Pendragon

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Bishop Petronius, his features convulsed in a murderous scowl, pushed forward. “Kill us if you will,” he hissed. “We expected no less from you. All the world shall know that we were martyred in pursuit of our duty by vicious and spiteful cutthroats.”

  “Persist in speaking to your king thus,” Bedwyr warned, his voice low with menace, “and we will not disappoint you, priest.”

  “Bloodshed and murder is all you know!” charged Bishop Daroc. “Death will not stop our voices. The truth will not be silenced! Our blood will cry calumny from the very ground!”

  “Shall we put it to the test?” Gwalchavad inquired.

  Arthur raised his hand. “Peace, brothers,” he said, his tone even. He looked to Seirol. “You have made grievous complaint against me, friend. Now I would hear your proof.”

  The bishops exchanged glances and an expression akin to worry flitted across Seirol’s flushed face. They had thought the charge self-evident and had not anticipated a direct challenge. So do the arrogant and self-righteous ever remain swift to observe the mote in others’ eyes, while oblivious to the log in their own. They trembled now, for the first time beginning to doubt themselves.

  “Well, I am waiting,” pressed Arthur. “Where is your proof?”

  “Beware, vituperous priests,” I warned, stepping forward. “You stand in the presence of one whose honor is above reproach, but instead of praising him as you ought, you impugn him with foul slander. Woe to you, and shame! Were you men of honor you would fall on your faces and plead forgiveness for your sins. Were you true servants of Christ you would drop to your knees and beg pardon!” I shouted, and the air shivered. “Pray mercy from the king of kings on earth who rightfully holds the rule of this land from the High King of Heaven. Kneel before him, for I tell you the truth: you stand to forfeit your worthless lives.”

  No one had spoken to them like this before, and the perfidious monks gaped in horror and disbelief. Yet they were so consumed with condemnation and their own self-importance that they could not accept the truth as I spoke it.

  Bishop Seirol, infuriated by my outburst, lunged forward angrily, recklessly. “You ask for proof!” he cried. “You ask for proof! I tell you the proof of my accusation stands beside you, O King.”

  With that, the bishop lofted his cleric’s staff and gazed around. With a flourish of exaggerated pomp, he leveled the crozier and pointed. I felt my blood surge within me as I prepared to meet his allegation; I would meet and answer the slandering monk, stroke for stroke. But it was not me he pointed to.

  No, that unjust honor fell to Gwenhwyvar.

  “Behold!” the bishop crowed. “She stands brazen and unashamed in the sight of all. What need have I of further proof?”

  Both Arthur and Gwenhwyvar were taken aback by this extraordinary outcome. The nature of the accusation escaped them. It did not escape me, however; I knew precisely what the foul churchman insinuated.

  “For the love of Christ, man,” I whispered harshly, “withdraw and say no more.”

  “I will not withdraw!” Seirol exulted. He now imagined he had won his case, and made bold to pursue his victory further. “This woman is Irish!” he said, his voice ripe with insinuation. “She is foreign and a pagan. Your marriage to her, O King, is against God’s law. As sure as you stand beside her, you stand condemned.”

  Petronius, emboldened by Seirol’s example, entered the dispute. “Since the beginning of the world,” he charged, “never was there plague in Britain—until you became king and took this pagan Irish woman for your queen.”

  It was difficult to determine which he thought the worse: that Gwenhwyvar was pagan, or that she was Irish; or, indeed, that she was a woman.

  Bishop Daroc thrust himself forward. “It is the judgment of God upon us for this immoral king’s crimes. God is not mocked. His laws endure forever, and his punishment is swift.”

  Arthur, grave and calm, replied in a voice so even and restrained, that hearing it froze the marrow of those who knew him well. “I am no scholar of holy writ, that I freely confess. My life is otherwise spent.”

  “In bloodshed and strife is your life spent,” sneered Petronius—and was swiftly silenced by the arch of Arthur’s eyebrow.

  “But tell me now,” Arthur continued, raising his voice slightly, “is it not sin to bear false witness against a brother?”

  “Well you know it,” replied Seirol smugly. “Under God’s law, those stand condemned who exchange the truth for a lie.”

  “And does not this selfsame law you invoke invite him who would condemn another to first present himself blameless?”

  The bishop all but laughed in Arthur’s face. “Do not think to turn that great teaching to your defense,” Seirol crowed. “I was shriven at dawn and bear no taint of sin which can be reckoned against me.”

  “No?” wondered Arthur, his voice the warning rumble of thunder. “Then hear me, impudent monk. You have sinned three times since you came into this camp. And for those sins I call you to account.”

  “You dare malign a Bishop of Christ?” charged the outraged cleric. “I have not sinned once, much less three times.”

  “Liar!” roared Arthur, finally roused to the attack. He lifted a balled fist and slowly raised one finger. “You accuse me of iniquity and wickedness, and call down the judgment of God upon me. Yet when I demand proof of these accusations, you offer none. Instead, you carry the assault to the woman God himself has given me.”

  “Regarding Gwenhwyvar—” he slowly raised a second finger—“you call her pagan who is, like yourself, a Christian born of water—a baptism to which fact I can call to witness Charis of Ynys Avallach and Abbot Elfodd himself. And since, as you happily remind us, there is but one Savior and all who call upon him are united in one body, you do falsely judge her and call her pagan who is in truth your sister in Christ. Thus, you twice condemn one who is innocent.”

  Only then did the churchman feel the sand wash out from beneath his feet. The color drained from his face. Those with him did not yet perceive the fatal blow, though even as they watched the stroke was falling upon their uncomprehending heads.

  Arthur raised another finger. “Lastly, you lie when you say you have no sin, for you have sinned in the sight of these many witnesses since first you began to speak. I have no doubt that you would continue adding sin to sin were I to allow you to go on speaking.”

  Bishop Daroc drew himself up. “We are not under judgment here.”

  “Are you not?” demanded Arthur. “He is ever under judgment who bears false witness against his brother. The sun has not yet reached midday and already you have, in your own words, ‘exchanged truth for a lie’—and not once only, but three times. For this you stand condemned out of your own mouth.”

  Alight with righteous wrath, Arthur challenged, “What have you to say, churchman? I am listening, but I do not hear your answer. Can it be that when you have no lie in your mouth you have nothing to say?”

  The chagrined bishop, having no reply to offer, glowered at Arthur, but kept his mouth firmly shut.

  “Too late you show wisdom,” Arthur told him. “Would that you had thought to exercise it sooner. As it is, you have wasted much in a long and dangerous journey to flaunt your foolishness. I am certain you could have accomplished that without setting foot beyond Lindum. Or is there yet a further purpose to your visit? Some other grievance against your king?”

  Bishop Daroc could not resist flashing a brief glance in Cador’s direction, thereby betraying the true essence of the priests’ complaint. His ears flushed red and color rose in his cheeks.

  “So!” Understanding broke like sunrise over Arthur’s countenance. “Myrddin warned me about holy men and worldly wealth. How well he knows your kind.”

  “Indeed, lord,” remarked Cador. “You should have heard their shrieking when I suggested we had need of the golden trinkets gathering dust in their treasure chests.”

  Arthur addressed the bishops with thunder in his voice. “You have li
ed to your king and borne false witness against your queen—for no better reason than because I sought relief and sustenance for my men in the wealth of the church I am sworn to defend. Your selfishness and pride—that only!—brought you here, and all who have witnessed this shameful exchange now see your naked greed and poverty of spirit.” He shook his head slowly. “You are no Christian men.

  “Hear me, sons of Vipers. For your sins you will be stripped and flogged and driven from this camp. You will be conducted to Llandaff, where the holy Illtyd, true priest of Christ, will decide your punishment. Pray that he has more compassion than I, for I tell you straight I will advise him to turn you out of the church lest you bring the Blessed Jesu himself into disrepute with your pride and ungodly conceit.”

  So saying, the High King reached out and lifted the gold cross and chain from around Seirol’s neck. “You will no longer need this, I think; and we can use it here to buy food and drink for hungry warriors.”

  He turned away from the sputtering cleric. “Gwalchavad! Cador! Take them to Llandaff and tell Illtyd all: charge him devise fit punishment.”

  Cai watched as the odious priests were led away. “You should have let me deal with them, Bear,” he said. “God knows, they have already been the downfall of many.”

  “Their punishment best comes at Illtyd’s hand,” Arthur replied. “For he is a holy man and they will not be able to console themselves with the secret thought that they were misunderstood or compelled unfairly by a pagan.”

  He made to turn away, but Gwenhwyvar now stood before him, hands on hips, her shapely brows knit together and dark eyes ablaze. “This matter is not ended yet, O King,” she said. “I have been reviled for my birth in the sight of everyone here. Honor demands satisfaction.”

  Suspecting a subtle trap, Arthur cocked his head to one side. “What do you propose?” he asked warily.

  “Just this: that I sail at once for Ireland and summon lords who, by the strength of their devotion, will make faithless Britons everywhere weak with envy and sick with shame to see such homage as my noble race shall offer.”

  The last clouds of anger lifted then from Arthur’s brow. He looked at his wife; sharp appraisal mingled with deep appreciation, and…what? Gratitude? Recognition, yes. He saw in her a soul as staunch and zealous as his own, fiercely loyal and steadfast through all things and, like himself, more than a match for a handful of fallacious monks and faltering lords.

  The Bear of Britain smiled and relented. “Men of valor are ever welcome at my side,” he said, speaking loud for all to hear. “And if the nobles of Ierne prove more loyal servants of Britain than Britain’s own sons, so be it. Let those who abandon faith and fealty bear the shame of their disgrace. Wickedness and deceit have no place in my realm, and any man who embraces the truth is friend to me.”

  Gwenhwyvar kissed him then, and the embrace was lauded by the throaty cheers of all who looked on. The queen sailed on the next tide with ships enough to bring the Irish back; twelve ships and men enough to crew them. At Arthur’s behest, Llenlleawg and I went with her.

  2

  WE MADE LANDFALL IN THE BAY below Muirbolc. Commanding Barinthus and his men to hold the ships ready to sail, we made our way at once to Fergus’ stronghold, which we found utterly abandoned. The houses were vacant and the hall was silent, though cattle stood in the pen and there were horses in the stable. We dismounted and stood in the yard, wondering where they had gone, and when. Gwenhwyvar moved towards the hall.

  “Allow me,” Llenlleawg told her, darting ahead. He disappeared inside and emerged but a moment later to announce: “It is not long abandoned! The ash bed in the hearth is warm yet.”

  Gwenhwyvar remounted her horse. “We will go to Rath Mor,” she said. “It may be that Conaire knows what has happened here.”

  We turned our horses and hastened into the wood on the trail leading to Conaire’s stronghold. We had not ridden far, however, when Llenlleawg halted in the track ahead and held up his hand. “Listen!”

  I paused and attuned myself to the sounds around me. Birds warbled overhead, and the horses champed and chafed the ground with their hooves. Beyond that, the light breeze fluttered leaves in the higher branches, and higher still, a hawk keened its lonely cry. Was this what had halted Llenlleawg?

  No. There was something else. I heard it now—as if coming on a wave of the wind: the wailing shriek I recognized at once as the screech of the Irish pipes.

  “It is the piobairachd of battle,” the Irish champion said. “There must be a fight.”

  “This way!” cried Gwenhwyvar, pushing past us and away. We continued on the trail for a short distance, then Gwenhwyvar led us off the track beside a small brook, reduced to little more than a bare trickle through the undergrowth.

  It was cooler down in the little dingle, and as we splashed along I noticed the sound of the pipes growing gradually louder, until…mounting the bank of the brook, we burst from the tree-lined shade and onto a broad wood-surrounded meadow adazzle in the sun.

  And there on the meadow were two mounted forces arrayed and positioned for battle. Between these, alone and on foot, facing one another were Conaire and Fergus, brandishing the huge two-handed cláimor, the ancient clan sword. Both blades glinted as the combatants whirled them around their heads.

  Gwenhwyvar took one look at the flashing swords and lashed her horse. “Yah!” she cried, and galloped across the meadow, yelling, “Stop that! Stop it, I say!”

  “Father!” the queen shouted, flying directly to the center of the clash. She slid from the saddle before her mount had stopped. “Are you mad? What are you doing?”

  “Stay back, daughter,” Fergus answered. He was stripped to the waist and gleaming with sweat and oil. He had been anointed for battle and the sunlight made every muscle glisten and gleam. There were leather bands at his wrists and binding his legs from knee to ankle. In all, he appeared a Celt from another time as he leaned upon his great weapon, breathless from his exertion. “This is a fight to the death.”

  “This is absurd,” Gwenhwyvar contended. “Put up your swords, both of you!” Aside from a neat cut on Conaire’s arm there was little evidence thus far of any deadly intent.

  “Stand aside, woman,” King Conaire told her. “This is between Fergus and me alone.”

  The pipes screeched on, skirling loudly. “Silence!” Gwenhwyvar screamed at the pipers, who faltered to a squawky stop. She turned back to the two kings, fists on hips, and, in a tone that brooked no foolishness, demanded, “Now tell me, why are you standing out here hacking at one another like Finn mac Cumhaill and Usnach Blue Shield?”

  “Do not think to intrude here,” Conaire growled. “We mean to settle this before the sun passes midday.”

  “Do your worst, Conaire Crobh Rua,” Fergus said, tightening his grip on the great sword once more.

  “Answer me!” commanded Gwenhwyvar, addressing Conaire. “Why are you fighting?”

  Fergus spoke first. “He has heaped dishonor on the tribe of Guillomar, and I cannot allow such abuse to go unpunished.”

  “Come then!” cried Conaire. “We will see who is to be punished here. Stand aside, woman!” He made to raise the sword over his head.

  Gwenhwyvar put her hand to the naked blade and held it; she confronted him, her face a hair’s breadth from his. “Conaire Red Hand, you tell me what has happened and tell it now.”

  “I will not!”

  “Conaire!”

  “I—it was, it—” he stammered, the weapon beginning to waver. “It is all Fergus’ doing. Ask him, for my sword speaks for me.”

  “You hold the fealty of five lords, and are bound by strong oaths to protect them,” Gwenhwyvar told him, still holding the blade and keeping his arms aloft. “Therefore, I demand to know why you are attacking one of your own kings.”

  “I will tell you nothing. Ask Fergus!”

  “I am asking you!”

  Conaire was red-faced with anger, his arms trembling with the effort of holding
the heavy sword above his head. “Woman, you do vex me most sorely!” he growled. “I have told you it is all Fergus’ doing.”

  “Liar!” cried Fergus, pressing close. “Stand aside, daughter. Let me finish him now.”

  “Father! Keep still.” She faced Conaire and demanded, “Will you speak yet, or must we stand here all day?”

  I glanced at Llenlleawg and saw that he was smiling, obviously enjoying the dispute. Even so, his spear was in his hand and ready.

  The huge sword trembling above his head, Conaire rolled his eyes and gave in to her demand. “You are worse than your father,” he snorted in disgust. “Let my hands down and I will tell you.”

  Gwenhwyvar, satisfied with his reply, released the sword and stepped back a pace. “Well?”

  “It is that accursed priest!”

  “Ciaran has done nothing to you!” Fergus charged, thrusting forward.

  Gwenhwyvar pushed him back, and addressed Conaire. “What about the priest?”

  “He stole six of my cattle,” the king complained weakly.

  “Your cattle wandered away when your cowherd fell asleep,” Fergus said. “The priest found them.”

  “And took them to his own pens!”

  “He offered to give them back!”

  “Oh, he offered! He offered—if I would come and get them he would give them back.”

  “Well?” demanded Gwenhwyvar, growing more exasperated with each passing moment.

  “It is only so that he can rail at me with that—that creed of his,” Conaire insisted. “He defies me to listen to him and says that he will make a Christian of me yet. But I will have none of it!”

  “What are you afraid of, man?” Fergus challenged. “Hear him out and make up your mind. No one can make you believe anything you do not want to believe!”

  “And you, Fergus mac Guillomar, are a fool!” Conaire rejoined. “You are beguiled with the babble of that priest. Most malicious of men, he has stolen your wit as well as reason. Christians! Look at you, Fergus, you cannot even fight your own fights anymore. I see what listening to priests has done to you, and I will not go down that path.”