The Road to Avalon (16 page)

Her fine lips curled a little in derision. “And do we inform him about Arthur’s baby?”

He did not back down from her stare. “He would marry you anyway. And he would be a good father to the baby.”

She was the one to finally look away. “No. It won’t do, Father. Arthur can count, you know.”

“What would that matter if you were married? He would not expose you, nor would he hold Cai up to ridicule. He would keep silence. He would have to.”

“No,” she said again. “I will not marry Cai . . . or anyone else for that matter. You will have to think of something else.”

He could feel himself beginning to lose his temper. He had just offered her the perfect solution. “Well then, you must go away and have this child in secret. I will find someone to take it.”

She went, if possible, even paler. “Yes,” she answered at last, and her voice was hard with bitter gall. “You’re very good at that, aren’t you? Perhaps Esus would be willing.” And she turned away.

“Morgan!”
He was on his feet and moving toward the bed before he stopped himself. “Contrary to what you think, I do not enjoy giving away my grandchildren.”

There was a long silence. Then: “I suppose not. I’m sorry I said that.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and for the first time saw what she had been at pains to conceal from him, the tears that were pouring down her thin white face. “Dear God.” He sat beside her and put an arm around her rigid shoulders. “Do you want me to send for Arthur?” he asked.

He felt the shudder that went through her at his words. Everything was wrecked, he thought bleakly. All the years of hard work, of preparation, the years he had so carefully and painstakingly trained the boy to succeed Uther. He had not just made a king, he thought. He had made a great one.

All for naught, because of one small girl and her baby.

Morgan’s voice was barely a whisper. “No.”

Hope stirred in his breast. “You give me little choice, Morgan.”

She slid off the bed, pulling herself away from his embrace. There was a jug of water on the table beside the bed and she went and splashed some on her face. Then she turned to him once more. “I am not being difficult merely for the sake of being difficult, Father. I could marry Cai, yes. And perhaps that would be best for me. Cai is kind and caring. I like him. Perhaps we could make a family.” Her brown eyes were level now on his face. “And you are right too in that Arthur would do nothing. But how, Father, do you think he would
feel
?”

Merlin made a gesture, then looked away from her.

“He would feel I had betrayed him,” she went on, “and he would be right.” She walked to the window and looked out at the September sky. Still looking at the sky, “I know him better than anyone living,” she said, “and I know that if I did that to him, you would lose him. Britain would lose him. It is difficult enough for him as it is. Then . . . it would be impossible.”

Merlin looked at her slight figure outlined against the window and in his mind’s eye he saw Arthur’s face as it had looked when he returned from his last visit to Morgan. He let out his breath. “You may be right,” he said. Then: “What are we to do?”

She turned to face him. “If I give my child up, it must be to someone I can trust to take care of it. And I must be able to verify that for myself. I will not have Arthur’s child brought up as he was.”

The relief was so great it almost took his breath away. “Of course,” he said after a minute. “Do you have anyone in mind?”

She smiled crookedly. “Morgause would be perfect, if it were not for Lot.”

“Morgause?” He looked at her in surprise.

“Morgause is a good mother. I have seen that for myself these last weeks. But I cannot turn Arthur’s child over to the tender mercies of Lot.”

Merlin’s face took on an abstracted look. “Lot could be made to think the child was his. His and Morgause’s. He has not seen her since Venta.” He raised his brows. “Why should Morgause not be the one to be pregnant?”

She bit her lip and did not reply.

“The more I think of it, the more pefect a solution it seems.” Merlin rubbed his hands together. “And Lot is going to war. The chances are good he won’t return to ask any awkward questions.” He would have a private word with Cai, Merlin thought, and make certain Lot did not return. Morgan was right. It would be best not to put a child of Arthur’s into those particular hands.

“All right,” Morgan said from the window. “If Morgause will agree to take the child as hers, then I will give him up.”

The very quietness of her voice caught at him. Her face was expressionless, but Merlin could feel her pain all the way across the room.

“I am so sorry, my dear,” he said in a gentle voice, able to be gentle now that he had got his way. “But it will be for the best, believe me.”

She turned her back once more to look out the window, and after a moment he left her to the solitude she so clearly wanted.

Word came to Venta that the King of Lothian was gathering his forces.

“Give me an army and I will march for Luguvallium,” Arthur said to his father. “Lot has made a treaty with the painted people and they are joining his standard. They must not be allowed to pentrate beyond the wall.”

There was only one wall in Britain that was universally referred to as “the” wall—the fortification built by the Emperor Hadrian across the north of Britain more than three hundred years before. The wall was eighty miles long, crossing Britain from the Tyne to the Solway, a continuous stone structure which had, in the days of Roman occupation, taken some ninety-five hundred legionaries to man. Uther had a detachment of five hundred men stationed in Corbridge and a garrison in Luguvallium to do the job.

The wall had long been regarded as the dividing line between the civilized and the uncivilized parts of Britain. North of the wall dwelt the Picts and the Scots, the tattooed tribes referred to by the British as the painted people. North of the wall also were the Celtic kingdoms of Lothian and Manau Guotodin, which now, it seemed, were determined to expand their influence to the south by means of the high kingship.

“There is word also of a Saxon push in the east,” Uther said to his son now. “I cannot give you the entire army, Arthur, and leave the south unprotected.”

Father and son were alone in the audience chamber of the praetorium. Uther was seated in his chair on the dais and Arthur was standing before him, his head bare, his thin, muscular hands hanging empty by his sides. He had just come from a meeting with Claudius Virgilius and so Uther’s words were no surprise.

“I realize that, my lord,” he replied. “Give me two thousand foot soldiers and the cavalry unit I have been forming.”

Uther never had enough breath anymore. “Two thousand?” he almost whispered. “Lot is said to have twice that number.”

Arthur smiled. “If you can give me more than two thousand, I’ll gladly take them.”

“No.” Uther’s face was like a mask. “I cannot spare you more than two thousand.”

“I will raise the garrisons at Corbridge and Luguvallium as well,” Arthur explained. “And we may gain some more recruits as we march north.”

Uther tried to smile. “You are taking Prince Bedwyr and his men, I gather? And your friend Caius?”

“They wouldn’t miss this chance for the world,” Arthur replied lightly. He hesitated and then stepped up onto the dais. He knelt and bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said. “Father.”

Uther put his hand upon the shining black hair. “I wish it was all to do again,” he said achingly.

He felt the quiver that ran through the boy’s body. Then Arthur looked up. “I will do my best,” he said, and his gray eyes were clear and fearless. He picked up his father’s hand, kissed it, and rose to his feet. “Good-bye, Father.”

Unable to answer, Uther merely nodded. Arthur turned and walked out of the room.

“We march in two days,” Arthur said to Cai and Bedwyr later in the afternoon. He had summoned his lieutenants to his room as soon as he had had further speech with Claudius Virgilius. Both Bedwyr and Cai were in the leather tunics of army dress, although they were not wearing their mail coats. Arthur wore his usual white wool long-sleeved tunic with the leather belt Morgan had made for his fifteenth birthday. The table in front of him was piled with papers. Cabal, the hound puppy, lay at his feet, his tail occasionally thumping as he responded to a change in the tone of his master’s voice.

“The king has given me the Eighth, Ninth, Twelfth, and Fifteenth foot regiments. And we can take our cavalry.” Arthur looked at Bedwyr. “That is the one hundred and fifty from Wales as well as the fifty from the King’s units.”

Bedwyr nodded. He was lounging in his chair, his long leather-covered legs stretched out in front of him. “How many men is Lot reported to have?” he asked.

Arthur’s reply was matter-of-fact. “At least three thousand from Lothian and Manau Guotodin. I don’t know how many tribesmen.”

Bedwyr grinned. “It should be fun.”

Cai was not smiling. “We may be able to raise more troops in Elmet and Rheged.”

Arthur lifted a black eyebrow. “Reports are that the kings of Elmet and Rheged are waiting to see who comes out the victor before declaring themselves.”

“Cowards.” Bedwyr’s blue eyes were full of contempt.

“They call it prudent,” said Cai.

“Well, whatever one chooses to call it, I’m afraid we can’t rely on much help there. I have better hopes of the garrisons at Corbridge and Luguvallium. We should be able to pick up additional troops there, troops who know the country.” Arthur’s voice was businesslike. “Now,” he went on, “I have here the rosters of all of the companies we will be taking, with their officers.” He touched one of the neatly stacked rolls before him. “And a list of all the supplies we shall require.” The pointing finger touched another roll. Bedwyr stopped lounging in his chair and sat up as Arthur began to issue a list of instructions. When the two young men left the room twenty minutes later they had enough to do to keep them busy until they marched.

Waiting in the corridor outside Arthur’s door was a soldier they both recognized. He gave them a friendly grin. “Finished right on time, I see,” he said cheerfully, “I’m next in line. The prince wants to know all about the terrain in the north.”

Both Bedwyr and Cai watched as Uther’s mapmaker, Gerontius, knocked on the door of Arthur’s room. At the command to enter, his attitude changed magically from breezy insouciance to respect. Bedwyr and Cai exchanged an amused glance before they went off to carry out their respective commands.

Arthur finished with his interviews and his paperwork at midnight and, exhausted, finally permitted himself to go to bed. He awoke two hours later, his limbs still leaden with weariness but his brain infuriatingly active.

It was like this every night. He slept like a man drugged for two hours and then lay awake counting the hours until dawn, when he must rise and face another day.

He thought again of his lists, of the plan of march he and Gerontius had mapped out, of the officers who must be spoken to and encouraged. His brain raced and the blood pounded feverishly through his tired body. Sleep was impossible. He could force his mind to go blank and his limbs to lie quietly, but still sleep would not come.

He could not continue to live like this. He put his hand down and let it rest on the warm head of the hound who slept beside his bed.

He was trapped. It was like living in a dark cave from which escape was impossible. The weight of the pain was too much. No one could be expected to bear it.

The weight of her absence. It was not getting better, it was getting worse.

He could not continue to live like this. Beside him, the puppy snorted in his sleep. Arthur got out of bed and went to light the lamp on his table. He would go over the list of supplies once more.

Chapter 14

“
W
HERE
is she?” Arthur, with a wild look in his eyes, burst into Merlin’s room at the praetorium. It was almost midnight and Merlin was in bed; Arthur’s army was due to leave Venta the following morning.

Merlin, who had not been asleep, stared up at the figure of his grandson looming over him. The oil lamp held in Arthur’s hand clearly illuminated the boy’s face. Merlin felt a stab of fear. He struggled to a sitting position and shoved a pillow behind his back. “Do you mean Morgan?” he managed to say with an assumption of calm.

“Of course I mean Morgan! I sent a courier to Avalon and he just returned with the news that she is not there. Where is she? What have you done with her?”

Merlin’s eyes closed, an involuntary reflex of relief. It was all right. Arthur did not know. He looked at the boy once more and answered, “I sent her into Wales for a change of scene. This has been difficult for her too, Arthur. You have your work and the distraction of a new place and new faces. Morgan has been at Avalon surrounded by memories.”

The boy’s slim frame was shaken by the force of his breathing. “Why didn’t someone tell me she was going?”

“I was supposed to, but I’m afraid, in all the excitement of the army preparations, I forgot. I’m sorry.”

He had not forgotten, of course. He had never had any intention of telling Arthur. He looked now at his grandson’s tense face. He might have known Arthur would keep some sort of surveillance on Morgan.

Arthur’s brow was still lined. Merlin’s easy answer had not completely reassured him. The danger, Merlin realized, had not yet been averted. “Why Wales?” Arthur asked.

“Morgan’s mother brought some holdings in Wales as her dowry,” Merlin answered with elaborate patience. “Since the property will be Morgan’s one day, I suggested she go and look at it. Morgause went with her. They were both in need of something to do, and this seemed to be a good solution.” He made himself stop talking. If he talked too much, he would only increase Arthur’s suspicion.

In the little silence that followed, Merlin studied his grandson’s face. There were hollows beneath the high cheekbones, and the shadow of a coming man’s beard on his upper lip and jaw. The outward marks of fatigue were unmistakable.