Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  He stood at the window, watching the pilgrims and religious people paying their coin and receiving clay bottles of the water of the springs. There were dozens of them, some of them sick, some of them lame, all of them paying more than they could probably afford for the curing waters the sisters were selling. He felt disappointed as he watched commerce disguised as religion, wondering just how rich the church was getting from this sacred site.

  The room smelled green and close, but clean, like moss after rain. Jars of herbs stood neatly labeled on the shelves, flanked by books and scrolls full of learning he would likely never read. There was still so much he needed to know, so much he had to wrap his head around. He doubted if he would ever learn everything he needed to know to be a good king.

  He clasped his hands on his sword belt nervously, his feet shoulder width apart as if he was waiting for an attack. He kept his back to the door, exactly as Merlin had counseled him never to do, and he tried to keep his breathing even. The room was utterly silent.

  After a long while, a soft voice spoke from the doorway. “Yours is a face I had hoped to never see.”

  That was not the greeting he had hoped for. “Should I not turn around?”

  “Since you’re here, there is no help for it.”

  He turned toward her. She was small and breathtakingly beautiful, dressed in a gray gown instead of a nun’s habit. There was no trace of the crone about her. Her face was unlined, her black curls devoid of the least hint of silver. She could have wed and borne many more children had she wished to do so. He wondered why she had chosen to take the religious life instead of continuing as queen.

  “Queen Igraine...”

  “So I have been called.” Igraine studied him closely, her dark eyes frank and appraising. Her hands gripped each other before her belly, white-knuckled. “You’re tall like him,” she said, “and your eyes are the same color, but I don’t see your sire’s cruelty in your look. Perhaps you’ve simply not begun to display your natural tendencies, or you’ve learned to lie with your eyes as he never did.”

  Arthur didn’t know what to say, and so he bowed to her politely. “Your Majesty,” he said.

  “I am no longer Queen of Britain,” she said coolly.

  “I am -”

  “Arthur Pendragon. Yes, I know.”

  She said his name like a curse. When he responded, his voice sounded small, even to him. “Your son.”

  “My son,” she echoed sourly. “Did you know that I never looked on you the day that you were born? The midwife took you immediately, lest I find a blade and end your life.”

  “You would have slain me?”

  “You were the result of all my pain. You were the fruit for which Uther had labored the first night he forced me with deceit and foul magic to share his bed.”

  “I had heard….” He choked, swallowed, tried again. “I had heard that I was conceived in rape, but I had hoped the story wasn’t true.”

  “It was the only way that man ever touched me. I never shared his bed of my own volition. I loved my husband, Duke Gorlois. I still do. My so-called marriage to your sire was a long sentence in a doorless prison that I was forced to serve.” She looked at him, from toe to head, then added, “Seeing you reminds me far too much of those bitter days. Far too much of him.”

  Her expression was hard, and he wished that he could look away from her. Not facing her would have been cowardice, though, so he held her gaze. “I am sorry for the pain that I’ve caused you, both on the day of my birth and in coming here. I wanted - ”

  “Yes,” she said sharply. “It is always about what men want, isn’t it?”

  He felt his eyes well with saltwater and he looked about the room for some sort of rescue. None was forthcoming. “I should go.”

  “Yes. You never should have come.” Igraine stepped away from the door, clearing the way for him to exit. She seemed to remember herself, then, and she curtsied deeply. When she said them, the words sounded like an invective. “Your Majesty.”

  Arthur choked out, “You need never bow to me. You gave me life.” She stayed in her low posture, her head down, her face turned away from him. “Perhaps someday you will cease to regret that.”

  He walked toward the door, wishing that he could touch her, just once. He had never known his mother’s embrace, and now it was clear that he never would. As he passed her, he heard her whisper, “That day will never come.”

  He knew now why Merlin had told him not to see her. He wished he had listened and damned himself for a fool. The novice shut and locked the door behind him when he stepped back out into the street, and his heart sagged, heavy with the burden of knowing how much he was hated. He pulled the hood low over his face to conceal his tears and left the convent at a canter.

  Merlin was watching for him when he came back into their little wayfarer’s inn. Griflet sat glaring into the fire, fidgeting with his dagger, but Merlin was stock still, his eyes on the door as if he had known exactly when Arthur was going to walk in. He probably had.

  “You saw her,” the druid said, partially as an accusation, partially as a statement of fact.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I should have listened to you.”

  Griflet stood when he heard his king’s voice. “Are you all right?”

  “Sad, but otherwise unharmed.” He went to stand before the fire, warming himself after his long, cold ride. “She really does hate me.”

  Merlin sighed. “Truthfully, she hates your father, and she puts that hate on you.”

  Arthur held his hands out to the flames, looking at the flickering beyond his fingertips. “I don’t think it really matters who the real focus of her hatred might be. It landed on me square enough.”

  Griflet went to him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Arthur,” he said softly. “I’m sorry this hurts you so much.”

  The king smiled ruefully. “It’s the price I pay for being stubborn.”

  “Yes, it is,” Merlin agreed. “Maybe next time you’ll do as I tell you and accept that I know what’s best for you, even if you don’t understand.”

  “I will,” Arthur pledged. “I don’t mean to doubt you.”

  “Good.” The druid pulled a pair of chairs closer to the fire, one for Arthur and one for himself. He sat down and stretched his booted feet toward the hearth. “This will be especially important when we enter the Perilous Forest, which is no more than a league away. It was not named lightly, believe me. There are traps and monsters aplenty in the woods, and I will do my best to protect you from them all, but there are limits even to my powers. We will need to stay close to make it safely through to the other side.”

  “When you mean monsters, I suspect you’re not talking about the cute and cuddly, furry kind,” Griflet said. “Not squirrels and rabbits and whatnot.”

  “No,” Merlin said. “I mean Cath Palug and the Cŵn Annwn and other foul creatures. There are magicians and Unseelie fey and any number of dangerous illusions and enchantments that lie in wait for the unwary. Stay to the road and stay with me, and there should be few problems.”

  “Few?” Arthur echoed.

  “It’s impossible to go through the Perilous Forest without something strange happening,” Merlin shrugged. “It’s a dangerous place.”

  Griflet looked thoughtful. “What do you know about magic fountains in the Perilous Forest?’

  “I know that they should be avoided, especially the ones that are being defended.”

  “So you’ve heard about the knight.”

  “I have,” the druid nodded.

  “If he’s killing people by the score, we should stop him,” the young knight opined.

  “We should,” Arthur nodded.

  Merlin shook his head. “You two are going to be the death of me. No adventures. We are riding through, nothing more.”

  Neither of the young men responded. They all knew that the matter was far from settled.

  They left the inn the next morning at first light. The Perilous Fo
rest stood ahead of them, its foliage still dark green although it was winter. That sight alone was enough to convince Arthur that there was magic about the place. The golden cuff around his left wrist tingled as they approached, and he wished that there was another way to Viroconium. When they had left Caer Gai for Letocetum and points east, Sir Ector had carefully skirted around this forest. This would be his first time setting foot in these much-discussed woods.

  They crossed the boundary into the forest, and the trees clung together like frightened children. The underbrush was thick and such a dark green that the leaves were almost black. Light was dim beneath the canopy, and the road was pocked and marred at uneven intervals, filled with holes and rills. They rode cautiously, keeping their horses out of harm’s way as much as they could, while Merlin watched the wood around them, ready to use his magic to defend them if necessary.

  It seemed to Arthur that the road they followed lengthened and curled upon itself of its own accord. They rode for two days straight and by rights should have found their way out of the Perilous Forest in that time. Instead, they kept to their forest path, surrounded by the dark and ominous trees. Arthur’s skin crawled constantly, and he felt as if they were being watched by a hundred sets of unseen eyes. They camped for two nights on the road itself at Merlin’s insistence, not leaving the track to set up their bedrolls. It was hard to sleep on the packed dirt of the road, but Arthur supposed it was better than being beset in the night by whatever lived among the trees.

  The second night, Arthur took first watch and Merlin took second, leaving Griflet with the task of keeping the fires burning and preparing the camp for breaking. The sounds in the forest were loud that night, louder than the night before, and Arthur found it difficult to sleep after his watch was concluded. He thought he saw Merlin with his scrying mirror at one point, but when he looked again, the mirror was gone and the druid was sitting with his back toward the fire, facing into the wood. He woke again at the next change of watch, and the rhythmic sound of Griflet’s boots as he paced helped him fall into a strange and fitful slumber.

  His dreams fled when Merlin shook him, one hand upon his shoulder. “Arthur,” the druid said quietly. “Wake up.”

  He sat up slowly, rubbing the heel of his hand into his tired eyes. “Morning already?” he asked, his words obscured by his yawn.

  “Griflet is gone.”

  His first thought was that something had slain his friend in the night. He sat up, suddenly alert. “What? What happened?”

  The druid looked embarrassed. “I slept, and while I was sleeping, he slipped away. Do you know where he might have gone?”

  Arthur hauled himself to his feet and hastily rolled up his bedding, annoyed beyond endurance. “He probably went in search of the Knight of the Fountain.”

  “That’s a poor choice,” Merlin mused. He shook his head. “I’ll look for him. Hopefully he hasn’t added himself to the knight’s list of victims.”

  The king watched as Merlin summoned his mirror and began to search. Arthur saw images of the forest in the mirror, the trees and the bushes streaking past as if he were a hawk in full flight. The feeling that he got from that vantage point was dizzying and exhilarating at the same time. The images stopped moving abruptly, and Arthur could see Griflet, fully armed and on horseback, standing beside a stone-banked natural fountain that burbled with fresh, clean water. On the tree beside him, leaning over the fountain, hung a steel shield with a wooden mallet on a rope. As he watched, Griflet took the mallet and struck the shield a ringing blow. In the distance, Arthur heard the metal clamor.

  “This is happening right now?” he asked.

  Merlin nodded. “Yes.”

  They continued to watch as a towering man in heavy armor emerged from a tent, a crested helmet on his head, the visor pulled low over his face. His shield showed a blue field with twelve crosses, and the boss was crowned with a long, sharp spike. The man pulled his sword and spoke, but Arthur could hear nothing through the magical viewport. Griflet dismounted and pulled his own blade.

  The druid swore. “Oh, bloody hell.”

  The young knight stood his ground manfully, but he was no match for the Knight of the Fountain. In four moves, the stranger had laid Griflet out on the ground, injured and insensible. He stood over the fallen youth, checking the pulse in his neck, and when he straightened, he had blood upon his fingertips.

  “We have to find him,” Arthur said. “I have to go. I have to help him!” The young king threw his helmet on his head and saddled his mount with rapid, practiced hands. He swung up into the saddle and turned to Merlin. “You are either with me or you aren’t, but by God, you will not stop me.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” the druid scolded. “You don’t even know where he is.”

  Arthur pointed in the direction from which the sound of mallet on shield had come. “That way.”

  Merlin nodded. “Yes, that way, but you - Arthur!”

  The young king was through talking. He spurred his horse forward and into the trees.

  Pellinore leaned over the young man in the dirt and shook his head. He had given the young fool three chances to leave without fighting. He had no wish to kill an inexperienced knight, or worse, a squire with delusions of grandeur. There was no honor in such a fight, and though he was indentured, he still was a king with pride. He had to defend the spring, because that was his charge and his oath, but he didn’t want to be a butcher as well.

  He untied the laces on the young man’s helmet and took it gently from his head. The boy was in the process of growing his first beard, and it was still a thin and scraggly thing. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen years of age. Pellinore cursed under his breath and, against all of his vows, filled a cup from his tent with water from the sacred fountain.

  He was leaning over the boy, ready to give him the drink, when another boy on a horse burst into the clearing. “Get away from him!” the newcomer ordered, his tone frantic.

  Pellinore straightened. “I’m not hurting him.”

  “You put him on the ground in the first place. Why should I trust you now?”

  “Because I gave him every opportunity to avoid this fight, and I am offering you the same. Take him and leave this place. I have no wish to fight you. Murdering untried boys is not something I wish to do.”

  The young man on horseback lifted his chin defiantly. “I am neither untried nor a boy. Step away from him, villain.”

  Pellinore sighed. “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?”

  In answer, the mounted lad drew his sword. Something about that blade, the etching on it, seemed familiar to him. He must have fought its true owner at some point, or fought beside him.

  “Put that thing away before you cut yourself,” he grumbled. He leaned over the fallen boy and poured a dribble of water into his lax mouth.

  “I said, step away from him. I will kill you if you don’t.”

  “Boy, you couldn’t kill me if you tried.” He looked up. “Are you intent upon this folly?”

  The boy dismounted and dropped into a creditable fighting crouch. “Face me, villain.”

  “Stop calling me that,” Pellinore snapped, annoyed. “You damned fool. Do you want to end up like him? Like them?” He gestured behind him to the tree where he had hung the shields of the men he had already killed in combat over the fountain. “There are twenty-eight shields there. Your friend will be the twenty-ninth. Do you really want to be the thirtieth?”

  The boy took a step forward. “The only shield that will be hung upon that tree today is yours. I say again, step away from him.”

  Pellinore shook his head in disgust. “Fine. I tried to save you from yourself.”

  He drew his sword and stepped away from his fallen foe. His new opponent strode forward, too eager to place himself between Pellinore and the injured boy, moving too quickly to be properly on guard. The king of Norgalis struck, and his blade hit the armed boy’s side, striking him where his chest
plate and back plates met. Only the leather beneath the cuirass saved him from a cut, but the blow was enough to knock the air out of his lungs.

  To his surprise, the youth did not fold. Instead, he squared himself and adopted a more appropriate stance, better defended and less panicky. Pellinore nodded, pleased. Perhaps this child was a fighter, after all.

  “You can still end this,” he offered. “Leave me your shields but take your friend and go.”

  “You have murdered over twenty men,” the youth retorted. “I will bring you the king’s justice.”

  “I’ve killed far more than twenty in my day, and there is no king over me that I acknowledge. Only the High King sits in power above me, and he’s dead.”

  “He is very much alive.”

  Pellinore shook his head. Not just a fool, but a crazy one, too. “Do you refer to the boy who pulled the sword from the stone? I have heard this tale. I don’t think he’s real.”

  “He’s real enough for you, villain.” The boy advanced, and Pellinore took a step backward, allowing himself to be driven from the boy that lay by the spring.

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “It is the only name by which I know you.”

  “That’s because I haven’t told you my name, and I will not. Nor do I want to know yours. I want you to take your friend and leave.”

  The boy took another step forward, measured, steady. A swordsman’s step. “I will leave after I have defeated you.”

  Pellinore ground his teeth in frustration. “As you wish. Be it on your own head.”

  He advanced, springing into a flurry of motion, his shield and his sword both battering at his young opponent. His adversary stood his ground, parrying most of his blows, even landing a halfway decent stroke on Pellinore’s shoulder, just missing the space below the pauldron. He was impressed in spite of himself. The last time anyone had touched him in battle, it had been the Morholt, and even then, it was only the Irishman’s magic that had brought him down. This boy before him showed great promise.