“No entirely so, I should think.” He twisted the red-gold bracelet on his arm—a dragon, his emblem from now on. “There are, I am thinking,” he said slowly, speaking low as if he feared someone overhearing him, “many who would dearly pay to see this child removed.”
Ygerna gave a little cry.
“True enough,” I replied. “But a king can always protect his own. Besides, it happens so rarely that—”
“Not as rarely as you think,” Uther insisted. “Are you forgetting what happened to Aurelius? These are dangerous times we are living in.” He allowed himself a shrewd smile. “Dangerous men abound.”
“Come to the point. What are you getting at?”
“It would not be safe for the child to remain here.”
“Where would it be safer?”
“You would know, Merlin. You could find a place.”
I will give him his due. When pressed to it, Uther could think on his feet with the best of them. Ygerna saw where the king’s line of reasoning was leading and stepped forward. “He is right, Myrddin Emrys; you could find a place.”
I wondered at this, but I suppose it was only natural, in a way. In her mind, if Uther did not kill the child, someone else would. Even if that could be avoided, the child would surely stand between her and her husband—which was worse. She was only choosing the best of several alternatives, all of them bad: Better to give the child up to a safe obscurity than keep it near her and live in constant fear for its life and resent it for living.
And Uther was right. If Aurelius could so easily be murdered, how much more easily might a defenseless infant be killed? While it was true that the child would be in constant danger from ambitious, proud, and power-mad fools like Dunaut and Morcant and Coledac—and there would be others like them, always, heaven help us!—that was not all Uther was thinking. I understood his mind: let this child be put aside in favor of my own son.
I saw merit in the plan too, though for a different reason. For if something should happen and Uther fail to get an heir for one reason or another, Aurelius’ son would still be alive to step forward. I did not mention this at the time, however.
Ygerna stepped close and laid a hand on my arm. “Please, Myrddin Emrys, find a good place, a safe place for my baby. I could not do this if it were not for you.”
She looked at me with those big, dark eyes, so full of hope and apprehension—it would have been a cruelty to refuse her. It was for the best in any event. “I will do what I can, my lady. But,” I raised my finger in warning, “it must be as I say. And once agreed there can be no going back. Think about it; there is time, you do not have to decide now.”
“No,” she said, “it must be now. I have already decided. I will trust you, Myrddin Emrys. Do what must be done.”
“Yes, I trust you too. Merlin. Whatever you say, we will do.”
Uther could be quite magnanimous when he wished. Why not? He had, so he reckoned, solved his problem and saved his name all in the same brilliant stroke. He was pleased, and proud of himself. There would be more sons, after all. And having once made up his mind, he would be resolved to the end.
We talked some more, and it was agreed that I would come and receive the babe upon its birth—Ygerna did not believe she could part with it otherwise—and take it to be raised in a place that only I would know.
Fair enough. But what seemed a simple matter at the time—the fostering of an unwanted child—very soon developed into a tangled and thorny affair for all involved. For this was no ordinary infant.
* * *
I returned then to Ynys Avallach to await the birth. Pelleas had returned from Llyonesse with distressing news: Belyn was deathly ill and would not last the winter. A new king would be chosen upon his death, of course, but as Belyn left no legitimate heirs the kingship would pass to Avallach’s line: the sons of Charis or Morgian. And since Charis stood in direct line of inheritance from Avallach, more than likely the choice would fall to the first of Morgian’s sons.
The old Atlantean custom of inheritance, developed and refined over countless ages and bound by tradition, was as far removed from the straightforward, simple observances of the Britons as the Isle of the Ever-living from the Island of the Mighty. But Avallach gravely confirmed Pelleas’ assessment that one of Morgian’s offspring would very soon come to power.
“That my brother should die saddens me greatly,” the Fisher King said. “But that Morgian and her spawn should benefit, grieves me more.” He said nothing more about it, brooding in silence for two full days before announcing, “I will go to Llyonesse, and I will ask the brothers of the shrine to accompany me. Perhaps, if we may not ease his suffering in this life, we might at least prevent it in the life to come.”
Charis offered to go with him, as did I, but he replied, “It is better that I go alone. There is much between us that must be spoken—no, I know you would not intrude—but we will speak more freely if we are left alone to do it. The monks will attend to all else we require.”
He did not speak the fear central to his thinking—that Morgian would appear while he was there. If so, Avallach intended to face her and did not want Charis or me anywhere near when that happened.
The Fisher King left the Tor as soon as arrangements could be made and provisions gathered. He took only two stewards as escort, and six brothers from the monastery below the shrine—although the good brothers were educated in swordthrust and spearthrow as well as Latin and the Gospels. Indeed, more than a few monks across the land had worn steel before donning the undyed wool, and it was not accounted a shameful thing at all.
The days turned cool. Pelleas and I hunted for the winter table, riding the hills and wooded vales surrounding the Tor through days crisp as new apples. We watched and waited and sought the signs that would tell us how Avallach fared. But there were none; neither was there any word from Uther.
In the absence of signs we turned to our own affairs: finding a place for Aurelius’ son to live. We were determined to find the safest home possible, but one after another our choices were quickly reduced and we were left with three: Tewdrig in Dyfed, Custennin in Goddeu, and Hoel in Armorica.
I did not seriously entertain the idea of raising the child at Ynys Avallach, although the thought did occur to me. The boy would not benefit from an upbringing that did not fit him for the world in which he must live. “Life on the Tor,” Pelleas pointed out, “has more in common with life in the Otherworld than it does with life in this worlds-realm.”
“It suited me,” I replied.
“Certainly, but I do not think it would suit another.” Pelleas thus confirmed my own misgivings.
“So, we must look to one of the three,” I mused.
“Two,” Pelleas suggested. “Hoel is willing, and though he is getting old, he is a strong and able lord yet. But he is too far away.”
“There is safety in distance,” I remarked.
“Safety from the casual assassin perhaps,” Pelleas agreed, “but not from the most determined. Besides, anyone murder-bent would think of looking there first since Hoel fostered Aurelius and Uther.”
“That leaves only Tewdrig and Custennin,” I mused. “Tewdrig is strong and loyal enough, but Dyfed is surrounded by prying eyes. Morcant and Dunaut are near, and will certainly discover that the child raised in Tewdrig’s care is Uther’s heir.
“While Custennin’s stronghold in the north is far enough away to be free of spies, by the same token it is too far to north to remain as secure as Tewdrig’s.” I held my hands palm up, level, indicating that the balance was even between them. “Which, then, will you choose?”
Pelleas’ brow furrowed in a thoughtful frown. “Why must we choose between them at all?” He brightened as the idea took hold inside him. “Why not let the child be reared in both places depending on time and need?”
“Why not, indeed?”
A sound idea, that. Let the child receive the benefit of both hearths; let him learn the ways of two very different lords a
nd kings. It was inspired.
That decided, I put the matter from me; there was nothing more to be done until the birth. I did not wish to risk sending a messenger to either king; and I could not go myself now, lest at some time in the future my visit would be remembered for what it was—the High King’s counselor arranging fosterage for his heir.
For I had no hope that Uther would succeed in keeping the birth secret. Sooner or later word, like water in an oaken bucket, would leak out. And across the land ambitious men would begin searching for the child.
Nevertheless, satisfied with my plan, I reckoned I need make no further arrangement—until the birth of the babe called me forth in the dead of winter. So, since there was nothing more to be done at the moment, I promptly put the matter from my mind and concerned myself with other affairs.
I will tell you the truth: I did not in those days regard the child in any special way. Despite the hints I had received—the warnings one might say—he was merely an infant that required protection. He was the son of my dead friend, true. But that was all. Other matters were more pressing, or seemed so.
I turned to these and promptly forgot all about the child.
15
In the black month, the bleak month, when cold winds blow snow from the ice-bound north, the month of privation and death in which winter itself dies in the Christ Mass, the babe was born. Birth from death: it is the ancient and holy way of the Earth. I consulted the oaken bowl and stayed up five nights together to view the winter-clean sky. In this way I learned that the time was near.
Pelleas and I traveled to Tintagel and waited a little way off in the woods of the deep glen for the birth. I did not like to go up to the caer itself, for my coming would be noticed and discussed.
For three days we sat wrapped in our cloaks and furs before our small fire of oak twigs and pinecones, waiting. At midnight of the third night, as we sat watching, a strange thing happened: an enormous black bear came out of the woods, padded softly around the fire, snuffling at us warily, and ambled up the trail leading to the caer.
“Let us follow,” I whispered. “Perhaps that fellow knows something that we should also learn.”
We followed and found the bear standing on its hind legs at the edge of the wood, its blackness sharp against the moon-bright snow. The beast’s nose sniffed the seawind and its great head swung toward us as we approached, but the creature did not move. It remained for some little time, standing, looking up at Uther’s fortress, and then, as if making up its own slow mind, lumbered on.
“Hunger has driven it from its lair,” remarked Pelleas. “It goes to find food.”
“No, Pelleas, it goes to honor a birth.” I still remember the look Pelleas gave me, his face white in the moonlight. “Come, it is time.”
By the time we reached the gates, the great bear, by some means—animal strength perhaps—had gained entrance into the caer. The gateman, no doubt asleep at his watch when the beast appeared, had run away to raise the alarm, leaving the gate unattended. Men with torches dashed here and there in confusion while the dogs barked wildly at the ends of their leashes, working themselves into a killing frenzy.
No one saw us slip through the gates and we made our way directly to the hall, and through it to the king’s chamber. Ygerna lay in the room above, her women and a midwife or two gathered with her. But Uther remained below, alone, awaiting the birth.
The sword of Maximus lay unsheathed across his knee.
Uther glanced up as we entered, guilt writ large upon his features for all to see. I had caught him and he knew it.
“Oh, Merlin, you are here. I thought you would be.” He contrived to sound relieved. The sound of the chaos outside had entered with us, and Uther seized on this to aid him. “By the Raven, what is that commotion?”
“A bear has entered your stronghold, Uther,” I told him.
“A bear.” He appeared to ponder this as if the thing bore deep significance for him, then said, “My wife is not delivered of the child. You may as well sit—it will likely be some time yet.”
I motioned for Pelleas to find us some food and drink, and he disappeared behind the hanging hides into the hall. I sat down in Gorlas’ big chair—Uther preferred his camp chair even in chamber—and studied the High King as he sat before me.
“I am disappointed, Uther,” I told him flatly. “Why have you gone back on your word?”
“When did I promise anything?” he flung back angrily. “You accuse me falsely.”
“Tell me I am mistaken then. Tell me that the sword across your knee is not for the babe. Tell me you did not intend to kill it.”
Uther frowned and turned his face away: “By God, Merlin, you hound a man!”
“Well? My apology only awaits your denial.”
“I have nothing to deny! I do not answer to you, Meddler.”
“Does Ygerna know what you intend?”
“What would you have me do?” He jumped up and threw the sword on the table.
“Honor our agreement,” I told him, thinking of many other things I could have said. I was trying to make it easy for him.
Still the High King resisted. As I say, once Uther fastened on a thing, he was loath to give it up. And he had had a long time to work himself up to this. He stalked around the room, glaring at me. “I agreed to nothing. It was all your idea—I never agreed.”
“That is untrue, Uther. It was your idea for me to take the child.”
“Well, I have thought better of it then,” he growled. “What have you to do with this anyway? What is your interest?”
“Only this: that the son of Aurelius, and a blood descendant of Constantine, should not suffer death before he has tasted of life. Uther,” I said gently, “he is your kin. By all laws of heaven and Earth it would be a grievous crime to kill the child. The deed is not worthy of you, Uther—you who let Octa, the son of your enemy, live. How will you justify killing the son of your brother, whom you loved most dearly?”
Uther snarled. “You twist things!”
“I say only what is, Uther. Give it up! If not for the child’s sake, then for your own. Do not think to enter God’s rest with this black deed on your soul.”
The High King stood unmoved, feet apart, glaring balefully, his mouth a firm line. Oh, he could be difficult.
“What is the use, Uther? Where is your gain?”
He had no answer, and made none. Neither did he give in.
“Very well,” I sighed, “I had hoped to persuade you, but you leave me no choice.”
“What will you do?”
“I claim the promise you gave me, Uther. And I bind you with your honor to grant it.”
“What promise?” he asked warily.
“On the night I brought Ygerna out of the fortress, you promised me anything I desired. ‘Even to the half of my kingdom,’ you said, if I would deliver her to you. I fulfilled my half of the bargain, and asked nothing for myself at the time. Well, I make my claim now.”
“The child?” Uther was incredulous. Until this moment he had forgotten that promise. He remembered it full well now.
“The child, yes. I claim the child as my reward.”
Uther was beaten and he knew it. But he was not about to give up so easily. “You are a cunning bastard.” He faced me squarely. “What if I refuse?”
“Refuse me now and lose all honor and self-respect. Your name will become a curse. You will never command a man with authority again. Consider, Uther, and answer: is killing a helpless babe worth that?”
“All right!” He fairly burst with exasperation. “Take it! Take the child and let there be an end to it!”
Presently Pelleas returned with a jar of mead, cups, bread and cheese. He put these on the table and began pouring the cups. “I could find no meat,” he said. “The kitchens were empty.”
“This is enough, Pelleas, thank you.” I turned to Uther and handed him a cup. “I accept my reward, Uther,” I said lightly. “Let us part as friends.”
&nbs
p; The High King said nothing, but accepted the cup in one hand and a bit of bread in the other. We drank and ate together, and Uther calmed somewhat. But as his guilt and anger seeped away, he was left with the shame. He slumped in his chair and became despondent.
To shift his attention to something else, I said, “What has become of that bear, I wonder? Perhaps we should go and see.”
We walked back through the empty hall and outside. The dogs had stopped barking, and I thought by this that the bear must be killed. But no; it lived. The men had it cornered by the fortress wall, where, surrounded by torches and spears, the beast stood reared on its hind legs, its forepaws outspread, pelt bristling, claws extended, fangs bared. The yard was strangely quiet.
A magnificent beast, its dark eyes glinting in the ruddy torchlight. It was cornered but unconquered.
Uther looked upon the bear, and his aspect changed. He stopped and stared. What he saw, I cannot say. But when he moved again, it was as one in a dream: walking lightly, languidly, he made his way to the ring of men, stepping among them on his way to the animal.
“Lord King! No! Stay back!” shouted one of his chieftains. He threw down his spear and made to lay hold of the High King and pull him back.
“Silence!” I hissed. “Let him go!”
My senses prickled to the presence of the Otherworld. I saw everything in sharp relief: the risen moon, the bear, the men holding the torches, Uther, the glinting points of the spears, the stars, Pelleas, the dark hardness of the wall, the stones at my feet, the silent dogs…
It was a dream, and more than a dream. The dream had become real—or reality had become a dream. These times are rare; who is to say where the truth lies? Afterwards men shake their heads in wonder and endure the scoffing of those who were not present. For it cannot be explained, only experienced. But this is what happened:
Uther boldly approached the bear, and the animal lowered its head and dropped onto its forefeet. The High King held out his hand to the beast, and the bear, like a hound recognizing its master, pushed his muzzle into the High King’s palm. With his other hand, Uther stroked the bear’s huge head.
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