The Road to Avalon (Rediscovered Classics)

by Joan Wolf

  “The roads are in disgraceful condition,” Ban said reluctantly.

  Cador looked searchingly at the young high king. “Do you really think we are going to have peace?”

  “Yes,” said Arthur. “I do.”

  Bedwyr stayed after the two kings had retired for the night. “You certainly knocked them between the eyes,” he said to Arthur half-humorously after the door had closed behind his father. “First a treaty with the Saxons, then a new capital with yourself reigning in state over the whole of the country.”

  “They will have to get used to the idea,” Arthur said a little impatiently. “Cador is the best-informed of all the kings. I think he will come to see that what I have proposed is only sensible.”

  “And then he can convince the others?”

  A black eyebrow rose. “Something like that.”

  “You were very encouraging about the Saxons.”

  Arthur shrugged and stretched his legs out before him. “If we are lucky, we will have perhaps a hundred more years. But that should be enough.”

  “You didn’t tell them that.”

  Quite suddenly Arthur grinned. His smile was so rare that when it came its effect was quite extraordinary. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  “Good thing.” Bedwyr smiled back. “My father, for one, would not appreciate your views on that subject.”

  “I meant everything else I said, though.” Arthur’s face was sober once more. “The stronger we are, the longer we will stave off the inevitable. And the inevitable, when it comes, need not be a thing of devastation and terror. The strength of the empire always lay in the influx of new people into it.”

  “The Saxons are not the Goths,” said Bedwyr.

  “Give them a hundred more years and they will be as civilized as the Goths. You yourself are not a Christian, but you must see the tremendous civilizing influence of the church. In a sense, the civilizing mission of Rome that my grandfather used to talk so much about has been passed to the church. There was a Patrick for Ireland; there will be an apostle for the Saxons too. And that will make the difference.”

  “Given time,” said Bedwyr.

  “That is our job.” Arthur leaned back in his chair, looked at Bedwyr from under his lashes, and asked, “What is your father doing in Venta?”

  Bedwyr was annoyed to feel the blood rise in his cheeks. “I don’t know,” he mumbled.

  “Ban and Cador. And Archbishop Dubricius too, I understand. They wish to meet with me tomorrow. All three of them.”

  Bedwyr wished he had a drink in his hand.

  “Have they someone particular in mind, Bedwyr?” came the cool voice of the king. “Or is it to be just a general discussion?”

  Bedwyr’s eyes jerked up.

  “I see,” said Arthur. “Who is she?”

  “One of Maelgwyn’s daughters,” Bedwyr said reluctantly. “Gwen-hwyfar.”

  There was the faintest of pauses. Then: “A princess from Gwynedd. What else are they offering?”

  Bedwyr stared at him. “One hundred horses from Gaul.”

  The long lashes lifted. “They are serious, then.”

  “Very serious.” Against his better judgment, Bedwyr continued, “You could do worse. She is seventeen and of good blood. Maelgwyn is Christian, so that is all right. My father and Cador clearly approve.” He stopped abruptly, aware of the amusement in Arthur’s eyes.

  “And there are the one hundred horses,” the king said.

  Bedwyr frowned in perplexity. “I shall never understand you. You have spent the last five years deftly avoiding all mention of marriage. On the one or two occasions when someone dared to raise the subject, you almost took their heads off. Now you are suddenly ready to settle for one hundred horses.”

  Arthur shrugged. He appeared perfectly relaxed as he lounged back in his chair, but Bedwyr, who knew him very well, could see the tension in his fingers as they clasped the chair’s carved arms. “As with the Saxons, one can delay the inevitable for only so long,” Arthur said. “I suppose Gwenhwyfar will do as well as anyone. And if I am to create the sort of stable central government I want to, I will need an heir.”

  The room was very silent. In the light of the oil lamp, Arthur’s face looked suddenly tired.

  “I have never heard you talk about building a new capital,” Bedwyr said slowly. “When did you decide to do that?”

  “I have been thinking about it for some time now. Venta is not adequate for the kind of building I have in mind. There is simply not space enough here. And the praetorium is too small to contain the kind of government I have in mind.”

  Bedwyr was looking worried. “If you do this, Cador won’t be the only one to accuse you of trying to make yourself emperor,” he warned.

  “I don’t care what they call me,” Arthur returned. “But I will tell you this, Bedwyr.” His gray eyes were as cold as ice. “Whether the Celtic kings like it or not, I intend to rule.”

  Chapter 17

  HE would have to marry. As he had told Bedwyr tonight, one could delay the inevitable for just so long. He needed a wife. To give Britain an heir, he needed a wife. To give Britain a queen, he needed a wife.

  The king knew he had to marry. It was the private man who recoiled from the thought.

  A Welsh princess from Gwynedd. As Bedwyr had said, it could be worse. Such a marriage would ensure the support of Wales. And outside of Dumnonia, Maelgwyn’s court was the most cultured and Romanized in the country. This girl would understand very well that she was making a dynastic marriage. She would know what her role in his life was to be.

  “Is that all, my lord?” It was Gareth, his body servant, who had finished putting away his clothes. Arthur turned from his brooding contemplation of the scrolls on the desk and gave the boy a faint smile.

  “Yes, thank you, Gareth. You may seek your own bed now.”

  The boy’s returning smile was radiant. “Good night, my lord.”

  “Good night,” Arthur replied, and stood looking at the door for a few minutes after it had closed behind the boy. Gareth was . . . what . . . sixteen now. Arthur was conscious of deep surprise. It seemed almost yesterday that the twelve-year-old boy had appeared out of the northern mist and begged to join the army. He remembered quite vividly the look on Gareth’s bruised and dirty face as he had clung to the high king’s stirrup and refused to be dislodged by Cai.

  Sixteen. At sixteen Arthur had been high king. Gareth was too old to continue as his body servant; the time had come for him to take his place among the men. He would ask Bedwyr to take him in hand. Cai already had enough to do.

  Cai. He had been wounded in the leg in their last engagement with Cerdic. The wound had not healed and so Cai had been sent to Avalon.

  Lucky Cai.

  Gareth had left a cup of wine for him on the marble table near the brazier, and Arthur moved to pick it up. Cabal, who was sleeping on the rug in front of the glowing coals, lifted his head at his master’s approach and then stretched out again, his eyes closing.

  Avalon. Avalon of the apple trees. The one place in the world he longed to be, and the one place he could not go.

  The Lady of Avalon, that was what she had come to be called these last ten years. She was famous throughout Britain for her healing arts. Half of his injured officers had spent some time at Avalon, and she had returned them all to him in perfect health.

  He knew all about her. He knew when she left Avalon to go visit her sister Morgause in Lothian, and when she returned. He had not seen her since the night he had stormed out of her bedroom and almost walked into the river Camm.

  He had written to her twice in ten years. Once was to thank her for the pearls she had sent to him before his coronation. And he had written to her when Igraine died and asked her once again to marry him. She had refused.

  His grandfather, ill and living now at Avalon, was no longer the chief obstacle standing between them; it was Morgan herself. He had read that clearly in her letter. She had told him, in no uncerta
in terms, that he must marry elsewhere.

  He might as well marry Gwenhwyfar.

  The message from Avalon came two weeks after Cador and Ban and the archbishop had left Venta. It was Cai who came riding through the cold winter dusk to tell the king that his grandfather was dying.

  “Morgan thinks he has a week or two left at most,” Cai said when he and Arthur were alone in the private reception chamber that had belonged to Uther. Cai smoothed the folds of his tunic and straightened his leather belt and refrained from looking at Arthur’s face. “He wants to see you.”

  “I shall go tomorrow,” said Arthur. Cai looked at him at last, and seemed relieved by what he saw.

  “He is in no pain,” he offered. “The seizure, or whatever it was, seems to have passed. He is just very weak. He’s . . . old. All of a sudden, Arthur, he is so old.”

  “He is over seventy,” said Arthur. “I suppose we could not expect him to go on forever.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Arthur went to the table near the window and poured two cups of wine. He brought one back to Cai and handed it to him. As Cai smiled his thanks, Arthur said, “How is the leg? The last time I saw you, you were being carried away in a litter.”

  Cai’s smile turned into a grin. “I remember your face hanging over me. You looked worried and I thought: God, I must be dying for him to look like that.”

  “I thought you were going to lose the leg,” Arthur said grimly.

  “So did Morgan, at first. She says it is nothing short of a miracle that the infection cleared.”

  Arthur seated himself and took a drink of his wine. The room they were sitting in was the room where he had first met his father, more than ten years ago. It looked exactly the same as it had when Uther was alive. Arthur had not spent enough time in Venta to change things. And, too, there had always been Igraine’s feelings to consider. He said now, with the careful steadiness he always employed when speaking of her, “Morgan is the miracle. She’s healed every man of mine who managed to make it to Avalon alive.”

  “The local people say she knows magic,” Cai said with amusement. “Morgan thinks it’s funny.”

  Arthur was looking at his cup of Samian ware as if he had never seen it before. “Does she still run an infirmary for wounded animals?” he asked, his voice sounding a little muffled. He very rarely permitted himself to talk about Morgan.

  “Oh, yes,” came Cai’s easy reply. “The dog she has now makes Horatius look like a purebred.”

  At that Arthur looked up, his gray eyes unusually bright. “Do you want to come with me tomorrow?”

  Cai shook his head. “I said my good-byes to Merlin. And I am needed here, I hope.”

  “You are needed.” Arthur put down his wine cup and came to place a hand on Cai’s broad shoulder. “I missed you,” he said. “It’s good to have you back.”

  Arthur left Venta early the following morning, and he rode alone. Bedwyr had protested that decision, had pressed Arthur to take an armed escort. Arthur had refused.

  “It is insane for the High King of Britain to be riding along open roads with no protection,” Bedwyr raged to Cai the night before Arthur’s departure. “Suppose he is attacked by a band of thieves? We can’t afford to have him killed or injured because of a foolish whim.”

  “I pity the poor band of thieves that attacks Arthur,” Cai replied humorously. “He may not be as flamboyant as you, Bedwyr the Lion, but he is fully as dangerous. You know that.” Then, when Bedwyr merely grunted and continued to look worried: “There are times, Bedwyr, when we must give him room to breathe.” The humorous note had disappeared from Cai’s voice. “He needs to be alone. Don’t harass him.”

  “I wouldn’t dare,” Bedwyr retorted. “He got that very still look on his face while I was talking to him and I had sense enough to make a hasty retreat before I had my head taken off. But I still don’t like it, Cai.” He frowned. “Do you think we could send a small escort to follow him at a discreet distance?”

  “Are you serious?” Cai asked incredulously. “Against his direct orders?”

  “No, I suppose we can’t,” Bedwyr agreed with obvious regret. “If he ever found out . . . ”

  “Exactly. Leave matters as they are, Bedwyr. Arthur is perfectly capable of getting himself to Avalon safely.” He sighed. “It’s what happens after he arrives that concerns me.”

  “He has promised to marry Gwenhwyfar. My father and Archbishop Dubricius have gone to bring the good news to Gwynedd.”

  “Good news,” repeated Cai. “Yes, I suppose it is good news. Come on,” he said then a little desperately, “let’s you and I go somewhere and get drunk.”

  Arthur was not thinking of either of his commanders as he traveled the road to Avalon that morning. He was remembering the last time he had made this journey, when Dun had been merely a colt and they had cantered through the night as if their very lives had depended on reaching Avalon before dawn.

  Ten years ago.

  He was not the boy he had been the last time he had ridden to Avalon. Part of him would always belong to Morgan, but he had made his life without her. As she had made hers without him. Perhaps it was time for them to meet again, to meet as adults come into the fullness of their powers, no longer desperately unhappy children fearful of facing life alone.

  The bare apple trees looked forlorn in the thin winter sunlight. For some strange reason, he had expected to find them in bloom. In his memories of Avalon, the apple trees were always in bloom. Which was ridiculous, of course. He set his mouth at his own sentimental stupidity and lifted Dun into a canter. He was suddenly eager to see the villa before darkness should begin to creep in.

  They slowed pace as they came down the avenue and so walked sedately into the villa’s courtyard. Arthur looked around, at the stone so clearly etched against the pale sunlight, at the light reflecting off the glazed windows. He remembered with amazing vividness how the villa had looked to him the first time he had ridden into this courtyard behind Merlin.

  The front door of the house opened and two people came out. The first he recognized immediately as Marcus. The second was Ector. The door closed and they started across the courtyard toward him. He closed his eyes briefly. Thank God he was not going to have to meet her again in the mercilessly public view of the courtyard.

  “Arthur!” Ector was exclaiming with a delighted smile. Then, remembering: “My lord king.”

  Arthur grinned, dismounted, and gave the old man a rare embrace. “It’s good to see you, Ector,” he said, and unthinkingly went on, “It’s good to be home.”

  They took him immediately to see his grandfather.

  “Arthur?” Merlin said from where he lay on the bed.

  “How are you feeling, sir?” Arthur asked. He took the fragile old hand, so white and blue-veined, into his own strong grasp. He had not seen his grandfather since Merlin had suffered a seizure in Venta in the spring and Morgan had brought her father home to Avalon. Arthur was suddenly glad that his grandfather had got to see the apple trees in bloom.

  “I’m feeling old,” said Merlin. One side of his face looked stiffer than the other and his speech was slightly slurred.

  Arthur brought a chair close to the bed and sat down. He told his grandfather the one piece of news he thought would cheer him. “I am going to marry the princess Gwenhwyfar.”

  Merlin’s blue eyes flickered with gladness. “A good choice,” he said after a minute. “Maelgwyn is a good man.”

  “Yes,” agreed the king.

  There was a pause as Merlin collected his thoughts. “I am leaving Avalon to Morgan, Arthur. She will never marry and she must have her own property. I look to you to safeguard it for her.”

  “Of course,” Arthur answered steadily.

  The pale, blue-veined fingers plucked at the red wool blanket. “I wish I had something to leave to you, my boy.”

  Arthur’s reply was measured, but the feeling he was holding in check was still visible. “You leave me a kingdom,
” he said, “and the skills with which to lead it. You leave me a dream. I only hope, Grandfather, that I can bring it to fruition for you.”

  Merlin’s eyes searched the carefully disciplined face of his grandson. At last he said in his slow, slurred speech, “I never expected you to forgive me.”

  Arthur bowed his head. “It was not your fault,” he answered with difficulty. Merlin said nothing, just looked at the top of that ink-black head. This was a subject that had not been raised between them for ten long years.

  “All my life, for almost as long as I remember, you have been there behind me,” Arthur finally said in a muffled voice. He raised his head and the emotion he had been so carefully guarding was naked in his brilliant eyes. “What am I going to do without you?” he asked. And Merlin, holding out his arms to receive the slim, hard-muscled body of his grandson, was suddenly, fiercely, happy.

  Morgan returned to the villa shortly after dark and was met by Ector with the news that Arthur had arrived

  “He was with your father for almost an hour,” Ector told her. “Merlin looked . . . very peaceful after the king left.”

  “Where is Arthur now?” she asked.

  “In his room, changing for dinner.” Ector grinned. “The cook is turning out the kitchen for him.”

  Morgan forced a smile, said, “Well, I’d better change too,” and began to walk slowly toward the bedroom wing of the villa.

  It was hard to breathe and she unpinned the brooch that fastened her cloak as she approached her bedroom door. She had known, of course, that he would come. She had just not expected him quite so quickly. She might have known, she thought a little ruefully. He was famous for the speed with which he moved his army. It was one of the reasons for his success against the Saxons.

  Morgan stopped in front of her door and looked down at her old tunic. She had been visiting several of the farmworkers’ children who were ill, and her clothing reflected the nature of her business. She should wait, change into her best clothes, brush her hair . . . She walked briskly to the next door on the corridor and knocked.