“Thank you all for agreeing to join us here this evening.”
Arthur moved to the front of the royal table and addressed the largely silent room. My eyes scanned over the little pockets of inattention distracting from the stillness.
Mark and his … the only word I could find was 'handmaidens" feeding him tidbits (I wanted to say ‘titbits’ but then I realised I wasn’t a thirteen year old boy) from the table were being unnecessarily rude. And there were a few other minor chieftains and warlords who hadn't quite sensed the mood. Most, when I caught their eye, shut the fuckup. The King of Gwynedd, however, met my eyes and bit down on the grape that had just been placed in his mouth. Juice went everywhere
Not for nothing, but I absolutely rock a gold bikini. The dude needed to watch out.
"This is the first time a Witan has been called since the death of my father. I thank you all for the tributes sent in Uther's name.”
A general rumble of approval for Uther went out around the Hall. Igraine’s face momentarily crumbled, and then her flat mask came back.
"I had, however, expected that my fist Witan would acknowledge me as Pendragon."
Well, that was a mood killer
If I listened hard enough, I was sure I could make out a tumbleweed roll through the hall. "But I acknowledge that some of you have enough concerns that you would withhold your vote if it were called. "
"Ballsy," Owain murmured next to me. "However, I am not wholly sure it is wise to announce this to a massive hall of warriors. You know, that they all think you're too weak to lead them . . ."
I agreed. In fact, I'd argued long and hard against this course of action. I was more in favour of a “King Kong got nothing on me" approach, but I'd been hushed. Sometimes, being the only person with pop culture literacy is a burden.
"And that is a hesitation I acknowledge I have earned. For too many years, I have not taken the responsibility of being Uther's heir seriously.” He paused, perhaps hoping for denial from the floor.
An awkward silence greeted him.
"And yet," a hard tone entered his voice, “for all those justifiable fears about the maturity of my behaviour, I doubt anyone here would deny my successes in the field. The Saxons have been thrown back, time and time again. I have sent them running the length and breadth of my lands and have, at the same time, eased the pressure on each of you.”
“I do not deny you have been active of late, Prince Arthur.” Beric of Powys was on his feet. I went to stand to take issue at the ‘Prince’ title, but Owain stilled me with a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your king needs to stand on his own two feet here, lass. Beric is a pain in the arse, but Arthur will need his vote. He won’t win that respect hidden behind his pet wizard’s skirts. No disrespect.”
“None taken, lard arse.”
Beric was enjoying holding the floor."After all, it was not so long ago there was a Saxon warband at these very gates. I hear Isca still burns to this day. Would you had been able to arrive in time to save all those British lives, I doubt any here would hesitate to name you Pendragon right now.”
Prick.
Arthur observed him for a long moment. "That is true, your majesty. However, whereas I hear Powys buys peace from the Bretwalda with grain, livestock, and gold, I slew those on Dumnonia land and avenged Isca a hundred times over. In fact, now I think of it, I may well have looted some of your craven protection money from the corpses of their spearmen. Would you like some of it back?"
Beric coloured, even as the rest of the room started to show signs of warming up. "We fight the Saxon as much as any kingdom.”
“Come off it, Beric. Everyone here knows you haven't called your banners in the last year. “It was Jabba that added these thoughts, much to my surprise. From what Merlin had told me, he and Beric were tight. "Not that I blame you," he added. "I have often argued we need to find a way of living with these invaders. They’ve been here, what, twenty, thirty years? Maybe there is a accomodation we should be seeking, not finding yet more spears to throw at them. Who needs constant warfare?” Ah, there it is.
"They're Saxons!" Owain bellowed, standing and hitting both fists down on the table. “We don’t make ‘accomodation’ with them! We kill the fuckers!”
Beric waved his hand, dismissing the Gwent king, "My people deserve a little peace.”
Arthur raised his voice above both of them. "And here I thought the hesitation about naming a Pendragon was due to uncertainty about me! I never dreamt that a Witan would be called and there would be talk of appeasement. There will be no peace with the Saxons in my lifetime!"
I noted that, of the kings present, only Owain and Corys joined in the roar of approval that echoed around the room.
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Arthur stilled the crowd. I have to admit, I was impressed at his showmanship. This shit might just work . . . "But we are not here to acclaim a Pendragon this day. I am instead asking for those of courage and resolve to join me in the search for something which will ensure the Saxons will no longer pose a threat to our lands. We all hear that their Bretwalda is a cultivator of extraordinary power - maybe even one to equal Merlin. Having faced him in his own fortress, I can tell you that is true."
The silence was of different type now. He had them.
“However, through the combined efforts of those in this room,” all eyes flicked to Lancelot, Bors, Guinevere, and finally, to me, “we overcame that threat. However,” and now his voice was as loud as I had ever heard it, "even now, the Bretwalda is recovering his position. We have retaken land that has not been in British hands since before my father's time. But we are at a critical point. Unless we come together and devise a way to destroy this cultivator’s might, all we have achieved will be lost.”
"My spies tell me the Bretwalda is your uncle! How do we know you are not planning to throw in your lot with him?"
Oh, had I mentioned Beric was a colossal prick?
But it was Lancelot, not Arthur, who answered. "I from long from here. But if you accuse my chieftain of two-faced double-dealing again, there will be blood."
Beric sneered back. "Prince Arthur, control your barbarian".
Lancelot was up on his feet. "And now you are rude being. If you would be so kind, your arse I will be kicking."
Boom. It was on.
Beric's eyes flicked to his champion, Ɛolgef, who grinned confidently back and nodded his head. "In the civilised world, barbarian, kings do not condescend to brawl with the help. Although, I will acknowledge that considering the conduct of your master in recent years, I can understand your confusion. I will accept your apology gracefully, at which stage we can go back to listening to our host's dreary monologue, or I'm willing for my champion to bring you to heel."
The hall rowed its approval. Speeches were all well and good, but after a good meal, what you really wanted was a bit of blood-letting.
Owain leaned over to me, confusion on his jolly face. "Why's Arthur allowing this? We're all on board with the quest. He doesn't need to alienate the men of Powys like this. Or is he sacrificing this barbarian to build bridges?"
I didn't answer the King of Gwent, giving him instead my best Mona Lisa smile.
Because this was exactly as we had planned . . . no, let’s be honest, this was all about lgraine. I'm not going to lie, while all of our little leadership group had their own skills to bring to the party, the Queen Mother was the only truly devious mind amongst us. This little bit of tonight’s entertainment against the gathering storm was all her.
It wasn't enough for this Wittan to agree on the quest for Caeldfwich. The only chance we had of defeating the Saxons was for all the kingdoms to unite, and as the Big M had advised, nothing brings unity as quickly as power.
My display of
"In the interests of fairness, I should probably say my champion will only fight three", Lancelot coughed, "four on one.”
"Not worth my shirt taking off for less," Lancelot said, ripping his shit open in an entirely unnecessary but aesthetically appealing way. I think even his pecs had pecs. I sharply looked towards Guinevere, but her eyes were fixed on Arthur.
Beric laughed humorously. "Well, if you're anxious to be rid of your mad dog, the men of Powys will oblige.” He waggled his fingers towards Ɛolgef, who instantly picked three mean-looking motherfuckers to move to the centre of the room alongside him.
Tables were cleared, benches moved, and, by the time Lancelot jumped to the floor - I could swear it looked like he'd covered himself in baby oil in the hiatus - a serviceable fighting ring was set up.
The warriors from Powys arranged themselves in a wide-semi circle. Each of them was easily the same size as Lancelot and carried themselves with all the confidence of veterans. I felt a momentary pang of worry - if our dude was stomped to the floor here, that could well be it. The end of Camelot before it even began. There's no way Arthur could come back from having his champion slain in his own feasting hall.
Then I remembered seeing Lancelot wade through rank after rank of Saxons in the battle before the Dark Tower. He was going to be okay.
"This is not a fist fight, dog" Ɛolgef drew his bastard sword, and his men did likewise. "We fight to the death in the civilised world.” I wanted to make a gag about no fighting in the war room, but realised there wasn’t anyone about to enjoy some Strangelove related humour.
Lancelot cocked his head. "Understanding, I am. But I like to be fair. And he wouldn't let me try ten at once. So barehand I be.”
And, with no further ado, he attacked.
The first thing to note was that Lancelot was fast. Not 'fast for a big guy', but genuinely, scarily, ‘did I miss something?’ quick. He moved with such casual grace most of the time that it was easy to overlook his capacity for explosive momentum.
Like a tiger made human.
Ɛolgef barely began his downstroke before Lancelot's hand was on his throat, sweeping his leg away to crash Powy’s champion to the ground. It all happened so quickly that Lancelot had given him three massive, clubbing blows to the head before the other three even reacted. By the time they did, Ɛolgef was no longer of this world, and Lancelot had a weapon.
And that leads to the second important thing to know about Lancelot. You really, really, really did not want him to get his hand on a sword.
"Fucking hell, where did you find this guy!" Owain breathed as Lancelot blocked a wild swing from the first henchman and disarmed him with a flick of his wrist, pulling him close and dropping him with a headbutt.
At this stage, the remaining two put some distance between them, seeking to attack from the sides simultaneously.
This did not help.
The fight was over in a few more seconds, during which time I'm sure I saw Lancelot yawn. He’d managed to avoid killing any of them - we'd thought slaughtering Beric's bannerman might be making the point too forcefully - but he was barely out of breath. And they were fucked.
Arthur cleared his throat. "Well, that was instructive, I think? After that little diversion, shall we return to my . . . what did you call it, dreary monologue?"
The room was wholly with him now. Men moved to remove Beric's fallen champions and, cautiously, clapped Lancelot on the back.
All eyes were locked on Arthur as he spoke. All, that is, apart from, those of Guinevere, whose were resting on the glistering muscles below her. I could be wrong, but there was some colour to her cheeks
Shit.