by Joan Wolf
The story had not sounded very plausible even when he thought it up. It sounded even less plausible now as he confronted the still, closed face of his grandson. No, Merlin thought heavily, they had not done well by Arthur at all.
For the first time the boy volunteered speech. “Will he let me go?” he asked.
“Do you mean Esus?”
“Yes.”
“I have not yet spoken to him. But he has no claim on you, boy. He will let you go.”
A breeze came rustling up the hill, making Merlin’s cloak swirl around him, lifting the tangled black hair off Arthur’s forehead. It should be a beautiful face, Merlin thought, but it was marred by that sullen, withdrawn expression. “Come,” he said decisively, “we will go and find Esus.”
It was not, in fact, quite as simple as Merlin had anticipated, the business of removing Arthur from his guardian. Esus, large, grim-faced, argumentative, was not inclined to give the boy up easily. It was a matter, Merlin finally gathered, of the yearly payments from Uther.
He got Arthur, finally, because of who he was. Even in Cornwall they knew of Merlin, the Romano-Celtic prince who had been one of Constantine’s captains, who was the father of the queen. He got Arthur, although Esus had not liked it. All through the long discussion the boy had sat to the side and said nothing. When bidden, he had made a packet of his belongings and followed Merlin. He had said nothing to Esus at the parting.
It was late afternoon when they left the village, but Merlin had no disposition to linger within its inhospitable environs. He would be more comfortable sleeping under the stars than in that circular hut with the smoke and the pigs and Esus’ hostility.
They made camp beside a small stream and Merlin shot a rabbit with his bow. The boy ate the meat hungrily and lay down obediently at Merlin’s command. He was asleep almost instantly.
Merlin looked at the tousled black hair of his sleeping grandson, illuminated by the dying light of the fire. The boy was no dirtier than most village-dwellers, but he was a long way from Merlin’s fastidious Roman standards of cleanliness. Tomorrow, he thought, he would bathe Arthur in the stream. He had brought fresh clothes for the boy in his own saddlebag. With a bath and clean clothes, the boy would look presentable enough to bring to Avalon.
Arthur made no objection when Merlin announced his intentions the following morning. The sun was bright and warm and Merlin even went so far as to strip himself and step into the cold, running water. Arthur followed suit a little gingerly. Clearly, bathing was not a familiar occupation for him. The sun slanted through the trees, casting dapples of light and shade on the water and on their naked bodies. Merlin watched Arthur’s tentative splashes, and reached out toward the boy to wet his hair. Arthur, moving like lightning, leapt back out of his reach. Merlin was so startled he almost lost his balance.
The boy’s fists were raised in front of him, his whole thin, child’s body tensed. “Don’t touch me,” he snarled.
Merlin stared, stunned by the expression on the boy’s face. After a moment, when he had recovered his breath, “I was just going to wash your hair,” he said quietly.
“I’ll do it,” Arthur said. Then, “I don’t like to be touched.”
“All right,” Merlin replied with as much composure as he could muster. “You do it, then.”
When they were finished bathing, and Arthur was dry, Merlin brought out the clothes from his saddlebag. “For you,” he said. He did not attempt to hand them to the boy, but laid them down and backed away so that Arthur could pick them up himself.
The mark on the boy’s cheek had not been dirt but a fading bruise. And as Arthur had washed in the stream, Merlin had clearly seen the thin white scars that crisscrossed the boy’s back and buttocks and thighs.
No wonder Arthur had made no complaint about leaving Esus.
Merlin’s thoughts were bleak as he broke camp and prepared to start north and east. Whether Arthur would make a king or no, he was thankful he had come to Cornwall to find this grandson. He only hoped, for both their sakes, that he had not come too late.
Chapter 2
MERLIN got him a pony. There were only two horses in the village and Arthur had never ridden them, but he did not tell that to Merlin. Instead he watched carefully as Merlin mounted, and then he did the same.
The pony was splendid. Arthur let his legs hang down and relaxed into the horse’s back. He could feel the stretch of muscles right through the saddle.
The man, Merlin, was talking. “We are going to my villa of Avalon. Avalon will be your new home. I think you will like it. It’s called Avalon because of its apple orchards. It’s famous for its apple orchards.”
The man spoke softly, gently, clearly. As if he were speaking to an idiot, Arthur thought. He shot Merlin a look from under lowered lashes. He didn’t know what the man’s motives were, but he didn’t trust him. It wasn’t likely that he had ridden all the way into Cornwall just to collect the son of an “old friend.”
“It used to be one of the most famous villas in the country,” the man was going on. “My family were princes of the Durotriges tribe and they built the villa as their palace.” The old man gave him a deprecating look. “It’s not a palace any longer, Arthur. It is a working farm. But in these troubled days, it is luxury to have all you need at your fingertips, I suppose.”
Princes of the Durotriges. Arthur was even more suspicious. What could this man want with him? A sudden thought crossed his mind. He had heard of what some men did with boys. His nostrils flared a little as he looked at the man riding so calmly beside him.
Iron-gray hair, still very thick. Finely drawn features. Blue eyes. His red woolen cloak was clasped at his shoulder by a brooch of obvious value. Arthur relaxed a little. Such a man would not need to seek out an obscure Cornish boy to satisfy his deviant tastes.
Merlin was still talking about this Avalon. “There are several other people living in the house besides myself. First there is Ector, my steward and my friend. He was a soldier under Ambrosius before he was wounded. He has a son who also lives at Avalon. Caius, or Cai as he is always called. You and he can have lessons together. He is about your age.”
Arthur was not sure of his own age. He said, looking straight ahead, “How old is this Cai?”
“Ten. A year older than you.”
Nine. The old man sounded very positive about that. “He’s big for his age,” Merlin was going on, “but very nice. You won’t have to worry about Cai.”
Arthur was not worried about any boy. He had learned long ago to take care of himself with other boys. He said, a little gruffly, “I don’t know how to read. Or write.”
“Of course you don’t. How should you?” Merlin responded easily. “That will come first, naturally. I think I shall start by giving you lessons with Morgan. Morgan is my daughter. She’s eight and it’s time she learned to read and write too.”
Lessons with a girl. Well, he would take lessons with a dog if he had to. He would do anything to learn to read.
And no matter what happened, or what the old man’s motives were, at least Merlin had taken him away from him.
It was late in the afternoon of a golden spring day that Arthur first saw Avalon, of the apple trees. The orchards were in bloom and they rode in through a magnificent canopy of blossoms, pink and white against the green grass and the cobalt sky. For a brief moment Arthur found himself wondering if the old man might be one of the fairy folk taking him to an enchanted world beyond the earth.
Merlin was watching his face. “Arthur,” he asked gently. “Do you never smile?”
Arthur stiffened and just then the house came into view.
It had been built as a palace, Merlin had told him, and it looked like a palace to Arthur. The single-story house was built of gray stone and stretched out on three sides of a great cobbled courtyard. “The main part of the house is the wing in front of us,” Merlin was saying as they rode into the courtyard. “That wing,” and he gestured to their right, “is mainly bedroom
s, and this opposite wing contains the baths.” He halted his horse and shouted. In a minute a man came running.
“Welcome home, my lord”.
“Thank you, Marcus. Take the horses to the stable, please.”
The stocky brown-haired man nodded and picked up both sets of reins. He glanced once at Arthur before he led the animals away.
“Come,” said Merlin, and strode toward the great front door. Arthur followed.
The large double door opened into an imposing vestibule. Beyond the vestibule was a great mosaic-tiled room, with a marble dais at one end. The throne room of the princes of the Durotriges, Arthur thought with a mixture of derision and awe. He followed Merlin across the room and into another room that opened off it. This room was much smaller and distinctly more cozy. It was furnished with wicker chairs and leather stools, and an old couch leaned against the far wall. This floor too was of varicolored mosaic tile.
“Sit down,” Merlin said, and gestured to one of the wicker chairs. “I’ll find Ector and be right back.”
Arthur sat warily on the edge of the indicated chair.
A long time seemed to pass. Then a voice spoke to him in Latin from the doorway and he looked up to find a small girl regarding him solemnly.
“I don’t speak Latin,” he said shortly.
The child came into the room. “I’m Morgan,” she said in British. “Who are you?”
“Arthur,” he replied, and looked at Merlin’s daughter.
Her gown had grass stains on the skirt and her hair was hanging untidily down her back. It was light brown and it badly needed a comb. He looked at her face and met the biggest, most luminous brown eyes he had ever seen. The child crossed the room and pulled up a stool next to his chair. “Was that your pony Marcus brought to the stable?” she inquired, seating herself.
“Yes.”
“He’s nice. We can give him an apple later, if you like.”
He didn’t know that ponies liked apples. “You must have a lot of extra apples,” he commented, and she laughed.
There was a heavy step outside the door, and then Merlin was back, bringing with him a tall broad-shouldered man with graying brown hair and a noticeable limp. “Oh, here you are, Morgan,” her father said. “Have you met Arthur?”
“Yes.” Morgan kissed her father on the cheek and Merlin said, “Ector, this is Flavius’ son. His name is Arthur.”
The man bestowed a smile upon him and said kindly, “Welcome to Avalon, Arthur.”
Arthur watched the two men with a steady, unblinking stare, and nodded.
“It’s almost time for dinner,” Merlin said briskly. “I want a bath first, though. The roads are still full of mud. I’ll show you to your bedroom, Arthur, and you can change your clothes.”
The boy’s face never altered, but he took a step forward. Then he felt a small hand slip into his own. “I’ll show him, Father,” Morgan offered. “He can have the bedroom next to mine.”
There was a pause; then Merlin answered, “Very well. Show Arthur the bedroom, and then you can direct him to the baths if he wants, Morgan.”
“I will.” Arthur felt a strong tug on his arm. “Come along, Arthur,” Morgan said. Then, when they were in the next room, “I want to show you my dog.”
Morgan’s dog was a mongrel, with one ear half chewed off. “Isn’t he wonderful?” she asked as the dog came to thrust its muzzle lovingly into her hand. Her brown eyes were looking at Arthur with perfect naturalness and trust. She might have known him all her life.
Arthur had expected the daughter of a house like this to have a purebred. He caressed the dog’s head gently and asked, “What’s his name?”
“Horatius.”
“Hello there, Horatius,” the boy said, and squatted easily on his heels. The dog nuzzled him.
“I found him wandering in the woods one day,” Morgan explained. “He was hungry and he’d obviously been in a couple of fights. Do you have a dog?”
He shook his head. He would not have brought a dog home to live with Esus.
“Horatius likes you. You can share him if you like.”
He raised his head sharply and looked at her. “Why should you share your dog with me?”
The big brown eyes looked serenely back. No eyes had ever looked at him like that before, as if they were looking just at him, and liking what they saw. “Because he likes you,” she answered simply. “He’s afraid of most people. I think he must have been cruelly mistreated once. But he likes you.”
Her words made him feel strange. “Your bedroom is next door,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
His own room. There was actually a bed, a wooden platform with a mattress and blankets and pillows. The floor was red tile. There was a brazier for warmth.
“It’s very nice,” he managed.
She looked at him solemnly. “Are you going to live here now, Arthur?”
He answered cautiously, trying it out. “Yes. I am.”
She smiled. He had never seen such a smile. “Oh, good,” she said. “Then you can be my friend.”
It was impossible not to respond to that radiant look. “Yes,” he said. And felt something hard and tight and hurtful in his chest begin to relax.
He met Cai at dinner, a tall, big-boned boy with very steady hazel eyes. In deference to Arthur they all spoke British. They were dressed in British garb as well, and sat at the table on benches in the British fashion, but Arthur sensed that this was not really a Celtic household.
Their usual speech was obviously Latin. And the villa itself was nothing a Celt would have built. There was a whole wing devoted just to baths! The princes of the Durotriges had evidently embraced Rome with a whole heart.
Morgan sat on the bench beside him, dressed now in a clean blue gown and white wool tunic. Her hair was neatly combed and hung down her back to her waist. Her small hand with its fragile wrist dipped into the meat platter. Arthur followed suit.
Merlin was talking. “Tomorrow Cai can take you around the estate, Arthur. Show you the farms, the stables and orchards, all that sort of thing.”
Cai nodded. “Be happy to,” he said pleasantly to Arthur. Merlin looked at his grandson as well. The boy’s face was perfectly expressionless.
“May I come too?” asked Morgan.
Cai sighed. “Morgan, whenever you come somewhere with me you are sure to find a bird with a broken wing or a cat with a cut paw, and then we have to come home so you can take care of it.”
“Well, you wouldn’t want to leave a wounded animal, Cai,” Morgan said reasonably.
“No. But why is it you who always find them?”
“I don’t know.” Morgan was clearly puzzled by this herself. “I just do.” She asked again, “Please, Cai, may I come?”
Cai was saying, “Oh, I suppose so,” when Merlin chanced to look once again at Arthur.
The boy was watching Morgan, and on his mouth there was a very faint smile.
Chapter 3
MERLIN looked at the three children who were seated around the large library table of polished wood. The spring sun slanted in through the window and pooled on the darker inlay in front of Arthur. Dust motes danced in the air, watched by Morgan with concentrated interest. The two boys watched Merlin. As Merlin’s eyes touched Arthur’s face, he realized, with a small shock of surprise, that it was almost two years ago to the day that he had brought the boy to Avalon.
In two years that sullen young savage had made great strides. He had learned to speak and read and write in fluent Latin and today was embarking on the course of study for which he had been brought to Avalon. Merlin was going to teach his grandson to be a leader of men.
Cai was to be included in the lessons as well. Merlin was fond of Ector’s son; also, it would look distinctly odd if he singled Arthur out for special attention. The rumor already was that Arthur was Merlin’s son. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing for the boy to think; nor was it far from the actual truth.
Merlin’s eyes went from Arthur’
s face to Morgan. His daughter, of course, had no business at all being in this class. She should be with the women, learning how to weave and sew. But she wanted to do everything that Arthur did, and Merlin had given in to her without much protest. There was no doubt that Arthur was easier to handle when Morgan was present. Alone, he was reserved, impenetrable almost. With Morgan he was a different boy: relaxed and approachable. And so here she sat, his ten-year-old daughter, about to learn how to be a leader of men.
The boys were still watching him. “Today,” he said pleasantly, “we are about to begin a series of lessons that will teach you both,” he could not seriously include Morgan in this discussion, “how best to be of service to your country.” He paused. “The high king has been fighting the Saxons for over eleven years now, and still they come, pushing always from the east, trying to overwhelm us, to take Britain for themselves. In a few years you boys will be of an age to fight. Well and good. But the high king does not need just fighters. He needs leaders. Men who know how to command other men.
“This is what I wish to teach you, the art of competent leadership.” He looked into Cai’s serious hazel eyes and then into the cool gray gaze of his grandson. “I learned leadership myself from a master,” he continued. “I learned from Constantine, the Comes Britanniarum, the Count of Britain, one of the greatest of Roman soldiers.”
The children had heard often enough of Merlin’s old commander, the Count of Britain.
“May we ask questions, sir?” It was Arthur’s voice, still a boy’s voice but with a cool and detached note that made it sound as if it belonged to someone much older.
“Yes.”
“I have wondered how, if Constantine were such a great soldier, the empire spared him to Britain.”
Merlin leaned back in his chair and stretched his shoulders. “A fair enough question,” he agreed. “Britain was hardly one of the empire’s first priorities, after all. Why, then, you wonder, should Rome send us one of her finest soldiers?”
