by J A Cummings
Lot nodded. “That’s Uther’s pig-sticker, all right. I remember it well.”
Uriens stepped off of the platform and met Lot in front of the stone. They clasped one another’s arms companionably enough, their eyes meeting with matching looks of cool appraisal.
“Have you tried the sword?”
“Not yet. My son just failed.”
Owain looked embarrassed, but Lot shrugged. “Of course. He is just a boy, and you still live. He’s your heir, not your king. I’m surprised you would even allow him to try.” He turned to the young prince. “Well met, Owain ap Uriens. I am your uncle, King Lot of Orkney and Lothian, and these are your cousins, Gawain and Agravaine. I am wed to your mother’s sister.”
Owain extended his hand to each of his cousins in turn, and they accepted the greeting. Uriens looked irritated.
The northern king put his hands on his sons’ shoulders. “Why don’t you go get acquainted with your cousin while your uncle and I have some conversation.”
Gawain nodded. “Yes, Father.” He led the other boys aside.
“Those are fine sons, Lot.”
“The finest.” He crossed his arms. “I heard that your wife has not been able to give you more children. Do you have any likely bastards?”
“None that can inherit, but yes, my seneschal’s wife bore me a strong son some years ago. The rest are girls, so…”
“I have no daughters,” Lot said. “Only sons. Four of them, now.”
“Then your kingdom is very well secure.”
“Indeed.” He smiled at Uriens. “Before either of us tries this sword, we should sit and have a talk. We have much to discuss.”
Ganile glided up to where the two kings were standing, a subtle gesture of her hand and a whispered word of enchantment causing their men to fail in their duty to protect them. She went to their sides completely unimpeded by their soldiers, as comely a smile as she could manage painted onto her face. “My lords, there is indeed much to discuss, and I can add to your conversation.”
Lot looked at her in wariness while Uriens examined her with lecherous eyes. “What can you add?” the King of Lothian asked. “And who are you, other than a Saxon temptress?”
She lowered her gaze to Lot’s nether region, then returned it to his face. As she had hoped, he was all smiles upon observing the track of her attention. “I am many things, but they call me Ganile.”
Behind her, she heard Gadrosalain mutter to Morgana, “What does she think she’s doing?”
Her lover’s voice was furious. “Seducing them.”
“Both?”
Ganile made a note to be cautious of the venom that seeped through Morgana’s words. “Yes. Both.”
She turned her focus back onto Lot as he repeated her name. “Ganile.”
Uriens intruded, “And you know who we are.”
“Indeed I do, my lord.” She bowed to him. “May we go somewhere to talk?”
Uriens nodded. “Oh, yes. I have lodging not far from here. And you, King Lot? Will you join us?”
In answer, he called over his shoulder, “Gawain! Agravaine!” His boys promptly trotted over to his side, abandoning Owain, who followed to own father’s side, a cross look upon his face. When the two princes reached him, he said, “We are going to King Uriens’ lodgings.”
“You’re bringing the children?” the King of Rheged asked in disbelief.
“Gawain is fourteen this month,” Lot pointed out. He gazed at Ganile in challenge. “He is nearly a man. He is old enough to enjoy the pleasures of a woman, and I know that he already has desires, for he is my own true son. Agravaine will watch and learn.”
The Saxon woman briefly pressed her lips together, then said, “I was not aware that I was offering so much to so many.”
“If you offer more, so much the better. My sons need to learn about kingship, and this is how - by watching.” Lot smiled at her, then at Uriens. “No objections?”
Uriens looked at his own son and said, “No. No objections.”
“Excellent.” Ganile offered her arms to both kings. “Shall we?”
Morgana watched in fury as Ganile left the courtyard, a king on each arm, flirting outrageously with both men. She crossed her arms tightly and glared daggers into her lover’s back, until Gadrosalain laughed.
“Don’t worry, my lady,” he said. “I’m sure she will be back.”
“What do you know?” she snapped.
“I know a great deal about the ways of men and women.” He leaned closer. “I know all the ways to make a woman happy.”
She looked at him skeptically, and then the germ of an idea began to form inside her mind. “Truly.”
He nodded. “Truly.”
“Then come back to my lodging and show me.” She forced a smile onto her face. “Perhaps there are things that you can help me learn.”
The young man laughed and nodded. “I can teach you, my lady, never fear.”
She offered him her hand. “Then do.”
Gadrosalain took her fingers in his and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, his chestnut-brown eyes never leaving hers. Against all expectation, she felt herself warm to him, her body beginning to respond to him. She swallowed her dismay and hid it with a false smile.
He took the slender encouragement she offered and said in a soft voice, “Take me to your lodging, lady, and you will not be sorry.”
Morgana took a breath, then nodded. “Follow me.”
In the cathedral, Arthur sat between Sir Ector and Sir Kay, watching the priests at the altar performing the ritual of the Mass. He listened to the Latin words and breathed the scented smoke from the censers. It was the same Christmas Mass he had attended a dozen times in Caer Gai, with the same words, the same gestures, the same solemn intonations. The predictable nature of the ritual was comforting but unsatisfying at the same time. He wondered if the priests still had true feeling for God beneath the choreography, or if faith had become overwhelmed by rote.
He looked at his foster father, who had his rosary in his hand, counting the beads with his thumb, his eyes closed. Sir Ector’s faith was strong, he knew, and despite the repetition of the prayers he said, he never faltered. In so many ways, his father was steadfast: faithful to his God, loyal to his king, a servant to his people, loving to his family. He had never seen Ector fail in any of those qualities and had never seen him behaving in a way that was cruel or thoughtless. When he became king, he only hoped that he could be half the man his father was.
On the other side of Sir Ector, Sir Brastias saw Arthur looking, and he offered him a smile. There were many things about him that Arthur did not know - his family, where he’d been born, his home - but he did know that Brastias was a sturdy man and a good friend to Sir Ector, something that made Arthur predisposed to like him. He had known him for years, and yet he still felt that he knew him not at all. He smiled back, hesitantly, and Brastias turned his face back toward the altar.
The congregation muttered a prayer response, and Arthur mumbled along, then turned to look at Kay. His brother was beginning to seem more like a man to him, with a certain edge of seriousness and maturity that was creeping in around him like a shadow. Kay was less abusive than he had been in the past, letting his affection for his little brother show through. Arthur had always suspected that his brother loved him, even as he’d always known that Kay resented him, too. With the illogic of childhood, Kay had blamed Arthur for their mother’s death, and he had been jealous of the time Sir Ector spent with him in the aftermath of her demise. Those had been dark days, to be certain. Now, though, Kay stood at his side, his future seneschal, and Arthur would be trusting him with secrets and his own safety in times to come. He loved his brother and he believed that trust would not be in vain.
Sir Kay noticed Arthur looking, and he flashed a frown. “Pay attention to Mass and stop wool-gathering. Stupid worm,” he hissed. Arthur smiled, and after a moment, Kay returned the expression before elbowing him softly and turning his focus back to
ward the priests.
Arthur did the same, letting the soft chanting of the monks wash over him. He felt safe.
Uriens led the way to the taverna that his entourage had overwhelmed. The serving wench brought a mug to him immediately with bent knee, and he told her, “Prepare the private room for my audience with King Lot.”
The girl’s eyes widened as she looked upon the Norse-born king, and then she scurried away to do Uriens’ bidding. Gawain watched her go, fascinated by her fear. Uriens led the way into the room, which was a smaller chamber to the side of the main room. Two scullery maids were setting food and drink upon a meeting table when their party came into the room. One of the support beams near the hearth had a roughly carved graffito reading “SPQR”, with a double-headed eagle scratched into the wood beneath it. He recognized the bird as part of his father’s heraldry, but not the letters.
“Father,” he said, indicating the carving. “Are these people your subjects?”
Lot looked at where his son was pointing. “No. Not yet, anyway.” He winked one bright blue eye, and Gawain smiled. “That is the mark of the legions of Rome, who used to own this island and many like it. The eagle has been used by many kings over many years. We use it now, but they came before.”
“What happened to them?”
The king chuckled. “They ran with their tails between their legs when the Britons cast them out of this island.”
“Well,” Ganile said, sitting at the end of the table on Lot’s other side, “that’s not quite the way it went, but yes, they left Britannia, young prince. The center of their empire was far from here, and it cost them too much to govern a province so far from the heart of their power.”
Lot nodded. “They over-extended. That’s why it’s so important to never conquer too much land too far ahead of your supply lines.”
Gawain nodded. He had spent many hours at his father’s elbow, looking at maps and learning the history of his grandfather’s reign. He had studied as much as he could about the theory and history of war. There was still much he needed to know.
Agravaine sat beside him. He had inherited his mother’s dark eyes and hair, and a temper to match. Gawain, fair in coloring like their father, had a marginally less petulant nature. “Why are we here?” his brother grumbled.
“To watch,” their father answered. “And to learn.”
Uriens sat across the table from Lot, displeased that Ganile had taken the head of the table but mollified that his brother-in-law had not. At his elbow, Owain sat, listless and disinterested, the kitchen cat in his arms. Gawain thought the boy was strange and possibly slow. He spoke little and seemed more interested in animals than in human beings. Gawain himself liked four-legged beasts well enough, but Owain’s fixation seemed odd.
“You said you wanted to discuss things, Lot, and our fair companion indicated that she had news, as well. So let’s discuss. I’ll start.” Uriens leaned his meaty forearms on the table, his hands cupping his mug, and the fearful maid poured more ale for him before she retreated. “One of us will be pulling that sword free, and I believe it will be me, for I am older than you and a true-born Briton.”
Lot shrugged. “I am married to the heiress to the throne. My claim is better.”
“Neither of you will pull that sword.” Ganile spoke with simple surety.
Gawain raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
She smiled at him. “I know, young prince, because the stone was enchanted by the wizard Merlin, and it will respond to the person he believes is the High King, not to the person who truly is.”
“Even if someone pulls the sword, that doesn’t make him king,” Gawain pointed out. “Nobody is High King until there is a coronation.”
“Exactly so, my boy,” Lot congratulated. “Let us consider who is truly the right-born heir to Uther Pendragon. Do the Britons allow the female to inherit?”
Uriens nodded. “Yes. Daughters can inherit their fathers’ crowns.”
“And who was Queen Morgause’s father? Or Queen Morgana’s?” Ganile asked. She saw the flicker of doubt play across both men’s faces, and she nodded. “Yes. Their father was Gorlois of Cornwall, not Uther Pendragon. So neither of your wives stand in the line of succession.”
“He was their mother’s husband,” Uriens objected.
Lot sighed. “But he did not adopt either of them. He married them off instead.” He looked at Ganile. “I’m listening.”
“Uther Pendragon’s only wife was Igraine, and there was no boy child born of their union, am I correct?”
“No,” Uriens said. “Only a stillbirth, just after we took the queen’s daughters.”
“Pendragon had bastard children, surely,” the Saxon woman said. “He was renowned for his habits of rape and plunder.”
Gawain looked at his father, who had a bastard or two of his own in the north country. Lot nodded. “Yes. A few self-styled princes in Gwynedd and Powys over in Cambria, and I think one or two others to the north. Pryderi, Madoc, Carados, Cador. Born in that order.”
“Pryderi is dead,” Uriens said, “and nobody knows what became of Madoc. Carados is gathering supporters in Verulamium, and Cador is in the north.”
Lot advised proudly, “Cador swore his fealty to me after I bested him in a contest of arms. He bent the knee in the presence of all of his sworn men.”
The look that crossed Uriens’ face amused Gawain. He looked as if he wanted to bite his tongue, and that he might already have been choking on it. “Then Carados is the greatest concern.”
“Ah, but,” Ganile said, “in gratitude to the Christian monks for their healing arts when they saved him from festering wounds, is it not true that Pendragon took the cross and agreed that bastardy was a bar to inheritance of the throne?”
Uriens shook his shaggy head. “There is no proof of that.”
“Merlin was in attendance.”
Lot rolled his eyes. “Merlin again. How convenient that he seems to be everywhere, all the time. Nothing ever happens but Merlin is there to witness it.”
“Witness or cause, I wonder?” Uriens muttered. “I trust him not.”
“Nor I, but I do respect his power,” Ganile said. “No legitimate heirs, then. If Pendragon died without legitimate issue, then the throne would pass to his brother, or his brother’s legal son.”
“Yes, but Uther inherited when his brother died. Ambrosius was cold before Uther took the throne, and the man was a Christian with such maidenly ways he likely died a virgin,” Uriens mocked.
“He had a wife,” Lot said quietly. “And the wife bore a son, who was sent for safety’s sake to Armorica. They named him Constantine.”
“Then Constantine is the true High King,” Gawain said. “Why isn’t he here?”
The King of Rheged spoke into his mug. “Because he’s a coward.”
“He is here.” Ganile smiled at their surprised reactions. “He and three phalanxes of men-at-arms came ashore just yesterday at Noviomagus Reginorum. They will arrive in Londinium today, if they are not here already.”
Gawain frowned. “Father, do the common people know of him?”
“Hard to say what the common people know,” Lot mused, his hand stroking his blond beard.
The other king snorted. “The common people barely know how to shit in a pot instead of down their legs. They are stupid and docile as animals, and they need not concern you, boy. It is the minor nobility who must be watched. And they surely know about Constantine.”
Ganile leaned forward. “As I see the current situation, you have a kingship test that has been fixed to reveal only the man that Merlin has already chosen to be your king. You have the High King’s true heir in Constantine, and he is coming to claim his throne. Neither of you will ever be High King...unless you are able to turn the nobles to your cause, or defeat Constantine in battle. And Constantine would rather read about war than fight in one.”
Lot leaned back. “When I suggested a parley, King Uriens, this is what I meant to suggest
. We have an archer ready for the man who pulls the sword, if it is neither of the two of us. The moment he raises that blade will be his last. You and I must contrive to be on that platform in that moment so that we can seize the sword when Merlin’s proxy falls.” The other king nodded, and Lot continued. “We then turn to Constantine and press him to put his support to the new holder of the sword. If he will not, then the archer turns on him, as well.”
“A decent plan,” Ganile nodded, “but I suggest two archers, stationed on opposite sides of the courtyard. The first shot will be noted and that archer will be apprehended, I promise you. The second shot must come from another quarter or it will never come at all.”
“Well said,” Uriens nodded. “So we kill Merlin’s choice and Constantine. Now, if I should take up the sword first, then you will swear loyalty to me. And if you, Lot, should be the first to the sword, then I will swear to you.”
Gawain crossed his arms. “And that will take care of the people in the courtyard. What about all of the knights and nobles who know Constantine was assassinated? They won’t willingly follow his killers. How will you convince them?”
Uriens looked at his nephew in fury. “You speak out of turn, boy.”
“Yes,” his father agreed, “but he speaks intelligently. He has a point.”
“That is where my people will come in.” Ganile smiled. “My king offers to support whichever of the two of you come up with Pendragon’s sword. He will even supply the archers for the killing to keep your hands free of stain. He only asks one thing in return.”
Lot narrowed his eyes. “And what is that?”
“Your fealty and your cooperation as he turns this island into a Saxon realm.”
Uriens pounded his fists into the table and leaped to his feet. “Never! Britannia belongs to the Britons and to us alone! We will not tolerate a Saxon king!”
Ganile smiled more broadly. “Then King Hengist will not support you and you will fall into bloody civil war. Then all of your knights and nobles and all you petty kings will fall, fighting over an empty throne. When you are gone, we will come in and sweep away the ruins that you leave and the end result will be the same.” She crossed her long legs. “You can ally with us and keep your kingdoms and the power you now enjoy, or you can oppose us and end up dead in a dung pile. The choice is yours.”
