by J A Cummings
“I know.”
They clasped arms, their gazes locked. Arthur felt in his bones that he had just placed the cornerstone for something new and wonderful.
Not everyone was as thrilled as Arthur with his new knight. When Ulfius had been delivered to the druids for a proper pagan funeral, Brastias came to the great hall where the High King and King Gurgurest were discussing the murder. He walked to his monarch and said, “Permission to speak with you privately, sir?”
“Of course.” Arthur excused himself from his royal companion and took Brastias into a side chamber. The knight closed the door behind them and turned to face him once more.
“May I speak frankly, sir?”
Arthur had a sense for what was coming. He nodded and said, “I wish you would.”
“I do not approve of your propensity for making knights with so little preparation or forethought. These boys - Griflet and Gawain - they may be important to you for whatever personal reason, but they are not ready to be knights. They are unproven and too young for the task. Knighthood is a heavy burden when it’s carried correctly, and these striplings have no idea what’s ahead of them.”
“I believe that they’re ready, and creating new knights is my prerogative.” He gestured for Brastias to sit in one of the chairs in the room while he occupied another. “Do you have the same low opinion of my abilities to be a knight? I was given that honor ahead of the usual time, as well. Or is it not really the age of these two that troubles you?”
Brastias leaned forward with his hands on his knees and sighed. “Your Majesty -”
“Arthur. We’re in private. Speak frankly.”
“You were knighted young because no squire can be crowned king. It was a necessity in your case.”
He studied the agitation in his friend’s dark eyes. “But you don’t believe, all other things being equal, that I am ready for the task?”
Brastias looked away. “This isn’t about you or your abilities. I know you’re extraordinary. No one can be on the battlefield with you when you’re in your full rage and not see that you’re different.”
“Then what is it?”
“Ulfius was my friend.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“And you knighted a boy you barely know, one whose claim to fame is treason against his own father. You knighted that boy for killing my friend.” The words were said harshly, and Brastias himself recoiled from his own tone. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord. I shouldn’t have -”
“It’s all right. If you can’t tell me what you really think, then you’re of no help to me as an advisor,” he said softly. “And you’re my friend, too, which means that you should be able to tell me anything. Gawain was not knighted for killing Ulfius. It wasn’t a reward.”
The knight sat back, his body language filled with defeat. “Then why?”
“I need knights who are loyal to me, and we will need as many knights as we can get in the coming days. But it’s more than that. He showed his honor and his courage in what he’s done. It was hard for him to turn on Lot and bring us warning. And with Ulfius, it took strength and bravery to stand up against a larger and more experienced man who meant him the most personal of harm.”
“There is no honor in murder and betrayal.”
“Not if you’re the one being murdered or betrayed, no. But I respect him for it nonetheless.”
“I don’t understand that.” He put his face in his hand. When he spoke again, his voice was muffled and heavy with grief. “Did Ulfius really attack you?”
He could see that Brastias did not want to believe such things of his old comrade. “He did. He was drunk and angry when he came after me, and from what I’ve heard, he was drunk when he came after Gawain. I can’t have a man in my inner circle who turns into a monster when he drinks.”
Brastias shook his head. “I just… I still can’t believe it. And I’m not calling you a liar. I…”
“None of us want to believe the worst of our friends.” He paused and selected his words carefully. “But you were with him on campaign with Uther. Surely he was no innocent then.”
He sighed. “No. He wasn’t. But in my experience, he was never a rapist. He was a powerful fighter...we’re going to miss him in the battle to come.”
“Yes. The timing is horrible, and the event is horrible, and believe me, I wish none of this had ever happened.” Arthur took a breath. “But we can’t change the truth. All we can do is deal with it the best we can. We will fill his spot in the lines with Gawain, who will fight like a demon because he has something to prove, not just to me or to you or to his father, but to himself. He will stand and become a man you can believe in, or he will fall.”
“We might all fall.”
“Yes. We might.”
Brastias sighed again. “There’s nothing that can be changed, and there’s no way to undo all the things that have been done, so I suppose you’re right. We just have to carry on.”
Arthur nodded silently.
The knight rose. “Thank you for letting me speak my mind, sir.”
He stood, as well. “You’re welcome. You can always talk to me, even if you’re delivering opinions you think I won’t want to hear.”
Brastias nodded. “I’ll go see if the scouts have reported back on the enemy’s movements yet.”
“Thank you.”
Arthur watched the knight leave the room, and he stood in quiet thought. He was certain he was right about Gawain, as certain as he had been about anything for a very long time. It was a feeling that he could not explain, but it was real. He knew that his nephew was going to be a great man, and a man that he could trust. To Arthur, it was as if he had seen the future for the briefest of moments. He knew deep down what he could expect.
He was more than willing to give Gawain the chance to prove himself. He hoped that the other knights in his inner circle were prepared to do the same.
The combined Armorican army reached Eburacum later that day, instantly tripling the city’s population when they arrived. A thrill of excitement surged through the town and into the palace, and Gurgurest’s face was positively shining in anticipation as he came into the room where the first full war council was being held.
“Welcome, royal brothers,” he greeted expansively, his arms open wide. Arthur, Bagdemagus, Constantine, Ban and Bors were already seated at the table, and it seemed to the young High King that Gurgurest was acting as if he was their captain. He had to nip that arrogance in the bud.
“You’re late,” he said softly.
Ban looked at Arthur with surprise, his deep brown eyes widening ever so slightly at the rebuke. Gurgurest hesitated, then said, “I apologize, Your Majesty.”
Arthur nodded and gestured for the one empty seat at the table. “Join us.”
The disquieted king sat with them, and Constantine smiled. “Let us begin.”
“Do we know where the enemy are waiting?” King Bors asked, his voice deep as thunder.
“They are at a place called Vinovia,” Arthur answered. “At least, that’s where they will be meeting up. We have reason to believe that they have not all assembled.”
“Then the time is right to strike,” Ban said. “Hit them before they’re at full strength.”
“I want to send scouts ahead to confirm how many men are facing us, and which armies have converged,” Arthur said. “We know Rheged was heading there, and Elmet is close by, so I can only assume those two have united. It will take the Picts and Hen Ogledd a little longer to reach Vinovia, and four days ago, Lothian had just begun to march. Sir Gawain left there five days ago, and that means that they still have two days or so before they reach the rest of the armies.”
Gurgurest agreed, “Yes. Vinovia is seventy miles away from here, give or take. By the time we arrive, they will be fully assembled.”
The High King considered the maps that were laid out across the table. “There is a considerable forest outside the city. I think we can use that to our advant
age. Use it as cover for our forces.”
“Are you suggesting that we hide an entire army in the woods?” Constantine asked, his tone mildly mocking.
“No, not an entire army. Just the best lancers and knights at our disposal.”
“That’s hardly honorable,” Gurgurest complained.
Arthur ignored him. “Our infantry will engage their infantry, and then, at a predetermined signal, they will fall back into the forest. Our infantry will disengage and retreat at speed, so they will be pursued by their knights. Once the enemy knights have followed our men into the woods, that is when our knights will charge from among the trees and do battle with them. When their knights fall or yield, the battle will end.”
Ban nodded his approval. “The Sarmatian cavalry used to do that. False retreats.”
“Exactly.” Arthur looked at the other kings who sat around the table. “Lot and his fellow kings will be among those who charge into the trap. We can end this in one action.”
Bors slapped his hand on the table. “Excellent plan! I see now that you are a canny old soldier at heart.”
The High King smiled and nodded to him in thanks for the compliment. To the rest, he said, “Are you all with me?” One by one, they gave their assent. Arthur stood. “May the gods grant us fortune.”
Gawain found Owain sitting sullenly in their shared room. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“You’re a knight now, and you’ll be going to the battle, but I have to stay here,” the boy pouted. “It isn’t fair.”
He sat beside his cousin. “You’re still too young to be a knight. Don’t rush - you will have plenty of battles in the future.”
“You rushed.”
“True,” he admitted. He thought for a moment, then said, “You don’t have to stay here. You can come along and be my squire. Then you can see your father lose his battle.”
Owain grinned at the thought. “He’ll be in a rage.”
“I have no doubt.” Gawain smiled at him. “So, do we have an agreement?”
“Yes.”
They clasped wrists to seal the deal, and then the new knight said, “I think we’re going to be moving out soon. Let’s get ready to travel.”
Owain was silent while they gathered their few belongings, but then he abruptly asked, “If you see your father, will you fight him?”
He dreaded that eventuality, but he said, “If we meet on the battlefield, I will.”
“You won’t seek him out?”
“No.”
Owain’s voice was hard as he said, “If I see my father on the battlefield, I’ll fight him.”
He looked at the boy and shook his head. “You won’t defeat him. He’ll kill you.”
“Probably.” Owain tied shut the saddlebag that held his things. “I don’t really care.”
“That’s a sad thing to say.”
He shrugged. “If you say so.”
The boy left the room with his bag over his shoulder. Gawain silently watched him go.
Morgana lay silent and still, and Morgause found herself checking her sister regularly to be certain she was still among the living. She had miscarried the child, and after the blood and the pain were over, she had fallen into a deep sleep from which she could not be roused. Morgause suspected that she was watching her sister die. She did what she could for her, but her skills with herbalism were limited. She had no healing powers and none of her enchantments could offer any aid. She prayed to her dark goddess, begging for help, but it was impossible to know if she’d been heard.
Now, as she sat and nursed little Gareth, she wondered if Murduus would return with the help he had almost promised to provide. She held her baby closer and thought about her other boys, wondering what they were doing and if they were well. She missed them. She should never have come to this broch.
Murduus had said that her son had betrayed her. She could not believe that any of her boys would ever turn against her. Gawain was too much his father’s son, perhaps, but he was a loving boy and was devoted to his mother. Gaheris was too sweet to ever betray a soul. As for Agravaine, she knew that he loved her to a degree the other boys could never match. She refused to give credence to the demon’s words.
Morgana sighed, and the sound was almost like a last breath. Morgause stared hard at her, and then saw her chest rise and fall. She relaxed marginally, but her tension had taken its toll, and baby Gareth began to wail.
She was so preoccupied with soothing her child that she nearly didn’t hear the light tap on the door to the broch. When the second tap came, she went warily to the peek door to see who was there.
A tiny woman in a voluminous black cloak stood there, a white birch staff in her hand. She bore a tattoo of three dots across her forehead, and her black hair was wild and unkempt. She looked up at the opening in the door and smiled.
“I am here to heal the woman.”
Morgause threw open the door. “Come in.” Gareth continued to cry, and she did her best to quiet him while she stepped aside to allow the strange visitor to enter.
“Ah. This is she.” The woman’s voice carried an accent that Morgause could not identify. She walked into the broch with a stilted gait, as if her legs were having difficulty carrying her. She went to Morgana’s side and touched her brow, then her stomach, and last her lower body over her tormented womb. The woman nodded. “I can heal this.”
“Please do,” she said. “This is my little sister.”
Smiling, the woman began to chant. The language was unfamiliar, full of harsh sounds and strange clicks. As she chanted, she ran her hands over Morgana’s body, starting at her shoulders and running all the way down to her thighs. Her voice rose in pitch as the speed of the chant increased, and she rubbed Morgana in time to the rhythm she had set. Morgause could feel energy swirling around the broch, gathering in the person of this strange healer. The woman nearly glowed with the intensity of the energy she had absorbed.
Abruptly, she pushed all of that borrowed power into Morgana. Morgause watched in fascinated horror as her sister began to convulse, her limbs jerking and her face twisting into a distorted mask. The healer put both hands together over her womb and pushed one last time, physically and otherwise, and Morgana opened her eyes and shrieked.
“What are you doing to her?” Morgause cried, alarmed. Gareth’s full-throated sobs added to the cacophony.
“Healing her.”
Morgana fell still, gasping for breath, and she stared up at the woman who was bending over her. “You…who are…”
The woman smiled. “A friend of a friend.” She straightened, and as she did, her robe rose up, revealing feet like a raven’s, black and three-toed. The woman turned to Morgause. “She is perfectly healthy now. All of the old damage has been corrected, and the new damage too. Try to keep her from getting pregnant for at least a month.”
Morgause nodded and Gareth screamed. “I will.”
“Good.” The woman walked toward the door. “My debt is paid.”
“What debt?”
The woman didn’t answer. Morgause went to the door to follow her, but when she reached it, the strange bird-woman was gone.
It was a glorious summer afternoon when Arthur’s army arrived at Vinovia. The town was dwarfed by the size of the encampment around it, and the sight of so many armed men was intimidating. Arthur and Constantine were at the head of the column, riding two abreast.
“Those are significant numbers,” the Armorican said, vastly understating the situation.
“Yes. But we have significant numbers, as well.”
“This will be a bloodbath.”
Arthur nodded. “I fear it will.”
“Have you considered suing for peace? Perhaps they have demands that can be met to stave off this unpleasantness,” Constantine suggested, unctuous as a politician.
“I have not.” He turned his horse to ride back toward the men. His cousin followed him.
“Why?”
“Because I already know w
hat Lot wants. He wants to be High King, and he has made treaties with the Saxons. If he wins this fight, or if we give in to his demands, our land will be overrun with foreign invaders. I won’t have it.”
“Pride goeth before a fall.”
He ignored the comment and rode to Brastias and Bedivere, his two generals. “Make camp. Let the men rest before the battle begins.”
“Yes, sir,” Bedivere said. He and Brastias turned back toward the men to see to it that the king’s orders were obeyed.
Arthur took his standard from the standard bearer and brought it to the front of the column again. He planted it in the ground, letting the Pendragon flag fly in full view of Vinovia.
Lot looked up as a breathless messenger ran in from the garrison at Vinovia. “Sire,” the young man panted, “an army is approaching from the south.”
He frowned and put aside his drinking horn. “What army?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“How big?”
The messenger sounded bleak and worried. “Thousands.”
“Send out a rider,” he ordered. “Find out who it is.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” The messenger bowed to him, then scurried back out.
Beside Lot’s throne, sitting with a drinking horn of his own, Bruis said, “Friend or foe, do you think?”
Lot took up his horn and drank deeply. “We’ll find out.”
Arthur and Merlin stood beside his standard, his shield with its three-crown heraldry displayed before him. The standards of all of the other kings were planted in the ground behind him, a row of colorful fabric that snapped in the wind. A rider came galloping out of Vinovia’s gates, going at breakneck speed past the front of their camp. Arthur watched him as he rode, sweeping past them, the rider ogling the standards before he galloped away.
“Satisfied?” Merlin asked.
“Yes.” Arthur smiled grimly to himself. “They know we’re here, and who we are. Tomorrow should be interesting.”
