The Road to Avalon (25 page)

The following day her things were unloaded from the litters, and she and her ladies settled into their new quarters. From her window she saw Arthur ride away from the praetorium on a big black horse. She did not see him come back, but he was present at dinner. She sat between him and Bedwyr once more and was polite to them both.

There was a great hunt the following day, and all the men disappeared until late in the evening. Dinner was served to Gwenhwyfar and her ladies in her private rooms.

Cai appeared at her door the following day with a scroll under his arm. He was there to discuss the wedding plans, and she sat beside him and smiled and nodded and agreed to everything he said.

She appeared at dinner that evening with her usual serenely beautiful face, but behind the smile there was growing anger. Never, in all her seventeen years, had the Princess Gwenhwyfar been treated the way Arthur was treating her now. She was a princess, the king’s intended wife, not a necessary nuisance. She pushed the food around on her plate all through dinner, and listened to Arthur making conversation with her father. When finally he turned to say something to her, she said, without pausing to consider the wisdom of this course of action,
“I
should like to speak with you alone, my lord.”

There was a startled pause. Then: “Of course.” His voice held only the careful courtesy she so resented. “If you will go into the small audience room? I will join you there in a few moments.”

She nodded and swept off to murmur an excuse into Olwen’s ear. She went to the room he had indicated and sat in one of the circle of chairs that edged the mosaic. Anger was beginning to die and some other emotion, unnervingly like fear, had lodged itself in the pit of her stomach. What had she done? And what, in God’s name, was she going to say to him? She clasped her hands together tightly and at that moment he came in the door.

“Sit down,” she said, and bit her lip. He walked toward her slowly and chose the chair directly opposite hers in the circle. If he had sat next to her, she might have found something else to say, she might have held her tongue. But he sat as far away from her as he possibly could. “If you didn’t want to marry me,” she said, her voice huskier than usual, “you shouldn’t have brought me here.”

His face never changed: the straight black brows, the guarded eyes, the unsmiling mouth. “I never said I did not want to marry you,” he answered.

“You didn’t have to. Your feelings are quite obvious.” Her hands were freezing and she gripped them together even more tightly. Her heart was pounding with tension and with fear. “What is it?” Even to herself her voice sounded hard. “Don’t you like women?”

That surprised him. The gray eyes widened. “You certainly don’t like me,” she said. In spite of herself, her mouth trembled.

“Gwenhwyfar.” He was looking at her now, really looking at her. She bit her quivering lip. “Oh, God,” he said, the careful courtesy quite gone from his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . . ” A lock of black hair had fallen across his forehead. He looked more human than she had ever seen him look before.

She sniffled. “Didn’t think what? That I would notice?”

The gray eyes were rueful. “I didn’t think of you at all—which was inexcusable, and I apologize.” He pushed the hair back off his brow. “I’ve been so nervous about meeting you. That’s why I’ve behaved like such a boor. And of course I want to marry you.”

She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. “Nervous of meeting
me?”
She stared at him incredulously. He didn’t look like a man who knew the meaning of the word “nervous.”

“Well,” he replied reasonably, “it is rather nerve-racking, the thought that you are to marry a total stranger.”

“You don’t need to tell me,” she said, and at that he smiled.

“I’ve been a selfish brute, Gwenhwyfar. Shall we try to start again?” He rose from his chair and came to stand before her.

It was not the same smile he had given to her father. She felt suddenly shy. “I’d like that, my lord.” Her voice was very soft.

“Arthur,” he said.

“Arthur,” she repeated, and smiled back at him.

There were three more weeks to wait until her wedding, and Gwenhwyfar was happy. Restored to her old confidence, she spread the radiance of her beauty about the entire court. Arthur went out of his way to make up to her for the neglect of her first few days in Venta. He took her riding. He showed her the small Christian church where their vows would be exchanged. He was friendly and charming, an utterly different man from the guarded stranger she had first encountered.

A week before the wedding there was some minor commotion about a mock battle that Bedwyr had arranged, and the Prince disappeared from Venta. When she questioned Arthur, he told her blandly that he had sent Bedwyr out with a hunting party to bring in fresh meat for the wedding. Culwych, Olwen’s brother, had another story. He said that Arthur had put a stop to the mock battle and got Bedwyr away from Venta to keep him out of trouble.

“The prince gets bored when there’s no one to fight,” Culwych said. It was evidently a fact about Bedwyr that everyone knew and accepted.

The prince returned the day before the wedding. The praetorium was filled with guests and Gwenhwyfar had been busy all day greeting people. Arthur had not been in the praetorium and she did not see him until dinner that evening, when he came into the dining room with Bedwyr.

The company was not yet seated, awaiting the entrance of the king. Arthur came first through the door, then Bedwyr followed, his massive frame filling the doorway. He had to duck his golden head in order to keep from hitting it on the frame. Gwenhwyfar watched the two men as they crossed the floor toward the high table, and remembered her brother Peredur’s words. They were true, she thought. When Arthur was present, you did not look at anyone else.

Chapter 21

F
OR
Arthur, his wedding day was less a personal than a state occasion. He understood very well the significance to Britain of his taking a wife. It meant the founding of a dynasty; it meant the establishment of a stable government; it meant peace for the country. With all these things in mind, he had called in Cai from his work on the new capital and asked him to create a wedding day that few would forget.

Five kings were coming to Venta for the occasion, and numberless princes and chiefs. The one thing Gwenhwyfar found strange, however, was the absence of any member of Arthur’s own family. His parents, of course, were dead. And Merlin, his grandfather, as well. But he had two aunts. Morgause lived in the far north and Gwenhwyfar supposed one could understand her reluctance to undertake such a journey, but the other lived quite nearby, at Avalon. Gwenhwyfar wondered at her absence.

“My aunt?” Arthur said blankly when she asked him. Then, when she elaborated: “Oh. You mean
Morgan.”

“Yes,” replied Gwenhwyfar a little diffidently. Physically Arthur had not moved, but she had the distinct impression that he had just retreated a hundred miles beyond her reach. “I just thought, since she is so close . . . ” Her voice ran out.

“Morgan is in Lothian at present, visiting her sister,” he said. “Otherwise I am sure she would be present.”

Gwenhwyfar thought it extremely odd that Arthur’s aunt should choose such a time to travel to Lothian. The roads would be better later in the year, and she would not have to miss the marriage of her nephew. There was evidently an unfriendly feeling between Arthur and this aunt. His face was wearing the remote, austere look she dreaded, and she hastily changed the subject.

“Morgan isn’t coming?” Bedwyr asked Cai the evening before the wedding. They were sitting in Cai’s bedroom in the praetorium and sharing a jug of wine.

“No,” said Cai. “She went to visit Morgause in Lothian. It meant that Morgause and Pellinore couldn’t come to Venta, of course. However”—Cai shrugged—“all in all, it seemed the best solution.”

“I suppose so.” Bedwyr looked at Cai over the rim of his cup. “Gwenhwyfar was curious. I told her that Morgause had no love for Arthur because of Lot, and that Morgan had gone to Lothian out of loyalty to her sister.”

“Good.” Cai’s chin was sunk into his chest. “It may go well enough after all, this marriage.” He watched Bedwyr pour himself another cup of wine. “Gwenhwyfar might be just what he needs.”

“He needs something.” Bedwyr drained half his cup. “He was hell to live with all winter.”

Cai grunted. “So were you.”

Bedwyr grinned crookedly. “I get bored. That’s not Arthur’s problem, though. If anything, he has too much to do.”

“He needs a woman,” diagnosed Cai. “I pushed a few into his bedroom this winter, but it only made him angry.” He stared into the glowing coals of the brazier. “I think this girl will be good for him.”

Bedwyr’s reply was strangely brooding. “But will he be good for her?”

Cai looked at him, surprised. “He’s made an effort to please her. It was disastrous as first, but he’s been much better lately. Gwenhwyfar handled him just right.”

“Yes. She did.”

“What’s the matter, then?” Cai asked. “She can’t have expected to find a love match, after all. And Arthur has apparently decided to make the best of it. Why shouldn’t it turn out all right?”

Bedwyr drained his cup. “No reason.” He pushed himself to his feet. “If we drink any more of this wine, we won’t make it to the great day tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night,” replied Cai, and watched, frowning, as Bedwyr walked out of his door.

The day of Arthur’s marriage dawned bright with sunshine and May flowers. Cai was enormously relieved. It was physically impossible to fit all of the guests into the dining hall of the praetorium, and so tents had been constructed for those of less importance. Dining in a tent in the sunlight was pleasant; in the rain and the mud, distinctly less so. Admittance to the small church was only for the select few, and after the actual ceremony was over, everyone repaired to either dining hall or tent for a sumptuous banquet.

Arthur had taken the pageantry of the day very seriously. There was a formal procession to and from the church, and the king wore a gold circlet on his brow and a cloak of imperial purple. Gwenhwyfar looked impossibly beautiful in a glimmering gold gown that was not as brilliant as the cloud of bronze hair that fell around her shoulders and down her back. The street was lined with hundreds of guests and townspeople to watch them go by.

The cooks had outdone themselves with the dinner, which was grandly Roman in style. The first course, the gustatio, consisted of eggs and oysters washed down with honey-flavored wine. The main part of the meal was roast boar, venison, beef, and mutton served with a variety of vegetables and breads. Cai had imported the wine from Italy. For the final course, the mensae secundae, Cai had ordered puddings, pastries, cakes, sweetmeats, fresh and dried fruits, and more wine.

The gustatio was served and Arthur sat toying with the oysters on his plate. He looked over at Gwenhwyfar, seated beside him at the high table, and saw she was eating her oysters with obvious pleasure while she talked to the archbishop.

He felt suddenly sick. Sweat stood out on his forehead and he clenched his teeth.

“Are you well?” It was the voice of Gwenhwyfar’s father, seated on his other side. Maelgwyn’s handsome face bore a look of concern.

He forced the nausea back down. “I’m all right. I don’t think the oysters quite agreed with me.” He put down his knife. He didn’t think he would ever eat oysters again.

The feast went on for a very long time. Finally Gwenhwyfar’s women rose to take her away. She caught his eye before she left the table, an apprehensive, fleeting look. She was a virgin, of course. She would be afraid.

He thought of another time, when the rain had been beating down, and the air had smelled of grain. Morgan had not been afraid.

Not now, he told himself fiercely. Forget it for now.

The men around him were laughing and joking. He forced himself to smile and make a reply. They all roared.

He had to pull himself together or he would mishandle tonight. He did not want to hurt her or frighten her.

He hadn’t been with a woman since Morgan.

That had been a mistake. Tonight, what he needed was control. But he had not been able to bear any of those other women . . . All the men were looking at him. Abruptly he realized that it was time. Well, he would do the best that he could.

He would not allow anyone to leave the banquet when he went. The last thing he needed right now, he thought with bitter humor as he walked down the corridor to her rooms, was an audience.

She was sitting up in bed when he came in, her glorious hair loose around her shoulders. She wore some sort of thin linen shift. He crossed the room to her side of the bed.

Her face was flawless, with a suggestion of great sweetness in the curves of her lovely full mouth. She was intelligent, he had discovered, and she had faced him bravely when he had not given her the attention she felt was due her. It could have been much worse, he thought. There was a good chance that they could become friends. If he didn’t mishandle things now.