by Joan Wolf
Merlin said something. Then, with a touch of exasperation: “Arthur. I am speaking to you.”
Both Arthur and Morgan turned toward his voice with identical startled looks. Then Arthur said calmly, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t hear. What was it?” Across the table, Morgan’s eyes dropped and she began to eat her venison.
It was not difficult to cover their tracks. They had been constant companions since childhood and it simply had never occurred to Merlin that the relationship between his daughter and his grandson could be other than that of sister and brother. They had many long afternoons alone, and the weather was beautiful.
“Wake up, Arthur! Look at the bird!” Morgan was tugging at the lock of black hair that always seemed to slip down over his forehead, and he raised his lashes drowsily.
“What?”
“Look. Over there.” He followed her pointing finger and saw a beautiful yellow-and-black bird rising from the hawthorn bush near them.
“I see.” He narrowed his eyes against the glare of the sun and said with faint reproach, “I was asleep.”
“I know you were.” She leaned over him so her long hair tickled his bare chest. “You were snoring.”
His gray eyes smiled. “Was I?”
“No.” She sat up straight again. “But it’s getting late. They’ll be looking for us.”
They. The unreal ghosts of Merlin and Ector and Justina and the others; everyone, in fact, who was not Arthur or Morgan. He sighed and raised himself effortlessly to a sitting position. He was wearing only brown wool breeches and he looked around now for his tunic. He rubbed his head.
Morgan’s eyes watching him were filled with tenderness. He swiveled around to reach for his clothing and the tenderness darkened and sobered. Very gently she put out a hand and traced the thin line of a scar on his shoulder. She felt the muscles tense under her finger.
“You’ll carry them on your flesh all your life,” she said. “I wish I could do something to erase them from your mind.”
He turned to look at her. The skin under his eyes looked suddenly bruised. She was the only one he had ever spoken to about Esus. “It wasn’t the pain,” he said. “I could live with that. It was that I let him do that to me. That I allowed it.”
“Arthur”—her voice was matter-of-fact, revealing none of the terrible pity that possessed her—“you were a child. You were helpless. There was nothing you could have done.”
The darkness around his eyes did not fade. “I don’t think about it,” he said.
“You dream about it sometimes.”
He stared at her, his face naked.
She made herself go on. “Blame Esus. He was a wicked, evil man. But don’t blame yourself. You are not the one at fault.” Her calm broke and she said fiercely, “I would like to plunge a dagger into his black heart.”
A little of the darkness lifted from the skin beneath his eyes. “You,” he said. “You would probably feel sorry for him.”
“Never.” She made a thrusting movement with her hand. “Never would I feel sorry for that man.”
A glimmer of a smile touched his mouth. “Oh Morgan,” he said. “How I love you. Come here.”
His tunic was forgotten as they lay back together on the saddle rug Arthur had spread. He ran his hands over the skin with which he had become so familiar; he knew all its soft silkiness, knew where the scratches and cuts were, where she liked most to be touched. Over the last month their bodies had learned each other very well.
Afterward, on their way back to the villa, they carefully arranged their faces to meet the ghosts who were awaiting them.
On his sixteenth birthday Arthur planned to speak to Merlin about marrying Morgan. But on his sixteenth birthday Merlin was not at Avalon; he had gone to Venta to see the king.
Uther did not look well. “The time has come,” he said to Merlin almost as soon as he had dismissed his servants. “I do not think I have much longer to live.”
Merlin looked at him for a long moment in silence. Then he said only, “When? And how?”
“I have called a council for three weeks’ time. The message has gone out to all the kings and princes of Britain. I have said the purpose of the council is to name my heir.” The ghost of a sardonic smile crossed Uther’s thin face. “That will bring them all running.” He leaned back in his chair. “We will do it then.”
Merlin nodded. Then, offering the only reassurance he could find: “He is ready, Uther.”
The pale eyes commanded with something of their old fire. “I want to see him before the council, Merlin. Bring him to Venta.”
“Yes,” said Merlin. “I will do that.”
“Does . . . does he know yet?”
“Arthur knows nothing.” There was a pause and then the older man asked, “Shall I tell him first? Or do you want to?”
Uther raised a hand to his brow. The bones of his temples were too prominent in his wasted face. “You tell him,” he said. “You know him. You will know how it should be done.”
“I know him as well as anyone, I suppose,” Merlin said a little enigmatically. “All right. I shall tell him.”
“Bring him immediately.” Uther dropped his hand. “He needn’t stay here. In fact, it would be best if he didn’t, if he went back to Avalon until the council. Surprise is a factor that will work on our side. But I want to see him first.”
Merlin stared at the king. “Does Igraine know?” he asked.
“No.” Uther’s wasted look was now very pronounced. “I will tell Igraine.”
Merlin rose to his feet. “I can have him here tomorrow.”
“Good. I will be waiting,” said Uther, and Merlin looked away from the hungry light in the high king’s eyes.
It was late when Merlin returned to Avalon, although the sky was still light with the dying sun. He was tired and thought he would go to sleep the minute his body felt the comfort of his own bed, but he found his mind was too busy.
How ought he to handle Arthur?
They would leave for Venta tomorrow. Should he tell the boy first, or wait until they were on the road?
After much tossing and turning, Merlin decided to wait. Tell Arthur here at Avalon, and Ector would know. And Morgan. And everyone in the household. Better give the boy a chance to see Uther first.
Once that was decided, Merlin was able to fall asleep.
He overslept the following morning and was irritated when no one could tell him where Arthur was. He finally found the boy down at the stables with Morgan. The two youngsters were getting ready to go for a ride, and when Merlin called Arthur’s name, they turned to him with looks of bemused astonishment.
Then, “Hello, Father,” Morgan said. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
“You were asleep, sir,” said Arthur, “so we thought we’d go for a ride.”
“You are going for a ride, but it is with me,” said Merlin. “We are going to Venta, Arthur. Come back to the villa and change your clothes. You cannot meet the high king looking like that.”
“Meet the high king?” Arthur said. His gray eyes searched Merlin’s face. “Today?”
“Today. I would like to arrive in time to get a decent night’s sleep, so you will please come along.” There was something disturbing about the expression in the boy’s eyes, and Merlin spoke more sharply than he had intended.
Arthur glanced at Morgan. “There is something I have been wanting to speak to you about, sir,” he began, but Merlin cut him off.
“Not now. There isn’t time.” The youngsters looked at each other again. Morgan had probably found a baby wolf she wanted to raise, Merlin thought impatiently. “He will be back tomorrow, Morgan,” he said to his daughter. “Whatever it is will keep until then.”
The relief in her brown eyes was unmistakable. “Of course, Father.” She touched Arthur’s hand. “Go along,” she said. “And remember to take your new white tunic.”
Their eyes met and held and then Arthur nodded almost imperceptibly before he turned to
follow Merlin.
They were on the road to Venta by noon. “Uther is just back from the north,” Merlin had told Ector, “and this is a good opportunity for Arthur to meet him.”
“Has the army returned to Venta as well?” Ector asked, and Merlin had smiled and answered, “Yes. And I promise to bring Cai home for a visit if I can.”
This conversation was in his mind now as he remarked to Arthur, “It will be good to see Cai again.”
“Yes,” said Arthur.
The boy was not making it easy. He had responded politely to all of Merlin’s comments, but his face had an abstracted expression that said he was not listening very closely to his grandfather’s conversation. There was nothing about him to offer a clue as to how he was going to react to the news Merlin had to impart. You know him, Uther had said. Merlin thought he knew his brain. He knew the trained skill of that young body. But he did not know Arthur. He doubted anyone did. Except, of course, Morgan.
Merlin cleared his throat. “Arthur,” he began determinedly, “the time has come to speak about your parentage.” Merlin stared at the road ahead, not at the boy beside him. Arthur did not answer. “I know you think you are my son,” Merlin went on, “and, indeed, you have cause to think so . . .” There was a movement from Arthur, and Merlin turned.
The boy’s gray eyes were perfectly steady. “But I have never thought I was your son.”
For some reason, this revelation sounded a note of warning. Merlin tried to shake it off. “You are probably the only person at Avalon, then, to feel that way,” he said with an attempt at dry humor. Arthur’s face did not change. “Why didn’t you think so?” Merlin asked curiously.
“I remember well my mother telling me that I looked like my father,” the boy replied. “I don’t look like you.”
Dear Christ, thought Merlin with unaccustomed blasphemy. “Whose son did you think you were?” he asked at last.
“I have no idea.” Arthur looked at him. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Yes. Well . . .” Merlin took a steadying breath. “Malwyn told you true when she said you looked like your father. You will see for yourself shortly, although the resemblance is not so clear since he became ill. Arthur . . .” Here he stopped his horse. Arthur’s pony stopped as well. “Your father is Uther Pendragon, High King of Britain.”
There was not a flicker of expression on the boy’s face.
“Did you hear me?”
“Yes. I heard you.” Dark shadows suddenly appeared under Arthur’s eyes. “So he is the one who sent my mother to Cornwall.”
“No.” Merlin leaned a little forward in his eagerness to explain, and his horse, feeling the shift in weight, walked forward again. Merlin halted him. “You don’t understand, Arthur. Malwyn was not your mother. She was Igraine’s serving woman, and when it was deemed necessary to send you away, she assumed the role of your mother. But the woman who bore you is Igraine. You are the son of Uther and Igraine, Arthur. The legitimate son, born three months after they were wed. And you are heir to the high kingship of Britain.”
Chapter 7
IT was still light when they rode into Venta, but even though this was Arthur’s first visit to a city of this size, he scarcely noticed his surroundings. There were columns on the front of the high king’s house, and soldiers guarding the door. Then he was shown to a bedchamber that did not look unlike his bedchamber at home, and was told to wait until he was sent for. Arthur merely nodded and stood, tense and watchful, until the door closed behind his grandfather.
As the door closed shut, a tremor of relief ran all through him. Alone. He began to pace back and forth across the mosaic floor, free to think now that he was no longer expending all his energy to guard his face.
He was the son of Uther and Igraine. One day he would be king. He could not take it in.
He wished desperately for Morgan. Her calm good sense would help buttress the turbulence of his own emotions. She would help him deal with this.
The son of Uther and Igraine. Arthur suddenly stopped dead, his chin lifting as a throught struck him. Morgan was Igraine’s sister.
It can’t be, he thought. Then: Don’t panic. Think it out. He stared straight ahead with unfocused eyes, and under his tan he was very pale. Not her sister, her half-sister. They had had different mothers. That meant . . . the only relative he and Morgan had in common was Merlin. Merlin: his grandfather, Morgan’s father.
The blood bond was not that close; no closer, certainly, than first cousins. Arthur’s legs carried him forward again and he sat limply on the side of the bed. He and Morgan would be all right. Within the various tribes of Britain, first cousins married all the time.
He and Morgan would be all right. After all, how could Merlin refuse her hand to the High King of Britain?
The High King of Britain. He was back to that again. Could it actually be true?
The window was open to let the warm air into the room and Arthur got up and went to look out at the scene before him. The summer sun was setting, and the sky was filled with brilliant color. Against the dramatic oranges and pinks, the colonnade of the forum stood out with a pure beauty it did not normally possess. As Arthur stood there looking out at the sky, the colors slowly began to change and fade. And with the fading sunset came belief.
It had to be true. This was what Merlin had been preparing him for all these years. This was why he had been brought out of Cornwall and into the security of Avalon. Merlin had only been waiting for this day.
This day. The day he was to meet his father.
I can’t. His breath came hard through constricted nostrils. The scene before his eyes was a blur. He has had a chance to prepare himself for this. I haven’t.
Uther. His father. The man who had left him to Esus.
“Arthur.” The voice at the door was Merlin’s. Arthur stood at the window, rigid, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that the bone showed yellow through the skin. “Come with me,” Merlin said from the door, and Arthur forced himself to walk forward.
As they passed through the corridor on their way to Uther’s chambers, Merlin kept glancing at the boy out of the side of his eyes. Arthur’s face wore the look that Merlin most dreaded: reserved, withdrawn, faintly hostile. When Arthur looked like this, his grandfather thought despairingly, he was impossible to deal with. It was not going to be easy for Uther.
They were at the king’s door. “Go in,” said Merlin. “He is waiting for you.” He rarely touched the boy, nothing about Arthur ever invited contact, but he found himself putting a comforting hand on his grandson’s shoulder. The muscles under his fingers were rocklike with tension. Arthur did not pull away, but turned to give him a quick questioning look. Merlin smiled reassuringly. “It will be all right,” he said. “Go on.”
Arthur opened the door and went in.
Uther was alone, sitting in a chair on the far side of the room. Outside, the sun had almost set, but the room was bright with lamplight. Arthur stopped just inside the door, his eyes on the man who was watching him so intently.
Uther had always looked like a king. His dark head, now so liberally sprinkled with silver, was held with all the arrogance of power. He wore a white tunic trimmed with imperial purple and about his dark brows the slender gold circle of his office. “Come here” he said in a deep, level voice. Arthur crossed the room slowly.
When he reached the king he stopped. Then, remembering Merlin’s instructions, he went down on his knees, bowed his head, and said, “My lord king.”
“Rise, Arthur,” the king replied. To Arthur’s ears his voice sounded distant. Only Uther knew that inside the fine wool of his beautiful tunic, he was trembling. “Let me look at you,” he said, and let his eyes roam hungrily over the figure who was standing before him.
The boy’s thick straight hair was his own, as were the eyes and the brows. But the face . . . It was as if a blade turned in Uther’s heart. The fine-boned, beautiful face that was looking back at him with such disciplined immobi
lity was Igraine’s.
“You will be king before the year is out,” he said to that still face. “Are you ready?”
The boy’s discipline was equal to the challenge. His gray eyes met his father’s and did not look away. “I don’t know,” Arthur said. “I have not quite adjusted yet to my new . . . identity.”
His voice was cool and clear and edged with faint irony. He made no pretense of concern for his father. Fair enough, Uther thought heavily. Aloud he said only, “Merlin says you are ready. He told me you were ready last year, but I did not want to move prematurely. I wanted to keep you safe for as long as possible.”
There was the faintest glimmer of derision in Arthur’s gray eyes before he lowered his lashes to conceal them. “I see,” he said politely.
Uther closed his hands over the chair arms to conceal their trembling. “You do not need to tell me that you should have been reared as a prince, not hidden away at Avalon for all these years,” he said harshly. “But it was for your own safety, Arthur.”
“Oh, I understand, my lord.” The gray eyes were once again on Uther’s face. “And I was quite content . . . at Avalon.”
The boy could use his voice like a weapon, Uther thought. Its cool, clear tone was so respectful on the surface, so full of contempt in its undernotes.
Uther answered the unspoken challenge. “This is not an apology,” he said. “There is no apology that can be made for what happened when you were a child.” The expression that flickered like lightning across the boy’s face caused Uther to tighten his hands to fists on the chair. He forced himself to continue evenly. “But I will explain why I did as I did.”
He drew a long, steadying breath. “Did Merlin tell you how you were born? That Igraine and I had been married but three months?”
Arthur nodded. He was looking white about the lips and nostrils. Uther continued. “Then you know there was always the possibility of questions being raised about your paternity. Igraine had been married to Gorlois. The kings of Britain would never have accepted Gorlois’ son as their high king. Too many of them considered themselves of greater importance than a mere Duke of Cornwall.