by J A Cummings
An arrow whistled through the air and pierced the man’s shoulder between his backplate and his pauldron. He shouted in surprised pain, and Arthur slashed with his sword, striking him on the arm. He heard the man’s forearm bones cracking, and the stranger dropped his hammer. Another arrow struck him in the side of the head but bounced off, his helmet doing its duty. Another horse was galloping down the trace toward Caer Gai, its rider standing in the stirrups with a short bow held sideways over the animal’s neck. He recognized the heraldry of the onrushing knight, printed boldly on the tabard that he wore. It was Sir Bedivere.
The aggrieved attacker turned his horse to face the new knight’s arrival, and Arthur heard Merlin’s voice in his head, a memory from one of their many lessons. There are no unfair blows in a fight to the death. The one who waits for the honorable target is the one who dies first.
He stabbed his sword with all of his strength into the attacker’s knee, catching him where his armor was weakest. The knight howled in pain, and Arthur grabbed him and pulled him from the saddle. Arthur pulled his sword free and hacked the man across the neck, the edge of his blade falling like an axe. A hot spurt of blood blasted across Arthur’s face, and then the attacker was still.
Bedivere’s horse galloped, foaming, through the gate, and the knight threw himself from his saddle to the man on the ground. He pulled the attacker’s helmet free, revealing a handsome face with a Roman nose and black curly hair. The pale blue eyes were fixed, staring up into the sky, and despite the violence of his death, his unlined face looked contented. A snowflake landed on his black eye lashes and melted in the last shreds of body heat the corpse emitted.
“Your timing could not have been better,” Arthur told Bedivere breathlessly. His hands were shaking. “You saved my life. Thank you.”
Bedivere knelt and used his first two fingers to gently close the dead man’s eyes. He shook his head. “He was coming to kill you.”
“I don’t even know him,” the young man objected. “Why would he be coming to kill me?”
Griflet trotted up, confident enough to approach now that the fight was over. “Who is he?”
“This is Prince Madoc of Caerperis. He is - was - the bastard son of Uther Pendragon.” He looked up at Arthur. “You have slain a prince.”
His stomach flopped, and he set his jaw against the nausea. His insides were quivering. “He attacked me first, and he wears no sign or crest. How was I supposed to know who he was?”
Bedivere rose slowly. “I think he wanted to conceal his identity until the last. He wanted to surprise you with who he was as he was killing you.” He tore his eyes away from Madoc’s face. “Where is Sir Ector?”
“Hunting with Sir Brastias, my sister, and Sir Kay,” Griflet answered.
“And Illtyd?”
“In the chapel.”
Bedivere nodded to his nephew. “Get him. Bring him here. Tell him that someone needs last rites, and he will move his ass more quickly.” Griflet ran to obey, and the knight turned to Arthur. “You fought well. Who trained you? Those weren’t Ector’s moves.”
“I was fighting for my life,” he said. “That gives a person inspiration.”
The knight sounded unconvinced. “Hmm. I would imagine that it does.”
Griflet returned with Sir Illtyd, who was wearing his monk’s habit rather than his knightly garb. He crossed himself when he saw the body lying in the dirt. “Prince Madoc.”
Bedivere brushed off his knees and handed his horse’s reins to Griflet, who began to walk the animal to keep him from cramping up after his hard ride. Arthur looked at his rescuer. “How did you know to come here?”
“I met up with Madoc in Pwllheli yesterday. He was talking about coming to Caer Gai. I tried to dissuade him, but clearly I was unsuccessful.”
Illtyd squinted at his old friend. “Why would he come here, and with such violent intentions? What could he possibly have had to gain?”
Bedivere reached into his breastplate and pulled out a curled parchment. He handed it to the priestly knight. “Everything.”
He unrolled the parchment, and Arthur leaned closer so he could see it, too. In a careful hand, written in many languages, was a message from Merlin inviting the bearer to come to Londinium at Yule to try his hand at the sword in the stone. Arthur frowned.
“That’s madness. How could there be a sword in a stone?”
“It’s not madness, it’s magic. You know the things that Merlin can do.” Illtyd shook his head. “It says here that whoever pulls the sword from the stone will be the rightful High King and heir to Uther Pendragon.”
“But why come here?” Arthur pressed. “Nobody here would prevent him from claiming the throne if he - sweet Jesus, have I killed the High King?”
Bedivere shook his head. “No. If - and that is a very significant if - he was able to pull the sword, he would still have to be crowned and approved by the petty kings before you could call him that. Besides, he was a bastard. No man bastard-born can inherit the crown. He can only take it by force.”
Illtyd pushed the parchment back into Bedivere’s hands, and the knight tucked the letter back inside his armor. Illtyd told Arthur, “Help me carry Prince Madoc into the chapel where he can be given a proper funeral Mass.”
“Yes, sir.”
Arthur slid his hands under Madoc’s shoulders while Illtyd folded the dead man’s arms over his torso. He had been powerfully built, and lifting him was going to be no small feat. Bedivere put his hands beneath Madoc’s hips and Illtyd took up his legs. On the count of three, they lifted him from the ground and carried him into the church.
At Illtyd’s direction, they lay him before the altar. Arthur stepped back and looked down at his hands, soaked in gore. He couldn’t stop staring at the stain. The monk-knight spoke softly, standing at the dead man’s feet. “Do you wish to confess your sins? God will absolve the repentant man.”
Bedivere stepped back, too, wiping his hands on his trousers. Illtyd looked at Arthur expectantly, and the youth was struck by the surrealism of this moment. Did he accept the offer, and ally himself with the new faith? Or did he walk away with Bedivere and cement his allegiance to the old? He felt tied to both, and both men were watching his choice very carefully. He felt the weight of his decision, just as he had felt the weight of the man he had killed. He looked back down at his bloody hands. They no longer shook, and the quivering in his guts had ended. He took a breath and blew it out slowly.
“I will speak for my soul in privacy. If I am to be forgiven, it will not be through any priest or any druid. This is for me to do alone.”
Both men looked surprised, both by his words and by his quiet, level tone. Bedivere said, “Are you sure you’ve never killed a man before?”
Arthur nodded. “I’m sure.”
The door to the chapel opened, and Sir Ector burst in, his face red. He was out of breath from racing back to the keep. “I heard the sound of battle,” he said, panting. “Arthur! Are you hurt?”
“No. Just a sore shoulder from the blow upon the shield.” He looked up. “I have killed Uther Pendragon’s son.”
“In self-defense,” Bedivere pointed out fiercely. “You did not murder him. You prevented him from murdering you.”
Ector grabbed Arthur in a tight embrace, holding him in his arms with such evident relief that it was almost frightening. Arthur had not really considered until this moment how close he himself had come to dying. He clutched his father close, and over his shoulder, he saw Sir Kay come in, his eyes wide with anxiety. His brother sagged against the door jamb when he saw the tableau before him.
“God Almighty,” he swore. “There’s so much blood...”
Bedivere turned to the newly-minted knight. “Like all animals, men bleed freely when their throats are cut.” He looked back at Arthur, his expression pensive. “I have only seen a boy so young fight so bravely once before.”
Illtyd nodded, meeting his old friend’s gaze. “Uther, when he and Ambrosius were a
ttacked in Armorica.”
Ector stepped back, his good hand still gripping Arthur’s tunic. “Yes.” He sat heavily in the nearest pew, as if his legs would no longer support him.
Brastias and Garwen came into the chapel next, and the girl gasped when she saw the body at the altar. She swooned, and Griflet, coming in behind them, caught her and immediately carried her back out into the fresh air. Brastias watched them go, then turned back, amazement on his face as his gaze fell upon the man lying before the altar.
“That’s Madoc,” he said.
Arthur was the one who answered. “So it seems.”
“Did you -”
He stood straight. “Yes.”
A snow-white owl darted into the chapel, its wingspan barely clearing the doorway as it swooped inside, whisper-silent. Halfway to the altar, it transformed into Merlin, and the druid dropped into a crouch beside the fallen man. He touched the cold forehead, his eyes closed, and then he nodded to himself.
“Which of you has my missive?” Bedivere produced the parchment once again, and Merlin directed, “Give it to Sir Ector. Read it well, all of you, and then, all of you - sit down.”
They passed the letter around, and everyone had the chance to read it. The druid paced a short path in the aisle between the pews, clearly troubled. Arthur watched him carefully, trying to read his thoughts. Merlin glanced at him, then flashed his palm in his direction, and the bloodstains on his clothes and skin vanished with a tickle. He shook his hands to rid them of the tingling sensation the magic made him feel.
Sir Kay was the last to receive the letter, and when he had finished reading it, he handed it back to Bedivere. Merlin stopped pacing and looked at them.
“Prince Madoc was Uther’s oldest illegitimate son, and his favorite. He unburdened himself to his son regularly and told him everything. If Uther had any secrets, he shared them with Madoc, including the secret that I have been hiding for years.”
“What secret?” Kay asked. “What has it to do with this sword in the stone?”
“Everything. And it has everything to do with Arthur.”
Merlin looked into his eyes, and Arthur felt a rush of blood to his head. The information he had been yearning for all of his life was close enough to taste. His long wait for answers, he knew, was about to end. He scarcely dared to breathe, lest the druid decide to fall into silence once again.
“During the Battle of Terrabil, when Uther’s forces besieged Duke Gorlois in his stronghold, the High King called me to his side and bade me intercede so that he could take Igraine, the woman he desired above all others. I changed his appearance to that of Gorlois, and I changed Ulfius to appear to wear the face of our friend Sir Brastias, who was Gorlois’ most faithful retainer.” He looked at Brastias in something like apology, and the knight gestured for him to continue, neither accusation nor absolution in his expression. Merlin went on. “They went to Tintagel, where Igraine was in seclusion, and there the king lay with her under false pretenses. The price I demanded for my intercession was the babe that was conceived that night.”
Sir Ector made a harsh sound, as if he had been punched in the gut. Arthur looked at his foster father in concern, a feeling that was doubled when he saw how pale Sir Ector’s face had grown. “Father?”
Merlin continued, not giving the knight the chance to respond. “In due course, just before Ostara, the babe was born. By that time Uther had wed Igraine much against her will, and the child was born the only legitimate issue of the king. I took the baby, wrapped him in cloth of gold, and brought him to a place where I knew he would be safe until the time came for him to claim his throne.”
There was cloth of gold in the coffer where Sir Ector stored his coin and his patents. Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, then dropped to his stomach. It all began to make sense: the fighting lessons in the wood, the months of philosophical debate, the education and special interest that Merlin had taken in him. He knew what Merlin was going to say, and his head spun with it.
“That child was Arthur.”
Kay’s jaw dropped. Ector looked stricken, and Bedivere nodded sagely, saying, “I suspected.”
Brastias shook his head. “Hiding here beneath our noses all this time…”
Illtyd stared at Arthur, and the boy stared back. “Our High King,” the priestly knight said. “True heir to Pendragon. I see it, now, in his eyes. They are just like Uther’s.”
Merlin nodded. “We are going to Londinium, all of us together. When the petty kings learn who Arthur is, they will resist. They will dispute his legitimacy, and they will likely try to kill him. I am charging you, all of you, with keeping Arthur safe until he can secure his throne. I will help as much as I am able, but even I cannot be everything all the time.”
“Father,” Kay said softly. “Did you know?”
“I suspected, but I wasn’t certain.” He ran his hand over his face. “They will do everything to prevent you from being crowned. Arthur, once you pull that sword, you can go nowhere without a companion.”
“Yes, Father.” He rubbed his sweating palms against his legs. “Merlin, am I ready?”
“We will make you ready, and you will not be alone. The people in this room will be your guides. Listen to their counsel. Make them the officers of your royal household, and you will do well.”
Arthur’s heart was pounding and it made his head feel full of blood but lighter than air. He had never felt so strange. “What officers? I don’t understand.”
Merlin ticked them off. “You will need a chamberlain, to see to your personal needs. A constable to protect you. A cupbearer to guard you against poison. A seneschal to mind the rest of the household and keep the riff raff away from you when you need time to yourself. A steward to govern in your place when you are away. A mareschal to see to the protection of your realm.” He looked into the young man’s eyes. “Six positions. There are five trusted men around you. Name them now.”
“Six,” Arthur said.
Merlin frowned. “Six?”
“Six trusted men.” He looked at the druid. “I am counting you. Am I wrong to do so?”
He rewarded Arthur with a warm smile filled with genuine affection. “I am pleased to hear it, and I will not fail you.”
“I know.” He stood, and his legs felt wobbly. He shook his head. “I don’t feel like a king. I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I’m worthy.”
“The fact that you wonder if you’re worthy,” Illtyd said, “means that you are.”
“It’s not that simple,” Brastias objected. “He’s just a boy. He’s not even a knight yet. How can he be king? Lot will eat him alive.”
Arthur frowned. “Who is Lot?”
Ector took a deep breath and blew it out. “You have a lot to learn, and not much time. We will teach you on the road to Londinium.” He looked around the chapel. “Let us see to this poor dead man and then begin our journey. We don’t want to be late.”
Merlin fixed Arthur with a firm look. “Name them. Quickly, without thinking. Steward.”
He answered with the most obvious name. “Sir Ector.”
“Constable.”
“Sir Brastias.”
“Mareschal?”
“Sir Bedivere.”
“Cup bearer.”
Arthur thought of the chalices that priests used in Mass. “Sir Illtyd.”
“Seneschal?”
“Sir Kay.”
His brother looked startled, then puffed with pride. Arthur smiled at him, and Kay smiled back. A creeping look of guilt shadowed the older youth’s expression, but he chased it away bravely.
Merlin’s voice was warm and had a strange intensity when he said, “Then am I to be your Chamberlain?”
“Yes. And my chief advisor.”
The druid nodded. “Excellent choices. I approve.”
Brastias crossed his arms. “Thank you for the trust you’ve put in me, my lord.”
It was surreal to be spoken to with such respect, and it made Arth
ur wonder if this was all a dream. But no, it was all too real, and in this moment, in this place, everything had changed.
To Be Continued