by J A Cummings
“No, none at all. At least he died defending his kingdom.” Bedivere shook his head. “And he died without legitimate issue. That leaves all of the petty kings to squabble for his vacant throne. You and I, my friend, will be much in demand as former generals beneath Pendragon’s banner.”
Ector shook his head and held up his ruined hand. “My fighting days are over.”
“They cannot be, unless you mean to take your boys and hide. We and our holdings are too well known, and they will come for us in due course, first to court us to their cause, then to destroy us if we refuse.”
Arthur frowned and spoke out of turn. “But why? Why not leave us to live in peace?”
“Because, my boy,” Bedivere said, his face grim, “peace is now a thing of the past.”
Ector shook his head. “No. Anyone who knows of me knows that I am not the warrior I once was. You have far more to fear than I, especially situated as you are so close to the city and so easy to find.”
“And this is why I’m preparing now. If things get too hot here in Viroconium, I’ll take my household to my country estate and try to wait it out.”
Kay frowned at their host. “Why don’t you want to fight? You could be High King if you could take it.”
Bedivere looked almost startled by the boy’s bold words, and Ector put a silencing hand on his son’s leg. “Forgive him,” he told the other knight. “He understands little of the complexities.”
Amren returned with the wine and a set of tankards tied together at the handle with a leather strip. He limbered the vessels and filled each one, working as quickly as a page at a formal banquet. They all received a drink, even Arthur. He sipped the red liquid and tried not to react to the strong flavor. He had never tasted wine before. His eyes rose to Amren’s face, and the other boy met his gaze with a slow smirk.
“He understands enough, I daresay.” Bedivere smiled kindly. “I have no wish to be the High King, because along with all that power, it brings trouble and enemies beyond my ability to count. I’m more suited to serving a High King, not being one.”
Kay looked down, chastened and surly. “I’d like to be king.”
“A man can have any title he has strength enough to take,” Sir Ector said, “and keep.”
“And there’s the rub.” Bedivere sipped his own wine. “The keeping is harder than the taking.”
“Which of our old friends still remain?”
“Ulfius and Brastias are still out there, somewhere, serving whom they will, then moving on. They are making their glory and their gold as mercenaries now that old Uther is dead.”
“Not much honor, though,” Ector said quietly.
“Honor is a matter of the man, not his occupation.” Their host looked at Arthur. “And what about you, my young Endymion? Would you like to be a king?”
Arthur blinked, startled to realize that he had been staring at Amren’s face all this time, puzzling at that enigmatic smirk. “What?” he stammered. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
Ector looked annoyed, but Bedivere chuckled. “I asked you if you might like to be High King. Your brother said he might.”
He looked at Kay, then back at their father’s comrade. “I think that if Kay were to become High King, I would like to serve him as a knight.”
“Just to serve? Not to rule?”
Arthur shook his head. “Not if my brother is king. I would support him.”
“A very noble sentiment, to be sure.”
He wasn’t certain if Bedivere were mocking him or not, and he rankled, keeping the sour feeling from his face as well as he was able. “A king needs to be of royal parentage,” Arthur said. “I don’t know my parents, so I could never be…”
Ector cleared his throat and made a show of looking into his mug. “Well, royal blood hardly flows in Kay’s veins, or mine, so that part of the conversation is moot anyway.”
“What about us, Father?” Amren asked. “Do we have royal blood?”
“We do, indeed. My grandfather, also named Bedivere, founded and ruled the kingdom of Agustodorum in Gaul.”
“The Gauls call it Bassin, and it is now occupied by the Bajocassi,” Ector said, teaching his sons a bit of history. “But in the day, before they drove our host’s father out, it was a Roman civitas.”
“Soldiers can found cities as well as princes,” Kay said. “That’s no proof of royalty.”
His father chuckled and put a hand on his shoulder. “Royalty, my son, is usually just that class of soldier who beats everybody else.” He grinned at Bedivere. “Our friend’s eponymous grandfather was a centurion, if I recall, but he was the one who took the head of the Bajocassi chieftain who held that place.”
Bedivere laughed. “Very true.”
“Then when the Bajocassi drove out the son of their chieftain’s killer, they were only taking back their own land,” Arthur observed. “Is that why you haven’t gone to war to take it back? Because they were in the right?”
“I haven’t gone to take it back because I find Cambria more to my liking.” He drained his cup and held it out for Amren to fill again. “The Romans left Britannia. My family chose to stay. And that is why we hold lands by grace of the High King. Viroconium is my capital. I own all of the land around here.”
Arthur scowled. “I think the Kings of Powys and Gwynedd may disagree.”
Amren froze, and Bedivere stared at the young boy in surprise, his face darkening. Ector straightened, watching to see what Bedivere would do. Arthur stared back, uncowed, knowing he had overstepped but believing he was right. A breathless moment passed, all of them hanging on the momentary silence and stillness of the knight.
Finally, Bedivere forced a smile, but his eyes were still hard. They did not leave Arthur’s face as he said, “What, Ector, are you raising a political philosopher?” He put down his cup. “Yes, you are quite right. Viroconium is in Powys, land of King Brochwel, son of Vortigern, who is the sworn vassal of King Cunedda of Gwynedd. But the fact remains that I own this land. I won it by blood and steel, and it was awarded to me by the High King himself, and Brochwel claims kingship of this land in name only. My only lord was Uther. I could kill Brochwel and Cunedda both at any time and take their kingdoms for my own and be within my rights.”
He knew that he was going much, much too far, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Then why don’t you?”
“Arthur!” Ector cried, boxing his shoulder roughly. “Keep your tongue!”
Bedivere clenched his teeth, unclenched them, then clenched them again. He seemed to be chewing on his own tongue in his anger. Kay leaned back on the bench, opening space between himself and his foster brother, leaving him to his fate. Amren, too, retreated, fear of his father clearly etched upon his face.
“I have my reasons, which I am not required to lay out for a rude and boorish child.” Bedivere rose stiffly. His eyes bored into Arthur’s, and the boy, both brave and foolish, did not look away. “I will allow Brochwel to deal with the politics of being a king in days like these, and we shall see who is still standing and ready to rule when all the fighting’s over.”
Arthur had an opinion about that, as well, but this time he was wise enough to hold his peace. His foster father was looking at him fiercely, warning him into silence, and he obeyed, turning his eyes away and bowing his head toward Bedivere in a show of submission that he did not feel. His demurral brought the threat of violence to an end, and the group relaxed almost visibly.
“Ector,” their host said, his tone revealing how much he still felt aggrieved, “I have things I need to do. You are welcome to stay for the night here in the keep. I will return in time for dinner.”
“Can I assist you in any way?” Ector asked.
Bedivere hesitated. “You might, at that. Come. I can use your skills as an overseer.”
“I had thought,” Ector began, “that perhaps you would accept Kay as your squire.”
“At a time such as this? With war so close at hand?”
“What better time for
him to learn?”
Their host looked at Kay, who did his best to stand taller. After consideration, the knight said, “Yes. I will accept him. Thank you, Ector, for your trust in me.”
“You have always been a noble knight. I trust that you’ll teach him well.”
“That I shall. And what about young Arthur, here?”
Ector rose, himself. “I thought you might need a page to run messages for you.”
Bedivere looked at the boy. “How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
The knight nodded. “A little old to begin, but yes. I will accept him as my page...as long as he holds his tongue and speaks only when bidden to do so.”
“He will be silent until you grant him leave to speak,” Ector agreed. “Won’t you, Arthur?”
Chastened, he replied obediently, “Yes, my lord.”
Bedivere smiled, finally looking friendly again. “Well, then. Let’s all see to the fortifications, shall we?”
The rest of the day was a flurry of motion. Arthur found himself literally running from one end of the compound to the other and back again, carrying messages from Sir Bedivere, delivering feathers to the fletchers, and bringing reports from the sentries back to their lord. He was halfway between the sentries and Bedivere, standing on the ramparts for a moment while he tried to catch his breath, when he saw his foster father riding out through the gate, clad in his old armor and astride a mighty war horse borrowed from their host’s stable. Arthur watched, gaping in confused dismay, then ran to find his brother.
Kay was in the great hall, sharpening a sword with great swipes of a whetstone, when he found him. Arthur could hardly speak around his gasps.
“Father!”
“He’s gone,” Kay said morosely. “Left us here.”
“What? Why? How long?”
“To learn from Sir Bedivere, I as his squire, you as his page. How long? I don’t know. Maybe years. Maybe days.”
Arthur wanted to weep, and it angered him. “But - did I do something wrong? Did we…?”
Bedivere’s voice came from an arched doorway in the back of the keep, one that led out to the kitchens. “Your father has gone to confer with an old friend. He will return in a week or so. Fear not, young Arthur and young Kay. You’ve not garnered any of his displeasure, and he’ll return as soon as he is able.” He smiled kindly at them and walked across the flagstone floor. “Now, Arthur, what news? Have the sentries seen any armed groups approaching?”
The boy pulled himself up to his full height. “No, sir. My lord. The road is clear, my lord.”
“Excellent.” The knight took the sword out of Kay’s hands and tested the edge with his thumb. He nodded in satisfaction and handed it back. “Very good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Bedivere turned another beneficent smile onto the boys. “Well, come then, sirrah, my young page. I have more work for you.”
Arthur felt his legs might come off, but he swallowed any complaints and followed where his mentor led.
The knight walked swiftly through the kitchen and out through the scullery garden, his pace so quick that his new page had to scurry to keep up with him. Bedivere talked as he walked. “There is a man in town, a nobleman, whose allegiances I need to determine. I need you to take him an invitation to join us here for dinner this night. Can you ride?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” They left the garden and turned left, going to the postern gate, where a light horse was already waiting under saddle. “The man’s name is Catigern. He has a villa in Viroconium where he lives a wealthy and prosperous life as a horse trader. We will have need of many horses, and therefore of his favor. He may be the next High King, but if he is supporting one or another of the pretenders to Uther’s throne, I would know of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bedivere led him to the horse and watched as Arthur mounted it. He nodded in satisfaction at the strong way the boy swung into the saddle. “Go to his home and invite him to dinner here tomorrow night. Do what you must to have him say yes, and by all that’s holy, keep him friendly to our cause. Do you understand me?”
Arthur heard the warning to be civil and obedient, and he took it to heart. “Yes, sir.”
“Any questions?”
“Where does Lord Catigern live, sir? I don’t know how to reach his house.”
Bedivere chuckled. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t, would you?” He pointed to the scroll tube that hung from the saddle horn. “A map is there, along with the formal invitation. Can you read?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then Ector has indeed been teaching you well.” He patted the horse’s neck. “Ride, then, and bring me his response as soon as he releases you.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Arthur touched his heels to his mount’s flanks, and it sprang forward, lurching into motion. He was surprised by the sudden response, accustomed as he was to Avona’s lazy indecision, but he kept his seat and held on, using the reins to turn the animal back toward the town. He pulled out the map and considered it as he rode, committing it to memory as best he could, then tucked it back into the tube again. He wanted to take this ride with his head up. If the roads were dangerous, as he had heard that roads could be, he did not want to be taken by surprise with his nose buried in his written directions.
The path led him to the outskirts of Viroconium, to a large Roman villa with purple silken banners hanging from the portico, each one emblazoned with the image of a golden serpent. Slaves toiled all around, and to Arthur, it seemed that some of their tasks were pointless, meant only to keep them on display like moving pieces of art. They were all handsome men, clad too lightly for the chill in the air, their bodies oiled and their faces painted with cosmetics. They turned away from him as he rode past, and he felt a pang of sympathy for the misery he saw in the way they held their bodies.
An armed sentry descended the steps from the main door and caught his horse’s bridle. “You,” he barked. “What is your business here?”
The man’s face was stern and warlike, and his hand was on the pommel of the sword he wore at his waist. He glared at the boy, who managed to stammer out, “I - I am a page from Sir Bedivere, and I come with a letter for Lord Catigern.” He held out the invitation in his hand.
“Prince Catigern, you fool,” the man growled, boxing Arthur’s ear painfully with the flat of his sword blade, the buffet nearly knocking him sideways. He held on and righted himself, his face flushing with anger. The man snatched the letter away. “I will deliver it to him. You are not worthy to set foot inside his home.”
The boy tried not to glower, wondering fiercely who this man was to determine his worthiness. If he were older, he would have challenged him to fight over the insult he had delivered. His insides burned hot with his anger, but he only turned his horse around and walked back the way he’d come. The soldier, as a parting indignity, slapped the animal on the rump, startling it into a leaping surge, and it was all Arthur could do to hold his seat. The sentry’s laughter followed him all the way back to the road.
He promised himself that someday he would be such a man that no one would dare to laugh at him that way again.
Arthur deposited the horse in the stable at Sir Bedivere’s castle, relinquishing him to the groom, and hurried off to find his new master. The man in question was standing by the barbican, holding a heated discussion with one of his vassal knights. Behind Bedivere, Kay stood nervously, his arms piled with heaps of chainmail.
Mindful of his promise to his father to keep silent until spoken to, Arthur stood by quietly as the men argued about the fine points of the castle’s defense.
“No!” Bedivere thundered. “If they come, they will come from the southwest. We need to have more guards on this quarter of the wall.”
“My lord, they will approach from the north, under cover of the trees.”
“Not knights on horseback.”
“No, my lord, not knights. Sappers and foot sold
iers. The Saxon tactics are such that they will send in soldiers to sneak through our defenses and open the gate from the inside.”
“Then it is your duty to make certain that they cannot penetrate our defenses! Danu’s tits, man, what do I pay you for?” Bedivere slashed the air with his hand, exasperated. “Look to the walls. Look to the guard patrols. Look to the gates. But keep a heavier guard on this gate here!”
The man knew that he would not win this argument, so he demurred. “Yes, my lord.”
The knight made turned and stalked away, barking, “Come!” at the brothers. Kay and Arthur hurried along in his wake. Without turning, Bedivere asked, “Did you deliver the invitation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And his answer?”
“I got no answer, sir.”
Bedivere stopped in his tracks and rounded on him so suddenly that Arthur nearly collided with him. “No answer?”
“I wasn’t allowed into the house, my lord. I had to give the invitation to a guard. He said I wasn’t worthy to go in.”
“Hmph.” He considered the boy, then said, “Well, it was probably lucky for you that he wasn’t interested in an audience. He’ll come or he won’t. It’s beyond my power. At least we’ve done our duty and invited the man.”
“Your duty, my lord?” Kay asked hesitantly.
“Yes, duty. The first thing you need to learn to be a knight is that sometimes you must keep company with people you don’t like, and you must flatter those in power to keep them on your side. If war comes and an army marches on Viroconium, then we must have Catigern as our ally. He’s a pederast and a monster, but he’s rich and powerful, and he has many soldiers and horses at his beck and call. If he withholds them, or God forbid turns against us, it will go very hard for us, indeed.” He led the way back into the keep. “Kay, check those chain shirts for broken links. Make sure that every ring, every rivet, is complete and sound. Arthur, do the same with the coifs.”
“Yes, my lord.”
They sat on the bench that was still in the main hall, the same one they had occupied with Ector before his abrupt departure. The knight stormed on along his way, shouting for Amren, and disappeared from view.