“Pray,” Arthur replied solemnly. “Pray God to remove this pestilence from our land. Or, if that is not to be, to show us the way through it. Truly, I fear in my bones that unless the Lord God upholds us, this travail will prove the doom of Britain.”
Book Four
The Healing
Dream
1
DRY…DRY…DRY. AND HOT. The earth cracks. The rivers wane. No cloud touches the burning sky, and the land parches beneath an unrelenting sun. Sacred springs dry up, and holy wells echo to the sound of empty vessels. There is no breath of wind or breeze to cool the land. Animals thirst; their strength fails and they fall and, falling, die.
All the while, the pestilence snakes along the lowland tracks like an unseen fog. One after another, the caers, settlements, and holdings are visited by the Yellow Ravager. Strengthened by the drought, which drives men from their homes in search of water, the pestilence steals over the land. Children cry and women mutter in fear-fretted sleep; men complain bitterly that this is Arthur’s fault.
The small kings blame him and plot treason in their hearts. “It would not be so if I held this land,” they boast. “I would put an end to this invader and drive all sickness from our shores.”
This they say as if the Vandal were no more than a drunken shepherd and the plague his mange-bitten dog. It steals the breath from my mouth to see how swiftly men abandon the one they pledged to serve through all things to the death. But when faith fails, men abandon all that sustains them. They flee the source of their uncertainty, rushing blind into betrayal and unbelief.
Behold! The Narrow Sea is plowed with a thousand furrows as British boats sail for Armorica. With coward hearts once-brave men put oar to water, lest the land of their birth become also the land of their death.
Well and well, their fear can be forgiven. They merely do what their faltering courage allows. Far worse—and forever unforgiven—are those who strive to use the suffering and torment of others to advance their own bloated ambitions.
There are four openly against Arthur now: Gerontius, Brastias, Ulfias, and Urien. The first two I understand. Indeed, I know them only too well! Ulfias is weak and anxious to please his bellicose neighbor; he has decided that peace with Brastias is worth more than fealty to Arthur. In that, he is much mistaken.
If only they had left the camp—but no, they stamped around poisoning the very air with their complaints, stirring up resentment at every chance, swaying the less steady with their insidious slanders. Weaker brothers listened to them and were led astray—men like Urien.
I can only wonder at Urien. His fiery enthusiasm has burned itself out; his ardor, so bright and warm in the beginning, has grown cold. This is the way of it sometimes, God knows: the hotter the fire the more quickly it dies. Still, I had hoped for better from Urien Rheged. Young and raw, and painfully eager to please, it is true, he yet seemed a solid enough nobleman. Given maturity and experience, he might have grown into an able and honorable lord. He would have found in Arthur a steady and generous friend.
What, I wonder, turned him against Arthur? What failing did he perceive, or, more likely, imagine? What glittering inducement did Brastias offer, what irresistible promise, to turn Urien’s fire-bright loyalty to sodden ash?
Sadly, even the most sacred vows are oft forgotten before the words die in the air. Ah, let it go, meddler! There is no binding a heart that will not be bound, less yet one that honors nothing higher than itself. So be it!
This, then, is how Lugnasadh found us: plague ravaging the people and the Black Boar ruining all the land.
Like the hounds of the Wild Hunt we pursued the invader north and east, driving deeper into the many-shadowed glens. Somehow the Vandali always remained just beyond reach. They refused to fight, preferring to flee, most often traveling by night. Moving along the ridges and river valleys, they were following Albion’s ancient trackways into the rich heartland.
Arthur sent swift messengers ahead along these routes to warn the settlements of the invader’s approach. Even this simple task was made difficult by the fact that the wily Amilcar had divided his forces, and then divided them again. There were now no fewer than seven enemy warbands loose in the land, each under the command of a Vandali chieftain intent on driving as far inland as possible, plundering every step of the way.
Twrch Trwyth seemed well pleased to allow his piglets to scatter while he escaped north and east with the main body of the Vandal host. There must have been a purpose to this mad design, but I could not discern it.
Still, we pursued relentlessly, catching them when we could, fighting when battle was offered—but mostly arriving a day behind their latest flight. Futility dogged us and the constant sun burned us black. Provisions ran low—a persistent problem, nagging as the ache in our empty bellies—for with Londinium quarantined, we were forced to buy grain and cattle from smaller markets as far away as Eboracum, and just getting enough was as tedious as it was time-consuming. Meanwhile, the small kings took to squabbling among themselves and disputing Arthur’s command.
This alone would have been the undoing of many a lesser man. But Arthur had the plague to fight as well. And that proved no less stubborn than the Black Boar.
I see Paulinus, grown haggard and gaunt in his battle against the scourge. How not? He rests little and rarely sleeps. He toils like a slave demented, teaching, organizing, making and dispensing his medicine. The shy monk has become a valiant warrior, as relentless in his own way as any of Arthur’s chieftains, engaged in a fight no less fierce than any fought with Amilcar.
At first word of a settlement or holding where the plague had taken hold, that was where Paulinus wanted to be. Taking no thought for himself, he gave all to the battle, winning renown in the war against the Yellow Destroyer. Others saw his example and were inspired to follow him. So, together with a handful of brothers from Llandaff who willingly joined him in the work, he shouldered the task of fighting the plague.
But the disease, like the invader, ran far, far ahead without slackening pace. There seemed to be no way to contain or subdue either of them. Thus, when his lords began deserting him, Arthur took it hard.
“Be at ease, Bear,” Bedwyr said, trying to calm the king. “We do not need the likes of Brastias raising hackles at every turn.”
We were gathered in the large council tent, but Arthur, angry with the wayward kings, had not summoned them. He sat with his elbows on the board, frowning, while those nearest the High King tried to lighten his gloom.
“Better to see the back of them, I say,” Cai added.
“He is right, Bear,” Cador put in. “They took but three hundred riders with them all told.”
“Blessed Jesu, it is not the loss of a few horses I mind!” roared Arthur. “Three have defied me to my face. How long do you think it will be before the rot sets in with the rest?”
Gwenhwyvar, bright seraph in a cool white mantle, leaned close. “Allow me to go to my people,” she soothed. “The Erean kings are willing. Indeed, they are eager to repay the debt they owe Britain. You need only ask.”
“It would do no harm to replace the riders and warriors we have lost,” Bedwyr argued. “It may be that the arrival of the Irish lords will shame the weak-willed and encourage the loyal.”
“That would be no bad thing,” Gwalchavad offered, adding: “I welcome any man who stands beside me in this fight.”
Gwenhwyvar took Arthur’s right hand in both of hers. “Why do you yet hesitate, my husband? There is neither shame nor harm in this.” She clasped his hand and pressed it earnestly as she would press her argument. “The sooner away, the sooner returned. You will hardly know that I have gone.”
Arthur considered this. He hovered on the threshold of yielding. “What say you, Myrddin?”
“Your wise counselors have given you good advice,” I replied. “Why ask me?”
“But I am asking you,” Arthur growled.
“Very well,” I said. But before I could deliver my answer,
the hunting horn sounded outside—a short blast, followed by two more.
“Someone has come,” Cai said, jumping to his feet. He paused. “Do you want me to bring them to you, Bear?”
“See who it is first,” Arthur said sourly.
Rhys’ signal indicated a newcomer to the camp. Cai left and we prepared to receive our guests.
In a moment, Cai’s voice called: “Arthur, you should come out. You will want to see these visitors.”
Arthur sighed, pushed back his chair—Uther’s great camp chair—and rose slowly. “What now?” Throwing aside the tent flap, he stepped out and I followed. Cai was standing a short distance from the tent, gazing down the hill towards the stream.
Mounting the slight rise towards us was a crowd of clerics: three bishops—no less—with thirty or more monks. The bishops wore rich priestly garb: long dark robes and glittering gold ornaments; they wore soft leather boots on their feet, and carried gold-headed oak staves in their hands. Those with them, however, were arrayed more humbly in undyed wool.
“Heaven preserve us,” Gwalchavad muttered aloud. “What are they doing here?”
“Peace, brother,” Bedwyr advised. “It may be they have come to lend their aid against the plague. Any help in that struggle would be most welcome.”
“They do not look like men who have come to offer aid,” Gwenhwyvar observed. “Far from it, I am thinking.”
Her womanly perception was keen as her eyesight, for the knit brows and firm mouths of those who approached suggested solemn purpose and inflexible resolution. The leading bishop thumped the ground with his crozier as if he were pummeling snakes, and those around him walked stiff-legged, with shoulders tight and chins outthrust. Another time, it might have been cause for laughter. But not this day; the Bear of Britain was in no merry mood.
Rhys moved to take his place with Arthur as the churchmen came to stand before us. I recognized none of them, nor any of their followers. Their arrival had, of course, drawn the attention of the men in camp, curious to see what these important visitors would say. Soon a hundred or more had gathered, which seemed to please the bishops. Rather than come face-to-face with the High King, they halted a dozen paces away—as if to force Arthur to come to them. I took this as a very bad sign.
“Hail, brothers in Christ! Hail and welcome,” Arthur called to them. “In the name of our Great Lord Jesu, I give you good greeting.”
“Hail to you,” the foremost bishop replied. He did not deign to recognize the High King’s rank—neither did he, nor any of the others, offer his king the customary kiss, much less the simple cordiality of a kindly blessing.
A better man than I, Arthur ignored the churchman’s unwarranted insolence. “You honor our rude war camp with your presence, my friends. Again, I give you good greeting in the name of our Lord and king,” he said amiably—heaping, as it were, flaming coals upon their heads.
Gwenhwyvar, not to be outdone, spoke up. “We might have prepared a better welcome had we known you were coming,” she said sweetly. “Still, we are not without common courtesy.” I smiled at this gentle rebuke of the bishops’ bad manners. She turned to Rhys. “Bring the welcome cup,” she commanded.
“Nay, lady,” the bishop said, holding up an imperious hand. He was a rotund man, solid as an ale vat in his long robes, his chief adornment a huge golden cross which hung around his neck on a heavy chain of gold. “We will not share the common cup with you until we have spoken out what we have come to say.”
“Speak, then,” Bedwyr said, fairly bristling with menace at the churchmen’s effrontery. “God knows, you have succeeded in pricking our curiosity with your audacity.”
“If you think us too bold,” the bishop replied haughtily, “then truly you are more timid men than we presumed.”
“It seems to me,” replied Cador, perfectly matching the cleric’s icy tone, “that you presume too much.” Then, before the irate bishop could respond, he changed tack. “Ah, but forgive me,” he continued smoothly, “perhaps you do not know who it is that addresses you with such good grace.” The young king raised his hand to Arthur and said, “I give you Arthur ap Aurelius, King of Prydein, Celyddon, and Lloegres, Chief Dragon of the Island of the Mighty, and High King of all Britain.”
The pompous cleric almost burst at that. He glared at Cador and muttered, “We know who it is we have come to see.”
Again Cador was ready with a choice reply. “Then I must beg your pardon once more,” he said lightly, “for it did seem to me you were in some doubt regarding the rank of the man you addressed. I only thought to ease the burden of your ignorance—if ignorance it was—for I did not imagine such a grave insult could be intentional.”
Realizing he was bettered, the gruff bishop inclined his head slowly. “I thank you for your thoughtfulness,” he replied. Turning to Arthur, he said, “If I have offended the mighty Pendragon, it is for me to beg his pardon.”
Arthur was losing patience. “Who are you and why have you come?” he demanded bluntly.
“I am Seirol, Bishop of Lindum,” he announced grandly, “and these are my brothers: Daroc, Bishop of Danum, and Abbot Petronius of Eboracum.” He raised his monkish staff to his fellow bishops, each in turn lifting a pale hand in the sign of peace. “We come with representatives of our churches, as you see.” By this he meant the company of monks with them. “We come by authority of Bishop Urbanus of Londinium, who sends this with his sign.” He produced a parchment roll bearing the bishop’s sign and signature.
“You have wandered far from home, brothers,” Arthur remarked. “Lindum is many days to the north—likewise Eboracum; and Londinium is no small distance away. The matter must be of some import, that you travel so far in such troubled times.”
“Well you know it, lord,” Seirol affirmed imperiously. “We have braved many hardships—and this so that you would not have cause to doubt our resolve.”
“You seem most resolute to me,” Arthur answered.
Bedwyr, who sensed approaching danger, warned under his breath, “Tread lightly, Bear.”
Bishop Seirol’s nostrils flared with anger. “I had heard of the rough ways of our great king.” He said disdainfully. “I fully expected my share of abuse.”
“If you think us too rough,” Cai remarked, “then truly you are more delicate men than I presumed.” Many of the onlookers laughed outright, and the churchmen shifted uneasily.
The bishop stared sullenly around. Raising his crozier slowly, he gave a sharp rap on the earth. “Silence!” he cried. “You ask why we have come here. I will tell you. We have come to perform our most righteous and holy duty in demanding that you, Arthur ap Aurelius, foreswear your kingship and yield the Sovereignty of Britain to another.”
“What!” The incredulous voice was Bedwyr’s, but the thought was in every head. “Arthur forsake the throne?”
“That is indeed a matter of some consequence,” Arthur remarked drily. “Unless you are more fool than you seem, you must have sound reason for this grave suggestion. I would hear it now, churchman.”
Bishop Seirol frowned, but failing to discern whether Arthur’s reply slighted him or not, he drew himself up and launched into the explanation he had prepared. Flourishing his crozier, he proclaimed, “Since we have braved many dangers, do not think we will be easily discouraged. The land is in turmoil, and the people are hard pressed. All day long we are sore beset. Plague and war have proved the doom of many, and the land calls out for justice.”
“We are not unmindful of these travails,” Cador assured him. “If you do but look around, you will observe that even now you stand in a war camp at the forefront of the battle. Or did you think this was Londinium or Caer Uintan, and we were all hiding safe behind high walls?”
Bishop Daroc’s anger flared. “Your impertinence is unbecoming, Lord Cador. Oh, yes, we know you, too. You would do well to heed our indictments, who hold sway over the eternal security of your soul.”
“I had thought,” Cador responded cooly,
“that God alone held dominion over my soul. And since I have placed my trust in him, say and do what you will—I fear no mortal man.”
Bishop Seirol pressed on with his attack. “Hear me, proud king! Do you deny that the enemy overruns the land with impunity? Do you deny that the land is wasted by pestilence?”
“How,” replied Arthur slowly, “could I deny what is perceived by even the dullest eye? You must know that I have sent messengers far and wide throughout the land with the warning.”
An expression of triumph transformed the bishop’s face. He raised outspread arms and turned this way and that, exulting in his imagined victory. “Hear me, warriors of Britain!” Seirol cried in a thunderous voice. “These twin travails of plague and war have come upon us by the immorality of one man!” He flung a hand at Arthur and shouted, “Arthur ap Aurelius, you stand condemned of God. Truly, the evil ravaging the land flows from your iniquity alone, and from the wickedness of your reign.”
The accusation hung in the air for a long, awful moment. Then Cai’s voice cracked the stunned silence. “Iniquity and wickedness?” he hooted in sharp derision. “Bear, we have heard enough from this puffed-up toad. Allow me to run them out of camp with the flat of my sword.”
“By what right do you come here like this to defame the King of Britain?” demanded Gwenhwyvar tartly.
“I am the Bishop of Lindum!” Seirol cried. “I speak for the holy Church of Christ on Earth. Since there is but one Savior, we are united in one body. Thus, when I speak, I speak for God.”
“I am Caius ap Ectorius of Caer Edyn,” Cai spat, stepping towards the churchman, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “I say you are an addled windbag, and I speak for every man here.”
The absurdity of Seirol’s charge defied us to take it seriously. But the bishops were in dead and utter earnest. They had worked themselves up to this preposterous indictment and meant to have their full say.
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