The Road to Avalon (Rediscovered Classics)

by Joan Wolf

  There was no doubt in anyone’s mind as to Meliagrance’s fate. Arthur’s sword had driven straight at his heart.

  Inside her window, Gwenhwyfar began to shake. Olwen dragged her eyes away from the king long enough to ask her if she were cold. Gwenhwyfar shook her head and leaned a little forward to hear what was being said in the courtyard.

  One of the Verica men was bending over Meliagrance and he looked up from the chief’s body long enough to announce what everyone already knew. Meliagrance was dead.

  Arthur looked up and down the line of tribesmen. The fear in the courtyard was so thick that Gwenhwyfar could smell it. “The chief of the Verica was guilty of treason” Arthur said to the assembled men, his voice perfectly calm. He was not even breathing hard. “And so shall I deal with all who are guilty of the same crime.”

  Gwenhwyfar thought she could see a shudder run through Meliagrance’s men.

  “Kile,” said Arthur.

  A brown-haired boy of no more than eighteen stepped forward. “Yes, my lord,” he said bravely. He stood bravely too, faultlessly erect, shoulders back and chin up.

  “Since the fall of Vortigern the tribe of the Verica has refused to acknowledge the power of the high king.” Arthur’s voice was soft but implacable. “Your chief has just attempted to kidnap the queen and raise a revolt against me. Can you think of any reason why I should spare your lives?”

  “My lord,” the boy replied, “Meliagrance was our chief. Like it or no, we were bound to follow him.”

  “And you, Kile.” The king’s voice was now very quiet although it could be heard in the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “If you were chief of the Verica, would you seek to raise a rebellion against me?”

  “Oh, no, my lord!” The reply was immediate, breathless, and vehement. “If I were chief of the Verica, I would be proud to be your man.”

  Arthur leaned the point of his sword into the ground and regarded Kile thoughtfully. Gwenhwyfar could see the boy’s face, but not her husband’s. “The queen,” Arthur said, “tells me she is convinced Meliagrance was not in his right mind.”

  “My lord,” said Kile instantly, “I do not think he was.”

  Arthur’s eyes went from the boy to the line of men behind him. Afterward, every Verica man in the courtyard would swear that the king had looked directly at him. “From this time forward, you are to consider yourselves British first and Verica second. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Kile’s reply was echoed loudly by the men massed behind him.

  Arthur looked up and down the line once more. “If word ever again comes to me that the Verica are plotting treason, I will not rest until every last one of you is begging for death.” The words were like the slash of a whip. There was not a man listening who doubted that the king meant every syllable.

  “You will never again hear of treason from the Verica, my lord,” Kile said. “I swear it on the grave of my father.”

  “Very well.” Arthur turned his head slightly. “Bedwyr. See to it these men have their weapons returned to them. They’ may bury Meliagrance however they choose.”

  The wave of relief that went through the courtyard was palpable. Bedwyr moved forward. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Kile.” Arthur sounded perfectly friendly; the whip had been withdrawn. “Come into the house with me. We must talk.” The boy’s face was bright as a candle flame as he moved to the king’s side.

  At the window, Gwenhwyfar began to breathe normally again.

  “Oh, my lady,” said Olwen with a long sigh. “Is he not wonderful?”

  He was so clever, Gwenhwyfar thought as she went slowly across the hall to her small bedroom. He knew exactly how to bind men to him. Young Kile would adore him, as did all his men. He had turned this potentially disastrous situation into a triumph. He would have no trouble from the Verica from now on.

  He had thought this all out when he had decided to kill Meliagrance. As always, his reaction had been that of a king.

  It was Bedwyr of the blazing blue eyes who had said, “I would like to cut his heart out of his living body.” And Bedwyr would have done it for her.

  Arthur left Bedwyr and Gwynn at Clust and rode to Camelot with Gwenhwyfar and an escort of light horse. The sunshine of the morning had given way again to low gray clouds, and as she entered through the gate of Arthur’s new city and her horse began to climb the steep hill to the palace at the summit, all Gwenhwyfar could see stretching around her was grayness and mud. She was cold and tired, with a weariness of soul as well as of body. She shivered when she saw the huge timber building that was to be her new home. She wished with all her heart that she was back in Venta looking at the graceful colonnade of the praetorium.

  Cai took them on a tour of the building. Most of the rooms were empty as Cai, not knowing where she wanted things, had simply put them all in the great hall for her to sort out. The elegant Roman furnishings looked dwarfed by the hugeness of the hall, Gwenhwyfar thought. The whole building was so huge. Never would she grow accustomed to living in such a place. Room followed room, and even though she had seen the plans of the building, she was too tired to follow where they were going.

  No beautiful Roman plasterwork on the walls. No marble. No colorful mosaics on the floor. Just bare, unpainted wood.

  “It still needs painting” Cai said cheerfully as he took them through a smaller hall that was larger than the main audience chamber at Venta. “But it’s weather-tight and all the smoke vents work.”

  “Well,” said Gwenhwyfar with her sweetest smile, “as long as the soldiers and the horses are comfortable, what does it matter that we may have to suffer for a while?”

  This was Cai’s own view and he smiled at her approvingly. Arthur’s look was shrewder and after she was in her own rooms and finally getting ready to sleep in her own bed, he made an appearance. Olwen ran the comb one more time through Gwenhwyfar’s hair, put it down, and wished the queen good night. Husband and wife were alone.

  “At least they put your bed in the right room,” Arthur remarked. He was looking around the bedroom, at the bare floor, the sparse furniture, the jumble of wicker baskets containing clothing and hangings. The only cheerful thing in the whole place was the glowing charcoal brazier.

  “Well, don’t you expect to share it tonight.” The words were out before she even knew she was going to say them.

  She had surprised him. Sometimes she thought the only time she ever got his full attention was when she surprised him.

  She wished he would come and put his arms around her, hold her, and comfort her. She was so tired . . . she had scarcely slept at all last night.

  Of course, he hadn’t slept either. He had been in the saddle riding to Clust.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet. “I’m sorry, Gwenhwyfar, that you had to come here to an unfinished house. I know how tired you must be.”

  He was standing in the middle of the big room, with emptiness all around him. She was seated in front of a small table, her chair turned to face him. She wore her night robe with a cloak over it for warmth. Arthur had changed out of his riding clothes, and he had shaved.

  He had been planning to sleep with her.

  She longed for him, longed for him to push aside her objections, longed to bury her weariness in his warm strength, to be comforted and forgiven and loved.

  There was empty space all around him and he stood there watching her, his hands at his sides. There was always a space around him, she realized sadly. And he was happiest when no one tried to breach its boundaries. He had come to her tonight because he thought she might need him, not because he needed her.

  She looked at her hands. “I don’t mean to complain. You’re right, Arthur. I’m tired. I need a good night’s sleep.”

  Finally he came to her side. “Things will go better in the morning,” he said comfortingly. “I’ll put a crew of men at your disposal, and you can do what you want with the house.” She gave him a shadowy smile and he bent and kissed her
gently on the mouth. “Good night, my dear.”

  “Good night.” She watched him walk out of the room, bowed her head into her hands, and cried.

  The following day the sun shone, Gwenhwyfar’s women began to unpack, and Bedwyr arrived back at Camelot. He looked in on the queen late in the afternoon as she was having furniture moved into her private salon.

  He seemed to bring the sunshine with him.

  “Bedwyr!” Gwenhwyfar greeted him with a warm smile.

  He looked from her to the men who were busily moving tables, to Olwen, who was telling them where to put the tables, and said, “Come out with me for a while. The sky is beautiful.”

  The sun would set within the hour. “A little air would do me good,” Gwenhwyfar agreed. “Olwen, get me my cloak.”

  They walked slowly around the side of the palace, where the gardens would go in the spring. The ground was muddy but Gwenhwyfar did not seem to notice. The sky was streaked with rosy fire and the setting sun was like a great red ball of flame hanging just above the horizon. Gwenhwyfar looked at the sky and let out her breath in a long, melancholy sigh. The beauty of the dying sun made her feel suddenly very lonely, and ineffably sad.

  From just behind her shoulder came Bedwyr’s soft voice. “Tell me”

  She answered, her eyes still on the sky, “Do you remember when you came to Gwynedd to fetch me for my wedding, and I asked you questions about Arthur?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said to me then, ‘He is a king’ And you said also, ‘He is a very private man’ Well, it was not until just recently that I finally realized what you meant.”

  Bedwyr did not answer and she turned to look at him. “I cannot reach him, Bedwyr. He keeps a space around himself, always, and if you try to walk into that space, he puts up a wall. I used to think that if I could have a child, then he would change. But I don’t think even that would make a difference now.”

  “It’s not you, little bird.” His voice was very quiet. “It’s the way he is with everyone.”

  She stared at the sky once more. “He was not that way with Morgan.”

  Bedwyr felt as if he had just stepped onto treacherous ground. Gwenhwyfar’s profile was rigid. “He and Morgan were children together,” he said at last. “That makes a difference.”

  A picture flashed before her eyes: Arthur, helpless with laughter, watching Morgan tussle with Cabal.

  “I have brothers, but they are not the only people I can be happy with,” she said bitterly.

  He reached out and turned her to face him. “You weren’t abandoned and brutalized when you were a child, either,” he said. “You’ve seen the scars he carries. He got those before he was nine years old, Gwenhwyfar. Avalon must have seemed like heaven to him after that. Morgan was probably the first person he could ever trust.”

  There was silence. Then: “I didn’t know.” Her voice was muffled. “He never would tell me about the scars.” Bedwyr’s face was as harsh as his voice, his eyes the deep blue that strong emotion always turned them. She had spoken angrily because it hurt so much, that picture of Arthur and Morgan. And now here was Bedwyr, the only person who cared about her, staring at her with those hard blue eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  The eyes softened. “I didn’t mean to shout. And he would never tell me about the scars either. I got it from Cai.”

  Arthur had grown up with Cai as well as with Morgan, but he did not look at Cai the way he did . . . She wouldn’t think of it. “You love Arthur very much, don’t you?” she said instead.

  “Yes,” came the simple reply. “I do.”

  He was so blessedly uncomplicated, she thought. So easy to understand. “I know you do. That is why I expected you to be appalled by what happened between us at Clust. But you weren’t. At first, I couldn’t understand it. But now I do.” She looked up, meeting his eyes, not letting him look away. “You knew it would not matter to Arthur,” she said.

  “Gwenhwyfar . . . ” The admission was in his eyes, in the helplessness of his voice.

  She buried her face in his shoulder. “Bedwyr.” It was a cry of pain. “Oh, God, Bedwyr. I am so lonely!”

  His arms came around her, warm, strong, loving. “Don’t, little bird. Don’t. He does love you, you know. But his way is the way of a king. Mine is just the way of a man.” At that she took her head away from his shoulder and looked up. His eyes were like sapphires.

  The words, the look, fell like balm on her scalded heart. When he bent his head to kiss her, she reached up in instant, desperate response.

  They thought they were sheltered from the house, and they were. Neither of them saw the figure of the king silhouetted against the hill behind them. Arthur too had come out to watch the sunset.

  He stood for perhaps five seconds, motionless. Then he turned and walked quietly back to the palace.

  Two days later he left for Avalon.

  This time it was Morgan who came to meet him. She stood beside Dun’s shoulder while he slid to the ground. Then he was beside her, his gray eyes looking down into the face that he loved. “Welcome to Avalon, Arthur,” she said, and smiled. “Welcome home.”

  III

  MORDRED (467–470)

  Chapter 29

  THE morning air was clear when Arthur left Avalon, with a fresh wind blowing white clouds across the blue summer sky. He took his time, ambling along the familiar track that led through the fields and back to Camelot. The larks trilled high in the sky and the breeze ruffled the hair on his brow, and he was happy.

  His mood had been quite different two days earlier when he had ridden through the gathering dusk in the opposite direction. The memory of what had precipitated his hasty visit to Morgan crossed his mind and he frowned, the serenity of his mood marred by the thought.

  Urien, Prince of Rheged, had asked him for permission to marry Morgan. Urien had spent the previous month at Avalon because of a case of boils that Drusus could not cure. Morgan had cured the boils, and Urien wanted to marry her.

  There had been nothing wrong with the request. Urien was Morgan’s equal in birth. He was young, younger than she, handsome, stalwart, a perfectly acceptable candidate for the hand of any princess in Britain.

  Arthur had wanted to kill him.

  He hoped now, in retrospect, that he had not made an enemy. He was afraid he had been brutally rude to the boy. He had not been thinking of prudence; he had been thinking of how he would like to get his hands around Urien’s neck for even daring to . . .

  He had ridden to Avalon at a pace that was too fast for his beloved old stallion. Morgan had been quite cross with him. But she had made it perfectly clear that she had no intention of marrying Urien, or anyone else.

  Arthur patted Dun’s neck. The birds sang louder. In five minutes the walls of Camelot became visible in the distance and the king regarded them with pleased proprietorship. A great flag bearing the red dragon of his house was flying over the gate, brilliant in the bright sunshine. Gwenhwyfar had made that flag for him, surprising him with it one day early this spring. He remembered that she had asked him where he was going when she saw him leaving the palace two days ago. He was afraid he had been rude to her as well. He would make it up to her, he thought. On a morning like this, he was at peace with the whole world.

  There were permanent shops inside the city gates, but a sort of bazaar had sprung up outside the gates as well, with everything being sold, from food to jewelry, weapons, cloth, eyeglasses, pottery, and fortunes. As Dun threaded his way through the colorful confusion of booths and wagons and merchandise, the word went round: The king is here! The king is here!

  Arthur acknowledged the cheers with a nod and a raised hand, and then he was at the gate, which was kept open during the day. The guards on duty saluted and the king rode through.

  The road that led from the gate to the plateau and palace at the top of the hill had been graveled last spring. Grass had been planted as well, and Arthur’s eye was gratified by the rolling green landscape that fe
ll away from him on all sides. He and Dun topped the steepest part of the hill and the road branched off in three directions. Arthur continued on the path that would take him to the palace, but he could hear the sound of muffled shouts and the clash of steel coming from the left path, which led to the training grounds for the foot.

  Good, Arthur thought. The men were working. The cavalry quarters were off to the right, out of view and out of hearing, but he was certain there was as much activity there as in the foot camp. Bedwyr had been driving his men relentlessly these last few weeks. Arthur had planned a great festival to show off his new capital, and the army was to present several demonstrations to the guests.

  He continued up the hill to the level plateau at the top. There, at the end of the road, fronted by a wide graveled courtyard, was the palace of Camelot. There were flags flying from the roof, made also by the queen and her women. The glazed windows, with all their shutters wide open, gleamed in the bright summer sun. Arthur checked Dun for a moment and regarded his home with pleasure. If he had not been a king he would have liked to be an architect, he thought, and laughed at his own self-satisfaction.

  He had reason for pride, however. The palace was a brilliant example of Roman architecture adapted to the harsher British climate. Arthur and Cai had spent many hours poring over Merlin’s copy of Vitruvius’ De Architectura, looking at floor plans, discussing theory, trying to decide what would be functional for Arthur’s needs and what would not.

  They had ended by keeping the basic Roman floor plan which utilized a peristyle, or central court, with most of the main rooms arrayed around it. The Roman peristyle, however, was an open courtyard surrounded by a colonnade. This feature, so pleasant in a southern house, was not practical for a colder, wetter climate, and so the peristyle had become a great hall, and the colonnade a series of decorated wooden pillars. One more British addition had been made to the basic Roman plan: hearth places for burning wood were built into most of the rooms. The charcoal brazier was inadequate to heat rooms of the size they had constructed, and a Roman-style hypocaust was beyond their means.