For the first time, Arthur looked uncertain. He shot a searching glance into a patch of shadows behind the row of thrones. “Excuse me,” he said. “I must consult with my Merlin.”
Lance wasn’t sure if he’d heard him aright. Then the shadows stirred, and a kind of human scarecrow emerged into the light, which was just beginning to redden as the short winter day drew on. The frail, bowed figure was nothing but bones draped in a cobweb of cloak and robes, face invisible behind a cloud-grey hood.
It was Viviana, surely! Lance lurched halfway to his feet before Guy grabbed his elbow and pulled him back down. Lance turned to him, joy and hope boiling up fiercely. If anyone could counsel the king, guide him wisely in the paths of treaties, arrangements, alliances… After all, hadn’t she told Lance that the blending of the streams was inevitable, as natural in the long term as the confluence of waters at River’s Meet? “Guy,” he whispered. “It’s the old woman I told you about, the one who looked after me and showed me the sword from the lake. Viviana!”
Chapter Six
Guy made frantic gestures of hushing. “What are you talking about?” he whispered, staring down the haughty knight in the row in front who’d twisted round to frown at them. “That’s our Merlin.”
“YourMerlin? I thought he was a legend, something out of Arthur’s visions.”
“Well, sometimes he is. He’s real at the moment, though, and we’re very fortunate to have him.”
“I don’t understand. This is the old man who brought Art to live with you? How can he still be alive?”
“They’re said to be immortal.”
“They? There’s more than one?”
“So legend says. There must be, or how could they appear as they do, in a man’s youth and again in his old age, always the same?”
The haughty knight turned again. This time Lance raised a reproving eyebrow at him, and he blinked and looked away. “How can you be certain, then, that this one is real? Arthur’s Merlin?”
Guy’s expression became grim. “He is. He came to us during our useless battle for Vortigern’s land, just after my father was wounded. Ector recognised him, or… Well, he was dying. But he said he was one and the same. And everybody listens when he speaks, so for heaven’s sake shut up.”
Lance obeyed, bewildered. He’d have bet his own horse that Viviana’s gaunt face lay beneath the folds of the hood, but now the thin figure was straightening up, pushing the ragged fabric back. A harsh profile appeared, thrusting up towards Arthur’s like a hungry bird of prey. His words were for Art only, even though a pindrop silence had fallen throughout the hall. Taut sibilants only reached Lance across the space between them, which suddenly seemed vast, a desert he could never cross. Then, abruptly as the old man had started, he was done, drawing his hood back into place. His retreat into the shadows was so subtle and quick that Lance rubbed his eyes, suddenly uncertain that he’d been there at all.
Arthur swayed. Lance had half forgotten that he’d hauled himself off what should have been his deathbed to come to the debating hall today. Now, suddenly, it was all too apparent. Old Coel, who’d never resumed his seat after rising to deal with Garbonian, took gentle hold of his elbow and held out a hand to his vacant throne. After a moment’s resistance, Arthur gratefully sat down. “Thank you,” he said, and looked around him as if unsure of where he was. Then he collected himself, using one elbow to push himself up straight. “Garbonian says the invaders aren’t our equals. I don’t know the rights and wrongs of that, but… Coel, why not seek alliance with men youdoknow are worthy to stand with you in defence of your realm?” He held out a hand toward Mor of Ebrauc, Ceneu of Rheged, Srath Chluaidh, Coel himself. “Right here in this hall with you are sovereign lords whose kingdoms, once united, could form a wall against any invasion.”
Coel sighed. He seemed to have forgotten about any sovereignty of Arthur’s: was patting his shoulder as if Art had been a tired, injured son of his own, and a much nicer one than Garbonian. “Yes, once united,” he said wryly. “But you’d have better luck making three tom cats see one another’s point of view. You’re a southerner, Artorius. You don’t understand how we’ve all fought each other, or for how long. They’d rather slit each other’s throats than cooperate.”
Art turned to look at them. “Is this so?” he asked, wonderingly. “Can it be that you’d all rather lose your whole world than learn how to govern it together?”
Mor, Srath Chluaidh and Ceneu carefully avoided his eyes. Lance watched, waiting for an answer, aware that everyone on the benches around him was waiting tensely too. Lance had been astonished to learn that the Hen Ogledd kings had come willingly to Din Guardi. Had Arthur been naïve? It seemed all too likely that each of the old men glowering at him from their thrones had simply come here determined to get Art’s famous army behind their own separate wars. Perhaps that was the only reason why Coel had opened up Din Guardi to him in the first place.
But, oddly, it was Coel who spoke at last. “It has been so, Artorius,” he said reluctantly. “Yes, it has been so. However, I for one am ready to talk.”
A moment of possibilities. Arthur’s cool grey gaze kindled, became almost boyish again with hope. Coel’s own household and retinue looked as astonished as the rival kings. Out of all of them, Coel had been the most bloodymindedly determined to hold his realm without help from his neighbours. If he, of all men, would stand down…
But Garbonian laughed out loud. “If the day ever comes, father, I’ll embroider the flag of the united kingdom with my own hands! Listen to me, King Artorius. What use is one old man who might just be willing to negotiate, if he doesn’t change his mind next morning, when his gout bothers him, or Mor or Ceneu looks at him sideways? Outside in the settlements west of here, I have ten Anglian princes and nobles ready to come and make treaty with you tomorrow, for the joint defence of this land!”
The silence that fell was electric. It was also short-lived. Lance saw Art look round the hall, judging the mood of his men in one comprehensive glance. He would have picked out the best of them, the chiefs and commanders, to attend with him here, but they weren’t without their boiling point. As for Coel, he was upright again, face livid, and Lance noted with alarm that he’d unshipped his battleaxe from his belt, to God knew what murderous end. “Is that where you spent your morning, you puppy?” the old man roared. “Grovelling and plotting with your pirate friends?”
“Enough, Coel,” Art warned him. Then he repeated it, loudly, against the rising tide of jeers from the crowd. “Enough! Enough for today.” This time they didn’t attend him. His palm sought the hilt of Excalibur, and his voice rang out. “I said it’senough!”
Doves flew in the old hall’s rafters. Lance barely noticed their sunlit flight, the absolute hush that fell down like loosened feathers from their wings. He could hear nothing but his own raggedly thumping heart. Then Arthur spoke once more, quiet and ordinary. “It’s enough. Hot tempers offer bad counsel. I will speak privately with Garbonian. Tomorrow we convene again.”
***
The crush around the doors was considerable. Garbonian, quite aware of the effect he’d produced, was amongst the first to shove his way out. Gaius pointed to him, ploughing a track past the gallery. “There he is, the weasel,” he said, slapping Lance on the knee. “I’m going after him—I want to settle our bet before somebody kills him. You stay here and catch up with Art. See you later.”
He vaulted the rail and was gone. Lance remained seated, waiting for the crowd to thin. It was good of Guy to make him so welcome. When he closed his eyes, he could see once again the sweep of Viviana’s moorland on the day when he’d first taken Art there, to the untamed heights where he’d encountered his life’s first mysteries. At the time, he’d barely noticed how Guy had sent them off together, wordlessly creating a safe hour for them—the sweetest of Lance’s life—and setting himself to guard it from a discreet distance. Guy had been on his side, ontheirside, and as the lonely months afterward had unfolded, Lance had blessed him for it again and again.
But perhaps Guy had created such hours for his brother many times. Perhaps his duty of guardianship had included them, ensuring that the future king could roll around in safety with a boy or a girl of his choice. Lance’s mother would have found nothing strange in that. By such encounters, a man increased his potency and skills, making himself fit for the honours his queen would one day bestow upon him.
Father Tomas, Lance’s village priest, would have said his soul was hellbound. Lance smiled. If he had half the chance, he’d have joined Art in hell anytime. Art was still there among the thrones, listening patiently to Coel, who appeared to be tearing his hair out. Certainly he wasn’t looking around for old friends. Guy had surely exaggerated the importance of Lance’s arrival.
