Arthur The Bastard

ARTHUR THE BASTARD

The rhythmic slinking of chainmail announced the arrival of WARD-PRINCE ARTHUR PENDRAGON as his horse cantered into the malodorous village of Trimoria before sun broke the morning clouds. The Black Sheep of Camelot, he knew they called him in hushed voices as the procession arrived into the icy hamlet. He set his face to match the reputation. During the fortnight’s travel north from Camelot to this frozen hellhole, he grew his beard to a scruffy length. The night prior he refused to sleep more than three hours to accentuate his sunken eyes. A scowl was now added to his haggard mien as the underlings stared daggers at him and the two knights, Bors The Younger and Sir Percival.

“Have some respect for your Prince, ye swain lot!” Bors growled from his tall gelding behind Arthur.

“Calm now, Bors.” Arthur looked down at the onlookers. “Let them do their talking.” He raised his head forth towards the tower on the hill, where lived the alderman of Trimoria. Your prince, Bors had shouted. Arthur scoffed as he saw their faces from his peripheral vision. “He’s no prince,” they would be saying, “he’s Uther’s bastard.”

Arthur approached the dilapidating stone tower, protected a measly gaunt crew of guardsmen who cowered at the trio of real armoured knights. The pungent farmland odour subsided once they were inside – but not completely. A young woman escorted them to the top of the tower through a narrow staircase; the journey up the stairs to felt more tiring for Arthur’s weary bones than the entire journey north.

Once they reached the top they were led to a small room, but likely the biggest in all of Trimoria, in which the ageing alderman sat. He had to be the only fat man this far north, and his dangling beard rivalled even that of Uther himself. He stood as the knights entered into his chamber. Arthur heard Bors curse under his breath when the alderman did not kneel. Instead the man approached with a hobble. “You must be Arthur,” the alderman coughed. “I am called Waldren.”

Arthur heard Bors inhale sharply.

“He is the Ward-Prince Arthur Pendragon, good sir.” Sir Percival interjected politely before Bors could threaten the man.

“Hmm,” Waldren said. “Quite right. Although... I have never had cause to address one as noble as yourself, Ward-Prince, forgive me any offence I might have given.”

“Sit down.” Arthur commanded and Waldren did so. “The journey has been gruelling, and in the dead of winter no less. I would have my men fed and watered, and I would like to be told for why I was sent.”

“Of course, of course,” he stuttered and turned towards the woman who had led them up the tower. “Isabella, please will you take the knights to their chambers and have the meals prepared for. Oh, and inform young Wyllt of the Ward-Prince’s arrival.”

Odd name, Arthur thought. Strange place it was, up north, the mountain air made folk loopy. He longed to be back in the verdant fields surrounding Camelot.

Waldren slapped his hands together once the room was emptied of both knights and serving staff. “First things first, I would like to humbly thank you for your long journey–”

“I would rather be thanked for the journey home, with respect alderman.” Arthur interrupted. “I have travelled to this hovel with nary an excitable bone in my body. I would like to know why I was summoned here from Camelot so that I might return there as quickly as possible.”

The alderman stopped for a moment, stumbled over his words, and continued. “The mountains are not for some, this is true. I suppose getting straight to the point won’t kill me.”

Seems it might, Arthur thought.

“Some time ago a family in the town were complaining of a pest in their home. The village-folk weren’t so fond of this family, so naturally the pest was not dealt with. Then the... the screams came. From their young boy – in the dead of night – every night. The pest had grown into a manlike thing and began tormenting their lad. We had our clergyman exorcise the boy, the family, and the house.”

“And?”

“Nothing, and the priest refuses to go back.” the alderman sighed. “We did the only thing we could do. We moved them into a cottage out of town and let them solve this issue themselves; the boy must have been cursed for a reason. This solution seemed to be working well enough until...” Waldren trailed off.

“If you please Waldren, I don’t have time for your dramatic pontificating.”

The alderman flashed a disdainful look at Arthur, one he knew well enough to no longer care when he received them. “Well, now something has been interfering with our trade caravans nearby where they live. It matches the descriptions given by the family of this pest, and has killed no less than two merchants.”

“Ha!” Arthur bellowed. “So you thought you’d dealt with the problem, only for it to bite you in the arse, so you begged Uther himself for aid.”

Waldren’s cheeks filled with crimson as he lowered his head. At that moment the doors to the stairwell opened up and two people entered. Isabella held the door open for a young man, barely more than a boy, garbed in a tattered linen shirt and dark hose and a crucifix necklace. He entered the room with a timid gait, head held down.

“Sir Arthur, this is Wyllt, apprentice to our priest. He knows more about this creature.” Waldren declaimed.

Wyllt knelt down. “Ward-Prince Arthur Pendragon, I am honoured to be in your presence it is–”

“Stand up lad, I don’t receive this much respect in Camelot itself and I’m about as far away from there as I ever want to be.” Arthur held his hand out to raise the boy from his deep kneel. He took his hand. “Why are you here?”

“Apprentice Wyllt studies creature-lore, Sir Arthur. He –”

Arthur held his hand up, Waldren silenced. “I addressed the boy, alderman.”

Wyllt cleared his throat and met Arthur’s eyes tentatively. “I study creature-lore... Sir Arthur, I believe I know what this creature is and how we might have an idea of defeating it.”

“And why has the priest not done this?”

“It will involve non-Christian ritual and violence, sir. Men of the cloth are forbidden from any sacrament that might honour a different god.”

Ritual and violence, Arthur thought with a grin. “Travel with us tomorrow when we meet this haunted family; bring us anything we might need.” Wyllt nodded and left the hall. Arthur turned to Waldren. “Now, we must discuss payment for this... inconvenience.”

“Payment, Sir Arthur?” Waldren asked. “We have never missed our tax collections.”

“The king sent me to deal with this, alderman. Which means you must have greatly exaggerated the need for help; this could have been done by any simple man. For the inconvenience your taxes will be doubled, for two years.”

“Doubled? But Ward-Prince Arthur,” Waldren’s face flushed. “We can barely make the taxes as it is, what with the trade caravans being scared off. By God’s Bones, I knew I should have read that letter before it was sent.”

“When this problem is dealt with, the traders will have no fear returning here, regardless of whether they want to or not.” Arthur turned to leave, but stopped. “Who did write the letter to Camelot?”

“Young Wyllt, sir.”

Arthur grumbled, paused for a moment, and left the room to find his men.

The food given to them by the alderman was not half bad at all. They were given roasted hare on a plate of boiled carrot and turnip. Very little seasoning of course; the Silk Road did not stretch this far north of Hell, yet it was tasty all the same. The beds however were little more than straw covered in the same cheap linen as Wyllt’s shirt. Percival lived up to his growing reputation as a philanderer, judging from the sounds Isabella was making from his chambers, and judging by the fist stomping in the common room, Bors was living up to his reputation as a failed gambler.

Despite Arthur’s sleep being uncomfortable, it had the mercy of being long. He awoken well after first light and took his time before equipping his padded shirt, chainmail hauberk and finally the surcoat emblazoned with the Pendragon sigil. Breakfast was bread and soup, good for keeping up energy when carrying armour on your back all day.

As they were prepping their horses, Wyllt arrived wearing a hooded robe and carrying a clinking knapsack. Arthur noted the lack of crucifix around the lad’s neck.

“What’s in the bag?” He asked.

Wyllt lowered his head in a tentative bow. “Just some things I thought we might need sir, salt and iron and such.”

Arthur narrowed his eyebrows. Rituals and violence, indeed. “And your cross?”

“I thought best not to wear it, sir. God would not appreciate what I might do today if I wore his symbol doing so.”

Arthur snickered at the boy and patted him on the shoulder. He liked the lad, he shouldn’t by all means, he was a scrawny bootlicking priestling, but there was a charm about him. “Put your head up, you’ll lose it if you keep looking down like that. Let’s get going.” He grimaced at Wyllt to let the man know he was teasing. A funny name indeed.

~

“It means wild, it’s a Welsh name.” Wyllt told Arthur as they trotted for their third hour down a winding river road and into boggy marshland.

“You’re Welsh?”

“My mother was, she died shortly after moving to Trimoria. Father Blaise raised me from then.” Wyllt did not seem sombre in his telling. The lack of self-pity only added to Arthur’s growing respect.

Bors came alongside the pair, “what about your dad?” he grunted.

“Never met him,” Wyllt said.

“Might be Percival – God knows the poor sod that comes out of that serving girl won’t ever meet him!” Bors guffawed.

“Shut it!” Percival replied from behind.

Arthur snorted to himself once he saw Wyllt laugh alongside the knights. It was rare to meet a peasant who could take a joke; although something about the Wyllt’s manner proclaimed something more than peasantry.

“We have arrived, Sir Arthur.” Wyllt announced, pointing ahead.

Camouflaged by hanging cypress trees was a shoddily built wooden cabin. Arthur could just make out a pair of eyes glancing at him through a glassless window. The quartet powered their way through the foot deep swampland towards the slowly sinking shack.

Arthur knocked on the door once. Twice. Thrice.

Nothing.

“I saw you in there, open the door or have it be opened!”

“If you would allow me?” Wyllt said politely. Arthur nodded and stepped aside. Wyllt began speaking in an odd tongue, unfamiliar to Arthur.

He’s performing a ritual! Arthur thought, and stepped further back. The door opened almost immediately and a family of three looked at the four invaders to their home.

“Did you hypnotise them?” Arthur asked.

Wyllt looked at him wryly. “Um, no. They’re Franks. They don’t speak Brittonic.”

Arthur felt like a fool. He planted his forehead in his palm to stop the others from seeing his face flush.

Franks. Made sense. A flood of refugees came through after the Siege of Chartres and they were not seen to kindly. No doubt the folk in Trimoria thought the foreigners brought a curse and sent them out at the first opportunity. Uneducated fools, Arthur scoffed.

“Will you translate for me?” Arthur asked Wyllt. The boy agreed.

The family –a man, woman and boy– huddled together in a corner of their house as Arthur spoke to them.

“We are here to get rid of the... Bogun,” –he looked to Wyllt to see if that was correct, the lad had told him the creature’s name on the ride. Wyllt nodded minutely– “the Bogun that has been haunting you...”

He went on to tell the family their plans. They reluctantly agreed, after Bors threatened to kill them all as an alternative, but they agreed nevertheless.

And so they prepared. Wyllt gave Arthur and the knights a rag soaked in holy water to clean their swords and protect against anything unholy. As they saw to their blades, Wyllt placed a line of salt in front of the cabin and hung a horseshoe over the door, this would protect them – so he said.

They waited for nightfall, which came early this dead into the winter. Once darkness shrouded the sky the boy began shaking uncontrollably. Then he screamed like a cosmic force of nature scolding its mortal playthings.

“It’s here.” Wyllt said, pointing at the door.

Arthur arose. He made for the front door and thrust it open.

A stumpy black mass in the vague shape of something that could have once been mistaken as human greeted him on the other side. It seemed confused for a moment before anger came. It ran for the door, oily droplets falling from its body as it moved, only to be bounced backwards when it hit the line of salt.

Wyllt stood up. “You must cross the threshold to kill it, Sir Arthur. Else it will vanish and return tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Arthur moaned. The knights stood up then, unsheathing their swords. “No! Protect the family, I will deal with this.”

The knights accepted his order, hesitantly.

Arthur looked at the greasy beast meeting his eyes. Taking a deep breath, reminded himself of the holy mantra and moved his foot across the threshold.

“Through flows me does the Holy Blood of the Divine-King Uther Pendragon, hallowed be my steps and for this you shall halt in thy conquest.” Arthur recited the chant, remembered from his growing years. The Bogun charged at him, ignoring his chant as a fox ignores the cries of a mouse. “Never bloody worked anyway,” he swung the great-sword Caliburn.

Iron blade met oily skin and the Bogun merely cringed. It was hurt but not at all as much as it should be. The creature lunged at him, placing its slimy hand across his face before lowering to a grip on the throat. He could feel his windpipe constricting as his breathing failed.

“The holy water did not work!” Wyllt cried in a panic.

Clearly not! Arthur thought before thrusting all his strength upwards and overturning the Bogun. It slunk down and bit at his heels with razor sharp teeth. Arthur pulled his foot back, wincing in agony. “Any other ideas?” He yelled aloud, raising Caliburn defensively.

“The boy,” Wyllt faltered. “He might follow the boy into water; from there you can drown the beast.”

“Bring me the boy!” Arthur commanded. He did not look back but heard the screaming protests of the Franks as the knights tore the lad from his parents’ arms.

Percival pushed the boy over the line of salt and suddenly Arthur was invisible to the Bogun. It made a beeline right for the boy, who fell to the floor and cried in anguish. Arthur tackled it and stopped its line. He thrust it to the ground and impaled its chest with Caliburn. It was still unhurt, just constricted but clearly not for long.

Arthur grabbed the boy by one arm and lifted. He weighed next to nothing and Arthur barely felt the hits against his own body as the boy fought against him. He ignored the pleas of the Franks as he strode to the deep swamp. The boy looked at Arthur with one fearful glance before he was thrown into the swamp.

The Bogun broke free from Caliburn’s clasp and crashed into the swamp with a great arcing dive.

Arthur sighed in relief. “That’s done then.” He desperately needed a mug of wine.

“If the Bogun does not drown it could become something far worse, Arthur!” Wyllt shouted.

Arthur sighed. Of course it would. He stopped in his tracks, turned back and –regretting ever coming to this shithole – dived into the dirty swamp.

He made out two small shapes in the muddy water. One thin, the other dumpy. The boy struggled against the Bogun’s grasp, but Arthur pulled the two apart. The Bogun was weak under water, like a shark trying to bite on land. All he had to do was hold his breath long enough for...

The Bogun sank.

Arthur thrust himself topside, launching the Frank boy up with him. The boy was pale with shock but breathing still. Everyone in the cabin scurried out. The parents went straight to their son, the knights and Wyllt to Arthur.

“Are you okay, Sir?” Percival begged

“My Lord!” Bors cried.

Arthur thrust them both away with a wave of his hand and stood up. The family stood there hugging their child and chattering in their direction. “They are thanking you.” Wyllt said.

“They won’t be when their taxes are paying for my summer wine,” Arthur growled. “Let’s get out of this pit.”

They returned to their horses, all left to do now was report back to Waldren and begin the arduous journey back to Camelot. He glanced at Wyllt. Smart lad.

“How is life as a priest’s apprentice?” Arthur asked.

“Dismal,” Wyllt laughed.

“Come with us.”

It was not a question, and the expressions on the knights’ face proclaimed they were okay with the decision. Even Wyllt himself did not seem too shocked. “I would be honoured,” he grinned.

“On one condition, we think of a new bloody name for you.” Arthur bellowed to the knights bemusement.

“You could always use my first name,” the boy said, repacking his knapsack.

“And what’s that?” Arthur asked.

“Merlin,” he said looking up.

Arthur grinned at the young man. “Another stupid name,” he said as they mounted their horses and began their long return.