Mordred, Bastard Son

by Douglas Clegg

  I landed along the muddy bank, and the horse slowed down a bit further up the path while I slowly pushed myself up.

  I had not been hurt, though my spirit was bruised. “I may be thrown from my home,” I said to the horse as I approached it, “but I will not be thrown from my horse. But then, you are not truly my horse. Yet.”

  I went before the animal and looked at his eyes, which seemed of a rare intelligence. “We must come to an understanding, Caradoc. You carry me where I wish, and I shall make sure you have apples before the day is through. Understood?” I then tried to say this in the Eponi tongue that was so rarely spoken that even Lukat had only known a few phrases.

  As I watched the horse’s eyes, and he watched mine, we both seemed to calm a bit.

  We wandered along the path, for I decided it best to walk awhile with my new mount in order to create trust between us.

  I grew tired after a while, for I did not yet know where I would settle for the night. I knew I had to find a life somewhere, but I did not know how that would be. Nor did I care. I had reached a moment when I would let fate decide my course, for anything I had ever done to tamper with fate had turned to dust in my hands.

  I mounted Caradoc again and this time asked that he take the path slowly. I thought of Lukat’s father, telling me how this horse had magick and might carry me to my heart’s desire. But I did not have to think long of what was in my heart—buried there, though I had not yet retrieved it—for Caradoc came upon that clearing by the Fountain of Bel-Nemeton, and that turf home of the fallen knight called Lancelot.

  Hearing the sound of the approaching horse, the man I had loved on sight emerged from behind the hide at the doorway.

  He stood there, looking at me upon the horse for a long time.

  I felt my heart racing within my chest.

  “I take it this is your horse,” I finally said, breaking the silence.

  “The son of my own horse,” he said. “But this one is descended from a fine mare once stolen from…”

  “From the Romans,” I said, interrupting him. “I heard she was an empress of some kind.”

  “I named him Caradoc, for he is a horse I’ve loved since he was a colt. And the Eponi have cared for him when I have had to leave these places.”

  “A magickal horse,” I said. “For I was told he leads us to our heart’s desire.”

  Breaking this spell that I felt had come between us, Lancelot said, “I came to you in your fevers. But they would not let me in your chamber.”

  “I cannot say what has been between us can ever be mended,” I said.

  “And I cannot say that what has been between us has needed mending,” he said.

  He came over to me as I remained upon the horse. He stood at the horse’s neck, and looked up at me. Perhaps the want of him had driven my senses to imagine things, but this man before me seemed even more beautiful than he had when we’d first shared each other by the stream. I knew it was not the physical beauty of him, for much was hidden beneath his trousers and tunic, and his face was clouded with shadow as if he had not slept many nights nor eaten enough for want of something missing—it was that beauty we endow those to whom we have brought into our hearts, and that beauty does not lessen if our hearts remain open and yet full.

  But I could not then trust my instincts, nor did I want to feel the same pain I had felt with wanting him, with aching for his presence, his touch. I did not seek for that feeling of horror when I was separated from him for so long.

  “No,” I said. “I cannot return to this. I have no love in my heart.”

  He looked up at me, his hair falling across his face as it did too often, for it needed cutting. Then he reached up to draw me off the stallion.

  “No, please,” I whispered, but had no resistance as his arms went around my waist. “No.” But I found myself reaching for him, as well, and he brought me down from Caradoc, and we embraced even while I murmured to him, “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you more than all men in the world. I hate the world. I hate you. I hate all of it.”

  “I know,” he whispered, holding me tight, the warmth moving as if in the vessels between us, mingling, breaking down my own vessel as I returned the kisses he passed to me.

  6

  And so, that end of summer and early autumn I spent with the man I had loved once, and had begun loving again. We broke those stone walls we had each built between us, though he slept those first few nights upon the floor of his hovel, for he did not wish to share bed with me until I offered myself to him without question in my heart. Yet my heart had melted, and on the fourth night of my stay, I drew him up beside me and we enjoyed those pleasures that had passed too quickly earlier that summer. They no longer felt like the frivolous lusts of youth, but of wanting to truly bind with each other, to wrap us around the other. And yet, my body did the happy work of this with his, and though I would compare it to a wonderful dance, it felt more as if we wished to vessel into each other again, and to never leave the other once there.

  Yet I could still not open completely to him as lovers are meant to, for I had drunk too much from that cup of sorrow that my mother’s death had brought.

  We hid much in those months, living as hunters together in the woods, trading some of our catches with the Eponi, for the fish they caught in their weirs and for salted mutton when we needed it, as well as woolen blankets as the weather turned to an early chill before the festival of Samhain.

  During this time, he did not speak much of his past, nor I of mine, and I remember it years later as an idyll we had there in the forest, away from the caverns of the Isle of Glass, though the shadows of the summer continued to haunt us both.

  And yet even this seemed to bring us closer, for what was unspoken between us seemed to grow in the shadows of the woods. We were pretending for a while. Pretending that the world beyond that small home did not hold sway, nor did it require anything from us. We pretended that the wars of the Saxons and the Britons were on that other isle, Britannia, while we, in the Little Britannia of Armorica, were safe and removed from it. We lived in that place between waking and dream, and I did not want it to end, although I knew—and he knew—that it would. I could not even bring myself to ask Lance of my father, of what he had been like as a boy, of what he had become as a young king. I felt to do this would be to risk losing that game of pretend we shared, that false sense of peace there in that place, in the warmth of our bed.

  That dream.

  The dream shattered and the idyll ended when a piece of news arrived from a sword-forge named Culain with whom we traded.

  The Roman princess Guinevere had begun the journey across Gaul. She had reached her marriage age and would go to meet the high king before winter solstice and be married during the Great Christ-Mass Festival within the court of Camelot.

  But this echo of the past into the present had not startled me from what I had discovered with Lancelot.

  It was the rumors that had begun about Morgause, and why all of us who lived in Broceliande had much to fear from her now.

  It was said that she had entombed Merlin alive.

  Chapter Fifteen

  1

  After she had deceived me, nearly to the point of my own death, Morgause had left the Isle of Glass. It was known that she had gone to sleep among the standing stones, those hunters that had been turned to rock when quarrying the stag of Arawn. She had been seen wearing the skins of wild animals, and had begun wandering in the night like a madwoman. When one of the charioteers tried to help her in some small way, she had nearly torn the unfortunate soul to pieces as if she were possessed of terrible furies. Her madness as she wandered near the Grove had kept even the Druids from their worship, for they had begun to fear her.

  But what no one knew, but we would learn soon enough was something that even Viviane had not seen in any scrying of the future.

  I could not believe that she had such power over Merlin or that he would not have called to me if in need of help.

/>   As soon as I heard the news, Lancelot and I prepared the horses. I mounted Caradoc, and raced ahead of him to reach the standing stones at the edge of the Grove.

  2

  When I reached that sacred place, I saw the destruction that Morgause had brought about. The graves of those Roman soldiers who had been swallowed by the earth centuries before had been torn up and the bones had been thrown about as if wolves had dug them up.

  The standing stones themselves had fallen to the ground, some of them smashed into pebbles as if a giant child had kicked them over.

  “What magick does she possess?” Lancelot asked as we stood there among the Druids and the priestesses of the isle who had gathered about and silently watched the area.

  “She is of two worlds,” I said. “I do not think even Merlin understood the power she had brought with her from Annwn.”

  When I saw Viviane sitting along a fallen stone, I went to her and got down on one knee. “Where is he?”

  She looked at me at first as if she did not recognize me. And then, when she nodded as if confirming my name for herself, she muttered, “A terrible thing has come to pass. A terrible curse upon us. I would believe this of many others, but not of Morgause.”

  She pointed to a pile of the stones with a long flat stone across the top of it like an altar-stone of the ancients. This was the kind of tomb that would have been used before the Romans had come to raid the ancient burial places. The Druids had already drawn the body of Merlin from it, and laid him down upon the stone.

  “Alive and yet not alive,” Viviane muttered as if she had gone mad. “It is a sleeping death.”

  Lancelot had pressed his hands above Merlin’s heart. “He still lives. I feel the slow beating of his heart.” He looked up at me, hope in his face.

  She looked up at me again as if she did not recognize me, and for a fleeting moment I wondered what enchantment she was under. “His soul cannot stay too long when the flesh is like this.”

  3

  Merlin had not yet died, though he lay in a deep sleep from which he could not be awakened. For fear of moving him much, we laid furs down upon that stone table and put him upon them, wrapping him for warmth. All around, the Druids made fires within the pits of those emptied graves.

  I sat with him all night, next to him, as he had been with me through my fevers. Lancelot covered me with blankets and brought mulled wine that we shared by the firelight.

  I could not leave Merlin’s side. I tried to vessel into him, though each time I did, I felt a strange stinging at the back of my head. But I would begin again, simply with the words, Merlin, are you there?

  Before dawn broke, I felt something clutch at my fingers, though when I looked at my hand, no one touched me. And I heard his voice, vesseling back to me. Yes, whelp. I am still here.

  4

  Merlin vesseled through the night, bringing me much comfort. He was no longer in his body, but had roamed as if dead, and showed me in my dreams that night of what Morgause had done. I saw her, half of her long, flowing hair a pure white, and the other half dark as midnight. She had used a power unknown even to Merlin with which to raise the dead Romans buried alive at this place. She brought forth several of them, demon-spirits whose souls have charred as if burnt with fire elementals. These are the worst of those ancient warriors, he whispered to me. For the graves you see are but the beginnings of deep tunnels of the dead. These are wandering souls who have waited for a priestess of Death, and she calls them. I began the ceremony of unmaking this terrible magick, but to do it, I had to venture to other realms. She has trapped my flesh—using the arts she has learned in the Otherworld—so that I might not rise up against her.

  But where are you? I asked him.

  I have taught you of the realms—you have seen the Otherworld, and this world, and the world of dreams. Now I will tell you that each is a lie. There is only one realm, and these divisions are the limits of the mind. I am here, but not here in my body. I may vessel, for I am within the energies between us.

  Like water from the vessel, I said. The soul itself. The energy of the soul.

  All that flows will flow again, he responded.

  What might I do to bring you back into your flesh?

  I’m afraid that will take too much time, wild donkey. The rituals may take days. You must go, Mordred. You must go and use the Art to keep Guinevere safe.

  But, I vesseled, Morgause cannot take life. For if she has blood upon her hands, she will pass into the land of the dead.

  She is cleverer than that, Mordred. She will do no killing. Those who are dead will possess the soldiers who bring the princess to the high king. The very men who are her most trusted servants will do this deed, Mordred. I have seen this, for Morgause laughed as she bound me in this death-sleep and told me of all that she would do to destroy the kingdoms that Arthur had united. It is Guinevere’s own guards who will accept the stain of blood, for the spirits who use them know that innocent blood will free them from this slavery. Guinevere may never see the port of Lyonesse or the palace at Camelot. Though you do not know your father, still you cannot turn your back upon this lady who is innocent to these storms that Morgause brings.

  Merlin, this Guinevere, though innocent of all this, will bring with her the end of Broceliande. Her bride’s price, demanded by her father, is the entire land of Armorica and the southern mountains, as well.

  Whelp! he shouted in my mind so that it hurt a bit. You cannot think of claims on land when the cup is passed to you. Either you drink from life—and serve it—or you destroy it as Morgause does. You either serve Morgause or you serve the Art itself. Which is it to be?

  I did not need to answer this.

  How can the dead be fought? I asked him, but received no reply. Still, I felt his breath upon my hand, and took heart that he had called me whelp through the night. How can I raise an army this day to fight the dead?

  The slight beating of his heart was enough to bring me hope.

  You do not need an army, Mordred. You have the Art. Do not forget what I told you once of the elementals all around us.

  The fey?

  The energies of the forest and streams, but also of fire and air. These may be channeled as rivers are channeled that they might bring power.

  I do not know enough of the Art, Merlin.

  You know how to vessel yourself. That is enough. The world around you is a vessel; all life is contained within it.

  Please, you must come with me.

  I am afraid that the princess would be murdered ere my spirit returns to my flesh, mad boy. You must save Guinevere, for she is the key to the door of your father’s kingdom, and you are meant to find her. But I warn you of one thing—do not bring the knight Lancelot with you. This is your journey, and as you perform this task and face these spirits, you will begin to heal that Cauldron which has been broken.

  I asked him again, How do I stop these demon-spirits?

  You cannot. Only the vessel of life can stop them. All you can do is slay the flesh that they occupy.

  How will the vessel of life stop them?

  I do not know. I only know that you must awaken the vessel that is around you so that these spirits can be drawn from those they possess. Morgause has invoked spirits of great strength. All you can do, Mordred, is keep them from killing Guinevere. You must trust that the vessel of life will pour from this and protect you. Or you must die.

  His vesseling left a ringing in my ears, but at last he was silent.

  At dawn, I slept, and when I awoke late in the day, Lancelot stood vigil beside me. When I looked up at him, it was as if I hadn’t seen him before. Gone was my feeling of his beauty and striking presence. He was a man who had become a friend to me, and though I felt that love and its connection between us, I feared what I must do that afternoon without him. Without his protection. Without him keeping me from falling. Without him standing over me as I slept.

  He crouched down beside me, brushing my hair back as it had flopped over m
y face. His face, though kind, seemed to be worn and somehow older than I remembered it. I saw flaws in it—the slight bump at his nose, as if he’d been in a fight once and had lost—the creases along his eyes, the stubble of beard that he had not yet shaved from his chin and upper lip. Dust had spread across his face in the night, and he was in need of a bath. And yet, I wanted to press my lips to his and take away the task I would face that day and night. “Are you rested?” he asked.

  I smiled. “Somewhat.”

  “I have heard the spirits of the dead before dawn,” he said. “All around us. Perhaps I half-slept and dreamt this, but it felt true. This is a restless place now. There is no peace here.”

  “Morgause lives in two worlds,” I said. “She is a twinned soul and brings with her shadows.”

  “It is more than that,” he said, glancing at the women who had brought the washing to the riverfall beyond the Grove. “It is as if the Lady of the Lake no longer protects this place. Do you see? They feel it.”

  I looked about, at the horse-herd boys and the elders who returned to the caverns below after a day of labor in the fields.

  “It is Samhain approaching,” he said. “They feel they have been abandoned. The Druids do not sacrifice, nor do the priestesses scry the days to come. They cannot even mourn Merlin, for he is not dead, yet not living. It is this fear in the air. Morgause has brought it.” He looked at me, steadily. “We have brought it. We must—”

  I interrupted him. “I must leave here. Before dusk.”

  He looked at me, not understanding. “We will leave.”

  “No,” I said. “This is something I must do alone.” I did not understand then why Merlin felt it important for me to take no companion on my journey, or why Lancelot should not meet this young Roman princess. But Merlin had trained me many years in his discipline, and though I had often ignored it as a boy, I could not do this as a man. Part of me even wished to let the princess die rather than risk my life for her, for what would she bring to Broceliande but soldiers and priests from her homelands? We had seen how Broceliande had been made smaller by the centuries of Roman occupation. To have a Roman chieftain become the king of this forest and its treasures seemed to be the worst fate ever brought to us.