Guendivar shook her head. In conversation, Artor had never been one for humor, but in these letters he seemed anxious to amuse as well as to inform her. Indeed, she had learned more of his mind since he went over the sea than when they lived together.
“Summer is almost upon us. I believe that I can get Regalis and Conan of Venetorum to agree to an alliance, and with them, Guenomarcus of Plebs Legionorum. With them behind me, I will count Armorica as secured. The sons of Chlodovechus, having settled matters in Tolosa, are gazing northward, and the Britons who took up land in Lugdunensis have asked our aid.”
That meant that Artor would be fighting soon, might be in battle even now. Guendivar realized that her grip had creased the vellum, and gently let it fall. The king had spent his life in warfare and rarely taken any harm. And now he had Gualchmai. Why should the prospect concern her now? Was it because he was not fighting for Britannia?
From the direction of the city gate came a blare of cow-horns; the babble in the marketplace crested to a roar. Cynric had arrived at last. Guendivar closed her eyes, massaging the skin above her brows. Then she rolled and tied Artor’s letter, stood and called for her maidens to attire her in the stiff ceremonial garments of the high queen.
Robed in a Druid’s snowy white and leaning on Woden’s Spear, Merlin waited behind the high queen’s throne. In almost three years, he had become accustomed to wearing civilized garments once more. Ninive accepted the weight of woven cloth and metal pins when she wanted to run like a wild pony across the moors. For her sake, he could do the same.
Men wondered what deep purpose lay behind his return, but he had no plan, no intentions. In his heart he knew that Ninive was not his daimon incarnate in a maiden’s flesh. But she held him to the human world. He looked at her now, standing with the other girls who served the queen. For a moment their eyes met, and he heard the cry of a falcon soaring above the headlands, and the hushed roar of the sea.
The long chamber where once the magistrates of Durnovaria had held their meetings was beginning to fill. Constantine sat on the south side with the chieftain whose lands lay on the Saxon border beside him. A half dozen of his houseguard muttered behind him, fists straying to their hips and then away when they remembered that they had been required to leave their swords outside.
A side door opened and he saw Guendivar, framed like an icon against the darkness of the passageway. She was mantled in gold, her pointed face framed by the pearl lappets of a Byzantine diadem. But the splendor in which she walked was only a visible focus for the penumbra of power, and men rose to greet her with a reverence that was more than formal. The queen ascended the dais and took her seat, and the two youths who had escorted her, one red as a fox, the other fair, took their places to either side of the carved chair. Eormenric looked about him smiling, but red Ceawlin gazed at the door with a face like carved bone.
The double doors at the end of the hall swung open. Tall men came through it. The flaming hair of their leader was dusted now with ash, but it was bright enough to set an answering flame ablaze in Ceawlin’s eyes.
“Waes hael, drighten. Wilcume!” said the queen, who had learned a little Saxon from her hostages.
Cynric blinked, then brought up his arm in acknowledgment. He and his men wheeled and took their places on the northern wall.
Merlin let his mind drift, the point and counterpoint of complaint and accusation like the mutter of distant thunder. Behind Cynric he could just make out a darker head amongst the fair and brown. The Saxon leader stepped forward, gesturing, and a ray of light from the upper window touched the head of the man behind him with a gleam of bronze. That was no Saxon! Merlin stepped out from behind the queen’s chair, extending other, secret, senses towards the stranger.
As if he had felt the touch, the bronze-haired man straightened and turned, and Merlin recoiled, recognizing, in a face that was a masculine reflection of Morgause, the grey gaze of Artor the king. Any other identity of form or feature might have been put down to their common inheritance from Igierne, but not those eyes, which had come to Artor from Uthir, who was father to him alone.
“Lady, as you have deemed, so shall it be. Eadwulf will bring his kinsmen back from the western bank of the river. We give up our claim to the land—” Cynric’s voice grew louder, and the Dumnonian lords began to grin. “I call your Witan, your council, to witness that we of the West Seax have kept faith with you. In your hall my son has grown to manhood. You have taught him much. Now it is time for him to come back to his own land and learn the ways of the folk that he will one day rule. In exchange, I return to you the son of your king!”
As Medraut stepped forward, a whisper of amazement, of question, of commentary swept the hall like the wind that heralds the storm. Those who remembered the Pendragon were marking the resemblance that identified Medraut not only as Artor’s nephew but as his son. The tablet-woven banding on his dark tunic was all Saxon, like the seax-knife that hung at his side. But the brooch that held his mantle was of Pictish work, and the pride of the House of Maximian shone in his eyes. He halted, and half a hundred glances flickered from his face to that of the queen.
Surely, thought Merlin, Artor must have told her—but for nine years Medraut had been hidden among the Saxons like a hound among wolves. It had been too easy for all of them to forget that one day he would return to hunt with his own pack once more.
If she was surprised, Guendivar gave no sign. Speaking softly, she turned to Ceawlin, and the eagerness burning in his eyes for a moment dimmed as he bent to kiss her hand.
“I will not forget you, lady,” he said hoarsely. Then, as if she had slipped his leash, he bounded to his father’s side.
“And Eormenric”—she turned to the other youth—“you have spent as many years among us as your father did when he was young. I will not keep you here when your companion has gone.”
For a moment the fair lad’s face flamed. “My father loved King Artor,” he said in a low mice. “But my loyalty is given to you. If ever you have need of me, you have only to call.” He bent his head, turned, and went out of the hall.
Cynric and his son had moved a little aside, so that Medraut stood alone. Would the queen welcome him? Would she spurn him? Would she hail him as nephew or son? His face had gone very white, and as he looked at Guendivar, something anguished flickered in his eyes.
Fragmented images fluttered behind Merlin’s vision. He grasped for them, and for a moment glimpsed dark shapes battling beneath the hard light of noon. His spirit reached out for comprehension to the daimon who from childhood had guided him, and in the next moment he found he was staring at Ninive, standing solid and alive beside the queen. For so long he had fled the power of foreknowledge that had haunted his childhood. Now, when he needed it, the only meaning he understood lay in the fair face of one young girl.
Guendivar leaned forward, stretching out her hand. “Come, Medraut—I bid you welcome home”
VI
A WIND FROM THE NORTH
A.D. 513
“MY LADY, A MAN HAS COME—FROM GALLIA . . . .”
Medraut’s voice was quiet, the northern burr worn smooth by his years among the Saxons. Guendivar dropped the ball of embroidery wool she had been winding. As it rolled across the floor, Medraut bent smoothly and scooped it up, handing it back to her with a bow. Since he had been so unexpectedly returned to them, he had become an accepted presence in her court.
The thin lad who had appeared so briefly at Camalot nine years before had never met her eyes. Now she understood why, knowing him for Artor’s son. She was glad that the king had told her himself, and not left her to learn it from gossip, or worse still, from Cynric. If Medraut’s birth troubled him, he no longer let it show. His mother had trained him well, the queen thought wryly—he certainly knew how to make himself useful among the women. But his silent appearances still startled her, and she was no closer to understanding him.
“With news?” It was three months since she had heard from Artor, and
a wet winter was turning into a chilly spring.
“He bears letters, but he is no messenger—”
At the sardonic tone, Guendivar lifted one eyebrow, but to comment would be to admit weakness, and instinct and experience both told her that with this one she must always seem strong.
“Shall I receive him here, or make him wait for a formal audience?” she asked, waiting curiously for his reply.
Since Medraut’s arrival, she had searched her soul, grateful that she had suppressed her first furious impulse to send the boy back to Morgause. He had not asked to be born. Certainly, she thought with some resentment, she could not conceive when the king was in Gallia, even if Artor had been potent in her bed. Medraut was Artor’s only son; even with his ambiguous heritage, he could be Artor’s heir.
“Not here—” Medraut gazed around at the domestic clutter of the Women’s Sunhouse. “And yet, I think this man is one you will wish to bind to your service. His name is Theodoric, a Goth of the kingdom of Tolosa and a man of the sea. Dress richly, but meet him in the garden.”
Guendivar nodded slowly. Whether or not Medraut had the instinct for kingship, he certainly understood how to manipulate men. She glanced at the angle of the sun.
“That is good advice. Just after noon, bring him to me there.”
Guendivar was already waiting on the stone bench beside the lavender bush when Theodoric entered the garden. One forgot that for a hundred years the Goths had been part of the Empire, not always peacefully, to be sure, but living side by side with Romans, learning their ways and their laws. They were even some kind of heretical Christians, she had heard. Certainly this man, tall and weathered by sun and wind though he might be, was no barbarian.
“I am Theodoric son of Theudebald—” The Goth stopped before her, bowing.
The queen rose to meet him, extending her hand. “Praefectus Classis,” she continued in Latin, “be welcome to Britannia. Has my husband given you letters to bring to me?”
“He has, and said that to deliver them safely should be my best recommendation to you. I parted from the lord Artor on the last day of February.” From the case at his side he drew a tubular letter case and held it out to her.
“Truly?” she said, calculating, “then you have made a swift passage. In a moment I will read what he has to say of you, but for now you must tell me about yourself, and why you have come.”
“Lady, I need a home.” A flush stained the bronzed cheeks, but he met her eyes steadily. “The Franks have driven my people over the mountains and into Iberia. The Goths are carving out a new kingdom, but it is all inland, whereas I am a man of the sea. I know how to sail it, how to fight upon it, how to build ships and defend harbors.”
“And Britannia has many miles of coastline, and enemies who attack her from the sea—” finished Guendivar. “Now I understand why Artor sent you.”
He straightened, relieved, but not surprised at her understanding. What, she wondered, did Artor tell him about me?
“What remains of the Gothic navy waits at Aquilonia—five vessels with their crews and captains who will sail at my command. I offer it to you.”
“Our most present danger is the Irish, who attack the coasts of Demetia at will. Make your base at Glevum—I will send to the lord Agricola, who rules Demetia, to provide you with supplies. With your skills and his resources, we may hope to dislodge the Irish who have settled there and discourage them from trying again. Does that sound well to you?”
“It does indeed,” he breathed. “I will write to my men immediately, and my ship can carry any messages you may have for the lord Artor.” He started to turn, then paused, staring at her. “But perhaps you will want to read the king’s letter first. To take me at my own word like this—you are very trusting.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled. “Although, if I have second thoughts, I can always send riders after you. But I hope that my lord would not have left his land in my charge if he did not trust my ability to read men.”
For a moment longer Theodoric looked at her. Then, once again he bowed, not the courteous inclination with which he had greeted her, but the full reverence he might have made at the court of an emperor.
“Domina, I came here hoping to find safe harbor. But I have also found a queen. . . .”
Guendivar felt her own cheeks growing warm, but managed a gracious nod. “Medraut—” she called. She had not seen him, but she suspected he would not be out of earshot, and indeed it was only a moment before he appeared. “Escort our new admiral and help him to whatever he needs.”
When he had gone, she sat down on the bench once more, and with fingers that trembled a little, opened the leather tube and pulled out the vellum roll inside.
“My lady, I must write swiftly, for Theodoric wishes to catch the morning tide. He has a good reputation among the Goths, and seems a sensible man, but we here have no need for a navy. I give him to you for the defense of Demetia. Use him well.
“The Franks have marched more swiftly than I expected, despite the rain, and our supplies are getting low. Whatever you can send will be very welcome. The sons of Chlodovechus quarrel among themselves, but they can combine efficiently enough when they recognize an enemy. So far Theuderich, the eldest and most experienced among them, is still holding onto the leadership, even though he is not the son of Queen Chlotild, but of a concubine.
“Yesterday they brought us to battle, a hard-fought, muddy encounter that left no clear victor. We did not retreat—perhaps that may be counted as a victory. But it was costly. My nephew Aggarban was killed in the fighting, and there are many wounded.
“Riothamus still lives, but he is failing. Soon, I fear he will leave us, and I will have to decide whether or not to claim his sovereignty. I care for these people, and I believe that many of them have come to look to me with love and loyalty. But this is not my land. Last summer my journeys took me deep into Gallia, and there I found a town called Aballo, which in our tongue is the same as Afallon, the place of apples. And I closed my eyes, and saw the vale and the Tor so clearly I nearly wept with longing to be there. And you were there, standing beneath the apple trees.”
There was a break in the writing there, as if he had been distracted, or perhaps too overcome to continue. Guendivar found her own eyes prickling with unshed tears, and shook her head. How can you write such things, she wondered angrily, and not come home to me? Wiping her eyes, she picked up the scroll once more.
“You will have to tell Medraut about his brother’s death. About the boy himself, I do not know what to say. I did not understand him that season he was with me, and I cannot imagine what nine years among the Saxons have made of him. I can only trust that the powers that protect Britannia had some purpose in bringing him to birth.”
Once more there was a space. The writing that followed was smaller, and precise, as if he had been exerting all his control.
“You, my queen, are the one most wronged by his existence. If you, of your charity, will keep him by you I will be grateful, but if it seems better, send him away. I leave him in your hands.”
There was a blot on the page, as if he had started to write “I wish . . .” and then crossed it out. Beyond that she saw only the scrawled letters of his name.
“I wish!” Guendivar repeated aloud, glaring at the page and wondering whether this was trust or desperation. Should she be honored or angry? Either way, Medraut was her problem now. She would have to make another attempt to talk to him.
Artor, Artor, you have been too long away. What will it take to bring you home again? She rolled up the vellum and slid it into its case once more.
Guendivar had intended to talk with Medraut that evening, but just as they sat down to their meal a messenger arrived. He was from King Icel, his news an attack on Anglia by raiders from the northern land that is called Lochlann in Eriu, and by the Romans Skandza. They had picked their way through the shoals of the Metaris estuary and struck southward through the fens, burning farmsteads and carrying off live
stock, goods, and men. Icel did not precisely ask for aid— he had, after all, been given those lands on the understanding that he would defend them—but the implication that he would welcome some support was clear.
“Otherwise, he would have simply reported his victory,” said Cai. “We must send a troop—enough men so they will know we have not abandoned them. I can raise some from my own country, and perhaps the Dumnonians—”
“Will send no men to aid Saxons, as you know very well!” Guendivar interrupted him. “And you are not going to lead them, whoever they are. I need you here!”
That was not entirely true, but Cai must know as well as she did that he was in no condition for campaigning. He did not protest her decision, and that worried her. In the past year he had grown short of breath, and his high color was not a mark of health. Cai refused to discuss his condition with her or with Merlin. To keep him from exhausting himself further was the most she could manage.
“The messenger will need a day or two to recover. I will think on what we may do.”
The queen was still worrying over the problem that evening when Medraut knocked at the door of the accounting house.
For the first time, she regretted allowing Gualchmai to go to Gallia. Or Theodoric to depart for Demetia—but the Anglians would not have been impressed by a Goth newly come to Britannia, no matter how good his navy. And she dared not send a Dumnonian prince, who was as likely to encourage the Northmen to attack Icel as to defend him. She needed someone of unquestioned British background who could deal with the Saxons.
“They are saying,” said Medraut as he entered, “that my brother Aggarban is dead.”
Guendivar set down the tax rolls she had been pretending to examine. “It is so. He died from wounds taken in battle. I am sorry.”
Medraut shrugged. “He was some years older, and left home when I was only five years old. I did not know him well.”
There was an uncomfortable silence.
The Hallowed Isle Book Four Page 10