by J A Cummings
“We’re going to be caught between them,” the knight warned. “It’ll be just like Gurgurest said - we’re going to be smashed.”
“No. I don’t believe that, and neither should you.” He squared his shoulders. “Right is on our side, my friend. The gods will defend us.”
“If you say so.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder, the forces of Logres and Armorica, of Estrangore, Cambria, Cornwall and Lindum, preparing to face Lot’s army. Brastias sat astride his horse beside his king, his arrow wound packed and poulticed. He had refused to stay clear of this fight. He looked at Arthur as the northern armies approached and said, “It looks like Armageddon.”
The king nodded, his eyes fixed upon the approaching foe. “This will be someone’s judgment day, that’s certain.” He drew Excalibur, and the shining blade hummed in his hand. “God willing, we will not be among those who fall. Can I not convince you to stay back? You will be hampered with your shield the way my father was.”
Brastias smiled. “I understand the risks, but I could never live with myself if I missed this battle. This is the fight that will make you king of a united Britannia. I want to see it.”
“You could see it from camp,” Arthur fussed.
“No. The view is much better here.” He drew his own sword and nodded. “I will see you on the other side of the field.”
“May God go with you, my friend.”
“And may your gods protect you, Arthur.”
Sir Kay blew the horn sounding the charge. Arthur kicked his heels into his mount’s sides, and the animal leaped forward, carrying him ahead of the surging tide of his knights. Lot rushed to meet him, and the two kings came together once again in the middle of the field. There was no need to declare single combat. There was no one else either king wished to fight.
Men clashed in a churning tempest as Arthur and Lot battled one another. Their horses circled tightly, and they rained blow after blow upon each other. Pieces were hewn from both of their shields until finally they both discarded the ruined scraps that were left. Blood ran freely from Lot, but Excalibur’s magical scabbard kept Arthur intact despite the many cuts that Lot’s blade should have left behind. Neither king was willing to give up the day. Lot scored a hit on Arthur, and Arthur retaliated with a punishing slash to the older king. Excalibur was not deterred by armor or by Lot’s weapon, and when the King of Lothian tried to parry a downward blow, his blade shattered beneath Arthur’s glowing sword.
Arthur pressed the tip of Excalibur’s blade to Lot’s throat. “Yield!” he commanded.
Lot tossed his head. “No. You can kill me, but I am unarmed, and that dishonor will haunt you all of your days. Is that what you want?”
Arthur reached out and grabbed hold of Lot’s breastplate, dragging him from the saddle as he threw himself from his own. He landed on his feet and pushed Lot down onto his knees. The Norse-born king struggled against Arthur’s strength, but he could not push the High King away. Lot found himself with an arm wrenched behind his back and the keen edge of Arthur’s blade against his throat.
The High King said again, “Yield, or this will be your death day.”
Lot looked up into the young king’s face and spat at him. The spittle hit Arthur’s armor and slithered down, leaving a streak in the grime. The High King’s face twisted in disgust, and he stripped away Lot’s helmet. Lot held himself still, awaiting the blow that would take his head from his body, but instead he received Arthur’s pommel to the temple. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Arthur hauled Lot’s unconscious body up onto the withers of the Lothian king’s horse, then beckoned for Sir Maelgwas’s passing squire. “Ride with me and protect King Lot. We are taking him back to our camp.”
The squire’s mouth fell open, but he eagerly nodded. “Yes, sire!”
They rode away from the battlefield, leaving behind the mad orgy of blood and destruction. As he passed, Arthur caught glimpses of people he knew caught up in a desperate battle with strangers. Brastias was holding his own, his shield arm functioning as well as always, although Arthur was sure the pain from his arrow wound was intense. Kay was slashing and stabbing from horseback, felling foot soldiers with his strong-armed blows. Bedivere was swinging back up into his saddle after dispatching some poor soldier on the ground. Sir Maelgwas was storming back into the fray with the new spear he had received from the squire Arthur had commandeered. Men he didn’t know, men who wore the Pendragon signet on their chests, fought in brutal hand-to-hand combat with men who wore the five-pointed star of Lothian. Many men from both sides of this conflict lay dead and dying on the field, their blood combining together into one tragic sanguine pool. It was overwhelming and horrible.
Arthur reached the camp and hauled Lot from his horse. The king was beginning to stir, shaking his head groggily. There was no time to lose. He seized a rope from the porter, one that had been used to secure his tent to the pack animals that had brought it, and he bound Lot securely, hand and foot. He then tied the stunned monarch to the central pole of his own pavilion. Accolon, Bedivere’s Gaulish page, stood up from the map desk, stunned.
“Your Majesty,” he said, his foreign accent making the words sound thick and round. “What is this? Who is this?”
“This is King Lot of Lothian, and he is our prisoner.” He took his misericord from his waist and handed it to the boy. “If he tries to escape, stop him. Use this if you must. I don’t want him killed, but if you must defend yourself, or if you can stop him in no other way, then use it.”
Accolon accepted the weapon, staring at Arthur with a mixture of awe and terror. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Arthur clapped the boy on the shoulder, leaving a bloody handprint behind, and raced back into the battle.
King Gurgurest and Prince Constantine had brought Gawain and Owain to the walls of Eburacum so that they could watch King Lot defeat the High King. From where he stood, it looked to Gawain as if the battle was trending in the opposite direction. Gurgurest could see it, too, and he fumed.
The soldiers from Estrangore under the command of their stoic King Bagdemagus stood outside the walls, setting up a siege of the city. They shot burning arrows over the walls, and the people of the city ran with buckets of water to put out the fires before they burned out of control. With every volley that Estrangore’s archers sent, the king of Eburacum cursed. Owain, who had been keeping his own counsel about the proceedings, began to laugh at Gurgurest, which threw the king into a rage. Only the intervention of Prince Constantine prevented him from beating the young prince into paste.
Gawain strained his eyes, trying to see his father on the battlefield. He located him by following the fiery brand that was King Arthur’s glowing sword. From where he stood, he saw that the battle between the two kings was vicious, and he gripped the stone of the parapet tightly. He saw blood streaming from beneath his father’s armor, and when Arthur overcame Lot’s defenses, he stifled a cry of alarm.
Constantine, who had been watching the battling kings as well, looked at the prince of Lothian and sneered, “Congratulations. You seem to have inherited a throne.”
Gawain did not reply. Instead, he watched helplessly as Arthur carried his father away. He was torn, wanting to spring over the wall to help King Lot, but wanting to celebrate the High King’s victory. He turned to his captors.
“Release me.”
Gurgurest laughed in his face. “Who are you to give us orders, you treasonous whelp? You are my prisoner and you will remain so until I say otherwise. Your value as a hostage just went up. Why would I release you now?”
“Because you are losing.” Gawain smiled coldly. “So much for grinding the High King’s army between my father and your walls.”
Another volley of firebrands shot over the walls, and one of the arrows landed next to Gurgurest’s feet. He stepped back with another curse while Constantine stomped out the flame.
The king of Eburacum snapped to a nearby guard, “Take these princ
es to their room and lock them in.”
The guard stepped forward and began to seize Gawain’s elbow. He stood tall and glared at the man. “Touch me and I will kill you.”
The guard lowered his hand, uncertainty plain upon his face. He gestured vaguely. “Come on, then.”
The prince of Lothian took one last look at the battlefield, seeing Arthur and his glowing sword returning to the fray. He took comfort in seeing that although the High King was battered, he was still fighting on. With a glare for Gurgurest, Gawain followed the guard back down to his sumptuous prison.
When they saw that Lot had been captured, the Danes and the Dogs’ Heads retreated, fleeing the battlefield en masse. Bedivere begged the king, “Let us pursue them, my lord!”
“No,” Arthur said. “They have yielded.”
“They’ll come back to haunt you another day,” the knight argued.
“Then we will deal with them on another day. Today we need to see to Eburacum. We are joining Bagdemagus and we are taking that city.”
Arthur turned his horse around and cantered to his ally from Estrangore. He arrived as another flight of burning arrows streaked over the walls. King Bagdemagus turned to him with a grim smile.
“Congratulations on a fine battle, Your Majesty,” he complimented. “We are preparing our battering ram.”
“Excellent work, my lord,” Arthur replied. “We will aid you in your endeavors. I want that city, and I want to see Gurgurest swing.”
Bagdemagus nodded. “I concur.”
The king’s son, Sir Maleagant, came to where the two were talking. “The ram is ready, my lords,” he announced.
“Put it to use,” Arthur commanded. “I will gather the knights and we will enter when the door is broken in.”
Sir Maleagant nodded and offered the High King the old Roman salute of fist to shoulder, then hastened to make the order a reality. Arthur mustered his tired knights and joined them behind the troops manning the ram, ready to burst into the city at the first opportunity.
“Remember to let the men get out of the way before you charge,” he told his knights. “We mustn’t trample our own soldiers.”
The knights from all of the assembled kingdoms joined up, their horses snorting in eagerness for the fight. The ram banged into the gates of Eburacum like a giant’s fist. On the other side of the wall, Arthur could hear voices raised in panic and what sounded like pandemonium. He turned his horse around to face his knights again.
“Do not attack civilians or the unarmed. We will do this, but we will do it with honor. Any man who slaughters the innocent will be punished as a murderer. Am I clear?”
The knights nodded in assent.
“If any man here loots the citizens of this place, I will personally whip him as a thief. Our aim is exclusive: to capture King Gurgurest and reclaim this city. That is our only goal.”
The knights and foot soldiers looked at one another, some concerned, some irritated. Arthur had learned that looting was a time-honored tradition in warfare, but these were still his people. He had killed many Britons this day, and he had no stomach for killing any more.
Sir Griflet joined the line of knights as Arthur came back to his original position. The young knight had a bleeding cut on his face and chips hacked out of his shield, but he was otherwise intact, which relieved the king. He nodded to Griflet, who nodded back.
“Where is Merlin?” Bedivere asked.
“I have no idea,” Arthur admitted.
“I don’t think he’d run, do you?” Griflet asked.
“Merlin? Run?” The king shook his head. “No. He’s probably working on something all his own. We will no doubt find him inside the city.”
“Well, if he’s inside, the least he could do is open the gate,” Bedivere opined.
Arthur chuckled. “Where’s the sport in that?”
The ram struck the gate again, and this time there was the sound of splintering wood. The knights prepared themselves. There was another stroke of the ram, and then another, and finally the gate shattered before them. The soldiers manning the ram rushed to the side, clearing the way for the knights, whose horses leaped into the fray and stormed through the gap into the city. The foot soldiers followed them through, a mob of armed and angry men descending like furies on the panicked town.
Arthur led the way, trying to avoid trampling the frightened people who ran aimlessly in the streets. The door to the keep was shut, but the garrison was in the street, ready to fight. The first Eburacan fighter the High King encountered was a pikeman, and he set his weapon, bracing it with his foot and pointing it at the onrushing chest of Arthur’s horse. He leaned hard in the saddle and pulled the reins so that the horse veered sharply, putting the pikeman on Arthur’s right. Excalibur flashed, and the pikeman fell, his weapon clattering to the cobblestones.
They reached the closed keep doors and Brastias called for the ram again. The foot soldiers brought it at a run, and the rhythmic banging began again.
Arthur looked up at the wall and saw a cauldron being pushed into position. He shouted, “Oil!”
The men dropped the ram and scurried out of the way as boiling liquid cascaded down onto the space where they had been.
“Archers!” the High King shouted. “Clear the walls!”
His bowmen began to fire, and their aim was deadly. Soon none of the troops and guards inside the keep dared to show their heads above the stone parapets. The men on the ram wiped the oil off the grips before setting to their task again. Arthur sat in his saddle and waited, scanning the walls above the gate and looking to the towers for more threats. He was impatient to get inside.
With a deafening crack, the ram burst through, and the keep was theirs to take. Arthur and his knights rode through the doorway into the great hall, their horses’ hooves loud upon the flagstone floor. Gurgurest and Constantine stood at the end of the hall, just in front of the throne, fully armored and surrounded by a dozen loyalists. Arthur rode forward, Excalibur humming in his hand.
“You are defeated,” he announced to them. “Yield and your men will be spared.”
“Our men?” Gurgurest demanded. “What about us?”
“You have committed treason against me, and you will be dealt with accordingly. Your men do not have to die for you. Yield and I will release them.” He pointed the tip of his sword at Gurgurest’s throat. “You chose poorly when you chose to side with Lot.”
Constantine dropped his sword and knelt. “I yield to you, my lord.”
Gurgurest glared at his compatriot as if he had been personally betrayed. He raised his sword above his head and charged at Arthur, roaring. He succeeded only in impaling himself upon the High King’s blade and died drowning in his own blood. Impassively, Arthur pulled Excalibur free and wiped it clean with the leather palm of his gauntlet.
The soldiers dropped their weapons and knelt beside Constantine, misery clear to read in their faces. Bedivere dismounted and asked, “What do we do with them, Your Majesty?”
“Take my cousin to my tent, where he will await me with our other guest.” He looked at the kneeling soldiers as Bedivere bore Constantine away. “Swear your allegiance to me, and you will be released.”
One by one, the frightened men swore their oaths on Excalibur’s brilliant edge, and Arthur, satisfied, sheathed his sword.
He repeated his usual terms. “You are free to go. Never raise your hand against me or this realm again, on pain of death. I spared you this time. If you oppose me again, you will not be as lucky.”
They bowed to him and hastened out of his presence as quickly as they could. Sir Kay watched them go, then smiled and said, “I think you scared them.”
“Good.” He dismounted and took a deep breath. “Thank God that’s over.”
“Indeed.” Brastias dismounted as well.
“We need to find the young princes,” Arthur said. “We need to be certain they’re unhurt after this ridiculous ordeal.”
Kay nodded. “I’ll go find t
hem. You go see to your new friends.”
“Shall I come with you?” Brastias asked the king.
“Yes, please. This will be an interesting conversation.”
Arthur walked into his tent and was greeted by three furious glares. Uriens had been brought out of the dungeon, and he, Lot, and Constantine, their hands bound behind their backs and secured to the central tent pole, looked at him as if they wished they could murder him with their bare hands. Only the scowling men at arms standing guard over them had prevented the three prisoners from upending the tent and trying to escape.
Arthur removed his helmet and sat on his cot, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
“You all stand accused of treason.”
Uriens spat, “It’s not treason, because you are not my king!”
Arthur warned, “Listen to me before you speak. Have a care, Uriens of Rheged.” The man fell into sullen silence. “I am the High King of Britannia, heir to Uther Pendragon, to whom you all pledged your loyalty in days gone by. I should, by rights, be the heir to those oaths, as well, but you have greeted my coronation with open rebellion and deceit.”
Brastias entered the tent and stood quietly at Arthur’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His ruddy face and dark beard were stained with matted blood from other people’s wounds, and the look on his face was intimidating even to Arthur. Constantine looked up at the veteran knight, then looked away again hurriedly.
“Deceit,” Lot growled. “You speak to me of deceit when you have kidnapped my son and turned him against me?”
“Sir Gawain’s choices were his and his alone. There was no turning, no undue influence and no deceit on anyone’s part.”
“Sir Gawain?” Lot echoed.
“I have knighted him. He swore his oath of fealty to me without compulsion.”
The king looked stricken as his last shred of hope for his son was torn away. He closed his mouth and averted his eyes from the High King’s face.
Arthur straightened. “Uriens and Lot, you never accepted me, so you are correct when you say that you have not actively committed treason against me. Constantine, the same is not true of you. You accepted me as your king, and then you betrayed me when you abetted Gurgurest in locking his gates against me. You were named as my successor in return for your loyalty and support. You have withdrawn that loyalty, and so I withdraw my acceptance of you as the heir to my throne. That honor now falls to Sir Gawain, my sister-son, who is the oldest of my nephews. You are all kin to me - Constantine through the blood of my uncle Ambrosius Aurelianus, and Lot and Uriens through marriage to my sisters. I have no wish to order the execution of my own family, as I have so few of you remaining.”
