“It is the union of forces, Pelleas,” Merlin explained later. “Do you not see it? Do you know what this means?” Before I could protest that I did not understand, he rushed on, “It is true! All that we have hoped for Arthur, all that we have worked for—the years, Pelleas, the years we have worked!—it is coming to fruition! Arthur is the Summer Lord! His reign will establish the Kingdom of Summer.”
“Because Avallach greeted him?”
“Because Avallach recognized him.”
“But we have always known it would begin with Arthur.”
Merlin raised a forefinger. “We have always hoped Arthur would be the Summer Lord. There is a difference.”
I still did not see how Avallach’s greeting changed anything, or why Merlin thought that it did. But I believe that Avallach had grown increasingly sympathetic to the subtle promptings and presences of the spirit. Over the years, he had grown in wisdom and holiness—through his discipline of prayer and meditations on the holy writings Bishop Elfodd brought him—so perhaps he saw something in Arthur that moved him.
But it did not matter what I thought. Merlin, for whatever reason, had seen something in the welcome Avallach gave Arthur that kindled the certainty of the Summer Realm within him. And that was enough.
After breaking fast, we rode down to the abbey to attend the Mass of Christ. Merlin again presented Arthur to Abbot Elfodd, who prayed for him and commended him for ending the rebellion at last. The Christ Mass was read, and hymns were sung by the monks, who afterward passed among us with the peace of Christ on their lips.
As we were leaving, Avallach bade Elfodd to join us at eventide to share our meal. In all it was a fine and happy time, though I could not help remembering the festive and joyous celebrations I had seen in old Pendaran’s and Maelwys’ court; nor could I help recalling the masses led by saintly Dafyd.
Oh, but those were times long past now, and I did not think I would ever see their like again.
That night as we gathered before the hearth after our evening meal, Merlin produced his harp and began playing. We listened for a while, whereupon he stopped.
“When I was a child,” he said, “on nights like this my mother would tell me of the vision my father, Taliesin, had entrusted to her. As you know, it has ever been my work to advance this vision and establish it in this worlds-realm.
“But, Arthur, I have never spoken the vision to you as it was spoken to me. And though you know of it, you have not heard it as I heard it. Tonight you shall, but not from my lips. I would have you hear it from the one who has ever guarded it in her heart.” And looking to his mother he said, “Speak to us of the Kingdom of Summer.”
Charis observed her son for a moment, then rose to stand before us. Her hands clasping before her, she closed her eyes and began to recite.
And this is what she said:
“I have seen a land shining with goodness where each man protects his brother’s dignity as readily as his own, where war and want have ceased and all races live under the same law of love and honor.
“I have seen a land bright with truth, where a man’s word is his pledge and falsehood is banished, where children sleep safe in their mother’s arms and never know fear or pain.
“I have seen a land where kings extend their hands in justice rather than reach for the sword; where mercy, kindness, and compassion flow like deep water over the land, and men revere virtue, revere truth, revere beauty, above comfort, pleasure, or selfish gain. A land where peace reigns in the hearts of men; where faith blazes like a beacon from every hill and love like a fire from every hearth; where the True God is worshiped and his ways acclaimed by all.”
Charis opened her eyes, glistening from a mist of tears. “These are the words of Taliesin. Hear and remember,” she said. And looking down at her feet she saw Arthur kneeling there, holding the sword she had given him across his palms. No one had seen him leave his place.
Merlin was on his feet, his face glowing in the light of the fire. Excitement drew his features taut. “Arthur?”
Charis raised a hand to Merlin and stopped him. She touched Arthur lightly on the cheek, and he raised his head. His eyes were shining, too—not from tears or the fireglow, but from the glory of the vision awakened by Charis’ words.
“What is it, Arthur?” she asked.
“You have given me the sword,” he said in a voice stiff with emotion. “And now you have given me the vision with which to use it. Now I know the reason for my birth: I will be the Summer Lord. With the help of God and his angels, I will do it. I will establish the Kingdom of Summer.”
“What is it you wish of me?”
“Consecrate me, my lady, to the task for which I was born.”
“But I—” began Charis, glancing at Abbot Elfodd for help. The abbot came to stand beside her and, putting his hand into his sleeve, withdrew a small vial of oil. This he pressed into Charis’ hands, encouraging her to do as Arthur bade.
She accepted this and, laying her hands on Arthur’s head, began to speak in a voice tender and low, saying, “As a servant of the Savior God, I commend you to this noble task, Arthur ap Aurelius. In the name of Jesu, who is the Christ, I anoint you with this oil as a symbol of his authority and abiding presence.” She touched her fingertips to the vial and made the sign of the cross on his brow.
“Be upheld in his power; be filled with his wisdom; be strong in his love; be just and merciful in his grace. Rise, Arthur; follow the vision that our Lord Jesu has given and called you to obey.”
Arthur took Charis’ hand and pressed it to his lips. Then he rose up, and I beheld him with new eyes. For he was not the same Arthur anymore; he had changed.
His hands gripped Caledvwlch with solemn purpose; his clear blue eyes radiated peace and joy. Yes, and the light streaming from his countenance blazed with a high and holy fire.
Merlin came to stand before him with upraised hands in the manner of a declaiming druid. With a solemn and mighty voice he began to speak. And this is what he said:
“Behold a king of stature in ring-forged mail, helmed with majesty and light! Behold a bright warrior who strives against the pagan with the Cross of Christ upon his shoulder! Behold a lord in whom other lords find their substance and worth!
“See his court! Justice erected it stone by stone. See his hall! Honor raised its high-peaked roof. See his lands! Mercy nurtures root and branch. See his people! Truth reigns in their unselfish hearts.
“Behold a kingdom of peace! Behold a kingdom of right! Behold a king ruling with wisdom and compassion as his stalwart counsellors!
“Behold Arthur, of whom it is said: His days were like the Beltane fire leaping from hilltop to hilltop; the soft wind from the south laden with fragrant airs; the sweet rain of spring on the red-heathered hills; autumn’s full harvest bringing wealth and plenty to every hearth and holding; the rich blessing of Heaven from the Gifting God to his contrite people!
“Behold the Kingdom of Summer!”
Book Two
Bedwyr
1
I Bedwyr, a prince of Rheged, write this. My father was Bleddyn ap Cynfal, Lord of Caer Tryfan in the north, kinsman to Tewdrig ap Teithfallt and the lords of Dyfed in the south.
Though the devil take me, I will always remember meeting Arthur for the first time. It was at Caer Myrddin in Dyfed. Myrddin had brought Arthur there to hide him from his enemies, and my father had come to deliver me to Tewdrig’s court where I would receive my first fosterage. Arthur was but a squally babe.
Not that I was so very much older myself—all of five summers perhaps, but old enough to think myself already a warrior of vast renown. I stalked the rampart of Tewdrig’s stronghold, gripping the shaft of a short wooden spear my father had made for me.
While the kings held council concerning affairs of the realm, I marched around the caer pretending that I was its lord and chief. My only thought was that one day I would become a warrior like my father, a respected battlechief, and I would kill Saecsens a
nd make my people proud of me.
To be a warrior! It was sun and stars to me. I could not sleep unless I held my wooden spear in my hand. The life of a warrior held great allure for me then; it was all I knew. Oh, but I was very young.
Caer Myrddin—Maridunum of old—fairly blazed under a hot summer sun. Everywhere men were busy and working; hard metal glimmered and gleamed from every corner, and the sound of a hammer on steel rang in the shimmering air like sounding iron or church bell. The caer was a good deal larger than our own at Penllyn. It bespoke the power and wealth of the king, as was fitting. And Tewdrig had a smith—which we did not have. The hall was larger, too; timber and thatch, with a great planked door bound in iron. The walls were timber atop steep earthen ramparts.
I stood on the bank above the ditch imagining I alone defended the gates and that victory depended upon me. Absorbed in my dreams of future glory, I felt a touch on the haft of my spear and glanced around. The infant Arthur was clutching the end of my spear in his chubby hands and grinning toothlessly at me.
I jerked the spear angrily. But he held on. I jerked again, and still he did not let go. Such a grip! Well, of course I was forced to show him that I was his better, so I stepped close and shoved the spear against his chest. His unsteady stumps buckled, and he toppled backwards into the dust. I laughed at him and gloated in my superior strength.
He did not cry out as I expected him to, nor did the smile disappear from his round face. He simply gazed merrily at me with not so much as a mild reproach in his wide blue eyes.
Anger and shame battled within me. Shame won. Glancing around guiltily—lest anyone should see what I had done—I quickly stooped and took his fat little arm in my hand and pulled Arthur to his feet.
We were friends from that moment, I believe. Little Arthur became my shadow, and I the sun that rose in the sky for him. Few were the days that we did not spend in one another’s company. We broke the same bread, drank from the same cup, breathed the same air. And later, when he joined me in the boys’ house, we became closer than brothers.
When men think of Arthur now, they think of the emperor and his lands and palace. Or they think of the glorious battlechief whose victories stretch behind him like a gem-crusted strand. They think of the invincible Pendragon who holds all Britain in sure, strong hands.
God’s truth, I believe they consider him an Otherworld being sprung up in their midst from the dust under their feet, or called down by Myrddin Emrys from the mists of high Yr Widdfa. Certainly, no one thinks of him as a man—with a birth and boyhood like any other man. Nor do bards tell of it.
Stories abound in the land in these days; they grow thick like moss on a fallen branch. Some few have a mote of truth in them, but far too many do not. It is natural perhaps, the desire to make more of things—a tale does often grow greater in the telling.
But it is not needful. Purest gold needs no gilding, after all.
* * *
It is Arthur the War Leader that I speak of, mind. Artorius Rex, he was not. All through that long season of strife he remained unacknowledged by the small kings. Small dogs, more like. Though they begrudged him even the title of Dux—and that was a travesty!—he wore it proudly, and fought the wars for them.
The wars…each glorious and hideous, each different from all the others, yet each one exactly alike in the end.
There were twelve in all. The first took place the very next summer after Arthur bested Cerdic in single combat and ended the rebellion against him. Arthur had spent the winter at Ynys Avallach and returned in the spring, bearing his new sword, and burning with his new vision of the Kingdom of Summer.
I had gone to the breeding runs—the sheltered glens east of Caer Melyn where we wintered our horses and maintained the breeding stock—to see what we could count on for the coming year. It was foaling season, so I stayed on to help midwife a few colts into the world.
Winter had lingered long, and I was glad to be free of the caer for a few days. I have always disliked close places, preferring wide hills and a lofty sky to the walls and peaked roof of a hall. Though cold at night, I was glad to stay with the herders in their hut and ride with them during the day as they tended the animals.
One gusty morning, I was leading four swell-bellied mares down the valley to the enclosure near the hut where they could be delivered more easily. Feeling the fresh wind on my face, my spirit rose within me and I began to sing—loudly and with vigor—or I might have heard the rider calling me.
Indeed, I did not hear him until he was all but on top of me. “Bedwyr! Hail, Bedwyr! Wait!”
I turned to see one of the younger warriors galloping toward me. I greeted him as he reined up and fell in beside me. “Greetings, Drusus, what do you here?”
“Lord Cai has sent me to bring you. Arthur has returned and would have you with him. We are riding out in three days’ time.”
“Riding where?” I knew nothing of any trouble anywhere.
“I cannot say; Cai did not tell me. Will you come?”
“I will see these horses settled first. Rest yourself while you wait, and we will return together.”
I continued on down the valley and gave the mares over to the care of a herdsman. I gathered my cloak and weapons from the hut, and rode back to the caer at once. All the while, I bethought me what could be happening. I could get nothing more from Drusus, so contented myself with flying over the windswept hills as fast as my horse could run. God’s truth, I would have made all speed anyway, I was that anxious to see Arthur.
He was standing in the center of a tumult of urgent bustle talking to Cai when I rode in. I threw myself from the saddle and ran to meet Arthur. “Jesu be praised! The wanderer has returned!” I cried.
“Hail, Bedwyr!” he called, a great grin appearing instantly on his face. “Have we a herd?”
“We have a herd. Fifteen foals already, and twenty more perhaps before the season is done. It is blood and breath to see you, Artos.”
I stepped close and we gripped one another by the arms like brothers, and he wrapped me in his rib-cracking bear hug. “You have weathered well, I see.” He thumped me soundly on the back. “Was the winter to your liking?”
“A little long,” I admitted, “but not too cold.”
“Cai has told me you drove Rhys nearly mad with your complaining. He is only a bard, Bedwyr; would you have him change the weather with a song?”
“A fresh tale to pass the time would suffice. But look at you, Bear—you seem to have fallen in with the Fair Folk.”
His smile became mysterious, and he drew his sword for me to admire. “This is Caledvwlch,” he told me. “It was given me by the Lady of the Lake.”
I had never seen a weapon like it, and told him so. “A man could win a kingdom with this,” I observed, feeling its quick weight fill my hand. The blade seemed instantly a part of me, more a bright extension of my arm than a measured length of cold steel.
“Well said,” Arthur replied, “and that kingdom has a name.”
That is all he said, and he would speak no more about it then. “Come to me in my chambers. I will summon Myrddin.” He walked away across the yard.
I glanced at Cai, who shrugged, as puzzled by the change in Arthur as I was myself. For our friend had changed.
Or perhaps because of his long absence I was only seeing a different side to Arthur from any I had seen before. But no, we were brothers! I knew him well enough to know that something had happened to him at Ynys Avallach. I determined to find out from Myrddin.
“I hear we are to ride in three days,” I said as Cai and I moved off toward the hall. “Any idea where we are going?”
“To the Saecsen Shore.”
I stopped walking and turned him around by the arm. “Is this one of your tasteless jests?”
“It is no jest.” For once the green eyes in his ruddy face were serious. “That is what he told me—although he said no more than that. And now you know as much about it as I do.”
“Di
d you notice how he grinned at me?” I said as we continued to the hall. “I have seen a smile like that only twice in my life till now: the first time was on the face of a slow-witted youth who stole a pig from my father’s sty and was caught trying to sell it in the market, and the second was when old Gerontius died at his prayers.”
Cai laughed out loud. “I do not think Arthur has been stealing pigs, but that is always a possibility.”
“It is the truth I am telling, Caius; I do not like this. Mark me well, nothing good will come of this.”
“Come of what?”
“This…this…You know what I mean.”
He laughed again and slapped me on the back. “You think too much, Bedwyr. You should have been a druid. Let be; all will be well.”
We walked through the hall to Arthur’s chamber at the far end and waited. Presently, Pelleas entered and greeted us warmly—after his peculiar fashion.
The Fair Folk always astonish me. They are not like us in the least. They are a lofty race, forever holding themselves apart from the life around them. Wondrous fair to look upon, they are nonetheless shy, and by nature do not display their emotions. I think it is pride.
Myrddin is less like this. But then, he is only half Fair Folk…although what the other half is, no one knows.
“Any news from Ynys Avallach, Pelleas?” I asked. I had never been to the Fisher King’s palace, but I had heard Myrddin talk about it often enough to know the place.
“We passed a most agreeable winter, Prince Bedwyr,” he replied. This was meant, I suppose, to be a most detailed account of their activities. I had known Pelleas since I was a twig, and this was how he talked to me.
“Is it true that it never snows on the Glass Isle?” Cai put the question to him seriously, but I saw the edges of his mouth twitch in mirth.
“Of course it snows, you young genius!” The voice was that of the Emrys, who entered at that moment with Arthur behind him. “Greetings, Cai, and Bedwyr.”