“If it comes to that we will not disappoint them,” I replied. “They must learn respect for their king. Now is as good a time as any for the teaching.”
“I believe I could think of a better time.” Pelleas scanned the hall, mostly filled now with the lords’ escorts—each with a knife in his belt and a sword on his hip. “If they begin, I do not think even Gorlas could stop it.”
The meal proceeded uneventfully. The three, having turned to their meat, promptly forgot about us. We ate in peace, and were nearly finished when the hide that covered the inner entrance to the hall was pulled aside and Ygerna entered with a few of her women.
She did not look at us—in fact, kept her eyes averted—though she must have known we were there. I think she did not wish to notice me for fear that her secret might be betrayed. But to me, her distraction spoke with some force.
My heart went out to her. Such a lovely young woman—a bride still, really; I could not see her as a widow, though widow she was—she carried her nobility in every line of her slender form. How rough Gorlas came by a daughter so refined and regal was a mystery.
The meal concluded and Gorlas, keen to avoid trouble, called for his harper. An old man stumbled forward with a well-worn harp and proceeded to sing a long, all-but-unintelligible song about the change of seasons or some such thing. I pitied him. More, I pitied his listeners who likely had never heard a true bard and never would.
At his lord’s bidding, the singer began another song, and as all attention was on him, I made opportunity to speak to Ygerna. She was abashed that I should approach her, but, thinking quickly, she jumped up and pulled me to a shadowed corner.
“Please, Lord Emrys,” she cautioned, “if my father—”
“He will not see us here,” I reassured her, then asked: “Why? Do you fear him?”
She bit her lower lip and lowered her head shyly, an utterly feminine gesture of uncertainty and innocence. I loved her for it, remembering another girl long ago. “No, no—” she began, hesitated, then said, “but he watches me so closely…Please, I cannot say more.”
“You were a married woman,” I reminded her. “You need remain under your father’s roof no longer.”
“The High King is dead. Where would I go?” She spoke without guile, and without sorrow. She did not grieve for Aurelius, nor did she pretend to. She had not loved him. In truth, she hardly knew him. She had married him only to please her father.
“There is one, I am thinking, who might be persuaded to take you in.”
She knew well enough who I meant, for she had been thinking of it too—often and with great anxiety. “Oh, but I dare not!” she gasped.
“Why!”
“My father would never allow it. Now please, I must go.” But she made no move to leave. Instead, she turned her eyes to where her father sat with the other lords, listening to the harper drone on.
“If you were to leave here freely, would you go to Uther?” I asked it bluntly, for I had to know and time grew short.
She dropped her head once more, then, looking up shyly, murmured, “If he would have me.”
“Would and will,” I replied. “I know that he would have laid fire to the gates long before now if not for you, Ygerna.” She said nothing, but nodded slightly. “So. You already guessed as much. Very well, I will see what may be done. If I come for you, will you go with me?”
Her eyes went wide, but she answered with a steady voice. “If it must be done that way, yes. I will go with you.”
“Good, then gather your things and wait. Pelleas or I will come for you tonight.”
She cast a quick backward glance over the hall—as one looking her last upon a place that held only unhappy memories. Then, laying a hand on my sleeve, she squeezed my arm and quickly disappeared into the shadows.
Why did I do this? Why was it so important to bring Uther and Ygerna together?
Perhaps it was for Uther’s sake: to redress the wrong he had suffered. In any event, it was clear he could not be king without her. Perhaps it was for Ygerna: she looked so unhappy in that cold place. Perhaps it was the Lord’s spirit working to redeem the time. To tell the truth, I cannot say.
But that night I acted as events led me. It happens like this sometimes—and all the plans, all the reasons, all desires and possibilities fade to nothing. And all that remains is the single unwilled act.
What have I done? I wondered, aghast, as I crept back unnoticed to my place. What has been done through me?
Still, even now, I wonder.
13
In the time between times, when the world awaits the renewing light of day, a life is sometimes required for a life. This is what the Wise Men of the Oak, the druids of another age, believed and taught. I am not persuaded that they were wrong.
Ygerna led me down through the secret passage to the rock shingle below Tintagel on the sea side. Well she knew the way: she had often sought sanctuary on the brittle little beach out of her father’s sight. Lightning flickered out to sea, and thunder grumbled far-off. The wind blew wild, whipping the water, and we listened to the hollow drum of the waves breaking against the stone roots of the headland as we descended the narrow steps made treacherous with sea spray. One misstep and we would have plummeted to our graves.
“There is a cave in the rock beneath the caer,” she told me, her words torn from her lips by the wind as she spoke them. “We can wait there until the boat comes. It will not be dry, I fear.”
“We will not have long to wait,” I reassured her, peering into the moaning darkness. Wind and water…everything was slippery wet; wind-flung foam spattered our faces and fouled our cloaks.
The moon had set, and it was the darkest part of the night. The few stars that shone through the flying tatters of cloud gave but fitful light, and that dim. It was a stupid plan, and I berated myself for suggesting it.
However—and this you must understand—when the Unseen Hand leads you in its grasp, you follow. Or turn back and live in eternal regret.
Of course, there is no certainty in following, either. That is what makes faith. Follow or turn back—there is no middle way.
That night, I chose to follow. It was my decision; I chose freely. And I bear responsibility for the consequences. That is the price of freedom. Oh, but I felt alive that tempest-tossed night with the rumble of waves and thunder in my ears, the sting of salt in my eyes, and the smell of moss and wet rock in my nostrils. And that warm, trusting girl by my side. I was alive, and I gloried in the living.
Ygerna showed surprising strength; she was borne up by love. I do not know precisely what she felt, or whether she understood all that her decision meant. She was going to meet her lover; that’s all she knew. She trusted me for the rest.
And I trusted Pelleas. Our lives were in his hands; he must reach the place where we had left the boat, and then bring it around the headland to the shore where we waited—before the tide came in again, drowning the shingle and filling the cave.
So, we waited: shivering with clammy cold, hardly daring to think what we were doing. We waited, not knowing if Pelleas had even found his way free of the caer. It was a frail enough ruse to be committing our lives to: he was to leave the hall unobserved, and tell the gateman that I required an important token from Uther, which he had been sent to fetch. Once outside the walls he was to make his way with all haste to the boat and come around—in a sour wind and heavy seas!—to rescue us from the rising water.
I have thought many and many a time what I might have done had I stayed at Tintagel and seen my task through. How might things have turned out differently?
As it happens, I do not now believe I could have accomplished what I came there to do—although I did believe it then, for I considered most men reasonable in the face of reason. This, I have learned since, is pure folly. Unreasonable men are ever unreasonable, and only become more so when threatened. Truth always threatens the false-hearted.
The contrary kings wanted no reconciliation; they would
have denied their misdeeds and resisted all attempts to forge a lasting peace; they would have reviled any offer of clemency; they would have despised appeasement as weakness!
Well, and there would have been a fight after all. Many good men would have been killed, and that is a fact. But perhaps Gorlas would still be alive.
How ironic that the one who above all things tried to remain loyal to the High King should suffer for the disloyalty of others. Yet, Gorlas chose his own course, as every man must; no one pressed the sword into his hand.
My thoughts, I see, are as confused as the events of that wild night. Let me make some order. I will say it thus:
Ygerna and I waited on the shingle for Pelleas. Gorlas discovered his daughter’s absence, then mine, and, enraged, alerted his warband and flew out of the caer in pursuit, out-racing his escort. He saw a light on a hill and made for it. Thinking he had found me, he attacked. In fact, he encountered two of Uther’s sentries. Swords crossed. Gorlas fell before his men could reach him.
That is what happened. There is no glory in it, because there is no dignity in killing. Insane waste.
As dawn colored the slate-dark sky in the east, Pelleas appeared—and none too soon, for the seawater seethed around our shins and we clung to one another, shivering. Ygerna and I clambered into the boat and Pelleas, praying our forgiveness, pulled on the oars and took us out to sea and away from the rocks.
All of us were too exhausted to speak, and too discouraged. Our plan, splendid as a dream in the night, showed itself a tawdry, contemptible thing in the ragged light of day. I was disgusted with myself for my part—and yet…and yet…
In the time between times, when the world awaits the renewing light of day, a life is sometimes required for a life.
* * *
They were still gathered on the hill when we arrived later: Gorlas’ escort and Uther’s men, standing mute and shamefaced in dawns light. Uther himself had only just arrived and was giving the order for the body to be taken back to the fortress. He did not see Ygerna at first, and she did not see him. She saw only her father’s corpse lying face-up on the heath.
Curiously, she gave no appearance of surprise. She did not shriek or whimper, but simply knelt and put her hand on her father’s head and brushed the hair back from his forehead. Then she straightened his cloak, arranging it to cover the ugly gash in his side. The only sound was the sea breeze sighing through the gorse and heather, and a lark somewhere high above, singing a lonely hymn to the new day.
Nor were there any tears in her eyes when she rose a few moments later and, gazing steadily at Uther, stepped around Gorlas’ body to stand beside him. Uther put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. They turned together and walked back down the hill to the High King’s camp. Not a word had been spoken between them.
Uther did not return to Caer Uintan, but occupied the caer and stayed on through the summer at Tintagel. Why not? It was a fine stronghold and well situated to keep an eye on his contrary lords.
Shocked into contrition by Gorlas’ death, they renounced their treason and, in the end, accepted Uther’s terms, pledging the king tribute for their misdeeds and making hostages of their best warriors, which he immediately placed in his war-band.
No longer needed—indeed, the High King was embarrassed to have me near him for the rumors that he had plotted Gorlas’ death from the beginning and had sent me to accomplish it—I returned to Ynys Avallach. Gorlas was buried and Uther married on the same day, I am told.
But then, men tell many tales about this affair. I have even heard it said that Ygerna was Gorlas’ wife—imagine that!— and I, by deep enchantments, transformed Uther into Gorlas’ likeness and led him to her bed. Or that I gave Ygerna a draught that made her believe Uther to be Aurelius, her husband, come back from the grave. Or, stranger yet, that Aurelius himself actually returned from the Otherworld to lay with her.
People will believe anything!
14
If it had not been for the babe, I would not have seen Uther alive again. I very nearly did not go anyway. Pelleas and I had just returned to Ynys Avallach after visiting some of the humbler places in the realm—the smaller settlements and holdings where men speak their minds and misgivings forthrightly. Upon our return, I sent Pelleas to Llyonesse to discern how matters stood there. I was anxious to discover how Morgian’s influence, which seemed to be stronger there, affected Belyn’s court. The last thing I desired was a long ride back to Tintagel alone.
But Uther must be stopped from carrying out that hideous scheme of his, and there was no one else to do it. No one else knew.
I saw it all in a vision.
Tired from a day’s fishing and riding with Avallach and Charis, we had eaten a simple supper of stew and bread, and I had fallen asleep early in my chair by the fire. A sound—a dog barking outside, I think—awakened me. I stirred and opened my eyes. The fire had burned low on the hearth before me and I saw in the glowing embers a newborn babe, a man-child, hanging by its heel in the grasp of someone pressing the cold steel of a sword against the soft pink flesh. A terrified woman stood in the shadow, her white hands over her face.
I recognized the blade: Uther’s great war weapon, the imperial sword of Maximus.
“What is it, my Hawk?” asked Charis. She eyed me closely from where she sat across the hearth, a bookroll in her lap. Her healing work had sent her back to the old books for remedies and medicines, and she often spent her evenings reading from among the texts she had saved from Atlantis. “You look as if you have seen your death.”
I shook my head slowly, sick to my stomach with dread. “Not my death,” I replied. “Another’s.”
“Oh, Merlin…I did not mean to—”
“No,” I tried to smile, “it has not taken place. I may yet prevent it.”
“Then you must try,” she said.
Oh, there was never any question. If not for the sake of the babe, then for Uther’s, to prevent him from making a most grievous mistake. Nevertheless, it was not without some reluctance that I made my way back to Tintagel—clothed simply as a wandering harper, for I did not wish my journey to attract unnecessary attention. My affairs were becoming common knowledge from one end of the island to the other, and as there were enough eyes spying out my every move, I did not need more speculation about this visit. The less known about this sordid matter, the better for everyone.
The Island of the Mighty in late summer—what place on earth can compare to it? The hills flame with heather and copper-colored bracken; the valleys shimmer golden with grain; all the fruits of the year’s labors are ripening wealth beneath shining skies so high and clean and blue; the days are still warm and the nights soft and full of light. It is a time that makes a man glad to be alive.
It is the time of Lughnasadh, the day of first fruits, when harvest begins. A most ancient and sacred celebration, to be sure, and one that even the church observes, for it is a high and holy day of thanksgiving to the Gifting God for his largess. Great fires flare from every hilltop, and every stone ring becomes, once again, a sacred circle: a center of power where, on this night, the veil between the Otherworld and this worlds-realm grows thin and allows the initiated a glimpse of what was, or will be.
And now that the old Roman towns are falling into ruin and the people are moving back into the countryside, I believe there are more Lughnasadh celebrations than ever. Men look to the old ways more often these days, seeking what comfort they can find in the beliefs of a simpler time.
I traveled lightly, unhindered by the weather, arriving at Tintagel a few days after Lughnasadh. The gateman took one look at my harp and threw the gate open. At least my arrival cheered someone, even if it did not exactly lift Uther to the heights of song.
He was suspicious and closed from the beginning, and I saw that it would be heavy going. In the end, there was no hope for it but to confront him bluntly.
“We are friends, you and I.” Yes, he required that reminder. “And I know you, Uther.
There is no use denying that there is a child and that you plan to kill it when it is born.” I did not expect him to admit it to me, but I wanted him to know that lying to me was useless.
Ygerna stood a little way off, watching me, worrying her mantle into knots, her expression mingling relief and apprehension. I think in her secret heart she had hoped that something like this would happen and Uther would be diverted from his plan.
“Do you think me mad?” he cried, defensively it seemed to me. “The child could be male. It could well be my heir we are talking about!”
Damned from his own mouth. Still, he did not realize what he had said. For if he entertained so much as the merest suspicion that the child was his, none of this would be taking place. No, the seed growing in Ygerna’s womb was Aurelius’ and he knew it. Uther had, typically, spoken what lay closest to his heart: his heir.
“Doubtless the child is your heir,” I replied. Whether Uther’s or Aurelius’, the babe would be recognized as a legitimate heir to the High Kingship. Whether he would be king was another matter entirely.
“You know what I mean, Meddler.” Uther dismissed my comment with an impatient gesture. “In all events, I am not a murderer—despite what they are telling of me.”
This was a reference to the baseless rumors that he had killed Gorlas outright so that he could marry Ygerna. “I did not come here to call you murderer,” I soothed. “My only concern is for the child.”
“At least we agree on something, then,” he said, his eyes flicking to Ygerna and back to me. “What do you propose?”
“Need I propose anything?”
“You mean to tell me that you came all this way just to see if I meant to kill an infant?” He laughed guiltily; a less mirthful sound I could not imagine.
“It would not be the first time a king decided to clean up an untidy problem with the sharp edge of his sword. But I am glad to hear that my fears were groundless.”
Merlin Page 44
