I hesitated, curiosity and reluctance warring within me. I could decline Arthur’s offer and force him to declare his ignorance. Or I could go to his aid. Arthur was waiting. Curiosity won over reluctance, and I rose and went to where Arthur and Gwenhwyvar held the scroll stretched between them.
They turned the scroll towards me. I looked at the pale vellum, expecting to see a picture rendered there, or words of one kind or another. There was a picture, yes, and words, too—but in all it was like nothing I had ever seen.
4
I NOW APPRECIATED ARTHUR’S discomfort, and why he had called upon me as he did. I stared at the proffered scroll and the strange markings on it. I opened my mouth to speak, thought better of it, and studied the scroll once more.
There were several long columns of words scratched out in a language I did not know: neither Latin nor Greek, which I can, if pressed to it, make out. And there was a picture—not one only, but several: one large drawing flanked by three smaller ones. The drawings were almost as inscrutable as the words, for they showed a strange hive-shaped object resting on a short stack of thin disks and floating in a blue firmament—water perhaps. But it was not a boat, for there was an entrance, or at least a hole in the side which would let the water in. The smaller pictures showed the same object, or similar objects, from different views. The thing was without markings of any kind, so I could get no hint of its function.
I knew Gwenhwyvar was awaiting my appraisal. “This is indeed remarkable! I perceive you have treasured it long in your clan.”
“The vellum scroll before you has been given hand to hand from the first days to this,” Gwenhwyvar explained. “It is said that Brigid, queen of the Tuatha DeDannan, brought it to Eire.”
“That I can well believe,” I told her. “And can you yet read the words written here?” I indicated the delicate tracery of symbols.
Gwenhwyvar’s face fell slightly. “Alas, I cannot. That art is long vanished from our kin—if indeed any ever possessed it,” she replied. “It was my hope that you, Wise Emrys, might read them out for me.”
“I wish I could,” I told her. “But I am unused to studying script, and would no doubt make a poor assessment.” Then with sudden inspiration I said: “Still, it may be that the priest Ciaran knows this script and can tell us what it means. If you agree, we might take it to him tomorrow.”
“Your counsel is good,” replied Gwenhwyvar, “but let Ciaran be summoned here. It is not right that our treasure should be carried through the realm as if it were a thing of little value.” Fergus agreed with his daughter, and dispatched a messenger at dawn to bring the priest to Muirbolc to view the scroll.
“What do you think it pictures, Myrddin?” wondered Arthur the next morning while we waited for the monk to arrive. We were sitting on the rocks above the shore. The day was bright and the sea calm as it washed back and forth over the rocky shore below.
“It would appear to be a dwelling of some kind,” I replied. “More than that I cannot say.”
He fell silent, listening to the seabirds and feeling the sun’s warm rays on his face. “A man could grow to love it here,” he murmured after a while.
Cai and Bedwyr, who were beginning to look longingly towards home, approached then. They settled themselves on either side of us. “We thought you were readying the ship,” Bedwyr said. “We did not want you to forget us here.”
“Arthur was just saying he did not wish to leave at all,” I told them.
“Not return to Britain!” Cai exclaimed. “Artos, have a care. If we must endure any more of their piping we will certainly go mad!”
“Peace, brother,” Arthur soothed. “Myrddin is jesting. We leave tomorrow as planned. Even now the ship is being readied.” He opened his eyes and pointed down the beach a short distance to where our boat was drawn up. Several of Fergus’ men, and our own pilot, were shaking out the sails.
“We came to tell you that Ciaran has arrived,” Bedwyr informed us. “Fergus is waiting for you and Myrddin to join them.”
Arthur jumped to his feet. “Then let us attend him. I am determined to solve at least one riddle before I leave this place.”
Ciaran greeted us happily. “You will have good weather for tomorrow’s sailing,” he told us. “I will come to see you away.”
“Oh, do not talk of leaving,” Fergus cried. “It is my heart you are taking from me when you go.”
“Your place is assured with me,” Arthur told him. “Come visit us when you will.”
Gwenhwyvar approached with the scroll and proceeded to unwrap it. The priest was eager to see it, and pronounced it a prize beyond price. “I have seen such before,” he said, bending his head over the close-worked script. “When I was pupil to the sainted Thomas of Narbonne, I attended him on a journey to Constantinople. The priests of that great city preserve the world’s wisdom on scrolls of this kind. It is said that the oldest come from Great Alexandria and Carthage.”
Fergus smiled, well pleased with this assessment. “Can you tell out the marks?” he asked.
Ciaran bent his head still lower, pulled on his lip, and then said, “No, I cannot. It is not Greek or Latin, or any other tongue I know. But,” he continued, brightening, “that is of little consequence, for I know well the object represented here.”
“Then tell us!” urged Arthur.
“It is called a martyrion,” explained Ciaran. “There are many kinds, and this is—” Seeing our confusion, he halted.
“If you please,” I said, “our learning in these matters is not as great as yours, good monk. Is this martyrion a building to the memory of the illustrious dead?”
“A House of Honor,” Gwenhwyvar affirmed. “That is what the old ones called it.”
“Yes! Of course!” Ciaran agreed eagerly. “Forgive my presumption. What you are seeing here—” he lightly traced the painted picture with a fingertip—“is indeed a House of Honor—of the kind called rotonda, for its round shape. And, you see, it is tabled, for it is raised on many mensi.” He traced the round stone tables which formed both the foundation and steps leading to the entrance.
“These are known in Rome?” wondered Arthur. Cai and Bedwyr still appeared perplexed.
“Not even Rome boasts such constructions,” Ciaran informed him. “The art of their making is lost to Rome now. And there is but one in the City of Constantine, and it is a very marvel. I know because I saw it.”
“Can this House of Honor be made from the drawing here?” Arthur asked, turning his eyes from the priest to me as he spoke.
“It is possible,” I allowed cautiously. “Taking the drawing as a guide.”
“But that is the purpose of this scroll!” cried Ciaran. “It is meant to guide the builder. You see?” He indicated a row of numbers in one line of the script. “These are the very measurements and ratios the builder must use as he assays his work. The martyrion is meant to be built.”
“Then I will build it,” Arthur declared. “I will raise this Tabled Rotonda to the memory of the Cymbrogi who died on Baedun. And they will have a House of Honor such as cannot be boasted even in Rome.”
That night we drank the king’s good ale and vowed to visit one another often. Arthur had found in Fergus a boon companion, a king whose loyalty was secured through mutual respect and strengthened through marriage. God knows, the lords of Britain had caused Arthur enough heartache and trouble. Ierne allowed Arthur to escape the petty kings and the clamor of their incessant demands.
Thus, when we put to sea the next morning it was with renewed vigor for the rest we had enjoyed, but with some small reluctance as well. Fergus promised to attend Arthur at Caer Lial, where we would observe the Christ Mass together. Even so, Arthur and Gwenhwyvar stood long at the rail, watching the green banks of the island disappear into the sea mist. They looked like exiles cast adrift on the fickle tide.
We sailed along the northern coast, intending to follow the channel and cross over to Rheged where the sea is narrowest. As the boat passed the
last headland and came into the narrows, we saw the black sails of strange ships. They were yet some way off to the south, but were drawing swiftly nearer.
“I make it seven of them,” said Bedwyr, scanning the glittering sea. The day was clear and the sun shone bright on the water, making it difficult to see. “No—ten.”
“Who are they?” wondered Arthur aloud. “Do you know them, Cai?”
“The Picti, and some, like the Jutes and Danes, will fly blue,” Cai replied, eyes narrowed. “But I know of no tribe that flies black sails.”
Arthur thought for a moment, and then said, “I want to see them. We must get closer.” He turned and called the order to the pilot, Barinthus, who dutifully swung the boat onto a new course.
We watched, standing at the prow, shading our eyes with our hands as we stared into the white sun-glare. “I count thirteen now,” Bedwyr said after a moment.
“The ships are large,” observed Cai. “Larger than any we have. Who can they be?”
More sails appeared. “Twenty,” Bedwyr informed us, straining forward to count the sails. “Yes, twenty, Myrddin, and they are coming toward—”
“I see them,” I reminded him, gazing at the black ships hastening across the water. “And I like not what I see.”
“I cannot see anyone aboard,” remarked Gwenhwyvar. “They hide themselves from us—why?”
Closer, more sails were becoming visible as still more ships sailed into view. “Twenty-eight!” called Bedwyr. “No…thirty!”
“Arthur, who besides the Emperor has a fleet so large?” asked Cai.
“Rome perhaps. Though the Romans would be reluctant to launch such a fleet in northern waters, I think.”
We allowed the nearest vessel to come within spear-throw, and then steered onto a parallel course. Huge round leather-covered shields hung from the rails below a rank of raised oars, ten on either side, and spears jutted out from between the shields. Long wooden bankers formed a narrow roof over the rowing benches, and provided a platform for the warriors. The square sail bore the image of an animal crudely outlined in white against the black. “What is that?” wondered Cai, squinting at it. “A bear?”
“No,” I answered, “not a bear—a pig. It is a boar.”
The two ships held their courses for a time, and then the black ship veered suddenly towards us. In the same instant strange warriors leapt onto the platform—big men, wide shouldered, with black hair and pale skin—screaming, jeering, brandishing spears.
“They are attacking!” shouted Bedwyr, leaping for his spear and shield.
A heartbeat later, the first enemy spears flashed up into the air. All fell short, save two—one spear glanced off the side, and the second struck the rail. Llenlleawg leaped to the rail and snatched up the spear before it fell into the sea. It was a thick, ungainly thing of scraped wood fixed to a heavy iron head, more suited to thrusting than throwing.
Gwenhwyvar took up her shield, and Cai likewise. Only Arthur remained unmoved. He stood staring at the oncoming craft while those around him armed themselves. The enemy keel slashed the waves, driving nearer. Spears flew, arcing up and falling. Fewer fell short this time; several struck the sides, and one snagged the sail.
“Arthur,” I said, “do you mean to fight them?”
He did not reply, but stood looking at the oncoming ship, eyes narrowed against the sea-glare. Bedwyr, holding out Prydwen, urged Arthur to take it. But Arthur made no move.
“What would you have us do, Bear?” Receiving no answer, Bedwyr glanced quickly at me.
“Arthur?” I asked.
Turning from the rail at last, Arthur called to the pilot. “Turn aside!” he ordered. “Back to Ierne! Fly! We must warn Fergus!”
The ship veered away from the oncoming enemy ship. The enemy gave chase, but our smaller, lighter vessel steadily pulled away, increasing the distance between us. We were soon beyond spear-throw, and seeing they could not catch us, the enemy fell back and returned to their previous course.
Flying before the wind, we made for the Irish coast. “Faster!” Arthur yelled. Though we would make landfall well ahead of the enemy, there was not an instant to spare.
Soon the coastal hills loomed before us, and we came in sight of the bay from which we had put forth. “Saddle the horses,” Arthur commanded.
“Let us get them on land first,” Bedwyr suggested.
“Do it now.” Arthur turned to the pilot. “Barinthus! You know the bay. Run the ship aground.”
Cai, Bedwyr and Llenlleawg saddled the horses, and they were ready to ride as we came into the bay. Barinthus did not strike the sails, but steered the craft straight towards land. I watched the shore sweeping nearer and braced myself for the collision. Not Arthur; as the keel drove into the hard shingle, Arthur swung himself into the saddle.
We struck the shingle with a tremendous crack. The rudder splintered and the mast burst its bindings. Even as the ship lurched and shuddered to a halt beneath him, Arthur lashed his mount forward. “Hie! Hie!” he cried.
The horse lifted its forehooves and leapt over the side, plunging to the hocks in seawater. Another leap, and Arthur was clattering away up the beach. Gwenhwyvar followed Arthur’s example, with Llenlleawg close behind, still clutching the enemy spear.
“Look at them,” muttered Cai, shaking his head. “They will break their necks riding like that. They should have a care for the horses if they have none for themselves.”
Bedwyr replied from the saddle. “Tell that to the barbarian battlechief when his spear pricks your backside.” He lashed his mount and leaped overboard with a shout. “Hie! Yah!”
Cai followed, and I gathered my reins. As I swung into the saddle, I called to the pilot. “I will wait for you, Barinthus.”
“Nay, lord. Do not wait for me,” the seaman replied, working to secure the loosened mast. “I am soon finished here and will follow.”
“Make fast the boat, then, but do not linger.” I urged my mount over the side. The horse reared and plunged, splashing seawater over me. And then I was pounding over the beach. Cai had reached the cliff-track leading to Fergus’ stronghold, and Bedwyr was laboring up the steep track; Arthur and the others had already disappeared.
Upon reaching the track, I paused to look back. The bay was yet empty. The enemy had not followed us to shore—likely, as we had outraced them, they would wait to make landfall when they had the support of numbers.
By the time I reached Muirbolc, the alarm had already sounded. Everyone was rushing around: men to secure the fortress, women and children to hiding, warriors to their weapons, herdsmen to gather their cattle and bring them within the protection of the caer.
Fergus and his battlechief stood in the center of the yard with Arthur and Gwenhwyvar before him. Gwenhwyvar, at Arthur’s side, was saying, “Listen to him, Father. There are too many. We cannot fight them here.”
“Ten shields on each side—that is at least twenty warriors in each ship, maybe more,” Arthur told him bluntly. “And there are thirty ships—maybe more. If they make landfall here, they will be sitting in your hall before the sun sets.”
“Our only hope is to flee the caer and rally the clans,” Gwenhwyvar insisted. “At least that way we might have a chance. We know the land and they do not. We will rally Conaire and the men of Uladh. When they learn the danger, they will not turn us away.”
Fergus pulled on his chin and frowned as he turned the matter over. “Fergus,” Arthur said gently, “we cannot save Muirbolc, but we can save our lives. If we stay here we will lose both.”
“Very well,” Fergus agreed reluctantly. “I will do as you say.” He turned to his battlechief and, with a word, sent the man away. “We must gather provisions,” the king said, turning back. “It will take time.”
“There is no time,” said Arthur. “We must leave at once.”
“Bad enough to abandon my stronghold,” Fergus replied. “Skin me alive if I also abandon the treasure of our clan.”
Arthur rele
nted, “Then make haste. I will ride with Cai and Bedwyr to the headland to see where the enemy makes landfall.”
“I will ride with you,” Gwenhwyvar said.
“Stay here, lady,” Arthur told her. “We will return soon.”
Gwenhwyvar made to protest, but thought better of contending the matter and held her tongue. To me, Arthur said, “You will come with me, Myrddin.”
Bedwyr, Cai, and I rode out with Arthur, and met Barinthus at the gate as he arrived. “They did not follow us, lord,” he said. “I waited to see, but they have not entered the bay.”
“Remain here and keep watch,” Arthur commanded him. “Alert Fergus if you see anything. We ride to the headland.”
We galloped along the coastal path, searching the sea below for any sign of the black ships. But we saw nothing until reaching the high bluffs of the headland. And then, as we crested the hill and the broad expanse of the sea to the north and west came into view, our hearts sank.
For, spread out upon the water all along the northern coast, were forty or more black sails, clustered thick like carrion birds on a glassy plain.
5
“GOD HELP US,” SAID BEDWYR, gazing upon the enemy fleet.
“They are making to come ashore there,” replied Arthur, pointing to the bay farther along the coast. “Likely they will be on foot—I saw no horses—so it will take them some little time to march inland.” He glanced at the sky. “The sun will set before they can form a raiding party.”
“Then we have one night at least to prepare,” Cai said.
“This night only,” Arthur confirmed. Wheeling his horse, he started back down the track. Cai followed, but Bedwyr and I sat looking at the enemy ships for a moment longer.
“There must be a thousand warriors or more,” Bedwyr mused. “I wonder how many these Kings of Uladh can command?”
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