Orion and King Arthur Read online

  Now, as we assembled in the castle’s great hall to have audience with the High King, I saw that Ambrosius Aurelianus—as he styled himself—was getting old. His lifelong struggles against the Saxons and his own Celtic neighbors had taken their toll. He had once been tall and stately, I could see, but the weight of responsibility had bent him and stooped his once-broad shoulders even though he tried to appear dignified in his royal fur-trimmed robes. His hair and beard were gray, nearly white, and thinning noticeably; his face had the pallor of approaching death already upon it.

  In contrast, Arthur was strong and straight and vital, practically glowing with youth and bursting with confidence and enthusiasm about the future.

  We had all washed off the dust of our journey from Amesbury before this audience with the High King. Sir Bors had teased me, as usual, in his rough way: “Pity the wash bowl isn’t big enough for you to sit in, Orion,” he had said, with mock seriousness. “We all know how you like to bathe yourself, like a fish.”

  The other knights had laughed uproariously. My cleanliness was a subject of much humor among them.

  But we were all scrubbed, beards and hair trimmed neatly, and wearing our best tunics for Ambrosius. Even young Lancelot, his battle-earned knighthood scarcely a month old, had dressed in his finest Breton linen for this exalted moment.

  The audience was largely ceremonial, however. Ambrosius received us in the great hall, with half the castle’s inhabitants thronging the room. The women wore long gowns of rich fabrics, decked with gems and pearls. None of the men wore mail, although they each carried their favorite sword at the hip, many of the scabbards more heavily jeweled than the women.

  “A pretty bunch of dandies,” Sir Bors growled under his breath. “They’d be useless in a fight.”

  The hall itself was almost as large as Priam’s court in old Troy. Long embroidered tapestries covered most of the rough stone walls, some of them not yet finished, their pictures of battles and hunts incomplete, lacking. Late afternoon sunlight streamed into the hall through the windows set high in the walls. It would take hundreds of candles to light this chamber at night, I thought.

  The High King walked slowly, stiffly, through the bowing crowd. A woman walked beside him, dressed all in black and so heavily veiled that we could not see her face. She seemed youthfully slim beneath her floor-length skirts. She kept her gloved hands at her sides, she did not take Ambrosius’ arm or touch him in any way. Indeed, he seemed to keep apart from her quite deliberately.

  Ambrosius sat wearily upon his hard throne of carved dark wood. The mysterious woman remained standing off to one side. The High King welcomed his nephew and thanked Arthur in a thin, parched voice for driving the barbarians from Amesbury fort. Arthur knelt and kissed the High King’s hand, then got to his feet.

  “My lord,” he said, in a clear tenor voice that carried across the room, “we can drive the Saxons completely out of Britain, if you will allow it.”

  I was well away from the throne, standing behind Bors and Gawain and the other knights, among the squires, but I could see Ambrosius’ eyes shift momentarily toward the veiled woman.

  “We will speak of this another time,” Ambrosius said. “This day is to be given to feasting and celebration, and to prayers of thanks for your great victory.”

  Arthur wanted to insist. “But my lord—”

  Ambrosius silenced him by lifting a hand.

  “In addition,” the High King said, “it is my wish to introduce you to another visitor to this court.”

  He turned toward the woman in black. She stepped forward, still veiled so heavily her face was impossible to see.

  “This is the princess Morganna,” said Ambrosius, “of the kingdom of Bernicia, far to the north.”

  Morganna reached up with both her gloved hands, lifted the veil from her face, and let it drop back over her shoulders. A sigh swept through the great hall. She was the most fabulously beautiful woman any of them had ever seen: hair as dark as a stormy midnight, eyes that glowed like sapphires, skin as white as alabaster.

  I had seen her before. I knew who she was. Among the Creators she called herself Aphrodite.

  4

  For the next two days—and nights—Arthur spent every moment with Morganna. He was infatuated with her, besotted as only a young man can be.

  “She’s enchanted him, all right,” said Sir Bors, chuckling.

  I had sought Bors out, worried that Arthur was being cleverly turned away from speaking to the High King about his plan to drive the Saxons and all the other barbarians out of Britain for good. Bors had made himself at home in one of the castle’s many private chambers, a room so near the stables that I could smell the horses. But to Bors it was almost sinfully luxurious, with a feather bed and serving wenches at his beck and call.

  “And why not?” he added. “The lad’s done well enough. Why shouldn’t the High King give him a princess to wed? It makes political sense, Orion, tying Bernicia to Ambrosius’ domains here in the south.”

  “But Arthur’s plan…”

  Bors grunted. “It’ll keep. Winter’s coming; there’ll be no campaigning for months to come.”

  “The Saxons will use those months to fortify their bases,” I said.

  “Can’t be helped. No man can outfight the weather.” Bors hefted a flagon. “Relax, Orion. Enjoy the fruits of victory. Have some wine. Find yourself a wench or two.”

  It was tempting. Too tempting. Ambrosius was blunting Arthur’s purpose with the luxuries of his castle. Wine, women, and winter were going to delay Arthur’s plan, perhaps fatally. Or was this Aten’s doing?

  “Thank you, my lord,” I replied to Bors. “Perhaps later.”

  He laughed and poured himself a mug. I bowed and took my leave of him.

  “Find yourself a wench or two,” Bors repeated as I stepped through the heavy oaken door of his chamber. I could hear his thick laughter even after I closed the door.

  I thought of Anya, the goddess I loved. How could any mortal woman compare to her? Yet … the temptation was there.

  5

  That night, as I lay in the dark, narrow barracks on my straw pallet among the snores and stinks of the other squires, I tried to make contact with Anya. I needed her help, her guidance, her warmth and love. Squeezing my eyes shut, clenching my fists with the effort of it, I strained every atom of my being to translate myself into the realm of the Creators.

  And found myself, instead, in the middle of the dark night out on a windy plain. I had not traveled all that far. Looming all around me were the giant megaliths of the stone circle of Salisbury.

  I immediately recognized the place; in another lifetime I had helped the Stone Age tribes of this region to build this site. They were just beginning to turn from hunting to agriculture, and my goal had been to help them predict the seasons so they would know when to plant their crops. Ever since, though, Stonehenge was revered with awe as a religious site. The Druids had conducted human sacrifices here until the Romans stamped out the practice. I wondered if they had returned to their bloody ways, now that the Romans were gone.

  Black clouds were boiling across the sky, blotting out the moon and stars. Forks of lightning flickered in the distance. A storm was coming, driven by the wind that scattered the dry leaves and set the trees to moaning. In the blue-white glare of a lightning strike I saw that two people were approaching the center of the ring, where I stood beside the sacrificial altar. A man and a woman. I could not make out their faces but I knew who they were.

  “Orion, is that you?” Arthur’s voice.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  I could see now that the woman walking beside him was Morganna—Aphrodite, as I knew her.

  He lifted both his arms and swung around, pointing at the immense stones rising all about us.

  “Don’t tell me that this was built by mortals,” he said, his voice a mixture of awe and delight.

  I said nothing. In centuries to come, I knew, men would claim that extraterrestri
al visitors built Stonehenge. How little they believed in themselves!

  “How did you get here?” Arthur asked.

  “The same way you did,” I replied, looking at Aphrodite.

  Suddenly he seemed embarrassed, as sheepish as a lad caught in a misdeed.

  “Morganna brings us here every night,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper against the gusting cold wind. “By magic.”

  Another lightning bolt cracked the black sky, etching her incredible face in cold white brilliance for a flash of a moment. I could see she was not pleased.

  Even in fury she was matchlessly beautiful. Her eyes, which had been as richly blue as sapphires when I’d seen her at Ambrosius’ court, were emerald green now. Instead of the heavy stiff gown she’d worn then she was clad now in a long white hooded robe that left her lovely arms bare. The hood was down, and her hair cascaded past her soft shoulders like a stream of flowing ebony.

  “How dare you?” she spat.

  I glanced at Arthur. He was standing absolutely still, frozen in time, as if he’d been turned into a statue. She had put him in stasis, I realized, so she could deal with me.

  “You mean to murder him, don’t you?” I accused.

  “He will experience pleasure enough before he dies,” Aphrodite said, gesturing to the dark stone altar. I saw that a groove had been chiselled into it, to carry away the blood of the sacrificial victims.

  “I’m here to protect him,” I said.

  “Aten told me you’ve become troublesome,” she said carelessly. “So be it. The Druids will have two victims this night.”

  I was unarmed, except for the dagger strapped to my thigh. I tried to reach for it, but found that I was frozen, too, unable to move a muscle.

  Thunder rolled across the dark sky. Aphrodite laughed. “You would defy Aten, Orion? How foolish of you. Tonight you die the final death. There will be no revival for you.”

  I strained with every speck of energy I possessed, but could do nothing. I was imprisoned totally.

  Smiling like a cobra, Aphrodite stepped to me and twined her bare arms around my neck. “I could make you very happy, Orion, if only you wouldn’t resist me. Forget your Anya and love me, Orion, and you can live in rapture forever.”

  Only one word could force its way past my lips. “No.”

  Her smile turned cold. Beyond her, off in the hilly distance, I could make out a procession of torches heading toward us, their flames guttering in the blustery wind. The Druids, come for their sacrificial rite.

  “You choose Anya over me?” Aphrodite hissed. “Then after you watch Arthur die, you yourself will be killed. Slowly. Very slowly.”

  She turned away from me. Arthur stirred to life.

  “Where is Orion?” he asked, puzzled, looking right at me but not seeing me at all.

  “Gone,” Aphrodite said, with a shrug of her lovely shoulders. “Forget about him. Come with me, my love, now that we’re alone.”

  She took his hand and led him toward the altar. I stood there, invisible to Arthur, unable to move, hardly able to breathe. I felt an icy chill creeping over my body, as if I were being submerged in a glacier. I recalled one of my deaths, deep in space, slowly freezing until my heart stopped beating.

  And the torchlit procession of the Druids marched steadily closer.

  Lightning flashed again and thunder boomed. Rain began to pelt down, but it didn’t strike Arthur and Aphrodite; she was shielding them somehow.

  A titanic crack of lightning struck the ground almost at my feet, blinding me for several moments. When I could see again, Anya stood at my side, dressed as she had been when she’d given Arthur his sword, Excalibur, in a flowing silver robe garlanded with flowers.

  Arthur’s eyes went wide. “Look, Morganna!” he cried. “It’s the Lady of the Lake.”

  Aphrodite/Morganna whirled to face Anya, surprise and rage on her exquisite face. Two goddesses, each divinely beautiful but in very different ways. Aphrodite was all flame and passion, the embodiment of sexual allure. Anya, who had been worshipped as Athena in another age, was cool and calm, certain of her strength.

  “It’s time for you to leave,” Anya said.

  “Never!” spat Aphrodite. “He’s mine! You can’t have him.”

  “Arthur is under my protection. You cannot harm him.”

  “You think not?” Suddenly there was a slim dagger in Aphrodite’s hand. “One scratch with this and the poison will turn his blood to molten fire. He’ll die in agony.”

  Anya did not move. Arthur stood goggle-eyed, too close to Aphrodite and that poison-laden dagger to try to move away.

  “You can’t defy Aten’s desires,” Aphrodite said, smirking. “Not even you can get away with that.”

  “Can’t I?” Anya replied.

  Another lightning bolt crackled out of the black clouds and struck the dagger in Aphrodite’s hand. She howled like the tormented souls in hell as for a flash of an instant she was outlined in ghastly blue light. Then she was gone. Vanished completely, except for the whimpering echo of her scream.

  I felt warmth returning to my body. I could feel the rain pelting down on me, I could move my arms and legs again. Arthur stirred, too. He dropped to his knees before Anya.

  “My lady,” he said, in heartfelt gratitude, “you have saved my life.”

  “The witch has gone back to her own realm,” Anya told him. “She is not dead. You will see her again. Be on your guard.”

  “I will, my lady,” he said. “I will.”

  Turning toward me, Anya said, “Orion, escort your lord back to Cadbury castle.”

  With all my being I wanted to remain with her. But I bowed my head submissively. “Yes, my lady.”

  And in the blink of an eye I was back on my pallet in the squires’ barracks. For a moment I thought it had all been a dream, but then I realized that I was dripping wet from the rainstorm that had struck Salisbury plain. Through the window set up near the barracks roof I could see a serene moon riding across pale, thin clouds. It had not rained at all here at Cadbury.

  6

  At first light I sought out Arthur. He was already risen and in the exercise yard, working out with a practice sword against a dummy target mounted on a swivel so that it pivoted when it was struck. Its two broomstick arms could swing around and strike a nasty blow to a man who was not quick enough to parry or at least duck.

  I could see Latin graffiti carved into the dummy’s wooden torso by long-departed Roman legionaries. Arthur was thumping and banging the poor thing as if it were all his frustrations gathered into one passive body.

  He saw me approaching him and stepped away from the dummy, sweating and breathing hard. No one else was yet in the yard; morning sunlight had barely touched the upper turrets of the castle’s towers.

  “She’s gone,” Arthur said, his voice bewildered and sorrowful.

  “She is a witch, my lord,” I told him. “You are well rid of her.”

  He shook his head. “She certainly had me in her power. If it weren’t for the Lady of the Lake I would be dead by now.”

  “Yes, truly.”

  “Why, Orion?” he asked, his voice suddenly pleading. “Why did she want to kill me?”

  I didn’t hesitate an instant. “To keep you from your rightful destiny, my lord. To prevent you from driving the Saxons out of Britain.”

  Arthur’s brow furrowed. “Then was she serving my uncle? Is it he who wants to stop me?”

  “I don’t believe that,” I answered. “The High King did not know Morganna’s true nature, I’m sure. Ambrosius wanted a strategic marriage between his house and the kingdom of Bernicia, nothing more.”

  “I wish I could be certain of that.”

  He was deeply troubled, I could see. “There is a way to make certain of it,” I said.

  “How?”

  “Obtain the High King’s approval of your plan.”

  “How?” he asked again. I had no ready answer.

  Other knights and squires we
re coming into the exercise yard now and began working out. Soon the yard was clanging with swords and shields under the watchful, impatient eye of Sir Bors. Young Lancelot, as usual, was a blur of zeal and frenzied action, knocking down one opponent after another. Even Gawain had a hard time against him.

  Arthur and I practiced against one another for a while. I did my best to refrain from hitting him, and allowed him to whack me now and then.

  Once we paused for a drink from the rain barrel, panting and sweaty, Sir Bors approached us.

  “My lord,” said the gruff old knight, “it’s good to see you out in the sunlight once more.”

  Arthur nodded without enthusiasm. “Morganna is gone,” he said simply. “She won’t be back.”

  “Headed back to her northern realm, I expect,” said Bors.

  “I suppose so.”

  Gawain came up and banged Arthur on the back. “Good riddance to her!” he said, with a happy grin. “There are plenty of other women in this world.”

  “Not like her,” said Arthur.

  “That’s what makes it all so wonderful,” Gawain countered. “No two of them are alike!”

  Bors broke into a hearty laugh and Gawain guffawed loudly. Even Arthur managed a slight smile.

  He’s going to be all right, I thought. He’s going to be his old self again.

  “My lord,” I dared to interject. “We have much work to do.”

  Arthur shook his head, as if to clear away cobwebs. “Yes,” he said, “I must seek an audience with Ambrosius immediately.”

  Yet the High King evaded Arthur’s request for days on end, offering one excuse after another. Arthur began to worry that Ambrosius truly feared for his crown and had intended for Morganna to murder him. I stayed as close to Arthur as I could, fearing that Aten—or perhaps Ambrosius, after all—would send another assassin after him.

  Autumn was drawing to its close. The air turned sharply colder, with a hint of snow in the gray clouds that covered the sky. Ambrosius ordered the last hunt of the season, and all the knights and squires rode out of the castle to run down the deer and other game that would provide meat through the coming winter.