"Get up." A sharp voice struck him like a slap. "We deserve better for our king."
Arthor felt a strong, gruff hand under his shoulder, lifting him from the stench of his spew. When he rolled about, he gazed into a refined face, a visage with high, balding brow and long, thin nose of disdainfully arched nostrils. A hard mouth, almost lipless, sneered above a dim, beardless chin.
"Who—are you?" the king asked.
"I am the king's steward. Bedevere." He produced a black knuckle of dessicated woodmeat. "Chew this. It's Saint Martin's Wort. It will settle your stomach and clear your head."
Before Arthor could object, Bedevere pushed the wort into the boy's mouth. Arthor noticed that the man lacked a right arm.
"Yes, the Hun took one of my arms." Bedevere sat Arthor upright and with a wet cloth began to clean the youth's face. "Now I must work twice as hard at everything."
"Leave me, Bedevere."
"Be quiet and chew. Chew vigorously. The wort needs a good grinding. It's old. I carried it from the Holy Land some years ago and am happy to say I've had no need of it—till now."
"You've seen the birthplace of Our Lord?" Arthor mumbled through the bitter taste of the wort.
"And the birthplaces of Zoroaster at Nineveh and Gautama Siddhartha, the one called the Awakened, in the foothills of the world's tallest mountains." Bedevere removed the king's sword from his hands. "I served our holy father Pope Gelasius as envoy to the courts of Persia, Jerusalem, Alexandria, and the principalities of the Indus."
The wort had begun to work, and Arthor felt well enough to sit up straighter. He pressed his back against the coolness of the stone wall. Bedevere had with him a bucket of water bobbing with cut limes. A bundle of fresh garments sat beside it with the chaplet of gold laurel leaves atop it.
"Why are you here?" he asked as the one-armed steward began to undress him. "Why are you in far-flung Britain, you who have seen the wonders of the world? Why are you with me, here in this remote land?"
"You need me." With an expert twist and snap of his one arm, Bedevere carefully folded the king's soiled mantle.
"How could you know that?"
"In truth, I did not—until I saw you playing the fool among your subjects. A king with no dignity is no king at all." With a rough swipe of a wet rag, the steward cleaned Arthor's mouth and chin. "I am sworn to serve our Lord and Savior, and I go where our faith is most challenged." He wrung out the washrag, dipped it in citrus water, and cleansed the king's hairless chest. "This frontier is where I belong now. And from what I've seen of you this past night, I am convinced you need me."
"Leave me, Bedevere." Arthor spat out the chewed wort with a scowl of disgust. "I am no king worthy of any attention. Only God's wrath."
Bedevere smiled thinly. "You torment yourself for an indiscretion you committed before you knew you were king."
Arthor stayed the steward's hand. "You know about Morgeu?"
"No. But I know something of the heart's hungers." Bedevere freed his hand and continued bathing the king. "Put your past firmly behind you, young king. The hope of our people depends on what you do now."
Arthor glared. "I fathered a child by incest!"
Bedevere shrugged and used a bristle-brush to comb Arthor's unruly hair. "That is a terrible deed. But mitigated, because you did not commit this ugly sin wittingly."
"How do you know?"
"I know men." Bedevere unfolded a fresh white chemise fretted with purple trim. "You are young and so you are passionate. Your hands are strong and callused with the marks of one who has wielded a sword. Yet you bear no scars. You are thus obviously not a clumsy or desperate fighter but a purposeful one. Such a man does not risk his life for the Lord and then defy his God by committing incest."
Arthor stopped Bedevere from draping the chemise over his head. "I will wear a tunic."
"You look enough like a brute." Bedevere pulled at Arthor's short-cropped bristles. "Your hair is too short. A king must command brutes, not be one."
"I'm not yet a king in my heart."
"I know." Bedevere squinted at him. "You were Lord Kyner's iron hammer. He trained you to kill for him—and to die for him. Now you are his king. You are not a hammer anymore. You wield hammers and must dress so that others see you for the master that God has made you."
Arthor allowed Bedevere to drape the chemise over his head. "You think I am worthy to be king—a man who has fathered a child on his sister?"
"God alone can make such a judgment." He helped Arthor to his feet and placed the gold chaplet upon the lad's head. "God surely believes you are worthy, for you are king. Whether you will remain worthy in His eyes depends now entirely on you."
[]
Mother Mary, I have ever prayed that you petition the Most High to give me strength to defend Him now that He has left us alone in the devil's world. I have begged you to intercede for this sinner and my black sin. I am a terrible sinner and never imagined—oh, Mother Mary, I never imagined I should be king. Is this God's blessing—or curse? I have not the spirit to serve as chieftain, let alone high king. You must pray for me, Mother Mary. You must pray that God grant me the grace to match the power he has placed in these incestuous hands.
[]
Arthor and Morgeu
In the sanguinary darkness of a cedar grove, a tall, broad-shouldered woman in regal scarlet raiment stood, hands clasped over her womb. Her crinkled red hair flared about a moon-pale and round face whose small black eyes gazed with dreamy malevolence. "Come to me now, my brother. I would speak with you."
King Arthor dismissed Bedevere, feeling an urgency for solitude. The welter of impressions and responsibilities dizzied him. Sword in hand, he exited Camelot through a servants corridor and emerged into dazzling daylight under a curtain wall above a green cliff.
He strode a strait path that overpeered a mountain cleft of the River Amnis. The citadel separated him from the emerald downs where revelers still sang and danced, and no one saw him climb the rut-warped path that loggers used to bring timber to the construction site. Even Merlin, absorbed in keeping peace between rival Celts and Britons, continued unaware that his ward and sovereign had departed the festival grounds.
Morgeu found the king as he strolled with aching head and heavy heart among giant cedars that the Romans had planted on these ridges three centuries earlier. "Brother—at last."
Arthor startled. He lifted his sword toward the scarlet figure that approached from out of the huge forest.
"Put aside your sword," Morgeu spoke with a voice of command. "Or do you hope to cancel your sin of incest with the greater sin of murder?"
Arthor lowered Excalibur and staggered back a pace.
"Close your mouth." A scornful smirk curled her long mouth. "I've summoned you here to make peace between us."
"Summoned me?" Eyes narrowed, Arthor's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. "Peace? You—you deceived me! You made me believe you were another when you stirred my affections."
"I stirred far more than your affections, Arthor. What a child you are! And you would be king." Morgeu laughed coldly. "Yes, I beckoned you here. Why are you so surprised? You know your sister is an enchantress—like our mother. I could call forth a frenzied bear to gut you if I so choose. But I do not. I have brought you here to make peace. Yes." She folded her hands over her abdomen. "After all, you are the father of this child in my womb."
Deep lines creased his young brow. "Why have you done this monstrous thing?"
Another laugh sparkled from her. "I did not do it alone, brother. Your seed made it possible."
"Given unwillingly."
"Oh, you seemed most willing that night in the grass under the stars." She lifted her round face as if in happy recollection. "It was all so very lovely—and passionate."
"I thought you were someone else."
Her smile slipped from her face. "Appearances are not always what they seem. A valuable first lesson for a king." She stepped closer, the dark bits of her eyes fixed fir
mly on him. "Know this, brother. I will do all in my power to sustain you as monarch—until our child reaches maturity. Then, you will stand aside for our son, and he will rule. That is the peace I offer."
"Arthor!" Merlin's voice boomed among the great trees. Arthor faced about to look for the wizard, and when he turned back, Morgeu the Fey was gone.
Merlin Steals a Soul
Midnight-blue robes flapping, long staff striking the earth, Merlin strode through the gilded shadows of the cedars. His angry stare seemed to glow within the shade of his hat. "I have sensed the enchantress, sire—too late, I see. Return to Camelot at once, and do not for the life of you look back."
Arthor obeyed and jogged downhill, past the behemoth trees, to the logging road that returned to the fortress. Not only did he not glance back, he began to pray for forgiveness of his shameful sin and the hope that God would recall the soul his misdirected passion had set in Morgeu's womb.
That, too, satisfied Merlin's intent. The wizard did not pray. Instead, he raised his staff, a splinter from the World Tree given him by the pale people of the hollow hills years before. Intoning a demon chant, he called the soul of Arthor's child to him.
A shriek from beyond the wall of cedars located Morgeu in her helpless flight from the wizard. Moments later, flying among the trees and pillars of sunlight, the soul came. A tiny sun, smaller than a firefly, and trailing a shimmering comet tail of bees, the soul circled the wizard.
The firepoint alighted upon the tip of Merlin's staff, and bees hummed in a vibrant halo about it.
"Lailoken!" Morgeu screamed Merlin's demon name —to no avail. The wizard had no fear of her and had only been waiting for this opportunity to abort the abomination she carried.
A grim, tight smile bent his lips but no humor showed in his uncanny eyes as he marched down the slope of giants in the company of bees.
Morgeu staggered from her hiding place in a root cove clutching her belly. She dared not run. She dared not extend her enchanting spells. All her strength held to what remained of her child, the small twist of mortal clay now almost lifeless in her womb. She lay down on the spongy forest floor curled about her pain.
Merlin slowed his descent. He did not want Morgeu to miscarry immediately. If she did, he would lose a precious opportunity to control her. He would not drown this soul or fling it free into the sky until he had gotten from Morgeu all the cooperation he could wring from her with this tiny lifespark.
Down the hillside, he watched Arthor loping, sword in hand. The dwarf Dagonet and his monkey appeared as motes under the massive fortress wall. They waved for the king to join them and return to the festivities. Merlin swung his staff in a wide arc and pointed it at the ribald and his beast.
The soul shot out of the forest and down the grassy slopes followed by a droning stream of bees. The next moment, the monkey leaped from Dagonet's shoulder with a violated shriek. The bolt of soulfire struck its silver-furred face between its liquid eyes and disappeared into its skull.
Bees swarmed angrily, hungry for the sweetness of the soul they could no longer find. The dwarf swept the monkey into his arms and fled howling toward the pastures of celebrants.
Mother Mary, I am ashamed to kneel here before you. I gave myself—and I was taken by an enchantress who serves the devil. Yet, I know—I know your Son forgives me and wants me to forgive her. Mercy is what He suffered and died to earn for our souls. That is what He teaches. But how can I forgive myself?
Festival's End
The elephants ate mounds of uncooked vegetables in the provision tents. Foraging for more food, they trampled garden crofts that had served the site's workers. The cooks and bakers, whom Merlin had conscripted from Cold Kitchen to prepare the festival feasts, returned vexed to the hamlet.
Since the last kegs of mead had already been drained and only a few amphorae of wine remained, Merlin decided to call a halt to the celebrations several days earlier than planned. Besides, the warlords and chieftains, surfeit of celebration, felt pressure to return to their realms, to oversee defense against the summer crest of pagan raiders.
Arthor himself had disappeared among the numerous unfinished chambers of Camelot. Stunned by his confrontation with Morgeu, he possessed little faith in himself. All his life, he had believed himself despicable, a lowborn issue of violence and pain. Now, he knew—his whole prior existence was a lie. Born of noble parentage, he had lived and behaved in an ignoble manner.
The eye of a tempest watched him intently from his depths.
With calm certainty, he knew God's vengeance would visit him. A terrible storm is coming, he despaired. A terrible storm ... unless ... unless this tempest calm I feel is not the watchful eye of God — but His absence.
From a garret window where a trowel and chisel waited on the sill for the craftsman's return, he gazed out at great gulfs of blue above the blunt mountains. Did a paternal God in heaven gaze back, as he had learned at Kyner's knee? Or did the universe present a battlefield for gods as he himself had witnessed in the hollow hills?
What of his beloved Mary, Mother of God? What of the Savior who promised salvation from this fallen world? As much a lie as his past? And the truth? The truth fit this world as snug and hideous as the fact of his firstborn in the belly of his mad sister.
"There you are, thire!" Dagonet waddled angrily into the sawdust-strewn garret. "That damnable wizard hath thtolen Lord Monkey from me! I won't thtand for it! I am taking my mathter back and leaving your thervith at oneth!"
"Dwarf, be gone!" Arthor pounded his fist against the stone jamb of the window. "I need to be alone."
"And I need my mathter!" Dagonet protested. "I need Lord Monkey! Command Merlin to return him to me at oneth!"
Arthor turned from the window and glowered at the dwarf.
"Are those tearth in your eyeth?" With a squinted stare, Dagonet tilted his head. "You are crying, thire! Why? On thith your firtht gloriouth day ath king, how can you weep?"
"I'm not crying."
"Ah! Of courth not. Kingth don't cry." Dagonet jumped backward off his feet and sprang into a handstand. He walked around on his hands till he faced the king upside down. "I wath looking awry at the world. Now I thee! You are laughing. Tearth of laughter! Wah-ha-ha-ha-ha! You are king! At your command, tearth become laughth, life becometh death! You are the law!"
"Yes." Arthor straightened. "I am the law." He put a tentative hand to the gold chaplet on his head. "If someone has done wrong, I can punish them. I can make known the crime. I can confess the sin to all and be free of it!" A stern expression aged his youthful face. "Come, Dagonet. Let us go take back what is ours."
The King's Authority
"Bring me Arthor," Merlin demanded of Bedevere. The old man handed a cherry to the monkey perched on his shoulder under the awning of his hat, and beast and wizard stared expectantly at the steward.
Bedevere sat on a carpenter's stool in the open courtyard of the fortress, whittling a horse from a block of wood secured in a vise. At the approach of the wizard, he stood. "My lord Merlin, the king should not be disturbed. He requires time alone."
Merlin plucked the lithe figurine from the vise and turned it nimbly in his long fingers. He nodded appreciatively. "You've a good eye, Bedevere. No doubt you have assessed the needs of our liege accurately. Matters of state are not as patient as this block of wood. Summon him at once." The monkey spat out the cherry stone as if to emphasize this command.
"My lord, he has had no time to himself since fate has placed this great burden on him," Bedevere protested. "For all his battle experience, he is a lad. Give him some time to pull himself together."
"Thank you, Bedevere," Arthor announced. He strode down a stone stairway along the rampart wall, sword in hand and Dagonet hopping after. "I've had enough time to gather my wits." He ducked under a block-and-tackle and went directly to the wizard. "Return the monkey to Dagonet."
"Sire, I have reason to hold this beast close," Merlin began to explain.
The k
ing's frown stopped him. "Am I your sovereign or not?" Arthor demanded. "Obey me, Merlin. Or end this ridiculous pretense."
"Yeth," the dwarf intoned imperiously. "Obey your king and return my mathter to me!"
"This is no pretense, my lord." With a nod, Merlin sent the monkey leaping from his shoulder to the dwarf's. "You must learn to trust me. Worthy reason informs all that I do."
"I trust you well enough, Merlin." Arthor placed a kindly hand on the wizard's forearm and felt the bony steel of it. "You saved my life in the hollow hills—and I have no doubt that by your hand I have become king. Yet, if I am true and rightful king, then my word is law."
"To be used judiciously, sire. Judiciously." Merlin motioned to the tall, open portal of the courtyard. "The festival is ended. You must review the lords and their company as they depart."
"Lord Monkey ith not thound!" Dagonet cried. "What thortheree have you worked upon my mathter, evil wizard?"
"The beast is unsettled—afflicted by the bee attack of this morn," Merlin lied. In fact, the soul of Morgeu's child that he had installed in the beast gazed forlornly from its dark eyes. "Silence your complaints, dwarf, and leave us to attend these pressing matters of state."
Farewell, Camelot
Cool as a carved visage, King Arthor sat on his cedar throne. To either side of his purple-canopied reviewing stand, an elephant stood festooned in feathery sprays and chains of flowers. This tableau impressed the gathered troops, both Celtic and British, and they arrayed themselves in military parade on the fairgrounds before the citadel.
"One year!" Merlin shouted to the massive gathering. "One year to this day, your king will sit here again before you! If by then he has not won the pledges that are denied him this day, he will step down." The wizard looked to the king and stepped aside.
The Wolf and the Crown (The Perilous Order of Camelot Book 3) Page 3