Men stared in astonishment: their lord and a wild bear, greeting one another as old friends. Perhaps, in some inexplicable way, they were.
I will never know what Uther thought he was doing, for he could never remember it clearly. But the two stood this way for the space of a few heartbeats, then Uther lowered his hand and turned away. One of the dogs growled and lunged forward, pulling its leash free from the slack hand of its holder. The bear reared as the dog leaped and gave a sideways swipe with its great paw. The dog tumbled away, howling with pain, its back broken.
The dream ended then in the yelps of a dying dog. The other dogs were at the bear in an instant. The chieftain grabbed Uther by the arm and pulled him back to safety. Then the warriors loosed their spears.
The bear snarled and clawed the air, breaking spearshafts as if they were reeds; but the wounds were made, and the blood was already flowing. Roaring with pain and rage, the great beast fell and the dogs tore out its throat.
“Take them off!” shouted Uther. “Put the dogs away!”
The dogs were pulled away, and all was silent once more. The bear was dead, its blood pooling black and thick on the stones beneath the immense body. This worlds-realm had reasserted itself—as it always will—in stark, unforgiving brutality.
Ah, but for a moment—if only for the briefest moment—those standing in the courtyard knew something of Otherworldly grace and peace.
There are those who say that it was Gorlas come to pay homage to the birth of his grandson that night. Or that the spirit of that great bear, poured onto the stones in sacrifice at the moment of the babe’s birth, found its way into the child that was born that night.
For it is true that when we reached the door of the hall once more, we heard the babe, squalling lustily at the top of its lungs. A hearty cry at the moment of birth is a good sign. Uther shook himself like one awakening and turned to me. “It is—” He paused. “—a boy.”
“A son,” he had been about to say.
“Wait here; I will have the babe brought out. It is best if Ygerna does not see you.”
“As you wish, Uther.” I signaled to Pelleas to go back to the wood and fetch our horses.
He hurried off down the track to the gate, and I waited at the door. People, roused by the noise in the courtyard, passed by on their way to see the bear, which the men were already skinning where it lay. Indeed, it was a giant among bears.
Pelleas came with the horses. We had planned to take the babe without being seen. But the bear had changed that. People knew we were there now, and would know that we had taken the child. There was nothing to be done about that anymore; we would have to trust the Guiding Hand and proceed boldly.
We waited and watched the men work over the bear. When the skin was free, they quartered the animal and fed the heart and liver to the dogs. The rest of the meat would be roasted, or made into stew for the feast.
Yes, I had forgotten: the Christ Mass. I turned and looked to the east and saw that dawn stood not far off. Already the sky lightened at the horizon, grey going to pink and rust. I heard footsteps behind me and Uther approached, carrying a fur-wrapped bundle, his face impassive. A woman walked behind him.
“Here,” he said curtly. “Take it.” Then softly—possibly the only softness I had ever witnessed in Uther Pendragon—he
“He will be well cared for, Uther. Never fear.”
“Ygerna is asleep,” he said. “I am going to wait with her.” He turned, saw the woman standing there, and remembered. “I am sending this woman with you; she will suckle the child. A horse will be made ready for her.” He made to leave, but something held him. He hesitated, his eyes resting on the bundle in my arms. “Is there anything else you require?”
The men came toward us, carrying the skin of the bear into the hall. “Yes, Uther,” I answered, “the bearskin.”
He eyed me curiously, but ordered the raw skin to be rolled up and tied behind my saddle. While this was being done, a stablehand arrived leading a horse for the woman. When she had mounted, I handed the child to her and, taking the reins of her horse into my hand, led my horse and hers out through the gate and down the narrow causeway. Several caerdwellers watched us from outside the walls, but nothing was said and no one followed.
As daylight struggled into the sky, staining the eastern clouds and snow-covered hills crimson and gold, we rode back through the clefted valley and into the smooth, empty hills beyond Tintagel. Seagulls wheeled above us, keening in the cold winter air.
* * *
I did not like the idea of a winter sea voyage. But we must reach Dyfed as quickly as possible. The road is no place for a newborn, and in winter even those who make the road their home stay inside. Crossing Mor Hafren was necessary, though the prospect was far from welcome. Enough men lose their lives in winter seas that most boatmen refuse all commerce in that treacherous season.
Be that as it may, there are those who can always be bought. A flash of gold and they will go against all natural inclination, risking life and limb to an enterprise they would not consider otherwise. Consequently, we had little trouble finding a boat to take us across. Still and all, we waited four days for calm weather.
I was uneasy the whole time. But if anyone marked our passing, we learned nothing of it, for we saw no one else on the road, nor did the boatman take an interest in us. Once the price was settled, he asked no questions and went about his business with silent efficiency.
If he thought anything, he no doubt supposed the woman to be my wife and Pelleas to be my servant. I helped this impression as much as possible, hovering over the lady and the baby with protective authority, seeing to their comfort. The woman, an unfortunate whose husband had been killed when his horse stumbled on Tintagel’s murderous causeway, and whose own babe had taken the wasting fever and died only days before, was not as old as I first thought.
As the journey went on, such beauty as she possessed, ravaged by grief and care, began returning to her. She smiled more often when she held the child, and thanked Pelleas and me for the small kindnesses performed for her. The woman, Enid by name, suckled the child readily, and cradled it as lovingly as any natural mother would. And I surmised that the closeness of the babe, its helplessness and dependence, had begun healing the wound in her heart.
The day of crossing came at last. It was wet and cold—the kind of wet cold that goes to the bones and stays long—the wind gusty and dagger-sharp. But the wind did not raise the seas against us, so we made good time and landed safely. I paid the boatman double his price, and was glad to do it.
Upon crossing Mor Hafren, we quickly entered Tewdrig’s realm, sheltering the first night at the little seaside abbey at Llanteilo where the renowned Bishop Teilo had built his church and monastery. The next day, frosty cold but with a sky clear and high and bright as a flame, we rode the remaining distance to Caer Myrddin.
The sun sets early that time of year. Dusk was well upon us and the first winter stars already in the sky by the time we reached Tewdrig’s stronghold. The market town stood a sad reminder of another age, abandoned now—perhaps forever.
We urged our horses through the ruin and turned up the hill trail to the caer. Silvery smoke from many hearthfires drifted into the still night air, and the aroma of roasting meat reached us as we neared. Our arrival was foreseen, of course, and we were met at the gates by a young man with a sparse brown beard. “Greetings, friends,” he called to us, taking up a place in the center of the path. “What business brings you to Tewdrig’s house this cold winter’s night?”
“Greetings, Meurig,” I told him, for it was Tewdrig’s eldest son who confronted us. Others were gathering around, watching us with polite but undisguised curiosity. “You have become a man I see.”
At the use of his name, Meurig stepped closer. “I am at your service, sir. How do you know me?”
“How should I not know the son of my friend, Lord Tewdrig?”
He cocked his head to one side. I think that my escort—a wo
man with a babe in arms—confused him. But one of the onlookers recognized me, for someone whispered, “The Emrys is come!”
Meurig heard the name; his head whipped around and, laying a hand on my bridle, he said, “Forgive me, Lord Emrys. I did not know it was you—”
I cut short his apology with a wave of my hand. “There is nothing to forgive. But now, if we may go in—it is getting dark, and the child will be getting cold.”
“At once, my lord.” He motioned some of the others forward to take our horses as we dismounted. Another ran to the hall to announce our arrival, so that Tewdrig himself met us as we crossed the yard.
“Your son has become a fine man,” I told Tewdrig when, after our greetings and after Enid and the child had been seen to, we were settled before the hearth with a steaming bowl of mulled wine in our hands. “I did not remember him so well grown.”
“Oh, he has grown indeed, that one.” He smiled, pleased with the compliment. “He was married a year ago and will have a babe of his own before spring.” He laughed suddenly. “But I did not know you had taken a wife.”
“Alas, I have been too busy.”
“That I can easily imagine. So tell me, what is happening in the Island of the Mighty that I should know about?”
“You will have heard of Gorlas’ death,” I replied.
“A bad thing that, very bad. I was sorry to hear of it. He was a strong battlechief.”
“Then you are also aware of the High King’s marriage. As for the rest, you will know more than I—I have been at Ynys Avallach these many months.”
“Not with the Pendragon?” Tewdrig raised his eyebrows at this.
“Uther has his own advisors,” I explained simply.
“Perhaps, but you are—”
“No, it is better this way. I have Uther’s ear when I need it, and he has mine. I am content.”
We sipped our sweet wine for a moment, feeling the warming draught thaw the cold places within. And Tewdrig waited for me to tell him why I had come. “As it happens,” I began, setting my cup aside, “I have come on an errand for the High King.”
Tewdrig leaned forward. “So?”
“A matter of some importance, Lord Tewdrig. Your confidence is enjoined.”
“Whatever can be done, that I will do. For you, Myrddin Emrys, as much as for the High King. Of that you may be certain.”
“Thank you, my friend. But the thing I have come to ask will not be easily granted, and I would have you consider it carefully—perhaps discuss it with your counselors before agreeing.”
“If that is what you wish. Although, if you deem it a virtue to come to me, I can tell you that I will refuse nothing you ask. For it is in my mind that if I could not help, you would not have come to me.”
Had he already guessed why I had come? Tewdrig was shrewd; his next words confirmed my suspicion.
“It is about the child, yes?”
I nodded. “It is.”
“Whose child is it?”
“Aurelius’ and Ygerna’s,” I told him.
“I thought as much,” Tewdrig mused. “Not Uther’s flesh, yet the same noble blood in his veins. So the Pendragon did not care to have the poor babe in his house reminding him that his own brats stood no closer to the throne.”
“That is the pith of it,” I agreed. “Yet the babe must be kept safe, for—”
Tewdrig nodded gravely. “For he will surely be the next Pendragon of Britain!”
I assure you I can be as blind as the next man. And here is the proof: until Tewdrig said those words, I had never seriously considered that likely. Nor did I believe it now. To me, the child was merely that: an infant who must be protected from the overweening ambition of others, not the future king. My blindness was complete.
The deeds and doings of the present, I confess, occupied me more than that one little life. I saw no further. That is the simple truth, and there is no pleasure in the telling of it.
Tewdrig continued, “Oh, I see the problem. Let Dunaut or Morcant or any of that stripe know that Aurelius has an heir and the lad’s life would not be worth a nettle.”
“He will be a danger to himself, to be sure—and perhaps to those around him as well.”
“Bah! Let them try to harm that child! Just let them try and they will soon learn to fear righteous wrath.”
It was not an idle boast, for Tewdrig was no braggart. But I needed more than his loyal indignation. “I know I need have no fear there, Tewdrig. Your strength and wisdom, and that of your people, will be most important. For the child must not only be protected, he must be nurtured and taught.”
“Gwythelyn is nearby at Llandaff. The boy will be well taught, never fear.” Tewdrig sipped his wine and smiled expansively. “The son of Aurelius in my house. This is an honor.”
“It is an honor that must remain unsung. He cannot be Aurelius’ son anymore. From this day, he is merely a child fostered at your hearth.”
“I understand. Your secret is safe with me, Myrddin Emrys.”
“It is our secret now, Tewdrig,” I reminded him. “And we will speak of it no more.”
“No more,” agreed Tewdrig, “except to say what is to be the name of the child. What is he to be called?”
Shameful to tell, I had not thought to call the infant anything. Neither Uther nor Ygerna had bestowed a name, and I had been too preoccupied with its safety to give it any consideration. But the babe must have a name…
A word is given when a word is required. And this time, like so many others, the name came unbidden to my tongue: “Arthur.”
Instantly, upon uttering the word, I heard again the voice of my vision: the throng in Londinium clamouring, “Arthur! Arthur! Hail Arthur!”
Tewdrig was watching me closely, his brows knotted in concern. “Is something amiss?”
“No,” I reassured him. “The infant—let him be called Arthur.”
Tewdrig tried the name. “Arthur…Very well. An unusual name, though. What does it mean?”
“I believe he will have to make its meaning for himself.”
“Then we must make certain he lives long enough to do so,” replied Tewdrig. He retrieved his cup, raised it. “To Arthur! Health and long life, wisdom and strength! May he win the hero’s portion at the feast of his fathers.”
16
We stayed at Caer Myrddin, and would have been content to remain there longer, but when the weather broke, Pelleas and I made our way back to Ynys Avallach. The journey was uneventful—indeed, we met no one at all on the road. But a day out from Dyfed a deep melancholy settled on me—a nameless longing, sharp and poignant as grief.
Into my mind came all the losses I had known. And, one by one, I saw forms and faces of those who had touched my life and now were gone to dust in the ground:
Ganieda, fairest daughter, wife and lover; her clear gaze and ringing laughter; shining hair, long and dark; her sly smile when she hid a secret; the sweetness of her mouth when we kissed…
Hafgan, Druid Chief, watching the world from the lofty elevation of his vast wisdom; welcoming the curiosity of a child; instilling dignity in the humblest gesture; standing firm for the Light…
Dafyd, goodness embodied, kindness with a soul; diligent searcher, defender, and warrior for the Truth; ready believer who did not condemn the unbelief of others; sower of the Good Seed in the soil of men’s hearts…
Gwendolau, stout companion; fierce in battle and in friendship; first to raise the cup and last to set it down; drinking deep of life; knowing no pain or hardship too great for the sake of a sword brother…
Blaise, last of the true bards; keen of perception and understanding; unwavering in devotion, steadfast in virtue; a burning brand touched to the dry tinder of the Old Way…
And others: Elphin…Rhonwyn…Maelwys…Cuall…Aurelius…
* * *
This heavyheartedness lasted with me into the spring and summer. I found myself turning more and more to thoughts of my father, wondering what sort of man Talie
sin had been, regretting that I had not known him, weeping for the sound of his voice in song. The regret, at first merely sorrowful, festered and grew into black hatred for Morgian who caused his death.
That she lived and breathed the air of this world—when Taliesin and so many other good people had gone out of it—infuriated me.
It came into my mind to kill her.
I even planned how this deed might be accomplished. And before spring was over, I had conceived every aspect of her death—indeed, I had murdered her many times over in my heart.
Nor did I fear carrying out my plan. I believe, if left to myself, I would have found her and slain her. However, we are rarely left to ourselves. Jesu, who watches over the affairs of all men, is not content that any should fall from his hand or long remain beyond his touch. If not for that, I am certain I would have joined Morgian in the stinking pit of hell.
What happened was this:
A woman came to Shrine Hill, suffering from an ailment of her bones which caused them to become brittle as sticks, quickly broken and slow to mend. The slightest blow would cause a bruise that would swell painfully and last for many days. She had suffered long with this affliction, always in the sorest agony, laboring with her arm in a sling, or hobbling on a crutch—the small bones in her hands and feet snapped so easily.
But she prevailed upon some kinsmen to bring her to the shrine, for she had heard of the healing work the brothers practiced there. In truth, she had heard of the wonders Charis had performed with her healing art. So she came with simple faith to be healed.
Charis had marked—with alarm, I should think—my growing bitterness and depression. She had spoken to me about it, but I was beyond listening. So, the day she went to minister to the woman she took me with her. It was a day of darkness for me, and not caring where I was or what I did, I accompanied her to the shrine.
The woman, neither old nor young, was dressed in a well-patched green mantle, ragged at hem and sleeves, but clean as she could make it. She smiled as Charis came into the room the brothers set aside for treatment of the sick. There were others gathered there—other sick, and a few brothers in their grey robes moving among them. The sound of Psalm-singing came down to us like sweet rain from the hilltop shrine above.
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