Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  Merlin produced a brass bowl from somewhere unknown, filled with herbs. He held it under the boar’s head while another druid slashed the animal’s vein. It had been hanging head-down over his back, so there was a great deal of blood left to spill, and it filled the bowl. Merlin stirred the blood and the herbs together, then offered the bowl with its scarlet cargo to the king.

  “Drink,” he said.

  Although a part of him was horrified, he obeyed, taking in a mouthful of the cold blood. It was salty and metallic on his tongue but the herbs made it not entirely unpleasant, and he swallowed it down. Merlin and the druids who had bathed him earlier nodded in their approval. He understood none of it.

  Two boys not much younger than Arthur himself, dressed in the green robes of druidic acolytes, came to him and took him by the hands. They led him to the river, where they helped him wash the blood away. They kept him in the water, washing him over and over, until he smelled of soap. One of them tried to take the cuff from his wrist, but the golden bracer refused to come away. It was solid and seamless, with no opening and no way to take it off. The boy gave up, perplexed. Arthur himself could find no words to explain the strange object, so he held his silence.

  The sun was setting. As he came out of the water and was dried by the two boys who had bathed him, another boy came forward and presented him with tunic and trousers made of softest deerskin, adorned with symbols of druidic power. Swirls and spirals were painted onto the clothing, and he felt foolish until he sensed the magic rolling from the symbols into his aching muscles. By the time he returned to the camp from the river, he was without soreness and without fatigue, as if the hunt and the travail of carrying the boar’s body had never happened.

  He walked past rows of women and girls who formed a sort of corridor leading to the standing stones. A ring of torches had been set alight, mounted to long poles that had been set up in a circle around the heart stone, which bore a pile of furs and moss. As he walked closer, he saw what was waiting for him, and his heart began to pound.

  The chosen maiden was lying on the furs, covered with a finely woven red cloth that was almost transparent in the firelight. The rounded peaks of her body pressed against the fabric and were revealed in a haze of scarlet, visible but not, present but not, profane but not. He could make out the swell of her breasts and the gentle roundness of her hips. She was lying perfectly still.

  When he reached the stones, the line of people ended, and he continued on alone. Someone began to play the pipes, and another person played a harp. The music was soothing and ethereal, and it pushed him forward like the gentle shove of a mother encouraging her child to walk. When the music began, the chosen maiden sat up and reached out her hand to him, the red fabric still covering her. Through the gossamer fabric, he could see that her skin was painted with the same spirals and interwoven lines that were on his clothing, and he could see the magic sparkling from the sigils that she wore.

  He touched her fingertips and knelt at her bare feet. He could see the glittering of her eyes in the torch light as she watched him undressing. The line of her cheek and the curve of her lips entranced him, and he ached for her. He cast aside the last of his garments and knelt again, filled with desire. She smiled when she saw his straining need, and she lay back, drawing the sheet slowly up her legs, revealing her delicate white limbs an inch at a time.

  Arthur picked up the bottom edge of the cloth and pulled it so that he was covered by it, too, crawling up her body until he was face to face with the virgin who had been chosen to be his goddess for the night. She was lovely, and familiar. He had never seen hair so golden, and the complexly woven silver circlet around her forehead was plain when compared to her beauty. She looked into his eyes and opened herself to him, and he went willingly.

  Her taste and the feeling of her skin beneath his hands was witchcraft. He had never been so besotted. He kissed her deeply, and their tongues slid together with eager and honest desire. She laced her fingers into his black curls and pulled him down, and he gently lay atop her. They looked deeply into one another’s eyes, not speaking aloud but understanding everything the other had to say. He touched her gently, his fingers tracing her from hip to shoulder. He cupped her breasts in his hands and felt the weight of them in his palms, heavy and firm but soft to the touch. She arched into his caress. He stroked her with his fingers and then with his tongue, teasing the sensitive flesh until she shivered.

  He kissed her mouth again, and then she sighed into his ear, her breath making him tingle. While he was learning her with his hands, she was exploring him, running her hands over his skin and gently squeezing the muscular crests of his shoulders. She opened her legs to him, tugging at his hips to signal her readiness, and he happily slipped inside. There was resistance at first, and she gasped. He froze, not wanting to cause her pain, but she pulled him closer, urging to him to sheath himself completely. He leaned forward with his hands beside her head, the gold band around his wrist shining at her ear, and he moved inside of her. Her entrance was warm and slick, and he felt embraced by the inside of her body even as she embraced him with her arms. She raised her knees and hooked her heels on his hips, urging him on, and he thrust faster. Her fingers gripped his shoulders and then danced down along his ribs until she reached around and caressed his back, squeezing gently as his muscles flexed and pushed. She tipped her face up, staring at the sky above them as he took her and she gave herself to him.

  He lost himself in her, in the power of the moment and the pleasure of the touch. She was everything, earth and sky, past and future, and all he wanted was to bury himself in her and never come back out. She whispered in breathy gasps, but he could not make out what she was saying. She held him tightly, her hips rocking up to meet him, and he smiled in pure delight.

  When the moment came, he shuddered and cried out, filling her with the seed that would give the land its crops. She shivered as he continued to rise and fall within her, and then she shouted and tumbled over the edge to her own completion. Outside the circle of stones, the people heard their cries and began to jubilate. He should have been embarrassed, but he could not bring himself to care.

  He stayed inside of her for as long as he could, the angle of their bodies and the embrace of her arms and legs keeping him in place even after the hardness began to leave him. She kissed him deeply, redolent with spent passion, and looked up into his eyes in wonder.

  “My king,” she whispered.

  He kissed her again. “My goddess.”

  Arthur lay on his back, and the chosen maiden, a maiden no longer, rested in the crook of his arm, her head over his heart. She stroked his stomach with her hand, lightly tracing the muscles and his sweat-damp skin. He ran his hand down her arm. They were at peace.

  Outside the circle of stones, the people were celebrating. The music still played, but now there were drums and an insistent rhythm that sounded like the pounding of a giant heart. He suspected that there were many couples outside the stones who had paired off to celebrate their own version of the Great Rite.

  “My name is Lionors,” she said softly.

  “Arthur.”

  She smiled. “I know your name.”

  He blushed, feeling foolish. Of course his name would be common knowledge. She sat up and looked down at him. “You’re younger than I expected.”

  He smiled. “I hear that a lot.”

  Lionors chuckled. “I’m sure you do.” She kissed him, and he happily kissed her back. She settled back down onto his chest. She whispered, “Thank you for being kind.”

  He had been so caught up in his own anticipation and worry that it had never occurred to him to consider what she might have been feeling in the hours leading up the rite. She had more reason to be afraid than he, and it saddened him. With a different sort of man, she might have suffered.

  “There’s no other way I would ever want to be,” he told her. “Thank you for accepting me and agreeing to this rite.”

  She rubbed her hand over hi
s chest, then followed the path down toward his groin, stopping just shy of his black curls. “It was an honor bestowed upon me, and I would never shame my family by refusing.”

  “Did you feel you had no choice?” he asked, concerned.

  Lionors sat up and looked at him, and he could see a warmth in her eyes that surprised him. “I had a choice,” she said. “I chose to accept the role on behalf of my family, and to keep Ceredigion’s honor intact. But now, for myself, I’m glad that I said yes.”

  He touched her face, his fingertip grazing her dewy skin. “You are beautiful, Lionors.”

  She smiled. “I think the same of you.”

  He pulled her close and kissed her, and then there was no more talking.

  The camp was a riot of lust and excess. Sir Ector stood near the circle of stones, safeguarding what little privacy Arthur and Lionors had left. Curious Britons came to try to look into the circle, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Great Rite in progress, and he turned them all away. It was bad enough that the sounds the couple made were audible to all the camp, reverberating off the stones in ways that should have been impossible. Nothing in this pagan place made sense to him, and he shifted in his discomfort.

  He had raised Arthur to be a Christian. There had never been any worship of the pagan gods at Caer Gai, not even among the servants. He supposed that there were followers of the old faith in the nearby village, but Arthur had never been exposed to them or their heathen ways. He did not understand why his son was so dedicated to honoring the old gods now. He supposed that Merlin was to blame. The druid had been too close to the boy, and he had been foolish to allow Arthur to go to Ynys Môn. He regretted that decision now, and blamed himself for his youngest son’s fall from the grace of God.

  Another cry of passion rose from within the stones, and his face burned with embarrassment and shame, both for himself and on his son’s behalf. Surely Arthur would not have wanted his activities to be so public. He knew what pagans demanded of their kings, and he knew of the strange and disturbing rites that each tribe used to consecrate their rulers. This public Great Rite was the least of the ordeals that lay before him as he gained the allegiance of tribe after tribe. He hoped that Arthur would return to God and give up this pagan sympathy before he was subjected to any more indignities.

  Sir Ector crossed his arms, hiding his ruined left hand beneath his still-strong right bicep. There would be hard fighting ahead, and harder days to follow if the war was lost. Arthur had to be accepted as High King by all of the tribes of Britannia. On this, all things depended. He wished with all of his might that fighting could be avoided. His sons were strong and well trained, but they were still only boys, and he wanted to keep them free from the horrors of warfare for a little longer. He had no desire to risk them in battle, or worse, to see them fall. The thought of Kay and Arthur lying dead on some battlefield made his heart sink, and he cleared his throat to chase the images away.

  A matron with bounteous curves and curly auburn hair approached him, weaving as she walked, clearly under the influence of too much ale or something more arcane. He prepared to shoo her away from the stones, but to his surprise, she was coming toward him.

  “Blessings on this Beltane,” she greeted.

  He nodded politely. “God be with you.”

  She laughed. “A Christian? Oh, you poor man.”

  He wasn’t certain if she was pitying him for being a Christian at a pagan rite, or if she was pitying him for being Christian in the first place. The woman put her hands on his shoulders.

  “You’re an older fellow, but you’re very fit.” She leered at him. “I like fit men with some years behind them. Years bring experience, if you understand.”

  “I understand you very well, my lady.” He sighed. “I will not sport with you.”

  Her hands ran down his chest, and he pulled away. He had not been touched in so intimate a way in over a decade, and the need that was awakening in his body distressed him. He thought he had mastered those urges, chained them up and thrown away the key. This woman’s touch and the sound, sight and smell of sex all around him had picked the lock and set them free.

  “Are you sure?” she asked, stepping closer until her breasts brushed his arm.

  “I am very sure.”

  She looked disappointed, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll find someone else.”

  He sounded more irritable than he had intended. “An excellent plan.”

  As the woman reeled away, he shook his head. He felt like he was in a foreign country, surrounded by ways and customs that were not his own. These obscene practices were a blight upon their people, and he prayed for the souls of everyone involved in this bacchanalia. It troubled him greatly that his foster son, his king, was among those in need of prayer.

  They loved twice more before the morning came and found them sleeping, wrapped up in each other and the red cloth that covered them. Dawn brought Merlin and the druids, who entered the circle of stones with incense burning in their hands. They walked a spiral path until they reached the bed where the king and his goddess lay.

  “Rise up, my king,” Merlin said. “The day has dawned and there is much to do.”

  Arthur sat up, suddenly shy. Lionors blushed and covered herself with her hands as much as she could. Merlin presented him with a green cloak, and he rose and wrapped it around himself. The druids gave a red cloak to Lionors, and she accepted it gratefully, hiding her nakedness from their sight. Arthur looked back at her and held out his hand. She touched his fingertips with hers, and then he was led away while the druids helped her to rise and dress.

  He followed Merlin toward his tent. The camp was in disarray, with sleeping couples and empty mugs and drinking horns littering the ground. The smell of sex was everywhere. Some of the people he passed smiled upon him proudly, and he nodded to them in return.

  His knights were waiting for him when he returned, and Bedivere smiled at him in welcome. “So, how was your first Beltane as king?”

  He searched for the right word and settled for one. “Inspiring.”

  Bedivere chuckled. “I’m sure it was.”

  Ector rose from where he was sitting and went to Arthur with a bowl in his hand. “This is meat from the boar you slew,” he said. “You need to eat to recover your strength.”

  “I’m fine,” Arthur assured him, “although I am hungry.” He accepted the bowl and went into his tent.

  Sir Kay was sitting on the floor beside his bed, an energetic brown puppy on his lap. Arthur stopped short, and Kay looked up in surprise. He gently put the pup aside and rose. Stiffly, he said, “Arthur.”

  “Good morning,” he greeted. His brother looked angry. “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t imagine.” Kay nodded to the dog. “This little one is called Caden, and he’s a gift from Ceredigion.”

  Arthur smiled. “I think he likes you.”

  “I like him,” he admitted, “but I have always been partial to canines. I was told that I could obtain a puppy of my own today.”

  “I think you should, although where we’re going, it might be dangerous for little dogs.” He sat down on the bed and yawned, holding the bowl on his lap. “Why are you angry with me?”

  He could see his brother contending with himself, fighting internally over the words he wanted to say. Arthur waited. Finally, Kay blurted, “Lionors.”

  “Ah.” He looked down, remembering now where he had seen her before the rite. “You said you were going to marry her.”

  “And now I can’t, thanks to you.”

  He frowned, confused. “Why can’t you?”

  “Because you have soiled her!” They were both taken aback by the vitriol in his voice, and Kay tried to recover. “I cannot wed any woman who -”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Arthur sighed. “If you were offered a widow as a wife, would she be too soiled for you, too?”

  “That’s different.”

  “It’s not.”

  Kay clenched his fists, and
the puppy went to him, leaping up against his leg, trying to distract him. Its efforts were in vain. “Are you going to marry her?”

  “No. It was just ritual sex, Kay. It wasn’t a betrothal.”

  His foster brother lurched forward and punched him in the mouth. The blow was unexpected and sent Arthur reeling. His bowl dumped onto ground, and the dog gobbled up the meat while the young king shook his head to clear it. Kay stood over him, his fist drawn back for another strike, his face red.

  “You have no decency,” Kay spat.

  Arthur touched his lip and his fingers came away tinged with blood. He rose, glaring. “Do that again, and I will end you!”

  Kay pulled back his arm, and Ector burst into the tent, shouting. “Boys!” They both froze, as they did when they were children caught in the middle of a squabble. Kay dropped his fist but continued to glower at Arthur, who stared back. “What is the meaning of this foolishness? Kay, did you strike your brother?”

  “I did,” he said, “and I will do it again if you let me.”

  “He is your king. Striking him is treason!”

  “Let him try it, if he thinks he can,” Arthur challenged, angry.

  “Enough!” Ector grabbed his errant oldest and pushed him out of the tent. “Go calm yourself and think about what you’re doing. We have no time for this.”

  Kay shot a last, resentful look at Arthur before he left the tent. The young king touched his split lip again while Caden followed Kay. Ector took his chin in his hand and looked at the wound.

  “Not too bad, but there will be a bruise.” He released his hold. “What was that about?”

  Arthur sat on the bed again. “A woman. Lionors of Ceredigion, the chosen maiden. He saw her when we first arrived and fancied her, and now he thinks I’ve ruined her for him.”

  “Do you want her?”

  He sighed. “She’s beautiful, and we enjoyed each other, but I think I shouldn’t even consider women or marriage or anything of the sort until these impending wars are finished. Once I’m crowned and these rebellions are put aside, then I can think about it. Not until then.”