by J A Cummings
Maelgwas agreed, “That is a relief.” He glanced again at the two women, who were hovering near the tub. “I apologize for inconveniencing you.”
“It’s no inconvenience. I’m glad you came.” He glanced at Brastias, who stepped in to help smooth the awkward encounter.
“Come, Sir Maelgwas, and take your rest in my tent. There is an extra bed and we have plenty of food.”
The knight from Lindum nodded. “Thank you, Sir Brastias. I am pleased to accept your generosity.”
Brastias looked over his shoulder at Arthur as he led Maelgwas away, his expression unreadable. The young king stood silently, painfully aware that the reason Brastias’s tent had an extra bed was because Illtyd was no longer alive to sleep in it. He suddenly felt as if he was dancing on his friend’s grave, and all desire for the touch of the women beside him flew.
“My lord,” Diseta said, reading him well. “Would you like for us to go?”
“Yes, please. But not because I’m displeased with you. I am… the time is wrong.”
Locinna curtsied. “I understand.”
Diseta bowed before him and said, “You should know that there’s no crime in what we were going to do, and no shame in it, either. A woman’s touch can bring a man many forms of comfort.”
Arthur waited until the women left before he stripped and got into the tub. Once he was in the water, he slid beneath the surface and stayed until his lungs demanded air. He sat back up and leaned against the edge of the tub, his hands folded over his aching abdomen. His weariness and sorrow crept up on him all at once, and he found that he could only sit inside the water and stare.
In the Fey Lands, Nyneve smiled to herself as she considered her stolen child. She had convinced her father, King Manawydan, to use his powers to disconnect the passage of time in their realm from that in the material world of men. In the outside world, only a few days had passed since Merlin’s visit and his insistence on arranging a marriage between her sister and the High King of the Britons. Here, it had been ten years, and Lancelot was beginning his tutelage in the ways of manhood.
He was tall and strong for his age, she was told, although she had little notion of what to expect in a human boy. All of her other foundlings and stolen children had died in infancy or toddlerhood, so every day was an experiment to her. He was bright and funny, with a ready wit and a sharp intellect that swallowed up every lesson she or her sisters could provide him. His face was beautiful, and in time he would be a perfect specimen of a man. She was grateful that Guinevere had been consigned to the men’s world and the court of King Leodegrance. She suspected that her sister would have liked Lancelot very much and would have taken him away from her. Nyneve had lost many things to her oldest sister, and she was determined that this time, with this child, she would not let go.
Lancelot’s dark curls shone in the brilliant light of the invisible Summerland sun as he rode his conjured steed, a boy-sized charger that snorted smoke and flame and fought against the reins. The boy was a talented rider, having learned on cantankerous beasts like this, and he was not bothered by the animal’s resistance for long. With steady hands and cool control, he brought the conjured horse to heel, and he put it through its paces.
King Manawydan came to stand beside her. “You’re making him into a knight?”
“Yes. I thought, since he is a king’s son, he should be like the king’s sons in his land.” She smiled at her father. “Besides, if Guinevere is to be married to a knight and king, I want to send her one who’s a better knight than her husband ever could be.”
The king smiled. “You want to create the best knight who ever lived?”
“Yes.”
“Just so he can embarrass your sister’s husband?”
Nyneve nodded and grinned. “Yes. Isn’t it delicious?”
Manawydan chuckled. “That is something that I would like to see.”
The boy rode to where they stood. “My lady,” he said. “My lord. Good morning.”
“Good morning, King’s Son,” Manawydan greeted. “Don’t let us interrupt you. You are meant to become the greatest knight in the world. Has the Lady Nyneve told you that?”
“She has, sir,” he responded. His dark eyes flicked from one nymph’s face to the other. “I intend to do everything in my power to achieve the goal she’s set for me.”
The king approved. “See that you do, child. See that you do.” He pointed out into the paddock. “Show me how well you ride. Go fast.”
Lancelot smiled. “With pleasure, Your Majesty.”
The nymph king and his daughter watched, and then Manawydan leaned closer to Nyneve. “He’s skilled, but too polite and too gentle. He needs toughening.”
She froze, afraid of what was coming next. “Oh?”
“Give him to the wood nymphs and the centaurs. Let them train him in... everything.”
Nyneve turned to him, her eyes wide and beginning to sting with tears. “But Father, he’s just a little boy still. They’ll torture him. They’ll kill him.”
“Then he’s not meant to be the greatest knight of all, is he? The greatest knight must be inured to pain and suffering. To get that way, he must feel pain and suffering. Do as I say.” He looked back out at where the boy was practicing. “I for one will find it interesting.”
She wiped her tears. She knew that if she did not obey, then she would be the one who was handed over to their violent and lusty cousins. She nodded. “Yes, Father.”
Griflet found the king still sitting in the tub after the water had gone cold, his mind full of storms and hard thoughts. He coaxed Arthur up and out of the tub, then wrapped him in a cloth so he could dry himself while Griflet dragged the water out of the tent. Arthur slowly dried his skin, then put on his sleeping clothes, still staring.
His friend returned to him, dressed now in a sleeping robe of his own. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Do what?” Arthur asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
“You’re torturing yourself. I can see you doing the calculation in your mind. Yes, Illtyd died of his injuries, and there were men from our side who fell on the battlefield. Those lives aren’t on your head.”
“You’re wrong. I wear their blood upon my hands.”
Griflet pushed him down onto the bed. “They died because they chose to fight. Illtyd and all the others - they knew what the risks might be, and the chances that they were taking. There will never be a battle where someone doesn’t die, and it won’t always be the enemy.”
Arthur closed his eyes, but he opened them again in surprise as Griflet straddled him. He looked up in confusion. “I told you not to do this,” he whispered. “You don’t…”
The tent flap opened, and Diseta returned, a loose robe pulled around her body. She smiled at the two young men and tied the tent flap shut, then dropped the robe to the floor, revealing her tawny skin and feminine curves. Arthur could feel his jaw go lax in shock, and she smiled at the way he gaped at her. Slowly, sinuously, she walked to the bed and joined them.
She kissed Griflet deeply, and he cupped her breast in one hand as they pulled their lips apart. She smiled and turned to Arthur. “You can grieve and fuck at the same time,” she whispered. “And I really hope you will.”
She straddled Arthur’s thighs and pulled his robe off while Griflet stayed in place, his own legs on either side of Arthur’s knees, his front pressed to Diseta’s back. She looked down at the king and smiled.
“I see that you are wounded. You have fought bravely, my king. Allow me to honor you.”
“I -” he managed, but the rest of his words died in his throat.
Her hand found him, and his traitorous flesh sprang to willing life despite his struggle to be good. She clasped him tightly, stroking him from root to tip and back again, her eyes on his.
“You are allowed to feel good. People died, but you are still alive,” she whispered. “Celebrate that.”
Arthur sat up on his elbows and reached up one hand,
burying his fingers in her dark hair and pulling her forward. She went willingly into his kiss, and her lips burned against his. Desire for him, a desire that felt honest and not bought and paid for, poured out of the touch, and he stopped resisting. He kissed her with passion, his lips hard on hers, his tongue darting into her mouth to meet the flickering of her own. She shifted, and then he was encased in her wet heat. Something hot and hard slid inside with him, and he realized that both he and Griflet were inside Diseta at the same time, and the thought was so erotic he nearly burst from that alone.
“Steady on, my king,” she whispered. “No need to rush.”
“Does it not hurt?” he asked, concern making his brow pucker.
She laughed throatily. “It’s amazing.”
Her insides clenched around them, and she moaned in delight. Griflet gasped and thrust, rubbing against Arthur while he drove deeper into Diseta’s body. Arthur let his head fall back on the bed, and she followed him down, her hands supporting her weight on his shoulders. Griflet set the pace, and Diseta pushed back until all three of them were gasping.
His release came with embarrassing speed, but thankfully his partners were right behind him, overtaken by the delicious pleasure of it all. Diseta collapsed on top of Arthur, still spasming, and Griflet fell on top of her. The young king wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, still buried inside of her as his friend’s softening shaft fell free. Diseta nuzzled the corner of his jaw, and he smiled.
“Is it wrong to feel so good after a battle when so many died?” he asked.
“No.” She kissed him while Griflet rolled off to lay beside them, panting. “It’s wrong not to. You both lived to fight another day. Celebrate and be glad. Tomorrow is another battle. There may never be another chance to feel this good.”
“Did it feel good to you?” he asked.
She chuckled. “Of course it did.” She kissed him gently. “I’ve never fucked a king before.”
Griflet laughed breathily. “Neither have I…”
Arthur smiled, too weary to speak, and the three of them fell asleep in a sated jumble.
When morning came, Arthur woke before his bedmates. Diseta mumbled in her sleep and rolled away from him, pillowing her head against Griflet’s shoulder when the young king stirred. He smiled and left them to their rest. He cleaned up and dressed as quietly as possible and left the tent to see to the coming day.
Maelgwas and Brastias were sitting near their campfire when he emerged, stirring something in a hanging pot that looked pale and unappetizing. Bedivere lounged nearby, eating an apple. In front of his own tent, King Gurgurest beckoned toward Arthur and stopped him before he could join his friends.
The King of Eburacum was sitting with Merlin, sharing a roasted rabbit. “Here,” the king told Arthur. “Join us.”
Arthur sat down and accepted the meat that Gurgurest offered him. “My thanks.”
“How did you like your gift last night?” the Eburacan asked, grinning.
He blushed. “Extremely well, thank you.”
“Think nothing of it. After I saw you fighting, I needed to know if you were like Uther in all ways. I have never seen a man with more prodigious desires than your father.” He gestured with a bone. “You’re just like him.”
“Not just like him, I hope,” Arthur said as he ate. “I try to make sure my partners actually want to be with me.”
Gurgurest laughed. “In that, I suppose, you are different than Uther. But then, he was a king, and kings can take what they want.”
“So I keep hearing.” Arthur sighed. Merlin looked at him knowingly as the young king said, “And do you, King Gurgurest, take whatever you want?”
Arthur’s ’s voice was calm and even, but the Eburacan paused. He glanced at Merlin, who smiled enigmatically and left him to hang. “I... No, not in that way, my lord.”
“My lord?” Arthur echoed. “Then you’ve chosen to offer your fealty?”
“I have.” He tossed his bone into the fire. “Seeing you yesterday convinced me that not only are you a man worthy of loyalty, you are the true-born son of Pendragon. I never seen a son so like his father.”
“I accept your fealty, King Gurgurest, and I swear that I will be a loyal king.” He looked at Merlin. “What news?”
“The Saxons are still on their side of the river, and they still hold the ford. We managed to take their ballistae in the fight, so there’s that. We also counted the fallen, and they made out much worse than we did.”
“They had more numbers to begin with,” Arthur said. “I expect the proportion remains much the same.”
“There is a mismatch in numbers, yes,” Merlin nodded, “but this time it is much in our favor.”
The king looked at Gurgurest, whose face was impassive, then back to Merlin. “How can that be? We came here with so few in comparison with the Saxon forces, and surely they could not have lost so many.”
The druid smiled broadly. “We were joined in the night by the army of King Bagdemagus of Estrangore. We now have a force of over two thousand to their seven hundred.” He rose. “Come with me and I will introduce you to the worthy gentleman. Oh, and before I forget, Constantine, Ban and Bors will be delayed, as they were attacked in Armorica by the Frankish king.”
Arthur nodded and rose, wiping his hands. “I understand. They must keep their people safe. Which Frankish king? Claudas?”
“Yes. And Clovis has forced the seagoing Visigoths away from Gaul’s shores. I would not be surprised if they found their way to Britannia.”
“One problem at a time, please,” he said. Gurgurest chuckled. “What’s funny?”
“I’m glad you’re the one who’s High King and not me.” He stood as well. “I only have Eburacum to concern myself with… although I am always at your disposal, my lord.”
“I appreciate the sacrifice,” Arthur said. To Merlin, he said, “Please take me to the king.”
Merlin led him through the camp to another royal pavilion. A grey-haired man stood just inside the flap, standing with arms akimbo while a squire strapped his armor into place. He looked formidable and regal, a man born to power and position. Arthur looked down at his own attire, the rumpled tunic and trousers, and he felt ashamed.
The druid approached first. “King Bagdemagus,” he said. The man nodded. “I have brought the High King.”
The king lowered his arms and dismissed his squire with a nod. He looked at Arthur, then past him. “Where is he?”
“I am he.”
Arthur could have predicted the look of poorly-concealed shock on the king’s face, as well as the way Bagdemagus scrambled to hide it. The King of Estrangore knelt on one knee before him and bowed his head. “Forgive me, my lord.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he reassured him. “I’m the first to admit that I look less than kingly.”
“Nevertheless…” Bagdemagus cleared his throat. “I swear my loyalty and all I have to your service, High King.”
“I accept your loyalty and offer my own,” Arthur said. “King Bagdemagus, friend, rise.”
He stood and looked into the young High King’s face. “Forgive me for asking this, Your Majesty, but how old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
He repeated it incredulously. “Sixteen.” He looked at Merlin, who said nothing. Bagdemagus took a deep breath and turned back to Arthur. “Your Majesty, I bring you knights, foot soldiers, archers and my surgeon. I also brought our washerwomen and cooks.”
He smiled broadly. “My thanks, good King Bagdemagus. You are all most welcome.”
“Merlin and your Sir Brastias have explained the situation to me. We are prepared to take the ford for you and for Britannia.”
“I have plans to share with you and with King Gurgurest. Please come to my…” He stopped and looked in sudden anxiety at Merlin, who laughed quietly and vanished into a wavering cloud of magic. Arthur cleared his throat. “Please come to my tent and I can explain what I have in mind.”
; As he walked, he hoped that Merlin could get Griflet and Diseta clothed and out of the tent by the time they arrived. He was relieved to find the tent more or less empty when they entered it, and the air smelled like evergreens instead of sweat and sex. The map table was surrounded by four camp chairs where there had been only two. He didn’t know where the chairs had come from, and he chose not to ask.
Merlin came in behind them, leading King Gurgurest.
“King Bagdemagus,” the King of Eburacum said, offering his hand in friendship. The grey-haired king accepted it in kind.
“King Gurgurest.”
“I had not thought to see you here, with Rheged on the march.”
Bagdemagus glanced at Arthur. “I was needed here more urgently. Rheged has asked for safe passage through my lands. Their quarrel is not with Estrangore.”
“No,” Arthur agreed. “King Uriens’ quarrel is with me.”
“Then I shall see Rheged soon enough,” Bagdemagus said solemnly.
The High King went to his chair, and the others waited decorously for him to sit before they took their own seats. Once they were all comfortable, they began to discuss the fight to come.
Colgren paced on the northeast side of the river, watching the Britons’ camp on the other side. Their numbers had grown overnight, so much so that he was loath to order his men to try to retake the field around Lindum. His only hope was that the Britons would try to force the crossing at the ford, and then his men could cut them down in the bottleneck until numbers were on their side again.
He had sent a runner to King Lot in Din Eidyn, asking him to come to his assistance. If the Saxons were going to support Lot as High King, then Lot had to start pulling his weight now. Once Lot and his Pictish and Scottish army arrived, then they would storm the Britons’ camp and take their so-called High King hostage. He scowled as he considered what he would do to the Britons’ boy king when he got hold of him.
To add to his troubles, Ganile had gone missing in the fray at Lindum’s walls. He had no idea where she had gone, and he went back and forth between certainty that she was off collecting some new treasure to aid them and the concern that she might have abandoned them altogether. He did not trust her.
