by Joan Wolf
“No. That is what I don’t understand. There is no fever. The wound is clean. It’s as if . . . it’s as if he’s not trying, as if he doesn’t want to get better. I may sound foolish, but I’m afraid if things continue to go on as they are, we will lose him. And I don’t understand why!”
“Christ in heaven,” said Cai. “We cannot lose him.”
Drusus looked harried. “Well, it is my duty to inform you, Commander, that we are in very grave danger of doing just that. I can get no response from him. The queen can get no response from him. He is, quite simply, going away from us.”
Cai had grown very pale. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I thought it was the wound.”
“I wish to God it were,” Drusus cried in frustration. “The wound I could do something about. This . . . this is beyond me.”
“There is only one person who can deal with this,” said Cai. “The Lady of Avalon.”
Drusus shook his head. “She is a great healer, I will grant you, but it is not the king’s flesh that is our present problem.”
“I know. That is why we need her.” He looked over at the still figure on the bed. “I’m leaving right now,” he said to Drusus. “Don’t dare let anything happen to the king until I return!”
Gwenhwyfar was at her post by Arthur’s bedside when Cai came to the door the following afternoon with Morgan by his side. The queen heard the door open and turned to see the two in the doorway. She rose from her chair and went quietly to speak to them.
When Drusus had told her yesterday that Cai had gone for the Lady of Avalon, Gwenhwyfar had been glad. She had no idea if Morgan could help or not, but her reputation as a healer was great. And Arthur was dying. Gwenhwyfar sensed that quite clearly as she sat by his still figure for hour after endless hour. He was dying, and they were all helpless to do anything to save him.
So now she looked hopefully from Cai to the small figure beside him, but the words she had prepared to say died on her lips. Surely this was not Arthur’s aunt! This girl did not look any older than she herself.
Cai was speaking. “Any change?”
“No,” Gwenhwyfar managed to answer. She looked at Morgan’s small, empty hands. “Are you the Lady of Avalon?” she asked.
Huge brown eyes looked gravely back. “Yes, I am,” came the composed answer. “May I see Arthur, please?”
“Of course.” Gwenhwyfar turned as if to lead her to the bedside, but Cai’s hand grasped her arm.
“Wait here,” he said imperatively. “Leave them alone.”
Gwenhwyfar’s eyes widened; then she nodded. The two of them stayed in the doorway and watched.
For days now Arthur had been sinking deeper and deeper. It was so peaceful here in the warm dark. So restful. Far in the distance he could still hear the dim sound of voices, but he had gone deep enough now that they did not disturb him. He was floating in the dark, down, down, down. . . .
Arthur. Someone was calling him. Arthur. It came again, clearly. Arthur. It was insistent, urgent, and he knew who it was. He would answer that call were he at the very door of death, and he had not gone that far yet. He half-opened his eyes.
She was there. He could see her face floating above him, could see her eyes. No, she said to him. He could hear her voice in his brain, even though her lips had not moved. No, Arthur. You cannot do this.
Why not? His own answer was like hers, silent, mind to mind. They had never done this before, communicated in words without speech. It was surprisingly easy.
I won’t let you, she said.
Morgan. He had to make her understand. I am so weary. So weary of it all. So weary of being alone. Let me go.
No.
He could feel the strength of her will, and he sought to evade it. My job is done. Britain is safe. Let me go.
No, she said. Not yet. There is work still for you.
What work? But she was putting a block between them, hiding her thoughts. What work, Morgan?
She switched to the plea she knew could not fail. Don’t leave me, Arthur. Don’t leave me.
He felt her fear. I can’t — he started to say.
Don’t leave me, Arthur. Don’t leave me.
It was panic now. Morgan in fear. It was something he could not allow. All right. All right. He tried to reassure her. Don’t be afraid. He gathered his forces, made a tremendous effort, and struggled up through the dark. He closed his eyes, then opened them fully. He could see her clearly now, could see the tears on her face. “Morgan” His lips moved, although only a thread of sound came out.
Her great dark eyes searched his face. She had been sitting on the edge of his bed and now she leaned forward and buried her face in his sound shoulder. He turned his head slightly so his cheek could touch her hair. It smelled of lavender.
He was suddenly exhausted. It’s all right, my love. Even in the full light he could still hear her in his mind. Now you can sleep, she said. And he closed his eyes.
Gwenhwyfar felt cold fear strike her heart when she saw Morgan raise her head and turn away from the bed, weeping uncontrollably. Drusus, who had joined Cai and the queen in the doorway, moved instantly into the room. Gwenhwyfar, crying “Arthur!” in a sharp, panicked voice, reached the bedside before him.
He was breathing; she saw that immediately. Breathing normally, not the shallow slow breathing that had so frightened her these last days. His face had a little color; it did not look so sallow as it had. Drusus bent his head to listen to the king’s heart and when he looked up at Gwenhwyfar his face was amazed. “He’s sleeping naturally,” he said. “He seems . . . better.”
The queen and the doctor both turned at the same moment to look at the small weeping figure who was being held now in Cai’s arms.
“I know,” the big man was saying in a voice Gwenhwyfar had never heard him use. “But it had to be done, Morgan.”
“Yes,” came the choked reply, barely audible to the two by the king’s bedside. “But . . . oh, Cai . . .”
“Come along.” Cai picked up Arthur’s aunt as if she had been a child and carried her out of the room.
Arthur slept for hours and then woke up normally, looked at his wife, who was sitting by his side, and gave her a faint smile of recognition.
“Oh, Arthur.” Gwenhwyfar’s voice trembled with relief. “Thank God. We have been so worried about you.”
His face looked so thin, she thought. The hollows under the beautiful cheekbones were painfully deep, but his eyes were clear and focused directly on her face. “Could you drink a little broth?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”
He let her feed him, which pleased her immensely. She was returning the empty bowl to a table in the corner of the room when Morgan came in the door. The Lady of Avalon did not seem to notice that the queen was in the room; her eyes were all for Arthur. Gwenhwyfar stilled her greeting, stood quietly and watched.
Morgan crossed to Arthur’s side and stood there for a long moment. They simply looked at each other, neither of them speaking a word. Then Morgan slipped her hand in the thin muscular hand that was lying so quietly on the top of the blanket. From where she stood, Gwenhwyfar could clearly see his fingers close tightly.
She put the bowl down sharply upon the table and two pairs of eyes looked at her with identically startled expressions. Then Morgan smiled. “I’m sorry, my lady. I did not see you.”
Gwenhwyfar came slowly back toward the bed. Morgan had with-drawn her hand from Arthur’s and was looking with approval at Gwenhwyfar. “Oh, good,” she said. “You’ve got him to eat.”
“Yes.” Gwenhwyfar looked from Morgan to her husband. “He had a little broth.”
“I object,” said Arthur in an astonishingly clear voice, “to being discussed as if I weren’t here.”
“You’re in no condition to object to anything,” his aunt told him astringently. “You just do as you’re told.”
Gwenhwyfar stared. No one spoke to Arthur like that.
“It’s the sec
ret of her success as a healer,” Arthur said to his wife. “She bullies her patients back to health.” Incredibly, he sounded amused.
“What is it?” Morgan asked. He was searching the room with his eyes, as if he were looking for something.
“Cabal,” he said. His black brows drew together. “Where is Cabal?”
“We had to take him out” Gwenhwyfar replied in a constricted voice. “When you were so ill . . . he kept crying . . . ”
Arthur’s lashes screened his eyes. “Ah,” he said. “Well, you can let him back in now. I’m going to be all right.” He raised his lashes and looked at Morgan.
“I don’t understand how you did it,” Gwenhwyfar said to Morgan later in the evening before they both retired for the night. They had previously moved beds into the county hall for Drusus and the queen, and Cai had just had another one set up in one of the old offices for Morgan. “You used no medicine,” Gwenhwyfar went on.
Morgan smiled at Arthur’s wife. “The simple folk say I have magic. I don’t believe in magic, of course, but God did give me a special power to heal. I don’t always understand it myself.” Her large brown eyes were wide and innocent. Morgan had no intention of telling Gwenhwyfar of what had passed between Arthur and herself.
Gwenhwyfar’s long green eyes were regarding her husband’s aunt skeptically. There was intelligence behind that beautiful face, Morgan realized. And Gwenhwyfar loved Arthur. Morgan had seen that very quickly. She would have to be careful.
“I did not realize you were so young,” Gwenhwyfar said.
“I’m not so young really,” said Morgan. “I’m twenty-six.”
Gwenhwyfar looked surprised.
“Arthur and I were children together,” Morgan went on. “We both grew up at Avalon, you know.”
Gwenhwyfar did not know. Arthur rarely spoke about his childhood. “Well, I am very grateful to you for your . . . assistance,” she said, and even to herself she sounded stiff and ungracious. She made an effort to unbend. “He . . . I . . . I was afraid I was going to lose him.”
The great luminous brown eyes seemed to understand what she was feeling. Morgan laid a small chapped hand on Gwenhwyfar’s sleeve. The queen smiled. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Morgan replied, and both women went off to their respective rooms.
They were returning to Venta; Drusus and Gwenhwyfar wanted Arthur to travel by litter and he wanted to ride. Both the queen and the physician appealed to Morgan, who appeared to be the only person Arthur ever listened to.
“Let him ride,” Morgan said. “It’s not that far. Besides, you’d have to tie him down to get him in a litter, and I don’t think anyone quite has the nerve to do that.”
They did not have the nerve, and consequently Arthur rode the few hours it took to get from Calleva to Venta. His wife rode beside him, watching him worriedly every inch of the way. Morgan and Cai rode behind them and chatted unconcernedly as the miles dropped away. Arthur was silent and Gwenhwyfar, considerately, did not try to initiate conversation. She thought he needed his energy to stay on his horse.
They were waiting for him in Venta: his soldiers, the town merchants, the local farmers who had come into the city. They lined the main street of the city ten deep, and all the way it was Arthur! Arthur! Arthur! Gwenhwyfar was deafened by the noise. The king looked from one side of the road to the other, recognizing faces among the screaming crowd. The mood of the city was that of ecstatic adoration.
“They love you,” Gwenhwyfar said when finally they reached the courtyard of the praetorium. “You are their deliverer.”
“For the moment,” he replied. He shook his head at Cai’s offer of help and dismounted by himself.
“What do you mean, for the moment?” Gwenhwyfar asked sharply. “I thought the Saxons were destroyed, that we were finally free.”
He gave her an odd, slanting look. “Oh, we are free,” he replied. “But freedom brings burdens of its own, Gwenhwyfar. And peace its own problems.” He shrugged. “Let them savor this moment of sweetness. It will probably never be equaled again.” He turned away from her to mount the steps of the praetorium.
Bedwyr returned to Venta a day after Arthur, and had to hear the whole story of Badon first hand. He was also reintroduced to Morgan, whom he had not met since the harvest fair at Glevum so many years ago.
“I remember you very well,” he said. “Sodak let you rub his nose. I’ve never forgotten that.” He gave Arthur a sideways blue glance before he asked, “What brings you to Venta after all these years?”
There was a distinct pause. Then Gwenhwyfar said quietly, “Arthur was far more ill than we let out, Bedwyr. We must thank Morgan and her healing arts for his life.”
“What?” Bedwyr turned an accusing stare on Cai. “You never told me. You said it was just a flesh wound.”
“It was a flesh wound and I am feeling perfectly well” said Arthur. His tone was cool. “And I am becoming extremely weary of discussing the state of my health.”
“What shall we discuss then?” Morgan said affably. “The weather?”
Arthur looked down at her, raising his brows.
“Not the weather.” She looked off into the distance, contemplating. “I know. We can talk about your new capital. What is it called? Camelot?”
Gray eyes met brown. Then Arthur turned to Cai. The five of them were sitting in Arthur’s room, with the summer sun streaming in the open window. “My new capital,” he said softly. “How is it coming, Cai?”
“Well, I’ve been busy with other things lately,” Cai replied. Bedwyr grunted. “However, I hear from Gerontius that the building is almost finished.” He looked at Morgan. “It should be habitable by late fall.”
Morgan smiled at him, then turned to the queen. “Are you looking forward to your new home?” she asked. Gwenhwyfar looked from Morgan to her husband and then back to Morgan again. She forced herself to make a civil reply.
Morgan remained in Venta for a week before she returned to Avalon. It was a disquieting week for Gwenhwyfar. She was jealous of the relationship between her husband and his aunt, and she was ashamed of herself for being jealous.
Morgan and Arthur had grown up together, she told herself. They were like brother and sister. It was selfish of her to begrudge him the pleasure he so obviously found in Morgan’s company.
But he was different when he was with her. There was no disguising that. He was more relaxed than she had ever seen him, more . . . happy.
She walked in on them two days before Morgan left Venta. They were in Arthur’s room, and Cabal had got something he was not supposed to have. Morgan was trying to get it away from him. Gwenhwyfar opened the door to find Arthur dissolved in laughter as he watched Morgan and Cabal tussling on the floor before his desk. Gwenhwyfar stopped dead and looked at her husband’s face. He looked like a boy.
The dog was the first one to sense her presence, and he gave a sharp bark. Arthur’s dark head turned toward the door. His face did not alter when he saw his wife. “Come in, Gwenhwyfar,” he said in a shaking voice.
“Got it!” came a triumphant cry from the floor, and Morgan stood up. Her brown hair was ruffled and there was the glow of healthy color in her cheeks. In her raised hand she was brandishing a shoe.
“Morgan Victorious” said Arthur in Latin. Gwenhwyfar was unsure of the words, but she understood the look in his eyes, and a blade twisted in her heart.
It was as well for the queen’s peace of mind that she did not witness the scene that took place between Arthur and Morgan the following afternoon. This time, however, Arthur had made sure that they would be alone by taking her out of Venta completely, to the open countryside beyond the army encampment. They said little as they rode along through the summer sunshine, and when they moved off the road Morgan simply followed Arthur’s lead as they wound down a rutted track toward a small stream. There was no sign of any human habitation, and Arthur pulled his horse up and said, “Here.”
They dismounted, still in silenc
e, and picketed their horses to graze. With one accord they moved to a patch of dried grass in front of a large boulder and sat down side by side, leaning their backs against the sun-warmed smoothness of the rock.
Morgan picked up his hand. “I did not know it was so bad,” she said, her eyes on the fingers lying so relaxed in her own. “Cai told me you were doing all right, that you and Gwenhwyfar were . . . all right.”
He watched her down-looking face. “No,” he said.
She looked up. “It is like being at the bottom of a well,” he told her. “With no hope of ever being rescued.”
He saw the pain in her eyes. “You should have let me know.”
“You knew. You had to know. Was it any better for you, Morgan?”
Slowly she shook her head and he turned his hand and pulled her closer. “I didn’t want to know, I suppose,” she said in a muffled voice.
“It was Badon,” he explained. “I could keep going for as long as I knew I was necessary, but after Badon I thought it would be . . . safe.”
There was a long silence. Then: “I always used to know what you were feeling,” she said. “But I never before knew what you were thinking.”
He rested his cheek against her hair. “We were always together then. You didn’t have to know.”
“That’s true.”
“You should have married me.”
“Yes.” Her voice sounded constricted. “She cannot have children?”
“It seems not.”
She rested against him. “We don’t need a priest to feel married to each other, you and I.”
He raised his head and looked down into her face. “What am I thinking?” he asked softly.
Her brown eyes glazed a little, looked off as if into a far distance. Then she smiled. “The grain barn,” she said. “And a rainy day.”
He smiled back. “When I move to Camelot, Avalon will be but twelve miles away.”
They looked at each other in perfect comprehension. Then she said, simply, “We tried.”
“God knows, we certainly tried.” The note in his voice was grim. “Gwenhwyfar need never know,” he added. “Avalon is my childhood home. You and I grew up togther. It will not seem strange for me to visit.”