THE WICKED DAY By the same author mary
stewart's merlin trilogy THE LAST ENCHANTMENT
THE HOLLOW HILLS THE CRYSTAL CAVE
Mary Stewart
THE WICKED DAY
William Morrow and Company, I New
York
Copyright [*curren] 1983 by Mary Stewart
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced or utilized in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the Publisher. Inquiries should be addressed
to William Morrow and Company, Inc., 105
Madison Avenue, New York, N.y.
10016.
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 0-688-02507-
To Geordie Haddington with deep affection
CONTENTS
Prologue 11 book i: The Boy from the
Sea 21 book n: The Witch's Sons 137
book ill: The Wicked Day 231 Epilogue
305 The Legend 306 Author's Note 311
PROLOGUE
"Merlin is dead." It was no more than a whisper,
and the man who breathed it was barely at arm's length from
the woman, his wife, but the walls of the cottage's
single room seemed to catch and throw the sentence on like
a whispering gallery. And on the woman the effect was
as startling as if he had shouted. Her hand, which had
been rocking the big cradle beside the turf fire,
jerked sharply, so that the child curled under the blankets
woke, and whimpered. For once she ignored him.
Her blue eyes, incongruously pale and bright in
a face as brown and withered as dried seaweed, showed a
shifting mixture of hope, doubt and fear. There was
no need to ask her man where he had got the news.
Earlier that day she had seen the sail of the trading
ship standing in towards the bay where, above the
cluster of dwellings that formed the only township on the
island, the queen's new house stood, commanding the main
harbour. The fishermen at their nets beyond the headland were
wont to pull close in to an incomer's course and
shout for news. Her mouth opened as if a hundred
questions trembled there, but she asked only one. "Can it
really be true?" "Aye, this time it's true. They
swore it." One of the woman's hands went to her
breast, making the sign against enchantment. But she still
looked doubtful. "Well, but they said the same last
autumn, when--" she hesitated, then gave the
pronoun a weight that seemed to make a title of
it, "--when She was still down in Dunpeldyour with the little
prince, and expecting the twin babies. I mind it
well. You'd gone down to the harbour when the trader
put in from Lothian, and when you brought the pay home
you told me what the captain said. There'd been a
feast made at the palace there, even before the news
came in of Merlin's death. She must have 'seen" it
with her magic, he said. But in the end it wasn't
true. It was only a vanishing, like he'd done before,
many a time." "Aye, that's true. He did vanish
away, all through the winter, no one knows where. And a
bad winter it was, too, the same as here, but his
magic kept him alive, because they found him in
the end, in the Wild Forest, as crazy as a hare, and
they took him up to Galava to nurse him. Now they
say he took sick and died there, before ever the High
King got back from the wars. It's true enough this time,
wife, and we've got it first, direct. The 12
ship picked it up when they put in for water at
Glannaventa, with Merlin lying dead in his bed not
forty miles off. There was a lot else, news about
some more fighting down south of the Forest, and another
victory for the High King, but the wind was too strong
to catch all they said, and I couldn't get the boat in
any nearer. I'll go up to the town now and get the
rest." He dropped his voice still further, a thread
of hoarse sound. "It isn't everyone in the kingdom will
go into mourning for this news, not even those that were tied in
blood. You mark my words, Sula, there'll be
another feast at the palace tonight." As he spoke
he gave a half-glance over his shoulder towards the
cottage door, as if afraid that someone might be
listening there. He was a small, stocky man, with the
blue eyes and weather-beaten face of a sailor.
He was a fisherman, who all his life had plied his
trade from this lonely bay on the biggest island of the
Orkney group, the one they called Mainland. Though
rough-seeming and slow-witted, he was an
honest man, and good at his trade. His name was
Brude, and he was thirty- seven years old. His
wife, Sula, was four years younger, but so stiff with
rheumatism and so bent by heavy toil that she already
looked an old woman. It seemed impossible that
the child in the cradle could have been borne by her. And
indeed, there was no resemblance. The child, a boy some
two years old, was dark-eyed and dark-haired, with
none of the Nordic colouring that appeared so often
among the folk of the Orkney Islands. The hand that
clutched the blankets of the cradle was fine-boned and
narrow, the dark hair thick and silky, and there was a
slant tothe brows and the long-lashed eyes that might
even indicate some strain of foreign blood. Nor
was the child the only incongruous thing about the place. The
cottage itself was very small, little more than a hovel.
It was set on a flat patch of salty turf a
little way back from the shore, protected to either side
by the rise of the land towards the dins that enclosed the
bay, and from the tides by the rocky ridge that bordered
the shore and held back the piled boulders of the storm
beach. Inland lay the moors, from which a tiny stream
came trickling, to splash in a miniature
waterfall down past the cottage to the beach. Some
way in from the tide-line it had been dammed
to form a makeshift reservoir. The cottage
walls were built of stones gathered from the storm beach.
These were flat slabs of sandstone, broken from the
cliffs by wind and sea, and weathered naturally, making
a simple kind of dry-stone walling, easy to do, and
reasonably close against the weather. No mortar was
used, but the cracks were caulked with mud. Each
storm that came washed some of the mud away, and then more
had to be added, so that from a distance the cottage looked
like nothing more than a crude box of smoothed mud, with

a thatch of rough heather-stems capping it. The
thatch was held down by old, patched fishing nets, the
ends of which were weighted with stones. There were no windows.
The doorway was low and squat, so that a man had
to bend double to enter. It was covered only with a curtain
of deersk- sin, roughly tanned and as stiff as
wood. The smoke from the fire within came seeping in
sullen wisps round the edges of the skin.
But inside, this poorest of poor dwellings showed
some glimpses of simple comfort. Though the child's
cradle was of old, warped wood, the blankets were
soft and brightly dyed, and the pillow was stuffed with
feathers. On the stone shelf that served the couple for a
bed was a thick, almost luxurious coverlet
of sealskin, spotted and deep-piled, a quality of
skin which would normally go by right to the house of one of the
warriors, or even the queen herself. And on the table
--a worm-ridden slab of sea- wrack propped
on stones, for wood was scarce in the Orkneys--
stood the remains of a good meal: not red meat, indeed,
but a couple of gnawed wings of chicken and a pot of
goosegrease to go with the black bread.
The cottagers themselves were poorly enough dressed.
Brude had on a short, much-mended tunic, with
over it the sleeveless coat of sheepskin which, in
summer and winter, protected him from the weather at
sea. His legs and feet were thickly wrapped in
rags. Sula's gown was a shapeless affair of
moss-dyed homespun, girdled with a length of rope
such as she wove for her husband's nets. Her
feet, too, were bound up in rags. But outside the
cottage, beached above the tidemark of black weed
and smashed shells, lay a good boat, as good as any
in the islands, and the nets spread to dry over the
boulders were far better than Brude could have made.
They were a foreign import, made of materials
unobtainable in the northern isles, and would normally
be beyond the means of such a household. Brude's own
lines, hand-twisted from reeds and dried
wrack, stretched from the cottage's thatch to heavy
anchorstones on the turf. On the lines hung the
split carcasses of drying fish, and a couple of
big sea- birds, gannets, Sula's namesake.
These, dried and stored, and eked out with shellfish and
seaweeds, would be winter food. The promise of
better fare, however, was there with the half-dozen hens
foraging along the tide- mark, and the heavy-uddered
she-goat tethered on the salt grass. It was a
bright day of early summer. May, in the islands, can
be as cruel as any other month, but this was a day of
sunshine and mild breezes. The stones of the beach
looked grey and turquoise and rosy-red, the sea
creamed against them peacefully, and the turf of the ridge
behind was thick with sea-pink and primrose and red
campion. Every ledge of the cliffs that bounded the bay was
crowded with seabirds claiming and disputing their nesting
territory, and nearer, on shingle or turf, the pied
oystercatchers brooded their eggs or flew,
screaming, to and fro along the

tide. The air was loud with their cries. Even had
there been a listener outside the cottage doorway,
he could have heard nothing for the noise of the sea and the
birds, but inside the room the furtive
hush persisted. The woman said nothing, but
apprehension still showed in her face, and she put up a
sleeve to dab at her eyes. Her husband spoke
impatiently.
"What is it, woman? You're never grieving for the
old enchanter? Whatever Merlin was to King Arthur and
to the mainland folks with his magic, he's been nought
to us here. He was old, besides, and even though men said
he'd never die, it seems he was mortal after
all. What's there to weep for in that?"
"I'm not weeping for him, why should I? But I'm
afeared, Brude, I'm afeared."
"For what?"
"Not for us. For him." She gave a half-glance
towards the cradle where the boy, awake but still drowsy
from his afternoon's sleep, lay quietly, curled
small under the blankets. "For him?" asked her
husband, surprised. "Why? Surely all's
well for us now, and for him, too. With Merlin gone, that
was enemy to our King Lot, and by all accounts to this boy
of his as well, who's to harm him now, or us for
keeping him? Maybe we can stop watching now in
case other folks see him and start asking questions.
Maybe he can run out now and play like other children, not
hang on your skirts all day, and be
babied like you've had him. You'd not keep him in much
longer, anyway. He's long since grown beyond that
cradle."
"I know, I know. That's what I'm feared of,
don't you see? Losing him. When the time comes for
Her to take him back from us--" "Why should it? If
she didn't take him away when the news came of
King Lot's death, why should she do it now? Look,
wife. When the king her husband went, you'd have thought that
was when she'd see to it that his bastard went, too,
quietly-like. That was when I was afeared, myself. When
all's said, it's the little prince, Gawain, that's king
of the Orkneys now, by right, but with this boy, bastard or
not, nearly--what?--nearly a year older, there's
some might say--" "Some might say too much."
Sula spoke sharply, and with such patent fear that
Brude, startled, took a stride to the doorway,
jerked the curtain aside, and peered out.
"What ails you? There's no one there. And if there
were, they'd hear nothing. The wind's getting up,
and the tide's well in. Listen." She shook her
head. She was staring at the child. Her tears had dried.
When she spoke, it was barely above a whisper. "Not
outside. There's no folk could get near enough without
we heard 15
the sea-pies screaming. It's here in the house we
need to watch. Look at him. He's not a baby
now. He listens, and sometimes you'd swear he
understood every word."
The man trod to the cradle's side and looked
down. His face softened. "Well, if he
doesn't, he soon will. The gods know he's forward
enough. We've done what we've been paid for--and more,
seeing what a sickly wean he was when we took him
first. Now look at him. Any man might be proud
of a son like him." He turned away, reaching for the
staff that stood propped beside the doorway. "Look
you, Sula, if any ill had been coming, it would have
come before this. If harm was meant to him, the payments would
have stopped, wouldn't they? So stop your fretting.
You've no call now to be fearful."
She nodded, but without looking at him. "Yes. It
was simple of me. You're right, I dare say."
"It's a few years yet before young Gawain will be
troubling his head about kingdoms, and king's bastards, and
by that time this one might well be forgotten. And if that
means they stop the payments, who cares for that? A
man needs a son to help him, in my trade."
She looked up at him then, and smiled. "You're
a good man, Brude." "Well," he said
gruffly, pushing aside the curtain, "let's have an
end to this. I'm going up to the town now, to hear what
other news the sailors brought."
Left alone with the child, the woman sat for a while
without moving, the fear still in her face. Then the boy's
hand reached towards her, and she smiled suddenly, a
smile that brought youth back, bright and pretty, to her
cheeks and eyes. She leaned to lift him from the
cradle, and set him on her knee. She picked
up a crust of the black bread from the table, sopped it
in a beaker of goat's milk, and held it to his
lips. The boy took the bread and began to eat it,
his dark head cuddled into her shoulder. She laid her
cheek against his hair, and put a hand up to stroke it.
"Men are fools, so they are," she said softly.
"They never see what's staring them in the eye. You'll
be no fool, though, my bonny, not with the blood that's
in you, and the way those eyes look and see right through to the
back of things, and you only a baby still. . . ."
She gave a little laugh, her mouth against the child's
hair, and the boy smiled at the sound.
"King Lot's bastard, is it? Well, so they
say, and better so. But if they saw what I see,
and knew what I guessed at, ah, these many months
past . . ."
She rocked the child closer, calming herself, sending
her mind back to those summer nights two years ago
when Brude, with a gift of gold ensuring his silence,
had put out, not to his accustomed fishing ground, but
farther west, into deeper water. For four nights he
had waited there, grum-

bling at the loss of his catch, but kept faithful
and silent by the gift of gold and the queen's
promise. Then on the fifth night, a calm,
twilit night of the Orkney summer, the ship from
Dunpeldyour had stolen into the sound and dropped
anchor, and a boat put out from her side with three
men, queen's soldiers, rowing it. Brude answered
their soft hail, and presently the thwarts of the two
craft rubbed together. A bundle passed. The larger
boat dipped away and vanished. Brude turned his
own boat landward, and made all speed to the
cottage where Sula waited by the empty cradle,
holding on her lap the shawl that she had woven for her
own dead child.
A bastard, that was all they had been told. A
royal bastard. And as such a danger, somewhere,
to someone. But some day, perhaps, to be useful. So keep
silent, and nurture him, and your reward
may one day be great. . . .
The reward had long since ceased to matter
to Sula. She lived with the only reward she needed,
the child himself. But she lived, too, with the constant fear that
some day, when it became expedient to one or the other
remote and royal personage, her boy would be
taken from her. She had long ago formed her own
guesses as to the identity of these personages, though
she knew better than to speak of them, even to her
husband. Not King Lot; of that she was certain. She
had seen his other children by the queen; they had
Morgause's red-gold hair and their father's high
colour and sturdy build. No such signs
identified her foster child. The dark hair and eyes
might, indeed, have been Lot's, but their setting, with the
line of brow and cheek-bone, was quite different. And
something in the mouth, the hands, the slender build and
warm, clear skin, some elusive way of moving and
looking, marked him, to Sula's constantly watching
eyes, as the queen's child, but not the king's.
And, this once granted, other things became clear:
the queen's men who had hurried the child out of
Dunpeldyour before King Lot arrived home there from the
wars; the subsequent massacre of all the town's
infants in an attempt to catch and destroy
that one child, a massacre attributed by Lot and his
queen to King Arthur and his adviser Merlin, but
instigated in fact (it was whispered) by King Lot
himself; and the regular payments, in cash and kind, that
came secretly from the palace, where, during the child's
lifetime, King Lot had rarely set foot. From the
queen, then. And even now that King Lot was dead, she
paid still, and still the child was safe. This, to Sula, was all
the proof that was needed. Queen Morgause, a lady
not renowned for gentleness, would hardly so have nurtured
her husband's bastard; a bastard, moreover, older
than the eldest legitimate prince, and as such,
arguably, with a prior claim to the kingdom.
Queen's bastard, then. By whom? To Sula's mind
there was no doubt there, either. She had never laid
eyes on Queen Morgause's half-brother,
Arthur the High King of Britain, but like everyone
else she had heard

many tales of that wonder-working young man. And the first
of those tales was that of the great battle of
Luguvallium, where the boy Arthur, appearing
suddenly at King Uther's side, had led his
troops to victory. Afterwards--so the tale went,
told with pride and indulgence--he had gone,
still ignorant of his true parentage, to lie with
Morgause, who was Uther's bastard daughter, and so
Arthur's own half-sister.
The timing was right. The child's age, and looks, and
ways were right. And those rumours about the massacre at
Dunpeldyour, whether ordered by Lot or by Merlin,
were accounted for, and even--such were the ways of the great--
justified.
Now Lot was dead, and Merlin, too. King
Arthur had other and greater matters on his mind, and
besides--if all the tales that reached the taverns were
true--by th time he had other bastards by the score, and
had shut this shameful begetting from his mind, or else
forgotten it. As for Morgause, she would not kill
her own son. Never that. But with King Lot gone, and
Merlin gone, and the High King far away, why should she
leave him here any longer? Why any more need to keep
him secret in this lonely place?
She clutched the child closer, her fear cold and
heavy in her. "The Goddess keep you safe, make
her forget you. Make her forget you. Leave you here.
My bonny, my Mordred, my boy from the sea."
The child, roused by the sudden movement, tightened his arms
round her and said something. It was inaudible, muffled against
her neck, but she caught her breath and fell
silent, rocking, staring over the child's head at the
cottage wall.
After a while the small, ordinary sounds of the
room, and the long hush of the sea outside, seemed
to calm her. The child drowsed in her arms. Softly,
she began to sing him back to sleep.
From the sea you came, my prince, my Mordred.
You escaped the fay with the long hair that
tosses on the waves. You came from her sister,
the sea-queen Who eats drowned sailors, who
draws the boats Down into deep waters. You came
to the land, to be prince of the land, and you will grow, grow,
grow . . .
Queen Morgause did not make a feast that
night. When the fresh news was brought of the hated
enchanter's death she sat for a long time very still, then,
taking a lamp in her hand, she left the bright hall
where the talk was still going noisily round, and made her
way

to the sealed chambers underground where she worked her dark
magic, and waited for such glimmers of Sight as
came to her. In the first chamber, her stillroom, a
half-empty flask stood on the table. In it was the
remains of the poison she had mixed for
Merlin. Smiling, she caret . passed through another
door, and knelt by the pool of seeing, i
Nothing came clearly. A bedchamber, with a
curved wall; a tower room, then? The bed with a man
in it, still as death. And he looked like death: a very old
man, gaunt as a skeleton, with grey hair
straggling on the pillow, and a matted grey beard.
She did not recognize him. He opened his eyes,
and it was Merlin. The dark, terrifying eyes, set in
that grey skull, looked straight across the miles,
across the seas, into hers where she knelt by the secret
pool. Morgause, crouching there with her hands to her
belly, as if she would guard Lot's last,
unborn child, knew then that once more the reports were
false. Merlin lived still, and, prematurely aged
as he was, with his health wrecked by the poison, he
still had power enough to bring her and her plans to nothing.
Kneeling there, she began a frantic, frightened
spell that, in the old man's weakened state, might
serve to protect herself and her brood of sons from
Arthur's vengeance.
BOOK I
THE BOY FROM THE SEA
The boy was alone in the summer world with the singing of the
honey bees.
He lay flat on his back in the heather at the
head of the cliff. Not far from him was the straight-cut
line of dark turf where he had been working. The
squared peats, stacked like slices of black bread
along the ditched gash, were drying in the hot sun.
He had been working since daybreak, and the line was a
long one. Now the mattock lay idle against the
peats while the boy drowsed after his midday meal.
One hand, outflung on the heather, still held the
remains of a barley bannock. His mother's two
hives @ucrude skeps of barley straw@ustood
fifty paces in from the brink of the cliff. The heather
smelled sweet and heady, like the mead that would be made
from the honey. To and fro, sometimes within a finger's
breadth of his face, the bees hurtled like slingshot.
The only other sound in the drowsy afternoon was the crying,
remote below him, of the seabirds at their nests along
the cliff.
Something changed in the note of that crying. The boy
opened his eyes, and lay still, listening. Underneath the
new, disturbed screaming of kittiwakes and
razorbills, he heard the deeper, four-fold
alarm note of the big gulls. He himself had not
moved for half an hour or more, and in any case they
were used to him. He turned his head, to see a
flock of wheeling wings rise like blown snow above the
cliff's edge some hundred paces away. There was
a cove there, a deep inlet with no beach below.
Hundreds of seabirds nested there, guillemots,
shags, kitti wakes, and with them the big falcon.
He could see her now, flying with the gulls that screamed
to and fro. The boy sat up. He could see no
boat in the bay, but then a boat would hardly have
caused such a disturbance among the high-nesting
colonies on the cliff. An eagle? He could
see none. At the most, he thought, it might be a
predatory raven after the young ones, but any change in
the monotony of the day's work was to be welcomed. He
scrambled to his feet. Finding the remains of the
bannock still in his hand, he made as if to eat it,
then saw a beetle on it, and threw it away with a
look of disgust. He ran across the heather towards the
cove where the disturbance was.
He reached the edge and peered down. The birds
flung themselves higher, screaming. Puffins hurtled from
the rock below him in clumsy glide, legs wide and
wings held stiffly. The big black-backed gulls
vented
their harsh cries. The whitened ledges where
the kittiwakes sat in rows on their nests were
empty of adult birds, which were weaving and screaming in
the air.
He lay down, inching forward to peer directly
down the cliff. The birds were diving in past a
buttress of rock where wild thyme and sea-pink
made a thick carpet splashed with white. Clumps
of rose-root stirred in the wind of their wings. Then,
among all the commotion, he heard a new sound, a
cry like the cry of a gull, but somehow subtly
different. A human cry. It came from somewhere
well down the cliff, out of sight beyond the rocky
buttress where the birds wheeled most thickly.
He moved carefully back from the edge, and got
slowly to his feet. There was no beach at the foot
of the cliff, nowhere to leave a boat, nothing but the
steadily beating, echoing sea. The climber had gone
down and there could only be one reason for trying
to climb down here. "The fool," he said with
contempt. "Doesn't he know that the eggs will all be
hatched now?" Half reluctantly he picked his
way along the cliff top to a point from which he could
see, stranded on a ledge beyond the buttress, another
boy.
It was no one he knew. Out in this lonely
corner of the island there were few families, and with the
sons of the other fishermen Brude's son had never
felt in tune. And oddly enough his parents had never
encouraged him to mix with them, even as a child. Now, at
ten years old, well grown and full of a wiry
strength, he had helped his father with the man's jobs
already for several years. It was a long time since, on
his rare days off, he had troubled with children's ploys.
Not that, for such as he, birds'-nesting was a child's
game; still,, each spring, he made his way down these
very cliffs to collect the freshly laid eggs for
food. And later he and his father, armed with nets, would
come to catch the young ones for Sula to skin and dry against
the winter's hardships.
So he knew the ways down the cliff well
enough. He also knew how dangerous they were, and the
thought of being burdened with someone clumsy enough to strand
himself, and probably by now thoroughly scared, was not
pleasant.
The boy had seen him. His face was upturned, and
he waved and called again.
Mordred made a face, then cupped his hands
to his mouth. "What is it? Can't you get back?"
A vivid pantomime from below. It seemed
unlikely that the climber could hear what was
said, but the question was obvious, and so, too, was his
answer. He had hurt his leg, otherwise--and
somehow his gestures conveyed this clearly--he would not have
dreamed of calling for help.
This bravado had little or no effect on the boy
at the head of the cliff.

With a shrug that indicated more boredom than anything
else, the fisherman's son began the climb down.
It was difficult, and in two or three places
dangerous, so Mordred went slowly, taking his time.
At length he landed on the ledge beside the climber.
The boys studied one another. The fisherman's
son saw a boy of much his own age, with a shock of
bright red-gold hair and hazel-green eyes. His
complexion was clear and ruddy, his teeth good. And
though his clothes were torn and stained with the dirt of the
cliff, they were well made of good cloth, and brightly
dyed in what looked like expensive colours. On
one wrist he wore a copper bracelet no brighter
than his hair. He sat with one leg over the other,
gripping the hurt ankle tightly in both hands.
He was obviously in pain, but when Mordred, with the
working man's contempt for his idle betters, looked
for signs of tears, he saw none.
"You've hurt your ankle?"
"Twisted it. I slipped."
"Is it broken?"
"I don't think so, just sprained. It hurts if
I try to stand on it. I must say I'm glad
to see you! I seem to have been here for ages. I
didn't think anyone would be near enough to hear me,
specially through all that noise."
"I didn't hear you. I saw the gulls."
"Well, thank the gods for that. You're a
pretty good climber, aren't you?"
"I know these cliffs. I live near here. All
right, we'll have to try it. Get up and let's see
how you manage. Can't you put that foot down at
all?"
The red-haired boy hesitated, looking faintly
surprised, as if the other's tone was strange to him.
But all he said was: "I can try. I did try
before, and it made me feel sick. I don't think
--some of those places were pretty bad, weren't they?
Hadn't you better go and get help? Tell them
to bring a rope."
"There's no one within miles." Mordred spoke
impatiently. "My father's away with the boat.
There's only Mother, and she'd be no use.
I can get a rope, though. I've got one up at
the peats. We'll manage all right with that."
"Fine." There was some attempt at a gay
smile. "I'll wait for you, don't fret! But
don't be too long, will you? They'll be worried at
home."
At Brude's cottage, thought Mordred, his
absence would never have been noticed. Boys such as he
would have to break a leg and be away for a working day before
anyone would start to trouble. No, that was not quite fair.
Brude and Sula sometimes were as anxious over him as
fowls with a single chicken. He had never seen why;
he had ailed nothing in all his life.

As he turned to go he caught sight of a small
lidded basket on the ledge beside the other boy.
"I'll take that basket up now. Save trouble
later."
"No, thanks. I'd sooner bring it up myself.
It'll be all right, it hooks on to my belt."
So, maybe he had found some eggs, thought
Mordred, then forgot all about it as he turned himself
back to the cliff climb. Beside the peat cuttings was
the crude sled of driftwood that was used to drag the
cut sods down to the stack beside the cottage.
Fastened to the sled was a length of reasonably good
rope. Mordred slipped this from its rings as quickly as
he could, then ran back to the cliff, and once again
made the slow climb down.
The injured boy looked composed and cheerful. He
caught the rope's end and, with Mordred's help,
made it fast to his belt. This was a good
one, strongly made of polished leather, with what
looked like silver studs and buckle. The basket was
already clipped there. Then began the struggle to the top.
This took a very long time, with frequent pauses for
rest, or for working out how best the injured boy might
be helped up each section of the climb. He was
obviously in pain, but made no complaint, and
obeyed Mordred's sometimes peremptory instructions
without hesitation or any show of fear. Sometimes
Mordred would climb ahead and make the rope fast
where he could, then descend to help the other boy with the
support of arm or shoulder. In places they
crawled, or edged along, belly to rock, while
all the time the seabirds screamed and wheeled, the wind
of their wings stirring the grasses on the very cliff, and
their cries echoed and re-echoed to and fro over the
deeper thud and wash of the waves. At last it was
over. The two boys reached the top
safely, and pulled themselves over the last few feet
onto the heather. They sat there, panting and sweating,
and eyeing one another, this time with satisfaction and
mutual respect.
"You have my thanks." The red-haired boy spoke
with a kind of formality that gave the words a weight of
genuine seriousness. "And I'm sorry to have given you
that trouble. Once down that cliff would be enough for
anyone, but you were up and down it as spry as a
goat." "I'm used to it. We take eggs in the
spring, and then the young birds later. But it's a bad
bit of rock. It looks so easy, with the stone
weathered into slabs like that, but it's not safe, not safe
at all." "You don't need to tell me now. That was
what happened. It looked like a safe step, but it
broke. I was lucky to get off with just a sprained
ankle. And lucky that you were there, too. I hadn't
seen anyone all day. You said you lived near here?"

"Yes. In a bay about half a mile over
yonder. Seals' Bay, it's called. My father's
a fisherman."
"What's your name?"
"Mordred. What's yours?"
That faint look of surprise again, as if
Mordred should have known. "Gawain."
It obviously meant nothing to the fisherman's
son. He touched the basket which Gawain had set
on the grass between them. From it came curious hissing
sounds. "What's in there? I thought it couldn't be
eggs."
"A couple of young peregrines. Didn't you see
the falcon? I was half afraid she'd come and
knock me off the ledge, but she contented herself with
screaming. I left two others, anyway." He
grinned. "Of course I got the best ones."
Mordred was startled. "Peregrines? But that's not
allowed! Only for the palace people, that is. You'll be
in real trouble if anyone sees them. And how on
earth did you get near the nest? I know where it is,
it's under that overhang with the yellow flowers on, but
that's another fifteen feet lower than the ledge where
you were." "It's easy enough, but a bit tricky.
Look." Gawain opened the basket a little way.
In it Mordred could see the two young birds,
fully fledged but still obviously juveniles. They
hissed and bounced in their prison, floundering, with their
claws fast in a tangle of thread. "The falconer
taught me." Gawain shut the lid again. "You lower
a ball of wool to the nest, and they strike
at it. As often as not they'll tangle themselves, and
once they're fast in it, you can draw them up. You
get the best ones that way, too, the bravest. But you
have to watch for the mother bird."
"You got those from that ledge where you fell? After you were
hurt, then?"
"Well, there wasn't much else to do while I was
stuck there, and besides, that was what I'd gone for," said
Gawain simply. This was something Mordred could
understand. Out of his new respect for the other, he
spoke impulsively. "But you really could be in
trouble, you know. Look, give me the basket. If
we could get them free of the wool, I'll take them
down again and see if I can get them back to the
nest."
Gawain laughed and shook his head. "You couldn't.
Don't worry. It's all right. I thought you
didn't know me. I am from the palace, as it
happens. I'm the queen's son, the eldest."
"You're Prince Gawain?" Mordred's eyes
took in the boy's clothes again, the silver at his
belt, the air of good living, the self-confidence.
Suddenly, at a word, his own was gone, with the easy
equality, even the superiority that the cliff climb
had given him. This was no longer a silly
boy whom he had rescued from danger. This was a
prince; the prince, moreover, who was heir to the
throne of Orkney; who would be King of the Orkneys,
if ever Morgause saw fit--or could be forced--
to step down. And he himself was a peasant. For the first
time in his life he felt suddenly very conscious of how
he looked. His single garment was a short tunic of
coarse cloth, woven by Sula from the waste wool
gathered from bramble and whin where the sheep had left it.
His belt was a length of cord made from here stalks.
His bare legs and feet were stained brown with peat, and
were now scratched and grimy from the cliff climb.
He said, hesitating: "Well, but oughtn't you
to be attended? I thought-- I didn't think
princes ever got out alone."
"They don't. I gave them all the slip."
"Won't the queen be angry?" asked Mordred
doubtfully. A flaw at last in that
self-assurance. "Probably." The word, brought out
carelessly, and rather too loudly, sounded to Mordred a
distinct note of apprehension. But this, again, he
understood, could even share. It was well known among the
islanders that their queen was a witch and to be feared.
They were proud of the fact, as they would have been
proud of, and resigned to, a brutal but efficient
warrior king. Anyone, even her own sons, might
without shame be afraid of Morgause.
"But perhaps she won't have me beaten this time," said
Orkney's young king, hopefully. "Not when she knows
I've hurt my foot. And I did get the
peregrines." He hesitated. "Look, I
don't think I can get home without help. Will you be
punished, for leaving your work? I'd see that your father
didn't lose by it. Perhaps, if you want to go and
tell them where you are--"
"That doesn't matter." Mordred spoke with
sudden, renewed confidence. There were after all other
differences between him and this wealthy heir to the islands.
The prince was afraid of his mother, and would soon have
to account for himself, and bribe his way back to favour with
his looted hawks. Whereas he, Mordred-- He
said easily: "I'm my own master. I'll help
you back. Wait while I get the peat sled, and
I'll pull you home. I think the rope's strong
enough."
"Well, if you're sure--" Gawain took the
offered hand, and was hauled to his feet. "You're
strong enough, anyway. How old are you,
Mordred?" "Ten. Well, nearly
eleven."
If Gawain felt any satisfaction about the
answer, he concealed it. As they faced one another,
eye to eye, Mordred was seen to be the taller by at
least two fingers' breadth. "Oh, a year older
than me. You probably won't have to take me
far," added Gawain. "They'll have missed me by now,
and someone'll be sent to look for me. In fact, there
they are."
It was true. From the head of the next inland rise,
where the heather 27
lifted to meet the sky, came a shout. Three
men came hurrying. Two of them, royal guards
by their dress, bore spears and shields. The third
led a horse.
"Well, that's all right," said Mordred. "And you
won't need the sled." He picked up the rope.
"I'll get back to the peats, then." "Well,
thanks again." Gawain hesitated. It was he, now,
who suddenly seemed to feel something awkward in the
situation. "Wait a minute, Mordred. Don't
go yet. I said you wouldn't lose by this, that's only
fair. I've no coin on me, but they'll send
something. . . . You said you lived over that way.
What's your father's name?" "Brude the
fisherman."
"Mordred, Brude's son," said Gawain,
nodding. "I'm sure she'll send something. If she
does send money, or a gift, you'd take it,
wouldn't you?"
From a prince to a fisherman's son, it was an
odd question, though neither boy seemed to find it so.
Mordred smiled, a small, close-lipped
smile that Gawain found curiously familiar. "Of
course. Why shouldn't I? Only a fool
refuses gifts, particularly when he deserves
them. And I don't think I'm a fool," added
Mordred.

The message from the palace came next day. It
was brought by two men, queen's guards by their dress and
weapons, and it was not coin, or any sort of gift;
it was a summons to the royal presence. The queen,
it seemed, wanted to thank her son's rescuer in
person. Mordred, straightening from the peat digging,
stared at them, trying to control, or at least conceal,
the sudden spurt of excitement within him.
"Now? Go with you now, you mean?"
"Those were the orders," said the elder of the guards,
cheerfully. "That's what she said, bring you
back with us now."
The other man added, with rough kindliness: "No
need to be afraid, youngster. You did well, by all
accounts, and there should be something in it for you."
"I'm not afraid." The boy spoke with the
disconcerting self-possession that had surprised
Gawain. "But I'm too dirty. I can't go to the
queen like this. I'll have to go home first, and get myself
decent." The men glanced at one another, then the
elder nodded. "Well, that's fair enough. How far
is home from here?"
"It's only over there, you can see where the path
runs along the cliff top, and then down. Only a
few minutes." He stopped as he spoke, to pick
up the rope of the sled. Th. was already half loaded.
He threw the mattock on top of the load, and set
off, dragging the sled. The grass of the track, worn
and dry, was slippery, easy for the whalebone
runners. He went quickly, the two men following.
At the head of the slope the men paused, waiting,
while the boy, with the ease bred by the daily task,
swung the sled round to run downhill in front of
him, himself leaning back against the rope to act as
brake. He let the load run into the stacked peat
on the grass behind the cottage, then dropped
the rope and ran indoors. Sula was pounding grain in
the quem. Two of the hens had come indoors and were
clucking round her feet. She looked up,
surprised.
"You're early! What is it?"
"Mother, get me my good tunic, will you? Quickly."
He snatched up the cloth that did duty as a
towel, and made again for the door. "Oh, and do you know
where my necklet is, the thong with the purple
shells?" "Necklet? Washing, in the middle of the
day?" Bewildered, Sula got up to do as he
asked. "What's this, Mordred? What has
happened?" For some reason, probably one he did
not know himself, the boy had 29
told her nothing about his encounter with Gawain on the
cliff. It is possible that his parents' intense
interest in everything he did set him instinctively
to guard parts of his life from them. In keeping his
encounter with the prince a secret, he had hugged to himself
the thought of Sula's pleasure when the queen, as he
confidently expected, gave him some reward.
His pleased sense of importance, even glee,
sounded in his voice. "It's messengers from Queen
Morgause, Mother. They've come to bid me to the
court. They're waiting for me out there. I have
to go straight away. The queen wants to see me
herself."
The effect of his announcement startled even him.
His mother, on her way to the bedplace, stopped as if
struck, then turned slowly, one hand out to the table's
top, as if she would have fallen without its support.
The pestle fell from her fingers and rolled to the
floor, where the hens ran to it, clucking. She
seemed not to notice. In the smoky light of the room
her face had gone sallow. "Queen Morgause?
Sent for you? Already?"
Mordred stared. was "Already?"' What do you mean,
Mother? Did somebody tell you what happened
yesterday?"
Sula, her voice shaking, tried to recover
herself. "No, no, I meant nothing. What did
happen yesterday?"
"It was nothing much. I was out at the peats and I
heard a cry from the cliff over yonder, and it was the
young prince, Gawain. You know, the oldest of the
queen's sons. He was half down the cliff after
young falcons. He'd hurt his leg, and I had
to take the rope down from the sled, and help him
climb back. That's all. I didn't know who he
was till afterwards. He told me his mother would
reward me, but I didn't think it would happen like
this, not so quickly, anyway. I didn't tell you
yesterday, because I wanted it to be a surprise. I
thought you'd be pleased."
"Pleased, of course I'm pleased!" She took
a great breath, steadying herself by the table. Her fists,
clenched on the wood, were trembling. She saw the
boy staring, and tried to smile. "It's great news,
son. Your father will be glad. She--she'll give you
silver, I shouldn't wonder. She's a lovely
lady, Queen Morgause, and generous where it
pleases her."
"You don't look pleased. You look frightened."
He came slowly back into the room. "You look
ill, Mother. Look, you've dropped your stick.
Here it is. Sit down now. Don't worry,
I'll find the tunic. The necklet's in the
cupboard with it, isn't it? I'll get it. Come,
sit down."
He took hold of her gently, and set her
back on the stool. Standing in front of her, he was
taller than she. She seemed to come to herself sharply.
Her back straightened. She gripped his arms above
the elbows in her two hands and held him tightly.
Her eyes, red-rimmed with working near the
smoke of the peat fire, stared up at him with an
intensity that made him want to fidget and move
away. She spoke in a low, urgent whisper:

"Look, my son. This is a great day for you, a
great chance. Who knows what may come of it? A
queen's favour is a fine thing to come by. ... But
it can be a hard thing, forby. You're young yet, what
would you know of great folk and their ways? I don't
know much myself, but I know something about life, and there's
one thing I can tell you, Mordred. Always keep your
own counsel. Never repeat what you hear." In
spite of herself, her hands tightened. "And never, never
tell anyone anything that's said here, in your home."
"Well, of course not! When do I ever see
anyone to talk to, anyway? And why should the queen
or anyone at the palace be interested in what goes
on here?" He shifted uncomfortably, and her grip
loosened. "Don't worry, Mother. There's nothing
to be afraid of. I've done the queen a favour,
and if she's such a lovely lady, then I don't
see what else can come of this except good, do you?
Look, I must go now. Tell Father I'll finish
the peats tomorrow. And keep some supper for me, won't
you? I'll be back as soon as I can."
To those who knew Camelot, the High King's
court, and even to people who remembered the state Queen
Morgause had kept in her castle of
Dunpeldyour, the "palace" of Orkney must have
seemed a primitive place indeed. But to the boy
from the fisherman's hut it appeared splendid beyond
imagination.
The palace stood behind and above the cluster of
small houses that made up the principal township
of the islands. Below the town lay the harbour, its twin
piers protecting a good deep anchorage where the
biggest of ships could tie up in safety. Piers,
houses, palace, all were built of the same flat
weathered slabs of sandstone. The roofs, too, were of
great flagstones hauled somehow into place and then
hidden by a thick thatching of turf or heather-stems,
with deep eaves that helped to throw the winter's rains
away from walls and doors. Between the houses ran
narrow streets, steep guts also paved with the
flagstones so lavishly supplied by the local
cliffs. The main building of the palace was the great
central hall. This was the "public" hall, where the
court gathered, where feasts were held, petitions were
heard, and where many of the courtiers--nobles, officers,
royal functionaries--slept at night.
It comprised a big oblong room, with other,
smaller chambers opening from it. Outside was a
walled courtyard where the queen's soldiers and
servants lived, sleeping in the outbuildings, and
eating round their cooking fires in the yard itself. The
only entrance was the main gateway, a massive
affair flanked to either side by a guardhouse. At a
short distance from the main palace buildings, and
connected with 31
them by a long covered passage, stood the
comparatively new building that was known as "the
queen's house." This had been built
by Morgause's orders when she first came to settle
in Orkney. It was a smaller yet no less
grandly built complex of buildings set very near the
edge of the cliff that here rimmed the shore. Its
walls looked almost like an extension of the layered
cliffs below. Not many of the court--only the queen's
own women, her advisers, and her favourites--had
seen the interior of the house, but its modem
splendours were spoken ofwith awe, and the townspeople
gazed up in wonder at the big windows--an
unheard-of innovation--which had been built even into the
seaward walls.
Inland from palace and township stretched an
open piece of land, turf grazed close by sheep,
and used by the soldiers and young men for practice with
horses and arms. Some of the stabling, with the kennels,
and the byres for cattle and goats, was outside the
palace walls, for in those islands there was little need of
more defense than that provided by the sea, and to the south
by the iron walls of Arthur's peace. But some way
along the coast, beyond the exercise ground, stood the
remains of a primitive round tower, built before
men's memory by the Old People, and splendidly
adaptable as both watchtower and embattled refuge.
This Morgause, with the memory of Saxon incursions
on the mainland kingdom, had had repaired after a
fashion, and there a watch and ward was kept. This, with the
guard kept constantly on the palace gate, was part
of the royal state that fitted the queen's idea of her
own dignity. If it did nothing else, said
Morgause, it would keep the men alert, and
provide some sort of military duty for the
soldiers, as a change from exercises that all too
readily became sport, or from idling round the
palace courtyard. When Mordred with his escort
arrived at the gate the courtyard was crowded. A
chamberlain was waiting to escort him to the queen.
Feeling awkward and strange in his
seldom-worn best tunic, stiff as it had come from
the cupboard, and smelling faintly musty, Mordred
followed his guide. He was taut with nerves, and
looked at nobody, keeping his head high and his
eyes fixed on the chamberlain's shoulder-blades,
but he felt the stares, and heard mutterings. He
took them to be natural curiosity, probably
mingled with contempt; he cannot have known that the figure he
cut was curiously courtier-like, his stiffness very like the
dignified formality of the great hall. "A
fisherman's brat?" the whispers went. "Oh,
aye? We've heard that one before. Just look at him.
... So who's his mother? Sula? I remember her.
Pretty. She used to work at the palace here. In
King Lot's time, that was. How long ago now
since he visited the islands? Twelve years?
Eleven? How the time does go by, to be sure. .
. . And he must be just about that age, wouldn't you say?"

So the whispers went. They would have pleased
Morgause, had she heard them, and Mordred, whom
they would have enraged, did not hear them. But he heard
the muttering, and felt the eyes. He stiffened his
spine further, and wished the ordeal safely over, and
himself home again. Then they had reached the door
of the hall, and as the servants pushed it open,
Mordred forgot the whispers, his own strangeness,
everything except the splendid scene in front of
him. When Morgause, suffering under Arthur's
displeasure, had finally left Dunpeldyour for her
other kingdom of Orkney, some stray glimmer in her
magic glass must have warned her that her stay in the
north would be a long one. She had managed to bring
many of the treasures from Lot's southern capital.
The king who reigned there now at Arthur's behest,
Tydwal, must have found his stronghold stripped of
most of its comforts. He was a stark lord, so cannot have
cared overmuch. But Morgause, that lady of
luxury, would have thought herself ill used had she been
denied any of the appurtenances of royalty, and she
had managed, with her spoils, to make herself a bower
of comfort and colour to cushion her exile and enhance her
once famous beauty. On all sides the stone
walls of the hall were hung with brilliantly dyed
cloths. The smooth flagstones of the floor were not, as
might have been expected, strewn with rushes and
heather, but had been made luxurious with islands of
deerskin, brown and fawn and dappled. The heavy
benches along the side walls were made of stone, but
the chairs and stools standing on the platform at
the hall's end were of fine wood carefully carved and
painted, and bright with coloured cushions, while the
doors were of strong oak, handsomely ornamented, and
smelling of oil and wax.
The fisherman's boy had no eyes for any of this.
His gaze was fixed on the woman who sat in the great
chair at the center of the platform. Morgause of
Lothian and Orkney was still a very beautiful woman.
Light from a slit window caught the glimmer of her
hair, darkened from its young rose-gold to a rich
copper. Her eyes, long-lidded, showed green as
emerald, and her skin had the same smooth, creamy
pallor as of old. The lovely hair was dressed
with gold, and there were emeralds at her ears and at her
throat. She wore a copper-coloured gown, and in
her lap her slender white hands glinted with jewelled
rings. Behind her her five women--the queen's
ladies--looked, for all their elegant clothing,
plain and elderly. Those who knew Morgause had
no doubt that this was an appearance as carefully
contrived as her own. Some score of people stood below the
dais, about the hall. To the boy Mordred it seemed
crowded, and fuller of eyes even than the outer
courtyard. He looked for Gawaineaeaor for the other
princes, but could not see them. When he
entered, pausing rather nervously just inside the doorway,
the queen

was sitting half turned away, talking with one of
her counsellors, a smallish, stout greybeard
who bent humbly to listen as she spoke. Then she
saw Mordred. She straightened in her tall
chair, and the long lids came down to conceal the sudden
flash of interest in her eyes. Someone prodded the
boy from behind, whispering: "Go on. Go up and then
kneel."
Mordred obeyed. He approached the queen, but
when he would have knelt, a movement of one of her hands
bade him stand still. He waited, very straight, and
apparently self-contained, but making no attempt
to conceal the wonder and admiration he felt at this, his
first sight of royalty enthroned. He simply
stood and stared. If the onlookers expected him
to be abashed, or the queen to rebuke him for
impertinence, they were disappointed. The silence that held
the hall was one of avid interest, coupled with
amusement. Queen and fisherman's boy, islanded by that
silence, measured one another eye to eye.
If Mordred had been half-a-dozen years
older, men might more readily have understood the
indulgence, even the apparent pleasure with which she
regarded him. Morgause had made no secret of
her predilection for handsome youths, a fancy which had
been allowed a relatively free reign since the
death of her husband. And indeed Mordred was
personable enough, with his slender, straight body, fine
bones, and the look of eager yet contained intelligence
in the eyes under their wing-tipped brows. She studied
him, stiff but far from awkward in his "best" tunic,
the only one he had, apart from the rags of every day.
She remembered the stuff she had sent for it, years
ago, a length of homespun patchily dyed, that not
even the palace slaves would have worn. Anything
better, missed from the coffers, might have caused
curiosity. Round his neck hung a string of
shells, unevenly threaded, with some sort of wooden
charm obviously carved by the boy himself from a piece of
sea-wrack. His feet, though dusty from the moorland
road, were finely shaped.
Morgause saw all this with satisfaction, but she
saw more besides: the dark eyes, an inheritance from the
Spanish blood of the Ambrosii, were Arthur's; the
fine bones, the folded subtle mouth, came from
Morgause herself.
At length she spoke. "Your name is
Mordred, they tell me?" "Yes." The boy's
voice was hoarse with nervousness. He cleared his
throat. "Yes, madam."
"Mordred," she said, consideringly. Her accent,
even after her years in the north, was still that of the southern
mainland kingdoms, but she spoke clearly and slowly
in her pretty voice, and he understood her very
well. She gave his name the island pronunciation.
"Medraut, the sea-boy. So you are a fisherman like
your father?" 34
"Yes, madam."
"Is that why they gave you your name?"
He hesitated. He could not see where this was
leading. "I suppose so, madam."
"You suppose so." She spoke lightly, her
attention apparently on smoothing a fold of her
gown. Only her chief counsellor, and Gabran
her current lover, knowing her well, guessed that the
next question mattered. "You never asked them?"
"No, madam. But I can do other things besides
fish. I dig the peats, and I can turf a roof, and
build a wall, and mend the boat, and--and milk the
goat, even--" He paused uncertainly. A
faint ripple of amusement had gone round the hall,
and the queen herself was smiling. "And climb dins
as if you were a goat yourself. For which," she added, "we
should all be grateful."
"That was nothing," said Mordred. His confidence
returned. There was really no need to be afraid.
The queen was a lovely lady, as Sula had told
him, not at all as he had imagined a witch to be,
and surprisingly easy to talk to. He smiled up
at her. "Is Gawain's ankle badly
sprained?" he asked.
A new rustle went round the hall. "Gawain,"
indeed! And a fisher-boy did not hold conversation with the
queen, standing as straight as one of the young princes, and
looking her in the eye. But Morgause apparently
noticed nothing unusual. She ignored the
murmurs. She had not ceased to watch the boy
closely.
"Not very. Now that it has been bathed and bound up
he can walk well enough. He will be back."...at the
exercise of arms tomorrow. And for this he has you to thank,
Mordred, and so have I. I repeat, we are
grateful."
"The men would have found him very soon, and I could have
lent them the rope."
"But they did not, and you climbed down twice
yourself. Gawain tells me that it is a
dangerous place. He should be whipped for climbing
there, even though he did bring me two such splendid
birds. But you . . ." The pretty teeth nibbled
at the red underlip as she considered him. "You must have
some proof of my gratitude. What would you like?"
Really taken aback now, he stared, swallowed, and
began to stammer something about his parents, their poverty,
the coming winter and the nets that had been patched twice
too often, but she interrupted him. "No, no. That
is for your parents, not for you. I have already found gifts
for them. Show him, Gabran."
A young man, blond and handsome, who stood near
her, stooped and lifted a box from behind her chair.
He opened it. In it Mordred glimpsed coloured
wools, woven cloth, a net purse glinting with
silver, a stoppered
wine flask. He went scarlet, then pale.
Suddenly, the scene had become somehow unreal, like a
dream. The chance encounter at the cliff, Gawain's
talk of reward, the summons to the queen's house--
all this had been exciting, with its promise of some
change in the monotonous drudgery of his life.
He had come here expecting at most a silver coin,
a word from the queen, some delicacy, perhaps, that
could be begged from the palace kitchens before he ran
home. But this--Morgause's beauty and kindness, the
unaccustomed splendours of the hall, the magnificence
of the gifts for his parents, and the promise,
apparently, of more for himself . . . Dimly, through the
heart-beating confusion, he felt that it was all too
much. There was something more here. Something in the looks the
courtiers were exchanging, in the speculative
amusement in Gabran's eyes. Something he did not
understand, but that made him uneasy. Gabran shut the
lid of the box with a snap, but when Mordred reached
to lift it Morgause stopped him.
"No, Mordred. Not now. We shall see that they have
it before today's dusk. But you and I still have something to talk
about, have we not? What is fitting for the young man to whom
the future king of these islands owes a dear debt?
Come with me now. We will talk of this in private."
She stood up. Gabran moved quickly to her
side, his arm ready for her hand, but ignoring him, she
stepped down from the dais and reached a hand towards the
boy. He took it awkwardly, but somehow she made
a graceful gesture of it, her jewelled fingers
touching his wrist as if he were a courtier handing her from
the hall. When she stood beside him she was very little
taller than he. She smelled of
honeysuckle, and the rich days of summer.
Mordred's head swam. "Come," she said again,
softly.
The courtiers stood back, bowing, to make a way
for them. Her slave drew back a curtain to show a
door in the side wall. Guards stood there to either
side, their spears held stiffly. Mordred was no
longer conscious of the stares and the whispering. His heart was
thudding. What was to come now he could not guess, but it
could only, surely, be more wonders. Something was
hanging in the clouds for him; fortune was in the queen's
smile and in her touch.
Without knowing it, he tossed the dark hair back from
his brow in a gesture that was Arthur's own, and with head
high he escorted Morgause royally out of her
hall.
The corridor between the palace and the queen's house
was a long one, without windows, but lit by torches
hung on the walls. There were two doors in its
length, both on the left. One must be the
guardroom; the door stood ajar, and beyond it
Mordred could hear men's voices and the click of
gaming-stones. The other gave on the courtyard; he
remembered seeing guards there. It was shut
now, but at the end of the corridor a third door
stood open, held wide by a servant for the passage
of the queen and her attendants.
Beyond was a square chamber, which acted apparently as
an anteroom to the queen's private apartments. It
was unfurnished. To the right a slit window showed a
narrow strip of sky, and let in the noise of the sea.
Opposite, on the landward side, was another
door, at which Mordred looked with interest, and then with
awe. This doorway was curiously low and squat--the
same primitive shape as the door of his parents"
cottage. It was set deep under a massive stone
lintel, and flanked by jambs almost as thick. He
had seen such entrance- ways before; they led down to the
ancient underground chambers that could be found here and there
through the islands. Some said they had been built, like the
tall brochs, by the Old People, who had housed their
dead there in stone chambers beneath the ground. But the
simpler folk regarded them as magical places,
the sidhe or hollow hills that guarded the gates
of the Otherworld; and the skeletons that were found there, of men
and beasts, were the remains of unwary creatures who
had ventured too far within those dark precincts. When
mist shrouded the islands--which was rare in those windy seas
--it was said that gods and spirits could be seen
riding out on their gold-decked horses, with the sad
ghosts of the dead drifting round them. Whatever the
truth, the islanders avoided the mounds that hid these
underground chambers, but it seemed that the queen's house
had been built beside one of them, perhaps only discovering
it when the foundations were dug. Now the entrance was sealed
off by a heavy door of oak, with big iron hasps,
and a massive lock to keep it fast against whatever
lurked behind it in the dark. Then Mordred forgot it,
as the tall door ahead of them opened between its two
armed guards, and beyond was a blaze of sunlight, and the
warmth and scent and colour of the queen's house. The
room they entered was a copy of Morgause's
chamber at Dunpel- 37
dyour; a smaller copy, but still, to Mordred's
eyes, magnificent. The sun streamed in through a
big square window, under which a bench made a
window-seat, gay with blue cushions. Near it,
full in the sunlight, stood a gilded chair with its
footstool and a cross-legged table nearby.
Morgause sat down, and pointed to the window-seat.
Mordred took his place obediently, and sat
waiting in silence, with thumping heart, while the
women, at a word from the queen, betook themselves with their
stitchery to the far end of the room, in the light
from another window. A servant came hurrying to the
queen's side with wine in a silver goblet, and then,
at her command, brought a cup of the sweet honey drink
for Mordred. He took a sip of it, then set the
cup down on the window sill. Though his mouth and
throat were dry, he could not drink.
The queen finished her wine, then handed the goblet
to Gabran, who must already have had his orders. He
took it straight to the servant at the door, shut the
door behind the man, then went to join the women at the
other end of the room. He lifted a small knee
harp from its shroud in the corner, and, settling himself
on a stool, began to play. Only then did the
queen speak again, and she spoke softly, so that only
Mordred, close beside her, would be able to hear.
"Well, Mordred, so now let us talk. How
old are you? No, don't answer, let me see.
. . . You will soon pass your eleventh birthday.
Am I not right?"
"y--yes," stammered the boy, amazed. "How
did--oh, of course, Ga- wain told you."
She smiled. "I would have known without being told.
I know more about your birth than you do yourself, Mordred.
Can you guess how?" "Why, no, madam. About my
birth? That's before you came to live here,
isn't it?"
"Yes. I and the king my husband still held
Dunpeldyour in Lothian. Have you never heard what
happened in Dunpeldyour, the year before Prince
Gawain was born?"
He shook his head. He could not have spoken. He
still had no inkling of why the queen had brought him here and
was speaking to him like this, secretly, in her private
chamber, but every instinct pricked him to the alert. It was
coming now, surely, the future he had dreaded, and
yet longed for, with the strange, restless and sometimes
violent feelings of rebellion he had had against the
life to which he had been born, and to which he had
believed himself sentenced till death, like all his
parents' kin.
Morgause, still watching him closely, smiled
again. "Then listen now. It is time you knew. You will
soon see why. ..."
She settled a fold of her gown, and spoke
lightly, as if talking of some

trifling matter far back in the past, some story
to tell a child at lamp- lighting.
"You know that the High King Arthur is my
half-brother by the same father, King Uther
Pendragon. Long ago King Uther planned my
marriage to King Lot, and though he died before it could
take place, and though my brother Arthur was never
Lot's friend, we were married. We hoped that through the
marriage a friendship, or at least an alliance,
might be formed. But, whether through jealousy of Lot's
prowess as a soldier, or (as I am persuaded)
because of lies told to him by Merlin, the enchanter, who
hates all women, and who fancies himself wronged
by me. King Arthur has always acted more as an enemy
than as a brother and a just lord."
She paused. The boy's eyes were fixed,
enormous, his lips slightly parted. She smoothed
her gown again, and her voice took on a deeper,
graver note.
"Soon after King Arthur had assumed the throne of
Britain, he was told, by the evil man Merlin, that
a child had been born somewhere in Dunpeldyour, a son
of its king, who would prove to be Arthur's bane.
The High King never hesitated. He sent men
north to Dunpeldyour to seek out and kill the king's
sons. Oh, no"--a smile of great sweetness--
"not mine. Mine were not yet born. But to make sure
that any bastard, perhaps unknown, of King Lot's should
die, he ordered that all the children in the town,
under a certain age, should die." Sorrow throbbed in
her voice. "So, Mordred, on that dreadful night
some score of children were taken by the soldiers. They were
put out to sea in a small boat, which was driven
by wind and waves until at last it drove onto
rock and foundered, and the children were all drowned. All but
one."
He was as still as if held by a spell. "Me?"
It was a whisper, barely audible.
"Yes, you. The boy from the sea. Now do you understand
why you were given that name? It was true."
She seemed to be waiting for an answer. He
said, huskily: "I thought it was because of being a
fisherman, like my father. A lot of the boys that help
with the nets are called Mordred, or Medraut. I
thought it was a sort of charm to keep me safe from the
sea-goddess. She used to sing a song about it. My
mother, I mean."
The green-gilt eyes opened a little wider. "So?
A song? What sort of song?"
Mordred, meeting that look, recollected himself.
He had forgotten
Sula's warning. Now it came back to him, but
there was no harm, surely, in the truth? "A
sleeping song. When I was small. I
don't really remember it, except the tune."

Morgause, with a flick of her fingers, dismissed
the tune. "But you never heard this tale before? Did
your parents ever speak of Dunpeldyour?"
"No, never. That is"--he spoke with patent
honesty--"only as all the folk speak of it. I
knew that it was part of your kingdom once, and that you had
dwelt there with the king, and that the three oldest princes
were born there. My--my father gets news from the ships
that come in, of all the kingdoms beyond the sea, the
wonderful lands. He has told me so much that I--
was He bit his lip, then burst out irresistibly
with the question that burned him. "Madam, how did my father
and mother save me from that boat and bring me here?" "They
did not save you from the boat. You were saved by the King
of Lothian. When he knew what had happened to the
children he sent a ship to save them, but it came too
late for all but you. The captain saw some
wreckage floating still, the boat's ribs, with what
looked like a bundle of cloth still there. It was you.
An end of your shawl had caught on a splintered
spar, and held you safe. The captain took you up.
By the garment you wore, and the shawl that saved your life,
he knew which of the children you were. So he sailed
with you to Orkney, where you might be reared in
safety." She paused. "Have you guessed why,
Mordred?"
She could see, from the boy's eyes, that he had
guessed why long since. But he lowered his lids and
answered, as meekly as a girl: "No, madam."
The voice, the folded mouth, the maiden-like
demureness, was so much Morgause's own that she
laughed aloud, and Gabran, who had been her lover
now for more than a year, looked up from his harp and
allowed himself to smile with her. "Then I will tell you.
Two of the bastards of the King of Lothian were killed
in that massacre. But there were known to be three in the
boat. The third was saved by the mercy of the
sea-goddess, who kept him afloat in the
wreckage. You are a king's bastard, Mordred,
my boy from the sea."
He had seen it coming, of course. She looked
to see some spark of joy, or pride, or even
speculation. There was none. He was biting his lip,
fighting with some trouble that he wanted to, but dared not,
express. "Well?" she asked at length.
"Madam--" Another pause.
"Well?" A touch of impatience. Having laid
a royal gift in the boy's hand, albeit
a false one, the lady looked for worship, not for
doubts which she could not understand. Never having herself been
moved by love, it did not occur to her that her son's
feelings for his foster parents needed to be weighed against
pleasure and ambition. He blurted it out then.
"Madam, was my mother ever in Dunpeldyour?"
Morgause, who liked to play with people as if they were
creatures caged

for her whims, smiled at him and told, for the first
time in the interview, the simple truth. "Of
course. Where else? You were born there. Did I not
say so?"
"But she said she had lived in Orkney all her
life!" Mordred's voice rose, so that the chatter
at the room's other end hushed for a moment before a
glance from the queen sent the women back, heads bent,
to their work. The boy added, more softly, looking
wretched: "And my father. He can't know, surely, that
she--that I . . . ?" "Foolish boy, you have not
understood me." Her voice was indulgent. "Brude
and Sula are your foster parents, who took you at the
king's behest, and kept the secret for him. Sula
had lost a son, and she took you to nurse. No
doubt she has given you the love and care she
would have given her own child. As for your real mother"--
quickly, she forestalled the question that in fact he was too
dazed to ask--"I cannot tell you that. For very fear she
said nothing, nor made any claim, and for fear of the
High King, nothing has ever been said. She may have
been only too thankful to forget the matter herself.
I asked no questions, though I knew one of the boys
had been saved from the boat. Then when King Lot
died, and I came to Orkney to bear my youngest son
and care for the other three in safety, I was content
to let the matter rest. As you must, Mordred."
Not knowing what to say, he was silent.
"For all I know your own mother may be dead.
To dream of some day seeking her out would be folly--and
what would be the profit? A girl of the town, the
pleasure of a night?" She studied his down-dropped
lids, his expressionless face. "Now Dunpeldyour
is in the hands of a king who is Arthur's creature.
There would be no profit in such a search, Mordred,
and there might well be much danger. Do you understand
me?"
"Yes, madam."
"What you do when you are a man grown is your
affair, but you will do well to remember that King Arthur
is your enemy."
"Then--I am the one? I am to be--his
bane?" "Who knows? That is with the gods. But he is
a hard man, and his adviser Merlin is both clever
and cruel. Do you think they would take any chances?
But while you remain in these islands--and while you
keep silent --you are safe."
Another pause. He asked, almost whispering it:
"But why have you told me, then? I will be secret,
yes, I promise, but why did you want me
to know?"
"Because of the debt I owe you for Gawain. Had you not
helped him, he might have tried to climb himself, and
fallen to his death. I was curious to see you, so I
sent for you on that excuse. It might have been better
to leave you there all your life, knowing nothing. Your
foster parents would never
have dared to speak. But after what happened yesterday--
was A pretty, half- deprecating gesture. "Not
every woman wishes to nurture her husband's
bastards, but I and my family owe you something, and I
pay my debts. And now that I have seen you, and
spoken with you, I have decided how to make that
payment."
The boy said nothing. He seemed to have
stopped breathing. From the far end of the room came the
murmur of music, and the soft voices of the women.
"You are ten years old," said Morgause. "You
are well grown and healthy, and I think that you could do
me some service. There are not so many in these islands
with the blood and the promise that might make a leader.
In you I think I see that promise. It is time you
left your foster home, and took your place here with the
other princes. Well, what do you say?"
"I--I will do as you wish, madam," stammered the
boy. It was all he could say, above the words that went
on and on in his brain, like the music of the harp. The
other princes. It is time you took your place here
with the other princes. . . . Later, perhaps, he would
think of his foster parents with affection and with regret, but
now all he had room for was the vague but dazzling
vision of such a future as he had barely dared even
to dream of. And this woman, this lovely royal
lady, would in her graciousness offer him, her
husband's bastard, a place beside her own
true-born sons. Mor- dred, moved by an
impulse he had never felt before, slipped from the
window-seat and knelt at Morgause's feet.
With a gesture at once graceful and touchingly
unpracticed, he lifted a fold of the
copper-coloured velvet and kissed it. He sent a
look of worship up at her and whispered: "I will
serve you with my life, madam. Only ask me.
It is yours."
His mother smiled down at him, well satisfied
with the conquest she had made. She touched his hair, a
gesture that brought the blood up under his skin, then
sat back against the cushions, a pretty,
fragile queen looking for strong arms and ready
swords to protect her. "It may be a hard
service, Mordred. A lonely queen needs all
the love and protection that her fighting men can give
her. For that you will be trained alongside your brothers,
and live with them here in my palace. Now you will go
down to Seals' Bay to take leave of your parents,
then bring your things back here."
"Today? Now?"
"Why not? When decisions are taken they should be
acted upon. Gabran will go with you, and a slave to carry
your goods. Go now." Mordred, still too awed and
confused to point out that he could carry all his worldly
goods himself, and in one hand, got to his feet, then
stooped to kiss the hand she held out to him. It was
noticeable that this time the
42
courtly move came almost naturally. Then the
queen turned away, dismissing him, and Gabran was
at his elbow, hurrying him from the room, along the
corridor, and out into the courtyard where the coloured
sky of sunset was already fading into dusk, and the air
smelled of the smoke of fires where suppers were being
cooked. A man, a groom by his dress, came
up with a horse ready bridled. It was one of the
sturdy island ponies, cream-coloured and as shaggy
as a sheep.
"Come," said Gabran, "we'll be late for
supper as it is. You don't ride, I suppose?
No? Well, get up behind me. The man can
follow." Mordred hung back. "There's no
need, I've nothing to carry, really. And you don't
need to come either, sir. If you stay and get your
supper now, I can run home and--"
"You'll soon learn that when the queen says I have
to go with you, then I have to go." Gabran did not trouble
to explain that his orders had been even more explicit.
"He is not to have speech alone with Sula,"
Morgause had said. "Whatever she has guessed,
she has told him nothing yet, it seems. But now
that she is going to lose him, who knows what she may
come out with? The man does not matter: He
is too stupid to guess at the truth, but even he
may give the boy the true tale of how he was
brought, by arrangement, from Dunpeldyour. So take
him, and stay with them, and bring him back quickly. I shall
see to it that he does not go back there again."
So Gabran said, crisply: "Come, your hand,"
and with Mordred behind him on the cob, and clinging to him like
a young peregrine to its ball of fleece, he
cantered off along the track that led to Seals'
Bay. 4
Sula had been sitting outside the cottage
door in the last of the daylight, gutting and splitting
a catch of fish ready for drying. When the horse
appeared at the head of the cliff path she had just
carried the bucket of offal down to throw it onto the
shingle, where the hens wrangled with the seabirds for their
share of the stinking pile. The noise was deafening as the
big gulls swooped and fought and chased one another,
and the smell rose sickeningly on the wind. Mordred
slipped off the cob's rump as Gabran drew
rein. "If you wait here, sir, I'll run down
with this, and get my things. I'll be back in just a
moment. It--it won't take long. I think my mother
was expecting this, or something like it. I'll be as quick as
I can. Maybe I can come back tomorrow, if
they want me to? Just for a talk?" Gabran, without
even troubling to reply, slid off the horse's
back and looped the rein over his wrist. When
Mordred, holding the box carefully, started down the
slope, the man followed. Sula, turning back
towards the cottage, saw them. She had been
watching the cliff top for Mordred's return, and
now, seeing how he was accompanied, she stood for a
few moments very still, unconsciously clutching the
slimy bucket close to her body. Then, coming
to herself, she threw the bucket down by the doorway, and
went quickly into the cottage. A dim yellow glow
showed round the curtain's edge as she lighted the
lamp.
The boy pushed the curtain aside and went in
eagerly, carrying the box.
For once the room was free of smoke. On good
summer days Sula cooked their food in the clay
oven outside, over a fire built up of dried
kelp and dung. But the stink of fish pervaded the
whole cove, and inside the cottage the smell of the
fish-oil in the lamp caught at the throat. Though
he had been used to it all his life, Mordred--with the
scents and colours of the queen's room bright in his
memory--noticed it now, with a mixture of
pity, shame and what he was too young to recognize as
self-dislike; shame because Gabran so obviously
intended to come in with him, and guilt because he was ashamed
for him to do so.
To his immediate relief, Sula was alone. She was
wiping her hands on a rag. Blood from a grazed
finger mingled on the rag with the slime and scales from the
fish. The flint knife lying on the table showed a
rim of blood, too.
"Your hand. Mother, you've cut it!"

"It's nothing. They kept you a long time."
"I know. The queen herself wanted to talk to me.
Wait till I tell you! The palace, it's a
wonderful place, and I went right into the queen's own
house. . . -- But look here first, Mother! She
gave me presents." He set the box on the
table, and opened it. "Mother, look! The silver is for
you and Father, and the cloth, see, isn't it fine?
Thick, too, good for winter. And a flask of good
wine, with a capon from the palace kitchen. All this
is for you. . . ." His voice trailed away
uneasily. Sula had not even glanced at the
treasures; she was still wiping her hands, over and over
again, on the greasy rag.
Suddenly, Mordred was impatient. He took
the rag from her and threw it down, shoving the box
nearer. "Aren't you even going to look at them?
Don't you even want to know what the queen said
to me?" "I can see she was generous. We all know
she can be generous when it takes her. What was there for
you?"
"Promises." Gabran spoke from the doorway
as he stooped to enter. When he straightened his head was
only a finger's breadth from the stones of the roof. He
was dressed in a knee-length robe of yellow, with a
deep tagged border of green. Yellow stones winked
at his belt, and he wore a collar of worked
copper. He was a fair man, with a crisp mane as
blond as barley straw falling to his shoulders, and the
blue eyes of the north. His presence filled the
room and made the cottage seem more
poverty-stricken and dingy even than before. If
Mordred was conscious of this, Sula was not.
Unimpressed, she faced Gabran squarely, as
she would have faced an enemy. "What sort of
promises?"
Gabran smiled. "Only what every man should have,
and Mordred has proved himself a man now--or at
least the queen thinks so. A cup and a
platter for his meat, and tools for his work."
She stared at him, her lips working. She did not
ask what he meant. Nor did she make any of the
gestures of hospitality that came naturally to the
folk of the islands.
She said harshly: "These he has."
"But not such as he should have," said Gabran,
gently. "You know as well as I, woman, that there
should be silver on his cup, and that his tools are not
mattocks and fish hooks, but a sword and a
spear." To expect and dread a thing for a lifetime
does not prepare one for the thing itself. It was as if he
had set the very spear to her breast. She threw up her
hands, hiding her face with her apron, and sank
onto the stool beside the table, His
"Mother, don't!" cried Mordred. "The queen--
she told me--you must 45
know what she told me!" Then, to Gabran,
distressed: "I thought she knew. I thought she would
understand."
"She does understand. Do you not, Sula?"
A nod. She had begun to rock herself, as if in
grief, but she made no sound.
Mordred hesitated. Among the rough folk of the
islands, affectionate gestures were rarely
made. He went to her, but contented himself with a touch on
the shoulder. "Mother, the queen told me the whole
story. How you and my father took me from the
sea-captain who had found me, and reared me for your
own. She told me who I am ... at least, who
my real father is. So now she thinks I should go up
to the palace with the other-- King Lot's other sons,
and the nobles, and train as a fighting man."
Still she said nothing. Gabran, watching by the door,
never moved. Mordred tried again. "Mother, you must have
known I would be told some day. And now that I know .
. . you mustn't be sorry. still can't be sorry, you must
see that. It doesn't change anything here, this is still
my home, and you and Father are still . . ." He
swallowed. "You'll always be my folk, you will,
believe me! Some day--" "Aye, some day," she
interrupted him, harshly. The apron came down.
In the wavering light of the lamp her face was sickly
pale, smeared with dirt from the apron. She did not
look at Gabran, elegant in the doorway.
Mordred watched her appealingly; there was love in his
face, and distress, but there was also something she
recognized, a high look of excitement,
ambition, the iron-hard will to go his way. She had
never set eyes on Arthur, High King of
Britain, but looking at Mordred, she
recognized his son.
She said, heavily: "Aye, some day. Some day
you'll come back, grown and grand, and carrying gold
to give the poor folk who nursed you. But now you
try to tell me that nothing's changed. For all you
say it makes no difference who you are--"
"I didn't say that! Of course it makes a
difference! Who wouldn't be glad to know he was a king's
son? Who wouldn't be glad to have the chance to bear arms,
and maybe some day to travel abroad and see the
mainland kingdoms, where things are happening that matter
to the world? When I said nothing would change, I mean the
way I feel--the way I feel about you and my father.
But I can't help wanting to go! Please try
to understand. I can't pretend, not all the way, that
I'm sorry."
At the distress in his face and voice she softened
suddenly. "Of course you can't, boy. You must
forgive an old woman who's dreaded this moment for so
long. Yes, you must go. But do you have to go now? Is
yon fine gentleman waiting to take you back with
him?" "Yes. They said I had just to get my things and
go straight back." 46
"Then get them. Your father won't be back
till the dawn tide. You can come and see him as
soon as they let you." A glimmer of something that was
almost a smile. "Don't you worry, boy, I'll
tell him what's happened."
"He knows all about it, too, doesn't he?"
"Of course he does. And he'll see that it had
to come. He's made himself forget it, I think, though
I've seen it coming this past year or so. Yes, in
you, Mordred. Blood tells. Still, you've been a
good son to us, for all there's been something in you
fretting after a different way. . . . We took
pay for you, you know that. . . . Where did you think we
got the money for the good boat, and the foreign nets?
I'd have nursed you for nothing, in place of the one I
lost, and then you were as good as our own, and better.
Aye, we'll miss you sorely. It's a hard
trade for a man as he gets older, and you've
pulled your weight on the rope, that you have."
Something was working in the boy's face. He burst
out: "I won't go! I won't leave you. Mother!
They can't make me!" She looked sadly at him.
"You will, lad. Now you've had a sight of it, and a
taste of it, you will. So get your things. Yon
gentleman's on the fidget to be gone."
Mordred glanced from her to Gabran. The
latter nodded and said, not unkindly: "We should
hurry. The gates will soon be shut." The boy
went across to his bedplace. This was a stone shelf,
with a bag stuffed full of dried bracken for a
mattress, and a blue blanket spread across. From
a recess in the wall below the shelf he took his
possessions. A sling, some fish hooks, a
knife, his old working tunic. He had no shoes.
He laid the fish hooks back on the bed, and the
working tunic with them. He hesitated over the sling.
He felt the smooth wood that fitted so readily
into his hand, and fingered the bag of pebbles, rounded and
glossy, gathered so carefully from the beach. Then these,
too, he laid aside. Sula watched him, saying
nothing. Between them the words hung, unspoken: the
tools for his work; a sword and a spear . . .
He turned back. "I'm ready now." He was
empty-handed, but for his knife.
If any of the three noticed the symbolism of the
moment, nothing was said. Gabran reached for the door
curtain. Before he could touch it it was pushed aside,
as the goat shouldered her way into the room. Sula
got up from her stool, and reached for the bowl to hold the
milk. "You'd best go, then. Come back when they
let you, and tell us what it's like up there at
the palace."
Gabran held the curtain wide. Mordred
went slowly towards the door. What was there to say?
Thanks were not enough, and yet were more than enough. He
said awkwardly: "Goodbye then, Mother," and went out.
Gabran let the curtain fall behind them.

Outside, the tide was on the turn, and the wind had
freshened, dispersing the smell of fish. The sweet
air met him. It was like plunging into a different
stream.
Gabran was untying the horse. In the growing
darkness the knots were awkward, and he fumbled over
them. Mordred hesitated, then ran back into the
stink of the hut. Sula was milking the goat. She
did not look up. He could see a track of
moisture in the dirt on her cheek like the
track of a snail. He stopped in the doorway,
clutching the curtain, and said hoarsely and rapidly:
"I'll come back whenever they let me, truly I
will. I--I'll see you're all right, you and he.
Some day . . . some day I promise I'll be
somebody, and I'll look after you both." She made
no sign.
"Mother."
She did not look up. Her hands never stopped.
"I hope," said Mordred, "that I never do find out
who my real mother is." He turned and ran out again
into the dusk.
"Well?" asked Morgause.
It was well past dawn. She and Gabran were
alone together in her bedchamber.
In the outer room her women slept, and in the
chamber beyond that the five boys--Lot's four and her
son by Arthur--had been asleep long since. But the
queen and her lover were not abed. She sat beside a
glowing bank of peat. She wore a long night
robe of creamy white, and furred slippers made
from the winter skin of the blue hare that runs on the
High Island. Her hair was loose over her
shoulders, glimmering
in the peat fire's glow. In that soft light she
looked little more than twenty years old, and very
beautiful. Though, as ever, she stirred his senses, the
young man knew that this was not the moment to show it. Still
fully dressed, his damp cloak over his arm, he
kept his distance and answered her, subject to monarch:
"All is very well, madam. It's done, just as
you wished it done." "No trace of violence?"
"None. They were asleep--either that, or they
had drunk too much of the wine you sent them."
A small smile, that innocence would have thought
innocent, hung on her pretty mouth. "If they
only sipped it, Gabran, it was enough." She
lifted the lovely eyes to his, saw nothing there but
dazzled admiration, and added: "Did you think I would
take chances? You should know better. So, it was
easy?"
"Very easy. All that will appear is that they drank
too deeply, and were

careless, and that the lamp fell and the oil spilled
on the bedding, and--" A gesture finished it for him.
She drew a breath of satisfaction, but something in
his voice gave her pause. Though Morgause
valued, and was even fond of, her handsome young lover,
she would have got rid of him in a moment if it had
suited her to do so; but as yet she had need of him, and
must keep him faithful. She said gently: "Too
easy, I think you mean, Gabran? I know, my
dear. Men like you don't like an easy killing, and
killing these folk is like slaughtering beasts--no work
for a fighting man. But it was necessary. You know that."
"I suppose so."
"You told me that you thought the woman knew
something." "Or guessed. It was hard to tell. These
folk all look like weathered kelp. I couldn't be
certain. There was something in the way she spoke to him,
and the way she looked when he said you had told him the
whole story." He hesitated. "If so, then she
--both of them--have kept silence all these years."
"So?" said the queen. She held a hand out to the
fire's warmth. "That is not to say they would have gone
on keeping it. With the boy gone, they might begin
to feel they had a grievance, and folk with a grievance
are dangerous."
"Would they have dared speak? And to whom?" "Why, to the
boy himself. You told me that Sula urged him to go
back there, and naturally--at first--he would have been
eager to go. One word, one hint, would have been enough.
You know whose son he is; and you have seen him. Do you
think it needs more than a breath to kindle a blaze of
ambition that could destroy all my plans for the
future? Take my word for it, it was necessary.
Gabran, dear boy, you may be the best lover a
woman ever took to her bed, but you could never rule
any kingdom wider than that same bed."
"Why should I ever want to?"
She threw him a smile, part affection, part
mockery. Emboldened, he took half a
step towards her, but she stopped him. "Wait.
Consider. This time I'll tell you why. And don't
pretend you've never made a guess at my plans
concerning this bastard." She turned her hand this way and
that, apparently admiring the glitter of her rings.
Then she looked up, confidingly. "You may be right in
part. I may have flown my hawk too early and too
fast, but the chance came to take the boy from his foster
home and bring him here without too much questioning. Besides,
he is ten years old, high time he should be trained
in the skills and manners of a prince. And once I
had taken that step, the other had to follow. Until the
right moment comes, my brother Arthur must hear no
hint of his whereabouts. Nor must that arch-mage Merlin,
and in his heyday he could have heard the 49
very rushes whispering on the Holy Isle. Old
and foolish as he is, we can risk nothing. I have not
kept my son and Arthur's secret all these
years, to have him taken from me now. He is my pass
to the mainland. When he is ready to go there, I shall go with
him."
He was hers again, she noted. Pleased, nattered
by her confidence, eager. "Back to Dunpeldyour, do
you mean?"
"Not Dunpeldyour, no. To Camelot
itself."
"To the High King."
"Why not? He has no legitimate son, and from
all accounts is unlikely to get one. Mordred
is my pass to Arthur's court. . . . And after that,
we shall see."
"You sound very sure," he said.
"I am sure. I have seen it." At the look in
his eyes she smiled again. "Yes, my dear, in the
pool. It was clear as crystal--a witch's
crystal. I and my sons, all of them, at
Camelot, dressed as for a feast, and bearing
gifts."
"Then surely--not that I'm questioning it, but--couldn't
that mean you would have been safe, even without what was done
tonight?" "Possibly." Her voice was indifferent.
"We cannot always read the signs aright, and it may be that
the Goddess knew already what would be done tonight. Now
I am sure that I am safe. All I have to do is
wait for Merlin's death. Already, more than once, we
have heard rumours of his disappearance, or death, and
each time I have rejoiced, only to find that the rumour was
false, and the old fool lived still. But the day must
soon come when the report will be true. I have seen
to that, Gabran. And when it is, when he is
no longer at Arthur's side, then I may go in
safety, and Mordred with me. I can deal with my
brother. ... If not as I dealt with him before, then as
a sister deals who has some power, and a little beauty
still."
"Madam--Morgause--"
She laughed gently, and stretched a hand to him.
"Come, Gabran, no need for jealousy! And no
need to fear me, either. All the witchcraft I ever
use against you, you know well how to deal with. The rest of
this night's work will be more to your taste than what is
past. Come to bed now. All is safe, thanks to you.
You have served me more than faithfully."
And so did they. But Gabran did not voice the
thought aloud. And soon, stripped of his damp
clothing, and lying in the great bed beside Morgause, he
forgot it, and forgot, too, the two dead bodies he
had left in the smoking shell of the cottage on the
shore. 5
Mordred woke early, at his usual time.
The other boys still slept, but this was the hour when his
foster father had always roused him for work. For a few
moments he lay, unsure of his surroundings, then he
remembered. He was in the royal palace. He was
a king's son, and the king's other sons were here,
sleeping in the same room. The eldest of them,
Prince Gawain, lay beside him, in the same bed.
In the other bed slept the three younger princes, the
twins, and the baby, Gareth. He had had no speech
with them yet. Last evening after Gabran had brought
him to the palace, he had been taken in charge by an
old woman who had been nurse to the royal boys;
she was still, she told him, nurse to Gareth, and
looked after the boys" clothes and to some extent their
welfare. She led Mordred to a room full of
chests and boxes, where she fitted him out with new
clothing. No weapons yet; he would get those tomorrow,
she told him sourly, soon enough, and then no doubt
he would be about his killing and murdering like the rest of
them. Men! Boys were bad enough, but at least they could
be controlled, and let him mark her words, she might
be an old woman, but she could still punish where
punishment was due. . . . Mordred listened, and was
silent, fingering the good new clothes, and trying not
to yawn as the old woman fussed about him. From her
chatter--and she. was never silent--he learned that
Queen Morgause was, to say the least, an
erratic parent. One day she would take the boys
riding, showing them mainland customs of hunting with hawk
and hound; they would ride all day, and she would
feast them late into the night, then the next day the
boys would find themselves apparently forgotten, and be
forbidden even to go to her rooms, only to be summoned
again at night to hear a minstrel, or to entertain a
bored and restless queen with talk of their own day.
Nor were the boys treated alike. Possibly the
only Roman principle held to by Morgause was
the one of "divide and rule." Gawain, as the
eldest and the heir, was given extra freedom and some
privileges forbidden to the others; Gareth, the
posthumous youngest, was the favourite. Which left the
twins, and they, Mordred gathered from old Ailsa's
pinched lips and headshakings, were difficult enough without the
constant rubbings of jealousy and frustrated energies.
When at length, with his new clothes carefully
folded over his arm, Mordred followed, her to the
boys' bedchamber, he was thankful to find that all
four were there before him, and already sound asleep. Ailsa
lifted

Gareth out of Gawain's bed, then pushed the twins
over and tucked the younger boy in beside them. None of them
so much as stirred. She pulled the coverlets up
close round them, and pointed Mordred silently to the
place beside Gawain. He stripped, and
slipped into the warmth of the bed. The old woman
tut-tutted round the room for a few more minutes,
picking up discarded clothing and laying it on the chest
between the beds, then went out, shutting the door gently
behind her. Mordred was asleep before she even left the
room. And now it was daylight, a new day, and he was
wide awake. He stretched luxuriously, with
excitement running through his body. He could feel it
in his very bones. The bed was soft and warm, and smelled
only slightly of the dressed furs that covered it.
The room was big, and to his eyes very well
furnished, with the two wide beds and the clothes-chest and a
thick woven rug hanging over the door to keep out the
worst of the draughts. Floor and walls alike were
made with the flat, local stone slabs. At this
early hour, even in summer, the room was very cold,
but it was cleaner than Sula's hut could ever be, and
something in the boy recognized and welcomed this as
desirable. Between the beds, above the clothes-chest, was a
narrow window through which the early morning air poured,
cool and clean and smelling of the salt wind.
He could lie still no longer. Gawain, beside him, still
slept, curled like a puppy in the welter of furs.
In the other bed little could be seen of the twins save the
tops of their heads; Gareth had been pushed
to the bed's edge, and lay sprawling half out of it, but
still deeply asleep.
Mordred slid out of bed. He padded to the
clothes-chest, and, kneeling upon it, looked out of the
window. This faced away from the sea; from it, by craning,
he could see the courtyard and the main outer gateway
of the palace. The sound of the sea came muted, a
murmur under the incessant calling and mewing of the
gulls. He looked the other way, beyond the palace
walls, where a track ran green through the heather
towards the summit of a gentle hill. Beyond that
curved horizon lay his foster home. His father would
be breaking his fast now, and soon would be gone about his
work. If Mordred wanted to see him (to get it
over with, said a small voice, quickly stifled in the
dark and barely heeded rearward of his mind) he must go
now. On the chest lay the good tunic that he had been
given last night, with a cloak, a brooch, and a
leather belt with a buckle of copper. But in the very
moment of reaching for the prized new clothing he changed
his mind, and with something like a shrug picked up his old
garment from the corner where he had thrown it, and slipped
it on. Then, ducking past the door curtain, he
let himself out of the room, and padded barefooted along
the chill stone corridors to the hall. 52
The hall was still full of sleepers, but guards were
changing duty for the morning shift, and servants were
already moving. No one stopped him or spoke to him as
he picked his way across the cluttered floor and out
into the courtyard. The outer gate was open, and a cart of
turfs was being dragged in by a couple of peasants.
The two guards stood watching, at ease, eating
their breakfast bannocks and taking turn and turn
about to drink from a horn of ale. As Mordred
approached the gate one of the men saw him, nudged the
other, and said something inaudible. The boy hesitated,
half expecting to be stopped, or at any rate
questioned, but neither of the men made a move to do so.
Instead, the nearest one lifted a hand up in a
half-salute, and then stood back to let the boy go
by. Perhaps no other moment of royal ceremony in
Prince Mordred's life was ever to equal that one.
His heart gave a great bound, right into his throat,
and he felt the colour rush into his cheeks. But he
managed a calm enough "Good morning," then ran out through
the palace gate and up the green track into the
moor.
He ran along the track, his heart still beating
high. The sun came up, and long shadows streamed
away ahead of him. The night's dew
shivered and steamed on the fine grasses, on the
rushes smoothed by the light wind, till the whole
landscape thrilled and shimmered with light, a softer
repetition of the endless, achingly bright shimmer of the
sea. Overhead, the clouds wisped back, and the air
filled with singing as the larks launched themselves from their
nests in the heather. The air rippled with song as the
land with light. Soon he reached the summit of the
moor, and before him stretched the long, gentle slope
towards the cliffs, and beyond them again the endless, shining
sea. From this point he could see, clear across the sea
in the early light, the hills of the High Island.
Beyond them lay the mainland--the real mainland, the great and
wonderful land that the islanders called, half in jest,
half in ignorance, "the next island." Many times,
from his father's boat, he had seen its northern
cliffs, and had tried to imagine the rest; its
va/s, its forests, its roads and ports and
cities. Today, though hidden from view, it had ceased
to be a dream. It was the High Kingdom, to which he would
one day travel, and where he would one day matter.
If his new status was to mean anything, it would mean
that. He would see to it.
He laughed aloud with joy, and ran on.
He came to the turf cutting. He
paused, deliberately lingering by the ditch he had
dug only yesterday. How long ago, already, it
seemed. Brude would have to finish it now--alone,
too, though lately he had been complaining about pains
in his back. Perhaps, thought the boy, since they were
[*curren]

apparently going to leave him free to come and go from the
palace, he could come down early each day for an
hour before the other boys were up, and finish the digging.
And if he were given real princely status, with
servants, he could maybe set them to the task, or
to the collecting of the lichens for his mother's dyestuffs.
The basket was still standing there by the diggings, where he had
left it yesterday, forgotten. He snatched it up,
and ran on down the track. The gulls were up, and
screaming. The sound met him, raw on the wind from the
sea. Something else was on that wind, a strange
smell, and in the gulls' screaming a high shiver of
panic that touched him like the edge of a knife.
Smoke? There was usually smoke from the cottage, but
this was a different smoke, a sour, chilled and sullen
emanation, carrying with it a smell that mocked the good
scent of roasting meat on the rare days when Sula
had meat in the pot. This was not a good smell;
it was sickening, an ugly mockery, making the morning
foul. Mordred's breeding, perverse though it was,
had made him the child of one fighting king, and the grandson,
twice over, of another. This combined with his hard
peasant upbringing to make fear, for him, something to be
faced immediately, and found out. He flung the basket
of lichens down and ran full tilt along the cliff
path, to where he could see down into the bay that had been
his home. Had been. The familiar cottage, with
its clay oven, its lines of pegged fish, the hanging
festoons of drying nets--all had vanished.
Only the four walls of his home still stood,
blackened and smoking with the sluggish, stinking smoke that
befouled the sea-wind. Most of the outer roof slabs still
lay in place, held as they were by stone supports
built into the walls, but those in the center were thinner, and
here and there had been pegged into place by driftwood.
The thatch of the roof, dry with summer, had burned
fiercely, and, with the pegs destroyed, the slabs had
sagged, tilted, and then cracked, sliding down with their
blazing load of thatch into the room below, making a
pyre of what had been his home.
It must be, in very truth, a pyre. For now,
retchingly, he recognized the smell that had
reminded him of Sula's cooking pots.
Sula herself, with Brude, must be inside--underneath that
pile of burned rubble. The roof had fallen
directly over their bedplace. To Mordred,
groping, dazed, for the cause of disaster, there was only
one explanation. His parents must have been asleep when
some stray spark from the unwatched embers, blown by the
draught, had lodged in the wind-dried turfs of the
roof, and smouldered to a blaze. It was to be hoped that
they had never woken, had perhaps been rendered
unconscious by the smoke, to be killed by the falling
roof before the fire even touched them. He stood there so
long, staring, unbelieving, sick, that only the sharp

wind, piercing the shabby tunic to the skin, made
him shiver suddenly and move. He squeezed his
eyes shut, as if in some silly hope that when he
opened them the place would be whole again, the horror
only a nightmare dream. But the horror remained.
His eyes, wide again, showed wild like a nervous
pony's. He started slowly down the path, then
suddenly, as if some invisible rider had applied
whip and spur, he began to run.
Some two hours later Gawain, sent from the
palace, found him there. Mordred was sitting on a
boulder at some distance from the cottage, staring
out to sea. Nearby lay Brude's upturned
boat, unharmed. Gawain, pale and shocked,
called his name, but when Mordred gave no sign of
having heard him, he reluctantly approached
to touch the unheeding boy on the arm.
"Mordred. They sent me to find you. What on
earth's happened?" No reply.
"Are they--your folk--are they--in there?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"How do I know? It was like that when I came
down."
"Ought we to--is there anything--?"
Mordred moved at that. "Don't go near. You
are not to go. Let them." He spoke sharply,
authoritatively. It was the tone of an elder
brother. Gawain, held by horrified curiosity,
obeyed without thinking. The men who had come with him were
already at the cottage, peering about them with subdued
exclamations, whether of horror or simple disgust
it was hard to tell.
The two boys watched, Gawain half sickened,
half fascinated, Mordred pale, and stiff in every
muscle.
"Did you go in?" asked Gawain.
"Of course. I had to, hadn't I?"
Gawain swallowed. "Well, I think you should come
back now, with me. The queen must be told." Then,
when Mordred made no move: "I'm sorry,
Mordred. It's a dreadful thing to happen. I'm
sorry. But there's nothing you can do now, you must see
that. Leave it to them. Let's go now, shall we? You
look ill."
"I'm all right. I was sick, that's all." He
slid down off the boulder, stooped to a rock pool,
and dashed a handful of the salt water into his face.
He straightened, rubbing his eyes as if coming out of
sleep. "I'll come now. Where have the men gone?"
Then, angrily: "Have they gone inside? What's it
to them?"
"They have to," said Gawain quickly. "Don't you
see, the queen will have to know. ... It isn't as if
they--your folk--as if they had just been

ordinary folk, is it?" Then, as Mordred
turned to stare at him, half blindly:
"Don't forget who you are now, and they were the king's
servants, themselves, in a way. She has to know what
happened, Mordred." "It was an accident. What
else?"
"I know. But she has to have a report. And
they'll do whatever's decent. Come on, we don't
have to stay. There's nothing we can do, nothing at all."
"Yes, there is." Mordred pointed to the
cottage door, where the milch goat, bleating,
pattered to and fro, to and fro, frightened by the
unaccustomed movement, the smells, the chaos, but
driven by the pain of her swollen udders. "We can
milk the goat. Have you ever milked a goat,
Gawain?"
"No, I haven't. Is it easy? Are you going
to milk it now? Here?" Mordred laughed, the
brittle, light laugh of tensions released. "No.
We'll take her with us. And the hens, too. If you
get that net that's drying on the boat's keel,
I'll see if I can catch them." He dived for the
nearest, secured it in an expert grip, then
swooped on another as it wrestled with some titbit in
the seaweed. The simple anticlimax to tragedy
did its work as grief and shock exploded
thankfully into action. Gawain, prince and
king-designate of Orkney, stood
irresolutely for a few moments, then did as he was
bidden, and ran to strip the net off the upturned
boat. When the men at length emerged from the
cottage and stood, in a close- talking huddle,
near the doorway, they saw the two boys toiling
up the path. Gawain led the goat, and Mordred
carried, slung over his shoulder, an improvised
bag of netting filled with protesting hens. Neither
boy looked back.
They were met at the palace gate by Gabran,
who listened in silence to the story Gawain poured out,
and thereafter, having spoken gently to Mordred, called
up servants to rid the boys of their livestock
("And she is to be milked straight away!" insisted
Mordred) and then hurried them straight into the
palace.
"The queen must be told. I shall go to her now.
Mordred, go in and change and make yourself decent.
She will want to see you. Gawain, go with him."
He hurried off. Gawain, looking after him with
narrowed eyes, as if seeing something far away and
bright, said under his breath: "And one day, my fine
Gabran, you will not command princes as if they were your
dogs. We know whose dog you are! Who are you to take
news to my mother in my place?" He flashed a
sudden grin at Mordred. "All the same, I'd
sooner he did today! Come on, we'd better get
clean."
The twins were in the boys' room, ostensibly
busy, but obviously waiting with some impatience for
their first sight of their new half-brother. Agravain
was sitting on the bed sharpening his dagger on a
whetstone, while Gaheris, on the floor, rubbed a
leather belt with grease to flex it. Gareth was not there.
The twins were stocky, well-built boys, with the
ruddy hair and high colour that marked Morgause's
sons by Lot, and, at the moment, sullen
expressions that were something less than welcoming. But
it had apparently been made clear to them that
Mordred must be welcomed, for they gave him a
civil enough greeting, and thereafter sat staring at him, much
as cattle do at something strange and perhaps dangerous
that has strayed into their pasture.
A servant hurried in with a bowl of water and a
napkin, which he set on the floor. Gawain ran
to the clothes-chest and threw Mordred's things off
onto his bed. He burrowed inside the chest for his own
things, while Mordred began to strip.
"What are you changing for?" asked Agravain.
"Our mother wants us," said Gawain, muffled.
"Why?" asked Gaheris.
Gawain shot a look at Mordred that
meant, plainly, Not a word. Not yet. Aloud, he
said: "That's our business. You'll hear later."
"Him, too?" Agravain pointed at Mordred.
"Yes."
Agravain was silent, watching as Mordred
slipped into one of the new tunics, and reached for the worked
leather belt with its sheath for a dagger, and the hanger for a
drinking horn. He fastened the buckle, and looked
about him for the silver-mounted horn Ailsa had given
him. "It's there, on the window sill," said
Gaheris. "Did she really give you that one?
You're lucky. It's a beauty. It's the one I
asked for," said Agravain. The words were not angry
or sullen, in fact they contained no expression at
all, but Mordred's eyes flicked to him and then
away again, as he clipped the horn to his belt.
"There was only one." Gawain spoke over his
shoulder. "And you and Gaheris always have to have the same."
"Gareth's to get the golden one," said Gaheris.
He spoke in the same flat, unboylike tone.
Again Mordred glanced, and again the lids dropped
over his eyes. Something had registered in that cool
brain, and was stored away for the future.
Gawain wiped his face and dried it, then threw the
napkin to Mordred, who caught it. "Be
quick, then we've got to do our feet. She's fussy
about the rugs." He glanced round. "Where's Gareth,
anyway?" "With her, of course," said Gaheris.

"Did you expect a full council of
welcome, then, brother?" asked Agravain.
Conversing with the twins, thought Mordred, drying his
feet, was like talking with a boy and his reflection.
Gawain said sharply: "It'll keep. I'll see
you later. Come on, Mordred, we'd better go."
Mordred stood up, smoothing down the soft folds
of the new tunic, and followed Gawain to the
doorway. The servant, coming in at that moment for the
bowl, held the door wide. Gawain paused without
thinking, the natural gesture of a host letting the
guest precede him through the doorway. Then, as if
remembering something, he went quickly through himself, leaving
Mordred to follow.
The queen's door was guarded as before. The spears
came down as the boys approached. "Not you,
Prince Gawain," said one of the men. "Orders. Just
the other one."
Gawain stopped short, then stood to one side, his
face stony. When Mordred glanced at him, with a
word of half-anxious apology ready, he
turned quickly away without speaking, and strode off
down the corridor. His voice rang out, calling
for a servant, peremptory, self-consciously
royal.
All three of them, thought Mordred to himself.
Well, Gawain's still generous because of the cliffside
rescue, but the other two are angry. I'll have to go
carefully. The quick brain behind the smooth brow added it
all together, and found a total that did not displease
him. So they saw him as a threat, did they? Why?
Because he was, in fact. King Lot's eldest
son? Somewhere deep inside him that tiny spark of
emulation, of longing, of desire for high doing,
kindled and glowed as something new: ambition. Disjointed
but clear, his thoughts spun. Bastard or not, I am
the king's eldest son, and they don't like it. Does
this mean that I really am a threat? I must find out.
Perhaps he married her, my mother, whoever she was . . .
his Or perhaps a bastard can inherit . . . his Arthur
himself was begotten out of wedlock, and so was Merlin, that
found the King's sword of Britain. . . .
Bastardy, what need it matter after all? What a
man is, is all that counts. . . .
The spears lifted. The queen's door was open.
He pushed the contused and mounting thoughts
aside, and came to the core of the matter. I shall have
to be careful, he thought. More than careful. There is
no reason at all why she should favour me, but as
she does, I must take care. Not just of them. Of
her. Most of all, of her. He went in.

Mordred, during the lonely vigil on the beach,
and then the long, silent trudge back to the palace
and the bracing exchange with the twins in the boys' room,
had had ample time to regain something like his normal--and
formidably adult--self-command. Morgause,
scanning him closely as he approached her, did
not guess at it. The delayed effects of shock still
showed, and the disgust and horror of what he had seen had
drained the blood from his face and the life from his
movements. The boy who walked forward and stood in
front of the queen was silent and white-faced and kept
his downcast eyes on the floor, while his hands,
tucked into the new leather belt, gripped themselves
into fists which apparently fought to control his emotion. So
Morgause interpreted it. She sat in her chair
by the window where the sun poured in and made a pool of
warmth. Gabran had gone out again, taking Gareth with
him, but the queen's women were there, at the far end of the
room, three of them at their stitchery, a
fourth sorting a basketful of newly spun wool.
The distaff, polished from much use, lay beside her on
the floor. Mordred was reminded, sharply, at a
moment when he least wanted it, of Sula's long
days spent in the cottage doorway, spinning, a
task which of late had been increasingly painful to her
knotted fingers. He looked away, staring at the
floor, and hoping, with violence, that the queen's
condolences and kindness would not overset his control.
He need have had no fear. Morgause set her
chin on her fist, regarding him. In the new clothes
he looked princely, and enough like Arthur to make her
eyes narrow and her mouth tighten as she said, in a
light pretty voice as emotionless as a bird's:
"Gabran told me what has happened. I am
sorry."
She sounded completely indifferent. He glanced
up, then down again, and said nothing. Why, indeed, should
she care? For her it was a relief not to have to pay any
more. But for Mordred ... In spite of all the
trappings of princedom, he saw his position. With
no other place to go to, he was completely at the
mercy of a queen who, apart from the trivial debt of the
cliff climb, had no cause to wish him well.
He did not speak.
Morgause proceeded to make the situation plain.
"It seems that, nonetheless, the Goddess watches
over you, Mordred. Had you not been brought to our
notice, what would have become of you now, without a
home, or any way to make a livelihood?
Indeed, you might well have perished with your foster
parents in the flames. Even had you escaped, you would
have had nothing. You would have become a servant to any
peasant who needed a skilled hand with his boat and
net. A serfdom, Mordred, as hard to break out of
as slavery."
He neither moved nor glanced up, but she saw the
faint tremor of bracing muscles, and smiled
to herself.
"Mordred. Look at me."
The boy's eyes lifted, expressionless.
She spoke crisply. "You have had a sad
shock, but you must fight to put it behind you. You know now
that you are a king's bastard, and that all you have owed to your
foster home is your food and lodging--and even that by the
king's orders many years ago. I also had my
orders, and have obeyed them. I might never have chosen
to take you from your foster home, but chance and fate
willed it otherwise. The very day before you met Prince
Gawain on the cliff, I saw something in
the crystal that warned me."
She paused on the lie. There had been a brief
flash in the boy's eyes. She interpreted it as the
half-frightened, half-fascinated interest that the poor
folk accorded her pretensions to magic power. She
was satisfied. He would be her creature, as were the
other palace folk. Without magic, and the terror she
took care that it invoked, a woman could hardly have
held this stark and violent kingdom, so far from the
protecting swords of the kings whose task it was to keep
Britain as one. She went on: "Don't
misunderstand me. I had no warning of last night's
disaster. If I had looked into the pool--well,
perhaps. But the Goddess works in strange ways,
Mordred. She told me you would come to me, and see,
you have come. So now it is doubly right that you should forget
all that is past, and try your best to become a
fighting man who has a place here in the court."
She eyed him, then added, in a softer tone: "And
indeed, you are welcome. We shall see that you are
made so. But, king's bastard or not, Mordred, you
must earn your place."
"I will, madam."
"Then go now, and begin."
So Mordred was absorbed into the life
of the palace, a life in its own way as harsh and
uncompromising as his previous peasant existence,
and rather less free.
The Orkney stronghold boasted nothing that a
mainland king would have recognized as a military
training-ground. Outside the palace walls the
moor sloped up gently to landward, and this wild
stretch, flat enough, and in good weather dry enough for
soldiers to maneuver on, served as parade ground,
practice ground, and playground, too, for the boys
when they

were allowed the freedom of it. Which was almost daily,
for the princes of Orkney had to suffer no such formal
lessons in the arts of war as disciplined the sons of the
greater, mainland chiefs. Had King Lot still lived,
and kept his state at Dunpeldyour in his mainland
kingdom of Lothian, he would no doubt have seen to it
that his elder sons, at least, went out daily with
sword or spear or even the bow, to learn the bounds
of their home country, and to see something of the lands that
marched with theirs, from which threats or help might come in
time of war. But in the islands there was no need for this
kind of vigilance. All winter long--and winter
lasted from October until April, and
sometimes May--the seas kept the shores, and often
even the neighbouring isles were seen only as clouds
floating behind the other clouds that scudded, laden with
rain or snow, across the sea. In some ways the boys
liked winter best. Then Queen Morgause,
snugged down in her palace against the incessant
winds, spent her days by the fireside, and they were
free even of her spasmodic interest. They were
free to join the hunts for deer or boar--no
wolves were to be found on the island--and enjoyed the
breakneck rides when, armed with spears, they
followed the shaggy hounds over wild and difficult
country. There were seal-hunts, too, bloody,
exciting forays over the slippery rocks, where a
false step could mean a broken leg, or worse.
Their bows they were soon expert with; the island abounded
in birds, which could be hunted at any time. As for
swordplay and the arts of war, the queen's officers
saw to the first, and the second could be picked up any
evening round the supper fires of the soldiers in the
courtyard. Of formal learning there was none. It is
possible that, in the whole of the kingdom, Queen
Morgause herself was the only one who knew how
to read. She kept a box full of books in her
room, and sometimes, by the winter fire, she
would unroll one of these, while her women looked
on, awed, and begged her to read to them. This she did
only rarely, because the books were for the most part
collections of the old lores that men called magic,
and the queen guarded her skills with jealousy. About these
the boys knew nothing, and would have cared less.
Whatever the power--and it was genuine enough--that had come
down through some trick of the blood to Morgause, and
to Morgan her half- sister, it had quite passed by every
one other five sons. Indeed, they would have despised
it. Magic, to them, was something for women; they were men;
their power would be that of men; and they pursued it
eagerly. Mordred, perhaps, more eagerly than any.
He had not expected to be received easily and at
once into the brotherhood of the princes, and indeed, there
were difficulties. The twins were always together, and
Gawain kept young Gareth close by him, protecting
him against the rough fists and feet of the twins, and at the
same time trying to stiffen him against the over- indulgence
of his mother. It was through this that, in the end, Mordred
broke into the charmed square of Morgause's
legitimate children. One night Gawain woke to hear
Gareth sobbing on the floor. The twins had thrown
him out of bed onto @a the cold stone, and then
laughingly fought off the child's attempts
to clam- y her back into the warmth. Gawain, too
sleepy to take drastic action, simply pulled
Gareth into his own bed, which meant that Mordred had
to move out and bed down with the twins. They, wide
awake and spoiling for trouble, did not move to make
way for him, but, each to his edge of the wide bed,
set themselves to defend it. Mordred stood in the cold
for a few minutes, watching them, while Gawain,
unaware of what was going on, comforted the youngest boy,
paying no heed to the stifled giggles of the twins.
Then, without attempting to get into bed, Mordred
reached suddenly forward, and, with a swift tug, dragged
the thick furred coverlet away from the boys' naked
bodies, and prepared to bed down with it himself, on the
floor.
Their yells of fury roused Gawain, but he
merely laughed, his arm round Gareth, and watched.
Agravain and Gaheris, goosefleshed with cold,
hurled themselves, all fists and teeth, at Mordred.
But he was quicker, heavier, and completely ruthless.
He flung Agravain back across the bed with a blow
in the belly that left him retching for breath, then
Gaheris's teeth met in his arm. He whipped up
his leather belt from the chest where it lay, and lashed the
other boy over back and buttocks till
he let go and, howling, ran to protect himself behind the
bed.
Mordred did not follow them. He threw the
coverlet back on the bed, dropped the belt on the
chest, then climbed into bed, covering himself against the
brisk draught from the window. "All right. Now that's
settled. Come in. I won't touch you again, unless
you make me."
Agravain, sulky and swallowing, waited only
a minute or two before obeying. Gaheris, hands
to his buttocks, spat furiously: "Bastard!
Fisher- brat!"
"Both," said Mordred equably. "The bastard
makes me older than you, and the fisher-brat stronger.
So get in and shut up."
Gaheris looked at Gawain, got no help
there, and, shivering, obeyed. The twins turned their
backs to Mordred, and apparently went straight
to sleep.
From the other side of the chamber Gawain, smiling,
held up a hand in the gesture that meant
"victory." Gareth, the tears drying on his face,
was grinning hugely.
Mordred answered the gesture, then pulled the
coverlet closer and lay down. Soon, but
not before he was certain that the twins were genuinely
asleep, he allowed himself to relax into the warmth of the
furs, and drifted

off himself into a slumber where, as ever, the dreams of
desire and the nightmares were about equally mingled. After
that there was no real trouble. Agravain, in fact,
conceived some kind of reluctant admiration for
Mordred, and Gaheris, though in this he would not
follow his twin, accorded him a sullen
neutrality. Gareth was never a problem. His sunny
nature, and the drastically swift revenge that
Mordred had taken on his tormentors, ensured that
he was Mordred's friend. But the latter took good
care not to come between the little boy and the object of his first
worship. Gawain was the one who mattered most, and
Gawain, having in his nature something of the
Pendragon that superseded the dark blood of
Lothian and the perverse powers of his mother, would be quick
to resent any usurper. As far as Gawain was
concerned, Mordred himself stayed neutral, and
waited. Gawain must make the pace.
So autumn went by, and winter, and by the time
summer came round again, Seals' Bay was only a
memory. Mordred, in bearing, dress, and
knowledge of the arts necessary to a prince of Orkney, could not be
distinguished from his half-brothers. The eldest by almost a
year, he was necessarily matched with Gawain rather
than with the younger ones, and though at first Gawain had the
advantage of training, in time there was little to choose
between them. Mordred had subtlety, call it
cunning, and a cool head; Gawain had the flashing
brilliance that on his worse days became rashness and
sometimes savagery. On the whole they met equal
to equal with their weapons, and respected one another
with liking, though not with love. Gawain's love was still
and always for Gareth, and, in a strained and often
unhappy way, for his mother. The twins lived for each
other. Mordred, though accepted and seemingly at
home in his new surroundings, stood always outside the
family, self-contained, and apparently content to be
so. He saw little of the queen, and was unaware of how
closely she watched him. One day, after autumn
had come again, he went down to Seals' Bay. He
came to the head of the cliff path and stood as he had
so often stood, looking down into the green dip of the
bay. It was October, and the wind blew strongly.
The heather was black and dead-looking, and here and there in
the damp places the sphagnum moss grew golden
green and deep. Most of the seabirds had
gone south, but still out over the gray water the white
gannets hovered and splashed like sea-spirits. Down in
the bay the weather had so worked on the ruined cottage
that the walls, washed clear of the mud that had bound their
stones together, looked more like piles of rock thrown there
by the tide than like part of a human dwelling. The
burned and blackened debris had been long since
dispersed by wind and sea. greater-than
Mordred walked down the slope and trod
deliberately over the rain- 63
washed grass to the door of his foster home. Standing
on the sill, he looked about him. It had rained
hard during the past week, and pools of fresh water
stood here and there. In one of them, something white showed.
He stooped to it, and his hand met bone. For a shrinking
second he paused, then with a sudden movement
grasped the thing, and lifted it. A fragment of bone,
but whether animal or human he could not tell. He
stood with it in his hand, trying deliberately to let it
conjure up emotion or memory. But time and weather
had done their work; it was cleansed,, sterile,
indifferent as the stones on the storm beach. Whatever
those people, that life, had been, it was over. He
dropped the bone back in the flooded crevice, and
turned away.
Before he climbed the path again he stood looking out
to sea. Free he was now, in one sense; but what his
whole being longed for was the freedom that lay beyond that
barrier of water. Still something in his spirit beat itself against
the space of air that lay between the Orkneys and the
mainland kingdoms that were the High Kingdom. "I'll go
there," he said to the wind. "Why else did it all
happen as it did? I'll go there, and see what can be
made of a bastard prince from Orkney. She can't
stop me. I'll take the next ship." Then he
turned his back on the cove, and went home to the
palace. 7
It was not with the next ship, or even in the next
year, that the chance came. In the event Mordred,
true to his nature, was content to watch and bide his
time. He would go, but not until something was assured for
him. He well knew how little chance there was in the world
beyond the islands for an untried and untrained boy; such
a one would end--king's bastard or no--in penniless
servitude or slavery. Life in Orkney was
better than that. Then, in his third summer in the
palace, a certain ship from the mainland put
into harbour, and it became, suddenly, interesting.
The Meridaun was a small trader newly come from
Caer y n'a Von, as people now called the
old Roman garrison town of Segontium in
Wales. She carried pottery goods and ores and
smelted iron and even weapons for an illegal
market run by the small smithies back of the
barracks in the fortified port.
She also carried passengers, and to the islanders who
crowded to the wharf to meet her, these were of more interest
even than the much-needed goods. Ships brought news,
and the Meridaun, with her mixed cargo of travellers,
brought the biggest news for many years. "Merlin is
dead!" shouted the first man off the gangplank, big
with the news, but before the crowd, pressing eagerly
nearer, could ask him for details, the next asserted
loudly:
"Not so, good folk, not so! Not when we left
port, that is, but it's true he's very sick, and not
expected to see the month out. ..." Gradually, in
response to the crowd's clamour for details, more
news emerged. The old enchanter was certainly very
ill. There had been a recurrence of the falling
sickness, and he had been in a coma--"a sleep like
death itself"--and had neither moved nor spoken for many
days. The sleep might even now have passed into death.
The boys, with the townsfolk, had gone down to the wharf
for news. The younger princes, eager and
excited at the commotion and the sight of the ship, pressed
forward with the crowd. But Mordred hung back. He
heard the buzz of talk, the shouted questions, the
self-important answers;
noise surrounded him, but he might have been
alone. He was back in a kind of dream. Once
before, dimly in shadows somewhere, he had heard the
same news, told in a frightened whisper. He had
forgotten it till now. All his life he had heard
tales of Merlin, the King's enchanter, along with
tales of the High King himself and the court at
Camelot; why, then, some-

where deep in a dream, had he already heard the
news of Merlin's death? It had certainly not been
true then. Perhaps it was not true now. . . .
"It's not true."
"What's that?"
He came to himself with a start. He must, he
realized, have spoken aloud. Gawain, beside him, was
staring.
"What do you mean, it's not true?"
"Did I say that?"
"You know you did. What were you talking about? This
news of old Merlin? So how do you know?
And what's it to us, anyway? You look as if you were
seeing ghosts."
"Maybe I am. I--I don't know what I
meant."
He spoke lamely, and this was so unlike him that
Gawain stared still harder. Then both boys were shoved
aside as a man pushed roughly through the press. The
boys reacted angrily, then drew aside as they
saw that the man was Gabran. The queen's lover
called peremptorily over the heads of the crowd:
"You, there! Yes, you, and you, too . . . Come with
me! Bring what tidings you have straight to the palace.
The queen must hear them first."
The crowd stood back a trifle sullenly, and
let the news-bringers through. They went willingly with
Gabran, important and obviously hopeful of
reward. The people watched them out of sight, then turned
back to the wharf, fastening on the next people to disembark.
These were traders, apparently; the first, by the look of the
traps his man carried, was a goldsmith, then came
a worker in leather, and last of all a travelling
physician, whose slave followed him, laden with his
impedimenta of boxes and bags and vials. To him the
folk crowded eagerly. There was no doctor in these
northern islands, and one went for ailments
to the wise-women or--in extreme cases--to the
holy man on Papa Westray, so this was an
opportunity not to be missed. The doctor, in
fact, lost no time in starting business. He stood
on the sunny wharfside and started his rattling
spiel, while his slave began to unpack the cures
for every ill that might be expected to afflict the
Orcadians. His voice was loud and confident, and
pitched to overbear any rival attempt at
business, but the goldsmith, who had preceded him off
the ship, made no attempt to set up his stall.
He was an old man, stooped and grey, whose own
clothes boasted examples of a refined and lovely
work. He paused at the edge of the crowd, peering about
him, and addressed Mordred, who was standing near.
"You, boy, can you tell me--ah, now, I beg your
pardon, young sir. You must forgive an old man whose
sight is bad. Now I can see that you're quality,
and so I'll beg you again of your kindness to tell me which
is the way to the queen's house?"

Mordred pointed. "Straight up that street, and
turn west at the black altar stone. The track will
carry you right to the palace. It's the big building you
can see--but you said your sight was poor?
Well, if you follow the crowd, I think most people will
be going there now, to get more news."
Gawain took a step forward. "Perhaps you know more
yourself? Those fellows with their news from court--where were
they from? Camelot? Where are you from yourself,
goldsmith?"
"I am from Lindum, young sir, in the south-east,
but I travel, I travel."
"Then tell us the news yourself. You must have heard,
on the voyage, all that those men had to tell."
"Why, as to that, I heard very little. I'm a poor
sailor, you see, so I spent my time below. But
there's something those fellows there didn't mention. I
suppose they wanted to be first with the news. There's a
royal courier on board. He was as sick as I,
poor fellow, but even without that, I doubt if he'd
have shared his tidings with ordinary folk like us."
"A king's courier? When did he come aboard?"
"At Glannaventa."
"That's in Rheged?"
"That is so, young sir. He hasn't disembarked
yet, has he, Casso?" This to the tall slave
who stood behind him carrying his baggage. The man
shook his head. "Well, he'll be going straight
up to the palace, too, you can be sure of
that. If you want hot news, young sirs, you'd best
follow. As for me, I'm an old man, and as long
as I can follow my trade, the world can pass me
by. Come, Casso, you heard? Up that path yonder
as far as the black altar stone. Then turn east."
"It's west," said Mordred, quickly, to the slave.
The man nodded, smiling, then took his master's arm
and guided him up the rough steps towards the road.
The pair trudged off and were lost to sight behind the hut
where the harbour master lived.
Gawain was laughing. "Well, the palace ram
has made a mistake this time! To escort a
couple of tale-bearers up to the queen and not even
wait to hear that there was a king's courier on board!
I wonder--" He did not finish the sentence. Some
shouts and a fuss on deck indicated the approach of
someone important. Presently a man came up
from below, well dressed and smoothly bartered, but still
pallid with sea-sickness. At his belt was a
messenger's pouch, with its lock and seal. He trod
importantly down the gangplank. Distracted from
the physician, some of the crowd moved towards him, the
boys with them, but they were disappointed. The courier,
ignoring everyone, and refusing to answer any questions,
climbed the steps and headed at a fast
pace for the palace. As he cleared the last huts
pf the township he was met by Gabran, hurrying, this
time with a royal escort of men-at-arms.

"Well, she knows now," said Gawain. "Come
on, hurry," and the boys trotted uphill in the
messenger's wake.
The letter that the courier bore came from the queen's
sister Morgan, Queen of Rheged.
There was little love lost between the two ladies, but a
stronger bond than love united them: hatred of their
brother Arthur the King. Morgause hated him because
she knew that Arthur loathed and feared the memory of the
sin she had led him to commit with her; Morgan because,
though married to a great and warlike king, Urbgen, she
wanted at the same time a younger man and a greater
kingdom. It is human to hate those whom,
blameless, we hope to destroy, and Morgan was
prepared to betray both brother and husband to achieve
her desires. It was of the first of these desires that she
wrote to her sister. "You remember Accolon? I
have him now. He would die for me. And needs must,
perchance, should Arthur or that devil Merlin come to hear
of my plans. But rest easy, sister; I have it on
authority that the enchanter is sick. You will
know that he has taken a pupil into his house, a
girl, daughter of Dyonas of the River Islands,
who was one of the Ladies of the Lake convent at
Ynys Witrin. Now they say she is his
mistress, and that in his weakness she strives to learn his
power from him, and is in a fair way to steal it all,
and suck him dry and leave him bound for ever. I know
that men say the enchanter cannot die, but if this tale be
true, then once Merlin is helpless, and only the
girl Nimue stands in his place, who is to say
what power we true witches cannot grasp for ourselves?"
Morgause, reading by her window, made a mouth of
impatience and contempt. "We true witches."
If Morgan thought that she could even touch the edges of
Morgause's art, she was an over-ambitious
fool. Morgause, who had guided her
half-sister's first steps in magic, could never be
brought to admit, even to herself, that Morgan's
aptitude for sorcery had already led her to surpass
the witch of Orkney, with her sex potions and
poisonous spells, by almost as much as Merlin in his
day had surpassed them both.
There was not much more to the letter. "For the rest," Morgan
had written, "the country is quiet, and this means,
I fear, that my lord King Urbgen will soon
be home for the winter. There is talk of Arthur's
going to Brittany, in peace, to visit with Hoel.
For the present he stays at Camelot in wedded
bliss, though there is still no sign of an heir."
This time Morgause, reading, smiled. So the
Goddess had heard her invocations, and savoured her
sacrifices. The rumours were true. Queen
Guinevere was barren, and the High King, who would not
put her away, must remain without an heir of his
body. She glanced out of the window.

There he was, the one who was supposed, all those
years ago, to have been drowned. He was standing with the other
boys on the flat turf outside the walls, where the
goldsmith's servant had set up his master's
sleeping tent and stove, and the old man chatted with the
boys as he laid out his implements.
Morgause turned abruptly from the window, and
at her call a page came running.
"That man outside the walls, he's a
goldsmith? Just come with the ship? I see. Then bid
him bring some work to show me. If he is skilled,
then there will be work for him here, and he will lodge within the
palace. But the work must be good, fit for a queen's
court. Tell him that, or he need not
trouble me."
The boy ran. The queen, the letter lying in her
lap, looked out beyond the moorland, beyond the green
horizon where the sky reflected the endless shining of the
sea, and smiled, seeing again the vision she had had,
shrined in the crystal, of Camelot's high towers,
and herself, with her sons beside her, carrying to Arthur the
rich gifts that would be her pass to power and favour.
And the richest gift of all stood there below her window:
Mordred, the High King's son.
Though as yet only the queen knew it, it was to be
the boys' last summer together in the islands, and it was a
lovely one. The sun shone, the winds were warm and
moderate, the fishing and hunting good. The boys spent
their days out in the air. For some time now, under
Mordred's tuition, they had even taken to the sea,
something that the islanders did not readily do for sport,
since the currents, at that meeting-place of two
great seas, were fickle and dangerous. To begin with,
Gaheris was seasick, but was ashamed to let the
"fisher-brat" get the better of him, so persisted,
and in time became a passable sailor. The other
three took to sailing like gulls to the wave-tops,
and a new respect grew up between the "real princes"
and the elder boy, when they saw how well and with
what authority he handled a boat in those difficult
waters. His seamanship, it is true, was never
tried in rough weather; the queen's indulgence would have
come to a speedy end if there had been any evidence of
real risk; so the five of them held their tongues
about the moments of excitement, and did their exploring
of the coastlines unrebuked. If Morgause's
counsellors knew better than she what risks were
run even in summer weather, they said nothing
to Morgause;
Gawain would be king one of these days, and his favour
was already courted. Morgause, in fact, took little
interest in anything beyond her palace walls, and
"Witches don't like sailing," said Gareth, in all
innocence of what his words implied. Indeed, the
princes were proud, if anything, of their mother's
reputation as a witch. 69
This showed itself in certain ways through that summer.
Beltane the goldsmith and his slave Casso were
housed in one of the palace outbuildings, and were seen
daily working at their trade in the courtyard. This by the
queen's commission; she gave them silver, and some
small store of precious stones salvaged years
ago from Dunpeldyour, and set them to fashioning
torques and arm-rings and other jewels
"fit for a king." She told no one why, but word got
about that the queen had had a magical vision concerning
things of such beauty and price, and that the goldsmith
had come--by chance, magic, what you would--to make
reality catch up with the dream.
Beautiful the things certainly were. The old man
was a superb craftsman, and more than that, an artist
of rare taste, who had been taught--as he never
tired of telling--by the best of masters. He could work
both in the Celtic mode, those lovely patterns
of strongly angled but fluid lines, and also in ways
learned, so he said, from the Saxons in the south, with
enamel and niello and metals finely worked as
filigree. The finer work he did himself; he was so
shortsighted as to be, for normal purposes, almost
blind, but he could do close work with a marvellous
precision. The larger work, and all the routine, was
done by the man Casso, who was also permitted to take
in repairs and other local commissions from time to time.
Casso was as silent as Beltane was garrulous, and
it was some time before the boys-- who spent long hours
hanging around the stove when anything interesting was being
done--discovered that Casso was in fact dumb. So
all their questions were fired at Beltane, who talked
and worked happily and without ceasing; but
Mordred, watching almost as silently as the slave,
saw that the latter missed very little, and gave, when those
downcast eyes lifted now and again, an impression of
intelligence far quicker than his master's. The
impression was momentary, and soon forgotten; a
prince had little thought to spare for a dumb slave, and
Mordred, these days, was completely the prince,
accepted by his half-brothers and--still to his
puzzlement--high in the queen's favour. So the
summer wore through, and at the end of it the queen's
magical prevision was justified. On a fine day
of September another ship docked. And the news
came that changed life for all of them. 8
It was a royal ship. The boys saw it first.
They had their boat out that day, and were fishing some way out
in the firth. The ship came scudding with a fair wind,
her sails set full, and the gilded mast flying a
pennant that, though none of them had seen it before, they
recognized immediately, with excitement. A red
dragon on a background of yellow gold.
"The High King's standard!" Mordred, at the
steering-oar, saw it first.
Gaheris, never one to control himself, gave a
yell of exultation, as savage as a war-cry.
"He's sent for us! We are to go
to Camelot! Our uncle the High King has
remembered, and sent for us!" Gawain said, slowly:
"So she saw it truly. The silver gifts are for
King Arthur. But if she is his sister, why should she
need such gifts as those?"
His brothers paid no heed. "Camelot!" said
Gareth, wide-eyed. "He won't want you." That
was Agravain, sharply. "You're far too young. She
wouldn't let you go, anyway. But if our uncle the
High King sends for us, how can she stop us?"
"You'd go?" That was Mordred, dryly.
"What do you mean? I'd have to. If the High
King--" "Yes, I know. I meant, would you want
to go?" Agravain stared. "Are you mad? Not want
to go? Why on earth not?" "Because the High King was never
a friend to our father, that's what he means," put in
Gaheris. He added, nastily: "Well, we can
see why Mordred might not dare go, but the High
King's our mother's brother, after all, and why should he
be our enemy, even if he was our father's?" He
glanced at Gawain. "And that's what you meant,
too? That she's taking all that treasure to buy herself
back in?" Gawain, busy with a rope, did not
reply. Gareth, understanding only half of what was
said, put in eagerly: "If she goes,
too, then she will take me, I know she will!"
"Buy herself back in!" Agravain repeated it
explosively. "Why, that's folly! It's easy
to see what's happened. It was that wicked old man
Merlin who poisoned the High King's mind against us,
and now he's dead at last, because you can bet anything you
like, that's the news the ship brings, and now we can go
to court at Camelot, and lead the High King's
Companions!"
"Better and better." Mordred spoke more
dryly than ever. "When I 71
asked if you would want to go, I was remembering that
you didn't approve of his policies."
"Oh, his policies," said Agravain,
impatiently. "This is different. This may be a
chance to get away from here, and into the middle of things.
Just let me get there, to Camelot, I mean, and
get half a chance to see some life and some fighting,
and to hell with his policies!"
"But what fighting will there be? That's the whole
point, isn't it? That's what you were so angry about.
If he is really set on making a lasting peace with
Cerdic the Saxon, you won't see any fighting."
"He's right," said Gaheris, but Agravain
laughed. "We'll see. For one thing, I
don't think even Arthur will get a Saxon king
to agree to terms and keep them, and for another, once
I get there, and within reach of any Saxon, treaty
or not, there'll be fighting!"
"Fine talking," said Gaheris, with scorn. "But
if there's a treaty--" began Gareth
indignantly. Gawain interrupted. His voice was
tense and even, overlying excitement. "Hold your
tongues, the lot of you. Let's get back home
and find out. At the very least it's news. Mordred,
may we put about now?" For Mordred, by consent, was
always captain of their sea-going expeditions, as
Gawain was of their forays by land. Mordred nodded, and
gave the orders for trimming the sail. That he
allotted the hardest tasks to Agravain may not have
been coincidence, but the latter said nothing, hung on
to the bucking rope, and helped to bring the lively
boat about and send it skimming landwards, rocking in the
spreading wake of the King's ship.
Whether or not the ship carried any message
concerning the boys, a royal envoy had certainly
been on board, and had gone ashore before the ship was
barely trimmed to the quay. Though he spoke to no
one save for a brief acknowledgment of the courtesy
meeting accorded him by the queen's chief
men, part of his news was already known to the crew, and by the
time the boys beached their craft and scrambled ashore,
the words were passing from mouth to mouth with a knell of awe
and dread, mingled with the poor folks' furtive
excitement at the thought of such a momentous change in
high places. The boys crowded in, listening where
they could, questioning those of the crew who were on the wharfside.
It was as they had guessed. The old magician was
dead at last. He had been entombed, with splendid
mourning, in his own cave of Bryn Myrd- dm,
near Maridunum, where he had been born. One of the
soldiers accompanying the King's messenger had been
there on duty, and told vivid tales of the
ceremony, the King's grief, of fires the length and
breadth of the
land, and finally of the court's return to Camelot
and the dispatch of the royal ship to the Orkneys. About
its business there the sailors were vague, but the
rumour went, they told the boys, that Queen
Morgause's family were to be taken back forthwith
to the mainland. "I told you so!" said Gaheris to his
brothers, in triumph. They began to run along the
road that led to the palace. Mordred, after a
second's hesitation, followed.
Suddenly, it seemed, things had changed. He was on
the outside again, and Lot's four sons, united in
the golden prospect opening before them, seemed hardly
to notice him. They were talking busily as they ran.
"--And it was Merlin who advised the High King
to make the Saxon peace," panted Agravain.
"So perhaps now we'll see our uncle taking the
sword again," said Gaheris happily. "And he'll
want us--"
"And break his own sworn oath?" asked Gawain,
sharply. "Perhaps it isn't only us he wants,"
said Gareth. "Perhaps he's sent for our mother, too,
now that Merlin's gone. He was a wicked man,
I've heard her say so, and he hated her because he
was jealous of her magic. She told me that. Perhaps,
now he's dead, our mother will work magic for the King
instead."
"The King's enchantress? He's got one
already," said Gawain, dryly. "Didn't you hear?
The lady Nimue has Merlin's power, and the King
turns to her for everything. So they were saying."
They were near the gate now. They dropped to a
walk. Gareth turned to his half-brother.
"Mordred, when we go to Camelot, you'll be the
only one left here. What will you do?"
The only one left here. . . . The firstborn of the
King of Orkney, left, alone of the princes, in
Orkney? Mordred saw the same thought strike
Gawain at the same moment. He said, shortly:
"I haven't thought about it. Come on, let's get in
and find out what the man has to say." He ran in
through the gate. Gawain hung on his heel for a
moment, then followed, and the rest with him.
The palace was buzzing, but no one knew anything
except the larger rumours that the boys had already
heard. The envoy was still closeted with the queen. People
crowded in the corridors and in the hall, but made
way for the princes when in a short time, clean and
changed, they pushed their way through to the doors that led
to the queen's private chambers.
Time went by. The light began to fade, and
servants went about kindling the torches. It was time
to eat. Cooking smells crept through the rooms,
making the boys remember their hunger. In their
excitement they had not eaten the barley cakes they
had had in the boat. But still the queen's door

did not open. Once they heard her voice,
raised sharply, but whether in anger or excitement it
was impossible to tell. The boys shifted
uneasily, looking at one another.
"It must be true that we are to go," said
Agravain. "What other message would our uncle
the High King send with one of the royal ships?"
"Even if it isn't," said Gawain, "we can
surely send a message back by the ship to our
uncle the High King, at least to remind him that we
exist."
(and if any of them says "our uncle the High
King" again, thought Mordred, with savage irritation,
I shall start shouting about "my father the King of Lothian
and Orkney," and see what they say to that!)
"Hush!" he said aloud. "He's coming out. Now
we shall know." But they were to learn nothing yet. The
queen's door opened, and the envoy came out between the
guards, his face set and uninformative, as such men
are trained to be. He walked forward without a look
to right or left, and the people made way for him. No one
spoke to him, the princes themselves moving aside without
asking any of the eager questions that burned on their lips.
Even here, in the islands at the back of the north
wind, they knew that one did not question a King's envoy
any more than one questioned the King. He brushed past them
as if they did not exist--as if a mere messenger
of the High King were of more account than all the
princes of the islands. A chamberlain came forward
to take him in charge, and he was escorted to the
quarters set aside for him in the palace. The
queen's door stayed all the while firmly
closed.
"I want my supper," said Gareth earnestly.
"It looks as if we'll get it," said
Agravain, "long before she's decided to tell us
what's going on."
This proved to be the case. It was late that night,
verging indeed on the hour when normally the boys were
sent to bed, when the queen sent for them at last.
"All five?" repeated Gawain, when the
message came. "All five," said Gabran.
He could not help looking curiously at Mordred,
and the other four pairs of eyes followed his.
Mordred, tensing himself against the sudden upsurge of
excitement, hope and apprehension, looked, as was his
habit, detached and expressionless. "And hurry,"
said Gabran, holding the door. They hurried.
They filed into Morgause's chamber, silent,
expectant, and nervously awed by what they saw there.
The queen had used the long interval since the
messenger's dismissal to sup, talk with her
counsellors, and have a stormy but
satisfactory little interlude with Gabran. then she
had had her

women bathe and dress her in a robe of state, and
arrange, for the interview with her sons, a royal
setting. Her tall gilded chair had been carried
in from the hall, and she sat there beside a glowing fire of
peats with her feet on a crimson footstool.
On a table at her elbow stood a golden goblet,
still holding wine, and beside this lay the scroll that the
King's messenger had given her, the royal seal of the
Dragon splashed across it like a bloodstain.
Gabran, leading the boys into the room, crossed
the floor to stand behind the queen's chair. No one
else was there; the women had long since been
dismissed. Beyond the window the midnight moon, at the
full, had cooled from marigold to silver, and a
sharp-edged blade of light cut across Morgause's
chair, sparking on gold and drowning in the folds of
her gown. She had had herself dressed in one of her
finest robes, a sweeping shimmer of
bronze-coloured velvet. Her girdle was set with
gold and emeralds, her hair was braided with gold,
and on it she had set one of her royal coronets,
a thin circlet of red Celtic gold that
had been King Lot's, and that the boys had seen before
only when they had been allowed to sit in on the formal
royal councils. The torches had been put out, and
no lamps were lit. She sat between firelight and
moonlight, looking queenly and very beautiful.
Mordred, possibly alone of the five, noticed
how pale she was beneath the unwonted flush in her
cheeks. She had been weeping, he thought, then, more
accurately, and with that touch of ice that was all
Arthur's: She has been drinking. Gawain is
right. They are going away. Then what of me? Why
send for me? Because they are afraid to leave me here
alone, King Lot's firstborn? Here alone, and
royal, what of me? His face gave no sign of
his racing thoughts; he held himself still, beside Gawain, and
half a head taller, and waited, to all appearances
the least concerned person in the room. Then he saw
that, of them all, the queen was looking only at him,
Mordred, and his heart gave a jump, then settled
to a fast, hard beat.
Morgause looked away from him at last, and
surveyed them all for a while in silence. Then she
spoke.
"You all know that the ship which lies in the harbour
comes from my brother the High King Arthur,
and that it has brought his ambassador with messages for
me."
No reply. She expected none. She looked
along the row of boys, at the lifted faces, the
eyes that were beginning to sparkle with joyful expectation.
"I see that you have been making guesses, and I
imagine they are the right ones. Yes, it has come at
last, the summons that I know you have longed for. I,
too, though it has come in a way I cannot welcome.
. . . You are to go to Camelot, to the court of the
High King your uncle."
She paused. Gawain, the privileged, said
quickly: "Madam, Mother, if 75
this distresses you I am truly sorry. But
we've always known this would happen, haven't we? Just
as we know that training and fortune, for those of our
blood, must be found one day on the mainland, and in the
press of affairs, rather than here in these islands?"
"Certainly." One hand was tapping on the table where the
King's letter lay half unrolled. What, Mordred
wondered, could the terms of that letter have been, to send
Morgause to the wine flask, and to string her up
until every nerve was, visibly, vibrating like an
overtuned lute string?
Gawain, encouraged by her brief
answer, asked impulsively: "Then why don't you
welcome the summons? It isn't as if you would be
losing--" "Not the summons itself. The way it has
come. We all knew it would happen one day, when--
when my chief enemy was gone from the King's side. I
have foretold it, and I had my own plans. I would have
had you, Gawain, stay here; you are to be king, and your
place is here, in my presence or without it. But he
has asked for you, so you must go. And this man he has
sent, this "ambassador," as he styles himself"--
her voice was full of scorn--"is to stay here in
your stead as "regent." And who knows where that will
lead? I will tell you frankly what I fear. I
fear that once you and your brothers are out of the
Orkneys, Arthur will cause this creature of his
to take from you the only land that still remains yours, as he
took Lothian, and leave
this man here in your stead."
Gawain, flushed with excitement, was disposed
to argue. "But, Mother --madam--surely not?
Whatever he did in Dunpeldyour out of enmity to our
father King Lot, you are his sister, and we his close
kin, all he has. Why should he want to shame and
dispossess us?" He added, ingenuously: "He would
not do it! Everyone I've talked to--
sailors and travellers and the traders who come here from
all over the world--they all say that Arthur is a
great king, and deals only in justice. You will see,
madam Mother, that there's nothing to fear!" "You talk like
a green boy," said Morgause sharply. "But this
much is certain, there is nothing to be done here, nothing
to be gained by disobeying the King's summons. All
we can do is trust in the safe conduct he has
sent, but once in Arthur's presence we can take
our voices to his council--to the Round Hall if
we have to--and see then if, in the face of me, his
sister, and you, his nephews, he can refuse us our
rights in Dunpeldyour."
Us? We? No one spoke the words, but the thought
went from boy to boy with the sourness of disappointment.
None of them had admitted to himself that this longed-for
enlargement of their world held also the promise of a
release from a capricious maternal rule. But
each, now, felt a cast- down sense of loss.
Morgause, mother and witch, read it perfectly.
Her lip curled. "Yes, I 76
said "we." The orders are clear. I am
to present myself at the court of Camelot as soon
as the High King returns from Brittany. No
reason is given. But I am to take with
me--" Her hand touched Arthur's letter again. She
seemed to be quoting. was "--All five of the
princes." was "He said "all five"?" This time
the question burst from the twins, speaking as one. Gawain
said nothing, but turned to stare at Mordred.
Mordred himself could not have spoken. A confused sense
gripped him of elation, of disappointment, of plans
made and abandoned, of pride and the anticipation of
humiliation. And with these, fear. He was to go
to Camelot, by order of the High King himself. He, the
bastard of that king's er/while enemy. Could it be that
all five of Lot's sons were summoned to some
doom only held from them till now by the old
enchanter's presence? He rejected that immediately.
No, the legitimate princes were also the sons of the
High King's sister; but what claim had he,
Mordred, on any favour from Arthur? None: a
memory, only, of enmity, and a tale of a past
attempt to murder him by drowning. Perhaps Arthur's
memory was as long as this, and now he would finish the work
botched in that midnight massacre of long ago. .
. . This was folly. With the hard control that he had
trained in himself, Mordred put speculation aside
and concentrated on what was certain. He was going; that
at least. And if the King had tried
to murder him once, that had been when Merlin was
alive, so presumably with Merlin's advice.
Now, with Merlin dead, Mordred was at least as
safe as his brothers. So he would take what the world
of the mainland offered; and at the very least, once out of this
island fa/s, he could find out, by stealth if need
be, or by mere precedent from the King's own
advisers, what was due to the eldest born of a king,
even when others were born later to supersede him. . .
.
He dragged his attention back to what the queen was
saying. They would take their own ship, it seemed, the
Ore, which through Morgause's magical prevision was
ready, new-rigged and painted and furnished with the
luxury she craved. . . . And the gifts that they would
take with them were all but ready. . . . Clothes for the
boys, robes and jewels for their mother . . .
Gabran to go with them, and men of the royal guard . .
. A Council of four to be left in charge of
affairs under the High King's ambassador . . .
And since the High King himself would not be back in
Camelot before October's end, their journey could be
leisurely, and would give them time to visit Queen
Morgan in Rheged. . . .
"Mordred!"
He jumped. "Madam?"
"Stay. The others go. Ailsa!"
The old woman appeared at the bedchamber door.
caret 77
"Attend the princes to their chamber, and wait on
them there. See that they do not linger to talk, but get
straight to their beds. Gabran, leave me! No, this
way. Wait for me."
Gabran turned on his heel and went into the
bedchamber. Gawain, scowling after him, met his mother's
eye, wiped the scowl from his face and led his brothers
forward to kiss her hand. Ailsa swept them out,
beginning to fuss and cluck before the door was well
shut. Mordred, alone with the queen, felt his skin
tighten as he braced himself to hear what was to come.
As the door shut behind the other boys, Morgause
rose abruptly from her chair, and went to the window.
The move took her out of the firelight and into the
waxing silver of the moon. The cold light, behind her
shoulder, threw her face and form into darkness, but lit
the edges of hair and robe so that she seemed a
creature of shadow rimmed with light, half visible
and wholly unreal. Mordred felt again that pricking
of the skin, as a beast's flesh furs up at
the approach of danger. She was a witch, and like
everyone else in those islands he feared her powers, which
to him were as real and as natural as the dark that
follows daylight.
He was too inexperienced, and too much in awe of the
queen, to realize that she was at a loss, and was also,
in spite of herself, deeply uneasy. The High
King's envoy had been cool and curt; the letter he
bore had been no more than a brief royal command,
officially couched, demanding her presence and that of the
five boys; no reason given, no excuse
allowed, and an escort of soldiers on the ship
to enforce it. Morgause's questions had got nothing more from
the ambassador, whose cold demeanour was in itself a
kind of threat. It was not certain, but seemed
probable, from the terms of the order, that Arthur had
discovered where Mordred was; he obviously
suspected, if he did not know, that the fifth boy
at the Orkney court was his son. How he knew,
she could not imagine. It had been common gossip
all those years ago, that she had lain with her
half-brother Arthur just before her marriage to Lot,
and had been in due time brought to bed of a son, but it was
also generally believed that the son, among the other
babies of Dunpeldyour, had been
murdered. She was sure that no one here in Orkney
knew or suspected who Mordred was; the
whispers at court were all of "Lot's bastard," the
likely boy that the queen favoured. There were, of
course, other, lewder whispers, but these only
amused the queen.
But somehow Arthur knew. And this letter left no
doubt. The soldiers would escort her to Cainelot,
and all her sons with her. Morgause, facing the
son who was to be her passport to Arthur's favour,
to a renewal of power and position in the center of
affairs, was trying to decide whether to tell him here
and now whose son he was.
Through the years dishe had been in the palace, living
and being taught with his half-brothers, she had never
really considered telling him the
truth. The time would come, she had told herself, the
chance to reveal him and then to use him; either time, or her
magic, would show her the moment.
The truth was that Morgause, like many women who work
chiefly through their influence on men, was subtle rather
than clever, and she was also by temperament lazy. So the
years had gone by, and Mordred remained in
ignorance, his secret known only to his
mother and to Gabran.
But now, somehow, to Arthur, who, hard on
Merlin's death, was sending for his son. And though
Morgause had for years vilified Merlin through
hatred and fear, she knew that it was he who had
originally protected both Mordred and herself from
Arthur's impetuous fury. So what did Arthur
want now? To kill Mordred? To make sure at
last? She could not guess. What would happen
to Mordred did not concern her except as it would
affect herself, but for herself she was apprehensive.
Since the night she had lain with her half-brother
to engender the boy, she had never seen Arthur; the
tales of the powerful and fiercely brilliant king could
not altogether be squared with her own memory of the eager boy
whom she had entrapped deliberately to her bed.
She stood with her back to the bright moon. Her face
was hidden from her son, and when she spoke, her voice
sounded coolly normal. "Have you, like Gawain, been
talking to the sailors and the traders who come ashore
here?"
"Why, yes, madam. We usually go down to the
wharf, along with the folk, to hear the news."
"Have any of them ... I want you to think back
carefully . . . have any of them during the
past weeks or months singled you out to talk to, and
have they questioned you?"
"I don't think--about what, please, madam?"
"About yourself. Who you are, what you are doing here with the
princes in the palace." She made it sound
reasonable. "Most people here know by this time that you are a
bastard of King Lot's, who was farmed out to foster, and
who came here on your foster parents' death. What
they do not know is that you were saved from the Dunpeldyour
massacre, and came here by sea. Have you spoken of this
to anyone?" "No, madam. You told me not to."
Searching that schooled face, those dark eyes, she
was convinced. She was used to the guileless stare of the liar
--the twins lied frequently for the sheer pleasure of
doing it--and was sure this was the truth. Was sure,
too, that Mordred was still too much in awe of her
to disobey.
She made certain. "That is as well for you."
She saw the flicker in the boy's eyes, and was
satisfied. "But has anyone questioned you? Anyone at
all? Think carefully. Has anyone seemed to know,
or to guess about it?"

He shook his head. "I can't remember anything
like that. People do say things like "You're from the
palace, aren't you? Five sons, then, the queen
has? A fortunate lady!" And I tell them that
I am the king's son, but not the queen's. But
usually," he added, "they ask someone else about me.
Not me."
The words were ingenuous, the tone was not. It meant:
"They would not dare question me, me, but they are curious,
so they ask. I am not interested in what is said."
He caught, against the moonlight, the shadow of a
smile. Her eyes were blank and dark, gaps of
nothingness. Even her jewels were quenched. She
seemed to grow taller. Her shadow, thrown by the
moon, grew monstrous, engulfing him. The air
felt cold. In spite of himself, he began
to shiver.
She watched him, still smiling, as she put out the first
dark feelers of her magic. She had made her
decision. She would tell him nothing; the long
journey south should not be clouded and made difficult
by her own sons' reaction to the news of Mordred's
real status as son of the High King. Or by the knowledge that
must go with it, of their mother's incest with her
half-brother. It might be common talk on the
mainland, but no one in the islands would have dared repeat
it. Her four sons had heard nothing.
Even to herself Morgause would not admit how the fact
might be received.
For all her powers she had no idea why the King
had sent for them. It was possible that he had sent for
Mordred only to kill him. In which case, thought
Morgause, coolly eyeing her eldest son, there
would be no need for him to know anything--or her other
sons either. If not, what was needed now was to shackle
this boy to her, to ensure his obedience, and for this she had a
well-tried pattern. Fear and then gratitude,
complicity and then devotion; with these she had proved and
held her lovers, and would now hold her son. She
said: "You have been loyal. I am glad. I knew
it, but I wanted to hear it from you. I need not have
asked you, you realize that, don't you?"
"Yes, madam." He was puzzled by the weight
she seemed to be putting on the question, but he answered
simply. "Everyone knows that you know everything, because you
are--" he had been going to say "a witch" but
swallowed the word and said instead, "--t you have powers of
magic. That you can see what is hidden from other men
by distance and by time."
Now it was certain that she was smiling. "A witch,
Mordred. Indeed, yes, I am a witch. I have
powers. Go on, say it."
He repeated it obediently. "You are a witch,
madam, and you have powers."
She inclined her head, and her shadow dipped and
grew again. The cold air eddied past him. "And you
do well to be afraid of them. Remember them always.
And when men come to question you, as they will do, in 81
Camelot, remember the duty you owe to me, as
my subject and my-- stepson."
"I will. But what will they--why should they--?" He
stopped, confused. "What is going to happen when we
reach Camelot? Is that it? Well, Mordred,
I will be frank with you; I have had visions, but all
is not clear. Something clouds the crystal. We can
guess what will come to my sons, his nephews, but
to you? Are you wondering what will come to such as you?"
He nodded merely, not trusting his voice. It would
have taken a stronger spirit than the island-bred boy's
to outface a witch by moonlight. She seemed
to gather magic round her, like the moonlight growing on
the folds of velvet and in the streaming silk of her
hair. "Listen to me. If you do as I bid you, now
and always, you will come to no harm. There is power in the
stars, Mordred, and some of it is for you. That much I
have seen. Ah, I see that you like that?" "Madam?"
Had she guessed, with her witch's powers,
at his dreams, at his ignorant plotting? He
held himself in, quivering. She saw his head go up
and his fists clench again on the belt at his waist.
Watching out of her enveloping darkness, she felt
interest and a kind of perverted pride. He had
courage. He was her son, after all. . . . The
thought brought another in its wake.
"Mordred."
His eyes sought her in the shadows. She held them
for a few moments, letting the silence draw out. He
was her son, yes, and who knew what fragment of her
power had gone down to him while she held him in her
body? None of Lot's sons, those sturdy
earthmen, had inherited so much as a flicker of it; but
Mordred could be heir not only to the powers she had
drawn from her Breton mother, but to some sidelong
glimmer of the greater power of the arch-mage, Merlin. The
dark eyes raised to hers and held steady there were
Arthur's, but they were, too, like the enchanter's
hated eyes that had held her own and beaten them down
not once but many times before the last.
She asked suddenly: "Have you never wondered who
your own mother was?" "Why, yes. Yes, of course.
But--"
"I ask only because there were, in
Dunpeldyour, many women who boasted of having the
Sight. Was your dam, I wonder, one of those? Do
you have dreams, Mordred?"
He was shivering. Through his brain went all the
dreams, dreams of power and nightmares of the past: the
burned cottage, the whispers in the gloom, fear,
suspicion, ambition. He tried to close his mind
against her probing magic.
"Madam, lady, I have never--that is--"

"Never known the Sight? Never had a dream of
foreknowledge?" Her voice changed. "When the news
came before of Merlin's death, with the Meridaun, you
knew it was not yet true. You were heard to say so.
And events proved you right. How did you know?" "I
--I didn't know, madam. I--that is--" He
bit his lip, thinking back confusedly to the wharfside
crowd, the shouting, the jostling. Had Gawain told
her? No, Gabran must have overheard him. He
licked his lips and tried again, patently struggling
for the truth. "I didn't even know I had spoken
aloud. It meant nothing. It's not the Sight, or--
or what you said. It might have been a dream, but I
think it was something I'd heard a long time ago, and it
turned out then that it wasn't true, either.
It makes me think of darkness, and someone whispering,
and--" He stopped.
"And?" she demanded sharply. "Well? Answer
me?" "And a smell of fish," Mordred muttered,
to the floor. He was not looking at her, or he would
have seen the flash of relief, rather than mockery, in
her face. She drew a long breath. So, no
prevision there; merely a cradle memory, a
half-dream from babyhood when those stupid peasants
discussed the news that came from Rheged. But it would be
better to make sure.
"A strange dream, indeed," she said, smiling.
"And certainly this time the messengers are right.
Well, let us make sure. Come with me." Then,
when he did not move, with a touch of impatience:
"Come when I bid you. We shall look into the crystal
together now, and maybe we shall find what the future
holds for you."
She left the moonlit window and went by him with a
brush of velvet on his bare arm, and a faint disbreath
of scent like night-flowers. The boy drew an
unsteady breath and followed her, like someone drugged.
Outside the doorway the guards stood motionless.
At the queen's gesture Mordred lifted a lamp
down from the wall, then followed her as she
led the way through the silent rooms and into the
antechamber, where she paused before the sealed
doorway. During his years at the palace the boy
had heard many tales about what lay beyond the ancient
door. It was a dungeon, a torture chamber, a
place where spells were woven, the shrine where the
witch-queen spoke with the Goddess herself. No one
knew for sure. If anyone but the queen had ever
passed through that doorway, it was certain that only the
queen had ever come out again. He began to tremble again,
and the flame shook in the lamp.
Morgause did not speak. She lifted a key
that hung on a chain from her girdle, and unlocked the
door. It opened in silence on its greased hinges.
At a gesture from her,, Mordred held the lamp
high. Before them a flight of stone steps led steeply
downwards into a passageway. The walls glimmered

in the lamplight, sweating with damp. Walls and
steps alike were of rough rock, unchiselled, the
living rock into which the Old People had burrowed for their
burial chambers. The place smelled fresh and
damp, and salty from the sea.
Morgause pulled the door shut behind them. The
lamp guttered in the draught and then burned
strongly. She pointed, in silence, then led the way
down the steps and along a passageway, straight and
smoothly floored, but so low that they had to stoop
to avoid striking their heads on the roof. The air of the
place was dead, and one would have said still, but all the
while there was a sound that seemed to come from the rock itself:
a murmur, a hum, a throb, which Mordred
suddenly recognized. It was the sound of the sea,
echoing through the passageway more like a memory of
waters that had once washed there, than like the sound of the
living sea without. The two of them seemed to be
walking into the corridors of a vast sea-shell whose
swirling echo, straight from the depths, was breathed now
by the air. It was a sound he had heard many a time, as
a child, playing with shells on the beach of Seals'
Bay. Momentarily, the memory dispelled the darkness
and the drug of fear. Soon, surely, thought the boy,
they would come out into a cave on the open shore?
The passage twisted to the left, and there, instead,
was another low door. This, too, was locked, but
answered to the same key. The queen led the way in,
leaving the door open. Mordred followed her. It was
no cave, but a small room, its walls squared
and smoothed by masons, its floor made of the
familiar polished slabs. There was a
lamp hanging from the rocky ceiling. Against one wall
stood a table, on which were boxes and bowls and sealed
jars with spoons and pestles and other instruments of
ivory and bone, or of bronze bright with use. Stone
slabs had been set into the walls to make shelves,
and on them stood more boxes and jars, and bags of
leather tied with lead wire and
stamped with some seal he did not recognize, of
circles and knotted snakes. A high stool
stood by the table, and against another wall was a small
stove, with beside it a skep of charcoal. A fissure
in the roof apparently served to lead the fumes away.
The stove must be lit frequently, or had been very
recently. The room was dry. On a high shelf
glimmered a row of what Mordred took to be
globes or jars made of a strange, pale
pottery. Then he saw what they were: human
skulls. For a sickening moment he imagined
Morgause distilling her drugs, here in her
secret stillroom, and making her magic from human
sacrifices, the dark Goddess herself shut away in
her subterranean kingdom. Then he saw that she had
merely tidied away the original owners of the
place, when the gravechamber had been converted to her
use.
It was bad enough. The lamp quivered in his hand
again, so that the sheen on the bronze knives trembled,
and Morgause said, half smiling: "Yes. You do
well to be afraid. But they do not come in here."
"They?"
"The ghosts. No, hold the lamp steady,
Mordred. If you are to see ghosts, then be sure
to be as well armed against them as I." "I don't
understand."
"No? Well, we shall see. Come, give me the
light."
She took the lamp from him and walked towards the
corner beyond the stove. Now he saw that there, too, was
a door. This one, of rough driftwood planks, was
narrow and high, shaped irregularly like a wedge; it
had been made to fit another natural fissure in
the rock walls. It came open with the creak of warped
wood, and the queen beckoned the boy through.
This at last was the sea-cave, or rather, some inner
chamber of it. The sea itself drove and thundered somewhere
near at hand, but with the hollow boom and suck of a
spent force whose power has been broken elsewhere.
This cavern must be above all but the highest tides;
the floor was flat, and dry, its slabs
tilted only slightly towards the pool that stood
at the cavern's seaward side. The only outlet
must be deep under the water. No other was visible.
Morgause set the lamp down at the very edge of the
water. Its light, still in the draughtless air, glowed
steadily, down and down into the inky depths of the water.
It must be some time since the pool had been disturbed
by any stray pulse of the tides. It lay still and
black, and deep beyond imagination or sight. No
light could penetrate that black liquid;
the lamplight merely threw back, sharp and
small, the reflection of the rock that overhung the
water.
The queen sank to her knees at the pool's
edge, drawing Mordred down beside her. She felt
him trembling.
"Are you still afraid?"
Mordred said, through shut teeth: "I am cold,
madam."
Morgause, who knew that he was lying, smiled
to herself. "Soon you will forget that. Kneel there, pray
to the Goddess, and watch the water. Do not speak again
until I bid you. Now, son of the sea, let us
learn what the pool has to tell us."
She fell silent herself at that, and bent
her gaze on the inky depths of the pool. The boy
stayed as still as he could, staring down at the water. His
mind still swam in confusion; he did not know whether he
hoped more, or dreaded more, to see anything in that dead
crystal. But he need not have feared. For him, the,
water was only water. Once he stole a glance
sideways at the queen. He could not see her
face.

She was bowed over the water, and her hair,
unbound, flowed down to make a tent of silk that
reached and touched the surface of the pool. She was so
still, so tranced, that even her breathing did not stir the
surface where her hair trailed like seaweed. He
shivered suddenly, then turned back and stared
fiercely down into the water. But if the ghosts of
Brude and Sula and of the score of murdered babies
that lay to Morgause's account were present in that
cave, Mordred saw no hint of them, felt no
cold breath. He only knew that he hated the
darkness, the tomb-like stillness, the held breath of
expectation and dread, the slight but unmistakable
emanations of magic that breathed from Morgause's
trance-held body. He was Arthur's son, and though
the woman, with all her magic, could not know
it, this short hour when he was made privy to her
secrets was to sever him from her more completely than
banishment. Mordred himself was not aware of this; he
only knew that the distant suck and thunder of the sea
spoke of the open air, and wind, and light on the
tide's foam, and drew him irresistibly away
in spirit from the dead pool and its drowned mysteries.
The queen moved at last. She drew a long,
shuddering breath, then pushed back her hair, and stood
up. Mordred jumped thankfully to his feet and
hurried to the door, pulling it open for her and
following her through the wedge-shaped gap with a sense of
relief and escape. Even the stillroom, with its
gruesome watchers, seemed, after the silence of the
cave, the tranced breathings of the witch, as normal as
the palace kitchens. Now he could catch the smell
of the oils that Morgause blended to make her heavy
perfumes. He latched the door thankfully, and
turned to see her setting the lamp down on the table.
It seemed that she already knew the answer to her question,
because she spoke lightly.
"Well, Mordred, now you have looked into my
crystal. What did you see?"
He did not trust himself to speak. He shook his
head. "Nothing? Are you telling me that you
saw nothing?" He found his voice. It came
hoarsely. "I saw a pool of sea-water. And
I heard the sea."
"Only that? With the pool so full of magic?"
She smiled, and he was surprised. Foolishly,
he had expected her to be disappointed. "Only
water, and rock. Reflections of rock. I--I
did think once that I saw something move, but I
thought it was an eel."
"The fisherman's son." She laughed, but this time
the epithet held no mockery. "Yes, there is an
eel. He was washed in last year. Well,
Mordred, boy from the sea, you are no prophet.
Whatever power your true mother may have had, it has
passed you by."
"Yes, madam." Mordred spoke with patent
thankfulness. He had forgotten what message she
had bidden him look for in the crystal. He was wishing
violently that the interview was over. The acrid
smell of lamp oil mingling with the heavy scents of the
queen's unguents oppressed him. His head swam.
Even the sound of the sea seemed a whole world away.
He was trapped in this shutaway silence, this ancient
and airless tomb, with this sorceress of a
queen who puzzled him with her questions, and confused him with
her strange and shifting moods. She was watching him
now, a strange look that made him shift his
shoulders as if all at once he felt himself a
stranger to the body inside his clothes. He said, more
to break the silence than because he wanted to know:
"Did you see anything in the pool, madam?"
"Indeed, yes. It was still there, the vision that I saw
yesterday, and before that, before Arthur's messenger ever
came here." Her voice went deep and level, but
found no echo in that deadened air. "I saw a
crystal cave, and in it my enemy, dead and on his
bier between the candles, and no doubt rotting away into the
forgetfulness I once cursed him with. And I saw the
Dragon himself, my dear brother Arthur, sitting
among his gilded towers, beside his barren queen, waiting
for his ship to come back to Ynys Witrin. And then
myself, with my sons, and with you, Mordred, all of us
together, bearing gifts for the King and within the gates of
Camelot at last ... at last. . . . And there
the vision faded, but not before I saw him coming,
Mordred, the Dragon himself ... a dragon wingless
now, and ready to listen to other voices, try other
magic, lie down with other counsellors.",
She laughed then, but the sound was as
discomforting as her look. "As he did once before.
Come here, Mordred. No, leave the lamp alone.
We will go up in a minute. Come here. Nearer."
He approached and stood in front of her. She
had to look up to meet his eyes. She put up her
hands and took him by the arms. "As he did once
before," she repeated, smiling.
"Madam?" said the boy hoarsely.
Her hands tightened on his arms. Then suddenly she
drew him to her, and before he could guess at what she
purposed she reached up and kissed him, lingeringly,
upon the mouth.
Bewildered, half-excited, aroused by her scent
and the unexpectedly sensual kiss, he stood in her
grip, trembling, but not this time with either cold or
fear. She kissed him again, and her voice was
honey-sweet against his lips. "You have your father's
mouth, Mordred." Lot's mouth? Her husband's,
who had betrayed her by lying with his mother? And she kissed
him? Wanted him, perhaps? Why not? She was a 87
lovely woman still, and he was young, and as
experienced sexually as any boy of his age. There was
a certain lady of the court who had taken pleasure
in teaching him pleasure, and there was also a girl, a
shepherd's daughter who lived a few
miles from the palace, who watched for him when he
rode that way across the heather, with the evening wind blowing
in from the sea. . . . Mordred, brought up in
islands as yet untouched either by Roman civilization
or Christian ethic, had no more sense of sin than
a young animal, or one of the ancient Celtic
gods who haunted the caims and rode by like rainbows
on sunny days. Why, then, should his body recoil,
rather than respond to hers? Why feel as if,
clingingly, something evil had brushed him by? She
pushed him away suddenly, and reached for the lamp. She
lifted it, then paused, looking him over slowly with
that same discomforting look. "Trees can grow tall,
it seems, Mordred, and still be saplings. Too much,
perhaps, yet not enough your father's son. . . . Well,
let us go. I to where my patient Gabran waits
for me, and you to your child's bed with the other children. Do I
need to remind you to say nothing about anything that has
befallen this night, or anything I have said?"
She waited for a reply. He managed to say:
"About this, madam? No. No."
was "This"? What is "this"? About anything that you
have seen, or not seen. Maybe you have seen enough to know that
I am to be obeyed. Yes? Well then, do as I
bid you, and you will come to no harm." She led
the way in silence, and he followed her up the
passageway and out into the antechamber. The key shot
behind them in the well-greased wards. She neither spoke
again nor looked at him. He turned and ran from her
along the cold corridors and through the dark palace
to his bedchamber.

During the days that followed, Mordred tried,
along with the other boys, and half the Orcadians
besides, to come near enough to the King's envoy to have speech with
him. In the case of the islanders, and the younger princes,
it was a matter of curiosity. What was the mainland
like? The fabled castle of Camelot? The King himself,
hero of a dozen stark battles, and his lovely
Queen? Bedwyour his friend, and others of the companion
knights?
But all, princes and commoners alike, found it
impossible to come near the man. After that first night he
slept on board the royal ship, and disembarked
daily to be escorted, ostensibly for a word of
courtesy with Queen Morgause, but really, rumour
had it, to make sure that her preparations went forward
fast enough to catch the good autumn weather.
The queen was not to be hurried. Her ship, the
Ore, lay by the wharf, ready in all but the
last touches. Workmen busied themselves with the final
gilding and painting, while their women stitched at the
great decorated sail. In the palace itself
Morgause's own women busied themselves with the finishing,
tending and packing of the sumptuous clothes that the queen
planned for her reception at Camelot.
Morgause herself spent many hours in her secret
room below the rock. She was not, as whispers went,
consulting her dark Goddess, but in fact concocting
unguents and lotions and perfumes, and certain
subtle drugs that had the reputation of restoring
beauty and the energy of youth. In his corner of the
courtyard, Beltane the goldsmith still sat at his
work. The gifts for Arthur were finished, packed in
wool in the box made to receive them; the old man was
busy now with jewels for Morgause herself.
Casso, the dumb slave who helped him, had been
set to fashioning buckles and brooches for the
princes; though he was not an artist like his master, he
made a good job of the designs given him
by Beltane, and seemed to enjoy the time the boys
spent watching him and talking round the smelting-stove.
Mordred, alone of them all, tried some sort of
communication with him, asking questions that needed no more than
a nod or a shake of the head for answer, but
he got no further than a few facts about
Casso himself. He had been a slave all his
life. He had not always been dumb, but had had his
tongue cut out by a cruel master, and considered himself
the most fortunate of men to have been taken in
by Beltane and taught a trade. A dull life
indeed, thought Mordred, and wondered-- 89
though only idly--at the air of contentment that the
man visibly wore; the air, if the boy had
recognized it, of a man who has come to terms with his
limitations, and who has made a place for himself in
life, which he fills with integrity. Mordred, who
had had small reason during his life to think the best
of any man, assumed merely that the slave had some
sort of satisfactory private life which he
managed independently of his master. Women,
possibly? He could certainly afford them. When
(his master safely abed) the slave joined in the
soldiers' dice game, he always had coin in
plenty, and easily stood his share of the wine.
Mordred knew where the money came from. Not from
Beltane, that was sure; who--apart from the odd gift
--ever paid his own slaves? But there had been a day a
month or so back when Mordred took a small
boat out alone and went fishing, coming back
late in the half-light that was all the night the
islands knew in summer. There was a small trading
ship lying moored at the royal wharf; most of her
men were on shore for the night, but some officers were
apparently still aboard; he heard a man's voice,
and then a chink that might have been the sound of coins
passing. As he tied his boat to the wharf in the shadow
of the trader he saw a man walk quickly down the
gangplank and up through the town towards the palace
gate. He recognized Casso. So, the man
took commissions privately, did he?
Legitimate trading would hardly need to be done
at midnight. Well, a man had to fend for himself,
thought Mordred, with a shrug, and forgot all about it.
The day came at last. On a bright sunny
morning of October the queen with her women, followed
by the five boys, Gabran, and her chief
chamberlain, headed the stately procession to the wharf.
Behind them a man carried the box of treasure destined
for Arthur, and another bore gifts for the King of
Rheged and his wife, Morgause's sister. A
pageboy struggled with the leashes of two tall
island-bred hounds destined for King Urbgen, while
another boy, looking scared, carried at arm's
length a stout wicker cage in which spat and
snarled a half-grown wildcat intended as a
curious addition to Queen Morgan's collection of
strange birds and beasts and reptiles. With them
went an escort of Morgause's own
men-at-arms, and last of all--ostensibly to honour
her but looking suspiciously like a guard --marched a
detachment of the King's soldiers from the Sea
Dragon. Even in the merciless light of morning the
queen looked lovely. Her hair, washed with
sweet essences and dressed with gold, sparkled and
shone. Her eyes were bright under their tinted lids.
Normally she favoured rich colours, but today she
wore black, and the somber dress gave her
figure, thickened with child-bearing, almost the old lissome
slenderness of her girlhood, and set off the jewels
and the creamy skin. Her head was high and her look
confident. To either side of the way the islanders crowded,

calling greetings and blessings. Their comfort-loving
queen had not granted them many such glimpses of her
since her banishment to these shores, but now she had
given them a sight indeed, a royal procession,
queen and princes and their armed and jewelled escort,
with, to top all, a sight of King Arthur's own ship
with its dragon standard waiting to shepherd the
Ore to the mainland kingdom. The Ore took sail
at last, curving out into the strait between the royal
island and its neighbour. Astern of her, at the edge
of her creaming wake, rode the Sea Dragon, a
hound herding the hind and her five young steadily
southward into the net spread for them by the High King
Arthur.
Once away from the Orkneys with the queen and her
family safely embarked, the captain of the Sea
Dragon was not too much concerned with speed; the High
King was still in Brittany, and Morgause's
presence would suffice when he was once more at
Camelot. But he had wisely allowed extra time
for the voyage in case the ships struck bad weather,
and this, very soon, they did. During their passage of the
Muir Ore--that strait of the Orcadian Sea that
lies between the mainland and the outer isles-- they met
winds of almost gale force, that drove the two ships
apart, and sent even the hardiest of the passengers below.
At length, after some days of stormy weather, the
gales abated, and the Orcadian ship beat into the
sheltered waters of the Ituna Estuary and dropped
anchor there. The Sea Dragon struggled into the
same wharf a few hours later, to find the Orkney
party still on board, but making preparations to go
ashore and travel to Luguvallium, the capital
of Rheged, to visit King Urbgen and Morgan his
queen.
The captain of the Sea Dragon, though
perfectly aware that he was prisoners' escort rather
than guard of honour, saw no reason to prevent the
journey. King Urbgen of Rheged, though his queen
had transgressed notably against her brother
Arthur, had always been a faithful servant of the
High King; he would certainly see to it that
Morgause and her precious brood were kept safe
and close while the ships were repaired after the gale.
Morgause, who saw no need to ask permission
for the journey, had already dispatched a letter to her sister,
bidding her expect them. Now a courier was sent
ahead, and at length the party, as carefully escorted
as before, set out for King Urbgen's castle.
For Mordred, the ride was all too short.
Once the party left the shore and struck inland through the
hills he was passing through very different country from any
that he had seen or even been able to imagine before.
What impressed him first was the abundance of
trees. In Orkney the only trees were the few
stunted alders and birches and wind-bitten thorns
comi.
that huddled along the meager shelter of the glens. Here
there were trees everywhere, huge canopied growths,
each with its island of shadow and its dependent colony
of bushes and ferns and trailing plants. Great
forests of oak clothed the lower hillsides, giving
way on higher ground to pines that grew right up to the
foot of the tallest cliffs. Down every gully in those
cliffs crowded more trees, rowan and holly and
birch, the thickly wooded clefts seeming to hang
from the silver mountain-crests like the ropes that held
down the thatch of his parents' cottage. Willow and
alder lined every smallest stream, and along the
roadways, on the slopes, bordering the moorland
stretches and sheltering every cottage and sheep-cote,
were trees and more trees, all in the russet and gold
and rich red of autumn, backed with the black glint of
holly and the dark accent of the pines. Along the track
where they rode the hazel-nuts dropped ripe from their
fringed calyxes, and under the silver webs of autumn
late blackberries glinted like garnets. Gareth
pointed excitedly to a burnished slow-worm pouring
itself away into the bracken, and Mordred saw small
deer watching them from the ferns at the edge of the forest, as
still and dappled as the forest floor where they
stood. Once, when their road led them over a high
pass, and between the crests of the hills the country opened
on a blue distance, Mordred checked his horse,
staring. It was the first time he had seen so far with no
sea visible. For miles and miles the only water
was the small tarns that winked in the hanging valleys,
and the white of streams running down through the grey rock
to feed them. Hill after blue hill rose into the
distance where a great chain of mountains lifted to one
square-topped and white. Mountain or cloud? It was
the same. This was the mainland, the kingdom of the kingdoms,
the stuff of dreams. One of the guards closed in then,
with a smile and a word, and Mordred moved back into the
troop.
Afterwards he was to have only the haziest
recollections of his first sojourn in Rheged. The
castle was huge, crowded, grand and troubled. The
boys were handed straight to the king's sons; in fact the
sharp impression was of being bundled out of the way while
some crisis, never fully explained to them, was
sorted out. King Urbgen, perfectly courteous, was
abstracted and brief; Queen Morgan did not
appear at all. It seemed that recently she had
been kept in a seclusion that almost amounted
to imprisonment.
"Something about a sword," said Gawain, who had
managed to overhear a conversation in the guardroom.
"The High King's sword. She took it from
Camelot while he was abroad, and put a
substitute in its place." "Not just the sword,"
said Gaheris. "She took a lover, and gave the

sword to him. But the High King killed him just the
same, and now King Urbgen wants to put her
away."
"Who told you that? Surely our uncle would never
let him use his sister so, whatever she had done."
"Oh, yes. Because of the sword, which was treachery.
So the High King will let him put her away," said
Gaheris eagerly. "As for the lover--" But at this
point Gabran came across the courtyard to them, with a
summons to the stables, and even Gaheris, not famed for
his tact, thought it better to postpone the discussion for the
time being. They found out a little more, but only a little, from
Urbgen's two sons. They were grown men, sons
by the king's first marriage, seasoned fighters who had
at first taken pride in their father's alliance with
Arthur's young sister, but now wished her gone, and were
ready to support Urbgen's petition to have the
marriage set aside. The truth, it
appeared, was this. Morgan, tied by marriage to a
man many years her senior, had taken as lover one
of Arthur's Companions, a man called
Accolon, brave, ambitious and high-spirited. Him
she had persuaded, while Arthur was abroad from
Camelot, to steal his great sword Caliburn, that
men called the sword of Britain, and carry it
to Rheged, leaving in its place a substitute
fashioned secretly by some creature of Morgan's
in the north.
What the queen intended was never satisfactorily
explained. She cannot have thought that young Accolon, even
with Urbgen out of the way, the sword of Britain in his
hand, and Morgan married to him, could ever have been able
to supplant Arthur as High King. It was more
probable that she had used her lover to further her own
ambition, and that the tale she eventually told
to Urbgen was truthful in the main. She had had
dreams, she said, which had led her to expect Arthur's
sudden death abroad. So, to forestall the chaos
following on this, she had taken it upon herself to secure
the symbolic sword of Britain for King Urbgen,
that tried and brilliant veteran of a dozen
battles, and husband of Arthur's only
legitimate sister. True, Arthur himself
had declared the Duke of Cornwall to be his heir,
but Duke Cador was dead, and his son Constantine still
a child. . . . So went the tale. As for the
substitution of a worthless copy for the royal sword,
that, she alleged, had only been a device to help
the theft. The sword hung habitually above the
King's chair in the Round Hall at Camelot, and
nowadays was taken down only for ceremony, or for
battle. The copy had been hung there only to deceive
the eye. But from it might have come tragedy. Arthur had
returned unharmed from his travels, and Ac-
colon, afraid for himself and Morgan should the theft be
discovered, challenged the King to fight, and with his own good
sword attacked Arthur

armed only with the brittle copy of Calibum.
The outcome of that fight was already part of the growing
legend of the King. In spite of his treacherous
advantage Accolon had been killed, and
Morgan, afraid now of the vengeance of both brother
and husband, declared to all who would listen that the fight was
none of her making, but only Accolon's, and since
he was dead, no one could contradict her. If she
mourned her dead lover, she did so in secret.
To those who would listen she deplored his
folly, and protested her devotion--mistaken, she
admitted, but real and deep--to her brother Arthur and
to her own lord.
Hence the turmoil in the castle. No decisions
had been made as yet. The lady Nimue,
successor to Merlin as Arthur's adviser, and (it was
said) to Merlin's power, had come north to recover the
sword. Her message was uncompromising. Arthur
was not prepared to forgive his sister for what he saw as
treachery; and should Urbgen wish to avenge the betrayal
of his bed, he had the King's leave to use his faithless
queen as he saw fit.
As yet the King of Rheged had barely trusted
himself to talk with his wife, let alone judge her.
The lady Nimue was still housed in Luguvallium,
though not in the castle itself; somewhat to Urbgen's
relief she had declined his offer of hospitality,
and was lodged in the town. Urbgen had had enough (as he
confided to his sons) of women and their dabblings in
dreams and sorcery. He would have liked to refuse
Morgause's visit, but there were no grounds on which
he could do so, and besides, he was curious to see "the
witch of Orkney" and her sons. So the great King
Urbgen steered his way cautiously between Nimue and
Morgause, allowing the latter to visit and
talk with her sister at will, and praying that the former, now
that her business in the north was concluded, would leave
Luguvallium without too embarrassing a
confrontation with her old enemy Morgause. 11
After supper on the third night of their visit,
Mordred, avoiding the other boys, walked back
alone from the hall to the rooms where the princes were
housed. His way took him through a strip of land which
lay between the main block of the castle buildings and the
river. Here lay a garden, planted and tended for
Queen Morgan's pleasure; her windows looked
out over beds of roses and flowering shrubs, and lawns
that edged the water. Now the stalks of dead lilies
stood up in a tangle of sweetbriar and leafless
honeysuckle, and fungus rings showed dark green on
the grass. Marks on the walls beside the queen's
windows showed where the cages of her singing birds had
hung before being carried indoors for the winter. Swans
idled at the river's edge, no doubt waiting for the
food the queen had brought them in less troubled days,
and a pair of snow- white peacocks had flown
to roost, like great ghosts, in a tall pine tree. In
summer no doubt the place was pretty and full of
scent and colour and the songs of birds, but now, in the
chill damp of an autumn evening, it
looked deserted and sad, and smelled of unswept
leaves and rivermud. But Mordred lingered,
fascinated by this new example of mainland luxury.
He had never seen a garden before, never even imagined
that a piece of land could be carefully designed and
planted simply for beauty, and its owner's
pleasure. Earlier he had caught a glimpse, from
a window, of a statue looking like a ghost against a dark
tangle of leaves. He set himself to explore.
The statue was strange, too. A girl,
airily draped, stooped as if to pour water from a
foreign-looking shell into a stone basin below her. The
only statues he had seen before were the crude gods
of the islands, stones with watching eyes. This girl was
lovely, and almost real. The dusk made gentle
shadows of the grey lichen that patched her arms and gown.
The fountain was dry now, the shell empty, but the stone
bowl was still filled with water and the remains of the
summer's water-lilies. Below the blackened leaves
he could just see, dimly, the sluggish movement of
fish.
He left the dead fountain, and trod softly across
the lawn towards the river bank and the floating
swans. There, facing the river and hidden from the
palace windows by a brick wall thick with
vines, was an arbour, a charming place, paved with
mosaic work and furnished with a curved stone bench whose
ends were richly carved with grapes and cupids.
Something was lying on the bench. He went across
to look. It was an j, 95
embroidery frame, holding its square of linen
half worked with a pretty design of strawberries
twined in their leaves and flowers. He picked it up
curiously, to find that the linen was sodden, and marked by the
stone where it had lain. It must have been there for some time,
forgotten. He was not to know that Queen Morgan herself
had dropped it when, here in their usual
trysting-place, the news had been brought to her of her
lover's death. She had not been in the garden since that
day.
Mordred laid the spoiled linen back on the
seat, and recrossed the lawn to the path below the
windows. As he did so a light was kindled in one of
them, and voices came clearly. One of these,
raised in distress or anger, was unfamiliar, but the
other, answering it, was the voice of Morgause.
He caught the words "ship" and "Camelot," and then
"the princes," and at that, without even pausing to think
about it, he left the path and stepped up close to the
wall under the window, listening.
The windows were unglazed, but set high in the
wall, a few spans above his head. He could hear
only in snatches, as the women raised their voices
or moved nearer the window. Morgan--for the first
voice proved to be hers--seemed to be pacing the
chamber, restless, and half-distraught.
She was speaking. "If he puts me away ...
if he dares! I, the High King's own sister!
Whose only fault is that she was led astray by care for
her brother's kingdom and love of her lord! Could I
help it if Accolon was mad for love of me? Could
I help it if he attacked Arthur? All that I
did--"
"Yes, yes, you have told me that tale already."
Morgause was unsympathetic and impatient.
"Spare me, I beg you! But have you managed to make
Urbgen believe it?"
"He will not speak with me. If I could only come
to him--" Morgause interrupted again, amusement
veiling contempt. "Why wait? You are Queen of
Rheged, and you keep telling whoever will listen that you
deserve nothing of your lord but gratitude and a little
forgiveness for folly. So why hide away here? If
I were you, sister, I would put on my finest gown,
and the queen's crown of Rheged, and go into the
hall, attended, when he is at meat, or in
council. He will have to listen to you then. If he is still
undecided about it, he won't risk slighting
Arthur's sister in open court."
"With Nimue there?" asked Morgan bitterly.
"Nimue?" Morgause sounded considerably
startled. "Merlin's trollop? Is she still here?"
"Yes, she's still here. And she's a queen now,
too, sister, so watch your tongue! She married
Pelleas since the old enchanter died, didn't you
know? She sent the sword south, but she stayed on,
lodging somewhere in the town. I suppose he didn't
tell you that? Just holds his tongue and hopes

you won't meet!" A shrill, edged laugh as
Morgan turned away again. "Men! By Hecate,
how I despise them! They have all the power, and none
of the courage. He's afraid of her . . . and of me
. . . and of you, too, I don't doubt! Like a big
dog among spitting cats. . . . Oh, well,
perhaps you're right. Perhaps--"
The rest was lost. Mordred waited, though the
subject held small interest for him. The outcome
of the queen's trespass and the king's anger concerned him
not at all. But he was intrigued by what he
had heard of Morgan's reputation, and by the easy
mention of great names that until now had only been the
stuff of lamplight tales. In a minute or so,
when he could distinguish words again, he did hear something
that made him prick up his ears. Morgause was
speaking. "When Arthur gets home will you go to see
him?" "Yes. I have no choice. He has sent for
me, and they tell me that Urbgen is making
arrangements for my escort."
"Guard, do you mean?"
"And if I do, why should you smile, Morgause?
What do you call your escort of king's soldiers that
is taking you south at Arthur's orders?"
There was spite in her voice. Morgause
reacted to it swiftly. "That is rather different. I
never played my lord false--" "Ha! Not after he
married you, at any rate!" "--nor proved
traitor to Arthur--"
"No?" Morgan's laugh was wild.
"Traitor, well, no! Traitor isn't quite the
word, is it? And he wasn't your king at the time, I
grant you that!"
"I prefer not to understand you, sister. You can hardly
mean to accuse me--"
"Oh, come, Morgause! Everyone knows
about that now! And here, in this very castle! Well, all
right, it's a long time ago. But you surely don't
think he's sent for you now for old times' sake? You
can't be deluding yourself that he'll want you near him?
Even with Merlin gone, Arthur won't want you
back at court. Depend on it, all he wants
is the children, and once he has them--"
"He won't touch Lot's children." Morgause's
voice was raised for the first time, edged and sharp. "Even
he would not dare! And why should he? Whatever quarrel
lay between him and Lot in the past. Lot died fighting
under the Dragon banner, and Arthur will honour his
sons in consequence. He must support Gawain's
claims, he can do no other. He will not dare let it
be said that he is finishing the murder of the children."
Morgan was right beside the window. Her voice,
pitched low, and rather breathless, was nevertheless quite clear.
"Finishing? He never began it. Oh, don't look
like that. Everyone knows that, too. It was not Arthur who
had

the babies massacred. No, nor Merlin, either.
Don't pretend to me, Mor- gause."
There was a slight pause, then Morgause
spoke with her old indifference. "Past
history, like the other thing. And for what you said just now,
if all he wanted was the boys, he need not have sent
for me at all, only for them. But no, I am
ordered to bring them myself to him at Camelot. And
call it what you like, the escort is a royal one.
. . . You will see, sister, that I shall take my
rightful place again, and my sons with me."
"And the bastard? What do you imagine will happen
to him? Or should I say, what do you plan to do with
him?"
"Plan?"
Morgan's voice rose in sudden triumph.
"Ah, yes, that's different, isn't it? That hit the
center. There's danger there, Morgause, and you know
it. You may tell what tale you like, but you only have
to look at him to guess the truth. ... So, the
murder's out, and what happens now? Merlin foretold
what would come of it if you let him live. The
massacre may be past history, but who's to say
what Arthur will do, now that he's found him at last?"
The sentence broke off as somewhere a door opened and
shut. Footsteps sounded, and a servant's voice with
some message, then the two queens moved away from the
window. Someone else, the servant probably,
came to the window and leaned out. Mordred
kept close by the wall, in the deep shadow. He
waited, perfectly still, till the oblong cast by the
lighted window showed empty and bright on the lawn, then
ran silently to the sleeping-chamber he shared with the
other boys. His pallet--he slept alone here--
lay nearest the door, separated from the others by a
stone buttress. Beyond the buttress Gawain lay
with Gar- eth. Both were already asleep. From the far
side of the chamber Agravain said something in a
whisper, and Gaheris grunted and turned over.
Mordred muttered a "Good night," then, without
disrobing, drew a coverlet over himself and lay down
to wait. He lay rigid in the darkness, trying
to school his racing thoughts and calm his breathing. He
had been right, then. The chance that had taken him through the
garden had proved it. He was not being taken south in
honour, as a prince, but for some purpose he could not
guess at, but which would almost certainly be dangerous.
Imprisonment, perhaps, or even-- the shrill
malice of Morgan's voice made this seem
possible--death at the hands of the High King.
Morgause's patronage, for which until the night
in the stillroom he had been grateful, seemed
likely to prove useless. She would be powerless
to protect him, and had in fact sounded
indifferent.
He turned his head on the hard pillow, listening.
No sound from the others except the soft regular
breathing of slumber. Outside, the castle was

still awake. The gates would still be open, but would
soon be shut and guarded for the night. Tomorrow would see
him back under escort with the Orkney party, bound for the
ship, and Camelot, and whatever awaited him there.
The Ore might not even dock again before putting in
to Ynys Witrin, where Arthur's ally King
Melwas held the island for the King. If he was
to escape, it must be now. He was hardly aware of the
moment when the decision was made. It seemed to be there
ready, inevitable, awaiting only the moment. He
sat up cautiously, pushing the coverlet back.
He found his hands were shaking, and was angry. He was
used to running alone, wasn't he? He had in a
sense been alone all his life, and he would shift
alone for himself again. There were no ties to break. The
only tie of affection he had ever known had been
swallowed by the flames on that night so many years
ago. Now he was the wolf outside the pack; he was
Mordred, and Mordred depended on Mor- dred,
and on no man else, nor--and it was a
relief to be rid of a half- suspicious
gratitude at last--on any woman.
He slid off the bed, and in a minute or two
had gathered his things together. A cloak of thick
russet wool, his belt and weapon, the precious
drinking horn, the kidskin pouch with the coins carefully
saved over the years. He was in his best clothes; the
rest were still on board the Ore, but that could not be
helped. He piled the bedding so that, at a glance, it
looked as if a sleeper was there, then let himself
softly out of the room, and, heart beating high, found his
way through the maze of empty corridors to the
courtyard. All unknowing he passed the very room where
the young Arthur had begotten him on his half-sister
Morgause.
The courtyard, though well lighted at all times,
was usually fairly empty at this time of night, when
supper was done and men had gone to bed, or to the dice
games round the fires. The guards would be there, and a
foraging hound or two, but Mordred thought he could
depend on slipping out through the shadows when the men's
attention was elsewhere.
Tonight, though, late as the hour was, there was still a
good deal of activity. A few men in servants'
livery were standing around near the steps that led
down from the main door of the castle. Among them were
two whom Mordred recognized as the king's chief
chamberlains. One of these, with a gesture, sent a
couple of servants running with torches to the main
gateway. This stood wide open, and the men ran through
it to wait outside, lighting the way to the bridge.
A light in one of the stables, and the sound of trampling
hoofs and men's voices, indicated that horses were
being saddled there.
Mordred drew back into the shadow of a deep
doorway. The first shock of dismay gave way
to hope. If guests were leaving the castle as late as
this,

he might be able, in the general coming and going,
to slip out unremarked among their servants.
A stir and bustle at the head of the castle steps
heralded the king's appearance there. He came out with his
two sons, all three still dressed as they had been
in the hall at supper time. There was a lady with them.
Mordred, who had not yet seen Queen Morgan,
wondered for a moment if this could be she, but this lady was
dressed for travel, and her manner was by no means that
of an erring wife who doubted her lord's forgiveness.
She was young, and apparently unescorted
save for a couple of armed servants, but she bore
herself as if she was accustomed to deference, and it seemed
to the watching boy that King Urbgen, as he spoke
to her, inclined himself with a kind of respect. He was
protesting something, perhaps asking her to defer her
departure until a better time, but not (thought
Mordred shrewdly) pressing it too hard. She
thanked him with charm and decision, gave her hand to the
two princes, then came swiftly down the steps as
the horses were brought from the stable.
She passed quite close to Mordred's doorway,
and he caught a glimpse of her face. She was
young, and beautiful, but with a force and edge to her that, even
in repose, was chilling. The veil that covered her
dark hair was held in place by a narrow coronet
of gold. A queen, yes. But more than that.
Mordred knew straight away who this must be:
Nimue, lover and successor to Merlin the King's
enchanter; Nimue, the "other Merlin," the witch
whom, for all their angry spite, he guessed that
both Arthur's sisters feared.
Urbgen himself put her up on her horse. The
two armed attendants mounted. She spoke again,
smiling now, and apparently reassuring him about
something. She reached her hand down to him, and
he kissed it and stood back. She wheeled her
horse towards the gate, but even as it started forward
she reined in. Her head went up, and she looked
around her. She did not see Mordred; he had
pressed himself well back out of sight; but she said
sharply, to the king: "King Urbgen, these two men
leave with me, and no one else. See the gates
shut after me, and set guards on your
guest-chambers. Yes, I see you understand me.
Keep an eye to the hen harrier and her brood. I
have had a dream that one of them was fledged already, and
flying. If you value Arthur's love, keep the
cage locked, and see that they come safely to his
hand."
She gave Urbgen no time to reply. Her heel
moved, and her horse sprang forward. The two
servants followed her. The king, staring after her,
pulled himself out of some unpleasant abstraction, and
snapped an order. The torchbearers came running
in, and the gates creaked shut. Bars went down with a
crash. The guards, with their lord's eye on them,
stayed

watchfully at attention. He spoke a few
words with the captain on duty, then with his
sons went back into the castle. The chamberlains and
servants followed.
Mordred waited no longer. He dodged back
through the shadows and made for the nearest door that would
take him to the boys' side of the castle. This was a
door giving on a corridor lined with workshops and
storerooms. Here, at this hour, no one was about.
He slipped through, and then ran.
His first thought was only to get back to his
bedchamber before the guard was set on it, but as he ran
up the corridor and saw the rows of doors, some
locked, some latched only, some standing wide, he
realized that here might be another way of escape.
The windows. The rooms on his left looked
straight out over the river bank. The windows would be
high, but not too high for an active boy to jump
from, and as for the river, it would not be a pleasant
crossing at this season, but it could be made. He
might even be lucky, and find the bridge
unwatched. He checked, glancing in through the nearest
open door. Useless, the window was barred. The next
door was padlocked. The third was shut, but not
locked. He pushed it open and went cautiously
inside. It was a storeroom of sorts, but with a
strange smell to it, and full of strange
sounds, small uneasy stirrings and twitterings and the
occasional cheep and flutter. Of course. The
queen's birds. The cages were housed here. He
gave them barely a glance. The window was unbarred,
but narrow. Too narrow? He ran to it. One of the
cages stood on the wedge- shaped sill. He
seized it in both hands to lift it to the floor.
Something hissed like a viper, spat, and slashed.
The boy dropped the cage and jumped back, the
back of his hand laid open. He clapped it to his
mouth and tasted the spurt of salt blood. From the
cage two blazing lamps glared green, and a low,
threatening snarl began to rise towards a shriek.
The wildcat. It crouched at the very back of the
cage, terrifying, terrified. The small,
flattened ears were laid back, invisible in the
bristling fur. Every fang showed. A paw was still
raised, armed and ready.
Mordred, furious at the fright and the pain,
reacted as he had been trained. His knife whipped
out. At the sight of the blade the wildcat-- instinct
or recognition, it was the same--sprang immediately,
furiously, and the armed paw raked out through the bars.
Again and again it slashed, pressed against the cage
wall, staying at the attack. Its paws
and breast were bloody, but not with the boy's blood;
someone had jammed a dead rat between the bars; the cat
had eaten none of it, but the blood had splashed and
congealed, and the cage stank.
Mordred slowly lowered his knife. He knew--
what Orkney peasant did not?--a good deal about
wildcats, and he knew how this one had been 101
caught, after the dam and the rest of the brood were
slaughtered. So here it was--it was little more than a
kitten--so small, so fierce, so brave, caged and
stinking for a queen's pleasure. And what pleasure?
They could never tame it, he knew. It would be teased
and made to fight, matched maybe with dogs that it would
blind and then maul before they killed it. Or it would
simply refuse food, and die. The rat had not
been touched.
The window was far too narrow to let him through. For a
moment he stood, sucking the blood from his hand,
fighting down the disappointment that threatened to turn too
shamefully to fear. Then with an effort he took command
of himself. There would be another chance. It was a long
way to Camelot. Once outside the castle, let
them see if they could keep him prisoner. Let them
try to harm him. Like the cat, he was no tame beast
to wait caged for death to come to him. He could
fight.
The cat slashed again, but could not reach him.
Mordred looked around him, saw a forked pole, the
sort the harvesters used for catching vipers, and with that
lifted the cage and turned it with the door-hatch
towards the window. The cage filled almost the whole
space. He pushed the pole into the loop, and
carefully raised the wicker hatch. The carcass of the
rat rose with it, and the cat struck again, spitting,
at this new moving danger. It found itself striking
into air. For two long minutes it stayed perfectly
still, no movement but the ripple of fur and the twitch
of a tail, then slowly, stalking freedom as it would
stalk its prey, it crept to the edge of the basket,
to the edge of the sill, and looked down. He did not
see it go. One moment it was there, a prisoner, the
next gone into the free night.
The other prisoner dragged the cage back from the
window that was too small for him, threw it to the
floor, and put the pole carefully back where he
had found it.
There was already a guard on the bedchamber door.
He moved his weapon to the ready, then, seeing who
approached him, shifted uncertainly and grounded the
spear again.
Mordred, expecting this, had slung the russet
cloak round him, and underneath it clutched his effects
close to him, hiding his injured hand. The guard could
see nothing in his face except cool surprise.
"A guard? What's this, has something happened?"
"King's orders, sir." The man was wooden.
"Orders to keep me out? Or in?"
"Oh, in--well, that is, I mean to say,
to look after you, like, sir." The man cleared his
throat, ill at ease, and tried again. "I thought you
was all in there, asleep. You been with your lady
queen, then, maybe?"
"Ah. King's orders to report on our
movements, too?" Mordred let a 102
moment of silence hang, while the man fidgeted,
then he smiled. "No, I was not with Queen
Morgause. Do you always ask the king's guests where
they spend their nights?"
The man's mouth opened slowly. Mordred read it
all easily: surprise, amusement, complicity.
He slipped his free hand into the pouch at his belt and
took out a coin. They had been speaking softly, but
he lowered his voice still further. "You won't tell
anyone?" The man's face relaxed into something like a
grin. "Indeed, no, sir. Excuse me,
I'm sure. Thank you, sir. Good night, sir."
Mordred slipped past him and let himself
quietly into the bedchamber. For all his caution, he
found Gawain awake, up on an elbow, and reaching
for his dagger. "Who's that?"
"Mordred. Keep your voice down. It's all
right." "Where've you been? I thought you were in bed and
asleep." Mordred did not reply. He had a
habit of quenching silences. He had discovered that if
you failed to answer an awkward question, people rarely
asked it twice. He did not know that this was a
discovery normally only made in later life, and
by some weaker natures not at all. He crossed
to his bedplace, and, once hidden by the buttress,
dropped his bundle on the bed, and his cloak after it.
Gawain was not to know that under the cloak he had been
fully dressed.
"I thought I heard voices," whispered
Gawain. "They've set a guard on the door. I
was talking to him." "Oh." Gawain, as Mordred
calculated, did not sound particularly interested.
He probably did not realize that it was the first time
in Rheged that such a guard had been set. He would
be assuming, too, that Mordred had merely been out
to the privy. He lay back. "That must have
been what woke me. What's the time?"
"Must be well after midnight." Mordred, winding
a kerchief round his injured hand, said softly: "And
we have to make an early start in the morning. Best
get some sleep now. Good night."
After a while Mordred slept, too. Half a
league away, in the edge of the vast tract of
woodland that was called the Wild Forest, a young
wildcat settled into the crotch of an enormous
pine tree and began washing its fur clean of the
smell of captivity. 12
In the morning it was apparent that Nimue's warning
had been extended to their escort. The soldiers saw
to it that the Orkney party stayed together, and, with the greatest
possible tact, made the close guardianship
seem an honour. Morgause took it as such, and
so did the four younger princes, who rode at ease,
talking gaily with the guard and laughing, but Mordred,
with a good horse under him and the open stretches of mainland
moor beckoning from either side of the road, fretted and
was silent.
All too soon they reached the harbour. The first
thing to be noticed was that the Ore rode alone at the
wharfside. The Sea Dragon, explained the
escort's captain, had suffered only
slight storm damage, so had held on her way
south; he and the armed escort were to sail with the party in the
Ore. Morgause, annoyed, but beginning to be
apprehensive and so not daring to show it, acquiesced
perforce, and they boarded the ship. This was now a little
too crowded for comfort, but the winds had abated, and the
passage out of the Ituna Estuary and southward along
the coast of Rheged was smooth and even enjoyable. The
boys spent their time on deck, watching the hilly
land slide past. Gulls slanted and cried behind the
ship. Once they threaded a fleet of fishing
boats, and once saw, in a small inlet of the
hilly coast, some men on ponies herding cattle
("Probably stolen," said Agravain, sounding
approving rather than otherwise), but apart from that, no
sign of life. Morgause did not appear. The
sailors taught the boys to tie knots, and Gareth
tried to play on a little flute one of them had made
from reeds. They all improvised fishing lines, and
had some success, and in consequence ate good meals of
fresh-baked fish. The princes were in wild spirits at
the adventure, and at the dazzling prospect, as they
saw it, in store for them. Even Mordred managed
at times to forget the cloud of fear. The only fly in
the ointment was the silence of the escort. The
boys questioned the soldiers-- the princes with innocent
curiosity, Mordred with careful guile--but the men
and their officers were as uncommunicative as the
royal envoy had been. About the High King's
orders or plans for their future they learned
nothing.
So for three days. Then, with the ship's master
cocking a worried eye aloft at the suddenly
moody canvas, the Ore put into Segontium,
on the coast of Wales just across from Mona's
Isle. This was a much bigger place than the little
Rheged port. Caer y n'a 104
Von, or Segontium, as it had been in
Roman times, was a big military garrison,
recently rebuilt to at least half its old
strength. The fortress lay on the stony hillside
above the town, and beyond that again rose the foothills and
then the cloud-holding heights of y Wy.fa, the
Snow Hill. To seaward, across a narrow channel as
blue in the sunshine as sapphire, lay the golden
fields and magic stones of Mona, isle of
druids.
The boys lined the ship's rail, staring and eager.
At length Morgause came out of her cabin. She
looked pale and ill, even after such a
smooth and easy voyage. ("Because she's a witch,
you see," said Gareth, proudly, to the escort's
captain.) When the ship's master told her that they
must wait in harbour for a change of wind, she said
thankfully that she would not sleep on board, and her
chamberlain was sent across to engage rooms at the
wharfside inn. This was a prosperous, comfortable
place, and good rooms were forthcoming. The party went
cheerfully on shore.
They were there for four days. The queen kept to her
rooms with the women. The boys were allowed to explore
the town, or, still carefully watched, to go down to the
shore to hunt for crabs and shellfish. The second
time they set out, Mordred, as if on an impulse
of boredom, turned back. Though he did not say
so within his brothers' hearing, he let the two guards
see that crab-hunting offered no amusement to a boy
who had done it for a living only a few years ago.
He left them to it, and went alone into the town, then,
hiding his eagerness, sauntered at an easy pace
along the track that climbed away from the houses and
led past the fortress walls towards the distant
heights of y Wy.fa. The air was dazzlingly
clear after the night's frost. The stones were already
warm. He sat disdown. To any watcher he
would appear to be enjoying the view and the sunshine. In
fact he was looking carefully about him at the
prospect of escape.
Above him, in the distance, a boy tended a flock
of sheep. Their tracks seamed the face of the hill.
Higher, beyond the slopes of stony pasture, lay a
wood, the outskirts of the forest that swept up to clothe
the flanks of the Snow Hill. A gap in the trees
showed where a road led eastward.
There lay the way. The road would surely join the
famous Sarn Elen, the causeway that led down
to Deva and the inland kingdoms. He could lose himself
there, easily. He had all his money on him, and,
with last night's frost as an excuse, had brought his
cloak. A pebble rattled on the path. He
looked round, to see, barely a dozen paces
away, the two guards standing, at ease, ostensibly
gazing idly into the distance towards the beach below the town.
But their pose was alert, and from time to time their glances
came his way. It was the same two men who had
accompanied the princes to the shore. Now, small in
the distance, he could see his brothers, easily
recognizable

among the other crab-catchers on the
beach. He looked for their escort, and saw none.
The men had left the other boys to their pastime, and
had followed him quietly up the hillside. The
conclusion was inescapable. The guards were for him alone.
An emotion that the caged wildcat would have
recognized swelled burstingly in Mordred's
breast, and into his throat. He wanted to shout,
to lash out, to run.
To run. He jumped to his feet. Instantly the
men were moving, casually, towards him. They were young and
fit. He could never outdistance them. He stood still.
"Time to be going back, young sir," said one of them
pleasantly. "Nearly dinner time, I reckon."
"Your brothers are going in," said the other,
pointing. "Look, sir, you can see them from here. Shall
we go down now?" Mordred's face was still as stone.
His eyes betrayed nothing of the emotion that filled him.
Something that no wild animal--and few men--would have
understood kept him silent and apparently indifferent.
In two deep and steadying breaths he willed the fear
and with it the furious disappointment to spill from him. He
could almost feel it draining from his fingertips like blood.
In its place came the faintest tremor of
released tension, and then, into the emptiness, the calm of
his habitual control.
He nodded to the men, said something distant and
polite, and walked back to the inn between them.
He tried again next day.
The princes, tired of the shore and the town, were avid
to visit the great fortress on the hillside, but this
their mother would not consider. Indeed, the escort's
captain said flatly that even princes of Orkney
would not be allowed within the gates. The place was
fortified and always held in readiness.
"For what?" asked Gawain.
The man nodded at the sea.
"Irish?"
"Picts, Irish, Saxons. Anyone."
"Is King Maelgon here himself?"
"No."
"Which is Macsen's Tower?" The idle-sounding question
came from Mordred.
"Whose tower?" demanded Agravain.
"Macsen's. Someone spoke of it yesterday." The
someone had been one of his guards, who had remarked that
the site of the tower was well up on the hillside, not
far below the wood.

The captain pointed. "It's up there. You can't
see it now, though, it's a ruin."
"Who was Macsen?" asked Gareth.
"Do they teach you nothing in Orkney?" The man was
indulgent. "He was Emperor of Britain,
Magnus Maximus, a Spaniard by birth--"
"Of course we know that," interrupted Gawain.
"We are related to him. He was Emperor of
Rome, and it was his sword that Merlin raised for the
High King: Caliburn, the King's sword of
Britain. Everyone knows that! Our mother is descended
from him, through King Uther." "Then should we not visit the
tower?" asked Mordred. "It's not inside the
fortress, so surely anyone can go? Even if it's
ruined--" "Sorry." The captain shook his head.
"Too far. Against orders." "Orders?" Gawain
was beginning to bristle, but Agravain spoke across
him, rudely, to Mordred.
"Anyway, why should you want to go? You're not
Macsen's kin! We are! We are royal through our
mother as well."
"Then if I am bastard Lothian, you can count
yourselves bastard Mac- sen," snapped Mordred,
fear and tension breaking suddenly into fury, and careless
for once of his tongue.
He was safe enough. The twins, loyal to their
boyhood rule of silence where their mother was
concerned, would never have thought of repeating the insult
to Morgause. Their methods were more direct. After a
startled pause of sheer surprise, they yelled with
rage and fell on Mordred, and the pent-up energies
of seaboard suddenly exploded in a very pretty
dog-fight all round the inn yard. After they had been
pulled apart and then beaten for fighting, the queen was so
angry at the disturbance that she forbade any more
excursions from the inn. So no one got to Macsen's
Tower, and the boys had to content themselves with
knucklebones and mock fights and story-telling;
children's ploys, said Mordred, this time with open
contempt, still smarting, and stayed away.
The next day, quite suddenly in the evening, the wind
changed, and blew strongly again from the north. Under the
watchful eye of the escort the party re-embarked, and the
Ore made quickly south with a steady wind until she
could turn in from the open weather to the quiet waters of the
Severn Sea. The water was like glass. "Right to the
Glass Isle," said the master, "I do assure
you." And the shallow-draughted Ore did indeed sail
in on an estuary mirror-smooth, with the oars out for the
last stretch to take the little ship clear up to the wharf
of Ynys Witrin, the Isle of Glass, almost in
the shadow of the palace walls of Melwas,
its king.
Melwas's palace was little more than a large
house set in the flat mead- owland rimming the largest
of the three sister islands called Ynys Witrin.

Two of the islands were hills, low and green, that
rose gently from the encircling water. The third was the
Tor, a high, cone-shaped hill symmetrical as
an artefact, and girdled at its base with apple
orchards where wisps of smoke proclaimed the
cottages of the village that was Melwas's
capital. It towered above the surrounding water-logged
flatland of the Summer Country like a great beacon.
This, in fact, was one of its functions; a beacon
turret stood at the very top of the Tor, the nearest
signal point to Camelot itself. From that summit, the
boys were told, those walls and shining towers might be
seen quite close and clearly, across the glassy reaches
of the Lake. King Melwas's own fortress lay just
below the Tor's summit. The approach to it was a
winding road, steeply cut from the gravel of the
hill. In winter, men said, the mud made it all but
impossible to get to the top. But then in winter there was
no fighting. The king and his company stayed in the comfort
of the lakeside mansion, and their days were
filled with hunting, which was mostly, in that sodden
Summer Country, wild-fowling in the marshes. These
stretched away to southward, with their glinting waters
only occasionally broken by the willow islands and the
alder-set reed- beds where the marsh-dwellers had
built their raised hovels.
King Melwas received the party kindly. He was a
big, brown-bearded man, with a high colour and a red,
full-lipped mouth. His attitude to Morgause was
one of open admiration. He greeted her with the
ceremonial kiss of welcome, and if this was a
shade too prolonged, Morgause made no
objection. When she presented her sons the king was
warm in his welcome of them, and rather warmer in his
praise of the woman who had borne so handsome a
tribe. Mordred, as always, was presented last.
If, during the formal greetings, the king's look
came back rather too often to the tall boy standing behind the
other princes, no one but the boy himself seemed
to notice. Then Melwas, with another lingering look,
turned back to Morgause, with the news that a courier
awaited her from the High King. "A courier?"
Morgause was sharp. "To me, the King's sister? You
must mean one of his knights? With an escort for us?"
But no; it seemed that the go-between was merely
one of the royal couriers, who, waiting duly on
Morgause, gave Arthur's message briefly
and with little ceremony. Morgause and her party were
to remain on Ynys Witrin until the following
day, when they were to ride, with an escort sent
by Arthur, to Camelot. There the King would receive them in
the Round Hall.
The younger boys, excited and barely controllable,
noticed nothing amiss, but Gawain and Mordred could
see how anger fought with growing apprehension in her, as
she questioned the man sharply. "He said nothing more,
madam," repeated the courier. "Only that he 108
desired your presence tomorrow in the Round Hall.
Until then, you will stay here. The, Lady Nimue,
madam? No, she has not yet returned from the
north. That is all I know."
He bowed and went. Gawain, puzzled and inclined
to be angry, started to speak, but his mother waved him
to silence, and stood for a while biting her lip and
thinking. Then she turned quickly to Gabran. "Have them
call my women. They are to unpack our clothes, and
lay out the white robe for me, and the scarlet cloak.
Now, yes, now, man! Do you think I will stay here
tamely overnight, and go at his bidding to the Round
Hall tomorrow? Do you not know what that is?
It's Arthur's council chamber, where judgments are
given. Oh, yes, I have heard of that hall, with its
"Perilous Chair" for the wrong-doers and those with
grievances against the High King!"
"But what peril can there be for you? You have done him
no wrong," said Gabran quickly.
"Of course not!" snapped Morgause. "Which is
why I will not go like a suppliant or a wrong-doer,
to be received in front of the Council by my own
brother! I will go now, tonight, while he is in hall
at supper with the Queen and all the court. Let us
see then if he intends to deny her state to the mother
of--" She stopped, and apparently changed what she
had been going to say. "--To his sister and his
sister's sons."
"Madam, will they let you go?"
"I am not a prisoner. How can they stop me,
without letting people see that I am ill used? Besides, the
King's troop has gone back to Camelot, has
it not?"
"Yes, madam, but King Melwas--"
"After I am dressed, you may ask King
Melwas to come and see me." Gabran turned rather
reluctantly to go.
"Gabran." He stopped and turned.
"Take the boys with you. Tell the women to get them
ready. Their court clothes. I will see to it that
Melwas gives us horses and an escort." Her
lips thinned. "As long as we are guarded, Arthur
cannot hold him accountable. In any case, that is
Mel- was's danger, not ours. Now go. You will not
ride with us. You will follow with the rest tomorrow."
Gabran hesitated, then, catching her eye,
bowed his head and went from the room.
It was not hard to guess what sort of persuasion
she used with Melwas. In the event, she got her
way. By the brief autumnal sunset the little party
was riding across the causeway that led eastwards across the
Lake. Morgause rode a pretty grey mare,
richly harnessed with green and scarlet, and chiming with
bells. Mordred, to his great surprise, was
given a handsome black horse, well matched with the
one Gawain rode. The armed escorf.

sent by Melwas clattered along, strung out
alongside them on the narrow causeway. At their
backs the sun set in a furnace of molten
brass that died slowly to burnt green and purple.
There was a chill to the air, a touch of frost coming with the
blue shadows of twilight. The horses'
hoofs scrunched up to a ridge of gravel, and then
the road lay ahead, a pale strip leading through the
watery wilderness of reeds and alders. Duck and
wading birds fled upwards with a clatter, the water
rippling back from their wakes like melted metal.
Mordred's horse shook its head and the bridle
rang with silver. In spite of himself he felt his
heart lift suddenly with excitement. Then all at
once someone exclaimed and pointed.
Ahead, at the summit of a thickly rising forest,
their bannered pinnacles catching the last of the sunset
and flaming up into the evening sky like torches, rose the
towers of Camelot. 13
It was a city set on a hill. Caer Camel
was flat-topped and very wide, but it stood up as
conspicuously as the Tor in the midst of that level
or low- rolling countryside. Its steep sides were
ridged, horizontally, as if a gigantic plough
had been driven round the hill. These ridges were
revetments and ditches, designed to hinder
attackers. At the crest of the ringed hillside the
fortress walls circled the summit like the crown on
a king's head. At two points, north-east and
south-west, the massive defense works were pierced
by gates.
Morgause's party approached from the south-west,
towards the entrance called the King's Gate. They
crossed a small winding river, then followed the
road as it curved steeply upwards through thick
trees. At the top, set in the corner of
Camelot's outer walls, stood the massive double
gate, open still but guarded. They halted while the
escort's captain rode forward to exchange words
with the officer of the watch. Presently both men came
back together to where Morgause waited. "Madam."
The officer made her a courteous inclination. "You were
not looked for until tomorrow. I have no orders concerning
your party. If you will wait here, I will send a
message up--" "The King is in hall?"
"Madam, yes, he is at supper."
"Then take me to him."
"Madam, I cannot. If you--"
"You know who I am?" The icy question was meant
to intimidate. "Of course, madam--"
"I am the High King's sister, daughter of
Uther Pendragon. Am I to be kept here at the
gate like a suppliant or a courier?" A faint
film of sweat showed on the man's forehead, but he was
not noticeably discomposed. "Of course not,
madam, not here, outside the gates.
Please ride within. The men are coming now to close
them. But I'm afraid you must wait here while a
message goes up to the hall. I have my orders."
"Very well. I won't make it hard for you. My
chamberlain will go to him." Morgause spoke
firmly, flatly, as if even now she had no
doubt that her command would be obeyed. She softened it with
one of her prettiest smiles. Mordred saw that
she was nervous. Her mare, reading its rider's
mood, fidgeted and tossed its head till the
golden tassels swung in a tangle.
Ill
The officer, with apparent relief, agreed to this, and
after a word with his mistress the chamberlain went off between
two of the guards. Morgause's party rode up through
the deep, fortified archway of the King's Gate, and were
halted just inside it to wait. Behind them the great
gates swung shut. The bars clanged down
into place. Overhead, along the battlemented
walls, went the tramp and stamp of sentries.
Ironically enough these sounds, which should have reminded
Mordred forcibly that he was a prisoner, still
constrained to meet an unknown and doubtful fate,
hardly got through to him. He was too busy looking
about him. This was Camelot. Inside the
gate a roadway led uphill towards the walls
of the palace. Poles were set at intervals along
this road, with torches hung in brackets to light the
way. Midway up a considerable slope the road
forked, the left- hand way leading to a gateway in the
palace walls beyond which could be seen the tops of
trees, now bare. Another garden? Another
prison made for a queen's pleasure? The other
branch of the road curled round under the palace
walls to another, bigger gate which must lead into the
township. Above the wall could be discerned the roofs and
turrets of houses, shops and workshops grouped around
the market-place, with, beyond these again to the north, the
barracks and stables. The town gates were shut, and no
people were about except the sentries.
"Mordred!"
Mordred, startled out of his thoughts, looked up.
Morgause was beckoning.
"Here, beside me."
He urged his horse forward to her right. Gawain
started to move to her other side, but him she waved
back. "Stay with the others." Gawain, who, since the
dog-fight in the inn yard, had held aloof from
Mordred, scowled as he reined back, but he said
nothing. None of the others spoke. Something of
Morgause's tension had communicated itself even
to Gareth. She did not speak again, but sat straight
and still, staring at her horse's ears. Her hood was
back, her face expressionless and rather pale.
Then it changed. Mordred, looking where she
looked, saw the chamberlain hurrying back with the two
guards, and, some way behind them, alone, a man coming
down the road towards them. Prom the sharp reaction
of the gate guards he knew who this must be, and that his
coming was totally unexpected. Against all precedent,
Arthur the High King had come out alone, to receive them
at the outer gate of his fortress.
The King stopped a few paces away and said
shortly to the guards: "Let them come."

No ceremony of welcome. No offer of the kiss
and the handclasp and the smile. He stood by one of the
torchpoles, its light nickering on a face as
cold and indifferent as that of a judge. The chamberlain
hurried to Morgause's side, but she waved him
back. "Mordred. Your hand, please."
No more time for surprise. No more time for anything
except the one, overmastering apprehension. He
slid from his horse, threw the rein to a servant and
helped the queen dismount. She held his arm
for a moment, tightly, looking up at him as if she
would have said something, then she let him go, but kept him
close beside her. Gawain, still scowling, pushed forward
uninvited, and this time was ignored. The other boys
fell in behind, nervously. Servants led the horses
back. Arthur had still made no move.
Morgause, with a boy to either side of her, and the three
younger ones behind, went forward to meet the King.
Mordred could never afterwards say what made the first
sight of the High King so impressive. No
ceremony, no attendants, none of the trappings of
majesty and power; the man was not even armed. He
stood alone, cold, silent and formidable. The boy
stared. Here was a solitary man, dressed in a
brown robe trimmed with marten, dwarfed by the range
of lighted buildings behind him, by the trees that lined the
roadway, by the spears of the armed guards. But in
fact, in all that ringing, frosty, dusk-lit
space, none of the party had eyes for anything but that one
man.
Morgause went down on the frosty ground in
front of him, not in the deep reverence customary in the
presence of the High King, but kneeling. She lifted
a hand, caught Mordred by the arm, and pulled him
down, too, to his knees. He felt a
slight tremor in her grip. Gawain, with the other
boys, stayed standing. Arthur had not even glanced at
them. His attention was all for the kneeling boy, the
bastard, his son, brought to his feet like a
suppliant, and staying there, head up and eyes darting
every way, like a wild thing wondering which way to run.
Morgause was speaking:
"My lord Arthur, brother--you may imagine what
a joy it was to myself and my family when word came,
after all these years, that we might once more have sight
of you, and visit your court on the mainland. Who has
not heard of the splendours of Camelot, and marvelled
at the tales of your victories, and of your greatness as
king of these lands? Greatness which, from that first great fight
at Luguvallium, I, and my lord King Lot,
predicted for you ..."
She stole a look up at Arthur's
unresponsive face. She had deliberately
moved straight onto dangerous ground. At
Luguvallium, Lot had tried first to betray
Arthur, and then to overthrow him, but it was then that he had
lain with Morgause to beget Mordred. Mordred,
eyes cast down now

and studying the frost patterns on the
ground in front of him, caught the moment of
uncertainty before she drew a quick breath and spoke
again.
"Perhaps between us--between you and Lot, and even between you and
myself, my brother, there have been things that were better not
recalled. But Lot was slain in your service, and
since then I have lived alone, quietly, in
exile, but uncomplaining, devoting myself to the care and
rearing of my sons. ..." The faintest emphasis
here, and another quick glance upward. "Now, my lord
Arthur, I have come at your command, and pray you for your
clemency towards us all." Still no reply from the
King, nor any movement of welcome. The light,
pretty voice went on, the words like pebbles striking
against the silence. Mordred, his eyes still downcast,
felt something as strong as a touch, and looked up
suddenly, to find the King's eyes fixed on him.
He met them for the first time, eyes which were at the same
time curiously familiar, and yet strange, charged
with a look that sent a thrill through him, not of fear, but
as if something had struck him below the heart and left
him gasping. With the touch his fear was gone. Suddenly,
and for the first time since Mor- gause had veiled
logic with threats and sorcery, he saw clearly how
foolish his fears had been. Why should this
man, this king, trouble to pursue the bastard of an
enemy dead these many years? It was beneath him. It was
absurd. For Mordred the air cleared at last, as
if a foul mist, magic- crammed, had blown
aside.
He was here in the fabled city, the center of the mainland
kingdoms. Long ago he had planned for this, dreamed
of it, schemed for it. He had tried, in the fear and
distrust engendered by Morgause, to escape from it, but
here he had been brought, like something destined for
sacrifice to her Goddess of the black altar. Now
no thought of flight remained. All his old
ambitions, his boyhood dreams, flew back,
lodged, crystallized. He wanted this, to be part of
this. Whatever it took to win a place in this king's
kingdoms, he would do it, be it. ...
Morgause was still speaking, with an unaccustomed
note of humility. Mordred, with the new cold
light illumining his brain, listened and thought: Every word
she says is a lie. No, not a lie, the facts
are true enough, but everything she is, everything she is
trying to do ... all is false. How does he
bear it? Surely he cannot be deceived? Not this king. Not
Arthur.
"dis . . So I pray you do not hold me
to blame, brother, for coming now, instead of waiting for the
morrow. How could I wait, with the lights of
Camelot so near across the Lake? I had to come, and
to make sure that in your heart you still bore me no
malice. And see, I have obeyed you. I am here with
all the boys. This on my left is Gawain,
eldest of Orkney, my son and your servant. His
brothers, too. And this on my right . . . this is

Mordred." She looked up. "Brother, he
knows nothing. Nothing. He will be--"
Arthur moved at last. He stopped her with a
gesture, then stepped forward and held out a hand.
Morgause, on a sudden intake of breath, fell
silent and laid hers in it. The King raised her.
Among the boys, and the servants watching from the gate,
there was a movement of relief. They had been received.
All would be well. Mordred, rising to his feet,
felt something of the same lightening of tension. Even
Gawain was smiling, and Mordred found himself
responding. But instead of the ritual kiss of
welcome, the embrace and the words of greeting, the
King said merely:
"I have something to say to you that cannot be said before these
children." He turned to the boys. "Be
welcome here. Now go back to the gatehouse, and
wait."
They obeyed. "The gifts," said the chamberlain,
"the gifts, quickly. All is not well yet, it
seems." He seized the box from a servant, and
hurried forward to lay it at the King's feet, then
retreated hastily, disconcerted. Arthur did not
even glance at the treasure. He was speaking
to Morgause, and, though the people at the gate could neither
hear what was said nor see her face, they watched
how her pose stiffened to defiance, then passed again
to supplication and even to fear, and how through it all the
King stood like stone, andwitha face of stone. Only
Mordred, with his new clear sight, saw grief
there, and weariness.
There was an interruption. From beyond the gates came
a sound, growing rapidly louder. Hoofbeats, a
horse approaching at a stumbling gallop up the
chariotway. A man's voice called out
hoarsely. One of the gate guards said, under his
breath: "The courier from Glevum! By the thunder, he's
made good time! He must bring hot news!" The
challenge, another shout, the creak and crash of the
gates opening. A tired horse clattered through.
They smelled the reek of exhausted sweat.
A breathless word from the courier, and the horse held on
its way without pausing, straight up to where the King
stood with Morgause.
The rider half fell from the saddle, and went down
on one knee. The King looked angry at the
interruption, but the courier spoke urgently, and after
a pause Arthur beckoned to the guards. Two of
them went forward, halting one on either side of
Morgause. Then the King turned, with a sign to the
courier, and walked back up the roadway with the man
following him. At the foot of the palace steps he
stopped. For a few minutes the two, King and
courier, stood talking, but from the gatehouse the boys
could see and hear nothing. Then, suddenly, the King
swung round, and shouted.
In a moment, it seemed, the frozen tensions of the
night were shattered;
from uneasy peace the place sprang to something very like
battle orders. A huge grey war-stallion was
brought by two grooms, who clung to the bit as

it plunged and screamed. Servants came running
with the King's cloak and sword. The gates swung
open. Arthur was in the saddle. The grey stallion
screamed again and climbed the torchlit air,
then leaped forward under the spur, and was past the boys and
out of the gates with the speed of a thrown spear. The
grooms led the courier's exhausted horse away,
and the courier himself, walking like a lame man,
followed.
In the gatehouse all was bustle and snapped
orders. Melwas's men-at- arms withdrew, and the
boys, with the chamberlain and the queen's servants, found
themselves being hurried up the road towards the palace,
past the place where Morgause still stood stiffly between
her guards. Just as they reached the palace gate, a
troop of armed riders burst out of it and went streaming
past at a gallop to vanish downhill in the King's
wake.
The gallop died. The outer gates crashed shut
once more. The echoes faded into quiet. The place
seemed to edge back, quivering, towards a kind of
peace. The boys, waiting at the palace gates
with the servants and guards, crowded together, wondering,
confused and beginning to be scared. Gareth was crying. The
twins muttered together, with glances at Mordred that were
far from friendly. Avoiding them, and Gawain's puzzled
scowl, Mordred felt, more than ever before, isolated
from them. His thoughts darted like trapped birds. They
all had time, now, to feel the cold.
At length someone--a big man with a red face and a
high manner-- came to them. He spoke straight
to Mordred.
"I am Cei, the King's seneschal. You are
to come with me." "I?"
"All of you."
Gawain elbowed Mordred aside, stepped forward
and spoke. He was curt to the point of arrogance.
"I am Gawain of Orkney. Where are you taking
us, and what has happened to my mother?" "King's
orders," said Cei, briefly, but hardly
reassuringly. "She's to wait till he gets
back." He spoke more gently, to Gareth.
"Don't be afraid. No harm will come to you. You
heard him say you would be made welcome."
"Where's he gone?" demanded Gawain.
"Didn't you hear?" asked Cei. "It seems
that Merlin's still alive, after all. The courier saw
him on the road. The King's gone to meet him.
Now, will you come with me?"

The boys had only a brief stay at
Camelot before orders came that the court would
remove to Caerleon for Christmas. Meanwhile
they were lodged apart from the other boys and young
men, under the special care of Cei, who was
Arthur's foster brother, and privy to all his
counsels. He saw to it that none of the rumours that
went flying about among the people of Camelot came to the
boys' ears. Until Arthur himself had spoken with
Mordred, Mordred was to learn nothing. Cei
guessed, and rightly, that the King would want to consult with
Merlin before he decided what was to be done with the boy,
or with Morgause herself. The boys did not see
Mor- gause; she was lodged somewhere apart, not as a
prisoner, they were told, but allowed to communicate with
no one, until the King returned.
In fact he did not return. The story of his
wild ride to greet his old friend was brought back to a
city agog for news. It was true that Merlin the
enchanter was alive. An attack of his old
sickness, a trance-like death, had been taken for death
itself, but he had recovered, and at length escaped from
the sealed tomb where he had been left for dead. Now
he had ridden with the King for Caerleon, and Arthur's
Companions--the picked group of knights who were his
friends--had gone with them. The court would follow. So
for the time remaining at Camelot before the court's
removal to Wales, the boys were kept busy with
pursuits that exhausted them, but that were much
to their taste.
They were taken in hand straight away by the
master-at-arms, and what training they had had in the
islands was commented on with a sarcasm that even Gawain
did not care in this place to resent, and augmented with a
rigorous course of work. There were long hours spent,
too, on horseback, and here none of them pretended
that the Orkney training had been adequate. The
High King's horses were as far removed from the rough
ponies of the islands as Morgause's men-at-arms
were from Arthur's chosen Companions.
It was not all work. Play, too, there was in
plenty, but consisting entirely of war games, hours
spent over maps drawn in sand, or modelled--this
to the boys' wide-eyed wonder--in clay relief.
Hours, too, at mock fights or competing at
archery. In this last they excelled, and of all of them
Mordred had the steadiest draw and the best eye. And
there was hunting. In winter the wild-fowling in the
marshes was varied and exciting, but there 117
was hunting to be had as well, deer and boar, in the
rolling country to the eastward, or among the wooded
slopes that rose towards the downlands in the south.
The court removed itself to Caerleon in the first
week of December, and the Orkney boys
with it. But not their mother. Morgause was taken on
Arthur's orders to Amesbury, where she was lodged
in the convent. It was a nominal imprisonment only,
and a gentle one, but imprisonment nonetheless. Her
rooms were guarded by King's troops, and the holy
women replaced her own waiting-women.
Amesbury, birthplace of Ambrosius, belonged
to the High King, and would see his orders carried out to the
letter. When the spring weather came, and the roads opened,
she would be taken north to Caer Eidyn, where her
half-sister Queen Morgan was already immured.
"But what has she done?" demanded Gaheris
furiously. "We know what Queen Morgan did,
and she is rightly punished. But our mother? Why, she
came to Orkney soon after our father was killed. The
King must know that --it would be the spring after Queen
Morgan's wedding in Rheged. Years ago!
She's never been out of the islands since. Why should he
imprison her now?"
"Because at that same wedding she tried to murder
Merlin." The answer, uncompromising, came from
Cei, who, alone among the nobles, spent time with the
boys during their hours of leisure. They stared at
him. "But that was years ago!" cried Gawain. "I
was there--I know, because she's told me--but
I don't remember it at all. I was only a
baby. Why send for her now to account for something that
happened then?"
"And what did happen?" This from Gaheris,
red-faced and with jaw outthrust.
"He says she tried to murder Merlin," said
Agravain. "Well, she didn't succeed, did
she? So why--?"
"How?" asked Mordred quietly.
"Woman's way. Witch's way, if you like."
Cei was unmoved by the younger boys' angry questions.
"It happened at that very wedding feast. Merlin was there,
representing the King. She drugged his wine, and saw
to it that he would drink a deadlier poison later, when
she was not there to be blamed. And so it fell. He
did recover, but it left him with the sickness that
recently struck him down and caused him to be left
for dead--and will kill him in the end. When Arthur sent
for her, and for you, Merlin was believed dead, and in his
tomb. So he sent for her to answer for the murder."
"It's not true!" shouted Gaheris.
"And if it were," said Gawain, cold now, and with
that aggressive arro-
gance he had adopted since they came
to Camelot, "what of it? Where is the law that says
a queen may not destroy her enemy in her own
way?" "That's so," said Agravain quickly. "She
always said he was her enemy. And what other way had
she? Women cannot fight."
"He must have been too strong for her spells,"
said Gareth. "They didn't work." The only emotion
in his voice was regret. Cei surveyed them.
"There was a spell, certainly, and one tried many
times, but in the end it was cold poisoning. This is
known to be true." He added, kindly: "There's
nothing to be gained in talking further about this until you
see the King. What can you know of these matters? In
your outland kingdom you were reared to think of Merlin, and
maybe even the King himself, as your enemies."
He paused, looking at them again. The boys were
silent. "Yes, I see that you were. Well,
until he talks with Merlin, and with Queen
Morgause, we will leave the matter. She can count
herself fortunate that Merlin is not dead. And as for you,
you must content yourselves with the King's assurance that he will not
harm you. There are things to settle, old scores
to resolve that you know nothing about. Believe me, the
King is a just man, and Merlin's counsels are
wise, and harsh only when it is needful."
When he left them, the boys burst out into angry
talk and speculation. It seemed to Mordred,
listening, that their anger was more on their own account than
on their mother's. It was a matter of pride. None of
them would have wanted to be, once again, under
Morgause's rule. This new freedom, this world of
men and men's actions, suited them all, and even
Gareth, who in Orkney had run the risk of
effeminacy, was hardening up to become one of them.
He, like the rest, saw no reason for a prince to stop
at murder if it suited his plans. Mordred said
nothing, and the others did not find this strange. What
claim after all had the bastard on the queen? But
Mordred did not even hear them. He was back in the
darkness, with the smoke and the smell of fish and the frightened
whispering. "Merlin is dead. They made a feast at
the palace, and then"--and then--"the news came."
And the queen's words in the stillroom, with the potions and the
scent and the indefinable smell of evil, and the feel of
her mouth on his. He shook himself free of the
memories. So Morgause had poisoned the
enchanter. She had gone north to the islands knowing that
she had already sown the seeds of death. And why not? The
old man had been her enemy:
was his, Mordred's, enemy. And now the
enemy was alive, and would be at Caerleon for
Cnristmas along with the rest. 119
Caerleon, City of Legions, was very different
from Camelot. The Romans had built a strong
fortress there, on the river they called the Isca
Silurum; this fortress, strategically placed on
the curve of the river near its confluence with a smaller
stream, had been restored first by Ambrosius, then
later enlarged to something like its original proportions
by Arthur. A city had grown up outside the
walls, with market-place and church and palace near
the Roman bridge which--patched here and there, and with new
lamp-posts--spanned the river.
The King, with most of the court, lived in the palace
outside the fortress walls. Many of his knights had
lodgings within the fort, and so, to begin with, had the
Orkney boys. They were still lodged apart, with some of
Arthur's servants doing duty alongside the people
brought from Orkney. Gabran, to his own obvious
discomfort, had had perforce to remain with the boys; there
had naturally been no question of his being allowed to follow
Morgause to Amesbury. Gawain, still smarting from
the painful mixture of shame on his mother's behalf and
jealousy on his own, lost no opportunity of
letting the man see that now he had no standing
at all. Gaheris followed suit, but more openly,
as was his habit, adding insults where he could to contempt
for his mother's displaced lover. The other two, less
conscious perhaps of Morgause's sexual vagaries,
scarcely noticed him. Mordred had other things on
his mind.
But days passed, and nothing happened. If
Merlin, back from the dead, was indeed planning to spur
Arthur to revenge on Morgause and her family,
he was in no hurry to do so. The old man, weakened
by the events of the summer and autumn, kept mainly
to the rooms allotted to him in the King's house.
Arthur spent a good deal of time with him, and it was known
that Merlin had attended one or two of the meetings of the
privy council, but the Orkney boys saw nothing
of him. It was said that Merlin himself had advised against
a public homecom- ing. There was no
announcement, no scene of public rejoicing. As time
went on, people came simply to accept his presence
among them again, as if the "death" of the King's cousin and
chief adviser, and the country-wide mourning, had been
another and more elaborate example of the enchanter's
habit of vanishing and reappearing at will. They had
always known, men said wisely, that the great enchanter could
not die. If he had chosen to lie in a
death-like trance while his spirit visited the halls of the
dead, why, then, he had come back wiser and more
powerful than ever. Soon he would go back to his
hollow hill again, the sacred Bryn Myr.in, and
there he would remain, invisible at times maybe, but
nevertheless present and powerful for those to call on who
needed him.
Meantime, if Arthur had yet found time to discuss
the Orkney boys-- 120
tilde i
that Mordred was by far the most important of these
none of them of course guessed@unothing was said. The
truth was that Arthur, for once unsure of his ground,
was procrastinating. Then his hand was forced, quite
inadvertently, by Mordred himself.
It was on the evening before Christmas. All day a
snowstorm had pre vented the boys from riding out, or
exercising with their weapons. With the feast days, both of
Christmas and the King's birthday, so near, no one
troubled to give them the usual tuition, so the five of
them spent an idle day kicking their heels in the
big room where they slept with some of the servants.
They ate too much, drank more than they were accustomed
to of the strong Welsh metheglin, quarrelled, fought, and
eventually subsided to watch a game of
tables that had been going on for some time at the other end
of the room. The final bout was in progress,
watched, with advice and encouragement, by a crowd of
onlookers. The players were Gabran and one of the
local men, whose name was Llyour.
It was late, and the lamps burned low. The fire
filled the room with smoke. A cold draught from the
windows sent a gentle drift of snow to pile
unheeded on the floor.
The dice rattled and fell, the counters clicked.
The games went evenly enough, the piled coins being
pushed from player to player as the luck changed.
Slowly the piles grew to handfuls. There was silver
in them, and even the glint of gold. Gradually the
watchers fell silent; no more jesting, no more
advice where so much was at stake. The boys crowded
in, fasci nated. Gawain, his hostility
forgotten, peered closely over Gabran's shoul
der. His brothers were as eager as he. The contest, in
fact, showed signs of becoming Orkney against the
rest, and for once even Gaheris found him self on
Gabran's side. Mordred, no gambler himself,
stood across the board from them, by chance in the opposing
camp, and watched idly.
Gabran threw. A one and a two. The
moves were negligible. Llyour, with a pair of
fives, brought his last counter off and said
exultantly: "A game! A game! That equals
your last two hits! So, one more for the decider. And
they are running for me, friend, so spit on your hands and
pray to your outland gods."
Gabran was flushed with drinking, but still looked
sober enough, and elegant enough, to obey neither of these
exhortations. He pushed the stake across, saying
doubtfully: "I think I'm cleaned out. Sorry,
but we'll have to call that the decider. You've won, and
I'm for bed." "Oh, come on." Llyour shook the
dice temptingly in his fist. "Your turn's coming.
It's time the luck changed. Come on, give it a
try. You can owe me. Don't break it up now."
"But I really am cleaned out." Gabran pulled
his pouch from its hang ers and dug into the depths.
"Nothing, see? And where am I to get more if

I lose again?" He thrust his fingers deep into the
pouch, then pulled it inside out and shook it over the
board. "There. Nothing." No coins fell, but
something else dropped with a rattle and lay winking in
the lamplight.
It was a charm, a circular amulet of
wood bleached to silver by the sea, and carved crudely
with eyes and a mouth. In the eye-holes were gummed a
pair of blue river-pearls, and the curve of the
grinning mouth had been filled with red clay. A
goddess-charm of Orkney, crude and childishly
made, but, to an Orcadian, a potent symbol.
Llyour poked at it with a finger. "Pearls, eh?
Well, what's wrong with that for a stake? If she
brings you luck you'll win her back and plenty else
besides. Throw you for starters?" The dice shook,
fell, rattled to either side of the charm. Before they
came to rest they were rudely disturbed. Mordred,
suddenly cold sober, leaned forward, shot out a hand
and grabbed the thing. "Where did you get this?"
Gabran looked up, surprised. "I don't
know. I've had it for years. Can't remember where
I picked it up. Perhaps the--" He stopped. His
mouth stayed half open. Still staring at Mordred, he
slowly went white. If he had announced it
aloud, he could not have confessed more openly that he
remembered now where the charm had come from.
"What is it?" asked someone. No one answered
him. Mordred was as white as Gabran.
"I made it myself." He spoke in a flat
voice that those who did not know him would have
thought empty of any emotion at all. "I made it
for my mother. She wore it always. Always."
His eyes locked on Gabran's. He said
nothing more, but the phrase finished itself in the silence.
Till she died. And now, completely, as if it had
been confessed aloud, he knew how she had died.
Who had killed her, and who had ordered the killing.
He did not know how the knife came into his hand.
Forgotten now were all the arguments about a queen's right
to kill where she chose. But a prince could, and would.
He kicked the board aside, and the pieces went
flying. Gabran's own knife lay to hand. He
grabbed it and started up. The others, slowed with drink
and not yet seeing more than a sudden sharp wrangle
over the game, reacted too slowly. Llyour was
protesting good- naturedly: "Well, all right. So
take it, if it's yours." Another man made a
grab for the boy's knife-hand, but Mordred, eluding
him, jumped for Gabran, knife held low and
expertly, pointing upwards to the heart. Gabran,
as sober now as he, saw that the threat was real and
deadly, and struck out. The blades touched, but
Mordred's blow went home. The knife went
deep, in below the ribs, and lodged there.
Gabran's knife fell with a clatter.
Both his hands went to clasp the hilt that lodged under
his ribs. He bent, folded forward. Hands caught
at him and lowered him. There was very little blood. There was
complete silence now in the room, broken only by the
short, exhausted breathing of the wounded man.
Mordred, standing over him, flung round the shocked
company a look that could have been Arthur's own.
"He deserved it. He killed my parents. That
charm was my mother's. I made it for her and she wore
it always. He must have taken it when he killed them.
He burned them."
There was not a man present who had not killed or
seen killing done. But at that there were sick looks
exchanged. "Burned them?" repeated Llyour.
"Burned them alive in their home. I saw it
afterwards."
"Not alive."
The whisper was Gabran's. He lay half on
his side, his body curled round the knife, his hands
on the hilt, but shrinkingly, as if he would have
withdrawn it, but feared the pain. The silver chasing
quivered with his harsh, small breaths.
"I saw it, too." Gawain came
to Mordred's side, looking down. "It was
horrible. They were poor people, and old. They
had nothing. If this is true, Gabran . . .
Did you bum Mordred's home?" Gabran drew
a deep breath as if his lungs were running out of
air. His face was pale as parchment and the gilt
curls were dark with sweat. "Yes."
"Then you deserve to die," said Gawain, shoulder
to shoulder with Mordred.
"But they were dead," whispered Gabran. "I
swear it. Burned . . . afterwards. To hide it."
"How did they die?" demanded Mordred.
Gabran did not reply. Mordred knelt by him
quickly, and put a hand to the dagger's hilt. The
man's hands twitched, but fell away, strengthless.
Mordred said, still with that deceptive calm: "You will
die anyway, Gabran. So tell me now. How
did they die?" "Poison."
The word sent a shiver through the company. Men
repeated it to each other, so that the whisper ran through the
air like a hissing. Poison. The woman's
weapon. The witch's weapon.
Mordred, unmoving, felt Gawain stiffen beside
him. "You took them poison?"
"Yes. Yes. With the gifts. A present of
wine."
None of the local people spoke. And none of
those from Orkney needed 123
to. Mordred said softly, a statement, rather than
a question: "From the queen."
Gabran said, on another long, gasping breath:
"Yes."
"Why?"
"In case the woman knew . . . guessed .
. . something about you."" "What about me?"
"I don't know."
"You are dying, Gabran. What about me?"
Gabran, queen's minion, queen's dupe,
told his last lie for the queen. "I do not know. I
... swear it."
"Then die now," said Mordred, and pulled the
knife out.
They took him straight away to the High King.
Arthur was doing nothing more alarming than choose a
hound puppy out of a litter of six. A boy from the
kennels had brought them in, with the bitch in anxious
attendance, and the six pups, white and brindled,
rolled yapping and wrestling with one another round the
King's feet. The bitch, restless and uneasy,
darted in repeatedly to pick up a pup and restore
it to the basket, but before she had grabbed
another, the first would clamber straight out and re-join
the tumble on the floor. The King was laughing, but when
his guards brought Mordred in, the laughter went out
of his face as if a light had been quenched. He
looked startled, then recovered himself.
"What is this? Arrian?"
The man addressed said stolidly: "Murder,
sir. A stabbing. One of the Orkney men. This young
man did it. I didn't get the rights of it, sir.
There's others outside that saw it. Do you want them
brought in as well, sir?"
"Later, perhaps. I'll talk to the boy first.
I'll send when I want them. Let them go now."
The man saluted and withdrew. The hound-boy began
to gather up the pups. One of them, a white one,
eluded him, and, squeaking like an angry mouse,
charged back to the King's feet. It seized a
dangling lace in its teeth and, growling, worried it
furiously. Arthur glanced down as the hound-boy
pulled the pup away. "Yes. That's the one. To be
named Cabal again. Thank you." The boy scuttled
out with the basket, the bitch at his heels.
Mordred stayed where the men had left him, just
inside the door. He could hear the guard outside
being mounted again. The King left his chair by the
leaping fire, and crossed to where a big table stood,
littered with papers and tablets. He seated himself behind
this, and pointed to the floor across the table from him.
Mordred advanced and stood. He was shaking, and it
took all his will-power to control this, the reaction from his
first kill, from the hideous memory of the burned
cottage and the feel of that weather-washed bone in his
hand, and now the dreaded confrontation with the man he had
been taught was a ferocious enemy. Gone, now, was
the cool conviction that the High King would not trouble with
such as he;
Mordred had himself provided a just excuse. That
he would be killed now, he had no doubt at all.
He had brawled in a king's house, and, though the -
man he had killed was one of the Orkney
household, and was justly punished for a foul murder,
Mordred, even as a prince of Orkney, could
hardly hope to escape punishment himself. And though
Gawain had supported him, he would hardly go on
doing so now that Gabran's confession had branded
Morgause, too, with the murder. None of this showed in
the boy's face. He stood, pale-faced and still, with
his hands gripped together behind his back where the King could not
see their trembling. His eyes were lowered, his
mouth compressed. His face looked sullen and
obstinate, but Arthur knew men, and he saw the
telltale quiver under the eyes, and the quick rise and
fall of the boy's breathing.
The King's first words were hardly alarming.
"Supposing you tell me what happened."
Mordred's eyes came up to find the King
watching him steadily, but not with the look that had brought
Morgause to her knees in the roadway at
Camelot. He had, indeed, a fleeting but powerful
impression that the King's main attention was on something
quite other than Mordred's recent crime. This gave
him courage, and soon he found himself talking,
freely for him, without noticing how Arthur's
apparently half-absent questioning led him through all the
details, not just of the killing of Gabran, but of his
own story from the beginning. Too highly wrought
to wonder why the King should want to hear it, the boy
told it all: the life with Brude and Sula, the
meeting with Gawain, the queen's summons and
subsequent kindness, the ride to Seals' Bay with
Gabran, the final hideous discovery of the burned-out
cottage. It was the first time since Sula's death,
and the end of his own childhood, that he had found himself
talking--confiding, even --in someone with whom
communication was easy. Easy? With the High King?
Mordred did not even notice the absurdity. He
went on. He was talking now about the killing of
Gabran. At some point in the tale he took a
step forward to the table's edge, and laid the wooden
charm in front of the King. Arthur picked it up and
studied it, his face expressionless. On his hand a
great carved ruby glimmered, making the pathetic thing
the crude toy that it was. He laid it down again.
Mordred came to an end at last. In the silence that
followed, the flames in the big fireplace
flapped like flags in the wind. Again the King's words
were unexpected. He spoke as if the question came
straight from some long-held thought, that seemed, to the
matter in hand, quite irrelevant.
"Why did she call you Mordred?"
With all the familiar talk behind him, the boy
hardly paused to think as he replied, with a
directness that only an hour ago would have been
unthinkable:
"It means the boy from the sea. That's where they got
me from, after I was saved from the boat that you had the children
put in to drown." "I?"
"I heard since that it wasn't you, lord. I
don't know the truth of it, but that is what
I was told first."
"Of course. That is what she would tell you."
"She?"
"Your mother."
"Oh, no!" said Mordred quickly. "Sula never
told me anything, not about the boat, or about the
killings. It was Queen Morgause who told me,
much later. As for my name, half the boys in the
islands are called Mordred, Medraut. . . .
The sea is everywhere."
"So I understand. Which is why it has taken so long
for me to locate you, even knowing where your mother was.
No, I am not talking about Sula. I mean your
real mother, the woman who bore you."
Mordred's voice came strangled. "You know
that? You were--you mean you were looking for me? You
actually know who my mother is--who I really am?"
"I should." The words came heavily, as if
loaded with meaning, but Arthur seemed to change
direction, and added merely: "Your mother is my
half-sister."
"Queen Morgause?" The boy gaped,
thunderstruck. "Herself."
Arthur left it there for the moment. One thing at a
time. Mordred's eyes blinked rapidly,
his brain taking in this astounding new fact, thinking
back, thinking ahead. .,-. .
He looked up at last. Fear was forgotten now;
the past, even the recent past, forgotten also. There was
a blaze behind his eyes that told of an almost
overmastering excitement. "I see it now! She did
tell me a little. Only hints--hints that I
couldn't understand, because the truth never occurred to me.
Her own son . . . Really her own son!" A
deep breath. "Then that is why she sought me out!
Gawain was only the excuse. I did think it
strange that she should want to nurture one of her
husband's bastards by some girl from the town. And even
to show me favour! When all the time I was her own, and
only a bastard because I was born before time! Oh,
yes, I know that now! They had been wed barely
eight months when I was born. And then King Lot
came back from Linnuis and--" A sudden complete
stop. The excited comprehension vanished as if a
shutter had dropped across his eyes.
More things were, coming together. He said, slowly: his was
King Lot who ordered the massacre of the babies?
Because his eldest son had a 127
doubtful birth? And my mother saved me, and sent
me to Brude and Sula in the Orkneys?"
"It was King Lot who ordered the massacre.
Yes."
"To kill me?"
"Yes. And to blame me for it."
"Why that?"
"For fear of the people. The other parents whose children did
die. Also because, even though in the end he fought under my
command, Lot was always my enemy. And for other
reasons."
The last sentence came slowly. Arthur, still
feeling his way towards the moment when the most
important truth might be told, lent it a
weight that might have been expected to set Mordred
asking the question that had been fed to him. But Mordred was
not to be steered. He was busy with his own long
obsession. He took a step forward, to lean with both
hands flat on the table and say, with intensity:
"Yes, other reasons! I know them! I was his
eldest born, but because I was begotten out of wedlock
he was afraid that in days to come men might doubt my
birth, and make trouble in the kingdom! It was better
to be rid of me, and get another prince in
wedlock, who might in due time take the kingdom
without question!"
"Mordred, you are running too far
ahead. You must listen." It is doubtful if
Mordred noticed that the High King was speaking with
less than his usual assurance. Was looking,
indeed, if one could use such a word of the great duke of
battles, embarrassed. But Mordred was past
listening. The full implications of what he had
learned in the past few minutes swept over him in
a bewildering cloud, but brought with them a new
confidence, a lifting of caution, the driving
satisfaction of at last being able to say it all, and
to say it to the man who could make it come true.
He swept on, stammering a little. "Am I not,
then, in sober fact, heir to Dunpeldyour? Or,
if Tydwal is to hold that stronghold for Gawain,
then of the Orkneys? Sir, the two kingdoms, so far
apart, are hard for one man to hold, and this, surely,
could be the time to divide them? You have said you will not let
Queen Morgause go back. Let me go back
instead!"
"You have not understood me," said the King. "You have no
right to either one of Lot's kingdoms."
"No right!" It could have been the young Arthur himself
who said it, springing upright like a bow when the arrow
flies. "When you yourself were begotten out of wedlock
by Uther Pendragon, on the lady who was still
Duchess of Cornwall, and who could not wed him before
a month was out?"
No sooner was it said than he would, if he could,
have swallowed the words back. The King said nothing,
nor did his look change, but recollec-

tion struck Mordred silent, and with it his fear
returned. Twice in one evening he had lost his
temper, he, Mordred, who for years now had fought
his nature down to achieve, as armour against the
displacement, the insecurity of his life, that
sea-cold shell of control. Stumblingly, he
tried to unsay it. "My lord, I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to insult you or ... or your lady
mother. I only meant--I've thought about this for so
long, thought every way whether it could be legal for me to have
a place, a place to rule. ... I know I could.
One does. . . . And I thought about you, and how you
came to it. Of course I did. Everyone knows--that
is--men do say--" "That I am technically a
bastard?"
Amazingly, the King did not sound angry.
Mordred's courage crept back. His fists
pressed into the table, striving for steadiness. He said
carefully: "Yes, sir. I wondered about
the law, you see. The mainland law. I was going
to find out, and then ask you. My lord, if Gawain
goes to Dunpeldyour, then, by the Goddess herself, I
promise you that I am fitter than Gaheris or
Agravain to rule the Orkneys! And who knows what
trouble and moil there could be if twins were named
successors?" Arthur did not answer at once.
Mordred, his plea made, the words said, subsided
into silence. The King came out of his thoughts, and
spoke. "I have listened to you because I was curious to know
what kind of man you had grown to be, with your strange
upbringing, so like my own." A slight smile. "As
"everyone knows," I, too, was begotten out of
wedlock, then hidden for many years. With me it was
fourteen years, but I was in a household where from the
start I was taught the skills of knighthood. You
have had less than four disyears of such teaching, but they
tell me you have made much of them. You will come into your
own, believe me, but not as you have planned or
imagined. Now you will listen to me. And sit down,
please."
Wondering, the boy pulled up a stool and sat.
The King himself stood up, and paced the length of the
room and back before speaking. "First of all, whatever
the law, whatever the precedent, there is no
question of your taking the kingdom of the Orkneys. That will be
for Gawain. My intention is to keep Gawain and his
brothers here among my fighting knights, and then, when
the time is right, and if he wishes it, let him take
back his island kingdom from my hand. And in the meantime,
Tydwal will stay in Dunpeldyour."
He stopped his pacing, and sat down again. "This is
not injustice, Mordred. You can have no claim to either
Lothian or the Orkneys. You are not Lot's
son." He gave it emphasis. "King Lot of
Lothian was not your father."
A pause. The flames roared in the chimney.
Outside in a corridor some- 129
where, someone called out and was answered. The boy
asked, in a flattened, neutral voice: "Do you
know who is?" "I should," said the King, for the second
time. Now comprehension was instant. The boy went
upright on the stool. It brought his eyes almost on a
level with the King's. "You?"
"I," said Arthur, and waited.
This time it took a moment or two, and then, not the
sick disgust he expected, but merely wonder and a
slow assessment of this new fact. "With Queen
Morgause? But that--that--"
"Is incest. Yes." He left it
there. No excuse, no protestation of his own
ignorance of the relationship when Morgause seduced
her young half- brother to her bed. In the end the boy
said merely: "I see."
It was Arthur's turn to be startled. Held so in
his own consciousness of sin, of disgust at the memory of
that night with Morgause, who had since become for
him a symbol of all that was evil and unclean, he
had not taken into account the peasant-reared boy's
reaction to a sin far from uncommon in the inbred
islands of his homeland. In that homeland, indeed, it
would hardly be counted as a sin. Roman law had not
stretched so far, and it was not to be supposed that
Mordred's Goddess--who was also Morgause's--
had implanted much sense of sin in her followers.
Mordred, indeed, was already wholly occupied in
other considerations. "So that means I am--I am--"
"Yes," said Arthur, and watched the wonder, and
through it the excitement, kindle in the eyes so like his
own. No affection--how could there be? --but a shift
of the powerful and inborn ambition. And why not? thought the
King. Guinevere will have no child by me. This boy is
twice Pen- dragon, and from all reports as
well-liking as any boy will ever be. Just now he is
feeling as I felt when Merlin told me
the same thing, and put the sword of Britain into my
hand. Let him feel it. The rest, as the gods will
it, will come. Of the prophecy of Merlin, that the boy
would cause his downfall and death, he never thought at
all. The moment was for him one of joy, unspoiled.
Unspoiled, too, miraculously,
by Mordred's indifference to the long-past sin. Because of
this very lack of reaction he found that he could speak of
it himself.
"It was after the battle at Luguvallium. My
first fight. Your mother, Morgause, came north
to tend her father. King Uther, who was sick, and though
we did not know it, dying. I did not know then that I,
too, was a child of Uther Pendragon's. I believed
Merlin to be my father, and, indeed,

loved him as such. I had never seen Morgause
before. You will be able to guess how lovely she was,
at twenty. ... I went to her bed that night. It was
not until afterwards that Merlin told me Uther
Pendragon was my father, and I myself heir to the High
Kingdom."
"But she knew?" Mordred, quick as ever, had
fastened on the thing unsaid.
"So I believe. But even my
ignorance cannot excuse my share of the sin. I know that.
In doing what I did, I wronged you, Mordred.
So the wrong persists."
"How? You looked for me, and brought me here. You
need not have done so. Why did you?"
"When I ordered Morgause here," said Arthur,
"I thought her guilty of Merlin's death, that was--
is--the best man in all this realm, and the one dearest
to me. She is still guilty. Merlin is old before his
time, and carries in him the germ of the poison she fed
to him. He knew that she had poisoned him, but for the
sake of her sons he never told me. He judged
that she ought to live, so long as she stayed harmless in
exile, to rear them against the day when they could serve
me. I only learned of the poison when he lay, as
we thought, dying, and in his delirium spoke of it,
and of Morgause's repeated attempts to kill him
by poison or by sorcery. So after his entombment I
sent for her to answer for her crime, judging, too,
that it was time her sons left her care and came into my
charge."
"All five. That surprised everyone. You said you
had had reports, sir. Who told you about me?"
Arthur smiled. "I had a spy in your palace.
The goldsmith's man, Casso. He
wrote to me."
"The slave? He could write? He gave no
hint of it. He's dumb, and we thought there was no
way he could communicate."
The King nodded. "That's why he is valuable. People
talk freely in front of a slave, especially a
dumb one. It was Merlin who had him taught
to write. Sometimes I think that even his smallest
acts were dictated by prevision. Well, Casso
saw and heard plenty while he was in Morgause's
household. He wrote to me that the "Mordred"
now in the palace must be the one."
Mordred was thinking back. "I think I saw him
send the message. There was a trading ship tied up
at the wharf; it had been unloading wood. I saw
him go on board, and someone gave him money. I
thought he must be doing work on his own, that the goldsmith
didn't know about. That would be it?"
"Very possibly."
The memory brought back others: Morgause and
her private smiling when he spoke of his "mother."
Her test to see if she had passed on the 131
Sight to her son. And Sula; Sula must have
known that one day he would be taken from her. She had
been afraid. Had she suspected, then,
what might one day happen?
He asked abruptly: "Did she really have
Gabran kill them?" "If he said so, knowing he was
dying, you may be sure of it," said the King. "She
would think no more of it than of flying her hawk at a
hare. She had your first nurse, Macha, murdered in
Dunpeldyour, and herself goaded Lot into killing
Macha's child, who had taken your place in the royal
cradle. And, though Lot gave the order, it was
Morgause who instigated the massacre of the children.
This we know for truth. There was a witness. There have
been many killings, Mordred, and none of them
clean."
"So many killings, and all for me. But why?" The
one clue he had been given, all those years ago,
he had, like Arthur, forgotten in the excitement and
heady promise of this meeting. "Why did she keep
me alive? Why trouble to have me kept in secret
all those years?" "To use as a tool, a pawn,
what you will." If the King remembered the prophecy
now, he did not burden the boy with it. "Maybe as
a hostage in case I found out she had murdered
Merlin. It was after she reckoned herself safe that she
took you out of hiding, and even then the disguise she
chose for you--Lot's bastard son--was
sufficient to conceal you. But I can't guess further
than that about her motives. I have not got her kind of
subtlety." He added, in answer to some kind of
appeal in the boy's intense gaze: "It does not
come from the blood we share with her, Mordred. I have
killed many men in my time, but not in such ways, or for
such motives. Morgause's mother was a Breton
girl, a wise-woman, so I have heard. These things
go from mother to daughter. You must not fear these dark powers
in yourself." "I don't fear them," said Mordred
quickly. "I have nothing of the Sight, no magic, she
told me so. She did once try to find out about it.
I think now that she was afraid I might "see"
what had happened to my foster parents. So she took
me down with her to the underground chamber where there is a
magic pool, and told me to look there for visions."
"And what visions did you see?"
"Nothing. I saw an eel in the pool. But the
queen said there were visions. She saw them."
Arthur smiled. "I told you that you were of my
blood rather than hers. To me, water is only
water, though I have seen the mage-fire that Merlin can
call from the air, and other marvels, but they were all
marvels of the light. Did Morgause show you any
magic of her own?" "No, sir. She
took me to the chamber where she made her spells and
mixed her magic potions--"
"Go on. What's the matter?"
"Nothing. It was nothing, really. Just something that
happened there." He looked away, towards the
fire, reliving the moments in the stillroom, the
clasp, the kiss, the queen's words. He added,
slowly, to himself, mak ing the discovery: "And all the
time she knew I was her own son."
Arthur, watching him, made a guess that was a
certainty. The rush of anger that he felt shook
him. Over it he said, very gently: "You, too,
Mordred?"
"It was nothing," said the boy again, rapidly, as
if to brush it aside. "Nothing, really. But now I
know why I felt the way I did." A quick glance
across the table. "Oh, it happens, everyone knows it
does. But not like that. Brother and sister, that's one thing
. . . but mother and son? Not that, ever. At least, I
never heard of it. And she knew, didn't she? She
knew. I wonder why she would want@u?" He let
it die and was silent, looking down at the hands held
fast now between his knees. He was not asking for a
reply. He and the King already knew the answer. There
was no emotion in his voice but puzzled
distaste, such as one might accord some perverted
appetite. The flush had died from his cheeks, and he
looked pale and strained. The King was thinking, with
growing relief and thankfulness, that here there would be no
tie to break. Violent emotions create their own
ties, but what remained between Morgause and
Mordred could surely be broken here and now.
He spoke at length in a carefully low key,
equal to equal, prince to prince.
"I shall not put her to death. Merlin is alive, and
her other killings are not my concern to punish here and
now. Moreover, you will see that I cannot keep you near
me@uhere in my court where so many people know the story, and
suspect that you are my son@uand forthwith put your mother
to death. So Morgause lives. But she will not be
released." He paused, leaning back in the great
chair, and regarding the boy kindly. "Well,
Mordred, we are here, at the start of a new road.
We cannot see where it will lead us. I promised to do
right by you, and I meant it. You will stay here in my
court, with the other Orkney princes, and you, like them,
will have royal status as my nephew. Where men
guess at your parentage, you will find that you have more
respect, not less. But you must see that, because of what
happened at Luguvallium, and because of the
presence of Queen Guinevere, I cannot openly
call you son."
Mordred looked down at his hands. "And when you have
others by the Queen?"
"I shall not. She is barren. Mordred, leave this
now. The future will come. Take what life offers
you here in my household. All the princes of

Orkney will have the honour due to royal
orphans, and you--I believe you will in the end have more."
He saw something leap again behind the boy's eyes. "I
do not speak of kingdoms, Mordred. But perhaps that,
too, if you are sufficiently my son."
All at once the boy's composure shattered.
He began to shake. His hands went up to cover his
face. He said, muffled: "It's nothing. I thought
I would be punished for Gabran. Killed, even.
And now all this. What will happen? What will happen,
sir?" "About Gabran, nothing," said the King.
"He was to be pitied, but his death, in its way, was
just. And about you, for the moment, very little, except that tonight you
will not go to your bedchamber with the other boys. You will need
time alone; to come to terms with all you have just learned.
No one will wonder at this; they will think merely that you
are being held apart because of Gabran's
death." "Gawain, the others? Are they to know?"
"I shall talk to Gawain. The others need know
nothing more yet than that you are Morgause's son, and
eldest of the High King's nephews. That will be
sufficient to explain your standing here. But I shall tell
Gawain the truth. He needs to know that you are not a
rival for Lothian or the Orkneys." He
turned his head. "Listen, there is the guard changing
outside. Tomorrow is the feast of Mithras, and the
Christmas of the Christians, and for you, I expect,
some winter festival of your outland Orkney gods.
For us all, a new beginning. So be welcome here,
Mordred. Go now, and try to sleep."
BOOK II
THE WITCH'S SONS
Snow fell thickly soon after Christmas, and the
ways were blocked. It was almost a month before the
regular service of royal couriers could be re
sumed. Not that it mattered; there was little of any moment
to report. In the depths of winter men@ueven the most
dedicated warriors@ustayed at home hugging the
fire and looking to their houses and the needs of their
families. Saxons and Celts alike kept
close to their hearthstones, and if they sat whetting their
weapons by the light of the winter fires, all
knew that there would be no need of them until the coming of
spring.
For the Orkney boys life at Caerleon,
though restricted by the weather, was still lively and full
enough to banish thoughts of their island home, which in any
case had been, in midwinter, a place of doubtful
comfort. The exercise grounds by the fortress were cleared,
and work went on almost daily, in spite of snow and
ice. Already a difference could be seen. Lot's four
sons@uthe twins especially@uwere still wild to the
point of reckless ness, but as their skills
improved, so also did their sense of discipline, which
brought with it a certain pride. The quartet still tended
to divide naturally into two pairs, the twins on the
one hand and Gawain with young Gareth on the other, but there
were fewer quarrels. The main differ ence could be
discerned in their bearing towards Mordred. Arthur had
duly spoken with Gawain, a long interview which must
have held, with the truth about Mordred's birth, some
weighty kind of warning. Gawain's attitude
to his half-brother had perceptibly altered. It
was a mixture of reserve and relief. There was
relief in the knowledge that his own status as Lot's eldest
son would never be challenged, and that his title to the
Orkney kingdom was to be upheld by the
High King himself. Be hind this there could be seen something
of his former reserve, perhaps a resentment that
Mordred's status as bastard of the High King put
him higher than Gawain; but with this went caution, bred
of the knowledge of what the future might hold. It was known
that Queen Guinevere was barren; hence there was,
Gawain knew, every possibility that Mordred might
some day be presented as Arthur's heir. Arthur
himself had been begotten out of wedlock and acknowledged
only when grown; Mordred's turn might come. The
High King was, indeed, rumoured to have other
bastards@utwo, at least, were spoken of@ubut they were
not at court, or seen to have his favour as Mordred
had. And Queen Guinevere herself liked the boy and
kept him near her. So Gawain, the only one of
Lot's sons 138
who knew the truth, bided his time, and edged his way
back towards the guarded friendship that he and the older
boy had originally shared. Mordred noticed the
change, recognized and understood its motives, and
accepted the other boy's overtures without
surprise. What did surprise him, though, was the
change in the attitude of the twins. They knew
nothing of Mordred's parentage, believing only that
Arthur had accepted him as King Lot's
bastard, and, so to speak, an outrider of the Orkney
family. But the killing of Gabran had impressed
them both. Agravain because a killing--any killing--
was to his mind proof of what he called
"manhood." Gaheris because for him it was that, and more; it
was a fully justified act that avenged all of them.
Though outwardly as indifferent as his twin to his mother's
rare moments of fondness, Gaheris had nursed through
his childhood a sore and jealous heart. Now
Mordred had killed his mother's lover, and for that he was
prepared to accord him homage as well as
admiration. As for Gareth, the act of violence had
impressed even him with respect. During the last
months in Orkney Gabran had grown too
self-assured, and with it arrogant, so that even the
gentle youngest son had bitterly resented him.
Mordred, in avenging the woman he had called mother,
had in a way acted for them all. So all five of the
Orkney boys settled down to work together, and in the
comradeship of the training fields and the knights'
hall, some kind of seedling loyalty to the High King
began to grow.
News got through from Camelot with the February
thaw. The boys were given tidings of their mother, who was
still in Amesbury. She was to be sent north
to the convent at Caer Eidyn soon after the court
moved to Camelot, and her sons would be allowed
to see her before she went. They accepted this almost with
indifference. Perhaps Gaheris, ironically, was the
only one of them who still missed his mother; Gaheris, the
one she had ignored. He dreamed about her still,
fantasies of rescue and return to Orkney's
throne, with her grateful, and himself triumphant. But
with daylight the dreams faded; even for her, he would not
have abandoned the new, exciting life of the High
King's court, or the hopes of preferment eventually
into the ranks of the favoured Companions.
At the end of April, when the court had settled
itself again for the summer in Camelot, the King sent the
boys to make their farewells to their mother. This, it was
rumoured, against the advice of Nimue, who rode
over from her home in Applegarth to greet the King.
Merlin was no longer with the court: since his last
illness he had lived in seclusion, and when the King
removed from Caerleon the old enchanter retired
to his hilltop home in Wales, leaving Nimue
to take his place as Arthur's adviser. But this time
her advice was overruled, and the boys were duly sent
up to Amesbury,
139
with a sufficient escort led by Cei himself, with
Lamorak, one of the knights.
They lodged on the way at Sarum, where the
headman gave them shelter, making much of the High
King's nephews, and rode next morning for
Amesbury, which lies at the edge of the Great
Plain. It was a bright morning, and Lot's sons were
in high spirits. They had good horses, were royally
equipped, and looked forward almost without reservation
to seeing Morgause again and showing off their new-found
splendour before her. Any fears they might have had for
her had long since been laid to rest. They had
Arthur's word for it that she was
not to be put to death, and though she was a prisoner,
the kind of confinement that a convent would offer was not (so
thought her sons in their youthful ignorance) so very
different from the life she had led at home, where she
had lived secluded for the most part among the women of
her own household. Great ladies, indeed, they
assured each other, often sought the life freely for
themselves; it allowed no power of decision or rule, of
course, but to the eager arrogance of youth this seemed
hardly to be the woman's part. Morgause had
acted as queen for her dead husband and her young son and
heir, but such power could have been temporary
only, and now (gawain said it openly) was no longer
necessary. There could be no more lovers, either; and this,
to Gawain and Gaheris, the only ones who had really
noticed or cared, was much to the good. Long might the
convent keep her mewed up; in comfort, naturally, but
prevented from interfering in their new lives, or bringing
shame on them through lovers little older than themselves. So
they rode gaily. Gawain was already years away from
her in spirit, and Gareth was concerned only with the
adventure of the moment. Agravain thought about little but the
horse he was riding, and the new tunic and weapons
he sported ("really fit for a prince, at last!")
and about all he would have to tell Morgause of his
prowess at arms. Gaheris looked forward with a kind
of guilty pleasure to the meeting; this time, surely,
after so long an absence, she must show her delight in
her sons, must give and receive caresses and loving
words; and she would be alone, with no wary lover beside her
chair, watching them, whispering against them.
Mordred alone rode in silence, once again
apart, outside the pack. He noticed, with a stir of
satisfaction, the attention, which was almost deference, paid
him by Lamorak, and the careful eye that Cei kept
on him. Rumour had run ahead of truth at
court, and neither King nor Queen had made
any attempt to scotch it. It was allowed to be seen
that, of the five, Mordred was the one who mattered
most. He was also the only one of the boys who felt
some sort of dread of the coming interview. He did not
know
how much Morgause had been told, but surely
she must know about her lover's death. And that death was on
his hands. So they came towards Amesbury on a
fine sunny morning, with the dew splashing in glittering
showers from their horses' hoofs, and met Morgause
and her escort out riding in the woods. It was a
ride for exercise, not for pleasure. This much was
immediately apparent. Though the queen was richly
dressed, in her favourite amber cloth with a short
furred mantle against the cool spring breezes, her
mount was an indifferent-seeming mare, and to either side of
her rode men in the uniform of Arthur's troops.
From the hand of the man on her right a leading rein ran
looping to the ring of the mare's bridle. A woman,
plainly cloaked and hooded, rode a few paces
in the rear, flanked in her turn by another pair of
troopers.
It was Gareth who first recognized his mother in the little
group of distant riders. He called out,
stretching high in the saddle and waving. Then Gaheris
spurred past him at a gallop, and the others, like a
charge of cavalry, went racing across the space of
wooded ground, with laughter and hunting calls and a
clamour of welcome. Morgause received the rush of
young horsemen with smiling pleasure. To Gaheris,
who pressed first to the mare's side, she gave a
hand, and leaned a cheek to his eager kiss. Her
other hand she reached towards Cei, who dutifully
raised it to his lips, then, relinquishing it
to Gawain, reined back to let the boys crowd in.
Morgause leaned forward, both arms reaching for her
sons, her face glowing.
"See, they lead my horse, so I may ride
without hands! I was told I might hope to see you
soon, but we did not look for you yet! You must have
longed for me, as I for you. . . . Gawain,
Agravain, Gareth, my darling, come, kiss your
mother, who has hungered all these long winter months
for a sight of you. . . . There, there, now, that's enough.
. . . Let me go, Gaheris, let me look at
you all. Oh, my darling boys, it has been so
long, so long. . . ."
The turn towards pathos went unnoticed. Still
too excited, too full of their new
importance, the young horsemen caracoled around her.
The scene took on the liveliness of a pleasure
party. "See, Mother, this is a stallion from the High
King's own stable!" "Look, lady, at this sword!
And I've used it, too! The master-at-arms says
that I promise as well as any man of my age."
"You are well, lady queen? They treat you
well?" This was Gaheris. "I am to be one of the
Companions," Gawain put in, gruffly proud,
"and if there is fighting in the coming summer, he has
promised I shall be there."

"Will you be in Camelot for Pentecost?" asked
Gareth. Mordred had not spurred forward with the rest.
She did not seem to notice. She had not even
glanced his way, where he rode between Cei and
Lamorak as the party turned back towards
Amesbury. She laughed with her sons, and talked
gaily, and let them shout and boast, and asked questions
about Camelot and Caerleon, listening to their eager
praises with flattering attention. From time to time she
threw a gentle look, or a charming word,
to Lamorak, the knight riding nearest, or even to the
men of the escort. She was concerned, one might have
guessed, with the report that would eventually go
back to Arthur. Her looks were mild and sweet,
her words innocent of anything but a mother's interest in
her sons' progress, and a mother's gratitude for
what the High King and his deputies were doing for them.
When she spoke of Arthur--this was to Cei, across the
heads of Gareth and Gaheris--it was with praise of his
generosity towards her children ("my orphaned boys,
who would otherwise be robbed of all protection")
and for the King's grace, as she called it, towards
herself. It was to be noticed that in a while she
assumed a further, and complete, act of grace.
She turned her lovely eyes full on Cei and
asked, with sweet humility:
"And did the King my brother send you to take me
back to court?" When Cei, flushing and looking
away, told her no, she said nothing, but bowed her
head and let a hand steal to her eyes. Mordred, who
rode to that side of her and a little in the rear, saw that
she was tearless, but Gaheris pushed forward to her other
side and laid a hand on her arm.
"Soon, though, lady! It will surely be soon!
As soon as we get back we will petition him!
By Pentecost, surely!" She made no reply.
She gave a little shiver, pulled her cloak
closer, and glanced up at the sky, then, with
an effort that was patent, straightened her shoulders.
"Look, the day is clouding over. Let us not
loiter here. Let us get back." Her smile was
bright with bravery. "Today, at least, Amesbury will
cease to seem a prison." By the time the party neared
the village of Amesbury, Cei, at her left
hand, was visibly unbending, Lamorak stared with open
admiration, and Lot's sons had forgotten that they had
ever wanted to be free of her. The spell was woven
again. Nimue had been right. The links so recently
forged in Caerleon were wearing thin already. The
Orkney brothers would take a less than perfect
loyalty back to their uncle the High King.

The convent gate was open, and the porter watching for
them. He stared in surprise at the sight of the
Camelot party, and shouted to a sack-clad youth--a
novice--who was grubbing among lettuces in a
weedy bed beside a wall. The novice went running,
and by the time the party rode into the yard the abbot himself,
slightly out of breath but with unimpaired dignity,
appeared at the doorway of his house and stood
waiting at the head of the steps to receive them. Even here,
under the abbot's eye, Morgause's spell held
good. Cei, moving with stolid courtesy
to help her dismount, was beaten to it by Lamo- rak, with
Gawain and Gaheris close behind. Morgause, with a
smile at her sons, slid gracefully
into Lamorak's arms, and then held to him a moment,
letting it be seen that the ride, and the excitement of the
meeting, had taxed her frail strength. She thanked
the knight prettily, then turned to the boys again.
She would rest awhile in her own rooms, she told
them, while Abbot Luke made them welcome, then
later, when they were fed and changed and rested, she would
receive them.
So, to the abbot's barely concealed irritation,
Morgause, having turned her status as prisoner
into that of a queen granting audience, moved off towards
the women's side of the convent, supported on the arm
of her waiting-woman, and followed, as if by a
royal escort, by her four guards.
In the years since Arthur's crowning, and more
especially since Morgause had come as his
prisoner, the High King had sent gifts and money
to the foundation at Amesbury, so the place was larger
and better kept than when the young King had first ridden
south to see his father buried in the Giants' Dance.
Where there had been fields behind the chapel, there was
now a walled garden, with its orchard and
fishpond, and beyond this a second courtyard had been
built, so that the quarters of men and women could be
separate. The abbot's house had been enlarged, and
there was no longer any need for him to vacate his
quarters for royal guests; a well-built wing of
guest rooms faced south onto the garden. To this the
travellers were escorted by the two young novices
appointed to see to their comfort. The boys were shown into the
guests' dorter, a long, sunny room with
half-a-dozen beds, and with no convent-like austerity about
it. The beds were new and good, with painted headboards,
the floor was of stone, scrubbed white and covered with
brightly woven rugs, and wax candles stood ready in
silver 143
sconces. Mordred, glancing around him, and out
of the broad windows where the sun shone warmly on
lawn and fishpond and blossoming apple trees,
reflected dryly that no doubt Morgause could
take all the privileges she wanted, and
welcome: She must be, in a quite literal sense, the
most paying of guests.
The meal was good, too. The boys were served in the
small refectory attached to the guest house, and
afterwards made free of the convent grounds and the town--it was
little more than a village--outside the
walls. Their mother, they were told, would receive them after
evening chapel. Cei did not appear; he was
closeted with Abbot Luke; but Lamorak stayed
with the boys, and in response to their pleading took them
riding out on the Great Plain, where, two miles or
so from Amesbury, stood the great circle of stones
called the Giants' Dance. "Where our kinsman the
great Ambrosius is buried, and our grandfather Uther
Pendragon beside him," said Agravain to Mordred,
with a touch of his old arrogance. Mordred said nothing,
but caught Gawain's quick look, and smiled to himself.
From Lamorak's sidelong glance it could be guessed
that he, too, knew the truth about Arthur's eldest
"nephew."
As befitted the convent's guests, they all went
to the evening service. A little to Mordred's
surprise, Morgause attended, too. As
Lamorak and the boys approached the chapel door,
the nuns went by two by two, with slow steps and
downcast eyes. At the rear of the little procession
walked Morgause, dressed simply in black,
her face veiled. Two women attended her;
one was the waiting-woman who had been riding with
her, the other looked younger, with the ageless face of
extreme stupidity, and the heavy pale
look of ill-health. Last came the abbess, a
slightly built, sweet-faced woman, with an
air of gentle innocence which was perhaps not the best
quality for the ruler of such a community. She had been
appointed head of the women's side of the convent by the
abbot, who was not the man to brook any rival in
authority. Since Morgause's coming Abbot
Luke had had cause to regret his choice; Mother
Mary was not the woman to control her royal
prisoner. On the other hand the convent, since that
prisoner's coming, had flourished exceedingly, so, as
long as the Queen of Orkney was safely held,
Abbot Luke could see no need to interfere with the
too- gentle rule of the abbess. He himself was not
entirely immune to the flattering respect
Morgause showed him, or to the fragile charm she
exhibited in his presence, and besides, there was always the
possibility that some day she would be reinstated, if not
in her own kingdom, then at court, where she was, after
all, the High King's half-sister. . . . The
younger of Morgause's women brought the queen's
message soon 144
"* *
after chapel. The four younger princes were to sup with
their mother. She would send for them later. She
would see Prince Mordred now. Across the barrage
of objections and questions that this provoked Mordred met
Gawain's eyes. Alone of the four, he looked
commiserating rather than resentful.
"Well, good luck," he said, and Mordred
thanked him, smoothing his hair and settling his belt
and the hanger at his hip, while the woman stood
waiting by the door, staring with pale eyes out of that
lard-like face and repeating, as if she could only
speak by rote: "The young princes are to take supper
with Madam, but now she will see Prince Mordred,
alone."
Mordred, as he followed her, heard Gawain
say in a low quick aside to Gaheris: "Don't be
a fool, it's hardly a privilege. She never
even looked at him this morning, did she? And you must
know why. You can't surely have forgotten Gabran?
Poor Mordred, don't envy him this!"
He followed the woman across the lawn.
Blackbirds hopped about on the grass, pecking for
worms, and a thrush sang somewhere among the apple
trees. The sun was still warm, and the place full of the
scent of apple blossom and primroses and the
yellow wallflowers beside the path.
He was aware of none of it. All his being
was turned inward, centered on the coming interview,
wishing now that he had had the hardihood to disagree when
the King had said to him: "I have refused to see her,
ever again, but you are her son, and I think you owe her
this, if only as a courtesy. You need never go
back. But this time, this one time, you must. I have taken
her kingdom from her, and her sons; let it not be said that
I did so with brutality."
And in his head, over this voice of memory, two
other voices persisted, of the boy Mordred, the
fisherman's son, and of Mordred the prince, son
of the High King Arthur, and a man grown. Why should you
fear her? She can do nothing. She is a prisoner and
helpless.
That was the prince, tall and brave in his
silver-trimmed tunic and new green mantle.
She is a witch, said the fisher-boy.
She is a prisoner of the High King, and he is
my father. My father, said the prince.
She is my mother, and a witch.
She is no longer a queen. She has no power.
She is a witch, and she murdered my mother. You are
afraid, of her? The prince was contemptuous.
Yes.
V 145
Why? What can she do? She cannot even cast a
spell. Not here. You are not alone with her now in an
underground tomb. I know. I don't know why. She
is a woman alone, and a prisoner, and without help,
and I am afraid.
A side door stood open under the arcade of the
nuns' courtyard. The woman beckoned, and he
followed her in, along a short passage which ended
in another door.
His heart was hammering now, his hands damp. He
clenched them at his sides, then loosed them
deliberately, fighting back towards calmness. still
am Mordred. I am my own man, beholden neither
to her nor to the High King. I shall listen to her, and then
go. I need never see her again. Whatever she is,
whatever she says, it cannot matter. lam my own
man, and I do my own will.
The woman opened the door without knocking, and
stood aside for him to enter.
The room was large, but chilly and sparsely
furnished. The walls were of daubed wattle,
roughly plastered and painted, the floor of stone, bare
of any rugs or coverings. To one side, looking out
on the arcade, was a window, unglazed and open to the
evening breeze. Opposite this was another
door. Against the long wall of the room stood a
heavy table and bench of carved and polished wood. At
one end of the table was the room's single chair,
high-backed and ornately carved, but without
cushions. A couple of wooden stools flanked
it. The table was set as if for the evening meal, with
platters and cups of pewter and red clay and even
wood. One part of Mordred's brain--the part that
stayed coolly observant in spite of moist skin
and rushing heart--noted with a twist of amusement that his
half-brothers looked to be in for a meal frugal
even by monkish standards. Then the far door opened, and
Morgause came into the room. Once before, when for the
first time the ragged fisher-boy had been brought, among
the lights and colours of the palace, face to face
with the queen, he had had eyes for nothing else; now in
this bare and chilly room he forgot it all, and stared
at her. She was still dressed in her chapel-going
black, without colour or ornament except a
silver cross (a cross?) which hung on her
breast. Her hair was plainly braided in two long
plaits. She was no longer veiled. She moved
forward to stand beside the chair, one hand on its tall
back, the other holding a fold of her gown. She
waited there in unmoving silence while the
waiting-woman latched the door and went with her
heavy, deliberate tread across the room to leave by the
inner door. As it opened and shut behind her, Mordred
caught a glimpse of stacked chairs and the gleam of
silver hidden by a pile of coloured stuffs. Someone
spoke quickly

and was hushed. Then the door shut quietly and he
was alone with the queen.
He stood still, waiting. She turned her head on
its poised neck and let the silence hang longer.
Light from the window moved in the heavy folds of her
skirt, and the silver cross on her breast quivered.
Suddenly, like a diver coming up into air, he saw
two things clearly: the whitened knuckles of the fist
that gripped the black cloth at her side, and the
movement of her breast with her quickened breathing. She,
too, faced this interview with something less than
equanimity. She was as tense as he.
He saw more. The marks against the plaster where
hangings had been hastily removed; the lighter
patches on the floor where rugs had lain;
scratches where chairs and lamps and tables--all the
furnishings light enough for the women to handle--had been
dragged out and stacked in the inner room,
along with the cushions and silver and all the luxuries
without which Morgause would have felt herself sadly
ill-used. And this was the point. Once more, as had
been her habit, Morgause had set the scene.
The plain black clothes, the bare chilly chamber,
the lack of attendants--the Queen of Orkney was
concerned still with the report that would go back to Arthur, and with
what her sons would find. They were to see her as a
lonely and oppressed prisoner, kept in sad
confinement.
It was enough. Mordred's fear faded. He gave
a courtly bow and thereafter stood easily, waiting,
apparently quite unperturbed by the silence and the scrutiny
of the queen.
She let her hand fall from the chair-back, and
taking up a fold of the heavy skirt on the other
side, swept to the front of the chair, and sat. She
smoothed the black clot caret i over her knees,
folded her hands, white against black, lifted her
head, and looked him slowly up and down from head
to foot. He saw then that she was wearing the royal
circlet of Lothian and Orkney. Its pearls and
citrines, set in white gold, glimmered in the red
gold of her hair. When it was apparent that he was
neither awed nor disconcerted, she spoke.
"Come nearer. Here, where I can see you. Hm.
Yes, very fine. "Prince Mordred," it is
now, they tell me. One of the ornaments of
Camelot, and a hopeful sword at Arthur's
service."
He bowed again, and said nothing. Her lips thinned.
"So he told you, did he?"
"Yes, madam."
"The truth? Did he dare?" Her voice was
sharp with scorn. "It seems like the truth. No one
would invent such a tale to boast of it."
"Ah, so the young serpent can hiss. I thought you were
my devoted servant, Mordred the fisher-boy?"

"I was, madam. What I owe you, I owe you.
But what I owe him, I owe likewise."
"A moment's lust." She spoke
contemptuously. "A boy after his first battle. An
untried young pup that came running to the first woman that
whistled him."
Silence. Her voice rose a fraction. "Did
he tell you that?" Mordred spoke steadily, in a
voice almost devoid of expression. "He told
me that I am his son, begotten by him in ignorance
on his half-sister, after the battle at
Luguvallium. That immediately afterwards you contrived
to marry King Lot, who should have been your sister's
lord, and with him went as his queen to Dunpeldyour, where
I was born. That King Lot, hearing of the birth too
soon after the marriage, and fearful of nurturing what
he suspected to be a bastard of the High King's,
tried to have me killed, and to that end drowned all the young
children in Dunpeldyour, putting the blame for this upon the
King. That you, madam, helped him in this, knowing that you
had already sent me to safety in the islands, where
Brude and Sula had been paid to care for me."
She leaned forward. Her hands moved to the
chair-arms, gripping. "And did Arthur tell you that
he, too, wanted you dead? Did he tell you that,
Mordred?"
"He did not need to. I would have known it,
anyway."
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply.
Mordred shrugged. "It would have been reasonable.
The High King looked then to have other sons, by his
queen. Why should he wish to keep me, a bastard out
of his enemy?" His look challenged her. "You cannot
deny that you are his enemy, nor that Lot was. And that
is why you kept me, isn't it? I used to wonder
why you paid Brude to keep me, Lot's
son. And I was right to wonder. You would never have kept
Lot's son by another woman. There was one called
Macha, was there not? A woman whose baby son was
put in my cradle, to draw Lot's sword and
let your son escape?"
For a moment she made no answer. She had lost
colour. Then she said, ignoring his last statement:
"So, I kept you from Lot's vengeance. You know that.
You admit it. What did you say a moment ago?
That what you owe me, you owe me. Your life, then.
Twice, Mordred, twice." She leaned forward.
Her voice throbbed. "Mordred, I am your mother.
Don't forget that. I bore you. For you I suffered
--" His look stopped her. She had a moment
to consider that any of her four sons by Lot would have
already been at her knees. But not this one. Not
Arthur's son.
He was speaking, coldly. "You gave me life,
yes, for a moment's lust. You said that, not I. But it
was true, was it not, madam? A woman 148
whistling up a boy to her bed. A boy she knew
to be her half-brother, but who she also knew would one
day be a great king. I owe you nothing for that."
She flared suddenly, shrilly, into anger. "How
dare you? You, a bastard spawn, hatched in
a hovel by a pair of filthy peasants, to speak
to me--"
He moved. Suddenly he was as angry as she.
His eyes blazed. "They say, don't they, that the
sun begets spawn on the reptiles as they lie in
the mud?"
Silence. Then she drew in a hissing breath.
She sat back in her chair, and her hands clasped
again in her lap. With his momentary loss of control,
she had regained hers. She said, softly: "Do you
remember going with me once into a cave?"
Again silence. He moistened his lips, but said
nothing. She nodded. "I thought you had forgotten. Then
let me remind you. Let me remind you to fear me,
my son Mordred. I am a witch. I shall remind
you of that, and of a curse I once laid on Merlin,
who also took it upon himself to berate me for that
unguarded night of love. He, like you, forgot that it
takes two to make a child."
He stirred. "A night of love and a birthing
does not make a mother, madam. I owed Sula more,
and Brude. I said I owed you nothing. It's not
true. I owe you their deaths. Their hideous deaths.
You killed them."
"I? What folly is this?"
"Would you deny it? I should have suspected it long
ago. But now I know. Gabran confessed before he
died."
That shook her. To his surprise, he realized
that she had not known. The colour came to her cheeks and
faded again. She was very pale. "Gabran dead?"
"Yes."
"How?"
Mordred said, with satisfaction: "I killed
him."
"You? For that?"
"Why else? If it grieves you--but I see that
it does not. If you had even asked for him, or
looked for him, someone would have told you, you would have
known. Do you not even care about his death?" "You talk
like a green fool. What use was Gabran to me
here? Oh, he was a good lover, but Arthur would never
have let him come to me here. Is that all he told
you?"
"That is all he was asked. Why, did he do
other murders for you? Was it he who served Merlin the
poison?"
"That was years ago. Tell me, has the old
wizard been talking to you? Is it he who has put
you under his spell as Arthur's man?" 149
"I have not spoken with him," said Mordred.
"I've barely seen him. He has gone back
into Wales."
"Then did your father the High King"--the words spat
--"who has been so open with you, did he tell you
what Merlin promised? For you?" He answered,
dry-mouthed: "You told me. I remember it. But
all that you told me then was lies. You said he was my
enemy. That was a lie. All of it, lies! Neither
is Merlin my enemy! All this talk of a promise
--"
"Is the truth. Ask him. Or ask the King.
Better still, ask yourself, Mordred, why I should have
kept you alive. Yes, I see that you understand it
now. I kept you alive because by so doing I shall in the
end have my revenge on Merlin, and on Arthur who
despised me. Listen. Merlin foresaw that you would
bring doom on Arthur. From dread of it he drove
me from court, and poisoned Arthur's mind against me.
So since that day, my son, I have done my utmost
to bring that doom nearer. Not only by bearing you, and
keeping you safe from Lot's murdering sword, but with a
curse renewed at the dark of every moon since the day
I was banished from my father's court, to spend my young
life in the far, cold corners of the realm;
I, the daughter of Uther Pendragon, reared in the
wealth and gaiety--" He interrupted her. He had
only heard the one thing. "I, the doom of Arthur?
How?"
At the note in his voice she began to smile.
"If I knew, I would hardly tell you. But I
don't know. Nor did Merlin."
"Why did he not have me destroyed, if this is
true?" Her lip curled. "He had scruples.
You were the son of the High King Merlin used to say that
the gods do their own work in their own way." Another
silence, then Mordred said, slowly: "But in this
matter, it seems they will have to work through men's hands.
Mine. And I can tell you now. Queen
Morgause, that I shall bring no doom on the King!"
"How can you avoid it when not you, nor I, nor even
Merlin, know how it will strike?"
"Except that it will strike through me! You think I
shall wait passively for that? I shall find a way!"
She was contemptuous. "Why pretend to be so
loyal? Are you telling me that you love him, all in
a moment? You have neither love nor loyalty in you.
Look how you have turned against me, and you were to serve
me all your days."
"One cannot build on rotten rock!"
he said, furiously. She was smiling now. "If I
am rotten, you are my blood, Mordred. My
blood."
"And his!"
"A son is his mother's stamp," she said.
"Not always! The others are yours, and their sire's,
you have only to look at them. But I, no one would know
me for your son!" "But you are like me. They are not.
They are bold, handsome fighters, with the minds of wild
cattle. You are a witch's son, Mordred, with a
smooth and subtle tongue and a serpent's tooth and a
mind that works in silence. My tongue. My bite.
My mind." She smiled a slow, rich smile.
"They may keep me shut up till my life's
end, but now my brother Arthur has taken to himself
another such: a son with his mother's mind."
The cold had crept into his very bones. He said
huskily: "This is not true. You cannot come at him
through me. I am my own man. I will not harm him."
She leaned forward. She spoke softly, still
smiling. "Mordred, listen to me. You are young, and you
do not know the world. I hated Merlin, but he was never
wrong. If Merlin saw it written in the stars that you
would be Arthur's doom, then how can you
escape it? There will come a day, the wicked day of
destiny, when all will come to pass as he foretold. And
I, too, have seen something, not in the heavens, but in the
pool below the earth."
"What?" he asked, hoarsely.
She still spoke softly. There was colour in her
face now, and her eyes shone. She looked
beautiful. "I have seen a queen for you, Mordred,
and a throne if you have the strength to take it. A fair
queen and a high throne. And I see a snake
striking at the kingdom's heel." The words seemed
to echo round the room, deep in note like a bell.
Mordred spoke quickly, trying to kill the magic.
"If I turned on him, then indeed I would be a
snake."
"If you are," rejoined Morgause smoothly,
"it is a role you share with the brightest of the angels,
and the one who was closest to his lord." "What are you
talking about?"
"Oh, stories the nuns tell."
He said, very angrily: "You are talking
nonsense to frighten me! I am not Lot or
Gabran, a besotted tool to do your murders for you.
You said I was like you. Very well. Now that I am
warned, I shall know what to do. If I have
to leave court and stay away from him, I shall do it.
No power on earth can make me lift a hand to kill
unless I wish it, and this death I swear to you I shall
never undertake. I swear it by the Goddess herself."
No echo. The magic was gone. The shouted words
fell into dead air. He stood panting, a hand
clenched on his sword hilt. "Brave words," said
Morgause, very lightly, and laughed aloud. He
turned and ran from the room, slamming the door to shut
off the laughter which followed him like a curse. 3
Once back in Camelot the memory of
Amesbury and its imprisoned queen began to fade
as the boys were plunged again into the life and excitement
of the capital.
At first Gaheris complained loudly to whoever would
listen about the hardships his mother was obviously suffering.
Mordred, who might have enlightened him, said nothing.
Nor did he mention his own interview with the queen.
The younger boys probed now and then, but were met with
silence, so soon stopped asking, and lost interest.
Gawain, who must have guessed what the tenor of that
interview might be, was perhaps unwilling to risk a
snub, so showed no curiosity, and was told nothing.
Arthur did ask Mordred how he had fared, then,
accepting his son's "Well enough, sir, but
not well enough to crave another meeting," merely nodded
and turned the subject. It was observed that the King was
angry, bored or impatient if his sisters were
spoken of, so mention of them was avoided, and in time they
were almost forgotten.
Queen Morgause was not after all sent north
to join her sister Morgan. The latter, in fact,
came south.
When King Urbgen, after a grim and lengthy
interview with the High King, had finally put Queen
Morgan aside, and given her back into Arthur's
jurisdiction, she was held for some time at Caer
Eidyn, but eventually won her brother's grudging
permission to travel south to her own castle--one that
Arthur himself had granted her in happier days--
among the hills to the north of Caerleon. Once
settled there, with a guard of Arthur's soldiers and
such of her women as were willing to remain in captivity
with her, she settled down to a small approximation
of a royal court, and proceeded (so rumour said, and for
once rumour was right) to hatch little plots of hatred
against her brother and her husband, as busily and almost
as cozily as a hen hatches her eggs.
She also besieged the King from time to time, through the
royal couriers, for various favours. One
repeated request was for her "dear sister" to be
allowed to join her at Castell Aur. It was well
known that the two royal ladies had little fondness for
one another, and Arthur, when he brought himself to think
about it all, suspected that Morgan's desire
to join forces with Morgause was literally that: a wish
to double the baneful power of such magic as she had.
Here rumour spoke again, in whispers: It was being said
that Queen Morgan far surpassed Morgause in
power, and that none 152
*@o i
of it was used for good. So Morgan's requests were
shrugged off, the High King tending, like any lesser
man beset by a nagging woman, to shut his ears and
turn the other way. He simply referred the
matter to his chief adviser, and had the sense to let
a woman deal with the women.
Nimue's advice was clear and simple: keep
them guarded, and keep them apart. So the two queens
remained under guard, one in Wales, the other still in
Amesbury, but@uag on Nimue's
advice@unot too strictly prisoned.
"Leave them their state and their titles, their fine
clothing and their lovers," she said, and when the King
raised his brows, "Men soon forget what
has happened, and a fair woman under duress is a
center for plotting and disaffection. Don't make
martyrs. In a few years' time the younger men won't
know or care that Morgause poisoned Merlin, or
did murder here and there. They have already forgotten that she
and Lot massacred the babies at Dunpeldyour.
Give any evildoer a year or two of
punishment, and there will be some fool willing to wave a
banner and shout, "Cruelty, let them go."
Let them have the things that don't matter, but keep them
close, and watch them always."
So Queen Morgan held her small court at
Castell Aur, and sent her frequent letters along
the couriers' road to Camelot, and Queen
Morgause remained in the convent at Amesbury.
She was permitted to increase the state in which she
lived, but even so her captivity was possibly not so
easy as her sister's, involving as it did a certain
degree of lip-service to the monastic rule. But
Morgause had her methods. To the abbot she
presented herself as one who, long shut away from the
true faith in the pagan dark ness of the
Orkneys, was eager and willing to learn all she could
about the "new religion" of the Christians. The
women who served her attended the devotions
of the good sisters, and spent many long hours helping with the
nuns' sewing and other, more menial tasks. It might
have been noted that the queen herself was content to delegate
this side of her devotions, but she was civility itself
to the abbess, and that elderly and innocent lady was
easily deceived by the attentions of one who was
half-sister to the High King himself, whatever the
supposed crimes she had committed. "Supposed
crimes." Nimue was right. As time went by, the
memory of Morgause's alleged crimes grew
fainter, and the impression, carefully fos tered by the
lady herself, of a sweet sad captive, devoted
to her royal brother, reft from her beloved sons, and
far from her own land, grew, spreading far beyond the convent
walls. And though it was common knowledge that the High King's
eldest "nephew" bore in fact a closer and
somewhat scandalous relationship to the throne@uwell, it
had happened a long time ago, in dark and troubled
times, when Arthur and Morgause

were very young, and even now you could see how lovely she
must have been . . . still was. . . .
So the years passed, and the boys became young men,
and took their places at court, and Morgause's
dark deeds became a legend rather than a
true memory, and Morgause herself lived on
comfortably at Amesbury; rather more comfortably, in
fact, than she had lived either in her chilly
fortress of Dunpeldyour or the windy fa/s of the
Orkneys. What she lacked, and fretted for, was
power, something more than she exercised over her small
and private court. As time went by and it became
obvious that she would never leave Amesbury, was,
in fact, almost forgotten, she turned back
secretly to her magic arts, convincing herself that here
lay the seeds of influence and real power. One skill
certainly remained with her; whether it was the plants
carefully watched over in the nunnery gardens, or the
spells with which they were gathered and prepared,
Morgause's unguents and perfumes still worked their
strong magic. Her beauty stayed with her, and with it her
power over men. She had lovers. There was the young
gardener who tended the herbs and simples for her
brewing, a handsome youth who had once had hopes of
joining the brotherhood. It might be said that the queen
did him a favour. Four months as her lover
taught him that the world outside the walls held
delights that at sixteen he could not bear
to renounce; when she dismissed him eventually with a
gift of gold, he left the convent and went
to Aquae Sulis, where he met the daughter of a
wealthy merchant, and thereafter prospered exceedingly.
After him came others, and it was easier still when a
garrison established itself on the Great Plain for
exercises, and the officers tended to ride
into Amesbury after work to sample what the local
tavern had to offer in the way of wine and entertainment.
Simpler yet when Lamorak, who had brought the
boys on that long-ago visit to see their mother, was
appointed garrison commander, and took it upon himself
to call at the convent to ask after the health of the
captive queen. She received him herself, charmingly.
He called again, with gifts. Within the month they were
lovers, Lamorak vowing that it had been love at
first sight, and lamenting that so many wasted years had
passed since their first meeting in the woodland ride.
Twice, during these years, Arthur lodged
nearby, the first time with the garrison, the second time in
Amesbury itself, at the house of the headman.
On the first occasion, despite Morgause's
efforts, he refused to see her, contenting himself with
sending to the abbess and asking formally after the prisoner's
health and wellbeing, and sending deputies--Bedwyour
and, ironically, Lamorak--to talk with the queen. The
second time occurred some two years
later. He would have preferred to sleep again at
garrison head-

quarters, but this might have seemed slighting to the
headman's hospitality, so he lodged in the town.
He gave orders that while he was in the township
Morgause should not be permitted outside the convent
walls, and he was obeyed. But one evening when he and
half a dozen of his Companions sat at supper
with the abbot and the head citizens of the township, two of
Morgause's women came to the door with a tale of the
captive queen's sickness, and pathetic pleas for the
King's presence at her bedside. She longed
only, they said, for the King's forgiveness before she died.
Or if he was still set against her, she begged--and it
could be seen, from the messengers' faces, with what
pathos--that he should grant at least one dying wish.
This was that she should see her sons once more. Lot's
sons were not in Amesbury with the King. Gaheris was
with the garrison on the Plain; Gawain with the other two
brothers was still in Camelot. The only one of the
five in Amesbury was Mordred, who, as always
now, was at his father's side.
To him Arthur, waving the women back out of
earshot, said softly: "Dying? Do you
suppose this is true?"
"She was out riding three days ago."
"Oh? Who says so?"
"The swineherd in the beech wood. I stopped and
spoke with him. She gave him a coin once, so he
watches for her. He calls her "the pretty
queen.""
Arthur frowned, tapping the table. "There's been a
cold wind all the week. I suppose she could have
taken a chill. Even so--" He paused.
"Well, I'll send someone tomorrow. Then, if this
tale is true, I suppose I must go myself."
"And by tomorrow everything will be suitably arranged."
The King looked at him sharply. "What do you
mean by that?" Mordred said dryly: "When she sent for
me before, she was alone in a cold room with no
comforts. I saw them through the door, hastily stacked
in the next room."
Arthur's frown deepened. "So you suspect
trickery here? Still? But how? What could she do?"
Mordred shifted his shoulders as if he felt
cold. "Who knows? As she reminded me, more than
once, she is a witch. Keep away from her,
sir. Or --let me go and see for myself if this
tale of mortal sickness is true."
"You are not afraid of her witchcraft?"
"She has asked to see her sons," said
Mordred, "and I am the only one here in
Amesbury." He did not add that though his spirit, fed
with fear by Morgause herself, shrank from her, he
knew himself to be safe. He was to be--he could still
hear the angry spitting voice--his father's bane.
To that end she would preserve him, as she had done through
those early years.

He said: "If you send now, sir, to say you will
see her in the morning, that is when--if this is indeed
a trick--she will make her preparations. I myself will
go now, tonight."
After a little more discussion the King agreed, and,
returning gratefully to his guests, sent one of his
Companions to inform Queen Morgause that he would
see her on the morrow. As before, he sent
Lamorak.
There was a horse tied up outside the orchard
wall. Here the coping was low, and a bough of an old
apple tree had forced the bricks outwards until
they bulged, then broke and fell, making a place
that could, with agility and the help of a horse's saddle,
be climbed. The night was moonless, but the
sky glistened with stars as thick and numerous as
daisies on a lawn. Mordred paused to look
at the horse. Something about its white blaze and the
stocking on its near fore was familiar. He looked
closer, and saw on the breastband the silver boar of
Orkney, and recognized Gaheris's roan. He
ran a hand over its shoulder. It was damp and hot.
He stood for a moment, thinking. If the news of
Morgause's illness had sped, as such news will,
on the wings of gossip, to garrison headquarters,
Gaheris must have ridden out immediately to visit the queen.
Or he might, having been refused permission
to accompany Arthur with Mordred to Amesbury, have
ridden out secretly, determined to see his mother. In
either case the visit was surreptitious, or he would
have gone to the gate.
Mordred thought, with a touch of amusement, that in any
case Morgause had not expected the visit, so
would probably not yet, on this chilly night, have
stripped herself of her comforts. Gaheris, whatever his
loyalties, would have to share witness to his mother's
health and circumstances when Mordred reported on
them to Arthur. He walked soft-footed round to the
convent gate, was inspected under the lamp by the guards,
showed the King's pass, and was admitted.
Within the convent walls no guards were appointed, and
all was silent and deserted. Morgause now had one
wing of the convent--the buildings between the orchard and the
women's arcade--to herself and her attendants.
Mordred walked quietly past the chapel and let
himself into the arcade. Here a nun nodded beside a
brazier in a little lodge. Again he showed the King's
pass, was recognized and allowed through. The arches of the
arcade showed black and empty. The grass in the
center of the court was grey in the starlight, its own
starred daisies shut for the night, invisible. An owl
flew silently across the roof tops and into the orchard
boughs. The only light was the glow from the brazier in
the lodge.
Mordred paused, undecided. It was late, but
not yet midnight. Mor- 156
"com j
gause, like most witches, was a night-time
creature; surely one of her windows should be showing a
light? And certainly, if the deathbed story were
true, her women would be wakeful, watching by her
bedside. Perhaps a lover? He had heard that she
took her pleasures still. But if Gaheris was here .
. . Gaheris?
Mordred swore aloud, sickened at
himself for the thought, and then again for the knowledge that the suspicion
 was
justified. He tried the door under the arcade, found
it unlocked, then let himself into the building and went
swiftly up the well-remembered corridor. Here
was the door to the queen's apartments. After a moment's
hesitation, he pushed it open and went in without
knocking. This room was not as he remembered it, but as
he would have seen it had Morgause not stripped it of
its furnishings. Starlight fell softly through the
window to light the hangings, the waxed surfaces of
furniture, the gleam of gold and silver
vessels. Thick rugs muffled his tread. He
crossed the room to the inner door, which gave on the
antechamber to the queen's bedroom. Here he
paused. Her women, or surely one of them, would be
awake? He bent his head and knocked softly on the
panel.
There was a sound from inside the room, a hurried
movement, followed by stillness, as if his knock had
startled someone who did not want to be found there.
Mordred hesitated again, then set his mouth and reached
for the latch, but before he could lay hand on it the door was
pulled open, and Gaheris stood there, sword in
hand. The antechamber was lit by a single candle.
Even in its faint, diffused light it could
be seen that Gaheris was as white as a ghost. When he
saw Mordred he went, if possible, whiter still.
His mouth slowly opened to a black 0, and he said,
on a gasping breath: "You?" "Whom did you
expect?" Mordred spoke very softly, his eye
going beyond Gaheris to the door of the queen's
bedchamber. This was shut, and a heavy curtain was
drawn across it to keep out the chill draughts of
night. Two women were there, on couches to either side
of the queen's door. One was Morgause's own
waiting-woman, the other a nun, presumably
excused the night offices, and set to share the watch
on behalf of the convent. Both slept soundly, the
nun, indeed, snoring in a slumber that seemed rather
too heavy. On a table by the wall stood two
cups, and the room smelled of spiced wine.
Gaheris's sword moved, but indecisively, then
he saw that Mordred was not even looking at him, and
lowered it again. Mordred said, on a whisper that was the
merest thread of sound: "Put that up, you fool. I
came on the King's orders, why do you think?" "At
this time of night? To do what?"

"Not to harm her, or would I have knocked on her
door, or come naked as I am?"
The word, between soldiers, meant "unarmed," and to a
knight was as good as a shield. He spread his
empty hands wide. Gaheris, slowly, began
to slide his blade back into its housing. "Then what
--" he was beginning, when Mordred, with a swift
gesture commanding silence, stepped past him into the
room, and, crossing to the table, picked up one of the
cups and sniffed at it. "And the woman in the lodge
could hardly keep awake long enough to see me through."
He met Gaheris's stare, and smiled, setting the
cup down again. "The King sent me because a message
came that she was ill, and failing. He would have come
himself tomorrow. But now I think he need not." He
lifted a hand quickly. "No, have no fear. It cannot be
true. These women have been drugged, and it is easy
to guess--" "Drugged?" Gaheris seemed to take
it in slowly, then his head moved, his eyes searching the
dark corners of the room like an animal scenting an
enemy, and his hand flew back to his hilt. He
said, hoarsely: "Then it is danger!"
"No. No." Mordred moved quickly, to take his
half-brother lightly by the arm, turning him away from
the queen's door. "The drug is one of the queen's
potions. I know that smell. So put your fears at
rest, and come away. It's certain that she
is neither ill nor in any other kind of danger. The
King need not come in the morning, but no doubt you will be
permitted to see her then. He has sent for the others
already, in case the story is true."
"But how do you know--?"
"And keep your voice down. Come, we'll go.
I want to show you some beautiful tapestries in the
outer room." He smiled, shaking the other's
unresponsive arm. "Oh, for the gods' sake,
man, can't you see? She's got a lover with her,
that's all! So neither you nor I can visit her tonight!"
Gaheris stood for a moment, rigid against
Mordred's hand, then with a wild gesture he shook
himself free and leaped for the bedchamber door. He
ripped the curtain aside and flung the door back
with a crash against the wall.
In the endless, stupefied moment before anyone moved,
they saw it all. Lamorak naked, mounted, light
slipping over the sweating muscles of his back.
Morgause beneath him, hidden by shadows, except for the
restless, eager hands, and the long hair spread across the
pillows. Her night robe lay in a huddle on the
floor, beside Lamorak's discarded clothing. His
sword belt, with sword and dagger sheathed,
was carefully laid across a stool at the other side
of the room. Gaheris made a sound hardly
recognizable as human, and jerked wildly at his
sword.
Mordred, two paces behind him, shouted a warning
"Lamorak!" and grabbed again at his half-brother's
arm.
Morgause screamed. Lamorak gasped,
turned his head, saw, flung himself off the woman's
body and ran for his sword. The move left her
exposed to the merciless starlight: the sprawled flesh,
the marks of love, the gaping mouth, the hands still weaving
in air over the space where her lover's body had
been.
The hands dropped. She recognized Gaheris in
the doorway, with Mordred struggling to hold him, and the
scream checked in a gasp as she hurriedly pushed
herself up from the pillows and grabbed for the tumbled
coverlet.
Gaheris, cursing, jerked the dagger from his belt and
cut down at Mor- dred's restraining hand. The
blade bit, and Mordred's grip loosened.
Gaheris wrenched himself free.
Lamorak had reached the stool and snatched up his
sword belt. Clumsily, still perhaps numb
with shock, he wrenched at the hilt in the half-
darkness, but the loose belt wrapped itself round his
arm, and the hilt jammed. Wrenching at it, naked as
he was, he turned to face the other sword.
Mordred, blood dripping from his cut hand, pushed
past Gaheris, getting himself between the two men, then
thrust the flat of both hands hard against his
half-brother's chest. "Gaheris! Wait! You
can't kill an unarmed man. And not this, not here.
Wait, you fool! He's a Companion; leave this
to the King." It is doubtful if Gaheris even
heard him, or felt his hands. He was crying, on
hard, sobbing breaths, and looked more than half mad.
Nor did he make any attempt to push past
Mordred to attack Lamorak. He swung

suddenly round, away from both men, and raced for the
queen's bed, his sword held high.
Clutching the coverlet to her, blinded by her hair,
she tried to roll away and dodge him. She
screamed again. Before the other men had even realized his
purpose Gaheris, at the bedside, swung his
sword up, and brought it down with all his strength across
his mother's neck. And again. And yet again.
The only sound was the soft and dreadful
hacking of metal into flesh and feathered bedding.
Morgause died at the first blow. The coverlet
dragged from her clutching hands, and the naked body fell
back into the merciful shadows. Less mercifully the
head, half severed, lolled into starlight on its
blood-drenched pillows. Gaheris, himself drenched in
the first dreadful fountain of blood, lifted the red
sword for another blow, then, with a howl like a hurt
dog, threw it aside with a clatter, and, flinging himself
to his knees in the pool of blood, put his head
down beside his mother's on the pillow and wept. Mordred
found that he was holding Lamorak with a grip that hurt
them both. The killing had been so swift, so
unlooked-for, that neither man had made any conscious
move at all. Then Lamorak came to himself with a
jerk and a gasping curse, and tried to arm Mordred
aside. But Morgause was dead and beyond help, and
her son knelt unheeding, uncaring, his unprotected
back to them both, his sword ten paces away on the
floor. Lamorak's blade wavered, and sank.
Even here, even in this moment, the rigid training
held. There had been a dreadful slaying done in
hot blood. But now the blood was cold, the room
was cold, and there was nothing to be done. Lamorak
stood still in Mordred's grasp, his teeth
beginning to chatter now with reaction, horror and the icy
chill of shock.
Mordred let him go. He picked the knight's
clothing up, and bundled it into his arms.
"Here, get these on, and go. There's nothing to be
gained by staying. Even if he was fit to fight you now,
it cannot be here, you know that." He stooped quickly for
Gaheris's abandoned sword, then, taking
Lamorak by the arm, urged him towards the bedroom
door. "Into the other room now, before he comes to.
The thing's done, and all we can do is prevent that
madman from making it worse."
In the antechamber the women still slept. As
Mordred shut and latched the door the nun stirred in
her sleep and muttered something that could have been
"Madam?" then slept again. The two men stood
rigid, listening. No sound, no movement.
Morgause's screaming, brief as it had been, had
not been heard through the thick walls and closed
doors. Lamorak had hold of himself now. He was
still very pale, and looked sick and haunted, but he
made no attempt to argue with Mordred, and set

himself to dress quickly, with only a glance or two
at the shut door of the dreadful room.
"I shall kill him, of course," he said thickly.
"But not here." Mordred was cool. "So far you've
done nothing that any man would blame you for. The King
will be angry enough at the mess, without your adding to it. So
take my advice and go now, quickly. What you do
later is up to you."
Lamorak looked up from fastening his tunic.
"What are you going to do?"
"Get you out of here, Gaheris away, and then
report to the King. I was sent to do that anyway. Not
that it matters now, but I suppose her tale of being
ill, dying even, was pure invention?" "Yes. She
wanted to see the King and plead with him herself for
release." He added, very softly: "I was going
to marry her. I loved her, and she me. I had
promised to talk with him myself tomorrow . . . today. If
she were my wife, surely Arthur would have let her
leave here, and live once more in freedom?"
Mordred did not reply. Another tool, he was
thinking. I was once her pass to power, and now this
man, poor gullible fool, was to be her pass
to liberty. Well, she is gone, and the King will
hardly be sorry, but in death, as in life, she will
wreck the peace of all those near her.
He said: "You knew that the King had sent
for Gawain and the other two already?"
"Yes. What will they--what will happen there?" A
glance towards the door.
"Gaheris? Who knows? As for you ... I said you
were to be blamed for nothing. But they will blame you, be
sure of that. It is even likely that, being the men they
are, they will try to kill Gaheris, too. They like
to keep sex and murder right in the family."
This, dry as spice-dust, made Lamorak,
even through the grief and rage of the moment, look
sharply at the younger man. He said, slowly, as if
making a totally new discovery: "You--why, you're
one of them. Her own son. And you talk as if ...
as if .. ."
"I am different," said Mordred, shortly.
"Here, your cloak. No, that bloodstain's mine, you
needn't mind it. Gaheris stabbed my hand. Now,
for the Goddess' sake, man, go, and leave him
to me."
"What will you do?"
"Lock the room so that the women don't screech
the place down when they wake, and get Gaheris out
the way he came in. You came in through the main
gate, of course? Do the guards know you're still here?"
"No. I left in due discourse, and then
... I have a way in. She used to leave a window
open when she knew ..."

"Yes, of course. But then, why trouble--?" He
was going to ask. Why trouble to drug the women? but then
he saw that Morgause's sexual affairs would
necessarily have to be hidden from the abbess. The holy
women could hardly be expected to connive at them.
"I'll have to leave court, of course," said
Lamorak. "You will tell the King--?"
"I'll report exactly what happened. I
don't imagine the King will blame you. But you'd do
well to get away until Gawain and the others have
been settled. Good luck and good speed."
Lamorak, with one last look towards the silent
bedroom door, went from the room. Mordred glanced
once again at the sleeping women, propped
Gaheris's blood-stained sword in a shadowed
corner where a faldstool hid it from view, then went
back into the queen's bedchamber and shut the door behind
him.
He found Gaheris on his feet, swaying like a
drunken man and looking vaguely round him as if for
something he had forgotten. Mordred took him by the
shoulder and drew him, unresisting, away from
the bedside. Stooping, he twitched the stained
coverlet across to cover the dead body. Gaheris,
rigid as a sleepwalker, let himself be led from the
room.
Once in the antechamber, and with the door shut, he
spoke for the first time, thickly. "Mordred. It was
right. It was right to kill her. She was my mother, but she
was a queen, and to do thus ... to bring shame on us and
on all our line . . . No one can gainsay my
right, not even Gawain. And when I kill Lamorak
--that was Lamorak, wasn't it? Her--the man?"
"I didn't see who it was. He snatched up
his clothes and went." "You didn't try to hold him?
You should have killed him." "For the love of Hecate,"
said Mordred, "save all that for later. Listen,
I thought I heard footsteps. It could be time for the
night office. Anyone could come by."
This was not true, but it served to rouse Gaheris.
He gave a startled glance around, as if just waking
to a perilous situation, and said sharply:
"My sword?"
Mordred lifted it from the corner and showed it.
"When we are outside the walls. Come. I saw
where you left your horse. Quickly." They were crossing
the orchard before Gaheris spoke again. He
was still on the treadmill of agonized guilt. "That
man. Lamorak, I know it was, and you know, too.
You called his name. Don't try to shield him.
Arthur's man, one of the Companions. He should be
killed, too, and I shall do it. But she, she to lie with
such a one ... It must have happened before, you know. Those
women were

drugged. They must have been lovers--" He choked
on the word, then went on: "She spoke of him once
to me. Of Lamorak. She told me that he had
killed our father King Lot, and that she hated him.
She lied. To me. To me."
Mordred said, quietly: "Don't you see,
Gaheris? She lied to blind you, and she lied twice.
Lamorak never killed Lot, how could he? Lot
died of the wounds he got at Caledon, and they fought
on the same side there. So unless Lamorak stabbed
King Lot in the back, and that was not his way, he could
not be his killer. Did you never think of that?" But
Gaheris had no thoughts but the same trapped and
torturing ones. "She took him as her lover, and
lied to me. We were all deceived, even Gawain.
Mordred, the others will say that what I did was right,
will they not?"
"You know as well as I how likely Gawain is
to forgive you this. Or Gareth. Even your twin may not
support you. And though the King isn't likely
to grieve for your mother, he'll have to listen if the
Orkney princes demand what they will call
justice."
"They will ask it on Lamorak!"
"For what?" said Mordred, coolly. "He would
have married her." That silenced Gaheris for a moment.
They had reached the orchard wall, and he paused under
the apple tree and turned. The moon was rising now
behind a drift of cloud, and the bloodstains on his
breast showed black.
"If they do not kill him, I shall," he said. "You
can try," said Mordred dryly. "And he will kill
you, make no mistake. And then your brothers will
try to kill him. So you see what this night's work
has done?"
"And you? You seem to care nothing for what has
happened. You speak as if it hardly touched you."
"Oh, it touches me," said Mordred briefly.
"Now, we are wasting time. What's done is done.
You will have to leave court, you know that. You will be well
advised to get away before your brothers get here.
Get over the wall now, Gaheris; your
horse is there."
Gaheris swung himself over, and Mordred,
climbing after him, stayed astride the wall while his
brother untied the horse and checked the girths. Then
he handed Gaheris's sword down into his hand.
"Where will you go?" he asked him.
"North. Not to the islands, and Dunpeldyour is
held for Arthur as well. What is not? But I shall
find a place where I can sell my sword."
"Meantime take my purse. Here."
"My thanks, brother." Gaheris caught it.
He swung himself to the saddle. It brought him almost
to Mordred's level. He hung on the rein for a

moment while the roan horse danced, eager
to move. "When you see Gawain and the others--"
"Tell them the truth and plead your cause for you?
I'll do what I can. Farewell."
Gaheris pulled the horse's head round. Soon
there was no sign of him except the fast soft thud of
retreating hoofs. Mordred jumped down from the wall
and walked back across the orchard. 5
So died Morgause, witch-queen of Lothian
and Orkney, leaving by her death and its manner another
hellbrew of trouble for her hated brother.
The trouble was far-reaching. Gaheris suffered
banishment, and Lamo- rak, riding white-faced and
silent into headquarters to surrender his sword, was
relieved of his command and bidden to absent himself until
the dust should have time to settle.
This would not be soon. Gawain, savage with
outraged pride rather than grief, swore on all the
wild gods of the north to be avenged both on
Lamorak and on his brother, and ignored all that
Arthur could say to him, pleas and threats alike.
It was pointed out that Lamorak had offered
marriage to Morgause, and that her acceptance gave
him the betrothed's claim to her bed, and with it the right
to avenge her murder himself. This right Lamorak, one
of Arthur's first and most loyal Companions, had
waived. Gaheris, he had sworn, was safe from
him. But none of this appeased Gawain, whose anger had
in it a large measure of sheer sexual jealousy.
Just as violent was Gawain's railing against
Gaheris, but there he got no support from his
brothers. Agravain, who had always been the leader
of the twins, seemed lost without Gaheris; he tended
to turn to Mordred, who, for reasons of his own,
suffered him willingly enough. Gareth said little throughout,
but withdrew into silence. In her death as in her
life his mother had wronged him deeply: bitter as was
the story of her dreadful death to her youngest son, the
tales of her impurity, which were common knowledge now, wounded
him more. But all the shouts for vengeance had to die.
Lamorak had gone, no one knew where. Gaheris
had vanished northward into the mists, Morgause was
buried in the convent graveyard, and Arthur went with his
followers back to Camelot. Gradually, for sheer
lack of fuel, the blaze kindled by the murder died
down. Arthur, fond of his nephews, and secretly
relieved at the news of Morgause's death,
steered as carefully as he could between the shoals, kept
the princes as busy as he might, gave Gawain as
much authority as he dared, and waited with weary
apprehension for the storm to break again. About Gaheris
he could not bring himself to care overmuch, but Lamorak,
who was innocent of all but folly, was almost certainly
doomed. Some day Arthur's valued Companion would
come against one of the Orkney princes, and be killed,
fair or foul. Nor would it stop there. Lamo-

rak, too, had a brother, at present serving in
Dumnonia with one Drustan, a knight whom
Arthur hoped to attract into his service. It was
possible that he, or even Drustan himself--
who was a close friend to both brothers --would in turn
swear and require vengeance. So Morgause, in
her death, did what she had planned to do with her
life. She had planted a canker in the blossoming
chivalry of Arthur's court:
not, ironically, the bastard she had reared to be his
bane, but her three legitimate oldest, her
wild, unpredictable and now almost ungovernable
sons.
Outside it all stood Mordred. He had shown
himself resourceful and cool, had prevented further
bloodshed on that murderous night, and had gained time
for good counsel. That the Orkney princes would
not--some said could not--respond to good counsel was
hardly his fault. It was noticeable that less and
less did the court count him as one of the "Orkney
brood." Subtly, the distance between him and his
half-brothers increased. And with Morgause dead,
men hardly troubled any longer with the fiction of "the
High King's nephew." He was simply "Prince
Mordred," and known to be close to the King and Queen
in-love and favour.
Some time after Arthur's return to Camelot he
called a council in the Round Hall.
It was the first such council that the two younger
Orkney brothers had been entitled, as
Companions, to attend. Even Mordred, who with
Gawain had been given that status some years ago,
met with a change: instead of sitting at the King's
left, as had been his privilege over the past two
years, he was led by the royal usher to the chair on
Arthur's right, where Bedwyour usually sat. Bedwyour
took the seat to the left. If he felt demoted
he did not show it; he gave Mordred a smile that
seemed genuine, and a ceremonious little bow that
acknowledged his new status to the younger man.
Bedwyour, the King's friend of boyhood days, and
constant companion in the closest sense, was a quiet
man with the eyes of a poet, and, after the King's, the
most deadly sword in the kingdoms. He had fought
at Arthur's side through all the great campaigns,
and with him shared the glory of wiping the Saxon Terror
from Britain's boundaries. Possibly alone of the
warrior lords, he showed no impatience with the
long-drawn peace, and when Arthur had had to travel
abroad at the request of allies or kinsmen, and
take his fighting men with him, Bedwyour never seemed
to resent the necessity of staying behind as regent for his
king. Rumour, as Mordred well knew, gave
reasons for this: Bedwyour had not married, and
in the close company as he was of both King and
Queen, it was whispered that he and Queen Guinevere
were lovers. But Mordred, also constantly with them, had
never caught a look or gesture that bore this out.
Guinevere was as gay and kind to him as he had ever
seen her with Bedwyour, and, perhaps with a little of the inbred
jealousy taught by Morgause, he would have denied,
even with his sword, any overt hint of such a
connection. So he returned Bedwyour's smile, and
sat down in the new place of hon our. He saw
Gawain, leaning close to his brother, whisper
something, and Agravain nodding, then the King spoke,
opening the Council, and they fell silent. The
meeting droned on. Mordred noticed with amusement
how Agravain and Gareth, at first rigid with
importance and attentive to every word, soon grew
bored and impatient, and sat in their seats as if on
thorns. Gawain, like the greybeard beside him, was
frankly dozing in a shaft of sunshine from a window.
The King, patient and painstaking as ever, seemed
to throw off preoccupations with an effort. The round table
in the middle of the hall was loaded heavily with papers
and tablets, and by it the secretaries scribbled without
ceasing.
As usual at the Round Hall
councils, routine matters were dealt with first.
Petitions were heard, complaints tabled, judgments
given. King's messengers brought what information was
fitted for the public ear, and later, those of the King's
knights-errant who had returned home would
report on their adventures to the Council. These were
the travelling knights who acted at once as
Arthur's eyes and as his deputies. Years ago,
once the Saxon wars were over and the country settled,
Arthur had looked around for means to occupy what
Merlin had called "the idle swords and the unfed
spirits." He knew that the long and prosperous peace which
contented most men was not to the liking of some of his
knights, not the young men only, but the war veter ans,
men who knew no other life but that of fighting. There
was no longer any need for the picked body of
Companions, the knights who under Arthur had led the
force of cavalry which had been used as such a swift
and deadly weapon during the Saxon campaigns.
The Companions re mained his personal friends, but their
status as commanders was changed. They were appointed
personal representatives of the King himself, and, as
deputies armed with royal warrants, and each in
command of his own men, they travelled the kingdoms,
answering the call of the petty kings or
leaders who needed help or guidance, and taking with
them the High King's justice and the High King's
peace wherever they went. They also policed the roads.
Robbers still lurked in the wilder parts of the country,
haunting fords and crossways where traders or rich
travellers might be ambushed. These they sought out and
killed, or brought them back for the King's justice.
One other and most important task was the
protection of monasteries. Arthur, though not himself a
Christian, recognized the grow ing importance of
these foundations as centers of learning and as an influ
ence for peace. Their hospitality, moreover, was a
vital part of the peaceful commerce of the roads.

Three of these knights presented themselves now. As
the first of them came forward there was a stir of interest in
the hall, and even the sleepers roused themselves
to attention. Sometimes the reports were of fighting;
occasionally prisoners were brought in, or tales
told of strange happenings in remote and wild
parts of the country. This had given rise to the belief
held by the ignorant, that Arthur never sat down
to supper until he had heard some tale of
marvels. But there were no marvels to be presented.
One man came from North Wales, one from
Northumbria, the third--one of the knights deputed
to watch the Saxon boundaries--from the upper Thames
valley. This man reported some activity, though
peaceful, in Suthrige, that region south of the
Thames occupied by Middle Saxon settlers; some
kind of official visit, he thought, from a party of
Cerdic's West Saxons. The man from North
Wales told of a new monastic foundation where the
Christian grail, or cup of ceremonial, would be
raised on the next feast day. The man from
Northumbria had nothing to report. Mordred,
watching from his place beside the King, noticed with quickened
interest that Agravain, waiting with obvious
impatience through the speeches of the first two knights,
went still and attentive while the last one spoke.
When the man had done, and been dismissed with the King's
thanks, Agravain visibly relaxed and went
back to his yawning.
Northumbria? thought Mordred, then filed the
thought away and turned his attention to the King.
At last the hall was cleared of all but
councillors and Companions. Arthur sat back in
the royal chair, and spoke. He came straight
to the news that had caused him to call the Council.
A courier from the Continent had arrived on the
previous evening with grave tidings. Two of the three
young sons of Clodomir, the Frankish king, had
been murdered, and their brother had fled for sanctuary
to a monastery, from which it was thought that he would not dare
emerge. The murderers, the boys' uncles, would no
doubt proceed to divide King Clo- domir's
kingdom between them.
The news carried grave implications.
Clodomir (who had been killed a year ago in
battle with the Burgundians) had been one of the four
sons of Clovis, King of the Salian Franks,
who had led his people out of their northerly lands down
into what had once been the prosperous country of
Roman Gaul, and had made it his own. Savage
and ruthless, like all of the Merwing dynasty, he had
nevertheless created a powerful and stable kingdom. At his
death that kingdom had been divided, as was the custom,
among his four sons. Clodomir and Childebert,
the eldest legitimate sons, held the central
part of Gaul: Clodomir to the east, his lands
bordering on those of the hostile Burgundians; and
Childebert to the west, in that part of Gaul which
bordered and contained the peninsula of Brittany. And
here lay the rub.
Brittany, called Less Britain
in the common tongue, was in fact almost a province
of the High Kingdom. Over a century ago it had
been populated by men from Greater Britain, and the tie
remained strong; communication was easy and trade
brisk, and the tongue, with slight regional
variations, was the same. Brittany's king, Hoel,
was cousin to Arthur, and the two kings were bound to one
another, not only through kinship and treaties of
alliance, but because Brittany was still as much part of the
federation of lands known as the High Kingdom as was
Cornwall, or the Summer Country round
Camelot itself, "The matter," said the King, "is not
desperate; indeed, it may turn out for the best,
since infants never make safe rulers. But you
see the situation. Clodomir was killed at
Vezeronce last year by the Burgundians. They
are still hostile, and wait only for a chance to attack
again. So we have the vital central province of the
Franks, with the Burgundians to the east, and on the
west the land ruled by King Childebert, which contains our
own Celtic province of Brittany. Now
Clodomir's kingdom will be divided yet again, in which
case King Childebert will extend his lands eastward,
while his brothers move in from north and south. Which
means that, as long as we retain the friendship
of these kings, we have them as a barrier between ourselves and the
Germanic peoples to the east."
He paused, then, looking around, repeated: "As
long as we have the friendship of these kings. I said the
matter was not yet desperate. But in time it may
be. We mupt prepare for it. Not yet, as some of
you wish, by raising armies. That will come. But by forming
alliances, bonds of friend ship, cemented by offers of
help and fair trading. If the kingdoms of Brit
ain are to remain secure against the destroyers from the
east, then all the kingdoms within our sea-girt
coasts must join together in their defense. I repeat,
all."
"The Saxons!" said someone. It was Cian, a
young Celt from Gwynedd. "Saxons or
English," said Arthur, "they own, by agreement, a
good proportion of the eastern and south-eastern coastal
lands, those which were the territories of the old Saxon
Shore, with what other settlements were granted them
by Ambrosius, and by myself after Badon Hill. These
Saxon Shore lands lie like a wall along the
Narrow Sea. They can be our bulwark, or they can
betray." He paused. There was no need to gather
eyes. All were fixed on him. "Now this is what
I have to say to the Council. I have called
a meeting with the chief of their kings, Cerdic of the West
Saxons, to talk to him about defense. At our
next Council I shall be prepared to tell you the
result of that meeting."

He sat down then, and the ushers were on their feet,
preventing uproar and trying to sort into order the men
who wanted to speak. Under cover of the noise Arthur
grinned at Bedwyour. "You were right. A hornets'
nest. But let them talk it out, and have their say, and
when I go it will be, nominally at least, with their
support."
He was right. By supper time all who wanted to had
said their say. Next day a courier rode to the
village which the West Saxon king called his
capital, and the meeting was arranged. Mordred was to go
with the King. He used the interval before Cerdic's
reply came to ride over to Applegarth to see
Nimue. 6
Since the day when Nimue had visited King
Urbgen of Rheged, and prevented Mordred's
escape, he had never seen her. She was married
to Pel- leas, king of the islands to the west of the Summer
Country, where the River Brue meets the Severn
Sea. Nimue herself had been born a
princess of the River Isles, and had known her
husband since childhood. Their castle stood almost
within sight of the Tor, and when Pelleas, who was one of
Arthur's Companions, was with the King, Nimue would
take her place as Lady of the Lake maidens in
the convent on Ynys Witrin, or else retire
alone to Applegarth, the house that Merlin had built
near Camelot, and which he had left to her, along with
his title, and--men whispered--how much more. It was
fabled that during the long illness that had weakened the old
enchanter towards his seeming death, he had made over
all his knowledge to his pupil Nimue, implanting in her
brain even his own childhood's memories.
Mordred had heard the stories, and though with
manhood and security he had grown more
skeptical, he remembered the impression he had
received in Luguvallium of the enchantress's power,
so he approached Applegarth with something that might
even have been called nervousness. It was a grey stone
house, four-square round a small courtyard. An
old tower jutted at one corner. The house stood
cupped in rolling upland pastures, and was surrounded
by orchards. A stream ran downhill past the
walls.
Mordred turned his horse off the road
and into the track that led uphill beside the stream. He was
halfway towards the house when another horseman
approached him. To his surprise he saw that it was
the King, riding alone on his grey mare.
Arthur drew rein beside him. "Were you looking for
me?" "No, sir. I had no idea you were here."
"Ah, so Nimue sent for you? She told me you
were coming, but she did not tell me when, or why."
Mordred stared. "She said I was coming? How could
she? I hardly knew it myself. I--there was something
I wanted to ask her, so I rode here, you might
say on impulse."
"Ah," said Arthur. He regarded Mordred with
what looked like amusement. ,
"Why do you smile, sir?" Mordred was thinking,
with thankfulness: He 171
cannot begin to guess what was in my mind. Surely
he cannot guess. But Nimue . . . his
"If you have never met Nimue, then gird your
loins and put up your shield," said Arthur,
laughing. "There's no mystery, at least not the kind
ordinary mortals such as you and I can understand. She
would know you were coming because she knows everything. As simple
as that. She will even know why."
"That must save a world of words," said
Mordred dryly. "I used to say that. To Merlin."
A shadow touched the King's face, and was gone. The
amusement came back. "Well, good luck to you,
Mordred. It is time you met the ruler of your
ruler." And still laughing, he rode down the hill to the
road.
Mordred left his horse at the archway that led
into the courtyard, and went in. The place was full of
flowers, and the scent of herbs and lavender, and doves
crooned on the wall. There was an old man by the
well, a gardener by his clothes, drawing water.
He glanced up, touched a hand to his brow, and
pointed the way to the tower door. Well, thought
Mordred, she is expecting me, isn't she? He
mounted the stone steps and pushed open the door. The
room was small and square, with one large window
opening to the south, and beneath it a table. The only other
furnishings were a cupboard, a heavy chair, and a
couple of stools. A box stood on the table with
books, neatly rolled, inside it. By the table, with
her back to it and facing the door, stood a woman.
She neither spoke nor made any movement of
greeting. What met him, forcibly as a cold
blast, was her inimical and chilling gaze. He
stopped dead in the doorway. A feeling of
dread, formless and heavy, settled on him, as if the
vultures of fate clung to his shoulders, their
claws digging into his flesh.
Then it cleared. He straightened. The weight was
gone. The tower room was full of light, and facing
him was a tall, arrow-straight woman in a grey
robe, with dark hair bound back with silver, and
cool grey eyes.
"Prince Mordred."
He bowed. "Madam."
"Forgive me for receiving you here. I was working. The
King comes often, and takes things as he finds them.
Will you sit?" He pulled a stool towards him and
sat. He glanced at the littered table. She was not,
as he half expected, brewing some concoction over the
brazier. The "work" consisted, rather, of a litter of
tablets and papers. An instrument which he did not
recognize stood in the window embrasure, its end
tilted towards the sky. Nimue seated herself,
turned to Mordred, and waited. 172
He said directly: "We have not met before,
madam, but I have seen you."
She looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "The
castle at Luguval- lium? I knew you were
nearby. You were hiding in the courtyard?"
"Yes." He added, wryly: "You cost me my
liberty. I was trying to run away."
"Yes. You were afraid. But now you know that there was
no reason for your fear."
He hesitated. Her tone was cold still, her
look hostile. "Then why did you stop me? Did
you hope then that the King would have me put to death?"
Her brows went up. "Why do you ask that?" "Because
of the prophecy."
"Who told you about it? Ah, yes, Morgause.
No. I warned Urbgen to keep you close and see
that you got to Camelot, because it is always better
to keep a danger where one can see it, than let it
vanish, and then wonder from what direction it will
strike."
"So you agree that I am a danger. You believe
in the prophecy." "I must."
"Then you have seen it, too? In the crystal, or the
pool, or--" He glanced towards the instrument by the
window. "--The stars?" For the first time there was something
other than hostility in her look. She was watching
him with curiosity, and a hint of puzzlement. She said
slowly: "Merlin saw, and he made the prophecy,
and I am Merlin."
"Then you can tell me why, if Merlin
believed his own prophetic voices, he let the
King keep me alive in the first place? I know why
Morgause did;
she saved me because she thought I would be his bane.
She told me so, and then when I was grown she tried
to enlist me as his enemy. But why did Merlin even
let her bear me?"
She was silent for a few moments. The grey eyes
searched him, as if they would draw the secrets from the
back of his brain. Then she spoke.
"Because he would not see Arthur stained with the wrong of
murder, whatever the cause. Because he was wise enough
to see that we cannot turn the gods aside, but must
follow as best we can the paths they lay out for us.
Because he knew that out of seeming evil can come great
good, and out of welldoing may come bane and death. Because
he saw also that in the moment of Arthur's death his
glory would have reached and passed its fullness, but that
by that death the glory would live on to be a light and a
trumpet-call and a breath of life for men to come."
When she stopped speaking it seemed as if a faint
echo of her voice, like a harp string thrumming, wound
on and on in the air, to vibrate at last
into silence.
173
At length Mordred spoke. "But you must know that
I would not willingly bring evil to the King. I owe
him much, and none of it evil. He knew this
prophecy from the start, and, believing it, yet took
me into his court and accepted me as his son. How,
then, can you suppose that I would willingly harm him?"
She said, more gently: "It does not have to be by your
will." "Are you trying to tell me that I can do nothing
to avert this fate that you speak of?"
"What will be, will be," she said.
"You cannot help me?"
"To avoid what is in the stars? No."
Mordred, with a movement of violent impatience,
got to his feet. She did not move, even when he
took a stride forward and towered over her, as if he
would strike her.
"This is absurd! The stars! You talk as if men
are sheep, and worse than sheep, to be driven by blind
fate to do the will of some ill-wishing god! What of my
will? Am I, despite anything I may wish or
do, condemned to be the death or bane of a man I
respect, a king I follow? Am I to be a
sinner--more, the worst of sinners, a parricide?
What gods are these?"
She did not reply. She tilted her
head back, still watching him steadily.
He said, angrily: "Very well. You have said, and
Merlin has said, and Queen Morgause, who like you
was a witch"--her eyes nickered at that, perhaps with
annoyance, and he felt a savage pleasure at
getting through to her--"that through me the King will meet his
doom. You say I cannot avoid this. So? How if
I took my dagger--thus--and killed myself here and
now? Would that not avert the fate that you say hangs in
the stars?"
She had not stirred at the dagger's flash, but now
she moved. She rose from her stool and crossed to the
window. She stood there with her back to him, looking
out. Beyond the open frame was a pear tree, where a
blackbird sang.
She spoke without turning.
"Prince Mordred, I did not say that Arthur
would meet his doom by your hand or even by your action.
Through your existence is all. So kill yourself now if
you will it, but through your death his fate might come on him
all the sooner."
"But then--" he began desperately.
She turned. "Listen to me. Had Arthur slain
you in infancy, it might have happened that men would have
risen against him for his cruelty, and that in the
uprising he would have been killed. If you kill yourself
now, it might be that your brothers, blaming him, would
bring him to ruin. Or even that Arthur himself, spurring
here to Applegarth at the news, would take a fall
from his horse and die, or lie a cripple while his
kingdom

crumbled round him." She lifted her hands. "Now
do you understand? Fate has more than one arrow. The
gods wait behind cloud." "Then they are cruel!"
"You know that already, do you not?"
He remembered the sickening smell of the burned
cottage, the feel of the sea-washed bone in his hand,
the lonely cry of the gulls over the beach.
He met the grey eyes, and saw compassion there.
He said quietly: "So what can a man do?"
"All that we have," she said, "is to live what
life brings. Die what death comes."
"That is black counsel."
"Is it?" she said. "You cannot know that."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that you cannot know what life will bring. All
I can tell you is this: that whatever years of life are
left for you and for your father, they will see ambition
realized, and will bring fulfilment and their need
of glory, both for him and for you."
He stood silent at that. It was more than he had
imagined or expected, that she would give him not
only a qualified hope, but the promise of a
life fulfilled. v
He said: "So it won't serve for me to leave
court, and stay away from him?"
"No."
He smiled for the first time. "Because he wants me
where he can see me? Because the arrow by daylight is
better to face than the knife in the dark?"
There was a glimmer of a smile in reply. "You
are like him," was all she said, but he felt the
interview begin to lighten. A sombre lady, this
one. She was beautiful, yes, but he would as soon,
he thought, have touched a rousing falcon.
"You can't tell me any more? Anything?"
"I do not know more."
"Would Merlin know? And would he tell me?"
"What he knew, I know," she said again. "I
told you, I am Merlin." "You said this before. Is it
some kind of riddling way of telling me that his power is
gone, or just that I may not approach him?" He
spoke with renewed impatience. "All my life
I seem to have been listening to rumours of
magical deaths and vanishings, and they are never
true. Tell me straightly, if you will: if I go
to Bryn Myr.in, will I find him?"
"If he wishes it, yes."
"Then he is still there?"
"He is where he always was, with all his fires and
travelling glories round him."
r 175
I As they talked the sun had moved round, and the
light from the window touched her face. He saw faint
lines on the smooth brow, the shadow of fatigue under
the eyes, a dew of transparency on her skin.
He said abruptly: "I am sorry if I have
wearied you."
She did not deny it. She said merely: "I am
glad you came," and fol lowed him to the tower
doorway.
"Thank you for your patience," he said, and drew
breath for a formal farewell, but a shout from the
courtyard below startled him. He swung round and
looked down. Nimue came swiftly to his
elbow. "You'd better go down, and hurry! Your
horse has slipped his tether, and I think he has
eaten some of the new seedlings." Her face lit with
mischief, young and alive, like that of a child who
misbehaves in a shrine. "If Varro kills you
with his spade, as seems likely, we shall see how the
fates will deal with that!"
He kissed her hand and ran down to retrieve his
horse. As he rode away she watched him with
eyes that were once again sad, but no longer hostile.

Mordred was half afraid that the King would ask
him what his business had been with Nimue, but he
did not. He sent for his son next day and spoke
of the proposed visit to the Saxon king, Cerdic.
"I would have left you in charge at home, which would have
been useful experience for you, but it will be even more
useful for you to meet Cerdic and attend the talks,
so as ever I am leaving Bedwyour. I might almost
say as regent, since officially I am leaving my
own kingdom for a foreign one. Have you ever met a
Saxon, Mordred?" "Never. Are they really all
giants, who drink the blood of babies?" The
King laughed. "You will see. They are certainly most
of them big men, and their customs are outlandish. But
I am told, by those who know them and can speak their
tongue, that their poets and artists are to be
respected. Their fighting men certainly are. You will
find it interesting."
"How many men will you take?"
"Under truce, only a hundred. A regal
train, no more."
"You can trust a Saxon to keep a truce?"
"Cerdic, yes, though with most Saxons it's a
case of trust only from strength, and keep the
memory of Badon still green. But don't repeat
that," said Arthur.
Agravain was also in the chosen hundred, but neither
Gawain nor Gar- eth. These two had gone north
together soon after the council meeting. Gawain had
spoken of travelling to Dunpeldyour and perhaps thence
to Orkney, and, though suspecting that his nephew's
real quest was far otherwise, Arthur could think of no
good reason for preventing him. Hoping that Lamorak
might have ridden westward to join his brother under
Drus- tan's standard, he had to content himself with
sending a courier into Dumnonia with a warning.
The King and his hundred set out on a fine and
blowy day of June. Their way took them over the
high downs. Small blue butterflies and
dappled fritillaries fluttered in clouds over the
flowery turf. Larks sang. Sunlight fell in
great gold swaths over the ripening cropfields, and
peasants, white with the blowing chalk dust,
looked up from their work and saluted the party with
smiles. The troop rode at ease, talking and
laughing together, and the mood was light. Except,
apparently, for Agravain. He drew alongside
Mordred where he was riding a little apart, some way behind
the King, who was talking with Cei and Bors.
"Our first sally with the High King, and look at it.
A carnival." He spoke with contempt. "All that
talk of war, and kingdoms changing hands, and raising
armies to defend our shores again, and this is all it
comes to! He's getting old, that's what it is.
We should drive these Saxons back into the sea first,
and then it would be time enough to talk. . . . But no!
What do we do? Here we ride with the duke of
battles, and on a peace mission. To Saxons.
Ally with Saxons? Pah!" He spat. "He
should have let me go with Gawain."
"Did you ask to?"
"Of course."
"That was a peace mission, too," said Mordred,
woodenly, looking straight between his horse's ears.
"There was no trouble forecast in Dun- peldyour,
only a little diplomatic talking with Tydwal, and
Gareth along to keep it muted."
"Don't play the innocent with me!" said
Agravain angrily. "You know , why he's gone."
"I can guess. Anyone can guess. But if he
does find Lamorak, or news of him, let us
hope that Gareth can persuade him to show a little sense.
Why else do you suppose Gareth asked to go?"
Mordred turned and looked straight at
Agravain. "And if he should come across Gaheris, you
may hope the same thing yourself. I suppose you know
where Gaheris is? Well, if Gawain catches
up with either of them, you'd best know nothing about it. And
I want to know nothing."
"You? You're so deep in the King's counsels that
I'm surprised you haven't warned him."
"There was no need. He must know as well as you do
what Gawain hopes to do. But he can't mew him up
for ever. What the King cannot prevent, he will not waste
time over. All he can do is hope, probably in
vain, that wise counsel will prevail."
"And if Gawain does run across Lamorak, which
might happen, even by accident, what do you expect
him to do then?" "Lamorak must protect himself.
He's quite capable of it." He added: "Live what
life brings. Die what death comes."
Agravain stared. "What? What sort of talk
is that?" "Something I heard recently. So
what about Gaheris? Are you content for Gawain to run
across him, too?"
"He'll not find Gaheris," said Agravain
confidently. "Oh, so you do know where he is?"
"What do you think? He got word to me, of
course. And the King doesn't know that, you may be
sure! He's not as all-knowing as you think, 178
brother." He slid a sideways look at
Mordred, and his lowered voice was sly. "There's quite
a lot that he doesn't see."
Mordred did not answer, but Agravain went on
without prompting: "Else he'd hardly go off on
an unnecessary jaunt like this and leave Bedwyour in
Camelot."
"Someone has to stay."
"With the Queen?"
Mordred turned to look at him again. The tone,
the look, said what the bare words had not expressed.
He spoke with contemptuous anger: "I'm no
fool, nor am I deaf. I hear what the dirty
tongues say. But you'd best keep yours clean,
brother."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I don't need to. Let the King once hear
--" "If it's true they're lovers, he
ought to hear."
"It cannot be true! Bedwyour is close to the King
and Queen, yes, but--" "And they do say the husband
is always the last to guess." Mordred felt a
wave of fury so strong that it startled him. He
began to speak, then, glancing towards the King's
back and the riders to either side, said merely, in a
low, suppressed voice: "Leave it. It's
fool's talk anywhere, and here you might be
overheard. And keep your tongue off it with me. I
want no part of it."
"You were ready enough to listen when your own mother's
virtue was questioned."
Mordred said, exasperated: "Questioned! I was there,
my God! I saw her lying with him!"
"And cared so little that you let the man escape!"
"Let it go, Agravain! If Gaheris had
killed Lamorak there, while the King was still
negotiating with Drustan to leave Dumnonia and
join the Companions--"
"You thought of that? Then? With her--them--that in front
of your eyes?"
"Yes."
Agravain stared with bolting eyes. The blood
flushed his cheeks and ran into his forehead.
Then, with a sound of contempt and helpless fury, he
reined his horse back so sharply that blood sprang
on the bit. Mordred, relieved of his presence,
rode on alone, until Arthur, turning, saw him
there and beckoned him forward. "See! There is the
border. And we are awaited. The man in the center,
the fair man in the blue mantle, that's Cerdic
himself."
Cerdic was a big disman, with silvery hair and
beard, and blue eyes. He wore a long robe of
grey, with over it a caped blue mantle. He was
un-

armed save for his dagger, but a page behind him bore
his sword, the heavy Saxon broadsword, sheathed
in leather bound with worked gold. On his long,
carefully combed hair was a tall crown also of
gold, elaborately chased, and in his left hand he
held a staff which, from its golden finial and carved
shaft, appeared to be a staff of royal office.
Beside him waited an interpreter, an elderly man
who, it transpired, had been son and grandson of
federates, and had spent all his life within the bounds
of the Saxon Shore. Behind Cerdic stood his thegns,
or warrior lords, dressed like their king
save that where he wore a crown, they had tall
caps of brightly coloured leather. Their horses,
small beasts that showed almost like ponies beside Arthur's
carefully bred cavalry mounts, were held in the
background by their grooms.
Arthur and his party dismounted. The kings greeted one
another, two tall men, richly dressed and
glittering with jewels, dark and fair, eyeing one
another over the unspoken truce like big dogs
held back on leash. Then, as if some spark of
liking had suddenly been kindled between them, they both
smiled and, each at the same moment, held out a
hand. They grasped one another's arms, and kissed.
It was the signal. The ranks of tall blond
warriors broke, moving forward with shouts of
welcome. The grooms came running forward with the
horses, and the party remounted. Mordred, beckoned
forward by the King, received Cerdic's ceremonial
kiss, then found himself riding between the Saxon king and a
red-haired thegn who was a cousin of Cerdic's
queen.
It was not far to the Saxon capital, perhaps an
hour's ride, and they took it slowly. The two
kings seemed content to let their mounts pace gently,
side by side, while they talked, with the
interpreter craning to catch and relay what was said.
Mordred, on Cerdic's other side, could hear
little, and after a while ceased trying to listen through the
shouts and laughter of the troop, as Saxon and
Briton tried to make themselves mutually understood.
He and his neighbour, with gestures and grins,
managed to exchange names: the red-haired thegn was
called Bruning. A few of the Saxons--those who
had spent all their lives in the federated
territories of the Shore--knew enough of the others'
language; these were mostly the older men; the younger men
on both sides had to depend on goodwill and
laughter to establish some sort of rapport.
Agravain, scowling, rode apart with a small group
of the younger Britons, who talked among themselves in low
tones, and were ignored. Mordred, looking about him,
found plenty to interest him in the landscape that very soon
began, even in the scant miles traversed, to look
foreign. Lacking anbledtionterpreter, he and Bruning
contented themselves with

exchanging smiles from time to time, and occasionally
pointing to some feature that they passed. The fields
here were differently tilled; the instruments used by the
working peasants were strange, some crude,
some ingenious. Such buildings as they passed were very
different from the stone- built structures he knew;
here little stone was used, but the huts and shippons of the
peasants showed great skill in the working of wood. The
grazing cattle and flocks looked fat and well
cared for.
A flock of geese, screaming, flapped across the
road, sending the foremost of the horses rearing and
plunging. The goosegirl, a flaxen child with round
blue eyes and a lovely face aflame with
blushes, scampered after them, waving her stick.
Arthur, laughing, threw her a coin, and she called
something in response, caught it, and ran off after her
geese. The Saxons, it seemed, were not in awe of
kings; indeed, the cavalcade that Agravain had
angrily called a carnival now really began
to bear that appearance. The younger men whistled and called
after the running girl, who had kilted her long
skirts up and was running as lightly as a boy, with a
free display of long bare legs. Bruning,
pointing, leaned across towards Mordred. "Hwcetl
Fazger mcEgden!"
Mordred nodded with a smile, then realized with
surprise what had been slowly coming through to him now for
some minutes. Through the shouting and laughter had
come words here and there, and sometimes phrases, which, without
consciously translating, he found himself understanding.
"A fair maid! See!" The half-musical,
half-guttural sounds were linked in his brain
to images of his childhood: the smell of the sea, the
tossing boats, the voices of fishermen, the beauty
of the sharp-prowed ships that sometimes crossed the fishing
grounds of the islanders; the big blond sailors who
put into the Orcadian harbours in rough weather
to shelter, or in fine weather to trade. He did not
think they had been Saxons, but there must be many words
and inflections common to Saxon and Norseman
alike. He set himself to listen, and found sense coming
back to him in snatches, as of poems learned in
infancy.
But, being Mordred, he said nothing, and gave no
sign. He rode on, listening.
Then they crossed the brow of a grassy hill, and the
Saxon capital lay below them.
Mordred's first thought, on sighting Cerdic's
capital, was that it was little more than a crudely
built village. His second was amusement at the
distance he, the fisherman's son, had travelled
since the days when an even cruder village in the
islands had struck him dumb with excitement
and admiration.
The so-called capital of Cerdic was a large
scattered collection of wooden buildings enclosed
by a palisade. Within the palisade, centrally,

stood the king's house, a big oblong
structure, barnlike in size and made entirely
of wood, with a steeply pitched roof of wattled
thatch and a central vent for smoke. There was a door
at either end of the hall, and windows, narrow and high,
set at intervals along the walls. It was
symmetrically built, and one would have said handsome,
until memory recalled the gilded towers of
Camelot and the great Roman-based stone
structures of Caerieon or Aquae Sulis.
The other houses, also symmetrically built but much
smaller, clustered around the king's house, apparently
at random. Among them, beside them, even alongside
their walls, stood the sheds for the beasts. The open
spaces between the buildings swarmed with hens, pigs and
geese, and children and dogs played in and out of the wheels
of ox-carts, or among the scattered trees where the
woodpiles stood. The air smelled of dung and
freshly mown grass and wood-smoke. The big
gates stood wide open. The party rode
through, under a crossbeam from which blew Cerdic's
pennant, a slim, forked blue flag that cracked in
the breeze like a whiplash. At the door of the hall
stood Cerdic's queen, ready to receive the visitors
into her house as her husband had received them into the
kingdom's boundaries. She was almost as tall as her
husband, crowned like him, and with her long flax-hair
plaits bound with gold. She greeted Arthur, and
after him Mordred and Cei, with the ceremonial kiss
of welcome, and thereafter, to Mordred's surprise,
accompanied the royal party into the hall. The rest
of the troop stayed outside, where, in time, the distant
shouting and the clash of metal and the hammering of hoofs
indicated that the younger warriors, Saxons and
British together, were competing in sport on the field
outside the palisade.
The royal party, with the interpreter in attendance,
seated themselves beside the central hearth, where the fire,
freshly piled, was not yet lighted. Two girls,
like fair copies of Cerdic, came carrying jugs
of mead and ale. The queen herself, rising, took the
jugs from her daughters' hands and poured for the guests.
Then the maidens went, but the queen remained, seating
herself again on her lord's left. The talk,
necessarily slowed by the need for
translation, went on through the afternoon. For a beginning, the
discussion kept mainly to home matters, trade and
markets, and a possible revision, in the future, of the
boundary between the kingdoms. Only as a corollary
to this, the talk turned eventually on the possibility
of mutual military
aid. Cerdic was already conscious of the growing
pressures being exerted against his countrymen in their
ever-narrowing territory on the Continent. The East
Saxons, more vulnerable than Cerdic's people, were already
seeking alliances with the English between the Thames and the
Humber. He himself had approached the Middle
Saxons of Suthrige. When Arthur asked if
he,

Cerdic, had also explored an alliance with the
South Saxons, whose kingdom, in the far south-east
corner of Britain, was the nearest landfall for any
ships from across the Narrow Sea, Cerdic was guarded.
Since the death of the great leader of the South Saxons,
Aelle, there had been no ruler of note.
"Nithings" was the West Saxon king's expressive
word. Arthur did not pursue the question, but turned to the
news from the Continent. Cerdic had not heard of the death
of Clodomir's children, and looked grave as
he considered the probable changes that would ensue, and the
increasingly hazardous position of Brittany, the
only buffer state between the Shore territories of
Britain and the threatened Prankish kingdoms. As the
time wore on, it no longer seemed so outlandish an
idea that at some time in the near future, Briton
and Saxon might have to be at one in the defense of
their country's shores.
At length the talk came to a close. In the
doorway of the hall the sunlight slanted low and
mellow. From the field outside, the sounds of sport
had died down. Cattle were lowing as they were driven in
for milking, and the smell of wood fires sharpened the
air. The breeze had dropped. The queen rose and
left the hall, and presently servants came
running to set the boards up for supper, and to thrust a
torch into the kindling for the fire.
Somewhere, a horn sounded. The warriors,
Cerdic's and Arthur's together, came in still gay with
their sport, and took their places, apparently at
random, at the long tables, where, shouting as loudly as
if still out on the open down, and hammering on the board
with the handles of their daggers, they called for food and
drink. The noise was tremendous. Arthur's
Companions, after a few moments of deafened
confusion, cheerfully joined in the tumult.
Language ceased to matter. What was being said was more
than clear to everyone. Then a fresh shouting arose as
ale and mead were brought in, and after that the great trays
of roasted meats, still smoking and sizzling from the ovens;
and the Saxon thegns, who until then had been trying,
with gestures and yells of laughter, to communicate,
ceased abruptly and turned all their ferocious
attention to eating and drinking. Someone handed Mordred
a horn--it was polished like ivory and most
beautifully mounted with gold--someone else filled it
till it slopped over, then he in his turn had
to give his full attention to his platter, which soon
meant parrying his neighbours' efforts to pile his dish
again and again with the best of the food.
The ale was strong and the mead stronger. Many of the
warriors were soon drunk, and slept where they sat.
Some, too, of Arthur's train succumbed to the
overwhelming hospitality, and began to doze.
Mordred, still sober, but knowing that he was only so by an
effort, narrowed his eyes against the low sun from the open
door, and looked to see how the kings caret

were faring. Cerdic was flushed, and leaning back in his
chair, but still talked; Arthur, though his
platter was empty, looked as cool as might be in
that heated hall. Mordred saw how he had done it:
His big hound, Cabal, lay by his chair, licking
his chops under the table. The sun set, and presently
torches were lit, filling the hall with smoky light.
In the still evening the fire burned brightly, the smoke
filtering up through the vent in the thatch, or drifting
among the diners to make them cough and wipe their eyes.
At length, when the platters were empty, and the drinking
horns held out less frequently for filling, the
entertainment began.
First came a troop of gleemen, who danced to the
music of trumpets and horns, and with them a pair of
jugglers who, first with coloured balls, then with daggers
or with anything those lords still sober threw to them, made
dazzling patterns in the smoky air. The two kings
threw money down, and the gleemen, scooping it up,
bowed and went, still jigging and dancing. Then the harper
took his place. He was a thin dark man, in an
embroidered robe that looked costly. He set his
stool near the hearth, and bent his head to tune the
strings. Mordred saw Arthur turn his head quickly
at the sound, then sink back in his chair to listen, his
face in shadow.
Gradually the noise in the hall sank
to a silence qualified only by some drunken snoring,
and an occasional snarling wrangle from the dogs
fighting in the straw for scraps.
The harper began to sing. His voice was true, and,
as such men are, he was learned in tongues. He
sang first in the guests' language, a love song,
and then a lament. Then, in his own tongue, he sang
a song which, after the first half-dozen lines, held every
man there who could hear it, whether he understood the words
or not.
. . . Sad, sad the faithful man
Who outlives his lord.
He sees the world stand waste
As a wall blown on by the wind,
As an empty castle, where the snow
Sifts through the window-frames,
Drifts on the broken bed
And the black hearthstone. . . .
Bruning the redhead, who was opposite Mordred,
was sitting as still as a mouse, with the tears running down
his face. Mordred, moved at the touch of some
long-forgotten grief, had to exert all his
self-command not to show his own emotion. Suddenly, as
if his name had been called, he turned to find his father
watching him. The two men's eyes, so like,
locked and held.

In Arthur's was something of the look that he had seen
in Nimue's: a helpless sadness. In his own, he
knew, were rebellion and a fierce will. Arthur
smiled at him and looked away as the applause
began. Mordred got swiftly to his feet and
went out of the hall. Throughout the long feasting men had
gone out from time to time to relieve themselves, so no one
queried his going, or even glanced after him.
The gates were shut, but within the palisade the
place was clear. Beasts, poultry and children had all
been herded in with sunset to supper and bed, and now the
menfolk and their women were mostly withindoors. He
paced slowly along in the shadow of the palisade,
trying to think.
Nimue and her stark message: Your will is
nothing, your existence is all. The King, who many
years back had had the same message, and had
left it to those cruel, clouded gods . . . But there
would be ambition fulfilled, and his due of glory.
Not, of course, that a practical man believed in
such soothsaying. Nor could he believe, by the same
token, in the prophecies of doom. . . . He
pressed a palm to his forehead. The air
felt cool and sweet after the smoky reek of the
hall. Gradually his brain cleared. He knew how
far he must be from realizing his ambitions, those secret
ambitions and desires. It would be many years,
surely, before he or the King need fear what the
evil gods might have in store. What Arthur had
done for him all those years ago, he could do for
Arthur now. Forget "doom," and wait for the future
to show itself. A movement in the shadow of a tall
woodpile caught his eye. A man, one of
Arthur's followers. Two men; no, three. One
of them moved across the glow of a distant cooking fire,
and Mordred recognized Agravain. Not out here
simply to relieve himself. He had seated himself on
the shaft of that cart that stood empty by the woodpile,
and his two companions stood by him, bending near and
talking eagerly. One of them, Calum, he knew;
the other he thought he recognized. Both were young
Celts, close friends of Agravain and formerly of
Gaheris. When Agravain had left Mordred's
side in anger during the ride, he had re-joined the
group where these two were riding, and snatches of their
conversation had come from time to time to Mordred's ears.
Abruptly, all thought of Nimue and her cloudy
stars went from his head. The Young Celts; the
phrase had recently taken on something of a
political meaning, in the sense of a party of young
fighting men drawn mostly from the outland Celtic
kingdoms, who were impatient with "the High King's
peace" and the centralization of lowland government, and
bored with the role of peaceful law-enforcement created for
his knights- errant. There had been little open
opposition; the young men tended to sneer at the "old
man's market-place" of the Round Hall; they
talked

among themselves, and some of the talk, it was rumoured,
verged on sedition.
Such as the whispering, which in recent weeks had
grown as if somehow carefully fostered, about Bedwyour
and Queen Guinevere. Mordred moved silently
away until a barn interposed its bulk between him
and the little group of men. Pacing, head bent, brain
working coolly now, he thought back.
It was true that in all his close dealings with them,
he had never seen the Queen favour Bedwyour by word
or look above other men, except as Arthur's
chief friend, and in Arthur's presence. Her bearing
towards him was, if anything, almost too
ceremonious. Mordred had wondered,
sometimes, at the air of constraint that could occasionally be
felt between two people who had known one another for so
long, and in such intimacy. No --he checked himself
--not constraint. Rather, a distance carefully kept, where
no distance seemed to be necessary. Where in fact distance
seemed hardly to matter. Several times Mordred
had noticed that Bedwyour seemed to know what the Queen
meant without her having to put her thoughts into words. He
shook the thought away. This was poison, the poison
Agravain had tried to distil. He would not even think
this way. But there was one thing he could do. Like it or not,
he was linked with the Orkney brothers, and lately
most closely with Agravain. If Agravain
approached him again, he would listen, and find out if the
Young Celts' dissatisfaction was anything more than the
natural rebellion of young men against the rule of
their elders. As for the whispering campaign concerning
Bedwyour and the Queen, that was surely only a matter
of policy, too. A wedge driven in between Arthur
and his oldest friend, the trusted regent who held his
seal and acted as his other self, that would be the aim of
any party seeking to weaken the High King's position
and undermine his policies. There, too, he must
listen; there, too, if he dared, he must warn the
King. Of the slanders only;
there were no facts; there was no truth in tales of
Bedwyour and the Queen. . . .
He pushed the thought aside with a violence that was,
he told himself, a tribute to his loyalty to his
father, and his gratitude to the lovely lady who had
shown such kindness to the lonely boy from the islands.
On the ride home he stayed away from
Agravain. 8
He could not avoid him, though, once they were back
in Camelot. Some time after their return from
Cerdic's capital the King sent again for Mordred,
and asked him to stay close and watch his
half-brother. It transpired that word had come from
Drustan, the famous fighting captain whom Arthur
had hoped to attract to his standard, that, his term of
service in Dumnonia being done, he himself, his
northern stronghold and his troop of trained fighting
men would soon be put at the High King's disposal.
He was even now on his way north to his castle of
Caer Mord, to put it in readiness, before coming on
himself to Camelot.
"So far, good," said Arthur. "I need Caer
Mord, and I had hoped for this. But Drustan, for
some affair of honour in the past, is sworn
blood- brother to Lamorak, and has,
moreover, Lamorak's own brother, Drian, at
present in his service. I believe you know this.
Well, he has already made it clear that he will
require me to invite Lamorak back
to Camelot."
"And will you?"
"How can I avoid it? He did no wrong.
Perhaps he chose his time badly, and perhaps he was
deceived, but he was betrothed to her. And even if he had
not been," said the King wryly, "I am the last man
living who would have the right to condemn him for what he
did."
"And I the next."
The King sent him a glance that was half a smile,
but his voice was sober. "You see what will happen.
Lamorak will come back, and then, unless the three
older brothers can be brought to see reason, we shall have
a blood feud that will split the Companions
straight through." "So Lamorak is with Drustan?"
"No. Not yet. I have not told you the rest. I
know now that he went to Brittany, and has been
lodging there with Bedwyour's cousin, who keeps
Benoic for him. I have had letters. They tell me that
Lamorak has left Benoic, and it is believed
that he has taken ship for Northumbria.
It seems likely that he knows of Drustan's
plans, and hopes to join him at Caer Mord.
What is it?"
"Northumbria," said Mordred. "My lord, I
believe--I know--that Agravain is in touch with
Gaheris, and I also have reason to suspect that
Gaheris is somewhere in Northumbria."
"Near Caer Mord?" asked Arthur sharply.

"I don't know. I doubt it. Northumbria
is a big country, and Gaheris surely cannot know of
Lamorak's movements."
"Unless he has news of Drustan's, and
makes a guess, or Agravain has heard some
rumour here at court, and got word to him," said
Arthur. "Very well. There is only one thing to do:
get your brothers back here to Camelot, where they
may be watched and to some extent controlled. I shall
send to Gawain with a strong warning, and summon him
south again. Eventually, if I have to, and if
Lamorak will agree, I shall let Gawain oner him
combat, here, and publicly. That should surely
suffice to cool this bad blood. How Gawain
receives Gaheris is his own affair; there, I cannot
interfere."
"You'd have Gaheris back?"
"If he is in Northumbria, and Lamorak
is making for Caer Mord, I must."
"On the principle that it is better to watch the
arrow flying, than leave it to strike unseen?"
For a moment Mordred thought he had made a
mistake. The King flashed a quick glance at him, as
if about to ask a question. Perhaps Nimue had used the
same image to him, and about Mordred himself. But
Arthur passed it by. He said: "I shall leave this
to you, Mordred. You say that Agravain is in touch
with his twin. I shall let it be known that the sentence on
Gaheris is rescinded, and send Agravain to bring
him back. I shall insist that you go with him. It's the
best I can do; I distrust them, but beyond sending you I
dare not show it. I can hardly send troops to make
sure they come back. Do you think he will accept this?"
"I think so. I'll contrive it somehow."
"You realize that I am asking you to be a spy?
To watch your own kinsmen? Is this something you can bring
yourself to do?" Mordred said, abruptly: "Have you ever
watched a cuckoo in the nest?" "No."
"They are all over the moors at home. Almost
as soon as they are hatched, they throw their kin out of the
nest, and remain--" He had been going
to add "to rule," but stopped himself in time. He did
not even know that he had thought the words. He finished,
lamely: "I only meant that I shall be breaking no
natural law, my lord." The King smiled.
"Well, I am the first to assert that my son would be
better than any of Lot's. So watch Agravain
for me, Mordred, and bring them both back here. Then
perhaps," he finished a little wearily, "given time, the
Orkney swords may go back into the sheath."
Soon after this, on a bright day at the beginning of
October, Agravain followed Mordred as he
walked through the market-place in Camelot, and
overtook him near the fountain.

"* *
"I have the King's permission to ride north. But not
alone, he says. And you are the only one of the
knights he can spare. Will you come with me?"
Mordred stopped, and allowed a look of
surprise to show. "To the islands? I think not."
"Not to the islands. D'you think I'd go there in
October? No." Agravain lowered his voice,
though no one was near except two children dabbling their
hands in the fountain. "He tells me that he will
revoke the ban on Gaheris. He'll
let him come back to court. He asked me where he
might send the courier, but I told him I was
pledged, and couldn't break a pledge. So he says
now that I may go myself to bring him back, if you go with
me." A sneer, thinly veiled. "It seems he
trusts you."
Mordred ignored the sneer. "This is good news.
Very well, I'll go with you, and willingly. When?"
"As soon as may be."
"And where?"
Agravain laughed. "You'll find out when you get
there. I told you I was pledged."
"You've been in touch all this time, then?" "Of
course. Wouldn't you expect it?"
"How? By letter?"
"How could he send letters? He has no scribe
to read or write for him. No, from time to time I've
had messages from traders, fellows like that merchant
over there who is setting up his cloth stall. So
get yourself ready, brother, and we'll go in the
morning."
"A long journey? You'll have to tell me that, at
least." "Long enough."
The children, back at their play, sent a ball
rolling past Mordred's feet. He
reached a toe after it, flipped it up, caught it, and
sent it back to them. He dusted his hands together,
smiling. "Very well. I'd like to go with you. It will be
good to ride north again. You still won't tell me where
we'll be bound for?" "I'll show you when we get
there," repeated Agravain.
They came at length, at the end of a dull and
misty afternoon, to a small half-ruined turret on the
Northumbrian moors. The place was wild and
desolate. Even the empty moors of mainland
Orkney, with their lochs, and the light that spoke of the
ever-present sea, seemed lively in comparison with
this. On every hand stretched the rolling fells, the heather
dark purple in the misty light of evening. The sky
was piled with clouds, and no glimmer of sun spilled
through. The air was still, with no wind, no fresh breath from
the sea. Here and there streams or small rivers, their
courses marked with

alders and pale rushes, divided the hills. The
tower was set in a hollow near one such stream. The
land was boggy, and boulders had been set as
stepping-stones across a stretch of mire. The tower,
thickly covered with ivy, and surrounded with stumps of
mossy fruit trees and elderberries,
seemed, once, to have been a pleasant dwelling; could
be still, on a sunny day. But on this misty autumn
evening it was a gloomy place. At one window of the
tower a dim light showed. They tethered their horses
to a thorn tree, and rapped at the door. It was
opened by Gaheris himself.
He had only been away from court for a few
months, but already he looked as if he had never been
in civilized company. His beard, carrot red, was
half grown, his hair unkempt and hanging loose
over his shoulders. The leather jerkin that he wore was
greased and dirty. But his face lit with pleasure
at seeing the two men, and the embrace he gave
Mordred was the warmest that the latter had yet received
from him.
"Welcome! Agravain, I'd hardly hoped that
you'd get away, and come here to see me! And
Mordred, too. Does the King know? But you'll have
kept your word, I don't need to ask that. It
seems a long time. Ah, well, come in and rest
yourselves. You'll have plenty to tell me, that's for
sure, so be welcome, and come in."
He led them to a smallish room in the curve of the
tower wall, where a peat fire burned, and a lamp was
lit. A girl sat by the hearth, stitching.
She looked up, half shy, half scared at the
sight of company. She had a longish pale face,
not uncomely, and soft brown hair. She was
poorly dressed in a gown of murrey homespun,
whose clumsy folds did nothing to disguise the signs
of pregnancy. "My brothers," said Gaheris.
"Get them something to eat and drink, then see to their
horses."
He made no attempt to present her to them.
She got to her feet, and, murmuring something, gave
a quick, unpracticed curtsey. Then, laying
aside her sewing, she trod heavily to a cupboard
at the other side of the room, and took from it wine and
meat. Over the food, which the girl served to them, the
three men spoke of general things: the turmoil in the
Prankish kingdoms, Brittany's plight, the
Saxon embassy, the comings and goings of Arthur's
knights-errant, and the gossip of the court, though not as
the latter touched the King and Queen. The way the
girl loitered wide-eyed over her serving was warning
enough against talk of that kind. At last, at a
brusque word from Gaheris about the care of the
visitors" horses, she left them.
As the latch fell behind her, Agravain, who had
been straining like a hound in the slips, said
abruptly:

@u s
"It's good news, brother."
Gaheris set his goblet down. Mordred saw, with
fastidious distaste, that his nails were rimmed with
black. He leaned forward. "Tell me, then.
Gawain wants to see me? He knows now that I had
to do it? Or"...@uhis eyes glinted in a quick
sidelong look, very bright@u"...he's found where
Lamorak is, and wants to join forces?" "No,
nothing like that. Gawain's still in Dunpeldyour, and
there's been no word, nothing about Lamorak."
Agravain, never subtle, was patently tell ing
the truth as he knew it. "But good news, all the
same. The King has sent me to take you back
to court. You're free of it, Gaheris, as far as
he's concerned. You're to go back to Camelot with
Mordred and me."
A pause, then Gaheris, flushing to the
eyebrows, let out a yell of glee, and tossed up
his empty goblet and caught it again. With his other hand
he reached for the wine jug, and poured again for all of
them.
"Who's the girl?" asked Mordred.
"Brigit? Oh, her father was steward here. The
place was under a siege of a sort from a couple of
outlaw fellows, and I killed them. So I got the
freedom of the place."
"Freedom indeed." Agravain grinned,
drinking. "What does the father say to it? Or did you
have to wed her?"
"He said the father was steward." Mordred's dry
tone laid slight empha sis on the second
verb.
Agravain stared, then nodded briefly. "Ah.
Yes. No wedding, then?" "None." Gaheris set
his goblet down with a rap. "So forget that. No strings
there. Come, let's have it all."
And, the girl dismissed, the twins plunged
into talk of the King's par don, his possible intentions
and those of Gawain. Mordred, listening, sip ping his
wine, said very little. But he noticed that, surprisingly
enough, Lamorak's name was not mentioned again.
Presently the girl came back, took her seat
again, and picked up her sewing. It was a small,
plain garment of some kind, probably, thought
Mordred, for the coming child. She said nothing, but her eyes
went from one twin to the other, watching and listening
intently. There was anxiety in them now,
even a trace of fear. Neither of the twins made any
attempt to conceal the elation which both felt at
Gaheris's recall to Camelot.
At length, with the lamp guttering and smoking, they
prepared to sleep. Gaheris and the girl had a bed not
far from the fire, and this, apparently, they were ready
to share with Agravain. Mordred, to his relief and
slight surprise, was taken outside into the cool
fresh night and shown a flight of stone steps curving
round the outside of the tower. This led to a small upper
chamber, where the air, though chill, was fresh and
clean, and a pile of heather and rugs made a bed
better than many he had slept on. Tired

from the ride, and the talk, he slipped off his
clothes, and was soon fast asleep.
When he awoke it was morning. Cocks crowed
outside, and a chill grey light filtered through the
cobwebs of the slit window. There was no sound from the
room below.
He threw back the covers and padded barefooted
across to look out of the window. From here he could see the
tumbledown shed that served as stable and henhouse combined.
The girl Brigit was standing there, a basket of eggs
on the ground beside her. She was scattering some
remains of last night's food for the hens, which pecked
and scratched, clucking, round her feet.
The stable was an open structure, back and side
walls, a stone manger, and a sloping roof
supported on pillars made from hewn pine
trunks. From the window he could see the whole of the
interior. And what he saw there sent him back to the
bedplace, to snatch up his clothes and begin to dress
with feverish haste.
There was only one horse standing in the stable. His
own. The ropes that had tied his half-brothers'
beasts trailed in the straw among the strutting hens.
He dressed quickly. No use cursing himself.
Whatever had led his brothers to deceive him and to ride off
without him, he could not have foreseen. He snatched up his
sword belt, and, still buckling it on, ran down the
stone steps. The girl heard him, and turned. "Where
have they gone?" he demanded.
"I don't know. Hunting, I think. They said not
to wake you, and they will come back soon for breakfast."
But she looked scared. "Don't fool with me,
girl. This is urgent. You must have some idea where
they've gone. What do you know?"
"I--no, sir. I don't know. Truly,
sir. But they will come back. Perhaps tomorrow.
Perhaps two days. I will look after you well--" He
was towering over her. He saw that she had begun
to tremble. He took hold of himself, and spoke more
gently. "Listen--Brigit, isn't it? Don't
be afraid of me. I shall not hurt you. But this is
important. It's King's business. Yes, as
important as that. To begin with, how long have they been
gone?" "About four hours, lord. They went even before
dawn."
He bit his lip. Then, still gently: "Good
girl. Now, there must be more that you can tell me. You
must have heard them talking. What did they say? They
were riding out to meet someone, is that it?" "y--yes.
A knight."
"Did they mention a name? Was it Lamorak?"
She was trembling now, and her hands twisted together in
front of her. "Was it? Go on. Speak. You must
tell me."
"Yes. Yes. That was the name. He was an evil
knight who had dishonoured my lord's mother. He told
me of it before."
"Where did they expect to meet this Lamorak?"
"There's a castle on the shore, many miles from here.
When my lord went into the village yesterday, he
heard--the traders pass through, and he goes
for news--he heard that this knight Lamorak was
expected there." The words were tumbling out now. "He
was expected by sea, from Brittany, I think, and
there is no harbour near the castle, no landing that is
safe, with the weather we've been having, so they
expected he would land half a day's ride to the
south, and then, when he had found himself a horse, he
would ride up the coast road. My lord Gaheris
wanted to meet him there, before he got to the castle."
"Waylay him, you mean, and murder him!" said
Mordred savagely. "That is, if Lamorak
does not kill him first. And his brother, too. It's
very possible. He is a veteran, one of the King's
Companions, and a good fighter. He is also a man
dear to the King."
She stared, her face whitening. Her hands crept,
shaking, to clasp one another below her breast, as if
to protect the child who lay there. "If you value your
lord's life," said Mordred grimly, "you'll
tell me everything. This castle. Is it Caer
Mord?" She nodded dumbly.
"Where is it, and how far?" He put out a hand.
"No, wait. Get me some food, quickly, while
I saddle my horse. Anything. You can tell me
the rest later, while I eat. If you
want to save your lord's life, help me to get on
my way. Hurry now."
She caught up the basket of eggs, and ran.
He dashed water over face and hands at the trough,
then threw saddle and bridle on his horse, and,
leaving it tethered, ran back into the tower. The girl
had set bread and meat on the table by the cold ashes
of the fire. She was crying as she poured wine for him.
He drank quickly, and chewed bread, washing it
down with more of the wine.
"Now, quickly. What happened? What more did you
hear?" The threat to Gaheris had loosened her
tongue. She told him readily: "After you'd gone
up last night, sir, they were talking. I was in bed.
I went to sleep, then when my lord did not come to bed,
I woke, and I heard
"Well?"
"He was speaking of this Lamorak, who was coming
to Caer Mord. My lord
was full of joy because he has sworn to kill him,
and now his brother 193
had come, just at the right moment to go with him. He said
--my lord said --that it was the work of the Goddess who had
brought his brother to help him avenge his mother's death.
He had sworn on his mother's blood ..."
She faltered and stopped.
"Yes? Did he tell you who shed his mother's
blood?" "Why, the evil knight! Was it not so,
lord?" "Go on."
"So he was overjoyed, and they planned to ride
straight away, together, without telling you. They did not
come to bed at all. They thought I was asleep, and they
went out very quietly. I--I did not dare let them
know I had heard what was said, but I was afraid, so
I lied to you. My lord talked as if--" she
gulped, "--z if he were mad."
"So he is," said Mordred. "All right. This
is what I feared. Now tell me which way they have
taken." Then, as she hesitated again: "This is an
innocent man, Brigit. If your lord Gaheris
kills him, he will have to answer to the High King
Arthur. Now, don't weep, girl. The ship may
not be in yet, nor Lamorak on the road. If you
tell me the way, I may well catch them before the
harm is done. My horse is rested, where
Agravain's is not." He thought, with a thread of pity
running through the desperate need for haste, that whatever
happened the girl had probably seen the last of her
lover, but there was nothing he could do about that. She was just
another innocent to add to the toll that
Morgause had taken through her life and death. He
poured some of the wine for her, and pushed the cup into her
hand. "Come, drink. It will make you feel better.
Quickly now. The way to Caer Mord."
Even this small act of kindness seemed to overset
her. She drank, and gulped back her tears. "I
am not sure, lord. But if you ride to the village--
that way--and down to the river, you will find a forge there,
and the smith will tell you. He knows all the ways."
And then, sobbing afresh: "He will not come back, will
he? He will be killed, or else he will leave me,
and go south to the great court, and I have nothing, and how will
I care for the child?" Mordred laid three gold
pieces on the table. "These will keep you. And as for the
child--" He stopped. He did not add: "You will do
well to drown it at birth." That went too close
for comfort. He merely said goodbye, and went out into the
grey dawning.
By the time he reached the village the sky was
whitening, and here and there folk were stirring to their work. The
tavern doors were shut, but a hundred paces on,
where the roadway forded a shallow stream, the forge

fires were lit, and the smith stretched himself,
yawning, with a cup of ale in his hand.
"The road to Caer Mord? Why, this road,
master. A matter of a day's ride. Go as far as the
god-stone, then take the eastward track for the sea."
"Did you hear horsemen going this way in the
night?" "Nay, master. When I sleep, I
sleep sound," said the smith. "And the god-stone? How
far?"
The smith ran his expert's eye over
Mordred's horse. "Yon's a good beast you've
got there, master, but you've come a long ways,
maybe? I thought so. Well, then, not pressing him,
say by sunset? And from there, a short half hour to the
sea. It is a good road. You'll be safe at
Caer Mord, and no mishaps, well before dark."
"That I doubt," said Mordred, setting spurs
to his horse, and leaving the smith staring.
To Mordred the Orkney man the god-stone, standing
alone on the rolling moor, was a familiar sight.
And yet not quite familiar. It was a tall standing stone,
set in the lonely center of the moor. He had passed
its mate many a time, single, or standing with others in a
wide ring, on the Orkney moors; but there the stones
were thinly slabbed and very high, toothed or jagged as they
had been broken from the living cliff. This
stone was massive, of some thick grey whinstone
carefully shaped into a thick, tapering pillar. There
was a flat altar-like slab at its base, with a dark
mark on it that might be dried blood. He reached it
at dusk, as the sun, low and red, threw its long
shadow across the black heather. He trotted the tired
horse up to it. At its base the track forked, and
he turned the beast's head to the south-east. From the
pale wild look of the sky ahead, and something more than
familiar in the air that met him, he knew that the
sea could not be far away. Ahead, on the edge of the
heather moor, was a thick belt of woodland.
Soon he was among the trees, and the horse's
hoofs fell silently on the thick felt of
pinedrift and dead leaves. Mordred allowed it
to drop to a walk. He himself was weary, and the horse,
which had gone bravely through the day, was close
to exhaustion. But they had travelled fast, and there was
a chance that he might still be in time. Behind him the
clouds, piling up, stifled the colours of sunset.
With the approach of evening, a wind got up. The
trees rustled and sighed. Sooner than he
expected, the forest began to thin, and lighter sky showed
beyond the trunks. There was a gap there; the gap, perhaps,
where the road ran?
He was answered almost immediately. There must have been
other sounds, of hoofs and clashing metal, but the wind
had carried them away from him, and the sighing of the trees
had drowned them. But now, from almost straight ahead,
there came a cry. Not of warning, or of fear, or
anger, but a cry of joy, followed by a shout of
triumph, and then a yell of laughter, so wild as
to sound half mad. The horse's ears pricked, then
went flat back to its skull, and its eyes rolled
whitely. Mordred struck the spurs in, and the
tired beast lurched into a heavy canter.
In the forest's darkness he missed the narrow
track. The horse was soon blundering through a thicket
of undergrowth, bramble and hazel twined with
honeysuckle, and fly-ridden ferns belly high.
The canter slowed, be-
**
came a trot, a walk, a thrusting progress,
then stopped as Mordred sharply drew rein.
From here, hidden from sight in the deep shadow of the
trees, he could see the level heath that stretched between
the woodland and the sea, and, dividing it, the white line
of the roadway. On this lay Lamorak, dead. Not
far off his horse stood with heaving sides and
drooping head. Beside the body, their arms flung round
one another, laughing and pounding each other's shoulders,
were Agravain and Gaheris. Their horses grazed
nearby unheeded.
At that moment, in a lull of the wind, came the
sound of horses. The brothers stiffened, loosed one
another, ran for their own beasts and mounted hastily.
For a moment Mordred thought they might ride for cover
into the wood where he stood watching, but already it was too
late.
Four horsemen appeared, approaching at a
gallop from the north. The leader was a big man,
armed, on a splendid horse. Straining his eyes in
the twilight, Mordred recognized the leader's
device: It was Drustan himself, come riding with a
couple of troopers to meet the expected guest.
And beside him, of all men in the world, rode Gareth,
youngest of Lot's sons.
Drustan had seen the body. With a ringing shout, he
whipped his sword out and rode down upon the killers.
The two brothers whirled to face him, dressing
themselves to fight, but Drustan, appearing suddenly
to recognize the two assassins, dragged his horse
to a halt and put up his sword. Mordred stayed still
in shadow, waiting. The matter was out of his
hands. He had failed, and if he rode forward now,
nothing he, could say would persuade the newcomers that
he had had no part in Lamorak's murder, nor
any knowledge of it. Arthur would know the truth, but Arthur and
his justice were a long way away.
It seemed, though, that Arthur's justice ran
even here. Drustan, spurring forward with his troopers
at his back, was question ing the brothers. Gareth had
jumped from his horse and was kneeling in the dust beside
Lamorak's body. Then he ran back to the group
of horse men, and grabbed Gaheris's rein,
gesticulating wildly, trying to talk to him.
The brothers were shouting. Words and phrases could be
heard above the intermittent rushing of the wind in the
branches. Gaheris had shaken Gareth off, and he
and Agravain were apparently challenging Drustan
to fight. And Drustan was refusing. His voice
rang out in snatches, clear and hard and high.
"I shall not fight you. You know the King's orders.
Now I shall take this body to the castle yonder and
give it burial. ... Be assured that the next
royal courier will take this news to Camelot. ...
As for you . . ."
"Coward! Afraid to fight us!" The
yells of rage came back on the wind. "We are
not afraid of the High King! He is our kinsman!"
"And shame it is that you come of such blood!" said
Drustan, roundly. "Young though you are, you are already
murderers, and destroyers of good men. This man that you
have killed was a better knight than you could ever be.
If I had been here--"
"Then you would have gone the same way!" shouted
Gaheris. "Even with your men here to protect you--"
"Even without them, it would have taken more than you two
younglings," said Drustan with contempt. He sheathed his
sword and turned his back on the brothers. He
signalled to the men-at-arms, who took up Lamo-
rak's body, and started back with it the way they had
come. Then, hanging on the rein, Drustan spoke
to Gareth, who, mounted once more, was hesitating,
looking from Drustan to his brothers and back again.
Even at that distance it could be seen that his body was
rigid with distress. Drustan, nodding to him, and without
another glance at Gaheris and Agravain, swung
round to follow his men-at-arms. Mordred turned his
horse softly back into the wood. It was over.
Agravain, seemingly sober now, had caught at his
brother's arm and was holding him, apparently reasoning
with him. The shadows were lengthening across the
roadway. The men-at-arms were out of sight. Gareth
was on Gaheris's other side, talking across him
to Agravain. Then, suddenly, Gaheris flung off
his brother's hand, and spurred his horse. He
galloped up the road after Drustan's retreating
back. His over- ready sword gleamed in his hand.
Agravain, after a second's hesitation, spurred
after him, his sword, too, whipping from its sheath.
Gareth snatched for Agravain's bridle, and
missed. He yelled a warning, high and clear:
"My lord, watch! My lord Drustan, your
back!" Before the words were done Drustan had wheeled
his horse. He met the two of them together.
Agravain struck first. The older knight smashed the
blow to one side and cut him across the head. The
sword's edge sliced deep into metal and leather, and
bit into the neck between shoulder and throat. Agravain
fell, blood spurting. Gaheris yelled and
drove his horse in, his sword hacking down as
Drustan stooped from the saddle to withdraw his blade.
But Drustan's horse reared back. Its armed
hoofs caught Gaheris's mount on the chest. It
squealed and swerved, and the blow missed. Drustan
drove his own horse in, striking straight at
Gaheris's shield, and sent him,
off-balance as he was, crashing to the ground, where he
lay still. Gareth was there at the gallop. Drustan,
swinging to face him, saw that his sword was still in its
sheath, and put his own weapon up. Here the
men-at-arms, having left their burden, came
hastening back. 198
At their master's orders, they roughly bound
Agravain's wound, helped Gaheris, giddy but
unharmed, to his feet, then caught the brothers'
horses for them. Drustan, coldly formal, offered
the hospitality of the castle "until your brother shall
be healed of his hurt," but Gaheris, as ungracious
as he had been treacherous, merely cursed and turned
away. Drustan signed to the troopers, who closed
in. Gaheris, shouting again about "my kinsman the
High King," tried to resist, but was overpowered. The
invitation had become an arrest. At length the
troopers rode off at walking pace, with Gaheris
between them, his brother's unconscious body propped
against him. Gareth watched them go, making no move
to follow. He had not stirred a hand to help
Gaheris.
"Gareth?" said Drustan. His sword was clean and
sheathed. "Gareth, what choice have I?"
"None," said Gareth. He shook the
reins and brought his horse round alongside
Drustan's. They rode together towards Caer
Mord. The roadway was empty in the growing dusk.
A thin moon rose over the sea. Mordred,
emerging at last from the shadow, rode south.
That night he slept in the woods. It was
chilly, but wrapped in his cloak he was warm enough,
and for supper there was something left of the bread and meat the
girl had given him. His horse, tethered on a
long rein, grazed in the glade. Next day,
early, he rode on, this time to the south-west. Arthur
would be on his way to Caerleon, and he would meet
him there. There was no haste. Drustan would already have
sent a courier with the news of Lamorak's murder.
Since Mordred had not appeared on the scene the
King would no doubt assume the truth, that the brothers
by some trick had managed to evade him. His
assignment had not been Lamorak's safety; that was
Lamorak's own concern, and he had paid for the risk
he had taken; Mordred's task had been to find
Gaheris and take him south. Now, once the twins'
hurts were healed, Drustan would see to that. Mordred
could still stay out of the affair, and this he was sure the King
would approve. Even if the brothers did not
survive the King's anger, the other
troublemakers among the Young Celts, assuming
Mordred to be ambitious for whatever power he could
grasp for himself, might turn to him and invite him
to join their counsels. This, he suspected, the King
would soon ask him to do. And if you do, murmured that
other, ice-cold voice in his brain, and the
campaign goes on that is to unseat Bedwyour and
destroy him, who better to take his place in the
King's confidence, and the Queen's love, than you, the
King's own son?
m 199
It was a golden October, with chill nights and
bright, crisp days. The mornings glittered with a
dusting of bright frost, and in the evenings the sky was
full of the sound of rooks going home. He took his
time, sparing his horse, and, where he could, lodging in
small, simple places and avoiding the towns. The
loneliness, the falling melancholy of autumn,
suited his mood. He went by smooth hills and
grassy valleys, through golden woods and by steep
rocky passes where, on the heights, the trees were
already bare. His good bay horse was all the company
he needed. Though the nights were cold, and grew
colder, he always found shelter of a sort--a
sheep-cote, a cave, even a wooded
bank--and there was no rain. He would tether the bay
to graze, eat the rations he carried, and roll himself
in his cloak for the night, to wake in the grey,
frost-glittering morning, wash in an icy stream, and
ride on again.
Gradually the simplicity, the silence, the very
hardships of the ride soothed him; he was Medraut the
fisher-boy again, and life was simple and clean.
So he came at last to the Welsh hills, and
Viroconium where the four roads meet. And there,
at the crossways, like another welcome from home,
was a standing stone with its altar at its foot. He
slept that night in a thicket of hazel and holly
by the crossroads, in the lee of a fallen trunk.
The night was warmer, with stars out. He slept, and
dreamed that he was in the boat with Brude, netting
mackerel for Sula to split and dry for winter. The
nets came in laden with leaping silver, and across the
hush of the waves he could hear Sula singing.
He woke to thick mist. The air was warmer; the
sudden change in temperature overnight had brought
the fog. He shook the crowded droplets from his
cloak, ate his breakfast, then on a sudden
impulse took the remains of the food and laid it
on the altar at the foot of the standing stone.
Then, moved by another impulse which he would not begin
to recognize, he took a silver piece from his
wallet and laid it beside the food. Only then did
he realize that, as in his dream, someone was singing.
It was a woman's voice, high and sweet, and the
song was one that Sula had sung. His flesh crept.
He thought of magic, and waking dreams. Then out of the
mist, no more than twelve paces away, came a
man leading a mule with a girl mounted sideways on
its back. He took them at first for a peasant with his
wife going out to work, and then saw that the man was
dressed in a priest's robe, and the girl as
simply, sackcloth and wimple, and the pretty
feet dangling against the mule's ribs were bare. They
were Christians, it appeared; a wooden cross
hung from the man's waist, and a
smaller one lay on the girl's bosom. There was
a silver bell on the mule's collar, which rang as
it moved.
The priest checked in his stride when he saw the
armed man with the big horse, then, as Mordred gave
him a greeting, smiled and came forward.
"Maridunum?" he repeated, in response
to Mordred's query. He pointed to the
road that led due west. "That way is best. It is
rough, but passable everywhere, and it is shorter than the
main road south by Caerieon. Have you come far,
sir?"
Mordred answered him civilly, giving him what
news he could. The man did not speak with a
peasant's accent. He might have been someone gently
bred, a courtier, even. The girl, Mordred saw
now, was beautiful. Even the bare feet, dangling
by the mule's ribs, were clean and white, fine-boned
and veined with blue. She sat silently watching him,
and listening, in no way discomposed by his look.
Mordred caught the priest's glance at the altar
stone where the silver coin gleamed beside the food. "Do
you know whose altar this is? Or whose stone at the
crossways?"
The man smiled. "Not mine, sir. That is all
I know. That is your offering?"
"Yes."
"Then God knows who will receive it," said the man,
gently, "but if you have need of blessing, sir, then my
God can, through me, give it to you. Unless," he
added, on a troubled afterthought, "there is blood on
your hands?"
"No," said Mordred. "But there is a
curse that says I shall have. How do I lift that?"
"A curse? Who laid it?"
"A witch," said Mordred, shortly, "but she
is dead."
"Then the curse may well have died with her."
"But before her, a fate was spoken of, and
by Merlin."
"What fate?"
"That I cannot tell you."
"Then ask him."
"Ah," said Mordred. "Then it is true he
is still there?" "They say so. He is there in his cave
on the hill, for those who have the need or the fortune
to find him. Well then, sir, I cannot help you,
other than give you my Christian blessing, and send you
on your way."
He raised a hand, and Mordred bowed his head,
then thanked him, hesitated over a coin, decided
against it, and rode on. He took the west road
to Maridunum. Soon the mule's bell died out in
the distance, and he was alone again.
He came to the hill called Bryn Myr.in at
dusk, and slept again by a wood. When he woke there
was mist again, with the sun rising behind it. The
haze was tinged with rose, and a faint glimmer showed on
the grey trunks of the beech trees.
He waited patiently, eating the hard biscuit
and raisins that were his breakfast ration. The world was
silent, no movement but the slow eddying of the mist between
the trees, and the steady cropping of the horse. There was
no haste. He had ceased to feel any curiosity
about the old man whom he sought, the King's enchanter
of a thousand legends who had been his enemy (and since
Morgause had said so, he took it without question as a
lie) since the day of his conception. Nor was there any
apprehension. If the curse could be lifted, then no
doubt Merlin would lift it. If not, then no doubt
he would explain it. Quite suddenly, the mist was gone.
A slight breeze, warm for the time of year, rustled
through the wood, swept the eddies aside and dispersed
them down the hillside like smoke from a bonfire.
The sun, climbing the hilltop across the valley,
blazed scarlet and gold into his eyes. The
landscape dazzled.
He mounted, turning towards the sun. Now he
saw where he was. The travelling priest's
directions had been accurate and vivid enough to guide
anyone even through this rolling and featureless landscape.
"By the time you reach the wood, you will have gone
past the upper slopes of Bryn Myr.in. Go down
to the stream, cross it, and you will find a track.
Turn uphill again and ride as far as a grove of
thorn trees. There is a little cliff, with a path
curling up beside it. At the head of the cliff is the
holy well, and by it the enchanter's cave."
He came to the thicket of whitethorn. There, beside
the cliff, he dismounted and tied the horse. He
trod quickly up the path and came out on level
ground and into mist again, thick and still and stained red gold
by the sun, standing as still as lake water over the turf.
He could see nothing. He felt his way forward. The
turf was level and fine. At his feet, peering, he
could just discern small late daisies,
frost-nipped, and shut against the damp. Somewhere to his
left was the trickle of water. The holy well?
He groped forward, but could not find it. He trod
on a stone, which rolled away, almost bringing him to his
knees. The silence, broken only by the trickle
of the spring, was eerie. In spite of himself, he felt
the chill prickles of sweat creep down his spine.
He stopped. He stood squarely, and shouted
aloud. "Ho, there! Is anyone there?"
An echo, ringing from the wall of mist, rebounded again
and again from the invisible depths of the valley,
and died into silence. 202
"Is anyone there? This is Mordred, Prince of
Britain, to speak with Merlin his kinsman. I come in
peace. I seek peace."
Again the echo. Again the silence. He moved
cautiously towards the sound of water, and his groping
fingers touched the stone rim of the well. He stooped
towards the water. Breaths of mist furred and fumed
from the smooth glass of the surface. He bent
nearer. Below that glass the clear depths, darkly
shining, led the eye down, away from the mist. At the
bottom of the well was the gleam of silver, the offerings
to the god.
From nowhere came a memory: the pool below the
ancient tomb where Morgause had bidden him watch
the depths for vision. There he had seen nothing but what
should rightly be there. Here, on the holy hilltop, the
same.
He straightened. Mordred, the realist, did not
know that a burden had dropped from him. He would have said
only that Merlin's magic was no doubt as harmless as
Morgause's. What he had seen as a cursed
fate, foreseen with grief by Merlin and twisted
into evil by Morgause, dwindled in this world of clear
water and lighted mist into its proper form.
It was not even a curse. It was a fact, something
due to happen in the future, that had been seen by an
eye doomed to foresee, whatever the pain of that Seeing.
It would come, yes, but only as, soon or late,
all deaths came. He, Mordred, was not the
instrument of a blind and brutal fate, but of whatever,
whoever, made the pattern to which the world moved. Live
what life brings; die what death comes. He did
not see the comfort even as cold.
Nor did he, in fact, even know that he had
been comforted. He reached for the cup that stood above the
water, filled it and drank, and felt refreshed.
He poured for the god, and as he returned the cup
to its place said, in the tongue of his childhood,
"Thank you," and turned to go.
The mist was thicker than ever, the silence as
intense. The sun was right up now, but the light, instead
of sweeping the air clear, blazed like a fire in the
middle of a great cloud. The hillside was a swirl
of flame and smoke, cool to the skin, clean to the
nostrils, but blinding to the eye and filling the mind with
confusion and wonder. The very air was crystal, was
rainbow, was flowing diamond. "He is where he always
was," Nimue had said, "with all his fires and
travelling glories round him." And "If
he wishes it, you may find him."
He had found, and been answered. He began
to feel his way back towards the head of the cliff.
Behind him, invisible, the falling drops of the spring
sounded for all the world like the sweet, faint notes of a
harp. Above him was the swirl of light where the sun
stood. Guided by these he felt his way forward
until his foot found the drop to the path.
When he reached the base of the hill he turned
east and rode straight and fast for Caerleon and his
father.

By the time Mordred reached Caerleon matters
had begun to settle themselves. The King had been very
angry over Lamorak's murder, and it was
certainly to Agravain's advantage that his wound would
keep him, and Gaheris with him, in the north until
it was healed. Drustan duly sent an account of the
incident to Arthur, but its bearer was not a royal
courier, it was Gareth; and Gareth, though far from trying
to excuse his brothers, pleaded successfully with the
King for their pardon. For Gaheris he pleaded
madness; Gaheris, who had loved Morgause and
had killed her. Gareth, out of his own grief, could
make a guess at what had passed in his
brother's bruised mind as he knelt there in his
mother's blood. And Agravain, as ever, had acted as
the shield and dagger alongside his twin's sword.
Now that Lamorak was dead, urged Gareth, it was
surely possible that Gaheris could put the bloody
past behind him, and take his place again as a loyal
man. And Drustan, though sorely provoked, had
held his hand, so it might well be that now the swinging
pendulum of revenge could be stilled.
Unexpectedly enough, the main opposition
to Gareth's pleading came from Bedwyour. Bedwyour,
deploring the blood tie that linked Arthur to the
Orkney brothers, disliked and distrusted them, and lost
no chance to set the King on guard against them. He was
known throughout the court to be using all his considerable
influence to prevent the twins from being recalled. And
where, Bedwyour insisted, with growing suspicion, was
Mordred? Had he, too, perhaps, assisted in the
murder, and fled before Drustan and Gareth came on
the scene? Mordred himself arrived in Caerleon in
time to save confusion about his part in the affair, and
eventually, in spite of Bedwyour, Gareth was sent
north again, to bring his brothers back to court when they
were both, in mind and body, whole once more.
Gawain came back, briefly, soon
after the court returned to Camelot, while
Agravain and Gaheris were still in the north. He had
a long interview with Arthur, and after it another with
Mordred, who told him what he had seen of
Lamorak's murder and its aftermath, and finished
by urging Gawain to listen to the King's pleas and show the
same restraint as Drustan, and to refrain from adding
another stone to the bloody caim of revenge.
"Lamorak leaves a young brother, Drian, who
rides with Drustan's men. By the kind of logic that
you use, he has the right now to kill either 204
of your brothers, or you yourself. Even Gareth," said
Mordred, "though I doubt if that is likely.
Drustan will have seen to it that Drian knows what
happened, and that--the Goddess be thanked!--Gareth
kept his head and acted like a sensible man. He could
see--as indeed any man could who was there--that
Gaheris was crazed in his wits. If we make much
of that circumstance, it is possible that when he comes
back healed, no one will attempt to strike at
him." He added, meaningly: "I believe that neither
of the twins will ever be trusted again by the King, but if you can
bring yourself to forgive Gaheris for our mother's murder,
or at any rate not to take action against him, then you
may, with Gareth and myself, stay within the edges
of the King's favour. There may yet be a noble
future for you and for me. Do you ever want to rule your
northern kingdom, Ga- wain?" Mordred knew his
man. Gawain was anxious that nothing should interfere with
his title to the Orkneys, or eventually to the kingdom
of Lothian. Neither title would be worth anything
without Arthur's continued support. So the matter was
settled, but when the time came for the twins' return,
the King saw to it that their elder brother was away from
Camelot. Queen Morgan, at Castell Aur
in Wales, provided him with just the excuse he
needed. Gawain was dispatched there, ostensibly
to investigate complaints from the peasants about abuses
of authority by Morgan's guardians, and carefully
kept there out of the way until the dust on the
Lamorak murder should settle. It was apparent,
though, to Mordred, that Bedwyour's doubts about him were
not quite resolved. In place of the guarded friendliness that
Arthur's chief marshal had lately shown,
Mordred was to observe a return to the wary
watchfulness that Bedwyour also accorded Agravain and
certain other of the Young Celts.
The phrase "Young Celts," used lightly enough
at first to denote the young outlanders who tended to stick
together, had by this time taken on the ring of a
sobriquet, a title as clearly defined as that of the
High King's companion knights. And here and there the
two lines crossed; Agravain was in both, and
Gaheris, and so, eventually, was Mordred. Arthur,
as Mordred had anticipated, sent for him and asked
him, once his half-brothers were back at court,
to keep watch on them, and on the others of the Young
Celts' party. A little to Mordred's surprise
he found that, though there was still discontent with some of
Arthur's home policies, there was no talk that could
be called seditious. Loyalty to Arthur's name and
fame still held them; he was duke of battles still, and
enough of glory and authority hung about him to keep them
loyal. His talk of wars to come, moreover, bound
them to him. But there was enmity for Bedwyour. The men from
Orkney who had come south to join Lot's sons in
Arthur's train, and 205
others from Lothian who hoped for Gawain's
succession there (and who had some small grievances,
real or imagined, against the Northumbrian lord of
Benoic), knew that Bedwyour distrusted them, and that he
had done his best to block the return of Agravain
and Gaheris to court; had advocated, rather, their
banishment back to their island home. So when, as was
inevitable among the young men, the talk
turned to the gossip about Bedwyour and the Queen,
Mordred soon realized that this was prompted mainly
by hatred of Bedwyour, and the desire to shut him out of the
King's favour. When Mordred, moving carefully,
let it be known that he might be persuaded to take their
part, the Young Celts assumed his motive to be the
natural jealousy of a King's son who might, if
Bedwyour could be discredited, become his father's
deputy. As such, Mordred would be a notable
acquisition to the party. So he was accepted, and in time
regarded as one of the party's leaders, even
by Agravain and Gaheris.
Mordred had his own rooms within the royal
palace at Camelot, but he had also, for the last
year or so, owned a pleasant little house in the town.
A girl of the town kept house for him, and made him
welcome whenever he could spare the time for her. Here,
from time to time, came the Young Celts, ostensibly
to supper, or for a day's fowling in the marshes, but in
reality to talk, and for Mordred to listen. The
purchase of the house had in fact been the King's
suggestion. If Mordred was to share the party's
activities, this was not likely to happen in his
rooms within the royal palace. In the easier
atmosphere of his le- man's house
Mordred could more readily keep in touch with the
currents of thought that moved the younger men. To his
house one evening came Agravain, with Colles, and
Mador, and others of the Young Celts. After supper,
when the woman had placed the wine near them and then
withdrawn, Agravain brought the talk abruptly
round to the subject that, of late, had obsessed him.
"Bedwyour! No man in the kingdom can get anywhere,
become anybody, without that man's approval! The
King's besotted. Boyhood friends, indeed!
Boyhood lovers, more like! And still he has to listen
whenever my lord high and mighty Bedwyour chooses
to speak! What d'ye say, Colles? We know,
eh? Eh?"
Agravain, as was usual these days, was three parts
drunken, early as it was in the night. This was plain
speaking, even for him. Colles,
usually a hopeful sycophant, tried an
uneasy withdrawal. "Well, but everyone knows they
fought together since years back. Brothers-in-arms,
and all that. It's only natural--" "Too
natural by half." Agravain gave a hiccup of
laughter. "Brothers- 206
in-arms, how right you are! In the Queen's arms,
too. . . , Haven't you heard the
latest? Last time the King was from court, there was my
lord Bedwyour, snugged down right and tight in the
Queen's bed before Arthur's horse was well out of the
King's Gate."
"Where did you get that?" This, sharply, from
Mador. And from Colles, beginning to look scared:
"You told me. But it's only talk, and it can't be
true. For one thing the King's not that kind of a fool,
and if he trusts Bedwyour--and trusts her, come to that
--" "Not a fool? It's a fool's part to trust.
Mordred would agree. Wouldn't you, brother?"
Mordred, with his back to the company, pouring wine,
was heard to assent, shortly.
"If it were true," began someone, longingly, but
Mador cut across him. "You're a fool yourself
to talk like that without proof. It can't be true. Even
if they wanted to, how would they dare? The Queen's
ladies are always there with her, and even at night--"
Agravain gave a shout of laughter, and Gaheris,
lounging back beside him, said, grinning: "My poor
innocent. You're beginning to sound like my saintly
brother Gareth. Don't you ever listen to the dirt?
Agravain's been laying one of Guinevere's
maids for nigh on a month now. If anyone hears
the gossip, he should."
"And you mean that she says he's been in there at
night? Bedwyour?" Agravain nodded into his wine,
and Gaheris gave a crow of triumph. "Then
we've got him!"
But Colles insisted: "She saw him? Herself?"
"No." Agravain looked round defiantly. "But
we all know the talk that's been going round for long
enough, and we also know that there's no fire without
smoke. Let us look past the smoke, and put out
the fire. If I do get proof, will you all act with
me?" "Act? How?"
"Do the King a service, and get rid of
Bedwyour, from the King's bed and the King's counsels!"
Calum said doubtfully: "You mean just tell the
King?" "How else? He'll be furious, who
wouldn't, but afterwards he's got to be grateful. Any
man would want to know--" "But the Queen?" This was a
young man called Cian, who came from the Queen's
own country of North Wales. "He'll kill
her. Any man, finding out . . ." He flushed, and
fell silent. It was to be noticed that he avoided
looking at Gaheris.
Agravain was confident and scornful. "He would
never hurt the Queen. Have you never heard what
happened when Melwas of the Summer
Country took her and held her for a day and a night in
his lodge on one of the 207
Lake islands? You can't tell me that that lecher
never had his way with her, but the King took her back
without a word, and gave her his promise that, for that or
even for her barrenness, he would never put her aside.
No, he'd never harm her. Mordred, you know him
better than most, and you're with the Queen half your
time as well. What do you say?"
"About the King's tenderness towards her, I
agree." Mordred set the wine jug down again, and
leaned back against the table's edge, surveying them.
"But all this is moonshine, surely? There is
talk, I've heard it, but it seems to me that it
comes mostly from here, and without proof. Without any kind
of proof. Until proof is found, the talk must
remain only talk, concocted from wishes and
ambitions, not from facts."
"He's right, you know," said one Melion, who was
Cian's brother. "It is only talk, the sort
that always happens when a lady is as lovely as the
Queen, and her man's away from her bed as often and for
as long as the King has to be."
"It's bedroom door gossip," Cian put
in. "Do you ask us to kneel down in the
dirt and peer through chamber keyholes?" Since this was
in fact exactly what Agravain had been doing,
he denied it with great indignation. He was not too
drunk to ignore the hardening of the meeting against any
idea of harming the Queen. He said virtuously:
"You've got me wrong, gentlemen. Nothing would
persuade me to injure that lovely lady. But if
we could contrive a way to bring Bedwyour down without
hurt to her--"
"You mean swear that he forced his way in? Raped
her?" "Why not? It might be possible. My wench
would say anything we paid her for, and--"
"What about Gareth's?" asked someone. It was known
that Gareth was courting Linet, one of the Queen's
ladies, a gentle girl and as incorruptible as
Gareth himself.
"All right, all right!" Agravain, a dark
flush in his face, swung round to Mordred.
"There's plenty to be thought about, but by the dark
Goddess herself, we've made a start, and we know
who's with us and who isn't! Mordred, what about it?
If we can think of some way that doesn't
implicate the Queen, then you're with us? You, of
all men, can hardly stand Bedwyour's friend."
"I?" Mordred gave that cool little
smile that was all that remained in him of Morgause.
"Friend to Bedwyour, chief marshal, best of the knights,
the King's right hand in battle and the council chamber?
Regent in Arthur's absence, with all Arthur's
power?" He paused. "Bring Bedwyour down? What
should I say, gentlemen? That I reject the notion
utterly?" There was laughter and the drumming of cups
on the table, and shouts of "Mordred for regent!"
"Well, why not? Who else?" "Valerius? No,
too

old." "Well, Drustan then? Or Gawain?"
And then in a kind of ragged unanimity: "Mordred
for regent! Who else? One of us! Mordred!"
Then the woman came in, and the shouting died, and the
talk veered away to the harmless subject of tomorrow's
hunt. When they had gone, and the girl was clearing
away the debris of scattered food and spilled
wine, Mordred went out into the air. In spite of
himself, the talk and the final accolade had shaken him.
Bedwyour gone? Himself the undisputed right hand of the
King, and, in the King's absence, unquestioned regent?
Once he were there, and once proved as fighter and
administrator, what was more likely than that Arthur
would also make him his heir? He was still not
that: The King's heir was still Constantine of
Cornwall, son of that Duke Cador whom
Arthur, in default of a legitimate prince, had
declared heir to the kingdoms. But that was before he knew that
a son of his body would be--was already--begotten.
Legitimate? What did that matter, when Arthur
himself had been begotten in adultery? Behind him the
girl called him softly. He looked round. She
was leaning from the bedchamber window, the warm lamplight
falling on the long golden hair and on one bared
shoulder and breast. He smiled and said,
"Presently," but he hardly saw her. In his
mind's eye, against the darkness, he saw only the
Queen.
Guinevere. The lady of the golden hair, still
lovely, of the great grey- blue eyes, of the
pretty voice and the ready smile, and with it all the
gentle wit and gaiety that lighted her
presence-chamber with pleasure. Guinevere, who so
patently loved her lord, but who understood fear and
loneliness and who, out of that knowledge, had befriended an
insecure and lonely boy, had helped to lift him out
of the murk of his childhood memories, and shown him
how to love with a light heart. Whose hands, touching his in
friendship, had blown to blaze a flame that
Morgause's corrupt mouth could not even kindle.
He loved her. Not in the same way, in the same
breath even, as he had loved other women. There had
been many in his life, from the girl in the islands whom
at fourteen he had bedded in a hollow of the heather,
to the woman who waited for him now. But his thoughts of
Guinevere were not even in this context. He only
knew that he loved her, and if the tale were true,
then by Hecate, he would like to see Bedwyour brought
down! The King would not harm her, he was sure of that,
but he might, he just might, for his honour's sake,
put her aside. . . . He went no further. It
is doubtful if he even knew he had gone as far.
Oddly for Mordred, the cool thinker, the thoughts were
hardly formulated. He was conscious only of anger
at the vile whispers, the stain on the Queen's name,
and of his own renewed distrust of the twins and their

irresponsible friends. He recognized, with
misgiving, where his duty lay as King's watcher
(king's spy, he told himself sourly) among the
Young Celts. He would have to warn Arthur of the danger
to Bedwyour and the Queen. The King would soon get to the
truth of the matter, and if action had to be taken, he
was the one who must take it. Duty lay that
way, and the King's trust.
And Bedwyour, if it were proved that he had forfeited
that trust? Mordred thrust the thought aside, and on
an impulse that, even if he recognized it, he
would not admit, he went back into the house and took
his pleasure with a violence that was as foreign to him as his
mental turmoil had been, and that was to cost him a
gold necklace in appeasement next day.

Later that night, when town and palace were quiet,
he went to see the King.
Arthur, as was his wont these days, was working late in
his business room. His white hound Cabal lay at
his feet. It was the same puppy that he had chosen
on the day Mordred was first brought to him. It was old
now, and scarred with the mementoes of some memorable
hunts. It lifted its head as Mordred was shown
in, and its tail beat the floor. The servant
withdrew, and the King nodded his secretary out of the room.
"How is it with you, Mordred? I am glad you
came. I was planning to send for you in the morning, but
tonight is even better. You know I have to go
to Brittany soon?"
"It has been rumoured. So it's true?"
"Yes. It's time I had a meeting with
my cousin King Hoel. I'd also like to see for myself
how things are shaping over there." "When do you leave,
sir?"
"In a week's time. The weather should be fair
then."
Mordred glanced at the window curtains, where a
fitful wind plucked at them. "Your prophets
tell you so?"
The King laughed. "I; go to surer sources than
the altars, or even Nimue at Applegarth. I
ask the shepherds on the high downs. They are never
wrong. But I forgot, my fisher-boy. Perhaps I
should have asked you, too?"
Mordred shook his head, smiling. "I might have
ventured a prophecy in the islands, though even the
old men there were often out of reckoning; but here, no.
It's a different world. A different sky." "You
don't hanker for the other now?"
"No. I have all I want." He added: "I
would like to see Brittany." "Then I am sorry.
What I wanted to tell you is that I plan to leave
you here in Camelot."
In spite of himself his heart gave a jump. He
waited, not looking at Arthur in case the latter
read his thought. As if he had--which, with
Arthur, was even possible--the King went on:
"Bedwyour will be here, of course. But this time I want
you to do more than observe how ttyngs go; you will be
Bedwyour's deputy, as he mine." There was a
pause. Arthur saw with interest, but without understand-
ing, that Mordred, who had lost colour, was
hesitating, as if not knowing what to say. At length
Mordred asked: "And my--the other Orkney
princes? Do they go with you, or stay here?" Arthur,
misunderstanding him, was surprised. He had not thought that
Mordred was jealous of his half-brothers. If his
mission had been a military one, he might have
taken Agravain and Gaheris with him, and so drawn
off some of their energy and discontent, but as it was he
said, quickly and definitely: "No. Gawain is in
Wales, as you know, and likely to be there for some time.
Gareth would not thank me for abstracting him from
Camelot, with his wedding so near. The other two can
hardly expect favour of me. They stay here."
Mordred was silent. The King began to talk about
his forthcoming journey and the discussions he would hold with
King Hoel, then about the role Mordred would
assume at home as deputy to the regent. The hound
woke once, and scratched for fleas. The
fire dwindled, and Mordred, obedient to a nod from
his father, fed it with a log from the basket. At length the
King had done. He looked at the younger man. "You
are very silent. Come, Mordred, there will be another
time. Or even a time when Bedwyour will be the one to go with
me, and you the one to remain as temporary king. Does
the prospect dismay you so much?" "No. No. It
is--I am honoured."
"Then what is it?"
"If I ask that Bedwyour should go with you this time and
leave me here, you will think that I outrun even the
ambition of a prince. But I do ask it, my lord
King."
Arthur stared at him. "What is this?"
"I came tonight to report to you what is being said
among the Young Celts. They met at my house this
evening. Most of the talk tonight was of Bedwyour. He
has enemies, bitter enemies, who will plot to bring
him down." He hesitated. He had known this would be
hard, but he had not known how hard. "Sir, I beg
you not to leave Bedwyour here while you go abroad. This
is not because I myself covet the regency. It is because
there is talk about him and--" He stopped. He
licked his lips. He said lamely:
"He has enemies. There is talk."
Arthur's eyes were black ice. He stood.
Mordred got to his feet. To his fury he found
that he was trembling. He was not to know that every man who
hitherto had met that hard cold stare was dead. The
King said, in a flat voice that seemed to come from a
great
distance:
"There is always talk. There are those who talk, and
there are those who listen. Neither are men of mine. No,
Mordred, I understand you very well. I am not deaf;
and neither am I blind. There is nothing in this talk.
There is nothing to be said."

Mordred swallowed. "I said nothing, my lord."
"And I heard nothing. Go now."
He nodded a dismissal curter than the one the
servant had had. Mordred bowed and went.
He had a hand on the door when the King's voice
halted him. "Mordred."
He turned. "My lord."
"This changes nothing. You remain with the regent as his
deputy." "My lord."
The King said, in a different voice: "I should have
remembered that it was I who asked you to listen, and that
I have no right to blame you for doing so, or for
reporting to me. As for Bedwyour, he is aware of his
enemies' ambitions." He looked down, resting his
finger-tips on the table in front of him. There was a
pause. Mordred waited. Without looking up, the
King added: "Mordred. There are some matters
better not spoken of; better not even known. Do you
understand me?" "I think so," said Mordred. And
indeed, misjudging Arthur as the King had misjudged
him, he thought so. It was apparent that Arthur knew
what was being said about Bedwyour and the Queen. He
knew, and chose to ignore it. Which meant simply
one thing: Whether there was any truth in it or not,
Arthur wanted no action taken. He wanted
to avoid the kind of upheaval that must result from an
open accusation levelled at the King's deputy and the
Queen. So far, Mordred was right. But not in his
final conclusion, which was that of a man and not of a prince:
that Arthur was indifferent to the matter, and chose
to ignore it out of pride as well as policy. "I
think so, sir," he said again. Arthur looked up and
smiled. The bleak look was gone, but he looked very
weary. "Then stay watchful for me, my son, and
serve the Queen. And know Bedwyour for your friend, and my
faithful servant. And now, good night."
Soon after this the King left Camelot.
Mordred found that his work as deputy regent meant a
series of day-long sessions in the Round Hall
listening to petitions, alternating with days watching
troop exercises, and finishing each evening after the
public supper in hall (when further petitions were
often brought to the high table) with the stacked tablets and
papers in the King's business room. In public
Bedwyour, as before, took the King's place beside the
Queen, but as far as Mordred, casually watchful,
could ascertain, he made no opportunities for
private talk with her, and neither he nor Guinevere
ever attempted to dispense with Mordred's company.
When the regent spoke with the Queen, as he did each
morning, Mordred was there beside him;
Mordred sat on her left at supper time;
Mordred walked on her left hand when she took the
air in her garden with Bedwyour for company and her
ladies round her.
He found Bedwyour surprisingly easy to work with.
The older man went out of his way to allow his deputy
some scope. Soon he was passing almost three out of
five judgments across to Mordred, only stipulating
that the verdicts might be privately agreed before they
were given. There was very little disagreement, and as
the days went by Mordred found that more and more the decisions
were his. It was also noticeable that as the day of
Arthur's return drew near, the work awaiting him
was appreciably less than it had been after
previous absences. It was also to be noticed that, in
spite of the lightened burden on him, Bedwyour grew
quieter and more nervy. There were lines in his face and his
eyes were shadowed. At supper, leaning to listen, a
smile fixed on his lips, to the Queen's soft
voice beside him, he ate little, but drank deeply.
Afterwards in the business room he would sit silently
for long periods staring at the fire, until
Mordred, or one of the secretaries, would with some
query bring him back to the matter in hand.
All this Mordred noticed, watching. For him, the
nearness to Guinevere was at once a joy and a
torment. If there had been a look, a touch, a
gesture of understanding between her and Bedwyour, Mordred was
sure he would have seen or even sensed it. But there was
none, only Bedwyour's silence and the sense of strain
that hung about him, and perhaps an extra gaiety in the
Queen's chatter and laughter when she and her ladies
graced some function of the court. In either case this could
be attributed to the cares of office, and the strain
imposed by Arthur's absence. In the end
Mordred, mindful of the King's last interview with
him, put the recollection of the Young Celts'
gossip out of his mind. Then one evening, long after
supper, when the King's seal was used for the last time and the
secretary returned it to its box, bade the two
men good night, and took himself away, there was a tap
at the door and the servant came in to announce a
caller. This was Bors, one of the older knights, a
Companion who had fought with Arthur and Bedwyour through the
great campaign, and had been with them at Badon
Hill. He was a simple man, devoted to the
King, but was known to be fretting almost as fiercely as
the Young Celts for action. No courtier, he was
impatient of ceremony, and longed for the
simplicities and movement of the field.
He gave Bedwyour the salute of the camp, and said
with his usual abruptness: "You are to go to the Queen.
There's a letter she wants to show you."
There was a short, blank silence. Then Bedwyour
got to his feet. "It's very late. Surely she
has retired? It must be urgent."

"She said so. Or she'd not have sent me."
Mordred had risen when Bedwyour did. "A letter?
It came with the courier?"
"I suppose so. Well, you know how late he
was. You got the rest yourself not long ago."
This was true. The man, who had been due at
sundown, had been delayed on the road by a flash
flood, and had ridden in not long before. Hence the late
working-hours they had been keeping. "He mentioned no
letter for the Queen," said Mordred. Bedwyour said
sharply: "Why should he? If it is the Queen's it
is not our concern, except as she chooses to talk
about it with me. Very well, Bors. I'll go now."
"I'll tell her you will come?"
"No need. I'll send Ulfin. You get to bed,
and Mordred, too. Good night."
As he spoke he began to buckle on the belt
he had cast aside when the men settled down to the
evening's work. The servant brought his cloak. From the
side of his eye he saw Mordred hesitating, and
repeated, with some abruptness: "Good night."
There was nothing for it. Mordred followed Bors out
of the room. Bors went off down the corridor with his
long outdoor stride. Mordred, hurrying to catch
him up, did not hear Bedwyour's quick words to the
servant:
"Go and tell the Queen I'll be with her
shortly. Tell her ... No doubt her
ladies retired wheneashe did. You will see to it that
she is attended when I come. No matter if her
waiting-women are asleep. Wake them. Do you
understand?"
Ulfin had been the King's chief chamberlain for
many years. He said briefly, "Yes, my lord,"
and went.
Mordred and Bors, walking together across the outer
garden court, saw him hurrying towards the Queen's
rooms.
Bors said abruptly: "I don't like it."
"But there was a letter?"
"I didn't see one. And I saw the man
ride in. If it's true he carried a letter for the
Queen, why does she need to talk with him now?
It's near midnight. Surely it could wait till
morning? I tell you, I don't like it."
Mordred shot him a glance. Was it possible that the
whispers had come even to the ears of this faithful
veteran? Then Bors added: "If anything has
happened to the King, then surely the tidings should have
gone straight to Bedwyour as well. What can they have
to discuss that needs privacy and midnight?"
"What indeed?" said Mordred. Bors
gave him a sharp glance, but all he said was,
gruffly:
"Well, well, we'd best get to bed, and mind
our business." When they reached the hall where most of the
young bachelors slept, they found some of them still
awake. Gaheris was sober, but only just,
Agravain was drunk as usual, and talkative.
Gareth sat at tables with Colles, and a couple of
others lounged over dice by the dying fire. Bors
said good night, and turned away, and Mordred, who
in the King's absence lived and slept within the
palace, started through the hall towards the stairway that
led to his rooms. Before he reached it one of the young
knights, the man from Wales called Cian, came
swiftly in from the outer court, pushing past Bors in
the doorway. He stood there for a moment, blinking,
while his dark-puzzled eyes adjusted themselves to the
light. Gaheris, guessing where he had been,
called out some pleasantry, and Colles, with a
coarse laugh, pointed out that his clothes were still
unbraced.
He took no notice. He came with his swift
stride into the middle of the hall and said, urgently:
"Bedwyour's gone to the Queen. I saw him.
Straight in through the private doorway, and
there's a lamp lit in her chamber window."
Agravain was on his feet. "Has he, by God!"
Gaheris, lurching, got himself upright. His hand was on
his sword. "So, it was true. We all knew it!
Now let us see what the King will say when he hears
that his wife lies with a lover!" "Why wait for that?"
This was Mador. "Let us make sure of them both
now!"
Mordred, from the foot of the stairs, raised his
voice urgently above the hubbub: "She sent for
him. A letter came by the courier. It could be from the
King. There was something in it she had to discuss with
Bedwyour. Bors brought the message. Tell them,
Bors!" "It's true," said the old man, but
worry still sounded in his voice, and Mador said
shrewdly: "You don't like it either, do you? You've
heard the stories, too? Well, if they are having
a council over the King's letter, let us join it!
What objection can there be to that?" Mordred shouted:
"Stop, you fools! I tell you, I was there! This
is true! Are you all mad? Think of the King!
Whatever we find--" "Aye, whatever we find,"
said Agravain thickly. "If it is a council,
then we join it as loyal King's men--"
"And if it's a tryst for lusty
lovers," put in Gaheris, "then we can serve the
King in other ways."
"You'd not dare touch her!" Mordred, sharp with
fear, pushed his way through the crowd and gripped
Gaheris's arm. 216
comment *
"Her? Not this time." Gaheris, drunk, but
perfectly steady, laughed through ghost-haunted eyes.
"But Bedwyour, ah, if Bedwyour's where I think he
is, what will the King do but thank us for this night's
work?" Bors was shouting, and being shouted down.
Mordred, still holding Gaheris's arm, was talking
swiftly, reasonably, trying to contain the mood of the
crowd. But they had drunk too much, they were ripe for
action, and they hated Bedwyour. There was no stopping
them now. Still clutching Ga heris's sleeve,
Mordred found himself being swept along with them@uthere
were a dozen of them now, Bors hustled along with them,
and even Gar- eth, white-faced, bringing up the
rear@uthrough the shadowed arcades that edged the garden
court, and in through the doorway that gave on the
Queen's private stair. The servant there,
sleepy but alert enough, came upright from the wall with
his lips parting for a challenge. Then he saw
Mordred, and in the moment of hesitation that this
gave him, he was silenced with a blow from the butt of
Colles's dagger.
The act of violence was like the twang that looses the
taut bowstring. With shouts the young men surged through the
door and up the stairway to the Queen's private
chambers. Colles, leading, hammered on the wood
with his sword hilt, shouting:
"Open! Open! In the King's name!"
Locked in the press on the stairway, struggling
to get through, Mordred heard from within the room a
woman's cry of alarm. Then other voices,
shrill and urgent, drowned by the renewed shouting from the
stairway.
"Open this door! There's treachery! Treachery to the
King!" Then suddenly, so quickly that it was obvious it
had not been locked, the door opened wide. be
A girl was holding it. The room was lighted
only by the night-lamps. Three or four women were
there, their voluminous wraps indicating that they had
been in their night robes and had been roused hastily
from their beds. One of them, an elderly lady with
grey hair loose about her face as if she had
recently been startled from sleep, ran to the door
of the inner room where the Queen slept, and turned
to bar the way.
"What is this? What has happened? Colles,
this unseemly@u And you, Prince Agravain? If
it's the lord Bedwyour that you want to see@u" "Stand
aside, Mother," said someone breathlessly, and the woman
was thrust to one side as Colles and Agravain,
shouting, "Treachery, treachery to the King!" hurled
themselves, with swords out and ready, at the Queen's
door.
Through the tumult, the hammering, the women's now
frightened screaming, Mordred heard Gareth's
breathless voice: "Linet? Don't be afraid.
Bors has gone for the guard. Stand over there, and
keep back. Nothing will happen@u" 217
Then, between one hammer-blow and the next, the
Queen's door opened suddenly, and Bedwyour was standing
there.
The Queen's bedchamber was well lighted, by a
swinging silver lamp shaped like a dragon. To the
attackers, taken by surprise, everything in the room
was visible in one swift impression. The great bed
stood against the far wall. The covers were tumbled, but
then the Queen had already been abed when the letter--if there
had been a letter--had come. She, like her women, was
wrapped from throat to feet in a warm loose robe
of white wool, girdled with blue. Her
slippers were of white ermine fur. The golden hair
was braided with blue, and hung forward over her
shoulders. She looked like a girl. She also looked
very frightened. She had half risen from the cross-stool
where she had been sitting, and was holding the hands of the
scared waiting-woman who crouched on a tuffet at
her feet. Bedwyour, holding the door, was dressed
as Mordred had seen him a short time ago, but with
neither sword nor dagger. Fully dressed as he
was, facing the swords at the chamber door, he
was, in the parlance of the fighting man, naked. And,
with the lightning action of a fighting man, he moved. As
Colles, still in the van, lunged towards him with his
sword, Bedwyour, sweeping the blade aside with a
swirl of his heavy cloak, struck his attacker in
the throat. As the man staggered back, Bedwyour
wrenched the sword out of his grip, and ran him through.
"Lecher! Murderer!" yelled Agravain. His
voice was still thick with drink, or passion, but his
sword was steady. Mordred, shouting something, caught
at him, but Agravain struck the hand aside and
jumped, murderous blade shortened, straight for
Bedwyour. Colles's body blocked half the
doorway, and for a moment Agravain was alone, facing
Bedwyour's sword. In that moment,
Bedwyour, veteran of a thousand combats, struck
Agravain's flashing blade almost idly aside and
ran his attacker through the heart.
Even this killing did not give the attacking mob
pause. Mador, hard on Agravain's heels,
got half in under Bedwyour's guard before he could
withdraw his blade. Gareth, his young voice cracking
with distress, was shouting: "He was drunk! For
God's sake--" And then, shrilly, in agonized
panic: "Gaheris, no!"
For Gaheris, murderer of women, had leaped
straight over Agravain's fallen body, past the
whirling swords where Bedwyour fought, and was advancing,
sword levelled, on the Queen.
She had not moved. The whole melee had lasted
only seconds. She stood frozen, her terrified
woman crouched at her knees, her eyes on the
deadly flash of metal round Bedwyour. If she was
aware of Gaheris and his threat she gave no sign.
She did not even raise a hand to ward off the
blade.
"Whore!" shouted Gaheris. and thrust at her.

His blade was struck up. Mordred was hard behind
him. Gaheris turned, cursing.
Mordred's sword ran up Gaheris's blade
and the hilts locked. Body to body the two men
swayed, fighting. Gaheris, pressed back,
lurched against the Queen's stool, and sent it flying.
The waiting-woman screamed, and the Queen, with a cry,
moved at last, backing away towards the wall.
Gaheris, swearing, lashed out with his dagger. Mordred
snatched out his with his left hand and brought the hilt down
as hard as he could on his half-brother's temple.
Gaheris dropped like a stone. Mordred turned,
gasping, to the Queen, and found himself facing Bedwyour's
blade, and Bed- wyour's murderous eyes.
Bedwyour, hotly engaged, had seen, through the haze of
blood dripping from a shallow cut on his forehead, the
sudden thrust towards the Queen, and the struggle near
her chair. He started to cut his way towards her with a
fury and desperation that gave him barely time for thought.
Gareth, exposed by Agravain's fall, and still
reiterating wildly, "He was drunk!" was cut
down and died in his blood almost at the Queen's
feet. Then the deadly sword, red to the hilt,
engaged Mordred's, and Mordred, with no time for
words or for retreat, was fighting for his life.
Dimly he was aware of fresh hubbub. One of the
women, regardless of danger, had run into the
room, and was on her knees by Gareth's body,
wailing his name over and over again. A screaming was
audible along the corridor where others had run for
help. Bedwyour, as he cut and thrust, shouted out some
sort of command, and Mordred knew then that the guard
had been called, and was there. Gaheris heaved on the
floor, trying to rise. His hand slipped in
Gareth's blood. Mador had been seized by the
guard and dragged away, shouting. The others, some still
resisting, were one by one overpowered, and hustled away.
The Queen was calling something, but through the uproar she
could not be heard. Mordred was conscious mainly of
two things, Bedwyour's eyes of cold fury, and the knowledge
that, even through that fury, the King's marshal was
deliberately refraining from killing or maiming the
King's son. A chance came, was ignored; another
came and was turned; Bedwyour's sword ran in over
Mordred's blade, and he took the younger man
neatly through the upper part of his sword arm. As
Mordred staggered back, Bedwyour, following him,
struck him with his dagger's hilt, a heavy blow on
the temple.
Mordred fell. He fell across Gareth's
outstretched arm, and the girl's tears, as she wept for
her lover, fell on his face. There was no
pain yet, only dimness, and the sense of the turmoil
coming and going like the waves of the sea. The fighting was
over. His head was within a foot of Guinevere's
hem. He was dimly conscious of Bedwyour stepping
over his body to take the Queen's hands. He heard
him speak, low

and urgently: "They did not come to you? Is all
well?" And her shaken reply, in that soft voice
filled with distress and fear: "You're hurt? Oh,
my dear--" And his swift: "No. A cut only.
It's over. I must leave you with your ladies.
Calm yourself, madam, it is over." Gaheris,
back on his feet, but bleeding from a deep cut on
the arm, was being dragged away, dazed and unresisting,
by the guards. Bors was there, with a face of tragedy,
speaking urgently, but the words came and went, like the
surge of the sea waves, with the beat of Mordred's
pulse. The pain was beginning now. One of the guards
said, "Lady--" and tried to lift Linet from
Gareth's body. Then the Queen was there, near,
kneeling beside Mordred. He could smell her scent,
feel the soft wool of the white robe. His blood
smeared the wool, but she took no notice. He
tried to say, "Lady," but no sound
came. In any case she was not concerned with him. Her
arms were round Linet, her voice speaking comfort shot
with grief. At length the girl let herself be raised
and led aside, and the guards took up Gareth's
body to carry it away. Just before he lost consciousness
Mordred saw, beside him on the floor, a crumpled
paper that had fallen from the Queen's robe as she
knelt beside him.
He saw the writing, elegant and regular, the
hand of an expert scribe. And at the foot of the
message, a seal. He knew that seal. It was
Arthur's.
The story of the letter had, after all, been the truth.

Mordred, waking from the first deep swoon, swam
up inffconsciousness to find himself in his own house, with his
mistress beside the bed, and Gaheris bending over him.
His head ached fiercely, and he was very weak. His
wound had been hurriedly cleaned and bandaged, but
blood still oozed, and the whole arm and side seemed
to be one throb of pain. He could remember nothing of
how he had come here. He did not know that, as he was
carried from the Queen's bedchamber, Bedwyour had
shouted to the guards to see him safe and to tend his
hurts. Bedwyour, indeed, was thinking only
of keeping the King's son safely until the King
himself should arrive, but the guards, who had not seen the
fight, assumed in the haste and chaos that Mordred
had been there to help the regent, so bore him
straight to his own house and the care of his mistress.
Here Gaheris (having contrived, by feigning to be
worse hurt than he was, to elude the guards)
had fled under cover of that same chaos, with only one
thought in his mind, to get out of Camelot before
Arthur's arrival, and to use Mordred to that end.
For Arthur was on his way home, far sooner than
he had been looked for. The fateful letter,
hurriedly dispatched by a king already on the road, was
to warn Guinevere of his imminent arrival, and to ask
her to tell Bedwyour immediately. Word had gone round
already among the guards; Gaheris had heard them
talking. The courier's delay would mean that the King
must be only a few short hours behind him. So
Gaheris leaned urgently over the man in the bed.
"Come, brother, before they remember you! The guards
brought you here in error. They will soon know that you were with
us, and then they will come back. Quickly now! We've
got to go. Come with me, and I'll see you safe."
Mordred blinked up at him, vaguely. His
face was drained of blood, and his eyes
looked unfocused. Gaheris seized a flask of
cordial and splashed some of it into a cup. "Drink
this. Hurry, man. My servant's here with me.
We'll manage you between us."
The cordial stung Mordred's lips. Some of the
painful fog lifted, and memory came back. . .
.
It was good of Gaheris, he thought hazily. Good
of Gaheris. He had hit Gaheris, and Gaheris
had fallen. Then Bedwyour had tried to kill him,
Mordred, and the Queen had said no word. Not then, and
apparently not since,

if the guards were coming back to take him as one of the
traitors. . . . The Queen. She wanted him
to die, even though he had saved her life. And he
knew why. The reason came to him, through the swimming
clouds, like clear and cold logic. She knew of
Merlin's prophecy, and so she wanted him to die.
Bedwyour, too. So they would lie, and no one would know
that he had tried to stop the traitors, had in fact
saved her from Gaheris, murderer of women. When the
King came, he, Mordred, Arthur's son, would be
branded traitor in the sight of all men. . . .
"Hurry," said Gaheris, with urgency.
No guards came. After all, it was easy. With
his half-brother's arm round him and his mistress at
his other side he walked, no, floated out into the
dark street where, tense and silent, Gaheris's
servant waited with the horses. Somehow they got
Mordred to the saddle, somehow held him between them, then
they were out of the town and riding down the road to the King's
Gate.
Here they were challenged. Gaheris, pulling back
slightly, with his face muffled against the cold, said
nothing. The servant, forward with Mordred, spoke
impatiently.
"It's Prince Mordred. He's hurt, as you
know. We've to take him to Applegarth. Make
haste."
The guards knew the story, which had gone round with the
dawn wind. The gates were opened, the riders were through,
and free. Gaheris said exultantly: "We did
it! We're out! Now let us lose this burden as
soon as we may!"
Mordred remembered nothing of the ride. He had
a vague recollection of falling, of being caught and
pulled across onto the servant's horse, while the
dreadful jolting ride went on. He felt the
warmth of blood breaking through the bandages,
then after what seemed an age the welcome stillness
as the horses were pulled up. Rain drove down on
his face. It was cool and refreshing. The rest of his
body, closely wrapped as it was, was clothed in
hot water. He was floating again. Sounds came and
went in beats, like the pulse of the blood that was seeping
from the wound. Someone--it was Gaheris--was saying:
"This will do. Don't be afraid, man. The
brothers will care for him. Yes, the horse, too.
Tie it there. Now leave him."
He laid his cheek on wet stone. His whole
body burned and throbbed. It was strange how, when the
horses had stopped, the hoofbeats still thudded through his
veins.
The servant reached across him and tugged at a
rope. Somewhere in the distance a bell jangled. Before
the sound had died away the horses were gone. There was
no sound in the world but the rain driving steadily down
on the stone step where they had left him. 222
Arthur, arriving almost on the heels of the courier,
rode next morning into a city still buzzing like a
stirred hive. His regent was sent for before the King had
even taken off the dirt of the journey. When Bedwyour
was announced, Arthur was sitting behind the table in his
business room, his man at his feet
pulling off the scuffed and muddy riding boots. The
servant, without a glance at either man, took the
boots and withdrew. Ulfin had been Arthur's man
throughout his whole reign. He had heard rather more
gossip than the next man, and had said a good deal
less about it than anyone. But even he, the silent
and the trusted, went out with relief. Some things were
better not said, or even known.
The same thought was in both men's minds. In
Arthur's eyes might even be read the plea to his
friend: Do not force me into asking questions. Let us in some
way, in any way, get past this ambush and back
into the open rides of trust. More than friendship, more
than love, depends on this silence. My kingdom
would even now seem to hang on it. It would doubtless
have surprised the Orkney princes, and some of their
faction, if they could have heard his first words. But both
King and regent knew that, if the first and greatest trouble
could not be spoken of, the second would have to be dealt with
soon: Gawain of Orkney.
The King shoved his feet into his furred
slippers, swung round in the great chair, and said with
furious exasperation: "By all the gods below, did you
have to kill them?"
Bedwyour's gesture had the quality of
despair. "What was I to do? Colles I could not
avoid killing. I was naked, and he was on me with his
sword. I had to take it. I had neither time nor
choice, if he was not to kill me. For Gareth I
am sincerely sorry. I am to blame. I cannot
think that he was there in treachery, but only because he was
among the pack when the cry went up, and he may have
been anxious for Linet. I confess I hardly
saw him in the press. I did cross swords with
Gaheris, but only for a moment. I think he took
a cut--no more than a scratch--from me, but then he
vanished. And after Agravain fell, all my thought
was for the Queen. Gaheris had been loudest of all
throughout, and he was still shouting insults at her. I
remembered how he had dealt with his own mother." He
hesitated. "That part was nightmare-like. The swords,
the yelled insults, the pack near the Queen, and
she, poor lady, struck dumb and shocked all in
the few seconds it had taken from peace to bloody
war. Have you seen her yet, Arthur? How does she
do?"
"I am told she is well, but still shaken. She
was with Linet when I sent to inquire. I shall go to her
as soon as I've cleaned up. Now tell me the
rest of it. What of Mordred? They tell
me he was hurt, and that he has gone-- fled--with
Gaheris. This is something that I fail to understand. He
was

only with the Young Celts at my request--in
fact, he came to me shortly before I left
Camelot, to give me some word of warning about what
they might be planning to do. . . . You could not have known
that. It was my fault; perhaps I should have told you, but
there were aspects of it . . ." He left it at that,
and Bedwyour merely nodded: This was the debatable ground
that each man could tread without a word spoken. Arthur
frowned down, then raised troubled eyes to the other
man's. "You cannot be blamed for turning your sword
on him; how could you guess? But the Queen? He is
devoted to her--we used to call it boy's love, and
smile at it, and so did she--so why on earth should
he have tried to harm the Queen?"
"It is not certain that he did. I'm not sure
what happened there. When I crossed swords with
Mordred, the affair was almost over. I had the
Queen safe at my back, and by that time the guards were
there. I would have disarmed him and then spoken with him, or
else waited for your coming, but he is too good a
fighter. I had to wound him, to get the
sword from his hand."
"Well," said Arthur heavily, "he is gone.
But why? And especially, why with Gaheris, unless
indeed Mordred is still spying for me? You know where they
will have gone, of course."
"To Gawain?"
"Exactly. And what," said Arthur, his voice
warming into a kind of desperation, "are we going to do about
Gawain?" Bedwyour said, grim-mouthed: "Let me
take what comes."
"And kill him? If you do not, he will kill you.
You must know that. And I will not have it either way.
Troublesome though he is, I need Gawain."
"I am in your hands. You'll send me away, I
suppose. You can hardly send Gawain, I see
that. So, when, and where?" "As for when, not immediately."
Arthur hesitated, then looked straight at the other
man. "I must first of all give some public
evidence of trust in you."
As if without thinking, his hand had strayed across the
surface of the table. This was of veined green marble,
edged with wrought gold. The King, on coming in, had
flung his gloves down there, and Ulfin, in his haste
to be gone, had left them. Now Arthur picked one
of them up, and ran it through his fingers. It was
a glove of softest calf-skin, worked as supple as
velvet, its cuff embroidered with silken threads
in rainbow colours, and with small river-pearls. The
Queen herself had done the work, not letting her women
set even one of the stitches. The pearls had come from the
rivers of her native land. Bedwyour met the King's
eyes. His own, the dark poet's eyes, were
profoundly unhappy. The King's were as somber, but
held kindness. "As for where, will your cousin make you
welcome in your family's 224
com* *
castle in Brittany? I should like you to be there.
Go first, if you will, to King Hoel at Kerrec. I
think he will be glad to know that you are so near. These are
anxious times for him, and he is old, and ailing a
little lately. But we'll talk about this before you go.
Now I must see the Queen."
From Guinevere, to his great relief, Arthur
learned the truth. Far from attacking her, Mordred
had prevented Gaheris from getting to her with his
sword. He had, indeed, struck Gaheris down,
before himself being at tacked by Bedwyour. His subsequent
flight, then, must have been through fear of being identified
(as Bedwyour had apparently identified him) with the
disloyal faction of Young Celts. This was
puzzling enough, since Bors, as well as the
Queen, could obviously swear to his loyalty, but
the greater puzzle lay behind: why should he have fled with,
of all men, Gaheris? To this Mordred's
mistress, on being questioned, provided the first clue.
Ga heris, himself bleeding and obviously distraught,
had managed to convince her of her lover's danger;
how easy, then, it had been for him to persuade the
half-conscious and weakened prince that his only hope
lay in flight. She had added her own pleas
to Gaheris's urging, had helped them to the horses,
and seen them go.
The gate guards finished the tale, and the truth was
plain. Gaheris had taken the wounded man as his own
shield and pass to freedom. Arthur, now seriously
concerned for his son's health and safety, sent the
royal couriers out immediately to find Mordred and bring
him home. When it was reported that neither Mordred
nor Gaheris had been to Gawain, the King ordered
a country-wide search for his son. Gaheris they had
orders to secure. He would be held until the King
had spoken with Gawain, who was already on his way
to Camelot. Gareth, alone of the dead, lay in the
royal chapel. After his burial Linet would take
her grief back to her father's house. The
affair was over, but about Camelot hung still a
murmur of disaster, as if the bright gold of its
towers, the vivid scarlet and green and blue of its
flags, was smeared over with the grey of a coming sadness.
The Queen wore mourning; it was for Gareth, and for the
other deaths and spilled blood of what was noised
abroad as a mistaken loyalty; but there were those who
said that it was mourning for the departure of her lover
into Brittany. But they whispered it more softly than
before, and as often as not the rumour was hotly denied.
There had been smoke, and fire, but now the fire was
out, and the smoke was gone. It was to be seen that the
Queen kissed the departing marshal on both cheeks;
then, after her, the King did the same. And
@oBedwyour, apparently unmoved after the Queen's
embrace, had tears in his eyes as he turned from the
King.
The court saw him off, then turned with
anticipation to greet Gawain. 225
The doorstep where Mordred had been abandoned
belonged, not to one of the King's protected foundations, but
to a small community living remote from any town or
road, and vowed to silence and poverty. The track that
led through their little valley was used only by shepherds,
or strayed travellers looking for a short
cut, or, as in Gaheris's case, by fugitives.
No messenger came there, no news, even, of the
recent stirring scenes enacted in Arthur's
capital. The good brothers nursed Mordred with
dutifully Christian care, and even with some skill,
for one of their number was a herbalist. They had no
way of guessing who the stranger was who had been
left on their doorstep during the storm. He was
well dressed, but carried neither weapon nor money.
Some traveller, no doubt, who had been robbed, and
who owed his life to the fear--even perhaps the piety--of the
thieves. So the brothers nursed the stranger, fed
him from their plain rations, and were thankful when, the fever
gone, he insisted on leaving their roof. His horse was
there, an undistinguished beast. They packed a
saddle-bag for him of black bread, wine in a
leather flask, and a handful of raisins, and sent him
on his way with a blessing and, it must be admitted, a
private Te Deum afterwards. There had been something
about the grim and silent man that had frightened them, and the
brother who had watched his sleep had told them with
fear of words spoken in grief and dread where the names
of the High King and his Queen recurred. Nothing more
could be understood: Mordred, deep in fever, had
raved in the language of his childhood,
where Sula and Guinevere and Queen Morgause
came and went in the hot shadows, and all looks were
alien, all words hurtful.
The wound was healed, but some residue of weakness
remained. He rode barely eight miles on the
first day, thankful for the plodding steadiness of the beast he
bestrode. By instinct he went northward. That night
he spent in a deserted woodcutter's hut deep
in the forest; he had no money for an inn, nor had the
brothers been able to spare him any. He would have
to live, as they did (he thought hazily, as he
huddled for warmth in his cloak and waited for sleep),
on charity. Or else on work.
The thought, strange for so many years, aroused him to a
sort of bitter amusement. Work? A knight's work
was fighting. A weaponless man on a poor horse
would be taken on only by the pettiest and poorest of
rulers. And any ruler would ask questions. So, what
work? Out of the advancing clouds of sleep the answer
came, with amusement still gone awry, but with something about
it of an old longing. Sail. Fish. Dig peats.
Grow a thin crop of grain and harvest it. An owl
sweeping low over the woodcutter's thatch gave its
high, tearing
226
cry. Half asleep, and already in vision on the
edge of the northern sea, Mordred heard it as the
cry of a gull, and it seemed like part of a decision
already made. He would go home. He had been hidden
there once before. He would hide there again. And even if
they came looking for him amongst the islands, they would
be hard put to it to find him. It did not occur to him
to do anything but hide, so fixed in his poisoned
delirium had Gaheris's lies and his own
delusions become. He turned over and slept, with
cold air on his face and the cry of the gull still in his
dream. Next day he turned westward. Two
successive nights he spent in the open, avoiding
the monastery houses where he might have heard of
Arthur's search for him. The third was passed in a
peasant's hut, where he shared the last of the brothers'
hard bread and wine, and chopped firewood for his
lodging-fee. On the fourth day he reached the sea.
He sold the horse, and with the money paid his passage
northward on a small and barely seaworthy trader
which was the last to leave port for the islands before winter
closed the way.
Meanwhile Gawain came back to Camelot.
Arthur sent Bors to meet him, to give him a
full account of the tragedy, and also to temper
as far as he might Gawain's grief over Gareth
and Agravain and his anger with their killer. Bors
did his best, but all his talk, his assertion of the
Queen's innocence, his tale of Agravain's
drunkenness and habitual (in these days) violence,
of Gaheris's murderous intentions, of the attack on
the unarmed Bedwyour, and the half-lit chaos of the
fighting in the Queen's bedchamber . . . say what
he might, nothing moved Gawain. Gareth's
undeserved death was all he spoke of, and, Bors
began to think, all he slept, ate and dreamed with.
"I'll meet him, and when I do, I shall kill him"
was all he would say. "He's been sent away from
court. The King has banished him. Not for anything that
stains the Queen, but--"
"To keep him out of my reach. Yes. Well,"
said Gawain stonily, "I can wait."
"If you do kill Bedwyour," said Bors,
desperately, "be sure Arthur will kill you."
The hot, blood-veined Orkney eyes turned
to him. "So?" Then the eyes turned away.
Gawain's head went up. They were just in sight of the
golden towers, and the sound of a bell tolling slowly
came floating, echoing from the water that edged the
roadway. They would be there for Gareth's
burial.
Bors saw the tears on Gawain's cheeks, and,
drawing his horse back, said no more.

What passed between Gawain and his uncle the High
King no one else ever knew. They were closeted
together in the King's private rooms for the best part of a
day, from the moment the funeral was over, right into the night
and towards the next morning. Afterwards, without a word
to any man, Gawain went to his rooms and slept
for sixteen hours, then rose, armed himself, and rode
to the practice field. That evening he ate at a
tavern in the city, and stayed through the night with a girl
there, reappearing next day in the field. For eight
days and nights he did this, talking with no one
except as business required. On the ninth day he
left Camelot, escorted, and rode the few
miles to Ynys Witrin, where the King's ship, the
latest Sea Dragon, lay.
She set her golden sail, raised her
crimson dragon to the autumn winds, and weighed
anchor promptly for the north. It was Arthur's bid
for two things: to get a trouble-maker as far out of the
way as possible, and into the cooling winds of distance and
time; and to give Gawain's hurt and angry
spirit some work to do. He had done the obvious thing, the
one thing Mordred had not even thought of. Gawain,
King of the Orkneys, had gone back to take up the
rule of his islands.
BOOK III
THE WICKED DAY
Winter passed, and March came in with its roaring
winds and spasmodic storms, then softened towards the
sweetness of an early spring. Sea-pinks covered
the cliffs with rose, white flowers danced along the
arched bramble boughs, red campion and wild hyacinth
shone in the grass. Nesting birds called over the
lochs, and the moors echoed to the curlew's bubbling
note. On every skerry, and every grassy bank near the
water, swans had built their weedy castles, and
on each one slept a great white bird, head under
wing, while the watchful mate cruised nearby, head
up and wings set like sails. The water's surface
echoed with the screaming of the oystercatchers and the gulls,
and the upper sky quivered with lark-song.
A man and a boy were working on the stretch of
moorland heather that covers the rolling center of
Orkney's main island. At this time of year the
heather was dark and dead-looking, but along the edges of the
trodden roadway, and by every bank, crowded the
pale, scented primroses. At the foot of the
rolling moorland lay a thin strip of grazing,
golden with dande lions. Beyond this a great loch
stretched, and beyond that again, another, lying almost
parallel, the two great waters separated at their
southern extremities only by a narrow causeway
and a strip of land well trodden by hoofs and feet, for
this was a holy place in the islands. Here stood the
great circles of stone, brooding, enigmatic,
huge, and to be feared even by those who knew nothing of
their purpose or their building. It was well known that
no horse could be made to cross the causeway between
dusk and dawning, and no deer had ever been seen
to feed there. Only the goats, unchancy creatures
always, would graze between the stones, keeping the grass
smooth and short for the ceremonies still practiced there
at the right seasons.
The two workers were busy on a level piece of
moorland not far above these lochs with their guarded
causeway. The man was tall, lean, hard, and though
dressed as a peasant he did not move like one; his
were the swift economical movements of a trained
body. His face, young still, but en graved with bitter
lines, was restless, in spite of the country tasks and the
tranquil day. Beside him the boy,
dark-eyed like his father, helped him peg together a board
for one of the hives that would be carried to the moor when the
heather bloomed, and set on the neat row of platforms
that awaited them.
To them, with no warning but the soft pace of hoofs in
the heather, and
a shadow falling across the man's preoccupation,
came Orkney's king, Gawain.
The man looked up. Gawain, starting a casual
greeting, checked his horse sharply and stared.
"Mordred!"
Mordred let fall the mallet he had been
using, and got slowly to his feet as a group of
riders, a dozen or so with footmen and hounds,
followed the king over the brow of the hill. The boy
stopped his task and straightened to stare, open-mouthed.
Mordred laid a reassuring hand on his son's
shoulder. "Why, Gawain! Greetings."
"You?" said Gawain. "Here? Since when? And who
is this?" His look measured the boy. "No, I
don't need to ask that! He's more like Arthur@u" He
checked himself.
Mordred said dryly: "Don't trouble. He
speaks only the island tongue." "By the gods," said
Gawain, diverted in spite of himself, "if
you got that one before you left here you must have been up
earlier than any of us!"
The other riders had come up with them. Gawain, with a
gesture, sent them back to wait out of earshot. He
slipped from the saddle, and a groom ran forward to lead
his horse aside. Gawain seated himself on one of the
wooden platforms. Mordred, after a moment's
hesitation, sat down on another. The boy, at a
gesture from his father, began to gather up the tools they
had been using. He did it slowly, stealing glances
all the while at the king and his followers. "Now,"
said Gawain, "tell me. How and why, all of it.
The tale went out that you were dead, or you'd have been
discovered long since, but I never believed that,
somehow. What happened?" "Do you need to ask?
Gaheris must have told you. I assumed he was riding
to join you."
"You didn't know? But I'm a fool, how could
you? Gaheris is dead." "Dead? How? Did the
King catch up with him? I'd hardly have thought, even
so@u"
"Nothing to do with the King. Gaheris was wounded that
night, noth ing much, but he neglected it, and it
went bad. If he had come to me@ubut he
didn't. He must have known how little
welcome he would be. He went north to his
leman, and by the time they got to him there, there was no
help for him. Another," said Gawain bitterly,
"to Bedwyour's account."
Mordred was silent. He himself could mourn none of
them but Gareth, but to Gawain, the only survivor
now of that busy and close Orkney clan, the loss
was heavy. He said as much, and for a while they spoke
of the past, memories made more vivid by the familiar
landscape stretching around them. Then Mordred,
choosing his words, began to feel his way.

"You spoke of Bedwyour with bitterness. I understand
this, believe me, but Bedwyour was hardly to blame for
Gaheris's own folly. Or, in fact, for anything
that happened that night. I don't plan to hold him
accountable even for this." He touched his shoulder,
briefly. "You must see that, Gawain, now that you have
had time to come to terms with your grief. Agravain was the
leader that night, and Gaheris with him. They were
determined to destroy Bedwyour, even if it meant
destroying the Queen as well. Nothing anyone could
say--" "I know. I knew them. Agravain was a
fool, and Gaheris a mad fool, and still carrying the
blood-guilt for a worse crime than
any done that night. But I was not thinking of them. I
was thinking of Gareth. He deserved better of life
than to be murdered by a man he trusted, a man
whom he had served."
"For the gods' sake, that was no murder!"
Mordred spoke explosively, and his son looked
up quickly, alarmed. Mordred spoke quietly in
the local tongue. "Take the tools back to the
house. We'll do no more work here today. Tell your
mother I'll come down before long. Don't worry,
all is well."
The boy ran off. The two men watched, not
speaking, while the slight figure dwindled
downhill in the distance. There was a cottage set in
a hollow near the loch-side, its thatch barely
visible against the heather. The boy vanished through the low
doorway. Mordred turned back to Gawain. He
spoke earnestly. "Gawain, don't think I have not
grieved for Gareth as much as any man could. But
believe me, his death was an accident, as far as a
killing in hot blood in a crazy melee can be an
accident. And Gareth was armed. Bedwyour was not when he
was attacked. I doubt if for the first minutes he
even knew who was at the edge of his blade."
"Ah, yes." The bitterness was still in
Gawain's voice. "Everyone knows you were on his
side."
Mordred's head went up. He spoke
incredulously. "You know what?" "Well, even if
you weren't for Bedwyour, at least it's known you were against
the attack. Which was sense, I suppose. Even if
they had been caught in bed together, twined naked, the
King would have punished the attackers even before he
dealt with Bedwyour and the Queen." "I don't understand
you. And this is beside the point. There never was any question of
adultery." Mordred spoke with stiff anger, a
royal rebuke that came incongruously from the shabby
workmanlike peasant to the splendidly dressed king.
"The King had sent a letter to the Queen, which she wished
to show Bedwyour. I suppose it was to tell them he was
on his way home. I saw it there, in her chamber.
And when we broke in they were both fully clad--
warmly wrapped, even--and her women were 234
awake in the anteroom. One of them was in the
bedchamber with Bedwyour and the Queen. Not an easy
setting for adultery."
"Yes, yes." Gawain spoke impatiently.
"I know all this. I spoke with my uncle the High
King." Some echo in the words, in that place, brought
memory back. His glance shifted. He
said quickly: "The King told me what had happened.
It seems you tried to stop the fool Agravain, and
you did prevent Gaheris from harming the Queen. If
he had even touched her--"
"Wait. This is what I don't understand. How do
you know this? Bedwyour could not have seen what happened, or
he would not have attacked me as he did. And I think
Bors had already gone for the guard. So how did the
King hear the truth of the matter?"
"The Queen told him, of course."
Mordred was silent. The air round him was filled
with the singing of the moorland birds, but what he heard was
silence, the haunted silence of those long dreaming
nights. She had seen. She knew. She had not
hunted him away.
He said slowly: "I begin to see. Gaheris
told me the guards were coming for me, and I must leave
Camelot to save myself. He would take me away
to safety, he said, in spite of the risk to himself.
Even at the time, astray though I was in my wits,
I thought it strange. I had struck him down myself,
to save the Queen."
"Gaheris, my dear Mordred, was saving no
one's skin but his own. Did it not occur to you to wonder
why the guards let him out of the gates, when
they must have known of the affray? Gaheris alone they would
have stopped. But Prince Mordred, when Bedwyour
himself had given orders that he was to be cared for ...
?"
"I barely remember anything about it. The ride
is like a bad dream. Part of a bad dream."
"Then think of it now. That is what happened.
Gaheris got out, and away, and as soon as he could
he left you, to die or to recover, as God and the good
brothers might contrive."
"You know of that, too?"
"Arthur found the monastery after a time, but you had
gone. He had riders out searching for you, the length and
breadth of the land. In the end they counted you lost, or
dead." A smile without mirth in it. "A grim
jest of the gods, brother. It was Gaheris who died,
and you who were mourned. You would have been flattered. When
the next Council was held--"
Mordred did not hear the rest. He got
suddenly to his feet, and took a few paces
away. The' sun was setting, and westward the water
of the great loch shimmered and shone. Beyond it, between it and the
blaze of the
sunset, loomed the hills of the High
Island. He drew a long breath. It was like a slow
coming alive again. Once, long ago, a boy had
stood like this, on the shore not far from here, with his heart
reaching out across the hills and the water to the remote and
coloured kingdoms. Now a man stood gazing the
same way, seeing the same visions, with the hard
bitterness breaking in his brain. He had not been
hunted. He had not been traduced. His name was still
bright silver. His father sought for him in peace. And the
Queen . . .
Gawain said: "A courier will be here within the
sennight. You'll let me send a message?"
"No need. I'll go myself."
Gawain, regarding his lighted face, nodded. "And
those?" A gesture towards the distant cottage.
"Will stay here. The boy will soon be able to take
my place and do the man's work."
"Your wife, is she?"
"So she calls herself. There was some local rite,
cakes and a fire. It pleased her." He turned the
subject. "Tell me, Gawain, how long will you be
here?"
"I don't know. The courier may bring news."
"Do you expect to be summoned back again? I
hardly need to ask," said Mordred
bluntly, "why you are here in the islands. If you do
go back, what then of Bedwyour?"
Gawain's face hardened, setting in the familiar
obstinate cast. "Bedwyour will tread warily. And so,
I suppose, will I."
His gaze went past Mordred. A woman had
come out of the distant cottage, and, with the boy beside her,
stood gazing towards them. The breeze moulded her
gown against her, and her long hair blew free in a
flurry of gold.
"Yes, well, I see," said Gawain. "What
is the boy's name?" "Medraut."
"Grandson to the High King," said Gawain,
musing. "Does he know?" "No," said Mordred
sharply. "Nor will he. He does not even know he
is mine. She was wedded after I left the islands, and
she bore three other children before her man was drowned.
He was a fisherman. I knew him when we were
boys. Her parents live still, and help her care for the
children. They made me welcome, and were glad to get us
handfasted after so long, but I could see they never
expected me to stay for long, and she, certainly,
has said she will never leave the islands. I have
promised to see them all provided for. To the children--
to all four of them--I am their stepfather.
Some day Medraut may get to know that he is the
bastard of "King Lot's bastard," but that is
all, until perhaps one day I send for him.
And saving your presence, brother, there are a few
of those around. What need to whet ambition further?"
"What indeed?" Gawain got to his feet.
"Well, will you stay with them, or come with me now
to await the ship? The palace will give you more comfort
than your hiding-place."
"Give me a day or so to make my peace, and
I'll come." Mordred laughed suddenly. "It will be
interesting to see how its luxury strikes me this time,
after these months back at my old tasks! I
haven't lost the taste for fishing, but I confess I
was not looking forward to digging the peats!"
The King's relief and pleasure, and the Queen's
obvious happiness at seeing him again, were,
to Mordred, like the breaking of summer after a long
winter of near-starvation. Not much was said about the events
of that grim night; it was something that neither Arthur nor
the Queen wished to dwell on; instead they asked for
news of Mordred's months in exile, and soon,
as he told of his attempts to get back into the
hard-working rhythms of his childhood, they all three
lost the memories of the "dreadful night" in
laughter. They spoke then of Gawain, and Mordred
handed his half-brother's letter to the King. Arthur read
it, then looked up. "You know what's in this?"
"The main of it, yes, sir. He said he would
petition you to let him come south again."
Arthur nodded. His next remark answered the question
Mordred had not asked. "Bedwyour is still in
Brittany, at his castle of Benoic, north of the
great forest that they call Perilous. Indeed, to our
loss, he looks to be settled there. He married
during the winter." Mordred, back in the stronghold
of courtiers, betrayed no surprise except with a
slight lift of the brows. Before he could speak,
Guinevere, rising, brought both men to their feet.
Her face was pale, and for the first time Mordred saw,
in its lively beauty, the signs of strain and
sleeplessness. Her mouth had lost some of its gentle
fullness, as if it had been set over too many
silences. "I will go now, by your leave, my lords. You
will have much still to say to one another, after so long." Her
hand went out again to Mordred. "Come soon to talk with
me again. I long to hear more of your strange islands.
Meanwhile be welcome here, back in your home."
Arthur waited until the door shut behind her. He
was silent for a space, and his look was heavy
and brooding. Mordred wondered if he was thinking
back to the events of that night, but all he said was:
"I tried to warn you, Mordred. But how could you have
read my warning? Or reading it, what could you have done,
more than you did? Well, it's 237
done with. Again I thank you, and now let us speak
no more of it. ... But we must needs discuss the
result. When you spoke with Gawain, what
did he say of Bedwyour?"
"That he would contain himself as best he could. If
tolerance of Bedwyour is the price for coming back
into service with the Companions, then I think he will
pay it."
"He says as much in this letter. Do you think he will
keep to this?" Mordred moved his shoulders in a
shrug. "As far as he can, I suppose. He is
loyal to you, sir, be sure of that. But you know his
temper, and whether he can control it . . ." He
shrugged again. "Will you recall him?"
"He is not banished. He is free to come, and
if he does so of his own will, all should be well
enough. Bedwyour is settled in Brittany, and he
has written to me that his wife goes with child. So for
all our sakes, and for my cousin Hoel's, too, it
is best that he stay there. There is trouble
coming in Brittany, Mordred, and Bedwyour's
sword may be needed there, along with mine."
"Already? You spoke of this before."
"No. Not the matter that we discussed before. There
is a totally new situation. While you were away in
your islands there has been news from abroad, which will
bring great changes both in the eastern and western
empires."
He went on to explain. News had come of the death
of Theodoric, king of Rome and ruler of the western
empire. He had reigned for thirty years, and his
death would bring changes as great as they were sudden.
Though a Goth, and therefore by definition a barbarian,
Theodoric, like many of his race, had admired and
respected Rome even as he fought to conquer her and
make a place for his own people in the kindly climate
of Italy. He had embraced what he saw to be
best in Roman culture, and had attempted
to restore, or shore up, the structures of
Roman law and the Roman peace. Under him Goths
and Romans continued to be separate nations, bound
by their own laws and answerable to their own tribunals.
The king, from his capital in Ravenna, ruled with
justice and even with gentleness, welding together a
loyal legislature both in Ravenna and
Rome, where the ancient titles of procurator,
consul, legate, were still conferred and upheld.
Theodoric was succeeded by his daughter, acting as
regent for her ten- year-old son, Athalaric. But
it was not thought that the boy had any chance of the succession.
In Byzantium, too, there had been a change.
The ageing emperor Justin had abdicated in favour
of his nephew Justinian, and had placed upon his head
the diadem of the East. The new emperor
Justinian, wealthy, ambitious, and served
by brilliant commanders, was reputed to be eager
to restore the lost glories of the 238
Roman Empire. It was rumoured that he had
already cast his eyes towards the land of the Vandals, on
the southern fringe of the Mediterranean; but it seemed
likely that he would first seek to extend his empire
westward. The Franks of Childebert and his
brothers kept a watch always for any movement from the
east, but now to the perennial threat of the
Burgundians and the Alemans might be added the
larger menace of Rome. Behind the barrier of
Prankish Gaul, and dependent on her goodwill,
lay the tiny land of Brittany. Bordered on
three sides by the sea, on the fourth Brittany was
defended only by land nominally Prankish,
but in fact half deserted, a dense forest peopled
by wary tribesmen or folk displaced by war, who
huddled together in makeshift villages, and with their
half-savage leaders led an existence owing
allegiance to no man. Recently, King Hoel had
written, there had been disquieting reports from some of
these forest enclaves to the north-east of his capital.
Reports had filtered in of raids, robbery,
violent attacks on householders, and, the most
recent, a horrifying case of wholesale
slaughter where a farmstead had been deliberately
fired, and its inmates--eight people with some half-
dozen children--burned to death, and their goods and animals
stolen. Fear had spread in the forest, and it was being
murmured that the raiders were Franks. There was no
confirmation of this, but anger was rising, and Hoel feared
blind reprisals and a casus belli, at the very moment
when friendship with his Prankish neighbours was most
necessary. "Hoel's own men could doubtless deal with it,"
said Arthur, "but he suggests that my presence, with some
of the Companions, and a show of strength, might be an
advantage, not just in this, but in the graver matter dist
he writes of. But see for yourself."
He handed Hoel's letter to Mordred. The latter,
alone of the Orkney brothers, had, under the
tuition of the priest who had taught them the mainland
speech, taken the trouble to learn to read. Now he
frowned his way slowly through the beautifully penned
Latin of Hoel's scribe. It seemed that King
Hoel had recently received a message sent, not
by the new emperor, but by an officer purporting
to represent him. This was one Lucius
Quintilianus, called Hiberus, "the
Spaniard," one of the recently styled consuls.
Writing with a truly imperial arrogance, and quoting
Rome as if she still bristled with eagles and
legions, he had sent to Hoel demanding gold and a
levy of troops--far more than he could ever raise--
to "help Rome protect Brittany from the
Burgundians." He did not state what the
penalty would be for refusal; he did not need to.
"But the Franks? King Childebert?" asked
Mordred. "Like his brothers, a mere shadow of their
father. Hoel believes they must have had the same
demand, so it looks as if Rome must have strength

enough to enforce it. Mordred, I am afraid of this
emperor. The Celtic lands have not weathered Rome's
desertion, and the threat of barbarian domination, to accept
once again the collar and chain of Rome,
whatever "protection" she brings with her."
The situation, Mordred reflected, was not without
its ironies. Arthur, blamed at home by the Young
Celts for his adherence to Roman forms of law and
centralized government, was nevertheless prepared
to resist a possible attempt to bring Celtic
territories back within Rome's fold. "Under her
yoke, rather!" said Arthur, in reply to his son's
wry comment. "The times are long past when, in return
for tribute, a king and his people were protected.
Britain was taken by force, and thereafter forced to pay
tribute to Rome. In return she enjoyed, after the
settlement, a period of peace. Then Rome,
self-seeking as always, lifted her shield, and left
her weakened dependencies open to the barbarians. We
in these islands, and our cousins in their near-isle of
Brittany, alone kept our nationhood and remained
stable. We have achieved our own peace. Rome cannot
expect now to reimpose debts we do not owe. We
have as much right to demand tribute from her for Roman
territories which are now British again!" Mordred
said, startled: "Are you saying that this new emperor--
Justinian?--has demanded tribute of us?" "No.
Not yet. But if he has asked it of Brittany,
then sooner or later he will ask it of
me."
"When do you go, sir?"
"Preparations are already well forward. We go as
soon as we may. Yes, I said "we." I
want you with me."
"But with Bedwyour away in Brittany--or will you
leave Duke Constan- tine in charge here?"
Arthur shook his head. "No need. It should not be
a long visit. The immediate business is this trouble in the
Perilous Forest, and that should not take us long to clear
up." He smiled. "If we do see action there, you
can call it re-training after your holiday in the
Orkney isles! If the other matter becomes
serious, then I shall send you home as my regent.
Meanwhile I shall leave the Council in charge, with the
Queen, and send a sop to Duke Constantine in the
form of a letter charging him with the guardianship of the west."
"A sop?"
"A comfort and a drug, maybe, for a violent and
ambitious gentleman." Arthur nodded at
Mordred's quick lift of the brows. "Yes. Too
violent, I have long thought, for the country's need. His
father Cador, to whom I promised the kingdoms in
default of an heir of my body, was of different
metal. This man is as good a fighter as his
father, but I mislike some of the tales I have heard
about him. So I give him a little favour, and when I

return from Brittany, I will send for him here and
come to an understanding."
They were interrupted then by an urgent message
relayed from the harbour on Ynys Witrin where the
Sea Dragon lay. She was equipped,
provisioned, and ready to sail. So the King said no
more, and he and Mordred parted to make ready for the
journey into Brittany. 2
As so often happens, one trouble breeds another.
While Arthur and his Companions were still on the Narrow
Sea, tragedy, this time real and immediate, struck at
Brittany's royal house. King Hoel's
niece Elen, sixteen years old and a beauty,
set out one day from her father's home towards Hoel's
castle at Kerrec. The party never arrived. Her
guards and servants were attacked and killed, and the
girl and one of her women, her old nurse,
Clemency, were carried off. The other woman in the
party, though unhurt, was too shocked to give a
coherent account of what had happened. The attack
had taken place at dusk, almost within sight of the
place where the party had proposed to lodge
for the night, and she had not noticed what badge the
attackers wore, or indeed anything about them,
except that their leader, he who had dragged Elen up
before him on his horse and spurred off into the forest, had
been "a giant of a man, with eyes like a wolf and a
shock of hair like a bear's pelt, and an arm like an
oak tree." Hoel, not unnaturally discounting most
of this, jumped to the conclusion that the outrage was the work
of the ruffians who had been terrorizing the Forest.
Whether they were Bretons or Franks, his hand was
forced. The women must be rescued, and the attackers
punished. Even King Childebert would not blame the
Breton king for avenging such an outrage. Arthur and
his party sailed into Kerrec's harbour to find the
place in a turmoil, and themselves just in time to lead the
hastily mounted punitive expedition into the Forest.
Hoel's chief captain, a trusted veteran, with a
troop of Breton cavalry, accompanied Arthur
and his Companions.
The party rode fast, and more or less in silence.
According to what information could be gathered from the princess's
surviving waiting- woman, the attack had taken
place on a lonely stretch of road just where the way
left the Forest and bordered a brackish lake. This
was one of the shore lagoons, not quite an inlet
of the sea, but moved by the tides, and in spring and
autumn washed through by the sea itself. They reached the
lake shore soon after dusk, and halted short of the
site of the abduction, to wait for daylight, and for
Bedwyour to join them. There had been no rain for
several days, so Arthur was hopeful that there would still be
traces of the struggle, and tracks to show which way the
marauders had gone. Hoel's messenger had gone
ahead already to Benoic, and now,
just as orders were given for the night's halt,
Bedwyour arrived out of the dark with a troop of men at his
back. Arthur greeted his friend with joy, and over
supper they fell at once to talk and planning for the
next move. No shadow of the past seemed to touch
them; the only reference, and that oblique, to the events
that had banished Bedwyour to Less Britain was when
he greeted Mordred. This was after supper, when the
latter was on his way to the pickets to see that his
horse had been properly cared for. Bedwyour fell
in beside him, apparently bent on the same errand.
"They tell me that you, too, have been sojourning in the
outer dark, Mordred. I am glad to see you back
with the King. You are fully recovered now, I
trust?"
"Small thanks to you, yes," said Mordred, but
smiling. He added: "On second thoughts, all
thanks to you. You could have killed me, and we both know
it."
"Not quite so easy. The decisions were not all mine,
and I think we both know that, too. You're a bonny
fighter, Mordred. Some day perhaps we may meet
again . . . and in rather less earnest?" "Why not?
Meantime I am told I am to wish you happy. I
gather you are lately wedded? Who is she?"
"Her father is Pelles, a king in Neustria whose
land borders mine. Her name is Elen, too."
The name jolted them back to the urgencies of the
moment. As they inspected their horses Mordred
said: "You must know the ground hereabouts?"
"I know it well. It's barely a day's ride
from my family's castle of Benoic. We used
to hunt here, and fish the lake. Many's the time my
cousins and I--"
He broke off, straightening.
"Look yonder, Mordred! What's that?"
"That" was a point of light, red, nickering with
shadows. Another wavered below it.
"It's a fire. On the shore, or near it. You
can see the reflection." "Not on the
shore," said Bedwyour. "The shore is farther away.
There's an island there, though. We used to land and
make fire to cook the fish. It must be there."
"No one lives there?"
"No. There's nothing there. That side of the lake
is wild land, and the island itself nothing but a pile of
rock with ferns and heather, and on the summit a
grove of pine trees. If someone is there now it's
worth our while to find out who it is."
"An island?" said Mordred. "It might well
be. A good choice, one would think, for a night or so
of undisturbed rape."
"It has been known," said the other, very dryly.
He turned with the words, and the two men went swiftly
back to Arthur. The King had already seen the fire.
He was giving orders, and men were hurrying to saddle
up again. He turned quickly to Bedwyour. "You saw?
Well, it could be. It's worth looking at,
anyway. How do we best get there? And without
alarming them?" "You can't surprise them with horses.
It's an island." Bedwyour repeated what he had
told Mordred. "There's a spit of land, rock and
gravel, running out from the shore on the far side of the
lake. That's about three miles from here. You
can get half that distance by the shore road, then you must
leave it and enter the forest. There's no path there along
the shore; you would have to make a wide detour to skirt
the thick trees. Bad going, and quite impossible in the
dark. And the forest goes all the way to the sea."
"Then it hardly seems likely that their horses
are round there. If that's our rapist still on the island,
then he got there by boat, and his horse will still be on the
shore road. Right. We'll take a look, then
picket the road in case he tries to make a
break. Meanwhile we need a boat ourselves.
Bedwyour?"
"There should be one not far away. This is oyster
water. The beds are only a short way from here, and
there may be a boat there--unless, of course, that's the
one he took."
But the oyster-fisher's boat was there, lying beached
on the shingle near a pier of rough stones. The boat
was a crude, shallow-draught affair with an almost
flat bottom. Normally she would be poled out
slowly over the oyster-beds, but there were paddles,
too, tied together and stuck up in the ground like
flagstaff's. Willing hands seized her and shoved
her down the shingle. The men moved quietly and
quickly, without talking. Arthur, looking out
towards the distant glimmer, spoke softly.
"I'll take the shore road. Bedwyour"--a
smile sounded in his voice--"you're the expert on
expeditions of this kind. The island's yours. Who do you
want with you?"
"These craft won't hold more than two, and
they're hard to handle if you're to go farther than pole
depth. I'll take the other expert. The
fisherman's son, if he'll come."
"Mordred?"
"Willingly." He added, dryly: "Re-training
after my sojourn in the islands?" and heard Arthur
laugh under his breath. "Go, then, and God go with you.
Let us pray the girl still lives." The boat went
smoothly down the bank, met the water, and rode
rock- 244
ing there. Bedwyour took his seat cautiously in the
stem, with the pole overside to act as rudder, and
Mordred, stepping lightly in after him, gripped the
paddles, and settled down to row. With a last shove from
the men on shore, they were afloat, and drifting
into darkness. They could just hear, above the lapping of the
lake, the muffled sounds as the troop moved off, their
horses keeping to the soft edges of the roadway.
Mordred rowed steadily, pushing the
clumsy craft through the water at a fair speed.
Bedwyour, motionless in the stem, watched for the guiding
glimmer from the island.
"The fire must be almost dead. I've lost the
light. . . . Ah, it's all right, I can see the
island shore now. By your left a little. That's it.
Keep as you are."
Soon the island was quite clear to their night-sight.
It was small, peaked, black against dark, floating
dimly on the faint luminescence of the lagoon. A
slight breeze ruffled the water, and concealed the sound
of the paddles. Now that the fitful and somehow baleful
light of the fire had vanished, the night seemed
empty, and very peaceful. There were stars, and the breeze
smelled of the sea. They both heard it at the same
moment. Over the water, in a lull of the breeze,
came a sound, soft and dreadful, that dispelled the
illusory peace of the night. A long, keening
ululation of grief and fear. On the island. A
woman crying.
Bedwyour cursed under his breath. Mordred drove
the paddles in hard, and the clumsy boat jumped and
lurched, swinging broadside onto the rock of the
shore. He shipped the paddles and grabbed at the
rock in one spare, expert movement..
Bedwyour jumped past him, his sword ready in his
hand.
He paused for a moment, winding his cloak round his
left arm. "Beach her. Find his boat and sink it.
If he dodges me, stay here and kill him."
Mordred was already out, and busy with the rope. From the
black wooded bank above them the sounds came again,
hopeless, terrified. The night was filled with
weeping. Bedwyour, treading from shingle to pine needles,
vanished in silence.
Mordred made the boat fast, drew his own
weapon, and moved quietly along the shingle, looking
for the other boat. The island was tiny. In a very few
minutes he was back at his starting- point. There was
no boat. Whoever he was, whatever he had done,
he was gone. Mordred, his sword at the ready,
climbed fast after Bedwyour towards the noise of
weeping.
The fire was not quite out. A pile of ashes still showed
a residual glow. Beside it, in its faint disred
light, the woman sat, hunched and wailing. Her
hair, straggling unbound over a torn robe of some
dark colour, showed
pale. The fire had been kindled on the
island's summit, where a stand of pine trees, clinging
to what seemed to be bare rock, had laid down a
carpet of needles, and where a cairn, built long
ago and fallen apart with time and weather, made some
sort of crude shelter. The grove appeared to be
empty but for the crouched and mourning figure of the
woman.
Mordred, many years younger than the other man, was
close behind him as he reached the grove. The two men
paused there. She heard them, and looked up. The
starlight, and the faint glimmer from the fire, showed that this
was no girl, but an old woman, grey-haired,
her face a mask of fear and grief. The wailing
stopped as if she had been struck in the throat.
Her body stiffened. Her mouth gaped wider, as if
for a scream.
Bedwyour put out a hand and spoke quickly:
"Madam--Mother--don't be afraid. We are
friends. Friends. We have come to help."
The scream was choked back on a strangled
gasp. They heard her breathing, short and ragged, as
she strained white-eyed to see them. They moved forward
slowly. "Be calm. Mother," said Bedwyour. "We
are from the King--"
"From which king? Who are you?"
Her voice was breathless and shaking, but now with the
exhaustion of grief, not fear. Bedwyour had spoken
in the local tongue, and she answered in the same.
Her accent was broader than Bedwyour's, but the
language of Less Britain was close enough to that of the
mother kingdom for Mordred to understand it easily. "I
am Bedwyour of Benoic, and this is Mordred, son
of King Arthur. We are King's men, seeking for the
lady Elen. She has been here? You were with her?"
Mordred, while Bedwyour was speaking, had stooped
to pick up a handful ofpinedrift, and a broken spar of
wood. He scattered the stuff on the ashes, and a
flame spurted, caught and held. Light nickered
up redly, and showed the woman more clearly.
She was well, though plainly, dressed, and was
perhaps sixty years old. Her clothing was dirtied and
torn, as if in some sort of struggle. Her face,
grimed and distorted with weeping, showed a big
discoloured patch of bruising over one cheek, and her
lips were split and crusty with dried blood.
"You come too late," she said.
"Where has he gone? Where has he taken her?"
"I mean too late for the Princess Elen." She
pointed towards the tumbled cairn of stones. They
looked that way. Now in the strengthening light
of the fire they could see that something--someone--had been
scrabbling

in the thickly heaped pine needles. Some of the
smaller stones from the caim had been pulled down, and
pine cones and needles scattered over them.
"It was all I could do," said the woman. She
held out her hands. They were shaking. The men looked
at them, stirred by horror and pity. The hands were
torn and bruised and bloody.
The two knights went across to the cairn where the
body lay. It was imperfectly hidden. Beneath the
scattered stones and pine needles the girl's face
could be seen, streaked with dirt and agonized with death.
Her eyes had been closed, but the mouth gaped still,
and the neck, with the death marks on the throat, hung
crookedly. Bedwyour, still with the gentleness that Mordred
would never have suspected in him, said, half to himself:
"She has a lovely face. God give her
rest." Then, turning: "Don't grieve. Mother.
She shall go home to her own people, and lie in royal
fashion, at peace with her gods. And this foul beast
shall die, and go to his, for his just reward."
He took a flask from his belt and knelt beside
her, holding it to her lips. She drank,
sighed, and in a while grew calmer. Soon she was
able to tell them what had happened.
She did not know who the ravisher was. He was not,
she affirmed to their relief, a foreigner. He had
spoken but little, and that mostly curses, but he and his
followers were unmistakably Bretons. The
reports of a "giant" were not so very far wrong: He
was a man huge in every way, stature, girth,
strength, with a loud voice and a bellowing laugh. A
bull of a man, who had burst out of cover with three
companions--roughly clad fellows, like common
thieves--and slain four of the princess's escort with
his own hands before they had well had time to recover from
their surprise. The remaining three fought
valiantly but were all killed. Herself and the princess
were dragged away, Elen's other woman ("a poor
thing, who wailed and screamed so, if I had been one
of those beasts I would have killed her on the spot,"
said the nurse trenchantly) had been left alone,
but the attackers, riding off, took the party's
horses with them, so had little fear of pursuit.
"They brought us to this place, at the water's edge.
It was still dark, so it was hard to make out the way. One
of them stayed with the horses on shore, and the others rowed
us across to this rock. My lady was half
fainting, and I tried to tend her. I had no other
thoughts. We could not have escaped. The big man--the
bull--carried her up the rocks to this place. The
other fellows would have dragged me after, but I dodged
them and ran, and when they saw that I had no intention of
trying to leave my lady, they let me be."

She coughed, and licked her cut lips. Bedwyour
held out the flask again, but she shook her head and
presently continued: "The rest I cannot speak of, but
you can guess at it. The two fellows held me
while he--the bull--raped her. She was never
strong. A pretty girl, but pale always, and often
ill during the cold winters." She stopped again, and
bent her head. Her fingers twisted together. After a
while Bedwyour asked gently: "He killed her?"
"Yes. Or rather, what he did with her killed her.
She died. He cursed, and left her yonder by the
stones, and then came back to me. I had made no
outcry--they shut my mouth with their stinking hands--but I
was afraid that now they would kill me also. For what
they did then ... I had hardly thought ... I am
past my sixtieth year, and then one should be ...
Well, no more of that. What is done is done, and
now you are here, and will slay this animal
while he lies sleeping off his lust."
"Lady," said Bedwyour forcefully, "he shall die
this night, if he is to be found. Where did they go?"
"I do not know. They spoke of an island, and a
tower. That's all I can tell you. They had no thought
of pursuit, or they would have killed me, too. Or
perhaps, being animals, they did not think. They threw
me down beside my lady, and left me. After a while
I heard horses going. I think they went towards
the coast. When I could move, I gave my lady
what burial I could. I found a place in the
stones of the cairn where someone, fishermen perhaps, had
left flint and iron, and so made a fire. Had
I not been able to do that I should have died here. There is
neither fresh water nor food, and I cannot swim.
If they had seen the fire and come back themselves, then
I should have died sooner, that is all." She looked
up. "But you--two young men like you against that monster and his
fellows . . No, no, you must not seek him yourselves.
Take me with you, I beg of you, but do not seek him
out. I would see no more deaths. Take my story
back to King Hoel, and he--" "Lady, we come from
King Hoel. We were sent to find you and your lady, and
punish the ravishers. Do not fear for us: I am
Bedwyour of Benoic, and this is Mordred,
son of Arthur of Britain."
She stared in the dimming light. It was apparent that
she had either not heard before, or had not understood. She
repeated, still only half believing:
"Bedwyour of Benoic? Himself? Arthur of
Britain?" "Arthur is here, not far away, with a
troop of soldiers. King Hoel is sick, but he
sent us to find you. Come now, Lady. Our boat is
small, and none too seaworthy, but if you will come with
us now to safety, we will return later and carry your
lady back for a seemly burial." So it was done.
Two litters were improvised from pine boughs, and on
them the girl's body, decently shrouded in a
cloak, and the old nurse, 248
collapsed into a feverish sleep, were sent
to Kerrec under guard. The remainder of Arthur's
force, guided by Bedwyour, rode for the sea shore. It
was low tide. The sand stretched wide and flat and
grey, shining faintly under the darkness. They splashed
across the river mouth where the lake water and the tide
mingled, and then, away ahead of them to seaward in the
breaking dawn, they saw the steep cone of the
sea-islet which, by Bedwyour's reckoning, must be the
"island tower" of which the ruffians had spoken.
Since the old woman had been abandoned
to die on the lake island, the tide had flowed and
ebbed again, so there were no guiding marks on the sand, but
inland on the flats where the river wound its way through
its delta of salt turf to the sea, the tracks of
horses were plain to be seen making straight for the
shore and the rough causeway that led across, at low
tide, to the island. Its high rocks, cloudy with
trees, loomed out of a calm sea, the tide, just on
the turn, creaming along the island's base and between the
stones of the causeway. No light showed anywhere, but
they could just see, guided by Bedwyour's pointing finger,
the outlines of a tower at the summit. The King
regarded this, sitting his horse at the sea's edge,
motionless but for the knuckle that tapped thoughtfully at his
lip. He might have been contemplating the making of a
rose-bed in the Queen's garden at Camelot.
He looked no more warlike than he had done on that
"peace mission" to Cerdic, when Agravain had
inveighed so bitterly against the apparent tameness of the
"duke of battles." But Mordred, at his side,
watching with interest and a rising excitement that he found
hard to conceal, knew that he was seeing for the first time, at
last, the Arthur of the legends; this was a
professional, an expert at his trade, the man
who alone had saved Britain from the
Saxon Terror, deciding how best to set about a very
minor matter. The King spoke at last.
"The place looks half ruined. The fellow is
a brigand, holed up here like a badger. This is not a
case for siege, or even attack. By rights we should
take hounds and bay him out like a boar."
There was a murmur from the others, like a growl. They
had all seen the girl Elen's body as it was
carried ashore. Bedwyour's horse reared suddenly,
as if sharing its rider's tension. Bedwyour's hand was
already at his sword, and behind, among the Companions,
metal gleamed in the chill dawn light.
"Put up your swords." Arthur neither glanced
aside, nor raised his voice. He sat relaxed
and quiet, knuckle to lip. "I was about to say that this
was a matter for One man only. Myself. Do not
forget that the Princess Elen was kin to me, and I am
here for King Hoel, whose niece and subject

she was. This beast's blood is for me." He
turned then, stilling the renewed murmur. "If he
kills me, then you, Mordred, will take him. After
you, if it becomes necessary, then Bedwyour and the others will
do as they wish. Understood?"
There were assenting noises, some of them
obviously reluctant. Mordred saw Arthur
smile as he went on:
"Now listen to me, before we scale the island. There
are apparently at least three other men with him. There
may be more. They are your meat; tackle them how you
will. Now, they may have seen our approach; they will
surely suspect it. They may come out to face us,
or they may try to barricade themselves in the tower. In
that case it will be your task to bay or burn them out,
and bring their leader to face me." He shook the
reins, and his horse moved forward, fetlock deep
in the sea. "We must cross now. If we delay
longer the tide will be over the causeway, and they will
come down to take us at a loss as we swim our
beasts ashore."
In this he proved wrong. The gang, secure in
their knowledge of the rising tide, and, with the stupidity of their
brutish natures, unheeding of pursuit, were all
within the tower's walls, and had set no watch. Round
the remains of their supper fire they slept, four of
them, in a litter of gnawed bones and greasy
remnants of food. The leader was still awake,
nearest the fire, turning over in filthy hands a
pair of golden bangles and the jewelled charm that he
had torn from Elen's pretty neck. Then
some sound must have caught his ear. He looked up,
to see Arthur in the moonlight beyond the tower
doorway. The roar he gave was indeed like a bayed
boar. And he was as swift, a giant of a man, with
thews like a smith, and eyes blazing red as a wild
beast's. The King would not have scrupled to kill him
unarmed--this was no fight, as he had said, but the
slaughter of mad brutes--but no sword could have
been wielded within the tower's walls, so Arthur
perforce stayed where he was, and let the man snatch
up his weapon, a massive club which outreached the
shorter man's weapon by inches, and rush out on him.
His fellows, slower with sleep and surprise,
tumbled out in his wake, to be seized by the knights who
waited to either side of the tower door, and killed forthwith.
Mordred, hand to hand with a burly fellow who stank,
and whose breath reeked like an open drain, found himself
forgetting all the knightly practice that the years
had taught him, and reverting to the tricks that had
once served the fisherman's son in the rough
tussles of his boyhood. And it was two to one in the
end. As Mordred, tripping, went down under the other
man's weight, Bedwyour, joining him almost casually,
spitted the fellow like a fowl, then stooping, cleaned
his sword on the grass. The dead man's
clothes were too dirty for the office.

**
The gang were all dead within seconds of emerging from
the tower. Then the Companions stood back to watch the
execution of the leader. To their trained eyes it seemed
obvious that he had himself had some kind of training in the
past. A brute he was, but a brave brute.
He rushed on Arthur, club against sword, and with the
first tremendous swipe of the club outreached the shorter
man's sword with a blow that sent the King reeling, and
dinted the metal of his shield. The heavy club,
sliding across the metal, took the giant for a moment
with its impetus, and in that moment Arthur, recovering
his balance, cut past club and arm, straight for the
unprotected throat above the thick leather jerkin.
The giant, for all his size, was quick on his feet.
He jumped back, the club beating upward again and
striking the sword out of line. But Arthur's arm and
body went with the thrust, taking the blow higher, over the
club and straight at the giant's face. The point
just scraped his forehead, a short cut but a deep
one, right above the eyes. The man yelled, and Arthur
jumped back as the great club flailed round again.
Blood spurted and flowed down the
giant's face. It blinded him, but the very blindness
almost proved Arthur's undoing, for the man, maddened
by the sting of the wound, hurled himself straight at the King,
ignoring the ready sword, and with the surprise of his
rashness getting past it so that he came breast to breast
with his opponent, and with his great weight and wrestling
grip began to bear Arthur backward to the ground.
Perhaps Mordred was the only one there
to appreciate the swift and very foul blow with which the
King extricated himself. He wrenched out of the
monster's grip, dodged the club again with apparent
ease, and cut the man across the back of the knees.
Yelling, the giant fell with a crash like a tree,
thrashing about him as he went. The King waited,
poised like a dancer, till the club's head thudded
into the turf, then cut the wrist that held it. The
club lay where it had struck. Before the giant could
even feel the pain of the fresh wound the King stepped
past through the gush of blood and stabbed him cleanly through
the throat.
They recovered the princess's jewels from the
tower, threw the bodies into it, and set fire to it.
Then the troop rode back to catch up with their
companions, and carry their heavy news to King
Hoel. 3
One positive good came out of the tragedy of the
Princess Elen. It was certain that Hoel's
Prankish neighbours had had nothing to do with the rape,
and, when it was known that the "giant" and his ruffianly
companions were dead, the villagers and the forest folk
who had suffered from the robbers' depredations dared speak
out at last, making it quickly apparent that the recent
raids and harassments had all been the work of the same
robber band. Accordingly, as soon as the funeral was done
with, but before the time of mourning was past, Hoel and
Arthur were able to sit down and discuss the demand made
by the consul Quintilianus Hiberus. They decided
to send an embassy to him, ostensibly to discuss the
Roman emperor's proposals, but in reality
to see for themselves what his strength was. Hoel had
already sent to King Childebert and his brothers to find out
if they had encountered the same demands, and if so,
what stand they were prepared to take. "It will take a
little time," said Hoel, stretching his feet nearer the
fire, and rubbing a hand over an arthritic knee,
"but you'll stay, I trust, cousin?"
"To deploy my troops with yours in full sight,
while your embassy goes to nose out Hiberus'
intentions? Willingly," said Arthur. "I'd hoped
that you might lend some weight to the embassy,
too," said Hoel. "I'm sending Guerin. He's
as wily an old fox as ever wasted a council's
time. They'll never understand half he says, let
alone what his proposals mean. He'll make time
for us, and meanwhile we'll get an answer from the
Franks. Well, cousin?"
"Of course. For me, then, Bors. He has
no wiles at all, but his honesty is patent, and
therefore disarming. We can instruct him to leave the
politics to Guerin. I'd like Valerius to command the
escort."
Hoel nodded approvingly. They were in his
private apartments in the palace at Kerrec. The
old king was now free of his bedchamber, but spent the
days sitting, wrapped in furs, over a blazing
fire. His muscular bulk had run, with age,
to overweight, and this had brought with it the usual
attendant ills; his bones, as he put it, creaked
in the draughts of his old- fashioned and
relatively comfortless stronghold.
Arthur, with Mordred, and two or three of
Hoel's own lords, had supped with the king, and now sat
over a bowl of mulled and spicy wine. 252
Bedwyour was not with them. He had gone back at his
own request to his lands in the north of
Brittany. The reason he gave was his young
bride's health. He had confided to Mordred, on
the ride south with the body of the murdered princess, that
his own Elen, being subject to the fears of her
condition, had dreamed of death, and could not rest until
her husband returned to her in safety. So, the
funeral once over, Bedwyour had ridden north,
leaving those of the Young Celts' faction who were present
with Arthur's forces to whisper that he had gone sooner
than come face to face with Gawain.
For Gawain was on his way to Brittany. Arthur
had judged it wise to invite his nephew, now back
in the ranks of the Companions, to follow him and share
such action as might ensue. The expected fighting had
proved to be merely a punitive skirmish with a
robber gang, and for this Gawain had sailed too
late. So now, discussing with Hoel the composition of the
joint embassy, Arthur suggested that Gawain should be
part of it. Since Hoel could not go, and Arthur
judged it better that he himself should not, some
representative of the royal house ought to be
present to lend the right dignity to the occasion. Hoel,
humming and huffing in his beard, cast a look at
Mordred, misinterpreted the frown he saw there, and
cleared his throat to speak, but Arthur,
catching the exchange of glances, said quickly: "Not
Mordred, no. He is the obvious choice, but I
need him elsewhere. If I am to stay here till this
is settled then he must go back to Greater Britain
in my place. The Queen and Council make a
stopgap government, but that is all it is, and there are
matters outstanding that must be dealt with, with more authority
than I have left with them."
He turned to his son. "After all my talk,
eh? Re-training, indeed! Rowing a boat on a
lagoon, and killing a robber or two. I'm
sorry, Mordred, but a dispatch I had today makes
it necessary. Will you go?" "Whatever you bid me, sir.
Of course."
"Then we'll talk later," said the King, and
turned back to the discussion.
Mordred, half disappointed and half elated, was
nevertheless wholly puzzled. What could be the urgent
business that was forcing the King to change his plans?
Only yesterday he had spoken of sending Mordred
with the embassy. Now it was to be Gawain. And
Mordred doubted the wisdom of that choice. His
half-brother would be sailing over with the hope of some
sort of action; he would be disappointed, not to say
angry, to find himself taking part in a
peaceable deputation. But Arthur seemed sure.
Speaking now in answer to some question of Hoel's, he was
declaring that recently, over the affair of Queen
Morgan, and during the past months in Orkney, and
finally in the moderate tone he was now taking over
Gareth's

killer, Bedwyour, Gawain had shown himself to have
acquired a certain steadiness, and would find the
adventure on foreign soil, though it might prove
merely to be a diplomatic mission, a rewarding
experience. In which Arthur, as seemed his fate whenever
he had to deal with Morgause's blood and brood,
was mistaken. Even as he spoke, Gawain and his
young cronies, while their ship neared the Breton
coast, were busily burnishing up their war weapons,
and talking eagerly of the fighting to come.
Later Arthur, having bidden Hoel good night,
bore Mordred off with him to his own apartments for the
promised talk. It was a long talk, lasting well
into the night. The King spoke first of the message that
had caused his change of plan. It was a letter from the
Queen. She gave no details, but confessed herself
far from happy in her increasingly precarious role.
She reported that Duke Constantine,
having removed to Caerleon with his train of
knights, had announced his intention of proceeding
to Camelot "as more fitting for one ruling the High
Kingdom." The Queen had sent begging him to hold
to what Arthur had bidden, but his reply had been
"eager and intemperate."
"I fear what may happen," she had written.
"Already I have had reports that in Caerleon, far
from holding his force there at the disposal of the Council,
he acts and speaks like one already ruling in his own right,
or as sole and rightful deputy of the High King. My
lord Arthur, I look daily for your return. And
I live in fear of what may come if some ill should
befall you or your son."
Reading the letter, Mordred was eager to go. He did
not pause, did not want, to analyze his feelings
towards Duke Constantine. Enough that the man still acted
as if Arthur had no son of his body, let alone
the blood-kin of his half-sister's son Gawain.
And as Arthur had said, the stories of some of
Constantine's doings augured ill for the kingdom. He
was a stark ruler and a cruel man, and the note of fear
in Guinevere's letter was easy to interpret. Any
regret Mordred might have felt at leaving the
King's side vanished. This regency,
brief though it might be, was the time he had wanted,
a trial period when he would rule alone with full
authority. He had no fear that Constantine, once
he, Mordred, was back in Camelot and at the
head of the royal bodyguard there, would persist in his
arrogant pretensions. Mor- dred's return, with the
King's authority and the King's seal, should be enough.
"And you will find there," said the King, touching the pouch
01 letters that bore his seal, "my mandate to raise
whatever force you may think needful, to keep the peace
at home, and to make ready in case of trouble here."

So, in mutual trust, they talked, while the
night wore away, and the future seemed set as
fair behind the clouded present as the dawn that slowly
gilded the sea's edge beyond the windows. If
Morgause's ghost had drifted across the chamber in
the hazy light and whispered to them of the doom foretold
so many years ago, they would have laughed, and watched for the
phantasm to blow away on their laughter. But it was
the last time that they would ever meet, except as
enemies. At length the King came back to the
subject of the coming embassy. Hoel had high
hopes of its success, but Arthur, though he had
concealed it from his cousin, was less sanguine.
"It may come to a fight yet," he said.
"Quintilianus is serving a new master, and is
himself on trial, and though I know little enough about those
surrounding him, I have a suspicion that he will be
afraid to lose credit with that master by treating with us.
He, too, needs to make a show of strength."
"A dangerous situation. Why do you not go yourself,
sir?" Arthur smiled. "You might say that that,
too, is a question of credit. If I go as an
ambassador I cannot take my troops, and if the
embassy should fail, then I am seen to fail. I
am here in Brittany as a deterrent, not as a
weapon. ... I dare not be seen to lose,
Mordred." "You cannot lose."
"That is the belief that will subdue Quintilianus
and the hopefuls of the new Rome."
Mordred hesitated, then said frankly:
"Forgive me, but there's something else. Let me
speak now as your deputy, if not your son. Can you
trust Gawain and the young men on a mission of this kind?
If they go with Valerius and Bors, I think there
may be fighting." "You may be right. But we shall lose
little by it. Sooner or later there must be fighting, and
I would rather fight here, against an enemy not yet fully
prepared, than on my own borders the other
side of the Narrow Sea. If the Franks hold the
line with us, then we may well succeed in deterring this
emperor. If they do not, then for the present the worst
that can happen is that we lose Brittany. In that
case we take our people, those who are left, back
to their homeland, and find ourselves once again embattled
behind our blessed seas." He looked away, staring into the
heart of the fire, and his eyes were grave. "But in the
end it will all come again, Mordred. Not in my time,
nor, please God, in yours, but before your sons are
old men it will come. It will not be an easy task,
whoever attempts it. First the Narrow Sea, and then
the ramparts of the Saxon and English kingdoms,
manned by men fighting for their own lands. Why do you think
I have been determined to let the Saxons own their
settled lands? Men fight for
what is theirs. And by the time our shores are
seriously threatened, I shall have Cerdic on my
side."
"I see. I wondered why you did not seem more
worried about the embassy."
"We need the time it may buy for us. If it
fails we fight now. As simple as that. Now it
grows late, so to finish our business."
He reached a hand towards the table where a letter lay,
sealed with the dragon seal. "Invincible or not, I have
given thought to the chance of my death. Here is a letter, which
in that event you are to use. In it I have informed the
Council that you are my heir. Duke Constantine
knows well that my oath to his father was only valid in
default of a son of my body. Like it or not, he
must accept it. I have written to him, too, a letter that
he cannot gainsay. With it comes a grant of land; his
dukedom will include the lands that came to me with my
first wife, Guenever of Cornwall. I hope he
will be content. If he is not"--a glint in the King's
eyes as he glanced up at his son--"then that will be
your affair, not mine. Watch him, Mordred. If
I live, then I myself will call the Council as
soon as I return to Camelot, and all this will be
settled publicly once and for all." It is never
easy to receive a bequest from one still living. Mordred,
for once at a loss for words, began to speak,
haltingly, but the King waved him into silence, coming at
last to the subject that, to Mordred, would have been first.
"The Queen," said Arthur, his gaze on the
fire. "She will be under your protection. You will love
and care for her as her own son, and you will see to it that
for the rest of her days she lives safely,
with the honour and comfort due to her. I do not ask you
to swear this, Mordred, knowing that I need not,"
"I do swear it!" Mordred, on his knees
by his father's chair, spoke for once with
uncontrolled emotion. "I swear by all the gods
there are, by the God of the kingdom's churches, and the
Goddess of the isles, and the spirits that live in the air,
that I will hold the kingdoms for the Queen, and love and
care for her and secure her honour as you would do were you
still High King."
Arthur reached to take the younger man's hands between his
own, and raising him, kissed him. Then he smiled.
"So now we will stop talking about my death, which will not
come yet awhile, I assure you! But when it does,
I give my kingdoms and my Queen into your hands with a
quiet spirit, and with my blessing and God's."
Next day Mordred sailed for home. A few
days after he had gone, the embassy, gay with
coloured pennants and tossing plumes, set out for
Quin- tilianus Hiberus' encampment.

Gawain and his friends rode at ease. Though the
talk was of the sort that Mordred would have recognized
--the young men looking to Gawain for reckless leadership
and excitement--they did contain themselves with
decorum on the ride. But none of the younger faction
made any attempt to conceal their hope that the
peaceful overtures would fail, and that they would see
action.
"They say Quintilianus is a hot man, and a
clever soldier. Why should he listen to an old man
giving another old man's message?" Such was
Mador's description of King Hoel's
embassy. Others chimed in: "If we don't
get fighting, at least they're sure to show us sport
--games, hunting-- and it will go hard if we cannot show
these foreigners what we can do!" Or again: "They say
the horses in Gaul are beauties. We might
get some trading done, if the worst comes to the
worst." But it seemed they were doomed to disappointment
on all counts. Quintilianus' headquarters was a
temporary camp built on a bleak stretch of
moorland. The party arrived towards evening of a dull
day with a chilly wind carrying rain. The dead springtime
heather stretched black and wet on every hand, the only
colour in the moorland being the livid green of the boggy
stretches, or the metallic gleam of water. The
camp itself was laid out on the Roman pattern. It
was well built with turf's and stout timber, and was
impressive enough as a temporary stance, but
the young Britons, ignorant of warfare and
accustomed to the great Roman-based permanent
structures of Caerleon and Segontium,
looked about them with disappointment and contempt. It was
hard to say whether caution or care for his guests'
comfort had impelled Quintilianus Hfcerus
to house the British outside the walls of the camp.
Tents had been erected some hundred paces
outside the surrounding ditch, with their own horse
lines and a pavilion which would serve as a hall. There
they were invited to dismount, while their own grooms took
their horses to the lines. Then on foot they were led
up the main way towards the camp's center, where the
commander's headquarters stood.
There Quintilianus Hiberus and Marcellus,
his second in command, received the embassy with chilly
courtesy. Speeches, previously prepared and
learned by rote, were exchanged. They were long, and so
over-careful as to be almost incomprehensible. No
mention was made either of the emperor's message or of
Hoel's intentions. Rather, a rambling account of the old
king's health was produced in answer to their host's
indifferent query, with details, delicately touched
on, of his cousin Arthur's anxiety, which had
provoked that warrior to visit
Brittany's king. That he had brought a sizeable
force with him was not stated, but the Roman consul knew
it, and they knew that he knew. . . .
Only when the polite sharpening of blades had
been going on for some 257
time did Guerin and Bors allow themselves
to approach a statement--still far from direct--of
Hoel's position and its backing by Arthur of
Britain.
The young men, waiting formally behind their
ambassadors, chafing after the decorous inaction of the
ride, and thinking of food and recreation, had time
to grow bored, to eye their surroundings curiously, and
to exchange stares with the warriors of the opposite
faction who waited in equal boredom behind their own
leaders. These leaders, after a lengthy and dragging
parley, made more tedious than need be by the fact that
Bors spoke little or no Latin, and Marcellus
spoke nothing else, came at length to a
stalemate pause. There would be, said
Quintilianus, drawing his mantle about him and
rising, further parley tomorrow. Meanwhile the
visitors would no doubt care to rest and refresh
themselves. They would be shown now to the tents prepared for
them.
The ambassadors bowed gravely and withdrew.
Their hosts came forward, and the party was escorted
back through the camp. "No doubt," said the youth
escorting Gawain, with rather threadbare politeness, "you
are weary after your journey? You will find the lodgings
rough, I am afraid, but we ourselves have become
accustomed to living in the field--"
He yawned as he spoke. This meant no more than
that he was as weary of the talks as the other young men, but
Gawain, bored, contemptuous, and beginning to see his
hopes of glory fading, chose to take it
otherwise.
"Why should you think we are not used to rough quarters?
Because we have come with a peaceful embassy, it doesn't
mean that we are not fighters, and as ready in the field
as any rabble on this side of the Narrow Seal"
The youth, surprised, and then as quickly angry as
the other, flushed scarlet to his fair hair. "And
what field of battle have you ever been on. Sir
Braggart? It's a long time since Agned and
Badon! Even the fabled Arthur, that your fellows were
boasting about in there, would be hard put to it to wage a
war nowadays, with men who are only good for talking!"
Before Gawain could even draw breath, "And not even
too good at that," put in someone else, with a
cruel imitation of Bors's thick Latin. There was
laughter, and through it a quick attempt by cooler spirits
to pass the exchange off with jesting, but Gawain's
brow was dark, and hot words still flew. The fair
youth, who seemed to be someone of consequence, bore
through the talk with a ringing shout of anger: "So?
Didn't you come all this way to beg us not to fight you?
And now you boast and brag about what your leaders can do!
What do you expect us to think of such empty
braggarts?"
Here Gawain drew his sword and ran him through.
The stunned minutes that followed, of unbelief, then
of horror and confusion, as the fallen man's
companions ran to raise him and find if life

remained in him, gave the British just enough time
to escape. Gawain, shouting, "Get to the horses!"
was already half-way to the picket lines, followed
closely by his friends who, from the moment the bitter
words began to pass, had seen the violent end coming.
The ambassadors, dismayed, hesitated only for a
moment before following. If the assailant had been
any other than Arthur's nephew, they might have
given him over to the punishment due to one who broke
a truce, but as it was, the leaders knew
that the embassy, never hopeful, was now
irretrievably shattered, and all their party, as
truce-breakers, were in great danger. Valerius,
an old soldier used to instant decisions, took
swift command, and had his whole party mounted and out of the
lines at the gallop before their hosts had well
grasped what had occurred.
Gawain, wildly galloping with the rest, struggled
to pull his horse out of the troop and wheel back.
"This is shameful! To run away, after what they
said? Shame on you, shame! They called us cowards
before, what will they call us now?" "Dead men, you
fool!" Valerius, furiously angry, was in no
mood to mince words, prince or no prince. His hand
came hard down on Gawain's rein, and dragged the
horse into the rapid gallop alongside his own.
"It's shame on you, prince! You knew what the
kings wanted from this embassy. If we come alive out
of this, which is doubtful, then we shall see what Arthur
will have to say to you!" Gawain, still rebellious and
unrepentant, would have replied, but at that moment the
troop came to a river, and they spread out to force their
horses through it. They could have forded it had there been
time, but at that moment the pursuing party came in
sight, and there was nothing for it but to fight.
Valerius, furious and desperate, turned and
gave orders for the attack.
The engagement, with tempers high on both sides,
was short, ferocious and very bloody. The fight was a
running one, and ended only when half the embassy,
and rather more of the pursuing force, were dead. Then the
Romans, gathered for a few minutes' respite at
the edge of a little wood, seemed to be taking counsel,
and presently two of their number turned and made
off towards the east. Valerius, unwounded, but
exhausted and liberally stained with other men's blood,
watched them go. Then he said, grimly: "Gone for
reinforcements. Right. There's nothing we can do here.
We leave. Now. Bring the loose horses and
pick up that man yonder. He's alive. The rest
we'll have to leave."
This time there was no argument. The British turned
and rode off. The Romans made no attempt
to stop them, nor were any taunts exchanged.
Gawain had had his way, and proved what had not
needed to be proved. And both sides knew what must
happen now.

Mordred sat at the window of the King's
business room in Camelot. The scents from the
garden below eddied on the warm breeze in sudden gusts
of sweetness. The apple blossom was gone, but there
were cherries still in bloom, standing deep among
bluebells and the grey spears of iris. The air was
full of the sound of bees, and birds singing, while
down in the town bells rang for some Christian
service. The royal secretaries had gone, and he
was alone. He sat, still thinking over some of the work that
had been done that day, but gradually, in the scented
warmth, his thoughts drifted into dreaming. So little time
ago, it seemed, he had been in the islands, living
as he had lived in boyhood, thinking in bitterness that
he had lost everything in that one night when the Orkney
brothers had risked all for themselves and their friends on that
mad, vicious attempt to finish Bedwyour. Thinking,
too, of the summer's tasks ahead of him: harvesting
and drying fish, cutting peats, rebuilding walls and
repairing thatch against the dreadful Orkney winter.
And now? His hand, resting on the table, touched the
royal seal. He smiled. A movement outside the
window caught his eye. Guinevere the Queen was
walking in the garden. She wore a gown of soft
dove-grey, that shimmered as she moved. Her two
little dogs, silver-white greyhounds,
frisked round her. From time to time she threw a gilded
ball and they bounded after it, yelping and wrangling as the
winner carried it back to lay it at her feet.
Two of her women, both young and pretty girls,
one in primrose yellow and the other in blue, walked
behind. Guinevere, still lovely, and secure in her
loveliness, was not one of those who seek to set her
beauty off by surrounding herself with plain women. The
three lovely creatures, with the dainty little dogs
at their skirts, moved with grace through the garden, and the
flowers of that sweet May were no fairer.
Or so thought Mordred, who was rarely a poet.
He gazed after the Queen, while his hand once more, but
quite unconsciously, reached out and touched the dragon
of the royal seal. Again he drifted into dream, but this
time it was not a dream of the islands. He was brought
sharply to himself by the sounds, urgent and unmistakable,
of a King's messenger being ushered through the royal
apartments. A chamberlain opened the door to announce
a courier, and even as he spoke the man hurried
by him and knelt at the regent's feet.
One glance told Mordred that here was news from
Brittany, and that it was not good. He sat in the great
chair and said, coolly: "Take your time.
But first--the King is well?" "Yes, my lord.
God be thanked for it! But the news is ill enough."
The man reached into his pouch, and Mordred put out a
hand. "You have letters? Then while I read them, compose
yourself and take a cup of wine."
The chamberlain, who missed nothing, came in
unbidden with the wine, and while the man drank
gratefully, Mordred broke the seal of the single
letter he had brought, and read it. It was bad, but, to one
remembering that last conversation with the King, not yet
tragic news. Once again, thought Mordred, the
evil fates summoned by Morgause were at their
work. To put it more practically, the Orkney rashness
had yet again brought the promise of disaster close.
But possibly something could be saved from near-disaster; it
was to be hoped that all Gawain had done was to bring
matters to a head too soon.
The King's letter, hastily dictated, gave the
facts merely of the disastrous embassy and the running
fight that had followed. Under Mordred's questioning the
courier supplied the details. He told of the rash
exchange between Gawain and the Roman youth, of the
murder, and of the flight of the embassy and the subsequent
skirmish by the river's bank. His story confirmed
what Arthur's letter indicated, that all
hope even of a temporary peace had vanished. It
was possible that Hoel might be able to take the
field, but if not, Arthur must command Hoel's army,
together with such force as he had brought with him. Bedwyour
had been recalled from Benoic. Arthur had already
sent to Urbgen, to Maelgon of Gwynedd,
to Tydwal and the King of Elmet. Mordred was to send
what force he could, under the command of Cei. He would
then be well advised to put forward his own meeting with
Cerdic, when he could apprise him of the situation.
The letter closed briefly, with urgency:
"See Cerdic. Warn him and his neighbours
to watch the coast. Raise what force you can
meanwhile. And guard the Queen's safety."
Mordred dismissed the man at length to rest. He
knew that there was no need to enjoin discretion; the royal
couriers were well chosen and highly trained. But he
knew that the man's coming would have been noted, and rumour
would have run through Camelot within minutes of the tired
horse's coming up through the King's Gate. He
walked over to the window. The sun had slanted some
way towards the west, and shadows were lengthening. A
late thrush sang in a lime tree. The Queen was
still in the garden. She had been cutting lilac. The
girl in the blue dress walked beside her,
carrying a flat willow basket filled with the white
and purple blooms. The other girl, with the two little
dogs

"com *
leaping and barking round her, was stooping, with her
skirt kilted up in one hand, over a border of
ferns. She straightened with the gilded ball in her hand
and threw it, laughing, for the greyhounds. They raced
after it, both reaching it at the same moment, and fell
into a yelping, rolling tangle, while the ball
flew free. Keep the Queen safe. How long
could this serene and flower-filled garden peace be kept?
The battle might already have started. Might be over.
With enough bloodletting, thought Mordred, to content even
Gawain.
His thoughts went further; were checked. Even now he
himself might be High King in fact, if not yet in
name. . . . As if his thought had been the shadow of a
flying cloud that touched her, he saw the Queen start,
then lift her head as if listening to some sound beyond the
garden walls. The spray of lilac which she loosed
sprang back into its own scented bank of
blossom. Without looking she dropped the silver
knife into the basket which the girl held beside
her. She stood still, except for her hands, which seemed
to rise of their own will to clasp themselves at her breast.
Slowly, after a moment, she turned to look up
towards the window. Mordred drew back. He
spoke to the chamberlain. "Send down to the garden
to ask if I may speak with the Queen."
There was an arbour, pretty as a silk
picture, facing south. It was embowered with early
roses, showers of small pale-pink blossoms, with
coral- coloured buds among them, and falling
flowers fading to white. The Queen sat there, on a
stone bench warm from the sun, waiting to receive the regent.
The girl in yellow had taken the greyhounds away;
the other remained, but she had withdrawn to the far side
of the garden, where she sat on a bench below one of the
palace windows. She had brought some sewing out of the
pouch at her girdle, and busied herself with it, but
Mordred knew how carefully he was watched, and how
quickly the rumours would spread through the palace: "He
looked grave; the news must be bad. . . ."
Or, "He seemed cheerful enough; the courier brought
a letter and he showed it to the Queen. . . ."
Guinevere, too, had some work by her. A
half-embroidered napkin lay beside her on the stone
bench. Suddenly a sharp memory assailed
him: Morgan's garden in the north, the dying flowers
and the ghosts of the imprisoned birds, with the angry
voices of the two witches at the window above. And the
solitary, frightened boy who hid below, believing that
he, too, was trapped, and facing an ignominious
death. Like the wildcat in its narrow cage; the
wildcat, dead presumably these many years, but,
because of him, dead in freedom with its own wild home
and its kittens sired at will. With the lightning-flicker
with which such thoughts come between
breath and breath, he thought of his "wife" in the
islands, of his mistress now gone from Camelot and
comfortably settled in Strathclyde, of his sons of
those unions growing up in safety@ufor the children of that
solitary boy could now incur, how readily, the sting
of envy and hatred. He, like the wildcat, had found
the window to freedom. More, to power. Of those scheming
witches, one was dead; the other, for all her boasted
magic, still shut away in her castle prison, and
subject, now, to his will as ruler of the High
Kingdom. He knelt before the Queen and took her
hand to kiss. He felt its faint tremor. She
withdrew it and let it fall to her lap, where the other
clasped and held it tightly. She said, with a
calmness forced over drawn breath:
"They tell me a courier has come in. From
Brittany?" "Yes, madam." At her nod he
rose, then hesitated. She gestured to the seat, and
he sat beside her. The sun was hot, and the scent of the
roses filled the air. Bees were loud in the
racemes of pink blossom. A little breeze moved
the flowers, and the shadows of the roses swayed and
flickered over the Queen's grey gown and fair
skin. Mordred swallowed, cleared his throat and
spoke.
"You need have no fear, madam. There have been
grave doings, but the news is not altogether bad."
"My lord is well, then?"
"Indeed yes. The letter was from him."
"And for me? Is there a message for me?"
"No, madam, I'm sorry. He sent in great
haste. You shall see the letter, of course, but let me
give you the gist of it first. You know that an embassy
was sent, jointly from King Hoel and King Arthur,
to talk with the consul Lucius Quintilianus."
"Yes. A fact-finding mission only, he said,
to gain time for the kingdoms of the west to band together against the
possible new alliance of Byzantium and Rome
with the Germans of Alamannia and Burgundy."
She sighed. "So, it went wrong? I
guessed it. How?" "By your leave, the good news
first. There were other fact-finding mis sions on their
way at the same time. Messengers were sent to sound out
the Prankish kings. They met with encouraging
success. One and all, the Franks will resist any
attempt by Justinian's armies to reimpose
Roman domination. They are arming now."
She looked away, past the boles of the lime
trees now lighted from behind by the low sun, and gilded with
red gold. The young leaves, wafers of beaten gold,
shone with their own light, and the tops of the trees,
cloudy with shadow, hummed with bees. Mordred's
"good news" did not appear to have given her any
pleasure. He thought her eyes were filled with tears.
Still regarding those glowing tree-trunks with their
mosaic of golden leaves, she said: "And our
embassy? What happened there?" "There had to be, for
courtesy, a representative of the royal house.
It was Gawain."
Her gaze came back to him sharply. Her eyes
were dry. "And he made trouble." It was not a question.
"He did. There was some foolish talk and bragging
that led to insults and a quarrel, and the young men fell
to fighting."
She moved her hands, almost as if she would throw them
up in a classic gesture of despair. But she
sounded angry rather than grieved. "Again!"
"Madam?"
"Gawain! The Orkney fools again! Always that
cold north wind, like a blighting frost that blasts
everything that is good and growing!" She checked herself,
took in her breath, and said, with a visible effort:
"Your pardon, Mordred. You are so different, I
was forgetting. But Lot's sons, your half-brothers
--"
"Madam, I know. I agree. Hot fools
always, and this time worse than fools. Gawain
killed one of the Roman youths, and it turned out that the
man was a nephew of Lucius Quintilianus
himself. The embassy was forced to flee, and
Quintilianus sent Marcellus himself after them.
They had to turn and fight, and there were deaths."
"Not Valerius? Not that good old man?"
"No, no. They got back in good order--
indeed, with a kind of victory. But not before there had
been several running engagements. Marcellus was
killed in the first of these, and later Petreius
Cotta, who took command after him, was taken
prisoner and brought back to Kerrec in
chains. I said it was a victory of a kind. But you
see what it means. Now the High King himself must
take the field."
"Ah, I knew it! I knew it! And what force
has he?" "He leads Hoel's army, and with them the
troops he took with him, and Bedwyour is called
down from Benoic with his men." Coolly he noted the
slightest reaction to the name: She had not dared ask
if Bedwyour, too, were safe; but now he had told
her, and watched her colour come back. He went
on: "The King does not yet know what numbers the
Prankish kings will bring to the field, but they will not be
small. From Britain he has called on Rheged
and Gwynedd, with Elmet, and Tydwal from
Dunpeldyour. Here I shall raise what reinforcements
I can in haste. They will sail under Cei's command.
All will be well, madam, you will see. You know the
High King."
"And so do they," she said. "They will only meet
him if they outnumber him three to one, and caret
that, surely, they can do. Then even he will be in
danger of defeat."

"He will not give them time. I spoke of haste.
This whole thing has blown up like a summer
storm, and Arthur intends to attack in the wake of
it, rather than wait for events. He is already marching for
Autun, to meet the Burgundians on their own
ground, before Justinian's troops are gathered. He
expects the Franks to join him before he reaches the
border. But you had better read his letter for yourself. It
will calm your fears. The High King shows no doubts
of the outcome, and why should he? He is Arthur."
She thanked him with a smile, but he saw how her
hand trembled as she held it out for the letter. He stood
up and stepped down from the arbour, leaving her alone
to read. There was a fluted stone column with a
carefully contrived broken capital overhung with the
yellow tassels of laburnum. He leaned against this
and waited, watching her surreptitiously from time
to time under lowered lids. She read in silence. He
saw when she reached the end of the letter, then read it through
again. She let it sink to her lap and sat for a while
with bent head. He thought she was reading the thing for the
third time, then he saw that her eyes were shut. She
was very pale. His shoulder came away from the pillar.
Almost in spite of himself he took a step towards
her. "What is it? What do you fear?" She gave
a start, and her eyes opened. It was as if she had
been miles away in thought, recalled
abruptly. She shook her head, with an attempt
at a smile. "Nothing. Really, nothing. A
dream." "A dream? Of defeat for the High King?"
"No. No." She gave a little laugh, which sounded
genuine enough. "Women's folly, Mordred. You
would call it so, I am sure! No, don't look
so worried, I'll tell you, even if you laugh at
me. Men do not understand such things, but we women, we
who have nothing to do but wait and watch and hope, our
minds are too active. Let us but once think,
What will come to me when my lord is dead? and then all
in a moment, in our imagination, he is laid in sad
pomp on his bier, and the grave is dug in the center
of the Hanging Stones, the mourning feast is over, the
new king is come to Camelot, his young wife is here
in the garden with her maidens, and the cast-off queen, still
in the white of mourning, is questing about the kingdoms
to see where she may with honour and with safety be taken
in."
"But, madam," said Mordred, the realist,
"surely my--the High King has already told you
what dispositions have been made against that day?" "I
knew you would call it folly!" With an obvious
attempt at lightness, she turned the subject.
"But believe me, it is something that every wife
does. What of your own, Mordred?" "My--?"
She looked confused. "Am I mistaken? I
thought you were married. I am sure someone spoke of a
son of yours at Gwarthegydd's court of Dum
barton."
"I am not married." Mordred's reply was rather
too quick, and rather too emphatic. She looked
surprised, and he threw a hand out, adding: "But you
heard correctly, madam. I have two sons."
A smile and a shrug. "Who am I, after all,
to insist on wedlock? The two boys are by different
mothers. Melehan is the younger, who is with
Gwarthegydd. The other is still in the islands."
"And their mothers?"
"Melehan's mother is dead." The lie came
smoothly. Since the Queen apparently had known
nothing about his illicit household in Camelot,
he would not confess it to her now. "The other is
satisfied with the bond between herself and me. She is an
Orkney woman, and they have different customs in the
islands."
"Then married or not," said Guinevere, still with that
forced lightness, "she is still a woman, and she, like
me, must live through the same dreams of the wicked day
when a messenger comes with worse news than
this you have brought to me."
Mordred smiled. If he thought that his woman had
too much to occupy her than to sit and dream about his
death and burial, he did not say so. Women's
folly, indeed. But as he held his hand for the letter, and
she put the roll into it, he saw again how her hand
shook. It changed his thoughts about her. To him she had
been the Queen, the lovely consort of his King, the
elusive vision, too, of his desires, a
creature of gaiety and wealth and power and happiness.
It was a shock to see her now, suddenly, as a
lonely woman who lived with fear. "We have nothing
to do but wait and watch and hope," she had said. It was
something he had never thought about. He was not an imagina
tive man, and in his dealings with women@uMorgause
apart@uhe followed in the main his peasant upbringing.
He would not wittingly have hurt a woman, but it would
not have occurred to him to go out of his way to help or
serve one. On the contrary, they were there to help and
serve him.
With an effort of imagination that was foreign to him he
cast his mind forward, trying to think as a woman
might, to fear fate as it would affect the Queen.
When Arthur did meet death, what could she expect
of the future? A year ago the answer would
have been simple: Bedwyour would have taken the widow
to Benoic, or to his lands in Northumbria. But
now Bedwyour was married, and his wife was with child. More
than that: Bed wyour, in sober fact, was not likely
to survive any action in which Arthur was killed.
Even now, as Mordred and the Queen talked together in
this scented garden, the battle might already be joined that
would bring to reality her dream of the wicked day. He
recalled her letter to Arthur, with

its unmistakable note of fear. Fear not only
of Arthur's danger, but of his own. "You or your
son," she had written. Now, with a sudden flash of
truth as painful as a cut, he knew why. Duke
Constantine. Duke Constan- tine, still officially
next in line for the throne and already casting his eyes
towards Camelot, whose title would be greatly
strengthened if, first, he could claim the
Queen-regent. . . . He became conscious of her
strained and questioning gaze. He answered it, forcefully.
"Madam, for your dreams and fears, let me
only say this. I am certain that the King's own
skill, and your prayers, will keep him safe for many
years to come, but if it should happen, then have no fear for
yourself. I know that Constantine of Cornwall
may try to dispute the King's latest disposition--"
"Mordred--"
"With your leave, madam. Let us speak
directly. He has ambitions for the High
Kingdom, and you fear him. Let me say this. You know
my father's wish, and you know that it will be carried out. When
I succeed him as High King, then you need fear
nothing. While I live you will be safe, and
honoured."
The red flew up into her cheeks, and her look
thanked him, but all she said was, trying still
to smile: "No cast-off queen?" "Never that," said
Mordred, and took his leave. In the shadow of the
garden gateway, out of sight of the arbour, he
stopped. His pulse was racing, his flesh burned.
He stood there motionless while the heat and hammering
slowly subsided. Coldly he crushed back the
lighted picture in his mind: the roses, the
grey-blue eyes, the smile, the touch of the
tremulous hands. This was folly. Moreover, it was
useless folly. Arthur, Bedwyour . . . whatever
Mordred was or might be, until both Arthur and
Bedwyour were dead, with that lovely lady he could come
only a poor and halting third. He had been too
long without a woman. To tell the truth,
he had been too busy to think about them. Till now.
He would find time tonight, and quench these hot imaginings.
But all the same, he knew that today his ambition
had taken a different turn. There were precedents,
undisputed. He had no wife. She was barren, but
he had two sons. If Constantine could think about
it, then so could he. And by all the gods in heaven and
hell, Constantine should not have her.
With the King's letter crumpled fiercely in his hand,
he strode back to the royal chamber, shouting for the
secretaries. 5
It was some time before Mordred saw the Queen again.
He was plunged immediately into the whirlwind business of
equipping and embarking the troops Arthur had asked
for. In a commendably short time the expeditionary force
sailed, under the command of Cei, the King's foster
brother, with a reasonable hope of coming up with Arthur's
army before the clash came. The courier who returned
from this voyage brought news that was, on the whole,
cheering: Arthur, with Bedwyour and Gawain, had already
set out on the march eastward, and King Hoel, finding
himself miraculously recovered at the prospect of
action, had gone with them. The Frankish kings, with a
considerable army, were also reported to be converging on
Autun, where Arthur would set up his
camp.
After this, news came only spasmodically.
None of it was bad, but, coming as it did long after the
events reported, it could not be satisfactory.
Cei and the British kings had joined Arthur; that much
was known; and so had the Franks. The weather was good, the
men were in high heart, and no trouble had been met with
on the march. So far, that was all. What the Queen was
feeling Mordred did not know, nor did he have time
to care. He was setting about the second of Arthur's
commissions, raising and training men to bring the standing army
up to strength after the departure of the expeditionary force.
He sent letters to all the petty kings and leaders in the
north and west, and himself followed where persuasion was
needed. The response was good: Mordred had laid
openly on the table the reasons for his demand, and the
response from the Celtic kingdoms was immediate and
generous. The one leader who made no reply at
all was Duke Constantine. Mordred, keeping the
promised eye on the Cornish dukedom, said
nothing, set spies, and doubled the garrison at
Caerleon. Then, once the tally of kings and the
arrangements for receiving and training the new army were
complete, he sent at last to Cerdic the Saxon
king, to propose the meeting Arthur had
suggested.
It was late July when Cerdic's answer
came, and that same day, on an afternoon of misty rain,
a courier arrived from the Burgundian
battlefront, bearing with him a single brief
dispatch, with other tokens which, when the man spilled them
on the table in front of Mordred, told a
dreadful tale.
As was usual, most of his news would be given
verbally, learned by rote. He began to recite it.
now to the still-faced regent. "My lord, the battle is
over, and the day was ours. The Romans and the 269
Burgundians were put to flight, and the emperor
himself recalled what force was left. The Franks
fought nobly alongside us, and on all sides some
marvellous deeds were done. But--"
The man hesitated, wetting his lips. It was
apparent that he had given the good news first, in the
hope of cushioning what was to follow. Mordred neither
moved nor spoke. He was conscious of a fast-beating
heart, a constricted throat, and the necessity for
keeping steady the hand that lay beside the spilled tokens
on the table. They lay in a jumbled and glittering
pile, proof that a tragic story was still to come.
Seals, rings, badges of office,
campaign medals, all the mementoes that, stripped
from the dead, would be sent home to the widows. Cei's
badge was there, the royal seneschal's gilded
brooch. And a medal from Kaerconan, rubbed thin and
bright; that could only be Valerius". No royal
ring; no great ruby carved with the Dragon, but-- But
the man, the veteran of a hundred reports, both
good and evil, was hesitating. Then, meeting
Mordred's eye, he swallowed and cleared his
throat. It was a long time since the bearers of bad
news had had, as in some barbarous lands, to fear
ill-treatment and even death at the hands of their
masters; nevertheless his voice was hoarse with something like
fear as he spoke again. This time he was direct to the
point of brutality.
"My lord, the King is dead."
Silence. Mordred could not trust himself with word or
movement. The scene took on the shifting and misted
edges of unreality. Thought was suspended, as random and
weightless as a drop of the fine rain that
drifted past the windows.
"It happened near the end of the day's fighting. Many
had fallen, Cei among them, and Gugein,
Valerius, Mador and many others. Prince Ga-
wain fought nobly; he is safe, but
Prince Bedwyour fell wounded on the left. It is
feared that he, too, will die. . . ."
His voice went on, naming the dead and wounded, but
it was doubtful if Mordred heard a word of it. He
moved at last, interrupting the recital. His hand
went out to the parchment lying on the table. "It is all
here?"
"The news, my lord, but not the details. The
dispatch was sent by Prince Bedwyour himself. While he
could still speak he had them write it. The list of
casualties will follow as soon as they are known and
checked, but this, my lord, could not be delayed."
"Yes. Wait, then."
He took the letter across to a window, and with his back
to the man, spread the page out on the sill. The
careful script danced under his eyes. The drifting
curtain of the rain seemed to have come between him and the

letter. He dashed the back of his hand impatiently
across his face and ben
nearer.
In the end, and after three careful readings, the sense
of it went right into his brain and lodged there, thrumming
like the arrow that lodges deep in the flesh, spreading,
not pain, but a numbing poison. Arthur was
dead. The news that followed, of complete and
annihilating victory over the Romans and
Burgundians, came as an irrelevance. Arthur
was dead. The dispatch, dictated hastily in a
field dressing station, gave few details. The
High King's body had not yet been recovered from the
field. Parties were still searching among the piled and
pillaged dead. But if the King were still living, said
Bedwyour tersely, he would by this time have made himself
known. The regent must assume his death, and act
accordingly. The parchment slipped from Mordred's hand and
floated to the floor. He did not notice. Through the
window beside him, washed and sweet on the damp air,
floated the scents of the Queen's garden. He
looked out at the rain-heavy roses, the glittering
leaves that quivered under the drifting drops, the misted
grass. No one was there today. Wherever she was, she
would know of the courier's coming, and she would be waiting for
him. He would have to go to her and tell her. Arthur. And
Bedwyour. Arthur and Bedwyour both. That was enough for her,
and too much. But he must hear the rest first. He
turned back to the courier. "Go on."
The man talked eagerly now, his fear forgotten.
The regent was alive again, not composed exactly, but
in command, his questions quick and direct.
"Yes, my lord, I was there myself. I left the
field at full dark, as soon as the news was
sure. The King was seen fighting still towards sunset,
though by that time the main resistance was over, and
Quintilianus himself had fallen. Everywhere was
chaos, and already men were robbing the bodies of the dead and
killing the dying for their weapons and their clothes. Our
men were not merciful, but the Franks . . . My lord,
these are barbarians. They fight like mad wolves, and
they can no more be controlled than wolves. The enemy
broke and fled in several directions, and were
pursued. Some of them threw down their arms and held
their hands out for chains, begging their lives. It was--
was
"The King. What of the King?"
"He was seen to fall. His standard had been cut
down, and in the growing dark it could not be observed just where
he was fighting, or what had happened. Bedwvr,
wounded as he was, struggled to that part of the field and
searched for him, and others with him, calling. But the King
was
not found. Many of the bodies were stripped already, and
if the King had been among them--"
"You are telling me that his body had still not
been recovered?" "Yes, my lord. At least, not
when I left the field. I was sent as soon as it
became too dark to search further. It may well be
that by this time another dispatch is on its way. But it was
thought that the news should be brought to you before other rumours
reached the country." "So this is why no token, neither
sword nor ring, has been brought back to me?"
"Yes, my lord."
Mordred was silent for a while. Then he spoke
with difficulty. "Is there still thought to be hope for the
High King?" "My lord, if you had seen the field
. . . But yes, there is hope. Even in naked
death, the High King's body would surely have been
known--" Under Mordred's gaze, he stopped.
"My lord."
After a few more questions Mordred sent him away, and
sat alone, thinking.
There was still a chance that Arthur was not dead. But his
duty was plain. Before the news reached these shores--
and with the coming of the courier's ship the rumours must already be
spreading like heath fires--he must take control of the
country. His immediate moves were easily mapped: an
emergency meeting of the Council; a public reading
of Arthur's declaration of succession, with its
ratification of his, Mordred's
authority; a copy of this to be made and sent to each
of the kings; a speech made to the army leaders.
Meanwhile the Queen waited, and while she waited,
suffered. He would go to her, and take what comfort he
could. And what love he might.
Before he had taken three steps into the room she was
on her feet. Afterwards he realized that he had not
known to whom her first query related.
She said it, hands to throat. "He is dead?"
"Alas, madam, yes. That is the message as it
came to me. He was seen to fall in the moment of
victory, but, when the messenger was sent to me, they
had not yet found his body."
She was so white that he thought she might fall.
He went close quickly, and put out his hands. Hers
flew out and held them tightly. He said urgently:
"Madam, there is hope. And Bedwyour is alive,
though wounded. He was well enough to order the search for the
King's body before darkness fell."
She shut her eyes. Her lips, thin and gaping
round a black 0, drew air in
as if she were drowning. Her lids fluttered. Then
as if some ghostly hand had slid under her chin and
drawn her up, she stiffened and grew
taller, then her eyes opened and her white face
composed itself. She removed her hands quietly from
Mordred's grasp, but let him lead her to a
chair. Her women would have clustered near with hands and
words of comfort, but she waved them back.
"Tell me all that you know."
"I know very little, madam. The letter was brief. But
the messenger gave me a report." He recounted
what the man had told him. She listened without
interruption; indeed, a casual observer might have
thought without attention; she seemed to be watching the
raindrops following one another down the drooping
stem of a rose that hung beyond the window- frame.
Mordred stopped speaking at last. The
raindrops ran, gathered, swelled on a thorn,
dropped splashing to the sill. The Queen said
quietly, in a calm, dead voice: "If there is
indeed hope of the King's life, then surely a
second courier will be following hard on the first.
Meantime we must do as my lord commanded."
"Assuming his death," said Mordred.
"Assuming that." Then, with a sudden break of grief
and terror: "Mordred, what will become of Britain
now? What will come to us? So short a
while ago we spoke of this, you and I--
and now--now the day is upon us.
[*curren],
He made an involuntary move towards her,
only a slight one, but it sufficed. She was still again,
controlled, queenly. But her eyes betrayed her.
She could not have spoken again without weeping. And that must not
happen until she was alone. He said, in as flat
and matter-of-fact a tone as he could manage:
"Two things must be done immediately. I must see
Cerdic. A meeting has already been arranged. And
I have convened the Council. They meet tonight. Until
tidings come that either confirm or deny this news, it is
vital that men should see there is still a central power in
Britain, with a ruler appointed by the King's command, and
carrying out his wishes."
He added, gently: "For you, madam, I do not
think anyone will wonder at it if you are not present
at the Council meeting."
"I shall be present."
"If you so wish--"
"I do wish it. Mordred, the High King's
body has not been found. You have his seal, which you and
I, as co-regents here in Camelot, have been
empowered to use. But his ring and his sword, the true
symbols of kingship, cannot be brought to you
except from his dead body." 273
"That is so, madam."
"So I shall attend the Council. With Arthur's
Queen at your side to support you, there will be no
man in the kingdoms who will not have to accept Arthur's
son as his rightful ruler."
He found nothing to say. She put out a hand, and
he bent his head and kissed it. Then he left her.
She would have time for her mourning before she took her
place in the Round Hall beside the new King of
Britain.
In a pine wood at the foot of the hills east of
Autun, Arthur stirred and woke.
He lay wrapped in his war cloak, his sword
to his hand. His shoulder and side were stiff with bruising
from the blow that had felled him during the battle, and his
head ached abominably, but he was otherwise
unhurt. His tethered horse grazed near him. His
companions, some forty men, were, like him, rousing to the
first misty light of the new day. Three of the men were
busy already relighting the blackened remains of the
night fire. Others brought water, carefully
cradled in their leather helmets, from the river that
slid over its sparkling boulders some fifty paces
away. They were cheerful, and laughed and
jested, but under their breath, for fear of rousing the
sleeping King. Birds were singing in the alders by the
river, and from the steep valley side beyond came the
bleating of sheep, where some herdboy watched his
flock. A harsher sound turned Arthur's eyes to a
place beyond the ridge of woodland where big black
birds swung and called in the misty morning. There
lay the enemy they had pursued from the field. A
few survivors, bound, lay nearby under the
trees, but thirty or so men lay still unburied, their
stiffened bodies exposed with the waxing day to the crows and
kites.
It was well after noon before the burial party had
done its work, and the King headed back with the troop
towards Autun. A mile or so short of the
battlefield, he came across two bodies. The
messenger he had sent back to Bedwyour and Hoel
to tell them that he was safe, and would return with the
daylight, had fallen in with two stragglers from
Quintilianus' army. One he had killed; the
other, though wounded and now near dead with exposure and
loss of blood, had killed him.
Arthur killed the man himself, and spurred his
horse into a gallop back to his headquarters.
6
"The treaty is void," said Cerdic.
He and Mordred sat face to face. They had
met on a high shelf of the downs. It was a fine
morning, and larks sang wildly in the blue.
To southward the smoke of a Saxon village could be
seen hanging in the still air. Here and there, in cleared
spaces between the thickets of ash and thorn, the golden
green of ripening barley showed among the white flints
where some Saxon peasant had scratched a living from
the bony land.
Mordred had come in kingly state. The Council,
apprised of Arthur's wishes before he left for
Brittany, had raised no slightest-objection
to Mordred's assumption of leadership; on the
contrary; those councillors who were left after the
departure of Arthur and his Companions
into Brittany were most of them greybeards, and in their
grief and fear at the news from the battlefield they
acclaimed Mordred with outspoken relief.
Mordred, wise in the ways of councils, moved with
care. He emphasized the doubtful nature of the
news, spoke of his still-held hope of his father's
life, disclaimed any title but that of regent, and
renewed his vows of faith to the Council, and liege
homage to his father's Queen. After him
Guinevere, speaking briefly and with obviously
fragile composure in her husband's name, affirmed
her belief that Mordred must now be invested with power
to act as he saw fit, and, herself resigning,
proposed him as sole regent. The Council,
moved to a man, accepted her withdrawal and decided
then and there to send a message to Constantine of
Cornwall asking him to affirm his loyalty to the
High King's successor.
Finally Mordred spoke again of urgency, and
made clear his intention of riding south next day to the
interview with Cerdic. He would take with him a
detachment of the newly raised troops; it was never
wise to approach their good Saxon neighbours without
some show of strength. This, too, the Council voted
him. So, escorted like a king, he faced Cerdic
on the downs.
The Saxons, too, kept state. Cerdic's
thegns crowded behind his chair, and an awning of brightly
coloured cloth woven with gold and silver thread
made a regal background to the thrones set for him
and the regent. Mordred regarded Cerdic with interest.
It was barely a year since he had last met the
Saxon king, but in that time the latter had aged
perceptibly and appeared not to be in robust
health. Beside his chair stood his grandi

son Ceawlin, a young copy of the old fighter, who
was said to have already fathered a brood of sturdy boys.
"The treaty is void."
The old king said it like a challenge. He was
watching Mordred closely.
"Why else am I here?" Nothing could be gathered
from the regent's smooth tone. "If it is true that
the High King is dead, then the treaty--the same,
or one revised as we may agree--must be
ratified between myself and you."
"Until we know for certain, there is little point in
talking," said Cerdic bluntly.
"On the contrary. When I last spoke with my father
he gave me a mandate to make a new agreement with
you, though I agree that there is little point in discussing
that until another matter is cleared up. I doubt
if I need to tell you what that is?" "It would be
best to come to the point," said Cerdic. "Very well.
It has lately come to my ears that Cynric, your
son, and others of your thegns are even now back in
your old lands beyond the Narrow Sea, and that more men
daily flock to their standards. The bays fill with their
longships. Now with the treaty between our
peoples made void by the High King's death--
supposing this to be true--what am I to think of this?"
"Not that we prepare war again. Until proof comes
of Arthur's death this would not only be ignoble, but
folly." There was a gleam in the old king's eyes as
he looked at the younger man. "I should perhaps make it
clear that in no case are we contemplating war. Not
with you, prince."
"Then what?"
"Only that with the advance of the Franks and the westward
spread of people who are not our friends, we in our turn
must move westward. Your King has halted this
emperor's first sally, but there will be another, and after that
another. My people want a safe frontier. They are
gathering to embark for these shores, but in peace. We shall
receive them."
"I see." Mordred was remembering what Arthur
had said to him in their last discussion at Kerrec.
"First the Narrow Sea, and then the ramparts of the
Saxon and English kingdoms. . . . Men fight for
what is theirs." So might Vortigem have reasoned
when he first called Hengist and Horsa to these
shores. Arthur was no Vortigern, and so far he
had been right not to doubt Cerdic: Men fight for what
is theirs, and the more men manning the ramparts of the
Shore, the more safely could the Celtic kingdoms
lie behind them. The old king was watching him closely,
as if guessing what thoughts raced behind the smooth brow
and unexpressive eyes. Mordred met his look.

"You are a man of honour, king, and also a man of
wisdom and experience. You know that neither Saxon nor
Briton wants another Badon Hill."
Cerdic smiled. "Now you have flashed your weapon
at me. Prince Mor- dred, and I mine at you.
That is done. I said they would come in peace. But they
will come, and many of them. So, let us talk." He
sat back in his chair, shifting a fold of the blue
robe over his arm. "For the present I believe we
must assume the High King's death?" "I think so.
If we make plans for that assumption they can be
revised if necessary."
"Then I say this. I am willing, and Cynric
with me, who will reign here when I am too old
to fight, to remake the treaty with you that I made with
your uncle." A sharp, twinkling look from under the
shaggy brows. "It was your uncle last time we met.
Now your father, it seems?"
"Father, yes. And in return?"
"More land."
"That was easily guessed." Mordred smiled in
his turn. "More men need more land. But you are already too
close for some men's peace of mind. How can you move
forward? Between your lands and ours there lies this stretch of
high downland. You see it." He gestured to the thin
patch of barley shoots. "No ploughs, not even
yours. King Cerdic, can make these stony uplands
into rich fields of grain. And I am told that your
neighbours, the South Saxons, no longer grant
you free movement there."
Cerdic made no immediate reply. He reached behind
him, and a guard put a spear into his hand. Behind
Mordred a rustle and a whisper of metal betrayed
quick movement among his own fighting men. He gestured
with a hand, palm down, and the movement stilled. Cerdic
reversed the spear and, leaning forward in his chair,
began to draw in the chalky dust. "Here we are, the
men of Wessex. Here, in the rich corner lands, the
South Saxons. And here stand you and I, now. The
lands I am thinking of would be no nearer to your
capital than our present borders. Here. And
here."
The spear moved gently northward, then, just as
Mordred would have protested, veered to the east and across
the downland towards the upper Thames
valley. "This way. This part is thick forest, and here
is marshland, thinly peopled and poor. Both can be
made good." "Surely much of that is already Saxon
land? Where your spear is now, that is the southern
region, as they call it, of the Middle Saxons?"
"The Suthrige. Yes. I told you that we would
take nothing that need trouble you."
"Would these settlers accept your people?" "It is
agreed." The old king slanted a bright glance up
at the other man.

"They are not a strong people, and it is rumoured that the
South Saxons are casting their eyes in that
direction. They will welcome us. And we will make the
land good for ourselves and for them." He went on to talk about
his plans, and Mordred questioned, and they talked for some
time. Later Mordred said: "Tell me, king. My
information is not always correct." (this was not true, and
he knew that Cerdic knew it, but the gambit brought
a subject under discussion that neither had liked to broach
openly.) "Since Aelle died, has there been a
leader of note among the South Saxons? The land
there is the best in the south, and it has long seemed
to me that the king who held Rutupiae and the lands behind it
held a key in his hand. The key to the
mainland of the Continent and its trade."
There was a gleam of appreciation in the old king's
eyes. He did not say in so many words that
Aelle's descendants had no such grasp of the
situation, but again, the two men understood one another.
He merely said, thoughtfully: "I am told--though
of course my information is not always correct--that the
harbour at Rutupiae is beginning to silt up, and
no attempt is being made to keep it clear."
Mordred, who, too, had heard this, expressed
surprise, and the two men talked for a while longer
to their mutual satisfaction, with at the end a very
clear idea that, should Cerdic decide that the
gateway to the Continent would be worth a foray by the
West Saxons, Mordred with the British would at the
very least refrain from pushing in through the back door, and
at the most would throw his weight in beside the West
Saxon king.
"With eventual free access for British
traders to the port, of course," he said.
"Of course," said Cerdic.
So, with a good deal of satisfaction on both
sides, the conference ended. The old king set off
southward with the elder thegns, while his younger warriors
escorted Mordred and his troops part of the
way north, with a joyous accompaniment of shouting and
weapon-play. Mordred rode alone for most of the
way, ahead of the troops. He was dimly conscious
of the noise behind him, where Saxon and Briton
alike seemed to be celebrating what was now an
alliance, rather than a mere treaty of non-aggression.
He knew, as Cerdic had known without saying it, that
such an agreement could not so readily have been reached
with the victor of Badon and its forerunning battles.
A new start had been made. The day of the young men
had begun. Change was in the air. Plans, long
stifled, buzzed in his brain, and the blood he shared with
Ambrosius and Arthur and Merlin the vanished
statesman ran free at last with the power to do and
to make.
It is certain that if, on his return
to Camelot, he had found awaiting him the royal
courier with the news of Arthur's safety and imminent
return,
there would have been a perceptible weight of
disappointment among the relief and joy.
No courier was there. For days now the wind had
blown steadily eastward across the Narrow Sea,
keeping the British ships sealed in the Breton
harbours. But it carried a ship from
Cornwall to Brittany with letters from Constantine the
duke. They were identical, addressed the one to King
Hoel, and the other to Bedwyour, and the latter was carried
straight to Arthur, where he lay still at Autun.
Mordred has shown himself in his true colours.
He has given out through the kingdoms that King Arthur
is slain, and he has assumed the kingship. The
Queen has resigned her regency, and letters have come
bidding me to resign my rights as Arthur's heir, and
accept Mordred as High King. He treats now with
Cerdic, who is to hold the ports of the Saxon
Shore against all corners, and whose son is in
Saxony raising his thousands, all of whom swear
allegiance to Mordred. Meanwhile Mordred the
King talks with the kings of Dyfed and Guent, and men from
Mona and Powys, and is riding even now to meet the
leaders from the north who have long spoken against Arthur
the High King, wanting freedom for every man to rule
as he wills, without reference to the Round Hall and the
Council. Mordred, perjurer that he is,
promises them self-rule and a change of the law.
So he makes allies.
Finally, with the High King gone, he plans to take
Queen Guinevere to wife. He has lodged her
at Caerieon, and consorts with her there.
Though the interpretation of Mordred's actions was
Constantine's, the main facts as set out in the letter were
true. As soon as he returned from his meeting with
Cerdic, Mordred had persuaded the Queen to go
to Caerieon. Until the truth of Arthur's death
was known, and the country--at present in the inevitable
panic and turmoil following the sudden death of a
powerful ruler--was more settled, and the new chain of
command set up and working smoothly, he wanted, as he
had promised, to ensure her safety. Camelot was
as strong a city as Caerieon, but it was too far
east; and any trouble that was coming, as Mordred judged,
would come that way. The west was safe. (except, he
reminded himself, from Duke Constantine, that silently
resentful ex-heir of Arthur's, who had sent no
answer to the courteous invitations of the Council
to discuss the matter at the round table. But
Caerieon, armed and defended, was as safe from him as
from any other disaffected man.)
It was too near for Guinevere's liking to her own
homeland of North- galis, where a cousin now ruled
who had wanted once to marry her, and who said so rather
too often to the wife he eventually had to take. But
the
279
alternatives were even less comfortable. Guinevere
would have preferred to take refuge in a convent, but of the
two best sanctuaries, the nearer--the Lake convent
on Ynys Witrin--was in the Summer Country,
and the Queen would on no account put herself under the
protection of its king, Melwas. The other, at
Amesbury, Arthur's own township, which would have
welcomed her, had failed signally to protect the
last queen it had housed. Morgause's murder still
haunted the place.
So Mordred, making necessity a pleasure,
chose Caerleon, where he had already convened meetings
with those kings from the west and north with whom he had not
already had the chance to talk. He escorted the Queen
there himself, embarking with her at Ynys Witrin, and
setting sail for the Isca's mouth on the shore of the
Severn Sea. The voyage was calm, the sea
gentle, the breezes light and fresh. It was a
golden interval in the turmoil of that violent
summer. The Queen kept apart with her ladies, but
in the morning and evening of the two days' voyage
Mordred visited her and they talked. On one of
these occasions she told him, briefly and without
detail, why she had been so reluctant to take
refuge with King Melwas. It appeared that
many years ago, in the hot spring of youth, Melwas
had abducted the Queen by force and stratagem, and
carried her off to a remote island in the water-logged
fens of the Summer Country. There, by his magic.
Merlin had discovered her, and had led Bedwyour to a
timely rescue. Later, Arthur and Melwas had
fought, a notable combat, at the end of which the King, being
the victor, had spared Melwas's life. "After
that?" said Mordred, shocked for once into bluntness.
"I would have dragged him to your feet and killed him
there, slowly." "And had every man and woman in the
kingdoms sure of his guilt and my shame?" She
spoke calmly, but her cheeks had reddened, whether
at the memory of that shame or at the young man's
fervour it was impossible to guess.
Mordred bit his lip. He recalled the story
that Agravain had once told at a meeting of the
Young Celts, and that he, Mordred, had not
believed. So it was true; and now the cryptic
references made by Bedwyour and Arthur at the site
of the Princess Elen's rape became clear. He
remembered further:
the girl's violated body lying under its
scrambled covering of pine needles.
He said thickly: "Later, then. But
policy or no policy, I would not have let him
live."
He took his leave then. After he had gone the
Queen sat for a long while without moving, looking out
across the deck-rail at the shining water, and the distant
shore sliding by, with its trees like clouds, and the
clouds above them like towers.
Having installed Guinevere in comfort in the
Queen's palace at Caer- 280
leon, Mordred plunged into the round of meetings
with the leaders and petty kings assembled in the fortress
to meet him. What he had not expected, and what
Constantine, that western duke, knew well, was the
dissatisfaction, even hostility, he found there for some
of Arthur's policies. In the remoter highlands,
the silver-age Romanization so dear to Ambrosius
and Arthur had never been acceptable. It was not only
the young men who wanted change; the older kings, too,
were chafing against what they saw as the restrictive
policies of a remote and lowland center of
government. Arthur, in attempting to restore the
territorial integrity of Roman Britain, had
remodelled his federation of kingdoms in a way that to many
of the rulers seemed outdated. To these men Mordred,
outlander and Young Celt, was the leader they
hoped for. That Arthur had just stood against actual
Roman domination in defense of the Celtic lands would
do much to bring him nearer their hearts again, but Arthur was
presumed dead, and it became increasingly apparent that
in the Celtic Highlands his return would not be altogether
welcome.
Mordred trod carefully, talked sparingly,
counted the allies sworn to his banner, and went every
evening to see the Queen. It was perhaps a little sad
to see how Guinevere lighted up at his visits, and
how eagerly she plied him with questions. He answered
her readily, keeping her more fully informed than
Arthur had found time to do, of every move of state. She
did not guess that he was simply taking every chance of
seeing her, and every means of prolonging his meetings with
her, letting her grow easier with him, become used
to him in his role of ruler and protector. She thought
merely that he was trying to bring her comfort and distraction,
and was grateful accordingly, and her gratitude, in that time
of uncertainty, grief and fear, brought her (as
Mordred had hoped) within touching distance of tenderness,
and sighting distance of love. At any rate, when he
held her hand to kiss it, or, greatly daring, laid
his own over it by way of comfort, she no longer hurried
to withdraw from his touch. As for Mordred, with his
new authority, the uncertainty, the brilliant
starting of long-held plans, the closeness of the
long-desired and lovely Guinevere, he was swept
forward from day to day on a full tide of
sovereignty and power, and it is doubtful if at this
stage he could have gone back. In love, as in other
things, there comes a time when the will resigns and franks
the desire, and then not even Orpheus, turning
back, could cause his love to vanish. He had had
that one glimpse of her, the real Guinevere, a
lonely woman afraid of life, a leaf to be
blown into a safe corner by any strong wind. He
would be--was--her safety. He was subtle enough
to see that she recognized it, and used her gently.
He could wait.
So the days went by, and the wind still closed the
Narrow Sea, and eachcc*

of them, constantly, watched the road and the harbour
for the messenger from Brittany. And each spent hours
of the night watching the dark and thinking, thinking, and when
they finally slept it was not of each other they dreamed,
but of Arthur. Of Duke Constantine, brooding in his
Cornish castle, they did not think at all.
7
Constantine's letter was brought to Arthur at his camp
near Autun. King Hoel, feeling his years and his
ailments now that the battle was over, had withdrawn
towards home. But for Gawain, who in these days was
always at his elbow, Arthur was alone. He was also very
tired. He had returned from the brief punitive
foray into the mountains to find near-panic among the
troops who, though still searching among the heaped dead for
his body, believed themselves king- less. Even his
return permitted little rejoicing, for Bedwyour, worse
hurt than he had admitted, or that anyone had
judged, was now seriously ill, and the surgeons
shook their heads over the pallet where he lay
unconscious in an annex of the royal pavilion.
So Arthur was alone in more ways than one. Bedwyour
was dying. Cei, the elder foster-brother with whom he
had been brought up, was dead. Caius Valerius,
too, the ageing warrior, veteran of Ambrosius'
wars, and friend to Uther Pendragon and Merlin . . .
The list seemed endless, the names a roll culled from
the tale of Arthur's past glories, or even a
simple tally of his friends. Of those close to him
Gawain alone was unwounded, and he, flown with the joy
of his first great fight and resounding victory, had
proved himself a strong support. To him
Arthur, feeling his age for the first time (though he was
by many years King Hoel's junior), turned in
gratitude and affection. He started to read the
duke's letter. Through the skins of the tent wall he could
hear the groaning and muttering where Bedwyour tossed on
his sickbed. He would die before morning, they said, if
the fever did not break.
The letter again. Mordred . . . making himself High
King, talking with Cerdic, gathering the kings of
Wales and the north . . . "Well," said Arthur,
frowning; his head ached and the torchlight made the words
swim. "Well, all this is to be expected. If
news of my supposed death was taken to Mordred,
he would take exactly these steps. We spoke of
it before he left Kerrec. He was to meet with
Cerdic to ratify the treaty and talk over a
possible new settlement in the future. Now, if
my death was reported to him, he may well have thought
it expedient to negotiate new terms, since the
old treaty would then be invalid."
"New terms! An alliance that sounds like folly
at its best, and at its worst a deadly peril! This
about Cynric, raising fresh Saxon levies over
here. Did you know, uncle?"
283
On the other side of the tent wall the sick man
cried out, then was silent. Someone spoke
hurriedly, there was muttering, quick footsteps, the
swish of robes. The King was half on his feet, the
parchment falling to the floor, forgotten, when the
muttering began again. Not death yet, then; not quite yet.
Arthur sank back in his chair. "Did you know about
Cynric?" persisted Gawain. "Cynric? Oh,
calling men to his standard in Saxony. No, but if
it is true--"
"I'm pretty sure it's true," said
Gawain. "I've already heard rumours going about the
camp. Men massing by the Neustrian shore.
Longships lying in the harbours like arrows jammed in a
quiver. And for what? Cynric sails, and Cerdic
moves towards the south-east ports to meet him, then
the South Saxons are caught between the two, and the
whole southeast will be Cerdic's, with freedom
to invite whomsoever he pleases to come over and swell
his army. The South Saxons have been the other wall
that contained him, and who is to contain him now?" His
angry eyes glared into the King's, as if the
latter's composure chafed him. If he heard the
sounds from beyond the wall, he gave no sign of it.
He had not attempted to lower his voice.
"No doubt the next courier will bring me a report
of Cynric's doings." Arthur sounded weary but
relatively unworried. "But for the rest of this letter,
Gawain, remember who writes. Duke
Constantine did not take kindly to Mordred's
nomination as regent: He will have taken even less
kindly to his appointment as my sole heir.
Everything he says there--" He gestured to the letter on
the floor, and Gawain stooped to pick it up.
"Everything he says that Mordred has done,
Mordred and I agreed should be done. We only have
Constantine's word, which is hardly the word of a friend, for the
way it is being done." "But surely Mordred himself
should have sent a report? If Constantine's man could
get through--"
"If he believed the report of my death," said
Arthur, "to whom would he send it?"
Gawain, with an impatient shrug, started to hand the
letter back to his uncle. Then he checked. "There's
more here. On the other side, see?"
Arthur took it from him, saw the last sentences on
the back, and began to read them aloud.
was "Finally, with the High King gone, he plans
to take Queen Guinevere to wife. He has
lodged her at Caerleon, and--"' was
He did not finish it, but Gawain did, on a
rising note where genuine anger was shot with a kind of
triumph.
was "And consorts with her there"!" He swung
away, then back to the King. "Uncle, whether or not
he believes you dead, this is the act of a

"*@o *
traitor! He has no proof as yet, no
shadow of reason for haling the Queen off
to Caerleon, and paying his court to her! You say the
rest of this letter could be true. ... If it is, in
whatever fashion, then this must be true also!"
"Gawain@u" began the King, in a warning voice,
but Gawain, burning, swept on:
"No, you must hear me! I'm your kin. You'll
hear truth from me. I can tell you this, uncle,
Mordred wanted the kingdom always. I know how
ambitious he was, even at home in the islands,
even before he knew he was your son. Your son,
yes! But still a fisher-brat, a peasant with a
peasant's guile and greed, and a huckster's
honour! He's taken the first chance to turn traitor
and get what he wants. With the Saxons and the Welsh
at his back, and the Queen at his side . .
. 'consorts" indeed! He wasted no time!
I've seen the way he looked at her@u" Something
in Arthur's face stopped him there. It was hard
to say what it was, for the King looked like a dead man
carved in grey stone. Something about him suggested a
man who sees at his feet a deadly pitfall
lined with spears, and who with sheer stubborn faith
holds to the one frail sapling that may stop him from
falling. There was silence now from the next room.
Arthur's voice was still steady, still reasonable, but
without life or tone. "Gawain. The last thing I
enjoined on my son was, in the event of my death,
to care forand protect the Queen. He stands to her also
as a son. What has been said, we shall forget."
Gawain bowed his head and muttered something that might
have been an apology. Arthur handed him the letter.
"Burn this letter. Now. That's it," as Gawain
held the parchment up to a torch and watched it blacken
and curl into crow's feathers. "Now I must go
to Bedwyour. In the morning@u"
He did not finish. He began to get to his
feet, moving slowly, putting weight on the arms of
his chair like an old man, or a sick one.
Gawain, who was fond of him, was seized with sudden
compunction, and spoke more gently:
"I'm sorry, uncle, believe me, I am.
I know you don't want to believe this of Mordred,
so let us hope there is news soon. Meanwhile,
is there anything I can do for you?"
"Yes. You can go and give the orders for our
return home. Whatever the truth of the matter, I
shall have to go back. Either I must deal with Mordred, or
with Constantine. This is not the time to pursue our
victory further, or even to call for talks with the
emperor. Instead, I shall send him a message." ,
"Yes?" queried Gawain, as the King paused.

Arthur's look was cryptic. "A task that will
please you. See that Lucius Quintilianus'
body is disinterred and sent to the emperor, with this
message: that this is the tribute that the British
pay to Rome. Now leave me. I must go
to Bedwyour."
Bedwyour did not die. The silence that had frightened
the King was not death, or coma, but sleep, and the sick
man woke from it with his fever gone and his wounds cool.
Arthur, in spite of what might lie ahead of him,
could set out for Britain with a free mind and a lighter
heart.
The King set sail at last on a
cloudy day with white spume blowing back from the
wave-tops and the far sky leaning low over the heaving
grey. The sea witch, it seemed, held sway
over the Channel waters. Though the wind had changed
its quarter at last, sea and sky alike still seemed
to conspire against Arthur her old enemy. Even the
gulls, flakes ripped from the white waves,
drove to and fro in the wind with shrieks of uncanny
laughter, like a mockery. A gloomy, driving
sea, without glitter, without light, heaved northward
in the sudden turn of the wind. A gust took the Sea
Dragon's standard and shredded it into streamers that
whirled downwind. "An omen," men whispered, but
Arthur, looking up, laughed, and said:
"He has gone ahead of us. If we seize the
weather, we shall fly as fast as he."
And fly they did. What they could not know was that
Cynric's Saxons had seized the same chance of
wind, and that the longboats were also on their way across the
Narrow Sea. Long and low, in those heaving seas the
British caught no sight of them until, in the
final gleams of a late and clouded afternoon, as they
scudded along with the line of the Saxon Shore like a
white wall on the horizon, the Sea Dragon's
lookout saw what looked like Saxon
longships riding in nearer the coast.
But when the King, with the heavy slowness that he showed these
days, clambered up to a viewpoint by the mast, the
longships--or their shadows --were gone.
"South Saxon ships, caught by the change of
wind," said the master, at Arthur's elbow.
"Shallow draught. They're lucky. They'll be
back at anchor now, and no trouble to us. If we--
was He did not finish. A shout from the masthead made
them all look round. Low over the sea, its rain
tearing out like a witch's hair, came a squall.
Its shadow fled on before like a doom. The master
shouted. The seamen ran to their places. King,
knights, sailors gripped the nearest stay.
The squall struck. In an instant all was
screaming wind and rain. The air was black. Water
cascaded down, whipping their faces so that they covered
their eyes. The little ship shook and shuddered, stopped as
if struck on a rock, then heeled over, reared and
bucked like a frightened horse. Ropes strained and
snapped. The whole ship's structure groaned.
Somewhere a crack of timber gave warning. The
squall blew for perhaps ten minutes. When, as
suddenly as it had come, it blew away, fleeing over
the sea above its shadow, the fleet,
scattered and damaged, found itself driven almost within
hailing distance of the coast. But the coast was the West
Saxon shore, and there was no way that they could beat
farther westward against a capriciously veering wind,
to make the Dumnonian harbours, or even the
debated shelter of Potters' Bay.
The King, with water licking the lower deck of the
Sea Dragon, and two of her sister ships
wallowing badly alongside, gave the order. And so
the sea witch drove Arthur ashore in Saxon
territory where Cerdic's son Cynric, watching
for the stragglers of his own immigrant fleet, rested
with a band of his men after their stormy voyage. To him, from
the ruins of the Roman lighthouse, came the
watchman, running. Ships--three ships, and others
heading shorewards behind them--were coming into the deep
harbour to westward. There was no standard, no device.
But by their lines and rig they were British ships, and
they were setting inshore where they surely had no right
to be. He had had, in the rapidly worsening light,
no hint of their beaten condition.
Cynric did not know that the proposed immigration
was known to, and approved by the British; nor could
he know that, by Mordred's new treaty with Cerdic,
the incoming British ships were welcome
to land. He drew his own conclusions. His landing had
been observed, and was now, perhaps, to be opposed. He
sent a messenger urgently inland to report his
arrival and summon Cerdic's help, then gathered
his men together to oppose the British landing.
If the two forces could have held apart long enough for the
leaders to recognize one another or dispatch and receive
a message, all might have been well. But they
met in the growing dusk of that murky day, each side
bent on its own desperate course and blind to all
else. The Saxons were tired after a stormy
voyage, and most of them strange to the country and
therefore alive to apprehension. They also had with them their
women and children. Primed with legends about the wars fought
for each hide of land since Hengist's time, and seeing
the incoming troops at a disadvantage as their
craft ran inshore, they seized their weapons and
raced down to the attack. Arthur was indeed at a
sad disadvantage. His men were highly trained and
seasoned troops, but they had had little rest, and were some
of them still suffering badly from the effects of the voyage.
He did have one stroke

of luck: the horse carriers, seeking a flat
beach, had ventured farther along the coast
to land, so those of the cavalry mounts which had survived the
crossing uninjured were safely got to shore some
distance off. But they-- Arthur's best troops--could
be no help against Cynric's men. Arthur and those of
his knights who were with him, met by armed Saxons as
they struggled up the steep and streaming pebbles of the
shore, fought on foot and in no sort of order. The
struggle was disorganized, bloody and, on both
sides, disastrous. Just before dark a panting messenger
on a lathered pony came to Cynric's side. The
message passed. Cerdic was on his way and
Britain's new king with him. Cynric was to withdraw.
Cynric, thankfully, withdrew as best he could, his
men streaming off inland into the gathering darkness, guided
by the messenger towards the oncoming army of the West
Saxons.
Arthur, exhausted but unhurt, listened in silence
to the report of someone who had heard the Saxon's
shouted message. "It was Cynric himself, my lord,
who led this attack. Now he has sent to his father for
help, and Cerdic is coming. With Britain's new
king, I heard them say so, marching against you to help
Cynric and these invaders."
Arthur, weary to death and grieving over his
losses, which were even now being assessed,
leaned heavily on his spear, confused, and, what was
strange to him, irresolute. That "Britain's
new king" must be Mordred was obvious. Even if
Mordred believed him, Arthur, dead, he would
hardly march with Saxons to intercept British
troopships obviously bringing home Arthur's
battle-weary troops, unless Constantine had been
right, and he coveted the kingdom to the point of
treachery.
Someone was approaching, his feet sliding in the
grinding pebbles. As Arthur turned, half
expecting the angry Orkney voice at his elbow,
triumphant over this evidence of treachery, a man
came up. "My lord, my lord! Prince Gawain
is hurt. His boat was wrecked as it drove
ashore, and he was wounded even before he could come to land.
It is thought that he is dying."
"Take me there," said the King.
Gawain had been carried ashore on a stretcher
of smashed planking from the wrecked boat. The
remains of this, splintered and gaping, lay tilted on
the shingle in the edge of the tide. Bodies of the dead and
wounded lay about on the beach, looking like heaps of
sodden clothing. Gawain was conscious, but it was plain
that he had received his death wound. His face was
waxen, and his breathing shallow and sparse. Arthur bent
over him. "How is it with you, nephew?" The pale
lips gaped. In a while Gawain whispered: "My
evil luck. Just as the war starts."
The war he had wanted, had almost worked for. The
King put the thought aside, and stooping lower, moistened
the dying man's lips from his wine flask.
The lips moved again.
"What's that? I didn't hear."
"Bedwyour," said Gawain.
"Yes," said the King, wondering. "Bedwyour is
well enough. They say he is recovering fast."
"Bedwyour . . ."
"Gawain, I know that you have much to forgive Bedwyour
for, but if you are asking me to take any message
other than one of forgiveness and friendship, you ask in
vain, dying or no."
"Not that. Bring Bedwyour back now. Needed.
Help you kill . . . the traitor . . .
Mordred."
Arthur made no reply to that. But in a few
moments he could see that none was needed.
So, still counselling murder and strife, died the
fourth of Morgause's sons. Leaving only the
one, Mordred, his own son. Mordred, the
traitor?

Mordred was back in Camelot when the news
reached him of fighting on the south coast. No
details were given. Mindful of his commitment
to Cerdic, he gathered what troops were available and
hastened southward, falling in with the West Saxon army
just as a second messenger came panting with a fuller
but strange-sounding version of what had happened.
His story was this: King Arthur's troopships had
been sighted by the Saxon shore-dwellers, appearing
soon after the longships, unable to reach the harbour at
the mouth of the Itchen, had discharged their cargo of
immigrants in the shallow, sheltered water behind
Seal Island. Then a flying scud of cloud and mist
had blotted out the fleet. The Saxon incomers,
nervous, and not knowing what to expect from the approaching
ships, had hurried their women and children inland away from
the shore, and gathered in a defensive crowd within reach
of signals from the lighthouse. The shore-folk who
had come down to receive them gave them quick reassurance.
They were safe now. The High King's ships, whether
or no the King himself was on board, would not come into the
shore ports, which were by treaty ceded to the Saxons these
many years.
But hard on the reassurance came the runner from the
lighthouse, gasping. The ships had turned under
cover of the squall, had come inshore, and were even now
landing armed men on the beaches only a short way to the
west. It was apparent that, having been warned of this
fresh influx of Saxon immigrants, Arthur had
hoped to stop them by sea, but having failed, had sent
his troops ashore to kill them or take them
prisoner. To those who expressed doubt of this--these were
the citizens of long standing, and Cynric himself was
among them--the newcomers would not listen. The risk was
too great. If the British meant business, and were
allowed time to get their horses ashore . . .
Everyone knew the reputation of Arthur's cavalry.
. . . So the Saxons, unorganized and weary as
they were, had charged to the beaches and closed with
Arthur's men. There they had met slaughter and
defeat, and now, exhausted, were straggling inland with the
frightened inhabitants of the shore villages, with
Arthur and his cavalry in pursuit. And, the
messenger concluded, with a sidelong glance of
mistrust at Mordred, the Saxons--men, women,
and little children--cried to their king for help against Arthur the
breaker of treaties, the invader of their rightful
kingdom, the slayer of lawful and peaceful
incomers.

?"" be
The distressful tale came pelting out, in the rough
tongue of the Saxon peasant. It is doubtful if
Mordred understood more than one word in three. But he
grasped the central fact, and, rigid at
Cerdic's side, felt the cold creep over him
as if the blood drained from his body down into the
chalky earth. The man stopped speaking, Cerdic
began a question, but across it Mordred, for once heedless
of courtesy, demanded harshly:
"The High King? Is that what he is saying? That
Arthur himself is there?"
"Yes. It seems," said Cerdic, with fierce
self-control, "that we have moved too soon,
Prince Mordred!"
"This is certain?"
"Certain."
"This changes everything." Mordred, with an effort,
made the under statement calmly, but his mind was
whirling. What had happened could lead@uhad already
led@uto complete disaster: for himself, for the Queen, for the
future of Britain.
Cerdic, watching him closely under those
fierce brows, merely nodded. "Tell me
exactly what has happened," said Mordred
quickly. "I hardly understood. If there could be any
possibility of error . . . ?" "As we go," said
Cerdic. "Ride beside me. There is no time
to waste. It seems that Arthur is not content with taking
the shore villages, but he has driven their people
inland, and is gathering his cavalry for pursuit. We
must go to defend them." He spurred his pony, and as
Mordred brought his own mount alongside, the old king
repeated the rest of the messenger's tale.
Almost before he had done, Mordred, who had been
biting his lips with impatient fury, exploded.
"This is absurd! Room for doubt, indeed! It
is simply not to be believed! The High King break
his own treaty? Is it not patent that his ships were
driven ashore by the storm, and made landfall where they
could? For one thing only, if he had intended
to attack, he would have landed his cavalry first. It
sounds to me as if he had been forced to go ashore, and
that Cynric's people attacked on suspicion, without
even an attempt at parley."
"That much is certainly true. But according to this man
they knew only that the ships were British; the royal
ship flew no standard. This in itself was
suspicious@u"
Mordred felt a sudden leap of the heart: shame
and hope together; the chance that all, still, could be well.
(well? He did not pause, in that shame and
hope, to examine the thought.) "Then it is possible that
Arthur him self was not there? Was Arthur seen?
Recognized? If his standard was not flying@u"
"Once the British gained the beach, the Dragon
was raised. He was caret 291
there. This man saw him himself. Gawain as well.
Gawain, incidentally, is dead."
The horses' hoofs beat softly on the sodden
ground. Rain drove in their faces. After a long
silence Mordred said, his voice once more cool and
steady:
"Then if Arthur lives, his treaty with you still
stands. It cancels the new alliance, which was made on
the assumption of his death. What's more, it is certain
that he would not break that treaty. What could he stand
to gain? He fought only because he was attacked. King
Cerdic, you cannot make this a cause for war."
"For whatever reason, the treaty has been
broken," said Cerdic. "He has advanced, armed,
into my country, and has killed my people. And others have
been driven from their homes. They have called
to me for help, and I have to answer their call. I shall
get the truth from Cynric when we meet. If you do
not wish to ride with us--" "I shall ride with you. If the
King is indeed bringing his troops ashore through
Saxon territory, then it is of necessity. He
does not want war. This I know. There has been a
tragic error. I know Arthur, and so, king, should you.
He favours the council chamber, not the sword."
Cerdic's smile was grim. "Lately, perhaps.
After he got his way." "Why not?" retorted
Mordred. "Well, ride to join Cynric if you
must, but talk with Arthur, too, before any further
follies are committed. If you will not, then you must
give me leave to talk with him myself. We can come out
of this storm yet, king, into calm weather." "Very
well," said the old king heavily, after a pause.
"You know what you must do. But if it does come
to fighting--" "It must not."
"If Arthur fights, then I shall fight him. But
you--what of you, Prince Mordred? You are no
longer bound to me. And will your men obey you? They were
his."
"And are now mine," said Mordred shortly. "But
with your leave, I shall not put their loyalty to the test
on this field. If parley fails, then
we shall see."
Cerdic nodded, and the two men rode on side
by side in silence. Mordred, as events were
to prove, was right in his judgment of his army. The main
body of his troops were men who had trained and served
under him, and who had accepted him willingly as king.
If a new Saxon war was to be started, the people--the
townspeople, the merchants, the now thriving farmers
in their lands made safe by the old treaties--wanted
none of it. Mordred's recent announcement of his
decision to ratify the treaty and, more, close an
alliance with the powerful West Saxon king had been
wel-

"* j
corned loudly in the halls and market-places.
His officers and men followed him loyally.
Whether they would take arms against Arthur himself, for
whatever reason, was another matter. But of course it
would not come to that. . . .
Arthur, leaving a picked force of men to guard the
beached ships while the storm damage was repaired,
led the remainder of his army fast inland, hoping
to avoid the Saxon stragglers, and reach the border
without further trouble. But soon his scouts
returned with the news that Cerdic himself, marching to his
son's rescue, was between the British and home. And
presently, through a gap of the high downland, they could
see the spears and tossing horsehair of Cerdic's
war-band, with in the rear, dimly glimpsed through the
rain, the glitter of cavalry massed and orderly
under what looked like the Dragon of Arthur's own
standard. Less mistakable was Mordred himself, riding
beside Cerdic at the head of the Saxons.
The troops recognized him first. Mordred, the
traitor. The mutter went through the ranks. There were
men there who had heard Gawain's dying words, and now
at the sight of Mordred himself, approaching with the
Saxon army, conspicuous on the glossy black
horse that had been Arthur's gift, a growl went
round, like a wind-borne echo of Gawain's final
breath.
"Mordred! Traitor!"
It was as if the cry had burst in Arthur's own
brain. The doubts, the accumulation of exhaustion and
grief, the accusations levelled by Gawain, whom in
spite of his faults Arthur had loved, weighed on
the King and numbed his powers of thought. Caught in his
unguarded confusion, in the aftermath of so much grief and
loss, he recalled at last, as if the
winds had blown that, too, out of the past, the doom
foretold by Merlin and echoed by Nimue. Mordred,
born to be his bane. Mordred, the death-dealer.
Mordred, here on this dark battlefield, riding
against him at the head of the Saxons, his ancient
enemies . . .
The canker of suspicion, biting with sudden pain,
became certainty. Against all belief, against all
hope of error, it must be true. Mordred, the
traitor.
Cerdic's army was moving, massing. The Saxon
king, his arm thrown up in command, was speaking
to Mordred. In the throng behind the two leaders there was
an ominous shouting and clash of shields. Arthur was
never one to wait for surprise. Before Cerdic could
form his war-band for battle, his cavalry charged.
Mordred, shouting, spurred forward, but Cerdic's
hand came down on his rein.
"Too late. There'll be no talking today. Get
back to your men. And keep them off my back. Do you
hear me?"

"Trust me," said Mordred, and, wheeling his
horse, lashed the reins down on its neck and sent
it back through the Saxon ranks at a
gallop. His men, some way to the rear of the Saxons,
had not yet seen what was happening. The regent's
orders were curt and urgent. "Flight" was not the word
he used, but that was the essence of the order. To his
officers he was brief:
"The High King is here, and joins battle with
Cerdic. We have no part in this. I will not lead you
against Arthur, but nor can I take Arthur's part
against a man whose hand I have taken in treaty. Let
this day come to an end and we will sort things out like
reasonable men. Get the troops back towards
Camelot."
So, with unbloodied swords and fresh horses,
the regent's army retreated fast towards its base,
leaving the field to the two ageing kings.
Arthur's star still held steady. He was, as
Merlin had foretold, the victor in every field he
took. The Saxons broke and yielded the field,
and the High King, pausing only to gather the wounded and
bury his dead, set off towards Camelot, in
pursuit of Mordred's apparently fleeing
troops.
Of the battle at Cerdices-leaga it can only be
said that no one celebrated a victory. Arthur
won the fighting, but left the lands open again
to their Saxon owners. The Saxons, gathering their
dead and counting their losses, saw their old borders
still intact. But Cerdic, looking after the British
force as, collected now and orderly, it left the
field, made a vow.
"There will be another day, even for you, Arthur.
Another day." 9
The day came.
It came with the hope of truce and the time to achieve
sense and moderation.
Mordred was the first to show sense. He made no
attempt to enter Camelot, much less to hold it
against its King. He halted his troops short of the
citadel, on the flat fields along the little
River Camel. These were their practice grounds, and
an encampment was there, furnished ready with
supplies. This was as well, for already the
warnings of war had gone out. The villagers,
obedient it seemed to words carried on the wind, had
withdrawn into the citadel, their women, children and cattle
housed in the common land to the north-east within the walls.
Mordred, going the rounds that night, found his men
puzzled, beginning to be angry, but loyal. The main
opinion seemed to be that the High King, in his age,
was failing in judgment. He had wronged the
Saxon king; that was one thing, and soon forgiven; but also
he had wronged his son, the regent Mordred, who
had been a faithful guardian of the kingdom and of the
King's wife. So they said to Mordred; and they were
visibly cheered when Mordred assured them that the
next move would be a parley; there would soon, he
said, be daylight on these dark doings.
"No sword will be drawn against the High King,"
he told them, "except we be forced to defend ourselves
from him through calumny."
"He asked for a parley," said Arthur to Bors.
"You'll grant it?"
The King's force was drawn up at some distance from the
regent's. Between the two armies the Camel, a
small stream, flowed glittering among its reeds and
kingcups. The stormy skies had cleared, and the sun
shone again in his summer splendour. Beyond Mordred's
tents and standards rose the great flat-topped hill
of Caer Camel, with the towers of Camelot
gold-crowned against the sky. "Yes. For three
reasons. The first is that my men are weary and need
rest; they are within sight of the homes they have not seen
these many weeks, and will be all the more eager to get there.
The second is that I need time, and reinforcements."
"And the third?,"
"Well, it may even be that Mordred has something
to say. Not only does 295
he lie between my men and their homes and wives, but
between me and mine. That needs more explaining than even a
sword can do." The two armies settled watchfully
down, and messengers, duly honoured and escorted,
passed between them. Three other messengers went
secretly and swiftly from Arthur's camp: one
to Caerleon, with a letter to the Queen; one
to Cornwall, bidding Constantine to his side; and the
third to Brittany, asking for Bedwyour's help,
and, when he could, his presence.
Sooner than expected, the looked-for herald
came. Bedwyour, though still not fully recovered from his
sick-bed, was on his way, and with his splendid
cavalry would be at the King's side within a few
days. And none too soon. It had come to the King's
ears that certain of the petty kings from the north were marching
with the intention of joining Mordred. And the Saxons
along the whole length of the Shore were reported to be
massing for a drive inland. For neither of these things was
Mordred responsible, and indeed, he would have
prevented them if at this stage it had been possible;
but Mordred, like Arthur, was, without the wish for it,
without the reason, being thrust closer hour
by hour to a brink from which neither man could take a
backward step.
In a castle far to the north, beside a window where the
birds of morning sang in the birch trees,
Nimue the enchantress threw back the coverlets
and rose from her bed.
"I must go to Applegarth."
Pelleas, her husband, stretched a lazy hand out
and pulled her to him where he still lay in bed.
"Within raven's stoop of the battlefield?" "Who
said it would be a battlefield?"
"You, my dear. In your sleep last night."
She lifted herself from him, with her robe half round
her, staring down. Her eyes were wide, blurred still with
sleep, and tragic. He said gently: "Come,
love, it's a hard gift to have, but you have grown used
to it now. You've spoken of this, and looked for it, for a
long time. There is nothing you can do."
"Only warn, and warn again."
"You have warned them both. And before you Merlin gave
the same warning. Mordred will be Arthur's bane.
Now it is coming, and though you say Mordred is no
traitor in his heart, he has been led to act in
ways that must appear treacherous to all men, and
certainly to the King."
"But I know the gods. I speak with them. I
walk with them. They do not mean us to cease to act, just
because we believe that action is dangerous. They have
always hidden threats with smiles, and grace lurks
behind
every cloud. We may hear their words, but who is
to interpret them beyond doubt?"
"But Mordred--"
"Merlin would have wished him dead at birth, and so
would the King. But from him already much good has come. If
even now they might be brought to talk together, the kingdom
might be saved. I will not sit idly by and assume the
gods" doom. I will go to Applegarth." "To do
what?"
"Tell Arthur that there is no treachery here,
only ambition and desire. Two things he himself
showed in abundance in youth. He will listen to me, and
believe me. They must talk together, or between them they
will break our Britain in two, and let her enemies
into the breach that they have made. And who, this time, will
repair it?"
In the Queen's palace at Caerleon the
courier brought the letter to Guinevere. She knew the
man; he had gone many times between herself and
Mordred.
She turned the letter over in her hand, saw the seal,
and went as white as chalk.
"This is not the regent's seal. It is from the
King's ring, that was on his hand. They have found him, then?
My lord is truly dead?" The man, who was still on
his knee, caught the roll as it fell from her hand, and
rising, backed a step, staring. "Why, no, madam.
The King lives and is well. You have had no news,
then? There have been sore happenings, lady, and all
is far from well. But the King is safely back in
Britain."
"He lives? Arthur lives? Then the letter--
give me the letter!--it is from the King himself?"
"Why, yes, madam." The man gave it again
into her hand. The colour was back in her cheeks, but the
hand shook with which she tried to break the seal. A
confusion of feelings played across her face like shadows
driving over moving water. At the other end of the
room her ladies, in a whispering cluster, watched
anxiously, and the man, obedient to a gesture from the
chief of them, went softly from the room. The
ladies, avid for his news, went rustling after him.
The Queen did not even notice their going. She had
begun to read. When the mistress of the
ladies returned, she found Guinevere alone and in
visible distress.
"What, my lady, weeping? When the High King
is alive?" All Guinevere would say was "I am
lost. They are at war, and whatever comes of it, I
am lost."
Later she rose. ""I cannot stay here. I must
go back."

"To Camelot, madam? The armies are there."
"No, not to Camelot. I will go to Amesbury.
None of you need come with me unless you wish it. I shall
need nothing there. Tell them for me, please. And
help me make ready. I shall go now. Yes, now,
tonight." Mordred's messenger, arriving as the morning
market-carts rumbled over the Isca bridge, found
the palace in turmoil, and the Queen gone. 10
It was a bright day, the last of summer. Early in
the morning the heralds of the two hosts led the leaders
to the long-awaited parley. Mordred had not slept.
All night long he had lain, thinking. What
to say. How to say it. What words to use that would be
straightforward enough to permit of no misinterpretation, but
not so blunt as to antagonize. How to explain to a
man as tired, as suspicious and full of
grief as the ageing King, his, Mordred's, own
dichotomy: the joy in command that could be, and was,
unswervingly loyal, but that could never again be
secondary. (co-rulers, perhaps? Kings of North
and South? Would Arthur even consider it?) At the
truce table tomorrow he and his father would be meeting for the first
time as equal leaders, rather than as before. King and
deputy. But two very different leaders. Mordred
knew that when his time came he would be not a copy of his
father, but a different king. Arthur was of his own generation;
by nature his son had his thoughts and ambitions
channelled otherwise. Even without the difference in their
upbringing this would have been so. Mordred's hard
necessity was not Arthur's, but each man's commitment
was the same: total. Whether the old King could ever be
brought to accept the new ways that Mordred could
foresee, ways that had been embodied (though in the end
discreditably) in the phrase "Young Celts," without
seeing them as treachery, he could not guess. And then
there was the Queen. That was one thing he could not say.
"Even were you dead, with Bedwyour still living, what chance
had I?" He groaned and turned on the pillow,
then bit his lip in case the guards had heard him.
Omens bred too fast when the armies were out. He
knew himself a leader. Even now, with the High
King's standard flying over his encampment by the Lake,
Mordred's men were loyal. And with them, encamped beyond
the hill, were the Saxons. Between himself and Cerdic,
even now, there might be the possibility of a
fruitful alliance; a concourse of farmers, he had
called it, and the old Saxon had laughed. . . .
But not between Cerdic and Arthur; not now, not ever. . .
. Dangerous ground; dangerous words. Even to think
such thoughts was folly now. Was he, at this most
hazardous of moments, seeing himself as a better king
than Arthur? Different, yes. Better, perhaps, for the
times, at any rate the times to come? But this was worse
than folly. He turned again, seeking a cool
place on the pillow, trying to think himself back into the
mind of Arthur's son, dutiful, admiring, ready
to conform and to obey.
Somewhere a cock crew. From the scrambled edges of
sleep, he saw the hens come running down the salt
grass to the pebbled shore. Sula was scattering the
food. Overhead the gulls swept and screamed, some
of them daring to swoop for it. Sula, laughing, waved
an arm to beat them aside.
Shrill as a gull's scream, the trumpet
sounded for the day of parley.
Half a mile away, in his tent near the Lake
shore, Arthur slept, but his sleep was an uneasy
one, and in it came a dream. He dreamed that he was
riding by the Lake shore, and there, standing in a boat,
poling it through the shallow water, stood Nimue;
only it was not Nimue, it was a boy, with Merlin's
eyes. The boy looked at him gravely, and
repeated, in Merlin's voice, what Nimue had
said to him yesterday when, arriving at the convent on
Ynys Witrin among her maidens, she had sent
to beg speech with him. "You and I, Emrys," she
had said, giving him the boyhood name Merlin had used
for him, "have let ourselves be blinded by prophecy. We
have lived under the edge of doom, and feel ourselves now
facing the long- threatened fate. But hear this,
Emrys: fate is made by men, not gods. Our own
follies, not the gods, foredoom us. The gods are
spirits; they work by men's hands, and there are men who are
brave enough to stand up and say:
"still am a man; I will not."
"Listen to me, Arthur. The gods have said that
Mordred will be your bane. If he is so, it will not
be through his own act. Do not force him to that act. ...
I will tell you now what should have remained a secret
between Mordred and myself. He came to me some
time ago, to Apple- garth, to seek my help against
the fate predicted for him. He swore to kill
himself sooner than harm you. If I had not prevented
him, he would have died then. So who is guilty, he
or I? And he came to me again, on Bryn
Myr.in, seeking what comfort I, Merlin, could give
him. If he could seek to defy the gods, then so,
Arthur, can you. Lay by your sword, and listen to him.
Take no other counsel, but talk with him, listen,
and learn. Yes, learn. For you grow old,
Arthur-Emrys, and the time will come, is coming, has come,
when you and your son may hold Britain safe between
your clasped hands, like a jewel cradled in wool.
But loose your clasp, and you drop her, to shatter,
perhaps for ever."
In his dream Arthur knew that he had accepted her
advice; he had called the parley, resolving
to listen to anything his son had to say; but still
Nimue-Merlin had wept, standing in the boat as it
floated away on the glassy Lake and vanished
into the mist. And then, suddenly, as he turned his
horse to ride up towards the meeting-place, the
beast stumbled, sending him headlong into deep water.
Weighted by his armour--why was he full- armed for a
peaceful parley?--he sank, deep and ever
deeper, into a pit of

?"' *
black water where fish swam around him, and
water-snakes like weeds and weeds like snakes
wrapped his limbs so that he could not move them. . .
.
He cried out and woke, drenched in sweat as if
he had indeed been drowning, but when his servants and
guards came running, he laughed and made light of
it, and sent them away, and presently fell again
into an uneasy sleep.
This time it was Gawain who came to him, a Gawain
bloody and dead, but imbued somehow with a grotesque
energy, a ghost of the old, fighting Gawain. He,
too, came floating on the Lake water, but he
passed from its surface right into the King's tent and,
pausing beside the bed, drew a dagger from his
blood-encrusted side, and held it out to the King.
"Bedwyour," he said, not in the hollow whisper in which
ghosts should speak, but in a high metallic squeaking
like the tent poles shifting in the breeze. "Wait for
Bedwyour. Promise anything to the traitor, land,
lordship, the High Kingdom after you. And with it, even, the
Queen. Anything to hold him off until
Bedwyour comes with his host. And then, when you have the
certainty of victory, attack and kill him."
"But this would be treachery."
"Nothing is treachery if it destroys a
traitor." This time Gawain's ghost spoke,
strangely, in Arthur's own voice. "This way you
will make certain." The blood-stained knife
dropped to the bed. "Crush him for ever, Arthur,
make certain, make certain, certain. ..."
"Sir?"
The servant at his bedside, touching the King's
shoulder to wake him, started back as the King, jerking
upright in the bed, glared round as if in anger, but all
he said was, abruptly: "Tell them to see to the
fastenings of the tent. How am I expected to sleep
when the whole thing shifts about as if a storm was
blowing?"
was It had been agreed, in the exchange between the
heralds, that fourteen officers from each side should
meet at a spot half-way between the hosts.
There was a strip of dry moorland not far from the
Lake shore where a pair of small pavilions
had been pitched, with between them a wooden table, where the
two leaders' swords were laid. Should the parley
fail, the formal declaration of battle would
be the raising, or drawing of a sword. Over one
pavilion flew the King's standard, the Dragon on
gold. To this device, Mordred, as regent, had
also been entitled. He, his mind set on the
necessity of being received into grace, and not putting in
the way of grace the smallest rub, had given
orders that his royal device should be folded away,
and until the day was spent and he was declared once more as
Arthur's heir, a plain standard should be carried for
him.
This flew now on the other pavilion. As the two
men took their places a. caret

the table, Mordred saw his father eyeing it. What
he cannot have known was that Arthur himself, as a young man,
had borne a plain white banner. "White is my
colour," he had said, "until I have written on
it my own device. And write it, come in the way
what will, I shall."
To Nimue in her convent of maidens on the island
in the Lake came Arthur's sister Queen
Morgan. This was a Morgan subdued and anxious,
knowing well what might be her fate if Arthur should
be defeated or die in battle. She had been her
brother's enemy, but without him she was, and
would be, nothing. She could be trusted now to use all
her skill and vaunted magic on his behalf.
So Nimue accepted her. As Lady of the Lake
convent, Nimue stood in no awe of Morgan, either
as sorceress or queen. Among her maidens were
other royal ladies; one of them a cousin of
Guinevere's from North Wales, another from
Manau Guotodin. With them she set Morgan
to prepare medicines and to make ready the barges that
would be used to ferry the wounded across to the island for
healing. She had seen Arthur and delivered her
warning, and he had promised to call the parley and
let the regent have his say. But Nimue, for all her
words to Pelleas, knew what the gods withheld behind the
thunder-clouds that even now were building up beyond the shining
Lake. Small from the island, the two pavilions
could be seen, with the small space between.
For all the massed clouds on the far horizon,
it promised to be a beautiful day.
The day wore on. Those officers who had
accompanied their leaders to the truce table showed ill
at ease at first, eyeing friends or former comrades on
the other side with distrust, but after a while, relaxing,
they began to talk among themselves, and fell into groups
behind their respective leaders'
pavilions.
Out of earshot of them, Arthur stood with Mordred.
Occasionally they moved, as if by consent, and paced a
few steps and back. Sometimes one spoke, sometimes
the other. The watchers, focused on them even while
they spoke of other things, tried to read what was
happening. But they could not. The King, still looking
tired, and frowning heavily, did nevertheless listen with
calm courtesy to what the younger man was, with
emphasis, saying.
Farther away, unable to see clearly or to hear
anything at all, the armies watched and waited. The
sun climbed the sky. The heat increased, brightness
flashing back from the glassy surface of the Lake.
Horses stamped and blew and switched their tails,
impatient of heat and flies, and in the ranks the
slight fretting of suspense changed to restlessness.
The officers, them- 302
selves on the fidget, checked it where they could,
and watched the truce table and the sky with steadily growing
tension. Somewhere in the distance the first dull roll of
thunder sounded. The air weighed heavy, and men's skins
tightened with the coming storm. It was to be guessed that neither
side wanted the fight, but, by the irony that governs
affairs of violence, the longer the truce
talks went on, the more the tension grew, till the
slightest spark would start such a fire as only death
could quench.
None of those watching was ever destined to know what
Arthur and Mordred spoke of. Some said later--those
who lived to speak--that in the end the King smiled.
Certain it is that he was seen to put out a hand to his
son's arm, turning back with him towards the table where
the two swords lay side by side, unsheathed, and
beside them two goblets and a golden jug of wine. Those
nearest heard a few words: "dis . . To be High
King after my death," said Arthur, "and meanwhile
to take lands of your own."
Mordred answered him, but in a voice too low
to overhear. The King, gesturing to his servant to pour
the wine, spoke again. "Cornwall," they could hear,
and later, "Kent," and then, "It may well prove
that you are right."
Here he stopped and glanced round as if some sound
had interrupted him. A sudden stray current of
air, thunder-heavy, had stirred the silk of his
pavilion, so that the ropes creaked. Arthur shifted
his shoulders as if against a cold draught, and looked
sideways at his son, a strange look (it was the
servant who, afterwards, told this part of the
story), a look which was mirrored in a sudden flash
of doubt in Mordred's face, as if, with the smile
and the smooth words and the proffered wine, there might still be
trickery there. Then in his turn the regent shrugged,
smiled, and took the goblet from his father's hand.
A movement went through the waiting ranks, like a
ruffle of wind across a cornfield.
The King raised his goblet, and the sun flashed in the
gold. An answering flash, from the group beside his
pavilion, caught his eyes. He whipped round,
shouting. But too late. An adder, a speckled
snake no more than two handspans long, had crept
from its hiding to bask on the hot ground. One of
Arthur's officers, intent on the scene at the
truce table, stepped back unseeingly onto the
creature's tail. Whipping round, the adder struck.
At the pain the man, whirling, saw the snake on the
recoil. His own reflex, that of a trained fighting
man, was almost as fast. He snatched his sword out and
slashed down at the snake, killing it. The sun
struck the metal. The sword's flash, the King's
raised arm, his sudden movement and shout of command,
came to the watching hosts as

the long-awaited signal. The inaction,
the nerve-stretching tension, made almost unbearable by the
thundery heat and the sweating uncertainty of that long
vigil, suddenly snapped, in a wild shout from both
sides of the field.
It was war. This was the day. This was the wicked day of
destiny. A dozen flashes answered as the officers
on both sides drew their swords. The trumpets
screamed, drowning the shouts of the knights who,
trapped between the armies, seized their horses from the
grooms and turned furiously to hold back the
converging ranks. They could not be heard; their
gestures, misinterpreted as incitements to attack,
were wasted. It was a matter only of seconds,
seconds of furious noise and confusion, before the
front ranks of the two armies met in a roaring
clash. The King and his son were swept apart, each
to his proper station, Arthur under the great Dragon,
Mordred no longer regent and King's son, but for
all time branded traitor, under the blank standard that,
now, would never be written on. And then over the bar
of the field, called by the trumpets, like a sea of
tossing manes, came the spears and horsehair of the
Saxons, and the black banners of the northern
fighters who, like the ravens, could hardly wait
to take the pickings from the dead.
Soon, too late to dull those flashing
signals, the thunderheads came slowly massing across
the hot sky. The air darkened, and in the distance came
the first flicker of lightning, the herald of the storm.
The King and his son were to meet again.
Towards the end of the day, with his friends and long
companions dead or dying round him, and the hundreds of
wasted deaths reeking to the now dark and threatening sky,
it is doubtful if Arthur even remembered that
Mordred was anything but a traitor and an
adulterer. The straight speaking, the truths laid
down during that talk by the truce table, the faith and
trust so nearly reaffirmed, all had vanished in the
first stress and storm of the attack. It was Arthur,
duke of battles, who once more took the field.
Mordred was the enemy, the Saxon allies his
savage helpers; this battle had been fought before, and
many times. This was Glein and Agned, Caerleon and
Linnuis, Cit Coit Caledon and Badon
Hill. On all these fields the young Arthur had
triumphed; for all of them his prophet and adviser,
Merlin, had promised him the victory and the glory.
Here, too, on the Camel field, it was
victory.
At the end of the day, with the thunder overhead
and the lightning flaming white from the sky and the water of the
Lake, Arthur and Mordred came once again face
to face.
There were no words. What words could there have been? For
Mordred, 304
as for his father, the other man was now the enemy. The
past was past, and there was no future to be seen beyond the
need to get to the end of this moment that would bring with it the
end of the day. It was said afterwards, no one knows by whom,
that at the moment of meeting, as the two men, on foot
now, and white with the sweat and dust of the battlefield,
knew one another, Mordred checked in his stride and
stroke. Arthur, the veteran, did not. His spear
took his son straight and clean beneath the rib-cage.
Blood gushed down the spear shaft in a hot stream
over Arthur's hand. He loosed the shaft, and reached
for his sword. Mordred lurched forward like a spitted
boar. The butt of the shaft struck the ground. He
leaned on it, and, still carried forward by the weight of the
half-checked stroke, came within sword's length of
his father. Arthur's hand, slippery with blood, fumbled
momentarily on Caliburn's grip, and in that moment
Mordred's sword swung, even as he fell
dying, in a hard and deadly blow to the side of the
King's head. Mordred pitched down then
into the pool of his own blood. Arthur stood for a few
seconds still, his sword dropping from his bloodied
hand, his other hand moving numbly as if in an
attempt to ward off some slight and trivial blow;
then slowly his body bent and buckled, and he, too,
fell, and his blood joined with Mordred's on the
ground. The clouds broke, and like a waterfall the
rain came down. EPILOGUE
The cool stream on his face brought Mordred
back for a moment into the dark. It was quiet, too,
all sounds hushed and far, like distant water lapping
on a pebbled shore.
A cry somewhere nearby. "The King! The King!"
A bird calling. The hens were coming down the shingle for
food. A gull screaming, but in words now: "The
King! The King!" Then, and this made him sure it was
a dream, the voices of women. He could see
nothing, feel nothing, but near him was the rustle of a
gown and a gust of women's scent. Voices eddied
across him, but no one touched him. A woman's
voice said:
"Lift him carefully. Here. Yes, yes, my
lord, lie still. All will be well."
And the King's voice, too faint to hear, followed
--surely?--by Bed- wyour's:
"It is here. I have it safely. The Lady will
keep it for you till you need it again."
Again the voices of women, and the first voice,
strongly: "I shall take him to Applegarth, where we
shall see to the healing of his wounds."
Then the rain, and the creak of rowlocks, and the sound of
women's weeping fading into the lapping of the lake water
and the hiss of the rain falling.
His cheek was on a cushion of thyme. The rain
had washed the blood away, and the thyme smelled
sweetly of summer. The waves lapped. The oars
creaked. The seabirds cried. A porpoise
rolled, sleek in the sun. Away on the horizon
he could see the golden edge of the kingdom where, since
he was a small child, he had always longed to go.
THE LEGEND
I have used fragments from two sources, the
"history" written by Geoffrey of Monmouth in the
twelfth century, and the romance of Malory's Le
Morte d'Arthur, written in the fifteenth.
Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of
Britain
In the time of the emperor Leo, Lucius
Hiberius, procurator of the Roman republic,
sent a message to King Arthur demanding that
he pay tribute to Rome, and commanding him to appear
before the Senate to answer for his failure to do so.
Refusal would mean that the Romans would attack
Britain, and restore her to the Roman republic.
Arthur's reply was to gather together an army and sail
to Brittany, where, with his cousin King Hoel, he
sent word around asking his allies to join him.
Meanwhile he sent ambassadors to Lucius
Hiberius informing him that he would not pay the
tribute, but would fight. "Thereupon the ambassadors
depart, the Kings depart, the barons depart, nor are
they slow to perform what they had been bidden to do."
Meanwhile ill news was brought to Arthur and Hoel.
Hoel's niece, the Princess Helena, had been
seized by a monstrous giant, who had fled with her
to the top of St. Michael's Mount. Arthur himself,
with Kay and Bedivere, set out to deal with the monster.
They saw a fire of wood blazing on the Mount, and
another on a smaller island nearby. Bedivere,
sent to spy things out, found a small boat and rowed
across to the islet, where, as he landed, he heard the
ullaloo of a woman wailing, and found, by the fire,
an old woman weeping beside a new grave-mound.
The giant had killed the princess, and gone back
to his lair on St. Michael's Mount.
Bedivere reported to Arthur, who thereupon tackled the
monster in his hilltop lair, and killed him in
single combat.
King Arthur then gathered his army and marched with his
allies to Autun in Burgundy to meet the army
of the Romans. He sent an embassy ahead
to Lucius Hiberius to bid him withdraw, or he,
Arthur, would give battle as he had sworn.
Gawain was with the embassy, and the younger
knights, spoiling for a fight, egged Gawain on
to start a quarrel. Which he did, and after some high
words killed one Gaius Quintilianus, nephew
of Hiberius himself. So battle was joined.
Bedivere and Kay were killed, but Arthur was
victorious, and pressed on eastward, intending to go
on to Rome and make himself emperor. But at this
point he heard that his nephew Mordred, to whom he
had committed the charge of his kingdom during his absence,
had set the crown on his own head, and taken Queen
Guinevere to wife, in spite of her former
marriage.
Mordred had also sent Cheldric, duke of the
Saxons, into Germany, to enlist others of his countrymen
and take them back to Britain to swell Mordred's
army. For this, more land was to be granted to the
Saxons. Mordred had also gathered together the
Scots, Picts and Irish and was preparing to resist
Arthur's return to Britain. Arthur, hastening
back, landed at Richborough, and there defeated
Mordred's troops, but in the fighting Gawain was
killed. Mordred fled, but took his stand again at
Winchester, where he had lodged the Queen. She fled
in fear to a convent near Caerleon, and there took the
veil. Arthur and Mordred fought again near
Winchester, and again Mordred broke and fled towards
Cornwall, where, in the final battle on the
River Camel, both he and Arthur fell.
Arthur, who was carried to the island of Avilion
for the healing of his hurts, left his kingdom
to Constantine of Cornwall. One of Constantine's
first acts was to seek out both of Mordred's sons and
murder them "by a cruel death" at the sanctuary
altar.
Sir Thomas Malory's Le Morte
D'Arthur
1. When Arthur heard of Mordred's birth,
he sent for all the children born in the same month, in
the hope of finding Mordred and destroying him. The
ship in which the children were placed foundered, but Mordred was
cast up, and taken in by a good man, who
nourished him till he was fourteen, then took him
to the court.
2. When Queen Morgause's sons knew that
she had taken Sir Lamorak for her lover,
Gawain and his brothers sent for her to a castle near
Camelot, intending there to trap and kill
Lamorak. One night, while Lamorak was with the
queen, Gaheris seized his chance, and, creeping
fully armed to their bedside, seized his mother by the hair
and struck off her head. Be-

cause Lamorak was unarmed Gaheris could not
kill him. Lamorak had no choice but to flee, but
eventually the Orkney brothers, with Mordred,
tracked him down and killed him.
3. Some time later Sir Tristram, challenged
by Agravain and Gaheris, refused to fight them,
recognizing them by their device as Arthur's
nephews. "It is shame," he said, "that Sir
Gawain and ye be come of so great a blood that ye
four brethren be named as ye be, for ye be called the
greatest destroyers and murderers of good knights that be
now in this realm." The brothers shouted insults at the
Cornish knight, on which he turned to ride away.
Agravain and Gaheris promptly
attacked him from behind. Tristram, forced to fight,
struck Agravain on the head, causing a grievous
wound, and also knocked Gaheris out of the saddle.
Gareth, speaking later with Tristram, declared himself
at odds with his brothers: "I meddle not of their
matters, therefore there is none of them that loveth me.
And for I understand that they be murderers of good knights
I left their company."
4. Agravain and Mordred hated Guinevere the
Queen and Lancelot. Agravain insisted that the King
be told of what he swore (and Lancelot later
denied on oath) was their adultery. Agravain went
to Arthur to tell him that Lancelot and the Queen were
betraying him, and must be brought to trial, as the law
demanded. He offered to bring proof to Arthur. The
King, wanting only to ignore the charge, and loving
both Lancelot and the Queen, was forced to accede. He
agreed to go hunting and to tell Guinevere that he would
be away all night. Agravain and Mordred got
twelve knights together--all apparently their own
countrymen from Orkney--and hid near the Queen's
bedchamber to await events. When Lancelot told
Sir Bors that he was bidden that night to speak with the
Queen, Sir Bors, uneasy but ignorant of
what was afoot, tried to stop him.
Lancelot refused to listen to him, and went to see the
Queen. At a given moment the twelve knights
rushed Guinevere's door, shouting: "Now thou art
taken!" and smashed the door open with a bench.
Lancelot, who was unarmed, wound his mantle round his
arm, let the first man in, then killed him. The
Queen's ladies helped him don the dead man's
armour. In the subsequent melee Agravain was
killed, and Gareth, and Mordred was wounded, but
managed to flee. He rode straight to the King and
told him of the affray, and Arthur grieved
bitterly, because he foresaw the end of the fellowship of the
Round Table, and also because, by law, he must now put
Guinevere to trial by fire.
(here follows the inevitable last-minute rescue
of Guinevere by Lancelot, and the flight of the lovers
to Lancelot's castle of Joyous Gard.) Arthur
pursued him, and defeated him in battle, whereupon
Lancelot returned the Queen ceremoniously to her
husband, and fled overseas.

Lancelot, "who ruled all France," went to his
castle in Burgundy, and gathered another army
to withstand King Arthur. Arthur, leaving Mor- dred as
regent, or "ruler of all England," went
with Gawain, and a great host at his back, to attack
Lancelot in Burgundy. There was a great battle,
with dreadful losses on both sides. But then it was
reported to Arthur that Mordred had had letters
forged, purporting to come from overseas with the news of
his, Arthur's, death. Mordred had called a
parliament, which pronounced him king, whereupon he declared
his intention of taking Guinevere to be his queen. But
she, being unwilling, fled to the Tower of London, and
held it against him. While Mordred pleaded with her
he heard that King Arthur was returning at the head of
an army to reclaim his kingdom. Mordred thereupon
sent around the kingdom to seek support, which he got
in good measure, because "then was the common voice among
them that with Arthur was none other life but war and
strife, and with Sir Mordred was great joy and
bliss. . . . And so fared the people at that time, that they
were better pleased with Sir Mordred than they were with
King Arthur." So Mordred led a great host
to Dover to face his father on landing. A terrible fight
ensued. Gawain was found dying in a half-beached
boat, and with his last breath he advised Arthur
to forgive Lancelot and invite him back to help
crush Mordred. Then Gawain died, and Arthur
pursued Mordred and his fleeing host and
gave battle once more on the downs, where again
Mordred was put to flight. Eventually the two
hosts took their stand "westward towards
Salisbury, and not far from the seaside." In
Mordred's host were the men "of Kent, Southsex, and
Surrey, Estsex, and of Southfolk, and of
Northfolk." But during the night King Arthur
dreamed evil dreams, and into them came Gawain,
warning the King that if he should fight on the morrow he
would be killed. Once more Gawain advised him
to send for Lancelot, and to hold Mordred off with
promises, in order to delay the battle till
help should come, and Mordred could be destroyed. So in
the morning the King sent messengers to Mordred
to promise him "lands and goods as much as ye think best
. . . and at the last Sir Mordred was agreed for
to have Cornwall and Kent, by Arthur's days; after,
all England, after the days of King Arthur."
Next a meeting was arranged between Mordred and the
King. Each took with him fourteen knights, and they
met at a place between the two armies. Both
leaders had warned their armies that, should the talks
fail, the signal for attack would be the drawing of a
sword. "And so they met as their appointment was, and
so they were agreed and accorded thoroughly;
and wine was fetched, and they drank." But an adder
crept out of a little heath bush. and stung a knight on
the foot. The man drew his sword to

slay the adder, and at that the watching hosts
attacked one another. Towards the end of the day of
carnage Arthur sought out Mordred, who alone of his
host still lived. Of Arthur's army only Sir
Lucan, Sir Bedivere and the King survived.
Sir Lucan tried to dissuade Arthur from seeking
Mordred out, for "we have won the field, for here we
be three on live, and with Sir Mordred none is
on live, and if ye leave off now this wicked day of
destiny is past."
But Arthur, unheeding, attacked and killed
Mordred, and in so doing received his own death wound.
Sir Bedivere carried him to the shore, where a barge
awaited him; in it were three queens--his sister
Queen Morgan, the Queen of Northgalis, and the
Queen of the Waste Lands, with Nimue, the chief
Lady of the Lake. The barge took sail for the
vale of Avilion, where the King might be healed of
his grievous wound. AUTHOR'S NOTE
"The wicked day of destiny," as Malory calls
it, is the day when Arthur's final battle
was fought at Camlann. In this battle, we are
told, "Arthur and Medraut fell."
This reference, from the Annales Cambriae, which was
compiled three or possibly four centuries after
Camlann, is all we know of Mordred. When he
reappears some centuries later, in the romances of
Malory and the French poets, he has taken on the
role of villain necessary to the conventions of romance.
Mordred the traitor, perjurer and adulterer is as
much an invention as the lover and great knight Sir
Lancelot, and
the roles played by both in the tales of "King
Arthur and his Noble Knights" are filled with the
absurdities inevitable in a long-drawn series
of stories.
In the fragments of those stories that have been used in
this book, the absurdities speak for themselves. Throughout
the final debacle Arthur, that wise and experienced
ruler, shows neither sense nor moderation;
worse, he is tainted with the same treachery for which
he condemns his son. If Arthur had had any
reason at all to distrust Mordred (for instance over
the murder of Lamorak or the exposure of
Lancelot and the Queen) he would hardly have left him
as "ruler of all England" and guardian of the
Queen, while he himself went on an expedition from which
it was possible he might never return. Even
granted that he did appoint Mordred his regent,
it is hard to see why Mordred, with every hope of
becoming his father's heir, should have forged a letter
purporting to tell of Arthur's death, and on the
strength of that seized both kingdom and Queen. Knowing
that Arthur was still alive, andwitha vast army at his
back, Mordred could be sure that the King would come
straight home to punish his son and repossess
kingdom and Queen. More, the final battle between King
and "traitor" was brought about by accident, in the very
moment when the King was about to seal a truce with the
villainous Mordred, and grant him lands to rule.
(it is another, though minor, absurdity that the lands
are Cornwall and Kent, at opposite sides
of the country, the one already held by the Saxons, the
other by Arthur's declared heir, Constantine.) For
none of the "Mordred story," then, is there any
evidence at all. It is to be noticed that the
Annales Cambriae does not even state that he
and Arthur fought on opposite sides. It would have
been possible--and very tempting--to have rewritten the
story completely, and set Arthur, with
312
Mordred at his side, against the Saxons, who
(as recorded in the Anglo- Saxon Chronicle)
fought a battle against the Britons in a.d. 527,
and presumably won it, since the Chronicle
does not emphasize Saxon defeats. The
battle, at the right date, might even have been the
battle of Camlann, the last stand of the British
against the Saxons. But the temptation had to be
resisted. Until I came to study in detail the
fragments that make up Mordred's story, I had
accepted him without question as the villain of the piece, an
evil man who brought about the tragedy of Arthur's
final downfall. Hence, in my earlier books, I
had made Merlin foresee that doom, and warn against it.
So I could not rewrite the Camlann battle.
Instead I tried to iron out the absurdities in the
old story, and add some saving greys to the
portrait of a black villain. I have not made a
"hero" out of Mordred, but in my tale he is at
least a man who is consistent in his faults and
virtues, and has some kind of reason for the actions with
which legend has credited him.
Perhaps the most exciting thing about the tale of the final
years of Arthur's reign is the way which the actual
historical events can be made to fit with the
legend. Arthur most certainly existed, and so may
Mordred have done, but since the traitor of romance
was a figment of the storyteller's imagination, then I
would suggest that the Mordred of my story is just as
valid, since I, too, have perhaps earned a place
among those of whom Gibbon writes with such urbane
contempt:
The declamations of Gildas, the fragments and
fables of Nennius, the obscure hints of the Saxon
laws and chronicles, and the ecclesiastical tales
of the venerable Bede have been illustrated by the
diligence, and sometimes embellished by the fancy, of
succeeding writers, whose works I am not ambitious
either to censure or transcribe.
--Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
Some other brief notes
Camlann. The site of Arthur's last battle
cannot be identified with any certainty. Some scholars
have suggested Birdoswald in Northumbria (the
Roman Camboglanna), others the Roman
Camulodonum (colchester). The mostsusually
accepted site is in Cornwall, on the River
Camel; this because of Arthur's strong connection with
West Country legend. I have set the battle beside
the River Camel near South Cadbury
in Wiltshire.

The hill at South Cadbury has, owing
to recent excavations, a strong claim to being an
Arthurian strong point, possibly "Camelot"
itself. Hence there seemed no need to look further for the
site of the final battle. I do not know when the
local stream was called the Camel, but the long
ridge nearby was in antiquity known as "Camel
Hill." At that date, also, there would be lake and
fenland stretching right inland from the estuary of the River
Brue almost as far as South Cadbury. The hills
of modem Glastonbury would then be islands--Ynys
Witrin, or the Glass Isle--and Caer
Camel "not far from the seaside." The barge that
carried the wounded Arthur to be healed at Avilion
would have only a brief journey to the legendary
place of healing.
The date of Camlann. Scholars place the
date of the battle somewhere between a.d. 515 and 539
--a wide choice, but a date somewhere about 522
to 527 seems reasonable. One date given for
Badon Hill is a.d. 506, and we are told
(in the Annales Cambriae) that Camlann was
twenty-one years later.
The following is a table of the "real" (as opposed
to guesswork) dates:
a.d. 524. Clodomir, son of Clovis and
ruler of the central part of the Frank- ish kingdom, was
killed at Vezeronce in battle with the
Burgundi- ans. Two of his sons, aged ten and
seven, were put in charge of Clevis's widow,
Clothild, in Paris, but were murdered by their
uncles. The third son fled into a monastery.
526. Theodoric, King of Rome and "emperor of the
West," died at Ravenna. 527. Justin, ageing
"emperor of the East," abdicated in favour of his
nephew Justinian. 527. According to the
Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, "in this year
Cerdic and Cynric fought against the Britons at the
place which is called Cerdicesleag" (cerdic's
field or woodland).
Neustria. This was the name given to the western
portion of the Prankish empire after its division at
Clovis's death in 511.
Drustan. Drust or Drystan, son of
Talorc, is an eighth-century wan who later was
absorbed into the Arthurian legend as Tristram.
Linet. In one version of the Gareth
legend he marries Liones, in another her sister
Linet.
Arthur's sons. We have the names of two, Amr
and Llacheu.
Convent. The word did not always, as now, imply a
religious house for women only. It was used
interchangeably with "monastery." Many of the foundations
had communities of both women and men.
The harper's song. This is a free translation of
an Anglo-Saxon poem, "The Wanderer," which in
The Last Enchantment I attributed to Merlin.
Seal Island: Selsey. Sutthrige:
Surrey.
Edinburgh and Lochawe, 1980-1983
A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
mary stewart, one of the most popular novelists
writing today, was born in Sunderiand, County
Durham, England. After boarding school, she went
on to Durham University, and later worked there as a
lecturer in English Language and Literature,
until her marriage in 1945. Her husband is
Sir Frederick Stewart, who has recently
retired from the chairmanship of the Geology
Department of Edinburgh University. He is a
Fellow of the Royal Society. Lady
Stewart's career as a novelist began in 1954
with the publication of Madam, Will You Talk? Since
then she has published sixteen successful
novels, including The Wicked Day, the fourth of
her novels of Arthurian legend. Preceding it is
her magical merlin trilogy, about the legendary
enchanter Merlin and young Arthur. (the novels of the
trilogy are The Crystal Cave, The Hollow
Hills, and The Last Enchantment.) Her books for
young readers, The Little Broomstick (1972),
Ludo and the Star Horse (1974), and A Walk
in Wolf Wood (1980), quickly met with the same
success as her other novels. In 1971, the
Scottish chapter of the International PEN
Association awarded her the Frederick Niven
Prize for This e Crystal Cave. In 1974,
the Scottish Arts Council Award went to Ludo
and the Star Horse.