Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  “And what will you be thinking about?” Bedivere asked.

  Arthur gestured at the merchants rolling their carts filled with wares into the forum’s marketplace. “All of these people,” he said. “They will depend on me to keep them safe. How can I do that? How can I protect a hundred people, or a thousand? How can I be everywhere that I’m needed?”

  “No one can do that,” his companion said gravely. “The trick is in determining how to be where you are needed most.”

  “And how do I do that? If I ask, everyone will say that I am needed most wherever they are. Or will they prefer me to be far away?”

  Bedivere shrugged. “If they are fearful, they will want you near. If they are guilty, they will want you far. If they are honest and forthright, they will follow where you go, and you will be the lamp that lights their way. Your determination of where to be is a matter for your advisors and the voice of your own heart.”

  Arthur smiled ruefully. “My heart says run.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he objected mildly. “If it did, then you would have run by now.”

  He found the strength to joke about the matter. “You would have caught me and dragged me back.”

  Bedivere smirked. “Probably.”’

  They turned onto the road in front of the cathedral just in time to see a procession of well-armed men marching through the open gate. They were bristling with swords and spears, and they marched in a tight military cadence, the united thumping of their feet beating like a giant’s pulse. Arthur’s heart pounded. “Is the cathedral being attacked?”

  “No. That is Prince Constantine’s honor guard.” He stopped and waited for the young king to continue walking. “We asked him to meet you here after prime, remember?”

  He nodded and stepped forward once again. “Of course. I just didn’t expect him to come with a small army.”

  “Well, not everyone is brave enough to walk the streets in only woolen clothes and with just one old man for company.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes. “You are not old.”

  “I am old enough, my king.” He held the door to the cathedral for him. “After you.”

  They sat in the back of the church and watched as Constantine knelt at the high altar, his ermine-lined blue cloak spread behind him like the train of a woman’s gown. He was flanked by armored pikemen who stood protection over him in his prayers. Bedivere snorted softly to himself and leaned toward Arthur.

  “Bit of a show off, isn’t he?” the knight whispered.

  “Well,” Arthur responded as quietly as he could, “he’s been royal all of his life.”

  “It is possible to be royal without being so pompous.”

  The prince occupied the attention of the archbishop, who said the prayers as if he was reciting them for Constantine instead of for God. The first two pews in the sanctuary were filled with armed men, forcing the religious brothers to sit behind them. The lilting words of worship were punctuated by the clink and rub of metal every time one of the soldiers moved. Arthur was so distracted by the racket of the men and the silent noise of Constantine’s presence that he could not clear his mind to pray, and he found himself staring at the prince’s back while the archbishop chanted.

  When the prayers were finally ended, Constantine rose smoothly, almost like a dancer. It seemed to Arthur that Constantine was gifted at display, which seemed to be a valuable leadership trait if the devotion in his soldiers’ eyes was any indication. It was a good lesson, and one that Arthur would take to heart. It helped him to understand now why the archbishop was so intent upon his coronation being a lavish affair. It wasn’t about him at all. It was all about the performance. The display was all that most of the common people would ever see or know of their king, and their opinion of his worthiness would be based upon the impressiveness of his ceremony.

  Well, Arthur thought, if display and pageantry are what the people want, that’s what they’ll have to have.

  Constantine looked surprised when he turned and saw Arthur sitting there in the last pew, but he recovered his aplomb with a bow. Arthur rose and walked toward him.

  “Prince Constantine,” he said, pleased that he managed to keep his voice even and steady. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with me.”

  “My lord,” the prince said, smiling. “It was my honor.”

  The archbishop told them, “The sanctuary is yours.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Constantine said, turning his shining face toward old Augustine.

  The old cleric bowed to the two royal men and left through the side door. Bedivere stood. “Your Majesty, should I -”

  The Armorican prince interrupted. “I was under the impression that you were not yet king. At least that what’s I was told.”

  “That is correct. I have no title as of yet. Sir Bedivere is hasty in calling me so.” He turned to his knightly companion. “You may go.”

  Bedivere bowed. “I will be just outside.”

  The young man smiled. “Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be quite safe.”

  Constantine stood. “I give you my word as a prince, a knight, and a gentleman that my young cousin has nothing to fear from me.”

  His words mollified Bedivere, but only slightly. He nodded, but there was tightness around his mouth. He left them to their conversation.

  Arthur sat in one of the pews and gestured for Constantine to join him. After a moment, with a slightly annoyed expression, the prince complied. He sat sideways and faced the boy, one hand resting on the back of the pew on which he sat, the other gripping the back of the pew in front. His white knuckles were the only witnesses betraying his tension.

  “You asked to speak to me?”

  “Yes.” Arthur took a breath. “We both know that I am unwelcome as King Uther’s heir. The Kings Lot and Uriens especially have great objections to me.”

  “Can you blame them? Until the day you appeared, no one knew that you existed, or if they knew that Queen Igraine had borne a child, they thought that he was dead. Many people are still not convinced.”

  “You said you saw both King Uther and Queen Igraine in me.”

  Constantine smiled. “A man may say many things.”

  “So you lied.”

  He looked offended. “Certainly not, and if you were a grown man, I would challenge you to a duel for satisfaction for that insult.”

  “Don’t let my age stop you,” Arthur said calmly.

  “I am twice the fighter that you are. You are still only a squire, and to a poor and feeble knight, at that.”

  He smiled into Constantine’s scorn. “Then challenge me and take the crown. If you slay me, there will be no one to complain. You were expected to be the one to pull the sword from the stone, not me.”

  “And yet you managed the feat, which was arranged by Merlin, your dear companion and teacher. Curious.”

  “Are you implying that Merlin staged the entire test?”

  “Does it matter? What’s done is done, and the rabble in the courtyard saw you perform the feat. I wonder, though, if you could do it again if the stone were moved.”

  Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Moved to where?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The forum, perhaps, or maybe to the Giant’s Dance.”

  “You can haul that sword in its stone to Hell and back, and I will pull it free a hundred times. It doesn’t matter where the stone is standing.”

  “Then let me move it to the forum. Let the people see their king.”

  “If you can move it, then I’ll be happy for you to make it so. I’m not afraid.”

  Constantine raised his chin. “And what if I enlisted all of the enchanters and magicians that I know to render the stone powerless, to strip Merlin’s magic away from it? What then?”

  Arthur shrugged. “It will make no difference.”

  “Perhaps we shall see.”

  “Move it. You have the men to do it, right now, out in the courtyard waiting to escort you back to the Spaniard’s villa. I have no objection.�
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  The prince smiled. “And what about Merlin? Will he object?”

  “I don’t care.”

  They looked at one another for a long while, and finally Constantine chuckled. “You are bold, I will give you that.”

  Arthur nodded. “I will have to be. Even now, the kings are preparing their forces to oppose me. They mean to cut me down before I am fully in my manhood. I think you know that.” He canted his head. “I think you believe that they will succeed unless you and your army join with me.”

  “I am well aware that your days will be few if I, too, oppose you.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. There may be a number of common people who will come to my side, especially if we move the stone to the forum and let them all see the sword come free in my hand.”

  “Common people? You would trust the future of your reign to laborers and peasants?”

  Arthur lifted his chin. “At least they understand how to do honest work for honest reward. There are more commoners than nobles, Prince Constantine, and knights can be pulled from their horses by an angry mob.”

  “Are you so base-born that you are willing to throw your lot in with the filthy and weak?”

  “I was raised in the country, my lord, in a place where I understood that work makes people strong, not weak.”

  Constantine dismissed the thought with a flick of his wrist. “You are speaking nonsense. Are you willing to take your peasant army, if you are able to raise such a thing, and face down Lot and Uriens and Caradoc and all the rest?”

  “If that is who stands with me, then, yes.” Arthur looked him in the eye. “I have not been in sophisticated places, but I know who I can trust and who I can’t. I trust common people, for they have never done me harm.”

  “And nobles have?” the prince mocked.

  “Not yet. Do you intend to be the first?”

  They stared at one another again, and this time, the Armorican prince looked away. “You are asking me if I will offer you my support and the backing of my men and materiel in this fool’s errand you have placed for yourself. You know that you will have to fight for the crown.”

  “I know.”

  “And you know that you will be outnumbered and outmatched.”

  Arthur shrugged. “By some people’s estimation. I think it depends upon how you choose to count, and what.”

  “You are unreasonable and untutored,” Constantine declared, “and you have no idea what war really is. I have fought in wars, boy. I have smelled the stench of spilled bowels and standing pools of blood, have heard the screams of the wounded and the weeping of men who know that they are dying and are unready.”

  “You assume that I have never killed before,” Arthur said quietly. “But I have.”

  “And what have you killed, little man? Foxes? Hens?”

  “Prince Madoc.”

  Constantine’s eyes grew larger. “Madoc?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “He was a doughty warrior. You must have assassinated him in his sleep for one such as you to take his life.”

  “He was on his charger, with a war hammer. I had a sword and was on foot. He looked awake to me...at least at first.”

  This time, their staring match had a different flavor than before. Finally, the prince said, “If you truly killed him, then you have slain your own brother. You have committed fratricide.”

  “He attacked me first, and if I have such a sin upon my soul, that is between myself and God and none of your concern.”

  Arthur could see the wheels turning in the Armorican prince’s head, and he could see the rapid adjustment of his position. Constantine searched Arthur’s face, and the youth kept his expression as still and serene as he could manage.

  “I would not have believed that you had the making of a murderer, but I see in your eyes that the steel is there. King Uther would have been proud to know he sired a monster like you.” He looked away. “I will give you my support, but on one condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you name me as your heir should you fall.”

  His request surprised him. “If I understand the succession, the crown would come to you after me, anyway.”

  “But I want you to name me. And I want you to fight Lot last.”

  Arthur laughed. “I think I understand you now. You want me to ride out to battle and bring the rebellious nobles and kings to heel, but you don’t think I can conquer Lot. You want me to name you as my heir so that when I fall under Lot’s heel, the crown will pass to you securely and you’ll never have to fight for it.”

  “You are more clever than you look.”

  “I am much more than I look to be in many respects. And if I agree to name you as my heir, at least until such time as I have sired legitimate issue, what then?”

  “Then I will send my armies off to fight beneath your banner. My men are battle hardened from long years of warfare with the Norsemen, the Saxons, the Romans, and the Gauls. Even the boys who travel with my baggage have seen more combat than you. They will all serve you well, if I tell them to.” He smiled. “It is such a little thing, making allowances for the throne and crown to come to the one who should have had them all along. My father Ambrosius was Uther’s older brother. I should have been the one to inherit, not Uther, but I was still a babe within my mother’s womb when my father fell to Roman poison.”

  “The Britons needed a leader when Ambrosius died, and Uther Pendragon was there,” Arthur told him. “You could not have led our people against the Saxon invaders from behind your mother’s skirts… although based on what I’ve heard about you, that does seem to be your favorite position from which to wage a war.”

  Constantine’s eyes glinted with dark fury. “I should strike you senseless for speaking such outrage!”

  “I welcome you to try.”

  The Armorican prince considered him carefully, and with an effort of obvious self-control, he held himself in check. Arthur was impressed by how Constantine mastered his emotions. That was another lesson he could take away from this day.

  “Will you name me as your heir apparent?”

  “Will you give you your army if I do?”

  The prince nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then I agree.”

  Constantine rose and, with exaggerated and deliberate movements, he took a knee before Arthur in the aisle of the church. “Then I pledge my all to you as my kinsman and my king.”

  Arthur rose.

  “So be it.”

  He left the sanctuary and found Bedivere pacing in the vestibule. The knight turned to him immediately as soon as he walked through the door. “Well?”

  “He’s with me.”

  Bedivere nodded. “In return for what?”

  “In return for being named heir apparent.” He smiled at the knight’s outraged expression. “It’s only until I have children of my own. He will never gain the throne.”

  “You sound very certain.”

  “I am.” He smiled and they walked together toward the stairs to the catacombs. “My destiny is on its way.”

  The day of his knighting was drizzly and gray. It was four days past Yule’s moon, and the cathedral was still dressed for Christmas. The church was packed with people observing the solemnity, and Arthur reminded himself that the display was everything. He knelt before the archbishop and recited his oath of fealty, Merlin on one side and Constantine on the other. When the time came, Merlin presented him with the sword from the stone, complete now with a belt and a beautifully embellished scabbard. Augustine, the old archbishop, knelt and attached spurs to his boots, and then he rose and addressed him in a booming voice.

  “I name you Sir Arthur, Dux Bellorum of Logres.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd, and Arthur hesitated. He had never heard the name Logres before. He glanced at Merlin, and the druid nodded to him encouragingly. Somewhat reassured, he turned and faced the assembled people. Applause broke out, and in the pews, he saw King Lot and King Uriens sitting with their
sons and entourages. Uriens met Arthur’s eyes and sneered.

  Constantine spoke next. “My men are moving the stone to the center of the forum. There Sir Arthur will repeat the drawing of the sword for all to see. Then there will be no doubt that he is the true-born king.”

  Mocking laughter rose from the area of the pews where the rebellious kings were sitting. Arthur looked at them. Laugh all you like, he thought. You will soon see.

  Sir Ector stepped up to Arthur and embraced him tightly. “Congratulations, son. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thank you.” He whispered, “What is Logres?”

  “It is the part of Britannia west of Cambria and south of Lothian. It is an old name, rarely used.”

  The archbishop retrieved something from one of his priests, and he came to Arthur. “I have in my hand a ring from the Roman days. The last man to wear this was Ambrosius Aurelianus, the High King before Uther Pendragon. He was the father of Prince Constantine, from whom this ring has come. He was the last Dux Bellorum of Britannia, and as his successor, this signet comes to you.” He took Arthur’s left hand and slid the ring onto his index finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for him. Augustine blessed the ring, then said, “May you be successful in your battles in the name of God.”

  “Amen,” he said.

  The ring was made of gold, with a square ruby at the center flanked by griffins with long tails coiled into eternity knots. The ruby was dark, almost the color of fresh blood, which seemed appropriate to Arthur. He would be spilling blood aplenty while he wore it.

  He turned to Constantine. “Thank you for parting with this heirloom of your father,” he said. “I will keep it safe and honor his memory.”

  “Fight well,” the prince said, smiling. “Fight for our people and our God.”

  “I will.”

  Merlin spoke. “I think it’s time to follow the stone into the forum.”

  Sir Kay, joining them, grumbled, “Is this display really necessary? He pulled it once, for God’s sake.”

  “Yes,” Arthur nodded. “More people need to see. We need to win more people to our side.”