Page 20 of The Road to Avalon
All our forty warriors attended, as well as Essylt’s men, and a crowd of local inhabitants who wisely hung back out of sniffing range. Nowhere did I spot Drustans.
After prayers from the local priest, and a speech as pompous as I’d expected from young Seleu, he lit the brushwood at the base of the pyre with a ceremonial torch. Then we all stood well back while March crisped and sizzled on his way to meet his maker.
With flames leaping and thick black smoke billowing upward, our solemn procession, led by Seleu and Arthur, headed back toward the fortress under the hot midsummer sky. A feast in celebration of the passing of the old king had been prepared in the great hall, and the new young king was to be crowned without any further ado.
As High King, it fell to Arthur to officiate over Seleu’s coronation and declare him king. And this was to be done before the feast could even begin. The smell of roasting meat– a little too similar to the stench from the funeral pyre for my liking– met us at the doors as we all processed inside the torchlit hall. Once again, Arthur, Archfedd and I were to sit at the high table, but before the funeral feast could begin, the throne had been carried forward to stand on its own where all could see.
Drustans had once told me the story of the throne of Caer Dore. Many years ago, the bole of an enormous tree trunk had washed up on a nearby beach during a storm, a gift from the sea god, the people believed. Wherever it had come from, a craftsman had carved it into a throne, cleverly incorporating each knot and curve into its shape, and a clear memory of its origins clung to it.
Every king of Caer Dore had been crowned on it, stretching back long before living memory to a time even before the arrival of the legions, who’d never really had a hold on this part of Cornubia. Drustans had confided how he liked to sit in it as a small child, when his father had his back turned, and pretend he was king.
When he’d recounted this story, a lump had formed in my throat, and now, looking at that throne, it formed again. I couldn’t get the picture out of my head of Drustans’ tall memorial stone, shifted from its original position to stand beside the road into Fowey. When I’d stood beside it myself, long ago in a world almost forgotten, I’d wondered at the only thing remaining to mark a long-dead young man’s life, never imagining he would one day be my friend. Had been my friend. Who knew which tense to use?
Essylt positioned herself to one side of the throne, her two younger sons, boys of less than ten, and her daughter, a girl as pretty as she’d once been, huddled a few steps behind her with a maid. Arthur took his place on the other side, gripping the gold circlet crown of Caer Dore in his hands. Archfedd and I stood side-by-side a few feet away. Ringside seats.
If only we’d known.
Seleu had paused at the doors to allow us to arrange ourselves, and now he walked in stately splendor up the aisle between the pushed-back tables and close-packed ranks of his watching people, past the fire and the roasting carcass of a young ox and up to the throne. He held his head high, a look of regal nobility on his young face, a small smile curving his lips. No, he wasn’t as like Drustans as I’d thought. Something adhered to him that I didn’t like. Some ruthlessness. Something of his dead father, perhaps. He’d probably make a better king than his brother, though, just for its possession.
He stopped in front of the throne, and for a moment his speculative gaze took in Archfedd before he looked forward again.
I took her hand as color rose to her cheeks and a slight frown furrowed her brow. Perhaps she had some inkling of his interest in her, although there’d been no time for Arthur to talk to her about him. I gave her hand a comforting squeeze.
Seleu’s gaze left her, and he swung around to face the crowd who’d jammed themselves inside his hall. Their muttering died to nothing as their attention fixed on him, their new young king. Tall, handsome, full of youthful vigor and a stark change from the wizened old man they’d just immolated.
Seleu paused again, taking the sea of faces in with a sweeping stare, before lowering himself onto the throne and setting his hands on the arms, gripping the knobbly wood. Everything about him seemed to glow with nobility, from his shoulder-length chestnut curls to a face that could have been carved from marble in Renaissance Italy. On the fingers of his left hand, gold rings glinted, and around his neck hung the heavy links of a gold chain. His father’s, no doubt.
Arthur took a step forward with the crown held up before him.
And at the same time, Drustans shouldered his way out of the crowd into the center of the aisle to stand with his feet planted squarely in the rushes and his hands bunched in fists by his sides.
“Stop,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the silence.
For a moment nothing happened, then the crowd erupted with angry shouts, but as they were partly made up of our own men, not all the shouts were in protest about the interruption. Drustans held a popular place with his fellows.
He didn’t move, and neither did Seleu, whose face had darkened, probably in both anger and surprise.
Arthur swung his right arm out toward me, and I had to grab the crown to prevent it dropping to the floor. He stepped in front of the throne, holding his arms up for silence. It took a while, but eventually he had it. Behind him Seleu sat in stony silence, his cold gaze fixed on Drustans.
Our men had shoved their way to the front of the crowd on either side of Drustans. Faces grim, they held back the people of Caer Dore who’d come to see their new king crowned, and who, by the angry looks on their faces, felt affronted at this interruption. A protection probably required. How many of these people even knew who Drustans was?
Arthur lowered his arms and nodded to Drustans. “Say your piece.”
A hiss of discord resonated around the hall from the largely Cornubian crowd.
Drustans looked past Arthur at Essylt. “Do you not know me?” His voice held pleading, desperation even, and anguish.
Her cold gaze met his as Archfedd’s hand tightened on mine. “What’s going on?” my daughter whispered.
I shook my head and put a finger to my lips.
Essylt, elegant in a dove-gray gown girdled with a dark belt, her light cloak still about her shoulders, took a small step forward to stand beside Seleu, squaring her jaw as though to meet a fight. “Drustans. Of course I know you.”
This time the hiss was one of recognition as the older people present finally realized their lost prince had returned. But after nineteen years, did those who remembered him still care for him?
Drustans’ Adam’s apple bobbed. How hard this must be for him. “I am come for you, Essylt,” he said, his voice deepening as he gained confidence. “I am come to claim my throne… and my bride.”
Essylt’s eyes widened, and her right hand shot out to clutch her son’s shoulder, her fingers digging into his flesh, perhaps to force him to stay seated. He’d turned to look up at her, and I couldn’t quite see his expression from where I stood. No king, young and uncrowned or not, would accept another’s attempt to claim their throne.
