“Then you must somehow teach him to be worthy of it,” said Morgause, “for that is what he will desire.”
Perhaps, she thought, in rejecting me, Medraut will reject what I taught him. But she found that hard to believe.
Artor was staring out across the lake, his gaze as grey as the troubled surface of the water.
“One thing I would ask of you—” she said aloud. “To take Gualchmai’s daughter with you when you go. She is a wild creature of the moors, not suited by nature for the quiet life we have here. Perhaps Guendivar will be able to tame her.”
“Very well. What is her name?”
“She is called Ninive.”
* * *
At the feast of Christ’s Resurrection, the queen and her household journeyed from Camalot to the Isle of Afallon to hear mass at the round church there. Sister Julia was here, having finally taken full vows as a nun, but to Guendivar, it was as if she walked with the ghost of the girl she had once been. Here, Queen Igierne had set her on the path to her destiny. And now she was woman and queen, but not a mother.
Men were beginning to whisper that that strange boy, Medraut, was Artor’s son. It seemed to Guendivar that they looked on her less kindly now, holding her a barren stock and no true queen. But even the most fertile field will not bear without sowing, she thought bitterly. If she was at fault, it was not because she could not conceive, but because she had not been able to awaken the manhood of the king.
When the service was over, Guendivar walked out of its scented darkness and stood blinking in the sunshine. On this day, the Church forgot its mysteries of blood and sorrow and rejoiced in life reborn, and the world seemed to echo that joy. Above the smooth peak of the Tor, the clouds from last night’s storm hung white and fluffy in a blue sky.
The wind was chilly enough for her cloak to be welcome, but there was a promise of warming weather in the heat of the sun. She could not waste such a day cooped up with a flock of chattering women—but she glimpsed two small heads, one red, one fair, by the horse trough, and began to smile.
“Ceawlin! Eormenric! Come walk with me!” she called.
“Oh my lady, wait—” Netta, the woman who tended the boys, came bustling over. “The wretched children have soaked each other with their splashing and must have dry things!”
Eormenric shook himself like a puppy and Ceawlin looked mutinous as Guendivar bent to touch the cloth.
“They are a little damp, truly, but the day is growing warmer. They will dry off soon enough if they run about in the sun!” She turned to the boys. “Will you escort me, my warriors? I would walk in the orchard for awhile.”
Yipping gleefully, they dashed ahead, then circled back around her. Fox-red Ceawlin had the features of his Belgic forebears, but in thought and speech he was all Saxon. It was Eormenric, in appearance a lanky, blond reincarnation of Oesc, his father, who was most fluent in the British tongue and easy with their ways. That was the doing of Rigana, who had been born a princess of Cantium and now was Cantuware’s queen. Artor had been wise to ask her to send her son to Camalot. The boys had become fast friends.
The apple trees were leafing out, with only a few flowered branches remaining to bear witness to their former snowy glory. Guendivar had pulled one down to smell the scent when she heard a cry behind her.
Ceawlin lay sprawled on the grass, like a doll dropped by some child in play. Eormenric bent over him, then straightened, gazing at Guendivar in mute appeal.
“He fell out of the tree—”
Guendivar knelt. She could feel her own heart thumping alarm as she felt at his throat for the pulse that beat in answer to her own.
“Did he fall on his head?” she asked, sitting back on her heels.
“I think so—” answered Eormenric. “Is he going to die?”
“Not today,” she said, hoping it was true. “But he will have a sore head when he wakes up.” Carefully she felt his limbs.
Ceawlin stirred, whimpering. “Modor. . . .”
It needed no knowledge of Saxon to interpret that. Guendivar settled herself with her back to the tree trunk and gathered the boy against her breast. For a moment she remembered how the priest had wept over the image of Christ’s mother with her dead son in her arms. But this boy would not die—she would not allow it! She tightened her grip on Ceawlin, and as naturally as a puppy, Eormenric snuggled beneath her other arm.
“It will be all right,” she murmured. “All will be well. . . .”
The tree at her back was a steady support, the scent of crushed grass intoxicating. Guendivar leaned into its strength, and suddenly it seemed to her as if she had become the tree, rooting herself in the awakening earth and drawing up strength through her spine. Power welled through her from the depths of the earth to the child in her arms.
Ceawlin stirred again, and this time when his eyes opened there was recognition in his gaze. She waited for him to tense and pull away, but he only sighed and burrowed more comfortably against her.
She steadied her breathing, willing the shift in vision that would show her the spirits of the apple trees. The world began to change around her, but the shift was going too fast. Held in this moment, she went deeper than ever before. She was the solid earth and the warmth of the sunlight, the wind that stirred her hair and the pliant strength of the tree, a woman’s body and the children in her arms, all part of a single whole. Life was reborn from the womb of earth with the springtime as the Christian god came forth from his earthen tomb. And in that moment, Guendivar understood that she was not barren at all.
She did not count the passing of time, but surely the sun had not moved far across the sky when she became aware that someone was speaking. For a time she simply listened to the musical rise and fall of the language, for it was a tongue she did not know. The sound seemed to come from all around her, as if the wind were speaking in the leaves.
“Come to the holy temple of the virgins
Where the pleasant grove of apple trees
Circles an altar smoking with frankincense.”
The words became more distinct, and she realized that now she was hearing the British tongue.
“The roses leave shadow on the ground
And cool springs murmur through apple branches
Where shuddering leaves pour down profound sleep.”
It must be true, thought Guendivar, for Ceawlin, eyes closed and breathing even, had passed into a healing slumber, and even Eormenric lay quiet against her breast. But her expanded soul was returning to the confines of her body. She heard with her mortal senses, therefore the words she was hearing must have some tangible source.
“In that meadow where horses have grown glossy,
And all spring flowers grow wild,
The anise shoots fill the air with aroma.”
She straightened a little, turning her head, and saw a man, his limbs as gnarled and brown as the branches, sitting in one of the apple trees. In that first moment, the sight seemed quite normal, as if he had grown there. And so she was not startled when returning awareness resolved the abstract pattern of bearded face and skin-clad body into the figure of Merlin.
Seeing her gaze upon him, the Druid slid down from the tree and took up the staff that had been leaning against it.
“And there our queen Aphrodite pours
Celestial nectar in the gold cups,
Which she fills gracefully with sudden joy.”
“Heathen words . . .” Guendivar said softly, “for such a holy day.”
“Holy words, first sung for the Goddess by a lovely lady in the Grecian isles. In those days it was the death of Her lover Attis that the women mourned in the spring. The gods die and are reborn, but the Goddess, like the earth, is eternal. You know this to be true—I see the understanding in your eyes.” Merlin came closer and squatted on his haunches, the staff leaning against his shoulder.
“Perhaps . . . but I am no goddess, to be hailed with such words.”
“Are you not?” He laughed s
oftly. “At least you are Her image, sitting there with your sons in your arms.”
Guendivar looked at him in alarm, remembering the sense of union she had experienced only a few moments ago. How could the old man know what she was feeling? The last time he had tried to talk to her she had run from him, but she could not disturb the sleeping boys.
“And you are Her image to your husband’s warriors, their Lady and Queen.”
“But not to my husband,” Guendivar said bitterly.
“All things change, even he, even you. Is it not so?”
“Even you?” she asked then.
He laughed softly, long fingers stroking lightly over the staff that lay against his arm. Its head was swathed in yellowed linen, but she could see now that strange symbols were carved up and down the shaft.
“I have been a salmon in the stream and a stag upon the hill. I have been an acorn in the forest, and the falcon floating in the wind. I was an old man once, but now I am as young as the cub just born this spring. . . .”
It was true, she thought. He had not moved like an old man, though the hair that covered his body was grizzled as a wolf’s pelt, and streaks of pure silver glinted in his hair and beard.
“I think sometimes that I will be old without ever having seen my prime, passing directly from virginity to senility . . .” Guendivar said then.
“Do you believe that to bear in the body is the only fertility? I was a father to Artor, though another man begot him. It is not what you receive, but what you give, that will grant you fulfillment. You must become a conduit for power.”
Ceawlin stirred, and she soothed him with a gentle touch. “How?” she asked when the boy had settled once more.
“You have done it already, when you brought the earth power through the tree. Build up an image of the Lady of Life standing behind you, and you will become a doorway through which Her force can flow.”
Did she dare to believe it might be so? She would have questioned him further, but Eormenric opened his eyes and seeing Merlin, sat up, staring. Ceawlin, disturbed by his motion, began to wake as well.
“What’s he doing here?” whispered Eormenric.
“He is wise in all the ancient magics,” Guendivar answered. “He will make sure that your friend is well. . . .”
And Merlin, taking his cue, rose in a single smooth motion and came to her, passing his hands above the boy’s body and resting them on his brow. Ceawlin, who lay with eyes rolling like those of a frightened horse, whispered something in the Saxon tongue.
“What did he say?” Guendivar asked Eormenric.
“He called the old man by the name of Woden and asked if he had come to take him to his hall . . .”
Merlin grunted and got to his feet. “Nay, child, I am a prophet sometimes, but no god.” He stood looking down at the boy, his face growing grim. “I foresee for you a long life, and many victories.”
His dark gaze lifted to meet hers, and Guendivar recoiled, wondering what it was he had seen. But without another word he turned and strode off and in a few moments had disappeared among the trees.
Guendivar stared after him. If he was not a god, she thought then, still, Merlin was something more than a man.
On a day of mingled sunlight and shadow towards the end of May, the high king of Britannia returned to Camalot. Another year’s storms had weathered the timbers, and the thatching had been bleached by another year’s suns to a paler gold. Artor remembered it half finished, all raw wood and pale stone, but now buildings and fortifications alike seemed to have grown out of the hill.
As always, he approached Camalot with mixed emotions. This was his home, the heart of his power, and here, in perpetual reminder of his greatest failure, was Guendivar. If he had been able to give her children, would she by now have grown fat and frowsy? But he had not, and so she remained in essence virgin, forever young, beautiful, and not to be possessed by any man.
Then they were passing beneath the gate, and the entire population of the fortress surged around him, obliterating thought in an ecstasy of welcome.
It was late that night before Artor and his queen were alone. He found himself grateful that the day had left him physically exhausted. Without the distracting demands of the body, it would be easier to remember the things he had to say.
Guendivar sat in her sleeping shift on the chest at the foot of their bed, combing out her hair. Long habit had taught him not to think of her with desire, but there were times when her beauty broke through his defenses.
She is a woman, he thought, his gaze lingering on the firm curves of breast and thigh, no longer the green girl I took from her father’s hall A woman, the thought went on, who deserves better than I have been able to give. . . .
He paused in his pacing and turned. “My lady, we need to talk—”
She picked up the comb again, features still half-veiled by the golden fall of her hair, but he sensed her attention. Her movement made the lamp flame flicker, sending a flurry of shadows across the woven hangings on the wall.
He cleared his throat. “I told you once that I had a son, but not by whom. I begot him on my sister, when I lay with her, all unknowing, at the rites of Lughnasa.”
There was a charged silence, then the comb began to move once more.
“If you did not know, there was no sin—” Guendivar said slowly, then paused, thinking. “It is that boy Medraut, isn’t it? The youngest son of Morgause who came to you last winter.”
Artor nodded. “I hoped to keep his birth hidden, but the word has gotten around. It may be that he himself told someone the secret. Medraut can be. . . . strange.”
“Do you wish to make him your heir?” she asked, frowning.
“Were he as good a man as Gualchmai, still the priests would never stand for it. Medraut cannot inherit, but men are saying . . . that his existence proves my fertility. Some of the chieftains came to me, suggesting that I should take another queen.”
“Do you wish to divorce me?” Guendivar set down the comb and faced him, her eyes huge in a face drained of color.
“Guendivar—” Despite his will he could hear his voice shaking. “You know better than anyone that the fault lies in me. But it has come to me that by holding you to a barren bed I have wronged you. I thought things might have changed—in the North, I tried to take a girl, but I could do nothing. Morgause has repented, but she cannot alter the past. If you wish it, I will release you from the marriage, free you to find a man who can be a husband to you in fact as well as name.”
She turned away and began once more, very slowly, to pull the ivory comb through her hair. “And if I do, and my new husband gets me with child, and men begin to say that the king has lost his manhood?”
“Be damned to them, so long as you are happy!” What was she thinking? He wished he could see her eyes!
“Then be damned to those who say that I am sterile. I wish no other husband than you.”
Artor had not known he was holding his breath until it rushed out of him in a long sigh. Guendivar set down the comb and began to braid the golden silk of her hair. Her gaze was on the long strands, but he could see the smooth curve of cheek and brow, and her beauty smote him like a sword. The leather straps that supported the mattress creaked as he sat down.
“And I . . . no other queen. . . .” He forced the words past a thickened throat.
Guendivar tied off her braid, blew out the lamp on her side of the bed, and climbed in.
“You have guarded my honor,” he said then. “Now I ask you to guard Britannia. Except for Cataur, I have spoken with all of the princes. I will go to Dumnonia to gather ships, and my army will make the journey to Gallia. When I cross the sea, I want you to rule. I think my treaties will hold, but if they do not, I will leave you Gualchmai to lead the warriors, and Cai to handle the administration. Someone must make our proud princes work together. You have power over men, my queen. The authority will be yours.”
Guendivar raised herself on one elbow. The light of the
remaining lamp seemed to dance in her eyes. “You have given me those two Saxon cubs to raise already, and now you will give me a kingdom to rule?”
“I know of none other to whom I would entrust it,” he said slowly, shrugging off his chamber robe and tossing it to the foot of the bed.
“Then I will be the mother of many,” she said softly, “and watch over the land until you return. But while you are still here, come to bed.” She paused, and for a moment he thought she would say something more, but her gaze slid away from his, and she lay back down.
At the beginning of summer the Isca flowed calmly past the old capital of the Dumnonii. In the riverside meadow where the feasting tables had been arranged, a fresh wind was blowing up off the water, and though Artor could not see it, he thought he could smell the sea. He leaned back in the carved chair that once had graced the home of a Roman magistrate and took a deep breath, seeking the current of fresh air above the heavy scents of roasting meat and ale.
This campaign had been too long in the planning, but this summer, surely, he would see Gallia. On the plain above Portus Adurni his army was gathering even now. He had made all secure behind him. Only Dumnonia remained to settle, and the king was beginning to think that Cataur’s country would be more trouble than the rest of Britannia combined.
“Do not be telling me that this campaign has nothing to do with you!” exclaimed Betiver, who had come back from Gallia to help with the final preparations. “In the North they provided men and horses, as I have heard, and they have far less reason to fear the Frankish power. I have been in Armorica, my friends, and I know well that half the country is ruled by princes from Dumnonia and Kernow. It is your own lands and kin we will be fighting for! The king expects you be to generous with ships and men.”
Artor eyed Cataur, who sat at the other end of the long table, with a grim smile. The northerners might well think it worth the price to be out from under the king’s eye for awhile, whereas the Dumnonians were unwilling to give up the independence they enjoyed across the sea. But that freedom from royal control was a luxury that they could no longer afford.
The Hallowed Isle Book Four Page 7