So he did not rise to the bait. Well done, Aurelius! My next probe sought different territory. “Well, what of them? What does it matter what a few self-important grumblers think?”
“I only wish that I could dismiss them that easily. In truth, Merlin, I need those grumblers, every one. They are all that stand between me and Hengist—” He flashed a sudden smile. “—between my rump upon the throne and that blood-lusting Saecsen’s. I like to think the Britons would prefer mine.”
“Yours is an admirable rump, my king,” I agreed with mock solemnity. “Much to be preferred to any Saecsen rump.” And we both laughed. Pelleas and Uther stared at us as if we were drunk in our cups.
“My lord brother,” protested Uther, unable to hold him self back any longer, “you have only just met this man and already you bespeak confidences to him.”
“Only just met? Oh, I think not, Utha. I have known this man for a very long time, it seems to me. And we have been testing one another since he walked into this tent.” Aurelius turned back to me. “I will trust you, Merlin Ambrosius. You will be my counselor—” Here Uther snorted loudly and shook his red locks in sharp disapproval. “He will be my counselor, Uther! I need an advisor, and we are not exactly neck-deep in volunteers.”
Uther subsided, but Aurelius had warmed to the matter on his heart. “Yes, another score left this morning—left the picket before dawn. My lords and chieftains are deserting me, Merlin. I have delivered them from Vortigern, and now they turn against me.”
“How many warriors are left?”
“There are two hundred here, and five hundred follow a day behind.”
“Seven hundred is not a man too many to take on Hengist,” growled Uther.
“Yes,” admitted Aurelius ruefully, “and half of those are Hoel’s men, and they must return to Armorica soon.”
“It is worse than I thought,” I told him.
Aurelius dashed down the last of his mead and sat looking glum. Uther paced dejectedly. How quickly the moods of the young can shift!
“Though not as bad as it might be,” I began. “I have friends in the west, and in the north. I believe we can count them among your supporters.”
“The north!” Aurelius slapped the board with his palms. “On my life, Merlin, if I had the north behind me, the south and midlands would fall in line.”
“The west is where the true power lies, Aurelius. It always has. The Romans never understood that, and so never really conquered this island at all.”
“The west?” sneered Uther as if it were a disease. “Cattle thieves and corn merchants.”
“So the Romans thought,” I replied. “And where is Rome now?”
He glared lethally at me as I continued: “But go to Dyfed and Gwynedd, and see for yourself—the Cymry are still there. Still ruling their clans with dynasties that stretch back five hundred years, a thousand! And they are as strong as ever, stronger perhaps now that Rome can no longer bleed them of men and tribute. Cattle thieves and corn merchants! Arms alone do not make a king strong—it takes cattle and corn as well. Any king who finally understands that will be High King indeed.”
“Well said, Merlin! Well said.” Aurelius slapped the board again. “What do you propose? Shall we ride to the west first? Or to the north?”
“To the west—”
“We will go at once. Today!” Aurelius stood up as if he would dash out and leap upon his horse.
Standing more slowly, I shook my head. “I will go alone.”
“But—”
“I do think it best if I go alone. It has been a long time since I lived there. It would be well for me to see how matters sit first, before arriving with an army. Let me win them for you before you have to deal with them.”
“What do we do while you play at kingmaking?” demanded Uther. The last word was a slap in my face.
“Kingmaking is exactly what I am playing at, Uther, lad,” I growled. “Make no mistake. You won a great victory, yes—over an old man already exhausted and sore beset.” He bristled at this, glowering murderously at me, but I was ruthless. “Neither you nor your brother will last the summer without me and my kingmaking, and that is the way of it.”
“Have we no choice in the matter?” he whined.
“Of course you have a choice. You can listen to me and do as I say, or you can find yourselves a shallow grave beside the road somewhere and scoop the dirt over your faces, or hightail it back to Armorica to languish in Hoel’s court the rest of your miserable lives.”
I let them have it between the eyes, but they took it like men and did not cringe. They did not like it, but neither did they yelp like spoiled children. If they had, I would have ridden from the camp and never returned.
So, it was a start. Aurelius’ clear thinking prevailed over Uther’s hot-blooded impulsiveness, and I was firmly installed as the High King’s counselor—future High King, I should say, for we had much work to do before his rump could sit that throne.
That very afternoon Pelleas and I rode for Dyfed, taking with us only a few golden armbands Aurelius sent along for presents, to be given as I saw fit. These would be welcome, of course, a polite gesture—although the canny Cymry would not be won by gifts of gold. They would want to know who this upstart High King was, and what he was made of; eventually, they would want to meet him in the flesh. That would come, in time, but I wanted to prepare the way.
My first glimpse of my one-time homeland caused my throat to tighten and my eyes to mist. We had stopped a little way off the old Deva road on a hilltop overlooking the broad humps of the western hillscape. Those high, handsome hills with the wind fingering the long grass and ruffling the new heather spoke to me of a happier time—a time when a new-made king rode the hills with his proud warband, working tirelessly to make safe his realm.
We looked to the sea in those days. Now the invaders were firmly planted on our own soil. Vortigern had given Hengist and his brother Horsa their own lands along the southeastern coast in exchange for protection. While it was true that the fox had no better alternative—so contrary were the kings beneath him, they would have sided with Hengist if Vortigern had not done it first!—the bargain proved disastrous in the end. Hengist not only nipped the hand that fed him—he meant to take it off clean to the shoulder!
After a little time, Pelleas urged the horses forward, and we started down into the long, crooked valley that wound between the hills leading in due course to Dyfed. We camped that night in a grove beside a quick-running burn, and arrived in Maridunum—Caer Myrddin now—at sunset the following day.
In the dying light—like fiery embers of a fading fire—all crimson and gold and white, the town appeared unchanged, its walls solid, its streets paved, its houses square and upright. But it was an illusion; as we rode slowly through the streets I saw that the walls were breached in places too numerous to count, the streets broken, the houses tumbled. Dogs ran in the ruins, and somewhere a baby bawled, but we saw no one about.
Pelleas would turn his head neither right nor left, but rode straight on without a sideways glance. I should have done the same, but could not help myself. What had happened to the town?
Maridunum had never been anything more than a scruffy, scuffling market town. Even so, it had life. Apparently that life was over and it had become the habitation of homeless dogs and phantom children. Having passed through Maridunum, as bad as it was, I was in no wise ready for the shock of seeing my old home and birthplace—the villa on the hill. It was as if I had ridden through the town and back in time a few hundred years. For the villa was gone and in its place stood a hillfort with a timber hall and palisade, and ringed with steep ditches—something common enough in the northern wilderness, but unseen in the civilized southland for ten generations or more.
For all the world, it appeared a Celtic settlement from before the Eagles set foot on the Island of the Mighty.
Pelleas led us up the path and waited below the gates, which were already shut against the night although t
he sky was still light in the west. But the timber gates were opened readily enough following Pelleas’ call, and we ambled into a compound crowded with clusters of small log-and-thatch huts surrounding a great hall of dressed timber impressive in its proportions. Of the villa that had once stood on this very ground, there was no sign.
In Taliesin’s time this seat of Demetae and Silure power had been ruled by Pendaran Gleddyvrudd, who in later years shared the throne with his son Maelwys, and briefly even with me. Red Sword was long dead, of course, and alas, so was Maelwys.
Times and needs change. No doubt, the hillfort was immensely more practical for its occupants. But I missed the villa, and found myself wondering whether the little chapel in the woods still stood, or whether it, like the villa, had been replaced by an older temple to an older god.
Pelleas nudged me. “They are coming, master.”
I turned to see men issuing from the great hall, a few with torches in their hands. Their leader was a mature man of goodly stature with greased hair tied at the nape of his neck and a huge golden torc on his neck. He looked enough like Maelwys that I knew Pendaran’s bloodline to be healthy.
“Greetings, friend,” he said with casual friendliness, nevertheless eyeing me with keen interest. “What brings you here?”
“I have come,” I answered, “to seek a home I once knew.”
“It will be dark soon—too dark for searching out a settlement. Stay with us tonight,” his eyes had strayed to my harp behind the saddle, “and we will help you find the place you seek in the morning.”
It was Tewdrig himself who addressed me; he had inherited Maelwys’ generous nature. But I replied, “In truth, this is the place I am looking for.”
He stepped closer and, putting his hand on the bridle of my horse, peered up at me. “Do I know you? Tell me if I do, for I cannot remember ever seeing you within these walls.”
“No, there is no reason you should know me. It is many years since I have been here—when this hillfort was a villa still and Maelwys was its king.”
He stared in disbelief. “Myrddin?”
A murmur of excitement passed among those gathered around. One young man ran back into the hall, and a moment later more men, and women, were streaming out into the yard.
“I am Myrddin,” I said quietly. “And I have returned, Tewdrig.”
“You are welcome here, my lord. Will you come in and sit at my table?”
“That,” I said, climbing down from the saddle, “we will be most happy to do.”
Pelleas and I were conducted into the great hall by the entire throng. News of my coming flitted like sparks on the wind among them and the hubbub grew around us. Although the hall was spacious, soon it was filled with a crush of people, all buzzing with excitement, so that Tewdrig had to shout in order to be heard.
“Lord, your arrival here is unexpected. If only you had sent your man ahead to warn us of your coming, I could have prepared a feast for you. As it is…” He gestured vaguely around the hall. Although not bedecked with festive finery, it was no shabby place. I gathered from a glance that the Demetae and Silures still possessed much wealth, and hence much power.
“As it stands,” I told him frankly, “is how I wanted to see it.” I had not overlooked his use of the word warn, for despite his welcome, which was genuine, it bespoke the worry in his heart. I could calm his fears with a word, but I decided to let it wait for a moment and so better see how he was made.
Tewdrig ordered food to be brought, and beer in the guest cup—a huge silver bowl with double handles—offered me by a comely girl with long dark braids. “This is Govan, my wife,” Tewdrig offered by way of introduction.
“Welcome, friend,” Govan replied demurely. “Health to you, and success to your journey.”
With that I took the cup from Govan, lifted it by the handles, and drank. The liquid was pale, frothy and cool, reviving my appetite admirably. “It appears the brewer’s art has reached new heights since last I held such a cup as this,” I commented. “This is a draught worthy of any king.”
“You shall have a butt of it to take with you when you have concluded your business here,” Lord Tewdrig replied.
He was trying his best to get me to speak of my errand, without asking outright, which would have been ungracious. I could imagine the thoughts spinning in his head. If Myrddin, the former lord and king of this realm, had returned, it could be for one reason only: to reassert his claim to the throne and take back his lands. Where, he wondered, did that leave him exactly? The fact that I had not arrived with a warband at my command was not lost on him, and it made him wonder.
“I thank you most heartily,” I told him, replacing the cup. At that moment food was brought from the kitchens and the platters laid on the board. We took our places—I sat on his left, Govan with his infant son Meurig on his right—and we began to eat.
While we ate, I remarked on the changes I’d noticed in the town, and in the caer. Tewdrig lamented the passing of the town, and the necessity that had occasioned the construction of the hillfort. “The villa could not be saved,” he said, “although we have kept what treasures we could.” He pointed to the floor near the hearth where I saw the old mosaic floor of red, white, and black tiles that had adorned Gleddyvrudd’s hall.
So sad, to lose something so fine. And we were losing so much that would never be replaced. “Was it very bad?” I asked, wondering.
He nodded his head slowly. “Bad enough. The same raid that took Maelwys, took the town and the villa also. My father, Teithfallt, saved what he could, but there was not much.”
When supper was finished, a few of the younger boys who had seen the harp behind my saddle pushed one of the braver of their number forward to beg their lord’s indulgence; they had a request of me.
Tewdrig was on the point of sending the audacious lad away with a stern rebuke for his affrontery, but I interceded. “I would be most happy to sing them a song, Lord Tewdrig.”
The boy’s eyes grew round, for he assumed I had known his request even before he spoke it. In truth, I had seen the same look on too many young boys’ faces in the presence of a bard not to know what it meant.
“Bring me my harp, Teilo,” I told him. He stared, wondering how I knew his name. Like so many things since my madness, I did not know myself, until I had said it. But once spoken, I knew the thing I said to be true.
“Well,” said Tewdrig, “do not stand there gaping like a fish on the beach. Fetch the harp, lad; look you quick!”
I sang from the tale of the Daughters of Llyr and pleased the whole of Caer Myrddin. They clamored for more when I finished, but I was tired and so laid my harp aside, promising I would sing again another time, and people began shuffling off to their sleeping places. Queen Govan bade us good night and carried the yawning Meurig away. Tewdrig ordered more beer and we withdrew, accompanied by Pelleas and two of the king’s advisors, to his private chamber behind a woven wicker partition at the end of the hall.
It was clear that the lord of Caer Myrddin meant to have a full explanation of my presence if it took all night. I had seen enough that evening to know that Tewdrig was an honorable man; and no matter how things fell between us, he would do what honor required.
Therefore, I decided to put a quick end to his anxiety.
We settled in chairs facing one another; a rushlight hung from the beam above, casting a ruddy circle of light, like a glimmering mantle thrown over us. One of his men filled silver rimmed horns with beer and passed them to us. Pelleas stood behind my chair, silent, expressionless, his tall, handsome form like that of a protecting angel—which, in a way, he was.
Tewdrig drew a big draught and wiped the foam from his drooping mustache with a thumb and forefinger, eyeing me all the while. I noticed that neither of his men drank with him. “It has been,’’ he said slowly, amiably, “an interesting night. Too long have the songs of the bard been absent from my hearth. Thank you for filling my hall with joy tonight. I would reward you for yo
ur song…” He paused and looked at me squarely. “But something tells me you would accept nothing but what you came here to receive.”
“Lord and king,” I said quickly, “have no fear for your throne on my account. I have not come to claim it—although I could make good that claim if that were my intent.”
“But it is not?” He rubbed his chin absently.
“No, it is not. I have not come to take back my lands, Tewdrig.”
His eyes went to his men and a secret signal passed between them, for instantly the tension in the room—subtle, but quite present—melted away. More beer was poured and they all drank. A crisis had been averted.
“I tell you the truth, Myrddin,” said Tewdrig, “I did not know what I would do with you. This is your realm, and rightly; I avow it before you. I would not challenge your right…But I have been king here these many years, and my father before me…”
“There is no need to explain, Tewdrig. I well understand. For this reason I deem it best to let my claim lapse. Too much has happened, too many years have passed for me to take back my throne. Myrddin will not be king again.”
Tewdrig nodded sympathetically, but offered no response.
“No,” I continued, “I will not be king again, but in remembrance of a time past when I was a King of Dyfed, I have come to ask your support for another who desperately needs your help.”
“If he is a friend of yours, Myrddin,” Tewdrig said expansively—it was relief talking, to be sure—“we will offer whatever aid you deem best. You have but to name it.”
I leaned forward. “Wiser not to promise before the boon is asked. Nevertheless, the need is such that I would hold you to it regardless. But no, no, it cannot be like that, for it is no small thing I ask.”
“Ask it, friend.”
“High King Vortigern is dead—”
“Vortigern dead!”
“How?” asked one of Tewdrig’s men. “When?” asked the other.
“Only a few days ago. He was killed by Aurelius, son of Constantine, the true High King. Aurelius has taken his father’s place for now, but there are many who consider themselves more worthy to sit the High King’s throne. Even now, those who fought at his side turn against him. I expect Aurelius will not last the summer—”
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