The Road to Avalon (Rediscovered Classics)

by Joan Wolf

  “His horse slipped in the mud and fell on him. Young Constantine is going to lead the Dumnonian troops in his stead. Bedwyr says he’s very competent. He was one of the princes in Bedwyr’s school, so we can be certain that he has had good training.”

  The tent was very dim and Cai lit the lamp that was on the single table. The king’s tent was very simply furnished. There was the table, one chair, and a bedplace. Cai saw her looking around and said ruefully, “We crossed the Narrow Sea in rather a hurry.”

  “It’s a good thing you did,” she replied, and unfastened the brooch that held her cloak to her shoulder. She removed the cloak and laid it, neatly folded, on the back of the single chair. She was dressed in the garments that were so familiar to Cai from their childhood: a pair of boy’s breeches and a plain long-sleeved tunic. Morgan’s riding clothes. She had never altered her taste. She walked to the bedplace and dropped to the blankets, sitting cross-legged with the ease and flexibility of a young child. Cai turned the chair to face her and sat down himself.

  Outside it began to rain. The lamp illuminated the small tent quite efficiently and Cai looked in silence at the small figure sitting so comfortably on Arthur’s bed.

  Her long hair was still as brown and straight and evenly cut at the ends as he remembered. Her small, delicate face and large eyes were the same too. But it was the face of a woman now, not a girl; a face that had known suffering as well as joy; a face whose beauty went deeper than a mere arrangement of skin and bones. The difference between Morgan and Gwenhwyfar, he found himself thinking, was that while both knew how to give, it was Morgan who knew how to give up.

  She bore his scrutiny in patient silence. Then she smiled. “I don’t suppose Syagrius was happy to see you leave?”

  He shook himself out of his reverie and answered her. They were discussing the situation in Gaul, and studiously refraining from mentioning the treachery at home, when the tent flap opened again and Arthur was there.

  He looked at Cai and not at her, but the emotion she felt emanating from him was very strong. He said something to Cai and Cai answered. There was rain on Arthur’s hair and lashes. He looked thinner than she remembered, and harder. His cloak was wet too. The rain was coming down hard now.

  Finally Cai ducked out of the tent. Morgan could hear his voice outside telling someone that on no account was the king to be disturbed. Arthur unpinned his wet cloak and dropped it on the chair over hers. Then he came to join her on the blankets.

  “Let me look at you.” She put her hands on either side of his face. The gray, long-lashed eyes looked back at her hungrily. She moved her thumbs across his mouth and then let her hands slide behind his neck and encircle it. He held her close, his mouth against her hair.

  “Not all the herbs in your garden are as good a medicine as you yourself,” he murmured.

  “You’re too thin,” she said.

  She felt his shoulders quiver. “It isn’t food I’m hungry for.” She looked up. His face was lit with laughter that all at once made him look sixteen again.

  “I missed you too,” she said.

  They were already sitting on the bed, so they hadn’t far to go. Outside the sky was gray and it was raining and an army was preparing to fight for its life. Inside the lamplit tent Arthur and Morgan stepped out from under the ugly shadow of betrayal and treachery and into the brilliant sunshine of love.

  A long time later Arthur looked down at the smooth, round head that was tucked so comfortably into his shoulder. “Morgan,” he said, and there was bewilderment as well as anger in his voice, “why in the name of God did Gwenhwyfar agree to marry him?”

  He felt the soft, warm breath of her sigh, but the shining hair that curtained his bare chest never moved. “She thought you were dead. And Bedwyr too.”

  “I know, but that still doesn’t explain it. Gwenhwyfar enjoys being queen, but that doesn’t explain it either.”

  She raised her head to look down into his face. Her hair streamed down around them, enclosing them in a tent within a tent. “You blame Gwenhwyfar?” she asked. “Not Mordred?”

  “Gwenhwyfar is the older. She should have known better.” His black brows were drawn together in a straight line. “Good God, Morgan, suppose Agravaine’s story had been true? Suppose I were dead and Mordred king. The last thing Britain needs right now is another barren queen!” She began to laugh. “It isn’t funny.” he added a little irritably.

  “It’s you who are funny. You’re so predictable.”

  He looked absolutely astounded. “I? Predictable?”

  “Yes, you.” She sobered. “You always think like a king.” She touched his eyebrows with her finger, delicately smoothing away his frown. “I understand Gwenhwyfar,” she said softly and sadly. The gray eyes waited. “Mordred adores her. And Mordred looks just like you.”

  She watched his face as he took that in. “Gwenhwyfar loves Bedwyr,” he said at last.

  “Yes.”

  His eyes searched her face. “How do you know what motivated Gwenhwyfar?”

  “If I were Gwenhwyfar, I should probably have done the same thing.”

  But he was shaking his head, the faintest of smiles on his mouth. “Oh, no, not you. You are as predictable as I am, Merlin’s daughter.”

  She gave him a rueful look. “I fear we are both Merlin’s children.” She sat up. “Speaking of children, Arthur, what are we going to do about Mordred?”

  He lay still for a minute, looking at her. Then he sighed and sat up. “Do you think you can get into Camelot to see him?”

  “Yes. I’m sure I can.”

  He looked around for his breeches. She unearthed them from the tangle of blankets and handed them to him. After a minute she began to dress as well. “Tell him he must get away from Agravaine,” Arthur finally said as he tied the rawhide string at his waist. “Agravaine needs him now, but he won’t let Mordred survive the battle.”

  It was what she had thought also. “But how is he to get away?” she asked breathlessly.

  Arthur pulled his purple-bordered tunic over his head. “He must do it somewhere on the road between Camelot and the battlefield. I can’t tell him exactly how, Morgan. He must sieze whatever opportunity arises. But tell him he must get away. If he doesn’t, he is a dead man.”

  His hair was ruffled and she reached up to smooth it down. “Should he come to you?”

  His face was somber. “No. Not yet. He is not precisely popular with my followers, love. Most of the men think exactly what Agravaine wants them to think. No, the safest place for Mordred just now is Gaul. Tell him to join Valerius and the army in Bourges. He’ll be safe there; they don’t know what is happening here in Britain.”

  The fear that his presence had so magically lifted settled once more on her heart. “And after the battle?”

  “Once I have things in order here, I’ll send for him. But I want him in Gaul for now. It’s the only safe place.”

  He seemed to be in no doubt as to the outcome of the battle. She felt a little better. “All right. I’ll tell him. But what if he can’t get away on the road?”

  “Then the minute the battle begins, he is to ride like Hades off the field and head for the coast. Agravaine will not let him survive the battle, Morgan. Make that quite clear to him.”

  “I will.” Her face was white but composed. “Don’t worry about Mordred, Arthur. I will see that he gets himself to Gaul.”

  “You’re certain you will be able to see him?”

  “Oh, yes. Agravaine won’t let Mordred out of Camelot, but he will let me in. He won’t be able to resist the opportunity to gloat.”

  “If he holds you there, don’t worry. I’ll be back in Camelot within the week.”

  She searched his hard face, which did not look young any longer. “You think you will win this battle.”

  It was a statement, not a question, but he answered it anyway. “Yes. I got here in time. I think I will win.”

  She reached up to tie the laces at his throat and he caug
ht her wrists in his hands. “Morgan,” he said urgently, “when all of this is over . . .”

  But she was shaking her head. “When all of this is over, then we’ll talk.”

  “We can’t go on—”

  “I know. I know, Arthur. But not now.” They looked at each other for a long minute, and then he smiled.

  “All right. First let me get rid of that treacherous bastard Agravaine.”

  She smiled back a little sadly. “He was such a bright, charming little boy.”

  “Well, he’s grown into a viper.” Clearly Arthur was in no mood to be nostalgic over Agravaine’s childhood. Under the circumstances, she could scarcely blame him.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid he has.”

  “Arthur!” It was Cai’s voice from outside the flap of the tent. “Gaheris has just ridden into camp with three hundred men!”

  “Gaheris!” Arthur’s head snapped up and he began to move toward the tent door. Morgan followed more slowly. She knew how important this addition to Arthur’s forces was. Gaheris joining the king meant that this upcoming battle would not be just the south and Wales against the north. Gaheris was far more vital to Arthur than a mere three hundred men.

  Gaheris, Morgan remembered as she followed Arthur out into the rain, had never liked Agravaine.

  Morgan had been right when she told Arthur she would have no trouble getting into Camelot. They let her through the gate with no questions and she rode up the road to the palace without once being stopped. She passed two wagonloads of food on the road and she looked sharply to see which farmers were supplying Agravaine’s army. She had refused to send any food from Avalon.

  She did not recognize the men driving the wagons. Agravaine must have had to import food from outside the immediate area.

  A soldier took her pony in the palace courtyard and they kept her waiting for fifteen minutes in the vestibule after she said she had come to see Prince Mordred. They were checking with Agravaine, she assumed, and hoped she would get at least a few minutes alone with her son.

  She did. They finally escorted her to one of the reception rooms that opened off the great hall, and in five minutes Mordred joined her. He was alone.

  He looked young and solitary and lost and her heart ached for him. If only he had not looked so much like Arthur he could have spent his life safely and happily in Lothian, she thought. “Agravaine won’t let me leave,” he said to her as soon as he was in the room. “I know you probably won’t believe me, but it’s true. I wanted to go to the king, but Agravaine wouldn’t let me.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “You know? But how?”

  “Because I know you. I never for one moment supposed that you would wish to overthrow your father. Nor does Arthur think that.” The unhappy gray eyes widened. “Now, listen to me, Mordred. I have brought you a message from your father. He says you are in great danger. Agravaine cannot afford to let you survive the battle. You must get away from him. Arthur says the best place will probably be on the road to the battlefield. Get away and go to Gaul. Do you understand?”

  “I . . . Yes.”

  “If you cannot get away on the road, then you must ride off the battlefield as soon as battle is engaged.” She was speaking quickly and in a low, urgent voice. Her eyes kept going to the doorway. “Join the army in Gaul. Your father will send for you once he has things under control here in Britain.”

  His mouth trembled. “I don’t deserve that you should believe in me, either of you. I may have been fooled about Arthur’s death, but . . . Gwenhwyfar . . . ”

  She said, “Of all of us, Mordred, you are the least to blame.” And held out her arms.

  He was even thinner than Arthur, and his shoulders were bony. He was quivering all over. “I’m so sorry,” he was saying next to her ear. “Mother. I’m so sorry.”

  She patted his back. “I know, Mordred. We both know. Now, quickly, before Agravaine comes, will you go to Gaul?”

  She could feel him trying to pull himself together. “Y-yes,” he said.

  She heard the step at the door, quiet though it was, and so had a second to prepare herself before a light voice said mockingly, “Such a touching sight.”

  She felt Mordred shudder and squeezed his shoulders bracingly before allowing him to step back from her. “Family affection is not something you would understand,” she said to the chill blue eyes of her nephew.

  “Aunt Morgan.” His smile was full of meretricious charm. “And did you come just to hold my little brother’s hand?”

  Mordred was facing Agravaine now, and when he spoke, his voice was perfectly steady. “She didn’t come to spy on you, Agravaine. She came for reasons you would never be able to honor or to understand.”

  Morgan looked at her son. He was standing straight as an arrow and the eyes he had turned on Agravaine were full of contempt. So was his voice.

  Good for you, she thought. And he gave her a quick, startled look, as though he had heard her.

  Agravaine’s eyes went from Mordred’s face to Morgan’s. “You didn’t think that it might not be as easy to get out of Camelot as it was to get in?” he asked gently.

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other. Arthur will be in Camelot in a matter of days.”

  The fair face darkened with anger. “Don’t be too sure of that.”

  Her eyebrows were two perfect delicate arches above her clear brown eyes. “I’m very sure of it, Agravaine.”

  “Get out!” he said with sudden violence, “while you still can! As you pointed out earlier, I don’t have the same reverence for family ties that you have. Go back to Avalon. And when this battle is over, Morgan, I will expect your farms to send the same supplies to Camelot that they did in the days of Arthur.”

  She looked at him consideringly. He could not bear to be crossed at all these days, she thought. Would Mordred really be safe here? And what about Gwenhwyfar?

  “Go,” Mordred said commandingly. “And . . . thank you for coming.”

  Her son’s eyes were clear, his face suddenly and oddly mature-looking. The young, lost look had quite gone. A little of the weight of fear she always carried for him lifted and she smiled. “God keep you, Mordred.”

  “And you,” came the grave reply. She brushed past Agravaine and walked out through the beautiful colonnaded great hall, out the great double doors of Arthur’s palace, and for the last time rode her pony down the main road of the famous capital city of Camelot.

  Chapter 44

  IT was a wet, misty April morning when Agravaine’s army finally rode out of Camelot to fight the king. There had to be a battle; both sides understood that. Agravaine could not afford to hide in Camelot indefinitely and allow Arthur time to call his army home from Gaul.

  Mordred rode beside his brother at the head of the neat rows of marching men. As Arthur had told Morgan, Agravaine needed the king’s son. He needed his army to see that Mordred, Prince of Britain, was riding to battle with them. Two of Agravaine’s men rode beside Mordred and two behind him, effectively cutting off any chance of escape. The morning air was cold and damp on Mordred’s face. The woods on either side of the road were hung with wet white blossoms and purple twigs. Mordred watched the men beside him out of the corners of his eyes.

  It was not his personal danger that was worrying him; it was the thought that his presence was helping Agravaine. He turned his head slightly and looked at his brother. Agravaine was helmetless, and even in the morning gloom his hair shone bright. He must have sensed Mordred’s regard, for his own head turned. For a brief wordless moment their eyes held. Then Agravaine said regretfully, “I always liked you, Mordred.”

  There was an ache in Mordred’s stomach. “I know,” he said. But the Agravaine whom he had grown up with, the big brother he had admired and pitied, was not the man who rode now by his side. Or was he? Was he so clever a dissembler that he had been able to fool them all for so many years? Had this ruthless egotism always lain at the hear
t of Agravaine’s character?

  Abruptly Mordred remembered Gaheris asking: “And where were you when Pellinore fell down those stairs?”

  There had been regret in the blue eyes looking at him just now, but no mercy. Agravaine would have him killed, all right. The possibility which he had never quite believed, now became a certainty. Mordred stood between Agravaine and the high kingship; therefore Mordred would have to die. In Agravaine’s mind, it would be as simple as that.

  Mordred felt suddenly nauseated. It was not the danger he was in that sickened him; he had a great deal of physical courage. It was Agravaine. God, what would happen to Britain should Agravaine become high king?

  The setting sun was still streaking the sky with red when Agravaine’s army entered the small village of Camlann some five miles west of Avalon. On one side of the village was the river Camm; on the other were the wide, neatly plowed fields of the villagers, already sown with spring seed. It was not life but death that would be sown on those fields tomorrow, however, for it was this flat, fertile valley that Arthur had chosen to be the scene of the ultimate battle for Britain.

  It was a field that afforded little in the way of topographical advantage. Mordred was surprised that his father had chosen a site that would so clearly favor the army with the greater number. Agravaine had some eight thousand men under his command; his spies had reported that the king’s army was two thousand less than that.

  Mordred had not been able to effect an escape on the road, and so he was present when Agravaine made his battle dispositions for the morrow. The men of Elmet, under the command of their own prince, Baird, were given the right. Baird’s father, Elmet’s old king, was said to be very ill. Mordred doubted that he even knew of the enterprise his son was involved in. There would be two thousand men from Elmet and one thousand from Rheged under Baird’s command tomorrow, mostly all troops who had fought at one time or another in Arthur’s wars. The left wing, under the command of Innis of Manau Guotodin, was less experienced. The center, led by Agravaine himself, was a mix of seasoned veterans and youngsters from Lothian who had grown up under Pellinore’s imposed state of isolation. These were the troops Agravaine had been training so intensively and he was confident they would not panic when faced with actual battle.