by J A Cummings
The woman did as she was bidden, grabbing up Aglovale in her arms and scurrying out of the room, closing the door behind her. The child wailed all the way down the stairs, and his healthy bellowing made Pellinore smile. His son was strong.
Sybile sat up as her son was taken away, and she looked up into her husband’s face with an expression of annoyance.
“What is it, my lord?” she asked, her voice throaty with sleep.
“Your duty, my queen,” he answered, pulling off his robe.
She sighed and lay back, turning her face toward the wall. He knew she hated him, almost as much as he hated her, but it made no difference to him. He would claim again what was his by right. If he was going mad, as he now feared that he was, he would need to leave more than one legitimate heir behind to secure his throne.
Sybile endured him, and he took his pleasure of her, wasting no time on pleasantries or foreplay. This was about his desire, not hers. When it was over, he rolled away and lay beside her. They did not touch.
“What are you cooking?” he asked. “It smells like offal.”
“It is not your concern.” She rose from the bed and went to her basin, which she filled with water from a nearby jug. She took up a cloth, wet it and cleaned as much of him from her body as she could, inside and out.
“If it is in my castle, it is my concern, wife.”
She tossed the cloth into the basin with a disgusted sigh. “I am creating a potion, if you must know, and yes, there is offal in the recipe.”
He disliked her sorcery, but he would rather have her under his thumb than out in the world, doing who knew what to him and his lands. He put his arm beneath his head. “What kind of potion?”
“One that will increase the intellect of whoever drinks it.”
Pellinore could hear the prevarication in her voice, and he snorted. “You lie. Fine. Keep your secrets. But if that potion finds its way toward me, or worse, to Aglovale, then I will have your head on a pole.”
Sybile glared at him and sat in a chair by the window. “I would never harm my son.”
“Our son. My heir.”
She turned and looked out the window at the storm. “It is an ill wind,” she said. “Evil tidings are coming.”
He rose and gathered up his robe, pulling it on once more. “Prophesy?”
“Perhaps.”
He shook his head and walked toward the exit, but she stopped him cold when she said, “I am with child.”
Pellinore spoke without turning around. “Is it mine?”
“Don’t insult me. Of course it is.”
“So my last visit was fruitful.” He chuckled. “Excellent. Another son.”
“It may be a daughter.”
He opened the door. “It had better not be.”
Her unintelligible muttering followed him as he went back down the tower stairs.
The wild weather continued to rage all through Britannia, storms the like of which the island had not seen in a generation. In the ancient city of Aquae Sulis, Morgana stood outside the shelter of the convent to which she had been consigned and let the rain pour over her. She spread her hands out to her sides and welcomed the storm, feeling the power of the wind and the lightning bring her to life.
She was soaked to the skin, but the mad freedom of the gale thrilled her too much to notice the chill. Her hated novice nun’s habit clung to her, wet wool adhering to her body. For three years she had endured the constraints of the nunnery and the overbearing fussing of her mother. She hated this place, and she hated everyone inside it. She ripped at the veil and pulled it from her head, tossing it onto the ground. The scapular followed immediately, and then the habit itself, leaving her naked to the sky.
She danced under the roaring clouds, daring the gods to strike her down. She had survived Uriens and now she felt invincible. No man would ever touch her again, and she would never be anyone’s slave, not even a god’s. She faced the convent and spat at it, but the wind caught her spittle and whipped it away. Morgana laughed.
The door to the convent opened, and her mother Igraine bustled out with a heavy wrap. “Morgana!” she chided. “Come inside. You’ll catch your death of fever.”
Igraine attempted to put the cloak around her daughter’s shoulders, but she pulled away, spinning wildly. Igraine pursued, and Morgana sped just out of her reach, always just a hand’s breadth away. She led her mother on a merry chase around the convent’s fruit trees and toward the Roman baths, racing on bare feet toward the temple of Sulis that still stood outside the convent walls. She roared with laughter as she bolted first this way then that, running Igraine ragged. Finally, her mother cursed and leaped at her, tackling her to the ground.
The teenager cackled as they wrestled, her mother finally straddling her, her wimple soaked through the reveal the dark, shorn hair beneath. “Coward,” Morgana mocked Igraine. “Hiding from men behind the veil of a god you don’t believe in.”
Igraine wrapped her in the cloak. “It keeps men like Uther from thinking they can force me to wed them. It saves us from gaining a High King by force.”
“There will be a High King by force anyway,” she maintained. She stopped struggling and let her mother clothe her against the rain. “There will always be men who force themselves onto the world, and onto us. But I will be a victim no longer.”
Her mother pulled her to her feet and bundled her into the convent. “You were never a victim. You were a wife.”
She shook her head as they walked back through the orchard. “There’s no difference.”
They crossed the threshold, and Reverend Mother Niobe closed the door and dropped the heavy cross bar into its brackets. She had a perpetually down-turned mouth, and her face was deeply lined. Of the three of them, Niobe was the only one who had not been born in Britannia, a fact she lorded over everyone at her leisure. She was Egyptian by blood and Roman by birth, and she thought that made her better than them all.
“Shameful,” Niobe hissed. “What are you doing, child? Are you mad?”
“I love the storm,” Morgana said. “I love the power in the air and the magic in the lightning.”
“Indeed,” the old woman agreed. “The power of Our Lord God and Our Savior Jesus Christ will protect us from the storm. That is the only power you should be praising.”
Morgana pulled out of Igraine’s grasp. “I praise the power of the storm. I don’t ask protection from it. I don’t need to be guarded from the power of the gods. I need to be one with it!” She threw her head back. “Ave Sulis! I praise your name, goddess of curses!”
Niobe slapped her face as hard as she could, leaving a red palmprint on the young woman’s cheek. Morgana gasped in shock, and the Reverend Mother spat, “We will cure you of your pagan fancies, my child. Just see if we don’t.”
Igraine tried to interpose herself between them. “Mother, mercy.”
“I will have no mercy on apostates within my walls. I have endured her for too many years, and I will not tolerate her outrages any longer!”
She grabbed Morgana by the hair and dragged her into the darkest corridor of the convent, where the solitary cells stood. Igraine followed, plucking at Niobe’s sleeve, trying to stop her. The Reverend Mother flung Morgana into one of the tiny rooms and slammed the door, barring it from the outside. The girl beat on the door with wordless screams.
Niobe returned to Igraine. “Go back to your room and pray for her soul. Do not emerge until the matins bell rings.”
“But what have I done?” she protested. “I only tried to bring her back inside.”
“You bore that wild creature and left her to the pagans to be tainted. That is the gravest sin of a mother. And I know that you abandoned other children, too.”
Igraine recoiled. “I never had any choice in the matter. My husband -”
“I know about your husband and I have heard your confession, too. Go and pray for forgiveness, woman. You have much need of penance...and your daughter, too, should pray for mercy.” She
scowled. “God punished you both with dead children. That is the proof of His judgment upon you.”
Igraine pulled herself up straighter and spoke like the queen she once was. “I have always conducted myself with honor within the limits that have been imposed upon me. I need not grovel to be forgiven for things I could not help but do.” She pulled the cross from her neck and held it up. “Never imagine that I share this faith of yours, despite the fact that I am here. You and Merlin have an agreement regarding me and my daughter, and although we are beneath your roof and under your protection, we are not your acolytes and are not subject to your rules.”
She went to the cell where Morgana was still howling, and she unbarred the door. Her daughter burst out and into her arms, and Igraine held her tight, scowling at the Reverend Mother.
“Come,” she said to her child. “Stay with me tonight.”
Morgana did not protest. Niobe watched in disapproval as Igraine led her away.
The courtyard of the cathedral in Londinium was soggy and strewn with the shattered limbs of trees. Merlin sat on a stone bench, Uther Pendragon’s sword in his hand. He held it with the point between two paving stones, a shallow image of what he intended for it in the very near future. Inside the church, Augustine was wrapping up the morning’s Mass. The druid could hear plainsong chanting and smell the sweet-sour scent of incense. The faithful would be released soon to witness their display.
The air felt heavy with import, and he knew that this was an important and auspicious day. He was tempted to cast his divinations, but the holy ground of the Roman faith was not the appropriate place for such things, especially not if he intended to make an ally of the cantankerous bishop. There would be time to antagonize the old fool later.
The last droning intonation of the Mass faded away, and the congregation began to file out. Merlin studied their faces, wondering why these Britons had chosen to abandon their native gods, who were so alive and vibrant, in favor of a foreign death cult. He found it curious. The Christians stared back at him, wondering at the dark presence of the land’s chief druid in their holy place. Some stopped to stand at the ready, as if he were about to attack the church and they meant to stop him.
He had no reason to raise a hand to this cathedral, or to the worshippers who were walking out of the dark sanctuary. As long as the Church left him alone, he was content to leave the Church to its own devices, too. He knew that the Christian God existed, and that their Savior had come and gone not so long ago. His history and his blood required that much belief. He did not believe, however, that his ancient gods were the false faces of Satan’s minions. If there was one thing Merlin knew, it was demons, and he certainly did not agree with the theologians who maintained that the native deities of Britannia were demons in disguise.
Augustine emerged from the cathedral, his halting steps taking him out into the sunlight. The bishop saw Merlin and nodded to him, and the druid rose and returned the salutation. “Good morning, Your Grace,” he said. “Are you prepared?”
The old man stood tall, his vestments and golden shepherd’s crook gleaming in the light. “I am. I have announced our intention and the reason for this exercise.”
Merlin smiled. “This is no exercise. It is the greatest of tests, meant to find the greatest of kings.” He turned to the assembled watchers. “Step back.”
The druid raised his hand and let his magic flow. In the center of the courtyard, a boulder the size of a donkey cart took shape, massive and heavy as stone could be. It settled into place with the crunch of gravel. Several of the onlookers gasped and retreated toward the safety of the cathedral, moving to stand behind their bishop, trusting in the old man’s spiritual power to protect them.
Augustine began to pray while another priest swung the censer, releasing clouds of fragrant smoke over the boulder. Merlin raised the High King’s sword into the air.
“This is the sword of the last High King. Only the true successor, the man destined to rule, can take this sword as his own.” He went to the stone and spoke an incantation, then plunged the weapon into the rock. It went with a sharp grinding sound, and people shouted in amazement. Merlin stepped back. “Only the new High King can free this sword from this stone. Send word to all pretenders to come and try their might against this test.”
The bishop blessed the sword and intoned his prayers to sanctify the proceedings. The onlookers crossed themselves and bowed their heads. Merlin smiled to himself. Everything was going according to plan.
The morning of Kay’s knighting began with Mass in the chapel at Caer Gai. Kay was weary from a night spent in wakeful prayer, kneeling before the altar for ten hours straight in his new armor, but his excitement at the accolade to come was evident in his shining eyes. Father Marcus gave a lengthy and detailed homily about the duties and requirements of knighthood, and from his seat at the back of the chapel, Arthur listened closely.
The priest blessed the new knight’s shield and sword, and he passed them to Sir Ector, who stood before his son in the shadow of the altar.
“Do you swear, Kay of Caer Gai, to always be loyal to me as your lord and to render him service when you are called upon to do so?”
Kay stood. “I do so swear.”
“Do you swear, Kay of Caer Gai, to always be loyal to my lord as I am to him?”
“I do so swear.”
“And do you swear, Kay of Caer Gai, to always be faithful to God and the Holy Church, and to hear Mass every day?”
“I do so swear.”
“And do you swear, Kay of Caer Gai, to never avoid a perilous path out of fear, and to never fly from a challenge to honorable combat?”
“I do so swear.”
“And do you swear to pursue glory and honor in the name of your lord and your God from this day forward, seeking always to improve your skills and your station?”
“I do so swear.”
Ector said, “And who sponsors this man to knighthood?”
Bedivere and Brastias rose and stood on either side of him. “We sponsor him, Sir Ector,” Brastias said. “Sir Bedivere Bedrydant of Viroconium and Sir Brastias of Badon.”
Ector handed the spurs to Bedivere and the shield to Brastias. “Do you swear to vouchsafe the behavior and honor of this man you sponsor, and to defend his honor and to have him defend yours?”
The two knights answered in unison. “We do so swear.”
Bedivere took the spurs and attached them to Kay’s boots. Brastias handed him the shield. When their duties were done, the two stepped back.
Sir Ector drew his sword and slapped Kay in the side of the head with the flat of the blade. “You will never again suffer any blow without returning it with a stronger one.” He tapped the sword on Kay’s left shoulder, then on his right. “I dub you Sir Kay of Caer Gai.”
Sir Kay beamed in delight as Sir Ector sheathed his sword. The lord of Caer Gai accepted the new sword and sword belt from Father Marcus and buckled them around his son’s waist. When the belt was secure, he kissed Sir Kay on both cheeks and embraced him.
“You are welcome to our brotherhood, Sir Knight.”
“Thank you, F - Sir Ector.”
Ulfius began to applaud, and the other knights joined in, their celebration ringing off the stone walls of the chapel. Arthur rose and applauded, too.
Sir Ector embraced Sir Kay again. “I am so proud of you, son.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Sir Ulfius said in his loud voice, “Now, let’s feast!”
The newly-minted knight led the way out of the chapel with older knights in tow, their voices a happy babble. Arthur stayed behind in the sudden quiet, sitting in the pew once again, his eyes on his hands.
Sir Ector waited for the others to leave, then sat beside his young ward. He was silent for a long time, but then he finally said softly, “I know it’s difficult when you lose someone you love. Nothing is the same. Colors aren’t as bright, and happy times aren’t happy any longer.”
Arthur only nodd
ed.
“When Aelwen died, a part of me died with her. She left a hole in me that hasn’t filled even to this day. I would imagine that you’re feeling much the same.”
Again, he replied with a wordless nod.
Sir Ector sighed. “I would like to tell you that the hurt will go away, and that the hole in your heart will heal. I would like to tell you that in time, you will wake and everything will be whole and happy once more, but I can’t. That would be a lie.” He put his good hand on his foster son’s knee. “You will never stop missing him, Arthur. There will never be a day when the thought of him doesn’t cause at least a little twinge of sorrow. The time will come, though, when the pain will be smaller, and the hurt easier to bear. There will be happiness in your life again, and the colors will return. And someday you may even find someone else to love. But your love for Amren will never go away.”
A tear slid down the boy’s cheek, and he wiped it away with an angry swipe of his hand. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t cry today, not during his brother’s knighting celebration. He could not will the tears to stop, though, so he kept his head down.
“I know it feels like the sun will never rise again,” Sir Ector continued. “But it will. And one day, in the bliss of heaven, you will see him again.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Or maybe you will see him in the Summerlands, and you will be reunited there. Who knows? I only know that you will not be without him forever, just as I will someday be with Aelwen again.”
Arthur finally found his voice, albeit a small and weak version of it. “You never found a new woman to love after Mother died. I won’t find anyone, either.”
“I found a woman to love, but she wouldn’t love me back,” he said softly. “I am old and crippled, and she believed that she could do better. It turned out that she was right. My fate will not be your fate. Arthur, you are still so young. There are many years ahead of you, so much time where anything could happen. Don’t close the door on what happiness may yet come to you.”