by Joan Wolf
“No.” Her lips formed the word, though no sound came.
His face relaxed very slightly. “We’ll go away together. Across the sea to Armorica, perhaps, like so many other Britons have done. I can keep us. I can always sell my sword if I have to. We don’t need much to make us happy, you and I.”
There was a long moment of silence as she stared up into his face. Then she reached out and touched the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Tears began to slip down her cheeks and she shook her head. “No,” she said in a constricted voice. “No, Arthur. I cannot let you do it.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me, my love.” He was gripping her so tightly that his fingers would leave bruises. “None of this matters to me if I cannot have you. I would rather be a nameless mercenary with you at my side, than High King of Britain without you. You know that!”
“Yes, I know that.” Her voice was barely a thread of sound. The tears had ceased to fall but her face was still streaked with wet. “And if we two do as you say, Arthur, what will become of Britain?”
At that he got to his feet and walked to the window. He stood staring out, his back rigid. “Britain has managed very well without me up till now,” he said over his shoulder. “It will continue to manage in the future.”
She had got herself under control. “And if it does not?” she said to his resistant back. “If, after Uther dies, Lot takes the throne? You know what will happen then as well as I. There will be civil war. And the Sea Wolves will come pouring in.” Her voice beat against him relentlessly. “How will you feel, Arthur, sitting in Armorica, when you hear about that?”
He swung around to face her, the conflicting emotions that were tearing at him clearly visible on his face. “Don’t you understand, Morgan? I cannot do it without you. I simply . . . cannot.”
“You can,” she said. “You must.”
He took a step toward her, then another one. “No! Morgan, no. You must listen to me.”
From somewhere deep within, she found the courage to say what must be said, to do what must be done. Her head high, her spine straight, she said, “And how do you think I will feel? Britain is my country too.”
He did not answer. He felt suddenly numb, as if a great blast of icy wind had frozen him to his very marrow. This could not be happening. . ..
Her eyes were so dark they looked almost black. “You are too precious a commodity for me, Arthur,” she said. “You were meant for greater things.” And closed her eyes to blot out the look on his face. “We can still stay friends,” she added unsteadily.
There was a frightening silence. Then: “Don’t be stupid as well as cruel.” His voice was corrosive with bitterness. “I could never think of you as a friend.” He wanted, with a violence that frightened him, to touch her, to kiss her, to force her to understand what he was feeling.
She opened her eyes. He could see that she was trembling. Perhaps, if she truly understood what she was doing . . . “It seems, then,” she said, “that there is no way for us at all.”
Pain stabbed through him like a knife thrust in the gut. “If you send me away tonight, I will not come back.” He did not recognize his own voice. He was breathing with difficulty, through narrowed, pinched nostrils.
She had to clench her hands to keep herself from reaching for him. What was there to say? That she would always love him? But he knew that already. “Be the king you were born to be,” she said at last.
He stood for a moment, poised and taut as an arrow, then turned and left her room as silently as he had come.
He went to the stable and took one of the ponies. He was at the river before he realized where he was heading. He dismounted, tied the pony to a tree, and went to stand along the bank, gazing into the slowly moving gray water.
The dawn was streaking the sky with red. The birds were riotous in the trees. All about him was the fresh pungent smell of dew and of woods. The river bottom here was rocky, with boulders worn smooth by the moving water.
This can’t be happening, he thought. Morgan cannot mean it.
Instead of the water, he saw her face, saw it as it had looked when she said, “You are too precious a commodity.” She meant it. She was going to sacrifice them both for the good of Britain.
She was wrong. He had meant it when he said he could not do it without her. She was the very heart of him. Without her . . . without her . . . He shut his eyes and the desolation was so great that he was dizzy with it. He felt as if he were falling down a dark and endless well of despair, with no help, no hope, no escape.
He opened his eyes and looked at the river.
Escape.
The Camm was deep in the middle here, deep enough for him to do it. He would wade out until he was over his head and then let the river take him.
Escape. Escape from this pain that froze his skin to his bones and turned his very marrow to ice. This pain of aloneness. He stepped into the river. The water at the edge was up to his ankles. It was warm from the summer sun, pleasant almost. He walked a little forward. The river splashed about his legs and filled his shoes. He looked down and watched it darken the woolen cloth of his breeches.
If he did this, Morgan would know it was because of her.
He stopped. She had done this as a great act of unselfishness, to save him for Britain. If he walked into this river now, he would be throwing her gift back into her face. He would be condemning her to live with his death on her conscience.
He could not do that to her.
He stared out at the deeper water. Not now, he thought. Not here. Later perhaps, in battle, when she would never know the cause. . . .
He raised his hands to his face to stifle the sound of his own crying.
Chapter 12
THE twilight was fading when Arthur returned to Venta that evening. He said nothing as he dismounted in front of the praetorium and handed his reins to the sentry. He had not been in his room for more than ten minutes before his grandfather was announced by the guard at his door.
“Come,” Arthur called sharply, and Merlin entered to find him bent over a basin of water. He straightened as his grandfather came in, and reached for a towel. Arthur was stripped to his short underbreeches and as Merlin watched him dry his face, he studied the boy’s half-naked body. Despite its slim build, narrow hips, and flat belly, the shoulders and chest were well-muscled, as were the long, horseman’s legs. Arthur, as Merlin knew, was very strong. The boy finally dropped the towel and let his grandfather see his face.
He looked exhausted.
“When did you last sleep?” Merlin demanded.
The boy shrugged. “Two nights ago, I suppose.” The gray eyes held an unmistakable warning. “I was about to go to bed when you came in.”
“I won’t keep you, then.” Merlin knew, without a word being spoken, where Arthur had been and what had happened. And Arthur knew he knew. The man would have liked very much to offer a word or a gesture of comfort, but he understood from Arthur’s eyes that that would not be permitted. The best thing he could do for the boy was to leave him alone to sleep. And so, with a brief good night, he turned and left the room.
Arthur, dimly, was grateful for his grandfather’s tact. He felt sodden with fatigue. He went to the bed, lay down, and in less than two minutes was asleep.
He did not know that Merlin came back later to check on him. The old man stood for quite a long time looking down at his grandson’s sleeping figure. He settled a blanket over the boy gently. Arthur never moved. Finally Merlin went to the door. Tomorrow would begin Arthur’s new life as Prince of Britain. It was a thousand pities that it would have to begin on such a note as this.
The following morning Arthur met with Uther and Claudius Virgilius and proposed expanding the existing cavalry units. Claudius, who was not anxious to have the young prince meddle with his own foot command, supported him. After Uther had agreed also, Arthur made a list of all the present cavalry commanders and went off to discuss them with Bedwyr and Cai.
It was not the men, but the horses, however, that were the problem. “The present cavalry horses won’t do,” Cai said. “Most of them are too small to carry a fully armed man into battle. Uther has used the cavalry mainly as auxiliary troops. The horsemen carry swords but no lances.”
“The Romans never fully learned the use of heavy cavalry,” Arthur explained to Bedwyr. “For one thing, the Roman cavalry never used stirrups. It is impossible to keep your seat under the shock of a heavy lance thrust if you do not have stirrups.”
Bedwyr frowned. “What are stirrups?”
“Foot supports,” Arthur replied. “They hang from your saddle. The people of the steppes have used them for years. The Goths, however, have improved on the old rope stirrups and made theirs out of leather and iron.” He looked at Cai. “Do you remember the engineer Merlin engaged to teach us how to build bridges and roads?”
“I do,” Cai replied promptly. “I was interested in the bridges and roads. You kept asking him about stirrups.”
“Bridges and roads?” Bedwyr asked in bewilderment.
“Half of war is a knowledge of military engineering,” Arthur replied matter-of-factly. “Well, that engineer was in Rome when Alaric invaded, and he knew all about the way the Goths used stirrups. I got him to draw me some pictures and then Cai and I put some together and practiced in secret.”
Cai grinned. The three of them were gathered in Arthur’s bedroom, the one place in all of the praetorium where they could find privacy. Arthur had had a table brought in and he sat behind it now, the light from the window coming across his shoulder, a roll of paper before him, a stylus in his hand. Cai and Bedwyr sat before him on two straight chairs. They were both too big to fold themselves comfortably onto stools. Cai turned now to Bedwyr and said, “Merlin did not set any store in stirrups or heavy cavalry. He would never admit that the Goths were in any way superior to the Romans.”
There was a touch of contempt in Bedwyr’s voice. “Rome is finished,” he said. “It’s only a fool that holds to a dying world.”
Arthur’s face was very grave. “My grandfather is many things, but he is not a fool.”
“Well, he is wrong,” Bedwyr persisted.
“Not necessarily.”
Bedwyr’s golden eyebrows rose. “You certainly don’t consider yourself Roman, Arthur. Why, I have never even heard you speak Latin!”
“He does when he speaks to Merlin,” Cai put in humorously. “We all do.”
“I speak Latin when I talk to my grandfather,” Arthur agreed, “but that is not the point, Bedwyr. It is not a language we are talking about, and not an empire either. It is the idea of Romanitas: What Rome stood for. Rome stood for law, for civilization, for peace. Tacitus wrote that the task of Rome was to induce a people hitherto scattered, uncivilized, and therefore prone to fight, to grow pleasurably broken in to peace and ease.
“We have two jobs before us in Britain today. One is to push back the Saxons. The other is to teach the British to live together in peace.”
There was a wry look in Bedwyr’s blue eyes. “The first task may be the easier.”
“Perhaps.” Arthur put down the stylus and laced his fingers. “But the Saxons are no easy business. Uther was a good war leader, and even with all his effort, the Sea Wolves have encroached ever farther into Britain. If we are to hold them, we must develop effective cavalry.” He held them a moment with his eyes. Then he leaned back in his chair, his voice becoming brisk and businesslike.
“First, the horses. There must be some bigger horses among the cavalry mounts, Cai. I want those singled out. And the men we mentioned earlier as well.” As Cai nodded, Arthur turned to Bedwyr. “Can we take some horses from your father’s runs?”
“Yes,” Bedwyr answered instantly. “And men to ride them, too.”
Arthur gave him a faint smile. “Good. The rest of the horses we shall have to buy in Gaul.”
“Buy with what?” Cai asked baldly. “Coined money hasn’t been in use in Britain for years. What can we possibly use to trade for horses?”
Arthur’s face did not change, although the knuckles of his laced hands showed suddenly yellow with pressure. “Morgan has a collection of pearls she will let me have” he said tonelessly. ‘They were her mother’s”
Cai let out his breath. “Morgan’s pearls! But they were from Maximus.”
Arthur nodded.
“Does Merlin know she has promised them to you?”
“It is not his affair,” said Arthur. “The pearls are Morgan’s to do with as she likes.”
“What pearls are you talking about?” Bedwyr asked.
“The pearls the Emperor Maximus sent home from Gaul when he rode to conquer Rome,” Cai answered. “They have come down to Morgan through her mother.”
Bedwyr looked at Arthur. “Will they be enough?”
“They will buy us the beginnings of a cavalry.” Arthur’s eyes were absolutely impersonal. “They are extremely valuable.”
“You’ll need a breeding farm as well,” Bedwyr said.
“I know. And our own riding school.” Arthur looked at the two faces in front of him. “I want young men for this unit,” he said. “An elite group of officers who, when we are finished with them, will be able to go out and train others.”
Bedwyr’s eyes were like sapphires. “I will bring you half the princes of Wales,” he said, “all mounted on magnificent horses and ready to die for you, Arthur.”
“Not for me,” Arthur replied soberly. “For Britain.”
After a week had passed, Morgause began to wonder why she had not heard from Lot. Morgan sent a message to her father and asked what she was supposed to tell her sister. In response, Merlin came to Avalon.
He had been a week with Arthur and had seen what the separation from Morgan was doing to the boy. He realized bleakly, as he talked to his daughter in the library shortly after his arrival, that Morgan was not faring any better.
Her eyes had always been large but now they seemed to engulf her face. The sleepless shadows beneath them were duplicates of the marks on Arthur’s face. “I am so sorry, Morgan,” he said to her helplessly. Then, as she looked away from him, “It was an act of great courage.”
“Yes. Courage.” Her lips were white. “How . . . how is he?”
“He is managing. Cai and Bedwyr are with him. He is planning his precious cavalry unit.”
She nodded. Her eyes were unfocused, her lips pressed together. Nothing could have made clearer the fact that the bond between them was severed than this, that she had had to ask her father how Arthur was. Before, she would have known. But that link of feeling that had always been between them, even if they were separated, was broken. Arthur had broken it, and she must respect his wishes.
Merlin cleared his throat. “Uther is not well,” he offered, and at that she returned to awareness.
“And what of Lot?” she asked.
“I have every expectation that Lot will go to war,” Merlin said bluntly. “He did not even wait for the end of the council before he gathered his men. And Edun was not long after him. They will challenge Arthur. It is all too clear that Uther’s war days are over. Lot is not going to relinquish his dream of the high kingship without a fight.”
“And what are we to do with Morgause and the children?” Morgan’s eyes were shadowed. “I feel such a traitor, lying to her like this.”
Merlin straightened his fine blue tunic. “I will tell her the truth. I will tell her that we got her here by a trick and against her husband’s will. It was a tactic designed to gain us time, and as such it has succeeded. If she wishes to return to Lothian now, I will send her.”
Morgan sighed. “Yes. I suppose that will be best.”
Morgause, however, surprised her father and her sister by having a very different idea. “If Lot were there, then of course I would return to Lothian,” she said to Morgan later in the afternoon. “However, according to Father, he will not be there; he will be away somewhere fighting. You
have no idea of how tedious life is when Lot is away, Morgan. I shall enjoy myself more at Avalon.”
Morgause had come out to the small garden where Morgan grew the herbs she used for medicines. The herbs used for seasoning food were grown in the kitchen garden along with the vegetables and were attended to by slaves. The herb garden was Morgan’s domain. Now she put down the small digging tool she was holding and looked in amazement at her sister’s vivid face. Then she got to her feet and brushed the earth from the skirt of her old brown gown. “But won’t Lot think you disloyal if you remain here?” she asked.
Morgause looked puzzled. “Why should he think that? If there were something I could do for him in Lothian, of course I should return. But there is nothing. I see no point in making that great journey only to sleep in an empty bed.”
Morgan brushed a strand of hair that had escaped its tie away from her face. Her fingers left a smudge of dirt on her cheek. “Morgause,” she said with infinite kindliness, “perhaps Father did not make it clear. Lot will probably be fighting Arthur.”
Morgause reached out with a mother’s capable hand to brush the dirt off her sister’s cheek. “Lot is always fighting someone,” she said.
Morgan stared. “And do you usually reside with his enemies during the hostilities?”
Sarcasm was lost on Morgause. She merely smiled. “If Lot wins,” she explained, “he will come to Venta to be named high king. It will be much more convenient for me to wait for him here at Avalon than it would be for me to return to Lothian and then have to come south again.”
“I see,” said Morgan little acidly. “And if Lot loses?”
“Lot never loses,” his wife replied with simple faith.
Morgan bit her tongue to keep from answering with the words that leapt to her lips: But Lot has never fought Arthur. Instead she made herself kneel once more and pluck an herb from a cluster. “Here,” she said a little desperately, “I believe you were interested in how I extract oil from thyme for dressing wounds.”
The days went by. Merlin went back to Venta and Ector came home to Avalon to take up his job of supervising the farms. He had no knowledge of what had passed between Morgan and Arthur, and so talked of Arthur and his plans freely and enthusiastically. Morgan clung to his every word. News of Arthur was like water to her drought-stricken soul.