Pendragon

ONE

The days draw down; they dwindle and run away. See how swiftly they scatter! But not a single day passes that I do not recall with pleasure the kingmaking of Arthur ap Aurelius. And because he was Aurelius' son – despite whatever ignorant slanderers may say – I strove to give him the same crowntaking as his father.

You will excuse me if I say nothing of that long season of strife we endured at the hands of certain southern lords and lordlings, or the fierce battles with the Saecsen that followed. More than enough has been written about those war-wasted years – even small children know the tales by heart. I will say only that after seven years of incessant fighting, Arthur broke the back of the barbarian host at Baedun Hill: a fearsome battle, lasting three days and costing lives in the very thousands. This, and Arthur not yet king!

I was there, yes. I saw it all, and still I saw nothing: I was blind from my encounter with Morgian. Some little time before Baedun, you will recall, I had left the war host and travelled south, determined to break the power of the Queen of Air and Darkness for once and all. Dread Morgian was at that time beginning to take an interest in Arthur's deeds and I could not stand by and watch her spinning her evil schemes around the future High King of Britain.

I went alone, telling no one. Pelleas, following me, was lost and never returned – may the Gifting God grant him mercy. I know Morgian killed him. She all but killed me as well. Bedwyr and Gwalcmai found me in Llyonesse, and brought me back: blind, but unbeaten, having cleared the way for Arthur's sovereignty. And that day was not far off.

After the bloodbath of Baedun, as terrible in necessity as in execution, we retreated to nearby Mailros Abbey to rest and give thanks for the victory we had won. Though the abbey was yet little more than a ruin, the good brothers had returned and were even then beginning repairs. As it was nearest Baedun – indeed, within sight of that blood-drenched, double-humped hill – Arthur chose it as the place to offer his prayers of thanksgiving.

We stayed two days and then, having bound our wounds, continued up the Vale of Twide to Caer Edyn, where Lord Ectorius, his great heart bursting with pride, hosted a feast such as few men ever enjoy. For three days and three nights we sat at table, eating and drinking, healing our battle-bruised hearts and souls in the company of true men.

Good Ector, last of his noble breed, lavished his best on us, giving all without stint. Of good bread and roast meat there was no end; freely flowed the ale and rich honey mead – no sooner was one bowl emptied than another appeared, filled from the huge ale tub Ector had established in his hall. White foam and sparkling amber filling the cups and bowls of the Lords of Britain! Sweet as the kiss of a maiden, sweet as peace between noble men!

'I do not understand it, Myrddin,' Ector whispered, pulling me aside the evening of the third day. 'The ale vats are not empty.'

'No? Well, it is not for lack of exertion, I assure you,' I replied.

'But that is what I am saying,' he insisted.

'You are saying nothing, my friend,' I chided gently. 'Speak plainly, Ector.'

'The ale should have run out by now. I had not so much in store.'

'You must have mistaken yourself. And a happy mistake, too.'

'But the ale does not diminish,' he insisted. 'As many times as I send to it, the vat remains full.'

'No doubt in all this merrymaking the servants have become confused. Or maybe we have not drunk as much as you think.'

'Do I not know my own brewhouse, man?' Ectorius countered. 'Look at them, Wise Emrys, and tell me again I am mistaken.'

'It is for you to look, Ector,' I replied, touching the bandage on my eyes. 'Tell me what you see.'

'I did not mean – ' he blustered. 'Oh, you know what I mean.'

'Be easy, Ector,' I soothed. 'I believe you.'

'I know! I will tell Dyfrig – he will know what to do.'

'Yes,' I agreed, 'send for the good bishop. He will be my eyes.'

Ectorius departed at once. Meanwhile, the feasting continued unabated; the circling of the cups did not cease. Soon, the bottom of the tub began showing through the foam once more, and a cry went up for the serving lads to fill it again. This time, I went with them. 'Lead me to the alehouse,' I ordered the oldest boy, placing my hand on his shoulder.

He led me out from the hall and across the foreyard to one of the stout outbuildings of Ector's holding. Inside were three great oaken barrels – two for ale, and one for mead. 'Bring the brewmaster,' I told my guide as the other boys set about replenishing their buckets. 'I will speak to him here.'

Making my way to the nearest container, I put my hands on it and felt the wooden staves; I rapped the side with my knuckles and heard the frothy slosh as the boys plunged their buckets. As big around as a wagon wheel, and nearly man-height, it would hold a fair amount. Two such together, as Ector had, might supply a celebration such as ours for a day and a night – perhaps two even – but never three days and three nights.

'How much is in the vat?' I asked the nearest boy.

'Why, it is nearly full, Emrys,' the boy replied.

'And the other? Empty or full?'

'It is full, lord,' the boy replied.

'When last did you fill from it?'

The lad – I imagined him ten or twelve summers, judging from his voice – hesitated. 'Lord?'

'The question is simple enough, boy,' I said. 'When did you last fill from the second vat?'

'But we have not touched it, lord,' he answered. 'This is the only one we are allowed to breach.'

'That is true,' confirmed an adult voice from the doorway behind me. 'Wise Emrys,' the man said, 'I am Dervag, brew-master to Lord Ector. Is there something wrong with the ale?'

'I remember you, Dervag. Your ale is excellent, never fear,' I assured him. 'Even so, it is suspiciously plentiful. This has pricked my interest.'

'My lord Ector keeps three casks,' Dervag explained, coming to stand with me. 'These three: two ale, and one mead. The boys fill from the standing vat, and only when the last drop is drained from the first will I allow anyone to open the next.'

'Then perhaps you could look for me and see that all is as it should be.'

The amiable man stepped up on the stone beside the vat. 'It is above two-thirds full yet,' he announced, growing puzzled. He hurried to the second barrel. I heard a wooden cover lifted and quickly dropped back into place.

'This vat has not been touched.' The brewmaster's tone had become wary and slightly accusatory. 'What is happening here?'

'An apt question, Dervag,' I replied lightly. 'How is it that men feast three days and nights and the ale vat shows less sign of ebbing than yonder lake? Answer me if you can.'

'But, Lord Emrys, I cannot answer. Since the warband's return, I have been day and night in the brewing house, preparing to refresh these vats when they are empty. I bethought myself that when the lad came to fetch me, it was to open the second vat. But this' – he struggled to make sense of it – 'this is most unchancy.'

'Nonsense!' declared the cleric, arriving with Ector just then.

Dyfrig, Bishop of Mailros, though a big-hearted, cheerful man, maintained a precise and particular mind worthy of any scholar. He went to the cask, peered in, and declared that to his eye the vat appeared full.

'Yet this single observation is no true test,' he stated.

'But we have drunk from this selfsame ale vat for three days,' Ector insisted. 'And it is no less full than when we first began.'

'Be that as it may,' Dyfrig allowed, 'I was not here to see it.' Turning to the boys standing by with their buckets and cannikins, he commanded, 'Fill the lot, lads.'

Dervag himself filled two buckets and, when the last one was full, the bishop again mounted the stone step. 'You will all mark,' his voice echoed from inside the great cask, 'that I am reaching inside the vat and pressing my thumbnail into the wax. I have scratched a line at the level of the remaining ale.'

He turned to us and stepped down. 'Now then, my friends, we will watch. And I will look inside again when the cannikins have been refreshed for the third time.'

'Go, lads,' Ector ordered, 'do your work.'

We waited in the brewhouse – Dervag, Ector, Dyfrig and I – passing the time cordially. After a time, the serving boys returned, the buckets were replenished, and we waited again. After filling the buckets the second time, Ector ordered torches to be lit because it was growing too dim for them to see properly. We talked of the feast and of the splendid victory at Baedun.

In a little while, the lads returned for the third time and, as before, Dervag refreshed their cannikins from the vat. 'Will you look now, Dyfrig?' Ector said.

Dyfrig mounted to the stone. 'Give me a torch.'

A moment's silence… and then a sharp intake of breath: 'Upon my vow!'

'Do you see your mark?' Dervag asked.

'I do not see it,' the bishop replied quickly, 'by reason of the fact that the level of the liquid is now higher than when I made the mark.'

'Let me see.' I heard a scuffling sound as the brewmaster joined the bishop on the step, almost toppling him from the stone in his excitement. 'It is as he has said,' confirmed Dervag. 'Bring the jars!'

The boys rushed forward and the jars were filled yet once more. Then the two of them looked again. 'I see the mark!' the brewer shouted. 'There it is!'

Bishop Dyfrig descended the step and stood once more before us. 'It is a wonder,' he said. 'I am satisfied.'

'What does it mean?' said Ector, demanding an explanation.

'Rejoice, Ectorius!' the bishop told him, 'for even as Our Lord Jesu at the marriage feast turned water into wine and transformed five loaves and two fishes into a feast for five thousand, so has the Blessed Christ honoured your feast with a rare and precious gift. Rejoice! Come, we must share the glad news.'

Share it, he did. Word of this wonder carried everywhere. In time, the story of Ector's Excellent Ale Vat took its place beside the tale of Bran's Platter of Plenty and Gwyddno's Enchanted Hamper.

But on that night, when the good bishop finished telling the assembled warriors what he himself had witnessed, the gathering sat silent, pondering. Then up jumped Bors. He stepped from bench to table and stood in the midst of the gathering with his arms outspread.

'Brothers!' he shouted, his voice loud in the hall. 'Is there now any doubt what is required of us?'

'Tell us!' someone cried; it might have been Gwalchavad.

'Here is Arthur!' He thrust his hand to the bemused Arthur. 'Victorious Battle Chief, Conquering War Leader, acclaimed of men, and favoured of the Great God. It is time we made our Duke of Britain a king!'

The warriors lauded the suggestion. 'Well spoken,' some shouted. 'So be it!'

Bors, fists on hips, challenged them. 'Then why do you yet sit here when there is kingmaking to be done? Up! Stand on your feet, brothers, I tell you not another night shall pass before I see the kingly tore on Arthur's throat!'

At these words those closest to Arthur leapt to their feet and pulled him from his chair. They hoisted him to their shoulders and carried him from the hall. 'I think they mean to do it,' observed Dyfrig. 'Is there anything to prevent them?'

Ector laughed. 'If all the battle host of Saecsland could not prevail against them,' he said, 'I do not think anything in this worlds-realm can prevent them now.'

'It comes to this, Dyfrig,' I told him. 'Will you make Arthur king, or will I?'

'By your leave, Merlinus,' the bishop said, 'I will do the deed, and gladly.'

'Come then!' Ector said. 'We stand here flapping the tongue and we will be left behind.'

Out from the hall and through the yard, down from Edyn's rock and through the glen, the war host of Britain bore Arthur. The warriors carried him to Mons Agned, also called Cathir Righ, for the number of sovereign lords who had taken their kingship on its throne-shaped summit.

And there, in the cool blue dusk of a long summer day, a scattering of stars alight in a high bright northern sky, Arthur was made king. Placing Arthur in the great rock chair, the warriors gathered at the base of the seat. Bors approached and, drawing the sword from the scabbard at his side, placed the blade at Arthur's feet. 'As I lay my sword, I lay my life, and hold myself under your authority.' So saying, he stretched himself face down on the ground, whereupon Arthur placed his foot upon Bors' neck. Then Arthur bade Bors rise, and Cador also came and stretched himself upon the ground at Arthur's feet. Owain came next, and then Maelgwn and Idris and Ector – all of them hugged the earth and stretched the neck before Arthur in full sight of the war host and their own kinsmen. If you have never seen this, I tell you it is a powerful thing to witness proud lords humbling themselves before a heaven-blessed king.

The Cymbrogi, Companions of the Heart, passed before Arthur then and, laying aside their spears, they knelt and stretched forth their hands to touch his feet. Cai, Bedwyr, Rhys, Bors, Gwalchavad, Llenlleawg, and all the rest. Each swore faith to Arthur, and pledged him life for life and owned him king.

When all had been observed as it should be, I came before the Bear of Britain. 'Arise, Arthur!' I declared, raising my rowan rod over him. 'By the witness of those who have pledged fealty to you, lords and kinsmen, I do proclaim you king of all Britain.'

The warriors extolled this with jubilant shouts and wild cries of acclamation. Oh, it was good to hear their strong voices ringing out as if to fill the Island of the Mighty with a glad and happy sound. When the cheering had abated somewhat, I said, 'All praise and worship to the High King of Heaven, who has raised up a king to be Pendragon over us! All saints and angels bear witness: this day is Arthur ap Aurelius made king of all Britons.'

Turning to the gathered warriors, I raised the rowan and, in the bard's voice of command, I called, 'Kneel before him, Cymbrogi! Fellow countrymen, stretch forth your hands and swear binding oaths of fealty to your lord and king on earth – even as you swear life and honour to the Lord of All Creation!'

They knelt as one, and as one plighted troth with Arthur. When this was done, I turned again to Arthur. 'You have heard your sword brothers pledge life to life with you, Arthur. Is it your will to receive these oaths?!

'I do receive the oaths plighted me,' he answered.

Upon receiving this assurance, I summoned the waiting Dyfrig. 'Come here, friend, consecrate this lord to his sacred duty, and make him king indeed.'

The Bishop of Mailros stepped to the rock seat. In his hands he held a tore of gold, which he raised, and in a loud voice charged Arthur, 'Declare this day before your people the God you will serve.'

Up spoke Arthur. 'I will serve the Christ, who is called Jesu. I will serve the God, who is called the Father. I will serve the Nameless One, who is called the Holy Spirit. I will serve the Holy Trinity.'

To this, Dyfrig demanded, 'And will you observe justice, perform righteousness, and love mercy?'

'With Blessed Jesu as my witness, I will observe justice; I will perform righteousness; I will love mercy.'

'And will you lead this realm in the true faith of Christ so long as you shall live?'

'To the end of my strength, and the last breath of my mouth, I will lead this worlds-realm in the true faith of Christ.'

'Then,' Bishop Dyfrig declared, 'by the power of the Three in One, I raise you, Arthur ap Aurelius. Hail, Arthur, Protector of Britain!'

'Hail, Arthur!' shouted the warrior host in reply, their voices resounding in the twilight. 'Hail, Protector and Pendragon of Britain!'

I thought that the bishop would place the tore of kingship on Arthur's throat then, but he gave it to me instead. I felt the cool, solid heaviness of the golden ornament between my hands as I stepped once more to the stony seat. Arthur's touch, light but steady, directed me to the mark. I spread the ends of the tore and slipped it around his neck, feeling the warm pulse of blood flutter beneath my touch.

Then, pressing the soft yellow metal carefully, I closed the circle once more and stepped away, leaving Arthur to glory in the loud acclaim of lords and men. The long dusk had given way to a clear bright twilight, and the glad cries shook the very hills, as Arthur took up his long-denied sovereignty in the Region of the Summer Stars.