Chapter Text
In the past months, Arthur has learned a great deal about Sir Leon’s face. When Leon got promoted to chief bearer of bad news Arthur is unsure – some time after Lancelot’s death, but before his father’s, he thinks – but he’s grateful for it in a way, because he’s never been as good at understanding body language as he would like, and at least this way he only has to learn one set of expressions, and those of a man he has known since infancy, no less. It’s been slow in coming – everything feels slow to him now, every new skill that needs to be learned because it may spell the difference between peace and destruction for his kingdom – but now when the throne room doors swing open and Leon strides through, Arthur can tell the tenor of the message even in that brief moment before Leon kneels and bows his head, can tell whether he needs to brace himself for barbarians are burning the outlying villages or merely the annual levy is shorter than usual because the cabbage harvest has failed. All news is bad news these days, but some news is worse news.
Today, though, Arthur finds himself staring at the top of Leon’s head, unsure what exactly the character of his news will be. Neutral, he thinks, but neutral isn’t something he’s used to. And then Leon rises, and Arthur nods to him – still not quite comfortable always being seated in his knights’ presence, although, as his father’s voice in his mind continually reminds him, it’s a role he was born to play – and Leon says Vortimer is dead, your majesty.
Not neutral, then. Vortimer’s death can only mean that the battle for Cenred’s kingdom will soon be over. Arthur had hoped for another year or more of anarchy in that realm, enough to give him time to strengthen his forces enough to take the kingdom himself, or at least extend the borders of Camelot to the east. The timing of all this – the fall of Cenred coinciding with Morgana’s decimation of Camelot’s loyal forces and the encroaching incapacity of her king – could not have been worse.
“What happened?” he asks.
Leon shakes his head. “The horse-lords, sire,” he says. “They have brought fresh warriors from their homelands over the Eastern Sea, led by two brothers named Hengist and Horsa.”
“Hengist?” says Arthur, memory stirring in him, and Leon nods.
“Kin to the Hengist your highness defeated in Mercia,” he says. “They say the brothers were born in the saddle, and they are sorcerors besides.”
Arthur feels a twinge of disgust. He has little love for the idea of eastern barbarians gaining a foothold on his borders, but magic users who already have a reason to hate him? Definitely not neutral, not good news at all.
“What of Vortimer’s father, does he live?” he asks.
“He does, but his forces weaken by the day,” says Leon. “He cannot last out more than a few more weeks, a month at most.”
Arthur sighs. He never expected Vortigern to win – he proved he was nothing but an overambitious fool when he brought the horse-lords in as mercenaries in the first place, only to have them stab him in the back – but he had hoped for a slightly more impressive performance than this. Then again, Vortimer is – was – the only one with any sense in that family. He closes his eyes briefly in acknowledgement of the loss of a good man, rival or no, then prepares himself. He can put it off no longer. A decision must be made.
“Have half the army take up defensive positions on the border,” he says to Leon. “You know which half.” After the depredations of Morgana, many –perhaps most – of his knights are raw recruits, barely able to hit a straw target, let alone a skilled, fast-moving horseman.
“My lord.” Agravaine appears from behind the throne, concern written in the lines on his face. “We cannot allow the horse-lords to prevail in Cenred’s kingdom.”
“What would you have me do?” Arthur says. “Vortigern is too weak to defeat them and a frontal assault would require more men than we have at our disposal.” Besides, perhaps he’s being too pessimistic. The turmoil in Cenred’s kingdom has resulted in a number of incursions across the border and the deaths of dozens of peasants and several knights. Perhaps the best thing for stability in Albion – aside from the absorption of Cenred’s kingdom by Camelot – is for the power vacuum to be filled by strong rulers, whoever they may be. Of course, there’s always the possibility that they won’t be satisfied with winning Escetia, but that’s why Arthur is sending troops to the border.
Agravaine, though, does not seem to be convinced. “They are warlocks, sire,” he says. “You of all people should know what that means. It is unconscionable that we should allow them to gain a foothold on our borders, especially when Camelot’s king is seen as untried and a soft target.”
Arthur feels his jaw harden. You of all people. On some days, he feels the ache of his father’s loss as if it had happened only minutes ago. “I cannot risk overextending the army and leaving us undefended,” he says, and Agravaine nods.
“Of course not,” he says. “But you could send a small force – twenty experienced knights – to Vortigern’s aid. The barbarians can be no match for knights of Camelot, and we would buy ourselves some time.”
Arthur frowns. “The Mercians and Deirans are unlikely to look kindly upon Camelot taking sides in a war on their borders.” It’s one reason he’s avoided any kind of intervention so far. The uneasy truce among the Five Kingdoms is worth any amount of Escetian heath and wilderness he might win.
“They wouldn’t have to know about it,” Agravaine says, and smiles in that way that reminds Arthur of how shaky his trust in the man is.
“Your advice is noted,” he says, aware of how clipped he sounds, and turns back to his knight, still waiting patiently for him to confirm his orders. “Thank you, Sir Leon,” he says. “You are dismissed.” He lifts his eyes to the rest of the audience. “All of you,” he says, and they all turn to go, one by one, happy to follow his orders. Only Agravaine lingers by the door for a moment, as if loath to leave Arthur alone with his thoughts.
Thoughts. It seems like all he has these days are thoughts. He never really stopped to consider how much time his father used to spend alone in the throne room, deep in thought. If he had, he would probably have shrugged and said something about the burden of kingship, but knowing of the burden and feeling it dragging you down are two very different things. In the last few months, Arthur has spent far too much time in this echoing room, frowning so hard he gives himself a headache, hoping that if he can just think hard enough, he won’t trip and fall and bring Camelot down with him.
A clatter off to the side brings him back to the world, stumbling to his feet and grasping for the sword that isn’t at his side. It’s only Merlin, though – of course it’s Merlin, because no-one else can suck all the dignity out of a room with his mere presence like Merlin can – blinking down at a wooden cup that lies on its side on the floor, spilling ale across the flagstones.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, adding the long-suffering sigh that he sometimes thinks should be formally made part of his manservant’s name. “What are you doing in here? Do you not understand the meaning of the word dismissed?”
“Oh, um.” Merlin scratches the back of his head. “Didn’t realise you meant me, sorry.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow and glances down at the cup. Merlin shuffles a little and looks sheepish.
“I was going to bring you something to drink,” he says. “You look—“ He doesn’t say what Arthur looks like – which is fine, because much as Arthur enjoys being insulted by his subordinates, he really isn’t in the mood right now – but just shrugs instead. “My hand slipped,” he adds.
Arthur passes a hand over his eyes. Whatever it is in his own appearance that Merlin has apparently thought better of commenting on, Merlin himself looks like he spent most of last night with his head in a bucket of beer. Arthur really needs to have a word with him about swanning off to the tavern every night, about the difference in expectations now he is the personal servant of the king. It can wait, though. Right now he has Cenred’s kingdom to think about.
“Just,” he says, “go and do something useful, will you?”
Merlin’s already half bent over, rag in hand. “But the ale—“ he says, and Arthur shakes his head.
“Someone else will clean it up later,” he says. “Merlin. Merlin.” Something about his tone makes Merlin pay attention for once, and Arthur knows that normally at this point he would glare or throw something, but he needs to concentrate everything he has on the task at hand, and he can’t waste the extra energy to keep Merlin in line. “Just go,” he says again, and this time, Merlin does.
Arthur sits back down on his throne, resisting the urge to pace. Sorcerors in Cenred’s kingdom. Camelot is barely able to defend her own borders right now, and yet, how can he allow magic to become so powerful again? Last time it almost destroyed them all, did destroy all the family that Arthur had left. And yet, Agravaine’s plan is underhanded, it has an air of dishonesty about it. There seems to be no right choice, and yet a choice there must be, and no-one can make it but him.
“What would you do, father?” he mutters, the words falling softly in the quiet air.
There is no reply.
----
The shadows are long on the throne-room floor before Arthur finally rises to his feet, calf muscles aching after so long with no movement. When he was a prince, a good portion of almost every day would be spent in the saddle or on the practice grounds, and Arthur craves that fresh air now, the way the physical effort would drain all conscious thoughts from his mind and leave him nothing but instinct. But Arthur is not a prince any more, he’s a king, and kings do not have that kind of freedom, whatever the peasants might imagine; that is merely one of the many things Arthur learned from his father.
A shadow detaches itself from the wall as Arthur steps out into the corridor, and Arthur spins, grasping for his sword once more and cursing the decision to wear robes rather than armour, but it’s Merlin, Merlin again, and Arthur wonders if he should give him a clout just to teach him to stop lurking all over the place.
“Merlin,” he says, forgetting how tired he is for a moment. “What on earth are you doing? I thought I told you to go and do something useful.”
Merlin grins and holds up a boot in one hand and a polishing rag in the other. “Look,” he says. “You could eat your dinner off it.” He pauses, frowning at the boot a little. “If it was a bit flatter, anyway,” he adds.
Honestly, some days Arthur really has trouble understanding how Merlin can manage to dress himself, let alone anyone else. “Have you been sitting out here this whole time?” he asks.
Merlin shrugs. “No. I had to pee a couple of times.”
Arthur raises an eyebrow. “A couple?”
“You were in there a really long time,” Merlin says, and Arthur rolls his eyes and starts moving down the corridor, lengthening his stride until it pulls at his muscles. Merlin follows him, boot still clutched in his hand.
“What are you going to do about Cenred’s kingdom?” he asks.
Arthur eyes him, not pausing in his stride. “Are you expecting me to lose a leg any time soon, Merlin?” he asks, and Merlin frowns, then looks down at his hands.
“Bugger,” he says, and dashes off to retrieve the other boot. Arthur grins to himself and is surprised by how foreign the expression feels on his face after the hours of contemplation. Striding round the corner, he pushes open the door to his room and stops, finding something else to smile about.
“Guinevere,” he says. Gwen turns from where she’s standing at the window, her beauty catching him off guard as it always does.
“Arthur,” she says, smiling and stepping forward. “You look tired.”
Arthur nods, crossing the room and taking her hands in his. “It’s been a long day.” A long year.
“Of course.” Gwen pulls her hands away, busies herself arranging flowers on Arthur’s table, flowers she must have brought, unless Merlin has become even more of a giant girl of late. “I heard of Vortimer’s death,” she says. “What will you do?”
Arthur sighs and lets himself drop into a chair. “My uncle is right,” he says. “I cannot allow Hengist and Horsa to gain the upper hand. I will send assistance to Vortigern tomorrow.”
“But Vortigern is a weak and venal king,” Gwen says, a line of concern appearing between her eyes. “Even if Camelot can help him win Cenred’s kingdom, surely it will just lead to more war?”
Arthur nods. “Better more war than to allow the barbarians to win,” he says. “Besides, it will weaken the kingdom enough that it will become an easy prize for Camelot when our new knights are trained.”
“A prize?” Gwen says, and her frown deepens. “And what of the people of Cenred’s kingdom? Are they a prize, too? Or do you expect them to be wiped out in the wars?”
Arthur feels a twinge of discomfort at her anger, but he brushes it aside. He loves Gwen, there is no doubt of that, but she is, after all, inexperienced in these matters. “Would you rather I leave them to be ruled by magic-users?” he says. “It is my duty to root out the old religion wherever I can, Guinevere, you know that.” In the end, that is what convinces him, despite the strong sense of dishonourable behaviour. Magic-users have no honour, after all; why should he in his dealings with them?
Gwen blinks at him for a second, silent, and Arthur frowns.
“What?” he says. “What is it?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says. “You just—reminded me of your father, that’s all.”
Arthur rises to his feet and puts his hands on her shoulders, smiling down at her. “He is the man who taught me how to be king,” he says, and Gwen nods and looks away.
“Of course,” she says. Perhaps she would have said more, but the door to the corridor swings open, clattering against the wall, and Merlin appears in the doorway, a triumphant grin on his face and one boot in each hand. The first looks as shiny as the day Arthur bought it. The second looks—not very much like a boot at all.
“Merlin,” Arthur says, feeling his teeth begin to grind. “What is that?”
“Erm,” Merlin glances at the misshapen lump of leather. “One of the dogs got a bit excited. It’s OK, though, I think I can patch it with some of that calfskin we’ve got in the—oh, hi, Gwen,” he says, as Gwen pulls away from Arthur and slips past Merlin, murmuring a greeting as she passes through the door.
Arthur watches her go, feeling something unsettled in the pit of his stomach.
At first light, he sends his knights to Vortigern.
----
Three days pass, and Arthur keeps careful track of the time. A day and a half to ride to the border between Camelot and Cenred’s kingdom. Perhaps another day to cross the border and find Vortigern’s camp without raising the alarm. He can expect no word before the fifth day.
It gives him time to attend to other matters, which is how, when he wakes up on the morning of the fourth day to the sight of his manservant somehow managing to make more noise than an entire kitchen full of scullions without actually achieving anything at all, he remembers another royal duty that he's been neglecting.
"Merlin," he says shortly afterwards, putting on his most paternal expression and lifting his chin so that Merlin can lace his undershirt. "Now that I'm king, there's something we need to discuss."
Merlin's head pops into his field of view, his face so close that Arthur can see the beads of sweat on his brow. He looks like he's spent the night sleeping in a hedge. "Are you giving me a raise?" he asks, and Arthur raises his eyebrows
"I already pay you far too much, considering your general incompetence," he says. Merlin looks a little disappointed and drops his head again, fiddling with a knot. "What I'm talking about," Arthur continues, "is that I'm now expected to keep up a certain level of... appearance. Which means that you are, too."
"You're not going to make me wear that hat again, are you?" says Merlin, somewhere behind him now.
Despite their many conversations that run more or less like this, Arthur frequently manages to be surprised by quite how dense his servant is. He raises his arms to allow Merlin to slide his tunic over his head and tries to control the note of frustration rising in his voice. "What I'm saying is mmppmh." His world suddenly gets narrower and darker and a lot more like there's a thick piece of cloth covering his face. Something gets caught in his ear – a button? – and he tries to reach for it to dig it out, but apparently Merlin has somehow managed to arrange the tunic so that not only is it suffocating him, but it's immobilising his arms above his head. It's actually oddly effective, and if Arthur wasn't so exasperated he might be considering letting Merlin dress the next prisoner they really need to take out of action. As it is, he merely makes an undignified noise and swings his upper body around until his flailing arms connect with something that he really hope is Merlin's face.
"Ow," he hears through the tunic.
"For god's sake, you cretin, get me out of this thing," he snarls, and even if it comes out almost entirely as a serious of mumbling vowels, he's pretty sure he gets the message across. There's a sharp tug on the back of the tunic – which only serves to dig the button deeper into his ear – and a mutter that may be an apology or an insult. Another couple of tugs – ow, why are there buttons on this tunic anyway? – and Arthur is breathing free air again, although he suspects his face is red and he knows his hair looks ridiculous.
"Sorry," says Merlin with that innocent look that always makes Arthur want to reach for the nearest throwable object. "Were you saying something?"
Arthur glares, but as usual, it has zero effect. "You need to stop going to the tavern every night," he says, the words grinding out because for some reason he just can't quite manage to unclench his jaw.
"The tavern?" Merlin cocks his head on one side. "I haven't been in the tavern for months. Well," he says at Arthur's incredulous expression, "weeks, anyway."
"You think I don't know a hangover when I see one?" Arthur asks, readjusting his tunic because somehow it's still not on properly.
"What?" Merlin carries on looking confused, and Arthur steps forward and pokes him in the chest.
"Hang." Poke. "Over." He shakes his head, taking in the sickly tint of Merlin's skin. "Honestly, you look like you're going to fall over where you stand."
Merlin looks offended now. "What if I've got the flu?" he says, and Arthur raises his eyebrows.
"Have you got the flu?" he asks.
Merlin opens his mouth, closes it, and scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "Erm... No, I've actually just been in the tavern," he says.
"Well, stop," Arthur says, proud of himself for getting through this conversation without resorting to violence or even very much shouting. "Or I'll have to replace you with George."
Merlin looks like he's considering this. "Would that mean I wouldn't have to wash your socks any more, sire?"
----
Arthur finds himself in a good mood as he heads down the passage to the throne room. All right, so his plan of giving Merlin a sensible talking-to without throwing anything didn't quite work out, but really, there was only that one goblet at the end there, and to be honest, he has trouble feeling really productive if he hasn't at least threatened violence against his manservant recently. He has a feeling it will be a good day.
The feeling lasts approximately until he rounds a corner and sees Sir Leon hurrying towards him. Leon is definitely not wearing his neutral face this morning, and Arthur braces himself.
"A messenger at the gates, my lord," Leon says, and Arthur frowns, recalculating. The fourth day. One and a half days to ride to the border. One and a half days to ride back. The only way it can be from his expeditionary force is if they sent word back as soon as they crossed the border, and if that's the case, Arthur will need to have a talk with Sir Kulhwch about discretion when he gets back.
Then again, messengers arrive in Camelot every day from all parts of the kingdom. Perhaps this is something innocuous, whatever Leon's expression might suggest.
"Have him come to the audience chamber," he says, but Leon shakes his head.
"He insists he will not enter the city," he says. Arthur feels uneasiness creep through his belly.
"Well, then," he says, drawing himself up. "Let's go and see what it is that he wants."
----
Arthur sees the hair before he sees anything else. Bright, flaxen hair of the kind that is so prized in Camelot for its rarity, but common among the eastern barbarians. The horse-lord rides like his mount is merely an extension of himself, and a cart wallows behind him in the mud churned up by the autumn rains.
“Greetings to King Arthur of Camelot from King Hengist of Cantia,” he calls up to the head of the gates where Arthur stands, and Arthur inclines his head in acknowledgement, noting the title. Surely the battle cannot be over already.
“The king thanks your majesty for your kind message,” the messenger continues, “and sends you a princely gift in reply.”
Arthur frowns at this and glances at Sir Leon, but it’s obvious the knight knows no more about it than Arthur does. “I sent no message,” he calls down, cautious. Some kind of game is being played, and Arthur wants to make sure he wins.
“And yet, one was received,” says the messenger. The sun catches the steam rising from his mount in the cool of the early morning, haloes the yellow-gold of his head, making him look more like a creature of the spirit world than a man. “Will you accept the gift, sire?”
Chewing the inside of his cheek, Arthur nods once, and the horseman raises himself slightly on his stirrups and makes a sign to the driver of the cart. The driver rises to his feet and steps down into the mud, unhooking the cart from the horses and heaving at one edge so that it tips up and the cargo comes rolling out like so many cabbages.
Arthur hears a sharp gasp at his elbow, but the pounding of his heart in his ears drowns out any other noise. He leans forward, gripping the battlements until he thinks his fingers will sink into the stone.
Heads roll across the mud of the road. Heads without bodies, eyes staring and glassy, left open to accuse Arthur of all that he is guilty of.
Five. Ten. Twenty. The last to roll from the cart land on the first, bouncing across the grisly tapestry of flesh as though in an infernal game of shove ha’penny.
Twenty men. Twenty men that Arthur sent to Vortigern four days ago and that now lie dead in the mud before him.
Arthur swallows. "This is a declaration of war," he says, slowly and clearly so that none may mistake his meaning.
The barbarian meets his eyes. There's no smile of triumph on his face, merely a grim inevitability.
"It was you that made it so," he says.
----
Twenty knights. Good men, all, in a time when good men – good trained men – are a precious resource in Camelot. And now Camelot is at war for the second time since Arthur became king scant months ago, and each time it has been because of a choice Arthur made.
"Put your back into it," Arthur yells at one of the knights-in-training – Gormant, he thinks his name is, but to be honest he has long since lost track of all the fresh faces. Twenty men, fully a tenth part of Camelot's experienced fighting force, and twenty grieving families, all for a choice that Arthur made.
"You," he calls, and one of the young men turns, startled to be addressed by the king. "Do you call that a thrust?" Arthur feels the anger rise in him. He should be out there on the borders with Percival and Elyan, commanding his army, beating back the eastern invaders, and yet here he is, because his army consists half of boys that have never seen war and if they are to have any chance of defending themselves and Camelot, they need to learn now, and he is the best person to teach them. "I've seen better moves from a serving girl," Arthur says. "Do it again."
The young man – little more than a boy – looks nervous, and performs the thrust once more, movements stiff and unnatural.
"No," Arthur says. "Again."
"Go easy, would you?" Arthur looks round to see Gwaine standing at his shoulder. "Can't you see the lad's terrified of you?"
"And what about when he's faced with a shrieking sorceror aiming a battle axe at his head?" Arthur asks. "Perhaps you'll ask the barbarians to go easy on him, too?" He turns to watch the youth's latest attempt, then shakes his head and strides forward. "No," he says again. "No, no." He grabs the heavy wooden practice shield from the squire holding it. "Merlin!"
Merlin comes trotting up from the sidelines, face falling a little as he understands what Arthur wants. "Demonstration time, is it?" he says, and Arthur notices that he looks hungover again, not five days since they had their little chat. He bites back a growl of frustration and thrusts the shield in Merlin's direction, drawing his sword.
"This is how you attack." He swings his sword for emphasis, striking the shield again and again, stepping forward as he beats Merlin back. "Never give them a chance to recover." It feels good, to be fighting, the smooth burn of his muscles and knowing that, whatever else he may get wrong, here on the field he is the best at what he does. He follows through on the thrust with a series of backhanded slashing cuts designed to keep his enemy from being able to drop his defences for long enough to attack, imagining the soldier in front of him, an easterner, blonde hair now dulled with dirt and blood. The logical conclusion to the sequence is a great two-handed blow from above, cleaving his opponent's skull in two, and he's already swinging into the move when someone grabs his arm and yells for God's sake, look what you're doing.
Arthur struggles for just a second before he remembers that he's on the practice ground, not a battlefield. A second after that, he sees Merlin in front of him, cowering with his arms over his face, wooden shield lying in the dirt at his feet.
"What-" says Arthur, feeling the strength flow out of his sword arm. "Merlin, what are you doing?" There is no shield, the shield is on the ground, and Arthur tries not to imagine what that blow would have done to Merlin – Merlin who isn't even wearing armour, for pity's sake – but he can't stop himself.
Merlin lowers his arms slowly, but stays in that cringing pose, looking from Arthur to the shield. "My hand slipped," he says.
Arthur lowers his sword, ignoring Gwaine, who still hasn't let go of his arm, apparently believing that Arthur is in some kind of murderous rage and can't be trusted not to attack his own manservant. Although the way Arthur feels right now, he's not sure that isn't accurate. "Slipped," he says, and sees Merlin's Adam's apple bob.
"Erm." He flexes his hand. "Fingers are a bit numb, sorry."
"You're sorry," Arthur says. "You're sorry? Merlin, you could have been killed!" I could have killed you.
Merlin at least has the decency to look shame-faced, but Arthur's anger is boiling up now, and he's about to launch into a tirade about stupid idiotic manservants who can't even hold a shield when Gwaine pulls on his arm.
"Hey, calm down, would you?" Gwaine says. "No harm done. Can't you see he's sick?"
"You have no room to talk," Arthur says, jerking his arm out of Gwaine's grip. "How much did the two of you put away in the tavern last night, hm? How much did you drink while the barbarians were burning the outlying villages?"
Gwaine's face goes from conciliatory through astonished to furious, and then he smiles that sharp-edged smile that usually heralds some kind of fist-fight. "I can't tell you how much Merlin drank, since he wasn't at the tavern, sire," he says, "but I had a skinful, and I enjoyed every drop of it. We drank to victory in the war and to our beloved King Arthur, who we trust to shepherd us through every crisis. That is, if he doesn't accidentally kill us all first."
Arthur takes a step forward, nose-to-nose with Gwaine now. "You are dangerously close to treason," he says.
Gwaine shrugs. "And I said well, at least he's better than his old dad, he'd kill us all on purpose--" he starts, and Arthur is only saved from doing something entirely un-regal by the appearance of Sir Leon at his elbow, bad-news face firmly in place.
“Sire,” he says.
Arthur takes a moment to get himself under control, not looking away from the challenge in Gwaine’s eyes. Then he turns.
“What is it?” he asks.
----
The battlements above the Great Bluff command the finest view in the kingdom. Below, Camelot’s fields and woods roll out like a great tapestry, far, far into the distance where the hills dissolve into the sky. Out there is a smudge that on a good day Arthur would say was just a cloud.
Today is not a good day.
“What is it?” he asks again, although the gnawing feeling deep in his gut tells him he already knows the answer.
“Cooking fires,” says Sir Leon. “The messengers from Sir Percival came in not an hour ago.”
Arthur closes his eyes. “Our men?” The half of the army he trusted to keep his borders, the only ones he could spare. Will he wake up tomorrow to another heap of body parts before the gates?
“They were unable to hold the border, sire, but Percival and Elyan report only minor losses. When they saw that the barbarians were using magic, they knew they could do nothing but fall back. They will be here by nightfall.”
Arthur nods. Elyan and Percival have good sense, they know that honour does not dictate the senseless loss of men, especially when there are so few to spare. “And the horse-lords?” he says, hoping against hope that Hengist and Horsa were content with driving Camelot’s army from its own borders.
One look at Leon’s face is enough to tell him what a vain hope that is. “They are barely half a day behind, my lord,” he says. “They will be here by tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Less than a fortnight ago, Camelot was at peace and seemingly secure within her borders. Now Arthur has one day to prepare for a siege. One day.
He turns his back to the smudge on the horizon and surveys the roofs and alleyways of the lower town, the pennants and towers of the citadel. Tomorrow, all this might fall, but today he is king, for better or worse.
“Well then,” he says. “Let us make ready.”