by J A Cummings
“Excellent. Do you know where your brother is?”
Gaheris blinked. “Which brother, sire?”
The courtiers tittered. Lot ignored them. “Gawain.”
“I don’t know. I thought he was in his room, possibly still abed. Is he ill?”
Lot shook his head. His second-born was an innocent through and through, and that sort of mindless purity could not be pretense. “No. He isn’t. He’s left Din Eidyn.” Gaheris gasped, and the king said, “Did he mention anything to you that might tell you where he’s gone?”
The boy shifted on his feet, glancing at the court hangers-on as if he had just noticed they were there. “We talked about Mother, and about the High King, and the war to come. We talked about Agravaine and how annoying he is.” This time, Lot joined the chuckles in the room. “We talked about Gareth, and about horses and about a piece of sword work I had trouble with. Gawain was helping me to learn, sir.” He shook his head. “That’s all.”
The king thought he might have touched upon the matter. “What did he have to say about your mother?”
Gaheris shrugged. “That he missed her, and that he wondered if she was well and had enough to eat. He wondered if Aunt Morgana was causing trouble for her. He wondered if she was using her magic wisely, or if she was letting her sister lead her into craziness.”
Lot glanced at his second, Bruis, and chuckled. “That’s a valid concern where that woman is involved.”
Bruis shrugged. “I’d bed her anyway.”
“And that’s why you’re the way you are.” He turned back to Gaheris. “What else?”
The boy shook his head. “That’s all. Oh, and his horse. He thinks Gringolet is the finest horse ever.”
“Ah!” Bruis said, laughing. “There you have it.”
Lot nodded. “I understand now.” He sat back. “He’s only a little younger than I was the first time I set out to sea. He’s heard the stories, and now he wants to be like his father. He’s testing himself.” He smiled. “Thank you, Gaheris, for your good report. I can always depend upon you.”
The boy drew himself up. “Yes, sir!”
“Gawain is riding up to the broch to check on his mother, and seeking adventure along the way. Excellent.” The king smiled, proud of his first born. “Most excellent. He shows initiative and bravery! He will be a fine king someday.”
Bruis nodded. “Yes. In time. Perhaps even a High King…”
Lot grinned. “To that end, let’s get back to planning our attack.”
Gawain rode through the brightening wood. In the trees, just outside of his field of vision, he could hear the soft padding of animals. For the last hour, he had been followed by a wolf pack. He had probably entered their territory, and they were trailing him, observing him for weaknesses. He knew that wolves only hunted at night, but they also trailed their prey for days, learning their ways and how best to take them down. If he could cross out of the wolf pack’s territory before nightfall, he would not be attacked, he thought.
These Lowland wolves were not as ferocious as their Highland cousins, but even a supposedly weak wolf pack would be stronger than a single horse and rider alone. He was not afraid, but he had no desire to learn first-hand how strong a wolf’s bite could be. He spurred Gringolet forward.
They had been riding all night, and they both were weary. He wanted to stop and let his horse rest, and possibly get a little sleep himself, but the presence of the wolves made him nervous. If he could find a shelter, perhaps a cavern or even a deserted building, he would stop. Thus far he had seen only occupied farmsteads and trees. The rocks and crannies where he could find a cavern were far north of him now.
The High King was encamped at Eburacum, which was at least four days’ ride from Din Eidyn. He had no idea how many miles he had covered, but he had spent the last six hours in the saddle, and he had no wish to injure Gringolet by pushing him further without a rest. The wolves had ceased following them, so he felt that it was finally safe to stop. He found a stream with a flat bank where he and his horse could drink, and he stopped there. He unsaddled his mount and unburdened him completely, removing even his bit and bridle so that he could drink and rest. Gringolet snorted softly to him and rubbed his cheek against Gawain’s chest, an action that the boy chose to take as thanks. He scratched the dusty mane and released him to graze and drink at will.
Gawain himself sat down on the bank, his saddle beneath him, and leaned his back against a tree. He held his sword across his knees and closed his eyes, seeking some much-needed rest.
Arthur stood in his bedchamber, quietly watching while Lindos laid out his clothes for the day. Merlin stood beside him, redressing the wound in his abdomen, which had stopped seeping but still hurt. The druid had at least decided that it no longer needed to be packed, which was a comfort.
As Merlin wound bandages around his middle, he talked. “Prince Constantine and Kings Ban and Bors have made landfall in Camulodunum and are marching north to meet us.”
Arthur nodded. “They will be most welcome. And the Saxons?”
“Holding tight to the east coast, as before. They will be difficult to dislodge.”
“If we head south to meet them, and if the Armoricans come north from Camulodunum, can we not meet in the middle and press against the Saxons and push them out? We have the forces of Estrangore and Eburacum at our disposal, and we could ask King Marcus Cunomorus to join us from Cornwall. He is my mother’s brother, it is said. Could we count on him?”
Merlin sat back and examined his handiwork, considering. “He is Queen Igraine’s nephew, yes, but as for whether he will come and aid you, that I do not know. He has troubles of his own with the Irish, who are invading all up and down the coast.”
“What about Norgalis?”
“Disarray,” he objected. “Their king is missing and the heir to the throne is still in diapers.”
“Powys?”
“Not your friend.”
Arthur scowled. “I know that all parts north of Estrangore are in revolt, and we cannot ask them for help. And Listenoise is lost.”
“Only for now. Caradoc Short-Arm, her king, is in collusion with Lot, but that will last only until Lot begins to fail.”
“Will he fail?” Even as Arthur asked, he saw Lindos glance their way, and he was suddenly very well aware that the servant was listening. He said quickly, “Lindos, leave us.”
The servant bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
Arthur waited until the servant was gone, and then he told Merlin quietly, “He listens too closely.”
“Agreed.” Merlin began to pack his medicinal supplies away. “Who do you think he really works for?”
“I don’t know. Possibly Gurgurest, but I think more likely one of the northern kingdoms. I don’t trust him.” He began to dress, moving stiffly because of the tightness of the bandages. “I hate feeling like I can’t trust the people around me.”
Merlin sighed. “That is something that comes with kingship. You will need to doubt everyone, unfortunately. Well, everyone but a chosen few. You must ensure that your inner circle is populated with people whom you can trust completely.”
“So far, I think I have.” He sat to pull on his boots. “My friends would never betray me.”
“I know that I would not.”
Arthur smiled at Merlin. “I know.” He put his hands on his knees and looked up at the druid. “So… what does today bring?”
“More court, and I thought perhaps we could see a few of the sights of Eburacum. It’s a beautiful city, and there is much worth seeing.”
“Will you be my tour guide?”
Merlin smirked. “Of course.”
“Then I accept.”
The door to the adjoining room opened, and Griflet came in. He smiled. “May I?”
“Please.”
He walked in and sat on Arthur’s bed beside the young king. “I slept like shit. I had dreams all night long.”
“Dreams are sometimes important,” Merlin said.
“What did you dream about?”
Griflet took a deep breath. “I saw our High King here riding a red dragon that breathed fire. He was attacked by a knight on a white dragon. They fought and fought, and the white dragon fell from the sky.” He shook his head. “I don’t know why I dreamed about dragons.”
“Too much ale with dinner,” Arthur suggested.
Merlin shook his head. “No, it might be more than that. The red dragon is Arthur himself. The white dragon is the Saxons. You predicted success in our endeavors. That was a good dream.”
“It didn’t feel like a good dream. It felt...anxious.”
Arthur shrugged. “It was a dream about combat, so I would imagine that anxiety is completely appropriate.”
“Well, just because it’s appropriate, that doesn’t mean I like it.” He bumped his shoulder against Arthur’s. “Ready to face another day, my lord?”
“I suppose I am.” He stood and took a breath. “Let’s go.”
Lancelot picked himself up from the ground for the hundredth time. He gripped his sword tightly and clenched his teeth.
“You’re not learning fast enough,” Ysmon chided. “You have to be better than this.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, you’re not.” The wood nymph readied his sword and shield. “Again.”
The boy squared his shoulders and lifted his own shield, then advanced. He struck at Ysmon, hacking at him with his sword, but the nymph deflected his blade easily and responded with a flurry of blows that sent Lancelot stumbling backward. He raised his shield to protect himself, but each impact of steel on steel sent a shuddering reverberation through his arm to his shoulder and made his entire body jangle.
Ysmon pushed him, and he nearly stumbled again. Anger surged through him, and his vision swam with it. Inside him, something snapped. He abandoned defense and concentrated on attack, roaring his rage and his frustration. He battered Ysmon, his sword clanging against the wood nymph’s shield. Again and again he struck him, still screaming in his anger, and this time, it was Ysmon who was forced back.
“Go, boy!” shouted one of the satyrs from the side of the field. “Kill him!”
Lancelot advanced, fury in his heart. Ysmon raised his shield, unable to do anything else between the blows that fell upon him like rain. Lancelot kicked him in the stomach and sent him tumbling.
He stood over the sprawled nymph, his sword raised. Everything that Ysmon had done to him, every embarrassment and every humiliation, filled his mind’s eye. He pressed the point of his sword to his opponent’s throat. The nymph looked up at him and grinned.
“Good!” he said. “That’s what I knew you had in you!”
He wanted to kill him. He wanted to shove his sword through his windpipe and twist it for everything he’d done, but he hesitated. He struggled with his rage and brought it under control, then gritted through clenched teeth, “Do you yield?”
Ysmon nodded. “I yield.”
Lancelot backed away. He watched warily as Ysmon regained his feet.
The satyr Hekrin grumbled. “I thought you were going to kill him.”
“That would be dishonorable,” the boy said, his voice tight. “He yielded.”
“Honor will get you killed,” the satyr opined.
“Honor is what he’s here to learn. He’s to be the best knight in the world,” Ysmon said. “That requires a certain sense of right and wrong.”
Lancelot thought unkind things about Ysmon’s grasp of right and wrong, but he kept the comments to himself. He raised his shield and sword again and looked at his adversary. “Come on.”
Lionors and Kay sat in the garden at Verulamium after breakfast was over. His ankle was healing well, and he was no longer in as much pain as before. The stone bench they shared was narrow enough that they could not avoid touching, something to which neither of them objected. Kay took her hand, and Lionors leaned into him.
“My father wants me back in Ceredigion before the end of summer,” she told him. “I might need a strong knight to escort me safely.”
“I can think of a knight who would be happy to escort you, provided that he can get his foot into his boot,” he said, smiling.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He kissed her golden hair, and she sighed happily. He asked, “Do you think your father would like me?”
“If I like you - and I do - then he will like you.” She stroked his hand with her thumb. “You are of noble birth, a worthy knight, and a brave fighter. You’re handsome -”
“You think I’m handsome?”
She giggled at both his surprised tone and the way he instantly puffed out his chest. “Of course I do.”
Kay put his arm around her. “My father’s holdings are small,” he said. “I can’t -”
“Ceredigion needs no more land. We need good hearted men who are willing to defend us.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “I think you would be welcome there...if you wanted to make it your home, that is.”
His heart pounded. “Lionors,” he began. “I don’t know how to say this, and I’ve never been good with words, anyway. I blurt when I shouldn’t, and I say things the wrong way. If it’s not too improper, I mean, I know that we’ve not known each other for long, but…”
“I love you, too,” she said softly.
He grinned so widely that his face nearly split in two. “You love me?”
“Yes.” Lionors looked up at him. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised.”
“I… I suppose I… it’s still good to hear.” He kissed her lips tenderly. “I want to marry you, Lionors. Would you allow me to ask your father for your hand?”
She beamed. “I was hoping that you would.”
They embraced, and Kay gave silent thanks for broken ankles. If he hadn’t been injured, he would never have had this time alone with her, and she might not have loved him. He believed in fate, and he believed that God took a hand in the lives of His faithful. This was the doing of the divine, he was certain.
He held her tightly and leaned his cheek upon her hair, smiling. He had never been so happy.
Gawain was startled awake by the sound of voices approaching. He rose stiffly from where he had been sleeping and grasped his sword, quickly slipping his other arm into the straps on his shield. The voices were coming closer. There were two of them, a man and a boy, and they were chattering like magpies.
Two horses and their riders came into view, following the same trail to the river that he had taken. They looked surprised to see him, and he recognized the boy instantly.
“Prince Owain,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Prince Gawain.” His cousin frowned. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m heading to Eburacum,” Gawain admitted. “I have business with the High King.”
Owain glanced at the man who accompanied him. “So have I.”
“What business?”
“What is yours?”
Gawain sighed. “I mean to warn him of the impending attack from the north.”
Again, the younger boy glanced at his companion, who shrugged eloquently. “I meant to do the same thing.”
“Then you’re betraying your father and your king.”
“So are you!”
“Relax, Owain, it was a comment, not a criticism.” Gawain sheathed his sword and put down his shield. “Yes, I am betraying my father, because I believe he’s in the wrong. I need to warn the High King that our fathers and their allies are coming for him.”
Owain dismounted and let his horse drink. “If he’s clever, he won’t be surprised.”
“No,” Gawain agreed. “I’m sure he expects it. But we can tell him when, and in what numbers.”
The man dismounted, too, and said, “I’m Faelan, Your Highness, and I came along with Prince Owain to keep ‘im safe.”
“Well met,” Gawain said, clasping the man’s hand.
“That’s something I didn’t expect.”
�
�What’s that?”
“To be taken as an equal by a prince.”
Gawain smiled. “We are not equals, but we can still be friends.”
Owain looked at his older cousin. “Do you know the way to Eburacum?”
“More or less. There’s a road that leads south. If we follow it, we’ll get there in a few days.” He looked at the packs on the newly arrived horses and did some mental calculations. “You didn’t pack much in the way of supplies, did you?”
“Well… no. I suppose not.”
He nodded. “Well, we’ll ride together and make do with what I have. We should be able to hunt along the way to have more to eat.” He reached into the burlap bag that held his rations, and he looked at his companions. “Are you hungry?”
Owain looked sheepish. “Yes.”
Gawain broke off some bread and cheese and shared it with his cousin and with Faelan. He took some for himself, as well, and sat to eat with them. “Why do you want to help the High King?”
“Because he’s the High King,” Owain said, shrugging. “And because he’s been properly crowned and it’s wrong to oppose him when he’s done nothing bad.”
“I agree.” Gawain nodded solemnly. “I think my father and yours are in the wrong. They saw the sword come out of the stone just as surely as we did, and that’s not the sort of thing you can falsify. I think he’s been chosen appropriately, and he’s the rightful king, and the sooner we put this nonsensical rebellion to rest the sooner we can get rid of the Saxons and take back Britannia completely.”
“I don’t care about Saxons, or about Britannia,” the younger boy said, speaking around a mouthful of bread. “I just don’t like my father very much and I want him to get into trouble.”
Gawain chuckled. “That’s nicely spiteful.”
“I tell the truth,” he shrugged. He eyed his cousin’s armor and heraldry, then said, “Are you already a knight?”
“Not yet.”