by M. K. Hume
In a simple withy and sod hut, with undressed stone on the floor, and at a table of rough pine, worn smooth by many hands over years unmeasured, the two men were served water in brown-glazed jugs and beakers, and believed the taste was finer than the best imported Falernian wine. With a certain regret, Myrddion broke this quiet idyll.
‘We’ve come for an audience with Lucius,’ Myrddion said to one of the priests at their table. ‘I met him many years ago, so he will remember my name. I am Myrddion Merlinus and this is my servant, Gruffydd of Venta Silurum. Our quest is urgent, else we would not repay your generosity with brusqueness.’
‘As always, Myrddion, your tongue is honey-sweet,’ a voice said from behind the two visitors. ‘Well met, my friend.’ A plainly garbed priest in the same rough woollen robe as his fellows placed a water jug on the table and sat with easy grace.
Gruffydd’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
‘Your friend seems amazed that I would serve you myself, and wear the same robes as my fellow priests. The world is truly a place of vanity and shame, so I choose to dress and act as did my Lord when he washed the feet of his disciples and broke bread for them. Not all the gold in Britain can change a man’s heart, nor ease it when times become hard. Uther came to learn that all his power and wealth meant nothing in the end. I, my friends, am far happier than Uther would ever have been.’
‘This fair-spoken man is Lucius, Bishop of Glastonbury, Gruffydd, so please close your mouth,’ Myrddion said, not unkindly. ‘You look like a gaffed fish.’
‘Well met, friend Gruffydd. You must be a good man if you travel with Myrddion, regardless of the god you serve. You will always be welcome at holy Glastonbury.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ Gruffydd stammered, feeling like a child not yet free of its mother’s care.
‘There’s no need to stand on ceremony with me, Gruffydd. To you, as to all souls who live here, I am simply Lucius.’ The priest smiled and Gruffydd finally dared to examine the aged man who sat so easily at the table.
Lucius was very old; the knuckles of his hands were testaments to the joint pains that come after many years of living. His palms were calloused, as if he still worked manually, but his body was unstooped. The large bones of his body spoke of a broad, strong frame in his youth, although he was not tall of stature.
Lucius’s face carried unmistakable authority. He had once had black hair, but his tonsured locks were now capped with a fringe of silver. A hawk-like Roman nose, intelligent black eyes, and a whitened scar that ran across his sun-bronzed forehead like the circlet of a king dominated the bishop’s face.
Lucius noticed Gruffydd’s careful regard and gently touched the slightly puckered cicatrix.
‘This is my personal crown of thorns. I was a soldier once, a boy soldier, and I was tempted by dreams of glory. My name is all I retained after a sword cut took away my wits and my lust for blood. I served in the legions, I believe, as a tribune in Gaul, but when I recovered, I was quite, quite mad.
‘Somehow, I found my way to this holy place. God took pity on me, and the priests nursed me, ignored my ravings and loved me. The very air of Glastonbury blew away the haze in my brain and allowed space within my heart for the Holy Child to enter. I am now what the priests have made of me, a servant of God, and each day I make penance for the lives I took and the blood I wantonly shed during my youth.’
Gruffydd knew little of holiness, pagan or Christian, but he recognized the sanctity of Lucius and bowed his shaggy head.
‘Bless me, Father, for I am not Christian. I, too, have shed much blood and will shed more before I die. Perhaps the hand of Lucius will help a little when my soul is judged.’
Lucius rose and moved gracefully round the table and placed a forefinger in Gruffydd’s beaker of water. He inscribed the sign of the Cross upon Gruffydd’s forehead.
‘You are a good man, my friend, regardless of what gods you serve. The Lord knows the worth of good men in this terrible world, so he will not hold your bloodletting against you if you fight for a just cause. I read in your eyes that you do not kill wantonly, or with hatred. I see, too, that you save whom you can, so you may accept an old man’s intercession and blessing, although God knows you already.’
He smiled once more at Myrddion. ‘But your master grows impatient.’
Myrddion was irritable, as he always was when faced by any matter that could not be explained by intellect. If he were honest, he would also have admitted that he was envious of Gruffydd’s ability to accept what could not be rationalized.
Lucius touched Myrddion’s long black hair gently as he moved back to his rough stool.
‘I’d also give you my blessings, my son, if you so desired. The comfort and blessing that I promised to Gruffydd belongs as much to you as it does to him.’
‘My thanks, Lucius, but I will leave my soul to its ultimate fate. What concerns me is the here and the now,’ Myrddion replied tetchily. ‘What have you heard of the barbarian wars?’
‘Less than nothing, my friend. Little from the outside world touches Glastonbury, and nor should it. But I deduce from your manner that the war goes badly.’
Myrddion tapped the table with his long, eloquent fingers. ‘Badly? Disastrously, would be a better description.’ He grimaced. ‘Artorex holds the west firmly but he isn’t protected on his flanks. It’s becoming more important each day that the Dux Bellorum becomes High King of the Britons, or else he cannot defeat Katigern Oakheart, the new leader of the Saxons. Katigern is the grandson of Vortigern, of infamous memory.’
‘I remember Vortigern well. He was a king who was controlled by lust, and was quite willing to cast away his people for the sake of his yellow-haired Saxon woman. I believe he even tried to have you killed back in those times when the superstitious folk said you were the offspring of a demon.’
‘Yes.’ Myrddion’s reply was curt.
‘A grandson of Vortigern would be a formidable enemy, especially if the grandfather had taken the Saxon woman to wife before he was murdered. Yes, I can see why you are so concerned, my son.’ Lucius seemed as untroubled as ever.
‘I need Uther’s sword. And I need the crown of the High King. Only these objects can force the tribes to acknowledge Artorex’s right to lead Britain away from barbarism. The leaders know full well that he is Uther’s son but too many of them want the trappings of power for themselves. The person who holds the sword and the crown holds the throne.’ Myrddion was uncharacteristically tense. Gruffydd eyed his master’s usually inscrutable face with alarm
‘Don’t upset yourself needlessly, friend Myrddion. The sword and the crown are safely held at Glastonbury.’
‘Where?’ Myrddion fired back at Lucius.
‘I cannot tell you,’ Lucius replied evenly.
Myrddion swore with particular venom, and many of the priests crossed themselves at his language. Lucius remained utterly calm.
‘Only a true claimant to the throne of the High King of the Britons may find the sword and the crown. And that claimant must find the relics in person, for themselves. You, my friend, are not that man.’
Myrddion beat the table with his closed fist. ‘If I bring Artorex to Glastonbury, every fortune hunter in Britain will be hot on his heels. The fate of the west will then become a matter of chance.’
‘My boy, you’re weary and disillusioned by years of plots and counter-plots. Like you, I also believe that Artorex is the one true claimant who, with your help, will find his birthright. Let the others come if they wish, but God alone will choose who will rule throughout these black days. You, Myrddion, must leave the outcome of this quest to a higher power.’
‘You give me no choice,’ he replied. ‘You wouldn’t reveal the hiding place to any person, even under torture. Branicus chose wisely when he entrusted the relics to your care.’
Lucius permitted himself a smile. ‘Branicus was a far braver man than I could ever be,’ he explained. ‘I didn’t have the task of hearing Uther’s confessions, nor
did I have to devote my last years to a moral struggle with a man whose mind and soul were diseased. When Branicus entrusted the relics to me, I saw that he was drained of all spirit except for his unshakeable faith in the justice of God.’
Myrddion winced. ‘I knelt on Branicus’s stool at Venta Belgarum and, even after the passage of some time, I could still feel the fear generated by the High King,’ he admitted. ‘I also felt the same self-loathing that Branicus experienced. I’m no novice in the service of Uther Pendragon, and I can still smell the blood that lies on my hands in his service.’
‘Yours are the feelings of a poor abused servant, my friend. In fact, Uther Pendragon was judged for his sins at the time of his death. Our God will not be mocked, and the only true repentance is one that is heartfelt, or it is worse than nothing. You must judge yourself for your own sins, not those of your dead master.’ Then Lucius bent and kissed Myrddion’s forehead.
Myrddion blushed to the roots of his hair, but Lucius simply continued as if nothing had happened.
‘Uther’s sword has been completely reforged. The metal was clean within but blood had corrupted the pommel and its skin. It was beyond saving. Aye, I know it seemed clean and shining, but there were innumerable faults within it. The hilt is waiting to be made anew.’
‘Fetch the pearwood box in my bags, Gruffydd,’ Myrddion ordered brusquely.
With the assistance of a priest, Gruffydd hurried to where the horses were now stabled. He easily found Myrddion’s worn travel bags, and extracted Uther’s pearwood box.
On his return, Myrddion passed the box to Lucius.
‘Could this gold and these gems be used to form a hilt and guard like no other, one fit for the sword of a High King?’
‘Prayer can cleanse anything. I am aware that many of these objects were stolen.’
Lucius lifted the heavy earrings with their garnet stones and stared into their sanguine depths.
‘These baubles hung in Ygerne’s ears when she gave birth to Artorex,’ the priest acknowledged. ‘And she was wearing them when Uther first saw her, when Gorlois still breathed. Yes, prayer will cleanse these trinkets.’
Myrddion stared at the lamp flame as if communing with a friend. At last he looked up.
‘We will ride to Venonae tomorrow. And Artorex will return with us, even if Hades should block my path.’
Lucius rose and made an almost invisible sign to the priests.
‘You shall remain here this night, my sons. You will be provided with blankets and the fire staves off any wayward chill while you sleep. Be at peace, friend Myrddion, for my heart tells me that one day you will find what you need, and what you truly desire above all other things. I hope you remember my friendship at that time, my son, for I fear I will be long in my grave before that great day comes to you.’ He smiled at his guests. ‘And now, I wish a good night to all, and may you have dreams of joy and love.’
After Lucius and the priests had gone, both men made themselves comfortable before the dying fire. Gruffydd stared at the woven ceiling, packed with sod for warmth and obscured by a thick cloud of wood smoke, and considered the wondrous old man he had met that night. Rarely do spies sleep well and rarely do they act on impulse. Gruffydd should have been embarrassed that he sought forgiveness from a Christian priest, but his heart felt free and light, while his mind was filled with the faces of those men, women and children whose lives he had saved rather than the broken bodies of others whom he’d been forced to kill. As he slipped into a pleasant dream of his own wife and family, he blessed the old bishop and the master who had forced him to journey to the Isle of Apples.
Myrddion’s thoughts were neither so happy nor so content. When faced by the penetrating Roman eyes of Lucius, Myrddion had been forced to confront his weaknesses anew. He had become comfortable with his emotional sterility and was inclined to consider Lucius a benevolent madman when the priest had spoken of Myrddion’s future happiness.
But Lucius was touched by goodness, Myrddion knew. He could feel the warmth that radiated from the old man like the heat from new-baked bread. Myrddion almost believed in Lucius’s sanctity and, for the sceptical, cynical Myrddion, that thready belief in natural goodness was a great tribute to the character of the priest.
Nor was Myrddion truly angry at the decisions made by Lucius. He had hoped that the bishop would lay the sword and crown in his eager hands, in recognition that he would not be tempted by the power invested in them. But his intellect told him that Lucius was correct in his understanding of the tribes. Artorex must find the symbols of his kingship himself, and so be beyond reproach as High King of the Britons.
Eventually, when he fell into a deep sleep, he dreamed again of the willow tree, only now it transformed itself into a milk-skinned woman with silver hair and beguiling eyes, a temptress who beckoned him into her leafy arms.
By dawn, Myrddion and Gruffydd had eaten, packed their saddlebags with nourishing Glastonbury bread and were already on the road. They rode as fast as their horses would allow, sleeping in snatches and avoiding all settlements and villages. Frequently, Myrddion blessed the long-dead Romans who had criss-crossed the country with perfectly straight paths and wide thoroughfares that permitted travellers to devour the miles from departure point to destination in the shortest possible time.
On several occasions, the two men were forced to hide in deep woods when detachments of Celtic horsemen passed by.
‘Why do we hide, master?’ Gruffydd asked. ‘We are not at war with the tribes.’
‘They will know soon enough what we are about but I wish to give Artorex any advantage I can, even if we must skulk in the shadows when friends pass us by. Anyway, it is often difficult to truly winnow friend from foe. Can you always spot the difference, Gruffydd?’
‘Now that you come to speak of it . . .’ Gruffydd’s voice trailed off.
He asked no more questions and the two men rode on, the days unreeling like thread on a spindle.
An unseasonal storm raged over Venonae when Myrddion and his companion finally returned. The black night sky, which was continually split by lightning, caused the townsfolk and warriors to huddle in their shelters, for they feared the anger of the gods.
However, Myrddion was in good humour as he was ushered into the presence of Artorex.
‘Well met, my lord. I go to my study. Perhaps you will agree to join me presently, once we have freshened and donned new clothing?’
Artorex was weary, but he realized from Myrddion’s manner that secrets waited to be shared. He consumed a light meal of bread and cheese and then dismissed his guard.
For once, the pyrotechnics in the dark heavens made Myrddion’s windowless room far more comfortable than usual. The fierce lightning strikes, so rare in these mountains, seemed to shudder through the bones of the fortress, demonstrating a natural power that no king or army or string of fortresses could match.
As usual, Llanwith pen Bryn and Luka were present in the windowless room, having heard of the return of their friend. Gruffydd served wine to the assembled group, although he, too, was very tired and saddle-sore.
‘What news, Myrddion, that you keep me from my bed? First you vanish so thoroughly from Venta Belgarum that poor Gawayne becomes sick with worry. And now you return during a driving storm. At this rate, the people will believe you are the storm bird.’
The kings laughed politely at Artorex’s jest, but Myrddion did not bother to join them.
‘I hope you are not too exhausted to ride with me to the Isle of Apples at Glastonbury - within the hour.’
‘I’ve no intention of taking to Coal’s back in this inclement weather. Contrary to the beliefs of my warriors, I like being warm and dry.’
Artorex was prepared to hold by his statement. He had spent half the day in the saddle, and the other half deploying troops along a critically strained defensive line.
‘You must come now, Artorex, for it’s imperative that you collect your sword and crown from Lucius. The bishop holds both
safe at Glastonbury, but he will not give them to me or to any other man in the kingdom. As Uther’s legitimate heir, you are the only person destined to discover them, although all-comers are entitled to carry out their own search if they wish to do so. By now, half the kingdom will be guessing that I have found Uther’s relics, so I’m determined that you shall go, even if I have to drag you to Glastonbury.’
Artorex’s face flushed with anger.
‘In case you haven’t noticed, Myrddion, I’m capable of making my own decisions.’
‘You are the High King by birthright, Artorex, but if you grow careless and ignore the urgency of our task, you may find yourself bending the knee to King Lot or to some other pretender - immediately before he cuts your throats. Would Lot save the west, or would he skulk in safety behind Hadrian’s Wall as Uther did at Venta Belgarum? Think, Artorex! You must travel to Glastonbury, for all our sakes. Even Gawayne is not so thick that he won’t arrive at the correct conclusion eventually.’
Artorex longed to refuse the demands that Myrddion was making, for the thought of possessing Uther’s crown and sword made him ill with loathing. The blood of Gallia stained these relics of power and Artorex knew that he could never forgive his father as long as he drew breath.
But Artorex also understood that he was no longer a simple man of flesh and blood who could consider his own future in isolation. The needs of his followers were far more important than his own desires. Ban’s dying demand of him often came stalking into his mind, reminding him that the future of the Celts depended on his facing Katigern Oakheart on an equal footing.
