Legacy: Arthurian Saga (181 page)

The eldest of the five. So Nimue had
found Mordred for him...where I had failed. Nimue, who had gone
north on "some business for the King."

I thanked the man, and stood back,
moving my horse out of his way. "Now, on your way, Bellerophon, as
best you can, and ware dragons."

"I've got all the dragons I need,
thanks." He gathered the reins, and raised a hand in salute. "But
that's not my name."

"What is it, then?"

"Perseus," he said, and looked puzzled
when I laughed. Then he laughed with me, flourished his whip, and
sent the roan past me at a gallop.

6

The need for hurry was past. It was
likely that Morgause would reach Arthur before the courier, but
about that I could do nothing. Though it still disturbed me to know
that she had with her the things of power, the sharpest of my
worries was gone: Arthur was forearmed; she was there by his
orders, and her hostages with her. It was also probable that I
myself would be able to see and talk with him before he had dealt
with Morgause and Mordred. I had no doubt at all that Arthur, the
moment he saw my token and heard the message, would be on the road
to find me. Meeting the courier had been a stroke of excellent
fortune; even in my prime I could not have ridden as these men
ride.

Nor was it urgent, now, that I should
get in touch with Nimue. Of this, in an obscure way, I was glad.
There are some tests that one shrinks from making, and some truths
that one would rather not hear. I think that if I could have
concealed my existence from her I would have done so. I wanted to
remember her words of love and grief at my passing, not see in
fresh daylight her face of dismay when she saw me
living.

For the rest of that day I went
slowly, and, well before sunset on a still, cold afternoon, came to
a wayside inn, and stopped there. There were no other travelers
staying, for which I was glad. I saw my horse stabled and fed, then
ate the good supper provided by the innkeeper's wife, and went
early to bed, and a dreamless sleep.

All the next day I stayed indoors,
glad of the rest. One or two folk passed that way: a drover with
his flock, a farmer with his wife on their way home from market, a
courier going northwest. But again, at nightfall, I was the only
guest, and had the fire to myself. After supper, when the host and
his wife withdrew to their own place, I was left alone in the
small, raftered room, with my pallet of straw drawn near the fire,
and a stack of logs nearby to keep the place warm.

That night I made no attempt to seek
sleep. Once the inn was sunk in silence, I pulled a chair near to
the hearth and fed fresh wood to the flames. The goodwife had left
a pot of water simmering at the edge of the fire, so I mixed hot
water with the remains of the supper's wine, and drank it, while
around me the small sounds of the night took over: the settling of
the logs in the fire, the rustle of the flames, the scuttle of rats
in the thatch, the sound, far away, of an owl hunting in the icy
night. Then I set the wine aside and closed my eyes. How long I sat
there I have no idea, or what form the prayers took that brought
the sweat to my skin and set the night noises whirling and receding
into a limitless and stinging silence. Then at last, the light of
the flames against my eyeballs, and through the light the darkness,
and through the darkness, light...

It was a long time since I had seen
the great hall at Camelot. Now it was lit against the dark of an
autumn evening. An extravagance of waxlight glittered on the gay
dresses of the women, and the jewels and weapons of the men. Supper
was just over. Guinevere sat in her place at the center of the high
table, lovely in her gold-backed chair. Bedwyr was on her left.
They looked happier, I thought, high of heart and smiling. On the
Queen's right, the King's great chair was empty.

But just as the chill had touched me,
of not seeing him who was all I desired to see, I saw him. He was
walking down the hall, pausing here and there to speak to a man as
he passed. He was calm, and smiling, and once or twice set them
laughing. A page led him; some message, then, had been sent up to
the high table, and the King was answering it himself. He reached
the great door, and, with a word to the sentries, dismissed the boy
and stepped outside. Two soldiers -- guards from the gatehouse --
waited for him there, with, between them, a man I had seen before:
Morgause's chamber-groom.

The latter started forward as soon as
the King appeared, then stopped, apparently disconcerted. It was
obvious that he had not expected to see Arthur himself. Then,
mastering his surprise, he went down on a knee. He started to
speak, in that strange northern accent, but Arthur cut across
it.

"Where are they?"

"Why, at the gate, my lord. Your lady
sister sent me to beg an audience of you tonight, there in the
hall."

"My orders were that she should come
tomorrow to the Round Hall. Did she not receive the
message?"

"Indeed, my lord. But she has traveled
far, and is weary, and in some anxiety of mind about your summons.
She and her children cannot rest until she knows your will. She has
brought them -- all -- with her tonight, and begs you of your grace
that you and the Queen will receive them --"

"I will receive them, yes, but not in
the hall. At the gate. Go back and tell her to wait
there."

"But, my lord -- " Against the King's
silence, the man's protests died. He got to his feet with a kind of
dignity, bowed to Arthur, then withdrew into the darkness with the
two guards. More slowly, Arthur followed them.

The night was dry and still, and frost
furred the small clipped trees that lined the terraces. The King's
robe brushed them as he passed. He was walking slowly, head down,
frowning as he had not let himself frown in the hall full of men
and women. No one was about except the guards. A sergeant saluted
him and asked a question. He shook his head. So with neither escort
nor company he walked alone through the palace gardens, past the
chapel wall, and down the steps by the silent fountain. Then
through another gate with its saluting sentries, and onto the
roadway which led down through the fortress to the southwest
gate.

And, sitting by the blaze in the
faraway tavern, with the vision driving its nails of pain through
my eyes, I cried out to him with a warning as plain as I could make
it: Arthur. Arthur. This is the fate you begot on that night at
Luguvallium. This is the woman who took your seed to make your
enemy. Destroy them. Destroy them now. They are your fate. She has
in her hand the things of power, and I am afraid. Destroy them now.
They are in your hand.

He had stopped in the middle of the
way. He raised his head as if he could hear something in the night
sky. A lantern hanging from a pole threw light on his face. I
scarcely knew it. It was somber, hard, cold, the face of a judge,
or an executioner. He stood for a few minutes, quite still, then
moved as suddenly as a horse under the spur, and strode down
towards the main gate of the fortress.

They were there, the whole party. They
had changed and robed themselves, and their horses were fresh and
richly caparisoned. Torchlight showed the glint of gold tassels and
green and scarlet harness. Morgause wore white, a robe trimmed with
silver and small pearls, and a long scarlet cloak lined with white
fur. The four younger boys were to the rear, with a pair of
servants, but Mordred was beside his mother, on a handsome black
horse, its bridle ringing with silver. He was looking around him
curiously. He does not know, I thought; she has not told him. The
black brows, tipped like wings, were smooth; the mouth, a still
mouth, folded like Morgause's, kept its secrets. The eyes were
Arthur's, and my own.

Morgause sat her mare, still and
upright, waiting. Her hood was thrown back, and the light caught
her face. It was expressionless and rather pale; but the eyes
glittered green under the long lids, and I saw the kitten's teeth
savaging her underlip. I knew that, under the cool exterior, she
was disconcerted, even afraid. She had ignored Arthur's messenger,
and deliberately brought her little train to Camelot at this late
hour, when all would be assembled in the great hall. She must have
reckoned on bringing her royal brood to the steps of the high
throne, and perhaps even presenting Arthur's son in public, so
forcing the King's hand before his Queen and all the assembled
nobles and their ladies. These, she could be sure, would have stood
the allies of a lonely queen with a brood of innocents. But she had
been stopped at the gate, and now, against all precedent, the King
had come out alone to see her, with no witness but his
soldiers.

He came down now under the torchlight.
He stopped a few paces away, full in the light, and said to the
guards: "Let them come."

Mordred slid from his horse's back,
and handed his mother down. The servants took the horses and
withdrew to the gatehouse. Then Morgause, with a boy to either side
of her, and the three younger ones behind, went forward to meet the
King.

It was the first time they had met
since the night in Luguvallium when she sent her maid to lead him
to her bed. Then he had been a stripling, a prince after his first
battle, gay and young and full of fire; the woman had been twenty
years old, subtle and experienced, with her double web of sex and
magic to entrance the boy. Now, in spite of the years of
child-bearing, there was still something left of whatever had drawn
men's eyes and sent them mad for her. But she was not now facing a
green and eager boy; this was a man in the flower of his strength,
with the judgment that makes a king, and the power to enforce it,
and with it all something formidable, dangerous, like a fire banked
down that needs only a breath of air to set it blazing.

Morgause went down to the frosty
ground in front of him, not in the deep curtsy that one might have
expected from a suppliant who had need of his forgiveness and
grace; but kneeling. Her right hand went out and forced the young
Mordred, likewise, to his knees. Gawain, on her other side, stood,
with the other children, looking wonderingly from his mother to the
King. She left them so; they were Lot's, self-confessed, big-boned
and high-colored, with the fair skin and hair bequeathed by their
mother. Whatever Lot had done in the past, Arthur would visit none
of it on his children. But the other, the changeling with the thin
face and the dark eyes that had come down through the royal house
from Macsen himself...she forced him to his knees, where he stayed,
but with his head up, and those dark eyes darting round him,
looking, it seemed, all ways at once.

Morgause was speaking, in the light,
pretty voice that had not changed. I could not catch what she said.
Arthur stood like stone. I doubt if he heard a word. He had hardly
glanced at her; his eyes were all for his son. Her voice took an
edge of urgency. I caught the word "brother," and then "son."
Arthur listened, still-faced, but I could feel the words flying
like darts between them. Then he took a step forward, and put out a
hand. She laid hers in it, and he raised her. I saw among the boys,
and in the men who waited at the gate, a subtle relaxation. Her
servants' hands did not drop from their hilts -- they had
studiously not been near them -- but the effect was the same. The
two older boys, Gawain and Mordred, exchanged a look as their
mother rose, and I saw Mordred smile. They waited now for the King
to give her the kiss of peace and friendship.

He did not give it. He raised her, and
said something, then, turning, led her a little way aside. I saw
Mordred's head go round like a hunting dog's. Then the King spoke
to the boys: "Be welcome here. Now go back to the gatehouse, and
wait."

They went, Mordred with a backward
look at his mother. For a moment I saw terror in her face, then the
mask of calm came down again. Some message must have passed, for
now the chamber-groom came forward, in a hurry, from the gatehouse,
bearing in his hands the box that they had brought from Segontium.
The things of power...unbelievably, she had brought them for the
King. Unbelievably, she hoped to buy her way to his favor with the
treasure of Macsen...

The man knelt at the King's feet. He
opened the box. The light shone down on the treasure that lay
within. I saw it all, as clearly as if it lay at my feet. Silver,
all silver; cups and bracelets, and a necklet made of silver
plaques, designed with those fluid and interlocking lines with
which the northern silversmiths invoke their magic. There was no
sign of Macsen's emblems of power, no grail studded with emeralds,
no lance-head, no dish crusted with sapphire and amethyst. Arthur
gave it barely a glance. As the chamber-groom scuttled back into
the shelter of the gatehouse, the King turned again to Morgause,
leaving the gift lying on the frosty ground. And as he had ignored
the gift, so he ignored all that, until now, she had been saying. I
heard his voice quite clearly.

"I sent for you, Morgause, for reasons
which may not be clear to you. You were wise to obey me. One of my
reasons concerns your children; you must have guessed this; but you
need not fear for them. I promised you that none of them should be
harmed, and I shall keep my promise. But for yourself, no such
promise was made. You do well to kneel and sue for mercy. And what
mercy can you expect? You killed Merlin. It was you who fed him the
poison that in the end brought him to his death."