by J A Cummings
When the last of the ice and snow melted and the worst of the spring rains passed, when the roads and fields were passable for large masses of men, he would turn his army back south and meet the Saxons one last time. They were bloodied but not beaten, and he was certain they had spent the winter bolstering their forces and licking their wounds, just as he had done. They would be ready for him when he came, or they would come for him. Either way, another season of war with the Saxons was upon him.
Of course, that assumed that war with the Men of Gododdin could be avoided. He sincerely hoped that it was. He had no appetite for any further slaughter of his fellow Britons.
The thought picked at him for the rest of the night, all through dinner and the conversation afterward. When he finally returned to his room, his mind was whirling with plans and worries. It took time for him to quiet his thoughts, and he tossed and turned for what felt like hours before he fell asleep.
His hard-won sleep was disturbed by the splash of something against his lips. He automatically licked the drop away, and his head immediately became muddled. He felt something tighten sharply around his wrist, covering the black tattoo from the Morrigan. Arthur opened his eyes, but the room was pitch black. There was no light from the hearth or from the candle, and not even any starlight through the narrow windows. Someone was on the bed with him, someone who smelled of musk and flowers. It was a woman’s scent, but not one that he recognized.
He tried to raise his hand to see what had caught him, but he found that he was completely unable to move. He was lying on his back with his arms stretched out to his sides, and though he was bound only by the thin and wispy strap on one wrist, he was held tightly in place. He opened his mouth to speak, but he found that he could make no sound.
He had no vision and no voice, but he had sensation, and he felt someone touching him in the most intimate of ways. He wanted to push away whoever this person was, but he was groggy and utterly immobilized. He felt someone stripping him naked, and his body was struck by the contradictory sensations of the cold night air and the hot, wet body of a woman. His manhood, that most indiscriminate of companions, eagerly rose to accept the invitation it had been given, even as his mind insisted that it stop. The woman shifted, impaling herself on him and riding with violent abandon. He was deep inside someone he could not identify, being used against his will, and he was horrified.
Her lips pressed to his ear, and he felt them move as if she was speaking words he could not hear. Sudden lust for the woman overcame him like a madness, and he groaned and struggled against the power that held him still. She kissed him deeply, and his body’s overpowering need rose around him, making him kiss her back, their tongues sliding over one another in desperation. He tried to raise his arms, but he still could not move, and the frustration made him growl in the back of his throat. His body demanded more, but all the while, his conscious mind recoiled, and he would have begged her to stop if he could have spoken.
She moved her lips along his cheek and down his neck, raising and lowering herself upon his rigidity. He gasped when she bit him, her teeth scoring his flesh and drawing blood to the surface of his skin. She dragged her nails over his chest, scratching him deeply, and when his blood flowed, he felt her spasming around him, her pace quickening so that she was slamming against him with bruising force.
He felt his climax building, and he tried to choke it back with the power of his mind alone, but the physical would not be denied. He had never felt so helpless. He spent his seed within the woman who was grinding down on top of him, and though he tried to cry out, his voice was silenced. Even his rapid breathing was soundless.
His attacker stopped gyrating and her inner muscles spasmed around him again, milking him of every drop that he could provide. He wanted to weep, or to strike the woman, or to shout for help. He wanted to do anything in the world except lie there, paralyzed and at her mercy. His mind screamed for her to stop, but his body, a traitor to the last, remained eager for their coupling, straining for more contact. His body had become a stranger.
When the first orgasm passed, he hoped that she would leave him, but she stayed. She dragged him to his sexual peak twice more before she finally left his bed. The thin leather strap around his wrist was taken away, but he was still unable to do more than stare into the silent darkness. Though he tried to move, his body accepted no commands from him. He heard and saw nothing. The woman gripped his wilting manhood in her hand one last time, squeezing it hard until the pain made his head swim. He gasped and tried again to scream, but the sound died in his throat, and his mind whirled away into the darkness.
Morgana left Arthur’s room, satisfied with herself and rolling the enchanted leather strap into a ball. The spell contained in the little manacle had kept the king immobilized and completely under her power. The other spell that she had cast, the one she’d put into the potion, had been transferred to her along with Arthur’s seed. It burned inside her and made her tingle, the ripples of her orgasms echoing in the throbbing of her body. The magic would make sure that she would conceive this night, as she had planned. She would use a bastard to destroy the usurper on the throne that should be hers.
Someday, when their son was born, she would raise him in hatred of his sire, her brother, her nemesis. She would teach him to despise everything that Arthur stood for, and to disdain the concept of some arbitrary moral high ground governing the land. Strength of arms and the power of purpose were the only tools on which a king should depend. Arthur’s namby-pamby insistence on right for right’s own sake was weakness in disguise, and her son would know it. Might for might’s own sake would be the new religion, and their son would be its chief prophet.
Her fingertips were stained with Arthur’s blood, and she smiled to herself as she licked the redness away. It had been all too easy, and now she had the kernel of her revenge growing beneath her cold and bitter heart. It was a diabolical plan, and she was proud of herself for having thought of it.
Now began the long, cold years of waiting.
Merlin walked along the parapet of Din Eidyn as dawn came. He was enjoying the sunrise and the smell of the new day. Spring was coming soon, and the clear air of the north was still cold but carried the promise of rebirth. Of all seasons, he liked spring the best.
Arthur clattered into view, walking quickly, his eyes shadowed. “We need to leave,” he told the druid. “Where is Uther’s strongest fortress?”
He was surprised by the question but bent his mind to the answer. “There are a few nearby forts and such, but they haven’t been inhabited in years. The stoutest stronghold that’s fit for living is probably Kelliweg, in Cornwall.”
“Fine. We’ll go there.”
Arthur was distracted and upset, and Merlin frowned in consternation. “What’s happened to you?”
The young king went pale. “I can’t discuss it now. We have to leave. Please.”
“I’ll gather the men.”
“Quickly. I want to be gone today.”
He hurried back down the tower stairs, and Merlin looked after him, concerned.
The sorceress walked into the Unseelie court’s throne room, and Nimue looked at her with an expectant and eager expression.
“Well?”
She produced a glass orb that shone as it spun slowly on her fingertips. “I have it here.”
The Unseelie queen was beside herself. “Show me!”
The sorceress went to the throne and held the orb up where Nimue could see. There in the glass was the image of King Arthur, magically immobilized, his sister grinding away on top of him. Nimue clapped her hands.
“This is perfect! Delightful! We will be able to use this to our advantage.”
Annowre watched the moving images with the Unseelie queen. Nimue reached for the orb, but the sorceress pulled it away. “I still haven’t been paid for the one from Ynys Môn.”
The queen pouted. “You will be paid, Annowre.”
“Until I am, you can’t have this.”
She flicked her fingers and the orb disappeared. “I might have more use for it than you, anyway.”
“You are in the wrong place to threaten me,” Nimue bit. “You are in my domain.”
“I am aware.”
They stared at one another for a long time, and then finally the Unseelie queen blinked. She muttered to the male faery at her side, and he scowled but rose and left the room. When he returned, he had a golden casket in his hands. He handed it to Annowre, shoving at her with distaste.
“Take your payment, whore.”
She took the casket and opened the ornate lid. It was full of gems and pieces of faery glamor, components that would be useful in spells she had yet to cast. She nodded. “It is well.”
The orb reappeared, and it floated through the air until it perched upon Nimue’s outstretched palm. She watched the spectacle in the orb and chuckled to herself.
“I will shame Fergus Mor for his arrangement with this filthy king,” she said. “I will prove that the Unseelie should be the High House of the Fey.”
Annowre closed the lid. “I don’t care about your petty internecine politics.”
“What do you care about?”
“Nothing that you would ever understand.”
The queen glowered. “You have your payment. Get out.”
Annowre curtsied deeply, both graceful and mocking. “Your Majesty,” she said. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
Before the fuming queen could order her again, she left the throne room, drifting back out to the land of humanity where she was keeping King Pellinore captive, scheming for a way to add King Arthur to her collection.
Arthur packed his belongings hurriedly, throwing things into the chest without concern for wrinkles or other niceties. He dressed himself in his armor and strapped Excalibur around his waist, checking to be certain that the scratches on his neck didn’t show.
He had woken that morning hoping that it had been a nightmare, and that he hadn’t actually been raped in the night. The scratches and bite wounds had given the lie to that hope, and he was cloaked in shame and humiliation. If anyone learned about this, they would turn on him. He would lose everything. He had to keep this secret.
He needed to leave Din Eidyn as quickly as possible, to put as much space between himself and his mysterious attacker as he could. He knew that he was running, but he couldn’t bear the thought of staying where he was. He carried his own trunk down to the stable, passing surprised porters and grooms along the way.
Merlin appeared next to him, a hand on his arm. Arthur flinched away. “What is it?” the druid asked.
“When we get to Kelliweg, I will tell you, if I must.” He shook his head. “Please, Merlin, let’s just go. I can’t be here anymore.”
The druid looked into his eyes, reading what he saw there. He finally nodded. “All right. Wait here by the horses and I will tell the rest of our group.”
Arthur obeyed, his hands shaking as he cinched the saddle onto his own horse. The grooms offered to do the job themselves, ashamed that a king was doing their work, but he sent them away with more brusqueness than he intended. He didn’t even retain the words he said, so great was his distress.
Merlin came into the stable when he had finished saddling and armoring his horse. The druid stood beside him. “Sirs Brastias, Bedivere and Griflet will accompany us. Sir Gawain is staying and Sir Owain will be returning to Rheged with his parents.”
Arthur nodded. “Fine. Good.”
He swung up into the saddle, and Merlin put a hand onto his foot. “They will meet us at Kelliweg, but I can take you there more swiftly.”
The young king looked down into Merlin’s eyes. He knew he looked afraid. He probably smelled of it, too, since his horse was restive beneath him. He nodded. “Please.”
The druid cast his traveling magic, and then he found himself in an unfamiliar cobbled courtyard. Barracks and stables lined the yard on either side of him, and a large practice area and tiltyard stood to the front. Behind him, utilitarian and square, a fortress stood waiting. There were no people that Arthur could see.
“This is Kelliweg,” Merlin said. “It was the center for King Uther’s cavalry. They trained and lived here. It has been mostly deserted since Uther fell, but a small garrison has kept it clean and functional. We can stay here.”
“Good.” Arthur dismounted, and a pair of soldiers emerged from the barracks, shocked to see strangers appearing from thin air in their courtyard.
“Stop and be recognized!” one of the men barked. He both sounded and looked stern and formidable, with half of his nose missing as a result of an ancient sword stroke that had left his face scarred and twisted.
“I am Arthur Pendragon,” the king announced, “Son of Uther Pendragon and crowned High King of Britannia. I wish to end the winter in this place.”
The soldier saluted in the Roman style, and the man behind him knelt, stunned. “Your Majesty,” the first soldier said. “You are very welcome to our humble outpost.”
“Three additional knights will be arriving soon,” Merlin told them. “We will all take our lodging in the keep. Advise the seneschal or steward that we have come, and have him prepare the place for a royal visit.”
The first soldier saluted again, then scurried off to obey. The second man came forward and held out a hand for Arthur’s reins, and the king gave them over.
“Come with me,” Merlin told Arthur. “I know this place.”
He led him into the keep, which was much smaller and less ornamented than either Din Eidyn or Eburacum. It was simple, with spare lines and an obvious military history. Arthur walked through the hall, taking in the lines of the stone blocks that meticulously formed this outpost. There were four benches flanking two fire pits, and he sat on one of them, stripping away his gauntlets with his eyes downcast.
Merlin sat beside him. “Now we are alone, and no longer in Din Eidyn. Arthur, what is this all about?”
It took him a long time to answer, and when he did, the king’s voice was so quiet that even Arthur could barely hear it. “I was raped.”
The druid froze. “Say again?”
More loudly, he repeated, “I was raped.”
Merlin’s face hardened into a mask of fury. “Who did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see him?”
“It wasn’t…” He swallowed, then forced himself to utter the shameful secret. “It wasn’t a man. It was a woman.”
“A woman.” Merlin echoed his words in what sounded to Arthur like resignation.
He flushed in shame and turned away. “Don’t make me say any more.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“No.”
“Was she a large woman? Slender?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head and blinked away tears. “I don’t know. I wasn’t able to move. I couldn’t see anything. I could only…” His voice faded away and he choked on the words.
Merlin took him into his arms and held him tight, his hand cradling Arthur’s head to his chest. “I will find her,” he promised him. “She will never hurt you again, I swear to you.”
Arthur clung to him. “Don’t leave me. Please.”
“I’m staying right here.” The king closed his eyes and put his arms around Merlin’s waist, and with the druid’s silent encouragement, he began to weep. He had never felt so ashamed, so violated, or so debased. He was disgusted with himself and wanted to take the physical part of him that had betrayed him and slice it away.
Merlin held him while he mourned, and silently embraced and supported him through his tears. When at last the crying stopped and he had regained some self-control, Arthur pulled away, wiping at his face. Merlin gave him a cloth, and when the king dared to look into his face, there was only compassion in the druid’s eyes.
“You must think I’m weak,” Arthur said, his voice thick. “I know I do.”
“I don’t.” Merlin held his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I
know what things can happen. I also know that a man can be victimized through no fault of his own, and that some women are evil, just like some men. You should not be ashamed, Arthur. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
He pulled away from the druid’s touch. “But I am ashamed.”
The druid let him withdraw, saying nothing further. He only nodded to himself, his face grim and his eyes filled with determination. He made Arthur feel safe as nothing else could have in that moment. The young king cherished the feeling, clinging to it for strength, even though he knew it was an illusion.
There was no safety anywhere anymore.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Appendix A: Characters
The King’s Party
King Arthur Pendragon
Merlin
Sir Ector of Caer Gai
Sir Kay of Caer Gai
Sir Bedivere of Viroconium
Sir Brastias of Badon
Sir Illtyd
Griflet, Sir Bedivere’s nephew
Lady Garwen, Sir Bedivere’s niece
Lucan, squire
Petrus, a porter
Aoden, a porter
Britons and their Allies
King Leodegrance of Cameliard
Dinadan
Sir Eoganan, Commander at Castle Verlamion
Sir Maelgwas of Lindum
Dometius, Bishop of Lindum
Ebruart, a soldier of Lindum
Sir Meliot y Graig
Sir Mariet y Graig
Lady Hellawes of Castle Nigramis
Babh, a serving girl
King Gurgurest of Eburacum
Queen Severina of Eburacum
Captain Dubnus of Eburacum
Sir Aglonides of Eburacum
