" It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones."
- Luke, 17:2.
Arthur floated in a haze, seeing dreams and visions. At times, for mercifully brief periods, he could feel the body he had left behind, but the sensations came from a distance, as though he were wearing someone else's skin.
It must have been days since that body was first hoisted up against the tree trunk. During those moments when Arthur became aware of his corporeal form, he felt flesh burning, the wound in his body's side splitting him open, thirst raking at his throat. There were dim flashes of dark shapes moving below: at times men, at other times prowling wolves and bears, their jaws slavering. Ravens clustered on the branches around him, attracted by the scent of death, hopping closer and closer, their cruel beaks poised to tear at the skin.
Thus end all things, the birds' black eyes seemed to say, king or beggar, you are food for our bellies. We will eat of your flesh and drink of your blood.
Sometimes darkness covered Arthur's eyes, and he was borne away to other places.
This time, when light returned, he was huddled in a paved square in the centre of the Citadel of Camelot. Soft mist filled the air, and shadows moved around him, murmuring eerily. The skin on the back of his neck prickled, and he felt a primaeval fear, that of a child cowering in bed from monsters of the imagination.
There was a well in the centre of the square. Its black mouth yawned, and terrible sounds came from it. Arthur's stomach churned, and he tried to turn his eyes away, but he could not.
Figures formed in the mist, a court of stern judges and arrogant princes, a rabble of sneering peasants, all forming a circle of silent spectators. Arthur recognised the face of his father, and that of Archbishop De Croismere.
De Croismere was much younger than Arthur knew him, his hair radiantly black, his face smooth and handsome. There was serenity and piety in his visage, but also something cruel and pitiless. In his character, burning faith had become misshapen, so that love for God had overshadowed his love for fellow men. His ardour for the spirit had transformed into hatred for the sinful flesh. He was an image of the wrath of God, of vengeance with no compassion, of judgement without mercy. His ears could hear only the music of the Cherubim, and they were deafened to the cries of mere human beings.
All these things Arthur knew from seeing De Croismere's face, for perhaps in this place, as the Vykings had said, the eyes of the flesh were closed, and the eyes of the spirit were opened. And Arthur knew further that the Archbishop repented that God had made His covenant with Noah, and set His rainbow in the sky as a sign that never again would He destroy all living things. For in the eyes of De Croismere, Creation had once more turned from God's ways and become wicked. And if the Archbishop had his will, the floodgates of Heaven would open again, and the waters would cover the earth, and all the fallen souls would be cleansed in Water and purified in Fire.
Then Arthur heard the voice of a little child lifted in song, which chilled him to the marrow.
"Ding dong bell,
Pussy's in the well.
Who put her in?
Little Tommy Flynn."
A boy emerged from the circle of spectators, dripping wet, struggling to carry a heavy millstone in both arms. Arthur knew the boy to be a Druid from his robe, the medal he wore engraved with a triskelion, and the green badge marking him as a paynim. His head had been shaved in penance. The millstone which he bore was hung around his neck by a heavy rope, and the stone was stamped with the dragon of Camelot, dyed red, the colour of Arthur's house.
"No," said Arthur. "No, no, no." He tried to turn his face away, but he could not move.
Archbishop De Croismere stretched out his hand. "The king has passed his sentence. We all saw this child floating on the river! The judges tell us a witch floats upon the waters, for Water, a purifying element, refuses to receive him, as he has rejected the water of baptism!"
The crowd jeered. The boy said nothing, but laboured towards the well, toiling under the heavy weight of the stone. He resumed his singing.
"What a naughty boy was that,
To try to drown poor pussy cat,
Who never did him any harm,
But ate all the mice in the farmer's barn."
The crowd faded into the mist, leaving Arthur and the boy alone. The well sank into the ground, yawning wider, swallowing the paving stones as it expanded, so that Arthur could see into its terrible throat, which seemed to descend forever into the Earth. White, dead arms broke from the surface of the water, reaching upwards to welcome the boy, followed by the bodies of Druids. There were men, women and children rising from the deep, with the aspect of pale, bloated corpses. Arthur shuddered, unable to stir, as the boy reached the lip of the gaping abyss, and threw himself over the edge, to join his people.
Before the child could fall, a hand stretched down and caught him.
A man drew the child up from the lip of the well, and set him down upon solid ground. The man was clad in the armour of a Palatine soldier of the old Empire, with a crested helmet, a pleated skirt, and sandalled feet. Around his neck he wore, in place of the golden eagle of the Emperor, a golden cross. He was young, and very comely, and his face did not show the weariness of a man of war. His countenance blazed with an unearthly radiance, as though a light of tranquility and rejuvenation was shining upon him, continually refreshed.
The aura of light clinging to the man grew brighter. It poured into the depths of the well, scattering the darkness, and the well was raised and transformed into a pool of water, encircled by rushes. The rays of light fell on the drowned and bloated faces of the Druids, and they became healthy and whole, their vitality restored.
The man turned to Arthur and nodded at him. Arthur found he could move again.
Immediately Arthur rose and went to kneel at the soldier's feet. "I know not who you are, Sir Knight," Arthur said, "that you wear the colours of a fallen empire. But you must be a goodly and worshipful knight, to so triumph over the terrors of the grave. Pray tell me your name."
"My birth name," said the soldier, "is lost. I was named for a flower that was so fair, it was said to be whiter than snow. But the soldiers of my legion could not pronounce the name my mother chose in the harsh northern tongue of her people, so they simply called me flower, Florian.
"Now rise, Arthur, King of Brythons. It is not seemly for a king to touch the feet of a common soldier."
"You are no common soldier," said Arthur, lowering his head further. "I know you, holy one. Sister Flavia used to read to me of you from the Legenda Sanctorum."
"Then it were a shame," said the soldier, "that you heard my story and learnt nothing from it. You knew how much blood had been spilt by wicked kings who tried to make others believe as they did. And you allowed your father to persecute the Druids, even as Emperor Diocletian persecuted the followers of Our Lord. But not even Diocletian massacred the children of Nazarins."
"I know," said Arthur. "My guilt is heavy upon me, heavier than the millstone around that child's neck. And the Pit I am sinking into, not even you may save me from. I am ready to cast myself into the Abyss now, except that I fear what will become of my people without me." Arthur clasped the soldier's booted feet. "Tell me, holy one, what must I do?"
"You must live," said the soldier. "Death is the easy choice for a warrior. More difficult to live, and carry the burden of your sins, until you have made restitution for the wrongs you have done. And if that seems a heavy task, remember that the Son of Man took all the wrongs of the world upon himself, though he had earned none of them. Death is easy… I know that too well."
The soldier looked away. "In my youth, I understood nothing of life, and cared only for glory in battle or death by the sword. I followed the emperor's orders without question, killing his enemies, capturing their territories. I told myself I was serving the citizens of the Empire, but in truth I was serving my own vanity. And one day, when I had been wounded in the capture of a village, and left for dead in the snow by my own companions, a woman of the enemy came to me.
"She tended me and washed my wounds, though I had been butchering her people mere hours before. I knew nothing of faith then, but I saw in that woman a prefiguration of Our Lady. My hands were stained with the blood of her kin, yet she nursed me tenderly - and does Our Lady not love us, though we killed her Son? That woman's eyes saw all my wretched life, my acts of murder, my wanton existence, and yet her compassion was greater than all my misdeeds."
The soldier looked down at Arthur again. "So you see, Arthur, I know there is a way to redemption, even for men of war. But you must choose to live, that you may safeguard the lives of others. That is the true purpose of a knight's existence."
"But I am no saint, holy one," said Arthur. "Tell me how I, being one man, may make restitution for the sins of a kingdom?"
"A man once did that for the whole world," replied the soldier. "But you must give the Druids back what you have taken from them. Give them back their land, and their temples and sacred groves."
"How may this be?" said Arthur. "Would you, who died rather than sacrifice to pagan gods, have me reinstitute idol worship?"
"I ask you," said the soldier, "to give the Druids back their shrines, not because I follow their gods, but because I follow mine. Mine is a God of justice. You destroyed their sacred places without right, and you must give them back. If they choose to leave the Old Religion and enter the Church, let them do so through free will, rather than fear of slaughter."
"Then I will restore the Druids to Camelot," said Arthur.
"Tell them where the bones of their people lie," said the soldier. "Allow their priests to perform their rites for the departed, and have your priests do their own penance also."
"I will do so."
"Then but one thing remains. If you are to be king in Albion, you must be king over all your people. For a king may not be partial, but must govern all his subjects. Therefore… seek the blessing of the followers of the Old Religion. You cannot rule a people against their will."
The soldier stood aside, and Arthur saw the Druid boy with all his kin gathered behind him. The restored Druids were looking at Arthur with fear and hostility, and he could not blame them. How would these people, these… spirits, or their living relatives, ever accept him?
Then a new voice spoke from the depths of the pool, saying, "Rise, Arthur, and draw your sword."
Arthur stood, and pulled Excalibur from its sheath. For the first time, it struck him that he was clothed, although he had not been wearing anything on his body back in the clearing. Was this the true blade, or a product of his fancy? In any case, it seemed to have a powerful effect on the Druids.
The waters of the pool parted, and a woman came out of it, dark-haired, and clad in flowing silk.
"Behold," said the woman. "This one holds the sword of the true King of Brythons. I cast it forth from the Water with my own hands, and it has chosen him."
The Druids murmured, and began to cry out.
"The Lady of the Lake has chosen him!"
"This is the sword cast forth from the bosom of Water!"
"Water acclaims him as king! "
Suddenly seeing what he must do, Arthur gently slid the sword alongside the Druid boy's weight , and cut the millstone from around his neck. It fell to the earth with a heavy thud.
The woman gestured to Arthur.
"Come to me, King of Brythons," she said. "The New Religion has already anointed you. Now remember my people, if you would be king over us also."
Arthur went to the woman, and knelt down again. She took water in her cupped hands and sprinkled it, once on Arthur's head, and once across the edge of the blade.
"May this blade never dull," she said. "So long as you keep your faith with us, and remember the Old Religion."
"Thank you, lady," Arthur said.
The mist was creeping back in, swirling around Arthur. Arthur turned, and he saw the soldier stepping backwards, drifting away. The Druids went to the side of the Lady of the Lake, who began to conduct them through the fog.
Arthur was alone in the square.
Later, he dreamed he was suffering in the branches of the great tree again, but this time he imagined someone washed his side tenderly, and trickled cool water between his lips.
