Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

Merlin snorted. “Many marriages have started in worse ways.”

  “Like my parents’ marriage?”

  The druid nodded. “Yes. Just like that.”

  Arthur looked down at his feet. “Does Queen Igraine still live?”

  “She does.”

  “Do you…” He licked his lips nervously. “Do you think she would want to meet me?”

  His foster father shook his head. “She has gone into seclusion in a convent. She is lost to the rest of the world.”

  “Convents have doors, don’t they?” Arthur asked. “They’re not prisons.”

  “Leave her be,” Merlin counseled. “If you go to her, you will receive no kind welcome.”

  “Why? Does she hate me so much?”

  “She hated your father.” The druid put a hand on his arm. “It is best to leave her to her solitude.”

  Kay returned with a serving woman, who carried a tray of mugs while Kay himself carried a rundlet of wine. Bedivere exclaimed when he saw them, “Ah! And now for a proper celebration.”

  The death of Madoc had been deliberately forgotten, and Arthur was glad to stop thinking about it. They drank to the health of the newly betrothed couple, and to the happiness of their future. They lifted their glasses to friendship and to the voyage they would soon undertake to Londinium, nearly in Saxon territory. After the last toast, Merlin silently raised his mug in salute to Arthur himself, and Arthur responded in kind. They drank to one another, with no one else the wiser.

  Morning came in a blaze of pain. Arthur groaned at the combined sounds of the rooster crowing and the chapel bell ringing matins. Every peal and every bird call resounded through his head like a hammer.

  Griflet was already awake and enthusiastic to start the day. He prodded Arthur’s leg with his toe. “Get up, sleepy head. Time to pack.”

  He was confused and fuzzy-brained. He had consumed more wine last night than he had in his entire life, and he could still smell it on his own breath. “Pack?” he managed.

  “For the trip to Londinium. Isn’t is exciting? I’ve never been east of Viroconium. This will be my first time in the city.” He tossed his satchel onto his pallet, and it landed with a thump that made Arthur groan. Griflet chuckled at his misery. “I’m surprised they let you drink so much last night. You were pouring it down like it was a contest. I wasn’t sure who was getting drunk faster, you or Sir Brastias.” He paused. “Of course, I suppose if I’d just killed a man for the first time, I’d be drinking like a fish, too.”

  Arthur rolled onto his side with some difficulty. The next step was to actually get up, but he saw no need to rush things. He lay there quietly, watching the room through bleary eyes.

  Griflet tossed some things into his satchel and kept chattering. Arthur wanted to kill him. “Why do you think Prince Madoc attacked you, anyway? Why would he come for you?”

  “He didn’t,” Arthur managed to say. His voice sounded like grit on stone, and his throat felt much the same. “I was just closest to the gate.”

  “Huh. I suppose. So he was going to just come in and kill everybody single-handed and take Caer Gai? All alone? Doesn’t sound very smart.”

  “Wasn’t.” He managed to get onto his knees. He was making progress. “He died.”

  “True. It wasn’t a very well-thought-out attack.” Griflet gathered his shirts out of the chest at the foot of his pallet and let the lid slam back down. Arthur winced. “I wonder what he was thinking, and why he thought he could take the whole keep all by himself. Isn’t that strange? What do you think made him do that?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He loudly pulled the drawstring on his bag. Arthur was convinced that he was doing it on purpose. “My uncle thinks maybe King Uther told him about you, and that you’re his heir. So I really do think he was coming to kill you. What’s it like, having people trying to murder you? This is probably just the first of a hundred that will happen.”

  “Oh my God,” Arthur groaned. He struggled to his feet. “Shut up.”

  His companion chuckled. “I guess you’re not going to be drinking so much again, eh?”

  He got dressed slowly, finding that the longer he was awake, the easier moving became. Griflet was watching him with a sly expression, as if he could start talking again at any moment, but thankfully he had remembered how to be quiet. When he was dressed and ready for the day, more or less, his companion shoved an empty bag into his hands.

  “Pack quickly,” he said. “We’re leaving soon.”

  He patted Arthur on the shoulder and left the room at a trot, heading down to the courtyard to help prepare the horses for the journey. Arthur filled the bag with the things he thought he should bring, including his best clothes. If he was going to be declared king, he couldn’t do it dressed in simple homespun. He was just tying the bag closed when Sir Ector came into the room.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  Arthur nodded, although moving his head was still an invitation to pain. “Yes. As ready as I can ever be, I suppose.”

  Ector looked at him with stormy eyes. A hundred different emotions, it seemed, flickered there, flashing across his face one after another in a dizzying procession. Finally, Ector said, “I don’t really know what the future will bring. I don’t know if we are going to your glory or to our doom, or to some combination of the two. I am afraid for you, Arthur.”

  He put his bag down and asked, “Did you know?”

  “No. I suspected that you were the child of someone of great import, but it never occurred to me until recently that it might have been the High King.” He sighed. “I wish this wasn’t happening now. You’re still so young.”

  “I feel like I’m a thousand years old, and not just because of the drink.”

  Ector walked to him and put his one good hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I have no doubt that you will be a good king. I will do everything in my power to ensure that you survive to be the man I know you’ll be.”

  Arthur embraced him, and his father held him tightly. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. You didn’t have to be so kind to me, but you were. I will never forget it.”

  Ector rubbed his back. “I love you, son. I could not have loved you more if you were my own blood. You make me proud.”

  They held one another for a long while, then Ector bent and picked up Arthur’s bag. The young man reached out for it, but Ector pulled it away with a smile. He dropped his hand and let his father carry it down to the courtyard.

  The horses were saddled and ready, and the group had assembled. Brastias was squinting fiercely but otherwise showed no ill effects of his carousing the night before. Garwen sat on her palfrey beside him, her eyes bright, happiness glowing from her face. The group looked at Arthur and Ector expectantly as they arrived, some with more knowing in their eyes than others. Arthur swung into the saddle on Amren’s horse and paused, taking a long look at the only home he had ever known. Caer Gai looked back, and for just a heartbeat, he felt as if the old keep was telling him goodbye.

  He felt sure that he would not be seeing this place again.

  They rode out following the old Roman road. Sir Ector, Sir Bedivere, and Sir Brastias huddled over their maps and very carefully determined their route, selecting the spots where they would stop for the night and which towns and villages they would avoid. The road was still in relatively good repair and would take them through Viroconium, Letocetum, Venonis, and Verulamium en route to Londinium. The longest stretch would be from Venonis to Verulamium, and at least one night would be spent camping or possibly in some tiny farming village along the way.

  The benefit of traveling such a well-worn path was that everyone else traveling from the west toward Merlin’s kingship test would be taking the same road. There would be safety in numbers if any bands of brigands hoped to waylay them in their travels. Arthur knew that this benefit was also the drawback to the plan. They would very possibly encounter other travelers heading for the test, would-be kings who hoped to free the
sword and who would likely have no qualms about murdering Arthur in his bedroll if they suspected who he was. His secret would have to be very carefully guarded.

  Sir Ector rode in the front, with Garwen and Sir Brastias behind him. Next came Arthur, flanked by Sir Kay and Merlin, followed by Griflet and Lucan, with Sir Illtyd bringing up the rear. They rode in a formation like an arrowhead, pointing out of Cambria. Arthur wondered idly who had shot the bow from which they flew.

  Halfway to Letocetum, they caught sight of a column of smoke above the trees, too large to be a campfire. Sir Ector stopped their progress with a raised hand, and they all reined in, their eyes on the dark smudge staining the sky.

  “Trouble ahead,” he told the group. “Stay close, and have your swords at the ready. There is no telling what we will find.”

  The knights limbered their swords and brought their shields forward from their backs to their arms. Garwen nudged her palfrey to walk a little closer to her future husband’s mount. Arthur frowned at the way she crowded Sir Brastias, seeing that if the knight needed to draw his sword, Garwen and her little horse would be in the way. She would be a liability.

  “My lady,” he called out, riding forward. “Change your place with me and you will be better protected.”

  The others looked prepared to argue, but they allowed him to tuck Garwen into the pocket between Kay and Merlin while he, with his borrowed shield, moved up to ride beside Sir Brastias, far enough away that they both could use their swords without hitting one another. His foster father nodded to him in silent approval of the move.

  The road was paved and the ground was frozen, but Arthur could make out the marks of a hundred hooves and the wheels of large carts. An army had moved through these woods, and when they entered the valley that was emitting the smoke, they saw its handiwork.

  Gnarled, burned husks of trees reached skeletal hands toward the sky in silent anguish. The sooty trunks surrounded what remained of a tiny village, the houses and fields scorched almost beyond recognition. The corpses of the dead lay untended in the open air, all simple farmers, all cut down with blades. A trio of crows, surfeited from their meal of human carrion, perched on a fence and watched them as they approached.

  Sir Ector dismounted from his destrier to pick carefully through the rubble, conducting a half-hearted search for survivors that they all knew would not be found. The village had been small, barely more than a cluster of five little homesteads, and it wasn’t long before Ector gave up hope of finding anyone left alive. He pressed his lips into a grim line and looked around, his right arm crossing his body so he could grip the pommel of his sword. The air was thick with the stench of old fires and dried blood.

  “Everyone is dead,” Sir Ector finally said. “And there’s nothing left here of any value, not even so much as a single coin. There’s a month’s worth of food stores burned in the barn. Whoever did this was bent on destruction as well as theft.”

  “Why?” Arthur asked.

  The carrion crows launched into the air, startling them as they passed over their heads. His foster father shook his head. “I don’t know.” He looked around. “I don’t know who could possibly stand to gain from these people’s demise. Let’s get back on the road. This is a haunted place.”

  “Whose lands are these?”

  Bedivere looked angry and responded to Arthur’s question. “Mine.”

  “Ah. A message for you, perhaps?” Illtyd suggested.

  “If it is a message, I fail to understand it.”

  “I understand it plain,” Kay said. All eyes turned to him. “They are disputing your authority and daring you to find them. They are telling you that they have no respect for you.”

  “Thank you, Sir Kay,” Bedivere said, his tone acid. “I had understood that far. The nuances are what have yet to be determined.”

  Kay scowled at the tacit reprimand. “How nuanced are dead peasants?”

  No one had an answer. They continued as they had been, following Sir Ector’s lead. The road twisted to the left, rounding a steep hill covered by a thick copse of trees. As he rode, Arthur could hear the whispery rustling of the last remaining leaves overhead, still clinging to the branches and waiting for a gust of wind to send them fluttering to the ground. Though Yule had not yet come, the wind carried the scent of winter on its breath. The sky was turning darker, and Arthur hoped that there would be shelter around the bend.

  There was a crofter’s hut in the woods beyond the hill, nestled into the bosom of the forest as if it had grown there. The thatched roof was spotted with moss, and the door hung open on one leather hinge. Its wooden face showed where it had been struck with blades, either by swords or by axes. A horse lay dead in the clearing before the hut, its hooves toward the sky and its body studded with the thick black shafts of arrows. A pool of stagnant blood surrounded its head, coming from a terrible wound in its neck. Arthur looked at the hut as he passed, and just inside the door, he could see a bloody hand lying palm up at the threshold.

  “Lady Garwen,” Brastias said gently. “Do not look.”

  The lady turned her face into the hood of her cloak, hiding her eyes and blocking out the dreadful images of death and destruction. Arthur did the opposite, staring at the carnage while he rode by, burning it into his mind. He would remember this.

  They reached Letocetum an hour after sunset. The town straddled the road, its walls studded with a dozen torches set into iron sconces that blazed with golden light, drawing them in. A gate across the road was tightly closed, and Ector pounded on it with his gauntleted fist. The spyhole door slid aside, and a pair of scowling dark eyes looked out.

  “It’s after dark. What do you want?”

  Bedivere leaned forward from his position behind Sir Ector. “I am Sir Bedivere of Viroconium, and I and my company seek refuge in your town for the night. Open the gate.”

  The man behind the sliding door sneered, “Cornovii, all of you? This is the mansio of the Corieltauvi. Our tribe is at war with yours. Or haven’t you heard?”

  “In these days when the Saxons are invading our shores, you still speak of tribes?” Brastias mocked.

  The man looked leaned closer and looked at them all, taking in the heavily armored knights and their grim-faced squires. “What, are you Iceni?”

  “I was born to the Atrebates, if you must know, and this man is of the Silures, and this is a Dumnonian. What does it matter? We are all Britons, you bloody fool.”

  “You look like trouble. Stay out.”

  Merlin dropped the hood of his cloak so the man could see his face, and he spoke in a voice that carried through the night air like the pluck of a harp string. Menace filled the air around him, and shadows clung to him like a cloud. “I am Merlin of Ynys Môn, and you will open your gate or pay the consequences of your disrespect.”

  The man staggered back from the spyhole, then rushed back forward. “Yes, sir. Yes, Master Merlin. I’m sorry. Just one moment.”

  The gate opened with a groan, the chains that held its counterweights clanking as the man worked the turn screw. They proceeded before the way was fully open, Bedivere casting a hard look at the gatekeeper as they passed.

  Letocetum was a crowded place, with dozens of houses crammed together within the walls. The telltale signs of the city’s Roman past were everywhere, but it was clear that the place had seen better days. Merlin led the way toward the mansio, a two-story affair with a tile roof and whitewashed walls. The streets were virtually empty. The gatekeeper ran past them, rushing to the mansio to announce their arrival. The doors were flung open for them, and the party rode into the courtyard unimpeded.

  There were many horses tethered to posts throughout the courtyard, and grooms and servants of all descriptions scurried to and fro. The mansio was overcrowded, and Arthur wondered if they would be better off spending the night in the forest on the other side of the city. Merlin looked at the group and slid down to the ground, abandoning his horse to Lucan’s care.

  “I will find a
ccommodations for us,” the druid announced, his tone indicating that he neither expected nor would accept any other alternative. He walked into the main hall of the building, leaving them to stand with their horses and gear.

  Brastias helped Garwen from her horse’s back. She rested her hands on his forearms and smiled up at him, and he kissed her forehead tenderly. Arthur dismounted and looked away, feeling that he was intruding in a private moment that he should not be witnessing. Griflet, already standing on the ground, saw his discomfort and smiled to him.

  “It’s just a kiss, friend,” he said. “I’m pleased to see him showing her affection.”

  Sir Kay swung his leg over Avona’s neck and dropped lightly to the ground. Whatever his other failings, he was an accomplished horseman. He tossed the reins to Arthur. “Here, squire,” he said, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Take care of my horse.”

  Bedivere looked down from his charger’s back, shaking his head. “You won’t be able to do that for long, you know.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m going to enjoy it while I can.”

  Arthur snorted. “We don’t even know if we’re staying yet.”

  “Oh, we’re staying,” Bedivere said firmly. He, too, alit and stalked toward the hall. “If the Corieltauvi think they are at war with me, then I will take them at their word. I will have my satisfaction for the death of my tenants.”

  Sir Ector stopped him with a hand to his chest. “Hold, brother,” he said. “More bloodshed is not what we need. We Britons will never survive if we succumb to this internecine warfare. We should unite, not fight amongst ourselves.”

  Bedivere pushed him away firmly but without rancor. “They should have thought of that before they killed my people.”

  Illtyd shook his head and scoffed. “Since when do you care about your people? You only take notice of them when taxes are due.”

  The lord of Viroconium drew his sword and rounded on Illtyd, murder in his eyes. Arthur and Griflet threw themselves between Bedivere and his intended victim, and Ector grabbed at him with his good hand. Brastias stepped up and roared, “Here, now! What is this foolishness?”