by Mary Stewart
"Lot comes home," I said.
12
Somewhere a bell clanged from the castle. Midnight. Leaning in the doorway of the wheelwright's shop, I stretched shoulders aching with the damp of the night. Behind me, Ulfin fed another faggot to the fire, carefully, so that no spurt of flame should attract the attention of anyone who might be waking. The town, sunk back into its night-time stupor, was silent, but for the barking of curs and now and again the scritch of an owl among the trees on the steep crag-side.
I moved silently out from the door's shelter into the street near the end of the bridge. I looked up at the black bulk of the crag. The high windows of the castle still showed light, and light from the troopers' torches, red and smoking, moved behind the walls that masked the courtyard below.
Ulfin, at my elbow, drew breath for a question.
It was never asked. Someone, running chin on shoulder across the footbridge, ran headlong into me, gasped, gave a broken cry, and twisted to dodge past.
Equally startled, I was slow to react, but Ulfin jumped, grasped an arm, and clapped a hand tightly to stifle the next cry. The newcomer twisted and fought in his grip, but was held with ease. "A girl," said Ulfin, surprised. "Into the shop," I said quickly, and led the way. Once there, I threw another piece of elm on the fire. The flames leaped. Ulfin brought his captive, still writhing and kicking, into the light. The hood had fallen from her face and head, and I recognized her, with satisfaction.
"Lind." She stiffened in Ulfin's grip. I saw the gleam of frightened eyes staring at me above the stifling hand. Then they widened, and she went quite still, as a partridge does before a stoat. She knew, me, too.
"Yes," I said. "I am Merlin. I was waiting for you, Lind. Now, if Ulfin looses you, you will make no sound." Her head moved, assenting. He took his hand from her mouth, but kept his grip on her arm.
"Let her go," I said. He obeyed me, moving back to get between her and the doorway, but he need not have troubled. As soon as he released her she ran toward me, and flung herself to her knees in the litter of shavings. She clung to my robe. Her body shook with her terrified weeping.
"Oh, my lord, my lord! Help me!" "I am not here to harm you, or the child." To calm her, I spoke coldly. "The High King sent me here to get news of his son. You know I cannot come to the queen herself, so I waited here for you. What has happened up at the castle?" But she would not speak. I think she could not. She clung, and shook, and cried. I spoke more gently. "Whatever has happened, Lind, I cannot help you if I do not know. Come near the fire, and compose yourself, and tell me." But when I tried to draw my robe from her clutches she clung the harder. Her sobs were violent. "Don't keep me here, lord, let me go! Or else help me! You have the power — you are Arthur's man — you are not afraid of my lady —" "I will help you if you will talk to me. I want news of King Arthur's son. Was that King Lot who arrived just now?"
"Yes. Oh, yes! He came home an hour ago. He is mad, mad, I tell you! And she did not even try to stop him. She laughed, and let him do it." "Let him do what?"
"Kill the baby."
"He killed the child Morgause has at the castle?"
She was too distraught to see anything strange about the form of the question. "Yes, yes!" She gulped. "And all the while it was his own son, his very own son. I was there at the birth, and I swear it by my own hearth-gods. It was —"
"What's that?" This, sharply, from Ulfin, on watch in the doorway.
"Lind!" I stooped, pulled her to her feet, and held her steady.
"This is no time for riddles. Go on. Tell me all that happened."
She pressed the back of one wrist to her mouth, and in a moment or two managed to speak with some sort of composure. "When he came, he was angry. We had been expecting it, but nothing like this. He had heard what people were saying, that the High King had lain with her. You knew that, lord, you knew it was true...So King Lot stormed and raved at her, calling her whore, adulteress...We were all there, her women, but he cared nothing for that. And she — if she had talked sweetly to him, lied, even..."
She swallowed. "It would have calmed him. He would have believed her. He never could resist her. That's what we all thought she would do, but she did not. She laughed in his face, and said,’But do you now see how like you he is? Do you really think a boy like Arthur could get such a son?' He said,’So it's true? You lay with him?' She said,’Why not? You would not wed me. You took that little honey-miss, Morgan, instead of me. I was not yours, not then.' It made him angrier." She shivered. "If you had seen him then, even you would have been afraid."
"No doubt. Was she?"
"No. She never moved, just sat there, with the green gown and jewels, and smiled. You would have thought she was trying to make him angry."
"As she was," I said. "Go on, Lind, quickly."
She had control of herself now. I loosed her, and she stood, still trembling, but with her arms crossed on her breast, the way women stand when grieving. "He tore the hangings off the cradle. The baby started to cry. He said,’Like me? The Pendragon brat is dark, and I am dark. No more than that.' Then he turned on us — the women — and sent us away. We ran. He looked like a mad wolf. The others ran away, but I hid behind the curtains in the outer chamber. I thought — I thought —"
"You thought?"
She shook her head. Tears splashed, glinting, in the firelight. "That was when he did it. The baby stopped crying. There was a crash, as if the cradle fell over. The queen said, as calm as milk:’You should have believed me. It was your own, by some slut you tumbled in the town. I told you there was a likeness.' And she laughed. He didn't speak for a bit. I could hear his breathing.
Then he said, "Dark hair, eyes turning dark. The brat his slut threw would be the same. Where is he, then, this bastard?" She said,’He was a sickly child. He died.' The king said,’You're lying still.' Then she said, very slowly:’Yes, I am lying. I told the midwife to take him away, and find me a son I dared to show you. Perhaps I did wrong. I did it to save my name, and your honour. I hated the child. How could I want to bear any man's child but yours? I had hoped it was your son, not his, but it was his. It is true that he was sickly. Let us hope that he is dead, too, by this.' The king said,’Let us do more than that. Let us make sure.'"
It was Ulfin this time who said quickly: "Yes? Go on."
The girl drew a shuddering breath. "She waited a moment, then she said — in a light, slighting sort of way, the way you dare a man to do something dangerous —’And how could you do that, King of Lothian, except by killing every child born in this town since May Day? I've told you I don't know where they took him.' He didn't even stop to think. He was breathing hard, like someone running. He said:’Then that is just what I shall do. Yes, boys and girls alike. How else shall I know the truth of this accursed child-bed?'
I would have run then, but I could not. The queen started to say something about the people, but he put her aside and came to the door and shouted for his captains. They came running. He shouted it at them, the same. Just those orders, every young baby in the town...I don't remember what was said. I thought I would faint, and fall, and they would see me. But I did hear the queen call out something in a weeping voice, something about orders from the High King, and how King Arthur would not brook the talk there had been since Luguvallium. Then the soldiers went. And the queen was not weeping at all, my lord, but laughing again, and she had her arms around King Lot. From the way she talked to him then, you would have thought he had done some noble deed. He began to laugh, too. He said:’Yes, let them say it of Arthur, not of me. It will blacken his name more surely than anything I could ever do.' They went into her bedchamber then, and shut the door. I heard her call me, but I left her, and ran. She is evil, evil! I always hated her, but she is a witch, and she put me in fear."
"Nobody will hold you to blame for what your mistress did," I told her. "And now you can redeem it. Take me to where the High King's son is hidden."
She shrank and stared at that, with a wild l
ook over her shoulder, as if she would run again.
"Come, Lind. If you feared Morgause, how much more should you fear me? You ran this way to protect him, did you not? You cannot do so alone. You cannot even protect yourself. But if you help me now, I shall protect you. You will need it. Listen."
Above us, the main gates of the castle opened with a crash. Through the thick boughs could be seen the movement of torches, bobbing down toward the main bridge. With the torches came the beat and clatter of hoofs and the shouting of orders.
Ulfin said sharply: "They're out. It's too late."
"No!" cried the girl. "Macha's cottage is the other way. They will come there last! I will show you, lord. This way."
Without another word she made for the door, with myself and Ulfin hard behind her.
Up the way we had come, across an open space, down another steep lane that twisted back toward the river, then along a river path deep in nettles where nothing moved but the rats a-scurry from the middens. It was very dark here, and we could not hurry, though the night breathed horror on the nape like a coursing hound. Behind us, away on the far side of the town, the sounds began. The barking of dogs first, the shouting of soldiers, the tramp of hoofs. Then doors slamming, women screaming, men shouting; and now and again the sharp clash of weapons. I have been in sacked cities, but this was different.
"Here!" gasped Lind, and turned into another twisting lane that led away from the river. From beyond the houses the dreadful sounds still made the night foul. We ran along the slippery mud of the lane, then up a flight of broken steps and out again into a narrow street. Here, all was quiet still, though I saw the glimmer of a light where some scared householder had waked to wonder at the sounds. We ran out from the end of the street into the grass of a field where a donkey was tethered, past an orchard of tended trees and the gaping door of a smithy, and reached a decent cottage that stood away from the rest behind a quickthorn hedge, with a strip of garden in front, and a dovecote, and a kennel beside the door.
The cottage door was wide open and swinging. The dog, at the end of his chain, raved and leaped like a mad thing. The doves were out of the cote and winnowing the dim air. There was no light in the cottage, no sound at all.
Lind ran through the garden and stopped in the black doorway, peering in.
"Macha? Macha?"
A lantern stood on a ledge beside the door. No time to search for flint and tinder. I put the girl gently aside. "Take her outside," I said to Ulfin, and, as he obeyed me, picked up the lantern and swung it high. The flame tore up hissing from the wick, vivid and alive. I heard Lind gasp, then the sound caught in her throat. The brilliant light showed every corner of the cottage: the bed against the wall, the heavy table and bench; the crocks for food and oil; the stool, with the distaff flung down beside it and the wool unspinning; the clean hearth and the stone door scrubbed white, except where the woman's body lay sprawled in the blood that had poured from her slit throat. The cradle by the bed was empty.
Lind and Ulfin waited at the edge of the orchard. The girl was silent now, shocked even out of her weeping; in the lantern's light her face showed blanched and sick. Ulfin had an arm round her, supporting her. He was very pale. The dog whined once, then sat back on his haunches and lifted his nose in a long, keening howl. It was echoed from the clashing, screaming darkness three streets away. And then again, nearer.
I shut the cottage door behind me. "I'm sorry, Lind. There's nothing to be done here. We should go. You know the tavern at the south gate? Will you lead us there? Avoid the middle of the town where the noise is. Try not to be afraid; I said I would protect you, and I will. For the time being you had better stay with us. Come now."
She did not move. "They've taken him! The baby, they got the baby. And they killed Macha!" She turned blind-eyed to me. "Why did they kill Macha? The king would never have ordered that. She was his leman!"
I looked at her thoughtfully. "Why, indeed?" Then, briskly, taking her by the shoulder and giving her a gentle shake: "Come now, child, we must not stay here. The men won't come this way again, but while you are in the streets you could be in danger. Take us to the south gate."
"She must have told them the way!" cried Lind. I might not even have spoken. "They came here first! I was too late! If you hadn't stopped me at the bridge —"
"Then you would be dead, too," said Ulfin crisply. He sounded quite normal, as if the night's horrors touched him not at all. "What could you have done, you and Macha? They'd have found you, and cut you down before you'd run to the end of the orchard yonder. Now, you'd best do as my lord says. That is, unless you want to go back to the queen and tell her what's happened here? You can depend on it, she's guessed where you went. They'll be looking for you soon."
It was brutal, but it worked. At the mention of Morgause she came to herself. She threw a last look of horror at the cottage, then pulled her hood about her face, and started back through the orchard trees.
I paused by the grieving dog and stooped to lay a hand on him. The dreadful howling stopped. He sat shivering. I drew my dagger and cut through the rope collar that bound him. He did not move, and I left him there.
Some score of children were taken that night. Someone — wise-woman or midwife — must have told the troopers where to look. By the time we got back to the tavern, by a roundabout route through the deserted outskirts of the town, the horror was over, the troopers gone. No one accosted us, or even seemed to notice us. The streets were full and clamorous. People ran aimlessly about, or peered in terror from dark doorways. Crowds gathered here and there, centered on some wailing woman, and stunned or angry man. These were poor folk, with no way of withstanding their king's will. His royal anger had swept through the town, and left them nothing to do but grieve.
And curse. I heard Lot's name: they had after all been his troopers. But with Lot's name came Arthur's. The lie was already at work, and with time, one could guess, would supersede the truth. Arthur was High King, and the mainspring of good and evil.
One thing they had been spared: there had been no holocaust of blood. Macha's was the only death. The soldiers had lifted the babies from their beds, and ridden off with them into the darkness. Except for a broken head or two, where a father had resisted them, they had done no violence.
So Beltane told me, gasping it out. He met us in the tavern doorway, fully clothed, and trembling with agitation. He seemed not even to notice Lind's presence. He seized me by the arm and poured out his story of the night's happenings. The clearest thing to emerge from it was that the troopers had not long ridden by with the infants.
"Alive still, and crying — you may imagine, Master Emrys!" He wrung his hands, lamenting. "Terrible, terrible, these are savage times indeed. All the talk of Arthur's orders, who is to believe such a tale? But hush, say nothing! The sooner we are on the road, the better. This is no place for honest traders. I would have gone before this, Master Emrys, but I stayed for you. I thought you might have been called on to help, some of the men were hurt, they say.
They will drown the children, did you know? Dear gods, and to think that only today...Ah, Casso, good lad! I took the liberty of saddling your beasts, Master Emrys. I made sure you would agree with me. We should go now. I have paid the landlord, all's done, you may settle with me on the road...And you'll see I bought mules for ourselves. I have meant to for so long, and today with the good fortune at the castle...What a mercy, what a mercy! But the pretty lady, who could have thought — but no more of that here! Walls have ears, and these are dreadful times. Who is this?" He was peering short-sightedly at Lind, who clung to Ulfin's arm, half fainting. "Why, surely — is it not the young damsel —?"
"Later," I said quickly. "No questions now. She is coming with us. Meantime, Master Beltane, thank you. You are a good friend. Yes, we should go without delay. Casso, shift the baggage, will you, please? The girl will ride on the pack-mule. Ulfin, you say you have a friend in the guardhouse. Ride ahead, and talk us through. Find which way the troop
ers went. Bribe the guards if you have to."
As it happened, there was no need. The gates were just being closed when we got there, but the guards made no difficulty about letting us through. Indeed, from the muttered talk that could be overheard, they were as shocked as the townspeople at what had happened, and found it quite understandable that peaceful traders should pack up hurriedly and leave the town in the middle of the night.
A short way down the road, out of earshot of the guardhouse, I drew rein.
"Master Beltane, I have business to see to. No, not back in the town, so have no fear for me. I'll join you later. Do you ride on to the tavern we stayed at on our way north, the one with the bush of broom outside. Remember? Wait for us there. Lind, you will be safe with these men. Don't be afraid, but you will do well to keep silent till I return. Do you understand?" She nodded dumbly. "At The Bush of Broom, then, Master Beltane?"
"Of course, of course. I cannot say I understand, but perhaps in the morning —"
"In the morning, I hope, all will be made clear. For now, good night."
They clattered off. I brought my mule's head up hard. "Ulfin?"
"They took the east road, my lord."
So by the east road we went. Indifferently mounted as we were, we would not normally have expected to catch up with hard-riding troops. But our mounts were rested, while Lot's men must needs, I thought, still be using the poor beasts that had borne them from the battlefields in the south.
So when, after half an hour's riding, we caught no glimpse, nor heard any sound of them, I drew rein, and turned in the saddle.
"Ulfin. A word with you."
He nudged his mule alongside. In that windy darkness I could not see his face, but something came from him that I could sense. He was afraid.
He had not been afraid before, even at Macha's cottage. And here there could only be one source of fear: myself.