Beyond the Crimson (The Crimson Cycle)

by Danielle Martin Williams

  I nodded, feeling uncomfortable at how he looked at me as though I were lying. He paused, thoughtful for a moment, as he picked up a rope from the fence and began to wind it up in a tight circle using his elbow and hand to keep the distance equal. “He does not usually speak of his mother… in fact, he never does.”

  Despite my better reasoning, the words sparked something inside of me, why would he tell me his story then? “Well, he had a lot to drink…” I started, still trying to make sense of it.

  Bedivere laughed. “He drinks often. I doubt it had anything to do with it.” He looked at me teasingly, and I blushed again but quickly reprimanded myself for thinking it meant something that I know it didn’t.

  “I did not know her,” he continued, taking mercy on my embarrassment, “but I suppose it could have been ….” He shrugged his shoulders still thinking, as he placed the rope on a nail hammered through one of the posts.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, as long as I have known Bran he has always been scheming of ways to start trouble.” He scratched the back of his head, focusing on a small spot in the grass as he smiled slightly. “He is very strong willed and does not listen so well.” He lifted his gaze and reached for a pitchfork resting against a post. “I know his behaviors certainly infuriated his father; that is the reason Merlin brought him to Tewdrig’s, so it would not be unlikely if his mother thought poorly of him as well.” He stabbed at the large hay stack, shoveling it into the wooden troughs. I blushed inwardly thinking of kissing Brendelon on that very same hay pile.

  “That seems rather awful,” I said softly, thinking on Brendelon’s story, commiserating with his sad childhood.

  He continued to shovel the hay not saying a word for a moment then he stood straight and wiped his brow. “The Lord has a way of working things out.” He placed the pitchfork back against the post and hoisted himself up to sit on top of the fence as he leaned over his knees, pondering for a moment. I was quickly learning that Bedivere was a thinker, and very unlike Gawain and Brendelon, he was careful to choose his words. He squinted in the sunlight.

  “If he had not been sent away, he may not have developed such a close relationship with Arthur.” He glanced down at me with dancing eyes. “You know, when we first met him he was very guarded, so much in fact that he hardly spoke, if you could believe it,” he chuckled. “He would scowl at anyone who tried to speak to him, but Arthur would not let up and finally after a few days of boredom—and Arthur’s persistence—he finally pipes up with this great idea to take Ector’s young dog hunting. He claimed all dogs have instincts to fetch kills, so it mattered not that he had no training. We believed him because he can be very persuasive when he wants to be, but also because even we thought the idea sounded fun.”

  I leaned up against the fence, intrigued with the story and entertained at the way Bedivere’s face lit up at the memories.

  “So Artos aimed up high,” he pretended to shoot a bow, “and hit a bird first try. Bran let the dog off the rope, but the damned dog ran off in the wrong direction.” He pointed his arm to the far distance as he shook his head. “We spent all day searching for that mutt, but he was nowhere to be found. Bran tried to hide it but we could tell he was terrified, thinking he would get a whipping. Artos tried to tell him that Ector would not lay a hand upon him but by the end of the conversation, Bran even had us convinced that we all would surely get a beating for this.” He paused a moment as he scratched his cheek still looking amused at his story, but I felt my stomach twist at Brendelon’s fear, remembering the things he said of his father, thinking of the awfulness of it.

  “Ector saw us and asked if we had seen the dog,” he continued, “so Bran stood tall, hard faced,” he stood straight with his chin thrust out, imitating what Brendelon would have looked like, “prepared for a whipping, but right before he opened his mouth, Artos stepped in, saying he is responsible for losing the dog.” He laughed a little. “Bran’s mouth fell open, and Artos whispered, ‘we stand together.’ You should have seen his face; it was like he had never had anyone defend him before.”

  I shook my head as sadness consumed me, picturing a terrified green eyed boy realizing for the first time someone cared about him. It was no wonder he had such reservations about home and love, and I started to understand why Arthur had such a big place in his heart.

  “They ended up arguing over who was responsible,” Bedivere continued, not noticing my expression. “Ector was so confused he just threw his hands up done with it. Nobody was even punished.” He laughed again. “And would you not know, after all that, the damned dog came back the next morning.” He shook his head, still laughing. “And Bran has been loyal to Artos ever since.”

  I forced a smile. “And that’s why he loves Arthur so much?”

  He smiled, nodding his head. “Artos is easy to love. It is the ones who are not who really teach you about the heart.” His words puzzled me.

  “What do you—” But before I could ask more he jumped off the fence.

  “Have you ever hunted with a bow?” he interrupted.

  “I’ve never hunted at all.”

  He grinned. “Here, let me show you.” I followed him as he walked into the stable, not wanting to change the subject so soon.

  “Did Brendelon ever go back to live with his mother?” I asked, trying to pry a little further.

  He scratched his chin as he pulled down a bow that was hanging on a nail from one of the stable walls. “No, I think he only saw her once since she sent him away.” He grimaced as he tested out the pull of the string. “She came to see him at the Christ Mass when Arthur pulled Excalibur. It sent her into a terrible rage; she felt Bran to be the legitimate heir, but he would not hear of it.” He grabbed two arrows, touching his finger lightly to the tips, testing their sharpness.

  “Wouldn’t he still be heir to his father’s throne?”

  “His uncle, Ulrich, has taken over,” he said as he walked out of the stables. “He could certainly reclaim it, but I do not think he wants it; that would require too much responsibility,” he said with a slight chuckle. “You see, Bran is unruly and prefers no restrictions, much like the raging sea…” He turned and looked at me almost with a warning. “He is fierce, unpredictable, and impossible to control.”

  I nodded. He was like the sea alright, and I was a small insignificant vessel that witnessed the calm and was now caught in his storm. “I like that Brendelon doesn’t just conform to what others want or expect from him,” I blurted out. “That takes courage in a lot of ways.” And as I said it, I realized maybe that was part of his allure. It was a trait that I wished I could possess. I crossed my arms over the fence post.

  Bedivere nodded his head still deep in thought. “He is certainly courageous,” he agreed. “But kings need to be constant like the land, steadfast and reliable, the way Arthur is.”

  “Is that why Merlin chose Arthur to be the High King?”

  He looked at me funny. “Merlin did not choose him. He is the heir; it was always meant to be him.” His gaze went up to the sky, as he watched a hawk glide above us, and I wondered for a moment if he meant to shoot it. “Here,” he said, thrusting the bow into my hands, suddenly distracting me. “Is your right hand or left hand stronger?”

  “My right…” I started, as he placed my left hand onto the hard wooden part of the bow.

  “Hold it here,” he said, adjusting my hand.

  “I—I’m not sure I should do this,” I stuttered, feeling nervous about my lack of abilities.

  “You will be fine.” He laughed, as he grabbed me by the shoulders, turning me sideways until my left shoulder pointed at the tree in the distance. “Move your feet apart.” He gently kicked the inner part of my feet until I moved them about shoulder width in distance. “Keep your body relaxed.” He spoke in a calming voice and smiled cordially, making me feel less unsure about myself. He placed the arrow into my right hand and set the top part of the shaft against a small vertical notch on the wood,
keeping it sturdy. He then placed the back of the arrow against the string, pointing a single feather away from the bow. “Now, hold it lightly with three fingers, these two below,” he wiggled his middle and ring finger at me, “and this one above,” he showed me his index finger. “Keep the arrow pointed to the ground and when you are ready lift it up as you pull back.” He showed me the movement as he carefully raised my arms into a t-shape. “Pull your right hand back as far as you can to your ear, keeping your body straight. Aim at the tree, hold your breath to steady… and release.” He let go of my hands and took a step back smiling at me.

  “But what if I miss?” I asked, releasing the tension on the string as I lowered the bow back to the ground, despite the fact I was suddenly itching to shoot it.

  He laughed again, holding his hands up in mock defense. “I will not tell a soul,” he joked, winking at me. I smiled, I really did appreciate Bedivere’s kindness; he made me feel like less of an outsider. I took a deep breath and lifted the bow in a fluid motion like he had shown me, carefully pulling the arrow back towards my ear as I aimed at the trunk of the tree. I held my breath and released the arrow from my slender fingers. It sailed gracefully through the air before penetrating the trunk of the tree. I squealed in delight. The arrow hit a lot lower than I had aimed for, but I couldn’t believe I had actually hit the tree. He turned to me with wide eyes and a smile playing at his lips.

  “Can I try it again?” I asked excitedly. He laughed and handed me the second arrow, as I set it up again.

  “Tilt it higher up,” he directed. “The further your distance the higher you are to aim.”

  I listened to him and moved the bow upwards and released. This time I hit the tree a little bit more to the left than I had anticipated, but I didn’t care. It was exhilarating.

  “You have natural bow skills,” he complimented, as his affable brown eyes twinkled.

  “Thank you,” I said, still grinning as I handed the bow back. “That was fun.”

  “You can train your little dog to fetch your kills when he is all healed,” he said playfully.

  “I don’t know about that.” I laughed. “We don’t really hunt where I am from.”

  His eyes widened. “Nobody hunts?”

  “Well, the animals are on farms, and they don’t really run wild anymore.” He gave me an odd look that matched the ones Brendelon had given me when I explained future advances to him. The look made me miss him. “Besides, I don’t think I could ever kill an animal.”

  He smiled, flashing nice straight teeth. “Do you not eat meat?”

  I blushed again. “I eat meat, but I just don’t want to be the one doing the killing.”

  “That is an emotion shared by many.” He laughed, placing the bow over the raised post on the fence, and crawled between the horizontal planks into the pen. He reached for a brush. “So how is your little mutt doing?” he asked, as he started to brush a dark brown horse.

  “He’s okay. It’s difficult to keep him still; he keeps trying to walk around.” He tossed another brush to me and gave me an approving smirk as I caught it with ease. I crawled between the wood planks the same as he had.

  “Animals will do that; it is in their nature to move forward.” He nodded, as the teasing smile returned to his lips.

  “What?” I asked, smiling as I helped him brush the beautiful creature, and curious about the jovial expression on his face.

  He shook his head. “It is just hard to believe you actually convinced Bran to save that mutt’s life.” He let out a laugh.

  I laughed too. “In his defense, I didn’t give him much of a choice.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, looking at me over the horse’s back, “Believe me that has never stopped him before,” he pointed out, eyes dancing with hilarity.

  “Bedivere!” a strong voice called out, just as my cheeks were beginning to burn.

  We both whirled our heads into the direction of the voice. There stood an older man with white hair pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck and a white beard that hung a few inches off his chin. He was tall, dressed in a long green cloak over black clothes, and moved with grace as he strutted closer to us.

  “Hail Merlin!” Bedivere called joyously, crawling out of the pen to meet him. “I was wondering when you would return!”

  Merlin. I had almost expected to see him with long white hair to the waist and a beard to the floor, dressed in a shiny blue robe with a long pointy hat. But he looked like a normal older man.

  He handed the reins over to Bedivere, as his kind light blue eyes focused on me. He smiled. “Katarina, I presume.”

  “Yes. Nice to meet you.” I smiled at him, wondering how he already knew who I was; had everyone’s gossip even reached him?

  “Let us find the others,” he said gesturing towards the castle. “We will meet in the hall. There is clearly much to discuss.”

  He walked forward without waiting for a reply. Bedivere shrugged his shoulders, giving me a curious look then walked Merlin’s horse into the stables. I crawled out of the pen and watched the older man’s figure become smaller as he strut at a fast pace towards the castle.

  “Well, this should be interesting,” Bedivere said mischievously as he stepped next to me.

  I looked up at him confused, but he only smiled in return and began to follow Merlin’s path.

  Chapter Eleven: Unconditional

  The guard swung open the large wooden door to the hall pulling him along by the back of his shirt before throwing him to the ground in front of the king with three other boys trailing behind.

  He stayed on his knees; his lower lip was bloodied and pouted out, but that was the worst of it.

  The king put a hand up. “What is the meaning of this?”

  The tall guard stepped forward. “This one here was fighting these three.” He pointed to the three boys standing along the wall, still being held by the guards. “He had them bloodied up in the courtyard,” he declared, quite seriously.

  The three other boys looked down the ground ashamed, and a wide grin crept up the right side of the boy’s mouth. He was not smiling just because he had won, but it was because he got a thrill from fighting, a thrill from the pain it caused, because it reminded him of what he knew, of what he had always known.

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” the king asked him.

  He kept his eyes to the floor. “Well, Your Majesty, I told the big one to pick two of his best men, and I gave him the first shot.” He pointed to his lip. “I would say it was fair.”

  The king’s lips twitched in mirth, as he raised an eyebrow. “Are you in your twelfth year?”

  “Tenth, Your Majesty.”

  “Tenth!” he said surprised, “Was this to be your first year competing?”

  “Aye,” he said proudly. He had patiently waited till he was finally old enough to compete in the youth tournaments, and the thought of being this year’s champion excited him more than he had ever been in his life.

  “You know a knight must know how to be disciplined.”

  He grinned. “I have been whipped many times in my life, Your Majesty. I would say I most certainly know how to be disciplined.”

  This caused a roar of laughter among some of the older men, and although the king had seemed to be in a pleasing mood, he was not entirely amused.

  “I am glad to hear it,” he said evenly. “However, the consequence of your actions has cost you banishment from this year’s tournament.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in panic, heart falling with disappointment, as he finally looked up to the king. “What?” he practically shouted.

  The king’s face twitched, not seeming to like the tone. “And you are to apologize to these three boys.”

  He winced and shook his head. He would never apologize. They had called his friend a cripple, loud enough for him to hear, loud enough to embarrass Kay into shame, and he would never be sorry for making them suffer for it.

  “Pride will get you n
owhere, boy,” he boomed. “Humility is a virtue you best become familiar with. You will apologize to these three boys, or you shall be banished from the tournament indefinitely.”

  He lowered his eyes. “It is not pride,” he mumbled. Those boys had deserved every bruise and cut they got, if not more, but there was no point in explaining that to an adult; adults never understood.

  The king’s face turned a slight shade of red. “Then you shall be banished from being a participant and spectator of these tournaments indefinitely!” he roared. “And perhaps you should spend your remaining time here in a holding cell, contemplating your defiance.”

  Kay stood. “Please Your Majesty,” he begged, “he was only defending me because of my le—”

  He snapped his head to his friend, shooting him a look that struck down his words in mid-air. Kay gulped as his face burned brighter than his hair.

  Then Arthur stood, and the boy groaned because he knew it would be far more difficult to scare him into silence. “Please your Majesty…” Arthur started, seeming to not notice the emerald daggers being shot at him.

  He cringed inwardly, hating the feeling inside of him. He wanted none of their pity, not even the king’s. Pity was for the weak and disadvantaged, and knights were neither. He clenched his fists and counted the way Merlin had told him, trying to fight against the heat rising up in him, but it was not working.

  Arthur must have stopped speaking because the king was staring at him now, features softened but not full of pity, and he could not help the sudden jolt of excitement that the king might change his mind. “You have a lot to learn about being a knight,” he said. “Violence is not always the answer to peace.”

  He forced a nod, trying to appear obedient, but he took no heed to the words. Violence instilled fear, fear was the key to power, and power meant freedom; the king was a fool to think otherwise.

  “You must also learn how to obey the orders of your king. However, as it would appear your intentions were for a noble purpose, I will only instill the original punishment of being banned this year.”