Ex lapis, p.23
Ex Lapis, page 23
part #2 of Arthur Rex Series
He stayed inside of her for as long as he could, the angle of their bodies and the embrace of her arms and legs keeping him in place even after the hardness began to leave him. She kissed him deeply, redolent with spent passion, and looked up into his eyes in wonder.
“My king,” she whispered.
He kissed her again. “My goddess.”
Arthur lay on his back, and the chosen maiden, a maiden no longer, rested in the crook of his arm, her head over his heart. She stroked his stomach with her hand, lightly tracing the muscles and his sweat-damp skin. He ran his hand down her arm. They were at peace.
Outside the circle of stones, the people were celebrating. The music still played, but now there were drums and an insistent rhythm that sounded like the pounding of a giant heart. He suspected that there were many couples outside the stones who had paired off to celebrate their own version of the Great Rite.
“My name is Lionors,” she said softly.
“Arthur.”
She smiled. “I know your name.”
He blushed, feeling foolish. Of course his name would be common knowledge. She sat up and looked down at him. “You’re younger than I expected.”
He smiled. “I hear that a lot.”
Lionors chuckled. “I’m sure you do.” She kissed him, and he happily kissed her back. She settled back down onto his chest. She whispered, “Thank you for being kind.”
He had been so caught up in his own anticipation and worry that it had never occurred to him to consider what she might have been feeling in the hours leading up the rite. She had more reason to be afraid than he, and it saddened him. With a different sort of man, she might have suffered.
“There’s no other way I would ever want to be,” he told her. “Thank you for accepting me and agreeing to this rite.”
She rubbed her hand over his chest, then followed the path down toward his groin, stopping just shy of his black curls. “It was an honor bestowed upon me, and I would never shame my family by refusing.”
“Did you feel you had no choice?” he asked, concerned.
Lionors sat up and looked at him, and he could see a warmth in her eyes that surprised him. “I had a choice,” she said. “I chose to accept the role on behalf of my family, and to keep Ceredigion’s honor intact. But now, for myself, I’m glad that I said yes.”
He touched her face, his fingertip grazing her dewy skin. “You are beautiful, Lionors.”
She smiled. “I think the same of you.”
He pulled her close and kissed her, and then there was no more talking.
The camp was a riot of lust and excess. Sir Ector stood near the circle of stones, safeguarding what little privacy Arthur and Lionors had left. Curious Britons came to try to look into the circle, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Great Rite in progress, and he turned them all away. It was bad enough that the sounds the couple made were audible to all the camp, reverberating off the stones in ways that should have been impossible. Nothing in this pagan place made sense to him, and he shifted in his discomfort.
He had raised Arthur to be a Christian. There had never been any worship of the pagan gods at Caer Gai, not even among the servants. He supposed that there were followers of the old faith in the nearby village, but Arthur had never been exposed to them or their heathen ways. He did not understand why his son was so dedicated to honoring the old gods now. He supposed that Merlin was to blame. The druid had been too close to the boy, and he had been foolish to allow Arthur to go to Ynys Môn. He regretted that decision now, and blamed himself for his youngest son’s fall from the grace of God.
Another cry of passion rose from within the stones, and his face burned with embarrassment and shame, both for himself and on his son’s behalf. Surely Arthur would not have wanted his activities to be so public. He knew what pagans demanded of their kings, and he knew of the strange and disturbing rites that each tribe used to consecrate their rulers. This public Great Rite was the least of the ordeals that lay before him as he gained the allegiance of tribe after tribe. He hoped that Arthur would return to God and give up this pagan sympathy before he was subjected to any more indignities.
Sir Ector crossed his arms, hiding his ruined left hand beneath his still-strong right bicep. There would be hard fighting ahead, and harder days to follow if the war was lost. Arthur had to be accepted as High King by all of the tribes of Britannia. On this, all things depended. He wished with all of his might that fighting could be avoided. His sons were strong and well trained, but they were still only boys, and he wanted to keep them free from the horrors of warfare for a little longer. He had no desire to risk them in battle, or worse, to see them fall. The thought of Kay and Arthur lying dead on some battlefield made his heart sink, and he cleared his throat to chase the images away.
A matron with bounteous curves and curly auburn hair approached him, weaving as she walked, clearly under the influence of too much ale or something more arcane. He prepared to shoo her away from the stones, but to his surprise, she was coming toward him.
“Blessings on this Beltane,” she greeted.
He nodded politely. “God be with you.”
She laughed. “A Christian? Oh, you poor man.”
He wasn’t certain if she was pitying him for being a Christian at a pagan rite, or if she was pitying him for being Christian in the first place. The woman put her hands on his shoulders.
“You’re an older fellow, but you’re very fit.” She leered at him. “I like fit men with some years behind them. Years bring experience, if you understand.”
“I understand you very well, my lady.” He sighed. “I will not sport with you.”
Her hands ran down his chest, and he pulled away. He had not been touched in so intimate a way in over a decade, and the need that was awakening in his body distressed him. He thought he had mastered those urges, chained them up and thrown away the key. This woman’s touch and the sound, sight and smell of sex all around him had picked the lock and set them free.
“Are you sure?” she asked, stepping closer until her breasts brushed his arm.
“I am very sure.”
She looked disappointed, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll find someone else.”
He sounded more irritable than he had intended. “An excellent plan.”
As the woman reeled away, he shook his head. He felt like he was in a foreign country, surrounded by ways and customs that were not his own. These obscene practices were a blight upon their people, and he prayed for the souls of everyone involved in this bacchanalia. It troubled him greatly that his foster son, his king, was among those in need of prayer.
They loved twice more before the morning came and found them sleeping, wrapped up in each other and the red cloth that covered them. Dawn brought Merlin and the druids, who entered the circle of stones with incense burning in their hands. They walked a spiral path until they reached the bed where the king and his goddess lay.
“Rise up, my king,” Merlin said. “The day has dawned and there is much to do.”
Arthur sat up, suddenly shy. Lionors blushed and covered herself with her hands as much as she could. Merlin presented him with a green cloak, and he rose and wrapped it around himself. The druids gave a red cloak to Lionors, and she accepted it gratefully, hiding her nakedness from their sight. Arthur looked back at her and held out his hand. She touched his fingertips with hers, and then he was led away while the druids helped her to rise and dress.
He followed Merlin toward his tent. The camp was in disarray, with sleeping couples and empty mugs and drinking horns littering the ground. The smell of sex was everywhere. Some of the people he passed smiled upon him proudly, and he nodded to them in return.
His knights were waiting for him when he returned, and Bedivere smiled at him in welcome. “So, how was your first Beltane as king?”
He searched for the right word and settled for one. “Inspiring.”
Bedivere chuckled. “I’m sure it was.”
Ector rose from where he was sitting and went to Arthur with a bowl in his hand. “This is meat from the boar you slew,” he said. “You need to eat to recover your strength.”
“I’m fine,” Arthur assured him, “although I am hungry.” He accepted the bowl and went into his tent.
Sir Kay was sitting on the floor beside his bed, an energetic brown puppy on his lap. Arthur stopped short, and Kay looked up in surprise. He gently put the pup aside and rose. Stiffly, he said, “Arthur.”
“Good morning,” he greeted. His brother looked angry. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t imagine.” Kay nodded to the dog. “This little one is called Caden, and he’s a gift from Ceredigion.”
Arthur smiled. “I think he likes you.”
“I like him,” he admitted, “but I have always been partial to canines. I was told that I could obtain a puppy of my own today.”
“I think you should, although where we’re going, it might be dangerous for little dogs.” He sat down on the bed and yawned, holding the bowl on his lap. “Why are you angry with me?”
He could see his brother contending with himself, fighting internally over the words he wanted to say. Arthur waited. Finally, Kay blurted, “Lionors.”
“Ah.” He looked down, remembering now where he had seen her before the rite. “You said you were going to marry her.”
“And now I can’t, thanks to you.”
He frowned, confused. “Why can’t you?”
“Because you have soiled her!” They were both taken aback by the vitriol in his voice, and Kay tried to recover. “I cannot wed any woman who -”
“Don’t be stupid,” Arthur sighed. “If you were offered a widow as a wife, would she be too soiled for you, too?”
“That’s different.”
“It’s not.”
Kay clenched his fists, and the puppy went to him, leaping up against his leg, trying to distract him. Its efforts were in vain. “Are you going to marry her?”
“No. It was just ritual sex, Kay. It wasn’t a betrothal.”
His foster brother lurched forward and punched him in the mouth. The blow was unexpected and sent Arthur reeling. His bowl dumped onto ground, and the dog gobbled up the meat while the young king shook his head to clear it. Kay stood over him, his fist drawn back for another strike, his face red.
“You have no decency,” Kay spat.
Arthur touched his lip and his fingers came away tinged with blood. He rose, glaring. “Do that again, and I will end you!”
Kay pulled back his arm, and Ector burst into the tent, shouting. “Boys!” They both froze, as they did when they were children caught in the middle of a squabble. Kay dropped his fist but continued to glower at Arthur, who stared back. “What is the meaning of this foolishness? Kay, did you strike your brother?”
“I did,” he said, “and I will do it again if you let me.”
“He is your king. Striking him is treason!”
“Let him try it, if he thinks he can,” Arthur challenged, angry.
“Enough!” Ector grabbed his errant oldest and pushed him out of the tent. “Go calm yourself and think about what you’re doing. We have no time for this.”
Kay shot a last, resentful look at Arthur before he left the tent. The young king touched his split lip again while Caden followed Kay. Ector took his chin in his hand and looked at the wound.
“Not too bad, but there will be a bruise.” He released his hold. “What was that about?”
Arthur sat on the bed again. “A woman. Lionors of Ceredigion, the chosen maiden. He saw her when we first arrived and fancied her, and now he thinks I’ve ruined her for him.”
“Do you want her?”
He sighed. “She’s beautiful, and we enjoyed each other, but I think I shouldn’t even consider women or marriage or anything of the sort until these impending wars are finished. Once I’m crowned and these rebellions are put aside, then I can think about it. Not until then.”
Ector nodded in agreement. “Would you consider her then?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I don’t know.” He picked up the bowl, chuckled ruefully over its emptiness, and put it aside.
“You are right not to think about such things for now, for there are more pressing matters. Get cleaned up and dressed, then join us in Constantine’s tent. We have things to show you.”
Arthur nodded. “Of course.”
Sir Ector left the tent, and he put his green cloak aside. He looked down at his body and saw smears of paint, relics of the sigils that Lionors had worn upon her skin. He touched one of the marks and smiled at the memories of the night before, despite the stinging in his lip. He would have good thoughts to keep him warm for many nights to come.
Merlin left the camp as soon as Arthur was safely returned to his people. With a whisper of magic and a shift in direction, he took himself to Londinium and Archbishop Augustine’s private chapel. As he expected, he found the great man dozing in the front pew, his hands clasped loosely around a wooden cross that threatened to slip out of his grip completely. Merlin pulled the cross free and held it for a moment, amused by the almost painful way it tingled against his skin.
The archbishop awoke with a start, and as soon as he recognized the druid, he glared. “Demon,” he said. “Myrddin ap Satanas.”
“I’ve told you, that’s not my name.” He held the cross out to Augustine, who took it churlishly, as if he was feeling betrayed that it had not burst into flame in Merlin’s hand. “Time is short and there is no more reason to wait. He has been accepted by the people and it is time for his coronation.”
The old man rubbed his thumb against the cross, the wood shiny and stained from a hundred touches. “Are the enemy marching on Londinium?”
He saw no reason to lie. “Most likely.”
“How soon?”
“They just landed. It will take them a few days to reach the city.”
Augustine rose, his knees creaking. “With your magic, how soon can you have him and his entourage here in the cathedral?”
“In an hour.”
He blinked, then shook his head. “You amaze me. The powers of the devil must be very strong.”
“They are, but these powers are mine and mine alone.” Merlin leaned against the communion rail. “How long before you’re ready?”
“Give me a day.”
“You may not have a day.”
“Then you may not have a coronation.”
Merlin weighed the options in his mind. “What do you need to put in place?”
The archbishop sighed. “The feast needs to be cooked, and the appropriate people invited, and the trappings arranged…”
“If you invite the people, I can handle the rest.”
He frowned and chewed on his lip. “I should say no. I should have no part in whatever magic you have determined to use, for you are a sinner and a demon and destined for Hell, and I do not want my flock to follow you.”
Merlin nodded. “But?”
“But you are right that time is short. I will send the criers. Bring the boy.”
The druid straightened. “Do not call him ‘the boy,’” he said. “Have respect.”
“I will respect him after I have put the crown upon his head.” The old priest made his way back to the abbey, not waiting for the druid to take his leave. “Two hours, and this will be done.”
Merlin let his magic whisk him away. It was time.
Arthur was lacing his trousers after taking another bath when the druid returned. He looked up when he came in, and Merlin’s eyes widened when he saw the mark on the young king’s mouth.
“What happened to you?”
“I had an argument with Kay.” He shrugged. “Pay it no mind.”
“Pay it no mind? How dare he strike you!”
Arthur sighed. “He’s upset. He’ll calm down, and this will all be nothing tomorrow.”
“You can’t be crowned with a fist mark on your face.”
“It’s not that - I can’t be what?”
“Crowned. Your coronation is today, in Londinium.”
He took a deep breath. He was filled with a rush of fear and anxiety, which was followed quickly by grim determination. Ready or not, his destiny had found him. He nodded. “All right. Take me there.”
Merlin nodded. “Let’s gather your people.”
The preparations were finalized in a mad rush. The best and the brightest of Londinium society assembled in the cathedral in their finest clothes, glittering with jewels and gold. The common folk thronged outside, jostling for a view of the noblemen as they went inside. In the archbishop’s chambers, Arthur paced, clad in clothing conjured by Merlin. He was entirely dressed in white, accented with gold thread and elaborately embroidered dragons on his tunic. He rubbed at his wrist where the golden cuff rubbed against the skin, and he could feel magic tingling all around him. It was empowering and distracting at once, and he wished that the coronation was over.
Merlin had busily used his magic to ferry allies and kings to Londinium to witness the coronation, and at Arthur’s request, the servants from Caer Gai were brought, as well. They sat in the pews with Sir Ector and Sir Kay, the only family that Arthur had ever known. The rest of the pews were filled with kings and queens, dukes, lords, ladies, chieftains and warlords. Some of them were friendly to him, many were not. To his surprise, King Lot and King Uriens had arrived with their sons in tow. Neither king brought his queen.
There was one queen Arthur would very much have liked to be here, but he suspected she would not have come even if she had been personally invited. Queen Igraine, the mother he had never known, would have been a welcome guest. He wondered if he would ever get to see her face.
The archbishop and two altar boys came into the room where he paced alone. “Have you considered the mighty burden of kingship in a Christian land?” Augustine intoned.
“I have,” he said, and it was only partially a lie. “It is daunting, but with the Lord as my ally, I cannot fail.”
