by J A Cummings
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
“It matters to me. It feels strange to ask for counsel from someone who looks like a mere boy.”
The druid laughed softly. “I have demon blood, King Uriens. Do you really suppose that I would age the same as mortal men?”
“The Evil One himself sired you, I heard.”
“Believe what you like, if it helps you think that you can understand me.” His tone was mild, but it betrayed his amusement. Merlin enjoyed when people tried to guess at what he was. In his seat on the floor, the little prince turned back to the cat on his lap, stroking its striped fur. The animal purred and curled contentedly. Merlin watched for a moment. “You will one day have a larger cat than that to keep you warm on cold winter nights,” he prophesied to the child.
“To hell with cats and women,” Uriens said gruffly. “Will I become High King now that Pendragon has died without issue?”
The druid bent and scratched the cat’s ear, then straightened again. “Pendragon is dead, yes, but he is not without issue.”
The king leaned forward eagerly. “So the rumors of a hidden child are true?”
“Are they?”
“Where is he?”
“Pendragon? Dead and buried, as you know.”
“Do not toy with me, wizard.”
Merlin laughed again, more loudly this time. “Or?”
“Or I will teach you to amend your ways.”
The king was a physically much larger man than he was, but the druid had no fear of him. He knew his destiny, and Uriens played no part in it. “You will teach me nothing but your own foolishness. No man may do me harm unless I allow it.” He looked the king in the eye. “You will never be High King.”
“And Lot? What of him? Will he rise to power?”
Merlin shook his head. “No. He will fare even worse than you.”
“Bah!” The man turned away and slumped back into his chair. “There is no hidden child, and you tire me with your vague predictions. I doubt you truly know the things you claim.” He pointed at the druid. “This is all some game you and your Anglesey bastards are cooking up.”
“Well, we shall see.” He put his hand on Owain’s head, and the boy looked up at him again. “You are a good boy, and will be a good man, despite your blood.”
The little boy finally found his voice, and it was steady but quiet. “Thank you.”
He turned back to the king. “Do not lay with your wife again. She is badly wounded by the treatment you have given her.”
Uriens chewed once more upon his stick, furiously grinding the wood between his teeth like a discontented rodent. “I care not. I am a king. I can have any woman I desire.”
“So I’ve heard. But lie with her again, and I will seek you out for more than conversation. Will you be able to restrain yourself with her?”
The king considered. “If I am not in my cups, and she is not near me when the fires rise, then perhaps.”
“Perhaps I should take her to her mother, if you refuse to keep your filthy paws off her.”
“Bring me another princess, then, or some other woman to share my bed. Nights are long and cold, and I need a woman.”
“Give me Morgana, and you will have all the women you can stomach.”
He waved his hand. “Take her.”
“And Owain?”
“The boy stays with me. He has no more need for a mother, and he is beginning to train to be a man. He needs me and my sword master more than he needs her.”
Merlin gathered his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. “Very well, then. I will take Morgana with me. Farewell, King Uriens. We will meet again in Londinium.”
The druid vanished like smoke, and Owain’s eyes widened in his little face.
Uriens grunted to nobody in particular. “I’m not going to Londinium.”
Three years later
“Why do I do these things?” Kay moaned behind the visor as it was strapped shut and locked in place with a click. “Why do I do these things? Why do I do these things?”
It had become his chanted prayer, the song of his impending death. At the far end of the list, he could see Amren sitting astride Sir Bedivere's old charger, lance already firmly in hand. Through the eye-slit of his closed helmet, the other boy's dark brown gaze was steady and cold as ice. A shiver of fear ran through him again, and he returned to his song of doom.
“Why do I do these things? Dear God, why do I do these things?”
His little brother's voice at his elbow was no help. “Because you can't bear to keep your mouth shut and you just have to needle people. It'll always end up here, especially if you keep bragging on the way you do.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
Kay watched helplessly as Arthur sprang down from the fence he'd been standing on. He clutched at the reins attached to Avona's bit as if holding them would prevent the pain he could see waiting for him only a hundred yards away. Amren's horse shifted and stomped one platter-sized hoof, and Kay cast his eyes heavenward for not the first time in his young life.
“Dear God, forgive me for my sins.”
Then it was all fewtered spears and charging horses, and one calamitous crash that left his ears ringing while he rolled face over fanny across the tiltyard. He finally came to a stop when his midsection met the quintain's braced feet, and he lay for a long time, huffing dust and wincing at his bruised ribs. Armor only protected a person so much.
Huge hooves stepped forward slowly until they were just inside his peripheral vision. He could see the rider's shadow on the ground; he was leaning forward, curious about his condition. Kay slapped the dirt.
“Ah,” Amren said calmly. “I didn't kill you.”
Mischievously, Arthur piped up, “Not yet.”
“Augh,” Kay replied.
Amren straightened in his saddle. “Next time you say those things about my father, I'll break your arm.”
“You almost broke it this time, you troll.” He rolled onto his side. “I don't know why you defend him, after the way he’s treated you.”
“It's called honor. You wouldn't understand.”
The victor rode calmly away while Kay struggled to sit upright. Arthur helped him up and untied the helmet laces. When the helm finally came off, freeing his scarlet-flushed face to feel the breeze again, Kay looked up into the sky once more.
“Gratias tibi...”
“Speaking Latin doesn't make you less of an ass.”
He swatted at his foster brother. “Shut up, you worm.”
“You couldn't make me if you tried.”
Arthur scampered back to the fence and the waiting rack of practice lances, ready to fit Kay for another pass. The older boy dragged himself up to his feet, still awkward in his armor, and stalked to the starting zone behind him. At the far end of the field, Amren watched, receiving a new lance from a servant called Lucan, who had come with him to Caer Gai from Viroconium three years ago.
Kay was sixteen years old, now, and ready to begin his passage into manhood. In just a few days, he would undergo the ceremony that would make him into a knight. He would spend the night in watchful contemplation of what it meant to be a man, and in the morning his father, as his lord, would give him his spurs and belt on his sword. Friends of Sir Ector’s were coming to witness his transition, and he would be the center of attention. He craved that attention, and he looked forward to his knighting with a desire he had previously reserved for Christmas morning. His life was about to change, and he was ready for it.
He reached the fence where Arthur was waiting, and he nodded to the younger boy. His foster brother was to be his squire, serving him the way he always should have done - in Kay’s mind, anyway - and helping him along as he rode into glory and adventure. He couldn’t wait for the day when he would ride away upon his charger, his squire at his side and his childhood behind him.
The best thing about leaving behind childhood was leaving his father’s house,
his cumbersome rules and most of all his house guest, young Amren Bedrydant. Amren and Arthur were bosom friends, and Kay always felt that they were against him as a united front. Since their return to Caer Gai, Arthur had become secretive, and he and his new best friend would steal away together into the woods for hours at a time, returning empty handed and closed-mouthed. He would be happy to separate them and leave Amren in the dust like the unwanted cast-off that he was. Why else would Sir Bedivere have sent him away from his keep those years ago? Obviously, he had known what sort of man Amren would become.
It was the sort of man that Arthur was turning into, as well, and Kay sneered at his foster brother as Arthur helped to fasten his helm back on again. He knew the things that the two of them got up to when they thought they were alone. He knew the things that Father Marcus had to say when he’d told him the truth. The sooner he could get Arthur away from the perversions that Amren had learned in the Roman villas of Viroconium, the sooner he could take his brother into the light.
That was what he told himself, anyway, especially when he was close to admitting that he was jealous of their closeness. Arthur and Amren spent every minute together that they could and hated to be parted, and sometimes it seemed as if nobody spent their time with Kay unless they were forced to do so.
Arthur patted his shoulder and broke him out of his bitter reverie. “Listen, just before he strikes, he drops his shoulder a little. If you catch him at just the right moment, he’ll be off balance and you can take him out of the saddle.”
Kay frowned. “Why would you help me defeat him?”
“Because I’m your squire, stupid. It’s what I’m supposed to do.”
“Don’t call me stupid!”
“Don’t act like it.”
“But he’s your Amren,” he sneered.
Arthur glanced at the other boy at the end of the list, warmth in his blue eyes. Kay’s stomach twisted. He pursed his lips and turned to face Amren as well. The other boy’s armor was well-fitted and shiny, purchased at great price with Sir Bedivere’s gold and made by that honored knight’s personal armorer. His shield showed two ravens on a field of white. Those honors belonged to his father, and in Kay’s opinion, neither Bedivere nor Amren deserved to carry them. His own armor had been handed down from his father, refitted to suit him, and it showed its antiquity with the rust stains around the rivets. Kay’s shield was blank, leaving room for him to earn his own glory when he passed into knighthood. He looked every inch the poor country knight, and when he saw the sophistication and wealth of Amren’s harness, he hated him for the contrast. The sight of the ravens on Amren’s shield enraged him, and he spurred his horse suddenly forward again.
Amren kicked his mount into action, and it surged ahead.
They came together like waves against rocks, the splintered pieces of their lances scattering like so much ocean spray. Both young men were unbalanced in their saddles by the force of the blows they had taken, but Amren, who had indeed shifted his weight to make his strike, took the worst of it. With a cry of surprise, he tumbled from his horse’s back and landed in the dirt on his buttocks.
Arthur went to Amren and gave him a hand up. “I can’t believe he unhorsed me,” Bedivere’s son groused.
“I told you that you get unbalanced when you drop your shoulder. Do you believe me now?”
“I suppose I have to.”
Kay galloped back to the center of the list, and he opened his visor, hooking it into place. “Ha! Take that! Now who’s the stronger?”
Arthur frowned. “Don’t gloat, Kay. It’s unbecoming.”
Amren waved a hand dismissively and whistled for his horse, which returned to his side with perfect obedience. “It’s his way. You can’t make a hog stop grunting.”
Kay colored at the insult. “Just like it’s your father’s way to be a whoremonger?”
He rose to his feet, glowering. “Say that again and I will make you hurt for it.”
The older boy leaned far forward, putting his face as close to Amren’s as he could. With precise and malicious intonation, he repeated, “Whore. Monger. You were the whore, so you should know.”
Roaring, Amren leaped at Kay, pulling him down from his saddle. The two boys tumbled together, fists flailing, and Arthur stepped back to let them fight it out. These little battles had become a predictable occurrence. He took the two horses by the reins and led them away from the brawl. Lucan trotted over to meet him, taking possession of Amren’s horse. When he met Arthur’s gaze, he rolled his eyes. Arthur chuckled in wordless agreement.
Amren and Kay were both too well-armored and too inexperienced to do much damage to one another, and so the two squires waited at the fence until the combatants came up for air. When they finally separated, they were mildly bloodied and out of breath, but not really the worse for wear.
“Are you done?” Arthur asked when the two boys came closer.
“Yes,” Kay said, surly. He wiped blood from his nose. “I’m sorry I called your father a whoremonger, and you a whore.”
Amren spat out a mouthful of red-stained spittle. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry I called you a hog.”
“Apology accepted,” Kay echoed. Unable to resist, he added, “I wasn’t wrong, though.”
“Neither was I.”
Lucan grunted, “Well, I’ll take the horses back to the stable. You’re done for the day.”
“Who says?” Kay argued.
“I say,” the squire said. “Arthur, come along. Bring Avona.”
The oldest boy complained, “But I wanted to go at the quintain again.” He tried to reach the horse’s bridle, but Arthur was leading the animal away too quickly.
“Why?” Amren asked. “You’d just miss again.”
“Like you can do any better.”
They continued taunting one another as they went to work cleaning the splinters of their lances from the practice ground. They should have made their squires do it, but the horses came first, and Sir Ector liked a clean tiltyard. They weren’t knights yet.
Lucan looked over his shoulder to confirm that Arthur was following, then continued his path toward the stable. He was an adult man who had been bastard-born, and as a low-born squire he had reached as far along the path of knighthood as he would be allowed. He still had seen and experienced more than any of the three boys he spent his day shepherding. Sir Ector said as much on the day when he hired him on as equerry.
“What are you thinking?” Arthur asked him when he caught up with him.
“I’m thinking that two of you boys will make great knights. The third will be a buffoon.”
“Don’t be so hard on Kay.”
Lucan chuckled. “You automatically assume he’s the third one I spoke of?”
Arthur blushed. “Well…. that’s the sort of thing people usually say about him…”
“For good reason.” They reached the stable, and he started relieving Amren’s horse of its barding. “He’s never going to be anything but a drain on whatever lord he ends up serving.”
“Predictions, Lucan? Since when are you a soothsayer?”
Sir Ector’s voice startled them both. He was standing in the stable near one of the empty stalls, watching. His tone sounded mild, but Arthur knew how his foster father sometimes hid the beginnings of his anger. He looked from his foster father to the groom and back again.
Lucan was uncowed. “I stand by my words.”
“That’s my son you’re talking about,” the knight said softly. “I would suggest that you show him more respect.”
“I show respect to those who earn it.”
“As if the respect of a bastard churl is worth earning,” Ector said, smiling.
“But Father…” Both men looked to Arthur, and the teenager shifted slightly on his feet. “Isn’t the respect of any man, no matter his rank, worth earning?”
Before Ector could answer, Lucan said simply, no rancor in his tone, “A common man isn’t worth much, according to some titled folks, and his
opinion is worth even less.”
Ector considered his foster son. “You don’t agree, Arthur?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because every man is created in God’s image, be he noble or common or worse.”
Lucan chuckled. “There’s something worse than being common?”
“There are slaves,” Arthur pointed out. “And I still would care about those men and their opinions. Everyone has a right to what they think and to be heard for what they say.”
Sir Ector started to smile, and he looked into the stall ahead of him, his eyes connecting with something that Arthur couldn’t see. He began to feel as if he had blundered into a test he hadn’t known he was going to be taking. “Is that right?” the knight said.
“Yes, it’s right. It’s right that everyone should be treated well. Every man and every woman according to their character, not their birth.”
A new voice rose from within the darkness of the stall. “And what of the law?” a man asked. “Should there be equality under the law as well?”
“Yes,” he said. Sir Ector took a step back, and Arthur watched for the visitor to emerge from shadow. “The law should apply to everyone the same.”
“Interesting.” The man came into view, his suntanned face deeply creased with lines and scars. He was a knight, broad of shoulder, with a stocky, muscular body. His armor was in the old Roman style, with a golden eagle emblazoned across his breastplate and chainmail underneath. He had short-cropped white hair and a short sword at his hip. A wooden cross hung around his neck. “Should there be different categories of men? Different treatments?”
The boy licked his lips with a suddenly drying tongue. “I don’t believe so.”
“Then even the king should be subject to his own laws?”
“Yes,” Arthur said. “Even the king… if we had one.”
“I think you might be a philosopher of sorts,” the new knight said. “Are you a philosopher, Arthur?”
He drew himself up to his full height, which had surpassed Ector’s a summer ago. The new knight stood still taller. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
