The Wolf and the Crown (The Perilous Order of Camelot Book 3)

by A. A. Attanasio

  Arthor spoke from where he sat, voice big with determination. "I am a Christian king. I rule by serving. In the seasons of the year before us, I will seek from you the pledges of fealty that I need to serve as your king. One year from this day, I will sit here again, even as Merlin says. You have my word that unless I receive the pledges of every warlord and chieftain, I will stand aside."

  Arthor intended to announce to the assembly the fact of Morgeu's deceitful seduction and the unholy issue that she carried, and his grim purpose lent him a foreboding aspect that made him appear older than his years. Merlin read his determination accurately and from behind the throne cast a quieting spell so that the lad fell silent after giving his promise to serve and sat nearly immobilized.

  Disdainful of the young monarch's vow to serve, Severus Syrax openly defied the new king by leading his soldiers and entourage away from the reviewing stand. He rode with his turbaned head averted from the throne, not even bothering to have his horn-blowers sound a parting tantara or the standard-bearers dip the flag of Londinium as they parted the range.

  The small giant, Bors Bona, marched his huge warhorse directly before the reviewing stand, Medusa-masked helmet in hand. His boar's visage with its stubbly gray hair, sloped brow and squat nose nodded once to the king, and he also did not dip his banner or sound a salute. His armored legions marched solemnly past and did not even glance at the boy-king. They meant their display of the warlord's strength to intimidate, not honor.

  Next came Marcus Dumnoni, blond and broad of shoulder as a Saxon. He turned his white charger to face the king and raised with one arm the chi-rho banner of the Christian battle hordes. He demonstrated for the sake of the pagan Celts that this monarch shared the faith of the British. Yet, he did not dip the flag or command his scores of horsemen and foot soldiers in chain mail and bronze helmets to turn and salute.

  Urien, his long salt-blond hair tied up in a topknot as if ready for war, drove before the king in a battle chariot braced with shields that displayed intricate Celtic knot-symbols. Disdainful of the Christians, he refused even to glance at the king, though his bare-chested warriors with their swords and shields strapped to their backs gawked openly at the boy on the throne. Their families stood up in the trundling wagons to point and laugh at the child monarch glaring back helplessly at them.

  Then Lot, the old chief of the North Isles, approached the reviewing stand with his two young sons, Gawain and Gareth, garbed in Celtic battle attire. They wore gold torcs about their throats and sword-belts of red leather securing their braccae, trousers of crushed leather.

  "King Arthor, the warlords of your own faith have shown you no respect," the aged chieftain declared. "My brother-in-arms, Lord Urien, also offers you no countenance, because you worship the nailed god. I readily put such enmity aside—if you will receive me and my sons in private audience."

  Lot's Warning

  Merlin's enchantment held King Arthor nearly motionless in his throne, until the wizard bent close and whispered in his ear, "What you say and do now before this chieftain of the old order will cast the die of your new order. Heed me, Arthor. I saved you from the Furor's wrath in the hollow hills. Now trust your fate to me again. If you are to survive as king, if you love our Savior and His hope for this island kingdom, breathe not a word to this elder warrior of your adultery with his wife."

  The wizard lifted his spell, and Arthor rose slowly from the throne as though freed from ponderous chains. "Lord Lot—" He blinked at the archaic figure before him, attired in buckskin leggings and boots, his chest bare but for the slanting sword strap that secured his weapon to his muscular back. The fair, long-haired boys dressed as warriors stood alertly at his side. Their child faces watched anxiously to see how their father would be received by this unlikely monarch.

  Behind them, Lot's clan pressed close, warriors, women, and children eager to hear every word spoken to their lord by this boy-king of foreign faith. And beyond them, Kyner and Cei and their wagons of Christian Celts—the only family he had ever known—patiently awaited their turn to honor their native son.

  "Lord Lot—" Arthor repeated more firmly, "husband of my sister, we should speak as brothers, no matter our differences."

  Merlin sighed audibly with relief and received Excalibur with both hands from the king. "Remember," he pitched a whisper for Arthor's ears alone, "not a word. Not a word or all is lost."

  Arthor nodded grimly to the wizard, then leaped off the platform to Lot's side. Lot's clan gasped with admiration at the young king's gracious gesture. Arthor offered his right arm, and the Celtic chieftain seized it and pulled the youth close to him. "Come away from the demon Lailoken and speak with us in private."

  They walked with arms locked through the gaping crowd of Celts toward the mammoth pylon gates of Camelot. Gareth and Gawain followed. Once well out of earshot of the assembly, Lot said, "I have heard that you were cruel from boyhood, a horrible son, a fierce bear of a boy. These past three years you brought that cruelty to the battlefield against the Saxons. You have renown as Kyner's iron hammer. Yet, Morgeu tells me you are changed—changed utterly by your trespass of the hollow hills."

  "I am changed," Arthor acknowledged. "The hollow hills humbled me and now—this revelation of my noble birthright."

  "Are you changed enough to admit that your nailed god is not a god of these islands?" Lot asked, pausing on the massive slate causeway that entered Camelot. "For I warn you, young Arthor, unless you embrace the gods of our people, you will never rule this kingdom."

  A Shirt of Fire

  King Arthor's heart thrashed in his chest. Offended that this pagan dared challenge the faith that had sustained his sanity in the hollow hills, he began tightly, "Brother—" But the angry words would not come. Something mysterious restrained him...

  From out of the gateway of Camelot, a Fire Lord emerged. Only the youngest, Gareth, saw the radiant being: The child pointed at the incredibly tall man with sunsmoke hair and starfire eyes and called the entity by its Celtic name, "Look! A lord of the Annwn has come!"

  The Fire Lord placed a hand on Arthor's breast, and peacefulness like the soft blue of hyacinth pervaded the young king.

  Lot and his eldest son, Gawain, noticed the bright contact as a frantic profusion of light, as though Arthor wore a shirt of fire. Then, the mystic flames vanished and ordinary summer light glinted from Arthor's gold chaplet and the white fabric of his chemise.

  "The demon has put a spell on him!" Lot exclaimed fearfully.

  "No, Da! A lord of the Annwn has come to him from the fortress," Gareth insisted. "The radiant lord put a hand on his breast. It was no demon."

  Arthor, perplexed by the startled looks of the three Celts, said, "Brother—nephews—my heart holds no ill for you. No demons hold me. I swear this by all that is holy."

  "You are touched by the sacred fire of the Annwn," Lot spoke somberly, glancing at his sons, who watched the king with open mouths and eyes wide with awe. "Like your mother then, you are blessed by the invisibles. My warning still stands, Arthor. You are my wife's half-brother and the son of my former queen, and I will stand by you in this fight. I cannot speak for the clans of the north. Though I am their chieftain, they are Celts and free men all. You must win their allegiance yourself—and they are not inclined to honor a boy-king who worships the desert god of an alien people."

  "I respect your gods," Arthor spoke softly, his heart peaceful now as the interior of a blossom. "I have seen the pale people and the furious north god. That humbled me. The gods are Greater Beings. Yet they are beings, tangible creatures—created of substance. God is greater than they—for He is uncreated, unformed, the Spirit who created everything—the stars, the firmament, all creatures, all people, and all the gods. This one and all-powerful God sent His only Son into this strife-ridden world to teach us that love is mightier than the sword. And by that love, I will rule these islands and defeat our enemies."

  "I believe him, father," Gareth whispered.

 
"Bah!" Lot made an ugly face. "Don't preach to me, Arthor. I have heard all this before from the wandering priests of the nailed god. I don't believe a word of it. And if you would but think a moment, neither would you. When has love ever defeated the sword? No battle has ever been won by love—and what kingdom anywhere is held except by the sword? You, Kyner's iron hammer, you know this is true."

  Arthor accepted this with a glum expression, then asked, "What of Morgeu? What hope does she hold for me as king?"

  "Your half-sister lies ill as we speak," Lot said, his voice tightening with worry. "I warned her not to come to this festival. She and the demon Lailoken are mortal foes, mated in strife since he cursed her father Gorlois on the battle plains outside Londinium. I fear the demon works his evil against her."

  The Wizard and the Enchantress

  While the king conversed with Lot, Merlin departed the reviewing stand and made his way quickly to the caravan of Lord Lot. The wizard chose a path that carried him through the construction site, among heaped quarry stones and stacked timber, so that none observed his immediate progress. When he located the tented wagon he sought, he spoke sleep to the Celtic guards and opened the back flap, exposing Morgeu the Fey in her sick bed.

  "Lailoken—" the enchantress moaned, too weak to cry out.

  "Be still, Morgeu," Merlin spoke in a soothing tone as he entered the wagon and closed the cloth covering behind him. "I have not come to harm but to heal."

  She waved him away, her small eyes wide with fright.

  "I have taken the soul of your child," he reminded her in an almost kindly voice. "I do not wish to take your soul as well. I have come to see that you live." He touched her with the tip of his staff, and life-force flowed gently into her drained body. "Calm yourself. Your strength will grow."

  "Why?" she gasped. "Why do you keep me alive?"

  Merlin removed his staff and placed a cool hand on her warm brow. "I am the king's servant now as once I was your mother's. Arthor needs your help."

  "My baby," she muttered. "Return the soul of my baby."

  "That cannot be, Morgeu." Merlin shook his head forbiddingly. "There will be no incest child to damn the reign of our king."

  Morgeu struggled to push herself upright on her elbows. "You have slain my child?"

  "I am the son of Saint Optima," Merlin replied dourly. "I do not slay unborn babies. Neither will I permit this incest child to enter this world."

  "What are you doing?"

  "The soul must return whence it came." The wizard thudded his staff against the floor of the wagon. "To the hollow hills, to frolic again in the Happy Woods with other Celtic souls."

  Morgeu flopped backward and lay staring feverishly at Gaelic abstractions painted on the cloth ceiling. "You doom me to deliver a stillborn. You might as well drown the soul and kill this baby at once."

  "I do not kill babies, born or unborn." Merlin backed away. "I have given you enough strength to live. What you do with the soulless thing you carry is for you to decide. Apt punishment for an incestuous adultress."

  "Lailoken!" Morgeu shrieked in despair. "Kill me now! If you do not, I will surely take my vengeance on you."

  "I think not." Merlin backed out of the wagon. "No other soul will fit the cloth of flesh you are weaving in your womb. And as for attacking me and mine—remember, Morgeu, my origin in hell. I will not misjudge evil."

  The Hollow Hills

  Lord Monkey leaped from Dagonet's shoulder where he stood on the reviewing stand, watching the Celtic chieftains, Lot and Kyner, discussing the order of march for their combined caravans. The animal darted across the broad slopes of the playing field toward the forested hills.

  "Mathter!" Dagonet cried in alarm and leaped from the platform. He ran with all his might over the champaign. Ahead, he spotted the dark, gaunt figure of Merlin standing under the wall of the forest. The wizard bowed and the running monkey leaped upon his back. "Ho! Thtop! Weturn my monkey! Thtop!"

  By the time the dwarf reached the edge of the wood, Merlin and Lord Monkey had disappeared. In the twittering of light through the branches, the gleeman saw no trace of their passage, and he stamped his feet and cried, "Mathter, come back!"

  Merlin and the monkey had already retreated far from the sounds of this world. They had fled along avenues of the forest that exited Middle Earth and descended among the roots of the World Tree, the Storm Tree that the north tribes called Yggdrasil. In this realm, the world above appeared as slow twilight, a mountain of smoke climbing toward purple and smoldering scarlet.

  Shooting stars guided the way through nocturnal distances. These were faeries, tiny glow-worm bodies in sticky halos and nightgowns of fog. They flitted like fireflies, leading Merlin ever deeper into the incandescent dark.

  Upon the gloom, Lord Monkey's face changed. It assumed the aspect of the soul that it carried. The wizard immediately recognized the goat-eyes and bulldog's jowls of Morgeu's own father—the deceased Duke of the Saxon Coast, Gorlois, misguided to his death by Arthor's father, Uther Pendragon!

  "Where are you taking me, demon?" The outraged duke glared from under bristly simian brows. "Why am I here with you?"

  "I should have known," Merlin spoke with audible surprise. "Of course, you would be the soul that Morgeu summoned from the underworld! Ha! What sweet revenge she would have tasted to place you on the throne of Britain."

  "What are you ranting about, old coot?" The monkey with the ghostly aspect of Duke Gorlois gazed about angrily in the twilit shadows. "Where are we?"

  "On our way to hell, Gorlois."

  The monkey tried to leap from Merlin's back, and the wizard caught it by the scruff of its neck. "You do not want to run free in this wild place, I assure you."

  "What evil is this?" Gorlois groused. "What spell have you worked on me? Where is my horse? What has become of my men? Release me, demon! I am in the midst of a battle for Londinium."

  "Oh, that battle is long years past, Gorlois." Merlin held the monkey before him and grinned with one side of his mouth. "Don't you remember? That was the battle in which you died."

  []

  Mother Mary, to the north I must go to prove myself worthy of the title that God has granted me by right of birth and the magic of Merlin. I pray to you now for insight, for wisdom, that I may understand the counsel of this wizard whom you have placed at my side. Surely, he is your servant as am I, for he, who once was a demon, came to be a man by the intercession of the Holy Spirit and a good woman, Saint Optima. Help me to trust him, Mother Mary—for I fear him. He looks so—so frightful, with his long-skulled head, that face of sharp angles, and those eyes, those deep pits of silver. He does not appear wholesome. And yet, I know I would not be king without him.

  The Furor

  Morgeu struggled out of her wagon and found her guards asleep and butterflies flitting about their heads. The life-force that Merlin had imparted to her proved sufficient to stand and walk. Using that strength, she stepped over her slumbering soldiers and shuffled among the wagons of the caravan to the edge of the encampment.

  The forest began there. At her chanted cries, toads appeared from the vetch to mark the wizard's footfalls as he fled among the trees.

  The enchantress had not the strength to pursue the wizard, and she knelt in a forest space silted with darkness. She called to the god who most loathed Lailoken: "Furor!"

  The shadow world of things darkened. The sun's dust sifting through the leaves of the forest blew away before a dark wind. And the tread of the one-eyed god thudded across the sky like thunder.

  "Come to me!" she beckoned, though she knew that the Furor would not descend at her whim, not to this gloomy world so far below the glory of his home among the northern lights. "Lailoken has stolen my father's soul from my womb. Give me strength to marry my will to yours. Give me strength to hurt those Lailoken loves."

  Cold nails of rain pierced the forest. Seen through the narrow windows of the wood, the page of the horizon fluttered, turning toward night, though day w
as not yet over. Lightning ran across the sooty sky.

  "Furor, make me strong," Morgeu continued chanting. Her crinkled red hair darkened in the rain and matted her brow. "Use me to attack the people who keep these western isles from you. Use me for your ceremony of murder!"

  The seeping rain soaked her with energy. The leaves of the forest trembled under the strength from the north god pouring into her frail body. Soon, she was on her feet and dancing with exultation, filled with sky power.

  Her guards, awakened by the rain, found her leaping and shouting insanely. It took three of them to subdue her sufficiently to guide her out of the forest and back to the caravan. Eager for their lapse not to be known to Lot, the guards summoned Morgeu's maids to strip her of her wet garments while they built a sturdy fire.

  By the time Lot came to visit, she sat dry in her wagon, a strange smile on her face. "Husband, leave this cursed place. Lead our people north, back to our homelands."

  "I will do that," Lot agreed. "I have come to tell you that your half-brother and those Christian Celts he calls kith among Kyner's clan will travel with us."

  She nodded avidly. "Good, good!"

  "Good?" Lot looked baffled. "I thought I would hear protest of any alliance with Arthor and his people."

  Morgeu's strange smile deepened. "Why does the stream laugh, husband?" She did not wait for him to voice his puzzlement. "Because it knows its way home to the sea."

  Storm Riders

  Morgeu said no more. She knew that her prayer, like the stream finding its way to the sea, had found its way to the upper world. The wrathful one-eyed god heard her. She could feel his power turning in her. On the journey north, she would use that magical strength to make Lailoken pay most dearly for his theft of her father's soul. For now, the Furor's might gathering with the storm clouds satisfied her.

  The rains began gently and did not impede the departure of the caravan from Camelot. Though Merlin was nowhere to be found, Arthor knew what he had to do. He did not require the wizard to instruct him in the necessities of war. If he was to serve Britain as king, he understood that he had to secure the north, the one direction from which his enemies could attack over land.