by Joan Wolf
The Road to Avalon
The Road to Avalon
JOAN WOLF
Cover design: Sarah Olson
Cover image: Detail from La Belle Dame Sans Merci, exh. 1902,
by Sir Frank Dicksee (1853-1928). Oil on canvas. © Bristol
City Museum and Art Gallery, UK/The Bridgeman Art Library
International.
Copyright © 1988 by Joan Wolf
Reprinted by arrangement with the author
Foreword © 2007 by Mary Jo Putney
This edition published in 2007 by
Chicago Review Press, Incorporated
814 North Franklin Street
Chicago, Illinois 60610
ISBN-13: 978-1-55652-658-9
ISBN-10: 1-55652-658-X
Printed in the United States of America
5 4 3 2 1
For Aunt Betty
Foreword
MYTHS and legends reflect a nation’s soul, and for Britain, the greatest repository of such tales is the Arthurian material known as the Matter of Britain. From the sixth century to the present, these stories have inspired countless writers and dreamers. My first Arthurian book was a child’s version that had all the difficult bits edited out, and I was still enchanted.
There are so many possible interpretations of the Arthurian legends, and they can be constantly reimagined to offer new insights and reflect new realities. Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, one of the early books printed by William Caxton, England’s first printer, harkened back to the noble days of chivalry. Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queen was a long allegorical poem that was clearly intended to flatter Queen Elizabeth I. Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of the King is much concerned with how the adultery of Lancelot and Guinevere introduced evil into the shining purity of Camelot. T. H. White moved from the playfulness of a badger tutor to looming war to a final spark of hope in The Once and Future King. Marion Zimmer Bradley’s The Mists of Avalon brings a feminist and pagan slant to the story. Mary Stewart’s wonderful Merlin cycle concentrates on the powerful sorcerer who is the catalyst to creating Britain’s greatest hero. I could go on and on, but you get the idea.
Mary Stewart was the writer who first introduced me to an Arthurian saga set in a historically believable fifth-century Britain, which has been strongly shaped by centuries of Roman occupation. Though Joan Wolf’s general story line follows Sir Thomas Malory, she places her marvelous The Road to Avalon in this Romanized Britain. Wolf’s richly realized world has Roman roads and cities and memories of glory, but the legions have withdrawn and now the land is threatened by encroaching barbarian tribes. It is a time of transition, when the remnants of civilization are in danger of being destroyed forever. A land in need of a great leader.
I’ve read any number of Arthurian stories, and I even wrote a novella in which, in true romance writer fashion, I gave Arthur the happy ending I thought he deserved. But I’ve never read a version that had greater psychological resonance than Joan Wolf’s treatment.
I first read her book when it was published in 1988, and I remembering blinking a bit when I saw Merlin as Arthur’s grandfather and Morgan as Merlin’s young daughter. But why not? There is no definitive version of the legends, so one of the lures of writing an Arthurian story is the chance to reimagine the relationships. Joan Wolf writes relationships brilliantly, and does so in effortlessly accessible prose. I was immediately drawn into the story of the young Arthur, a wounded, wary, and brilliant boy.
For me, Wolf’s greatest achievement is that she returns Arthur to the center of his own story. Too often Arthurian tales concentrate on the Knights of the Round Table or the tragic love of Lancelot and Guinevere. King Arthur is treated like George Washington often is—as a hero who is so noble and so far above the common man that he seems more like a stuffed owl than a real person.
Just as Washington was a real man who surmounted his human weaknesses with wisdom and vision, Wolf’s Arthur is a charismatic, utterly compelling king who earns the love and loyalty of his people. It is Arthur’s understanding of horses and cavalry that enables him to build an effective army—and Joan Wolf really knows her horses. It’s Arthur’s wisdom and fairness that make him a king for the ages. As Guinevere learns, “When Arthur was present, you did not look at anyone else.”
Perhaps the one irreducible element of the Arthurian legends is the tragic love triangle of Arthur, Guinevere, and Lancelot (the last of whom The Road to Avalon calls by the earlier British name of Bedwyr). There is tremendous power in this story of forbidden love, yet depicting Arthur as a cuckold undermines him as a hero.
Joan Wolf solves this problem by giving Arthur a powerful, passionate love that is also forbidden. This love claims his heart and soul, leaving no room for the beauteous Guinevere except as a friend and advisor. I believed in the bond between Arthur and grave, intuitive Morgan, who understands him better than anyone, just as I believed that Guinevere could love two men. It’s refreshing to read an Arthurian story in which characters aren’t drawn in black and white. Most are sympathetic, flawed people. Even Mordred is a stormy petrel of a young man, weak rather than evil.
Because of the human power of the Arthurian legends, there will always be new versions, all of them with their own insights and interpretations. But The Road to Avalon will remain on my keeper shelf. I’m very glad that it is available again for new readers to discover.
MARY JO PUTNEY
I
MORGAN (446–452)
Chapter 1
IT had been raining earlier in the day, a chill spring rain, but with the twilight the skies began to clear. There were lanterns burning on the colonnade of the forum as Merlin rode into the main street of Venta. The Romans had been gone from Britain for many years, but Venta was still very much a Roman city. The praetorium, toward which Merlin was riding, however, was no longer the headquarters of a Roman governor but of a British high king.
The courtyard in front of the praetorium was paved and there were guards posted in the sentry boxes. One came forward immediately to challenge the stranger who had just ridden in. The sentry’s voice stopped in mid-sentence, however, as he recognized the face illuminated by his lantern.
“My lord Merlin!”
Merlin nodded. “Yes. I have come to see the king.”
“Let me take your horse, my lord.”
Merlin dismounted, gave his reins to the sentry, and mounted the steps of the praetorium. Five minutes later he was being shown to the middle-size, comfortably furnished room that was the reception room of the king’s private chambers. The man inside was alone, sitting beside a charcoal brazier that was burning against the cool of the spring night. He was a handsome man, his dark hair not yet touched by gray. The lines around his eyes and his mouth, however, gave away his forty-one years. He was dressed in the British style, with a purple-colored tunic worn over tan wool breeches. He did not speak as the older man came into the room.
“Good evening, Uther,” said Merlin in Latin.
The king’s eyes, a startling light gray under black brows and lashes, regarded him without expression. “Merlin,” he said at last. “This is a surprise.” He gestured to a high-backed red-cushioned chair. “Sit.” Then, as his father-in-law obeyed, “Igraine is not here. She is still at Durovarium. She was quite ill this time. The doctors feared for her life.”
“So I heard.” Merlin’s voice was quiet. “That is why I was surprised to learn you had come to Venta. Is there trouble?”
The king shrugged wearily. “There is always trouble this time of year. The spring wind is a Saxon wind. You should know that by now.”
“Y
es.” Both men spoke Latin with perfect purity and no trace of a British accent. “Uther,” Merlin said carefully, “I came to see you because it is time to talk about the succession.”
The king’s face settled into harsher lines. There was a pause that seemed much longer than it actually was. Then, “Yes. I suppose it is time.”
“Britain cannot afford a civil war over who is to inherit the high kingship after you.” Merlin leaned a little forward in his urgency. “God knows, I hope you last another twenty years. But we must make provisions, Uther. The Saxons will pour through every crack in our unity.”
At that the king rose to his feet. He was not a tall man, but his shoulders and arms were heavily muscled. He was the son of a Roman, and a Roman he remained, both in looks and in heart. “I know,” he said, now bitterly. “But what is to be done, Merlin? God knows, the Celts will never unite under one of their own. Their jealousy would tear the country apart. And how the wolves would love that!”
Merlin was nodding agreement. “That is why it is so important to have a son of yours inherit. Your son would be both Roman, through you, and Celtic, through Igraine. A natural leader for Britain.”
“For God’s love, Merlin, I have no son! You know that well enough!” Uther rubbed his forehead as if it hurt. “Another stillborn child,” he said heavily. “It is as if God has cursed us. Maybe he has, for the way we came together.”
“You do have a son,” contradicted Merlin. “You forget. There is still Arthur.”
Uther went very still. Merlin watched the smoke curling above the brazier and waited. “We sent Arthur away and gave it out that he was dead. You know that. It is too late to think of Arthur now.”
Merlin let his eyes return to Uther’s face. “We sent Arthur away so he could not stand in the path of your true-born sons. But you have no true-born sons. No other true-born sons. Arthur is not a bastard. Technically, he was born in wedlock.”
The king sat down abruptly. “Yes. He was born three months after we married. And until that time Igraine was wedded to another man. The child’s paternity was very questionable, Merlin.” He made a gesture in response to the flash of expression in Merlin’s eyes. “Oh, not to me. Igraine swore he was mine, and I believe her. But the fact remains that when he was conceived, she was married to Gorlois.”
“You killed Gorlois in single combat and then you married Igraine, even though she was noticeably with child. You would not have done that, Uther, if you had not been sure the child was yours.”
Uther ran a hand through his black hair. “But there would always be a question. You yourself said so.” A note of bitterness crept into the king’s voice. “When Ambrosius died and I became king, it was you who suggested that Arthur be sent away.”
“I know. I know. But Igraine was pregnant again . . .” Merlin drew a long breath. “Who could have foreseen all these stillbirths?”
Uther looked up from under his level black brows. “What do you propose I do?” he asked, and the bitterness had not quite gone.
“You need do nothing. I will go to Cornwall, fetch the boy, and bring him home with me to Avalon. He will be nine years old now; time enough for him to learn to be a Roman and a king.”
“You remember where he is?”
“I remember where I took him. To Malwyn’s village. I presume he is still there?”
“Yes. I send something to Malwyn every year. She will have taken good care of him. She was always more his mother than Igraine.” He paused as they both remembered Igraine’s refusal to have anything to do with her firstborn child.
“Igraine saw him as a visible sign of her adultery,” Merlin said matter-of-factly. “His existence was a constant scourge to her pride.”
“Well, there is no use now in going over past sins.” Uther’s voice was hard. “At the time, it seemed the prudent thing to send the boy away. We knew he would be cared for, and Malwyn could be trusted to keep the secret of his birth. But you are right, Father-in-law. Things have changed.” Uther straightened his broad shoulders and his voice took on an unmistakable note of authority. “Go into Cornwall and get the boy, but do not tell him, or anyone else, who he is. Let us see first if he has the makings of a king.”
Merlin had straightened too. “I will,” he replied.
“And”—Uther’s pale eyes held Merlin’s—“we will say nothing of this to Igraine.”
After a moment Merlin nodded.
“Good.” The word from Uther was both an approval and a dismissal.
The following morning Merlin left Venta and rode west to Cornwall, the same journey he had made over eight years before when he had been escorting a woman and a baby into exile.
Malwyn’s village was some miles east of Tintagel, a long weary ride from Venta. Merlin took Roman roads until he reached Isca Dumnoniorum, and from there he went along local tracks. He stopped at an inn once but otherwise made camp by himself. He was fifty-six years of age, but he had been a soldier under Uther’s father, Constantine, and he had not forgotten his skills.
Malwyn’s village, like most of the villages scattered throughout the Cornish peninsula, was purely Celtic. The Roman legions who had occupied Britain for so many hundreds of years had scarcely left a mark beyond the Tamar. It was early afternoon when Merlin rode into the circle of stone huts that composed the village. The sun was warm and he saw a number of small children and pigs, but no adults. Then an elderly woman came out of one of the huts and blinked in the sunshine. Merlin called to her and she waited while he dismounted. The mud squished under his feet as he approached her. “Which of these houses belongs to Malwyn?” he asked in British.
A blank look was his only answer. He tried again, speaking more slowly. “Malwyn,” the old woman repeated. She squinted up at him, her eyes almost hidden in a mass of wrinkles. “She be the one with the bastard boy?”
It had been thought best to have Malwyn say that Arthur was her own child. Merlin’s mouth folded at the corners. “Yes,” he said.
“She be dead.”
“Dead?”
“Aye. She died long years ago.” The old woman looked dimly satisfied. “She were one of them Christians,” she added, as if that should explain matters.
“If she is dead, then where is the boy?” Merlin asked sharply.
“He bides with Esus. Her brother.”
“And which dwelling belongs to Esus?”
The old woman pointed and Merlin turned and walked through the mud toward the indicated hut. He bent his head at the door and called, but there was no reply. He ducked inside for a moment, long enough to see the bareness and smell the odor of animals and ascertain the single room was empty. Once outside, he took a deep breath of air. He had not remembered that the place looked like that.
Evidently some of the children had gone running for their mothers, for as he stood there, uncertain where to look next, two young women with children in their arms and at their skirts appeared from behind a clump of trees. Merlin led his horse toward them. “I am looking for Esus,” he said slowly. “Do you know where he is?”
The women exchanged glances; then the smaller one spoke. “In the fields, with the other men.”
“And Esus’ wife?”
A surprised look. “Esus has no wife.”
Merlin took a deep breath. “And the boy?”
The women looked at each other again, and this time the taller of the two answered him. “The boy is with the sheep, as usual.”
“Where are the sheep?” Merlin asked, and the two of them pointed to a grassy hill about a mile in the distance.
Merlin rode slowly toward the sloping green hill where the village sheep were pastured, and his thoughts were not pleasant. They had not done well, he and Uther, by this boy. Someone, during all these years, should have come to see how things were with him. Uther’s son. His own grandson. Living in that stinking hovel. For how long had Malwyn been dead?
The sheep were grazing on the hill and, seated under a hawthorn bush carving a piece of wood wit
h a knife, was a boy. Merlin walked his horse slowly toward the seated figure and then, when he was almost in front of him, dismounted.
“Arthur?” he asked, his voice not as steady as he would have liked.
The boy had been watching him come. At the name he nodded warily, put down his carving, and stood up. Something about him reminded Merlin forcibly of an animal at bay.
“There is no need to be frightened,” he said gently. “I won’t hurt you.”
The boy’s face was blank and shuttered. He said nothing. Merlin softly stroked his horse’s nose and looked at his grandson.
The boy was Uther’s, there could be no mistake about that: the ink-black hair, the dark brows and lashes, the light gray eyes. But the bone structure was Igraine’s. He was dressed like a peasant and his hair was greasy and there was a dirt smudge on one high cheekbone, but he wore his heritage in every lineament of his face.
Merlin searched for what to say. That blank, shuttered look rejected him before he had even begun. “Arthur,” he began determinedly, “I am here as an emissary from your father.”
The boy said nothing. The look on his face did not change.
“He . . . he did not know that your . . . that Malwyn was dead.”
Still nothing.
“How old were you when she died?”
There was a long pause. Merlin was beginning to wonder if the boy had been able to understand him, when Arthur finally spoke. “I don’t know.” His British was the local dialect; his voice was sullen.
Merlin stared at his grandson in frustration. Finally he said baldly, “I have come to take you away.”
Something flashed briefly behind those gray eyes before the shutters came down again. But it was a reaction. Encouraged, Merlin went on with the story he had prepared during his journey to Cornwall. It had to do with Arthur’s fictitious father being an old army friend of his. Flavius, he named him. Flavius had been married, he told the boy, and so unable to marry Malwyn. But he had always intended to send for Arthur. When Flavius had died a few months ago, Merlin had promised to look out for the boy. And so here he was, come to take Arthur home.