PAPA’S tree had grown in both girth and height in the last twenty years. Some of the older branches had died and dropped. Locals gathered them almost as soon as they fell. Legends had grown up around the tree. Legends of sanctity and haunting. No two stories agreed. But the wood shed by the tree was considered valuable and lucky. It was often carved in talismans but never burned. Not even the shavings felt the touch of Tanio.
I looked around the crowd that gathered within the clearing beneath the spread of the oak’s boughs. Companions and initiates formed a tightly knit circle. The few remaining retired Companions, like Carradoc, stood behind the current Companions they had sponsored. Arthur and Guinevere stood near the center at the base of the tree. The Ardh Rhi faced east just as the full moon rose. Behind the warriors I stood with the ladies and minor lords, and a few client kings with their retinues. Flowers and bright clothing adorned the spectators. Music drifted through the forest from the harps of a dozen bards. The acceptance of new Companions within Arthur’s personal warband, limited to one hundred of the best and most loyal warriors, was always a great occasion.
The Companions were garbed in leather and armor as suited their profession. They held their helmets beneath their left arms. Each raised an unsheathed sword in turn until the naked blades formed a dome over the initiates. Gray hair glinted in the moonlight from the heads of more than half of the Companions. Many of the original band could retire to a more peaceful, less active life after tonight’s ceremony. They looked weary and strained.
I watched carefully as my son knelt before the Ardh Rhi, placed his hands between Arthur’s, and recited solemn oaths. Like all the others on this night, he ended his recitation: “By all that I hold holy, I pledge my life, my fortune, the strength of my sword, and my honor to Arthur Pendragon, Ardh Rhi of Britain.” Then he rose and exchanged a kiss of peace with the man he had just sworn to obey and support with his life and his honor. Guinevere then gave him a coin, struck in the Roman style, bearing Arthur’s image, as a token of the Ardh Rhi’s protection of the new Companion.
Yvain stepped aside for the next initiate to repeat the process.
Bedewyr’s wife jostled Guinevere’s elbow as a gentle reminder for her to pass a coin to the young man who stood in front of her. She smiled and gazed into the eyes of each new Companion at the appropriate times. Otherwise her attention wandered around and around the circle of warriors, alighting most often on Lancelot. Each time she glanced his way, her features softened to wistful longing. Then guilt would harden her gaze and she turned her gaze elsewhere, only to return to Lancelot a moment later.
She still wore only white and gold. As the moon bathed her in gentle light, she seemed to shimmer and pale almost to invisibility, like her faery sire.
I couldn’t see Lancelot’s face. I didn’t really need to. His aura broadcast his love for the brenhines. A love that could never be consummated. Guinevere had sworn to me that she would never betray Arthur.
An empathic ache grew around my heart. I, too, must remain separate from the only man I had ever truly loved.
Then it was time for Mordred, the last of the seven initiates, to swear fealty to his Ardh Rhi. A haunting unease drifted through the clearing. Discords found their way into the music from the bardic harps. Shadows writhed across the bark of the old tree as if the face caught in the whorls and crevices contorted into a deeper grimace.
The moon hid behind a cloud, plunging us all into darkness. Murmurs erupted from the crowd. Ladies shivered. Men crossed themselves and made more ancient signs against evil.
Mordred smiled and recited his oath. “By all that I hold sacred, I pledge my life, my fortune, my honor to (mumble, mumble) the Pendragon of Britain.”
He hadn’t pledged himself to Arthur, but to the Pendragon, the Ardh Rhi. If Arthur failed in his duties as arbitrator, dispenser of justice, and war leader, any of the client kings could renounce his treaty with Arthur and declare himself Pendragon. If all of the other kings moved to support another candidate, Arthur would be deposed.
Mordred had pledged himself to whoever claimed the title.
Across the circle of witnesses, I saw Morgaine emerge from the shadows. Her black-and-silver gown glittered in the moonlight. She smiled at her son. I saw no hint of teeth, but I smelled the sulfur and rot of the Underworld.
Then she disappeared into the shadows again.
o0o
As the moon burst forth from its hiding place, Mordred stood and exchanged his kiss of peace with Arthur. His smile twisted his face into a mockery of the goodwill and trust the kiss symbolized.
Didn’t anyone notice the truth behind his manipulation of the oath? Hadn’t anyone else seen Morgaine?
Apparently not. The ceremony dissolved into backslapping camaraderie and calls for wine and food. Before I could protest the mockery Mordred had made of this ritual, the entire crowd set off for Camlann, mounted or in carts, to begin the feast at the Round Table. I tried to hold Arthur back, to make him understand. His attention centered on the loving gaze that passed between Lancelot and Guinevere. Then he shifted his shoulders. The cords of his neck stood out as he composed his face into a smile and looked only at his wife.
“Come, my dear, we must join the oth-others before your acres of fl-lower decorations wilt,” he said, tucking Guinevere’s hand into the crook of his arm. He patted her hand possessively.
Lancelot fell into step behind them, the proper place for the Champion of the Round Table, dedicated to guarding the safety and well-being of both the Ardh Rhi and his brenhines.
“Arthur, did you see Morgaine hiding at the fringes of the crowd?” I stepped between him and his horse when a quick search of the area failed to reveal a trace of Morgaine.
“No, I didn’t.” Arthur looked around. “Mordred invited her. But she declined. Something about storms and aching bones. Since Lot died and Agravain succeeded to the crown, she hasn’t left the islands.”
“She was here. I saw her. Why would she hide when she was invited?”
Arthur shrugged and said, “She’ll turn up when she’s ready.”
He didn’t fear her at all. The years of peace had lulled him into complacency. My memories of my battle with Morgaine’s demons had become more bitter. I still bore the burn scar on my wrist from where the demon had grabbed me. Perhaps my fears had made me imagine her.
Perhaps not.
The children had all grown. Father Thomas and Kalahart managed Caer Noddfa very well. Nothing called me away from Arthur’s side this time. I wouldn’t abandon him to the plots and manipulations he refused to see.
The feast was just another celebration. Like so many through the years, there was too much food, too much noise, and far too much wine and ale. Yvain behaved like most young men and partook too much of all that was offered. Mordred did not. Of all the Companions, new and experienced, those ready to retire, and those who were still in their prime, only Mordred kept his consumption moderate, his eyes clear, and his thoughts to himself.
After the celebration, I settled into my father’s old guesthouse, not caring that I had to share it with Carradoc, Marnia, her husband, Deirdre and Gyron, their four-year-old twins, two servants, and the latest Newynog.
My education and reputation as The Merlin’s daughter eased my way into the council chambers of the Ardh Rhi. But nothing I did eased me into Mordred’s thoughts.
I fell into old patterns, observing from the shadows, listening, and gathering secrets like a harvest of medicinal herbs. I learned who lied, who could be trusted, who plotted against the existing pattern of political power. Arthur listened to me, nodded, and made his own decisions. But he would hear nothing ill about Mordred.
When Arthur moved his court about the country, I had to decide between staying with him and watching his constant companion, Mordred, or staying in Camlann and watching Guinevere. The Ardh Brenhines rarely traveled anymore. Campboglanna was too cold. Caerlud, the trading town the Romans used as a capital, was too crowded and dirty. Once in a while she returned to her father’s home at Carmelide where her brother Percival now ruled. But mostly Guinevere stayed at Camlann while Arthur roamed the countryside. Lancelot remained with her as Champion and protector.
I decided that Mordred offered the more immediate threat to peace in Britain.
Twenty-five years of riding had made me more comfortable on horseback. Yvain had taught me to communicate with my mount, to move with the beast in cooperation rather than against it. So when Arthur rode out of Camlann for his summer tour of the entire country, I rode next to him. Mordred rode on the other side of him.
Guinevere was right. Caerlud was very noisy, crowded, and dirty. Ships plied the River Thames at every hour of the day and night, loading and unloading, docking and setting sail. Nearly one hundred years after the Romans had sailed away from this bustling port, the town had filled to the brim and spilled over the sides of the walls like a too full quaiche of ale.
Fiercely independent and quarrelsome, the city dwellers barely recognized Arthur’s right to govern them. They refused allegiance or obedience to any one king or lord. Arthur entered the city upon invitation only and remained only as long as there remained disputes for him to settle. New disputes cropped up daily, and his invitation to stay was reluctantly extended by a gaggle of proud merchants.
After the dozen men who ruled trading empires had left Arthur’s villa at the end of the day’s petitions, caps in hand, but heads and shoulders unbowed, Arthur and I relaxed over a cup of wine. We fell into an easy pattern of quiet talk and laughter — just like an old married couple. He broke a long quiet spell by aptly imitating the haughty disdain of Peter the flax trader who had led the committee of merchants. Arthur tilted his head so far back that when he looked down his nose he had to cross his eyes to see. The clipped nasal tones of his dissertation on the failings of the wine, the weather, the crop, the sea captains, and all else so precisely mimicked the flax trader I couldn’t help but laugh.
Arthur clutched his sides trying to hold in his own mirth until he swallowed his last gulp of wine. He didn’t succeed. The red droplets sprayed out in a shower that looked like blood dribbling down his mouth.
A violent premonition of watching him die with blood streaming from his mouth, sobered my laughter instantly.
“What is it, Wren?” he asked, also calming his explosion of laughter.
“I... I saw you die.”
“We all die, Wren. We are both getting old. You are a grandmother after all, though still damned beautiful. I wish I could say that we are grandparents. The twins are delightful.”
“Curyll. I saw you as you will be when you die.” I kept staring into the distance, trying to make sense of the vision.
“I hope I was ancient and decrepit. There is still so much work to do to stabilize the peace and prosperity of Britain. One generation isn’t enough. Some of the young ones accept peace as a way of life now, but too many of the older warriors with nothing but time on their hands and drink in their guts fill the heads of our youth with grand stories of glorious deeds and valiant deaths on the battlefield. Too many restless youths chafe at peace. Wild stories of the adventures of Grail quests aren’t enough to divert them. They need to burn off their energy by bashing heads and slashing enemies.”
“I know,” I replied, rather than tell him the vision had shown him no older than he was now. No older... no more time.
“Your Highness,” a young courier stood in the doorway, a piece of stained and torn parchment clutched in his fist. Dark rings circled his eyes with fatigue. Sweat and dust clung to his face. He swayed ever so slightly.
“What news from Camlann, Segurades?” Arthur stood and took the parchment from the man’s hand, opening it before he finished speaking.
“Queen Morgaine has come to court wanting to visit her sons,” the courier said quietly.
I heard the words he didn’t say aloud. Morgaine had settled in at Camlann with no intention of leaving.
“The letter is from Lancelot, Wren. Um — Segurades, go rest and eat. And help yourself to a bath,” Arthur said to the courier, clearly dismissing him before he said anything further.
“Morgaine whispers half truths and upsets everyone with her innuendos,” I said, not having to read the letter to know. “What rumors does she spread to undermine your authority now?”
“How did you know?” Arthur asked. He looked at me with a touch of fear. I sensed he wanted to cross himself but was afraid to risk my disapproval. “I guess I shouldn’t have to ask that Wren. You are The Merlin, daughter of The Merlin. You knew all along.”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Lancelot warns me that Morgaine preaches to Guinevere that you and I have renewed the affair we had as children. She has little doubt that either or both of your children are mine as well. Guinevere is packing to go home to her brother, permanently.”
“We never had an affair, Curyll.”
“Only one afternoon by the pool with faeries cavorting about our heads.” He looked wistfully into the distance. “But you have always been my friend, Wren. Sometimes my only friend.”
“I will always be your friend, Curyll.”
He looked at the letter again and frowned. “I have to go back to Camlann. I ride at dawn.”
“What else does the letter say, Curyll?”
“Nimuë is with Morgaine. More than eighteen years have passed since I banished your father’s murderer. I failed to renew the decree when it expired at seven years because I never thought she’d dare return to Britain. She is safe from my laws.” He paused and looked at the parchment again. “They have within their entourage a young warrior-priest who looks too much like your father, but so far Nimuë has not claimed him as her son, or the son of Myrddin Emrys. Cai and Bedewyr are worried.”
“I’ll tell the others to start packing.” I rose to leave. He grabbed my hand to keep me in place.
“Stay with me a while, Wren.”
“I don’t think that would be wise, Your Highness, considering the messages you just received.”
“I need to talk. I can trust you, Wren.”
“You need to rest. Our trust of each other hasn’t been questioned. Our willpower has. I choose not to put it to the test yet again.”
o0o
“Hood up, Myrddin, eyes lowered, and hands tucked into your sleeves,” Nimuë ordered her son.
“My heritage is as proud as any, Mother. I’ll stand straight and bow to no man.” The young man stared at her defiantly. He’d done that all too often since Morgaine had taken him into her bed to teach him the joys of sex.
This tall young man was the only person she had been able to control. For most of his life he never questioned her motives or means in achieving power. Perhaps if she had initiated him, rather than delegating that chore to Morgaine, he’d not challenge her now.
“Soon, Myrddin,” she placated him. “Soon Mordred will be Ardh Rhi and you his Merlin. But for now we must show the world our Christian guise. Our success lies in never, ever betraying our true mission to any one,” she snapped. Her back hurt more than usual after the agonizing journey to Camlann. Morgaine’s luxurious barge could only carry them so far before she had to mount a horse. She’d put up with the constant jolting rather than show weakness by arriving in a litter.
If only Lancelot and Guinevere hadn’t taken so long to succumb to temptation, she and Morgaine would have implemented their plan years ago, before the bone disease finished the twisting of her spine that the demon had started. Perhaps the dream she had sent Lancelot all those years ago to come to Camlann hadn’t been powerful enough.
“We must attack with strength, Mother, not cower behind disguises and prayers.” Myrddin paced their small chamber, leaving his hood down and his hands swinging freely.
“Just until Arthur leaves Britain chasing after his errant wife. He’ll never return. Then all of Britain is ours.” She sat painfully, then eased her back against the piles of cushions she needed. With a sigh of relief, she reclined and swung her feet up. The pain still didn’t go away. It merely waned for a time.
She needed another dose of Morgaine’s poppy juice. But she also needed her wits about her.
After she had seen the end of Wren and Arthur, she could indulge in all of the drugs necessary. Wren was to blame for the constant pain. If Wren hadn’t murdered her demon, she’d have had enough magic to straighten her spine. If Wren hadn’t seduced Arthur into banishing her, she’d not have had to put up with the bone-chilling cold and damp of the Orcades for so many years.
“They come,” Myrddin said from the doorway.
“Cernunnos take them now! I just got comfortable.”
“Lean on me, Mother.” Myrddin stretched out his strong young arm to help her rise. Solicitous of her comfort like a good son. He treated her like an old woman.
At least Mordred found her desirable. When all the lights were out and they had only their hands to see with.
“Is Carradoc with Wren?” she asked as she rolled to her side and eased her legs over the side of the bed.
“I don’t see my grandfather among the escort,” Myrddin said.
Exile had separated the boy as well as Nimuë from Carradoc. At first her father had come to the Orcades often. But then he’d retired back to Caer Tair Cigfran — Nimuë refused to think of her ancestral caer by the noxious name Wren had given it. He’d been eager to share her bed while in Morgaine’s court.
Would he still find her desirable? She prayed he would. She had no other weapons of control. Her revenge against Wren would not be complete until Carradoc renounced his wife once and for all and returned to his daughter forever.
Curse these overly modest Christian robes. She couldn’t divert men’s gazes away from her twisted back and onto her full breasts and slim waist in these clothes.
“Soon, Mother. We can discard these disguises soon,” Myrddin chuckled. He’d read her mind again. He did that too often. She’d had too much poppy juice if she couldn’t keep him out of her mind.
I’ve grown too strong, Mother. I command more magic than you can dream of, and I don’t need a demon to give me strength.