by J A Cummings
“We will.” They bowed again, and Ban said, “It is an honor to serve you, my lord.”
“It will be an honor to fight at your sides.”
They backed up three steps, then turned as one and left the domus. Brastias nodded in approval. “Those two look like fine warriors, and I’ve heard that they ‘ve fought against King Claudas very well. They will be a good addition to your army.”
Arthur sighed. He knew the scope of what was to come. “They will be a good start.”
She found signs of him in the Arroy, but his usual haunts were deserted. Vivienne focused her ability to find her offspring, a gift of her succubus blood, and located Merlin in his cave beneath the castle at Tintagel. She went there with her magic and hesitated, looking into the darkness. She could feel him within, but there was no sound and no scent of smoke from a warming fire.
“Merlin?” she called.
His voice answered promptly. He had always been an obedient son. “Here, Mother.”
Vivienne stepped inside. As demons, they had no need of fires or torches to see. He was in the very darkest part of the cave, pressed against the rock wall and huddled beneath his cloak, his knees curled up to his chin. She sighed.
“Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
He sounded miserable. “Arthur.”
“What about him?” Merlin looked up at her, and his eyes were puffy and red from crying. He looked away. She sighed. “You’ve fallen in love with him.”
Merlin nodded and answered in a whisper. “Yes.”
She clicked her tongue, then walked into the cave and sat beside him. He shifted so that he could embrace her, his head upon her shoulder. She stroked his hair.
“Now, darling. Arthur is a comely boy, I will grant, but he is here to serve a purpose. He is nothing more or less than a tool. Why should you fall in love with that?” She kissed his forehead. “This is foolishness. He is only a mortal human being. Compared to him, you are a god. Why burden yourself with these emotions? You are an incubus. You are not meant to feel such things.”
“I know,” he sniffled. “But I do.”
Vivienne sighed. “Well, stop. This is no good, Merlin, no good at all, and you are only doing yourself harm. It’s unnecessary. He is beneath you, darling, and love is nothing but a liability. We are involved in his life for only one reason: to use him. He is destined to be the one to obtain the two relics, and I must have them. Whatever else is in his future, that is all that matters.”
“But…”
“That is all that matters,” she repeated firmly. “Remember that. He is a tool. He is not your equal. If anything, he can be like a pet, an animal that you keep for amusement.”
“He’s not an animal.”
“He is. He is a human, little better than an ape, albeit with some interesting talents.”
“Mother, he’s -”
“Don’t argue with me, Merlin. Put this boy from your mind. Can you advise him and push him to be where he needs to be, or do I need to take over?”
His face puckered. “No, Mother. I won’t fail you.”
“Good.” She released him from her embrace and said, “Now, stand up and wipe your tears. We have too much to do and there is too much at stake to be distracted by emotions. Go back to him, see him for what he is and know him for what he is not.” She rose. “You are a good boy, but inexperienced. You are still young as our kind measures age. A few mistakes are to be expected. The key is to learn from them and overcome them, and not to allow them to overcome you.”
Merlin struggled to his feet, and he took a deep, calming breath. “Thank you, Mother. I will return to him and I will get him back on track.”
“Excellent. There’s my good boy.” She kissed him. “Now, put these childish things aside and let’s get back to work.”
Vivienne held out her hand to him, and Merlin took it. She smiled at him and nodded, and they vanished into the mist.
Arthur spent the winter at Brastias’s home near Mons Badonicus. His entire entourage took up residence within the walls of the castle, Illtyd and Bedivere in one room, Ector and Kay in another, and Arthur and Griflet in a third. Garwen and Brastias were married on the very day they arrived at Mons Badonicus, so they could occupy the master’s chambers together without scandal or shame.
Merlin reappeared shortly after the new moon, giving no explanation of where he’d been or why he’d gone. When he arrived, he presented Arthur with new harness. There was a coat of mail that was made of such fine rivets that it almost felt like fabric. It fit him like a glove and was accompanied by a breastplate engraved with a dragon, as well as pauldrons, vambraces and greaves, all brightly polished. It came complete with a steel shield emblazoned with a golden dragon on a field of blue, and a helmet with a crest of blue-dyed horsehair. Every piece fit him exactly, as if it had been made to his precise dimensions, and though it was stout and strong, it was so well balanced that it felt lighter than what he had worn before.
Griflet helped arm him, then stepped back with his hands on his hips. “Very grand,” he complimented.
“Thank you.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s go show our friends.”
They walked out into the tiltyard where the others were waiting, standing in the late winter sunlight. All of the knights were in their full kit, and they were ready to work. They looked almost intimidating as he came closer.
“You are equipped as befits a dux bellorum,” Merlin told him, nodding in satisfaction when he saw him fully armored for the first time. “You will be an impressive sight on the battlefield.”
“Yes,” Griflet agreed, “especially if he keeps the visor down on his helmet.”
“Very funny,” Arthur said, smiling.
Ector, Bedivere and Brastias stood to the side, admiring the young man’s new armor. “Very pretty,” Bedivere said. “Now that you look like a warlord, it’s time to make certain you can fight like one.”
Arthur nodded. “I’m ready to work.”
Brastias picked up his own helmet and put it on his head. It had a T-shaped opening in the front, revealing his eyes, nose and mouth but protecting his cheeks and brow. He smiled. “You’d better be.”
Suddenly his sword was out, and he was attacking. Arthur blocked with his shield and fell back, the onslaught driving him to retreat step after staggering step before his own blade even cleared its sheath. He tripped over his own feet and landed flat on his back, his shield over his chest. Brastias’s sword tip rested against his throat, light as a bee preparing to sting. Arthur was panting in shock and surprise, and his eyes were wide as saucers.
Brastias peered down at him, his eyes narrowed, and the tip of his sword pressed ever so slightly, nicking him. A single drop of blood welled to the surface, and then the knight stepped back.
“That,” he said drily, “was not good.”
Arthur leaped to his feet and wiped the blood away from his throat. He looked at the ruby droplet on his fingertip, then back up at Brastias. “You cut me!”
“I did. And I will cut you every time you fall. It’s just a drop of blood. You’ll bleed far more in a real fight, even if you win. This is about warfare, my duke of battles, and warfare is not polite and half-assed like sparring in the tiltyard. War is about death, and men hacking each other to bits and the price for every step you take is paid in blood. The winner is the one who pays that price with blood that’s not his own.” He gestured with his sword and accepted his own shield from Sir Ector. “Again.”
Arthur squared his stance and raised his shield, preparing. He took a breath and charged at Brastias, who swept his feet out from under him and sent him sprawling. Another sword nick opened the skin at the back of his neck, and he grumbled as he pushed himself up off the ground.
Brastias grinned at him from behind his faceplate. “Again.”
They fought for the rest of the afternoon, until Arthur’s arms were so weary they could scarcely hold the shield and sword, much less make them useful. By the time sunset came, h
e was festooned with bleeding nicks and filled with bad humor. Brastias finally removed his helmet when the church bells in the village tolled for evening prayers.
“That’s enough for today,” he said. “Get cleaned up for dinner. You look like you’ve been savaged by house cats.”
Arthur gave his weapons to Griflet, who helped him out of his new armor. The squire looked at the stains on the arming doublet and the chain shirt, and he said, “I’ll clean this off before it rusts.”
“Thank you.” The young dux bellorum turned and trudged to Brastias’s bath house.
Once Arthur was out of earshot, Ector chuckled. “That wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. Thank you for not humiliating him completely.”
Bedivere smiled. “Yes, thanks for humiliating him just enough to keep him humble.”
“That’s the idea.” Brastias put his shield down, leaning against the wall, and his own squire, Gofrwy, stepped forward to claim it. “He’s not bad, honestly. He’s been taught well up until this time. If an attack comes tomorrow, if he has strong men beside him, he’ll survive. He might even triumph.” He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to his squire, who took it wordlessly. “He’s very, very good for an untried boy, but there’s more in him, I’m sure. He’s got the capacity to be an incredible warrior. What we need to do is bring it out of him.”
Ector nodded. “He’s always been a quick learner.”
“He’d better be. He has only a few months before the stone arrives in the Giant’s Dance, and not long after that, it’ll be battle season,” Bedivere said. “I am the best horseman out of all of us. I can teach him mounted combat. Obviously, Brastias is the best with sword and spear. Ector, you have taught him how to think, and that’s the most important part. Between the three of us, we can teach him enough about tactics that he will make good decisions.” He ran a hand over his blond beard and nodded. “I think all will be well, if we can get his skills up in time.”
Brastias surrendered his armor to Gofrwy and began to walk toward the baths, himself. Training was sweaty work. As he walked, he told his brothers, “We will get him fully trained in time.”
Ector agreed. “We have to.”
“If we don’t,” Bedivere began, “then…”
“Stop right there. Don’t borrow trouble.” The Lord of Caer Gai shook his head. “We all know what’s at stake.”
“Does the boy?”
“Better than any of us. Never underestimate the depths to which he feels his obligations.”
Bedivere nodded. “Well, I hope he and Brastias are quick. I’m hungry.”
Arthur dove into the water in the bath house and swam to the opposite side, where he held onto the stone wall and muttered a string of the worst curses he could imagine. The skin on his neck stung in a dozen places as if he was wearing a necklace made entirely out of broken glass. He had never been so embarrassed.
Griflet’s voice spoke from the doorway. “I brought you a robe.”
Arthur turned to face the water, his back to the door. “Thank you.”
His squire came closer and sat cross-legged behind him. “You did well.”
He snorted. “Liar.”
“No, really.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “I have some salve for your cuts. May I put it on you?”
He was tempted to tell Griflet to leave them, but he knew how dangerous infection could be. It would serve no one’s purposes if he petulantly declined the treatment and then died of blood poisoning before the wars began.
“Yes, please.”
Griflet put the pot of medicine on the edge of the bath. He washed his hands off briefly, then opened the lid, letting the full aroma free. Arthur gagged.
“Oh my God… that stuff stinks!”
“Yes, but it works,” his squire said, gently dabbing the salve onto the tiny cuts. “These are all very small, and there shouldn’t be a worry, but still... better safe than sorry.”
Brastias came into the bath house and nodded when he saw what Griflet was doing. “Good. I’m glad you’re both thinking. Any wound, even the smallest, can become a danger to your life and limb on the battlefield. Griflet, you will get a great deal of practice as a surgeon.”
The squire stuck out his tongue and grimaced. “I hope not. This is the limit of what I can stomach to see.”
“Then become a farmer now.” He stripped and slid into the water. “Unless you can’t slaughter or castrate animals, either. Then I guess you’ll have to be a priest.”
Arthur closed his eyes and lifted his chin, allowing Griflet access to the ring of little nicks around his throat. He gripped the stones on the pool’s wall, his knuckles whitening. Brastias chuckled.
“Stinging?”
“Yes.”
“The wounds, or your pride?”
Arthur opened one eye and looked at him. “Both.”
“Good. Embarrassment is a powerful motivator.” The knight relaxed against the side of the bath and sighed. “Nothing like hot water, is there? Pity those poor bastards in the north, who have no baths like these. Not even Lot in his palace at Din Eidyn has a decent bath.”
“Really?” Arthur asked. “Have you been there?”
“Yes. I was there when he celebrated his first son.” He shook his head. “Din Eidyn is a very strong fortress, built on the top of a rocky hill that will be hard to climb. Our best hope is to defeat Lot while he is out of his castle walls, for we will never be able to take Din Eidyn from the valley.”
“And if Lot falls in the valley or in some other place, and his queen bars the doors?” Arthur asked. “What then?”
“Then, if our ballista cannot convince her to let us in, we starve them out.”
“That’s barbaric.”
“That’s war.” Brastias rubbed a hand over his well-muscled chest. “Siege tactics are unpleasant for both sides, but they are effective. When the people get hungry enough, they will surrender. It always happens.”
Arthur was fascinated. “Have you ever been on the winning side of a siege?”
“Yes, several times. Uther Pendragon besieged the strongholds at Camulodunum and Verulamium. He even besieged the Irish in their capital, winning their allegiance for a time.”
The young man frowned. “I thought the Irish were our enemies.”
“They are. They changed sides again the moment Uther died. Opportunists. If you’re strong, they will ally with you. If you’re weak, they’ll fight you. If your position changes, so does theirs. Irish loyalty changes like the wind.”
“That’s not very honorable,” Griflet observed.
“It depends on whose definition of honor you’re using, I suppose,” Brastias shrugged. “To themselves, they’re very brave and manly and doing only what they should do. That’s an important lesson for you, Arthur: even villains are heroes in their own stories.”
He nodded, considering this. “It makes sense. No one likes to think ill of themselves.”
“Correct.” The knight stretched. “Griflet, toss me that soap, will you?”
The squire complied, then capped the jar of salve. “There. All done.”
“Thank God. It reeks.”
“And now so do you.” Griflet smiled and stood while Gofrwy came inside with Brastias’s robe and took away his soiled clothes. “Enjoy that.”
He gathered up Arthur’s discarded clothing, then left the two knights to their soak. They were quiet for a long while, then Arthur asked, “What was my father like?”
Brastias leaned back and considered. “He could be generous to those who were loyal to him, and he was strong man. He fought like no man I’ve ever seen before - he was incredibly strong and canny on the battlefield. He had one of the most brilliant tactical minds I’ve ever known.”
Arthur nodded. “And as a man?”
The knight chuckled. “He loved sex, and he loved his drink. I have never seen a man with more prodigious appetites. If he saw a comely face, whether male or female, he had to have them in his bed. To tell
him ‘no’ was to invite obsession, and most people learned to give in early and get it over with. Once he had his conquest, he was usually done and moved on.”
“That’s why he had so many bastards.”
“Indeed. And there are probably many more out there that we don’t know about, because their mothers couldn’t say for certain they were his.”
Arthur looked down at the water. “So he was given to rape. And my mother initially told him no, which was why he enlisted Merlin to help him rape her.”
Brastias, too, lowered his eyes. “It was one thing I could never forgive in him. Duke Gorlois was my friend, and I would have laid down my life for him. He was like a brother to me. When he slew my friend and took his wife, I swore my enmity to Uther for all time.”
“So what changed?”
He sighed. “I’m not sure that it ever did change, not deep down. I never stopped resenting him for what he did, and I hated him for the misery that he visited upon Igraine every day of their marriage. But he was good king in every other respect, and he treated me with honor, and it became…. confusing.”
“So you served him.”
“He was my king, and it was a time of war. The Saxons were invading, and we needed to defend our people. That necessity required a level of loyalty I might not otherwise have given. And through our time on the battlefield, fighting side by side, I learned to respect him as a warrior.”
Arthur sank down beneath the surface of the water, then came back up with a sigh.
“You’re going to have to get the salve put back on now,” Brastias said with a grin.
He scowled. “Shit.” The older knight chuckled. Arthur sighed. “Why did no one kill him for being such a monster? Surely some of the women he raped had husbands.”
“Most of them did. But he was king, Arthur. Kings can do pretty much whatever they like. Laws don’t apply to them.”
“They should.”
Brastias raised an eyebrow. “You have strange views.”
