Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Is it harder than death?”

  “That we will see, Bedwyr ap Bleddyn,” he said thoughtfully.

  Many more days passed. I knew we were coming to the end of it, however, one night when, a little after midnight, we heard splashes in the water and the next morning found bodies floating near the shore. Whether they had been killed by their own hand, died at the hands of their own people, or drowned trying to escape, we could not tell. But it served to warn us that the end was nigh.

  Arthur gave orders for the bodies to be fished from the lake and buried in the forest. Then he got into a boat and paddled out into the lake a short way. He stood in the boat and called to Baldulf.

  “Bretwalda! Listen to me! I know you are starving. I know that you have no more food. Listen! You do not have to die. Swear peace to me and you will go free from this place. Peace, Bretwalda!”

  Baldulf emerged from the foremost island. He waded out into the water to stare balefully at Arthur, and others crept out behind him. “You mean to kill us! We defy you to the death!” His words spoke boldly, but his shoulders sloped and he stood as one who dares not hold his head erect. He was a beaten man.

  “Why speak of death, Bretwalda, when you can live? Swear peace to me and go free.”

  Baldulf was still standing in the water, trying to decide what to do when some of the men behind him threw themselves into the lake and began swimming to Arthur’s boat. Others came toward where we stood on the shore. None of them had weapons.

  When they reached the shore they lay on the rocks, gasping, exhausted, unable to rise even to drag themselves from the water, let alone raise blade against us. Their strength was gone.

  Those standing behind Baldulf saw Arthur pulling their sword brothers from the water and giving them places in his boat. They saw us hauling their companions from the lake rather than dashing out their brains with the butts of our spears. They saw that we did not kill them, and when they saw this all hesitation ceased; they flung themselves into the lake and swam to join their kinsmen on the shore. Thus, whether Baldulf would or no, the siege of Lake Lomond was finished.

  We were most of the day gathering them up. Once the trickle started, the flood came from all directions. Of those who had followed Baldulf, only three thousand were left, mostly Angli. There were few Irish, and no Picti. The Picti, I believe, had succeeded in escaping into the forests and had not stayed to fight as the Angli did.

  Baldulf was the last to come ashore, but he came in Arthur’s boat. And he came with his proud head held high—as if he were the conqueror. Arthur helped him from the boat with his own hand.

  Oh, it is a strange sight, I tell you, to see blood-sworn enemies standing together as if never a harsh utterance had passed between them, as if the grim battles were but a grievance, as if good men and brave did not sleep in turf houses in ground hallowed by their own blood…as if war were only a word.

  But Baldulf stood beside Arthur as if he had done nothing wrong. And it is the measure of Arthur’s mercy that he offered his enemy the life his enemy would have denied him. Baldulf would not have hesitated a heartbeat in plunging the sword through Arthur’s throat, and everyone knew it.

  Arthur showed true nobility of spirit as he faced Baldulf and made peace between them. His terms were simple: leave Britain and never again come here to raid. When this was agreed to, Arthur ordered the barbarians to be fed and allowed to rest.

  We stayed by Lomond Lake two more days and then began the long march back south to the Clyd, and from there to Caer Edyn and the shipyards on the Fiorth where the Angli ships had been gathered.

  In all it was a long slow march, but we came to Caer Edyn in due time and put the Angli into the ships, charging them once again never to return to the Island of the Mighty on pain of death. We stood on the strand, watching the sails until they disappeared beyond the swells.

  “It is over,” I told Arthur. Great was my relief to see the barbarian ships vanish from my sight.

  “Pray God the peace holds,” Arthur replied, then turned to the warriors gathered there with us. He made to speak a word to them, but the Cymbrogi began cheering him, and the cries of acclaim drowned out his voice. The cheering turned quickly to singing and Arthur was lifted up on the shoulders of his men.

  In this way we entered Ector’s fortress: our voices ringing in bold song, Arthur lifted high above us at our head, his fair hair shining in the sun, the gold of his torc ablaze at his throat, and his sword, Caledvwlch, thrust toward Heaven.

  7

  Myrddin was not at Caer Edyn when we arrived. “He left seven days ago,” Ectorius reported. “I think he was going back to Caer Melyn, but I am not certain. He did not tell anyone where he was going. I offered to send an escort with him, but he would not.”

  Arthur wondered at this, but Myrddin is his own man and no one can ever tell what he is thinking, let alone what he will do next. Whatever it is, this much is certain: it will be the thing least expected.

  “That is unfortunate,” replied Arthur, somewhat disappointed. “I would have him share in the victory feast.”

  The Duke was inclined to let the matter rest there, but Pelleas would not. “Lord Arthur, I must go to him.”

  “Why, Pelleas?”

  “He may need my help.” Beyond that, Pelleas could make no answer. But I remembered Myrddin’s strange behavior at Lot’s court and I, too, sensed something of the apprehension he felt.

  “Of course,” replied Arthur slowly, gazing at Pelleas intently, “if you think there is cause.”

  Pelleas was not often insistent. He became so now. “I do think so, lord.”

  “Then go, and God go with you,” Arthur said. “Choose six to accompany you, however. These hills are hostile yet. Better still, take one of the ships; it will be faster.”

  The seven left as soon as fresh horses could be found and provisions gathered and stowed aboard the ship. I watched them go, feeling sorry for the warriors who would not now share in the feast they so richly deserved. But Arthur saw to it that the six who accompanied Pelleas received gold armbands and knives for their portion, and they all departed happily.

  The feast lasted three days, and the battle was recounted in tales of valor and in song by Rhys, Arthur’s harper. Though I still thought the hunting horn—which he so nobly sounded on the battlefield—more appropriate to his skill, I had to admit that he had improved his art by a fair measure. Indeed, to my surprise I found it no longer annoyed me to listen to the lad. At least, I could listen to him longer without becoming annoyed.

  Ah, but he was no Myrddin Emrys.

  The other kings had their harpers with them, too, so we suffered no lack of vaunting praise in our ears. Good Ectorius’ brown beer and rich golden mead flowed freely. We drank up his entire winter’s supply, I suspect. But it was to good cause.

  I like a feast as well as the next man, but after three days I began to weary of celebration. This is rare, I know, but once and again I found myself wandering down among the ships—all of them tethered at the tideline in rows. Some rode at anchor further out in the Fiorth. Others had been beached so that they could be put to better repair.

  At dusk the fourth day, I was again drawn to the shipyard. The clean, sunwashed sky shone a burnished bronze, and the fresh seawind blew away the smoke of Ector’s hall that lingered in my hair and clothing. The solace of the shore was broken by the sharp cries of the wading birds that worked the mudflats for their suppers.

  Arthur found me on the deserted deck of one ship whose keel was sunk in the slime of the tidewash. “Hail, Bedwyr!” he called, slogging through the muck toward me. “What do you here, brother?”

  “I am thinking what it will be like to swing sword and heft spear on the rolling deck of a ship,” I replied, offering my hand as he pulled himself up over the side. “And I am thinking it will take some getting used to.”

  “No worse than a horse,” he observed, and laughed suddenly. “Do you remember the shameful thing we did to Cunomor?”

>   I did remember. No more than twigs, we were just beginning weapons training with some older boys—one of them an insufferable braggart of thirteen summers named Cunomor ap Cynyr, the son of a small king in Rheged. After enduring this pompous ass and his bloated arrogance for a month or more, Arthur and I tampered with his tack and weapons so that the heads fell off all his spears and his saddle slipped sideways on his horse as he cantered around the practice field. He was made to appear so ridiculous that he could not hold his head erect all the rest of the summer.

  “Poor old Cunomor,” I remarked, as Arthur’s words brought the image of that red-faced youth to mind. “I wonder if we will look as foolish trying to fight in these ships as he looked trying to maintain his toplofty dignity on that sliding saddle?”

  “Worse!” laughed Arthur. It was good to see him happy. Arthur seemed to have come once more to himself—as Myrddin had said he would. Although the uncommon gravity of character persisted, it had sunk beneath the surface somewhat. He was building himself anew, I suppose, and the holy vision of the Kingdom of Summer was his solid foundation.

  As if to confirm my observation he said, “But we will prevail, Bedwyr. We must. Or Britain is lost—and much else besides.”

  “I do not doubt it, Bear.” I turned my eyes away from his to view the wide, shimmering sweep of Muir Guidan. It was peaceful and good, with the soft light slowly fading in the deepening sky.

  “We will leave soon,” Arthur said, scanning the horizon with me. “After Lugnasadh.”

  That was not many days hence. “So? But I thought you wanted to see the shipyards restored.”

  “Ector has everything well in hand. Lot has agreed to stay on and oversee the building of the first ships. I am needed elsewhere. We have tribute to collect and horses to break before winter.”

  “The tribute!” I had forgotten all about that. “I would rather fight Picti than collect tribute!”

  “We cannot do the one without the other,” Arthur said.

  “Then you do not believe the peace we have made with Baldulf will hold?”

  The Duke shook his head slightly. “No, we have not seen the last of Baldulf. And as for the Scotti and Picti—when did they ever heed a treaty?”

  “We should have killed them and been done with it.”

  “They would return in any case. This way they may learn something. Anyway, if we have to fight again I would prefer an enemy I know. But take heart, Bedwyr, the fighting is over for this year.”

  “You are certain of that?”

  “Yes.” He grinned and slapped me on the back. “And we have won glory and honor—not to mention very much gold. We have done well.”

  * * *

  A few days after the autumn festival of Lugnasadh, we sailed for Caer Melyn with the morning tide. Arthur bade each battlechief take three or four ships under his command so we could begin learning that subtle craft. Saints and angels, but they were more unwieldy than whales! It was like leading a warband mounted on pigs.

  Arthur thought to serve warning that Britain’s coasts were guarded once more, so we took our time, calling in at various ports along the way and taking every opportunity to allow our presence to be felt. We did learn something of the command of ships and collected tribute from the coastal realms as well, so it was time well spent.

  Nevertheless, upon reaching Abertaff, I was glad to be quit of the pitching beast and set foot on solid ground again. We unloaded the horses and rode to the caer, tired, full of the pleasure of homecoming, eager to settle before the hearth with a jar and a fresh warm loaf.

  As we entered the yard—oh, the greeting we received from those who had stayed behind!—Arthur became uneasy. “What is wrong, Artos?” I asked. The loud halloos still filled our ears as the warriors greeted kith and kin.

  He glanced quickly around, as one expecting to see his hall in ruins or a roof aflame. “Myrddin is not here.”

  “No doubt he is inside, pouring out the beer,” I ventured.

  “He would be at the gates if he were here.” Arthur threw himself from the saddle and rushed into the hall. “Where is Myrddin?” he demanded of the steward, a gaunt stick of a man named Ulfin.

  “The Emrys is gone, Duke Arthur,” Ulfin replied.

  “Where?”

  “He did not consult me, my lord.”

  “Did he say when he will return?”

  “He did not,” replied Ulfin stiffly. “You know how he is sometimes.”

  “Then where is Pelleas?” Arthur’s voice rose.

  “Lord Pelleas came here but left at once. He went in search of the Emrys, I believe.”

  Alarm tingled along my spine. “When did he leave?” I asked, thinking that wherever they had gone, one or the other should have returned by now.

  Ulfin cocked his head in calculation. “Just after Lugnasadh, my lord. A few days after. And he went alone.”

  Arthur dismissed the steward and turned to me. “I am not liking this, Bedwyr. Something is wrong. I am going to find them.”

  “I will go, Artos,” I said. “You are needed here. The kings will want an accounting of the northern battles.”

  The Duke hesitated, fighting the logic. “Where will you begin?”

  “At Ynys Avallach,” I replied. “Fret not, Bear. I will fetch them back before you know I am gone.”

  “Take Gwalcmai with you,” Arthur replied, acquiescing at last. “Or Bors—both, if you prefer.”

  “Gwalcmai will serve.”

  One night’s sleep with a proper roof over my head, and I found myself in the saddle and on the trail once more. We departed in the grey dawn with the sun a vague rumor in the east, striking off for Ynys Avallach away to the south. To hasten our journey, I piloted one of our ships across Mor Hafren. Though another sea voyage was the last thing I would have chosen, it saved a good many days in the saddle. And I proved myself no mean pilot.

  On making landfall, we rode with all haste, stopping only for water and food, and then moving on again without rest. In this way, we arrived at the Tor at dusk the second day from starting out. Evening mist rose from the lake and marshland round about, encircling the high-peaked Tor which poked through the vaporous white fog like an airy island rising above a flat sea of cloud. The steep green hill topped by its graceful palace seemed an enchanted realm—one of those Otherworldy mounds that appear and vanish as they will in the sight of bewildered men.

  Now, as I have said, I had never been to the Glass Isle—though from both Myrddin and Pelleas I had heard about it since I was old enough to hear about anything. I felt I knew the place. And I experienced the uncanny sensation of returning after long absence to a home I had never seen before. The druids have a word for this, I think. I do not know what it is.

  But as we climbed the twisting path to the Fisher King’s palace in the crimson and purple sunset, I found myself remembering small particulars as if I had grown up there—even to the larksong falling from the fiery sky high above the Tor. Gwalcmai was agog, with eyes the size of shield bosses as he gawked up at the soaring walls and towers. The polished gates—good old familiar gates I had entered a thousand times, and never once before—stood open and we rode in to be met by the servants of King Avallach.

  “They all look like Pelleas!” observed Gwalcmai in hushed exclamation. “Are all the Faery so made?”

  “Why do you think they are called Fair Folk?” I asked him. Still, it was no less a marvel to me. While we had grown used to Pelleas and knew the truth, seeing others of that race made me want to believe all the idle and ignorant tales told about them.

  “Look at that one!” Gwalcmai all but shrieked as we entered the hall. He was beside himself with excitement. But then, he was from the Orcades.

  “Stop pointing! That is the Fisher King,” I hissed. “Is it the stables you are wanting for your bed?”

  King Avallach advanced, dressed all in scarlet satin with a wide belt of silver plates like fish scales, the dark curls of his hair and beard oiled and glistening. His handsom
e face wore a smile of welcome, and his arms opened wide to receive us. Though he could not have known who we were, I felt the quick warmth of his joy.

  “God be good to you,” said Avallach in a voice that came from somewhere deep in his broad chest as from inside a hollow hill. “Rest and be welcome, friends.”

  “Hail, King Avallach. I give you good greeting!” I said, touching the back of my hand to my head in salute.

  “Do you know me?” the Fisher King asked.

  “We have never met, Lord Avallach. I know you in name and appearance only. Myrddin Emrys has told me of you.” At my mention of Myrddin, the king nodded. “I come to you in the name of Arthur, Duke of Britain.”

  “Yes, yes,” replied Avallach. “You are friends of Arthur?”

  “I am Bedwyr ap Bleddyn of Rheged, and—”

  “So at last I meet the renowned Bedwyr!” roared the great king in his delight. “God’s blessing on you, Bedwyr ap Bleddyn. Arthur has told me much about his sword brother.”

  “This is Gwalcmai ap Lot of Orcady,” I said, indicating the dumbstruck northerner beside me.

  At this the Fisher King stiffened and his gaze narrowed; he regarded Gwalcmai as if he were a new kind of serpent whose fangs had yet to be tried for poison. I wondered at this and then remembered what Myrddin had told me: Morgian, Queen of Air and Darkness, was Gwalcmai’s grandmother. His kin!

  Stupid! I groaned inwardly and kicked myself for the fool I was. Why, oh why, had I not realized this before now? I could not have chosen a worse companion for this journey!

  “Welcome, Gwalcmai ap Lot,” intoned Avallach tersely.

  I do not think Gwalcmai noticed his cool reception. I do not think he noticed anything at all—except the entrancing beauty of the woman approaching from across the hall. She had entered from behind Avallach and walked toward us purposefully.

  I know that I have never seen a woman more fair in face and form. I know that I never shall see another the equal of the Lady of the Lake—for it was she. I knew her, as I had known Avallach, from Myrddin’s descriptions. Oh, but his words did not tell the tenth part of her elegance and grace.