Every day, the king got a little stronger, yet he still required someone to be with him in the night. I was taught that often those who were sick or healing from a grave wound were wakeful in the night. I had seen sickness grow stronger as the person’s mind was weakest in the dark. So, that’s how I came to know Arthur (as he insisted I call him when we are alone). At first, I sang him simple songs from my village, or healing songs from the Motherhouse. But he had no great love of music, so it tired him.
I told him stories from my homeland: Father Frost, Baba Yaga tales, and one about an enormous turnip (which made him chuckle).
One night, I started a tale, but I could tell he was not listening. “You are worried about Sir Lancelot going after that Saxon raiding party today.”
Arthur’s look was angry and embarrassed before he turned away. “You read thoughts like Merlin?”
“I can, but as a rule do not. It is uncivil, do you not think? Inside your head should be safe and known only to you.”
“Then how did you know what I was thinking?” he demanded.
I smiled. “It takes no Sight to know you worry about your people—especially Sir Lancelot. That you would rather be leading the Knights of the Round Table against the Saxons, instead of lying abed listening to children’s tales from far away.”
There was a pleading in his eyes as he asked, “Will I ever sit a horse again? Will I ever go into battle?”
“I believe you will. But it will not be next week, nor next moon. These things take time. You must be fully healed before you even think about riding any distance. Even when you are mended, you will feel pain if you ride too far or long for the first year. That is just so. But ride you will.”
He grasped my hand and stared hard into my eyes. If he were not a king, he might have made a good priest. I could tell he was feeling my words, gauging my face, looking for a lie. When he did not see any hint of untruth in me, he let go my wrist and slumped back on his bolster. “What was that tale you were starting to tell me?”
I began the story again, but he was soon asleep.
I noticed the ring on the middle finger of his right hand. I felt its metallic pressure when he held my hand a moment before, and now that he was asleep, I was able to study it better. It was a large gold band with two facing dragons entwined around it, topped with a rough-cut ruby that caught the light of the fire. It seemed a heavy thing, and I wondered if it reminded him daily of his kingly duties.
A few nights later, he pointed to my right wrist. “I see you bear the mark of Avalon. Did you receive it when they made you a priestess there?”
“Yes. I had to study their ways as if I were new to the path of the Goddess. When I proved my knowledge, I received the mark of the initiated.”
“But you were not new to the Goddess, were you?” he asked.
“No. As Merlin no doubt told you, I was a high priestess of my own people. But that matters not here,” I said.
He asked, “Tell me how you came to be on that ship, Anya. Whence came you? But go slowly, for I cannot understand you when you speak quickly.”
I was always amazed that people in the castle could not understand me. It seemed to me that I spoke their tongue clearly, but Lavena had been at pains to tell me that my “accent is as thick as honey in January.” From time to time, I wondered if Morgaine had cast some sort of spell to make my words hard to understand. But perhaps it was my vanity made me think thus.
My story unfolded over several nights, as he often fell asleep while I spoke. I told him as little as I could about the doomed ship and the Saxon raiders. Just that a few priestesses and I were traveling to Groningen when the ship was lost in a great storm. Then, Saxon pirates took the ship and killed everyone. I did not wish to dwell on the death of my poor girls. The beast saved me for last, after lashing my cheek with a whip. He tied me to the boat’s bow and stood over me, gloating and dreaming of bloody conquest. Talking about the beast still made me sweat and shake.
When I finished the tale on the third night, he said, “I remember the first time I saw you. You were tied to the prow of that ship. Merlin said it was you who’d called to him and told him to save Wyke Regis.”
“He has told me the story.”
“When Lance and the others took you down from the boat, word spread in the town of who you were and what you did. Villagers came with clothing, water, food. You saved them. Even more than my knights, they praised your intervention.” Sleepily, he reached out and tapped the blue shell of my necklace. “A little boy slipped that into your hand. I imagine it was his most treasured possession.”
“I feel honored by it every day.”
“I don’t know what ill wind put you in that beast’s clutches, but I’m glad that we have you here with us now.” He said, then drifted off to sleep.
As the Long Nights Moon waxed, King Arthur asked me more about my life. “Were you always in the company of women at Viborg, as they are at Avalon?”
“No. I met many of the men in the area when they came to the healer’s hut for cures. But I also had to deal with the Lord of Viborg. The Lady of the Motherhouse was expected to attend a meeting of the Elders each moon.”
“Tell me of him,” he says.
I recognized the question came from boredom, and not interest. But I did my best to describe Viborg and how Lord Khoryn’s dwelling was situated so that none could pass through the village without encountering him and the large men who hung about the place, ready to do his bidding. I told Arthur how tall Khoryn was and how fierce he looked in his wolf’s cloak.
“I found it instructive to study the rough men Khoryn surrounded himself with. That one who laughed too loud was actually terrified of Khoryn. The fellow with the permanent sneer thought he could manipulate Khoryn, given enough gold. Another man was hoping to marry his daughter to Khoryn, so he might enrich himself through kin-ties. All of them were there to either impress or make themselves wealthy from Khoryn. And he knew it. He manipulated this one against that, made jokes at that man’s expense to make another think he favored the trader’s rival. It was informative, if somewhat dismaying at times.”
Arthur grinned knowingly. “I know these sorts of people well. My court is littered with them. Did he ever ask you for advice?”
I shook my head. “No. Never.”
“His loss,” Arthur said kindly.
A few nights later, Arthur asked me again to describe Viborg, the warlord (such was the word he used to describe Khoryn), and his fighting men. When he tired of that he had me describe the attack of the Saxon raiders.
I realized after the third such request that Arthur was plotting how he would fight such men in those situations. Despite the shivers I hid from him at each glossed-over telling of the beast’s attack, I was amused and told him so.
He laughed tiredly. “I’ve never been one to sit indoors, and I’ve been stuck inside and on my arse for almost two months! It’s dull work. At least let me imagine some warfare to distract myself!”
The following night, I checked his bandages and found no blood. After changing the dressing, I asked if he would like to walk a bit. He was so enthusiastic, it was all I could do to keep him from pushing himself too hard. We walked around the room twice, my arm around his waist, his arm around my shoulders. The next night, we walked down the hall a short way.
As we walked, he said, “King Lot of Orkney told me the ship you were on when you arrived here was of the Vikings.”
The word puzzled me. “This is a people I have not heard of. My people are called the Rus.”
“He said they’ve encountered raiders there in the north islands and these called themselves Viking.”
It occurred to me what was being said. “Ah! I see the problem. King Lot heard this word ‘viking’ and thought they meant that was the name of the people. The word vik in my tongue means ‘to travel to a far place,’ but could also mean ‘to raid.’ So the men went ‘a-viking’—which does not excuse the attack, of course.”
“I d
on’t know the difference between calling themselves raiders or people, but if you’re of them, they’re fierce warriors.”
“I never met warriors in Viborg. Just farmers, traders, and a lot of girls.”
This made him laugh for quite some time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Another night, I said to King Arthur, “It is said even your birth was eventful.”
“A tale for a tale, hm?”
“If you feel up to it.”
Arthur looked at me somewhat indignantly, then seeing my smile, realized I was teasing him. “Surely, everyone knows this story.”
“I would hear it from you, if you would tell it.”
He settled back in his bed, wincing until he found a comfortable spot. “Well, then. Merlin tells me that my father, King Uther Pendragon was a great and fierce warrior … but impetuous when it came to women. What he wanted, he took. He was quite well known for his wenching—as many warriors are. But he could never quite figure out that he had to behave differently with the highborn girls.
“And so, it was at a spring gathering with his loyal vassals that Duke Gorlois of Cornwall came with his lovely wife, Ygraine. Uther was immediately smitten with her and pursued her when not at audience—even chasing her into a chapel when she went to pray.” He paused. “Or at least, that’s the story. I have often pondered this. It takes two to make love. I think she was taken with him as well.”
“You think she encouraged him?”
He shrugged. “I don’t think she ignored him. Don’t women give in to passing lust, just as men do?”
“Often,” I said with a chuckle.
He paused to consider me with a curious look in his eyes before continuing. “Uther’s behavior was so egregious, Gorlois took his woman and his fighting men and left the gathering without the king’s leave. Well, that’s an unforgivable breach of etiquette that the king had to answer.”
“Even if he was in the wrong?”
“Even so,” Arthur said with a nod. “A vassal attends the king until he’s dismissed. Leaving isn’t permitted unless by royal permission. Duke Gorlois violated this, and so Uther and his men rode out after him. Now, obviously, Uther had an ulterior motive. He wanted Ygraine. And he had a very special weapon he planned to use to get her.”
“Which was?”
“Merlin,” Arthur said.
Here was a thing I had not considered—that while Merlin might have been plotting, Uther had his reasons also. “King Uther commanded an enchantment?”
“Indeed,” he said. “They arrived at Castle Tintagel at the dark of the Flower Moon during a terrible storm. Uther received word that Gorlois had installed his wife there—an unassailable place at the end of the world, built on crags above a crashing sea. The duke and his men went to defend the town from Uther and his army. The king sent his men to begin the fight. Once they were gone, Merlin cast a spell that changed thin, sandy-haired Uther into black bearded, barrel-chested Gorlois. Merlin changed himself into the image of the Duke’s man, Phelan.”
A thought occurred to him, and he said, “I suppose this is a spell well known to you?”
“I cannot say I have studied such things,” I replied, shading the truth. I knew there were such spells. But I had never used them, being more interested in the practical arts of healing and growing things.”
Arthur looked at me skeptically.
“Have you a need to appear as someone else to pursue a lady-love?”
He laughed. “No. I just assumed you magickal folk knew all the same spells.”
“Priests and priestesses, witches, warlocks, fairies, incubi, we all have our ways, and no two are the same,” I replied.
“Hm.” Arthur raised his brow at me. When I did not offer any defense, he continued: “At any rate, disguised, Uther and Merlin went up the back way to the castle along a sandy, perilous path above the sea—something only someone who lived there would attempt on a rainy, moonless night.
“They were admitted into the castle. The noise they made quickly brought the lady of the house. Thinking it was Gorlois, Ygraine took him up to their rooms to dry off. Merlin stayed in the watchman’s room by the fire.”
“The Lady Ygraine did not know it was not her husband?”
“That’s the tale as it is told,” Arthur said thoughtfully. “But I wonder. If my wife were replaced by another woman in her guise, would I not know? All women do not feel, smell, taste, move as one another. Years together, you know all there is to know about your spouse. Surely, Ygraine must have suspected.”
“It seems likely,” I admitted. He is right. How could she not have known?
“But for propriety’s sake, I suppose the tale is best that she didn’t know. Else she would be thought to have acted the wanton with her husband’s enemy and then would’ve been condemned by the Christian priests. Be that as it may, Uther took her as his own, then just before dawn, left. Merlin was apparently anxious to be gone, because he knew that during the night, Gorlois had been killed in battle with Uther’s men.”
Morgaine also said this. I wondered why Merlin went to such lengths if the duke was to die conveniently anyway?
“Uther rejoined his men and shared in their victory. The next day, he declared Cornwall his and married Ygraine forthwith. Nine months later, I was born.”
“I have heard you never knew your father.”
“That’s correct. Merlin tells me Uther held me just once before he sent me away, but I was only a year old, and so I don’t recall it,” Arthur said. “My mother I knew after I became king. She was very pious by then and had joined a nunnery. I could see how my father fell in love with her. Even in old age, she was beautiful and clever.” He blinked a few times, as if forcing himself from unwanted thoughts.
“And what of your childhood?”
He smiled wanly, and I could tell he was tiring. “I grew up a little-regarded fosterling in Sir Ector’s castle—a kind man who’d been a great friend of my father’s when they were young warriors in King Ambrosius’ court. But, I didn’t know this at the time, nor did anyone else there. There were various whispers about my parentage. The most commonly accepted—the tale I believed—was that I was Ector’s bastard by one of the priestesses who came during Beltane. I thought I had no prospects, and neither did anyone else. My foster-brother, Cai, who was older by three years, took little interest in me, preferring to roust about with boys from the neighboring castle.
“Surely you do not speak of our Sir Cai here?”
“The very one,” Arthur said. “I was clumsy— always whacking myself with the blunt swords and pikes or falling off horses. I once broke my arm falling off a fighting dummy!”
“Oh no!” I had to laugh.
Arthur’s dark gray-blue eyes twinkled with humor at his own foibles. “So, when I tell you no one thought much of me—including myself—you will understand. The only one who told me I was destined for greater things was an old hermit deep in the forest I met one day. I’d been riding and got knocked off by a branch. When I sat up, my horse was held by an old fellow who looked as if he were made of moss. He helped me up and took me to a cave where he lived. There, he treated my cuts and bruises, fed me some broth, and taught me to whistle. I went to see him every chance I got, no matter the season. Can you guess who it was?”
“Merlin.”
Arthur looked a bit disappointed. “Merlin, of course,” he said, nodding. “But I was not to know that for some time. He was just the old hermit with no name, to me. It wasn’t until I was king that he told me he was my uncle!” Arthur said wonderingly.
Merlin is his kin? Then he is Morgaine’s as well!
Arthur yawned hugely. “Tale-telling is hard work, it seems.”
“To a sick man, doubly so.” I covered him with his sleeping robes and blew out several of the candles.
“Are you leaving?” he asked.
“No. I will be here by the fire if you need me. Just as I have been each night.”
“Good,” he said sl
eepily. Shortly his breathing deepened, and he snored.
The next day, when Merlin came by before evening meal, I asked him about the tale of Arthur’s conception.
Merlin sat down and stared thoughtfully into the fire for some time. Finally, he said, “Arthur’s birth was foretold to me in a vision when I was but a new priest. I was the tool the Goddess used to make it happen.”
“Did you make Uther desire her?”
He shook his head. “No, that came of its own, part of the Goddess’s plan. Ygraine was a lovely young woman. Uther wasn’t the only one watching her when she was out in public. I’d seen Uther pursue other women, of course. This was different. Uther utterly lost his heart to her during the spring gathering.”
“Did you know it was she who was to be Arthur’s mother?”
“Yes. And if Uther had not shown an interest in her, I would’ve created the needed lust. But, it happened of itself. As did Gorlois’ irritation at their flirting.”
“Ygraine encouraged Uther?”
“She did, but discretely. Ygraine understood her role as the Duchess of Cornwall; knew how far she could go. But, she certainly didn’t object to Uther’s attentions when she thought no one was watching.”
“You let Uther think he was using you, when you were using him?”
“It is important, when dealing with kings, that you let them think they control everything,” Merlin said carefully. “That’s the nature of serving royalty. It doesn’t do to show one’s hand too clearly.”
I pondered his words for a moment. “Did you know Gorlois was to die soon?”
He turned back to the fire with a sigh. “I did.”
“Then why go through the sham of creating the image of the duke if it was his place to expire soon? Why not just wait?”
He gave me a look that was half-annoyance and half-exasperation. “Priestess dear, you know as well as I that things must happen at the right time or no time. The stars we call the Great Bear—Artos—stood directly over Tintagel. The auguries said the Great King would be produced on that night, at that time, in that place. If it had been another time, another place, Arthur would not have been this Arthur. Maybe he would’ve been a tyrant. Perhaps he would have been physically deformed. Maybe he would’ve been dim-witted. Mayhap he simply wouldn’t have been as ambitious. No. It had to be that moment. And so, we played out the little game. And I was right. When we left the castle that night, what the men of Cornwall call a ‘red dragon’—a comet, but also the symbol of the Pendragons—stood in a parting of the clouds in the night sky.”
The Priestess of Camelot Page 13