The Road to Avalon (Rediscovered Classics)

by Joan Wolf

  The sun was setting when the soldiers took up their positions and lay down in their cloaks to sleep. On the other side of the now-darkened field the king’s army was presumably doing the same.

  The night dragged on. The man sleeping beside Mordred, Agravaine’s man, began to snore. Noiselessly Mordred rose to his feet and started to move toward the wooded banks of the Camm. He was challenged by a sentry, but when he said he was going into the woods to relieve himself, he was allowed to pass.

  Once he was within the trees, Mordred wasted no time. His eyesight was very keen and he could move as silently as a woodland creature when he wanted to. By the time he was missed, and men were sent to look for him, he was far down the river, hidden by the dark and by the forest.

  Go to Gaul, his mother had said. Your father understands. Go to Gaul, where you will be safe.

  He could get away now with little trouble, head for the coast, where there would surely be some kind of boat to take him to Gaul. The branches of the trees rustled above him and he heard the soft sound of the water of the Camm as it lapped against the rocks of the shore. The decision was made and he was moving before he consciously realized that he had even made a decision. He could not go to Gaul until he had first seen his father.

  He took a few more steps and the thought settled, solidified, and became a conviction. He must see his father. He did not know why, just knew that it was a necessity. He could not run away to Gaul until he had first seen Arthur.

  He changed direction and began to return to the field from a different angle. His sense of direction was always accurate, and as the sun began to rise in the sky he found himself exactly where he had aimed to be, hidden in the thicket of woods that jutted out to the left of Innis’ wing. He looked across the neatly plowed field to the army that was assembled on the other side, a quarter of a mile away.

  The morning air was clear and the dragon banner of the king was easily visible in the early sun. Mordred’s long-sighted eyes were able to make out Arthur’s dispositions without difficulty. Bedwyr and the small cavalry unit were on the king’s right. The prince would throw terror into the untried troops from Manau Guotodin, Mordred thought with approval. He squinted a little to see what foot Arthur had given to Bedwyr and was surprised to see a troop of men led by Gawain. Gawain should be with the cavalry, he thought. He looked harder and realized abruptly that the auburn head of the man he was watching did not belong to Gawain after all.

  Gaheris. He almost said the name aloud. Gaheris, King of Lothian, had come to fight with Arthur. Mordred felt a moment of fierce pride in his brother. Then he moved his eyes to Arthur’s left wing, expecting to see Cador and Cai.

  Neither Cai nor the King of Dumnonia was commanding the left wing, however. Mordred looked at the slender, dark-haired man who was walking his horse up and down in front of his troops of foot, and felt jealousy sear his heart. Constantine. Constantine, where he ought to be, at Arthur’s side. And instead, he was here, skulking on the edges of the field, a branded traitor. The conviction that he must see his father burned even deeper than before.

  Finally, almost reluctantly, he allowed his eyes to come to rest on the figure under the great banner. He was riding Ruadh, Mordred saw at once. The center, which Arthur was commanding today, was placed on a small rise of land and the early-morning wind was blowing from its rear, causing the dragon banner to ripple almost directly over the king’s head. As Mordred watched him, Arthur moved Ruadh forward to the edge of the small hill. Standing there in front of his men, alone, he raised his voice.

  “Men of the north!” There was absolute silence in Agravaine’s ranks as they listened to the clear, strong voice coming to them so effortlessly on the morning breeze. “You have fought with me before, many of you. Gaheris of Lothian fights with me today.” Mordred could hear the murmurs of surprise that ran through Agravaine’a army as Gaheris came forward to the front of the right wing. The king raised his hand and silence descended once more. “Britons!” came Arthur’s call. His black hair was blowing in the wind. “You have been deceived by a treacherous prince. Join with me today, and I will receive you like comrades.”

  “You lie!” It was Agravaine’s voice, lighter than Arthur’s but audible to his men. “It is you who are the deceiver, servant of Rome!” Agravaine moved his own horse forward so he was visible to all his army. Like Arthur, he was unhelmeted. “Do not listen to him,” he cried to his men. “He is afraid because we outnumber him!”

  The sound of a horn from Arthur’s lines cut across his words. Agravaine gestured and his own trumpets blew. His men raised their weapons.

  This was why Arthur had chosen this ground, Mordred thought as the two armies began to move toward each other. He had wanted to make that appeal to Agravaine’s men.

  Mordred had never seen a battle before, and at first he watched in horror as the two masses of men clashed and mingled and began to kill. It was perhaps ten minutes before he realized that there was a steady stream of Agravaine’s men leaving the field. They were all moving toward the small rise of land from which Arthur had addressed the troops. Mordred looked and immediately recognized the figure who was so competently forming Agravaine’s men into a unit of reserve for the king. Cai. Someone all these veterans would know and trust.

  With a thrill of triumph, Mordred realized that Agravaine’s army was slowly deserting to the king.

  Suddenly Mordred could stand being an outsider no longer. He grasped his sword firmly in his hand and went onto the field to find his father.

  “Mercy, Prince!” A terrified face stared up at Bedwyr. “I want to declare for the king!”

  “Go and join Cai on the hill, then,” Bedwyr said. He raised his voice. “Anyone who wishes to join the king is to go to the hill.”

  The crowd around him began to thin noticeably. Bedwyr grinned and turned to Gawain, who was beside him. “Gods! I’m afraid to kill anyone lest he be one of ours!”

  Gawain laughed. “There were at least five hundred with Cai the last time I looked. The number must be double by now.” His eyes narrowed. “Hold on. This is a group that isn’t friendly.”

  “You deal with them,” Bedwyr said. “I have another job to do.” And he wheeled Sugyn away from the cavalry unit and drove him toward the center of the field. As so many years ago Cai had once searched a battlefield for Lot, so now Bedwyr searched for Lot’s son.

  Agravaine saw him coming, a great golden god of a man on a huge black horse. Agravaine raised his sword and watched as Bedwyr approached, cutting his way through the northern army as easily as a hot knife going through butter.

  “Prince,” he said when finally they were face-to-face. His blue eyes were fearless. “This is for you,” Agravaine said. He gestured around the field. “All for you.” And he laughed.

  “You treacherous bastard!” There was no understanding in Bedwyr’s eyes, only murderous rage. Bedwyr would never understand, Agravaine thought. It was supremely ironic, really, that the only one to understand had been Gwenhwyfar.

  Bedwyr’s sword was descending and he parried it. The prince was immensely strong and Agravaine’s wrist ached from the blow. Then, as he was launching his own sword, he saw another blow on its way. He just managed to get his shield up in time. Bedwyr was so fast! Then Sugyn was moving sideways, taking Bedwyr under his guard. “You always did stress the importance of lateral movement” Agravaine managed to gasp before the last blow came down on his unprotected golden head.

  Mordred was aiming for the dragon banner. He cut his way through the shifting groups of men on the field, reacting automatically, in the way he had been trained, whenever a sword was raised against him. The dragon banner, however, instead of getting closer, seemed to be getting farther away. Arthur was leaving the field, Mordred saw. In a panic, he pushed forward even harder, his mind concentrated on this one thing only, that he must speak to his father.

  The battle was breaking up around him. The death of Agravaine had taken whatever heart his troops had left. There were
still patches of combat here and there, but clearly most of the fighting was over.

  Arthur had pulled Ruadh up at the edge of the field and was watching the action, surrounded by a group of horsemen. Mordred saw Cai coming on foot to speak to Arthur, and the king turned toward him. Then Arthur dismounted and gave Ruadh to someone to hold. As he and Cai talked, Mordred began to run. Sweat stung his eyes and it was only instinct that made him turn to parry the blow that had been aimed at his back. He struck the man away and ran forward again, panting with exertion and emotion. He did not even realize his sword was still raised.

  “Father!” he cried as he pushed through the circle of cavalrymen who had been watching the king and Cai and so had not seen him coming.

  Arthur spun around. “I have come to beg—” Mordred was beginning when there came a bellow of rage from one of the horsemen. Mordred looked up in a daze to see the point of a lance hurtling straight at him. Then something was in its way.

  “Arthur!” It was Cai’s anguished cry. Mordred stared with horror as his father slowly slipped to the ground at his feet.

  Someone was sobbing. Cai dropped to his knees beside the king. Mordred’s sword slid out of his numbed hand. The lance that had felled Arthur had come out of the wound when the king had fallen and there was blood all over the front of his white tunic.

  “Get a doctor,” Cai said, and a horse galloped off. Cai tore off his cloak and tried to stanch the blood. Arthur’s lashes lifted slightly.

  “Get the boy away,” he said. His voice was weak but clear. “To Gaul.”

  “I will,” said Cai. “Just rest. We’ll have you bandaged up in no time.”

  “Avalon,” said Arthur. “Cai. Take me to Avalon.”

  The doctor came running up, followed by the thunder of hooves. “Arthur?” Even through the anguish and the fear, Mordred recognized Bedwyr’s voice.

  “He’s hurt,” said Cai.

  “Hurt? But how? The battle is over.”

  “It was an accident,” said Cai curtly. The doctor was bending over the king’s now unconscious figure. He looked up at Cai, and Mordred read what was in his face.

  “No.” It was scarcely more than a whisper. Mordred stared in panic at Arthur’s quiet face. “He’s not. . . ”

  “Not yet,” said the doctor. “But it won’t be long, I think.”

  “Avalon is but a few miles away,” said Cai. “We’ll take him there.”

  Trotting hoofbeats this time, and Mordred turned to see Gawain. His brother checked in surprise as he recognized him, and then he saw the figure on the ground. Someone had led away the sobbing horseman and it was very quiet. Cai looked at Gawain and said, “You must get your brother away from here, Gawain. Take him to Gaul. It was the last thing the king said before he lost consciousness.”

  The freckles were stark on Gawain’s pale face. “Did Mordred . . . ?” he began.

  “No. It was an accident. Get Mordred to Gaul, Gawain. Will you do that for the king?”

  “Yes.” Gawain rallied visibly. “If that is what he wants.”

  Mordred felt himself being lifted into a saddle. It was not until much later that he realized he was riding Ruadh. He did not want to go, but he knew that he must. “We’ll make a stretcher,” he heard Bedwyr saying as he and Gawain rode slowly away through the beautiful April morning.

  Morgan was waiting for them. She had known the moment that Arthur was hurt, but she did not know until she saw him how serious it was.

  They put him on the bed in his own room, the room he had been given when, as a boy of nine, he had first come to Avalon. Morgan took one look at the wound and realized there was nothing she could do. It was a miracle he had survived the journey to Avalon.

  Arthur had been in this place before, but then it had been by choice. He did not want to be here now, and he fought it. He was hurt and so terribly weary, but he fought. There was a long dark path before him, and at the end of it there was a light. The light was so warm, so welcoming . . . No, he said. Morgan. I cannot leave Morgan.

  The light came closer and then it was as if someone were speaking to him. He heard it the same way he heard Morgan, but it was not Morgan this time. The voice seemed to be coming from the light. There was great peace in what it said to him, and Arthur felt the peace seeping into his spirit. The pain in his chest lifted and he opened his eyes.

  She was there, as he had known she would be. But there were other obligations first. Mordred? he asked.

  Gawain took him to Gaul.

  That was a relief. Cai? he asked next. Bedwyr?

  They are waiting outside. Do you want to see them?

  Yes.

  They came in, the two big men, and he would have grieved for their sorrow if he had not been too filled with peace. “Constantine,” he said. For them, he had to talk. It was an effort. “I name Constantine as my heir.”

  There were tears running down Bedwyr’s face. Arthur wanted to tell him not to grieve, but it was too hard to talk. He must conserve his energy for the essentials. “My dragon brooch,” he said to Bedwyr. “Give it to Gwenhwyfar.” Bedwyr knelt and pressed his wet face into Arthur’s hand. Slowly Arthur’s eyes went to Cai.

  Always there, he thought. Whenever I have needed him. For all these years. “One of the finest things in all my life,” he said to those familiar hazel eyes, “has been having you for a friend.”

  Cai was not crying, but with the peculiar clarity that characterized his vision just now, Arthur could see his whole face clench. Arthur closed his eyes. Enough, he said to Morgan, and he heard her taking them to the door.

  She put them in her room, so they would be close. Later she would tell them not to reveal to anyone that Arthur’s wound had been mortal. They would bury him secretly, and his sword with him. Let Britain believe that she had hidden the king away until he was healed. Let them believe that someday he would come again. It was the last thing they could do for Arthur, the king.

  She would tell them that later. Just now the person they had lived for all their lives was dying, and they were lost in a wilderness of despair.

  And she?

  She had felt despair when first they carried him in, but it was gone now. He was still and white and blood had stained through the bandages and she knew he was dying. She could not call him back this time. But he was at peace. She could feel that in him, and she was glad. He had been going away and he had made one last great effort to come back, but not because he was fighting it. He had come back to share some of that peace with them, and to say good-bye.

  She crossed to the bed and his heavy lids lifted. Lie with me, he said.

  He was beyond pain, and so she did as he asked, resting her head against his arm. We will be together, he told her. Believe that. This is only for a little while. We were always meant to be together, you and I.

  She did believe him, and some of his peace crept into her own heart. Arthur, she said. Arthur, my love.

  She felt his head move, and his thought came through, faint but clear, Your hair always smells like lavender.