Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  When the washing was over, the druids went away, leaving him with Merlin on the riverbank. He pulled his clothing back on and said, “That was...strange.”

  His companion smiled. “Indeed. There are certain indignities that accompany kingship.”

  “Apparently.”

  “Are you ready for tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I’m a bit nervous. The last time I was with a woman, it was really a demon who wanted to eat my soul,” he said ruefully. “I seem to have a bad habit of sleeping with demons.”

  Merlin chuckled. “Well, there is nothing demonic about the lady you will be with tonight. She is from Ceredigion, on the sea. She is a gentle soul, a lover of animals, and she is good with children. She won’t hurt you.”

  “But what if I hurt her?”

  “Arthur,” he chided softly. “You are also a gentle soul. You would never hurt a lady.”

  “I don’t have much experience,” he fretted. “What if I do something wrong?”

  “She’d never know the difference. The girl is a virgin.”

  “Then I hope I don’t do so badly that I put her off sex for the rest of her life.” He finished dressing. “I really hope this goes well. I don’t want to do something terrible and stupid and end up cursing the crops for the next year.”

  Merlin put an arm around Arthur’s shoulder as they walked back toward the camp. “There is nothing you can do that is as bad as all of that. Believe me, all will be well.”

  “I hope so.” He sighed. “Am I allowed to eat?”

  “Of course. There’s no fasting involved. You’re actually encouraged to eat meat today. So much so that you’re required to go out and kill it yourself.” He smiled and conjured a spear and a bow, along with a quiver of arrows. “The god is the master of the hunt. Show us how much like him you are.”

  He took the weapons. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Just be sure you’re back by sunset.”

  He nodded, then turned and walked away. He could feel Merlin watching him all the way into the forest.

  Illtyd found Kay sulking in his tent, sharpening his sword with a whetstone as if he meant to grind one or both of them into dust. The boy had been angry and distant since the night before, and it was obvious that his temper was not improving. He sat beside him and said, “You’ve been out of sorts all day. What’s wrong, son?”

  Kay glared down at his blade, which had been honed to razor sharpness. “These pagan people and their filthy ways,” he spat. “And Arthur playing right along with their nasty games. He’s a traitor to his faith.”

  “I agree.”

  The young knight looked up in surprise. He sometimes forgot that Illtyd was a priest as well as a knight. “Then you must be as horrified as I am by what’s going to happen tonight.”

  “I find it distasteful, yes,” Illtyd agreed. “And I am displeased with Arthur for agreeing to participate in this travesty. I suppose he must do whatever he can to win these people to his side, at least until he wins his kingdom and receives his crown.”

  “At the peril of his immortal soul.” Kay tossed the whetstone into his saddlebag, which stood beside his foot. “And the soul of the girl he’s going to dishonor.”

  The priestly knight sighed. “Kay, I know that you were enamored of her when you saw her, but bear in mind, she is a pagan. She has no honor to lose. You are better off finding a wholesome, Christian wife than a pagan temptress who will sell her maidenhead as a sacrifice.”

  The young man sighed deeply and put his face in his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. “She is so beautiful.”

  “So is it ever with forbidden fruit. That is how temptation calls a man to sin.” He patted Kay on the back. “Stand strong and count yourself fortunate that you were able to recognize Satan’s trap before you stumbled into it.”

  He took a deep breath. “You’re right.” He shook his head. “The last thing I need is to fall in love with some pagan whore who will bed any man who asks. But... what if I never find a Christian woman? What then?”

  “God will send the woman you are meant to have,” Illtyd assured him. “You must only be patient. You are so young, Kay, and you are coming into power soon enough. Women will flock to you. The king’s seneschal? A strong and handsome young knight such as yourself? You will be spoiled for choice.”

  Kay smiled, mollified. “Thank you. I hope that’s true.”

  “It is.” He rose. “Now, up and out of here, Sir Kay. Let us go and practice our wrestling with those idiots from the Belgae.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Kay preceded Illtyd from the tent and walked away with a lighter step. Griflet, who was standing nearby, winked at the priestly knight. “You have such a glib and silver tongue, you’d think you were the Serpent himself.”

  “It got him to stop pouting, didn’t it?” He chuckled. “Besides, I’m sure it’s more than half true. Time will tell.” He gestured. “After you.”

  “Oh, no. Not me.”

  Illtyd raised an eyebrow. “Not a wrestling devotee?”

  “If I am going to wrap my arms around another person, it will be a lady, and there will be mead or ale involved.” He smiled. “On your way, monk.”

  With a laugh, Illtyd followed where Kay led.

  Ector and Bedivere stood inside Constantine’s tent, leaning over a folding table the Armorican had erected. A map of Britannia lay before them, festooned with wooden figures representing armies, all painted different colors.

  “My scouts indicate that the Saxons are massing here, at Dubris and again at Noviomagus,” the prince said, pointing to the two ports in question. “They have landed two fleets of longships, and another was seen out at sea, headed north.”

  “They’re going to march on Londinium,” Ector said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Of course.” Bedivere nodded. “It’s our largest city, and it was the last place that the Saxons knew of Arthur’s whereabouts.”

  Constantine sat in a chair beside the table. “Safir and Alexios have already abandoned the villa and sailed back to Armorica. I sent a message to Kings Ban and Bors before I set out for the Giant’s Dance, and they have acknowledged the call and are sailing to us as we speak.”

  “My army is mustered at Viroconium,” Bedivere said. “I need only send for them.”

  Ector blew a long breath out through his nose. “Send your messenger, then. War is upon us.”

  Constantine looked up at the old knight. “Is Arthur ready?”

  “Is anyone ready to see war for the first time?” he replied. “I believe he will comport himself well. He will not break and run.”

  The prince leaned his elbow on the table and drummed his fingers lightly. “Time will tell. I hope that you know him as well as you think you do.”

  “I raised him from infancy. I know his heart as well as I know my own. He is not lacking courage,” Ector defended. “As for skill, we have done our best with him, and I believe that he can hold his own.”

  Bedivere looked at the markers scattered across the map of Caledonia. “And what of these three groups? Lot, the Gododdin, and the Picts… have your scouts brought any word of them?”

  Constantine shook his head. “No. The scouts that I sent north have not returned. They are probably dead.”

  “And Uriens?” Bedivere asked.

  “Still in Rheged, but mustering.”

  Ector sighed. “And Pellinore is mad and lost to us, so we cannot count on help from Norgalis. What about Leodegrance and Escanor?”

  “Leodegrance can barely hold his own land unsupported, but Escanor will join us.” Bedivere straightened and crossed his arms. “We can also speak to Rivalen of Lyonesse and Pellam in Listenoise.”

  Constantine frowned. “Does Listenoise even still exist? I thought it had been absorbed by Rheged.”

  “It still exists, but with divided loyalties,” Bedivere answered. “Those who oppose Uriens will support Pellam if he marches.”

  “If he marches,” Ector repeat
ed skeptically. “Slim chance of that. He’s too consumed by his piety to raise a hand in battle.”

  “Perhaps. Until we send out our call for aid, we’ll never know.”

  “What about the third brother, Pelles? He’s still king in Corbenic, isn’t he? We know his other brother Pellinore has lost his mind, chasing after that invisible monster of his, but what of the other son?” Ector asked.

  Constantine said, “Rumor has it that Pelles has taken holy orders, too.”

  “But will Corbenic said aid?”

  Bedivere shook his head. “There’s no way to know yet.”

  The tent flap opened, and Brastias stepped in. He hesitated just over the threshold. “Permission?”

  “Granted,” Constantine nodded.

  The knight came in. “Where is Arthur?”

  “He went outside the camp with Merlin this morning,” Ector answered, concern in his voice. “I haven’t seen him return. Nor have I seen Merlin.”

  The Armorican prince waved a hand. “If he is with Merlin, he is safe enough. Do not trouble yourself.”

  Bedivere asked, “Why are you looking for him?”

  “Someone wants to see him.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the men from Ceredigion.”

  Bedivere frowned, concerned. “Is the girl changing her mind?”

  Brastias chuckled. “I don’t think so. They’re trying to give him a dog.”

  Ector shook his head. “Just put it in his tent. He’ll see it when he comes back.”

  “I could use a hunting dog,” Brastias said as he turned to go, smiling. “I might just keep it myself.”

  The three men fell silent, staring at the map that so clearly showed just how little chance Arthur had of surviving the summer. Ector sighed.

  “Well, there’s no use looking at maps now. We’ll have no more information if we stand and stare for an hour than we did when we started.” He inclined his head toward Constantine. “With your permission, I would like to look for my son.”

  The prince smirked. “Sir Kay?”

  They both knew that he had meant Arthur, and it was a gentle reminder that Ector could no longer claim him. “Yes. Sir Kay.”

  “I believe I saw him with Sir Illtyd near the wrestling ring.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He glanced at Bedivere, then left them to their planning.

  Kay was not at the wrestling ring. Instead, he stood at the mouth of Arthur’s tent, watching as the man from Ceredigion put a squirming brown puppy onto the bed. The little dog barked at Kay, its tail wagging madly, and the man who delivered it gave it one last fond pat on the head. He attached a lead from the dog’s neck to the leg of the folding desk, and then he smiled at Kay with a nod.

  “He is a Mollosus. I have this dog’s litter mate,” he told Kay. “He will hunt well for you.”

  “For my brother.”

  “For both of you.” The man smiled. “If you’d like to select a pup of your own, come by tomorrow after breakfast. I’m sure Lionors would enjoy it if you did, Sir Kay.”

  He was startled. “She spoke of me?”

  “My sister liked what she saw of you yesterday, and how you were with the pups.” He nodded into the young man’s surprised expression. “She may be the Goddess tonight, but she’ll be herself tomorrow. I know you were given an unfriendly welcome when you came to our camp before, but it will be different after the ritual. Try again.”

  He followed the man from Ceredigion as he walked away, leaving the puppy to yap at them inside the tent. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Cradoc,” he said. They clasped arms. “Well met, Sir Kay.”

  “Well met, Prince Cradoc.”

  The man smiled. He was a handsome fellow, with solid features and a good head of golden hair. His grip was strong and his eyes were friendly. “Not Prince Cradoc. Just Cradoc.”

  “I thought she told me that her father was the king.”

  “He is.” He winked. “Doesn’t mean he’s my father, though. We share a mother.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “Thank you for bringing the dog.”

  “Be good to him.” Cradoc looked back at the little animal with fondness. “His name is Caden.”

  Kay smiled and nodded. “I will tell the king when he returns.”

  Cradoc nodded back. “My thanks. On behalf of my sister, I hope to see you tomorrow.”

  He watched the houndsman leave, then went into the tent to visit with the pup. She spoke of me, he thought delightedly, all spite and anger flown. She spoke of me.

  The greenwood was as comforting to him as it always had been. In the soft music of the rustling leaves and the songs of birds overhead, Arthur’s embarrassment at the hands of the druids and his dread of the coming ritual were almost forgotten. He had learned much since his first forays into the wood outside Viroconium, when he had so aggravated Amren by frightening away his rabbits. Now he was almost as silent as his love had been, and out among the animals and trees, he was happy.

  He heard a snapping twig and stopped short, listening. There was a rustle and another snap, and then the branches on the bush in front of him began to shake. He brought his spear to the ready, prepared to defend himself or let fly if the game was good. The underbrush parted, and Arthur froze.

  It was a stag like he had never seen before. It was completely white except for its limpid brown eyes, which stared at him with a calm knowing that left him breathless. Its rack of antlers was the biggest he had ever seen, with dozens of tines that twisted and intertwined, holding grass and wildflowers above its head like a crown. Around its neck, it wore a band of shining gold.

  Arthur lowered his spear and went silently to his knees. The stag stepped forward, bringing with it the scent of flowers and rain. It sniffed at him, its muzzle nearly brushing the hair that was flopping over his forehead. He stayed perfectly still. The god of the wildwood is also called the Horned One, he thought. Surely this was no earthly beast. He had never been this near a stag without smelling pungent musk or some other animal odor. This stag smelled like spring.

  Trembling, he put out his left hand, and his fingertips brushed warm flesh beneath coarse hair. The stag snorted and pawed at the earth with its hoof, and then it was gone. He felt heat and tingling on his wrist. He recognized the feeling of magic, and when he looked down, he discovered a golden cuff fitting snugly against his flesh like a gleaming bracer. He blinked, wondering at the ghost he had seen and at the proof that it had left behind.

  He sat in the wood for what seemed like hours, his mind whirling, lost in a daze and contemplating the meaning of what he’d seen. He wanted to believe that the god he would be impersonating that night had come and given him a blessing. If that was so, then he had to wonder whether he was still Christian, or if he had ever been, deep down in the wild places of his heart.

  Finally, he rose slowly and headed back into the hunt. He could not return without game. The people would take that as a sign of his insufficiency as king. He closed his eyes and prayed.

  “Cernunnos, god of wild things, send me a deer to feed my people.”

  When suitable quarry was finally sent, it was not a deer that came to him. He heard it before he saw it, snorting and rustling through the leaves and debris on the ground, hunting out tender new shoots to eat. A bristly boar, its tusks yellow and gleaming in the fading afternoon sun, wandered into the clearing where Arthur sat. It was the largest boar that he had ever seen, and he wondered if he would be able to take it alone. He had heard of men who had died trying to take a boar like this.

  The animal stopped short, seeing him. It snorted and squealed its anger at him, infuriated that he, a lowly human, had dared to intrude into its glade. Its eyes shone with its rage, and those slashing tusks began to gnash.

  Arthur felt the charge before he saw it, and he planted the butt end of his spear into the ground, pointed at a low angle at the attacking beast. It leaped toward him, intent upon ripping into his guts with its tusks, and he held the spear solid and st
rong. The boar impaled itself upon the point. Blood rushed down the shaft and the animal screamed, fighting for just a moment before the spearhead found its heart and stilled its struggle. When it died, it fell upon the ground, snapping his spear and lying in a pool of rich black blood.

  He shoved at the boar, and it was difficult to move. With a great deal of effort, he managed to sling it over his back like a heavy, smelly cloak. It took every ounce of strength that he had, and nearly an hour with frequent stops, but he managed to make it back to the edge of the forest while the sun was still orange in the western sky.

  Merlin was waiting for him, standing with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. He smiled when he saw Arthur staggering out of the brush with the animal on his back, soaked in blood from the wound in its chest.

  “Now that is impressive,” the druid said. “Thank the gods you didn’t come back with a bird and a rabbit.”

  Merlin’s gaze fell upon the gleaming cuff around his wrist, and one slender eyebrow twitched upward in response. He said nothing. He made no move to help Arthur with his heavy burden, and the young king sensed that any help from anyone would be inappropriate and dishonoring. He forced himself to walk as straight as he could, although his thigh muscles trembled. They entered the camp together.

  “The king!” a little child shouted. “The king is back!”

  The smells and smoke of cookfires filled the air, and Arthur walked until he reached the fire in front of the Ceredigion camp. He dumped the boar onto the ground and announced to the watching Britons, “My offering to the Goddess for the feast.”

  Men and women rushed forward to look at the hog and at him. One man, an elder from the Brigantes, ran a finger through the blood that coated Arthur’s chest, his eyes locked to the king’s as if he was daring him to react. He dragged his bloodied fingers across his forehead, painting red stripes on his skin, and broke into a smile. Arthur smiled back and nodded.