The Road to Avalon (20 page)

“They are from a race of raiders and destroyers, certainly,” Arthur agreed. “But many present-day Saxons were born and bred in Britain. They know no other place. They will not be dislodged. You and I, my lords, must accept the fact that there will always be Saxon kingdoms within Britain.”

“Well I, for one, will never accept that!” It was Ban again, looking red in the face and breathing heavily down his nose. “I will never rest content until we push them back across the Narrow Sea to the place from which they came.”

“I will be happy to release to you the men of Dyfed,” Arthur replied cordially. “You are, of course, welcome to make the attempt.”

There was a reverberating silence.

“We will make a treaty with them,” Arthur continued, as if Ban’s interruption had never occurred, “and clearly define the borders of their land. Then it is our task to make certain the boundaries of these kingdoms are secure and held to.”

“They won’t stay on the coast forever,” said Ban.

Bedwyr stopped breathing. He knew Arthur’s thinking on this subject, and he did not think it was wise to share it with his father.
Don’t, Arthur,
he said to the king silently.

Arthur’s long, slender fingers unlaced themselves and he answered, “It is my job to see to it that they do. You asked about my military plans. I must tell you, my lords, that for the next few years military matters will become secondary. What is needed in Britain is a strong central government.” Bedwyr began to breathe again.

Cador frowned ominously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the high king must become more than just the war leader. With a season of peace before us, he must become the central civil authority in the country.”

Cador’s bull-like head was pushed far forward on its thick neck. “You want to make yourself emperor?” he said dangerously.

“No.” Arthur’s face was perfectly calm. “I want to be High King of Britain, not just Comes Britanniarum. I want to build a capital for this nation that will not be Roman, as is Venta, but purely British. The capital must have barracks for the army, but it is not to be merely an army garrison. It must be a place of government.” The light gray eyes looked from Cador to Ban and then back again to Cador. “If we are to be one nation,” Arthur said, “then we must have one heart. If we are to treat with other nations, then we must speak with one voice. If we are to rebuild Britain from the devastation of war, then we must have one architect.”

“You would cut down the power of the regional kings,” said Cador.

“I agree that we need a war leader,” Ban put in. His pale eyes raked the slender figure of that war leader from head to toe. “And you have done a good job, I grant you that.” Arthur raised a straight black eyebrow and Ban added reluctantly, “You have done what no one else could do. Be content with that. We are perfectly capable of ruling our kingdoms without you.”

“Indeed?” Arthur’s voice changed note infinitesimally and both kings looked wary. “Have you noticed what has happened to Britain since Rome left, my lords? Most of the towns have fallen into decay, villas have been abandoned, industry has collapsed. The army effort of the last ten years has rebuilt the iron industry, at least, but it must be expanded beyond the mere manufacture of weapons. The roads are in need of major repair. Agriculture has fallen to a sustenance level; it must be revived to a scale that will enable us once more to export wheat. Ships need to be built.”

Arthur rested his hands on the arms of his chair. “I do not mean to wrest all authority from the regional kings. You know your tribes and your people’s needs. But this country must be restored to a money economy if we are to take our place among the nations of the world. It is economic strength that will ultimately win the fight against the Saxons. And we cannot gain economic strength without a central government.”

“Would you use the regional kings as a council?” Cador asked.

“Of course,” Arthur replied promptly. “I am
not
planning to make myself emperor. But I think it is essential that we begin to undertake a major rebuilding of our resources, and I think that I am the best person to direct it.”

“The roads are in disgraceful condition,” Ban said reluctantly.

Cador looked searchingly at the young high king. “Do you really think we are going to have peace?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “I do.”

Bedwyr stayed after the two kings had retired for the night. “You certainly knocked them between the eyes,” he said to Arthur half-humorously after the door had closed behind his father. “First a treaty with the Saxons, then a new capital with yourself reigning in state over the whole of the country.”

“They will have to get used to the idea,” Arthur said a little impatiently. “Cador is the best-informed of all the kings. I think he will come to see that what I have proposed is only sensible.”

“And then he can convince the others?”

A black eyebrow rose. “Something like that.”

“You were very encouraging about the Saxons.”

Arthur shrugged and stretched his legs out before him. “If we are lucky, we will have perhaps a hundred more years. But that should be enough.”

“You didn’t tell them that.”

Quite suddenly Arthur grinned. His smile was so rare that when it came its effect was quite extraordinary. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“Good thing.” Bedwyr smiled back. “My father, for one, would not appreciate your views on that subject.”

“I meant everything else I said, though.” Arthur’s face was sober once more. “The stronger we are, the longer we will stave off the inevitable. And the inevitable, when it comes, need not be a thing of devastation and terror. The strength of the empire always lay in the influx of new people into it.”

“The Saxons are not the Goths,” said Bedwyr.

“Give them a hundred more years and they will be as civilized as the Goths. You yourself are not a Christian, but you must see the tremendous civilizing influence of the church. In a sense, the civilizing mission of Rome that my grandfather used to talk so much about has been passed to the church. There was a Patrick for Ireland; there will be an apostle for the Saxons too. And that will make the difference.”

“Given time,” said Bedwyr.

“That is our job.” Arthur leaned back in his chair, looked at Bedwyr from under his lashes, and asked, “What is your father doing in Venta?”

Bedwyr was annoyed to feel the blood rise in his cheeks. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

“Ban and Cador. And Archbishop Dubricius too, I understand. They wish to meet with me tomorrow. All three of them.”

Bedwyr wished he had a drink in his hand.

“Have they someone particular in mind, Bedwyr?” came the cool voice of the king. “Or is it to be just a general discussion?”

Bedwyr’s eyes jerked up.

“I see,” said Arthur. “Who is she?”

“One of Maelgwyn’s daughters,” Bedwyr said reluctantly. “Gwen-hwyfar.”

There was the faintest of pauses. Then: “A princess from Gwynedd. What else are they offering?”

Bedwyr stared at him. “One hundred horses from Gaul.”

The long lashes lifted. “They are serious, then.”

“Very serious.” Against his better judgment, Bedwyr continued, “You could do worse. She is seventeen and of good blood. Maelgwyn is Christian, so that is all right. My father and Cador clearly approve.” He stopped abruptly, aware of the amusement in Arthur’s eyes.

“And there are the one hundred horses,” the king said.

Bedwyr frowned in perplexity. “I shall never understand you. You have spent the last five years deftly avoiding all mention of marriage. On the one or two occasions when someone dared to raise the subject, you almost took their heads off. Now you are suddenly ready to settle for one hundred horses.”

Arthur shrugged. He appeared perfectly relaxed as he lounged back in his chair, but Bedwyr, who knew him very well, could see the tension in his fingers as they clasped the chair’s carved arms. “As with the Saxons, one can delay the inevitable for only so long,” Arthur said. “I suppose Gwenhwyfar will do as well as anyone. And if I am to create the sort of stable central government I want to, I will need an heir.”

The room was very silent. In the light of the oil lamp, Arthur’s face looked suddenly tired.

“I have never heard you talk about building a new capital,” Bedwyr said slowly. “When did you decide to do that?”

“I have been thinking about it for some time now. Venta is not adequate for the kind of building I have in mind. There is simply not space enough here. And the praetorium is too small to contain the kind of government I have in mind.”

Bedwyr was looking worried. “If you do this, Cador won’t be the only one to accuse you of trying to make yourself emperor,” he warned.

“I don’t care what they call me,” Arthur returned. “But I will tell you this, Bedwyr.” His gray eyes were as cold as ice. “Whether the Celtic kings like it or not, I intend to rule.”

Chapter 17

H
E
would have to marry. As he had told Bedwyr tonight, one could delay the inevitable for just so long. He needed a wife. To give Britain an heir, he needed a wife. To give Britain a queen, he needed a wife.

The king knew he had to marry. It was the private man who recoiled from the thought.

A Welsh princess from Gwynedd. As Bedwyr had said, it could be worse. Such a marriage would ensure the support of Wales. And outside of Dumnonia, Maelgwyn’s court was the most cultured and Romanized in the country. This girl would understand very well that she was making a dynastic marriage. She would know what her role in his life was to be.

“Is that all, my lord?” It was Gareth, his body servant, who had finished putting away his clothes. Arthur turned from his brooding contemplation of the scrolls on the desk and gave the boy a faint smile.

“Yes, thank you, Gareth. You may seek your own bed now.”

The boy’s returning smile was radiant. “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night,” Arthur replied, and stood looking at the door for a few minutes after it had closed behind the boy. Gareth was . . . what . . . sixteen now. Arthur was conscious of deep surprise. It seemed almost yesterday that the twelve-year-old boy had appeared out of the northern mist and begged to join the army. He remembered quite vividly the look on Gareth’s bruised and dirty face as he had clung to the high king’s stirrup and refused to be dislodged by Cai.

Sixteen. At sixteen Arthur had been high king. Gareth was too old to continue as his body servant; the time had come for him to take his place among the men. He would ask Bedwyr to take him in hand. Cai already had enough to do.

Cai. He had been wounded in the leg in their last engagement with Cerdic. The wound had not healed and so Cai had been sent to Avalon.

Lucky Cai.

Gareth had left a cup of wine for him on the marble table near the brazier, and Arthur moved to pick it up. Cabal, who was sleeping on the rug in front of the glowing coals, lifted his head at his master’s approach and then stretched out again, his eyes closing.

Avalon. Avalon of the apple trees. The one place in the world he longed to be, and the one place he could not go.

The Lady of Avalon, that was what she had come to be called these last ten years. She was famous throughout Britain for her healing arts. Half of his injured officers had spent some time at Avalon, and she had returned them all to him in perfect health.

He knew all about her. He knew when she left Avalon to go visit her sister Morgause in Lothian, and when she returned. He had not seen her since the night he had stormed out of her bedroom and almost walked into the river Camm.

He had written to her twice in ten years. Once was to thank her for the pearls she had sent to him before his coronation. And he had written to her when Igraine died and asked her once again to marry him. She had refused.

His grandfather, ill and living now at Avalon, was no longer the chief obstacle standing between them; it was Morgan herself. He had read that clearly in her letter. She had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he must marry elsewhere.

He might as well marry Gwenhwyfar.

The message from Avalon came two weeks after Cador and Ban and the archbishop had left Venta. It was Cai who came riding through the cold winter dusk to tell the king that his grandfather was dying.

“Morgan thinks he has a week or two left at most,” Cai said when he and Arthur were alone in the private reception chamber that had belonged to Uther. Cai smoothed the folds of his tunic and straightened his leather belt and refrained from looking at Arthur’s face. “He wants to see you.”

“I shall go tomorrow,” said Arthur. Cai looked at him at last, and seemed relieved by what he saw.

“He is in no pain,” he offered. “The seizure, or whatever it was, seems to have passed. He is just very weak. He’s . . . old. All of a sudden, Arthur, he is so old.”

“He is over seventy,” said Arthur. “I suppose we could not expect him to go on forever.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Arthur went to the table near the window and poured two cups of wine. He brought one back to Cai and handed it to him. As Cai smiled his thanks, Arthur said, “How is the leg? The last time I saw you, you were being carried away in a litter.”

Cai’s smile turned into a grin. “I remember your face hanging over me. You looked worried and I thought: God, I must be dying for him to look like that.”

“I thought you were going to lose the leg,” Arthur said grimly.

“So did Morgan, at first. She says it is nothing short of a miracle that the infection cleared.”

Arthur seated himself and took a drink of his wine. The room they were sitting in was the room where he had first met his father, more than ten years ago. It looked exactly the same as it had when Uther was alive. Arthur had not spent enough time in Venta to change things. And, too, there had always been Igraine’s feelings to consider. He said now, with the careful steadiness he always employed when speaking of her, “Morgan is the miracle. She’s healed every man of mine who managed to make it to Avalon alive.”

“The local people say she knows magic,” Cai said with amusement. “Morgan thinks it’s funny.”