by J A Cummings
“Do you think old Manawydan knows that your king is unnatural?”
“Define unnatural.”
“A boy fucker.”
Merlin chuckled. What passed for grace and elegance was different in the Unseelie Court. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. It’s not as if Manawydan himself hasn’t got boy fuckers aplenty in his own court.”
“Do you think he’d hold to the agreement if he knew?” she asked.
He shrugged eloquently. “There’s no formal agreement in place. It all depends upon what his daughter decides when she meets him.”
“Do you think his daughter will want a boy who’s been plowed by you?”
He was not expecting that. He had only gone to Arthur twice, and both times, he had been certain there were no witnesses. He was displeased to think that he might have been observed after all. Then again, Nimue might have been guessing in an attempt to gauge his reaction. He decided that he would give her none. Keeping his face calm, he replied, “I don’t know what the lady will decide, or what she finds good or bad in a mate. I wouldn’t presume to speak for her.”
“Perhaps I should speak to her for you,” Nimue said, smiling. “Perhaps I should tell your High King that he spread his ass cheeks for you and not for the dead lover he thought was in his bed.”
Ah, he thought. So there were witnesses.
She could see from the flicker on his face that she had scored a hit, and he knew that he had revealed himself. He cursed silently, and she pressed on. “How much do you think your little king will follow you once he knows how much you’ve lied, and how intimately? Do you think he’d let you guide him toward your mother’s purposes if he knew?” She smiled sweetly. “And when her plans fall through because of it, what do you think that bitch will do?”
Anger flashed through him. She had crossed a line. “Do not try to threaten me, faery,” he growled, “and never speak of my mother that way again. I have killed more of your kind than you have ever seen, and I will be happy to kill more before I’m through.”
“I see,” she said, smirking. “So you think Mummy will be upset, then? And that your kinglet will resist your attempts to manipulate him?” She held up a silvery orb, and in it, he could see the image of himself lying with Arthur in the little hut on Ynys Môn. “Lies always come home to roost, demon. What will you give me to keep this lie from seeing the light of day?”
He looked away from the images shining in the orb, trying to avoid the pain of the memory. He set his jaw. “I will give you nothing.”
“What about Mummy? What do you think she will give me?”
“She will take your soul and spit it out onto the floor,” he growled. “She will reduce this entire realm to nothing more than soup.” He clenched his fists at his sides. “And so will I.”
Nimue dismissed the orb, and it flew into a leather pouch held by the male at her side. “No. I think you will come to terms with me, or your king will learn all about you.”
“He doesn’t have magic. He’d never be able to see that thing, and he’d never believe you anyway.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” She shook her head. “Surely you know about his grandfather.”
He’d had his suspicions, but he had kept them to himself. “I know,” he lied. “It is of no consequence.”
“Really? I think it matters a great deal.” She crossed her legs. “But, never mind. You don’t want to bargain, and I know your mother will be deeply understanding and gentle when she learns that you spoiled all of her grand plans, the plans she’s worked on for all these centuries, because you couldn’t keep your cock to yourself.”
His mother would be furious. She would punish him worse than he had ever been punished before. Vivienne was the most powerful magician he had ever known, and she could destroy him, or make him wish she had. He clenched his fists.
“What are your terms?” He felt sick. “Only for the sake of discussion.”
“A child.”
He scoffed, “That’s ridiculous.”
“Hear me out, demon. I want a child of your blood and the blood of a chosen human female. You will give this child to me, and you will ask no further questions. Then I will see to it that certain secrets remain hidden.”
Merlin could feel his forehead burning. “I refuse. The price is too high.”
“I thought there was no price too high to attain what your mother wanted. Don’t you love your mother?” she mocked.
“I will give you no child, not of my blood or anyone else’s. Do you truly think me that foolish?” He turned. “This parley is over. You’re wasting my time.”
“But your secret…”
He turned and slashed a sigil in the air with his index finger. The movement became light, which in turn became a solid bolt of fire that rushed with blinding speed toward the fey creature holding the bag with its incriminating orb. With a scream, the fey male burst into flame, utterly immolated along with the leather pouch. Merlin held out his hand, and the orb, still intact because it was magical, flew into his palm. He clenched his fist around it and uttered a word in the foul language of the Pit. The orb shattered, and he shook the dust away. Nimue stared at him with her mouth agape. He pointed his finger at her, and the tip flared with another fiery bolt. “Never test me!”
He did not wait for a reply. Gathering as much energy as he could from the room and its inhabitants, he traveled magically back through the faery circles to his portal. When he was standing once more in his room in Eburacum, he dismissed the spell and sealed the opening to the Unseelie lands.
Fury made his hands shake. He would find out who had betrayed him.
Gawain tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable position in his bed. The room he had been given was nicely appointed, and the breeze through the window kept the summer’s heat from being too oppressive, but tonight he was in misery and could not say why.
In the dim light, he could see Owain’s form, a motionless lump on the other bed. His cousin was having none of his sleeping difficulties, and he envied him. He wished he could be as untroubled, or that his conscience was as clear.
He had always been close with his father. They had joked and sailed together, and he had learned a great deal at Lot’s side. It pained Gawain more than he could say to think that tomorrow, he would be joining an army that marched against him. He was a traitor to his father, to his country, and to his family. He would never see his brothers again, and if he met up with Lot on the battlefield, he was certain that his father would not hesitate to take his head. He had committed a form of suicide, and the pain was deep.
Disgusted with himself and with the night, he rose and dressed, leaving the room. The palace was quiet, and even the night watchman who roamed the colonnade was nearly silent. The great hall was deserted, which seemed strange to him, as accustomed as he was to the ways of his raucous northern folk and the propensity for his father’s courtiers to drink and carouse themselves into heaps. The great hall in Din Eidyn was never empty. There were always at least two drunken men propped up against the walls every night. He supposed that these southern folk were more cultured in their ways.
He went to the stable to see Gringolet, something he did whenever his heart was heavy. His horse was sleeping, but when Gawain came into his stall, he stood and shuffled closer. The animal huffed in his hair, and he stroked Gringolet’s strong neck, leaning against the reassuring heat and firmness of his mount.
“It’s a good horse.”
Gawain whirled to face the voice, his belt knife in his hand and ready to be put to use. Sir Ulfius stood there at the stall door, a smile on his face.
“Sorry, Your Highness. Did I frighten you?”
“I’m startled, not afraid. There’s a difference.” He put the knife away. “Do you always sneak up on people?”
“Not always.” He stepped in and closed the stall door behind himself. “Where did you get this fine beast?”
“He came from Gaul. He was one of four war horses that w
ere shipped to my father as payment for something or other - probably an appeasement to prevent him from attacking.” He rubbed his hand over Gringolet’s withers. “He’s been mine since he was first trained to the saddle.”
Ulfius came to stand beside Gawain, stinking of ale, and he bent to inspect the animal’s legs. He ran his hands over the front legs, then the back, and nodded to himself. “He’s a solid horse,” he said. “Is he trained in warfare?”
Gawain was insulted. “Of course.”
“And are you going to ride him into the battle with us?”
He fixed the knight with a disdainful look. “Well, I’m not going to walk.”
Ulfius laughed. “You have a smart mouth. I like that.”
He was standing too close. Gawain took a step away from him. “I intend to ask the High King to knight me before the battle begins.”
“You’d have to fight your father. Are you ready for that?”
He frowned. “That’s a decision that I made when I left Din Eidyn. Yes, I’m ready for it. Are you ready to face him? He’s formidable, and so are our men.”
“Our? Or their? Careful with your allegiances, Prince Gawain. I’d hate for you to switch sides in the middle of the fight.”
He walked around Gringolet, putting the horse between himself and the drunken knight. “I won’t. I am steady.”
“We’ll see.” Ulfius considered him. “You remind me of a hawk. You have a hawk’s sort of eyes, that sort of look.”
“If that’s meant as a compliment, I thank you for it.”
“It was. Hawks are birds of prey. Warriors. Have you ever seen a hawk?”
Gawain clicked his tongue in irritation. “I have a hawk at Din Eidyn. I’ve gone falconing many times in my life.”
“Do you know how to train a hawk?”
He was quickly losing patience. “Yes, I know how to train a hawk.”
Ulfius came around Gringolet and walked slowly toward Gawain, trying to back him into a corner. The prince scooted around him and stood by the door. Ulfius said, “Then you know that to properly train a hawk, you have to isolate him, starve him until he eats from your hand. You know that you have to break his will to make him better.”
“That’s one way,” he said evenly. “But it isn’t the best way. And if you’re thinking for one minute that you’re going to be the trainer to my hawk, you are very much mistaken.”
Ulfius chuckled. “Come on, boy. Pretty eyes, pretty mouth… don’t tell me you’ve never been on your knees to a man before.”
Gawain lifted his chin. “I kneel to no one, especially not for that. If you want a whore, you can probably find one in town. You’re looking in the wrong place.”
“I’ll teach you, little hawk.”
“Try it and I’ll spread your entrails from here to Uppsala.”
Ulfius chuckled. “It’ll be so much nicer if you cooperate.”
Gawain pulled his knife again and opened the stall door. “Get out.”
The Norse-born knight grabbed his penis through his trousers and shook it at Gawain. “Don’t you even want a taste?”
“Take that out and I’ll cut it off.”
“Words, words, words,” Ulfius laughed. He began to unlace his clothing. “Come here, little hawk. Eat from my hand.”
Gawain lowered his knife hand with a sigh and pressed his back to the wall. He shifted his stance and said in a low, almost seductive tone, “You come here to me.”
The knight smiled broadly and advanced, taking his eager member out into the light. He stepped around Gringolet, who snorted and swiveled his ears toward Gawain. The prince stood still and watched as Ulfius approached. Beside his hip, he tilted the blade up, but he kept his arm down.
Ulfius reached out a hand and touched Gawain’s face. “Pretty little mouth.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “And you will never feel it. Skyv ham!”
At the command, Gringolet shoved Ulfius in the back with his massive head. The knight stumbled forward as Gawain brought his knife up, the point driving into the man’s gut just below the umbilicus. Ulfius roared in pain, gripping Gawain’s throat. He squeezed, and the prince twisted his knife and ripped upward. Hot blood and other more noisome substances spilled over his hand, and he pushed in farther. The knight’s grip on his throat spasmed, then he dropped like a stone, moaning, trying without success to hold his intestines in.
Gawain bent over him, the knife now at his throat. “Congratulations,” he told him. “You have the distinction of being my first kill.” Ulfius groaned, and Gawain plunged the knife into his heart, delivering the coup de grace. His would-be rapist fell into silence.
With shaking hands, he wiped his blade clean on the dead man’s tunic. His own clothing was soaked in gore and worse, and the stench was unbearable. Gringolet snorted in distress at the dead thing at his feet, and Gawain took him by the bridle, leading him to a clean stall. He put a bucket of water into the stall and filled the food trough, working as calmly as if nothing at all had happened, but his head was swimming. He offered his horse some grain, but his hands were covered in blood and Gringolet shied away. He understood. Gawain looked down at himself, then at the mess in the other stall, and he went back into the palace, leaving bloody footprints along his path.
Arthur had barely gotten to sleep when Merlin appeared in the room and shook him awake. He groaned and tried to sit up, but he was entangled with Griflet, who was still soundly sleeping.
“Come quickly,” the druid said. His voice startled Griflet awake, and he moved enough to let Arthur rise.
“What is it?”
“Ulfius is dead.”
He hesitated for a moment in shock, then gathered up his clothing. Merlin watched him as he dressed. “What happened?” the king demanded.
“Gawain killed him.”
This time, he froze completely. “What?”
“You heard me. Quickly. Come on.”
Arthur finished struggling into his clothes and went with Merlin into the corridor. He saw a smear of blood on the door to Gawain’s room, and his heart skipped a beat. He went into the room, where Sir Ector was standing with arms crossed. Owain was leaning against the wall in the corner, looking nervous, and Gawain, still clad in clothes soaked with blood and filth, sat on the bed. Arthur looked around the room in disbelief.
“Someone tell me what happened here.”
Gawain looked up at him, and he looked distracted. “Sir Ulfius attacked me, and I defended myself. He is dead.”
Arthur remembered a certain night at Caer Gai, and his blood ran cold. He glanced at Merlin and could tell that the druid was thinking the same thing. “He attacked you how?”
The prince did not hesitate. “He made sexual advances, sir.”
Brastias cursed under his breath. “He was in the stable when we found him, gutted like a damned fish. The blood trail leads right up into the palace and halfway down the corridor, then there’s that stain on the door…”
“I am not pretending that I’m not guilty,” Gawain said calmly. “I admit it.”
Ector shook his head, distressed. “Ulfius was a lot of things, but I can’t believe he’d try to force himself on a boy.”
“Believe it,” Arthur said softly.
Ector and Brastias both turned to look at him so quickly that their necks nearly snapped. Brastias said, “What?”
“I said believe it. He attacked me the night Kay was knighted.”
Ector went pale, and Brastias’s face turned an almost painful shade of red. “Arthur…” his father said, horrified.
Arthur held up a hand. “He tried and failed,” he reassured them. “Merlin came to my rescue.”
“You didn’t really need my help,” the druid said softly. “You had the situation well in hand by the time I arrived.” He met Arthur’s gaze, and his eyes twinkled at his own pun.
“I can’t believe it,” Brastias said. He held up a hand. “Not calling you a liar, my lord. It’s just… shocking.”
Gawain s
tood up before the king. “I am prepared to accept any punishment you feel is appropriate, sire.”
Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. “There is no punishment. You defended yourself from harm. That is certainly justified.” He turned to Brastias. “Give Ulfius to the druids for funeral rites.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He bowed and left, his brow furrowed in confusion and dismay.
The young king turned to Gawain. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Your Majesty.”
He didn’t look fine, but he wasn’t going to press him on the matter. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”
This time when Gawain looked up, he was sharply focused. “Make me a knight.”
Ector let out an exasperated sound. “We don’t have time for this.”
“We do,” Arthur said. “Do you wish to fight in the coming battle, even though you will be fighting against your own father?”
“I do. I want to fight for what’s right.” He went down on one knee. “I beseech you, King Arthur. Make me your knight. I will never betray you and I will never leave you.”
He looked into his nephew’s face and read what he saw there. He saw determination and bravery, as well as a modicum of uncertainty, which he could well understand. He saw shakiness that Gawain was trying to conceal. Most of all, he saw an intelligent gaze, and a strong and noble soul behind that look. He saw someone that he believed was worthy of a risk.
“Bring me my sword,” he told Merlin.
Ector argued, “You can’t -”
“I can, and I will.”
His foster father closed his mouth on further argument. It was the first time Arthur had overridden Ector’s wishes, and in that moment, their relationship turned a corner. The king was no longer the orphan boy at Ector’s table, and Ector was no longer the protector of a hidden royal child. The son had become a man, and the man had become a king. The knight bowed to him, acquiescing with grace, a tinge of sorrow in his eyes.
Merlin returned with Arthur’s sword, and he delivered the vow and the accolade. “I name you Sir Gawain of Lothian and Orkney. Rise, nephew.”
Sir Gawain stood. “You will not regret your trust in me.”
