Legacy: Arthurian Saga (66 page)

My hand took a long time to heal. For
the first few days it pained me constantly, throbbing so that I was
afraid it was infected. During the day this did not matter so much,
for there were tasks to do; all that my servant had done for me for
so long that I hardly knew how to set about it; cleaning, preparing
food, tending my horse. Spring came slowly to South Wales that
year, and there was no grazing yet on the hill, so I had to cut and
carry fodder for him, and walk farther than I cared to in search of
the healing plants I needed. Luckily food for myself was always
forthcoming; gifts were left almost daily at the foot of the small
cliff below the lawn. It may have been that the country folk had
not yet heard that I was out of favor with the King, or it may
simply have been that what I had done for them in the way of
healing outweighed Uther's displeasure. I was Merlin, son of
Ambrosius; or, as the Welsh say it, Myrddin Emrys, the enchanter of
Myrddin's Hill; and in another way, I suppose, the priest of the
old god of the hollow hill, Myrddin himself. What gifts they would
have brought for him they brought now for me, and in his name I
accepted them.

But if the days were full enough, the
nights were bad. I seemed always wakeful, less perhaps from the
pain of my hand than from the pain of my memories: where Gorlois'
death chamber had been empty, my own cave was full of ghosts. Not
the spirits of the loved dead whom I would have welcomed; but the
spirits of those I had killed went past me in the dark with thin
sounds like the cry of bats. At least, this is what I told myself.
I believe now that I was often touched with fever: the cave still
housed the bats that Galapas and I had studied, and it must have
been these I heard, passing to and from the cave mouth during the
night. But in my memory of this time they are the voices of dead
men, restless in the dark.

April went by, wet and chill, with
winds that searched you to the bone. This was the bad time, empty
except for pain, and idle except for the barest efforts to live. I
believe I ate very little; water and fruit and black bread was my
staple diet. My clothes, never sumptuous, became threadbare with no
one to care for them, and then ragged. A stranger seeing me walking
the hill paths would have taken me for a beggar. Days passed when I
did little but huddle over the smoking fire. My chest of books was
unopened, my harp was left where it stood. Even had my hand been
whole, I could have made no music. As for magic, I dared not put
myself to the test again.

But gradually, like Ygraine waiting in
her cold castle to the south, I slid into a sort of calm
acceptance. As the weeks went by my hand healed, cleanly enough. I
was left with two stiff fingers, and a scar along the outer edge of
the palm, but the stiffness passed with time, and the scar never
troubled me. And as time passed the other wounds healed, too. I
grew used to loneliness, as I had been accustomed to solitude, and
the nightmares ceased. Then as May drew on the winds changed, grew
warm, and grass and flowers came springing. The grey clouds packed
away, and the valley was full of sunlight. I sat for hours in the
sun at the mouth of the cave, reading, or preparing the plants I
had gathered, or from time to time watching -- but no more than
idly -- for the approach of a rider which would mean a message.
(Even so, I thought, must my old teacher Galapas have sat here many
a time in the sunlight, looking down the valley where, one day, a
small boy would come riding.) And I built up again my stock of
plants and herbs, wandering farther and farther from the cave as my
strength came back to me. I never went into the town, but now and
again when poor folk came for medicines or for healing, they
brought snatches of news. The King had married Ygraine with as much
pomp and ceremony as such a hasty union would permit, and he had
seemed merry enough since the wedding, though quicker to anger than
he used to be, and would have sudden morose fits when folk learned
to avoid him. As for the Queen, she was silent, acceding in
everything to the King's wishes, but rumor had it that her looks
were heavy, as if she mourned in secret...

Here my informant shot a quick
sidelong look at me, and I saw his fingers move to make the sign
against enchantment. I let him go on, asking no more questions. The
news would come to me in its own time.

It came almost three months
after my return to Bryn Myrddin.

One day in June, when a hot morning
sun was just lifting the mist from the grass, I went up the hill to
find my horse, which I had tethered out to graze on the grassland
above the cave. The air was still, and the sky was full of singing
larks. Over the green mound where Galapas lay buried the
blackthorns showed green leaves budding through fading snowbanks of
flowers, and bluebells were thick among the fern.

I doubt if I actually needed to tether
my horse. I usually carried with me the remnants of the bread my
benefactors left for me, so when he saw me coming he would advance
to the end of his tether and stand waiting, expectant.

But not today. He was standing at the
far stretch of his rope, on the edge of the hill, head up and ears
pricked, apparently watching something away down the valley. I
walked over to him and, while he nuzzled in my hand for the bread,
looked where he had been looking.

From this height I could see the town
of Maridunum, small in the distance, clinging to the north bank of
the placid Tywy as it wound its way down its wide green valley
towards the sea. The town, with its arched stone bridge and its
harbor, lies just where the river widens towards the estuary. There
was the usual huddle of masts beyond the bridge, and nearer, on the
towpath that threaded its way along the silver curves of the river,
a slow grey horse towed a grain barge up to the mill. The mill
itself, lying where the stream from my own valley met the river,
was hidden in woodland; out of these trees ran the old military
road which my father had repaired, straight as a die through five
open miles, to the barracks near Maridunum's eastern
gate.

On this road, perhaps a mile and a
half beyond the watermill, there was a cloud of dust where horsemen
skirmished. They were fighting; I saw the flash of metal. Then the
group resolved itself, clearer through the dust. There were four
mounted men, and they were fighting three to one. The lone man
seemed to be trying to escape, the others to surround him and cut
him down. At length he burst free in what looked like a desperate
bid for escape. His horse, pulled round hard, struck one of the
others on the shoulder, and its rider fell, dislodged by a heavy
blow. Then the single man, crouched and spurring hard, turned his
horse off the road and across the grass, making desperately for the
cover afforded by the edge of the woodland. But he did not reach
it. The other two spurred after him; there was a short, wild
gallop, then they had caught him up, one on each side, and as I
watched he was dragged from his horse and beaten to his knees. He
tried to crawl away, but he had no chance. The two horsemen
circled, their weapons flashing, and the third man, apparently
uninjured, had remounted and was galloping to join them. Then
suddenly he checked his horse, so sharply that it reared. I saw him
fling up an arm. He must have shouted a warning, for the other two,
abruptly abandoning their victim, wheeled their beasts, and the
three of them galloped off, full stretch, with the loose horse
pelting behind them, to be lost to sight eastwards beyond the
trees.

Next moment I saw what had startled
them. Another group of horsemen was approaching from the direction
of the town. They must have seen the retreating trio, but it soon
appeared that they had seen nothing of the attack, for they came on
at a canter, riding at ease. I watched them as they drew level with
the place where the fallen man -- injured or dead -- must be lying.
They passed it without slackening pace. Then they, too, were lost
to sight below the woodland.

My horse, finding no more bread,
nipped me, then jerked his head away sharply, ears flattened. I
caught him by the halter, pulled up the tether, peg and all, and
turned his head downhill.

"I stood on this spot once before," I
told him, "while a King's messenger came riding to see me and bid
me go and help the King to his desire. I had power that day; I
dreamed I held the whole world cupped in my hands, shining and
small. Well, maybe I've nothing today but the hill I stand on, but
that might be a Queen's messenger lying down yonder, with a message
still in his pouch. Message or not, he'll need help if he's still
alive. And you and I, my friend, have had our fill of idleness.
It's time to be doing again."

In a little less than twice the time
it would have taken my servant to do the job, I had the horse
bridled, and was on my way down the galley. Reaching the mill road,
I turned my horse's head to the right, and drove my heels
in.

The place where I had seen the
horseman fall was near the edge of the woods, where the bushes were
thick, a place of bracken and undergrowth and scattered trees. The
smell of horses still hung in the air, with the tang of trampled
bracken and sweet briar and, foul through it all, the smell of
vomit. I dismounted and tethered my horse, then pushed my way
forward through the thick growth.

He lay on his face, half hunched as he
had crawled and collapsed, one hand still trapped under his body,
the other outflung and gripping a tuft of bracken. A youth, lightly
built but well grown, fifteen, perhaps, or a little more. His
clothes, torn and grimed and bloodstained by the fight and his
crawl through the thorns, had been good, and there was a glint of
silver on one wrist, and a silver brooch at his shoulder. So they
had not managed to rob him, if robbery had been the motive for the
attack. His pouch was still at his belt, and fastened.

He made no move as I approached him,
so I thought him insensible, or dead, but when I knelt beside him I
saw the slight movement as his hand clenched more tightly on the
stems of bracken, and I realized that he was exhausted or hurt
beyond all caring. If I were one of his murderers come to finish
him off, he would lie there and let me.

I spoke gently. "Be easy, I shan't
hurt you. Lie still a moment. Don't try to move."

There was no response. I laid careful
hands on him, feeling for wounds and broken bones. He flinched from
my touch, but made no sound. I satisfied myself soon that no bones
were broken. There was a bloodied swelling near the back of his
head, and one shoulder was already blackened with bruising, but the
worst that I could see was a patch of crushed and bleeding flesh on
the hip, which looked -- and indeed later proved -- to be where a
horse's hoof had struck him.

"Come," I said at length, "turn over,
and drink this."

He moved then, though wincing from the
touch of my arm round his shoulder, and turned slowly round. I
wiped the dirt and sickness from his mouth and held my flask to his
lips; he gulped greedily, coughed, and then, losing strength again,
leaned heavily against me, his head drooping against my chest. When
I put the flask back to his mouth he turned his head away. I could
feel him using all his strength not to cry out against the pain. I
stopped the flask and put it away.

"I have a horse here. You must try and
sit him somehow, and I'll get you home, where I can see to your
hurts." Then, when he made no response: "Come now. Let's get you
out of this before they decide to come back and finish what they
started."

He moved then, abruptly, as if these
were the first words that had got through to him. I saw his hand
grope down to the pouch at his belt, discover it was still there,
and then fall limply away. The weight against my chest sagged
suddenly. He had fainted.

So much the better, I thought, as I
laid him down gently and went to bring up my horse. He would be
spared the painful jolting of the ride, and by the gods' mercy I
might have him in bed with his hurts bandaged before he woke. Then
in the very act of stooping to lift him again I paused. His face
was dirty, grime mingled with bloodstains from scratches and a cut
above the ear. Under the mask of dirt and blood the skin was
drained and grey. Brown hair, shut eyes, a slack mouth. But I
recognized him. It was Ralf, Ygraine's page, who had let us into
Tintagel that night, and who with Ulfin and myself had guarded the
Duchess's chamber until the King had had his desire.

I stooped and lifted the Queen's
messenger, and heaved his unconscious body across my waiting
horse.

4

Ralf did not regain his senses during
the journey up to the cave, and only after I had washed and bound
his wounds and put him into bed did he open his eyes. He stared at
me for a few moments, but without recognition.

"Don't you know me?" I said. "Merlinus
Ambrosius. You brought your message safely enough. See." I held up
the wallet, still sealed. But his eyes, cloudy and unfocused, slid
past it, and he turned his head against the pillow, wincing as he
felt the pain from the bruising on the back of his neck. "Very
well," I told him, "sleep now. You're in safe hands."

I waited beside him till he drifted
back into sleep, then took the wallet and its contents out to my
seat in the sunlight. The seal was, as I had expected, the Queen's,
and the superscription was mine. I broke the seal and read the
letter.