by J A Cummings
Arthur thought it sounded like a reasonable possibility, given enough time and enough work. He was certain that he had many more years as a fighter before his body responded without having to be told what to do by his conscious mind.
Brastias and Bedivere had mastered that art, and he learned a great deal from watching them spar. Every day, the two veterans would square off against one another and fight for all they were worth, usually stopping just barely shy of causing injury. Sometimes a jab or a parry got a little too aggressive and one or both of them came away with bruises, but for the most part it was bloodless mock combat. Still, even with the stakes so low, Arthur could see those moments when their arms lifted or their legs bent at just the right moment, too quickly to be deliberate. He envied their skill and hoped he would live long enough to gain at least a portion of their excellence.
They had nearly finished for the day when they were joined by King Lot, who was walking slowly but showing no pain through force of will. Arthur and his knights, including Sir Gawain, saluted the King of Lothian when he arrived.
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” he greeted the young High King. “I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?”
“Of course.” Arthur went to Lot’s side, and the two of them stepped a few yards away from the others so they could speak alone.
Lot said, “I wish to thank you for your leniency and mercy in allowing me to remain on my throne, and also to thank you for the generosity you have shown my son. You’ve honored him greatly, and through him, you’ve honored my family.”
“You’re my family, as well,” Arthur said with a smile. “I was glad to be able to do it.”
“Now that Eburacum is safely retaken and secure within the hands of Queen Severina, and since she has sworn her loyalty to you, it seems that your work here is done. I wonder, would you care to accompany us back to Din Eidyn? We would like to host you and yours as honored guests. You should see all of your realms, after all.”
The offer was stated simply, and the High King could detect no pretense. He was warmed by the invitation, and he smiled even more broadly. “I would be delighted to accept. I have heard so much about Lothian and Din Eidyn that I am eager to see her.”
“She will not disappoint.” Lot nodded with satisfaction. “We intend to leave tomorrow, if that’s not too soon.”
“I think that’s not too soon at all.” He offered his hand, and Lot grasped it. “Thank you for welcoming me at long last, brother.”
This time, the Norse-born king’s smile looked a little queasy. “It truly is my honor, Your Majesty.”
Arthur and his retinue - Merlin, Kay, Griflet, Gawain, Owain, Brastias and Bedivere - departed with the royal family of Lothian and Queen Morgana the next morning when dawn was only a promise on the horizon. The snow was finally beginning to melt, and winter was releasing its hold on the land. It would be spring soon, and time for new beginnings.
The journey to Din Eidyn was uneventful, and they arrived in the afternoon several days later. Arthur was amazed by the castle’s position on a tall dark rock that was unassailable on three sides. The only approach was from the east, up a green slope that led through a series of gates to the stone hillfort beyond. He was grateful that he didn’t have to try to take the city; he had rarely seen a more defensible position.
“It’s beautiful,” he told Lot.
The King of Lothian smiled. “It is, at that. It was hard to take, too, I’ll tell you. Now that I have it, I’m not in any rush to let it go.”
“The battle to take it must have been incredibly hard,” Arthur said, shaking his head in admiration.
“It was the hardest battle I ever fought - until I fought you, of course.” He chuckled, and Arthur smiled at the compliment. “At any rate, welcome to our home.”
They rode up the sloping approach to the castle wall, and the guards snapped to attention as their king came into view. They saluted Lot and his family smartly, and the High King was impressed anew.
Within the walls, the castle was a renovated hillfort that had been rebuilt in stone and heavy timbers, the ancient wooden palisades replaced by gray sandstone that had been washed with lime. Curtain walls protected the inner precinct of the castle, and the houses of merchants and tradesmen huddled cheek by jowl between the castle’s outer walls and the curtain walls farther within. The city was active and lively, with commerce and conversation being carried on all around them. Arthur could make out the disparate languages of Brythonic, Pictish and Gaelic, the local dialect. He was dazzled by the variety of the place. Of all of the places he had seen, only Londinium was larger and more metropolitan.
“The Romans never made it this far north,” Lot told him as they rode. “You won’t see their relics standing around. This is all made by the Gododdin and the Picts before them. The castle is as native-born as its people.”
Arthur had to smile at the pride in Lot’s voice, considering that the king himself had been born in Norway. Aloud, he said, “It’s the most amazing place I’ve ever seen.”
They were greeted by a burly, red-haired man with an exuberant beard and a booming voice. “King Lot! By all that’s holy and otherwise!” he exclaimed. “Welcome home!”
“This is Sir Angusell,” Lot said to Arthur. “He is my steward and one of my most trusted friends. He is also my half-brother.” To Angusell, he said, “Show respect to this young man, for this is Uther’s son and the new High King.”
The steward bowed deeply. “An honor, Your Majesty. King Lot, shall I prepare your chambers for the king?”
“No,” Arthur said, holding up a hand. “I have no wish to displace a wounded man from his own bed. I will accept any other accommodation you can supply.”
Morgana spoke up from the back of her palfrey. “He can have my room. From the window, it has a beautiful view of the mountain.”
Morgause smiled. “An excellent thought, my sister.”
Arthur nodded to the two queens. “My thanks.”
Lot spoke to Angusell. “Make it so.”
They dismounted and left the horses and their luggage to the castle’s servants, then proceeded into the keep. Gawain walked quietly into his home, and Arthur could see how happy his nephew was to be able to see the place again. Owain, walking beside his mother, gaped at the tapestries and carvings on the wooden supports. The influence of Lot’s Norse origins was everywhere, but it melded perfectly with elements from the Picts and the Britons.
Morgana was watching Arthur closely, and he smiled at her. “It’s very impressive,” he told her. “What is your castle in Rheged like?”
She looked around, then sighed. “Not like this. It’s much grayer and less ornamented. It’s… dull.”
“Dull doesn’t seem to suit you,” he said.
Morgana turned a brilliant smile toward him. “King Arthur, if you weren’t my brother, I would say that you are flirting.”
He laughed. “Not flirting, I assure you. Just making an observation.”
“Dull is the last thing that anyone would call our sister,” Morgause said, smiling. She beckoned for a servant and ordered, “Take King Arthur and his things to his room.”
The man bowed to her and silently took hold of the chest of Arthur’s belongings. He bowed to the king and walked away, leaving Arthur to follow him. They went up a winding, narrow staircase in a tall tower, climbing until they reached the room at the very top. There was a single window, wide enough for Arthur to fit his entire body through if he so chose, and through it he could see a two-peaked mountain just outside the city.
“The Hill of Agned,” the servant told him. “From there you can see almost all of the plain around Din Eidyn.”
The hill was close, just a little over a mile east of the castle. He could imagine an enemy taking those peaks and looking into Din Eidyn. He could even imagine a massive ballista on that hill, raining fire down onto the castle and the town at its feet. Luckily, he knew of no siege engines that could cover that kind of distance.
> “It’s a beautiful view,” he told the servant.
“Aye,” the man nodded. “Beautiful. Is there anything else, Your Majesty?”
“No, thank you.”
The servant bowed, then backed up three paces before he left the room. Arthur sat on the window seat and leaned against the wall, staring out at the gray-blue sky. Here, in this moment, was the peace he had been seeking.
The feast hall in Din Eidyn was raucous and crowded. Dozens of people sat around the long table, and conversations and laughter filled the air. Arthur sat at the head of the table in the seat of honor, and to his right was King Lot. Merlin sat to his left. The food was plentiful and the drink was flowing freely, and Arthur was the object of fascination and discussion. He could see many people looking at him and openly studying his face, then whispering to their companions. He wondered what they were saying, and whether he was being found worthy.
Morgana was watching him closely, as well, and from time to time she smiled to herself, or she whispered to Morgause, who was seated beside her. He had the sneaking suspicion that the two of them were mocking him, and it made him both sad and self-conscious. He sipped his ale and tried to ignore them.
Lot leaned toward him. “Have you ever tasted uisge beatha?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I have. What is it?”
“It’s called the Water of Life,” his host said, smiling. “It’s a strong spirit distilled from oats and barley, and it’s the very lifeblood of the north. Would you like to try it?”
Arthur nodded. “I would.”
Merlin leaned closer. “It’s very strong stuff. I’m going to have to carry you out of here.”
“I doubt one sip will do that much,” he disagreed.
Lot gestured toward his wife. “My lady, bring some of the good stuff for King Arthur.”
She began to rise, but Morgana sprang up to her feet. “I’ll get it for him. Would you like a glass, as well, my lord?”
“Of course,” the King of Lothian said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and he was shocked that she had taken the time to ask.
His sister rose from the table and left the room. When she returned, she was followed by a maidservant carrying a tray of glasses filled with an amber liquid. Morgana provided the drinks to Lot, Arthur and Merlin, delivering them with a flourish. “Yeghes da,” she said, smiling.
She sat back in her seat at the other end of the table and watched, her fingers interlaced beneath her chin. Lot drained his glass in one gulp, and Merlin smelled the liquor cautiously. Arthur was about to bring his own drink to his lips when the druid said, “Arthur, let’s trade glasses. For luck.”
The king frowned, confused. He had never heard Merlin invoke luck before, and he was certain there was something unspoken behind it. Of course, with Merlin, there were always things left unspoken. He shrugged and exchanged glasses with his advisor, and Morgana smiled wider, her eyes glittering.
“I’m not trying to poison the king, Master Merlin,” she said, her tone light and almost playful.
The druid smiled at her and saluted with his vessel. “Can’t be too careful.”
Arthur drank. It was bitter, tasting strongly of fermentation, and it ravaged his mouth and burned his throat like liquid fire. His eyes watered and he gasped almost as a reflex, struggling to breathe around the agony in his gullet. He could feel it seeping, hot as coals, all the way into his stomach.
Lot laughed heartily at his reaction, as did most of his court. Griflet and Brastias looked annoyed, but Bedivere was trying to stifle a chuckle of his own. Arthur looked to Merlin, who had calmly swallowed his entire portion of uisge beatha and was putting his glass aside. He looked as if he’d been drinking nothing stronger than water.
“Oh,” Arthur finally managed to husk out. “That’s...powerful.”
Gawain chuckled and signaled a servant to bring him some uisge beatha of his own. “It’s strong, my lord, and takes some getting used to. The things you drink in Cambria are gentle compared to our northern brews.”
“But our cider is something to behold,” Arthur said in his homeland’s defense. “And the mead of Ceredigion -”
“- is what we wean our children on!” Sir Bruis, Lot’s lieutenant, joked. The people around the table had another long, loud laugh.
Lot rapped the High King’s glass with one knuckle. “Drink up. Don’t waste a drop. It’ll put hair on your chest… and you’re probably in need of that.”
Arthur blushed and swallowed the last of the alcohol in one quick gulp. The empty glass had an oily, black residue that looked entirely unwholesome, and he shuddered from both the look and the taste of the stuff. The Lothians and Norse laughed at him again, and he felt profoundly foolish.
Morgana appeared at his side, picking up his glass and refilling it with white wine. “This is likely more to your comfort, my lord,” she told him.
“Thank you.”
The conversations around the table were lively, but he was having trouble following them. He could hear what was being said, but he couldn’t comprehend it. He turned to look at Merlin, who was speaking to him slowly, his voice sounding as if it were coming from the bottom of a pond. He shook his head, trying to signal that he didn’t understand, but the motion made the room spin. He felt hot and cold at the same time.
Morgana’s voice cut through the noise and haze with crystal clarity. “Excuse yourself and go to your room. You must rest.”
He lurched to his feet without realizing he was doing it, and when everyone turned to look at him, he said, “If you’ll excuse me, I need to rest.”
Arthur’s tongue felt thick and alien in his mouth, and his feet were leaden as he made his way toward the tower. Merlin rose with him, and he could just make out the sound of the druid’s voice, but again he heard no words. He shook his head and held up a hand, motioning for Merlin to stay put. The druid sat again with a look of annoyance and concern. Morgana and one of her ladies swept up to him and took control of him, walking with him up the stairs. They were practically carrying him by the time they reached the top floor where his room waited.
He sat on the edge of his bed, unable to do anything else, and watched as Morgana’s ladies stoked the fire in his fireplace and lit a candle by the bedside. Morgana stood to the side, her hands primly clasping one another at the level of her waist. He heard only the sound of water rushing in his ears, or perhaps blood, and the slow, disjointed beating of his own heart.
His sister’s voice reached him again like a ray of light in a darkened room. “Sleep, Arthur.”
He lay back on the bed, and all of Morgana’s ladies but one left the room. The one remaining woman bent to the task of removing his boots and his tunic beneath his sister’s watchful eyes. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open.
The door to the room swung wide, and Griflet came in, a frown on his face. He spoke to Morgana, who replied, but none of their words made sense. As Arthur watched, his sister turned to go, taking her lady with her and leaving Arthur alone with Griflet.
His lover - ex-lover, he reminded himself distantly - closed the door and set the latch before he came to Arthur’s side. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hip against Arthur’s. He stroked the young king’s face with one hand, gentle as a whisper. He spoke, and again Arthur could not understand. He tried to speak, but his mouth would not comply, so he only stared up at Griflet, feeling like he was watching him from a hundred miles away.
His friend helped to undress him the rest of the way, then put him under the velvet blankets and soft, silken sheets. He whispered to Arthur and lay down beside him, his arm loose around the king’s waist. Arthur could no longer stay awake and closed his eyes, obeying the order to sleep.
Morgana rejoined the feast, sitting beside her sister once again. Morgause leaned toward her and whispered, “You used the potion, didn’t you?”
“A test. Just a little taste to see how strong it is,” she smiled.
“You put it in Mer
lin’s cup?”
“I knew he would trade with the king to protect him.”
“How much did you give him?”
“Three drops.”
Morgause was impressed. “That’s all?”
“That’s all.” Morgana looked delighted. “It’s incredibly powerful. We should save the rest in case there’s anyone else we want to use it on. It’s not going to go bad, after all.”
Down the table, Sir Bruis asked, “So, the little king can’t hold his drink, can he?”
“Apparently not,” Lot replied, finding great humor in the situation.
Sir Brastias spoke, his voice a cautionary rumble. “His Majesty is unaccustomed to strong spirits. He has lived a clean life.”
The Lothians and Norse around the room erupted into laughter again, and this time Sir Bruis chortled, “His Royal Maidenhood needs to be a man!”
Merlin put his hand on the table, palm flat, and every item on the wooden surface levitated. He stared at the outspoken Norse-born knight and spoke in a low, threatening tone. “You will show the High King proper respect, both in his presence and out of it, or you will pay the price.”
The room went silent. Bruis laughed again, uncertainly, and said, “It’s just in fun.”
“There is no fun in your voice, and your mocking tone says otherwise,” Merlin responded. The floating objects began to spin in place.
Morgana shook her head in jealous amazement at the druid’s casual use of magical power. His abilities outstripped hers by an embarrassing measure, and she swore that one day she would have his power for her own. She just didn’t know how to go about it.
“Peace, friend,” Morgause said, her voice soothing and her demeanor queenly. “We are still adjusting to his new position, and ours. We are raucous and rough people here, and not used to the fineness of our king’s Cambrian sensibilities. We will learn.”
Merlin stared at the queen, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp. Morgana studied them as they faced one another, neither of them giving one inch of ground. Finally, the airborne objects stopped spinning and settled back onto the table top. The druid lifted his hand.
