by J A Cummings
“Ah. Me, neither.”
“Obviously not. You’re still too young.”
“So are you.”
“I know, but not for long.”
Owain bit off a piece of cheese. “Do you think King Arthur will knight you?”
“I was hoping he would.” He held out a hand, and Gringolet stepped over to him to mouth his palm. “Perhaps you could be my squire.”
“Perhaps.”
Faelan finished his food. “I’ll get to fishing, shall I? Get us some extra to eat?”
“Yes, go ahead,” Gawain nodded. “We have time. The horses need to rest, and so do we.”
The Irishman set about finding an appropriate stick to use for a pole while the boys continued to talk. “I liked the look of King Arthur when I saw him pull the sword,” Owain said. “I believed in him straight away.”
“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say that I believe in him, but I believe he’s king, and that may be enough.” Gawain sat back down on his saddle and leaned against the tree again. “I think I’d like to serve him, though. There’s a lot of honor in serving the High King.”
“More than in serving some fool of a minor ruler,” his cousin agreed. “Does your father think he deserves to be High King instead of Arthur?”
Gawain nodded. “Yes. He intends to try to take it.”
“He won’t succeed.”
“I know. Especially not if we’re able to reach Arthur before the armies join up and start to move.” He scratched his head. “Does your father think he can be High King?”
“He wants it, but I don’t think he really believes he deserves it. I know he’s not strong enough to take it by force of arms. He’s not a fighter, really.”
Gawain nodded. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
“What have you heard?”
“That he’s a souse and a lecher, and that he’s given to debauchery more than he’s given to the necessities of rule.” Owain scowled, and Gawain said, “Tell me if I’m wrong.”
“You aren’t wrong.”
“I thought not.”
“And I’ve heard that your father is a liar and a butcher, and that he’ll do anything for power and glory, even stabbing someone in the back.” Owain sounded victorious, as if he had somehow just scored a point against his cousin.
Gawain didn’t care. “You’re not wrong.”
The boys watched as Faelan lay on his stomach on the river bank, dangling a stick with a string to which he’d tied an unfortunate worm. Owain asked, “How much would you be willing to do for the High King?”
“Whatever he asked me to do, I suppose,” Gawain shrugged. “You?”
The boy raised his chin. “I’ve already killed for him. My father sent an assassin to kill him, but I shot him with my bow before he could get away.”
The news was startling to both Gawain and Faelan, who looked at each other in surprise. Faelan said, “Now, Prince Owain, is that the truth, or is it an exaggeration?”
“It’s the truth. His body lies off the road from my father’s castle.”
“Impressive,” Gawain said. “I have not yet spilled human blood. I trust that will change before too long.”
“Strange ambition,” Faelan commented.
“Being a knight brings its share of combat, and if you don’t kill the other fellow, you are the one who dies,” the older boy told him confidently. “You cannot be a warrior if you’re afraid to kill.”
“Big talk,” Owain said.
“Big plans.”
Faelan settled back down on the river bank. “Quiet, now. You’re scaring the fish away.”
The boys fell silent, and before long, they were both asleep.
Days passed.
Merlin showed Arthur the glory of Eburacum, and the people were amazed to find the new High King walking among them without guards or distance. He stopped to talk to all who wished to speak to him, and he listened to their complaints and did what he could to address their troubles. The reign of King Gurgurest was not without petty injustices, and he set about making right the little annoying snubs and wrongs that his host’s court was guilty of delivering. There was nothing criminal that he discovered, only thoughtlessness, and while Merlin watched over him, he did his best to make his people know that he was theirs.
At night, Griflet shared Arthur’s bed, and they loved one another to the limits that his wound would allow. Arthur left behind his doubts about Griflet’s desires and true intentions, and he welcomed the affection that the young knight showered upon him. He still mourned Amren, but he needed to be loved. It helped to assuage the grief.
Gurgurest and Severina were gracious hosts, but Arthur knew that his predilection for egalitarianism was grinding on their nerves. They disliked the increasing number of common folk who tramped into their palace on court days, and they took umbrage at the times when Arthur would decide a dispute in favor of a poor man instead of the noble who had cheated him. Gurgurest complained that Arthur was upsetting the rights and privileges of the noble class, but none of the High King’s entourage, and certainly not the king himself, did more than listen politely to his arguments before moving on.
On Sunday, Arthur attended Mass in the cathedral, where he was personally blessed by the bishop. He felt humbled and not a little unworthy, but he knelt and received the blessing with as much grace as he could. His armor, sword and shield were also blessed, and he received a new title: Defensor Populi, Defender of the People. He swore that he would be worthy of such a name.
Runners came to court on the fourth day, bringing news that the armies of Constantine, Ban and Bors had reached Lindum and were continuing northward to meet him. Arthur welcomed the news happily, for runners had also been arriving with the news that the Saxons were massing their forces once again.
He suspended court for the mid-day meal, and as he was leaving the throne room, Merlin pulled him aside. “I have news from the court of King Carados of Elmet.”
“He opposes me,” Arthur guessed.
“He does. He’s gathering his forces and intends to support King Lot in his bid to take the crown from you.”
“And what news from Lot’s kingdom?”
“I have no informants there,” Merlin admitted, “but I do have someone for you to meet.”
Arthur followed him into a colonnade behind the great hall. The breeze lifted his hair from his brow and tugged at the edges of his tunic, carrying the promise of a rainstorm as he walked behind his druid advisor. At the end of the portico, a trio stood waiting.
He recognized Gawain and Owain immediately, and he hesitated a step in his surprise. The two princes took a knee to him as soon as he came into view, their hands on the pommels of their swords, as he approached.
“Prince Gawain,” he said softly. “Prince Owain. I did not expect to see you here. Did you come alone?”
Gawain looked up. “Your Majesty, I have come to tell you that my father, King Lot, has conspired against you.”
If he expected Arthur to be surprised, he was disappointed. The High King nodded and calmly said, “Go on.”
The young prince took a half of a heartbeat to steel himself to his purpose, and then he said, “King Lot has entered into alliance with King Prydain of Hen Ogledd, Huail of the Picts, King Uriens of Rheged, King Caradoc Short-Arm of Listenoise and King Carados of Elmet. He has also called in assistance from the Danes. He means to march upon Eburacum and destroy you.” He studied Arthur. “You look rather better than I would have expected. We were told that you were gravely wounded and more or less on your deathbed.”
“I am wounded, but not gravely, as you can see. I can still fight.” He looked at Owain. “And is this the same news you bring to me?”
Owain nodded. “Yes. And that you have a spy here, and that Uriens has sent assassins to kill you.”
Arthur frowned. “That’s unfriendly.”
Gawain could not suppress a smirk. “Yes, sir. Very.”
He turned to their companion. “And w
ho is this with you?”
“This is Faelan, an Irishman reared in Rheged,” Owain said. “He came with me on the road to protect me… although I do not need his protection.”
Arthur considered the boy’s proud stance and smiled. It was like looking at himself only a few years ago. He felt decades older than Owain now, even though he had not yet turned seventeen, himself. He wondered at the way age could creep up on a person unawares. “I’m sure he had the best of intentions. Welcome, Faelan.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” the man said, bowing.
“And thank you for your concern for Prince Owain’s safety.”
“Of course, Majesty.”
Merlin said softly, “These are your nephews, the sons of your half-sisters.”
He knew their parentage, but somehow the relationship to himself had never solidified in his mind. He held out his hands. “Then rise, nephews, and accept my thanks.”
Gawain and Owain both stood, and he embraced them each in turn. They returned the embrace, although Owain took a moment before he did so, and even then, his arms felt uncertain around Arthur’s back. Arthur clasped Faelan’s hand, and the Irishman looked amazed.
“No king has ever touched me,” he said. “I thought I was beneath it.”
“We are all just men, Faelan, even if one wears a crown and one does not.” He gestured toward the door to his private apartments. “I was about to dine. Would you care to join me?”
“Yes, please, sire,” Owain said. “We’re very hungry.”
Gawain looked almost embarrassed as he admitted, “I brought rations, but only enough for myself. I did not expect to meet my cousin and his retainer on the road.”
“How could you be expected to predict such things?” Arthur asked. “I’m sure you prepared for your journey extremely well.”
Merlin walked ahead and opened the doors to the king’s rooms. “Come in, boys.”
Sir Ector was already there when they arrived, as were Brastias and Bedivere. Griflet entered through another door just after Arthur stepped into the room, carrying a large ewer filled with wine. The knights stared as the young princes followed the king into view.
“What is this?” Bedivere asked, astounded. “Are Lot and Uriens so close?”
“No,” Gawain answered. “King Lot was still in Din Eidyn when I left, and Uriens is marching, but not here. At least not yet.”
Owain scowled at his cousin and added, “He is encamped at Vinovia.”
Brastias looked alarmed. “That is only seventy miles away.”
“It will take a little over two days for an army to march that distance,” Ector said. “We must prepare.”
Arthur nodded. “I don’t think the army is ready to march yet. Uriens is waiting for the rest of his allies to arrive.”
“How many allies?” Brastias asked.
“Many. Prydain, Huail, Lot, Caradoc Short-Arm and Carados.”
While his knight frowned, the High King sat at the table and said to the woman who was bringing the food, “Isera, please set three more places for my guests.” She curtsied and vanished from the room.
Gawain watched her leave, then turned to Arthur. “Is she part of your household?”
“No,” Arthur answered, confused. “She is a cook and servant in Gurgurest’s kitchens. Why do you ask?”
“You know her name.”
“Well, yes. Most people have names.”
“But she’s a…” Gawain stopped himself. “I thought that if she was in your household, she had seen a few too many summers to be...”
“She brings me food,” Arthur told him, amused. “She doesn’t warm my bed.”
Merlin chuckled and sat at the table, himself. “Are too many summers really that much of a deterrent, Prince Gawain?”
“Not if the woman is comely,” he replied promptly. It seemed to dawn on him that he may have said too much, and his fair cheeks reddened. “I…”
“Shut up,” Owain said.
The two cousins were like night and day. Gawain had the golden hair and blue eyes of his Norse father’s blood, and he was a large, broad boy who was already sturdily muscled. He had a frankness to his gaze and a straightforward manner in his stance that appealed to Arthur greatly. Gawain would be a man who took the world on his own terms.
Owain, who was probably twelve years old at the most, was entirely different. He had a mass of thick, dark curls, and his high cheekbones and strong jaw hinted at the handsome man he would become. He was withdrawn, though, and reticent to talk, and there were secrets and shadows in his eyes. Arthur suspected he would gain Gawain’s confidence and trust much more quickly than he would Owain’s, if he ever gained the younger prince’s confidence at all.
Isera returned with more food, and everyone sat to eat. Sir Ulfius had joined them last, and he watched Gawain with interest. At one point in the meal, he spoke to the prince in the Norse tongue, and Gawain answered back quite readily. Arthur decided he had yet another language that he needed to learn, to go with Saxon and Pictish.
He leaned closer to Merlin, who sat at his side. “What did they say?”
He whispered back, “He asked the prince if he had ever been to Norway, and Gawain said that he had. I believe it was a test to see if the boy spoke Norse.”
Bedivere took a mouthful of food and chewed thoughtfully, swallowing with a gulp before he asked, “So what do we do, with enemies massing in our rear and to our front?”
“Well, obviously,” Arthur answered simply, “we fight them one at a time.”
Sir Ector nodded. “We’re listening.”
“We march south to meet our own allies at Lindum. That will give Lot and his friends more ground to cover before they reach us. We will destroy at least one bridge that we cross to slow them down - a bridge we will rebuild when all of this is over - and then, while the Saxons are still preparing, we fall on them and beat them back. Once the Saxons are pushed back, we turn and face Lot and his friends and push them back to the north where they belong.”
“That’s a lot of fighting in a short period of time,” Bedivere warned.
“I know.”
“Do you think you can prevail?” Gawain asked.
“Yes. We will, because we must.” Arthur looked around at the faces of his companions. Some looked grimly determined to see the battles through; others looked dubious at best. Bedivere seemed frankly skeptical. The High King looked back down at his plate and continued eating. “I see that many of you object.”
“We should face Lot first,” Ulfius said. “That’s the greatest threat. The Saxons will keep.”
“I want them off my island.”
“It’s not that easy, my lord,” Brastias protested.
“No, it’s not easy, but it is that simple. We must reclaim Britannia for the Britons. There is no other choice.”
Ector took a deep breath and sat back. “Merlin, what do you advise?”
“I agree with the king, to a point,” he said, “and with Sir Ulfius, to a point.”
Arthur looked at him closely. “How so?”
“We wait for our allies to arrive here. They will be here in two days. We then march north and meet Uriens at Vinovia before his allies arrive. Then we push north and quell this ridiculous rebellion of Lot’s. When that’s done, we can see to the Saxons once and for all.”
The king considered the suggestion, then finally nodded. “I agree.”
“This will be like the apocalypse,” Brastias said. “We have ourselves, Eburacum, Lindum, Armorica, Benoic, Gannes and Estrangore. They have Lothian, Hen Ogledd, Rheged, Listenoise, Elmet and Gododdin. This will be a battle like none of us have ever seen before.”
Arthur nodded. “I pray its like will never be seen again.”
King Bagdemagus of Estrangore and his army arrived in good time, and a war council was called. Gawain had been kept out of the meeting, which he thought was unfair, since he had always attended his father’s war councils. He walked through the palace aimlessly, watching
the people and listening to the things the servants and courtiers said when they thought nobody was around. Arthur, it seemed, had endeared himself to the common folk. He wasn’t certain a king should court the favor of the masses instead of the nobles, but he supposed that the commoners outnumbered the aristocrats, so at least the larger group was on the High King’s side.
He didn’t quite know what to think of Arthur. He was barely older than Gawain, but he carried himself like a much older man. He wondered if the pressures of rule caused that sort of aging, or if Arthur had always been older than his years. It was probably both.
He turned a corner and found himself in a blind corridor leading nowhere. The end of the hallway had been bricked shut, using masonry of a different quality than that of the walls around it. Curious, Gawain walked closer, peering at the bricks. A doorway had been sealed quite some time ago. He rapped on the brick and put his ear against it, but there was nothing to be heard.
“What are you doing?”
He started and turned to see Owain standing behind him, a suspicious look on his face. Gawain smiled. “Exploring. You?”
“Following you.” Gawain raised an eyebrow, and his cousin blushed. “You’re the only person I really know.”
Owain was the same age as Gaheris, he reasoned, and the thought made him suddenly intensely homesick. The knowledge that his home would never be his again, and that his life in Lothian had ended, made his heart sink like a stone. He turned back to the wall.
“It looks like they bricked up a doorway,” he told Owain, covering his sorrow.
“I wonder if they bricked someone in.”
He looked at his cousin in surprise. “That’s a horrible thought.”
“My father does it all the time.”
“That’s doubly horrible.”
“He’s a horrible person.”
Gawain shook his head. “Let’s go to the stable.”
Owain shrugged his lack of opposition and followed where the older boy led. They went to the stall where Gringolet waited, and his horse whickered a happy greeting when he saw Gawain approaching. He picked up a handful of grain and brought it to the animal, who scooped it out of his palm with nimble lips.