by J A Cummings
“I’m not sure I want to be a scribe.”
“What do you want to be?”
His answer came swiftly and without a hint of doubt. “I want to be a knight.”
“Ah! A knight. And what is it about knighthood that appeals to you?”
Arthur considered the question and thought about his answer. Finally, he replied, “It means standing up for good causes and protecting the weak. It means serving the king - whoever the king ends up being - and helping people.”
“Not glory? Not the chance to fight?”
“Fighting is fine, if there’s a reason for it. And glory is something that I don’t think I want, necessarily.” He looked at his handiwork and touched the vellum. “I just want to do what’s right.”
Illtyd considered him, studying his face for a long moment. “And who taught you to be so concerned about being helpful and honorable?”
“My father. He always helps when he’s needed, and he’s the most honorable person I’ve ever known. I’ve also seen people who had no honor at all and who hurt as a matter of habit. I never want to be like them. I want to stop them.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Prince Catigern.”
“Ah.” The man sat down on his narrow bed, which stood nearby. “He is dead, you know. He died last month in Londinium during a Saxon attack.”
Arthur pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “Good.”
Illtyd bent and removed his boots, freeing his feet from their confinement. One of his toes was clubbed, the result of an old and misjoined broken bone. “It will be dawn soon, and we both need sleep. Stay if you’d like, or go back to your room, but I am going to bed.”
“I’ll go. I’m sorry to keep you awake so late.”
He smiled gently. “As you saw, I was awake when you came. Good night, Arthur.”
“Good night, Sir Illtyd.”
As silently as he had come, the boy left the longhouse and returned to the keep. He crept inside and up the stairs until he was able to slide as soundlessly as he could into his chamber. Kay was still asleep, but Amren was awake, watching for him. When Arthur came back into view, Amren pulled the coverlet aside to make room for his friend. He rejoined him on the pallet and pulled the covers up over them both, settling his arms around Amren’s waist and curling around the other boy’s back.
“Where did you go?”
He kissed Amren’s shoulder and answered quietly. “I was walking.”
“Another nightmare?”
“Something like that.”
“I worry about your dreaming,” Amren whispered. “It happens too often.”
Arthur tried to brush it aside with a little chuckle. “People dream all the time.”
“Not like your dreams. Not prophetic dreams.”
“Why do you think they’re prophetic?”
Amren turned in his arms and looked up into his face, his eyes serious. “Can you tell me that they’re not?”
“I’m not a bard, or a druid.” Arthur shook his head. “You’re thinking I’m something that I’m not.”
“Niniane came to you,” he replied. Even years later, neither of them had forgotten, and Amren’s resentment was still just beneath the surface. “She healed you, and she spoke to you. You are destined for something special.” He turned over again, nestling his shoulder into Arthur’s chest. “I have no dreams.”
“Then maybe you are destined for a quiet life,” he suggested.
“Maybe.”
Kay snorted awake and flung a pillow at them. “Maybe you two can shut up already. Get a second pallet. It’s unseemly.”
Arthur took the pillow and rolled it up under his own head, settling in. “Good night, Kay.”
“Bloody bastard,” came the disgruntled reply.
The older boy fell back into sleep, and this time, both Amren and Arthur followed.
The camp was quiet and still except for the trio of guards walking the perimeter. Dozens of tents, each one with its own small cooking fire, surrounded a central pavilion, much grander than its fellows. The structure in the center of the camp was brightly colored and bedecked with the standard of its owner, Prince Pryderi.
Merlin melted out of the shadows beside the prince’s shelter and took stock of the forces around him. He had been watching this band for a long time, and now that the prince was gathering a small army, he was becoming concerned. He had not expected Pryderi to gain so much support from the displaced knights of Pendragon’s court.
He nudged the flap open on the pavilion and stepped inside. The prince was seated at his campaign desk, poring over old maps left behind by the Roman garrisons. Pryderi did not look up.
“Merlin,” he said. “To what do I owe this honor?”
The druid came closer, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. “I’ve heard that you are preparing to claim the throne of the High King.”
The warlord finally looked up. “That is my intention.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” He smiled. Pryderi was young, and he would have been handsome if not for the smugness in his mien. “Someone needs to take control. We cannot continue as we are.”
Merlin nodded, but not in agreement. “How many barons have sworn their oaths to you?”
The prince smirked. “As many as I have asked.”
“Asked, or compelled?”
“Is there any difference?”
“Yes. A vast one.” He considered the map for a moment. A number of settlements and land holdings were marked out in red. “Tell me, Pryderi, what is the basis of your claim? Why do you think you have a right to the High King’s throne?”
There was a flash of anger in the young man’s eyes, but only for a moment. He regained his composure and replied, “My right is in my might. Pendragon died without legitimate issue. There is no legal heir to take the throne through family lines, so that throne will belong to the person strong enough to take it. That will be me. His illegitimate son.” He jabbed the map with his forefinger. “I have already gained the support of most of southern Cumbria, and I intend to head to Gwynedd and take the northern territories, too. Once that happens, there will be no one to oppose me.”
The druid shook his head. “Lot will oppose you, and Uriens. They are wedded to the late king’s daughters.”
“Stepdaughters,” Pryderi snorted, correcting him. “That’s hardly a path to succession.”
“Sovereignty is through the female.”
“Not those females. They’re not of his blood. They were his daughters only because he married their mother.”
“To many, it will be enough. If you march out of Cumbria, you will be met with the forces of Rheged and Lothian. Do you want to bring civil war to Britannia?”
The prince rose. He towered over Merlin and tried to use his greater height to his advantage. The druid was not easily cowed, however, and stood his ground impassively. Pryderi said, “The throne of the High King is worth any price. If I need to destroy all of Lothian and Rheged to get it, so be it. Nothing worth winning was ever won easily.”
Merlin turned his back on the prince, intentionally delivering an insult as only he could. He strolled through the pavilion, examining the personal belongings that were scattered about like autumn leaves. He picked up a silver goblet and perused it like a shopper in a bazaar. He saw the roughly rendered Pendragon crest on the base, something that appeared to have been scratched in with a knife, and he chuckled at the pretension. In a casual tone, he said, “So you will lay waste to all of Britannia with no regard for the common people who will suffer the most.”
The prince made a dismissive sound. “What care I for the lives of the peasantry? They breed like rabbits, and if there are some lost, more will rise to take their places.”
Merlin put the goblet down and picked up a dagger. Pryderi’s escutcheon was emblazoned on the hilt. He spun the dagger in his hands. “Well,” he said finally, turning back around, his motion concealing his hands as he slid the dag
ger into the folds of his robe. “You are well on your way to becoming a proper tyrant.”
“Was Uther Pendragon really any different?”
“No,” he admitted. “We have suffered under the yoke of a long line of murderers and thieves. I suppose you will be no different.”
“Power is worth any price.”
“So you say.” He shook his head.
The prince narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t told me why you came.”
“I came to view your preparations for myself.”
“Now that you have seen them, are you satisfied? I am strong enough to take that throne, and I will take it.”
“Perhaps.” Merlin smiled, and he began to fade from view. “And perhaps not.”
The boys were already finishing up their morning meal at the kitchen table when Sir Ector stumbled down the steps from his room, his face pale, bloodshot eyes squinting against the morning light. There was no sign of the other knights.
“Kay,” Ector said. His voice was rough, as if he’d swallowed sand. “Boys, go out and catch us some fish or rabbits for tonight. We’ll have extra mouths to feed, and a little bit more meat won’t go astray.”
“Yes, Father,” Arthur agreed immediately. He looked at Amren, who nodded.
“Father,” Kay said, glancing once at his foster brother, “I’d like to stay and speak with you instead.”
Sir Ector sat heavily in his chair, propping his chin in his hand. “About what?”
“About knighthood, and about the ceremony.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. Kay had already been told everything he needed to know about the ceremony to come, and his memory was not so poor that he required repetition of the lesson. It was a ruse of some kind, and he distrusted his brother’s motives.
If Sir Ector had taken note of the subterfuge, he gave no sign. Instead, he nodded his head and grunted his agreement. Kay sat back, clearly pleased with himself.
“You didn’t attend Mass,” Amren said, his voice nearly disappearing into his tankard of cider.
The master of the keep sighed. “No. Well, God will forgive me, I hope, this once. Has your father arrived yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
The weary man tore a chunk of bread from the still-warm loaf that rested in a basket in front of Kay. “Well,” he said, taking a bite and speaking around it, “call me when he gets here.”
The boys watched as he made his unsteady way back upstairs to return to his bed.
When he was clear of the hall, Arthur turned to Kay. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing. I just don’t think I should have to hunt the food for my own party.”
“There’s more than that.”
“There’s nothing more than that,” he protested. “Don’t be such a suspicious little weasel.”
Amren pushed back his bench and stood. “Come on. I’ll fish. You get the rabbits.”
The other boy was not to be dissuaded, however. Arthur leaned toward Kay. “If you make trouble for me, I swear, I’ll -”
Kay snorted. “You’ll what?”
He didn’t have an answer, and he had no stomach for threats. Finally, he finished in a bleak tone. “I’ll remember it.”
“Remember what you like, worm.” He drained his cup and stood. “After all, of the two of us, I’m the only one who’s going to be a knight. All you’ll ever be is a catamite who scrapes up my horse’s shit.”
Arthur clenched his fists, and his face began to burn. Amren put a hand on his arm, and though his face was just as angry, he advised caution. “Drop it. He’ll get his just reward in time.”
Kay walked away, chuckling, headed toward the tiltyard. Arthur briefly envisioned himself throwing one of the table knives between his brother’s shoulder blades, but he bit back on his anger.
“He’s going to tell,” he finally said.
“Tell what?” Amren asked, though he knew exactly what he was saying.
“That we… that…”
“That we’re lovers?”
Arthur sighed. “Yes.”
“Are you ashamed of it?”
“No! Of course not. I love you. You know that. But…”
Amren turned away. “But you know that your father’s religion forbids it.” When Arthur nodded silently, he said, “Well, thankfully the Christian god is not the only god in these lands, and we’re hurting nobody. Besides, he already knows.”
Arthur’s eyes widened. “You think he does?”
The other youth laughed. “Sir Ector is many things, but he’s no idiot. He knows what happens in his own house.” He saw the horror on Arthur’s face and softened. “Don’t worry so much. He would have spoken out by now if he was going to. Now let’s go - you get the rabbits, I’ll get the fish.”
They walked out silently and collected their slings and nets. Once they were prepared for their expedition, they went out into the wood that surrounded Caer Gai. Aspens and birches and reedy poplars swayed in the wind, their leaves rustling above their heads, a spring symphony of gentle welcome. They reached a clearing, and Amren continued on toward Lake Bala while Arthur, sling in hand, crept off into the bush.
He found a quiet spot amid the spindles and elders, watching for unfortunate rabbits to come his way. He wondered why Amren had chosen to do the fishing instead of hunting for game in the wildwood. For as long as he’d known him, Amren had been a much more accomplished hunter, blessed with an uncanny ability to stalk and bring down his prey with silence and precision. Arthur, by comparison, was a clumsy oaf crashing through the underbrush; it was a miracle he ever managed to catch anything. Sitting still on the lake shore was much more in line with his hunting abilities.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. Thoughts of what Kay was saying to Sir Ector began to nag at him. He wondered just how much his foster brother had heard and seen. He knew that there had been indiscreet moments he’d shared with Amren in their common room, but he was sure that they had always waited until Kay’s snoring was rattling the rooftop. He felt embarrassed and ashamed to think that perhaps his foster brother had witnessed more than they had ever supposed.
A rabbit hopped into view, a bit too far for him to strike, and he watched it silently, waiting for it to come closer. The little brown creature fed peacefully while he ruminated. There had been moments when they had enjoyed one another nearly silently, but there had also been moments when their sport had been a bit more active, and when it had been impossible to keep their silence in the face of so much pleasure. He wondered if at one of those times, Kay had actually awoken to see them locked together on their shared pallet, rocking as one, their eyes closed, mouths seeking, bedclothes tossed aside…
He got caught up in the thought and lost sight of the rabbit, only realizing his error when he corrected his lack of focus and found the animal nowhere in sight. He set his jaw and mentally scolded himself.
Idiot. People need to eat. Pay attention!
Reminding himself of the feast ahead brought to mind Kay’s imminent knighthood, and more reason for him to be out of sorts. He knew that he was to act as his foster brother’s squire. If Kay, once he became Sir Kay, decided to strike out into the world as a knight errant, he would have no choice but to follow, leaving Caer Gai and Amren behind. He wasn’t certain he was ready to be alone in the world with only Kay as company. If he had to go, he would much prefer to go by himself, or better yet, with Amren. The two of them could make their way very well together. He would follow Amren anywhere.
Another rabbit came into view, this one a darker brown than the first had been, and slightly larger. He set his stone into his sling as stealthily as he could, locking his gaze on his prey. It hopped closer, its ears swiveling, its little nose trembling as it chewed. He stilled his breath and focused on the rabbit. He could almost hear its heartbeat, almost sense its life force shining around it like a nimbus of light, the brightest part over the head and the heart. It illuminated his target.
Without rising, he let fly with the sli
ng. The stone shot connected with the tiny skull with a crack, and the rabbit fell onto its side, twitching. Another rabbit, unseen, bolted away from the scene and vanished back into the wildwood. Arthur abandoned his hiding place and went to the fallen creature. He crouched beside it and examined the unfortunate animal. Though its skull was broken, it was still breathing raggedly. To hasten its passage, he broke its neck with a swift twist.
He took the carcass and went into the brush, looking for a new hiding place.
Kay let himself into his father’s room and lay beside him on his bed. Sir Ector grunted an acknowledgment of his presence but did not open his eyes. He grumbled, “Not hunting?”
“I’ll go look for fowl in a few minutes,” he said.
“By that time, they’ll be gone.”
“Then we’ll eat chickens.”
“No eggs tomorrow.”
Kay folded his hands over his stomach and looked up at the ceiling. When he’d been very young, during storms or after nightmares, he had spent many nights here in this bed, tucked up in safety between his parents. His mother’s face was nearly forgotten to him now. He remembered that she was kind, and that she had large brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when she laughed. He remembered her long brown hair, and how he’d clutched her skirts in his hands when he was afraid.
Sir Ector grunted, “What?”
“Father?”
“What do you need?”
He meant to point the finger at Arthur and Amren, to accuse them of their grievous sin, but when he spoke, the only words that he could find were, “Do you think she would be proud?”
His father rolled onto his side. “Your mother?”
Kay nodded, and he was surprised to find tears welling into his eyes. He had not cried over his mother’s death for years.
Sir Ector put a reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder and squeezed. “She would have been proud of you every day, knighthood or not.” He forced his hangover aside and said, “She’ll be here in spirit, I promise you.”
His boy looked down at his hands, which were worrying the tassel on his tunic belt. The image of the baby Kay with his beloved wife’s braid in his hands rose in Ector’s memory, and it stung. He pushed his own grief away, but just like always, it never went far.
