Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  Mark crossed himself as Arthur rode away, joining Brastias at the head of the column.

  Lyonesse was a kingdom of forested islands and rocky reefs that lay off the very tip of Cornwall. As King Mark had said, her king, Rivalen, had recently fallen. According to Merlin, the heir to the throne was being fostered in Armorica with King Hoel. The boy, named Tristan, was a mere ten years of age and already a king, and he was also King Mark’s nephew, his sister-son. As Arthur knew, it was hard enough to become a king at fifteen; he could only imagine how rough the road was going to be for young Tristan. He fervently wished him well.

  The road to Lyonesse was well-traveled, and although it was not a Roman road, it was still in good repair and well-constructed. Good roads made it easier to move armies, and Arthur made a mental note to make sure that the roads of Britannia were always kept in good order. He felt a little silly to be thinking about roads while he was on the way to a battle, but it was better than being afraid.

  The first signs of the Danes and Irish were plumes of black smoke rising from the largest island of Lyonesse. The invaders had been busy.

  Mark advised Arthur, “At low tide, there is a land bridge that connects Cornwall with Lyonesse. We can cross then. Otherwise, we would need to take barges, and that would take too long and be too troublesome.”

  Arthur nodded. “And does the low tide create land bridges between the other islands?”

  “It does.”

  “Excellent.” He turned to Merlin. “When is low tide?”

  “Six hours from now,” the druid replied promptly.

  “Good. That gives the men a chance to rest before the fighting,” Arthur said. “Have them stop here.”

  He helped Griflet and the porters set up his pavilion, staking out the four corners and flying his banner from the central pole. His camp cot was set up, along with his map table, chairs, and brazier. A chest with his clothes and other belongings was brought in last, and then his home away from home was ready for him to occupy it again.

  When the porters left, Griflet closed the tent flaps and secured them on the inside, closing himself in with the king. Arthur watched him in confusion as the young knight walked slowly across the pavilion until he was standing in front of him, close enough to touch but not reaching out his hand.

  “There are things you need to know,” Griflet said softly, “because one or both of us might not come out of this fight alive. I can’t leave things unsaid or misunderstood between us.”

  Arthur nodded, his confusion turning into apprehension. “All right.”

  “I am jealous of Guinevere, but that’s not the only reason I broke it off with you.”

  “Then why?”

  Griflet moved closer still, until their chests were almost touching. He whispered, “I was threatened with death if I didn’t end it.”

  “What? Who threatened you?” Arthur demanded. “Nobody has the right -”

  “It’s someone who has a lot of power, and who has a lot of interest in seeing you become the king you’re meant to be.”

  “Tell me who it is, and I’ll make certain he can’t hurt you.” He took Griflet’s hand. “Tell me who made you do this, and I’ll make it right.”

  “You can’t make it right,” Griflet said softly, pulling his hand away. “I’m not going to tell you who it is, because this person is someone you need more than you need me.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “No. You’re too sentimental. You’d choose on the side of affection every time, and this is something that needs a cool head.” He took a deep breath. “You have never loved me, Arthur, and while we had something wonderful, I don’t want to continue it at the expense of your destiny. I also can’t be with you if I have to share you with a woman. I just can’t.”

  Arthur’s eyes stung. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because I want you to know that you aren’t to blame, and you didn’t do anything wrong. I want you to know that I do still love you, and I always will, but for reasons bigger than both of us, I had to walk away.” He kissed him, lips soft and undemanding. Arthur leaned into the kiss, but Griflet pulled back. “I wanted you to know that we really are over, but not through any fault of yours. It was my choice.”

  “You don’t have to do this. I can protect you.”

  He shook his head. “Against this person? No. You can’t. Anyway, I can’t stand to see you with her. It’s better for me if I walk away for good.” He took a deep breath. “I resign as your chamberlain.”

  Arthur pressed his lips together to keep from arguing further. It was clear that Griflet’s choice was final. Griflet untied the tent flap and walked through, tying it open with the laces on the outside of the pavilion. He turned and gave Arthur one last sad smile, then walked away into the busy camp.

  The army rested and prepared itself for the battle to come. Arthur, his head full of uncomfortable thoughts, stood at the edge of the sea and watched the pillars of smoke staining the sky. Merlin came to stand beside him, facing out the sea, as well.

  “They’re destroying everything,” Arthur told him. “That makes no sense. Why would they come just to burn the kingdom? What are they hoping to accomplish?”

  “It’s destruction for destruction’s sake,” the druid told him. “It also served to pull you away from Eburacum.”

  Arthur frowned. “So this is all a feint?”

  “Possibly.” Merlin looked at the smoke. “The good news is that Lyonesse is not a heavily populated kingdom, so even if the Danes and Irish kill every man, woman and child, the body count is still less than three thousand.”

  He was aghast. “And that’s supposed to make it acceptable?”

  “It does for me.”

  “There are no acceptable losses,” Arthur argued. “Not among civilians.”

  “The gods of war see things differently.” He looked down at the water. “Ebb tide will begin in about two hours. I suggest you take this opportunity to rest. You don’t have to sleep, but at least lie quietly for a while.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “No, but you will be. It’s called saving your strength.”

  He wanted to argue, but he knew he would lose the debate. He turned to walk away, but then he stopped. The description of the person who had threatened Griflet matched Merlin and only Merlin. Frowning, he turned back. “If I ask you a question, will you answer honestly and completely, without hiding anything or speaking in half-truths?”

  Merlin faced him, looking amused. “Of course.”

  “Swear it.”

  The amusement on the druid’s face faltered. “I swear.”

  “Did you tell Griflet to break it off with me, and did you threaten his life?” The druid looked surprised and annoyed, and Arthur said, “Remember, you gave your word.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “He didn’t say the name of the person who threatened him, but he said it was someone powerful who knew about my destiny. That can only be you.”

  Merlin spread his hands out to his side. “Then it was me.”

  “You threatened him?”

  “Only to make him comply. I didn’t plan to follow through with it.”

  Arthur frowned. “You didn’t plan to, but if you had to, you would, wouldn’t you?”

  The look the druid gave him was cold. “Some things are worth the cost.”

  The king walked close to Merlin, anger making him fierce. “You have no right to interfere with my personal affairs. There is nothing - nothing - that is worth committing murder to protect.”

  “You say that now, but in time you’ll learn that isn’t true,” the druid predicted.

  “I will never stoop that low.”

  “So you say.”

  “So I know.” Merlin’s calm, almost smug manner infuriated him, and Arthur balled his hands into fists at his sides. The king growled, “You may think you know the future, but you’ve told me before that the future is always changing. Maybe one path you saw r
equired him to leave me, but maybe other paths do not. You are my advisor, but you are not my master.”

  The druid smiled. “Of course, Your Majesty. My apologies. I will remember this in the future.”

  He could not have sounded more insincere if he had tried. Arthur was close to losing his temper, and he knew that any further discussion would be fruitless. He also knew that he could not afford to make an enemy of the powerful druid. Frustrated, he walked away, leaving Merlin to smirk and contemplate the waterline.

  When the tide went out, Arthur led the army across the exposed sandbar and to the islands of Lyonesse. They marched quickly, passing through one small island and then another until they reached the largest island of the chain, the one that was still emitting black clouds of sooty smoke. They followed dark smudges on the sky and found the Danes and Irish ransacking a village. The screams of the wounded and the smell of death and burning filled Arthur’s senses, and his blood sang in response. The black line around his wrist tingled, and he knew that the Morrigan was ready for blood. The golden cuff on his other wrist answered with a shiver of its own, and his brows furrowed in rage.

  “I count a little more than four hundred,” he told King Mark and the two veteran knights who rode with him. “They are all on foot.”

  “The Danes and Irish do not often travel with horses,” Merlin told him. The druid sat tall in his saddle, his robes traded for the boiled leather armor that he wore when he fought. His cerulean eyes seemed paler than usual, and there was a darkness around him that even Arthur found intimidating. All of the knights and soldiers gave him a wide berth.

  “Then our cavalry will give us an advantage,” Arthur said.

  King Mark looked at Arthur with doubt. “And who will lead this charge, my young king? Have you seen enough battle to be prepared for this?”

  He knew he should have been insulted, but the repetitive line of questioning only made him tired. He turned to Mark and said, “I am ready.”

  “The boy has seen more fighting than you’d think,” Bedivere reassured King Mark.

  Arthur was annoyed. “‘The boy,’ Sir Bedivere?”

  “I apologize. The king.” He muttered, “Although both are true.”

  He signaled to his men, and five klaxons blasted their shrill notes into the air. Beside him, Griflet raised the Pendragon banner high. The startled invaders rapidly assembled to form a shield wall between the Britons and the village. Arthur’s army took its position facing them, and the pikemen secured their weapons, ready to repel any change the invaders might attempt. Merlin ordered the archers to fire, and the first volley soared through the air. Most of the arrows were stopped by Danish and Irish shields, but a few made it through the invaders’ defenses, and men began to fall.

  Arthur pulled Excalibur from its sheath, and the sword sang as it was freed. Brilliant light wreathed the blade, shining as brightly as the sun. He raised it high above his head, then shouted his battle cry.

  “For Britannia!”

  He led the charge. The shield wall bristled with swords and spears, but Arthur and his knights rode headlong into that imposing barrier. The sound of their collision was like a huge wave breaking on a rocky shore. Sword flashing, Arthur fought his way into the center of the invaders’ throng. Excalibur cut through the shields as if they were made of air. He was soon surrounded by foot soldiers, but he was secure in the saddle, and his horse kicked and bit like a demon, keeping the enemy at bay.

  Another flight of arrows rained down and added to the chaos on the field as they struck friend and foe alike. The Fates were impartial and bloody-minded. Brastias was hit by an arrow from their own men, burying deep into his flesh and lodging in his shoulder blade, but the man he had been fighting was laid low by the same volley. Swords and shields clashed and shattered, and horses’ hooves trampled fallen men into the cold ground. The screams of the wounded were a horrible descant over the shouts of battle, and blood stained the frozen grass. The Irish attempted again to pull Arthur from his saddle, but Sir Bedivere came to his aid and they were repelled. The High King pursued them, Bedivere at his side, and together they cut them down. All around them lay the bodies of dead and dying men. The Danes sounded a retreat, and they attempted to return to their ships. Arthur spurred his knights forward, and they hewed them down before they could reach the safety of their vessels. The carnage was appalling.

  The knights took the beach and prevented the surviving attackers from escaping. Sir Melodias set the ships alight, and with the help of a foot soldier, he cut them loose from their moorings and sent the burning vessels out into the sea. A groan of dismay rose from the last surviving invaders, and they surrendered.

  Arthur rode down the line of kneeling prisoners, who were battered and bloodied with their hands on their heads. Most kept their eyes cast down toward the water that lapped the shore, coming closer as the tide continued to come in. The High King’s horse splashed through the shallow waves as he reviewed the men who had surrendered.

  “Who speaks their tongue?” he asked.

  Unsurprisingly, the answer came from Merlin. “I do.”

  “Tell them who I am.” The druid spoke to them, and Arthur heard his name amid the unfamiliar words. Two of the men looked up at him, and he looked back. Bedivere raised his hand to strike them for their audacity, but Arthur said, “No. Let them look.”

  Merlin turned to Arthur expectantly. The young king considered.

  “Are any of them noble, or the leaders of war bands?” The druid raised an eyebrow, uncertain where this line of questioning would lead. “Ask them.”

  He did. One by one, the men responded. When they were done speaking, Merlin told the king, “They say that they are all commoners, sire.”

  Arthur nodded. “Take them home.”

  The knights gaped at him. “What?” Brastias asked. “Home?”

  “Yes. Take them back to Ireland, or Denmark, or wherever their families are. If they swear to never again lift a sword against me or my realm, I will let them live.” He nodded to Merlin. “Tell them.”

  The druid repeated his offer, which surprised the prisoners as much as it had his own men. One of them spoke, and the druid translated, “He doesn’t believe you. He says he thinks you’re giving them false hope before you slaughter them all.”

  “Tell him that mercy is a quality of all good men, and I hold their leaders responsible for this fight, not these common soldiers.” The message was delivered, and Arthur continued. “Tell him further that mercy is no weakness, but lying is, and if I ever see their faces on another battlefield arrayed against me, I will personally butcher them so badly that their own mothers will never know them.”

  Bedivere chuckled as the king’s threat was conveyed. Arthur rode slowly down the line, peering at each man’s face in turn, memorizing their features and letting them know that he was doing it. The one who seemed to be the spokesman for his fellows muttered something.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said that you look like an eagle.”

  “Do I? Well, that must mean he is a rabbit.” Arthur smiled, but it was a cold look that belonged on a much older face. “Tell him that this eagle will remember him, and that this is his last chance to run back to his burrow.”

  Merlin faithfully delivered the message. The man swallowed hard and nodded, then spoke. The druid seemed satisfied. “They accept your terms, Your Majesty.”

  “Excellent. Tell them to make it known in their land that the only reason they survive is because of my good graces, and that although I am merciful, I am not infinitely patient. No further Irish or Danish raiders will receive such terms from me.”

  This, too, was translated, and the men nodded their understanding.

  “Good. Merlin, create a portal to Ireland and send them through.”

  The druid complied. He cast his spell, and he drove the prisoners before him until they disappeared in a blur of magic.

  Satisfied, Arthur returned to the battlefield where King Mark was ta
king stock of his losses. Sitting astride his horse, Mark was the only person anywhere who had no mud or blood upon him. It was obvious that he had not participated in the fight. Arthur rode to his side, and the Cornish king said, “We lost fifty-three men.”

  The High King nodded solemnly. “I am sorry for their families.”

  “We could ill afford such losses at a time like this,” Mark worried. “The Irish will be back.”

  “Then we will meet them when they come,” Arthur said. “In the meantime, I and my men need to return to Eburacum to face King Lot. Can I depend upon your support in this? Will you come to my aid as I have come to yours?”

  The vassal king thought for a long moment, his eyes hooded. He finally said, “Yes, my lord. I will send men to aid your fight.”

  “But you aren’t coming, yourself?”

  “No. I need to be here in case the raiders return.”

  It was a flimsy excuse, and they both knew it. Arthur decided that it was better to let him wallow in his cowardice than to force him to fight. “Very well.”

  They rested at Tintagel for a night, and then Arthur led his troops, including men from Cornwall, and rode back to Eburacum to rejoin his army.

  Six days later, Lot’s army approached Eburacum from the north, marching into view on a cold afternoon. Arthur stood with Bedivere on the ridge line, watching as the enemy approached. Lot rode at the front of the column on an energetic horse that seemed as eager for the fight as his rider. The banners of Lothian were joined by those of Rheged and Strathclyde, Listenoise and Elmet. From where he stood, the High King could see Picts, their skin painted with characteristic streaks of woad, and he saw a stained and tattered flag that bore a roughly-drawn image of a dog’s head. A host of Danes with runes emblazoned on their circular shields shouted as they advanced. In all, the army that approached them was nearly four thousand strong.

  Arthur told Bedivere, “Hold this line, whatever the cost. That army cannot reach Eburacum.”