"I simply never thought of that before, and even so, had I ever thought of such a thing, I would never have imagined that I might... that I might be the one to cause such direct pain to any boy, far less a boy who means as much to me as Arthur does. And yet there's nothing I can do to change it, to change anything. We have to leave this place now, and so does young Morag. It's time for us to go, and the world of men and women cannot wait upon the love of almost children."
The melancholy that I felt at that moment was almost insupportable, but Tress saved me from the depths of it. "You can do much to help him," she said, in a tone that pronounced my anguish to be baseless. Ignoring my philosophical maunderings, she had fastened on the crux of the matter. "You can support him through this pain. You can give him hope."
"How?" I was looking at her keenly now, "Forgive me, Tress, I don't know what you mean. Hope of what? Meeting another such goddess? He never will. Never again another first love."
"No, not another! Hope of seeing Morag again, you silly man. Her father is a king, is he not? Well, so was Arthur's. King's sons wed the daughters of other kings, is that not so? Her uncle, married to her beloved Aunt Salina, is Arthur's uncle, too, and he's another king, in his own right, the king of the Scots. Have you no plans to welcome him to Camulod some day? Well, when he comes, if you invite the lass and play the game with anything approaching wisdom, might not King Brander and his wife bring the fair Morag to visit with them, serving her aunt, as the queen's own attendant? You talk of politics, among your friends— is that not politics, to talk of binding kingdoms and close friendships? Talk about that, then, to Arthur, and see how he responds. But do it now, before he has to leave in the morning with his whole world tumbling about his ears."
I found Arthur in the dining hall, where the tables had already been prepared for supper. He was moping alone in a corner with a mug that I suspected, from the way he straightened up on seeing me and pushed it furtively aside, might be full of ale, or of forbidden, full strength wine. I did not approach him but merely beckoned, crooking my finger at him, and then turned to walk out without waiting to see what he would do. Now that I understood his pain, I also understood his anger and I had no wish to provoke a possible confrontation in such a public place.
I walked slowly and quietly on the cobbled roadway, placing my iron studded boots with care to reduce the noise they made, while I listened for the sounds of him following me. He was there, behind me, and I slowed even more, waiting for him to catch up to me. And then I heard Connor calling my name and I cursed quietly, even as I turned to wave and greet him. He and Brander and some others would be gathering after the evening meal, he told me, to say their mutual farewells over a jug of ale or a beaker of mead, and he hoped that I would join them. As Arthur came up beside me I reached out and gripped him gently by the back of the neck, and I told Connor that I would be glad to join them and that Arthur, too, might come along with me.
We were going to talk now, I said, about an errand he must do for me the following day, but we would meet everyone at dinner and proceed from there.
Tressa was absent when we reached my quarters, but she had lit a fire in the brazier before leaving and it was evident that she had left only moments earlier. I waved Arthur to a seat and crossed directly to the carved chest that contained my mead.
"Will you drink some mead with me?"
He stared at me as if he thought I had lost my wits. He might have tasted mead before this night, but never in my company. The rule we had was simple and absolute: mead was for adults, as was wine. Boys might drink ale—one cup, no more—with dinner. Otherwise they drank water, infrequently mixed with a modicum of wine, for flavour, and occasionally they drank milk and the juice of crushed fruit when it was in season. Now I was offering him mead, in my own quarters, and I was sure the significance of that would not escape him for long.
Finally he nodded, very slowly and judiciously, evidently fearing to appear to be too eager. I poured him the same measure that I poured for myself and carried it to where he sat. He took it and watched me warily as I sat down across from him and raised my cup, saluting Bacchus in the ancient way. He pursed his lips and savoured the liquor cautiously, as though afraid of what it might do to him. Perhaps I had been wrong, I thought. Perhaps this too, like Morag, was a first.
"Well, what do you think? Your Aunt Shelagh made it. " He had not said a single word since I found him, and I would have been prepared to wager that he had not, in fact, spoken since he left Tressa, in the street, an hour and more before. Now he nodded again, sucking at his cheeks.
"It's very sweet," he said, his voice pitched low. "But fiery. It catches at the throat. Makes you want to cough."
"Aye, but if you sip it, you'll find you can handle it and the urge to cough will pass." I looked into my cup. "Drink it too fast, or drink too much of it, you'll feel the urge to vomit, and that one is irresistible. Then, after that, depending on how much you've had, you'll think you're going to die, and if you've had too much, you'll sometimes wish you could die." I spoke slowly, overemphasizing certain words, hoping the humour of it might encourage him to smile, but he was too far gone in his self absorbed tragedy. I decided to be direct.
'Tell me about Morag."
He flinched as though I had hit him. "What? Who?"
I sighed elaborately, gesturing with my cup. "Arthur, that is mead. It is the drink of men. I gave it to you freely, as a man. Now, I believe, we need to talk as men, about the girl Morag and the parting I have thrust on you today. I know that you and she are in love—"
"How can you know that?" His challenge was sharp edged and defensive.
I raised my eyebrows. "Tress told me."
"And how could she know such a thing?"
"Because, my bold young cousin, she's a woman. Women do know such things. No man can hope to fool them, not for long, at least."
I stopped short. His eyes were frantic, filled with panic and with shame, fixed on some point beyond my shoulder, and his entire body was straining as though he meant to leap to his feet and run out into the night again. My heart went out to him in his needless agony.
"Arthur," I said, keeping my voice pitched low. "Look at me. Look me in the eye, Arthur." My words sank home to him and he looked at me directly, his face pale, the knuckles of his hand bone white with the pressure he was exerting on the cup he clutched. I nodded towards that. "That cup is hard fired clay, but you're about to break it. " His face flickered with doubt, and he looked down at his hand, and then, after the space of three heartbeats, the hand relaxed and he began to stoop, to place the beaker on the floor.
"No, don't do that, " I said. 'Take another sip. "
He did, and I watched his eyes, locked on my own, above the rim of the cup. He lowered the cup and swallowed, convulsively, fighting the urge to cough, but the panic was gone now from his eyes.
"Good. Now what is so dreadful about Tressa knowing how you feel for Morag?"
He shuddered, perhaps from the mead. "I... I didn't think it was so obvious. Didn't know everyone knew. "
"Everyone didn't know. I certainly did not, for if I had I would have made allowances and warned you what must happen, given you the chance to prepare yourself for this parting in advance, you and the. girl. I hope you can see that? I had no idea you felt so strongly about Morag until Tress belaboured me for my blindness. Yet I watch you all the time. So if I didn't know, then no one else knew either, among the men. If they had, they surely would have let me know, probably in jest. The women knew, but women never jest about such things as sweet young girls and brave young men in love... unless they're jealous, and then that's merely spite. So be at peace... " I allowed that to sink into his mind before I continued. "Besides, why should you feel shame? A man's love is the dearest thing in his heart, whether it be given to a woman, or to a shining cause, or to a strongly held ideal—and the love of a good woman is all three of those. Where is the shame in that, in knowing such a love, in being thus fulfilled? Love that's shared and returned is a cause for pride, Arthur. It makes towering giants out of ordinary men and gentle gods out of towering giants. Have you heard one word of what I've said?"