Read Legacy: Arthurian Saga Online
Authors: Mary Stewart
Tags: #merlin, #king arthur, #bundle, #mary stewart, #arthurian saga
"Then married or not," said Guinevere,
still with that forced lightness, "she is still a woman, and she,
like me, must live through the same dreams of the wicked day when a
messenger comes with worse news than this you have brought to
me."
Mordred smiled. If he thought that his
woman had too much to occupy her than to sit and dream about his
death and burial, he did not say so. Women's folly, indeed. But as
he held his hand for the letter, and she put the roll into it, he
saw again how her hand shook. It changed his thoughts about her. To
him she had been the Queen, the lovely consort of his King, the
elusive vision, too, of his desires, a creature of gaiety and
wealth and power and happiness. It was a shock to see her now,
suddenly, as a lonely woman who lived with fear. "We have nothing
to do but wait and watch and hope," she had said.
It was something he had never thought
about. He was not an imaginative man, and in his dealings with
women -- Morgause apart -- he followed in the main his peasant
upbringing. He would not wittingly have hurt a woman, but it would
not have occurred to him to go out of his way to help or serve one.
On the contrary, they were there to help and serve him.
With an effort of imagination that was
foreign to him he cast his mind forward, trying to think as a woman
might, to fear fate as it would affect the Queen. When Arthur did
meet death, what could she expect of the future? A year ago the
answer would have been simple: Bedwyr would have taken the widow to
Benoic, or to his lands in Northumbria. But now Bedwyr was married,
and his wife was with child. More than that: Bedwyr, in sober fact,
was not likely to survive any action in which Arthur was killed.
Even now, as Mordred and the Queen talked together in this scented
garden, the battle might already be joined that would bring to
reality her dream of the wicked day. He recalled her letter to
Arthur, with its unmistakable note of fear. Fear not only of
Arthur's danger, but of his own. "You or your son," she had
written. Now, with a sudden flash of truth as painful as a cut, he
knew why. Duke Constantine. Duke Constantine, still officially next
in line for the throne and already casting his eyes towards
Camelot, whose title would be greatly strengthened if, first, he
could claim the Queen-regent...
He became conscious of her strained
and questioning gaze. He answered it, forcefully.
"Madam, for your dreams and fears, let
me only say this. I am certain that the King's own skill, and your
prayers, will keep him safe for many years to come, but if it
should happen, then have no fear for yourself. I know that
Constantine of Cornwall may try to dispute the King's latest
disposition--"
"Mordred--"
"With your leave, madam. Let us speak
directly. He has ambitions for the High Kingdom, and you fear him.
Let me say this. You know my father's wish, and you know that it
will be carried out. When I succeed him as High King, then you need
fear nothing. While I live you will be safe, and
honored."
The red flew up into her cheeks, and
her look thanked him, but all she said was, trying still to smile:
"No cast-off queen?"
"Never that," said Mordred, and took
his leave.
In the shadow of the garden gateway,
out of sight of the arbor, he stopped. His pulse was racing, his
flesh burned. He stood there motionless while the heat and
hammering slowly subsided. Coldly he crushed back the lighted
picture in his mind: the roses, the grey-blue eyes, the smile, the
touch of the tremulous hands. This was folly. Moreover, it was
useless folly. Arthur, Bedwyr... whatever Mordred was or might be,
until both Arthur and Bedwyr were dead, with that lovely lady he
could come only a poor and halting third.
He had been too long without a woman.
To tell the truth, he had been too busy to think about them. Till
now. He would find time tonight, and quench these hot
imaginings.
But all the same, he knew that today
his ambition had taken a different turn. There were precedents,
undisputed. He had no wife. She was barren, but he had two sons. If
Constantine could think about it, then so could he. And by all the
gods in heaven and hell, Constantine should not have
her.
With the King's letter crumpled
fiercely in his hand, he strode back to the royal chamber, shouting
for the secretaries.
It was some time before Mordred saw
the Queen again. He was plunged immediately into the whirlwind
business of equipping and embarking the troops Arthur had asked
for. In a commendably short time the expeditionary force sailed,
under the command of Cei, the King's foster brother, with a
reasonable hope of coming up with Arthur's army before the clash
came. The courier who returned from this voyage brought news that
was, on the whole, cheering: Arthur, with Bedwyr and Gawain, had
already set out on the march eastward, and King Hoel, finding
himself miraculously recovered at the prospect of action, had gone
with them. The Frankish kings, with a considerable army, were also
reported to be converging on Autun, where Arthur would set up his
camp.
After this, news came only
spasmodically. None of it was bad, but, coming as it did long after
the events reported, it could not be satisfactory. Cei and the
British kings had joined Arthur; that much was known; and so had
the Franks. The weather was good, the men were in high heart, and
no trouble had been met with on the march.
So far, that was all. What the Queen
was feeling Mordred did not know, nor did he have time to care. He
was setting about the second of Arthur's commissions, raising and
training men to bring the standing army up to strength after the
departure of the expeditionary force. He sent letters to all the
petty kings and leaders in the north and west, and himself followed
where persuasion was needed. The response was good: Mordred had
laid openly on the table the reasons for his demand, and the
response from the Celtic kingdoms was immediate and generous. The
one leader who made no reply at all was Duke Constantine. Mordred,
keeping the promised eye on the Cornish dukedom, said nothing, set
spies, and doubled the garrison at Caerleon. Then, once the tally
of kings and the arrangements for receiving and training the new
army were complete, he sent at last to Cerdic the Saxon king, to
propose the meeting Arthur had suggested.
It was late July when Cerdic's answer
came, and that same day, on an afternoon of misty rain, a courier
arrived from the Burgundian battlefront, bearing with him a single
brief dispatch, with other tokens which, when the man spilled them
on the table in front of Mordred, told a dreadful tale.
As was usual, most of his news would
be given verbally, learned by rote. He began to recite it, now to
the still-faced regent.
"My lord, the battle is over, and the
day was ours. The Romans and the Burgundians were put to flight,
and the emperor himself recalled what force was left. The Franks
fought nobly alongside us, and on all sides some marvelous deeds
were done. But--"
The man hesitated, wetting his lips.
It was apparent that he had given the good news first, in the hope
of cushioning what was to follow. Mordred neither moved nor spoke.
He was conscious of a fast-beating heart, a constricted throat, and
the necessity for keeping steady the hand that lay beside the
spilled tokens on the table. They lay in a jumbled and glittering
pile, proof that a tragic story was still to come. Seals, rings,
badges of office, campaign medals, all the mementoes that, stripped
from the dead, would be sent home to the widows. Cei's badge was
there, the royal seneschal's gilded brooch. And a medal from
Kaerconan, rubbed thin and bright; that could only be Valerius". No
royal ring; no great ruby carved with the Dragon, but--
But the man, the veteran of a hundred
reports, both good and evil, was hesitating. Then, meeting
Mordred's eye, he swallowed and cleared his throat. It was a long
time since the bearers of bad news had had, as in some barbarous
lands, to fear ill-treatment and even death at the hands of their
masters; nevertheless his voice was hoarse with something like fear
as he spoke again. This time he was direct to the point of
brutality.
"My lord, the King is
dead."
Silence. Mordred could not trust
himself with word or movement. The scene took on the shifting and
misted edges of unreality. Thought was suspended, as random and
weightless as a drop of the fine rain that drifted past the
windows.
"It happened near the end of the day's
fighting. Many had fallen, Cei among them, and Gugein, Valerius,
Mador and many others. Prince Gawain fought nobly; he is safe, but
Prince Bedwyr fell wounded on the left. It is feared that he, too,
will die...."
His voice went on, naming the dead and
wounded, but it was doubtful if Mordred heard a word of it. He
moved at last, interrupting the recital. His hand went out to the
parchment lying on the table.
"It is all here?"
"The news, my lord, but not the
details. The dispatch was sent by Prince Bedwyr himself. While he
could still speak he had them write it. The list of casualties will
follow as soon as they are known and checked, but this, my lord,
could not be delayed."
"Yes. Wait, then."
He took the letter across to a window,
and with his back to the man, spread the page out on the sill. The
careful script danced under his eyes. The drifting curtain of the
rain seemed to have come between him and the letter. He dashed the
back of his hand impatiently across his face and bent
nearer.
In the end, and after three careful
readings, the sense of it went right into his brain and lodged
there, thrumming like the arrow that lodges deep in the flesh,
spreading, not pain, but a numbing poison.
Arthur was dead. The news that
followed, of complete and annihilating victory over the Romans and
Burgundians, came as an irrelevance. Arthur was dead. The dispatch,
dictated hastily in a field dressing station, gave few details. The
High King's body had not yet been recovered from the field. Parties
were still searching among the piled and pillaged dead. But if the
King were still living, said Bedwyr tersely, he would by this time
have made himself known. The regent must assume his death, and act
accordingly.
The parchment slipped from Mordred's
hand and floated to the floor. He did not notice. Through the
window beside him, washed and sweet on the damp air, floated the
scents of the Queen's garden. He looked out at the rain-heavy
roses, the glittering leaves that quivered under the drifting
drops, the misted grass. No one was there today. Wherever she was,
she would know of the courier's coming, and she would be waiting
for him. He would have to go to her and tell her. Arthur. And
Bedwyr. Arthur and Bedwyr both. That was enough for her, and too
much. But he must hear the rest first. He turned back to the
courier. "Go on."
The man talked eagerly now, his fear
forgotten. The regent was alive again, not composed exactly, but in
command, his questions quick and direct.
"Yes, my lord, I was there myself. I
left the field at full dark, as soon as the news was sure. The King
was seen fighting still towards sunset, though by that time the
main resistance was over, and Quintilianus himself had fallen.
Everywhere was chaos, and already men were robbing the bodies of
the dead and killing the dying for their weapons and their clothes.
Our men were not merciful, but the Franks... My lord, these are
barbarians. They fight like mad wolves, and they can no more be
controlled than wolves. The enemy broke and fled in several
directions, and were pursued. Some of them threw down their arms
and held their hands out for chains, begging their lives. It
was--was...
"The King. What of the
King?"
"He was seen to fall. His standard had
been cut down, and in the growing dark it could not be observed
just where he was fighting, or what had happened. Bedwyr, wounded
as he was, struggled to that part of the field and searched for
him, and others with him, calling. But the King was not found. Many
of the bodies were stripped already, and if the King had been among
them--"
"You are telling me that his body had
still not been recovered?"
"Yes, my lord. At least, not when I
left the field. I was sent as soon as it became too dark to search
further. It may well be that by this time another dispatch is on
its way. But it was thought that the news should be brought to you
before other rumors reached the country."
"So this is why no token, neither
sword nor ring, has been brought back to me?"
"Yes, my lord."
Mordred was silent for a while. Then
he spoke with difficulty. "Is there still thought to be hope for
the High King?"
"My lord, if you had seen the field...
But yes, there is hope. Even in naked death, the High King's body
would surely have been known--"
Under Mordred's gaze, he stopped. "My
lord."
After a few more questions Mordred
sent him away, and sat alone, thinking.
There was still a chance that Arthur
was not dead. But his duty was plain. Before the news reached these
shores--and with the coming of the courier's ship the rumors must
already be spreading like heath fires--he must take control of the
country. His immediate moves were easily mapped: an emergency
meeting of the Council; a public reading of Arthur's declaration of
succession, with its ratification of his, Mordred's authority; a
copy of this to be made and sent to each of the kings; a speech
made to the army leaders.