by J A Cummings
“I believe in fairness,” he defended. “And it’s unfair that a king should be able to abuse people just because he wears a crown.”
The knight considered the young man, then said, “In truth, Arthur, most of Uther’s partners were willing. He was a handsome and charismatic man, and many people were happy to spread for him. You will learn that many women, and some men, will be eager bedmates for you, just so they can say that they bedded a king.” He smiled. “You favor him, but in a finer way, thanks to your mother’s influence. You will have all the bedmates you can handle, I’m sure.”
“Well…” Arthur permitted himself a wry smirk. “That wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome.”
“Ha! I’m sure it wouldn’t.”
He took the soap and washed, lost in thought. Brastias left the pool and put on his robe. He was about to take his leave when Arthur asked, “What is my mother like?”
The knight sat on a bench. “She was the greatest beauty I had ever seen, and I still have not seen her equal. I think all of us were a little in love with her. She was a dedicated and loyal wife and mother. Gorlois was her joy, and she was his. After he fell, she never stopped mourning him. She even had his portrait painted onto the ceiling of her bower, where she could look upon him every day. Uther never knew about that picture. He’d have been furious if he’d found out.”
“She hated my father,” he stated, knowing it was true but wanting to hear confirmation.
“With every fiber of her being.”
Arthur sighed. “I am sorry for her pains. She suffered greatly.”
“Yes, she did. It’s something that I will never forgive.” He rose. “Remember, Arthur, that your father’s sins were his own. You are not to blame for anything he did, and you are your own man. You are not tainted by his actions.”
He left the bath as well and dried off with the cloth Griflet had brought. “I wonder if everyone will feel the same.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But I don’t care what other people think. I care only for your opinion of yourself.”
Arthur pulled on his robe. “And what is your opinion of me?”
Brastias came to him and put his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “I am proud to serve you, proud to have you as my king, and I count myself fortunate to know you.”
Arthur spontaneously embraced him, and Brastias squeezed him tight. “Thank you.”
“No thanks are needed for the truth.” The older man stepped back and smiled. “Now, let’s go get dressed for dinner and fill these empty stomachs. Training is hard and hungry work, and we will have more of it tomorrow.”
They left the bath house together, shoulder to shoulder.
King Uriens sat upon his throne in a foul temper. The gallery was filled with courtiers and hangers-on, and his son Owain sat beside him. A dirt-streaked vagrant with a stinking bearskin cape stood before him, smiling smugly.
“I have news for you, my lord king, but it comes at a price,” the man said.
“I will not be extorted. Tell me what you know.”
He chuckled. “That’s not how this works.”
“It is now.”
Uriens gestured, and two stern guards approached, weapons at the ready. The peasant’s smirk faded. “I will speak.”
The king snorted. “Excellent choice.”
“The alleged new king is at the estate of Sir Brastias near Mons Badonicus. He is guarded by old knights and the druid Merlin.”
The king frowned. “And what is he doing there?”
“Wintering and training,” the man answered. “My contact says that his inexperience shows itself and that he is a poor fighter.”
“I would expect that, since he’s little more than a child. Who is your contact?”
“A servant in the kitchens.”
Uriens nodded. “Perfect. Tell your contact to poison the boy’s food and end this foolishness.”
The peasant smiled broadly. “As ever, my lord, your wisdom shines like the sun.”
He was unimpressed. “Do not flatter me. Go.”
He bowed deeply, then left the throne room. Uriens looked at his son. “Owain, sometimes it is better to fight behind the scenes and spare your men the horrors of the battlefield.”
The young prince nodded, but his expression was full of doubt. Owain sat silently as more of his father’s subjects came before the king, begging assistance that was almost always denied, or asking for justice that followed the path of money and influence. Finally, he said softly, “Father, may I be excused? My head is hurting.”
Uriens looked at him in disgust. “Frail thing,” he spat. “How will you ever be a king? Go. Get out of my sight.”
Owain went to his bedchamber alone. His father sent no guards or servants to accompany him, which was for the best. Uriens would never approve of what he planned to do.
He took his bow and crept up from his chamber to the room where his mother’s ladies sewed during the day, the appropriately named solar. He liked this room best in the entire castle, because it had a window that opened out onto the roof, and he was still small enough to shimmy through the opening to freedom.
He normally came here when he wanted to escape his boorish father, and when he wanted to be alone. There had been a time when he would sit on the roof and watch for his mother to come back, but he knew now that she would never return. Now it was enough to just be away from Uriens and his casual abuse, and from the parade of whores who shared his father’s bed.
Now he was here for a very different reason.
He wasn’t certain why it mattered so much to him that King Arthur should not be betrayed; he supposed it was because he was eager to befoul any plans his father made. He was disgusted by his father’s clumsy maneuvering, annoyed by his overweening pride and out-of-proportion ambition. If Pendragon were killed as his father wanted, then there would be war upon war, and his father would force him to fight. He had no desire to do battle on behalf of the sire he so despised. He would do anything to prevent Uriens from achieving the throne of the High King.
Below him, he could hear the gates opening, and the peasant who had a spy in Mons Badonicus trotted out on the back of his gangly gray horse. The man was well into his cups, and he was singing tunes that were off-key and off-color. He was swaying in the saddle with every step his miserable nag took.
Owain stood and nocked an arrow to his bow. His instructors would say that he could never make this shot, not in the gathering dark with a moving target so far away. He knew differently. He knew what he could do, and he intended to do it.
He took careful aim and pulled the string back to his cheek. He held his breath, making certain that his body was very still, and then he loosed his arrow. It flew through the air, its fletchings rotating as it raced toward its target, the gentle arc becoming more lethal as it went. He was too far away to hear the thunk of the missile striking home, or to hear the whistling gurgle of a punctured lung, but he could very clearly see the man fall forward. The horse jostled again, and the peasant fell from the saddle to lie very still upon the ground.
Owain nodded to himself, satisfied. That was one message of treason that would never be received. He climbed down the vines on the outside of the tower until he reached the ground, then skirted around the wall until he reached the drawbridge, which was still lowered. He crossed quickly and ran to where the body was lying, crumpled in a heap. The gray horse, loyal to its owner, stood nearby and sniffed at the corpse, stomping its hooves in confusion. Owain grabbed the man by the tunic and dragged him off the road and into the bushes. It was a difficult task, considering he was small for his age and the man was all dead weight, but he managed it. He removed the horse’s tack and hid it in the bushes, too, and then smacked the animal on its rump to send it away. It ran down the track into the woods.
Satisfied with himself, Owain returned to his father’s castle. The drawbridge had been raised, so he swam the moat and climbed back up onto the roof by the window to the solar. He shivered in the winte
r air and prayed that God would see fit to punish him for murder by allowing him to die of cold.
By the time both Imbolc and Ostara had come and gone, and when the Christian Easter season had become only a memory, Arthur was no longer receiving nicks from Sir Brastias. His training had been long and intensive, with hours spent every day until he could hold his own against all of his knightly instructors, whether on foot or on horseback.
Merlin came and went, as Merlin was wont to do, with no explanation for his absences. He kept to himself, always watchful, but he rarely interacted with Arthur during his training. If he had any opinions about the way the young dux bellorum was shaping up, he chose not to share them.
When his day’s martial training was done, then Ector, Bedivere, and Illtyd sat with Arthur late into the night, reading ancient treatises on law and philosophy, discussing mathematics and how to keep financial records, and about the facts and theories of taxation, politics, and other things that he would need to know as king. When it was finally time to sleep, his brain was so crammed with ideas that he dreamed of books and manuscripts, liberally interspersed with swords and shields and charging horses.
Through all of his toil, Griflet was a source of constant relief. His squire was talkative, friendly, and funny without being foolish. He was a good companion and he did his duties with immaculate care. Every day he strapped Arthur into his armor, and every night he cleaned and repaired both chain and plate meticulously. They shared a room in the castle, and with their similar ages, they were as close as brothers.
One day in the spring, Merlin came to Arthur when he was preparing for his daily combat lesson. The druid told Griflet, “Leave us. I will finish for you.”
The squire looked doubtful, but he obeyed, leaving Arthur and Merlin alone. The druid expertly finished strapping on the young knight’s greaves, kneeling at his feet while he worked. Arthur watched him, waiting for Merlin to speak.
After the second greave had been attached and he was standing upright again, Merlin finally said, “There was a night in Safir’s villa that something happened, but you have not spoken of it. I have waited for you to approach me to discuss it, to ask your questions, but you never have. Do you want to talk about it now?”
He had put that night out of his mind as much as he could, for he found contemplation of those events too disturbing. He shook his head. “No. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to… how do you even know?”
“I am a seer,” Merlin said without rancor. “I know many things.”
Arthur blushed. “How much do you know about what happened?”
“Everything.”
The druid’s gaze was steady and direct, and it made Arthur squirm. He looked away. “What came into my room that night?”
Merlin folded his arms, his hands disappearing up the sleeves of his white druid’s robe. “Do you remember Portia, the succubus in Letocetum?” Arthur nodded, and Merlin continued. “There are demons in this world called incubi, the male versions of succubi. Like succubi, they feed off of the energy that humans create during the sexual act. They are dangerous, for like the succubi, they can also consume souls. They come in the night in the guise of a partner or a loved one, and they lie with unsuspecting people so that they can feed upon their energy.” He fell quiet, and finally Arthur looked at him.
“I have heard that you are an incubus.”
“You have probably also heard that my father was Satan himself, and that’s not true,” he shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve heard many stories about me. I know that I have.”
The young knight took a deep breath. “Will it be coming back?”
“No.” The druid’s tone was forceful and left no room for questions. “I pursued the one who came to you and I ripped out his heart. He will not lie with you again.” He looked away. “I should not have let it happen.”
Arthur put a hand on Merlin’s arm. “You have always protected me, but you cannot be everywhere at all times. You avenged me. That is enough.”
The druid looked at him strangely for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you for your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive, but if it helps you, know that I forgive you for everything.”
After a heartbeat, Merlin smiled, his mouth turning up one corner at a time. “Thank you, Arthur. That means a great deal to me.”
“Of course.” He stepped back and pulled on his gauntlets, and Merlin fastened Arthur’s sword belt around the young king’s waist. “I’m glad you destroyed that...thing. The longer I spent thinking about what happened, the worse I felt. I just knew it wasn’t Amren.”
“I’m curious - what gave it away?”
“The way he touched. The way he tasted. The things he did and said… Everything, really. It just wasn’t Amren.”
The druid nodded. “I see. Interesting.” Arthur was fully prepared, so they walked out together to the courtyard, where Bedivere was waiting with the horses. “It will soon be Beltane.”
“I know. I’m looking forward to seeing the Giant’s Dance. I’ve heard so much about it.”
Brastias, who was leaning on his spear and waiting with Bedivere, said, “You will enjoy it. It’s a wonder to behold, and the feeling of power from the place is quite remarkable. It’s also not far from here, so we won’t have to travel terribly long to get there.”
Bedivere swung up into his saddle with a boost from Gofrwy and waited while Griflet helped Arthur do the same. The horses shifted with anticipation, eager to get started, for they loved these moments of false combat as much as the men did. Merlin stepped back to sit in the shade beside Lady Garwen, who was watching her new husband with a smile. Brastias winked at her and turned back to watch the knights on horseback.
Merlin glanced at Lady Garwen, then back at the knights. “Does he know yet?”
She turned to him in surprise. “I’m sorry, my lord, does who know what?”
“Does your husband know yet that he is to be a father?”
Her mouth fell open. “How -”
He held up a hand. “Because I do.”
Her hand went to her abdomen, a motion so typical of mothers everywhere that anyone looking would have guessed her meaning. She shook her head. “Not yet.”
Merlin nodded. “He will be very happy.”
Lady Garwen hesitated. “I know that as a Christian I must eschew all sorcery, but… can you tell me… will my child be healthy?”
The druid looked back at the knights as Arthur trotted to his end of the field. The young man made a stirring figure on horseback. “Sir Brastias will be thrilled with the news, and for the sake of your immortal soul, I will not be party to soothsaying for you.”
She blushed and looked down. “Of course.”
“That being said, I would say that - just in case, mind you - you should prepare yourself for the rigors of raising an active and healthy son.”
Garwen smiled in delight. “Thank you!”
Merlin nodded and sat back with his arms crossed, his attention focusing once more on the combat to come.
Bedivere saluted Arthur, who raised his lance before his face in return. At a signal from Brastias, both men spurred their horses sharply and charged. They came together with a crash, shattering their lances into kindling while they barely moved in their saddles. Bedivere immediately drew his sword, and Arthur blocked his downward blow with his shield, drawing his own blade. A return slash was shunted away by Bedivere’s shield, the edge of Arthur’s sword skipping over the shield boss with a metallic shrill.
The older knight circled his horse around, and by the wall, Brastias received his own mount and swung up into the saddle with his squire’s help. He spurred his charger forward, his sword raised high, and drove toward Arthur’s back. The young king reined back hard, his horse retreating sharply as he brought his shield to cover himself from shoulder to knee. Brastias’s charge met him at full speed, and he swayed in his saddle under the force of the blow, but only from the hips. His legs held firm, and he kept his
seat. He slashed at Brastias while Lady Garwen squealed, covering her eyes. Bedivere beset Arthur from the other side, and he struck back, swinging his sword against his second attacker.
Brastias brought his horse closer, assuming a flanking position, and Arthur blocked the blow aimed at his head while he parried Bedivere’s attack at his throat, then slipped past his opponent’s weapon with a counter blow of his own. Bedivere reeled back in his saddle to avoid the blow, and Arthur spurred his horse forward to get out from between the two attacking knights.
From around the stable, with a chilling war cry, three new horsemen charged. Kay, Ector, and Illtyd came forward, spears fewtered, racing forward in a cavalry charge. Arthur turned his mount and spurred it directly into the face of the three onrushing knights. He drove for Ector’s left, knowing his foster father’s weakness on that side, and brought his sword down hard upon Sir Ector’s shield even as he used his own shield to bash Sir Kay out of the saddle. Kay landed with an exclamation and rose up onto his feet, scrambling out of the way of flashing hooves, as Arthur’s charge carried him past the three newcomers.
Bedivere and Brastias joined up with Illtyd and Ector, and they rounded back upon the dux bellorum, who met them straight on. They surrounded him, but Arthur was a whirlwind, his horse spinning as he struck stout blows with both sword and shield. He caught Bedivere in the side and knocked him off balance just long enough to send him, too, sprawling to the ground. Ector laid on with a war hammer, but Arthur caught the head with the edge of his shield and ripped the hammer out of his foster father’s hand. The hammer flew to the ground, and Illtyd struck at Arthur with his spear.
The metal head slid under Arthur’s arm and past his defenses, but he wrenched his body to the side so that the spearhead caught his mail shirt with just a skimming blow. It was enough to shatter rings and cut his flesh, but what could have been a mortal wound was turned into nothing more than a deep scratch. Arthur lowered his arm and caught the spear, squeezing and holding it against his side as he spurred his mount forward. Illtyd lost his grip and his spear went with Arthur as he wheeled.
