I would gladly have conversed with him all day, but the need pressed in me once more. Promising to return as soon as possible, I took leave of Avallach and walked to the abbey, glad to be out of the saddle. As I climbed the path from the lakeside, some of the brothers saw me and ran ahead to announce my arrival. I was met and conducted to Abbot Elfodd’s chamber.
“Wait here, please,” the monk said. “The abbot will join you as soon as he is free.”
“Thank you, but—”
The monk was gone before I could stop him. I thought to call him back, but fatigue overwhelmed me and instead I sat down in the abbot’s chair to wait. I had just closed my eyes when I heard the sound of footsteps outside the door.
“Merlin!”
I opened my eyes, stood, and was instantly enfolded in a strong, almost fierce embrace.
6
“YOUR EYES…YOUR BEAUTIFUL eyes,” Charis whispered, tears of happiness spilling freely down her cheeks. “It is true! Jesu be praised, you can see! But how did this happen? Sit down at once, and tell me. I must know. Oh, Merlin, I am glad you are here. What a delightful surprise. Can you stay? No, do not tell me; whether short or long, it makes no difference. You are here now and that is all that matters.”
“I have missed you, Mother,” I murmured. “I did not know how much I had missed you until this moment.”
“How I have longed for you, my Hawk,” Charis said, drawing me to her again. “And now here you are—a prayer answered.”
Charis was, as ever, unchanged—save in small ways only: her hair she wore in the manner of highborn British women, thickly plaited with strands of golden thread woven into the braids; her mantle was dove-gray, simple, long, and utterly lacking any ornament. Slender, regal, she appeared both elegant and mysterious, the stark austerity of her garments enhancing rather than diminishing her royal mien. Her eyes, as they played over my face, were as keen as any inquisitive child’s, and held a strength of authority I had not known before.
She saw that I had noticed the change in her attire, and said, “Your eye is more than keen, Hawk, to see what is no longer there.” She smoothed her mantle with her hands and smiled. “Yes, I dress more humbly now. Many of the people who come to the shrine have so little; they possess nothing—less than nothing, some of them—I do not wish to remind them of their poverty. I could not bear to offend them even by my clothing.”
“He would be a miserable man indeed who found the sight of you offensive,” I replied lightly.
She smiled again. “And why your own drab cloak, my son? I cannot find it fitting to your rank that you array yourself so.”
I spread my hands. “Like you, I find it easier to pass through the world without proclaiming my lineage at every turn. Come, you are tired—”
“I was,” she replied quickly, “but the sight of you has revived me completely. Sit with me. I would hear you tell me all that has passed in Arthur’s court since I last saw you.”
“And I would enjoy nothing more than to spend the day with you,” I replied, “for there is much to tell. But my errand is urgent and I cannot stay one moment longer than necessary. I am sorry. I must return as soon as—”
“Leaving before you have properly arrived!” Both Charis and I turned as the abbot bustled into the room. Elfodd, in his white mantle and green tunic, greeted me warmly. “Welcome, Merlinus! Welcome, good friend. They just told me you had come. Sit, man, you look exhausted.”
“I am pleased to see you again, good abbot. You are flourishing, I see.” He appeared unchanged for the most part—a little plumper perhaps, with more gray in his hair, but the same Elfodd that I remembered. “Charis has told me you are busy as ever.”
“Run off our feet, matins to evensong,” he replied happily. “But we thrive. God is good. We thrive!”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Still—” he grew serious—“it is not so with some who come here. One died last night who was in our care, and two others with the same illness have been found—far gone they were, not even the strength to drag themselves up the hill.”
He regarded me closely, weighing his next words carefully. I felt I knew already what he would say. “Merlinus, it may not be safe for you here. I pray I am mistaken, but it seems very like plague. If so, the one who died last night is but the first of many.”
“Trust me, there will be more,” I told him, and explained the reason for my visit. “I hoped you would know some remedy. That is why I have come.”
“Then Jesu help us all, for there is no remedy,” he answered, shaking his gray head sadly. “The pestilence cannot be contained: it wanders on the wind; like tainted water, it poisons everything. No one is safe.” He grew silent, contemplating the enormity of the predicament looming before him.
“I have been speaking to Paulinus,” Charis began, excitement quickening her speech. “He is well learned in this—”
“Paulinus?” wondered Elfodd—memory broke across his blank features like sunrise. “Oh, praise God, yes! Paulinus! Blessed Jesu, of course. With all the tumult, I had quite forgotten.”
“Paulinus has recently arrived,” Charis began.
“Arrived from Armorica,” the abbot broke in. “He spent some time in south Gaul and, I believe, in Alexandria, where he learned much of healing herbs unknown to us here.”
“They have experience of plague in those places,” Charis said. “We were speaking of this just before you came, Merlin. You must talk to him at once.”
“Foolish servant,” cried Elfodd, “what am I thinking?” He turned on his heel and called out in a loud voice: “Paulinus! Someone bring Paulinus to me at once!”
A monk appeared in the doorway behind him, acknowledged the abbot’s call, and disappeared at a run. Though early morning yet, it was already hot in Elfodd’s cell. “Let us await him in the cloister; it is cooler there.”
We stepped from the closeness of the abbot’s cell out into the colonnaded walkway. A single tree grew in the center of the courtyard, shading the square. The leaves on the tree were dry and drooping for lack of water. “I see we must bring some water from the lake for Joseph’s tree,” Elfodd said absently.
The land is athirst, I thought, and had my thoughts answered by a calm, deep voice which said, “The hammer of the Sun beats upon Earth’s anvil. All that is green shall be brown; all that burns is consumed.”
We turned to see an old, spare, bald-headed man step into the light. His face was lean and brown from many days, perhaps years, in the southern sun. Into my mind came the rejoinder to his quoted scrap of prophecy. “And all who pass through the fire will be purified,” I added, holding his gaze with my own.
“So be it!” the monk said; he inclined his head in deference to Abbot Elfodd, who had summoned him. “Wise Ambrosius, my name is Paulinus. I am at your service.”
He joined us, greeting Elfodd and Charis with simple grace. I saw, to my surprise, that he was much younger than I had first thought. His bald head, and the leathery appearance of his skin, made him look older than his years. But there was no mistaking the youthful intensity of his deep brown eyes. He was dressed in the humble undyed homespun tunic of the monks, but held himself with the bearing of a lord.
“I remember you, brother,” I said, “and need no new introduction.”
“By the Blessed Lamb!” he cried in amazement. “It cannot be! For I was but a lad the only time I saw you, and never a word passed between us.”
I looked on his countenance, and recalled an elderly man helped along by a boy who carried his staff. The man was the aged Dafyd walking out from the Llandaff monastery; the apple-cheeked boy had shaggy dark hair and bright bold eyes—the same eyes that looked at me with such amusement now.
“You were at Llandaff with Dafyd,” I told him. “Were you born there?” I do not know why I asked the question. There are always plenty of children at any monastery; that fact alone possessed no great significance.
“Well you know it!” He laughed. “Saints and a
ngels, I thought I would never leave that place. Ah, but truly, there are times now I wish I never had.”
He laughed again and I realized I had heard that laugh before, and that turn of phrase. Oh, yes, he was a Cymry through and through. “Are you Gwythelyn’s son?”
“One of six, and good men all,” he answered. “To my kinsmen in Dyfed I am Pol ap Gwythelyn. How may I serve you, Myrddin Emrys?”
As Charis had already discussed the possibility with him, I saw no need to soften the blow. “As you know, plague has visited Britain,” I said. “I have come from the High King to learn what may be done.”
Paulinus made the sign of the cross and, raising his hands and face to the sun, he said, “All praise the World Creator, and his Glorious Son, who works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform! Happy am I among men, for many are called but few are chosen, and this day have I been chosen. I am but a tool in the Master’s Hand—yet my destiny shall be fulfilled.”
Elfodd looked on, somewhat astonished by this outburst. Charis regarded him curiously.
“Do I take it you can help us?” I asked.
“All things are possible with God,” Paulinus answered.
“Brother, your piety is laudable. Yet, I would thank you for a straight answer in simple words.”
Paulinus accepted the rebuke with good grace, explaining how he had long questioned the guiding hand which had led him far into foreign lands in search of exotic cures and remedies, yet removed him from contact with the very people who could most benefit from his knowledge. In short, he had begun to feel his effort wasted: that he had mistaken his call.
“I wanted to be a healer,” Paulinus continued. “I feared I had become a scholar instead. That is why I came to Ynys Avallach—the work here is known and respected, even in Gaul. And now God, in his infinite wisdom, has raised up his servant. My years of study will be justified; my gift will be honored. I am ready.” He turned his face to the sun once more, and exclaimed, “Goodly Wise is the Gifting Giver and greatly to be praised! May his wisdom endure forever!”
“So be it!” I cried, to which Charis and Elfodd added a hearty “Amen.” Turning to the abbot, I said, “Elfodd, we must hold council at once. There is much to discuss.”
“Of course,” the abbot agreed. “Let us go to the chapel, where we can speak more privately.”
He turned and I made to follow, but my vision blurred and I swayed on my feet. Charis reached out to steady me. “Merlin!” she cried, her voice sharp with concern. “Are you ill?”
“No,” I replied quickly, lest they think the worst. “I am well, but overtired.”
“You have not eaten since leaving Arthur,” Charis declared, and I was forced to confess it. “Why?” she asked, and answered her own question: “There is trouble in Britain,” she said, “and more than plague only.”
Again, I admitted that she had read the situation aright. “Then come, Hawk,” Charis said. “I am taking you back to the tor at once.”
“It is nothing,” I insisted.
“Elfodd and Paulinus will attend us there,” she said, leading me away.
As I had neither the strength nor will to resist, I gratefully succumbed to her care and allowed myself to be taken to the Glass Isle.
7
AFTER I HAD EATEN SOMETHING and rested a little, the clerics arrived to join Charis and Avallach in deliberation over the predicament before us. We met in the sunwell outside Avallach’s chamber, where a canopy of red cloth had been raised to form a shady place. Chairs were brought and we held council under the awning, as beneath the cloth of a Roman camp tent. This was fitting, for our talk was as momentous as any military campaign, and no less urgent.
“From what you have said,” Paulinus ventured, “I think it safe to say that the disease follows the Vandal fleet. Where their keels touch, the pestilence alights.”
“If that is the way of it,” I said, “I am wondering why the Cymbrogi remain untouched? They have been fighting the barbarian from the first, yet no one has fallen ill. Also,” I pointed out, “the Vandali stormed Ierne before coming to Britain, yet we have heard no word of plague from anyone there.”
The monk considered this carefully. “Then,” he concluded at last, “it must arise from some other source.” Turning to Elfodd, he asked abruptly: “The man who died last night—where was his home?”
“Why, he lived nearby,” the abbot answered, “at Ban Curnig; it lies a little to the west. But he was a farmer. I do not think he had ever been on a ship—or even near one.”
“I see.” Paulinus frowned. “Then I do not know what to say. I have never heard of plague arising anywhere but in a port, and we are a fair distance from the sea.”
We all fell silent, thinking how this mystery might be solved. “What about the others?” I asked after a time. “Two more died; were they farmers as well?”
“I do not know,” Elfodd replied, “and they can tell us nothing now.”
“One of them was a trader,” Charis said. “At least, I assumed so. I have seen a merchant’s purse often enough to know one.”
Avallach stood and summoned one of his servants. After a quick consultation the servant hastened away. “We will soon discover what can be learned from a merchant’s purse.”
“While we wait,” Elfodd suggested to Paulinus, “tell us what you know of this pestilence.” With that, the monk began to relate all he knew of the disease and the various means and methods he had learned for treating the victims. There were herb and plant potions thought to offer some relief; fresh water—that is, water drawn only from swift-running streams—must be maintained for drinking; grain must be roasted before eating, or be thrown away—especially grain tainted by rats; travel must be curtailed, for the disease seemed to spread most freely when men moved unrestrained. The dead must be burned, along with their clothing and belongings and, to be certain, their houses and grainstores too. Fire offered some protection, since once burned out the pestilence rarely returned.
“I will allow you no false hope,” Paulinus warned. “There are several kinds of plague—all are deadly. With the Yellow Ravager, as in war, it is a fight to the death. Many will die, the weak and the old first. That cannot be helped. But the measures I have suggested will be the saving of many.”
The servant returned shortly, bearing a leather bag which he gave to Avallach. “Now then,” said the Fisher King, untying the thongs. He emptied the contents of the bag onto the table before us. Coins spilled out…nothing else.
“I had hoped to find something to tell us whence this trader came,” Avallach said ruefully.
Gazing at the small pile of coins, I saw the glint of silver in the sunlight. Shoving aside the lesser coins, I picked up a silver denarius. Londinium! But of course, that open cesspit could spawn a thousand plagues!
“Grandfather,” I said, holding up the coin, “the bag has spoken most eloquently. See here! The man has lately been in Londinium.”
“How do you know this?” asked Elfodd, greatly amazed.
“Aside from Eboracum, that is the only place he can offer his goods in trade for silver like this.”
“Truly,” added Paulinus, “if he had fallen ill in Eboracum, I think he would have died before ever crossing the Ouse.”
“And,” put in Charis, “Londinium is a port.”
Elfodd nodded, accepting the evidence laid before him. “So, our friend has lately been trading in Londinium and was returning home when he fell ill. How does this help us?”
Paulinus replied, “The city can be warned and sealed off, thereby greatly containing the disease. For it is known that even those who merely pass through a plague city may become ill.”
“Very well,” Elfodd concluded. “Now, to the matter of the curatives—”
“Speak not of curatives,” Paulinus cautioned, “where none exists.”
“Even so,” I replied, “you mentioned elixirs that might offer some relief. How are these to be prepared?”
Paulinus, somber in ligh
t of the daunting prospect before us, replied, “With the ingredients in hand, preparing the potions is simplicity itself.” He laid a finger to his lower lip. “I think…yes, the best I know makes use of a water-loving herb as its chief element. I believe the land here abounds with the very plant required—and the other herbs are easily gathered.”
“We will need a very great quantity,” Charis pointed out.
“The brothers will provide all that is needed,” Abbot Elfodd promised. “We have among us men well skilled in such matters already, and they can teach others. Reaching every settlement and holding will be much more difficult.”
“Leave that to me,” I said. A plan had begun forming in my mind. “Now, Paulinus, you must tell us everything you know about the making of this remedy and its use. Everything,” I stressed, “to the smallest particular, mind, since your directions will be carried to every holding and city in the land.”
Paulinus the reluctant scholar proved an able teacher, as he began describing the process by which the elixir was made and how it should be used for best effect. As he spoke, I found myself admiring the clarity of his disciplined mind. His years of learning were not in the least wasted on him, as he feared. What is more, I could well appreciate his elation at finally hearing the call he had waited so long to answer.
“Of course, it is infinitely better to prevent the illness,” the learned monk concluded. “The small benefit offered by the remedy is useless if the potion is not given at the onset of the fever. With the potion there is small enough possibility of improvement. Without it,” he warned, “nothing can avail, save prayer alone.”
“I understand,” I replied. Turning to Avallach, who had maintained a grim, watchful silence during our discussion, I said, “You will be in danger here. I would have you come to Caer Melyn with me, for the abbey will soon become a haven as well as a hospice.”
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