The Road to Avalon (30 page)

His men were dying, but he outnumbered the Britons by a significant margin. Offa ordered the provision wagons into the pass to give his men protection under them, and he continued to send his army forward. He also ordered his own scouts into the heights of the mountains to seek out and kill as many of Arthur’s archers and crossbowmen as could be found. Fifteen of his finest men he sent on a special mission: find the High King of Britain and cut him down.

The British attack was murderous. Arthur had no intention of leaving Offa enough men to launch an effective counteroffensive from the plain beyond. When the king learned that Offa was using the supply wagons for shelters, he ordered fire arrows used on them. Soon the pass below was filled with smoke.

The sun hit the floor of the Badon pass only when it was directly overhead. By the time its first rays shone down between the heights of the two mountains, the slaughter had been under way for several hours. While Offa’s scouts had accounted for some of the British bowmen, they could not seriously affect the steadiness of the murderous barrage. Arthur had thousands of bowmen hidden on the heights above the pass. The Badon pass was a charnel house beyond anything anyone in the two participating armies had ever seen.

Offa, however, remained hopeful for almost another hour that he could reach the end of the pass and turn the course of the day. His own scouts scrambled back and forth across the mountains bringing him news of what was occurring below. At just about the exact time that Offa realized he had lost, that he would not have enough men left alive to mount an effective counteroffensive, one of his specially commissioned scouts was aiming his arrow at the unprotected back of the High King of Britain.

It had not been difficult to find Arthur. His voice rang up and down the valley, seeming to the dying men below to be coming straight out of the sky. Offa’s man had tracked it easily enough, and now, hidden behind a boulder and unseen by the Britons who flanked their king, he raised his bow, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the blackhaired man before him.

At the very last minute, Arthur sensed danger. He whirled to face it and received the arrow in his chest rather than in his back. The arrow, shot from so close a distance, penetrated his leather tunic. The king fell without a sound.

Gawain, who had been standing at Arthur’s side, turned also and, without pause, drew his own sword and ran for the assassin. He killed him with vicious pleasure.

There was a circle of men kneeling around Arthur when Gawain returned to the king’s side. They made way for him. “Send for Drusus,” Gawain said as he dropped to his knees beside his cousin.

“Bors has gone for him,” came the instant reply. Then they all fell quiet as Arthur’s lashes moved on his cheek. They lifted, and pain-filled gray eyes looked up into Gawain’s. “Cai,” said the king. It was hard to hear him, so Gawain bent his head low, next to Arthur’s lips. “Tell Cai to finish this out.”

“We will, my lord,” Gawain said strongly, and Arthur’s eyes closed once again. Gawain thought he was still conscious, however, as there were lines of pain between his brows and around his mouth.

Someone ran to bring the news to Cai, and in a few minutes Drusus, the army physician, was at the king’s side. He looked horrified when he saw the prone figure of Arthur, with the arrow still sticking out of his chest. They had been afraid to remove it. Too many of them had seen that death often followed that particular procedure. But, of course, it had to be done.

Drusus, muttering under his breath, took out the arrow. Arthur went, if possible, even whiter, but the terrible gush of blood they had all feared did not follow. Drusus said, with relief very evident in his voice, “It must have hit the breastbone.”

There was a loud release of sound from the encircling men.

Drusus looked up. “He must be got off this mountain.”

The men exchanged grim looks. They were two and a half miles into the pass.

It was Gawain who took charge. “Bind up the wound as best you can,” he told the physician. “We will make a sling out of a cloak and carry him out that way.”

As Drusus began to assemble his bandages, Gawain dropped back to his knees beside Arthur. Once again the long lashes lifted. “I got the murdering bastard, my lord,” Gawain said fiercely.

The faintest glimmer of approval appeared in the heavy gray eyes. “You are doing very well, little cousin,” Arthur murmured. And, mercifully, lost consciousness.

They brought Arthur to Calleva, a Roman city that had been used most recently as a place to quarter troops. At one time Calleva had been a thriving market for the agricultural district that surrounded it; today it was merely a shell of its former self, its small permanent population spread out behind the walls built hundreds of years before by Roman legions.

The county hall was in good repair and it was there they carried the injured king. Drusus cleaned and bandaged Arthur’s wound once more and then sat down to keep vigil.

He was still there when Cai arrived in Calleva shortly after midnight. Drusus met him at the door of Arthur’s room. “How bad is it?” Cai demanded.

“There has been some tearing,” Drusus replied in a low voice. “The arrow hit the breastbone and then veered off. But I don’t think any vital organs have been damaged, Commander. We must just hope that no infection sets in.”

Cai nodded. “Is he sleeping? May I see him?”

“Yes, you can see him. He hasn’t been sleeping. I think he’s been waiting for news from you.”

Cai’s sunburned face was somber as he crossed the floor to the bedplace where they had laid the king. Arthur’s eyes were closed, but when Cai spoke his name, they opened.

“The Saxons are finished,” Cai said. “The few who made it to the end of the pass were met by Antonius and the Sixth foot, as you planned, and were completely routed. Offa pulled out what men he could and retreated toward the coast. He left eighty percent of his army at Badon, Arthur. It will be many years before the Saxons fight again.”

The heavy eyes registered comprehension. Then in a low but clear voice Arthur said, “Send word to Bedwyr that he is to remain where he is until Lionel is certain the Saxons have retreated from the wall as well.”

“I will,” said Cai.

The faintest flicker of a smile crossed the thin drawn face on the pillow, and then the gray eyes closed once more.

Late the following afternoon Gwenhwyfar arrived in Calleva. Word was out that the king had been injured, but not seriously, and the mood in the country was jubilant. This was their day of deliverance. A whole generation of Saxons had fallen at Badon; for the first time since Vortigern had invited Hengist and his people to settle in Britain, the Saxon threat was lifted.

Gwenhwyfar had not expected to find Arthur so ill. He was semiconscious when she went in to see him, and he did not seem to recognize her. She turned to Drusus, who was standing beside her. “They said it was only a flesh wound!”

“We thought it best not to alarm the country, my lady. And, truly, the wound is not serious. But it will take time to heal.”

Gwenhwyfar put a slim hand on her husband’s forehead and was relieved to find it cool. She smiled at Drusus. “I’ll sit with him for a little. You look tired, Drusus. Get some rest.”

After the physician had left, Gwenhwyfar took her place in the chair that had been drawn up beside the bed. Arthur seemed to be sleeping and Gwenhwyfar studied his unconscious face with hungry eyes. He was unshaven and his suntanned skin looked sallow and his hair fell in a tangle across his forehead and, still, he was beautiful. She loved him so much. If anything should happen to him . . . Her throat ached and she reached out to pick up the hand that was lying lax on the blanket. She was alone and so she bent her head and pressed her cheek against the thin, strong fingers. “Don’t worry, my love,” she whispered fiercely. “You’ll get better. I’m going to take very good care of you, I promise.” The face on the pillow did not change.

Chapter 25

“I
DON’T
like it at all,” Drusus said to Cai as they conferred outside the king’s bedchamber three days later. “He is not improving.”

Cai had forced himself to keep a cheerful face in front of others, but he did not like it either. “Has an infection set in?” he asked worriedly.

“No. That is what I don’t understand. There is no fever. The wound is clean. It’s as if . . . it’s as if he’s not trying, as if he doesn’t want to get better. I may sound foolish, but I’m afraid if things continue to go on as they are, we will lose him. And I don’t understand why!”

“Christ in heaven,” said Cai. “We cannot lose him.”

Drusus looked harried. “Well, it is my duty to inform you, Commander, that we are in very grave danger of doing just that. I can get no response from him. The queen can get no response from him. He is, quite simply, going away from us.”

Cai had grown very pale. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I thought it was the wound.”

“I wish to God it were,” Drusus cried in frustration. “The wound I could do something about. This . . . this is beyond me.”

“There is only one person who can deal with this,” said Cai. “The Lady of Avalon.”

Drusus shook his head. “She is a great healer, I will grant you, but it is not the king’s flesh that is our present problem.”

“I know. That is why we need her.” He looked over at the still figure on the bed. “I’m leaving right now,” he said to Drusus. “Don’t dare let anything happen to the king until I return!”

Gwenhwyfar was at her post by Arthur’s bedside when Cai came to the door the following afternoon with Morgan by his side. The queen heard the door open and turned to see the two in the doorway. She rose from her chair and went quietly to speak to them.

When Drusus had told her yesterday that Cai had gone for the Lady of Avalon, Gwenhwyfar had been glad. She had no idea if Morgan could help or not, but her reputation as a healer was great. And Arthur was dying. Gwenhwyfar sensed that quite clearly as she sat by his still figure for hour after endless hour. He was dying, and they were all helpless to do anything to save him.

So now she looked hopefully from Cai to the small figure beside him, but the words she had prepared to say died on her lips. Surely this was not Arthur’s aunt! This girl did not look any older than she herself.

Cai was speaking. “Any change?”

“No,” Gwenhwyfar managed to answer. She looked at Morgan’s small, empty hands. “Are you the Lady of Avalon?” she asked.

Huge brown eyes looked gravely back. “Yes, I am,” came the composed answer. “May I see Arthur, please?”

“Of course.” Gwenhwyfar turned as if to lead her to the bedside, but Cai’s hand grasped her arm.

“Wait here,” he said imperatively. “Leave them alone.”

Gwenhwyfar’s eyes widened; then she nodded. The two of them stayed in the doorway and watched.

For days now Arthur had been sinking deeper and deeper. It was so peaceful here in the warm dark. So restful. Far in the distance he could still hear the dim sound of voices, but he had gone deep enough now that they did not disturb him. He was floating in the dark, down, down, down. . . .

Arthur.
Someone was calling him.
Arthur.
It came again, clearly.
Arthur.
It was insistent, urgent, and he knew who it was. He would answer that call were he at the very door of death, and he had not gone that far yet. He half-opened his eyes.

She was there. He could see her face floating above him, could see her eyes.
No
, she said to him. He could hear her voice in his brain, even though her lips had not moved. No,
Arthur. You cannot do this.

Why not?
His own answer was like hers, silent, mind to mind. They had never done this before, communicated in words without speech. It was surprisingly easy.

I
won’t let you,
she said.

Morgan.
He had to make her understand.
I am so weary. So weary of it all. So weary of being alone. Let me go.

No.

He could feel the strength of her will, and he sought to evade it.
My job is done. Britain is safe. Let me go.

No,
she said.
Not yet. There is work still for you.

What work?
But she was putting a block between them, hiding her thoughts.
What work, Morgan?

She switched to the plea she knew could not fail.
Don’t leave me, Arthur. Don’t leave me.

He felt her fear. I
can’t
— he started to say.

Don’t leave me, Arthur. Don’t leave me.

It was panic now. Morgan in fear. It was something he could not allow.
All right. All right.
He tried to reassure her.
Don’t be afraid.
He gathered his forces, made a tremendous effort, and struggled up through the dark. He closed his eyes, then opened them fully. He could see her clearly now, could see the tears on her face. “Morgan” His lips moved, although only a thread of sound came out.

Her great dark eyes searched his face. She had been sitting on the edge of his bed and now she leaned forward and buried her face in his sound shoulder. He turned his head slightly so his cheek could touch her hair. It smelled of lavender.

He was suddenly exhausted.
It’s all right, my love.
Even in the full light he could still hear her in his mind.
Now you can sleep,
she said. And he closed his eyes.

Gwenhwyfar felt cold fear strike her heart when she saw Morgan raise her head and turn away from the bed, weeping uncontrollably. Drusus, who had joined Cai and the queen in the doorway, moved instantly into the room. Gwenhwyfar, crying “Arthur!” in a sharp, panicked voice, reached the bedside before him.

He was breathing; she saw that immediately. Breathing normally, not the shallow slow breathing that had so frightened her these last days. His face had a little color; it did not look so sallow as it had. Drusus bent his head to listen to the king’s heart and when he looked up at Gwenhwyfar his face was amazed. “He’s sleeping naturally,” he said. “He seems . . . better.”