The Hawk's Gray Feather

by Patricia Kennealy-Morrison

  But the folk to whom he had made this ringing pronouncement had so far received it in absolute silence, and for one terrible moment I thought that perhaps they would refuse to accept Arthur as prince. I glanced at Ygrawn, but she was watching Uthyr and did not see my look, or sense the fear that prompted it.

  I glared out over the hall, in some insane thought of shaming them, and saw as I did so that I had been mistaken: The silence had not been the silence of denial, but the silence of those too greatly moved to make response. Many of those present had known and loved Amris well, and, far from rejecting his son, they were looking on the boy and seeing, through their tears, his father whom they had lost.

  Then like a slow-building earthquake came at last that which I had waited to hear: a rustle that grew to a murmur that grew to a shout that shook the stone of the cavern and the hearts of all within—shouts of "Arthur!" and "Amris!" and "Uthyr!" and other cries of approval and delight. It seemed that the folk of Keltia—at least those few thousands of them here in Coldgates—rejoiced as greatly as did their King to find another and unexpected branch of the Doniaid, and were no more reluctant than he to show their joy.

  Uthyr had been gesturing vainly for silence again and order, but only after many minutes did the delirium subside so that he might be heard.

  "I know you have many questions, and in the next days I promise that they shall be answered every one of them. For now, I have but two things more to say: First, that I honor the Lady Ygrawn Tregaron, daughter of Bregon Duke of Kernow, as ban-charach to my brother and mother to my nephew, and therefore do name her second lady in the land by right of that, to give place only to the Princess Gweniver"—Ygrawn, whom very little ever took by surprise, was surprised, but recovered herself at once and bowed gracefully to Uthyr from her chair—"and second, that before all here assembled I raise my nephew to the rank of heir-presumptive to the Throne of Scone: Arthur Pendreic, Prince of the Name, to follow in the line of right succession the Tanista Gweniver, daughter of Leowyn King of Kelts and Seren his Queen. So say I, Uthyr King of Kelts."

  And saying so, Uthyr took Arthur's hand and set upon the midfinger the seal-ring of Amris Pendreic: a great balas ruby with the stag of the Doniaid carved inghearrad into its polished table.

  If the cavern had been silent following Uthyr's first pronouncement, that silence had been the din of war-horns by compare to what hush now fell; I have never heard, before or since, so swift and heavy and complete a quietness. It choked the chamber like a sudden fall of snow, thick and settled, muffling movement as well as sound. Clearly the raising of this newfound royal kinsman to the rank of Prince of the Name—two places from the throne itself—was a rather different matter from his mere proclaiming as one born of the righ-domhna.

  For my part I was not much distressed by the general reaction—they would all come round in time, once they had thought on it awhile—but Arthur's response was to leave me as staggered as his naming had left the crowd.

  I have not yet said how he looked that night. Oh, he was dressed princely enough—velvets and leathers and a heavy gold tore—and certainly his bearing was that of a prince; but then it had always been. He was handsome as ever, eyes bright, hair thick and shining to his shoulders, and all at once I could trace in his face the bones and lineaments that had never come to him from Gorlas. Though I had never seen Amris Pendreic—not so much as a hologram portrait of him—I suddenly knew his features as they blended with Ygrawn's there on Arthur's countenance; Uthyr I saw there too, and Darowen Ard-rian, and even Gweniver's likeness showed plain in his face.

  But chiefly I saw Arthur, who was all and none of those; and on that face I knew better than my own I read many things: pride, aye, and excitement, he would not have been human had he felt any less. I do not know what others may have discerned there—Merlynn and Ygrawn would not be seeing the same things as Uthyr or I—but what I saw now shining from Arthur's face like the light from the sacred stones was something just as ancient and every bit as holy.

  It was his acceptance of that mystic compact that is between prince and people, that unspoken mutual oath sealing ruler and realm. Not enough to be born to it: The thing must be made in full knowing and by free choosing; without it, all the royal blood in all the worlds may course through one's veins, and it will make no smallest differ that it does so. And though a king or queen be crowned ten times over, it is this first, deepest, acceptance that is the true sacring, and in the end the only one that matters.

  So I watched Arthur as in silence he covenanted himself to his people, and saw that they had not yet decided that they should likewise bind themselves to him; and still I was not troubled. Now, however, Arthur had risen to his feet, and in the throbbing hush he bowed to Uthyr and to Gweniver and to his mother, and turned, head held high, to face the folk.

  They had not been expecting him to speak, and as he looked out upon them to command their attention, they stared back at him with something approaching hostility, as if it were some obscure outrage that he should dare address them.

  He ignored it, and, hand clenched shut upon his father's ring, he began to speak. If his words were less brief than his uncle's, his voice was deeper and stronger, riding easily over the low murmurous undercurrent of comment that was running through the cavern.

  "I presume to address you by right of the blood of the House of Don my lord uncle the Ard-righ has just now by his grace acknowledged." His voice grew more confident as he relaxed into the moment, sensing his power to control them, and the note of challenge lessened.

  "Until today I had not known the truth of my birth. Those who are wiser far than I deemed it best kept secret, as they have now deemed it better that I—and you—should learn otherwise. Yet that secrecy did save my life; without its long shelter I should not now be standing here among you. But I am here"—his voice rang out in the perfect silence, like the hai atton that rallies the hosts—"and by grace of the Highest God I will use my poor gifts to do honor to that House of which I am sprung, or perish in the trying. Yet I wish also to do honor to him whose love and protection preserved me these fifteen years past''—here Ygrawn sat up very straight in her seat, and Gweniver for the first time lifted her gaze to look at him—"And so I say that although Uthyr Ard-righ has given me to bear the name of Pendreic, and I thank him for that as for all things, I remain Arthur Penarvon and will be called so, by right of the man who will ever stand to me as the only father I have known—Gorlas, Lord of Daars."

  He ceased speaking, and his eyes went at once to Ygrawn. He had won his gamble—I had felt the instant when the hearts of the folk had changed, when they reached out and took the covenant that he had made with them, and pledged it back again—but neither he nor Ygrawn heeded it, looking only upon each other; he a little hesitant, as if wondering had he done aright, she triumphant, tears on her cheek but her smile brilliant with love and pride.

  Then Arthur's gaze moved on to me, and I knew by the sudden softening round his mouth, and the sudden crinkling round his eyes, that he saw in my face what I had meant for him to see: indeed, all there was to be seen just then—pride and love as had been in Ygrawn's eyes, but added to those a brother's respect and a bard's approval.

  His glance went then to Uthyr, with a subtle new deference and dawning affection, and already a prince's distance seemed drawing in around him. And Arthur looked then at Merlynn, and though I could not see my fostern's face, I could see our teacher's; and I looked away, for what I saw there was not for me to see.

  And last of all Arthur looked at Gweniver. So did I, to see the Princess's answering look, and for the second time in that day that had been one long astonishment I was astonished at the unguarded truth that stood upon her face.

  She was staring at Arthur as though seeing in him something she had never imagined possible—much as a hawkmaster who has found an eagle chick in a nest of partridges, or a huntsman seeing a wolf cub suckling amongst a lapdog litter. And though she plainly hated what she was seeing, she was hone
st enough to respect it and brave enough to show that respect; and I think I never in all our lives after had greater admiration for the Princess Gweniver than I had that night.

  And so I was astonished for the third time, as Gweniver rose from her chair and reached her hand to Arthur, and Uthyr stepped back a little that they might meet the closer. Then Arthur bowed deeply to her and kissed her hand, and in front of all that company Gweniver the Tanista curtsied to the Prince of the Name of Don.

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  I know what you are already thinking; and be very sure that the rest of Coldgates, once the thunderclap surprise of Arthur's naming had ceased reverberating in the stone, was not far behind you in thinking it.

  It was in all truth too perfect not to be thought of: Here were a princess and a prince both of the ancient line of Don, scarce a year apart in age, both healthy and handsome and quick of mind and tongue. What could be more fitting than that they should wed when they had reached an age for it, and so seal the bloodline and unite the claim each might otherwise make in the other's despite upon the Crown?

  Well, it is not so wild a thought, and you need not blush for having it. Crowns, and lesser things beside, have been saved before now by just such managed measures. Though it is not usual in Keltia for first cousins to wed, neither is it unknown; nor by any means forbidden, or even too much frowned upon when it does occur. Of course the perils of inbreeding are well understood, but there are in the event precautions that can be taken to mitigate those. Any road, the general opinion was that a single close match would not unduly endanger the royal gene pool, and this particular match, close though it might be, would solve a good many problems. Perhaps even as many as it would make…

  The one problem no one seemed able to solve was that of bringing the two principals together in the first place. Despite that pretty show in the great hall, neither Arthur nor Gweniver could abide the other for more than five minutes running. The apparent truce between the Princess and the new Prince had barely lasted through the feast that had followed the aonach—a most discomfortable meal—and since that night hostilities had flared out into open warfare more often than peace had prevailed.

  Oh, they were skilled enough at covering their dislike, particularly in the presence of the King; indeed, so much so that Uthyr was the first to begin speculating on a possible future match. The rest of the shieling, with perhaps more opportunity than the King of observing matters first-hand, kept a more judicious perspective—though of course hoping passionately that all might work out to the general will. Folk are such sentimentalists at heart, even—especially—in the teeth of the facts… Ygrawn, who knew best of any, confined herself for the moment to remarking only that Amris would have seen straight through it, Leowyn would have forbidden it, but Uthyr had ever loved happy endings.

  A dangerous indulgence, as would in time be shown; but just now it did no great harm, and it made him happy. Gods knew little enough else did…

  As I had expected, and had gone so far as boastfully to predict to a disbelieving Arthur, it took hardly any time at all before he had become the darling of the shieling. Partly this swift and sweeping acceptance was due to Uthyr's determination that Arthur should have his rightful place; and though the King's resolve was no small factor, in the end it was Arthur's own determination that he should rather earn that place which made him so soon a part of the people's hearts.

  All the same, some there were in Coldgates who were not above some mean-spirited gibing; taunts that were meant to reach Arthur's ear, and did, to the effect that he was already a prince proclaimed, so why bestir himself to make show of substance.

  But that was not Arthur's way, not then, not ever; and as for the gibes he paid not the least attention. At Daars he had forced folk to judge him on his merits and his faults, as anyone should be judged, and had asked allowance for neither birth nor title. How much more so now, here: He would prove himself as himself, not as Amris's son or Uthyr's nephew or Darowen's grandson; and those who sought to test him, thinking to find a soft princeling and a cheap victory, learned otherwise to their extreme, and immediate, sorrow.

  Despite the trials of Arthur's new position, or mine as his foster-brother—as such I came in for my fair share of scuffles defending his honor or my own—our new life swiftly swung into a pleasant daily routine very much like to the one we had known at Daars.

  Our lessons continued as before, with Merlynn and Elphin and Scathach; but now we had access to other teachers, and resources undreamed of, and fellow students to challenge us and chaff us. And in those classes and friendly competitions, and most particularly in those contests that were not so friendly, we learned much, and met many who would suffer with us a long and harsher schooling still: friends like Tarian Douglas, future Princess of Scots; or Grehan Aoibhell, heir to the Prince of Thomond; or Elen Llydaw, whose mother owned half the planet Arvor. Friends of humbler estate as well, I hasten to add; Arthur was throughout his life the last person in Keltia to hold high birth as requisite for his friendship, and as for me—well, no bard ever born was a respecter of rank. We had many friends, and dearly loved ones, whose nobility lay only in their hearts. It was simply that as Coldgates was the most secure of the Counterinsurgency's strongholds, here had been sent for safekeeping many heirs of high and wealthy kindreds—even as Arthur and I had been sent—and out of sheer proximity those furnished our first friends, though scarce the last; or the only.

  Others Arthur soon met who would stand to him in vastly different aspect: Uthyr was wasting no time in acquainting his nephew with the business of statecraft, and not a week after Arthur's creation as Prince of the Name, he was introduced to some of those who helped that business to be conducted.

  It may sound strange to say it, but even a throne in exile and eclipse must be served and maintained by courtiers: As Uthyr was a shadow High King, there were also in the shieling, and elsewhere, those who constituted what might be likewise termed a shadow Council.

  These were the mighty among the Counterinsurgency, those who had thrown their lives and fates and fortunes in with the House of Don, for good or for ill. For the most part they were not soldiers, but neither were they courtiers for empty show: Though a king in exile may need fewer advisors round him than one who is safe enthroned, by dint of his doubtfuller position he needs far better ones, and beyond most monarchs Uthyr had an unerring gift for choosing the best.

  Chief among those, as with any ruler, were the planners of policy and of war: Marigh Aberdaron, Uthyr's Taoiseach or First Minister, plotter for the Restoration; and Keils Rathen, Uthyr's war-leader, architect of the means by which that Restoration was hoped to be effected—military victory over Edeyrn. Neither of them noble, their places coveted by those of lesser ability if higher rank, Keils and Marigh had been with Uthyr since his accession; they had served Leowyn before him, had been in their youth friends of Amris. They knew Ygrawn and respected her greatly, and though they loved Arthur for his father's sake as well as his own, they were full ready to be as severe taskmasters to him as ever they could be, and so they proved.

  Even Arthur saw the justice in that, though it did not stop him bitterly lamenting it. "It is training, Talyn," he said defensively one day, when I had rebuked Keils—in the warlord's absence, you may be sure—for some more than usually harsh assignment. "I must learn, and quickly too; and if I fail, they will have failed."

  "Maybe so," I said, unimpressed. "But I wonder does the Princess Gweniver—the Tunisia Gweniver—work twenty hours and more at a stretch, as I see by your eyes that you have been doing?"

  Arthur murmured some dark oath under his breath and knuckled his tired eyes. "She does not have to, does she… She has been royal fifteen years longer than I; presumably she has learned a thing or two along the way."

  "Oh aye, doubtless she has; what way even a blind horse will pick up the odd mouthful of hay…" I put my fingers on the top edge of the scroll he was studying and walked them up the paper, pulling
it out from under his hands. "Leave it awhile. Statecraft is not well learned by weary princes."

  He laughed, but gently tugged at the scroll, and I allowed him to pull it back again. "That sounds a thing a bard might say—if there were a bard around to say it," he added wickedly.

  I sighed, less for the taunt than for his tiredness, but knew he could not be persuaded to rest, and much against my judgment left him still at work. On my way to my own rooms it came to me that I might profit by some counsel, and I turned in my steps, back the way I had come, to seek it in the usual place.

  He was of course awake when I came to his door—in all the years of our association I do not think I ever once found Merlynn asleep, perhaps he did not trouble to do so; though I do recall seeing him eat and drink, at least once or twice at any rate—and he greeted me as brightly as if it had been three hours past high twelve and not three past middlenight. I pulled a chair from the tableside and sat on it back to front, my chin resting on its carved top.

  "Why is he so set on learning in a year everything Gweniver has learned in fifteen times that?"

  Merlynn marked his place in his reading and considered my question, if not perhaps the tone in which it had been couched, with due gravity.

  "As to that, he is but doing as he has ever done. Has he not always been first to finish a task or read a book or learn a new thing? It angers and troubles him to be ignorant, and he loves to learn for the learning's own sake; what wonder that he should be eager for this new knowledge? Besides, he needs to know, and knows he needs: Uthyr comes to rely on him more and more, as you have seen."

  I had seen; I liked it but little, and I said as much now. "And any road," I added, "he will never be King, so why does he tax himself so?"

  Merlynn gave me that very particular glance of his—the one that is perfectly without expression yet still seems somehow to suggest that you have been very stupid indeed—but said nothing, and after a moment or two I capitulated to the glance as I always did.