The Road to Avalon (13 page)

Best let the boy be alone for now, he thought. Slowly he rose from the chair and went over to his bed. Never, Merlin thought wearily as he lowered himself to the mattress, never had he felt so old.

Merlin was awakened the following morning by a servant of Igraine’s, who brought an urgent summons from the queen. He dressed in reasonable haste and went along the corridor to her room. He was admitted immediately and found her alone.

“Arthur is gone” Igraine said to her father the moment the door closed behind him. “When his servant went into his room to wake him this morning, he found the bed unslept in. Then we discovered that his horse is missing from the stable. Where in the name of God can he have gone, Father? If he wanted a girl, we could have got one for him . . .”

“You can’t get him this girl,” Merlin replied, and sat heavily in a chair.

Igraine was still standing. “What do you mean, Father? Do you know where he has gone?”

“Yes,” Merlin replied, and stared bleakly at Arthur’s mother. “He has gone to see Morgan.”

“Morgan? Why Morgan? Father, what is the matter? You are frightening me. You look terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” Merlin returned. He rubbed his forehead and said, his head bowed, his whole posture bespeaking defeat, “Arthur came to me last night and asked to marry Morgan. I said he could not.”

“Marry Morgan
! He cannot marry Morgan. Morgan is my sister.”

“That is what I told him.” Merlin looked up. “I think he means to have her anyway, Igraine.”

“He can’t do that.” Igraine’s voice was shrill. Finally she too sat down. “I think you had better explain all this to me, Father.”

“It is not difficult to explain. Arthur has been attached to Morgan ever since he first came to Avalon. They have been inseparable since childhood. I would say that Arthur loves Morgan more than anything else in the world.”

Igraine was rigid with outrage. “Were you mad, Father, to allow such a thing to happen? You knew what their relationship was!”

“Not mad, Igraine, just blind. You see, I assumed all along that Arthur thought he was my son. I thought he regarded Morgan as his sister.”

“And he did not think he was your son?”

“No. It seems Malwyn often told him he resembled his father. He does not look like me, so he never thought he and Morgan were related.”

Igraine’s beautiful high cheekbones looked more prominent than usual as she sat slowly back in her chair. “It is too bad that this had to happen,” she said slowly after a moment’s reflection, “but if you and Uther refuse your permission, they cannot marry. That is the end of
it.”

Merlin looked at her from under his brows. “It is not so simple as that. I saw Arthur’s face last night. He will toss everything aside if he must—Uther, the high kingship, Britain—before he will give up Morgan.”

“No priest will marry them without your permission,” Igraine insisted.

“That is so. But they may settle for something less than marriage.” Merlin’s shoulders were slumped against the back of his chair.

Igraine stared at him. “Have they slept together?”

“I don’t know. They have certainly had every opportunity.”

Igraine catapulted herself out of her chair and began to pace the floor. “We cannot allow this to happen,” she said as she prowled up and down the room. “We cannot allow an adolescent love affair to ruin everything Uther has striven for all these years. They must be separated. Send Morgan away, Father. God knows there are hiding places enough in Britain.”

But Merlin was shaking his head. “Do you think Arthur would stand for that? You don’t know him very well, Igraine, if you think he would. He would tear the country apart looking for her. The only way you could stop him would be to chain him up.”

Igraine halted in her pacing. “Such a stupid, self-indulgent thing to do,” she said. “To throw away a crown and a nation . . . for a girl!”

“He is your son, after all, Igraine.” As her angry eyes flew to his face, Merlin smiled bitterly. “I seem to remember that once you threw away husband, home, religion, and family honor . . . for a man.”

Igraine had gone very white. “That is true,” she said in a low voice. “And if it is like that with him . . . God, Father, what are we to do?”

“There is nothing we can do. We must leave it to Morgan. He has gone to her, and he will tell her everything I said to him.” Merlin’s voice had lost its bitterness. “More than any of us, Morgan knows what Arthur is,” he said, “what he has it in him to be. And she is more my daughter than either you or Morgause, Igraine. I think she has it in her to send him away.”

There was a twist to Igraine’s voice as she answered, “We must pray that she does, Father. We must pray that she does.”

Morgan got Morgause and her sons to Avalon with little trouble. The Lothian children were tireless horsemen, even the youngest, four-year-old Agravaine; and Morgause herself rode competently and uncomplainingly. In fact, she seemed to enjoy the hot dusty ride, pointing out landmarks to her sons and chatting easily with Morgan.

Of all his daughters, Morgause was the one who looked most like her father. Her hair was more red than his had been, but she had his features and his clear blue eyes. But the trace of austerity that hung always about Merlin was completely absent in Morgause. She was rich and vibrant and warm. Her figure was lush, her hair luxuriant, her lips and cheeks brilliant with color. Her smile and laughter were always good-humored. She was far more likable, Morgan thought, than Igraine.

The apple orchards of Avalon rose before them, and Morgan, who had been listening tensely the whole ride for the sound of hooves pounding in pursuit, finally relaxed. They rode through the sweet-smelling orchards and came at last into the colonnaded courtyard of the villa.

The Lothian children stared at the stone house with big-eyed awe. “Was
this
where you lived when you were a little girl, Mother?” Gawain, the eldest, asked.

“Yes.” Morgause sighed with happy nostalgia as she looked around. “Half of Britain is lying in ruins,” she said to Morgan, “yet nothing at Avalon has seemed to change.”

“The outside world doesn’t trouble us much here,” Morgan replied. “The villa is virtually self-sustaining.”

“What does that mean?” Gawain asked curiously. “Self-sustaining?”

“It means that everything we need we make right here, Gawain,” Morgan answered her nephew. “Our food, our clothing, our furniture, our tools. Everything is made right here at Avalon. The only things your grandfather must buy from the outside world are wine and oil.” She smiled at all the children. “If you like, I’ll take you around tomorrow and show you the farms. And the kiln where we dry our wheat. And the blacksmith and the carpenter and the weaving houses. Would you like that?”

“Yes!” Gawain and Gaheris chorused in reply.

Morgan looked from the two eldest boys to the youngest, who had remained silent. Gawain and Gaheris were handsome boys, big like their father, with Morgause’s hair and eyes, but Agravaine was beautiful. His hair was the color of ripe corn and the eyes that looked up at Morgan were the darkest blue she had ever seen. “And you, Agravaine?” she asked gently. “Would you like to see the villa too?”

“Oh, yes.” He gave her a charming, little-boy smile. “But I would like to see the house first.”

Morgause put a caressing hand on his golden hair. “And so you shall, my love.” She smiled at all of her sons. “What fun we shall have,” she said with infectious enthusiasm. “Wasn’t your father clever to think of sending us to Avalon?”

Morgan felt a distinct twinge of guilt.

When Arthur fled from Merlin’s bedchamber, the only thought in his head was to get away. His feet had taken him halfway back to his own room before he realized he had somewhere else to go. The thought quickly became a fixed idea. He had to see Morgan.

Morgan was at Avalon, safely behind the shield of Claudius Virgilius and his cohort of soldiers. No matter, Arthur thought instantly. He could get through to her. If it cost him his life, he would get through to her. With no further hesitation, he swerved in his path and made for one of the back doors of the praetorium.

He walked that night like one who is cloaked in darkness. Neither the guards at the praetorium nor the guards at the stables saw him. The army had been celebrating the election of the new prince that day, and the sentries were drowsy with wine and too much food.

Arthur threw a saddle on the new horse Bedwyr had given him, one of Sodak’s colts, and led him out of the stable. He did not mount until he was at the main street; then he swung into the saddle and put the horse to a trot. They rode out of Venta and turned toward the road to Avalon. Dun Loaghaire, the horse Bedwyr had given him, was eager to go, and Arthur touched him to a canter as soon as they reached the Roman road.

It was a moonlit night and he rode on steadily, the three-beat rhythm of his horse’s hooves the only sound in a silent world. He had no thought of what he would do when he saw her, of what he would say. There was only this necessity driving him forward, like an arrow hurtling through the night toward its final homing.

He veered off the main road and approached the villa through the fields. No one saw or challenged him. He woke up one of the slaves who slept over the stables and told him to see to Dun, and then, on silent feet, he made his way to the house. The sky was beginning to lighten with the approaching dawn.

The shutters to his room were open, and he entered through the window. He stood for a moment, looking around the dim bedroom at the familiar furniture. It seemed a hundred years now since he had first seen this room. Morgan had been the one to show it to him, he remembered. He moved on stealthy feet out into the corridor and then through the door of the bedroom next to his.

She was asleep, her brown hair spilling across her arm and her pillow. He looked at her with wordless longing, at the faint hollow of her temple, at the long brown lashes lying so peacefully on the soft curve of her cheek. At her mouth. Her lashes lifted and she was looking back at him.

“Arthur!” Her brown eyes reflected the breaking dawn light from the unshuttered window. “What are you doing here?” she asked, pushing herself up on her elbow.

How to explain to them, he thought. How to make them understand that the touch of her hand, the expression of her eyes, the feel and smell of her hair, the sound of her voice, all these were as necessary to him as the air he breathed, the water he drank. “Morgan,” he said. His voice was strangely hoarse. She sat up and pushed the hair off her face.

“But what is it?” she breathed.

He could not answer. He came to sit beside her and take her tightly into his arms. He held her against him, his cheek against her hair, and closed his eyes. Her hair felt like warm silk against his face. It smelled, as always, of lavender. He felt her quiver within his embrace and forced himself to speak. “I asked Merlin if we could marry and he said we could not.” He tightened his arms as he spoke, pressing her flexible young body close to him in a spasm of possessiveness.

“Arthur.” Her voice seemed very far away. “What did Father say? Tell me.”

Reluctantly he loosened his hold. He looked down into her eyes. “A lot of nonsense,” he said huskily. “We must simply do as we want without him.”

She moved away from him. Her hair streamed down over her thin cotton bedgown, her brown eyes commanded him. “Tell me,” she said again, and he did.

When he had finished she bent her head. “I was afraid of this.” Her voice was barely audible. “I tried not to think about it, but I was afraid.”

“Morgan.”
His voice was low but urgent. “It doesn’t matter what he says; it doesn’t matter what anyone says. You and I, we don’t need them.”

She was pale as a ghost in the gathering light from the window; her eyes were somber. “No priest will marry us without your father’s permission.”

His eyes glittered like silver under their long black lashes. “Do you need a priest to feel married to me?”

“No.” Her lips formed the word, though no sound came.

His face relaxed very slightly. “We’ll go away together. Across the sea to Armorica, perhaps, like so many other Britons have done. I can keep us. I can always sell my sword if I have to. We don’t need much to make us happy, you and I.”

There was a long moment of silence as she stared up into his face. Then she reached out and touched the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Tears began to slip down her cheeks and she shook her head. “No,” she said in a constricted voice. “No, Arthur. I cannot let you do it.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me, my love.” He was gripping her so tightly that his fingers would leave bruises. “None of this matters to me if I cannot have you. I would rather be a nameless mercenary with you at my side, than High King of Britain without you. You know that!”

“Yes, I know that.” Her voice was barely a thread of sound. The tears had ceased to fall but her face was still streaked with wet. “And if we two do as you say, Arthur, what will become of Britain?”

At that he got to his feet and walked to the window. He stood staring out, his back rigid. “Britain has managed very well without me up till now,” he said over his shoulder. “It will continue to manage in the future.”