Page 48 of The Quest for Excalibur
In the shadowy half-light it was hard to make out his expression as we lay facing one another in bed, but his voice held scepticism. “Underwater?” he asked, at last. “I’d believe this more if only the promised sword were in a dry place.” He paused. “But anyway, the tale of Macsen is from generations ago. I don’t evenknowhow ancient the story is.”
A smile curved his lips, and I had a sudden impulse to lean forward and kiss him.
His smile broadened. “A sword hidden underwater for that long will have rusted to nothing.” His warm breath tickled my cheek. “I think the story I was told is that my great grandfather, Constantine, married one of Macsen’s daughters, so I suppose he could be my ancestor. But that’s just a legend, and I doubt very much if it’s true.”
I seized upon this. “That would make him your…” I paused to work it out in my head. “…your great great grandfather. Maybe Constantine’s marriage to Macsen’s daughter strengthened his own claim to be emperor?”
He chuckled. “Like I said. It’s just a legend. I don’t even know the woman’s name. No one does. My father didn’t, and she would have been his own grandmother. She died long before he or my uncle Ambrosius were born. I’m sorry. It can’t be true.”
“But don’t you see?” I whispered, as though afraid someone somewhere might be listening. Morgana, perhaps.Evil, eavesdropping cow.“If hewasyour great great grandfather, then this is properly your sword. I mean,youshould be inheriting it. It’s not a random sword– it’s afamilysword.” I paused. “A sword meant for you– and that’s why Nimuë wants you to have it.” I shivered as though someone, Morgana maybe, had walked over my grave. “And why Morganadoesn’twant you to have it. Why she tried to prevent Nimuë from showing me.”
He chuckled again. “Another thing to rile Cadwy with, I suppose. If he got wind of this, he’d be claiming it as the older brother. If Morgana’s child knows of this, I’d like to know why my sister’s not sent Cadwy running off to find it.”
I sat bolt upright in bed, the covers falling back from my nakedness. “That’s it. She doesn’t know. Nimuë is hiding this from her mother. Don’t forget, she’s Merlin’s child as well.”
For a moment, I was back in that gloomy chamber with Morgana bound to her bench seat, her furious eyes bulging above the gag, while Merlin wove spells over his little daughter’s head. Eery shadows leapt up the walls, sending Arthur and me running for safety outside in the courtyard.
I seized Arthur’s hand in mine. “Whatever he did to protect Nimuë when she was a baby, it must have worked. She knows the sword’s meant for you. She was frightened she’d be caught, but she sent me those messages– showed me what we have to do and where we have to do it. We have to find the sword. We have to find Excalibur before Morgana realizes what we’re doing.”
*
“It’s not safe,”Merlin protested late that evening, when Arthur unwisely revealed our plan. “You need to take guards with you.” A servant was extinguishing the torches in the hall one by one, and most of the warriors were heading back to their houses with their wives.
Arthur, standing with me beside the high table, frowned. “Nonsense. We’ve fast horses and we’ll both be armed. And we’ve had no trouble with raiders all summer. Why should we now?”
Merlin’s face reddened. He rarely showed anger, but now he clearly wanted to. “What about brigands?”
Arthur’s face began to redden as well. He’d had a lot to drink and his own anger bubbled not far from the surface. “What brigands? We’ve had no reports ofthem, either. It’s safe, I tell you.” My fingers tightened on his arm.
Merlin turned to Cei, who’d been wisely sneaking away. “Tell him,” he blustered. “Tell him it’s not safe. And ask him where he’s going.”
Looking shifty, probably because he’d been privy to the plan since this morning, Cei hesitated. Behind him, a few of our newest recruits were unrolling their beds on the floor close to the walls, chattering together in low voices. “I daren’t try and tell him what to do,” Cei grunted, maybe aiming for diplomacy. “He’s my king.”
“And your brother,” snapped Merlin. He turned back to Arthur. “Let Cei and me come with you, then, wherever it is you’re going. Four is better than two.”
Arthur shook his head. “No. This is something Gwen and I need to do by ourselves. We’re going alone.”
*
And so herewe were, as the sun peeked over the distant horizon, sneaking out of Din Cadan before most people were up. Although I wouldn’t have put it past Merlin to have had us watched and followed– to have followed us himself, even, at a discreet distance. Hence the early morning departure, with dew sparkling on every leaf like scattered diamonds.
The sleepy guards on the gate gave us surprised looks, jerking themselves to attention at sight of their king, but they knew better than to question his vagaries. We’d be well beyond the village before anyone but them noticed we’d gone.
To be on the safe side, though, we urged our horses into a canter as soon as their hooves touched the short grass of the grazing grounds. A rough track skirted the edge of the village and headed toward the more substantial road to Ynys Witrin. Because it was toward that misty island that Nimuë had pointed her pale finger.
As we reached the forest, I brought Alezan in beside Taran, reins tight to prevent her snapping. Arthur brought Taran down to a walk, and we rode knee to knee through the thickening woodland. A deer paused on the path ahead, turned to stare at us for a moment, then bolted, vanishing into the verdant gloom with a flash of her white scut. And somewhere a woodpecker tapped, paused, then tapped again, searching for grubs in a dead tree.
I cast a sly look at my husband. I had half an idea that he’d decided to humor me and have the fun of a rarely-come-by sortie without accompanying guards. But the other half of me hoped he’d agreed to come because something had told him my dreams might be true.
“Merlin might guess where we’re heading,” I said. “We shouldn’t dawdle.”
“You’re right.” He gathered his reins and Taran broke into a trot. Alezan needed no urging. In a moment we were bent over our horse’s necks, cantering along the forest track, with low, leafy branches sweeping across our backs.
By the time we reached Nial’s lake village, sweat lathered our horses’ coats.
We rode through the sparse trees of the forest edge and down the gentle slope to the water. Thirty yards out over the lake, the village sat on its wooden platform, supported by the network of pilings that covered the detritus of its past incarnations.
A rickety and narrow walkway stretched across the dark water, if anything, even less inviting than on the day I’d first seen it. Smoke curled skyward from the thatched rooftops of the village houses. And out beyond the platform, on the wide expanse of silvery water, mist, like draped chiffon, drifted in from the marshes, veiling the distant banks of reeds and the braided river channels.
