by Mary Stewart
"He's dead."
Something in his tone made me cock an eye at him over the bandaged wrist. "You hated him as much as that? No, don't answer, I guessed as much back there, young as I was. Well, I shan't ask why. The gods know I didn't love him myself, and I wasn't his slave. What happened to him?"
"He died of a fever, my lord."
"And you managed to survive him? I seem to remember something about an old and barbarous custom —"
"Prince Uther took me into his service. I am with him now — the King."
He spoke quickly, looking away. I knew it was all I would ever learn. "And are you still so afraid of the world, Ulfin?"
But he would not answer that. I finished tying the wrist. "Well, it's a wild and violent place, and the times are cruel. But they will get better, and I think you will help to make them so. There, that's done. Now get yourself something to eat. Cadal, do you remember Ulfin? The boy who brought Aster home the night we ran into Uther's troops by Nemet?"
"By the dog, so it is." Cadal looked him up and down. "You look a sight better than you did then. What happened to the druid? Died of a curse? Come along then, and get something to eat. Yours is here, Merlin, and see you eat enough for a human being for a change, and not just what might keep one of your precious birds alive."
"I'll try," I said meekly, and then laughed at the expression on Ulfin's face as he looked from me to my servant and back again.
We lay that night at an inn near the crossroads where the way leads off north for the Five Hills and the gold mine. I ate alone in my room, served by Cadal. No sooner had the door shut behind the servant who carried the dishes than Cadal turned to me, obviously bursting with news.
"Well, there's a pretty carry-on in London, by all accounts."
"One might expect it," I said mildly. "I heard someone say Budec was there, together with most of the kings from across the Narrow Sea, and that most of them, and half the King's own nobles, have brought their daughters along with an eye to the empty side of the throne." I laughed. "That should suit Uther."
"They say he's been through half the girls in London already," said Cadal, setting a dish down in front of me. It was Welsh mutton, with a good sauce made of onions, hot and savory.
"They'd say anything of him." I began to help myself. "It could even be true."
"Yes, but seriously, there's trouble afoot, they say. Woman trouble."
"Oh, God, Cadal, spare me. Uther was born to woman trouble."
"No, but I mean it. Some of the escort were talking, and it's no wonder Ulfin wouldn't. This is real trouble. Gorlois's wife."
I looked up, startled. "The Duchess of Cornwall ? This can't be true."
"It's not true yet. But they say it's not for want of trying."
I drank wine. "You can be sure it's only rumor. She's more than half as young again as her husband, and I've heard she's fair. I suppose Uther pays her some attention, the Duke being his second in command, and men make all they can of it, Uther being who he is. And what he is."
Cadal leaned his fists on the table and looked down at me. He was uncommonly solemn. "Attention, is it? They say he's never out of her lap. Sends her the best dishes at table each day, sees she's served first, even before he is, pledges her in front of everybody in the hall every time he raises his goblet. Nobody's talking of anything else from London to Winchester. I'm told they're laying bets in the kitchen."
"I've no doubt. And does Gorlois have anything to say?"
"Tried to pass it over at first, they say, but it got so that he couldn't go on pretending he hadn't noticed. He tried to look as if he thought Uther was just doing the pair of them honor, but when it came to sitting the Lady Ygraine — that's her name — on Uther's right, and the old man six down on the other side" He paused.
I said, uneasily: "He must be crazed. He can't afford trouble yet — trouble of any kind, let alone this, and with Gorlois of all people. By all the gods, Cadal, it was Cornwall that helped Ambrosius into the country at all, and Cornwall who put Uther where he is now. Who won the battle of Damen Hill for him?"
"Men are saying that, too."
"Are they indeed?" I thought for a moment, frowning. "And the woman? What — apart from the usual dunghill stuff — do they say about her?"
"That she says little, and says less each day. I've no doubt Gorlois has plenty to say to her at night when they're alone together. Anyway, I'm told she hardly lifts her eyes in public now, in case she meets the King staring at her over his cup, or leaning across at the table to look down her dress."
"That is what I call dunghill stuff, Cadal. I meant, what is she like?"
"Well, that's just what they don't say, except that she's silent, and as beautiful as this, that and the other thing." He straightened. "Oh, no one says she gives him any help. And God knows there's no need for Uther to act like a starving man in sight of a dish of food; he could have his platter piled high any night he liked. There's hardly a girl in London who isn't trying to catch that eye of his."
"I believe you. Has he quarreled with Gorlois? Openly, I mean?"
"Not so that I heard. In fact, he's been over-cordial there, and he got away with it for the first week or so; the old man was flattered. But Merlin, it does sound like trouble; she's less than half Gorlois' age and spends her life mewed up in one of those cold Cornish castles with nothing to do but weave his war-cloaks and dream over them, and you may be sure it's not of an old man with a grey beard."
I pushed the platter aside. I remember I still felt wholly unconcerned about what Uther was doing. But Cadal's last remark came a little too near home for comfort. There had been another girl, once, who had had nothing to do but sit at home and weave and dream...
I said abruptly: "All right, Cadal. I'm glad to know. I just hope we can keep clear of it ourselves. I've seen Uther mad for a woman before, but they've always been women he could get. This is suicide."
"Crazed, you said. That's what men are saying, too," said Cadal slowly. "Bewitched, they call it." He looked down at me half-si deways. "Maybe that's why he sent young Ulfin in such a sweat to make sure you'd come to London. Maybe he wants you there, to break the spell?"
"I don't break," I said shortly. "I make."
He stared for a moment, shutting his mouth on what, apparently, he had been about to say. Then he turned away to lift the jug of wine. As he poured it for me, in silence, I saw that his left hand was making the sign. We spoke no more that night.
4
As soon as I came in front of Uther I saw that Cadal had been right. Here was real trouble.
We reached London on the very eve of the crowning. It was late, and the city gates were shut, but it seemed there had been orders about us, for we were hustled through without question, and taken straight up to the castle where the King lay. I was scarcely given time to get out of my mud-stained garments before I was led along to his bedchamber and ushered in. The servants withdrew immediately and left us alone.
Uther was ready for the night, in a long bedgown of dark brown velvet edged with fur. His high chair was drawn to a leaping fire of logs, and on a stool beside the chair stood a pair of goblets and a lidded silver flagon with steam curling gently from the spout. I could smell the spiced wine as soon as I entered the room, and my dry throat contracted longingly, but the King made no move to offer it to me. He was not sitting by the fire. He was prowling restlessly up and down the room like a caged beast, and after him, pace for pace, his wolfhound followed him.
As the door shut behind the servants he said abruptly, as he had said once before: "You took your time." "Four days? You should have sent better horses." That stopped him in his tracks. He had not expected to be answered. But he said, mildly enough: "They were the best in my stables."
"Then you should get winged ones if you want better speed than we made, my lord. And tougher men. We left two of them by the way." But he was no longer listening. Back in his thoughts, he resumed his restless pacing, and I watched him. He had lost weight, and
moved quickly and lightly, like a starving wolf. His eyes were sunken with lack of sleep, and he had mannerisms I had not seen in him before; he could not keep his hands still. He wrung them together behind him, cracking the finger-joints, or fidgeted with the edges of his robe, or with his beard.
He flung at me over his shoulder: "I want your help." "So I understand." He turned at that. "You know about it?" I lifted my shoulders. "Nobody talks of anything else but the King's desire for Gorlois' wife. I understand you have made no attempt to hide it. But it is more than a week now since you sent Ulfin to fetch me. In that time, what has happened? Are Gorlois and his wife still here?" "Of course they are still here. They cannot go without my leave." "I see. Has anything yet been said between you and Gorlois?" "No."
"But he must know." "It is the same with him as with me. If once this thing comes to words, nothing can stop it. And it is the crowning tomorrow. I cannot speak with him."
"Or with her?" "No. No. Ah, God, Merlin, I cannot come near her. She is guarded like Danaë." I frowned. "He has her guarded, then? Surely that's unusual enough to be a public admission that there's something wrong?" "I only mean that his servants are all round her, and his men. Not only his bodyguard — many of his fighting troops are still here, that were with us in the north. I can only come near her in public, Merlin. They will have told you this."
"Yes. Have you managed to get any message to her privately?"
"No. She guards herself. All day she is with her women, and her servants keep the doors. And he — " He paused. There was sweat on his face. "He is with her every night."
He flung away again with a swish of the velvet robe, and paced, soft-footed, the length of the room, into the shadows beyond the firelight. Then he turned. He threw out his hands and spoke simply, like a boy.
"Merlin, what shall I do?"
I crossed to the fire-place, picked up the jug and poured two goblets of the spiced wine. I held one out to him. "To begin with, come and sit down. I cannot talk to a whirlwind. Here."
He obeyed, sinking back in the big chair with the goblet between his hands. I drank my own, gratefully, and sat down on the other side of the hearth.
Uther did not drink. I think he hardly knew what he had between his hands. He stared at the fire through the thinning steam from the goblet. "As soon as he brought her in and presented her to me, I knew. God knows that at first I thought it was no more than another passing fever, the kind I've had a thousand times before, only this time a thousand stronger —"
"And been cured of," I said, "in a night, a week of nights, a month. I don't know the longest time a woman has ever held you, Uther, but is a month, or even three, enough to wreck a kingdom for?"
The look he gave me, blue as a sword-flash, was a look from the old Uther I remembered. "By Hades, why do you think I sent for you? I could have wrecked my kingdom any time in these past weeks had I been so minded. Why do you think it has not yet gone beyond folly? Oh, yes, I admit there has been folly, but I tell you this is a fever, and not the kind I have had before, and slaked before. This burns me so that I cannot sleep. How can I rule and fight and deal with men if I cannot sleep?"
"Have you taken a girl to bed?"
He stared, then he drank. "Are you mad?"
"Forgive me, it was a stupid question. You don't sleep even then?"
"No." He set down the goblet beside him, and knitted his hands together. "It's no use. Nothing is any use. You must bring her to me, Merlin. You have the arts. This is why I sent for you. You are to bring her to me so that no one knows. Make her love me. Bring her here to me, while he is asleep. You can do it."
"Make her love you? By magic? No, Uther, this is something that magic cannot do. You must know that."
"It is something that every old wife swears she can do. And you — you have power beyond any man living. You lifted the Hanging Stones. You lifted the king-stone where Tremorinus could not."
"My mathematics are better, that is all. For God's sake, Uther, whatever men say of that, you know how it was done. That was no magic."
"You spoke with my brother as he died. Are you going to deny that now?"
"No."
"Or that you swore to serve me when I needed you?"
"No."
"I need you now. Your power, whatever it is. Dare you tell me that you are not a magician?"
"I am not the kind that can walk through walls," I said, "and bring bodies through locked doors." He made a sudden movement, and I saw the feverish brightness of his eyes, not this time with anger, but I thought with pain. I added: "But I have not refused to help you."
The eyes sparked. "You will help me?"
"Yes, I will help you. I told you when last we met that there would come a time when we must deal together. This is the time. I don't know yet what I must do, but this will be shown to me, and the outcome is with the god. But one thing I can do for you, tonight. I can make you sleep. No, be still and listen...If you are to be crowned tomorrow, and take Britain into your hands, tonight you will do as I say. I will make you a drink that will let you sleep, and you'll take a girl to your bed as usual. It may be better if there is someone besides your servant who will swear you were in your own chamber."
"Why? What are you going to do?" His voice was strained. "I shall try to talk with Ygraine." He sat forward, his hands tight on the arms of the chair. "Yes. Talk to her. Perhaps you can come to her where I cannot. Tell her —"
"A moment. A little while back you told me to 'make her love you.' You want me to invoke any power there is to bring her to you. If you have never spoken to her of your love, or seen her except in public, how do you know she would come to you, even if the way were free? Is her mind clear to you, my lord King?"
"No. She says nothing. She smiles, with her eyes on the ground, and says nothing. But I know. I know. It is as if all the other times I played at love were only single notes. Put together, they make the song. She is the song."
There was a silence. Behind him, on a dais in the corner of the room, was the bed, with the covers drawn back ready. Above it, leaping up the wall, was a great dragon fashioned of red gold. In the firelight it moved, stretching its claws.
He said suddenly: "When we last talked, there in the middle of the Hanging Stones, you said you wanted nothing from me. But by all the gods, Merlin, if you help me now, if I get her, and in safety, then you can ask what you will. I swear it."
I shook my head, and he said no more. I think he saw that I was no longer thinking of him; that other forces pressed me, crowding the firelit room. The dragon flamed and shimmered up the dark wall. In its shadow another moved, merging with it, flame into flame. Something struck at my eyes, pain like a claw. I shut them, and there was silence. When I opened them again the fire had died, and the wall was dark. I looked across at the King, motionless in his chair, watching me. I said, slowly: "I will ask you one thing, now."
"Yes?" "That when I bring you to her in safety, you shall make a child." Whatever he had expected, it was not this. He stared, then, suddenly, laughed. "That's with the gods, surely?" "Yes, it is with God." He stretched back in his chair, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. "If I come to her, Merlin, I promise you that whatever I have power to do, I shall do. And anything else you bid me. I shall even sleep tonight." I stood up. "Then I shall go and make the draught and send it to you." "And you'll see her?" "I shall see her. Good night."
Ulfin was half asleep on his feet outside the door. He blinked at me as I came out.
"I'm to go in now?"
"In a minute. Come to my chamber first and I'll give you a drink for him. See he takes it. It's to give him sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."
There was a girl asleep in a corner, wrapped in a blue blanket on a huddle of pillows. As we passed I saw the curve of a bare shoulder and a tumble of straight brown hair. She looked very young.
I raised my brows at Ulfin, and he nodded, then jerked his head towards the shut door with a look of enquiry.
"Yes," I sa
id, "but later. When you take him the drink. Leave her sleeping now. You look as if you could do with some sleep yourself, Ulfin."
"If he sleeps tonight I might get some." He gave a flicker of a grin at me. "Make it strong, won't you, my lord? And see it tastes good."
"Oh, he'll drink it, never fear." "I wasn't thinking of him," said Ulfin. "I was thinking of me." "Of you? Ah, I see, you mean you'll have to taste it first?" He nodded. "You have to try everything? His meals? Even love potions?" "Love potions? For him?" He stared, open-mouthed. Then he laughed. "Oh, you're joking!" I smiled. "I wanted to see if you could laugh. Here we are. Wait now, I won't be a minute." Cadal was waiting for me by the fire in my chamber. This was a comfortable room in the curve of a tower wall, and Cadal had kept a bright fire burning and a big cauldron of water steaming on the iron dogs. He had got out a woollen bedgown for me and laid it ready across the bed.
Over a chest near the window lay a pile of clothes, a shimmer of gold cloth and scarlet and fur. "What's that?" I asked, as I sat down to let him draw off my shoes.
"The King sent a robe for tomorrow, my lord." Cadal, with an eye on the boy who was pouring the bath, was formal. I noticed the boy's hand shaking a little, and water splashed on the floor. As soon as he had finished, obedient to a jerk of Cadal's head, he scuttled out.
"What's the matter with that boy?" "It isn't every night you prepare a bath for a wizard." "For God's sake. What have you been telling him?" "Only that you'd turn him into a bat if he didn't serve you well." "Fool. No, a moment, Cadal. Bring me my box. Ulfin's waiting outside. I promised to make up a draught." Cadal obeyed me. "What's the matter? His arm still bad?" "It's not for him. For the King." "Ah." He made no further comment, but when the thing was done and Ulfin had gone, and I was stripping for the bath, he asked: "It's as bad as they say?"
"Worse." I gave him a brief version of my conversation with the King. He heard me out, frowning. "And what's to do now?"
"Find some way to see the lady. No, not the bedgown; not yet, alas. Get me a clean robe out — something dark." "Surely you can't go to her tonight? It's well past midnight." "I shall not go anywhere. Whoever is coming, will come to me." "But Gorlois will be with her —" "No more now, Cadal. I want to think. Leave me. Good night." When the door had shut on him I went across to the chair beside the fire. It was not true that I wanted time to think. All I needed was silence, and the fire. Bit by bit, slowly, I emptied my mind, feeling thought spill out of me like sand from a glass, to leave me hollow and light. I waited, my hands slack on the grey robe, open, empty. It was very quiet. Somewhere, from a dark corner of the room, came the dry tick of old wood settling in the night. The fire flickered. I watched it, but absently, as any man might watch the flames for comfort on a cold night. I did not need to dream. I lay, light as a dead leaf, on the flood that ran that night to meet the sea.