Page 6 of The Road to Avalon
He chuckled as a bold fish returned to nibble on his fingers. “How does it ever happen in the north? By feud, by deposing a king you don’t like.” He glanced up. “By murder.”
“Now I’m intrigued.”
He grinned. “You’re right about how many sons Caw had. But he wasn’t a peaceable man, and sons often die in battle. And when there arethatmany, fathers and jealous brothers can perceive them as a threat.” He raised his hand from the water. “You know yourself how even between just two brothers there can be endless trouble.”
Very true. Arthur and Cadwy had hated one another, and now Amhar and Llacheu had managed to fall out. Or rather, Amhar had taken against his brother. Although that was a slow burning thing rather than a sudden quarrel.
“Did Caw’s sons all die?” I asked.
Merlin shrugged. “A few, I’d guess. Some went to be monks or priests. A good way of getting rid of the excess. But Caw had daughters as well, and one of them married a grandson of Ceredig Wledig, who’d ruled Alt Clut a long time back before Caw snatched the kingdom from his line. It was only reasonable for Ceredig’s heir to want back what had been stolen.”
Dynastic wars. Not unexpected.
“So, Clinoch is that heir?”
Merlin chuckled. “Not quite. But he had no trouble stepping over his uncle’s body to regain the throne he saw as his. He probably had something to do with his uncle’s… early departure.”
I frowned. “I suppose it was his by right, really.”
He shrugged again. “Perhaps. He made sure of it by marrying another of Caw’s many daughters. She’ll be Cinbelin’s mother. A man who rules can never be certain his son will follow him, nor claim to have followed his father in true line of succession. Too many rivals for a crown, and too tenuous a hold on it by any king.” He shook his head. “But what would you say gives one man license to rule over another? What makes a king different from the lowliest of servants? Why should one man claim the right to rule and decree another must obey? Enough men to question that, and kingship is lost.”
Goodness, he was sounding very modern in his thinking.
Under the shade of the colonnaded walkway, the door from our rooms swung open before I could compose a reply, and Arthur emerged, looking very splendid in a tunic and braccae so deep a blue as to be almost navy. The hint of a red undershirt showed at his throat and cuffs– an innovation I’d introduced having grown fed up with always having to wear creamy white shirts that turned gray once they’d been washed a few times. The flash of bright color suited his dark good looks.
He spotted us and strode over, and my heart performed the customary flip it made every time I laid eyes on him. He was smiling, and the smile transformed his normally serious face, making him more attractive than ever. I couldn’t help but think about the night to come.
I got up and he kissed me on the cheek, one arm going around my waist. “We’d better not keep our guests waiting any longer. Come along.”
I glanced toward Amhar’s still closed door. “What about Amhar?”
A frown creased Arthur’s brow. “What about him? If he can’t be ready on time, then he’ll have to go hungry or eat in the kitchen with the servants again.” He steered me toward the dining room, and Merlin got up and followed.
I couldn’t help my curiosity about how Medraut would have turned out. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been a tall and sturdy boy of not yet thirteen but already with the promise of manhood about him. Would he resemble Theodoric, his Goth father, a little more than he had before? Or would he be more like his petite mother? Probably the former.
I was right.
Theodoric, like Arthur’s half brother, Cei, was a giant of a man by fifth-century standards. Both stood over six feet tall, with wide shoulders and bodies to match, but whereas Cei was a redhead, Theodoric, being a Goth from Gaul, possessed the golden hair and ruddy coloring of a Saxon.
He hadn’t passed this on to his only known son, but he had passed on his build. When we entered the dining room, Medraut was standing by the wooden sideboard where the servants had stood the tall earthenware jars containing the decanted wine, filling a goblet for himself and his friend. Probably refilling. Both of them had the ruddy-faced look of young men who’d started drinking before they’d even got here.
I stared. As tall as his father and nearly as broad, he made Arthur look quite slight, which he wasn’t, and would have dwarfed slender Amhar. If he’d been here. My nephew’s thick dark hair, that had once reminded me so much of my husband’s, had been cut short and clung close to his head in a thick fleece of almost black curls. Verging-on-bushy dark brows overshadowed slightly too small and close-together eyes. His fleshy lips gave him an unnerving resemblance to his uncle Cadwy, but unlike Cadwy’s son, Custennin, whose features they enhanced, they gave Medraut an oily, wet-lipped look that I didn’t like.
But then, Iwasheavily biased.
The other young man only reached Medraut’s burly shoulders and wasn’t even as tall as me, but his barrel-chested body matched Medraut’s in width and musculature. Prince Cinbelin. The hint of Pictish blood that was the legacy of many young men from north of the Wall showed itself in his broad, high-cheekboned face and thick scattering of freckles.
“Aunt Gwen,” Medraut exclaimed, abandoning his goblet of wine and hurrying across the mosaic floor to meet me. “How lovely to see you again.” His voice had deepened and was probably the most attractive thing about him. He caught my hands in his. “May I kiss you in greeting?” And before I could say no, which was my first inclination, he planted a wet kiss on my cheek.
I resisted the strong urge to wipe my cheek clean and snatch back my hands from his warm and sweaty ones. “Medraut, what a surprise.” I couldn’t find it in me to say it was a nice surprise.
Gwalchmei, Cei and Bedwyr arrived at that moment. Luckily for me, Medraut had to greet them as well, and I was able to reclaim my hands and surreptitiously wipe the feel of his kiss off my skin, whilst suppressing a shudder.
Introductions to Prince Cinbelin, who seemed an affable and not very bright young man, although that might have been due to his obvious inebriation, went on all round. He, at least, didn’t want to kiss my cheek or hang onto my hands.
A servant filled goblets for everyone, and we took our seats at the long table. One seat stood empty, of course. But not for long. As the servants brought in the first course, the door from the courtyard banged open. Amhar almost catapulted into the room with a definite case of bed-hair and a disheveled look to his clothing that betrayed the fact he’d been sleeping all day in the clothes he’d gone out in last night, wine stains and all.
“Medraut!” he exclaimed. “One of the servants came and told me you were here.” He then remembered himself, reddened, and bowed to everyone, clearly thinking one would do for us to share. “I’m sorry, Father, Mother. I was asleep, but I came as soon as I could.” He flopped down into the empty seat, which happened to be beside mine and opposite Medraut’s. “I could eat a horse.”
