Legacy: Arthurian Saga (67 page)

It was not from the Queen herself, but
from Marcia, Ralf's grandmother and the Queen's closest confidante.
The letter was brief enough, but held all I wanted to know. The
Queen was indeed pregnant, and the child would be born in December.
The Queen herself -- said Marcia -- seemed happy to be bearing the
King's child, but, where she spoke of me at all, spoke with
bitterness, throwing on me the responsibility for her husband
Gorlois' death. "She says little, but it is my belief that she
mourns in secret, and that even in her great love for the King
there will always be the shadow of guilt. Pray God her feeling for
the child may not be tainted with it. As for the King, it is seen
that he is angry, though he is as ever kind and loving to my lady,
and there is no man who doubts but that the child is his. Alas, I
could find it in me to fear for the child at the King's hands, if
it were not unthinkable that he should so grieve the Queen.
Wherefore, Prince Merlin, I beg by this letter to commend to you as
your servant my grandson Ralf. For him, too, I fear at the King's
hands; and I believe that, if you will take him, service abroad
with a true prince is better than here with a King who counts his
service as betrayal. There is no safety for him in Cornwall. So
pray you, lord, let Ralf serve you now, and after you, the child.
For I think I understand what you were speaking of when you said to
my lady, 'I have seen a bright fire burning, and in it a crown, and
a sword standing in an altar like a cross.'"

Ralf slept until dusk. I had lit the
fire and made broth, and when I took it to the back of the cave
where he lay I saw his eyes open, watching me. There was
recognition in them now, and a wariness that I could not quite
understand.

"How do you feel now?"

"Well enough, my lord. I -- this is
your cave? How did I come here? How did you find me?"

"I had gone up to the hill above here,
and from there I saw you being attacked. The men were frightened
off, and ran away, leaving you. I went down to get you, and carried
you up here on my horse. So you recognize me now, do
you?"

"You've let your beard grow, but I'd
have known you, my lord. Did I speak to you before? I don't
remember anything. I think they hit me on the head."

"They did. How is it now?"

"A headache. But not bad. It's my
side" -- wincing -- "that hurts most."

"One of the horses struck you. But
there's no real damage done; you'll be well enough in a few days.
Do you know who they were?"

"No." He knitted his brows, thinking,
but I could see the effort hurt him, so I stopped him. "Well, we
can talk later. Eat now."

"My lord, the message --"

"I have it safely. Later."

When I went back to him he had
finished the broth and bread, and looked more like himself. He
would not take more food, but I made him drink a little wine, and
watched the color come back into his face. Then I drew up a chair,
and sat down beside the bed.

"Better?"

"Yes." He spoke without looking at me.
He looked down at his hands, nervously plucking at the covers in
front of him. He swallowed. "I -- I haven't thanked you yet, my
lord."

"For what? Picking you up and bringing
you here? It was the only way to get your news."

He glanced up at that, and for a
startled second I realized that he thought it was no more than the
truth. I saw then what there was in that look he had given me; he
was afraid of me. I thought back to that night in Tintagel, the gay
youth who had dealt so bravely for the King, and so truly with me.
But for the moment I let it go. I said: "You brought me the news I
wanted. I've read your grandmother's letter. You know what she
tells me in it about the Queen?"

"Yes."

"And about yourself?"

"Yes." He shut his mouth on the
syllable, and looked away, sullen, like someone unfairly trapped
and held for questioning, who is determined not to answer. It
seemed that, whatever Marcia's motives for sending him to me, he
himself was far from willing to offer me service. From which I
guessed that she had told him nothing about her hopes for the
future.

"All right, we'll leave that for the
moment. But it seems that somebody wants to harm you, whoever it
may be. If those men this morning weren't just roadside cutthroats,
it would help to know who they were, and who paid them. Have you no
idea who they might have been?"

"No," still mumbling.

"It's of some interest to me," I said
mildly. "They might conceivably want to kill me, too."

That startled him out of his
resentment. "Why?"

"If you were attacked out of revenge
for the part you played at Tintagel, then presumably they will
attack me as well. If you were attacked for the message you carried
to me, I want to know why. If they were plain thieves, which seems
the most likely, then they may still be hereabouts, and I must get
a message to the troopers down at the barracks."

"Oh. Yes, I see." He looked
disconcerted and slightly ashamed.

"But it's true, my lord; I don't know
who they were. I -- it was of interest to me, too. I've been trying
to think, all this time, but I've no idea. There's no clue that I
can remember. They didn't wear badges; at least I don't think
so..." His brows drew together, painfully. "I'd have noticed
badges, surely, if they'd had them?"

"How were they dressed?"

"I -- I hardly noticed. Leather
tunics, I think, and chainmail caps. No shields, but swords and
daggers."

"And they were well mounted. I saw
that. Did you hear their speech?"

"Not that I remember. They hardly
spoke, a shout or two, that was all. British speech, but I couldn't
tell where from. I'm not good at accents."

"There was nothing you can think of
that might have marked them for King's men?"

This was probing too near the wound.
He went scarlet, but said levelly enough: "Nothing. But is it
likely?"

"I wouldn't have thought so," I said.
"But kings are queer cattle, and queerest of all when they have bad
consciences. Well, then, Cornishmen?"

The flush had ebbed, leaving him if
possible more sickly pale than before. His eyes were sullen and
unhappy. This was the wound itself; this was a thought he had lived
with. "Duke's men, you mean?"

"They told me before I left Dimilioc
that the King was to confirm young Cador as Duke of Cornwall.
That's one man, Ralf, who will have no love for you. He won't stop
to consider that you were the Duchess's man, and were serving her
as you were bidden. He is full of hatred, and it might extend to
vengeance. One could hardly blame him if it did."

He looked faintly surprised, then in
some odd way set at ease by this dispassionate handling. After a
bit he said, with an attempt at the same tone: "They might have
been Cador's men, I suppose. There was nothing to show it, one way
or the other. Maybe I'll remember something." He paused. "But
surely, if Cador intended to kill me, he could have cut me down in
Cornwall. Why come all the way here? To follow me to you? He must
hate you as much."

"More," I said. "But if he had
intended to kill me, he knew where to find me; the whole world
knows that. And he'd have come before this."

He eyed me doubtfully. Then he
appeared to find an explanation for my apparent lack of fear. "I
suppose no one would dare come after you here, for fear of your
magic?"

"It would be nice to think so," I
agreed. There was no point in telling him how thin my defenses
were. "Now, that's enough for the moment. Rest again, and you'll
find you feel better tomorrow. Will you sleep, do you think? Are
you in pain?"

"No," he said, not truthfully. Pain
was a weakness he would not admit to me. I stooped and felt for the
heartbeat in his wrist. It was strong and even. I let the wrist
drop, and nodded at him.

"You'll live. Call me in the night if
you want me. Good night."

Ralf did not in fact remember anything
more next morning that would give a clue to the identity of his
attackers, and I forbore for a few days from questioning him
further about the contents of Marcia's letter. Then one evening,
when I judged he was better, I called him to me. It had been a damp
day, and the evening had brought a chill with it, so I had lit a
fire, and sat with my supper beside it.

"Ralf, bring your bowl and eat beside
me where it's warm. I want to talk to you."

He came obediently. He had somehow
managed to mend and tidy his clothes, and now, with the cuts and
bruises fading, and with color back in his face, he was almost
himself again, except for a limp where the wound on his hip had not
yet mended; and except, still, for his silence, and the sullen
shadow of wariness in his face. He limped across and sat where I
pointed.

"You said you knew what else was in
your grandmother's letter to me besides news of the Queen?" I asked
him.

"Yes."

"Then you know she sent you to take
service with me, because she feared the King's displeasure. Did the
King himself give you any reason to fear him?"

A slight shake of the head. He would
not meet my eyes. "Not to fear him, no. But when the alarm came of
a Saxon landing on the south coast, and I asked to ride with his
men, he would not take me." His voice was sullen and furious. "Even
though he took every other Cornishman who had fought against him at
Dimilioc. But myself, who had helped him, he dismissed."

I looked thoughtfully at the bent
head, the hot averted cheek. This, of course, was the reason for
his attitude to me, the wary resentment and anger. He could only
see, understandably enough, that through his service to me and the
King he had lost his place near the Queen; worse, he had incurred
his Duke's anger, had been disgraced as a Cornish subject and
banished from his home to a kind of service he
disdained.

I said: "Your grandmother tells me
little except that she feels you had better seek a career for
yourself outside Cornwall. Leave that for a moment; you can't seek
anything much until your leg is healed. But tell me, did the King
ever say anything to you directly about the night of Gorlois'
death?"

A pause, so long that I thought he
would not answer. Then he said: "Yes. He told me that I had served
him well, and he -- he thanked me. He asked me if I wanted a
reward. I said no, the service was reward enough. He didn't like
that. I think he wanted to give me money, and requite me, and
forget it. He said then that I could no longer serve him or the
Queen. That in serving him I had betrayed my master the Duke, and
that a man who had betrayed one master could betray
another."

"Well?" I said. "Is that
all?"

"All.?" His head jerked up at that. He
looked startled and contemptuous. "All? An insult like that? And it
was a lie, you know it was! I was my lady's man, not Duke Gorlois'!
I did not betray the Duke!"

"Oh, yes, it was an insult. You can't
expect the King to be level-headed yet, when he himself feels as
guilty as Judas. He's got to put the betrayal on someone's
shoulders, so it's yours and mine. But I doubt if you're in actual
danger from him. Even a doting grandmother could hardly call that a
threat."

"Who was talking about threats?" said
Ralf hotly. "I didn't come away because I was afraid! Someone had
to bring the message, and you saw how safe that was!"

It was hardly the tone a servant uses.
I hid my amusement and said mildly: "Don't ruffle your feathers at
me, young cockerel. No one doubts your courage. I'm sure the King
does not. Now, tell me about this Saxon landing. Where? What
happened? I've had no news from the south for over a month
now."

In a little while he answered me
civilly enough. "It was in May. They landed south of Vindocladia.
There's a deep bay there, they call it Potters' Bay. I forget its
real name. Well, it's outside federated territory, in Dumnonia, and
that was against all the agreements the Federates made. You would
know that."

I nodded. It is hard to remember now,
looking back down the years to the time I write of, Uther's time,
that today men hardly remember even the name of Federate. The first
of the Federated Saxons were the followers of Hengist and Horsa,
who had been called in by King Vortigern as mercenary help to
establish him on his stolen throne. When the fighting was done, and
the rightful princes Ambrosius and Uther had fled to Brittany, the
usurper Vortigern would have dismissed his Saxon mercenaries; but
they refused to withdraw, demanding territory where they could
settle, and promising, as federated settlers, to fight as
Vortigern's allies. So, partly because he dared not refuse them,
partly because he foresaw that he might need them again, Vortigern
gave them the coastal stretches in the south, from Rutupiae to
Vindocladia -- the stretch that was called the Saxon Shore. In the
days of the Romans it had been so called because the main Saxon
landings had been there; by Uther's time the name had taken on a
direr and truer significance. On a clear day you could see the
Saxon smoke from London Wall.

It had been from this secured base,
and from similar enclaves in the north-east, that the new attacks
had come when my father was King. He had killed Hengist and his
brother, and had driven the invaders back, some northwards into the
wild lands beyond Hadrian's Wall, and others behind their old
boundaries, where once again -- but this time forcibly -- they had
been bound by treaty. But a treaty with a Saxon is like writing in
water: Ambrosius, not trusting to the prescribed boundaries, had
thrown up a wall to protect the rich lands which marched with the
Saxon Shore. Until his death the treaty -- or the Wall -- had held
them, nor had they openly joined in the attacks led by Hengist's
son Octa and Eosa his kinsman in the early days of Uther's reign;
but they were uneasy neighbors: they provided a beachhead for any
wandering longships, and the Saxon Shore grew crowded and still
more crowded, till even Ambrosius' Wall looked frail protection.
And everywhere along the eastern shores raiders came in from the
German Sea, some to burn and rape and sail again, others to burn
and rape and stay, buying or extorting new territory from the local
kings.