by Mike Ashley
He urged his horse forward along a path that skirted the fields and came to a small copse beyond which granite buildings rose and from which a growing pillar of smoke ascended. Myrddin recognized the grey austerity of the building at once. It was a Christian abbey. Before it stood a high granite cross, a cross surrounded by a circle, marking the intermix of the new faith with the old, for the Druids held to the eternal circle of life and such was their symbol.
He rode up to the great wooden doors and, without dismounting, he tugged at a rope, sending the clamour of a bell echoing beyond the walls.
There was a pause. Then a small aperture in the door swung open, no bigger than that necessary to frame a pair of eyes which examined him curiously.
“What is it you seek, stranger?”
“Hospitality and shelter for this night,” replied Myrddin.
“Are you Briton or Saxon?”
Myrddin raised an eyebrow.
“Is it not the custom of our people, and therefore Christians, to offer hospitality to all?”
The person behind the door sniffed.
“You must be a stranger to these parts to think so, warrior. You are in the kingdom of Gereint of Dumnonia and Dumnonia is assailed by the warriors of Cynric of the West Saxons. Never a day goes by without news of some devastation on our borders. Though you be a stranger, however, you have the accent of a Briton.”
“I am from . . .” He hesitated as he remembered the Venerable Fychan had warned him not to reveal his ancient faith to any Christian. “From beyond the western mountains. I am not a Saxon, that I assure you.”
“Then you may freely enter and be welcome.”
The aperture slammed shut and a moment later the gate opened allowing him to nudge his horse forward into a courtyard. The gate slammed shut behind him as he swung off his horse. A stable-boy came to him and took the reins while Myrddin turned to the gatekeeper. She stood revealed as a middle-aged woman, clad in the robes of a religieuse, and wearing a silver crucifix around her neck.
“What place is this, good sister?” Myrddin asked, remembering how one addressed those of the Christian orders.
“This is a house dedicated to the blessed Elen and is known as Llanelen, in Dumnonia. It was the blessed Elen who brought the True Faith to the people of these western lands. Come, I will take you to our Mother Abbess.”
Myrddin did not protest. Apart from some boys and a few men, who were performing such tasks as were unsuited for the hands of women, he could see no other men about the courtyard. There were, however, many religieuses in their robes. He deduced that the abbey was a Christian religious house for women only. He had heard of such places.
The female gatekeeper led the way through the towering building, along a cloister, to a door upon which she knocked. A voice bade her enter.
“A stranger has appeared asking for asylum, Mother,” announced his guide, standing in the doorway so that he could not peer into the room beyond.
“Briton or Saxon?” demanded a woman’s voice.
“Briton.”
“Bid him enter.”
Myrddin found himself in a small dark room lit by a burning brand torch. A woman was seated in a chair and beckoned him to approach.
“Who are you?”
“I am named Myrddin from behind the western mountains.”
“You are welcome to Llanelen. I am the Abbess Aldan. Do you seek refuge for the night?”
“I do.” Myrddin took a pace forward, so that he stood by the light of a torch.
He became aware of a soft intake of breath from the woman called Abbess Aldan. She leaned forward in her chair and seemed to be examining his features closely.
“Is there anything wrong?” he demanded.
The abbess seemed to catch herself and then shook her head.
“No. No.” Her voice was slightly breathless. “I thought . . . you reminded me of someone I knew long ago. No matter. Sister Rhinwedd here will show you to your room. We dine within the hour.”
When Myrddin left the Abbess Aldan he had the impression that she was in a state of some consternation but he could not fathom a reason why.
He was shown to a small room, a cubiculum, so Sister Rhinwedd called it, where he washed and took the dust and fatigue of travel from his person and his clothes. Then a distant bell started to chime and he reasoned it was the summons to the evening meal. Outside his cubiculum he merely followed the religieuses who were heading towards a single point which was surely the refectory room of the abbey.
Inside the room were two long wooden tables before which the sisters of Llanelen stood. At the far end of the room at a cross angle to the two long tables was another table at which the Abbess Aldan and a young girl were seated. Sister Rhinwedd came bustling forward and led him to this table.
“You are a guest,” she whispered, “and may be seated next to our abbess at her table.”
Yet it was not the abbess, nor her acolytes, who caught Myrddin’s attention as he made his way to the seat which Sister Rhinwedd indicated he should take. It was the young girl, perhaps a year or two younger than himself, who was seated on the other side of the Abbess Aldan. She was clearly not of the sisterhood but clad in clothes that denoted a woman of rank. Myrddin drew in his breath sharply.
The torchlight made her hair seem on fire. It glistened red and gold in the light and was braided into four plaits which hung behind her almost to waist level. Her face was fair, the cheek tinged red as if by the foxglove of the moor. The eyebrows were blackened and the eyes were deep pools of blue. Her tunic was of green silk, embroidered with a myriad of reds, golds and blues, while at her throat was a circlet of red gold. Her skirt was long and of deep blue and was again embroidered with many symbols in varied colours. She held her head high as one used to commanding and being obeyed.
As Myrddin took his place, she caught his gaze and returned it for a moment or so before the foxglove of her cheeks contrasted with the natural red of her blush and she lowered her eyes.
The Abbess Aldan uttered a Christian Gratias in the tongue of the Romans and motioned everyone to sit and commence their meal.
“What do you seek in this area of the world, Myrddin from beyond the western mountains?” the Abbess Aldan asked as they fell to eating. It was a meal of good meats and mead.
“What does any man seek,” countered Myrddin, “but his destiny?”
“And do you know your destiny, warrior?” the young girl intervened from the other side of the abbess.
Myrddin grinned at her.
“What makes you so sure that I am a warrior?” he countered.
The girl pouted.
“You do not have the look of a farmer or a fisherman. Your hands are too well tended to be an artisan, a smith, a cobbler or stone mason. And you are no member of the religious.”
Myrddin’s smile broadened.
“You are perceptive in your youth, lady. And since we fall to guessing games, you, I would say, are a chieftain’s daughter?”
The girl’s chin came up.
“I am, Gwen . . .”
“Lady!” interrupted the Abbess Aldan, her voice edged in warning.
“Mother Abbess,” replied the girl, her voice sounding bored, “I do not think we need fear harm from this young man. He is a Briton.”
“Even so. The Saxons have been reported close to and . . .”
As she hesitated, Myrddin laughed and finished her sentence.
“And Britons have been known to accept Saxon gold to betray their fellows before now? I can say that the Saxons are nothing to me, Abbess Aldan, excepting that I have crossed swords with them.”
“They should be enemies to the blood of all true Britons,” snapped the girl.
“As they are to you, lady?” inquired Myrddin with an indulgent smile.
“As they are to me,” confirmed the girl, her tone serious. “For they have killed my mother and father and my three brothers. They have dispersed my people who once dwelt on Ynys Wyth. These Saxon murdere
rs now live in my island, live in the prosperity my people once enjoyed while we now starve and perish in the countryside. We should not rest until all the Saxons lay dead or are driven from this land.”
Abbess Aldan looked shocked.
“That is not in keeping with the teachings of Our Lord, Lady Gwendoloena.”
Myrddin caught the name. It meant nothing to him.
“Gwendoloena?” The abbess glanced at him but was clearly annoyed at herself for having betrayed the girl’s identity. “Well, Gwendoloena, you speak like a true Briton keeping faith with the spirit of our ancestors. It is not good to offer an aggressor the other cheek, he will merely seize the opportunity to do further injury. Better to punish him for his aggression so that he may be dissuaded from the assault.”
The Abbess Aldan looked outraged.
“I cannot have such heresy spoken of before my sisters, Myrddin.”
But the young girl was smiling.
“You know that he is right, Mother Abbess.” She glanced to Myrddin. “You are a warrior, are you not?”
Myrddin gave way to the temptation of pride before the admiring gaze of the young girl.
“I am not a warrior, although I am versed in arms. In deference to the Mother Abbess, I can only say that I follow a different path.”
Abbess Aldan closed her eyes, swayed a little and moaned softly.
The Lady Gwendoloena’s face grew astonished.
“Then you are a . . .?”
“Hush, daughter,” hissed the abbess. “We will talk of such things later.”
She glanced quickly round the room but the sisters did not seem to have overheard their conversation.
They resumed their meal in silence but during it Myrddin was aware of the blue eyes of the girl appraising him now and then and they were full of interest. As for his own feelings, he felt a strange attraction to the girl. Even though they had exchanged only a few words, Myrddin felt that he had known this girl before, perhaps in other lives, for it was the ancient belief that the souls of men and women lived countless existences; countless beyond time. There was this world and there was the Otherworld and when a soul passed from this world, it was reborn in the Otherworld. When it passed from the Otherworld, it was reborn in this world. Thus a constant exchange of souls took place time without ending.
Perhaps there was some compatibility, an inner spark, which brought down the reserves that most people erected when trying to communicate with each other. Whatever it was, Myrddin felt a closeness to the girl.
After the meal, and after the Abbess Aldan had uttered another Gratias and dispersed the gathering, she turned to Myrddin.
“Now, Myrddin from beyond the western mountains, I need an oath from you.”
“An oath?” he queried. “Why so?”
“You have learnt of the presence of the Lady Gwendoloena in this house. For that knowledge you might be well rewarded.”
“By Saxons,” intervened Gwendoloena, standing behind the abbess. “I do not think this young man would betray me to the Saxons.”
“Even so, a whisper in the wrong quarter . . .”
“You have my solemn oath, I would not say anything to harm you,” said Myrddin speaking directly to the young girl. “But why would the Saxons be seeking you? You say they have killed your family, dispossessed your people and driven you away from Ynys Wyth. What harm could you do them now?”
Gwendoloena pulled a face.
“The Saxon king, Cynric, desires me. I have hidden from him these last three months and now found sanctuary in the abbey of Llanelen. We have heard that Cynric leads a raiding party of his warriors in an attempt to find me and take me to his fortress. If they find me . . .”
She shrugged eloquently.
“Then you may count on me not only to keep my own counsel but to stand ready to protect you . . . always.”
The girl blushed but smiled happily at the vehemence in Myrddin’s voice.
A bell tolled in the distance.
“The hour grows late,” chided the Abbess Aldan. “It is past the hour for retiring. I trust, Myrddin, you will be continuing your journey tomorrow? It is not seemly that a . . . a pagan should seek sanctuary in the House of God.”
Myrddin smiled sadly.
“Is this God of yours so fastidious that he will turn those seeking hospitality away simply because they might not know nor acknowledge Him? Have no fear, though, Mother Abbess. Tomorrow, I shall depart.”
The night was spent in restlessness for Myrddin. His waking dreams were of the young girl, Gwendoloena. He began to regret promising the abbess that he would depart so soon. Was this to be his destiny? He realized that some powerful emotion stirred within him every time he thought of her. Was it love? If so, it was the love of a salmon for the river and not of a dog for the sheep. Of that he was sure. He wondered what excuse he could give to stay further in the abbey of Llanelen.
When he finally dropped off to sleep, in that curious hour which stands between the darkness of the night and the onset of dawn, when small birds here and there, pre-empting the coming of the light, began to call awkwardly from their nests, it was a sleep of tired exhaustion. Yet hardly had he descended into it than something jerked him awake.
He lay for a moment or so, listening and trying to sort out the mêlée of sounds that assaulted his ears.
A woman’s voice was screaming. He finally made out the words.
“Saxons! The Saxons are attacking!”
There came the sound of wood crashing against wood, of the crackle of flames, the clash of metal upon metal, the screams of women and the ferocious yelling of men.
Myrddin grabbed his sword and, without putting on his clothes, he dashed into the courtyard.
The gates of the abbey were smashed open and a dozen fierce-looking warriors had spilled in. Some of the boys and the male workers lay sprawled on the ground; the blood on their bodies and the positions in which they lay told Myrddin they were beyond earthly help. Here and there the body of a sister lay, struck down indiscriminately by Saxon swords.
A rage gripped Myrddin and he sprang forward.
The Saxons were mainly on horseback but a small group had dismounted and, even as he looked, two of them were dragging the struggling Gwendoloena out of one of the abbey doors towards the waiting horses.
As he moved towards them, a Saxon on horseback rode down on him, his blade swinging. Myrddin had to turn to defend himself. The Saxon was no novice and Myrddin was sweating as he parried and thrust to prevent the swinging metal cleaving his head. Skill was with him for he gave an upward thrust which caught the Saxon in his unarmoured side. The man grunted and fell back, toppling slowly from his horse.
Myrddin swung round to where the girl had been. The Saxons were all mounted now and, with the abbey in flames, and smoke billowing across the courtyard, he saw one man had thrown Gwendoloena across his saddle bow and was spurring away with his companions after him. They thundered through the broken gates as, with an inarticulate cry, Myrddin raced vainly after them.
Then, as the riders passed out, Myrddin skidded to a halt in shock. The last rider was the hawk-faced warrior who had been of the party who attacked Emrys and his young companion. But it was not that which caused Myrddin to stand still in astonishment. The Saxon was carrying a battle banner. The banner was fluttering in the morning breeze. On it, Myrddin beheld the curious embroidered elaborate knot. The very same knot which the Venerable Fychan had shown him on the blanket in which he had been found wrapped as a small babe; the symbol which marked his destiny, the only thing which might identify his origins.
He stood paralysed for a moment staring at the disappearing banner.
Then his world exploded into bright lights before he sank down into the dark black, bottomless pit.
VI
Myrddin blinked and tried to focus.
He was lying on his back on the ground. He could still hear the crackle of fire, the cries of people and see the billow of smoke around him. A face was peerin
g anxiously down at his: a woman’s face, disfigured by a stream of blood across her forehead and cheek.
He blinked again and finally realized it was the Abbess Aldan.
He tried to raise himself and groaned as the pain shot through the back of his head.
“Lie still a moment, Myrddin,” instructed the abbess.
He obeyed, for it was too painful otherwise.
“What happened?” he asked foolishly.
“A Saxon raider smote you from behind. By Christ’s miracle, only the flat of his sword struck the back of your head and knocked you unconscious. Otherwise . . .” She shrugged. As she spoke she was bathing his face and his head with a cloth soaked in water.
“I remember. I saw the knot . . . my destiny.” He suddenly groaned again. “They took Gwendoloena!”
Abbess Aldan nodded slowly, looking at him with a curious expression.
“You saw the knot?” she asked curiously.
“A symbol on a Saxon battleflag. No matter. They took Gwendoloena. She is in danger.”
He tried to sit up and became aware again of the burning buildings and the bodies lying scattered around.
“You paid a heavy price for giving her sanctuary, Mother Abbess.”
“There is a price to everything,” agreed the abbess dispassionately. She helped him to a sitting position. “Have a care, now. Do you feel dizzy?”
“Somewhat. How did it happen?”
“The Saxons surprised us before dawn, smashed in the gates and killed all who opposed them. They obviously knew that Gwendoloena was here for that was their object, to kidnap her.”
“We must get her back.”
The abbess smiled thinly.
“We? A party of religieuses, shocked and some badly wounded? That we cannot. The abbey is on fire but we may yet save it if all the sisters work together to douse the flames.”
