Twilight of Avalon

by Anna Elliott

  Marche nodded to where Madoc sat on the opposite side of the hall, and the rest of the councilmen turned, almost as one man, toward Madoc, as well. Isolde had seen Madoc as she entered, his eyes glassy, his rugged, heavy-boned face flushed as though with wine, and she had seen, too, that though the food before him remained almost untouched, he drained the drinking horn at his place several times. Now he seemed to stare a moment as though struggling to take in what Marche had said, before acknowledging Marche’s words with a single brief, jerky nod.

  “My lords—” Marche stopped, and another taut, expectant silence fell over the room. Isolde stiffened in her place as, her eyes on Marche’s face, she tried to anticipate what he planned.

  “What I propose,” he went on at last, “is a trial by arms. I believe in Britain’s need for a High King. That you know. I tell you now that I am willing to put my belief to test by the sword.” He turned once more to where Madoc sat on the opposite side of the glowing hearth and spoke in a low voice that nonetheless carried to every corner of the hall. “Madoc of Gwynedd, are you willing to do the same?”

  The eyes of the two men met and, for a long moment, held, and then Isolde saw Madoc’s gaze flicker to either side. Then, slowly, he raised his head once more to look at Marche and answered with another single nod of assent. Marche turned back to address the rest of the room, but Isolde, at least, caught the brief flare of something like triumph or, more than that, of pleasure at the back of his eyes and felt a prickle of cold premonition run down her neck.

  “My lords, will you agree to the trial I propose? My lord Madoc and I will each of us defend his own position, and let God be the judge of whose claims yield the victor’s blade.”

  There was a pause, and then, like the rumbling of thunder, came a slowly building roar of assent from the rows of men, shouts of agreement and hammering on the tables with the butt ends of drinking horns. Slowly, Marche’s gaze traveled the length of the room. “Are there any who stand opposed to the trial? Let him speak now, if such a man is here.”

  But the hall was silent, once more utterly still. Marche let out his breath and turned back to Madoc. “Then, my lord Madoc, let us begin.”

  Madoc rose to his feet—rose somewhat unsteadily, Isolde thought, as though feeling the effects of the wine. But he crossed the hall with a firm, even gait and stood beside Marche, waiting as some of the other men—Huel and Owain of Powys among them—lifted benches and tables aside, clearing a square open space at the head of the room. When the space was made, Madoc and Marche stood facing each other, one on either side, their faces grim in the orange glow of the torches that lined the walls. Both men had stripped off the cloaks they had worn, and Isolde saw the rapid rise and fall of breath beneath their tunics.

  Marche nodded to one of his own men, and the guardsman stepped forward, carrying the tusk of a wild boar, grown into a nearly perfect ring, the ends capped with gold. All talking ceased as the guardsman held the tusk up, and in the silence one of the fighting dogs outside let out a long, mournful howl. A ripple of unease went round the room, and Isolde saw a few men make the sign of the horns and spit to avert evil, heard several more muttering of ill omens. But Marche and Madoc clasped hands firmly through the gleaming ivory circle of the boar’s tusk, looking up and bowing to the ancient warrior’s skull at the room’s head.

  “I swear to abide by the outcome of the fight. May my oath be unbroken as the tusk of the boar.”

  And then they began.

  Marche was, perhaps, the more skilled swordsman. But in a fight off the battlefield, on foot rather than mounted, the lameness in his right leg made him slower, more awkward in his movements than the other man. And Madoc was, too, the younger by ten years and more.

  But Madoc, Isolde saw, was tiring fast. Tiring even before the initial ringing exchange of blows was over and the combatants had drawn apart to circle one another like wary dogs in the flickering shadows cast by the hearth fire. The younger man’s face was still flushed, and his eyes had a fixed, staring look as he and Marche edged slowly round in a close circle, then, in a ringing flash of blade on blade, drew together again.

  Isolde had never seen Marche fight before. She would have expected him to be savage, filled with the joy of battle she’d heard Con describe, but instead his face was almost expressionless, his mouth drawn and his eyes almost weary as the clash of parry and stroke went on.

  Madoc was panting now, on the defensive as he sought to drive off the biting serpent-strikes of Marche’s blade. And Marche was driving him slowly backward, back to where the space in which they fought was bounded by the hearth’s leaping flames. Once more their swords met, locked, strained, as each man fought savagely to wrench the blade from the other’s grasp. And then, with a splintering crack of metal that echoed through the room, Madoc’s sword broke and fell to the ground, leaving him with only a jagged end of the blade and the jeweled hilt still clenched in his hand.

  Isolde heard a ripple of movement, a hiss of sharply indrawn breath go round the room, and the moment seemed to drag on and on. The two men stood facing each other, Madoc frozen, his eyes moving from Marche to the broken blade he still held. From outside the hall came another low, baying howl from one of the war-hounds, echoed a moment later by fresh shouts from the watching men-at-arms.

  Marche’s face was as expressionless as before, though his chest heaved and the neck and shoulders of his tunic were dark with sweat. As though reflexively, Madoc took another step backward, his movements unsteady, a flash of something like panic at the back of his eyes. And then he lurched, seemingly off-balance, stumbled, half turned, and fell headlong into the fire’s blaze.

  Madoc screamed, and then the sound died in a hiss and crackle from the blaze as the stench of charred cloth and burning flesh filled the air. For an instant the room seemed to be held paralyzed, frozen as Madoc had been. And then Marche leapt forward, dragging the other man out of the fire, beating at the licking flames that burned in his tunic and ran like orange ribbons through his hair.

  The rest of the room remained shocked into immobility, until all along the benches Isolde saw the men begin to stir, heard the murmurs and whispers begin: “It’s a sign.” “A sign.” “The sign has come.”

  In that stunned hush, the crash of the hall door against the wall sounded like a thunderclap, loud enough that Isolde’s heart jerked. A man stood in the doorway, his body outlined by torchlight against the night outside. He wore battle armor—leather tunic, helmet—and a traveler’s cloak, and as he stepped forward into the hall, Isolde recognized Rhys, one of the men from the battalion of Con’s army sent out to pursue the remnants of the Saxon forces from the battlefield.

  His face and clothes were spattered with mud. He was breathing hard, so that it was a moment before he spoke. Then: “My lords. I come to warn you. Our spies have learned that the Saxon forces are rallying—the retreat was only a ploy. Octa of Kent has joined forces with Cerdic of Wessex. They plan to attack Cornwall within a fortnight’s time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  ISOLDE SAT MOTIONLESS ON HER hard wooden bench, watching the men file past her out of the hall. The night’s council meeting was ended. It hadn’t taken long. Madoc, unconscious, had been carried from the room by three of his men-at-arms. Unconscious, not dead—though Isolde, catching a glimpse of the blackened skin and the charred, bloody ruin of his face, thought that Madoc might well wish, if ever he woke, that he had indeed been killed.

  And then a vote had been taken. And Marche was Britain’s High King.

  “Lady Isolde.”

  Isolde looked up. Marche’s hair was still damp with the sweat of the recent fight, and she saw that he had a reddening burn on his left arm from where he had pulled Madoc from the fire. But his voice was cool, if grating.

  “A word with you—if I may request that you remain?”

  She had expected he would look exultant, or triumphant at least, but his face was expressionless as it had been in the heat of the fight. And his eyes—I
solde felt suddenly chilled—his eyes were black, and empty as twin pits dug over a grave. Two of his men-at-arms stood behind him, their faces as blank as their lord’s. Pointless, she thought, to refuse. His men will be simply march me at knifepoint to the place of Marche’s choosing.

  She waited in silence while the councilmen passed out of the hall. Marche was High King. Though not, she thought, through his skill at arms or even through lucky chance. Drug, she thought, remembering Madoc’s flushed face and glassy eyes. Just enough to unbalance him in the fight. And his sword would have been weakened, as well, before ever he took it up. Easy enough for one of Marche’s men when all arms had been left behind for the vigil last night.

  She doubted, though, that even Marche could have foreseen that final, headlong pitch into the fire’s blaze. Almost, she thought, I could believe in the men’s talk of a miraculous sign.

  When the door had closed behind the last of the councilmen, Isolde looked up. “Well?”

  With the benches empty and the fire dying to nothing but glowing embers, the room seemed unnaturally large, and her voice echoed eerily in the vast, shadowy space.

  “I wish,” Marche said, “to repeat the offer I made you yesterday. Marriage and the protection of my name.” He paused, then added, “It’s an offer you would do well to consider, Lady Isolde.”

  Against her will, Isolde was remembering their encounter in the stairwell the night before, and the clench of Marche’s fingers on her bare skin. And now, once more, they were alone, out of reach of anyone she might call for aid.

  She forced the tightening clutch of unease aside and said, “And why is that, Lord Marche?”

  “Because as wife of the High King, you would be safe. Otherwise…” Marche paused, raising his shoulders, the heavy muscles pulling tight beneath the sweat-stained shirt. “You were at Coel’s deathbed, Lady Isolde. Seen to murmur spells over him by both his physician and his son. And during last night’s council meeting, you were heard to threaten Madoc, as well. Few, I think, would fail to believe that both Coel’s death and Madoc’s fall tonight lie at your door.”

  Isolde sat without moving. She understood, now, the message that had summoned her to Coel—and the hostile, wary looks from the men in the hall tonight. And she had no doubt that any of the king’s council would fail to believe such claims.

  “I am sorry,” Marche added after a moment, his voice still soft, “to trouble you with such matters, Lady Isolde.”

  Isolde had caught her breath by now. “Are you indeed? Since, unlike you, I do not tell lies, I will offer no thanks for your concern.” She paused. “To be quite clear, then,” she said, “you mean that if I refuse to marry you, you will have me accused of witchery?”

  Marche made no reply, but his eyes met hers in a long, level look.

  Those condemned by trial as witches were drowned. Or burned alive.

  Isolde thought, suddenly, of standing in the churchyard and looking down into the cool, silent darkness of Con’s grave. And I wish, she thought, I could tell Marche how little that threat touches me now.

  She had made Con a promise, though, as she stood beside his coffin, that she would fight to protect his throne. And for the sake of that promise, she thought, I have instead to hope that Myrddin will return in time.

  It was almost as though Marche had read the thought. He said, voice still harsh and cool, “You can dismiss, Lady Isolde, the thought of rescue from your man in Camelerd. Your messenger was intercepted. I hold him as we speak.”

  Isolde hadn’t been afraid—really afraid—until now. But at that, her heart froze in her chest.

  She swallowed, then said with an effort, “You lie.”

  Marche’s mouth tightened in a faint, brief smile. “I lie, do I?” He turned to the guards who stood by the door—Hunno and Erbin, Isolde now saw. “Bring the prisoner here.”

  HE STOOD BETWEEN HUNNO AND ERBIN, his gray-blue eyes as utterly calm as ever, without even a hint of acknowledgment, much less fear, of the knife blade pressed to his throat.

  Myrddin. Isolde’s lips shaped the word, but no sound emerged.

  Myrddin’s face was unmarked, his white druid’s robe not even torn. Even Marche’s men would be wary of mistreating the Merlin, whether they believed him enchanter or no. And even so, the guardsmen looked uneasy, Isolde thought. Erbin’s face was tight and beaded with sweat. Hunno looked more defiant than frightened, but it was he who held the knife to Myrddin’s throat, and she saw that his hand gripped the hilt so hard that the knuckles stood out.

  Isolde’s heart was hammering in her chest, and she felt as though she moved through a swamp of vile, sucking mud. Her every movement seemed impossibly slow, her body refusing to obey the orders of her mind as she worked to tear her gaze from Myrddin and turn to Marche.

  “Let him go.” She knew her voice shook, but she couldn’t stop it or, for the moment, even care. “Please. He’s an old man. He can do you no harm.”

  “No harm?” Marche’s eyes rested on Myrddin a moment, then moved to meet Isolde’s. He smiled thinly. “What would you do, Lady Isolde, to win him his life?”

  Isolde started to speak, but before she could, some slight movement on Myrddin’s part made her stop, the words freezing in her throat. Hunno and Erbin had come to a halt before Marche, close enough, now, for her to meet Myrddin’s gaze. He stood quite still, the only movement the ripple of his robes in the breeze from the open door. And then, though he didn’t speak aloud, Isolde heard the words, echoing in the hollow space inside her as clearly as any that had come to her on the wind.

  Don’t grieve for me, Isa. Then, the hint of a smile creeping into his tone: Make the one of the fair-folk who enchants me away a beautiful maid.

  And then—he moved so quickly that it was over almost before Isolde realized what he had done—Myrddin made a quick, twisting movement. Hunno’s knife flashed out, as if by reflex. A thin red line appeared at Myrddin’s throat, beneath the beard. And then the old man swayed and crumpled to the floor.

  When the pounding darkness cleared from Isolde’s eyes, she was beside Myrddin, kneeling in the pool of blood that spread out from his cut throat. Her throat burned as though she were breathing in fire instead of air, and she found she was saying silently, over and over again, Let this not be real. Let him not be dead. Let me go back just a few moments in time and think of a way I could have saved his life. Tell Marche I’ll do whatever he asks if only he’ll let Myrddin go free.

  Myrddin’s face was peaceful, smoothed by death of even the lines of age, though the gray-blue eyes now stared sightlessly, and his beard and robe were soaked scarlet. Hunno stood to one side, looking dazedly—as though scarcely realizing what he had done—from the blood-smeared blade of his knife to the man who lay at his feet.

  Another tale, Isolde thought numbly, of Merlin’s magic to go the rounds of the fire halls. Hunno would say he’d been ensorceled, bespelled into the killing. As maybe he had. Or maybe Myrddin had only known what a warrior’s reflexes would be.

  Isolde looked from Myrddin’s lifeless face to her own hands, wet and stained, as well, with his blood. And then finally, swallowing the aching lump in her throat, she raised her head and met Marche’s eyes, hard and empty as twin chilled steel balls.

  For a moment, the room spun around her again, and she dug her nails hard into the palms of her hands. No, she thought savagely. You’re not going to faint. Not now. Not before Marche. Not here.

  She focused on drawing first one breath, then another, telling herself that whatever she’d said or done, Marche would never have let Myrddin live. Willing herself to turn the guilt and the grief to anger, at least for now. Then, slowly, she rose to face Marche once more.

  “You called me a witch, Lord Marche,” she said. “And as such a one, I curse you now.” Her chest felt as though it were on fire, painfully constricted and tight, but her voice was low and steady as she went on, her eyes on Marche’s face.

  “I curse you for Coel, for Branwen, for Constantine, and
for all the other deaths that lie at your door. I curse you by water, by fire, by wood, by stone. I curse you by sea, by land, by sun, by moon.”

  She paused, raised her still scarlet-stained hand, the fingers outspread and pointing toward Marche’s heart. Then: “And I curse you, Lord Marche, by the blood of the man murdered here tonight—the blood that now stains my hand.”

  Isolde stopped, hand still upraised, and saw the flash of fear in Marche’s eyes. It was gone almost at once, leaving the heavy, brutal face frozen in an immobility of rage she had seen only once or twice before. She knew that he would make her pay, sooner or later, for what she had seen—and done. But it had been worth it, to see him momentarily afraid.

  With a muttered oath, Marche turned away and rounded on Hunno. “Street-filth! Bastard whoreson! Get out—and bring the man Brychan to me.”

  Brychan. The name struck like another blow, but Isolde forced the shock of it back. Forced herself not to look again at Myrddin’s still, crumpled form while Hunno moved to obey.

  She hadn’t even considered whether Brychan would be brought as an ally to Marche, or a foe, but when Hunno and Erbin returned, she saw that the captain of Con’s guard was held as a prisoner, as Myrddin had been, his arms pinned at his sides. And Marche’s guards had not been afraid of Brychan as of the older man. A purpling bruise showed on one of his high cheekbones, and a thin trail of blood ran from his mouth. His steps were stumbling, too, his body hunched over what Isolde thought must be bruised or broken ribs.

  So, she thought, Brychan was loyal to Con after all. And if I had trusted him before, would—?

  Isolde stopped herself before she could go on with questions that were pointless now. As pointless as tears.

  She felt a swelling ache in her throat all the same, and she had to swallow again, hard, before she could ask, “What does this mean?”