by J A Cummings
“They’re still people,” Arthur objected.
“Bah. They’re a resource.”
The boy leveled a cold look at the Norse knight. “Do you have lands, Sir Ulfius?”
He saw the glare on Arthur’s face and was clearly annoyed by it. “Of course I do. How else would I get the money to keep myself in horses and armor? It’s all from rents, boy.” He narrowed his own blue eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I pity your tenants.”
Sir Ector grumbled warningly, “Arthur…”
“Your ward has a sassy mouth for an unwanted bastard,” Ulfius told Ector, his gaze locked with Arthur’s. “Perhaps all of this soft feeling for the underclasses is because he knows that’s where he belongs.”
“If you are trying to insult me, you’ve failed,” Arthur said. “I may well be a bastard by blood, but at least I’m not a bastard in behavior.”
Ector grabbed his ward by the back of the neck, his one good hand hauling him out of his seat. The boy winced as he was dragged to the floor and pushed down onto his knees. “I will not have you speak this way to a man who is your superior, and a guest in my home. How dare you?”
He knew he should have apologized, but it would have been a lie. He held his silence, his eyes cast down onto the flagstones. Ector rose and pulled him over to kneel in front of Ulfius.
“Apologize to him! Now!”
Arthur struggled with his conscience and came up with words that wouldn’t make him a liar. “I apologize that I offended you, Sir Ulfius.”
The man grasped his chin in his hand and squeezed, his thumb pressing painfully. He forced Arthur to look up into his face. “Who do you think you are, whelp?” Ulfius hissed.
“No one, sir,” he answered with difficulty.
The knight spat in his face. “On that we are agreed. You are no one. You are not fit to sit at table with fine noblemen like Sir Kay, whose celebration you are ruining.” He released his grip on his face. “Send him away, Ector. I don’t want to see his face again.”
“Go to your room, Arthur. Now.”
The boy rose stiffly, his rage barely contained in his tension-strained muscles. He was spoiling for a fight, bubbling over with anger that needed a place to go. He considered taking one last verbal shot at the Norse knight, but he thought better of it and wiped the spittle from his face instead.
He turned to the assembly. “I apologize for the disruption in this celebration. Sir Kay, I wish you very well in your new life. Excuse me.”
Without waiting for anyone to respond, he left the great hall and went up the stairs to his sleeping quarters.
Arthur sat on his pallet with his back against the wall, his hands on his knees. He could just barely hear the celebration downstairs through his open door, the laughter and the music reaching him in an indistinct jumble of sound. He wished he had kept his opinions to himself. He was hungry, having fasted with Kay and Ector before this morning’s Mass, and his stomach rumbled uncomfortably.
He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. There was a crack in the masonry that he had stared at a hundred times before, and here he was, staring at it again. It seemed that his life was destined to be lived in this little room from beginning to end.
At least it was his and his alone now. Kay’s belongings had been moved out to the guest house, where he would be staying from now on. As a knight, he would be given more comfortable accommodations, with soft sheets and an actual bed instead of a straw pallet covered over with blankets. His scriptorium had been moved out as well, although Arthur was reasonably certain that it would see no further use now that Kay’s book education was ended. He sometimes marveled at the depths to which his foster brother’s laziness could extend.
He heard someone coming up the steps, hard boot soles crunching against the grain of the stone. Arthur rose to his feet to meet the visitor, whose steps were different than Sir Ector’s. Whoever was coming, they were not supposed to be there, and he doubted that the visit was meant in friendliness. Silently, he found his dagger and held it at the ready, hidden behind his right thigh.
Ulfius came into view, his face flushed, reeking with drink. He closed the door behind himself and set the latch, then turned to face the boy.
“You me a better apology, you little catamite,” he said, “and I mean to take it.”
Arthur stayed silent, but he drew the dagger out into the open, clutching it in his white-knuckled grip. Ulfius looked at it and barked a laugh.
“You really think you can fight me? A strip of a thing like you? Ha! You’re no better than a girl, and you think you can fight me?”
“If it’s a girl you’re looking for, I’m told there are some in town.” Arthur sounded calm and steady to his own ears, which surprised him; his heart was pounding. “You will find no bed wenches here.”
The Norse warrior approached, an unpleasant smile on his face, as he opened the clasp holding his fur cloak closed. It dropped around his feet, revealing his breastplate, engraved with birds of prey. He lowered his hand to the strings on his trousers, opening the lacings. “What I find here will be enough. Boys can look like girls if you turn them face down. The asshole is the same, and that’s what I want.”
Arthur was already standing with his back to the wall, which was not exactly an advantageous position from which to start a fight with a larger man. Still, he gestured with the dagger threateningly.
Ulfius laughed at him, his breath stinking. “Oh, come now, boy. We all know about you and Amren. This won’t be the first time you’ve been plowed.”
He glared at the mention of his beloved’s name and took a step forward. “And what makes you think Amren was doing the plowing?”
The knight looked surprised, but then roared with mirth. “Well, that makes it all the better! If your ass is virgin, then let me in!”
Arthur let Ulfius take another step forward. The man unlimbered a massive erection, the red tip already drooling as he stroked it. He swayed on his feet as he displayed himself.
“Take a good look at your doom, boy.”
“Take a look at your own.”
He lunged, leaping at Ulfius with all of his strength. He knocked the big man backward, using his inebriation and imbalance to his advantage. Ulfius landed on his back, his backplate banging loudly against the rush-covered stone floor. Arthur straddled him, sitting on his broad chest, the dagger pressing against the blond fighter’s throat. Ulfius looked shocked to find himself in such a position.
The edge of the dagger, honed for skinning coneys, pressed against his neck, welting the skin and drawing blood to the surface. Arthur leaned closer and spat in Ulfius’s face, returning the insult he had taken earlier in the evening.
“You are a drunken lout and a raping boor,” Arthur hissed, “and I would sooner spread for all the world than for you. If you lay one hand on me, I will cut it off. If you touch me with your cock, I will cut it off.” He pressed harder with the blade. “If you want to live, you will leave Caer Gai tonight. The next time I see you, if you insult me, I will teach you to respect me.”
Ulfius frowned. “Ah, but I am drunk. Take me in a fair fight, and there might be something to say.” He grabbed Arthur’s waist and flipped them, and he landed hard on top of the boy, who grunted as he lost his air. Ulfius grabbed Arthur’s wrist and tried to pry the dagger away. “Now I will teach you a thing or two, little boy.”
He forced his knee between Arthur’s thighs, pushing them apart. The boy squirmed beneath him, which only incited Ulfius more. The man laughed and succeeded in breaking one of the boy’s fingers. Arthur cried out in pain, and bucked beneath him. Ulfius tossed the dagger into the corner of the room.
“Oh, yes. I like it when they fight.”
Arthur reached out his hand, blindly searching for something he could use to defend himself. He could feel the hot brand of Ulfius’s desire pressing against his belly, and he was struggling not to panic. He reached down and took his attacker’s engorged penis in his hand and gave i
t a hard yank to the side. He was rewarded with a loud popping sound and the man’s howl of pain. Ulfius punched him in the face, and Arthur’s mouth filled with blood. He spat it in Ulfius’s face.
The Norse knight rolled away from him, cradling his injured member with his hand. Arthur leaped up to his feet and grabbed his dagger again. He pointed it at him.
“Get. Out.”
Ulfius could barely stand, but he staggered to his feet, still breathless in his agony. He opened the door and grasped the jamb for support, facing Arthur with fury. “You little bastard,” he growled. “I will kill you.”
Another figure appeared at the top of the stairs, taking form out of the shadow and the air. Merlin stepped into view. “Sir Ulfius, stop.”
The knight swayed where he was standing. He recognized the voice without looking at the speaker. “Merlin.”
“Leave now and Sir Ector need never know about this. I do not think that he will appreciate you attempting to rape his ward, and neither will the other armed men in the great hall.” Merlin smiled like a serpent. “I know that I do not.” A spark of magic arced over the druid’s hand, and it crackled in the little room like lightning.
Ulfius relented. He glared at Arthur, who stood panting in the center of the room, his lips red with the blood that still flowed into his mouth. “This isn’t over, you little guttersnipe.”
“Yes,” the druid said quietly. “It is.”
He did not increase in size, but he emanated a feeling of threat that seemed to billow from him like a great cloud, filling the room and the corridor outside it with the threat of his displeasure. Tiny flashes of fire wreathed him in the darkening air.
Ulfius gave his intended victim one last baleful look, then tucked his wounded member back inside his clothes. He grabbed his cloak and staggered down the stairs back to the great hall.
Merlin came into the room and closed the door. Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his chin. “Thank you,” he said.
“You had things well in hand,” the druid shrugged. “I just needed to give him that last little reminder to behave himself. Let’s have a look at you, shall we?”
Merlin came to Arthur and made him open his mouth. He looked inside and reached a finger in, pressing it to the loosened teeth and cut cheek. He nodded to himself and took a tiny vial from a pocket, and he wet his finger with the liquid that was inside. He reached back into Arthur’s mouth and pressed as he had done before. A warm tingle spread out from his touch, and the damage was undone. He turned his attention to Arthur’s twisted finger.
“This will hurt.”
“It already does.”
“Hmm. Wait for it.”
Merlin twisted the digit back into place, and Arthur howled. It snapped, and then Merlin dumped a few drops of his potion into the boy’s open mouth. The warm tingle that had healed his teeth sped over his damaged hand, and the pain vanished.
“There. That’s better,” the druid said, satisfied. “Any other hurts?”
Arthur felt bruises forming on his back and on his wrist, but he shook his head. “No. Nothing worth noting.”
The druid smiled and coated a hand with his potion and pressed it to the boy’s chest, pushing the tingling energy of healing into him. The bruised feeling went away. “A handprint on your wrist is not something you want to display when you already have the reputation that you have.”
“And what reputation is that?”
Merlin smirked. “You’ve already heard it from Ulfius.”
“So I loved another boy,” Arthur said defensively. “Where’s the shame in that?”
“Oh, there isn’t shame in it, but if they think that you were the doe to Amren’s stag, then they will have but little respect for you. I already told you this when I told you to put him aside.” Merlin stepped back and looked into Arthur’s eyes.
The boy was flushed with anger, and Merlin’s words gave birth to a nauseating suspicion in his mind. “You told me to put him aside, and suddenly he turns up dead,” Arthur growled. “That was a strange coincidence.”
“Yes, perhaps, but coincidences happen. And sometimes the Fates step in to save us from ourselves.” Merlin was clearly unimpressed by Arthur’s tacit accusation. “In any case, the fact remains that Amren is gone, and you are now tasked with proving that you are as much a man as any of these fools.”
“A man?” he echoed. His frustration and anger, fed by the fear he still felt from the attack, threatened to explode. “But everybody tells me that I’m just a boy. I’m not even really a squire yet.”
“In a very short period of time, you will need to be a man, a knight, and a king.”
“What are you talking about?” Arthur snapped. “You’re raving. You must be just as drunk as Ulfius.”
“I am pathetically sober,” Merlin smirked. Arthur wanted to rip the expression off his smug face. “I am telling you that times will begin to change very quickly, very soon. You must be ready to prove yourself through force of arms against men like that, strong men, able men. Men who have fought in deadly combat and survived. You already have the making of a warrior, but it is time to accelerate the pace of your learning.”
Arthur wiped his dagger clean and put it back into its sheath, turning his back on Merlin if only so he could keep himself from punching him. The druid’s vagueness and the feeling that Merlin was mocking him made Arthur want to pummel him.
The druid kept talking. “I will speak with your foster father in the morning and will ask him to give you to me for a time. I will teach you what you need to know. What do you think of that?”
Arthur forced himself to steady, layering artificial calm over the stop of his seething rage. “I thank you for your interest in me and will be grateful for your tutelage,” he lied stiffly. “I enjoy learning.”
Merlin chuckled. “Such self-control. You really want to just slit my throat right now, don’t you?”
The boy did not turn around, but he admitted, “Yes.”
“But whom are you angry with? Me? Ulfius? Yourself?”
This time, he did turn. “Oh, with you. Definitely with you.”
Merlin put his hand to his chest and feigned shock. “After all I did to save you from that man? This is slender gratitude.” He smiled. “No matter. I like your spirit. You will need it in times to come.”
“So you keep saying.” Arthur put his dagger and its sheath onto the dresser. “I wish you’d speak clearly just for once in your damned life.”
He knew that he had spoken out of turn, and for a moment, he nearly gasped as his own temerity. He was only a minor noble’s ward, probably the by-blow of some long dead fool, and he had directly insulted the most powerful druid in Britain. He expected to be turned to ash at any moment.
Merlin laughed. “These will be interesting days.”
Before Arthur could respond, the druid vanished as he had arrived, nothing but a trick of the darkness.
Merlin found Ulfius in the great hall, huddled around a massive tankard of ale. He bent and whispered in the big man’s ear. “I will have a word with you in a moment.”
Ulfius grunted but did not otherwise respond.
The druid walked smoothly to stand beside the bard in the center space between the tables. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder and smiled. “The gods blessed you when they gave you your voice, Taliesin.”
The bard, startled but pleased, bowed his head. “Lord Merlin!”
At the head table, Sir Ector rose. “I am honored by your presence here, my lord,” he said. “Please, join us in our celebration.”
Merlin smiled. “I heard of Sir Kay’s knighting,” he said, “although I don’t recall receiving an invitation.”
The hall fell silent, and all eyes turned to the host, whose face had gone pale. “I…”
“No matter,” the druid said jovially enough. “I have just left Londinium and have not yet reached Ynys Môn, so it may well be waiting for me there.”
Ector knew
that he had just been given a reprieve and a chance to save face. He also knew that Merlin would want something in return for his generosity. “I trust you have been safe on the road,” he said.
“I have. I am, as you may suspect, rather difficult to harm.” The assembled people laughed politely and uncomfortably. Merlin’s intimidating power, the cloud he had created to drive Ulfius from Arthur, was clinging to him. He reeled it in. “Sir Kay, would you like to know your future?”
Kay looked at his father, then back at the druid. “Yes, sir. I would.”
“Then let me see your palm.”
Merlin approached the head table, and Kay hesitantly held out his hand. Merlin took it in his and traced the lines there, studying them, his head bent over the pink skin. He nodded.
“I see you in a royal palace, a great man.” Kay beamed. Merlin selected his words carefully. “I see you in many adventures and feats of arms. Your name will be remembered for all time.” He closed Kay’s fingers, rolling his hand into a loose fist. “Your fame will never die.”
Ector looked proudly at his son, who in turn seemed astonished by the prophesy. “Thank you, my lord Merlin,” the country’s newest knight enthused. “Thank you very much! Father, did you hear?”
“I heard, my son. Everyone heard.” Ector raised his glass to the druid. “Welcome, my lord Merlin, to our celebration. Aithne, bring our new guest a plate and a chair.”
Merlin smiled. “My thanks. I will find my seat here on this bench by my old friend Ulfius.” He walked back to where the Norseman sat. “Please, Taliesin… play on.”
The bard bent over his harp and returned to his work, and the druid sat comfortably beside the suffering knight. Ulfius took a deep draught of his ale, trying to numb his hidden pain. Merlin leaned closer to him and spoke so that only the Norse knight could hear.
“I should leave you in your agony for what you tried to do, but you and your strength will be needed. If I heal you, you must obey me in everything I tell you. Do you agree?”
