by M. K. Hume
When Lasair and the others arrived in his room, they bowed to their parents with genuine respect. In turn, Bedwyr looked directly into their eyes and prepared himself for what he was about to tell them.
“I’ve made an irrevocable decision, children. In the spring, we’ll send all our people to the Forest of Dean in the south. Every person in our homeland who is prepared to make the journey shall be invited to join us under our protection. Unfortunately, those who choose to stay here will be under threat from the Saxons.”
He paused to allow his audience to absorb the tenor of his words.
“I place no trust in the justice of those who rule the Britons, so we’ll not relocate to Forden or any other likely refuge. We will travel farther into the wildernesses to a place where I once ran mad while I expunged the blood of my murdered parents from my mind. I don’t have any affection for these new lands, but the Forest of Dean is deep, dark, and very ancient because the trees cluster around a great river that flows down from the mountains. Like Arden, it needs protection from those Saxons who’d cut down its trees to build their walls and make charcoal for their fires. And, like Arden, the Forest of Dean needs our husbandry.”
Bedwyr’s expression softened as he gazed at Elayne.
“The forest is situated on the borders of Cymru in a position where we can guard the surrounding marches and keep the lands clean from Saxon vermin. We will also have the security of having strong allies at our backs. Dean will be hard for the invaders to approach. It has Sabrina Aest on one side and the mountains on the other, so it has a defensive advantage over Arden as a place we can protect. The Saxons fear the kingdom of the Silures, the Ordovice, and the Deceangli with good reason, for they have consistently been driven out of Cymru, regardless of the many ceols that try to land along the shoreline. I will place my trust in Cymru and the Forest of Dean.”
“But it’s so far away!” Elayne protested, although Bedwyr could tell that she was already assessing the problem of moving her entire household. Like any provident housewife, she knew every person who lived within the forest, and how willing they would be to tear up their roots and transplant their children to foreign soil.
The safety of their children was the only driving force that would persuade them to make a long and arduous journey to a new home.
As if he could read her mind, Bedwyr smiled before returning to the topic at hand.
“We must plan the movements to our new home very carefully. Lasair and Barr will supervise the movement of our people and will command the advance party. Lasair will find a site for a new fortress that will be built high above the river in the deepest part of the forest where it can be easily defended. His force will take as much of Arden’s wealth as can be carried on horseback, so his party will consist of young folk who possess the strength to do the physical work necessary to prepare the fortifications and buildings. I want earth broken and made ready for spring planting so the first crops can be sown before we move our people into the forest. The boys will complete this task, Elayne, but you are the only person who can persuade the crofters to desert their familiar holdings. Their lives will be forfeit if they stay behind.”
Lasair and Barr bowed their heads obediently and left their parents to begin the preliminary planning. Soon, Elayne was alone with her husband and she sighed, for his tired body had begun to sag with weariness.
“Why now, Bedwyr? Why have you chosen to tear up our roots and move our people out of Arden?” Elayne asked tearfully.
“Please don’t upset yourself, my dear. Your tears are harder to bear than the loss of Arden.”
“Then answer me fairly, my husband. Why now? If Arthur and Maeve do return, they won’t be able to find us.” Elayne’s eyes were so direct that Bedwyr winced.
“I’ve known that Arden has been lost to us for many months, my dearest one, but I was waiting until Arthur and Maeve returned from the Otadini lands before making my final decision. In doing so, I’ve placed us all at risk by trying to hold on to this isolated outpost.”
“So?” Elayne began. She could easily guess at his answer.
“Whether they are alive or enslaved, they’ll not return before Arden is lost to the Saxons. Even Arthur cannot fly across the ocean in time to save us from our enemies, and I’m certain that he won’t be home in the immediate future.”
Bedwyr refrained from adding if ever to his explanation, but Elayne could sense that the words weren’t very far from his mind.
“What else can I do to help you then, Bedwyr?”
Elayne’s hands were softly stroking the fine old bed. Her hands had stroked this same headboard every day for decades, and the honey-brown timber carried a patina of oil from her fingers and palms. “How can I bear to leave this house where my children were born?”
Bedwyr knew she wasn’t speaking to him, but to the deepest part of herself that had succored her flagging spirits during dark and terrible times. He watched as she also came to the conclusion that Arden was lost and would never be hers again. “I will visit the first crofts tomorrow,” she told her husband firmly. “I will do what must be done.”
He embraced her, marveling once more at the courage of women who can give up everything they cherish in order to follow their love.
“The last of our people don’t have to leave until just before the end of winter, but they must be gone before the last of the winter snowfalls. After that time, the Saxons will anticipate our intentions and we could come under attack by Mercia. We will need every wagon we possess if we are to escape safely, and we’ll probably have to construct more because I intend to leave nothing but empty holes for the Saxon pigs. If I could, I’d even burn down this lovely house where my heart resides, so the Saxons would lack a roof over their filthy heads, but to do so would be to warn them that we’re moving. We’ll take everything that can be moved, so our retreat will be relatively slow. I’ll need every available man that Lasair can spare to protect the retreat of our wagon train.”
He watched the hypnotic movement of Elayne’s hands as they stroked the wood of their bed as if it was a beloved child. “What was put together can be taken apart, so your bed can be moved to our new home and our lives can continue untroubled in the Forest of Dean. I swear to you that you’ll sleep snugly in your own bed when the summer weather comes.”
“I believe you, husband. But we cannot leave essential supplies behind on the journey to Dean just to make room for my bed in the wagons. I’d feel like a traitor to every crofter who gives up a snug home so they can accompany us on the journey. My bed should only be packed for removal once everything that must be taken on the journey is safely stored away in the wagons. Promise me this, Bedwyr, for I’d rather not be a burden on our people.”
“You could never be a burden, my dearest,” Bedwyr whispered as he kissed her work-callused hands, and then waved his hands around the comfortable room. “I’m reluctant to leave all this, so you must leave this decision to me.”
“Are our sons old enough to carry such responsibilities? Lasair is little more than a boy. Only yesterday, he was a little red-haired baby toddling along after Arthur.”
Even as she smiled at her happy memory, Elayne’s mood darkened. “Of course, Lasair can do what must be done. Like all mothers, I would prefer to keep my babes in places where I can protect them from the world outside Arden. But the Saxons won’t permit my children to grow in peace, and the outside world has come to Arden, even though all I want from life is to be left among the quiet of the trees. Lasair must do his part to save our people, for such is his duty.”
She squared her shoulders and Bedwyr took comfort from the steadfastness of her nature. “I know that Lasair will do what must be done for the citizens of Arden.”
“Aye! His days are planned out for many years to come, but there are still some tasks for this old man to complete before I can lay down my head and rest.” Bedwyr grinned with the old, reckless devilry that h
ad sustained him in the past. He planned to relish one last throw of the dice against fate, one last attack before he surrendered to the most challenging and fearful enemy of all, the journey into death. Bedwyr feared nothing that lived, but his many dead weighed on his soul like small ingots of lead. He had avoided telling his devoted wife how deeply he feared the judgment of Heaven.
Bedwyr’s ebullient mood fled, so his expression became dour, aged, and patient.
“But Arthur and Maeve are still lost, and even if they return to Arden, they won’t know where to find us. I may have to leave directions with those few of our people who remain behind. Perhaps I can leave a message in Latin if I can find someone to write it on a tree. Arthur will read that message and understand it—while Saxons won’t be able to decipher it.”
“There must be something we can do to help the children, dear heart. Gareth thinks they were stolen into the distant north but he doesn’t know where. Artor was right! It’s difficult to rise each morning when you begin to lose all hope.”
Then Elayne began to weep again, quietly. Bedwyr longed to give her some shred of hope that Arthur and Maeve might return safely from their captivity with the northern barbarians. But Bedwyr had survived to such a great age because he was a realist. Wishes wouldn’t bring his children home, so the old man must sacrifice Gareth by playing on the young man’s honor.
“Gareth is our only hope, Elayne, because he’s oath-bound to Arthur. I’ll ask him to journey into the north and search throughout the barbarian kingdoms. I think he’ll agree with me, because he’s the trusted son of King Artor’s most loyal bodyguard and the boy is loyal to the death.”
Elayne quailed to think of Gareth being used so ruthlessly. “He’s little more than a child! It’s wrong to ask this boy to risk his own life in a vain search.”
So while Gareth was in a deep sleep, his future was being determined by kindly friends who meant him no harm, but who would expect him to travel to lonely and dangerous lands where the bravest of men would fear to journey.
• • •
WHEN GARETH FINALLY awoke, the sun was a watery yellow between layers of grey cloud cover. For a brief, halcyon moment, he thought that he was at home in the old villa outside Aquae Sulis. Soon, he would be called to feed his father and commence the daily routine of weapons training. His mother would pat his head as she paused in the task of collecting eggs, because she was a trusted house servant. Then the present returned like a sudden bucket of cold water thrown at his face.
Deep in the warm nest of his bed, Gareth pictured the icy paths that stretched out of Arden, and knew he must continue his journey as soon as possible. He shivered at the thought of the miles that lay before him. His horse was fully rested, so he had no other excuse to tarry. Far away in Cornwall, King Bors and Queen Valda had already received a message that Blaise and Eamonn had been captured by a group of foreign warriors. He had even mentioned his suspicion of Mareddyd’s complicity in the kidnapping; decency demanded that he explain the situation in person. Gareth sighed at the thought of the families of the dead guards and the tidings he had sent to Tintagel.
While his courage was still strong, Gareth pushed aside the blankets and dressed quickly in the chill of the winter afternoon. But he needed to stay in Arden a little longer because his search must be thoroughly planned, and it was essential that he should elicit information from the Master of Arden that could speed his journey into the unknown.
The long winter nights in the fortress were warm, rich, and filled with sensation, courtesy of a soft-bodied, sharp-minded servant girl called Kerryn, who had been placed at Gareth’s disposal in the name of hospitality. She shared his bed and eased his night terrors by waking him before he said or did anything that would unman him. In later years, his remembrances of Arden would always conjure up images of thick woolen pallets, hot wine in pottery mugs, the rich scent of dried rose leaves, and the sensations of sexual fulfillment. But the most enduring memories had beauty only because they existed beside fragments of pain and suffering. In the aftermath of passion, Gareth had kissed the great veins in Kerryn’s throat, her wrists, and in the secret places between her upper thighs. He felt the force of her, like the power of the Mother as it surged through him anew. He was her slave and her lover, but only for a week. Then, although she wept, Gareth left her easily and without thought. Such was the lot of women, even in idylls such as Arden.
• • •
AS THE FORTRESS boiled with the imminent departure of Lasair and Barr in company with a large troop of young Britons of both sexes, Gareth Minor found he was being tied to Bedwyr’s foster son by the most potent ties of all, the iron-clad links of pity and responsibility. Manipulated by an expert, Gareth knew he must travel for the rest of his life, if need be, until Bedwyr’s children were found. An old man’s love bound the young warrior to an all-encompassing task, for Bedwyr was what Gareth had always desired above all things—a loving and loyal father.
Gareth had been engaged in a final conversation with Bedwyr when Lady Elayne had begged him to wait upon her in her winter garden. The canes of bare, thorny branches had rattled against the rough-hewn walls in an eerie echo of spring. She had stared down at her hands, embarrassed by her husband’s presence.
Bedwyr had been giving the young warrior directions of the route to Caer Gai when Queen Elayne’s message had reached them. Now, the old warrior used her presence to issue his last orders to Gareth, for he wanted his wife to understand his final demands on the young man.
“Whether successful or not, I charge you to search for my son for at least seven years. At that time, I free you from your oath—whether I’m alive or dead.” Bedwyr’s face showed he was more than half convinced that his son had been lost to him forever. “After the passage of that amount of time, I will have become inured to the truth that my Arthur will surely have passed into the shades.”
Then Bedwyr stood and stepped forward to the tall young man with the pale hair and ice-blue eyes, and embraced him. At first, Gareth stood stiffly in the circlet of those once-strong arms. Raised from birth to be a weapon and an extension of his obsessed father’s arm, he had known few affectionate moments, so he had no defenses against Bedwyr’s clever use of love. Gareth knew he would search for Arthur until death came for him, so he hesitantly lowered his head onto the old man’s shoulder like an exhausted child. Then he allowed himself to hold Bedwyr in his own muscular arms.
“The Forest of Dean will always be open to you, Gareth, and my sons will swear likewise. You’ve had a hard life, young man, but perhaps that harshness is what’s made you so strong.”
Lady Elayne had raised her head once she was sure that her husband had no further advice to impart to young Gareth. “My son is also strong and he is important to our people—but my daughter has been forgotten. So promise me, Gareth, that you won’t forget little Maeve.”
With a silent oath to the Christian God, Gareth took Elayne’s hand and kissed it. “I swear, my lady, that Maeve will be protected from anything or anyone who would cause her any harm! Fear nothing, for all will be well.”
• • •
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Gareth was making his final preparations for departure when Lady Elayne stopped him as he was leaving the stables for the long journey to Caer Gai. He had hoped to make his escape from Arden without fanfare once the Master of Arden had suggested that the young man should seek assistance from Taliesin, the son of Nimue, who was considered to be wise beyond measure.
Lady Elayne intervened with one last request. Gareth was taken by surprise when she reached out to Gareth’s destrier and gripped the saddle leathers, an action that caused him to pull back on the reins. The huge horse stamped and backed away with much snorting and bridling, while Gareth used hands and heels to keep the powerful beast in check. But Elayne ignored any personal danger as she reached into the capacious pocket tied around her still-trim waist.
A sma
ll box, the size of Elayne’s palm, was pulled out and held up for Gareth to accept. “Please take this, Gareth. I should have bequeathed this pearl to Arthur years ago, but I feared to relinquish my boy completely to his destiny. I’ve decided that the time has arrived when he will need it!”
With a deft flick of one thumb, he opened the beautifully crafted box. Inside, nestling in a twist of blue cloth, was an obviously valuable ring which caught the light serenely. Bedwyr joined them as Gareth opened the box, and the old man gasped to see Artor’s thumb ring, remembering the time when Nimue had taken it from the High King’s dead hand so many years earlier. Afterwards, on Artor’s express orders, the Lady of the Lake had cleansed the ring of the last traces of Artor’s blood with her own tears before presenting the jewel to the Master of Arden to give to Elayne. This ring was power, heritage, and duty. This ring was Britain!
“This massive pearl was once inserted into the lid of a valuable jewel box owned by Uther Pendragon, a safe place in which the despot kept the secret spoils taken from those unfortunate citizens whom the tyrant murdered or ruined,” Elayne explained. “After the bauble had come into Artor’s possession, the High King met with Brother Isaac, a priest at Glastonbury Monastery who had once been a master jeweler. Isaac inserted the pearl into a fabulous ring that King Artor wore on his thumb.
“He told me it served as a reminder of his father’s sins.” Elayne’s flesh shrank with superstitious revulsion. “My lord wore it in battle and often described how it resembled a blinded eye when it was awash with blood.
“King Artor bequeathed this ring to Arthur when my boy was only two months old,” Elayne went on. “He told me on many occasions that he feared its power over any mortal who wore it. While the ring is very valuable, its true worth lies in the memories it excites. The pearl told Artor that power must be tempered with mercy—or else men become beasts!
“I feared to place such a cursed object on my son’s innocent hand, but now I can accept the truth of Artor’s intentions. The High King understood that this ring represented the nature of power and was a physical manifestation of the right to rule—and to choose. It can be bloody or it can be beautiful. Also, a man’s intentions change its appearance, for pearls glow with refulgence that is a trick of the light. It all depends on what you choose to see!”
