by J A Cummings
Kay grimaced at Arthur. “It must have been terrible,” he said, employing his pun on the castle’s name for only the three thousandth time, and agreeably, as he always did, Arthur giggled. Kay splashed at him, and they gave in to high spirits, sending cascades of water at one another.
“Here, now, boys!” Sir Ector scolded. “That's not how to behave in a public bath.” He came to them, his face dark with a scowl, and he put a hand on both of them. They looked up at him, eyes wide, and he suddenly pushed them under, dunking them. When they came up sputtering, he laughed and said, “That is how you behave in a public bath!”
The three of them wrestled and splashed, their laughter ringing off the stone walls. Their country manners gathered some resentful looks from the other bathers, but they attracted a few warm smiles, too. The oldster with the missing hand chuckled.
“Your boys are strong. They will be warriors, too, I wager.”
“They will. Kay, the oldest, he's about to go to squire, and young Arthur here isn't far behind. Time to send him out to be a page.”
“Have you selected the knights that they will serve?”
“I have. Same knight, as it happens. Good friend of mine.”
“Ah. It's good to have someone you can trust.” He put his hand on his chest and bowed slightly. “I’m Corwin of Demetia.”
“Sir Ector of Caer Gai.”
“Ah! Forgive me, my lord. I had no idea that you were noble.”
“I think we're all equal in the baths,” their father said generously. “No harm done. You were a soldier, you said.”
“A simple soldier, my lord. I never was a knight.”
“No battle has ever been won by knights. It's always the infantry that bleed the most, and they are the ones who make or break the day.” He turned to Kay and Arthur. “Remember that, boys. When you're on horseback and in your armor, you'll be safer than the soldier who's on foot. Have a care for him in your fighting.”
Arthur nodded gravely, but Kay put on a silly face. “I will, Father! The foot soldiers are the easiest to cut down!”
“Kay!”
“He’s not the first of the knightly classes to think such things.” Corwin chuckled. “He's just a boy. He has time to learn and grow into the concept of fair fighting, if that’s what you would have him learn. God grant that there will be peace enough so that he can.”
Sir Ector nodded. “Well, with the High King on his throne, the land is protected. There should be peace here in Gwynedd for years to come.”
The old man blinked in surprise. “You don't know?”
The knight looked at Corwin in confusion. “Know what?”
“The King is dead. He was poisoned by the Saxons at Verulamium when he was campaigning there this winter.”
The news struck the loyal knight like a thunderclap. “Dear God. Poisoned, and campaigning in winter? What madness is this?”
“The Saxons were invading that poor city, taking advantage of the Yuletide, and King Uther had to head them off. They poisoned a spring from which he drank, he and a score of men and horses. All dead.”
Sir Ector ground his jaws closed. “There is no honor in such perfidy!”
“I don't know all the story, only what came to the town after Sir Bedivere and his men returned from the front. I'm sure he knows all.” He looked saddened. “I am truly sorry, my lord. I thought perhaps you knew and were on the way to the High King's funeral.”
“Where is he to be buried, and when?”
“In a barrow outside Venta Belgarum, I believe, near his castle there.” Corwin's face lost all of its humor and good grace. “He will be buried like the mighty king he is.”
“When is the burial?”
“In the spring, when the ground has thawed.”
Sir Ector nodded, then asked in a worried voice, “And who has inherited?”
“No one.”
It seemed to Arthur that his foster father was about to faint, and he put a hand against his back to steady him. Sir Ector pushed him away without rancor. “No one,” their father repeated. “He had no heir?”
“No legitimate one, at least none that can be found. Merlin, the druid cambion, prompted him to name some hidden child as his rightful heir, but nobody knows where this supposed son might be, or even if he still lives. Some think there’s no child at all, just some trickery on Merlin’s part. His wife had three daughters from her former mate, but none with him. He had a tribe of bastards, and a distant nephew, I think, but none who can take the throne...”
“Unless he truly takes it,” Sir Ector said.
“My thought exactly.”
Their father covered his face with his good hand and swore into his palm. “Jesus Christ. There will be war.”
“So it seems. Hopefully it will be ended by the time your sons are old enough to fight.”
Arthur and Kay looked at one another, both of them unreadable to the other. The younger boy was tingling at the news, as if a string connected to his heart had been pulled taut and plucked like a harp. It seemed to Arthur that his foster-brother looked afraid. They both turned to Sir Ector for guidance.
“Into the caldarium, boys. I thank you, my friend, for bringing me this news.”
“I am sorry for it. The King was not...” He hesitated and changed his wording at the last moment. “The King was not always a bad ruler.”
Arthur frowned at the faint praise, but his foster father did not take offense. “No,” Sir Ector agreed. “Not always. But he was a bad king often enough that there are enemies aplenty left to pick at his bones. God save us all.”
They went into the next room, their spirits considerably more subdued. The water in the pool was steaming, and when they touched it, its temperature was barely tolerable. Sir Ector went right in without hesitation, and the boys followed somewhat more reluctantly. Their skin reddened in the heat almost immediately, and their father watched them carefully. After a moment of soaking that was both painful and deeply soothing, he ordered them out of the water, directing them to stand beside the rim. Three servants came forward with jars of oil, which they poured over their naked bodies. Kay was uncomfortable with the way the servant rubbed the oil into his skin, but seeing how his father stood silent with his arms akimbo, he held his peace and did the same. Arthur mimicked the things Sir Ector did, and he found that he rather liked the feeling of being massaged by quick and steady hands. The strigils were applied next, and the oil was scraped away in great long swipes, leaving pink, clean skin behind. The serving men were embarrassingly thorough, but they were quick, and soon the three inhabitants from Caer Gai headed back into the tepidarium.
The warm pool was even more full of men when they arrived. The soldiers from the exercise yard lounged and relaxed in the water, chattering and laughing with one another. Arthur watched them, fascinated. One of the men, a stocky fellow with flashing dark eyes, noticed the boy’s attention and offered him a friendly smile. He blushed, embarrassed to have been caught staring, and he looked away immediately. The soldier chuckled.
Sir Ector was also distracted, but not by their companions. He kept an eye on the door, watching for the servant to return with their cleaned clothes. He wanted to get to Sir Bedivere’s home as soon as he could, for there was much that he needed to discuss. His agitation began to affect Kay, who grew more restive as time wore on. After several minutes, the soldiers’ leader barked an order, and as a group, they hauled themselves out of the water and headed into the caldarium. Arthur watched them go.
“Why are you so interested in those people?” Kay groused.
“I’ve never seen soldiers like them before. They move like one person.” He shook his head. “It’s beautiful.”
“That’s the benefit of discipline and training,” Sir Ector told them. “They’re individuals, but they’ve learned that they fight best as a group. You’re always stronger with your comrades at your side - foot soldier or knight, it’s the same.”
Kay objected, “Knights fight in solo combat,
not in groups.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Knights fight together as cavalry, and it’s an important part of a knight’s training to know how to work with other men and horses as one unit. You’ll learn that in time.”
“I just want to learn how to joust.”
“There’s more to knighthood than jousting. Damn it, where are our clothes?”
“Maybe they stole them.”
Arthur frowned at his foster brother. “That’s stupid. Why would they want our clothes?”
“Why do thieves want anything?” Kay countered. “They steal just to steal. Isn’t that right, Father?”
“In some cases, perhaps, but usually they only steal what has value to sell. Our clothing doesn’t quite qualify, I think.” A servant finally entered the room, carrying the items in question, and Sir Ector broke into a beaming smile. “Ah! There we are. Let’s get dried and dressed, lads.”
When they left the baths, their cart was waiting for them, their baggage nowhere to be seen. Sir Ector took the reins back from the groom and waited only long enough for the boys to clamber up and sit down. With a sharp click of his tongue, he urged their horse into a trot, heading for the other side of the town.
As they went down the road, Arthur thought he saw the man from the baths, the dark-eyed one who so liked to stare, standing at a corner that they passed, surrounded by armed guards and attendant slaves. He was dressed in rich garb, and his hands were heavy with gold rings. Their eyes met as the cart rolled on, and the strange man smiled, oily and unpleasant.
Arthur could not look away quickly enough.
Sir Bedivere’s estate was on the northern edge of Viroconium, standing on a low hill circled by a man made ditch. Ramparts rose steeply from the edges of the hill, and a single gate flanked by wooden towers gave entrance to the protected area within. A foot soldier guarded the gate, and an archer stood ready in each of the towers. It seemed to Arthur that the place was rather too well defended to be just a house, no matter how noble the inhabitant might be.
Sir Ector stopped the cart at the gate and the soldier approached, his spear in his hand. “Who are you and what is your business here?”
“Sir Ector of Caer Gai and sons, here to visit with Sir Bedivere.”
The guard cast a dubious look at the old knight, then at the boys. Finally, he grunted something beneath his breath and waved them forward. They proceeded through the gate and onto the raked soil of the well-tended ground beyond. A young boy, no more than Kay’s age, stood waiting for them, his trousers and tunic made of the same dun brown leather. He held out his hand, and Ector brought the horse even with his silent welcome.
“My father will be pleased to see you,” he said.
“Amren? Can it be you?” The knight jumped down from his seat. “You were only an infant the last time I saw you.”
“All things grow, honored uncle,” the boy said politely.
Ector chuckled. “All things, indeed.” He gestured to his sons, who scrambled out of the cart and to his side. “This is Kay, my oldest son, and this is Arthur.”
The boys shook hands in solemn mimicry of the actions of their elders. “Well met,” Kay muttered.
“Well met.”
Amren and Arthur clasped arms, and their eyes met. There was a steady intelligence in the new boy’s gaze, and a guarded look that belonged in a much older face. Arthur felt both caught and judged, but he managed to echo his foster brother. “Well met.”
Amren smiled. “Well met. Is it Arthur, or is it Artorius? Yours are Roman eyes.”
Ector put a hand on his foster child’s shoulder. “It’s Arthur. Take us to your father, please.”
“No need!” The jovial shout reached them from the keep, which stood atop an earthwork at the far end of the bailey. A knight in the full flower of his manhood, no longer young but not yet old, stepped forward, his fair head uncovered. He wore no armor or mail, but his torso was covered with a padded jack, already strapped closed and ready. He held out his arms in an expansive gesture of welcome. “Sir Ector of Caer Gai, I never thought to see you again! How do you fare, old friend?”
The two men embraced, thumping one another on the backs, laughing in delight at seeing a familiar face. Ector pulled back first. “Sir Bedivere Bedrydant, I present to you my son, Kay of Caer Gai, and my foster son, Arthur.”
The knight took Kay’s arm in a friendly grip and patted him on the shoulder with the other hand. “A stout boy! I see you take honestly after your father’s example. You will be a goodly knight in time, no doubt.” His eyes widened slightly when he looked at Arthur, but his smile remained undimmed. “And is this your little foundling, grown so tall?”
“It is.”
“Well met to you, young Arthur.” He grasped his arm, as well, and looked deeply into his face, much as his son had done. Something seemed to move behind that gaze, and once again, Arthur was discomfited. Finally, Sir Bedivere nodded. “Excellent. Come in, come in. As you’ve no doubt heard, we have much to discuss.”
They went together into the keep, passing men at arms and busy servants scurrying about with tense faces. Arthur and Kay glanced at one another, the older boy beginning to share the anxiety that filled the air like a contagion, the younger too excited by all of the new things around him to really comprehend what was happening. Bedivere led them into the great hall, one end of which was occupied by serving women plucking geese and putting the feathers into great wicker baskets, which were in turn retrieved by boys who raced them out of view.
Arthur asked, “What are they doing?”
“Those are for the fletchers,” their host answered. “We will have need of many arrows, and soon, I fear. Amren, go to the cellar and bring up a jug of wine for our guests.”
While his son went away to obey his command, Bedivere pulled two benches together near the window. Ector sat, and Kay sat heavily beside him. Arthur hovered behind, gaping at the arched ceiling and its vivid paintings of huntsmen and their quarry. His foster father cleared his throat and reminded him of himself, and he hastened to join his family where they sat.
“You’re preparing for war,” Ector said. It was no question, merely a grimly-stated certainty.
“Indeed.” Bedivere nodded, sitting on the other bench, his broad, square hands clasping his knees. “I assume that you’ve heard.”
“The High King is dead. Poisoned, I heard, by the Saxons in the east.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“No glory in that death,” Ector grumbled.
“No, none at all. At least he died defending his kingdom.” Bedivere shook his head. “And he died without legitimate issue. That leaves all of the petty kings to squabble for his vacant throne. You and I, my friend, will be much in demand as former generals beneath Pendragon’s banner.”
Ector shook his head and held up his ruined hand. “My fighting days are over.”
“They cannot be, unless you mean to take your boys and hide. We and our holdings are too well known, and they will come for us in due course, first to court us to their cause, then to destroy us if we refuse.”
Arthur frowned and spoke out of turn. “But why? Why not leave us to live in peace?”
“Because, my boy,” Bedivere said, his face grim, “peace is now a thing of the past.”
Ector shook his head. “No. Anyone who knows of me knows that I am not the warrior I once was. You have far more to fear than I, especially situated as you are so close to the city and so easy to find.”
“And this is why I’m preparing now. If things get too hot here in Viroconium, I’ll take my household to my country estate and try to wait it out.”
Kay frowned at their host. “Why don’t you want to fight? You could be High King if you could take it.”
Bedivere looked almost startled by the boy’s bold words, and Ector put a silencing hand on his son’s leg. “Forgive him,” he told the other knight. “He understands little of the complexities.”
Amren returned with the wine and
a set of tankards tied together at the handle with a leather strip. He limbered the vessels and filled each one, working as quickly as a page at a formal banquet. They all received a drink, even Arthur. He sipped the red liquid and tried not to react to the strong flavor. He had never tasted wine before. His eyes rose to Amren’s face, and the other boy met his gaze with a slow smirk.
“He understands enough, I daresay.” Bedivere smiled kindly. “I have no wish to be the High King, because along with all that power, it brings trouble and enemies beyond my ability to count. I’m more suited to serving a High King, not being one.”
Kay looked down, chastened and surly. “I’d like to be king.”
“A man can have any title he has strength enough to take,” Sir Ector said, “and keep.”
“And there’s the rub.” Bedivere sipped his own wine. “The keeping is harder than the taking.”
“Which of our old friends still remain?”
“Ulfius and Brastias are still out there, somewhere, serving whom they will, then moving on. They are making their glory and their gold as mercenaries now that old Uther is dead.”
“Not much honor, though,” Ector said quietly.
“Honor is a matter of the man, not his occupation.” Their host looked at Arthur. “And what about you, my young Endymion? Would you like to be a king?”
Arthur blinked, startled to realize that he had been staring at Amren’s face all this time, puzzling at that enigmatic smirk. “What?” he stammered. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
Ector looked annoyed, but Bedivere chuckled. “I asked you if you might like to be High King. Your brother said he might.”
He looked at Kay, then back at their father’s comrade. “I think that if Kay were to become High King, I would like to serve him as a knight.”
“Just to serve? Not to rule?”
Arthur shook his head. “Not if my brother is king. I would support him.”
“A very noble sentiment, to be sure.”
He wasn’t certain if Bedivere were mocking him or not, and he rankled, keeping the sour feeling from his face as well as he was able. “A king needs to be of royal parentage,” Arthur said. “I don’t know my parents, so I could never be…”