by Lavie Tidhar
Uther stands still, like a man at his barber’s.
‘This will hurt,’ Merlin says. His fingers move, dextrously. They pull a cheek here, an ear there, they stretch a fold of skin, push up an eye and then another, widen the forehead, pull back the hairline, they rearrange the nose. Merlin shifts bone and skin, working from memory. Uther stands stoically, though the pain must be not insignificant.
Then it is done. Merlin holds up a vanity and Uther stares at his reflection. The stars are overhead. They say a mirror can trap your soul. He stares at the man in the mirror and at last he nods.
‘You’ve done well.’
‘My lord.’
Uther leaves their hiding place. He walks alone. Lust makes men do awful things. This is how the boy’s conceived, the one who would be king. Uther doesn’t hurry. He walks at ease. His footsteps feel strange to him, his face is not his own. He approaches the bridge.
‘Halt! Who goes there!’
‘At ease.’
‘My lord! But are you back? Where are your men? What—’
‘Speak not, and step aside,’ says Uther.
‘Yes, lord. Of course.’
The soldiers part. He crosses, to the castle. They welcome him, their king. He says, ‘Where is my wife?’
‘In her chambers, lord.’
‘Then take me to her.’
A steward escorts him. Up flights of stairs and down corridors. Oh, how he covets Tintagel. Oh, how he covets the oyster within its impregnable shell. At last, a set of doors. He waits. The steward hovers.
‘You may leave me now.’
‘My lord.’
The steward withdraws.
This is how the boy’s conceived. The one who would be king. This is how they tell the story.
Uther enters. She stands by the window, looking at the moonlit sky. The moonlight’s in her hair. She turns, surprised.
‘My lord Gorlois! I hadn’t thought—’
‘Igraine,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t bear to be without you one more night.’
She smiles. It lights her face. ‘My lord…’
He comes to her. He reaches to disrobe her. He lifts her shift up, slowly. She stands before him, naked in the moonlight. Pale, full thighs. A dark triangle of hair. He says, ‘I want you—’ his voice thick with desire. That liquid sense that flames inside him. She comes to him, willingly. Her husband. He lifts her up and carries her to bed.
14
This is how it happens, this is how the boy’s conceived, this is how a nation’s born. At dawn he leaves the way he came, over the bridge, and there he fades from Tintagel like morning’s dew. Uther Pendragon returns to his own castle and he lays his plans.
In Tintagel, the lady Igraine grows heavy with child. Imagine Gorlois’ reaction when he at last returns to his impregnable castle, having been busy on his rounds, collecting taxes, checking on his fortifications, recruiting soldiers for his army (for a war is coming) and so on, only to find—
‘Wife? What ails you?’
‘My lord?’ She places hands over her belly. So serene, the lady. Moonlight woven in her hair. She smiles, with so much hope. ‘Perhaps a boy.’
He is no fool, Gorlois. But a cold fury builds inside him and he says not a word more to her. And he finds out, he does find out the truth. It’s there to taunt him. This act of Uther is an act of war. It is what men have always done in time of war to women.
He is provoked. He says not a word to the lady Igraine, the mother of his daughters. But he marshals his men and his war machines, his horses and carts, his supplies. He sends spies ahead. And he begins to march upon his enemy.
Perhaps it is too soon. Perhaps he’s not equipped enough. One might say honour is at stake, but what is honour? It is a word as empty as a skin of garlic, blowing in the wind. It is the shit the chickens leave, that farmers use for fertiliser. It has no meaning. Perhaps, more accurately, it’s pride. A king is not a king if he is made a fool. And so Gorlois marches to war against Pendragon. Sword versus sword. And blood alone will tell.
*
Of course, while he was gone King Uther laid his plans and amassed men. And so these opposing armies march, one from Cornwall, one from Wales.
These lands are separated by the Sabrina. A mighty river ruled over by one of the ladies of the water. The armies dare not raise her wrath and so they march on land and skirt the river, though Uther and his forces wait, and Gorlois crosses round and over river’s source and to the southern bank.
They meet at Monnow-mouth. A Roman fortress, Blestium, still stands there, where once the Roman invasion into Wales began. A colony of ironworkers still remains where once a garrison held room for full two thousand soldiers.
So it begins. The armies clash. Steel catches steel. It cuts through bone, it severs arteries, it tears men’s arms off, separates heads from necks. Horses cry and die. Men vanish into smoke. Gorlois and army take the fortress and withdraw within. King Uther’s men surround the structure.
Night falls. The carrion crows hover, watching the fallen with hungry eyes. Fires burn. The Romans built well, Uther thinks. The fort can hold for days or months, depending on supplies. He marches to the gates.
‘Gorlois!’
A flight of arrows, and he laughs. His wizard turns them into birds and, beating wings, they rise into the sky and disappear.
‘My land, my wife? We had a deal!’ says Gorlois.
‘I want your land, I want your wife, and most of all I want your head,’ says Uther.
‘Then come and get it, hired man!’
That rankles. This is the thing about a king, he’s either born or made. And Uther’s just a hired sword, a thug, they’d say. And how else does one become a king? he’d counter.
But still. It rankles.
And so they wait each other out.
*
In Tintagel the lady Igraine is heavy with child. Her belly swells. Her skin is hot. She supervises servants, tends her garden, weaves with her maids, clothes for the baby. It doesn’t have a name.
Time passes. The moon waxes, wanes. Her husband’s absence grows ever long. The child’s strong inside her. She feels it kick. She dreams of freedom. Of walking by the streams in spring, collecting pines, of fishing in the rivers of her distant home. Of running free, and laughing, how she used to run when she was small, before men noticed her. Perhaps in time, she thinks, all women will be free. Some fantasy: control over their bodies and their lives, not subject to transactions, nor incubators for an endless stream of children, nor to the needless deaths of so many small souls who never make it. How many had she lost for each one that was saved? She’d rather not recall, but each remains a scar that’s etched inside her. A woman’s like a soldier, not worse or better, and subject to the same relentless force. A woman lives and dies by force alone.
Time passes with the moon. At last it happens, as it must. The pain rents her asunder. When it is over there’s a boy, alive and strong.
She cradles him.
‘I think,’ she says, ‘I’ll call you Arthur.’
The baby gurgles, happily enough, and fastens greedy lips around a nipple. What’s in a name. She strokes his hair. He’s got good hair, the baby. Arthur.
He’s got so much to look ahead to.
*
‘About the baby…’ Uther says.
‘My lord?’
‘You will take care of it?’
‘My lord.’
With that, the wizard’s gone. Uther Pendragon stares across the river to the fortress. They cannot hold out much longer, Gorlois and his men. Another night, another day, but soon.
And then, he thinks, the others.
*
Igraine wakes in the night. A young man stands beside the crib. He’s cradling the baby. So tenderly. He doesn’t look at her. The window’s open. He says, ‘It is the king’s command.’
‘Please,’ she says. ‘Please.’
She doesn’t ask, which king.
‘He will be safe.’
Her breas
ts ache, to feed. She won’t beg. A woman’s but a soldier in an ancient war. She thinks, I’ve lost another.
‘He will be safe.’
And I? she wants to ask, but doesn’t.
The wizard nods. She knows his kind. He holds the baby like a precious cargo. She nods.
‘Then by your leave,’ he says. So softly.
She turns away.
When she turns back, they’re gone.
15
‘Look at me!’ says Gorlois. ‘Look at me, I’m the king of the world!’
Uther laughs uncontrollably as he makes the head speak, as he makes the lips move. Gorlois’ head is mounted on a spit. King Uther stands on the top battlements of the Blestium fortress. He makes the dead traitor speak from beyond the grave – not that he will ever have a grave.
‘Look at me! Look at me! I’m the king of the world!’
He tires at last of this game. The head remains up there, to stare blindly across Uther’s land. Gorlois and his men had held up in Blestium, for too long they had held against Uther.
Summer turned to autumn. A bitter winter came. By spring the fortress fell, at last. Now he can turn his attentions elsewhere. So much work yet to be done. But they will know his name, he thinks, now and echoing all down the centuries. They will remember Monnow-mouth and his victory. He will not rest until he’s king of all this land and everything that’s in it.
That summer he amasses his troops and consolidates his holdings. As a victor he comes to Tintagel, for it is his now, by force alone. He marches into the grand hall and surveys his domain, and he summons the woman, Igraine. How still she stands! How lovely she is! He reaches for her and she comes. Their marriage is performed under the canopy of stars. The dragon’s banner’s raised over the castle. At night he takes her eagerly, a victor’s spoils, he ploughs her like a field.
When it is done he lays back, sated.
‘Wife,’ he says. ‘I thirst.’
‘My lord.’
She rises. How beautiful she is, he thinks, Igraine, nude in the moonlight. She moves so softly. She vanishes beyond. He sits back as she returns. A goblet in her hand.
‘My lord.’
He drinks. The water’s cool, refreshing.
He marvels at his fortune. Soon, he thinks, all this island shall be his alone.
*
Anon it befell that the king was seized by a lingering distemper.
Something in the guts. It feels as though he is being eaten from the inside. The king grows wan. He suffers noxious gas. He finds it hard to keep down food. He has the shits.
A medicus comes. He examines his urine. He draws a star chart. He takes measure of the four humours. He prescribes blood-letting.
But the king grows ever weaker.
Another medicus comes. Of the Methodic school, he observes Uther keenly. He explains that the circulation of atoms through the body’s pores causes disease. At last, he prescribes liquorice. This helps, for a little while, but the king sickens still.
The king’s wizard comes. He examines the king. He tsks sympathetically. He offers no useful salve.
The king sickens.
At this time, too, Saxons once again make their excursions into the land. Octa, son of Hengist, had returned to the land with his pirates, landing first on the island of Thanet, then marching onwards through Kent. Vortigern’s old allies, mercenaries from the continent, desiring settlement. How they had slaughtered the Picts and the Britons! Well he remembers those days, when friend and enemy made common cause. Now they challenge his rising authority, and sickened or not, he would have none of it.
‘Bring me my sword,’ the king whispers. A sword is brought, though he can barely hold it up. His wife is brought, though he can hardly embrace her. She kisses him softly. How like water she is, he thinks.
‘Bring me a horse.’
But he cannot ride a horse. A litter is made, and the army marches to battle. Goodbye, Tintagel. Goodbye, the lady Igraine. The march is long and hard. At last they meet the forces of the Saxons at Verulam. A Christian town, the scene of a cult. A Roman soldier called Alban had lived and died there. Sheltered one of those Christian priests, and was converted, and then when the priest was wanted, this Alban allowed the man to escape and took his place. They took him up a hill and chopped his head off, though it’s said the executioner’s eyes popped out of his skull and rolled down the hill alongside Alban’s head. He’s worshipped there still, this Alban.
The Christians flee from the besieged city. He drafts them to his army. Thus engorged they clash with the Saxons, who jeer and call him the Half-Dead King. Well, fuck them, he thinks. He sends his men with fire. He would see no one left alive. He watches from a distance as the city burns. The Saxons burn. Those who try to flee are slaughtered. He feels a savage satisfaction rise. They bring him Octa’s corpse, what’s left of him. The king has gas. The king, he gets the shits.
‘My lord, your lady wife sent water from a blessed spring to ease your pain.’
He takes the goblet gratefully. The water’s cool and sweet.
‘Merlin, regarding the matter of the child—’
‘The child’s taken care of, lord.’
‘Good, good.’
His stomach cramps in pain. ‘Oh, fuck this!’ Uther cries.
‘My lord?’
But Uther’s dead.
PART TWO
LORDS OF LONDINIUM
16
The boy who would be king lies on the hard stone floor. He’s curled up against the wall, under the window. His master, Hector, snores next door beside his whores. The floor is hard, the room is cold, the boy’s long story is not yet told.
Kay sleeps besides him.
And in his sleep, Kay dreams.
The alley cats are squabbling in the alleyway beyond the wall. They hiss and fight. Londinium, in this new year of Our Lord, that saviour from distant Galilee. To bring in morning, the bellmen ring their bells, as sanctioned by the Roman, Paulinus. Beyond the wall the sun is yet to rise. The cockerels crow. The cats hiss at each other. The boy turns, restless, on the hard stone floor.
‘This boy, he is the one?’
‘He’s mine, Morgan. Keep your paws off him.’
‘A likely chance of that, Merlinus.’
‘I told you not to call me that.’
‘So touchy.’
Two cats, with moonlight-silver fur, watch the sleeping boy from the windowsill.
‘He doesn’t look like much,’ the female says.
‘They never do.’
She licks her lips. ‘He smells of blood.’
‘The boy is mine.’
‘You mean, you’re his.’
He doesn’t disagree. The boy turns, restless, on the hard stone floor. Only fifteen. He’s wiry, there’s no fat on him, and he’s surprisingly strong. An alley rat for these alley cats to fight over.
‘They would kill him soon as look at him,’ Morgan says.
‘They are distracted,’ Merlin says.
‘You made sure of that.’
‘And besides, don’t underestimate the boy.’
‘He looks like a chicken bone with all the meat stripped off it.’
‘Then leave him be!’
‘And let you have all the fun? I hardly think so, Merlin.’
The cats squabble. The boy, this Arthur, tosses and turns. The cockerels crow outside. Londinium awakes. Dawn breaks against the sky.
Next to Arthur, Kay awakes.
Londinium, in this new year of Our Lord. He wakes alertly, like a cat himself. He shakes Arthur. ‘Get up!’
The other boy blinks up at him and smiles. He steals upright. They leave Sir Hector to his boozy sleep. They exit through the window. At dawn the city’s theirs. Like cats or rats or pigeons they roam the city. Its Roman masters gone, Londinium is pale and cold in the light of the newborn sun. Its avenues are strewn with rubbish, a cold wind blows along the Strand road that the Romans built to reach Calleva Atrebatum. The boys move fleetingly throu
gh fog and damp, they steal like magpies, hunting treasure. A baker shop provides them with a loaf still hot, they run laughing as the baker follows with a poker, screaming obscenities in several languages.
Kay loves this city. This vast metropolis, its thousands of people, its narrow thoroughfares and muddy marshes, the cry of birds and the whistle of oars on the Tamesis, the smoke that rises from a thousand cooking fires and stoves, the whisper of steel and the clink of old coins from the continent, which they do not mint anymore in this land, since the Romans are gone. He doesn’t know them. They’re merely ghosts to him, these vanished strangers, who came one day with ships and arms and men and took this island and inhabited it, and kept it for a century and then another and another, and then, just as abruptly, left. As far as he’s concerned the city’s always been there, ancient, muddy, twisting, dark, a maze for him to wander in, explore, and profit from. Kay and Arthur follow Fleet, past the old ruined governor’s palace and the great occult stone, and to Billingsgate under the White Hill, where already the boats have come in and the traders are setting their wares and the air smells of fish and of tallow and tar.
‘Boys!’
They come at Arthur’s whistle – Tor and Geraint, and Elyan the White and Owain, the Bastard. His boys. He doesn’t need to tell them what to do. They aren’t… subtle. They don’t have swords, but knives and heavy sticks. Like him, they’re lean. Like him, they’re always hungry.
*
‘Where is the fucking rent, Wilfrid? Where’s the fucking rent what’s due!’
They surround the fish stall, banging on the wood with their sticks, toss the fish to the ground, make a racket. The seller’s an old Saxon, one of those who came to this land as mere babes. He’s as much of Londinium as they are – which means he knows the score.
‘We’re your protection, Wilfrid, we look after you.’
‘Without us the Wolves will take you, Wilfrid, or the Frankish mob—’
‘Tear you up and drink your blood, they will—’
‘Not like us, Wilfrid, we’re your friends, see? We look after our own.’
The grizzled old fisherman knows the score. His countenance is dire. But he’s in thrall – he must be, the last time he tried fighting back his nephew, Aelfric, got a knife between his ribs and that was that. But still he hesitates.