The Road to Avalon

The Road to Avalon

The Road to Avalon

JOAN WOLF

Cover design: Sarah Olson
Cover image: Detail from
La Belle Dame Sans Merci,
exh. 1902,
by Sir Frank Dicksee (1853-1928). Oil on canvas. © Bristol
City Museum and Art Gallery, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library
International.

Copyright © 1988 by Joan Wolf
Reprinted by arrangement with the author
Foreword © 2007 by Mary Jo Putney
This edition published in 2007 by
Chicago Review Press, Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN-13: 978-1-55652-658-9
ISBN-10: 1-55652-658-X
Printed in the United States of America
5  4  3  2  1

For Aunt Betty

Foreword

M
YTHS
and legends reflect a nation’s soul, and for Britain, the greatest repository of such tales is the Arthurian material known as the Matter of Britain. From the sixth century to the present, these stories have inspired countless writers and dreamers. My first Arthurian book was a child’s version that had all the difficult bits edited out, and I was still enchanted.

There are so many possible interpretations of the Arthurian legends, and they can be constantly reimagined to offer new insights and reflect new realities. Sir Thomas Malory’s
Le Morte d’Arthur,
one of the early books printed by William Caxton, England’s first printer, harkened back to the noble days of chivalry. Edmund Spenser’s
The Faerie Queen
was a long allegorical poem that was clearly intended to flatter Queen Elizabeth I. Alfred Lord Tennyson’s
Idylls of the King
is much concerned with how the adultery of Lancelot and Guinevere introduced evil into the shining purity of Camelot. T. H. White moved from the playfulness of a badger tutor to looming war to a final spark of hope in
The Once and Future King.
Marion Zimmer Bradley’s
The Mists of Avalon
brings a feminist and pagan slant to the story. Mary Stewart’s wonderful Merlin cycle concentrates on the powerful sorcerer who is the catalyst to creating Britain’s greatest hero. I could go on and on, but you get the idea.

Mary Stewart was the writer who first introduced me to an Arthurian saga set in a historically believable fifth-century Britain, which has been strongly shaped by centuries of Roman occupation. Though Joan Wolf’s general story line follows Sir Thomas Malory, she places her marvelous
The Road to Avalon
in this Romanized Britain. Wolf’s richly realized world has Roman roads and cities and memories of glory, but the legions have withdrawn and now the land is threatened by encroaching barbarian tribes. It is a time of transition, when the remnants of civilization are in danger of being destroyed forever. A land in need of a great leader.

I’ve read any number of Arthurian stories, and I even wrote a novella in which, in true romance writer fashion, I gave Arthur the happy ending I thought he deserved. But I’ve never read a version that had greater psychological resonance than Joan Wolf’s treatment.

I first read her book when it was published in 1988, and I remembering blinking a bit when I saw Merlin as Arthur’s grandfather and Morgan as Merlin’s young daughter. But why not? There is no definitive version of the legends, so one of the lures of writing an Arthurian story is the chance to reimagine the relationships. Joan Wolf writes relationships brilliantly, and does so in effortlessly accessible prose. I was immediately drawn into the story of the young Arthur, a wounded, wary, and brilliant boy.

For me, Wolf’s greatest achievement is that she returns Arthur to the center of his own story. Too often Arthurian tales concentrate on the Knights of the Round Table or the tragic love of Lancelot and Guinevere. King Arthur is treated like George Washington often is—as a hero who is so noble and so far above the common man that he seems more like a stuffed owl than a real person.

Just as Washington was a real man who surmounted his human weaknesses with wisdom and vision, Wolf’s Arthur is a charismatic, utterly compelling king who earns the love and loyalty of his people. It is Arthur’s understanding of horses and cavalry that enables him to build an effective army—and Joan Wolf really knows her horses. It’s Arthur’s wisdom and fairness that make him a king for the ages. As Guinevere learns, “When Arthur was present, you did not look at anyone else.”

Perhaps the one irreducible element of the Arthurian legends is the tragic love triangle of Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot (the last of whom
The Road to Avalon
calls by the earlier British name of Bedwyr). There is tremendous power in this story of forbidden love, yet depicting Arthur as a cuckold undermines him as a hero.

Joan Wolf solves this problem by giving Arthur a powerful, passionate love that is also forbidden. This love claims his heart and soul, leaving no room for the beauteous Guinevere except as a friend and advisor. I believed in the bond between Arthur and grave, intuitive Morgan, who understands him better than anyone, just as I believed that Guinevere could love two men. It’s refreshing to read an Arthurian story in which characters aren’t drawn in black and white. Most are sympathetic, flawed people. Even Mordred is a stormy petrel of a young man, weak rather than evil.

Because of the human power of the Arthurian legends, there will always be new versions, all of them with their own insights and interpretations. But
The Road to Avalon
will remain on my keeper shelf. I’m very glad that it is available again for new readers to discover.

M
ARY
J
O
P
UTNEY

I
MORGAN (446–452)

Chapter 1

I
T
had been raining earlier in the day, a chill spring rain, but with the twilight the skies began to clear. There were lanterns burning on the colonnade of the forum as Merlin rode into the main street of Venta. The Romans had been gone from Britain for many years, but Venta was still very much a Roman city. The praetorium, toward which Merlin was riding, however, was no longer the headquarters of a Roman governor but of a British high king.

The courtyard in front of the praetorium was paved and there were guards posted in the sentry boxes. One came forward immediately to challenge the stranger who had just ridden in. The sentry’s voice stopped in mid-sentence, however, as he recognized the face illuminated by his lantern.

“My lord Merlin!”

Merlin nodded. “Yes. I have come to see the king.”

“Let me take your horse, my lord.”

Merlin dismounted, gave his reins to the sentry, and mounted the steps of the praetorium. Five minutes later he was being shown to the middle-size, comfortably furnished room that was the reception room of the king’s private chambers. The man inside was alone, sitting beside a charcoal brazier that was burning against the cool of the spring night. He was a handsome man, his dark hair not yet touched by gray. The lines around his eyes and his mouth, however, gave away his forty-one years. He was dressed in the British style, with a purple-colored tunic worn over tan wool breeches. He did not speak as the older man came into the room.

“Good evening, Uther,” said Merlin in Latin.

The king’s eyes, a startling light gray under black brows and lashes, regarded him without expression. “Merlin,” he said at last. “This is a surprise.” He gestured to a high-backed red-cushioned chair. “Sit.” Then, as his father-in-law obeyed, “Igraine is not here. She is still at Durovarium. She was quite ill this time. The doctors feared for her life.”

“So I heard.” Merlin’s voice was quiet. “That is why I was surprised to learn you had come to Venta. Is there trouble?”

The king shrugged wearily. “There is always trouble this time of year. The spring wind is a Saxon wind. You should know that by now.”

“Yes.” Both men spoke Latin with perfect purity and no trace of a British accent. “Uther,” Merlin said carefully, “I came to see you because it is time to talk about the succession.”

The king’s face settled into harsher lines. There was a pause that seemed much longer than it actually was. Then, “Yes. I suppose it is time.”

“Britain cannot afford a civil war over who is to inherit the high kingship after you.” Merlin leaned a little forward in his urgency. “God knows, I hope you last another twenty years. But we must make provisions, Uther. The Saxons will pour through every crack in our unity.”

At that the king rose to his feet. He was not a tall man, but his shoulders and arms were heavily muscled. He was the son of a Roman, and a Roman he remained, both in looks and in heart. “I know,” he said, now bitterly. “But what is to be done, Merlin? God knows, the Celts will never unite under one of their own. Their jealousy would tear the country apart. And how the wolves would love that!”

Merlin was nodding agreement. “That is why it is so important to have a son of yours inherit. Your son would be both Roman, through you, and Celtic, through Igraine. A natural leader for Britain.”

“For God’s love, Merlin, I have no son! You know that well enough!” Uther rubbed his forehead as if it hurt. “Another stillborn child,” he said heavily. “It is as if God has cursed us. Maybe he has, for the way we came together.”

“You do have a son,” contradicted Merlin. “You forget. There is still Arthur.”

Uther went very still. Merlin watched the smoke curling above the brazier and waited. “We sent Arthur away and gave it out that he was dead. You know that. It is too late to think of Arthur now.”

Merlin let his eyes return to Uther’s face. “We sent Arthur away so he could not stand in the path of your true-born sons. But you have no true-born sons. No
other
true-born sons. Arthur is not a bastard. Technically, he was born in wedlock.”

The king sat down abruptly. “Yes. He was born three months after we married. And until that time Igraine was wedded to another man. The child’s paternity was very questionable, Merlin.” He made a gesture in response to the flash of expression in Merlin’s eyes. “Oh, not to me. Igraine swore he was mine, and I believe her. But the fact remains that when he was conceived, she was married to Gorlois.”

“You killed Gorlois in single combat and then you married Igraine, even though she was noticeably with child. You would not have done that, Uther, if you had not been sure the child was yours.”

Uther ran a hand through his black hair. “But there would always be a question. You yourself said so.” A note of bitterness crept into the king’s voice. “When Ambrosius died and I became king, it was you who suggested that Arthur be sent away.”

“I know. I know. But Igraine was pregnant again . . .” Merlin drew a long breath. “Who could have foreseen all these stillbirths?”

Uther looked up from under his level black brows. “What do you propose I do?” he asked, and the bitterness had not quite gone.

“You need do nothing. I will go to Cornwall, fetch the boy, and bring him home with me to Avalon. He will be nine years old now; time enough for him to learn to be a Roman and a king.”

“You remember where he is?”

“I remember where I took him. To Malwyn’s village. I presume he is still there?”

“Yes. I send something to Malwyn every year. She will have taken good care of him. She was always more his mother than Igraine.” He paused as they both remembered Igraine’s refusal to have anything to do with her firstborn child.

“Igraine saw him as a visible sign of her adultery,” Merlin said matter-of-factly. “His existence was a constant scourge to her pride.”

“Well, there is no use now in going over past sins.” Uther’s voice was hard. “At the time, it seemed the prudent thing to send the boy away. We knew he would be cared for, and Malwyn could be trusted to keep the secret of his birth. But you are right, Father-in-law. Things have changed.” Uther straightened his broad shoulders and his voice took on an unmistakable note of authority. “Go into Cornwall and get the boy, but do not tell him, or anyone else, who he is. Let us see first if he has the makings of a king.”