The Last Enchantment

  He stood aside for me, smiling. "He's alone now."

  "Where will you sleep?"

  "My father is lodging in the west tower."

  "Good night, then, Bedwyr."

  But as I moved to pass him he prevented me. He bent quickly and took my hand, then snatched it to him and kissed it. "I should have known you would see that it all came right. I was afraid, for a few minutes there in the hall, when Lot and his jackals started that treacherous fracas —"

  "Hush," I said. He had spoken softly, but there were ears to hear. "That's over for the present. Leave it. And go straight to your father in the west tower. Do you understand?"

  The dark eyes glimmered. "King Lot lodges, they tell me, in the eastern one?"

  "Exactly."

  "Don't worry. I've already had the same warning from Emrys. Good night, Merlin."

  "Good night, and a peaceful sleep to us all. We need it."

  He grinned, sketched a half-salute, and went. I nodded to the waiting servant and went in. The door shut behind me.

  The royal rooms had been cleared of the apparatus of sickness, and the great bed stripped of its crimson covers. The floor tiles were freshly scoured and polished, and over the bed lay new unbleached sheets, and a rug of wolfskins. The chair with the red cushion and the dragon worked on the back in gold stood there still, with its footstool and the tall tripod lamp beside it. The windows were open to the cool September night, and the air from them sent the lamp-flames sideways and made strange shadows on the painted walls.

  Arthur was alone. He was over by a window, one knee on a stool that stood there, his elbows on the sill. The window gave, not on the town, but on the strip of garden that edged the river. He gazed out into the dark, and I thought I could see him drinking, as from another river, deep draughts of the fresh and moving air. His hair was damp, as if he had just washed, but he was still in the clothes he had worn for the day's ceremonies; white and silver, with a belt of Welsh gold set with turquoises and buckled with enamel-work. He had taken off his sword-belt, and the great sword Caliburn hung in its sheath on the wall beyond the bed. The lamplight smouldered in the jewels of the hilt; emerald, topaz, sapphire. It flashed, too, from the ring on the boy's hand; Uther's ring carved with the Dragon crest.

  He heard me, and turned. He looked rarefied and light, as if the winds of the day had blown through him and left him weightless. His skin had the stretched pallor of exhaustion, but his eyes were brilliant and alive. About him, already there and unmistakable, was the mystery that falls like a mantle on a king. It was in his high look, and the turn of his head. Never again would "Emrys" be able to lurk in shadow. I wondered afresh how through all those hidden years we had kept him safe and secret among lesser men.

  "You wanted me," I said.

  "I've wanted you all day. You promised to be near me while I went through this business of hatching into a king. Where were you?"

  "Within call, if not within reach. I was at the shrine — the chapel — till almost sunset. I thought you'd be busy."

  He gave a little crack of laughter. "You call it that? It felt like being eaten alive. Or perhaps like being born... and a hard birth at that. I said 'hatching,' didn't I? Suddenly to find oneself a prince is hard enough, but even that is as different from being a king as the egg is from the day-old chick."

  "At least make it an eaglet."

  "In time, perhaps. That's been the trouble, of course. Time, there's been no time. One moment to be nobody — someone's unacknowledged bastard, and glad to be given the chance to get within shouting distance of a battle, with maybe a glimpse of the King himself in passing; the next — having drawn a couple of breaths as prince and royal heir — to be High King myself, and with such a flourish as no king can ever have had before. I still feel as if I'd been kicked up the steps of the throne from a kneeling position right down on the floor."

  I smiled. "I know how you feel, more or less. I was never kicked half as high, but then I was a great deal lower down to start with. Now, can you slow down sufficiently to get some sleep? Tomorrow will be here soon enough. Do you want a sleeping potion?"

  "No, no, when did I ever? I'll sleep as soon as you've gone. Merlin, I'm sorry to ask you to come here at this late hour, but I had to talk to you, and there's been no chance till now. Nor will there be tomorrow."

  He came away from the window as he spoke, and crossed to a table where papers and tablets were lying. He picked up a stilus, and with the blunt end smoothed the wax. He did it absently, his head bent so that the dark hair swung forward, and the lamplight slid over the line of his cheek and touched the black lashes fringing the lowered lids. My eyes blurred. Time ran back. It was Ambrosius my father who stood there, fidgeting with the stilus and saying to me: "If a king had you beside him, he could rule the world..."

  Well, his dream had come true at last, and the time was now. I blinked memory away, and waited for the day-old King to speak.

  "I've been thinking," he said abruptly. "The Saxon army was not utterly destroyed, and I have had no firm report yet about Colgrim himself, or Badulf. I think they both got safely away. We may hear within the next day or so that they have taken ship and gone, either home across the sea or back to the Saxon territories in the south. Or they may simply have taken refuge in the wild lands north of the Wall, and be hoping to regroup when they have gathered strength again." He looked up. "I have no need to pretend to you, Merlin. I am not a seasoned warrior, and I've no means of judging how decisive that defeat was, or what the possibilities are of a Saxon recovery. I've taken advice, of course. I called a quick council at sunset, when the other business was concluded. I sent for — that is, I would have liked you to be there, but you were still up at the chapel. Coel couldn't be there, either... You'd know he was wounded, of course; you probably saw him yourself? What are his chances?"

  "Slight. He's an old man, as you know, and he got a nasty slash. He bled too much before help got to him."

  "I was afraid of it. I did go to see him, but was told he was unconscious, and they were afraid of inflammation of the lungs... Well, Prince Urbgen, his heir, came in his stead, with Cador, and Caw of Strathclyde. Ector and Ban of Benoic were there, too. I talked it over with them, and they all say the same thing: someone will have to follow Colgrim up. Caw has to go north again as soon as may be; he has his own frontier to hold. Urbgen must stay here in Rheged, with his father the king at death's door. So the obvious choice would be Lot or Cador. Well, it cannot be Lot, I think you will agree there: For all his oath of fealty, there in the chapel, I won't trust him yet, and certainly not within reach of Colgrim."

  "I agree. You'll send Cador, then? You can surely have no more doubts of him?"

  Cador, Duke of Cornwall, was indeed the obvious choice. He was a man in the prime of his strength, a seasoned fighter, and loyal. I had once mistakenly thought him Arthur's enemy, and indeed he had had cause to be; but Cador was a man of sense, judicious and far-sighted, who could see beyond his hatred of Uther to the larger vision of a Britain united against the Saxon Terror. So he had supported Arthur. And Arthur, up there in the Perilous Chapel, had declared Cador and his sons the heirs to the kingdom.

  So Arthur said merely: "How could I?" and scowled for a moment longer at the stilus. Then he dropped it on the table, and straightened. "The thing is, with my own leadership so new — " He looked up then, and saw me smiling. The frown vanished, to be replaced by a look I knew: eager, impetuous, the look of a boy, but behind it a man's will that would burn its way through any opposition. His eyes danced. "Yes, you're right, as usual. I'm going myself."

  "And Cador with you?"

  "No. I think I must go without him. After what happened, my father's death, and then the — " he hesitated — "then what happened up in the chapel yonder... if there is to be more fighting, I must be there myself, to lead the armies, and be seen to finish the work we started."

  He paused, as if still expecting question or protest, but I made none.

  "I thought
you would try to prevent me."

  "No. Why? I agree with you. You have to prove yourself to be above luck."

  "That's it exactly." He thought for a moment. "It's hard to put it into words, but ever since you brought me to Luguvallium and presented me to the King, it has seemed — not like a dream exactly, but as if something were using me, using all of us..."

  "Yes. A strong wind blowing, and carrying us all with it."

  "And now the wind has died down," he said, soberly, "and we are left to live Life by our own strength only. As if — well, as if it had all been magic and miracles, and now they had gone. Have you noticed, Merlin, that not one man has spoken of what happened up yonder in the shrine? Already it's as if it had happened well in the past, in some song or story."

  "One can see why. The magic was real, and too strong for many of those who witnessed it, but it has burned down into the memories of all who saw it, and into the memory of the folk who made the songs and legends. Well, that is for the future. But we are here now, and with the work still to do. And one thing is certain; only you can do it. So you must go ahead and do it in your own way."

  The young face relaxed. His hands flattened on the table as he leaned his weight on them. For the first time it could be seen that he was very tired, and that it was a kind of relief to let the weariness sweep over him, and with it the need for sleep.

  "I should have known you would understand. So you see why I must go myself, without Cador. He didn't like it, I confess, but he saw the point in the end. And to be honest, I would have liked him with me... But this is something I must do alone. You might say it's as much for my own reassurance as for the people's. I can say that to you."

  "Do you need reassurance?"

  A hint of a smile. "Not really. In the morning I shall probably be able to believe everything that happened on the battlefield, and know it for real, but now it's still like being in the edges of a dream. Tell me, Merlin, can I ask Cador to go south to escort Queen Ygraine, my mother, from Cornwall?"

  "There's no reason why not. He is Duke of Cornwall, so since Uther's death her home at Tintagel must fall under his protection. If Cador was able to sink his hatred of Uther into the common weal, he must long ago have been able to forgive Ygraine for her betrayal of his father. And now you have declared his sons your heirs to the High Kingdom, so all scores are paid. Yes, send Cador."

  He looked relieved. "Then all's well. I've already sent a courier to her, of course, with the news. Cador should meet her on the road. They will be in Amesbury by the time my father's body arrives there for burial."

  "Do I take it, then, that you want me to escort the body to Amesbury?"

  "If you will. I cannot possibly go myself, as I should, and it must be royally escorted. Better you, perhaps, who knew him, than I, who am so recently royal. Besides, if he is to lie beside Ambrosius in the Dance of the Hanging Stones, you should be there to see the king-stone shifted and the grave made. You'll do that?"

  "Certainly. It should take us, going in a seemly way, about nine days."

  "By that time I should be there myself." A sudden flash. "With average luck, that is. I'm expecting word soon, about Colgrim. I'll be going after him in about four hours' time, as soon as it's full light. Bedwyr goes with me," he added, as if that should be a comfort and a reassurance.

  "And what of King Lot, since I have gathered he does not go with you?"

  At that I got a bland look, and a tone as smooth as any politician's. "He leaves, too, at first light. Not for his own land... not, that is, until I find which way Colgrim went. No, I urged King Lot to go straight to York. I believe Queen Ygraine will go there after the burial, and Lot can receive her. Then, once his marriage with my sister Morgan is celebrated, I suppose I can count him an ally, like it or not. And the rest of the fighting, whatever comes between now and Christmastime, I can do without him."

  "So, I shall see you in Amesbury. And after that?"

  "Caerleon," he said, without hesitation. "If the wars allow it, I shall go there. I've never seen it, and from what Cador tells me it must be my headquarters now."

  "Until the Saxons break the treaty and move in from the south."

  "As of course they will. Until then. God send there will be time to breath first."

  "And to build another stronghold."

  He looked up quickly. "Yes. I was thinking of that. You'll be there to do it?" Then, with sudden urgency: "Merlin, you swear you will always be there?"

  "As long as I am needed. Though it seems to me," I added lightly, "that the eaglet is fledging fast enough already." Then, because I knew what lay behind the sudden uncertainty: "I shall wait for you at Amesbury, and I shall be there to present you to your mother."

  2

  AMESBURY IS LITTLE MORE THAN a village, but since Ambrosius' day it has taken some kind of grandeur to itself, as befits his birthplace, and its nearness to the great monument of the Hanging Stones that stand on the windy Sarum plain. This is a linked circle of vast stone, a gigantic Dance, which was raised first in times beyond men's memory. I had (by what folk persisted in seeing as "magic art") rebuilt the Dance to be Britain's monument of glory, and the burial-place of her kings. Here Uther was to lie beside his brother Ambrosius.

  We brought his body without incident to Amesbury and left it in the monastery there, wrapped in spices and coffined in hollowed oak, under its purple pall before the chapel altar. The King's guard (who had ridden south with his body) stood vigil, and the monks and nuns of Amesbury prayed beside the bier. Queen Ygraine being a Christian, the dead king was to be buried with all the rites and ceremonies of the Christian church, though in life he had barely troubled even to pay lip-service to the Christians' God. Even now he lay with gold coins glinting on his eyelids, to pay the fee of a ferryman who had exacted such toll for centuries longer than Saint Peter of the Gate. The chapel itself had apparently been erected on the site of a Roman shrine; it was little more than an oblong erection of daub and wattle, with wooden shafts holding up a roof of thatch, but it had a floor of fine mosaic work, scrubbed clean and hardly damaged. This, showing scrolls of vine and acanthus, could offend no Christian souls, and a woven rug lay centrally, probably to cover whatever pagan god or goddess floated naked among the grapes.

  The monastery reflected something of Amesbury's new prosperity. It was a miscellaneous collection of buildings huddled anyhow around a cobbled yard, but these were in good repair and the Abbot's house, which had been vacated for the Queen and her train, was well built of stone, with wooden flooring, and a big fireplace at one end with a chimney.

  The headman of the village, too, had a good house, which he made haste to offer me for lodging, but explaining that the King would follow me soon, I left him in an uproar of extra preparation, and betook myself with my servants to the tavern. This was small, with little pretension to comfort, but it was clean, and fires were kept burning high against the autumn chills. The innkeeper remembered me from the time I had lodged there during the rebuilding of the Dance; he still showed the awe that the exploit had raised in him, and made haste to give me the best room, and to promise me fresh poultry and a mutton pie for supper. He showed relief when I told him that I had brought two servants with me, who would serve me in my own chamber, and banished his own staring pot-boys to their posts at the kitchen burners.

  The servants I had brought were two of Arthur's. In recent years, living alone in the Wild Forest, I had cared for myself, and now had none of my own. One was a small, lively man from the hills of Gwynedd; the other was Ulfin, who had been Uther's own servant. The late King had taken him from a rough servitude, and had shown him kindness, which Ulfin repaid with devotion. This would now belong to Arthur, but it would have been cruel to deny Ulfin the chance of following his master's body on its last journey, so I had asked for him by name. By my orders he had gone to the chapel with the bier, and I doubted if I would see him before the funeral was over. Meantime, the Welshman, Lleu, unpacked my boxes and bespoke hot water, and sent t
he more intelligent of the landlord's boys across to the monastery with a message from me to be delivered to the Queen on her arrival. In it I bade her welcome, and offered to wait on her as soon as she should be rested enough to send for me. News of the happenings in Luguvallium she had had already; now I added merely that Arthur was not yet in Amesbury, but was expected in time for the burial.

  I was not in Amesbury when her party arrived. I rode out to the Giants' Dance to see that all was ready for the ceremony, to be told on my return that the Queen and her escort had arrived shortly after noon, and that Ygraine with her ladies was settled into the Abbot's house. Her summons to me came just as afternoon dimmed into evening.

  The sun had gone down in a clouded sky, and when, refusing the offer of an escort, I walked the short distance to the monastery, it was already almost dark. The night was heavy as a pall, a mourning sky, where no stars shone. I remembered the great king-star that had blazed for Ambrosius' death, and my thoughts went again to the King who lay nearby in the chapel, with monks for mourners, and the guards like statues beside the bier. And Ulfin, who, alone of all those who saw him die, had wept for him.

  A chamberlain met me at the monastery gate. Not the monks' porter; this was one of the Queen's own servants, a royal chamberlain I recognized from Cornwall. He knew who I was, of course, and bowed very low, but I could see that he did not recall our last meeting. It was the same man, grown greyer and more bent, who had admitted me to the Queen's presence some three months before Arthur's birth, when she had promised to confide the child to my care. I had been disguised then, for fear of Uther's enmity, and it was plain that the chamberlain did not recognize, in the tall prince at the gate, the humble bearded "doctor" who had called to consult with the Queen.