by J A Cummings
Arthur chuckled and leaned back against the wall again. “So, you’re Sir Bedivere’s nephew.”
“So I’m told.” When Arthur raised an eyebrow, Griflet laughed. “Just joking. Yes, my mother was his sister. I don’t really remember her very well. I was sent away from home a long time ago, when I was very small. Do you remember your mother?”
“My foster mother died when I was very young,” he said, “and I know nothing of my birth family.”
Griflet shrugged. “Well, that might be all for the best. Sometimes birth families are more trouble than they’re worth.” He hesitated, then said, “Is it true that my cousin was murdered by Prince Pryderi?”
Arthur’s stomach soured. “That’s what we’ve been led to believe.”
“But you’re not so sure?”
“I have my doubts.”
“Who do you think did it?”
He took a moment, then said carefully, “I prefer not to make accusations until I have more proof to support them.”
Griflet canted his head. “How old are you, again?”
“Fifteen.”
“Christ, you sound like an old man.”
“I feel like an old man.”
They were silent for several moments, Arthur looking away from Griflet, who was looking around the little room. Finally, the newcomer asked, “Are you upset that I’m here?”
He was surprised by the question. “No. Of course not. Why should I be?”
“Because maybe you wanted to be Sir Ector’s squire.”
“I’m supposed to serve Sir Kay.” It felt strange to call his brother by that title; he would have to get used to the sound.
“I’m supposed to share this room with you.” He looked at him almost shyly. “And your pallet, too, if you need.”
Arthur straightened, offended. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t take it wrong,” Griflet said quickly. “I’m not trying to replace my cousin, because that’s not right. But my uncle thought you might need someone to help you through your grief, and since I’m sort of experienced now after traveling with the knight I was serving, well… he thought I might be able to help you.” He looked away. “If you wanted me to, that is.”
He didn’t know what to say. On one hand, he was infuriated at the suggestion that he would be so quick to take up with someone new, less than a week after his lover’s death. On the other, he was strangely touched by the offer, because it hinted that Sir Bedivere actually cared about him. Then again, perhaps it just showed how many ways Bedivere was willing to whore out young boys for his own benefit. Arthur wondered what the knight thought he had to gain with this. He was conflicted and frustrated, and his anger won out.
“I do not need a bed partner. I need my Amren back.”
Griflet nodded. “I just had to make the offer. That’s part of -”
“Why you’re here? In addition to serving Sir Ector, you were supposed to serve me?”
“If you wanted it.”
The boy’s voice was quiet and hushed, and Arthur couldn’t read him to say what he was feeling. He might have been hurt to be rebuffed, or relieved. Arthur couldn’t tell. Normally he would pursue the point, try to make sure that the other boy was all right, but tonight he frankly didn’t care.
“I do not want it.”
“All right.” Still unreadable, the boy went to the pallet where Kay used to sleep, and he lay down with his back to his surly companion. “Good night.”
Arthur burned in irritation, his lips pressed into a thin line, but he only extinguished the candle flame and lay down to sleep.
When morning came, all of the knights attended Mass with oppressive hangovers and then returned to their beds, leaving the boys on their own. Arthur and Griflet went to the stables and helped Ewain and Lucan care for the many extra horses that had arrived with the various knights. They were still tending to the animals when Garwen emerged from her room in the guest house, wearing a green dress with a russet colored ribbon in her hair.
“Good morning,” she greeted them.
“Good morning,” Arthur responded. “How did you sleep?”
She smiled. “Hardly at all. Drink makes men snore loudly.”
He laughed. “Unfortunately, Kay has always snored, so drink isn’t to blame - although I’m certain that it didn’t help.”
Griflet came to his sister and kissed her on the cheek. She put a hand on his shoulder, and the affection between them was plain and lovely to see. Arthur looked away.
Garwen turned to him and said, “Tell me, Arthur, are there partridges in your forest?”
“No, my lady. Partridges prefer grassland, not forest. We do have grouse, though, and those can be a pleasant addition to a day’s meal. Do you hunt?”
She blushed, and he had no idea why. “I do. I have a goshawk that I take out to hunt when I’m riding. I wonder… would you accompany me?”
Arthur looked at Griflet, who smiled stupidly at him. “I would be pleased to do so, my lady,” he said. “Shall I saddle your palfrey for you?”
Her brother chirped, “I’ll see to it.” He raced off before either of them could say a word.
He looked at Garwen and smiled. “I’m afraid I’m missing something.”
“My brother fancies himself a matchmaker,” she said, smiling. “It’s nothing, just a child’s fancy. I am not here to find a husband.”
“Oh, I think you are,” he countered, “but not among the nameless orphan squires of the keep. I think you have a knight in mind.”
She blushed again, and he had to admit that the color in her cheeks was very comely. “I… I have… I suppose, if a knight sought to court me, I would not say no…”
“Because you want to be courted, or because you think you have to be?” he asked.
Garwen sighed. “If I do not make a good marriage, then there will be nothing left for me but a convent, and that is a fate I abhor.” She added hurriedly, “Not that I disparage the religious sisters who are truly called. I am simply not one of their number.”
Griflet reappeared, leading two horses by the reins. His sister smiled. “I suppose I should go and get my hawk,” she said. “Excuse me.”
Arthur watched her go, then said to Griflet, “You should saddle a horse of your own. We can all ride together. I think that she and I should have a chaperone.”
Her brother chuckled. “I think I can trust you. Ladies aren’t your preference.”
“I like ladies very well,” he countered. “But appearances…”
Lucan led a third horse out of the stable, ready for riding. The older squire said, “I thought the same thing. Here is your mount, boy. Go with them. Get out from under my feet.”
Griflet took no offense to the gruff words and swung up into the saddle just as Garwen returned with her hawk on her fist. The bird was hooded and had long trailing jesses attached its feet, and she held them firmly beneath her thumb. Arthur bent to assist her with mounting her horse, and in the sudden nearness, he smelled wildflowers. She stepped into his interlaced fingers and let him boost her into the saddle.
Once he was certain she was steady and seated, Arthur climbed into Avona’s saddle and took the reins from Lucan. “My thanks,” he told the groom, who smiled and patted the horse’s neck. Arthur said, “My lady, the way to the wood is through these gates and to the left. I will be happy to lead you along the safest paths.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” she said, her voice soft.
He shook his head as he nudged Avona into the lead. The Lady Garwen, it seemed, had been well coached in all of the acceptable things a lady was supposed to be: soft, quiet, demure, pretty and undemanding. He wondered if all ladies were truly as she seemed, or if beneath the quiet and possibly false exteriors they were actually far different. He supposed that all people in a civilized society adopted those false faces just to exist among one another without conflict. As long as everyone was perfectly polite and endlessly stoic and placid, then there would be no trouble. The problem, he thought,
was that false faces could hide the hearts of vipers, and nobody could know what scheming or ill will those practiced smiles could hide.
He glanced at Garwen, who was speaking softly to her bird as she rode. He wondered what thoughts she concealed. He knew that he, himself, had been raised to a certain style of behavior and the expectations that the world had of men in this day and age, and he knew just as well that the external seeming and the internal being were not always in tune. His own heart sometimes beat as wild as a boar in the wood, and sometimes his urges and his thoughts were at odds with what was allowed in this sober Christian age. He supposed that was why the philosophers and the saints all tried to teach humanity self-control and self-denial, in order to raise the level of mankind a little closer to the gods.
They left the meadow and began to cross into the shadow of the wood. It was the first time he had gone back into the forest since they’d brought Amren home, and even now, he was filled with sharp pangs at the thought of his lover. Part of him almost expected - no, hoped - that he would see Amren coming toward him through the trees. Such things would never be, and he would never look upon his face again. He fought against tears that pricked his eyes, and he cleared his throat to try to banish them.
He had been letting his internal struggles and pain have a little too much airing since Amren had died. He had not been as controlled as he ought to have been, and his angry outbursts and challenges to Ulfius and others had been born from that lack. He should have taken his cue from Sir Bedivere, who no doubt was mourning deeply, too, over the loss of his only son. The knight had been civil and sociable, and if the truth of the matter hadn’t been known, one would never have suspected that he had laid his child in the ground only days ago.
Arthur set his face into as placid and blank a mask as he could make it as they entered the wood. He would become a man with such control that he would make his Amren proud. He would leave behind his wanton emotional ways and live with respectability, the way his father wanted. He knew he had disappointed Sir Ector at Sir Kay’s knighting feast, and it pained him that he had caused his foster father such embarrassment. Somehow, he would amend his ways and atone for his faults. He would govern himself and his behavior such that he would truly be elevated closer to the gods, a little step closer to heaven.
A little step closer to Amren.
Sir Ector rolled out of his bed with a groan and a curse. He had hoped that he would feel better if he slept more after Mass, but the sacrilege of vomiting the Host was looking like a very real possibility. He should not have imbibed so much last night.
His head beat with his pulse and his mind was full of scenes from yesterday. He saw his son standing tall and proud as he was given his sword, shield and spurs. He saw his friends thronging into his keep, with the happiness that only a large and boisterous group could bring. He heard again the laughter ringing from the walls of the great hall, something that had not happened since his Aelwen had died. Had he been such a hermit? He supposed he had. He realized now, now that he saw his hall the way it once had been before the loss of his bride, that he had retreated from the world in his grief. He had done his children a disservice by forcing them to live knee-deep in his mourning.
And now his young ward was in mourning, too, much the same way he had been. Arthur and Amren had not been wed, and of course they had no son between them, but they had been lovers for at least two years, and that counted for something. He knew that Bedivere saw it, too, or he would never have allowed Arthur to be the one to deposit Amren’s ashes in his casket. He had tried to tell Arthur that grief subsided while they were in the chapel, but he knew that the loss, being so fresh, would be an acute pain for a long while yet. He hoped that Arthur would not make the mistakes he had.
On the subject of Arthur’s mistakes, his thoughts went to the boy insulting Sir Ulfius. He knew grown men who would have been too cowed by the Norse knight’s size and mien to be so bold in what they said, but there was Arthur, barely a month into his fifteenth year, giving as good as he got. The boy was a brave one, that was certain. Ector only hoped that he could teach him to be wise, as well. By insulting Ulfius, Arthur had started a fight he could not win.
Ector had ambivalent feelings toward Ulfius. The Norse knight was a former berserker, one of the pagan warriors who had been invited to Britannia by Vortigern. He had been a faithful warrior under the High King, because Uther shared many of Ulfius’s baser impulses. They both lived for bloodshed and the chance to flex their power over others, no matter what form that flexing took. Ulfius was a known rapist and a brutal killer, but he was no worse than many other knights Ector had known, both on and off the battlefield.
He had first encountered Ulfius during the assault on Castle Terrabil, when Ector had been fighting for the rights of his lord, Duke Gorlois. Pendragon had fallen in love with Gorlois’s wife, the beautiful Igraine, when he saw her at his annual fealty feast at Caerleon, and he had been determined to have her. Igraine did not return his affection. Gorlois, Brastias and Ector had taken Igraine in the night and fled the High King’s celebration without his leave, returning her to the safety and near-impregnability of Tintagel, Gorlois’s seat in far western Cornwall. Pendragon, enraged, had followed.
The two sides battled from Imbolc, when the fealty oaths were to have been sworn, through to the hottest days of summer. The fields had lain fallow in Cornwall during that growing season, because Pendragon killed many farmers and burned the crops. Ector could still remember the smoke of the burning fields and the wailing of one farmer’s wife when she had found her husband’s brutalized corpse among the flames.
Terrabil was the first of Gorlois’s castles that Pendragon encountered on his march to take Igraine, and it was at Terrabil that the duke had resolved he would make his stand. Ector and Ulfius had met as enemies on that battlefield, and it had been the Norseman’s blow that had crippled his left hand. He should have died there in the mud and blood of Terrabil, but Ulfius, who respected men of bravery, took him to the High King’s own surgeon and saved his life. Ector wanted to hate him, but Ulfius’s humor and the life debt that he owed him prevented it. Over time, they had become friends, because after Gorlois was slain in the same battle that had seen the end of Ector’s fighting days, there was no more need to be enemies.
Ulfius had accompanied Ector back to Caer Gai, and he had treated his pregnant wife with great civility and propriety. Neither he nor Ector ever told Aelwen that the Norseman was the reason her husband had been returned to her maimed and useless. By then, there was simply no point.
It took Ector a long time to recover, and during that time, Ulfius rode to glory at the side of the High King. He made friends with Brastias and Bedivere, and soon the three knights would come calling at Caer Gai together. Ector remembered their last Christmas celebration, when all of their families had come together at Caer Gai - Ector and Aelwen and newborn Kay, Bedivere and his wife Maire, and Brastias and Ulfius as bachelors. That was the last time the hall’s stones had rung with laughter and the chatter of happy voices.
So much had changed since then. So much had been lost. Both Ector and Bedivere had welcomed sons and lost wives, and then the silence had descended.
Silence. It occurred to him that the keep was silent. There was no snoring from the boys’ room to tell him Kay was safely sleeping, and he was briefly alarmed until he remembered both the hour of the day and the fact that Kay was now housed in apartments of his own outside the keep. He looked at the window and winced at the brightness of the sun and wondered what his sons and guests were doing.
There was only one way to find out. He staggered to his feet, wrapped himself in his robe, and made his way to the bathhouse.
Calling it a bathhouse was an exaggeration when it was compared with the baths at Viroconium, but it was still a place where water from the River Dee was heated and where the residents of Caer Gai could soak and clean their bodies. The bath was not empty when he arrived; Brastias was there already, soaking in the water
and reclining back against the side with a wet cloth over his face.
Ector removed his robe and slid into the water, which Brastias or one of the servants had already heated to within spitting range of pain. He echoed his friend’s posture on the other side of the pool. Brastias pulled aside the cloth on his face, opened one eye and looked at him. He closed his eyes again.
“Good party,” he said, his voice gravelly.
“Hmm.” Ector slid under the surface of the water, then came back up. “It was.”
They sat in common suffering for a long while, trying to sweat the alcohol out of their systems. Finally, Brastias chuckled. “That boy of yours has the biggest set of balls I’ve ever seen.”
He knew without asking that he was talking about Arthur. “He’s going to get himself killed one day.”
“He just needs to learn a little discretion to go with his brass.”
Ector nodded. “He will. He’s young.”
“Ulfius will teach him if you’re not careful.”
“I will talk to Ulfius.”
Another long silence descended. A wren alit in the rafters and chirped out its song, then flew away. Brastias spoke again.
“Garwen is a pretty thing.”
“Yes. And young.”
“Bedivere brought her here for you, you know.”
Ector sighed. “That’s an ill choice.”
“Every man needs a wife to comfort him.”
“Says the bachelor,” he teased. “And what comfort could an old man like me give a girl like her? She’s too young for me. She would be a good match for Kay, though.”
“Perhaps. I think she has eyes for Arthur.”
“Well, that’s another ill choice.”
Brastias chuckled. “Indeed.” He groaned. “My head…”
“My gut.”
“Will you speak to Bedivere to arrange a marriage between Garwen and Kay?”
Ector shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps a betrothal. I think it’s too soon for marriage just now. They should get to know one another first.”
