'Have you seen Ganieda's grave?'
'I have just come from there. It is a good stone.'
'Yes, I had the priests at Caer Ligal make it.'
I noticed he said nothing about his son, so I asked: 'What of Gwendolau?'
'He is buried on the field where he died. I will take you there if you like – but you will remember the place.'
'I have never forgotten it.' Nor would I ever.
'We have spoken our respect for the dead, and that is good and proper,' Custennin said. 'Now let us talk of the living. I have another son, for I have taken a wife in recent years and she has just given birth to a babe.'
This was good news and I told him so. Custennin was well pleased, for the birth of this child meant a great deal to him. 'What is his name?'
'Cunomor,' he told me, 'an old name, but a good one.'
'May he grow into the stature of his illustrious ancestors,' I said lightly.
'Come inside and rest from your journey. We will eat and drink together,' Custennin said, pulling me along with him. He held me by the arm as if he were afraid that I might disappear again if he relaxed his hold for even an instant. 'And then you will meet my new son.'
We did eat and drink together. And I greeted his son – who looked precisely like all newborn babes everywhere. I sang in Custennin's hall and fell asleep that night thinking about the first night I had sheltered under his roof: an awkward boy dressed in wolfskins, half-wild and alone, and hopelessly infatuated with the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
The next morning I walked out to the place where Gwendolau was buried and I prayed for the Good God's mercy on his soul. It was evening when the reason for my visit arose. 'Well, Myrddin Wylt,' said Custennin, slapping a dog leash against his leg, 'what news of the wider world beyond this forest?'
We were walking together at the near fringe of the forest; a new dog which Custennin was training ran on ahead of us. 'There is news at last,' I replied; this was the king's way of saying that he was ready now to talk. 'Vortigern is dead.'
'Good!' He stared at the trail ahead. 'Health to his enemies!'
'Yes, and there were not a few of them.'
'Who is to be High King in his place?'
'Need anyone?' I asked, probing his mind on the subject.
He glanced quickly at me to see if I was serious. 'Oh, yes, I think so. Despite what Vortigern became, it is a good thing. Each year the Saecsen grow bolder; they take more. For each king to defend his own little patch – that is becoming too difficult. We must help one another if any of us are to survive. If a High King can make this happen, I support him.' He broke off abruptly.
'But?'
Custennin stopped walking and turned to me. 'But what we need is not another Vortigern, sitting in his mead hall, drunk on ambition and power, bloated with gold-lust, feasting the Saecsen and giving them land because he is too much a coward to confront them on the field of battle… ' He spat his venom and then paused. When he spoke again he was cooler. 'What we need is a war leader – a battlechief over all others, leading all the armies as his own.'
'A Dux Britanniarum,' I said, musing, 'Duke of Britain – supreme commander of all armies in the land.'
'Yes, that is what we need – not another Vortigern.' He started walking again.
'We would still need a High King,' I ventured, 'to keep the other kings in their place.'
'Oh, aye,' agreed Custennin, 'and to keep the war host supplied from the coffers of the kings beneath him. But on the battleground the supreme commander must wield a power above even the High King. In battle there is enough to worry about, without having to wonder whether you will offend this lord or that in some obscure way, or run out of supplies because someone did not send the aid he promised. The way we fight,' he lamented, 'it is a wonder we are still here at all.'
A plan was taking shape in my mind. 'What if I told you your thoughts could become reality?'
Custennin laughed. 'I would say you were an enchanter indeed – the Chief Enchanter of the Island of the Mighty!'
'But would you support the man?'
'How could I not? I have already said I would.' He looked at me slyly. 'Does such a man exist?'
'Not yet, but he will. Soon.'
'Who?'
'The man who killed Vortigern… men, rather. There were two of them – brothers.'
'Brothers.'
'What is more, they have already won the support of the kings of Dyfed for their claim to the High Kingship.'
Custennin mulled this over in his mind for a moment. 'Who are these remarkable men?'
'Aurelius and Uther, sons of Constantine. I believe that with the Cymry kings and the kings of the north on his side, Aurelius will be High King.'
'And the other – this Uther?'
'He could well be the battlelord you speak of.'
Custennin began to see what I was seeing. He nodded, then asked, The lords of the west will follow him?'
'They will,' I assured him. 'I have spoken to them as I am speaking to you now. On their behalf, Tewdrig sends his adviser – the one who rides with me – so that you will know that what I say is true: the lords of the west support Aurelius.'
Custennin slapped the leash sharply across his palm. 'Then the lords of the north will support him as well.' He smiled grimly. 'And by the god you serve, Myrddin, I pray that you are right.'
'Right or wrong,' I said, 'this new king and his brother are the only hope we have.'
The next day Custennin sent messengers out to his lords and chieftains to gather in Goddeu to voice their approval of his plans to support Aurelius as High King, and Uther as his supreme war leader. I could guess what Custennin's lords would think of the idea, but I did not know what Uther would say.
That, I would soon discover.
FOUR
I cannot say Uther was overjoyed to hear what the lords of the north had decided: that they would support Aurelius, if Uther would lead the war host. Uther, fancying himself High King material, rebelled at the thought, considering it somehow beneath him.
I delivered the ultimatum only moments after our arrival from Goddeu. Custennin, like Tewdrig, had sent advisers with me, and Aurelius had seen them as we entered camp – cold and wet, for it had been misting rain all day. The king summoned me before I could even change into dry clothing. Both Aurelius and Uther had listened to my summary, and Uther spoke first:
'So, the yapping dog is to be thrown a bone to keep him quiet – is that it?' I did not reply, so he continued, thrusting his fist in my face. 'You put them up to this! You, Merlin the Meddler.'
Aurelius looked on placidly. 'Uther, do not take on so -'
'How should I not, brother dear? I am to be made a simple spear-bearer and you sit by and say nothing,' Uther sulked. 'I should be a king at least.'
'It was Custennin's idea,' I told him. 'And it was his lords who added the condition of your leading the war host, not me. Still, I think it is no bad thing.'
'Consider it, Uther,' said Aurelius, seeking to smooth his brother's ruffled feathers, 'of the two of us, you are the better warrior.'
'True,' sniffed Uther.
'And as I am the older, the kingship falls to me.' Aurelius fixed him a stern glance.
'Also true,' Uther admitted.
'Then what is to prevent you from becoming this Supreme Commander?'
'It is an insult,' sneered Uther.
I bit back the words that were stinging my tongue like wasps.
Aurelius put a hand on his brother's shoulder. 'Since when is it an insult to lead the greatest army in the world?'
Uther softened. Aurelius pressed home his point. 'Is it an insult to be the Supreme Commander of all the Britons? Think of it, Uther! Hundreds of thousands of men at your command – a thousand thousand! – all looking to you, trusting you for their lives. You will win great renown, and your name will be remembered for ever.'
Shamelessly, Aurelius preened his brother's vanity. And not without the desired effect.
>
‘The greatest army in the Empire,' Uther murmured.
'In an older time,' I put in, 'the war leader was called Dux Britanniarum. It means Duke of Britain. Magnus Maximus held the title before he became emperor.'
'You see? Not since Emperor Maximus have we had a Dux Britanniarum. A noble title, Uther, and it is yours – yours alone.' Here Aurelius broke off. He stepped backward a pace and raised his arm in the old Roman salute. 'Hail, Uther, Duke of Britain!'
Uther could not help himself any longer; he burst into a grin, answering, 'Hail, Aurelianus, High King of the Britons!'
They fell laughing into one another's arms like the overgrown boys they were. I let them have their fun, and then announced, 'Now then, Tewdrig and Custennin await an answer from you both. Their advisers are gathered in my tent and wish to speak with you before riding back to report to their lords. I suggest you do not keep them waiting even a moment longer.'
I do not know where Aurelius had come by his tact, but it was a well-honed tool with him and he used it like a craftsman. And that was not all; he also possessed a high and noble dignity which he could wield when it suited him, and this, on more than one occasion, won the day for him when words alone were not enough. To say that he coaxed and flattered the advisers who had come to see him would cheapen his art, for he was far more subtle than that.
He never coaxed, but he persuaded; he never flattered, but he encouraged those around him to think the best of themselves. Uther, of course, he had a different way with. Still, he was never devious or dishonest. The Imperial blood ran true in his veins and it was not in him to disgrace it.
As I came to know Aurelius, I came to honour him and to love him. He was what our people needed. He would be a true High King to unite all kingdoms with his power, just as Uther would be the battlechief to lead them on the field of battle. Together they made a most formidable force. Although, there was never any doubt in my mind which one of the two was the wiser and stronger.
Uther simply did not have his brother's character. He was not to blame, perhaps, for this lack. Men of Aurelius' stamp are rare. It was merely Uther's poor luck to have Aurelius for a brother and to be forced to live his whole life in his brother's shadow. In consequence, I undertook never to compare one of them against the other, nor ever to praise Aurelius in Uther's hearing – nor out of it – without also praising Uther.
A small thing, you may think, but empires have foundered on less.
With the kingdoms of the west and the north behind Aurelius, the stiff-necked lords of Lloegres in the south were suddenly faced with an almost insurmountable obstacle to winning the High Kingship for themselves or one of their own. Most, seeing the prudence of capitulation – if not the wisdom of unity – fell in with the powerful west and north in their support of Aurelius.
For others, in whom the white-hot fires of ambition burned, and blinded, it was a challenge that could not be ignored. They would fight Aurelius for the throne and quench the fire once and for all in blood. Woefully, many a good man lost his life to an ally who, on another day, might have been fighting Jutes and Saecsens instead.
It was a painful purging, but necessary. Aurelius would be king of all, or king of none. There was no other way.
I rode with him, always by his side, upholding him in battle as Taliesin had done for Elphin in another day. I will say that they had need of my help through that long, difficult summer. Aurelius, so sure and forthright ordinarily, would at times misdoubt himself and grow discouraged. 'Nothing can be worth this, Merlin,' he would moan, and I would embolden him with heartening words.
Uther had no stomach for fighting allies, but he was a warrior, and had a warrior's soul; he could dare, and do, many things other men would shrink from. And this earned him a fearsome reputation in the land: Uther, it was soon whispered abroad, was Aurelius' wolfhound – a cold-hearted killer who would tear throat and heart out of any man at his master's slightest command.
He was not so much cold-hearted as he was loyal, and his loyalty – to his brother, to the High Kingship itself – knew no bounds. In this, Uther earned my respect; his steadfastness was sprung from love – a love both genuine and pure. There are not many men who love so selflessly as Uther loved Aurelius.
This flame-haired firebrand lavished no love on me, however. He distrusted me with the same unreasoning suspicion many so-called enlightened men adopt in the presence of someone or something they cannot comprehend. He tolerated me, yes. And in time he came to accept me and even to value my counsel. For he saw that I meant him no harm, and that I shared his love of Aurelius.
Well, we three were a sight to behold: riding here and there with our troops, most of whom were unmounted – there simply were not enough horses to go round; hungry all the time; tired and dirty and sore; wounded and sick. But we were tenacious. We had fastened on the High Kingship, like hounds on the scent of the stag, and we would not be put off.
One by one, the warbands of Lloegres fell to us. One by one, we added the fealty of southern lords to Aurelius' rule: Dunaut, lord of the belligerent Brigantes; Coledac, lord of the ancient Iceni and Catuvellauni; Morcant, lord of the industrious and independent Belgae; Gorlas, lord of the contentious Cornovii. Proud, arrogant-men, each and every one of them. But they all bowed the knee to Aurelius before it was through.
Then, in the last shining days of false summer, just before the autumn rain spread its dripping cloak over the land, we turned to face Hengist at last.
It was not the best of circumstances. We might have waited through the winter, nursing our strength, healing our wounds, biding our time until the next spring. We might even have paused to crown Aurelius properly. But the thought of suffering the Saecsen horde even one more season on British soil rankled with Aurelius. 'Let them crown me later,' Aurelius said, 'if there is anything left to crown.'
Besides, as Uther pointed out, it would only give Hengist time to amass more men for, certainly, more ships would come across the Narrow Sea with the spring floods. Also, there was no telling how long the lords of Lloegres would remain loyal; they might forget their promises in the long winter months ahead. Best to strike now and settle the matter once and for all.
That would have been my counsel in any case. Hengist had already grown stronger through the long summer. He had been joined by his brother Horsa, with six more shipfuls of warriors. They had encamped themselves along the eastern shores – called the Saecsen Shore even by the Romans, who had built fortresses to keep the warships from raiding the coast. Now the Saecsens owned these fortresses and the land around them – lands they had been given by Vortigern, and other lands and strongholds they had not been given.
We marched to the east, to the Saecsen Shore, to the very doors of the fortresses themselves if need be, for we were determined to carry the fight to Hengist come what may. We need not have worried whether the barbarian would meet us. They were eager for blood; indeed, it had been a thirsty summer for them.
Aurelius raised his standard, the Imperial Eagle, and pitched his tent beneath it on a hill overlooking a ford on the River Nene. Somewhere across the river, well hidden, Hengist's war host was waiting.
'This will suit our purpose,' declared Aurelius. 'The Eagle will not fly from this hill until all the Saecsens are driven into the sea!' With that he plunged his sword into the turf in front of his tent and he went in to rest.
For men who had existed on a steady diet of war all summer, there was a surprising air of excitement in the camp. Men talked earnestly to one another, they laughed readily and loudly, they went briskly and happily about their tasks in a mood of high anticipation.
The reason for this, I came to understand, was partly that they trusted Uther to lead them wisely. He had shown himself an inspired leader, a natural battlechief: quick, decisive, yet cool in the heat of the clash, a consummate horseman and skilled with spear and sword – in short, more than a match for any who drew blade against him.
But part of the reason for the high spirits was t
hat at last we were meeting the real enemy. Tomorrow we would fight Saecsens – not subdue an ally. There would be a true foe arrayed on the field against us, not a would-be friend. And this thought lifted the spirits of the warriors.
As I was going to my tent, Uther stopped me on his way to meet with his battlechiefs. 'Lord Emrys,' he said, the light taunt always in his voice, 'a word.'
'Yes?'
'It would be well to have a song tonight. I am thinking the war host would fight the better tomorrow for a song to set the fire in their hearts.'
The men appeared in excellent fettle to me, and in any event there were two or three other harpers in the camp, for some of the other kings travelled with their bards, and these often sang for the men. All the same, I replied, 'It is a good idea. I will ask one of the harpers for you. Which would you like?'
'You, Myrddin.' He used the Cymric form of my name, something he rarely did. 'Please.'
'Why, Uther?' I had caught something in his tone I had never heard from him before.
'The men would feel better,' he said, his eyes sliding from mine.
The men.' I said and was silent.
He could endure only so much silence, so at last he burst out, as if the words had been trapped inside him, 'Oh, very well, it is not for the men only.'
'No?'
‘I would feel better for it.' He smacked his fist angrily against his thigh, as if the words had cost him dearly. But he looked at me with something like pain in his eyes. Or fear. 'Please, Merlin?'
'I will do it, Uther. But you must tell me why.'
He stepped close, and spoke low. 'Well, there is no reason you should not know… ' he began, and halted, searching for words, 'My scouts have returned from across the river… '
'And?'
'If their count is accurate – and I trust with my life that it is – we will face an enemy war host larger than any other since fighting began in this island.'
'That is not saying very much. How large?'
'Were we five times our own number we still would not match them man for man.' He spat the words. 'Now you know.'
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