Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Her hair was long and golden like sunlight falling on a spring-flowered lea. Her skin was white as the snowcrest on a bending bough, or rarest alabaster, and her lips were red as the petals of winter roses against the milky whiteness of her skin. She looked upon us with eyes the color of forest pools, and just as calm. The delicate arch of her brows spoke of nobility and pride.

  She wore a long tunic of seagreen silk worked in the most wonderfully ornate filigree of red-gold, and over this a sleeveless mantle of russet embroidered in gleaming silver. At her throat she wore a slender torc of braided gold such as a Cymry queen would wear. But she was a queen, of course, or once had been.

  “Truly she is a goddess!” Gwalcmai croaked in a stricken whisper.

  “She is Myrddin’s mother, mind,” I told him, finding it difficult to credit the truth of it myself.

  Charis came to me and kissed me on the cheek in greeting. “May the peace of Christ be yours, Bedwyr,” she said in a voice soft and low.

  “You know me, lady?” I gasped, astonished that she should utter my name.

  My features must have trumpeted my amazement, for the lady laughed nicely and said, “How should I not?”

  “But I have never been here before this moment,” I stammered.

  “Not in the flesh, no,” Charis agreed. “But you were the unseen spirit at Arthur’s shoulder when he sojourned here last winter.”

  “He spoke of me?”

  “Oh, he spoke of you to be sure,” replied Avallach. “If he spoke about nothing else, he waxed vocal of his brother Bedwyr.”

  “That is how I knew you,” Charis said. “And it is the same way you knew me—from my son, no doubt.” She turned her eyes to Gwalcmai, who stood entranced beside me.

  “I present to you Gwalcmai ap Lot, of Orcady,” I said, nudging him in the ribs with my elbow. But it was no use—he gawked at her as if he were dull-witted and mute.

  At the mention of his name, a change came over Charis—although I noticed no outward alteration of expression or demeanor. Yet, I felt something flow out from her as a sudden rush of warmth directed at Gwalcmai. Looking him steadily in the eye, she placed a fair hand on either of his shoulders, put her face close to his and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “May the peace of Christ be yours, Gwalcmai,” she said.

  “And with you also, my lady,” he whispered, his cheeks blushing red as foxglove.

  “You are welcome here,” she told him solemnly. She brightened at once and declared, “Come, this is a pleasant end to a good day. We will sup together, and you will tell me how my son has fared in the wider world since last I saw him.”

  By this I knew that neither Myrddin nor Pelleas had stopped at the Glass Isle, and that our search must quickly continue.

  We were conducted to a smaller chamber off the hall where a long board had been set up with chairs around it. There was red wine in a crystal jar and cups of silver beside it. The wine was poured and we drank, and began to describe all that had happened since Myrddin and Arthur had visited Ynys Avallach last winter. And there was much to tell.

  Gwalcmai picked at his food with his knife. Had he been a bird I know he would have eaten more heartily. But he sat limply in his chair and gazed at the Lady of the Lake with such a rapt and insipid expression, I wonder that she neither flew from his sight, nor shamed him with scornful laughter.

  I was mightily grateful that I was not a maid that must endure his bland and sickly glances. But then, the lady Charis was many times the lady I would have been!

  Despite Gwalcmai’s bad manners, the evening passed agreeably—indeed, it seemed as if it fled like the too-brief melody of a nightingale. We slept that night on beds of finest linen over fresh-cut rushes, and I awoke the next morning thinking that no man ever slept better or more comfortably.

  But awake I did, and when we had broken fast I uttered my regrets that we must continue our journey that very day. As I did not wish to alarm Charis—how could I live with myself if I caused that fairest lady pain!—I told her nothing of our search for Myrddin, but merely affirmed that we were about the Duke’s business and must press on with all haste.

  We made awkward farewells and soon were winding our way down the side of the Tor and across the causeway as the new day’s light pearled the eastern horizon. “Myrddin has not been here,” I told my companion. “I feared as much.”

  Gwalcmai started as one awakening from a dream. He peered back over his shoulder at the looming Tor. “Have you any idea where he would go?”

  “To Llyonesse,” I answered, for the dread in my heart was growing and I remembered where and when I first had felt it: that day on the shore when Myrddin told me about Morgian.

  I began to sense that where Morgian was to be found, that is where I would find Myrddin. Pelleas had guessed it too, and that is why he had been so anxious about Myrddin, and so eager to go after him.

  “Where is this place Myrddin has gone—this Llyonesse?” wondered Gwalcmai.

  His question swung me around to face him. “You have never heard of it?” I asked.

  “If I knew, I should not ask where it is,” he replied lightly and with innocence I judged genuine. “Do you not know where it is?”

  I stared at him hard and decided he was telling the truth, then turned back to the track before us. “It is in the south; that is all I know.”

  Llyonesse. This was the source of my fear, the touchstone of my deepest dread. I knew it now: Myrddin had gone to confront Morgian. Well, my path was clear before me. I must go to Llyonesse to find him.

  We stopped at a small settlement not far from the Tor to ask the way, and were curtly told by the chief—while the people made the sign against evil behind their backs—to keep on south and west and I would find it…if that is what I desired.

  I remember little of the journey. The days and nights were all one to me. It seemed as if we rode through a world gradually dying. Barren moorland stretched before us and the lonely wind moaned; at night it cried softly as it passed. With every labored step the sense of futility and oppression increased. The weight! The weight on my heart dragged at my spirit.

  We came at last to a Fair Folk stronghold, and my heart rose for a moment with the hope that we might find Myrddin, or at least hear word of his passing. To my dismay, the palace and fortress were deserted. I did not bother searching. There was nothing to be found—even the gorse had shriveled and died.

  In any event, Myrddin was not there. So we pressed on, following the coastline further south. Gwalcmai attempted to lift our spirits, but his songs died on the wind. No fair word could be uttered in that place.

  For we passed through a wasted land: stunted, twisted trees; barren, rock-crusted hills and vacant hollows; stinking fens, vile bogs oozing like pus-filled wounds. In many places gaping rents had opened in the earth and these steamed with a noxious yellow mist that seeped along the trail, obscuring the way so that we feared plunging headlong into one of the hellholes.

  Nothing green showed. No bird called. No creature large or small made its home here anymore. All was death and desolation—a ruined realm made hideous by the evil practiced within its boundaries. It was beyond my imagining even to consider what might have caused such devastation. Whoever or whatever Morgian was, she apparently possessed a maleficent power above anything I might conceive.

  Fear quickened like a viper in my breast, but I rode on, not caring anymore what might happen to me. I prayed. I called upon the Great Good God to defend me. In silence I chanted the mighty Psalms of strength and praise. I called down Jesu’s grace upon that evil-blighted place.

  Gwalcmai rode close beside me, and we upheld one another. In whispered confidences I told him of Jesu, the Savior God. And that son of Orcady believed. Whatever might happen to our bodies, our souls were safe in the Sure Strong Hand. There was small comfort in that at least.

  Despite all, our steps grew slower, the way less clear. And then, when I thought we must abandon the track altogether, I saw a sea crag
rising up just ahead, sharp-sided, restless water surging around its jagged roots. Seabirds soared high above it, and strangely, many crows among them.

  Carrion birds! By this I knew where Myrddin would be found. Alive or dead, I knew not, but our search had ended.

  “Stay with the horses,” I told Gwalcmai. He made no reply, but dismounted and tethered the horses to a blasted stump. I left him sitting on the stump with his drawn sword resting across his knees.

  A prayer on my lips, I began the long climb up the rough headland, stopping to call out from time to time as I climbed. I expected no answer and heard none…

  I found Myrddin perched on the topmost cliff, hunched upon a rock, his ragged cloak wrapped tightly around him though the day was stifling. Shattered crags of heat-scarred stone lay heaped and toppled like ruins round about. He was alive, God be praised! And he turned his face toward me as I scrambled to him.

  I beheld his face and nearly fell into the sea. The eyes in his head were dead embers, cold, extinguished, the once-bright luster of those matchless golden eyes leached white as ash!

  His brows were singed, his lips blistered and cracked, the skin over his cheeks burnt and peeling. His hair was ragged and matted with blackened blood.

  “Myrddin!” I ran to him, sobbing half with relief to find him alive at all, and half for pity at what had been done to him. “What has happened to you? What has she done to you?” I gathered him in my arms like a mother cradling a dying child.

  When he spoke, his voice was a harsh, brittle whisper forced out with great effort. “Bedwyr, you have come at last. I knew someone would come. I knew…I thought it would be Pelleas…”

  Pelleas! What had happened to Pelleas? I scanned the cliffside, but saw no sign of anyone anywhere.

  “I have been waiting…waiting…I knew Arthur would…send someone…to me…Where is Pelleas?”

  The pitiful sound of that fine voice now broken brought tears to my eyes. “Do not speak, Emrys. Please, rest you now. I will care for you.”

  “It is well…She is gone…”

  “Morgian?”

  He nodded and licked his bruised lips. This started the blood seeping down his chin. He struggled to form the words.

  “Please, Emrys,” I pleaded, weeping freely, “do not speak. Let us go from here.”

  Myrddin clutched at my sleeve, and his dead white eyes wandered unseeing in his head. “No…” he rasped. “All is well…she has fled…”

  I did not at first credit what he was telling me. “Gwalcmai is with me; we have horses. Let us bear you away from this hateful place. She may return.”

  “She is gone…Her power is broken. I have faced her…Morgian is beaten…gone…She is gone…” He shivered and closed his eyes, leaning heavily against me. “I am tired…so tired…”

  Swoon or sleep, it was blessed relief to him. With difficulty I carried him on my shoulders over the rocks and down to where Gwalcmai waited with the horses.

  Gwalcmai shuddered upon seeing Myrddin. “What happened to him?” he asked in a horrified whisper.

  “I do not know,” I answered, bending the truth as far as it would go. How could I tell him Morgian, his blood kin, had done this? “When he wakes, he may tell us.”

  “Where is Pelleas then?” he asked, lifting his head to regard the sea crag once more.

  “Perhaps Pelleas was delayed elsewhere. We will pray that this is so.”

  Night came too quickly to that blighted spit of land thrust out into the sea. We made a camp in one of the pocked hollows, and Gwalcmai dragged in enough dead wood to keep the fire through to morning. I found water and made a broth with some of the herbs we had among our provisions. This I heated in my clay bowl and roused Myrddin so that he could drink it.

  He seemed the better for his sleep, and drank down all the broth and asked for some of the hard bread we had. He ate it in silence, then lay back and slept once more.

  I watched him through the night, but he slept soundly. Toward sunrise I slept while Gwalcmai watched, awakening a little while later. Myrddin stirred as we were making ready to leave.

  “You must help me, Bedwyr,” he rasped, and I noticed his voice was somewhat stronger.

  “I will do whatever you ask, lord.”

  “Make some mud and bind my eyes.” I hesitated, and he flung out a hand to me. “Do as I say!”

  With the water and clay I made some mud and daubed it over his eyes as Myrddin directed me. Then, tearing a length from my tunic, I bound his eyes, mud and all. Myrddin felt his bandages with his fingers and pronounced my work well done.

  In this way we began the journey back—blind Myrddin sitting the saddle, erect, silent—Gwalcmai and I taking it in turn leading his horse, making our long slow return to the land of the living.

  8

  Three days later, at the end of our scant provisions, we passed out of Llyonesse. I did not look back. That melancholy land had left its dark stain on my soul.

  Myrddin held his own counsel all the while. He sat upright in the saddle, straight and silent, eyes wrapped in the mud-stained cloth, his mouth twisting now and then in a grimace of pain—or loathing.

  We journeyed through the day, and the night. When we finally stopped for rest, we had put a fair distance between us and the borders of that dismal, desolate land. I made camp near a stream, and Gwalcmai killed two plump hares for our meal. These we roasted and ate in silence, too tired to speak. There was grass for the horses, and good water for us all.

  Though the night was mild, I made a small fire—more for the light than the warmth. We sat together as the stars kindled in the deep autumn sky. Slowly night drew its dark wing over us, and Myrddin began to speak. In a voice as dry as winter husks, he began to declaim:

  “Myrddin I was; Myrddin I remain. Henceforth all men will call me Taliesin.

  “Earthborn am I, but my true habitation is the Region of the Summer Stars.

  “I was revealed in the land of the Trinity; and with my Father I was moved through the entire Universe. I shall remain until Doomsday upon the face of the Earth.

  “Who is there to say whether my flesh is meat or fish? For I was created from nine forms of elements: from the Fruit of Fruits, from the first fruit of the Lord God at the world’s beginning.

  “The Magician of magicians created me.

  “From the essence of all soils was I made, renowned blood flowing in me. Peoples are made, remade, and will be made again. Fairest Bard, I can put into song what the tongue can utter.

  “Hear my bold telling:

  “At my calling the small-souled scattered like sparks from a firebrand flung from high Eryri.

  “I was a dragon enchanted in a hill; I was a viper in a lake; I was a star with a silver shaft; I was a red-scaled spear in the grasp of a Champion.

  “Four fifties of smoke will follow me; five fifties of bondmaids will serve me.

  “My pale yellow horse is swifter than any sea gull; swifter than the hunting merlin.

  “I was a tongue of flame in fire; I was wood in a Beltane blaze that burned and was not consumed.

  “I was a candle; a lantern in the hand of a priest; a gentle light that glows in the night.

  “I was a sword and a shield to Mighty Kings; a blade of excellent craft in the hand of the Pendragon of Britain.

  “Like my father, I have sung since I was small. The harp is my true voice.

  “I wandered; I encircled. I called upon the Swift Sure Hand to deliver me. I attacked.

  “Righteousness was my only weapon; the courage of the Savior burned in me. The battle frenzy of Lleu was not more glorious than my golden rage.

  “I wounded an enchanted beast: a hundred heads on it, and a fierce host at the root of its tongue—a black, forked tongue; nine hundred claws it raised against me. I slew a crested serpent in whose skin six fifties of souls are tortured.

  “I shall yet cause a field of blood, and on it seven hundreds of warriors; scaly and red my shield and blade, but bright gold my shield ring
.

  “A warrior I have been; a warrior I will be.

  “I have slept in a hundred realms and dwelt in a hundred hillforts; a hundred hundred kings will yet salute me.

  “Wise Druid, prophesy to Arthur!

  “Tell the Days of the Bright Champion: what has been, what is to come; was, and will be.

  “The Brilliant Shining One will make his people; they will be called by his name: the Sure Hand. Like lightning he will quicken the Host of Forever!”

  I stared at him in wonder. Mryddin, a man I knew well and seemed now not to know at all. The bard’s awen was on him and his face glowed—whether with the light of the fire, or with its own mysterious light, I could not tell. He sat nodding his bandaged head to the cadence, hearing the echo of his words in the empty reaches of the night.

  “Why do you wonder at what I tell you?” he asked abruptly. “You must know that I speak the truth. Nevertheless, guard yourself against the wiles of the Enemy, my friends. Oh, but never fear. Never fear! Hear me, Bedwyr! Hear me, Gwalcmai! Hear the Soul of Wisdom and know the power of the High King we serve.”

  So saying, he began to tell what had happened in Llyonesse. Blind, his eyes bound, he lifted his raw voice to the glittering sky, and he began to speak it out, slowly, haltingly at first, but more quickly as the words formed in a strong and steady stream. This is what he said:

  “I observed evensong in the Shrine of the Savior God, something I have long wanted to do. I regretted passing so close to Ynys Avallach and not stopping to see Charis and Avallach, but I could not let them know what I intended.

  “Upon entering Llyonesse, I rode to Belyn’s palace and found it—like the Fair Folk settlement in Broceliande—deserted. But why? That is what I could not understand.

  “What had happened to the Fair Folk? What disaster had overtaken them? How could it have been accomplished? What purpose was served in their murder? Oh, yes, that is how I came to see it: willful and wanton murder. And so it was. But why? Great Light, why?