I would embrace humility and wear it like a cloak. Among unsuspecting men, I would hold commerce with the humble things of the world, and so pass unseen and unmarked through the Island of the Mighty. For men seldom heed the humble things that surround them; and what they do not heed, they do not hinder. In this way, we passed through the north country and into the southlands below the Wall, striking an old Roman road just south of Caer Lial. The road was still in good condition and Pelleas marvelled that this should be so. 'Why?' I asked him. 'Did you think these paving stones would vanish with the Legions? Or that the Emperor would roll up his roads and take them back to Rome?'
'Hold!' Pelleas cried, raising a hand to the much-encroached-upon track stretching straight and narrow before us. 'Our path is made smooth for us; the way is clear in the wilderness.' I smiled at his allusion. 'This suits our purpose perfectly, Emrys. We will travel more quickly, and our passing will not be marked.'
It was true, the stone-paved track remained smooth and unbroken as ever; and though shrubs, small trees, and thickets of all kinds now crowded so close as to hide it from view, the undergrowth had not obscured the road. And if other men had long ago forsaken the old roads, preferring more open trails, this same close-grown vegetation would allow us freedom in our movements. We would travel without being seen – appearing here and there when we chose, or when need arose, then disappearing once more… only to reappear somewhere else.
I had to agree, the old Roman roads seemed heaven-made for us, and I praised the Great Light for it. Often I have noticed that when a way is needed, a way appears. This is not to be wondered at, neither is it to be ignored.
We journeyed then with lighter hearts, though deprived of other human company for the most part, since we stayed away from settlements and the hearths of men, camping alone, sleeping under the naked sky at night. Occasionally, we ventured into a settlement along the way for provisions. Everywhere I listened to what men said and I weighed their words carefully, sifting all I heard for any hint of the trouble I feared.
By the time we reached the southlands, warmer weather betokened an early spring, and soon soft air soughed in new-budded trees; blossoms quickly appeared, seeding the drifting currents with sweet, heady fragrance. Water ran high; river, lake and stream swelled to overflowing. In a little while, the hillsides blushed shocking colour: yellow, crimson and blue. The sun wheeled through dappled, cloud-crowded skies, and the moon steered her bright course through star-filled night.
Peace seemed to have claimed the land, but I drew no comfort from this. Indeed, the farther south we rode, the greater my anxiety grew.
'I am yet uneasy, Pelleas,' I confessed one night over the fire. 'I mislike what I sense here.'
'That is no surprise,' he told me. 'We would not have come this far otherwise. Perhaps it means we are nearing the end of our search.'
'Perhaps,' I allowed. 'Morcant's lands are nearby. I would give my harp to know what he is about.'
'There will be a settlement close, no doubt. Perhaps someone will tell us something.'
The next day we set out for the nearest settlement, and found one of goodly size straddling the ford of a swift-running river. A muddy track linked the two halves, whose houses were mud-and-twig thatched with reed, poorly made; but the two large cattle enclosures boasted goodly wealth.
Wearing the guise of a wandering priest – a long, shapeless robe of undyed wool which Pelleas had purchased for me at an abbey along the way, my hair in disarray, my face smudged with dirt and soot – I surveyed the place from the side of an overlooking hill. 'This will do. The people here are trading cattle; they will know what is happening in the world hereabouts.'
As I approached the holding, the skin at the nape of my neck prickled to danger. I leaned close to Pelleas to tell him of my fear, but he waved me to silence and reined his horse to a halt. Rising in the saddle, he called out in a loud voice, 'Is anyone here?'
We waited. No sound came from any of the dwellings. Presently, Pelleas called again. 'We are waiting, and will not leave until we have watered our horses.'
I imagined sly whispers behind the mud walls around us: insinuations, quick and sharp, flung like knives at our backs.
'Perhaps we should go elsewhere,' Pelleas suggested under his breath.
'No,' I replied firmly. 'We have come here in good faith, and I will not be put off.'
We waited. The horses snorted and chafed the ground impatiently.
At last, when I thought we must move on, a thick-necked man with an oaken club appeared. Stepping from the low doorway of the centre house, he straightened and strode forth with a swagger.
'Greetings,' he said, more threat in the word than welcome. 'We do not see many of your kind hereabouts. Travel is difficult these days.'
'Agreed,' I answered. 'If need were not great, we would not trouble you for hospitality.'
'Hospitality?' The word obviously had no meaning for him. His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Pelleas feigned indifference to the man's rudeness and swung himself down from his saddle. 'We ask a little water for the animals, and for ourselves. Then we will continue on our way.'
The man bristled. 'Water is all you get, mind.'
'God's precious gift – we ask nothing else,' I replied, smiling loftily.
'Huh.' The man turned abruptly. 'This way.' Pelleas gave me a dark look and fell into step behind him. I gathered the reins and led the horses. We were shown a stone trough filled by a trickle from a hillside spring through an ancient clay conduit.
Pelleas drank first, cupping water into his hands. When he finished, I bent down and drank. 'Sweet the blessings of God,' I said, drying my hands on the front of my robe. 'Thank you for your kindness.'
The man grunted and swung the club against his leg.
'We have been in the north,' I said, as Pelleas started watering the horses. 'Whose lands are these?'
'King Madoc's,' the man spat.
'And is he a good king?'
'There's some as would say that – though some would say otherwise.'
'And what would you say?'
The brute before us spat again, and I thought he would not answer. But he was merely warming to his tale. 'I say Madoc is a fool and a coward!'
'The man who calls his brother fool stands in danger of God's wrath,' I reminded him. 'Surely, you must have good reason for such harsh judgment.'
'Good reason right enough,' snorted the man. 'I call him fool who lets another steal his lands and lifts not a hand to stop the thief! I call him coward who stands by and sees his son slaughtered and does not demand the blood price.'
'This is a serious matter. Land stolen, a prince killed: who has done these things?'
The man grimaced in disgust for my ignorance. 'Who else?' he sneered. 'Morcant of Belgarum, of course! Two summers ago it began, and since then it's every holding must defend itself, for we can expect no protection from Madoc.'
I shook my head sadly. 'It grieves me to hear this.'
'Ha!' barked the man scornfully. 'Let your grief defend you! I mean to hold what I have.' His lips curled in an ugly sneer. 'You've had your water, now get you gone from here. We have no use for priests.'
'I could give you a blessing -'
The man hefted the club in reply.
'So be it.' I shrugged and took the reins from Pelleas' hand. We mounted and rode back the way we had come. Once out of sight of the place, we stopped to consider what we had learned.
'So Morcant makes war on his brother kings,' I mused. 'For what purpose? A little land, a little plunder? It makes no sense.'
'Will you go to Madoc?'
'No, I can do nothing there. Morcant has set strife among his neighbours, and I would know why. As I am a priest today, we will do the priestly thing, and seek guidance from a higher power.'
The Belgae are an ancient tribe whose seat is Caer Uintan. Making peace with Rome allowed the Belgae to establish themselves in the region; old Uintan Caestir prospered and
grew large serving the Legions. But the Legions were long gone now, and the city shrank in upon itself- like an overripe apple withering where it had fallen.
Like Londinium to the southeast, Caer Uintan maintained a wall of stone around its perimeter. But Caer Uintan's vallum was never as high as Londinium's because it was never as needed; it served as a reminder of the Belgae strength, rather than as a real defence.
So Pelleas and I were both amazed coming upon the city at dusk: the wall of Caer Uintan had grown tall indeed. And a deep ditch had been dug below the wall to make it higher still. The city of Caer Uintan was now a fortress.
The gates were already closed and barred for the night, although the sky was still light. We halted on the narrow causeway before the gates and called to the gatesmen. We were made to wait, and then answered rudely.
The surly gatesmen were loath to admit us, but as I claimed business with the church – the church Aurelius had built for the city – they grudgingly, and with much cursing, unbound the gate and let us in, lest they fall foul of Bishop Uflwys, whose sharp wit, and sharper tongue, was renowned in the region.
'Shall we go to the church at once?' Pelleas asked as soon as we passed through the gate. The streets of the city were dark with shadows and smoke from the hearth fires beginning to glimmer behind the thick glass of narrow windows. Caer Uintan was a wealthy city still; those of its people who could maintain life in the old Roman style lived well.
'Yes, I would speak with the bishop,' I replied. 'Uflwys may have a word for us.'
Bishop Uflwys was a tall, stern man of deep thoughts and hard-won convictions. It was said that those who came to Uflwys seeking God's forgiveness for their sins and crimes left his presence much chastened, but much forgiven also. As bishop he feared neither kings on earth nor demons in hell, and he treated all men the same – that is to say: bluntly.
He had come to Caer Uintan to help build the church and stayed to guide it with a strong hand. The church, like its leader, stood aloof from the world, unadorned, bespeaking a firm and steadfast faith. I was interested in what he would say of Morcant.
The bishop received us cordially; he still held some small respect for me, it seemed, for he had loved Aurelius. Indeed, Uflwys appeared genuinely glad to see us. 'Merlinus! Dear brother, I hardly know you!' He rose as we were announced and came to us holding out his arms. I met him and gripped his arms in the old Celtic greeting. 'Come, come, sit with me. Are you hungry? We will eat. I have often wondered where you had gone. God bless the sight of you! Why are you dressed like a beggar?'
'Glad I am to see you, Uflwys. In truth, I did not think to come here. But now that I see you, I believe that my steps have been directed here from the first.'
'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 travelling: 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' 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 laid aside my cup and leaned forward. 'We have heard that Morcant raises war against his neighbour 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.'
SIX
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 rumours 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 towards 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.'
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