Thus, Bedwyr, Cador, and I, along with a score of Cymbrogi, rode out one cool, bright morning to our various destinations, far and wide throughout the realm and beyond. I was sent to Londinium to bring back Charis, who yet labored there in one of the plague camps. Before leaving, I asked Llenlleawg if he would ride with me—for all he appeared so haggard and ill at ease that I reckoned a little sojourn away from the overheated mood of the Tor would be no bad thing—but he declined. “No,” he said, “my place is here with Arthur.”
“Of course,” I replied lightly, “no one doubts it. But Arthur himself has commanded me to go and escort Charis home.”
“Then go. It is nothing to do with me.”
I watched him as he stumped away, and could not help thinking that he was no longer the man I knew. I resolved to bring the matter to Myrddin’s attention at the first opportunity when I returned. Be that as it may, it was with a sense of relief that I left the Tor—relief that I might be quit of the tedium and hypocrisy of maintaining a pretense of support when my heart was not in it.
Taking an extra horse, I departed, pausing at the abbey to inquire where I could find Paulus. Some of the brothers had just returned from a long stint away in the south, just outside Caer Lundein, where Paulus had established a camp off the old Roman road. Charis was there, along with a good many monks from neighboring monasteries, helping to combat the yellow death. “It has ravaged Londinium terribly,” one of the brothers told me. “I believe it is far worse there than it ever was here. Paulinus is easy to find, and you will not have to enter the city.”
“Perhaps you would not object,” suggested Elfodd, “to taking a few supplies to them. The need is great, and it is the least we can do. Would you mind?”
“Not at all,” I assured him, and then watched as the good monks piled bundle after bundle upon the horses: supplies for making medicine, cloaks and winter clothing for the brethren, dried meat, and casks of ale and mead to help their fellows celebrate the Christ Mass, which was drawing near. When they finished at last, I took my leave and made for the Londinium Road. I thought it a long time since I had been on that highway; the last time was for Arthur’s crowntaking and wedding. So much had happened since then, it seemed a lifetime ago. Perhaps it is as Myrddin says: time is not the passage of an endless succession of moments, but the distance between events. That was nonsense to me when I first heard it. Now, looking back, I think I begin to know what he meant.
The swiftest way to the Londinium Road lies through a stretch of forest—an old, old trackway, used from ages beyond remembering. The forest is older still, of course, and there are yet many of the great patriarchal trees to be seen: elms on which moss has grown so thick that they appear gray-green with age, and oaks with trunks large as houses. The forest fringe, where light still penetrates to the ground, evokes no fear; but when men must go into the dark heart of the ancient wood, they go in haste, passing through as quickly as possible.
This I did, hunkering down in the saddle with one of the Wise Emrys’ saining runes on my lips. As I rode, I said:
Be the cloak of Michael Militant about me,
Be the cloak of the Archangel over me,
Christ’s cloak, Blessed Savior, safeguarding me,
God’s cloak of grace and strength, shielding me!
To guard me at my back,
To preserve me from the front,
And from the crown of my head
to the heel of my foot!
The cloak of Heaven’s High King between me
and all things that wish me ill,
and all things that wish me harm,
and all things coming darkly towards me!
In this way I passed through the darkest part of the forest. After a while, the path lightened ahead of me, and I knew that I was reaching the end. I emerged from the wood at a gallop and gained the hills above the road, where I paused to look back at the Tor’s blue-misted shape in the distance. I rode until nightfall, whereupon I made camp and spent the first of several mild nights under the winter stars.
The journey remained uneventful and four days later, through the murky brown haze of evening smoke—as if the plague were a visible cloud under which the city suffered—I glimpsed Londinium, cowering behind its high walls. Those walls, erected long before Constantine was Emperor, were collapsed in several places and falling down. It was amidst the rubble of one such breach outside the northern gate that Brother Paulus’ camp had been established.
Rather than trust to the hospitality of that plague-ridden city, I happily made camp beside the road and waited until the next morning to proceed any farther—and anyway, the gates were already closed for the night.
At dawn the gates opened and people emerged, bringing the plague victims with them: some they carried, some they dragged. I resumed the saddle and as I drew near, the odor of the place reached me—a foul stench of sickness, rot, and death that made the gorge rise in my throat.
I swallowed hard, crossed myself, and rode on.
A pall of smoke rose from a great refuse heap to hang like a filthy rag over the camp, and I saw what appeared to be bundles of cast-off clothes scattered in their hundreds all around. Closer, I discovered that these were not bundles, but bodies. I tethered the horses on a patch of withered grass a short distance away and approached on foot, picking my way carefully among the Yellow Ravager’s victims.
There were so many! Everywhere I looked, I saw more, and still more. I believe the numbers shocked me more than the sight and smell, which were both appalling. I gazed in dismay at the scattered bodies of men, women, and children—in their hundreds, mind, and more being brought out through the gates—many, if not most, to be dumped beside the road like so much refuse, discarded and forgotten. Those who had given up the fight lay still and silent; but those in whom life yet warred cried in their torment, moaning and mewing as they twitched and writhed.
The groans of these unfortunates filled the air with a low, queasy keen. Their faces were spotted and distorted, their eyes red, their sores pus-filled and running; they vomited and defecated and bled over themselves, and lay rotting in their own filth. I had not witnessed the devastation of the Yellow Ravager before, yet judging by what I saw around me, I knew it was well named: the poor wretches mewing and crying in their throes were uniformly cast in a lurid shade of yellow—as if their flesh had been tinted by noxious dye and wrung out while wet—their skin was bloated, and vile mucus ran from nose and eyes to choke them; they sweated and panted as if being consumed from within by fire.
Many reached out their hands to me, crying for help, for release, but I could do nothing for them.
I knew the plague had worsened in the south; I had heard the bleak tidings like everyone else, but had no idea it was this bad. If it did not end soon, I reckoned, there would be no one left in Londinium to even bury the victims, let alone care for them. Oppression hung over the camp like the nasty smoke from the smutty little fires that had been lit here and there to burn the plague sufferers’ clothing. This served to heighten the feeling of gloom and foreboding and misery into a sensation so palpable that I could almost see Death hovering over the camp, black wings outspread, gliding slow.
I also saw scores of monks at work among the plague victims, for the church had shouldered the burden of caring for the diseased and dying. These stalwart clerics carried water to the fevered and warm cloaks to the shivering; they prayed with the distressed and comforted the dying. And though they strove valiantly against an insidiously powerful adversary, their struggle was in vain. There were far too few of them to sway the course of battle. The cause, so far as I could see, was lost—yet they fought on.
The good brothers had used the rubble stone of the fallen wall behind them to erect hundreds of small enclosures over which cloth and skins were placed to form hovels in which the more curable of the sick might lie. Need had far outstripped the monks’ kindly provision, however, and they had begun laying the plague-struck toe-to-toe, rank upon rank in end
less rows beneath the crumbling wall. Meanwhile, the busy brothers hastened among the sprawled bodies on urgent errands.
I caught one brown-robed cleric and asked of him where I might find Brother Paulus. The monk pointed to a tent beside the wall, not far from the gate, and I made directly for the place. Once, when stepping over a body of one I thought a corpse, I felt a hand reach out and snatch hold of my foot. A pitiful voice cried, “Please!”
Revulsion swept over me. I jerked my foot free.
“Please…” the wretch moaned again. “I thirst…I thirst.”
Ashamed of my harsh reaction, I glanced around to see where I might find some water to give the poor fellow, and saw a monk carrying two flasks. I ran to the brother, told him I had need of the jar, and returned to the man on the ground, then knelt beside him, put my hand beneath his head, and raised him up a little to drink. His hair was wet and his skin damp and cold; his rheumy eyes fluttered in his head when I put the jar to his lips. I watched in horror as a black tongue darted out to lap at the water.
“Bless you,” he whispered, his breath sighing out between his teeth.
“Drink,” I urged. “Take a little more.”
It was only after entreating him a second time that I realized I was clutching a corpse. I put aside the jar, lowered his head to the ground, and stood, wiping my hands on the ground. Hardening my heart, I walked on, ignoring the pleas of those I passed. God help me, I walked on, lest through their defiling touch I should become like them.
What if Arthur is right, I thought, and the most Holy Grail can end this suffering? What if it could bring about the miracle Arthur believes? Then he must try. Anyone with half a heart would try. Indeed, the king would have to be either a coldhearted fiend or insane not to attempt anything that held out even the slightest hope for healing his people. Certainly, a king of Arthur’s stamp must do everything in his power to bring this healing about.
These things I thought, and began, at last, to understand Arthur’s obsession with the shrine. I regretted my doubt and mistrust, and repented of my disbelief. Who was I, an ignorant warrior, to question the things of God? Thus, as I walked along, I found myself praying: Great Light, let Arthur be right. Hasten the completion of the shrine, and let the Grail do its work. Let the Grail do its saving work, Merciful Lord, and let the healing begin.
I reached the tent and ducked gratefully inside, where I found Paulus hunched over a low table, pouring his healing potion from a large jar into smaller vessels for distribution to the afflicted. “Brother Paulus,” I said, and he looked up, recognized me, and smiled. It was the tired, forlorn smile of an exhausted man. His hair was lank and his eyes were sunken; his flesh had the wan, pallid look of a person too long confined.
“God be praised, it is Gwalchavad!” he said, genuinely pleased to see me. “Greetings!” He took two steps towards me, then caught himself. “You should not be here,” he warned. “Tell me quickly what you have to say, and then leave.”
Taking him at his word, I said, “Greetings, Paulus. I bring supplies and provisions from your fellow monks. I also bring word that Lady Charis is required at the Tor. The Pendragon has sent me to fetch her. If you will tell me where she may be found, trust that we will depart as soon as the horses are unburdened.”
“That would be best,” the haggard monk agreed, replacing the jar and drawing his sleeve across his damp forehead. “Come, I will show you.”
“Please, I would not disturb you. Just tell me where she is, and I will find her myself.”
The dutiful monk waved aside my offer. “It will be quicker to show you,” he insisted.
He led me out along the wall, passing the burning refuse heap on the way—where I saw to my horror that it was in fact an immense pit which had been dug in the earth, filled with logs, and set alight to burn the dead. By twos and threes the corpses were thrown onto the sputtering heap. The smoke stank and the corpses sizzled. Down in the lower depths of the pit, black, grinning skulls nestled among the red embers. I turned my face, held my breath, and hurried by.
“I am sorry,” Paulus said, calling over his shoulder; “we have no other choice. The plague is far worse in the city, where people live close together—that makes it more virulent, I think.”
“Everything is worse in the city,” I concurred, then inhaled some of the stinking smoke and was overcome by a fit of coughing.
Paulus led me past the pit and along the wall to another section of the camp and still more hovels and still more bodies lying on the ground. But here, at least, robed monks passed among the plague-struck bearing jars of healing elixir. “Not all die,” Paulus told me. “Many of these may yet recover. Those who have that chance are brought here, where we can care for them.”
Just then a figure emerged from a nearby hovel, moved to one of the victims on the ground. I saw that it was Charis, Lady of the Lake, her fair hair bound in a length of cloth and wound around her head, her tall, elegant form clothed in a simple coarse robe such as the monks around her wore. Kneeling beside the sufferer—a young woman with waxy yellow skin—she placed her hand gently on the young woman’s forehead. The stricken woman came awake at the touch and, seeing the one who attended her, smiled. Despite the agony of her distress, she smiled at Charis and I saw the killing plague retreat, if only for a moment.
Charis offered her charge a few words of comfort, at which the young woman closed her eyes and rested again, but more comfortably, I think, for her features appeared serene as Charis rose and continued on her way. Paulus made to call Charis, but I stopped him, saying, “Please, no. I will go to her.”
I watched for a while as Charis moved among the stricken and suffering, here stooping to touch, there stopping to offer a word. Like the monks, she carried a jar of the elixir, which she gave out, pouring a few precious drops of Paulus’ healing draught into the victims’ bowls and cups, then helping the sufferer to drink. Wherever she went, I imagined peace and solace followed—a healing presence, like a light, clearer and finer than sunlight, which soothed and calmed, easing the pains of disease and death.
Upon reaching the last of her charges, Charis stood, smoothed her robe, turned, and looked back along the ranks of victims. She closed her eyes and stood there for a moment, head bowed, lips moving slightly. Then she opened her eyes and, glancing up, saw me and smiled in greeting. In that smile she became the Fair Folk queen I remembered. Oh, they are a handsome race, there is no doubt. I saw the light come up in her eyes, and the breath caught in my throat.
I watched as she approached, feeling both humble and proud to be accounted worthy to converse with such nobility. “You have come from Arthur, I think,” she said upon joining us.
“I give you good greeting, Lady Charis,” I replied, inclining my head in respect. “The Pendragon has indeed sent me to find you.”
“Have you come to help us?” she inquired with a smile. “Or brought supplies, perhaps?”
“Bishop Elfodd has sent a fair store of provisions, but I have come to escort you back to Ynys Avallach.”
“I see.” The smile faded instantly, and I watched as gray fatigue repossessed her features.
“Forgive me,” I said, and explained about the Grail Shrine and Arthur’s concern to have it consecrated at the Christ Mass observance. I must have told it poorly, for a frown appeared, grew, and darkened, like a shadow of apprehension, as she listened.
“So,” she said with crisp indignation when I had finished, “Arthur deems the building of this shrine more important than the saving of lives. What of my son—does Merlin encourage this enterprise?”
“Lady,” I said, “it is the king’s hope that the consecration of the Grail Shrine will drive both disease and war from our land forever. Arthur believes it will be the saving of us. Myrddin, as ever, aids his king.”
Charis regarded me with a keen eye. “You avoid my question. I wonder why.”
“Forgive me, Lady Charis, but the Wise Emrys does not often vouchsafe his confidences to me.”
> “But you have eyes, do you not? You have a mind to question what you see. Do you think this Grail Shrine will end plague and war?” she demanded. “Do you believe it will be the saving of Britain?”
My mind whirled, searching for a suitable reply. “I believe,” I answered slowly, “that the Swift Sure Hand is upon our king to accomplish many things. Who am I to say whether the Good God should bless Arthur’s efforts?”
Charis relented. “You are right, of course. My question was unkind. I am sorry, Gwalchavad.” She smiled again, and again I saw fatigue in her clear eyes; like Paulus, she was on the knife-edge of exhaustion. She glanced along the long row of hovels and shook her head. “You see how it is here. I cannot leave.” She spoke softly, as if to herself. Then, turning to me, she said, “At the risk of incurring the king’s displeasure, I fear you must tell Arthur that I cannot attend the ceremony. I am needed here.”
Paulus stepped forward and laid his hand on her arm. “You have been summoned by the High King; you must go.” His tone became quietly insistent. “Go now, and return to us when you have rested.”
“I have brought a horse for you,” I told her, glad to have the monk’s approval. I had seen enough of pestilence and death and was anxious to get away. “If you are willing, we could leave at once.”
Charis hesitated. “Go,” Paulus urged. “Gwalchavad is right. Arthur’s new shrine may be just as important in this battle as your presence here. He would not have summoned you otherwise.”
Grail: Book Five of the Pendragon Cycle Page 18
