King Uther had been dead a month.
Sadly, his passing had come as no surprise. From the moment he heard his brother – Aurelius Ambrosius - still lived, he had seemingly wasted away with every passing hour. Nothing anyone could do was able to make a difference.
I'd tried to force a few of my better-quality Elixirs down his throat – I became pretty good at spiking his food – but you can't heal someone who simply has lost the will to live.
I'd spent quite some time with him near the end. He wanted to hear as many stories as I could remember about his son's exploits in the world of Camelot – which he had dedicated his life to bringing into being. He also wanted to talk to Merlin and reminisce about the old days, and I was happy to play Whoopi Goldberg to that particular unchained melody.
Even right at the end, I couldn't find it in me to like him.
He was a brutal pragmatist with enough blood on his hands to have drowned a decent-sized continent, but everything he had done had been in the service of a big dream. As someone who had never done anything for a better reason than "it feels good", I had to respect that level of dedication.
Nor did, I am afraid to say, feel any tremendous paternal bond with him. I'd had my own challenges with my Daddest dearest, and if I couldn't unravel them through therapy, fucking every proxy I could find and self-medicating with epic doses of recreational drugs, I wasn't going to find enlightenment at Uther Pendragon's deathbed.
The end, when it came, was pretty bland.
He was holding forth about a particularly fruitful boar hunt when his eyes just slipped close, and he stopped breathing.
The King is dead, long live the . . .
Well, now there’s a story. And that is kind of where things seemed to have become a bit more complicated.
Arthur had not been idle since we'd returned from the Dark Tower. Alongside Bors and Lancelot, he’d pushed every Saxon still lingering around back over the border. I’m not sure ‘pushed’ entirely does justice to the epic levels of dark age violence that had been visited upon the blue-painted men from across the border of Dumnonia. There had been some highly hairy battles - particularly against the West Saxons led by Cedric – but when the chips were down, the bodies were counted, and the victor was dancing around cheering; it was the Britons who had prevailed.
So, when Uther stepped beyond the veil, there was no doubt that Prince Arthur was right at the forefront of those to succeed him. However, it was turning out not to be quite the slam dunk that might have been hoped.
Firstly, despite the thawing of the relationship between him and Guinevere, there was still no little bouncing baby Pendragon on the horizon. I'd heard more than enough rumours that the Princess was barren to begin to get distinct Henry VIII vibes about the whole court. Fortunately, It didn't take me too many 'accidentally’ dropped fireballs to persuade those peddling that viewpoint to keep it away from my ears.
Secondly, and this one hurt, I think some of the reluctance about a wider acclamation for the new King might have had something to do with the efficacy of the Court Mage.
It's not that I hadn't been trying to progress.
Even Merlin, at his most pernickety, would admit I was making impressive gains in shoring up my foundations. Compared to the big, explosive techniques people were used to seeing from me, I was trying to do things right and put in place building blocks for the future. It's just that when you used to be able to summon the very trees to grab and shag your enemies, the ability to create softly glowing fairy orbs of light lacked a little something.
“I hear what you're saying, Big M; it's just I don't think my newfound talent to provide mood lighting is exactly overcoming Arthur's detractors with the power of my magic.“
And, my word, were there some detractors. Almost from the moment Uther had breathed his last, the voices raised against him were many and various.
"Serious times call for serious leadership,” one particular grey face had spewed all over the throne room.
"Quite," Queen Igraine has said, her face a mask of icy politeness, "which is why anyone so profoundly ridiculous to ask for my hand in marriage during the lighting of my husband's funeral pyre must be considered at the height of pomposity."
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If looks could kill . . .
Well, actually, I had it on excellent authority - Lancelot loved gossip more than a teenage girl - that particular northern lord and his entire war band barely made it out of sight of Tintagel before falling into a series of unlikely accidents. At night. At the end of spears.
But it was the internal wrangling, more than the unsubtle machinations of the outlanders, that was trying our patience. It felt that every noble family with even the smallest claim to the throne was jockeying for position. It was getting very, very wearing.
“We could kill them," Bors downed his mug of mead and gestured for another.
"Kill who exactly?" Guinevere was lying with her head in Arthur's lap and her feet were precisely two and half-feet away from where Lancelot sat, sprawled with a customary dopey look on his filmstar face.
If he so much as moved an inch closer to her . . . well, he was getting a
“Oh, I don't know,” he waved his newly filled mug around airily, “start with anyone we don't like and work our way downwards. It would certainly make it a bit fucking quieter around here.”
“And it is your considered opinion that will bring unity to the kingdom, is it?" Igraine was standing uneasily in the corner of the room. She was the one that had called for this little get-together, but it was clear she would rather be anywhere else right now.
"Fuck unity! If you ask me, a few heads on pikes would encourage a bit more loyalty from people who should know better. And, what is more, it'd show that Arthur's not to be messed with."
"No," Guinevere said, “it'll show that Arthur is a tyrant. We want him to be acclaimed the Pendragon, not feared the length and breadth of the realm."
"Sir Rickon called me 'Any-hole-is-a-goal Arthur' to his knights yesterday. If I'm honest, I could stand a bit of fear from that direction.”
“Sir Rickon is a noisy windbag. He never speaks, but bile spills out. Also," Guinevere added, "it's hardly like he's entirely out of line.”
“Not recently,” Arthur flicked wine from his cup at her face.
Honestly, I'm amazed I kept the vomit restrained at such an unnecessary display of matrimonial banter.
"So, that leads us to the most important of questions. What are we going to do? I haven't called you here this evening because I wanted your company,” Igraine’s voice was steady but with all the chillines of a good white wine. "My husband is dead, and my son is yet to be crowned king. That is unacceptable to me. It would have been unacceptable to Uther, too. I want that situation resolved.”
Lancelot chimed up. “Back home, those wanting be chief being strip naked, paint themselves in their death masks and enter the golden circle. Whoever standing left is chief. Until next challenge.”
"If I thought that would work, I'd do it tomorrow." Arthur was shaking his head. "But this isn’t just about fighting. It’s politics, too. Everyone says they support my claim, but no one will be the first to call the Witan to acclaim me as such. I'd call the damn thing myself, but if I do, and no one shows up . . .”
A quest? Merlin popped in my head.
“Yeah, we fucking tried that with the whole 'chase me, chase me’ thing with Guinevere. Didn’t work out too well for us, did it?”
I was aware of several pairs of eyes suddenly looking my way. Sometimes, I forget that not everyone else can hear the voice in my head. "Sorry, Merlin was suggesting we needed a quest."
"What sort of quest?" Guinevere sat up. She remained two and a half feet away from Lancelot.
"Yeah, Big M. What sort of quest?".
The other British Kings are never going to acclaim Arthur to the throne. They don't trust him, do not fear you, my dear, and each fancy themselves as the next Pendragon. They will be happy to allow Arthur to lead the charge against the Saxons whilst ever praying he will catch an arrow in the throat. I fear the longer success continues, the likelihood of one in the back grows.
"Let them fucking try, " Bors growled after I'd shared the wizard's words.
“They have been trying, Sir Bors." Igraine’s voice was grim. "I haven't been so busy foiling assassination plots since the first few weeks of Uther's realm. Please, and as much as it pains me to say it, let's hear Merlin out."
They may not be willing to acclaim you as Pendragon, but not one of them will be able to resist joining you on a quest. You just need something suitably epic to grab their fancy.
“Does the old goat have a suggestion?" Igraine – ever since the wizard had helped Uther carry out the Dark Age version of catfishing, she had not been Merlin's biggest fan. "Or is he just speaking for the sake of being heard? Not that we can hear him, of course. Which is a profound quality of life improvement for me."
You know, my dear, I once spent a very profitable weekend enchanting every single reflective surface in this castle so that Queen Igraine looked fifty pounds heavier whenever she looked into it and with a complexion an Italian pizzeria would market as extra pepperoni. I call them the good old days.
“And you moan at me for frivolous uses of my Qi!"
Yes, but back then, I was at the peak of my power. You're barely in the foothills.
“And at your most potent, you decided to spend the time not creating world peace or ending all hunger but making a middle-aged woman feel fat and ugly. I must tell you, mate, we're perfectly capable of doing that all on our own.
"The quest ?" Arthur pressed. "What could unite the other kings to follow me?".
I relayed Merlin's suggestions as they came in. The Holy Grail, of course. But we're about twenty years early for that, and - honestly - I worry about the Pythonesque quality Morgan would bring to proceedings. (Hey - that's unnecessary and also ‘Ni!'’) We're lacking in a Gawaine to go after the Green Man. We could seek to retrieve various Treasures of Britain, but I think the most obvious quest would be for Caeldfwlch.
By the shocked expressions of those around me, you'd have thought I'd suggested fucking a giraffe in the throne room.
“Caeldfwlch. That's real?" Asked Guinevere. Lancelot and she were about a foot apart. I had a
"I don't even know what that is. Big M?"
Apologies, my dear. I thought you'd recognise its real name. You know it by its more familiar title. Excalibur.