by J A Cummings
Arthur watched his friends as they rode into Verulamium, and he was moved as well as frightened by the thought that all of them had tacitly volunteered to die for him. He wondered if he was worth that dedication, and if the worst happened, if he would be worthy of the sacrifice. He hoped that he would be, and that there would need to be no sacrifices at all.
He hoped for the best. It was all that he could do.
TO BE CONTINUED
To Be Continued
Appendix A: Characters
The King’s Party
King Arthur Pendragon
Merlin
Sir Ector of Caer Gai
Sir Kay of Caer Gai
Sir Bedivere of Viroconium
Sir Brastias of Badon
Sir Illtyd
Griflet, Sir Bedivere’s nephew
Lady Garwen, Sir Bedivere’s niece
Lucan, squire
Kingdom of Lothian
King Lot, also named Lothar
Queen Morgause
Gawain
Agravaine
Gaheris
Gareth
Bruis the Pitiless
Kingdom of Rheged
King Uriens
Queen Morgana
Owain ap Uriens
Armorica
Prince Constantine
King Claudas
King Ban of Benoic
Queen Helene of Benoic
Prince Galahad, called Lancelot
King Bors of Gaunnes
Lucius, captain of the guard at Benoic
Lord Broneit, Steward of Benoic
Britons
Queen Igraine
Archbishop Augustine
Father Marcus
Gadrosalain
King Pellinore of Norgalis
King Carados of Elmet
Cador, King Uther’s bastard son
King Escanor of the White Mountain
King Leodegrance of Cameliard
King Idres of Nohaut
King Brandegoris of Stranggore
Duke Eustace of Cambenet
Cornovus, Chieftain of the Atrebates
Ebha, Queen of the Atrebates
Cradawg, Sir Brastias’s brother
Ailis, Sir Brastias’s niece
Gofrwy, Sir Brastias’s squire
Cradoc of Ceredigion
Princess Lionors of Ceredigion
Portia, priestess of Sulis-Minerva
Drusticca, Pictish slave
Safir, son of Lord Esclabor of Babylon
Alexios, Safir’s Greek slave
Saxons
King Hengist
King Horsa
Ganile, a sorceress
Acwel
Bearn
Cerdic, a warlord
The Fey
King Fergus Mor Mac Eirc
Guinevere, Sovereignty
Nyneve, one of the Ladies of the Lake
Evienne, one of the Ladies of the Lake
Niniane, one of the Ladies of the Lake
Demons, Gods, Creatures and Magic Users
Vivienne
Annowre
Murduus
The Morrigan
Macha
Arawn
Modron
Cernunnos
Sulis-Minerva
The Melltith
The Impactful Dead
High King Uther Pendragon
Duke Gorlois of Cornwall
Amren, Sir Bedivere’s son
Pryderi, King Uther’s bastard son
Madoc, King Uther’s bastard son
Ambrosius Aurelianus, King Uther’s brother
Briaca, Cradawg’s wife and Ailis’s mother
British Tribes
Atrebates
Belgae
Cantiaci
Catuvellauni
Corieltauvi
Cornovii
Dumnonii
Durotriges
Gododdin
Iceni
Silures
Appendix B: Locations
Regions
Armorica
Logres
Cambria
Caledonia
Gaul
Kingdoms
Ireland
Rheged
Lothian
Gwynedd
Norgalis
Benoic
Gannes
Elmet
Nohaut
Stranggore
Estrangor
Cambenet
Ceredigion
Lyonesse
Listenoise
Corbenic
Cornwall
Powys
Cities and Fortresses
Caer Gai
Viroconium
Letocetum
Venonis
Verulamium
Londinium
Ynys Môn
Aquae Sulis
Din Eidyn
Mons Badonicus
Appendix C: Glossary
Brythonic – the native Celtic language of Britannia
Caldarium – hot water bath
Dominus – Lord, used by slaves when addressing their masters
Domus – in the Roman Empire, an elegant home owned by the aristocracy
Dux bellorum – title, meaning roughly “war lord”
Eich bod yn garreg – Welsh, “You are stone”
Eques – title accorded to the equestrian class of nobles - knight
Frigidarium – cold water bath
The Giants’ Dance – Stonehenge
Mansio – An official stopping place along a Roman road meant to be used by officials and others traveling for official business. Originally the mansio system was maintained by the central government, but after the Romans left, the local tribes claimed the mansio in their territory.
Newid i mi – Welsh, “Change me”
The Summerlands – a place of bliss in the Pagan Underworld/afterlife
Tân – Welsh, “fire”
Tepidarium – warm water bath
Verulamium had been one of the greatest Roman cities in Britannia, and even now, fifty years after its abandonment by the Empire, its grandeur was enough to take King Arthur’s breath away. The forum, the amphitheater and the baths were the best he had ever seen, even better than at Londinium. The grand villa overlooking the town had been repurposed as the Abbey of St. Alban, in memory of the Christian saint who had lived and died in Verulamium before Arthur’s birth. Above the abbey, Uther’s stronghold Castle Verlamion stood, a solid block of masonry and strength silhouetted against the sky.
The new High King rode through the town, past the basilica and a host of rich townhomes surrounded by verdant gardens. The scent of flowers filled the air, clouds of fragrance wafting up to greet him from behind low walls. The sun was brilliant on this late spring day, and everything seemed right in the world. It was a beautiful illusion.
Everything was manifestly not right. Even as he rode, safe in the company of his knights and retainers, the Saxons were sailing. It was anyone’s guess when they would make landfall, but Merlin had estimated that they had two days at the most before Saxon boots would be touching Britannia’s soil. Their ultimate destination was not known, but Merlin’s spies and scouts were reporting back every day.
The battle in Londinium had saved that town, but there had been much destruction. Arthur had left Archbishop Augustine to oversee the restoration, and he had hope that the venerable holy man would labor in good faith. After all, it benefited his church and his offering plates to have a healthy and prosperous congregation. At Arthur’s orders, they had mounted a vigorous city watch who were tasked with keeping the river gates closed except when they absolutely needed to be opened. He would not allow Hengist to sail so blithely into his territory again.
His territory. Sometimes he was surprised by how easily his mind turned toward king-like ways of thinking. Only a year ago, he had been a simple boy, a squire to a newly-minted knight, and now he was High King of the Britons. He had gone f
rom being responsible for the care and upkeep of his foster brother’s armor to being responsible for the well-being of thousands of souls. The change was staggering, and yet he didn’t quail. He didn’t feel as young as the number of his years should have indicated. Sometimes he felt older than the hills.
Arthur’s group reached the castle and thundered across the drawbridge. Mounted sentries stood at the gate, watching as his cavalry arrived. His army, nearly three hundred strong, camped outside the city walls. Arthur knew without looking that the tents were pitched in an orderly fashion, all straight lines and rigid order. He had entrusted Sir Brastias with the army, and he knew his friend had discharged his duties well.
Sir Brastias, Sir Bedivere, Sir Ector and Sir Ulfius had all been schooled in proper military ways by commanders who had themselves learned at the feet of Roman centurions and praetorians. The traditions and tactics of the great empire were remembered, and Arthur himself had already spent years in his education poring over the works of such ancient worthies as Frontinus and Julius Caesar himself. He carried a copy Vegetius’ De re militari in his saddlebag and read it every night before retiring.
Merlin had presented him with the book upon their departure from Londinium, and like many of the druid’s gifts, Arthur was finding it invaluable and mind-expanding. He owed his powerful advisor a debt that he never could repay, and he wondered constantly what inspired Merlin to be so concerned with him and his fate. He always meant to ask him, but they were constantly so busy that time for such discussions had been denied.
The commander of the fortress approached and saluted Arthur. The young king returned the salute automatically.
“Your Majesty,” the man said, his voice liberally accented with the tones of the Pictish north. “I welcome you to Castle Verlamion, and I surrender it to Your Majesty’s mercies.”
“I accept your welcome but not your surrender,” he replied. “Never surrender this castle or this city for so long as you have breath in your body.”
He dismounted, as did his knights. Merlin, who had been riding with them, dismounted, too, but with a good deal more lightness than the armored men. The fort commander looked at the druid with obvious trepidation, but he stood his ground. Arthur offered the commander his hand.
“Your name?”
“Sir Eoganan, Your Majesty.”
Arthur gripped his forearm firmly. “Well met, Sir Eoganan. Show me what we have here.”
He was taken on a tour of the fortifications and the ballistae on the walls. Sir Eoganan explained their strength in numbers, as well as the supplies that they had laid in to withstand a siege. Arthur listened carefully, doing calculations in his head and liking what he heard. Unless the Saxons landed an entire army full of raiders, they would be ready for them.
They reached the great hall last, and his host said, “Sir, this will be your throne room and your meeting hall. I regret that we have not much in the way of elegant accommodation, but the master’s room above this hall is kept warm by a hypocaust.”
Arthur smiled. “It’s nearly summer, Sir Eoganan, so warmth in the night is not going to be my first concern. Let Sir Ector and Sir Kay have that room. Are there other rooms as well?”
“There are, sir. Four more apartments lie above this hall.”
“Excellent. I’ll find my lodging in one of those.” He turned to him. “I’m pleased to find this place in such good order. Many fortresses and kingdoms have gone their own ways in the absence of a king, but you’ve maintained your course with admirable focus. I commend you.”
Sir Eoganan looked well pleased. “Thank you, sir.”
Arthur stripped off his gauntlets. The ring that he had been given by Prince Constantine shone in the light, and he saw Sir Eoganan take note of it. “Please warn your kitchen that we have arrived. We’ve brought some of our own supplies and cooks to help defray the strain of victualing this multitude.”
“Much appreciated, Your Majesty.”
As the young king’s men began to enter the great hall, bringing loud voices and the clank of weapons and armor with them, Arthur’s gaze was arrested by a mosaic portrait on the wall. A thousand tiny pieces of colored glass had been plastered to the bricks, depicting a dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes sitting on a throne. He had a two-headed battle axe across his knees, a sword in one hand and the orb of kingship in the other. A familiar crown rested on his unlined brow, and his tunic was emblazoned with a rampant dragon. From the straight nose to the strong shape of his jaw, the face looking back at him might as well have been a more mature version of his own. The sword the man held was a double for the one that Arthur now wore at his hip. Arthur knew without a doubt which king was looking down at him from the wall.
Sir Eoganan looked up at the mosaic, too. “King Uther,” he said.
“An imposing portrait,” the new king replied.
“He was an imposing man.”
Arthur could not pull his gaze away. “I never met him.”
The soldier paused, then said, “He was a warrior like none that I have ever seen, before or since. His boldness was unmatched, and his sense of tactics was inspirational. He was open-handed with us and always treated us fairly. All of us men loved him and would have marched through the fires of Hell if he but led us.”
It was the first time anyone had described Uther in a way that made Arthur think he might have liked him. “And with women, and the common folk?”
“Well...he never met a woman he didn’t like, sir, if you understand, and some may not have been always happy about his attention. But he never killed anyone who didn’t need killing in some way. He was no barbarian.”
Still gazing into the face of the father he had never known, he nodded. “Thank you, Sir Eoganan.”
The fortress commander bowed and left him. Sir Ector came to his side and looked up with him. “It looks very like him,” his foster father said. “And so do you. I’m amazed I didn’t see it before. I suppose I never looked, most likely because I never wanted to.”
Arthur shook his head. “I’m confused. Was he a good man, or a bad man?”
“Like any man, he was both.” He put his hand on his foster son’s shoulder. He was one of the few people who dared to touch the young king’s royal person, and until that moment, Arthur hadn’t realized how starved he was for simple human contact. He leaned into his foster father just enough to make the touch feel that much firmer. Ector seemed to understand and squeezed his shoulder. “But it doesn’t matter now what kind of man he was. It only matters what kind of man you decide to be. Your future is what you make of it, not what he left you. In many ways, the only thing he gave to you was life.”
“A gift I can’t repay,” Arthur said softly.
“You can. As a father, I can tell you that living your life well is all the repayment that a parent desires. Be a good man, be healthy, and be happy. I ask nothing more of you.”
“Truthfully?” He turned to look into Ector’s dark eyes. “There’s nothing else you would require of me?”
Ector’s smile turned impish. “Well, that and some dinner.”
Arthur chuckled. “That’ll be soon, I promise you. I have some leftover cheese and bread in my saddlebag if you want it.”
His father patted his back. “No, I can wait. Besides, I want to see how the army is settling in. By your leave?”
Arthur nodded, hating this subtle hint of the shift in their relationship. He would never again be just Ector’s foster son. “Of course.”
Arthur’s squire, Griflet, came to him then. “Would you like out of your armor, sir?”
“No, not yet. It holds my stomach together.”
He frowned. “Is the wound festering?”
“No. It just feels better with some pressure on it, and I can’t go around clutching my guts like a child all day.” He smiled. “Don’t worry so much.”
“Your personal well-being is my only concern. Of course I’m going to worry.”
He turned as Sir Kay entered, suppor
ted on one side by Sir Ulfius while Lionors, the Princess of Ceredigion, walked beside him with two puppies on leads. Arthur pulled a chair over and put it near a bench. “Sit and put up your foot,” he suggested. “Are you in much pain?”
“No,” his brother said, but Kay’s pale cheeks and sweat-sheened brow proved the lie. They helped him settle onto the bench, and Lionors produced a pillow that she put beneath his heel as he propped it up on the seat of the chair. Arthur helped remove his greave and boot, revealing his badly swollen ankle. He whistled low as Kay protested, “My lord, you’re the king. You shouldn’t concern yourself with my foot.”
“Shut up. You’re still my brother, and I’ll concern myself with whatever I like.” He glanced up at Lionors, who was looking down at her suitor’s injury with a frown on her pretty face. “Could you find Merlin for me, please?”
She left the pups with Kay, then trotted out of the great hall, her blonde braid swinging. Both of the little dogs leapt up into Kay’s lap, although one used him as a platform to reach Arthur’s face for a thorough licking. Arthur chuckled and patted the happy creature.
Ulfius said, “I’ve had broken ankles before. It’s the only way foot soldiers can really hurt a mounted knight. Feet and legs. And riding all day with the ankle hanging low? That’s why it swelled so much.”
“I’m surprised I could get the boot off,” Arthur said. “I nearly couldn’t.”
“You’re both fussing like old women,” Kay groused, embarrassed. “Leave me be. I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” the king said mildly. Ulfius chuckled at Kay’s suddenly chastened look.
