King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) by Michael G. Coney

“Don’t even try. This isn’t the right time.” He could ruin the whole plan. She should have taken him into her confidence, but she’d had the feeling he wouldn’t go along with what she proposed. Sometimes Arthur’s naïveté and honesty could be a drawback.
    “If you say so, Nyneve.” Arthur regarded the sword curiously.
    Torre said, “It’s not
that
sword, Arthur. It can’t be. Pay no attention to Palomides, he’s just pulling your leg. If it was the real Sword in the Stone, this would be London, and there’d be moonbeams shining on it and angels singing and all kinds of stuff like that. You’d hardly get the Sword in the Stone in some muddy little glade in Mara Zion.”
    “It
is
the real Sword,” insisted Nyneve. “And one day Arthur will pull it out. But not now.” She felt like crying. Everything had gone wrong. Governayle’s discovery of the sword had been premature; she’d thought it was well hidden.
    She was saved further explanations by the jingling arrival of Sir Mador de la Porte on splendid horseback. Despite an ignominious defeat by Tristan a few months previously, Sir Mador’s career had progressed by leaps and bounds. Following the recent death of Tristan, he had been appointed Knight of the Southern Realm, which meant that he represented Baron Menheniot’s interests in Mara Zion and neighboring settlements. He was not a popular figure with the villagers. They suspected he intended to exact a regular tribute from the village, and was only awaiting the right moment to do it.
    “Whoa!” he roared to his horse. “What goes on here?” he asked.
    They explained.Sir Mador had heard the legend of Arthur; furthermore, he could read. Dismounting, he examined the inscription, his lips moving silently. Then he examined the sword, assessing his chances. “Yes,” he said at last. “It seems to be the right sword.” He laid a huge, mailed hand on it and tugged. The Sword remained firmly in place.
    “We’ve all tried,” said Torre. “Nobody can pull it out.”
    “Arthur hasn’t tried,” said Palomides craftily.
    Sir Mador swept Arthur with an imperious stare. “Ha, the stranger we’ve been hearing about. Try your luck, Pretender.”
    “I don’t see why not,” said Arthur, who’d been annoyed at being left out of things.
    “No,” said Nyneve.
    Ignoring her, Arthur stepped up to the Sword. Despite their skepticism, the onlookers held their breath. There was certainly something deeply impressive about this tall figure that his simple peasant clothing could not conceal. And as Arthur laid his hand on the haft, the sun, which had been hiding behind a thick white cloud, chose that moment to emerge in all its glory. The dell came alive and Arthur was suddenly godlike, his hair a golden corona.
    He pulled.
    The sword remained firmly in place.
    Bracing a foot against the anvil, he pulled again. A little bead of sweat trickled down his brow.
    Nothing happened.
    “Oh, bugger the thing!” he cried.
    “I told you not to try,” said Nyneve, tears in her eyes.
    “Yes, it’s all very well to say that
now
,” Arthur began angrily. Then he became aware of his grinning audience, swung on his heel, and strode away into the forest, Bull’s-eye slinking behind.
    “That’s the end of him,” said Sir Mador. “His credibility is shot, if he ever had any. I hope we’ve seen the last of the pretenders out of Mara Zion. Tristan got his just desserts, and now Arthur’s moment of glory is over, such as it was.” He examinedthe faces of the villagers. “Which of you peasants will try next? You, Torre? No, I don’t think so.” He turned to Nyneve. “I must congratulate you on your plan. You laid the groundwork very well with those stories of yours. You had us all believing in King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, but when it came to picking your real-life Arthur, everything fell apart. Face it, Nyneve, nobody can live up to those stories. The Baron will get a laugh out of