by Joan Wolf
“The prince gets bored when there’s no one to fight,” Culwych said. It was evidently a fact about Bedwyr that everyone knew and accepted.
The prince returned the day before the wedding. The praetorium was filled with guests and Gwenhwyfar had been busy all day greeting people. Arthur had not been in the praetorium and she did not see him until dinner that evening, when he came into the dining room with Bedwyr.
The company was not yet seated, awaiting the entrance of the king. Arthur came first through the door, then Bedwyr followed, his massive frame filling the doorway. He had to duck his golden head in order to keep from hitting it on the frame. Gwenhwyfar watched the two men as they crossed the floor toward the high table, and remembered her brother Peredur’s words. They were true, she thought. When Arthur was present, you did not look at anyone else.
Chapter 21
FOR Arthur, his wedding day was less a personal than a state occasion. He understood very well the significance to Britain of his taking a wife. It meant the founding of a dynasty; it meant the establishment of a stable government; it meant peace for the country. With all these things in mind, he had called in Cai from his work on the new capital and asked him to create a wedding day that few would forget.
Five kings were coming to Venta for the occasion, and numberless princes and chiefs. The one thing Gwenhwyfar found strange, however, was the absence of any member of Arthur’s own family. His parents, of course, were dead. And Merlin, his grandfather, as well. But he had two aunts. Morgause lived in the far north and Gwenhwyfar supposed one could understand her reluctance to undertake such a journey, but the other lived quite nearby, at Avalon. Gwenhwyfar wondered at her absence.
“My aunt?” Arthur said blankly when she asked him. Then, when she elaborated: “Oh. You mean Morgan.”
“Yes,” replied Gwenhwyfar a little diffidently. Physically Arthur had not moved, but she had the distinct impression that he had just retreated a hundred miles beyond her reach. “I just thought, since she is so close . . . ” Her voice ran out.
“Morgan is in Lothian at present, visiting her sister,” he said. “Otherwise I am sure she would be present.”
Gwenhwyfar thought it extremely odd that Arthur’s aunt should choose such a time to travel to Lothian. The roads would be better later in the year, and she would not have to miss the marriage of her nephew. There was evidently an unfriendly feeling between Arthur and this aunt. His face was wearing the remote, austere look she dreaded, and she hastily changed the subject.
“Morgan isn’t coming?” Bedwyr asked Cai the evening before the wedding. They were sitting in Cai’s bedroom in the praetorium and sharing a jug of wine.
“No,” said Cai. “She went to visit Morgause in Lothian. It meant that Morgause and Pellinore couldn’t come to Venta, of course. However”—Cai shrugged—“all in all, it seemed the best solution.”
“I suppose so.” Bedwyr looked at Cai over the rim of his cup. “Gwenhwyfar was curious. I told her that Morgause had no love for Arthur because of Lot, and that Morgan had gone to Lothian out of loyalty to her sister.”
“Good.” Cai’s chin was sunk into his chest. “It may go well enough after all, this marriage.” He watched Bedwyr pour himself another cup of wine. “Gwenhwyfar might be just what he needs.”
“He needs something.” Bedwyr drained half his cup. “He was hell to live with all winter.”
Cai grunted. “So were you.”
Bedwyr grinned crookedly. “I get bored. That’s not Arthur’s problem, though. If anything, he has too much to do.”
“He needs a woman,” diagnosed Cai. “I pushed a few into his bedroom this winter, but it only made him angry.” He stared into the glowing coals of the brazier. “I think this girl will be good for him.”
Bedwyr’s reply was strangely brooding. “But will he be good for her?”
Cai looked at him, surprised. “He’s made an effort to please her. It was disastrous as first, but he’s been much better lately. Gwenhwyfar handled him just right.”
“Yes. She did.”
“What’s the matter, then?” Cai asked. “She can’t have expected to find a love match, after all. And Arthur has apparently decided to make the best of it. Why shouldn’t it turn out all right?”
Bedwyr drained his cup. “No reason.” He pushed himself to his feet. “If we drink any more of this wine, we won’t make it to the great day tomorrow. Good night.”
“Good night,” replied Cai, and watched, frowning, as Bedwyr walked out of his door.
The day of Arthur’s marriage dawned bright with sunshine and May flowers. Cai was enormously relieved. It was physically impossible to fit all of the guests into the dining hall of the praetorium, and so tents had been constructed for those of less importance. Dining in a tent in the sunlight was pleasant; in the rain and the mud, distinctly less so. Admittance to the small church was only for the select few, and after the actual ceremony was over, everyone repaired to either dining hall or tent for a sumptuous banquet.
Arthur had taken the pageantry of the day very seriously. There was a formal procession to and from the church, and the king wore a gold circlet on his brow and a cloak of imperial purple. Gwenhwyfar looked impossibly beautiful in a glimmering gold gown that was not as brilliant as the cloud of bronze hair that fell around her shoulders and down her back. The street was lined with hundreds of guests and townspeople to watch them go by.
The cooks had outdone themselves with the dinner, which was grandly Roman in style. The first course, the gustatio, consisted of eggs and oysters washed down with honey-flavored wine. The main part of the meal was roast boar, venison, beef, and mutton served with a variety of vegetables and breads. Cai had imported the wine from Italy. For the final course, the mensae secundae, Cai had ordered puddings, pastries, cakes, sweetmeats, fresh and dried fruits, and more wine.
The gustatio was served and Arthur sat toying with the oysters on his plate. He looked over at Gwenhwyfar, seated beside him at the high table, and saw she was eating her oysters with obvious pleasure while she talked to the archbishop.
He felt suddenly sick. Sweat stood out on his forehead and he clenched his teeth.
“Are you well?” It was the voice of Gwenhwyfar’s father, seated on his other side. Maelgwyn’s handsome face bore a look of concern.
He forced the nausea back down. “I’m all right. I don’t think the oysters quite agreed with me.” He put down his knife. He didn’t think he would ever eat oysters again.
The feast went on for a very long time. Finally Gwenhwyfar’s women rose to take her away. She caught his eye before she left the table, an apprehensive, fleeting look. She was a virgin, of course. She would be afraid.
He thought of another time, when the rain had been beating down, and the air had smelled of grain. Morgan had not been afraid.
Not now, he told himself fiercely. Forget it for now.
The men around him were laughing and joking. He forced himself to smile and make a reply. They all roared.
He had to pull himself together or he would mishandle tonight. He did not want to hurt her or frighten her.
He hadn’t been with a woman since Morgan.
That had been a mistake. Tonight, what he needed was control. But he had not been able to bear any of those other women . . . All the men were looking at him. Abruptly he realized that it was time. Well, he would do the best that he could.
He would not allow anyone to leave the banquet when he went. The last thing he needed right now, he thought with bitter humor as he walked down the corridor to her rooms, was an audience.
She was sitting up in bed when he came in, her glorious hair loose around her shoulders. She wore some sort of thin linen shift. He crossed the room to her side of the bed.
Her face was flawless, with a suggestion of great sweetness in the curves of her lovely full mouth. She was intelligent, he had discovered, and she had faced him bravely when he had not given her the attention she felt was due her. It could ha
ve been much worse, he thought. There was a good chance that they could become friends. If he didn’t mishandle things now.
He smiled at her. “A crowd of them wanted to come too, but I wouldn’t let them.”
“Thank goodness for that.” The apprehension had left her eyes as soon as he smiled.
He sat down beside her on the bed. “You are very beautiful,” he said, and put his hands up to cup her face. He held her gently and then bent his head toward her mouth.
She gave him an almost instant response. He let his hands travel down her cheeks, to her throat, then to her shoulders. He pulled her closer and her arms came up to circle his neck. After a minute, without releasing her mouth, he pressed her back to the bed.
Gwenhwyfar could sense that he was fighting to control himself. Far from frightening her, however, his obvious need only brought her gratification and joy. He wanted her. All her doubts vanished, and she arched up against him, abandoning herself to the feelings his touch was arousing, her blood answering strongly to the call of his.
There was pain when first he came into her, but she had been prepared for that. She had not been prepared for the explosive pleasure that followed. It astonished her and elated her and humbled her all at once. She nestled into his arms and laid her cheek against his shoulder, listening to the slowing beat of his heart. He smoothed her damp hair off her forehead with a gentle hand. That gentleness was a surprise to her, and a profound joy.
She went to sleep cradled in his arms. He waited until he was quite sure she was asleep before he disentangled himself and got out of bed to go to the window. He stood there for a long time, his forehead pressed against the cool glass, staring at the blurry lights of the lanterns on the forum. Then, finally, he returned to the bed.
He was asleep when Gwenhwyfar awoke the following morning. She opened her eyes slowly and saw the sun shining through the translucent glass of the window. The coals in the brazier had gone out, and the air in the room was cold, but she herself was warm under the woolen blankets that she had brought with her from home. The man next to her did not stir and, a little cautiously, she turned her head to look at him.
All she saw at first was a bare brown shoulder and a tangle of black hair on the pillow. Carefully she raised herself on her elbow so she could see his face. That was when she first noticed the scars.
They were obviously old, but the thin white lines were still clearly visible on the smooth brown skin of his shoulder. Gwenhwyfar frowned. They looked like lash marks. Her eyes moved from his shoulder to his face, relaxed and defenseless-looking in sleep. He seemed to sense her regard, however, for his lashes lifted almost immediately.
She thought, at first, he did not recognize her. Then he pushed himself up, shaking the hair off his forehead, giving her a warm and friendly smile. “Well now, my lady,” he said, and there was warmth in his voice as well. “Did you sleep well last night?”
Her anxiety vanished. “Yes.” She was very conscious of his bare, lean torso, of her own nakedness under the blankets. He had discarded their clothes with flattering haste last night.
He read, easily, what was in her eyes and responded by putting out a hand to touch her hair. It was so fine it floated, a cloud of red and gold about her white shoulders. “This is the one morning of my life,” he said, “when I can be sure no one is going to come knocking at the door to wake me.” His hand moved from her hair to her arm. “Come here,” he said softly, and she went.
Spring changed into summer. The work on Arthur’s new capital was progressing. The Saxon shore was quiet and Arthur entered into tentative negotiations with Offa, Cynewulf, and Cerdic. Morgan was back at Avalon once more.
Summer turned into autumn. It was October when Cai went to Avalon to see her.
His father was the one to greet him, and Cai was appalled by how much Ector had aged in the months since Arthur’s marriage.
“Are you ill, Father?” he asked almost as soon as he had stepped back from Ector’s embrace.
“No, no,” Ector reassured him heartily. A little too heartily, Cai thought. He frowned as he scanned his father’s seamed face. Ector seemed smaller than he used to, and distinctly less massive.
“You should have let me know if you weren’t well,” Cai said severely. “I would have come sooner.”
“I am perfectly well. And you’ve been busy with the king’s work, I know.” His face glowed with simple pride.
Cai felt a pang of guilt. He had been busy, yes, but for most of the summer he had been only twelve miles away. He should have come to Avalon before this. He would have, had it not been for Morgan. He had wanted to wait, to give her time . . . Ector was putting an arm around his shoulder. “Come along now,” the old man said. “I want you to tell me all that you’ve been doing. What is this new city that Arthur is building?” They went to the family salon and were still there talking when Morgan came in an hour later.
She smiled with pleasure when she saw Cai, and came immediately to kiss his cheek. He raised his head and looked down into her face. Her eyes were searching his, and he knew she saw how disturbed he was about his father.
No one looked at you like Morgan, he thought. She saw right through into your soul. Which meant, of course, that she saw, had always seen, other things too. But he had always known he had no secrets from her. He smiled a little crookedly and said, “It’s good to see you, Morgan.”
They had no chance to speak alone until much later in the evening, when Ector had gone to bed. Then they pulled their chairs closer together and lowered their voices.
“Father looks terrible,” he said.
She sighed. “He’s lost weight, I know.” She looked at him sadly. “He misses Merlin, you see. He’s never been the same since my father died.”
“But is he sick?”
“He’s just getting old, Cai. And it seems to be happening very quickly.”
“I should have come to see him.”
“Well, you are here now. And he is so proud of you, of how Arthur depends on you.”
The name, dropped so unobtrusively into the conversation, seemed to reverberate between them. He said it again. “Arthur.”
There were lines of tension around her eyes. “How is he?” she asked.
“He is well.” He was not sure what she wanted to hear but he had come to give her the truth. “I think this marriage has been a good thing for him,” he said deliberately.
The brown eyes closed. There was a pause that seemed to Cai like a small eternity. Then: “Thank God,” she said. “I have been so worried.”
Cai realized he had stopped breathing. He drew in a long breath and let it out again. “I was worried too. When Gwenhwyfar first came, it was . . . dreadful. You know how he can be, Morgan.” She gave him a shadowy smile. “But somehow she managed to break through the ice and ever since, they have done very well. He’s much more relaxed than he was.” He looked at her gravely.
“I’m so glad.” Her eyes were bright with unshed tears but there was no mistaking her sincerity.
He stared at that small face with its great luminous eyes. “Morgan,” he said. The brown eyes blinked and then looked at him with sharpened attention. “Morgan,” he repeated, unaware of how vulnerable he suddenly sounded, “now that Arthur has married, have you ever thought of marriage for yourself?”
It was out, the thing he had waited to say to her since last May. He continued doggedly, determined to say it all now that he had begun. “I love you. I have always loved you. You know that. And I know that all I can expect from you is kindness . . . but that would be enough for me.”
His words filled her with such deep sadness. “Cai,” she said, and gazed up into his dear, familiar face, “if I were to marry anyone at all, it would be you.”
“Then why not?” he asked. “Marriage has been good for Arthur. Why shouldn’t it be good for you?” He leaned over, picked up her hands, and held them tightly.
She looked down. His hands were so large they engulfed her own. They we
re wonderful hands, she thought: strong, steady, competent hands. Hands one could trust. “I have little doubt that marriage to you would be good for me,” she said, still looking at their clasped hands, “but I don’t know how good it would be for you.”
Her words were a strange echo of Bedwyr’s comment about Gwenhwyfar and Arthur. “Why do you say that?” Cai asked.
Her lashes were long on her peach-brown cheeks. She was outdoors so much that her skin was lightly tanned even in October. “It is not an easy thing,” she said, “to love more than one is loved.”
His voice was harsh as he answered, “I know I can never take his place, Morgan. I wouldn’t expect to. I know you don’t love me—”
“Of course I love you,” she interrupted. “After Arthur, you are dearer to me than anyone. But Arthur comes first, Cai, and because of that I can never marry. Not you, not anyone.”
He was trying to understand. “Because you couldn’t bear to marry anyone who wasn’t Arthur?”
“Because he couldn’t bear it,” she answered, and looked up into his face.
A faint flush reddened his cheeks. “Arthur would never grudge you happiness, Morgan.”
“Of course he wouldn’t.”
“But then . . .”
“Cai.” Her brown eyes were kind. “If you think he was difficult to live with this winter, you would not want to see him if I married you.”
He frowned. “I don’t believe . . . Nonsense.”
“It is not nonsense. I know Arthur.”
He dropped her hands. “He married.”
“He had no choice. And I was the one who forced him to it, Cai. I would not marry him.”
