That night I slept outside the Pendragon’s tent on a red calfskin—I wanted to begin my duties before anyone else awakened. Accordingly, I rose before dawn and hurried down to the stream to drink and wash myself. Passing along the sea-face of the hill, I happened to glimpse a ship gliding out of the mist on the water, sailing toward the shore.
I stopped. Who could it be? Few among those left behind in Caer Lial knew the location of the Round Table.
I watched as the ship drew closer—yes, it was definitely making for the shrine—and then turned and ran back to camp. Not wishing to disturb the Pendragon, I ran to the Emrys’ tent. “Emrys,” I whispered at the tent flap. He awakened at once and came out to me.
“What is it, Aneirin?”
“A ship is approaching. Come, I will show you.”
Together we hurried back to the place where I had seen the ship—just in time to see six more emerge from the mist. The first ship was already drawing toward shore. “It is the Pendragon’s fleet,” I said, observing the red dragon painted on the sails.
“I was afraid of this,” remarked the Emrys.
“What are they doing?”
“They have come for the burial ceremony.”
It was true. Thinking only to honor their dead companions, the Cymbrogi, and the assembled warhosts of Britain, had embarked in the Pendragon’s ships to discover the shrine. And discover it they did. The Emrys and I watched as ship after ship came into the bay and the warriors waded to shore.
They came dressed as for battle, each with helm burnished and shield freshly painted. Their swords were newly honed, and their spearheads gleamed. They gathered on the beach and then moved silently up the hill toward us.
“What shall we do, Wise Emrys?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “There is nothing to be done. These men have risked the Pendragon’s wrath to come here. They will not be turned away, nor should they be.”
“But the shrine…”
“Well,” observed Mryddin Emrys, “the Round Table will no more remain secret. After this day, the world will know of it. Easier to hold back the tide with one of your brooms, Aneirin, than to call back a word once it has been spoken.”
As they assembled on the shore, the Emrys sent me to fetch the Pendragon. I did so and returned with Arthur, Gwenhwyvar, and Bedwyr to see ten thousand warriors. All the Cymbrogi, of course, and a good few others had come to observe the funeral rites of their battlechiefs.
“God love them,” said Arthur, gazing out upon the strand, now populated with warriors drawn up in ranks and divisions, and arrayed in bright battledress. “Their disobedience is greater tribute than we can boast. Let them join us.”
“Very well,” replied Bedwyr, and started down the hill track to the shore.
“How did they find this place?” wondered Gwenhwyvar.
“Tegyr, I suppose,” said Myrddin, and I remembered the steward.
“Or Barinthus,” offered Arthur.
“Your pilot? He would never do such a thing,” the queen insisted. She looked upon the ordered ranks of warriors and smiled. “I hope that I receive such homage when I go to my grave.”
“For me,” the Pendragon said, “let there be a perpetual choir established in a church built over my tomb. I will have need of such prayers, I think.”
At these words the Emrys looked around and observed the High King closely. “Are you ill, Arthur?”
“I am tired this morning,” he admitted. “The battle has left its mark. It will pass.”
“Let me tend your wound.”
“A scratch,” said Arthur, making a dismissive gesture with his hands. “There is nothing to see.”
But the Wise Emrys was not to be put off. “Then I will see that as well. Open your mantle and have done with it.”
The Pendragon hesitated, but no man alive is able to resist the Emrys for long. At last Arthur gave in and drew back his cloak and pulled aside his mantle. The wound was, truly, nothing more than a long, ragged scratch running around the base of the throat where Medraut had caught him with a wild slash of the knife.
But that scratch had festered and was now an angry red welt, visibly raised and, I imagine, very painful. The edges of the wound were tinged with green and a watery pus oozed from several places where movement had opened the gash afresh.
Gwenhwyvar gasped. “No wonder you cried out when I touched you—it is a nasty thing.”
“It is slow healing,” Arthur allowed, pulling his cloak over his shoulder once more. “But I have had worse.”
The Emrys shook his head. “We will go back to camp, and I will bind it properly.”
“The burial rite…” said Arthur, lifting his hand to the warriors gathered on the shore. “We must not keep the Cymbrogi waiting.”
“After the rites then,” Myrddin told him flatly. “I have neglected it too long already.”
* * *
Four graves were dug on the side of the hill facing west. They were dug deep and lined with white stone which the Cymbrogi gathered from the nearby hills. When the graves were ready and everyone had performed homage in the shrine, the Nine Worthies, led by the Emrys, ascended the hill and entered the tabled rotunda. After a few moments they emerged with the body of Cai, which they proceeded to carry on its bier to the grave site.
But the Cymbrogi saw this and, rushing to them, pressed close, halting the bier. Then, forming a long double line—somewhat like the battleline, the Companions passed the bier one to another, hand to hand, down the hill from the shrine to the grave. The bodies of Gwalcmai, Gwalchavad, and Llenlleawg were cared for in this way as well, so that they were borne to the graves by their friends and gently laid to rest on the hillside.
Arthur and Gwenhwyvar stood at the foot of the graves, and as each body was lowered in, the queen laid a small stone cross upon the chest. The cross was of smooth, black stone on which was inscribed the dead man’s name and lifeday in Latin. Beside each cross, Arthur placed a fine gold cup—from which to drink one another’s health in the palace of the King of Kings in Heaven, he said.
When each body was thus laid down, the Emrys raised the lament which we all joined until the hills and valleys round about rang with the dirge-song, growing and growing to the very last when it was cut off short. This symbolized the growth through life and the sudden sharp death of those we mourned.
After the lament, the Emrys sang a Psalm and prayed to Jesu, Son of the Living God, to welcome the souls of the brave into his fair company. After this we each took up stones and laid them on the graves, raising the gorsedd over them. All this was done under Arthur’s gaze, and when at last the burial cairns were complete, the Pendragon turned to his Wise Emrys and said, “Emrys and Wledig, I would hear again the prayer which you have so often sung.”
Myrddin assented, raising his hands in the way of the bards of elder days when they declaimed before their kings. But instead of a eulogy, he sang this prayer:
“Great Light, Mover of all that is moving and at rest, be my Journey and my far Destination, be my Want and my Fulfilling, be my Sowing and my Reaping, be my glad Song and my stark Silence. Be my Sword and my strong Shield, be my Lantern and my dark Night, be my everlasting Strength and my piteous Weakness. Be my Greeting and my parting Prayer, be my bright Vision and my Blindness, be my Joy and my sharp Grief, be my sad Death and my sure Resurrection!”
“So be it!” we all cried. So be it!
10
That night we built the fires high and lifted our voices in songs and stories of remembrance. Although no wine or mead or even ale was given out in drink, the Cymbrogi gathered in amiable throngs around the fires and filled the star-dazzled night with a richness of laughter. If the spirits of the dead know anything of the world they leave behind, I believe they would have been pleased to see how well they were loved and honored by their friends. I went to my bed earnestly wishing that the day of my own death would be so revered.
As before, I slept that night under the stars wrapped in a red calfs
kin on the ground before the Pendragon’s tent. I did not rest well; something kept sleep from me. During the night I heard a stirring and woke to see the Emrys standing at the embers of the nearest fire, scowling into the dying light. I rose and went to him. “You are troubled, Wise Emrys. What is the matter?”
He regarded me for a long moment, his face in deep shadow. I saw his eyes glinting sharp in the fireglow, as if weighing out the value of his words. At last he said, “Dare I trust you, Aneirin?”
“Please, Emrys, if I have ever shown myself false in any way, strike me down at once.”
“Well said,” the Emrys replied, turning his eyes back to the glowing embers. “You have earned the trust I will place in you—though perhaps you will soon wish otherwise.”
“If the burden be lightened for sharing, I will bear it, lord.”
The Emrys drew a deep breath. “I like not the look of Arthur’s wound. It should be healing, but instead it is getting worse. I fear poison.”
The Picti sometimes smeared poison on their blades before going into battle. That would appeal to Medraut, of course.
“What is to be done, Emrys?”
Just then the flap of the Pendragon’s tent opened, and Gwenhwyvar stepped forth. She came quickly to stand beside the Emrys. Standing there, wrapped in her bold cloak, eyes bright, dark hair glinting, features soft in the deep fireglow, I thought that I would never see another woman so proud, so beautiful. Or so worried.
“He is fevered,” she said. “He sleeps, but it is not a healing sleep. Myrddin, I am afraid. You must do something.”
The Emrys frowned. “I will open the wound and bind it with herbs to draw out the poison.”
“And then?”
“And then we shall see.”
Gwenhwyvar returned to the tent, and the Emrys and I wrapped our cloaks around us and walked down to the stream in the valley. By the moon’s bright light we gathered certain leaves and stems of plants he knew to have healing properties. Then we made our way along the stream to the shore, where the receding tide had left fresh sea-plants on the strand. Some of these we harvested as well, and then returned to the camp where the Emrys built up the fire once more.
I fetched clean water in a good iron pot and put it on the fire. When the water boiled, the Emrys carefully added some of the leaves we had obtained, and in this way brewed a healing draught. We tended the caldron through the night, and at dawn’s first light poured the healing liquid into a bowl and carried it to the Pendragon’s tent.
I confess I was shaken by the sight that met my eyes. So changed was the High King that I would not have recognized him: skin grey and damp, hair matted on his head, lips cracked and dry, the cords of his neck straining as he shivered and moaned…Even by the uncertain light of the smouldering rushlamps, I would have sworn he was not the man I knew.
Gwenhwyvar sat beside her husband, clasping his hand in hers. She stirred as we entered, and I saw that her eyes were red from weeping. But I saw no tears.
“Arthur,” the Emrys said softly, kneeling beside the bed-place. “Hear me, Arthur. I have brought you a draught.”
At these words the Pendragon opened his eyes. Those eyes! Hard and bright with fever, piercing, pain-filled. I could not endure the sight and had to look away.
The Emrys bent over Arthur and raised him up. He held the bowl to the cracked lips and gave the Pendragon to drink. Glory of glories, the potent elixir’s effect was remarkable and immediate. Color returned to the High King’s face, the shivering stopped, and he relaxed as strength returned.
“Myrddin,” he said, seeing him for the first time, “I had a dream.”
“I do not wonder,” Myrddin replied. “You are sick, Arthur. Your wound is poisoned; it must be opened at once and the poison drained.”
“It was a strange and marvelous dream.”
“Tell it to me, Arthur, while I tend your wound.” So saying, the Emrys brought out his knife, which had been honed with sandstone and seawater. He loosened the Pendragon’s mantle and drew it away from the wound.
Bitter bile rose in my mouth. The gash was swollen and purple, the edges black and suppurating. It seemed a hideous serpent winding around the High King’s neck, venomous and deadly. “Take the bowl, Aneirin,” the Emrys said sternly.
But as I reached out my hand to take the empty bowl, Gwenhwyvar interceded gently. “Allow me. I will hold the bowl.”
“Very well then,” replied the Emrys. “Aneirin, bring good new rushes for the lamp. I must see what I am doing.”
I ran to the supply wain and fetched new rushes for the lamp. Bedwyr appeared at the tent just as I returned. “How is he?” His voice was low and secretive.
“Not well,” I replied. “The Emrys is about to open the wound to draw off the poison.”
Bedwyr nodded and followed me into the tent. Once the new lamp was lit and burning brightly, the Emrys set to work. With small, quick strokes of the knife, Myrddin laid open the festering wound. Blood and pus spurted from the swollen flesh and trickled into the bowl.
Arthur neither winced nor cried out, enduring the agony in silence. Gwenhwyvar bit her lip and her brow beaded sweat, but she held the bowl firmly between steady hands. While Myrddin gently kneaded the long, jagged incision, Bedwyr knelt opposite the Emrys, holding Arthur’s right shoulder up to allow the vile ooze to drain more freely. I held the rushlamp at the Pendragon’s head so the Emrys would have the light he required. The stench of the seeping matter rising up from the bowl sickened me.
“There,” said the Emrys at last. “You can take the bowl away.” Gwenhwyvar removed the bowl and set it aside. Myrddin took up the remaining leaves we had gathered and began applying them, one by one, along the line of the cut. “These will draw out the poison,” he explained. “I will replace them in a little while. We will leave the wound uncovered until then.”
“It feels better,” Arthur said. “I am hungry.”
Bedwyr’s relief spread over his face in a grin. “You are always hungry, Bear. It is your one unfailing virture.”
Gwenhwyvar placed a hand lightly on Arthur’s forehead and stroked his brow—a gesture of such delicacy and intimacy that it filled me with longing. “I will bring you food and wine.”
“A little bread, but no meat,” replied the Emrys. “And mead—it will help him sleep.”
“I will bring it,” I said, and hurried away at once.
The sun was full on the horizon, tinting the low grey clouds with the imperial purple. A cool breeze blew out of the east, and the camp had begun to stir. On the hillside across the stream where the Cymbrogi slept, the campfires had been revived and the warriors were roused to their warmth. As I passed the tents of the kings Cador stepped out, saw me, and called me to him. “I give you good day, Aneirin,” he said. “Is the Pendragon well?”
His question caught me unawares. I could not guess how much he knew, and knew not how much to say. “He spent an uneasy night, lord,” I answered. Cador nodded. “I am bringing him food.”
“Hurry on, then. I will not delay you.” He yawned and returned to his tent.
From the provisions in the supply wain, I took two good loaves and filled a small jar from the mead skin. These I tucked in my cloak and hurried back to the Pendragon’s tent.
Gwenhwyvar and the Emrys stood together outside the tent, talking in low tones. They stopped at my approach, and the queen received the food and went back to Arthur’s side. “Emrys,” I said, “Cador asked after the Pendragon—”
“What did you tell him?”
“I did not know what to tell him,” I admitted. “I said only that the Pendragon spent an uneasy night. I thought it best not to say much.” The Emrys pursed his lips. “Did I do right?”
“Yes,” he said finally. “But say no more to anyone who asks—at least until we see how this will go.”
I hovered near the Pendragon’s tent through the day. The kings and Cymbrogi sported in the valley during the long, sun-filled day. Once I wandered halfway down th
e hillside for a better view. I sat on a rock and watched their lively contests.
The sound of their laughter and cheering drifted up the hillside to the Pendragon, who awakened and called out. I hurried back to the tent to see if I was needed. No one was about, so I opened the tent flap and peered in.
The Pendragon stood in the center of the tent, clutching the tent pole. “Forgive me, Pendragon,” I said, “I did not mean to intrude.”
He released the tent pole at once. “Ah, Aneirin,” he said, his voice husky and low. “I am thirsty.”
“I will bring the Emrys.”
“Let him rest. Bedwyr, Gwenhwyvar—let them rest. Just bring water.”
“Yes, lord,” I said and ducked out at once. A water jar sat beside the entrance, so I grabbed it and ran down to the stream to fill it with fresh water. I plunged the mouth of the jar into the swift-running stream, then turned and raced back up the hill.
Arthur stood outside the tent, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight as he gazed around the camp. I brought the jar and gave it to him. He lifted it to his lips and drank at once without waiting for a cup. “Thank you, Aneirin,” he said. “I am much refreshed.” He straightened his cloak over his shoulder and, taking up his spear, Rhon, which was standing in the ground before the tent, he began to walk down the hill toward the valley where the Cymbrogi sported.
I followed, and fell in beside him. We came to the stream and started across it. One of the warriors at the edge of the field saw our approach. “The Pendragon!” he cried. “The Pendragon comes! Hail, Pendragon!”
Immediately, a throng gathered and pressed close around him. “We heard you were wounded, Pendragon!” someone shouted, and a dozen other voices chorused their concern in voices sharp with apprehension.
Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle Page 50
