The Last Enchantment

  It was well after midnight. The sounds of revelry from the town were fainter now, muted with the chill of the hour before dawn. In the King's room the candles had burned low into a welter of honeyed wax. Their scent mingled with the sharp smoke from a lamp that needed trimming.

  Arthur turned sharply on his heel and came back to stand in front of me. He had taken off the crown and jewelled chain, and laid his sword aside, but he still wore the splendid coronation robe. The furred cloak lay across the table like a stream of blood in the lamplight. Through the open door of his bedchamber I could see the covers turned back ready on the great bed, but, late though the hour was, Arthur showed no sign of fatigue. His every movement was infused with a kind of nervous fury.

  He controlled it, speaking quietly. "Merlin, when we spoke that night of what had happened — " A breathing pause, then he changed course with ferocious directness: "When I lay incestuously with Morgause, I asked you what would happen if she should conceive. I remember what you said. I remember it well. Do you?"

  "Yes," I said unwillingly, "I remember it."

  "You said to me, 'The gods are jealous, and they insure against too much glory. Every man carries the seed of his own death, and there must come a term to every life. All that has happened tonight is that you yourself have set that term.' "

  I said nothing. He faced me with the straight, uncompromising look that I was to come to know so well.

  "When you spoke to me like that, were you telling me the truth? Was the prophecy a sure one, or were you finding words of comfort for me, so that I could face what was to come next day?"

  "It was the truth."

  "You meant that if she bore a child to me, you could foresee that he — she? — would be my death?"

  "Arthur," I said, "prophecy does not work like that. I neither knew, in the way most men think of 'knowing,' that Morgause would conceive, nor that the child would be a mortal danger for you. I only knew, all the time you were with the woman, that the birds of death were on my shoulders, weighing me down and stinking of carrion. My heart was heavy with dread, and I could see death, as I thought, linking the two of you together. Death and treachery. But how, I did not know. By the time I understood it, the thing was done, and all that was left was to await what the gods chose to send."

  He paced away from me again, over toward the bedchamber door. He leaned there in silence, his shoulder to the jamb, his face away from me, then thrust himself off and turned. He crossed to the chair behind the big table, sat down, and regarded me, chin on fist. His movements were controlled and smooth, as always, but I, who knew him, could hear the curb-chain ring. He still spoke quietly. "And now we know the carrion-birds were right. She did conceive. You told me something else that night, when I admitted my fault. You said I had sinned unknowingly and was innocent. Is innocence, then, to be punished?"

  "It's not uncommon."

  " 'The sins of the fathers'?"

  I recognized the phrase as a quotation from the Christian scriptures. "Uther's sin," I said, "visited on you."

  "And mine, now, on the child?"

  I said nothing. I did not like the way the interview was going. For the first time, talking with Arthur, I did not seem able to take control. I told myself I was weary, that I was still in the ebbtide of power, that my time would come again; but the truth is I was feeling a little like the fisherman in the Eastern tale who unstopped a bottle and let out a genie many times more powerful than himself.

  "Very well," said the King. "My sin and hers must be visited on the child. It must not be allowed to live. You will go north and tell Morgause so. Or if you prefer, I shall give you a letter telling her so myself."

  I took breath, but he swept on without giving me time to speak.

  "Quite apart from your forebodings — which God knows I would be a fool not to respect — can you not see how dangerous this thing could be now, if Lot should find out about it? It's plain enough what has happened. She feared she might be pregnant, and to save her shame she set herself to snare a husband. Who better than Lot? She had been offered to him before; for all we know she had wanted him, and now saw a chance to outshine her sister and give herself a place and a name, which she would lack after her father's death." His lips thinned. "And who knows better than I that if she set herself to get a man, any man, he would go to her for the whistle?"

  "Arthur, you talk of her 'shame.' You don't think you were the first she took to her bed, do you?"

  He said, a little too quickly: "I never did think so."

  "Then how do you know she had not lain with Lot before you? That she was not already pregnant to him, and took you in the hope of snaring some kind of power and favour to herself? She knew Uther was dying; she feared that Lot, by his action at Luguvallium, had forfeited the King's favour. If she could father Lot's child on you..."

  "This is guesswork. This is not what you said that night."

  "No. But think back. It would fit the facts of my foreboding equally well."

  "But not the force of them," he said sharply. "If the danger from this child is real, then what does it matter who fathered it? Guesswork won't help us."

  "I'm not guessing when I tell you that she and Lot were lovers before ever you went to her bed. I told you I had had a dream that night at Nodens' shrine. I saw them meet at a house some way off an ill-frequented road. It must have been by prearrangement. They met like people who have been lovers for a long time. This child may in fact be Lot's, and not yours."

  "And we've got it the wrong way round? I was the one she whistled up to save her shame?"

  "It's possible. You had come from nowhere, eclipsing Lot as you would soon eclipse Uther. She made her bid to father Lot's child on you, but then had to abandon the attempt, for fear of me."

  He was silent, thinking. "Well," he said at length, "time will tell us. But are we to wait for it? No matter whose child this is, it is a danger; and it doesn't take a prophet to see how that could be... or a god to act on it. If Lot ever knows — or believes — that his eldest child is fathered by me, how long do you think this chary loyalty of his will last? Lothian is a key point, you know that. I need that loyalty; I have to have it. Even if he had wedded my own sister Morgan, I could hardly have trusted him, whereas now..." He threw out a hand, palm up. "Merlin, it's done every day, in every village in the kingdom. Why not in a king's house? Go north for me, and talk to Morgause."

  "You think she would listen? If she had not wanted the child, she would not have scrupled to get rid of it long since. She didn't take you for love, Arthur, and she bears you no friendship for letting her be driven from court. And to me" — I smiled sourly — "she bears a most emphatic and justified ill-will. She would laugh in my face. More than that: she would listen, and laugh at the power her action had given her over us, and then she would do whatever she thought would hurt us most."

  "But —"

  "You thought she might have persuaded Lot into marriage merely for her own sake, or to score from her sister. No. She took him because I foiled her plans to corrupt and own you, and because at heart, whatever the time may force him to do now, Lot is your enemy and mine, and through him she may one day do you harm."

  A sharpening silence. "Do you believe this?"

  "Yes."

  He stirred. "Then I am still right. She must not bear the child."

  "What are you going to do? Pay someone to bake her bread with ergot?"

  "You will find some way. You will go —"

  "I will do nothing in the matter."

  He came to his feet, like a bow snapping upright when the string breaks. His eyes glittered in the candlelight. "You told me you were my servant. You made me King, you said by the god's wish. Now I am King, and you will obey me."

  I was taller than he, by two fingers' breadth. I had outfaced kings before, and he was very young. I gave it just long enough, then said, gently:

  "I am your servant, Arthur, but I serve the god first. Do not make me choose. I have to let him work the way he
wills."

  He held my eyes a moment longer, then drew a long breath, and released it as if it had been a weight he was holding. "To do this? To destroy, perhaps, the very kingdom you said he had sent me to build?"

  "If he sent you to build it, then it will be built. Arthur, I don't pretend to understand this. I can only tell you to trust the time, as I do, and wait. Now, do as you did before, put it aside and try to forget it. Leave it with me."

  "What will you do?"

  "Go north."

  A moment of quickening stillness, then he said: "To Lothian? But you said you would not go."

  "No. I said I would do nothing about killing the child. But I can watch Morgause, and perhaps, in time, judge better what we must do. I will send to tell you what happens."

  There was another silence. Then the tension went out of him, and he turned away, beginning to loosen the clasp of his belt. "Very well." He started to ask some question, then bit it back and smiled at me. Having shown the whip, he was now concerned, it seemed, to retreat on the old trust and affection. "But you will stay for the rest of the feasting: If the wars allow, I have to stay here myself for eight days before I can take horse again."

  "No. I think I must be gone. Better perhaps while Lot is still here with you. That way I can melt into the countryside before ever he gets home, and watch and wait, and take what action I can. With your leave, I'll go tomorrow morning."

  "Who goes with you?"

  "Nobody. I can travel alone."

  "You must take someone. It's not like riding home to Maridunum. Besides, you may need a messenger."

  "I'll use your couriers."

  "All the same..." He had got the belt undone. He threw it over a chair. "Ulfin!"

  A sound from the next room, then discreet footsteps. Ulfin, carrying a long bedgown over one arm, came in from the bedchamber, stifling a yawn. "My lord?"

  "Have you been in there all the while?" I asked sharply.

  Ulfin, wooden-faced, reached to undo the clasps at the King's shoulder. He held the long outer robe as the King stepped out of it. "I was asleep, my lord."

  Arthur sat down and thrust out a foot. Ulfin knelt to ease the shoe from it. "Ulfin, my cousin Prince Merlin goes north tomorrow, on what may prove a long and hard journey. I shall dislike losing you, but I want you to go with him."

  Ulfin, shoe in hand, looked up at me and smiled. "Willingly."

  "Should you not stay with the King?" I protested. "This week of all weeks —"

  "I do as he tells me," said Ulfin simply, and stooped to the other foot.

  As you do, in the end. Arthur did not say the words aloud, but they were there in the quick glance he gave me as he stood again for Ulfin to gird the bedgown round him.

  I gave up. "Very well. I shall be glad to have you. We leave tomorrow, and I should warn you that we may be away for some considerable time." I gave him what instructions I could, then turned back to Arthur. "Now, I had better go. I doubt if I shall see you before I set off. I'll send you word as soon as I can. No doubt I shall know where you are."

  "No doubt." He sounded all at once grim, very much the war-leader. "Can you spare a moment or two more? Thank you, Ulfin, leave us now. You'll have your own preparations to make... Merlin, come and see my new toy."

  "Another?"

  "Another? Oh, you're thinking about the cavalry. Have you seen the horses Bedwyr brought?"

  "Not yet. Valerius told me about them."

  His eyes kindled. "They are splendid! Fast, fiery, and gentle. I am told they can live on hard rations if they have to, and that their hearts are so high that they will gallop all day, and then fight with you to the death. Bedwyr brought grooms with them. If everything they say is true, then surely we shall have a cavalry force to conquer the world! There are two trained stallions, white ones, that are real beauties, even finer than my Canrith. Bedwyr chose them especially for me. Over here..." As he spoke he led the way across the room toward a pillared archway closed by a curtain. "I haven't had time to try them yet, but surely I can throw off my chains for an hour or two tomorrow?"

  His voice was that of a restive boy. I laughed. "I hope so. I am more fortunate than the King: I shall be on my way."

  "On your old black gelding, no doubt."

  "Not even that. A mule."

  "A mule? Ah, of course. You go disguised?"

  "I must. I can hardly ride into Lothian's stronghold as Prince Merlin."

  "Well, take care. You're certain you don't want an escort, at least for the first part of the way?"

  "Certain. I shall be safe. What's this you are going to show me?"

  "Only a map. Here."

  He pulled the curtain back. Beyond it was a kind of anteroom, little more than a broad portico giving on a small private courtyard. Torchlight winked on the spears of the guards on duty there, but otherwise the place was empty, bare even of furniture except for a huge table, rough-adzed out of oak. It was a map table, but instead of the usual sandtray it held, I saw, a map made of clay, with mountains and valleys, coasts and rivers, modelled by some clever sculptor, so that there, plain to see, lay the land of Britain as a high-flying bird might view it from the heavens.

  Arthur was plainly delighted at my praise. "I knew you would be interested! They only finished setting it up yesterday. Splendid, isn't it? Do you remember teaching me to make maps in the dust? This is better than scraping the sand into hills and valleys that change when you breathe on them. Of course, it can still be remodelled as we find out more. North of Strathclyde is anybody's guess... but then, by God's mercy, nothing north of Strathclyde need concern me. Not yet, anyway." He fingered a peg, carved and coloured like a red dragon, that stood over "Caerleon." "Now, which way do you plan to go tomorrow?"

  "I thought, by the west road through Deva and Bremet. I have a call to make at Vindolanda."

  His finger followed the route northward till it reached Bremetennacum (which is commonly spoken of now as Bremet), and paused. "Will you do something for me?"

  "Willingly."

  "Go by the east. It's not so much farther, and the road is better for most of the way. Here, see? If you turn off at Bremet, you'll take this road through the mountain gap." His finger traced it out: east from Bremetennacum, up the old road following the Tribuit River, then over the pass and down through Olicana into the Vale of York. There Dere Street runs, a good, fast highway still, up through Corstopitum and the Wall and thence still north, right into Manau Guotodin, where lies Lot's capital of Dunpeldyr.

  "You'll have to retrace your steps for Vindolanda," said Arthur, "but not far. You'll lose nothing in time, I believe. It's the road through the Pennine Gap that I want you to take. I've never been that way myself. I've had reports that it's quite feasible — you should have no difficulty, just the two of you — but it's too broken in places for a troop of cavalry. I shall be sending parties up to repair it. I shall have to fortify it, too... you agree? With parts of the eastern seaboard so open to the enemy, if they should get a grip on the easterly plains this will be their way into our British heartland in the west. There are two forts there already; I am told they could be made good. I want you to look at them for me. Don't take time over it; I can get detailed reports from the surveyors; but if you can go that way, I would like to have your thoughts about it."

  "You shall have them."

  As he straightened from the map, a cock crowed outside somewhere. The courtyard was grey. He said quietly: "For the other matter we spoke of, I am in your hands. God knows I should be thankful to be so." He smiled. "Now we had better get to our beds. You have a journey to face, and I another day of pleasure. I envy you! Good night, and God go with you."

  8

  NEXT DAY, FURNISHED WITH FOOD for two days' journey, and three good mules from one of the baggage trains, Ulfin and I set off on the journey northward.

  I had made journeys before in circumstances as dangerous as this, when to be recognized would be to court disaster, or even death. I had, perforce, become adept at di
sguise; this had given rise to yet another legend about "the enchanter," that he could vanish at will into thin air to escape his enemies. I had certainly perfected the art of melting into a landscape: what I did in fact was assume the tools of some trade, and then frequent places where no one would expect a prince to be. Men's eyes are focused on what, not who, a traveller is, who goes labelled with his skill. I had travelled as a singer when I needed access to a prince's court as well as a humble tavern, but more often I went as a travelling physician or eyedoctor. This was the guise I liked best. It allowed me to practise my skill where it was most needed, among the poor, and it gave me access to any kind of house except the noblest.

  This was the disguise I chose now. I took my small harp, but only for my private use: I dared not risk my skill as a singer earning me a summons to Lot's court. So the harp, muffled and wrapped into anonymity, hung on the baggage-mule's shabby saddle, while my boxes of unguents and roll of implements were carried plain to be seen.

  The first part of our way I knew well, but after we reached Bremetennacum, and turned toward the Pennine Gap, the country was unfamiliar.

  The Gap is formed by the valleys of three great rivers. Two of these, the Wharfe and the Isara, spring from the limestone on the Pennine tops and flow, meandering, eastward. The other, an important stream with countless smaller tributaries, lapses toward the west. It is called the Tribuit. Once through the Gap and into the valley of the Tribuit, an enemy's way would be clear to the west coast, and the last embattled corners of Britain.

  Arthur had spoken of two forts lying within the Gap itself. I had gathered from seemingly idle questions put to local men in the tavern at Bremetennacum that in times past there had been a third fort guarding the western mouth of the pass, where the Tribuit Valley widens out toward the lowlands and the coast. It had been built by the Romans as a temporary marching camp, so much of the turf and timber structure would have decayed and vanished, but it occurred to me that the road serving it would stand a survey, and, if it were still in reasonable condition, could provide a quick corner-cut for cavalry coming down from Rheged to defend the Gap.