by J A Cummings
“I didn’t think we were debating,” he said, slowly easing the dagger from its sheath.
Merlin’s hand shot out, moving more quickly than Griflet could see. He caught the young knight’s wrist and squeezed, forcing him to drop the blade. “We aren’t.”
The druid looked into Griflet’s eyes again with that starlit gaze and spoke in a voice full of eldritch power that made his blood freeze in his veins. He tried to look away from the druid’s eyes, but he was transfixed.
“I don’t want to kill you, Griflet. I don’t want to put him back into a mourning cycle. He has mourned enough already. You can be his friend, but you can no longer be his lover. Do you understand me?”
“I break it off,” he said, “or I die.”
“You have a choice.”
He wished he could look away. Even if he struggled, he could not break that locked gaze. “Is this the same choice you gave to Amren?”
“This is not about Amren.”
“You killed him, didn’t you?”
Merlin put his hand on Griflet’s chest, resting lightly above his heart. “You think you know a great deal, don’t you?”
“I think I know enough.”
Something was happening. His insides quivered, and he was beginning to feel weak in the knees. He still couldn’t look away from Merlin’s eyes, and he was frightened. The druid whispered, “How much do you want to live?”
He thought of Ector, rotting in the summer sun, the fetid liquid pouring from his body when they moved him from the cart. He thought of all of the corpses he had seen on the battlefield, hacked and disfigured with war. He thought of his own mother, beheaded by Bedivere.
“Yes. I want to live.”
“Good choice.” The quivering inside of him stopped. “Break it off with him tonight. Use any pretense. Use Arthur’s infatuation with Guinevere. I don’t care what reason you give. Just be certain that you no longer warm his bed. Do you understand?”
Griflet took a deep breath. “I understand.”
“Good.” Merlin released his hold on him, both physical and otherwise. “And if you say one word about your suspicions regarding Amren, I will kill you in a way so painful that your very soul will never stop screaming.”
He swallowed and repeated, “I understand.”
“Tell me you will obey me in everything I have commanded.”
His head felt strange, as if it had been stuffed full of straw. “I will obey you...m- master.”
Merlin smiled then, his expression pleasant and friendly. “Excellent. I’m so glad we’ve come to this agreement.”
He stood in the garden for a long time after Merlin had left, staring up at the moon and thinking for the first time about his own mortality. He had no desire to joust with Death. He would do as Merlin said.
The bard ran out of songs, and everyone was growing sleepy. Griflet had never come back from his talk with Merlin, although the druid now sat and chatted with Lady Garwen, a friendly smile on his face. The lady looked charmed by her companion, and Arthur wondered what they were talking about that had her so merry.
He rose and smiled at the assembly, aware that royal protocol forbade anyone from leaving before him. “Please pardon me, my ladies and my lords. I’m weary and will be retiring for the night. It’s been a lovely evening. Thank you all for your companionship.”
Guinevere left her seat and curtsied again. “Good night, Your Majesty.”
King Leodegrance, smiling, said, “Perhaps, King Arthur, you would be willing to escort the princess to her lodging?”
Arthur grinned like a fool. “I would be delighted. Your Highness, if you will permit me?”
The beautiful sea nymph stood and inclined her head. “It would be my honor, Your Majesty.”
He offered her his hand, and she rested her fingertips in his grip. He escorted her as if he was leading her out onto a dancefloor, and she glided as if she was already dancing. Her hand was warm, and her soft skin tingled against his where she touched him. He smiled.
“I haven’t said so, and I’ve been remiss. Your beauty is astonishing tonight.”
She smiled impishly. “Only tonight? Oh, dear. Perhaps I was displeasing to your eyes this afternoon.”
“Oh, no, my lady. Nothing could be further from the truth.” He led her to the spiraling tower stairs that led toward her temporary bower. “This way, if you please.”
“Actually…” She stopped, but she did not take her hand away. “I would like to go to the river. There is a river near here, isn’t there?”
“Of course. It’s a short walk, but if you’d prefer, I can have a palfrey prepared for you.”
Guinevere smiled. “I would be happier to depend on my own two legs than on the four legs of a horse.”
Arthur glanced at their companions, who were watching them with interest. “I understand. Come this way, please.”
They walked together through the sally port and into the green meadow beyond the castle walls. She left her hand in his, and he boldly stroked her finger with the pad of his thumb, gently feeling the brushed satin of her skin. She looked at him with a smile. She did not give him an order to stop, so he felt encouraged.
The path to the river was not a difficult one, since the gardeners and grooms used it every day to bring water back to the keep. Guinevere released his hand so that she could gather up her skirts to walk on the dirt path.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “Your gown will be stained. It’s very lovely. White is very becoming for you.”
She laughed, and there was music in the sound. “Most men don’t notice things like colors and whether one color is better for a lady than another.”
He shrugged. “I’m not like most men.”
“So I’ve heard. And you’re not really a man at all, are you? At least not yet.” She looked at him. “You’ve lived only sixteen years, and you have at least two more before you can truly call yourself a full adult. How strange.” A disconcerted expression creased his face, and she said, “I have lived for eight hundred years, and I will likely live eight hundred more. Does it bother you that I’m so old?”
“Never. You’re as young as springtime, and as lovely.”
He had no time to be embarrassed by his gushing words, because she looked at him through the corners of her eyes. “You Cambrian men and your poetry. Are you born with the powers of seduction on your tongue, or do you have to work on it?”
He laughed. “I suppose it comes to us in the air we breathe. In Gwynedd and in the rest of Cambria, poetry and music are highly prized. Sometimes it’s easier to speak your heart with a poem or a song than to just say things outright. It seems more polite, somehow.”
They reached the river bank, and she turned to him. “Speak your heart for me, King Arthur. Don’t quote poems or sing songs. Tell me what your heart wants me to know.”
He found the words immediately. “My heart would like you to know that though I’ve lived only sixteen years, those years have not been without experiences, and manhood can come early if life is lived the right way.”
“Ah.” She nodded, only slightly mocking. He could bear it. “So you’re telling me that your age is no factor in your maturity.”
“Precisely.”
“I see.” Guinevere looked at him with a playful expression. “So you’re a king. Say something kingly. Impress me.”
He opened his mouth and found that he could think of nothing. “Something kingly?”
“Literal, but acceptable,” she laughed. “I’m feeling rather hungry. Would you mind if I went fishing?”
“Uh… I can see if the cooks still have food left from dinner. I saw that you didn’t eat anything.” He was fumbling, and he knew it.
“I didn’t want to eat that food. I want fish.”
“I can get a fishing pole and hook,” he offered.
“No need. I have other means.” She reached up behind her neck and untied the laces of her gown. With a few tugs, the laces came loose, and the dress fell into
a white puddle at her feet.
If she was trying to shock him, she had succeeded. She stood before him completely and confidently nude, her perfect body glowing in the moonlight like ivory. She smiled as he struggled to keep his eyes on her face and failed. When she was certain he had taken a good, long look, her eyes left his face, too, and she raised an eyebrow at what she saw. He covered his obvious interest with his hands.
With a laugh, Guinevere dove into the water of the river. “Do you swim?” she asked.
“I… yes.”
“I’m glad.” She disappeared beneath the water.
She did not come back up. He looked nervously around him, then at the surface of the water, which was dark and featureless in the night. She did not reappear, and he took off his belt and the dagger attached to it. He was just about to jump into the water, too, when she appeared several hundred feet down the river, a struggling fish in her hands.
“I’m a sea nymph,” she told him.
“I know.”
“I breathe water.”
He didn’t know what to say. His words scampered even farther away from his mind when she opened her mouth, unfolded a set of very long and very sharp teeth, and bit the head off the fish. She filleted the unfortunate creature with two swipes with her jaws, and she approached Arthur with one of the slabs of pink meat in her hand, still attached to the shining skin of the fish she had captured.
“Eat,” she commanded. “I want to see you do it.”
He stepped down into the water, his eyes locked on hers, rising to the challenge. He accepted the raw fillet and bit into it, leaving the skin but taking a mouthful of the rest. Guinevere watched him closely, a smirk on her face.
“Thank you,” he said, swallowing. “It’s delicious.”
She broke into a wide smile, a beaming expression that spoke of her vast amusement and, he hoped, her approval. She ate the fish’s head, then said, “Yes, it is.”
He watched as she proceeded to eat the other half of the fish. “So this is what sea nymphs eat.”
“Yes. We prefer fish, live caught and still alive when it’s put into our hands. We’re consummate hunters in the water.”
He grinned at her. “You must save a lot of time, not looking for worms to dig up for bait and not bothering with cooking.”
She laughed, delighted.
When she had caught and consumed two more fish, both of them larger than Arthur had ever caught in his life with a rod and reel, she headed back to the shore and her discarded dress. He followed her up the bank, his boots leaking water, his tunic and trousers utterly ruined. Guinevere looked at him as she got dressed.
“You should have taken your clothes off before you got in.”
He hesitated, then said, “It would have been inappropriate.”
“Why? I was already naked.”
“That’s why.” He blushed. “Besides, I’m shy.”
“Shy?” she teased. “I wonder, would your dear, dear friend agree with that assessment?” He must have looked as flummoxed as he felt, for she chuckled and said, “The fact that you and Sir Griflet are lovers is obvious to anyone who sees you together. I don’t mind. In fact,… I just might like to watch the two of you together sometime.”
“My lady!” He was truly shocked and had no other words that presented themselves to him, so he left it at that.
She laughed at him, or perhaps with him, and headed back toward the keep. He followed after her, only a pace behind. When he caught up with her, he took her hand, and she allowed it.
“You are nothing like what I expected.”
“I could say the same of you.” She stopped and faced him, and he could see her studying his face in the moonlight. “My father wants me to marry you, to bring into effect a treaty between your kingdom and ours. Merlin wants the same thing.”
His voice was husky when he asked, “And what do you want, my lady?”
She smirked. “I don’t know yet, but if I’m properly asked, I might tell you.”
Guinevere turned and walked back into the keep, leaving him gawping as much as the fish that she had captured. He realized that he was just as much in her snare as they had been.
Griflet was waiting for him in his room when he returned. He took one look at the king, bedraggled and wet, and shook his head. “What happened to you?”
“Guinevere,” he answered simply.
The knight glowered. “I suppose you’ve had sex with her, then.”
“What? No. I just walked her to the river. She jumped in, and she was taking too long to come out, so I went in after her.” He pulled off his soaked boots. “What a mess…”
Griflet took the boots away, snatching them out of his hands and taking them over to the fire, which had been stoked to keep the night’s chill away. Arthur sighed.
“I’m sorry, Grif,” he said softly. “I think I hurt you tonight.”
“Yes, you did.” He turned to face him. “I think that we - whatever we are has been just a diversion for you, something to keep you occupied and to keep giving you pleasure while you waited for a wife.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is making me stand by and watch you make soppy love eyes at a woman who barely cares that you’re there.” He walked over to Arthur and yanked the king’s wet tunic off over his head. “Well, I think I understand how things are now.”
“No, you don’t,” Arthur protested. “You don’t understand at all.”
“Really? I don’t?” He tossed the tunic into the corner. “Tell me that you wouldn’t go to bed with her if she invited you.”
Their eyes met, and Arthur had to look away. “I can’t say that.”
“I thought as much. You want her. That’s fine, if that’s how you want things to be. I know you need a queen, and it was foolish of me to think that you’d marry for duty but keep your affection for me.” Griflet shook his head. “I can’t do this, Arthur. I can’t share you. If you’re going to marry that nymph, then what we are has to be over.”
“Grif -”
“It is over.” He walked to the door. “It never should have begun in the first place. I never should have given in to you.”
Arthur rose. “I told you no the first few times you offered. Don’t turn this into a case of me using you from the start.”
“Of course not. You’re always blameless, aren’t you?” He turned and shot a resentful look at him. “I’m not fooled, Arthur. I know you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
Griflet didn’t answer. He only shut the door and walked away, leaving Arthur frustrated, angry and alone.
In the Perilous Forest, a man in armor roared and raged at the trees, his sword flashing as he flailed in combat against something Annowre could not see. King Pellinore had clearly taken leave of his senses, and it was all she could do to avoid him as he rampaged through the clearing and into the edge of the wood. She had enchanted him so that he couldn’t leave the open space around the fountain because it would do her ultimate goal no good if she lost him in the forest. If he was in fact mad, that might serve her purposes that much better.
He shouted in his native Cambrian dialect at whatever phantasm he was fighting, as he had been doing for hours. His voice was ragged with overuse, creaky and cracking, and she watched him from behind the tree bole that she was using as a shield. He slashed at the air again, and this time he flew forward, as if something she could not see had battered him from behind. The king landed on his face, his sword flying from his grip. The trees on the opposite side of the clearing bent as if something large was pushing through them. The sound of cracking branches raced away from the fountain at speed.
She watched Pellinore from her hiding place until she was certain he wasn’t getting back up. Picking up her skirt, she carefully stepped over a hacked-off branch and into the clearing. The king did not react, which was a relief to her, and she went to his side to kneel. He was still breathing, but had clearly been outdone by his long combat against h
is invisible adversary. Annowre rolled him onto his back and untied the laces holding his helmet on his head. When she slid the helmet free, his head lolled against the ground.
She went to the fountain and collected a handful of the precious magical waters there, pouring the healing liquid onto his cracked, parted lips. He swallowed the drops that slipped down his throat, and his dark eyes fluttered open and fixed on her. His hand reached out for his sword, but it was out of reach.
He stared up at her. “Where is it?”
“It’s gone,” she told him. “Whatever you were fighting has left and vanished into the wood.”
Pellinore pushed her away, but gently. He was clearly not interested in hurting her, which was a relief. “I must pursue it.”
“You cannot. I have charged you to defend this spring for a year and a day, and your term is only halfway over.” She looked at the huge oak that shaded the clearing, and at the collection of shields that hung there. They had all been taken from the arms of men he had killed in this lonely service. “You have a collection to add to before you’re done.”
“I take no pleasure in killing good men for your entertainment,” he growled, rolling onto his knees. He hesitated on all fours, coughing, then stood with a jerky motion that made him seem almost unnatural. “I have killed some of my own knights for you.”
Annowre was unmoved. “Yes, and you will kill more. You have months left in our agreement.” She gestured toward his tent, which had been shredded in his fit. “Go to sleep and prepare yourself for tomorrow.”
“There will be no tomorrow,” he said, his voice full of desolation. He pulled the misericord from its home at his waist, and he pointed it at his own throat. “I cannot bear this slavery any longer.”
He tried to press the blade into his neck, but his hand would not move forward. He struggled against himself, and against an unseen grip that held him back and prevented him from suicide. Finally he sagged, sobbing, his hand dropping to his side.
Annowre laughed. “Did you really think you could avoid your vow to me so easily? A year and a day, Pellinore. You promised me. And I will have it. After that, what you do is your own concern.”