We sat in silence for a few minutes, me playing with the braided cord Maia had knotted round my waist, him sitting quietly.
Eventually, he broke the silence. I’d been waiting for him to do that. “He’s not so bad, is he?”
I shrugged. “He seems to be–” I nearly saidnice, but that wasn’t the right word for him, nor for anyone in the Dark Ages. None of them were nice. “He seems to be a good man.” Such as I could judge after a brief hour’s acquaintance.
“He’ll make a good High King one day.”
“Will he?” I had no idea about the qualities required to become a leader in the Dark Ages, so I couldn’t pass an opinion. “What about his brother? I thought you said he had an older brother?”
“He does. But it’s not Cadwy’s destiny to be High King. It’s Arthur’s.”
I thought about that for a moment. “So you say. I guess this Cadwy might have a different opinion of that himself. Although it might explain why in my time I’ve never heard anything about him.”
“But you know of Arthur?”
I nodded. “Everyone does. But hardly anyone believes he really existed. There’s nothing written down, no records of his reign, just legends. My father was an Arthurian scholar. He knew everything there was to know about the Dark Ages. Despite his colleagues insisting it was unlikely there’d ever really been a King Arthur, he stuck to his belief that there had been. He believed there’d been a real man all the stories were based on. And believe me, there are plenty of stories.”
“And his wife? What was her name in your stories?”
He had me there. Why had my parents named me after her? What had possessed them? “Guinevere.”
He smiled with just a hint of triumph, of having talked me into a corner I couldn’t get out of. “See. You are indeed the one. It was foretold by others, not just by me, that you would come.”
I gritted my teeth that I’d fallen into his trap and that he was so difficult to deflect from what he wanted. I was angry with myself because against my better judgement I liked him.
“Yes, but me having the right name doesn’t mean I’m the one you’re searching for.” I felt as though I was banging my head against a brick wall. “The only reason I’m called Guinevere is because I was named after the real one. Named after the woman you should be looking for. She must be out there somewhere in this world, but I’m not her.”
He shook his head. “You’re the one. I’ve looked into the future, and I’ve seen you, solid and real, a point about which the future pivots. An immovable point. You are the one.”
A thought crossed my mind. “Maybe you’re right.” I put my hand on his sleeve. “Maybe you’re right, but you’ve not interpreted it correctly. Maybe what I was meant to do, I’ve already done. Maybe I stopped Arthur from getting an infection through his wound. Maybe that’s why he can go on and become High King. Maybe without me he would have died.”
Merlin shook his head. “If that were true, it would have been clear to me. No, you have much more significance than that. Without you, he will be nothing. With you, he will be great.”
Why couldn’t I make him listen? “But I’m not from your world,” I protested. “You’ve left a gap in my world that I should be occupying. I belong there, not here. I have to get back.”
He frowned. “Even if a way back existed, I wouldn’t show it to you. But it doesn’t. You’re here, and here is where you have to remain. Arthur is your destiny, and you are his. Nothing you can do will change that. It was written before either of you were born. He is the one who will defeat the Saxons, and you are the queen who will be by his side.”
I shook my head again, feeling frustrated. “Arthur becoming king has nothing to do with me.” I knew this story. Could I make him believe it? “It’s you that makes him king, not me.”
I had his attention.
“When his father dies, you take a sword and you stick it in a stone, and you say that whoever can draw the sword out of the stone will be the true born King of Britain. Everyone tries, but no one can draw out the sword. And then Arthur does. That’s what happens. That’s how he becomes king.”
Merlin’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. I could almost hear the cogs turning.
Chapter Eight
In the Hallthat night I sat beside Arthur at the High Table, wearing the beautiful russet gown, my hair plaited, with bad grace and golden thread, by Cottia. It appeared that almost everyone who lived in the fortress had come to celebrate the safe return of their prince. Warriors and their womenfolk crammed every bench, cheek by jowl with the older men and youths who’d been left behind to guard the fortress while he’d been away, and noise rose to the smoky rafters.
This time, not so dazed with shock as before, I had more opportunity to observe the revelers and the goings on around me. The food was better than the night before. As well as venison dripping with juices, we ate hare and pheasant and partridge, with dishes of cooked vegetables like beets and parsnips and leeks, all served with savory sauces. I restricted myself to small amounts, drinking sparingly of the red wine that was topped up every time I set my goblet down on the table. I didn’t want another hangover.
Arthur went out of his way to be pleasant, making every effort to talk as we ate. He wore the plain dark tunic and braccae he’d appeared in after what must have been a very long soak in his bath, his bandage still remarkably clean and dry. Round his neck a golden torc shone warm against his skin, its dragon-headed finials grinning at each other, reminding me of my bracelet and ring. He caught me looking at it.
“May I see your ring?”
I offered him my hand, which he took in his, the better to see.
“So, this is Merlin’s dragon ring?” His warm touch was curiously disturbing. He turned my hand this way and that, my cheeks flushing in betrayal of my confusion. He seemed oblivious. “It’s not a ring I’ve ever seen before. Not part of the royal jewelry collection or I’d know it. I’d have seen my mother wear it.”