Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  He gestured toward the stage with his chin. “Telling.”

  The Dullahan laughed.

  Unlike the first two combats, this one took a good deal of time to prosecute. The two fighters were well matched in skill even if their sizes were vastly uneven. The half-human had advantages in strength and size, but Gean-cánach was fast and clever. They danced and circled, slashed and stabbed, and though the boards of the platform grew slick with blood, they battled on until both of them were stumbling and dazed. On her balcony, Urania watched with pink-flushed cheeks, her perfect lips parted and her eyes dazzled by the display. She leaned forward, straining in her seat to see the two battling young men, her hands gripping the arms of her throne. The look on her face was redolent with lust and anticipation.

  Gean-cánach slipped on the blood that painted the stage, and he landed on his back. The half-human stood over him, one hand on the fallen faery’s throat, the other preparing to bring the axe down onto his face. Gean-cánach held up his hands and gasped, “I yield!”

  The half-human sneered. “You’ll die.” He raised the axe for the final blow.

  Lancelot cursed beneath his breath and, without understanding why, he leaped onto the stage and pushed the half-human away. The fighter rolled onto his feet, fury etched into his face, and he snarled at the interloper.

  The crowd erupted, and Urania leaped to her feet. At first, he thought that they were all angry, and he supposed they had the right to be, but to his mystification, he could see this was not the case. The troll seized Gean-cánach and pulled him from the stage, trundling him into the waiting arms of a healer, and Lancelot suddenly felt the weight of a hundred stares.

  “Who are you?” Queen Urania demanded, standing at the edge of her balcony, her hands gripping the balustrade with white-knuckled force.

  The crowd fell unnervingly silent. He bowed his head. “I am called King’s Son, but my name is Lancelot.”

  “Who trained you?”

  “Ysmon, the wood nymph, and his centaur companions.”

  The queen spread her gossamer wings and flew down to hover over the bloody stage. She peered into his face. “Why did you stop the fight?”

  “Because there is no honor in killing an opponent who has begged for mercy.”

  “Honor?” she mocked. “Do you truly believe in honor, King’s Son?”

  “I believe in the concept. I so rarely see its application.”

  She came closer to him, the rapid beating of her wings causing a breeze that lifted the curls from his neck. “Do you have honor?”

  He thought of Ysmon and all of the things he had suffered at his teacher’s hands. He set his jaw. “Not anymore.”

  Urania smiled broadly, and she asked, “What would you do to have your honor restored?”

  “It cannot be. Once lost, honor can never be regained.”

  “Ah! But what if it can? What would you do?” She hovered closer still. “How far would you go to restore that which has been lost?”

  It felt like a trick question, but he answered truthfully anyway. “I would do anything to gain my honor back.”

  She retreated, grinning. “Come and sit with me upon the balcony, King’s Son, also called Lancelot. We shall see what we shall see.”

  The crowd murmured, and he looked out at the sea of faces. Ysmon was there, and he expected to see him enraged; instead, when they made eye contact, his teacher nodded with a proud smile. He was confused.

  “Come and sit,” Urania urged. She retook her throne and held out a slender hand to him.

  He knew that something important was happening, but he had no idea what it was. Lancelot obeyed her summons and climbed up onto the balcony, using one of the banners as a rope to haul himself to the railing. He dropped over the side and onto the balcony proper, where he knelt before the queen.

  Urania smiled, delighted, and patted her footstool, signaling for him to sit on it. “Oh, you marvelous boy. I have so many plans for you.”

  In the north of Lothian, almost at the border with Strathclyde, a formerly abandoned hill fort bristled with new life. The Dogs’ Heads occupied the earthworks and used the view the fort commanded of the trade roads to plan and launch their attacks. No authorities had found their hideout yet, and thus far, they were operating in near impunity.

  Gwrgi Garwylwd, the leader of the band, was angry and petulant. He was nursing an arrow wound in his calf, and he regularly cursed the names of Lot and Arthur Pendragon. He had never expected the King of Lothian to crumble so easily, and he was shocked that the young High King, not even a man yet, had been able to defeat the massed forces that had been brought to bear against him. It defied belief.

  He was not alone in his ire. The Danish shieldmaiden Aethelflaed, whose ships had been destroyed in the ill-fated attack against Dumnonia, was with him in his fort. Her warriors mixed with his, their varying levels of surliness exploding in occasional brawls. Everyone was frustrated.

  “We wasted our time,” he grumbled to no one in particular as he sat in the stone keep. “We wasted our lives. I’ll tell you this - I will make Pendragon pay. But first I’ll take this debt to Lot. He has much to atone for.”

  One of his men, a Silurian with a missing ear, nodded. “I will go with you for that. I want the blood of that coward who betrayed us.”

  Aethelflaed spoke from the corner where she was pacing, and one of her men translated from her tongue to theirs. “We should march on Din Eidyn and take it while the king is dallying in Eburacum. He’ll have a very unpleasant surprise when he tries to come home.”

  Garwylwd stared at her. “That’s brilliant.” The warrior translated for her, and she nodded her blonde head. “I can call on our Pictish allies to join us.”

  She nodded again, and she spoke through her man once more. He translated, “I will take my remaining ships and sail to Din Eidyn and take the high ground. You march south to join me there, and when you arrive, we will destroy them.”

  The leader of the Dogs’ Heads smiled, the first genuine smile he’d enjoyed since the rout outside Eburacum. “I like the way you think, shieldmaiden.”

  Gawain went out to the stables of Eburacum after his morning sword practice with Sir Brastias and his repetitive lessons with the priest. The place was a hive of activity as soldiers, grooms and knights all came and went with horses, either taking them out to put them through their paces or bringing them back in after a long day’s work. Gringolet whinnied in greeting when he crossed the threshold, and Gawain went to him immediately, snagging some grain on the way.

  He held out his handful of treats to his horse, and Gringolet gingerly cleaned every speck from Gawain’s flat palm, his nimble lips brushing his master’s skin. Gawain stroked his neck and spoke softly to him, smiling.

  “Gawain.”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Agravaine standing there, leaning against another stall across from Gringolet. He was dressed in his armor and had his weapons at his side, but that was the only thing that looked martial about him. More than anything, his little brother looked tired.

  “Agravaine.” He went to his brother and embraced him. Agravaine clung to him, squeezing so tightly that he nearly crushed the air out of Gawain’s chest. Without pulling away, he asked, “Are you well?”

  It was Agravaine who ended the embrace first. “Come home. Nothing’s right without you. We shouldn’t be separated.”

  Gawain smiled sadly. “I can’t leave. The king requires me to stay with him.”

  His brother’s face darkened, and he growled, “Cock sucker!”

  “That’s rude,” the older of them said, chuckling, “although I don’t think it’s untrue, given some of the things I’ve heard.”

  “He probably wants to bugger you.”

  “Well, if he does, he’ll be very disappointed.” He stepped back and said, “Queen Morgana said you were looking for me yesterday.”

  “I was. I just needed to see you.” Agravaine sighed. “Father misses you, and so does Mother. Gaher
is, too. We all do.”

  He nodded. “I miss you all, as well.”

  “Then why didn’t you come to find me when she told you I was looking?”

  Gawain hesitated, then admitted, “I suppose I was afraid. We’ve always been close. I didn’t want to risk having you hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you,” Agravaine admitted, “but I hate what you did.”

  “That’s fair.”

  His brother walked to Gringolet, who shuffled closer to him and huffed warm, straw-scented breath into Agravaine’s face. The boy stroked the horse. “He’s a good boy.”

  “The best.”

  He seemed to be thinking hard about something, and Gawain gave him the time and silence to do it. His little brother was not a terribly intellectual person, more given to action than to thinking, so he didn’t want to interrupt him. His patience was rewarded when Agravaine finally said, “I’ll stay, too. I’m old enough to start as a squire. I’ll be your squire for you.”

  “Cousin Owain is already my squire,” Gawain told him. “And you’d be sad to be away from the family that way. You’d miss Lothian. I know I do.”

  His brother turned to him abruptly, and his voice was strident as he asked, “Why did you do it? Why did you leave us? Why did you choose him over us?”

  The pain in his brother’s voice made Gawain wince. “I didn’t choose anyone over you, and I never will. I just thought… I felt…” He took a deep breath. “Father was in the wrong, and I know who the true king is. I saw him pull that sword, and I know how it stayed stuck fast for everyone else who tried it, including me. I know Arthur is the rightful king, and I would be ashamed to fight against him. I can’t support a cause that’s wrong.”

  “Support a cause?” Agravaine echoed. “What about supporting your family?”

  He knew that he could never make his brother understand. He sighed. “I love my family. I always will. But my conscience demanded that I do the right thing.”

  Agravaine’s eyes flashed with rage. “The right thing is to stand with your family, no matter what. I hate that you can’t do that. I hate that you love your causes more than you love us.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No? Then why did you turn on us?”

  The conversation was going in circles. He shook his head. “If I could change things, I would. I miss the family and I miss Lothian and Din Eidyn. You can believe me or not believe me; I can’t help what you do. But at least know that I would never raise a hand to you or to Father or to anyone in our family. Not ever.”

  His brother looked unconvinced. Gawain could see that his actions had wounded Agravaine deeply, and that the boy had taken his choice to remain loyal to the High King as a personal affront. He was saddened by that knowledge.

  “Come and talk to Father,” Agravaine finally said. “You owe him and Mother that much.”

  Gawain nodded. He had been avoiding his parents, and that was cowardly. It was time to face the consequences of his actions.

  “You’re absolutely right. Please take me to them.”

  The younger brother seemed pleased by his words. “Follow me.”

  Urania escorted Lancelot into her private apartments. The balcony on which she had been sitting was attached to her bedchamber, and as she led him inside, he was overwhelmed by the scent of perfumes and incense. Every breath seemed to carry a new scent, and everything he smelled was dizzying. He looked around at the sumptuous furnishings and silky fabrics and wondered what he had gotten himself into this time.

  The Fey Queen sat on her bed and smiled at him. “Have you ever had sex with a woman?”

  He was surprised by the question. “No.”

  She cupped her own breasts, looking at him with desire. “Would you like to?”

  He answered honestly. “No, my lady. I would not.”

  She looked shocked. “No?”

  He looked away. “I have no desire for females.”

  Urania stared at him in disbelief, then began to laugh. Her laughter was like the pealing of bells, and the sound bounced off the marble floor and filled the room until Lancelot almost felt it physically, pressing against him. She left the bed and came to him, putting her hands on his cheeks.

  “You are so perfect, my beautiful boy. I am taking you with me to Tír na nÓg. Time has no meaning there. You will be kept as you are, forever, and I will have you as my very favorite pet.” She kissed his lips, and when he stiffened beneath the touch, she laughed again. “You have such a great future ahead of you.”

  He gently but firmly stepped away from her, removing himself from her intrusive touch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You will.” She smiled. “How old are you now, my boy?”

  He wasn’t certain, so he made a guess. “Sixteen, I think.”

  “Tell me, King’s Son, also called Lancelot… when Ysmon uses you, do you enjoy it? Do you shiver beneath his touch?”

  He wanted to avoid the question, or to lie, but both courses of action were improper. He had been asked a direct question by a queen, and it was his duty to answer honestly, even if the truth was distasteful to him.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Has he trained you to resist pain? To bear it like a champion, unmoved and unaffected?”

  He took a breath. “He has.”

  “And do you like pain?” She smiled broadly. “Do you glory in it? Does pain bring you sexual satisfaction?”

  He closed his eyes and admitted, “Sometimes.”

  She clapped her hands like a delighted child. “You are perfect. You are perfect.”

  He didn’t feel perfect. He felt trapped.

  Agravaine led Gawain into the apartments that their family was occupying. Morgause was playing with baby Gareth when they came in, and she fell into stunned stillness at the sight of her oldest son. Gawain stood just inside the door, hesitating.

  “Mother,” he finally said.

  She put the baby onto the floor and stood, her face hard and unreadable. Gawain watched her warily as she walked toward him. She stopped in front of him, staring into his eyes, and then she slapped his face with as much strength as she could muster. The blow nearly knocked him from his feet. He turned back to face her, his cheek burning, blinking away the water that had risen in his eyes.

  “Traitor,” she spat.

  Agravaine stood beside their mother, and he slipped his hand into hers, leaning against her. Gawain was uncertain if his brother was offering comfort or taking it. He looked into Morgause’s fury.

  “I did what I thought was right.”

  “Right?” she mocked. “What do you know about right?”

  “Only what you and Father have taught me.” He lifted his chin. “If I failed to understand it appropriately, the fault lies with the teacher, not the student.”

  She raised her hand to strike him again, but Lot’s voice from the doorway halted all motion. “Gawain,” Lot said, his voice thick.

  He looked to his father, and he saw no anger there, only resignation. Somehow, that was much worse. He bowed to him. “Father.”

  Lot crossed the room in three strides and pulled Gawain into his arms, crushing him in a desperate embrace. He kissed his son’s hair, and Gawain gratefully buried his face in his father’s neck. Morgause turned away with a disgusted sound and returned to Gareth. Agravaine happily went with their mother, leaving Gawain and Lot in relative privacy.

  “I was worried,” Lot told him. “I didn’t think you were ready for war.”

  “I saw how badly you were hurt. Are you well?” Gawain asked.

  “Well enough.” He stepped back, and Gawain reluctantly released him. “You upset us badly when you left, but I’ve been telling your mother that you’re too canny to have turned traitor. I’ve told her that you have some larger plan in mind. Tell me that’s true.”

  Gawain swallowed the lump in his throat. “Everything I do is for the benefit of Lothian and her king,” he said. “I thought that if I entered Arthur’s con
fidence, then perhaps I could persuade him to be merciful if he was victorious. If you took the day, I would be able to take him prisoner or kill him on your behalf.”

  Lot nodded. “I knew it. I knew it was something like that.”

  He was lying, and it shamed him, but he was warming to the task. He was desperate to be welcomed back into his family, to be the beloved son again instead of the outcast. He continued, “I have gained his confidence, Father. He trusts me. He’s even named me as his heir. If he is ultimately successful in uniting all of Britannia, there will be no higher house after the High King’s than ours. Think of what we can gain.”

  He looked at his mother, and she looked torn. He wanted her to believe him.

  Lot was more than ready, it seemed, to accept anything he was told that was close to what he wanted to hear. He nodded and smiled upon his son. “See? Canny. Always playing the long game. You think things through much more thoroughly than I do. You will be a fine king one day.”

  Gawain felt his eyes prick with more tears. “Then you still accept me as your son?”

  Lot smiled gently, and Gawain felt like he was looking at a lion whose teeth had been pulled out. “I would be a fool not to. You’ve shown that you are capable of great subtlety and intelligence, and your loyalty was always to me, even when it looked otherwise.”

  “Always.”

  Lot turned to Morgause with a smile. “Wife,” he said. “Our boy is home.”

  His mother looked at him with doubt in her eyes. She said nothing.

  The morning sun was pale behind a sheet of wispy clouds that cooled the sky into gray. Arthur and his knights worked in the tiltyard, sparring and practicing all of the martial skills that a knight in combat would need to master. Arthur could remember Sir Ector telling him that a good knight never stopped training, because in the end, training would be what saved a man on the battlefield. When the mind was overwhelmed by fear and the horrors of war, a well-trained body would operate almost on its own, like a reflex. If the fighter worked hard enough and conformed his body and his reactions to battle, then when the time came, battle would be instinctual.