Orion and King Arthur (25 page)

Samson looked horrified.

Quickly Ector added, “You can always baptize her after you’re married. She’d have no choice but to obey you, then.”

Arthur’s head sank. “I’ve got to think about
this,” he muttered. “Please leave me now, all of you.”

Reluctantly, Ector, Kay, and the friar left; Samson the most loath of all to leave before winning Arthur to his point of view. I went with them and stood outside Arthur’s door in the drafty hallway as I watched them go to their bedchambers. Resting my back against the wooden wall, I listened to the wind moaning outside, intent on standing
guard until daylight. The only light in the hallway came from a torch set into a sconce down by the stairway that led to Leodegrance’s great hall. As the hours crept slowly by, it guttered and died, leaving me in darkness.

I need very little sleep, but I confess that I was drifting as I stood guard, my eyes heavy, my head sinking to my chest.

A sound snapped me to full attention. The creak of
a floorboard; the padding of running feet. Someone was hurrying down the dark hallway, making no effort to be silent about it. I can see like a cat, and I quickly discerned the approaching figure of a man, sword unsheathed.

I pulled out my sword and the figure stopped abruptly.

“Who’s there? Orion, is that you?” Lancelot’s voice, high and tense with anxiety.

“What are you doing, prowling about
at night?” I whispered.

“Guinevere!” he said urgently. “She’s being abducted!”

“What?”

“I saw them, out in the courtyard. A band of hooded men, all in white. Six or more. They have her with them!”

Kidnapping Arthur’s intended bride? Why? Who? A thousand questions raced through my mind. I wondered if I should leave Arthur asleep and unguarded. Perhaps this was a ruse to draw me away from his
door.

“Stay here and guard Arthur,” I said to Lancelot. “I’ll go after them.”

“No! One man can’t fight them all.”

“But—” It was too late. He was already running down the hallway toward the stairs that led down to the courtyard, shouting, “To arms! Rise! Awake! To arms!”

I had no choice but to follow him. He was right: one man could not face a half-dozen armed enemies, not even Lancelot. Behind
me I could hear grumbles and curses as Arthur’s knights stumbled out of their beds.

Down the wooden stairs Lancelot bounded and out into the numbing cold of the courtyard, with me two steps behind him. The stars were like hard gleaming diamonds in the freezing black sky. Lancelot had a cloak over his shoulders, but it flew open as he ran.

Lancelot hesitated a heartbeat, looked around, then pointed
his sword toward the postern gate.

“That’s the way they were taking her!”

“How did you come to see them?” I puffed as I hurried after him.

“I was up in the tower, keeping watch,” he called back over his shoulder.

“We should wait for Arthur and the others.”

“No time! God knows what they could do to her if we don’t reach them quickly!”

My mind kept warning me that this could be a trap, but
I couldn’t imagine Lancelot betraying Arthur. The young knight worshipped Arthur, followed him like a puppy.

The postern gate was ajar. “They’re in a hurry,” I said as we ducked through it.

Beyond the snow-covered ground at the castle wall’s base, a pair of logs had been lain across the refuse-filled ditch of the moat. They stood out dark and bare against the snow. Guinevere’s captors had laid
them there to speed their escape. Did they know Lancelot and I were pursuing them?

I could see no sign of horses in the dim starlight. They were on foot. There was a rough trail through the snow that led into the woods made by more than six pairs of boots, I saw.

Lancelot plunged into the woods as if he were chasing a single helpless foe. I pushed on after him as he followed the trail through
the banks of snow. Up ahead, through the black boles of the trees, I saw a light. It flickered fitfully; not one of the Creators, I reasoned. It looked more like a bonfire.

Lancelot was plunging ahead, hell-bent to reach the kidnappers. I grabbed him by the shoulder and forced him to thump heavily down in the snow.

“Wait!” I whispered. “See how many we face before you go dashing in.”

“They
might harm her!” he whispered back. “Kill her!”

“Getting yourself killed won’t help her,” I said.

He shook free of my grip and crawled through the snow toward the firelight, his sword glinting in his right hand. I looked back along the trail we had come. No sign of any of the knights, neither could I hear anyone coming along after us.

Setting my teeth, I pushed through the snowdrifts, following
Lancelot. He had dropped to one knee, eying the scene before him like a lion sizing up its prey.

In a small clearing a dozen white-robed figures were standing hand in hand, forming a ring around a blazing bonfire taller than a full-grown man. And Guinevere was standing with them, wearing nothing but a gossamer shift, her chestnut hair tumbling down below her waist, holding hands with the men
on her right and left.

“Druids!” Lancelot whispered.

“They’ve been outlawed since the Romans ruled Britain,” I said.

“But now they’ve returned to their ancient rites.”

Human sacrifice was part of their ancient rites, I knew.

Lancelot tensed to spring into their midst. The Druids did not seem to be carrying arms of any kind, yet who knew what lay hidden beneath the folds of their robes?

Again I grasped Lancelot’s shoulder, holding him down. He tried to wrench free, but I whispered into his ear, “They don’t seem to be harming her.”

As I spoke, they began to dance. Somewhere out of the darkness came the eerie wail of a wooden flute, and the Druids—with Guinevere among them—began a stately, slow dance circling around the crackling, sparking fire.

I stood up and Lancelot rose beside
me. Together we walked out of the shadows of the trees, into the clearing, toward Guinevere. The Druids stopped, froze into immobility. I could see the shock on their long-bearded faces as the two of us advanced on them with drawn swords.

“Stop!” Guinevere commanded, holding out both hands to us.

“We’ve come to rescue you,” said Lancelot.

“Rescue me? These are my friends.”

“Friends? Bloody
Druids?”

The Druids seemed thoroughly frightened of us. They were slowly backing away from us and our shining sharp-edged blades.

“We thought they were abducting you,” I said.

Slight as a sparrow, Guinevere stepped toward me, no trace of fear in her demeanor. “They are helping me to escape.”

“Escape?” Lancelot asked. “From what?”

“From Arthur. From marriage. He doesn’t want me for a bride
and I don’t want to be married to anyone. Especially not to him!”

Lancelot looked as if she had clouted him between the eyes with a quarterstaff.

Through the dark woods I heard the shouts of angry men. Arthur’s knights were approaching, probably with Arthur at their lead.

The Druids heard them, too. Without word among them, they bolted in the opposite direction and disappeared into the woods.

“So much for your friends,” I said to Guinevere.

Her brown eyes snapped angrily at me. “What can they expect at the hands of Friar Samson and his like? Your holy man would burn my friends at the stake.”

Yes, I thought, and sow the seeds of bitter enmity between Arthur and the pagans still living in Britain. A civil war of the most brutal kind would be the result.

At that moment, Bors and Kay
burst into the clearing, swords in their hands. Leodegrance and Arthur were right behind him, the king of Cameliard looking more than a little ridiculous in his night shift, with a shield on one arm and a heavy battle-mace in the other. He was not smiling now. Arthur had thrown on his chain mail. Excalibur gleamed in the firelight.

“It’s all right, sire,” I said, thinking as fast as I could.
“A band of cutthroats abducted the princess, but Lancelot drove them off single-handedly.”

Lancelot’s jaw fell open at that, but he said nothing.

“They intended to hold Guinevere for ransom, sire,” I went on, “knowing that she is to be your bride.”

Arthur looked me in the eye, then nodded as if he knew what was going on. Sheathing his sword, he turned away from me and grasped Lancelot by both
shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said. “You have saved the honor of my bride-to-be.”

Lancelot stammered, “It … that is … I was glad to do it, sire.”

For an awkward moment we all stood there next to the roaring bonfire, feeling slightly foolish. Then Arthur said, “Back to the castle, everyone.”

Lancelot took off his cloak and draped it around Guinevere’s slight shoulders. She smiled at him, then
stepped to Arthur’s side and allowed him to take her hand.

As the others started back toward the castle, Lancelot stood there in the clearing, looking downcast.

I said to him, low enough so that only he could hear it, “Arthur owes you a great debt, although he’ll never know of it. You may have saved the kingdom this night.”

Lancelot said nothing. His eyes were following Guinevere as she allowed
Arthur to lead her back to the castle, back to their wedding. But she glanced back at Lancelot and smiled sadly.

In my mind, I heard Anya whisper, “
You
saved Arthur’s realm from bloody civil war, Orion. Well done.”

Before I could bask in the glow of her approval, though, Aten’s smug voice intruded into my thoughts. “Very well done, indeed, Arthur. The seeds of Arthur’s destruction took root
tonight.”

And he laughed his sneering, hateful laugh in the cold, dark winter night.

BOOK II

King of the Britons

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Sword of Kingship

1

Leaving Guinevere at castle Cameliard, Arthur, Bors, and Gawain—accompanied only by their squires—galloped south toward Cadbury castle and the dying Ambrosius Aurelianus. Guinevere and her father, King Leodegrance, were to follow us at a slower pace, escorted by Arthur’s foster brother, Kay, and the rest of his knights—including Lancelot.

In truth,
I thought that Arthur was glad to leave Guinevere and all thoughts of marriage behind him as we speeded toward Cadbury and his dying uncle.

By the time we finally reached Cadbury castle, its high main gate was draped in black. Ambrosius was dead.

His body lay in state in the castle’s great hall, lying on a high catafalque with four armed knights standing at its corners, their heads bowed in
grief. Ambrosius was decked in his finest mail and helm, his two-handed broadsword clutched in his mail-gloved hands. Its pommel was at his chin, the tip of its scabbard reached below his knees.

Even though the hall was wide and its ceiling so high it was lost in shadows, we could smell the sour-sweet odor of decay as soon as we entered, despite the heaps of sage, rosemary, and thyme that had
been laid all around the bier. Arthur, Gawain, and Bors approached the body respectfully, while I stood by the entrance to the tapestry-covered stone hall, as a squire should. Even at that distance, though, I could see that Ambosius’ cheeks were sunken beneath the heavy steel helmet that had been placed on his gray-bearded head.

Once we left the hall, Ambrosius’ chamberlain led the knights to
their quarters in the high stone keep of the castle. I followed at a respectful distance, alert as always for possible treachery.

The chamberlain seemed harmless enough, though. He was a man in his late thirties, I judged, his severely trimmed dark hair just beginning to show touches of gray. He was wire thin and fairly quivering with nervous energy. As chamberlain he must have eaten well, but
it seemed to me that he burned off whatever he ate; he would never get fat.

“Kings and knights from all over the land are hastening to Cadbury,” he said, in a clear tenor voice that sounded totally free of grief. “I don’t know where we’ll be able to put them all.”

Arthur nodded solemnly. “They’ll want to elect a new High King once Ambrosius is buried.”

Walking behind them, I couldn’t see the
chamberlain’s face, but I heard the surprise in his voice. “A new High King? Not likely! Who could replace Ambrosius Aurelianus?”

Gawain said, “He died without leaving an heir, I understand.”

“He has no acknowledged sons,” the chamberlain replied tactfully.

“Then someone must be named to take possession of this fine castle,” Gawain said.

“I suppose there will be battles fought over it, yes,”
said the chamberlain, his tone now rueful.

Bors said, “Arthur is his nearest living relative. Arthur should have the castle and all its lands.”

The chamberlain was silent for many paces along the stone-floored corridor. At last he said, “Perhaps so. But there will be others to contest his claim.”

“No,” Arthur snapped. “We must not fight among ourselves.”

Bors shook his doughty head. “There’s
no other way, my boy. You’ll have to fight for your rightful inheritance.”

2

The chamberlain was right. Knights and self-styled kings from all the corners of Britain descended upon Cadbury castle. Ostensibly, they came to pay their last respects to the High King. Actually, they were looking for a way to gain possession of Ambrosius’ estate. And title.

Through the next several days, while the
old man’s body rotted so badly that all the sweet-smelling herbs in the kingdom could not disguise the odor of decaying flesh, the growing number of noblemen quarreled and squabbled over Ambrosius’ inheritance. Good-natured practice bouts in the courtyard often turned into bruising fights that drew blood.

Arthur stayed clear of such engagements.

“I wish Merlin were here,” he sighed as we watched
a pair of self-styled kings thwacking each other with wooden staves.

Standing beside him in the chilly courtyard, Bors said, “The wizard has gone. Who knows when he will return? If ever.”

“But I need him!” Arthur said. “We’ve got to find a way to settle this inheritance peacefully.”