Legacy: Arthurian Saga

by Mary Stewart

  "No, thank you."

  "Enough?"

  "Oh, yes." I pushed the platter away. "That was the best meal I ever ate in my life. Thank you."

  "Well," he said, "hunger's the best sauce, they say. Though I'll allow the food's good here." He brought fresh water and a towel and waited while I rinsed my hands and dried them. "Well, I might even credit the rest of your story now."

  I looked up. "What d'you mean?"

  "You didn't learn your manners in a kitchen, that's for sure. Ready? Come along then; he said to interrupt him even if he was working."

  Ambrosius, however, was not working when we got to his room. His table -- a vast affair of marble from Italy -- was indeed littered with rolls and maps and writing materials, and the Count was in his big chair behind it, but he sat half sideways, chin on fist, staring into the brazier which filled the room with warmth and the faint scent of apple-wood.

  He did not look up as Cadal spoke to the sentry, and with a clash of arms the latter let me by.

  "The boy, sir." This was not the voice Cadal had used to me.

  "Thank you. You can go to bed, Cadal."

  "Sir."

  He went. The leather curtains fell to behind him. Ambrosius turned his head then. He looked me up and down for some minutes in silence. Then he nodded towards a stool.

  "Sit down."

  I obeyed him.

  "I see they found something for you to wear. Have you been fed?"

  "Yes, thank you, sir."

  "And you're warm enough now? Pull the stool nearer the fire if you want to."

  He turned straight in the chair, and leaned back, his hands resting on the carved lions' heads of the arms. There was a lamp on the table between us, and in its bright steady light any resemblance between the Count Ambrosius and the strange man of my dream had vanished completely.

  It is difficult now, looking back from this distance in time, to remember my first real impression of Ambrosius. He would be at that time not much more than thirty years old, but I was only twelve, and to me, of course, he already seemed venerable. But I think that in fact he did seem older than his years; this was a natural result of the life he had led, and the heavy responsibility he had borne since he was a little younger than myself. There were lines round his eyes, and two heavy furrows between his brows which spoke of decision and perhaps temper, and his mouth was hard and straight, and usually unsmiling. His brows were dark like his hair, and could bar his eyes formidably with shadow. There was the faint white line of a scar running from his left ear half over his cheekbone. His nose looked Roman, high-bridged and prominent, but his skin was tanned rather than olive, and there was something about his eyes which spoke of black Celt rather than Roman. It was a bleak face, a face (as I would find) that could cloud with frustration or anger, or even with the hard control that he exerted over these, but it was a face to trust. He was not a man one could love easily, certainly not a man to like, but a man either to hate or to worship. You either fought him, or followed him. But it had to be one or the other; once you came within reach of him, you had no peace.

  All this I had to learn. I remember little now of what I thought of him, except for the deep eyes watching me past the lamp, and his hands clasped on the lions' heads. But I remember every word that was said.

  He looked me up and down. "Myrddin, son of Niniane, daughter of the King of South Wales...and privy, they tell me, to the secrets of the palace at Maridunum?"

  "I -- did I say that? I told them I lived there, and heard things sometimes."

  "My men brought you across the Narrow Sea because you said you had secrets which would be useful to me. Was that not true?"

  "Sir," I said a little desperately, "I don't know what might be useful to you. To them I spoke the language I thought they would understand. I thought they were going to kill me. I was saving my life."

  "I see. Well, now you are here, and safely. Why did you leave your home?"

  "Because once my grandfather had died, it was not safe for me there. My mother was going into a nunnery, and Camlach my uncle had already tried to kill me, and his servants killed my friend."

  "Your friend?"

  "My servant. His name was Cerdic. He was a slave."

  "Ah, yes. They told me about that. They said you set fire to the palace. You were perhaps a little -- drastic?"

  "I suppose so. But someone had to do him honor. He was mine."

  His brows went up. "Do you give that as a reason, or as an obligation?"

  "Sir?" I puzzled it out, then said, slowly: "Both, I think."

  He looked down at his hands. He had moved them from the chair arms, and they were clasped on the table in front of him.

  "Your mother, the princess." He said it as if the thought sprang straight from what we had been saying. "Did they harm her, too?"

  "Of course not!"

  He looked up at my tone. I explained quickly. "I'm sorry, my lord, I only meant, if they'd been going to harm her, how could I have left? No, Camlach would never harm her. I told you, she'd spoken for years of wanting to go into St. Peter's nunnery. I can't even remember a time when she didn't receive any Christian priest who visited Maridunum, and the Bishop himself, when he came from Caerleon, used to lodge in the palace. But my grandfather would never let her go. He and the Bishop used to quarrel over her -- and over me...The Bishop wanted me baptized, you see, and my grandfather wouldn't hear of it. I -- I think perhaps he kept it as a bribe to my mother, if she'd tell him who my father was, or perhaps if she'd consent to marry where he chose for her, but she never consented, or told him anything." I paused, wondering if I was saying too much, but he was watching me steadily, and it seemed attentively. "My grandfather swore she should never go into the Church," I added, "but as soon as he died she asked Camlach, and he allowed it. He would have shut me up, too, so I ran away."

  He nodded. "Where did you intend to go?"

  "I didn't know. It was true, what Marric said to me in the boat, that I'd have to go to someone. I'm only twelve, and because I can't be my own master, I must find a master. I didn't want Vortigern, or Vortimer, and I didn't know where else to go."

  "So you persuaded Marric and Hanno to keep you alive and bring you to me?"

  "Not really," I said honestly. "I didn't know at first where they were going, I just said anything I could think of to save myself. I had put myself into the god's hand, and he had sent me into their path, and then the ship was there. So I made them bring me across."

  "To me?"

  I nodded. The brazier flickered, and the shadows danced. A shadow moved on his cheek, as if he was smiling. "Then why not wait till they did so? Why jump ship and risk freezing to death in an icy field?"

  "Because I was afraid they didn't mean to bring me to you after all. I thought that they might have realized how -- how little use I would be to you."

  "So you came ashore on your own in the middle of a winter's night, and in a strange country, and the god threw you straight at my feet. You and your god between you, Myrddin, make a pretty powerful combination. I can see I have no choice."

  "My lord?"

  "Perhaps you are right, and there are ways in which you can serve me." He looked down at the table again, picked up a pen, and turned it over in his hand, as if he examined it. "But tell me first, why are you called Myrddin? You say your mother never told you who your father was? Never even hinted? Might she have called you after him?"

  "Not by calling me Myrddin, sir. That's one of the old gods -- there's a shrine just near St. Peter's gate. He was the god of the hill nearby, and some say of other parts beyondSouth Wales. But I have another name." I hesitated. "I've never told anyone this before, but I'm certain it was my father's name."

  "And that is?"

  "Emrys. I heard her talking to him once, at night, years ago when I was very small. I never forgot. There was something about her voice. You can tell."

  The pen became still. He looked at me under his brows. "Talking to him? Then it was someone in the p
alace?"

  "Oh, no, not like that. It wasn't real."

  "You mean it was a dream? A vision? Like this tonight of the bull?"

  "No, sir. And I wouldn't have called that a dream, either -- it was real, too, in a different way. I have those sometimes. But the time I heard my mother...There was an old hypocaust in the palace that had been out of use for years; they filled it in later, but when I was young -- when I was little -- I used to crawl in there to get away from people. I kept things there...the sort of things you keep when you're small, and if they find them, they throw them away."

  "I know. Go on."

  "Do you? I -- well, I used to crawl through the hypocaust, and one night I was under her chamber, and heard her talking to herself, out loud, as you do when you pray sometimes. I heard her say 'Emrys,' but I don't remember what else." I looked at him. "You know how one catches one's own name, even if one can't hear much else? I thought she must be praying for me, but when I was older and remembered it, it came to me that the 'Emrys' must be my father. There was something about her voice...and anyway, she never called me that; she called me Merlin."

  "Why?"

  "After a falcon. It's a name for the corwalch."

  "Then I shall call you Merlin, too. You have courage, and it seems as if you have eyes that can see a long way. I might need your eyes, someday. But tonight you can start with simpler things. You shall tell me about your home. Well, what is it?"

  "If I'm to serve you...of course I will tell you anything I can...But -- " I hesitated, and he took the words from me: "But you must have my promise that when I invade Britain no harm will come to your mother? You have it. She shall be safe, and so shall any other man or woman you may ask me to spare for their kindness to you."

  I must have been staring. "You are -- very generous."

  "If I take Britain, I can afford to be. I should perhaps have made some reservations." He smiled. "It might be difficult if you wanted an amnesty for your uncle Camlach?"

  "It won't arise," I said. "When you take Britain, he'll be dead."

  A silence. His lips parted to say something, but I think he changed his mind. "I said I might use those eyes of yours someday. Now, you have my promise, so let us talk. Never mind if things don't seem important enough to tell. Let me be the judge of that."

  So I talked to him. It did not strike me as strange then that he should talk to me as if I were his equal, nor that he should spend half the night with me asking questions which in part his spies could have answered. I believe that twice, while we talked, a slave came in silently and replenished the brazier, and once I heard the clash and command of the guard changing outside the door. Ambrosius questioned, prompted, listened, sometimes writing on a tablet in front of him, sometimes staring, chin on fist, at the table-top, but more usually watching me with that steady, shadowed stare. When I hesitated, or strayed into some irrelevancy, or faltered through sheer fatigue, he would prod me back with his questions towards some unseen goal, as a muleteer goads his mule.

  "This fortress on the River Seint, where your grandfather met Vortigern. How far north of Caerleon? By which road? Tell me about the road...How is the fortress reached from the sea?"

  And: "The tower where the High King lodged, Maximus' Tower -- Macsen's, you call it ... Tell me about this. How many men were housed there. What road there is to the harbor"

  Or: "You say the King's party halted in a valley pass, south of the Snow Hill, and the kings went aside together. Your man Cerdic said they were looking at an old stronghold on the crag. Describe the place...the height of the crag. How far one should see from the top, to the north, the south...the east."

  Or: "Now think of your grandfather's nobles. How many will be loyal to Camlach? Their names? How many men? And of his allies, who? Their numbers...their fighting power..."

  And then, suddenly: "Now tell me this. How did you know Camlach was going to Vortimer?"

  "He said so to my mother," I told him, "by my grandfather's bier. I heard him. There had been rumors that this would happen, and I knew he had quarrelled with my grandfather, but nobody knew anything for certain. Even my mother only suspected what he meant to do. But as soon as the King was dead, he told her."

  "He announced this straight away? Then how was it that Marric and Hanno heard nothing, apart from the rumors of the quarrel?"

  Fatigue, and the long relentless questioning had made me incautious. I said, before I thought: "He didn't announce it. He told only her. He was alone with her."

  "Except for you?" His voice changed, so that I jumped on my stool. He watched me under his brows. "I thought you told me the hypocaust had been filled in?"

  I merely sat and looked at him. I could think of nothing to say.

  "It seems strange, does it not," he said levelly, "that he should tell your mother this in front of you, when he must have known you were his enemy? When his men had just killed your servant? And then, after he had told you of his secret plans, how did you get out of the palace and into the hands of my men, to 'make' them bring you with them to me?"

  "I -- " I stammered. "My lord, you cannot think that I -- my lord, I told you I was no spy. I -- all I have told you is true. He did say it, I swear it."

  "Be careful. It matters whether this is true. Your mother told you?"

  "No."

  "Slaves' talk, then? That's all?" I said desperately: "I heard him myself."

  "Then where were you?" I met his eyes. Without quite realizing why, I told the simple truth. "My lord, I was asleep in the hills, six miles off."

  There was a silence, the longest yet. I could hear the embers settling in the brazier, and some distance off, outside, a dog barking. I sat waiting for his anger. "Merlin." I looked up.

  "Where do you get the Sight from? Your mother?" Against all expectation, he believed me. I said eagerly: "Yes, but it is different. She saw only women's things, to do with love. Then she began to fear the power, and let it be."

  "Do you fear it?"

  "I shall be a man."

  "And a man takes power where it is offered. Yes. Did you understand what you saw tonight?"

  "The bull? No, my lord, only that it was something secret."

  "Well, you will know someday, but not now. Listen." Somewhere, outside, a bird crowed, shrill and silver like a trumpet. He said: "That, at any rate, puts paid to your phantoms. It's high time you were asleep. You look half dead for lack of it." He got to his feet. I slid softly from the stool and he stood for a moment looking down at me. "I was ten when I sailed for Less Britain, and I was sick all the way."

  "So was I," I said. He laughed. "Then you will be as exhausted as I was. When you have slept, we'll decide what to do with you. He touched a bell, and a slave opened the door and stood aside, waiting. "You'll sleep in my room tonight. This way.

  The bedchamber was Roman, too. I was to find that by comparison with, say, Uther's, it was austere enough, but to the eyes of a boy used to the provincial and often makeshift standards of a small outlying country, it seemed luxurious, with the big bed spread with scarlet wool blankets and a fur rug, the sheepskins on the floor, and the bronze tripod as high as a man, where the triple lamps, shaped like small dragons, mouthed tongues of flame. Thick brown curtains kept out the icy night, and it was very quiet.

  As I followed Ambrosius and the slave past the guards -- there were two on the door, rigid and unmoving except for their eyes which slid, carefully empty of speculation, from Ambrosius to me -- it occurred to me for the first time to wonder whether he might be, perhaps, Roman in other ways.

  But he only pointed to an archway where another of the brown curtains half hid a recess with a bed in it. I suppose a slave slept there sometimes, within call.

  The servant pulled the curtain aside and showed me the blankets folded across the mattress, and the good pillows stuffed with fleece, then left me and went to attend Ambrosius.

  I took off my borrowed tunic and folded it carefully. The blankets were thick, new wool, and smelled of cedarwood. Ambro
sius and the slave were talking, but softly, and their voices came like echoes from the far end of a deep, quiet cave. It was bliss only to be in a real bed again, to lie, warm and fed, in a place that was beyond even the sound of the sea. And safe.

  I think he said "Good night," but I was already submerged in sleep, and could not drag myself to the surface to answer. The last thing I remember is the slave moving softly to put out the lamps.

  6

  When I awoke next morning it was late. The curtains had been drawn back, letting in a grey and wintry day, and Ambrosius' bed was empty. Outside the windows I could see a small courtyard where a colonnade framed a square of garden, at the center of which a fountain played -- in silence, I thought, till I saw that the cascade was solid ice. The tiles of the floor were warm to my bare feet. I reached for the white tunic which I had left folded on a stool by the bed, but instead I saw that someone had put there a new one of dark green, the color of yew trees, which fitted. There was a good leather belt to go with it, and a pair of new sandals replacing my old ones. There was even a cloak, this time of a light beech-green, with a copper brooch to fasten it. There was something embossed on the brooch; a dragon, enameled in scarlet, the same device I had seen last night on the seal-ring he wore.

  It was the first time that I remember feeling as if I looked like a prince, and I found it strange that this should happen at the moment when you would have thought I had reached the bottom of my fortunes. Here in Less Britain I had nothing, not even a bastard name to protect myself with, no kin, not even a rag of property. I had hardly spoken with any man except Ambrosius, and to him I was a servant, a dependent, something to be used, and only alive by his sufferance.