M. K. Hume [King Arthur Trilogy 04] The Last Dragon

by M. K. Hume

  She chose her time carefully. When the hunt was on, Elayne often snatched an hour or two with her feet up, for her pregnancy was tiring and her calves and ankles were swollen and painful. Elayne was always content to rest in her sheltered courtyard, surrounded by wooden walls that banished any stray winds. Here was children’s clothing in need of mending and a distaff that sat in a rush basket with the washed lambswool that was waiting to be spun. Elayne would be relaxed and Anna might learn what she needed for her peace of mind.

  After half an hour of hot, honeyed milk and desultory talk of weddings, babies and love, Anna asked her hostess if they could speak in private. Elayne eyed the older woman narrowly, for her quick intelligence guessed that her eldest son would be the topic of the proposed conversation. Reminding Anna of a mother wolf in her careful, guarded hostility, she dismissed her women and waited.

  Anna looked at Elayne’s stiff face and sighed. ‘Before I say anything else, I must tell you that, contrary to established rumour, I’m Artor’s daughter by a wife he took long before he married Wenhaver. I’m not a fool, Lady Elayne, and I remember my father in his youth. For that matter, I was young myself once, and my hair was much the same colour and texture as that mane of your son’s. I recognised Arthur’s lineage the moment I saw him. How could I not know my own brother?’

  ‘Bedwyr accepts that Arthur is our son,’ Elayne said crisply. ‘That is all you need to know, Lady Anna. I don’t wish to be discourteous, but I don’t owe you any explanations.’

  Anna tried again. ‘Please, Elayne? Your son and I share the same sire. Would you deny me?’

  ‘I repeat, Lady Anna, that our household is happy and Arthur has a living father. He need never know otherwise.’

  ‘Don’t be naive, Elayne. I know you to be a woman of considerable common sense, because my father admired intelligence in his female confidantes and you would never have won his friendship without it. Your son is the heir of Artor, High King of the west. His very name could become a rallying cry, and unscrupulous men could capture him and claim the kingdom. You can’t bury your head in the sand and hope that disaster won’t come to your door.’

  Elayne’s face was perfectly blank, although when Anna looked into her host’s green-gold eyes she saw no surprise in them. Elayne was obviously well aware of the dangers inherent in her eldest son’s position.

  ‘I have other concerns. King Bran and his son, Ector, are judged by the world to be all that is left of the glory of the west. Would you set your son up in opposition to them?’

  ‘No. I’m not another Wenhaver who spends her days lusting after power, even from a cloistered nunnery. I merely demand the right to raise my eldest son in my own way. Surely Bedwyr and I have proved our loyalty to the west for time beyond reckoning.’

  ‘I believe you, Elayne, so don’t distress yourself unnecessarily. I did not imagine that you’d raise the boy to usurp the throne. But what of his future? Many men will see the boy and know his parentage at a glance. He will be branded as a bastard whatever you tell him. How will you protect him from the truth?’

  Elayne’s face was stricken with grief, and Anna felt a twinge of regret. Elayne had agonised over Arthur’s fate since his birth, and all Anna had managed to achieve was to bring all her motherly terrors to the surface.

  ‘May I advise you then, my dear? I have a solution, but you must believe that I’d never wish to harm my brother in any way. I like the boy and would be proud if he were mine.’

  As Elayne muffled her sobs with her sleeve like a little girl, Anna hurried on. ‘I think you must tell him everything. You must prepare him for the pitfalls and dangers that lie ahead of him. Don’t coddle him, but raise him as a warrior so that he will be a credit to you, to his dead father, to his foster-father, and to those of us in the west who will need him in the future. Even now, you should keep his mind active, teach him to read, and watch always for the poison that lives in Artor’s blood. My father battled all his life against the instability that came from both founts of his lineage. Queen Ygerne was lovely, but she suffered abominably from her demon Sight and the glamour that drew powerful men to her feet. Her daughter Morgan was a witch woman and her other daughter, Morgause, was the cruellest and most adamantine creature I ever met. As for Uther Pendragon, Myrddion Merlinus himself told me that Uther was a madman who was drunk on blood. He tried to kill his own son, both openly and in secret. Modred was a pederast, a sadistic monster and a traitor. Even Artor felt uncontrollable rage on several occasions, and was constantly forced to guard against the intemperate feelings that lay below his conscious emotions. Bedwyr knows. Ask him, because I don’t believe he’d keep anything from you, including Artor’s willingness to sacrifice anything and anyone for the cause of the west. Don’t scowl at me, Elayne, for you know that he sacrificed himself too – and me, and he loved me as much as he loved anyone.’

  ‘You’ve told me that Artor was your father, but you speak as if you hated him. Yet the world is still convinced that you are Uther Pendragon’s bastard child and Artor’s sister. Artor protected you – and your children – for as long as he lived. Your safety was more important to him than his need to see you, love you and honour you.’

  Anne hugged herself and Elayne was shocked to see tears in the ageing woman’s sunwebbed eyes. ‘I know Artor loved me. He begged kisses of me when I was a tiny child, pretending to be my father’s friend. He gave me my bride gifts, he cared for my twin sons and he mourned them with all his heart when they died. You were there, Elayne, and you washed their poor bodies and prepared them for the fire because I was too far away to do it myself. I have never had the opportunity to thank you for the honour you returned to them. I do so now.’

  Elayne reached out one hand in heartfelt sympathy, but Anna had not finished. ‘I was present when Artor died and I was able to tell him, at last, that I knew everything and forgave everything. Oh, Elayne, I would that I could spare you from the pain of silence – the long, empty years when you are without the person you love, and cannot admit to them that you love them. You must hold Arthur close and love him so much that the demons in his heritage are kept at bay. But, more importantly, you must raise him to be a man whom Artor would have admired. I have come to believe in the Christian God at last, and I am sure that Artor’s spirit watches over everything you do. Give your son the chance to grow up clean and strong, because the world is wider than the Forest of Arden – and it will soon come knocking at your gates. Silence poisons. Silence kills, just as it slew my beautiful boys, Balyn and Balan.’

  Then, because she remembered the twin grandsons of Artor in all their glorious youth, and because she had seen the High King almost destroyed by unspoken secrets that came to his gates and blew away all of his most cherished hopes, Elayne knelt at Anna’s feet, gripped both of the older woman’s hands and swore on the life of her unborn child that she would do as Anna asked.

  ‘Even if he hates me for it, Arthur will learn the truth, I swear, and I won’t spare myself in the telling.’ Elayne pressed Anna’s hand to the swell of her belly and, by chance, the child within her womb decided to kick vigorously, as if to acknowledge the oath.

  Both women laughed rather tearfully and Anna helped Elayne to rise to her feet. ‘I’m sorry to burden you so heavily, child, but persons who touch the edges of my family are often worn away by the skein of our blood. Fate weighs heavily on those unfortunates who love us, and I can’t tell you why God or the Old Ones lay this burden on us – perhaps to shape some future for our land, or so I tell myself during those times when I see no purpose in so much suffering. I cannot say why we were chosen, but like it or not you are now caught up in a net that began to be woven generations ago. Even Morgan couldn’t see the end of it, so may God protect you, my child. For my part, I will pray that Arthur grows straight and true as heaven has promised.’

  Then Anna picked up Elayne’s distaff and began to spin the undyed wool into thread, twisting the wheel deftly with her blunt-nailed hands. When Elayne’s women
crept back into the bower, the two noblewomen were sitting together amicably, mending and spinning, and the day had returned to its normal, predictable patterns. But Elayne had understood every word that Anna had spoken and pressed them close to her heart, even as she began to resent the web that held them all. Even with her oath fresh on her lips, she sought a way to save her child from the fate that the gods had laid upon him.

  CHAPTER IV

  THE BASTARD

  Be like a headland of rock on which the waves break incessantly: but it stands fast and around it the seething of the waters sinks to rest.

  Marcus Aurelius, Meditations, Book IV

  With a calmness that she feared would shatter at a touch, Elayne tackled the problem of her son’s birth head on, although she took the precaution of informing her husband of her decision later that night. Flank to flank, they lay in their shared bed, lulled by the rustle of the trees that whispered together with a sound like great, slow waves outside their house as the branches moved in tune with the night wind.

  Bedwyr fumbled to find Elayne’s hands under the blankets she had woven as part of her dowry. His sensitive finger pads found the calluses of years of spinning and weaving along her first two finger joints. He kissed the scars of her labours affectionately, and thanked his gods that he had been given such a clever and devoted wife. He knew the anxiety that she was facing; he understood her horror of risking her son’s love with the truth; but he cherished her courage in facing a harsh necessity and doing what he would have feared to contemplate – dashing Arthur’s image of himself.

  ‘I love the boy, Elayne, even though he’s not from my loins. This visit from the Ordovice and Otadini kings has given us some difficult decisions to make, so I’ve thought deeply in the past few days about things I can do to make your task easier.’

  Elayne lifted her heavy body high on her pillows and opened her mouth to speak, but Bedwyr closed her lips with one sword-calloused finger. His eyes were dark, deep and affectionate. ‘Be quiet, my sweetling, and think. Permit me to finish before you tell me that I’m without fault in this matter. When the kings arrived, I left Arthur to last in my introductions. I’ve done the same thing for most of his life, yet he’s such a sweet, loving boy that he forgives me for overlooking him so casually. I was wrong to place such emphasis on his birth. The day I decided to raise my master’s son, I forgave you and the boy for his existence, but still, in a corner of my heart, I have judged him for the sins of his father. I have been at fault, but . . . I swear, I will do it no longer. Bitterness could easily consume our eldest son, but it will not be because I place him below my natural sons in the pecking order of my affections. Never again, Elayne. I had planned to ride with Bran and Gawayne tomorrow towards our eastern boundaries, where they wish to acquaint themselves with the dangers we face from that direction. However, I will excuse myself from accompanying them, and hope they understand my reasoning.’

  Elayne squeezed his hand and turned to examine his profile by a stray shaft of moonlight. Chronologically, Bedwyr was approaching old age, and his years showed in his grey-streaked plaits and the deep lines that scarred his face from nose to chin. His eyes were meshed in a fretwork of wrinkles that marked his tanned skin with fine, wire-like white lines. But his body was still hard and muscular, his eyesight and hearing were still acute, and while he might not be able to run for hours, as he had in his youth, few men could match his stamina on horseback or afoot. Elayne was very proud of her gallant old man, but she understood that his middle years were behind him and old age approached.

  ‘I thank you, husband. I’m sometimes unwise and impetuous, which leads me into foolish errors. I spoke to Lady Anna today about our boy and she offered me advice on his future. She is wise in the ways of children, and as Arthur’s sister she convinced me that I cannot ignore the truth by pretending that my poor son is just another boy. She pleaded with me to tell him the truth, because she learned from her own experience with Balyn and Balan that the ignorance that grows from well-meaning secrets can ultimately kill. Yes, I will find a way to be honest with him, although I fear the result. So rest now, my heart. Tomorrow will be difficult enough without a sleepless night.’

  Bedwyr eased his wife carefully into his arms until her warm flanks and belly pressed against his side and he felt the unborn child kick against him. ‘I love you, woman,’ he whispered, and then kissed her with gentle passion. ‘If I hadn’t found you, I would have become Old Bedwyr, bitter and resentful of wrongs that had long passed. I owe you and Artor my thanks for everything that I cherish most. Sleep, dear heart, for I promise you that tomorrow will be the start of a new life for Arthur, and that all will be well for him.’

  Elayne fell asleep with Bedwyr’s promise nestling warmly in her heart. Although she had been certain that she would be unable to close her eyes all night, her grizzled old man had managed to ease her unquiet spirit.

  Early the next morning, Elayne chose her moment to confront Arthur. After the kings had left on the long ride through the margins of Arden, Anna ushered Gwyllan into the bower. She had promised Elayne that she should have the privacy she needed to confide in Arthur for as long as she required.

  Arthur was confused and a little surprised when his mother asked him to accompany her for a stroll. He would have preferred to set off with the riders, perched behind Ector on his huge horse, and his mother’s request that he stay behind with the younger children had been a bitter disappointment. He had immediately wondered what he had done to cause offence, and now he expected that this talk with Elayne would be about some thoughtless action on his part. Unknown to both mother and son, Bedwyr was watching from the palisades as the couple walked in a fallow field thick with flowering weeds that stood almost as high as Arthur himself. Red head close to red-gold one, Elayne bent over her son with her arm protectively around his shoulders. Bedwyr could see the white smudge of Arthur’s face above the green grass heads and the clumps of golden-brown flowers, and the Master of Arden wondered if it was his imagination that the boy’s face seemed paler than usual, even at this distance.

  Suddenly, the smaller figure shook off his mother’s comforting arm and ran, quick as a hare, towards the forest. With a muttered oath, Bedwyr slid down the ladder to the ramparts and hurried through the gates, down the slight hill and into the field. Careless of his warriors who followed his hasty departure with alarm, and fleeter than most men of his age, Bedwyr reached his wife within moments. She was weeping soundlessly, the cowl of her cloak pulled over her face.

  ‘He’s upset that you aren’t his father, my love. He didn’t seem to care who his real father was, only that it wasn’t you. Oh, what shall I do now? He believed me immediately, and his face, Bedwyr . . . his face!’

  Elayne wrung her hands in a gesture of such distress that Bedwyr feared for her unborn child. For his part, Bedwyr acknowledged that he had been half expecting such a response, knowing Arthur’s love of his brothers and sister, and his contentment with their stable family life. To lose that certainly of belonging would be like the amputation of a limb.

  ‘I’ll talk to the boy, Elayne. I promise that I’ll bring him back, so go back to the hall and lie down for a while. My men will escort you, and this strong lad will carry you.’ He indicated one of the warriors who had followed him. ‘I don’t want your pretty feet to touch the ground. The kitchens can manage without you, and Lady Anna will keep young Gwyllan amused. Please go, sweetheart, else I’ll worry about you.’

  She pressed his hand and watched wistfully as he strode away in the direction that Arthur had taken. The look in the boy’s eyes when she had explained that he wasn’t Bedwyr’s son still haunted her, an expression of loss and betrayal that made her want to enfold him back into her body with her unborn child, so that nothing could harm him again . . . especially her own love, which had kept the secret of his birth for too long.

  Bedwyr understood the minds of boys, so he knew just where Arthur would go. Boys always have secret places where they can dream
large, ambitious dreams and take troubles too deep to be banished by a woman’s cuddle. Bedwyr knew exactly where Arthur would hide in Arden Forest.

  The trees were dense as Bedwyr forced his way between them. Had he still been standing on the palisades of his hall, he would have been able to see Arthur’s destination, a forest giant that had sprouted from an acorn at least a thousand years earlier, and now raised its ancient branches above the canopy. Bedwyr was first and foremost custodian of the trees, so he was able to follow the faint trail left by Arthur’s smaller body through the thick underbrush. In his haste and distress, the boy had snapped the odd twig and his feet had carelessly scuffed the velvet moss on overturned logs. For those hunters who had eyes to understand the ways of the living forest, Arthur’s state of mind was clearly written on broken ferns, crushed weeds and the small dark-loving things that he had disturbed during his wild, tear-blinded blunder through the woods.

  From the forest floor, the oak seemed huge. A tangle of exposed roots spread around a base that was thick with a litter of rotting leaves, twigs and shredded bark. A boy could make a bed in such leaf mould and look up at the tree rising like a great wheel above him. Such a boy could send his mind far beyond the reach of his eyes and imagine the stars in even greater wheels, turning and turning, as ancient as time. Bedwyr shook his grizzled head to clear his mind of his own boyhood experiences, and his plaits flew like Medusa’s locks around his ageing face. Oh, to be young and beginning all over again!

  The giant oak tree bore small marks that were almost invisible to the naked eye where Arthur had set his feet in his climb up into the dizzyingly high branches. With an agility that belied his years, Bedwyr gripped a lower branch and swung himself upwards, finding almost imperceptible handholds as he went, until he reached the canopy and leaf-dappled sunshine.