“I never did, Emrys, and I do not know whether Llenlleawg can tell you more. He said she led him into Llyonesse, but seems to remember little else.”
“Leave it to me,” Myrddin said, rising. “I will speak to him when he is better rested. Now, then, I have kept you from your bath long enough. Go; we will talk again later. I want Arthur to hear what you have to say, but that can wait until tomorrow. Until then, Gwalchavad, I would have you say nothing to anyone else of these matters. I believe treachery stalks the Summer Realm, and I would not care to alert the enemy that we are on his trail.”
“Treachery?” His use of the word brought me up short. “Emrys, are you saying one of the Cymbrogi is a traitor?”
“Just so,” he replied solemnly, moving away. “He has yet to show his hand, but I sense dire purpose in this—no doubt that was why you were allowed to find Llenlleawg.”
“Allowed to find him?” I challenged, jumping to my feet to follow him. “In truth, Myrddin, they meant to kill him! And would have succeeded, too, if we had not seen the smoke and arrived in time to save him.”
“If the enemy had wanted him dead, a quick thrust of a blade through the ribs would have sufficed,” Myrddin replied, calmly deflecting my objection. “The smoke, on the other hand, was meant to lead you to our Irish friend so that you could rescue him. That, I am persuaded, is one of the few certainties in all of this twisted tale. You rescued him because you were meant to rescue him—nothing more.”
“It is absurd!” I concluded, stopping in my tracks. “You make it seem as if we were on a fool’s errand.”
The Emrys turned back and regarded me with a slow, solemn shake of his head. “Never say it,” he intoned gravely. “Never say it, my friend. Something brutal, cruel, and sinister is at work among us—I feel it.”
“But why?” I demanded. “To what end?”
Myrddin, troubled now, and hesitant, answered, “In truth, I wish I knew. Still, we would all do well to remember this: where great good abides, there great evil gathers. It is ever so, and we have been warned. We must all tread very carefully from now on.”
With that he turned and walked away. I glanced uneasily around the hall—feeling unseen eyes on me, watching me—then fled the great empty room and proceeded at once to the warriors’ quarters. Though I expected to join the others, they had finished by the time I arrived, and so I had the entire bath to myself.
The room was warm and damp, the air heavy with steam. Two torches burned in tall stands either side of the square pool, their flames shimmering and dancing on the water. I stripped off my filthy clothes and slipped gratefully into the bath. The hot water, heated from the ovens in the old Roman way, did much to restore me. I confess I stayed overlong, and perhaps the heat and steam went to my head, for as I lay back in the soothing water I saw a black mist gather before my eyes.
I pressed my eyes shut for a long moment and drew a deep breath, and when I opened my eyes once more, the mist was gone, but I felt light-headed and queasy. Concluding that I had had more than was good for me, I rose and was about to climb from the pool when I heard my name.
“I have been looking for you, Gwalchavad!”
I felt an icy breath on my naked skin and turned. A woman stood opposite me across the room. Dressed in long, loose robes of blue and deepest green, her fair hair shimmering in the feeble torchlight, she was tall and slender, and possessed of the beauty men see only in their dreams. She was watching me intently, an expression of approval on her face.
“Woman, who are you?” I said.
“You were but a boy when I last saw you,” she said, drawing a step closer. Her feet made no sound on the flat stones. “But look at you now—what a fine, handsome man you are. The very figure of your father. Lot would be pleased.”
Strange to say: until she uttered my father’s name, I did not recognize her. But the instant she invoked Lot, my heart clutched and my strength flowed out of me like water poured out upon the sand. It was all I could do to hold myself upright.
“Morgian!” I gasped, trembling inwardly as with cold, or with frozen rage.
“My son,” she said nicely, extending her arms to me. “Have you no welcome kiss for your mother?”
“You are not my mother,” I replied, revulsed. “My mother is dead.”
“Poor Gwalchavad,” she pouted, folding her hands prettily before her. “And to think I always treated you like a son of my own blood.”
“Get away from me, witch,” I said. I made to turn away, but could no longer make my limbs obey.
“I would speak to you, dear Gwalchavad,” she replied, her voice growing as smooth and sinuous as a serpent coiling around its prey. “There is something I wish you to do.”
“Never!” I spat. “I would sooner cut off my hand than lift a finger for you.”
“Oh, I think I may find a way to change your mind,” she said, her smile beguiling with concealed treason. “Men are such simple creatures, after all.”
I tried to speak, and felt my tongue clench in my mouth. My jaws seized up tight.
“You see, I am not to be denied,” she continued, stepping nearer. She raised a hand and absently described a figure in the air. I felt my throat constrict and I could not breathe. “It is a small thing—a trifle of no particular consequence. I think you may find it far easier to obey than to refuse.”
“I will die first!” I forced the words out through clenched teeth, my jaws aching as if to break.
She raised her head and laughed, her voice warm and lovely. “Charming!” she said, pressing her hands together beneath her chin. “That is exactly what your brother said,” she informed me cheerfully. “Alas, poor Gwalcmai. He forced me to take him at his word. Still, I do not expect you to make the same mistake.”
“No!” I shrieked, pressing my fists to my eyes. “Jesu, save me!”
There came a fluttering sound like that of wings in flight, and when I opened my eyes, I was once again lying in the water, still alone. One of the torches was out. I rose and looked at the stone floor where Morgian had stood, but despite the steam and damp, there was no trace of any footprint, nor any sign of her at all. I shouted and received only the dull echo of my own voice in return.
Frightened now, I left the bath and fled to the warriors’ quarters. There was no one around, and as I dried and dressed, I gradually calmed and convinced myself that it was only a bad dream brought on by fatigue and the uncanny experiences of my recent journey.
When I emerged at last, I had put the thing firmly from my mind and was ready to greet my king and swordbrothers in better spirits. I returned to the hall feeling certain I could devour my weight in roast meat and drain a lake of ale. The babble of voices echoing along the passageway gave me to know that the shrine-builders had returned and a celebration had commenced.
Indeed, the hall was bright with torchlight and full of friends. Laughter and high-spirited talk flowed like a wave out into the night; cups were being passed, and the hearth fire had been laid. Pausing at the threshold, I stood for a moment and counted myself most fortunate among men to behold such a noble gathering. When men and women such as these pass from this worlds-realm, I thought, the world will be a colder place.
Rejecting the thought as unworthy of the occasion, I drew myself up and entered the glad gathering. On the instant, I was hailed and a cup thrust into my hands. I felt a hard clap on my back as I raised the cup, and Cai’s voice loud in my ear. “Here!” he cried. “The wanderer returns! How went the hunt, brother?”
Before I could answer, Cador appeared and said, “If my two young kinsmen are to be believed, disaster dogged your trail from dawn to dusk.”
“Ah, well,” I allowed, following Myrddin’s request, “it was never more than a nip at the heel.”
Cai laughed, but my careful reply caught Cador’s attention. He stepped nearer. “There was trouble?”
“Aye,” I replied reluctantly, “there was.” Then, raising the cup, I said, “But there is ale in the bowl, and
fire on the hearth. Let us talk of happier things.” I drank and passed the cup. Wiping foam from my mouth, I said, “Tell me, now, what is this I am hearing about Arthur’s new shrine?”
“Och!” cried Cai. “Only a few days, but so much has happened while you were gone, you will be kicking yourself you were not here.”
He then plunged into an enthusiastic recounting of the heady events of the past days. The account grew somewhat in the telling, but was well seasoned with remarks from various others who came to greet and welcome me once more into their company. The short of it was that Arthur, having returned to the place of his miraculous healing, had been wakened in the night by a vision of a shrine wherein the Cup of Christ shone forth with a light like the morning sun. The Pendragon took this vision as a sign from the High King of Heaven that he should build a dwelling for the Grail. The abbot and monks were consulted, and for two days, Arthur and Bishop Elfodd sat head-to-head over bits of slate on which the Pendragon scratched drawings to represent the shrine he had seen in his vision.
Elfodd and Arthur…I wondered at this pairing, but kept my thoughts to myself and allowed Cai to finish, which he did eventually, saying, “We have sent to Londinium for men who know how to work with stone.”
“Stone?” I asked. “The shrine is to be of stone?”
“Stone, aye,” replied Cai. “Arthur wants it to last a thousand years!”
“Ten thousand!” offered a nearby listener.
“Forever!” put in another.
“The work has begun already?”
“It has that,” confirmed Cador. “The site has been chosen and the ground has been cleared. We have been cutting trees all day, and pulling up stumps. I tell you the truth, Gwalchavad, you have had the easier time of it. I was never born to drive oxen.”
When talk turned again to how I had fared on my journey, I made the excuse that I was starving and suggested we join those at the board, where the food was now arriving. I looked for Arthur and Gwenhwyvar, but did not see them anywhere among the throng—made up of Cymbrogi, for the most part, with a few monks and a smattering of Fair Folk as well. Neither did I see Myrddin, and held the absence of these three together as yet one more misfortune to be borne along with all the rest.
I might have wallowed in my melancholy, but then, overcome by the aroma of roast meat and warm bread, and by the sight of bubbling cauldrons being carried from the kitchens on wooden poles, I devoted myself to eating instead. When the rough edges had been smoothed from my hunger, I gazed along the benches, down the length of the board to see who my supper companions might be. I saw, farther along, Tallaght and Peredur, and many others I knew, heads down over their platters as if nothing in all the world could trouble them. I saw this, and I wished I could discard my unpleasant memories so easily.
And then it came again into my mind—the unwanted intrusion of my waking dream—as if Morgian herself had burst boldly into the room to taunt me with fresh terrors.
Suddenly too upset to eat any more, I pushed my bowl from me, stood, made some excuse to my companions, and started towards the entrance of the hall. I had walked but halfway across the great room when the doors swung open and Arthur and Gwenhwyvar entered. Myrddin swept in behind them, saw me, and beckoned me to him.
At my approach, the king smiled and held out his arms for me to embrace him. “Gwalchavad!” he cried. “Here you are!”
“God be good to you, my king,” I said, gripping his arm.
“Myrddin told us you had returned safely.”
“That I have, lord.”
“Welcome, Gwalchavad,” said Gwenhwyvar, her voice soft and low. “I was hoping you would be here. Is Llenlleawg with you?” She looked quickly past me into the hall for sign of her kinsman.
“No, my lady, but I have no doubt he will join us as soon as he is rested.”
“Come, now, Gwalchavad,” said Arthur happily, “sit with me at table. Much has happened while you were away, and I have much to tell you.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, lord,” I replied, nor was I disappointed. Truly, his zeal was irresistible as he described the great work he had undertaken. A few moments in Arthur’s company and I had all but forgotten the harrows of my journey, and the queer menace of the dream.
See, now! This is the mark of the Pendragon of Britain: a man whose ardor for life is so compelling that others find their lives in him, a man whose natural nobility extends to everyone he sees, so that all others are ennobled in his sight. Truly, he is one of the Great King’s sons and wears his sovereignty with such easy grace that all who will bend the knee to his authority are raised up and exalted by it.
Know you, I have lived alongside Arthur for many years, and have served him and followed him into battle more times than bear remembering, so believe me when I say that I have rarely seen Arthur in such joyous good spirits. It was as if all the hurt and pain of the past troubled years had been wiped away and his spirit restored to its true and natural state—fine and unblemished by the harsh tolls of kingcraft and war. That night he was more himself than even the day of his marriage to Gwenhwyvar, and that is saying something.
We talked and laughed together, and I felt my own heart rise to bask in the warmth of his friendship. When at last we parted for the night, I found the vision of the Kingdom of Summer burning in my heart, although the name never passed his lips. Ah, but that was not necessary. Arthur was aflame with it!
Like a Beltain fire, he scattered sparks in all directions and set the night alight. Anyone who spoke to him would have been likewise dazzled, and I count myself blessed to have sat at his right hand and listened to him describe his plans for the Grail Shrine. It was no rude hut he meant to build, but a perpetual beacon of goodness to all who walked in darkness, a wellspring of blessing to all who thirsted for righteousness, an endless feast to all who hungered for truth and justice. The completion of the Grail Shrine would commence a season of peace and plenty which would last a thousand generations.
How all this would come about was still somewhat vague. Indeed, the means by which Arthur would come into possession of the Holy Cup was not, as I recall, ever mentioned. But one thing was very clear in the Pendragon’s mind: the deeds we performed now would become a song which would endure so long as men had tongues to speak and ears to hear.
Oh, and when we rose from the table at last, the night was far spent and the dawn, gleaming like red-gold on the eastern horizon, seemed not the beginning of a day only—no, it was nothing less than the inauguration of a magnificent Golden Age.
Chapter Fifteen
The first of the stoneworkers’ tribe appeared three days later—eight or so men with huge ox-drawn wagons full of tools and provisions. They did not come to the Tor, but went straightaway to the site and occupied themselves with establishing their camp in the valley at the foot of the hill where the new shrine would be built.
Arthur, eager to see the work begun, rode out to greet them, and some of the Cymbrogi went with him. We watched as they went about their chores, and by day’s end five large leather tents of the kind the Romans used to make occupied the little plain; five more were raised the next day. These, they said, were to house their fellows and families, who arrived in four days’ time. The numbers at the site swelled to perhaps forty in all, though that included the children, who seemed always to be everywhere at once.
Over those first few days, I had ample opportunity to observe the masons as they went about the chores of ordering their camp. They were odd men: small of stature, with broad backs and tough, sinewy arms and short, thick, muscular legs. They were a hard-handed, ready-tempered crew, and loud with it—when they were not shouting at one another, they were singing to make the valley ring—much like seamen in their ways. I would be surprised if a single one of them had ever sat a horse or gripped a sword, much less thrown a spear.
The next days were given, with considerable pointed discussion, to the preparation of the site. The stonemen grumbled endlessly at how poorly t
he land had been cleared, and they complained about the chosen placement and the disgraceful paucity of suitable stone in the region. Nothing was good enough for them, and they spared no breath letting the whole realm know it.
“God’s truth, Arthur,” muttered Cai, quickly tiring of their surly opinions, “if complaints were stones, the shrine would be raised by now—”
“And a cathedral besides,” added Bedwyr tartly.
“Pack the lot of them back to Londinium and be done with it, I say,” put in Rhys. “We were doing well enough before they came.”
But Arthur took the carping and complaining in his stride. “They are hounds without a handler,” he said. “When their chieftain arrives, he will bring them to heel.”
The chieftain he meant was a bandy-legged, bald man with a beard like a bearskin. His skin, blasted by years of toil in sun and rain and wind, was as thick as the leather of his tent and just as brown. His name was Gall, and he walked with a limp and chewed hazel twigs, which he kept in ready supply in a leather pouch at his side. Tough as an old stump, he had but to speak a single word and his men leapt to obey.
Arthur liked him instantly.
Once Gall and his small brown wife arrived, the complaining subsided to a tolerable level and the work began in earnest—despite the appalling stone and lamentable situation. Again we were favored with occasions aplenty to observe them, for the Cymbrogi were put to work cutting trees to supply the timber they needed. I never imagined masons required so much wood for their curious craft.
“That which you would build in stone,” Gall informed us, “you must build first in wood.”
Nor could I help noticing that Myrddin seized every opportunity to go alongside the master mason, questioning his every move and thought in order to learn all he could of the stoneworker’s craft.
When we were not fetching logs to the site, we were occupied supplying water for their camp. Though the drought continued as the long, dry summer wound slowly to its close, the spring below the Tor remained as sweet and cool and plentiful as ever, unaffected by the lack of rain. We filled empty ale vats and trundled them back and forth to the stonemasons’ camp using their oxen and wagons. Were we ever thanked for this singular service? Ha!
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