Dangerous Heritage
by Gabriele Campbell

Photograph © Gabriele Campbell.

The old song echoed in his mind.

The young man looked over the sea whipped up by an oncoming storm. Grey waves thundered against the cliff, showering him with their spray. Strong wind blew his dark hair back and made his eyes water. Eyes of a strange blue, not the green-brown of the other members of his family.

One day, he would have his revenge.

He went back into the Brough of Birsay, the ancient seat of his family, looking at the banner of King Loth of the Innsi Orc flowing atop the rough-hewn stone tower. As he entered the yard, no one came to greet him; his younger brothers, Gabhain and Agarwyn, were down in the south, respected members of the warband of the High King of Britain.

His father? His brothers? He had felt suspicions before. He was so unlike them. But they were only suspicions, strange feelings, not even acknowledged by himself most of the time.

But now he knew.

His mother told him this afternoon. His mother Morghaínn, daughter of the Merlin. Morghaínn, beautiful and dangerous; a sorceress, as many said. He remembered every word that kindled the flame of revenge in him.

"Mordhred, my son," she had said in her clear voice. "Have you never wondered why the king has not asked you to join his warband, as he asked your brothers?"

It was true, he had wondered. Slowly, he nodded.

"Oh, there is a reason," Morghaínn said in a low voice that was entreating in a strange way. "There is a reason. It was at king Arthur's coronation. I was young, then. Arthur was young, too, and king. The men treated him with respect, and most of the young ladies tried to gain his attention. But he danced mostly with me, spoke with me. I was flattered. In the night, the door to my chamber opened."

She paused. Mordhred stared at her, held by her eyes, deep and black like some of the lakes on the mainland.

"It was Arthur," she continued. "He came into my bed. ... I was a virgin, a priestess, daughter of the Merlin. I told him it could not be."

Again, she paused. Mordhred felt himself to begin to tremble.

"He only laughed and said such a pretty girl would be wasted as priestess. He was stronger than I ..."

She closed her eyes. Mordhred held his breath.

After a while she said in a cold voice. "When he was finished, he told me if I bore a son I should sent him to court to be reared there. He laughed again. Later I was married to Loth who adopted you. But you are Arthur's son."

"Arthur's son," Mordhred whispered, "Arthur's son." And then realisation dawned. Heir of the king, heritor of the kingdom. Arthur's marriage with Guenhymar had never been blessed with offspring.

"Arthur's son and heir," his mother replied. "You have his eyes."

"But why has he never sent for me as he promised?"

"He is afraid to face his guilt."

Morghaínn rose and stood like a queen not of this world, her crimson robe alive like blood streaming from a wound. A raven croaked in the distance.

"I will go to Camelot," Mordhred said.

Morghaínn nodded and moved he slender, white hands in an ancient gesture of blessing.

The fishermen who rowed Mordhred to the mainland glanced at him. Never before had the oldest son of king Loth been so serious. He used to exchange witty remarks with them, he used to take his turn at the oars, laughing when the waves rose high, measuring his strength with the elements. But this time he sat in the bow, silent, his handsome face set.

"So, ye're goin' to king Arthur to join his warband?" one of the men asked.

Mordhred only nodded.

"Yer brothers will be glad to see ye, I s'ppose."

"I think so." The young man unsheathed his sword and began to sharpen the blade. He was going to Camelot, yes, but not to join the king's warband.

~ *** ~

King Arthur greeted him as cousin, though a shadow passed his face at the first sight of the young man. Mordhred said he came to visit his brothers, and the king offered him the hospitality of Camelot as long as he wanted to stay.

Gabhain and Agarwyn were glad to see him, asked for news of their father and mother and told about the life at the king's court. They sat in the great hall of Camelot, wrapped in woolen cloaks against the cold emanating from the stone walls and the paved floor. Weapons and targes adorned the walls, but only a single tapestry showing a stag hunt in bright colours, hung behind the king's seat. The brazier in the middle of the round table could not keep the cold away. Torches cast their flickering light.

"You should see the horses," Gabhain said.

"Yes, with them we are invincible," Agarwyn joined in. "They are so much stronger than the poor ruffled creatures we have on the Innsi Orc.

"I'd like to see them. I might even try to ride one," Mordhred replied smiling.

"You'll fall off," Gabhain said.

"No, he won't. He is our brother, he is a born rider."

Mordhred took a deep breath and looked at Arthur sitting at the other side of the unpolished wooden table.

"Is the king a good rider?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"Arthur. Oh yes. He's the best. Bedwyr is good, too. But Caius is a footslogger, no doubt." Agarwyn greeted the men with his rised goblet. Arthur and the blond man at his right side returned the gesture.

"The fair-haired one is Bedwyr, and the Roman-looking fellow Caius, I take it," Mordhred said.

Gabhain nodded. "Bedwyr leads the horsemen, and Caius commands the shieldwall. They aren't overly fond of each other, but in war they're a most effective pair." He tapped Mordhred on the shoulder. "Take Arthur as an example how a king has to be. And when you will be king of the Innsi Orc, our sons will lead your warband."

"And where do you think our sons will come from?" Agarwyn said.

"Well, there is Eris, and a certain Islena." Gabhain grinned broadly.

"A certain Islena. All right, I give in." Both burst into a fit of hilarity.

Mordhred sat silent.

~ *** ~

He had not forgotten. The love of his half-brothers, the comradeship of the men could not alter his resolution. The days of pleasure at the king's court could not distract his thoughts.

But then Arthur spoke to him. "Mordhred, I want you to fight at my side in this war." The king laid his hand on the younger man's shoulder and said in a gentle but entreating voice. "Cousin, I need you."

Mordhred felt Arthur's hand trembling. "My king, I will fight at your side."

They looked at each other for a moment, blue eyes meeting blue eyes.

That night, Mordhred dreamed. He beheld Morghaínn, dressed in her blood-red cloak, standing at the cliff near the brough. Ravens circled her. And he heard the old song.

He awoke, covered with cold sweat. The song still echoed in his mind.

The host rode forth in the morning. Mordhred guided his horse at the side of Gabhain and Agarwyn. Their laughter gaily rose into the clear sky. The air smellded fresh after the rain of the night, intoxicating them. They were young, they were strong, and they rode into battle. For moments, Mordhred got captured by their spirit, but then memories returned, and he fell silent.

Arthur rode at the side of Bedwyr; they were engaged in serious conversation. Arthur beckoned Mordhred to him. "How do you like your horse?" he said in a kind tone.

"It is a wonderful animal," Mordhred replied, reining in the restive stallion. "My king, it was a most generous gift."

"He will bear you well in battle. Have you ever fought before?"

"I fought the Irish raiders that sometimes harry our coast, but never in a battle yet."

"The Saxons are more than marauders, alas. They come to stay."

Mordhred stayed at the king's side. Arthur told about former campaigns against the Saxons, about their way of fighting. Mordhred learned more in that hour than in all the days of listening to the men boasting about how many of the flaxen-haired devils they had killed.

But the honour of his mother and his own birthright stood between the king and him.

In the night, the dream returned: Morghaínn, standing at the cliff, the wind billowing her blood-red cloak. This time she turned her regard towards him. Her black eyes were sad. Ravens circled her, shrieking hoarsely. Again, he heard the old song.

Next day, about noon, they fell in with the vanguard of the Saxon host. Mordhred fought at the side of his king and father, protected Arthur's back from the stroke of a Saxon axe. The surviving Saxons fled.

Arthur dismounted among the bodies of the fallen and opened his arms towards Mordhred. "Cousin, you saved my life. I am deeply in your debt."

After a moment's hesitation, Mordhred alighted from his horse and went into the embrace. He shivered.

"Are you wounded?" the king asked, his voice full of concern.

"No, I'm fine."

"Mordhred, I should have done that long before," Arthur said in a low voice. "Kneel down and swear the oath of fealty. You deserve to be a member of my warband. You deserve it more than many others."

"My king," the young man whispered. He closed his eyes for a moment; then he slowly sank to one knee, his head bowed; long, dark hair covering his face.

"Bear Thee witness," Arthur announced to the men in a clear voice. "Herewith I accept Mordhred of the Innsi Orc as my sworn man." He drew his sword Caledhvalc and offered the hilt to Mordhred who laid his hand on the ancient weapon.

Slowly and with effort, Mordhred spoke the formula. "On this weapon I swear fealty to my lord, Arthur High King of all Britain, to serve him in action and in mind, to follow him in the country and out of it and never to leave him without permission. May the Gods of Light and Sky, and the Ruler of the Underworld protect me as I will remain faithful to my word, and punish me should I fail."

Mordhred remained in his kneeling postion until the king raised him. Tears gleamed in Mordhred's eyes.

Gabhain and Agarwyn came rushing towards him. "Brother, now you are one of us!" They tapped his shoulders. "You will stay in Camelot. Leave those boring old Innsi Orc to our mother to govern." Agarwyn called for mead. All three emptied a tankard each in one go.

Arthur watched them, a smile on his lips, when Caius approached him. "Do you know Mordhred takes lesson in Saxon from one of the slaves?" he whispered.

Arthur bit his nails. "He might do so in order to be at use in negotiations."

"But why has he not told you?"

"Caius," Arthur said slowly, "I trust him. He is ...." He broke off.

The other man shrugged his shoulders. "I have warned you." He left.

Arthur looked after him, but his gaze soon returned to Mordhred and his brothers.

~ *** ~

Mordhred left the camp and ascended a nearby hill. There he stood, inhaling the air bringing with it a faint breeze from the sea. A smell of home and peace.

But home and peace were lost for him. He had sworn an oath of allegiance to the man he was going to kill. Not only a parricide, a traitor he would be, traitor to king and country. He was doomed. He liked the man Arthur. He admired the king. But the honour of his mother and his own birthright stood between them.

Mordhred looked over the land stretching before him; fields and pastures in different shades of green, and in the distance the misty shore of the sea. A darker line to the left pronounced the wood where the host camped. A flash of light on the heath-covered downs to the right, caught Mordhred's eyes. He watched more attentively. Another sparkle. The reflection of the sun upon a polished surface. A spearhead? Yes, it was the Saxons.

For a long time Mordhred remained standing on the hilltop, the wind playing with his hair. He wept.

Twilight was setting in when he returned. The men, knowing his strange moods, did not ask any questions.

Hours later the fires burned low, but still Mordhred sat there, staring into the flames. An image formed in the eerie light. Morghaínn, standing at the cliff in her red cloak. Her black eyes gleamed like a brazier in the darkness. Ravens shrieked hoarsely. Their cries blended with the old song.

Mordhred shook his head. Were there ravens near the camp? No, everything was silent. The men slept.

He rose and walked towards the river. Bedwyr stood guard, but let him pass. He marched on into the darkness, guided by an invisible force.

Once, he turned his glance. The encampment lay far behind. Only a dim red glow shone through the trees. He could sense the warmth and shelter it offered him. You can still return, a voice said in his mind.

But the song of revenge was stronger.

Mordhred walked up the downs and beheld the Saxon bivouac on the other side. Moonlight reflected on the river. Something rustled in the dry heather, and a shadow appeared before Mordhred; gleaming steel pointed at him. "Who are you?" a harsh voice said in Saxon.

"A man of King Arthur," Mordhred replied in the same language.

The shadow laughed. "You are far from your king's camp."

"I know," Mordhred said, his voice calm. "I want to speak with Kuning Cerdic.

"What do you want from him?"

"That does only concern Cerdic and me."

The man for a moment looked a the sky where the moon appeared between the clouds. "Come," he said.

They half-walked, half-sled down the slope until they reached the first fires. The man took a torch from one of the sentinels and held it so it illuminated his square-jawed face with steel-blue eyes, a drooping moustache and braided fair hair. "I am Cerdic."

"I see," Mordhred pretended to ignore a dozen spears pointing at him.

"Now, tell me what you want."

"Revenge."

Cerdic's eyes widened. "Upon Arthur?"

"I'm his natural son," Mordhred said in a low voice. "But he won't acknowldege me." His hand rested on the swordhilt.

"Arthur's son." Cerdic twirled a braid around his forefinger, staring at the fire.

"I want to fight at your side; I want to fight ... Arthur," Mordhred said.

A woman approached them, dressed in a crimson gown; with hair like finely spun gold and eyes like deep blue lakes. Modhred shivered. This woman radiated power and something familiar which Mordhred could not name. He trembled.

"Rowena, my wife," Cerdic said.

Mordhred bowed. A raven croaked in the distance. Mordhred took a deep breath and looked the woman into the eyes. No, he told himself, this is Rowena, not my dream.

"Accept Mordhred's offer," she announced in a deep voice.

"You will fight a my side." Cerdic held out his hand which Mordhred took.

A half-smile appeared on Rowena's lips that did not reach her eyes. "Arthur will die tomorrow," she murmured.

Mordhred's hand still grasped his sword; he felt a lump in his throat choking him.

~ *** ~

The hosts met at noon. Saxons came running down the brown hills, Arthur's men emerged from the woods. Thousands of booted feet trampled down the green grain, thousands of hooves thundered across the meadows, throwing up lumps of mud. Clouds raced on the sky, and the gulls fled to the sea.

And in the middle of the commotion, the clashing of steel against steel, the cries, the smell of blood, they found each other. Arthur and Mordhred, father and son. Blue eyes bore into blue eyes, tears streamed down their cheeks.

Both blinked the tears away and lifted their swords. Their blades met, the clanging sounded clear in the air. They brought their swords up again, thrusted at each other, blocked their opponent's weapons, took a step back and swung again, the impact of their movements carrying them on. They were of equal strength and skill, and the fight lasted long. But Mordhred was younger, Arthur began to tire. Finally, Mordhred launched a violent attack that disarmed the king. Arthur stumbled back.

Mordhred thrusted his blade forth, his eyes closed. Morghaínn, her crimson robe alive like blood streaming from a wound, standing at the cliff. Her black eyes burned in a flame of triumph. Ravens croaked their wild song.

Mordhred opened his eyes. Near him, ravens were beginning to feed on the dead. The sound of battle faded into the distance.

Arthur had sunk onto the wet ground, his son's sword potruding from his chest.

Mordhred knelt down at his side.

Slowly, Arthur opened his eyes. "Why?" he whispered, his voice horase with exhaustion.

"You have raped my mother, and refused me my birthright." Mordhred's voice was calm. With the blood streaming from his father's wound, his hatred died.

"The truth is, she seduced me, and too late I learned that she is my half-sister, she who was fostered far from me." The king spoke haltingly. "I could not acknowledge you. I wish there would have been a way. I should have told you the truth, but I was afraid to awake the shadows of the past." Arthur closed his eyes, a tear trickled down his cheek.

And Mordhred held his father's head supported against his shoulder and said in a low and comforting voice. "You gave me as much as you could, my king and father."

"Mordhred, my son," Arthur whispered. He looked at the handsome face of the young man now turned pale, and into his blue eyes veiled by tears. "Don't weep for me. I die in battle as befitting a king." The shadow of a smile appeared on the king's lips.

Mordhred groped for the sword Caledhvalc in the blood-stained grass and offered the hilt to his father.

Arthur took it, feebly at first, then his grasp became stronger. He looked at his son.

Mordhred said in an almost formal tone. "My king I have forsworn my oath. I have abandoned the land to the enemy. I am a traitor and I deserve death."

Arthur rose onto an elbow, and Mordhred knelt before him, baring his chest. "Farewell, my king and father. I will atone."

"My son, you are forgiven." With that, Arthur in a last effort stabbed Mordhred.

The last he saw was the vision of his mother. She closed her eyes. The ravens fell silent, the old song died.

The battle was over, the Saxons were driven back across the river. But Cerdic escaped.

In the evening, the Merlin came and walked over the battlefield. When he beheld the bodies of Arthur and Mordhred, he understood. The Merlin took his cloak off and gently spread it over the dead king.

Thus ended the Battle at Camlann. But legend still lives in the mind of men, legend about the battle that at one day bereft Britain of both its king and the heir to the kingdom.

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