by J A Cummings
“There was another Saxon army attacking Venta Belgarum, led by a warlord named Cerdic. I… dissuaded them.”
Arthur frowned in concern. “By yourself?”
“I need no others.” He looked at the door. “What is keeping that boy?”
The king watched while Merlin pulled bandages and herbs out of the bag he had conjured. He placed a mortar and pestle on the side table and began to load herbs into the vessel. Arthur could name some of them, remembering his lessons at Ynys Môn. Based upon the combination, he guessed that Merlin was concerned about preventing fever and festering.
“You should have asked the monks for help, then, since you could not find me,” the druid said in quiet reproach.
“My people needed their attention more than I did.”
“And how much will your people need when this wound sours and you die without an heir?” He shook his head. “You must be more careful, Arthur. Your life is too valuable to risk.”
“My life is no more or less valuable than anyone else’s,” he objected. “And I have named an heir.”
The druid nodded and muttered sarcastically, “Oh, yes. Constantine. How could I forget?”
“Indeed. It was only the price he demanded for supporting me.” Arthur sighed. “Merlin, can you do a divination for me?”
“That depends. What do you seek to know?”
“Will Britannia stand or fall?”
He took a deep breath. “Britannia is ever changing, my king, and so are our lives within her. Whether she stands or falls depends on what you mean by Britannia. If you mean Britannia as she is now, fractured into tribes and ruled over by petty despots, I would say that she is destined to fall, but then to rise into something new and better.”
“And me? Will I fall in battle?”
He saw the druid hesitate, and he could feel him warring with himself over what to say. Finally, he looked down into Arthur’s eyes. Merlin’s cheeks immediately flushed, and he took a sharp breath before he said, “Yes. You will fall in battle, but you will not die on the battlefield. But the battle where this happens is very far away in both time and place.”
He reached out and took Merlin’s hand. The druid looked startled and pulled away. He let him go. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You are too familiar. I am your advisor, King Arthur. Nothing more.”
“I thought you were my friend.”
He sounded like a plaintive child, even to his own ears. The druid smiled gently, releasing the strange tension that had overtaken him. “I am your friend, Arthur.”
“Good.” He lay back on the bed. “I need friends.”
“What you need is to have that wound cleaned and sewn. Where is he? Griflet!”
They heard rushing feet approaching the door, and then the squire came in with a cauldron of water. He carried it with a cloth around the handle, and the water bubbled. “I boiled it to purify it,” he said. “You can never be too careful about water.”
“No, indeed. That was well thought. Put it here.”
Griflet put the cauldron at Merlin’s feet, and the druid busily began preparing his medicines. The squire leaned over to look at Arthur’s abdomen. He hissed when he saw the wound.
“Somebody stuck you pretty good, I’d say.”
Arthur smiled. “I’m sure it looks worse that it is.” He lifted his head and looked down at it, himself. The edges were an angry red and swollen, and the tissue around the cut was bruised. A slow stream of blood oozed from the wound. He lay back down, thinking that it was good the druids had already conducted their examination of his body. He would not be scar-free any longer. “It’s ugly, but it will be fine.”
“Can you heal him, Merlin?” Griflet asked, worried.
“I cannot work healing magics.” The druid shook his head, leaving something unsaid. Merlin lit a candle, then took up a needle and thread from his bag. He ran the needle through the flame. “This will hurt, Arthur.”
He tried to smile. “I’m sure it will.”
On the whole, being stitched was not as painful as being stabbed in the first place, but it was still an experience he would not want to repeat. He clenched his teeth and did his best to stay silent throughout the operation, but he could not prevent a sigh of relief when the last stitch was finally applied.
“Fifteen,” Merlin said. “Your first battle wound took fifteen stitches. That means you will be known for fifteen battles in your reign.”
“If that’s all the battles I will fight over my whole life, that’s not so bad,” he said optimistically.
“I said you would be known for fifteen, not that fifteen is all that you would have.”
Merlin placed a clean linen bandage over the stitches, then slathered it with the poultice he had created. Juices from the herbs would seep through the linen and reach his wound, but the small pieces of vegetation would be kept out by the fabric. Another bandage was laid over the herbal paste, and then another, wider bandage was wound around his midsection, holding the whole accumulation tightly in place. When the wrapping was done, Merlin pushed Arthur to lie back down.
“What happened at Venta Belgarum?” Arthur asked.
Merlin began to pack away his supplies. “A smaller force of Saxons landed and began to march. They killed the people they found and burned what they couldn’t steal.”
“How did you know they were there?”
“How do I know anything?”
Arthur sighed. “How did you fight them?”
“With magic.” He smiled into the king’s raised eyebrow and elaborated, “I turned them to stone. They will trouble you no longer.”
“To stone? How is this possible?”
Merlin chuckled. “I can see the future, move you from one side of Britannia to the other in the space of a heartbeat, conjure coronation feasts and medicines out of thin air, and you doubt this?”
“Is there any limit to your power?” he asked, wonderstruck.
“If you are fortunate, no.” He rose. “Get some rest, King Arthur. You have a busy few years ahead of you.”
Hengist roared in fury and grief, and everyone in the hall ducked as he picked up Horsa’s throne and threw it across the room. Ganile stood before him, waiting. He destroyed an earthen jug and overturned a table, then rounded on the little Pictish slave girl kneeling by his throne.
“Stop,” Ganile said.
Hengist turned on her. “What did you say?”
“I said, stop. This temper tantrum will not bring your brother back.”
He strode over the enchantress and raised a hand, preparing to strike her. She raised a hand of her own, and magic crackled between her fingertips. He reconsidered his actions and backed away, muttering curses.
“How could this happen?” he demanded. “You saw him. You said it yourself - this Arthur is a beardless stripling. How could he have killed my brother?”
“Even beardless striplings are lucky sometimes, and possibly your brother had offended the gods. Who knows why the skeins of our lives are woven as they are? I can tell you this: Arthur might have been lucky once, but he will not be lucky twice.”
He paced, and his hand pulled at his beard in agitation. “Do I recall Colgren?”
“Absolutely not. Let him land at Lindum. They will not expect an invasion there, so soon after the failures in Londinium and Venta Belgarum.”
“You dare to call me a failure?!” he screamed. He rushed at her, stopping inches from her face. She coolly stood her ground.
“Yes. I do.”
Hengist looked very much as if he wanted to strike her, but as before, he chose the wiser course of action and resisted the impulse. He stalked back to his own throne and flung himself into the seat, glowering.
“Go to Colgren. Make sure that he is successful.” He gripped the arms of his throne. “I want Arthur’s head.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” She gestured toward the Pictish girl. “She was his. May I have her?”
Hengist looked at her,
surprised and irritated by her request, then at the slave. “Take her.”
“Come with me, girl,” Ganile told her. The slave rose and followed her in silence.
Ganile led the Pictish slave girl away from the king’s hall and into her own rooms. The girl was nervous, but she followed silently, her eyes cast down. As Hengist and Horsa always kept her, she was naked but for what amounted to a collar and a chain, and Ganile supposed she must be cold.
They went into Ganile’s chamber, and the sorceress closed the door behind them. The girl dared finally to look at her new mistress, her dark eyes curious but guarded.
“Sit down on the bed,” she ordered the girl. The slave promptly obeyed. “What is your name?”
“Drusticca,” the girl replied. “But you can call me what you want.”
“I own you. Of course I can.” She went to her chest and selected clothing that might fit the girl. “Put these on.”
Drusticca hesitated, but accepted the shift and overdress gratefully. Ganile handed her hose and shoes, as well as a woolen cloak. Drusticca donned them all.
“Good.” The sorceress nodded. “Now, about those…” She gestured, and her magic made the chains fall away into nothingness, vanishing as if they had never been. The girl gasped, afraid.
Ganile gestured for her to follow and left the room, walking to the stables. Drusticca trailed along behind her. As they approached, the sound and smell of a dozen horses filled their senses, and one of the animals neighed a greeting as they came into view.
She stopped one of the grooms. “King Horsa’s mount. Where is it?”
“The main mount died at Londinium, like the king,” the youth replied, “but he has another horse here, too. Third stall on the left.”
“Thanks.” Ganile went to the stall in question, and Drusticca followed. Without turning to face her slave, the sorceress asked, “Do you know how to ride?”
“Yes.”
“And do you know how to saddle a horse and take care of it?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Good. Saddle this horse.”
The animal, a sturdy bay with a white star on his forehead, stood patiently as Drusticca prepared it for riding. When the bridle and saddle were in place, the slave knelt and offered her hands, fingers interlaced, palms up.
“Get up,” Ganile ordered.
She obeyed. “Have I displeased, Mistress?”
“No.” She put her hands on the girl’s slender shoulders. She was very young, and very thin. Horsa had not been generous with her. “I am setting you free. Get on this horse and ride north. Get away from this place.”
Tears sprang into Drusticca’s eyes, and she covered her mouth with her hands. Ganile echoed the position the girl had just left, kneeling and offering a boost to land the Pictish girl in the saddle. When Drusticca was comfortably seated, the sorceress smiled.
“Go.”
Drusticca gasped out, “Thank you!” She kicked her heels into the horse’s ribs, and the animal leaped into action, carrying her away.
Ganile watched her go, satisfied, then went back into the longhouse to prepare for the trip to Colgren’s camp.
Queen Helene of Benoic sat near the bank of the Ar Goued River, rocking her baby boy and singing wordlessly to comfort both him and herself. Her king and husband had been gone from her side for several weeks, taking his army across the Oceanus Britannicus to support the new High King. Rumor said that this new king was only a boy, and that he had already been attacked by the Saxon raiders. She had dim hopes for his future.
Across the green grass, she could see the steward, the old Lord Broneit, speaking in animated tones with Lucius, the Captain of the Guard. They were arguing, and several times, she saw them gesture toward her.
She looked into her infant’s face. Little Galahad was beautiful, and growing more so every day. She had never seen a child with such perfect features, or such a glow about him. He seemed blessed. She had almost forgotten the witch at the Samhain fire enough to convince herself that he was.
She had wanted to name him Lancelot, but his father had prevailed. It had been a matter of which grandfather’s name he inherited, and so he inherited from her husband’s father. She still called him Lancelot when they were alone, so much so that he likely knew that as his name and not the other. It was a tiny victory for motherhood, but a victory all the same.
A bubble broke the surface of the water, and then another. The queen noticed nothing. Instead, her attention was split between the arguing men and the infant in her arms. He looked something like Ban, she thought, but finer. She touched her baby’s curls, and he looked up at her with his deep, dark eyes. She believed that he knew more and understood more than any child his age ever should.
Another bubble burst behind her, then a fourth. Something green floated there, something like a woman’s hair.
Lord Broneit approached her and bowed. “My Queen, it is imperative that we seek refuge in the castle of King Bors. King Claudas has sent a letter of ultimatum, and with our forces in Britannia, we cannot resist him. We must flee.”
She went pale. “We cannot go. My husband expects us to be here when he returns. Shore up our food and water supplies and prepare for a siege. We will resist him as best we can.”
“My lady…”
“I have given you my answer.”
Lord Broneit stomped back toward Lucius, and when the steward spoke, the guard captain rolled his eyes in exasperation. He now approached her.
“My Queen…”
“My answer is unchanged.”
“I am sorry, my queen, but King Ban left the defense of this castle and your person to me. I have decided that we will seek refuge in the castle of King Bors.”
She put the baby in his basket and rose imperiously. “What? Will we leave without so much as a whimper and let him take our kingdom? What then will King Ban return to but an empty shell and no kingdom to call his own?”
“With all respect, madam, he will return to a living wife and son.”
They continued to argue the point, too caught up in their conflict to notice that the green hair in the water had become a woman. Nyneve, seeing her chance, rose up on the river bank and crept toward the child. He looked at her nervously, as if he knew what she meant to do. She smiled down at him and whispered in his tiny mind.
There, there, little man, she cooed. Come with me.
While Helene and Lucius bickered, she took the baby from the basket and retreated back into the water until she and the child had both disappeared from sight. She could hear the queen’s screams from the bottom of the river, and she smiled as the infant struggled in her arms. She cast magic over his tiny face to soothe his distress and help him breathe, and with a smile she spirited him away.
Lot stood at the map table in Din Eidyn, looking at the images and figures that showed armies on the move. Beside him, Gawain watched and learned.
“So the Saxons are not strong enough to burn one city,” the king mused to his second, another transplanted Norseman called Brynjr who had changed his name to the more-Gaelic sounding Bruis the Pitiless. As far as Gawain could tell, the moniker was not hyperbole.
“The Saxons are nothing. Ignore your agreement with them.” Bruis rubbed his hand over his braided beard. “We could still use some insurance against that boy and his wizard, though. They might be stronger than we think they are.”
Lot looked at Gawain, then back at the man who had been his second in command during his days as a raider. “So where do you suggest we go looking for the help that the Saxons were supposed to give me? I am taking that crown, and I would prefer to take it from Arthur’s cold dead scalp. If he has all of Armorica with him, though, I need allies, and I cannot depend on Uriens.”
“Go to our people.” He shrugged. “It makes perfect sense. Ask your father.”
Gawain could sense his father hesitating. This was an old wound. “I can’t go to him for help. You know why.”
“Lothar, that argument is long
dead. So is the woman who caused it.”
“The woman is dead but the hostility remains,” the king disagreed. “And if I go to him for assistance, he will think that I am his man again, and he will come to take Lothian. I will not give him one inch of this land that I have fought to obtain.”
Gawain reached out to the map and tapped on it. “Go to the Danes. They have no love for Norway, or for the Saxons. They don’t care about the Britons, but they’ll be interested in gaining land here.” He straightened. “I’ve heard that they have very rocky soil. Promise them the rich farmlands in the Fens.”
His father looked at him askance. “There is no good farmland in the Fens. It’s all watery.”
The prince smiled. “They don’t know that. By the time they learn their mistake, you will already be High King.”
Bruis laughed. “My gods, but you inherited your mother’s devious mind! Lothar, this son of yours!”
Lot squeezed Gawain’s shoulder, beaming with pride. “You vicious little monster,” he praised. “An excellent suggestion.” He turned to his lieutenant. “We will send our offer to the tribesmen at Gundestrup. I’m certain they’ll be willing.”
Arthur and his companions left Londinium and headed to Verulamium, where Uther had built a castle stronghold in his first years as king. Kay’s ankle was broken, and it still pained him to walk, so Lionors and her two puppies came along to care for him. Illtyd and Ulfius had joined their little band, and in their augmented numbers they traveled as quickly as they could.
Merlin and Brastias dispatched scouts in every direction, and each day, pigeons would arrive with tiny missives tied to their little legs. They had learned that a fleet of Saxon warships was headed north around the coast of Anglia, where their confederates clinging to the shore would no doubt give them a kindly welcome. They had also received news that diplomatic envoys had been sent from King Lot to the Danes, and that all of the petty kings in all of Britannia had sent out the call to arms. It remained to be seen who would be with him and who would be against him when swords were crossed.
