The Road to Avalon (Rediscovered Classics)

by Joan Wolf

  She could see him assimilating this information. His frown became less deep. “There is Gawain,” he said thoughtfully. “I could name Gawain as my heir.”

  “No!” She was on her feet now. The stool rocked with the violence of her movement. “No,” she repeated in a quieter voice. “You must have your own sons, Arthur. And I cannot give them to you.”

  “Morgan.” He too was on his feet. The frown was completely gone and she could see that he was preparing to deal with her, to convince her, to win her over. He thought he could reassure her. He was wrong. He took her two cold hands into his and looked down into her eyes. “My dearest love”—his voice was very gentle—“can’t you see? Don’t you understand? I don’t care.”

  Her voice was full of the bitterness that filled her heart. “But I do, Arthur,” she said. “I do.”

  Still he did not understand. “Britain is filled with princes who can succeed me,” he said reasonably. “The next high king does not have to be of my getting.”

  She let her hands lie lax in his. “You are Britain. And if you do not leave an heir by right of birth, we will be back to chaos and dissension and the tribal kings fighting among themselves while Britain goes down to the dark. I told you once before, I will not be responsible for that.”

  He dropped her hands. At last he understood. She looked away from his face. “I wish I were a farmer or an innkeeper,” he said with a bitterness that matched her own. “You would marry me then.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t wish to be other than what you are. It is you I love.”

  He turned away from her and walked to the empty wicker chair where Merlin had been accustomed to sit. “Marry Gwenhwyfar,” she said to his back, “and have a dozen sons for Britain.”

  He ran his fingers over the high back of the chair. “I am not married to Gwenhwyfar yet.” He turned to look at her, his face white and very set.

  She could feel herself begin to tremble. The intensity of his look was like a blow. “Arthur . . .” she said. Her knees would scarcely hold her up. “Would it make it better?” she asked. “Or worse?”

  His hair had fallen forward over his forehead. His eyes were terrible. “Nothing can make it worse.”

  She bent her head to hide from that look.

  “Morgan.” No one ever said her name as he did. She heard him move and then he was holding her against him, holding her and kissing her as if she were life itself to him. She swayed against him, every part of her being, body and soul, responding to that kiss.

  Right or wrong, wise or foolish, she didn’t know. And she no longer cared.

  The last time they had lain together on her bed, they had been boy and girl, with the world opening before them like a flower waiting to be plucked. They were ten years older now, and this was not the joyous, almost carefree lovemaking they had shared before. This was intense, hungry, driven. And yet, after the almost desperate passion there was still the one thing that they had always found with one another and with no one else. Peace.

  Arthur held her against him and gently kissed the top of her head. Her hair always smelled like lavender.

  This was his home, his mooring place, his land of heart’s desire. Here in her arms, and nowhere else. It was such perfect peace, such infinite happiness, to be able to hold her, to be still with her, to be simply and wholly together.

  All those other times, when his young male body had driven him to take some other woman to his bed, there had been only physical relief and then an intense desire to be alone.

  He felt her lips against his throat, his shoulder. He slid his hand under her hair and ran it down the length of her back and over her hip. The feel of her skin, her small, perfect bones, was the most beautiful thing in the world to him.

  He turned her over, unfolded her, kissed her eyes, her mouth, her throat. To have her . . . to love her . . . He sank into her slowly and her breath was deep and slow next to his ear. He said her name and she answered and then they were lost in each other again.

  The rain had stopped by early morning when it was time for him to return to his own room. As he tore himself away from her and walked to the door, he knew he had been wrong in what he had said to her earlier in the family salon. He had made it worse, for both of them.

  Chapter 19

  ARTHUR was unapproachable for two weeks after he returned to Venta from Avalon. His captains attributed his vile mood to natural grief for the death of Merlin, and did their best to keep out of his way. This tactic was made easier by the fact that the king spent most of his time in his rooms, working at his desk.

  At the end of two weeks he sent for Cai and handed him a scroll. “Here are the plans for our new capital city,” he said. “I want you to look them over.”

  Cai looked at Arthur, then bent his head over the drawings that were on the scroll. Minutes passed. Finally Cai looked up. “When you said you were going to build, you meant it.”

  The king’s still face never changed. “I want it done in two years.”

  “Two years.” Cai went back to looking at the scroll. “Where is this capital to be located?” he asked, his eyes still on the drawings.

  Arthur got to his feet. “Go and get your cloak,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”

  They left Venta within the hour, with an escort of five men, and took the road to Amesbury. When they turned south, on the Roman road to Durovarium, Cai glanced at Arthur but said nothing. Except for a few brief comments, the king had been silent ever since they took horse. It was when they veered west, off the Roman road and onto a narrow, rutted track, that Cai could not help an exclamation.

  Arthur gave him a cool look. “We are not going to Avalon,” he said. “We’re going to the old hill fort.”

  The old hill fort. Cai’s hazel eyes widened. He pictured the drawings Arthur had shown him. “Of course,” he said slowly. “It’s the perfect place.”

  “We’ll see,” said Arthur briefly, and put his horse into a canter.

  The place they referred to was an old Celtic fort which had been abandoned shortly after the Roman occupation of Britain. It was but twelve miles from Avalon, and Cai and Arthur had occasionally ridden their ponies there when they were children.

  The track they were following took them right to the hill in question, which rose about five hundred feet before leveling off to a plateau on top. There were still earthwork defenses mounded around the hill’s circumference. They had played on those defenses when they were boys.

  “We can reinforce the earthworks,” Arthur said as they walked slowly around them. “But I want a wall built as well. An unmortared stone wall, sixteen feet thick, with blocks of Roman masonry to reinforce it.” He picked up a stick from the ground, and as they walked, he pointed. “Guard towers to go here”—they walked some more—“here. . . and here.” They came to the point of easiest ascent. “The gate will be here,” he said, “with a gatehouse.”

  They left their horses and the escort and began to climb the hill. “I want a cobbled road to go from the gates to the plateau,” Arthur explained. They topped the steepest part of the hill. The ground here was uneven, but buildable. “Here will be the barracks”—the stick pointed—“and here the houses for the officers.” Cai nodded. “The stable blocks will be on the far side of the hill, with paddocks and a riding school.”

  They reached the plateau. The wind was very cold on the top and Cai pulled his cloak around him. The view of the surrounding country was excellent. To the northwest Glastonbury Tor, that strange hill which jutted out of the island where the monastery was situated, was clearly visible. To the southwest stretched the lands of Avalon.

  “I always thought this hill was the perfect location for a fortified city,” Arthur said.

  Cai had been here as many times as Arthur, but the military possibilities of the place had never been one of his preoccupations. He looked around now, not with the eyes of a boy but with the eyes of an engineer. He looked at the ancient earthworks heaped around the edges of the plate
au, at the uneven ground below where Arthur had planned the military enclave, at the steep hill below that. The plateau here at the top would easily hold a great hall, a variety of smaller buildings, and gardens. He looked back at the king. “You were right,” he said.

  “Can you build it in two years?”

  “The buildings are to be of timber?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I can conscript as many men as I need from the army to work on it?”

  “Yes.”

  Cai looked again, this time calculating drainage. At a little distance from the foot of the hill, on the west, flowed the river Camm.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I can do it in two years.”

  Arthur smiled at him. It was the first smile Cai had seen since the king returned from Avalon. “I’ll get Gerontius in from Luguvallium to help you,” he said. “And I’ll keep Bedwyr out of your way.”

  Cai raised his eyebrow, an imitation of Arthur’s own look that had been unconsciously adopted by all his officers. “And how do you plan to do that?” he inquired ironically. When Bedwyr was not fighting, he tended to organize ferocious games that often left half the cavalry incapacitated.

  All the humor left Arthur’s face. “I’ll send him into Wales,” he said, “to collect the Princess Gwenhwyfar for me.”

  When her father had first told her she was to marry the high king, Gwenhwyfar had been happy. For too long she had been an unmarried daughter, and she was weary of her single state. There was no honor in being a princess and unwed. It was flattering of course that her father valued her too highly to offer her to a man whose rank was less distinguished than her own, but you could not take your rank to bed with you at night. Gwenhwyfar was more than ready for a husband.

  The court of Gwynedd was delighted that they were to give Britain a queen. The women, in particular, went immediately to work. The wedding was set for the spring, and all through the long, dark winter the women wove and cut and stitched and sewed, making clothing and blankets and pillows and wall hangings to send to Venta when their princess went east to wed the king.

  At first Gwenhwyfar had been happy, but as the sewing piled up and the snow melted from the mountains, the reality of the marriage began to set in. She had never been more than twenty miles from home, and now she was to go out of Gwynedd completely, to a place that was not even Wales. She was to be queen of all Britain. What had sounded marvelous in the fall was fearful in the spring.

  Her father was very explicit about her duties. “Arthur needs sons,” he said. “That is your role, Gwenhwyfar. Give him sons, and all will be well.”

  Arthur. She had heard the name for as long as she could remember. Arthur. The king. What was he like? she wondered. He would be her husband and she did not even know what he looked like. She asked Peredur, her brother, who had fought under the king for several years. It was a mild afternoon and the wet, heavy snow was falling from the trees and the brooks were rushing down the mountainside. Soon now the passes would be open and she would be able to travel to Venta for her wedding.

  “He’s more Roman than Celt,” her brother answered. “Very dark, not overly tall . . . ” Then, when she looked disappointed, “I’ll tell you this, Gwenhwyfar, he may not be a big man, but when he is present, you don’t look at anyone else.”

  “But is he handsome, Peredur?”

  At that he grinned and put out a finger to flick her cheek. “He’s as beautiful as you are,” he answered teasingly. Which told her nothing at all.

  A messenger came to Gwynedd at the end of March. The high king sent word that he was sending Prince Bedwyr, with a suitable retinue, to escort the Princess Gwenhwyfar and her wedding party to Venta. The marriage ceremony itself would take place in mid-May, with Archbishop Dubricius officiating.

  Gwenhwyfar’s women were almost as excited by the prospect of seeing Bedwyr as they would have been if Arthur himself were coming. Bedwyr’s exploits were already legend in Wales.

  It was Olwen, one of the young girls who companioned Gwenhwyfar, who was the chief source of their information about Bedwyr. Olwen’s brother had ridden with the cavalry for four years past, and in the two quick visits he had made home during that time he had been full of stories. Olwen, herself a born storyteller, never tired of recounting Culwych’s exploits with Bedwyr.

  The favorite tale of all the girls was the story of the cavalry’s escape from Cerdic the previous winter. Olwen’s voice would take on a mesmerizing cadence when she told that story, and the rest of the girls would sit big-eyed and attentive while their busy fingers stilled on loom and needle.

  “Prince Bedwyr and his men were trapped in the wild mountains by the whole of the Saxon host under Cerdic,” Olwen would invariably begin. “There was not food enough for man or beast, and the winter was deadly cold. There was nowhere for them to go, with the mountains at their back and the Saxons, with ten times their number, guarding the only route of their escape.” Olwen’s slim fingers gestured, conjuring up a Saxon camp. “The Sea Wolves were settled comfortably in their warm camps, do you see, just waiting for Prince Bedwyr to surrender or to die of starvation and cold.”

  They had heard this story many times before, and still it caught them. As Olwen’s voice deepened, they all sat up, listening with breathless attention. “Then, one terrible winter night, when the mountain coldness was at its fiercest, and the hunger was sharp in their bellies, and the Saxon fires were burning bright and cheerful in the darkness, Prince Bedwyr gathered his men about him. They must break through the Sea Wolves, he said, or they would die. And so they mounted their horses, now thin and savage from lack of food, they grasped their weapons, and they charged down the snowy mountain-side.”

  Olwen’s dark gray eyes went around the circle of faces. “There were ten times their number in the Saxon camp, but they slashed their way through it, killing men with their lances, their axes, their heavy swords. The Saxons fought back, but they could do nothing against Prince Bedwyr. Our men stampeded through the camp, leapt their horses over the twenty-foot river that backed it, and were free in the world.”

  A general sigh of contentment ran around the circle of girls. They picked up their neglected work.

  “Culwych says that no man in Britain but Prince Bedwyr could have led such a charge,” Olwen concluded. “They were three hundred against three thousand. And two hundred of them got through.”

  “They say he is the most feared man in all Britain,” one of the other girls contributed. “There is no one who has his physical strength, his prowess in arms.”

  A tall dark-haired girl looked sideways at Gwenhwyfar, who had been very quiet for the last half-hour. “Not even the king?” the girl asked.

  “Ah, the king.” It was Olwen who answered. She looked at Gwenhwyfar as well.

  The flames picked out the fire in the princess’s glorious hair. She looked back at Olwen and said coolly, “Yes, Olwen. What does your brother say of the king?”

  Olwen smiled. “My lady,” she said. “He says they admire and fear Prince Bedwyr. But they would walk barefoot over hot coals for the king.”

  It was a cold and blowy March day, with racing clouds periodically darkening the sun, when Bedwyr and his party rode into Dinas Emrys, Maelgwyn’s chief stronghold in Gwynedd. Earth and timber ramparts surrounded the entire enclosure of Dinas Emrys, and anyone seeking admittance had to go through the gate. Olwen happened to be near the gatehouse on an errand when Bedwyr and his troop arrived, and she ran all the way back to the women’s house to tell the princess.

  “They are taking him to your father’s hall, of course,” she reported breathlessly to Gwenhwyfar. “I do not know when they will be sending for you, but you should make ready, Princess.”

  There was the usual circle of girls around the hearth, sewing, and every face lit with anticipation. “What does he look like?” one asked, voicing the thought that was in everyone’s mind.

  Olwen, the storyteller, drew a long, preparatory breath. Before she could begin to spe
ak, however, Gwenhwyfar cut in. “We do not want a saga, Olwen. We just want to know what he looks like. Briefly, please.”

  Olwen’s face fell. “Well, he is big,” she began reluctantly, hating to part with the list of giants she had been ready to cite. “The biggest man I ever saw. His hair is bright as the sun.” A little warmth crept into her voice. “His eyes are blue as—” Gwenhwyfar cut her off again. “That will do, Olwen. Doubtless we will all get a chance to see him for ourselves shortly.” She stood up and looked pointedly at her ordinary gown and tunic. “Perhaps someone would help me to change?”

  She was dressed and ready when the summons came. She was to come to the king’s hall in order to be presented to Prince Bedwyr, the high king’s emissary who had come to escort her to her wedding.

  Gwenhwyfar smoothed her embroidered tunic and adjusted her soft leather belt. She did not once glance in the polished metal that served her as a mirror. Gwenhwyfar had never had to be concerned about her appearance. For as long as she remembered, she had known she was beautiful. Olwen laid a cloak around her shoulders and, head held high, she went out to meet her future.

  He was standing on her father’s hearth, surrounded by smaller men, and she understood immediately Olwen’s desire for embellishment. Seeing him, one believed instantly every tale one had ever heard about him. He was the sort of man who could ride down an entire army.

  He was walking toward her, her father by his side. When Maelgwyn finished speaking, she gave Bedwyr her hand. “Welcome to Dinas Emrys, Prince,” she said. And looked, with unmaidenly candor, into his face.

  It was a handsome, arrogant face, with vividly blue eyes and a strong, sensual mouth. He was looking at her the way men always did and she slowly lowered her lashes to screen her long green eyes. He had forgotten to return her hand and she gently withdrew it from his enormous grasp.