Merlin

THIRTEEN

In the time between times, when the world awaits the renewing light of day, a life is sometimes required for a life. This is what the Wise Men of the Oak, the druids of another age, believed and taught. I am not persuaded that they were wrong.

Ygerna led me down through the secret passage to the rock shingle below Tintagel on the sea side. Well she knew the way: she had often sought sanctuary on the brittle little beach out of her father's sight. Lightning flickered out to sea, and thunder grumbled far off. The wind blew wild, whipping the water, and we listened to the hollow drum of the waves breaking against the stone roots of the headland as we descended the narrow steps made treacherous with sea spray. One mis-step and we would have plummeted to our graves.

'There is a cave in the rock beneath the caer,' she told me, her words torn from her lips by the wind as she spoke them. 'We can wait there until the boat comes. It will not be dry, I fear.'

'We will not have long to wait,' I reassured her, peering into the moaning darkness. Wind and water, everything was slippery wet; wind-flung foam spattered our faces and fouled our cloaks.

The moon had set and it was the darkest part of the night. The few stars that shone through the flying tatters of cloud gave but fitful light, and that dim. It was a stupid plan, and I berated myself for suggesting it.

However – and this you must understand – when the Unseen Hand leads you in its grasp, you follow. Or, turn back, and live in eternal regret.

Of course, there is no certainty in following, either. That is what makes faith. Follow or turn back – there is no middle way.

That night, I chose to follow. It was my decision; I chose freely. And I bear responsibility for the consequences. That is the price of freedom. Oh, but I felt alive that tempest-tossed night with the rumble of waves and thunder in my ears, the sting of salt in my eyes, and the smell of moss and wet rock in my nostrils. And that warm, trusting girl by my side. I was alive, and I gloried in the living.

Ygerna showed surprising strength; she was borne up by love. I do not know precisely what she felt, or whether she understood all that her decision meant. She was going to meet her lover; that's all she knew. She trusted me for the rest.

And I trusted Pelleas. Our lives were in his hands; he must reach the place where we had left the boat and then bring it round the headland to the shore where we waited – before the tide came in again, drowning the shingle and filling the cave.

So, we waited: shivering with clammy cold, hardly daring to think what we were doing. We waited, not knowing if Pelleas had even found his way free of the caer. It was a frail enough ruse to be committing our lives to: he was to leave the hall unobserved, and tell the gateman that I required an important token from Uther, which he had been sent to fetch. Once outside the walls he was to make his way with all haste to the boat and come round – in a sour wind and heavy seas! – to rescue us from the rising water.

I have thought many and many a time what I might have done had I stayed at Tintagel and seen my task through. How might things have turned out differently?

As it happens, I do not now believe I could have accomplished what I came there to do – although I did believe it then, for I considered most men reasonable hi the face of reason. This, I have learned since, is pure folly. Unreasonable men are ever unreasonable, and only become more so when threatened. Truth always threatens the false-hearted.

The contrary kings wanted no reconciliation; they would have denied their misdeeds, and resisted all attempts to forge a lasting peace; they would have reviled any offer of clemency; they would have despised appeasement as weakness!

Well, and there would have been a fight after all. Many good men would have been killed and that is a fact. But perhaps Gorlas would still be alive.

How ironic that the one who above all things tried to remain loyal to the High King should suffer for the disloyalty of others. Yet Gorlas chose his own course, as every man must; no one pressed the sword into his hand.

My thoughts, I see, are as confused as the events of that wild night. Let me make some order. I will say it thus:

Ygerna and I waited on the shingle for Pelleas. Gorlas discovered his daughter's absence, then mine, and, enraged, alerted his warband and flew out of the caer in pursuit, outracing his escort. He saw a light on a hill and made for it. Thinking he had found me, he attacked. In fact, he encountered two of Uther's sentries. Swords crossed. Gorlas fell before his men could reach him.

That is what happened. There is no glory in it, because there is no dignity in killing. Insane waste.

As dawn coloured the slate-dark sky in the east, Pelleas appeared – and none too soon, for the seawater seethed around our shins and we clung to one another, shivering. Ygerna and I clambered into the boat and Pelleas, praying our forgiveness, pulled on the oars and took us out to sea and away from the rocks.

All of us were too exhausted to speak, and too discouraged. Our plan, splendid as a dream in the night, showed itself a tawdry, contemptible thing in the ragged light of day. I was disgusted with myself for my part – and yet… and yet…

In the time between times, when the world awaits the renewing light of day, a life is sometimes required for a life.

They were still gathered on the hill when we arrived later – Gorlas' escort and Uther's men, standing mute and shamefaced in dawn's light. Uther himself had only just arrived and was giving the order for the body to be taken back to the fortress. He did not see Ygerna at first, and she did not see him. She saw only her father's corpse lying face up on the heath.

Curiously, she gave no appearance of surprise. She did not shriek or whimper, but simply knelt and put her hand on her father's head and brushed the hair back from his forehead. Then she straightened his cloak, arranging it to cover the ugly gash in his side. The only sound was the sea breeze sighing through the gorse and heather, and a lark somewhere high above, singing a lonely hymn to the new day.

Nor were there any tears in her eyes when she rose a few moments later and, gazing steadily at Uther, stepped round Gorlas' body to stand beside him. Uther put his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him. They turned together and walked back down the hill to the High King's camp. Not a word had been spoken between them.

Uther did not return to Caer Uintan, but occupied the caer and stayed on through the summer at Tintagel. Why not? It was a fine stronghold and well situated to keep an eye on his contrary lords.

Shocked into contrition by Gorlas' death, they renounced their treason and, in the end, accepted Uther's terms, pledging the king tribute for their misdeeds and making hostages of their best warriors, which he immediately placed in his warband.

No longer needed – indeed, the High King was embarrassed to have me near him, for the rumours that he had plotted Gorlas' death from the beginning and had sent me to accomplish it – I returned to Ynys Avallach. Gorlas was buried and Uther married on the same day, I am told.

But then, men tell many tales about this affair. I have even heard it said that Ygerna was Gorlas' wife – imagine that! – and I, by deep enchantments, transformed Uther into Gorlas' likeness and led him to her bed. Or that I gave Ygerna a draught that made her believe Uther to be Aurelius, her husband, come back from the grave. Or, stranger yet, that Aurelius himself actually returned from the Otherworld to lie with her.

People will believe anything!