Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

by Stephen R. Lawhead

  Across the green land the thunder became a roar, and the tremble the footfall of a terrible beast. I turned to the east, whence came the storm, and saw a great golden lion bounding toward me over the weald. The lion seized me and snatched me up in its jaws. And then it began to run. The enormous beast carried me over the island to the sea, where it plunged into the white-foamed waves and began to swim.

  The waves surged around me, and the lion changed into a fish that bore me on its back to a rock in the middle of the sea, and there it left me. The storm which had pursued me now broke with fury upon the rock. The gale screamed and raised the sea; water crashed and waves beat upon me, but I gripped the rock with all my strength, lest I be torn away to drown in the whelming flood.

  I clung to the rock, cold and wet, and sick with sorrow—for all my good companions had gone from me and my death drew near. I trembled and began to shake, so that I thought my very bones would break. My body began to burn as with fire.

  A shining mist came down over my rock, and out of the mist I heard a voice that called me by name. “Aneirin,” the voice commanded, “leave off your trembling, neither be afraid. I have seen your miserable plight and will help you. Stand up! I will show you what is to be done.”

  I stood on my rock and it became a mountain, strong and high. And though the storm-flood raged, the angry water could not overwhelm it. An ancient oak grew atop the mountain. I took one of its branches and struck the earth, and out from among the roots a spring appeared and began flowing down the mountainside.

  The spring poured forth cold and clean. And wherever the water flowed, forests and meadows appeared to clothe the barren slopes, giving food and shelter to the beasts of the field and to the eagles that soared in the heights.

  The old oak fell down, but the spring flowed on and became a stream, and the stream a mighty river. I picked up my branch and began to walk. Grass grew up in the places where my feet touched the earth, so that my tread was easy and the path clear. I came eventually to a green meadow—the same meadow that I had known before. And I saw that the mountain was in Avallon.

  The stone cross was there, and the leather pouch of tools. But now I saw what I did not see before. Inscribed on the cross was a name:

  ARTORIVS REX QVONDAM REXQVE FVRTVRVS

  Arthur, king once and king to be…Though well begun, the carving was unfinished.

  The voice which had spoken to me from the cloud hailed me again. “Arise, Gildas. Finish that which has been set before you.”

  “My name is Aneirin,” I replied, “and I know nothing of stonecraft.”

  The voice answered me, saying, “Aneirin you were, Gildas you shall be, True Bard to the High King of Heaven.”

  The dream ended, and I awoke at once. It was dawn, the time between times had given way to daylight, and I was back in the world of men. I rose and hurried to look out upon the sea. And behold! As the sun rose above the eastern hills I saw a ship coming toward us. I ran and told the queen, and we went down to the shore to await its arrival.

  “He must have ridden through the night,” I remarked, as the ship put out a coracle to meet us. The queen nodded, but said nothing. Her eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep or weeping, I know not which.

  Closer, I saw that it was Bedwyr come to fetch us. “I am sorry,” said Bedwyr as he helped the queen into the small boat. “I would have returned sooner, but the horse foundered and I had to walk some of the way.”

  Gwenhwyvar opened her mouth to make a reply, but her gaze slid past Bedwyr to the others standing behind him: Rhys, Bors, and Cador, looking repentant and stubborn at the same time, with their arms folded defiantly over their chests.

  “I could not get the ship without them knowing,” Bedwyr explained, “so I brought them with me.”

  “All respect to the Emrys’ wishes,” put in Cador, “but we would in nowise be left behind.”

  “I see,” replied Gwenhwyvar. “Since that is the way of it, I grant you leave to accompany me—in pledge for your silence.”

  “That you shall have,” said Bors, “and gladly.”

  “Swear it on your fealty to Arthur,” the queen said.

  “Lady,” protested Cador, “have we lived so long in Arthur’s service that we must be treated this way?”

  “Swear it!” the queen demanded. “Or I will put you over the side myself.”

  The three swore as the queen directed, and she gave the order to sail. Bors, who had spent fully as much time aboard the heaving planks of a ship as astride a galloping horse, acted as pilot. But since he had never been to Ynys Avallon, I stood with him to guide him as best I could from my memory of previous voyages.

  The day was clear, the seawind strong. We fairly flew over the water like the gulls that soared above our mast. And it seemed that the dun-colored cliffs of Rheged had just fallen away behind us when I saw the faint blue smudge of the island on the horizon away to the southwest. “There it is!” I cried. “That is Ynys Avallon.”

  Bors adjusted his course and steered for it. I settled in the bow and fell asleep listening to the slap of the waves against the hull. I awoke some time later, thinking to see the isle directly ahead. Instead, I saw nothing but a grey sky and grey sea all around.

  My shipmates were all asleep, save for Bors, so I crept back to sit with him at the tiller. “Where is it?” I asked, sliding onto the bench beside him.

  He pointed ahead. “Rain is blowing in from the east, and it has come over misty. But the island is just before us, never fear.”

  It was true. The island was before us, though I could not see it. That is the peculiar nature of the isle—which is why the men of Ierne consider it an Otherworldy island: it appears and disappears, seemingly at will.

  But Bors proved a good pilot, and we reached Avallon after midday. “Where is the best place to put to shore?” he asked, scanning what we could see of the coastline through the mist.

  “We must go around the southern point to the western side,” I told him. “The harbor is not so good there, but Avallach’s palace is on that side. That is where Myrddin has taken Arthur to be healed.”

  So we made our way around the southern end of the island and around to the western side. It was difficult in the mist, but the queen helped, for she had visited the island and remembered where to look for rocks below the surface, and where to find harborage.

  Nevertheless, it was late when we finally came into the harbor and drew in beside the boat Barinthus had used. We made landfall and tied our boat beside Barinthus’ vessel, and gathered on the red rock shingle below Avallach’s towered stronghold. We looked up at the cliffs rising before us, their soaring tops lost in the mist above. “They will not have seen us coming,” Bedwyr said. “You had better lead us, Aneirin.”

  I turned to the queen, but Gwenhwyvar said, “Go ahead, Aneirin. You know the way better than anyone here.”

  I did as I was bade, and found the winding, rock-cut steps that led to the palace. They were wet with mist, and slippery, which made the going slow.

  By the time I reached the top, I could scarce make out the contour of the ground before me as it rose slightly before fading into the grey obscurity of shifting cloud. I walked a few paces forward over the curled, wet grass to the path leading to Avallach’s fortress, feeling all the while as if I had crossed one of those invisible boundaries and entered the Otherworld. For even as my foot touched the path, the mist grew luminous and bright, all gold and glittering, shining with the westering sunlight through it.

  The sudden brilliance dazzled my eyes for a moment, I admit. But only that. Even so, mist or no mist, I know we would have seen the Fisher King’s palace if it had been there.

  But it was gone. Neither tower, nor wall, nor gate, nor hall remained. There was nothing left at all.

  12

  A grave for Constantine; a grave for Aurelius; a grave for Uther. All the world’s wonder—no grave for Arthur!

  I know neither the how, nor the where, nor the why. I only know what
is: the palace of the Fisher King was gone and Arthur with it. The mist parted, and we saw only the flat expanse of grass and the trees beyond. The smooth white towers, the high-peaked hall, the stout gate and wall—not a stone or straw remained. I had slept beneath that roof! I had eaten food from that board! Like a dream passing from memory upon waking, all had vanished out of the world of men.

  We stood blinking in strong sunlight as the mist dissolved and knew ourselves to be witness to a miracle. Loath to believe it, we said foolish things.

  “A sea wave has carried them off!” said Cador. Yet, there was no storm, and Barinthus’ boat was still tied in the bay.

  “Sea Wolves!” cried Bors. “Barbarians have attacked them!” Even the barbarians have not so mastered the art of destruction as to leave neither smoke nor ash where they have plundered.

  We said other things and began at once laying plans to search the island and surrounding sea for any sign of them. Even as we began our search, we knew—each of us, in our deepest hearts, knew—the sharp spear-thrust of despair: all our effort would avail nothing.

  Still, we searched. A fire is not more consuming than our scouring of Avallon. The rain is not more penetrating than our plying of the sea round about the island. For many days, and yet more days, we searched both land and sea. Gwenhwyvar sent Bors to bring the Cymbrogi to ride from one end of the isle to the other, and assembled most of Arthur’s fleet to sweep the sea from Caer Lial to Ierne and from Mon to Rheged.

  While we searched, we prayed. Gwenhwyvar sent for the renowned Illtyd and many of his followers to join with the brothers there on Avallon and pray unceasingly. And ever while there was a boat or rider yet searching for Arthur and the Emrys, the holymen besieged the throne of the Most High God with their prayers.

  In the end, we found what we knew we would find all along.

  Winter gales rising in the seapaths, snow and rain blowing in, the sky a darkling slate, the world growing colder—the queen had but little choice. Sadly, Gwenhwyvar commanded the searching to end. With tears in her eyes, she ordered the ships and Cymbrogi back to Caer Lial, where she attempted to begin her rule alone. But word of Arthur’s disappearance had spread far and wide throughout Britain, and the people cowered in fear.

  “Arthur is gone!” they wailed to one another. “What is to become of us?”

  “We will be attacked by our enemies! We will be killed!” they cried.

  “Woe! Woe and grief! Our life is done!” they said, and lifted their sharp lament.

  And the more they said these things, the more fear blighted their souls. Gwenhwyvar could do nothing against this. Despite her skill and courage, it was not an enemy she could fight. And the small kings, without Arthur’s strong hand upon them to keep them in their places, began raising all the old complaints against her. “She is Irish! She is not of our kind! She is a barbarian!”

  In truth, it came to this: they would in no wise hold a woman sovereign over them.

  Oh, she fought valiantly. She was ever more than a match for any adversary. But a monarch cannot rule where there is no faith. The petty kings and lords of Britain set their hearts against Gwenhwyvar and would not be appeased. Of Arthur’s subject lords, only Bors, Ban, Meurig, Cador, and Bedwyr held faith with Gwenhwyvar.

  At Eastertide the following spring, Gwenhwyvar gave command of the Cymbrogi to Cador, and returned to the home of her father and kinsmen in Ierne where she founded a monastery on the coast within sight of Avallon, there to devote her life to prayer and good works among her own people.

  Bors, Bedwyr, and Rhys, who had served so long with the Pendragon, could not be happy with any lesser lord—even the honorable Cador. They determined among themselves to answer the long-neglected challenge of the Grail, and rode off in quest of this most holy vessel—to find it and establish it in the Round Table.

  They hoped by this to honor Arthur’s dearest wish and, I believe, to restore the quickly fading glory of his exalted reign. For the darkness that Myrddin and Arthur had so long held at bay was, like floodwater spilling over an earthen dike, already rushing in to extinguish the feeble glow that yet lingered upon Britain. The last of the renowned Flight of Dragons hoped yet to turn men’s hearts from fear, and to crown the passing age with its highest honor.

  Alas, they did not succeed. I learned later that of the three, only Bedwyr came back alive. Bors and Rhys ended their days in the Holy Land, where it was rumored that Rhys’ head adorned a spear atop the gates of Damascus. Bors, it was said, lived long and died in his bed, surrounded by a wife and five brown children. Bedwyr alone returned to Britain. He became a hermit and took the rotunda for his hermitage. I never saw him again, for he died in that holy precinct soon after.

  Cador asked me to join him, but I had had my fill of fighting and longed to lose myself in prayer and study. I traveled with the Cymbrogi as far as Dyfed and found a place at the Abertaff monastery, under the wing of the revered Teilo and his superior, the venerable Illtyd. I sojourned there and learned much to my advantage of holy matters.

  In time, a call came to me from the Britons in Armorica. Hopeless in the face of increasing strife among the small kings, good men were abandoning the Island of the Mighty in ever-increasing numbers. The exiles asked me to come to them, so I left my cell and took up my work in the church at Rhuys. I stayed there long; married, raised my children in peace, and saw them grown. But ever I yearned to see the green hills of Britain once more. I returned and joined the good brothers at the Shrine of the Savior God at Ynys Avallach, where I endure to this day.

  I am an old man, and my heart grows heavy with the weight of grief. Most unhappy of men am I, most untimely born: to have witnessed both the dazzling radiance of the True Light, and the blinding Darkness of evil, black and rampant. More fortunate by far are those who lived and died with Arthur, knowing nothing but the world made bright by his presence. Would that I had gone with him in his boat to Avallon!

  To serve him in whatever court he now resides is all I wish. My voice would not be silent in his hall, nor would he lack the pleasing sound of heartfelt praise in his ears. I would make of his name a song, of his life a tale fit for the instruction of kings.

  I look back on my life from a prominence of some years, and see shining still that golden time when I was young—shining all the more brightly for the gloom. It glows like a polished gem picked out by a single ray of the sun’s dying light and fired to wonderful brightness, so that all around it is illumined and charged with splendor.

  But the sun passes, as it must. And the gem, still a gem, grows dark once more.

  I waited—all my life long I have waited—for some word or sign of Arthur and the Emrys, whether they were dead or living still. In all my journeying I have asked and sought and listened for what I longed to hear. I have grown old in listening!

  Of Arthur and his Wise Counsellor, never any word or sign came to men. Of Avallach and his daughter, Charis, Lady of the Lake, and their people, never more was heard. The Fair Folk and their kind were no more to be found in this worlds-realm; their passing went unmarked and unlamented.

  I have labored long over this through the many years since that first unhappy day. Alas, I am no wiser for all my ardent contemplation!

  Perhaps God in his infinite wisdom and mercy simply reached down and gathered that bright company to his loving heart. Perhaps the Lord Jesu in his unceasing compassion looked upon Arthur’s suffering and spared him the indignity of death and, like Elijah of old, carried our king bodily into Paradise in a golden chariot with wheels of fire.

  Or perhaps the last True Bard of Britain hid the Beloved Pendragon from mortal eyes with a powerful enchantment, until such time as need calls him forth to battle Britain’s enemies once more.

  So it is told, and so many believe. I do not say that this shall be so. I will say only that here in this worlds-realm Arthur’s life was changed. For Mryddin Emrys was a prophet, and like his father, Taliesin, he was a bard aflame with God’s own virtue. From his holy awe
n he spoke forth many things, but ever he spoke the truth. And the Wise Emrys said that Arthur would yet come again to lead his own.

  Epilogue

  False kings! Power-mad dogs dressed in purple robes! Bloody-minded barbarians to a man! We are not sunk so low as to revere your names in song. When you die, as soon you must, there will be no lament, no gravesong, no weeping of heartfelt tears. The eyes of your people will be dry as the dust in your tombs, and your names will decay more swiftly than your disgusting flesh!

  Would that you had never lived! With both hands, like ignorant children scattering good grain from a sack, you threw away Arthur’s peace. You exchanged hard-won freedom for slavery to vice and every corruption. In your greed you have wasted all the land. And what you did not destroy, you gave to the enemy to despoil!

  Look at you! You sit with your fat-bellied warbands in your fetid mead halls, drunk in your cups, inflamed with your small treasons. Cattle thieves! Raiding your neighbor lords and men of your own race and blood, worrying one another with unworthy conflicts, warring on your kinsmen and brothers while the heathen burn and plunder!

  Your legacy is death! The disgust of good men is your renown! The lowly languish; the humble make curses of your names. Does this please you? Does it swell your hearts with pride?

  Speak to me no longer of great lords. I will hear no more of kings and their lofty affairs. Their concerns are the concerns of the maggot in the dungheap. I, who have soared with eagles, will not wallow with pigs!

  To our everlasting shame, the very barbarians who everywhere supplant us are proving better Christians than the Britons who first taught them the Faith! Their zeal is as sharp as the spears they once raised against us, while that of our kings has grown dull, their hearts cold. Are they yet to prove themselves better men?

  * * *

  Once there was a time, now all but forgotten, when the world knew what it was like to be ruled by a righteous lord, when one man of faith held all realms in his strong hand, when the High King of Heaven blessed his High King on earth.