Arthur Rex: Volume One

by J A Cummings

  He watched as a trio of mounted knights passed the mouth of the ford on the British side of the river, looking at him as hard as he was looking at them. They rode on, and he cursed beneath his breath. They were gathering information, no doubt.

  They were coming, he knew. It was only a matter of time.

  Sir Ulfius came to Arthur’s tent with his two companions, Sir Meliot and Sir Mariet. “They’re fortifying their side,” he reported. “I didn’t see what they were doing, but it looks like they’re ready for us.”

  “They think they’re ready for us,” the High King smiled. He looked at his companions as Griflet finished arming him. “Merlin, is your team prepared?”

  The druid wiped his hand with a rag, cleaning grease from his skin. He said, “We are. We appropriated some oxen from Lindum with Sir Maelgwas’s blessing, and that will be very useful, indeed.”

  Sir Ector said, “The carpenters have been working all night to take the siege towers apart, but we have finished the task.”

  “Excellent.” King Gurgurest stood. “My king, we are ready to begin.”

  “King Bagdemagus?” Arthur asked.

  “My men are standing at the ready, sir.”

  Arthur nodded and pulled on his gauntlets. “Then let’s go.”

  The ford across the Witham was narrow and rocky. The water swirled and eddied, bubbling white around the moss-covered stones at the bottom of the river, making the crossing treacherous. Colgren stood on his side of the river and watched the Britons approaching through the trees that lined the banks.

  “How many do you think?” his lieutenant asked him.

  “Five hundred, maybe six,” he answered. “This might be an even fight after all.”

  “Where are their horses? I don’t see them.”

  Colgren looked up and down the river, but he saw no sign of the mounted warriors who had done such damage to his men. “They can’t take them across. The bottom is too slippery. They’d have to get off and lead them, and there’s no point then.”

  The British troops advanced in even rows, foot men and pikemen at the front, archers in the back. Colgren glanced at his line and nodded. A hundred bowmen stepped forward and fired into the British army. The Saxon warlord smiled with satisfaction as men fell beneath the hail of arrows.

  His smile faded when the first creak of wood reached his ears. When he saw oxen teams dragging the six ballistae they had lost during the fight, some dismantled and some in working order, he forgot about smiling altogether.

  With a roar, the line of Britons parted, and a hundred men surged forward with pieces of the abandoned siege towers, broad rafts of wood that they carried forward and dropped into the river bed. The wood reached nearly from one bank to the other.

  “Fuck me,” Colgren said. “Fire! Archers, fire!”

  He drew his seax and prepared to meet the onslaught. He was not disappointed. From behind the line of men with lumber, the knights appeared, their horses leaping forward and crossing on the wood with disappointing ease. His pikemen set their spears on the bank, pointed toward the breasts of the animals, and several of the horses were impaled and toppled over on top of their riders. The rest of the knights kept coming.

  On the British side, the crews under the direction of the wizard Merlin set the functional ballistae in place and started firing. Massive bolts flew into the Saxon camp, deadly and indiscriminate. The British archers began to shoot, as well, and the Saxons returned fire. The air above the river was black with missiles.

  The first knight’s horse scrambled up the bank on the Saxon side, and his breastplate bore enameled dragons. His shield carried three golden crowns on a field of blue. The knight surged forward and drove his lance through one foot soldier’s stomach, piercing the Saxon’s chainmail shirt as if it were made of linen. He bore the man down to the ground, where his spear snapped, the ragged edge protruding from the body. The knight abandoned the broken weapon and drew his sword instead.

  Colgren knew immediately he was looking at the Britons’ king.

  Arthur stood up in his stirrups as he drew his sword. He shouted to the knights who were following him. “For Britannia!”

  An answering shout rose from his men, and then all was chaos. Horses and men collided. Hooves kicked. Steel flashed. A hundred buzzing arrows streaked and struck, and a hundred men on both sides fell. The thump of the ballistae was like a war drum, and it drove Arthur onward. He and his sword mowed down Saxon foot soldiers as if they were grain and he was the scythe, leaving a wide and bloody trail through the camp.

  The other knights fought just as bravely, and the common soldiers of the Britons showed themselves to be strong and unyielding. The Saxon line bowed, then broke, and their army started running in all directions.

  Sir Ulfius, his helmet bedecked with a white horse’s tail, shouted out, “After them! Kill them all!”

  There was no disagreement. The knights, including all three kings, chased the fleeing Saxons, their hooves like thunder as they pursued the hapless invaders. The swords, arrows and ballista bolts of the Britons did their bloody work. The Saxons were utterly routed.

  By the end of the day, there were hundreds of bodies lying dead upon the red-soaked ground. Arthur rode through the aftermath, looking for familiar faces among the dead. A group of Britons were ransacking the dead Saxons, and he called out to them, “You! What are you doing?”

  King Gurgurest, riding at Arthur’s side, smiled and said, “They are taking the trophies of their hard-won victory. You cannot deny them.”

  “They are desecrating the dead,” the High King objected. “It’s wrong.”

  “Those dead men carried valuable weapons. Unless you wish to bury all of the plunder and lose the support of the infantry…”

  Arthur looked back at the men, who were looking at him in fear and resentment. He sighed. “You fought well today, men. You have my gratitude.”

  They beamed at the praise from their king and returned to their business. Arthur shook his head and looked away.

  Gurgurest told him, “I know that it seems wrong to one who has had so little battle experience, but the commons must have something to show for their time and blood. Steel is not cheap, my lord, and most of these men will never have the means to purchase proper weapons for their sons, or for themselves. If they take a seax or a dagger, let them. That’s one less weapon that can be wielded to hurt you or your men.”

  The young king was chagrined. “I confess I had not thought of it that way.”

  “I know.” He looked at Arthur with kindness instead of the mockery that he expected. “The knightly class does just the same. When a knight defeats another, whether in full battle or single combat, he is entitled to the loser’s horse and harness. Did you know that? A day in tournament can bankrupt a knight errant… or make him a very wealthy man.”

  “It seems…”

  “Have you never heard the phrase, gaudia certaminis?”

  Arthur nodded his head. “‘The joys of battle.’”

  “Taking the belongings of those you conquer is one of those joys, and one of the simpler ones.” Gurgurest smiled. “I’m not surprised that you speak Latin. Wasn’t Uther actually a Roman by birth?”

  The High King nodded. “Half Roman and half Briton, or so I’m told.”

  The King of Eburacum nodded. “Well, my lord, now that the battle is over, the Saxons are defeated and Lindum is saved, I would like to invite you to my kingdom. If you are my liege lord, then the kingdom is truly yours, anyway. You should see it.”

  Arthur smiled. “A generous offer, to be sure. Does it extend to all of my men, as well?”

  “Eburacum can absorb them for a time, if the masses of them agree to camp outside the walls. Your knights are welcome in the city, of course.”

  “I would like it if my men were welcome, too. I understand if your city has insufficient room for this many new people, and so they will camp outside the walls, but might they have the freedom of the city?”

  “W
e will leave our gates open to them to come and go as they wish, so long as they behave themselves.”

  “They will.”

  Brastias rode to meet them, his face drawn with fatigue. “My lords, I have good news. The Saxon warlord was found floating dead in the river. There are sixty Saxon prisoners, and the rest of the enemy lie dead on the field.”

  Arthur nodded. “And how many of our men have we lost?”

  “Bedivere is coming soon with that accounting. Several knights drowned in the crossing when they fell beneath their horses.”

  “And the foot soldiers?”

  “Many. The river is dammed with bodies.”

  Arthur sighed. “Pull the bodies out and give them proper burials, whether they are Briton or Saxon. Thank you, Sir Brastias.”

  The knight saluted with his fist to his chest, then rode away. Gurgurest said, “Our losses were not as great as the enemy’s. You have won the day, Your Majesty.”

  “We have won the day. No man fought alone here.” He shifted in his saddle, the wound in his abdomen paining him. He could feel a trickle down his skin and he knew that it had reopened and was bleeding.

  Arthur made his way to where the Saxon captives were being held. They were battered to a man, and they sat in the mud with their hands bound behind their backs. Sir Ector turned to his foster son when he arrived.

  “What shall we do with this lot?” he asked.

  Sir Ulfius, who was standing nearby, cleared his throat. Arthur looked at him, and the Norse-born knight said, “You know what I think, Your Majesty.”

  “We cannot murder them in cold blood.”

  King Bagdemagus walked toward them from the healers’ tent, his shield arm in a sling. He stood beside Arthur and looked at the motley group of captives. “Prisoners of war may be sold into slavery,” he suggested, “or killed to prevent further aggression.”

  The High King shook his head. “No. We are not barbarians.”

  “No, but they are,” Sir Maelgwas interjected. He stood over the prisoners, hatred gleaming in his eyes. “The things that the Saxons have done throughout this country should be enough to earn them a summary execution, my lord. They are little better than animals.”

  Arthur stood his ground. “They are human beings.”

  “No. They are Saxons.”

  “And we will be no better if we murder them,” Arthur protested.

  Sir Ulfius grumbled, “Uther would have done it.”

  He was furious. “I am not Uther. I am the High King! I will not be questioned in this!”

  Merlin interjected his calm presence and asked, “So if they are not to be killed or sold, what, then, do we do with them?”

  Arthur thought quickly, then said, “Take them to Ynys Môn. Hold them there until this war is over. When the Saxons have been defeated, we will release them to return to their homes on the Continent.”

  Disgust and frustration merged on the faces of many of the assembled Britons, but Merlin only bowed and said, “As you wish, my lord. It will be done. Sir Brastias, Sir Ector, your assistance, please?”

  The two knights helped the druid gather up the skittish prisoners and take them aside. King Bagdemagus turned away from Arthur with an unreadable expression, but Gurgurest’s disgust was plain enough to see. Arthur knew that if he spoke to either of them now, he would say things he would regret, so he muzzled the burning rage in his heart. Instead he rode away, nudging his horse forward to the Saxon camp outside the walls of Lindum.

  Arthur went to the tent that had been their leader’s. He stepped inside and looked around. In all of the basic ways, it was just like his own pavilion, down to the camp chairs and the table with maps and diagrams heaped upon it. The air smelled like stale sweat, and the bed was unkempt and rumpled. A chest stood closed behind the table, and a small brass brazier was waiting to heat the enclosure. There was an extra scent, a spice and fruit combination that he had come to associate with magic, and he wondered if the Saxon enchantress that Merlin wanted to hunt had been staying here, as well.

  Arthur went to the table and looked through the materials there, taking in the Saxon sketches of the eastern coast of Britannia all the way from Ceint to Gododdin. Each navigable river had been marked, and the largest settlements noted. It was all very neat and scholarly in its way, something that surprised him. He hadn’t expected such erudition from the Saxons, which he supposed only proved how much he had allowed himself to accept the fallacy that they were nothing but a barbarian horde.

  He heard something move in the corner, behind the trunk. He drew his dagger and approached cautiously. A pile of blankets on the ground shifted, and he leaped upon it, pulling the top blanket away and raising his blade in preparation. He came face to face with a small, terrified man with a spindly frame and a face shaved in the Roman style. The man held up his hands and begged in Gaulish, “Please don’t kill me!”

  Arthur blinked and lowered his dagger. “Who are you?” he asked in the man’s own tongue.

  The man nearly fainted with relief. “You are a Briton, and yet you understand me. Amazing.”

  “Tell me who you are,” the king ordered, bringing his dagger forward again.

  “Gaius! I am Gaius. I am a builder of… things.” He held up his hands in supplication. “Please, I beg of you, don’t hurt me.”

  Arthur stepped back, letting Gaius struggle out of the blankets and onto his feet. “What is a Gaulish builder doing here in a Saxon army tent?”

  The skinny man wrung his hands. “They kidnapped me. They - do you believe in magic, sir?” When Arthur nodded, he continued. “The woman made a doorway in thin air that I could step through. It went from Gaul to this place. I was forced to build ballistae for them. I swear to you, my good Briton, sir, my rescuer, I never -”

  “Calm yourself,” he said softly. He sheathed his dagger again. “I have a magic user at my disposal as well, and I will ask him to take you home. From where were you taken?”

  Gaius took a deep breath, and his shaking diminished. “In Armorica, with King Claudas.”

  He nodded sternly. “Then you are my enemy after all. King Claudas is attacking my allies, and I have sworn to help them defeat him.”

  Gaius nearly wailed, “I am only a servant, sir! A servant! I do not fight the battles!”

  “You only make them more miserable.” Arthur looked at him closely. “Do you want to return to Claudas, or is there somewhere else that you would rather go?”

  The builder looked surprised by the question, and he stammered, “M-my home is far away from Armorica. I am from Lutetia.”

  “Then I will see you safely taken to Lutetia. But I warn you, if you ever build ballistae for use against Britannia again, I will be less kind.”

  “Of course, sir. Of course.” He knelt. “You are… you are…”

  “I am what?”

  “You are very young, sir.”

  He sighed. “Yes, I am, and I am deeply weary of hearing everyone talk about it.” He sat at the table and began rolling up the maps. “Are any of these sketches yours?”

  “A - a few, sir, but you may keep them. My gift to you.”

  He didn’t know if he would ever have a need to build ballistae of his own, but the plans would be helpful if he did. He decided it was best to keep them as a contingency. “My thanks, Gaius.”

  The man watched him silently as he finished rolling up the maps and charts. Arthur found a pair of scroll cases that he could fit the layers of vellum into, and he closed the lids and tightened them with cord.

  “And… what is your name, sir, if I may ask?”

  He looked at him. “Arthur Pendragon.”

  “You are a knight of some renown, then. A powerful man, to have a magic user at your beck and call.”

  He snorted softly. “You could say that. I hold a certain rank among my people.” The sound of hooves approaching called his attention, and he stood, gesturing for Gaius to get back. “Stay here.”

  The horse stopped at the entrance to the t
ent, and the rider dismounted. Sir Griflet’s voice called out, “Your Majesty?”

  Arthur relaxed. “In here.”

  The young knight sighed in relief when he saw his king. “I was afraid when I couldn’t find you on the other side of the river. Are you well?”

  “Perfectly fine,” he lied. He would need to see a healer about the wound in his abdomen, which was still trickling beneath his armor. “And you?”

  “I’m all right.” He shook his head, darkness in his eyes. “Battle can be a horrible thing, can’t it?”

  “Without doubt.” He saw Griflet look at Gaius, and he said, “This is the siege engineer who built the ballistae.”

  “Is he with us now?”

  “No. I promised him that we would see him returned to his home in Lutetia.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s in Gaul.”

  Griflet nodded. “That’s a long way from here. Will you ask Merlin to send him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You ask a lot of him.”

  Arthur agreed. “I know. Hopefully I don’t ask too much.”

  Merlin, Ector and Brastias appropriated a number of oxen and ox carts and loaded them with the Saxon prisoners. The druid told the knights, “I will take them from here. Thank you for your assistance.”

  Brastias frowned. “Do you want us to go with you? You’re badly outnumbered.”

  “It will be difficult enough to take all of these people and carts without adding the two of you and your horses,” he objected. “This will be a great strain upon my magic and upon my power. Tell Arthur that I will not be back for some time.”

  Sir Ector said, “If this will be too difficult for you, then we can send them overland instead of relying upon you.”

  Merlin shook his head. “It is at the outer limit of what I can accomplish, but I’m still able to do as the king has asked. I’ll simply need time to rest when I’m through.”