Well, the day he strode from the Council of Kings with the Sword of Britain on his hip, he had another mountain to conquer, and another giant to entomb. Forging the unity of Britain was the mountain—the vaunting pride of the small kings was the giant.
These two together made Eryri and its forbidding heights appear but a mound in a maiden’s turnip patch.
I have bethought myself many times what was accomplished that dreary day—what the loss and what the gain.
We lost a High King certainly. But we gained a Dux Britanniarum, a war leader—if in title only. There were no legions to command, no auxiliaries, no fleet, no mounted ala. Arthur had no warband—he did not even own a horse! And so the grand Roman title meant nothing, and everyone knew it.
Everyone except Arthur. “I will be their Duke,” he vowed. “And I will lead the battles so well and rightly they will be forced to make me High King!”
Still, there was no force to lead. There was only Bedwyr and Cai, the two pledged to Arthur and one another since childhood. Mind, taken together the three were a power to be esteemed. Any king would have given the champion’s place to any one of them simply to have such a warrior in his keep.
Arthur’s first trial would be to gather a warband. Implicit in this was the support and maintenance of the warriors. It was one thing to raise the men, and quite another to provide sustenance for them: arms, horses, food, clothing, shelter—that took an endless supply of wealth. And wealth derives from land. The ants in the dust possessed more of that than Arthur.
This lack, however, was soon addressed, for upon returning to Gradlon’s house that night, we found Meurig arrived from Caer Myrddin with three of his chieftains, all of them exhausted and near frozen to their saddles.
“I am sorry, Lord Emrys; I beg your forgiveness,” Meurig said upon settling himself before the hearth with a warming cup in his hand. And hastily turning to Arthur, he added, “—and yours, Lord Arthur. I am heartily sorry to have missed the council. My father desired so badly to come, but the weather—”
“You missed nothing,” Arthur replied. “It does not matter.”
“I understand your displeasure,” Meurig began. “But—”
“What he means,” interrupted Merlin, “is that your presence, welcome as it is, would not have helped matters.”
“But if I had been here…”
“No.” Merlin shook his head gently. “As it is, you have had a long, cold ride for nothing. Still, since you are here I would have you hail the Duke of Britain, and drink his health. I give you Arthur, Dux Britanniarum!”
“What happened?” Meurig had expected to find Arthur made king.
“In a word,” muttered Ectorius, “Morcant.”
Meurig gestured rudely at the name. “I need not have asked. I should have known that old deceiver would put down Arthur’s claim. He was not alone?”
True, Meurig had expected to find Arthur made king—it was to his father, Tewdrig, King of Dyfed, that Merlin brought the infant Arthur for protection the first years of his life. Consequently, Meurig had long since discovered Arthur’s identity. Yet even Meurig, close as he was, did not fully appreciate the strength of Arthur’s claim to the throne of Britain.
In fairness, few men did in those days. Aurelius’ son he might be, well and good; but it took more than that to make a man High King. It took the support of all the kings. Or at very least as many as would silence the dissenters—which, in practical terms, amounted to almost the same thing.
No one fully believed that a youth of fifteen, a mere boy, could accede to the High Kingship, nor would they abet him.
“Morcant had all the help he needed,” replied Merlin sourly.
“I would gladly flay those wattled jowls,” swore Cai, “if it would do any good.”
“I should have been here,” Meurig repeated. “My father is not well, or he would have made the journey with us. We were prevented by the weather. As it is, we lost two horses.” He turned to Arthur. “I am sorry, lad.”
“It does not matter, Lord Meurig,” said Arthur, belying his true feelings, which anyone could see on his face. The unhappy group fell silent.
“Duke of Britain, eh? That is a beginning anyway.” Meurig, feeling responsible, forced a jovial mood. “What will you do now?”
Arthur had his answer ready. “Raise a warband—that is first. It will be the greatest warband ever seen in the Island of the Mighty. Only the finest warriors will ride with me.”
“Then you will need lands—to raise horses, grain, meat,” announced Meurig grandly. Arthur frowned, feeling his poverty. “Therefore, my father and I are agreed that you shall have the lands south of Dyfed.”
“Siluria? But those lands are yours!” objected Arthur.
“Were mine,” Meurig corrected him. “My father is old and will rule no longer. I am to rule in Dyfed now. Therefore, we need a strong hand in the south, and as I have no heir to follow me, I can think of none better to hold the land than you. Yes?”
Arthur’s frown turned incredulous.
“Now then,” Meurig hurried on, “there is an old hillfort lying between the Taff and Ebbw Rivers, with a port on Mor Hafren—Caer Melyn is its name. It would take a deal of work, but you could make it a serviceable stronghold. The land is good; with care, it will provide.” Meurig beamed his pleasure in making the gift. “How now? Nothing to say, young Arthur?”
“I scarce know what to say.”
The young Duke appeared so disconcerted by this news that Ectorius clapped him on the back, shouting, “Be of good cheer, my son. You will just have to accept your good fortune and get on with life as best you can.”
“Lands and a sword!” called Cai. “What next? A wife and squalling bairns, no doubt.”
Arthur grimaced at Cai’s gibe, and turned to Meurig. “I am in your debt, my lord. I will do my best to hold the land and rule it as you would yourself.”
“I do not doubt it. You will be to us a wall of steel, behind which the people of Dyfed will grow fat and lazy.” Meurig laughed, and the shadows which had dogged our every move during our stay in Londinium rolled back.
I poured mead from the jar. We drank to the fortune of the Duke of Britain, and then began to talk of establishing Arthur’s warband. Ectorius and Cai, it was decided, should return to Caer Edyn as soon as the weather would allow, to begin raising a force that could join Arthur in the south.
Naturally, Arthur could not wait to see his lands. He had visited there as a boy, of course, but had not been in Dyfed for a very long time. Winter lay full upon the land, but Arthur did not care. He would have it no other way but that next morning we should ride at once to Caer Melyn to inspect it.
“Wait at least until the snow has melted,” urged Merlin. “Meurig says that winter has been hard in the southlands this year.”
“What is a little snow?”
“Have a care, Arthur. It is cold!”
“Then we will wear two cloaks! I mean to see my lands, Myrddin. What sort of lord would I be if I neglected my holdings?”
“It is hardly neglect to wait until the roads are passable.”
“You sound like a merchant,” he scoffed, and proceeded with his plans just the same.
I believe he had it all worked out before ever we left Londinium: how he would raise his warband, how he would support it, how he would build his kingdom, using Caer Melyn and the rich southlands given him as his strong foundation. He saw it so clearly that doubters were forced to join with him or stand aside. In this, as in so many things with Arthur, there could be no middle ground.
So we left Londinium the next morning and hastened west. Upon arriving at the Ebbw River—after more freezing nights along the track than I care to remember—Arthur rode at once to the hillfort. Like all the others in the region, it was built on the crown of the highest hill in the vicinity and offered a long view in every direction. Caer Melyn stood surrounded by a ring of smaller strongholds, a dozen in all, guarding the entrances to the valleys and the
river inlets along the nearby coast.
Directly east lay another interlocking ring of hillforts with Caer Legionis at its center. The Fort of the Legions stood in ruins, deserted now, worthless. But Meurig had established a stronghold on a high hill a little to the north above the ruined Roman fortress, and this, like Caer Melyn, was also surrounded by its ring of smaller hillforts.
The whole region was thus protected by these interlinked rings, making all of Dyfed and Siluria secure. Meurig, however, had never lived at Caer Melyn. Indeed, it had been many years since the Sea Wolves or Irish had dared essay the vigilance of the southwestern British kings. Consequently the hillforts had been allowed to become overgrown and derelict from disuse. Certainly, Caer Melyn stood in need of repair: gates must be rehung, ramparts rebanked, ditches redug, wall sections replaced, stores replenished…
As Meurig had said, it would take a deal of work to make the place habitable. But to Arthur, it was already a fortress invincible and a palace without peer.
Caer Melyn, the Golden Fortress. It was so called for the yellow sulphur springs nearby, but Arthur saw another kind of gold shining here. He saw it as it would be, imagining himself lord of the realm.
Nevertheless, we were forced to sleep in what was—a forlorn hilltop open to the ice-bright stars and deep winter’s bone-rattling blasts. Arthur did not care. The place was his and he was master of it; he insisted on spending his first night in his own lands in his own fortress.
We banked the fire high and slept close to it, wrapped in our furs and cloaks. Before we slept, Arthur prevailed upon Merlin to sing a tale to mark the occasion. “As this is the first tale sung in my hall”—there was no hall—“it is fitting that it be sung by the Chief Bard of the Island of the Mighty.”
Merlin chose The Dream of Macsen Wledig, changing it just a little to include Arthur. This pleased the young Duke enormously. “Here will I make my home,” he declared expansively. “And from this day forth let Caer Melyn be known as the foremost court of all Britain.”
“Of all courts past, present, and yet to come,” Merlin replied, “this will be chief among them. It will be remembered as long as memory endures.”
Mind, it would be some time before the ruin could be called a caer, let alone a court. On that raw wintry morn when we arose to the frost and blow, beating our arms across our chests to warm ourselves, Arthur had not so much as a hearthstone to his name.
All he had, in fact, was Merlin’s shining promise.
* * *
That day we rode to several of the surrounding hillforts to further Arthur’s inspection of his realm. He seemed not to mind that the places were fit more for wolf and raven than for men. It was clear that Meurig’s gift would exact a price of its own, but Arthur would pay, and with a song on his lips.
As the sun started on its downward arc in the low winter sky, we turned toward Caer Myrddin to join Meurig there. We reached the stronghold as the pale, green-tinted light faded from the hills. The horses’ noses were covered with frost, and their withers steamed as we trotted up the track to the timber-walled enclosure.
Nothing now remained of the old villa that had stood there in the days, now long past, when young Merlin had ruled here as king with Lord Maelwys, Meurig’s grandfather. Maridunum it had been in those days. Now it was Caer Myrddin—after its most famous ruler, though he was not a king anymore and had not lived there in many, many years.
Torches already burned in the gate sconces—yellow flame in the deep blue shadows on the hard, frost-covered ground—but the gates were still open. We were expected.
Horses stood unattended in the yard. I wondered at this, and turned to point it out to Merlin who rode beside me. But Arthur had already seen them and knew in his heart what this meant.
“Yah!” He slapped the leather reins across his mount’s flanks and galloped into the yard, hardly touching ground as he raced for the hall. Those within must have heard his cry, for as Arthur flung himself from the saddle, the door to Meurig’s hall opened and a knot of men burst into the yard.
“Arthur!”
One of the men emerged from the throng and ran to meet him, then caught Arthur up in a great bear hug. The two stood there in the pale golden torchlight from the hall, locked in a wrestler’s embrace, then drew back and gripped one another’s arms in the ancient greeting of kinsmen.
“Bedwyr! You are here.”
“Where should I be when my brother needs me?” Bedwyr grinned, shaking his head. “Look at you…Duke of Britain, indeed!”
“What is wrong with that?”
“Arthur, the sight of you is earth and sky to me,” replied Bedwyr dryly. “But if I had been there you would be a king now.”
“How so, brother? Are you Emperor of the West so that you can play at king making?”
Both laughed heartily at this exchange and fell upon one another once more. Then Bedwyr saw us. “Myrddin! Pelleas!” He hurried to us and hugged us both. “You have come as well. I had not thought to find you all here. Happy I am to see you. Bright spirits bear witness, God is wise and good!”
“Hail, Bedwyr! You look a very prince of Rheged,” I told him. It was true. Bedwyr’s dark locks were gathered in a thick braid; richly enamelled gold bands glinted at his wrists and arms; his woolen cloak was bright yellow and black, woven in the cunning checked pattern of the north; his soft leather boots, painted with serpentine designs, reached to his knees. In all, he appeared a Celt of old.
“Pelleas, God be good to you, I have missed you. It has been a long time.” Indeed it had; eight years, in fact.
“How did you come here?” asked Arthur. “We thought you would wait until the thaw to set out.”
“We have enjoyed the mildest of winters in the north,” Bedwyr replied. “In consequence, we were forced to stay longer than we might have: Sea Wolves troubled us late into the season, or we might have come in the autumn.” He laughed quickly. “But I see we have surprised even Myrddin, and that makes the wait worthwhile!”
“Unexpected perhaps,” Merlin allowed. “But I count it no surprise to greet one whose company we have so often desired. It is joy itself to see you, Bedwyr.”
Meurig, who had been looking on, approached with torch in hand, beaming his good fortune. “Let my hall be filled! We will have a feast of friends this glad night.”
And so we did. Of food there was no end, and drink flowed in a ceaseless stream from jar and skin. The hall blazed by pine knot and rushlight, and the hearthfire crackled merrily, casting its ruddy glow all around. Meurig had acquired a harper of some skill, so we did not lack for music. We held forth in song and danced the old steps.
The next days were full: hunting, eating and drinking, singing, talking, laughing. Bishop Gwythelyn came from the nearby abbey at Llandaff to bless the merriment and to consecrate Arthur in his new position as protector of Britain. This was done in fine style. I see before me still the image of Arthur kneeling before the good bishop, holding the hem of Gwythelyn’s undyed cloak to his lips while the bishop lays holy hands on him.
It was like that: one moment Arthur was the Duke of Britain, wearing the full honor and responsibility of that title, the next he was the Cymry prince, light-hearted, his laughter easy and free. It was a feast for the soul just to watch him, to be near him.
By Heaven, I cannot remember a happier time. No one enjoyed it more than did Arthur and Bedwyr who sat together at the board laughing and talking the whole night through. And when the last lights were put out, they still sat head to head, pledging to one another their hopes and dreams for the years ahead.
Each had so much to say to the other, so much lost time to redeem. Arthur and Bedwyr had known one another almost from birth, for Merlin and I had brought Arthur to Tewdrig’s stronghold in Dyfed when Arthur was still a babe. Arthur’s first years had been spent at Caer Myrddin with King Einion’s youngest son, Bedwyr: a slim, graceful boy, as dark as Arthur was fair, a bold shadow to Arthur’s bright sun.
The two had become con
stant friends. Golden mead and dark wine poured into the same cup. Every day of those early years they spent together—until separated at the age of seven by the strict necessity of fosterage in different royal houses. Bedwyr had gone to live with King Ennion, his kinsman in Rheged, and Arthur to Ectorius at Caer Edyn. And except for all-too-brief occasions such as Gatherings, or the infrequent royal assembly, they had rarely seen one another. Their friendship had endured long privation, but it had endured.
No one thought ill when the two of them rode out to inspect Arthur’s lands one morning and were gone three days. Upon their return Arthur announced that the eastern portion of his lands—these included many deep, hidden valleys—would be given to the breeding of horses, and would be placed under Bedwyr’s rule.
They were already thinking far, far ahead to the day when each horse they could provide would mean one more warrior for Britain.
So, early in that spring the course was set which, for better or worse, would steer the Island of the Mighty through the gathering gale of war. Directly after Pentecost, work began at Caer Melyn. Seven days after Beltane, Cai arrived with the first of Arthur’s warband: twenty well-trained young men chosen by Ectorius as the best north of the Wall.
And six days after Lugnasadh, King Morcant decided to test the young Duke’s mettle.
5
Word came to Caer Melyn that Morcant was gathering his warband to ride against Bedegran and Madoc in but the latest clash of that long-standing blood feud. Arthur had only twenty men; counting himself, Cai, and Bedwyr there were twenty-three. Hardly a match for Morcant’s hundreds.
Nevertheless, Arthur determined that if he allowed Morcant to succeed in cowing him through strength of superior numbers, he might as well give the Sword of Britain to the old scoundrel—and the High Kingship into the bargain.
I was prepared to ride with him, but Merlin counselled against it. “Stay, Pelleas. There will be other battles where we will be needed more. Let them win this first one on their own. A victory will give them courage and earn them a measure of renown in the land. Besides, I would have Morcant and his like know that Arthur is his own man.”
Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle Page 5