How to keep the line alive, when Arthur had no heir?
“Yet Arthur has had seed.”
Merlin raised his eyes. On the top of the bank, perched under a hawthorn tree, sat an aged woman, regarding him steadily with a kindly eye. Though she was clad from head to foot in black, her soft garments seemed to weave themselves into the shadows of the hillside, and he had not noticed her before. Her twinkling gaze was both merry and wise, and she waited with the composure of a woodland creature for him to speak.
Merlin smiled. He knew better than to say, “Greetings, old mother, where do you live?” for she would only reply, “Oh, here and everywhere, good son.” Yet the wrinkled face beneath the tall black hat was anything but vague, and her words were sharply echoing his own thoughts. He grinned at her. Truly the Great Ones sent their help at need.
“Arthur has had sons,” he agreed. His thin frame tensed as he prepared himself for his rage. “Two fine ones—and the great fool lost them both!”
The old woman tutted softly. “Any king would want to take his firstborn son to war. Arthur was not to know.”
“Amir was only a child. He was too young!”
“Yes, Guenevere was right, and Arthur was wrong. But neither of them could have known that their son would pay for the sin that had brought Arthur into the world.”
“Sin?” Merlin’s eyes flashed fire.
“Sin,” repeated the old woman equably. “When Uther took Igraine, he broke the Mother-right. And to dispose of her daughters in the way he did—” She sighed heavily, and shook her head. “That was a wickedness the Goddess could not forgive.”
Merlin ground his teeth. “We had to ensure that Arthur was Igraine’s only concern.”
“So her daughters had to lose their mother and father, their sister-bond, and the life they knew? Was that not an offense against them both? From her marriage, Morgause at least was granted four sons to love. But Morgan had to live in a convent, beaten and starved for the sins of Eve. No wonder that she learned how to hate. Arthur has paid dearly for his father’s deeds.”
Merlin could not deny it. He nodded helplessly and spread his hands. The old woman’s indictment rolled on with the force of an incoming tide. “All Morgan’s sufferings sprang from Uther’s desire for an heir. What better revenge than to rob Arthur of his son?”
“And to torture his wife,” Merlin said somberly. “Amir was Guenevere’s son too.”
“Morgan was too much for both of them. She told the Saxons where Amir lay concealed. Her malice guided the spear that pierced his heart.”
“Yet another boy could have taken Amir’s place!” Merlin cried. “Morgan destroyed Amir in order to give Arthur her own son instead. But then the great fool wanted all the newborn boys put down. He hated Morgan so much that he was ready to cast away his own flesh and blood!” He clutched at his head. “Lost one son, lost another, he’ll surely be the end of the Pendragon line!”
The old woman’s eyes raked him from head to foot. “But you don’t believe,” she said softly, “that Morgan’s son was lost.”
“No!” The old man’s face split with a sudden fierce joy. “He lives, I can feel it, I know the boy lives!” He cackled with glee, and rubbed his leathery hands. Every inch of his skin was crackling with delight. “Morgan would not let her son be killed.”
He cocked an eye wildly at the old dame. “She called him Mordred, did you know that? She named him for a purpose, and her purpose is revenge. She means her son to bring more dread to the House of Pendragon than we shall ever know.”
A prophetic shudder passed through his withered frame. “So I must find him, and bring him to Arthur again. That’s the only way to turn aside Morgan’s schemes. I know that she has saved the boy somehow. And now she has spirited him away, the Gods know where. But I will find him, if it takes ten years.”
“Where will you look?”
Merlin laughed harshly. “Everywhere. Morgan could hide her son under a leaf.”
There was a gentle laugh. “She may have hidden him under your very nose.”
The old man swayed in the saddle and passed a weary hand over his eyes. “She can do anything.” He groaned. “Anything!”
“The power of darkness is at her command,” the old woman agreed. Her ageless eyes rested on the old man. “As you well know.”
Merlin’s parchment skin took on a brownish hue. He clenched his teeth. “I remember.”
His flesh crawled. How could he forget that Morgan had played on him till she awoke his lust, had sucked the soul out of his body, sported with him, and driven him mad with shame? And then while he was slowly mending his wounded wits, confined to the calm of Avalon’s crystal cave, the black-eyed witch had had free rein with Arthur, and seduced him too. Yes, Morgan Le Fay was a thing of darkness indeed.
Merlin’s voice rose in a high, fractured wail. “I was not there when Arthur needed me!” He shook himself like a dog, in a vain attempt to cast Morgan out of his thoughts. “I opened the gate to let the evil in to him. But I shall make amends when I bring him his son.”
The old woman shook her head. “Think, Lord Merlin, think! If you do that, Mordred is Arthur’s heir. Do you want a child of incest to lead the House of Pendragon in times to come?”
“Arthur and Morgan were only connected on the mother’s side,” Merlin said stubbornly. “There’s no reason why he can’t be High King.”
The old woman’s voice took on a stronger note. “I beg you, think again. Remember, the blood of Queen Igraine flows in Morgan’s veins. Igraine hated Uther with all her heart. And all that hatred Morgan will pour into her son.”
Merlin nodded unhappily. Once again the old woman had sensed his deepest thoughts. “Yet he is still a Pendragon,” he insisted, “and the only one left to rule when Arthur dies.”
The old woman fixed her clear green eyes on him. “That is not written in the stars, Lord Merlin.”
Merlin sat up as if he had been stung. “Will Guenevere have a child?”
The old woman shook her head. “Grief has closed up her womb since Amir died.”
“How, then?”
She raised a wrinkled finger to her lips. “Do not ask.”
“I must!” Merlin cried. “Pendragon must rise in this land again! Or else—” He tossed his head in pain, and his long gray locks moved round his neck like snakes.
The sadness of the ages breathed in the old woman’s words. “Or else it is all for nothing?”
Merlin clutched at his head. “All my life—all my lives—I have worked for this end! To ensure that Pendragon will be High King by right, instead of having to make war in every reign. To restore our house—”
“Our house?”
The cool question stabbed Merlin like a knife. “Our house!” he shouted. “My mother was a princess of Pendragon, a virgin priestess, touched by a Holy One! I was the last of the line, until the time came when I could bring Arthur forward to claim his own.” His voice broke. “I must make sure that it continues now.”
“But not with Mordred, not through that line.” The old woman’s voice darkened and grew heavy as she spoke. She stood up, growing taller before Merlin’s gaze. The black spire of her headdress seemed to weave its way up through the branches of the tree until it touched the sky. “Hear me, Lord Merlin. Do not seek to find the boy.”
Merlin’s face was transformed. “So he is alive!” he hissed, clasping his wizened hands in ecstasy. “I have had glimpses, caught words flaming in the sky, but my sight failed me, I could not see so far.” He dropped his reins. A trickle of tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks. “Praised be the Great Ones,” he wept. “Thanks to the blessed Gods! He lives! Pendragon lives!”
The figure before him was still growing and fading away. But her words reached into the deep places of his mind, like the echoing voice of thunder on the hills. “Lord Merlin, it is not for you to know. Dead or alive, let the boy sleep in peace. Pendragon he is, but Morgan’s creature too. She gave him half her name, and more tha
n half of her own dark nature, the evil that you know. Do you still think to track down this changeling child? Think, Merlin—think of Arthur! Think of Guenevere, even though you have no love for her!”
The wind sighed, and she was gone. Merlin sat gazing at the shimmering air, his mind, his whole being washed clean of conscious thought. Praise the Gods, throbbed numbly through his frame, the blessed, blessed Gods—
Slowly, slowly he came to himself again. High overhead a golden eagle wheeled and danced in the sky. Behind it, and tracking its every move, flew the dogged shadow of a lesser hawk. Merlin cackled. More than one word was coming to him today.
He breathed out heavily and took up the reins, urging the white mule on. His thoughts began again with its first steps. Pendragon must succeed. Arthur now, and after him—who?
CHAPTER 6
The Great Hall of Camelot struck cool in the midday heat. The sun poured through the windows, and fell in treams of molten gold to the gray-flagged floor. The rilliant light gilded the high white walls and lost itself n the soaring vault of the roof above.
In the center of the hall, brought back from the chapel after the vigil, the Round Table stood in all its glory, surrounded by the sieges of its one hundred knights. Twenty of the names picked out in gold on the wooden canopies overhead were fresher than the rest. Each of the knights who had kept the vigil in the chapel was now to receive his sword from the King, and take the seat at the table that he had striven so hard to win.
Many of the knights had already taken their seats. From his lifelong place, old Sir Niamh surveyed the new giltwork and was swept with a sense of loss. There, where the scrolled letters read “Sir Mador of the Meads,” was the siege where Rotho used to sit, his dear old friend-in-arms, and over there, the seat of the hot-tempered Tirzel, never liked, but oddly missed once he was gone. Rotho had died in the infamous Saxon attack, when the young prince Amir had been killed. Tirzel had perished ignominiously when an evil lord had thrown him down a well. Now strangers would take their seats, and young ones too. Unfledged boys, Niamh mourned, filling the place of men.
Yet one seat at the table was not filled. Niamh did not need to lift the red velvet cover over the canopy to read the gold letters that every knight knew by heart.
Niamh sighed. He could remember when Merlin had made this prophecy, from the depths of his crystal cave. A boy would come, the old enchanter had said, who would be the son of the finest knight in all the world. He was destined for the highest adventure of all. They must call his seat the Siege Perilous, for he would face many dangers, and defeat each one. He would become the best knight in his turn. And when he came, the table would be complete.
Of course they all thought it would be young Amir; who else? The Queen’s son, and so like his father that every movement, even the way he held his sun-blessed head, was Arthur to the life—no one in the world could have a stronger claim. And who could make a better knight at the table of the Great Mother herself than the Queen’s own son? It had all been perfect, a cause of heartfelt joy.
Too perfect, Niamh reflected grimly. Fate had seen to that. He fingered the thick gold torque around his neck, the only badge of knighthood before the Christians had brought in this foolery of suffering, vigils, and fasts. Was he the only one who remembered the glory days, the days of gold before Arthur came?
No, over there was Sir Lucan, a valiant knight of Queen Guenevere then, and onetime champion of the Queen’s mother before. And Sir Lovell, Lovell the Bold the women used to call him, still as handsome as ever, damn him, not a scar to be seen. Niamh chuckled. The new knights would do well if they managed half of Lovell’s triumphs with twice his wounds.
His eye roved on. Lovell was a hero, one of the old school, not to mention Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere sitting next to Dinant, Tor, and Sagramore, doughty warriors all. Sir Niamh sighed. Yet the Round Table needed new blood, there was no doubt of that. So it was right that the King and Queen were to make up a band of new knights today, with a fine feast to boot.
The King—
Sir Niamh frowned down the length of the Great Hall. Outlined against the whiteness of the far wall, Arthur sat enthroned with Guenevere in a blaze of gold and red. Above the dais was a canopy of scarlet silk, and on the wall above, their royal banners picked out in silver and gold, the crossed flags drooping limply from their poles. In the quiet space the Queen flamed in a crimson gown, with a cloak of white silk and a ruby-studded crown. To honor his new knights, Arthur wore the plain white tunic of knighthood over simple dark breeches and fine leather boots. Only his rich silk cloak of royal red and the heavy gold crown of Pendragon proclaimed him a king. The sun poured down like a blessing on his fair head as he gripped the arms of his throne, the lines of resolution visible on his face.
Sir Niamh felt a stirring around his heart. What a man Arthur was, what a king! That ever he should have had to suffer so, both him and the Queen! Niamh closed his eyes, and a heartfelt prayer rose unbidden to his mind: Goddess, Mother, spare them more misery, help the King.
AT THE HEAD of the hall Guenevere sat immobile on her throne and did her best to stifle unwelcome thoughts.
If Amir had lived, we would be knighting him now.
No, not yet, he would not be old enough.
But still—
She gripped the carved armrests of her throne in an unconscious echo of Arthur’s regal pose, and straightened up. She must not allow herself to envy Queen Morgause of the Orkneys, seated below her in the body of the hall. Tall and well formed, inclining to an ample fullness, Morgause shone like a midnight star in a gown of indigo velvet, with glittering sleeves. A white veil floated down from her headdress to wind around her stately neck and shoulders, and the crown of the Orkneys glittered on her head.
Behind Queen Morgause’s throne stood her knight, Sir Lamorak. She half turned, he leaned down toward her, and she whispered in his ear. He nodded, and a languorous smile passed over her face. In the same instant it came to Guenevere: These two are lovers; she has had him in her bed.
Morgause glanced up at Lamorak again, then her eyes sought her eldest son, Gawain. Seated at the Round Table, finely dressed in green and gold, relaxed in careless manhood, Gawain’s big body was almost beautiful, and Morgause’s gaze caressed him with a fierce maternal pride. Watching her, Guenevere was seized by such a pang of envy that she almost cried aloud.
She held her breath, and tried not to feel or think. Morgause had suffered much in her marriage, Guenevere knew. King Lot was crueler than the Saxon pirates, who crucified monks on their own church roofs and played football with unborn babies ripped from their mothers’ wombs. Yes, Morgause had suffered. But she had never lost a son. Least of all to the Saxons, men so cruel they would dig up a child from his grave to make his father grieve. So Amir had been buried on the seashore, where his small grave would never leave a sign. Where not a soul, not even his mother, could find it again.
A horde of wounding thoughts came down on Guenevere like a swarm of angry bees. And now I sit here childless, when I might have been like Morgause, reveling in a mother’s Joy. Even at seven Amir was so bright, so forward, so tall and bold that he would have been made a knight ahead of his time, perhaps even now, with the young knights here today.
And every one of them will remind me of him. Arthur will feel it too. Every sword stroke on every new knight’s shoulder will be a knife in both our hearts. There will never be a knighthood for our boy. The Siege Perilous will remain unfulfilled.
The first would be worst, they both knew that. The first young man who mounted the dais in his pure white tunic, scarlet cloak, and shining mail would be the sharpest reminder that if Amir had lived, he would have been this and more. Shivering beneath her cloak even in the warmth of the sun, Guenevere pressed her cold hands together and echoed Sir Niamh’s prayer. Goddess, Mother, be with Arthur and strengthen him now, help my dearest man—
A great fly buzzed against the window above her head. Guenevere shifted restlessly in her seat. Where
were the novice knights? They had all been released from last night’s ordeal long ago, revived with strong cordials, given bread and hot meat. How long did the attendants need to give each one the ritual bath, and robe him in the white tunic of purity, and the red cape for the blood that he must shed?
“Your Majesties? The novice knights are here.”
Guenevere started. For all her impatience, the approach of the Chamberlain had taken her unawares. She caught Arthur’s eye, and he nodded impersonally. She bowed to the Chamberlain at her side. “Yes, we are ready,” she said. “Let the ceremony begin.”
The Chamberlain bowed, then turned and raised his staff. At the far end of the hall, the great double doors swung back. Waiting outside was the Novice Master, finely arrayed in checkered black and white. Beside him stood the first of the novices, his pale face burning like a candle flame.
Behind the Novice Master came the rest of the novices, walking in pairs. At the rear three mighty figures towered above the rest. Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth were set apart from their fellows, as princes of the Orkneys, and close kin to the King.
The small procession drew up before the dais. Arthur reached for the sword at his side, and rose to his feet. Guenevere stood too, and put her soul into her eyes. Courage, Arthur, she willed him. I am with you, take heart, my dear.
Arthur felt her glance and turned. And I with you, his grieving look replied.
“Approach the throne, Mador of the Meads!” called the Chamberlain. White and quivering, the frail youth mounted the steps and knelt at Arthur’s feet.
The silver sound of trumpets pealed overhead. As pale as Mador and beginning to tremble too, Arthur drew Excalibur from its sheath. The great sword murmured sweetly in his hand. Arthur inclined his head. “Do your office, Chamberlain,” he commanded in a steady voice. “Require the oath.”
“Mador, do you swear to serve your liege lady Guenevere with your life?” cried the Chamberlain. “To honor your lord King Arthur with your last breath? To keep the Fellowship of the Round Table till your dying hour? To defend the weak, and give battle to the strong, and protect all women all your livelong days?”
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