“Indeed. A gift that runs in your family, as anyone can see. A gift that can raise the lowliest girl to exalted station. Surely you know its value. Your mother, like mine, is known far and wide for beauty. And your mother’s sister, I am told, was in a different class altogether.”
“Gwen’s not like her!” Elaine burst out. “You can see that for yourself! Why, she gets taken for a boy whenever she ties up her hair!”
Morgan smiled coolly at the flush on Elaine’s cheeks. “That won’t be true a year from now. The signs are already there. If you don’t believe me, watch the guards’ eyes as she passes by. Listen to their whispers. Not everyone regards her as a boy.”
“That’s not true!” Elaine’s protest had lost some of its fervor, and her cheeks had drained of color. Her eyes had a stunned look, and behind them a spark of fear.
“You haven’t watched her as I have,” Morgan continued evenly. “And you see her too often to notice change.”
“She hasn’t changed. She’s always been skinny and plain.” Elaine clutched a scarlet pillow and squeezed it convulsively.
“And she always will be? Have it your own way. But at least be vigilant. Remember, no one ever actually sees a bud blossom, but all at once the bloom is there.”
Elaine rose to her knees. “Stop it. Stop it now. It doesn’t matter anyway what Gwen looks like. Her future’s in my mother’s hands, no one else’s. Certainly not the Old Ones’!”
Amusement crept into Morgan’s amber eyes. It was child’s play to divide the cousins. The suspicions she had planted in Elaine’s mind would take root and grow, feeding off jealousy and fear. As for Guinevere, she would be easy to wound through that fellow Llyr. And how fitting that Elaine herself had handed Morgan the weapon …
“Your mother is honor-bound to marry you off first and best, is that it?”
“Of course,” Elaine said with a lift of her chin. “I’m her daughter.”
“Suppose my wayward brother were to see your cousin and want her? Would your mother have the courage—forgive me, I mean the gall—to refuse him? Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but no one opposes Arthur for very long.”
Elaine grew pale and then flushed. She slid off the bed, making sure the bedclothes followed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, your brother’s married.”
Morgan’s eyes glittered. “Since when has that ever kept a man from a woman he wanted?”
“Arthur wouldn’t!” Elaine cried.
Morgan laughed. “Like father, like son.”
Too late, Elaine remembered that Morgan’s mother, Ygraine, had been married to Gorlois on the night Uther Pen-dragon had breached the defenses of Tintagel to lie with her.
“That was ordained by God.”
“Adultery?”
“It wasn’t—the king lay dead on the field of battle before the High King—”
“How do you know? Were you there?” Morgan’s voice was cold. “Merlin put that tale about to protect Arthur’s claim to legitimacy. Who knows at what hour Gorlois died? The point is, Uther certainly did not.”
“Claim to legitimacy?” Elaine bristled, color flooding her face. “You can’t mean—”
“It might not have made any difference,” Morgan continued smoothly. “Bastards have inherited kingdoms before this.”
Elaine turned almost purple. “How do you dare? King Arthur—”
“Is a bastard bred, if not a bastard born,” Morgan said fiercely. “I’m the only child of that union conceived in the marriage bed.”
Elaine glared at her, too furious for speech. She whirled away from Morgan and strode to the tent door, chin held high. With one hand on the tent flap, she turned.
“You’re not at all like him, you know,” she said. “Everyone loves him better than you. But you know that. You’ve grown up knowing that. That’s why you’re jealous of him.”
Morgan froze. The tent flap slapped closed. Elaine was gone.
In the shadows of the inner doorway, Marcia crossed herself. “Beware a child’s wrath,” she breathed. “Her arrows are dangerous, for her aim is true.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Dagger
Sir Bedwyr sighed with pleasure as his servant eased him out of his leather tunic and leggings, heavy and clinging with two days’ damp, and into his woolen night-robe. He shifted his shoulders, enjoying the freedom of movement. Mithras be praised, the long day had finally come to an end.
He dismissed his servant and blew out the lamp himself, taking a candle to his camp bed. Although it was getting on toward the middle of the night, he did not immediately turn in. He had things to think about, and the day’s events to sort, before he could compose his mind for sleep. Unlike Arthur, who paced about like a young lion when he had a problem to solve, Bedwyr preferred stillness, calm, and the uninterrupted silence of the night.
His first problem was time. It was time to make a progress report to Arthur, and he had no progress to report. Not only had the council of kings not ratified the plan of defensive communications that Arthur had in mind for them, but they had resisted all of Bedwyr’s attempts to nudge them toward it.
“Steer them if you can,” Arthur had told him on the eve of his departure, “but don’t force it on them. They must each play a part in the solution or they won’t regard it as their own. I’d prefer you come home empty-handed than with a treaty none of them intend to honor.”
Bedwyr was determined not to go home empty-handed, but at this pace it would take years. And he had to get Morgan to Rheged in three weeks’ time or risk King Urien’s wrath. Urien was king of a vast land and a leader among the northern lords. Arthur had been after his support for years. He had finally secured it by promising Urien his sister. Morgan’s marriage, if Bedwyr got her there in time, would cement the longed-for alliance with Rheged. Treaty or no treaty, he had to head north soon.
Bedwyr shook his head wearily. He had never met men as stubborn as these Welshmen, men so determined to argue over every blessed thing. As today’s council had demonstrated, without Trevor of Powys, the lines of division between them quickly deepened into fractures. The South Welsh, Dynas of Dyfed and Mardoc of Guent, immediately opposed any idea put forward by the North Welsh, and vice versa. As a result, the council had rapidly deteriorated into a shouting match, and then into a drinking party. Since the heavy rain ruled out hunting and Arthur’s requirement that no weapons be allowed in the council chamber ruled out brawling, the drinking was still going on.
The kings had drunk their way through the evening meal, much to the ladies’ disgust. All the women had retired early; Bedwyr let them go. The kings were friendly enough in their cups, and their boisterous drinking and astonishing gift for song had done much to enliven the cold, wet evening. But Bedwyr knew well that come morning and another council meeting, they’d be at each other’s throats again.
Trevor of Powys was his second problem. The prince still lay prostrate and senseless, even with the physician in constant attendance. Queen Esdora had asked Bedwyr that very afternoon if Merlin would see the boy. He had hemmed and hawed at first, for asking anything of Merlin was not a task he relished, but he could not refuse her plea. He had sent a man to find the enchanter, but Merlin was not in camp. No one knew where he had gone; no one had seen him go. Since Merlin was known for his habit of disappearing, Bedwyr was not overly concerned. He had posted lookouts and was content to wait.
If the boy should die, Arthur would have another problem on his hands. The king of Powys was ill, and there were no other sons. Leaderless kingdoms always meant war. Already Bedwyr fancied he could see a calculating look in King Mardoc’s eye whenever Powys was mentioned. It would be best for everyone if Trevor recovered. Perhaps Queen Esdora had done him a favor in requesting the enchanter’s aid.
His third problem was Lord Riall. Once the drinking had begun in earnest and Bedwyr had retired to his tent, Lord Riall had come to see him. He was now prepared, he said, to grant Sir Bedwyr the privilege of viewing the dagger, provided the knight promised to ret
urn the weapon to him and keep its existence secret from everyone else in camp. Bedwyr had agreed to this with a certain thinness of patience and had informed Sir Riall that his opportunities for dagger viewing were limited, as there was so much else to do.
Lord Riall had retreated, but promised to bring him the precious object that very night once everyone else was asleep. At the rate the men were going—the rich wail of drunken voices raised in song sailed clearly through the tent cloth—they would likely make a night of it. That suited Bedwyr fine. By morning, Merlin might be back in camp, and he wanted Merlin with him when Lady Gemina’s precious bribe was finally presented.
He yawned, exhausted, and stretched out on his canvas bed. The next thing he knew, Bevan was poking his shoulder and calling him awake. Bleary-eyed, he pushed himself up-right. It seemed only moments since he had lain down, but the candle was guttering in its holder, and the only sounds coming from the great tent next door were snores.
“What is it?” he grumbled.
“Sir, Lord Riall is without. He says you are expecting him.”
Bedwyr grunted and reached for his mantle. “Who’s in the King’s tent?”
“About twenty men, sir. Rufus and me, we got the kings to their beds a while back when the wine ran out, but we left the others to sleep it off.”
“Bring Lord Riall in the back way, then, not through the tent.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait, Bevan. Is Merlin the Enchanter in camp?”
“I don’t know, sir. Shall I send for him?”
Bedwyr smiled. “Send for him? I shouldn’t dare. Never mind. If the lookouts haven’t come to report, then he isn’t back yet.” He sighed, rose, and straightened his robes around him. “Show Lord Riall in.”
By the time Bevan ushered Lord Riall to the tent’s private entrance, Bedwyr had replaced the candle and relit the lamp, waked his servant to make tea, and positioned the lamp so that its light shone on the bare surface of the writing desk. Lord Riall entered nervously. He glanced suspiciously about him but, seeing no one else, came forward politely enough.
“I beg pardon for the lateness of the hour,” he said, bowing, and glanced sourly at the door flap to the great tent. “I thought they would never stop.”
“Counseling is thirsty work,” Bedwyr replied, his eyes on the canvas-wrapped package Lord Riall held tightly under his arm. “And they are men of appetites.”
“Aye,” Lord Riall agreed. “And not all worthy of their crowns.”
“Show me the dagger,” said Bedwyr testily. “After that, you can tell me why you think it’s so important.”
He watched with a fascination he could not help as Lord Riall placed his package on the desk and began to unwrap it. Layer after layer of protective cloth was carefully removed until at last the dagger lay revealed. Bedwyr almost gasped.
“Go ahead,” Lord Riall breathed. “Touch it. Draw the blade.”
Bedwyr was annoyed to find himself trembling as he took the sheath in his left hand and reached for the hilt with his right. The blade pulled free with a whisper of sound. Like a sigh of release, Bedwyr thought, dazzled by the beauty of the weapon. The steel blade was long and slender, well balanced and honed to killing sharpness—the work of a master smith. Couched in its sheath of beaten red-gold, set with gems and chased with silver, it was the most beautiful weapon, after Excalibur, that he had ever seen.
Watching him closely with a mixture of fear and satisfaction, Lord Riall held out his hand for the weapon. Bedwyr gave it up with great reluctance. Lord Riall smiled and held the dagger closer to the light.
“See where it is written, Sir Bedwyr, here on the blade itself: TO MY COMMANDER … MAGNUS MAXIMUS, EMPEROR OF THE BRITONS. We think it was a gift of his lieutenant, his second-in-command.”
Bedwyr peered at the Latin lettering. The etching was clear enough to have been made yesterday. Had this lovely weapon never been used? Bedwyr picked up the sheath and examined it closely. It appeared to be old Roman work, the gems deep-set and clear, the chasing exquisitely applied. He had never seen anything like it. The sheath was strictly ornamental, the kind of gift given to one king from another as a matter of diplomacy. Yet the words TO MY COMMANDER implied that the giver had been subordinate to the Emperor Maximus. If the sheath was ornamental, the weapon itself was not. Despite the goldwork on the hilt, it was a deadly weapon—a man’s weapon; a king’s.
The servant came in with two bowls of bark tea, and the men sat down together on camp stools to begin negotiations.
“My mother found it when she was having her tomb dug,” Lord Riall said. “She was quite excited. The Emperor Magnus Maximus is, as you know, our ancestor.”
Bedwyr sipped the hot brew gratefully and nodded. “Yes. So she said in the letter.”
“It didn’t look like this when it was found, of course. It was tarnished and dirty, and two of the gems had fallen out. She took it to a goldsmith who put the gems back in, polished it and cleaned it, and fixed up a segment of silver chasing that had rotted away. It was then that she realized the value of the piece. The goldsmith offered her a good price for it, but she refused to sell.”
“And told no one about it?”
Lord Riall shrugged. “She didn’t want our carrion cousins to learn of it. They’d have taken it from her.”
Carrion cousins! Bedwyr grunted, surprised at the venom in Riall’s voice, and gave the man his opening. “What makes you think so? Alyse and Pellinore aren’t thieves.”
“They robbed me of my birthright!” Lord Riall cried. “My father, Castellors, should have been king of Gwynedd, and my mother queen. The genealogy makes that clear. Instead, my uncle Meregon, the second-born, was chosen. My grandfather Meleanor broke the pattern. He himself was the firstborn son of King Driant, who descended in the male line straight from the Emperor Magnus Maximus.”
“I’ve no doubt your blood is royal, my lord,” Bedwyr murmured into his tea. “Why did your grandfather choose your uncle instead of your father?”
Lord Riall’s face twisted. “When Meleanor’s first wife died—Castellors’s mother, that was—he remarried a girl straight from the mountains with not a drop of royal blood. She said she was descended from Elen of Gwynedd, Maximus’s wife, but of course she could never prove it. My grandfather was in his dotage then, and besotted with the girl.”
Lord Riall trembled with emotion. Bedwyr sipped his tea and said thoughtfully, “Was she a fair-haired girl?”
Lord Riall glanced at him sharply. “How did you know?”
“A guess, merely. There’s a strain of fair-haired beauty that runs in that family still, a strain that began, they say, with the wife of the Emperor Maximus.”
Lord Riall snorted. “Someone’s been telling you tales. The girl my grandfather married was a witch. She ensnared him. But the marriage didn’t last long. She bore him a son and died. And for the rest of his life, Meleanor loved that witch’s son more than my father, Castellors—even though Castellors was fifteen by then and had already proved himself a worthy heir—”
He stopped himself, then burst out, “You can see the justice of my case, can’t you? Because, by God, if you can’t, I’ll find someone else who can. The dagger must go to King Arthur. He’ll understand.”
“I see the justice of your case,” Bedwyr said gravely. “I will put it to Arthur, if you like, exactly as you have put it to me. Will that content you?”
Lord Riall frowned. “I’m not parting with the dagger on those terms, if that’s what you mean. I accompany the weapon, and Mother does not want it taken beyond Deva.” He lowered his voice and glanced furtively about him. “You have felt the dagger’s power, and you are not even its master. It was made for an emperor’s hand—and for Arthur’s, if he’s to reach greatness. It was made for the once and future king.”
He waited breathlessly for Bedwyr’s reply.
“Then give it to him.”
“Not without his promise to make me king of Gwynedd!”
Bedwyr s
lowly shook his head. “I cannot make that promise, my lord, and I am obliged to tell you that I think it unlikely the High King will make it, either. Pellinore has proved himself a good ruler and a reliable ally. One doesn’t throw such men away.”
“He married into the family!” Lord Riall cried, reddening. “All his power comes from his wife, Queen Alyse—a woman! And she should never have inherited. Meregon had no sons—the crown should have come to my brothers and me, not to his daughter Alyse. It is mine by right of birth twice over!”
Bedwyr watched a flush of anger stain Lord Riall’s face. “It seems to me,” he said at last, “that you have a low opinion of women. But the High King does not, I assure you. I advise you to reconsider.”
Lord Riall rose. “Never. I’ll take the dagger back, and Arthur can go to his fate—and you’ll be to blame.”
“Sit down.”
The voice came from behind them, and both men turned. Merlin stood just inside the door to the great tent, his dark cloak glistening with rain.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A King’s Gamble
Merlin moved swiftly into the light, where Lord Riall could see him.
“Sit down,” he said again. Lord Riall sat. Bedwyr moved between Lord Riall and the door.
Merlin strode to the writing desk and gazed down at the dagger in its jeweled sheath. Like Bedwyr before him, he reached, unthinking, for the hilt and drew the blade. He studied the bared weapon intently, raised it to the light, twirled it gently between his fingers, and put the blade into the flame until it dazzled the eyes. Then he lowered the weapon carefully into its wrappings.
“My congratulations, Lord Riall,” he said cordially, “to you and your lady mother on the value of her find. The dagger is genuine. However, it is of no interest to Arthur at the present time. You may return it to Lady Gemina with my thanks. It has been most instructive to see it.”
Lord Riall paled as he rose to his feet. “I beg your pardon, my lord Merlin, but the High King must see it. It is essential to his future.”
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