His words did not surprise me. Perhaps they should have, but I barely heard them. I was too busy looking at his saddle bow, at the red-leather-handled, iron-balled flail that hung there, suspended by a leather loop on the side his horse had exposed to me in turning. His eyes followed my gaze and he looked down to where the weapon hung.
"What are you looking at?"
"That flail, is it yours?"
"Aye, mine by possession. It was hanging there when I claimed the horse."
I kneed my own mount towards him. "Then it was my cousin's. May I have it?"
He looked askance at me, one eyebrow raised high, then, seeing that I still held my helmet cradled in my arm, he sighed a third time, dropped his reins on his horse's neck and shifted his hooked weapon to his other hand. I leaned towards him and took Uther's flail when he held it towards me, feeling the familiar weight of it tug at my shoulder.
"My thanks." I raised it high in my right hand, pointing the junction of the chain and handle skyward until the ball dangled before my eyes. Was it the one Uther had made so long ago, or was it another, made to replace the first after that one had been thrown into the mere in my small valley? I knew that I would never know, but now I found myself grateful for the doubt that had again replaced my former certainty. I blinked away the sudden tears that had filled my eyes and hung the weapon gently from my own saddle bow. The northern king had watched me in silence throughout all of this. I looked at him again. "Where will you go now?"
He shrugged. "Find Lot, perhaps, or go home. All my men are gone. Some home, most dead."
"Lot is dead, too. I found his body hanging from a tree." I reached into my scrip and drew out the ring. "See? I took his boar seal."
Derek of Ravenglass sniffed. "Hmm! That's that, then. I'm going home. I've a desire to see my children again."
"Where will I find Uther?"
He shrugged and hung his hook axe again on the side of his saddle, plainly convinced that we had no fight with each other. "Back the way we came. Follow our tracks along the beach. It must be twelve miles or more. You'll see where our tracks enter along a wide stream bed with a great, white gleaming boulder standing in the middle of it. Can't miss it, it's huge and bright white. Your cousin and his people are lying in a clearing three more miles upstream. A lot of mine are lying there too."
We sat gazing at each other in silence for several moments longer, then Derek of Ravenglass cleared his throat. "Well then," he growled, "I wish you well, Ambrose called Merlyn. We were never friends, but we've never really been enemies, either, have we? We've got a saying among our people that only those touched by the gods feel the pain of others. Me, I've never believed in the gods, any of 'em, but there's not a doubt in my mind that you felt your cousin's death. So I think you really might be touched by the gods in spite of what I've always thought. That's why I have no wish to fight you. Farewell."
He spun his horse and moved away and I watched him silently until he disappeared among the distant dunes. Neither of us had considered sharing the company of the other and that was as it should be. When he had gone from view, I looked again at the naked woman lying by my horse's feet and as I did so, she coughed weakly.
Only when I was kneeling by her side, cradling her in my bent arm, did I become aware of how familiar she appeared, and then I knew beyond a doubt that this was Ygraine, sister to Donuil and Deirdre. The resemblance to both of them was there, unmistakable, in her face, and when she opened her great, green eyes, I knew her as the woman from my dreams of the previous night and my skin chilled again with goose bumps. She was unaware of me, or of herself or where she was. Uther's was the first name that sprang to her lips, and then she repeated it, this time less distinctly, slurring the vowels so that it sounded like "Ather."
As I knelt there beside her, a wavelet rippled up the beach and soaked my knee. The tide was flowing fast now, and I thought to move her, but as soon as I began to lift her I stopped again. She was dying and my entire sleeve was soaked with blood. When I looked, I saw that the back of her head was matted with blood that welled slowly, but far too freely to staunch, and her head was crushed. I knew without looking further that she had been kicked by Derek's horse, probably while he was mounting to face my approach.
Presently her eyes focused on my face and she seemed to know me as she asked, "Where is my baby?"
"Baby, Lady? There is no baby here."
"Yes, my baby. My baby bear. I promised Uther I would keep him safe and take him..."
"Take him where, Lady?"
"To Camulod! My baby! To Uther in Camulod.""
"Ygraine," I whispered, "Uther is gone."
"Uther? Ather...My son is Arthur. Pendragon's baby bear, his father call—" Her eyes went wide, startled, and she stiffened in my arms. "Uther?" she cried, and slumped dead.
I laid her gently on the sand and closed her eyes, seeing in my mind the eyes of her sister and her brother. How long I knelt there, my fingers on her eyelids, I have no idea, but I was grieving for her and for all of us who lived in this sad land of Britain. And then I heard, from behind me, clear and distinct as a cockerel's crow, the sound of a baby crying. Incredulous, I swung around to find myself kneeling almost in the sea and hearing the wailing of a baby coming from the great, clumsy, heavy boat that now rode gracefully upon the waves.
Starting to my feet, I flung myself towards it, feeling the water tugging at my armoured legs as I progressed. Deeper and deeper the water grew as the boat bobbed just beyond my reach, until I knew that one more step would take me under. Then, drawing a mighty breath, I launched myself with all my strength and felt the fingers of my right hand grasp the tailboard of the vessel. I scrambled and clawed and soon had both hands firmly in place, knowing that if I let go now I would drown, sinking straight to the bottom in all my armour. I waited and drew several deep breaths, gathering my strength, and then heaved myself up, swinging my right leg up and around to hook my heel over the side. It lodged on the wrong side, hampered by the spur on my heel, and it took great effort to twist it sidewise and inboard so the spur hooked instead on the safe side, holding me firmly. Moments later I had dragged myself up and fallen gasping into the safety of the boat, coughing and spewing bitter salt water, but enjoying the sheer pleasure of lying still, warm and wet, but safe.
I found the baby lying against the single mast, swathed in, and tied into, a black bear skin. A beautiful boy, no more than eight or nine weeks old, his tiny, chubby face was wrinkled in rage, eyes tightly closed as he protested against the hunger he was feeling.
I have never been able, nor am I able now, to describe the emotions that swept over me in those first moments of looking at the child who was to be my ward and this land's too brief-lived glory. I recall the feeling akin to reverence that filled me as I undid the bindings around the bear skin and peeled it away to look at him. He was swaddled in a long, white cloth that was stained and wet with the signs of his discomfort, and as I picked him up and loosened it his howls of outrage grew louder. Shortly thereafter, I held him naked, save for a soiled loincloth, and marvelled at the sturdy strength of him. This tiny, squalling mite was Uther's son, the fact attested to not by his red-gold hair, but by the red dragon crest of Pendragon on the signet ring fastened by a gold chain around his tiny neck. This was my nephew of a kind, blood nephew of my dear, dead wife Cassandra and nephew equally of my faithful friend Donuil, and in his veins, surging in virile potency, ran the pure Roman blood of the families of Publius Varrus and of my own grandfather Caius Britannicus, mingled with the royal Celtic blood of Ullic Pendragon, and of Athol, High King of the Scotii, the Scots of Hibernia. Here, in these minuscule, clenched fists, red face and squalling lungs, was a potential giant, distilled of a truly powerful concoction. A Leader, perhaps, to weld together the strongest elements of the people of this land of Britain. A King, perhaps, to wield Excalibur. In my mind, I clearly heard again the words Publius Varrus had spoken to me upon his deathbed: You'll know the day, and you'll know the man. If he hasn't come before you die, pass the Sword on to someone you can trust. Your own son. You'll know. You've been well taught. And you have learned well. You found the secret of the Lady, Cay, and then the secret of the saddle. You'll find the secret of the King, someday. You'll know him as soon as you set eyes on him. I looked at this small prince and I knew him and I shivered with foreknowledge, recalling another dream of a shining, silver sword piercing a stone.