Pendragon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  “Come then!” Ector said. “We stand here flapping the tongue and we will be left behind.”

  Out from the hall and through the yard, down from Edyn’s rock and through the glen, the war host of Britain bore Arthur. The warriors carried him to Mons Agned, also called Cathir Righ, for the number of sovereign lords who had taken their kingship on its throne-shaped summit.

  And there, in the cool blue dusk of a long summer day, a scattering of stars alight in a high bright northern sky, Arthur was made king. Placing Arthur in the great rock chair, the warriors gathered at the base of the seat. Bors approached and, drawing the sword from the hilt at his side, placed the blade at Arthur’s feet. “As I lay my sword, I lay my life, and hold myself under your authority.” So saying, he stretched himself face down on the ground, whereupon Arthur placed his foot upon Bors’ neck. Then Arthur bade Bors rise, and Cador also came and stretched himself upon the ground at Arthur’s feet. Owain came next, and then Maelgwn and Idris and Ector—all of them hugged the earth and stretched the neck before Arthur in full sight of the war host and their own kinsmen. If you have never seen this, I tell you it is a powerful thing to witness proud lords humbling themselves before a heaven-blessed king.

  The Cymbrogi, Companions of the Heart, passed before Arthur then and, laying aside their spears, they knelt and stretched forth their hands to touch his feet. Cai, Bedwyr, Rhys, Bors, Gwalchavad, Llenlleawg, and all the rest. Each swore faith to Arthur, and pledged him life for life and owned him king.

  When all had been observed as it should be, I came before the Bear of Britain. “Arise, Arthur!” I declared, raising my rowan rod over him. “By the witness of those who have pledged fealty to you, lords and kinsmen, I do proclaim you king of all Britain.”

  The warriors extolled this with jubilant shouts and wild cries of acclamation. Oh, it was good to hear their strong voices ringing out as if to fill the Island of the Mighty with a glad and happy sound. When the cheering had abated somewhat, I said, “All praise and worship to the High King of Heaven, who has raised up a king to be Pendragon over us! All saints and angels bear witness: this day is Arthur ap Aurelius made king of all Britons.”

  Turning to the gathered warriors, I raised the rowan and, in the bards’ voice of command, I called, “Kneel before him, Cymbrogi! Fellow countrymen, stretch forth your hands and swear binding oaths of fealty to your lord and king on earth—even as you swear life and honor to the Lord of All Creation!”

  They knelt as one, and as one plighted troth with Arthur. When this was done, I turned again to Arthur. “You have heard your sword brothers pledge life to life with you, Arthur. Is it your will to receive these oaths?”

  “I do receive the oaths plighted me,” he answered.

  Upon receiving this assurance, I summoned the waiting Dyfrig. “Come here, friend, consecrate this lord to his sacred duty, and make him king indeed.”

  The Bishop of Mailros stepped to the rock seat. In his hands he held a torc of gold, which he raised, and in a loud voice charged Arthur, “Declare this day before your people the God you will serve.”

  Up spoke Arthur. “I will serve the Christ, who is called Jesu. I will serve the God, who is called the Father. I will serve the Nameless One, who is called the Holy Spirit. I will serve the Holy Trinity.”

  To this, Dyfrig demanded, “And will you observe justice, perform righteousness, and love mercy?”

  “With Blessed Jesu as my witness, I will observe justice; I will perform righteousness; I will love mercy.”

  “And will you lead this realm in the true faith of Christ so long as you shall live?”

  “To the end of my strength, and the last breath of my mouth, I will lead this worlds-realm in the true faith of Christ.”

  “Then,” Bishop Dyfrig declared, “by the power of the Three in One, I raise you, Arthur ap Aurelius. Hail, Arthur, Protector of Britain!”

  “Hail, Arthur!” shouted the warrior host in reply, their voices resounding in the twilight. “Hail, Protector and Pendragon of Britain!”

  I thought that the bishop would place the torc of kingship on Arthur’s throat then, but he gave it to me instead. I felt the cool, solid heaviness of the golden ornament between my hands as I stepped once more to the stony seat. Arthur’s touch, light but steady, directed me to the mark. I spread the ends of the torc and slipped it around his neck, feeling the warm pulse of blood flutter beneath my touch.

  Then, pressing the soft yellow metal carefully, I closed the circle once more and stepped away, leaving Arthur to glory in the loud acclaim of lords and men. The long dusk had given way to a clear bright twilight, and the glad cries shook the very hills, as Arthur took up his long-denied sovereignty in the Region of the Summer Stars.

  2

  IF THEY HAD BEEN JUBILANT BEFORE, the warrior host became ecstatic. They embraced their new king with such zeal and enthusiasm, I began to think he would not survive their adulation. They seized him and up! up! they raised him, high upon their shoulders. Down from the rock they carried him, and through the glen, singing all the way. Upon returning to Caer Edyn, Arthur bestowed gifts on his lords and men—gold and silver rings and brooches; he gave knives and swords, cups, bowls, armbands, and precious stones.

  “I would honor my crowntaking with gifts,” he explained to Dyfrig, “but I think you would not esteem gold rings or silver cups. I am thinking a strong roof over those ruins of yours would please you more.”

  “God bless you, Arthur,” replied the bishop. “Gold rings are little use to a monk—especially when wind blows and rain falls.”

  “Therefore, I return to you all that the Picti and Saecsen have taken. And I entreat you to take from the battle spoils as much as you require to rebuild your abbey—and not only Mailros, but Abercurnig church as well. For I am persuaded that winds blow and rains fall at Abercurnig ever as much as anywhere else.”

  “In Christ’s name, I do accept your gift, Arthur,” replied Dyfrig, well pleased.

  “Then I would ask a gift of you in return,” the new-made king continued.

  “Ask, lord,” Dyfrig said expansively, “and if it is in my power to grant, be assured I will give it.”

  “I would ask you to take as much more from the spoils to cause a chapel to be built at Baedun.”

  “A chapel?” wondered the bishop. “But we have an entire abbey nearby. What do you want with a chapel?”

  “I would have the monks of Mailros employed there to sing the Psalms and offer prayers for our brothers who now sleep on Baedun’s slopes. I would have good prayers made for Britain perpetually.”

  This request delighted the bishop. “It shall be done, lord,” replied Dyfrig. “Let there be Psalms and prayers day and night, perpetually, until the Lord Christ returns to claim his own.”

  Nor was Arthur content to allow his honor to rest there. Early the next morning, he rode out to the settlements surrounding Caer Edyn to offer gifts to the widows—wives of men killed defending their homes, or fallen to the Sea Wolves in battle. He gave gold and silver from his battle chest, and also sheep and cattle so they should not suffer want in addition to their grief.

  Only then did Arthur return to Caer Edyn to celebrate his kingmaking. I let him enjoy himself for a time, and when I judged the moment most propitious, I gathered my cloak around me and took up my rowan staff and tapped my way to the center of the hall. In the manner of a druid bard, I approached the place where he sat at table with Cai and Bedwyr, Bors and Cador, and the Cymbrogi.

  “Pendragon of Britain!” I called aloud.

  Some of those looking on thought I meant to offer a song. “The Emrys is going to sing!” they said to one another and hushed their talk to hear me. Quickly, the hall fell silent.

  It was not a song I intended, however, but a challenge.

  “May your glory outlast your name, which will last forever! It is right to enjoy the fruit of your labor, God knows. But you would find me a lax and stupid counsellor if I did not warn you that away in the south part
of this island there are men who have not yet heard of Baedun and know nothing of your kingmaking.”

  Arthur received this with puzzled amusement. “Peace, Myrddin.” He laughed. “I have only just received my torc. Word will reach them soon enough.”

  I was prepared for this reply. “Blind I may be, but I was not always so, and I am persuaded that men believe their eyes more readily than their ears.” This observation met with general approval.

  “True! True! Hear him, Bear,” Bedwyr said; Cai and Cador and others slapped the board with their hands.

  “So it is said,” agreed Arthur, growing slightly suspicious. “What is your meaning?”

  I held out my hand to those gathered in the hall. “Fortunate are the men of the north,” I told him, “for they have ridden beside you in battle and they know your glory full well. But it is in my mind that the men of the south will not be won with such news as comes to them in time.”

  “There is little I can do about that,” Arthur observed. “A man may be made king but once.”

  “That is where you are wrong, O King,” I told him flatly. “You are Pendragon of Britain now—it is for you to order what will be.”

  “But I have already taken the crown here,” he said. “What need have I of another kingmaking?”

  I answered: “What need have you of two eyes if one sees clearly enough? What need have you of two hands if one grips the sword tightly enough? What need have you of two ears—”

  “Enough!” cried Arthur. “I understand.”

  “But it is not enough,” I replied. “That is what I am telling you.”

  “Then also tell me what must be done to quiet you, and you may be certain that I will do it at once.”

  “Well said, Bear!” cheered Cai, and many laughed with him.

  “Hear your Wise Bard,” Bedwyr called. “Myrddin speaks the simple truth.”

  “Very well,” Arthur said. “What would you have me do?”

  “Send the Dragon Flight to summon the lords of the south to attend you in Londinium, where they shall witness your crowntaking. Only then will they believe and follow you gladly.”

  Arthur liked this. “As ever, your words are wise, Myrddin,” he exclaimed. “For I will be king of all, or king of none. Let us go to Caer Londinium and take the crown. North and south have been divided far too long. In me, they shall be united.”

  Truly, the south had ever given Arthur trouble. Those proud princelings could not imagine anything of import happening beyond the cramped borders of their narrow horizons. The nobles of the western realms, men like Meurig and Tewdrig, knew differently, of course; they understood the value of the north, as well as its vital strategic significance. But, from the times of the Romans, most southern lords held the north in lowest esteem and deemed the people there beneath their regard. That is why, if Arthur was to be High King in more than title only, he must make good his claim in the south.

  As laudable and necessary as his kingmaking at Caer Edyn, more so was his crowntaking at Londinium. This was where his father took the crown. This was the kingmaking I wanted for him: the same ceremony Aurelius enjoyed.

  For men had become confused. Many did not even remember Aurelius anymore—alas, his reign was too short! Most remembered Uther, and imagined Arthur was Uther’s bastard boy. Therefore, I was keen to proclaim Arthur’s true lineage, and demonstrate his true nobility.

  I mean Uther no disrespect. God love him, he was all the king we needed at the time, and better than we deserved. Still, he was but half the man his brother was. For this reason, I was eager to establish Arthur firmly in his father’s light—especially where the lords of the south were concerned. Arthur had amply demonstrated his uncle’s courage and cunning; if he could achieve his father’s skill at kingcraft, Britain might yet elude the darkness even now engulfing the world.

  That is what I thought, and that is what I believed. If you, O Great of Wisdom, secure in your toplofty perch, think otherwise, then look around: how much of what you see now would exist if not for Arthur? Meditate on that!

  So the next day we rode to the shipyards at Muir Giudan to board ships and sail south along the coast and up the turgid Thamesis to Londinium. Like his father before him, Arthur found little to love in the tangled sprawl of dwellings and footpaths of this much-vaunted civitas. On his first visit—when coming for the Sword of Britain—he told me it appeared nothing more than a midden heap floating on an uneasy morass of bogland. The stink filling my nostrils gave me to know that the place had not improved. Oh, there were a few fine buildings of stone still standing: a basilica, the governor’s palace, a wall or two, and such. Truth be told, however, the church alone was worthy of its place.

  It was to Urbanus’ church that we proceeded. The messengers, who had raced ahead to inform the settlements along the way, were waiting for us. Also waiting was Aelle, War Leader of the South Saecsens, those of the Saecsen Shore who had kept faith with Arthur. With the Bretwalda were his entire retinue of house carles, and all their wives and children. I believe they would have brought their cattle, too, they were that eager to honor the new British king and renew their vows of fealty.

  In this, these rude barbarians showed themselves more noble than many who esteemed themselves the highest of our wayward island brood. For his part, Arthur greeted the Saecsen War Leader like one of his own Cymbrogi, and gave Aelle and the battlechiefs with him such gifts as they prized: horses, dogs, and objects of yellow gold.

  We then formed ranks and passed through the gates and into the tight-crowded streets of the decrepit fortress. Our arrival occasioned considerable interest. Once the people of Caer Londinium glimpsed the young king with his subject lords before him they understood that someone of consequence had appeared in their midst. But who?

  Who was this brash young man? Look at him; look at the way he is dressed. Look at his retinue. Certainly, these are not civilized men. Is he a Pict? A Saecsen, perhaps? More likely, he is some fool of a northern nobleman parading his rustic vanity in the capital.

  Thronging the way, the jaded folk of Londinium shouted from the rooftops. “Who do you think you are, stranger?” they called. “Are you Emperor Maximus? Do you think this is Rome?”

  Some laughed at him; others jeered aloud, calling him arrogant and a fool, flinging abuse in half a dozen languages.

  “They are the fools,” Cador grumbled. “Do not listen to them.”

  “I see Londinium has learned no love for me,” Arthur replied unhappily.

  “Nor I for them,” Bedwyr answered. “Take the crown, Bear, and let us be gone from this miserable dung heap.”

  “How long do they think their precious walls would stand if not for you, Artos?” grumbled Cai.

  “Let the barbarians have it and be done.”

  Thus we made our sullen way through the noise and stench of the city. The messengers had done their work and had informed the southern lords and Archbishop Urbanus of Arthur’s imminent arrival and kingmaking. Both Paulus, who styled himself governor of Londinium, and his legate were waiting on the steps together as we turned into the long street leading to the governor’s palace.

  I had met this governor before: a bandy-legged sybarite with a wide, self-satisfied smile and small pig eyes, behind which twitched a rancorous and devious mind. Paulus, by name, was a cunning and oily adversary, and he did not take Arthur’s arrival kindly. There was no welcome cup, nor did the fat governor invite us into his house to refresh ourselves from our journey.

  “Greetings, Artorius.” He chortled—the unpleasant sound brought his round, fleshy face before my mind’s eye. “On behalf of the citizens of this great civitas, I welcome you. It is an especial honor for me to meet the famed Dux Britanniarum at last.”

  “Arthur is the High King and Pendragon,” the legate corrected gently. “And I, too, welcome you, Artorius. And welcome, Merlinus. I trust your voyage was agreeable?”

  “Artorius Rex, is it?” mused Paulus in feigned surprise. “Oh, then I am honored i
ndeed. I hope you will allow me to introduce you to some of Londinium’s fair daughters. We have many women who would like to meet the illustrious northerner.”

  Turning to me, Paulus said, “Merlinus? Certainly not the Merlinus Ambrosius, of whom so much is storied and so little known?” Clearly, he did not remember me.

  “The same,” I answered. Bedwyr, Cai, and Cador stood nearby, looking on—each of them worth any hundred of Londinium’s self-flattering citizens. But Governor Paulus did not deign to notice them.

  “I am delighted,” Paulus said. “Now then, when is this ceremony of yours to take place?”

  “On the coming Sabbath,” the legate said quickly. “Merlinus, since receiving word I have been extraordinarily busy on your behalf. I have spoken to the churchmen, who assure me that everything will be ready according to your instruction.”

  “Splendid,” enthused Paulus. “It does not appear you will require the aid of the governor.” He was so anxious to distance himself from the proceedings that I thought he might do himself an injury.

  “No,” Arthur replied, his voice hard. “It seems I do not require the assistance of the governor. Though I thank you for the thought.”

  “Yes, well…” Paulus hesitated, trying to make up his mind about the unusual young man before him. “If you find you should welcome my aid, I will of course be only too pleased to assist you in every way.”

  “Again,” Arthur said, “I thank you, but I cannot think of any possible help you might be to me. Still, I will bear it in mind.”

  Oh, Arthur had the measure of Governor Paulus and was not deceived. The legate, embarrassed by Paulus’ obvious slight, begged the governor’s leave to withdraw, claiming the pressure of duties. “If you wish, I will conduct our visitors to the church,” he offered, “and place them in the archbishop’s care.”

  “I think we can find our own way to the church,” I volunteered. Blind as I was, I would still rather flounder through the streets alone than be seen in the company of Paulus’ toad.