Merlin

SEVENTEEN

Strange to tell, two years had passed me in the Fisher King's hall. So given to hate and despair was I, that I had noticed nothing of the wider world – the silent turnings of the seasons, the long, slow swing of the Earth through her measured course.

Now Uther was dead.

I pondered this. The Imperial line of Constantine was never ordained to flourish. Each of noble Constantine's sons had been king, and each in his turn had been, like his father, cut down before his time.

Poison, again, it was said: one of Gorlas' loyal stewards who blamed Uther for his master's death and sought to even the blood debt. Many believed this, although there was also vague talk of a mysterious malady; it seemed Uther had suffered a lingering illness through the winter. I gathered my things together and prepared to leave the Tor.

'Farewell, my Hawk!' called Chads as she waved me away. 'We will uphold you in your battle.'

She was right, of course. My battle, so long avoided, was finally beginning.

I sent Pelleas ahead to Londinium and made my way to Tintagel in all haste, hoping I was not too late. But it was not Uther I was concerned with now. I wanted to see Ygerna, and to collect Uther's sword. For word had gone out: the kings of Britain were gathering in Londinium to choose a new High King from among their number. I must be there when this took place.

Ygerna received me gladly. She had borne her loss bravely, but was tired and wanted someone to share her grief. Indeed, Uther was not much mourned; he was not the High King to inspire the love and sympathy of the people. What he had accomplished for Britain – his fierce battles, his brilliant victories – these were already forgotten. The only thing people remembered was that Uther had killed Gorlas to marry Ygerna. That is all they remembered, and that little a lie.

I found the twice-widowed queen standing on the rampart of the wall, gazing out at the sea, her hair streaming in the sea breeze. In the falling light she appeared at once frail and wonderfully strong – fragile as sorrow, potent as love. She turned lightly when I approached, smiled, and held out her hands to me. 'Myrddin, you have come. Welcome, dear friend.'

'I came as soon as I received word, my queen.' I said, taking her hands. Her fingers were cold, although the late afternoon sun was warm on the wall. Then, hesitantly, she stepped nearer and embraced me chastely, brushing my cheek with cool lips. I held her for a long moment, very much aware that she was a young woman who needed the comfort of a reassuring touch.

'Will you sit with me a while?' she asked, stepping back, a queen once more.

'If you wish.' We walked along the wall to a block of grey stone which jutted out from the rampart. She settled herself on it and indicated that I should sit beside her.

'It happened so quickly,' she said abruptly, her voice sad and low. 'He had been out hunting and returned feeling unwell – it had been a bad spring for him so I did not remark upon it. He went to bed and awoke in the night with a fever. He remained in bed the next day which was most unlike him. I saw him twice, but he complained of nothing. I expected him at supper, but when he did not come I went to his room.'

She squeezed my hand tightly. 'Oh, Myrddin, he was sitting in his chair… his flesh was cold, and he was dead… '

'I am sorry, Ygerna.'

She seemed not to hear. 'The odd thing was – he had his shield beside him, and his standard; he wore his leather breastplate. His sword lay across his lap. It was as if he expected to fight an enemy.' The queen lowered her head and sighed. 'I did not speak to him again. I did not tell him I loved him – I wanted so much to tell him, and then it was too late. Myrddin, why does everything always come too late?'

The wash of the sea around the roots of the headland and the cry of the soaring gulls carried an inexpressible sadness to me. I put my arm round Ygerna and we sat together in the sun, listening to the gulls and the waves, feeling the comfort of two hearts grieving.

The sun went behind a cloud and the day turned suddenly cool. 'Where has he been buried?' I asked as we rose and made our way back inside.

She did not answer at once. When she spoke there was triumph in her voice. 'Beside Aurelius.'

Jesu bless her, she had done what she could for Uther's memory. It was right that they should be buried together in any case, but Ygerna wanted their names for ever linked in renown and respect. She had buried the husband she loved next to the one the people loved.

As we came near the hall, she turned to me, and, laying a hand on my arm, said, 'I carry Uther's child.'

'Does anyone know?"

'My serving maid. She is sworn to silence.'

'See that she keeps it.'

Ygerna nodded. She understood. 'Will there be fighting?'

'Possibly. Yes, it is likely.'

'I see,' she said absently; there was something else on her mind I could tell. She was weighing her words carefully. I waited for her to come out with it in her own time.

The sea crashed below us, restless as Ygerna's heart. I could sense her unease. Still, I waited.

'Myrddin,' she said at last, her voice tight. 'Now that Uther is dead… ' Words failed her; she could not make them say what she felt. 'Now that the king is gone, perhaps it would not be… '

'Yes?'

She pressed my hand and gazed earnestly at me – as if I held power to grant or withhold her heart's desire. 'The child – my son. Please, Myrddin, where is he? Is he safe? May I send for him?'

'It cannot be, Ygerna.'

'But surely now – now that Uther… '

I shook my head gently. 'The danger has not diminished; in fact, with Uther's death it has increased. Until you have delivered Uther's child, Aurelius' son remains the only heir.'

Ygerna dropped her head. The babe had been much on her mind and in her heart, as it would with any mother. 'May I go to him?'

'That would not be wise, I fear,' I told her. 'I am sorry. I wish it could be otherwise.'

'Please, just to see him -'

'Very well,' I relented, 'that may be arranged. But it will take time. Arthur must be -'

'Arthur… ' she whispered, 'so that is what you named him.'

'Yes. Please understand, I would have acted differently but Uther told me no name to give him. I hope you approve."

'It is a good name. A strong name, I think.' She smiled wistfully, repeating the word to herself. 'You have done well. I thank you.'

'I have taken your child from you, my lady, and you thank me. Indeed, you are a remarkable woman, Ygerna.'

She searched my face with her eyes, and apparently found what she was seeking. 'You are good, Myrddin. You, above all men, have treated me as an equal. I will do whatever you tell me to do.'

'You need do nothing for the moment. Later, when the High Kingship is decided – well, we will leave tomorrow's worries for tomorrow.'

Her smile showed the relief she felt. We entered the hall and fell to talking of other things. We dined most pleasantly, and retired early. The next morning I asked for the sword and one of the dragon standards Uther had devised as the symbol of the High Kingship.

Ygerna gave them to me, saying, 'Dunaut was here and wanted the sword. I would not let him have it. I told him Uther was buried with it.' She paused and smiled guiltily. 'I am not sorry I lied.'

'It was well you did not give him the sword,' I told her. 'We would have a hard time getting it back from him, I think. Indeed, we will have a difficult enough time keeping his hands off it as it is.'

'Farewell, Myrddin Emrys. Send word, if you think of it – I should like to know what happens at the king choosing.'

'Farewell, Ygerna. I will bring word myself, if I can, when it is over.'

A few days later, I turned aside at the plain above Sorviodunum and the Giant's Dance: that great and ancient circle of stones the folk of the region call the Hanging Stones, for the way those enormous rock lintels seemed, in certain light, to float above the ground.

The circle stood by itself on the crest of a wide, smooth hill. No one was about, nor did I expect otherwise. Cold, immense, mysterious, men left the Ring alone for the most part. It reminded them that there were secrets in the earth which they would never know, that the wonders of a previous age remained for ever beyond their ken, that a superior race had lived where they lived now and that they, too, would one day vanish as the ring-builders and the mound-builders before them had vanished, that life in this worlds-realm was furtive and short.

A small herd of cattle grazed in the area, and a few sheep wandered bleating in the ditch around the stones. I rode in among the standing stones to the inner ring and dismounted. The twin grave mounds – one new made, the other covered with short-cropped grass – lay side by side.

The wind moaned among the Hanging Stones, and the bleating sheep sounded like the disembodied voices of those buried in the earthen chambers that stood a way off from the great circle. Above, black crows sailed on silent wings in a white, empty sky. And it did seem, as the Hill Folk believed, that the Ring marked the place where two worlds touched.

Appropriate then that here, where the worlds met, were the brother kings united: together for ever. Uther would never have to leave his brother's side, and Aurelius would never lack his brother's care. Neither would be separated from the other any more.

At the sight of the bare-earthed mound, I sank to my knees. And I sang:

I passed time at dawn, I slept in a purple shadow;

I was a rampart beneath bold emperors,

A cloak folded on the shoulders of two kings,

The shining arc of two lusty spears thrown down from heaven.

In Annwfn they will sharpen the battle,

With golden deeds they will rout the everlasting Enemy;

Seven-score hundred have bowed in death before them,

Seven-score thousand will uphold them in victory.

Brave kings and true, their blood is cold,

Their song is ended.

Oh, Uther, deeply do I regret your death. We were wary friends at best, but we understood one another, I think. May it go well with you, my king, on your journey to the Otherworld. Great of Might, accept this wayward soul into your company and you will not want for a more loyal companion. For I declare to you most solemnly, King of Heaven, Uther lived by the light that was in him.

May all men alive claim as much.

By the time I reached Londinium, the chase was already well along – which is to say that the crown-lusting hounds had the scent of the High Kingship in their nostrils and were hot on the trail. Dunaut, of course, with his friends Morcant and Coledac, led the pack. But there were others close behind them: Ceredigawn with the support of his kinsman Rhain of Gwynedd; Morganwg of Dumnonia and his sons; Antorius and Regulus of the south Cantii; and Ogryvan of Dollgellau.

There would have been more – in fact, there would be more when those whose realms lay farther away arrived. As it was, the sparring was merely boasting and posturing, the swagger of combatants before the contest. The actual fight had not yet begun.

Bishop Urbanus, beside himself with indecision, welcomed me distractedly. 'Merlinus, I am glad you have come. I tell you the truth when I say that I am at my wits' end keeping peace between the lords. The things they say to one another,' he complained, adopting a shocked demeanour, 'and in a church!'

'It will get worse before it gets better,' I warned.

'Then I do not know how it will be settled without bloodshed.' He shook his head gravely. 'Still, I think it proper to conduct such important matters on consecrated ground.'

Urbanus was not as troubled as he pretended. In his heart he was pleased to have a hand in the king choosing – if only in providing a roof under which it could take place. Make no mistake, that this king choosing should take place in a church was no small thing. For it meant that the lords accepted Aurelius' precedent; they felt comfortable with the church and were willing to allow it a place in supporting their affairs.

Although I entertained no illusions that most of those sheltering under Urbanus' roof would just as well have gathered in a stable or a mud hut if that had been offered. Their eyes were on the crown, not the cross.

'And I do not mind telling you,' the bishop continued, 'this has happened at a most inopportune time. If you have not guessed already, we are enlarging the edifice. When the masons are finished, we will have an apse joined to the basilica, and a larger transept. And there will be a proper narthex with an arched entrance like the larger churches of Gaul.'

I had noticed the building work, of course. There were piles of rubble stone scattered around the church; masons worked on wooden scaffolds and cutters trimmed the huge blocks lying in the yard. I guessed the work had been paid for by Aurelius – for a certainty, Uther would never have given money for such a venture.

It was clear Urbanus' fortunes were rising in the world, and he relished the ascent. Very well, allow him his big church; there was no harm in it – so long as he managed to keep a true heart and humble spirit.

The kings were not the only ones with an interest in the High Kingship, Governor Melatus had summoned some of the more powerful magistrates as well. What they thought to do, I cannot say. No doubt they saw in the gathering of the kings a chance to reclaim some small part of their dwindling power. Roman government survived only, if it survived at all, in old men's memories and the Latin titles they wore.

Pelleas found us a place to stay – the house of a wealthy merchant named Gradlon, who traded in wine, salt, and lead, among other things, and who owned the ships that carried his goods. Gradlon was a friend of Governor Melatus and an influential man in the affairs of Londinium. I suspect that Melatus had requested that his friends make free their houses to anyone attending the king choosing, so that he could be informed as events took shape.

Gradlon, however, was a genuine host and made no secret of his allegiances, saying, 'A merchant pays tribute to the man who keeps his business healthy. If it is a king, I bow the knee; if an emperor, I kiss the hem. Either way I pay taxes.' He held a chubby finger in the air for emphasis. 'But I pay them gladly as long as the roads and sea routes remain open.'

The governor and magistrates held council in the governor's palace with the intention of drafting an ultimatum to lay at the feet of Emperor Aetius: send the troops, or lose Britain's good will.

Britain – in the greatest good will or vilest temper – had never been worth the Empire's sweat in maintaining it. Well, for a few generations the tin and lead and corn the Britons paid had been some value to the Empire, I suppose. But this little island had cost Rome far more than it ever returned.

Now, when the rest of the Empire bled under the relentless blows of the barbarian axe, the concerns of little Britanniarum were no concern of the Emperor at all. The small agonies of a flea-bitten hound in the Emperor's stable might elicit more sympathy, I considered, but could expect no more relief.

I pitied the governor and his magistrates for not realizing this.

Our future was as Britain, not Britanniarum. To think otherwise was folly. Perhaps dangerous folly at that. Reality can be most severe; it has a way of punishing those who ignore it too long.

The kings, on the other hand, were not much better. They believed, apparently, that the barbarian threat could be checked by personal aggrandizement: the greater the king, the more the Saecsen trembled.

I need not tell you what I think of such beliefs. Well, and this is how the council of kings began: deadlocked over the question of who was qualified to decide among those who fancied themselves capable of wielding Macsen Wledig's sword. The question of how to settle that question added another stratum of animosity to the proceedings.

The only voices of reason were those of Tewdrig and Custennin. But by the time they arrived, the others were too far withdrawn behind the walls in their indefensible positions to hear. Reason, as I have said, does not avail in these situations anyway.

Each day when the kings gathered in the church to begin their debate, I went with them, biding my time. I did not speak, and no one asked me. I waited, thinking I might yet find an opportunity to help. Certainly I could expect no more than that. One chance only. I must make it count.

While I waited, I sat in my place and watched all. I searched among them, noting each one carefully – the tone of his voice, his command, wisdom, strength. I weighed all and found none the measure of Aurelius, or Uther either, for that matter. Lord help us, I would have settled for a Vortigern!

The most able among them was Custennin. But his kingdom was small and he was a northerner. That is to say, he lacked the near inexhaustible wealth of the southern kings which he would need if he were to try maintaining two, or possibly three, courts and field a warband large enough to keep order in the land. And then, living so far in the north made him dubious in the south. Northerners, it was widely thought, were savages and brutes, lacking all refinement and civility. Men would never follow a king they considered little better than the barbarian.

Tewdrig, I thought, might be more likely. He possessed great wealth, enough to command the respect of the southern kings. But the Demetae and Silures, among the oldest tribes of Britons, were also the most independent. It was doubtful that other kings would hold to Tewdrig when already they complained of Dyfed's indifference and insularity. Also, I suspected that the High Kingship meant little to Tewdrig; it might mean more to his son, Meurig, but he was still an untried leader.

Of the others, Ceredigawn showed some promise. That his great grandfather was Irish might be overcome, for he was a forceful and upright ruler. But the fact that his family gained their realm by virtue of the unpopular Roman practice of planting rulers in troubled regions, over the protests of those who must live with them, was a lasting embarrassment. As a consequence, his people had never troubled themselves with forming alliances with other ruling houses and so Ceredigawn, however able, was not well liked.

As the days dragged on – days of insane posturing, absurd threats, and breathtaking arrogance – it became clear to me that there could be no harmony of opinion reached among them. Lord Dunaut, of the wealthy Brigantes, succeeded in thwarting all reasonable discussion with his ludicrous demand that the next High King should support the entire warhost out of his private treasury.

Rather than maintain the warhost of Britain from a warchest into which all the lords contributed equally, Dunaut and his friends insisted that the freedom of Britain depended upon the freedom of the High King to rule the warhost without let or hindrance from the petty kings. Otherwise, the small kings would be tempted to influence affairs by withholding tribute needed to support the warhost. 'The High King will only be free,' Dunaut declared, 'if he rules from his own treasury!'

This infuriated men like Eldof and Ogryvan and Ceredigawn – able leaders who nevertheless had trouble enough maintaining even their own modest warbands, simply because their lands were not so well suited to the growing of grain, or the mining of gold and silver.

While it did appeal to the vanity of men like Morganwg of Dumnonia, also very wealthy and very proud, who saw in the proposition the flash of imperial purple, it did not sit well with others who might have been persuaded, but recognized and resented Dunaut's vaunting ambition for what it was. The thought of Dunaut as High King over them, free to do as he pleased because he ruled the warhost unopposed could not be stomached, let alone seriously supported.

Time and again the debate foundered on this point; and, until it was settled, Dunaut and his supporters would allow no other to be raised. Other voices, other issues, battered down, ignored, discouraged in a hundred different ways, fell by the way.

Resentment grew, hardened; animosity spread; hostility flourished. It began to appear as if Bishop Urbanus' worst fears would come to bloody fruition: the next High King of Britain would only be chosen by the sharp edge of the sword.

Then something unforeseen happened. Two unsuspected allies appeared to forestall the rush to bloodshed: Ygerna, and Lot of Orcady; two whose sudden and unannounced emergence fairly startled the assembly, preoccupied as it was with thinking itself the centre of all creation.

Lot ap Loth, of the tiny island fastness of the Orcades in the far north, with his black braided locks and armbands of enamelled gold, the blue, woad-stained clan marks on his cheeks, and his crimson-and-black checked cloak, seemed a visitor from the Otherworld. He arrived with all the frost of a northern winter, unconcerned with the stir his coming provoked: young, high-spirited, but with such calm command that his glance unsettled kings twice his age.

The council had just reconciled itself to Lot's presence when Ygerna appeared. With an escort of Uther's chieftains – those who were still with her – she strode purposefully into the church, looking stern and strong and beautiful. Arrayed regally and simply, Ygerna wore a dove-grey cloak over a white mantle edged in silver; a slim golden tore encircled her throat. Every line of her body spoke eloquently of authority and reserve. Her grace and poise served a rebuke to the fatuous posing of the petty kings.

That these two should arrive so suddenly, and on the heels of one another, was perhaps more than coincidence. It was certainly uncanny in the effect it had on the council. For suddenly the mood of the assembly changed, as the lords evaluated the newcomers and calculated how best to make use of these unknown quantities. No one, I am quite convinced, had given a thought to either of them, or considered that they might have a part in the proceedings.

Indeed, in my own dealings with Ygerna I had completely overlooked the fact that, as Uther's widow, she maintained the right of sitting in council. And now that she was here I experienced the momentary fear that her presence would cause the gathered kings to remember something else: Aurelius' son. But apparently no one knew or remembered, for nothing was said. Perhaps the secret was safe after all.

As for Lot, because he lived on the rim of the world, everyone else apparently assumed that he would have no interest in the affairs of the rest of the realm. So no one had summoned him. Nevertheless, he had heard and he had come.

I confess that I did not welcome his arrival – but for reasons other than the threat of whatever claim he might make to the High Kingship. No, it was his bloodline that concerned me. Lot was the son of Loth, of course; and Loth had been the husband of Morgian.

That Morgian's son should appear as out of the north-island mist alarmed me more than a little. What did it mean? Was Morgian behind it? Need I even wonder?

No doubt Morgian saw in the king choosing an opportunity for gaining power of a kind different from what she already possessed. But why send the boy? Why not come herself? Where was Lot's father?

These things concerned me in no small measure. As I stared at Lot across the council ring, I tried to discern what kind of man he was. But, aside from the obvious fact that he, like many in the bleak north, loved his colour bright and his manner ostentatious, I could discover nothing.

At one point in the proceedings Lot caught me watching him. His reaction puzzled me: he gazed back for a moment, then slowly smiled and touched the back of his hand to his forehead in the ancient acknowledgment of lordship. Then, as if dismissing me from his mind, he turned his attention back to the assembly.

When, much later that day, the council finished, I waited for Ygerna in the yard outside the church, watching the builders. The masons were making use of the day's last light to move the huge keystone of the great arch. The ropes they used were too small for the task and their levers were too short. For all their labour, and their energetic cursing, they could shift the enormous stone but a few paces.

As soon as Ygerna entered the yard she saw me and hurried to me, two of her chiefs following at a respectful distance behind. 'Do not be angry with me, Myrddin,' she began at once. 'I know what you are thinking.' •

'Do you indeed?'

'You are thinking that I have no place here, that I should have stayed in Tintagel, that I will only make things worse for my presence.'

I grinned with pleasure; she was not so purposeful and self-assured as she seemed. 'Ygerna, I am glad you have come; you have as much right here as any of the others. And you could not make matters worse than they already are, if that were your sole ambition. So, you see, you have no cause to feel unwelcome.'

She smiled, the corners of her mouth bending down. 'Well, you may not think so when I ask you what I have in my mind to ask.'

'Ask then, but do not think anything you ask will change my mind.'

Glancing quickly round – a kitchen girl about to speak a guilty secret – Ygerna said softly, 'I must ask you to return Uther's sword to me.'

I considered this for a moment.

'You see?' the queen remarked sulkily. 'You are angry now.'

'Please, I am not angry. But why the sword?'

'I have seen what is happening here. They treat me well enough, but I am ignored. If they will not recognize me, perhaps they will recognize the sword.'

It is not the first time a woman's heart read the matter truly, and far more quickly than any man might arrive at the same conclusion. After only one day in council, she had discerned the crux of the thing: without any power of her own, she would be ignored – politely perhaps, but ignored all the same.

'Well? May I have it back?'

'Of course, my lady. But what do you plan to do with it?'

She shook her head. 'That will come to me when it comes. I will send Kadan to fetch it tonight.'

'I will have it ready for him.'

That settled, she turned to pleasantries. 'It was a most enjoyable journey – not like the last time… ' She paused, remembering when she had come with Gorlas and Uther. 'And yet, I shall never forget that journey. It was the first time I saw Uther – the first time for so many things it seems.'

We walked together along the narrow street to a nearby house, where she had lodging. 'Dine with me tonight, Myrddin,' she offered. 'Unless you have made better plans.'

'I have no other plans,' I replied. 'And certainly none better. I would be honoured to dine with you, Ygerna. And I will bring the sword.'

She smiled winningly. 'In truth, you are not angry?'

'Who am I to be angry with you?'

She shrugged. 'I just thought you might be.'

I returned to Gradlon's house, where Pelleas was waiting outside the door. 'He came here with his men. There was nothing I could do.'

I observed five thick-necked, stout-legged horses tied to the rings in the side of the wall. 'Who has come, Pelleas?'

'Lot.' His brow creased unhappily. 'He said he would speak with you.'

Well, there was nothing for it but to meet him. I entered the house and found it crowded with north-country strangers. Lot stood at Gradlon's hearth, back to the door, one foot on a firedog, his hands wrapped in the iron chain suspended there.

At my entry, the men fell silent. Lot turned. His eyes were the colour of snow shadow – grey-blue and cold as winter ice. I stood in the doorway and he regarded me casually, confidently.

For the space of three heartbeats I paused, then stepped into a room bristling with hidden knives and unseen spears.