by J A Cummings
“Who is this guest?” Kay asked as he scrubbed his fingernails, removing the grime from the chainmail he’d been handling all day. “He must be important.”
Amren looked at him askance. “You don’t know Catigern?”
“No. Should I?”
“He’s the second son of King Vortigern, the tyrant who ruled as High King before Pendragon. Brother to King Brachwel.” The boy looked at Arthur. “Don’t you two know anything?”
“Vortigern was a traitor,” Arthur said, eager to show that he wasn’t as dimwitted as his companion seemed to believe. “He invited the Saxons to Britannia.”
“Yes. And his own son Vortimer died trying to fight them off.”
Kay clicked his tongue. “We all know that. But I heard that Catigern died in the battles against the Saxons.”
Bedivere’s son looked disgusted. “Obviously not. More’s the pity.”
“I know that your father said he’s a horse trader and a rich merchant, and that he has men at arms at his disposal,” Arthur said carefully, pausing in his ablutions. “But if he’s the son of the last High King before Uther, then maybe he’s the one with the best claim on the throne.”
“He has a claim, and King Brachwel has a claim, and Sir Constantine, Uther’s nephew, has a claim. Others might think they have claims, if they can make them stick.” Amren pulled off his work tunic. “My father needs to stay on Catigern’s good side.”
The oldest boy began to strip, as well. “So it’s all about gaining favor.”
“Yes.” Their host’s face darkened for a moment. “There’s little my father wouldn’t do to ensure that he stays on the winning side.”
Arthur sensed a hidden meaning behind those bitterly spoken words, and it filled him with queasy anxiety. Things in Viroconium were much more complicated than he was familiar with, and he felt like he was swimming against white water.
When they were all clean and as presentable as they could make themselves, the three boys returned to the great hall and took up their positions along the wall. The minstrels were playing, and the double entrance doors had been flung wide. Sir Bedivere stood there, silhouetted against the light of approaching torches, and Arthur could hear the jangling of bells. A litter carried by four men with painted faces came into view, its silken curtains closed against the night air. A cadre of foot soldiers, dressed like Roman centurions, accompanied the litter in formation, their spearheads gleaming in the torchlight. The four slaves gently lowered their burden to the ground once they reached the inner courtyard, and they knelt beside the posts. One of the torch-bearers stepped up and opened the curtain for the occupant, and Catigern emerged into view.
Arthur’s stomach lurched. It was the man from the baths, the one with the unpleasant, watching eyes. He wished fervently that Sir Ector had not gone away.
“My lord,” Bedivere greeted, bowing deeply to his royal guest. “I am honored that you accepted my invitation.”
Catigern smirked. “You should be.” He gestured to one of his slaves, and he scrambled to carry his bags into the keep. Amren met them and led the way upstairs to the master’s chambers. “I so rarely receive invitations from you warlike folk. I had to come if only out of curiosity.”
Bedivere laughed, although Arthur didn’t think anything was funny. “Well, Your Highness, times are changing, and it’s good to draw closer to our neighbors. Don’t you agree?”
“Indeed. This is a homely little place. A little dark for my taste, but quaint in its own provincial way.” Catigern strolled into the great hall, looking around with curiosity and amused disdain. His gaze traveled over the table and came to rest on Arthur’s face. The man smiled slowly with sly recognition. “And who is this?”
Their host introduced, “My lord, this is my squire, Kay, and my page, Arthur. They have just come into my service from Caer Gai.”
“Their father is here?”
“No, my lord. He has gone on business.”
Catigern smiled broadly. “Excellent.”
Arthur felt sick.
They were kept too busy during dinner to listen to the conversation, which as far as Arthur was concerned was just as well. He heartily disliked this prince with his unctuous smile and the slithering way he moved his hands while he ate. More than once, while Arthur had been leaning over to pour more wine into his goblet, the man had rested a hand against his thigh, squeezing as if to judge the strength in the boy’s haunches. It was disconcerting. Amren was the recipient of the same sort of unwelcome touch, but he kept his face absolutely impassive, so Arthur struggled to emulate him. The other diners, Sir Bedivere and several of his knights and vassals, would never have suspected from the boys’ expressions that Catigern was putting his hands upon their bodies. Of the three of them, only Kay was spared the man’s attentions.
The supper was nearly ended when Sir Bedivere followed the three boys into the kitchens, ostensibly to select a suitable vintage for dessert. He pulled the pages aside and spoke quickly and quietly.
“Prince Catigern is a very powerful man and he is on the verge of swearing his protection to us if the pretender armies come to call. We must do what we must to make him believe we are worth protecting.” His hard stare bored into Amren’s face. “Do you understand me?” His son nodded in silence, his face still impassive but his eyes and cheeks burning. Bedivere nodded and put a hand on Amren’s shoulder. “This does not bring me joy. You must believe me.”
“It brings you power and prestige,” the boy whispered, “and that brings you joy aplenty.”
Arthur and Kay expected Sir Bedivere to respond with the back of his hand, but the look he gave his son was full of hurt instead of anger. He whispered, “I deserved that.”
“Yes, you did.” Amren turned away and began uncorking another bottle of wine imported from Spain.
Bedivere said firmly, “It’s for our family. It’s for the greater good.”
Arthur could bear the confusion and Amren’s evident dismay no longer. “What are you talking about?” Kay put a hand on his arm but was ignored.
Bedivere looked at Arthur, the hardness returning to his face. “He asked for you. It’s only my love for Sir Ector that prevents me from granting him his wish.” He pointed a finger in the boy’s face. “Don’t make me regret that choice.”
The knight smoothed the angry lines in his brow and turned back toward the dinner party, the untroubled host once more. Amren freed the cork from the bottle with a pop, and Kay pushed Arthur back, interposing himself between the youngest of them and the assemblage of men.
“Keep quiet,” Kay hissed, “and stay out of sight. I’ll do your duties for you now. Go upstairs and hide.”
Amren looked at the two brothers, then nodded. “Yes. If he has already asked for you, then he won’t be dissuaded if you come into his sight again. You’re prettier than me.”
Horrible realization began to dawn in Arthur’s mind, tainting his innocent understanding of the world. “Prettier…?”
With one clenched fist, Amren gave him a brutal shove in the chest and propelled him toward the spiraling tower stairs that led to the private rooms above. “Do as Kay says. Now!”
Arthur went up the stairs as quickly as he could go, frightened by the things he was beginning to understand. He was afraid of Catigern, afraid of Bedivere, afraid for both Kay and Amren. He wished deeply and profoundly that Sir Ector would come back before bad things could happen. He raced through the master chamber and into the little room where the boys were to sleep, and he huddled into a corner, ashamed that he was hiding but painfully aware that there was nothing else he had the power to do. One of the maids had been tending the hearth in the master’s chambers, and she came and closed the door, looking in on him as she did so with a mixture of pity and sorrow on her face.
He stayed there in the darkness, too afraid to light a lamp or even a candle, leaving the little brazier in the corner unlit. He listened for voices from the hall, but the stone floor was too thick to allow sound to rise
to meet him. He strained his ears, anyway, listening for angry words or the sounds of struggle. He wasn’t even certain what he thought he’d hear.
After an eternity of waiting, Kay slipped into the room, his eyes wide and his lips pressed shut in disapproval. He joined Arthur on the floor and without a word draped his arm around his foster brother’s shoulders. Arthur leaned into Kay.
In the master’s chamber, they could hear Catigern’s voice. “A pleasant enough room,” he said. Arthur could imagine the sneering look upon the man’s face. “For a country estate.”
Bedivere spoke next. “I hope that you’ll be comfortable here, and that your sleep is restful. If you need anything, I’ll be through these doors, and a servant will be waiting outside for your call.”
“You know the only thing I require. Provide it, and I will be very comfortable, indeed.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Bedivere’s voice was thick but steady. “Amren.”
The door from the master chamber opened, and Bedivere came into their room. He carried an oil lamp in his hand, and the sudden light made Arthur squint. The knight looked past the two boys huddled on the floor and continued through the chamber silently, leaving through the other door to enter the lady’s chamber. He closed the door tightly behind him, but before he did, Arthur could see the glistening of tears in his eyes.
All was silent again for a long moment, but soon they could hear Catigern. “Well, come here, boy. I don’t want to chase you.”
Amren’s voice was quavering when he replied, “Yes, my lord.”
Kay squeezed his arm more tightly around Arthur’s shoulders and whispered in his ear, “Try not to listen.”
He tried, but the horror of what was happening in the next room was impossible to ignore. Sounds of gagging, muffled sobs of pain and bestial grunting reached them. A particularly sharp cry pierced the silence, and Arthur surged to his feet, unable to bear it any longer. He burst into the master’s chamber and fell on Catigern, pounding him with his fists and pushing him with all of his strength. Amren struggled out from beneath the man and retreated.
The prince defended himself against Arthur’s wild, flailing blows, guarding his nakedness and crying out for help. The servant rushed in from the hallway and tried to pull Arthur away. The boy was wild with fury, and it made him stronger than he had any right to be. Shouting in incomprehensible rage, he pummeled the man with fists and feet. Bedivere hastened into the room and joined the servant, and the two of them were finally able to pull Arthur away from the now-bloodied Catigern.
“How dare you, boy!” the prince spat, wrapping himself in his robe. He glowered fiercely. “Hold him!”
“My lord -” Bedivere began
“Silence!” He was raging, his face red. He took up his thin leather belt and doubled it in his hand, the metal ornamentation clicking. “Strip him.”
“My lord!”
“Strip him!” He snapped the belt. “Turn his back to me. I will punish this impudence!”
Bedivere tried to intercede. “My lord, he is my page. I will discipline him.”
“If you had discipline, your page would not have attacked me! Turn him!”
The servant and the knight obeyed, although Arthur struggled against them. He caught sight of Amren’s tear-streaked face, and the other boy shook his head at him. Arthur did not understand the message he was trying to convey and continued to fight.
A twelve-year-old boy was no match for two grown men, and soon he was stripped and standing with his back to Catigern, who was now nearly foaming. He braced himself for what he knew was coming. He looked toward Bedivere, but the knight kept his face turned away from him. Arthur set his jaw and waited.
The first blow was like fire across his shoulder blades, and he cried out despite his attempt to stay silent. The second blow followed quickly after, and another, and soon he had lost count of the lashes. He was blinded by the pain, gasping with every stroke of the belt. Finally, his legs wobbled beneath him, and he sagged in the rough hands of his captors.
Catigern tossed the belt aside. “I hope that he learns his lesson. He is fortunate I didn’t just kill him.”
“Yes, my lord,” Bedivere ground out. “My apologies.”
Their high-born guest grunted a dismissal, and Arthur was borne into the room where Kay was pacing, apoplectic. Amren took the opportunity to escape as well, darting into the room ahead of them, his clothing bundled in his arms. Bedivere and the servant put Arthur on his sleeping pallet, and the knight lit the candles in the room. After a hesitation, he locked the door to the chamber where Catigern still fumed.
“What were you thinking, boy?” he asked, shaking his head. “What have you done?”
Arthur curled on his side. “I did what was right.”
“At what cost?”
“The cost doesn’t matter. Right is all that counts.”
“I am not going to argue philosophy with you.” He shook his head. “Amren…?”
The boy did not respond. He went to the basin and began to wash himself, his face burning with shame. Bedivere watched silently, guilt and sorrow vying for pride of place in his eyes. Finally, he went into his own room and locked that door, as well.
The two locked doors made Arthur feel protected, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Kay knelt beside him and wrung his hands. “Oh, what will Father say?” he fussed. “Arthur, what will Father do?”
“I know what I would do,” Amren said, his voice low. “I’d kill the bastard.”
“I’d help,” Kay said. “I would.”
The boy finished cleaning up and came to the pallet, where he too curled up on his side, echoing Arthur’s posture.
Kay sat beside them, watching, chewing his lip. “Was… was it awful?”
Amren’s response was a glare that could have shattered stone. Wisely, the older boy stopped asking questions and retreated to his own pallet. They lay silently for a while, Arthur trying to breathe without whimpering, Amren struggling to keep from crying. They both failed.
When dawn came, Ector woke and kicked out the last embers of the campfire he had slept beside. His horse browsed in the rime-covered grass and leaves beneath the spreading arms of the great oak that had been their nighttime shelter, and watching the animal helped his tired mind remember where he was and whom he was seeking.
They were on the outskirts of the Forest of Arroy, which stood between the Rivers Avon and Tame. It was an intimidating place, dense with trees and magic, and even the mighty Roman army had purposely built its roads to avoid it. The traveling was difficult and slow, and it had taken Ector longer to reach the outskirts of the forest from Viroconium that he had expected. His errand was an important one, and he was determined not to tarry further.
He helped himself to a ration of hard cheese and crusty bread that he had packed from Bedivere’s stores, and he washed it down with water from a nearby nameless stream. It took him longer to pack up camp than it had when he’d been a young soldier in the service of Uther Pendragon, but the lack of two good hands was only a minor inconvenience. He was back in the saddle and on the trail again within an hour of waking.
Arroy’s trees grew close together, almost as if they were a phalanx forming a shield wall. It took time to find a path around the thickets, but though the ground was rocky and choked with vegetation, the horse was sure-footed. Even when strange and unidentified creatures scurried in the underbrush, and when a flash of a colorful bird shot from the canopy overhead, the old charger continued on his course, steadfast and solid. Ector reminded himself to thank Bedivere for the loan of such a reliable mount.
He rode for hours, and despite his time in the saddle, it seemed that he had come no nearer to his goal than when he’d started in the morning. The forest twisted and turned around him, and once when he looked back, the path he had just traveled had disappeared. The wood seemed alive with mystery, and the feeling of being watched followed him, as if unfriendly eyes were staring around every tree trunk. His skin prickled wit
h the sensation of a hundred arrows trained at his back, although he could see nothing that could be a threat. The woods were perilous. Strange magic ran through the Arroy like water, and it chilled him.
Ector stopped near another small stream to slake his thirst and to allow his mount to rest. He crouched and broke the thin layer of ice, then brought the water to his mouth with his cupped hand. It tasted sweet, almost as if it were not water at all, and he wondered if there was harm in drinking it.
“There’s no harm.”
He whirled in the direction of the voice. Standing a few feet away from him stood a young man clad in a chainmail shirt, a Roman-style breastplate of boiled leather fastened over it. The chain and plate were both painted black and seemed to gleam like jet in the dim light shining down through the tree limbs. His face was young and beardless, fine-featured and almost elfin, and his blue eyes were calm and deep. He wore the strangeness of the Arroy as if it were his birthright.
Ector relaxed when he saw him. “Merlin.”
“The very same. You’ve come looking for me.”
The old knight nodded. “Yes. Pendragon has died.”
“I know. I was there.”
“What now?”
Merlin tilted his head quizzically and, as was his wont, answered a question with a question. “Where is the boy?”
“I left him with Bedivere.”
A whiff of alarm showed on the druid’s face. “With Bedivere?”
“He’s a good man.”
“He was a good man. But times change, and people change with them. He’s a toady who’ll do anything to ingratiate himself to those he believes are powerful. He’ll stop at nothing.”
Ector frowned. “He would do no harm to Arthur. I trust him. I left my boy Kay there, as well.”
“Kay is of no concern.” The casual dismissal of his son annoyed Ector, who rankled but held his silence. Merlin held out his hand, and the horse walked to him. He scratched the animal’s mane and said, “You were to keep Arthur safe and protected.”
