Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Did they keep their anger to themselves? No, they did not.

  Very soon they were flapping their tongues here and there all over the realm, and causing others to do the same. This poison spread as it will do, and in time reached Sechlainn’s ears. He grew sad to hear it, and at first refused to take offense at this insult that had been so handsomely redressed by the gift of the enchanted caldron.

  But the evil words did not cease. And as the waves pounding on the rock wear it down bit by bit to pebble size, so too after a time Sechlainn could no longer look at his beautiful queen without thinking of the wrong done him.

  But the makers of trouble did not let it rest there. They continually hounded the poor king to his misery by demanding that the disgrace to his kingdom be avenged so that his honor, and theirs, might be restored.

  In short, they raised such an uproar and ferment throughout Ierne that in the end unhappy Sechlainn yielded to them—more to earn a space of silence than anything else. And this is the revenge he took: Bronwen was struck once on the cheek and driven from his chamber. A queen no longer, she was given a place in the kitchen and made to cook for the court.

  For this reason, the blow Bronwen suffered was ever after known as one of the Three Unjust Slaps of Britain.

  But as everyone knows, it could not stop there. “Now, lord,” said the malcontents, “word of this must not reach Bran or he will surely come and make war on us to avenge his sister.”

  “What do you propose?” asked Sechlainn sadly. He no longer cared what happened to him or his kingdom. The light had been snuffed from his life.

  “You must forbid all ships from going to Ynys Prydein, and all ships coming from there must be seized, so no one can take word to Bran. Do this and we will be happy at last.”

  “You may be happy, but I will not. While you are at it you might as well call me Mallolwch, Most Wretched, from now on, for I can no longer be Sechlainn and feel the way I do.”

  “That is your decision,” replied the evildoers. “We certainly never wanted it this way.” But of course they did.

  Evnissyen, having sown his evil far and wide, departed at once and no one knew where he had gone. Poor Bronwen, bereft of friendship and forsaken in her own house, grew weary and sick at heart. “Lleu knows I have done nothing to deserve this. My kindness has been repaid with loneliness, and my generosity with endless work. This will not do at all.”

  As it happened, Lleu, flying overhead in his accustomed form—that of a huge, black raven—heard Bronwen’s lament. Well he remembered her former glory, and so swooped down to see if the affair might benefit from his intervention.

  Alighting on Bronwen’s kneading trough as she toiled at the bread, he watched her with a bright black gem of an eye. She saw the raven and offered it a scrap of meat, which it gulped down at once and croaked its gratitude. She poured out some milk and gave it to the raven to drink, which it did with all speed. “At least my labors are appreciated by someone,” sighed Bronwen mournfully. “I give you good day, friend raven.”

  Up spoke the raven. “Daughter, who are you to toil away without ceasing? Surely, you were born for better than this.”

  “I am Bronwen, daughter of Llyr, and Bran the Blessed is my brother. You have spoken the truth, though you may not know it. For I was once a queen in my own land, and a queen here as well—and highly respected, though I say it myself.”

  “What happened to bring you to this low estate?”

  “You are wrong if you think that I caused my own undoing. I tell you truly, I am not loved in this place. Once, but no longer—owing to the wicked men who slandered me most cruelly.” She looked at the raven suspiciously. “Not that it is anything to you.”

  “Indeed, sister, it is everything to me.”

  “Who are you, bird, to take an interest in my sad plight?”

  “Never mind about me. What are we to do about you?”

  “A most vexing question. In vain have I sought for an answer through many long days of contemplation. For not only am I a slave here, but no one may pass across the sea. My kinsmen might as well live in the Otherworld for all I can reach them.”

  “Say no more,” croaked the raven. “Ships may be prevented from sailing, but no one yet has discovered a way to hinder a bird from flying where it will.”

  “Will you take a message to my brother then?”

  “Is that not what I am saying?”

  “Well, I hope you speak more plainly to him than you do to me,” she snapped.

  “Give me the message,” said Lleu in his raven’s guise. “Then stand you back and watch what will happen.”

  So Bronwen told the raven all about her plight, then described Bran and what kind of man he was and where to find him. Away winged the big black bird to that fairest land across the sea.

  The canny raven found Bran in his stronghold and spoke to him in private. Bran listened, becoming most distressed and outraged at his sister’s disgrace. He thanked the raven and in the selfsame breath called for his advisors and counsellors and druids and any within the sound of his voice to assemble, whereupon he told them what had befallen Bronwen at Sechlainn’s hands.

  “How this could have happened, I cannot understand. I had the highest respect for that Irish king, and now this. Well, there is no trusting those quarrelsome dogs. Speak, Wise Sages! What say you, Counsellors? Advise me, Advisors! What am I to do about this?”

  They all gazed in dismay at one another, then answered with a single voice. “Your way is clear, lord and king. You must take your warband across the sea to save your sister and bring her back if you are to end this disgrace.”

  Bran agreed. He raised his warband—and a better warband has not been seen on the Island of the Mighty from that time to this—and they steered their ships from Aber Menei to Ierne; each man among them armed and helmed, and each a better warrior than the last.

  Now, Mallolwch’s swineherds were down by the sea tending the pigs, and they saw Bran’s fleet coming. They threw down their staves and let the pigs scatter where they would and ran to their lord, who was holding court with his advisors.

  “Lugh be good to you,” the Irish king said in greeting. “What news do you bring me?”

  “We have seen a wondrous sight, lord. And a more wondrous sight would be difficult to imagine,” the swineherds said.

  “Tell me then, for I would hear of it.”

  They answered straightway, saying, “Do not think us drunk, lord, but we have seen a forest arising on the sea where never was seen so much as a single tree. What is more, the forest is hastening this way. Think of that!”

  “A strange sight, indeed,” replied Mallolwch. “Did you see anything else?”

  “In the center of this forest, surrounded by it, we saw a mountain. Lightning broke from its brow, and its crags were filled with roaring thunder.”

  “A storming mountain surrounded by a forest,” mused Mallolwch. “Coming this way, you say?”

  “We do say it. What do you think it means?”

  “On my life, I cannot think what it means. But the woman who was my wife is an intelligent being. Let us ask her.”

  So the king and his advisors besought her, saying, “Lady, tell us the meaning of this wonder we have seen.”

  “Though I am no longer a lady,” she replied, “I know well enough what it is. Lleu knows it is a sight that has not been known in this worlds-realm for all these many years.”

  “Will you tell us yet?”

  “I will. It is nothing more nor less than the gathered warband of the Island of the Mighty sailing to battle. I believe my brother Bran the Blessed has heard of my sore plight and is coming for me.”

  “What is this forest we have seen?”

  “That is the masts and oars and spears of the ships and the warriors on them.”

  “What is this mountain?”

  “That is none other than Bran himself in his towering rage.”

  The Irish men heard this and were afraid. “Lord, you cann
ot allow them to make war on us. They will slaughter us most frightfully.”

  Mallolwch answered them bitterly. “Lugh knows it is no more than you deserve for the trouble you have caused.”

  “Fret us not with that,” the evildoers answered. “Rather, do your duty and protect us.”

  “Because of you, that will not be easy to do. By Toutatis, you are a vile lot! I wish I had never known you. Nevertheless, I will do what seems best to me, and it is this: I will offer my kingship to my son, Gwern, Bran’s own kin. He will not make war on his sister’s son.” With this Mallolwch charged his messengers to bear these words to Bran when he came ashore.

  The messengers obeyed and greeted Bran kindly as he waded ashore, his sword naked in his hand. “What answer shall we take to our lord?” they asked when they had delivered their message.

  “Tell your lord he shall have no answer from me until he brings me a better offer than I have heard just now.”

  Back went the Irish men to their lord with the sound of ringing steel in their ears. “Lord and protector,” they said, “Bran says he will not give you an answer until he hears a better offer than the one you gave just now. Our advice is for you to prepare a better proposal, for we are not lying when we say that he will have none of the one you sent.”

  Mallolwch nodded sadly. “Then tell my brother Bran that I will build him the greatest stronghold this world has ever seen—with a hall big enough to hold all his people in one half, and all of mine in the other. Thus, he shall rule over Ierne and the Island of the Mighty with me as his steward.”

  The advisors came before Bran with this proposal, which pleased him when he heard it. The result was that he accepted it at once. In this way, peace was made and work begun on the stronghold and its enormous hall.

  The men of Ierne toiled away to raise the timber, and they fell to discussing things, as workmen will do. Evnissyen, disguised as a workman, began complaining of the unfairness of Bran and the harshness of his rule. Inspired by Evnissyen, they were soon saying things like: “It is not fitting that our lord and king be made a steward in his own realm. This is a great dishonor for him, and for us as well, come to that.”

  So the workmen set a trap. On every peg of every timber of the hall they fixed a large leather bag; inside every bag they put one of their most ferocious warriors.

  When the hall was finished, Mallolwch sent word to Bran to come and take up residence. Evnissyen heard the summons and made certain to enter the hall before all the others. He scowled at the magnificent hall as if it were the most contemptible shepherd’s bothy. And turning his cunning eyes on the leather bag nearest him, he said, “What is that?”

  “Barley,” replied one of the workmen.

  On the pretense of examining the grain, Evnissyen reached into the bag, found the warrior’s head, and squeezed hard until he perceived his fingers crushing bone and sinking into brain.

  As he did to that first bag, he did also to each other bag in turn, until every one of two hundred warriors were killed and none were left in the land of the living. “Now,” he smirked to himself, “let the Irish men find this and they will howl with rage to think what Bran has done to their kinsmen.”

  By this time the host had arrived. The men of the Island of the Mighty sat on one side of the great hearth, and the men of Ierne sat on the other. Peace was made, and the Irish king removed his torc and held it out to Bran.

  When Bran saw this he relented and said, “I have a torc, lord, and lands and people enough. Only let my sister be reinstated in her proper place and I will be content.”

  Mallolwch heard this and wept for joy. “Truly, you are a blessed man,” he cried. “You treat me better than I deserve.”

  “How should I treat my own kin badly?” answered Bran.

  “In token of your honor to me,” said the Irish king, “let my son, your nephew, be brought forth. He will be crowned in my place, and I will serve him as I would serve you.”

  Little Gwern was brought forward, and Mallolwch placed the torc upon his son’s neck instead. Everyone who saw the boy loved him, for a more fair and honest boy there never was.

  Up spoke Evnissyen, whose spirit writhed within him to behold the amity between the two peoples. “Why does not my young kinsman come to me for a blessing?” he called, and the boy, fearing no harm, went to him gladly.

  Ha! said the evil trickster to himself—be assured there was not the smallest grain of goodness in him—not even Lleu himself could foresee the outrage I will perform next. So saying, he seized the boy and threw him headfirst into the enormous fire before anyone could lay a hand on him to stop him.

  Bronwen saw the flames close about her dear little son and she cried out in horror and leapt toward him as if to throw herself into the fire to save him. But there was nothing to be done. The flames were kindled hot and swiftly reduced the child to ashes.

  Up jumped the men of Ynys Prydein with a shout. And this shout was echoed by the Irish men who, with Evnissyen’s help, had discovered their murdered sword brothers. And never was there a greater commotion in all this worlds-realm than the one that followed as each man reached for his weapons.

  The fight, the battle, the slaughter that was made that night was worse—oh, far, far worse than any since the world began. The din sounded like thunder, the clash like a tempest. Blood rose to the thighs of the warriors, and still they slew one another cruelly.

  Meanwhile, Evnissyen was not idle. For when the battle raged white-hot, he crept into the shadows, striking here and there, stealing a life with every blow of his poisoned dagger. He saw Bran protecting his sister Bronwen between his shoulder and his shield, and he struck them both from behind, laughing as they fell from his blade.

  More good men went to their deaths, and more good women were made widows than the heavens have stars. When the men fell, their women took up arms, so that man, woman, and child among them fought to their deaths.

  Bitter was the battle, and bitter the tears that followed. And long, long the mourning.

  The sun shone raw and red and the sunrise like a wound in the east when the last foe laid down his arms forever. Seven men only remained, staring at one another with blood in their eyes and on their hands.

  Then the Bent One saw the survivors place the Caldron of Rebirth upon the hearth, and they began putting the dead into it. Fearing that all his toil would be for nothing, Evnissyen crept in among the bare-bottomed corpses, lay down, and was tumbled into the caldron with the rest.

  Once inside, Evnissyen stretched out full length, pressing hands and feet against the sides of the caldron. He pushed with all his might until the marvelous caldron burst into four pieces and was ruined. As it happened, the wicked man’s heart burst also and he died ignobly.

  The survivors, all British men, came upon Bran, who lay dying beside fair Bronwen. They fell on their knees and wept over him. “Lord and king,” they wailed, “the caldron has burst and now we cannot save you.”

  “Listen to me, my brothers,” Bran said, “and do what I tell you. When I am dead, cut off my head and take it back with you to Ynys Prydein. There let you bury it on the White Hill overlooking Mor Hafren, where it will guard that sea gate from any intruder.

  “I tell you the truth, for so long as you do not dig up the head no enemy will ever harm you. You will feast in the land of your fathers, Rhiannon’s birds will sing to you, and eighty years will be as a single day. In this way, the head will be as good a companion to you as ever it was, for your joy and prosperity will be assured.

  “But let anyone uncover the head, and plague and war will come once more to the Island of the Mighty. And once uncovered, you must hasten to bury it again where no one will ever think to find it, lest worse befall you.

  “Now then, it is time for me to die. Do at once what I have commanded you.”

  Sorrowfully, the British men did what their lord commanded. They sailed back over the sea to their homeland and buried the head where Bran had told them. And they buried Bronwe
n a little apart, but near the place where her brother’s head rested so they could be together.

  And all at once, up sprang a great palace with walls and floors of polished stone that shone like gemstone in the sun. Inside they found an enormous hall and food of all kinds laid upon the groaning board. There was wine and mead and beer to drink. And whether food or drink, it was the finest they had ever tasted. As they began to feast, three birds appeared on golden perches, and all the most wonderful singing they had ever heard was like empty silence compared to the singing of these marvelous birds.

  And the men forgot the sorrow of their lost kinsmen and companions, and remembered nothing of the grief they had seen and suffered, nor any other hardship in the world.

  For eighty years they lived like this, their wealth and kin increasing, their joy abounding. The eighty years was called the Assembly of the Wondrous Head. By reason of this, the burial of Bran’s head was called one of the Three Happy Concealments. For as long as the head remained undisturbed, neither plague nor enemy came to the shores of Britain.

  So ends this branch of the Mabinogi.

  The song finished, Myrddin lowered his harp in utter silence. The assembled kings and warriors deemed themselves in the presence of a True Bard and were mute as deer, eyes glowing as if enchanted, and perhaps they were. For certainly they had been held by this tale, and it had worked its subtle spell inside them.

  And inside me as well. I, too, felt the tale as a living creation; I knew it to be alive in the way of all true tales. More the dread because of it! For I understood the deeper significance of the song, and I knew what it was the Emrys had sung:

  Arthur’s troubled reign, and the Enemy’s hand in it.

  12