Legacy: Arthurian Saga (126 page)

I was silent, understanding. The
passion that had driven Uther and this woman together, with a
kingdom at stake for it, had not burned out with the years. Uther
had been a man who needed women as most men need food and sleep,
and when his kingly duties had taken him away from the Queen's bed,
his own was rarely empty; but when they were together he had never
looked aside, nor given her cause for grief. They had loved each
other, King and Queen, in the old high way of love, which had
outlasted youth and health and the shifts of compromise and
expediency which are the price of kingship. I had come to believe
that their son Arthur, deprived as he had been of royal status, and
brought up in obscurity, had fared better in his foster-home at
Galava than he would have done at his father's court, where with
both King and Queen he would have come far behind the
best.

She looked up at last, her face serene
again. "I had your letter, and Arthur's, but there is so much more
that I want to hear. Tell me what happened at Luguvallium. When he
left to ride north again Colgrim, I knew he was not fit to do so.
He swore he must take the field, even if he had to be carried in a
litter. Which, I understand, is what happened?"

For Ygraine, the "he" of Luguvallium
was certainly not her son. What she wanted was the story of Uther's
last days, not the tale of Arthur's miraculous coming into his
kingdom. I gave it to her.

"Yes. It was a great fight, and he
fought it greatly. They carried him to the battlefield in a chair,
and all through the fighting his servants kept him there, in the
very thick of the battle. I had Arthur brought down from Galava at
his orders, for him to be publicly acknowledged, but Colgrim
attacked suddenly, and the King had to take the field without
making the proclamation. He kept Arthur near him, and when he saw
the boy's sword broken in the fight, threw him his own. I doubt if
Arthur, in the heat of the battle, saw the gesture for what it was,
but everyone else did who was near. It was a great gesture, made by
a great man."

She did not speak, but her eyes
rewarded me. Ygraine knew, none better, that Uther and I had never
loved one another. Praise from me was something quite other than
the flattery of the court.

"And afterwards the King sat back in
his chair and watched his son carry the fight through to the enemy,
and, untried as he was, bear his part in the rout of the Saxons. So
later, when he presented the boy at last to the nobles and the
captains, his work was half done. They had seen the sword of
kingship handed over, and they had seen how worthily it had been
used. But there was, in fact, some opposition..."

I hesitated. It was that very
opposition that had killed Uther; only a few hours before time, but
as surely as the blow from an axe. And King Lot, who had led the
opposing faction, was contracted to marry Ygraine's daughter
Morgan.

Ygraine said calmly: "Ah, yes. The
King of Lothian. I heard something of it. Tell me."

I should have known her. I gave her
the whole story, omitting nothing. The roaring opposition, the
treachery, the sudden, silencing death of the King. I told her of
Arthur's eventual acclamation by the company, though dwelling
lightly on my part in that. ("If he has indeed got the sword of
Macsen, he got it by God's gift, and if he has Merlin beside him,
then by any god he follows, I follow him!") Nor did I dwell on the
scene in the chapel, but told her merely of the oath-taking, of
Lot's submission, and Arthur's declaration of Gorlois' son Cador as
his heir.

At this, for the first time, the
beautiful eyes lighted, and she smiled. I could see that this was
news to her, and must go some way to assuaging the guilt of her own
part in Gorlois' death.

Apparently Cador, either through
delicacy, or because he and Ygraine still held aloof from one
another, had not told her himself. She put out her hand for her
wine, and sat sipping it while I finished the tale, the smile still
on her mouth.

One other thing, one most important
thing, would also have been news to her; but of this I said
nothing. But the unspoken part of the tale was loud in my own mind,
so that when Ygraine spoke next, I must have jumped like a dog to
the whip. "And Morgause?"

"Madam?"

"You have not spoken of her. She must
have grieved for her father. It was a fortunate thing that she
could be near him. He and I have both had cause to thank God for
her skills."

I said, neutrally: "She nursed him
with devotion. I am sure that she will miss him
bitterly."

"Does she come south with
Arthur?"

"No. She has gone to York, to be with
her sister Morgan."

To my relief she asked no more
questions about Morgause, but turned the subject, asking where I
was lodged.

"In the tavern," I told her. "I know
it from the old days, when I was working here. It's a simple kind
of place, but they have taken pains to make me comfortable. I
shan't be here for long." I glanced round me at the glowing room.
"For yourself, do you plan a long stay, madam?"

"A few days only." If she had noticed
my look at the luxury surrounding her, she gave no sign of it. I,
who am not normally wise in the ways of women, realized suddenly
that the richness and beauty of the place were not for Ygraine's
own comfort, but had been deliberately contrived as a setting for
her first meeting with her son. The scarlet and gold, the scents
and waxlights, were this ageing woman's shield and enchanted
sword.

"Tell me -- " She spoke abruptly,
straight out of the preoccupation that, through all else, bound
her. "Does he blame me?"

It was the measure of my respect for
Ygraine that I answered her directly, with no pretense that the
subject was not uppermost in my mind as well. "I think you need
have no fear of this meeting. When he first knew of his parentage,
and of his inheritance, he wondered why you and the King had seen
fit to deny him that birthright. He could not be blamed if, at
first, he felt himself wronged. He had already begun to suspect
that he was royal, but he assumed that -- as in my case -- the
royalty came sideways...When he knew the truth, with the elation
came the wondering. But -- and I swear that this is true -- he gave
no hint of bitterness or anger; he was anxious only to know why.
When I had told him the story of his birth and fostering, he said
-- and I will give you his exact words --'I see it as you say she
saw it; that to be a prince one must be ruled always by necessity.
She did not give me up for nothing.'"

There was a little silence. Through it
I heard echoing, unspoken save in my memory, the words with which
he had finished: "I was better in the Wild Forest, thinking myself
fatherless, and your bastard, Merlin, than waiting yearly in my
father's castle for the Queen to bear another child to supplant
me."

Her lips relaxed, and I saw her sigh.
The soft underlids of her eyes had a faint tremor, which stilled as
if a finger had been laid on a thrumming string. Color came into
her face, and she looked at me as she had looked all those years
ago, when she had begged me to take the baby away and hide him from
Uther's anger. "Tell me...what is he like?"

I smiled slightly. "Did they not tell
you, when they brought you news of the battle?"

"Oh, yes, they told me. He is as tall
as an oak tree and as strong as Fionn, and slew nine hundred men
with his own hand alone. He is Ambrosius come again, or Maximus
himself, with a sword like the lightning, and the witchlight round
him in battle like the pictures of the gods at the fall of Troy.
And he is Merlin's shadow and spirit, and a great hound follows him
everywhere, to whom he speaks as to a familiar." Her eyes danced.
"You may guess from all this that the messengers were black
Cornishmen from Cador's troop. They would always rather sing a poem
than state a fact. I want fact."

She always had. Like her, Arthur had
dealt with facts, even as a child; he left the poetry to Bedwyr. I
gave her what she wanted.

"The last bit is almost true, but they
got it the wrong way round. It is Merlin who is Arthur's shadow and
spirit, like the great hound who is real enough; that's Cabal his
dog that his friend Bedwyr gave him. For the rest, what shall I
say? You'll see for yourself tomorrow...He is tall and favors Uther
rather than you, though he has my father's coloring; his eyes and
hair are as dark as mine. He is strong, and full of courage and
endurance -- all the things your Cornishmen told you, brought down
to life-size. He has the hot blood and high temper of youth, and he
can be impulsive or arrogant, but under it all he has hard sense
and a growing power of control, like any good man of his age. And
he has what I consider a very great virtue. He is willing to listen
to me."

This won another smile from her, with
real warmth in it. "You mean to jest, but I am with you in counting
that a virtue! He is lucky to have you. As a Christian, I am not
allowed to believe in your magic -- indeed, I do not believe in it
as the common folk do; but whatever it is, and wherever it comes
from, I have seen your power working, and I know that it is good,
and that you are wise. I believe that whatever owns and moves you
is what I call God. Stay with my son."

"I shall stay as long as he needs
me."

Silence fell between us then, while we
both looked at the fire. Ygraine's eyes dreamed under their long
shadowed lids, and her face grew still once more, and tranquil; but
I thought it was the waiting stillness of the forest depth, where
overhead the boughs roar in the wind, and the trees feel the storms
shaking them to the very root.

A boy came tiptoeing to kneel on the
hearth and pile fresh logs on the fire. Flames crept, crackled,
leaped into light. I watched them. For me, too, the pause was
merely one of waiting; the flames were only flames.

The boy went away quietly. The girl
took the goblet from the Queen's relaxed hand, and held her own
out, a timid gesture, for my cup. She was a pretty creature, slim
as a wand, with grey eyes and light-brown hair. She looked
half-scared of me, and was careful, as I gave her the cup, not to
touch my hand. She went quickly away with the empty vessels. I said
softly: "Ygraine, is your physician here with you?"

Her eyelids fluttered. She did not
look at me, but answered as softly. "Yes. He travels with me
always."

"Who is it?"

"His name is Melchior. He says he
knows you."

"Melchior? A young man I met in
Pergamum when I studied medicine there?"

"The same. Not so young now. He was
with me when Morgan was born."

"He is a good man," I said,
satisfied.

She glanced at me sideways. The girl
was still out of hearing, with the rest of the women at the other
side of the room. "I should have known I could hide nothing from
you. You won't let my son know?"

I promised readily. That she was
mortally ill I had known as soon as I saw her, but Arthur, not
knowing her, and having no skill in medicine, might notice nothing.
Time enough for that later. Now was for beginnings rather than
endings.

The girl came and whispered to the
Queen, who nodded and stood up. I rose with her. The chamberlain
was advancing with some ceremony, lending the borrowed chamber yet
another touch of royalty. The Queen half turned to me, her hand
lifting to invite me with her to table, when suddenly the scene was
interrupted. From somewhere outside came the distant call of a
trumpet; then another, nearer, and then, all at once, the clash and
excitement of arriving horsemen, somewhere beyond the monastery
walls.

Ygraine's head went up, with something
of the old lift of youth and courage. She stood very still. "The
King?" Her voice was light and quick. Round the listening room,
like an echo, went the rustle and murmur of the women. The girl
beside the Queen was as taut as a bowstring, and I saw a vivid
blush of excitement run up clear from neck to forehead.

"He is early," I said. My voice
sounded flat and precise. I was subduing a pulse in my own wrist,
which had quickened with the swelling hoof-beats. Fool, I told
myself, fool. He is about his own business now. You loosened him,
and lost him; that is one hawk who will never be hooded again. Stay
back in the shadows, king's prophet; see your visions and dream
your dreams. Leave life to him, and wait for his need.

A knock at the door, and a servant's
quick voiced. The chamberlain went bustling, but before him a boy
came pelting with the message hurriedly relayed, and stripped of
its courtly phrasing: "With the Queen's leave...The King is here
and wants Prince Merlin. Now, he says."

As I went I heard the silent room
break into hubbub behind me, as the pages were sent scurrying to
refurbish the tables, and bring fresh waxlights and scents and
wine; and the women, clucking and crooning like a yardful of fowl,
bustled after the Queen into the bedchamber.

3

"She's here, they tell me?" Arthur was
hindering, rather than helping, a servant drag off his muddied
boots. Ulfin had after all come back from the chapel; I could hear
him in the adjoining room, directing the servants of the household
in the unpacking and bestowing of Arthur's clothes and furnishings.
Outside, the town seemed to have burst open with noise and torches
and the stamping of horses and the shouting of orders. Now and
again one could hear, distinct through the hubbub, the squealing
giggle of a girl. Not everyone in Amesbury was in
mourning.