Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Awed and abashed, we gazed upon the wealth we had won. Then the shame of it stole over us, and the sweet taste of victory turned bitter in our mouths.

  The treasure was ours by right, but it was covered in blood—much of it British blood, since the barbarians had stolen it from those they had marauded all summer. We took back only our own, and there was little cheer in the taking.

  * * *

  It was slow going through the forest. And though we left at first light—as soon as we could read the trails through the tangled wood—our pursuit did not raise any of the escaping enemy, who by now must have reformed into warbands. But we kept at it, and by midday began making eerie and unusual discoveries: barbarian corpses drained white and hanging from the branches of trees.

  At first only a few, and then more…. by the scores…

  I called off the pursuit and ordered the Cymbrogi to return to the Twide Valley. “Leave be,” I told the men, “we will find none left alive. We ride for Mailros.”

  It was early in the afternoon when we rejoined the main force. Arthur was surprised to see us return so soon. “What is it, Bedwyr? Poor hunting?”

  “Oh, aye,” I told him, swinging down from my horse. “Spoiled, more like. Someone has poached the game from your hunting runs, Lord of the Hunt.”

  The Duke regarded me with a quizzical look. “What happened?”

  “The Hill Folk have collected the blood debt that was owed them, I expect. We came upon the bodies along the pathways—each one pierced by a Hill Folk arrow and hung up to bleed like carcasses of beef. The bhean sidhe slew hundreds, Bear, but we neither saw nor heard anything of them.”

  “You were right to come back,” agreed Arthur. “Leave the Hill Folk to fight their battle in their own way.”

  Of Baldulf we had no sign. For despite the ghastly grove of corpses I had seen, I did not for a moment consider that he might be dead. Too many had escaped into Celyddon—thousands in all. At least half the barbarian host was still alive to fight again.

  A short while later the scouts which the Duke had sent out before dawn returned with the report that Baldulf had fled east to his ships waiting on the coast. As confirmation of this fact they brought with them the Irish king Fergus and the tattered remains of his warband. Fergus and his men had been captured making for Abertwide.

  British lords and warriors hastened to Arthur’s tent to see what the Duke would do. They pressed close about in a tight ring around Arthur. Some shouted and jeered at the Irish, but most remained quiet.

  Fergus, his hands bound with leather straps, was hauled forward and made to kneel before Arthur. But the Duke took one look at the pathetic sight and raised the king to his feet. He took the knife from his belt and cut the thongs that bound him. Then, staring him full in the eye, Arthur asked, “If I were in your place I know you would kill me. Do you deny it?”

  Fergus knew the northern tongue and answered, “I do not deny it, lord. I would kill you.”

  “Then why have you allowed yourself to be brought here like this?”

  The Irish king raised his head and with eyes full of defeat and humiliation replied, “Because I heard that you were a just and merciful man, Duke Arthur.”

  “You call me just and merciful, O King. And yet you made war against me. How can this be?”

  “I am not lying when I tell you that I am far from wealthy. Once the name Fergus mac Guillomar meant something in the world. But the tribute we must pay to the Bretwalda has bled us dry. Now my lands are poor, my crops fail, and my cattle die; and the crops and herds of my people do no better.

  “This, and the tribute is never decreased by so much as a wheatberry. We starve, lord, for want of grain and meat. Baldulf said he would forgive the tribute if I joined him in raiding. He promised much plunder.” Fergus lowered his head in misery. “Please, lord, if you will not grant mercy to me, grant mercy at least to my warriors, who have done nothing but follow their king.”

  Arthur pulled on his chin for a moment and then motioned for me to come near. “What do you think, Bedwyr?”

  “An unlikely tale, it seems to me.”

  “But might there be some truth in it?”

  I thought for a moment. “Well,” I said slowly, “the Irish need little enough encouragement to raid. Even in the best of times they seldom prosper.”

  “That is so. What else?”

  “The part about paying tribute to Baldulf rings true. It would explain much.”

  “I agree. So what do we do with him?” Arthur jerked his head toward where Fergus waited.

  “Ask Myrddin. He is your Wise Counsellor.”

  “I am asking you. What would you do, Bedwyr?”

  “I do not know, Artos. Kill him, I suppose. These greedy heathen must know that they cannot make war on Britain and hope to escape without swift and severe punishment. Strength is the only thing they respect.”

  Arthur put his hand on my shoulder. “Your answer is the Soul of Wisdom, brother. A man would be a fool to go against it. And yet that is what I shall do.”

  “You mean to let him go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why ask what I think? What difference does it make what I say?”

  “I needed to hear it, Bedwyr. That is all. You speak the hard law of war. But there is a higher law we may invoke.”

  “Which is?”

  “When a man asks for his life, you must give it—even if it were better in your eyes for that man to die.”

  He turned away quickly and bade Fergus kneel down before him. The Cymry gathered close around murmured to themselves, speculating on Arthur’s decision.

  “Do you swear, O King, on pain of death, never to practice war upon Britain again? And will you with whatever oaths you deem binding swear fealty to me, and promise to uphold me and pay me tribute as long as your life endures?”

  Fergus glanced up into Arthur’s face, and I saw a rare sight—one that is not often seen in this world. I saw hope kindled in a man who knew himself doomed, who had no right to hope at all. This hope was born of mercy. And I could see by looking at the Irish king that Arthur had won a loyal friend for life. Fergus swore his oaths and bound his life to Arthur’s, and rose a happy man.

  Against all reason, Arthur fed the captives and sent them home—without an escort. There was nothing to prevent them from breaking faith and turning back to raiding the moment they moved from our sight. This caused many in our camp to grumble against Arthur, but when did the complaints of others ever sway the Bear of Britain?

  We rested on the wide, grassy lea of the sparkling Twide, taking time to refresh ourselves and heal our wounds. It remained sunny and warm, and the long northern day stretched soft and golden before us. Arthur spent it with the Cymbrogi, eating and drinking and singing with them. He gifted them with gold rings and armbands, and silver cups for their valor. He gave liberally of his share of the plunder, keeping nothing for himself.

  So, after a supper of stewed leeks, roast venison, the coarse camp bread, and cheese, Myrddin Emrys took up his harp. The entire camp gathered on the riverbank, crowding one against another to the edge of the water so that no one could move. None seemed to mind the cramp, so intent were they on the Emrys’ song.

  Myrddin stood before them on a flat-topped rock, the waters of the Twide swirling below him. Straight and tall he stood before the battlehost of Britain idly strumming the harp, dead eyes downcast, searching among the tales in his vast store for the one he would share tonight. It was ever the same with him; Myrddin would try to fit the song to his listeners, so that it would speak to them a word they could treasure up in their souls.

  His long fingers played over the harp strings, drawing a melody from the singing heart of the harp as lightly as a maid coaxing a smile from her lover. Then, raising his head, he began the tale. And this is what he sang:

  In the First Days of Men, when the dew of creation was still fresh on the earth, Bran the Blessed, son of Llyr, was king of Gwynedd and Logres and all Ynys Prydein b
esides. He was as just and fair as the sunlight that falls from Heaven, and a better king was not known since kingship began in the Island of the Mighty, and this is the way of it:

  One day, as Bran sat on the rock of Harddlech overlooking the sea, accompanied by his kinsmen and such men of rank as ought to surround a very great king, he spied thirteen Irish ships coming to him from over the sea and making for the coast, running before the wind with all the grace and ease of gulls.

  Seeing this, Bran bestirred himself and said, “Friends and kinsmen, I see ships out there boldly approaching our lands. Go you down to meet them and discover what these visitors intend by coming here like this.”

  The men of Bran’s company equipped themselves and, along with Bran himself, went down to await the Irish ships. “Lleu smite me,” exclaimed one of the men as the ships came closer, “if I have ever seen ships as fine as these.” And all agreed that they were handsome ships indeed.

  The foremost ship drew ahead of the others, and they saw a shield raised on the deck as a sign of peace. The ships then stood off from shore and put out boats filled with strangers who proceeded to land.

  “Lleu be good to you,” called Bran in greeting from his rock as the foremost stranger strode up out of the water. “If you seek peace, you are welcome. Whose ships are these, and who is your leader?”

  “Lord Sechlainn, King of the Ierne,” came the reply. “It is he who owns these ships—and many more like them, since you ask.”

  “What does he seek by coming here?” demanded Bran. He had learned through bitter experience not to trust strangers from across the sea. “Will he come ashore?”

  “No, lord,” the emissary answered. “My king has a request of you and will not set foot upon these lands unless you grant it.”

  “Well, am I to know this request?”

  “Great lord,” the emissary said courteously, “King Sechlainn seeks to make an alliance with you. As proof of your friendship, he has come to ask for Bronwen, daughter of Llyr, to be his wife, that your houses will be forever bound by ties of blood and honor. In this way will Ierne and the Island of the Mighty be made stronger.”

  “Tell your lord that he had better come to my dun where we can discuss the matter properly.”

  King Sechlainn heard this and came ashore at once, his counsellors and men of rank with him. And great was the host in Bran’s hall that night.

  First light next day, the men of the Island of the Mighty met in council and decided that the incessant warring with the Irish must cease, and the sooner the better for all. If the alliance with Sechlainn could accomplish this, it should be sought. Still, they were greatly sorrowed to let Bronwen go from them, for she was one of the Three Great Queens of the island, and widely known as the most beautiful woman then alive.

  Nevertheless, it was decided that she should become Sechlainn’s queen for the good of all. And so a feast was declared to celebrate the joining of the two most powerful houses in all this worlds-realm.

  For his part, King Sechlainn brought seven of his ships near to land and began unloading them. “What is swimming to shore?” wondered the British men. “Please tell us, for we have never seen creatures of their like before.”

  “These noble animals are called horses,” replied the Irish men. “Well you might wonder to look upon them, for they are a gift to us from Lugh of the Sure Hand himself; they come to you straightway from the Otherworld.”

  The British men were amazed to see such beautiful creatures climbing out of the waves and foam, glistening in the sunlight as if gilt with the gold of Heaven. The horses and their grooms were received with all honor and respect and put at once in the finest fields and glens that Bran possessed.

  And Bronwen, his sister, was married to Sechlainn the Irish king that very day. As proof of their marriage, the couple slept together that same night and thus joined the noble kingdoms of Ierne and Ynys Prydein.

  During the wedding celebration—which lasted so many days that men lost count—Lord Evnissyen, Bran’s quarrelsome cousin, arrived from his travels and saw some of the horses. “What are these ugly beasts?” he demanded. “And who has brought them here to waste our land with their upkeep?”

  “They are the bride-price paid for Bronwen, who is now become the wife of King Sechlainn of Ireland,” answered one of the grooms.

  Evnissyen, the Bent One, frowned, which he was ever known to do, and growled at the groom. “What! Have they given away that excellent woman without my consent? Indeed, my cousin could not have hit upon a greater insult to me if that had been his sole ambition. Very likely it was.”

  So saying, the ill-tempered Evnissyen began smiting the horses with his fists, striking first their jaws and heads, then their flanks and backs, and finally their hocks and tails. This he did with such vengeance and malice that the once-proud creatures were disfigured beyond all value.

  News of this outrage took wings to King Sechlainn, who wondered at the atrocity of it. “This insult to my gift is no less insult to me. More, if this is how they respect my highest treasure, I fear I will fare no better,” he said, shaking his head. “My path is clear: there is nothing to do but make for the ships.”

  King Sechlainn took his wife and men and hastened to his realm across the sea. The ships became specks on the sea and disappeared altogether before Bran learned of his leaving. But he did learn, and he said, “It is not fitting that he should leave in such unseemly haste. Therefore, we will not let him go.”

  Bran sent messengers out in his fastest ships to plead Sechlainn to return and favor Bran’s court with his presence.

  “That I will not do,” replied King Sechlainn from the deck of his handsome ship, “until I know who has cast this slander on my name by destroying my good gift.” And he told them about the injury done to the horses.

  When Bran heard the messengers’ report, he was heard to remark, “I smell the evil of Evnissyen at work here. Lleu knows he was ever a troublemaker.” So once again he sent out the messengers—Mannawyddan ap Llyr, Heveydd the Tall, and Unig Strong Shoulder—to offer his apology for his kinsman’s bad manners, saying, “Tell the King of Ierne that if he will overlook Evnissyen’s insult I will give him a staff of silver as tall as he is, and a platter of gold as broad as his own face. Or, if he will not accept that, let Sechlainn come to me and name what he will accept, and we shall make peace on whatever terms he deems best.”

  These swift messengers sailed with all speed to Sechlainn and offered Bran’s words in a friendly way. The king listened, and his fair wife pleaded with him, “My brother is an honorable man, my husband. Allow him to prove himself in this matter and you will not be disappointed.”

  The Irish king pulled on his chin, puffed out his cheeks, and cast an eye upon his beautiful wife. In her he found favor and so replied, “As this is a strange thing from beginning, it pleases me to have an end to it. Very well, I will return to Bran and hear him out.”

  The Irish flew once more to the Island of the Mighty, but they were cautious and anxious lest any further insult befall them. Bran saw that they were listless at their food and conversation. “My friend, you are not so light-hearted as you were before. Is it because you consider your compensation too small? If so, I will add as much as you like to make you happy.”

  “Lugh reward you, lord, I believe you mean what you say.”

  “I do. And as pledge of my word, I will give you my chief treasure—a great caldron of gold wherein resides this peculiar property: If a slain warrior is put into the pot today, he will fight as well as ever on the morrow. Only he will not be able to speak a word.”

  King Sechlainn thanked Bran graciously and was so well pleased with his new treasure that he forgot the insult done him. The feast continued as many days as before, and an enjoyable feast it was. But the time came to take his leave, and the Irish king embraced the British king like a brother and said, “Come you to my court when you will, lord, and I will return the favors you have accorded me tenfold. You may prove me in thi
s, and I hope you do.”

  Then, after many heartfelt farewells, King Sechlainn and Bronwen set out. Thirteen graceful Irish ships sailed from Aber Menei and flew away over the sea to Ierne, where they were greeted joyously by one and all.

  Soon it became voiced about all the kingdom that Sechlainn had taken a wife of rare and surpassing beauty. And everyone who came into his court from the first day received from Bronwen’s hand a ring of gold, or a polished jewel, or a fine enamelled brooch, or some such treasured gift as would please them. Oh, and it was a marvelous sight to see these precious gifts being carried off!

  Bronwen’s renown as a kind and generous queen grew in the land, and small wonder. King Sechlainn’s realm flourished as never before with goodness and peace. Great the honor thereof! And this king liked and loved his lady well.

  In due time Bronwen’s belly swelled with child which she bore most regally and at the end gave birth to a son named Gwern. After the custom of those days, the boy was sent to the best house in all the realm to be reared as a nobleman ought.

  Bronwen’s cousin, Evnissyen, wicked as the night is long, bethought himself how things had turned out, and how Bran had healed the split he had made. And he became jealous of Sechlainn’s happiness and good fortune. “Govannon smite me with his hammer if I do not settle this matter between us for once and all.” And taking a small coracle, he set out at once for Ierne.

  There are troublemakers in Ierne, just as everywhere else. And Evnissyen had no great difficulty finding them and stirring them up with hateful words and false promises.

  This was only too easily done, for because of Queen Bronwen’s kindness and honor, and the heir she had given their king, these small-souled creatures were already halfway down the trail to jealousy by reason of Sechlainn’s happiness. In less time than it takes to tell it, the grumblers, led on by smooth Evnissyen, fastened on the insult done their king while in Bran’s court. The more they thought about it—and they thought about little else—the angrier they became.