Sir Ector moved forward and knelt before the King’s chair, but Uther hardly noticed him, so intent was he on scanning the three youngsters.
“And these are my sons,” Sir Ector said. “Cei, of my own blood, and Bedivere and Arthur, whom I have fostered until you should need them.”
The boys came forward, one at a time, and knelt before the High King. He dismissed Cei with a nod, but continued to scrutinize Arthur and Bedivere closely. And when Merlin called Bedivere forward, Uther’s gaze was so intense, it was all the boy could do to keep from shaking.
“And what is your lineage?” the King inquired as Bedivere knelt before him, staring at the hand with the Dragon Ring.
“I am an orphan, M’lord, whose parents were killed by raiders when I was very young,” Bedivere said, bracing himself to meet the High King’s eyes. “Sir Ector took me in, to be company to his son, Cei, and the fosterling, Arthur.”
Somehow Uther divined that this was not the child he was seeking. Perhaps some slight shake of the head passed between him and Merlin. All Bedivere knew was that he felt the change of the High King’s attention, like the sun going behind a cloud, even before Uther turned toward Arthur.
Merlin called the other foster brother forward, and there was a moment of utter silence when, after kissing the Dragon Ring, Arthur looked steadily into Uther’s eyes and announced that he had no idea who his parents were.
“You have brightened this bleak day, and brought hope such as I never expected,” the High King said, leaning back among his cushions with a sigh. His face was flushed and bright, and one of his attendants came forward with a cup, but Uther shook his head and gestured the man away.
“It’s not medicine I want now, only time. Only a little time.” He tore his gaze from Arthur’s face and glanced at the rest of Ector’s party as though wondering why they were still there. “Leave the boy with me,” he ordered, and looking directly at Merlin added, “You are to be much commended for your service, M’lord, and I will speak with you later. For now, I wish to get acquainted with the fosterling.”
So they had left the royal tent and made their way to their own encampment. Sir Ector was silent, and when Cei asked petulantly why Arthur had been singled out for royal favor, Ector shushed him with a reminder not to pry into the actions of his betters. Cei had withdrawn in a huff, sulking crossly as he chewed on a piece of dried meat. Bedivere was more curious as to why their tutor had been received so magnificently than he was about Arthur’s being given special attention; he knew Arthur would tell him all about the audience with the King, but he wasn’t sure the hermit would ever explain.
***
“I waited for Arthur’s return all night long, sleeping lightly and waking to find his cot empty. Indeed, I didn’t have a chance to talk with him again until both the battle and the Declaration were over.”
Bedivere paused, but the scene he had evoked lingered all around us.
“Did Arthur tell you what had happened during his stay with the High King?” I asked when I could no longer control my curiosity, and Bedivere nodded.
Uther had plied the boy with questions concerning his parentage, about which Arthur could say very little, not knowing himself. And the King wanted to hear about his swordsmanship and training, his education, his ideas about the future of Britain, and the attainment of the King’s goals. It seemed clear to Arthur that Uther might have been a solid military leader but he had little by way of vision about his country in a broader sense. Mostly he had been content to do battle with the Saxons and stay in his southern court when not out on the war trail.
The two of them supped together when night came, and Uther insisted that Arthur spend the night on a cot in the royal tent. So the bed was made up, and when the coals of the brazier had been banked and the last of the King’s medicine brought to him, the servants were sent away and Uther began to reminisce about his own younger years.
He talked of the days when he and his brother Ambrosius had returned from Brittany and overthrown the Wolf, Vortigern. And how Ambrosius had called Merlin to him, acknowledging him as his son and giving him a place at court. Together they planned to make Britain strong and whole in her own right, an independent country instead of one tied to the fading fortunes of Rome. It reminded Arthur of the kind of thing his teacher used to talk about, but the fact that the tutor and Merlin might be one and the same did not occur to him.
“We never did get on well, Merlin and I, for all that he is my nephew. I hope,” Uther said suddenly, “that you aren’t all that bookish?”
Arthur grinned and shook his head. Uther seemed satisfied and went on with his musings. “I’ve sometimes wondered if I should have kept the Magician by my side, as Ambrosius did…if things would have gone better with his guidance. But the only venture Merlin and I made together turned out…oddly,” Uther said uneasily, and he stared at the fire for a long time.
“It is rumored that you gave your son into Merlin’s keeping,” Arthur reminded him, and the ailing King nodded.
“It was part of a bargain ill made…or so I have always thought,” Uther answered guardedly, then looked up at his guest. “I’m coming to reconsider that judgment, however, and I no longer regret it. You see, you are that son, and your tutor is Merlin, and you have been brought back to me when I am most in need of help and aid.”
There it was, flat out and indisputable. Arthur stared at the older man, too shocked and surprised to know what to say.
Gradually a dozen questions came to mind, and the two of them talked far into the night, with the sick King showing no signs of weariness and Arthur too stunned and excited to put an end to the conversation, even for sleep. It wasn’t until the messenger arrived with news of the Saxon approach that they realized it was almost dawn.
The scout reported the enemy had been moving through much of the night, no doubt planning to surprise them in camp at dawn. Uther sent him off with the message to rouse the troops and prepare to intercept the enemy in a spot of their own choosing.
“I had thought to present you to the army this morning,” Uther said, nodding to Arthur, “but I suppose it can wait until after we take care of this band of barbarians. Just stay beside me during the battle, boy, and we shall come through together. Oh, my dear son, there is nothing that is impossible for us, now that you are here!” the ailing King cried out, filled with renewed hope.
So Arthur rode into battle with the High King, mounted on one of the King’s own horses and wearing the same plain white wool garments he had traveled in. Later he told Bedivere there’d been no time to change, and when he strapped on his old belt and sword, he was sure the whole thing was a dream, and any moment he’d wake up in his bed at home.
***
“I suppose,” Bedivere concluded in his wry way, “that one could say it was the beginning of a dream none of us have wakened from yet.”
I smiled at that and was going to ask him what had happened next, but we were approaching the ford of a sizable stream, and he went off to oversee our crossing while I thought about the story he’d recounted.
Events I had known about only at a distance were taking on a dimension I’d never thought of before, and Bedivere was fleshing out figures I’d perceived only in shadow form. It was fascinating, and I waited eagerly for the lieutenant to return and continue his tale.
Chapter XIV
The Declaration
What happened during the battle?” I asked Bedivere as soon as he had come back to my side. He looked at me blankly for a moment, then grinned.
“Uther’s last battle? A whole lot, and depending on whom you listen to, it was either good or bad. The best I can do is tell you what I personally saw and let you decide from there.”
I nodded, eager for him to resume the story, and after a moment he did.
Urien knew his country thoroughly, and had advised King Uther well, for when the troops were drawn into position they could look down on a shallow valley that funneled up to the small pass where the track
ran. Trees provided cover to the right and left, and there were rumpled rocks on either side. The Saxons would have to cross the open valley below without protection on their flanks. It was a spot no army would want to fight in unless they held the high ground.
The Saxons came on at a loping trot, the kind that covers ground well. Each man bore a shield slung over his shoulder, which left him free for easier movement, but not quite ready for combat. Most likely they had heard that Uther was an ailing leader and so did not expect to find him waiting for them.
The enemy came to a straggling halt as soon as they saw the British forces in the little pass. Incredibly, the ravaged King was in the front ranks, leading his army from a chair specially built to be carried on the shoulders of four men. He held the Sword of State naked for all to see and was the very picture of an indomitable warrior defending his realm against an invading army.
The peaceful glen was suddenly filled with shouting and raging on both sides, and Uther had the war horns sounded while the Saxons scrambled to establish their wedge pattern. Those with swords and helmets were in the van, while the men with battle-axes formed the center. Wave after wave of them bunched into a solid mass, round shields hastily brought into place as the central body of Uther’s troops surged forward and down upon them.
Astride one of the royal horses, Arthur remained next to the High King throughout the encounter, using his body and weapons to shield Uther’s sword side. “Thank goodness,” he told Bedivere later, “this group didn’t use those wicked little throwing axes so popular among the Franks. The King would have been an easy target, lifted as he was above the press of battle.”
Being mounted, Arthur himself stood out in the midst of the screaming, grunting, surging wave of brutality. He shone in his white raiment like a ray of sunlight and became the rallying point for the warriors struggling in the muck of blood and filth below.
In the midst of the tumult few stopped to wonder who he was or where he came from. It was enough to see him, bright and quick as a young god, breaking the force of the Saxon foe. The men hearkened to his enthusiasm, taking up the war cry and rushing into the gaps that began to appear in the Saxon wedge.
Bedivere fought his way toward Arthur, slashing and parrying on all sides, too excited to see the arms and legs and spilt brains that were being trodden underfoot. He came up on Uther’s shield side, adding his weight to the press of men that kept the howling mob away from the litter, and suddenly the man ahead of him went down, both legs severed below the knees. A long ash pole came free of the wounded man’s grasp and began a slow, lethal pivot across Bedivere’s line of vision.
Bedivere reached up to fend it off, not yet realizing it was the Banner. But as he felt the weight of the standard plunge earthward, a shock of recognition went through him and he fought against the pull until it was balanced again, risen from its dip toward the blood-soaked mud and offal. Dropping his sword, Bedivere continued to steady the Red Dragon for the rest of the battle.
Arthur had glanced over as the Banner started to fall, and in that moment he was set upon and only just brought his sword up in time to deflect the blow of an ax. The Saxon weapon caught the blade and sent it spinning from his grasp.
There was a moment of horror among the ranks when the Britons saw their young hero suddenly naked and vulnerable to the enemy.
The High King raised himself in his chair, calling out, “Here, boy!” and handed over the Sword of State there in the sight of all.
A great cheer went up from the men when they saw Uther’s action, and within minutes the Saxon force had been split in two, with Uther’s men sweeping down from the forest cover to attack their flanks. The enemy milled about, trying to hack their way through to some path of escape, then began to thin as those to the rear turned tail when they saw clearly that the day had been lost. Within the half-hour the British had taken the valley and were turning the victory into a rout.
The men surrounding the High King were so intent on the battle, they saw and heard nothing else until a lieutenant rode up, requesting further orders, and drew back in consternation. Uther sat upright, propped or perhaps strapped in his chair, a grimace of amazement frozen on his face. The jaw had gone slack and the glazed eyes stared at nothing. In all the screaming, howling roar of carnage no one had noticed when Uther died.
The shock that swept through the knot of men surrounding the High King’s chair threatened to send his troops into confusion and lose the victory they were so close to claiming.
“Have we enough fresh men to pursue the Saxon stragglers?” Arthur called across to the lieutenant, and when the man nodded, Arthur swept his arm up, brandishing the Sword of State. “Then have the aurochs horns sound,” he cried. “The Saxons must not learn the King has died.”
The lieutenant saluted, and Arthur thrust his way forward, spearheading a party that swept after the routed enemy while the rest of the men limped back to camp, sore and tired but full of the brimming excitement that follows victory.
Merlin, who never bears arms in battle but whose presence ensures success, appeared from nowhere to escort the High King’s body to the royal tent. And when Arthur returned from the battlefield he strode to the front of the pavilion and took charge of the milling men.
Lieutenants came and went, asking directions of the young stranger as if he were their natural leader, which in a way was true. He responded to them all, asking quick questions and giving sure answers as though this were a campaign that he himself had planned. He had been slightly wounded, but bound the cut with a strip of cloth and refused to retire until all the details had been seen to. No one thought to challenge his right to do so, and it was only later that voices were raised in question.
The Magician called for the entire army to gather at the High King’s tent come eventide, and when all were assembled the branched torches were brought out and lit. They guttered slightly in the breeze that played with the smoke from the cooking fires and occasionally ruffled the edges of the Dragon Banner, which had been returned to its place of honor. Like an echo of the flickering shadows, murmurs and questions ran through the men, quieting only when the tent flap opened and Merlin led Arthur out for all to see.
“Warriors, heroes, survivors of this day’s death, hear me,” the Enchanter cried, stirring the evening with his majestic voice. “I bring you a report of sadness and much joy. Uther Pendragon, High King of Britain and leader of your armies, has died this day. Died in battle, surrounded by glory and defending his country. This was no man cut down by enemy swords, robbed of his life by the foes who wished to steal his realm. He suffered no wounds, lost no blood, and met death in victory, not defeat. This was a man who gave even his last strength over to his people, and much honor shall attend his name.”
There was a pause as each paid silent tribute to the king who had so recently led them. Then Merlin looked out over the assemblage and began to speak.
“I would have you know that Uther died in joy, with the knowledge that a new hero had risen by his side. A hero of his own stock, his own son fighting beside him, protecting his father even as he will protect you, his people. Did you not see this boy always in the thickest part of the press, leading you bravely and surely to victory over the Saxons? And did you not follow him, inspired by his example and glad to have his youth and vigor at your command? I present you that young leader now: Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon and future High King of Britain.”
He turned with a gesture that directed all eyes to where Arthur stood solemnly before the torches. There was much shifting and murmuring as the crowd craned to get a better look.
Arthur was calm and composed, his hands clasped in front of him. Neither Celtic torque nor Roman laurels signified his leadership, yet there was no denying that he looked what he was, the uncrowned hero of the day.
“Proof!” someone cried. “Where is the proof ?”
“In your own eyes, man,” Merlin shot back. “Did you not see Uther hand over the Sword of State to him today? Did you
not see the young warrior assume the role that he was created for? Did you not follow him and his orders, both during battle and afterward?”
The crowd hummed its confirmation of these things, and Merlin raised his voice. “And last of all, am I not proof? Have you not heard, through all these long years, that I was raising the young Prince, teaching and training him to be what we need most sorely, a High King to put the realm to rights and stop the Saxon advance across our land? I, Merlin, Seer of the Crystal Cave, Counselor of Kings and Speaker for the Gods, tell you that this is your destiny made visible. He shall be known for all times as Britain’s greatest king, warrior, and champion, and his name is Arthur Pendragon!”
A cheer rose then, carried forward on the gusting wind, and the Red Dragon of the Banner stirred and stretched lazily against the night sky. The roar from the people subsided only when the wind died down and the dragon folded back upon itself, as though sinking into watchful slumber.
“Hold! I would speak!” came a voice from the shadows, and a stocky chieftain made his way through the crowd to stand before Merlin. “Is this a true Council of Celts to choose a king, or the trick of a kingmaker who wants to establish a Roman-style dynasty?” he demanded.
Merlin’s face was impassive, and he stared at the speaker with neither respect nor disdain. Then he looked out at the army and announced formally: “King Lot of Lothian and the Orkneys has requested your attention.”
“Fellow warriors, brave men and free,” Lot began, pacing slowly back and forth before the troops. “I come before you to point out that we are in danger of being swept into the acceptance of a young man about whom we know nothing. A boy who has been among us for a bare day, at the most. A lad whose one feat seems to have been the taking of the Sword from the grasp of a sick king too weak and feeble to protest such thievery. A pretender to the throne whose claim is based on the flimsiest of reasons: his supposed bloodline. Have we not seen too well what happens when dynasties are founded? When kings inherit their power rather than earn it? Where is our Celtic freedom which allows us to follow a man well tried in battle, proven in Council, recognized in quality of leadership? I will not be robbed of the right to choose my king, will not be swayed by the spellbinding of a sorcerer, and above all, will not sit idly by to see the High Kingship go to one whose training and concepts are more Roman than Celtic!”
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 13