Legacy: Arthurian Saga (3 page)

I was right at the end wall, and
feeling along it for the arched gap to the next chamber, when my
shoulder struck a broken section of flue pipe, and a loose piece of
fireclay fell with a rattle.

The Cornishman's voice stopped
abruptly. "What's that?"

Then my uncle's voice, so clear down
the broken flue that you would have thought he spoke in my
ear.

"Nothing. A rat. It came from under
the floor. I tell you, the place is falling to pieces." There was
the sound of a chair scraping back, and footsteps going across the
room, away from me. His voice receded. I thought I heard the chink
and gurgle of a drink being poured. I began slowly, slowly, to edge
along the wall towards the trap.

He was coming back. "...And even if
she does refuse him, it will hardly matter. She won't stay here --
at any rate, no longer than my father can fight the bishop off and
keep her by him. I tell you, with her mind set on what she calls a
higher court, I've nothing to fear, even if he came
himself."

"As long as you believe
her."

"Oh, I believe her. I've been asking
here and there, and everyone says the same." He laughed. "Who
knows, we may be thankful yet to have a voice at that heavenly
court of hers before this game's played out. And she's devout
enough to save the lot of us, they tell me, if she'll only put her
mind to it."

"You may need it yet," said the
Cornishman.

"I may."

"And the boy?"

"The boy?" repeated my uncle. He
paused, and then the soft footsteps resumed their pacing. I
strained to hear. I had to hear. Why it should have mattered I
hardly knew. It did not worry me overmuch to be called bastard, or
coward, or devil's whelp. But tonight there had been that full
moon.

He had turned. His voice carried
clearly, careless, indulgent even.

"Ah, yes, the boy. A clever child, at
a guess, with more there than they give him credit for...and nice
enough, if one speaks him fair. I shall keep him close to me.
Remember that, Alun; I like the boy..."

He called a servant in then to
replenish the wine-jug, and under cover of this, I crept
away.

That was the beginning of it. For days
I followed him everywhere, and he tolerated, even encouraged me,
and it never occurred to me that a man of twenty-one would not
always welcome a puppy of six forever trotting at his heels.
Moravik scolded, when she could get hold of me, but my mother
seemed pleased and relieved, and bade her let me be.

2

It had been a hot summer, and there
was peace that year, so for the first few days of his homecoming
Camlach idled, resting or riding out with his father or the men
through the harvest fields and the valleys where the apples already
dropped ripe from the trees.

South Wales is a lovely country, with
green hills and deep valleys, flat water-meadows yellow with
flowers where cattle grow sleek, oak forests full of deer, and the
high blue uplands where the cuckoo shouts in springtime, but where,
come winter, the wolves run, and I have seen lightning even with
the snow.

Maridunum lies where the estuary opens
to the sea, on the river which is marked Tobius on the military
maps, but which the Welsh call Tywy. Here the valley is flat and
wide, and the Tywy runs in a deep and placid meander through bog
and water-meadow between the gentle hills. The town stands on the
rising ground of the north bank, where the land is drained and dry;
it is served inland by the military road from Caerleon, and from
the south by a good stone bridge with three spans, from which a
paved street leads straight uphill past the King's house, and into
the square. Apart from my grandfather's house, and the barrack
buildings of the Roman-built fortress where he quartered his
soldiers and which he kept in good repair, the best building in
Maridunum was the Christian nunnery near the palace on the river's
bank. A few holy women lived there, calling themselves the
Community of St. Peter, though most of the townspeople called the
place Tyr Myrddin, from the old shrine of the god which had stood
time out of mind under an oak not far from St. Peter's gate. Even
when I was a child, I heard the town itself called Caer-Myrddin
"dd" is pronounced "th" as in thus. Myrddin is, roughly, Murthin.
Caer-Myrddin is the modern Carmarthen: it is not true (as they say
now) that men call it after me. The fact is that I, like the town
and the hill behind it with the sacred spring, was called after the
god who is worshipped in high places. Since the events which I
shall tell of, the name of the town has been publicly changed in my
honor, but the god was there first, and if I have his hill now, it
is because he shares it with me.

My grandfather's house was set among
its orchards right beside the river. If you climbed -- by way of a
leaning apple-tree -- to the top of the wall, you could sit high
over the towpath and watch the river-bridge for people riding in
from the south, or for the ships that came up with the
tide.

Though I was not allowed to climb the
trees for apples -- being forced to content myself with the
windfalls -- Moravik never stopped me from climbing to the top of
the wall. To have me posted there as sentry meant that she got wind
of new arrivals sooner than anyone else in the palace. There was a
little raised terrace at the orchard's end, with a curved brick
wall at the back and a stone seat protected from the wind, and she
would sit there by the hour, dozing over her spindle, while the sun
beat into the corner so hotly that lizards would steal out to lie
on the stones, and I called out my reports from the
wall.

One hot afternoon, about eight days
after Camlach's coming to Maridunum, I was at my post as usual.
There was no coming and going on the bridge or the road up the
valley, only a local grain-barge loading at the wharf, watched by a
scatter of idlers, and an old man in a hooded cloak who loitered,
picking up windfalls along under the wall.

I looked over my shoulder towards
Moravik's corner. She was asleep, her spindle drooping on her knee,
looking, with the white fluffy wool, like a burst bulrush. I threw
down the bitten windfall I had been eating, and tilted my head to
study the forbidden tree-top boughs where yellow globes hung
clustered against the sky. There was one I thought I could reach.
The fruit was round and glossy, ripening almost visibly in the hot
sun. My mouth watered. I reached for a foothold and began to
climb.

I was two branches away from the fruit
when a shout from the direction of the bridge, followed by the
quick tramp of hoofs and the jingle of metal, brought me up short.
Clinging like a monkey, I made sure of my feet, and then reached
with one hand to push the leaves aside, peering down towards the
bridge. A troop of men was riding over it, towards the town. One
man rode alone in front, bareheaded, on a big brown
horse.

Not Camlach, or my grandfather; and
not one of the nobles, for the men wore colors I did not know. Then
as they reached the nearer end of the bridge I saw that the leader
was a stranger, black-haired and black-bearded, with a
foreign-looking set to his clothes, and a flash of gold on his
breast. His wristguards were golden, too, and a span deep. His
troop, as I judged, was about fifty strong.

King Gorlan of Lanascol. Where the
name sprang from, clear beyond mistake, I had no idea. Something
heard from my labyrinth, perhaps? A word spoken carelessly in a
child's hearing? A dream, even? The shields and spear-tips,
catching the sun, flashed into my eyes. Gorlan of Lanascol. A king.
Come to marry my mother and take me with him overseas. She would be
a queen. And I...

He was already setting his horse at
the hill. I began to half-slither, half-scramble, down the
tree.

And if she refuses him? I recognized
that voice; it was the Cornishman's. And after him my uncle's: Even
if she does, it will hardly matter...I've nothing to fear, so even
if he came himself...

The troop was riding at ease across
the bridge. The jingle of arms and the hammering of hoofs rang in
the still sunlight.

He had come himself. He was here. A
foot above the wall-top I missed my footing and almost fell.
Luckily my grip held, and I slithered safely to the coping in a
shower of leaves and lichen just as my nurse's voice called
shrilly: "Merlin? Merlin? Save us, where's the boy?"

"Here -- here, Moravik -- just coming
down." I landed in the long grass. She had left her spindle and,
kilting up her skirts, came running. "What's the to-do on the river
road? I heard horses, a whole troop by the noise -- Saints alive,
child, look at your clothes! If I didn't mend that tunic only this
week, and now look at it! A tear you could put a fist through and
dirt from head to foot like a beggar's brat!" I dodged as she
reached for me. "I fell. I'm sorry. I was climbing down to tell
you. It's a troop of horse -- foreigners! Moravik, it's King Gorlan
from Lanascol! He has a red cloak and a black beard!"

"Gorlan of Lanascol? Why, that's
barely twenty miles from where I was born! What's he here for, I
wonder?" I stared.

"Didn't you know? He's come to marry
my mother."

"Nonsense."

"It's true!"

"Of course it's not true! Do you think
I wouldn't know? You must not say these things, Merlin, it could
mean trouble. Where did you get it?"

"I don't remember. Someone told me. My
mother, I think."

"That's not true and you know
it."

"Then I must have heard
something."

"Heard something, heard something.
Young pigs have long ears, they say. Yours must be forever to the
ground, you hear so much! What are you smiling at?"

"Nothing." She set her hands on her
hips.

"You've been listening to things you
shouldn't. I've told you about this before. No wonder people say
what they say." I usually gave up and edged away from dangerous
ground when I had given too much away, but excitement had made me
reckless. "It's true, you'll find it's true! Does it matter where I
heard it? I really can't remember now, but I know it's true!
Moravik --"

"What?"

"King Gorlan's my father, my real
one."

"What?" This time the syllable was
edged like the tooth of a saw.

"Didn't you know? Not even
you?"

"No, I did not. And no more do you.
And if you so much as breathe this to anyone -- How do you know the
name, even?" She took me by the shoulders and gave me a sharp
little shake.

"How do you even know this is King
Gorlan? There's been nothing said of his coming, even to
me."

"I told you. I don't remember what I
heard, or where. I just heard his name somewhere, that's all, and I
know he's coming to see the King about my mother. We'll go to Less
Britain, Moravik, and you can come with us. You'll like that, won't
you? It's your home. Perhaps we'll be near --"

Her grip tightened, and I stopped.
With relief I saw one of the King's body-servants hurrying towards
us through the apple-trees. He came up panting.

"He's to go before the King. The boy.
In the great hall. And hurry."

"Who is it?" demanded
Moravik.

"The King said to hurry. I've been
looking everywhere for the boy"

"Who is it?"

"King Gorlan from
Brittany."

She gave a little hiss, like a
startled goose, and dropped her hands. "What's his business with
the boy?"

"How do I know?" The man was
breathless -- it was a hot day and he was stout -- and curt with
Moravik, whose status as my nurse was only a little higher with the
servants than my own. "All I know is, the Lady Niniane is sent for,
and the boy, and there'll be a beating for someone, by my
reckoning, if he's not there by the time the King's looking round
for him. He's been in a rare taking since the outriders came in,
that I can tell you."

"All right, all right. Get back and
say we'll be there in a few minutes."

The man hurried off. She whirled on me
and grabbed at my arm.

"All the sweet saints in heaven!"
Moravik had the biggest collection of charms and talismans of
anyone in Maridunum, and I had never known her pass a wayside
shrine without paying her respects to whatever image inhabited it,
but officially she was a Christian and, when in trouble, a devout
one. "Sweet cherubim! And the child has to choose this afternoon to
be in rags! Hurry, now, or there'll be trouble for both of us." She
hustled me up the path towards the house, busily calling on her
saints and exhorting me to hurry, determinedly refusing even to
comment on the fact that I had been right about the newcomer.
"Dear, dear St. Peter, why did I eat those eels for dinner and then
sleep so sound? Today of all days! Here" -- she pushed me in front
of her into my room -- "get out of those rags and into your good
tunic, and we'll know soon enough what the Lord has sent for you.
Hurry, child!"

The room I shared with Moravik was a
small one, dark, and next to the servants' quarters. It always
smelled of cooking smells from the kitchen, but I liked this, as I
liked the old lichened pear tree that hung close outside the
window, where the birds swung singing in the summer mornings. My
bed stood right under this window. The bed was nothing but plain
planks set across wooden blocks, no carving, not even a head or
foot board. I had heard Moravik grumble to the other servants when
she thought I wasn't listening, that it was hardly a fit place to
house a king's grandson, but to me she said merely that it was
convenient for her to be near the other servants; and indeed I was
comfortable enough, for she saw to it that I had a clean straw
mattress, and a coverlet of wool every bit as good as those on my
mother's bed in the big room next to my grandfather. Moravik
herself had a pallet on the floor near the door, and this was
sometimes shared by the big wolfhound who fidgeted and scratched
for fleas beside her feet, and sometimes by Cerdic, one of the
grooms, a Saxon who had been taken in a raid long since, and had
settled down to marry one of the local girls. She had died in
childbed a year later, and the child with her, but he stayed on,
apparently quite content. I once asked Moravik why she allowed the
dog to sleep in the room, when she grumbled so much about the smell
and the fleas; I forget what she answered, but I knew without being
told that he was there to give warning if anyone came into the room
during the night. Cerdic, of course, was the exception; the dog
accepted him with no more fuss than the beating of his tail upon
the floor, and vacated the bed for him. In a way, I suppose, Cerdic
fulfilled the same function as the watchdog, and others besides.
Moravik never mentioned him, and neither did I. A small child is
supposed to sleep very soundly, but even then, young as I was, I
would wake sometimes in the middle of the night, and lie quite
still, watching the stars through the window beside me, caught like
sparkling silver fish in the net of the pear tree's boughs. What
passed between Cerdic and Moravik meant no more to me than that he
helped to guard my nights, as she my days.