The Road to Avalon (19 page)

Arthur remembered he actually had been shocked by the suggestion that Morgause would marry the man she must consider Lot’s usurper. But Merlin had smiled ironically. “Pick a man young enough, and strong enough, and handsome enough, and she’ll have him. Morgause is not one to be long content with an empty bed.”

So, after he returned from Corbridge, Arthur made plans to move his army north of the wall to winter in Lothian. He needed time to meet and to judge the men who had fought with Lot. He needed to meet with and judge Edun, the King of Manau Guotodin, who had fled from the battle of Glein still alive. He needed to see how serious was the threat posed to the south by the Caledonian tribes Lot had raised. And, finally, he needed to make certain of the loyalty of Gwyl of Elmet and Urien of Rheged.

Arthur gave the order for his army to march for Lothian exactly five days after his first battle had been fought and won. On the night before they were to leave for Lothian, a courier reached him from Venta with news from Merlin. Arthur took the report and waited until he was alone before he broke the seal to read it. It could not be a response to his own message about the battle; there had not been time for that. He took the scroll to his desk and read it in the light of the oil lamp that burned there. Then he rolled it up again and placed it carefully in a chest on the floor. He put his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead on his hands. The oil was almost gone in the lamp when finally he rose and made his way toward the pile of skins that was his bed on campaign. Cabal yawned in huge relief as his master prepared to go to bed. The hound had dutifully maintained a watch at Arthur’s feet for the last several hours, but he was anxious to curl himself up in the warmth of the skins and blankets.

Arthur looked down at the dog. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” he said astringently.

Cabal slapped his tail against the floor, then leapt enthusiastically into the bed. Arthur stepped over the dog’s recumbent body and wedged himself between the hound and the wall of the tent. Cabal licked his face and then wiggled down into the nest of wool and fur. In a minute he began to snore.

“Some bedmate,” Arthur remarked to the darkness above him. In answer, Cabal snored again. Arthur smiled a little painfully.

He was tired, but the tiredness was normal weariness from a day of hard physical and mental labor. He would sleep tonight, he knew. His bed was no longer the enemy; not, in fact, since the day of the battle when he had invited death and Bedwyr had staved it off.

He had given Bedwyr his promise, and he would keep it. He would not seek that way out again. He would do the job he had been freed to do. He would try to make her proud of him.

Nothing, for as long as he lived, would ever lessen for him the weight of her absence. But the overwhelming blackness of soul that had threatened to engulf him had lifted.

Be the king you were born to be, she had said.

I’ll try, Morgan, he answered now, deep in the blackness of the northern night, with the dog she had given him snoring at his side.

He was king. The message from Merlin had been to tell him that Uther was dead.

II
GWENHWYFAR (462–465)

Chapter 16

T
HE
rain was falling steadily. Bedwyr could hear it drumming on the roof of the praetorium, beating against the glazed window of his bedroom and dripping down the walls of the building into the muddy garden below. He ran his fingers through his still-damp hair, took another drink of wine from the cup he was holding, and looked warily at his father.

Father and son had not met in more than three years. Ban of Dyfed rarely left his own hills, and Bedwyr’s fighting had kept him far from Wales. The fact that his father had made the journey to Venta was unusual enough to put Bedwyr on his guard. His mind was not made easier by the fact that Cador of Dumnonia and Dubricius, the archbishop of all Britain, were lodged in the praetorium along with the King of Dyfed.

Bedwyr himself had arrived in Venta only hours before. Arthur was bringing the army to winter in the city and had sent Bedwyr on ahead to prepare the shelters and arrange supplies for the influx of men. It was a job that would ordinarily have been Cai’s, but Cai had been wounded earlier in the autumn and was at Avalon recuperating.

So Bedwyr drank his wine and watched his father over the rim of the cup. He had an unpleasant feeling he knew what was on Ban’s mind. The king, in his turn, regarded his son’s large figure with distinct disapproval. Bedwyr was sprawled in a carved wood chair, his long legs thrust out in front of him, his massive shoulders slumped against the cushioned high back. He had changed his wet, muddy clothes for a clean, dry tunic and his leather breeches for ones of soft wool. He looked very much at home in the comfortable bedroom, which indeed was home to him whenever he was at Venta. Prince Bedwyr was one of the few to rate permanent quarters in the praetorium.

This evidence of his son’s favor, however, did not seem to be pleasing King Ban. “I imagine you can guess why I am here,” he said now, his eyes pale and cold.

Bedwyr’s eyes, of a much more brilliant blue, glinted, but he did not reply.

“He must marry,” Ban said. “I have written you on this subject numberless times. Since it seems that you are so reluctant to broach the subject to the high king, I have come myself.”

Bedwyr took another swallow of wine. It was his third cup in the last hour. “Have you any suggestions for our future queen?” he asked flippantly.

King Ban’s disapproving frown deepened. “Yes. Maelgwyn’s youngest daughter. Gwenhwyfar.”

“I didn’t know Maelgwyn had any daughters left,” Bedwyr said over his wine cup. “How old is she?”

“Seventeen.”

Bedwyr’s golden brows rose half an inch. “Seventeen and still unwed? What’s wrong with her, Father?”

“Nothing is wrong with her,” Ban snapped. “She was contracted to wed Magach’s son when she was fifteen, but then he got himself killed fighting with Arthur. At present there are no other unwed Welsh princes”—Ban’s frown became positively formidable—“except, of course, you.”

Bedwyr finally put down his cup. “I have no wish to marry.”

“You can please yourself,” Ban replied shortly. “I have grandsons enough by your brothers.” The pale blue eyes bored into Bedwyr’s resistant face. “But the king cannot please himself in this matter. He must marry. Gwenhwyfar is wellborn. I have never met her, but I understand she is very beautiful. She is acceptable to Cador as well as to Wales. And . . .” He paused meaningfully before adding, “Maelgwyn will give one hundred horses from Gaul as her dowry.”

“One hundred horses.” Bedwyr’s eyes were like sapphires.

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Bedwyr, “Arthur will be in Venta within the week. Good luck to you. And to Gwenhwyfar and her one hundred horses.” He reached once more for his wine cup.

King Ban put his hands on his knees, leaned forward, and fixed his son with his most piercing stare. “Will you kindly explain to me why you are so reluctant to broach the subject of marriage to Arthur?” he asked. Bedwyr said nothing. “He has been king for ten years,” Ban went on. “He is twenty-six years of age. It is more than time for him to wed.”

Bedwyr once more put down his cup and rose from his chair. “He has been rather busy these last ten years,” he said to his father over his shoulder from his new place by the window. He could hear that the direction of the rain had changed. Through the translucent, rain-smeared glass Bedwyr could dimly see the lights from the lanterns hanging on the front of the stable.

“It does not take long to get a son,” said Ban, King of Dyfed.

“I suppose not.” Bedwyr turned back to face the room. “It looks as if the Saxons are finally contained,” he offered, hoping to change the subject.

Ban’s lined face lightened. “Is it so?”

“It seems so, at any rate. Offa has drawn all his forces back into Kent. And Cynewulf and Cerdic are back in their lairs as well. We may actually have a few seasons of peace before us.”

“The Sea Wolves have been driven back to the Saxon shore,” Ban said in wonder. “It is a thing that neither Uther nor Ambrosius was able to accomplish.”

Bedwyr straightened his shoulders and seemed to come to a decision. “Perhaps this
is
the right time to speak to Arthur about marriage.” He began to stride up and down the floor, his long lion’s prowl of a walk making the room seem small. “He had a perfect excuse to avoid taking a wife while Igraine ruled for him here in Venta. It would have been difficult for her to give precedence to a younger queen. And Igraine and Merlin did an excellent job of keeping some sort of civil government in place while Arthur was in the field. He could not have done without either of them. But Igraine has been dead for more than a year.”

“Bedwyr.” The King of Dyfed’s voice held a note that halted his son’s pacing. “There is nothing . . . wrong with Arthur, is there?”

It was a moment before Bedwyr realized the import of the question. Then: “No!” The violence of his feeling was reflected in the blazing blue of his eyes. “What swine has been telling you that?” he demanded fiercely.

Ban mastered an impulse to back away from his son. It was said that Bedwyr was the most feared man in Britain and right now his father could see why. “No one,” he answered hastily. “There has been no breath of scandal, I assure you. It is just that I find his reluctance to marry so odd . . . ”

The blue blaze slowly died out of Bedwyr’s eyes. “Gods,” he said, and ran his fingers once more through his already disordered hair. “There is nothing wrong with Arthur’s appetites,” he said then in a quieter voice. “In fact, I understand there is a veritable cat fight among the camp followers if a woman is requested for the king’s tent. And it would be the same were he not the king, or so they say. No”—Bedwyr’s face now looked stern instead of angry—“there is no need to worry on that head, Father.”

“Very well then.” King Ban was not completely successful in hiding his relief. “When the king arrives in Venta, we will approach him on this matter.”

“Not
we,”
said Bedwyr instantly. “I want no part in this particular discussion. You and Cador are welcome to the job. And the archbishop, of course. I presume that is why he is here, to talk to Arthur about his ‘duty.’ ”

“The king is a Christian,” Ban said stiffly. “I understand Christians are supposed to be guided by their bishop. Dubricius was Cador’s idea,” he added after a minute.

“Well, I wish you and Cador and the archbishop luck,” Bedwyr said cordially. “But leave me out of it. I am his commander of cavalry, not his political or marital adviser.”

The King of Dyfed got to his feet and stared at his son irritably. It annoyed him that he, a large man himself, had to look up. “You are supposed to be more than his commander of cavalry. From what I hear, you are supposed to be his friend.”

“Oh, I am,” came the cheerful reply. “And I should like to keep it that way. Which is why I have no intention, now or ever, of talking to Arthur about marriage.”

King Ban gathered his cloak about him and left the room in silent dignity.

Three days later, Arthur the King rode into Venta. The townspeople lined the main steet of the city to welcome him. Bedwyr, waiting on the front steps of the praetorium, could hear the noise of their enthusiastic greeting rolling down the street as the procession came closer. Then the rider on the big black horse came into sight. Behind Arthur rode a picked contingent of heavy cavalry and light horse. The foot soldiers would have been left in their camps outside the city gates.

Bedwyr watched him come and tried, for perhaps the thousandth time, to fathom the secret of Arthur’s appeal. He sat relaxed and at ease in the saddle and scarcely seemed to notice the people who were shouting his name. Nor was his preoccupation feigned. He really was not noticing his admirers. He was probably planning the jobs he would give to the army to keep the men busy and out of trouble for the winter.

He never seemed to make any effort to charm, yet no one had been able to move and inspire men as he did. He had taken men from all over the country and welded them into a single fighting unit. Before him, men had fought for their tribes, for their chiefs. They had fought for Rome. These last ten years, they had fought for Britain.

Or they had fought for Arthur. For most of them, there was no difference between the two.

The small procession had almost reached the praetorium, and Arthur’s cavalry commander went down the steps officially to greet his king.

Bedwyr was present at the first meeting between Arthur and the kings of Dyfed and Dumnonia. It was the temporary absence of the archbishop that gave Bedwyr the confidence to attend. He reckoned the kings would not raise the one topic he wished to avoid while they were missing one of the most persuasive of their number.

They met in the audience chamber of the praetorium. Arthur, as was his custom, did not use the chair on the raised dais, but joined the men in a circle of chairs placed comfortably close to the brazier that glowed against the cold November air. Arthur did not need a state chair to demonstrate his authority, Bedwyr thought. The quality of his presence was enough.

The meeting was clearly to center on military matters. Cador, who had led Dumnonian troops under Arthur in several engagements, wanted to know the king’s future plans. “You have been successful in driving the Sea Wolves back to the coast,” the King of Dumnonia said. “That is a great thing. But what are we to do now?”

Arthur looked thoughtfully back at Cador. Then: “I would like to make a treaty with them,” he said.

“What!”
Ban’s voice rang out over Cador’s milder protest. “A treaty! You don’t mean to push them back into the sea?”

There was a pause. Then Arthur said, quietly and definitely, “We cannot.”

In the sudden silence, Bedwyr could hear his father’s heavy breathing. Arthur laced his fingers together and waited.

“Will they honor a treaty?” Cador asked. “They are savages,” he added with loathing. “Barbarians. They have no honor.”