The Road to Avalon (22 page)

“He was the engineer,” Arthur replied promptly. “Only an engineer could have moved that statue.”

Ector chuckled. “Do you remember . . .” he began, and the two of them looked at him with identically startled eyes. For a moment they had forgotten that he was there.

Chapter 18

G
LASTONBURY
Abbey, the foremost monastery in Britain, was situated not far from Avalon, and the following day two of its most important monks arrived to visit Merlin. Gildas, the abbot, was the son of a prince and famous throughout Britain for his shrewd administration. Brother Iltud, the son of peasants, was almost equally famous for his simple holiness. Merlin had always been a generous patron of the monastery and evidently Glastonbury felt that all possible attention was due him in his illness.

They had come to see Merlin, but Morgan thought that Gildas had also hoped to meet the king. The abbot was a sharp-faced man in his middle years, and he was ambitious, both for himself and for his monastery. Arthur, however, was not in a mood to be approached. Morgan gave the monks three minutes before she took them to the bedroom wing to see her father.

Arthur was waiting for her when she returned to the family salon, and he persuaded her to come out with him for a ride. He wanted to see the estate again.

Morgan sent word to the stables that they would require horses; then she and Arthur changed into outdoor clothing. They met again in the clear cold air of the courtyard, and Morgan’s dog, a shaggy orange-brown mongrel with crooked ears and a distinct limp, joined them as well. Arthur looked at him in wonder. “Cai warned me,” he said. “You have outdone yourself, Morgan.”

“His name is Gwyll,” she replied tranquilly. “He’s very smart.”

Arthur snapped his fingers and the dog came to him immediately. Arthur looked up at Morgan and saw that she too was remembering his first meeting with Horatius. They smiled at each other and Arthur bent to rub the dog’s ears.

“You didn’t bring Cabal with you,” Morgan said after a minute.

He shook his head. “He’s getting old. He rides in the wagons now most of the time. It would have been too much for him to follow me down here.”

Morgan looked for a moment at the bent black head and didn’t say anything. Finally Arthur looked up from the dog. “Are those still my breeches?” he asked.

She laughed. To ride out in the cold weather she always wore wool breeches, and she had inherited all of Arthur’s outgrown pairs when they were children. “No,” she said. “I had to have some made. Yours all wore out.”

He was going to reply but at that moment there came the sound of horses’ hooves and they looked up to see two ponies being led across the courtyard. Arthur was giving Dun a day of rest and so he too was riding a pony.

The slave who was leading the horses knew Arthur from the old days, and his seamed old face was bright with pleasure. Arthur spoke to him for perhaps five minutes, with far more attention than he had accorded the abbot, Morgan thought with amusement, and then they mounted and rode out of the courtyard together, with Gwyll trotting at Morgan’s pony’s heels. They wore several tunics under their cloaks for warmth, but in true British fashion, they were both bareheaded. Their breaths hung white in the cold clear air.

“Let’s ride around the farms first,” Morgan suggested, and Arthur agreed.

It was pure joy to be with her again, Arthur thought, their ponies walking side by side, the winter sun shining on her lovely long hair. The hard ground crunched under the ponies’ hooves and Gwyll went on occasional expeditions in chase of a bird or a squirrel. Without his having to ask, she told him all about herself, about the villa, about her animals and her study of herbs and flowers, about the people who came to see her. He listened hungrily. He wanted to know everything.

One thing she did not mention, and he brought it up himself after they had been out for an hour. “You go to Lothian every summer.” Their ponies were picking their way single file along the river. Arthur was in front and had made the remark over his shoulder, so did not see the frightened look that flared briefly in her eyes.

“Yes,” she answered after an infinitesimal pause. “Morgause and I became quite close that winter you were fighting Lot. I try to go north to see her once a year.”

The track widened and he waited for her to come abreast of him again. “It has worked out well,” he asked when she was beside him once more, “this marriage of Morgause and Pellinore?”

“Yes.” She knew immediately that something was disturbing him and fear stabbed at her heart again. “Why do you ask?” Her voice sounded slightly breathless.

“I just wondered. It has been to my benefit, certainly. Pellinore has kept Lothian loyal to me for all these years. I have been able to fight the Saxons without worrying about a knife in my back.” He shrugged very slightly. “I suppose that is my justification.”

She frowned. “Justification for what, Arthur?”

“For killing Lot, of course.”

She searched his face. “You had no choice. He raised an army against you.”

“I know that,” he answered, “and you know that. But it is a hard thing to explain to a woman and her children.”

Finally she understood. “Is that why you have not gone to Lothian for all these years?” she asked. His absence was a fact of which she was well aware, and for which she had been profoundly grateful. The youngest Lothian child, Mordred, bore a startling likeness to the high king.

“I cannot be overly popular with Morgause or her sons,” Arthur answered her. “And I did not think it fair to put Morgause into the position of having to receive me.”

Morgan’s fine brows lifted in irony. “Arthur. Morgause’s sons are all mad to leave Lothian and come fight with you.”

She could see how that stunned him. He stopped his pony and stared at her. “I thought they would hate me,” he said.

Irony curled her lips. “They adore you. Gawain most of all. His chief aim in life is to ride with your cavalry.” Then, as he continued to look bewildered: “Don’t you know that every wellborn boy in Britain dreams of riding by your side?”

His hair had slipped down over his forehead and he pushed it back with his hand. She looked away from him to where Gwyll was chasing a squirrel. Mordred’s hair grew in exactly the same way. “Morgause, of course, finds their enchantment a little difficult to understand,” she added. “It was thoughtful of you not to make her receive you.”

It was a lie. Morgause was perfectly happy in her new marriage. Morgan doubted that she spared a thought for Lot or the manner of his death. But at all costs, Arthur must be kept from Lothian. From Mordred. Morgan continued to watch Gwyll. She did not think that she had ever lied to Arthur before. She could feel him watching her; he knew something was wrong. “Don’t be surprised, however, if your cousin Gawain should appear someday in Venta,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “Pellinore is trying to teach him to be King of Lothian, but Gawain’s heart is with you.”

“I would be happy to see him” he answered. He was still watching her. She called to Gwyll and touched her pony into a walk once more. “You didn’t kill Lot,” she said abruptly. “Cai did.”

“It’s the same thing. Cai is my man.”

“I think, in that particular thing, he was Father’s man.”

That surprised him. He had long thought Merlin was the one who gave Cai the order to kill Lot. But how did Morgan . . . ?

Finally she looked at him. “I’m a witch,” she said. “Didn’t you know?”

Her eyes were a clear, limpid brown and he grinned. “I think you may be, after all.”

“Do you want to go to the valley next?” she asked, and he said that he did.

When they returned to Avalon later in the day it was to learn that Merlin had suffered another seizure.

It took him two more days to die. He never fully regained consciousness, but his fingers would return a slight pressure if someone held his hand, so Arthur and Morgan and Ector took turns sitting with him. Both Morgan and Arthur were with him, holding a hand on either side of the bed, when he died.

The day they buried Merlin, it was raining. Father Gildas and Brother Iltud had both stayed at the villa, and so were there to recite the prayers for the dead. Afterward the small group by the grave walked through the winter-sodden day back to the warmth of the house.

Dinner was silent. Everyone was tired, and everyone was painfully conscious of the empty seat at the head of the table where Merlin had always sat. The seat had been empty for a long time, of course, but now its emptiness was permanent. The abbot, who had been hoping to have a private word with the king, took one look at Arthur’s preoccupied face and decided to wait for a more auspicious time. He and Brother Iltud excused themselves immediately after dinner and went to their rooms.

Ector joined Arthur and Morgan in the family salon, but he looked exhausted. When Morgan suggested that he go to bed also, he gave her a grateful look and took himself off without further persuasion.

Morgan and Arthur sat on in silence, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. Finally Arthur said, “I’m glad he came back here in the spring. I’m glad he saw the apple trees in bloom again.”

“Yes,” said Morgan softly. She was sitting on a stool in front of his chair and now she bent her head forward and covered her eyes with her hand. Her hair parted and through the silken strands Arthur could see the white nape of her neck.

His defenses were down, or perhaps it wouldn’t have happened. But he was tired and heartsore and he looked at her neck and he could feel its soft tenderness under his hand, could feel the shining brown hair falling over his wrist. Suddenly it was more than he could bear. He thought he had closed that particular door behind him, but he knew now that he had not.

“Morgan,” he said. “This is no good. I can’t do it. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

Her head swung around. She looked into his eyes and knew instantly what he meant. He saw her swallow. “You have to, Arthur.” Her voice was not nearly as steady as his had been. “You . . . have to.”

“Why?”

She stared at him like a dumb animal and did not answer.

“I wrote to you when Igraine died,” he went on in the same careful, steady voice, “and again asked you to marry me. You were quite emphatic in your refusal.” She could hear from the very carefulness of his voice how that refusal had hurt him. “I thought I had accepted that. But I haven’t. And you never told me why.”

“You know why, Arthur. We went through all that once before.”

“That was ten years ago. Things have changed. My position has changed. No one is likely to raise a rebellion against me now. So why can’t I marry whom I please? If there is any talk of incest, it will quickly pass over. The church will give us its blessing. I’ve saved enough monasteries these last ten years for it to owe me something.”

She tried to look away from him and could not. He was training the full force of his will upon her, and she could not look away. “I can’t marry you, Arthur,” she said. “I can’t.”

He was relentless. “Why not? Tell me why not.”

She drew a long shuddering breath and told him the truth. “Because I cannot bear children and you need sons.”

That shocked him, as she knew it would. There was a line deep as a sword cut between his brows. “How do you know that?”

She pushed her hair behind her ears. “Oh, I have seen doctors. And I know enough about these matters myself now. I cannot bear children, Arthur. That is why I will not marry you.”

She could see him assimilating this information. His frown became less deep. “There is Gawain,” he said thoughtfully. “I could name Gawain as my heir.”

“No!” She was on her feet now. The stool rocked with the violence of her movement. “No,” she repeated in a quieter voice. “You must have your own sons, Arthur. And I cannot give them to you.”

“Morgan.” He too was on his feet. The frown was completely gone and she could see that he was preparing to deal with her, to convince her, to win her over. He thought he could reassure her. He was wrong. He took her two cold hands into his and looked down into her eyes. “My dearest love”—his voice was very gentle—“can’t you see? Don’t you understand? I don’t care.”

Her voice was full of the bitterness that filled her heart. “But I do, Arthur,” she said. “I do.”

Still he did not understand. “Britain is filled with princes who can succeed me,” he said reasonably. “The next high king does not have to be of my getting.”

She let her hands lie lax in his. “You are Britain. And if you do not leave an heir by right of birth, we will be back to chaos and dissension and the tribal kings fighting among themselves while Britain goes down to the dark. I told you once before, I will not be responsible for that.”

He dropped her hands. At last he understood. She looked away from his face. “I wish I were a farmer or an innkeeper,” he said with a bitterness that matched her own. “You would marry me then.”

She shook her head. “Don’t wish to be other than what you are. It is you I love.”

He turned away from her and walked to the empty wicker chair where Merlin had been accustomed to sit. “Marry Gwenhwyfar,” she said to his back, “and have a dozen sons for Britain.”

He ran his fingers over the high back of the chair. “I am not married to Gwenhwyfar yet.” He turned to look at her, his face white and very set.

She could feel herself begin to tremble. The intensity of his look was like a blow. “Arthur . . .” she said. Her knees would scarcely hold her up. “Would it make it better?” she asked. “Or worse?”

His hair had fallen forward over his forehead. His eyes were terrible. “Nothing can make it worse.”

She bent her head to hide from that look.

“Morgan.” No one ever said her name as he did. She heard him move and then he was holding her against him, holding her and kissing her as if she were life itself to him. She swayed against him, every part of her being, body and soul, responding to that kiss.

Right or wrong, wise or foolish, she didn’t know. And she no longer cared.

The last time they had lain together on her bed, they had been boy and girl, with the world opening before them like a flower waiting to be plucked. They were ten years older now, and this was not the joyous, almost carefree lovemaking they had shared before. This was intense, hungry, driven. And yet, after the almost desperate passion there was still the one thing that they had always found with one another and with no one else. Peace.