Tales of the Once and Future King

by Anthony Marchetta

Reluctantly, Brand said, “Untie them, but make sure they don’t escape. Keep an especially close eye on that one.” He looked pointedly in Lance’s direction.

  Some of Brand’s men began to untie the ropes. When Maddie was freed she rubbed her wrists together, grimacing.

  “I’m sorry we had to do that,” Fox said, reaching a hand out to her. “Lord Brand is wary of strangers with good reason.”

  Maddie took the offered hand, getting to her feet. “Well, I’m a little wary of how you know so much about us.”

  “About them, actually.” He looked again at Lance and Gavin, who were rubbing their wrists. “You and your friend are a mystery to me. It scares me a little.”

  Over the course of her travels she had learned to play her cards much closer to the chest. She looked over in the direction of the others again. Bennett was speaking with Lord Brand, and Lance seemed to have noticed and walked over himself, with Gavin hanging behind. The guards remained stationed at their posts. Maddie decided to use the opportunity to take some risks. “Okay, Fox. What do you know about Gavin and Lance, and how?”

  “It’s hard to explain. It’s like... I know that Lance is a warrior. He was visited by Lancelot and tasked with finding the Pendragon, Michael Maddocks. He was tempted by Morgan le Fey and is considering changing his course. I know that Gavin Erewood is Lance’s... steward, maybe? Squire isn’t quite right... and I know about his connection with Michael Maddocks.”

  This was news to Maddie. “Connection? What do you mean? And how do you know about Michael Maddocks?”

  Fox looked surprised. “Gavin didn’t tell you he knew Maddocks? You better ask him later... But onto your other question. How I know. I... see things. You see, I’m a Bard — the Bard of Britain.”

  “What?”

  “Okay, this is hard to explain. You see that wagon there? I’m the leader of an acting troupe. I write the plays and stories we perform. Or, more like... they come to me. I see them. In dreams. In visions. It’s my curse.”

  Maddie stared. “Your curse? You mean you can see the future?”

  Fox looked thoughtful. “Interesting question. I see everything. The future, the past, and possibilities... not everything I see is true in a literal sense. But all are possibilities. All of them have meaning. And all are about the Pendragon.”

  Before Maddie could respond, Bennett, Lance, Gavin, and Brand had walked over. Bennett started off. “We need to talk. Brand has offered us a deal.”

  Maddie looked at him. “I’m listening.”

  Brand made his announcement as loudly as possible, making sure all of his assembled people could hear him. “You four trespassed on my land and threatened my life. For that, it is my right to hold you prisoner on account of your crimes. However, Fox here told me of your coming a long time ago. I am aware that you have certain... skills. Skills which may be of value to me. So I offer you a deal: Your freedom in exchange for the completion of a quest.”

  There was some murmuring by the crowd at this. “A quest?” said Maddie. “What do you mean?”

  Lance cut in. “The boy king needs us to do his dirty work for him,” he said. Sarcasm and disgust oozed through every word.

  Brand turned visibly red at this, and Maddie was reminded of how young he was. “I need you to perform a rescue mission.”

  Maddie looked at him suspiciously. “And why should we trust you?”

  “For the same reason, Miss, that I am trusting you: You have no choice. Do you accept my offer?”

  Bennett stepped forward. “We need time to think about it.”

  Brand nodded, and Maddie realized how rehearsed the whole scene was. While she was talking to Fox, Bennett, Lance and Gavin had already decided how the (very public) meeting was going to go. While she admired the initiative, she was annoyed at being left out, and had to bite her tongue.

  Brand nodded. “Very well. You have until midday tomorrow. Rest tonight, and take counsel in the morning. But remember that refusal…” he paused dramatically, “...means we decide your fate. And I tell you now, you may not want that. Now, rest.”

  Despite their exhaustion, Bennett, Lance, Maddie, and Gavin didn’t rest. They held a whispered meeting in the night, lit by the dimness of the torches and aware they were being watched the whole time. Bennett started. “This isn’t right. Brand is no fool; that’s obvious. Why would he offer us a chance to escape like that?”

  Maddie cut in. “Because he knows who you are. He knows you wouldn’t break your word.”

  Lance stared at her. “And how do you know that?”

  “Because I spoke to Fox.” She summarized what she had learned as quickly as possible. “And he said…” She looked at Gavin, “... He said that he was hiding something. Something about the Pendragon. Michael.”

  Gavin had turned pale. In the torchlight he looked almost ghostly. “That’s impossible. There’s no way. Who is this kid, anyway?”

  “Let me tell you.” Maddie almost jumped out of her skin. Fox had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He sat down with them and joined the conversation in a whisper. “I’m the Bard of Britain. I’m the voice that cries out in the wilderness, ‘Prepare ye the Way of the Lord.’”

  Lance glared at him. “You think you’re a prophet, then?”

  Fox shook his head. “No. Prophets speak of a higher Lord. I speak only for the Pendragon. Like I said: I’m a Bard. The Bard of Britain. I’m the heir of Taliesin.”

  Gavin broke in sharply. “What does that mean? Who are you?”

  Fox sighed. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Taliesin’s Riddle, by Peter Nealen

  The spring rains had cleared away, and the morning of the tenth day after Pentecost was bright and green when Ercwlff, son of Cadwgan, rode out from his father’s holdings astride the horse he had received when he had taken arms at the Feast of the Resurrection. Aderyn Ddu was a fine black gelding, powerful but even-tempered, and the young Ercwlff was as proud of the horse as he was of the gleaming helm, sword, and silver-trimmed shield he had received at his mother’s hands only a few short weeks before.

  He whistled as he rode along the old Roman road, over hills and dells green with spring, the first leaves of the oaks, elms, and poplars fluttering against the blue sky and the puffy white clouds that floated like sheep in a celestial field. He was young, he was strong, he had just taken his arms, and he was on his way to join Arthur’s Knights at Camulodunum. There could be no grander life. His mind drifted to dreams of fair maidens and great songs sung of his heroic deeds. Arthur himself would look on young Ercwlff with respect, and praise him as the greatest of his Knights, indeed, the greatest that Britain had ever seen since Brutus!

  So lost in his daydreams was he that he hardly noticed the man sitting beneath the poplar tree at the crossroads until he was nearly atop him.

  “Hail, stranger!” the man called. Ercwlff started and reached for his sword before he saw that the little, pale man sitting beneath the tree was unarmed. In fact, he appeared to be little more than a beggar, dressed in a tunic of undyed wool belted with rope. He was hollow-cheeked and had a stoop to his shoulders; he looked slightly unwell. He had a small bundle open beside him, with two crusts of coarse, dark bread and a crudely made clay jug. “Will you share my repast on this fine morning? There is enough for two of us.”

  Ercwlff looked with distaste at the poor fare and said, “I think not. I have far better to eat and drink, and far to ride.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” the little man said. “Such haste! And whither are you bound?”

  Ercwlff frowned down at the peasant. Did the man have no sense of how to address a nobleman, one soon to be the greatest of Arthur’s Knights? “And who are you to ask my business, fellow?” he asked sternly.

  The pale man’s bright blue eyes flashed. “In centuries past, boy,” he said, his voice suddenly bearing a depth and gravity that belied his humble appearance, “I would be the one who determined the nature of your immortality, whether you lived o
n as a hero or a scoundrel. For know that you speak with Taliesin.” As he spoke, he casually lifted the corner of his deer hide cloak. The dappled sunlight beneath the tree glinted on the golden frame of a harp.

  Ercwlff felt the color drain from his cheeks, and he gulped past a throat gone suddenly dry. Even in these Christian times, no Briton wished to displease a bard, for a bard could make or break a man’s reputation, even as the little man had said. And a man seeking to join King Arthur and his Knights would do well not to insult or offend the great Taliesin, Arthur’s bard, who had foretold the rise and fall of kings.

  “F-forgive me, honored bard,” he stammered. “I did not know it was you.”

  “Indeed,” Taliesin said dryly. He coughed. “You are forgiven. But since we have rediscovered our manners, come, alight and tell me whither you are bound. It is yet early in the day, surely you can pass a few moments here beneath the trees.”

  Shamefacedly, Ercwlff swung down off of Aderyn Ddu’s back and dropped to the ground. He led the horse into the shade of the elm, looping the reins over a low-hanging branch before he sat on the ground next to Taliesin, reluctantly accepting the stale crust of bread the bard handed him. A sip from the jug filled his mouth and nose with a thick, malty beer that nearly made him choke, so unready was he for its strength.

  “So,” Taliesin said jovially, “tell me of yourself. Where are you going, and what do you seek?”

  Ercwlff gulped down the last of the beer’s fumes and said, “I am going to Camulodunum, to become one of Arthur’s Knights!”

  “Ah, I see,” Taliesin said. “And no doubt you will be a great one.”

  “I will be the greatest Knight in the history of Britain!” Ercwlff declared, recalling his daydreams on the road.

  But the bard merely raised an eyebrow as he took a sip of the heady beer. “Indeed?” he said mildly. “That is a noble goal to strive for. But there are many great Knights in Camulodunum. Could you best Bedwyr, for example, whose sword and shield felled hundreds at the shores of Tryfrwyd?”

  “Perhaps not right away, but there is no longer any man among my father’s who can best me with the rudeus, and I am only sixteen summers old,” Ercwlff replied. “Someday I will be able to best even Bedwyr.”

  “Ah, but can you ride like Gwalchmai, who sits his horse Keincaled like a centaur of the Greeks, and whom no man can withstand when he rides against the Saxons?”

  Ercwlff was growing irritated by the other man’s sly doubts. He looked the bard in the eye, noting how small and soft of body he seemed. Bard or no bard, who was he to question the abilities of the son of Cadwgan? That was for Arthur to decide. “I have won every horse race on my father’s lands since I was thirteen!”

  “Impressive,” Taliesin said. “But are you as strong as Cai, who can go nine days and nine nights without needing to breathe or sleep, and who beheaded the giant Wrnach with a single blow?”

  Lifting his head high, Ercwlff declared, “I lifted the hero stone and carried it three paces this summer last!” He stared at Taliesin as if daring him to suggest it was not enough, though deep in his heart he knew it was a very little feat, compared to the tales of Cai.

  But Taliesin did not mock him. Instead, he asked, “And have you the greatness of spirit of Trahaern?”

  Ercwlff was about to protest haughtily that of course he did, but he stopped, a frown creasing his features. He had heard tales of the other three, all famous heroes of Arthur’s Round Table, but he knew of no Knight named Trahaern.

  Taliesin noticed his frown. “Have you never heard the tale of Trahaern?” he asked.

  Reluctantly, Ercwlff shook his head. “Ah, well, it is a little-known tale, I suppose,” Taliesin said. “But I cannot ask if you are comparable to Trahearn if you have not heard it. Would you like to?”

  Ercwlff nodded. He could not very well refuse.

  Taliesin took a deep breath. “Trahearn distinguished himself at the Battle of Badon, cutting down many Saxons and fighting right at Arthur’s side, when Cadfael was slain. So great was his bravery that Arthur raised him to Cadfael’s place at the Round Table that very night.

  “After the Battle, Britain saw a time of peace, at least for a little while. The Saxon invasion was thrown back into the sea, though a few small settlements remained on the Saxon Shore, where Vortigern the Traitor had brought the savage heathens Hengist and Horsa to our shores. Fall came, the harvest was plentiful, and it was a comfortable winter, since the barns were full and the horses and cattle were fat.

  “As winter waned, the days grew longer, and the snows gave way to rain, word began to come north to Camulodunum of a newcomer on the Saxon Shore, a man who had braved the sea even in the winter storms. His name was Bordan, and he was said to be a giant, half again as tall as the tallest Briton. They said that he wielded a great, iron-shod club, and that he feared no law of Man or God. He slew men, women, and children alike, even of his own people, if they displeased him. He was said to fly into such a frenzy in battle that no blade could bite him, and no shield could turn aside his blows. The rumors said that he had sworn he would tear Arthur’s head from his shoulders with his own two hands.

  “In the first light of dawn, on the Feast of the Annunciation, Trahearn came before Arthur, fully armed. Sinking to his knees before his lord, he begged leave to ride south and challenge this giant.

  “Arthur hesitated, for Trahearn was one of the youngest of his Knights, and he did not wish to see him risk himself in single combat against such a monster as Bordan. But Trahearn had earned his place as a Knight at Badon, and Arthur could not deny him his request. He gave his leave for Trahearn to go. So the young Knight was shriven by the priest, heard the Mass, received the Holy Wafer, and rode out into the rain.

  “He rode across a land turned grey by mists and sheets of driving rain, for the spring was yet young, and winter had not yet fully released its grip on Britain. The darkness and the mist swirled around him, but he pulled his cloak about him and drove on.

  “Finally, after a day’s riding, the dim light of the day was failing toward night, and he began to look for a place to shelter for the night. Peering through the curtains of rain, he saw a dim, flickering light ahead, and he turned his weary horse toward it.

  “He rode warily, for enemies both of this world and the Middle World are known to set traps for those seeking shelter in the wild, but he trusted in God as he rode toward the light.

  “Yet when he reached the place where he had seen the light, all he saw was a poor crofter’s hut. The thatch needed patching, and might have been rotting in places, and the daub on the walls was cracked. Dismounting, he stood before the oxhide curtain that was all that covered the doorway and called out, his voice deep and strong in the dimness and the wet.

  “’Hail the house!’ he called. ‘I am a Knight of the Round Table, seeking shelter for the night. I mean you no harm.’

  “He heard stirring within the hut, and what sounded like the grunting of a pig. Then the curtain was drawn aside, and a woman peered out. She was old and homely, and there was a deep sadness in her tired eyes as she looked over the armored Knight standing without her threshold.

  “’You are welcome to share my meager shelter, Sir Knight,’ she said, ‘though I have little else to offer. My husband has died this last day, and I fear that soon his killers will return to slay me and steal our pig, which is our only remaining possession.’ She held the curtain open, and Trahearn stooped to step inside.

  “The hut was small, with little in it except a straw tick where the old woman slept, a stone fire ring in the center, where the rain dripped down through the smoke hole in the roof to hiss on the sputtering fire, and a rude table and bench against one wall. A pig was indeed tied to a stake in the dirt floor against the far wall.

  “Trahearn doffed his helm and set his arms against the crumbling daub of the wall. The ceiling was so low that he must needs duck his head when he stood anywhere but right next to the fire. ‘How did your husband die, madam?’ he a
sked the old woman.

  “’He had fallen ill over the winter,’ she told him, as she ladled a thin soup into a wooden bowl for him. ‘But when Cororuc came to take our pig, he struggled from his bed and fought. Cororuc and his men beat him to the ground and killed him.’ Her voice never broke, but was laden with a deep and lasting sorrow, tempered by a long life of poverty and suffering. ‘Now Cororuc says that he will come back in the morning to take the pig, along with the last of our corn. Then I will have nothing, and I will die.’

  “Trahearn reached out and took the old woman’s hands in his. ‘I promise you, Old Mother,’ he said, ‘that this Cororuc will take nothing from you. On my honor as Arthur’s man, I will not allow it.’”

  “He then supped with the crofter’s widow, bringing some of his own provisions inside to add to the poor repast. They prayed together, and then he rolled himself in his cloak and went to sleep on the floor beside the fire, as the old woman retired to her tick.

  “In the morning, Trahearn broke his fast with the crofter’s widow before donning his arms and stepping out into the early light. The rain had ceased, but the clouds still crowded the sky, lowering their gray bulk toward the green earth, where Cororuc stood waiting.

  “The bandit was a tall man, sandy-haired like a Saxon, but with a sallow face and sloping shoulders. No hero, he; he slunk around the borders of Saxon and Briton both, preying on those who could not defend themselves. He was surprised to see Trahearn step forth, armed for battle, and his sly, cowardly mind immediately turned to the problem of escape; he had no wish to cross blades with a man greater than he.

  “’Hail, warrior!’ he called. ‘It gladdens my heart to see another come to the old widow’s aid. We have all been worried about her, since her husband died so suddenly. Such a loss.’ And he shook his head sorrowfully, letting his lank hair hide his face.

  “‘She told me that her husband was murdered,’ Trahearn said quietly.

  “‘Did she?’ Cororuc said, with mock surprise. ‘Well, you know how women can be when they are distraught! The loss has surely unhinged her mind.’ But his eyes shifted from side to side as he spoke, and Trahearn knew him to be false. He drew his sword.