by Simon Lister
Arthur watched him and when he had finally completed his circuit the chamber was lit by a flickering light from all four walls. Merdynn placed his staff on the earth floor and stood by Arthur with his arms crossed and his head bowed. Arthur thought he sensed movement around him and the silent burial tomb seemed to hold the distant echo of voices balanced just on the edge of his hearing.
‘What is this place, Merdynn?’
‘You know it as Delbaeth Gofannon. The Blacksmiths. It is an ancient burial mound. Kings, queens and masters from the ancient world lie at rest here. Every land has its heart. Here lies Britain’s for this is the heart of the whole of Middangeard.’
Arthur looked around at the damp earth walls and the puddled floor, ‘Why bring me to this place of the dead?’
‘Because it’s not just the bones of the dead that lie here.’
Merdynn crossed to the far end of the chamber and beckoned Arthur to follow. Arthur felt a slight breeze to his right and he turned expecting to see a ghost from the past but there was no one else with them, just the distant sound of voices. He joined Merdynn at the far end where one of the smaller rooms led into blackness. Merdynn went inside and came out carrying a long bundle of oiled cloths, which he laid carefully on the floor.
‘What is it?’ Arthur asked, wondering if Merdynn was desecrating the bones of the dead.
‘It’s a sword. One that was carried into battle by the ancient kings. It’s yours now.’
‘I’m not a king.’
‘Nevertheless it is yours.’
‘No sword that’s lain here for any time would be of any use now.’
‘Nevertheless it is yours.’
Arthur stared at the bundle then at Merdynn but made no move to pick up what Merdynn claimed was his. Merdynn knelt down and unwrapped the cloths to reveal a sheathed sword with a magnificently crafted hilt and intricately worked scabbard with inlaid silver wreathed along its length.
Arthur leant forward and picked it up. He drew the sword from the scabbard and he saw it was masterfully forged. Faint tracings ran down the entire length of the blade. He held it closer to his face as he tried to see the etching more clearly in the dim light. The distant voices fell silent and he felt the faces of those whom time had silenced staring at him from across the centuries.
Standing, he sheathed the sword and faced Merdynn, ‘This is the gift. And it’s mine.’
‘Yes. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. It is an ancient sword. It was forged long ago and in every Age it has been wielded by one from your lineage. Now it comes to our turn. I have waited a long time for what I hoped would never come and watched as others took up the burden. Yet now the moment has come I feel the need for their counsel.’
‘Can you not go to them and take counsel?’
‘No, not now. Two from my order left this world long Ages past. Two went into the East and I fear for them both now.’
‘What do you know of the Eastern Lands, Merdynn? What do you know of those who guide them?’
‘Everything and nothing. This Land has lain suspended for centuries, adjusting and recovering slowly after the ruinous end of the last Age. We now stand at the true beginning of our Age, Arthur. Should we fail then it will be an age of darkness. We stand between the shadows and the light, and it may be that in defeat is our only chance of victory.’
‘If our fate hinges on riddles then the gods mock us.’
Merdynn’s sharp eyes watched Arthur keenly as he buckled the sword to his waist, ‘It wouldn’t be the first time that fate has hinged on a riddle, Arthur.’
‘Then may it be for the last.’
‘It may well be so. Now, we must leave, it doesn’t do to tarry in these places.’
Merdynn picked up his staff and as he did so the flickering light from the walls dimmed and died. Suddenly they were back in the narrow corridor with the entrance to the mound before them. They stepped back outside and with the rain hammering down on them Arthur cast a glance back at the entrance. It seemed no more than a sodden burial mound. He looked down at the sword buckled to his side as if to confirm what had happened only moments before. It still hung there, rain running down the magnificent scabbard. He pulled his cloak around it and glanced about the familiar grove with its tall trees standing silently sentinel. He looked at Merdynn who was watching him.
‘I’ve been here countless times. I’ve even hid inside there when I was child but it’s never been more than what it seems to be now,’ Arthur said as he gestured towards the burial mound.
‘But it’s the first time that you and I have been inside.’ Merdynn smiled, ‘Did you know that it was once said that if your horse lost its shoe you could leave the horse here and it would be re-shod by the gods?’
‘And would it?’
‘Of course not, it’d be stolen. But in myths lie many ancient truths. The sword you carry has been broken before, yet you’ll find no trace of it now.’
As Merdynn finished speaking, an image flashed across Arthur’s mind – he saw himself standing on a rain-lashed beach with the wind howling about him. Blood and sweat streaked his smoke-blackened face. He was surrounded by the dead and he was holding the bloodied sword aloft in desperation. Merdynn watched him as the life returned to his eyes.
‘Is that the place where it will all end?’ Arthur asked.
‘No fate is set in stone,’ Merdynn replied quietly.
They left the grove and Merdynn turned to Arthur, ‘I must leave you now. The King’s Council is set for the day after tomorrow and much needs to be considered. I am bringing the Cithol Lord to Caer Sulis. None of their kind have left the Veiled City for longer than anyone can remember, but we need their knowledge. King Maldred has much to ponder on and many decisions to make.’
‘Caer Sulis then,’ Arthur said and Merdynn turned off the path and strode eastward across the soaked, pooled fields.
Chapter Four
Arthur rode into Caer Sulis with Cei and Ceinwen. The others had already gone ahead. The Westway was thronged with the wains from the last of the villages gathered from further east. Like most of the towns and villages in the West and South of Britain, Caer Sulis was not fortified. The Uathach had never raided this deep into the southern lands so there had been no need for walls or gates around the largest settlement in Britain.
The town was nestled in a valley ringed by rolling hills and the Westway ran straight through its heart and onto the Haven further to the West. To the North of the town and along the hillsides stretched the long barns and paddocks for the winter stabling of the cattle, goats, sheep and pigs from the combined villages of the southern tribes. The wind rarely came from the North but when it did the townsfolk claimed the stench from the penned animals was enough to melt the winter snow.
Most of the town’s farms and crop fields were across the river that ran along the southern edge of town. A light mist rose from the river course and its drifting tendrils felt their way across the stubble fields and paddocks. The hills obscured the setting sun but the sky was clear after the recent rains although the cold wind from the West promised further rain to come. Smoke rose above the town from every building and every dwelling, most of which were set along the town’s broad, earthen roadways.
The settlement was several miles long and was spread along either side of the Westway. Without encompassing walls the town had spilled year by year into the adjacent fields and now encroached upon the slopes of the surrounding hills. It was loosely divided into various quarters with most of the blacksmiths, wainwrights, craftsmen and butcheries to the North and the living quarters strung along the main thoroughfare and stretching down towards the river. The King’s Hall stood imposingly in the centre of the town.
Where the broad roadway entered the town, members from the king’s war band noted all the wains and their contents that were coming into Caer Sulis and took charge of them. The livestock were registered and led either through the town or to the northern paddocks while the harvest crops were divided between the
local store houses, for those staying behind for the winter, and that which was to be taken through Caer Sulis and onto the Haven to be loaded there aboard the ships that were being readied to sail across the Western Seas.
As they rode by the lines of wains waiting to be recorded and allocated Arthur and Cei called greetings to various harried members of the king’s warriors. The king’s men were the only war band to wear anything resembling a uniform, a red tunic under their leather jerkins that matched the red dragon device on their shields and flags.
They stopped briefly to talk to Gereint, the chief captain of the Mercian warriors. It was his duty to organise the westward journey and this was a trying time for him. His short, iron-grey hair was ruffled from where he continually ran his hand through it and his brow was deeply furrowed as he stamped back and forth cursing, shouting and generally bullying everyone into some kind of working order. He only turned his full attention to them when they answered his questions about the attacks across the Causeway. He promised to talk to them at more length during the festival after the council and returned to the perennially impossible task before him. He was not a happy man.
Almost all the villages of Britain had now been gathered and about twenty thousand people were crammed into Caer Sulis, sharing the houses and preparing themselves for the last leg of the yearly journey to the Haven from where they embarked on the month long crossing of the Western Seas. Neither Arthur nor Cei were concerned with these preparations for it was now the responsibility of the king’s men to organise the rest of the journey for the villagers and their supplies.
Arthur and the others slowly made their way on horseback along the main way into Caer Sulis. The ground had been churned to clinging mud with the recent rains and the continual passing of ox-drawn carts, horses and people. The two storey buildings rose above them on either side as they rode further into the heart of the town. The stone buildings stood out imposingly from their wooden counterparts which had been covered in wattle and daub and painted in pale blues and yellows with diluted pigments. Even though Ceinwen had been there hundreds of times before she still looked with wonder at the buildings, much as Caja had done when she was a child.
They gradually made their way through the crowded roadways to the area where the Wessex villages had been quartered. Arthur wanted to give his account of Eald and Branque to the Wessex chieftain, Kenwyn, and then get some rest before being summoned to the King’s Council. As they approached the main building in the quarter, crowds of the Wessex villagers gathered around Arthur, relieved that the news of their warlord’s survival was true and eager for more information on what they still believed to be the Uathach attacks across the Causeway. Arthur told them the news in brief and word quickly spread that the villages across the sea had indeed been massacred and only a handful of survivors would be arriving in Caer Sulis.
Cei suddenly let out a cry and hurriedly dismounted. Trevenna was standing on the steps to the main building and smiling at them. She was tall and slim, with paler skin than her brother but with the same dark hair. She would have been a striking woman in any case but her eyes caught and held people’s attention. They were a clear, turquoise blue and seemed to be always carefree and smiling. Cei swept her up in his arms, grinning broadly as Arthur and Ceinwen joined them. She flashed a smile at the other two and embraced them both.
Trevenna took Arthur’s hands in hers and said, ‘Thank the gods you got out safe Arthur, and you Ceinwen. When I heard the news of the attacks, well I needed to see you to believe you were safe.’
‘Have the boats returned yet from the Belgae shores?’ Cei asked.
A shadow crossed Trevenna’s face and she slowly shook her head, ‘There’d been no news when I left with the last of the coastal villagers but many things could have delayed their departure. Perhaps they’re making their way down the coast to the northern edge of the Channel Marshes – maybe they had a problem with some of the boats or the seas were too heavy.’
Hope returned to Cei as she spoke but Arthur just bowed his head.
‘I’m so sorry about your family, your village,’ Trevenna said turning to Ceinwen.
Ceinwen grimaced and then set her expression to the now familiar portrayal of gratitude, sorrow, acknowledgement and stoicism. She would rather that people just stopped voicing their sympathy to her but at least with Trevenna, a friend since childhood, she knew it was wholly sincere.
Trevenna guessed some of what she felt and smiled sadly at her before turning to touch Arthur’s arm and say, ‘You should go inside and talk to the counsellors.’
Arthur nodded, ‘We’ll catch up with you at the festival, in the King’s Hall. You can go with them, Ceinwen, if you want.’
Ceinwen shook her head and the other two walked away. She turned to Arthur and looking up at him she said, ‘There may yet be hope for the longboats, Trevenna might be right.’
‘Trevenna would find the light in the darkness or warmth in the cold winter and I love her for that. But without the moon there is no light in the darkness, and without a fire there is no warmth in the winter; her hope is not founded on anything other than hope. Everything across the Causeway belongs now to the Shadow Land armies. We need to stop the same happening in our own land.’
‘Can you stop that happening here?’
‘Yes, I will. We will,’ Arthur replied and guided Ceinwen through the doorway and into the building. They were greeted warmly by those in the main entrance room and directed to the back of the building where the Wessex counsellors were already talking to their chieftain.
It was the custom in Wessex for the people to choose a chieftain and four counsellors. The counsellors each had their own area of responsibility; Fianna was the head counsellor and she was in charge of all matters that related to farming, crop stores and provisions throughout Wessex. TiGwyna was the second and she was learned in healing and medicine; it was her duty to pass on that knowledge to the villages and it was she who had taught Ceinwen as a child about the curative properties of various wild plants and forest moulds. The third counsellor dealt with crafts and building work while the fourth was the official bard whose duty it was to keep the tribe’s history and create new sagas as events merited.
Together they advised and answered to the chieftain who in turn answered to the king. Most disputes and decisions were settled within the tribe either by the counsellor responsible for that area or by the chieftain. Occasionally there arose a dispute between tribes or a decision had to be made that affected more than one tribe and these matters were brought to the King’s Council by the chieftains.
The warlord was considered to be the fifth counsellor and it was his duty to keep the peace within the tribe and with the other tribes, to train and maintain a war band and to protect his people. The warlord was chosen by the warriors according to their own customs.
The whole Wessex Council had held their positions for many years and were highly respected by all the people of Wessex. The system had served them well. Each village was self-sufficient to a greater or lesser extent but it was common for villages to pursue local activities such as fishing, mining or tending livestock while others would specialise in one craft or another and this led to a healthy bartering trade. The council would set the relative value of goods but more often than not trades were exchanged to local satisfaction irrespective of official values. Even though the war band had their own farms they were on a much smaller scale than those of the villages and the council collected tithes to supplement their produce.
The Wessex Council rose and greeted Arthur when he entered, they had all known each other for many years and each relied on the other’s knowledge and wisdom. Kenwyn sat at the head of the table. He was a short, rotund man approaching sixty but he was still quick-witted, persuasive and never anything less than honest. He had known King Maldred since childhood, both having been under the tutelage of the Royal Bard, Ossian, and the king trusted his judgement. Once greetings had been exchanged, Arthur began relating the story o
f Eald and Branque and of the silence from the Belgae villages. Ceinwen poured him a goblet of wine as he spoke and stepped back to lean against the wall and watch Arthur as he told the news to the Wessex Council.
Arthur told them about the attacks on the villages and other recent events but refrained from telling them that Merdynn had gone to the Ghost Woods to bring the Cithol Lord to the King’s Council. He concluded by saying that he had left Ruadan and Balor with Hengest to organise a defence of the Causeway. At the mention of Ruadan, Ceinwen quietly slipped out of the room noticed only by Fianna who watched the departing figure with interest before looking back to Arthur.
‘So you believe that the Belgae and Cei’s men are lost?’ Kenwyn asked.
‘Yes. The attacks were too co-ordinated. I see no reason why they would not have attacked the Belgae at the same time and they must have soldiers to spare or they wouldn’t have committed so many to the attacks on Eald and Branque.’
‘And you fear they will come across the Causeway next?’
‘Why would they not? Perhaps they want our land. Perhaps they have other reasons. Merdynn may have the answers at the King’s Council. After the ships have sailed for the West I’ll take the war band across the Causeway and see what can be learnt of this enemy and what the fate of the Belgae was.’
‘You’ll do this in winter?’ Fianna asked, clearly surprised. Arthur turned his eyes to her and nodded. She was white haired and becoming more frail as the years passed but her voice was clear and firm and her wisdom was valued as much by the Wessex villagers as it was by the council.
Kenwyn cleared his throat, ‘King Maldred won’t agree to that, Arthur.’
‘I hadn’t thought to ask his permission.’
‘He won’t like the idea of taking the Wessex warriors across the Causeway when his lands are threatened. A treating party, perhaps, but not a war band and not in the winter darkness.’
‘He can take his counsellors and lead a treating party if he’ll forego the sunlit lands in the West. I’ll lead the war band. You can choose the next king as he’ll not be returning from the parley.’
