by J A Cummings
“Careful,” she warned. “Speaking a demon’s name…”
“I know, but I’ve defeated him before. I can do it again.”
“Assuming he hasn’t increased in power.”
He smirked. “He won’t be very happy with her when he comes to collect her soul. It’s incomplete.”
His mother laughed. “You scamp! Did you take a portion of her for your own?”
“I did.”
“You have had a prodigious appetite of late,” she observed.
He nodded and admitted, “I’m never satisfied.”
“Careful not to be too greedy. There are those who might seek to interfere.”
Merlin frowned. “Who?”
“There are holy warriors about, and one will be coming into your circle in two decades or so. Be cautious.”
“I don’t care for holy warriors, but I can look after myself.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I will see you soon.”
He left her to her present. He could hear the seals on the scroll cases snapping open as he disappeared.
King Lot lounged on his throne, one leg hooked over the arm. Before him stood Huail, the chieftain of the Picts, nearly giddy with excitement. Beside Lot, Gawain sat in his mother’s throne, watching the proceedings of the court for the day and adding to his education as crown prince. Lot smirked at the studious look on his son’s face.
“King Prydain sends word that Arthur Pendragon is at Eburacum, and that he is injured. A servant in the castle said he has a wound in his gut that isn’t healing, so we can go in and take him from his bed. You can take that sword that was in the stone and behead him with it.” Huail stepped closer. “And in return, you let me take Gododdin.”
Lot interlaced his fingers over his trim abdomen. He was no longer the young man he’d been when he took his throne, but he was still in his prime and wore his strength like a halo. “I was in agreement with you until that last point. Gododdin is mine.”
“Not yet.”
“It will be.” He looked at Gawain. “What do you know of Prydain?”
“He’s the king of Hen Ogledd, in Cumbria. His only legitimate son, Gildas, left his court to become a Christian monk.” The youth looked hard at Huail. “I also know that our Pictish visitor is his bastard.”
Lot nodded in satisfaction. “And what is the name of his stronghold?”
“Alt Clut.”
“Very good.” He looked at Huail. “So, you bring word from your father. Is he asking me to make common cause with him? To march south to Eburacum and take this boy?”
“He is.”
“Good, because that’s exactly what I intend to do.” He scratched his beard. “King Uriens of Rheged will meet with us in Elmet, where we’ll be joined by Carados. The four of us -”
“Five, counting Prydain and me. My people march, too.”
Gawain nodded. “That will be an overwhelming force. Eburacum has no hope of standing against such numbers.”
Huail grinned. “To Elmet, then on to glory!”
Lot nodded. “You and Prydain meet us there. We will advance on the High King once everyone is assembled.”
Huail turned and hurried away, bloody-minded and intent upon the war to come. The King of Lothian shook his head in amusement.
Beside him, Gawain said softly, “If Arthur Pendragon was truly crowned the High King, isn’t marching against him the same as treason?”
“Only if we accept him as High King, which we do not.” Lot frowned. “Don’t tell me that you have sympathies for him.”
His son looked straight ahead, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t. I only want to do what’s right and honorable.”
Lot snorted. “Strange concept, that. Honor. It’s nothing but self-imposed shackles. Do what you want, my boy, and take what you’re strong enough to take. Doing anything else is to limit yourself needlessly. You are a king’s son, and will be a king. You have the gods-given right to do anything you damn well please, and nobody can say a word about it. Be a strong king, and nobody would even dare to try.”
Gawain nodded. Lot could see a pensive look in the boy’s bright blue eyes. “I will think on this, Father.”
“Do.” He stood. “In the meantime, fetch your sword. It’s time to spar.”
The boy stood, then asked, “Was there really a coronation ceremony for Arthur Pendragon?”
“Yes, apparently.” Lot began to stroll toward the family’s private rooms, heading for his own practice equipment. “Don’t forget to put on your leathers.”
“If there was a coronation, then doesn’t that mean he’s the High King, whether we like it or not?” Gawain asked, his tone cautious and his words coming slowly, as if he was selecting them carefully.
His father scowled. “What is this about?”
He faced his father squarely, unafraid. “You always said that not liking a thing isn’t enough to make it untrue.”
“I was talking about my rules for you and the way things are here with your mother being gone. I wasn’t talking about politics, or matters of rule,” Lot said impatiently. “Are you questioning me?”
“I just want to understand.”
The king crossed to his heir and grabbed him by the throat. “Understand this - I will not bow down to any child of Uther Pendragon’s, bastard, legitimate or donkey. The throne is vacant. It’s mine to take, and by all the gods, I will take it! You can either come along with me, or you can be left dead in a ditch. You have brothers. I don’t need you.”
Gawain looked into his father’s eyes coldly, steady as a stone. “I understand you, Father.”
“You’d better.”
He released the boy and stalked away.
It was after midnight, and almost everyone in Din Eidyn was asleep. Gawain counted on the king’s drink to keep him and his soldiers down for at least an hour or two, long enough for him to get away.
He didn’t know when he had decided that his father was wrong. Perhaps it had been when he’d seen Arthur Pendragon pull the sword from the stone, or when Lot let his mother and aunt disappear into the Orkneys to hide and work on their sorcery in the old broch. Perhaps it had been this very day when Lot had told him that he could be replaced. He only knew that he could not stand by and allow treason to occur without doing something to stop it.
The worst thing about his sudden bout of conscience was the knowledge that Gawain was directly responsible for Lot’s biggest act of treason. Because of Gawain, his father had sent diplomatic envoys to the Danes, inviting them to come and fight against Arthur in return for rich farmland in the area of Britannia called the Fens. What the Danes didn’t know, and what Gawain knew full well when he had hatched the deceitful plan, was that there was only marshland in the Fens. It would be back-breaking work to draw any crops out of that overly-wet soil, and offering that land to the Danes in return for their warriors was no gift.
It was too late to apologize to the Danes, but where Arthur was concerned, he still had a chance to make things right.
He stole into the stable and went to where his warhorse, Gringolet, was standing. The horse was extraordinary to look upon, white as a pearl except for his muzzle, ears and tail, which were dark gray. To Gawain, he was the most beautiful horse that had ever lived. Gringolet whickered to him as he approached.
“We have a long ride ahead, my friend,” Gawain told him. “I hope you’re ready for this.”
He put the war saddle onto Gringolet’s back, the caparison made of blue felt and bearing the silver five-pointed star that was Gawain’s symbol. His shield bore the same emblem. His father had awarded him this heraldry upon his fifteenth birthday, and he thought it suited him. The druids said that the five-pointed star was the balance of the soul with the four elements, and he would need that balance to achieve what he meant to do.
Gringolet stirred with excitement as Gawain added hanging straps on both sides of the saddle and slipped spears into each one. His mail clinked and ground softly as he worked, and he liked the sound. It made hi
m feel alive, like life itself waited just outside the stable door.
Gawain had clad himself in his mail shirt, donning his leather armor and his sword belt over the top. His boots were the sturdiest that he owned, and he had his shield, helmet and gauntlets at the ready. He had packed a bag with a change of clothes and his most beloved possession, a comb made of whale bone that his mother had given him. He also had a silver Thor’s hammer and a silver cross hanging around his neck, because he never knew which god he’d need out on the road. He had several days’ worth of trail rations in a burlap bag. A dagger in his belt and a bow and quiver on his back completed his assembly of belongings. He had to take everything he wanted to have. His father would never let him come back after this.
He led Gringolet out of his stall and to the stable yard, where he swung up into the saddle. The horse snorted once, then leaped into the darkness, racing down the south road to Eboracum.
In the camp of the Rheged army, King Uriens was snoring loudly, lying on his back and damp with sweat and ale. A pair of drunken camp followers lay beside him, their nude bodies glistening in the light from the brazier.
To Owain, it was a nauseating scene. He had been on his bed in the corner of the king’s pavilion during the entire debauched episode, and he was annoyed. He had already been forced by his father to be part of this ill-advised march against the High King, but being subjected to the spectacle of Uriens with his strumpets was more than he could bear.
When he was certain his father would never notice and the women wouldn’t care, he rose from his bed and dressed. He gathered his mail shirt and the steel bracers he had been given before the march, along with the sword he used in practice, and he crept out of the tent. A pair of soldiers looked at him, one with derision and the other with something very like pity. Owain wanted to punch them both. Instead, he simply walked toward where the horses were being kept.
One of the grooms was awake and guarding the horses against wolves when Owain arrived. The man looked at the young prince blankly for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite work out why the boy was there, and finally his ugly face blossomed into a friendly smile.
“Yer Highness,” he said. “Can’t sleep?”
“No.”
The groom winked. “Too loud in the old man’s tent?”
Owain smiled back in spite of himself. “You might say that.” He pulled his armor on over his clothes and put on the bracers. The groom assisted him with the straps. “Would you saddle my father’s horse?”
“It’s a little late for a ride, Yer Highness.”
“I can’t sleep,” he defended weakly. The groom studied him for a moment, and Owain decided that although the man was anything but comely, he had kindness in his eyes. He relaxed marginally.
“I can saddle the horse, young master, but I can’t let you ride out alone. There’s dangers in the wood.”
“I can handle myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” the man nodded, no trace of mockery or condescension in his voice. “I just wouldn’t like to see you hurt. Loyalty to the crown and all.”
Owain snorted. “Loyalty to which crown? Seems that loyalty doesn’t count for much these days.”
He bit his tongue, aware that he had just said too much, but the groom nodded. “Aye. Seems a shame to be rebelling against the young High King, don’t it?”
“It’s wrong, and someone needs to tell him that this army is on its way. He can’t be caught unawares.”
The groom nodded. “And all those innocent people in the town what’ll be caught in between… they should know, too, I reckon.”
“Yes!” He took a breath. “What is your name, good man?”
“I’m called Faelan, my lord.”
“Irish?”
“Aye. Born in Hibernia, but came to Britannia as a boy.” He smiled. “The king’s horse, eh? Let’s see about it.”
Owain stood back as Faelan prepared his father’s war steed, a spirited bay-coated animal that despised most humans, including Uriens. The horse nipped at Faelan, who turned his back toward the animal’s head as he saddled him. Owain caught the horse’s bridle and held him steady, looking into the creature’s eyes. When the boy touched him, the horse calmed, and by the time Faelan was finished with the saddle and the crupper, it was as docile as a lamb.
“Most impressed, sir,” Faelan said. “I’ve heard you’ve the druid’s touch with animals.”
The prince was surprised. “People talk about me?”
“You’re the heir to the throne, sir. Of course people do.” He leaned closer. “You’re also the only one of your family that anyone can stand.” Owain laughed behind his hand. Faelan crouched with interlaced fingers. “Here’s your step up, my lord. He’s a tall horse, and you’ve still got some growing to do.”
Owain accepted the boost and landed in the saddle, feeling very small upon the mighty creature’s back. The horse accepted him without so much as a side step. Faelan ran his hand down the animal’s withers.
“He’s a good horse. He’ll carry you well.”
“Thank you, Faelan. I’ll not forget you.”
“No, you won’t, because I won’t give you the chance.” He grinned up at Owain. “I’m coming with you.”
He wanted to protest, but in truth, he was not eager to brave the forest by himself. He nodded. “Thank you.”
Faelan smiled and helped himself to the horse and tack of Sir Colgrevance, Uriens’ bastard nephew and Owain’s cousin. He mounted like an experienced rider, fluid as water in motion, and he nodded to the prince.
“Lead on, sir,” Faelan said. “Are we riding to Eboracum?”
“Yes… but I don’t know the way,” Owain admitted.
The groom smiled, and the grace behind the expression ennobled his lumpy features. “I know the road, sir. I’ll get ye there in safety.”
As quietly as they could, the two of them rode away, unchallenged by the foot soldiers they passed as they left the camp.
The morning sun shone gloriously through the windows of the throne room, illuminating the mosaic tiles and casting a golden glow over everything. To Arthur, Eburacum sparkled, and he was still dazzled by its splendor.
He was seated on the throne atop a short dais, with Gurgurest on one side and an empty seat on the other. He was nervous, his palms slick with sweat, as he considered what was about to take place. Gurgurest had reserved some of his criminal proceedings and sticky petitions for the High King to adjudicate, deferring to his new overlord. Arthur wished he had given him something easier for his first time sitting in judgment, but it was as it was, and he could only pray that he did nothing wrong today.
The double doors facing him were closed and under guard by two soldiers in brightly-polished armor who stood nearby. They were armed with ceremonial swords and with pila that were very much in earnest. In just a few moments, they would open those doors and admit the gallery, which, judging from the extra seating that Gurgurest had ordered to be assembled, would be sizeable.
Sir Ector already sat with them, positioned in a seat near Arthur but to the side and off the dais. He gave his foster son an encouraging smile as the babble of voices outside the throne room rose.
Arthur was without a crown. Merlin had taken his crown somewhere else, and he had no idea where. Gurgurest was crowned, and his queen, who sat in a seat opposite Sir Ector, was crowned, as well. The king and queen of Eburacum were arrayed in jewels and velvet, and they looked as regal as it was possible for two mortal beings to look. Arthur had no jewels and he wore an ill-fitting robe borrowed from Gurgurest, too short in length and tight through the shoulders. He looked like a poor country fool and felt like an impostor.
Sir Brastias entered through the side door linking the throne room to the royal apartments, a bright smile on his face. “Your Majesties, look who I found.”
Merlin strode in behind him, his armor gone, replaced by formal white druid robes painstakingly embroidered with oak leaves in shades of gold and red. He held a staff fes
tooned with mistletoe. “I found you,” he corrected amiably. He came before the throne and bowed deeply before Arthur. “Your Majesty.”
“Merlin, it’s good to see you.”
The druid stopped and considered his king’s appearance, then glanced at King Gurgurest. His expression was peevish. “This won’t do at all,” he said. “King Arthur, will you indulge me?”
He didn’t know how that indulgence would take shape, but he trusted Merlin completely. “Of course.”
He stepped back and held his hands together, then separated them slowly. A yellow glow appeared between his palms, and as he raised one hand and lowered the other, the High King’s crown appeared in mid-air, floating like a mirage. Queen Severina clapped her hands in delight at the trick. When the crown had fully materialized, Merlin took it in his hands and climbed the dais to place it upon Arthur’s head. The garnets, gold and pearls gleamed in the morning sunlight, and the crown’s beauty and power shone.
It was as heavy as he remembered, but then, gold weighed a great deal more than other precious metals. He smiled at Merlin as his friend and advisor stepped back from him to survey his handiwork.
“Much better,” he said to Arthur, brushing a stray hair from the young king’s brow, his own blue eyes glittering. “Now about those clothes.”
He snapped his fingers, and the borrowed robes were gone, replaced by a sumptuous tunic of blue velvet with ermine fur at the cuffs and hem. His trousers were black suede, and his boots were highly polished black leather. Pinned to his shoulders was a scarlet cape, also rimmed with ermine, and a golden torc settled around his neck. His sword was at his side in an exquisitely tooled scabbard bedecked with jewels, and on his finger, instead of the Dux Bellorum ring that Constantine had supplied, he wore a ring shaped like two dragons holding a sapphire between them. Merlin stepped back and appraised him, his gaze sweeping Arthur from top to toe and back again.
“There. Now you look like a High King should.”
“My thanks,” Arthur said, deeply impressed by the magic and pleased with the way he looked. He indulged in a moment of vanity before he squelched the feeling with a twinge of guilt.
