Pendragon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Where the good Lord leads, his servants must follow, eh? And from the look of you, I would say you were led a merry chase. What are you about, Merlinus?” Uflwys indicated my clothing. “Not taken holy vows at last?”

  Before I could explain, Uflwys held up his hands. “No, say nothing yet. We will eat first. You are both tired from your journey. Break a crust with me, yes? There will be time enough for talk later.”

  Bishop Uflwys’ table was as spare as the bishop himself: simple fare—bread, beer, meat, cheese—but good. Pelleas sat with us at the board and we were served by two young monks from the nearby monastery. Our table talk touched on the ordinary observations of traveling: the weather, planting, commerce, news gathered along the way. When we had finished, the bishop rose from his chair. “We will take some mead in my chamber,” he told the monks. “Bring a jar and cups.”

  We settled in Uflwys’ bare chamber—a white-washed cell with one narrow unglazed window and tramped-earth floor, and a short ledge on which rested the pallet of clean straw that was his bed. But he was accustomed to receiving guests in his cell, and in deference to them the room was furnished with four big, handsome chairs and boasted a small hearth.

  No sooner were we seated than the monks appeared; one of them carrying a wooden tray with jar and cups on it, the other bearing a small three-legged table on which to put the tray. These were placed beside Bishop Uflwys’s chair and, after pouring the mead and lighting the fire, the monks departed without a word.

  Uflwys handed around the cups, saying, “God’s health to you!” We sipped the sweet, heather-scented liquid for a moment in silence. “Well now, my friends. Will you not tell me why I have the pleasure of your company tonight.”

  I put aside my cup and leaned forward. “We have heard that Morcant raises war against his neighbor Madoc. I would hear what you can tell me about how the matter stands.”

  The holy man’s face grew grave. “Morcant at war? You must believe me when I say that, until you spoke the hateful word, I heard nothing of it.” He looked from me to Pelleas and back again. “Nothing.”

  “Then I will tell you what little I know,” I replied. I related what Pelleas and I had learned, and explained how we had come by our information.

  Uflwys stood and paced fretfully before the fire. “Yes,” he said when I had finished, “I am certain what you say is true, for it explains much. Morcant has no doubt taken pains to keep this from me, but no longer.” He turned suddenly towards the door. “Come, we will confront the king with this foul sin. I will not sleep until I have laid the crime at his feet. He must not think the church will remain indifferent to this outrage.”

  6

  AN IMPORTANT CIVITAS UNDER the Romans, Venta Bulgarum had been the Belgae lords’ stronghold before the Legions came; Morcant never let anyone forget that his line boasted long and lucrative cooperation with Caesar, and that the lords of the Belgae were proud of their past. Though the forum and basilica had been claimed for private use, King Morcant maintained them worthily. Indeed, for all his talk of Britain, he still styled himself a provincial governor.

  The doors were shut and bolted for the night, but Morcant received us. Bishop Uflwys was too imposing a figure in Caer Uintan to treat lightly, or disgracefully. I doubt that I would have been likewise welcomed. Nevertheless, we were conducted to a chamber hung with woven rugs on the walls, and lit with rushlights.

  “It is late for a priest, is it not?” Morcant asked, smiling as if receiving the bishop in the dead of night was a most natural thing to him. “I understood a monk rose and slept with the sun.”

  “As our Lord the Christ is always about his business, so must his servants stand ready to serve when need arises,” the bishop answered him, “whether day or night.”

  “And Merlin—” said Morcant, deigning to recognize me at last. Though I had put off my priestly garb, I was still dressed humbly. “I am surprised to see you. I had thought you dead.”

  No doubt that was his dearest hope. “Lord Morcant,” I replied coolly, “you cannot think I would leave Britain without a word of farewell. When I go, the whole world will know it.”

  The answer was given lightly enough; but the words held an ominous cast, and they were received with awkward silence.

  “Well,” offered Morcant, allowing himself a sly, satisfied smile, “at least we may presume to enjoy your presence a goodly time yet. Now then, will you take some wine with me? Or does your lord’s business require more sober attention?” The king folded his hands and made no move to summon the wine. Rather, eyeing each of us in turn, he returned to his chair and sat awaiting whatever should happen next.

  Bishop Uflwys lost no time. “Save your refreshment,” he said flatly. “It would be a waste to pour good wine tonight. Merlinus brings me word of this war you pursue. What is the truth of it?”

  Morcant stared innocently at us. Oh, he had studied his reactions carefully. “War?” he said, as if uttering an unknown word. “There must be some error here. I know nothing of any war. Why, we are at peace. The Saecsen devils have—”

  “Spare me talk of Saecsens,” snapped Uflwys. “It is being voiced in the settlements hereabouts that you have attacked King Madoc, taken some of his lands, and killed his son. Is this true?”

  Morcant contrived a pained expression. “Did Madoc set you to this?” He sighed and slapped the arms of his chair with his hands in apparent exasperation. “Why is he saying these things against me?”

  But Bishop Uflwys was not deterred so easily. “I ask you again and demand an answer, Morcant: is the accusation true? I would caution you to bethink yourself before answering, for you put your soul in peril with a lie.”

  If this worried Morcant, he did not show it. He arranged his features in a grave, hurt expression. “You cannot believe I would do these things.”

  “That is the trouble, Morcant; I do believe it,” Uflwys insisted. “And I have yet to hear you say otherwise.”

  Feeling the impossibility of his position, Morcant attacked. “You!” He bounded from his chair and thrust a finger in my face. “This is your doing! You have inspired Madoc to contrive these rumors against me!”

  But I answered him firmly. “No, Morcant. I did not.”

  “Then it is all Madoc’s doing,” Morcant replied petulantly. “Oh, I see it clearly now.”

  “You have not answered the accusation, Morcant,” declared the bishop, rising from his chair. “I take your silence as proof of your guilt. I will remain here no longer, lest you do further violence to your soul.” He stepped toward the door, where he paused and turned. “I will pray for you, false lord, that you quickly come to your senses and repent before it is too late.”

  Morcant made no move to stop him, but stood firm, glowering belligerently. The good bishop had him trussed and tied. There was nothing he could do but worry the knots, and tighten them at every twist.

  Pelleas and I followed Uflwys from the palace and across the yard. “I had hoped better from him,” sighed the bishop.

  “But you are not surprised?”

  “No, I know Morcant too well for that. I am not surprised. Still, I hope always for the best. As I said, his silence damns him. He did the deed.” Uflwys stopped and turned to me. “What is to be done now?”

  “That we will see. If Madoc will suffer his hurt in silence, it may end there. If not…” I raised my eyes to the night-dark sky. “The war will continue, and others will be pulled into it. Which, I suppose, is Morcant’s intent.”

  We made our way back to the church, but no more was said until the next morning, when we came before the bishop to take our leave. “Will you try to stop the war from going any further?” asked Uflwys hopefully.

  “Yes. They must be made to see that when it comes to fighting among ourselves, no one can win but the Saecsens: they will stand aside and watch while we slaughter one another and then swoop in to carve up the leavings.”

  “Then I commend you to your task,” Bishop Uflwys said. “I will do wh
at I can here, of course, and I will pray for a swift and satisfactory resolution.” He raised his right hand in blessing. “Go with God, my friends, and may our Lord uphold you in all grace.”

  To the west of Caer Uintan the land is all bold hills and hidden valleys. The woodlands are less dense, the settlements more numerous and more prosperous than in the north. The Summerlands lie to the west; and but a little farther, Ynys Witrin, the Glass Isle of old, now called Ynys Avallach: home of Avallach, the Fisher King, and his daughter, Charis, my mother.

  Taliesin’s people were gone from the Summerlands—as the region between Belgarum and Ynys Avallach was known—and the realm was held by a man named Bedegran. As a young man, Bedegran had fought alongside Aurelius, and I remembered him as a fair and forthright lord.

  The next day we came to Bedegran’s stronghold at Sorvym. His was a large realm, and as it was open to the sea by way of the Afen River—whereby the Sea Wolves often sought landfall—he had learned the value of vigilance.

  Bedegran was out with part of his warband when we arrived. His steward assured us of our welcome, and bade us stay until his master returned. Being so close to Ynys Avallach, I was of half a mind to continue on, but agreed to wait if there was a chance of learning anything from Bedegran.

  We were given a meal while we waited, and I slept a little. Pelleas meanwhile passed the time with Bedegran’s steward, who said much that his master later confirmed: Morcant had been threatening their lands for some time, trying to provoke a war between them.

  As yet, it was nothing but nuisance and vexation—a few cattle missing, fields trampled, and other such like. Bedegran had thus far succeeded in keeping his head and avoiding open confrontation which was, I reckoned, Morcant’s desire.

  Still, this uneasy peace could not survive much longer, for when Bedegran returned at dusk he wore his rage like a cloak aflame.

  “I tell you I have suffered Morcant’s insults long enough!” Bedegran complained as he stormed into his chamber. “I have avoided bloodshed and battle by turning a blind eye. But when he begins forcing my people from their settlements, I can no longer look away!”

  He stopped fuming long enough to acknowledge our presence. “Greetings, Merlin Embries. Pelleas. Greetings and welcome. It is good to see you again. Forgive my anger just now. I did not know I entertained guests at my hearth.”

  I dismissed the apology with a flick of my hand. “We are aware of Morcant’s treachery,” I told him. “Your anger is justified.”

  “He wants war,” Bedegran explained flatly. “I have held it off this long, but keeping the peace needs two. If it is war, then I will fight—though loath am I to say it.” He began pacing back and forth before us. “But this—this outrage! Merlin, I cannot stand aside. My people must be protected. Do not think to persuade me otherwise.”

  “Protect them as you see fit,” I replied. “I have not come to teach you your affairs.”

  “Listen to me rant! Such tutelage as yours, I would endure. You are the one man above all others I would heed.” Bedegran smiled for the first time since entering. “So? I am listening. Speak.”

  “I have little enough to say. Nevertheless, I will tell you what I know: Morcant is raiding in Dobuni. Some of Madoc’s lands have been seized, and Madoc’s son has been killed, they say. But, as yet, Madoc has refused to fight.”

  “Madoc is getting old. He knows he cannot win against Morcant. All the more, since Dunaut is hard by his other flank. Agh! Worse than vipers, the two of them.”

  “Are they together in this?”

  Bedegran shook his head. “If they are I have not heard of it. But then, I had not heard about Madoc until now.” He paused. “I am sorry about his son.”

  “A hateful waste,” I mused, and it seemed that a young man’s form instantly appeared before me, stretching out a hand as if beseeching aid. But it was not Madoc’s son; this boy was younger—Arthur’s age, no more. “The son…the son…I had not considered the son….”

  Bedegran raised his eyebrows. “Merlin?”

  “Does Morcant have a son?”

  “He does,” Bedegran replied. “A young lad. I think his name is Cerdic. Yes, Cerdic. Why?”

  Understanding broke over me. I knew what Madoc’s herdsmen meant by collecting the blood debt. How stupid of me! Morcant was actively ridding himself of rivals, and making the path clear for his son. At least Arthur was safely out of sight in the north. I had been right to move him.

  We talked of other matters then, and soon it was time for supper. Over meat, Bedegran asked, “What will you do, Merlin Embries?”

  “Whatever I can. For now, I mean to prevent war from devouring the south. Have I your pledge to keep the peace?”

  “That you have, Merlin,” Bedegran answered, but added: “If you can but keep Morcant and that snake, Dunaut, on their own lands all will be well.”

  Later, when we were alone in our chamber, I told Pelleas, “This is as bad as I feared. Fortunately, however, we have not come too late. This is for me alone, Pelleas. Who else can move with impunity from king to king? I stand between Britain and disaster.”

  Oh, I was drunk with it! And I believed what I said—just as I believed that peace could be mediated between these yapping hounds who called themselves noblemen. I rested well that night, and the next day rode out full of confidence and high-minded intentions to save Britain from becoming enmired in a war which would benefit only the Saecsen in the end.

  Madoc—sullen, frightened, and grief-struck over the loss of his son—received us with as good a grace as he could command in the circumstance. He was in pain, and I hoped I might speak some consolation.

  “Well?” he demanded, when the formalities of the greeting had been observed. “What does the exalted Ambrosius of Britain require of this old man?”

  Since he was prepared to be blunt, I answered him in kind. “Do not allow Morcant to draw you into war.”

  His chin came up sharply. “Draw me into war? I have no intention of going to war with him, but if you think to talk me out of collecting the blood debt he owes me, save your breath. I mean to have satisfaction.”

  “That is precisely what Morcant is counting on. He only waits for you to give him reason enough to strike openly.”

  “What is that to you, great Ambrosius? Eh?” the aging king growled. “What makes this affair your concern?”

  “The safety of Britain is the concern of all right-thinking men. I mean to do what I can to preserve the peace.”

  “Then take yourself away to the Saecsen-brood!” he shouted. “Go talk to them of peace. Leave me alone!”

  There was no reasoning with him, so I departed, saying, “You cannot win against Morcant; and Dunaut is likely with him in this. Do not think to make Bedegran your ally; I have spoken to him already, and he will not support you.”

  “I need no help from anyone! Do you hear?”

  Pelleas and I rode next to Dunaut, to tax him with his duplicity. Like Morcant, he proffered a cordial, if false, welcome. He sat in his big chair and smiled like a cream-stealing cat, but would answer none of my questions seriously. Finally, I lost all patience. “Deny that you and Morcant are riding together,” I challenged. “Deny that you are raising war against your neighbor kings.”

  Shrewd Dunaut pursed his lips and appeared distracted. “I do not understand you, Merlin,” he answered. “We have these past years upheld your absurd trial. Even now, the Sword of Britain stands in the stone waiting to be claimed. Are you content with that? No! You attack us with accusations of war. You flit here and there raising suspicion and anger.” He paused, appearing hurt and distressed. “Go back to your Glass Isle—go back to Celyddon, or wherever you abide. We do not need you here, meddler!”

  Since I could get no more from him, I shook the dust from my feet and left the viper in his nest. Morcant and Dunaut were intent on war, that much was plain to me. Blind with ambition, and stupid with greed, they would conspire to Britain’s fall.

  God help us! It i
s ever the same with the small kings. As soon as the Saecsens give them breathing space, they begin hacking one another to pieces. The hopelessness of it!

  “It grieves me, Pelleas. I am sick at heart,” I confessed to him once we were away. We rode on, turning the matter over in our minds.

  “What of Tewdrig?” Pelleas wondered after a while. “Surely he is more than a match for the likes of Morcant. Perhaps,” he suggested, “you should let Tewdrig settle it for once and all.”

  I considered this, but only for a moment. “No, the cost is too great. We are not strong enough to war among ourselves and fend off the Saecsen as well.” That much was obvious to me; less evident was how to bring about peace and enforce it among those who did not desire it for themselves. “We must make them understand, Pelleas.”

  We spent the whole summer in a desperate attempt to make the petty lords of the south understand that warring among themselves weakened Britain and doomed us all. “How long do you think the Saecsens will wait to seize the land you leave unprotected? How long do you think they will strive with the lords of the north when a weakened south beckons them?”

  My questions, like my accusations, went unheeded and unanswered. I spoke words of truth and received lies in return. I persuaded and cajoled, threatened and charmed, pleaded, begged, coaxed and prodded. Morganwg snubbed me, Coledac grew haughty, and the others…Madoc, Ogrvan, Rhain, Owen Vinddu and all the rest feigned innocence or indifference and plotted treachery in their hearts. All my efforts came to nothing.

  Exhausted in body and spirit, I turned at last to Ynys Avallach. It had been too long since I sojourned in that blessed realm. I ached to see Avallach and Charis again, and hoped to find solace and sympathy. In truth, I desperately needed a balm to heal my troubled spirit.

  The Fisher King’s palace remained unchanged as ever. The green mound of the tor rose above the quiet lake, its image reflected in the still waters. Apple trees graced the steep slopes, rising to the high, graceful walls. Peace and calm wreathed the isle like the mist upon the reed-fringed lake, and breathed an air of tranquility soft as the light upon its shaded paths. Westering sun struck the soaring ramparts and towers, causing the pale stone to blush like fire-shot gold. The quality of this radiance suffused the very air so that it seemed to tingle on the skin—living light, transmuting all baser elements to finer, purer stuff.