“They say Arthur has returned—”
“Aye,” he confirmed. “He lies within”—Cai indicated the tent behind—“and might welcome a mote of peace and quiet.” Turning once more to the crowd, he frowned. “Listen to them now!”
He made to renew his efforts at silencing the clamorous Cymbrogi, but I restrained him. Putting my hand flat on Cai’s chest, I demanded, “But is he well, brother? Just tell me that.”
“See for yourself,” he replied, brushing off my hand. “For if you will not help, at least get out of the way.”
Cai’s reply gave me little direction for my expectation. I stepped quickly to the tent and reached to withdraw the flap, not knowing whether I should find a king more dead than alive. The mood of the warriors was high, but as downcast as they had been since the High King was taken away, they might have easily mistaken Arthur’s return—holding it a thing more hopeful than was otherwise warranted. Crowds, I know, have a way of believing only what they want to believe.
Oh, but I had seen the wound. Men who sustain such injury, even if they survive, rarely recover their full vigor—as many a battle-scarred veteran will attest. Though I am no healer, I know whereof I speak, for ever since I was old enough to throw a spear without falling off my horse, I have followed my king into the fight and have seen the crippled and dying afterwards. May God have mercy, I have myself sent to the Judgment Seat more men than I can remember.
Yes, I had seen Arthur’s wound: deep it was, and brutal. The blood ran dark in hot, pulsing rushets. When they carried him from the field, his skin was pale as that of a corpse, his hair lank, and his eyes sunk back in his skull. As I say, I was no stranger to that appearance. Still, I never thought to see Arthur wear it.
Plucking up my courage, I grasped the tent flap, pulled it aside, and stepped quickly in. Scarcely less crowded inside than out, I shouldered my way farther into the tent’s interior, straining for a glimpse of Arthur, and saw the back of Bedwyr’s head, and beside him Rhys; Cador and Llenlleawg pressed near also. I shoved closer, almost trembling with uncertainty.
I pushed in between Bedwyr and Cador. Bedwyr, glancing back, saw that it was me, and shifted a half step aside. And there was Arthur, sitting in his camp chair, impatient with Myrddin, who was bending over him. Gwenhwyvar stood behind, resting her hands on his broad shoulders, a satisfied smile curving her lips.
Arthur looked up at my appearing, and cried, “Gwalchavad! Welcome, brother; I hoped you would soon join us.” He made to rise in greeting, but the Emrys tugged him back down into the chair.
“Let me finish,” Myrddin muttered.
“I cannot sit here all day!” Arthur complained. “The men are waiting. I must speak to them.”
“We will be at this all day if you do not sit still long enough for me to put this on you!” snapped Myrddin.
“Ah, look at you now,” said Arthur, glancing around and grinning at what he saw. “It is Earth and sky to see you, brothers.” He reached out to seize Bedwyr by the arm.
“Stop squirming,” Myrddin insisted. “A moment more.” Arthur raised his eyes heavenward as the Emrys bent over his work. “There!” said Myrddin finally, stepping back. “We are finished.”
Arthur glanced down, holding up his arm, bent at the elbow. I saw the dull gleam of red-gold encircling the High King’s upper arm. It was an armband, but unlike any I had seen before: a dragon, its serpentlike body encoiled, glaring fearlessly upon the world with red-flecked ruby eyes. A handsome ornament, to be sure; God alone knows where Myrddin got it.
It came to me that the trinket’s form was not unlike the image on the standard which Uther had made and carried into battle. Having revived Uther’s old title to such magnificent acclaim, Myrddin thought to adorn the occasion with a worthy reminder of Arthur’s lineage; tradition, they say, is a powerful and influential friend to those who honor it.
“At last!” said Arthur as he jumped up, making for the tent flap. There was not the least hesitation or difficulty in his movements. If I had not seen him sprawled at death’s gate, life ebbing with every beat of his heart, I would have thought myself deceived. Could this be the selfsame man? How was it possible a wound of such dire consequence could be healed so quickly?
He pushed through the crush of onlookers, patting their backs and calling their names, but moving on, eager to get outside. “We will drink together, friends,” he called, lifting the oxhide flap and stepping through. That was Arthur, truly, forgetting that we had only tepid lake water—and were fortunate to get that, much less any ale!—with which to hail his safe return.
Snagging hold of Llenlleawg as he followed Arthur out, I asked, “How is it possible?”
The lanky Irishman merely looked at me and grinned, but passed along with no reply. Turning to Myrddin, I said, “Will no one tell me anything?”
“Greetings, Gwalchavad.” The Emrys spoke soothingly. “You had a successful journey, I hope?”
“Never mind about me,” I answered. “How is it that Arthur is healed? What is the meaning of the armband? And why is it that—”
“Peace!” said Myrddin, raising his hands against my onslaught. “I can answer but one question at a time. We have been to Ynys Avallach,” he said, “as you know—to obtain for Arthur the healing we could not effect ourselves.”
“You have succeeded marvelously well,” I remarked. The others had quickly cleared the tent, leaving Myrddin and me alone for a moment. Outside, the cheering grew loud and then died away as Arthur began to address the Cymbrogi.
“I had little to do with it,” Myrddin assured me. His voice grew solemn. “Arthur lived, but only that much and no more.” He held up a finger pressed against his thumb to show how narrow was Arthur’s claim on mortal life. “I do not know how he clung to a cord so slender, but he did.”
“Yes? And then?”
“Heaven was with us, and he was healed,” Myrddin answered, regarding me mildly. “He is as you see.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, impatience getting the better of me. “I can clearly see, but how?”
“It was a miracle,” he explained, “but a miracle of such provenance that it allowed no witnesses. I cannot tell you how, nor will Arthur speak of it. Perhaps one day he will tell us, but not yet.”
Despite Myrddin’s words, I sensed there was still much that he would not say. “But Cai said—”
“Cai refuses to believe his eyes,” Myrddin declared flatly. “As for the golden armband,” he continued, “it belonged to Uther. Ygerna had it made for him after they were married; it gave him the idea for the dragon standard. When Uther died, Ygerna kept it for her son, always believing he would one day become High King like his father.”
“Why did you wait until now to give it to him?”
“Whenever did I have a better chance?” Myrddin demanded. “We have scarcely had space enough to draw breath from one battle to the next.”
“No doubt that will change,” I mused. “Now that we have rid ourselves of invaders and rebellious Britons, we can enjoy a season of peace.”
“That is what I have been saying all my life,” Myrddin replied tartly.
Chapter Six
I remember lost Atlantis. Though I was but a babe in arms when the calamity came upon us, I can still see the Isle of Apples as it was then, before the destruction. The Great Palace was much reduced from its former glory; owing to Avallach’s long, wasting illness, everything was falling into neglect. Even so, to my childish recollection all was leaf-green and golden sunlight, endless gardens and mysterious rooms no one entered anymore.
My mother turned the gardens to her use. Lile was wise in the ways of root and stem; she knew the lore of herbs, and her medicines were most potent. We would spend entire days in those gardens, my mother and I—she working among her herbs, and I playing at her feet. She believed me too young to understand, yet she told me everything she knew about the plants. “This is Three Hearts,” she would say. “It is useful for stanching the flow of blood, and for pu
rging the bowel.”
In this way Lile awakened in me the thirst to master the plants of healing and death. But there was much, much more than she knew. The Magi of Atlantis had amassed the lore of every age and realm, and though it took what would have been a lifetime for a mortal, this lore I also acquired. In Broceliande’s deep wood I found what I sought. A remnant of our race had taken root there—Kian’s people, Avallach’s son and Charis’ brother. There among the tall trees and deep shadows, they had built a city. I found it, and found, too, the knowledge I craved.
There was a book—from Briseis’ library it came. The queen loved her books. I do not think she ever read it, but it was saved. I think Annubi, the royal family’s faithful sage and counselor, may have had something to do with that. If Lile kindled the flame of love for secret lore, Annubi fanned that flame into an all-consuming fire. At first it gave him pleasure to tell me things; he was lonely, after all. Later, however, he had no choice. I made certain of that. He served me, and lived at my command.
Annubi was the first man I bent to my will, and I learned much about the power of the female sex. When I had wrung him dry, I let him go. Indeed, I hastened him on his way. He was the first, but not the last. Far from it! There have been so many. Each has had his purpose—wealth, power, position, blood—I choose them well, and take what they have to give. Whatever is required, I become: queen, wife, lover, whore. It is all the same to me.
Myrddin was right, of course; there had been little time for anything other than fighting. Sometimes it seemed to me that we spent all our days ordering our weapons; if we were not sharpening them, we were repairing them, and if not repairing them, we were sharpening them again. Whenever we had a spare moment, we looked to our horses and tended our wounds, always anticipating the next battle, the next war.
Though the Vandali had been defeated, we remained wary—unwilling, perhaps, to think that peace had finally come to the Island of the Mighty. We had been cruelly disappointed before.
But, as the Wise Emrys had suggested, over the next few days Arthur began to tell how he had come by his miraculous healing—an intriguing tale, made more so by the simple fact that, apart from Avallach, Arthur was its only observer and as he had been lying at death’s gate at the time, he was not best placed to say what had happened. And though he spoke with great enthusiasm, and greater reverence, the details remained hazy.
I gleaned there was something about a cup, and a heavenly visitation, and a prayer in a strange language by Lord Avallach. Of the holy men at the abbey, there was never a mention; thus, I supposed they had little to do with the matter. Indeed, the chief agent of the miracle seemed to be the cup, or bowl, which Arthur had seen, or thought he had seen, in Avallach’s possession.
“You drank something from the cup?” wondered Bedwyr. We were sitting at table, Arthur and the queen together with Myrddin and a dozen of the Dragon Flight—the elite of the Pendragon’s warhost—in the tent which served as a hall for us when we were on the battle trail. It was late, but we were exulting in our king’s return and reluctant to leave the tent. “A potion, or elixir? One of Paulus’ concoctions?”
Arthur pursed his lips. “That may be so,” he allowed. “I cannot remember. Avallach held it like this.” He cupped his hands as if cradling a bowl. “No, wait,” he said, shaking his head, “it was the other one—Avallach never touched it.”
“The other one?” Cai demanded with growing frustration. “You mean to say there were two bowls now?”
“No, not two bowls,” Arthur retorted, “two people: Avallach and some other.”
“The angel,” suggested Gwenhwyvar helpfully, and everyone around the board turned his head to stare at her. “We all saw her,” she insisted. Appealing to Myrddin, she said, “Tell them, Myrddin; you must have seen it.”
But Myrddin, scowling now, refused to speak.
“There was an angel,” she maintained defiantly. “We saw her.”
Cai instantly resumed his inquiry. “Did the angel speak to you, Bear? What did she look like?”
“If you say it was an angel, so be it,” replied Arthur equably. “I thought her one of Avallach’s servants.”
This drew a snort from Myrddin, who folded his arms and turned his face away.
“But what did they do?” demanded Bedwyr. “Did they touch you? Did you touch the bowl?”
No, said Arthur, he did not think he was touched, or touched the bowl—other than to drink, if indeed he had drunk from the cup. There was speaking—a prayer, he thought, from the way Avallach prostrated himself—but in a language unknown to Arthur. There was light, yes, a blaze of candlelight that whelmed the room in shimmering radiance most wonderful to see. And there seemed to be music. Arthur definitely thought he heard music, but neither singing, nor harps, nor pipes, nor anything else he had ever heard before; but since neither Avallach nor the heavenly servant had produced this music, he could not be certain precisely how it might have come about. He was more certain about the delicious fragrance that accompanied the appearance of the bowl. It was, he said, as if all the flowers of summer were tumbled together, each lending sweetness to the other and blending into an odor at once divine and indescribable.
These assertions brought more questions from Cai, Bedwyr, Cador, and the others who, despite Arthur’s hazy recollections, seemed determined to solve the mystery. Those who were there, however, appeared reluctant to speak. Gwenhwyvar made but simple comments of correction, while Llenlleawg and Myrddin spoke not at all. They were, I suspect, unwilling to scrutinize the miracle too closely, and were content to allow the mystery to remain.
In the end, however, the continued assault on the mystery grew too much for Myrddin. Drawing himself up, he strode to the table and struck the board with the flat of his hand. “Enough!” he shouted, his voice a command even the deaf would obey.
Glaring down along the board at those huddled on the benches, he said, “Listen to your mindless nattering! You stand in the presence of a holy miracle, and you yammer away like foolish children without a thought in your heads.”
“We only want to understand,” complained Bedwyr sourly.
“Silence!” roared Myrddin. The terrible scowl on his face challenged anyone to speak, and no one deigned to brave the challenge. “Since you desire to know,” he continued stiffly, “I will tell what can be told. The bowl, as you have it, is called the Grail—know you that it is none other than the welcome cup used by our Lord Christ himself at his last meal when he sat and supped with his friends. On that same night he was betrayed, and the next day was scourged and crucified.
“One of the Christ’s many followers was a wealthy merchant known to us as Joseph of Arimathea, the same who provided the meal that night, and the tomb as well. Joseph kept the cup, which the Lord had blessed, and when the first believers were driven from Jerusalem, he brought the holy vessel to Britain. Joseph and his friends established the first church in the west, and it was here on Ynys Prydain that they raised the first altar to the Risen Christ.
“Alas, that first church passed from this worlds-realm, for the people were not yet ready to hear and receive the True Word. Joseph and those with him died in their time and were buried beside the lake beneath the Tor, where Avallach and Charis now reside, and where the monks have raised their abbey, but the Grail abides. Through means unknown to any save Avallach, who alone guards it, the Cup of Christ is preserved.
“In truth, it is the holiest object that abides on earth. Its marvels are beyond telling, and I know whereof I speak, for once, when I was stricken and dying, this selfsame Grail preserved and healed me, and behold! now it has healed Arthur.” Raising an admonitory hand, he said, “But I warn you, do not think to discover the how or why of it: no man can tell you how it effects its healing, nor why some are healed even while others perish. Truly, it is enough to know that it endures as a special sign of God’s good pleasure; accept it, revere it, and let it be. Instead of worrying heaven and the angels with your ignorant chatter, you sho
uld rather throw yourselves to the ground and repent of your folly.”
So saying, Myrddin turned abruptly and departed. The company sat for some moments in silence, pondering Myrddin’s curious warning. Then, slowly, talk resumed, somewhat more respectful this time, but no less excited. After a time, Arthur, visibly moved by what the Emrys had said, spoke his mind. “Myrddin is right; this is a thing too holy for idle speculation. We would do well to guard our tongues.”
“Better still,” suggested Cai, “we should pay homage to the cup—for healing our king.”
To Cai’s manifest amazement, everyone agreed wholeheartedly. Arthur commended the plan and lauded Cai’s suggestion, embellishing it with the small addition of a special contingent of monks to offer prayers and psalms on behalf of the holy object and the realm. Thus would the Pendragon establish his reign, and the Kingdom of Summer commence.
Dazzled by glory, we all retired to our sleep that night in a mood of high expectation. Surely now, after the Saecsen wars and the battles fought to subdue the invading Vandali, we could lay aside our weapons and embrace the practice of peace so long abandoned in our homeland. We dreamed that night of returning to peaceful pursuits, growing contented and prosperous, and enjoying the fruits won by our swords’ harsh labors. Having dreamed the glorious dream, we rose the next morning to greet the sun rising on a new and splendid epoch, the beginning of the Summer Kingdom, Taliesin’s oft-told vision when peace, love, and honor would govern Britain’s island brood.
Arthur regretted that he could not ride south at once. “Be at ease, Bear,” steady Bedwyr reassured him; “the council is soon finished—a day or two more, and we are done here.”
As we might have expected, Myrddin thought little of the notion. “Has it not occurred to any of you,” he inquired tartly, “that there is good reason why the Grail has remained hidden all these years? I have every confidence Avallach knows best what to do. Hear me, Arthur: do not think to meddle. Leave it alone.”
Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle Page 5
