The Road to Avalon (34 page)

“Tell me about it,” he said.

He listened to her intently and when she had finished he got up off the bed and went to stand at the window. She watched him in silence. She knew the look of him so well, she thought: the set of his collarbone, the austerely beautiful cut of his mouth, the long sweep of lashes against the high bones of his cheek. He was so familiar—and so unfathomable.

He had made up his mind. He turned to her and said, “Well, we must thank God for Gareth.”

“Yes,” she replied fervently. “He didn’t want me to come to Clust, Arthur. But Meliagrance said you were hurt. What else could I have done?”

He nodded absently, as if he were not thinking of what she was saying but of something quite different. “Meliagrance had this whole plot quite carefully thought out.”

“Yes,” she replied. “It would seem so.”

He came back to the bed and stood there looking down at her. “I am so very sorry you were frightened, my dear. But you proved yourself a queen indeed. You handled him brilliantly”

There was a rare warmth in his voice. The tone, the words of praise, had their intended effect. Her whole face lighted. “What will you do to Meliagrance, Arthur?” she asked.

“I’ll have to kill him.”

“Kill him?”

“Yes.” His black brows were drawn together in thought. “And it had better be done this morning. I want word to get out of his fate before the other Celtic leaders have a chance to think about his summons.”

“They wouldn’t. Not against you! Not after all you have done for them.”

His gray eyes were bleak. “I told you once, Gwenhwyfar, that peace has its own problems, and this is one of them. We no longer have the war against the Saxons to unite us. With a little encouragement, Britain would fall right back into its old pattern of tribal squabbling.”

“Do you know, Arthur” she said, “I really think Meliagrance is a little mad.”

“Well, mad or not,” came the grim reply, “by the time this morning is over, he is going to be dead.”

“How?” she asked as he moved toward the door.

“In the traditional fashion. Single combat.”

“Will you choose a champion?” she asked breathlessly.

“No. You are my wife. I’ll do it myself.” And he was gone.

Chapter 28

W
ITHIN
an hour the courtyard at Clust was filled with spectators. Unmounted cavalrymen lined the right side of the courtyard while the exit to the road was blocked by a line of horse. Meliagrance’s men, unarmed in contrast to the troops from Camelot, were lined up silently on the left side of the courtyard. Among the Verica tribesmen was Meliagrance’s cousin Kile, heir to the chiefdom after Meliagrance.

The faces of the tribesmen were sober but not bleak. If Meliagrance defeated the king in single combat, they would perhaps have a future. And Meliagrance was an exceptionally good swordsman.

The rain had passed over and the sky was clear. The watching men stood in almost perfect silence, their eyes on the door of the villa. It opened at last and Meliagrance, followed by Gwynn, captain of the Light Horse, came out into the chill sunshine. Meliagrance was carrying a sword. They moved to the center of the courtyard, stopped, and waited.

At the last minute, Gwenhwyfar and Olwen had run to one of the rooms with a window that faced on the courtyard, and they were just in time to see the king, accompanied by Bedwyr, come out the front door of the villa and move to join the two men in the center. Bedwyr appeared to be urging something on Arthur, but they could clearly see the king shake his head and motion the two extra men away. Bedwyr and Gwynn moved to join the cavalrymen on the sidelines, and Arthur and Meliagrance were left facing each other, alone in the center of the yard.

Gwenhwyfar drew a deep, unsteady breath. She was almost certain that Bedwyr had wanted to fight Meliagrance for Arthur, and she wished that Arthur had let him do so. Bedwyr, she knew, was always victorious in the various training exercises the army indulged in. She had never seen Arthur wield a sword, but she was certain he could not be as good as Bedwyr. He had not Bedwyr’s size, for one thing. She looked now at Meliagrance, and fear shivered through her. The chief of the Verica was not much taller than Arthur, but he was considerably broader through the shoulders and chest. And he had those long, simian arms. A long reach was a distinct advantage in swordplay, as Gwenhwyfar well knew.

“He should have let Bedwyr do this” she said. “He should not take a chance with his own life.”

“He wants to avenge you himself, my lady,” Olwen said in response. Her dark gray eyes were glowing with the romance of it all. She seemed to have quite forgotten her cold.

Gwenhwyfar threw her serving woman an impatient glance before concentrating once again on the scene before her.

Meliagrance raised his sword first and began to circle around the king. He looked exactly like an ape, Gwenhwyfar thought, and shivered again.

Arthur lifted his own sword, the ruby flashing in the sun, and stepped sideways to his right. He was two years older than Meliagrance, but from her post by the window Gwenhwyfar thought he looked no more than a boy, with his light, slender frame and his black hair blowing in the chill November wind. He moved like a boy too, lithe and graceful, his weight perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet.

Meliagrance feinted, and Arthur moved away.

“Meliagrance’s arms are too long,” Gwenhwyfar said despairingly. “The king cannot reach him.”

Meliagrance had evidently come to the same conclusion, for he began to smile. He struck at Arthur, and the king parried, moving back away from the other sword, unable to get within its circle to go on the attack. He backed away further and Meliagrance followed, slashing again and again while Arthur parried.

Gwenhwyfar’s nails cut into her palms. As she watched in helpless horror, Meliagrance’s attack pushed Arthur off balance, and the chief raised his sword for the final blow. With the full weight of his body, he drove it at the king.

It did not bury itself in living flesh but landed instead on immovable steel. Then, with a movement that had nothing to do with weight and everything to do with the wrist, Arthur flicked Meliagrance’s sword aside and drove his own blade, one-handed, into the momentarily unprotected chest of the chief of the Verica. Meliagrance fell. Arthur pulled out his blade and stood looking down at the man lying crumpled at his feet. Then he looked up at the line of Verica tribesmen.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind as to Meliagrance’s fate. Arthur’s sword had driven straight at his heart.

Inside her window, Gwenhwyfar began to shake. Olwen dragged her eyes away from the king long enough to ask her if she were cold. Gwenhwyfar shook her head and leaned a little forward to hear what was being said in the courtyard.

One of the Verica men was bending over Meliagrance and he looked up from the chief’s body long enough to announce what everyone already knew. Meliagrance was dead.

Arthur looked up and down the line of tribesmen. The fear in the courtyard was so thick that Gwenhwyfar could smell it. “The chief of the Verica was guilty of treason” Arthur said to the assembled men, his voice perfectly calm. He was not even breathing hard. “And so shall I deal with all who are guilty of the same crime.”

Gwenhwyfar thought she could see a shudder run through Meliagrance’s men.

“Kile,” said Arthur.

A brown-haired boy of no more than eighteen stepped forward. “Yes, my lord,” he said bravely. He stood bravely too, faultlessly erect, shoulders back and chin up.

“Since the fall of Vortigern the tribe of the Verica has refused to acknowledge the power of the high king.” Arthur’s voice was soft but implacable. “Your chief has just attempted to kidnap the queen and raise a revolt against me. Can you think of any reason why I should spare your lives?”

“My lord,” the boy replied, “Meliagrance was our chief. Like it or no, we were bound to follow him.”

“And you, Kile.” The king’s voice was now very quiet although it could be heard in the furthest reaches of the courtyard. “If you were chief of the Verica, would you seek to raise a rebellion against me?”

“Oh, no, my lord!” The reply was immediate, breathless, and vehement. “If I were chief of the Verica, I would be proud to be your man.”

Arthur leaned the point of his sword into the ground and regarded Kile thoughtfully. Gwenhwyfar could see the boy’s face, but not her husband’s. “The queen,” Arthur said, “tells me she is convinced Meliagrance was not in his right mind.”

“My lord,” said Kile instantly, “I do not think he was.”

Arthur’s eyes went from the boy to the line of men behind him. Afterward, every Verica man in the courtyard would swear that the king had looked directly at him. “From this time forward, you are to consider yourselves British first and Verica second. Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord.” Kile’s reply was echoed loudly by the men massed behind him.

Arthur looked up and down the line once more. “If word ever again comes to me that the Verica are plotting treason, I will not rest until every last one of you is begging for death.” The words were like the slash of a whip. There was not a man listening who doubted that the king meant every syllable.

“You will never again hear of treason from the Verica, my lord,” Kile said. “I swear it on the grave of my father.”

“Very well.” Arthur turned his head slightly. “Bedwyr. See to it these men have their weapons returned to them. They’ may bury Meliagrance however they choose.”

The wave of relief that went through the courtyard was palpable. Bedwyr moved forward. “Yes, my lord.”

“Kile.” Arthur sounded perfectly friendly; the whip had been withdrawn. “Come into the house with me. We must talk.” The boy’s face was bright as a candle flame as he moved to the king’s side.

At the window, Gwenhwyfar began to breathe normally again.

“Oh, my lady,” said Olwen with a long sigh. “Is he not wonderful?”

He was so clever, Gwenhwyfar thought as she went slowly across the hall to her small bedroom. He knew exactly how to bind men to him. Young Kile would adore him, as did all his men. He had turned this potentially disastrous situation into a triumph. He would have no trouble from the Verica from now on.

He had thought this all out when he had decided to kill Meliagrance. As always, his reaction had been that of a king.

It was Bedwyr of the blazing blue eyes who had said, “I would like to cut his heart out of his living body.” And Bedwyr would have done it for her.

Arthur left Bedwyr and Gwynn at Clust and rode to Camelot with Gwenhwyfar and an escort of light horse. The sunshine of the morning had given way again to low gray clouds, and as she entered through the gate of Arthur’s new city and her horse began to climb the steep hill to the palace at the summit, all Gwenhwyfar could see stretching around her was grayness and mud. She was cold and tired, with a weariness of soul as well as of body. She shivered when she saw the huge timber building that was to be her new home. She wished with all her heart that she was back in Venta looking at the graceful colonnade of the praetorium.

Cai took them on a tour of the building. Most of the rooms were empty as Cai, not knowing where she wanted things, had simply put them all in the great hall for her to sort out. The elegant Roman furnishings looked dwarfed by the hugeness of the hall, Gwenhwyfar thought. The whole building was so huge. Never would she grow accustomed to living in such a place. Room followed room, and even though she had seen the plans of the building, she was too tired to follow where they were going.

No beautiful Roman plasterwork on the walls. No marble. No colorful mosaics on the floor. Just bare, unpainted wood.

“It still needs painting” Cai said cheerfully as he took them through a smaller hall that was larger than the main audience chamber at Venta. “But it’s weather-tight and all the smoke vents work.”

“Well,” said Gwenhwyfar with her sweetest smile, “as long as the soldiers and the horses are comfortable, what does it matter that we may have to suffer for a while?”

This was Cai’s own view and he smiled at her approvingly. Arthur’s look was shrewder and after she was in her own rooms and finally getting ready to sleep in her own bed, he made an appearance. Olwen ran the comb one more time through Gwenhwyfar’s hair, put it down, and wished the queen good night. Husband and wife were alone.

“At least they put your bed in the right room,” Arthur remarked. He was looking around the bedroom, at the bare floor, the sparse furniture, the jumble of wicker baskets containing clothing and hangings. The only cheerful thing in the whole place was the glowing charcoal brazier.

“Well, don’t you expect to share it tonight.” The words were out before she even knew she was going to say them.

She had surprised him. Sometimes she thought the only time she ever got his full attention was when she surprised him.

She wished he would come and put his arms around her, hold her, and comfort her. She was so tired . . . she had scarcely slept at all last night.

Of course, he hadn’t slept either. He had been in the saddle riding to Clust.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was quiet. “I’m sorry, Gwenhwyfar, that you had to come here to an unfinished house. I know how tired you must be.”

He was standing in the middle of the big room, with emptiness all around him. She was seated in front of a small table, her chair turned to face him. She wore her night robe with a cloak over it for warmth. Arthur had changed out of his riding clothes, and he had shaved.

He had been planning to sleep with her.

She longed for him, longed for him to push aside her objections, longed to bury her weariness in his warm strength, to be comforted and forgiven and loved.

There was empty space all around him and he stood there watching her, his hands at his sides. There was always a space around him, she realized sadly. And he was happiest when no one tried to breach its boundaries. He had come to her tonight because he thought she might need him, not because he needed her.

She looked at her hands.
“I
don’t mean to complain. You’re right, Arthur. I’m tired. I need a good night’s sleep.”