Summary
After receiving Arthur's reply to his terms, enraged King Lot makes a critical decision that would shift the power of one of their kingdoms and affect the whole of the Albion.
Chapter 48 Vengeance in Motion
Shadows writhed along the stone walls of Graeme Longe, seeping into every nook and fissure. Lot stalked through the dreary corridors, his fur-lined cloak billowing behind him, torchlight glinting off the chainmail beneath. The iron crown bore down on his brow, magnifying the growing rage within. His manservant, Warin, followed two paces behind, silent and vigilant.
His daughter Gisella strode beside him, her height nearly matching his own – a true Rynart in stature. Yet her honey-gold hair, cascading in thick waves down her back, spoke of her mother's lineage. Swaths of an ermine-trimmed cloak flowed around her jeweled skirts as she clutched her swollen belly. Her dark brown eyes, sharp and inquisitive like Lot's own, glinted with concern. A petite maidservant scurried after her, ready to assist the expectant princess.
"Father, why such a grim demeanor? Bernewyn has returned after twenty days away. Surely his homecoming warrants some joy?"
Lot grunted, unconvinced by his daughter's enduring optimism, though her voice held gentle care that slightly soothed his temper. He'd already received ravens from Bernewyn. The messages first spoke of the boy-king's audacious delay in addressing his grievance, then later tersely stated that talks in Camelot had failed. He'd simmered with impatience ever since, eager for every detail of Pendragon's response.
"You fret and storm about the castle needlessly," chided Gisella, smirking at him.
"You are naive as a lamb about affairs of men and state," Lot snapped. But looking at his defiant daughter, her strength and radiance undiminished by the gloomy corridor, he regretted his sharp tone when her smile waned. Yet, the wretched tidings her husband heralded gnawed his gut over the negotiations. What dire whispers for Escetir's fate lurked behind Bernewyn's vague messages?
Noting Gisella's advanced pregnancy, Lot felt a surge of pride. In two months' time, she'd birth an heir. His expression darkened as he diverted his gaze – not just toward the path to the throne room, but to the future. Before the babe reached one full summer, it could be thrust into the bloody chaos of war, a realm fractured by the strife between Escetir and Camelot. A fierce protectiveness tempered his rage, the urge to safeguard mother and unborn child vying with his thirst for vengeance upon Pendragon.
But he had to stay resolute – the Rynart legacy would be carved in Camelot's bones.
Lot shoved open the doors to his throne room and burst in like a gust of fury, Gisella on his heels. Weak light filtered through dusty glass windows shrouded in thick velvet drapes. With a subtle gesture from him, Warin moved to open the drapes, allowing more light to spill into the chamber. The cold hearth in the center gaped empty, ashes scattered. Simmering in his vexation, Lot imagined the hearth ablaze, fueled by the downfall of his enemies.
At the far end, his rigid iron throne crouched on the raised dais like a great beast. He settled into its cold embrace, letting it feed his anger. Poised eagerly beside him, her jewel-toned gown swirling as she steadied her breathing and caressed her belly, Gisella eagerly watched the great wooden doors. Her maidservant skittered behind them, silent as the grave.
The doors soon groaned open again, and Lot observed his child rush into her husband's arms. Bernewyn staggered under her enthusiastic embrace, fatigue lining his face from the strenuous six-day journey – a grueling push for man and beast through rough terrain and unpredictable weather. Yet love softened his expression as he held her close, the couple stealing a tender moment as they gazed upon their child safely nestled in her womb, whispering words of love and longing.
Lot averted his gaze, allowing them this small intimacy. For all his temper, his daughter was precious to him – her unborn heir even more so. And he respected Bernewyn. He made his daughter happy and that pleased Lot.
But the failed mission stirred Lot's hunger for answers. "Speak, Captain!" he rumbled after a moment, no longer willing to tolerate further delays.
Bernewyn gently released Gisella to stand tall before the throne, though he swayed with fatigue before widening his feet to steady his stance. Gisella hurried to fetch a goblet of water for her travel-wearied husband. Lot's eyes narrowed at her display of attentiveness, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. Such menial tasks were beneath a princess, he thought, even as he recognized the strength in her devotion.
"Pendragon refused your terms and countered with 20,000 gold pieces and a vast swath of barren land below the Ridge of Ascetir." Bernewyn's voice was steady despite his exhaustion. Gisella pressed the refreshment into his hands, and he smiled gratefully before taking a fortifying drink. She stepped aside, keen to hear the tidings, her eyes darting between her husband and father.
Lot's scowl deepened, dark eyes blazing as fury simmered inside. "He insults me with these paltry concessions. Am I some beggar lord?" The sting of Uther's treaty years ago still festered. Now his arrogant son sought to deny him his rightful forests. He pounded a fist hard on the armrest of his throne, causing Gisella, the servants, and the captain to flinch. "I'll have his head for this!"
Bernewyn nodded, his jaw tightening. "Arthur knows the south land is considerably less valuable, though he claims it is of 'strategic value.'"
Lot spat on the stone floor, saliva splattering. "Lies! He wishes to keep us far from Camelot's fat central lands." His insides churned, blood boiling at the arrogance of Camelot's younger sovereign, thinking he could match Lot's cunning or grasp the finer points of ruthless negotiation.
"How dare Pendragon dictate meager terms to me!" Clenching his fist until the rings dug painfully into his fingers, Lot slammed it down on the carved wooden armrest once more. The crash echoed through the hall, a thunderous punctuation to his wrath.
"Father, must you?" Gisella chided after flinching again.
"It is as I warned before," Bernewyn said carefully, the slight quaver in his voice from fatigue – not fear, "he would not accept your reasonable terms... my lord."
Bernewyn was no weakling, but his daughter rushed to offer him more water. Lot bore his blazing eyes into him nonetheless, his countenance hardening. His son-in-law held his gaze.
"Arthur claims strong and many allies," Bernewyn continued, barely fazed by Lot's intimidating, though familiar behavior. "Yet there was an... urgency to conclude our talks. They seemed eager to see us depart, though for what reason, I couldn't discern. I still sensed desperation despite his bold words."
Lot's glare softened slightly, the lines around his eyes crinkling. "Desperate men make foolish choices..."
"Before we departed, their victory bell sounded," Bernewyn added, his tone suspicious.
A tense silence fell over the room. Lot's eyes narrowed, his mind racing through possibilities. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice contemplative. "Could mean anything, and secrets rarely stay buried for long."
As Bernewyn's exhaustion became evident, Warin quietly moved a chair closer to the throne and he sank into it gratefully, while Gisella served him water once more. She glanced between her husband and father, curiosity etched on her features. "Father, what of our allies across the sea? Those who also seek Pendragon's downfall?"
Lot chuckled, both admiring and irritated by his child's boldness. Her gentle aim to temper his volatile nature with strategic insight impressed him. He'd accused her of naivety mere minutes ago, yet here she was, articulating the harsh realities of war. Her words, though menacing, brought balance to his ruthless strategies, and he caught Bernewyn's gaze of admiration upon Gisella too.
"We'll make use of all our allies," Lot said, his tone softening slightly at her astuteness. "But make no mistake. No offer from Pendragon could have appeased me. His family's insults cannot be washed away with gold or barren land."
Lot saw a disappointed shadow dim his Gisella's eyes. His lips twitched – wondered if she suspected that sending Bernewyn had been mere pretense. An intentional goad to provoke Pendragon and justify the war he desired. Did she doubt his integrity – his honor, thinking the grievances hollow? The realization of how meaningless his envoy had been from the start sparked a glint of disillusion in his child, clouding her features.
"You disagree with my methods, child?"
Gisella stepped forth, her jeweled gown swishing. "Sending Bernewyn, refusing any compromise... Have you truly sought accord, Father, or merely justification for a war in which you hunger?"
Lot met her fiery gaze. "Justice must be won by any means," he rasped, his voice rough with conviction. "Sometimes, that risk is paid in blood."
Gisella stood firm. "At the price of our people? Of open war?" Fear flickered across her visage. "Our child…?"
Her words pierced Lot's own fury, striking the father beneath the wrathful king. His eyes slid to his grandchild cradled in her womb as Bernewyn stood and coiled an arm around Gisella. Meeting the captain's gaze, Lot wondered now if this babe would inherit only bloodshed and loss – no golden dreams of gentle futures for their infant son. Had his thirst for war blinded him to the cost his own flesh and blood might pay?
No! He shook off doubt's weakening grip. The kingdom he would leave his heir must be made mighty and the forest reclaimed! What were a few thousand lives if it secured Rynarts' power and glory? His family ruled by divine right, chosen to unravel the mysteries that lay dormant in those woods and had eluded generations. This child would thank him in time for the legacy unveiled – the secrets of the forest unraveled.
He met Gisella's fierce eyes. It was too late for sentiments – the die cast long ago in Uther's wretched treaty. A familiar stubborn set, hardened Lot's jaw, his choice made.
"This war is not just about vengeance, child. It's about restoring what was stolen from us, securing our future. The Pendragons must learn they cannot simply take what is ours without consequences. This conflict will cement our power and protect our people for generations to come."
"What was stolen?" she asked with incredulity, glaring at him in disbelief. "Father...?"
He turned from Gisella's frustrated glare. She did not appreciate the value he placed upon that land nor how much he needed to bring down Pendragon. Strategies began forming in his mind, pieces slotting into place on what he must do.
"The forest," Lot confirmed, rising from his throne. "Escetir Forest will return to its rightful kingdom."
Gisella's eyes widened in shock. "The forest? Father, is this truly about justice?" she pressed, her voice lowering as she came to stand before him. "Or is it about those old stories?"
Lot's eyes flashed with anger and something else – perhaps uncertainty – crossed his face. "You mock our heritage, child?"
"Fireside tales!" Gisella interrupted, her frustration evident. "You would risk our kingdom and theirs for legends and myths?"
"They're more than myths," Lot hissed. "Your grandfather believed, as did his father before him. We know what lies dormant in that forest, waiting for a true Rynart to claim it. Your uncle was a fool to give it away, but I will rectify that mistake."
Gisella shook her head, pity in her eyes. "And if you're wrong? If there's nothing there but trees and shadows?"
Lot turned away, his voice dangerous. "Then we'll still have our vengeance, and our land reclaimed. The forest will be ours again, prophecy or no prophecy." He turned a hard glare to Warin. "Inform Lord Othuel that diplomacy has failed and to prepare a declaration of war – my choice of battlefield: the rock and shale of the Pass." His boots thudded across the stone floor, plans taking shape. "We'll convene the council to discuss our next move."
Warin bowed, his movements fluid and practiced. "It shall be done, sire," he replied, voice firm and clear, years of service evident in his composed demeanor. He departed the throne room, fading quickly into the background as Gisella stared at them, eyes shining with hurt, disappointment, and fury.
Lot noted how Bernewyn had wisely learned to remain neutral during the heated exchanges between him and his daughter, though such discretion did not always serve the captain well. As Gisella turned her gaze to Lot, her jaw set stubbornly despite the glistening tears, Bernewyn's carefully maintained neutrality seemed to waver, his eyes flickering with concern between his wife and his king.
"Father, please. This obsession with the forest... it's not worth the cost."
Lot hesitated, his back to her. The one thing about her that truly disappointed him struck against his heart: her lost faith in their family's destiny. "You used to believe, Gisella. What changed?"
"I grew up," she replied softly. "I learned to see the world as it is, not as legends paint it."
Her words prickled his nerves, each syllable a thorn in his resolve. Turning his head toward her, he caught her in his periphery. He could almost glimpse himself reflected in her defiant yet hopeless eyes – a mighty, ruthless king... and a heartbroken father unable to comfort his child. The sunlight illuminated Gisella's hone-gold hair, casting shadows across her pained features. Then she looked to Bernewyn and turned away, skirts swirling violently as she rushed from the hall, her maidservant running behind her.
Silence filled the throne room, and Lot stood rigid, struggling to re-shoulder the cold mantle of command. With flinty effort, he fortified the gnawing regret – he'd set events in motion now, consequences be damned! The forest would be his, no matter the costs.
He looked at Bernewyn staring after Gisella with tense desperation, his throat bobbing. When he met Lot's eyes, his gaze dropped for the first time in a long while and lips pressed thin. Could Bernewyn's loyalty ever shift to prioritize his wife over king – a crack in his resolute obedience? Lot thought – not for the first time, but quickly stifled the whisper of doubt. Such musings were dangerous, yet in times like these, they crept unbidden into his mind.
For a moment, Lot considered pressing Bernewyn further – to ask his true thoughts on Arthur, on the hidden secrets of the forest, on the looming specter of war. His son-in-law's shrewd observations had proved valuable before. But doubt gnawed at him; how much could he trust Bernewyn's counsel now, with Gisella's influence weighing on him in this diminished physical state? Lot's jaw clenched, the decision to remain silent settling heavily upon him.
He spun and walked away, pausing at an arched window overlooking the stark courtyards. He clasped his hands behind his back, brooding over his child's dismay. Soon she would understand harsh truths – crowns exacted a heavy toll, justice walked a bloody path. The glint of his crown promised victory, but at what cost to the loyalties he'd cultivated?
"Find that magician, Bernewyn – bid him return here at once."
Bernewyn bowed his obedience, his jaw feathering before he pivoted and left. Lot gazed upon the central courtyards below. Training pits and armories stood silent still, war not yet blooded upon the land.
But declarations took time to ink, dispatch, and receive reply. Troops needed mustering, training, equipping. Supply lines secured and alliances cemented. Ravens would fly, bearing promises and threats in equal measure. Months of preparation before steel met steel. They'd march at first thaw – could Arthur rally his forces and his friends by then?
Which meant through the icy winter, Lot's furnaces would blaze day and night. Hammers ringing as swords and mail took shape beneath soot-stained hands. Stocks of arrows crafted, war engines built as snows fell heavy. In frozen courtyards, troops drilled relentlessly, their breaths clouding in the bitter air.
By spring's first melt, his host would stand forged, hardened and hungry. Then they would march – notaries and diplomats replaced by swords and sorcery.
Lot's smile gleamed, as cold and unforgiving as the iron crown that encircled his brow.