Wild Hunts and More Mermaids Coming Soon!

My series Myths Endure in Maine and Myths Endure on Mars will soon gain two new books:

• Hermes and the Hunt for Enkidu
• Merman in Hiding: A Rhys & Lider Detective Novel

Hermes and the Hunt for Enkidu: Hermes' book is based on a story I wrote over twenty years ago. In my world-controlled-by-gods, gods can tweak natural law. In a bid to keep their positions as "top gods," Zeus and Hera attempt to out-maneuver the gods of agriculture by taking back control over the rules of death. However, they can only control death if it is a punishment rather than a cycle of death and rebirth. And they can only control death as a punishment if they have the means. 

They consequently task Hermes with finding the hounds for the Wild Hunt. His quest takes him to a possible Enkidu, a wild man who befriended a king. An opportunist with no particular moral code--he thinks--Hermes is forced to re-evalute his role when he finally tracks down Enkidu, a wild boy. 

A Merman in Hiding: My detectives in the Myths Endure on Mars series are currently on Earth. They are requested by a family of Siphons or merpeople to locate a young man, Brae, who disappeared when his engagement was broken. Initially convinced that another Siphon family temporarily kidnapped Brae to end a breach of promise suit, Rhys and Lider come to realize that Brae is collateral damage in someone else's political agenda. 

The story is a part-retelling of Hans Christian Andersen's "The Little Mermaid."

Myths Endure in Maine

The Myths Endure in Maine series currently totals 4 books:

His in Herland or Astyanax in Hiding: A Retelling of Gilman's Herland

Navigating an uncharted tunnel, three male explorers find they are invaders in a country of only women--supposedly. Narrator Terry Nicholson begins to doubt the country's self-reported history when he encounters a male inhabitant with connections to ancient Troy.

A tribute and critique of Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, His in Herland or Astyanax in Hiding gives a voice to the original villain as well as a male in disguise. 

His in Herland is connected to ongoing posts on the problems with utopias.

Kouros Underground

After dozens of foster homes, Cord knows how to protect himself and make his own way. Yet he agrees to a dubious if alluring offer from the god Hermes and follows him into an adjoining world. In that world, Cord too becomes a god, the god of springtime.

In his new home, Cord finds he is the linchpin of an ongoing conflict: those who are pressuring Hades to change the rules of death and those who support Hades's adherence to natural law.

Cord prefers to be left alone to carry out his duties--except he inconveniently gets attached to his job and to Hades. To keep both, he must challenge the world's system, especially the other gods.

Kouros Underground is the first Myths Endure in Maine book. Each book is a separate story within the same universe. Cord or Kouros does appear in most books.

Catherine Morland & The Matchmaker: A Retelling of Austen's Northanger Abbey

 

Suppose Catherine Morland lived in a world run by Greek gods. And met descendants of Oedipus Rex. Would her life still be prosaic and ordinary?

 

Yes. 

 

Catherine Morland & The Matchmaker retells Austen's gently satiric novel Northanger Abbey in a steampunk fantasy world. A god of love learns to be a matchmaker. Eleusinian deities make cryptic prophecies. A trickster god claims omniscience through stolen technology. Lots of other gods plan festivals. In the meantime, Catherine Morland navigates the banal, boring, weird, confusing, unexpected and sometimes delightful world of dating.

Cupid in Captivity

Kidnapped by a fellow student, Billy Stowe carries out an unofficial investigation to identify his abductor, Jonas West. His primary purpose? To protect Jonas and keep him from confessing.

Nearly a decade later, Billy resolves problems for the wealthy elite while Jonas enjoys celebrity status as a renowned nature photographer. Yet repercussions of the earlier deed persist, demanding retribution or reenactment. Billy and Jonas must out-maneuver social media-influenced peers and legal authorities as they strive to escape the worst repercussions of Jonas's deed and adapt to the best.

Based on classic myth, the story of Billy and Jonas captures the unanticipated and unique links that arise and survive between human beings, links that last years and transcend labels. Can the captor and captive fall in love? Why shouldn't they? Who gets to decide?

 

The resolution may surprise even these two soulmates.

Although all books in the Myths Endure in Maine series share a world--and various characters make regular appearances--each may be read separately.

The Myths Endure on Mars series can be reached here.

Greek Mythology Novel: Chapter 1

I started this novel over ten years ago. The initial version focused on Artemis and Hermes whom I kept in this version with more or less their prior relationship and personalities. I also kept the world's underlying theology. 

I made a major change to the setting at the suggestion of my editor, Eugene: the novel still takes place in an alternate, though connected, world, but the landscape is recognizable. I've lived in Portland, Maine for over 20 years. It is very useful! 

This novel continues the trilogy that begins with Cupid in Captivity and continues with Ithax's Offspring on Mars. The novels are related thematically, not by characters (although one character from the prior books does show up in this novel by another name). Cord or Kouros's book is far more complex since it involves "rules." Fantasy and sci-fi writers, always remember: you must have some clue how your world works, no matter how exasperating those workings are to keep in order!  

Below is the first version of Chapter 1.

* * *

Cord thought for a moment that the man lingering outside the group home was waiting to proposition him. Foster kids got propositioned—and approached about drugs—and conned into petty crime. It was part of the profile. They were desperate for love, for affection, for attention.

Something about Cord’s face and stance kept manipulators at a distance. He wasn’t large, being 5’10” at age seventeen with a wiry build and what a foster sister once told him admiringly was “Aidan Turner” hair. They had sort of dated since she would come into his room some nights and snuggle. She would talk about how they would be together “forever.” That lasted until she got pregnant by another foster brother and the slack-ass foster parents threw them all out.

The point was, Cord was cute enough or whatever. More importantly, he had attitude--though so did every foster kid he knew, a kind of world-weary exhaustion that identified idiots at a distance.

The weary-world foster kids were still vulnerable. Cord knew kids who sneered at parental figures and group home leaders and high school teachers and television politicians and rich kids and activists and religious do-gooders—and still went off and stupidly got conned into letting someone else use their stuff, eat their food, and “borrow” their money.

That desperate-for-affection thing was a real bitch.

Cord didn’t make those kinds of mistakes. He wasn’t going to get a girl pregnant, but he didn’t lead any of them on either. Or any guy. Or anyone. About anything. He never encouraged the foster sister. He could admit, having someone to talk to at night was nice.

Maybe the constant wariness was beginning of wear a bit. Maybe he was thinking that virginity was one of those things he just needed to dispose of, like the thought of going to college (because Cord was not getting himself into that kind of debt; he didn’t want to owe anyone).

The lingering guy was good-looking, lean, a little taller than Cord with similarly dark hair, only more close-cropped. 

“Corduroy Whitsun?” he said, and Cord immediately demoted all his assumptions into a pile of nothing. 

Assume nothing was the easiest way to deal with life. It was impossible for Cord to entirely turn off his brain, to not make assessments, to not try to figure out people and situations, but the house of cards never stood for long.

Yet the stupid brain couldn’t help throwing out analysis. This guy knew his full name. Cop? Undercover cop? Some friend of an ex-foster sibling who was pissed about something? Cord stayed out of people’s way. They sometimes got pissed anyway.

“Yes,” he said and got ready to retreat.

“I’d comment on your name,” the guy said, his eyes on his phone. “But I’m not in a position to be snarky.” 

He put his phone away then, which faintly impressed Cord. Most of his peers acted as if their identities and their phones were the same. Put away my phone—you can’t see me anymore!

Cord didn’t own one. He couldn’t afford it.

“Hermes,” the guy said.

“Dude!” Cord said before he could stop himself. Then he flushed, embarrassed that the guy, Hermes, managed to surprise him. Or, rather, that Hermes got Cord to show his surprise.

Hermes flashed a smile, bright teeth against a tan face. The tan didn’t look artificial even though it was early spring in Maine. Hermes also didn’t look Greek or Mediterranean. Cord never talked about people’s origins. It was a good way to get beat up since “offense” was the kind of thing that parental figures excused. Anything that smacked of anti-something-or-other deserved a good beating in their book. Cord kept his mouth shut.

But he’d read Greek myths. And Roman ones. And this guy looked like a yuppie in one of those really old John Hughes movies that one of Cord’s foster moms loved. He even had the same expression of slightly sarcastic confidence. Not exactly Ancient Messenger Guy--except for the expression.

“I’m not the first Hermes,” Hermes said, as if he could read Cord’s mind.

But then Hermes said, “You wouldn’t be the first Persephone. Obviously.”

This time, Cord didn’t say, “Dude!” He was used to crazies. They seem to gather in the area around the group home and the soup kitchen and all the other resources for poor people. The drunks screamed abuse, and the mentally ill called Cord by a dozen different names.

They didn’t usually look so slick.

Hermes said, “You want to get a cup of coffee?”

Cord hesitated, the rational side of him telling him to leave, walk away, get out, go to work. Work was at a nursery in South Portland where he heaved things around on carts and answered customers' questions.

The other part of him shrugged. Coffee at a coffee shop would be safe. He had another hour before he had to catch the bus. And if the guy paid—

He jerked his chin. Hermes cocked his head, then grinned. He walked ahead of Cord up Preble Street to Monument Square and across the square to the coffee shop. He only looked back once, just to see if Cord was still following, and he didn’t try to talk. 

So Cord was more than faintly impressed. He didn’t show it. And when they entered the local café—not Starbucks or Dunkin’ although Cord would have gone there too—he stood back and let Hermes approach the counter. If the guy wanted to talk, fine, but he had better pay. Cord wasn’t going to waste his money.

Money. Everything came back to money. Where to sleep that night since the kids in the group home wouldn't shut up about marijuana. Cord didn’t care about the politics, and he was sick of the offers and the endless discussions: “Dude, I’m going to have my own dispensary one day!”

Laundry and bus fare cost. Most nights, for food, he went to the soup kitchen. Forget school or school supplies. Cord stopped going months ago and nobody there was looking for him.

When Hermes turned back with two cups of coffee, Cord almost walked away. If he sat down, if he listened to this smooth talker, he might not have the willpower to stand back up and get on with life.

He edged backwards and sat at one of the tables near the outside window. Hermes sat across from him and slid over the coffee. He raised a container of creamer but Cord shook his head and poured in three sugars.

Hermes said conversationally, “I come from an adjoining plane of existence. It split off from this world during the act of creation or evolution, whatever you want to believe in. The gods in my plane of existence desired more order.”

“Gods?”

“Yup. They make everything run. A god for day and night. A god for rain. A god for love—”

“Aphrodite.”

“Sure. We use the Greek and Roman names. Persephone. Kore. You’d be in charge of flowers, growth, springtime, that kind of thing.”

“And you don’t already have one--a Kore?”

“We did. They come and go. You would be the, uh, let’s see, five-hundredth-or-so Persephone. Most of them have been women but not all. It’s a position. So what do you say?”

And Cord proved he was just as gullible as any of this foster-siblings because he said, “Sure.”

Joan of Arc Tale: Escaping Rouen

This story was originally published on a Christian fantasy/sci-fi website called Gateway Science Fiction. Unfortunately, in 2006, Gateway shut down; I've decided to republish the story here.

The timing is appropriate. A short story of mine "Scattered" will be coming out soon in Irreantum magazine [2008]. Both "Scattered" and "Escaping Rouen" share a similar theme/plot: two characters with absolutist viewpoints must reach some sort of understanding/compromise. The issue at stake is belief and integrity versus the (very necessary) ability to change and be flexible: are those two approaches compatible?

Enjoy!
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When Henry V did not die of dysentery in 1422, he spent the next nine years holding France in one piece. Like an uncompleted garment, it unraveled first at one seam, then at another: Normandy followed by Touraine followed by Maine.

Should he have died--as in many other worlds he did, leaving a 9-month old successor--the unraveling would have begun immediately; but Henry had managed shrewdly, with constant exertion, to wind up the escaping threads.

He arrived in Rouen in the summer of 1431 to deal with yet another of his subjects’ rebellions.

The prison stank, even by Paris standards, and Henry made a mental note to have it cleaned. Wars do not excuse dereliction in duty. He strode across a pile of rubble, keeping his sigh of annoyance to himself. Better to expend it in the proper way to the proper individual. The soldier in front of him was no more responsible for the lack of maintenance than he was responsible for the king’s victories.

Or the king’s failures, Henry reminded himself. If only the Burgundians would choose a position, either Henry or Charles, and stick to it.

He followed the soldier up shallow stone steps. The stench slackened slightly. Henry made a note to drain the bog on which the prison rested, and then the door before him swung open, the soldier said, "The Maid," with only a quiver of uneasiness ("A witch," some said) and stepped back.

A slight figure in men’s clothing rose from the opposite wall. A white oval face lifted to examine the king of England and France. A small, tucked mouth above a small chin; heavy lidded eyes: he had not realized she was so young, and he was amused, in his glittering, short-lived way, that Cauchon had not mentioned the Maid’s age.

He motioned to the soldier to close the door and seated himself on an overturned crate. Broken barrels and dank hay lay about the room. He noted the irons on the wall. A narrow window further down the cell let in a stream of sunlight; it illuminated the girl’s scarred wrists and broken nails.

"You have helped rebels conspire against their king," he said. "At Orleans, at Beaugency there have been uprisings behind your banner."

"They are not rebels before God."

Her voice was husky, yet higher than he had expected; the men’s clothes were misleading, a disturbing incongruity:

He said, "They are rebels before their anointed king."

"Only God can recognize a king."

"God has recognized me."

She leaned against the rock wall and studied him. He knew what she saw: the long, straight nose, the long chin with its solid jaw, the eyes as light as hers, the dark hair cropped close. He affected neither his father’s mustache or his father’s pointed beard; his was a face that could attract without unnecessary barbering. He did not engender love or affection, but he did inspire what was more important: loyalty and trust.

She said, "God has recognized Charles, son of our late king. He will be crowned."

He wondered--not amused this time for these statements were treasonous--if Charles appreciated the girl’s support--Charles scampering from city to city throughout Touraine as if ceaseless flight would keep him from Henry’s grasp.

The Maid said, her voice rising, "I know Charles is to be king. God told me."

"God himself?"

She flushed but, "Yes," she said. "Though St. Michael and St. Catherine and St. Margaret who escaped the belly of the dragon. They speak to me."

He frowned. There was nothing insane here, nothing so mild (but bitter) as his father’s remorse over Richard’s death.

She said, "The Saints want France for Charles. God has blessed the fleur-de-lis. Our royal house will be victorious."

He did not say, Against such odds? Who knew better than Henry that God blesses how and whom He will. All those bloody French knights on the field at Agincourt; the English army blessed by God and hence victorious: Henry had never doubted it.

He said, "Charles does not have the pope’s blessing."

A flicker from some layer deep within her eyes. He waited.

"I cannot lie to God," she said. "And who is to say what Pope Eugenius will do."

He stood. She flinched and his mind--ever objective, ever watchful--noted the careful way she held her torso, the arms folded across her waist, the forced nonchalance when she met his gaze. He paced away from her to the window. Behind him, he heard her sigh, an expulsion of relief. Outside the tower, the orange sun was settling below the hills around Rouen.

Henry said, "Pope Martin never supported Charles."

He waited for her protest. He had heard it, cautiously worded, from bureaucrats, those who thought Pope Martin V had been the pawn of Henry and the Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund, but Henry had never doubted his motives there: end the Great Schism, restore order to the Church. God’s Church is not to be handled as the kingdoms of the earth, and Martin had been an effective pontiff. Let Eugenius prove himself as capable. Henry had no doubts.

Let this girl doubt, let her prove heresy with her own words.

She didn’t. She shook her head, the tangled mass of hair sliding against the packed stones. She drew down her brows.

She said, "I cannot deny what I know, what I've seen."

He leaned against the stone sill, studying her. If the thin wrists could be trusted, her men’s clothes hid half-starved ribs. The Ecclesiastics had uttered wrathful words on the subject of the Maid's clothes. "A girl posing as a man. Can there be doubts of her blasphemy?" but Henry considered it a minor point. They could hardly expect the Maid to lead armies in women’s dress.

She pressed her hands to her face, her body dipping into shadows.

She murmured, "May I take communion? They haven’t let me."

"Yes," he said, another point of debate between him and the Ecclesiastics. If she were to be retrieved from her madness, or her heresy, what better means than the sacrament of Communion, what better confessor than a priest handling our Lord’s flesh and blood?

"Thank you," she said and lowered herself against the wall.

He headed to the door. There was no more he could learn. He would ride to Beauvois in the morning with three hundred men and from there to Paris to collect the rest of his army, and from there to Chinon where Charles was rumored to be hiding.

"You’ll stand trial," he said over his shoulder.

She lurched past him. He shouted, and the guard plunged into the room as the Maid, Jeanne, squeezed over the window sill and dropped. He heard her body strike the water and ran, not to the window like the guard but down the steps and across the stinking corridor to the outside wall. He marched into the dimming light, shouting for assistance.

Her body floated in the moat. A soldier pulled her ashore. Startled faces gleamed in the orange sunset. Henry checked his wrath and waited, jaw set. There would be no escapes or suicides--whatever this girl imagined she was doing--no evasion from justice under his rule.

The soldier turned Jeanne over. Water spilled from her mouth to the ground. She coughed, her body writhing. Her hands clutched at the soil.

"Put her in the second floor cell," Henry said.

That cell, dark and damp, had only thin, straight slits for air. Jeanne slept the night in her sodden clothes. Henry, striding into the cell the following morning, found her shivering tight under a scanty covering of hay.

"Why did you jump?"

"I don’t want to stand trial," she said on chattering teeth.

"Obviously. But if your claims are true, why fear the Ecclesiastics?"

"Could I explain to them any better than I’ve explained to you? I can’t force them to experience what I have experienced, to make them see and understand with mere words."

He didn’t sit. There was hardly space in the cell for them both. He propped a shoulder against the wall, hands behind his back.

He said, "Couldn't the saints help you?" but gently. Saints were exacting; they demanded much for the glory of God even to the consumption of flesh and bone.

She leaned her head on her curved arms. He thought she wept until she turned her cheek, and her dry eyes stared beyond him.

"They won’t be used," she said, "for my personal safety. They trust me."

"Even until death--?" For she would be burned if Cauchon's Ecclesiastics found her guilty. Henry had directed the setting of such fires. He'd watched hungry flames eat hair and skin, heard screams ascend like incense from an Old Testament sacrifice.

He saw Jeanne flinch, a shudder that went deeper than the shivers. Her lips trembled, and she turned her head to the wall. Irreproachable self-control.

He edged forward, and she tensed, wary eyes slewing towards him. She had not had his childhood, spent surviving political manipulations (let the Yorkists gnaw fruitlessly at their ambitions; he would not be kept from his father's throne). Violence surprised her; she braced herself for blows, for unwelcome hands. She did not know how to maneuver in tight quarters.

He crouched at her knees.

"Consider," he said. "Consider, how necessary to have but one voice that speaks for God. When popes multiply, nothing can come but confusion, impiety, falsehood; men taught untruths; men taught lies for the sake of political gain or greed; the Church’s doctrines polluted and turned away to gross and imaginary needs. Corruption would flow through the church on the devil’s breath. God would become the slave of every political rebellion, every knight’s lust, every king’s half-hearted demand. It is so easy to call on His name for our own desires, to satisfy what we want for ourselves."

She did not respond.

He said softly, "They are not Saints who speak to you but devils."

"No," she said, on her knees now, her back straight, her eyes level with his; panic was there but confidence as well and in her taut shoulders. "Explain Orleans if they are devils. You never have taken that, and it was myself—with," she corrected—"with the aid of God that kept it from you last year. Explain Beaugency and Patay that we took back--"

"Only to lose again."

"But we took them. Explain that, of me, a poor girl from nowhere special; how could I accomplish that without God’s help?"

He didn’t know. He'd had a poor idea of French resistance until the Maid began her opposition.

"Explain," she said, "why the Saints chose such as I if not to show God's hand in this cause. I am His tool."

Henry rested on his heels.

"Tell me," he said, "Do they instruct you to follow your own direction? To trust your private interpretations of holy doctrine? To hear God's voice only through the Bible?"

Was she familiar with the Lollards and their dangerous preachings? A 'Yes' to his questions would confirm her heresy, warranting her death, and he suppressed an impulse to block her mouth.

She frowned. "The Saints would not preached against themselves," she pointed out, bewildered, and Henry’s amusement flickered; Cauchon would not find her an easy witness.

"I won't deny them again," she said fiercely because she had when Cauchon first threatened her with fire; Cauchon had high and unrealistic hopes of another recantation. Henry doubted he would get it.

We all flinch from fire the first time. But who does not prefer burning to the bitter chill? Without her Saints, Jeanne would freeze.

They may even deliver her, he thought as he strolled out into the yard, take her life before the flames reach her bones. He didn't begrudge that mercy. He did not need Jeanne's suffering, only her suppression. She belonged now to the law.

He forestalled the ride to Chinon. Charles, messengers said, had moved again. Henry strode about the yard, checking the baggage, speaking to the supply masters.

Bishop Cauchon waited in the king’s apartment: a grizzled man with sharp eyes and a rueful smile.

"The Maid," he said as Henry stripped off his gloves and took up his dinner. "She will be given over to my charge?"

"When I leave," Henry said. "You will follow inquisitorial procedure."

"Of course. We’ll find her guilty, don’t worry." Cauchon flashed a smile. "Even should she recant, she’ll not keep herself untainted for long."

Henry’s food waited.

He said, "Oh?"

"No. Those boy’s clothes for one. She cannot resist them. And she’s fond of her voices. They give her special significance. She was meant to be nothing but a drudge and an uneducated one. She’s not been satisfied leading armies. She won’t be satisfied with a trial. Vulgarity needs an audience. Don’t worry," Cauchon said, strolling to the door, "the clerics are all pro-English."

A soft breeze punctuated his exit. Henry stared at the crucifix on the opposite wall.

These are the men who surround me now, who surrounded my father. This is why I left England--for God and for glory, away from the constant machinations of court.

Politics drove Charles VII mad.

A vision crossed Henry's eyes: Jeanne amid snapping flames, a quiet and wary crowd in Rouen’s Marketplace, a cry, "Jesus!" from Jeanne, her face pale despite the heat.

She'll freeze from Cauchon's apathy before she ever reaches the pyre.

A messenger approached Henry as he left the apartment. "Charles is in Louches."

"Understood," Henry said and to his sergeant, "We’ll leave before sunset."

Jeanne slept, her knees drawn to her chest. She woke on Henry’s entrance. He dragged her upright.

He said, "Cauchon will find you guilty, do you understand? You must be honest with yourself. Do you truly believe men are wrong to trust me?"

I must be under God’s protection. There is a hierarchy to all things. To resist it is like resisting the realities of death. There are things that are so and things that are not. We must each watch and listen, discern as falsehood the bulging rumor, the crafted anecdote of improbable occurrences. Men believe so easily what they want to believe and hear what is easy to hear. Truth is a blunt sword. It throbs rather than stings.

"The devil is wicked," she said, "and clever in deceit. Such demons ride hard upon all men."

He shook her. "Upon me? Do devils speak to me, is that what you believe?"

She hesitated. He felt her doubt, palpable and urgent.

"Perhaps," she said, and he lowered his head to hear her voice, "devils convinced you to come to France."

Cauchon would burn her for that. Except that it was not heresy, only the blunt edge of politics that she had not knowledge enough to duck.

Cauchon would be angry if Henry removed Jeanne: not for the loss of her death but for the loss of the trial and all its attendant glories. But Henry would not have come to France if he cared for the egos of such men, if he fretted over what they said behind his back.

"Come," he said.

She stumbled before him into the yard. A guard gripped her arms as Henry mounted, then pushed her up before him.

"Henry," Cauchon strode from the living quarters. "Majesty, where are you taking the Maid?"

"Archbishop Chichele is in Harfleur. He will be her new guardian."

Cauchon, the diplomat, did not argue, but, "I fear you have been swayed against your reason. The Maid has witching powers."

Jeanne's hands tightened on Henry's hands that enfolded her waist. Henry studied Cauchon, the cocked eyebrow, the wry mouth. He was a man who understood what words could do but not a man equipped to understand the guileless intent.

He said, "You think Chichele will be unable to handle her?"

Cauchon struggled over that, and Henry laughed. Years of survival in his father's court, he knew how to maneuver.

When I die, it will be from disease or in war. These machinations are but the petty acrobatics of the self-obsessed.

Cauchon tried again. "This is the proper place for her to stand trial."

Again that vision, an aching spasm against the mind: Jeanne burning while Rouen watched.

"I want her closer to English soil," Henry said and heard his error.

So did Cauchon. "Is this not England? Wherever your majesty rules?"

The waiting soldiers gazed and listened. Henry smiled. He was not Cauchon; Henry's pleasure was in gain, not in the maintenance of dry equilibrium.

"Everywhere is England," he said. "Everywhere is France. What God gives me, I will take."

He thudded out of the yard, followed by his troops. Cauchon became a small, staid figure under shadow. Jeanne leaned against him.

"Will I stand trial?" she said.

"Yes," he said because the king’s justice is not to be ignored or shrugged off.

But it will rightly done.

"There are," he said, "other Ecclesiastics," and some that even understood the call of God.

They left Rouen before the sun set, passing through the Marketplace and over the Seine River, and neither the Maid or the king were sorry to leave it behind.

Impossible Task

This is a story that has been around the block and back and then around the block again. I can understand why it doesn't sell: it has a "Lady and the Tiger" ending for one thing (ironically enough, I've always hated "Lady and the Tiger" endings, but since I know how my stories end, it's okay when I do it); for another, the story is rather substanceless; there is really no big A-HA (just a little a-ha). To make it work, I would have to invest a lot more into the psychology of the characters.

Which isn't going to happen.

But I do like it. One of the earliest experiments I did with writing (way back when I was a teen) was changing all the heroes of fairytales to villains and all the villains to heroes, which shows that I had a proclivity for anti-heroes fairly early on. This story was written in my 20's, not my teens, but it reflects that reverse characters approach.

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Alfred was an arrogant prince, so the princess, Polly, set him an impossible task: "Find the emerald of Terano." And the arrogant prince, Alfred, went away, swearing to do the impossible to show her, to have her. He would.

He was an angry, young man. He bought a boat and hired a crew and sailed away, and that, Polly thought, is the last of him, thank goodness.

Alfred never returned. Sulking in his castle, Polly thought. Ah well, pride proceeds the fall.

Prince Robert, Polly's next suitor arrived. He was handsome and nice, terribly nice. Polly gave him a much easier task than Alfred's. Robert returned within a month. He presented his prize, a flower from the Forest of Malino. The prime minister declared it authentic. Wonderful. Polly's insides wrapped themselves around her heart in ecstasy.

Robert proposed a visit.

"I would love to see your country," Polly said, feeling some gushing was appropriate.

"I would love for you to see it," said Robert, and it was settled.

Robert's councilors greeted Polly effusively. Such a pleasant young woman, they said. Such a splendid couple you and Robert will make, they said. Such a profitable match, they did not say, but Polly agreed. Her prime minister was pleased.

Robert and Polly drove through the countryside and boated on the lake. They swam at the beach and strolled in the evening down half-hidden walks.

O wondrous days. O fabulous hours.

Calamity arrived in the guise of a shadowy man named Marcus. He trudged into the sitting room where Polly and Robert sat tête-à-tête.

Marcus was Prince Alfred's servant. Marcus wanted news. Did they know where Alfred was? Had they seen him since he left for Terano?

"He stayed here on his way," Robert said. "I haven't seen him since."

Polly, numb and agonized, shook her head.

"We look," Marcus said. "We will continue searching."

He departed, as endurable and ineffable as he had come.

Polly said, "I should never have given Alfred such a difficult task. What if he died in Terano?"

"He knew the risks," Robert said.

"I should have given him an easier task."

"He would have been offended. Remember, I met him, Polly." Robert smiled. "Most impulsive."

"I feel guilty."

"You must allow for his choices."

He diverted her gently with talk. He spoke intelligently about history, politics and his family. He had an aunt who never left her house because she feared her beauty would overwhelm the populace. He had a cousin who trained bees. Polly laughed and forgot Alfred. She and Robert picked a wedding day.

Marcus again marred Polly's serenity. He approached her on the path along the river when she was alone.

He said softly, "Please, princess, for Alfred's sake, visit the last cottage behind the shops," and was gone.

She slipped out the next day. Robert was meeting with the council of ambassadors to discuss the merging of his and Polly's countries: the implications of trade, policy and what-not.

Polly wore a cap, coat and pants. She tiptoed down the back stairs through the empty kitchen and across the cobbled yard. A stable hand said, "Hey, young man, where are you going?" but Polly didn't stop. She sprinted out the stable gate and down the street to the village.

How lovely not to see it from the carriage. Women bustled in and out of shops, swinging their baskets and laughing great, big, belly laughs. "Hello, Mary. How's that lazy, good-for-nothing husband of yours?" "Let me tell you. You haven't heard nothing yet." And little boys, their hands outstretched, "Please, sir. Ah, please sir. Just a penny," until the big, angry mamas pulled them away, "What are you doing? Begging? You ain't no beggar."

Everyone was talking about Polly and Robert. "That young princess, now, she seems pleasant enough. Good enough for our Robert. A nice girl. The prince sure does love her."

"Not too pretty, but I never did trust good looks," said the grocer's wife, but the drunks coming out of the tavern, knew better and sang quavering songs about Polly's beauty. Polly fled, ears burning.

She found the cottages through an alley. They overlooked a narrow road behind the shops. They were pretty houses with friendly windows and cluttered yards. White socks, yellow shirts and shorts with holes in the pockets dragged soggily from the clotheslines. Dogs and cats gazed limply from behind fences. A few children clung to the gates to watch Polly pass.

She thought the last cottage untenanted. It was such a sad house with drooping gray colors, but, "Pardon," said a voice, and a man limped around Polly and opened the gate. He carried a small bag of groceries. He set it down to relatch the gate, and she saw that his right hand was crippled, all the fingers frozen in a fist and the thumb gone.

Such a sad, little house and a sad, old man.

He looked at her across the gate. She saw he was not old. His face was ragged with scars but rather grand for all that. He was still so arrogant was Alfred.

"Good-day," Alfred said, but Polly said his name.

He quivered into immobility, gripping his groceries.

Polly opened the gate and took his arm. He averted his face.

She led him inside and made him tea. "Was the task so dangerous?" she said. "I did not know. I did not mean to bring you harm, Alfred."

He rested the teacup on his knee, said to the carpet, "I found the emerald, Polly. I told you I would," and he smiled.

"What happened?"

"You are going to marry, Robert, Polly?"

"Yes."

"Don't ask me. Go back to the castle. Tell Robert you had a good time seeing his
village. Go."

"Tell me." She stood before his chair and lifted his face to her. He winced. "Tell me."

"Robert stole the emerald."

"I don't believe you."

He shrugged. "Good. Don't. Leave me be."

"I can't believe you would let him."

His mouth curled grimly. "He bound me at night. He locked me in his dungeon. He did this to me," raising the broken hand, and she put her hand to her mouth.

"He wanted to marry you. He said I didn't deserve you. Said I wouldn't know how to care for you. Said he was rescuing you from a terrible fate."

"Why are you here?"

"I escaped from the dungeon. I couldn't go home," his face to the carpet again, "not like this, not--" hunching his shoulders, "broken," because he could not bear humiliation, had never endured it well.

"Or to me," she said.

"Especially not to you. It was not just your land I wanted, Polly."

"Come with me to the castle."

"No," standing, backing away from her.

"I said I would marry you if you found the emerald. I promised you first. I must ask Robert if he took it," while Alfred shook his head.

"I'll drag the council of ambassadors to your doorstep," she said, furious with his pride, furious at her thoughtlessness.

I never looked for him. I never wondered.

So she brought Alfred with her into the assembly hall where Robert sat with the ambassadors, who rose in astonishment at Alfred's face. She told Alfred's story.

"Of course I never wounded him," Robert said. "Polly, you know what he is like."

"Never a liar," she said. "I never heard him called a liar."

"Over so great a prize," Robert said to the ambassadors, "what man would not falter and fall," condemning himself as well as Alfred, and he added quickly, "Alfred's temper--his refusal to accept defeat--is well-known."

"Perhaps, Prince Robert," said an ambassador, "you would allow a search of your possessions," and for the first time, Robert's confidence wavered while Polly thought, I never saw: Robert's pride, as overweening as Alfred's, that must obtain what it wants, not with feats or declarations but with honeyed words and sweet messages.

"Polly," Robert said. "Polly, I love you," while Alfred stood cold and aloof at her side.

She touched him lightly. He responded: a quiver of warmth, an unclenching of muscles.

"Polly," Robert said, "I did it for you. I took the emerald for your sake. I think," to the ambassadors, "I can fairly say that I won it."

"Surely," said an ambassador, "it matters how you won it," and the ambassador from Polly's country said, "The princess asked that it be brought to her. Neither prince has completed the quest."

They turned as shouts rose outside the assembly room. Marcus rushed through the doors followed by six guards. He carried an object, wrapped in cloth, in his hand.

He said to Alfred, "I found it in Prince Robert's room."

"No," Prince Robert cried, rushing forward, but, "Give it to me," Polly shouted, and Robert dropped back.

Marcus looked at Alfred. Polly looked at Alfred. He stared across the room at the wrapped emerald, he stared at Polly, the greatest prize he could ever have won.

He said, "Give it to her, Marcus."

So Marcus gave it to her, and she held her choice in her hand.

"Which prince do you choose?" said the ambassador from Alfred's country, curiously, not at all reproachfully.

She considered, and she felt, of a sudden, that the emerald was only the brief, illusionary image of choice, that she had never been bound by her tasks any more than Robert and Alfred had been bound to achieve them, that yes and no lay at her disposal, of a surety.

Which will you choose?

And she weighed the question in her mind as night closed in on the room and servants came in to light the lamps.

An Arthurian Legends Story: Seriously

"Seriously" was published in Irreantum magazine in 2003. 

The story is historically accurate (as far as historical accuracy goes in Arthurian fiction). That is, it is less 13th-century Malory and more 500 C.E. Romano-Britain. It is not 500 C.E. Druid/New Age/Feminist silliness. 

I use the same background for Gawain that I do for Modred and Geraint in "Merciless," my first Arthurian story. The three are brothers. 

* * * 

Cea liked her parents, but they were altogether too much for her most of the time.

Brod, entering the hall that morning, bellowed, "You should have seen his face. When I picked up his head, you should have seen how he looked. I scared shit out of him," while Fevr laughed.

Fevr laughed now. "Oh, Brod, he won't come."

"But, Fevr, he's an honorable man, this Gawain. A good soldier. He promised." 

Brod's tone betrayed what he thought of such honor: human honor.

Brod despised all humans—the Saxons, the Britons, the Picts—and Fevr loved to hear him despise them, although now and again she would say, "But, Brod, don't be unkind," and they would laugh and laugh.

Cea didn't mind, didn't mind her parents being fay, didn't mind not being fay herself since she wasn't their child, just the human orphan they cared for, and she didn't mind that most of the time. Just didn't want to be involved, didn't want to scare shit out of anyone.

As Brod had done to some Briton soldier in the south country, the old hacked-off head trick. Brod liked old tricks, liked to stalk about their fort in fairy guise, carrying his head in his hand, alarming his retainers who knew what to expect, who had seen Brod headless before and still jumped and swore. Brod was like that.

He visited human dwellings, great halls presided over by warlords, men claiming to be kings. He would arrive during feasts, dare the assembly, "I will allow one of you to strike me with my axe. If I survive the blow, you will let me return the favor."

There was always one fool of a soldier eager to prove his strength. Up with Brod's axe, off with Brod's head, and then Brod would scoop up his head while the soldier turned white with fear and shock. The head, dangling from Brod's hand, would speak: "Come in one month to the Green Chapel in Cumbria in the north. There, you will receive a similar stroke."

None of the soldiers ever came. Brod had been playing his game for as long as Cea could remember, possibly longer than she had been alive, and she knew no one would ever come.

"This one," Brod insisted, "is different. A hero amongst his people. One of so-called King Artos' men."

"I'd like a visitor," Fevr said, "especially a handsome, young soldier."

"I didn't say he was handsome."

"Honorable soldiers always are, Brod."

"Honorable soldiers aren’t susceptible to seducing wives."

"Aren't they? I think I could induce a little lustful fumbling," and she and Brod laughed until they couldn't speak.

Cea escaped outside, tramped across the rough, dark earth. She pushed into the wind, stooping now and again to pick up firewood.

I wouldn't come. I wouldn't care how noble or courageous it made me seem. I'd stay away.

I would never take Brod's challenge in the first place.

If the soldier did come, he would stop at their hall. Theirs was the only fort near the Green Chapel, the only decent fort for miles on the south side of the Roman wall.

He won't come. Brod knows that. He takes pleasure in proving it.

Brod was in the courtyard when Cea returned that evening, and he was greeting a Briton soldier. Brod was in human guise—a big man with a red beard—and Cea paused to watch.

"Welcome, welcome," Brod said, the hearty, good-natured host: Brod's favorite role. "Gawain, you say. Welcome, Gawain, to our humble abode."

Gawain, the soldier, was of Brod's height but slightly slimmer. His level eyes gathered in every detail of the courtyard before fixing on Brod. 

Then, Gawain smiled broadly. "Many thanks," he said. "It would give me great pleasure to rest here before I complete my quest."

Pompous fool. Cea trudged into the hall to tell Fevr.

Fevr, ecstatic, swept to meet Gawain, hands out—"A visitor. How lovely"—while Gawain gaped.

Fevr is beautiful, Cea reminded herself. She has the spontaneity along with the spotless skin and even teeth and thick hair. People want to get to know her, they want to think she is wonderful.

Cea sighed and wished Fevr wouldn't introduce her, but Fevr would, not from meanness; she thought Cea was pretty, she thought Cea's only problem was Cea didn't have enough confidence, she was proud of Cea even if Cea wasn't proud of herself.

"This is my daughter."

"Hullo, hullo," Gawain said.

Cea glared, Fevr frowned at Cea, and Gawain blinked nervously.

Fevr said, "We love visitors, especially ones of such importance. What is your quest?"

"I'm sworn to secrecy," Gawain said, startling Brod who spilled drink down his beard.

He stared at Gawain over the rim of his cup.

"Secrecy?"

Gawain gave a portentous nod.

"How exciting," Fevr said to cover Brod's guffaw. "Not one eensy-weensy detail?"

"Only," Gawain said, "I need to find the Green Chapel. I have to be there in three days time."

"You've come to the right place," Brod said "The Green Chapel is less than a day's journey from here. Why not stay with us till then?"

Poor fool. He was so stupid and good-natured, he didn't deserve Cea's parents for three days; that was more than any quest should have to include, no matter how ridiculous.

"You are most kind," Gawain said and beamed around the table.

He swaggered off to bed, whistling. A few minutes later, Fevr followed.

She'll seduce him. He'll look the fool twice over when Brod doesn't kill him, and Fevr discards him.

Cea didn't want to hear about it. So humans were stupid, and the human girl who had borne Cea and deposited her absentmindedly in Fevr and Brod's hall had been as stupid: a witless idiot who had been raped, probably, by a soldier like this one, probably. A soldier who bragged about his virtue and honor. Cea knew humans were like that. She didn't want to hear about it.

She woke early, dressed quickly, planning to slip out before Brod and Fevr were up, but they were whispering together over the hearth. Fevr waved an impatient hand.

"Oh, Cea, you have to hear this. I got one kiss from him, most chaste. The rest of the time, he told me how unworthy he was of my love. I'm serious, Brod. He may be a fool, but he's a genuine fool."

Brod slapped his chair arm, his belly convulsing with chuckles.

"He told me my beauty was too radiant for him to bear. Honestly, Brod, don't laugh. Or you, Cea."

Cea grinned and went outside.

She searched for old berries and nuts in the fields outside the fort. She had her tunic all over mud, and her hands red with cold when Gawain knelt beside her and began to rub her hands quickly between his.

"I can warm them myself," she said.

He released her, smiling at nothing. She shook her head. Idiot.

He said, "Have you heard any tales about that place?" nodding towards the valley.

They were on the edge of the hill that overlooked the Green Chapel's hollow.

Cea shrugged.

Gawain sat, hands around knees, and it came to her, of a sudden, that if he were genuine—a truly honorable soldier—he believed he would die in two days. She glanced sideways at his face.

Not a fool's face, not at the moment. Rather grim, those level eyes surveying the ground below.

She said, "It's a fay place," hoping for a reaction.

Nothing. She continued to dig.

He said, "Have you ever encountered the fay?"

She shrugged.

"Has your family ever fought them, living so close?"

"No. Why?"

"I thought you might know of weapons or curses, ways to stop them."

She sat back on her heels.

"Is that your quest?"

He shifted his head; his eyes were empty of emotion.

"Depends which one," he said finally and turned his head away.

She pushed the earth into small, neat piles, automatically ordering disorder. How human, Fevr would say.

"Why is your quest a secret?"

"Aren't they always?" he said, face averted so she could not be sure of his expression, but his voice mocked.

She chewed her lip, rolling an autumn nut between her fingers. Gawain took her hands again.

"You're cold," he said.

She shrugged and gave him a sideways glance.

"The fay don't harm—" she said.

"Don't they?"

"Tricks, disappearances, wagers—nothing serious."

"Tricks can hurt," he said.

She let him warm her hands and carry the berries she'd foraged. "What did the fay ever do to you?" she said on their way back to the fort, but they entered the courtyard, and he didn't answer.

 * * *

Ten years ago, fay kidnapped Gawain's brothers. A fairy transported Modred and Geraint to a crumbling, stone castle beside the sea.

"If you try to leave," the fairy threatened Modred, the elder of the two, "the castle will collapse; it will crush you."

Modred had stayed, and he had kept the toddler Geraint from straying. Three days amongst the damp stones until Gawain found them. Even now, autumn evenings evoked for Gawain the same terrified nausea he had felt during those days, and with the nausea, memories of stumbling through swamps, following dancing lights, calling until his voice was a frayed thread of entreaty.

Gawain had found his brothers. "We can't leave," Modred had said, pale-faced and wild-eyed, his fingers tight on Geraint's wrist. "The castle will fall. It will kill us. The fairy said."

"You can't stay," Gawain said.

He'd forced them to leave, hustling Modred before him, Geraint slung over his shoulder, and the castle hadn't collapsed.

Fay lie. Fay joke. That's the harm fay do.

He'd brought Modred and Geraint home, but—

I lost them. Geraint trusts nothing, wakes at night from dreams. Modred—Modred has no faith—not in himself, not in me.

Modred led a patrol squad of which Geraint was a member. Gawain was one of Artos' lieutenants, very much the elder brother, the outsider.

They blame me.

The fay's fault. 

Impossible to find the responsible fairy now. Fay were many. Fay had no leaders, no connections. Fay did what they wished.

Gawain hated them all, indiscriminately. He had taken the green fairy's challenge at the feast, relishing the chance to strike, not caring for the consequences, just, Damn you all to hell.

Of course he didn't win. Not against fay. Not possible really. One could hope. And try.

I'll win this time.

Fay have no rules. Neither do I. Smile. Smile at your audience, behave as they expect, and kill.

He smiled, he lavished gratitude upon his host and hostess, endured Fevr's cooing and teasing. What a house. Where the mother tried to seduce the guests, and the daughter spent her days avoiding the family.

Cea had the look Geraint had had for years after the kidnaping: a panicked edge. Geraint was stable now, Geraint was sane, but Gawain dreaded that Geraint would slip away like Modred into an uncommunicative, untouchable void.

"Stupid," was all Modred said when he heard about the challenge.

Modred's squad had been on patrol during the feast. Modred stood at the door to the junior barracks, stamping his feet. Behind him, amongst the cots and stacked weapons, boys tussled, yelping their contentment. 

Geraint wasn't among them. He waited in the darkness of the door, arms folded. Galahad, the boy-priest leaned beside him. Their eyes turned from Modred to Gawain.

Geraint said, "You won't go," his voice a study in nonchalance.

"I'd go if I thought I could kill it."

Modred considered, but "Not worth the effort," he said, ending the discussion.

Stupid to go, stupid to offer one's neck to the fay.

Modred slid into the barracks and yelled for quiet. Geraint went after him, but Galahad paused.

He said to Gawain, "You hate the fay?"

"I have good reason. So does Modred." 

"Perhaps."

"You, of course, love all things, even fay.'

"I haven't been required to love the fay. If I met one, yes, I suppose I would try to love it," a long speech for Galahad. "Baptize it," he added after a pause, "which is an act of love."

Galahad was a priest, an average soldier, but Modred had never requested a replacement. Modred, Gawain suspected, needed Galahad: his talisman, his believer in something.

Galahad said, "You're thinking revenge?"

"Better than doing nothing," Gawain said, and Galahad frowned, his eyes on the line of fortifications that surrounded the hill.

"It's like nothing," he said in the slow, fractionless voice that eased the men who heard it, even if the hearing was rare. "Doing things for the mere existence of them."

Gawain said. "It's a tangible solution."

Prove to Modred that evil could be punished, pain did not have to last a lifetime.

Galahad said, "Intangibles take more—" he hesitated, and Gawain waited. "Courage. Less self-absorption. Less hedonism."

"Hedonism." Gawain barked contemptuously. "Hedonism might do us some good." 

He jerked his chin towards the tattered soldiers on the training field with their battered weapons and frayed boots.

"The things we touch are never enough. For our wants."

"I don't want much," Gawain said.

 Galahad studied him, gray eyes like metal discs. "You won't go north?" Galahad said.

"No," Gawain said and knew he lied.

Modred's squad departed next day on patrol. Four days before they would return, Gawain rode away from Artos' fort to Cumbria to find the Green Chapel.

Kill one of the fay, bring its head home, give my brothers that prize.

Not too much to ask.

* * *

"I think," Cea told Brod that night, Gawain safely stowed in the guest chamber, "he isn't going to let you strike him. I think he's going to fight."

"Oh, my." Fevr gave a mock shudder.

"And I thought he was a man of honor."

"He's frightened, Brod," Fevr said.

Cea did not say what she thought: that Gawain wasn't afraid, that he hated the fay, that he wanted to kill.

Brod's done nothing to him. Gawain agreed to the challenge.

"I'll ease the boy's mind," Fevr said. "I'll give him my girdle. I'll tell him it's magic, tell him if he wears it, no creature will hurt him."

"Oh, Fevr," Brod hooted, but Cea said, "Please, be careful."

"Careful, Cea? Your mother's girdle is no more protection than your own, sweetheart. What can the boy fight me with but his silly human weapons and his silly human fists?"

"He could hurt you."

"Then I'll kill him," Brod shrugged as Fevr glided off towards the guest chamber, her hands loosening the fabric around her waist.

Cea went to her room. She insisted on privacy, even during the winter; she hated to sleep in the great hall with her parents and their retainers for all it was so much warmer.

She curled on her bedding.

Humans were fools, Fevr had taught her, and she had no reason to disbelieve Fevr's perception. Humans believed in unseen, unknown things--principles, virtues and gods--humans set for themselves unfathomable standards. Honorable soldiers went on drudging, pointless quests. Desperate men groped for weapons against the indestructible.

Am I a fool too? Is that my inheritance, my birth mother lacking more material gifts to give?

Brod and Fevr would say not.

But had they ever truly acknowledged that Cea was not one of them?

"Cea."

She sat up, narrowing her eyes. Gawain had slipped through the curtain to her chamber. She glared. If he thought she was like Fevr, that she wanted to be, she'd tell Brod to swipe him for good.

He held out Fevr's girdle.

"Your mother says this is magic."

She nodded numbly, hating him because she'd never had to lie before, hating her parents because she'd never had to protect them before.

He stood there, pulling the girdle through his hands.

"It's your mother's," he said as if he hadn't already said, and then she noticed the emphasis.

Your mother's.

"I thought," he said, "yours might be magic too."

She didn't argue, she didn't care if she lied. She got her girdle and helped him tie it on under his shirt. He was a fool, and Brod would make him look a worse fool, but he was genuine, he was honest, he didn't want to wear a married woman's girdle.

Gawain spent the following day with Brod. They hunted, returning towards evening with partridges and a brace of rabbits. Gawain avoided Fevr. He smiled at Cea, but she couldn't approach him, wary of what she might expose.

Stop worrying. He won't hurt Brod. Brod won't hurt him. Brod is all bluster, waving arms and loud words. Nothing more. There's no need for worry.

Panic woke her before dawn, dream images of Gawain dead, Brod bleeding, Fevr screaming curses. She ran down the stone-chilled corridor to Gawain's chamber. It was empty.

"He's left," said the watchman. "Said thanks for our hospitality, hopes to see us again." The watchman chuckled. "Doubt that'll happen."

He strode on his rounds, and Cea ran out of the gate into the gray mist.

She heard a horse stamping and called. She ran into a chest. Hands touched her shoulders, her cheek—

"Cea."

--and she wanted to stay there, in that warm enclosed space.

She backed away.

"Don't fight," she pleaded. "He won't hurt you."

"They do," hoarsely, "They will."

"No, please. Just finish your quest and go. You'll be safe. I promise."

His hand brushed her arm. She could feel his questions. She sobbed and turned and ran back to the fort.

* * *

"Cea."

Gawain stared into the darkness, heard no answer.

My brothers, he should have said. For my brothers, I have to try at least.

Gawain walked the horse forward, feeling the road with his feet. It would split soon. The left hand path, Brod had told him, would lead him to the valley and the Green Chapel's hollow. The green fairy would be waiting to deliver his blow, but Gawain didn't plan to wait.

He had Cea's girdle. He didn't know if it was magic, but he suspected her mother's wasn't, and he'd rather wear Cea's.

He had wanted to go to her the night before, to be with her, hold her, nothing else. He had stayed in his chamber instead, watched the dark sky ease to gray.

I don't want another person to cower from me.

Ahead of Gawain on the road, streaks of light brushed the horizon. Sunlight sparkled on the bare-limbed trees. A few flakes of snow fluttered past Gawain's face. The road twisted downwards. He reached a stream and then, a copse of trees. The road plunged and there was the Green Chapel.

Not a human chapel—not one of Galahad's sort—but a green mound in the middle of a green hollow—green even in winter—the mound split by a waterfall. Gawain left the horse by the trees and descended.

"Hullo."

No answer. Gawain pulled his sword and dagger from his belt.

Don't fight. He won't hurt you.

I want my brothers back, the heart of them. Galahad's intangibles lost to a fairy's lie.

Just finish your quest and go—

They keep themselves at arm's length. They look to each other, never to me. I failed. Every time Modred looks at me, he blames me for not coming sooner.

You'll be safe, I promise.

Worthless, elder brother.

Gawain pressed a hand to his face, felt the sword hilt impress his cheek.

My fault. I slept while they were kidnapped. I got lost during the search. I came late.

Give my brothers something—something tangible at least—a death— 

"Welcome."

The green fairy stood on the path above. Descending into the hollow, he strode to the top of the mound.

"Your arrival is well-timed. Are you ready to receive your stroke?"

Gawain let go the sword and dagger. They splashed in the waterfall's pool. He bent his neck, waited.

The axe whistled down. Nicked his neck.

He didn't move. Rage and anguish wrestled through him. Just a joke, just a joke, just a joke.

"I would have missed completely," the green fairy said, "but I thought you deserved the nick for taking my wife's girdle. Naughty boy."

And the green fairy dwindled into his host, Brod, red-bearded and laughing.

Don't fight. You'll be safe, I promise.

"You're wearing it now, aren't you?" He heaved with guffaws.

Gawain picked up his weapons.

"Oh, come now, don't be sore. We'll go back to the fort. You can stay another week."

"No," Gawain said dully.

Not even Cea truly on his side. Did he expect she would be? Could he ask it of any of them?

Brod frowned. "Look, man, I'm not angry. You're not hurt."

Gawain unwound the girdle, dropped it to the ground.

Brod chuckled. "My wife wants you to keep it."

"It's your daughter's," Gawain said and saw uncertainty flick across Brod's face.

Gawain stepped away, stepped back, bent and picked the girdle up. She'd given it to him, and Brod hadn't known. Gawain could be glad of that much.

He had reached the trees when Brod said, "Hey!" and started up the bank.

Gawain clambered onto his horse.

Brod shouted, "What did you do to Cea?"

"I asked."

"She would never have agreed." Brod reached for Gawain's knee. "She would never help a stupid, soldier boy."

Gawain kicked the horse's sides. He galloped away from the trees, over the stream to the main road.

He turned the horse's head south and pressed in his heels desperately.

He hadn't considered Cea's safety when he threw down the girdle, had thought only of his own bitterness, his own intense loneliness.

Stupid. Fool man.

He thundered down the road.

* * *

The three soldiers arrived with the sunrise. Cea was outside by the stables, fixing the livestock hutches, trying not to think of Gawain or his meeting with Brod or her warning which hadn't been a betrayal but felt so much like one.

The leader of the soldiers—compact, dark-haired—slid off his horse and walked to meet the steward.

"I'm looking for my brother," he said, his voice quiet and passionless, yet curled about with so much dark intention, Cea shivered.

She watched, her hand on the hutch railing. She saw Fevr loitering on the hall steps, ready to become the eager and enchanting hostess.

A second, lighter-haired man—boy—said, "We're looking for Gawain," and whirled as a horse rode into the courtyard.

Cea braced herself, expecting Brod's hearty, "You should have seen his face," but the man on the horse was alone, and it was Gawain.

He rode towards her, dismounting before the horse halted. 

"Cea," he said, his face pale, his voice frantic.

His eyes darted past her. He saw the three young men and gaped, looking for a moment as bewildered and dull-witted as he'd pretended to be when he first came to the fort.

The dark-haired leader, still in that passionless voice, said, "We’ve been traveling up here ever since we got off patrol. I never thought you'd do anything this stupid."

"That wasn't any reason not." Gawain twisted towards Cea. "My brothers: Modred, Geraint."

They looked at her unsmilingly, the eyes of the younger fierce, the eyes of the older empty and cold.

"Galahad," Gawain said, waving a hand towards the third soldier, a priest, and a faint, uneasy pleasure stirred Cea's heart.

A Christian. A holy man. One of theirs.

"You said you wouldn't come," Geraint said to Gawain. "You told me, you told Galahad you wouldn’t."

"What's happened?" Modred said.

"I can't—I'm not going to argue with you, not now. Cea," Gawain spun back to her. "Cea, come with us. You can trust us. Please, Cea. Your father's angry," and Modred's eyes fixed on her face.

Beyond them, she saw Brod, human guise, stride through the gate. He spotted Gawain and swerved, shouting:

"I want some answers, Soldier-boy."

Modred moved. Drawing his sword, he fixed himself between Gawain and Brod.

Brod reared back. Fevr hurried from the hall.

"Don't be a fool," Brod snapped at Modred. "I'm not going to hurt him. I want to talk to Cea."

Modred jerked his head, and she too had a protector—Geraint at her shoulder, sword ready.

Brod roared into fairy shape, huge and green with wide-open mouth.

Geraint gasped, a sound like a whimper that brought Gawain's head round.

"Is he the one kidnapped you?" Gawain said.

"Yes," Modred said.

No. Cea closed her eyes. I don't want to know, a silent cry from the numb center of her heart.

The fay do harm.

Gawain started towards Brod, but, "No," said Fevr," and, "No," said Modred, turning, his shoulder against Gawain's. "No, you can't win."

"I should have killed him before. Ten years ago. I ought to have found him and killed him then," glaring at Brod over Fevr's head.

Brod dwindled to human form. He stared and shook his head, perplexed.

"Trapped them in a castle," Gawain shouted. "Threatened them, told them, told him," his hand on the back of Modred's neck, "it would collapse if they left."

Brod laughed. "Oh, yes, that. That was just some fun, that."

Gawain surged forward. Again, Modred stopped him, his arm across Gawain's chest while Geraint on Gawain's other side said hoarsely, "Don't fight him, Gawain."

"No," Fevr said. "I wouldn't, Soldier-boy."

She isn't the hostess now, Cea thought. She's always been more Brod's protector than his lady or wife or even my mother.

"Forget it," Modred said. "I have. Geraint has."

"Have you?" Gawain turned, stared down into Modred's face. "Where are you then, if you've forgotten? I lost you. I never really got you back."

The winter breeze drifted across the courtyard, ruffling Gawain's dark hair, throwing shadows across Modred's face.

Modred said gently, so gently his voice seemed to mingle with the breeze, "I'm here. I'm here now."

Geraint's voice grumbled into the silence. "Which is more than we could say about you when we got off patrol."

And Modred grinned. Mockery glinted in his eyes before they returned to their usual opaqueness.

Gawain's muscles eased. He bowed his head. His eyes slid towards Cea.

"Cea," he said, "will you—?"

But Brod bellowed: "Don't you ask her anything." He aimed a finger at Gawain. "You tell me why she gave you her girdle. What did you do to her?"

Fevr, her voice unrecognizable, said, "You forced her?"

"No," Cea said, her eyes meeting Brod's.

Brod didn't scare her.

"I gave it to him," she said. "He asked."

Fevr crowed. "Oh, Cea, did you? Oh, honey, that's wonderful. Why didn't you tell me? I'd have let you seduce him."

"It isn't wonderful," Brod snapped. "Did you seduce him?" almost pleading.

"No," Cea said. "I'm going with them," Cea said, and her voice didn't waver any more than her eyes.

Except now Fevr frowned, saying, "Are you?" her voice sweet and tight and forbidding while, "Oh, no, you aren’t," Brod roared.

"Come here," Fevr said. "Don't be fools," to Modred and Gawain standing in her way, swords drawn. "I'm not giving Cea over to some sordid, human romance," and she started forward.

She stopped abruptly. She had seen what Brod, still shouting, had not: Galahad, standing solitary, eyes attentive. She hissed sharply.

"Brod."

"What? Oh, Fevr, he's just some Christian boy."

"Some is too much."

Fevr, Cea thought, has always seen things sharper than Brod; she's never been satisfied with just the joke.

She would have seduced Gawain. She would have, Cea thought, swung the axe clean through. I'm more like her than I thought.

Fevr and Galahad faced each other.

Cea clenched her hands. Gawain took them in his free one. Modred and Geraint lowered their swords. They all watched Fevr and Galahad, even Brod.

Spectators, Cea thought, each of us, trying to manage in the dark, to cope while the Fevrs and the Galahads face each other, the Fevrs all for themselves and the Galahads for belief, for faith, for God in this case.

Galahad said nothing, undaunted by Fevr's sugary smile and bright teeth.

"Spend a night with me, Christian boy?"

It was not a true challenge. Fevr was marking her ground, that was all, was barely unnerved when, "No," Galahad said. "Will you let me baptize you?"

"Brat," Fevr said without rancor. "The things I could do to you—"

"If I allowed—"

"I have no regard for your God's 'free-will'. I do not respect it."

A hint of wryness. "In that, at least, you have no choice."

Fevr snarled.

Galahad grimaced, his eyes straying to the fort. Fevr rustled forward, spread her fingers across Galahad's cheek. He flushed, dark pupils dilating in their gray settings. His gaze steadied on Fevr's face.

"What could you possibly want," she said, "that I couldn't give you?"

"There's always more, beyond the immediate."

"Perilous," Fevr said, "grasping for uncertainties."

"Yes," Galahad said. His mouth twisted. He paused, and Fevr waited, eyebrows raised. "Like fairy games," Galahad said, and Fevr snorted.

"Just games. Nothing more than games. Can you separate the real from the game?"

"I don't know," Galahad said and Cea heard the yet.

She twisted away from her protectors, went to stand beside Galahad.

"I'm going with them," she said. "You can't stop me, Mama."

"No," Fevr said, softening. "I didn't raise you to be stopped."

Thank you, Cea wanted to say, but Fevr would not want thanks.          

Fevr stepped away from Galahad. She knuckled Cea's chin.

"Come Brod," she said and walked away, not beaten, not contemptuous, just no longer interested, no longer involved.

"But—"

"Cea's decided. They're hers, her kind. Come," and he followed her docilely, looking back once, bemused, shaking his head.

Gawain released an uneven breath, glanced over his shoulder at Cea and smiled, his eyes wary but pleased.

Modred's flat, emotionless voice said, "Can we go now? Unless you want Galahad to exorcise the place?"

Gawain shook his head. He sheathed his sword.

Cea said, "What happened at the Green Chapel?"

"Nothing." Gawain fingered his neck where a red slash showed above the shirt. "He made me look a fool, that's all."

The words fell heavily amongst them until Geraint said to Cea, "Gawain didn't tell us about you."

"He didn't know," Cea said.

"I wouldn't have minded him going if it was to rescue you," and Cea heard mischief in the guarded voice.

Galahad made a soft sound of amusement.

She looked at the soldiers who surrounded her. Her kind, Fevr had said. Humans, Fevr had said, and she trembled at the implications. Modred's opaque gaze was as demanding in its way as Galahad's gray-eyed serenity. She stepped closer to Gawain, touched the blood at his neck.

Geraint said, "It is your girdle--"

"Geraint," Modred said sharply, and Geraint subsided, but Cea saw Modred wink--surely saw Modred wink--and Gawain saw it and flushed.

"Just a joke," he said, his cheek against her hair.

And laughed.

Arthurian Legends Tale: Merciless

I wrote this story in college, entered a contest, and received an award! It's a pro-Modred story. I have written elsewhere about why I prefer Modred to Launcelot. This story basically explores those reasons from Modred's point of view.

A few years later, I published a story based on "Gawain and the Green Knight," which can be found here.

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Arthur assigned Modred’s troop a reconnoitering mission east of the Hill amongst the old, Roman villas. They left in the early morning during a bout of dry, cloudless weather. Soldiers, passing from barracks to the hall, stopped to watch as Modred’s troops clattered across the level field to the first of the earth ramparts. Modred glanced back at the gate and saw Arthur raise his hand, a gesture of goodwill. Ever hopeful.

"I can choose my own men," Modred had told Arthur the night before.

"Next time. These are good boys. Not experienced but intelligent and surely, your own brother--"

Modred's brother, Geraint, was part of the problem. Geraint had complained about the assignment more than Modred.

"I need soldiers who will respond to my orders," Modred told Arthur.

Aedan overheard. He patted Modred's shoulder. "Command is a heavy responsibility for a boy your age," all condescension.

A boy his age; he was seventeen years old, not tall like Aedan–the slim gentleman–or large like Gawain, but he was fit, every muscle toned, he could fight like the best of them, but still he had to listen to Aedan call him "boy."

Better not to argue. Better just to go.

"No combat," Gawain said while the horses snorted in the brisk, chill breeze. "We don’t need deaths right now, just information. Find out if the Invaders have returned to the woods beyond the River."

So Modred led his boys steadily north, and the heavy, tangled wood gathered them in, soaking them with its massive silence. The predicted arguments flared and dwindled. Some days, they hardly spoke at all.

They crossed the Great River two days after they left the Hill. They met no Invaders, only remnants: fires hurriedly abandoned, wide, flattened campsites.

"Running like rabbits," Cerdig or Geraint would scoff, kicking at the ashes, but Modred read the signs differently.

Large numbers had camped close to the Hill and recently. The Invaders would return and in greater numbers.

We are dwindling; we need more troops, more weapons, more horses. Another onslaught might cripple us forever.

Modred said nothing aloud. His boys need the reassurance of, even, a temporary victory, and he did not want to provoke Geraint. Geraint believed in heroism, absolute deeds with absolute consequences. Fight and win and triumph. Never fight and fight and lose. Geraint was like Arthur. Modred refused to argue with either of them. He sent Galadir and Geraint ahead to scout the road, following behind with Cerdig and Pedvyr.

His troop was four in number: Cerdig, fresh-faced, given to making loud comments: "So, what's our fearless leader going to do this time?"--that type; Pedvyr, dark and lanky, who laughed at Cerdig's jokes and whispered his own that Modred suspected were funnier.

Galadir, Aedan's son. Modred had thought Aedan would argue the assignment, but when Arthur had said, "And Galadir, too," Aedan had only raised his hands, the picture of acquiescence. Galadir followed orders. He avoided Modred's eyes and flinched when Modred addressed him.

He knows what I think of his father.

Modred sighed and pulled ahead of Cerdig and Pedvyr, pushing his horse to a canter.

He rounded the corner of the rough-stoned road and found Geraint--dismounted and furious--standing alone in the courtyard of a villa.

"There's a man in there. Galadir went to have a look, and the man caught him. He won't let Galadir go."

Modred studied the villa. The south half had crumbled; most of the main hall was still intact barring occasional holes. A thin stream of smoke curled from an opening in the roof.

"Who's the man?"

"I don't know."

"Haven't you spoken to him?"

"He wants to talk to you."

Modred crossed the courtyard and stepped through the remains of the doorway. It was late afternoon, the sky was gray, hinting at rain. Inside, the villa was all black shadows. A small fire burned in the hearth in the center of the floor. Modred paused, blinking rapidly, encouraging his eyes to adjust.

Opposite the door, a woman leaned against a slab of wall that was partially crumbled to either side. Beyond the hearth, a man knelt, his arm across Galadir's shoulder and chest, his knife barely touching Galadir's neck.

"You are Modred?" the man asked.

"Yes."

"I won't hurt him," the man said.

He was tall, taller than Gawain probably. Even kneeling, he held himself like a soldier.

"Who are you?"

"A man."

Geraint entered the hall. Modred heard him stumbled over the debris and swear. Geraint edged forward slowly and sat beside Modred.

"This is my brother," Modred said.

"There are more of you?"

"Yes. Pedvyr and Cerdig."

"They're watching the horses," Geraint said. "Yours too," accusingly to the man. "What if we kill your horses, hmm?"

"A man is worth more than a horse, especially these days. You’re cavalry, then?"

"Yes. Reconnoitering company for Arthur."

"Arthur? General Arthur of King Aurelianus' army?"

"Yes," Modred said.

The man laughed. "Should you really tell me all this?" he said. "I might be an Invader or a spy."

Modred studied the corners of the villa. The black shadows filled every crack of the hall, masking the debris.

Modred said, "You're Drustan--Drustanus--the son of King Marcus of Dumnoia."

"Oh?"

"If I thought you were a spy, you would be dead by now."

Drustan's voice edged: "Remember, I hold one of your men hostage."

Modred touched the back of Geraint's neck. Geraint nodded, the movement barely perceptible even to Modred's fingers.

"I have two armed men, outside," Modred said to Drustan. "And you don't know where they are."

Drustan swiveled, but he was too late. Pedvyr and Cerdig had circled the villa while Modred was talking. They knelt now on either side of the woman. Pedvyr reached easily through the gaps in the wall to grab her shoulders. Cerdig had already pinned her arms; he held his sword to her neck.

"I'll let your man go," Drustan said.

"You'll give up your knife and your sword and let us stay here tonight and tell us why you're here instead of in Dumnoia."

Drustan nodded curtly. Geraint's mouth dropped.

"Ask for more," he said, but Modred shook his head.

He knew why Drustan had agreed so quickly. He saw the way Drustan looked at the woman-–as if his own neck lay under Cerdig’s sword. He would be easy to handle.

"Let Galadir go," Modred said. "Let him go."

Drustan loosed Galadir carefully. Modred glanced at Pedvyr and Cerdig. They released the woman's arms. Cerdig slid his sword through his belt, and Pedvyr--slightly embarrassed--brushed off the woman's dress. She glanced at him, bemused, and chuckled softly.

Drustan embraced her, bending his face into her hair.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "That was stupid. I should have thought."

His eyes danced to Modred.

"You forgot to take my sword," he said.

Geraint groaned. Modred shrugged. He hadn't forgotten.

Drustan unfastened the sword and handed it over the hearth. Modred rested it on his knees. Geraint leaned against him, cooing appreciatively over the hilt of engraved suns and stars.

"How do you know me?" Drustan asked.

"Modred is magic," Cerdig stepped into the hall. "He knows your thoughts before you think them."

Modred grimaced. "Arthur has been expecting you."

"Not as we are," Drustan said and smiled at the woman. She turned her head, her long braid catching the firelight as it swung.

"I am Iseult," she said to Modred, her smile friendly.

"Iseult," Modred said, and disgust hit him so hard he closed his eyes.

He swung towards Cerdig and Pedvyr.

"We'll need wood for the hearth," he said.

They sighed and went out. Modred also rose, holding Drustan's sword.

"I'll see to the horses," he said and stalked into the courtyard, angry, the sword heavy in his hand, a weight.

Drustan was just like Aedan, just like.

Geraint caught up.

"It's a beautiful sword."

Modred handed it to him. "Here."

He didn't want it near his skin. Just another Aedan. Wasn't one enough?

They ate rabbit that Cerdig and Pedvyr had caught that afternoon. Modred faced Drustan who lay on his side, one arm curved around Iseult's waist.

"Why is Arthur expecting you?" Geraint said, dividing the question between Modred and Drustan.

Drustan answered:

"We’ve exchanged letters. I’ve heard much of his battles. The great general against the Invaders. He’s greatly admired. But you know that, you’re his men."

They laughed, clamoring: "Yes, we are. That's right, Arthur’s men." Cerdig and Geraint gave the deep-throated bellow of the cavalry.

"We've pushed the Invaders back over the River--"

"We're Arthur’s reconnoitering company--"

"Cavalry division--"

"Will you come with us?" Geraint asked Drustan. "We're going back soon."

"No," Modred said.

Geraint swung on his heel, hissing angrily in surprise.

"I won't allow it," Modred said.

Geraint howled his words: "Modred, you are such an idiot."

It was insubordination: Modred struck Geraint full across the face. The boy sprawled, breathing deep, his body tense, but he didn't move. He collapsed into the dust. "Modred, why?" plaintive as a baby.

"My men," Modred said to Drustan. "My responsibility. You think I would risk their reputations for you, for you and this woman?"

Drustan said, "My relationship with Iseult disturbs you? My morals are any of your business?"

"Not generally."

"You're--?" Cerdig gestured at Drustan and Iseult, uncertain, slightly embarrassed.

"She's his father's wife," Modred said.

Cerdig gaped.

"His second wife," Drustan said, amused. "I protested the marriage before we met. A good son does not criticize his father, but their match was never a wholesome thing." He looked at Modred. "Why do you care?"

"If I had to choose between her and the army, I would give her up."

"I don't know yet if I'll have to make that choice," Drustan said. "I hope I won't."

"You won't have to make that choice." Modred paused and gazed at Galadir. He said, "Your father and Arthur’s wife are lovers, Galadir."

Galadir's arms clasped his knees; he rocked forward, his face and hair flecked by firelight. "Yes," he said. "I know."

Modred stood over him, looked from him to the others, to Geraint climbing clumsily to his knees.

They knew.

He said, "You hypocrites."

His boys. It broke his heart.

"We need Aedan," Geraint said.

"We can't trust him, Geraint. A man like that, his loyalty only lasts as long as his dick--" Geraint protested. Modred shouted him down. "They left Dumnoia--" Modred pointed at Drustan and Iseult. "What's to stop Aedan and Gwrtheyrn from leaving Aurelianus’ kingdom, abandoning our cause, the army?"

Beyond Geraint, he saw Drustan wince.

"Aedan's a great leader," Geraint said to Drustan. "The army needs him."

"It's not as if I approve," Galadir said suddenly, swiveling to look up at Modred. "It's not as if I don't care, but it's not our business. It’s God's business," he said.

Modred said, "Your father has blackmailed us into lies, Galadir. Nobody says a thing, everyone keeps their mouth shut. If Aedan were exposed, it would destroy Arthur, destroy the cavalry. Aurelianus is the last stronghold left against the Invaders. The Northern kingdoms don’t care. Dumnoia doesn’t care--" another shot at Drustan. "Arthur is Aurelianus’ best captain. Without Arthur, everything goes under. That’s what Aedan risks."

"Not on purpose," Cerdig said. "He doesn't do it on purpose."

Drustan said steadily, "I’m not my father, Modred. I do care. That’s why I came. Let us accompany you to the Hill. I won’t ask you to champion us."

Another Aedan, another disease for the army to deal with. The fate of Briton in the hands of men like that. What use was compassion if all it was used for was to tolerate the corrupt?

"You would leave us to mercy of real marauders?" Iseult said, her voice the sound of the sea under waves.

Modred glanced at his boys: Cerdig, face alight, ready to argue, but then Cerdig liked to argue; Pedvry, dark and tense and watchful; Galadir, their man of God, motionless, head bowed; Geraint, frowning, his hands pressed to the earth, also ready to argue, except that Geraint hated to argue, would shout his accusations with panicked abandon, sure before he began that he was going to lose.

They would be angry if Modred refused Drustan. They would do as Modred ordered, but they would sulk and quarrel, and Geraint would say bitter, resentful things that later regretted like always.

"Just to the Hill," Geraint said. "Please, Modred."

I’ll tell the cavalry if Drustan doesn’t. I’ll tell the army about him and Iseult, Gwrtheyrn and Aedan, everything I know of Aedan’s lies. I’m so tired of subterfuge, so weary of silence.

"Yes," Modred said. "We’re going back. Not to the Hill. Arthur is at the Tor now. Would you like to come with us?"

"Thank you," said Drustan.

"Thank you," said Iseult.

They reached the Tor nine days later, clattering into the stone yard. Arthur waited there, shading his eyes against the falling sun.

Modred shouted, "Halt" and dismounted.

He crossed to Arthur.

"You brought them back alive."

Modred laughed, felt the shock of it grapple with the tension in his chest. Arthur slipped an arm over Modred's shoulders.

"Good to see you," he said, and he meant it, Modred knew that.

"You have friends," Arthur said.

Drustan and Iseult had dismounted. They stood side by side. Arthur beckoned to them.

"Iseult of Cornouia," Arthur said. "And Drustanus of Dumnoia. Your father is here, Drustanus."

Iseult flinched, jerking backwards. Drustan took her hand. Arthur's face wrinkled.

"Come," he said gently. "You'll have to talk to him sooner or later. He waits in the hall."

He motioned them up the steps. They obeyed slowly, dazedly. What did you expect? Modred wanted to ask them. Did you think he would turn his back and walk away? Did you think he was like me?

Drustan's father, Marcus Cunomorus, was the first person Modred saw when he and his boys entered the hall. Marcus was tall and lean, his hawk-like face topped by a flourish of white hair. He looked fierce and unnatural.

Modred led his boys to a bench near the door. He saw Gawain further down the wall and raised his hand. Gawain waved back.

"Modred," Geraint whispered.

Modred looked where Geraint pointed to the man sitting by the hearth in the center of the hall: their King, Ambrosius Aurelianus.

Ambrosius Aurelianus had fought battles before Modred was even born, pushing the Saxon tribes out of the West. Ambrosius hunched in his chair, heavy and dark. He looked strong and rough, but two soldiers stood by to lift him. His eyes flickered towards Modred, and Modred felt the old man's fury even at that distance. Aurelianus was dying, and there was no one left to lead but men like Aedan and Drustan. Arthur was too gentle, too merciful, too inclined towards diplomacy.

There's me, Modred thought. There is me.

"May I go?" Galadir asked Modred.

Modred nodded. Galadir walked the length of the hall to stand beside Aedan. Aedan squeezed Galadir's shoulder.

Drustan and Iseult stood alone by the door.

"Drustanus of Dumnoia," Aurelianus said. "Iseult of Cornouia, welcome to the tiny, ill-placed kingdom of Ambrosius Aurelianus. This is my general"--Aurelianus indicated Arthur. "These unfortunate men--" Aurelianus waved a hand at the walls--"are my counselors and my commanders. We are pleased to see you though you arrive under rather undesirable circumstances."

For the first time, Modred saw anger in Iseult's face.

"I have never heard myself described as an undesirable circumstance, my lord," she said.

"What should he call you, Iseult?" said Marcus Cunomorus. "A slut?"

A rustle of dismay crept along the walls.

"Marcus, Marcus," Aurelianus said. "There are youngsters present."

Marcus shut his mouth. His lips formed a tight line.

Iseult said, "I was never a slut until I entered your house, Marcus Cunomorus."

Someone laughed.

"My house!"

"I am not a toy, Marcus. I am not a pet or a slave"--she spat the last word--"to be traded from house to house or man to man. I choose my lover."

Marcus spat in the dirt and stalked away.

Aurelianus stretched and said, "Now that you're here, Drustanus, what do we do with you?"

"I wish to pledge myself to you and your cause. I want to join the cavalry. I have some experience with horses."

Marcus snorted.

"I want to fight the Invaders," Drustan told his father. "I want to free the West."

"Seems you want everything."

"No."

"Did you really love me so much, Marcus Cunomorus?" Iseult said.

"We have a small problem, Drustanus," Aurelianus said. "King Marcus has agreed to supply our army with men and weapons. You, Drustanus could lead those men. Under Arthur's direction."

"Yes," Drustan said.

"And they would follow you more readily than they would follow one of my commanders."

"Yes."

"But Drustanus of Dumnoia, I cannot--out of respect for your father--allow you to enter our ranks with your father’s bride as your lover."

"Then I refuse."

"Marcus has not asked that she return to Dumnoia," Aurelianus said. "She may remain here, but you must end your relationship with her."

"No."

"Drustan," Gawain said. "Drustan, we need you."

The murmur slipped along the walls, men nodding, agreeing. Modred listened to the murmur, to the message behind it: Be like Aedan, lie, say you will give her up but don't. We will keep silent.

Drustan faced them all.

"No," he said. "She is my love. I will not abandon her to hushed speculation or to any cold hearth. If I sin, let me be honest in my sin and perhaps, God will bless me at least for that."

Galadir sobbed. He pulled away from Aedan and stumbled to Modred. Modred grasped his shoulders as Galadir bent his head to Modred's chest. Aedan, abandoned so abruptly, held out of his hands in bewilderment while down the walls, men avoided his gaze and whispered together.

Victory burned Modred.

I won him, Aedan, because you are a liar even if no one will say it aloud. All men will remember this day, Aedan; they will remember that Galadir left his liar father because of Drustan who won't lie and for me because I never lie.

And so it ended. Drustan and Iseult left Aurelianus’ kingdom, heading north to Rheghed and Cumbria where Drustan would use his influence to enlist the help of the northern chieftains.

Marcus Cunomorus departed early one morning, gone without a word to Aurelianus, leaving half his soldiers behind. They responded awkwardly, unhappily to Gawain's orders. Modred, watching, knew, I could control them. But he kept silent. Waited.

Aedan fluttered around Galadir, begging forgiveness. Aedan would get what he wanted. Galadir was too kind, too forgiving. So Modred got his orders, damn quick, and took his boys out into the woods again.

He talked to Arthur before he left.

"When we come back," Modred said, "they'll be ready to enter the main cavalry."

"And yourself?" Arthur said.

He and Modred appraised each other silently. Modred had already decided he would command when he returned. He would be ready when Aedan scampered.

"I'll be ready too," Modred said.

Arthur laughed, but Modred saw fear in Arthur's eyes and pain. He could guess why. Arthur knew Modred planned to destroy Aedan and anyone else who threatened Aurelianus's kingdom--even Drustan if Drustan tried to return. And Arthur--who poured out sympathy to the least mortal--could not understand.

Modred did not explain, except, "There’ll be no treaties with the Invaders," he said, echoing Aurelianus’ speech from that morning. Or anyone.

Aurelianus' kingdom would fall. When it fell, Modred hardly cared. Only how. When the only part left of a thing was yourself, negotiation was not possible. Finally, in the end, there was no compromise.