Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  Uriens grasped the edge of the table, nearly frothing in his fury. “I will never ally myself with the bloody Saxons!” He meant to flip the table in his rage, but Lot held it in place. Gawain assisted him, and together they overpowered the angry king. Uriens fell back into his seat, his chest heaving.

  “Calm yourself,” Lot coldly counseled, “or you will die of apoplexy.”

  Ganile turned to the Norse-born king. “Can we depend upon you to cooperate with us, King Lot?”

  He considered her for a moment, then said, “I care not if the Saxons take the southern half of Britannia, but Lothian and the north are mine. If this is agreed to, and if you Saxons take no step north of the old Roman wall, then I will help you sweep Constantine’s forces and his loyalists aside. I have ships and men, and I can call my cousins from Norway to bring their boats as well.”

  The Saxon enchantress nodded. “Excellent.” She pulled a parchment from beneath her cloak and spread it out upon the table. She spoke softly, and words magically appeared on the parchment. “Here are the terms on which we have agreed. I need only for you to affix your seal, and we will have a proper pact.”

  Lot eyed the document in distrust, and Gawain leaned forward to read it. “There are no tricks, Father,” he said.

  Uriens spat on the floor and finally calmed enough to find his voice again. “You let a boy advise you?”

  “My son is wise and I have taught him well. I listen to his thoughts.” He glanced at Owain. “Unlike some, my sons are capable of thinking and fighting like true warriors, not like kitchen slaves who make mouse catchers into pets.”

  Owain’s face purpled and he released the cat he had been holding. The cat jumped down, grateful to escape the anger in the room. Uriens looked at his son with contempt, then struck him from the bench on which he sat. Owain sprawled to the floor in surprise but not in shock. Clearly, he was no stranger to the back of his father’s hand. Gawain frowned.

  Ganile offered Lot a bar of sealing wax, and he accepted it, holding it as he pretended to read the document she had produced. Finally, he melted the sealing wax and let it drop onto the bottom of the page. He turned his ring and pressed it into the blood-colored puddle. With a challenge in his eyes, he passed the document to Uriens. The King of Rheged pushed the pact away.

  “No.” He rose. “Get out of my lodging, all of you. If I ever see your face again, Lot, it will be on the battlefield. You have betrayed Britannia.”

  Lot chuckled as he rose. “I have betrayed no one. I am not a Briton, fool.”

  Ganile rolled the parchment and tucked it back into her cloak. “My thanks, Your Majesty. We will no doubt find our alliance to be most mutually beneficial.”

  The King of Lothian nodded to her with a tight smile. “I’m sure we will. Boys, come.”

  Uriens roared at Lot’s retreating back. “What will your queen say now?”

  “She will say that she is grateful her father gave her to the better of his generals.” Lot glared at Uriens. “I am wise enough to sail upon the tide even when it changes. It is clear that you are not.”

  Gawain took one last pitying look at Owain before he followed Lot and Agravaine out of the taverna.

  The bells tolled the end of Mass, and Morgana was more than happy to shut the door to keep the noise away. She loathed the sound of church bells like she hated nothing else. It called to mind the nunnery at Aquae Sulis and how her mother cowered within the walls when she should have taken hold of the throne herself. With Uther dead, there was nothing to prevent her mother from taking the title of High Queen and holding all of Britannia in her hand.

  Nothing but weakness. Nothing but fear.

  Behind her, Gadrosalain stood beside the bed, watching in wonder as her magical disguise fell away from her like water, sliding down her hair and puddling on the floor beneath her feet. She stepped away from the tiny pool of borrowed colors and turned to look at him. He gave her an unsteady smile.

  “You are amazing,” he said.

  “Silence,” she ordered. He obeyed.

  Morgana stalked toward him, her eyes full of lust and murder. Neither of them were entirely certain which urge would win out, and when she pushed him down onto the bed, for a moment she thought that he might try to flee. He stayed.

  “You are a man,” she said. He nodded. She knelt beside him on the mattress, the straw stuffing rustling like autumn leaves beneath them. Morgana’s hands pressed flat against his chest, the hard planes warm beneath the linen of his shirt. She could feel his heart thudding wildly in both excitement and in fear. Fear of her. Fear of what she intended to do. It was intoxicating.

  She bent and pressed her lips to his, and he kissed her passionately, his tongue pushing into her mouth like a slimy worm. She bit it and he cried out, pulling back. She smiled and straightened, looking down into his wide, moss-green eyes. She felt his erection against her thigh, and she rubbed it firmly, caressing his growing hardness through his trousers. She liked that he wore no leather and no armor, and that he was nearly as vulnerable in his clothing as she was. If she had wanted to stab him in the gut right now, he had no protections preventing her from doing it. Uriens had learned to only come for her clad in chain shirts.

  She kissed him again, and this time he kept his tongue to himself. She liked that he learned quickly. So many men were too arrogant and too thick-headed to learn from one reprimand.

  Gadrosalain’s hands came up to rest upon her narrow waist, and she allowed it. She shifted to straddle his legs, and she unlaced his trousers, freeing him from his cloth restraints. His manhood sprang free, aching for her, and she smiled at the sight of it. It was longer but thinner than Uriens’, and shaped in a way that was more pleasing to the eye. Uriens’ member was like a turnip, and she hated turnips.

  She thought of Ganile seducing her husband and King Lot, and her anger burned anew, almost distracting her from the willing man beneath her. She gripped him in her hand, squeezing until he gasped. The pain in his face was a reward for her, and she smiled.

  “Do you want to fuck me?” she asked.

  Gadrosalain nodded, wisely remaining silent. He began to gather up her skirts, and she clenched her fist around him once more. He groaned.

  Morgana shifted just enough so that his tip was touching her. She hesitated, remembering the pain that penetration always brought, but she wanted to do this. She wanted to punish Ganile for unfaithfulness, and she wanted to control this man beneath her. With gritted teeth, she pushed down onto him, taking him into her body.

  She was surprised to find that there was no pain at all, just a pleasant feeling of being filled. He looked up at her with wide eyes and pressed his hips up into her until he was inside her as far as he could go. Morgana tipped her head back and rocked her hips. She had never felt pleasure in this act before, and it was dizzying.

  He thrust up into her, and she felt a flash of anger. She slapped him across the face, hard, and said, “Lie still!”

  Gadrosalain obeyed again, although it clearly pained him to have to do so. Morgana rode him slowly, amazement at the sensations she felt washing through her. She had never experienced anything like this. She was controlling the act, setting the pace and managing the depth of his entry, but still she felt out of control, as if he was still the one who forced her to feel what she was feeling. She glared down at him.

  “You don't own me,” she hissed. He shook his head. She gasped and increased the speed of her movements. He groaned but said nothing. “You are not my master.”

  Again, he shook his head, but she knew he was lying. He was mastering her body without even trying, and it infuriated her. She slammed down onto him faster and harder, trying to hurt him for making her feel such pleasure. He winced once, but she could feel him growing even harder within her, and she knew he was close to his climax. She was overtaken with a wave of delight, a shuddering sensation of bliss that spread out from her sex and washed through her from her head to her feet. Morgana screamed in ecstasy and rage, her body c
lenching tightly around him as he spurted his seed deep inside her.

  She fell forward with her hands on his throat, still shuddering. He twitched beneath and inside of her, and she pressed down, cutting off his wind. He stared up at her with surprise and tried to push her off of him, but she sneered into his face and whispered in the infernal tongue.

  Gadrosalain’s body jerked, and a brilliant white light rose from his gut into his throat. She opened her mouth and drew that light into herself, consuming his soul like the demon Murduus had taught her. Morgana swallowed all that he could offer her, and when she was done, she was buzzing with the power of his stolen life and he was lying dead on the bed.

  Morgana rose, letting his lifeless sex slip out of her body. She rearranged her clothing and said, “Master, I serve you.”

  A whiff of sulfur filled the room, and then Murduus appeared. He held out his hand to her, and she took it in hers. He pulled her close and pulled Gadrosalain’s soul free of Morgana’s body and into his own. He glowed briefly, a red halo surrounding him as he took in her gift. He smiled at her.

  “You have done well. I will reward you soon.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  The demon looked at the body on the bed. “I will dispose of this for you. No sense in being untidy.”

  The corpse burst into flame, and in the space of a heartbeat it was reduced to ashes. Murduus crooked a finger, and a wind arose inside the room and blew the ashes away. The bed was unaffected, and it was as if Gadrosalain had never existed.

  Murduus turned to Morgana with a smile. “I will have use for you soon, my dear.”

  “Anything, Master.”

  He nodded and vanished from sight. Morgana sat on the bed and took a deep breath, wondering when Ganile would be coming back.

  As Mass ended and the congregants prepared to leave, a low murmur of excitement spread from the back of the sanctuary. Arthur looked to Sir Ector and asked, “What’s going on?”

  His foster father turned and looked, as did Brastias and Kay. “It’s Constantine.”

  “Who is Constantine?”

  “Uther Pendragon’s nephew.”

  Arthur turned to face the doorway and saw the person at the center of the commotion. He was a tall man with brown hair and blue eyes, dressed in a gleaming breastplate strapped over a chain shirt so polished it nearly shone. He had a gentle face and an air of regal sophistication, and for a moment Arthur dared to hope that he had been saved from his destiny.

  “Will he pull the sword?” he asked.

  “He cannot.” Merlin was standing beside him, appearing out of thin air and startling him so that he nearly cried out in his surprise. He steadied his breathing and the druid continued, “Only you will be able to draw the sword.”

  Constantine came down the aisle and genuflected before the crucifix. Archbishop Augustine greeted him warmly. “My lord Constantine,” he said loudly, ensuring that his voice carried throughout the church. “May God be praised that you have come to us today.”

  “I do not know if I am my uncle’s proper heir, but it is my duty to attempt the test,” he said. He spoke with a velvety voice and a lilting accent that Arthur could not identify.

  The archbishop smiled. “Then let us retire to the courtyard and see this through.”

  Merlin stepped out into view, his disguise dismissed, clad in white druid robes with a staff of hawthorn in his hand. “Let all of the kings be gathered first. We will watch them all attempt the feat at once.”

  Constantine smiled and inclined his head graciously toward Merlin. “Greetings to the lord of Ynys Môn,” he said. “Good Christmas and a blessed Yule to you.”

  The druid returned the nod. “And to you, Prince Constantine. How is Armorica these days?”

  “We suffer constant incursion by the Gauls, but we are holding our own. I have brought two of my fellows with me - Kings Ban and Bors will try the sword as well.”

  “They are welcome to do so.” Merlin walked to Constantine, and the two men clasped hands. “I am pleased to see you so well.”

  “And I you.”

  The archbishop cleared his throat. “Brother Petros,” he said. “Please ask Kings Lot and Uriens to join us.”

  The monk bowed to his superior and hurried off to do his bidding. Arthur whispered to Ector, “This Constantine seems very impressive. Shouldn’t he be king?”

  His foster father did not reply. He only put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  Constantine and Augustine led the way out of the cathedral to the platform by the stone. One by one, the kings who had come to Londinium to contend for the throne assembled, standing shoulder to shoulder. The courtyard was packed with people, commoners and nobles alike, and the murmur of a hundred voices rang loudly from the stone walls. Arthur felt his stomach quivering as he watched the array of powerful men take their places, ready to attempt to pull the sword from the stone. His brother gave him a weak smile, and Arthur gave a weaker one in response.

  “Oh, good God,” Brastias swore, to the amusement of his lady, who giggled behind her hand. “Nobody’s dying. This should be exciting for you, Arthur, not terrifying.”

  “I think he’s justified in his fear,” Illtyd said softly, standing behind Arthur. “This is no small step he is preparing to take.”

  Brother Petros returned with Lot and Uriens. The royal assembly was complete with their arrival, and they seemed displeased. Arthur wondered what had them in such bad humor.

  “So much for our plans,” Uriens said to Lot. Lot shrugged.

  Merlin stepped up onto the platform and raised his hands into the air, calling for quiet. The crowd fell still. “The time has come. Before this day is over, the new High King will be revealed.”

  The people cheered. Arthur looked around and saw a Saxon warrior woman standing off to the side, watching with a look of interest and amusement on her pretty face. He had never seen anyone like her before. She glanced up toward the bell tower, then back at the unfolding spectacle. Arthur looked where she had, and he saw a man with a bow.

  “Father,” he said. “There’s an archer at the ready.”

  Ector turned to scan the bell tower, and he nodded. “I see him.” He nudged Brastias and pointed out the archer to him. “A problem, I think.”

  Brastias set his jaw. “I will see to this problem.” He pushed his way through the crowd and back into the cathedral.

  The first of the kings to try the sword was Huail, a chieftain of the Pictish tribes. He gave three strong tugs, but the sword failed to move, and he seemed disappointed but unsurprised. He stepped aside and allowed King Escanor of the White Mountain a chance. He, too, failed. Bors of Gaunnes and Ban of Benoic both attempted in their turn to no avail.

  The crowd was beginning to grow restless. Merlin looked at Arthur and nodded to him, beckoning him forward. His mouth went dry and he wanted to run, but instead he walked slowly forward, edging through the crowd.

  King Uriens grasped the sword in both hands and pulled. It refused to move. He braced his foot against the stone and hauled for all that he was worth, putting his back into it, but no matter how he struggled and fought, the sword refused to budge. He released his hold, panting, and stepped back in humiliation. King Lot was next. He said a brief prayer to his pagan gods, then grabbed the sword in his two huge hands. It stayed stock still as if it was part of the stone itself.

  Only Constantine remained, and excitement fluttered through the crowd. The onlookers were clearly expecting this to be the time that the sword came free, and by the look on the prince’s face, he expected much the same. Arthur reached the edge of the platform as Constantine crossed himself and put his hands on the sword’s hilt. He tugged, but the sword refused to budge as it had refused for everyone else. He tried twice more, only to release his grip with a sigh.

  “We have no High King,” he said, despairing. “There is no rightful heir to Uther Pendragon.”

  Merlin said, “There is one who has not yet
taken his turn.”

  “Who? All of the kings and warlords have taken their chance,” King Lot said. “There’s nobody left who could be king.”

  “The son of Uther Pendragon is here.”

  The crowd murmured again, and heads turned, looking for the man in question. Merlin looked at Arthur. “It is time.”

  “Uther Pendragon has no legitimate son,” Uriens scoffed. “You’re lying to us.”

  Arthur stepped up onto the platform, and the crowd began to laugh. Lot looked at him askance and said, “And who is this whelp?”

  “I have said already,” Merlin replied. “Arthur, take your sword.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Uriens objected. “This is just a poor squire and a foundling, probably with no drop of royal blood in his veins. You are mocking us, druid.”

  Merlin stepped aside to give Arthur room. “Be quiet and watch.”

  His heart was pounding so hard that he was certain everyone in the crowd could hear it. He looked up at the bell tower, and Brastias stood in the window, waving to him. The archer was nowhere to be seen. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.

  He reached out his trembling hand and grasped the sword. His palm tingled when he touched the hilt, the sensation racing all the way up to his elbow like lightning. He glanced at Merlin, then at Sir Ector, who smiled and nodded to him. He was afraid that he would fail, and afraid he would succeed. He closed his eyes and pulled.

  The sword came free with a soft grating sound, sliding out easily. He held the sword above his head as shouts of amazement rose from the crowd. He opened his eyes and looked out at the assembled upturned faces. Some looked relieved, some delighted, and some angry. Behind him, he heard Lot say, “This is a trick!”