by M. K. Hume
‘Goodness!’ Gwyllan laughed gaily, unaware of a sudden undercurrent beneath the courtesies of the meeting. ‘A little gentleman! Thank you, Arthur. How lovely your flowers are.’
Any awkwardness over Arthur’s appearance was dissipated by the charm of his simple gift. Ector grinned proudly, and Bran nodded his approval. Only Anna and Gawayne were silent, and Elayne glanced at them nervously. She could tell by their expressions that they recognised the man in the face and form of the boy.
Gawayne had not been told that Artor had fathered one last child on Lady Elayne, so the presence of Arthur came as a shock. The boy he saw was tall for his age, wide shouldered and narrow of hip and with little of the baby fat that blurred the outlines of most children of seven. He had his father’s red-gold hair, as wildly curly as Artor’s had been, even into old age. Gawayne sensed his parentage at a glance, and felt a kick of love and presentiment under his breastbone. Then the boy turned to him with curious, measuring eyes and Gawayne felt like a young lad again under the fond regard of his own uncle. Although Arthur’s eyes were different in colour, having a green rim around the irises, they examined the world with the same careful gaze. Gawayne returned the boy’s bow, his face radiant.
Anna also felt her heart begin to ache. Her own hair had curled just so in childhood, and she recognised little mannerisms that had belonged to her father. The boy had cocked his head slightly to the right as he considered something, just as her father had done. She had feared this moment, this meeting with a child who could usurp the heritage of her beloved Bran and Ector, but she had not expected that the boy would be the image of her father.
‘Hello, young Arthur,’ she said softly, kneeling in the dust to look him in the eye. Fearlessly, he gazed back at her with a smile so wide it almost covered his face. ‘Was it your idea to pick the flowers for Lady Gwyllan? If so, then you are a very courteous young man.’
‘Mother says I’m an urchin, my lady. She says I will bring dishonour on the family if I don’t mind my teachers. I can’t see why anyone would care what I do, but Mother says everyone will be watching for me to make mistakes. Is that true, Lady Anna? Not that I think Mother would lie to me . . . but she might be exaggerating.’
‘You’re a little judge, I see!’
Listening, Gawayne smiled uncertainly, almost unwilling to believe that fate would leave this last cosmic joke to tease the Celts with what might have been. This exceptional boy was a bastard at best and not technically worthy to bear a sword.
‘Your mother speaks the truth, Arthur,’ he said carefully, for the child’s eyes, compelling and clever, had turned to him. ‘The world will watch you and look for any mistakes you might make. One day, your mother will tell you why you are a very important young man, and everything will then become clear to you. Meanwhile, your friends want you to grow to be a fine warrior who will bring great honour to your father’s house.’
Gawayne had spoken quietly, but his voice carried to Bedwyr and Elayne who both flushed hotly, each reading correctly what Gawayne meant when he used the words ‘your father’s house’.
The moment was allowed to pass, and Bedwyr’s home was soon boiling with servants preparing the obligatory feast. The master’s hounds got under everybody’s feet and the children were hustled away by their nurse. Like any good host, Bedwyr led the men to his personal room for a welcome cup of ale, while Elayne took Anna and Gwyllan to a small courtyard which she used for weaving and gossip with her women. Servants bustled to unpack the guests’ saddle bags while ostlers saw to the horses and assisted the troop of cavalry who had escorted the guests. Meanwhile, the smell of roasting meat set mouths to salivating and nearly drove Bedwyr’s hounds mad with anticipation. In a riot of colour, haste and energy, the day drew on.
Gawayne lifted his dirty boots onto a small table in Bedwyr’s room and stretched his stiff muscles luxuriously. Although his body was at rest, his emotions were in turmoil at this new and unexpected development in the history of the west. Forever tactless, he was about to say the unthinkable and bring Bedwyr’s secrets out into the light of day.
Smiling, he accepted a mug of ale. ‘Bedwyr, my friend, you caught me by surprise when you presented your son to us, and I’m far too old to be given such a shock. It’s none of my business, of course, but I thought I’d swallow the last of my few remaining teeth when I saw the boy.’
Appalled, Bedwyr stared back at his friend. So the secret was out. But then, perhaps it was best, after all, that Arthur’s parentage should be considered by these three men, all kin to the boy, before he grew into manhood. He chose his words carefully.
‘If you mean that Arthur is not my son, you are right, of course. I was angry at first . . . any man would be if he found himself in my shoes. But Artor and I had a long talk before the last battles, and he told me what had happened on the night of the snowstorm when Elayne was abandoned by Queen Wenhaver in that damned shelter and they were forced to lie together to conserve body heat. I was away with your son at the time, you remember. Of course, I knew that Elayne and Artor were fast friends and I was aware of the queen’s jealousy, but I still believe that my wife didn’t betray her vows willingly. Before you try to knock me flat on my backside, I’m not accusing the High King of rape, but when death seems very close few of us act normally. Elayne called that night “time out of time”, and Artor was adamant that no blame should be cast on her. They had little protection from the storm during their hours of peril and both thought they would freeze to death before morning. I have come to believe that the pregnancy was the result of a single moment of weakness. Fate, if you like.’
Gawayne coughed apologetically and tried to hide a wry smile of self-knowledge. ‘I never thought my uncle capable of that kind of weakness. He really must have thought that death was near. I never had any excuse when it came to the ladies, least of all imminent death.’
Bedwyr smiled briefly. ‘I was angry for a long time, but Artor owned that the fault was his and pleaded for my forgiveness. You know what he was like. I couldn’t stay angry with him when I considered the circumstances. He was only too aware of the implications of Arthur’s birth, and, as usual, he tried to protect us all from any consequences of his folly. He wanted his son to grow to manhood without the burdens he had shouldered during his youth.’
‘What a mess. No, really, Bedwyr, your boy is only seven years old and I could tell his lineage at a glance. Admittedly, there aren’t too many men still living who can remember the young Artor, so time may be on your side, but what if the boy has ambitions? What if he seeks to raise himself above his station? He may be illegitimate, but he’s the natural child of the last High King of the Britons.’
Bedwyr grimaced, but Ector came to his aid with the earnest sincerity of a fine young man. ‘Arthur is a loyal little boy. He’s been following me around like a puppy since he took his first steps. I don’t believe for a moment that he’d try to steal my place or plot against my father. You only have to look into those changeable eyes of his to know that he’s true and good, just like his father Bedwyr.’
‘But Bedwyr isn’t his father, is he? And the best youth can turn into a twisted man if he is robbed of hope,’ Gawayne interrupted. ‘Every boy hopes to exceed his sire in exploits and courage. How can he touch even a corner of Artor’s greatness? Because he’ll discover whose son he is, even if you manage to hide him until he’s a grown man.’
He drained his horn mug in one gulp and then steepled his fingers in front of his face. ‘I meant what I said to him, but really, of course, as a bastard he should be forbidden the study of weaponry and precluded from the role of a warrior. What would that mean to a young man like him? I remember when Myrddion Merlinus told me of the sense of loss he experienced as a boy when he learned that his birth barred him from full manhood. As a healer and a statesman, he became one of the most powerful men of our time, but that loss stayed with him into old age. You will have to be very careful in the way you raise the boy, Bedwyr.’
Br
an had been silent throughout the conversation, but now he scratched his jaw and offered his opinion.
‘Perhaps young Arthur should be told his whole history? And soon. If he is familiar with his birth and his background, it can’t be used to poison his mind against us, or against others. Secrets can be fatal in the wrong hands. As for the status of warrior, why shouldn’t he aspire to those heights? His birth has been shrouded in secrecy, so who will argue with Bedwyr if he decides his son should be trained to use sword, spear, shield and knife? And why not learn the use of the bow as well? Pelles would be happy to train the boy. I dare say he’d be overjoyed at the prospect, and he can be depended upon to keep his mouth shut.’
Gawayne frowned, and then grinned. ‘Yes, Bran, you’re right! We will need every warrior we can find in the times that are upon us. Every Celt who dies in battle against the Saxons has taken twenty years to become fully grown, while ceols full of trained warriors keep arriving from Friesia and Saxony. If young Arthur has his father’s skills, along with his looks, then he’ll make a superb warrior for the west and help to lead us out of the wilderness. You’re a cunning bugger, Bran. Just like your grandfather!’
Bran bridled a little at Gawayne’s sardonic speech. He was genuinely fond of the boy, whom he knew to be forward and intelligent. He had been sure of his parentage from the first, not least because Artor’s famed Dragon Knife had been taken by Bedwyr and passed to Elayne at Artor’s express orders. Who but close kin would be chosen to receive such a gift? That knife had been owned by Artor since he was a very young man and was the only thing he had to give that was not entailed by the position of High King. If Gawayne’s assessment was to be believed, the boy could be valuable to malcontents against the west, so it was far better that his skills should be used by kinsmen who cared for his best interests.
‘Elayne loves the boy . . . all women worship their first-born child,’ Bedwyr said. ‘He reminds her of happier times. I’ll not sacrifice Elayne’s happiness, even for the sake of the west. Nor will I risk her peace of mind for you, Bran, or for you, Ector. She must decide if Arthur is to be told, because he is her son. You must agree that only Elayne has the right to make this choice for him.’
Anna wielded a long comb of fine carved bone and pulled the narrow tines through Gwyllan’s long, lustrous hair. Her arm ached with the fierce insistence of approaching old age, deep in the shoulder joint, but she ignored the pain as Gwyllan purred under the rhythmic sweeps of the comb. This small duty was Anna’s way of offering her own welcome to her new granddaughter by law, recognising that by this simple, pleasurable and domestic act she was building a bond between herself and the awed girl.
‘My maidservant could have prepared my hair, Lady Anna. There is no need for you to trouble yourself,’ Gwyllan protested, but Anna hushed her with a small sound.
‘It is my pleasure to provide this small service to my grandson’s beloved. We welcome you into our family in our various ways, my dear, and this small act is my gift. Your hair is lovely. It feels like fire-polished cloth, or the lovely fabric that Myrddion Merlinus gave me when I was a girl. He told me it came from far away in Constantinople, where the last of the Roman kings still reign in unbelievable luxury.’
‘I have never heard of such a place,’ Gwyllan whispered, and a world of longing lived in her voice.
‘Do you so desire to fly, little seagull?’ Anna asked, her voice sad and reflective, for women were unable to choose the directions of their lives. The higher her status, the less choice a girl had, so Gwyllan would never travel beyond the land of the Britons.
‘Aye, Lady Anna, I do.’ She smiled. ‘I often dream of strange places in my sleep.’ Then she covered her mouth with one hand as if she had spoken out of turn. ‘Father will be cross if he learns what I have just said. Please, Lady Anna, don’t tell him.’
Anna shook her head in confusion. The girl’s large blue eyes were suddenly awash with unexpected tears, and Anna wondered what could trouble the girl so deeply.
‘I don’t understand, Gwyllan. Of course, I won’t say anything to King Gawayne if you don’t want me to, but why should your dreams distress him?’
‘I have my great-aunt Morgan’s gift of the Sight, and Father says I mustn’t speak of it in case my husband learns of it. He is sure that Ector would cast me off if he knew about my affliction.’
Then the girl burst into a storm of weeping, just like a small child. Tears poured down her cheeks in salty runnels. Yet when other, less fortunate women would soon have red, puffy eyelids and blotchy cheeks, Gwyllan seemed even more attractive. Anna found the urge to protect the girl almost irresistible.
So this is glamour, she thought. The Lady of the Lake, the fair Nimue, had such a gift, but hers was the skill of persuasion. This child brings forth a protective instinct in both men and women. How very strange this gift is, and how foolish Morgan was to abuse it as she did.
‘I cannot see how anyone could cast off a pretty little thing like you,’ she murmured. ‘Besides, such a gift can’t be so very bad if it only comes in dreams.’
Gwyllan muttered something under her breath, but Anna could make no sense of the whispered words.
‘Tell me, child. It’s better you should tell me now than that I should hear about it later from someone else. Be brave, like the seagull, your namesake, and dare to speak aloud. Have you ever heard a quiet seagull? No one here will judge you.’
‘I’m not always asleep when I have these dreams. Sometimes the feelings come when I least expect them and I’m wide awake. Oh, Lady Anna, you can’t believe how frightening it is. No one else in the family seems to have inherited the curse. I’ve heard it said that Queen Ygerne had it too and passed it on to her daughter Morgan, but I never heard that King Artor knew what it felt like to see what is yet to be.’
Anna remembered her twin sons, Balyn and Balan, who had been cursed with a similar affliction so they had seemed to be one man divided in two. In the end, in a terrible misunderstanding, they had killed each other. Anna felt her throat thicken with an old sorrow.
‘Truly, Gwyllan, we are kinfolk, distant but none the less real. My dead sons had an odd, extra sense that ultimately caused their deaths. Do you think I could hate and fear anyone who shared that wild gift? It would be like hating a part of my own self.’
Relieved, the girl threw herself into Anna’s arms and hugged the older woman fiercely. ‘I promise I will never harm Ector or any of your kin, Lady Anna. Ector is a lovely man, and a great warrior. I am sure that I will bear him sons, but sometimes I am fearful. I ask that you will forgive me if the curse comes on me.’
‘You must tell me when the affliction is upon you, and I will protect you as best I can. If I should not be here to comfort you, then you must speak to the harpist Taliesin. He is the son of the Lady of the Lake and Myrddion Merlinus, so he understands what you feel. Nor should you consider your gift to be totally negative, for your family is very long lived. I have already outlived all of my childhood friends, while Morgan survived until her brain cracked. Your grandmother was poisoned, but she was preternaturally beautiful for a woman of her advanced age. Even King Artor was hale and vigorous at sixty when he died of wounds suffered in battle. God grants great strength to persons of your blood. Just look at Gawayne, who is near to seventy and still has all his wits. The Sight is merely a small part of this greater gift, but other men and women often feel terror when they hear of it, so you are wise to be silent. Nobody else must know of your affliction, even my grandson. Will you promise me, Gwyllan?’
The girl promised, just as Anna knew she would. Later, she couldn’t understand what had impelled her to wring such an oath from Gwyllan, but somehow she knew it was important that the secret of the gift should be kept from all the other members of the family.
Then, as Anna heard the pipes and harps begin a shrill, wild melody that stirred her blood, she gave Gwyllan’s hair one last pass of the comb so that the brown-black mane fell to the girl’s knees in a sable wave. Fi
nally, she used her thumbs to smooth away any trace of tears and ushered the maid towards the hall and the celebrations that had already begun.
That night and the following week passed with pleasure laid on pleasure. To supplement Bedwyr’s winter stores, dwindling fast with so many extra mouths to feed, Gawayne suggested a hunt, which became a wild and wholly tribal celebration. Late into the night, the warriors ate, drank and danced wild ceremonies of the sword while the nobles looked on, their blood stirred by the wild gyrations. By day, the forest offered hunting and the pleasures of exploration, while the Cornovii king appeared with his retinue to bring further guests into Elayne’s house. Heavily pregnant, yet like a general at war, she ran a team of servants who cooked, cleaned and foraged so that the forest’s bounty of mushrooms, nuts, fruit and fish found its way onto her provident table.
The children ran like graceful hounds, hair flying and brown limbs flashing in the warm sunshine. Ahead of them all, fearless in his efforts to flush out game or birds for the noblemen’s sport, Arthur proved his skill again and again, until Gawayne praised Bedwyr on the boy’s woodcraft.
‘Aye. He has a sense for the trees and an understanding of game. In the autumn, he keeps our pots full of rabbits and he has no fear of the task of killing his prey. Barr is more squeamish, but he’s still a baby.’ Bedwyr looked at the toddler with fondness as the child rolled and played among a pack of young puppies.
‘You must teach the boy to ride soon. He’ll keep your borders clean of Saxons if you give him the chance,’ Bran suggested as he watched young Arthur lead Gawayne’s huge horse by the reins, unafraid of the huge hooves and wild eyes of the battle-trained steed. ‘He’ll earn his keep if you make him a warrior. Just look at the size of his hands.’
Other people were also watching Arthur with careful eyes. Anna was searching for signs of the instability of temper that had blighted Balyn’s life, but the boy remained sunny natured and excited by every aspect of the visit. Eventually, against all the unspoken rules of women of noble status, Anna decided to speak frankly to Lady Elayne.