The Road to Avalon Page 9

The two long walls of the room were flanked with benches, and on these benches sat the kings and princes and chiefs of the various kingdoms and tribes of Britain. As Merlin took his seat his eyes went along the benches, mentally noting who was present and who was likely to prove friend or foe.

  The three Welsh kings were there, Maelgwyn of Gwynedd, Magach of Powys, and Ban of Dyfed. All three of them had brought their sons, the princes of their line. Merlin’s eye was particularly caught by one of Ban’s sons. He was a magnificent-looking boy: big, golden-haired, blue-eyed, a pure Celt. They held very much to the old ways in Dyfed. It was one of the few areas of Britain that was still not Christian.

  Further down the bench, past a few tribal chiefs whom Merlin did not recognize, was Gwyl of Elmet. Merlin stared at the King of Elmet’s shrewd, weather-beaten old face. Gwyl had always supported Uther, but of late he had seemed very thick with Lot. Then there was Urien of Rheged, who was new to his throne and a definite question mark; and Edun of Manau Guotodin, who was securely under Lot’s thumb.

  On Merlin’s side of the room sat Cador of Dumnonia, who, along with the Welsh, could probably be counted on to support Arthur. Cador was frowning and looking impatiently toward the door. The only missing king, Merlin realized, was Lot.

  “Where is—?” Cai was beginning to whisper into his ear, when there was a stir at the door and Lot came striding in.

  “A good entrance,” Ector said to Merlin out of the side of his mouth.

  They watched as Lot paused, looking around the room to see who was there. When he saw Merlin, he came over to greet him.

  “I saw Morgause last night, and my grandsons,” Merlin said in response to the King of Lothian’s opening remark. “But you are not availing yourself of Uther’s hospitality, Lot?”

  Lot smiled genially. Like the young Prince of Dyfed, he was obviously a Celt. His big wide-shouldered body was dressed in the brightly checked material they wove in the north. He wore a magnificent gold torque about his neck, and his muscular arms were circled with bronze and gold arm rings. Unlike the clean-shaven, Romanized south, the men of the north wore beards. Lot’s beard was the same dark blond color as his hair. His blue eyes did not reflect the geniality of his smile. “I stayed with my men,” he said. “To make certain they behaved themselves.”

  “You appear to have quartered half of Lothian outside Venta.”

  Lot flashed a set of excellent teeth. “Not half, Father-in law. I have plenty more men at home. But the roads are dangerous these days. A man can’t be too careful.”

  “True,” said Merlin. He did not return Lot’s smile. “A man can’t be too careful.”

  A boy dressed in a white tunic with a scarlet dragon embroidered on the shoulder appeared in the main doorway. “My lords,” he announced in a shrill, clear voice, “the High King of Britain, Uther Pendragon.” Lot moved quickly to his seat and the rest of the assembly rose as Uther came into the room and advanced with dignity to the dais. He walked slowly, but his posture was perfectly erect. He looked every inch a Roman, Merlin thought with pride as the king sat and gestured for the rest of them to resume their places.

  “I must thank you all, my lords,” Uther said when they were seated and looking at him with unconcealed expectancy, “for coming so promptly to my call. We have weighty matters to discuss at this council, and I appreciate the effort you made to reach Venta by this day.”

  The room was perfectly silent. Uther’s voice was weak but clear as he addressed his audience from the dais. “I have been high king for sixteen years,” he said as his eyes circled the room, “and during that time we have managed to keep the Sea Wolves from our doors. But the fight is not yet over. Indeed, it is only begun.” He paused and Merlin could see that he was fighting for breath. They waited.

  Uther set his face. Never had Merlin seen the force of his will exerted more clearly. When he spoke again the breathlessness had gone. “We defeated the Saxon offensive under Cerdic in the north this spring, but they are wounded, not beaten. Cynewulf will not be held by the borders of Kent, nor Offa by the boundaries of Sussex. Young Cerdic was only their sounding board. They will be back, again and again and again. And still the tide comes in each spring from Germany, bringing ever more of them to try to push us off our land.”

  Merlin could see the blazing blue eyes of the young Prince of Dyfed all the way across the room. He was staring at Uther with rigid intensity. Uther continued: “We must stand fast against them! They are not like the Goths or the Visigoths or the other peoples throughout the empire, who are Christian and thus civilized. These Saxons are indeed the wolves we call them: barbarians, pagans, dark shadows that would put out all the civilized lights in Britain should they ever get control here”

  Uther’s eyes commanded the room. “We must hold together. That is why the high kingship was established. There must be one man to lead, otherwise we fall into small pieces. And in small pieces the wolves will devour us.”

  “You speak true, Uther.” It was Lot’s hearty, ringing voice. A murmur of agreement rose from the benches, but across from him Merlin saw how the Welsh kings were frowning.

  Uther waited for silence to fall once more. “As you all know, my family has served Britain for many years. My father, Constantine, was the last Roman-appointed war leader, the Comes Britanniarum. My brother Ambrosius was the first man elected high king.” The room was deathly silent. “I am not a well man,” Uther said. “And the time has come to name my heir.” Next to him on the bench, Merlin heard Cai’s indrawn breath. Near the door Lot made a sudden move, as if he would speak, and then did not.

  Uther raised his voice. “Sixteen years ago, the queen and I had a son. He was born three months after our marriage, and because we feared there would be doubts about his paternity, we sent him away. When it became clear that the queen would bear no more living children, Prince Merlin undertook the education of this boy. That he is my son, there can be no doubt. You will see this for yourselves as soon as your eyes fall upon him. My lords, this is the heir I propose for Britain. Arthur,” and his voice rang suddenly with strength and vigor, “will you come forth?”

  Chapter 10

  A FIGURE moved from out of the shadows behind the dais. Even Merlin, who had known the plan, had not seen the boy slip in the door, so effectively had Uther commanded the room’s attention.

  It was an entrance, Cai was to say later, that beat Lot’s by a Roman league. Suddenly Arthur was there, standing beside his father, erect yet perfectly natural, perfectly comfortable. He looked out at the assembled council of men.

  There was a commotion of sound in the hall. Over it all, Lot’s voice sounded, shouting angrily, “What kind of trick is this, Uther?”

  “No trick,” Uther replied, but his words were lost in the noise of the chamber. Lot was standing, and a number of other men also began to get to their feet.

  “Quiet.” The word was not shouted, but its biting edge ripped easily through the babble of noise. Silence descended abruptly. Arthur said, “I believe the high king desires to speak,” and turned to his father.

  Merlin stared at his grandson. The boy’s black hair was neatly brushed away from his brow and he wore his best tan wool breeches and white tunic. On his shoulder was a brooch that Merlin recognized as belonging to Uther. Every man present must recognize it, he thought. Uther was seldom without it.

  “I know I gave it out that he was dead,” Uther was saying to Lot. “What king of sound mind would leave a potential heir vulnerable for his enemies to perhaps use against him?”

  “Enemies?” Lot shouted. “What enemies? You have no enemies, Uther. Our enemy is the Sea Wolves, and I say we need a trained war leader to be high king, not an untried boy, whatever his parentage may be.”

  “He wears his parentage on his face.” It was Ban of Dyfed speaking, a big man with shaggy blond hair. “You have only to look at the boy, Lot, to see he is the high king’s son.”

  Under the thick blond eyebrows, Lot’s blue eyes were hot with anger.
“Perhaps he is Uther’s son. But he is a boy. I repeat, we need a trained leader for this fight against the Saxons.”

  “Like you?” Ban shot the words across the room in a hard, angry voice.

  Lot had not resumed his seat and now he drew himself up to his impressive height. “Yes,” he returned defiantly. “Like me!”

  “The King of Lothian makes a valid point.” Every head in the room whipped around to look at the speaker. Arthur had rested a hand lightly on the back of Uther’s chair, but otherwise he stood as before. The sun, slanting in through the high windows, glinted off the brooch on his shoulder. Arthur continued. “The high king is, above all else, the war leader. The survival of us all depends upon his effectiveness in that role.” He removed his fingers from Uther’s chair and stepped away from his father to stand alone. He clasped his hands lightly behind his back and looked slowly around the room, his gaze going from face to face as he spoke, making each man feel as if he were being addressed personally.

  “The King of Lothian says I am untrained in war,” Arthur told them. “That is not so. For the past seven years I have been trained, quite relentlessly I assure you, by my grandfather, Prince Merlin. I would match my knowledge of war against any man’s in this country.”

  The gray eyes came to rest upon Lot’s face. “Shall I tell you, my lords, what is the most important lesson I have learned during all my years of study?” Arthur’s clear, flexible voice held the room’s absolute attention. “It is what my father has just said to you. Above all else, we must be united. The Christian Bible tells us that a house divided against itself cannot stand, and so it is with Britain.” He stared at Lot. “The ambition of princes must not be allowed to divide us against ourselves,” the black-haired boy said to the king.

  Lot flung back his leonine head. “You are not a one to speak of the ambition of princes,” he jeered.

  “Perhaps not.” Arthur took a step forward, and the sunlight from the window fell full upon him. “I am ambitious,” he said. “I am ambitious for Britain. I want to see her whole and prosperous once more, not cowering in fear of the Saxon darkness. I want to see our towns thrive as once they did, our fields teem with the harvest. I want ships filled with gold, iron, silver, tin, hides, and wheat once more sailing out of British ports. I am ambitious for peace, my lords, for only in peace can a nation grow and prosper.”

  As Arthur was speaking, Merlin looked around the room. Every man’s eyes were on Arthur, none on Lot. Cador of Dumnonia was nodding as if in agreement.

  “We all want peace!” Lot was shouting now as he felt the momentum slipping away from him, as he felt the attention of the room centering on the boy who was facing him down. “But the only way to peace is to beat the Saxons,” he said to the men who had gathered here today to decide the future of the high kingship. “And the only way to beat the Saxons is to elect a proven war leader, not an untried boy who has yet to grow a beard.”

  “To beat the Saxons, we must be united,” repeated Arthur, “and for that you need me.” There was a sharp line between his black brows, and he did not look young at all. “You need me because I am Uther’s son and Constantine’s grandson; because I have no ties to the north or to the south or to Wales, but only to Britain. In choosing me to be high king, you are not choosing Lothian, or Dumnonia, or Dyfed. You are choosing a Comes Britanniarum. And I promise you, my lords, that I shall lead you to victory.”

  They believed him. Merlin could sense it as he looked around the room for what seemed the hundredth time that afternoon. It was a quality in Arthur he was to see over and over again, yet always it amazed him, that ability to move and inspire men. He did not do it by his words; other men could speak the same words and have no effect at all. It was something in him, some quality in his very existence, intangible yet absolutely commanding. Constantine had had it to some degree; in Arthur it was paramount.

  Cador of Dumnonia was getting to his feet. He was a short, heavyset man with a powerful neck and deep-set dark eyes. “My lords,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice, “I propose that we accept the high king’s nomination of Prince Arthur as his heir.”

  When the vote was over, Lot went back to his camp and began to gather his men. He sent word to the praetorium that Morgause was to make ready to depart.

  This message was brought to Uther as he was consulting with his wife and his father-in-law in the reception room of his private chambers. Uther told the man to wait outside for a reply, and the three of them looked at each other as the messenger left the room.

  “He is angry,” Merlin said to Uther and Igraine as soon as the door had closed. “Angry enough to storm Avalon and demand the return of his wife and his sons.”

  “I don’t think so,” Uther replied. “I sent a whole cohort under Claudius with orders to surround Avalon. He won’t risk Morgause or the boys getting hurt.”

  Merlin still looked worried. “I wouldn’t put too much faith in Lot’s tender heart.”

  “Nor would I.” Igraine’s voice was dry. “But Morgause is his tie to the high kingship. And his sons. Without them he has no more claim than any other of the Celtic kings.”

  “Igraine is right,” said Uther. “I will send a reply to him that Morgause is at Avalon and does not wish to return to Lothian just yet. He won’t tarry for her.”

  “True.” Merlin’s face had relaxed. “Things have not fallen out as he had expected.”

  “They did not fall out as I expected, either,” Uther said frankly. “I never expected Lot’s to be the sole dissenting vote.”

  The king was looking exhausted and Igraine said to Merlin, “Where is Arthur? It was his idea to send Morgause to Avalon. Let him deal with Lot.”

  “The last I saw of Arthur,” Merlin replied dryly, “he was flanked by Cai and a blond-haired giant from Wales and was listening with admirable patience to contradictory advice from five different kings and princes.”

  Uther’s thin, sallow face broke into a smile. “I wish you could have been at the council, Igraine,” he said to his wife. “The boy was magnificent.”

  “I’m glad.” She gave her father a hard, meaningful look before she continued, “I’m glad you have such a competent son, my love. I am quite sure that between Arthur and Father they can deal with matters here while you take a little rest. You look tired.”

  Merlin stood up. “Igraine is right, Uther. You must save your strength. I’ll have the message sent to Lot.”

  “All right.” The king’s skin looked gray and his breathing was audible. His half-closed eyes turned to Merlin. “Tomorrow,” he said, “I will present Arthur to the army.”

  Merlin nodded. “I’ll speak to him. Get some rest now, Uther.” As he turned to leave the king’s chamber, he saw Igraine bend over her husband. She said something to him, and her voice was heartbreakingly tender. Merlin’s mouth set hard; then he went out into the hall to speak to Lot’s courier.

  When Lot learned of the disposition of his wife and his sons, he ranted and stormed and threatened, and in the end turned his men north and went back to Lothian. As Merlin had remarked, things had not fallen out as he expected, and he was anxious to reevaluate his plans.

  The mood in Venta was triumphant. The question of the succession had hung like a cloud of doom over the country for the last few years and the introduction of a young prince gave heart to everyone. Arthur’s formal presentation to the army the following day was an occasion for unabashed celebration.

  Uther had arranged a parade down the main street of Venta, to be led by himself and Arthur. The army regulars and low-ranking officers lined the street on either side to catch a glimpse of the new prince; the kings and princes of Britain, along with Uther’s chief captains, rode in procession behind them.

  Merlin was not in the parade but had been delegated to welcome the high king and his son on the portico of the praetorium. He stood there now, looking past the courtyard to the street up which the parade would come. Not that he needed to see Arthur to know what he looked like
today. He personally had helped the boy to dress early this morning, putting a new leather tunic over his white one, and a new coat of mail over all. The mail coat was circled at the waist by a leather belt that had been specially made at Avalon to hold his sword. Merlin himself had placed the sword with Hadrian’s ruby into its holder, and had handed Arthur his oval shield on which was emblazoned the red dragon Uther had chosen long ago for his emblem. Arthur today was dressed like the soldier-king he had sworn he would be.

  The cheering was moving up through the town along with the procession, and Merlin heard it long before the parade came into his sight. At first it was just a roaring noise, like a roll of thunder coming down a river valley. Then it was Arthur’s name he could hear being shouted, over and over again.

  The noise was coming closer and at last Merlin could make out the figure of his boy, riding in the lead beside Uther. The sun reflected off the shining ebony of Arthur’s unhelmeted head and off the metal of his mail coat as well. He was riding a magnificent black horse which had been presented to him yesterday by Bedwyr, the big blond son of King Ban of Dyfed. The horse was sweating with excitement but the boy controlled him without visible effort. Behind the two leaders rode the kings of Gwynedd, Powys, Dyfed, Elmet, Rheged, and Dumnonia, and behind them an assortment of minor princes and chiefs. Edun of Manau Guotodin, Merlin saw immediately, was not present.

  The horses finally reached the courtyard of the praetorium and Merlin went down the steps formally to welcome them. Arthur’s face was studiously grave as he replied to his grandfather, but his eyes were brilliant.

  Wine was being served in the audience chamber of the praetorium, and as servants took their horses, the various participants in the procession made their way into the house. It was not long before every square foot of mosaic floor was occupied by a king, a prince, a chief, or an army officer. And they all wanted to talk to Arthur.