Once out of sight, the afflicted were swiftly forgotten in the general excitement. Thus the small miracles loomed larger than perhaps they ought, which served to heighten the euphoria. Bishop Elfodd said that the miracles were signs heralding the dawn of a peace to last a thousand years. Once the Grail Shrine was consecrated, he said, the Age of Peace would begin, and all Britain would be blessed with signs and wonders.
Strange to say, then, that as the elation of those around me waxed the greater, my own fervour waned. Perverse creature that I am, the intense, almost ecstatic jubilation of my comrades combined with my own sinful pride to produce the opposite reaction in me. I quickly came to view both the shrine and the Fellowship with distaste; what I once held in kindly favour became offensive to me. I could not bear to look at the shrine without shrinking from it. The very mention of the Grail Fellowship put my teeth on edge. Well, the fault is mine; I own it and confess it freely, so that you will know what manner of man I am.
See, now: I do not shrink from the truth, even when it tells against me. Indeed, though it brings me no pleasure, I write this so all may believe me when I relate the horror of what is to follow.
NINETEEN
In Llyonesse I learned my an – Annubi possessed a great store of wisdom, all of which I devoured, and in that way devoured him – but in the Dark Islands I practised it. Orcady provided the solitude I required, and also the resources of a wealthy and powerful husband to protect and indulge me while I perfected my craft.
Poor Lot knew little of my labours because I allowed him to see very little – only enough so that he would respect my long seclusions. His headstrong son despised me, but his grandsons, Gwakmai and Gwalchavad, might have proved valuable to me – ardent men have their uses, after all – and I could easily have bent them to my purposes. But they had forsaken their birthright to follow that ox-brained Arthur. So I persuaded the old king to give me a son of my own, a child I could train to my will, who would rule the realm after his father.
I might have reigned in Orcady myself, but I have greater ambitions, and was already laying my designs for Merlin. Once, I offered him the choice of joining me – united, we would have created a force more powerful than any since Atlantis was destroyed! But the self-righteous idiot had the temerity to spurn me. He styles himself a bard like his father, and holds to the ancient bardic ideals – that and the pathetic notion of his which he dignifies with the name 'The Kingdom of Summer'.
Since Merlin would not join me, he must be destroyed. I had, through various means, watched his progress and knew that he had acquired a rough an of his own, which, if allowed to thrive, might cause me trouble. I had paid dearly for that which I possessed – great power comes at great cost – and I could not easily afford to let anyone interfere in my plans. So I lured him to Llyonesse, where I could more easily control the confrontation.
Killing him would have been child's play, of course; and looking back on it now, I know that is what I should have done. What I wanted, however, was not only to strip him of his power, but to do it so completely and absolutely that he would abandon every hope and ambition he had ever had for his ridiculous Summer Realm.
I misjudged him, however; he was more canny than I expected; the encounter went against me and I was forced to break off the attack. Merlin imagines that he bested me; moreover, he believes my power was broken. In that, however, he is desperately mistaken. When I saw I could not win the encounter outright, I abandoned the attempt in order to preserve the power I had laboured so long to gain. In truth, I permitted the little weasel to escape, or he would have been crushed and annihilated – just like the smarmy lickspit Pelleas; I destroyed him just for spite, and to show Merlin just how fortunate he was to escape.
Yes, I allowed Merlin to slip away that time, but he will not elude me again. He has made it his life's labour to raise the oafish Arthur to prominence. It will be a singular pleasure to wipe out that work, to obliterate the both of them. In fact, it is better this way. The sight of them squirming in their death throes is a sight I will relish forever.
Oh, they will die in disgrace with curses between their teeth; that is inevitable, inescapable. They will die in shame and despair, but not before they have seen everything they valued laid waste. This I have promised myself. It will be.
Morgaws is now in place. She has beguiled the entire court in one way or another, and she has chosen the one who will become the agent of betrayal. Rhys, I thought, would have served us admirably in this. Indeed, we tried to seduce him, but met with unaccountable resistance. Nevertheless, his influence has been abrogated; he will not trouble us. Gwakhavad, too, might have provided a pleasantly ironic choice, but I knew he would be difficult. We will keep trying, of course, but whether we win him or not makes no real difference. Others have been corrupted to the cause, and only await the command to strike. That command will not be long in coming. Only one or two details remain, and then the destruction will commence.
The day of Morgian's revenge is at hand. Behold, all you people, your doom swiftly approaches! Weep with black despair, for there is no escape.
The seasons passed. Harvest came and went: a dismal business, best forgotten. The long, dry summer had done its worst. There was nothing for it but to trust winter rains to bring a better spring. Though we looked to every grey cloud that drifted overhead, the rain did not come.
The lack of rain meant, however, that the work on the new shrine could continue without interruption, and people began to look upon its completion as the salvation of the land. 'When the Grail Shrine is finished' became the litany which began every conversation, as people turned hopefully to a brighter future. Each day the Pendragon and Cymbrogi rode out to their labours, and each night returned delirious with exhaustion and companionship. Accordingly, the day of completion, hastened by favourable weather and the unquenchable ardour of the Cymbrogi labourers, arrived far sooner than expected.
Though I did no work myself, I often rode out to watch as the builders, seized with the fervour of creation, vied to outdo one another in the quality of their work. And despite my inexplicable aversion, I will say that it grew into a fine and handsome place: six-sided, with neat straight walls rising from a tiered base and topped by a steep-peaked roof of wood covered with red Roman tile – God knows where they got that! – and a series of curved steps. It was not large, but Arthur allowed that it was, after all, only a beginning; in time, the shrine could be expanded, or attached to a much larger structure, which he had in mind. 'But this will do for now,' he declared, well pleased with the result.
As the turning of the year approached, Arthur began making plans for the Grail Shrine's consecration. He called for messengers to summon those he wished to attend the august event. I volunteered at once, since the errand provided me a welcome escape from what I had begun to think of as the delirium which had overtaken almost everyone.
I say 'almost' because there were others, like myself, who regarded the absurd euphoria with increasing suspicion. Myrddin, as ever, pleased to garner whatever he could of the builders' craft, would speak no word against the shrine or the Grail, but his praise was ever guarded and he held himself aloof from any talk of miracles, or thousand-year reigns of peace, and such. Likewise Bedwyr, who always seemed to find one important concern or another to occupy him -1 know he often fished with Avallach. Llenlleawg, I believe, never so much as rode out to the site; it was whispered that Lady Morgaws demanded his constant attention. Cai helped often, however, and Cador only now and then, as it pleased him.
Thus, Bedwyr, Cador, and I, along with a score of Cymbrogi, rode out one cool, bright morning to our various destinations, far and wide throughout the realm and beyond. I was sent to Londinium to bring back Charis, who yet laboured there in one of the plague camps. Before leaving, I asked Llenlleawg if he would ride with me – for all he appeared so haggard and ill at ease that I reckoned a little sojourn away from the overheated mood of the Tor would be no bad thing – but he declined. 'No,' he said, 'my
place is here with Arthur.'
'Of course,' I replied lightly, 'no one doubts it. But Arthur himself has commanded me to go and escort Charis home.'
'Then go. It is nothing to do with me.'
I watched him as he stumped away, and could not help thinking that he was no longer the man I knew. I resolved to bring the matter to Myrddin's attention at the first opportunity when I returned. Be that as it may, it was with a sense of relief that I left the Tor – relief that I might be quit of the tedium and hypocrisy of maintaining a pretence of support when my heart was not in it.
Taking an extra horse, I departed, pausing at the abbey to inquire where I could find Paulus. Some of the brothers had just returned from a long stint away in the south, just outside Caer Lundein, where Paulus had established a camp off the old Roman road. Charis was there, along with a good many monks from neighbouring monasteries, helping to combat the yellow death. 'It has ravaged Londinium terribly,' one of the brothers told me. 'I believe it is far worse there than it ever was here. Paulinus is easy to find, and you will not have to enter the city.'
'Perhaps you would not object,' suggested Elfodd, 'to taking a few supplies to them. The need is great, and it is the least we can do. Would you mind?'
'Not at all,' I assured him, and then watched as the good The seasons passed. Harvest came and went: a dismal business, best forgotten. The long, dry summer had done its worst. There was nothing for it but to trust winter rains to bring a better spring. Though we looked to every grey cloud that drifted overhead, the rain did not come.
The lack of rain meant, however, that the work on the new shrine could continue without interruption, and people began to look upon its completion as the salvation of the land. 'When the Grail Shrine is finished' became the litany which began every conversation, as people turned hopefully to a brighter future. Each day the Pendragon and Cymbrogi rode out to their labours, and each night returned delirious with exhaustion and companionship. Accordingly, the day of completion, hastened by favourable weather and the unquenchable ardour of the Cymbrogi labourers, arrived far sooner than expected.
Though I did no work myself, I often rode out to watch as the builders, seized with the fervour of creation, vied to outdo one another in the quality of their work. And despite my inexplicable aversion, I will say that it grew into a fine and handsome place: six-sided, with neat straight walls rising from a tiered base and topped by a steep-peaked roof of wood covered with red Roman tile – God knows where they got that! – and a series of curved steps. It was not large, but Arthur allowed that it was, after all, only a beginning; in time, the shrine could be expanded, or attached to a much larger structure, which he had in mind. 'But this will do for now,' he declared, well pleased with the result.
As the turning of the year approached, Arthur began making plans for the Grail Shrine's consecration. He called for messengers to summon those he wished to attend the august event. I volunteered at once, since the errand provided me a welcome escape from what I had begun to think of as the delirium which had overtaken almost everyone.
I say 'almost' because there were others, like myself, who regarded the absurd euphoria with increasing suspicion. Myrddin, as ever, pleased to garner whatever he could of the builders' craft, would speak no word against the shrine or the Grail, but his praise was ever guarded and he held himself aloof from any talk of miracles, or thousand-year reigns of peace, and such. Likewise Bedwyr, who always seemed to find one important concern or another to occupy him -1 know he often fished with Avallach. Llenlleawg, I believe, never so much as rode out to the site; it was whispered that Lady Morgaws demanded his constant attention. Cai helped often, however, and Cador only now and then, as it pleased him.
Thus, Bedwyr, Cador, and I, along with a score of Cymbrogi, rode out one cool, bright morning to our various destinations, far and wide throughout the realm and beyond. I was sent to Londinium to bring back Charis, who yet laboured there in one of the plague camps. Before leaving, I asked Llenlleawg if he would ride with me – for all he appeared so haggard and ill at ease that I reckoned a little sojourn away from the overheated mood of the Tor would be no bad thing – but he declined. 'No,' he said, 'my place is here with Arthur.'
'Of course,' I replied lightly, 'no one doubts it. But Arthur himself has commanded me to go and escort Charis home.'
'Then go. It is nothing to do with me.'
I watched him as he stumped away, and could not help thinking that he was no longer the man I knew. I resolved to bring the matter to Myrddin's attention at the first opportunity when I returned. Be that as it may, it was with a sense of relief that I left the Tor – relief that I might be quit of the tedium and hypocrisy of maintaining a pretence of support when my heart was not in it.
Taking an extra horse, I departed, pausing at the abbey to inquire where I could find Paulus. Some of the brothers had just returned from a long stint away in the south, just outside Caer Lundein, where Paulus had established a camp off the old Roman road. Charis was there, along with a good many monks from neighbouring monasteries, helping to combat the yellow death. 'It has ravaged Londinium terribly,' one of the brothers told me. 'I believe it is far worse there than it ever was here. Paulinus is easy to find, and you will not have to enter the city.'
'Perhaps you would not object,' suggested Elfodd, 'to taking a few supplies to them. The need is great, and it is the least we can do. Would you mind?'
'Not at all,' I assured him, and then watched as the good monks piled bundle after bundle upon the horses: supplies for making medicine, cloaks and winter clothing for the brethren, dried meat, and casks of ale and mead to help their fellows celebrate the Christ Mass, which was drawing near. When they finished at last, I took my leave and made for the Londinium Road. I thought it a long time since I had been on that highway; the last time was for Arthur's crowntaking and wedding. So much had happened since then, it seemed a lifetime ago. Perhaps it is as Myrddin says: time is not the passage of an endless succession of moments, but the distance between events. That was nonsense to me when I first heard it. Now, looking back, I think I begin to know what he meant.
The swiftest way to the Londinium Road lies through a stretch of forest – an old, old trackway, used from ages beyond remembering. The forest is older still, of course, and there are yet many of the great patriarchal trees to be seen: elms on which moss has grown so thick that they appear grey-green with age, and oaks with trunks large as houses. The forest fringe, where light still penetrates to the ground, evokes no fear; but when men must go into the dark heart of the ancient wood, they go in haste, passing through as quickly as possible.
This I did, hunkering down in the saddle with one of the Wise Emrys' saining runes on my lips. As I rode, I said:
Be the cloak of Michael Militant about me,
Be the cloak of the Archangel over me, Christ's cloak,
Blessed Saviour, safeguarding me,
God's cloak of grace and strength, shielding me!
To guard me at my back,
To preserve me from the front,
And from the crown of my head to the heel of my foot!
The cloak of Heaven's High King between me and
all things that wish me ill, and all things that
wish me harm, and all things coming darkly
towards me!
In this way I passed through the darkest part of the forest. After a while, the path lightened ahead of me, and I knew that I was reaching the end. I emerged from the wood at a gallop and gained the hills above the road, where I paused to look back at the Tor's blue-misted shape in the distance. I rode until nightfall, whereupon I made camp and spent the first of several mild nights under the winter stars.
The journey remained uneventful and four days later, through the murky brown haze of evening smoke – as if the plague were a visible cloud under which the city suffered – I glimpsed Londinium, cowering behind its high walls. Those walls, erected long before Constantine was Emperor, were collapsed in several pl
aces and falling down. It was amidst the rubble of one such breach outside the northern gate that Brother Paulus' camp had been established.
Rather than trust to the hospitality of that plague-ridden city, I happily made camp beside the road and waited until the next morning to proceed any farther – and anyway, the gates were already closed for the night.
At dawn the gates opened and people emerged, bringing the plague victims with them: some they carried, some they dragged. I resumed the saddle and as I drew near, the odour of the place reached me – a foul stench of sickness, rot, and death that made the gorge rise in my throat.
I swallowed hard, crossed myself, and rode on.
A pall of smoke rose from a great refuse heap to hang like a filthy rag over the camp, and I saw what appeared to be bundles of cast-off clothes scattered in their hundreds all around. Closer, I discovered that these were not bundles, but bodies. I tethered the horses on a patch of withered grass a short distance away and approached on foot, picking my way carefully among the Yellow Ravager's victims.
There were so many! Everywhere I looked, I saw more, and still more. I believe the numbers shocked me more than the sight and smell, which were both appalling. I gazed in dismay at the scattered bodies of men, women, and children – in their hundreds, mind, and more being brought out through the gates -many, if not most, to be dumped beside the road like so much refuse, discarded and forgotten. Those who had given up the fight lay still and silent; but those in whom life yet warred cried in their torment, moaning and mewing as they twitched and writhed.
The groans of these unfortunates filled the air with a low, queasy keen. Their faces were spotted and distorted, their eyes red, their sores pus-filled and running; they vomited and defecated and bled over themselves, and lay rotting in their own filth. I had not witnessed the devastation of the Yellow Ravager before, yet judging by what I saw around me, I knew it was well named: the poor wretches mewing and crying in their throes were uniformly cast in a lurid shade of yellow – as if their flesh had been tinted by noxious dye and wrung out while wet – their skin was bloated, and vile mucus ran from nose and eyes to choke them; they sweated and panted as if being consumed from within by fire.
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