The Road to Avalon (52 page)

“I have legitimacy. The legitimacy of the Celt trying to win his country back.” His hand moved to her face. “And I may want you too.”

Think.
“It would hurt Arthur so much more, to think that Mordred had turned traitor.”

His hand dropped and his lightless eyes searched her face and she knew she had said the right thing. Her own eyes narrowed. “It’s Arthur you hate, isn’t it?” she said slowly. “You hate him more than you do me. Why? What has he done to you?”

“Bedwyr loves him,” came the devastating reply. “I might have been able to forgive Bedwyr you. You are just a woman. But not the king.” He looked at her coldly, all the frightening intimacy gone from his face. “You are right. It would be best to have Mordred on my side, or at least appearing to be on my side.” He smiled at her. “Too bad, Gwenhwyfar. It might have been . . . interesting.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Gwenhwyfar collapsed into a chair. She was still shaking five minutes later when Olwen came into the room.

Chapter 43

T
HE
men of Dumnonia and Wales, many of whom had fought in Arthur’s wars against the Saxons, began to stream into Cornwall to join the standard of the king. This, the ultimate battle for Britain, would be fought almost entirely by auxiliary troops. The standing army, that perfectly trained instrument of war, was still in Gaul.

Agravaine made no attempt to move south of Camelot. Clearly his strategy was to make Arthur come to him. And so, at the end of April, the king put his newly collected army on the Roman road at Isca Dumnoniorum and moved without impediment to within twenty-five miles of his occupied capital.

It was a wet, gray spring day when Morgan rode the ten or so miles down the Camm from Avalon to Arthur’s camp. The woods were full of burgeoning green growth and white and yellow and purple blossoms. Fresh new life was coming to Britain. Morgan inhaled the damp, cool air, full of the smells of dirt and growing things. Two armies were facing each other on either side of Avalon, and her heart should be heavy, but today it was light. She was going to see Arthur. At the moment, that was all that mattered.

The king’s camp was humming with the busy confidence all of Arthur’s armies immediately acquired. Morgan rode her pony down the roped-off street and looked around curiously at the neat row of tents backed by the competent-looking earth wall that had been thrown up as a defense against surprise attack. Arthur knew she was coming, of course, and had sent Cai to look for her.

“Morgan!” She heard Cai’s familiar voice and turned to see him striding toward her. He was wearing the scarlet cloak of the foot and his big-boned face wore a luminous smile. He lifted her out of the saddle and hugged her soundly before he set her on her feet.

“It’s good to see you too, Cai,” she said laughingly.

He called to a soldier to see to her pony and put his hand on her shoulder. “Come along to Arthur’s tent. He’ll be there shortly. He’s reviewing the Dumnonian troops with Constantine. Cador broke his leg. Did you know that?”

They stopped in front of a tent that did not look very different from any of the others and Cai held the flap for her. She went in and he ducked his head and followed. “No,” she said, “I didn’t know that. What happened?”

“His horse slipped in the mud and fell on him. Young Constantine is going to lead the Dumnonian troops in his stead. Bedwyr says he’s very competent. He was one of the princes in Bedwyr’s school, so we can be certain that he has had good training.”

The tent was very dim and Cai lit the lamp that was on the single table. The king’s tent was very simply furnished. There was the table, one chair, and a bedplace. Cai saw her looking around and said ruefully, “We crossed the Narrow Sea in rather a hurry.”

“It’s a good thing you did,” she replied, and unfastened the brooch that held her cloak to her shoulder. She removed the cloak and laid it, neatly folded, on the back of the single chair. She was dressed in the garments that were so familiar to Cai from their childhood: a pair of boy’s breeches and a plain long-sleeved tunic. Morgan’s riding clothes. She had never altered her taste. She walked to the bedplace and dropped to the blankets, sitting cross-legged with the ease and flexibility of a young child. Cai turned the chair to face her and sat down himself.

Outside it began to rain. The lamp illuminated the small tent quite efficiently and Cai looked in silence at the small figure sitting so comfortably on Arthur’s bed.

Her long hair was still as brown and straight and evenly cut at the ends as he remembered. Her small, delicate face and large eyes were the same too. But it was the face of a woman now, not a girl; a face that had known suffering as well as joy; a face whose beauty went deeper than a mere arrangement of skin and bones. The difference between Morgan and Gwenhwyfar, he found himself thinking, was that while both knew how to give, it was Morgan who knew how to give up.

She bore his scrutiny in patient silence. Then she smiled. “I don’t suppose Syagrius was happy to see you leave?”

He shook himself out of his reverie and answered her. They were discussing the situation in Gaul, and studiously refraining from mentioning the treachery at home, when the tent flap opened again and Arthur was there.

He looked at Cai and not at her, but the emotion she felt emanating from him was very strong. He said something to Cai and Cai answered. There was rain on Arthur’s hair and lashes. He looked thinner than she remembered, and harder. His cloak was wet too. The rain was coming down hard now.

Finally Cai ducked out of the tent. Morgan could hear his voice outside telling someone that on no account was the king to be disturbed. Arthur unpinned his wet cloak and dropped it on the chair over hers. Then he came to join her on the blankets.

“Let me look at you.” She put her hands on either side of his face. The gray, long-lashed eyes looked back at her hungrily. She moved her thumbs across his mouth and then let her hands slide behind his neck and encircle it. He held her close, his mouth against her hair.

“Not all the herbs in your garden are as good a medicine as you yourself,” he murmured.

“You’re too thin,” she said.

She felt his shoulders quiver. “It isn’t food I’m hungry for.” She looked up. His face was lit with laughter that all at once made him look sixteen again.

“I missed you too,” she said.

They were already sitting on the bed, so they hadn’t far to go. Outside the sky was gray and it was raining and an army was preparing to fight for its life. Inside the lamplit tent Arthur and Morgan stepped out from under the ugly shadow of betrayal and treachery and into the brilliant sunshine of love.

A long time later Arthur looked down at the smooth, round head that was tucked so comfortably into his shoulder. “Morgan,” he said, and there was bewilderment as well as anger in his voice, “why in the name of God did Gwenhwyfar agree to marry him?”

He felt the soft, warm breath of her sigh, but the shining hair that curtained his bare chest never moved. “She thought you were dead. And Bedwyr too.”

“I know, but that still doesn’t explain it. Gwenhwyfar enjoys being queen, but that doesn’t explain it either.”

She raised her head to look down into his face. Her hair streamed down around them, enclosing them in a tent within a tent. “You blame Gwenhwyfar?” she asked. “Not Mordred?”

“Gwenhwyfar is the older. She should have known better.” His black brows were drawn together in a straight line. “Good God, Morgan, suppose Agravaine’s story had been true? Suppose I were dead and Mordred king. The last thing Britain needs right now is another barren queen!” She began to laugh. “It isn’t funny.” he added a little irritably.

“It’s you who are funny. You’re so predictable.”

He looked absolutely astounded. “I? Predictable?”

“Yes, you.” She sobered. “You always think like a king.” She touched his eyebrows with her finger, delicately smoothing away his frown. “I understand Gwenhwyfar,” she said softly and sadly. The gray eyes waited. “Mordred adores her. And Mordred looks just like you.”

She watched his face as he took that in. “Gwenhwyfar loves Bedwyr,” he said at last.

“Yes.”

His eyes searched her face. “How do you know what motivated Gwenhwyfar?”

“If I were Gwenhwyfar, I should probably have done the same thing.”

But he was shaking his head, the faintest of smiles on his mouth. “Oh, no, not you. You are as predictable as I am, Merlin’s daughter.”

She gave him a rueful look. “I fear we are both Merlin’s children.” She sat up. “Speaking of children, Arthur, what are we going to do about Mordred?”

He lay still for a minute, looking at her. Then he sighed and sat up. “Do you think you can get into Camelot to see him?”

“Yes. I’m sure I can.”

He looked around for his breeches. She unearthed them from the tangle of blankets and handed them to him. After a minute she began to dress as well. “Tell him he must get away from Agravaine,” Arthur finally said as he tied the rawhide string at his waist. “Agravaine needs him now, but he won’t let Mordred survive the battle.”

It was what she had thought also. “But how is he to get away?” she asked breathlessly.

Arthur pulled his purple-bordered tunic over his head. “He must do it somewhere on the road between Camelot and the battlefield. I can’t tell him exactly how, Morgan. He must sieze whatever opportunity arises. But tell him he must get away. If he doesn’t, he is a dead man.”

His hair was ruffled and she reached up to smooth it down. “Should he come to you?”

His face was somber. “No. Not yet. He is not precisely popular with my followers, love. Most of the men think exactly what Agravaine wants them to think. No, the safest place for Mordred just now is Gaul. Tell him to join Valerius and the army in Bourges. He’ll be safe there; they don’t know what is happening here in Britain.”

The fear that his presence had so magically lifted settled once more on her heart. “And after the battle?”

“Once I have things in order here, I’ll send for him. But I want him in Gaul for now. It’s the only safe place.”

He seemed to be in no doubt as to the outcome of the battle. She felt a little better. “All right. I’ll tell him. But what if he can’t get away on the road?”

“Then the minute the battle begins, he is to ride like Hades off the field and head for the coast. Agravaine will not let him survive the battle, Morgan. Make that quite clear to him.”

“I will.” Her face was white but composed. “Don’t worry about Mordred, Arthur. I will see that he gets himself to Gaul.”

“You’re certain you will be able to see him?”

“Oh, yes. Agravaine won’t let Mordred out of Camelot, but he will let me in. He won’t be able to resist the opportunity to gloat.”

“If he holds you there, don’t worry. I’ll be back in Camelot within the week.”

She searched his hard face, which did not look young any longer. “You think you will win this battle.”

It was a statement, not a question, but he answered it anyway. “Yes. I got here in time. I think I will win.”

She reached up to tie the laces at his throat and he caught her wrists in his hands. “Morgan,” he said urgently, “when all of this is over . . .”

But she was shaking her head. “When all of this is over, then we’ll talk.”

“We can’t go on—”

“I know. I know, Arthur. But not now.” They looked at each other for a long minute, and then he smiled.

“All right. First let me get rid of that treacherous bastard Agravaine.”

She smiled back a little sadly. “He was such a bright, charming little boy.”

“Well, he’s grown into a viper.” Clearly Arthur was in no mood to be nostalgic over Agravaine’s childhood. Under the circumstances, she could scarcely blame him.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m afraid he has.”

“Arthur!” It was Cai’s voice from outside the flap of the tent. “Gaheris has just ridden into camp with three hundred men!”

“Gaheris!” Arthur’s head snapped up and he began to move toward the tent door. Morgan followed more slowly. She knew how important this addition to Arthur’s forces was. Gaheris joining the king meant that this upcoming battle would not be just the south and Wales against the north. Gaheris was far more vital to Arthur than a mere three hundred men.

Gaheris, Morgan remembered as she followed Arthur out into the rain, had never liked Agravaine.

Morgan had been right when she told Arthur she would have no trouble getting into Camelot. They let her through the gate with no questions and she rode up the road to the palace without once being stopped. She passed two wagonloads of food on the road and she looked sharply to see which farmers were supplying Agravaine’s army. She had refused to send any food from Avalon.

She did not recognize the men driving the wagons. Agravaine must have had to import food from outside the immediate area.

A soldier took her pony in the palace courtyard and they kept her waiting for fifteen minutes in the vestibule after she said she had come to see Prince Mordred. They were checking with Agravaine, she assumed, and hoped she would get at least a few minutes alone with her son.

She did. They finally escorted her to one of the reception rooms that opened off the great hall, and in five minutes Mordred joined her. He was alone.

He looked young and solitary and lost and her heart ached for him. If only he had not looked so much like Arthur he could have spent his life safely and happily in Lothian, she thought. “Agravaine won’t let me leave,” he said to her as soon as he was in the room. “I know you probably won’t believe me, but it’s true. I wanted to go to the king, but Agravaine wouldn’t let me.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“You know? But how?”

“Because I know you. I never for one moment supposed that you would wish to overthrow your father. Nor does Arthur think that.” The unhappy gray eyes widened. “Now, listen to me, Mordred. I have brought you a message from your father. He says you are in great danger. Agravaine cannot afford to let you survive the battle. You must get away from him. Arthur says the best place will probably be on the road to the battlefield. Get away and go to Gaul. Do you understand?”