Page 39 of The Road to Avalon
Without a word, Arthur walked away from us and took his place on his throne, staring down the Hall toward the makeshift bier.
I took Archfedd’s hand and ushered her back to the chamber where Maia waited. Then I went to the partly open door to watch, unable to tear myself away from the grim sight, as though hoping that perhaps it was all a mistake and in a moment, he’d sit up and laugh at us all.
A long stream of people filed through the Hall throughout the day, many arriving from the village and farms at the foot of the hill, some from further afield. Llacheu had been well loved from his childhood by all.
His mother, Tangwyn, came, of course, but without her husband and younger children. Grief-stricken and haggard, she made a tragic figure as she wailed over his body, tearing at her clothes and hair until her friends dragged her away, her screams audible for some time after she left.
I’d seen so much death in my time here, and yet this one could have been the first. I might not have given birth to him, but he felt as though he’d been my son, and it was with a mother’s love I grieved him.
After a while Archfedd left Maia and came to stand by the door with me, her trembling body pressed up against me. One hand gripped mine, her eyes red and swollen from the crying she couldn’t stem.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered for the twentieth time. “I can’t believe someone did this to him. To my brother.”
“We’ll find out who, don’t you worry,” I said, half afraid that I might be right.
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “But whyhim? What did he ever do to anger anyone?” She gave a big sniff. “He was so good and kind to everyone. He had no enemies.”
The fear that she was wrong threatened to overwhelm me.
It was late in the day before Amhar, accompanied by Medraut, came to pay his respects. They filed in with some of their companions, all of them quiet and subdued for once. Perhaps the sight of someone as young as they were lying dead had come as a rude awakening. The young tend to see themselves as immortal.
By now I’d left an exhausted Archfedd in Maia’s caring hands and gone to sit on my own throne beside Arthur, hoping my presence supported him. I had a good view as Amhar approached the makeshift bier with unsteady footsteps, his face nearly as pale as the corpse’s. Medraut, more confident by far and with a hand on his friend’s back, urged him forward.
Beside me, I sensed Arthur stiffening, and his fingers began to tap the arm of his throne. Could he be thinking the same thing as me? The terrible, unthinkable thing.
Amhar halted at the foot of the bier, staring at his brother’s body, eyes round as saucers. What was going through his mind?
My eyes slid past him to Medraut’s face. Unreadable– carefully schooled to be so, perhaps.
I wanted to berate myself for thinking my own son could have done this to his brother, but I couldn’t. When last they’d been together in the Hall, the enmity between them had been tangible. Or rather, the enmity from Amhar for his brother. Horror that I, as his mother, could even consider he’d committed such a terrible crime– such a Biblical crime– ate into my heart and set it pounding, and my breath came fast and shallow.
I fought to control myself, terrified Arthur would hear, or read the thoughts standing in fiery letters in my mind.
Medraut gave Amhar an ungentle shove, and the two of them approached Llacheu’s forever stilled face. In death he still possessed a share of the boyish beauty he’d always had, but with the departure of his soul, it had become nothing but a mask.
Medraut bent and kissed Llacheu’s cold hands.
Amhar hesitated, guilt written across his face and in every movement he made. Conviction that he’d done this swept through me. Swiftly followed by a wave of my own guilt that I could think that of him. No. He couldn’t have. Not Amhar.
Arthur stood.
I looked up at him, trembling with fear.
He pointed a finger at his son. “Honor your brother.” His voice carried across the Hall where a dozen more people had crowded in by the doors and were waiting their turn to approach the body.
Amhar stared up at his father, his mouth hanging open, but he didn’t speak.
“Kiss him,” Medraut hissed, the words carrying in the silence.
“I can’t,” Amhar whispered, audible to all. “I can’t do it.”
Arthur seemed to grow in stature. “Then get out,” he roared. “And don’t darken my doors again.”
For a moment, Amhar stood staring at his father, then he turned and bolted through the onlookers and out of the Hall, the doors banging shut behind him. With one measuring look at Arthur, Medraut bowed and hurried after him.
A heavy silence reigned.
Arthur sat down with a thud, nostrils flaring, brows lowered. “Continue.”
