'We must go round the southern point to the western side,' I told him. The harbour is not so good there, but Avallach's palace is on that side. That is where Myrddin has taken Arthur to be healed.'
So we made our way round the southern end of the island and round to the western side. It was difficult in the mist, but the queen helped, for she had visited the island and remembered where to look for rocks below the surface, and where to find harbourage.
Nevertheless, it was late when we finally came into the harbour and drew in beside the boat Barinthus had used. We made landfall and tied our boat beside Barinthus' vessel, and gathered on the red rock shingle below Avallach's towered stronghold. We looked up at the cliffs rising before us, their soaring tops lost in the mist above. 'They will not have seen us coming,' Bedwyr said. 'You had better lead us, Aneirin.'
I turned to the queen, but Gwenhwyvar said, 'Go ahead, Aneirin. You know the way better than anyone here.'
I did as I was bade, and found the winding, rock-cut steps that led to the palace. They were wet with mist and slippery, which made the going slow.
By the time I reached the top, I could scarce make out the contour of the ground before me as it rose slightly before fading into the grey obscurity of shifting cloud. I walked a few paces forward over the curled, wet grass to the path leading to Avallach's fortress, feeling all the while as if I had crossed one of those invisible boundaries and entered the Otherworld. For, even as my foot touched the path, the mist grew luminous and bright, all gold and glittering, shining with the westering sunlight through it.
The sudden brilliance dazzled my eyes for a moment, I admit. But only that. Even so, mist or no mist, I know we would have seen the Fisher King's palace if it had been there.
But it was gone. Neither tower, nor wall, nor gate, nor hall remained. There was nothing left at all.
TWELVE
A grave for Constantine; a grave for Aurelius; a grave for Uther. All the world's wonder, no grave for Arthur!
I know neither the how, nor the where, nor the why. I only know what is: the palace of the Fisher King was gone and Arthur with it. The mist parted and we saw only the flat expanse of grass and the trees beyond. The smooth white towers, the high-peaked hall, the stout gate and wall – not a stone or straw remained. I had slept beneath that roof! I had eaten food from that board! Like a dream passing from memory upon waking, all had vanished out of the world of men.
We stood blinking in strong sunlight as the mist dissolved and knew ourselves to be witness to a miracle. Loath to believe it, we said foolish things.
'A sea wave has carried them off!' said Cador. Yet there was no storm, and Barinthus' boat was still tied in the bay.
'Sea Wolves!' cried Bors. 'Barbarians have attacked them!' Even the barbarians have not so mastered the art of destruction as to leave neither smoke nor ash where they have plundered.
We said other things and began at once laying plans to search the island and surrounding sea for any sign of them. Even as we began our search, we knew – each of us, in our deepest hearts, knew – the sharp spear-thrust of despair: all our effort would avail nothing.
Still, we searched. A fire is not more consuming than our scouring of Avallon. The rain is not more penetrating than our plying of-the sea round about the island. For many days, and yet more days, we searched both land and sea. Gwenhwyvar sent Bors to bring the Cymbrogi to ride from one end of the isle to the other, and assembled most of Arthur's fleet to sweep the sea from Caer Lial to Ierne, and from Mon to Rheged.
While we searched, we prayed. Gwenhwyvar sent for the renowned Illtyd and many of his followers to join with the brothers there on Avallon and pray unceasingly. And ever while there was a boat or rider yet searching for Arthur and the Emrys, the holy men besieged the throne of the Most High God with their prayers.
In the end, we found what we knew we would find all along.
Winter gales rising in the sea-paths, snow and rain blowing in, the sky a darkling slate, the world growing colder – the queen had but little choice. Sadly, Gwenhwyvar commanded the searching to end. With tears in her eyes, she ordered the ships and Cymbrogi back to Caer Lial, where she attempted to begin her rule alone. But word of Arthur's disappearance had spread far and wide throughout Britain, and the people cowered in fear.
'Arthur is gone!' they wailed to one another. 'What is to become of us?'
'We will be attacked by our enemies! We will be killed!' they cried.
'Woe! Woe and grief! Our life is done!' they said, and lifted their sharp lament.
And the more they said these things the more fear blighted their souls. Gwenhwyvar could do nothing against this. Despite her skill and courage, it was not an enemy she could fight. And the small kings, without Arthur's strong hand upon them to keep them in their places, began raising all the old complaints against her. 'She is Irish! She is not of our kind! She is a barbarian!'
In truth, it came to this: they would in no wise hold a woman sovereign over them.
Oh, she fought valiantly. She was ever more than a match for any adversary. But a monarch cannot rule where there is no faith. The petty kings and lords of Britain set their hearts against Gwenhwyvar and would not be appeased. Of Arthur's subject lords only Bors, Ector, Meurig, Cador and Bedwyr held faith with Gwenhwyvar.
At Eastertide the following spring, Gwenhwyvar gave command of the Cymbrogi to Cador, and returned to the home of her father and kinsmen in Ierne, where she founded a monastery on the coast within sight of Avallon, there to devote her life to prayer and good works among her own people.
Bors, Bedwyr and Rhys, who had served so long with the Pendragon, could not be happy with any lesser lord – even the honourable Cador. They determined among themselves to answer the long neglected challenge of the Grail. They rode off in quest of this most holy vessel, to find it and establish it in the Round Table.
They hoped by this to honour Arthur's dearest wish and, I believe, to restore the quickly fading glory of his exalted reign. For the darkness that Myrddin and Arthur had so long held at bay was, like flood water spilling over an earthen dike, already rushing in to extinguish the feeble glow that yet lingered upon Britain. The last of the renowned Flight of Dragons hoped yet to turn men's hearts from fear, and to crown the passing age with its highest honour.
Alas, they did not succeed. I learned later that of the three only Bedwyr came back alive. Bors and Rhys ended their days in the Holy Land, where it was rumoured that Rhys' head adorned a spear atop the gates of Damascus. Bors, it was said, lived long and died in his bed, surrounded by a wife and five brown children. Bedwyr alone returned to Britain. He became a hermit and took the rotunda for his hermitage. I never saw him again, for he died in that holy precinct soon after.
Cador asked me to join him, but I had had my fill of fighting and longed to lose myself in prayer and study. I travelled with the Cymbrogi as far as Dyfed and found a place at the Abertaff monastery, under the wing of the revered Teilo and his superior, the venerable Illtyd. I sojourned there and learned much to my advantage of holy matters.
In time, a call came to me from the Britons in Armorica. Hopeless in the face of increasing strife among the small kings, good men were abandoning the Island of the Mighty in ever increasing numbers. The exiles asked me to come to them, so I left my cell and took up my work in the church at Rhuys. I stayed there long; married, raised my children in peace and saw them grown. But ever I yearned to see the green hills of Britain once more. I returned and joined the good brothers at the Shrine of the Saviour God at Ynys Avallach, where I endure to this day.
I am an old man, and my heart grows heavy with the weight of grief. Most unhappy of men am I, most untimely born: to have witnessed both the dazzling radiance of the True Light, and the blinding darkness of evil, black and rampant. More fortunate by far are those who lived and died with Arthur, knowing nothing but the world made bright by his presence. Would that I had gone with him in his boat to Avallon!
To serve him in whatev
er court he now resides is all I wish. My voice would not be silent in his hall, nor would he lack the pleasing sound of heartfelt praise in his ears. I would make of his name a song, of his life a tale fit for the instruction of kings.
I look back on my life from a prominence of some years, and see shining still that golden time when I was young – shining all the more brightly for the gloom. It glows like a polished gem picked out by a single ray of the sun's dying light and fired to wonderful brightness, so that all around it is illumined and charged with splendour.
But the sun passes, as it must. And the gem, still a gem, grows dark once more.
I waited – all my life long I have waited – for some word or sign of Arthur and the Emrys, whether they were dead or living still. In all my journeying I have asked and sought and listened for what I longed to hear. I have grown old in listening!
Of Arthur and his Wise Counsellor never any word or sign came to men. Of Avallach and his daughter Charis, Lady of the Lake, and their people, never more was heard. The Fan-Folk and their kind were no more to be found in this worlds-realm; their passing went unmarked and unlamented.
I have laboured long over this through the many years since that first unhappy day. Alas, I am no wiser for all my ardent contemplation!
Perhaps God in his infinite wisdom and mercy simply reached down and gathered that bright company to his loving heart. Perhaps the Lord Jesu in his unceasing compassion looked upon Arthur's suffering and spared him the indignity of death and, like Elijah of old, carried our king bodily into paradise in a golden chariot with wheels of fire.
Or perhaps the last True Bard of Britain hid the beloved Pendragon from mortal eyes with a powerful enchantment, until such time as need calls him forth to battle Britain's enemies once more.
So it is told, and so many believe. I do not say that this shall be so. I will say only that here in this worlds-realm Arthur's life was changed. For Myrddin Emrys was a prophet, and like his father, Taliesin, was a bard aflame with God's own virtue. From his holy awen he spoke forth many things, but ever he spoke the truth. And the Wise Emrys said that Arthur would yet come again to lead his own.
EPILOGUE
False Kings! Power-mad dogs dressed in purple robes! Bloody-minded barbarians to a man! We are not sunk so low as to revere your names in song. When you die, as soon you must, there will be no lament, no grave-song, no weeping of heartfelt tears. The eyes of your people will be dry as the dust in your tombs, and your names will decay more swiftly than your disgusting bones!
Would that you had never lived! With both hands, like ignorant children scattering good grain from a sack, you threw away Arthur's peace. You exchanged hard-won freedom for slavery to vice and every corruption. In your greed you have wasted all the land. And what you did not destroy, you gave to the enemy to despoil!
Look at you! You sit with your fat-bellied warbands in your feud mead halls, drunk in your cups, inflamed with your small treasons. Cattle thieves! Raiding your neighbour lords and men of your own race and blood, worrying one another with unworthy conflicts, warring on your kinsmen and brothers while heathens burn and plunder!
Your legacy is death! The disgust of good men is your renown! The lowly languish; humble make curses of your names. Does this please you? Does it swell your hearts with pride?
Speak to me no longer of great lords. I will hear no more of kings and their lofty affairs. Their concerns are the concerns of the maggot in the dung-heap. I, who have soared with eagles, will not wallow with pigs!
To our everlasting shame, the very barbarians who everywhere supplant us are proving better Christians than the Britons who first taught them the Faith! Their zeal is as sharp as the spears they once raised against us, while that of our kings has grown dull, their hearts cold. Are they to show themselves better men?
Once there was a time, now all but forgotten, when the world knew what it was to be ruled by a righteous lord, when one man of faith held all realms in his strong hand, when the High King of Heaven blessed his High King on Earth.
Britain was exalted then.
Not for the tongues of mortal men is the elegy of the Pendragon. Oh, Arthur, your Matchless Creator alone chants your funeral song, the echo resounding in men's souls to the world's end. In the meantime, the knife of great longing pierces the heart. The High King of Heaven has left the nation without a roof.
Woe and grief! The ruin of Britain! For the wickedness of men endures to the end of the age! To the day of doom and judgement the plagues of iniquity and cruelty and strife beat us down! Evil thrives, good is forgotten. The usurper sits on the righteous lord's throne. The unjust man becomes judge. The liar dispenses truth. That is the way of the world. So be it!
My black book is ended. I, Gildas, write this, and I will write no more.
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Arthur pc-3 Page 51
