She sighed and wiped her forehead with a soil-stained hand as she heard Leodegrance approaching from the villa. His shadow blocked the sun as he stood over her. Guenlian reached out her hand to be helped to her feet.
“Where are you going today? Who among our friends has need of you now?”
“No one,” he grinned. “It seems that I have solved all the problems of our tenants and neighbors.” He swept his arm across the view before them. “You see how smoothly the world functions? I have even arranged for a few gentle clouds to touch up the sky a bit. See them, floating in from the west, just as ordered.”
Guenlian stood next to him for some time, watching. The world was indeed beautiful today. Then she turned away from it. “Why is it then, that I am so sorrowful, so afraid?”
The torture she saw in his face shamed her.
“We have good reason, my dear, to suffer. But while we live we must search for tranquillity at least.”
“It isn’t that. My grief for our sons is a part of my bones now, and I almost believe that I would feel something missing if I woke one morning and it was not with me. This is a different feeling. I can’t understand it. All our lives we have fought, we have given everything to preserve our way of life. When it was certain that we and all our work would become ruins and ashes, I still believed; I still hoped. Now it seems as if Arthur has won this battle for us. The Saxons are truly being pushed back into their holes along the coast. He has dreams of rebuilding the towns and reinstating central government, all the things we planned. Why, when everything is coming right at last, so I feel the threat of certain doom?”
Leodegrance was silent for so long, she feared that he wouldn’t answer. She needed to have an answer, even if he only told her that he didn’t know.
“I have pondered this for many months,” he finally replied. “Yes, I have felt it, too. And I believe that I have found an answer although I hope that I may be proven wrong. It is as I said before. Rome is dead. A togaed king of the Goths sits on the throne of the emperors. Gaul is in flames and is controlled by Germanic tribes. Britain was always the most removed of the outposts. We preserved a life we only knew about from books and proclamations and the rosy memories of our grandparents. Guenlian, our goals were those of the perfect world, a society that never was! Arthur is trying to create a new Rome. But we see what he has to work with. We know the corrupt men who would be senators or proconsuls. They are not Cicero or Pliny. They are only soldiers and badly educated lords with a few acres of land and a dozen or so tenants or slaves. How could they know of the grandeur of a great oration or the glory of a unified world? They are only impressed by an abundance of hot water.”
“This can’t be true,” Guenlian moaned, although she feared he was right. “The world is supposed to be getting better. We are preparing for the millennium, when earth and heaven become one. But you can see that we are drifting away from everything that should bring man closer to God.”
“I will not believe that, my love. I have held my faith too long. We are just blinded by our visions so that we do not see the new order. We think that the end of Roman life is the end of the world. . . .”
“It is. It’s the end of my world.”
“And of mine. I confess that I cannot see how joining hands with barbarians will improve the state of things, and the prospect of my grandchildren living in a land ruled by heathens, who don’t even read their own language, much less ours, terrifies me. But I cannot stop believing that civilized man, in some form, will eventually triumph, even if no one I have loved will live to see it. There is no reason for my certainty. I know it is foolish. But haven’t we learned, my dearest love, that when nothing is left but faith, it is that which we cling to?”
“I find little comfort in your words or in the hope of a victory which none of our blood may see. But I find that somehow I can be strong again. It is a large world and I suppose we have done little to change it, for good or for ill. But that little we have done in our lives may have been what was needed to keep the night from overwhelming us. Perhaps, like you, I cling to that belief because I am growing old and there is little more I can do. Isn’t it ridiculous? I always felt like Lavinia, mother of Rome, waiting in regal certainty for Aeneas to arrive. I never feared for you as I did for our children. We were legend, part of the epic. What has it come to? Here we are, an aging man and woman, not very well educated, influencing a few acres of land and few dozen people and we find we are not able to read the future at all.”
• • •
At the same time, in a semi-ruined house in Chichester, Arthur was explaining to Merlin his plans for a new society. Merlin was listening patiently to the rebirth of the ideas that he had planted twenty years before. As he made appropriate noises, he was really thinking of Arthur and how he had grown and developed over that time.
In the past three years, Arthur had changed. His body had finally filled out his height and he was an awe-inspiring figure to his men, well over six feet tall with flaming red hair and a roaring voice. He had completely mastered the art of claiming obedience not by violence but through the belief of his fellow men in his authority. His men respected him, even though most of his war leaders were senior to him in years. But it was easy, he was learning, to command in time of war, if one continued to win. The next step, much more difficult, was to govern a country in time of peace. Arthur had never lived in a Britain free of fighting, but he had wonderful plans.
“First, we must reestablish the old governmental offices. We need to appoint local officials and make clear divisions between the provinces. Then we must rebuild the roads and convince people to move back to the towns.”
“A day’s work,” Merlin scoffed. “For one thing, our population will not fill even a few towns. Too many have died or fled.”
Arthur waved that problem aside. “Never mind. We’ll rebuild the population, too. There should be little resistance to that suggestion.”
“Besides,” he added, “once it is known that the old order has returned, those who fled the chaos will return, too.”
“Do you believe that those who have spent two generations building estates in Armorica will bother to return to the ruins that they left here? You are not looking at this situation clearly.”
“Merlin,” Arthur said sternly. “You are trying to discourage me. But I have an even better idea, one I didn’t get from you. I want to build a new city, a great, towering, shining town high on a hilltop, so that travelers approaching will see it long before they arrive, glistening in the sun like the Holy City. It will be more beautiful than any spot in the world, and I will call craftsmen, artisans, scribes, teachers, even philosophers to live there with me. Among us we can create a new world where every man can read and learn as he wills. It will be greater than Rome in all its glory. For my city will have a mind and a soul. It will be—why are you staring at me like that?”
Merlin brushed his hand over his eyes. “It is nothing, Arthur. I was only thinking that perhaps I didn’t teach you as well as I should have, or too well. And I was wishing that I was young again, before my visions came to me. I was also marveling that you could have such hope for man with all you have seen of war.”
“I have seen other things, Merlin. You have shown me some of them. And I know you never believed me, but I am certain that my cause is blessed by the Virgin herself. With her face always in my memory it is not so difficult to wash out the horrors I have seen, the deaths I have witnessed. I do not love to fight! Of all people, you must know how I curse this talent I have for battle. My sword and spear may become plow and pruning hook this moment for all I care! Yes, I know I am not a Marcus Aurelius. I can barely read and a stylus seems to slip through my fingers when I try to write. But I am the one who is here, the one who is left to try and salvage what remains of our people. Merlin, why must you always ridicule my plans for the future? Can’t you even allow me my dream?”
The older man leaned back in his chair. He stared at the wall behind Arthur wi
th its once beautiful fresco, now faded and peeling. Even in his memory, the town had been almost empty. What must it have been like full of people, coming and going in such security that there was no wall about the town, no lock upon the gates. The town even had a theater! Even he could not imagine that. Poor Arthur! What chance did he really have?
“My dear son, you cannot afford such dreams. If anyone in this land must be hard and cynical, it is you. When you lead an army, they follow you or they die. Every man knows that. But when the army is disbanded, there are no more soldiers, no more fighting units. There are only a thousand men with a thousand different ways of looking at things using all the emotions that are ignored in war. They will want land of their own and for their children. They will want comfort and security, and those who have served you well will expect preferment even at the expense of one another. They will not care about philosophy but they will remember again all the petty feuds and land disputes they have put aside to fight with you. That is what they will want you to do for them. There are days when I almost wish that we could go on fighting forever. For the moment the war ends there will be such chaos and anarchy! You can’t count on dreams to put that in order. Poetry will not amuse men who want power. And the saddest part is that I do believe in you. All my hopes for the past twenty-five years have been set on you and your dreams. You are the only man alive today who has a chance of uniting Britain and making her live again. But even I can’t see the possibility of building a new city, a refuge of the arts in the midst of this destruction.”
His gesture encompassed not only the room they sat in, but all the world outside. The men and women out there were bred to fear, had never known a summer without the danger of raids, the threat of total annihilation; they huddled now, in the shadows of stone forts, creeping into the fields to plant and reap enough to keep themselves alive one more year. The rough, belching lords and petty tyrants won the people’s allegiance because they were strong enough to protect them. What would these men say to a consul, come to establish Roman law in their holdings? And the Saxons, they were not going to vanish. They were settled in their massive halls of wood. The people of London had gone so far as to establish trade with the Saxon villages south of them, gold and leather for grain and protection. Would the Saxons submit to Arthur’s laws? There were just too many changes, too many differences to bring the old ways back. Yet Arthur wanted to go even beyond that. He wanted to make a kingdom of philosophers, a perfect realm. Merlin studied his own hands. They had never held a sword or an ax. They had never learned a trade beyond writing. And yet his own life had been hard enough so that they were brown and calloused like any farmer’s or soldier’s. He idly wondered if even he could fit into this ideal society. Could Arthur?
“There is one other thing, Merlin,” Arthur broke into his reverie. “I want you to help me with something else. I am growing older. In two years, I will be thirty. It is time we should think of my marrying.”
Merlin started in alarm. He had been hoping to put this talk off, for he had always felt a sense of dread whenever he thought of the matter, although he didn’t know why. He tried to assume a jocular attitude: “So, you have met some local girl who appeals to you? There are a few of the old families still living around here. Would you like me to speak to her father?”
Arthur blushed and his years and self-assurance slid from him. “No, Merlin. I have not met her. But I have thought long upon this subject. If I am destined in some way to rule Britain, I must have a wife who is worthy of that, even more than I am. Also, if she could bring something, a dowry, which would be a sort of symbol . . . that is . . . I have heard of something . . . she is said to be very . . . Merlin, you must guess whom I mean. Help me!”
Merlin guessed. The last thing he wanted to do was help.
“Do you mean that empty-headed child of my cousin? She is hardly the type I thought you would consider. I don’t know what you have heard of her, but you mustn’t believe it at all. It is true that she is rather pretty, but hardly worthy of her family. She is spoiled and heedless, with no more feelings than an insect. There isn’t a man in the world with luxuries enough to satisfy that one.”
“That isn’t what her brothers said of her. And why would Lady Guenlian long for her so if she had no heart? Even Lady Sidra praises her. Others tell me that she may be the most beautiful woman in all Britain. They say she smiles kindly on everyone, regardless of their station. That speaks well of her feelings. I would like, at least, a chance to meet her. Won’t you arrange that much, Merlin?”
Merlin felt a chill wind at his back. He knew that he must not do this thing. There was something terribly wrong. But he did not know why. And he could think of no excuse that would satisfy Arthur.
“I think it will be a mistake. But if nothing else will make you happy, I will ask Leodegrance if you can visit Guinevere at Cador.” Merlin hoped devoutly that she would have a cold.
“Thank you, thank you! You won’t try to prejudice her against me, will you? I know I am clumsy and loud and not well-bred, as she is, but I would give her everything I had and be very kind to her. You know that.”
“Of course I do, you young idiot! Don’t you see that I am trying to tell you that I don’t believe she would be kind to you!”
“That is my concern. Let me at least meet her.” Arthur’s jaw was as set now as when he planned his famous strategies of war. Merlin knew there would be no more argument.
“If that is your desire, lord of Britain, that is what shall be done.”
Guinevere rode through the forest joyfully. The day was beautiful, soft, and moist with growth. A thousand shades of green crept across the trees, the stones, and the earth. She was still riding pillion behind Belinus, as a proper lady should, but she wished for her own horse and the freedom of riding astride. It could be very uncomfortable to have to twist like that, sitting sideways but turned forward to hold on to the rider. But today they were traveling slowly, so that she did not need to hold on. Everyone was relaxed. The men sang or told stories or speculated on their chances of being accepted to serve in the mysterious new legion Arthur was forming.
Gawain led the group. Once this had been a good-sized road, wide enough for at least three men to ride abreast. But it had been abandoned to the forest some years ago and now young trees burst from between the stones, and moss and tangly vines covered most of the rest of it. Still, the trees were not yet full grown and the pathway was still visible. It was a good road to take if one was in no hurry, cool and inviting. It was not much trouble to pick a way around broken rocks and saplings. Gawain yawned. It was late afternoon and time to be looking for a place to camp. He glanced back to see that everyone was keeping up. Guinevere seemed to have drifted into a half sleep herself, he noticed. She leaned against Belinus’ back with her eyes closed. He could tell that Belinus was nearly rigid in his attempt to keep straight and still so as not to jostle her. Gawain chuckled. She would have to ride with someone else tomorrow. The honor of carrying her was clearly more than Belinus could bear. Every muscle in his body would be sore by morning if he kept that posture long.
Suddenly there was a crashing sound in the forest, and, before they could realize what was happening, the road on both sides and before them was full of men. They were shouting and waving long knives and axes. The horses reared and tried to plunge through them, but the men held firm and their axes glittered in the setting sun as they slashed at the horses’ legs and necks.
“Treachery!” Gawain cried, drawing his sword. “Belinus, get Guinevere away from here!”
With a wild cry he drove the sword into the man nearest him. Then he circled around, trying to cut his way to Belinus, who was trapped in the middle. He was glad to see that everyone had kept their heads and had tried to form a tight circle around Guinevere. She was clutching Belinus’ waist tightly, and sensibly leaning to the left so that his sword arm would be free. But there were only a few of them and there must have been over fifty Saxons. Where had they all come fr
om? How long had they been waiting? How did they even know that the caravan would come this way? Gawain hacked at another man in his path, and was frightened to feel how heavy his sword was becoming. He realized with a wave of panic how low the sun was. In desperation, he swung wildly at the glinting knives that were trying to chop his horse from under him, to drag him to the ground. He could tell that he was being cut off from the others and that they were all being separated. Belinus was making a valiant effort to get through and away, but it was no use. Someone had planned this too well, he thought bitterly. But who could have known?
He could feel the energy flowing from him as the sun sank behind the trees. As if in answer to his question, his last sight before he lost consciousness was of Ecgfrith, watching from the side of the road, a satisfied smirk on his face.
• • •
For a moment, Guinevere was hardly aware of what was happening. Her first thought was that she must keep her seat or risk being trampled. Soon it was clear to her that the other men were being surrounded and pulled from their mounts. She could hear their cries of anger and pain. She saw Cheldric frantically switching his sword to his left hand, his right arm hanging limp and bleeding at his side. Then they were around her and she was too frightened and confused to notice what was happening to the others. The attackers were pulling at her, despite Belinus’ brave attempts to ward them off. He was hampered by the fact that he couldn’t use his weapon well without hitting her, too. His horse reared and plunged and Guinevere slipped. She hung from the folds of his cloak and tried to scramble up again. But someone grabbed her leg and another got her about the waist. She screamed and dug her nails into the cloth. Belinus frantically tried to twist himself around and hold her, but another man slashed at the horse’s hindquarters so that it reared again. Belinus was caught off balance and thrown off, taking Guinevere with him. Her fingers were still so tightly attached to the cloak that when they pulled her loose, the material ripped and stayed in her bent hands. She screamed hysterically and struck out in blind terror at those holding her. She heard raucous laughter and smelled a nauseating combination of human sweat and rancid animal oil. Then something hit her and she slumped across her captor’s shoulder, unconscious. Her last thought was of her unicorn.
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