Merlin: The Curse of Lanval, #4

By Rebekah Dodson

You're still here? Amazing. We're heading to London, though there is no joy in this for me. I finally found love and I had to send her away. Marie, oh Marie why did I let you touch…

Gill, if you don't stop this, you're going to get us killed!

You're right, Sister.

Anyway, coronation means the end of my reign as Gill, and my true start as King Henry. No more wandering eyes, no more Marie, no more me. History must not get disturbed.

This is the end of my story, of this story. It's about how I die, don't die, save the kingdom, get the girl, don't get the girl, all your typical hero stuff in one book. And the most epic battle, with the most famous sword in history…

But you should read the book if you really want to know what happens to us.

I mean … I don't even know if we make it home. Can you let me know?

Oh, it's totally my fault this time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebekah Dodson
• Release date: Aug 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386392583

Rebekah Dodson

Rebekah Dodson is a prolific word weaver of romance, fantasy, and science fiction novels. Her works include the series Postcards from Paris, The Surrogate, The Curse of Lanval series, several standalone novels, and her upcoming YA novel, Clock City. She has been writing her whole life, with her first published work of historical fiction with 4H Clubs of America at the age of 12, and poetry at the age of 16 with the National Poetry Society. With an extensive academic background including education, history, psychology and English, she currently works as a college professor by day and a writer by night. She resides in Southern Oregon with her husband, two teenagers, and three dogs.

Book preview

Chapter One

Stupors and Stupidity

I COULDN’T SAY HER name. I didn’t want to think about her.

But emptying this mug? That was always on my mind.

It consumed me for six long weeks after I sent Marie away.

December dawned cold and clear. Even worse, this was England, so it would rain for days on end, snow briefly, and then frigid rain would pelt us yet again. It was hard to believe we’d been trapped back in time for two months. Even harder to believe I’d almost died a few times, found the love of my life, and already lost her.

Was this what love felt like? To know someone so fully and completely that being without them was complete agony? If so, I didn’t want it anymore. I couldn’t feel this way. Her smile lit my dreams, and her phantom touch drew across my arms when I slept. The swirl of her magic almost surrounded me when I was alone, only to blink and realize I had imagined it.

I’d saved her life at the cost of my own sanity when I’d sent her away. What had I done?

I’d hardly ever drank before I got to the middle ages. I wasn’t sure why, but I mostly didn’t have the time back before all this shit happened. Long shifts on my ambulance and even longer nights of homework consumed me before I came here, to 1154 A.D., this backward medieval place. I originally arrived in France, but now I was on the English coast. I had somehow ended up king, with a wife I couldn’t stand, and my sister tangled up in a love affair with her. It’s no surprise as king I had an unlimited supply of ale. And when the alcohol was safer than the water and all signs of a normal life were gone, it was hard to resist. I had done such so faithfully up until now, even absent of her and her magic.

I wandered the keep, a glass of ale in my hand. And just like that, old Gill reared his ugly head. In the space of a week after watching the love of my life disappear from sight, I destroyed any semblance of decorum, regency, or propriety. Me, the King of England and France, grabbed the asses of the kitchen maids and made lewd comments. I cracked horrible jokes no one got and spilled ale on the throne and the tapestries. I gave up giving a shit and buried my emotions at the bottom of a mug.

I played my part on the stage next to a queen who could barely stand to look at me. I languished as she sentenced people to death or granted mercy, but rarely any of the latter. Queen Eleanor was a force of nature I couldn't compete with, and I had ceased to care.

Becket demanded so much time at court. So many issues with peasants and their neighbors stealing cows and chickens; wives accused of adultery, and then even brothers who beat each other mercilessly for looking at their daughters the wrong way. This world was so fucked up. No one could be civil, use common sense, or even decency and manners.

Least of all myself.

King Henry, we must discuss your uncle’s forces that press to London, Becket announced one day at court, during a lull in chicken thieves, serfs not working hard enough, or a wife being too drunk to please her husband in a ‘timely’ manner.

Eleanor had excused herself to the privy, and Becket jumped on the chance to get me alone. Ha, joke was on him. I’d had five glasses of ale in the last hour, and my head swam too much to form a coherent sentence.

Sire? Becket pressed again.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. I lapsed from French to my native twenty-first century English. I cleared my throat and forced out the archaic French he was used to. Can we not send an army to crush him?

Most of your army is loyal to your unclem Becket’s voice was so emotionless it rubbed me the wrong way. Becket, of course, knew the secret my sister, Jules, and I kept.

Here, I’ll let you in, too, if you haven’t read the first three books, fuckers. We’re time travelers.

This whole plan to be king was his idea, to keep the country together. It wasn’t going very well. To make matters worse I belonged in the twenty-first century, not the twelfth one.

What? I blinked at him. Never in the twenty-first century would this shit be happening. Oh yeah, we paid our soldiers. They weren’t conscripted like these men were. Rubbing my fuzzy head, I barked, Pay them more then, to come to our side.

Pay, m’lord? Becket blinked wildly at me. Why should we pay our soldiers?

A million responses tore through my mind from my business classes, such as because it evokes loyalty, pride, and commitment to an organization. In this case, it was seedy and underhanded, but so was the entire twelfth century so far.

Instead, I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes. Just see ‘tis done.

Sire, the coffers— he started.

A shiver slid down my back in this chilly throne room as Eleanor daintily sat in the throne next to me. What was discussed in my absence?

M’lord suggests we pay the army to abandon Sir William’s forces.

Eleanor laughed. Verily, ‘tis a crazy notion.

I tilted my head and glared at her, scoffing. Why not pay them?

She shook her head, still chuckling. I suppose we should pay the slaves? Pay the maids as well? The coffers would be bare! At least my own are substantial enough to—

I cleared my throat, interrupting her, the pounding in my head threatening to slur my words again. Becket, I motioned the priest closer to me. If it’s money you need to pay our soldiers, take it from Eleanor, then.

Eleanor gaped at me, speechless for once. Henry... she cautioned me.

I waved her away with my mug, swallowing the last of the disgusting ale. No need to thank me, we shall have our army. We can soon march to London and take back what is ours, and you can continue to be a bitch. I had lapsed into English at the end, my words slurring horribly. I didn’t care. I pushed to my feet and told Becket court was dismissed for the day.

My chambers were a good place to get lost in the bottom of a tankard.

After that, Eleanor spurned me for a few days. I heard whispers about her bad mood—smashing things in her chambers, ordering slaves around harshly. I didn’t fucking care. I chuckled a few times. Where was Jules during all this? Well, she was consumed with her days in the infirmary above me—after Piers, the news of her healer powers spread far and wide. Sick peasants from around Dover flooded the keep. I heard them coming and going, day and night, outside my chambers. They talked of removing boils and treating stomach aches and resetting broken bones.

That should be you up there, some little asshole voice kept harassing me every day. I drowned his sorry ass in the bottom of my ale mug. I was the paramedic, and although Jules had the same training I did, that was my life, my calling. Not king and puppet. As the weeks passed, I grew more reclusive, and started hating my sister with each passing day.

From the window in my chambers, I watched the army grow. Becket had indeed taken from the queen’s money to pay the army, even if they thought I was crazy. Men flooded the keep so quickly the stable boys were called away to help build two new barracks. A row of lean-to shelters spread across the length of the wall as far as I could see.

I let the curtain fall. Why did I care about the army, anyway? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered without her.

Piers pestered me consistently. I guess they must have decided he was too scrawny to be of any use to the builders, or maybe since I saved his life he felt he owed me one. Whatever. They all did. But he wouldn’t leave me alone, nevertheless, annoying me day and night with trivial matters like food and other sustenance.

Especially today.

Lady Julia sent me, sire.

I pushed myself to a sitting position that awful morning. How long had it been? A few days? A week? I wasn’t even sure anymore. My hangover raged, and I threw a hand over my eyes, slinking back into the lumpy bead. Go away, Piers.

Sire, he pressed again.

I’m the king, I mumbled, my voice quickly raising, and I said get the fuck out.

A cold draft poured over me, worse than any ice water would have, as I felt the quilted blanket torn from my body. Dressed in only my thin undershirt, and it being early December, I was about as frozen as I could get.

Hey! I tried some semblance of moving quickly, but it was so cold, my limbs felt frozen already. Piers was standing at the edge of the bed, holding my wad of blankets in his hand, and smiling.

Actually smiling.

Give that back. I reached it. I struggled to my knees, wobbled, and fell back.

Piers laughed in that way of his, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

Did he just chuckle?

Lady Julia said to do that if you wouldn’t wake up.

Visions of my high school years and my sister waking me in such a cruel manner flooded my mind, and I suddenly hated her even more. Piers... I warned him. If you don’t give me that blanket right now, I’ll...

I can run faster, sire. He shrugged, tossing the blanket in the chair next to the fire, which I saw was mostly embers. No wonder it was so cold in here.

Why has my fire died? I barked at him. Call someone to fix it!

He turned and crossed his arms, shaking his head. Today he was wearing a ridiculous tight cap on his head which covered his stringy blond hair. His dark brown tunic was mostly clean, with a white belt about two feet too long tied in a knot at his waist. He looked like a peasant who walked right out of a history book. I almost laughed. Well, I would have if my head wasn’t pounding as hard as fuck.

You’re getting dressed, sire.

Why should I? I knew I sounded like a petulant three-year-old. I didn’t give a shit.

Lady Marie’s horse has returned.

What? I shot out of bed then, my headache pressing painfully at my temples and my legs nearly giving out. I pulled on the pants that were slung over the bottom of the bed, hopping on one foot as I pressed the other into the scratchy wool.

Piers giggled at me the entire time.

Stop laughing and help me! I was trying to get mad at him, but I couldn’t. I was still a little drunk, and surely over the legal limit. Wait, what? I had to remind myself there wasn’t such a thing here, not where people openly pissed in the streets, took child brides, and raped women with no fear of consequence! Yeah, fuck DUIs. Can one drink and horse in the middle ages?

Piers was full on laughing now, and I realized I’d blurted the last bit out loud.

Yes, he managed between chortles. Sometimes he reminded me of that really geeky theater kid who laughed too hard at all the that’s what she said jokes in eighth grade. You know, back when they were funny.

Oh, who was I kidding? They were always funny. I wished again someone understood them in this time.

His laughter was contagious, somehow dispelling my momentary anger, and I started to chuckle as well. He threw my cloak around my shoulders and handed me stockings and boots. I was slow, clumsy, and mostly still intoxicated, but laughing felt good. It had been so long. I tried to imagine Piers as one of the kids in baggy sweatpants and thick glasses perched on his nose. Glasses wouldn’t even exist for a hundred years or so. Sweatpants, almost eight-hundred years from now. And I was a firm believer whoever invented those should be shot anyway. What an awful mistake those were.

I see you’re still drunk, came a voice from the doorway as I was clasping the red fur-lined cloak around my neck.

I see you’re still a bitch, I answered Eleanor promptly; surprised in my drunkard state, I still had my quips about me. Damn Gill, you’re good, my inner voice cheered me on.

She shook her head. Where do you think you are going? Becket has called us to court. It seems the local beekeeper has an issue with...

I waved her away. I’m going to the stables. You deal with it. With me, boy. I pushed past her, not even listening to her huff and puff about it.

She was a lot like a dragon, spewing fire, and hoarding gold. She pissed me off. Fuck, were there dragons here?

Piers led the way out of the keep, heads turning in court, and Becket called after me. I did my best not to stumble; it was hard to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. Like a grand stage, I held my head high and nodded to the courtiers as we exited the open oak doors.

The sun was too bright. I blinked against it. I realized it had been weeks since I’d been in direct sunlight. Piers was still hiding a giggle under his hand.

Ugh, I moaned, I hope the stable isn’t too far.

It really wasn’t. We skirted the edge of the growing army encampment, which was now a few hundred soldiers strong. I froze at the edge of a corral filled with twenty horses. Where did they all come from? I asked Piers.

Far and wide, sire, I am told. They have heard you are a fair and just king.

Really? I stared at him. Fair and just, eh? I’m a drunkard and an asshole.

Piers shrugged. Aye, there is the offer of gold.

Aye. I knew he was right.

The king’s stable was nothing compared to the array of armored horses I had seen. Only six stalls long, but each one held a magnificent steed. Good god, they looked bigger and more majestic than the ones we had ridden in France. The big black at the end stomped and snorted, eyeing me impatiently.

A stable lad, much younger than Piers and not a day over ten, hopped up from a stool where he’d been dozing. He rubbed his eyes and peered at us. He must have recognized he was in the presence of royalty because he immediately dropped to his knees. Majesty, he murmured at me, looking at the straw laden dirt floor. I motioned him up.

When did the black gelding arrive? I asked him.

A few hours ago, sire. I sent my brother Braeden to alert Captain Blaxton.

Piers nodded. He came to Lady Julia in the infirmary, and she sent me to you right away.

I nodded to the boy with a fake smile pressed on my face. Good lad. I strode past him to the horse, patting his face firmly and pressing my head to his nose.

Did he come saddled? I turned to the boy.

Just this, milord. He pressed a small leather pouch in my hand. I turned it over. It was the same one I had given the soldier to hand her, full of coin, but now it was empty.

Well, almost. There was something long and bulkier that poked out the end. I drew the strings and upended it in my palm, and a small wooden figure fell out, along with three dried berries, crinkled and brown. The carving was a crude man, sitting with legs crossed, holding a large ring in one hand with three prongs extending from the end. Multi-pronged antlers extended from the head.

What the actual fuck?

I knew it was from her.

How did I know?

Well for one, it reminded me of her wand, which I had burned.

I sat heavily on the bed. God, I was an asshole. Why had I done that? I sent her away, without even her magic. I left her defenseless. I had wanted to prevent her death, but I had sent her to it.

Yup, asshole.

What is this? I asked Piers, holding it out for him to see.

He shrugged. I know not, sire.

I shook my head, pushing it back into the pouch along with the dried berries, and hid it in the folds of my tunic. I regarded Piers. Care for a ride?

Piers frowned a little. With me, sire?

I nodded. You have your sling?

Piers patted the side of his tunic. Always, sire.

I desire to shoot some shit, I announced, aware neither of them understood me.

Piers sensed what I meant, however, and nodded. Aye, same.

I grinned at that. He wasn’t unlike many teenagers from my time in that respect. He also always seemed to read my mind. He was just like, well, her.

I motioned toward the lad to saddle the black and the smaller tan and white geldings in the next stall over. He hastily threw a threadbare blanket and rudimentary saddle on both of them, apologizing over and over for the poor quality unbefitting a king. When he was done, and we had led the horses out of the stable, I patted him on the shoulder. Go up to the kitchens and tell Morgaine I sent you for bread and cheese.

Cheese? he gazed at me with such wide eyes and open jaw it made me laugh. I forgot how much of a luxury such things were in this time.

I nodded my head. Aye, cheese.

He whooped so loud it pained my aching head, and I watched him race toward the keep at an awkward lumber. It was then I realized his left foot was turned inwards, and I almost groaned. The poor boy had a club foot I recognized, which wasn’t something I could easily fix, not without re-breaking it and causing him much pain and probably a loss of his livelihood as a stable boy.

What I wouldn’t give for modern medicine or even proper diets. It killed me as a paramedic to see how much the children suffered in this time.

Piers was already on his horse, pulling the reigns to him. Are we off, sire?

Indeed. I mounted the black, feeling his strong weight under me. He had carried her to... who knew where. I patted the pouch on my right side. She wanted me to know she was safe, wherever she was.

God, I missed her. I hoped she knew I had to send her away, and it was the hardest thing I had ever done.

Hyah! I yelled, digging my heels into the horse’s side.

PIERS KEPT PACE WITH me as we let the horses run down the bumpy, narrow road that led away from Dover Keep. Part of me wanted to let the gelding run free, to find her, but I knew leaving the castle too far behind us was dangerous. It was mid-morning, and the bandits from our travel here were still fresh on my mind. But the frigid early winter air cleared my head and my brain, and I remembered how different the air smelled in this time. Not a hint of smog or pollution, only pine trees, wildflowers, and of course, that tinge of shit and piss that tainted everything, even outside the castle walls. We passed a field full of peasants, who looked up from their wooden pitchforks where they pulled hay into great piles. A few of them waved. I veered the black off the road, into a field that faced a row of sparse trees. In front of the forest line, there were fresh trunks cut low to the ground in a random order; I supposed to build the barracks I had watched grow over the last week as my army continued to expand.

This will do, I suppose, I murmured.

I pulled the horse to the stop, Piers reigning next to me. I threw both our reigns over a thick branch on one of the fallen logs that lay abandoned in the field.

Your sling? Let me see it, I demanded.

Sire? He pulled it from his pocket, staring at me in confusion.

Teach me how to use it.

But sire, a king...

I shook my head. None of that. You’re a crack shot. Teach me your ways.

The boy beamed, his missing teeth showing through his smile. Gladly.

I don’t know how long we spent setting up fallen pinecones on an assortment of branches on the tree stumps, while I practiced using such a basic weapon. My duel with Gerard had taught me how shit I was with a sword, and so I thought maybe this was the next best thing.

But I was awful with this, too.

Aim is everything, sire, Piers chuckled at me as I missed yet again. He took the sling from me, loaded a pebble, and closed his eyes. The pinecone went flying.

You’re good at that, I told him as he handed the sling back to me.

Aye, you have to be when you need rabbits to feed your family. He trotted out to the stumps to reset our firing range.

I turned over the wooden handle, fingering the leather straps that held it together as he jogged back. How old are you, Piers?

I’m not sure, sire. I suppose about fourteen years, maybe.

Your parents are both dead? I aimed the sling at the pinecone, missed.

Aye, and my sister and brother, both.

I’m sorry. Another pebble pinged off the stump next to the pinecone.

He shrugged. I was sent to the castle when I was ten to aid a knight, but the fever took him as well. I heard news of my parents a few years ago, but by then I was already serving Your Lord’s household. The queen was quite distraught, as I remember her sister had passed.

The queen gets pissed about a lot. I aimed the last small rock at the pinecone and imagined the queen’s face.

Hit!

Piers whooped and shot a fist into the air. I will teach m’lord yet! He yelled.

Shhh. We’re out here without a guard, let’s not draw attention to ourselves.

He smiled wide, his lips so parted, he looked like a strange human-hyena. Aye, sire. He pressed another rock into my hand. Again!

It dawned on me that Piers was probably a little, maybe slightly, autistic. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? In my time, kids like him were shuffled to special education and offered such little opportunities for the future. In my high school, they always got awards and special treatment, and my crew and I had teased them mercilessly. Yet, here was this lad, oblivious anything was different about this life, that he was different from everyone else. And he seemed happy almost all the time. Happy, and what’s more, capable of dealing with whatever life tossed his way. What had our time done to those with special needs that we forced them to live in a box of our own expectations? Piers loved to fish, shoot his sling, and was glad to do anything asked of him. So what if he couldn’t read or write? That shit was overrated, especially in this time. Come on, it is the twelfth century, after all.

He had survived a drowning and the plague. He was a tough little fucker.

I reached over and ruffled his hair. You’re a good kid, Piers.

He beamed up at me, saying nothing.

I hit the target again and again, and each time Piers treated it like I was winning a gold medal. It did wonders for my self-esteem, which surprisingly had dwindled lately for the first time in my life. I felt my hangover rapidly waning. My head was clear once again, for the first time in what seemed like forever.

The sun that had followed us out here disappeared as dark clouds rolled in quickly. I hadn’t even noticed. A snowflake hit my hand, stark and cold, dissolving as rapidly as it had come. Then another, and another. In the distance, I could hear the peasants in the field shouting at each other, too far for us to understand clearly.

I handed the sling back to Piers. We’d better get back to the castle before this storm really hits.

He took the sling and nodded. Aye, sire.

We mounted our horses and made it back in record time, the snow falling hard and heavy. Did it actually snow this much in England? I couldn’t remember. But it was December and shit, it was cold and windy. And of course, rainy. Now, however, the sun shone bright, though it was little above freezing.

We reached the stables where the boy was back, sitting outside the small building on the ground, chomping on a piece of bread the size of his narrow head. He threw it down as we approached, jumping up to catch my reigns. He and Piers led the horses back into the stalls, as I ducked in out of the storm. I nearly tripped over a pewter plate laden with cheese and apples.

I see the kitchen girl found you food.

He beamed up at me. Aye sire, the raven-haired one. She’s beautiful.

Piers chuckled, shaking his head.

I knew the boy meant Morgaine, the sultry servant to the queen, who kept making googly eyes at me all the time. My lady’s face floated in my vision, so sharp and clear, it nearly rocked me from my feet. Don’t even think about it, I told both boys. Women are trouble.

They both stared at me as if I had announced, Elephants are gray. I knew neither of them had any clue what I was talking about: women or elephants.

They looked at each other, and both mumbled something in French I didn’t understand. They stifled giggles, the way only young boys can, and cast me a nervous glance.

What is it?

Piers stared downward, shoving a pile of dirt around with the front of his foot. The stable boy wouldn’t look me in the eye.

Tell me. I tried my hardest to be gentle with them.

Piers gazed up at me then. He says that he doesn’t know how the women could like such a king as you, sire.

Such a king?

Aye. Piers ran a hand over his leather cap. He tells me you look like a Wildman from the west, and not a king.

A Wildman, huh? I stroked my beard, which was growing in at an alarming rate. I couldn’t believe I spent most of my teenage life wishing I had a beard, only to give up by the time I was seventeen, and then shave clean every day for work. That seemed like so long ago, even though it had only been a few months.

The stable boy snickered. Kings do not have such long hair, either, sire.

I ran a hand over my hair then. Perhaps it was time to take care of this gruff. I’ll see what I can do.

The boys looked at each other again and giggled.

I shook my head and motioned for Piers to follow me back to the keep.

Chapter Two

My Father’s Image

EVERYTHING WAS GETTING back to normal when we reached the castle, that was, until I saw her. Like a ghostly apparition in that red dress I’d first seen her in, she floated out of my field of vision and down a hallway in the small keep that had been my home for the last three weeks. I could hear the soft patter of her leather shoes on the stairway.

Piers gaggled up at me. Sire? Are you well?

I pushed myself out of my frozen state and ruffled his hair. Yes, I am well enough. Now off with you! He didn’t waste any time scurrying back the way we had come.

Me? I headed directly to the kitchen.

For the kitchen had ale.

None of the pretty kitchen girls were in there to fetch the ale, and that was probably for the best. There was only the old hag pulling sweet rolls from the oven, eyeing me nervously at the thought a king would be drinking in her kitchen and not in his chambers. I didn’t care. The pitcher sitting on the wooden counter looked better than any kitchen girl, or sweet roll, for that matter.

I’m not a drunk. I poured a tankard from one of the shelves. It was pewter and plain, as gray as all my days felt since I’d sent her away. The baking hag scurried out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron as she fled. I didn’t even pay her much attention.

What the hell was wrong with me? A day out with Piers had cleared my head, and I ran right to the drink again. This wasn’t me, this wasn’t Guillaume Lanval, who hit the books and always showed up for work fifteen minutes before his shift. I never drank, and I never ignored my duties.

But being a king had me all twisted from who I was three months ago.

Nut up, you fool, that voice was plaguing me again. This isn’t your first stay at heartbreak hotel.

I know, I wanted to say, answering it for the first time in forever, but it’s a stay I’d rather not experience.

You know that’s what drunks say.

Shut the hell up.

I drowned my snarky little inner voice with a gulp of ale, then another, and another.

I left the kitchen, stumbled up the stairs, and collapsed against the wall, gripping my half full mug and the pitcher as tight as I could. They seemed to have a mind of their own and sloshed everywhere, spilling the sticky substances on walls and stone floors.

I’m not a drunk, I thought again at the end of the hall, staring into my mug. Drunks go to meetings.

Well if that isn’t the most intelligent thing you have uttered in a while, I don’t know what is.

My sister leaned against the door frame with her arms crossed, frowning at me.

Where was I again? Behind her, the moans of the sick filtered down the breezy stone walls, and I realized I must have made my way to the infirmary somehow. Hadn’t I just been in the kitchen?

I glared at her as I threw back the drink and poured another. My fuzzy brain took a minute to process I’d spoken out loud to the previously empty hallway. Stones, slings, and seeing my love again filled my head. My hangover headache came back full force, numbed only dully by the mug in hand. I downed it again and poured the pitcher for the fourth, or something, time.

Jules strode forward