The Mammoth Book of Merlin

by Mike Ashley

  “But what of Gwendoloena?” demanded Myrddin, rubbing his head.

  “They say that God moves in mysterious ways. Perhaps he sent you for that purpose. Go after her, my son, and find a way of releasing her from her Saxon captors. There is no one else who is able to do so.”

  Myrddin gazed around him again and realized that the Abbess Aldan was right. Most of the male workers at the abbey had been slain, as well as several religieuses. The rest were either too shocked or needed to help put out the fires that threatened their monastery.

  “Very well,” he said. “Did they leave me my horse?”

  “They took only the girl.”

  “How will I find them?”

  “They are Cynric’s men, and Cynric is king of the West Saxons. He has his fortress to the east.”

  Myrddin bent to pick up his fallen sword.

  “Do you recognize that curious knot symbol, Mother Abbess? Is it the battle banner of Cynric?”

  The Abbess Aldan shook her head.

  “What makes you so curious about that symbol?” she demanded.

  “It has much to do with my destiny. I must know its origins.”

  “Return here with Gwendoloena, and I may find out its origin. But this I can tell you, it is older than Cynric of the West Saxons.”

  Myrddin hesitated but a moment more. He would have pressed the abbess. He was sure that she was hiding further knowledge, but he knew every moment counted if he were to catch up with Gwendoloena and her captors. So he hastened back to his smoke-filled cubiculum to retrieve his clothes and dress before going to the stable. The stables had been gutted by fire but some of the community had managed to lead all the livestock from it, including his horse which was now tethered just beyond the walls of the abbey of Llanelen. It took him a moment or two to ready the beast and spring into the saddle.

  The Abbess Aldan turned from directing her sisters in their slowly succeeding efforts to douse the fires and held up her hand towards him in the Christian blessing.

  Myrddin raised a hand in a parting gesture and nudged his steed into an immediate gallop after the trail of the Saxon raiders in the direction of the south-east.

  For a day and a night Myrddin had followed the trail left by the Saxon raiders. It was easy. Indeed, they had made no attempt to disguise their passage. Perhaps they were contemptuous of any pursuit for they cleaved their way through Dumnonia, leaving behind burning homesteads, slaughtered farmers and raped women. Myrddin felt a growing hatred for the race. His fears were for the person of Gwendoloena and he took comfort in the rationalization that they would not harm her if the West Saxon king, Cynric, desired her and led his warriors to take her as captive to his fortress. He would undoubtedly ensure that the girl would not be harmed.

  It was not until the morning of the second day that Myrddin began to set his mind to wondering what he would do when he caught up with the raiding party. After all, he was but one against many. Perhaps he had been a fool to rush headlong into danger without a thought as to how he would rescue Gwendoloena or extract himself from the situation. Rather, he should have gathered a group of warriors to accompany him. Again he had been tempted by vanity.

  The thoughts began to nag at his mind especially now that he had clearly passed from the territory of the Britons, which was the kingdom of Dumnonia, into the lands of the West Saxons. Of course, no boundaries marked the border over which Briton and Saxon had battled for two generations. One year the border would be in one place, another it would be elsewhere depending on the waxing or waning of the fortunes of either side.

  What clearly marked his advent into the Saxon kingdom was the sign of the crude Saxon habitations and farmsteads, so unlike the British farms and palatial villas, villas that were the bequest of three centuries of Roman influence.

  In older times, Myrddin reflected, this area had once been the kingdom of the Durotriges, “kings of strength” as their name boasted, one of the wealthiest of the tribes of the Isle of the Mighty. They had gone now, disappearing firstly under the might of the conquering Vespasian’s II Augusta Legion, then under the assimilating processes of Roman administration, and lastly under the invasion of the West Saxons under Cynric’s father, Cerdic. Cerdic was dead and now young Cynric ruled this land.

  The sound of a bowstring inadverently loosed before its drawer was ready caused Myrddin to start, and he clasped a hand to his sword.

  It was too late.

  Fool that he was, he had been so occupied with his own thoughts that he had neglected to keep a careful scrutiny of his surroundings.

  Four horsemen surrounded him. Two of them had bows drawn with arrows pointing unerringly at his heart. A third, the man who had loosed the bowstring inadvertently, was now swiftly stringing another arrow with a flustered look on his grim features. The fourth man, obviously their leader, sat astride his horse in front of Myrddin, a grin on his features, a sword held loosely in his hand. Myrddin recognized him at once. He was the hawkfaced man who had taken part in the raid into Dumnonian territory. The man who had carried the banner bearing the emblem of the knot.

  VII

  “So what have we here? A welisc, by Thunor!”

  It was clear that the man did not recognize him at all.

  Myrddin found the man’s Saxon language was easy to follow. Mentally he thanked the Venerable Fychan for having made him study several languages of which Saxon had been one. Myrddin knew that the word welisc was a derogatory term by which the Saxons named all Britons as “foreigners” in their own land.

  A swift glance showed Myrddin that he had no immediate means of escape. He sat in a frozen posture, unmoving, lest the arrows fly from their bows.

  “Who are you, welisc? Do you understand me?” the hawkfaced man was demanding.

  “I understand well enough,” replied Myrddin, indifferently.

  “Then hear me. I am Centwine, thane to Cynric, king of the West Saxons. Who are you who has the appearance of a warrior of the welisc?”

  “No warrior,” replied Myrddin, thinking that some honesty might stand him in better stead with his foes. “I am a shaman of my people.”

  Centwine’s eyebrows shot up.

  “A wise man in one so young? Come, I’ll not believe it. Besides, the religion of the Britons, who are followers of Christ, has no shamans.”

  “I believe in the old gods of my people, Centwine, thane to Cynric,” Myrddin explained.

  The Saxon thane examined him cynically.

  “Yet you bear the look of a young warrior. What are you doing in the land of the West Saxons?”

  “Looking for someone.”

  “And that someone is . . .?”

  “A fellow Briton.”

  “No Briton lives here unless they be slaves. I believe you not. You are a spy, warrior, come to plot an invasion of our territory.”

  “That is not so.”

  “And you would swear by your god, Christ?” sneered the Saxon.

  “No, for one must believe in Christ before one can take an oath on his name. I have told you that I do not. I believe in the old gods of my people. I will swear by them.”

  Centwine chuckled sourly.

  “By Thunor’s stroke, now here is a unique excuse for not swearing an oath. You are honey-tongued, welisc. I shall discover the truth of this matter in my tun.”

  He moved forward, keeping out of the line of fire from his bowmen, and removed Myrddin’s weapons. Then he signalled his men to close in and turned to lead the way along the path.

  Myrddin cursed himself many times during that short ride for his inattention. He was escorted a few miles before a grim wooden stockade became visible. The construction housed a small village and this was called a tun or fortress by the Saxons. Myrddin saw that it was well defended and at its portals stood gruesome war banners, one bearing a human skull transfixed to a pole beneath which bull’s horns stood out with pieces of gaudy coloured clothes. Myrddin looked in vain for a glimpse of the banner carrying the emblem of the knot.
r />   Once inside, he was beset by a group of rough Saxon men who dragged him from his horse, spat, punched and kicked at him before dragging him inside one of the buildings. It was a great hall in which many were gathered around feasting-tables. At one end, large roasts of oxen and sheep were being turned on spits. Men and women with iron collars around their necks hurried to and fro, mostly to keep the vessels, which each man seemed to hold, refilled from large jugs.

  Centwine followed his men, grinning sourly, as Myrddin was dragged into the centre of the hall.

  The seated warriors stopped their wassail and thumped the table top with the drinking horns, crying out the name of their chief.

  Centwine walked to his captive and held up his hand to command silence in the hall.

  “We have an extra guest. A welisc. He is going to tell us what he is doing in this land of ours.”

  “I told you truly,” replied Myrddin, struggling in the hands of the Saxon warriors.

  “Then we must question this welisc warrior more closely. Acca, the task falls to you to prise information from our friend.”

  Myrddin saw a burly, evil-looking man rise from his seat and come forward.

  Willing hands tore the clothes from his body and leather thongs strapped him to a wooden pole which seemed to be one of the roof supports.

  Centwine’s features were suddenly before him.

  “You have a chance to speak freely, welisc. Is it Gereint of Dumnonia who sends you to spy in this kingdom?”

  There came the sound of a horn being blown from outside the hall.

  Centwine glanced up in annoyance as a warrior ran in and called loudly to the assembly.

  “My lord, it is the king. Cynric is coming.”

  A few moments passed before a group of men entered. At their head was the youthful Saxon who had been with Centwine in the attack on Emrys. He stood without helmet and Myrddin’s eyes widened a little.

  Myrddin found himself staring into the face of a youth scarce any older than himself. And, curiously, there was something in the youth’s face that seemed familiar to him. It was not simply recognition from the day of the attack on Emrys. He was sure he had never seen Cynric before that day. But then why did he seem so acquainted with Cynric’s features?

  The king of the West Saxons glanced indifferently at Myrddin and then turned to Centwine.

  “What sport is this, kinsman?”

  “A Briton, my lord. A spy of Gereint, no doubt.”

  “No one sends me to spy. I am a wandering shaman,” protested Myrddin.

  “If so, let us hope that you are a good shaman for you will need to save yourself,” Centwine sneered. Then he turned to Cynric. “With your permission, my lord, we were about to question the dog to learn his purpose here.”

  The Saxon king dropped languidly into a chair and waved a hand.

  “Do not let me stop this sport,” he said. “I came here merely to rest my horse and take refreshment before returning to my fortress.” For the first time his eyes met Myrddin’s. A slight look of bewilderment entered his gaze. Myrddin wondered whether the Saxon felt the same recognition that Myrddin had felt for him? Myrddin bit his lip trying to dredge his memories. Yet it was clear that, like Centwine, Cynric did not recognize him from the previous encounter.

  “Acca,” Centwine was saying, “the ritual by burning iron.”

  Myrddin turned his mind from the problem of Cynric as he saw Acca walk to the fire. Someone had already placed a branding iron in its hungry flames. He went cold as he realized what was coming. He tried to clear his mind of all thoughts and began to chant softly beneath his breath in an effort to invoke the process of meditation. He had often done it during his long years of training but it took time to reach the highest point of the meditative process called the act of peace.

  He was aware of his surroundings but somehow they were no longer part of him.

  He was aware of the evil, grinning face of the churl called Acca, approaching with the hot branding iron, but he felt none of its heat. He was aware of the branding iron moving towards his chest.

  “Speak, welisc, and your pain may yet be avoided. Who sent you to spy here?”

  “I am no spy!” Myrddin replied tightly.

  He was aware of the branding iron touching his flesh, yet it was cold upon his skin. There came the sound of sizzling to his ears and the faint smell of roasting pork. He felt no other sensation than coldness.

  The grins and cheers of the assembly suddenly died away as Myrddin still stood, eyes wide, simply chanting softly under his breath.

  Centwine came forward, glancing at the seared and mangled flesh, and then at Myrddin. His expression was filled with sudden awe.

  “By Woden’s light! The man must be a shaman, how else can he stand the pain of such a wound?”

  Still chanting in his mind, Myrddin gazed beyond Centwine to where Cynric sat, leaning forward in his chair to share his thane’s wonder at Myrddin’s reaction to the branding iron.

  “By the dark and viewless powers, whom the storms and seas obey, I will curse your people to extinction, Cynric, king of the West Saxons, unless you release me now. I have spoken truly and you did not believe. Take this as a token of my power.”

  He lowered his head and beads of sweat stood out from his brow as his mind probed towards his horse which was being held outside the building. It was an old Druidic discipline, the sending of one’s thoughts into the mind of a susceptible subject. Myrddin’s horse reared up, striking out with his forelegs, catching the man who had been holding its reins a powerful kick on the side of the head. Then, released, the beast burst into the hall, crashing through the wicker gate, and rearing up in the confined space.

  The Saxons yelled in fright as the beast approached and they hurried to the sides of the hall, away from the threatening animal. Only Cynric continued to sit in his chair without concern. Centwine backed behind Myrddin for protection.

  One Saxon warrior, bolder than the rest, ran forward to catch its reins, but the beast reared again, knocking the man back across the hall with a blow of its powerful hooves.

  Then the horse trotted docilely up to Myrddin and stood snorting and pawing at the ground before him.

  Myrddin relaxed a moment from his efforts and heaved a sigh.

  “Release me and let me depart, Saxons, and no further harm shall come to you. Keep me or try to kill me and you shall be cursed even to the seventh generation.”

  Centwine was white-faced now. He turned to Cynric. The young king rose slowly to his feet.

  Even Acca, ashamed of having left his king and thane undefended, returned to stand trembling a little before them.

  “Best do as he says, my lords. He must be a powerful wizard to withstand the pain of the iron,” he urged.

  Cynric’s lips compressed tightly a moment and then he said: “For one so young, you appear a powerful enemy to have, welisc. What is your name?”

  “Mark well my name, Cynric; it is Myrddin from beyond the western mountains.”

  “I shall remember it. Cut him free, Centwine. He may depart this tun in peace.”

  The Saxon thane suddenly leant forward and cut the thongs with a knife.

  Myrddin staggered forward a little but quickly regained his balance.

  “You may leave here in safety,” Cynric told him. “But if you are found still within my kingdom at sunset then my warriors shall slaughter you, as they would a wild dog, and they will slaughter you on sight.”

  Myrddin walked in as dignified manner as he could summon to his horse and, slowly hauling himself painfully into the saddle, he turned and rode out of the hall, through the sullen yet quiet throng outside and out of the gates. Then he put his heels against the beast and sent it into a furious gallop.

  Only when he had gone several miles did he draw rein and halt. The pain was beginning to prick at his mind in spite of his meditation. The branding iron had left a wound which would have caused the death by shock of the pain to many another.

  He l
ooked around and saw a small stream nearby. Edging his horse near it, he almost tumbled off and threw his aching body in its cold, bubbling waters. Then exhaustion overcame his mind control. The pain hit him like the points of several knives all at once. In his mind he thought he screamed out loud. In reality, a low moan came from his lips and he blacked out.

  VIII

  Myrddin awoke in darkness.

  He was lying in a bed between cool sheets of linen, his head resting on a feather pillow. While the wound on his chest burned and irritated, it was not painful. Someone had dressed it with oils or lotions and placed strips of linen over it. His mind felt strangely peaceful, relaxed and untroubled.

  He frowned but could derive no memory to suggest how he had come to this place, whatever place it was.

  He was in a large room. Outside he realized that it was night for he could see the twinkle of stars in the sky. Wolves howled in the distance. In the gloom he realized that he was in a well-built house of the type the Romans had once built in Britain. There were frescoes on the wall and pillars supporting the high ceiling while, beyond the windows, he could hear a fountain playing. That part of the floor which he could discern was carpeted in mosaic.

  He tried again to dredge up some memory, some explanation of what had happened.

  His mind was sluggish.

  He thought that he must have been drugged.

  The door opened abruptly and a shadowy figure passed into the room and came to stand at his bedside.

  “Who are you? Where am I?” were the questions that sprang to his lips. Slow, hesitant questions.

  The answer came back in Saxon from a woman’s voice.

  “Do not be afraid, Myrddin. You are quite safe here.”

  Myrddin frowned.

  “Who are you?” he demanded again, this time in Saxon.

  “My name is Lowri. I am sister to Centwine, the thane of Cynric.”

  Myrddin groaned as the implication registered in his mind.

  “Am I Centwine’s prisoner again?”

  “No. You are no one’s prisoner. I followed you from Centwine’s tun and found you drowning in the waters of a stream. I pulled you out and brought you here.”