Arthur pc-3

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  THIRTEEN

  Arthur brooded over the loss of Macsen's sword. True, he had won Britain – at Cerdic's defeat the rebel lords quickly abandoned the rebellion and made their peace – but that offered less consolation than it might have done. The reason for his distress was simple enough: by losing the Sword of Britain, he felt that he had lost his rightful claim to the throne. This was nonsense, and Merlin told him so. But Arthur heeded him not.

  So it was a long winter for him. And for us all.

  'This cannot be allowed to continue,' Merlin said in exasperation one day. 'Look at him! He sits there moping like a hound banished from the hearth. If this keeps up, his sour mood will poison the whole realm.'

  It was nearing mid-winter and the time of the Christ Mass was close at hand. I pointed this out, and said, 'Perhaps a feast to celebrate the holy day would cheer him.'

  'He needs another sword, not a feast.'

  'Well, let us get him one then.'

  Merlin made to reply, but thought better of it. He paused, holding his head to one side, then all at once burst out, 'Yes! That is exactly what we will do. Bless you, Pelleas. In years to come all Britain will sing your praises!'

  All well and good. But two days later I wished I had never opened my mouth.

  Freezing mist clung to the hillsides and hung above us as we made our way through the long, meandering glens. The wind remained tight out of the north, thankfully, but that little went straight to the bone and stayed there. The horses plodded through the snow hi the valleys, blowing clouds of vapour from their nostrils. I tucked my hands beneath the saddle pad to keep them warm against the steaming horseflesh. Arthur and Merlin rode ahead, wrapped chin to knee in long, heavy winter cloaks, stiff with cold.

  Our only glimpse of daylight the whole miserable day came just before dusk when, as we crested a steep, heathered hill, the clouds parted in the west and we saw the deep red blush of the dying sun.

  It was the fourth day and we had travelled little more than half the expected distance. Our spirits were low. But with the light came hope. For in the last rays of the sun we glimpsed a settlement in the valley below. At least we would not be forced to sleep on the ground.

  'We will seek shelter there for the night,' said Merlin. 'It is long since I was forced to sing for my supper. This night, of all nights, I hope we do not go hungry.'

  I was not worried. I had never known a song of Merlin's to disappoint. 'We will not starve,' I assured him grimly. 'If all else fails, I will sing!'

  Arthur laughed and it was the first lifting of our hearts all day.

  The clouds closed in again, darkening the glen. The wind stirred, biting cold. We urged our horses to a trot and made for the settlement.

  Upon reaching the cluster of stone houses beside the clear-running stream, we were met by a large, black, barking dog. We reined up and waited for the animal's yelps to summon someone and, presently, a brown-braided young girl appeared.

  No more than six or seven summers, she threw her arms around the dog's neck and chided it. Tyrannos! Be quiet!'

  The beast subsided under the child's insistence, and Merlin, leaning low in the saddle, addressed the girl, saying, 'I give you good day, my child.'

  'Who are you?' she asked frankly, eyeing the harp-shaped hump under the leather wrap behind Merlin's saddle. Curious how children always saw that first.

  'We are travellers. And we are cold and hungry. Is there room at your hearth this night?'

  She did not answer, but spun on her heel and dashed back to the house. I caught her shout as she disappeared behind the ox-hide hanging in the doorway. 'The Emrys! The Emrys is here!'

  Merlin shook his head in astonishment. 'Has it come to this?' he wondered. 'Even small children know me by sight.'

  'There are not so many harpers hereabouts,' Arthur suggested, indicating the telltale bulge behind Merlin's saddle. 'And there is only one Emrys, after all.'

  'Be that as it may, I would rather the whole of the island did not know our every move.'

  'Be at peace, Worrier,' replied Arthur good-naturedly. 'It is a harmless thing.' He stretched in the saddle, and eyed the rapidly darkening sky. The rising wind whined on the hilltops – a cold, forlorn sound. 'I wish someone would take an interest in us.'

  He had his wish. A moment later, the flint-chip yard was full of people. We were greeted by a man named Bervach, who welcomed us warmly. 'It is not a day for travelling, my lords. Come in by the fire and we will chase the cold from your bones. There is meat on the spit and drink in the skin.'

  'We accept your hospitality,' replied Merlin, climbing down from the saddle. 'Your kindness will be repaid.'

  The man grinned happily, showing a wide gap between his front teeth. 'Never say it! The Emrys does not pay to sleep beneath the roof of Bervach ap Gevayr.' Despite his words, the man could not help himself; his eyes stole to the bundle behind the saddle and his grin widened.

  'Nevertheless, you shall have a reward,' promised Merlin. He winked at me, and I loosened the harp from the saddle and cradled it under my arm as the horses were led away to fodder.

  'It is not a day for travelling,' repeated Bervach, as we stooped to enter the low-beamed house. 'The wind on the hills can chill the marrow. Come in, friends, and be welcome.'

  Arthur strode to a wide, deep hearth that occupied the whole of one wall. He stood before the hearth and held out his hands, sighing with pleasure as the warmth seeped in.

  Bervach watched Arthur for a moment, curiosity glinting in his eyes. 'I feel I should know this one with you,' he said to Merlin, by way of coaxing a name from him. When Merlin did not rise to the bait, he added, 'Yet, I have never set eyes to him before now.'

  I saw the quick clash between pride and prudence mirrored in Merlin's glance. He desired to keep Arthur's identity hidden – we were not in our own lands and Arthur still had enemies. And yet Merlin wanted men to know and esteem Arthur, for their respect and devotion would one day be required.

  The contest was brief. Pride won.

  'Since you ask,' replied Merlin, 'I will tell you who it is that stands before your fire: Arthur ap Aurelius, Duke of Britain.'

  Bervach's eyebrows lifted at this knowledge. 'I owned nun a lord the moment I saw him.' He nodded slowly, then with a shrug dismissed Arthur, saying, 'I have heard of this Duke Arthur, though I did not think to see one so young. But come, I stand here between you and the fire. Go now. I will fetch a warming draught.' It was clear who counted with Bervach.

  We joined Arthur at the hearth. A rosy fire crackled smartly beneath a long spit, bending beneath the weight of the great haunch roasting there. The aroma of venison filled the single large room. Smoke hung thick, sifting its way out slowly through the heavy reed thatch of the roof. Barley loaves baked in neat rows in a corner of the hearthstone.

  In all it was a close and comfortable dwelling, now filling with other families of the settlement, all talking excitedly in hushed voices. As Bervach produced horn cups, the people of the holding continued to crowd in, until the small house could hold no more. And still they came: man, woman, and child; thirty souls in all – the entire settlement.

  Women bustled about, bearing vessels of wood and pottery, whispering, working efficiently. They were assembling an impromptu feast in our honour. Clearly, the visit of the Emrys was an event not to be missed. And none, apparently, would.

  Bervach ap Gevayr was, for this night at least, the equal of any lord in the Island of the Mighty, for tonight the Emrys slept beneath his roof. What happened this night would be remembered and discussed, and all events following would date from it for years to come. Future generations would be told that on this night the Emrys passed by, and he stayed in this house, ate our food and drank our mead, and slept on this very hearth.

  And he sang! Oh, yes, he sang…

  Merlin was well aware of the expectations his presence created. Although tired, and desiring nothing but food and sleep, he would please his hosts.

  So, after the meal �
� and it proved as good and satisfying a meal as any we had enjoyed in far richer houses – Merlin motioned to me for his harp. I had tuned it, of course, and brought it out to squeals of delight and sighs of pleasure.

  'Were I a king,' declared Merlin loudly, so that all could hear, 'I could not have obtained a better supper. But since I am no king, I must do what I can to reward you.'

  'Please, you are our guests. Do not feel you must repay us,' said Bervach, seriously. 'But,' he paused, flashing his gap-toothed smile suddenly, 'if it would please you to ease the hardship of the road in this way, we will bear it for your sake.'

  Merlin laughed heartily. 'Once again, I am in your debt. Still, it would please me if you would endure a song – for my sake.'

  'Very well, since you insist. But a short song only – nothing of length. We would not want you to tax yourself overmuch on our account.'

  Merlin sang The Children of Llyr, a very long and intricate tale of great and haunting beauty. I had heard it twice before – once in Aurelius' war camp, and once in Ban's hall – but never have I heard it sung as Merlin sang it.

  The harp spun its shining silver melodies in the still air, and Merlin's voice followed, weaving among them a melody of its own, reciting again the age-old words. The words! Each word, every note and breath sprang to life new-born: bright and fresh as creation, whole, untainted, innocent.

  To hear him sing… Oh, to hear him was to witness the birthing of a living thing. The song was alive!

  Those crowded beneath Bervach's roof that night heard the work of a true bard, as few ever would. And they were blessed by it, as few are ever blessed in this sorry age.

  When the song was finished, and Merlin laid the still-quivering harp aside at last, it was late indeed. But it seemed that the evening had passed in a blink, the little space of time between one heartbeat and the next; it seemed – and I believe in some way it did happen – that while Merlin sang we who heard him were lost to time, having passed through it and beyond to that place where time no longer touches us.

  For the duration of the song we breathed the air of a different world wherein is lived a different kind of life, richer, higher, and more complete in every way.

  Merlin possessed the gift; it was, I imagine, much like his father's.

  'Now I know what men heard when Taliesin sang,' I told him later, when we had a word alone together.

  He shook his head firmly, the corners of his mouth bending in a frown. 'Taliesin's gift was as high above mine as the sighted man's vision above that of the wretch born blind. The two are not to be compared.'

  Early the next morning, a little before dawn, we took our leave of Bervach and the rest of the holding who had gathered in the yard to watch us away. As we mounted our horses, some of the mothers stepped forward and lifted their small children to Merlin to receive the Emrys' blessing. He gave it with good grace, but it disturbed him.

  We made our way through the valley in silence, and on into the lowlands beyond. It was not until we stopped at midday to rest and water the horses and take a small meal ourselves that Merlin would voice what was on his heart.

  'This should not be,' he muttered. 'I am no holy man that babes should receive blessing from my hand.'

  'Where is the harm?' I asked. 'The people need someone they can look to.'

  'Let them look to the High King!' The words were out before he knew it. Arthur winced as if pricked by a thrown knife.

  'No… no,' Merlin said quickly, 'I did not mean it. I am sorry, Arthur. It is nothing to do with you.'

  'I understand,' said Arthur, but the pain lingered in his pinched expression. 'I am no king, after all.'

  Merlin shook his head sadly. 'Oh, the Enemy has set a most subtle trap. There is danger here and we must tread lightly.'

  The unhappy spirit of this exchange reigned over the rest of the journey like the dark, wet clouds that hung above our heads – and continued until reaching Ynys AvaJlach.

  Coming in sight of the Glass Isle lifted our hearts. There was food and drink and warmth, blessed warmth, awaiting us in the Fisher King's hall. And, though the cold wind lashed our frozen flesh and stung our eyes, we slapped leather to our horses and fairly flew down the hillside towards the lake. Arthur shouted at the top of his lungs, glad to arrive at last.

  The lake and salt marshes remained open, and ducks of all kinds had gathered to winter there. We raised flocks of them as we galloped along the lakeside.

  Even though the groves were empty, the trees bare and lifeless, the pall of white snow on the ground made the isle appear as if made of glass indeed. The sudden flaring of the afternoon sun, as it burned through the clouds, lit the Tor with a shattering light: a beacon against the gathering storm.

  But, as we came to the causeway leading to the Tor, Merlin halted and said, 'We will seek shelter at the abbey tonight.'

  I stared at him in disbelief. Why spend the night in a monk's cell when all the comforts of the Fisher King's palace lay just across the lake? We could be there in less time than it takes to tell it!

  Before I could voice my astonishment at Merlin's suggestion, he turned to Arthur, 'The sword you are to have is near. You will spend the night in the Shrine of the Saviour God, praying and preparing yourself to receive it.'

  Arthur accepted this without question, however, and we turned off the track and made our way round the lake to the abbey below Shrine Hill. Abbot Elfodd gave us good greeting and bade us warm ourselves by the hearth. He offered a blessing for Arthur, whom he knew by sight though they had never met.

  'You are welcome here, of course,' the abbot said, pressing cups of mulled wine into our hands, 'but Charis and Avallach will be expecting you.'

  'They do not know of our journey,' replied Merlin.

  'Oh?'

  'We will see them soon, but we have a purpose to accomplish first.'

  'I see.'

  'Arthur has come to consecrate himself to the saving of Britain.'

  Elfodd raised his eyebrows. 'Is this so?' He regarded Arthur with renewed interest.

  'It is,' Arthur answered evenly.

  'We thought to hold vigil in the Shrine,' explained Merlin.

  'As you wish. So be it. I have no objection – save that it is cold, as there is no place for a fire.'

  'It will serve.'

  Merlin and the abbot talked briefly of the affairs of the realm, and Arthur joined in from time to time, but I noticed the Duke glancing towards the door as if eager to be away. Finally, Merlin rose. 'Thank you for the wine and the warmth, Elfodd. We would stay, but we must be about our business.'

  'Please, as you see fit. We will not hinder you.'

  So saying, we took our leave and returned to the yard. The sky was nearly dark, the setting sun all but obscured by the clouds which had moved in once more. 'There is the Shrine,' Merlin said, indicating the small white chapel on top of the nearby hill. 'Go now and begin your vigil.'

  'Will you join me?'

  Merlin shook his head slightly. 'Not now. Later, perhaps.'

  Arthur nodded solemnly, turned, and began climbing the hill to the Shrine. It came to me that Merlin's words – about a vigil of prayer and preparation, of consecration to the task of saving Britain – had begun to work in Arthur, answering the brooding in his soul manifest since losing Macsen's sword.

  'This is well and good, Pelleas,' Merlin said quietly, watching Arthur walk away. 'You will stay here with him tonight, and I will return at daybreak tomorrow.'

  The horses were nearby and he swung up into the saddle and started away. I walked a few paces after him. 'Where are you going?'

  'To arrange for Arthur to get his sword,' he called over his shoulder, as he galloped away.

  We spent a long, cold night together, Arthur and 1.1 slept somewhat, huddled in my cloak. Arthur knelt before the altar of the little round building, head bowed down, hands crossed over his chest.

  Once I stirred, thinking it was morning, and awakened to a sight I shall never forget. The sky outside had cl
eared, and a bright mid-winter moon had risen and was shining full through the narrow, cross-shaped window above the altar.

  Arthur was kneeling in the pool of light – in the same attitude I had seen him before – head down, arms folded. I thought he had certainly fallen asleep. But, as I watched, the Duke of Britain raised his head and slowly turned his face to the light, at the same time lifting his arms as if to embrace it.

  He stayed like that the longest time. Head up, arms open wide in acceptance and supplication – all the while bathed in the soft, silvery light. And I heard the quiet murmur of his whispered prayer.

  As I listened, the chapel filled with such peace and tranquillity, I knew it to be a high and holy sign. I had no doubt that Arthur had entered the presence of Jesu, whose kindly light shone upon him in benediction. My heart swelled to bursting with the wonder of it, for I knew myself to be favoured among men to witness this sign.

  But a little while later, I heard a low whistle outside. I rose and went out to meet Merlin leading the horses. 'It is time,' he said. 'Fetch Arthur.'

  I looked and the sun was rising in the east. The moon, so bright only moments before, now waned as the sky lightened. Crisp and sharp, the cold dawn air pricked me fully awake, and I went back into the Shrine to summon Arthur. At the sound of his name, he rose and came forth.

  We mounted and silently made our way along the lakeside path leading to the causeway. The world seemed new made, delicate, yet invincible in its beauty: the pale white snow underfoot and deepest blue night above… the smooth black water of the reed-fringed lake… the red-gold of the rising sun flaming the eastern sky.

  I first thought we would go to the Tor directly, but Merlin led us along the causeway and continued on around the lake, stopping at a clump of leafless willow-trees. Here we stopped and dismounted. Merlin faced the placid, dawn-smooth lake and pointed to the bank of reeds before us.

  'There is a boat,' he told Arthur. 'Get into it and pole yourself across the lake to the island. There you will meet a woman. Heed her well. She will give you the sword.'