Merlin

FIFTEEN

In the black month, the bleak month, when cold winds blow snow from the ice-bound north, the month of privation and death in which winter itself dies in the Christ Mass, the babe was born. Birth from death: it is the ancient and holy way of the earth. I consulted the oaken bowl, and stayed up five nights together to view the winter-clean sky. In this way I learned that the time was near.

Pelleas and I travelled to Tintagel and waited a little way off in the woods of the deep glen for the birth. I did not like to go up to the caer itself, for my coming would be noticed and discussed.

For three days we sat wrapped in our cloaks and furs before our small fire of oak twigs and pine cones, waiting. At midnight of the third night, as we sat watching, a strange thing happened: an enormous black bear came out of the woods, padded softly round the fire, snuffling at us warily, and ambled up the trail leading to the caer.

'Let us follow,' I whispered. 'Perhaps that fellow knows something that we should also learn.'

We followed and found the bear standing on its hind legs at the edge of the wood, its blackness sharp against the moon-bright snow. The beast's nose sniffed the seawind and its great head swung towards us as we approached, but the creature did not move. It remained for some little time, standing, looking up at Uther's fortress, and then, as if making up its own slow mind, lumbered on.

'Hunger has driven it from its lair,' remarked Pelleas. 'It goes to find food.'

'No, Pelleas, it goes to honour a birth.' I still remember the look Pelleas gave me, his face white hi the moonlight. 'Come, it is time.'

By the time we reached the gates, the great bear, by some means – animal strength perhaps – had gained entrance into the caer. The gateman, no doubt asleep at his watch when the beast appeared, had run away to raise the alarm, leaving the. gate unattended. Men with torches dashed here and there in confusion while the dogs barked wildly at the ends of their leashes, working themselves into a killing frenzy.

No one saw us slip through the gates and we made our way directly to the hall, and through it to the king's chamber. Ygerna lay in the room above, her women and a midwife or two gathered with her. But Uther remained below, alone, awaiting the birth.

The sword of Maximus lay unsheathed across his knee.

Uther glanced up as we entered: guilt writ large upon his features for all to see. I had caught him and he knew it.

'Oh, Merlin, you are here. I thought you would be.' He contrived to sound relieved. The sound of the chaos outside had entered with us, and Uther seized on this to aid him. 'By the Raven, what is that commotion?'

'A bear has entered your stronghold, Uther,' I told him.

'A bear.' He appeared to ponder this as if the thing bore deep significance for him, then said, 'My wife is not delivered of the child. You may as well sit – it will likely be some time yet.'

I motioned for Pelleas to find us some food and drink, and he disappeared behind the hanging hides into the hall. I sat down in Gorlas' big chair – Uther preferred his camp chair even in chamber – and studied die High King as he sat before me.

'I am disappointed, Uther,' I told him flatly. 'Why have you gone back on your word?'

'When did I promise anything?' he flung back angrily. 'You accuse me falsely.'

'Tell me I am mistaken then. Tell me that the sword across your knee is not for the babe. Tell me you did not intend to kill it.'

Uther frowned and turned his face away. 'By God, Merlin, you hound a man!'

'Well? My apology only awaits your denial.'

'I have nothing to deny! I do not answer to you, Meddler.'

'Does Ygerna know what you intend?'

'What would you have me do?' He jumped up and threw the sword on the table.

. 'Honour our agreement.' I told him, thinking of many other things I could have said. I was trying to make it easy for him.

Still the High King resisted. As I say, once Uther fastened on a thing, he was loth to give it up. And he had had a long time to work himself up to this. He stalked around the room, glaring at me. 'I agreed to nothing. It was all your idea – I never agreed.'

'That is untrue, Uther. It was your idea for me to take the child.'

'Well, I have thought better of it then,' he growled. 'What have you to do with this anyway? What is your interest?'

'Only this: that the son of Aurelius, and a blood descendant of Constantine, should not suffer death before he has tasted of life. Uther,' I said gently, 'he is your kin. By all laws of heaven and earth it would be a grievous crime to kill the child. The deed is not worthy of you, Uther – you, who let Octa, the son of your enemy, live. How will you justify killing the son of your brother, whom you loved most dearly?'

Uther snarled. 'You twist things!'

'I say only what is, Uther. Give it up! If not for the child's sake, then for your own. Do not think to enter God's rest with this black deed on your soul.'

The High King stood unmoved, feet apart, glaring baleful-ly, his mouth a firm line. Oh, he could be difficult.

'What is the use, Uther? Where is your gain?'

He had no answer, and made none. Neither did he give in.

'Very well,' I sighed. 'I had hoped to persuade you, but you leave me no choice.'

'What will you do?'

'I claim the promise you gave me, Uther. And I bind you with your honour to grant it.'

'What promise?' he asked warily.

'On the night I brought Ygerna out of the fortress, you promised me anything I desired. "Even to the half of my kingdom," you said, if I would deliver her to you. I fulfilled my half of the bargain, and asked nothing for myself at the time. Well, I make my claim now.'

'The child?' Uther was incredulous. Until this moment he had forgotten that promise. He remembered it full well now.

'The child, yes. I claim the child as my reward.' Uther was beaten and he knew it. But he was not about to give up so easily. 'You are a cunning hound,' he faced me squarely. 'What if I refuse?'

'Refuse me now and lose all honour and self-respect. Your name will become a curse. You will never command a man with authority again. Consider, Uther, and answer: is killing a helpless babe worth that?'

'All right!' He fairly burst with exasperation. 'Take it! Take the child and let there be an end to it!'

Presently, Pelleas returned with a jar of mead, cups, bread and cheese. He put these on the table and began pouring the cups. 'I could find no meat,' he said. The kitchens were empty.'

This is enough, Pelleas, thank you.' I turned to Uther and handed him a cup. 'I accept my reward, Uther,' I said lightly. 'Let us part as friends.'

The High King said nothing, but accepted the cup in one hand and a bit of bread in the other. We drank and ate together, and Uther calmed somewhat. But as his guilt and anger seeped away, he was left with the shame. He slumped in his chair and became despondent.

To shift his attention to something else, I said, 'What has become of that bear, I wonder? Perhaps we should go and see.'

We walked back through the empty hall and outside. The dogs had stopped barking and I thought by this that the bear must be killed. But no; it lived. The men had it cornered by the fortress wall, where, surrounded by torches and spears, the beast stood reared on its hind legs, its forepaws outspread, pelt bristling, claws extended, fangs bared. The yard was strangely quiet.

A magnificent beast, its dark eyes glinting in the ruddy torchlight. It was cornered but unconquered.

Uther looked upon the bear, and his aspect changed. He stopped and stared. What he saw, I cannot say. But when he moved again, it was as one in a dream: walking lightly, languidly, he made his way to the ring of men, stepping among them on his way to the animal.

'Lord King! No! Stay back!' shouted one of his chieftains. He threw down his spear and made to lay hold of the High King and pull him back.

'Silence!' I hissed. 'Let him go!'

My senses prickled to the presence of the Otherworld. I saw everything in sharp relief: the risen moon, the bear, the men holding the torches, Uther, the glinting points of the spears, the stars, Pelleas, the dark hardness of the wall, the stones at my feet, the silent dogs…

It was a dream, and more than a dream. The dream had become real – or reality had become a dream. These times are rare; who is to say where the truth lies? Afterwards, men shake their heads in wonder and endure the scoffing of those who were not present. For it cannot be explained, only experienced. But this is what happened:

Uther boldly approached the bear and the animal lowered its head and dropped onto its forefeet. The High King held out his hand to the beast, and the bear, like a hound recognizing its master, pushed his muzzle into the High King's palm. With his other hand, Uther stroked the bear's huge head.

Men stared in astonishment: their lord and a wild bear, greeting one another as old friends. Perhaps, in some inexplicable way, they were.

I will never know what Uther thought he was doing, for he could never remember it clearly. But the two stood this way for the space of a few heartbeats, then Uther lowered his hand and turned away. One of the dogs growled and lunged forward, pulling its leash free from the slack hand of its holder. The bear reared as the dog leaped, and gave a sideways swipe with its great paw. The dog tumbled away, howling with pain, its back broken.

The dream ended then in the yelps of a dying dog. The other dogs were at the bear in an instant. The chieftain grabbed Uther by the arm and pulled him back to safety. Then the warriors loosed their spears.

The bear snarled and clawed the air, breaking spearshafts as if they were reeds; but the wounds were made and the blood was already flowing. Roaring with pain and rage, the great beast fell and the dogs tore out its throat.

Take them off!' shouted Uther. 'Put the dogs away!'

The dogs were pulled away and all was silent once more. The bear was dead, its blood pooling black and thick on the stones beneath the immense body. This worlds-realm had reasserted itself – as it always will – in stark, unforgiving brutality.

Ah, but for a moment – if only for the briefest moment, those standing in the courtyard knew something of Otherworldly grace and peace.

There are those who say that it was Gorlas come to pay homage to the birth of his grandson that night. Or that the spirit of that great bear, poured out onto the stones in sacrifice at the moment of the babe's birth, found its way into the child that was born that night.

For it is true that when we reached the door of the hall once more, we heard the babe, squawling lustily at the top of its lungs. A hearty cry at the moment of birth is a good sign. Uther shook himself like one awakening, and turned to me. 'It is -' he paused, 'a boy.'

'A son,' he had been about to say.

'Wait here, I will have the babe brought out. It is best if Ygerna does not see you.'

'As you wish, Uther.' I signalled to Pelleas to go back to the wood and fetch our horses.

He hurried off down the track to the gate and I waited at the door. People, roused by the noise in the courtyard, passed by on their way to see the bear, which the men were already skinning where it lay. Indeed, it was a giant among bears.

Pelleas came with the horses. We had planned to take the babe without being seen. But the bear had changed that. People knew we were there now, and would know that we had taken the child. There was nothing to be done about that any more; we would have to trust the Guiding Hand and proceed boldly.

We waited and watched the men work over the bear. When the skin was free, they quartered the animal and fed the heart and liver to the dogs. The rest of the meat would be roasted, or made into stew for the feast.

Yes, I had forgotten: the Christ Mass. I turned and looked to the east and saw that dawn stood not far off. Already the sky lightened at the horizon; grey going to pink and rust. I heard footsteps behind me and Uther approached, carrying a fur-wrapped bundle, his face impassive. A woman walked behind him.

'Here,' he said curtly. 'Take it.' Then softly – possibly the only softness I had ever witnessed in Uther Pendragon – he lifted the edge of the fur and brushed the tiny head with his lips. 'Farewell, nephew,' he said, then looked up at me. I thought he would ask me where I took the child – surely it was in his mind – but he merely tucked the wrap and said, 'Go now.'

'He will be well cared for, Uther. Never fear.'

'Ygerna is asleep,' he said. 'I am going to wait with her.' He turned, saw the woman standing there, and remembered. 'I am sending this woman with you; she will suckle the child. A horse will be made ready for her.' He made to leave, but something held him. He hesitated, his eyes resting on the bundle in my arms. 'Is there anything else you require?'

The men came towards us, carrying the skin of the bear into the hall. 'Yes, Uther,' I answered, 'the bearskin.'

He eyed me curiously, but ordered the raw skin to be rolled up and tied behind my saddle. While this was being done a stablehand arrived leading a horse for the woman. When she had mounted, I handed the child to her; and, taking the reins of her horse into my hand, led my horse and hers out through the gate and down the narrow causeway. Several caer-dwellers watched us from outside the walls, but nothing was said and no one followed.

As daylight struggled into the sky, staining the eastern clouds and snow-covered hills crimson and gold, we rode back through the clefted valley and into the smooth, empty hills beyond Tintagel. And seagulls wheeled above us, keening in the cold winter air.

I did not like the idea of a winter sea voyage. But we must reach Dyfed as quickly as possible. The road is no place for a newborn, and in winter even those who make the road then-home stay inside. Crossing Mor Hafren was necessary, though the prospect was far from welcome. Enough men lose their lives in winter seas that most boatmen refuse all commerce in that treacherous season.

Be that as it may, there are those who can always be bought. A flash of gold and they will go against all natural inclination, risking life and limb to an enterprise they would not consider otherwise. Consequently, we had little trouble finding a boat to takc us across. Still and all, we waited four days for calm weather.

I was uneasy the whole time. But, if anyone marked our passing, we learned nothing of it, for we saw no one else on the road, nor did the boatman take an interest in us. Once the price was settled, he asked no questions and went about his business with silent efficiency.

If he thought anything, he no doubt supposed the woman to be my wife and Pelleas to be my servant. I helped this impression as much as possible, hovering over the lady and the baby with protective authority, seeing to their comfort. The woman, an unfortunate whose husband had been killed when his horse stumbled on Tintagel's murderous causeway, and whose own babe had taken the wasting fever and died only days before, was not as old as I first thought.

As the journey went on, such beauty as she possessed, ravaged by grief and care, began returning to her. She smiled more often when she held the child, and thanked Pelleas and me for the small kindnesses performed for her. The woman, Enid by name, suckled the child readily, and cradled it as lovingly as any natural mother would. And I surmised that the closeness of the babe, its helplessness and dependence, had begun healing the wound in her heart.

The day of crossing came at last. It was wet and cold – the kind of wet cold that goes to the bones and stays long – the wind gusty and dagger-sharp. But the wind did not raise the seas against us, so we made good time and landed safely. I paid the boatman double his price, and was glad to do it.

Upon crossing Mor Hafren, we quickly entered Tewdrig's realm, sheltering the first night at the little seaside abbey at Llanteilo where the renowned Bishop Teilo had built his church and monastery. The next day, frosty cold but with a sky clear and high and bright as a flame, we rode the remaining distance to Caer Myrddin.

The sun sets early that time of year. Dusk was well upon us and the first winter stars already in the sky by the time we reached Tewdrig's stronghold. The market town stood a sad reminder of another age, abandoned now – perhaps for ever.

We urged our horses through the ruin and turned up the hill trail to the caer. Silvery smoke from many hearth fires drifted into the still night air, and the aroma of roasting meat reached us as we neared. Our arrival was foreseen, of course, and we were met at the gates by a young man with a sparse brown beard. 'Greetings, friends,' he called to us, taking up a place in the centre of the path. 'What business brings you to Tewdrig's house this cold winter's night?'

'Greetings, Meurig,' I told him, for it was Tewdrig's eldest son who confronted us. Others were gathering round, watching us with polite, but undisguised curiosity. 'You have become a man I see.'

At my use of his name, Meurig stepped closer. 'I am at your service, sir. How do you know me?'

'How should I not know the son of my friend, Lord Tewdrig?'

He cocked his head to one side. I think that my escort – a woman with a babe in arms – confused him. But one of the onlookers recognized me, for someone whispered, 'The Emrys is come!'

Meurig heard the name; his head whipped round and, laying a hand on my bridle, he said, 'Forgive me, Lord Emrys. I did not know it was you -'

I cut short his apology with a wave of my hand. 'There is nothing to forgive. But now, if we may go in – it is getting dark and the child will be getting cold.'

'At once, my lord.' He motioned some of the others forward to take our horses as we dismounted. Another ran to the hall to announce our arrival, so that Tewdrig himself met us as we crossed the yard.

'Your son has become a fine man,' I told Tewdrig when, after our greetings and after Enid and the child had been seen to, we were settled before the hearth with a steaming bowl of mulled wine in our hands. 'I did not remember him so well grown.'

'Oh, he has grown indeed, that one.' He smiled, pleased with the compliment. 'He was married a year ago and will have a babe of his own before spring.' He laughed suddenly. 'But I did not know you had taken a wife.'

'Alas, I have been too busy.'

That I can easily imagine. So tell me, what is happening in the Island of the Mighty that I should know about?'

'You will have heard of Gorlas' death,' I replied. 'A bad thing that, very bad. I was sorry to hear of it. He was a strong battlechief.'

Then you are also aware of the High King's marriage. As for the rest, you will know more than I – I have been at Ynys Avallach these many months.'

'Not with the Pendragon?' Tewdrig raised his eyebrows at this.

'Uther has his own advisers,' I explained simply. 'Perhaps, but you are -'

'No, it is better this way. I have Uther's ear when I need it, and he has mine. I am content.'

We sipped our sweet wine for a moment, feeling the warming draught thaw the cold places within. And Tewdrig waited for me to tell him why I had come. 'As it happens,' I began, setting my cup aside, 'I have come on an errand for the High King.'

Tewdrig leaned forward. 'So?'

'A matter of some importance, Lord Tewdrig. Your confidence is enjoined.'

'Whatever can be done, that I will do. For you, Myrddin Emrys, as much as for the High King. Of that you may be certain.'

'Thank you, my friend. But the thing I have come to ask will not be easily granted, and I would have you consider it carefully – perhaps discuss it with your counsellors before agreeing.'

'If that is what you wish. Although, if you deem it a virtue to come to me, I can tell you that I will refuse nothing you ask. For it is in my mind that if I could not help, you would not have come to me.'

Had he already guessed why I had come? Tewdrig was shrewd; his next words confirmed my suspicion. 'It is about the child, yes?' I nodded. 'It is.' 'Whose child is it?' 'Aurelius' and Ygerna's,' I told him. 'I thought as much,' Tewdrig mused. 'Not Uther's flesh, yet the same noble blood in his veins. So, the Pendragon did not care to have the poor babe in his house reminding him that his own brats stood no closer to the throne.'

'That is the pith of it,' I agreed. 'Yet the babe must be kept safe, for -'

Tewdrig nodded gravely. 'For he will surely be the next Pendragon of Britain!'

I assure you I can be as blind as the next man. And here is the proof: until Tewdrig said those words, I had never seriously considered that likely. Nor did I believe it now. To me, the child was merely that: an infant who must be protected from the overweening ambition of others, not the future king. My blindness was complete.

The deeds and doings of the present, I confess, occupied me more than that one little life. I saw no further. That is the simple truth, and there is no pleasure in the telling of it.

Tewdrig continued: 'Oh, I see the problem. Let Dunaut or Morcant or any of that stripe know that Aurelius has an heir, and the lad's life would not be worth a nettle.'

'He will be a danger to himself, to be sure – and perhaps to those around him as well.

'Bah! Let them try to harm that child! Just let them try and they will soon learn to fear righteous wrath.'

It was not an idle boast, for Tewdrig was no braggart. But I needed more than his loyal indignation. 'I know I need have no fear there, Tewdrig. Your strength and wisdom, and that of your people, will be most important. For the child must not only be protected, he must be nurtured and taught.'

'Gwythelyn is nearby at Llandaff. The boy will be well taught, never fear.' Tewdrig sipped his wine and smiled expansively. 'The son of Aurelius in my house. This is an honour.'

'It is an honour that must remain unsung. He cannot be Aurelius' son any more. From this day, he is merely a child fostered at your hearth.'

'I understand. Your secret is safe with me, Myrddin Emrys.'

'It is our secret now, Tewdrig,' I reminded him. 'And we will speak of it no more.'

'No more,' agreed Tewdrig, 'except to say me what is the name of the child? What is he to be called?'

Shameful to tell, I had not thought to call the infant anything. Neither Uther nor Ygerna had bestowed a name, and I had been too preoccupied with its safety to give it any consideration. But the babe must have a name…

A word is given when a word is required. And at this time, like so many others, the name came unbidden to my tongue: 'Arthur.'

Instantly, upon uttering the word, I heard again the voice of my vision: the throng in Londinium clamouring, 'Arthur! Arthur! Hail Arthur!'

Tewdrig was watching me closely, his brows knotted in concern. 'Is something amiss?'

'No,' I reassured him. 'The infant – let him be called Arthur.'

Tewdrig tried the name. 'Arthur… very well. An unusual name, though. What does it mean?'

'I believe he will have to make its meaning for himself.'

Then we must make certain he lives long enough to do so,' replied Tewdrig. He retrieved his cup, raised it, 'To Arthur! Health and long life, wisdom and strength! May he win the hero's portion at the feast of his fathers.'