Legacy: Arthurian Saga (157 page)

It is not true, as the poets and
singers would have it, that Arthur drove all the Saxons from the
shores of Britain. He had come to recognize, as Ambrosius did, that
it was impossible to clear lands that stretched for miles of
difficult country, and which had, moreover, the easy retreat of the
seas behind. Since the time of Vortigern, who first invited the
Saxons into Britain as his allies, the southeast shore of our
country had been settled Saxon territory, with its own rulers and
its own laws. There was some justification for Eosa's assumption of
the title of king. Even had it been possible for Arthur to clear
the Saxon Shore, he would have had to drive out settlers of perhaps
the third generation, who had been born and bred within these
shores, and make them take ship back to their grandfathers'
country, where they might meet as harsh a welcome as here. Men
fight desperately for their homes when the alternative is to be
homeless. And, while it was one thing to win the great pitched
battles, he knew that to drive men into the hills and forests and
waste places, whence they could never be dislodged, or even pinned
down and fought, was to invite a long war which could have no
victory. He had before him the example of the Old Ones: they had
been dispossessed by the Romans and had fled into the waste places
of the hills; four hundred years later they were still there, in
their remote mountain fastnesses, and the Romans themselves had
gone. So, accepting the fact that there must be still Saxon
kingdoms lodged within the shores of Britain, Arthur set himself to
see that their boundaries were secure, and that for very fear their
kings would hold to them.

So he passed his twentieth year. He
came back to Camelot at the end of October, and plunged straight
away into council. I was there, appealed to sometimes, but in the
main watching and listening only: the counsel I gave him I gave in
private, behind closed doors. In the public sight the decisions
were his. Indeed, they were his as often as mine, and as time went
on I was content to let his judgment have its way. He was impulsive
sometimes, and in many matters still lacked experience or
precedent; but he never let his judgment be ridden by impulse, and
he maintained, in spite of the arrogance that success might be
expected to bring with it, the habit of letting men talk their
fill, so that when finally the King's decision was announced, each
man thought that he had had a say in it.

One of the things that was brought up
at length was the question of a new marriage. I could see he had
not expected this; but he kept silent, and after a while grew
easier, and listened to the older men. They were the ones who knew
names and pedigrees and land-claims by heart. It came to me also,
watching, that they were the ones who, when Arthur was first
proclaimed, would have nothing to do with the claim. Now not even
his own companion knights could show more loyal. He had won the
elders, as he had won all else. You would have thought each one of
them had discovered him unknown in the Wild Forest, and handed him
the sword of the Kingdom.

You would also have thought that each
man was discussing the marriage of a favorite son. There was much
beard-stroking and head-wagging, and names were suggested and
discussed, and even wrangled over, but none met with general
acclaim, until one day a man from Gwynedd, who had fought right
through the wars with Arthur, and was a kinsman of Maelgon himself,
got to his feet and made a speech about his home
country.

Now when you get a black Welshman on
his feet and ready to talk, it is like inviting a bard; the thing
is done in order, in cadence, and at very great length; but such
was this man's way, and such the beauty of his speaking voice, that
after the first few minutes men settled back comfortably to listen,
as they might have listened at a feast.

His subject seemed to be his country,
the loveliness of its valleys and hills, the blue lakes, the
creaming seas, the deer and eagles and the small singing-birds, the
bravery of the men and the beauty of the women. Then we heard of
the poets and singers, the orchards and flowery meadows, the riches
of sheep and cattle and the veined minerals in the rock. From this
there followed the brave history of the land, battles and
victories, courage in defeat, the tragedy of young death and the
fecund beauty of young love.

He was getting near his point. I saw
Arthur stir in his great chair.

And, said the speaker, the country's
wealth and beauty and bravery were all there invested in the family
of its kings, a family which (I had ceased to listen closely; I was
watching Arthur through the light of a badly flaring lamp, and my
head ached) -- a family which seemed to have a genealogy as ancient
and twice as long as Noah's...

There was, of course, a princess.
Young, lovely, sprung from a line of ancient Welsh kings joined
with a noble Roman clan. Arthur himself came from no higher
stock...And now one saw why the long-drawn panegyric, and the eye
slightly askance at the young King.

Her name, it seemed, was
Guinevere.

I saw them again, the two of them.
Bedwyr, dark and eager, with eyes of love fixed on the other boy;
Arthur-Emrys, at twelve years old the leader, full of energy and
the high fire of living. And the white shadow of the owl drifting
overhead between them; the guenhwyvar of a passion and a grief, of
high endeavor and a quest that would take Bedwyr into a world of
spirit and leave Arthur lonely, waiting there at the center of
glory to become himself a legend and himself a grail...

I came back to the hall. The pain in
my head was fierce. The fitful, dazzling light struck like a spear
against my eyes. I could feel the sweat trickling down beneath my
robe. My hands slipped on the carved arms of the chair. I fought to
steady my breathing, and the hammer-beat of my heart.

No one had noticed me. Time had
passed. The formality of the Council had broken up. Arthur was the
center now of a group, talking and laughing; about the table the
older men sat still, relaxed and easy, chatting among themselves.
Servants had come in, and wine was being poured. The talk was all
around me, like water rising. In it could be heard the notes of
triumph and release. It was done; there would be a new queen, and a
new succession. The wars were over, and Britain, alone of Rome's
old subject lands, was safe behind her royal ramparts for the next
span of sunlit time.

Arthur turned his head and met my
eyes. I neither moved nor spoke, but the laughter died out of his
face, and he got to his feet. He came over as quickly as a spear
starting for the mark, waving his companions back out of
earshot.

"Merlin, what is it? This wedding? You
cannot surely think that it --"

I shook my head. The pain went through
it like a saw. I think I cried out. At the King's move there had
been a hush; now there was complete silence in the hall. Silence,
and eyes, and the unsteady dazzle of the flames.

He leaned forward, as if to take my
hand. "What is it? Are you ill? Merlin, can you speak?"

His voice swelled, echoed, was whirled
away. It did not concern me. Nothing concerned me but the necessity
of speech. The lamp-flames were burning somewhere in my breast,
their hot oil spilling in bubbles through my blood. Breath came
thick and piercing, like smoke in the lungs. When I found words at
last they surprised me. I had seen nothing beyond the chamber long
ago in the Perilous Chapel, and the vision which might or might not
have meant anything. What I heard myself saying, in a harsh and
ringing voice that brought Arthur up like a blow, and startled
every man to his feet, had a very different burden.

"It is not over yet, King! Get you to
horse, and ride! They have broken the peace, and soon they will be
at Badon! Men and women are dying in their blood, and children cry,
before they are spitted like chickens. There is no king near to
protect them. Get you there now, duke of the kings! This is for you
alone, when the people themselves cry out for you! Go with your
Companions, and put a finish to this thing! For by the Light,
Arthur of Britain, this is the last time, and the last victory! Go
now!"

The words went ringing into total
silence. Those who had never before heard me speak with power were
pale: all made the sign. My breathing was loud in the hush, like
that of an old man fighting to stave off death.

Then from the crowd of younger men
came sounds of disbelief, even scoffing. It was not to be wondered
at. They had heard stories of my past deeds, but so many of these
were patently poets' work, and all, having gone already into song,
had taken the high color of legend. Last time I had spoken so had
been at Luguvallium, before the raising of the sword, and some of
them had been children then. These knew me only as engineer and man
of medicine, the quiet counselor whom the King favored.

The muttering was all around me, wind
in the trees.

"There has been no signal; what is he
talking about? As if the High King could go off on his bare word,
for a scare like this! Arthur has done enough, and so have we; the
peace is settled, anyone can see that! Badon? Where is it? Well,
but no Saxon would attack there, not now...Yes, but if they did,
there is no force there to hold them, he was right about that...No,
it's nonsense, the old man has lost his senses again. Remember, up
there in the forest, what he was like? Crazy, and that's the
truth...and now moon-mad again, with the same malady?"

Arthur had not taken his eyes off me.
The whispers blew to and fro. Someone called for a doctor, and
there was coming and going in the hall. He ignored it. He and I
were alone together. His hand came out and took me by the wrist. I
felt, through the whirling pain, his young strength forcing me
gently back into my chair. I had not even known I was standing. His
other hand went out, and someone put a goblet into it. He held the
wine to my lips.

I turned my head aside. "No. Leave me.
Go now. Trust me."

"By all the gods there are," he said,
from the back of his throat, "I trust you." He swung on his heel,
and spoke. "You, and you, and you, give the orders. We ride now.
See to it."

Then back to me, but speaking so that
all could hear: "Victory, you said?"

"Victory. Can you doubt
it?"

For a moment, through the stresses of
pain, I saw his look; the look of the boy who had braved the white
flame at my word, and lifted the enchanted sword. "I doubt
nothing," said Arthur.

Then he laughed, leaned forward and
kissed me on the cheek, and, with his Companions following, went
swiftly out of the hall.

The pain lifted. I could breathe and
see. I got up and walked after them, out into the air. Those left
in the hall drew back and let me through. No one spoke to me, or
dared to question. I mounted the rampart and looked outward. The
sentry on duty there moved away, not like a soldier, but sidling.
The whites of his eyes showed. Word had gone round fast. I hunched
my cloak against the wind and stayed where I was.

They had gone, so small a troop to
throw against the might of the final Saxon bid for Britain. The
gallop dwindled into the night and was gone. Somewhere in that
darkness to the north the Tor was standing up into the black sky.
No light, nothing. Beyond it, no light. Nor south, nor east; no
light anywhere, or warning fires. Only my word.

A sound somewhere in the blowing
darkness. For a moment I took it for an echo of that distant
gallop; then, hearing in it, faintly, the cry and clash of armies,
I thought that vision had returned to me. But my head was clear,
and the night, with all its sounds and shadows, was mortal
night.

Then the sounds wheeled closer, and
went streaming overhead, high in the black air. It was the wild
geese, the pack of heaven's hounds, the Wild Hunt that courses the
skies with Llud, King of the Otherworld, in time of war and storm.
They had risen from the Lake waters, and now came overhead,
flighting the dark. Straight from the silent Tor they came, to
wheel over Caer Camel, then back across the slumbering Island, the
noise of their voices and the galloping wings lost at length down
the reaches of the night toward Badon.

With the dawn, beacon lights blazed
across the land. But whoever led the Saxon hordes to Badon must
hardly have set foot on its bloody soil when, out of the dark, more
swiftly even than birds could have flown or fire signaled, the High
King Arthur and his own picked knights fell on them and destroyed
them, smashing the barbarian power utterly, for his day, and for
the rest of his generation.

So the god came back to me, Merlin his
servant. Next day I left Caer Camel, and rode out to look for a
place where I could build myself a house.

BOOK III Applegarth
1

To the east of Caer Camel the land is
rolling and wooded, ridges and hills of gentle green, with here and
there, among the bushes and ferns of the summits, traces of old
dwelling-places or fortifications of past time.

One such place I had noticed before,
and now, casting about among the hills and valleys, I looked at it
once more, and found it good. It was a solitary spot, in a fold
between two hills, where a spring welled from the turf and sent a
tiny brook tumbling down to meet a valley stream. A long time ago
men had lived there. When the sun fell aright you could see the
soft outline of ancient walls beneath the turf.