by J A Cummings
The captain nodded. “Yes. Blood poisoning took him in the late winter.” He reined his horse and turned it around. “Follow me to the king.”
They rode through the Eburacan army, past the foot soldiers and archers to where the cavalry rode in the back, driving the men forward. Griflet gave Arthur an anxious look as they were swallowed up by this unfamiliar mass of men, but Arthur tried to respond with a look of total calm. He must have succeeded, because Griflet swallowed, nodded, and faced forward once again.
When they reached the mounted warriors, one man stood out from all the rest. He was a big man, broad and tall, with a thick black beard on his face and neck. His helmet had a golden crown affixed to it instead of a crest, and his eyes were black and shrewd.
“Merlin,” he said, greeting their company before they could be introduced.
“King Gurgurest. My congratulations on your accession to your father’s throne.”
“Thank you. I am sorry for the reason it happened, but I am glad for it now.” His gaze fell on Arthur. “And who is this?”
Arthur opened his mouth to answer, but Merlin spoke before he could. “This is the High King. He has come to accept your homage.”
The young Pendragon nearly gaped at the audacity of Merlin’s demand, but Gurgurest laughed. “There are never any simple demands from you, are there?”
“Not lately.”
“What say you, High King?”
Gurgurest’s tone was mildly mocking, but Arthur chose not to take umbrage. He was in a poor position to do so. “I would like your friendship, and your assistance. Withhold your homage if you feel that it’s not due.”
“My assistance with what?”
He saw no use in concealing the truth. “The Saxons are lying outside of Lindum, and my numbers are too small to break the siege alone. Together, we could end their assault and save our kinsmen in the city.”
Gurgurest raised one bushy eyebrow. “Kinsmen? I have no blood in Lindum.”
“Nor have I, but all Britons are my brothers, and I will fight to the death to prove it so.”
The king of Eburacum regarded Arthur coolly. “Do you even know what death is, my young High King?”
Arthur set his jaw. “I have killed men already, King Gurgurest, and stand prepared to kill more, if that’s what you’re asking. And I know well what death is, for I buried a good man and a sturdy knight today. Do you, King Gurgurest, know death?”
His challenge made the petty king hesitate, and he said, “I buried my father this year, and a child. I have seen death in all of its guises. I know it well enough to not rush headlong into its embrace.”
“And yet you come here with your army. Lindum is besworn to you, is it not?” Arthur asked. “You owe your people your protection.”
“Yes.” Gurgurest raised his chin. “And that is why we march here, to break the siege ourselves. I have a duty to do this, and I was asked. Has anyone asked you?”
Arthur looked him in the eye. “I do not need to be asked. As king, I know my duty to my people without being told.”
Silence fell between them, and Griflet’s horse grew restive, its rider’s anxiety transmitting through its skin. The young knight brought it back under control and gave Arthur an apologetic look.
The High King looked back at Gurgurest. “Now that we understand one another and know that we have common cause, I suggest again that we join together. My army is encamped on the southeastern side of the River Witham, below the city. Join us there and we can plan our attack.”
Gurgurest looked at the knight on his right side, a grim-looking man who was sitting astride a bay warhorse with a white scar upon its nose. The man, as battered as his mount, nodded slightly to his king. Gurgurest turned back to Arthur.
“We will join you at your camp, and we will work together to break this siege. I want no Saxons on my land.”
Arthur nodded. “Just as I want no Saxons on my island.” He gently pulled back his reins and tightened his legs, and his horse backed up. “I will lead the way. Follow us.”
He turned his mount and rode back the way he’d come until he was at the very head of the Eburacan army. Griflet and Merlin took their positions at his side, and they led the way back toward the camp.
“Well done,” Merlin said softly.
The young king blew out a tense breath. “Thank you. He isn’t going to make this easy.”
“Gurgurest is proud, but he’s noble. He’ll do the right thing as soon as he decides it’s his idea.” The druid smiled. “He will be a good ally for you in your time of battle.”
“May the gods grant that you are right.”
Merlin’s smile grew even broader. “They have so far.”
Arthur led Gurgurest and his army well west and south of the Saxon forces, trying to remain unnoticed. It was difficult to hide a thousand men, so he fully expected the enemy to be ready for their attack when it came.
His knights stood when he led the Eburacan king to his tent, showing respect for the new ruler in the camp. Gurgurest returned their bows with a slight nod of his head before he went into Arthur’s tent and sat in the only chair at the map table.
Arthur stopped and looked at him. “You’re in my seat.”
The other king smiled. “I brought the most men. This is now my campaign.”
“You brought the most men, yes, but I am the High King.”
“So you say.”
“So I am.” He drew his sword. “I was crowned by Archbishop Augustine in Londinium and I pulled this sword from the stone. If you would like to contest for it, I’m sure something can be arranged.”
Gurgurest laughed at him. “The puppy has teeth! You are only a boy. Leave war and the affairs of kingship to men.” He waved a hand. “Besides, you said I could withhold my homage until I felt that it was due. Well, I’m withholding it.”
“My friend,” Merlin said, stepping into view from the shadows in the corner of the tent. “You are being disrespectful to the rightful heir of Uther Pendragon, your king. He is patient, but I am not.” A new chair appeared across the table from Gurgurest, slightly shorter than the one in which he had settled. “This is your seat. I pray you, take it before we all have regrets.”
Arthur stood his ground, his sword at the ready. The Eburacan laughed again, then switched chairs. “I am not going to fight to the death over furniture.”
“It’s not the furniture. It’s the principle.” Arthur sheathed his sword. “I would rather fight beside you than against you.”
Gurgurest waved to the map. “Then show me what you have in mind.”
With tiny figures and much pointing and explaining, he did.
When the next day dawned, the Saxons had split their force, half still bombarding the city, the other half facing their rear and flanks in a defensive posture. The infantry of the combined British armies arrayed in ready ranks, standing together in blocks like the heads of mallets. Gurgurest sat astride his charger at the front of the infantry, his helmet tied securely beneath his chin. Beside him, Captain Dubnus held the horn that would sound the attack. On the far-left flank, on the top of a hill, Arthur stood waiting with the cavalry. The horses stomped and shifted, as eager for the battle to begin as were the men upon their backs.
The Saxon warlord saw them assembling, and he raised his sword above his head. He shouted a command, and then his archers let fly a volley of arrows that streaked through the air like bees. The army was just out of range, but not for long.
Arthur nodded to Brastias, who blew a short blast on a horn he carried. Dubnus echoed him, and the army surged forward, shouting and running like demons released from the gates of hell. The Saxons counter-charged, and the two armies met in the middle with a titanic crash of screams and clanging metal. Gurgurest and Dubnus each led a column, with Merlin leading the third. Their swords slashed down into the Saxon foot soldiers, who countered with their seaxes and their short swords. Men cursed and roared, bled and fell, and then, from the top of the hill, Arthur’s cav
alry charged.
Their horses descended like furies, their hooves thunderous upon the ground. Arthur was at the point of the arrowhead-shaped formation, and fifty knights, a gift from Eburacum, followed him down the hill. Spears bristled out ahead of the charge, and the speed and power of the horses made those spearheads pierce the unlucky Saxon warriors who tried to stand against them. A groan went up along the Saxon line, and many men dropped to the ground to rise no more.
Arthur stabbed his spear through one man and kept riding, freeing his weapon on the fly. Brastias’ spear snapped, one half remaining buried in the guts of a Saxon warrior who writhed upon the ground. Bedivere’s horse ended his torment, giant hooves crushing him as the charger raced forward.
The battle roared and rolled, with the Saxons first falling back, then pushing forward. Arthur spurred his horse around and abandoned his now-splintered spear in favor of his sword, which he put to good use in splitting the skull of an archer who was about to shoot. The man fell like a lump of clay and was horse-trodden into the ground as Arthur raced back into the thick of the fight.
For hours, the warriors clashed in their deadly dance. Blood spurted, bodies were ravaged, and the screams of the wounded filled the air. From the walls of Lindum, archers fired, and British arrows thudded into Saxon flesh. Arthur lost count of the number of men who went down forever beneath his sword, and Ector and Bedivere added many dead men to their accounts. Ulfius was in his glory, streaked in the blood of his enemies, his wild grin behind his blond beard a startling whiteness in the midst of all the dirt and grime.
The gates of Lindum opened and a quintet of riders emerged, accompanied by a small group of foot soldiers and pikemen who added to the chaos. Everywhere he looked, Arthur saw death and destruction. Swords and axes flashed in the waning sunlight. He struck a killing blow with his blade, then blocked an axe with his shield, which stayed intact despite the force of the heavy blow it deflected. He turned in the saddle and slashed right and left, then right and left again, and everywhere he struck, a Saxon fell.
A horn in the distance blew three short blasts, and the Saxons began to run. Arthur rose in his stirrups and pointed with his sword.
“After them!”
His men obeyed. The Saxons fought through their retreat, but they continued to fall back until they crossed the river. The Britons pursued them to the water’s edge, but there was only one ford, and the Saxons held it. The enemy were on the interior side of the river, with all of Britannia at their backs. The two armies had traded places. Arthur reined his horse and spun to face his men.
“Force a crossing!” he commanded. “Take the ford!”
They tried. They contended with the Saxons for the one safe crossing point, but the Saxons held. The rocks in the river were slippery with moss, and the horses could not keep their footing. Neither could the men, and fighting in the water was to nobody’s advantage. The Saxons rallied and tried to push back across the ford, but the Britons held like burrs to their side of the river, refusing to be repulsed. The day ended in a blood-soaked stalemate.
The men of the combined army greeted their kings with cheers when they returned to the camp, and Arthur stopped to speak to as many men as he could. He went to the healers’ tent and looked in on the wounded, offering his encouragement and thanks to the brave men who had suffered so much at his behest. He put his training on Ynys Môn to good use, binding wounds and helping to apply poultices to the worst injured. He did everything he could without causing harm, and then, when there was nothing left to be done, he retired to his tent.
King Gurgurest’s tent had been erected next to his, and he could see a light burning in a brazier inside. A woman was inside the tent, as he could see from the shape of her silhouette, offering the king some after-battle relaxation. He thought of Lionors and smiled at the memory, then went inside.
Merlin followed him in, his black armor dirty with the stains of battle. He looked tired for the first time in Arthur’s acquaintance, his eternally-youthful face pale. The druid helped him out of his armor without being asked while Griflet, still acting as his chamberlain, oversaw a trio of women who brought in a wooden tub filled with water.
“I do not give praise often,” the druid began.
Arthur interrupted. “Or at all.”
Merlin smiled. “Or at all. But you were magnificent today, my king.”
“As were you, and all of our men. I have never seen men fight so gallantly.”
“Are you injured, Your Majesty?”
“No. Nothing worse than a little blister on my sword hand.” He held up the offending bump and smiled. “I am well. And you?”
“Unscathed.” Merlin knelt to remove Arthur’s greaves. “And your old wound?”
Arthur smiled and lied. “Little more than a memory at this point.”
He pulled off his chain shirt and put it on the armor form, making a mental note to clean and oil it before he slept. Merlin watched him silently, warmth in his blue eyes that Arthur could not name.
Finally, he told the druid, “You’re weary, my friend. You should rest.”
“Yes. I should.”
Arthur smiled. “But you won’t?”
“The Saxon sorceress was not on the battlefield, and I didn’t see her in their camp.”
Arthur sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots. They stank of blood and sweat and he wrinkled his nose up at them. “She probably fled, like I wish I could flee from these…”
“She is a threat. I ask permission to pursue her.”
“No.”
Merlin looked surprised. “No?”
Griflet chuckled, and Arthur silenced him with a look. The young knight continued seeing to the preparation of the king’s bath. “I need you here. Whether she is with them or she is flown, there is nothing that we can do about it tonight. I need you to rest and I need you with us in the morning. The men respect you. They follow you.”
“After today, they will follow you above all others.”
“You flatter me, but I think that overstates the case.”
“Not at all. You’ll see.” Merlin crossed his arms. “But I will obey you, as you are my king, and I will stay here. I will, however, scry to see where she has gone.”
“As long as scrying doesn’t keep you from your bed for too long, go ahead,” Arthur nodded. He pulled his tunic off, then realized that there were women present and blushed. Two of the ladies giggled at his reaction and the third shushed them.
“They’ve seen more than a few naked chests in their day, sir,” Griflet told him. “No need to be shy in front of these girls.”
Merlin glanced at them, then back at Arthur. “Camp followers. Clean, though. I detect no disease upon them, if you would like to enjoy their company.”
Arthur understood the gentle euphemism, and it made him blush all the darker. “I - uh - my thanks, but -”
Griflet went to him and made a show of collecting his tunic while he whispered, “They’ve already been paid.” The king’s eyes widened, and the knight smiled. “Compliments of King Gurgurest.”
“Oh. Well. I…”
One of the girls, a pretty brunette with a heart-shaped face, cooed, “Don’t send us away, my lord. Please.”
Arthur wavered, then answered against his better judgment. “You may stay.”
“Thank you.” The ladies curtsied to him.
“I have no problem with your decision, but I will remind you that you will need rest, too,” Merlin said. “You slept little last night and will need to be at your full strength in the morning.”
“With all due respect,” another of the women said, her husky voice showing the faintest touch of an Armorican accent, “men are often restored by the magic that a woman can work.”
“It’s true,” Griflet agreed. “It’s completely true.”
Merlin chuckled. “Fine. Enjoy them, Arthur. You’ve earned it. I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast.”
The druid left the tent, and Griflet cas
t a bright smile to the king. “I’ll take your clothes and armor away and bring them back all sparkling clean and ready for tomorrow. Penelope, will you help me?”
The oldest of the three ladies nodded to him and rose from filling the tub, an empty bucket in her hand. “Yes. It will be my honor. With your permission, Your Majesty?”
Arthur smiled to her. “Thank you.”
Griflet grinned at him and backed out of the tent, closing the flap behind him as he went. The young king shook his head and turned to the ladies who remained, both excited and intimidated.
The brunette came and offered him her hands, and he took them in his own. She pulled him to his bare feet while her companion, a buxom blonde, stood behind him. She reached around his waist to unlace his trousers, her full breasts pressing against his back. He broke into a sweat.
“I, uh, I mean… your names?” He cleared his throat. “What are your names?”
“I am Diseta,” the brunette said, “and that is Locinna.”
“I’m Arthur,” he said.
They giggled. “We know,” Locinna told him, her voice a purr in his ear that made him shiver.
The flap of the tent opened, and he grabbed at his trousers, pulling them closed again. The two women stepped back from him as Sir Brastias entered, a stern-faced knight behind him.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Brastias said, casting a hard look at Locinna, who relinquished her hold on the king’s waist. “This is Sir Maelgwas of Lindum.”
Arthur tied his trousers closed and went to his visitor with a hand extended. “Sir Maelgwas,” he said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
The knight looked at his hand, then at the women, hesitating for a moment before he accepted the greeting. “Your Majesty. I wish to extend my thanks to you for coming to the assistance of my town.”
“Are you the lord of Lindum?”
“No. That honor falls to Bishop Dometius, who is still safely within the walls. If all goes well, you will meet him soon.”
Arthur nodded. “That’s my hope. The Saxons are not completely gone, but at least they’ve stopped firing their ballistae.”
