Uther and Igraine/Book 4/10
X 

SIX days had passed. Once more the sun had tossed night from the sky, and kindled hope in the hymning east. The bleak wilderness barriered by sea and crag had mellowed into the golden silence of autumnal woods. The very trees seemed tongued with prophetic flame. The world like a young lover leapt radiant out of the dawn. 

Through the reddened woods rode Uther the King with Merlin silent at his side. Gloom still reigned on the gaunt, strong face, and there was no lustre in the eyes that challenged ever the lurking shade of death. Six nights and six days had the quest been baffled. Near and far armour glimmered in the reddened sanctuaries of the woods. Not a trumpet brayed, though the host had scattered in search of a woman's face. 

At the seventh dawn the trees drew back before the King, where the shimmering waters of a river streaked the meads. Peace dwelt there, and a calm eternal, as of the Spirit that heals the throes of men. Rare and golden lay the dawn-light on the valley. The song of birds came glad and multitudinous as in the burgeoning dawn of a glorious May. 

Uther had halted under a great oak. His head was bare in the sun-steeped shadows; his face was as the face of one weary with long watching under the voiceless stars. Hope, like a dewless rose, drooped shaken and thirsty with desire. Great dread possessed him. He dared not question his own soul. 

A horn sounded in the woods, wild, clamorous and exultant. It was as the voice of a prophet cleaving the despair of a godless world. Even the trees stood listening. Far below in the green shadows of the valley a horseman moved brilliant as a star that portents the conception of a king. 

Uther's eyes were on the horseman in the valley.  

"I am even as a child," he said. 

Merlin's lips quivered. 

"The dawn breaks, sire, the night is past. Tidings come to us. Let us ride on." 

Uther seemed sunk in thought; he bowed his head, and looked long into the valley. 

"Am I he who slew Gorlois?" 

"Courage, sire." 

"My blood is as water, my heart as wax. Death and destiny are over my head." 

"Speak not of destiny, sire, and look not to the skies. In himself is man's power. Thou hast broken the crucifix. Now trust thine own soul. So long as thou didst serve a superstition, thou didst lose thy true heaven." 

"And yet--" 

"Thou hast played the god, sire, and the Father in heaven must love thee for thy strength. God loves the strong. He will let thee rule destiny, and so prosper." 

"Strange words!" 

"But true. Were I God, should I love the priest puling prayers in a den? Nay, that man should be mine who moved godlike in the world, and strangled fate with the grip of truth. Great deeds are better than prayers. See! it is young Tristan who comes." 

The horseman in the valley had swept at a gallop through a sea of sun-bronzed fern. He was a young knight on a black horse, caparisoned in green and gold. A halo of glistening curls aureoled his boyish face; his eyes were full of a restless radiance, the eyes of a man whose heart was troubled. He sprang from the saddle, and leading his horse by the bridle, kissed the scabbard of Uther's sword. 

"Tidings, sire." 

"Tristan, I listen." 

The knight looked for a moment into the King's face, but dared not abide the trial. There was such a stare of desperate calm in the dark eyes, that the lad's courage  whimpered, and quailed from the truth. He hung his head, and stood mute. 

"Tristan, I listen." 

"Sire--" 

"My God, man, speak out!" 

"Sire--" 

"The truth." 

"She lives, sire!" 

A great silence fell within the hearts of the three, in ecstasy of silence such as comes after the wail of a storm. Merlin stroked his lip, and smiled, the smile of one who dreams. The King's face was as the face of one who thrusts back hope out of his soul. He sat rigid on his horse, a scarlet image fronting Fate, grim-eyed and steadfast. There were tears in the eyes of Tristan the knight. 

"What more?" 

Tristan leant against his horse, his arm hooked over the brute's neck. 

"In the valley, sire, is a sanctuary ; you can see it yonder by the ford. Two holy women dwell therein. To them, sire, I commend you." 

"You know more!" 

"Sire, spare me. The words are for women's lips, not for mine." 

"So be it." 

The three rode on in silence; Merlin and Tristan together, looking mutely in each other's faces. Uther's chin was bowed on his breast. The reins lay loose on his horse's neck. 

A grey cell of unfaced stone showed amid the green boughs beyond the water. At its door stood a woman in a black mantle. A cross hung from her neck, and a white kerchief bound her hair. She stood motionless, half in the shadow, watching the horsemen as they rode down to the rippling ford. 

Autumn had touched the sanctuary garden, and the King's eyes beheld ruin as he climbed the slope. The woman had  come from the cell, and now stood at the wicket-gate, with her hands folded as in prayer. Tristan took Uther's bridle. The King went on foot alone to speak with the anchoress. 

"Sire," she said, kneeling at his feet, "God save and comfort you." 

The man's brow was twisted into furrows. His right hand clasped his left wrist. He looked over the woman's head into the woods, and breathed fast through clenched teeth. 

"Speak," he said. 

"Sire, the woman lives." 

"I can bear the truth." 

The anchoress made the sign of the cross. 

"She came to us, sire, here in this valley, a tall lady, with golden hair loose upon her neck. Her feet were bare and bleeding, her robe rent with thorns. And as she came, she sang wild snatches, such as tell of love. We took her, sire, and gave her meat and drink, bathed her torn feet, and gave her raiment. So, she abode with us, gentle and lovely, yet speaking like one who had suffered, even to death. And yet, even as we slept, she stole away from us last night, and now is gone." 

The woman had never so much as lifted her eyes to the man's face. Her hands held her crucifix, and she was pale as new-hewn stone. 

"And is this all?" 

The man's voice trembled in his throat; his face shone in the sun. 

"Not all sire." 

"Say on." 

The anchoress had buried her face in her black mantle; her voice was husky as with tears. 

"Sire, you seek one bereft of reason." 

"Mad!" 

"Alas!" 

"My God, this then is the end!"