by J A Cummings
“I have come with news regarding the High Kingship.”
Lot toyed with his wife’s braid, and she wrapped an arm around his neck. The king said, “If this is about that foolishness with the sword and the stone, I have already heard.”
“Then you’ll know it isn’t foolishness at all.”
“Are you behind it?”
He saw no reason to prevaricate. “Yes.”
Morgause leaned back, and the posture accentuated her slim waist and ample bosom. She was a temptress, and Merlin was not immune to her charms. Most men were not, and it was her stock in trade.
Lot smiled. His teeth were white and even, unbroken and unstained. He was the picture of robust good health, as kings were meant to be. It was little wonder that his men followed him with almost manic devotion. “Any test established by your magic is not a neutral test,” he said. “We all know how magic works. You can cast the spell, and then it responds to your chosen conditions.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Your brother-in-law King Uriens made the same argument.”
“Ah! We are often of like mind. That is why we make good allies.” He stroked Morgause’s cheek, and she leaned into the touch like an indulgent lap cat. Merlin was surprised she wasn’t purring. “What did you say to appease him?”
“The truth.”
“Ha! You wouldn’t know truth if it bit you,” Lot mocked.
“Let the man speak, husband,” Morgause said.
Her voice was rich and smoky. Merlin could be distracted by a woman like her if he allowed himself to be. Instead, he focused on the task at hand, and on his mother’s wrath - and worse, her disappointment - if he failed.
“I told him that the spell was intended to find Pendragon’s true heir. Only when the right person pulls the sword will the spell permit it to be drawn.”
“The right person,” Morgause echoed. “Not the right man?”
Merlin smiled at her. “The presumption is that the High King will be a man, Your Majesty, so I felt no need to belabor the point.”
“But Britannia is known for her warrior queens, is she not?” She stroked her husband’s beard, and he smiled. “What if I, or my sister, were to pull the sword?”
“You are welcome to try, I suppose, but you are not Uther Pendragon’s heir.”
Her eyes flashed at the mention of the hated name, but she did not lose her self-control. “Ah, but through his wife, I am.”
“He never formally adopted you or Queen Morgana. You were never his heirs.”
“We are as close to a legitimate heir as that whoreson ever got.” She swung her legs off the arm of the throne and rose to face Merlin. She was tall for a woman, and there was physical strength in her. He also saw a glimmer of strength of a different kind, and he smiled at her broadly.
“You have been studying magic,” he said. “Who is your teacher?”
Morgause sat in her own throne, which sat beside Lot’s. “Not your concern.”
“If you hope that your spells can counter mine and affect the outcome of the test of the sword in the stone…”
She stopped him with a wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t be so foolish as to imagine any such thing. We all know that your power far outstrips anyone else’s besides the gods’.”
Lot put his hand over hers and said, “So you want me to believe that you have no preference for who pulls this sword? That you haven’t already pre-selected Pendragon’s successor?”
Merlin could sense the whole royal family looking at him closely, reading his reactions. He had no doubt that Morgause would sense a lie, and possibly Gawain, too. He chose his words carefully.
“I have cast the spell to be as honest as precise as it can be, with the help of the gods and with the approbation and blessing of Bishop Augustine.”
Lot sneered. “What care I for the words of any Bishop?”
“There are many Christians in Britannia, my lord, and they will be more comfortable accepting a magical sign if it is also a holy one.”
“Magical signs can be influenced, or altered,” Morgause said.
“Or they can be true. I assure you, I am as neutral as the Norns in this.”
His invocation of Norse deities had the desired effect. Lot considered Merlin carefully, then turned to his son. Speaking in the Norse tongue, he said, “What do you think, young prince?”
Gawain studied Merlin’s face and responded in the same language. “I think he has cast this spell to tell the truth, but he knows who the true heir is, and that is why he doesn’t fear the outcome. Affected or unaffected, the result is the same.” He looked at his father. “I also know that he speaks Norse and understands every word we’re saying.”
Lot returned to Gaelic. “Bah. I am not surprised. What say you, Merlin? Is my son onto your games?”
“If I were playing games, my lord, then I would say yes. But I come to you speaking the truth and the truth alone.”
Morgause clucked her tongue like a mother soothing a child. “Does it burn your mouth, enchanter?”
He smiled at her. “Not in the least.”
Gawain said softly, “Even the devil can tell the truth.”
It was a strangely Christian thing for a pagan prince to say, Merlin thought, but he kept that observation to himself. Morgause beamed at her boy. “Precisely so.”
Lot considered his wife and his heir, and he kept Merlin standing for a long time. When he had just reached the edge of rudeness in making the druid wait, Lot hesitated a little longer, returning the insult that Merlin had dealt to him earlier. When he was certain that he had made his point, he said, “We will come to Londinium at Yuletide. There is nothing to be lost in trying this test, and possibly everything to gain. At the very least, it will be a good show to see all of the pretenders trying and failing to pull the sword.”
The druid bowed to the king. “I will be pleased to see you and your family there. Will all the boys be coming?”
“No. Only Gawain, Gaheris and Agravaine. Gareth is still too young.”
Morgause objected gently. “We can hardly leave him alone if I am coming, too.”
Merlin expected Lot to object to his wife inviting herself along for the trip, but he said, “You’re right. We will bring him, too. He can suckle at one of your breasts, and I will be at the other.”
He grinned lecherously at her, and she seemed to delight in it. She laughed loudly and stroked his arm.
“Until then,” Merlin said. “I look forward to seeing you at the cathedral.”
The last thing he saw before he teleported out was the watchful expression on young Gawain’s face.
The snow reflected the brightness of the winter moon, illuminating the garden around the sacred well. Morgana crept out of the convent, a place she had come to despise, her favorite belongings bundled into a spare cloak and tied into a parcel she could carry. She reveled in the feeling of the wind in her hair, freed at last from the wimple of her nun’s habit. She vowed to never restrain her hair again.
At the edge of the baths, Ganile was waiting for her. Her teacher was striking in the moonlight, a tall blonde goddess in skins and metal, intricate braids and a silver circlet on her head. She had an axe in her belt and a shield on her back. She held the reins for two horses in her hand, and she smiled when she saw Morgana approaching.
They met in a tight embrace, sharing a passionate kiss before Ganile said softly, “Quickly, now. Let’s go.”
She slipped Morgana’s bundle into a saddlebag and helped boost her lover into the saddle. She mounted as well and led the way out of Aquae Sulis toward freedom.
Morgana’s heart was beating in her ears, nearly deafening her with its roar. At last, at long last, she would be living her own life, on her own terms. There would be no men to make demands of her body, no old women to make demands on her soul. She would be with her lover, where she would learn the ways of magic and how to defend herself with sword and axe. She would be free. She would be the person she had always been meant to be.
Ganile looked at her and smiled a challenge. Morgana grinned and nodded in acceptance. Her Saxon enchantress kicked her horse in the flanks, and the beast burst into a gallop. She did the same, and soon they were racing pell-mell down the Roman road toward Londinium.
They ran until their horses could run no longer, and they dismounted and walked the animals to help them cool down. Ganile took Morgana’s hand, and they walked in silence for nearly a mile. A tiny hamlet appeared beside the road, and they sought out a friendly haystack where they could rest. Ganile spread her cloak for them to lay upon, and Morgana settled back to look up at the stars and the smiling face of the goddess in the moon.
Beside her, the Saxon enchantress looked, as well. “She is beautiful tonight, isn’t she?” she asked, her words exotically accented. She held out her arm, and Morgana snuggled up to her, her head on Ganile’s shoulder.
“She is. And so are you.”
Ganile smiled. “Flatterer.”
“I swear it’s so.”
They lay in silence, watching the twinkling stars and the misty clouds that drifted overhead. Morgana began to feel sleepy, and she rolled onto her side, not relinquishing the pillow she had made of her partner’s arm. Ganile looked at her and touched her face gently.
“My queen,” she whispered.
They kissed. Fatigue stole over them both, and they dozed in each other’s arms while the horses grazed.
Arthur rose before dawn, abandoning the room he now shared with Griflet. His sleep had been haunted by memories of Enfys. With a heavy heart, he left the keep and stole into the private chapel, breaking the silence of God’s house with the crunching of his boots.
He walked to the altar and knelt, his hands clasped in prayer. The carved face on the crucifix stared down at him in pity and recrimination, and he had to look away. He crossed himself and bowed his head.
“Forgive me, Father,” he whispered. “I have sinned.”
“What sin could a boy so young have committed that it should rob him of his rest?” Illtyd sat up from the pew on which he had been reclining, startling Arthur out of a year of life. Arthur sprang to his feet, his dagger in his hand, and the knight held up his hands. “Don’t strike. I mean no harm.”
He relaxed, but only marginally. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Are you the only one who can come to God in the dark hours of the night?” he teased. “I am a monk as well as a knight, after all, and this is more my place than yours. Still… I will confess, I came not for prayer but for quiet. Brastias and Kay both snore to wake the dead.”
Arthur sheathed his dagger and sat slowly in the pew across from Illtyd. “Can you hear confession?”
“I am not a priest, but if you need to talk to a friend, then I think I will do as well as most.” He smiled gently. “What’s troubling you, son?”
He sighed. “I lived three months at Ynys Môn and participated in pagan rituals. I never prayed to the Lord, and I watched…” Arthur passed a hand over his face. “I watched them kill and burn a girl as a sacrifice.”
Illtyd nodded. “This was when Merlin took you away.”
“Yes.” He looked down at his feet. “But there’s more than that.”
“You can tell me. I won’t judge you.”
Arthur hesitated, uncertain if he should proceed. He had said nothing since Samhain night, and the secret and his questions weighed heavy on his soul. He decided that he would get no peace if never spoke, and so he made his confession. “I called upon the spirit of Amren to visit me, using pagan ritual, and he came.”
The knight’s eyebrows rose. “He came?”
“He did. And he was solid, like you are now. He was real. He was physical.” He shook his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Is that even possible? And we… he…”
Illtyd moved to sit beside him. “It’s not a sin to be haunted, Arthur, even if you asked the haunt to come. You loved him. There was unfinished business there. You can’t be faulted - not even by God Almighty.”
“It was witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft or spells from another point of view are miracles.” He put an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “I tell you, my son, that there is nothing in this world that happens but God knows of it, and permits it. Sometimes it’s for our good, and sometimes it seems entirely the opposite, but remember that for every sad moment, a good moment will come. He rewards His children.”
“Even when we’re disobedient?”
“Even then. He loves us for what He thinks we ought to be, not for what we are.”
Arthur was unconvinced and confessed, “I lay with him when he came to me. Is that something that a ghost could do? Or was I deceived, and lay with a demon that wore his face?”
“Why do you think it wasn’t Amren?” he asked. “I know he loved you. If he could have come to you and loved you - and no man on this side of the veil can say what those on the other side can do - then he would have.”
“It was… different.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“Did you feel his love for you?”
“I… I think so. But I don’t know. We were together in a way we hadn’t been before, and it was wonderful, but it was...odd.”
Illtyd squeezed his shoulder. “Perhaps he came as much for himself as he came for you. It may have been that there was something he wished to do with you that he never had the chance to do, and he came for that purpose. If he loved you in a different way than before, that might have been the reason.” He smiled. “If I were you, and if I had lost my love only to get him back for just one night, I would count it as a rare gift and would be grateful to have been so favored.”
Arthur took a deep breath. The knight’s words were comforting, and they were exactly what he had hoped to hear. “Thank you.”
“And as for the girl, well…” He sighed. “I have spent a fire night in Ynys Môn, myself, and I have seen the self-same thing. There were far more druids than me, and even if I had wanted to save the man they sacrificed, I would have ended up taking his place. It’s for the best that you didn’t interfere. They would have overpowered you, and then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of seeing you again. There’s also the fact that their gods are still strong, and they would have been displeased to have their ritual interrupted. If you survived the druids, then you might have found yourself under the curse of a pagan god, and nobody wants that.”
He shuddered. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Pagan gods are punitive, as the Lord once was. Since the New Covenant of our Lord Jesus Christ, He has become a God of mercy. That is why it is better to cling to Him and leave the old ways behind.” He leaned over and bumped against Arthur’s shoulder. “God won’t curse you if you interrupt the Mass. I can’t say the same for Arawn or the Morrigan.”
He looked up at the crucifix. “I met her.”
“Who?”
“The Morrigan.”
Illtyd whistled. “That is… singular. She is a mighty goddess. What did she say to you?”
“She said that she is Sovereignty and asked me why I came to trouble her.”
“You went to her?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He shook his head. “I said I would be her Champion. Can I do that and be a Christian, too?”
Silence hung between them, and it grew more uncomfortable the longer that it lasted. Finally, Illtyd said, “No. You cannot. ‘Thou shalt have no gods before me.’ First Commandment.” He shook his head. “You will have to choose, Arthur. As the parable says, a man cannot serve two masters.”
“I saw her, and she spoke to me. She left her mark upon my wrist.” He held up his right wrist, showing the black line that was tattooed there like a permanent bracelet. “God has never spoken to me.”
“He speaks to those who have the ears to hear.” Illtyd took his hand and examined the tattoo. His lips pressed into a thin white line. “This is a bad thing you’ve done, my boy. Now that she has marked you,
she will never let you free. If you fail as her Champion, the punishment is death.”
Arthur pulled away, rubbing at the mark and staring up at the crucifix again. “Then I am damned.”
“You can be exorcised.”
The thought was horrible, and he stood. “No.”
“You should be exorcised. That is a terrible mark you bear.”
He looked into the knight’s worried eyes and said, “I am a Briton, and the gods of the Britons have called to me. Perhaps that is the call I need to answer. This god…” He gestured toward the altar. “This god comes from a foreign land, brought in by invaders. He is not British.”
“He is the God of all,” Illtyd protested.
“Not of me.” He looked back at the altar, then shook his head. “Not anymore.”
He walked back toward the door to the chapel, and Illtyd stood to call after him, “If you turn your back on Him, you will regret it.”
Arthur turned when he reached the door. “Perhaps. Or perhaps what will happen is the same thing that happens when you turn to Him in prayer.”
“Which is?”
He turned away again. “Nothing.”
Lot lounged in his bed, Morgause lying at his side, her head heavy on his arm and putting it to sleep. He would eventually need to dislodge her to chase the pins-and-needles sensation away, but for now he let her rest. In the cradle on her side of the bed, little Gareth cooed contentedly. He smiled. His sons had always been strong and healthy babies, but this little one was by far the happiest of the group. He was proud of his boys, and glad that little Gareth, who was so far from inheriting the throne, was blessed with a good nature and a pleasant spirit. It would make him a good supporter for when his brother became king.
Lot knew a thing or two about kingship. His grandfather Harald was the King of Norway, and his father, Sverick, was the king’s fourth son by his first wife. Sverick was destined to never rule, and he was content with his position, supporting his brother, who was the heir apparent. He was faithful and true to his brother Hrolgar, defending him in battles large and small, taking his part in arguments in the Thing and generally being a perfect shadow. Lot was his third son, and he saw his destiny in his father’s servile position. He did not intend to support anyone’s kingship when he knew that he was strong enough to establish and hold his own.
