"You didn't know that Arthur Blessing would come to mean something to you," the Innocent said gently. "To all of you."
"I didn't know a lot of things," Taliesin said. "He's like a clock that knows when his own mechanism will break."
"Yes," the Innocent agreed. "This Arthur is extraordinary, but finite. He isn't immortal, but he's not quite human, either. You had too much of a hand in his making."
"But how are humans—real humans—different?"
She blinked her shiny black eyes thoughtfully. "Fate is not a paved road meant to be walked upon, Merlin," she said. "We build the road as we go. Things change all the time, and nothing is 'meant to be.' There is only what is. That becomes what was, and leads, vaguely, to what will be. But there is no right way or right thing. There are no mistakes, even for wizards. Only what was, what is, and what lessons we learn...."
"Until we know everything?"
She smiled, shrugged. "I suppose."
"And so to change one's stars ..."
"One must let go of one's expectations," the Innocent said. "Forget all the rules, Merlin. Everything I taught you. Stop being a craftsman, and become an artist. And then let your creations run away."
"Let him go?" The old man stood up abruptly. "Are you telling me to let Arthur go forever?"
"Yes."
"But—"
"The way I've let you go."
"Oh," he said.
"Too difficult?"
"Well, it's just that... it ought to be more than that, I should think. It doesn't seem that letting go of what I want would accomplish much of anything."
"Perhaps that is because you don't want to let go," she said.
"No, I was only saying—"
A glass globe appeared in the baby's hands. She held it up to him. "Take us back to Camelot, Merlin. You may find what you need there, after all."
"Oh, all right." The Innocent was pulling his chain again, talking in circles. Letting go. That wasn't the problem at all.
"Focus," she said.
Taliesin allowed the place in the globe to exist. From the depths of his soul he brought forth the sounds of wind and birdsong and the smell of rye grass. The castle stood new, its stone still sharp enough to cut flesh. And inside, beyond the great hall, in the chamber of the King, stood a man struggling to keep his shoulders back and his head erect.
"Who's that?" Taliesin asked. "And what's he saying?"
"Go there," the Innocent whispered.
"You are the land, and the land is you," Ector said somberly.
He was an old man by then, and meant well, but his nearsighted, almost mythical loyalty to the King he had known as a boy could be unnerving.
"Thank you," Arthur said, looking up from his work with a weak smile.
"When you recover, the land will once again bring forth an abundant harvest."
"I hope you're right, Ector." He nodded in dismissal. Ector bowed, wobbling precariously on his arthritic knees before walking backward out of the chamber.
Arthur sighed, putting down the quill in his hand. Ector, unfortunately, was not the only one in Britain who blamed the poor harvests of the past three years on their King. The legend of the Wheat King, the Earth-Goddess's consort whose sacrifice ensures the success of the next season's crop, was still firmly embedded in the consciousness of the people.
Despite the inroads made by the Christian church, farmers and their wives still copulated in the middle of their fields, making sure to spill the man's seed onto the ground as a sacrifice to the Goddess. She, the Primal Mother, Earth, was still a living force to these people. And to the Goddess, men—even Kings—were temporal things to be replaced when their time was done in order to keep the earth alive.
In truth, Arthur's malaise was not unrelated to the failed crops. In addition to the monumental tasks of keeping the clans united so that the Saxons would not be tempted to invade again, now the King also had to find a way to keep his people from outright starvation.
The past three years had been identical: a spring so rainy that roots had rotted in the sodden ground, followed by a dry, hot summer with scorched fields in which nothing grew. By September's meager harvest, new parents looked with fear upon their sleeping infants, wondering how they would survive the coming winter, and the old people shivered even before the first frost came.
The cycle had occurred three times. Now the people were looking at their High King, asking silently if he had lost favor with the Goddess. If it was time for the Wheat King's sacrifice.
"It's a natural assumption," Merlin said, pouring a glass of wine.
Arthur took it, but did not drink. He had no appetite for food or drink, and had grown thin and gray within the span of little more than a year.
"The common folk love you, Arthur. They believe you to be some sort of Messiah."
The King buried his head in his hands. '"What an obscene joke that is," he muttered.
"Well, you did rout the Saxons. Before you took the crown, no man could go to bed with any certainty that his family wouldn't be slaughtered and his home burned before daybreak."
"I could have brought peace fifteen years ago, if the petty chiefs had listened to me," Arthur said bitterly.
"Yes, yes." Merlin was becoming bored with the King's harping on the intransigence of the tribal chieftains. It had been Arthur's idea to accommodate the Saxons rather than obliterate them. The fighting, which had been going on ever since the Romans left Britain and the Saxons looked to the divided land as a place to settle, was accomplishing nothing.
Arthur had pleaded with the chiefs to think differently about the situation. He suggested that each of the petty kings give over a small portion of their lands to new Saxon settlers. The chieftains would be permitted to charge rent and receive a portion of the tenants' crops. This plan worked until the first accusation from one of the chiefs that the Saxon farmers were plotting an insurrection.
It was Lot of Rheged who had complained, of course. Lot, who had resisted the idea of having any Saxons on British soil from the beginning, mentioned that a number of Saxons were living in the forests of Britain.
This was true. After each sea raid, a few Saxon warriors found themselves on enemy territory without weapons, homes, or means to return to their homeland. After several decades, their number had grown to the point where the Saxons were a real, albeit powerless, presence. It was these people, many of whom could no longer even remember their native land, whom Arthur had in mind when he suggested a peaceful Saxon settlement.
Some had already taken British wives and started families. Their number would only grow, and Britain, whose own population was kept low as a result of unrelenting tribal warfare, needed the extra hands to wrest the land back from the abyss into which it had plunged after the departure of the Romans and their advanced civilization.
But Lot—and, if the truth be told, a number of the other petty kings—could never adjust to the idea of Saxons living on more or less equal footing with native Britons. As soon as Lot voiced his complaint about the so-called "army" of disenfranchised Saxons living in the wilderness, "getting ready to kill us all in our sleep like the savages they are," as he put it, a nervous rumbling echoed throughout every chiefdom. Weapons were forged, warriors trained, food supplies stored.
And then, in a night raid which Lot subsequently explained away with a feeble excuse, the men of Rheged attacked every unarmed Saxon tenant holding in the chiefdom.
The action brought out the Saxons who had been hiding in the forests. They attacked not only Rheged but every British farm and hill fort they could breach, fighting with rusted battle axes, broken swords, stones, slings, and makeshift bows.
Within days Britain was in the throes of a full-scale war, although the outcome was never in doubt. In the end, the Saxons were slaughtered, almost to a man, their families wiped out, their few farms burned. Feasts were held, and songs written about the valor of each chieftain who had successfully defended his land from the vicious Saxons.
Only Lot had commanded the bards to write the songs of victory about Arthur.
Soon the other chiefs followed suit. Yes, Arthur had routed the Saxons from the land, just as St. Patrick had rid Ireland of snakes. Arthur was toasted in every hall and castle. Arthur's name was spread among the peasantry and the fighting men. Arthur the High King had brought peace to Britain at last.
And Lot had laughed to himself as Arthur had been forced to smile in acknowledgement. The King's plan had failed utterly.
"Well, whatever you may think of it, you'll be known as the King who drove the Saxons out of Britain," the Merlin said.
"For how long?" After a short period of peace, Arthur knew, in which the Saxons regrouped to heal their wounds and train a larger righting force, the invasions would begin all over again. "The Saxons are so populous their borders can't contain them... while here in Britain, after the flight of the bloody Romans, and the plagues, and the constant wars we love to wage on each other, we've hardly enough men to defend ourselves.
"The Saxons were willing to abandon their culture. Merlin. The ones who homesteaded here were more than willing to become completely British in their ways in exchange for having a little land to till. But we couldn't have that, no. Foreigners on our soil? Never!"
He slapped the arm of his chair with his fist in imitation of the petty kings. "The chiefs conveniently forget that most of them have more Roman blood in their veins than Celtic."
Arthur himself was of a Romano-British line, as were Merlin and most of the other educated people on the island. "God knows, without any foreign influence, we'd all be like Octa and those thickheaded dolts from Orkney."
"Nevertheless. Highness," Merlin said, reminding Arthur with a raised eyebrow of his obligations to his people, "the chiefs are grateful that you led them to victory."
"They're just pleased to have been able to fight again," Arthur said. "They like it."
"Oh, really—"
"Of course they do. We haven't come far from the days when we painted our faces blue and ran screaming toward wild boar with pointed sticks in our hands."
The old man sighed. "Well, all right. Ours is a warrior race, it's true. In many cases, how well a man fights is the measure of him. That's why the chiefs respect you, Arthur. Because you fight well."
"I hate fighting," Arthur said sullenly.
"Nevertheless, you are the King of this fighting race."
"And so I must die by the sword, is that what you're saying?"
Merlin looked abashed. "No, of course not. It's just that the chiefs..."
"The chiefs are like children, Merlin. Foolish, unruly children who have to be kept entertained and distracted every moment, or they'll get into mischief." Arthur coughed. "If they don't have a foreign enemy to fight, they'll fight each other."
Merlin tried to smile at the King's fractiousness, but he was worried. Arthur's cough had become chronic. In recent months, he had complained of pain in his gums, which were red and swollen with infection. His stomach bothered him whenever he ate. As a result, he had grown gaunt and gray-faced, and his once glossy hair that had glinted red in the sun now hung, dull and thinning, around his shoulders.
He was thirty-six years old.
And alone. He had sent Guenevere away, in accordance with the wishes of the petty kings, who insisted that he take another wife in order to beget an heir.
When informed of her rejection and approaching exile, the queen had said nothing. She had not spoken a single word of recrimination or outrage against Arthur or the petty kings.
Arthur felt as if he were tearing out his own heart.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
THE THREE GIFTS
She was barren, the Merlin had argued. There was nothing else to be done, despite what the peasants thought.
The problem revolved around her name; or rather, her namesake, Gwenhwyfar, the ancient Welsh goddess of the sea. It was said that no King could rule a nation of islands without her by his side. To the common people, sending a queen—particularly one who bore the name of one of the most powerful goddesses in creation—into exile among the wicked Christians was an act of despicable folly.
Of course the crops would be affected, and the catch of fish, and the very weather! Of course the Wheat King would grow sick and die! Arthur Pendragon was the best of the best, but he was still a mortal. Only the Goddess could help him, She who had given him the cup of immortality and the sword of invincibility. Without her, even the great gifts of the ancient gods would not help. Did these modern men know nothing?
But no one consulted the peasants. To the petty kings it was all quite clear. For an ordinary man, a wife who could not bear children was a burden; but for a High King, such a woman was a danger. Because of Guenevere, Arthur had no successor. That in itself virtually assured the Kingdom of large-scale civil war after the High King's death.
It had only made sense, the Merlin reasoned now, watching warily as Arthur spat blood onto a cloth.
There were already a hundred legends about the boy who had pulled the fabled sword of Macsen from the stone. Arthur had been meant to be King from the moment of his birth. He had conquered the Saxons, and had brought the first peace in a thousand years to a free Britain. With Arthur, the improvements advanced by the Romans could be duplicated, or even bettered. The great King would wrest Britain from the darkness and bring her, shining as a jewel, into the light.
Such a man needed an heir. A dynasty must be established. Even Guenevere's father, King Leodegranz, understood that. His daughter had been required to do only one thing, produce a son, and she had been given eighteen years to do so. Eighteen years of marriage, with only one pitiful miscarriage to show for it. No other King would have waited so long or given the woman so many chances.
In the end, the chiefs had insisted that Arthur put her aside.
Leodegranz announced publicly that he would not wage war on the King or on any of the chiefs as a result of this decision, or even reclaim the land given as Guenevere's dowry. Compared with such weighty matters as the succession of the High King, he agreed, a wife was nothing.
All Leodegranz requested as compensation was that the seat of the High King always remain at Camelot. The chiefs acquiesced at once. Of course Leo should remain close to the seat of power, they agreed. After all, he'd no idea that his daughter would prove to be a useless mate for the King.
Besides, they knew, all the rules would change once Arthur chose a new queen.
The chiefs were in a state of high excitement, despite the failed crops. After all, the weather was bound to improve, and when it did, the first great crop would be attributed to the new queen. Already some of the petty kings were putting about talk that Guenevere's barrenness had brought barrenness to the land. The peasants were superstitious; they would believe that, and it would keep them from putting too much pressure on their tribal chiefs.
As long as they can blame the woman, they won't blame Arthur, Merlin thought. The only problem was Arthur himself. He did not seem to grasp that he was walking on thin ice with the chiefs, that he should be grateful to them for their continued loyalty after nearly two decades without a successor to the throne. These were warrior-kings; sooner or later, one of them—and Merlin could guess who among them would be the first—would make a move to seize the High King's crown for himself.
They all had sons. Sons and grandsons and nephews, literal armies of men who would stand shoulder to shoulder with them in battle. All except Arthur. Arthur had only the Knights of the Round Table, most of whom were unmarried, and a growing number approaching old age. And the King was even turning his back on them, it seemed.
How could the loss of a barren wife affect him so?
The chiefs had demanded that Arthur wash his hands of Guenevere and take another wife to his bed.
Well, he had complied with the first demand, Arthur thought bitterly. Now Merlin had come mewling again about the second, as if the High King of Britain were some sort of stud horse in high rut.
He had refused to recognize the boy as his son. That was all he could do. Even the High King did not have the power to still the wagging tongues of gossips. What had shocked him was that some of the chiefs had even suggested that he should claim Mordred, just so he would have an heir.
Imagine, Morgause's son as his heir! The petty kings would stoop to anything, it seemed.
He was lonely, lonelier than he had ever been in his life. His one consolation was that Guenevere might not find life in the abbey where he had sent her to be too difficult, since she was such a devout follower of Christianity.
But it did not alleviate his loneliness, or his guilt at sending away a wife who had done no harm. Oh, there were the rumors of Guenevere's adultery with Launcelot. Rumors... and perhaps not rumors.
He would never admit to the chieftains that he had harbored suspicions of the queen's faithlessness, of course: To their accusations he railed and raged, and strongly suggested that the evil-minded among them would be justly dismissed from the High King's company; but secretly, silently, almost guiltily, he wondered if they were right.
The legends already springing up about him claimed that the Goddess had given him two gifts, the Holy Grail of Christ, and Excalibur, the great sword of Macsen. The one had allowed him to achieve immortality, and the other, invincibility.
But in truth he had also been given a third gift, perhaps the most precious of all. In the Goddess's wisdom, She had bestowed upon him the gift of love. Guenevere was that most wondrous of wives—a woman who was both friend and lover, easy to be with yet exciting, sensible but fascinating. What had passed between them from the first had been not only a passion, although that had been a part of it, but something deeper as well, a current of knowing, a recognition that the two of them had been meant to be together from the beginning, and perhaps before the beginning.
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