Blood of the Pendragons

Holding her by the collar of her slave’s robe, Merlin strode down the Great Hall to the dais. Looking up at Prince Uthyr with distain, he flung her down upon the steps. There she lay, just as she had fallen.

“What…” Uthyr began, clearing his throat.

“I leave for two months, two months, and this is what I return to find? Your citizens in slave markets on the southern borders?”

Uthyr winced at the growl in his voice. Unable to find his tongue, he blinked at the warrior and then looked down at the slave-girl. He could not see her face, her hair covered it. She was very small, barefooted and of obviously common origins.

He rose slowly to his feet and reached for his staff. “I…” he began shakily, mustering courage to meet Merlin’s angry eyes. “I swear to you, my noble lord, I had no idea. There were border raids a fortnight ago…”

“And?”

“And,” he snapped, finally finding his voice, “what do you expect my brother to do, Merlin? March on the southern War Lords?”

“But instead of taking action, you chose to simply allow your people to be bound and sold off as human cattle to your enemy’s farmers!”

Uthyr clutched at his stick. He could find no answer.

Seeing that he would get no reply from the young prince, Merlin grunted in exasperation and stormed away from the hall.

“Merlin!” Uthyr coughed the word. “My…I thank you for your loyalty.”

“They’re not my people, Uthyr,” Merlin’s eye burned into his and he pointed at the girl on the floor. “Never forget that.”

As the huge oak doors slammed shut behind the angry warrior, Uthyr exhaled heavily. He ran his hand through his fringe and hobbled back to his seat. Then he realised that he had forgotten the girl and looked to one of his guards.

“Ta…have her t-taken back to her home. Wherever that is.”

The guard bowed, crossed the floor and carefully lifted the girl. She barely moved, she rested her head on his shoulder and lay only limply in the cradle of his arms.

“Wait,” Uthyr commanded.

As the guard paused, Uthyr cast his eyes across her. Her dress was frayed and her wrists and ankles red with sores. Her face, now that he could see it, was bruised, her lip split and her eyes stained and swollen from tears. The young man winced at the pain he saw so vividly depicted in the blank sorrow on her face.

For the briefest of moments she looked up, meeting his scrutinising gaze with dark eyes.

“Let her r…rest a while, let her eat,” he said quietly, looking away again. He raised his hand as he heard the guards murmured assent, and the girl was carried from the room.

He was a lonely person. He trusted best his champion, the fierce warrior Merlin, but Uthyr would never dare presume to call himself the warrior’s friend. He spent much time in the company of his brother’s advisors, but he had known from his childhood that all courtiers had their own agendas and would never share to many loyalties there. He feared the guards and their gruff, rustic ways and the servants feared him. Even the man-servant, Ector, who had cared for him for years had the due fear of power.

He motioned to the serving girl to pour the wine and turned back to the councillor sat at his elbow. The councillor proceeded with his explanation of the recent dispute between two knights and their overlord. A base matter, an argument over money that Merlin would scorn.

It took an our or so to go over all the documents, as they finished the session the servants around them were lighting candles around the hall. Uthyr struggled to his feet, but was forced to gesture to his man-servant to help him descend the dais with the councillor.

“After I have seen your royal brother on the morrow, I will return with what news there is, my prince.”

“I thank you for your service,” Uthyr embraced the councillor, somewhat stiffly. He made the customary bow and quitted the hall quickly.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Uthyr sighed heavily, feeling a rising tickle in his throat. Quickly, he turned and looked back at the dais and addressed the servant clearing the table there. “Find out what h-appened to the girl.”

The servant bowed and exited through one of the side doors at the back of the hall. Turning to his man-servant Uthyr clutched his stick and smiled faintly. “Will you bring me my cloak?”

“Yes, my Prince.”

Uthyr waited as the old man hurried across the floor and back again and wrapped the thin cloak around his shoulders, fastening it in place. He coughed suddenly and caught the servant’s arm. “To my chambers, if you please…” he said, breathlessly.

It needed two servants to help the prince up the spiral staircases to his bed-chamber. When he was finally resting on his low bed, the old servant sent the younger one back down to call for the doctor. Uthyr closed his eyes and pressed his face into the cool fur as his servant closed the shutters and came to remove his boots and belt.

“I am…well enough…” Uthyr murmured, brushing the hand that was fumbling at his tunic collar. He struggled to sit up. In truth his real concern that the doctor would not take back bad report to his brother, saying he could barely move.

Ector bowed slowly and retreated to build up the fire. Clumsily and with trembling fingers, Uthyr pulled away the cloak and his tunic, casting them down without folding them. “Ector…” he gasped. “Water…”

“Yes, my Prince.” Ector quickly filled a goblet from the bedside, pressed it against Uthyr’s lips. Hurriedly, Uthyr cupped his hands around the goblet and drank deeply. Uthyr went to fuss over his disregarded garments, draping them with care across the nearby chair.

The doctor arrived presently, nodded to Uthyr and crossed to the Prince’s bed.

Uthyr despised the doctor’s brusque manners since childhood. As a member of the royal family he was used to receiving respect, but the doctor wasted none on him. The Prince had never been able to fathom how it was he lost the doctors’ respect in the first place, and try as he might he had not the strength to find authority over the man.

But as the doctor was man who oversaw his health on behalf of the king, he had more authority over Uthyr’s body than he had himself.

Already Ector had retreated demurely to the window seat. Uthyr glanced sullenly over to see his servant with his hands clasped and his head bowed as the doctor’s apprentice, a gaunt youth with cold hands, lifted Uthyr’s shirt and helped him into a reclining position on the bed.

The doctor shuffled about at the foot of the bed, arranging his pots, potions and knives. “The steward tells me you were ailing last night.” His voice drawled with boredom.

Uthyr glared at Ector. Only Ector shared his chamber at night, only Ector could have told the steward so. “N-n…no wo-orse than usual,” said the Prince.

“A bloody nose, vomiting, fainting…” the doctor continued, “I should have been sent for this morning.”

“I-I…I ha-ave d-uties…”

“None more important than outliving your royal brother, Prince Uthyr.” After that there was little more talk. The doctor laid his hands on Uthyr’s chest and felt him inhale, then his ear against the same to hear his heart beat. He felt the pulse at his throat and let blood from his forearm. He left a potion for the night at the foot of the bed and instructed Ector in it’s proper use.

Then without a word or even a bow, he quitted the chamber. With a sigh, the Prince turned on his side. He folded his arms across his bare chest and shuddered. What little warmth was in the room seemed to have escaped as the doctor had left.

Ector moved silently to the bedside and lifted the woollen quilts. He heard only the soft sigh of the young Prince as he covered him, and brushed his hand against his shoulder as he went back to stoke the fading fire.

Half an hour had passed before the servant sent to find the fate of the peasant girl returned to the chamber. He knocked lightly on the door, nodded to Ector upon his admition and bowed low before the Prince’s bed.

Uthyr sat up in the bed, and Ector hurried across to prop pillows behind his back. “Well?” Uthyr demanded after the man said nothing for a moment.

“My Prince, she has slept and is in the servant’s kitchen.”

Uthyr paused. He glanced over at the fire in the grate. “Bring her to me. I want to talk to her.”

“My Prince, -” Ector began, but Uthyr put his hand up to silence him. The servant bowed low again and left quietly. “My Prince,” the old man began again, wringing his old hands. “You ought not. You should sleep.”

“Fetch me a shirt, Ector.”

He sighed loudly and went to one of the Prince’s many coffers. Uthyr held his skinny arms above his head as Ector slipped the light shirt over his head. He arranged the thick covers at the foot of the bed and returned to his usual seat by the fire.

“And Ector…” Uthyr began, taking care to keep his tone calm and with great effort not to stammer. “I would prefer it if you did not p-pass the details of my condition to the steward each morning.”

“As you wish, my Prince.” came the reply. But Uthyr knew it would come to nothing. The steward knew all on behalf of Uthyr‘s brother Ambrosius the King, and it was his brother who paid Ector’s wages, not he. He would never have such control as to defend himself from his brother’s whim.

The tap on the door was lighter than before. When Ector opened it, the first servant ushered the girl in before retreating back down the stairs.

She paused a moment in the doorway before Ector shut it behind her. She seemed much as she had before, the same rags, her hair not cleaner or neater. But the numb face was now much more bewildered, and she did nothing until Ector placed his hand upon the small of her back and propelled her towards the open space between the fireplace and the bed. She finally caught Uthyr’s eye and brought herself back to her senses, falling to her knees, her head bowed.

“I am your majesty’s most humble subject.” Her voice quiet and it was strangely drawn, she rasped as she paused between her words, as if she had not spoken for a long time.

“Wh…what is your n-na..a-ame?”

“Nimue,” was the quiet reply.

“Rise.”

She did so, clasping her hands demurely before her. Uthyr maintained his cool observation until she met his eyes for a second time.

“T-tell me, child…” he said, although she seemed not much younger than he, “what f-fate took you from your home?”

“I am a handmaiden of the Lady Igraine. I was captured in a raid.”

Ector coughed in his seat. Uthyr did not look over.

“Then you must be restored to Tintagel. Ector…” the old man started and approached the bedside. “Make it so.”

“As you say, my Prince.” With no more to say, Uthyr held up his hand in dismissal and Ector hurriedly ushered the girl towards the door and made his final bow before leaving.

Alone in the chamber, Uthyr moved slowly from the bed. It took him a very long time to reach the end of the bed were his stick rested. Even lifting it from it’s holding place took enough effort to elicit a groan. It was, of course, deliberate. Everything, from the servants who took care of him to the layout of his own bedroom, were designed to keep him dependant upon the king, his bother.

What it was that Ambrosius believed his he had to fear from him, Uthyr had yet to comprehend. He was, after all, no more than a cripple.

He coughed a few times before struggling to his feet. He padded slowly across the rug to the window. Ector had left the small pot of medicine on the window seat. Slowly, he lifted the lid and poured the herbs into his palm. Hobbling away, he flung them into the fire. He knew Ector would not chide him. He would not even ask. He would report it to the steward, who would tell the doctor, who most certainly would chide, but it was a small price. He did not trust the doctor’s medicines.

He took the moment’s solitude to stretch his legs, but soon he had grown tired. When Ector came back, Uthyr was leaning against mantelpiece, panting heavily. Wordlessly, the servant helped Uthyr back to his bed, pulled back the thick sheets, helped him to remove the last of his clothes and pulled the nightshirt over his head.

Uthyr felt a faint sense of guilt when he saw Ector go to the now empty pot. The steward was strict with the servants, and Ector would be chastised for allowing this to happen. But Ector, as he had guessed, said nothing.

“Put out the candles, Ector.”

The coppery scent of blood woke him up late at night. He felt it oozing thickly down his lips. Pushing himself up he tried to stem the bleeding with the back of his hand. “Ector…” as he opened his mouth blood spilled onto his tongue.

Tinder sparked in the corner and the elderly servant quickly came to the bed. Silently, in a routine rehearsed through so many nights, he picked up the fresh rags and cradled the prince’s head, pinching his nose to stem the flow of blood.

It took little enough time, but the copious blood flow had stained most of the bed sheets. With equally practiced ease Ector went about the task of removing and replacing the soiled sheets. He helped Uthyr away from the bed into an armchair by the fireside.

Uthyr stared with tired eyes into the dying embers. He was not, to his relief, fighting nausea, or at least not yet. He wished Ector had given him something to clean his hands with. They were filthy. But it only took the servant a few minutes to cross the chamber with a fresh nightshirt. He wiped clean his fingers and his face for him, taking great care. Uthyr said nothing, nor looked up. He quietly followed the lead back into his bed. The older man carefully pulled over the covers.

Ector turned back to the prince on his way back to his pallet. “They will see the blood on the sheets anyway,” he said quietly.