by Mike Ashley
“Now, dog of a Briton, you will pay for this affront!” he cried.
Myrddin had stopped. He was staring at the silken flag which was fluttering from the lance. It bore the embroidered knot that was haunting his life.
“For God’s sake!” yelled Carannog, leaping across the room and giving Myrddin a shove.
The lance split the air where Myrddin had been transfixed and grazed Carannog’s shoulder, causing him to wince in pain and swing backwards.
The jolt brought Myrddin to his senses.
Cynric was rushing forward again, lance point at the ready. Myrddin dropped under the point, shouldering it upwards, and thrust out with the tip of his sword. It entered Cynric’s body in an upward stroke just below his breastbone. With a quick twist, Myrddin brought it out, so that Cynric jerked back with a terrible cry and dropped the lance from his hands.
The young Saxon king fell to his knees, his two arms cradling his upper stomach where the entry wound had been made. Blood began to dribble from his mouth.
Wrenching the lance away, Myrddin dropped to his knees beside the Saxon.
“Tell me, you must tell me, where did you get that banner? What does that knot signify?”
Cynric’s eyes were already glazing but even in his dying moments he forced a tight smile.
“Rot in hell . . . Briton!”
With the death rattle in his throat, he fell to the floor and lay still.
“Myrddin, we must hurry!”
Myrddin was aware of Carannog crying in anxiety to him.
He took up his sword, rose and hurried to the door into the passageway.
“Are you all right, Carannog?” he asked, noticing the spreading stain of blood on the other’s shoulder.
“I have had worse pinpricks, Myrddin,” Carannog grinned. “A flesh wound, nothing more.”
“Very well. I plan to get back to the conduit and escape that way.”
“What of Artio?” demanded Cadell.
“You know what was agreed,” Carannog rebuked him. “Time to think of him when the lady is safe.”
“Let’s go then!”
They opened the door cautiously onto the passage. The guards were gone on the orders of Cynric. They hurried to the stairwell and moved down the stairs to the floor below. As before, the kitchen corridor seemed empty. Swiftly, Myrddin led the way along it. The girl kept up with them without complaint.
“Lady,” Myrddin turned to her, as they entered the refuse room, “the way is not a nice path but it is a safe one. Will you trust us?”
Gwendoloena smiled confidently at Myrddin.
“I have trusted you ever since I first saw you at Llanelen,” she replied fervently.
Myrddin found himself blushing. To disguise his embarrassment he bent to light the brand torch which he had discarded when they first arrived in the fortress.
“I’ll go first. You will follow. Carannog and Cadell will come behind.”
Gwendoloena nodded and made no complaint as he climbed into the foul-smelling tunnel and motioned for her to follow.
They had gone about halfway down the conduit when Cadell gave an urgent whisper.
“We are being followed, Myrddin.”
Myrddin raised his hand to halt the company, listening. The sounds of several people coming after them down the inclining tunnel were clear. Without a word Myrddin waved them on again, increasing the pace slightly to keep ahead of their pursuers. There was only one thing to do. He would have to order Carannog and Cadell to push on to the rendezvous with the horses, taking Gwendoloena with them. One man could stop the pursuit for a while by placing himself at the tunnel entrance where there was only room for one to swing a blade.
As they reached the bottom of the tunnelway and plunged into the cold river water which filled the tunnel entrance, Myrddin, in terse tones, told them of his plan.
Gwendoloena would have protested but Cadell and Carannog realized it was the only chance for some of them to escape.
The sounds of pursuit were close now.
They simply seized Gwendoloena and drew her out into the river where the two men Artio had placed on guard came forward to aid them across the brisk river current towards the forest where the horses were tethered.
Myrddin drew his sword and extinguished the brand torch, positioning himself ready to withstand the assault of the Saxon warriors.
They came sliding and slipping along the tunnel.
“Here’s the entrance, Artio,” the leading figure called as Myrddin was about to raise his sword and plunge it into the dark shadow. “Where’s the brand torch?”
The third figure appeared, carrying the torch.
Myrddin swallowed hard.
“Is that you, Artio?”
“Myrddin!” came the young warrior’s surprised tones. “We thought you had been captured!”
The warriors of Artio came spilling from the tunnel, voices raised in excitement.
“Hush! We are not out of danger yet,” snapped Artio as he came wading into the water and facing Myrddin. “What happened? Where are Cadell and Carannog?”
“With the lady Gwendoloena, hopefully on the other side of the river. We thought you and your men were trapped by the main gates of the fortress.”
Artio grinned in the flickering light.
“So did the Saxons. We were looking for Cynric’s chambers when we were spotted.”
“How did you escape? I hear no sounds of pursuit.”
“Easy to tell. We found some Saxon prisoners awaiting execution. We released them, gave them weapons, and many of them preferred to fight than go willingly to a ritual death. I think they are still fighting Cynric’s guards now. Alas, we did not find Cynric’s chambers and, with the guards alerted for us, we decided a withdrawal was the best policy until we can devise a new plan. What of you?”
“As I say, Gwendoloena is safe and you need have no worries for Cynric,” Myrddin said grimly.
“Why so?”
“Cynric is dead. I slew him.”
Artio stared at him, astounded.
“You are truly a great warrior, Myrddin,” he breathed in reluctant admiration. But he was unable to keep the slight tinge of envy from his tone. He had set himself the task of slaying the Saxon king and now he found himself robbed of the deed.
Myrddin grimaced.
“I have said before that I am no warrior.”
“Then I would like to be by your side if you ever decide to become a warrior,” Artio chuckled, recovering his humour.
“We best move across the river and get away from this accursed land,” muttered one of Artio’s band, for they were standing shivering in the cold waters of the tiny cavern.
“Indeed,” agreed Artio fervently. “Let us make our withdrawal.”
XII
The sun was high in the sky when the column of horsemen entered the foothills of eastern Dumnonia, across the broad river which provided the current main border between the war-stricken kingdom and its neighbour. The young warrior Artio rode at their head while behind him came Myrddin and Gwendoloena. They had been almost inseparable during the two days of travel through the darkened forests of the land of the West Saxons. There was no need to tell the rest of the company who came on behind them what the two felt for each other. Romance was clearly in the air.
When they stopped to rest at midday, by a small stream, Artio came and seated himself beside them.
“Do you plan to take the lady Gwendoloena back to Llanelen Abbey?”
Myrddin stared at him a moment. In fact, for the first time since his departure from Cynric’s fortress, he realized that he had been travelling without purpose, merely allowing himself to follow the tide, content to be only in the company of Gwendoloena. It was the girl who answered for him.
“Yes. The abbess is my guardian, my foster-mother, since the Saxons slew my family. It is my duty to return to her.”
“And you, Myrddin? You will go to Llanelen?” pressed Artio.
“I shall,” said Myrdd
in, so ardently that Artio could not suppress a grin while Gwendoloena had the grace to blush.
“But then? What are your plans? For I have witnessed your mettle. The Isle of the Mighty needs such men as you in these perilous times. Even though Cynric is dead, the Saxons will soon gather strength again and contest the supremacy of this island with us. They will try and drive us out of this land. We will need every man we have.”
Myrddin nodded.
“When that time comes, I shall not be wanting, Artio. But after Llanelen, though much depends on the lady Gwendoloena here, there are other quests I must fulfil.”
“Quests?” Artio asked, interested.
Myrddin smiled softly.
“Alas, they are of a nature that I cannot speak more of them. But they are of importance to me.”
Artio sighed in disappointment.
“Then, my friends, it seems our paths diverge once we reach the edge of that forest yonder,” he pointed with outstretched hand. “I must go back to Dinas Emrys with the news of the success of our raid and I can assure you that the name of Myrddin will soon be on the tongues of the bards of Dinas Emrys.”
Myrddin shook his head. He was aware of his faults and knew how guilty he was of the very fault which the Venerable Fychan had warned him against.
“There is little enough to sing about Myrddin. He was a youth who thought he knew all things and found he knew little; he was tempted in self-delusion, in vanity and in desire. He has since learnt many things; above all he has learnt of the depth of the emotion of love. But of the things he thought he had set out to learn, he learnt nothing. Myrddin is no one to sing about.”
Gwendoloena reached forward and touched his hand.
“Admitting that you have learnt nothing is the start of learning.”
Myrddin grimaced.
“You are wise in your youth, Gwendoloena,” he said.
Artio chuckled softly.
“One thing you have learnt is humility. But beware of false humility, Myrddin, my friend. Learn to know your assets as well as your faults. But still the bards of Dinas Emrys shall sing of your deeds. The death of Cynric has bought us time. Let us hope that the squabbling of the petty chieftains will be overcome and they can agree on a new High King who will unite them and strengthen them against the war that is to come out of the east. For too long the black raven of death and battles has swooped on our defenceless people out of the eastern skies. Would the raven will fly from the west now.”
Myrddin stirred as he remembered what the old master, Fychan, had said.
“All I can say, Artio, is that I once heard a prophecy that the raven will soon fly from the west,” Myrddin assured him. “The time will be soon.”
Artio snorted in disgust.
“We need no more prophecies, my friend. We need a sign and a strong leader.”
“He will surely come,” Gwendoloena said. “If he does not then the people of the Isle of the Mighty will go down into the abyss and be no more.”
It was two hours later, beyond the edge of the forest, that Myrddin and Artio embraced as if they had been brothers. He embraced Carannog and Cadell also, his companions in adventure, and received warm hand clasps from the rest of Artio’s men. Then he and Gwendoloena sat on their horses watching the column of riders turn north-west through the foothills which led to the mountains of the west. Only when they had vanished did he and Gwendoloena turn south-west through the rolling hills of western Dumnonia towards the abbey of Llanelen.
It was another full day before they came to Llanelen again. The abbey still stood fairly intact, with its grey granite scorched and blackened, but it seemed that the sisters of the community had managed to douse the flames before they could destroy the towering buildings.
Someone must have seen their approach along the road for suddenly a group of sisters came crowding to the gates. A hubbub of sounds arose from them. Myrddin recognized Sister Rhinwedd, the gatekeeper, trying to chide her fellow religieuses for their unseemly display of excitement. But she, too, was pleased to see them.
Myrddin halted his horse and dismounted, turning to help a smiling Gwendoloena down.
As they turned, the Abbess Aldan came striding forward. She said nothing, her face wreathed with smiles, as she held out her arms to the girl who went running forward to embrace her.
Abbess Aldan gazed across the girl’s shoulder at Myrddin.
“You have done well, my son. If one man could succeed in this task, I knew it would be you.”
Myrddin gestured deprecatingly. “I could not accomplish Gwendoloena’s rescue on my own. I had help.”
The abbess glanced at him in interrogation.
“A young warrior named Artio and his men helped me enter Cynric’s fortress.”
“Artio? Artio son of Uther, nephew to Emrys?”
“I knew only that he was Artio and one time companion to Emrys.”
Abbess Aldan turned back to Gwendoloena and held her at arm’s length.
“And you, my child, are you hurt? Has any harm or dishonour been done to you?”
Gwendoloena smiled happily.
“None that lasts in my memory, Mother Abbess.”
Abbess Aldan was wise and she saw the happy glances that were exchanged between Gwendoloena and Myrddin. It would have taken someone less sensitive to ignore what they meant.
“Come. I am forgetting my etiquette and keeping you standing before our gates. Come to my chambers so that you may tell me all while we drink mulled wine together.”
As she led the way she asked over her shoulder:
“And where is the young bear now?”
“Young bear?” Myrddin was puzzled.
“Why, young Artio, of course.”
“Artio? Why, he has gone to Dinas Emrys. But why do you call him ‘young bear’?”
Abbess Aldan laughed softly.
“I thought you were possessed of all knowledge, Myrddin,” she chided. “What does the name Artio signify . . .?”
Myrddin’s eyes widened.
He had thought of the name as no more than a name. But its meaning, in the ancient tongue of their forefathers, was “bear”. Artio was an ancient deity among the old gods; the hunter, protector of the forests and guardian of the bear people which dwelt within their darker recesses. Artio the Bear.
He halted in mid-stride. He felt suddenly foolish, stupid and blind and not worthy at all to call himself a brother of the oak wisdom. He was but a child playing without understanding. Time and time again in this questing he had made such mistakes as only a fool would make. He was a conceited fool.
To his mind came the voice of the Venerable Fychan.
“I have seen a vision that there will come a bear from the west and drive all before him and his name will be spoken of down the centuries.”
And then the strange and ancient guardian of the Cave of the Sword.
“You will set the path for the hero to come. That is your destiny, son of the divine water. You have gazed upon the magical sword, Caladfwlch, you know its purpose. The hero is coming soon. He is the bear that will come out of the west to save his people at the time of greatest peril. He must pluck the sword from the stone and become invincible.”
Myrddin groaned and hit his balled fist in the palm of his hand.
He was aware of Gwendoloena’s troubled gaze and her soft hand gently on his cheek.
“What troubles you, my love?” she asked, anxiety tingeing her voice.
Myrddin grimaced in annoyance.
“I am a stupid knave, that is all. I have been vain and my vanity has made me blind. I still have a quest to fulfil.”
The Abbess Aldan smiled thinly.
“Your quest can wait an hour or so, Myrddin. I think there are other things that you would wish to learn before you set forth again. Come.”
She turned into her chamber and gave instructions to a sister to prepare wine for them while she sought the details of their adventure.
At the point where Myrddin recounted t
he finding of the banner with its embroidered knot, the abbess interrupted him with excitement in her eyes.
“And this banner was in the house of Centwine?”
“Rather Centwine’s sister, Lowri,” admitted Myrddin, wishing, in the presence of Gwendoloena, to gloss over that encounter. Yet he desired to know the meaning of that banner.
“I see,” the abbess breathed. “Cynric was not possessed of it?”
“Yes,” Myrddin admitted. “He had a lance with a smaller version of the banner attached to it. What does this symbol mean? They said it was Cynric’s battle banner, a banner to remind the Britons that the Saxons were conquerors. I do not understand.”
Abbess Aldan rose and paced before their puzzled gazes, pressing her hands together for a while. Then she halted.
“You deserve the truth,” she said, at last. Then she looked from Myrddin to Gwendoloena and back again. “You both deserve the truth for you both wish to marry each other, is that not so?”
Gwendoloena coloured a little and nodded.
“Is it so apparent, Mother Abbess?”
“You shout it from the hilltops, my child,” smiled the religieuse.
“It is true enough.”
Abbess Aldan turned her gaze to Myrddin.
“And you, my son? Do you love Gwendoloena?”
Myrddin nodded emphatically.
“Then you deserve the truth. The banner and its symbol was the emblem of a noble family of Britons who dwelt in the southeast of Dumnonia a generation ago. One day Cerdic, the father of Cynric, and his Saxons came raiding. The story is, alas, one that is all too common in these sad times. The Saxons massacred the family apart from a young daughter of the house. She was a comely maiden who had never known a man. Cerdic took her for his plaything. I need not go into details.
“One day, the girl became heavy with Cerdic’s child. This girl escaped from the Saxon camp and crawled off into the cold snowstorms. She wanted more than anything to die. To kill herself and that child of Cerdic’s within her womb. But God did not let her die. She gave birth, the snow reddened with her blood. Her first thought was to throw that crying child into the icy stream by which she had given it birth. Yet something stayed her hand. Even as she gazed upon it, she realized the innocence in that child. We enter this earth innocent and it is only what we are taught that guides our destinies.”
