Not all, Die complaining II

Part III, Long Road Down

A fortnight past the last village of Londinium. The party in whole numbered two over a hundred on the southern approach to Castle Camelot. Where the King, Arthurus’s father, lay sick in bed behind the tall limestone walls lined with little embrasures and crowned with the battlements, cleaved from old Roman temples. Keeping Ambrosius inside with a disheartening sickness, a rotting from under the skin. Which no amount of quiet drink, or rest in any fortress could fix.

The messenger Lucan groaned once it rose through the trees. Growing long tired of the place in riding to, or from it. The long campaigns were finished. His homeland of Cambria was far enough away for him to miss it throughout each night of peace he was elsewhere. Knowing, over the years they never lasted long enough and yet holding onto hope this ride was the last for at least a short time to come.

As he, Arthurus, and all the Men-at-arms approached over the old grounds of some long-gone villa. Till the guards at the gate house, a few minutes ride away raised the castles portcullis without giving any call or demand. Apparently, despite the old age of Ambrosius, he still thought ahead on the littlest of things, all for time, the greatest resource of all. Leading to a little order both Arthurus and Lucan appreciated, Lucan especially so.

Now, with the whole band behind him, Arthurus eventually led them through. When the guards in mended armor, with shields of red painted Chi Rho said not a word but bowed as the whole trotted or walked past. Silence Lucan had no problem with, barely looking away from the path to see it in the first place.

Yet Arthurus nodded to each one in return. Until he bid the one hundred to depart from him for a time, continuing while they went to resupply, each in silent thought. Which Arthurus did also in these minutes up to the keep with Lucan. Finding the barracks, smithies and little gardens, kept together by skillful masons to be no less or more beautiful than the last visits. And it gave him back a feeling, for all the time he spent there in his youth.

A feeling that brought only a stare of longing for which one found it difficult to find the source within. Only being able to take it out onto the vistas of old buildings where the sunlight met shadow. Or through the windows where he once stood, gazing out in his off times of the past. And it grew stronger oddly enough, during peace time, or maybe with age alone.

Lucan suspected Arthurus’s attentive silence to be a lamentation, or a subtly growing fear, as the garrison hailed them by. All the way up the street that wound around buildings, built on top of the village that once stood there. Where you could see the past century of growing threats in the difference of architecture. With fountains and many arches of smoother stone in the area around the entrance to the keep.

Which towered with embrasures of its own over the rest of the structures. As a banner, depicting one golden dragon, with a look as if it were cornered in a tide of red velvet. Hung over the large wooden door, strengthened, with thick iron bars. And guarded on each side by a well-armed Sergeant. “Afternoon my lord, your father wishes to speak to you alone.” One came up to them, after a short, stiff walk.

Arthurus exhaled, giving the reins to the guard, he dismounted before Lucan quickly wished him luck, with a heavy heart through his words. “Tell the king I’ve done as he pleased… I’m sorry to leave, but I should waste no time to return home.” Lucan turned his horse around, without a single trot forward, as Arthurus gave one question. “Lucan, where is your loyalty?” The arms of Arthurus crossed over his own breast, disappointed. Be that as it may, his eyes only showed unchanging patience on the other hand.

“But—”

“Come now, I am your lord as much as I am your friend. And I beg you to put aside that which you want for the time being.”

Lucan felt the veins in his head swell, taking a deep breath to relieve it. “Surely, just my lord. If you would have me, put aside family and wait here to carry out your message, all alone.” Lucan’s words started at an exhale and cross to the point that’d dishonor him among most peers and nobles. So, he was fortunate Arthurus only had a chortle when his friend saw through the half-truth. Though low, so as not to disturb the peace.

“I’ll forgive that slap across my face. I’ve gotten to know you, Lucan Varius. Never patient, but always willing. And now I demand your will, to stay near me.” Arthurus summed up their four years of friendship, and Lucan’s disruptive action back in Londinium. That would’ve gotten him locked up, or worse, if not for Arthurus’s recognition of him.

“I guess you’re right. Fine.” Lucan abdicated in the face of that fact, perhaps long overdue from all the ill tidings he’d given to Arthurus in those four years. “Though I never said I wouldn’t!” And this, in the direct way Lucan said it, was no lie.

“I know and I thank you, but about what you’ve said with running my message…” Arthurus broke his gaze, in hope of a clearer articulation. “Possibly, in one way or another. If what I suspect about my father’s will is right. You’ll be coming with me one last time before your free to go.”

And Lucan raised his eyebrows, as the assignment sounded strangely dreadful. “Great… But where do you think that is?” The rumors of the south emerging in his mind as he spoke.

“North, I presume, along the old Hadrian wall. We’ve been there before... Just stay here for now.” Arthurus brought up his finger at Lucan, getting an irritable nod from his friend in return.

“Okay okay, I got you the first time. I’ll wait for you here.” Impatient, but in no way already forgetting what Arthurus told him, Lucan only wanted to be alone now. And as his lord went on into the keep, he gazed southwards beyond the wall. Starring at the water, in the channel below as natural as ever. A calm façade to what lay beyond, Lucan could only guess.

Meanwhile, Arthurus went through the front door, shutting it softly behind him. Before stepping into the lasting quiet of the king’s hall. Paved and pillared, this hall, finished in the times of his grandfather was masked in a solemn glow of unexpectantly warm torchlight. It rattled Arthurus to know this place was once filled with noise of song but now it sat unnaturally silent. A far cry from the tranquil hush that hung over the outside.

Though the tables, chairs, and throne itself sat empty, the room held four of the same banners with one of the household guard underneath each. If one were new here those guards would be no better than statues. And Arthurus treated them as such when he walked toward the back stairwell. Even as Heir Apparent, it was rude to disturb them and outright illegal as anyone else beside the king, or one who bared his mark.

Climbing the stairs Arthurus felt the sweat drip off his face and down his skin whilst the heat rose with him. He touched the right-hand wall with his palm, wetting it quickly. As perspiration, which fell off the ceiling and sill stones gave the sense this Donjon of the king was more of prison to his father, Ambrosius. Arthurus couldn’t blame Lucan’s wanting love for this place. Though he never really did.

At last, the door at the top ceased the spiral staircase, stopping Arthurus in return for an enduring stillness, one he found harder to bear. Then he wiped his face with one wet hand and opened the door with his other. Shutting it slowly on the other side, but just enough to reveal his presence. Onto two more of the household guard at the end of a short hall that turned into three separate rooms. The one they stood at was the king’s of course, the looks on their red blotched faces revealed honor and relief at the Heir’s presence.

Arthurus approached, bowing, with them doing so in return as an awkward pause held over their tradition of speechlessness. Until one opened the door that gave no more sound than a draft of wind over fields of grain.

Through the threshold Arthurus saw him, in bed, appearing no more than a disturbed pile of blankets, one was too lazy to mend. Again, Arthurus shut the door behind him. Striving a fine line in his approach, not too loud to annoy him, not too quiet to startle him. Though the many, somewhat open windows, and fine cardinal carpet under his feet, did help in this endeavor.

“On time, as you’ve always been.” The Kings voice, under all that weight of satin and sickness carried yet a modicum of authority. Even when all the land outside Camelot began to exchange it for the coming rule of his only son.

Arthurus smiled but could hardly stand looking at Ambrosius in his tired eyes. Or onto the old man’s rough skin, opaqued by his silver hair that matched poignantly with the silk he wrapped himself in.

“Have I upset you… My son?” Ambrosius’s words broke into small spats of wheezing. “Since I’m sure, from your punctuality… My order cut your ceremony short.” And despite his condition, Ambrosius’s attention never faltered.

“No, no it’s you, my king, I’m worried about—”

“Good lord above, spare my ears in this old age of mine! This sickness is my repentance. And that title is as good as yours… You will get it, when you return.” And despite the look of worry across his son’s face, Ambrosius sat up. Revealing the eastern indigo of his nightgown that was as much a legacy as the man himself.

“Return from where? Father.” Arthurus clenched both hands behind his back despite his collected character. He hoped beyond all the disappointment of this world he’d hear the word ‘north’. But disappointments were what he learned to bear, as all great men do. From his father’s strictness in training, and his mother, long gone into the arms of Christ.

“Gaul… Is where you must go and you know what I ask of you there…It is my last request. For, if you return, I will not see it.” Ambrosius leaned back into the pillow, staring out the nearest window, over the great channel limping on far below. And washing against Camelot’s port, filled by a dozen empty ships and then some.

“But you will, by no means… do it alone.”

Notwithstanding to the small hope Ambrosius laid out in that last line. It was obvious immediately that Arthurus’s thoughts turned from the sympathy he had for his father, toward the determination of his new mission and the faith in his swing.

“As you will, though I have trouble grasping why. We’ve won father, the only thing that should concern us now is our own borders, our own people. If Syagrius falls, then it is what it is. We should not risk our line for the protection of one less fortunate by mere circumstance of their position.” His son’s stance was firm as it was just, to the point it both honored and alarmed Ambrosius.

“But they were our allies Arthurus…” Ambrosius’s plea broke in another wheeze knowing full well his son could take the position of king at any time and deny his father’s command if he truly wanted it. “We are both successors of Rome. If Clovis and that wretched Alaric are allowed to continue, who do you think they’ll set their dogs on next?... Before themselves of course, like they always do.”

“Rome, is that any surprise? They are just as weakened as Sissons.” Arthurus grew irritable, as if he were talking to some petulant child on the street. Without knowing what tragedy could’ve befallen them to act in such a way.

“I get that you don’t see the whole of our situation… And I am sorry for all the coldness I have shown in commands before. But you must understand, Rome is not their target because of its weakness.” Ambrosius’s voice began dropping to a hoarse whisper. “More so, because it has been corrupted. And now we are vulnerable because we will be alone, without Sissons.”

Arthurus knelt beside Ambrosius, since the talk of treachery was something to put aside all other moans against. If what Ambrosius said was true. “Corrupted? That is nothing new to anyone, besides, Rome is far away now.”

“Not as far as you think. Know, that word still travels fast in the occupied south, because of those corrupted in Rome! Between one in particular and the barbarian kings of the west.” Ambrosius paused, afraid of what his son might soon think of him. “…One, which I’ve made the mistake of sharing our strategy with, in my youth. I was only an ambitious general at the time, like you were… I thought it would help with cohesion during our campaigns in Gaul, Syagrius’s father did too… But we could not see how it all could go terribly wrong. And look where that got Syagrius’s family, only death.”

Ambrosius’s nod was subtle, weighing odds in his head only he knew. “But your ways of war are different from mine. Something I never should’ve chastised you over.” Ambrosius then cleared his throat, he’s never spoken so much on a command before.

“The treacherous one I speak of is a Roman himself. Arvandus, who is the most sinful among the two barbarian kings he’s sold information to. His love for fortune has been the root of all evils that befell Sissons. And us, soon enough…” Ambrosius’s eyes shrunk beneath his lids in a small bout of anger and despair for what he’d done. And what he demanded his son of, because of his own folly.

“Arvandus is beyond our reach… But if nothing is done to stop his patronage, those kings of the Franks and Goths. Sissons will fall, and Camelot will see an armada from the south soon after.”

Ambrosius took a ragged breath after laying all that he had to say out. But in those few moments, he felt the hand of his son rest on his own, over the satin fabric. “I will go south then, but by more than your word alone. Though the people know not that they have told me to.” Said Arthurus, as Ambrosius gripped his hand in return. If the lords of Arthurus’s youthful days and all the rest who doubted his fairness in private saw or heard, they would curse that afternoon henceforth.

“But why tell me now, you must’ve had your suspicions for some time?” Arthurus stood up, breaking the last contact he would have with Ambrosius. Before it was time to see to the launch of his own fleet. And to the last goodbye of his wife.

“I was ashamed, until now. The bishop was right, when he once told me… ‘Dying of the flesh, finds a way to straighten the life of the soul.’ Go now, with my blessings that I was too foolish to replace with my complaints in your youth.”

Arthurus nodded, but had no words, the sting in his eye said all that was needed as he began to walk away. For anyone, the burden would be too heavy to bear though Arthurus saw the loss of many. Yet it was no wonder that he should stop and glance back once he reached the door. Where he saw his father, one last time, and could smell the fresh air through the windows. As the old man lay, looking out into the quiet channel once more. Arthurus then left.

But this time, the pass through the hall and down the great stair was much colder.

Part IV, The Days of Preparation

“My lord! I’m afraid I’ve disobeyed.” Lucan began, clearly affable and collated to how he felt before. And clearly, wearing his accustomed attire of red and gold was the reason for this. As the guard which took his liege’s horse, stood beside Lucan’s in a stance more annoyed than disciplined. With Arthurus’s reined in mount casually kicking the dirt off the stones in boredom.

Arthurus, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, spoke not a peep, and how could he so quickly? With a friend’s speech, so opposite to the dour talk he had beforehand. Yet the guard that waited was surely lightened of heart, at each closing step. Bowing, and handing the heir back his rein.

And Arthurus heard plain the sergeant’s armor gnash against itself quickly, making his way back into the shade and onto his regular duty.

“That one either hates me, or this place as much as I.” Lucan made sure to say it lightly, even if the man couldn’t hear a thing under that iron helm. The true worry on the other hand was the quiet state of his friend, which pushed him from his affable voice. “Arthurus?” Lucan didn’t look, instead bent down to pat the mane of his horse, when silence and the effluvium of Arthurus’s sweat made the air cumbersome between the two.

“We’ll trot and talk.” Was more of a statement from Arthurus than a true command given to Lucan, but an odd one, drained of energy. Obviously, from riding and walking all the way for a conversation that Arthurus cared little to have right after a ceremony. Though the contents of that talk, whatever Lucan thought it could be, did not sit well within. Made worse, in motion of Lucan’s stumping horse.

With addition to the distance Arthurus gave without speaking Lucan; was the one to relent first. “Well, we’re moving. Now tell me, while the clean garbs I wear still pleases me. What did your father bid of you?” Lucan glanced elsewhere just the same, at the guards now paying them no mind at opposing ends of the street. Alongside that subtle change from the olden architecture back into the new.

“Alright…” Arthurus more so inhaled the word rather than spat it out. “His command was Gaul. In hope to aid Syagrius, if he’s still breathing. If not. Well, I’ll lead whoever I can there against Clovis, Alaric too.” Arthurus said, slow and flat. He never imagined giving Lucan the grim news instead.

“Oh.” Lucan shut his eyes, as his horse led him down that street to wherever Arthurus would lead them. “…But surely you won’t be heading off alone?” He said, as obligation no matter how bad his complaint was a hard thing to break.

“He mentioned something of ‘help’. So, I surmise those Ambrosius trust’s most will come.” Arthurus then leant toward Lucan.  “Some I may not like…” He added, at last getting both Lucan’s eyes and ears.

“What are you trying to say?” Lucan’s horse, ever following the other, slowed down with Arthurus’s as the street came to an end.

“I’m saying—come with me. You’d make a good mediator between me and them; you’d be more detached. Not forgetting a good runner too by experience, but only if it should come to it. I will not make you, since lord knows this isn’t what I asked for in the first place.” Then, they came to a stop. The impassive glance Arthurus gave, didn’t.

“My life, or my way of it, huh?” Lucan’s mouth was dry in an instant, nearly too dry for another word. “Ahh… The one good thing about this place is clean drinking water. I’d like some and you could use it to wash up. Then I’ll have made my decision.” Lucan thought his comment was a clever one, maybe it only made him look weak.

“Fair enough. We won’t be going anywhere until help arrives. But when they do, come and see me.” Arthurus left with a wave Lucan barely noticed in rubbing the crimson linen worn over his shoulders. Someone in clothes like his wasn’t meant for war. But if it came to it, at least it would hide the blood.

And for three days it ate at Lucan, where sleep was his only reprieve from restless sitting, walking, or eating meals an average Cambrian would fight over for themselves. As the same veterans who nearly slew him in Londinium went about their business in drills or quiet conversation. But at the end of the third day, when Lucan had nothing better to do than quietly observe their drilling, from the second floor of the barracks. He had no idea the time to decide was upon him, with the coming of footsteps down the great balcony on which he stood.

“Are you Lucan?” Were the words that started him back to reason.

“Yes. Forgive me, I was somewhere else. What do you ask of me?” Lucan, resting against the railing, saw the guard’s pants and tunic were a cross-design red and blue. Signifying, the man had a long walk up from port, for a message.

“It’s lord Arthurus, he want’s you to see him immediately.”

Without another word Lucan followed him across the winding side streets all the way to a hidden exit. Leading down the porous limestone cliffs in quick descent of short stairs, dug roughly into the near sheer cliff that’d prove lethal to one of little patience. So, Lucan was lucky he had a guide with him.

In the descent, Lucan saw not only the whole fleet which Arthurus would take. But also, the size each ship alone took up, not only by the hull of every navibus—by the oars too, laying in their downward position. Seeing one of the largest ports, in all the Kingdom of Britannia with its twelve docks filled at their sides and ends. Was masterwork, requiring all sorts of skill and planning from the king downward. Skill, a messenger of the king himself, could only begin to learn by gawking at it.

Another culmination of these two virtues was the help Ambrosius called upon. The multitude in whole must’ve numbered a little more than a hundred at the docks. While four, to five thousand, began to set up tents for those who found no space elsewhere. On one smoother slope, about a mile down the coast. Which shocked Lucan, to be so aloof to such a large force until then. And seeing the attention and persistence of the king was not at all gone.

“It’s not our full might, militarily, but Arthurus has sure made do with less.” The mariner said on the last few stairs, before stepping on level ground, just inside the border wall. “Good luck In Gaul my friend!” He then left Lucan’s side for the closest ship. Happily so, knowing he wasn’t going to be sailing on it most likely.

Sailing in such a great way or not, Lucan thought any sort of true happiness would be hard to achieve in such a choice. And what answer he would have for Arthurus he did not yet know. But maybe the small blessing which the mariner had given was some sign from above. Pushing his thoughts until he approached the multitude crowding the dockyard, mostly made up of infantry moving equipment and weapons onto decks. While mariners stored them properly below.

Cutting through the bulk of them in the garbs of a rich man conflicted with the wears of all the rest. Getting a few confused stares as he searched around, maybe called out to, if anyone of importance had been around. But nowhere in all that commotion did he find Arthurus, not even one of the other lords sent to aid him. Hopefully, Arthurus was not up the slope in the great camp beyond.

Asking around could’ve helped him, but when he came up with the thought he was already on the other side. Besides, the way each person who saw him in that crowd appeared despondent enough.

Continuing, Lucan turned from the armada and scouted the small dock houses, trade and guard posts, even along the small stone border wall. Until he found Arthurus, near the port’s customs house of short bricks. Rebuilt after a Saxon raid Arthurus himself fought off years ago in full armor of restored iron, once wrought for a young centurion. Which was the last conflict Lucan could remember being in amidst the struggle. Partially, by holding up in a nearby building, a past choice that took him months to move on from.

But that day he was out in the open. With Arthurus at a distance, wearing an overcoat of imperial red and pants dyed to copper that tightened below the knees. An outfit unusual for sea faring weather it be trade or transport. Aside from the journey he planned to take, however, it was who Arthurus stood beside that made it make sense. And she sure put Arthurus’s fine clothing to the test.

In a primrose palla trimmed inside the glinting orange of a rising flame, Lucan had no doubt it was Guinevere. Faithful in the word she gave to her husband back in Londinium. And their separation from the crowd forced Lucan to steady himself in his approach.

“Well, you’ve returned each time before, I know. Just never across the water, from a foreign land.” Was the first thing Lucan heard her say before spotting him. All the while Arthurus held her hand in the way of someone with a promise.

Guinevere, surprised at first, easily took her hand away and bowed once she recognized Lucan in the unfamiliar robes. “Ah, Lucan! Arthurus told me more about you. Clearly, my first impression of you was misled. Are you heading off with him, on this morning to come?” She stood straight again with both hands lapped lightly across her collar for Lucan’s answer.

“I hope I’ve given you enough time.” Arthurus spoke up, without impatience or anger, concerning that this was Lucan’s second interruption, by no fault of his own. “…But what say you, now? That were out here, before the largest fleet Brittania has seen in decades.”

Yes, what would he say? With the past three days in a slow burn of indecision, wanting nothing but to be far away from it. “I’m torn, to tell you both the truth. I am a loyal man.” It was true, but he could not look at either of them when he said it. “Yet I feel whoever your father has called, Arthurus. Galahad, Lancelot or whoever, would do better with loyalty in battle than I ever could.”

“That’s where your wrong, Lucan. That I do know about you without question.” Guinevere took a step closer to her husband, for what he thought or knew, she did too. “It seems you two have gotten to know each other greatly in a few years’ time. Then Arthurus has with all the vassals of Ambrosius from the northern wall all the way down to the shore on which we stand.” She disliked speaking this much, especially in ways of persuasion. When it came to the wellbeing of family, however, Guinevere saw it as her duty, nonetheless. “I understand you’d be a long way from home. But loyalty, requires all sorts of sacrifices.”

Once she said this, Lucan noticed Guinevere carried that same look he saw on her before they left Londinium. As the smell of the south that rolled across the channel carried a hint of pungent smoke.

“I am no fighter.” Lucan began turning to the ships, with a deep breath in his lungs. “But when it comes to standing with someone, who’s been fairer to me than all the rest… How can I abdicate the responsibility endowed to me?” He said, and had no need to see, for Lucan knew his answer mattered to them both.

“I’ll go.” At last, he expelled it, as if a weight fell from his chest.

“How wonderful, oh bless you Lucan!” He heard Guinevere nearly shout it before meeting her with a smile that’d say you’re welcome. Though he never got the chance to, when she embraced him like a brother soon as she saw his face.

“I’m grateful and in your debt.” Arthurus his stance of a watchful silence as Guinevere stood beside him again. “As all should be, if they knew you came by your own will. And with all that said and done, would you walk with us back to the castle?” Arthurus took his wife by the hand, his eyes gleaming for just a while. Before the mission came back to the forefront of his mind. “We’ve seen enough of the waterfront for today.”

Lucan on the other hand, thought it best to accustom himself to it. “Go on without me. I’ll see you two here tomorrow. Before the sun should rise, I assume?”

“Of course. Be seeing you.” Said Arthurus.
“Goodbye for now, Lucan.” Guinevere added.

Then they both walked off, holding one hand of the other as Lucan watched them go. In a wonder at the conflict of it. Two lovers amongst the bulk of an army on the move surely made Lucan think he saw everything. Until that sharp smell of something burnt wafted past him again. He gazed out, past the ships to the eerily calm channel in hazy daylight.

Recalling that previous thought and resting against the wall nearby. Once the pungency of the far-off burn began to shift into the faintly sweet smell of roasting meat.

The ending iteration will be released next. Thank you for reading.