A/N: Just so I don't lose anyone, remember this chapter will go back in time about a month, and we won't catch up to Gwaine/Merlin/Mithian til next chapter…
Part V: Arthur and Guinevere
Chapter 21: Arthur
"Run, my lord! We'll hold them off!" Sir Carados' eyes were wide, his thick hair clumped with sweat, even in the cold air of almost-winter, and maybe with blood.
Arthur hesitated.
In one instant transported in memory, back to a day when he'd given a single command to his manservant – who hadn't been Orryn. And who hadn't obeyed. Whose disobedience had included years of magic – and because they'd stayed and fought, they'd won.
Because they'd stayed and fought, Merlin had been captured and tortured and nearly killed… and freed, to free Arthur's mind and understanding also. So he hesitated.
Because this wasn't a band of opportunists with shaky loyalties and questionable skill, that they'd caught up with outside Stonedown. These were mercenaries, he guessed now, with some history – fierce and committed and nearly a match for the knights he'd brought, individually –
He wished he'd brought Gwaine. And Percival, and Leon.
And Merlin.
But they were also outnumbered. And losing fast. Surrender was not to be thought of, not for the king of Camelot –
So Arthur ran. It was rough ground, stony and steep, and the cold air pinched and pasted his nostrils and lungs; running in chainmail felt quite a lot like running in water. He risked a glance over his shoulder – and his heart dropped to see at least half of the enemy force giving chase.
The other half was still more than enough to slaughter his remaining men – three still standing – two –
He topped a hill and leaped, letting himself slide down the other side, hoping to put some significant distance between himself and his pursuers swiftly, hoping to find a place where he could lose them – or just evade them until they gave up.
His breath pounded in an out, a firmly controlled rhythm. Dust rose as he skidded to the bottom of the hill, where trees nearly concealed the folding of the land that formed ravines. If he kept to the ridges, they'd see him, so he darted downward. The earth was hard with frost – maybe he wouldn't leave enough of a trail for them to follow.
He thought of Guinevere, who hadn't wanted him to come. The smile she gave him at parting, that hadn't really covered her worry. He thought of Lancelot, who'd offered to come – and Ally who'd smiled in relief when Arthur declined the suggestion.
And if he escaped, he'd have to walk into Camelot, admitting his failure and the loss of his men. But if he didn't escape…
Arthur scrambled up a little rise – to find the walls of the ravine closing in, and ending.
"Dammit!"
He cast another glance back – they were twenty paces and closing – then threw himself at the far wall. Dropping the sword he'd kept hold of this long because there was no time to pause and re-sheathe it, he launched himself upward, scrabbling at the earth for purchase – root or rock. If he could get up and over, maybe no one would follow – or few enough that he could deal with, and be gone before the rest found another way to –
Faint twang. Definite thud of a crossbow bolt burying itself in the steep bank inches from his hand. Instinctively he froze.
"Next one draws blood," one of his enemies drawled arrogantly. "Come down. My lord."
Dammit. Arthur held his position, breathing hard against the cold mud inches from his face, and could think of no other way of living through this, as was his duty now as king.
Then again, it was a lesson he'd learned on his return from his knight's quest to the Perilous Lands, wasn't it. Sometimes it was his pride that had to be sacrificed for the good of the kingdom. To honor the sacrifice already made by his men, for his life – a sacrifice he was no longer free to make.
He dropped down, spinning and bending to reach for his discarded sword – but the mercenaries had well and truly caught up. One man whose dingy blue-purple scarf left only eyes showing shoved him back against the bank hard enough to steal his breath for a heartbeat, while another picked up Arthur's sword; he was glad he'd left his Merlin-blade in Camelot. Two others that he saw held crossbows, ready to fire.
Their comrades drew close like a pack of panting, hungry wolves with dark shifty eyes, and the alpha made his way through. A middle-aged man with gray in his shaggy hair and white in his beard, and even his sneer was wolfish.
"Your name," he demanded, "and where you're from."
"I refuse," Arthur said, testing. "I didn't surrender."
"Well, if you don't want us to ransom you…" The leader turned away, making a cut-throat signal to the man holding Arthur's sword – and he raised it unhesitatingly.
"No!" someone else called out, anguished. "You can't! That's the king!"
The horde shuffled a half-step back, all eyes on Arthur. The leader, however, waited til his men had moved aside to reveal young Carados stripped of his treasured crimson knights' cloak, already a bound and bleeding captive.
"You say this is your king?" the mercenary captain questioned him. "King Arthur of Camelot?"
Carados, his eyes on Arthur, nodded. The mercenary turned back to him, and Arthur straightened, shoving away from the man who held him.
"Well," the leader sneered. "I had no idea I rated the king himself." His men chuckled snidely. "Then again, this king seems too highly rated, after all."
Arthur's attention was caught by an ornament that had swung free of the man's shirt and hung down on the braided-leather breastplate. A silver crescent, pendant from its horns, with tiny silver balls attached to each point.
"You're Caerleon," he said without thinking.
"And you're Camelot." The other king's grin widened. "Mine."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur didn't expect accommodations in Caerleon to be like those he'd enjoyed in Mercia, or Gawant. But when he was jerked to a stop by the warrior who held his bound wrists, and the burlap bag tugged off his head, he was a little surprised at the cell where he'd been taken.
As bad as the one where Merlin had been held for Aerldan. Completely empty, save for a heap of straw years old and foul.
He couldn't help thinking of a time, years ago, when his father had arrested Bayard of Mercia on suspicion of attempting to poison his heir. Bayard had been locked in a room with a bed and a window and a chair. Linens, and a chamber pot and a hearth.
Arthur lifted his head and found Caerleon, loitering outside the iron bars that formed one side of his stone-walled prison. "What the hell is this?"
"Your new home, boy." Caerleon chuckled, echoed by the handful of his men who'd accompanied them, and the rude laughter bounced and chased ominously around the cells.
"Is this the best your kingdom has to offer, then?" Arthur demanded, suppressing his apprehension with sarcasm.
"You best learn to watch your manners with your host." Caerleon shifted to allow another to pass - one of his men, who preferred to wrap his head to the eyes in a dark scarf.
The man held a pair of cuffs in one hand – bound with strips of wool, it looked like – and the connecting chain in the other. He passed one of the cuffs through a wide iron ring bolted to the wall, and extended the manacles to Arthur, who refused to cooperate.
"You can't treat me like this," he reminded the other king. "Already you risk war-"
"Can and can't are what I say they are, here," Caerleon sneered. "And we're not afraid of a little fighting, are we, boys? No, King Arthur – by the time I'm done with you, there won't be a war. There won't be the need."
Arthur realized he hadn't truly understood what he thought he'd known of Caerleon. A warrior who tested a new king's resolve in the most literal way, raiding across a border he wouldn't respect unless he was forced to. A conqueror who wouldn't follow custom when fellow royalty was captured – he'd do whatever he thought he could get away with. Arthur didn't think even his father had been that brutal, and couldn't quite deny a tremor of nerves, up his spine.
"You don't intend to ransom me?" he said. Such an arrangement almost required decent care of the person restored for a price.
Caerleon sneered. "Maybe in time."
He gestured, and the warrior who'd led Arthur, who'd removed the hood, who was mostly behind him, moved more quickly than he could react. He punched Arthur just under the ribs, in the side of his back – a vicious blow that sent Arthur to one knee, gasping and arching against the pain. The man with the cuffs moved almost as swiftly – clicking them into place at Arthur's wrists, locking them shut before he removed the cord-bindings.
Then both exited the cell, and Caerleon pulled the iron-barred door shut with a shriek of rusty hinges. That was locked also, and Arthur shifted so he could clap a hand to his bruised back in support, and stand again in spite of the pain.
"Your father was not a patient man," Caerleon said to him. "I look forward to finding out, what kind of a man you are."
"Caerleon, I'm warning you – don't do anything you're going to regret," Arthur said.
The king laughed – the warriors laughed – not as sycophants indulging a capricious ruler, but as a group of like-minded comrades. They turned away, retreating slowly down an aisle between other cells – empty, Arthur thought – as Caerleon moved between them to lead them out.
Arthur kept his chin up and his fists clenched through several backwards glances. Through the last man moving out of sight, and voices dropping away to a faint murmur. Through the dripping of water, and the faraway flicker of candlelight left to him.
"Carados?" he called. Before the sack had been fitted roughly over his head, just after his capture on the moors, he'd seen his captors preparing his young knight for similar transport. If they hadn't killed him then and there, Arthur could hope that the young man had survived, but – there was no answer. "Carados!"
Drip. Drip. Flicker.
Maybe it meant that Carados had been sent back to Camelot as a messenger. Arthur wondered how long it would take him to make the trip – refused to consider any accident befalling him on the way. He wondered how much Caerleon would ask for – whether Leon and the council would bargain or comply – and how the insult of this cell factored into Caerleon's plans. He himself was thinking seriously of mustering the army come spring, and retaking Stonedown at least. Maybe a few more towns – Evorwick had been part of Uther's treaty with Caerleon's father, years ago.
He wondered how long he could stand before he'd be forced to sit on the grimy stone. Sleep sitting up, obviously, and there was no way he was touching the pile of straw in the corner.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Time passed, and maybe boredom and isolation made Arthur's mind and body assume more of it, than was reality. Days, it felt like.
He paced as far as the chains allowed. Tested how he could change position by twisting, himself and the chain connecting the cuffs, to face the open iron bars, or the back stone wall. He examined each inch of his bonds for weaknesses that he could exploit – though he wouldn't allow himself to despair at the irrationality of planning to fight his way through Caerleon's stronghold and out and home. First things first.
But there was no weakness in the chain, or cuffs, or the ring bolted to the wall. No crumbling mortar between stones in the wall for him to chip at – and he couldn't reach the iron-barred wall.
He was forced to relieve himself, as he waited, maneuvering himself as far from the anchoring ring as he could get. And wondered if he was glad, after all, that there were no other prisoners. No company – but no humiliation at a lack of privacy, either.
The chains didn't allow enough movement to be counted as exercise. His legs ached. His back ached. He considered, if they brought water that could be considered extra, if he'd use it to scrub a patch of floor and wall, and sit – except that he had no brush, or cloth that wasn't clothing. He thought about stains on the seat of his trousers, on the back of his gambeson, since they'd taken his armor, and his hips ached and his head ached and his stomach pinched.
His head spun when he made another turn of short pacing – and he sat down. Began to imagine he could feel the foul damp seep through his clothing.
The sound of scuffing footfalls pricked his ears, and he was on his feet again when a guard appeared, a horn cup held awkwardly in one hand, and a torch in the other. In Camelot the prisoners were fed twice a day, their meals brought on a tray by a servant.
"Finally," Arthur said. He couldn't help himself. "Tell your lord that the service of his castle is abysmal."
The guard stopped three paces from the cell. "Do you want this or not?"
Arthur couldn't gather enough spit to swallow without coughing. He considered whether he should refuse, on principle – and then wondered if the defiance would even reach the king's ears. Or if Caerleon would care. He turned sideways to the man, deliberately, and lifted his chin.
The man grunted derisively, taking the final steps. Setting the torch into a bracket on the wall outside the cell – Arthur saw from the corner of his eye - he transferred something from the hand that held the cup into the other. When he chucked the object between the bars and into the cell with a dry rattle at Arthur's feet, Arthur didn't look down. The guard didn't unlock the door, instead reaching through to set the cup down. Then reclaimed his torch and turned to leave.
"How long have I been here?" Arthur asked, before he knew he intended to speak.
The guard only snorted, and walked away without answering.
Arthur looked down, to find a heel of bread at his feet. Oh, disgusting. He picked it up – his stomach growled and his mind rebelled; he was determined that Caerleon would not humiliate him. Perhaps the king was waiting just out of sight, ready to mock Arthur's acceptance of a mean beggar's scrap.
Then again… maybe not. He knew that the lack of external time indicators could severely stress a prisoner's mind, and that torturers like Aerldan could deliberately confuse those senses further with irregularly spaced mealtimes.
If this could be called a meal. Hostages held for ransom were different than captives to be tortured for information, and treated accordingly. A king very clearly fell into the former category. What were Caerleon's intentions?
He should probably eat it. He didn't know when they'd give him anything else. And though the bread was stale and hard, it wasn't actually dirty – at least as far as he could make out in the dim light. Three bites, and it was gone, swallowed painfully into a stomach that cramped greedily and possessively around the morsel.
And the horn cup was out of reach, even if he allowed one arm to be pulled behind him, as far as he could make his body stretch. He tried kneeling and leaning forward, intending to catch the rim with his teeth – and couldn't. He finally stretched full length on his back on the floor, picking the cup up carefully between his boots, and scooting it closer by bending his knees. Closer, and closer, til he could reach it with one hand.
And no one came to laugh at his ridiculous antics.
And the cup was only half-full, even though he hadn't spilled a drop.
It occurred to him that he was exhausted, and he'd already stretched himself on the floor – if his clothes were going to soak in stains or smells, they'd probably already done so.
But he ignored the idea of trying to sleep, and instead stomped on the horn cup til it splintered. Then bloodied his fingers trying to find a piece that could be made to pick the lock on the cuffs. That lock, then the one on the cell door; if he surprised a guard he could hope for a dagger at least, and then jump someone else for a sword or a bow, and if he was really lucky –
The splinters bent and snapped bits off, and his eyes grew heavy and his head throbbed because the bread and water hadn't been enough.
He woke with an upward jerk of his head, sending a spasm of pain through his horribly stiff neck. And worked another splinter off the horn cup, to try to finesse or force the lock. He didn't stop til the cup was in a thousand blunted slivers and more than one jammed under his skin til he couldn't help thinking of Aerldan's pins under Merlin's fingernails and torture controlled by the king. He found himself staring at the bits of horn cup on the ground and wondering if there was any nutritional value in them. Wondering if he could conceal any of them for an effective weapon, when the guards came back.
Surely Carados was in Camelot by now.
Arthur startled awake again, his chin up from his chest and his arms uncurling with a rattle of chains, when the guard – same one or another, he didn't know – approached the cell with a torch and another handful. A dipper and another crust, he thought – but the man stopped short of the cell, again.
"Where's yer cup?" he demanded.
Arthur pushed himself to his feet. "It broke," he said, as arrogantly careless as he could. "I dropped it."
The guard – scarf covering his hair and forehead to his eyebrows, beard as long as his chest – stared at him for a few moments. Then he turned on his heel to head back the way he'd come.
Arthur had to squelch the urge to call after him, apologize, beg him not to go without passing along the food and water. He didn't stand long, either, before black spots swam before his eyes and it was a choice of sit down or fall down.
It might, he thought, be possible to die of boredom.
And then, unexpectedly, Caerleon himself came, striding down the aisle with a torch that flared painfully in Arthur's vision, used now to the dim of the prison. He was followed by a pair of men carrying something Arthur couldn't see behind the king, once he was on his feet. The king set the torch in the wall-bracket, and produced a key to unlock and enter the cell.
"It's come to my attention that you threw a tantrum over the tableware you've been given," Caerleon said mockingly. "I'm afraid we're going to have to confiscate your boots so this doesn't happen again."
"When my council ransoms me," Arthur said, and his voice sounded at once too raspy and not strong enough.
"If," Caerleon countered before he could finish – and slammed his fist into Arthur's gut.
When he doubled over gasping, the older man pushed him unceremoniously to the floor. One of his warriors entered and yanked Arthur's boots off, no matter how he tried to kick and curl his toes. Glaring, Arthur managed to get his knees under him.
"Caerleon, I swear you're going to regret –"
The older man ignored him to drawl, "But, without your cup, I'm sure you must be thirsty by now."
Involuntarily, Arthur tried to swallow – his throat stuck shut, and he couldn't force any more words out, not to threaten or negotiate. Not to plead. Yes, dammit – really thirsty.
Caerleon stepped aside, and the one warrior tossed away Arthur's boots to help his comrade pick up what looked like a laundry wash-tub. Sloshing full of enough water to satisfy the needs of Arthur's body, within and without, and thoroughly scrub the entire cell. He watched, confused, as they brought it into the cell and set it down; when he tried to get his feet under him, Caerleon clamped down on the muscle joining his neck to his right shoulder, and Arthur was forced to stay on his knees.
"Allow my men to assist you, Majesty," the king sneered.
As he backed away, the two warriors loomed over Arthur – he scrambled back to give himself space, trying to avoid their attempts to catch and hold him, punching awkwardly. More than once his fist didn't land, snatched short by the chain and padded cuffs, and kicking without boots didn't work any better. The lack of food and water and decent rest had weakened him, and they wrestled him to his knees, stretched him forward so his arms swung behind him.
And when both men at his sides – one kneeling, one crouching – twisted a hand in his gambeson over his shoulder blades to bend him down toward the tub, he understood.
Enough to fight again – and to panic quietly when it did no good and his breath stirred and rippled the surface of the water and humiliation was no longer a concern.
His face plunged under the surface.
He held his breath, trying to turn his head one way or the other – they had a hold of his hair and he couldn't so much as free his ears of the muting water. He kicked, and struggled.
And then he was fighting his own body, needing to breathe and knowing he couldn't, and there was no rational thought or plan at all, just thrashing terrified that Caerleon meant to drown him like a crippled pup right here and now.
His arms pulled at their sockets, and the rim of the tub clattered on his ribs. The iron grip on his head slackened and he gasped in air around the water trickling down his face, blinded for the instant.
Three lung-fulls. Half of a fourth.
Caerleon mumbled something, and they pushed him down again.
Oh hells oh hells - He was helpless. Couldn't stop them, couldn't stop himself – he was in control of nothing and no one –
The pressure relented again, and he choked trying to breathe and cough and not dunk himself – bands of pain squeezed his chest and his knees and the tops of his unshod feet burned from trying to kick or push his way free.
When he was released he flopped backwards, nearly dislocating his arms before he got them untwisted. Air, was all he could think about, raggedly sucking it in – releasing it reluctantly to quick gulp another breath. His hair dripped water in his face, and he blinked up at Caerleon standing over him as he wallowed on the floor. A silver edge of light glinted in his hand and Arthur flinched as the other king bent.
"Oh, look – it seems you've spilled on your jacket," Caerleon rasped. "I would be a terrible host if I allowed you to continue wearing it in such a condition."
One by one, he slit the buttons off the gambeson, then sawed the fabric right off one arm, then the other. Arthur believed he wouldn't care if he ripped flesh as he was doing it, but he didn't so much as draw blood.
Arthur was shivering with reaction by the time he was done. He realized the other two had removed the tub while Caerleon removed his padded jacket, and shifted to try for a more upright position as the other king let himself out of the cell, locking it behind him.
"Perhaps next time we'll have more opportunity to talk." Caerleon bent to pick up Arthur's discarded boots, and tucked them under his arm with the ruined gambeson. "If you can remember your manners."
Arthur watched him take down the torch, turn his back and stalk out of sight down the row of cells and around the corner.
He spent considerable time trying to decide if he wished he'd hurled some parting bit of sarcasm at his captor, or not.
And then, slowly and with private but very real shame, positioned himself that he might sip some of the spilled water from the slight depressions in the filthy stone of the floor.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
It was a recurring thought. He wasn't sure, himself, if he was being patiently canny, or slowly cowed.
He did know that he wasn't good at doing nothing. Thinking or waiting, not for extended periods of time; Gaius always told him he was a terrible patient.
Sometimes he raged, yanking ineffectually at the chains that bruised his wrists without breaking the skin. He was furious with himself for leaving Camelot and for losing the battle; he was furious with Caerleon and with each and every one of his enemy's men.
Don't hate, Merlin's voice whispered, you're better than that.
Sometimes he was furious with Merlin. Because Merlin was a private hope he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge – and every moment that passed without miraculous rescue was an unfair and irrational disappointment. Merlin was in Nemeth, not Camelot – and did he really want his friend to risk himself so? The ghost of a fear drifted around the edges of that deliberately-ignored hope – what if Merlin had risked, and failed. Would Arthur even know.
Then sometimes he turned to stewing with worry for what conversation Caerleon had planned. Torture for information, after all, as illogical as that was? In that case, there would be no ransom and no freedom, and the most Arthur could hope for was a mistake on the part of his handlers, and a quick death. In the flickering candlelight and the dripping water he could hear when he was still, Arthur was afraid to be tested. Afraid that sooner or later, his will would break – and maybe without him even realizing it. And if Carados had not been sent with the demand for ransom, then Camelot would not know he was still alive – and Merlin would not ever come.
Sometimes he could think of nothing but the miserable pinching of his stomach. He was given crusts, periodically, though never enough. He was given another horn cup; occasionally refilled with water, because he left it unbroken. And seethed that he couldn't risk showing defiance and independence, snatching some freedom of will, by breaking another cup.
As it turned out, it didn't matter. After he'd been given bread and water twice more – which two meals of the day? or two days, and only one meal each? – Caerleon returned.
Again followed by two of his men, carrying the full wash-tub.
Arthur was on his feet, trying desperately to hide the pounding of his heart.
"Majesty," Caerleon sneered.
The king unlocked the cell for his two men to enter; Arthur tried to kick the wash-tub over, but it wasn't close enough to reach with strength. And he was wrestled down and dunked.
Again. And again. And again.
He had no breath to beg or threaten. The snatches of words he heard when they let him heave for air sounded like the king complaining about his wife. It occurred to Arthur that the queen might not know about this treatment of their captive royal.
No idea how to use that knowledge for his own benefit. Back in the tub, choking and thrashing and he blacked out for a moment before they released him.
He lay on the floor shaking and squeezing his eyes shut, trying not to sob for relief that they were removing the tub from the cell, for humiliation that he was lying on the floor shaking, as Caerleon watched.
The door squeak-clanged shut. The key rasped in the lock. Footsteps retreated, leaving Arthur alone.
Why is he doing this? Arthur asked himself – and the answer haunted him.
Because he can.
One more meal, and Caerleon came again, followed by the washtub. Arthur clawed his way to his feet, already shaking and feeling ill with fear. Telling himself they wouldn't kill him – at least not today – didn't do much good.
"Arthur," Caerleon drawled, unlocking the door as his men waited, the dripping tub suspended between them. "Let's talk."
He didn't answer him. Discretion, he told himself. Is a part of valor. Which meant that silence could be brave. Survival was worth more than pride – but he worried about submission and change.
"I have here," Caerleon withdrew a scroll from a pocket inside his hide jacket and unrolled it with a flourish, "an official treaty between our kingdoms. I Arthur Pendragon, king of Camelot et cetera, being of sound mind and et cetera, do hereby relinquish –"
"No," Arthur interrupted.
Caerleon paused, but he wasn't surprised. "Are you sure you want to decide so quickly? You could at least hear me out –"
"No," Arthur said again.
Caerleon shrugged. Stepped back to allow the two men to enter.
Arthur was seized and forced to kneel. And deprived of air so long his lungs convulsed and he longed to suck water into the desperate void in his chest.
And again.
And again.
He barely noticed when they left, exhausted and half blind and deaf with the throbbing in his head and chest and the only thing in the world that meant anything was air. He lay on the floor and panted and dripped and trembled.
At least now he knew Caerleon's intention – to force him to sign whatever damned treaty he'd drawn up, and of course it would be heavily in Caerleon's favor. And of course Arthur would not be released to return to his own kingdom and knights and citadel unless the old wolf was convinced that Arthur's spirit was too broken to contemplate breaking the treaty with rebellion. Even if Arthur's pride and honor could bear signing falsely and claiming coercion, admitting that he'd succumbed to the torture at least that much, lying to free himself.
But if it means you're alive and fit to rule, he argued with himself.
And what when the others – Bayard and Alined, even Godwyn and Rodor – learned that Arthur signed and reneged, no matter what the circumstances? It might even make his own council doubt his word, especially since his reign was so young and virtually untested.
Yes, but…
This was the test, and he would hold true.
It was hard to hold true, when he was so alone.
Integrity, he told himself, was what you did when no one was watching.
No one watching was unbearably lonely.
He thought of Gwen, and it helped to dwell on her sweet love and gentle sympathy and soft support. Her horror to discover his position and condition had him pushing himself up to sitting, drawing the tattered pieces of his soul and his pride together, settling in himself that he was all right and would remain all right. They could kill him but they'd never break him.
Because he also thought of the men of his patrol, men who'd sworn to him and had given their lives in his defense, that he might live to serve Camelot. He wouldn't disgrace their memory – he recited names and brought up faces in his mind's eye, this one laughing, this one fighting, this one itching his ear when he didn't think his king was looking – or their sacrifice, by giving anything to Caerleon.
Thrice more he was fed, before Caerleon came again – and Arthur's heart spiked to hear the footfalls signaling approach all three times.
This time the king carrying the torch was only followed by one man with a crossbow, not two with a tub. As Caerleon inserted the key in the lock of the cell door, Arthur pushed himself up to his feet, swallowing dryly at the sudden thought that they meant to use fire, this time.
"We have company, Majesty," Caerleon informed him, resting his hand negligently on the half-open door, making no move to enter the cell. "Two of your knights, come to see for themselves that we have you alive and well, before whoever you left in charge decides to pay your ransom or negotiate."
Hope flooded Arthur's soul – then checked. Only two, and within Caerleon's control. Caerleon, who had no honor for treaties kept or hostages attended.
"Alive and well?" he rasped, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders with an effort.
Caerleon gave him a wolfish grin. "You must make them believe it," he said. "Their lives are in your hands. If they suspect anything… their mounts can be turned loose on your side of the border. Their necks can be broken and their bodies can be found at the bottom of some treacherous cliff with the path washed away. Or something." He shrugged. "You understand me."
"Yes," Arthur spat. "Yes, I think I do."
"Come along, then."