“I will do better than that,” the King said, and had a word with Bedwyr, who went out and returned with the Sword itself, carrying the old scabbard flat across his palms. He knelt before the King and offered up the Sword with reverence. Arthur drew the Sword in silence, his right hand grasping the familiar grip without thought. The boys gathered slowly around, their eyes shining. They stared at it in wonder, but no one lifted a hand to touch it.
“I will give you its story,” the King said quietly, “as Merlin gave it to me, and as I saw it myself.”
As he spoke, his voice low-pitched and commanding, I watched Mordred’s face. The princes were completely absorbed in the King’s tale. Mordred never took his eyes from the Sword. When the King came to the raising of the Sword from the stone, and the cold fire that burned in the hilt when he drew it forth in the presence of all the lords and knights, the room went suddenly still. Something holy was there with us, and we all felt it.
King Lot, Arthur told them, had been the first to kneel, he who had been Pendragon’s enemy but hours before. Thus all the kings of Britain had united behind him, which enabled him to push the Saxons back from their lands.
“And the Sword?” Mordred whispered. “Will it protect Britain always?”
Arthur’s brow furrowed.
“I don’t know,” he answered slowly. “I have always been told it is my Sword.” He looked directly at Mordred then, and I saw he was embarrassed, but no one else noticed it.
He sent the Sword back with Bedwyr, but stayed and answered other questions about the Lay. Agravaine wanted to know how many Saxons he had killed himself, and Gaheris wanted to know whether his mother, too, was a witch.
“No, indeed.” The King laughed. “Queen Ygraine was a Cornish princess, and a lovely one, they say. If she bewitched men, it was by her beauty.”
“That’s how all the trouble came about,” Gawaine added, showing off. “She was the Duke of Cornwall’s wife when King Uther—” He stopped suddenly, realizing he had gone too far.
Arthur frowned. “I see your mother has taught you well what she wished you to know.” But as he could never be less than himself, he admitted the truth. “It is true your grandfather, the High King Uther, lusted after another man’s wife. Duke Gorlois attacked the King’s troops, which is treason, and died while Uther lay with the young Ygraine.”
Agravaine laughed nervously. “It seems that lust runs in the family.”
To the surprise of all, color flooded the King’s face, and he turned and walked away from them. Of course, the boy was referring to his mother and her train of lovers, but he had hit the King on his open wound, unknowing.
“It seems to me,” Bedwyr said easily, stepping into the breach, “that my young lords would do better to keep their own counsel regarding things that do not concern them. Uther Pendragon was a good king, whatever his faults. He held Britain for fifteen years. His son has beaten the Saxons back and holds us in his hand, in peace. For the first time in five generations, Britons may go about their business without the daily fear of war. Be thankful for it. Now go.”
They filed out in silence, bewildered and afraid. Not one of them had any idea what they had done to offend the King.
When they were gone, Arthur gripped Bedwyr’s arm in the soldiers’ embrace. His face was still flushed. “My thanks, Bedwyr.”
Bedwyr shrugged. “It was a small service, my lord. He referred to Morgause.”
Arthur grimaced. “I know it now.” He glanced swiftly at me, still embarrassed. “But there was truth in what he said, and we all know it.”
Since the King had confirmed him the heir of Orkney and Lothian, Gawaine had been friendlier to Mordred. Secure in his superior position to the older boy, he now treated him with an easy condescension. Mordred bore it without change of demeanor; he took it as Gawaine’s due and did not resent it. But I resented it on his behalf and wished Arthur could bring himself to talk to his son. He was not without deep pride, but he had no place in the world, and felt it. He had told me so himself.
Sometimes, after lessons were over, he would stay after everyone was gone and talk to me. For some reason, he had come to trust me and knew I would not babble to others the things he said.
“Queen Guinevere,” he had said with wide, dark eyes. “What will be my place here? Not that I expect anything—indeed, the High King has been more than generous to me, seeing I am only his sister’s bastard. And I do not think he loves me for her sake,” he observed acutely, “for he can barely tolerate the mention of her name. But how can I serve him? Has he plans for me?”
I reached out and took his hand. “Yes, Mordred. He has plans for all of you. Why do you think we take such trouble to instruct you? You and your half brothers will be his Companions one day.”
“I—I heard him say so, my lady. But I can scarcely credit it. My brothers, yes. They are princes. But I—I have no standing here. Not really. No claim upon him at all.”
I knew this must be something the others pointed out to him daily, and I grieved for him. “What do you desire from life, Mordred? What is it you would be?”
He lifted his head and his face came alive. “I want to make a difference,” he said eagerly, and I was startled to hear Arthur’s very words resounding from the past. “I thought I should die on that godforsaken island, and then there came the summons from the King. And now that I am here, I know that I am where I belong. In the center of things. I feel it. I wish—I wish to do something great, that will be talked about with wonder in a hundred years.” He stopped suddenly and withdrew into himself, afraid he had said too much. But the air around us rang with echoes of his words.
“You shall make a difference, Mordred,” I said softly. “It will happen as you wish.”
He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. And ran from the room.
There were hunting parties out every day, and after the boys had gained a little expertise with spears, they were allowed to accompany the men once or twice. On the day before Christmas, Bedwyr organized a boar hunt, for large tracks had been found in the deep woods, and boar would be a great boon to the King’s birthday feast. Gareth was kept behind, but the others went. They were gone all day and well into the night. Finally we heard the clatter of hooves in the courtyard and the soldiers’ songs ringing in the frosty air. From a window I saw the huge carcass dragged in, saw the cooks’ delight as they ran out to greet the hunters, and watched as the men dismounted and dispersed toward the barracks and a well-earned meal. I looked about for Arthur and the boys. At first I did not see them; torches waved and flickered, sending shadows dancing everywhere. Then I caught sight of Gawaine, surrounded by soldiers who slapped him on the back and jested with him. Behind him strode Agravaine, angry, if I read his step aright. Nearby a crowd of men moved forward slowly. Could that be Arthur, walking at such a pace? I gripped Ailsa’s arm as she knelt beside me.
“Ailsa! Has aught happened to the King? Can you see?”
“Surely there would have been a courier, my lady.”
“No, there he is! With Bedwyr. Thank God, he looks all right! But who is that he carries in his arms?”
Two men came running from the house with a litter; the crowd parted for a moment. I gasped. “It is Mordred! Oh, Ailsa! He must be wounded!”
Carefully, and yet with speed, the boy was laid upon the litter. Arthur, with Bedwyr and the rest of his Companions, followed him inside with a solemn step.
I found myself shaking and could barely control my voice. “Ailsa! Send to Bedwyr and bid him come to me at once, if the King can spare him.”
I paced my chamber, back and forth and back again, in a fever to know what had passed. How on earth could such a thing happen, with so many people about? How dare Gawaine be so unconcerned? Why was Agravaine so angry? Why had the soldiers treated Gawaine with honor? How could the boys themselves ignore their brother’s condition? Surely he could not be mortally wounded—there had been no sense of panic in that yard, but perhaps they had concealed
it. I clasped my hands together and spun on my heel. I was not his mother, I could not go to him unbidden. Arthur would send for me as soon as he was able, but how long would that be? What would the physicians allow? They were proud folk, physicians, always sure no one but they could understand their art, always eager to prove their importance by making people wait. When they made kings wait, they were important indeed!
But Bedwyr was a true friend and would bring me news. On the thought, I heard a step in the corridor and heard his voice answer Ailsa’s at the door.
“Bedwyr!” I threw open the door, took his hands, and drew him into the chamber. “Bedwyr, what news? Is Mordred wounded? Will he live?”
“Indeed!” He laughed. “Be easy, Gwen, it’s a cloud with a silver lining. He was gored, but not badly. He’ll be on his feet as soon as they have leeched and bound him.”
“Gored?” I cried. “By the boar? Was no one with him? How did such a thing happen?”
Ailsa plucked at my elbow to remind me of my manners. I begged Bedwyr to sit with us by the hearth and sent Hanna for some wine. Ailsa brought him warmed water to wash his hands in, for he had come straight from the hunt, and his tunic bore witness to the slaughter of the great beast.
“Never mind,” I told him when he begged pardon for his condition. “I don’t mind the smell of boar’s blood. But tell me how such a thing could happen, with so many people about to watch over the princes? Was everyone looking the other way?”
“Nay, my lady, pray do not accuse us of negligence. It’s not easy to ride keeper on those boys, but because the King was with us, they were well enough behaved. It was just an accident, the kind that may befall anyone, any day.”
“Tell me!”
“It was past nightfall when we cornered her, near her lair. I won’t name all the knights who killed her—Arthur’s was the first spear she felt, and mine the second, but I reckon she didn’t begin to lose her fight until she carried fifty. During the chase, the charges, and the battle, be sure the boys were kept away and safe. Indeed, I don’t think Gaheris had much stomach for it, but Gawaine was keen enough. At last, when she was on her knees and dying, the King allowed Gawaine to take his shot. It was a good throw, caught her in the throat, and she bellowed mightily. Then Agravaine, impatient for glory, and seeing Arthur signal for the kill, quickly threw his spear—too quickly; his horse shied, unseated him, and dumped him in the snow. The boar turned suddenly and heaved herself up for one last charge. No one expected it—she was all but dead, but boars are unpredictable, that’s why protocol must be observed. She whirled and came at him, head down. Agravaine screamed, which only spurred her on. The fool tried to stand and flee, but he’d caught his foot in a buried branch and his horse had run beyond his reach. Mordred, who was nearest, threw himself on top of Agravaine and kept them both down, deep in the snow and as still as he could. Her tusks had been broken in the fight and were sharp as razors. Mordred was lucky she was spent. She gave him a thrust in the side and then died at his very feet.”
“Where was Arthur? Did he see it?”
“Indeed, my lady. We all saw it. But it happened too fast to prevent. He was at the boy’s side in an instant, with a complexion paler than the snow. But it’s a shallow wound, and bled well. That’s a good sign. He’ll recover.”
“Bleeding is a good sign?”
“Indeed. It’s always so. A good bleeding prevents festering.”
I shuddered, and Bedwyr smiled. “This is something every soldier knows. But you need not know it, my lady.”
“On the contrary. I am a soldier’s wife.” Hanna arrived with the wine, and while she served Bedwyr I rose and walked about. “Bedwyr, you must be leaving something out. I see now why the men congratulated Gawaine. I grew up with five brothers; I know it’s good luck to land a spear on your first boar hunt. But why is Agravaine angry? And why, if the wound is a small one, did Arthur carry the boy himself, and why does he tend him still?”
“Ahhhh,” Bedwyr said, setting down his winecup. I was bewildered by the satisfaction on his face. “I told you it was a cloud with a silver lining. Hear the rest. Once they saw Mordred was not mortally wounded, those ill-bred outlanders turned on him quicker than a whiplash. Gawaine was annoyed that Mordred stole his thunder and had all the King’s attention. He felt he deserved praise for his stroke, but because of what followed, he never got it. Agravaine was furious all around. Of course it was his own fault, but he would not admit it. He resented Mordred’s protection, he was embarrassed the soldiers were blaming his hot-headedness for the whole mishap, and he took a tongue-lashing from Gawaine, as well, in front of everyone. Gaheris, the coward, stayed well out of it. The minute blood is spilled, he heads for the women’s skirts.”
“Easy, Bedwyr. He’s little more than a child. Give him time.”
“Time, my lady, will not change him.”
“Was there a fight, then, between the boys?”
“Oh no, with the King there, it never came to blows. When they turned on Mordred they contented themselves with calling names.”
“In front of Arthur?”
“It all took place in front of Arthur.” Bedwyr shrugged. “And why not? None of them knew they had any reason to fear the King. They are trueborn princes. Who is Mordred but Morgause’s by-blow? No, it never occurred to them to temper their tongues.”
“At last!” I cried. “At last he sees what his silence forces Mordred to endure!”
“Normally, those boys stand together, but let anyone do Mordred honor, or even look at him twice, and that is a distinction they are overquick to make. They were all ashamed they had not done what Mordred did.”
“And so they should be. They taunted him, then, in front of the King? What did they say?”
“I can’t repeat all of it, Gwen, but most of it had to do with his parentage. How dare he try to save Agravaine, a king’s son, when Mordred was, as everyone knew, the bastard seed of a witch and her lovesick fancy boy.”
“Oh, Bedwyr!”
“That’s a mild sample. They let Mordred know in no uncertain terms that he’d taken a liberty he had no right to take. He’d gone above his station, presumed a privilege he had no prayer of ever earning, his pretensions to rank insulted them all, and more of the same.”
“I see. And everything they said wounded Arthur to the core. At last he understands Mordred needs the protection only he can give him. But how did Mordred take this?”
“Usually he takes it without the flicker of an eyelash. But tonight he was in pain and frightened and had no defense against such insults. He said nothing to them, but his eyes were wet, and when they had finally stopped and turned away, he swore viciously in the Orkney tongue. And then, in a low voice he thought no one else could hear, he cursed his father, whoever he might be, for begetting him and disappearing, leaving him no word, no legacy, no name, no armor against such insults. He was already, he avowed, a better man than his father would ever be.”
I began to smile. “And did Arthur hear this?”
Bedwyr smiled back. “Indeed, my lady. We were both right beside him. The King spoke not a word, but carried the boy in his own arms back to the fortress.”
“At last! He will tell him now, to give him back his pride. He wouldn’t be Arthur, else.”
Bedwyr filled a winecup and handed it to me. “If I am not mistaken, he’s telling him right now. I came to you when Arthur cleared the room. Let the last physician depart, and he will speak. I am sure of it. He could not take his eyes off the boy.” He raised his winecup to mine. “A toast,” he said, “to the successful conclusion of a boar hunt.”
It was two long hours before word came. Bedwyr was gone about his duties; around me, the daily routine of the fortress went on undisturbed; the watch changed, the guards patrolled the gates, the barrack lights were snuffed, and Caerleon slept under a light fall of snow.
At first I paced my chamber in a fever and spoke sharply to Hanna when she would have brought me wine. Then I fell on my knees an
d prayed God might be merciful to both father and son. For Arthur must do what he most dreaded doing: lay open his secret shame to his own son and endure his judgment. And Mordred, who in a moment’s rage had cursed his fate, would be faced with another he had not dreamed of, but only at a cost. Too high a cost? Would he be able to forgive his father? Could Mordred, young and pagan as he was, find such mercy in his heart? If he could not, how ever would Arthur bear it?
I was so long on my knees I could hardly rise when Ailsa came to me at last with a hot posset. She wiped my face of tears and redressed my hair, clucking softly and calling me endearments.
“Sir Bedwyr is without,” she said, giving my hair a last pat. “There. Now you’re fit to see him.”
“What?” I cried. “You have made him wait while you dress my hair? Ailsa! How could you?”
“You were not ready to be seen, my lady. Drink that up, there’s medicine in it.”
It was useless to argue with her in her motherly mood. I downed the posset and hurried out to Bedwyr. “What news, good Bedwyr? Where is Arthur?”
“In the library. Alone.”
“And?”
Bedwyr shook his head. “I don’t know, my lady. He said nothing. He wants you first.”
I fairly ran through the corridors, not caring who saw me. I knocked, but hearing no response, gently opened the door, and slipped inside. Arthur stood alone at the window with his back to me. His hands were clasped behind him, and he looked for all the world like a man admiring the beauty of the midnight snowfall.
I took a breath and gathered my courage. “Arthur?”
He turned and smiled.
“Thank God!” I cried. There was a host of emotions on his face, but the uppermost was joy. I ran into his arms and he held me tightly.
“It is done,” he said at last, “and all is well.”
“Oh, tell me what happened, Arthur! Bedwyr told me about his wounding and about the things he said.”