Free The Road to Avalon by Joan Wolf Page B

thick straight hair was his own, as were the eyes and the brows. But the face . . . It was as if a blade turned in Uther’s heart. The fine-boned, beautiful face that was looking back at him with such disciplined immobility was Igraine’s.
    “You will be king before the year is out,” he said to that still face. “Are you ready?”
    The boy’s discipline was equal to the challenge. His gray eyes met his father’s and did not look away. “I don’t know,” Arthur said. “I have not quite adjusted yet to my new . . . identity.”
    His voice was cool and clear and edged with faint irony. He made no pretense of concern for his father. Fair enough, Uther thought heavily. Aloud he said only, “Merlin says you are ready. He told me you were ready last year, but I did not want to move prematurely. I wanted to keep you safe for as long as possible.”
    There was the faintest glimmer of derision in Arthur’s gray eyes before he lowered his lashes to conceal them. “I see,” he said politely.
    Uther closed his hands over the chair arms to conceal their trembling. “You do not need to tell me that you should have been reared as a prince, not hidden away at Avalon for all these years,” he said harshly. “But it was for your own safety, Arthur.”
    “Oh, I understand, my lord.” The gray eyes were once again on Uther’s face. “And I was quite content . . . at Avalon.”
    The boy could use his voice like a weapon, Uther thought. Its cool, clear tone was so respectful on the surface, so full of contempt in its undernotes.
    Uther answered the unspoken challenge. “This is not an apology,” he said. “There is no apology that can be made for what happened when you were a child.” The expression that flickered like lightning across the boy’s face caused Uther to tighten his hands to fists on the chair. He forced himself to continue evenly. “But I will explain why I did as I did.”
    He drew a long, steadying breath. “Did Merlin tell you how you were born? That Igraine and I had been married but three months?”
    Arthur nodded. He was looking white about the lips and nostrils. Uther continued. “Then you know there was always the possibility of questions being raised about your paternity. Igraine had been married to Gorlois. The kings of Britain would never have accepted Gorlois’ son as their high king. Too many of them considered themselves of greater importance than a mere Duke of Cornwall.
    “At the time, you understand, there was no reason to suppose Igraine and I would not have more sons.”
    The boy’s head was bent, the thick black hair had fallen forward to screen his face, but Uther could see that he was listening intently. “I knew you were my son,” he continued soberly. “I cannot pretend that I did not. But it was the politic thing to remove you from the position of heir and put in your place a child whose birth was unblemished. You must understand, Arthur, that Britain could not survive a civil war. In order to fight the Saxons, we must be united.
    “I did not act as a father, I acted as a king.
    “Nor do I think I was wrong in what I did. What was wrong was to leave you without adequate knowledge of how you were faring. I knew Malwyn would take good care of you. She loved you as if you were truly her own. But I did not check. I did not know that she had died and that her brother had the keeping of you. In this I was grievously at fault. I wish I had it all to do again. But I do not.”
    The effort this speech had taken was almost beyond Uther’s strength. He leaned back in his chair now, exhausted. Very briefly he closed his eyes. When he opened them again it was to find his son regarding him with a faint frown.
    “Are you all right, my lord? May I pour you some wine?”
    “Yes,” said Uther. “Thank you, Arthur.” He willed his hand not to shake as he took the goblet from the boy. He drank off half the cup, then leaned back again. “When it became clear that Igraine and I were to