Sir Ulfius escorted Britt up to the sword in the stone as Merlin rattled more about the sword and worthiness. When Britt was an arm’s length away he finished, “and behold, here is the rightful heir to the sword in the stone.”
The Archbishop—who was probably the best actor out of everyone involved—pushed his eyebrows up towards his hairline. “Merlin, who is this youth with you? Certainly he is very fair and noble to look at, but he cannot possibly be the one who is to pull the sword from the stone.”
“This is Arthur, the true son of Uther Pendragon and his Queen Igraine,” Merlin said, placing a hand on Britt’s shoulder.
The crowd murmured in astonishment, and the Archbishop slumped back in his chair before leaning forward in well faked interest. “But how can that be? No one has ever heard that Uther had a son.”
“You are indeed correct, for I made sure to bury that fact and keep it secret from all men. For I saw it in the stars that Uther Pendragon would die before his son would be old enough to survive the onslaught of his father’s enemies and the burden of ruling Britain. On the night he was born, with his parents’ blessing of course, I took Arthur and entrusted him to Sir Ector of Bonmaison,” Merlin said, gesturing with his free hand.
Britt had to admire Merlin. The crowd was putty in his hands as he spun his marvelous story. He had enough charisma to make any modern day politician green with envy. Perhaps that was why men called him an enchanter.
“Sir Ector did not know Arthur’s true parentage and raised him as his own son. If anyone doubts the truth of my words, I can be verified by Sir Ulfius, one of Uther Pendragon’s own knights,” Merlin said, stepping aside so Sir Ulfius could salute the crowd.
The cemetery was breathlessly quiet as people leaned forward to listen to Sir Ulfius.
“The words Merlin speaks are true,” Sir Ulfius said.
The crowd erupted in a wind of whispers, and Merlin sharply elbowed Britt when she mutely stared at the sword.
Britt rocketed forward and asked the Archbishop. “May I try my hand at pulling the sword?”
The Archbishop inclined his head. “Indeed, all may try. I pray that the grace of God will shine upon you.”
Britt knew she could pull the sword from the stone, but as Britt approached the anvil her heart pounded in her throat and her ears buzzed. She could feel the weight of the stares.
What if she couldn’t pull it?
“Of course I can pull it. This is my dream—even if it is an unfortunate setting,” Britt muttered before she placed a hand on the sword. She could feel a sudden ray of sunlight cast upon her back as she pulled the sword out of the anvil. The ring of its metal blade pulling free from the anvil echoed in the graveyard.
Britt swung the sword once over her head—where it caught the sunlight and cast dazzling rays like small strikes of lightning—before resting the tip on the ground. Britt settled into a relaxed stance and finally gathered the courage to look at the assembly.
Mostly people had slack, shocked faces. Jaws hung open, and more than a few men were rubbing their eyes to clear them.
Britt glanced at Merlin, but he seemed unaffected by the silence and was grinning in triumph.
Britt opened her mouth to whisper to the self professed wizard, but instead jumped and almost bolted when the crowd roared.
Most of those present—the knights, barons, princes, and kings—raised their voices and shouted together in an alarming cry that shook Britt’s bones. It took Britt almost a minute before she realized it was not a war cry, but a statement of jubilation.
It was a good ten minutes before the assembly had finally quieted down enough for anyone to be heard. Unfortunately the first audible words were not ones of encouragement.
“Surely you jest that this beardless youth would be set before us as our King,” King Lot said. His voice was deep and fathomless, like the darkest and longest of caves. “This must be a plot crafted by Merlin and Sir Ulfius to further their power. I will have none of it, nor will I have this mere boy as my king!”
“Here, here!” King Urien shouted.
“He is no King. He is not even a warrior. What honor does he have?” King Pellinore demanded, sparkling in his black armor.
“He has pulled the sword from the stone. It is a sign from the heavens, we cannot go against it,” another knight argued. (Britt was fairly certain he was one of Merlin’s.)
“I believe Merlin!”
Merlin leaned closer to Britt and muttered over the loud argument. “Sheathe the sword back in the anvil, and pull it out again. Do it at least two more times. We must show them you are capable of pulling it.”