Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  “So are our sacred groves and holy wells,” Merlin said. “And our circles of standing stones are more sacred than any church.”

  “That, my friend, is a matter of opinion,” Ector said softly. He went forward into the pews and knelt. One by one the others joined him until soon only Arthur, Bedivere and Merlin stood aloof from the prayers of their companions.

  “We will be staying in the cellar,” Merlin told them. “It will be cold, but it will be safe, and they will not think to look for us there. They will expect us to be in the Archbishop's palace, or in the rectory.”

  “Instead we will be among the dead,” Brastias said.

  “The dead?” Arthur asked.

  “The catacombs and tombs are beneath the church,” Merlin answered, “but don’t worry. I’m told that the inhabitants are very quiet.”

  “That’s ghoulish,” the young man chided.

  Merlin shrugged. “This way.”

  Bedivere gestured toward their friends. “What about them?”

  “I’ll retrieve them when they’re done begging for mercy or forgiveness or whatever it is that they’re doing.”

  He crouched and grasped a metal handle set into one of the stones on the floor. He lifted it easily, a feat that surprised Arthur when he saw the thickness of the slab he had moved. He had never known that Merlin was so strong. A wooden ladder leaned against the wall just beneath the opening that Merlin had made, and the druid led them down with sure-footed speed, snagging an unlit torch from a nearby sconce.

  He whispered, “Tân,” and the torch sprang into flame. He lit two more torches as they passed, illuminating the dark interior of the catacomb.

  Arthur was relieved to find that the place they had entered was more than just a charnel house. There were wine casks and monks’ cells with narrow beds and scriptoria, as well as storage rooms holding the food stores for the monastery. Further down the corridor, he could smell the thick, cloying scent of the dead priests.

  “I hope there are no ghosts here,” he said.

  Merlin pushed his torch into an open sconce and said, “There are a few, but they won’t hurt you. It’s the living that you need to fear.”

  “So I keep hearing.”

  Bedivere looked through the store rooms and monks’ cells. “I suppose this will do as well as anything else, and probably better than what we can find out in the city at this late date.”

  “Of course it will,” Merlin told him. “If there were better options, I would have found them.”

  “Your arrogance -”

  “Rivals yours.”

  Arthur sighed and shook his head. “Can I stay in one of these rooms?” He indicated the monks’ cells. “There are beds. After so many nights sleeping on the ground, it would be nice to be in a little bit more comfort.”

  Merlin nodded. “Of course. Here, take this one. It’s farthest from the catacombs.”

  He suspected that the druid was having a bit of fun at his expense, mocking him for his fear of specters. “Thank you.”

  Arthur went into the tiny room. It was little more than a cramped box made of stone, with a simple wooden cross hammered to the wall above the bed. He should have felt hemmed in, but instead he felt safe and comforted. He wondered if that warm feeling was an aftereffect of the grace he’d felt in the sanctuary overhead.

  He had been raised by Sir Ector to worship God and Jesus Christ and to be a proper Christian, but it had never really resonated with him. When Merlin had taken him to Ynys Môn, he had learned about the old ways, and he had felt the sacredness of the ancient oaks and the mysterious power behind the druid rituals. He had expected one faith or the other to seem stronger to him, for God to overpower the Goddess, or for Beli Mawr to supersede the Nazarene. Nothing of the sort had happened. He had the strange feeling that half of his soul was pagan and half was Christian, and that he needed both halves to be whole. Father Marcus at Caer Gai would be horrified.

  Arthur lay on the bed, which was not as comfortable as it had looked, but which certainly was an improvement over rocks poking him in the kidneys. He was weary from the long trip from Cambria, and while he was excited to be in Londinium at last, he was also wary of the crowds and mindful of the warnings he had received. He did not want to live in fear, but he also didn’t want to die before his sixteenth summer. He would somehow find a middle ground where he could be careful but also still give himself to the joy of living.

  He wondered what life would be like when he was king. He wondered if anyone would truly be his friend once the crown was on his head, or if everyone who associated with him would do so only because they wanted something from him. That thought led him to consider his present companions, and he wondered what they hoped to gain from supporting him. The only two who he thought would be at his side without thought of recompense were his foster family, Ector and Kay. Those two alone truly loved him, he believed. They were the only two he felt that he could really trust.

  Merlin had said that he alone should be trusted, and he had certainly proven his loyalty by killing the succubus in Letocetum. Perhaps Merlin had protected him out of concern for his well being, but perhaps he had done so to gain some sort of favor. As the chief druid of greatest druid circle in the land, it would certainly be in his best interests to curry the favor of the new High King and his assistance with keeping the Christian missionaries at bay.

  Bedivere was power-hungry, and everyone knew it. He had sold everything he had to sell except his own body in the pursuit of advantage. For all Arthur knew, the knight had sold himself a time or two as well. He suspected that Bedivere would do anything for his own advancement, and if that meant protecting Arthur, he would protect him. If it meant stabbing Arthur in the back, then he would probably do that, too.

  Brastias seemed an honorable man, and Illtyd was a priest as well as a knight and therefore should have been beyond reproach. Griflet and Garwen were callow and innocent, and Arthur doubted that either of them meant him any harm or entertained any hidden motivations. He would trust them, he supposed, until they showed him he should do differently.

  His mind was tired from second-guessing his traveling companions’ attitudes, and he closed his eyes with a heavy sigh. If this was what he had to look forward to as king, he would just as soon go back to Caer Gai and let the warlords have it out over the sword in the stone.

  No, he thought. I can’t do that. There would be war without ending and we would be slaughtering each other from one end of Britannia to the other. He rubbed his face with his hands. He had only one course to steer, and that was straight ahead.

  “Arthur.” It was Merlin, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “Are you feeling unwell?”

  “No.” He sat up on his elbows. “Just tired.”

  Merlin looked into his eyes for a long moment, and then his gaze traveled down Arthur’s body before he turned away. “I’m about to go up and get our companions. Would you like to come, or are you content to stay as you are?”

  “I’m happy to stay.”

  The druid nodded. “I thought so. I’ll have the archbishop’s kitchen send food soon.”

  “Thank you.” Merlin turned to leave, but Arthur stopped him by asking, “How did you know that the succubus was attacking me, and how did you know how to kill her?”

  He turned back to face the youth, a smirk on his face. “It took you long enough to start asking. I would have thought you’d want these answers three days ago, right when it happened.”

  Arthur blushed. “I was embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. Succubi have seduced men for centuries. As for how I knew, well, I am sworn to protect you, am I not? I watch over you. I always have, and I always will.” His voice had a strange note of tension, a shiver beneath it of something he wanted to say but didn’t. The air between the two of them felt heavy with secrets. “As for defeating her, well, demon fighting was one of the first things I learned from my mother before I left her bower
.”

  “How many kinds of demons can you fight?”

  “For you?” He looked into his eyes again. “All of them.”

  Arthur sat up straighter, drawn by the light in Merlin’s gaze. He had never seen the druid wear a look like that before. “Merlin -”

  The druid turned away. “I will return with Sir Ector and party, and with food. Don’t go away.” He vanished down the corridor without waiting for a reply.

  Later that night, when the group from Cambria had been fed and they were all safely sleeping, Merlin teleported once more to Vivienne’s tower. She was sipping clover tea from a mug and reading a scroll when he arrived, her scarlet hair plaited into one long tress bound with golden pins. Her green velvet gown shimmered in the light from her hearth, and she was as beautiful as always.

  She looked up when he appeared in her space, and her alabaster forehead instantly creased in concern. “Darling,” she said. “What is it?”

  “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  For the first time in centuries, he felt untried and very young. His mother responded to the tone of his voice and the hollow look in his eyes, and she opened her arms to him. He went to her and knelt at her side, embracing her.

  Vivienne stroked his back. “There, there, my son. What has happened?”

  “Arthur.”

  She froze. “What about Arthur?”

  Merlin sighed. “He called for his lover’s spirit at Samhain, and instead of allowing him to be disappointed, I impersonated his lover instead. I feared that if he didn’t get the result he requested from our ritual, he would turn to the Christian God, and then we would lose our power over him.”

  “A wise choice,” she said, sounding a trifle mystified. “Where was the mistake?”

  “I did more than speak with him in Amren’s voice.” He was whispering now, ashamed. “I was hungry, and the boy has so much power in him, and…”

  Vivienne sighed. “You lay with Arthur.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you took his essence?”

  “Only his energy. I did not consume any part of his soul.”

  She nodded. “Well, there’s a relief, at least. If you were hungry, and the boy was willing, then where is the mistake?”

  Merlin took a deep breath. “Oh, Mother.”

  She pulled back and took his face in her hands, making him meet her gaze. “You liked the taste of him and now you want him again,” she said.

  Her son’s eyes swam with tears, something they had not done in decades. He nodded. “Yes. But that cannot be. I cannot be with him.”

  “If you go to him disguised, there is no harm,” she reasoned. “After all, you are an incubus. You have to feed, and if he has strong energy, then he can supply you well.”

  “It’s not just the energy,” he sighed.

  “Oh?”

  “I find him… beautiful.”

  Vivienne’s voice was carefully modulated. “You want him as a lover.”

  “Yes. But…”

  “But we both know that his destiny lies along a different path.”

  Merlin nodded. “Yes.” He sighed. “I have caught myself in a snare of my own making.”

  She embraced him again, and he clung to her like a child. “Merlin,” she sighed. “My poor Merlin. I know that this must pain you. You are still very young as our kind reckons age, and it is difficult to master emotions. Love is not something that our kind feels often, if at all. But know this: he cannot be dissuaded from the path that we have laid for him. He must not be distracted from his duty.”

  “I know.” He sounded as miserable as he felt. “I know.”

  Vivienne stroked his hair, then made him straighten. She clasped his shoulders. “Go to him one last time as Amren, then, and say your goodbyes. He has not pulled the sword yet, so there is still some play in the net we’ve placed him in.”

  Merlin kissed her hands. “Thank you, Mother. I swear I will do nothing to jeopardize your plans.”

  “I know you won’t,” she smiled. “You know better than to anger me.”

  He blinked, remembering a time long ago when he had invoked her ire. It was an experience he had no desire to repeat.

  “Yes, I do.”

  She smiled at him lovingly. “Go, my boy. Take your happiness while you can. It will be payment in advance for all of the work you will need to do.”

  He nodded and kissed his hand to her, and then his magic transported him back to Londinium and Arthur.

  It took no effort to locate the king test. Ganile and Morgana simply followed the crowd to the cathedral, swept along by the great mass of people attempting to get near the stone. The bells were tolling for Mass when they arrived, and Morgana scowled.

  “I hate that racket,” she grumbled.

  Ganile only smiled. A large number of the assembled people filed obediently into the church, clearing the way for them to approach the stone. Her obvious Saxon blood and the seax on her hip earned her some sidelong glances, but no one attempted to stop her from approaching. She held out her hand and pressed her palm against the stone, feeling the vibration of the magic that had created it.

  “I thought as much,” she told her lover. “Merlin.”

  Morgana’s face darkened. “He’s the one who took me to that nunnery.”

  “Would you rather have stayed in Rheged?” Her lover looked away, and Ganile said, “I thought not.”

  A man with a wiry build and hawk nose strode up onto the platform. He looked down at Ganile. “Stand back, Saxon,” he said. “The High King of the Britons has come.”

  “Perhaps he has,” she agreed, “but you are not he.”

  He sneered at her and seized the hilt of the sword in both hands. He tried twice to pull it free, but as she had predicted, he failed. He glowered at her, and she laughed.

  “I told you so.”

  He jumped down and eyed Morgana, who turned away from him. He chuckled. “I am Gadrosalain.”

  “Ganile.”

  “You were very certain that I could not free the sword.”

  She smiled. “I was.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know you are not the High King.”

  Gadrosalain canted his head. “How? Do you know who he is? Reveal him and let this charade be ended.”

  “And deprive everyone of their fun? That would be unkind.” She turned away, but he grabbed her arm. She looked archly at his hand, and he promptly removed it.

  “I’m sorry. Please… don’t go. I’ve never met a Saxon woman warrior before, and I would like to get to know you.”

  “She has no time for you,” Morgana interjected. “She is occupied.”

  The man raised his eyebrow. “With what?”

  “With me, you fool.”

  He grinned, amused more than impressed. “And you are?”

  She drew herself up as tall as she could. “I am Morgana le Fey.”

  Ganile looked at her lover, surprised. She had not heard that moniker before, and she wondered where it had come from.

  Gadrosalain said, “Well met, then, my lady of the fey. I don’t mean to intrude into your plans. I assume, Ganile, that you are the lady’s bodyguard?”

  The Saxon enchantress shrugged. “Assume what you like. Have you seen anyone even budge this sword?”

  “Not a soul, and I’ve watched hundreds try.” He smiled. “In truth, I never expected to be able to draw it. I doubt anyone else will be able to, either.”

  A murmur of excitement rose from the edge of the courtyard, and the three looked to see what was causing such a stir. A page bearing the standard of Rheged was striding forward, and when she saw him, Morgana hissed like an angry cat. Ganile put her hand on her lover’s arm.

  “Easy,” she said softly.

  Morgana whispered a word in a language Ganile had never heard, and her face changed. Her raven hair began to turn blonde at the roots, the color spreading down over her locks like paint poured from a cup. Her cheeks widened, and her delicate jaw
became more square. In a heartbeat, she had changed from a delicate Dumnonian beauty to a sturdy and handsome Saxon matron. Gadrosalain gaped.

  “I have never seen such things,” he breathed.

  Ganile pulled Morgana back from the stone, and the young man followed them. The space that they made was filled with the entourage from Rheged, knights and men-at-arms who escorted their king and the heir to his throne into the courtyard. Uriens, his crown upon his brow, looked around at the assembled watchers and regarded the sword in the stone. Beside him, Owain touched the stone with a furtive fingertip. Uriens swatted his hand away.

  The cathedral bells tolled once more. Morgana plugged her ears and turned her back on her husband and her son. Ganile kept her eyes on the king, watching as he stepped up onto the platform.

  Uriens touched the sword gently, stroking the hilt with his hand. Speaking to his son, he said, “I know this sword. The last time I saw it, it was in the hand of Uther Pendragon. This is truly the High King’s blade. Owain...try to pull it.”

  His son looked startled. “I cannot,” he said.

  “You will do as you are told.”

  There were threats in his tone. The boy swallowed. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  With his father’s help, the little prince climbed up beside the stone. He wrapped his hands around the leather grip and pulled. Nothing happened. Uriens nodded.

  “The kingship does not follow your mother’s blood, then. She is not as royal as we supposed.”

  Across the courtyard, Morgana scowled and muttered, “I’m royal enough for you, old man.”

  Uriens took the sword in his own hand and was about to pull it when a burst of noise from the opposite side of the courtyard attracted everyone’s attention. Another standard bearer, this time flying the banner of Lothian, came into view. King Lot, taller than almost everyone in attendance, strode in behind his page, his manner confident. His two oldest sons flanked him, and he grinned when he saw Uriens.

  “Old friend,” he greeted. “I thought I would see you here.”

  “I knew you would come.” The King of Rheged seemed less than pleased to see his Norse compatriot. “Do you recognize the sword?”