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

this.”
    During his short speech, a surprising change had come over his audience. “The Baron may laugh too soon,” said Governayle.
    “I didn’t see
you
pulling the sword out, Sir Mador de la Porte!” said Torre angrily. “At least Arthur bears an honorable name. What bloody Porte are you Sir Mador de, anyway?”
    “It is a hereditary title,” explained Sir Mador with dignity, “and the location of the Porte is lost in antiquity. Some say it refers to the gates of heaven.”
    “Or perhaps the door to the privy. Whatever it is, it’s French. And that’s only a short step from being Irish!”
    Surprisingly Sir Mador brushed the insult aside with a tolerant smile. “You should brush up on your geography, Torre. Meanwhile I’ll ride to Menheniot and tell the Baron about the Sword in the Stone. Somewhere in Cornwall there may well be a man capable of pulling it out. But I don’t think so. Anyway, it will give us the chance for a feast!”
    Word of the existence of the Sword in the Stone spread quickly through the southwest of England and was greeted with huge excitement. The legend of Arthur was a popular one. The majority of the people lived under the rule of local landowners and dreamed of the day when a new and just leader would arise; dispossess the barons, earls, and dukes; give each peasant a plot of land; and protect their womenfolk from licentious collectors of fealty. It was a beautiful dream, and the legend of Arthur put it into simple language.
    And now a sword in a stone had appeared, in a magical forest rumored to be inhabited by monsters, unicorns, and gnomes. It couldn’t have happened in a better place.
    The peopleflocked to Mara Zion. …
    Tents hung from spreading branches and families camped under them. The status of a person was in inverse proportion to his distance from the Sword in the Stone, which was now covered by a purple pavilion. Around it stood the pavilions of the gentry, including Baron Menheniot. In a broad concentric circle outside hung the tents of the soldiers. Farther away, and spreading off fingerlike along the banks of the streams, were the peasants’ tents. Food was prepared on a community basis, and a constant stream of supply carts rolled in from distant towns. Old acquaintances met for the first time in years, and children and dogs gamboled around their feet.
    The gnomes stayed away, huddled in their new and partly completed dwellings.
    “The amount of breeding going on in those tents boggles my mind,” grumbled King Bison, just returned from a short foraging trip.
    “Arthur will soon put a stop to that kind of nonsense!” cried Lady Duck confidently. “Mark my words, Bison, if Nyneve’s scheme comes off, it’ll be a great day for gnomedom!”
    Nyneve herself had persuaded Arthur to set up camp as close to the Sword as possible, in preparation for the great moment when he would stride from his tent, grasp the haft, and, amid yells of astonishment and approbation, draw the Sword from the stone with a flourish.
    “It didn’t happen like that last time,” said Arthur.
    “The time was not ripe. The audience wasn’t assembled, don’t you see? If you’d pulled the Sword out in front of a handful of villagers and Sir Mador de la Thing, the news would have been suppressed.” She regarded him speculatively. Should she tell him the truth? No. He was a painfully honest man, and would never agree to trickery. Sometimes she found herself wishing he were a little more ruthless in his pursuit of the Crown. …
    A heavy bodyblundered into the tent, bulging the fabric. Someone uttered a hoarse yell. “I wish I was back on the other side of the forest with the gnomes,” said Arthur gloomily. It was evening, and a light drizzle dampened the tent. Sounds of revelry came from all around.
    “Your place is among the common people,” Nyneve said, reproving him.
    “Well, you can’t get much more common than this.” The tent was small, thrown over the branch of a sycamore,