by J A Cummings
Sir Ector smiled. “Perhaps you should at least introduce yourself as a first step.”
“Yes,” his son nodded, still transfixed by the vision who had so entranced him. “As soon as I am able… Arthur, don’t you want a puppy?”
Brastias emerged from the tent. “Arthur, he will see you.”
The youth swung down from his saddle and brushed the worst of the road dust from his attire before he followed Brastias into the cool dimness of the tent. A white-haired man, hunched and feeble with age, sat in a fur-covered chair with his feet on a pillow of lamb’s wool. A handsome woman who must have been a great beauty in her youth sat at his side, her hand upon his, her fingers resting lightly on his gnarled joints. A Saxon slave girl knelt at his feet, using a fan to keep the flies away. He smelled of sickness.
“My lord Cornovus, chieftain of the Atrebates,” Sir Brastias said, “I present Arthur Pendragon, dux bellorum and son of the late High King.”
The aged chieftain beckoned him. “Come here where I may look upon you.”
Arthur stepped forward and said, “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.”
Rheumy eyes studied the young man’s face, and he chewed toothlessly upon his tongue. “Closer.”
He came even closer. The woman at his side looked up, and Arthur thought her eyes resembled Brastias’s. She nodded to him silently while the old chieftain examined him more closely.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I see it now. You resemble him. Uther marked his get.”
He dissolved into a fit of wracking coughs, and Arthur held out a hand to steady him. The woman pounded on the chieftain’s back while he struggled to breathe, and he produced a copious amount of phlegm, which he spat into a brass bowl. The slave girl looked into the bowl and then up at the woman, then at Brastias, and she shook her head.
The knight swallowed hard, then said, “My lord Cornovus has pledged support for you against the Saxons, if you recall.”
“I do recall,” Arthur said, “and I am grateful for it. The Atrebates are cunning warriors, and I will be made stronger by their presence. What can I offer you in return, my lord? I am not yet crowned, and I have neither riches nor land with which to honor you.”
Cornovus looked into his eyes. “Sacrifice for me to Modron.”
“This I will do this very day.”
His rapid reply surprised the old man. “I thought you were a Christian man.”
“I was born a Christian, but I have studied at Ynys Môn with Master Merlin, who travels with me,” Arthur replied. “What sacrifice can I make for you?”
The chieftain gestured toward a chest across the tent, standing at the foot of a cot. “There, inside the chest, is my father’s torc. Brastias, you will know it. Retrieve it for me.”
The knight went to the chest and dug through it for a moment before he came up with a golden torc with ram’s-head terminals. He placed it in Cornovus’s lap.
“Here it is, Father.”
Arthur looked at Brastias and back to the chieftain, noting the words used but not surprised by them. Cornovus presented the torc to the young man.
“In the presence of your druid, pray for me and ask her for her healing,” he said. “Cast it into the Afon...and I will pledge the whole of my tribe’s fighting force to back you as our High King.”
The young man took the golden ornament and said, “My lord, I would make this sacrifice for you whether you supported me or not. I pray you gain the comfort of the Mother.”
The woman, Brastias’s mother, nodded to them, and the knight led Arthur out of the tent. “The river is not far away,” he told Arthur. “In fact, we could walk there very easily.”
“Then let’s do that without waiting any longer.”
People in the camp had turned to watch them. Someone had recognized them from the display in Londinium, and word was spreading that the new king had arrived. Men and women slowly approached, walking with him to the banks of the river. By the time he arrived there, the group with him was more than forty strong.
Arthur waded into the middle of the river until the water was up to his waist, and once he was there he held up the torc. “Modron, mother of us all,” he said in a loud voice, “I beg your favor. The chieftain of the Atrebates is in need of your aid, and we call on you now. I beg you to heal him in return for this precious gift.”
He took the torc and twisted it, breaking the golden wires that formed the loop, and then he cast it into the river. The gold vanished beneath the surface of the muddy water almost immediately, drifting out of sight. A few of the Atrebates men tossed coins into the river after it, adding their own sacrifices to the offering Arthur had made. On the riverbank, Merlin stood silently, but he nodded his approval to Arthur when he turned back toward land.
He felt a hand brush against the inside of his leg, just below his knee, and he looked down. There was nothing there that he could see. Frowning, Arthur climbed out of the water and returned to the grass.
Sir Ector stood nearby with Illtyd and Kay, and all three of them looked grim and unimpressed. Sir Bedivere, by contrast, was as pleased as he could be. Arthur sighed. There would be no winning for him where the debate of religion was concerned. He would be upsetting someone in his inner circle no matter what rites he observed.
He returned to the chieftain’s tent with Brastias, and he bent close to Cornovus so the old man could see his face. “It is done, my lord.”
He nodded his hoary head and sighed. “It is well. My thanks, Arthur, son of the Pendragon.”
His wife stood. “He is weary and needs his rest.”
“Of course.” Arthur bowed to her. “My lady.”
Brastias said to his young companion, “My lord, this is my mother, Ebha.”
She nodded to the young dux bellorum. “Well met, Sir Arthur. I hope that we can have more time to speak tomorrow.”
The two knights left the tent, allowing the ladies to see to the old man in privacy and peace. Arthur looked at him. “You didn’t tell me that the chieftain was your father.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “He disowned me for taking up the cross.”
“A hard price to pay.”
“But one that’s common enough. Old ways die hard, as you well know.” He walked back to where the rest of their group was standing. When they reached the others, Brastias announced, “He is with us.”
Sir Ector nodded. “Good. Then that display wasn’t for nothing.”
“That ‘display’ was the way I obtained his support, and no prayer offered in good will is ever a bad thing,” Arthur said softly.
Merlin walked over and said, “I have selected our campsite. Come with me.”
They took their horses and followed him to a flat area very near the stones, in a place that the others had left vacant either out of respect or out of fear.
“Is it safe to be so close?” Illtyd asked, nervously eyeing the monument.
The druid looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Would I bring you here if it wasn’t?” He gestured toward another flat area not far away. “That is where the sword in the stone will stand. It is right that we should be nearby.”
“We forgot to bring tents,” Kay said.
“We forgot nothing.” Merlin spread his arms wide, and power rushed through him, illuminating the field in a soft white glow. When the light receded, a set of white pavilions in the Roman style stood, the largest of them crowned with a pennant showing a red dragon on a white field, edged with gold. There was no mistaking the symbol.
“Amazing,” Griflet breathed, shaking his head.
“Your tents, Your Majesty,” Merlin said to Arthur. “I believe you can work out which one is meant for you.”
Arthur felt almost embarrassed by the grandeur of the tents. “Isn’t this a little presumptuous? I’m not -”
“Not at all,” Merlin interrupted. “The people want a show. This is part of it.”
Nodding, he acquiesced. He went to the tent beneath the Pendragon stand
ard and stepped inside. The interior was surprisingly luxurious, with a pair of well-mattressed camp beds and a folding desk and chair. A wooden armor form stood in the corner, and a brass brazier stood ready to heat the night’s chill. White furs and woolen blankets adorned the bed, and there was a chest with a heavy brass latch. He opened the chest and found it filled with fine clothing and all the toiletries that a vain nobleman would need. He had no idea how to use half of the things that he found.
He shut the chest as Griflet came in. “Good God in a harness,” his squire swore. “This place is a castle all to itself.”
“So it seems.” Arthur gestured to the beds. “Pick whichever one you prefer.”
“I’ll take the one closest to the flap,” he said. “That way I can trip anyone who comes in to slit your throat in your sleep.”
Arthur smiled. “Good thinking.”
“I thought so.” He grinned. “And if any winsome young ladies should happen to come to visit you in the night…?”
“Don’t trip them.”
“Aha! I understand.” He winked. “And any winsome lads?”
“I think I’ve had my fill of lads for a while,” he said, thinking sourly of the demon that had visited him at Londinium.
Griflet nodded. “I understand. Ready to try a new sport, eh?”
“Something like that.” He sat on his bed and stroked the fur covering. “This is very nice.”
“Nicer than those pallets at Caer Gai.”
Arthur smirked. “Most anything would be.”
Griflet sat on his own bed and ran a hand through his fair hair, mussing it more than it was before instead of correcting the problem. He sighed. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired.”
“I’m always tired.”
“That’s not good.” He looked down at his feet and asked quietly, “Did you have trouble sleeping before you lost Amren, or is it only since he died?”
He sighed. “I’ve always had vivid dreams, and I’ve had trouble sleeping off and on for my entire life. It’s been worse since he died.”
“Do you think about him?”
“Every day.”
Griflet nodded. “I hope that someday you’re able to find someone you love just as much as you loved him. You’re too young to lose all hope in love already.”
He wanted to say that he had already lost hope, and that he didn’t want to love anyone else, but instead he only said, “Thank you.” They sat in silence for a moment, then Arthur said, “I’m going to go walk around and meet people.”
“Is that a good idea?” his squire worried. “There might be people who will try to challenge you, or worse.”
“I can’t hide forever. If they want to challenge me, then I will have to meet that challenge. I think it will go better for me if they see that I’m just a person like them.”
“You’re not like them. You’re a king.”
“Not yet, I’m not.” He rose. “Besides, I want to make sure Kay doesn’t embarrass himself when he introduces himself to his future wife.”
Kay smoothed his hair and brushed off his tabard, making certain he was as presentable as possible. He took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves, then left his tent to seek out the lady of his dreams.
He found her near the edge of the camp, still shepherding her little charges. She looked up at him as he approached, no trace of wariness in her face. Up close, she was even more beautiful than he could have hoped, with golden hair and blue eyes as bright as diamonds. She smiled as he walked toward her.
“Sir,” she said. “Good day.”
“Good day, my lady.” He smiled. “You have your hands quite full. I wonder if you might be in need of some assistance.”
She shrugged. “I have it well sorted, but company is welcome.”
“I’m glad.” He put his hand to his chest. “I am Sir Kay of Caer Gai.”
“Ah! Another Cambrian. I am Lionors. My father is the King of Ceredigion.”
Kay bowed to her. “Your Highness. It is an honor.”
“You need not bow to me, Sir Kay. I saw that you rode in with the Pendragon.”
“My brother,” he said.
She curtsied. “My lord.”
He chuckled. “I am not royal, my lady. Arthur is my foster brother, not my brother by blood. He has named me as his seneschal, whenever he establishes a household.”
She looked impressed. She turned to glance at the children in her care, and he marveled at the many shades of gold and copper in her hair. He had never seen anyone so beautiful.
Lionors turned back and caught him looking at her, and she smiled with a blush that colored her cheeks a rosy pink. He tried to speak but could not find his voice, and so he merely kept staring. She brushed her hands over her skirt and said, “Is something amiss, my lord?”
He found his voice at last. “Quite the opposite.”
She looked down, her blush deepening. He had never been so charmed.
They were distracted by a squabble among the children, and Lionors went to separate the little combatants. Kay was visited by one of the puppies, and he busied himself with the friendly animal while the lady was otherwise occupied. Eventually she returned to him.
“Children,” she said, shaking her head. “They’re a joy, but such rascals!”
“Forgive my prying, but are these children yours?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I have no children of my own. The dogs, though - those are mine.”
“They’re wonderful. Are they from good hunting stock?”
She looked proud. “The very best. The sire and the bitch are both fine hunters, excellent in the field and well trained. I expect these pups to be the same.”
He scratched the ears of the puppy who was rolling at his feet. “He’s very merry.”
“They all are.” She looked at the royal tents near the standing stones and asked, “Is he really the king?”
Kay straightened and nodded proudly. “He is.”
“Then…” She blushed furiously and looked away. “I see.”
He frowned. “What is it? Is something troubling you?”
“No, not at all.” She called the children and the puppies to her. They all scrambled to her side. “Please excuse me, Sir Kay. It was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
She walked back toward her tribe’s camp, the little ones in tow. He watched her go in confusion, wondering what had just gone wrong.
Arthur and Griflet walked out of their tent and were promptly intercepted by Merlin. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“For a walk,” the young king said. “I want to see the people who are here.”
“No. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
Merlin frowned. “Because it’s not the right time. Come with me instead.”
The two young men looked at each other in confusion, but Arthur demurred. “All right. Where are we going?”
“Into the center of the circle.”
Griflet shook his head. “I’m not going in there.”
“You weren’t asked,” Merlin said, and then he turned and walked away.
Arthur hesitated, then followed. The druid walked resolutely through the spaces between the stones, and as Arthur trailed along behind him, he could feel a buzzing in his feet that increased as he came closer. There was power here, deep power, and it shimmered around him like a cloud. Merlin seemed not to notice, but he was more familiar with magic than Arthur was.
They walked in silence to a horseshoe-shaped arrangement of stones in the center of the monument, towering slabs of rock that reached up into the sky. In their midst was another stone, huge but flat, lying on the ground and stretching nearly from one side of the horseshoe to the other. Merlin nodded toward it.
“Touch it.”
He cautiously reached out his hand. The stone was warm to the touch, probably from the bright spring sun, but there was something more. He pressed his palm to the bluestone and there, almost too deep to feel, was the throbbing
of a heartbeat.
Arthur gasped and pulled away. “Is it alive?”
Merlin smiled. “I’m pleased that you could feel it. That bodes extremely well. That is the heart stone of this circle, and it grounds the power of this place to the land beneath it. Every ritual that has ever been conducted here, every prayer ever said, has added to the power in this stone, and through this stone to the worlds it touches.” He held his own hand against the stone, and the solid rock seemed to ripple around his touch as if Merlin had thrust his hand into standing water. “Here is an entry to the Fey Lands, and an entry to Annwn. There are others, but this is the most powerful and the most deeply pinned.”
“Incredible.” He shook his head and looked up at where the surrounding stones’ tops stood in stark relief against the sky.
“As king, it will be your duty to come here every Beltane and offer your energy and your life force to the land. Only when the Great Rite is performed can the land truly prosper.” He stroked the stone once more, then dropped his hand. “We, the druids of this island, have done our best to keep the land alive, but she needs her king.”
“I don’t understand.”
Merlin nodded. “I expected as much.”
He walked away, following an anti-sunwise path around the inner court of the monument. Arthur followed him. “Please, I don’t understand. Explain this to me.”
“You know the stories of the Goddess and her consort.”
“Yes, of course. You told me at Ynys Môn.”
He nodded again. “The Goddess is the land and the land is the Goddess. The king is her consort. Only through their union can new life come.” He stopped walking and faced Arthur. “On Beltane night, a maiden will be presented to you. She will be the embodiment of the Goddess, and you will be the embodiment of her consort. You will lie with her and your union will grant fertility to the land. Crops will be hale and hearty again, not the scrabbly things they’ve been since Uther died.”
Arthur’s mouth fell open. Brilliantly, he said, “What?”
“The Great Rite happens every year at Beltane. When you someday have a queen, she will be your partner. For now, your partner will be chosen for you.”
