Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  He answered absently, without turning. “Yes? What is it, Aneirin?”

  Strangely, I did not say the thing I meant to say, but spoke something perhaps closer to my heart. “Why did you wish me to come with you to the Isle of the Fisher King?”

  He considered this for a goodly time and then answered, “I do not know, boy.” His eyes did not turn from the sea. “Why do you ask?”

  Now it was my turn to admit ignorance.

  “Well,” observed the Emrys sagely, “you see how it is.” He smiled and turned to look at me. I must have presented a sobering countenance, for he asked, “Ah, there is a deeper thing that you have not said. Is this so?”

  “Yes, Emrys.”

  “Then speak it out, lad.”

  I told him what I had witnessed of the Fisher King’s behavior. As I spoke, the Emrys’ eyes narrowed. “I did not think to ask him,” he murmured.

  “Who is this Morgian?” I inquired, little knowing what I asked. Great the grief! I wish I had never heard the name, nor let it pass my lips.

  Weary pain pinched the Emrys’ features. “She is…” he began, and halted. Then shaking his head, he said, “Have you never heard of the Queen of Air and Darkness?”

  “No,” I told him with a shrug. “The name means nothing to me.”

  “Can it be?” the Emrys wondered. “Men’s memories are short, but evil endures long.” He turned back to his contemplation of the sea, but I knew that he did not see it. For his sight had turned inward, and he no longer travelled the bright seapath before us.

  4

  Four days before Lugnasadh the Pendragon returned to Caer Lial. Three hundred of the Cymbrogi followed in his retinue. He rode at their head on a milk-white stallion, wearing a high helm of burnished steel set about with gold, the famed sword Caliburnus at his side. On his shoulder he wore Prydwen, the shield with the Cross of the Christ painted in crimson upon its white-washed surface. Caval, his enormous hound, trotted beside him, head up proud and high. Before him went the Red Dragon, the High King’s standard wrought of fine red gold and carried by Rhys, whose honor it was to go before all.

  I stood on the rampart of the wall as the High King drew near. People from the city ran out from the gates below me and onto the road, waving bits of colored cloth and calling out to him in greeting. All my life I had heard about Arthur, Wonderful Pendragon, High King of the Island of the Mighty, fairest monarch that is in the world—but nothing of all that I had heard prepared me for the glory of the man I saw riding toward me on the road.

  The Bear of Britain was a mighty man, tall and strong, quick of eye and wit, steady of hand and purpose, keen as the sword at his side, and bright as the sun that shone upon him. Lord of Summer he was called and, God be praised, it was not a boast.

  Gwalchavad and Bors rode at the king’s left hand, and the exalted Llenlleawg at his right. I would have known those champions anywhere, though I had never clapped eyes to them before that moment. They rode high-stepping steeds, and carried spears with gleaming silver heads. Bold men and brave, they wore their valor with authority, like the bright-colored cloaks folded upon their shoulders.

  The High King and the Cymbrogi—who, because of the Red Dragon standard, had become known as the Flight of Dragons—passed through the high timber gates and into the city. Caer Lial had been prepared for the Pendragon’s return; the queen saw to it. The streets had been washed with water, and everywhere hung garlands of flowers gathered from the hills and woven into long strands. The people clamored for their king, and shouted loud praises and welcome to him. To all, the Pendragon bestowed the estimable honor of his glad greeting. Clearly, Caer Lial had become the chief residence of his heart. Here was he loved and revered; here was he honored above all.

  Leaving the rampart, I ran to the palace, racing through the throng, its lusty acclaim loud in my ears. In the palace yard the crowd gathered, so tight-pressed that I could not move. The High King dismounted and climbed the steps, where he paused to deliver a message of greeting to the people. But I was so far removed, and the throng so noisy, I could not hear a word.

  Only when the Pendragon had gone inside, and the crowds dispersed, could I make my way to the rear of the palace where I could enter. Everyone had gathered in the hall, and Queen Gwenhwyvar had mead vats prepared and cups filled and ready. They were drinking the success of the High King’s southern journey, for he had mediated and ended a long-running dispute between the Saecsens and Britons over farmland along the border between these two peoples.

  In consequence, Bretwalda Aelle and his house carles had come to Caer Lial with Arthur to show his fealty to the High King, and to attend the ceremony of the Round Table. Other lords of southern Britain had also come, notably Idris and Cador, along with men of their warbands.

  The sweet yellow mead circled around the hall in cups. Queen Gwenhwyvar stood proudly beside the king, who held her with his arm around her waist, and gazed out upon the glad company. The Emrys stood near, with Cai and Bedwyr beside him. So that I could remain with them, I took up a jar and filled it from a mead vat and began serving it out. Cai summoned me to him and offered his cup.

  “Aneirin, bring your jar!” he called, and I was not slow to obey. I poured his cup full, and Bedwyr’s as well, whereupon the seneschal said, “Arthur’s cup is empty, lad. Fill it!”

  I turned to see the Pendragon’s clear blue eyes upon me. He smiled and held out his gold-rimmed horn. Trembling, I lifted the jar, not daring to raise my head before him. I felt a touch on my hand. The High King placed his hand beneath mine to steady the jar, saying, “Be easy, young friend.” He regarded me carefully. “What is your name?”

  “I am Aneirin ap Caw,” I replied. “I am yours to command, Pendragon.”

  “Bold lad!” laughed Cai.

  “I remember you,” replied Bedwyr, “though I confess I did not recognize you—covered in stone dust the last I saw you!”

  “Indeed, Bedwyr!” chided the queen nicely. “I remember seeing you with Myrddin,” Gwenhwyvar said. “Forgive me, Aneirin, I did not know you were Caw’s son.”

  “He has been serving me at the shrine and at Ynys Avallach,” the Emrys said, stepping close. “Already he has proven himself a worthy friend and ally.”

  It pleased me overmuch to hear myself praised in this way, and I blushed crimson to hear it.

  “Stay near, Aneirin ap Caw,” said the High King amiably. “This looks to be a thirsty gathering. We may have need of your jar again before long.”

  “Oh, aye!” cried Cai. “Do not wander far, lad, and keep your beaker filled.”

  With such high-flown encouragement ringing in my ears, I slaved the night away, stopping only once when the Emrys sang with his harp. The whole vast hall fell silent as a forest glade—indeed, the world itself seemed to hold breath to hear him. And with the True Bard’s music filling my heart, I vowed that I would ever seek the noble path, and prayed I would be allowed to remain in Arthur’s service forever!

  The next day the king and queen left Caer Lial and made their way to the Round Table. Only those whose names had been inscribed inside the monument were allowed to ride with them. I went because the Emrys deemed my service valuable. Someone had to take care of the horses. And, since I already knew the whereabouts of the shrine, better to take me than another.

  Upon coming within view of the rotunda, King Arthur dismounted and walked the remaining distance, saying that out of respect for the sacrifice of those who had given meaning to the monument, he would not draw near save humbly afoot. He mounted the hill and knelt before the shrine with great reverence.

  Gwenhwyvar watched her husband intently, dark eyes filled with deep feeling for him and for this day, continually clasping and unclasping her hands in expectation.

  The High King rose and, laying aside his sword, entered the Round Table. Whereupon his captains followed him in solemn procession: Cai, Bedwyr, Bors, Gwalchavad, Llenlleawg—each putting off his weapons before entering. The Emrys, Gwenhwyvar, and I rem
ained outside for a little. Then the queen went in, and the Emrys last.

  I settled myself at the picket with the horses near the stream, fully intending to stay there. The others had been inside the shrine only a short while when I heard the galloping hoofbeats of a rider approaching along the sea-strand below. I ran to the hillside and looked down to see a lone warrior pounding along the wave-washed sand.

  I shrank back behind a bush, lest I attract his attention and he should be drawn to the shrine. But I might have saved myself the trouble. For, though he looked neither right nor left, as he drew even with the monument, he turned his horse and drove the animal straight up the hill track to the rotunda.

  At first I thought to run fetch the Emrys, or otherwise warn those within, but something stayed me, some familiarity of the rider. For though he was strange indeed to my eyes—dressed in bright red tunic and trousers, with a fine blue cloak edged in fur, and with a silver torc at his throat—I felt I knew him somehow.

  He halted, swung from the saddle, and jumped down. I had seen another do that just this morning. Gwalchavad had dismounted just that way.

  But it was Gwalchavad! Impossible! I had seen him go into the rotunda only moments before. Another then, yet like enough…

  Out of the corner of his eye he must have seen me lurking near the thicket, for he turned suddenly, his spear swinging level. “Please, my lord,” I said. “Put up your spear; this is holy ground.”

  He grinned pleasantly. “Startle a warrior and take your chances, boy,” he replied. “I mean no one harm. Have they gone in already?”

  I nodded. He dropped the reins to the ground and turned to gaze at the shrine. Then, without a word he climbed the steps to go in. I rushed after him, thinking to prevent him, but he reached the doorway first and entered. Dreading the intrusion, I hurried after him and entered just in time to see the High King leap to his feet with a look of astonishment on his face.

  The others appeared equally astounded, but no one seemed to mind the interruption. Gwalchavad recovered speech first. “Gwalcmai!” he cried. “Brother, where have you been?”

  Gwalcmai ignored him and went straight to the High King and fell down on his face before him, stretching out his hands to either side. Arthur bent low and gripped him by the shoulder and raised him, saying, “Rise, Gwalcmai, you are welcome in my company. Get up, brother, and let us look at you!”

  Gwalcmai climbed to his feet and embraced his king, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. Gwalchavad pounded him happily on the back, and the two brothers fell into one another’s arms. In all, it was a glad reunion. Bedwyr and Cai gathered near and clapped hands to him as well.

  I saw the Emrys standing by and crept near. “I tried to stop him,” I explained in a whisper.

  “No need,” he said. “He is one of our own returned from a long journey.”

  “Very long?”

  “Seventeen years.”

  A far journey to take so long, I thought. “Where did he go?”

  “Oh,” replied the Wise Emrys, “he went in search of himself and found God instead.”

  This made no sense to me at all, but I did not pursue it further at the moment. I left the others to their ceremony, and returned to my place at the horse picket. The sudden appearance of the rider put me in mind of another intruder—the one who had come to the rotunda that night. The feeling made me uneasy, though I could not think why.

  * * *

  “I have been several years with Bishop Sepulcius, receiving holy instruction from that good man,” Gwalcmai said. “And before that I wandered long in Llyonesse, Gorre, and Armorica.”

  We were at meat in Caer Lial, having returned from the Round Table at dusk. Everywhere was Gwalcmai welcomed, and greeted by one and all. He had been away so long, no one ever expected to see him again, thinking him dead and gone.

  On the way back to the city, the Emrys explained to me how it was. “He went in search of Pelleas,” he said.

  “You said he went in search of himself,” I reminded him.

  “So he did. He thought he was searching for Pelleas, but it was his own soul that stood in need of saving.”

  “Who was this Pelleas?”

  The Great Emrys sighed. “Pelleas was my steward, and my dearest friend.”

  “What happened to him?”

  The Emrys fixed me with a stern glance from his golden eyes. “You ask too many questions, boy.” He turned away, and we journeyed on in silence.

  As we sat in Arthur’s hall, I listened closely to hear any word that might explain the mystery of Pelleas. Gwalcmai spoke freely of his years away from his companions. I learned that he and Gwalchavad were sons of the rebel Lot, who I knew had once been one of the Pendragon’s chief supporters.

  This was news! Everyone knew that Lot of Orcady and Arthur had been uneasy allies at best. The rumor, never denied, was that Lot had failed to answer the hosting against the barbarians in the days of Cerdic’s rebellion. For this was Lot ever outcast from Arthur’s court.

  But here were the sons of Lot, enemy to Arthur, sitting at his table, enjoying the favor of his presence, honored among men with torcs of silver and rings of gold from the High King’s own hand—never languishing in a hostage pit for so much as a single day. It made no sense. Indeed, it served only to deepen the mystery.

  “I was six years in Gaul,” said Gwalcmai, “in the court of the Ffreinc king, Clovis. When he died, I returned to Ynys Prydein and once more took up my search for Morgian.”

  At mention of Morgian’s name, my interest quickened. I crept closer to the board, clutching my serving jar. What about Morgian?

  Gwalcmai turned his gaze to the Emrys and said, “Her trail led north.” Cai and Bedwyr exchanged worried glances, and those at the table grew silent. Clearly, this Morgian was a person of some power—the mere mention of her name cast a shadow over the festivity of the gathering.

  King Arthur slapped the table with his hand. “God love you, Gwalcmai, but it is good to have you with me again! We have much to discuss in the days to come.” The High King pushed his chair back and rose. “Please, take your ease and enjoy this night, my friends. I will join you again tomorrow.”

  Talk continued around the table, but I followed Arthur with my eyes and saw that Gwenhwyvar had appeared in the hall. The High King went to her and embraced her. Together, arm in arm, they passed from the hall to the royal chambers beyond.

  Nothing more was said of Gwalcmai’s long absence. Gwalcmai wanted to hear about the wars, and the others were eager to tell him all. Bedwyr, who remembered well each and every array and ordering of each battle from the Glein to Baedun and before, spoke with great eloquence and at length. The others gradually conceded the field to him, encouraging him with remembrances of their own.

  Gwalcmai listened to all in a rapture, now with half-closed eyes imagining the battle place, now with cries of amazement and praise for the courage of the combatants. Somewhere in the midst of the long recitation the Emrys left. I do not know when this happened, for I was absorbed in the tale myself. But when I looked up he was gone.

  Since the Wise Emrys preferred his silence in the matter of Morgian, I thought that Gwalcmai would not mind speaking about it; so I determined to ask him at first opportunity. Thus, the next morning when he came to the hall to break fast, I approached him boldly and told him what was in my mind.

  “If you please, Lord Gwalcmai, I would have a word with you.”

  I think he was taken aback by my presumption—a serving boy demanding council of a battlechief of the High King’s retinue. But my boldness appealed to him, I think, or at least it brought him up short. For he stopped and stared at me. “Do I know you, lad? Were you not at the board last night?”

  “I was,” I told him, “and before that I challenged you at the Shrine of the Round Table.”

  The battlechief laughed easily. “Yes! Yes, now I remember you. Plucky lad, you have a warrior’s way about you. Tell me your name, boy, for I ween you were born to higher thin
gs than passing ale jars.”

  “I am filidh to the Emrys,” I told him proudly. “It is true that I was born to higher things. Yet, I am content to serve the High King however I may—be it ale jars or sweeping floors. I am Aneirin ap Caw; my father is lord of Trath Gwryd.”

  “I give you good greeting, Aneirin ap Caw. What word would you have of me?” The battlechief fixed me with a curious gaze.

  “I would hear more of this person Morgian,” I said, little knowing what I asked.

  Gwalcmai became suspicious. “What have you to do with her, boy?”

  “Nothing at all, my lord. But I am thinking that there is a mystery here, for no one will so much as speak her name aloud.”

  “That is not difficult to believe,” replied Gwalcmai. He pulled on his chin and regarded me carefully. Then, turning quickly, he said, “Come, I will tell you what you want to know. But not within these walls.”

  We walked out from the hall to the training yard behind the palace. Gwalcmai remained silent for a while and we walked together, our eyes on our feet.

  “May my Lord Jesu forgive me,” he began suddenly. “Perhaps it is best for these things to remain hidden. It is beyond me to say. God alone knows what is best. But I think it is time that Morgian’s reign was ended, and I am pledged to bring about that end. Or, if I am not to succeed, then it is for someone else. That is why I am telling you.” He stopped and gripped my shoulder. “Do you understand, Aneirin ap Caw?”

  I nodded solemnly. I, too, felt the dread weight of his words falling like lead into the clear pool of my heart. Clearly, this mystery was deeper than I knew.

  “Seventeen years ago it began. We had been fighting in the north and returned to Caer Melyn to find that Myrddin was not there. Pelleas rode in search of Myrddin and when neither one returned, Arthur sent Bedwyr and me to find them.”

  He paused and shook his head. “Pelleas—ah, it is long since his name has passed my lips.”

  “Who was he, lord?”

  “Pelleas was a matchless warrior; he was a Fair Folk prince who served the Emrys, and he was also one of Arthur’s battlechiefs in those days. That both of them should go missing concerned Arthur in no small way. Bedwyr and I rode after them.” He paused, remembering that time years ago. When he spoke again, his voice was heavy with sorrow. “We found Myrddin sitting on a crag in Llyonesse, blistered and blind, and raving mad—or so I thought.”