"Yes."
"My lord, are you planning to take this child as well, to save him fromLot ?"
His voice, softly pitched as it was, sounded thin with some kind of strain. I hardly attended; far out somewhere in the night, beyond the noise of the weir, I had heard a beat of hoofs; not a sound so much as a vibration under our feet as the earth carried it. Then the faint pulse was gone, and the water's roar came back.
"What did you say?"
"I wondered, my lord, how sure you were about the child up at the castle."
"Sure of what the facts say, no more. Look at them. She lied about the date of birth, so that it could be put about that the birth was premature. Very well; that could be a face-saver, no more; it's done all the time. But look how it was done. She contrived that no doctor was present, and then alleged that the birth was unexpected, and so quick that no witnesses could be called into the chamber, as is the custom with a royal birthing. Only her two women, who are her creatures."
"Well, why, my lord? What more was there to gain?"
"Only this, a child to showLot that he could kill if he would, while Arthur's son and hers goes scatheless."
A gasp of silence. "You mean — ?"
"It fits, doesn't it? She could already have arranged an exchange with some other woman due to bear at the same time, some poor woman, who would take the money and hold her tongue, and be glad of the chance to suckle the royal baby. We can only guess what Morgause told her; the woman can have no inkling that her own child might be at risk. So the changeling lies there in the castle, while Arthur's son, Morgause's tool of power, is hidden nearby. At my guess, not too far away. They will want news of him from time to time."
"And if what you say is true, then whenLot gets here —"
"Some move will be made. If he does harm the changeling, Morgause will have to see that the mother hears nothing of it. She may even have to find another home for Mordred."
"But —"
"Ulfin, there is nothing we can do to save the changeling. Only Morgause could save it, if she would. It's not even certain that it will be in danger;Lot is not quite a savage, after all. But you and I would only run on death ourselves, and the child with us."
"I know. But what about all the talk up there in the castle? Beltane would tell you about it. He was talking while I got my supper. I mean, the baby being so like King Lot, the living image, they were all saying. Could this of yours just be a guess, sir? And the child beLot 's own, after all? The date could even have been right. They said it was a sickly child, and small."
"It could be. I told you I was guessing. But we do know that Queen Morgause has no truth in her —
and that she is Arthur's enemy. Her actions, andLot 's, bear watching. Arthur himself will have to know, beyond doubt, what the truth is."
"Of course. I see that. One thing we could do is find out who bore a male child at about the same time as the queen. I could ask around the place tomorrow. I've made a useful wine-friend or two already."
"In a town this size it could be one of a score. And we have no time. Listen!"
Up through the ground, clear now, the beat of hoofs. A troop, riding hard. Then the sound of them, close and coming closer, clear above the river noises, and soon the town noises as people crowded out to see. Men shouting; the crash of wood on stonework as the gates were flung open; the jingle of bits and the clash of armour; the snorting of hard-ridden horses. More shouting, and an echo from the castle rock high above us, then the sound of a trumpet.
The main bridge thundered. The heavy gates creaked and slammed. The sounds dwindled toward the inner courtyard, and were lost in the other, nearer noises.
I stood up and walked to the doorway of the wheelwright's shop, and looked up to where, beyond the mill roof, the castle towered against the clouded night. The rain had stopped. Lights were moving.
Windows flared and darkened as the king's servants lighted him through the castle. To the west side were two windows bright with soft light. The moving lights went there, and stayed.
"Lotcomes home," I said.
Somewhere a bell clanged from the castle. Midnight. Leaning in the doorway of the wheelwright's shop, I stretched shoulders aching with the damp of the night. Behind me, Ulfin fed another faggot to the fire, carefully, so that no spurt of flame should attract the attention of anyone who might be waking. The town, sunk back into its night-time stupor, was silent, but for the barking of curs and now and again the scritch of an owl among the trees on the steep crag-side.
I moved silently out from the door's shelter into the street near the end of the bridge. I looked up at the black bulk of the crag. The high windows of the castle still showed light, and light from the troopers'
torches, red and smoking, moved behind the walls that masked the courtyard below.
Ulfin, at my elbow, drew breath for a question.
It was never asked. Someone, running chin on shoulder across the footbridge, ran headlong into me, gasped, gave a broken cry, and twisted to dodge past.
Equally startled, I was slow to react, but Ulfin jumped, grasped an arm, and clapped a hand tightly to stifle the next cry. The newcomer twisted and fought in his grip, but was held with ease.
"A girl," said Ulfin, surprised.
"Into the shop," I said quickly, and led the way.
Once there, I threw another piece of elm on the fire. The flames leaped. Ulfin brought his captive, still writhing and kicking, into the light. The hood had fallen from her face and head, and I recognized her, with satisfaction.
"Lind."
She stiffened in Ulfin's grip. I saw the gleam of frightened eyes staring at me above the stifling hand. Then they widened, and she went quite still, as a partridge does before a stoat. She knew, me, too.
"Yes," I said. "I am Merlin. I was waiting for you, Lind. Now, if Ulfin looses you, you will make no sound."
Her head moved, assenting. He took his hand from her mouth, but kept his grip on her arm.
"Let her go," I said.
He obeyed me, moving back to get between her and the doorway, but he need not have troubled. As soon as he released her she ran toward me, and flung herself to her knees in the litter of shavings. She clung to my robe. Her body shook with her terrified weeping.
"Oh, my lord, my lord! Help me!"
"I am not here to harm you, or the child." To calm her, I spoke coldly. "The High King sent me here to get news of his son. You know I cannot come to the queen herself, so I waited here for you. What has happened up at the castle?"
But she would not speak. I think she could not. She clung, and shook, and cried.
I spoke more gently. "Whatever has happened, Lind, I cannot help you if I do not know. Come near the fire, and compose yourself, and tell me."
But when I tried to draw my robe from her clutches she clung the harder. Her sobs were violent. "Don't keep me here, lord, let me go! Or else help me! You have the power — you are Arthur's man — you are not afraid of my lady —"
"I will help you if you will talk to me. I want news of King Arthur's son. Was that King Lot who arrived just now?"
"Yes. Oh, yes! He came home an hour ago. He is mad, mad, I tell you! And she did not even try to stop him. She laughed, and let him do it."
"Let him do what?"
"Kill the baby."
"He killed the child Morgause has at the castle?"
She was too distraught to see anything strange about the form of the question. "Yes, yes!" She gulped.
"And all the while it was his own son, his very own son. I was there at the birth, and I swear it by my own hearth-gods. It was —"
"What's that?" This, sharply, from Ulfin, on watch in the doorway.
"Lind!" I stooped, pulled her to her feet, and held her steady. "This is no time for riddles. Go on. Tell me all that happened."
She pressed the back of one wrist to her mouth, and in a moment or two managed to speak with some sort of composure. "When he came, he was angry. We had been expecting it, but nothing like this. He had heard what people were saying, that the High King had lain with her. You knew that, lord, you knew it was true...So King Lot stormed and raved at her, calling her whore, adulteress...We were all there, her women, but he cared nothing for that. And she — if she had talked sweetly to him, lied, even..." She swallowed. "It would have calmed him. He would have believed her. He never could resist her. That's what we all thought she would do, but she did not. She laughed in his face, and said, 'But do you now see how like you he is? Do you really think a boy like Arthur could get such a son?' He said, 'So it's true?
You lay with him?' She said, 'Why not? You would not wed me. You took that little honey-miss, Morgan, instead of me. I was not yours, not then.' It made him angrier." She shivered. "If you had seen him then, even you would have been afraid."
"No doubt. Was she?"
"No. She never moved, just sat there, with the green gown and jewels, and smiled. You would have thought she was trying to make him angry."
"As she was," I said. "Go on, Lind, quickly."
She had control of herself now. I loosed her, and she stood, still trembling, but with her arms crossed on her breast, the way women stand when grieving. "He tore the hangings off the cradle. The baby started to cry. He said, 'Like me? The Pendragon brat is dark, and I am dark. No more than that.' Then he turned on us — the women — and sent us away. We ran. He looked like a mad wolf. The others ran away, but I hid behind the curtains in the outer chamber. I thought — I thought —"
"You thought?"
She shook her head. Tears splashed, glinting, in the firelight. "That was when he did it. The baby stopped crying. There was a crash, as if the cradle fell over. The queen said, as calm as milk: 'You should have believed me. It was your own, by some slut you tumbled in the town. I told you there was a likeness.' And she laughed. He didn't speak for a bit. I could hear his breathing. Then he said, "Dark hair, eyes turning dark. The brat his slut threw would be the same. Where is he, then, this bastard?" She said,
'He was a sickly child. He died.' The king said, 'You're lying still.' Then she said, very slowly: 'Yes, I am lying. I told the midwife to take him away, and find me a son I dared to show you. Perhaps I did wrong. I did it to save my name, and your honour. I hated the child. How could I want to bear any man's child but yours? I had hoped it was your son, not his, but it was his. It is true that he was sickly. Let us hope that he is dead, too, by this.' The king said, 'Let us do more than that. Let us make sure.'"
It was Ulfin this time who said quickly: "Yes? Go on."
The girl drew a shuddering breath. "She waited a moment, then she said — in a light, slighting sort of way, the way you dare a man to do something dangerous — 'And how could you do that, King of Lothian, except by killing every child born in this town since May Day? I've told you I don't know where they took him.' He didn't even stop to think. He was breathing hard, like someone running. He said: 'Then that is just what I shall do. Yes, boys and girls alike. How else shall I know the truth of this accursed child-bed?' I would have run then, but I could not. The queen started to say something about the people, but he put her aside and came to the door and shouted for his captains. They came running. He shouted it at them, the same. Just those orders, every young baby in the town...I don't remember what was said. I thought I would faint, and fall, and they would see me. But I did hear the queen call out something in a weeping voice, something about orders from the High King, and how King Arthur would not brook the talk there had been since Luguvallium. Then the soldiers went. And the queen was not weeping at all, my lord, but laughing again, and she had her arms around King Lot. From the way she talked to him then, you would have thought he had done some noble deed. He began to laugh, too. He said: 'Yes, let them say it of Arthur, not of me. It will blacken his name more surely than anything I could ever do.' They went into her bedchamber then, and shut the door. I heard her call me, but I left her, and ran. She is evil, evil! I always hated her, but she is a witch, and she put me in fear."
"Nobody will hold you to blame for what your mistress did," I told her. "And now you can redeem it.
Take me to where the High King's son is hidden."
She shrank and stared at that, with a wild look over her shoulder, as if she would run again.
"Come, Lind. If you feared Morgause, how much more should you fear me? You ran this way to protect him, did you not? You cannot do so alone. You cannot even protect yourself. But if you help me now, I shall protect you. You will need it. Listen."
Above us, the main gates of the castle opened with a crash. Through the thick boughs could be seen the movement of torches, bobbing down toward the main bridge. With the torches came the beat and clatter of hoofs and the shouting of orders.
Ulfin said sharply: "They're out. It's too late."
"No!" cried the girl. "Macha's cottage is the other way. They will come there last! I will show you, lord.
This way."
Without another word she made for the door, with myself and Ulfin hard behind her.
Up the way we had come, across an open space, down another steep lane that twisted back toward the river, then along a river path deep in nettles where nothing moved but the rats a-scurry from the middens.
It was very dark here, and we could not hurry, though the night breathed horror on the nape like a coursing hound. Behind us, away on the far side of the town, the sounds began. The barking of dogs first, the shouting of soldiers, the tramp of hoofs. Then doors slamming, women screaming, men shouting; and now and again the sharp clash of weapons. I have been in sacked cities, but this was different.
"Here!" gasped Lind, and turned into another twisting lane that led away from the river. From beyond the houses the dreadful sounds still made the night foul. We ran along the slippery mud of the lane, then up a flight of broken steps and out again into a narrow street. Here, all was quiet still, though I saw the glimmer of a light where some scared householder had waked to wonder at the sounds. We ran out from the end of the street into the grass of a field where a donkey was tethered, past an orchard of tended trees and the gaping door of a smithy, and reached a decent cottage that stood away from the rest behind a quickthorn hedge, with a strip of garden in front, and a dovecote, and a kennel beside the door.