Page 107 of The Road to Avalon
“I see you’ve brought your rod,” he says, popping Con down on the log seat and smiling at me over his curly head. “Let’s put some bait on the hook for you.” He offers Con the container of wriggling maggots, and Con picks one out.
“This one.” He puts it in his father’s palm. “He’llcatch me a big fish.”
Arthur puts the maggot on a hook for Con and shows him how to drop the line in the water. Con settles himself on his father’s seat, a look of concentration on his small face. How like his brothers he is. How like both of them.
Arthur limps to stand beside me. A few gray strands silver his hair now, and the short beard that frames his jaw is grizzled, but he’s lost none of his whipcord strength and musculature. His arm goes around my waist, and he kisses me on the lips. “Thanks for bringing him down.”
I smile, the love I have for him warm and satisfying, and move closer, my hand on his back. From his seat, Con giggles with delight. “I’m catchin’ a fish for my supper.”
We settle on the short grass beside our little boy. This close to the river, we can’t leave him by himself. I constantly worry about him, my last chick in the nest. My only surviving chick. I lean my head on Arthur’s shoulder, content and happy in the warmth of the sun and think about my children.
The silence stretches out, tranquil and companionable.
“Do you remember the day I found Excalibur?” Arthur asks.
I nod.
“Afterwards, I sat with Nial on the monks’ wharf and said I never wanted to fight another battle.”
That day is as clear in my head as if it happened yesterday. I remember the peaceful waters of the marshes, clear of all but the last shreds of mist. I see again the heron as he takes off and the bobbing waterfowl as they rush to hide in the tall reedbeds. Arthur sits on the wooden jetty beside old Nial with the newly discovered Excalibur lying on the rough wood by his side.
And I remember how much I feared that sword heralded Camlann’s imminent arrival.
All gone now. All done with. Only peace remaining.
He smiles at me, one hand touching my cheek. “And now I have that wish.”
“Are you happy?” I ask.
His dark eyes, flecked with gold, regard me solemnly. His hair, cut short now, curls about his face just like his son’s. He’s not lost his boyishness, though. “Yes, I’m happy. All I ever wanted for my Britain was peace. I got it, so everything I did had a purpose. Archfedd and Llawfrodedd reaped the reward of that.” He pauses, brow furrowed. “I can’t say this world, so much bigger than the one I knew, has it now, but it’s not my responsibility any longer. This Britain doesn’t need me.” He glances at Con. “He does, though.”
I lean in for a kiss. “And so do I.”
We sit together, his arm around me, for a long time while Con thinks he’s fishing.
At last, footsteps sound on the path above. Merlin jumps down the little bank to join us. He’s wearing shorts. Yes. Shorts. And his legs are already bronzed. He’s taken to twenty-first century life as though born to it.
Arthur grins at his old friend. “Have you brought your rod?”
Merlin shakes his head. “Not today. But I’ve got news for you.” His eyes glitter with excitement. He lives in a cottage half a mile away, walking distance across our fields. We have no other neighbors to disturb us. We own all the land in this little valley, and, with only one road in and out, we can keep the world at bay. Merlin couldn’t have picked a better spot for us to live, with his lottery winnings.
“What news?” I ask, more interested than Arthur as this is my old world and even after five years still new to him. He’s not quite a part of it like Merlin and I are. Coming the quick way has its disadvantages.
“Have a guess,” Merlin says, plonking himself down on the grass.
I frown. I don’t like guessing games.
“What is it?” I ask. “Tell us.”
Arthur lies back on the grass, his hands behind his head, as handsome as the day I met him. He snorts a laugh. “You might as well tell her. She won’t even try guessing. She never does.”
Merlin clears his throat. “They’ve found your book.”
That makes Arthur sit up. “They’ve found herbook?”
The Book of Guinevere. I’d forgotten all about it, and if I’d recalled, I’d have assumed it lost long ago and never to be found.
A self-satisfied smile spreads across Merlin’s face. “Yes, Gwen’s book. An old recluse died, here in Wales. Not far from here, in fact. He had no direct heirs, so a distant relation came to sort through his papers. They found the book amongst them.”
