The Road to Avalon (31 page)

The queen and the doctor both turned at the same moment to look at the small weeping figure who was being held now in Cai’s arms.

“I know,” the big man was saying in a voice Gwenhwyfar had never heard him use. “But it had to be done, Morgan.”

“Yes,” came the choked reply, barely audible to the two by the king’s bedside. “But . . . oh, Cai . . .”

“Come along.” Cai picked up Arthur’s aunt as if she had been a child and carried her out of the room.

Arthur slept for hours and then woke up normally, looked at his wife, who was sitting by his side, and gave her a faint smile of recognition.

“Oh, Arthur.” Gwenhwyfar’s voice trembled with relief. “Thank God. We have been so worried about you.”

His face looked so thin, she thought. The hollows under the beautiful cheekbones were painfully deep, but his eyes were clear and focused directly on her face. “Could you drink a little broth?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

He let her feed him, which pleased her immensely. She was returning the empty bowl to a table in the corner of the room when Morgan came in the door. The Lady of Avalon did not seem to notice that the queen was in the room; her eyes were all for Arthur. Gwenhwyfar stilled her greeting, stood quietly and watched.

Morgan crossed to Arthur’s side and stood there for a long moment. They simply looked at each other, neither of them speaking a word. Then Morgan slipped her hand in the thin muscular hand that was lying so quietly on the top of the blanket. From where she stood, Gwenhwyfar could clearly see his fingers close tightly.

She put the bowl down sharply upon the table and two pairs of eyes looked at her with identically startled expressions. Then Morgan smiled. “I’m sorry, my lady. I did not see you.”

Gwenhwyfar came slowly back toward the bed. Morgan had with-drawn her hand from Arthur’s and was looking with approval at Gwenhwyfar. “Oh, good,” she said. “You’ve got him to eat.”

“Yes.” Gwenhwyfar looked from Morgan to her husband. “He had a little broth.”

“I object,” said Arthur in an astonishingly clear voice, “to being discussed as if I weren’t here.”

“You’re in no condition to object to anything,” his aunt told him astringently. “You just do as you’re told.”

Gwenhwyfar stared. No one spoke to Arthur like that.

“It’s the secret of her success as a healer,” Arthur said to his wife. “She bullies her patients back to health.” Incredibly, he sounded amused.

“What is it?” Morgan asked. He was searching the room with his eyes, as if he were looking for something.

“Cabal,” he said. His black brows drew together. “Where is Cabal?”

“We had to take him out” Gwenhwyfar replied in a constricted voice. “When you were so ill . . . he kept crying . . . ”

Arthur’s lashes screened his eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you can let him back in now. I’m going to be all right.” He raised his lashes and looked at Morgan.

“I don’t understand how you did it,” Gwenhwyfar said to Morgan later in the evening before they both retired for the night. They had previously moved beds into the county hall for Drusus and the queen, and Cai had just had another one set up in one of the old offices for Morgan. “You used no medicine,” Gwenhwyfar went on.

Morgan smiled at Arthur’s wife. “The simple folk say I have magic. I don’t believe in magic, of course, but God did give me a special power to heal. I don’t always understand it myself.” Her large brown eyes were wide and innocent. Morgan had no intention of telling Gwenhwyfar of what had passed between Arthur and herself.

Gwenhwyfar’s long green eyes were regarding her husband’s aunt skeptically. There was intelligence behind that beautiful face, Morgan realized. And Gwenhwyfar loved Arthur. Morgan had seen that very quickly. She would have to be careful.

“I did not realize you were so young,” Gwenhwyfar said.

“I’m not so young really,” said Morgan. “I’m twenty-six.”

Gwenhwyfar looked surprised.

“Arthur and I were children together,” Morgan went on. “We both grew up at Avalon, you know.”

Gwenhwyfar did not know. Arthur rarely spoke about his childhood. “Well, I am very grateful to you for your . . . assistance,” she said, and even to herself she sounded stiff and ungracious. She made an effort to unbend. “He . . . I . . . I was afraid I was going to lose him.”

The great luminous brown eyes seemed to understand what she was feeling. Morgan laid a small chapped hand on Gwenhwyfar’s sleeve. The queen smiled. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Morgan replied, and both women went off to their respective rooms.

They were returning to Venta; Drusus and Gwenhwyfar wanted Arthur to travel by litter and he wanted to ride. Both the queen and the physician appealed to Morgan, who appeared to be the only person Arthur ever listened to.

“Let him ride,” Morgan said. “It’s not that far. Besides, you’d have to tie him down to get him in a litter, and I don’t think anyone quite has the nerve to do that.”

They did not have the nerve, and consequently Arthur rode the few hours it took to get from Calleva to Venta. His wife rode beside him, watching him worriedly every inch of the way. Morgan and Cai rode behind them and chatted unconcernedly as the miles dropped away. Arthur was silent and Gwenhwyfar, considerately, did not try to initiate conversation. She thought he needed his energy to stay on his horse.

They were waiting for him in Venta: his soldiers, the town merchants, the local farmers who had come into the city. They lined the main street of the city ten deep, and all the way it was
Arthur! Arthur! Arthur!
Gwenhwyfar was deafened by the noise. The king looked from one side of the road to the other, recognizing faces among the screaming crowd. The mood of the city was that of ecstatic adoration.

“They love you,” Gwenhwyfar said when finally they reached the courtyard of the praetorium. “You are their deliverer.”

“For the moment,” he replied. He shook his head at Cai’s offer of help and dismounted by himself.

“What do you mean, for the moment?” Gwenhwyfar asked sharply. “I thought the Saxons were destroyed, that we were finally free.”

He gave her an odd, slanting look. “Oh, we are free,” he replied. “But freedom brings burdens of its own, Gwenhwyfar. And peace its own problems.” He shrugged. “Let them savor this moment of sweetness. It will probably never be equaled again.” He turned away from her to mount the steps of the praetorium.

Bedwyr returned to Venta a day after Arthur, and had to hear the whole story of Badon first hand. He was also reintroduced to Morgan, whom he had not met since the harvest fair at Glevum so many years ago.

“I remember you very well,” he said. “Sodak let you rub his nose. I’ve never forgotten that.” He gave Arthur a sideways blue glance before he asked, “What brings you to Venta after all these years?”

There was a distinct pause. Then Gwenhwyfar said quietly, “Arthur was far more ill than we let out, Bedwyr. We must thank Morgan and her healing arts for his life.”

“What?”
Bedwyr turned an accusing stare on Cai. “You never told me. You said it was just a flesh wound.”

“It was a flesh wound and I am feeling perfectly well” said Arthur. His tone was cool. “And I am becoming extremely weary of discussing the state of my health.”

“What shall we discuss then?” Morgan said affably. “The weather?”

Arthur looked down at her, raising his brows.

“Not the weather.” She looked off into the distance, contemplating. “I know. We can talk about your new capital. What is it called? Camelot?”

Gray eyes met brown. Then Arthur turned to Cai. The five of them were sitting in Arthur’s room, with the summer sun streaming in the open window. “My new capital,” he said softly. “How is it coming, Cai?”

“Well, I’ve been busy with other things lately,” Cai replied. Bedwyr grunted. “However, I hear from Gerontius that the building is almost finished.” He looked at Morgan. “It should be habitable by late fall.”

Morgan smiled at him, then turned to the queen. “Are you looking forward to your new home?” she asked. Gwenhwyfar looked from Morgan to her husband and then back to Morgan again. She forced herself to make a civil reply.

Morgan remained in Venta for a week before she returned to Avalon. It was a disquieting week for Gwenhwyfar. She was jealous of the relationship between her husband and his aunt, and she was ashamed of herself for being jealous.

Morgan and Arthur had grown up together, she told herself. They were like brother and sister. It was selfish of her to begrudge him the pleasure he so obviously found in Morgan’s company.

But he was different when he was with her. There was no disguising that. He was more relaxed than she had ever seen him, more . . . happy.

She walked in on them two days before Morgan left Venta. They were in Arthur’s room, and Cabal had got something he was not supposed to have. Morgan was trying to get it away from him. Gwenhwyfar opened the door to find Arthur dissolved in laughter as he watched Morgan and Cabal tussling on the floor before his desk. Gwenhwyfar stopped dead and looked at her husband’s face. He looked like a boy.

The dog was the first one to sense her presence, and he gave a sharp bark. Arthur’s dark head turned toward the door. His face did not alter when he saw his wife. “Come in, Gwenhwyfar,” he said in a shaking voice.

“Got
it!” came a triumphant cry from the floor, and Morgan stood up. Her brown hair was ruffled and there was the glow of healthy color in her cheeks. In her raised hand she was brandishing a shoe.

“Morgan Victorious” said Arthur in Latin. Gwenhwyfar was unsure of the words, but she understood the look in his eyes, and a blade twisted in her heart.

It was as well for the queen’s peace of mind that she did not witness the scene that took place between Arthur and Morgan the following afternoon. This time, however, Arthur had made sure that they would be alone by taking her out of Venta completely, to the open countryside beyond the army encampment. They said little as they rode along through the summer sunshine, and when they moved off the road Morgan simply followed Arthur’s lead as they wound down a rutted track toward a small stream. There was no sign of any human habitation, and Arthur pulled his horse up and said, “Here.”

They dismounted, still in silence, and picketed their horses to graze. With one accord they moved to a patch of dried grass in front of a large boulder and sat down side by side, leaning their backs against the sun-warmed smoothness of the rock.

Morgan picked up his hand. “I did not know it was so bad,” she said, her eyes on the fingers lying so relaxed in her own. “Cai told me you were doing all right, that you and Gwenhwyfar were . . . all right.”

He watched her down-looking face. “No,” he said.

She looked up. “It is like being at the bottom of a well,” he told her. “With no hope of ever being rescued.”

He saw the pain in her eyes. “You should have let me know.”

“You knew. You had to know. Was it any better for you, Morgan?”

Slowly she shook her head and he turned his hand and pulled her closer. “I didn’t want to know, I suppose,” she said in a muffled voice.

“It was Badon,” he explained. “I could keep going for as long as I knew I was necessary, but after Badon I thought it would be . . . safe.”

There was a long silence. Then: “I always used to know what you were feeling,” she said. “But I never before knew what you were thinking.”

He rested his cheek against her hair. “We were always together then. You didn’t have to know.”

“That’s true.”

“You should have married me.”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded constricted. “She cannot have children?”

“It seems not.”

She rested against him. “We don’t need a priest to feel married to each other, you and I.”

He raised his head and looked down into her face. “What am I thinking?” he asked softly.

Her brown eyes glazed a little, looked off as if into a far distance. Then she smiled. “The grain barn,” she said. “And a rainy day.”

He smiled back. “When I move to Camelot, Avalon will be but twelve miles away.”

They looked at each other in perfect comprehension. Then she said, simply, “We tried.”

“God knows, we certainly tried.” The note in his voice was grim. “Gwenhwyfar need never know,” he added. “Avalon is my childhood home. You and I grew up togther. It will not seem strange for me to visit.”

He slid his hands into her hair, loving the familiar feel of its silky texture, loving the shape of her head under his fingers.

“What am I thinking?” she asked.

He smoothed his thumbs across her delicate cheekbones. “I love you too,” he replied a little shakily, and then his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her in an intense, starving anguish. Morgan’s arms went up around his neck and he laid her back on the summer-dry grass.

Chapter 26

T
HE
summer progressed. Arthur sent the auxiliary troops raised by the regional kings home to their clans and kept in Venta only his own standing army with its officers. By early October the troops were moving into their new quarters in Camelot.

Arthur left the furnishing of their new home, called by the British word for palace, to his wife. Gwenhwyfar threw herself into the project with all her considerable energy. She was happy to have something to think about.

She still was not pregnant. Arthur had returned to her bed, but he was not the same. In matters that involved him, she was too closely concerned to be fooled. The passion, the need, were gone. In their place was kindness, but kindness was not what she wanted from him.

If only she could have a child! She hated the assessing way people looked at her waistline, hated the speculation she was certain she saw in their eyes. If she saw a woman in town holding a baby, she had to fight not to burst into tears.

The single person she felt comfortable with was Bedwyr. His blue eyes always held a glint when they looked at her, and it was not a glint of speculation. He teased her and joked with her and she was happy when she was with him. They were of the same stock, after all, both Welsh, with none of the troubling enigmatic Roman streak in their makeup. She was actually more comfortable with Bedwyr than she was with her own husband. She understood Bedwyr. She was beginning to think that she would never understand Arthur.