The Road to Avalon (45 page)

He rode like his father, Bedwyr thought with pleasure. Cloud would end up being a much better horse than Agravaine’s Azur.

Half an hour later, just as Bedwyr was about to call a halt to the lesson, Gwenhwyfar rode up to the outside of the ring. Bedwyr trotted Sugyn over to stand in front of her.

“What are you doing out alone?” he asked over the fence that divided them.

“I was down to the bazaar,” she answered. “And I had two men with me. I sent them up to the palace when I heard the sound of your voice. It’s such a nice day, I wasn’t ready to go home quite yet.”

A horse came up behind Bedwyr and he heard Agravaine’s light, distinctive voice. “Shall we put the horses away now, Prince?”

Bedwyr backed Sugyn a little so he could see both Gwenhwyfar and Agravaine. “Yes,” he said. “They’ve done enough for today.”

“Good afternoon, my lady,” said Agravaine, and he bowed gracefully from the saddle.

“Good afternoon, Prince,” Gwenhwyfar replied. She scarcely ever saw Bedwyr on the grounds of Camelot anymore without this goldenhaired young man beside him. They made a striking pair, certainly, both of them so distinctively blond. Agravaine’s coloring was more spectacular than Bedwyr’s, but Bedwyr’s size made the younger man look almost fragile.

Gwenhwyfar did not think that Agravaine was fragile. In fact, according to Bedwyr, he was the most talented student of weaponry among the group. He was handsome, charming, clever, popular with his peers. But there was something about him that repelled her.

She said nothing about her feeling to Bedwyr, simply because she found it hard to account for herself. But she was quite sure of one other thing. In spite of his extravagant courtesy, Agravaine liked her as little as she liked him.

Her eyes moved away from Agravaine’s exaggeratedly respectful face and encountered a familiar pair of eyes regarding her with honest admiration. She smiled. “How are you, Mordred? Have you had a successful afternoon? I hope the prince has not worked you too hard.”

The boy’s darkly beautiful face lighted. “Oh, no, my lady. Not any harder than he usually does.”

“Good,” replied Gwenhwyfar with amusement. Then: “I did not mean to interrupt your training session, Prince.”

“We were finishing anyway,” Bedwyr replied. “Agravaine, make sure all these horses are properly cool before you turn them out.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Agravaine with faintly mocking deference.

“Do you want to go for a ride before returning to the palace?” Bedwyr asked the queen.

“That would be lovely,” she replied promptly.

Agravaine sat his horse in silence as Bedwyr bent from Sugyn to unlatch the gate. Then, as the gilt and red-gold heads moved toward the road, he turned to the men and horses still in the ring. “All right. Let’s take these horses back to the stable.”

His face was white and his eyes were burning and the rest of them obeyed him in silence, knowing that any comment would only provoke a lash from that razor-sharp tongue.

“Why do you put Agravaine in charge?” Gwenhwyfar asked Bedwyr as their horses walked side by side through the cool March sun. “After all, he is less important than most of the other boys. Certainly he is less important than Mordred.”

“Less important, perhaps, but Agravaine is a natural leader.” He was looking straight ahead, directly between his horse’s ears. Still without looking at her, he added, “Mordred is not.”

She became instantly defensive. “He is still a boy. You must give him time to grow up.”

“He is seventeen. At seventeen Arthur had been high king for a year.”

“It isn’t fair to compare him with Arthur.”

“Perhaps not. There will never be another Arthur. But there’s no hardness in this boy, Gwenhwyfar.”

“And there is too much hardness in Agravaine! Given the choice, I would take Mordred’s gentleness every time.”

“So would I, if I were choosing just a son. But not a king. It is better for a king to be too hard than not to be hard enough.”

“Then teach him.”

At last he looked at her. “I am trying. Arthur is trying. As you said, he is young. Perhaps we will succeed.”

“Is it that he cannot do what the other boys can? On the training field, I mean?”

“He accomplishes what he has to accomplish. His heart is not in it, Gwenhwyfar. He wants to please Arthur, so he tries, but he really isn’t interested. He enjoys working with the horses. He likes music. He is a very fine harper.” Bedwyr’s voice was expressionless.

Gwenhwyfar ran her knuckles along the satiny neck of her bay horse. Then she said, very low, “Arthur loves him.”

His answer was equally quiet. “I know, little bird. But Arthur isn’t blind. He sees what I see.”

She raised her face to the sky, as if searching for guidance. “How can Arthur’s son not be a leader? He just needs time, Bedwyr. And I do not think it is wise to give Agravaine such preeminence. He has dominated Mordred since they were children. It is not a pattern that should be encouraged.”

“No one dominates Mordred,” he contradicted her. “He is not a leader, but neither is he a follower. He is a dreamer, Gwenhwyfar. That is where he differs most from Arthur, I think. Arthur is practical, intensely practical. That is his great gift, the combination of vision and practicality.”

Their horses walked side by side in silence for almost a full minute. Then Bedwyr said, “Arthur needs to get him the right wife.”

Gwenhwyfar stopped her horse. “I like him, Bedwyr,” she said softly. “He is a very sweet boy.”

Bedwyr’s eyes were very blue. “I know,” he answered. “That is the problem.”

“I want you to come to the boys’ training grounds,” Bedwyr said to the king. He and Arthur and Gwenhwyfar were having dinner together in the small room off the little court they used for family meals. “In the old days,” he continued, “there was not a man in the army who doubted where his personal allegiance lay. They all worshiped you, Arthur. The veterans still do. But these boys don’t know you, scarcely see you. I’m not sure that is wise.”

“The old days,” repeated Arthur with amusement. “You speak with such nostalgia, Bedwyr. It’s been only three years since Badon.”

“These boys were not at Badon. And they will be the next Council of Princes. You ought to get to know them better.”

“I have been busy with matters other than the army.” Arthur’s voice was undisturbed.

“Bedwyr is right,” said Gwenhwyfar. “I think you ought to spend more time with the princes too.”

Arthur looked from one face to the other. He raised his black brows. “Very well. I will come to see your charges, Bedwyr. Do you want me to hold their hands?”

“No” said Bedwyr with satisfaction.
“I
want you to show them how to use a sword.”

Arthur rode down to the training field the following morning. The March wind was blowing white clouds briskly across the sky and the air was chill, but all the boys on the field wore short-sleeved tunics. They were practicing their swordplay, sparring with each other and with large sandbags marked with targets. Arthur dismounted and stood silently watching the activity. After a moment Bedwyr came toward him.

The two men leaned companionably against a wagon and watched the youngsters practice. Agravaine’s brilliance was immediately apparent. He disarmed the Prince of Elmet with whom he was sparring, lowered his sword, and watched the king and Bedwyr as they stood together talking. Then Arthur moved away from the wagon and began to walk across the soft ground, with Bedwyr at his side. Bedwyr’s head was bent toward the smaller, slimmer black-haired man next to him. Then the prince raised his voice and called the boys.

They came instantly, respectful and nervous. Bedwyr then had each boy perform a maneuver, using the sandbag as an opponent, and Arthur watched each one of them with flattering attention. He had a compliment for each prince and a suggestion for improvement. It was not until later, when they tried putting the suggestions into practice, that they realized how perceptive the king had been.

Agravaine struck the practice bag right through the marked heart and turned to Arthur, expecting only a compliment. “Your wrist is a little weak,” Arthur said.

Agravaine’s eyes widened. He waited until the last prince had finished his exercise before he made the suggestion. “Why don’t you and the prince show us some real swordplay, my lord king?” His voice was silky, his blue eyes guileless.

Arthur turned to him, his face looking merely thoughtful. If he recognized the words as a challenge, he did not show it.

“No, thank you, Agravaine,” said Bedwyr with humor. “I like to keep my reputation for invincibility.”

It was the business of the cavalry demonstration all over again, Agravaine thought with anger. The prince had a compulsion to share all his honors with this king.

“I’ll spar with
you,”
said Arthur.

Agravaine flung back his hair and laughed, a clear musical sound of sheer joy. This was even better. His hand flexed unconsciously on his sword handle as he accepted the challenge.

The boys looked at each other in silence. Agravaine had beaten the best of the veteran cavalry officers just last week. There was no one at present in all the army who could beat him at swordplay, save Bedwyr the Lion.

“You had better roll up your sleeves,” Bedwyr was saying practically to Arthur. “You can use Mordred’s sword. It’s your length and weight.”

Mordred handed his father his sword, a very slight frown on his brow. Arthur lifted the sword, trying the feel of it. He smiled at Mordred and walked a little way onto the field. “Well?” he said mildly to Agravaine. “Are you ready, Cousin?”

Agravaine moved onto the field. He was twenty-one years old, in the full strength of his young manhood, of much the same height and weight as the king. Arthur would be thirty-three in a month, an age when reflexes start to slow and feet to move less quickly. The watching boys had little doubt that Agravaine would make full use of his advantages.

Arthur lifted his sword and Agravaine did the same. The king waited to let his opponent make the first move and Agravaine obliged, moving forward like a cat, his sword flashing and flashing and flashing again in the brilliant sun. There was the briefest flicker of expression on the king’s face, and then he began to give ground.

Mordred felt his heart thudding inside his chest, as he was sure his father’s heart must be. Arthur had been surprised by Agravaine’s aggressiveness. And the king had not yet made a move that was not purely defensive.

There was a smile of unholy pleasure on Agravaine’s face. He was breathing audibly as he pressed the attack on the still-retreating king. Mordred cast an anxious glance at Bedwyr, but the prince looked unconcerned.

“Very nice.” It was the king’s voice, cool and precise in the clear air. Arthur was not out of breath after all. He stood his ground and held off a fierce rain of blows. With all his pyrotechnics, Agravaine had not yet been able to get through the king’s guard. “You must not go so consistently to the right, however. It makes the attack too predictable.” Arthur’s sword flashed to parry a blow aimed from the left. “Yes. That’s better. But the biggest problem is still that wrist.”

The king took a step forward, for the first time aimed a blow that was not defensive, and Agravaine’s sword was on the ground. “You’re so fast that you cover the weakness well,” Arthur said pleasantly to the startled Agravaine. “Bedwyr will be able to give you a few exercises that will make a difference.”

Arthur began to walk off the field and was immediately surrounded by a circle of awestruck boys. He smiled at them with perfect friendliness and began to answer questions.

It was Mordred who turned to go back to his brother. Agravaine was holding his wrist and watching the king. “Go away,” he snarled when he saw Mordred approaching. Mordred looked at the pinched white face and blazing eyes, sighed, and turned back. There was no talking to Agravaine when he was like this.

As Mordred rejoined the group of princes around his father, they began to move off the field and toward the stables. Mordred pushed between Constantine and Lachlan to come up at Bedwyr’s side. “Agravaine,” he said in an urgent undertone to the prince.

Bedwyr paused, turned, and saw the solitary figure still standing on the field. He muttered something under his breath, called to Arthur, “Go on down to the stables. I’ll meet you there,” and turned to retrace his steps. Before making the turn that would put him out of sight of the field, Mordred looked back once to see what was happening.

Agravaine and Bedwyr were following them, walking slowly. Bedwyr had laid an arm across Agravaine’s shoulders and was saying something to the younger man. Agravaine walked beside the prince, his golden head slightly bent, listening.

Chapter 38

“T
HE
Saxons have sacked Angers.” Arthur picked up a scroll from his desk and read its contents aloud to Cai and Bedwyr. It was from Syagrius, the king who ruled northern Gaul. Like Arthur, Syagrius espoused the idea of Romanitas without necessarily espousing allegiance to the person of the emperor. And like Arthur, he had a disparate group of tribes under his rule: the Franks, the Burgundians, and the Britons in Armorica being the chief among them.

“‘Odovacar now occupies the south bank of the Loire and most of its islands,’ ” Arthur read aloud. “‘His presence poses a direct threat to all British settlements along the Loire. The Saxon army numbers some fifteen thousand which is more than I can raise. Between myself and Childeric, King of the Franks, we can raise perhaps eight thousand men. If we are to deal with this Saxon threat, we must have assistance from Britain.’”

Arthur looked up.

“Odovacar,” said Cai. “Another Saxon chief like Offa. Never content with what they have, always wanting more.”

“If Odovacar gets more,” said Bedwyr, “he may well look next across the Narrow Sea to Britain.”

“That thought,” said Arthur, “has crossed my mind.”

The three men looked at each other. “Better to fight him in Gaul than in Britain.” Cai spoke the words all were thinking.

Arthur’s dark face was grave. “Cai, you are to leave for Gaul immediately. See Syagrius. Find out exactly the kind of campaign he is planning and the number of men he can actually count on.”