by J A Cummings
“What are you looking at?” he asked.
“I’m trying to count the number of allies versus the number of enemies I can identify, based upon their expressions and the quality of their conversations.”
Arthur smiled. “You’re guessing, but what do you think?”
“I think that if we were attacked here, right now, we would have a two-front battle on our hands. There are many here within this room, eating this food, who wish you ill.”
The young king nodded. “I know. I almost wonder if we shouldn’t have had the food checked for poison.”
“I did check it,” Merlin said, speaking from where he stood behind Arthur’s chair. “It’s safe.”
Kay returned with Caden in his arms, and the little brown dog was wiggling in joyful abandon, licking the young man’s face where the stubble of his first beard was beginning to grow. Arthur stood with a smile.
“Come with me, brother,” he said. “Bring Caden with you.”
He left the dais with Kay at his heels, holding the puppy squirming in his arms. Diners knelt beside their chairs as Arthur passed, and he motioned for them to rise and continue with their meals. When he reached the delegation from Ceredigion, Lionors looked dismayed.
“Does the pup not please Your Majesty?” the King of Ceredigion asked.
Arthur smiled. “He pleases me well, but he has chosen my brother as his master, and I cannot bear to break his little heart. I wanted to tell you that I am grateful for your generosity, but that I have decided to give him to Sir Kay.” He looked into Lionors’ sapphire eyes. “I hope this does not aggrieve you.”
“No, my lord,” she said. She cast a smile at Kay, then looked down again. “It rather pleases me.”
“Excellent. Sir Kay, please talk with the Princess Lionors about the best ways to raise this princely gift that she has given.” He looked at his brother, then at the lady. “I trust you will have much to say to one another.”
Arthur left Kay and Lionors together after sharing a knowing smile and nod with the King of Ceredigion. He returned to the table on the dais, where Merlin was chuckling.
“Smoothly done, my lord,” he teased. “May I commend His Majesty on his matchmaking prowess?”
“You may.” He grinned as he sat again. He looked down the table to where Sir Brastias and his young bride were sitting, their heads together. He nodded to Bedivere, who caught his eye, and then turned back to his own meal.
Arthur slept that night in royal comfort, ensconced in the finest chamber in the governor’s palace. Brastias and Bedivere stood guard outside his rooms, and Griflet slept inside the door, waiting to attend to any needs that he might have. He felt awkward and strange, like an impostor, and he wondered if that feeling would eventually ease, or if he would spend the rest of his days feeling like a stranger to himself.
After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, he rose from his bed. Griflet looked up from the pallet on which he was sleeping. “My lord? Are you well?”
“Yes, fine.” He paced to a window and looked out at the city below. Most of the fires had long gone out, and the buildings were dark shapes against an equally dark sky.
“Can’t sleep?” Griflet pulled himself to his feet.
“I suppose I just can’t stop thinking,” he admitted. He turned and leaned against the wall. “This is all so strange.”
“Kingship? I would imagine it’ll take some getting used to.”
“That’s an understatement.” He turned and looked back out the window. Suddenly something caught his eye. “Griflet, come here. Look there, by the river. What do you see?”
His squire came and looked. “Torches,” he said, confirming Arthur’s suspicions. “An awful lot of torches.”
The young king went cold. “Find someone and sound an alarm. We’re under attack.”
Merlin watched in silence, hidden behind enchantments to remain unseen, while Saxon forces left their longboats and made their way toward Venta Belgarum. He was grudgingly impressed that so large a body of men could move so silently, and that they were so well led. It was a credit to their chieftain, Cerdic.
The druid had encountered Cerdic before, in the days before Uther Pendragon’s death. Cerdic had been one of the strongest Saxon warlords they had faced, and in Merlin’s opinion, he was probably the one responsible for the poison that had claimed the High King’s life. Now he was here, quietly beginning an invasion meant to split Britannia in two. He knew that Arthur’s forces would have all they could handle very soon in Londinium. Cerdic was his problem to solve.
He waited until the army reached a level area and began to set camp. They were regimented and well disciplined, and the confidence they exuded made him angry. If they weren’t stopped, they would not only split the country, they would trap Arthur between two Saxon waves, and that would be the end of him. Merlin could not have that.
He pressed his hands into the earth and drew upon the energy he felt there, humming beneath the surface like a river. He pulled it into himself, devouring it, letting it fill him with the power of the soil and the land. When he looked back at the camp, his eyes were completely black.
“Eich bod yn garreg,” he whispered, letting the words direct the power. “You are stone.”
The magic flowed out of him and along the surface of the ground, crawling like low fog, glowing grey and white. Some of the men saw the cloud coming and stood in awe, watching as it came into their camp. Soon it had enveloped them all, men, horses, and tents. Merlin whispered his command again.
“Eich bod yn garreg.”
The cloud rose, growing taller and thicker until the entire camp was concealed from view. He could hear shouts of dismay, and then in a flash of black light, everything went quiet. The fog rushed back toward him, bringing with it the life force of the entire Saxon army. He drank it in with delight, getting drunk on the power.
The crawling cloud vanished, absorbed into the druid’s body. In the meadow, instead of an army camp, a circle of black stones stood, silent in the darkness of the night, gleaming with the moisture of a thousand unshed tears.
The Saxon boats made their way up the Tamesas until they were within the city walls. It had been a simple thing for Hengist’s men to eliminate the guards around the river gates, and now that they had reached the port, they were scrambling ashore with torches ready to set the city ablaze.
Hengist and Horsa led their men into the town. As the alarm bells began to ring from the cathedral, they burst into hovels and slaughtered the peasants that they found, then set the houses alight. Armed guards from the river posts attempted to slow their advance, but the Saxons had come in force, and the guards were cut down.
The sound of approaching hoofbeats called the Saxons to the defense, and Hengist and Horsa closed ranks just as a group of mounted Britons galloped into view.
“Set spears!” Horsa shouted.
At the head of the mounted warriors was a boy, not old enough yet for a beard, with gleaming armor and a determined expression. “That must be their so-called king,” Hengist told his brother. “Kill him.”
Horsa smiled grimly and raised his seax. “Gladly.” He shouted to his men, “Separate their king from the others and leave him to me.”
The Saxons surged forward, driving into the phalanx of mounted warriors like wedges. Foot soldiers attacked the mounted knights with spears and axes, hacking at the horses and at the riders’ legs. The knights returned the favor, slashing with their swords and wheeling their mounts out of harm’s way, freeing the war steeds to kick and bite at the men on the ground. It was slaughter.
As the city burned around them, casting their desperate combat in a ghastly light, Horsa’s men succeeded in separating the boy king from his supporters. He fought manfully, striking at the men around him with great swings of his shining sword, felling many, but he was unable to prevent himself from being guided into a clear area where Horsa waited. The Saxon king, seeing his opportunity, charged in with a spear, driving the weapon i
nto the neck of the young king’s horse. The animal screamed in pain and reared up onto its back legs, flailing ineffectually against the wooden death that had found it. The Britons’ king launched himself from the saddle as the horse collapsed, and he landed on his feet with surprising agility.
Horsa pointed at him and shouted in Brythonic, “You and me, king!”
The king squared his stance and raised his sword. “Come on, then.”
The Saxon warrior advanced, his seax in hand. He grinned at the boy and lunged forward. The boy parried and spun, bringing the edge of his shield hard toward Horsa. He blocked the shield with his forearm, his bracer taking the brunt of the surprisingly forceful blow. He swung his seax at the boy’s momentarily exposed back, but he was unable to connect as the boy bobbed and continued the momentum of his spin. To Horsa’s surprise, that spin culminated in the Briton’s sword slashing across his midsection, slicing through rivets in his chain shirt. He backed away, shaken.
The Briton took advantage of Horsa’s imbalance and pressed in, his sword flashing first left, then right, his shield striking like a hammer. He fought like a man possessed, and the Saxon king found himself losing ground. He parried, then parried again, looking for an opening. He finally saw a chance and pressed his attack, his blade sliding in under the edge of the boy’s breastplate, piercing through the mail beneath the plate and drawing first blood. The boy grunted and pulled away while Horsa laughed at him.
“Laugh while you can,” the boy said.
“Fool! You stand there gutted.”
“Gutted?” he scoffed. “Not quite.”
The Saxon charged in again, aiming his blade at the boy’s throat. The Briton batted the attack away with his shield and stabbed, his blade penetrating through the slit he had made in Horsa’s chain shirt. The steel buried deeply into the Saxon’s body, and he gasped in pain and surprise, blood spilling from his mouth as the boy, now within arm’s length, stared into his eyes.
“Who is gutted now? Good bye, Saxon. Give my regards to Hell.”
They were the last words that Horsa heard.
Arthur pulled his sword out of the Saxon’s body and turned back toward the fray behind him. The leader of the enemy troops screamed in rage and horror and lunged toward him, and near the ships, the attackers sounded a horn of retreat. Arthur’s horse was dead, but he shouted to his knights, “Follow them! Kill as many as you can before they reach the river!”
His men obeyed him, riding after the retreating enemy like divine wrath. The soldiers from the fort and Constantine’s men joined the charge, and Arthur ran with them on foot. They fell upon the Saxons as they attempted to board their ships, cutting down many of the attackers. The last survivors managed to crowd onto two of their boats and cast off, sailing down the river as quickly as they could go.
“Close the river gates!” Arthur shouted. “Do we have archers? Send fire arrows into those ships! Burn them down!”
His people responded with gratifying speed. Flaming arrows streaked through the night sky, striking the fleeing boats and the Saxons within them. At the river gate, a giant portcullis began to lower, ratcheted down by chains and gears one painstaking inch at a time. The first boat managed to cross through the gate before the barrier was in place, but the second boat was stopped.
From there, it was simply murder. The ship was riddled with burning arrows and set alight, and any Saxons who dove from the burning ship to the water were slaughtered as soon as they reached the river bank. The water of the Tamesas ran red with blood.
They burned the Saxon bodies on the side of the river while the citizens and soldiers worked to extinguish the burning buildings to keep the fires from spreading. Arthur went to where the wounded had been taken. A monk met him at the edge of the field hospital that had been created in the cathedral courtyard.
“What shall we do with the Saxon wounded?” he asked.
“Treat them. They are people, too.” The monk looked relieved at his response, and Arthur put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you for your good works, brother.”
“Your Majesty!” Sir Bedivere trotted up to him, his armor streaked with gore.
“How many of our people died?” Arthur asked.
“We are counting now. They killed many unarmed innocents.” He scowled. “They will be back.”
“I know.” He sighed. “Are you unhurt?”
“In every way that matters,” he nodded. “Sir Ector and Sir Kay fought brilliantly and they are both alive. Kay was injured, but he will survive.”
“How badly?”
“He was struck on the ankle by the back side of an axe head,” he answered. “I don’t know how badly he was hurt, but he cursed most eloquently.”
“And the rest of us?”
“Brastias is uninjured. Lucan, Griflet, and Gofrwy too. They are helping to search the burned houses for survivors.”
Arthur nodded. “See to it that the dead are given proper funeral rites in accordance to their faiths. Where is Merlin?”
“I do not know, sire.”
He shook his head. “I hope he made himself useful instead of just making himself scarce. Please get me the numbers of our losses, and names if I should know them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bedivere hastened to do his king’s bidding, and Arthur went into the cathedral courtyard. The wounded were lying on the ground in rows, attended by monks. The groans of injured men were loud, and someone was weeping. He stood briefly and looked at the dozens of bleeding men in shock and dismay, but after allowing himself that moment, he swallowed his emotions and went inside.
Arthur went to every man, helping where he could, either to bind their wounds or to comfort them as they died. He did not leave until he had seen every wounded soldier and every injured civilian who lay inside the courtyard. It was nearly dawn by the time he reached Kay, who was sitting on the ground against the outer wall of the cathedral, his ankle heavily wrapped in linen.
He sat beside his brother. “Does it hurt?”
Kay shrugged. “A little.”
“Is it broken?”
“They think it may be.” He sighed. “It’s all right. I don’t need to walk if I’m on horseback. I’m not leaving you undefended.”
Arthur smiled and knelt beside him. “I still have Bedivere and the rest.”
“Nobody can defend you like your brother can.” The young king embraced him, and Kay squeezed him tightly. In a whisper, he admitted, “I was so frightened.”
“So was I.” Arthur sat back. “But it’s over now.”
“Just for the time being. They’ll be back.”
“I know.” He leaned back against the wall, too, his shoulder against Kay’s. “I am so tired.”
“Me, too.”
They sat in silence, watching as the sun rose over the cathedral gate. Arthur said, “So...do you favor Princess Lionors, or do you still think that she’s tainted?”
Kay chuckled. “I favor her.”
“Good. Then court her.” Arthur grinned impishly, and for a moment, he was just a boy again. “Maybe she’ll nurse you back to health.”
His brother laughed. “Perhaps she will, at that.”
“You only have to ask her, I’m sure.”
Kay looked down at his hands. “I don’t know if I can court her, Arthur. Every time I’m with her, I only think about how you… and she…”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, Kay. I truly am sorry for how much this troubles you.” He leaned his head back against the wall. “I had no control over it. I have no control over anything, it seems.”
“You’re the king,” his brother said, shaking his head. “You control everything.”
“I suppose we shall see in time.” He rose. “Would you like help getting back to your bed?”
“Yes.”
Kay managed to rise onto his good foot, and Arthur supported him as he hobbled toward the gate. It would be a long walk back to the governor’s palace.
They had gone only a shor
t distance from the cathedral when Merlin appeared beside them. “This won’t do,” he said. “Let’s go an easier way.”
Magic overtook them, and Kay cried out in fear, his sound beginning in the street and ending in his own room in the great house. Arthur put him onto the bed, where he sat, wide-eyed, gripping the mattress in both hands to steady himself. Merlin chuckled at his reaction.
“I take it you don’t enjoy traveling this way?” the druid asked.
“No! I do not!”
“I’ll keep that in mind and will make you walk in the future,” he said drily.
“Merlin, forgive him. He’s had a trying night.” Arthur put a hand on his brother’s shoulder and told him, “Get rest. We will talk again in the morning.”
“It’s already morning,” Kay groused, but he lay back on the bed anyway.
Merlin escorted Arthur back to his own chamber. When they arrived, Griflet was already there, laying out fresh clothing for the king. The druid beckoned the squire forward.
“Griflet, help me remove his armor. Arthur, stand still and let us do this.”
The young man obeyed, and Griflet and Merlin took away his armor. Griflet tried to remove the golden bracer from his wrist, but it resisted his efforts.
“Leave it,” Merlin told him.
Arthur’s arming doublet was sliced and stained, and his squire bit his lip in concern when he saw the blood. They took the doublet off, too, revealing a long cut across his abdomen that still wept. The druid examined the wound.
“Not too deep, but deep enough. You will need suturing.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“Lie down on the bed. Griflet, get a large basin of fresh water.” The squire hurried off as Merlin sat down beside Arthur and conjured a bag of medicinal supplies. “You should have seen me sooner.”
“I didn’t know where you were.” The words came out sounding churlish and accusatory. “Where did you go?”
