Legacy: Arthurian Saga (19 page)

"Ah, yes, valuable information, and
five languages. And dreams, too, it seems." The words were mocking,
but he was not smiling.

"The old King's grandson, you say? And
Camlach not your father? Nor Dyved, either, surely? I never knew
the old man had a grandson, barring Camlach's baby. From what my
spies told me I took you to be his bastard."

"He used sometimes to pass me off as
his own bastard -- to save my mother's shame, he said, but she
never saw it as shame, and she should know. My mother was Niniane,
the old King's daughter."

"Ah." A pause. "Was?" I said: "She's
still alive, but by now she's in St. Peter's nunnery. You might say
she joined them years ago, but she's only been allowed to leave the
palace since the old King died."

"And your father?"

"She never spoke of him, to me or any
man. They say he was the Prince of Darkness."

I expected the usual reaction to that,
the crossed fingers or the quick look over the shoulder. He did
neither. He laughed.

"Then no wonder you talk of helping
kings to their kingdoms, and dream of gods under the stars." He
turned aside then, with a swirl of the big cloak. "Bring him along,
one of you.

Uther, you may as well give him your
cloak again before he dies in front of our eyes."

"Do you think I'd touch it after him,
even if he were the Prince of Darkness in person?" asked
Uther.

Ambrosius laughed. "If you ride that
poor beast of yours in your usual fashion you'll be warm enough
without. And if your cloak is dabbled with the blood of the Bull,
then it's not for you, tonight, is it?"

"Are you blaspheming?"

"I?" said Ambrosius, with a sort of
cold blankness.

His brother opened his mouth, thought
better of it, shrugged, and vaulted into his grey's saddle. Someone
flung the cloak to me, and -- as I struggled with shaking hands to
wrap it round me again -- seized me, bundled me up in it anyhow,
and threw me up like a parcel to some rider on a wheeling horse.
Ambrosius swung to the saddle of a big black.

"Come, gentlemen."

The black stallion jumped forward, and
Ambrosius' cloak flew out. The grey pounded after him. The rest of
the cavalcade strung out at a hand-gallop along the track back to
the town.

5

Ambrosius' headquarters was in the
town. I learned later that the town had, in fact, grown up round
the camp where Ambrosius and his brother had, during the last
couple of years, begun to gather and train the army that had for so
long been a mythical threat to Vortigern, and now, with the help of
King Budec, and troops from half the countries of Gaul, was growing
into a fact. Budec was King of Less Britain, and cousin of
Ambrosius and Uther. He it was who had taken the brothers in twenty
years ago when they -- Ambrosius then ten years old, and Uther
still at his nurse's breast -- were carried overseas into safety
after Vortigern had murdered their elder brother the King. Budec's
own castle was barely a stone's throw from the camp that Ambrosius
had built, and round the two strongpoints the town had grown up, a
mixed collection of houses, shops and huts, with the wall and ditch
thrown round for protection. Budec was an old man now, and had made
Ambrosius his heir, as well as Comes or Count of his forces. It had
been supposed in the past that the brothers would be content to
stay in Less Britain and rule it after Budec's death; but now that
Vortigern's grip on Greater Britain was slackening, the money and
the men were pouring in, and it was an open secret that Ambrosius
had his eye on South and West Britain for himself, while Uther --
even at twenty a brilliant soldier -- would, it was hoped, hold
Less Britain, and so for another generation at least provide
between the two kingdoms a Romano-Celtic rampart against the
barbarians from the north.

I soon found that in one respect
Ambrosius was pure Roman. The first thing that happened to me after
I was dumped, cloak and all, between the door-posts of his outer
hall, was that I was seized, unwrapped, and -- exhausted by now
beyond protest or question -- deposited in a bath. The heating
system certainly worked here; the water was steaming hot, and
thawed my frozen body in three painful and ecstatic minutes. The
man who had carried me home -- it was Cadal, who turned out to be
one of the Count's personal servants -- bathed me himself. Under
Ambrosius' own orders, he told me curtly, as he scrubbed and oiled
and dried me, and then stood over me as I put on a clean tunic of
white wool only two sizes too big.

"Just to make sure you don't bolt
again. He wants to talk to you, don't ask me why. You can't wear
those sandals in this house, Dia knows where you've been with them.
Leastways, it's obvious where you've been with them; cows, was it?
You can go barefoot, the floors are warm. Well, at least you're
clean now. Hungry?"

"Are you joking?"

"Come along, then. Kitchen's this way.
Unless, being a king's grand-bastard, or whatever it was you told
him, you're too proud to eat in the kitchen?"

"Just this once," I said, "I'll put up
with it."

He shot me a look, scowled, and then
grinned. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. You stood up to them
a fair treat. Beats me how you thought of all that stuff quick
enough. Rocked 'em proper. I wouldn't have given two pins for your
chances once Uther laid hands on you. You got yourself a hearing,
anyway."

"It was true."

"Oh, sure, sure. Well, you can tell
him all over again in a minute, and see you make it good, because
he don't like them that wastes his time, see?"

"Tonight?"

"Certainly. You'll find that out if
you live till morning; he doesn't waste much time sleeping. Nor
does Prince Uther, come to that, but then he's not working,
exactly. Not at his papers, that is, though they reckon he puts in
a bit of uncommon hard labor in other directions. Come
along."

Yards before we reached the kitchen
door the smell of hot food came out to meet me, and with it the
sound of frying.

The kitchen was a big room, and
seemed, to my eye, about as grand as the dining-room at home. The
floor was of smooth red tiles, there was a raised hearth at each
end of the room, and along the walls the chopping-slabs with
store-jars of oil and wine below them and shelves of dishes above.
At one of the hearths a sleepy-eyed boy was heating the oil in a
skillet; he had kindled fresh charcoal in the burners, and on one
of these a pot of soup simmered, while sausages spat and crackled
over a grill, and I could smell chicken frying. I noticed that --
in spite of Cadal's implied disbelief in my story -- I was given a
platter of Samian ware so fine that it must be the same used at the
Count's own table, and the wine came in a glass goblet and was
poured from a glazed red jar with a carved seal and the label
"Reserve." There was even a fine white napkin.

The cook-boy -- he must have been
roused from his bed to make the meal for me -- hardly bothered to
look who he was working for; after he had dished up the meal he
scraped the burners hurriedly clean for morning, did an even
sketchier job of scouring his pans, then with a glance at Cadal for
permission, went yawning back to bed. Cadal served me himself, and
even fetched fresh bread hot from the bakehouse, where the first
batch had just come out for morning. The soup was some savory
concoction of shellfish, which they eat almost daily in Less
Britain. It was smoking hot and delicious, and I thought I had
never eaten anything so good, until I tried the chicken,
crisp-fried in oil, and the grilled sausages, brown and bursting
with spiced meat and onions. I mopped the platter dry with the new
bread, and shook my head when Cadal handed a dish of dried dates
and cheese and honey cakes.

"No, thank you."

"Enough?"

"Oh, yes." I pushed the platter away.
"That was the best meal I ever ate in my life. Thank
you."

"Well," he said, "hunger's the best
sauce, they say. Though I'll allow the food's good here." He
brought fresh water and a towel and waited while I rinsed my hands
and dried them. "Well, I might even credit the rest of your story
now."

I looked up. "What d'you
mean?"

"You didn't learn your manners in a
kitchen, that's for sure. Ready? Come along then; he said to
interrupt him even if he was working."

Ambrosius, however, was not working
when we got to his room. His table -- a vast affair of marble from
Italy -- was indeed littered with rolls and maps and writing
materials, and the Count was in his big chair behind it, but he sat
half sideways, chin on fist, staring into the brazier which filled
the room with warmth and the faint scent of apple-wood.

He did not look up as Cadal spoke to
the sentry, and with a clash of arms the latter let me
by.

"The boy, sir." This was not the voice
Cadal had used to me.

"Thank you. You can go to bed,
Cadal."

"Sir."

He went. The leather curtains fell to
behind him. Ambrosius turned his head then. He looked me up and
down for some minutes in silence. Then he nodded towards a
stool.

"Sit down."

I obeyed him.

"I see they found something for you to
wear. Have you been fed?"

"Yes, thank you, sir."

"And you're warm enough now? Pull the
stool nearer the fire if you want to."

He turned straight in the chair, and
leaned back, his hands resting on the carved lions' heads of the
arms. There was a lamp on the table between us, and in its bright
steady light any resemblance between the Count Ambrosius and the
strange man of my dream had vanished completely.

It is difficult now, looking back from
this distance in time, to remember my first real impression of
Ambrosius. He would be at that time not much more than thirty years
old, but I was only twelve, and to me, of course, he already seemed
venerable. But I think that in fact he did seem older than his
years; this was a natural result of the life he had led, and the
heavy responsibility he had borne since he was a little younger
than myself. There were lines round his eyes, and two heavy furrows
between his brows which spoke of decision and perhaps temper, and
his mouth was hard and straight, and usually unsmiling. His brows
were dark like his hair, and could bar his eyes formidably with
shadow. There was the faint white line of a scar running from his
left ear half over his cheekbone. His nose looked Roman,
high-bridged and prominent, but his skin was tanned rather than
olive, and there was something about his eyes which spoke of black
Celt rather than Roman. It was a bleak face, a face (as I would
find) that could cloud with frustration or anger, or even with the
hard control that he exerted over these, but it was a face to
trust. He was not a man one could love easily, certainly not a man
to like, but a man either to hate or to worship. You either fought
him, or followed him. But it had to be one or the other; once you
came within reach of him, you had no peace.

All this I had to learn. I remember
little now of what I thought of him, except for the deep eyes
watching me past the lamp, and his hands clasped on the lions'
heads. But I remember every word that was said.

He looked me up and down. "Myrddin,
son of Niniane, daughter of the King of South Wales...and privy,
they tell me, to the secrets of the palace at
Maridunum?"

"I -- did I say that? I told them I
lived there, and heard things sometimes."

"My men brought you across the Narrow
Sea because you said you had secrets which would be useful to me.
Was that not true?"

"Sir," I said a little desperately, "I
don't know what might be useful to you. To them I spoke the
language I thought they would understand. I thought they were going
to kill me. I was saving my life."

"I see. Well, now you are here, and
safely. Why did you leave your home?"

"Because once my grandfather had died,
it was not safe for me there. My mother was going into a nunnery,
and Camlach my uncle had already tried to kill me, and his servants
killed my friend."

"Your friend?"

"My servant. His name was Cerdic. He
was a slave."

"Ah, yes. They told me about that.
They said you set fire to the palace. You were perhaps a little --
drastic?"

"I suppose so. But someone had to do
him honor. He was mine."

His brows went up. "Do you give that
as a reason, or as an obligation?"

"Sir?" I puzzled it out, then said,
slowly: "Both, I think."

He looked down at his hands. He had
moved them from the chair arms, and they were clasped on the table
in front of him.

"Your mother, the princess." He said
it as if the thought sprang straight from what we had been saying.
"Did they harm her, too?"

"Of course not!"

He looked up at my tone. I
explained quickly. "I'm sorry, my lord, I only meant, if they'd
been going to harm her, how could I have left? No, Camlach would
never harm her. I told you, she'd spoken for years of wanting to go
into St. Peter's nunnery. I can't even remember a time when she
didn't receive any Christian priest who visited Maridunum, and the
Bishop himself, when he came from Caerleon, used to lodge in the
palace. But my grandfather would never let her go. He and the
Bishop used to quarrel over her -- and over me...The Bishop wanted
me baptized, you see, and my grandfather wouldn't hear of it. I --
I think perhaps he kept it as a bribe to my mother, if she'd tell
him who my father was, or perhaps if she'd consent to marry where
he chose for her, but she never consented, or told him anything." I
paused, wondering if I was saying too much, but he was watching me
steadily, an
d it seemed attentively. "My
grandfather swore she should never go into the Church," I added,
"but as soon as he died she asked Camlach, and he allowed it. He
would have shut me up, too, so I ran away."