Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  “This is my sister, Morgana, Queen of Rheged.”

  He nodded sagely. “Run away from Uriens, I see. Does he know?”

  “Yes,” Morgana said, sniffling. “I left him months ago.”

  Lot chuckled. “That would explain why he’s in such bad humor. A long time with no loving will do that to a man.”

  “I doubt that is the reason,” she said, frowning. “My husband has whores aplenty.”

  “Such is the case with many kings,” Morgause said.

  “Many, but not all.” Lot sat in one of the chairs. “I used to have women all through Lothian, but now I remain faithful to my beautiful wife.”

  Morgause laughed. “Because you know I’d kill you if you didn’t.”

  “Exactly so.”

  Morgana wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry that you’ve met me in such a state, King Lot,” she said. “I’m normally not so emotional.”

  He waved a hand. “If I were married to Uriens, I’d be weeping, too.” He looked at Morgause. “Have you heard the news?”

  “The news about the sword and the boy who pulled it? Yes. Gawain told me.” She sat on Lot’s lap. “So what are we going to do about it?”

  “I’m not bowing down before some beardless boy, that’s certain.” He put one hand on her knee and the other on the back of her neck. “Merlin may have arranged for him to be the only one able to pull the sword, but that’s trickery and nonsense, and everybody knows it - except for Constantine, the fool. In any case, he has Uther Pendragon’s sword now, but not for long. I intend to take it from him.”

  Morgause kissed him. “If he is truly the son of Uther Pendragon, put upon my mother against her will, promise me that you will slay him slowly.”

  Lot grinned. “I will slice him into ribbons and salt his wounds for you.”

  “That’s my king.”

  “Anyway,” he shrugged, “everybody knows the only child she bore for Uther was stillborn.”

  “Mother had no stillbirth,” Morgana announced. They looked at her in surprise. “I was still there when he was born, because I was too wounded from the wedding night to travel. Her son was born alive, but he was gone the next morning. Her baby might have died in the night, but I heard the cries. He was born very much alive.”

  “So this boy - what is his name?” her sister asked.

  “Arthur,” Lot sneered.

  “This boy may be the rightful heir after all,” Morgause pondered. “And if he is, then it is imperative that he dies without issue.”

  “He’s so young, I doubt he’s ever felt the touch of a woman.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifteen.”

  Morgause chuckled. “Your own son has lain with a woman already, and he is not as old as that. I doubt he’s man enough yet to father a child, but I’m certain he’s aware of the mechanics.”

  “My son is a prodigy like his father,” Lot puffed.

  “You think too much of your prowess, my dear.” Morgause followed her teasing words with a bright smile and a wink.

  “Then why do we have four sons?”

  “Because I pity you.”

  He laughed. “Queen Morgana, in your marriage, did you give Uriens half the trouble that your sister gives to me?”

  “More,” she answered proudly.

  “Hmm. Perhaps so. I suspect that the Queen Igraine gave birth to spirited daughters.”

  Morgause smiled. “She did, at that.”

  “Then I wonder if her son is spirited, too.”

  His queen shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, because he will soon be dead. An untried boy can never stand against a warrior like you.”

  Lot shifted, but Morgause kept her seat. “Well,” he said, “the little whelp doesn’t stand alone. Constantine, Ban, and Bors all gave him reverence.”

  Morgana shrugged. “They are all from Armorica. What do we care? Send this Arthur there to be their king and have them leave Britannia to the Britons.”

  Her sister’s husband looked at her and nodded. “I like the way you think.”

  “No.” Morgause spoke sharply, surprising Lot. “You promised me. I do not want him exiled, because exiles become symbols to the lower classes, and exiles can return another day. I want him dead.”

  “Shall I bring you his head on a pike?”

  She nodded. “That would suit me nicely.”

  “You’re blood thirsty.”

  “That is why I suit you so well.”

  Morgana watched as her sister kissed her husband again, and a pang of jealousy struck her. Morgause had no business being so happy in her arranged marriage. It was a bitter reminder of how horrible her own union had been. She looked away and cursed the day she ever met King Uriens.

  Merlin found the villa that had been taken over by King Ban and King Bors, and he politely presented himself for an audience. The Armorican guard showed him into the atrium immediately, where a brazier burned to chase away the winter’s chill. Merlin waited patiently for the brothers to arrive.

  They came to greet him wearing matching smiles. They were obviously brothers and very nearly twins, so similar did they appear. They were both handsome men, with dark hair and dark eyes, well-shaped mouths and fit, masculine bodies. They were taller than most men, and broader, too. Merlin returned their smiles as they approached.

  “My lords,” he said, inclining his head to them.

  “Master Merlin,” greeted King Ban. “We are honored by your visit.”

  “What can we do for you?” King Bors asked politely.

  The courtesy that the kings were showing was a thin veil over their fear. They both were nervous and distrustful of him, and they had never been so before. He wondered what had caused this change in them.

  “I come on behalf of Arthur Pendragon.”

  The brothers looked at one another, and King Bors nodded. “The High King.”

  “Yes.”

  King Ban asked, “How may we serve His Majesty?”

  Merlin smiled. He wished all of the kings under Arthur’s rule were so congenial. “There will be war, because, as you saw, Rheged and Lothian and probably other kingdoms are going to be in full revolt. Arthur will need to subdue them to claim his crown. Can he count upon you for support?”

  The brothers exchanged looks again, and this time they seemed puzzled. King Bors answered, “We have already given him homage. He is our lord. We will support him in all things.”

  “Excellent.” The druid nodded in grim satisfaction. “How many men can we count on you to bring?”

  They looked at one another and calculated, seeming to use their two brains as one. Finally Ban said, “Between us, we can bring five hundred cavalry and a legion of infantry.”

  Two thousand men was a good start, but Merlin was certain they had more soldiers. “Only one legion?”

  Bors admitted, “We will be leaving a legion and five hundred cavalry at home to defend our borders. We are beset by Claudas, the king of the Franks, and he harries us constantly. We must defend our people as well as support our new king.”

  Merlin nodded. “It will have to suffice. Tell me, Your Majesties - have you any heirs yet?”

  Ban smiled. “I have a son. He’s only newly born, but he’s strong and healthy.” His face darkened. “Or he was.”

  “What happened?”

  “The sorceress Annowre happened,” the king answered grimly. “She came to our Samhain festival and cursed my child.”

  The druid pursed his lips, annoyed. Annowre was becoming a thorn in his side, and he understood now why his mother had sent him to pursue her. “What kind of curse?”

  “Mostly bad luck in the future,” Ban answered. “But one of the Ladies of the Lake interceded and tried to soften the blow. I pray that it was enough.”

  He was intrigued. “Which Lady?”

  “Evienne. And she swore to my queen that she would protect my son if ever he was in danger or distress.”

  King Bors interjected, “My queen is with child. We learned of it
before I set sail for Britannia.”

  Merlin nodded. “Evienne is a noble and caring lady, and if she offers her assistance to your child, she’ll give it. And congratulations, King Bors, for the impending birth.” He smiled amiably. “I will tell Arthur that you are with him, and of the forces you have pledged.”

  “My thanks.” Ban hesitated, then asked, “Is it true, what you said? He was spirited away in the night and is the legitimate offspring of Uther Pendragon?”

  “It is true.” He raised an eyebrow. “Do you doubt me?”

  “No. I simply needed to hear the confirmation from your own lips.” Ban crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “If I am going to serve a king, I would like to be certain that his kingship is legal and that he has the right to stand in power over me.”

  “He has the right,” Merlin assured. “And more than that, he has the blessing of the goddesses of war.”

  Ban and Bors glanced at one another again. “So he is pagan.”

  “He has learned both faiths. I take it that you have taken the cross?”

  Bors raised his chin proudly. “We have.”

  “And yet you had a Samain fire,” Merlin smirked.

  Ban shrugged. “We have taken the cross, but not all of our people have. There’s no harm in a bonfire on a dark night.”

  “I wonder if Archbishop Augustine would say the same,” the druid teased.

  Ban smiled, and his eyes sparkled with humor. “I’m not certain I really care what the old man has to say. He has his opinions, and I have mine.”

  “As it should be.” Merlin offered them his hand, and they each clasped wrists with him, sealing their friendship and the offer they had made. He stepped back. “I thank you, Your Majesties. Your support is invaluable.”

  Without waiting to be dismissed, he left the villa and made his way back to the cathedral.

  Sir Ector and Sir Kay left the catacombs, and the old knight said to his son, “I am willing to wager that he’s at one of the merchant villas around the town, since the governor’s palace has fallen on hard times.”

  “Governor’s palace? There’s a governor in Londinium?”

  “Not anymore. Not since Rome left. There used to be a procurator here, and a provincial governor. That was before the place was sacked by Saxon pirates and burned to the ground. Obviously, they’ve rebuilt.” He led the way to the forum. “Someone here must know.”

  The bones of the city’s Roman skeleton were still holding up the tattered flesh that the Empire had left behind, and, as in old times, the forum was the center of the town. Sir Ector wondered briefly why the sword and stone had not been erected there, but he supposed that the Church had wanted to control the proceedings. Having the miracle happen in a public space would have made it seem so much less God-ordained.

  “Constantine’s heraldry is two pillars with a rampant dragon between them,” Ector told Kay. “Watch for men wearing badges with that symbol. They are his attendants and will be able to show us the way.”

  The forum was crowded for a Sunday, but commerce stopped for no man, and foodstuffs had to be purchased every day if people were meant to eat. Pagans, of course, had no compunctions about shopping and carrying on their trades on the Lord’s day, so they were hard at work when Ector and Kay arrived. There were exotic, dark-skinned foreigners with spices, Silurians with wool from their Cambrian flocks, and Frankish merchants with fine fabrics for sale. A blacksmith and armorer was doing brisk business, and Ector pointed out his shop.

  “There. If I know soldiers, that is where they’ll go.”

  They went to the open doors in front of the blazing forge. The smith had his back to them, beating out a sword blade with his hammer. He was sweaty and streaked with soot, and the heat from his furnace was oppressive even from where they stood. Beside them, standing and watching the craftsman at his work, stood a heavily bearded young man with a serious expression. He wore a tabard over his chain shirt, and on his breast was the emblem of Rheged.

  “Good day,” Sir Ector greeted him.

  The soldier looked at him, then away. “Good day.”

  “Rheged.”

  “Yes.” He looked at Ector, and his eyes fell on the knight’s ruined hand. He turned away again. “I serve King Uriens.”

  “Where is your master staying?”

  Kay moved to stand on the other side of the man, and he warily straightened, his hand on his empty scabbard. Apparently, it was his sword that the blacksmith was repairing. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I thought he might be in the same place as Prince Constantine. I seek a word with him.”

  “With who? My master, or with Constantine?”

  “With Constantine.”

  The soldier nodded. “My king has taken the Black Dog, a taverna here in the city. Constantine is at the Spaniard’s villa.”

  “Ah! My apologies.” He smiled and beckoned Kay back to his side. “Good day, then, and God be with you.”

  The soldier turned back to watch the blacksmith, dismissing them completely. Ector walked away casually, and Kay followed, asking, “Do you know where the Spaniard’s villa is?”

  “No, but I will find it.”

  They walked for a few minutes longer, Ector scanning the crowd for a likely source of information. He found what he was looking for in the person of a harried local porter who was loading a cart full of provisions and provender.

  “Excuse me,” he said, stopping the man in his tracks.

  The porter began to reply rudely, but when he saw that he was being importuned by a nobleman, he changed his tone immediately. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Can you direct me to the Spaniard’s villa?”

  The man took his cap from his head and scratched at his sparse hair. “Go up north of the Bishop’s Gate. Take the road west from there. It’ll be the first villa that you come to.”

  “My thanks, good man.” He pressed a coin into the porter’s hand.

  “Thank you, my lord.” Ector began to walk away, but the man stopped him. “Were you here to see the sword and the stone?”

  They turned back toward the porter, and Ector said, “We did.”

  “Did you see him pull the sword, my lord? Did you see King Uther’s son?”

  Ector and Kay exchanged a glance, and he replied, “I did.”

  “Was he magnificent?”

  Kay began to scoff, but Ector silenced him with a look. “He will be a very fine king, I think.”

  “Do you think he will be fair? I mean, will he consider the meek?”

  The answer came from Kay. “I’m sure he will. He had a kind face.”

  The porter smiled. “That’s good. Kindness would surely be welcomed in a time like this.” He leaned closer. “Don’t spend too much time outside the gates. Rumor has it that there are Saxons here about, and they may raid us in the night. Don’t want you to get caught outside the walls.”

  Ector smiled. “Thank you for your concern, my friend.” He passed another coin to the man, but he waved it off.

  “Nah, weren’t said to beg money from you. Just looking out.”

  “My thanks,” the knight said, “and I insist. I have taken too much of your time.”

  The porter accepted the coin with a smile. “Thank you, my lord. May the gods smile for you.”

  “And for you.”

  They walked away, and Kay said, “It’s going to be difficult for me to remember that he’s king now and not just my annoying little brother.”

  Ector chuckled. “I think this will be a difficult transition for all of us, but remember - under the crown, he’s still the same Arthur you’ve known all your life. I will look to you to keep him humble.”

  Kay nodded. “No trouble there. I won’t tolerate him putting on airs around me.”

  “Just see that you don’t start putting on airs of your own because he’s your brother.”

  “Father, I wouldn’t!”

  Ector gave him a sidelong glance. “Don’t lie to me, Kay. I’ve known you sinc
e the minute you were born. You certainly would.”

  The younger man was unable to counter the truth when he heard it. Instead, he meekly said, “Yes, sir.”

  They walked along the road to the Bishop’s Gate, then followed the track as it curved around to the west. The villa they sought was very much in the Roman style, with a three-sided peristyle hall extending out from a double-story structure and surrounding an ornamental garden. The solid front of the building faced the road, with the peristyle behind, extending toward a system of terraced gardens that were lying fallow in the winter chill. A light dusting of snow covered them now, but Ector imagined that in the summer, they were a riot of color and greenery.

  A guard wearing Constantine’s badge stopped them at the door. “Friend or foe?” he asked.

  “Friend, certainly,” the knight replied. “I am Sir Ector of Caer Gai, and this is my son, Sir Kay. We have come to extend the hand of friendship to Prince Constantine on behalf of Arthur Pendragon.”

  The guard looked momentarily nonplussed, but he stepped aside. “Enter and be welcomed, friend.”

  “My thanks.”

  They stepped through the main entry way into a traditional Roman domus, severely out of place in the British countryside. The garden in the atrium was frozen, as was the fountain, whose water was a mere trickle around the ice. A phalanx of soldiers worked on drills in the garden, their spears glinting in the late afternoon sunlight.

  A Greek slave came forward and bowed to them. “My lords,” he said. “May I tell my master who is calling?”

  “Who is your master?”

  “He is called the Spaniard here in Londinium, but he is not from Spain at all. His name is Safir, son of Lord Esclabor of Babylon.”

  “Ah! You are a long way from home, then.”

  “Very far from where we started, yes,” the slave said, “but this is home for us now.”

  “I mean no disrespect to your master, but we are calling for his guest, Prince Constantine. I am Sir Ector of Caer Gai, and this is Sir Kay.”

  The slave bowed again. “Come this way, my lords.”

  They followed where he led. Unlike most slaves that Ector had met, this one had soft hands and was dressed in silks and a fine woolen cloak. He looked better off than most of the tenant farmers on the lands around Caer Gai. The slave opened a doorway and stepped aside, bowing and indicating that Ector and Kay should go in. They went where he bade, leaving the peristyle for the quiet of a chamber with elaborate mosaic floors depicting grapevines. Couches were arranged around a low central table, and on one of these couches, Constantine was sitting, his hands folded around a string of wooden beads, his head down in prayer. They waited politely until the prince looked up, and he seemed surprised to see them.