Last Enchantment

by Mary Stewart

  "How fast it has moved! Did you build it with music, like the Giants' Dance?"

  "I used the same miracle here. You can see it. The men."

  A quick glance at me, then his gaze went across the mess of churned ground and toiling labourers to where, as orderly as in an old, walled city, the workshops of the carpenters and smiths and masons rang with hammering and voices. His eyes took a faraway and yet inward look. He spoke softly. "I'll remember that. God knows every commander should. I use the same miracle myself." Then, back to me: "And by next winter?"

  "By next winter you shall have it complete inside, as well as safe to fight from. The place is everything we had hoped for. Later, when the wars are done, there will be space and time to build for other things, comfort and grace and splendour, worthy of you and your victories. We'll make you a veritable eagle's eyrie, hung on a lovely hill. A stronghold to hunt from in war, and a home to breed in times of peace."

  He had half turned from me, to make a sign to the watching Bedwyr. The young men mounted, and Bedwyr approached us, leading Arthur's mare. Arthur swung back to me, brows up.

  "So you know? I might have known I could keep no secrets from you."

  "Secrets? I know nothing. What secret were you trying to keep?"

  "None. What would be the use? I would have told you straight away, but this came first... though she wouldn't like to hear me say so." I must have gaped at him like a fool. His eyes danced. "Yes, I'm sorry, Merlin. But I really was about to tell you. I am to marry. Come, don't be angry. That is something in which you could hardly guide me to my own satisfaction."

  "I am not angry. What right have I? This is one thing you must decide for yourself. It seems you have, and I'm glad. Is it concluded?"

  "No, how could it be? I was waiting to talk to you first. So far it's only been a matter of letters between Queen Ygraine and myself. The suggestion came from her, and I suppose there'll be a lot of talking to do first. But I warn you" — a glint — "my mind is made up." Bedwyr slipped from his saddle beside us, and Arthur took the mare's reins from him. I looked a query, and he nodded. "Yes, Bedwyr knows."

  "Then will you tell me who she is?"

  "Her father was March, who fought under Duke Cador and was killed in a skirmish on the Irish Shore. Her mother died at her birth, and since her father's death she has been under Queen Ygraine's protection. You must have seen her, but you would not notice her, I expect. She was in waiting at Amesbury, and then again at the crowning."

  "I remember her. Did I hear her name? I forget."

  "Guenever."

  A plover winged overhead, tumbling in the sun. Its shadow floated over the grass between us. Something plucked at the chords of memory; something from that other Me of power and terror and bright vision. But it eluded me. The mood of tranquil achievement was unruffled as the Lake.

  "What is it, Merlin?"

  His voice was anxious, like a boy's who fears censure. I looked up. Bedwyr, beside him, was watching me with the same worried look.

  "Nothing at all. She's a lovely girl, and bears a lovely name. Be sure the gods will bless the marriage when the time comes."

  The young faces relaxed. Bedwyr said something quick and teasing, then followed it with some excited comment about the building work, and the two of them plunged into a discussion in which marriage plans had no part. I caught sight of Derwen over near the gateway, so we walked that way to talk with him. Then Arthur and Bedwyr took their leave, and mounted, and the other young men turned their fretting horses to ride downhill after their King toward the road.

  They did not get far. As the little cavalcade entered the sunken gateway they came head on against Blackberry and Dewdrop and their sisters, making their slow way uphill. The old herdsman, tenacious as goosegrass, still clung to his grazing rights on Caer Camel, and brought the herd daily up toward the part of the field as yet unspoiled by the workings.

  I saw the grey mare pause, veer, and start to curvet. The cattle, stolidly chewing, shouldered by, udders swinging. From somewhere among them, as suddenly as a puff of smoke from the ground, the old man appeared, leaning on his staff. The mare reared, hoofs flailing. Arthur pulled her aside, and she turned back hard against the shoulder of Bedwyr's black colt, which promptly lashed out, missing Dewdrop by inches. Bedwyr was laughing, but Cei shouted out angrily:

  "Make way, you old fool! Can't you see it's the King? And get your damned cattle out of the way. They've no business here now!"

  "As good business as yourself, young master, if not better," said the old man tartly. "Getting the good of the land, they are, which you and your likes can do naught but spoil! So it's you should take your horses off and get your hunting done in the Summer Country, and let honest folks be!"

  Cei was never one to know when he should curb his anger, or even save his breath. He pushed his horse past Arthur's mare, and thrust his red face down toward the old man. "Are you deaf, old fool, or just stupid? Hunting? We are the King's fighting captains, and this is the King!"

  Arthur, half laughing, began: "Oh, leave it, Cei," then had to control the mare sharply once more as the old goblin bobbed up again at his bridle-hand. The dim eyes peered upward.

  "King? Nay, but you can't fool me, masters. 'Tis only a bit of a lad. The king's a man grown. Besides, 'tis not yet his time. He'll come at midsummer, wi' the full moon. Seen him, I have, with all his fighting men." A gesture with his staff that set the horses' heads tossing again. "These, fighting captains? Boys, that's all they be! Kings' fighting men have armour, and spears as long as ash trees, and plumes on them like the manes on their horses. Seen them, I have, alone here on a summer's night. Oh, aye, I know the king."

  Cei opened his mouth again, but Arthur put up a hand. He spoke as if he and the old man were alone in the field. "A king who came here in the summer? What are you telling us, father? What men were they?"

  Something in his manner, perhaps, got through to the other. He looked uncertain. Then he caught sight of me, and pointed. "Told him, I did. Yes. King's man, he said he was, and spoke me soft. A King was coming, he said, who would tend my cows for me, and give me the grazing for them..." He looked about him, as if taking in for the first time the splendid horses and gay trappings, and the assured, laughing looks of the young men. His voice faltered, and he slid off into his mumbling. Arthur looked at me.

  "Do you know what he's talking about?"

  "A legend of the past, and a troop of ghosts that he says come riding out of their grave in the hill on a summer's midnight. It's my guess that he's telling an old tale of the Celtic rulers here, or the Romans, or maybe both. Nothing to trouble you."

  "Not trouble us?" said someone, sounding uneasy; I think it was Lamorak, a brave and high-strung gentleman who watched the stars for signs, and whose horse's trappings rang with charms. "Ghosts, and not trouble us?"

  "And he has seen them himself, on this very spot?" said someone else. Then others, murmuring: "Spears and horsehair plumes? Why, they sound like Saxons." And Lamorak again, fingering a piece of coral on his breast: "Ghosts of dead men, killed here and buried under the very hill where you plan to build a stronghold and a safe city? Arthur, did you know?"

  There are few men more superstitious than soldiers. They are, after all, the men who live closest to death. All laughter had vanished, quenched, and a shiver went across the bright day, as surely as if a cloud had passed between us and the sun.

  Arthur was frowning. He was a soldier, too, but he was also a king, and, like the King his father before him, dealt in facts. He said with noticeable briskness: "And what of it? Show me any strong fortress as good as this which has not been defended by brave men, and founded on their blood! Are we children, to fear the ghosts of men who have died here before us, to keep this land? If they linger here at all, they will be on our side, gentlemen!" Then, to the herdsman: "Well? Tell us your story, father. Who was this king?"

  The old man hesitated, confused. Then he asked, suddenly: "Did you ever hear of Merlin, the enchanter?
"

  "Merlin?" This was Bedwyr. "Why, do you not know — ?"

  He caught my eye, and stopped. No one else spoke. Arthur, without a glance in my direction, asked into the silence: "What of Merlin?"

  The filmed eyes went round as if they could see every man clearly, every listening face. Even the horses stood quiet. The herdsman seemed to take courage from the attentive silence. He became suddenly lucid. "There was a king once who set out to build a stronghold. And like the kings of old, who were strong men and merciless, he looked for a hero, to kill and bury beneath the foundations, and hold them firm. So he caught and took Merlin, who was the greatest man in all Britain, and would have killed him; but Merlin called up his dragons, and flew away through the heavens, safely, and called a new king into Britain, who burned the other one to ashes in his tower, and his queen with him. Had you heard the tale, master?"

  "Yes."

  "And is it true that you are a king, and these your captains?"

  "Yes."

  "Then ask Merlin. They say he still lives. Ask him what king should fear to have a hero's grave beneath his threshold. Don't you know what he did? He put the great Dragon King himself under the Hanging Stones, that he did, and called it the safe castle of all Britain. Or so they say."

  "They say the truth," said Arthur. He looked about him, to see where relief had already overlaid uneasiness. He turned back to the herdsman. "And the strong king who lies with his men within the hill?"

  But here he got no further. When pressed, the old man became vague, and then unintelligible. A word could be caught here and there: helmets, plumes, round shields, and small horses, and yet again long spears "like ash trees," and cloaks blowing in the wind "when no wind blows."

  I said coolly, to interrupt these new ghostly visions: "You should ask Merlin about that, too, my lord King. I believe I know what he would say."

  Arthur smiled. "What, then?"

  I turned to the old man. "You told me that the Goddess slew this king and his men, and that they were buried here. You told me, too, that the new young King would have to make his peace with the Goddess, or she would reject him. Now see what she has done. He knew nothing of this story, but he has come here with her guidance, to build his stronghold on the very spot where the Goddess herself slew and buried a troop of strong fighters and their leader, to be the king-stone of his threshold. And she gave him the sword and the crown. So tell your people this, and tell them that the new King comes, with the Goddess's sanction, to build a fortress of his own, and to protect you and your children, and let your cattle graze in peace."

  I heard Lamorak draw in his breath. "By the Goddess herself, you have it, Merlin!"

  "Merlin?" You would have thought the old man was hearing the name for the first time. "Aye, that's what he would say... and I've heard tell how he took the sword himself from the depths of the water and gave it to the King..." For a few minutes then, as the others crowded close, talking again among themselves, relieved and smiling, he went back to his mumbling. But then, my final, incautious sentence having got through, he came suddenly, and with the utmost clarity of speech, back to the matter of his cows, and the iniquity of kings who interfered with their grazing. Arthur, with one swift, charged glance at me, listened gravely, while the young men held in their laughter, and the last wisps of trouble vanished in mirth. In the end, with gentle courtesy, the King promised to let him keep the grazing for as long as the sweet grass grew on Caer Camel, and when it did no longer, to find a pasture for him elsewhere.

  "On my word as High King," he finished.

  It was not clear whether, even now, the old herdsman believed him. "Well, call yourself king or not," he said, "for a lad you show some sort of sense. You listen to them that knows, not like some" — this with a malevolent glance in Cei's direction — "that's all noise and wind. Fighting men, indeed! Anyone who knows aught about fighting and the like knows there's no man can fight with an empty belly. You give my cows the grass, and we'll fill your bellies for you."

  "I have said you shall have it."

  "And when yon builder" — this was myself — "has got Caer Camel spoiled, what land will you give me then?"

  Arthur had perhaps not meant to be taken so quickly at his word, but he hesitated only for a moment. "I saw good green stretches down by the river yonder, beyond the village. If I can —"

  "That's no manner of good for beasts. Goats, maybe, and geese, but not cattle. That's sour grass, that is, and full of buttercups. That's poison to grazing."

  "Indeed? I didn't know that. Where would be good land, then?"

  "Over to the badgers' hill. That's yonder." He pointed. "Buttercups!" he cackled. "King or not, young master, however much folks know, there's always someone as knows more."

  Arthur said gravely: "That is something else I shall remember. Very well. If I can come by the badgers' hill, it shall be yours."

  Then he reined back to let the old man by, and with a salute to me, rode away downhill, with his knights behind him.

  Derwen was waiting for me by the foundations of the southwest tower. I walked that way. A plover — the same, perhaps — tilted and side-slipped, calling, in the breezy air. Memory came back, halting me...

  ... The Green Chapel above Galava. The same two young faces, Arthur's and Bedwyr's, watching me as I told them stories of battles and far-off places. And across the room, thrown by the lamplight, the shadow of a bird floating — the white owl that lived in the roof — guenhwyvar, the white shadow, at whose name I had felt a creeping of the flesh, a moment of troubled prevision which now I could scarcely recall, except for the fear that the name Guenever was somehow a doom for him.

  I had felt no such warning today. I did not expect it. I knew just what was left of the power I had once had to warn and to protect. Today I was no more than the old herdsman had called me, a builder.

  "No more?" I recalled the pride and awe in the King's eyes as he surveyed the groundwork of the "miracle" I was working for him now. I looked down at the plans in my hand, and felt the familiar, purely human excitement of the maker stir in me. The shadow fled and vanished into sunshine, and I hurried to meet Derwen. At least I still possessed skill enough to build my boy a safe stronghold.

  4

  THREE MONTHS LATER ARTHUR married Guenever at Caerleon. He had had no chance to see the bride again; indeed, I believe he had had no more speech with her than what slight formalities had passed between them at the crowning. He himself had to go north again early in July, so could spare no time to travel into Cornwall to escort her to Guent. In any case, since he was High King, it was proper that his bride should be brought to him. So he spared Bedwyr for one precious month to ride down to Tintagel and bring the bride to Caerleon.

  All through that summer there was sporadic fighting in the north, mostly a business (in that forested hill country) of ambush and running skirmish, but late in July Arthur forced a battle by a crossing on the River Bassas. This he won so decisively as to create a welcome lull that prolonged itself into a truce through harvest-time, and allowed him at length to travel to Caerleon with a quiet mind. For all that, his was a garrison wedding; he could afford to sacrifice no sort of readiness, so the bridal was fitted in, so to speak, among his other preoccupations. The bride seemed to expect it, taking everything as happily as if it had been some great festive occasion in London, and there was as much gaiety and gorgeousness about the ceremony as I have ever seen on such occasions, even though men kept their spears stacked outside the hall of feasting, and their swords laid ready to lift, and the King himself spent every available moment in counsel with his officers, or out in the exercise grounds, or — late into the night sometimes — poring over his maps, with his spies' reports on the table beside him.

  I left Caer Camel in the first week of September, and rode across country to Caerleon. The work on the fortress was going well, and could be left to Derwen to carry out. I went with a light heart. All I had been able to find out about the girl was in her favour; she was
young, healthy, and of good stock, and it was time Arthur was married and thinking of getting himself sons. I thought about her no further than that.

  I was in Caerleon in time to see the wedding party arrive. They did not use the ferry-crossing, but came riding up the road from Glevum, their horses gay with gilded leather and coloured tassels, and the women's litters bright with fresh paint. The younger of the ladies wore mantles of every colour, and had flowers plaited into their horses' manes.

  The bride herself disdained a litter; she rode a pretty cream-coloured horse, a gift from Arthur's stables. Bedwyr, in a new cloak of russet, kept close by her bridle-hand, and on his other side rode the Princess Morgan, Arthur's sister. Her mount was as fiery as Guenever's was gentle, but she controlled it without effort. She appeared to be in excellent spirits, as excited, one gathered, over her own approaching marriage as over the other, more important wedding. Nor did she seem to grudge Guenever her central role in the festivities, or the deference she received for her new state. Morgan herself had state and to spare: she had come, in Ygraine's absence, to represent the Queen, and, with the Duke of Cornwall, to place Guenever's hand in that of the High King.

  Arthur, being still ignorant of the seriousness of Ygraine's illness, had expected her to come. Bedwyr had a quiet word with him on arrival, and I saw a shadow touch the King's face, then he banished it to greet Guenever. His greeting was public and formal, but with a smile behind it that she answered with a demure dimple. The ladies rustled and cooed and eyed him, and the men looked on indulgently, the older ones approving her youth and freshness, their thoughts already turning toward an heir to the kingdom. The young men watched with the same approval, coloured with simple envy.

  Guenever was fifteen now. She was a shade taller than when I had last seen her, and more womanly, but she was still a little creature, with fresh skin and merry eyes, patently delighted with the fortune that had brought her out of Cornwall as bride of the land's darling, Arthur the young King.