“Enjoy your peace and plenty, my friends. It is the last you will know in this life.”
The smile faded from Llawr’s face. The others looked on aghast. I was to have this effect on men more and more as the years went by.
But it is not possible for the Cymry to remain downcast any great length of time. The mood quickly lightened once more, and I, too, brightened as the talk turned to other matters. When the beer was gone, the others took their leave and we were alone with Llawr.
“Were Lord Tewdrig here,” he said, “no doubt he would command a feast for you. But”—he spread his hands helplessly—“I do not know when he will return.”
This was Llawr Eilerw’s attempt at guiding the conversation toward the reason for our visit. Now that we were alone, I was happy to oblige. “I think your lord will not be far behind us,” I told him. “As you have no doubt guessed, we left the council before the others.”
Llawr only nodded sympathetically—as if he knew all about the contrariness of kings, which no doubt he did.
“I might as well tell you,” I continued, “since you will learn of it soon enough, and it is no secret in any event: there will be no new High King. The council was deadlocked. Agreement was impossible; no one was chosen.”
“I feared such,” sighed Llawr. “Evil days, you said. Aye! You were right.” He considered this for a moment, and then asked, “What will happen now?”
“That remains to be seen,” I replied.
Llawr might have asked, And have you seen it? But if the question was in his mind, he refrained. “Well,” he said stolidly, “we have lived this long and longer without a High King, we will go back to the way we were before.”
To this, I shook my head gently. “Nothing,” I whispered, looking past Llawr and out through the doorway—as if into the very heart of the future itself—“nothing will be as it was before.”
That night we ate simply and went early to our beds. After breaking fast the next morning, I summoned Enid to me. We waited for her in Tewdrig’s chamber, talking softly. “It is good that we have come here,” I told Pelleas. “This morning I am content, as I have not been for a long time.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Pelleas replied.
In a moment the young woman Enid appeared. She had brought Arthur with her and stood shyly on the threshold. She held the child close, as if afraid we would steal the infant away from her.
“Closer, Enid,” I coaxed her gently. “Let me look at the two of you.”
Deer-like, she moved cautiously forward, but only a step or two. I smiled and beckoned her. I can be persuasive when I choose to be: am I not of the Fair Folk, after all? Enid returned my smile and I saw the line of her shoulders relax slightly.
“When I saw you yesterday, I did not recognize you. You are grown a very pretty young woman, Enid,” I told her. She inclined her head shyly. “And I am pleased to see that you have cared well for the child.”
She nodded, but did not raise her eyes.
“What would you say if I told you he must go away?”
Enid’s head snapped up and her eyes sparked fierce fire. “No! You must not! He belongs here.” She held the child more tightly. Arthur struggled in her embrace. “I am…this is his home. He would not be happy somewhere else.”
“You love the child so much then?”
“This is his home,” Enid pleaded—as if this were the thing closest to her heart. “You must not take him away.”
“He has enemies, Enid,” I explained softly. “Or he soon will have—when they remember him. And they will not now be slow in remembering. He will not be safe here any longer. The more cunning among them will look for me and hope to find him.”
Enid bent head and said nothing. She held Arthur’s cheek against her own. The child tangled a small hand in her soft brown hair.
“I did not bid you here to frighten you,” I said, rising. “I only wanted to ask after the child.” I stepped close to her and the child reached out a hand to me, taking hold of the edge of my cloak. “Sit, please; we will speak no more of leaving just now.”
We sat down together and Enid placed Arthur between her feet. The child toddled to Pelleas and stood gazing up at him. Pelleas smiled, reached down to take his hand, and, on a sudden inspiration, thought to test the child. Allowing Arthur to hold two fingers of either hand, Pelleas slowly raised his hands, pulling Arthur off his feet to dangle above the floor. The infant liked this game and squealed to show his pleasure.
Holding him off the ground, Pelleas started to swing the boy gently from side to side—Arthur did not let go, but started to laugh. Pelleas swung him faster, and Arthur began to giggle. Faster and faster, and Arthur roared with delight. Deliberately, Pelleas pulled one of his hands free. The child held on the more tightly with his remaining hand and laughed the harder. Though we had seen him with the cats the day before, and should have been prepared, still the lad’s grip surprised me. The strength in those pudgy little fingers was considerable.
At last, Pelleas lowered Arthur to the floor, to his loud protest: the babe wanted to play the game again! Kneeling before the child, I took one tiny hand in my own, opened it and looked into it as if I were gazing into a Seeing Bowl.
“That hand was made to hold a sword,” Pelleas murmured.
I gazed long into the child’s wide, innocent face and merry blue eyes, then turned again to my talk with Enid.
That was all. The briefest of instants, but from that moment, Pelleas never again spoke of Arthur as “the child,” but used his proper name, or some form of it.
“I mean to discuss this with Tewdrig when he comes,” I continued, turning my attention once more to Enid. “Meanwhile, do not worry over it. I may be mistaken. Who knows? As it is, there is no danger at present.” I offered a smile by way of reassurance. “You may go now, Enid.”
The young woman rose, caught Arthur up, as he clung to her knees, and walked to the door. “Enid,” I said, rising and taking a step toward her as she stood half-turned in the doorway, “you have nothing to fear from me. I will not take Arthur from you. Nor will I allow any harm to come to either of you.”
Enid inclined her head in solemn assent, then turned and hurried away. “I hope Tewdrig returns soon,” Pelleas said. “I think he will have something to tell us.”
“You are curious to know what happened at the council after our departure,” I replied.
“In truth, I am,” he admitted with a grin. “But my curiosity is more than idle, Emrys.”
“Did I suggest otherwise?”
We did not have long to wait. Tewdrig arrived the next day. He was pleased to find us waiting for him, and wasted not a moment summoning his counselors to his chambers. “I want my advisors and I want my cup. I have ridden from one end of this island to the other and I am thirsty.” He bade me attend him and went directly to his chamber at the far end of the hall.
Meurig, who had been in Londinium with his father, ordered beer to be brought. The young man muttered, “You would have thought his hall was afire! We have been in the saddle since before sunrise, Myrddin. I have eaten nothing from that time to this.”
Just then Tewdrig’s voice sounded from behind the curtain at the end of the hall. “Meurig! I am waiting!”
The young man sighed again, and made to hurry away. “Pelleas will see to the beer,” I told him, sending my companion away with a glance. “Let us attend Lord Tewdrig.”
“I tell you, Myrddin, you have stuck a sharp stick into the hive this time,” Tewdrig said when he saw me. “Coledac was so angry he could not speak. Dunaut’s face went black with bile, and Morcant—well, I thought the old snake would swell up and burst.” He laughed mirthlessly. “What I would have given to see that!”
“I have never seen such anger that did not find release in swordblows.” Meurig kneaded the back of his neck with his hand. “But you had vanished, Myrddin Emrys. What could they do?”
“I tell you the truth,” said Tewdrig in solemn tones, “had you n
ot left when you did, you would be a dead man now. I swear on Dafyd’s altar, your head would be hanging above the gates of Londinium. Dunaut would have insisted.”
“Do they know where I have gone?” I asked.
Tewdrig shook his head. “I do not see how anyone could know: I did not.”
“Then we still have time,” I replied, mostly to myself, for Pelleas appeared just then with cups and jars.
Meurig clapped his hands sharply. “Ah, here’s the beer. Good! Fill the cups, Pelleas, and do not stop filling them until I call enough!”
“Time for what?” wondered Tewdrig as the cups were passed.
“For disappearing.”
Tewdrig eyed me curiously. “A wise plan, no doubt. Where will you go?”
“To Goddeu in Celyddon. Arthur will be safer with Custennin.”
“So,” replied Tewdrig slowly. “You still believe the child a danger to himself.”
“What can Custennin provide that we cannot?” demanded Meurig, wiping foam from his mustache. “Let them come. If there is any safe place in all the Island of the Mighty, it is Caer Myrddin. We can protect our own.”
“No,” I told him. “It cannot be that way.”
“When will you go?” asked Tewdrig.
“Soon—depending upon what took place at the council,” I answered.
Tewdrig raised his cup and gazed at me in disbelief. “Hmph!” he snorted. “That you know as well as I!”
“I mean,” I explained, “will they abide the challenge of the sword?”
“Well, it was difficult. You did not make it easy for us.” The chieftain drew a hand through his hair. “But in the end it was agreed that we would meet your challenge.” Tewdrig shook his head slowly. “Oh, you were shrewd, Myrddin. I think Dunaut and Morcant and the others believed that they would win the sword through strength alone. The fools should have known it would not be as easy as that.”
Tewdrig drank deep from his cup. When he lowered it again he laughed, saying, “You should have seen them! They might sooner uproot high Yr Wyddfa as budge that sword. It is planted fast—and I know: I tried my own hand. Twice!”
Meurig smiled ruefully and said, “I confess, Myrddin, I tried mine too. But had I been the giant Ricca himself, there was no removing that sword.”
“You said they would abide the test—are you certain?”
“What else can they do?” said Tewdrig. “At first, they expected that one of them should obtain the sword and settle the thing for once and all. By the time they realized their mistake it was too late—we had all vowed to honor the decision of the sword. None of them guessed it would be so difficult, or they would not have sworn so. To back down now would be to admit defeat. Men like Dunaut would rather die than prove you right, Myrddin. So the thing stands.”
“When no one succeeded,” put in Meurig, “Bishop Urbanus declared that the lords should come together at the Christ Mass to try the sword again.”
Yes, that was Urbanus: eager for whatever crust the kings would toss him. Well, if it brought them back to the church, so be it. I wanted nothing more to do with them; I saw a different path stretching before me now, and I grew eager to see where it would lead.
“Will they go, do you think?” asked Pelleas.
Tewdrig shrugged. “Who can say? It is a long time until next midwinter—much can happen. They may forget all about the sword in the stone.” He laughed sharply again. “But, by the God who made me, Myrddin Emrys, they will not forget you!”
2
AS IT HAPPENED, WE STAYED WITH Tewdrig through that spring, and would have stayed longer had not Bleddyn ap Cynfal, of Caer Tryfan in the north, come to visit. The Lords of Rheged maintained close alliance with the Lords of Dyfed in the south for mutual protection. Tewdrig and Bleddyn were kinsmen; they visited one another often to trade and discuss matters between them.
I did not know Bleddyn, but he knew me. “Greetings, Lord Emrys,” Bleddyn said; he paid me the compliment of touching the back of his hand to his forehead out of respect. “I have long wanted to meet you. Indeed, I hope one day to show you the generosity of my hearth.”
“Your offer is most kind, Lord Bleddyn,” I replied. “Be assured that if I ever have need of a friend in the north, I will call on you.”
“We are both kinsmen and friends,” Tewdrig said. “Trust Bleddyn as you would trust me.”
Bleddyn accepted Tewdrig’s compliment with easy deference. “It may be, Lord Emrys, that you will require a northern friend sooner than you think.”
I heard the subtle warning in his words. “How so?”
“They say Dunaut and Morcant are turning over every stone in their search for Uther’s bastard. They say they are looking for the boy to protect him from all harm—though if you believe that, you are more fool than Urbanus.”
“So, it begins at last. It has taken them longer than I expected to remember Arthur.”
“As to that,” Bleddyn replied, “Uther’s queen has just given birth to a daughter. No doubt they merely waited to be certain which way to jump. Of course, it is nothing to me one way or the other. But if the child is Uther’s, then it would shame us to allow either of those two to get his hands on the boy. It would be, I think, a brief fostering. Too brief, perhaps, for your liking—or the boy’s.”
In those days, many noble houses still observed the custom of fosterage where the young were raised in households of trusted kinsmen. The benefits of this practice were many—chief among them the strengthening and increase of bonds of kinship. Indeed, Bleddyn had brought his young son Bedwyr, a boy of four or five summers, to receive his first brief fostering at Caer Myrddin.
I considered his words carefully, and before I could reply, he said, “Come, Lord Emrys. Return with us when we go back to our lands. You will be welcome there.”
“It is long since I sojourned in the north,” I told him, making up my mind at once. “Very well, we will return with you. Let Morcant find us if he can.”
Thus, when Bleddyn returned to Caer Tryfan, four more rode with him: Pelleas, Enid and Arthur, and I. We made camp along the way, avoiding as much as possible any contact with those whose lands we passed through, especially the strongholds of lords and chieftains. We might have received warmth and welcome, to be sure, but it was best that no one knew my movements.
Caer Tryfan proved a good place for us. If I had searched every glen in the north, I could not have chosen one better: protected by high crags of rock, sheltered both from the fierce northern winds and from the prying eyes of proud southern lords. Bleddyn made us welcome and showed himself the openhanded lord of a frank and generous people.
We settled there and made our home among them. Autumn, winter, spring, summer…the seasons progressed uneventfully. Enid continued to look after Arthur, and seemed well-pleased with her new home; in time she even married and began another family of her own. Arthur grew hale and healthy, going from strength to strength as he mastered the small tasks of childhood. Soon, it seemed, Bleddyn’s youngest son returned and found a ready friend in young Arthur. Bedwyr—a slim, graceful boy, dark as Arthur was fair—bold shadow to Arthur’s bright sun—took young Arthur under his care.
The two became constant friends, inseparable: golden mead and dark wine poured into the same cup, as they say. It was joy itself to see them at play. The fervor of their purpose was not the less for the fact that their swords were wooden. Oh, they were ferocious as mountain cats and just as wild. Each day they returned from their weapons practice trailing clouds of glory.
On account of the boys’ friendship, Bleddyn delayed sending Bedwyr to his second fostering. But the day could not be held off forever. Sooner or later, Bedwyr and Arthur must be separated. For Arthur’s sake, I dreaded the day. Then, just after harvest time in Arthur’s seventh year, we took the boys to the Warriors’ Gathering.
Once a year, the northern lords assembled their warbands for a few days to feast and hold games of skill at arms. It was for sport, of course, but it produced a
considerable benefit in allowing the younger men a chance to try their skills against more experienced warriors, to test their mettle before actual battle—albeit in a sometimes painful way. Better a bruise from a friend, however, than a bloodletting at the hands of the foe. And the Saecsen kind were not known to leave off at a cry of “I yield!”
Bedwyr and Arthur had heard of the Gathering and began badgering me about it. “Please, let us go, Emrys,” Bedwyr pleaded. “We will stay out of the way. You will not know we are there, and neither will anyone else. Say yes, Myrddin.”
The Gathering was for warriors who had already joined a warband. Boys were not normally allowed to attend, and they both knew this. I was about to say them no on this account.
“It would be good for us to go,” insisted Arthur seriously. “It would help with our training.”
I could not argue with this logic; it was in nowise a bad notion. Still, it was not the tradition, and I was doubtful. “I will ask Bleddyn,” I told them, “if you promise to abide by his decision.”
Bedwyr’s face fell. “Then we will be staying here another year. My father will never let us go.”
“Another year?” I asked. “I do not recall you asking to go last year.”
The young prince shrugged. “I wanted to ask, but Arthur said no. He said we were still too young, and it would do us no good to go. So, we waited to ask this year.”
I turned to Arthur. “You have been waiting all year?”
He nodded. “It seemed better to me.”
Later that night, I argued their case before Bleddyn. “Such thinking shows wisdom, and should be rewarded. Undoubtedly, they would learn much. I say they should be allowed to go.”
Bleddyn considered this for a moment, and asked, “Assuming I allowed it, what would they do at the Gathering?”
“I honestly cannot say.” I laughed. “But I do not think it would matter overmuch to them if all they did was stand aside and watch. And Arthur is right: it would help with their training.”
Pendragon Page 2