The Wicked Day

by Mary Stewart

  Three of these knights presented themselves now. As the first of them came forward there was a stir of interest in the hall, and even the sleepers roused themselves to attention. Sometimes the reports were of fighting; occasionally prisoners were brought in, or tales told of strange happenings in remote and wild parts of the country. This had given rise to the belief held by the ignorant, that Arthur never sat down to supper until he had heard some tale of marvels.

  But there were no marvels to be presented. One man came from North Wales, one from Northumbria, the third — one of the knights deputed to watch the Saxon boundaries — from the upper Thames valley. This man reported some activity, though peaceful, in Suthrige, that region south of the Thames occupied by Middle Saxon settlers; some kind of official visit, he thought, from a party of Cerdic's West Saxons. The man from North Wales told of a new monastic foundation where the Christian grail, or cup of ceremonial, would be raised on the next feast day. The man from Northumbria had nothing to report.

  Mordred, watching from his place beside the King, noticed with quickened interest that Agravain, waiting with obvious impatience through the speeches of the first two knights, went still and attentive while the last one spoke. When the man had done, and been dismissed with the King's thanks, Agravain visibly relaxed and went back to his yawning.

  Northumbria? thought Mordred, then filed the thought away and turned his attention to the King.

  At last the hall was cleared of all but councillors and Companions. Arthur sat back in the royal chair, and spoke.

  He came straight to the news that had caused him to call the Council.

  A courier from the Continent had arrived on the previous evening with grave tidings. Two of the three young sons of Clodomir, the Frankish king, had been murdered, and their brother had fled for sanctuary to a monastery, from which it was thought that he would not dare emerge. The murderers, the boys' uncles, would no doubt proceed to divide King Clodomir's kingdom between them.

  The news carried grave implications. Clodomir (who had been killed a year ago in battle with the Burgundians) had been one of the four sons of Clovis, King of the Salian Franks, who had led his people out of their northerly lands down into what had once been the prosperous country of Roman Gaul, and had made it his own. Savage and ruthless, like all of the Merwing dynasty, he had nevertheless created a powerful and stable kingdom. At his death that kingdom had been divided, as was the custom, among his four sons. Clodomir and Childebert, the eldest legitimate sons, held the central part of Gaul: Clodomir to the east, his lands bordering on those of the hostile Burgundians; and Childebert to the west, in that part of Gaul which bordered and contained the peninsula of Brittany.

  And here lay the rub.

  Brittany, called Less Britain in the common tongue, was in fact almost a province of the High Kingdom. Over a century ago it had been populated by men from Greater Britain, and the tie remained strong; communication was easy and trade brisk, and the tongue, with slight regional variations, was the same. Brittany's king, Hoel, was cousin to Arthur, and the two kings were bound to one another, not only through kinship and treaties of alliance, but because Brittany was still as much part of the federation of lands known as the High Kingdom as was Cornwall, or the Summer Country round Camelot itself.

  "The matter," said the King, "is not desperate; indeed, it may turn out for the best, since infants never make safe rulers. But you see the situation. Clodomir was killed at Vézeronce last year by the Burgundians. They are still hostile, and wait only for a chance to attack again. So we have the vital central province of the Franks, with the Burgundians to the east, and on the west the land ruled by King Childebert, which contains our own Celtic province of Brittany. Now Clodomir's kingdom will be divided yet again, in which case King Childebert will extend his lands eastward, while his brothers move in from north and south. Which means that, as long as we retain the friendship of these kings, we have them as a barrier between ourselves and the Germanic peoples to the east."

  He paused, then, looking around, repeated: "As long as we have the friendship of these kings. I said the matter was not yet desperate. But in time it may be. We must prepare for it. Not yet, as some of you wish, by raising armies. That will come. But by forming alliances, bonds of friend ship, cemented by offers of help and fair trading. If the kingdoms of Britain are to remain secure against the destroyers from the east, then all the kingdoms within our sea-girt coasts must join together in their defense. I repeat, all."

  "The Saxons!" said someone. It was Cian, a young Celt from Gwynedd.

  "Saxons or English," said Arthur, "they own, by agreement, a good proportion of the eastern and south-eastern coastal lands, those which were the territories of the old Saxon Shore, with what other settlements were granted them by Ambrosius, and by myself after Badon Hill. These Saxon Shore lands lie like a wall along the Narrow Sea. They can be our bulwark, or they can betray." He paused. There was no need to gather eyes. All were fixed on him. "Now this is what I have to say to the Council. I have called a meeting with the chief of their kings, Cerdic of the West Saxons, to talk to him about defense. At our next Council I shall be prepared to tell you the result of that meeting."

  He sat down then, and the ushers were on their feet, preventing uproar and trying to sort into order the men who wanted to speak. Under cover of the noise Arthur grinned at Bedwyr. "You were right. A hornets' nest. But let them talk it out, and have their say, and when I go it will be, nominally at least, with their support."

  He was right. By supper time all who wanted to had said their say. Next day a courier rode to the village which the West Saxon king called his capital, and the meeting was arranged.

  Mordred was to go with the King. He used the interval before Cerdic's reply came to ride over to Applegarth to see Nimuë.

  6

  SINCE THE DAY WHEN NIMUË had visited King Urbgen of Rheged, and prevented Mordred's escape, he had never seen her. She was married to Pelleas, king of the islands to the west of the Summer Country, where the River Brue meets the Severn Sea. Nimuë herself had been born a princess of the River Isles, and had known her husband since childhood. Their castle stood almost within sight of the Tor, and when Pelleas, who was one of Arthur's Companions, was with the King, Nimuë would take her place as Lady of the Lake maidens in the convent on Ynys Witrin, or else retire alone to Applegarth, the house that Merlin had built near Camelot, and which he had left to her, along with his title, and — men whispered — how much more. It was fabled that during the long illness that had weakened the old enchanter towards his seeming death, he had made over all his knowledge to his pupil Nimuë, implanting in her brain even his own childhood's memories.

  Mordred had heard the stories, and though with manhood and security he had grown more skeptical, he remembered the impression he had received in Luguvallium of the enchantress's power, so he approached Applegarth with something that might even have been called nervousness.

  It was a grey stone house, four-square round a small courtyard. An old tower jutted at one corner. The house stood cupped in rolling upland pastures, and was surrounded by orchards. A stream ran downhill past the walls.

  Mordred turned his horse off the road and into the track that led uphill beside the stream. He was halfway towards the house when another horseman approached him. To his surprise he saw that it was the King, riding alone on his grey mare.

  Arthur drew rein beside him. "Were you looking for me?"

  "No, sir. I had no idea you were here."

  "Ah, so Nimuë sent for you? She told me you were coming, but she did not tell me when, or why."

  Mordred stared. "She said I was coming? How could she? I hardly knew it myself. I — there was something I wanted to ask her, so I rode here, you might say on impulse."

  "Ah," said Arthur. He regarded Mordred with what looked like amusement.

  "Why do you smile, sir?" Mordred was thinking, with thankfulness: He cannot begin to guess what was in my mind. Surely he cannot guess. But
Nimuë…?

  "If you have never met Nimuë, then gird your loins and put up your shield," said Arthur, laughing. "There's no mystery, at least not the kind ordinary mortals such as you and I can understand. She would know you were coming because she knows everything. As simple as that. She will even know why."

  "That must save a world of words," said Mordred dryly.

  "I used to say that. To Merlin." A shadow touched the King's face, and was gone. The amusement came back. "Well, good luck to you, Mordred. It is time you met the ruler of your ruler." And still laughing, he rode down the hill to the road.

  Mordred left his horse at the archway that led into the courtyard, and went in. The place was full of flowers, and the scent of herbs and lavender, and doves crooned on the wall. There was an old man by the well, a gardener by his clothes, drawing water. He glanced up, touched a hand to his brow, and pointed the way to the tower door.

  Well, thought Mordred, she is expecting me, isn't she?

  He mounted the stone steps and pushed open the door.

  The room was small and square, with one large window opening to the south, and beneath it a table. The only other furnishings were a cupboard, a heavy chair, and a couple of stools. A box stood on the table with books, neatly rolled, inside it. By the table, with her back to it and facing the door, stood a woman.

  She neither spoke nor made any movement of greeting. What met him, forcibly as a cold blast, was her inimical and chilling gaze. He stopped dead in the doorway. A feeling of dread, formless and heavy, settled on him, as if the vultures of fate clung to his shoulders, their claws digging into his flesh.

  Then it cleared. He straightened. The weight was gone. The tower room was full of light, and facing him was a tall, arrow-straight woman in a grey robe, with dark hair bound back with silver, and cool grey eyes.

  "Prince Mordred."

  He bowed. "Madam."

  "Forgive me for receiving you here. I was working. The King comes often, and takes things as he finds them. Will you sit?"

  He pulled a stool towards him and sat. He glanced at the littered table. She was not, as he half expected, brewing some concoction over the brazier. The "work" consisted, rather, of a litter of tablets and papers. An instrument which he did not recognize stood in the window embrasure, its end tilted towards the sky.

  Nimuë seated herself, turned to Mordred, and waited.

  He said directly: "We have not met before, madam, but I have seen you."

  She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "The castle at Luguvallium? I knew you were nearby. You were hiding in the courtyard?"

  "Yes." He added, wryly: "You cost me my liberty. I was trying to run away."

  "Yes. You were afraid. But now you know that there was no reason for your fear."

  He hesitated. Her tone was cold still, her look hostile. "Then why did you stop me? Did you hope then that the King would have me put to death?"

  Her brows went up. "Why do you ask that?"

  "Because of the prophecy."

  "Who told you about it? Ah, yes, Morgause. No. I warned Urbgen to keep you close and see that you got to Camelot, because it is always better to keep a danger where one can see it, than let it vanish, and then wonder from what direction it will strike."

  "So you agree that I am a danger. You believe in the prophecy."

  "I must."

  "Then you have seen it, too? In the crystal, or the pool, or—" He glanced towards the instrument by the window. "—The stars?"

  For the first time there was something other than hostility in her look. She was watching him with curiosity, and a hint of puzzlement. She said slowly: "Merlin saw, and he made the prophecy, and I am Merlin."

  "Then you can tell me why, if Merlin believed his own prophetic voices, he let the King keep me alive in the first place? I know why Morgause did; she saved me because she thought I would be his bane. She told me so, and then when I was grown she tried to enlist me as his enemy. But why did Merlin even let her bear me?"

  She was silent for a few moments. The grey eyes searched him, as if they would draw the secrets from the back of his brain. Then she spoke.

  "Because he would not see Arthur stained with the wrong of murder, whatever the cause. Because he was wise enough to see that we cannot turn the gods aside, but must follow as best we can the paths they lay out for us. Because he knew that out of seeming evil can come great good, and out of welldoing may come bane and death. Because he saw also that in the moment of Arthur's death his glory would have reached and passed its fullness, but that by that death the glory would live on to be a light and a trumpet-call and a breath of life for men to come."

  When she stopped speaking it seemed as if a faint echo of her voice, like a harp string thrumming, wound on and on in the air, to vibrate at last into silence.

  At length Mordred spoke. "But you must know that I would not willingly bring evil to the King. I owe him much, and none of it evil. He knew this prophecy from the start, and, believing it, yet took me into his court and accepted me as his son. How, then, can you suppose that I would willingly harm him?"

  She said, more gently: "It does not have to be by your will."

  "Are you trying to tell me that I can do nothing to avert this fate that you speak of?"

  "What will be, will be," she said.

  "You cannot help me?"

  "To avoid what is in the stars? No."

  Mordred, with a movement of violent impatience, got to his feet. She did not move, even when he took a stride forward and towered over her, as if he would strike her.

  "This is absurd! The stars! You talk as if men are sheep, and worse than sheep, to be driven by blind fate to do the will of some ill-wishing god! What of my will? Am I, despite anything I may wish or do, condemned to be the death or bane of a man I respect, a king I follow? Am I to be a sinner — more, the worst of sinners, a parricide? What gods are these?"

  She did not reply. She tilted her head back, still watching him steadily.

  He said, angrily: "Very well. You have said, and Merlin has said, and Queen Morgause, who like you was a witch" — her eyes nickered at that, perhaps with annoyance, and he felt a savage pleasure at getting through to her — "that through me the King will meet his doom. You say I cannot avoid this. So? How if I took my dagger — thus — and killed myself here and now? Would that not avert the fate that you say hangs in the stars?"

  She had not stirred at the dagger's flash, but now she moved. She rose from her stool and crossed to the window. She stood there with her back to him, looking out. Beyond the open frame was a pear tree, where a blackbird sang.

  She spoke without turning.

  "Prince Mordred, I did not say that Arthur would meet his doom by your hand or even by your action. Through your existence is all. So kill yourself now if you will it, but through your death his fate might come on him all the sooner."

  "But then—" he began desperately.

  She turned. "Listen to me. Had Arthur slain you in infancy, it might have happened that men would have risen against him for his cruelty, and that in the uprising he would have been killed. If you kill yourself now, it might be that your brothers, blaming him, would bring him to ruin. Or even that Arthur himself, spurring here to Applegarth at the news, would take a fall from his horse and die, or lie a cripple while his kingdom crumbled round him." She lifted her hands. "Now do you understand? Fate has more than one arrow. The gods wait behind cloud."

  "Then they are cruel!"

  "You know that already, do you not?"

  He remembered the sickening smell of the burned cottage, the feel of the sea-washed bone in his hand, the lonely cry of the gulls over the beach.

  He met the grey eyes, and saw compassion there. He said quietly: "So what can a man do?"

  "All that we have," she said, "is to live what life brings. Die what death comes."

  "That is black counsel."

  "Is it?" she said. "You cannot know that."

  "What do you mean?"

&nb
sp; "I mean that you cannot know what life will bring. All I can tell you is this: that whatever years of life are left for you and for your father, they will see ambition realized, and will bring fulfilment and their need of glory, both for him and for you."

  He stood silent at that. It was more than he had imagined or expected, that she would give him not only a qualified hope, but the promise of a life fulfilled.

  He said: "So it won't serve for me to leave court, and stay away from him?"

  "No."

  He smiled for the first time. "Because he wants me where he can see me? Because the arrow by daylight is better to face than the knife in the dark?"

  There was a glimmer of a smile in reply. "You are like him," was all she said, but he felt the interview begin to lighten. A sombre lady, this one. She was beautiful, yes, but he would as soon, he thought, have touched a rousing falcon.

  "You can't tell me any more? Anything?"

  "I do not know more."

  "Would Merlin know? And would he tell me?"

  "What he knew, I know," she said again. "I told you, I am Merlin."

  "You said this before. Is it some kind of riddling way of telling me that his power is gone, or just that I may not approach him?" He spoke with renewed impatience. "All my life I seem to have been listening to rumours of magical deaths and vanishings, and they are never true. Tell me straightly, if you will: if I go to Bryn Myrddin, will I find him?"