Merlin's Gold

Merlin's Gold - Chapter 17 - Pretender

Chapter 17 – Pretender

"Your grandson is getting ready to die."

Mark, who had been staring into the distance, came back to himself as Morholt's shadow fell across him. He sat morosely on the grassy lower slopes of Silbury Hill, not far outside the gates of the palisade. The earth was dry and the grass brown, and the lack of colour had done little to buoy his spirits. Merlin had made him walk outside the tent for the first time since he had come back to the camp, but the sun seemed to be doing little to improve the king's black mood.

"You're blocking the sun," he said bluntly.

"You really are a miserable old bastard sometimes, you know that?" muttered Morholt, and lowered himself to the grass beside him.

"I think you forget who you're talking to," snapped Mark.

"I think you forget who you are," said Morholt softly.

"What the hell is that meant to mean? You wander out here, block my light and then have the gall to insult me. How dare you. I ought to clap you in irons. Get the hell out of my sight."

Morholt stood up and leaned over him. "Make me. Actually, no, you're the king, why don't you order someone else to do it?"

Mark shot to his feet the pain of his leg wound causing him to wince as he loomed menacingly over the smaller man.

"I'll do it myself, you little sod." His left arm shot forward and he cried out in pain as the stump thumped into Morholt's chest. Reacting quickly, he grabbed with the other hand, lifting the man off his feet by his tunic until they were eye to eye.

"Well, I hang corrected, you made me." Morholt grinned at him crookedly, and quietly added, "look down."

Mark looked down to see the point of a wicked looking dagger hovering beside his crotch. He looked back into the smaller man's eyes and started to chuckle, placing Morholt gently back on his feet as he sank back to the grass. Morholt watched quietly and waited for what he knew would follow. Mark's chuckles changed after a few seconds, and he broke into body-shaking sobs, hiding his face from Morholt who knelt down in front of his king.

"I have known you all my life Mark," he started softly. "You have lost so much, your wife, your child, and now your hand and your eye. But, you have gained so much too; a son, a grandson, the adoration and fealty of the whole of Cornwall, the respect of your brother kings. Don't let all that fall to the ground with a few dead bits of flesh. You are still here, and right now your grandson needs you to be king, but most of all he needs you to be his grandfather, and your son need you to be his father. There is to be a fight to the death, and Grayle is at risk."

Morholt leaned forwards and grasped the larger man's shoulders, willing him to get to his feet, but unable to lift the larger man to his feet.

"I'm not fit to be king. I am a cripple. I cannot fight," said Mark bitterly, resisting the smaller man's efforts to get him to his feet.

"You were ready to fight me just then," he pointed out. "You still have your sword arm: we can strap a shield to your other. All you have to fight now is yourself."

Mark looked up and out into the distance. "I am a cripple," he repeated. "I will always need help."

"And you shall always have it, although I doubt you'll need it much." Morholt backed away from Mark and knelt in the grass in front of him, his head bowed in obeisance. "I am as ever, yours to command, my King."

As if on some unbidden signal, Gawain marched out from the palisade with a fifty-strong group of soldiers who were due to start practice manoeuvres. Located as he was just outside the fort, Gawain immediately spotted Mark and Morholt, and changed his direction, sensing something of import was happening. Halting his men in ranks facing the Cornish King, he marched up to Mark, knelt briefly with Morholt and, as Mark raised himself to his feet, he stood up to face him.