The Road to Avalon (Rediscovered Classics)

by Joan Wolf

  He slid his hands into her hair, loving the familiar feel of its silky texture, loving the shape of her head under his fingers.

  “What am I thinking?” she asked.

  He smoothed his thumbs across her delicate cheekbones. “I love you too,” he replied a little shakily, and then his mouth was on hers and he was kissing her in an intense, starving anguish. Morgan’s arms went up around his neck and he laid her back on the summer-dry grass.

  Chapter 26

  THE summer progressed. Arthur sent the auxiliary troops raised by the regional kings home to their clans and kept in Venta only his own standing army with its officers. By early October the troops were moving into their new quarters in Camelot.

  Arthur left the furnishing of their new home, called by the British word for palace, to his wife. Gwenhwyfar threw herself into the project with all her considerable energy. She was happy to have something to think about.

  She still was not pregnant. Arthur had returned to her bed, but he was not the same. In matters that involved him, she was too closely concerned to be fooled. The passion, the need, were gone. In their place was kindness, but kindness was not what she wanted from him.

  If only she could have a child! She hated the assessing way people looked at her waistline, hated the speculation she was certain she saw in their eyes. If she saw a woman in town holding a baby, she had to fight not to burst into tears.

  The single person she felt comfortable with was Bedwyr. His blue eyes always held a glint when they looked at her, and it was not a glint of speculation. He teased her and joked with her and she was happy when she was with him. They were of the same stock, after all, both Welsh, with none of the troubling enigmatic Roman streak in their makeup. She was actually more comfortable with Bedwyr than she was with her own husband. She understood Bedwyr. She was beginning to think that she would never understand Arthur.

  Then one morning she discovered Elaine being sick in a basin. It did not take long for the girl to confess she was pregnant.

  “I told you to stay away from the prince” said Olwen. “You know what his reputation is. But you wouldn’t listen . . .”

  Gwenhwyfar was furious. She did not think she had ever been so angry in her life. She went to Arthur.

  “Elaine?” he said. “The black-haired one?”

  “Yes. The black-haired one.” She had caught him coming in from the schooling ring. The day was hot and his hair and tunic were drenched with sweat. There was a smear of dirt across one elegant cheekbone. “Bedwyr has got her with child,” she said again, looking at him out of flashing green eyes.

  He sighed. “What do you want me to do about it?” he asked patiently.

  She had waited for him in his room and they were alone. She stared at him for a moment in angry frustration. She was not quite certain what she wanted him to do, but she wanted him to do something.

  “Did he say he would marry her?” Arthur asked.

  “No.” Gwenhwyfar turned her back, suddenly not wanting him to see her face. “No, but surely he should. After all, there is going to be a baby . . . ” Despite her best efforts, her voice quivered.

  “Gwenhwyfar.” She could not bear the pity in his voice. “I’m so sorry, my dear. But this is best left to Bedwyr to handle. And to be honest, I don’t think this is mainly his fault. The girl was pursuing him. Anyone could see that.”

  Gwenhwyfar had not seen it. She had always thought that she was the one that Bedwyr . . . “He ought to be horse whipped,” she said.

  “I never whip my horses,” Arthur replied gravely. “And I am certainly not going to whip Bedwyr. I will talk to him, however, and if he does not want to marry Elaine, then I will send her home to Gwynedd. You will not have to have the baby around you.”

  It was not to be borne. Gwenhwyfar pressed her fingers to her trembling mouth. Elaine did not even want this baby, whereas she . . .

  Her husband’s arm encircled her. “Don’t fret so,” he said softly, and she turned her face into his shoulder and wept.

  Bedwyr did not want to marry Elaine and, weeping and miserable, she was sent home to Wales. Gwenhwyfar had one interview with Bedwyr on the subject of Elaine and it did not leave either of them in a good temper.

  “You wicked seducer,” she said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Gwenhwyfar,” he answered. “If anything, I was the one who was seduced. The girl came to my bedroom. I only gave her what she asked for. I’m sorry there were . . . other consequences, but she should have thought of that before she slipped into my bed.”

  Other consequences! This was not a subject upon which Gwenhwyfar was rational, and she flared up at him with bitter, hurtful words.

  “You sound like a jealous shrew” he told her coldly.

  “Jealous!” She was shouting by this point. “You flatter yourself, Prince. I would never be jealous of Elaine because of you!”

  “Not because of me.” His eyes were cold blue ice, his mouth thin with anger. This was a Bedwyr she had never before seen. “You’re jealous because she is having a baby and you’re not. That’s what this is all about.”

  She could hardly see, she was so furious. She picked up a goblet of Samian ware and threw it at him. He ducked and it shattered all over the mosaic tile.

  Bedwyr laughed. “Your aim is rotten, my lady,” he said. “Like your temper.” And he walked out of the room.

  The following day Meliagrance, chief of the Verica, arrived in Venta. The Verica had been one of the most important Celtic tribes in eastern Dumnonia before the arrival of the Romans, and the chief of the Verica had at one time been a very important person. In recent years, as the power of the high king had increased, the importance of the chiefs had declined. Meliagrance’s father, Col, had never raised troops for either Uther or Arthur because he had refused to recognize the position of High King of Britain. Meliagrance himself had sent a troop of men to fight for Arthur during the last great Saxon attack, a concession that had pleased Arthur, for he had seen it as a sign of reconciliation between the tribe of the Verica and the high king.

  So when Meliagrance appeared now in Venta, Arthur greeted him graciously. It soon became apparent, however, that it was not the king Meliagrance had come to see.

  Gwenhwyfar was accustomed to men falling in love with her, and usually she did not pay them much heed. But she was feeling shut out from Arthur, and betrayed by Bedwyr, and Meliagrance’s adoration was like balm on an open wound. Consequently she was kinder to him than she would ordinarily have been. She let him ride out with her in the mornings, and she seated him next to her at dinner and listened with flattering attention to his every word. She was tired of listening to Arthur and Bedwyr; all they ever talked about anymore was the administration of the army once it was moved to Camelot.

  Arthur and Bedwyr did not seem to mind Meliagrance monopolizing her time. In fact, to Gwenhwyfar’s extreme irritation, they appeared to find the chief of the Verica’s infatuation distinctly amusing. Their lack of concern only provoked Gwenhwyfar into being even nicer to the besotted young man.

  The move from Venta to Camelot was accomplished over a period of six weeks. The foot soldiers moved into their barracks first; then, at the end of October, Bedwyr moved the cavalry into its permanent quarters. By the second week in November, the palace was ready for occupation.

  Gwenhwyfar was enjoying the prospects of arranging and decorating her new home, and she chose with care the furniture she wanted to go to Camelot from the praetorium in Venta. Arthur had given her the sketches of the palace and it was almost three times the size of the praetorium, so a great deal of additional furniture would be needed. Arthur had stayed in Venta with her, and for a few blissful weeks she had him to herself. Finally, however, the last of the packing was done, the last of the wagons had rolled away toward Camelot, and the king and queen were ready to make the official move themselves.

  Then Arthur decided to make a series of short visits to the various forts along the Saxon shore before the winter set in.
Gwenhwyfar assured him that she did not need his escort to get safely to Camelot, and he promised to meet her there in a week. He left an escort of ten cavalrymen for her and rode out himself with five others for an inspection tour.

  Gwenhwyfar did not leave Venta right after Arthur, as she had originally planned. Olwen was ill with a severe cold, and as the weather was miserable, Gwenhwyfar decided to wait until her serving woman was feeling better.

  Four days after Arthur’s departure, Gwenhwyfar’s party finally left Venta. The November day was damp and chill, and Olwen huddled inside her cloak and shivered. Gwenhwyfar chatted to Gareth, who was one of her escort, and when they reached Amesbury she stopped at the monastery for food and to give Olwen a chance to get warm.

  It was early afternoon when they reached the place where they would turn off the western road and veer south onto the Roman road to Durovarium. As they arrived at the crossroads, however, there came the sound of galloping hooves thundering down the road just ahead of them. Gareth and the rest of Gwenhwyfar’s escort drew their swords and formed a wedge around the queen and Olwen.

  “We’re friends! Friends!” The shout came from the leader of the oncoming horsemen. “Thank God I have found you, my lady! I was on my way to Venta. It’s the king . . .”

  Gwenhwyfar had recognized Meliagrance after his first shout. She said now, sharply, “Let him through!” She was very pale. “What is this about the king?” she said as Meliagrance’s horse drew up to hers.

  “He’s had a fall, my lady. Coming by here late yesterday on his way to Camelot. His horse tripped. His men brought him to Clust, as we are so near.”

  “Oh, my God.” Gwenhwyfar looked distraught. “Take me to him,” she demanded. “Immediately.”

  “Of course, my lady. If you and your escort will follow me . . .”

  “My lady,” Gareth said. There was a deep line between his eyebrows. “Perhaps I should go with the chief of the Verica and you continue on to Camelot.” There was something about this encounter that did not ring true to Arthur’s former body servant. The king never came off a horse.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Gareth” Gwenhwyfar snapped. “If the king is injured, of course I must go to him.” She urged her horse forward and Meliagrance followed her lead. Gwenhwyfar turned to him and began shooting questions: “How badly is he hurt? Have you sent to Camelot for Drusus? Is he conscious? . . . ”

  Gareth brought up the rear as the entire party began to canter up the road. He still did not like this, but there was nothing he could do to change the queen’s mind. He watched the Verica horseman who was riding by his side and when the man was not looking, he deftly transferred the dagger he was wearing from its sheath at his belt to a concealed place beneath his tunic.

  When the legions had ruled Britain, the Verica had been one of the more Romanized of the Celtic tribes. It was during this period of their history that the chief had built Clust. At first the villa had merely been the country residence of the chiefs, but for the last fifty years, as the civil disorder in the country took its toll on the cities, Meliagrance’s family had made the villa their main place of residence. Clust still operated as a working farm, although on a much-reduced scale from former times.

  The house itself was no more elaborate than a simple farmhouse; it had none of the Roman splendor of Avalon. A ditch and a wall separated the cultivated lands and the livestock from the road, and the courtyard was not cobbled. As the queen’s party rode into the dirt courtyard, men came running from the house to take their horses. The Verica men were smiling and courteous, but Gareth looked behind him and saw that the road out of the courtyard had been effectively blocked by their escorting horsemen. He thought for a moment of trying to charge through the line of horse, hesitated, and by then someone’s hand was on his bridle. The man was smiling, but he had a death grip on Gareth’s horse. Slowly Gareth slid to the ground.

  The queen had gone into the house with Meliagrance and the Verica men were herding her escort toward another door. Gareth watched in which direction they were taking the horses before he was pushed, none too gently, in the path of his fellows.

  When Gwenhwyfar realized she had been tricked, her initial reaction was fury. “Are you mad?” she asked Meliagrance. “Just what did you hope to accomplish by this extraordinary behavior?”

  They were alone together in a small bedroom. Gwenhwyfar had rushed in the door, expecting to find her injured husband, and instead the door had closed and she had found herself alone with Meliagrance.

  “I love you,” the chief of the Verica answered her with frightening intensity. “You have become an obsession with me, Gwenhwyfar. And you care for me too. I saw that clearly enough in Venta last month. You care for me more than you do for that cold Roman husband of yours.”

  Gwenhwyfar opened her mouth to tell him how very wrong he was, and then thought again. Meliagrance was not above medium height, but he was strongly built. And there was a glitter in his widely set brown eyes that she did not like at all. Abruptly Gwenhwyfar realized she was in danger.

  She swallowed. “Of course I care for you.” Her voice was milder than it had been. It took great effort to keep it steady. “But was it really necessary to get me here by trickery?”

  He smiled, pleased with her response. He waved his thick hand. “Please sit down, Gwenhwyfar. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Gwenhwyfar sat cautiously on the very edge of the bed. Meliagrance looked at her, and the glitter in his oddly set eyes seemed even more pronounced. His voice, however, was reasonable. “How else was I to get you here?” he asked.

  Gwenhwyfar clasped her hands and did not answer for a moment. Then she looked him in the eyes and said bravely, “What do you want, Meliagrance?”

  He smiled and a chill ran up her spine. “I want you.”

  She would have to try to reason with him. “Meliagrance, think. If you keep me here overnight, Arthur is sure to find out about it. I am not worth getting killed for. Let me go now, and I will swear to keep quiet. . .”

  Her voice trailed off. He was smiling very strangely. “You don’t understand, Gwenhwyfar. I am not afraid of Arthur. I don’t at all mind his finding out about us.” Gwenhwyfar gripped her hands together more tightly to keep them from visibly shaking. “You see,” the chief of the Verica continued with perfect confidence, “I am going to be the new high king. And you will be my queen.”

  Gwenhwyfar stared. He was surely mad. “I don’t understand . . .” she managed to say faintly.

  “Arthur’s task is finished,” Meliagrance answered. “He was a good war leader, I will grant him that. He has thrashed the Saxons soundly. But he overstepped himself, Gwenhwyfar, with this new capital. He is a fool if he thinks we will allow him to rule over us in peace as he did in war.”

  “We?” Gwenhwyfar said tentatively.

  “We. The Celtic leaders of Britain. It is time to banish this Roman Usurper.”

  “Meliagrance,” Gwenhwyfar said, “Arthur has the army.”

  “He has part of the army,” came the ready reply. “The rest of it, the tribal troops he trained so efficiently, he sent home to their rightful chiefs.”

  For the first time Gwenhwyfar felt a fear that was not purely personal. Could it be possible? she thought in horror. Could Meliagrance actually be the leader of a Celtic conspiracy against Arthur? Were the rest of the kings and princes of Britain part of this?

  “Who is joined with you?” she asked.

  “I expect troops from all over the country to be joining me very shortly. I sent out the word as soon as I had you.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she said incredulously. “I can’t believe they would do this to Arthur. After all he has done for them, for Britain.” Her green eyes were like emeralds in her beautiful, pale face.

  Meliagrance was frowning. “He is a Roman. Of course they will heed the call of one of their own.”

  Gwenhwyfar searched his face. He was not an ill-looking man, she thought, but those widely set eyes gave a st
rangely unstable expression to his face. Why had she not noticed that before? She would have to be very careful. He was looking at her now with suspicion. “What you say is true, of course” she said, and his frown smoothed out. “But have you got . . . ah, assurances that the rest of the country will join with you against Arthur?”

  “I have only just informed them of my actions,” Meliagrance said complacently. “But I have no doubt they will answer my call. Believe me, Gwenhwyfar, no one likes this Roman setting himself up as emperor over us.”

  Gwenhwyfar almost sagged with relief. There was no conspiracy; it was all in the head of this deluded fool. Arthur was safe. Meliagrance took a step toward her and she realized with a stab of fear that while Arthur might be safe, she was not. “Meliagrance,” she said urgently, “Arthur will most likely get here before your followers. He’s closer.”

  “Ah, but he does not know where you are.” He reached out a thick-fingered hand to touch her hair. Gwenhwyfar repressed a shudder. “I have all your men in close confinement, my love. Never fear. He won’t find you.”

  Gwenhwyfar froze with fear. He was going to rape her. She stared up into his strange glittering eyes and knew that this was what he had brought her here for. What a stupid fool she had been to let him think. . . Abruptly her brain began to function again. He was not thinking rape. He thought she loved him. She would have to play up to him. “Meliagrance,” she said softly, “how very clever you are.” He beamed. His hand continued to caress her hair. “But I am so dirty and weary,” she went on. “Is it possible for you to have my things sent to me? I would so like to wash and change my clothes.”

  His eyes seemed to clear a little. “Of course,” he said after a minute. He stepped back, and his hand left her hair. His arms were abnormally long. He looked like an ape, Gwenhwyfar thought. “Forgive me, my dear. In my excitement at seeing you, I have forgotten my duties as a host.”