didn’t like things he couldn’t understand, that was clear.
The crowd had fallen silent, watching their king, watching his sister.
She ignored everyone but him. “Strong magic brought this stone here,” she said, her clear voice carrying across the crowded forum. “I feel it in my bones.” She reached a slender, white hand to touch the hilt with her outstretched fingertips. With a start she snatched her hand back as though the sword had bitten her, a momentary look of fear on her lovely face.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Cadwy’s face mirrored hers.
“Some force protects it,” she managed, her face paling even further. “Whoever set this here has spun spells all about it in a defensive web. I cannot touch it. It knows me.”
Cadwy looked from her to the sword in the stone, then back again. “Can I touch it? Does it know me?”
She shook her head. “It knows you not. The protection is against other practitioners of magic. I cannot see beyond the outer trappings of this strange stone, nor see who set it here.”
Cadwy put out a big square hand and laid it on the hilt of the sword. He hesitated a moment, as though unsure whether she was right, but no jarring shock came, so he closed his fingers tightly round it.
“This sword is meant for me,” he said, over loudly. “My father was High King before me, and I shall be the next High King. This sword will prove it.” He gave an enormous heave.
Big mistake. The sword didn’t budge. He pulled harder.
He was a big and very strong man, possibly the strongest there. The sword remained planted firmly in the stone. And now everyone had seen that he couldn’t draw it out– all his fellow kings and all his own people. Everyone knew he was not meant to be High King.
Archbishop Dubricius stepped forward. “This is a heathen object,” he cried. “Tear it down.”
Morgana rounded on him. “Silence, priest,” she snapped. “These are forces you know nothing about. And you could not destroy sword or stone even if you tried. Didn’t you hear what I said? It is protected.”
I looked over my shoulder searching for Merlin. Surely this was his work. And if so, why wasn’t he here to see the effect it was having? But there was no sign of him.
A well dressed, middle-aged man stepped out of the crowd. “I’m Morfael the weaver, citizen of Viroconium, my lords. I say leave the sword be. The Lady Morgana speaks wisely. Here in the old forum any man may try his hand at pulling it out. When the time is right, when we need a High King, someone will pull it from the stone.”
