He turned from the table and began to move about the room. “Trial by Combat, indeed! Doesn’t do anything to find the culprit. And it certainly makes a mockery of things when guilt is decided by who has the most powerful Champion in the arena. We’ve got to reinstate the concept of justice based on law and responsibility. It’s the only way to keep civilization alive.”
“You might begin by telling that to Morgan,” I suggested.
“Oh, she couldn’t agree more,” Arthur said blithely. “We had a long talk after you left the feast. She was devastated about the misunderstanding over my message to come to Silchester at the end of the Irish campaign—thought she was supposed to wait for further confirmation, which of course she never got. And she was heartsick at having to order the Trial by Combat; Morgan doesn’t approve of such ordeals herself. But considering the mood of the crowd when they realized the poison was meant for me…well, it was the best she could do to keep the mob from taking action right then. I told her we were both most grateful.”
I jumped to my feet with an oath. “Grateful, my foot! That woman made everyone think I was guilty of
murder
, Arthur. For two years she’s brooded over a wrong she’s afraid I might commit against her, and it’s gotten all twisted up into plots and schemes and false accusations…”
My jaw went closed with a snap. I was standing directly in front of my husband, staring up into his face. But instead of understanding and concern, I found the same closed mask his sister habitually wore.
Arthur moved away from me, heading back to the table where Lance was discreetly studying the map.
“She told me how you’ve taken a dislike to her, Gwen; undermining her position among the women whenever possible. I think, considering your attitude, that she’s been most forgiving and helpful. I don’t want to hear any more about it, but I suggest you try to find some way to make amends.”
I stared at his back, a torrent of words held in check by Lancelot’s presence. My face was hot with embarrassment that Arthur and I were having our first quarrel in front of an audience.
Furious, I turned on my heel and left, striding through the curtains without a backward glance.
In the Hall I ran into Pelleas and Gawain, and it took little urging to get them to escort me on a ride. Before long we were racing over the hills, letting the clean air of the countryside sweep away the musty, mousy smell of Morgan’s scheming.
***
But next time, I vowed…next time I’ll be prepared. The Lady of the Lake wouldn’t find me such an easy target again.
The Wise Ones
Ye Gods, Gwen, if the barbaric Saxons can accept a code of rules to live by, surely the Britons can do the same!” Arthur’s voice was sharp with frustration. Ever since the Trial by Combat he had been exploring the idea of a universal legal system, but the client Kings were wary and balked at the idea.
“I’m not talking about bringing back all of the old Roman system,” he grumbled. “Just reinstating a basic level of justice that can be counted on throughout the realm. That was one of the Empire’s great strengths, and it would do more to unite Britain than anything else I can think of.”
“Ah, but that’s the rub,” Lance interjected. “The client Kings are afraid of anything that doesn’t increase their own power…half of them are barely hanging on to their subjects’ loyalty as it is.” His voice slid into a parody of King Mark. “If we accept this nonsense about the High King’s justice, next thing you know the people will start calling the Pendragon ‘Emperor,’ and then where will we be?”
Lance mimicked the portly Cornish leader so perfectly that both Arthur and I burst out laughing.
We were coming up from the beach at Newport, riding three abreast on our way back to Caerleon where we were going to spend the winter. Cei was busy procuring supplies and organizing our men into work parties to help clear the Roads or repair weirs, while Gawain kept the warriors in fighting trim. Arthur and I concentrated on matters of state, and generally asked Lancelot to sit in with us.
I stole a look at the Breton. As the fall ripened he had become much more relaxed with me, and we moved into the same kind of working threesome Bedivere and Arthur and I had known. Together we spent hours talking and laughing and arguing as we winnowed a host of new ideas for the Cause, though none of us realized we were sowing the seeds of a harvest far greater than our present dreams.
***
Since the weather was mild, we visited the nearby client Kings along the southern coast of Wales. This was the land of Igraine’s birth, a place of soft green hills and winding valleys, rimmed with sandy beaches and dotted with cities not yet deserted and dying.
The people were a wonderfully exotic lot, retaining colorful scraps of past luxury whether they lived in old villas or rough-hewn steadings. As yet untouched by the Saxon plague, their harbors were still visited by Mediterranean ships. The aristocrats sent their children to the Continent to be educated, and some even rode about in contraptions called carriages.
Agricola had such a conveyance and had let me ride in it on the trip south to marry Arthur. Now that we were staying so near Demetia, he put it entirely at my disposal. Far lighter than a farm wagon, when the team was at full gallop we whisked over the paved Road like a cloud across the morning sky. All my childhood dreams of being a warrior rose up around me, and I’d imagine I was Boadicea in her wicker war-chariot, leading British troops into battle. If it wasn’t for the fact that Arthur would have teased me unmercifully about it, I would have asked if we couldn’t get one to keep with us always.
***
“You’re right handy with a pair, M’lady,” the warlord Poulentis exclaimed the day Arthur let me handle the horses on the way out to the hill-fort at Dinas Powys. Our host stood in the midst of an unpaved court, his swordbelt worked in the Byzantine manner and a necklace of Egyptian glass beads circling his neck, though his homespun trews were ragged and patched.
“Can’t say as how I’ve a taste for such frippery,” he added, grinning good-naturedly at the vehicle. “Or fancy houses with plaster and murals. Drystone walls were good enough for my ancestors—they’re good enough for me.”
Poulentis led the way into his small, rugged Hall and gestured toward the hearth at the far end of the oval where haunches of pork crisped and sizzled on the spit. “I’m more in need of a sty for my new pigs than a carriage for my vanity.”
I laughed with pleasure, taking in the familiar sight of guests seated around the open fire. Sparrows and mice rustled in the thick thatch of the roof, and for a moment it felt as though I were home again in Rheged.
“You do know Illtud, don’t you?” our host asked as an impressive gray-haired gentleman rose to his feet at our approach. He had a majestic air not common in those who wear the simple robes of a Christian monk and I tried to remember where I’d seen him before.
“He’s Igraine’s cousin,” Poulentis whispered as the newcomer greeted Arthur with a kinsman’s embrace. “Used to rule this whole area.”
It came back then, the memory of the man who had been a powerful Prince and fine warrior but chose to renounce it all in favor of the Church.
“M’lady.” Illtud smiled easily at me as we sat down. “I hear that you and my young cousin are doing fine things in Logres. The peasants prosper, the shores are safe, and Britain no longer bleeds with internal feuds.” He helped himself to a chunk of bread and turned to Arthur. “That trip along the Saxon Shore seems to have solidified your presence among the Federates. What’s your biggest concern at the moment?”
“Communication,” Arthur responded, obviously as impressed as I was by Illtud’s knowledge of our affairs. “I’m developing a royal messenger network, but it takes time.”
The monk chewed thoughtfully. “Have you thought about using beacons? The Romans built a lot of signal towers in the north, of course, but you have the natural geography to help you here.”
Arthur put down his drinking horn and turned his full attention on the holy man. Illtud cleared a space on the table and moved the wine flagon to the center, then lined up the enamel salt bowl and a wooden trencher as he talked.
“From the rampart here at Dinas Powys you can see Brent Knoll in Somerset. Beyond that is Glastonbury Tor, and from there one can see both north and south with equal ease. Of course,” the monk added, “you might have some problem with that old scoundrel Gwyn—I hear he’s appropriating the Tor for himself, and may not be cooperative about a beacon.”
Arthur grinned. “Gwyn and I have an understanding-—and a mutual venture in horsebreeding.”
“Ah, so you’ve already encountered your fey neighbor?” Illtud’s laugh was very gentle for a man so big. “Well, if you decide you’d like to have a western stable here, my estate at Llantwit is at your disposal. You could bring your foals for training, and rest the seasoned horses after campaigning. Be good for my students, also—they need a little grounding in practical matters. We’ve more than enough wandering hermits burning with zeal for the Christ; what we need now are priests who can help the people on an everyday level, with education and medicine and better ways of farming. It comes a little hard to some of the boys,” he added wryly. “Youngsters like Samson and Paul Aurelian get awfully carried away with the Spirit; even Gildas turns more toward books than working with the laity.”
I started at the last name, for I’d known Caw’s son in my childhood—had, in fact, rejected his proposal of marriage. I didn’t realize he had joined a monastery here in south Wales, however.
“Now then, what are you going to do with this Round Table of yours?” Illtud asked.
Arthur stared at him blankly. “Do with it, Cousin?”
“Yes, do with it. To have developed a fighting force such as your cavalry; to have bound them to you in the Fellowship which is now becoming famous; to have gotten them to lay aside family feuds in order to follow you…all these things are commendable. Well-nigh impossible, I would have said, knowing how touchy the Celts can be. Surely you aren’t going to stop there?”
I wondered what Arthur was going to answer, but just then Poulentis turned to me, noting that the fine ceramic finger bowl the servant proffered was a new acquisition. I studied it carefully, intrigued by the decoration of leopards that chased each other along its clay curves.
“The spotted cat of Anglesey?” I joked, remembering the story of Palug’s sons who took pity on a speckled kitten that had washed up on their shore, only to have it grow up into a ferocious beast that prowled their woods.
“That creature gets bigger and fiercer as time goes by.” Poulentis laughed good-naturedly.
“So you don’t believe it’s the descendant of a leopard escaped from one of the Roman circuses? Maybe it came from Maelgwn’s menagerie?”
“Menagerie indeed.” The warlord’s face went hard with disgust. “King Maelgwn is a braggart who will embroider any detail to make his Court seem more exotic. Recently he’s been boasting that new brute of a dog he’s so proud of came from the Otherworld. Named it Dormarth—Death’s Door. Next thing you know he’ll be claiming to keep dragons and griffins as everyday pets!”
Poulentis’s assessment of my cousin was heartening. It was a relief to know that others found him as vainglorious and arrogant as I did. My dealings with Maelgwn had been very unpleasant; before I married Arthur he’d tried to force himself on me, and when I’d blackened his eye in the struggle, he claimed he’d been hit by a whore.
The memory sent a shiver across my shoulders—part loathing, part fear because Maelgwn had sworn to get revenge for my rebuff. I’d never mentioned the incident to Arthur lest it provoke strife that we could ill afford, for we needed the King of Gwynedd as a northern ally. But the very thought of the man was unsettling, so I turned the conversation to the pigs Poulentis was raising. Pleased to talk about his own pet project, our host began describing the animals he’d just gotten from Pembrokeshire and the subject of my cousin was forgotten.
***
It was when we neared Carmarthen that people began asking about Merlin—he’d been raised nearby, and now that he and Nimue had been gone for more than two years, there was both curiosity and speculation about the Magician’s whereabouts.
“I happen to know,” the miller confided, “that the Wizard has returned to that cave he calls home, but is keeping his presence a secret.”
“Really?” I tried to turn my amusement into amazement; Merlin would hardly come back to Britain without informing Arthur.
“Absolutely.” The man nodded with certainty. “From time to time his page rides down from the hills and passes by my mill on the way to town for supplies.”
“Whatever would a Magician need with supplies?” I queried, remembering that Merlin never missed an opportunity to reinforce the idea that both he and his powers were supernatural. It was, he’d explained to Arthur, one way to keep the High King’s enemies off balance.
“More like the supplies are for the page,” the miller answered shrewdly. “An enchanter doesn’t need other than a fern seed for invisibility and a dream to weave into substance.”
I grinned at the man’s pride in being so clever and let the matter drop. But two days later, while Arthur and Agricola took the carriage out to survey a section of Demetia’s Roads, Griflet and I rode up the path toward the Sorcerer’s cave.