The Road to Avalon (8 page)

The relief in her brown eyes was unmistakable. “Of course, Father.” She touched Arthur’s hand. “Go along,” she said. “And remember to take your new white tunic.”

Their eyes met and held and then Arthur nodded almost imperceptibly before he turned to follow Merlin.

They were on the road to Venta by noon. “Uther is just back from the north,” Merlin had told Ector, “and this is a good opportunity for Arthur to meet him.”

“Has the army returned to Venta as well?” Ector asked, and Merlin had smiled and answered, “Yes. And I promise to bring Cai home for a visit if I can.”

This conversation was in his mind now as he remarked to Arthur, “It will be good to see Cai again.”

“Yes,” said Arthur.

The boy was not making it easy. He had responded politely to all of Merlin’s comments, but his face had an abstracted expression that said he was not listening very closely to his grandfather’s conversation. There was nothing about him to offer a clue as to how he was going to react to the news Merlin had to impart. You know him, Uther had said. Merlin thought he knew his brain. He knew the trained skill of that young body. But he did not know Arthur. He doubted anyone did. Except, of course, Morgan.

Merlin cleared his throat. “Arthur,” he began determinedly, “the time has come to speak about your parentage.” Merlin stared at the road ahead, not at the boy beside him. Arthur did not answer. “I know you think you are my son,” Merlin went on, “and, indeed, you have cause to think so . . .” There was a movement from Arthur, and Merlin turned.

The boy’s gray eyes were perfectly steady. “But I have never thought I was your son.”

For some reason, this revelation sounded a note of warning. Merlin tried to shake it off. “You are probably the only person at Avalon, then, to feel that way,” he said with an attempt at dry humor. Arthur’s face did not change. “Why didn’t you think so?” Merlin asked curiously.

“I remember well my mother telling me that I looked like my father,” the boy replied. “I don’t look like you.”

Dear Christ, thought Merlin with unaccustomed blasphemy. “Whose son did you think you were?” he asked at last.

“I have no idea.” Arthur looked at him. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Yes. Well . . .” Merlin took a steadying breath. “Malwyn told you true when she said you looked like your father. You will see for yourself shortly, although the resemblance is not so clear since he became ill. Arthur . . .” Here he stopped his horse. Arthur’s pony stopped as well. “Your father is Uther Pendragon, High King of Britain.”

There was not a flicker of expression on the boy’s face.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes. I heard you.” Dark shadows suddenly appeared under Arthur’s eyes. “So
he
is the one who sent my mother to Cornwall.”

“No.” Merlin leaned a little forward in his eagerness to explain, and his horse, feeling the shift in weight, walked forward again. Merlin halted him. “You don’t understand, Arthur. Malwyn was not your mother. She was Igraine’s serving woman, and when it was deemed necessary to send you away, she assumed the role of your mother. But the woman who bore you is Igraine. You are the son of Uther and Igraine, Arthur. The
legitimate
son, born three months after they were wed. And you are heir to the high kingship of Britain.”

Chapter 7

I
T
was still light when they rode into Venta, but even though this was Arthur’s first visit to a city of this size, he scarcely noticed his surroundings. There were columns on the front of the high king’s house, and soldiers guarding the door. Then he was shown to a bedchamber that did not look unlike his bedchamber at home, and was told to wait until he was sent for. Arthur merely nodded and stood, tense and watchful, until the door closed behind his grandfather.

As the door closed shut, a tremor of relief ran all through him. Alone. He began to pace back and forth across the mosaic floor, free to think now that he was no longer expending all his energy to guard his face.

He was the son of Uther and Igraine. One day he would be king. He could not take it in.

He wished desperately for Morgan. Her calm good sense would help buttress the turbulence of his own emotions. She would help him deal with this.

The son of Uther and Igraine. Arthur suddenly stopped dead, his chin lifting as a throught struck him. Morgan was Igraine’s sister.

It can’t be, he thought. Then: Don’t panic. Think it out. He stared straight ahead with unfocused eyes, and under his tan he was very pale.
Not
her sister, her half-sister. They had had different mothers. That meant . . . the only relative he and Morgan had in common was Merlin. Merlin: his grandfather, Morgan’s father.

The blood bond was not that close; no closer, certainly, than first cousins. Arthur’s legs carried him forward again and he sat limply on the side of the bed. He and Morgan would be all right. Within the various tribes of Britain, first cousins married all the time.

He and Morgan would be all right. After all, how could Merlin refuse her hand to the High King of Britain?

The High King of Britain. He was back to that again. Could it actually be true?

The window was open to let the warm air into the room and Arthur got up and went to look out at the scene before him. The summer sun was setting, and the sky was filled with brilliant color. Against the dramatic oranges and pinks, the colonnade of the forum stood out with a pure beauty it did not normally possess. As Arthur stood there looking out at the sky, the colors slowly began to change and fade. And with the fading sunset came belief.

It had to be true. This was what Merlin had been preparing him for all these years. This was why he had been brought out of Cornwall and into the security of Avalon. Merlin had only been waiting for this day.

This day. The day he was to meet his father.

I can’t.
His breath came hard through constricted nostrils. The scene before his eyes was a blur.
He has had a chance to prepare himself for this. I haven’t.

Uther. His father. The man who had left him to Esus.

“Arthur.” The voice at the door was Merlin’s. Arthur stood at the window, rigid, his fists clenched so tightly at his sides that the bone showed yellow through the skin. “Come with me,” Merlin said from the door, and Arthur forced himself to walk forward.

As they passed through the corridor on their way to Uther’s chambers, Merlin kept glancing at the boy out of the side of his eyes. Arthur’s face wore the look that Merlin most dreaded: reserved, withdrawn, faintly hostile. When Arthur looked like this, his grandfather thought despairingly, he was impossible to deal with. It was not going to be easy for Uther.

They were at the king’s door. “Go in,” said Merlin. “He is waiting for you.” He rarely touched the boy, nothing about Arthur ever invited contact, but he found himself putting a comforting hand on his grandson’s shoulder. The muscles under his fingers were rocklike with tension. Arthur did not pull away, but turned to give him a quick questioning look. Merlin smiled reassuringly. “It will be all right,” he said. “Go on.”

Arthur opened the door and went in.

Uther was alone, sitting in a chair on the far side of the room. Outside, the sun had almost set, but the room was bright with lamplight. Arthur stopped just inside the door, his eyes on the man who was watching him so intently.

Uther had always looked like a king. His dark head, now so liberally sprinkled with silver, was held with all the arrogance of power. He wore a white tunic trimmed with imperial purple and about his dark brows the slender gold circle of his office. “Come here” he said in a deep, level voice. Arthur crossed the room slowly.

When he reached the king he stopped. Then, remembering Merlin’s instructions, he went down on his knees, bowed his head, and said, “My lord king.”

“Rise, Arthur,” the king replied. To Arthur’s ears his voice sounded distant. Only Uther knew that inside the fine wool of his beautiful tunic, he was trembling. “Let me look at you,” he said, and let his eyes roam hungrily over the figure who was standing before him.

The boy’s thick straight hair was his own, as were the eyes and the brows. But the face . . . It was as if a blade turned in Uther’s heart. The fine-boned, beautiful face that was looking back at him with such disciplined immobility was Igraine’s.

“You will be king before the year is out,” he said to that still face. “Are you ready?”

The boy’s discipline was equal to the challenge. His gray eyes met his father’s and did not look away. “I don’t know,” Arthur said. “I have not quite adjusted yet to my new . . . identity.”

His voice was cool and clear and edged with faint irony. He made no pretense of concern for his father. Fair enough, Uther thought heavily. Aloud he said only, “Merlin says you are ready. He told me you were ready last year, but I did not want to move prematurely. I wanted to keep you safe for as long as possible.”

There was the faintest glimmer of derision in Arthur’s gray eyes before he lowered his lashes to conceal them. “I see,” he said politely.

Uther closed his hands over the chair arms to conceal their trembling. “You do not need to tell me that you should have been reared as a prince, not hidden away at Avalon for all these years,” he said harshly. “But it was for your own safety, Arthur.”

“Oh, I understand, my lord.” The gray eyes were once again on Uther’s face. “And I was quite content . . . at Avalon.”

The boy could use his voice like a weapon, Uther thought. Its cool, clear tone was so respectful on the surface, so full of contempt in its undernotes.

Uther answered the unspoken challenge. “This is not an apology,” he said. “There is no apology that can be made for what happened when you were a child.” The expression that flickered like lightning across the boy’s face caused Uther to tighten his hands to fists on the chair. He forced himself to continue evenly. “But I will explain why I did as I did.”

He drew a long, steadying breath. “Did Merlin tell you how you were born? That Igraine and I had been married but three months?”

Arthur nodded. He was looking white about the lips and nostrils. Uther continued. “Then you know there was always the possibility of questions being raised about your paternity. Igraine had been married to Gorlois. The kings of Britain would never have accepted Gorlois’ son as their high king. Too many of them considered themselves of greater importance than a mere Duke of Cornwall.

“At the time, you understand, there was no reason to suppose Igraine and I would not have more sons.”

The boy’s head was bent, the thick black hair had fallen forward to screen his face, but Uther could see that he was listening intently. “I knew you were my son,” he continued soberly. “I cannot pretend that I did not. But it was the politic thing to remove you from the position of heir and put in your place a child whose birth was unblemished. You must understand, Arthur, that Britain could not survive a civil war. In order to fight the Saxons, we
must
be united.

“I did not act as a father, I acted as a king.

“Nor do I think I was wrong in what I did. What
was
wrong was to leave you without adequate knowledge of how you were faring. I knew Malwyn would take good care of you. She loved you as if you were truly her own. But I did not check. I did not know that she had died and that her brother had the keeping of you. In this I was grievously at fault. I wish I had it all to do again. But I do not.”

The effort this speech had taken was almost beyond Uther’s strength. He leaned back in his chair now, exhausted. Very briefly he closed his eyes. When he opened them again it was to find his son regarding him with a faint frown.

“Are you all right, my lord? May I pour you some wine?”

“Yes,” said Uther. “Thank you, Arthur.” He willed his hand not to shake as he took the goblet from the boy. He drank off half the cup, then leaned back again. “When it became clear that Igraine and I were to have no more children, Merlin brought you to Avalon. He and I are the only two who know who you are.

“We kept the secret, Arthur, because there are those who would not be overjoyed to learn that the high king has a son.”

The boy pounced immediately on the one fact that Uther was anxious to disguise. “The queen did not know I had been brought to Avalon?”

Uther could not meet his son’s eyes. “No” he said. “She did not know”

There was only a glimmering of light now from the window. In the pause that followed, Uther took another drink of wine.

“Who is it, my lord, who would not like to find you have a son?” Arthur asked pleasantly. “Lot of Lothian?”

Uther stared at the contained young face before him. “Lot, yes. Lot principally. He wants to be high king. He is only waiting for my death to make his move.”

“He has support?”

“Yes. In the north, at least.” Uther put the goblet down. “You must understand, Arthur, that the high kingship is essential. Even the most independent of the Celtic princes realizes that. There will be a new high king elected because there must be a leader in the battle against the Saxons. But Britain will tear itself apart if one Celtic king tries to take precedence over the others. That is why it must be you.

“You are the last Roman, Arthur. Constantine’s grandson. Yet you are British too, through your mother. It must be you.”

Arthur nodded calmly, coolly, practically. To his amazement, Uther realized that the boy had completely pushed aside the painful personal aspect of their relationship. He was analyzing the facts that Uther had just put before him.

Abruptly Uther realized that Arthur was still standing. “Bring over that stool,” he said.

Arthur obeyed and then sat, quite naturally, in front of Uther’s chair. The boy’s brow was furrowed in concentration. “How large is your army?” he asked his father. “I mean the army apart from the levies contributed by the kings and princes. Who are your generals? Can you count on their loyalty? Which of the kings support you? Which ones support Lot? Which ones have to be won over—”