Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  Merlin stepped over the threshold into Vivienne’s bedchamber, his brow furrowed. She looked up from the bound book in which she was writing, her pen falling still as she regarded him with surprise.

  “What is it, my darling?” she asked him. “You look worried.”

  “Queen Yseult of Ireland has sent her brother with magic to Norgalis.”

  “What sort of magic?”

  He came closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “It was a curse. I have yet to determine what sort of curse it was.”

  She put her quill back into its ink pot. “And whom did she curse?”

  “King Pellinore.”

  Vivienne raised one slender eyebrow. “Indeed.”

  “I don’t know enough about the spell to know if it will inhibit him from being where he needs to be a year from now.”

  She went to her work table and retrieved her scrying mirror. She held her hand over the highly-polished bronze, and the image of Pellinore appeared before her. Merlin came to her side and looked on. Vivienne observed the king, who was lying in his bed and tossing in the grip of fever. She whispered a word, and his image was cast in a subtle shade of green.

  “Ah. A compulsion curse. Interesting.” She did not look away from the image, but she asked him, “How was the curse delivered?”

  “It was cast by the Morholt using a wand during single combat.”

  The sorceress pressed her lips together. “That wasn’t very sporting.”

  Merlin smiled. “No. Not at all.”

  “Well,” she said, dismissing the image, “if he survives this initial sickness - and I expect that he will - he will be more likely to be where he needs to be, not less.”

  “Good news.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and returned to her writing desk. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I can always depend on you.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” He strolled away from the work table and sat on a couch beside her desk. “As for the other matter…”

  “The boy,” she said simply. “The distraction.”

  “There will be no distraction now.”

  She put her hand on his cheek. “My excellent boy.”

  “Arthur believes that Pryderi did the deed, and he was ready to ride to his camp and take him on himself. He will exceed, I think.”

  “Of course he will. I have foreseen it.” She took up her pen again. “And as for Pryderi…”

  “He is gone. Bedivere saw to it, with a little help.”

  “From you?”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  She chuckled. “Clever boy. That is no loss to this world.” She dipped the quill into the ink. “Go to Londinium and prepare the way. The time is very near.”

  “Yes, Mother.” He rose and kissed her. “I know exactly what to do.”

  Bedivere, Brastias, Illtyd and Ector were sitting together in the great hall when Arthur came down in the morning. He clutched Pryderi’s dagger in his hand, the look on his face fierce. He stopped in front of the men.

  “Is he dead?”

  Bedivere looked into his stormy eyes. “Yes. Amren is avenged.”

  “You went without me,” he said reproachfully.

  “It was my right as his father, and you are still a child.”

  Arthur wanted to argue the point, but instead he held the dagger out to Bedivere. “Take this. I don’t want it.”

  Ector spoke quietly. “Be respectful.”

  He begrudgingly added, “Sir.”

  Bedivere took the weapon from Arthur and put it on the bench beside him.

  The boy asked, “And what of his army? Are they still marching closer?”

  His foster father said, “Without a leader, why would they? There’s nothing to march for. They were supporting him in a bid to become High King. Now that he’s dead, there’s nothing left for them to do but turn around and go home.”

  Arthur frowned. “They’re going to take out their frustrations on the people they meet,” he warned. “They should be followed.”

  Brastias finally spoke up, and the amusement in his voice infuriated Arthur. “Followed to what end? To watch what they do and record it like some monk?” He nodded to Illtyd. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “They should be followed and stopped from hurting innocent people,” the boy said seriously.

  “What? Just the four of us?”

  “With Kay and me, there are six.”

  “Against an army?” Bedivere asked, incredulous.

  “We have to try.”

  Brastias said, “There is nothing that six of us could do against a mob of that size. I respect your enthusiasm and your good intentions, but I think you have a lot of growing up to do before you can start throwing orders around. You have a lot to learn. Let the grown men make the decisions.”

  Arthur’s frown turned into a full-fledged scowl. “And what have the grown men decided to do? Sit and drink in safety while the people suffer?”

  Sir Ector rose. “Arthur, that is enough. Hold your tongue!” The boy glared at him, but acquiesced. Ector sighed. “Kay is training in the tiltyard. Attend him as a squire should.”

  He nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

  The knights watched him leave, and Brastias said, “That boy is a firebrand. Did you teach him all of that?”

  Ector shook his head. “No, I did not. He’s going to get us all killed with his cockamamie ideas.”

  Bedivere was still looking at the door. “Or maybe he’ll change the world. He has the makings of a fine man, Ector. He’s going to be someone to watch.”

  “Right now, I’ll be satisfied with just keeping him out of trouble.”

  Kay was setting up the quintain with Lucan’s help when Arthur reached them from the keep. He looked at his foster brother with a softness in his eyes that the younger boy did not expect and had never seen before.

  “I’m here to serve you,” he said flatly.

  Kay glanced at Lucan, then said softly, “I’m very sorry about Amren. I know you loved him. I didn’t always approve of...well, I didn’t always approve, but that doesn’t mean I’m glad he’s gone. And I’m sorry for your pain.”

  “Thank you.” He had a hundred different things he wanted to say, but none of them sorted themselves in his head. He put a hand on his foster brother’s shoulder, and Kay returned the touch, squeezing supportively.

  Lucan interrupted. “Let’s get to work,” he said. “There may be a fight soon, and we need you to be ready. Arthur, you should arm yourself and ride as well.”

  “But I’m just a squire,” he protested.

  “My lord is dead,” Lucan said bleakly, “and I am all the squire that we need here today. Mount up, young man.”

  “I have no armor and no horse.”

  “Use Amren’s. In his honor.”

  Arthur tried to speak again, but words failed him once more. He nodded and went into the stable. Lucan followed him, leaving Kay to his own devices in the tiltyard. They saddled and barded Amren’s mount and Arthur held still while Lucan strapped him into his fallen lover’s armor. He felt like an impostor, and worse, like he was somehow dancing on Amren’s grave. He turned flooded eyes to his companion’s face.

  “This feels wrong.”

  Lucan finished tightening the last strap on his breastplate. “He would want you to have it. If you wear it and fight well in it, it will be as if he’s here protecting you. Who knows? He may be doing just that in spirit.”

  “I don’t know if I believe that.”

  “Try. It will give you comfort.”

  Arthur mounted up and accepted a lance from Lucan. The wood was heavy in his hand. He put the visor down on his helmet and nodded.

  “Good. Let’s go, then.”

  Lucan trotted out ahead of him to the tiltyard, and Arthur rode slowly to meet up with Kay. The squire helped Kay into his saddle and handed him a lance of his own.

  “Shall we joust?” Kay challenged Arthur when he was close enough to
hear.

  His heart wasn’t in it. He doubted if his heart would be in anything, ever again. He nodded. “Yes.”

  His foster brother beamed at him and closed his own visor, protecting his face.

  They rode to their starting places. In Arthur’s mind, he could see Amren sitting where he was sitting now, easy in the saddle, confident with his lance and his strength. He thought of that strength, and how firm his embraces had been, and about the gentle heart beneath the sometimes-stony surface. He was the only one who had seen that heart, the only one who had been allowed close enough to really know Amren in mind and body, and Amren had been the only one to know Arthur that closely, too. Now he was alone, and sitting in a saddle he had no business using, on a horse he had no right to ride, wearing armor that was not his to wear. He felt like a fraud, and utterly hollow.

  Lucan took up position at the side of the list, his hand in the air, preparing to give the signal for their tilt. Arthur’s horse stomped, eager to run, and Avona tossed his head in readiness. Lucan’s hand dropped, and they galloped forward.

  Arthur focused on the center of Kay’s shield, holding his own shield - Amren’s shield - steady for the blow to come. They met like thunder. Arthur’s lance struck Kay in the center of his shield, blasting him back in his saddle so that his own blow went wide. The younger boy rode on, completely untouched, his lance shattered.

  Bedivere came out of the keep, attracted by the sound of their collision, and Arthur saw his face go pale when he saw him in Amren’s armor. He felt guilty and ashamed. The knight came to the fence and stood stiffly, watching.

  They took their places again and received new lances from their squire. Lucan went to the center and again gave the signal to lay on. Their horses thundered down the yard, and this time Kay struck first, his lance breaking in two on Arthur’s shield. He felt the jolt of the hit and a complaining pain in his shoulder, but he kept his seat and still managed to strike the upper edge of Kay’s shield. His lance splintered and shards of wood flew around him like snowflakes.

  They reached the opposite end of the yard and turned to face one another. Lucan supplied them with new lances, then returned to give the signal one last time. The riders spurred their horses forward. Lances struck, shields clanged, and Kay toppled into the dirt, landing on his back. Arthur reined in his mount and rushed to his foster brother’s side. Kay was wheezing when he arrived, the wind knocked out of him by his fall. Arthur pulled Kay’s helmet off and helped him to sit up.

  Kay batted him away in irritation, catching his breath at last. Bedivere and Lucan joined them in the center of the field, the knight bending over the fallen boy.

  “That was a hard fall,” he said. “Take your time.”

  Arthur removed his own helmet and sputtered, not sure which of them he was addressing. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Nonsense,” Lucan said. “Don’t apologize for winning the joust.”

  Kay nodded. “You were the better rider.”

  Arthur frowned in consternation, surprised by the change in his brother’s behavior. “You aren’t angry?”

  Bedivere helped the older boy to his feet, and Kay admitted, “I’m angry as all hell, but I have to admit that you bested me today.” He squared his shoulders. “But only today.”

  “You rode well,” Bedivere told Arthur. “The armor suits you. You should keep it, and the horse. You’ll find good use for them.”

  He felt a twinge of grief for reasons that defied his ability to explain. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Think of it as my son’s bequest to you.” He stood and looked down at Arthur, who was still kneeling in the dirt despite the fact that Kay had already walked away with Lucan. The knight spoke softly. “You were his lover.”

  The youth’s face flushed, and he admitted, “Yes.”

  Bedivere nodded. “I have had lovers of my own in the past, and I have lost them, too. I know that you are grieving him as much as I am. Maybe more.” He looked away. “I hope that his days here were happier than his days with me.”

  Arthur’s mouth was dry, but his eyes were overflowing. He stood. “He was happy here.”

  “Good.” He stared in silence for a long moment, then nodded. “Good.”

  He walked away, and Arthur could only watch him go.

  In Londinium, in the villa of the bishop Augustine, the aged prelate was sitting in his private chapel. He was supposed to be praying and meditating on the grace of his Lord, but in reality, he was napping in the pew. The acolytes and priests were keeping everyone away so he would not be disturbed in his “devotions.”

  Acolytes and priests were no match for Merlin. He strolled into the sanctuary, the soles of his feet sparking ever so slightly with a burning sensation, and sat beside the sleeping man. Augustine showed no response.

  “Priest,” Merlin said, letting his disdain for the man and for his foreign faith show in his voice. “Wake up.”

  The bishop snorted as he startled into wakefulness. He looked around with confused, yellowing eyes and peered into the young face of the druid beside him. As soon as he recognized his visitor, the corners of his mouth turned down in an unhappy sneer.

  “Merlin ap Satanas.” He spoke as if the name itself was acid on his tongue. “What do you want? This is a holy place. You are not welcome here.”

  Merlin smiled. “That is not my name, old man, and I am as welcome here as any other man created by your god.”

  He pulled himself up straighter. “You are a monster sent by the serpent, a relic of the pagan evils of this land that I and my kind have come to vanquish. You are no man.”

  “And you are no saint, so let us dispense with these pleasantries.” Merlin leaned back in the pew and gazed up at the mournful face of the painted figure on the cross. “We in Britannia have a problem, and it is up to you and me to fix it.”

  Augustine scooted away from Merlin, putting some distance between them so they could not touch even accidentally. “And what problem is that?”

  “We need to find the successor to Uther Pendragon. We need a new High King.”

  “God in His mercy will send us our king.” He crossed himself.

  “And how will you know him when he comes? Surely your god will send him with some sort of letter of introduction, or with some sort of sign.”

  The bishop nodded. “There will be a sign, and we will know it when it comes.”

  “What if we were to help things along a little?” Merlin turned his blue eyes onto the old man’s face, smiling benignly. “We can create a test, and let the gods determine who will succeed at it.”

  Augustine rose and took a few halting steps toward the altar. “And what test do you suggest? Some sort of sorcery?”

  “A miracle.”

  “You cannot work miracles. Only saints and gods can do such things.”

  “I can create a puzzle that only a miracle can solve. If we work together, our gods will bless this work, and we can find the one that has been sent to be High King.”

  Merlin’s light tone was irritating to the bishop, if the continually souring expression on his face was any indication. Augustine said, “My God does not require your gods.”

  “And my gods don’t require yours. Remember, this land is still more ours than yours.” He smiled. “But I offer my hand in friendship. We should work together.”

  The bishop paced a short path from one side of the altar to the other, his left foot dragging ever so slightly as he went along his doddering way. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, and Merlin waited patiently for the man’s slow mind to catch up with him.

  “What do you suggest?” Augustine finally asked.

  “I propose something that is both symbol and test at once. Something that only the true High King can do. Something that will be so obvious that even the most doubting mind must accept its authenticity.”

  The bishop crossed the aisle and sat in another pew across from Merlin. “I’m listening.”

  The druid smiled. “I will take a boulder
and set it in front of the cathedral. Then I will drive a sword into the boulder, and then only the rightful king can pull it free.”

  Augustine laughed harshly. “How could you do such things? Everyone knows you can’t put a sword into a stone!”

  “Ah, but I can.”

  “If you can, then is it by infernal means, and you can make it so that anyone you choose can be the one to succeed. It is no valid test,” the bishop grumbled.

  “If I create the test, and then you sanctify it in the name of your god, would that not remove any infernal taint that you claim it has?” Merlin raised one slender brow. “If you bless this test and its intention in the name of your Nazarene, and if the test takes place here on hallowed ground, would that not suffice?”

  “I do not trust you, demon.” He crossed his arms and glared.

  “As well you should not. I don’t trust you, either. We have contended with one another for the souls of the Britons for too long. But listen to me now: if we do not cooperate in this matter, there will be no British souls left to claim, for they will all be killed in the battles to come. There are twelve kings who all think they have a right to the High King’s throne, and they are ready to fight for it. Do you want to leave the people of this land to those wolves? That doesn’t even take into account ambitious princes or invaders from foreign lands.” Merlin rose. “The choice is yours, Augustine, but I caution you not to take too long deciding. People will be dying very soon. Lot is preparing to sail from the Orkney Islands, and Uriens in Rheged is marshalling his forces. Norgalis’s king is mad, and King Rions is riding roughshod over Gwent as we speak. Shall I go on?”

  Augustine held up his hands. “No. Enough.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Create your test, then, and I will bless it after Mass in the full view of the people. We will then send out criers with this news. Anything to keep this land from erupting into flames.”

  The druid nodded with a smile. “It will be done. You have chosen wisely.”

  The old man was clearly not convinced. “That remains to be seen.”