Legacy: Arthurian Saga (204 page)

There was a slight pause, then
Morgause spoke with her old indifference. "Past history, like the
other thing. And for what you said just now, if all he wanted was
the boys, he need not have sent for me at all, only for them. But
no, I am ordered to bring them myself to him at Camelot. And call
it what you like, the escort is a royal one...You will see, sister,
that I shall take my rightful place again, and my sons with
me."

"And the bastard? What do you imagine
will happen to him? Or should I say, what do you plan to do with
him?"

"Plan?"

Morgan's voice rose in sudden triumph.
"Ah, yes, that's different, isn't it? That hit the center. There's
danger there, Morgause, and you know it. You may tell what tale you
like, but you only have to look at him to guess the truth...So, the
murder's out, and what happens now? Merlin foretold what would come
of it if you let him live. The massacre may be past history, but
who's to say what Arthur will do, now that he's found him at
last?"

The sentence broke off as somewhere a
door opened and shut. Footsteps sounded, and a servant's voice with
some message, then the two queens moved away from the window.
Someone else, the servant probably, came to the window and leaned
out. Mordred kept close by the wall, in the deep shadow. He waited,
perfectly still, till the oblong cast by the lighted window showed
empty and bright on the lawn, then ran silently to the
sleeping-chamber he shared with the other boys.

His pallet -- he slept alone here --
lay nearest the door, separated from the others by a stone
buttress. Beyond the buttress Gawain lay with Gareth. Both were
already asleep. From the far side of the chamber Agravain said
something in a whisper, and Gaheris grunted and turned over.
Mordred muttered a "Good night," then, without disrobing, drew a
coverlet over himself and lay down to wait.

He lay rigid in the darkness, trying
to school his racing thoughts and calm his breathing. He had been
right, then. The chance that had taken him through the garden had
proved it. He was not being taken south in honor, as a prince, but
for some purpose he could not guess at, but which would almost
certainly be dangerous. Imprisonment, perhaps, or even -- the
shrill malice of Morgan's voice made this seem possible -- death at
the hands of the High King. Morgause's patronage, for which until
the night in the stillroom he had been grateful, seemed likely to
prove useless. She would be powerless to protect him, and had in
fact sounded indifferent.

He turned his head on the hard pillow,
listening. No sound from the others except the soft regular
breathing of slumber. Outside, the castle was still awake. The
gates would still be open, but would soon be shut and guarded for
the night. Tomorrow would see him back under escort with the Orkney
party, bound for the ship, and Camelot, and whatever awaited him
there. The Orc might not even dock again before putting in to Ynys
Witrin, where Arthur's ally King Melwas held the island for the
King. If he was to escape, it must be now.

He was hardly aware of the moment when
the decision was made. It seemed to be there ready, inevitable,
awaiting only the moment. He sat up cautiously, pushing the
coverlet back. He found his hands were shaking, and was angry. He
was used to running alone, wasn't he? He had in a sense been alone
all his life, and he would shift alone for himself again. There
were no ties to break. The only tie of affection he had ever known
had been swallowed by the flames on that night so many years ago.
Now he was the wolf outside the pack; he was Mordred, and Mordred
depended on Mordred, and on no man else, nor -- and it was a relief
to be rid of a half-suspicious gratitude at last -- on any
woman.

He slid off the bed, and in a minute
or two had gathered his things together. A cloak of thick russet
wool, his belt and weapon, the precious drinking horn, the kidskin
pouch with the coins carefully saved over the years. He was in his
best clothes; the rest were still on board the Orc, but that could
not be helped. He piled the bedding so that, at a glance, it looked
as if a sleeper was there, then let himself softly out of the room,
and, heart beating high, found his way through the maze of empty
corridors to the courtyard. All unknowing he passed the very room
where the young Arthur had begotten him on his half-sister
Morgause.

The courtyard, though well lighted at
all times, was usually fairly empty at this time of night, when
supper was done and men had gone to bed, or to the dice games round
the fires. The guards would be there, and a foraging hound or two,
but Mordred thought he could depend on slipping out through the
shadows when the men's attention was elsewhere.

Tonight, though, late as the hour was,
there was still a good deal of activity. A few men in servants'
livery were standing around near the steps that led down from the
main door of the castle. Among them were two whom Mordred
recognized as the king's chief chamberlains. One of these, with a
gesture, sent a couple of servants running with torches to the main
gateway. This stood wide open, and the men ran through it to wait
outside, lighting the way to the bridge. A light in one of the
stables, and the sound of trampling hoofs and men's voices,
indicated that horses were being saddled there.

Mordred drew back into the shadow of a
deep doorway. The first shock of dismay gave way to hope. If guests
were leaving the castle as late as this, he might be able, in the
general coming and going, to slip out unremarked among their
servants.

A stir and bustle at the head of the
castle steps heralded the king's appearance there. He came out with
his two sons, all three still dressed as they had been in the hall
at supper time. There was a lady with them. Mordred, who had not
yet seen Queen Morgan, wondered for a moment if this could be she,
but this lady was dressed for travel, and her manner was by no
means that of an erring wife who doubted her lord's forgiveness.
She was young, and apparently unescorted save for a couple of armed
servants, but she bore herself as if she was accustomed to
deference, and it seemed to the watching boy that King Urbgen, as
he spoke to her, inclined himself with a kind of respect. He was
protesting something, perhaps asking her to defer her departure
until a better time, but not (thought Mordred shrewdly) pressing it
too hard. She thanked him with charm and decision, gave her hand to
the two princes, then came swiftly down the steps as the horses
were brought from the stable.

She passed quite close to Mordred's
doorway, and he caught a glimpse of her face. She was young, and
beautiful, but with a force and edge to her that, even in repose,
was chilling. The veil that covered her dark hair was held in place
by a narrow coronet of gold. A queen, yes. But more than that.
Mordred knew straight away who this must be: Nimue, lover and
successor to Merlin the King's enchanter; Nimue, the "other
Merlin," the witch whom, for all their angry spite, he guessed that
both Arthur's sisters feared.

Urbgen himself put her up on her
horse. The two armed attendants mounted. She spoke again, smiling
now, and apparently reassuring him about something. She reached her
hand down to him, and he kissed it and stood back. She wheeled her
horse towards the gate, but even as it started forward she reined
in. Her head went up, and she looked around her. She did not see
Mordred; he had pressed himself well back out of sight; but she
said sharply, to the king: "King Urbgen, these two men leave with
me, and no one else. See the gates shut after me, and set guards on
your guest-chambers. Yes, I see you understand me. Keep an eye to
the hen harrier and her brood. I have had a dream that one of them
was fledged already, and flying. If you value Arthur's love, keep
the cage locked, and see that they come safely to his
hand."

She gave Urbgen no time to reply. Her
heel moved, and her horse sprang forward. The two servants followed
her. The king, staring after her, pulled himself out of some
unpleasant abstraction, and snapped an order. The torchbearers came
running in, and the gates creaked shut. Bars went down with a
crash. The guards, with their lord's eye on them, stayed watchfully
at attention. He spoke a few words with the captain on duty, then
with his sons went back into the castle. The chamberlains and
servants followed.

Mordred waited no longer. He dodged
back through the shadows and made for the nearest door that would
take him to the boys' side of the castle. This was a door giving on
a corridor lined with workshops and storerooms. Here, at this hour,
no one was about. He slipped through, and then ran.

His first thought was only to get back
to his bedchamber before the guard was set on it, but as he ran up
the corridor and saw the rows of doors, some locked, some latched
only, some standing wide, he realized that here might be another
way of escape. The windows. The rooms on his left looked straight
out over the river bank. The windows would be high, but not too
high for an active boy to jump from, and as for the river, it would
not be a pleasant crossing at this season, but it could be made. He
might even be lucky, and find the bridge unwatched.

He checked, glancing in through the
nearest open door. Useless, the window was barred. The next door
was padlocked. The third was shut, but not locked. He pushed it
open and went cautiously inside.

It was a storeroom of sorts, but with
a strange smell to it, and full of strange sounds, small uneasy
stirring and twittering and the occasional cheep and flutter. Of
course. The queen's birds. The cages were housed here. He gave them
barely a glance. The window was unbarred, but narrow. Too narrow?
He ran to it. One of the cages stood on the wedge-shaped sill. He
seized it in both hands to lift it to the floor.

Something hissed like a viper, spat,
and slashed. The boy dropped the cage and jumped back, the back of
his hand laid open. He clapped it to his mouth and tasted the spurt
of salt blood. From the cage two blazing lamps glared green, and a
low, threatening snarl began to rise towards a shriek.

The wildcat. It crouched at the very
back of the cage, terrifying, terrified. The small, flattened ears
were laid back, invisible in the bristling fur. Every fang showed.
A paw was still raised, armed and ready.

Mordred, furious at the fright and the
pain, reacted as he had been trained. His knife whipped out. At the
sight of the blade the wildcat -- instinct or recognition, it was
the same -- sprang immediately, furiously, and the armed paw raked
out through the bars. Again and again it slashed, pressed against
the cage wall, staying at the attack. Its paws and breast were
bloody, but not with the boy's blood; someone had jammed a dead rat
between the bars; the cat had eaten none of it, but the blood had
splashed and congealed, and the cage stank.

Mordred slowly lowered his knife. He
knew -- what Orkney peasant did not? -- a good deal about wildcats,
and he knew how this one had been caught, after the dam and the
rest of the brood were slaughtered. So here it was -- it was little
more than a kitten -- so small, so fierce, so brave, caged and
stinking for a queen's pleasure. And what pleasure? They could
never tame it, he knew. It would be teased and made to fight,
matched maybe with dogs that it would blind and then maul before
they killed it. Or it would simply refuse food, and die. The rat
had not been touched.

The window was far too narrow to let
him through. For a moment he stood, sucking the blood from his
hand, fighting down the disappointment that threatened to turn too
shamefully to fear. Then with an effort he took command of himself.
There would be another chance. It was a long way to Camelot. Once
outside the castle, let them see if they could keep him prisoner.
Let them try to harm him. Like the cat, he was no tame beast to
wait caged for death to come to him. He could fight.

The cat slashed again, but could not
reach him. Mordred looked around him, saw a forked pole, the sort
the harvesters used for catching vipers, and with that lifted the
cage and turned it with the door-hatch towards the window. The cage
filled almost the whole space. He pushed the pole into the loop,
and carefully raised the wicker hatch. The carcass of the rat rose
with it, and the cat struck again, spitting, at this new moving
danger. It found itself striking into air. For two long minutes it
stayed perfectly still, no movement but the ripple of fur and the
twitch of a tail, then slowly, stalking freedom as it would stalk
its prey, it crept to the edge of the basket, to the edge of the
sill, and looked down.

He did not see it go. One moment it
was there, a prisoner, the next gone into the free
night.

The other prisoner dragged the cage
back from the window that was too small for him, threw it to the
floor, and put the pole carefully back where he had found
it.

There was already a guard on the
bedchamber door. He moved his weapon to the ready, then, seeing who
approached him, shifted uncertainly and grounded the spear
again.

Mordred, expecting this, had slung the
russet cloak round him, and underneath it clutched his effects
close to him, hiding his injured hand. The guard could see nothing
in his face except cool surprise.

"A guard? What's this, has something
happened?"

"King's orders, sir." The man was
wooden.