“Don’t, Faerie.”

“Modred.” It was a prayer, a plea. “Don’t, they’ll have to. Please.”

My son looked at the knife, then at me. “Did leave her. Did kill Prydn.”

“Son, don’t.”

He lunged forward, straight at me. Dafydd’s arrow caught him under the heart.

“Don’t— “

He could have lived, could have lived, was all I could think. It doesn’t make sense, purely instinct. I snapped off the shaft protruding from my stomach.

“Help me up. Take me to him.”

Bedivere and Dafydd lifted me and set me beside my son. Awkward and clumsy, blurred with tears, I lifted his head and shoulders and cradled them in my arms. His girlish mouth quavered open.

“Dost come to hold thy wealth, Belrix?”

Modred and a Grail

359

“It didn’t have to be this way. I tried, I tried for all of you.”

The hate was fading from Modred’s eyes with the life of him. “Gern-y-fhain said …”

“What, boy?” I couldn’t bend close for the wounds, but I tried. “What?”

The delicate mouth twisted into the scar of his mocking grin. “This.”

My son spat in my face and died.

I

Rest You Gentle, Sleep You Sound

And so this place the monks call Avalon, the scratch of Cod’s stylus, the smell of apple blossoms, the hum of bees beyond the casement, the quiet end to the clangorous song. Lucullus’ notion of an exit might be more fun, but mis isn’t at all a bad way to go.

We’re finished, Brother Cocl.

Bald? For an ending, perhaps, but then there are two schools of thought on literature and love-making. Some say the climax is all. I think it’s not so much the end but the getting there. Give me the stylus, let me sign.

Artos, Rix Cymri

There. And now the letters. Just two, and then we’re done. And make them part of the record.

Arthur to his dear Yseult, Queen of Cornwall— (Write larger, boy. Her eyes aren’t what they were.)

Dear Yseult. I send to your personal service Dafydd ofEburacum, a soldier of proven worth and a harper who has served both Maetgwyn and myself with honor.

When his music falls on your ear and your eye on his face, I know you will treasure Dafydd’s qualities as no other woman could. Long life and music, sweet.

360

Rest You Gentle, Steep You Sound

361

Now to the queen. Dear Gwen—no, not formal, Coel. The sword will be solemn enough.

Dear Gwen—

Bedivere brought your message. If he returns with the imperial sword, don’t waste time mourning when there’s work to do. And please don’t come to Avalon, but stay where you’re needed.

The princes may call for a new king, though I don’t know where they II find your equal. They could do no better.

And though it shivers your patrician soul, listen to Bedivere and Gareth. Ask their mind and don’t be surprised when you get it. With them and the combrogi at your side, you are Britain.

(We two, so clever at words and so clumsy at meaning. We did it, Gwen. Something bigger than ourselves. I sit in the north •writing what you will read in the south while every prince and peasant between waits for word and asks of travelers: “What news of Camelot? What word from the crown?” Being a circlet of metal that hopefully encloses an idea.)

/ can’t help noting how dry and hot it is this spring, and that always means a cold winter on Severn. So conquer your dislike of wool shifts and wear one or even two—you know how drafty the chambers get. And you mustn’t work too long at one time, but take your nap in the afternoon and sit down to regular meats. Tell Imogen f order and again order her to be a bloody nuisance until you finish everything on your plate at every meal. You can’t rule from a sickbed.

And you mustn’t forget to write Gawain’s family and make it clear we support them against all pretenders. And get the Demetae to pay their taxes, even if you have to go in after them. They’ve always felt that distance from Camelot equals an exemption, you know that.

It’s quite lovely here. I wish you could see the trees blossoming—

(I wish I could say now what I mean. What we mean. Did I love you, do I? What does that word mean, thief and tyrant that

362

Firelord

it is? 1 know that I saw you one day at Eburacum and you touched my life and shared it, and even if we walked apart sometimes, it was always on the same road. People should remember you, Gwen. Not the crown or the trappings, but you. How you loved flowers and making love in the afternoon, and that idiotic garden hat you wore till it fell apart, or that shirt you knitted for our child and could never give or throw away. Why is it always that these dear things get lost?)

Yes, I’ve started bleeding again. Rather badly, I think. We’ll make it short. It’s all said anyway.

There’s work as always and I must be at it. Remember about the woolen shift or don’t blame me when you start sneezing. And we must start planning for the east, because next year we’re going to take it back. None but us, Gwen.

Rest your gentle.

Arthur

Thank you, Brother Coel. If God has your patience, I’m halfway home. Yes, of course you may pray for me. Often, I hope. And insistently. You never know, I may need it.

Please send in Lord Bedivere.

Bedivere comes in. My friend tries to give me his old world-as-usual air, but he could never hide an emotion.

“Sit, Bedivere.”

But he falls down -suddenly on his knees by the bed, head against his clasped, trembling hands. Stiff with the wound in his shoulder, I try to-touch him, but it’s a long way to move. Even speaking is an effort now.

He keeps his face averted from me. “Long life to my king.”

“Now what’s this? Ceremony?”

“My beloved king.”

“Victory at last. I’ve been hoping for years you’d address me like one sometime.”

“Artos, I …”

“But don’t go wet on me. Up, man, there’s work to do.”

He wipes his eyes, snuffling and awkward. He doesn’t cry prettily, my Bedivere.

“Listen, now.” Jesus, so weak. “I don’t see what you’re

Rest You Gentle, Sleep You Sound 363

boo-hooing about. You were wrong about your luck, and you’re rutting well wrong about mine. I’ll be back.”

“I know that, Artos.”

“Well, then.”

Our words are carefully said, like something polished and put out for show. Bedivere glances to the table where the imperial sword rests, and there’s a truth we don’t want to speak of.

“Still, it might be best to take Guenevere the sword. She’ll need it till I get back.”

Bedivere turns his stubborn back to me. “Let someone else take it.”

“There’s no one I’d trust.”

Pleading: “Not me.”

“Bedwyr, don’t.”

“Someone else, damn you.” Then muffled, “Don’t make me go now.”

“God, you’re thick,” I snap with no strength. “You don’t thinki’m finished, do you? Take it.”

After a moment he lifts the sword from the table, wrapping the broad belt about the scabbard. “Till you get back.”

“Well enough. Like pulling teeth getting you to just do something without an argument.”

“Well, I’m not educated like you. I have to think tilings out.”

He’s found something out the casement to watch. I can’t see his face. “Good weather here.”

“Yes,” I agreed eagerly. “I’ve been enjoying it.”

“Good the last time I was home, too. I was wondering, Artos. Why stay here when you could rest with Myfanwy and me?”

“Good idea. Splendid. As soon as I can travel.”

“Yes, then.”

“And Gwen can rummage those gardens of yours.”

My friend comes to the bed finally. His hurt arm is stiff, but he makes a stab at arranging my pillows. I keep the covers up so he can’t see the stains.

“Then it’s done,” he says softly. “I’ll tell Myfanwy you’re coming.”

I touch his hand. “Tell them all, Bedivere.”

The monks begin to chant in the oratory. Flat as usual. You’d think with all their practice they’d get it right now and then. Bedivere the singer suffers with me.

“Who let them in?”

“Nor do they improve,” I advise. “I’d leave now and avoid the worst.”

364

Firelord

“We’ll be waiting then, all of us.” Bedivere raises the sword in good-bye. “Up the dragon, Artos.”

“Up the dragon, boyo.”

Well now, all done. A little nap until the doctors come. Not that Fm really sleepy, just those monks go on for bloody ever.

My dream was involved and ridiculous, the usual refuse emptied by the mind at the end of a hard day. In my dream, the -doctors and the abbot and dear little Coel came and stood about my bed. The lot of them looked very solemn while I felt uncommonly good.

I said to them, “Go away, all of you.” And they went, except for one I hadn’t noticed at the door, a golden-haired boy in a tunic of brilliant spun gold under a green cloak.

“Hail, Arthur.”

Merlin produced his three colored balls and began to toss them casually—up, over and down, never missing a beat. I sat up, feeling better with every breath.

“Hello, Merlin. I told you juggling was your real talent.”

“Part of my trade,” he admitted. “I came to say good-bye.”

“Where are you off to now?”

The colored balls soared higher, four of them now, five, six. The shimmering boy balanced and timed their flight so skillfully that they moved in a smooth circle like the sun. “Don’t they shine, Arthur? Shaped from the finest tomorrows. Not an easy job, you know. Another dreamer to be bora in the same old place: where he’s needed.”

He was my genius, this juggler, always the more impressive part of me. Or was I merely a facet of him, designed to lead and care for men?

Merlin caught the high-arcing balls one by one and tucked them away, reading my thought as usual. “By the way, when did you know you loved them?”

There was an answer now. “I thought I knew once in the midlands when I was disgusted with the flowers and loved the fruit. But I’d only just come from Morgana.”

Merlin spun toward the door on dancer’s feet, restless to be away, doing and changing. “We all feel pastoral now and then. When were you sure?”

“When I heard my men singing on Badon hill.”

“Oh, yes!” Merlin hugged himself with delight at the memory. “Was that not the sound of angels?”

, Rest You Gentle, Sleep You Sound 365

“The sound of love, Merlin. That’s when I knew how needed the flowers are. The dreamers. They give reason to all the rest. They grab life by the collar, make it shine and boot it” into tomorrow. Life’s a sweet, terrible wonder, Merlin. A mere king can’t be expected to understand it all.”