The Guinevere's Tale Trilogy

Chapter 9-2

Evrain’s eyes bulged with disbelief and anger. “He is not here to speak or to entertain. He is here to observe and to serve. I will hear of no such thing.” Evrain set his jaw resolutely, as if to say there would be no budging him from that position.

Before I could cast a sidelong glance her way, Octavia had already risen and taken hold of a pitcher of wine. She sauntered over to Evrain’s side and bent down to his level.

“My good lord, surely you will allow the boy to tell one simple tale.” She batted her eyes flirtatiously as the liquid flowed into his cup. “What harm can it do? If he is truly as in need of learning as you say, his speech can only magnify the splendor of your own. Besides”—she bent lower, giving everyone at the table an unobstructed view of her cleavage—“it will give you a chance to relax. All this discussion of politics must have made you weary.” She ran her free hand across his shoulders, rubbing them gently.

Evrain was clearly entranced by Octavia’s charms, openly ogling her. He patted her hand but then quickly recovered himself. “I do not normally take advice from servants.” He gave her a scathing, yet passionate look. “But perhaps you are right. Go ahead, Aggrivane. Tell us all of the boy who would be king.” He turned to face Aggrivane, regarding him coldly, letting him know he already expected him to fail. “It is, in a way, your story to tell, after all.”

For a moment, Evrain’s words perplexed me. But then I remembered something Aggrivane had told me during one of our nights together in Avalon. His father was Uther’s chosen successor. If Uther had changed his mind at the last moment, Aggrivane would be telling the tale of his own family’s undoing—how he went from being third in line to the throne of the high king to having his name struck from the possible line of succession. Of course, Evrain would use this opportunity to humiliate him. It took all of my willpower not to shoot Evrain a disgusted look.

Unfazed, Aggrivane sat up straight in his seat and cleared his throat, his eyes passing briefly over me, just long enough to let me to know he hadn’t forgotten me. “The account you are about to hear comes straight from a knight who guarded King Uther and fought alongside our new king,” he said, by way of preface.

Then he c****d his head slightly, as though he was listening to music only he could hear—a gesture not uncommon among bards settling into their roles—and began to weave his tale.

“It was nearing sunset in a valley near the fort of Tremontum in the wild lands of the country to the north.” Aggrivane inclined his head toward me ever so slightly in acknowledgement of my lineage. “The sky was ablaze in all the colors of the dying day. The reds and oranges of evening were at war with the blue and pale yellow of day. Down on the ground, however, things were not so lively. The battle between Uther’s troops and the merciless Saxons was at an impasse; both sides had retreated to camp, and it looked as if they would have to call a halt for the night and risk the possibility of defending against a sneak attack under the cover of darkness.

“The men were tired, and many were wounded. Morale was flagging under the strain of many days of fighting. Alarm spread quickly through the ranks as Uther threw down his sword in a fit of rage and retired to his tent. Most other nights he stood vigil with Merlin and his advisors, planning the next day’s battle by the light of the moon. But not this night.

“The moon rose and traveled through the heavens, spreading her pale light across the camps of invader and native alike. Still there was no word from the king, no nightly orders of who was to watch and who was to sleep. The men began to grumble.

“About midnight, Merlin joined Uther in his tent. He found the king reclining on his mat, his face ashen and covered in sweat.

“‘My King, what ails you? How may I be of service?’ Merlin bowed low in genuine concern for his ruler and friend.

“Uther smiled slightly, the gesture barely masking his grimace of pain. ‘Lord of Light, Walker between the Worlds, that is what they call you, do they not? Then indeed, you already know I am not long for this world. I suspect the spirits have told you.’ He grimaced as another wave of pain racked his body and his breathing grew labored.

“‘Indeed, they have.’ Sorrow weighed down Merlin’s voice.

“‘Then we haven’t much time. There is something you have long known, a secret buried deep within our hearts that must now be revealed to the one who will inherit my crown. Merlin, call my son to me and bid him bring me my sword.’

“Merlin assented with a low bow. ‘As you wish, sire.’

“The night watchmen stirred as Merlin strode out of the tent and inquired of the captain the whereabouts of one of the young soldiers. He was directed to a tent on the outskirts of the encampment where the women who followed the battle slept.

“Arthur begrudgingly untangled himself from his bedmate’s embrace and was directed by Merlin to a pile of boulders in a grassy patch near the king’s tent. ‘Your king has damaged his sword,’ he said, pointing at the blade wedged between two rocks. ‘He desires it returned to him, and I was told you have the strength to remove it.’

“Puzzled, Arthur regarded Merlin as one who had lost his senses and grabbed hold of the hilt. A shower of amber sparks lit up the night as the broken blade scraped against the stone. Arthur displayed the useless weapon to Merlin without a word and followed him into the king’s tent.

“By this time, the whole camp had grown tense, the warriors sensing something amiss in the balmy west wind, as if it had been sent from beyond the seventh wave. Some whispered that the west wind was an omen of death, while others listened, watched, and waited for some sign from the Saxons or from their absent king.

“As Merlin and Arthur ducked below the door flap of the tent, Uther’s impending death was apparent. Though the wind whistled roughly through the trees outside, the air inside had grown still. Uther’s breathing was coming in shallow gasps, his face holding a mere shadow of the great power it once possessed.

“Shocked and distressed at his king’s condition, Arthur knelt before him, presenting the sword. ‘I have brought your sword, my lord. Tell me, what is your will of me?’

“The dying king smiled. ‘It is your sword now, my son.’ His eyes closed and he grasped his chest, fighting through another wave of pain. ‘Take it and defend our land against those who would hold us captive, for my power is now yours.’

“Arthur knelt speechless before Uther, searching his face for meaning he could not comprehend. Finally, he turned to Merlin for explanation.

“‘Uther is your father, Arthur. Soon, you will be high king.’

“Uther reached out to his son. ‘I beg you bear me no ill will for concealing this from you. You’—he fought for breath—‘have always had my love, and your protection was my greatest concern.’

“The king looked up suddenly, regarding them with unseeing eyes. ‘My ancestors call me home, my son. I bid you farewell. May the gods be with you, and may you only die in battle.’

“One final spasm shook his body, and Uther breathed his last.

“Merlin bowed his head. ‘The high king is dead,’ he declared to the guards within the tent. He removed the ring of office from Uther’s hand and placed it on Arthur’s finger. ‘And the new king is born. Hail, High King Arthur!’ he cried.

“The cry was taken up by the men in the tent and echoed by those outside. Confusion reigned as word spread from one end of the camp to another. But soon the ravens began to crow, and the commotion was drowned out by shouts of the night watchmen. The Saxons were marching toward camp.”

Aggrivane leaned forward and his voice grew more intense. “I tell you, it was as if the Saxons had planned the whole sequence of events themselves. Right at the moment of transition, the moment of greatest weakness, our men were being attacked. Arthur seemed unaware of this coincidence; he was strangely focused, having shaken off his shock and clothed himself in the mantle of power. Once the men were hastily armed and battle formations in place, he called them all unto him, scanning the assembled warriors with eyes of bluest fire.

“‘A few hours ago, I was one of you, and now I find myself called to lead you. I do not yet ask for your loyalty, but I do ask for your trust. Allow me to lead you in this battle to secure our country’s future, and then you may evaluate my worthiness to be your king. One thing I beg of you—do not allow your grief, anger, or personal grievances to cloud your minds. Think only of turning this horde of murderers away from our shores. You have all sworn an oath of allegiance to Uther. Consider victory in this battle to be his final command.’ Arthur raised his father’s damaged sword high over his head and, with the other arm, brandished his own. ‘To arms, men of Britain! To arms!’

“Arthur’s men were ready for the onslaught when the Saxons rained down upon them. Having lost the element of surprise, the Saxons were weakened, though they fought hard. Many brave men lost their lives, following Uther as his honor guard into Otherworld. But many others won great honor. As dawn brightened the sky on the first day of Arthur’s reign, the Saxons were defeated, hundreds killed in all. The royal army—and the nation—were left to grieve for their fallen warriors and their dead king and to come to terms with the sudden rise of another. So began the rule of the great King Arthur.”

The grand hall was silent but for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. I could not move, could not tear my eyes away from Aggrivane. Though I did not look at them, the utter stillness around me indicated everyone was as spellbound as I, living the events brought to life through Aggrivane’s words.

My father was the first to stir. “Good sir, that was a fine tale. I beg you tell me where you learned such skill.”

Evrain moved to interject, and Aggrivane took note.

“Truly, my lord, it is of no consequence.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Nor am I.”

Evrain seemed pleased by the show of humility, but I was not. I could not believe that Aggrivane would so willingly deny his talent and the years of Druidic training that had brought him this far. I was about to voice this thought when I caught Aggrivane’s eye. He was silently begging me to keep quiet.

I slumped back in my seat as the talk returned once again to our new king.

“Now that we have heard the fantasy, what do you think to be our king’s chances, eh?” Evrain asked, draining yet another cup.

“He will have a tough road ahead of him,” my father said gravely. “Who upholds his sovereignty?”

“I have heard that allegiance has been sworn by Cador of Cornwall, the king of the north country, and Pellinor of Dyfed. I know he aims to gain your loyalty as well, my lord. But not all are so quick to cower before the mighty Arthur.” Evrain pounded the table with his fist. “King Lot has declared war upon the whelp. He had been appointed Uther’s successor long ago and rightly feels cheated of his office. He was the only lord present the night of Uther’s passing who refused to kneel and swear fealty to Arthur.”

Aggrivane shifted uncomfortably in his seat at the mention of his father’s disloyalty. He glanced out the window and then his stool scraped loudly as he rose suddenly from his seat. “Forgive me, my lords, but the candles burn low. I must see to the horses.”

Evrain motioned toward the door dismissively. “Yes, yes, be off to your duties.” The tone in Evrain’s voice made it clear that he was glad to finally be rid of his guest.

“We bid you good eve,” my father said, rising.

“Thank you, my lords.” He bowed to both kings and threw me a fleeting glance filled with longing before departing.