Merlin

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “It is worse than I thought,” Ganieda confided.

  “How do you know this?” I watched the king greeting his guests, jesting, laughing, passing horns of mead from hand to hand. The glad monarch welcoming old friends, he appeared anything but hard-pressed for worry.

  “I just know,” whispered Ganieda confidentially. “He said nothing about his errand and went straight to Gwendolau without stopping for his cup. Even now he avoids drink—you see? He passes the horn but takes never a sip. Yes, the news is troubling. There will be a council tonight.”

  It was as Ganieda said, and as I concentrated my attention on the scene before me, I too sensed the underlying current of anxiety coursing through the hall. Men talked and laughed, but too heartily and too loudly.

  What have I come into? I wondered. Why am I here at all?

  And I began to think of those who were waiting for me far, far to the south. It was wrong for me to linger here.

  But how? I had stayed three years with Hawk Fhain and rarely felt half so much urgency as I felt now. It was different now, however. Now I stayed, I suspected, for a purely selfish reason: I stayed because I wanted to be near Ganieda. Without saying it directly, Ganieda made it clear that she wanted me to stay too.

  Ah, Ganieda, I remember it all too well.

  We feasted in Lord Custennin’s timber hall, aflame with light and laughter, the smoky smell of roasting meat, bright torches, eyes and jewelry gleaming, gold-rimmed horns circling among the gathered lords of Goddeu, who drank and drank despite the example of their king, who tasted not a drop. Because of Ganieda’s warning, I watched the proceedings with interest, and I was not the only one. Gwendolau watched too—sober and intense from his seat at the high table.

  “When the food was finished and the chiefs called for song, Ganieda took up her lyre and sang. I thought it strange—not that she should sing, for her voice was beautiful to hear, but that a man of Custennin’s wealth and influence should not have a bard or two. He might easily have kept half-a-dozen to sing his praises and the valor of his warriors.

  Her song finished, Ganieda came to where I sat and tugged me by the sleeve. “Let us go from here.”

  “I want to see what is to happen.”

  “No, it does not concern us. Let us leave.” She meant, of course, that it did not concern me.

  “Please,” I said, “just until I know what will happen. If there is trouble here in the north, men may need to know of it where I am going.”

  She nodded and sat down beside me. “It will not be pleasant.” Her tone was hard as the flagging at our feet.

  Almost immediately, Custennin got to his feet and spread out his arms. “Kinsmen and friends,” he called, “you have come here tonight to eat and drink at my table, and this is good. It is right for a king to give sustenance to his people, to share with them in times of peace and succour them in times of trouble.” Some of those near him banged on the board with their cups and knife handles and shouted their approval of the scheme. I noticed that Gwendolau had disappeared from the high table.

  “It is also right for a king to deal harshly with his enemies. Our fathers defended their lands and people when threatened. Any man who allows his enemy to run with impudence through his land, killing his people, destroying his crops and goods—that man is not worthy of his name.”

  “Hear him! Hear him!” the chiefs cried. “It is true!”

  “And any man who turns against his own is as much an enemy as the Sea Wolf who comes in his war boat.” At this the hall went silent. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the rising wind moaned outside. The trap was all but sprung, but the chiefs did not see it yet.

  “Loeter!” the king cried. “Is this not true?”

  I searched the hall for the one singled out, and found him—which was not difficult, for as soon as the man’s name left the lips of his king those around him drew away. “My lord, it is true,” replied the man called Loeter, a narrow-faced hulk with a belly like a sow. He glanced about him uneasily.

  “And, Loeter, how do we punish those who practice treachery against their own kinsmen?”

  All eyes were on Loeter now, who had begun to sweat. “We cut them off, lord.”

  “We kill them, Loeter, do we not?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Custennin nodded gravely and looked to his chiefs. “You have heard the man speak his punishment out of his own mouth. So be it.”

  “What madness is this?” demanded Loeter—on his feet now, his hand on the hilt of his knife. “Are you accusing me?”

  “I do not accuse you, Loeter. You accuse yourself.”

  “How so? I have done nothing.”

  Custennin glared. “Nothing? Then tell me whence came the gold on your arm.”

  “It is mine,” growled Loeter.

  “How came you to wear it?” demanded Custennin. “Answer me truly.”

  “It was a gift to me, lord.”

  “A gift it was. Oh yes, that is true enough: a gift from the Scotti! The same who even now lie encamped within our borders, planning another raid.”

  There arose an ugly murmur in the hall. Ganieda tugged at me again. “Let us leave now.”

  But it was too late. Loeter saw the thing going against him, and drunk as he was decided to try his hand at escape, thinking to call on the aid of his friends. “Urbgen! Gwys! Come, we will not listen to these lies.” He turned and stepped down from the table and strode to the door of the hall, but he walked alone.

  “You bargained with the Scotti; they gave you gold in exchange for silence. Your greed has weakened us all, Loeter. You are no longer fit for the company of honorable men.”

  “I gave them nothing!”

  “You gave them safe landfall! You gave them shelter where there should be no shelter!” Custennin roared. “Babes sleep tonight without their mothers, Loeter. Wives weep for their husbands. House timbers smoulder and ashes grow cold where once hearth fires burned. How many more of our people will die because of you?”

  “It is not my doing!” screamed the wretch, still edging toward the door.

  “Whose then? Loeter, answer me!”

  “I am not to blame,” he whined. “I will not have this on my head.”

  “You sold our kinsmen, Loeter. People under my care lie in death’s dark hall tonight.” Custennin raised his hand and pointed a long dagger at the guilty man. “I say that you shall join them, Loeter, and join them you will, or I am no longer King of Goddeu.”

  Loeter backed nearer the door. “No! They only wanted to hunt. I swear it—they only wanted to hunt! I was going to bring the gold to you…”

  “Enough! I will not hear you demean yourself further.” Custennin stepped onto the table and came toward him, the dagger in his hand.

  Loeter turned and bolted to the door. Gwendolau was there with the two wolfhounds and men on either side of him.

  “Do not kill me!” Loeter screamed. He turned to face Custennin, advancing toward him. “I beg you, my lord, do not kill me!”

  “Your death will be more painless than any of those who went before you this day. I do not have the stomach to do what the Sea Wolves do to their captives.”

  Loeter gave a terrible scream and fell down on his knees before his king, weeping pitifully and shamefully. All looked on in awful silence. “I beg you, lord, spare me…spare me…send me away.”

  Custennin seemed to consider this. He gazed down at the cringing wretch and then turned back to those looking on. “What do you say, brothers? Do we spare his sorry life?”

  Even before the words were out of his mouth, Loeter was on his feet, his knife in his hand. As the knife flashed toward the king’s back, there came a savage snarl and flurry of motion. Black lightning sped toward him…

  Loeter gave one small shriek before the dogs tore out his throat.

  The traitor toppled dead to the floor, but the hounds did not cease their attack until Gwendolau came and put his hands on their collars and hauled them away, blood streaming fr
om their muzzles.

  Custennin stared down at the mutilated body. “This is what your gold has bought you, Loeter,” he intoned sadly. “I ask you now, was it worth it?”

  He made a gesture with his hand, and the men before the door came and dragged the body from the hall.

  I turned to Ganieda, who sat beside me staring, her eyes fierce and hard in the light of the torches. “He got better than he deserved,” she said softly, then, turning to me, added, “It had to be, Myrddin. Treachery must be punished; there is no other way for a king.”

  9

  “It is a shameful business,” Custennin was saying, “and not meet for a guest under my roof to see it. Forgive me, lad, it could not be helped.”

  “I understand,” I told him. “There is no need to ask forgiveness.”

  The huge man clapped me on the shoulder with one of his paws. “You have the grace of a king yourself. Indeed, your royal blood tells. Is it true that you lived with the Hill Folk these last years?”

  “It is true.”

  “Why?” he wondered, genuinely puzzled. “A canny lad like yourself must have found many a chance to run away.”

  “Oh, escape was there if I wanted it. But it was for me to stay.”

  “You wanted to stay?”

  “Not at first,” I told him, “but I came to see that there was a purpose to it.”

  “What purpose, then?”

  I had to admit that I did not know, even yet. “Perhaps it will come to me one day. All I know is that I do not regret the time I lived with them. I learned much.”

  He shook his head then. This was Custennin: a man who saw things clearly or he did not see them at all; who took direct and necessary action—as with the trouble concerning his wayward chief, Loeter, who faced matters squarely and settled accounts fairly and on time. He was a king ever mindful of the respect of his people and sought to win it daily.

  “Where do you go now, Myrddin?” he asked. “Ganieda tells me you hope to reach Dyfed before winter.”

  “That is where my friends are. My own people are further south.”

  “So you have said. It will be difficult.”

  I nodded.

  “The weather will break any day and winter will catch you up.”

  “All the more reason to go quickly,” I replied.

  “Yet, I would ask you to stay. Winter here with us and take up the road in the spring.” That was Ganieda’s doing, surely, I sensed her hand at work in the matter. She would not ask me herself, but put her father up to it. “It would make the time go more quickly for all of us.”

  “Your offer is as kind as it is generous, and I regret that it cannot be so.”

  “Go then, lad. As your mind is made up, I will not ask you to change it now. Three years is a long time away from home.”

  He walked with me out of the hall to the stable where he ordered my pony saddled; he frowned as the small horse was made ready. “No doubt the beast is sturdy, but it is not a mount for a prince. Perhaps you would travel more quickly with one of mine.”

  Custennin gestured to his horsemaster to bring one of his horses. “It is true the breed lacks stature,” I allowed. “Still, they are wonderfully strong and suited to long journeys. The Prytani move quickly by day or night, and their ponies carry them with never a misstep long after another horse must be rested.” I patted the neck of my shaggy little animal. “I thank you for the offer, lord,” I said, “but I will keep my horse.”

  “So be it, then,” agreed Custennin. “I only thought that if you took one of mine, you would have reason to come back the sooner.”

  I smiled. Ganieda again? “Your hospitality is reason enough.”

  “Not to mention my daughter,” he added slyly.

  “She is indeed a beautiful woman, Lord Custennin. And her manner does her father much credit.”

  The lady under discussion appeared just then, took one look at the horse saddled before me. “So you are leaving.”

  “I am.”

  “It has been three years,” said Custennin gently. “He was a boy when they took him, Ganieda. He is near enough a man now. Let him go.”

  She accepted this with good grace, though I could see she was disappointed. “Well, he must not ride alone. Send someone with him.”

  Custennin considered this. “Who would you suggest?”

  “Send Gwendolau,” she said simply, as if it were the most natural thing. They had been talking as if I was not there at all, but then Ganieda turned to me. “You would not begrudge my brother a place at your side?”

  “Indeed I would not,” I replied. “But it is not necessary. I can find my way.”

  “And find your death in the snow,” Ganieda said, “or worse—on the end of a Sea Wolf spear.”

  I laughed. “They would have to catch me first.”

  “Are you so elusive? So invincible?” She arched an eyebrow and folded her arms across her chest. Had I Archimedes’ lever, there was no moving her.

  Needless to say, I had a later start than planned, but also more company. For although Gwendolau was happy to accompany me, he insisted on bringing his man Baram with us, saying, “If you find your friends, I will need company on the way back.”

  I could not argue with him, so would have to make the best of it. I would go with better protection, which was not to be despised, but I would go more slowly. Nevertheless, by midday we had a packhorse loaded with the provisions and fodder we would require. We left Custennin’s stronghold, Ganieda standing erect, neither waving nor turning away, just watching until we were out of sight.

  * * *

  Two days later we reached the old Roman road above Arderydd. Aside from the blackthorn and bracken crowding thick along its lance-straight length, the stone road showed no sign of ruin or decay. The Romans built to last; they built to outlast time itself.

  Once upon the road we made better time, despite the rains which settled in earnest. By day we rode beneath a heavy iron sky that leaked water over us; by night icy winds tossed the trees and set the wolves howling in the hills. Miserable we were, cold and drenched for days on end, so that our evening fire did nothing to warm or cheer us.

  Gwendolau proved an amiable companion and undertook to keep us all in as good humor as the dreadful weather would allow. He sang wonderfully absurd songs, and recounted long, maddeningly intricate tales of his hunting exploits—to hear him talk, there was not a beast alive that did not fear his extraordinary skill. He also told me all he knew of what had passed in the world of men since I was taken by the Hill Folk. I liked him and was not sorry that he had come with me.

  Baram, on the other hand, was a man to keep his own counsel, quietly expert in his ways, a sure hand with the horses, a keen eye for the trail ahead. Nothing escaped his notice, though one would have to ask him directly to find it out. Often, when I thought he was far away in his own thoughts, I would turn to him to see a smile on his broad face as he enjoyed Gwendolau’s jesting.

  By evening of the fifth day we reached Luguvallium, which the men in that region called Caer Ligualid; or, more often, Caer Ligal. I was for passing through quickly and camping on the road—we were so much nearer now, it was hard not to begrudge every moment’s delay. But Gwendolau would not hear of it. “Myrddin, you may be able to ride like the bhean sidhe, but I cannot. If I do not dry out, my bones will turn to mush inside this sodden skin of mine. I need a warming drink inside me and a roof that does not shed water on me all night long. In short, a lodging house.”

  Silent Baram added his terse assent and I knew I was beaten.

  “Very well, let us do as you suggest. But I have never been to Caer Ligualid. You will have to find us a place.”

  “Leave it to me,” Gwendolau said, spurring his horse forward, and we galloped into the town. Our appearance drew many stares, but we were not unwelcome, and soon Gwendolau, who could coax even the most skeptical mussel to open its shell to him, had made half-a-dozen friends and achieved his purpose. In truth, travelers were few and be
coming fewer in the north, and any news a stranger could bring was prized.

  The house was large and old, a mansio of the Roman style with its large common room, smaller sleeping chambers, and stable across a clean-swept courtyard—visiting dignitaries in the old days did not often travel on horseback as we did. Both house and stable were clean and dry, and the fodder plentiful for the horses.

  In all, it was an agreeable place, warm and heady with the smell of yeast from bread and beer. There was a fire in the grate and meat on the spit. Baram said not a word but went directly to the hearth and dragged up a stool, stretching his long legs before the fire.

  “With the garrison empty now,” the proprietor told us, eyeing us curiously, “we do not see so many new faces in this town.” His own face was the round, ruddy visage of a man who likes his meat and drink too well.

  “The garrison empty?” wondered Gwendolau. “I noticed there was no one on the gate. Still, it cannot be long empty.”

  “Did I say it was? Och! Hang me for a Pict! Just last summer it was full to nearly bursting, and there were magistrates thick under every bush. But now…”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  He looked at me, and at my clothing—and I think he made the sign against evil behind his back—but he answered without evasion. “Withdrawn, they are. Isn’t that what I am saying? They are gone.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  The innkeeper frowned and his mouth clamped shut, but before I could ask again, Gwendolau interrupted. “I have heard the wine of Caer Ligal has special charms on a rainy night. Or have you poured it all away since the legionaries no longer drink here?”

  “Wine! Where would I get wine? Och!” He rolled his eyes. “But I have beer to make your tongue forget it ever tasted wine.”

  “Bring it on!” cried Gwendolau. The innkeeper hurried away to fetch the beer, and when he was gone Gwendolau said, “It does not do to ask a thing too directly up here. In the north, men like to feel they know you before they say what is in their minds.”