Legacy: Arthurian Saga (155 page)

It was all in the style of the old
Arthur, the young King I knew. His looks matched it, too. The
fatigue and despair had gone; grief had been laid aside; this was
once again the King who held all men's eyes, and whose strength
they felt they could draw on forever, and never weaken him. By
morning there would be no one there who would not willingly die in
his service. That he knew this, and was fully aware of the effect
he made, did not detract one whit from his greatness.

As usually happened, we had a word
together before sleep. He was housed simply, but better than in a
field tent. A roof of leather had been stretched across the beams
of his half-finished sleeping chamber, and rugs laid. His own camp
bed had been put against a wall, with the table and reading lamp he
worked with, and a pair of chairs and the clothes chest and the
stand with the silver bowl and water-jug.

We had not spoken privately since
Galava. He asked after my health, and spoke of the work I had done
at Caer Camel, and then of what still remained to do. What had
happened in the Caerleon fighting I had heard already, in the talk
at table. I said something about the change in him. He looked at me
for a moment or two, then, apparently, came to a
decision.

"There's something I wanted to say to
you, Merlin. I don't know if I have any right, but I shall say it
all the same. When you last saw me, at Galava, sick as you were,
you must have seen something of what I was feeling. In fact, how
could you help it? As usual, I laid all my troubles on you,
regardless of whether you were fit to bear them or not."

"I don't remember that. We talked,
yes. I asked you what had happened, and you told me."

"I did indeed. Now I am asking you to
bear with me again. This time, I hope, I am laying nothing on you,
but..." A brief pause, to gather his thoughts. He seemed oddly
hesitant. I wondered what was coming. He went on: "You once said to
me that life divided itself into light and dark, just as time does
into day and night. It's true. One misfortune seems to breed
another, and so it was with me. That was a time of darkness -- the
first I had suffered. When I came to you

I was half-broken with weariness, and
with the weight of losses coming one on the other, as if the world
had turned sour, and my luck was dead. The loss of my mother, by
itself, could be no great grief to me; you know my heart about
that, and to tell you the truth, I would grieve more over
Drusilla's death, or Ector's. But the death of my Queen, little
Guenever...It could have been a good marriage, Merlin. We could, I
believe, have come to love. What made that grief so bitter was the
loss of the child, and the waste of her young life in pain, and
with it, besides, the fear that she had been murdered, and by my
enemies. Added to that -- and I can admit this to you -- was the
weary prospect of having to start all over again to look for a
suitable match, and going once more through all the ritual of
mating, when so much else lies waiting for me to do."

I said quickly: "You surely do not
still believe that she was murdered?"

"No. You have set my mind at rest
there, as you have about your own sickness. I had the same fear
about you, that your death had been my fault." He paused, and then
said flatly: "And that was the worst. It came as the final loss,
overtopping all the others." A gesture, half-shamefaced,
half-resigned. "You have told me, not once but many times, that
when I looked for you in need, you would be there. And always,
until then, it was true. Then suddenly, at the dark time, you were
gone. And with so much still to do. Caer Camel just begun, and more
fighting expected, and after that, the settlements and the
law-giving, and the making of civil order...But you were gone --
murdered, I thought, through my fault, like my little Queen. I
could not think past it. I did not kill the children at Dunpeldyr,
but by God, I could have killed the Queen of Orkney, had she
crossed my path during those months!"

"I understand this. I think I knew it.
Go on."

"You have heard, now, about my
victories in the field during this time. To other men it must have
seemed as if my fortunes were rising to their peak. But to me,
mainly because of your loss, I felt life at its blackest depth. Not
only for grief at the loss of what lies between us, the long
friendship -- guardianship -- I would say love -- but for a reason
I don't have to remind you of again. You know I have been used to
turn to you foreverything, except in matters of
warfare."

I waited, but he did not go on. I
said: "Well, that is my function. No one man, even a High King, can
do it all. You are young still, Arthur. Even my father Ambrosius,
with all his years behind him, took advice at every turn. There is
no weakness in this. Forgive me, but it is a sign of youth to think
so."

"I know. I don't think it. This is not
what I am trying to say. I want to tell you of something that
happened while you were sick. After the battle in Rheged, I took
hostages. The Saxons fled into a thick wood on a hill -- above the
turret where we found you just after. We surrounded the hill, and
then drove in on all sides, killing, until the few who were left
surrendered. I believe they might have yielded sooner, but I gave
them no chance. I wanted to kill. At the last, those few who were
left threw down their arms and came out. We took them. One of them
was Colgrim's former second-in-command, Cynewulf. I would have
killed him then and there, but he had yielded his arms. I loosened
him on the promise to take his ships and go; and I took
hostages."

"Yes? It was a wise try. We know it
did not work." I said it without expression. I guessed what was
coming. I had heard the tale already, from others.

"Merlin, when I heard that, instead of
going back to Germany, Cynewulf had turned in again to our coasts,
and was burning villages, I had the hostages killed."

"It was not your choice. Cynewulf
knew. It was what he would have done."

"He is a barbarian, and an outlander.
I am not. Granted Cynewulf knew. He may have thought I would not
carry out the threat. Some of them were no more than boys. The
youngest was thirteen, younger than I was when I first fought. They
were brought to me, and I ordered it."

"Rightly. Now forget it."

"How? They were brave. But I had
threatened it and so I did it. You spoke of the change in me. You
were right. I am not the man I was before this past winter-time.
This was the first thing I have done in war that I knew to be
evil."

I thought of Ambrosius at Doward; of
myself at Tintagel. I said: "We have all done things that we could
like to forget. It may be that war itself is evil."

"How could it be?" He spoke
impatiently. "But I'm not telling you about it now because I want
either your advice or your comfort." I waited, at a loss. He went
on, picking his words: "It was the worst thing I have had to do. I
did it, and I will abide by it. What I have to say now is this: if
you had been there, I would have turned to you, as always, and
asked for your counsel. And though you have said that you no longer
have the power of prophecy, I would still have hoped -- been sure
-- that you could see what the future held, and would guide me in
the path I ought to take."

"But this time your prophet was dead,
so you chose your own path?"

"Just so."

"I understand. You offer me this as
comfort, that both act and decision can be safely left to you, even
though I am here again? Knowing, as we both do, that your 'prophet'
is still dead?"

"No." He spoke quickly, strongly. "You
have mistaken me. I am offering you comfort, yes, but of a
different kind. Do you think I don't know that it has been a dark
time with you, too, ever since the raising of the sword? Forgive me
if I am meddling in matters I don't understand, but looking back at
what has passed, I think...Merlin, what I am trying to tell you is
this, that I believe your god is with you still."

There was silence. Through it came the
flutter of the flame in the bronze lamp, and, infinitely far away,
the noises of the camp outside. We looked at one another, he still
in early manhood, myself aged and (as I knew) sorely weakened by my
recent sickness. And subtly, between us, the balance was changing;
had, perhaps, already changed. He, to offer me strength and
comfort. Your god is with you still. How could he think so? He had
only to recall my lack of anything but the most trivial tricks of
magic, my want of defense against Morgause, my inability to find
out anything about Mordred. But he had spoken, not with the
passionate conviction of youth, but with the calm certainty of a
judge.

I thought back, for the first time
pushing aside the apathy that, since my sickness, had succeeded the
earlier mood of tranquil acceptance. I began to see which way his
thoughts had gone. One could say they were the thoughts of a
general who can lift a victory out of a planned retreat. Or a
leader of men who is able, with a word, to give or withhold
confidence.

Your god is with you, he had said.
With me, perhaps, in the poisoned cup, and the suffering months
that had withdrawn me from Arthur's side, and forced him into
solitary power? With me (though this he did not know) in the still
whisper that had led me to deny the poisoning, and so save from his
vengeance Morgause, the mother of those four sons...? With me in
the losing of Mordred, whose survival had brought that glow of joy
to Arthur's eye? As he would be with me, even, when at length I
went to the living burial I feared, and left Arthur alone on
middle-earth, with Mordred his fate still at large?

Like the first breath of living wind
to the sailor becalmed and starving, I felt hope stir. It was,
then, not enough to accept, to wait on the god's return in all his
light and strength. In the dark ebbtide, as much as in the flow,
could be felt the full power of the sea.

I bowed my head, like a man accepting
a king's gift. There was no need to speak. We read one another's
minds. He said, with an abrupt change of tone: "How long before
this place is complete?"

"In full fighting order, another
month. It is virtually ready now."

"So I judged. I can transfer now from
Caerleon, foot, horse, and baggage?"

"Whenever you please."

"And then? What have you planned for
yourself, until you are needed again to build for
peace?"

"I've made no plans. Go home,
perhaps."

"No. Stay here."

It sounded like an order. I raised my
brows.

"Merlin, I mean it. I want you here.
We need not split the High King's power in two before the time
comes when we must. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Then stay. Make a place for yourself
here, and stay away from your marvelous Welsh cave for a while
longer."

"For a while longer," I promised him,
smiling. "But not here, Arthur. I need silence and solitude, things
hard to come by within reach of such a city as this will become,
once you are here as High King. May I look for a place, and build a
house? By the time you are ready to hang your sword up on the wall
over your chair of state, my marvelous cave will be here, nearby,
and the hermit installed, ready to join your counsels. If, by that
time, you remember to need him."

He laughed at that, and seemed
content, and we went to our beds.

9

Next day Arthur and his Companions
rode back to Ynys Witrin, and I went with them. We were going by
invitation of King Melwas and his mother, the queen, to attend a
ceremony of thanks for the King's recent victories.

Now, although there was a Christian
church on Ynys Witrin, and a monastic settlement on the hill near
the holy well, the ruling deity of that ancient island was still
the Goddess herself, the Mother whose shrine has been there time
out of mind, and who is served still by her priestesses, the
ancillae. It is a cult similar to, but I believe older than, the
keeping of the Vestal fire of old Rome. King Melwas, along with
most of his people, was a follower of the older gods; and -- which
was more important -- his mother, a formidable old woman,
worshipped the Goddess, and had been generous to her priestesses.
The present Lady of the shrine (the high priestess, as representing
the Goddess, took this title) was related to her.

Though Arthur himself had been brought
up in a Christian household, I was not surprised when he accepted
Melwas' invitation. But there were those who were. As we assembled
near the King's Gate, ready for the ride, I caught one or two looks
thrown at him by his Companions, with, here and there, a hint of
uneasiness.

Arthur caught my eye -- we were
waiting while Bedwyr had some word with the guard at the gate --
and grinned. He spoke softly. "Do I have to explain to
you?"

"By no means. You have bethought
yourself that Melwas is to be your near neighbor, and has helped
you considerably in the building here. You also see the wisdom of
pleasing the old queen. And naturally you are remembering Dewdrop
and Blackberry, and what you were told about placating the
Goddess."

"Dewdrop and --? Oh, the old man's
cows! Yes, of course! I might have known you would get straight to
it! As a matter of fact I had a message from the Lady herself. The
folk of the island want to give thanks for the year's victories,
and call a blessing on Caer Camel. I'm living in fear in case
someone tells them that I wore Ygraine's token through the fighting
at Caer Guinnion!"