Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley [27]
“They do,” said Uther, laughing, “they have put upon him the old legend from time out of mind, of the king who was and the king who will come again to save his people when the need is dire. Why, if I could find such a sword as that, I could myself go into the hills of my country and raise as many legions as I wanted.”
“Perhaps,” said Ectorius somberly, “that is what we need, a king out of legend. If the king come, the sword will not be far to seek.”
“Your priest would say,” the Merlin said evenly, “that the only king who was and is and will be, is their Christ in Heaven, and that, following in his holy cause, you need no other.”
Ectorius laughed, a short harsh laugh. “Christ cannot lead us into battle. Nor—I intend no blasphemy, my lord King—would the soldiers follow a banner of the Prince of Peace.”
“Perhaps we should find a king who will put them in memory of the legends,” Uther said, and silence fell in the room. Igraine, who had never listened before to the councils of men, could still read enough thoughts to know what they were all hearing in the silence: the knowledge that the High King who sat before them now would not live to see another summer. Which of them would sit in his high seat, next year at this time?
Ambrosius leaned his head against the back of his chair, and that was Lot’s signal to say, in his eager jealous voice, “You are weary, sire; we have tired you. Let me call your chamberlain.”
Ambrosius smiled gently at him. “I will rest soon enough, cousin, and long enough—” but even the effort of speech was too much for him and he sighed, a long, shaking sound, letting Lot help him from the table. Behind him the men broke up into groups, talking, arguing in low tones.
The man called Ectorius came to join Gorlois. “My lord of Orkney loses no opportunity to plead his case, and disguise it as thoughtfulness for the King—now we are the evil men who have wearied Ambrosius and will shorten his life.”
“Lot does not care who is named High King,” Gorlois said, “so that Ambrosius has no opportunity to state his preference, by which many of us—I among them, I may as well tell you, Ectorius—would be bound.”
Ectorius said, “How not? Ambrosius has no son and cannot name an heir, but his wish must guide us, and he knows it. Uther is far too eager for the purple of a Caesar to suit me, but all in all he is better than Lot, so if it should come to a choice of sour apples . . .”
Gorlois nodded, slowly. “Our men will follow Uther. But the Tribes, Bendigeid Vran and that crew, they will not follow any man so Roman as that; and we need the Tribes. They would follow Orkney—”
“Lot has not the stuff to make a High King,” Ectorius said. “Better we lose the support of the Tribes than the support of the entire countryside. Lot’s way is to split everyone up into warring factions so that only he has the confidence of all. Paugh!” He spat. “The man’s a snake and that’s all there is to it.”
“And yet he’s persuasive,” Gorlois said. “He has brains, and courage, and imagination—”
“So has Uther. And whether or not Ambrosius gets the chance to say so formally, Uther’s the man he wants.”
Gorlois set his teeth grimly and said, “True. True. I’m in honor bound to do Ambrosius’ will. Yet I wish his choice had fallen on a man whose moral character matched his courage and his leadership. I don’t trust Uther, and yet—” He shook his head, glanced at Igraine. “Child, this can be of no possible interest to you. I will have