“Won’t you at least listen to my story?” ‘Merlin’ asked as he leaned against the sword.
Britt exhaled to warm her chattering teeth. This wasn’t getting her anywhere, and Grace was going to be ticked if they didn’t make it to the Sherlock Holmes museum. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“Some years ago Uther Pendragon, son of Constantine II, King of Britannia, was crowned King after both of his brothers were killed. He fell in love with Igraine—the wife of his enemy, Gorlois. He sought my help in winning her over which I—ahh—did. A child was conceived between the two of them, a male who was to become his father’s heir. In exchange for my help, I was given the child. I took him from the palace and placed him under the care of Sir Ector, who became his foster father. He was raised as if he were Sir Ector’s own son, along with Kay, Sir Ector’s real son. The boy, whose name was Arthur, was never informed of his parentage, however—.”
“I know how the story goes. Sir Ector and Kay didn’t know either, but one day they were in London and Arthur pulled the sword from the stone while searching for a replacement sword for his brother, and he was crowned King of Britain,” Britt interrupted, tapping her nails on an icy headstone.
“No, actually. Sir Ector and Kay knew all along who Arthur was. I separated Arthur from his parents because Uther was a warmonger who was likely to die at a young age, and I wished to see all of Britain united under Arthur’s ruling. I knew Sir Ector would be an excellent advisor, and Kay would be raised to be his seneschal. After all, who would make a better seneschal than your brother who won’t inherit the throne if you are killed?”
Britt settled in, intrigued by the new aspect of the story. “I see, that does make sense. Please continue.”
“I had plans for Arthur to learn his parentage and pull the sword you see here in the stone when Arthur was old enough. This year Arthur turned fifteen, and I judged the time had arrived. But before I could inform the lad of his birthright…,” ‘Merlin’ the Young and Handsome looked to his feet and muttered.
“Yes?” Britt asked.
‘Merlin’ sighed, losing several inches of stature. “He ran off with a shepherdess over the summer months. We haven’t received any word of him, and I don’t think we will. Not in time, at least.”
“What do you mean?” Britt said.
“Britain will unite under Arthur’s rule because it is finally ready for a true King. I have spent years gathering knights and powerful lords who agree with my thinking. Britain will not survive if our lands remain splintered with as many rulers as there are lakes or trees. We need one King, my compatriots agree with me. But… if the King does not appear this winter—which is what we have been preparing for, for years—I am not certain the opportunity will arise again in this century. Simply put, this is our one chance and Arthur has ruined it by running off. I crafted the spell that holds the sword in the stone for him. No one else alive can pull it.”
“Where do I fit into this? I’m not Arthur. I can’t help you,” Britt said, stooping to reclaim her backpack, which had dropped in the same patch of weeds Britt woke up in.
‘Merlin’ watched her with calculating eyes. “That is where you are mistaken. After it became apparent that Arthur would not be returning I cast a second spell on the sword. There is a law regarding this sword—which I tied into the spell,” Merlin said, fondly resting a hand on the sparkling sword. “Whoso pulls this sword from the stone shall be crowned King of Britain,” Merlin quoted. “It never gives a deadline to the proclamation. My second spell was designed to withstand time and to bring the first person who touched the sword and would be able to pull it out back in time.”
Britt stared at the false wizard, unimpressed.
“Time travel spells are very difficult. It took months to craft, but obviously it worked because here you are.”
“That is a load of crap. Time travel? I’m sorry, even for the sake of our vacation I’m not willing to buy that. Lyssa, Grace, come on. We weren’t supposed to do anything King Arthur themed today. You promised! I’m cold, I want to go to the Holmes museum,” Britt said, her voice echoing in the quiet graveyard.
‘Merlin’ rustled his cloak like a ruffled bird fixing its feathers. “I’m sorry, I fail to see the cause of your hesitation.”