The Road to Avalon (18 page)

A man in checkered tartan, who had been lying in front of Dun, apparently dead, was on his feet with sword drawn and aimed directly at Arthur’s exposed throat. It was a picture that froze itself into Arthur’s brain even as his hand automatically went to his sword to respond.

No
, his mind suddenly said.
Let it be.

He saw very clearly the other man’s face, the dirt and the blood and the eyes full of hate. This will solve it all, he thought, and let his sword hand drop to his side, empty. He did not look away as the enemy’s blade came driving toward him.

There was a blaze of silver in the sun, and the Lothian was on the ground again, this time unmistakably dead. Arthur turned and met Bedwyr’s furious blue eyes.

“What in Hades do you think you are doing?” the Celt shouted at him. Then he began to curse.

Bedwyr made an awesome sight as he sat his big black stallion in the middle of the battlefield. He had lost his leather cap and his golden hair shone like a helmet of bronze in the sun. His shoulders under his mail tunic were enormous. His arms and his leather breeches were covered in blood.

The smaller, slimmer black-haired figure on an almost identical black stallion looked at him somberly and did not reply. Arthur waited until Bedwyr had run out of words and then said, “Call the men back. I don’t want the Lothians pursued. And find out what has happened to Lot.” With still no word of thanks, Arthur turned and galloped his horse off the field.

Chapter 15

T
HE
army was in high heart as it poured back into camp early in the afternoon. They had acquitted themselves with distinction and beaten an enemy twice their number. The names of the young men who had led them to victory were in every conversation as the soldiers sat around the cook fires and ate and drank the ration of beer Arthur had ordered.

The aftermath of battle was handled quite as efficiently as the actual fighting had been. The wounded, mainly from the Twelfth foot, were tended by one of Uther’s surgeons and some of the camp followers. The dead were taken off the field and buried. Still wearing his leather tunic and bloody leggings, Arthur visited every hospital tent and spoke to every wounded man personally.

Bedwyr saw to his men too, and his horses. As he moved around the camp, his massive blond-haired figure was pointed out with awe. His cavalry charge had been the stuff of which legends are made. But Bedwyr was not satisfied.

“They backed off from the horses, of course,” he told Cai as they shared a jug of beer in their common tent at the end of the day. “But we should be more effective with the heavy lances. It will take many more months of practice, for myself as well as for the men.” His blue eyes gleamed. “These stirrups of Arthur’s are wonderful.”

Cai grunted and took a long drink of beer. “Trained or no,” he said, “I was damn glad to see you.”

“I’ll wager you were.” Bedwyr put his own cup on the ground next to him and looked at Cai, broodingly. “I wanted to charge earlier, you know. He waited for so long . . . ”

“He had to.”

“I know, but gods . . . ”

Cai’s dirty face split into a grin. “He had it judged to perfection. Just when I knew I couldn’t hold on for one more minute, there he was.”

Bedwyr’s answering smile was rueful. “He judges everything to perfection. He judged you and me down to our very marrow.” Both he and Cai were sitting cross-legged on rugs on the grass floor of their tent, and now Bedwyr drew his legs up and rested his chin on his knees. His bright hair was dulled and matted with sweat. Neither he nor Cai had yet found the energy to bathe. “I could not have done your job,” said Bedwyr the Lion.

Cai looked at him. “Nor I yours.”

“And neither of us could have done Arthur’s.” Bedwyr was not returning Cai’s look, but staring steadily at his own feet.

“You and I are good,” said Cai. “But Arthur is a genius.”

“Cai . . .” Bedwyr’s voice was low and strained. “Something happened today. At the end of the battle.”

Cai stared frowningly at Bedwyr’s bent head. “What happened?” he asked when it appeared that Bedwyr was not going to continue.

“It was toward the end of the battle,” Bedwyr repeated finally. “One of Lot’s men drew a sword on Arthur, and he just . . . sat there. He saw it, saw it coming, but he did nothing. If I had not been there, the bastard would have chopped his head off. And then, when I screamed at him for not defending himself, he looked at me as if he hated me.”

There was a very long silence. The air in the tent was pungent with the smell of sweat and beer. Finally Bedwyr raised his eyes and looked at Arthur’s oldest friend.

Under the layer of dirt, Cai was very pale. “I did not think he would go that far,” was all he answered.

Bedwyr ran a big hand through his grimy hair. “But
why?
Why, when the day was won, the victory was his? Why would he do such a thing?”

“No one has told me this,” Cai replied slowly, “but I have eyes and ears and I know Arthur.” His eyes were shadowed by an indefinable sadness. “You met Morgan, I believe.”

“Yes.” Bedwyr sat up straighter.

“Well, you see, Arthur and Morgan . . . ” Cai could not seem to find the proper words.

“Yes,” said Bedwyr again. “I remember about Arthur and Morgan. It was not something easy to miss.”

“Merlin missed it. Otherwise he would certainly have told Arthur who he was.” Cai rubbed his thumb along the rim of his cup. “Not that he could have changed things,” he added, his eyes on his own broad, callused finger. “I could have warned him, I suppose, but by then it was already too late. Arthur and Morgan weren’t going to change their feelings.”

Even in the dimness of the tent, Bedwyr’s eyes looked blue. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“It’s simple. They cannot marry. The relationship between them is too close.”

Bedwyr drew in a long breath.

“Yes,” said Cai, and poured himself another cup of beer.

“Do you mean that is why he did not defend himself today? Because he cannot marry Morgan?”

“I think so,” said Cai, and drained his cup in one draft.

Bedwyr sat for a few moments in silence, his golden brows knit. “He did change. After the council he was all lit up, on fire almost. Then . . . he changed.”

Cai’s hand went up to his forehead, as if to shade his eyes. “He disappeared for almost a full day. I would wager my soul that he went to Avalon to see Morgan.”

“I remember her,” Bedwyr said slowly. “A small girl with big brown eyes. She walked up to my father’s vicious brute of a stallion, and he let her rub his nose.”

Cai’s mouth twisted. “That’s Morgan.” He poured more beer into his cup.

“If it’s that important, then he should marry her,” said Bedwyr.

“And put the cry of incest into all of his enemies’ mouths?”

There was a long silence. Then Bedwyr said in a different tone altogether, “Then he must put her behind him. He has too great a responsibility to allow a disappointment in love to destroy his life.”

Cai gave Bedwyr a sardonic look over the rim of his cup. “And you are going to tell him so?”

They were still sitting in silence when a voice at the flap of their tent informed them that the prince wished to see them immediately.

Unlike his captains, Arthur had found the time to wash and change his clothes. They found him sitting behind the small table that was his tent’s chief furnishing, writing on a scroll. He waved Cai and Bedwyr to the stools that were placed in front of it, finished writing, put down his stylus, and with the paper still unrolled before him, favored them with his attention.

“It appears,” he said, “that the King of Lothian is dead.” He looked at Cai.

Out of the corner of his eye Bedwyr could see that Cai was looking very stoic. There was a distinctly uncomfortable note in Arthur’s voice. Bedwyr tried to draw some of Arthur’s attention to himself. “Good,” he said. “That is one less problem to deal with.”

Cai flicked him a glance. “My feelings exactly,” he murmured.

There was a long, nerve-racking silence. The air in the tent was cool, but both Cai and Bedwyr could feel sweat starting to bead on their foreheads. Then Arthur looked down at his report and slowly began to roll it up. Cai let out his breath in careful relief. For whatever reason, Arthur was not going to pursue the subject. Although, Cai thought wryly as he watched the thin brown hands dealing with the scroll, he had taken care to make clear that he knew Lot’s death had been a virtual execution.

Arthur finished rolling the paper and looked up. His face had changed and there was unusual warmth in his voice as he said, “You both were magnificent today. The battle could not have been won without you. I thank you both.”

Why was it, Bedwyr found himself thinking, that a word of praise from Arthur meant so much? Beside him he heard Cai answering gruffly, “It was our pleasure.”

Now,
thought Bedwyr suddenly. Now was the time. And being Bedwyr, he followed his instincts and plunged straight in. “We will always be there for you, Arthur. The question I should like to have answered is, will you be there for us?”

All the warmth left the fine-boned face before him. The marks of sleeplessness beneath the gray eyes that were regarding him so coldly were as dark as bruises. Bedwyr’s hands, hidden by his tunic, clenched themselves into fists. But he was not Bedwyr the Lion for nothing. “Will you?” he asked again.

The gray eyes looked to Cai and saw that he knew also. Then they moved to the scroll on the table before him. “Yes,” Arthur said then, mildly. “All right, Bedwyr.”

The mildness surprised them more than an explosion would have. Cai spoke into the suddenly quiet room. “You are needed,” he said. Without emphasis.

Arthur rested his forehead in his hands. “Yes.” His voice held only weariness. “I know.”

Bedwyr was opening his mouth to say something more, when Cai’s hand on his arm halted him. “How do you plan to deal with the regiments at Luguvallium and Corbridge?” Cai asked matter-of-factly.

Arthur raised his head. “That is what I wished to discuss with you.” There was the faintest flush of color under his tanned skin. He drew a deep, steadying breath.

But Bedwyr was not content to leave matters so unresolved. He gave Arthur a piercing blue stare and said ruthlessly, “No need for bodyguards?”

Arthur looked at Cai. “Tact’ is not a word in Bedwyr’s vocabulary.” He did not sound as if he had quite enough breath to speak.

Cai gave him the time he needed. “You should hear the stories they are telling about him already,” he said humorously. “The men think he is Ysbaddaden himself, chief of the giants.”

Arthur gave his oldest friend a faint smile. Then he was able to turn to Bedwyr. “No need for bodyguards,” he said. “I promise.”

The following day Arthur moved against the garrisons at Luguvallium and Corbridge. Over the protests of both Bedwyr and Cai, he rode out of Glein with only Gerontius and a small escort of four men. He went first to Luguvallium, and then followed the wall through rolling, desolate moors and hills until he came to Corbridge. In both garrisons he was in time to catch most of the men before they had packed their belongings and fled—those, that is, who had somewhere else to go.

They had expected a large force to come against them. If they fought, they expected to be crushed. If they surrendered, they expected to be executed.

Instead, the prince whom they had betrayed rode in, alone, and raked them over the coals, verbally, for their desertion. He then inspected the garrison and pointed out every flaw in its maintenance. He checked every man’s weapons. He informed them that in the future they would fight for him, without question and when called upon. Then he left.

“It was a scene,” Gerontius reported reminiscently to Cai and Bedwyr when they returned to Glein. The little mapmaker’s wizened face was mellow in the light of the tent’s single oil lamp. “What he said to them! Both the officers at Luguvallium and at Corbridge told me they would have rather he whipped them with a lash than with his tongue the way he did.”

Gerontius took another draft of beer. “By the time he left, they would have died for him,” the mapmaker added, and then rose to his feet. He smiled at Cai and Bedwyr ironically. “Which, of course, was what he intended all along.” He made for the door. “Thanks for the beer,” he said, and departed.

The problem of how to deal with Lothian was not so easy to resolve as that of the renegade army regiments. Lot was dead. Arthur, remembering his grandfather’s advice on the evening before he left for the north, had very good reason to suspect who had given Cai the orders for that particular execution. Merlin had seemed very certain that Lot would not survive a battle with Arthur.

Merlin’s advice had been explicit. “You must name a king to take Lot’s place,” his grandfather had said. “Someone who is both acceptable to Lothian and loyal to you.”

Such a paragon, however, was not easily come by. Nor was Arthur ready to disinherit his cousins, Lot’s sons. Merlin had been adamant that Gawain, at eight, was too young to be installed as king. “He will be fair game for any strong man to manipulate,” Merlin had said. “You must put someone in Lothian who can keep the north in order.” Then, when Arthur had still proved reluctant: “Name a new king and marry him to Morgause. That will give Gawain his proper position as heir, and your new man more power than if he were appointed merely regent.”