by Anna Elliott
“Yes. If you wish it, of course I will hear.”
When they had reached the sheltered spot, Coel sank down onto one of the stones and let out his breath in a long sigh, his hand pressed tight under his ribs.
Isolde started to speak, but he held up a hand. “No, no. It’s all right. I’m well enough.” He drew from his belt a soldier’s horn drinking flask and flicked open the cap, then lifted the flask to his lips and took a long pull. He swallowed and grimaced. “Some concoction or other of my physician; it’s mixed with wine.”
Isolde nodded and took the place beside him on the rocks, smoothing the skirts of her gown and drawing her cloak about her. As Coel had said, they were sheltered from the wind here, and the quiet, after the high constant buffet and scream, was almost startling. “Stinging nettle, most likely. Or maybe vervain.”
Coel glanced at her. “Is it? I wouldn’t know.” He swallowed and grimaced again. “Tastes vile, but it seems to help when the cold settles into my bones on days like today.”
He recapped the flask, then shook his head so that the silvery mane of hair fell back from his brow. “Time was, I could have made a march over twenty leagues of country as rough as this—and still faced battle in the morning.”
He leaned back, as though easing tightness in his spine. Then: “But if I am old, I also have a longer memory that the rest of the king’s councilmen. I am old enough to remember what is only a tale to them. To have taken part in what they have heard only in song—or at best as boys at a father’s knee.”
He was silent a moment, his face growing remote, his gaze distant. Then he went on, “I knew your father well, as I say. I had the training of him from a boy.”
Isolde brushed a tuft of dry grass from the skirt of her gown. “I never knew that.”
“No.” Coel looked at her sideways. “I don’t suppose you did.” His eyes were still on her, and he said, “I don’t suppose anyone has spoken to you much of him—or of what happened during those times.”
His look made it a question, and Isolde, after a moment’s pause, said, steadily, “No. As you know, his name is spoken scarcely at all.”
Coel nodded, his face turned once more to the sea, the golden eyes softened by the gray reflected light. “It was ill for Britain that so many fell at Camlann. Not only because we lost Arthur and so many more of our finest fighting men, but because it also left the reins of the country in the hands of the young—men who were not yet old enough to fight when your father and Arthur met in battle that final time.”
After a pause he went on, “The men on the council are such men—young enough that it’s easier for them to hate than try to understand. Not that I’m saying what Modred did was right. There are some crimes nothing can justify—treason the most filthy of them all. I fought at Camlann—saw my fellows slaughtered, my army hacked down to a shadow of what it had been. And I’ve done enough hating myself, in my time. But”—he raised one blue-veined hand and let it fall—“they say you outlive everything, in time. Hate and love alike. And maybe that’s true.”
He fell silent again, his face still remote, his mouth stern, then glanced down at Isolde once more. “You must have memories yourself of the man your father was. You weren’t so young as that when he died.”
For an instant, the darkness in her mind stirred, shivered. Isolde’s hands tightened. “I was thirteen.”
After seven years she was practiced in locking the doors of memory tight, quelling all such ripples that threatened to bring anything back. There was herself before, and herself after Camlann, the two separated by a high, dark wall.
But now there’d been the voice. And the feeling in the prison cell. And now this, today.
Maybe there’s something in the past, she thought, that will not be forgotten. Something I’ve locked away that’s battering at the door from the inside.
For a moment, her whole body was taut with the urge to spring up and get away, as far away as she could. To run and run until she could remember nothing but the ground beneath her and the open sky above and never hear what more Coel had to say.
One foot in front of the other. Look forward, not back.
Coel watched her a moment more, then turned away, nodding slowly. Isolde saw the fingers of his right hand absently tracing the lines of the flask still held in his left, his gaze growing remote once more, as though he looked past her across the years to the time that had gone before. Then he began, his voice making a counterpoint to the crash of the waves below.
“It was a time of peace, then—at least comparative peace. Arthur had won the day at Badon. Few among us thought the Saxons would ever rise again. And so when the Roman emperor sought help against the barbarians, Arthur answered—agreed to lead a force of men across the channel.”
Coel lifted one shoulder. “Maybe he was wrong. I don’t know. There was a great deal of confusion as to where the power in the land lay. Some saw Britain as a Roman province still, and hoped the legions might come to our defense as they had before. Some wanted no part of a united Britain. Wanted—as Madoc wants—to be left in peace to rule their own lands.”
Coel stopped, brow furrowed, and flexed his gnarled fingers, rubbing the back of one hand. Some of the formality of his manner had dropped away, and Isolde could see the man of action, the soldier and commander of troops he must once have been—and still was, she thought, beneath the mantle of councilman and king.
“At any rate,” he went on, “Arthur led his troops to the defense of Rome, and left Modred, your father, to rule as deputy in his stead while he was gone.”
This was the part of the tale Isolde had heard before, many times, but she kept silent, letting Coel’s words wash past her.
“There are leaders men follow because they win victories for those in their command. And there are leaders men follow out of love. Modred was one of those. I saw battle with him time and again in the years before Arthur left for Rome—saw him live in the mud and the cold with his troops, refuse to eat if they went hungry. Head the most dangerous charges—the ones that seemed like certain slaughter and death—himself, with only those men who would volunteer to be at his side.”
Coel rubbed a hand along his jaw. “His men would have cut their throats for him if he’d asked it—marched into hell and back if he was at their head.”
This time, nothing stirred, no rolling boulder of memory loomed in Isolde’s mind. The man Coel spoke of was remote, a stranger in a tale and nothing more. And yet she found herself wondering, all at once, whether it would be comfort as well as pain to remember the time before Camlann. If there was anything in the past she’d forgotten that would give her courage to face whatever the future held.
For there had been happiness. That much she knew. Laughter, even. And she’d loved some at least among the voices that now came to her in the wind.
And that, she thought, is exactly why I can’t let myself remember. Because if I start crying again for what’s lost I’ll want nothing but to lie down on my bed and never rise. Never set another bone or bind another wound. Or for that matter attend to Coel now and learn what I may to save Con’s throne.
She looked out toward the white-capped sea. There was herself before Camlann, and she’d locked that girl and all her memories away. “Lord Marche might be called a fine leader of men as well.”
Coel’s face looked suddenly weary. “As you say. Though, mind you, there was reason—maybe even good reason—for what Modred did. At least at first.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “Soon after Arthur led his troops into Gaul, the Saxons formed an alliance with the Picts of the north. And the Irish raiders began to strike not only along the coasts, as they had before, but farther inland. It was a desperate time—the dragon of Britain under siege, and no hope of Arthur’s returning for three years, maybe more. Modred believed Britain had need of a true leader—not a deputy king, but a king outright, who could rally the petty kings and nobles as Arthur had done and drive off the barbarian hordes. And maybe he was right, at th
at.”
Coel lifted one hand wearily and then let it fall. “I doubt Modred thought of it as treason—not then, at least. Arthur had left Britain to fight for Rome, and Modred was Arthur’s heir. The kingship was his right. That was the claim he made in the council hall, and I’ve no doubt he believed it true.”
Isolde looked down at her hands, lying still across the folds of her cloak. “No man is evil to himself,” she said. “He will always find reason enough to justify his acts, at least in his own mind.”
Coel glanced down at her, then sighed. “True enough. At any rate, Modred claimed the High Kingship for himself. And there were those on the council who agreed to follow—swore oaths of allegiance to him.”
“Marche, for one.”
Isolde saw Coel’s lips thin and tighten, but he nodded. “As you say,” he said again. “Though there were others—other men I would give a better character to than I would Lord Marche.” He paused. “But the rest of the council refused to accept Modred as High King.” He looked down at her again. “You will have heard, perhaps, what was said of Modred’s birth?”
“Heard?” Isolde looked toward the edge of the cliffs, her lips twisting in a brief, bitter smile. “The story is sung by every harper in the land—whispered everywhere, from the king’s council chamber to the servants’ hall.”
Coel nodded again. “An ugly story, but no uglier than what was said at the time. The whispers began as soon as he was born. Morgan would not name the father of her child, and so there were those who claimed he was demon-born. Or that Arthur himself was the father, and Modred the bastard-gotten child of incest.”
Coel shook his head. “At any rate, the truth died with those three—Arthur, Morgan, and Modred. I doubt any of us will ever know for sure. But there were those who objected, on the strength of the tales, to Modred’s being named Arthur’s heir. And maybe it was on that account that Modred did what he did—I won’t even pretend to say for certain. But I do know that from the time I had the fostering of him as a boy, Modred had a grudge against the world. He kept it hidden away, as a rule, but it was there, just the same.”
The wind lifted the hair away from Isolde’s face, all but drowning out Coel’s voice.
COLD. SO COLD. I CAN’T FEEL my legs anymore. And now my hands have gone numb. There’s a bright light somewhere. A bright light. And a throbbing center of pain. But I can’t tell where they are. I can feel the blood seeping out of me, though. And when I cough, I taste blood.
If I’d known it would end this way, would I have done the same? I suppose so. I’d no choice, if the prophesies of Myrddin are to be believed. Modred, boy from the sea. Born to be his father’s bane.
War is for heroes, in the harpers’ songs. And the dying are lifted away by beautiful maidens. Ferried across the water to the Western Isles.
I’m lying in mud. I can’t lift my cheek. Can’t spit the filthy grit from my mouth.
COEL HAD CONTINUED SPEAKING, EYES STILL distant, so that Isolde was able to blink the tears away without his seeing. Plainly the wind had brought him nothing save his own memories of the story he now told. No voice she knew distantly had been her father’s, though as always the words he’d spoken were gone.
“The council was split,” Coel was saying, “and Modred declared war on those who opposed his rule. Arthur heard of what had happened and turned his troops toward home.” He broke off and took another swallow from his flask. Then: “There are plenty of tales about Arthur these days. But I doubt any of us who knew the man himself would find much to recognize in the stories you hear told and retold.”
Isolde was silent. Then: “Myrddin said much the same.”
“Myrddin?” For the first time since they’d reached the headland, Coel’s face relaxed, and a smile of genuine warmth touched his thin mouth. “That’s a name I’d all but forgotten. He must be as old as the hills by now. I should like to see him again, though. Is he at Tintagel now?”
Isolde looked away, and made her voice a careful blank as she replied. “No. He has already gone.” She waited for Coel to ask her where he had gone, but although she could feel his gaze still on her, he only took another swallow from the flask before beginning again.
“Arthur was my king,” he said, “and I loved him well. But I knew him also for a hard man—and a proud one. He would not brook opposition. Or forgive easily when he considered a wrong had been done. And Modred—Modred was another cast in the same mold. I don’t wonder some took them for father and son. And when the two met as enemies—” He shook his head. “You will know what happened.”
“A nine-years’ civil war,” Isolde said after a moment. “Nine years of war, in which my father tried to make alliance with Cerdic, the Saxon king, but ended by losing much of Britain’s eastern lands. And then the year of the plague and Camlann.”
“Yes, the plague year. The sign of God’s wrath at the great traitor-king.” Grim amusement flickered briefly about the corners of Coel’s eyes. “Though I confess I’ve my doubts when anyone—priest or commoner—starts putting words in the Almighty’s mouth. I don’t know whether God made man in His image, but it’s certain man has returned the favor.”
There was a silence, broken only by the scream of a gull above. Isolde folded her hands together in her lap, and was distantly surprised, when she spoke, to find her voice as steady as before.
“Perhaps,” she said. “But what has all this to do with you and me now?”
Coel studied her, his eyes keen on hers. Then he said, “I’m an old man. Too old to have a hand in ruling the kingdom, many would claim. I don’t believe it—but then no soldier wants to feel he’s outlived his usefulness to his land. But it does mean that few on the king’s council would accept my word against Marche’s that he’s had dealings with the Saxon king. They would demand proof, and I’ve none. Not yet. And so I’ve told no one what I learned.”
“Not even your son?”
“No. Not even Huel.” Coel’s face looked pallid, the dents of weariness plain about his mouth. “A king soon learns to trust no one absolutely—not even his own blood son. Not when his death will set a crown on that son’s head.” He recapped the horn flask and slipped it back into his belt. “I believe my son loyal, but belief isn’t knowing beyond all possible doubt. And there is the matter of how young Constantine died.”
Isolde’s head came up sharply, and her whole body went still. Before she could speak, though, Coel held up his hand. “No. I’m not asking what you yourself know, or how. But if I was Arthur’s man, I was also a friend to your father, years ago. And if anything should happen to me—” Coel broke off, though the hawk’s eyes remained steady on hers.
“If I know that a king cannot afford to trust even close kin, I also know that no king is absolutely safe from those who may wish him harm. And if anything should happen to me before I can prove the accusation before the council, I would not carry what I have learned with me to the grave.”
Chapter Ten
ISOLDE WATCHED THE PROCESSION OF councilmen—dukes and petty kings—as one by one they stepped silently forward to drop a handful of earth into the open grave.
Coel had taken his leave of her on the headland, returning to Tintagel alone. “Safer for you—and for me—if we are not seen to have had private conference.” He had taken her hand, bowed, then looked up, eyes golden on hers. “I will see you again at the burial of my lord the king.”
Now, standing in the mist-filled churchyard, Isolde let Father Nenian’s voice wash past her, resonant and sure.
“I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord. Whosoever believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die….”
Isolde’s eyes moved to the curls of smoke rising from the army encampments on the headland, smudges of paler gray against a sky dark with low-hanging clouds.
She had tried, both in the chill of the stone-built chapel and in the graveyard here, to feel something of Con—some hint that he
yet lived, as the words in Father Nenian’s holy script promised. She’d sensed nothing, though, nothing of Con’s presence amid either the candle-lighted stillness or the mist. Though she wondered whether Con’s voice would come to her now, like all the others, when the wind blew from the west.
The scents of holy oil and incense from the chapel still clung about her clothes, and she shut her eyes as the smell carried her momentarily back. Back to lying in a bright, fever-soaked haze, her breasts hot and sore and weeping milk beneath the bindings the midwives had applied, as Father Nenian brushed the holy oil on her forehead, her feet, the palms of her hands.
And Con stumbling in, his eyes bleared, his breath reeking of drink, and striking her across the face for the first—the only—time.
The churchyard was enclosed by a low wall, built of the same gray stone as Tintagel itself, and Isolde turned to the south, where beyond the wall and a grove of slim white birch trees, an unmarked grave lay, grassed over and all but invisible now. Sight and memory she’d lost seven years ago. But faith…
Beneath her cloak, Isolde’s hands moved to settle over her stomach, tracing the girdle laces tied by the serving girl Marcia back in her own rooms. Isolde had seen Marcia’s eyes, hard and sharp, studying her as she stepped out of her workday gown. Had seen, as well, the calculations reeling off in the other girl’s eyes. The number of days since Con had last shared her bed. The days that yet remained until her courses should come, if they were to come on this moon.
And maybe, Isolde thought, her eyes still on the southern wall, it’s good thing I could feel nothing of Con—no sense that he was with me still. If he were, he might know what I have done. And that I doubt he could forgive—whatever Father Nenian and the Christ-God say of the world beyond.
