King Arthur: The Kingstone
UTHER - 480 AD
U
ther gazed into the flames, thoughts racing through his mind, following the wisps of smoke as they rose to the roof. A thick mist covered the ceiling, slowly drifting through the thatch, keeping the hall warm. He narrowed his gaze and he scanned the room, observing each object in turn with lazy eyes, and willed all the muscles in his body to relax, slouching slightly in his throne. He barely noticed the door opening.
“Uther,” said Bress, after having closed the door shut.
“Another battle lost,” said Uther. Bress had barely washed all the blood off his body, but had come at the slave’s summons. An empty sheath dangled from his belt, which he held uselessly in his hand.
“I’m not sure how long we can keep Gododdin safe. We have no allies, and the tides of war are turning against us. We’re all weary. That even applies to you, Bress. I can see it.”
“I am,” he admitted simply, staring straight back at Uther. The latter’s hand instinctively went to the scar above his eye, feeling it as if to remind himself of the battles he’d been in.
“Ah, I’m dithering. I need your advice,” said Uther. He tried to see how to turn the sentence in his head without seeming too hesitant, before finally coming to a decision. “Arthur’s birthday has passed now. It’s high time for him to be fostered, in my opinion. I’m sure Egyr is going to disagree, though. What do you think?”
Bress thought for a second, then nodded.
“I’m not sure what you want me to say. He’s of age. He’ll be an adult soon enough. If he’s to succeed you, he does need an education, and we do need to secure our ties with other kingdoms.”
“So, what do you recommend?”
“Send him. But do ask Egyr for her opinion.”
“Thanks, I can’t stop thinking about it. About what might become of them in another palace but mine. I had no choice but be a ward, though forcing it upon someone else is hard.”
Bress nodded knowingly.
“I have no children, though I can say it was hard being separated from my brother. But you know, it’s your duty as king to make these decisions. Don’t let anyone know about your doubts, and make your mind up – irresolution won’t suit anyone.”
He finished his last words with a gulp as the realisation of how far he’d overstepped his boundaries dawned on him. Uther could not be too angry at him, he knew his frankness and humour well, but the prick had still stung.
Uther stood up. Compared to Bress, who stood at an average height, Uther felt as if he towered over him with a head more.
	 “Thank you for your counsel. I’ll see what Egyr has to say tomorrow. After all, there’s much to think about.”
	He accompanied Bress to the door, shaking his hand as he left. He knew what he had to do, but he wasn’t happy about it. A small part of him hoped Egyr would understand, but he knew what her real response would be.

“No”, she said, as soon as he broached the topic. Setting the knitting she had been doing down, she turned around to face Uther with a blank stare as he sat down on the bench next to her.
“That was quick,” he joked, and immediately sobered up seeing her glare. “We need alliances and they need an education. I mean... we were both wards, so I don’t see the problem.”
“But you know that was different. I was betrothed to Gwrlwys, and you were an exile, for Belyn’s sake.”
“And we’re better off from it, I-“
Uther realised his mistake too late. Egyr was fuming.
“Better off?!” Her teeth flashed, as white as was her current temper.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” Uther started calmly, but she cut him off again with a glance. She usually had her way in arguments, and while he admired her for it that could get in the way of things. He stuffled a sigh and placed a calm hand on hers, instinctively crossing fingers as they did when they made love. Egyr looked away, as if to murder the ground with her frown.
“Ten years of hell with that oaf. All so my dear father could get some Cornubian land- so that he could get richer. Well fuck that. I’m not having our children whored out.”
“Then let Morgana be a religious ward, with no betrothal involved. Gwywyan could do it.” It’s not as if she’ll be married without her consent, he added in his head.
Egyr considered it, biting her lip in thought.
“She could,” she said carefully, weighing each word. “But we’d not be able to visit her.”
“I’m afraid that’ll be the situation for all the children. The options for the boys are Gwuynedd, Arföryg or Manaw. Not even that last one, really. Doing it with our own vassal is pointless.”
“And who goes where? How do you even make that choice?”
Uther paused to recollect what he’d planned the night before, looking to where he had paced atop Mount Edyn as a visual aid.
“I think Arthur should go to Gwuynedd, and Madog to Arföryg. As my heir, having Arthur across the Gaulish Sea would pose a problem, while Madog... Well, he could even stay there if he wanted to.”
“Logical as always,” said Egyr after a beat. “Fine then. I won’t fight with you.”
“If you oppose it that strongly...” Uther trailed off.
“No, do it.”
Uther got up. He made as if to embrace Egyr but she stiffened.
“Well, you can explain this to them. Go. Just go.”
While Uther knew she wouldn’t change her mind once she’d made it up, he still hurried over immediately to where his children were playing outside. Morgana was watching over her two brothers as they ran about on their sticks as if they were horses.
“Children, come here.”
He took a second to compose himself. The boys looked at him expectantly, and Morgana had her usual slightly detached look.
“This... Isn't going to be easy to say.”
He braced himself, sighing. As Uther looked at each of their faces, they seemed older than they were, and he could picture them all grown up – Morgana a mirror-image of her mother, serious and proud, Arthur with a crown on his head, Madog with a boastful smirk, perhaps a bad scar or two. All of that would be forged by his next words, as he opened his lips and couldn’t go back anymore.
“Your mother and I have agreed it is long-time you were sent as wards to other families.”
Morgana looked surprised, and as he expected, the boys didn’t understand.
“What’s a ward?” asked Arthur.
Uther edged in closer to him and Madog.
“You’ll be sent to live with our friends for a few years. Until you reach adulthood.”
Uther hoped they couldn’t see the sadness in his eyes. Morgana still looked shocked, struggling to compose herself. The silence grew uncomfortable.
“Do you have any questions?” he asked.
“Where?” asked Morgana.
“For you, Ireland.”
“But the Scots are our enemies!” she protested.
Uther shook his head. “Not all of them, my sweet. It’d be with your aunt and uncle Conall.”
“When are we going?” blurted out Arthur.
“You and Morgana will leave in a few weeks. Do you understand why?”
“No,” he replied.
Uther acknowledged with a grunt, licking the front of his lips.
“That’s to be expected. Well, I’ll put it this way: it’s a matter of tradition. It’s our duty as a family to solidify links with others.”
“Do you want to get rid of us?”
“N-no!” said Uther. He grabbed one of Arthur’s shoulders and looked at him. “We love you all very much, but we need to do this.”
 “Are we all going at the same time?” asked Morgana, her arms crossed, still a few paces away.
“Madog is too young,” he admitted.
“So when will he go?”
“In two years, perhaps less.”
(Once he’d made sure the children had no more questions, he started making his way back up Edyn.)
The children’s sad eyes still seemed to be following Uther around as he made his way up Edyn in the dark of night, holding a candle sluggishly in front of him. The morning rain had formed dew on the grass, and he filled his lungs with the fresh scent, calming him a bit.
“Uther!”
Uther did not need to turn around to picture Pledd’s expression of anguish.
“The children! How... why?”
“I knew you’d be against it.”
Uther sighed.
“At the end of the day, you don’t have a say in this, Pledd. You know it has to be done.”
“Despite all that happened to you?” said Pledd, immediately regretting it as he gauged Uther’s response.
“No more talk of this, please,” replied Uther, in a firmer tone. He was not looking to scorn his old friend, but his resolve was firm.
Pledd looked at the ground, and managed:
“As you say.”
He walked off. Uther tried to find something to say, anything, but could only watch aimlessly as Pledd walked back down the hill.
He wanted to avoid giving his children the experience he’d had at all costs. Living as a beggar prince with his brother had humiliated him down to the bone. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever shake it off. Their instruction had been strict, unproductively so, and he had learned far less about the Classics and languages than he’d have liked. Even Egyr’s Latin was prettier than his functional, martial brogue. He was born and raised a warrior yet given a kingdom by happenstance.
He kept the memories of his dead family in a small pouch tucked away in one of the hall’s baskets. The rings of his two brothers and father, all passed to him as they died one by one. He had thought of getting rid of them, but the disrespect would have eaten away at him.
Egyr had come out to look for him, and as she approached, he could not even bear to look at her.
“I only want what’s best for the children. But we need to face the reality of the situation. We’re at war. The time of the Romans has passed, and Gododdin needs another warrior king. Arthur cannot stay here forever. With Tudwal’s death, we no longer have a professor. You can’t teach him Latin forever by yourself. He needs proper instruction.”
“You speak only of Arthur.”
Uther shrugged.
“I love all three of my children. But it’s a hard fact Arthur is my heir, and will secure the strongest tie. It must be a blood link, and the only reasonable choice is Cadwallon.”
“Have you sent word?”
“I’m going to,” said Uther. “I’ve asked Mörddin to ask him. They’ve fought side by side many times, I’d even say they’re closer than I am to Mörddin. We’ll see what he has to say.”

UTHER – SEPTEMBER 480 AD
The horn sounded just as Uther had ordered. He sped down Mynydd Edyn to the town’s outer parapets, where the guard who had given the warning blow greeted him.
“Erfayl, is that Mörddin?”
“Yes. He’s arrived just on time.”
Uther almost felt disappointed, as Mörddin was usually fashionably late. He could not make out anything about his old friend yet, for he was still around two estaia away. He disappeared behind the solitary pine trees that peppered the landscape, soon to be cut down, only to reappear at full gallop. Uther observed him for some time, until he was close enough.
“Go on,” he said, turning to Erfayl.
The horn’s roar filled the air again as Erfayl brought it to his lips. Mörddin’s horse was edging in closer, and Uther ordered the guards to open the gate.
The oak creeked as the gates were slowly wrenched open, drawing a wedge in the wet rill. Uther kicked at his soggy shoes, cursing the autumn weather under his breath.
“A far cry from the weather in Arföryg,” pointed out Brochfayl, looking up at the overcast sky. “Well, not so much.”
Uther laughed.
“I’ll never forget the time we put on that Enia  play, only to have it come pouring down on us.”
Mörddin’s horse sped through and skidded to a halt, spraying mud around him. He leapt off almost immediately from it, patting it on the head before giving it to one of the slaves approaching. As he pulled back his hood, Uther could now see his face properly.
His complexion was ruddier, and he had developed a protruding belly. His gait was unchanged, albeit slower, and his black hair was starting to turn grey. His sideboards and moustache already tended to white.
Though despite the wrinkles around them, his striking eyes hadn’t changed one bit. Blue-grey, mirthful, inquisitive, framed by thick eyebrows. His exposed brow revealed his receding hairline, and the thick head of hair behind it was swept back with lime, falling down to his neck. Once he saw Uther, he laughed.
“Uther! I bring good news. Cadwallon has accepted your offer.”
“Brilliant!” said Uther, not containing how pleased he was. “Come to the hall, we can talk more there.”
Unprompted, Mörddin started making his way up to the feasting halls. He was no stranger to Tin Edyn’s winding roads around Mynydd Edyn, and the king could almost picture him walking around as he had twenty odd years ago, when they had first been here.
As the gates closed behind them, Uther took one last longing look at the trees in the distance. Gododdin’s lone sentinels.
UTHER – SEPTEMBER 480 AD
He took one of the oysters and some roe. Mörddin’s company was always appreciated, and Uther immediately felt relaxed in his presence, and he found himself smiling slightly.
“Tell me, Mörddin, what news have you of the Gwuyneddians?”
“They’re doing well,” he started.
Uther looked around the hall as Mörddin spoke, listening attentively but also distracted by the activity of the room. Despite hating himself for it, he often did let his mind wander when in it. The smell of the hearty smoke, the sound of the burning fires and of horns being toasted, the fresh sweet-smelling rushes underfoot. Not to mention the occasional boast that almost inevitably led to raucous laughter.
They had quite a crowd today, probably because of Mörddin’s presence. Guests were frequent enough, but everyone knew the king’s relation to the old warrior.
“...not only that, but Cadwallon’s wife has given birth,” finished Mörddin.
“What!?” said Uther. “I didn’t know Meddyf was heavy with child.” He was already glad to hear his ally was doing well, but the fact he was now a father only improved his mood.
“Indeed. She gave birth just before I left.”
“That’s good news, Arthur will have a foster-brother.” His worries in that regard were assuaged, and he wouldn’t have to worry about marriage proposals just yet.
“Where are your other children going?” asked Mörddin, breaking a piece of rye bread in half.
“Madog is going to Arföryg, and Morgana to Ireland.”
“Ireland? Your wife’s sister?”
“That’s right, Conall mac Cairbre Caomh. He’s the King of Osraige. A good country, not unfriendly to us Britons.”
“Fancy, that, Ireland...” said Mörddin, lost deep in thought. “Wouldn’t that make it rather far away?” he then continued, dipping the bread into his soup.
“I’m still not sure whether it’s a good idea to send Morgana there,” admitted Uther between mouthfuls of salted beet slices.
“She’s got her mind set on it. And inherited your stubborness,” chimed in Egyr, laughing. Uther was glad to see her happy again, and winked at his daughter as her mother turned back to her. Morgana broke a rare smile at that as she stared down at her nearly untouched plate.
He glanced at the two other children, who were both eating calmly under Bress’ watchful eye. They were usually well-behaved at feasts compared to normal meals, but Uther preferred to check.
“What sort of education can Arthur expect from Cadwallon?” asked Uther. He was opening up to the idea now he knew Arthur would have a young friend.
“He talked only briefly of it, but Latin and Greek, a martial education, the classics, physical training, some religious. You’re all still pagans?” he said, checking rhetorically. Uther nodded absent-mindedly, considering the subjects Mörddin had listed. His eyes wandered back to Arthur.
“I hope I’m not boring you,” chuckled Mörddin.
“N-not at all,” said Uther, turning back. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine. I was just asking how you’re coping with being king? Last time I saw you you were pretty much newly crowned.”
“Haven’t I told you?” said Uther with a sad smile. “Being a king is hard work.”

ARTHUR
Arthur, now that he could leave the feasting hall, walked down to where all the soldiers were talking by the campfires. The men not invited to the feast, as well as those who had left, were having their supper. One of these was Pledd. He sat down on a log near him. Pledd was poring over a map of Britain he had drawn in the dirt and tapping the stick he’d used on the ground to the rythm of the music being played by one of the men. He looked up as Arthur arrived, and called him over to sit on the same log as him.
“Are you leaving?” asked Arthur, taking a seat.
“Yes, Arthur. Your father’s organising a new campaign against our enemies in the South.”
Pledd looked wistfully at the fire. The man strumming his lyre was joined in by a panpipe, a horn and a fistula flute. He started singing a short song as practice.
“Cyddyd meth hynn nidd ar yn nglēnn
Rēngünn mlēddiow, gwēnünn pēnn
A gērddyd lügēd Prydēn
A gōr yn marw ērbēnn ”
The men held a respectful silence before cheering the musicians, and Pledd downed the last dregs of his ale with a bleak smile.
“Who were the men who attacked?” asked Arthur after hearing the poem.
“Saxons. They form the Suthseaxe, under a king named Ælle. It’s said he hails from across the Saxon Sea, where there was a great blight. Well, whatever his reasons, he invaded and slaughtered the locals and the remaining men surrendered to him and became his allies, giving him a foothold on the island. This all happened a few years ago, just around when Morgana was born.”
“Have you ever fought these Saxons?”
“Not the Suthseaxe,” admitted Pledd. “They’re too far south, out of our range. Your uncle Lug has personal grievances with them, though, a cousin of his died there. He hails from the South himself, you know.”
“Wow,” said Arthur. He wondered what sort of man Ælle was like. He imagined a gigantic man, strong like his father, his hair bleached and swept back into a mane, with a brilliant coat of chainmail, a gild-hilted sword and a plumed helmet, all drenched in the blood of his enemies. A great hero.
“Do they sing songs of him?”
“Ælle? Probably. I don’t know what the Saxons’ songs are like.”
Arthur thought for a second.
“I want to duel him.”
Pledd laughed, and tried to control himself under Arthur’s glare.
“Sorry. I’m sure you do. You need training, lad. I’m sure Cadwallon will see to that, though I’ve got to admit I wouldn’t have minded training you myself. Well…” he trailed, off, and looked back in his cup but set it beside him when he realised it was empty. He looked more serious now, as if the mention of Cadwallon had spoilt his mirth. Arthur decided not to ask anything else.
Pledd finished his mead and got up, putting a hand on Arthur’s head.
“I’m going to miss you, lad.”
Arthur didn’t understand, and was starting to worry about Pledd’s grim expression.
“But you’ll see me again, I’ll be back.”
Arthur yawned. After all the commotion of that night, he felt tired. Pledd looked shocked, his thin eyebrows raised. He removed his hand from Arthur’s shoulder.
“Of course I will. I didn’t mean to scare you. Say, it’s getting dark. You should probably head back to the feasting halls.”
“Can you tell me a story?”
Pledd paused.
“Sure. Get your brother and sister and I’ll meet you there.”
He walked back to the feasting halls and went into the room he shared with Morgana. She was already there, practicing her knitting work. Madog was also there, playing with a toy horse.
“Oh, there you are!” she said as he came in. “I’ve got a riddle for you.”
“Your riddles are too hard,” Arthur complained, sitting down on the mattress and draping his cloak around himself as a blanket.
“Here, try this one on for size then : I am alive but die quickly, I dance for people’s praise, I need air to breathe but am not sickly, and water kills me always.”
“A bee?” he tried tentatively.
“No, silly,” she laughed. “It’s a fire!”
Their bedroom wasn’t much, just two beds on the floor and a box, but he felt safe and comfortable in it. He lay down on his sheets and looked up at the roof. He lost himself in the winding pattern of the thick straws as the children waited for Pledd.

ARTHUR
It was the day, now. A last lunchtime feast would take place, and then Arthur would be on his way. He got up and yawned, and blinked as he emerged from the room and was greeted with sunlight pouring out of the open gates. His father, mother and sister were already at the table having breakfast. After greeting them all Arthur sat down. Morgana nodded towards him.
“How do you feel? About leaving, I mean.”
Uther looked curiously at his son, gauging his reaction. Arthur concentrated hard to please him and his mother.
“Excited, but not too scared.”
“Good lad,” said Uther, exchanging a glance with Egyr and then Morgana. “We’ll miss you very much. Once you learn your letters, you’ll be able to send word to us, tell us how you’re doing.”
Arthur took a meat pie as Egyr offered it. The veal filling was delicious, but he knew it would be a bad idea to eat too much of them. Arthur remembered the last time he’d had too many and his stomach had hurt a lot, scaring everyone at the hall for some reason, especially his mother who had fussed over him for two days as he emptied them from his stomach. He took another for good measure though.
They made their way outside afterwards, and Uther stretched his lumbering limbs as they walked down to the gates where Mörddin was waiting with two horses and Arthur’s bag his father had packed for him. Egyr commanded the slaves to load the sacks.
His father had put some of his best clothes on, a decorated green tunic with a darker green pile-lined cloak. A golden torc graced his neck, and his golden crown framed his face, dripping with sweat and the light rain that was falling.
Standing beside him solemnly, at his arm, Egyr wore a gracious tunic and a dark brown cloak lined with ermine, fastened by a silver torc. Arthur was in his same rugged tunic and with ruffled hair, though Morgana had made an effort to look nice. Madog, holding the hand of a young slave, wore only an oversized tunic.
The way his family had dressed up made him realise how important his departure was, and the finality of it dawned on him at last.
After exchanging a few words with Mörddin, Uther tapped his son’s shoulder. “I have something to show you. Come.”
They walked away from the group and went to an adjacent roundhouse. Uther took his son to one side and sat him down, and then went to get a sack on the other side of the house.
He gave Arthur the small bundle. He started putting things in it, explaining what each of them was.
“This is a sword, your first real one. Don’t use it except in an emergency. You should use a blunt or wooden sword first,” said Uther. Arthur nodded. The blade was a spatha and shorter than a full sword, adapted to Arthur’s height. Uther then gave him a small round shield. It was made of limewood and bore the likeness of the goddess Hül on it, on a field of green. Finally, he put in a few of Arthur’s toys. He walked out and handed the sack to one of their slaves, a young British girl. She bowed as he did so. Her face was gaunt and haggard, though not ugly, and her arms skeletally thin. Her dress did not even extend past her knees, which would be disgraceful for anyone but a slave. Arthur looked at her filthy legs and felt thankful he had a warm pair of linen trousers and warm woollen wraps.
“You’re going to have to leave with Mörddin now,” said Uther. Arthur was suddenly worried at his father’s expression, he didn’t want to lose him.
“When will I see you again?”
Uther went to one knee and looked his son in the eyes.
“In twelve years’ time, my son.”
The two went back to the town’s inner gates as he tried to figure out how long twelve years was based on his last birthday. A few residents had realised it was time and came up to them and said their goodbyes to Arthur. By the time they’d finished preparing, dozens more were waiting. The ones closest to him started giving him gifts.
Uther gave Arthur a small drinking pouch filled with honeymead. It was made from beautiful leather and lined with gold, and bore the image of a proud boar, the family sigil. Egyr stepped forward and hugged him, and handed him a thick cloak in a green plaid pattern. Morgana put a necklace around his neck, and kissed him goodbye.
“To remember me by. And I’m giving you this ring on behalf of Madog, he can’t give anything obviously,” she said, placing it in his hand.
Pledd beamed and handed him a game of Gwyddbwyll. “For boring days”, he winked, and stifled a sniff.
Bress had a few scrolls, which were about military tactics and fighting. “Not useful yet, but they will be.”
Finally, when they had all said their goodbyes and given their gifts, Mörddin hoisted Arthur up on to a large pony and got on his own horse. Uther came up to him.
“Look after our son.”
“I will. You have my word that I’ll do it, on my honour.”
“From any other man, I would not have believed that. Thank you.”
Mörddin smiled at the compliment, and he beckoned Arthur to follow him. After a slow trot through the outer gates, they galloped off into the distance following the old Roman crossroad.