by J A Cummings
That knowledge, that unshakeable conviction that he was meant to be a king as much as his older brothers were, had driven him to take to the sea in his longboat. He had been barely more than a boy when he’d come to the Orkneys, a seventeen-year-old with ambition, dreams and a strong arm. It had been a relatively simple thing to take the outer islands. The first had been uninhabited, and the other two held only shepherds and farmers. The greatest of the islands, though, was where the trade center was, and the castle, and the king. Lot - or Lothar, as he’d been known then - had attacked in the night, burning the wooden gates and lobbing fire arrows into the thatched roofs inside the walls. The destruction had been impressive, even to him, and his shield mate Ulfius had complained that there would be nothing left to conquer but ashes.
Lot knew better. People didn’t build castles and cities unless they intended to keep them, and if maintaining their lives and their property meant siding with the new power in the land, then that is what they’d do. It hadn’t taken him long to find a Pictish merchant willing to throw open the gates at an opportune moment in return for pretty promises of wealth and safety. That man was now one of his Jarls on the mainland. Never let it be said that Lot did not repay his debts.
His cunning victory had won the attention of the High King of Britannia, who had come to parley after Lot had begun to make inroads in Gododdin. He had taken Din Eidyn in much the same way the month before he met Uther Pendragon, and it had been with great pride that he’d welcomed the High King into his new citadel, rebuilt after the battle and ringing with the voices of his men like a proper longhouse. Pendragon had recognized his worth, and he had rewarded Lot and Ulfius with titles and with land in return for their support in the battles to come. Vortigern, the old fool, had invited the Saxons in to help him maintain control when the Romans fled, and like many other people from the northlands, the Saxons were not content to grow where they were planted. They wanted more, and they intended to take it; Uther intended to prevent them. With Lot and Ulfius and other battle-hardened warriors like Brastias, the Cambrians Illtyd, Bedivere, Pellinore and Ector, Uriens of Rheged, and even the Cornish Gorlois, they had pushed those Saxons back practically to the beach, where they clung to the shore to lick their wounds.
Uther expressed his gratitude to Gorlois by taking his wife, and Lot and Ulfius had fought in the High King’s army to enforce his right to take her. Gorlois, who should have just let the woman go and lived to fight another day, had resisted and paid for his mistake with an untimely death. It was the price of his pride.
Those who helped destroy Gorlois and helped the High King win his prize were well rewarded. Ulfius took title and land, the freedom of the country and the right to do as he damn well pleased wherever he chose. He had a writ in Uther’s own hand that excused every one of his excesses, so even if he ran afoul of some local lord, he only had to show his little paper and he would be free. Ulfius had begged Lot to take the same payment, to ride with him until the common people of Britannia cowered at the sound of their names.
Lot had other ambitions. Lot intended to be a king, and by swearing his fealty to Pendragon, he got his wish. The Orkneys and a great swath of the country of the Gododdin was given to him and named in his honor, called now the Kingdom of Lothian. He himself was showered with gold and with the right to tax his subjects, who were numerous, and who were wealthy from the trade that rolled into the Orkneys from the sea. He was also given Uther Pendragon’s oldest stepdaughter as his bride.
His first sight of Morgause had been a bit of a disappointment, although he was wise enough to never tell her that. She had been slight of build and far too young to marry, at least by Lot’s reckoning. He remembered standing beside King Uriens of Rheged, who had taken the same reward as Lot, watching as their brides were walked toward them across the mosaic floor of the throne room in Tintagel Castle. They were two pretty little girls with intelligence in their eyes who promised to become beautiful women. Morgause had been so brave. Even though it must have terrified her to be given over to a strange man, she looked him in the eye with raised chin and clenched fists, and he liked her spirit, even though she was still a child. Morgana was even younger than Morgause, something that hadn’t troubled Uriens overmuch; Lot could still remember the little girl’s screams arising from the Rheged bridal chamber. He had taken Morgause to his own bed that night, but he had only held her, comforting her when she wept at the sound of her sister’s cries.
They had left the next day in his longboat, sailing from Cornwall around the coast of Britannia and up to the Orkneys. Morgause loved the sea as much as he did, which he took as a good omen, and he had treated her as an honored guest. When they reached his home, he courted her, watching as she matured into a shrewd, savvy woman with talents beyond his imagining. She became a partner, and in time she became his lover as well.
He counted himself fortunate in his marriage, especially since Morgause had begun to dabble in sorcery. He had obtained a spell book in a raid on the remnants of a Gododdin settlement, and he had presented it to her as a gift. He could still remember how her eyes lit up at the sight of the tome’s black leather binding and brass lock. She still treasured that book, and she spent hours poring over the arcane scribbles inside. He could only guess at the things she was learning.
Lot thought about the test that Merlin had set up to declare the new High King, and he calculated that his odds were greater than anyone else’s to free the sword from the stone. He was married to the dead king’s stepdaughter, and she was happy with him. She would do anything he asked, and if he wanted her to use her sorcery to help him draw the sword, he knew that she would do it. He was the true heir to Uther Pendragon, he was certain of it, if experience and aptitude counted for anything.
He would be High King.
The last king that Merlin approached was Pellinore of Norgalis. It was difficult to find him, as he had left his capital and was chasing after the Melltith somewhere in the dark wood. It was late at night when he finally located the king’s camp. Pellinore was dozing uncomfortably in his armor, leaning against the bole of a tree with his sword in his hand. In front of him, his campfire had dwindled into embers, emitting the barest hint of smoke. His horse stood nearby, sleeping.
“Pellinore,” Merlin said, standing several feet away.
The king lurched to his feet and crouched with his sword at the ready, moving before he was fully awake. He blinked when he saw the druid standing before him. “Merlin,” he said, his voice thick with sleep. “What is it? Why do you seek me?”
“I’ve come to tell you that in Londinium at Yule, the new High King will be found.”
“Found?” He relaxed and sat down again. “How?”
“There is a sword in a stone. Only the rightful High King can pull it free.”
Pellinore snorted. “That’s an old druid enchantment.”
“True, but a valid one.” He crossed his arms and leaned against another tree not far away from the one that sheltered the king. “Will you come and try your hand?”
“No. I know I’m not the High King’s heir, and the sword won’t choose me. Better to deal with one disgrace at a time and not go courting new ones.” He ran his gauntleted hand over his beard. “It’s bad enough that my entire kingdom thinks I’m mad and I’m saddled with this monstrosity that I have to hunt. I don’t want to humiliate myself in front of the true High King by failing at the test.”
Merlin said, “I’m impressed.”
“By what?”
“You’re the first king I’ve spoken to who didn’t automatically assume he would be the one to free the sword.”
Pellinore chuckled. “I’m sure Lot and Uriens are among those you’re referring to.”
“They are.”
“Those two men are so enamored of themselves I’m shocked they have time to love anyone or anything else.” He shook his head. “They aren’t going to fare any better than I would, but I’m content if they want to embarrass themselves in public.”
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“You have a uniquely prescient perspective, my lord,” Merlin said.
“Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all. As I said, I am impressed. I would not have expected a boastful and bellicose man like you to have such wisdom.”
Pellinore tossed some kindling onto the sad remains of his dead campfire, trying unsuccessfully to resurrect it. He sighed. “I’m full of surprises. Have you been to Norgalis?”
Merlin nodded. “I have.”
“How is my son?”
“Aglovale is hale and hearty, as he should be. Queen Sybile is well and showing no distress with her pregnancy.”
Pellinore nodded. “Good news. Aglovale is all I have. Promise me that he will be kept safe, no matter what occurs.”
It was not his custom to promise such things, but it was in his best interests to keep the boy alive, for he too had a part to play in future years. He nodded. “I promise, I will protect your child.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me,” Merlin said slowly. “Will you be an ally to the new High King, when he is named?”
“If he is worthy of it. I will not bend my knee to a tyrant - not again.” The king stiffened and looked off into the brush, his face a mask of acute tension. “There! Did you hear it?”
Merlin pushed away from the tree and stood up, annoyed at the interruption. “No. That is your Questing Beast, not mine. Follow it, as you must.”
Pellinore looked at Merlin as if he had something that he wanted to say, but he held his peace. He woke his horse and climbed into the saddle, goading the hapless beast toward a call that only the king could hear. The hunt was on again.
The wind was bitterly cold, and Arthur’s fingers were bright red as he fumbled with the bridle on Garwen’s horse. Their lady guest and Sir Brastias were going out hunting again, another in a long string of private excursions where the two of them rode into the wood and stayed all day, only to come back empty handed. Arthur remembered hunting trips with Amren, and he could imagine only too well what the knight and Bedivere’s niece were really doing all day long.
He and Griflet, the two youngest squires at Caer Gai, were given the task of saddling the horses in the freezing stable yard while Lucan prepared Garwen’s hawk. Arthur could see Brastias and the lady in question standing not far away, their heads together. The knight laughed loudly at something he had said, and the lady covered her mouth while she blushed and giggled. Arthur glanced at Griflet, wondering how he liked his sister receiving so much of Brastias’ attention.
Griflet was watching them, a slight hint of worry on his face. He finished fiddling with the reins on Brastias’ steed and put his hands on his hips. “There,” he said, satisfied with his handiwork. “Now he’s ready to go.”
“Do you think they’ll marry?” Arthur asked.
The other squire shook his head. “I think they’d better, or people hereabout will have a lot to say. I don’t want my sister’s dishonor reaching my uncle’s ears. He’ll be solidly displeased.”
“Dishonor?”
Griflet tsked him. “You know as well as I do that thanks to Sir Brastias, the lily maid has had her petals bruised a time or two.”
“That’s a gentle euphemism.”
“She’s my sister. How else should I put it?”
Arthur nodded. “Point taken.” He finally got the sticky buckle to cooperate and blew on his aching fingertips. “Well, hopefully Sir Brastias will do right by her, or end it. It’s gotten to that tipping point, where he either has to be serious or he has to be gone.”
“Hopefully he’ll be serious,” Griflet sighed. “I don’t want to see my sister crying.”
“That makes three of us, my boy,” Lucan said, walking to them with Garwen’s hooded bird on his wrist. The jesses wound through his fingers and he held them tightly. “Now we wait until they notice us.”
“Fuck that,” Griflet said. “Garwen! Sir Brastias! Your mounts are ready.”
Arthur laughed. “Subtle.”
“Subtlety is my chiefest virtue.”
Sir Ector and Sir Kay walked out of the keep together, dressed in their hunting garb. Ector had a hawk of his own, and Kay had his bow and a quiver of arrows at the ready. Sir Brastias and Garwen watched their approach with dismay. Arthur could tell from the twinkle in Sir Ector’s eye that he was deliberately spoiling their party.
“What are you doing, old friend?” Brastias asked, frowning.
“We thought we would go hunting, too, if that’s not too inconvenient.” Ector smiled. “I can no longer shoot a bow, but my hawk is good at catching rabbits, and if we work together, between the four of us we can have a goodly feast laid in before the snow flies.”
Arthur looked up at the slate-gray sky. “It does seem that a storm is coming in from the White Mountain. The wind is blowing from the northeast, and it smells like snow.”
Garwen looked at her knightly companion, then back to her host and his son. “Most excellently planned, my lord. By all means, please, ride with us.”
Sir Kay smiled at her. “Perhaps we can help you resolve whatever difficulty your bird is having, since you so often come back without any quarry.”
The look that Garwen gave Kay was a muddy combination of irritation and embarrassment. Griflet took her hand and pulled her toward her horse, rescuing her with action. He laced his fingers together and crouched, giving her a step up into the saddle. Once she was safely and securely seated, Lucan handed over her bird, which she accepted with a gracious nod.
Ewain, who was apparently in on the joke, led two more horses from the stable, Avona and the new charger Ector had purchased in the autumn. Ector mounted Avona without a block or any assistance, still young and fit enough to spring into the saddle despite his ruined arm. Sir Kay looked archly at his foster brother, who had waited too long to do his duty. Arthur bent and offered his hands, and Kay stepped into them, smearing his palms with snow and slush. He took the reins and looked down at Arthur in disdain.
“For shame! Go wash your hands.”
The little hunting party trotted off down the forest road, and Arthur considered slinging a handful of mud at his foster brother’s tabard. He restrained the impulse only with difficulty. His internal battle must have shown on his face, because Griflet was smirking at him when he looked at the other squire.
“I am so lucky to be serving Sir Ector,” he said.
Arthur nodded, and his mouth twisted sardonically. “Yes,” he agreed. “You are.”
They busied themselves with the various duties they had been charged to do around the keep, and the sun crept higher in the sky without chasing away the heavy, snow-laden clouds. The first flakes began to float to the ground, fat and sparkling, and Arthur paused in moving hay bales to look out toward the road to Ynys Môn. There was a single rider approaching, clad in black and riding a dark horse. He watched the stranger and wiped his hands on a rag. Griflet noticed the shift in his attention and came to stand beside him, squinting at the dark form that was coming closer at a canter.
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur said, “but whoever he is, he’s in a hurry.”
“We should close the gate, just in case.”
“No. It’s just one man, and there are four of us here, if we can get Lucan and Ewain to join us. We’ll be fine.”
Griflet looked unconvinced. “Lucan, maybe, but Ewain is no fighter. Isn’t Sir Illtyd here?”
“He’s in the church, and I’m not going to interrupt him.”
“Not even to save our lives?”
Arthur looked at his companion, half insulted and half surprised. “We can save ourselves.”
He collected Sir Kay’s practice sword and a wooden shield from the stable and approached the gate. The rider was a knight in armor that was rubbed with soot to make it dark, but not painted black like the armor that Merlin wore. His helmet had no visor; instead, it had fixed curved pieces that covered his cheekbones and made his eyes look dark and hollow. He w
ore a chain hood beneath the helmet to protect his neck, and Arthur could see the chain shirt beneath his breastplate. His pauldrons were studded with metal spikes, and his gauntlets were spiked, as well. His shield was attached to his saddle and he had a war hammer in his hand.
Griflet sounded nervous. “He doesn’t look very friendly.”
Arthur tightened his grip on the sword. “What kind of fool attacks a keep all alone?”
“One who knows that the master of the keep is a one-armed old man.”
The rider burst through the gate and into the courtyard, swinging his weapon. The front face of the hammer was flat, but a wicked hook curved on its back side. Arthur blocked the first swing, and the hammer glanced off his shield. The knight turned his horse and brought his arm back, reversing the arc and trying to catch his opponent with the hook. Arthur parried with the sword, and the clang of metal on metal was deafening at such close quarters. The force of the knight’s blow coupled with the momentum of the horse’s charge knocked Arthur to the ground, but he rolled with his fall and came back up onto his feet.
The warhorse turned tightly, its teeth gnashing, and the knight swung the war hammer again. This time Arthur barely got his shield between the hammer and his head, and the wood shattered on his arm. He threw the pieces into the knight’s face, and his attacker lost concentration just long enough to bat the splinters of wood away from his eyes. Arthur grabbed the man’s own shield and plucked it from his saddle as he circled him, and the steel was a welcome weight when he slid his arm into the straps. The man grinned at him, and for a moment, their eyes met. It was the first time Arthur had ever seen anyone with eyes as blue as his own.
