The Road to Avalon

by Joan Wolf

  “You’re only fifteen,” she said.

  He looked up into her brown eyes. “I’ll go next year,” he said. “I must. Cai went at sixteen.”

  “I know.”

  He drew her hand down to his mouth for a minute, and then he sat up. “I’m too young!” he said fiercely. His eyebrows were tense with frustration. “Too young to go to war, too young to marry you. But I don’t feel young, Morgan. I feel . . .” He ran a hand through his tangled hair. His peaceful mood had quite vanished. His nostrils were pinched-looking, his eyes narrowed.

  Morgan bent her head. “I know,” she said again.

  He looked over at her. Her round head, with its long, evenly cut silken hair, was bowed. He could see the nape of her neck where her hair parted. It was milk-white, unlike the tanned skin of her cheeks and forehead. He could almost feel the softness of her nape under his hand.

  Morgan belonged to him and he belonged to Morgan. If only they were not so young!

  As always, her thoughts marched with his. “Promise me,” she said, “promise me that you will marry me before you go away.”

  They looked at each other, and as they gazed, the mask of youth fell away from them. No one who knew them would have recognized the grave and adult expression that came across both young faces.

  “Will he let us?” Arthur asked. “You are his daughter, and God alone knows who I am.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. We’ll do it anyway.”

  He moved to sit beside her, putting an arm around her shoulder and holding her to him. He was always amazed at the strength and the resilience of her slight young body. “Yes,” he said. “We’ll do it anyway.”

  “Here the young people come now,” Ector said heartily as Arthur and Morgan came into the dining room. He smiled at the two of them as they took their seats.

  Ector was by far the least complicated member of the Avalon household. He was almost as fond of Arthur and Morgan as he was of his own boy, and he still thought of them all as children. Arthur and Morgan in particular he saw as children; they still roamed the woods on their ponies, spent afternoons nested high in their tree house, and roughhoused with Morgan’s collection of animals.

  The old steward looked now at Morgan, who was seated at his right hand. She was dexterously using her knife, and when he spoke to her she lifted her head to reply, her teeth flashing white in her small suntanned face. He watched her as she stuffed food into herself like the hungry child she was, and thought, not for the first time, that someday she was going to be a lovely woman. She was lovely already, with her long brown hair tucked behind her small ears and spreading in a smooth fan to her waist. Her remarkable brown eyes were fixed now on her plate, but he knew all too well how they dominated the small, pure oval of her face.

  Little Morgan, he thought affectionately. So solemn, so gentle, mothering her collection of wounded, orphaned animals, binding up all the boys’ cuts and scrapes from the practice field. Beside him her hand reached out for more meat. The fragile wrist was scored where a thorn bush had caught it, one finger wore a scab, and two others were stained yellow from the dye she had been making that morning.

  She was fourteen. In a year or two, when it was time for her to marry, perhaps Merlin would think of Cai. Cai would like it, his father knew. Apart from its being a very good match, Cai had always been very fond of Morgan.

  From across the table came Merlin’s voice, asking him a question. Ector pulled his thoughts back to the present and made a reply.

  Two days later Merlin left for Venta. He had seen Uther at least once a year since Arthur had come to Avalon, but now he was going to meet the high king for one specific reason. Arthur’s education was finished; the time had come for Uther to acknowledge his heir.

  How he has aged. It was Merlin’s first thought when he was shown into Uther’s presence. The sun was shining and the day was warm, but the high king had a brazier going and he sat next to it, huddled like an old man against the chill.

  “Are you well, Uther?” Merlin asked sharply.

  Uther’s dark skin had a decidedly sallow cast. There was gray at his temples. “I’ve had a cough,” he said. “It’s getting better. Sit down, Merlin.” He gestured impatiently to a chair. Then, when the older man was seated, “Well?”

  Merlin permitted himself a smile. “He is ready.”

  “Ah.” Uther’s aquiline nose looked more prominent than once it had. He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about him,” he said.

  Merlin had spoken of Arthur before, of course: of his progress, his intelligence. Now he said what he really thought. “This is a boy like a drawn sword, Uther. I have thought for several years now that the reason you and Igraine had no more children was that God had ordained Arthur to be our king. I think he was born for Britain, Uther. Born to lead us out from under the darkness of the barbarian nightmare. I think he will be a king such as we have never yet seen in this land.”

  Uther was staring at him; Merlin did not often indulge in hyperbole. “Are you serious?” the king said at last.

  “Yes.”

  In the heat of the room Uther was wearing a cloak, and now he pulled it more closely around him. “He is fifteen,” he said grimly. “Too young yet.” His face became even sharper. “I hope to God I can give him a few more years, Merlin.”

  “Are you that ill?”

  “I feel wretched,” the king replied frankly. “The doctors tell me I will recover, however, so there is hope.”

  “Shall I bring the boy to Venta?”

  “No. Not yet.” Uther’s hands clenched on the arm of his chair. “He is safe at Avalon; let’s keep him there for now. I have another campaign in the north this fall, and I don’t trust my allies. There are too many small kings who would like to become the next high king and would not be pleased to discover the existence of a son of mine. I might not be able to keep him safe in Venta.”

  Merlin frowned and nodded, remembering Constantine.

  “I would like to see him myself, though,” said Uther, and for the first time emotion showed on his face. “I will come to Avalon.”

  Merlin looked away from the longing in the king’s eyes and slowly shook his head. “Not unless you are prepared to acknowledge him.”

  Uther’s pale eyes blazed. “If I wish to see him, I will. This is not your decision.”

  Merlin turned his head and met that burning gaze. “Uther, the boy looks too much like you. At present he thinks I am his father, but once he looks at you . . . ”

  The expression on Uther’s face was painful to watch. “He looks like me?”

  “Yes. Your hair. Your eyes. His eyebrows even grow like yours. He has your complexion. The resemblance is too marked to go unnoticed. We have kept this secret for too long to have it come out prematurely now.”

  Uther was looking intently at his hands. “And no one has ever guessed whose son he might really be?”

  “There is no one at Avalon who knows you. Except Ector, of course. I think Ector has had his suspicions, but he will never say anything. And the boy himself has no idea. As I said, the belief at Avalon is that he is my son. Let us leave it that way for now.”

  “Yes.” The word was spoken with obvious reluctance. “Yes, you are right, Father-in-law. The most pressing need is that he be kept safe until I need him.”

  Merlin remained talking with the high king for a few more minutes and then he left Uther to seek out the apartment of his daughter, Igraine, the queen.

  Igraine’s rooms in the praetorium were richly appointed, furnished with lamps and rugs that had at one time come from Rome. She was sewing with her women when Merlin was announced, and she held out her hand to her father and offered him her cheek to kiss.

  He performed the desired office and took the seat she indicated. She folded her work in her lap and asked pleasantly, “What brings you to Venta, Father?”

  Merlin looked appraisingly at his daughter before he answered. She was several years younger than her husband, and when she h
ad married Uther, Igraine had been the most beautiful woman in Britain. There was still no gray in her black hair, but there were distinct lines beside her dark blue eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Her skin may have lost its youthful resilience, Merlin thought, but no matter how old she got, the beauty of her bone structure would never fail her. She had given those bones to her son.

  Merlin ignored her polite question and said bluntly, “Uther look sill.”

  A shadow crossed Igraine’s face. His daughter had never been an emotional woman. She had married Gorlois, a man three times her age, with cold calculation; she had wanted to be Duchess of Cornwall. She had scarcely looked at her son, and had never once asked after him in all the years since he had been sent away. All the passion in her nature was concentrated on Uther. For him she had betrayed her husband and publicly shamed herself and her family. For him, and his kingship, she had ruthlessly broken with her father and her father’s second wife. When it came to Uther, Merlin thought his daughter was probably capable of murder.

  And Uther felt the same for her. She could not bear him a living child; he had every reason to put her away and marry again. But he had not.

  “He has been ill,” she replied now shortly. “But he is getting better.” Her beautiful winged brows drew together. “His life would be so much easier if he was not always worrying about his allies as much as he worries about the Saxons.”

  “There has always been unrest and ambition among the Celts,” Merlin said. “Is there some particular problem?”

  “Yes.” Igraine’s voice was hard and very cold. “My sister Morgause’s husband, Lot. Rumors have reached us that he fancies himself as the next high king.”

  “Lot!” Merlin was clearly astonished. “Lot has no claim to the high kingship. At least Vortigern could claim marriage to one of Maximus’ daughters. Lot is just the king of a particularly poor northern kingdom.”

  “What Lot is, is ambitious,” Igraine said bitterly. After a moment she added, her voice low, “He also has three healthy sons.”

  Merlin did not answer. He had never been able to talk to Igraine about her childlessness. There was, unfortunately, nothing one could say.

  There was a little pause. Igraine fingered the jewel she wore at her throat. “I imagine Morgause would like to be queen.” The lines on her face were harsh now. She looked suddenly as old as Uther.

  “Morgause has no ambition,” Merlin returned. He lifted a humorous eyebrow. “Morgause doesn’t think that far ahead, Igraine. You know that.”

  There was no returning humor in Igraine’s face. Humor had never been one of her outstanding characteristics. Morgause had humor, Merlin thought. Humor and warmth. Igraine had neither. What Igraine had, however, was a marvelously astute brain. She knew her sister too well to suspect her of plotting. Morgause was one to float along and do whatever it was that was easiest to do. If Lot engineered a revolt, she most probably would follow where he led. But the guiding brain would never be Morgause’s.

  “You and Uther are perfectly capable of dealing with Lot,” Merlin said. “The northerners may go along with him, but Cador and Maelgwyn and the kings of the south will never agree to accept Lot as high king.”

  Igraine was looking at the sewing in her lap. “I know. But it is one more worry for Uther, and at a time when he is not feeling himself. . . ” She stroked the material on her lap. He could almost see her gathering her forces. When she looked up, her face was calm. “And how is my youngest sister?” she asked. “We must begin to think of a marriage for her.”

  Merlin thought about his daughters as he rode home from Venta the following day. Igraine and Morgause were the children of his first marriage. They had been born eight years apart and had never been friends. They were too much opposites.

  It had been Igraine who arranged Morgause’s marriage to Lot. The King of Lothian would never have crossed Merlin’s mind as a possible candidate for his daughter’s hand. Lothian was far in the north, out of the Roman sphere and, to Merlin’s mind, scarcely civilized. Lot was a Celtic king. He wore patterned, multicolored cloaks and hung himself with gaudy jewelry. He was big and fair and arrogant, and Morgause had been hot to have him the moment she first laid eyes on him.

  Merlin had consented. He had understood Morgause’s eagerness well enough. In spite of his barbarous trappings, perhaps even because of them, Lot was a splendid specimen of a male. He would keep Morgause happy in bed and give her babies, and that was all Morgause needed out of life.

  Igraine’s motives for introducing Lot to Morgause were far more subtle. Merlin had still not fathomed them—unless it was simply that she wanted her sister out of her way. It seemed now that Igraine was regretting her choice.

  The apple orchards of Avalon came into view and Merlin’s thoughts turned at last to his third daughter and youngest child. He smiled. The best of the lot, he thought fondly. Never would he marry Morgan so far away from him. Nor would he let Igraine pick this sister’s husband.

  There was no hurry, he thought. Morgan was but fourteen. Plenty of time to worry about marriage.

  It was rather a shame, he thought idly as his pony came into the courtyard of the villa, that she could never marry Arthur.

  Chapter 5

  SEPTEMBER was a perfect month that year and the apples hung heavy in the Avalon orchards. Ector had wagonloads of produce to take to the Glevum harvest fair, and for the first time Merlin allowed Arthur and Morgan to accompany his steward on this annual journey. Merlin himself could not go, but he sent Justina to look after Morgan and gave Ector strict orders to keep a close watch on Arthur. He had hesitated about the wisdom of allowing Arthur to leave the confines of Avalon, but both children had begged so hard that he had eventually given in. The Glevum fair was so close to Wales, he thought, that there was little likelihood of anyone being present who would notice the boy’s likeness to the high king.

  The morning of their second day at the fair, Arthur left Morgan alone at a stall selling herbs and medicines and went off to explore on his own, promising to be back in an hour. Morgan was deep in conversation with the old woman who ran the stall and paused only long enough to give him a half-smile and say, “Go along. I’ll be fine by myself.”

  “The young lady is very knowledgeable,” the old crone who was selling the herbs said with unmistakable astonishment.

  “Thank you,” Morgan replied modestly. “Now, what do you recommend for boils?” Arthur grinned and began to walk toward the livestock area.

  He went directly to the area where the horses were stabled. Most of the horses for sale were hill ponies, small and sturdy, no different from the horses they had at Avalon. Arthur walked up and down the roped-off area, looking, and shaking his head when asked if he wanted to buy. When he got to the end of the line he stopped and looked back, a faint line between his black brows. Was there a horse in all Britain that would make a cavalry mount?

  “You don’t look as if you care for our ponies.” The voice spoke British colored by the soft lilt of Wales, and Arthur’s head swung around. A young giant was standing next to him. Arthur looked up and encountered the very blue eyes and fair gilt-colored hair of the pure Celt. The expression in those blue eyes was not friendly.

  Arthur’s reply was noncommittal. “They’re nice ponies.”

  “But, from the look on your face, not good enough for you.” The boy’s voice was soft but its expression was as unfriendly as the look in his eyes.

  “I was looking for something bigger,” Arthur said.

  “You?” The blue eyes measured him derisively.

  “Yes.”

  The blond threw back his head. “I have a horse you might like.” He smiled maliciously. “He’s big. Very big. And a stallion. Want to try him?”

  “Yes,” said Arthur without hesitation. “I do.”

  He followed the big Celt out behind the pony area, beyond the tents and stalls, to a place which was obviously a camp. “Over here,” the boy said across his shoulder, and led the way to where
a single horse was picketed. “Sodak,” he said softly, and a black head looked up from its grazing.

  Arthur stood like a statue and stared. The black was the most magnificent animal he had ever seen: huge, muscled, his coat glowing like polished silk in the brilliant sunshine.

  “Want to ride him?” the blond boy asked.

  Arthur nodded mutely.

  The other boy misunderstood his silence and smiled. “I’ll saddle him for you,” he said.

  The stallion’s ears went back as soon as he was approached with a bridle, and it took the two of them to get it and the saddle on. “Ready?” the blond said, grasped Arthur’s knee in his hands, and tossed him into the saddle.

  The black’s head came up and Arthur could feel all its muscles tense. The stallion felt like a coiled spring beneath him. Before he could get his head down to buck, however, Arthur smacked him behind the saddle with his hand. Hard. The stallion changed his mind and sprang forward, at a dead run.

  There was a field behind the encampment and Arthur headed there, leaning forward on the stallion’s back, almost lost in the streaming black mane.

  Never had he felt such power. After a few turns around the field the black’s pace slackened and Arthur was able to take a feel of his mouth. He pressed with his leg and steered to the left and the black obediently followed his aids. Arthur laughed out loud. This was heaven.

  It was with great reluctance that he finally brought the stallion back to its owner walking quietly. The blond boy took the bridle and grinned up at him, blue eyes full of undisguised admiration. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Gods, but you can ride!” Then, as Arthur slid to the ground, “My name is Bedwyr. What’s yours?”

  “Arthur,” Arthur replied, and returned the grin. “What a horse! Is he for sale?”

  A shadow flickered across Bedwyr’s smile. “No, he’s not. And he’s not my horse, he’s my father’s.” He looked at the sweating animal. “I’m going to be in trouble if my father sees him like this. I should never have let you ride him.”