Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle

  “Now then, it is all the same to me whether we go to Rome, or whether we stay. What do I care for the opinions of the idle young men among us? Such renown as I have is sufficient for me; I do not need to raise my name still higher for my own sake.

  “Yet, I wonder if there might be some greater benefit to be won by marching to the defense of Rome. If by doing so we could extend the peace we have enjoyed to the rest of the world even now suffering the vengeance of barbarians, would this not be a worthy thing? Further, would it not be accounted sin to us to ignore this plea for help, when we could so easily give it?

  “I am an old man and no longer need the acclaim of others to think well of myself. But neither do I enjoy a private peace when others suffer injustice that I could prevent.”

  At these words the council roared its approval. Who could disagree with such sane logic? they cried. This is surely what must be done. It is not for ourselves that we save Rome, they said, but for those who suffer the barbarians’ oppression.

  When all had spoken and order was once more regained, the High King stood slowly. “Thank you, my brothers,” he said, “for giving me your sound advice. I will withdraw now to consider which way I will go.”

  Arthur turned and left the chamber, and the lords returned to the feast—all except Bedwyr, Cai, the Emrys, and myself, who followed him to his private chamber.

  “I cannot believe you would even for a moment consider going to Rome,” Bedwyr said, wasting no time. “You are power-mad if you think to honor Lucius’ letter with action.”

  “Speak your mind, Bedwyr,” replied Arthur with a grin. “Unbind your tongue and do not hold back.”

  “I mean it, Bear,” said Bedwyr icily. “Nothing good can come of it. No Briton who marched to Rome ever returned. Macsen Wledig went to Rome and they beheaded him. Constantine became emperor and they poisoned him. It is a snakepit. Stay far away from there.”

  Cai disagreed. “How can he call himself emperor if he abandons the Seat of the Empire to barbarians? Go to Rome, I say; free it, and carry the throne back to Britain. Then it will be saved for all time.”

  I did not know what to think. Both arguments appealed to me. It was true that Britons who entertained dreams of Empire tended to die upon reaching Rome. Equally true, it seemed to me that to allow the heathen to defy justice tainted the peace we had labored so long to achieve.

  So it was that we, with Arthur, looked at last to the Wise Emrys. “Why do you stare at me?” the Emrys said. “You have already made up your minds. Go and do what you have decided to do.”

  “But I have not decided a thing,” objected Arthur. “God knows I am adrift here.”

  The Emrys gave his head a shake. “Nothing I say will change the heart within you, Arthur. I marvel that you have not already given the order to sail.”

  “What have I done to deserve this abuse?” asked Arthur in a wounded voice. “Tell me and I will make it right.”

  “I tell you this. If you uphold the counsel of men like Cador and Ban, then you deserve the abuse that comes to you!”

  “But I do not uphold their counsel. I am asking for yours.”

  “Then hear me well, for when I have finished I will speak no more about it.”

  “As you will,” replied Arthur, sitting down in his chair.

  “Listen then, O King, to the Soul of Wisdom!” The Emrys, in the manner of the druid bards of old, pulled his cloak tightly around him and stood before the king, head erect, eyes closed, voice raised in declamation. “Through all things I have labored, to this end only: that the Kingdom of Summer might be born in this worlds-realm. In you, Arthur Wledig, this has been accomplished. You are the Champion of Light that was foretold of old; you are the Bright Promise of Britain; you are the Chief Dragon of the Island of the Mighty; you are the Favored One of God, who has so richly blessed you.

  “Hear me, Arthur: Rome is dying—may even now be dead. We cannot revive it, nor is it right to do so. The old must pass away to make room for the new. That is the way of things. In the Kingdom of Summer, a new order has come to pass. It must not become allied to the old order, or it will surely perish.

  “Do not allow the faded glory of the Empire to dazzle your eyes, nor the words of men to inflame your sense of honor. Be the Emperor of the West, if you like, but establish a new Empire here, in Britain. Let the rest of the world look to the Island of the Mighty as once we looked to Rome.

  “Be first in compassion! Be first in freedom! But let that freedom and compassion begin here. Let Britain shine like a beacon-blaze into the dark corners of the world. Rome is a corpse, Arthur; let the barbarian hosts bury it. Let Roman justice fail; let the justice of God prevail. Let Britain become foremost in doing God’s work in the world. Let Britain become the seat of the New Empire of Light!”

  So saying, the Emrys raised his cloak over his head and hooded himself. And he would speak no more.

  Three days passed. Arthur kept his counsel to himself and held vigil in his chamber until the matter which so obsessed him could be resolved. In the end, he summoned his lords to council once more and delivered his decision.

  “Long have I thought on this and weighed the various arguments in my mind. I have decided that it will be no bad thing to go to Rome and do what may be done to relieve the suffering of the people there, and to receive the laurel wreath from their hands. When I have set Rome in my hand, I will return to Britain and rule the New Empire from the Island of the Mighty.

  “Therefore, I order to be assembled the ships of my fleet and the ships of any who would sail with me, so that we may make all haste to Rome and end the barbarian oppression there. For I am persuaded that when injustice is allowed to reign unchecked, then no man is truly free.”

  The High King’s plan was greeted with wild enthusiasm by the assembly, especially among the younger men. But I noticed that Arthur kept his eyes upon his supporters while he spoke. Never once did he glance at the Emrys.

  Immediately after, in his chambers Bedwyr made bold to challenge the Pendragon to his face. Because they were closer than brothers, Arthur listened. “This is insane, Artos. A more crack-brained idea you have never had. Defy me, if you will. But do not defy the Emrys.”

  “I am not defying anyone,” maintained Arthur. “Besides, what is so wrong with wanting to liberate the Mother Church from the persecution of the heathen?”

  “Do not speak to me of churches, Bear. We both know why you are going. What if you get yourself killed over there like Macsen Wledig?”

  “It is only one campaign.”

  “Is it? In any event, if the seat of the Empire needs saving let Emperor Lucius save it! Did he offer to help? We will all grow grey-headed waiting for that! He expects you to do all the work. Just you see if you receive so much as a hot meal from him when you are finished. Somehow, I do not see him extending his hands in friendship to you.”

  “You are so suspicious, brother,” laughed Arthur.

  “And you are so stubborn.”

  “We make a fine pair, do we not?”

  Bedwyr would not be appeased with light words. “Hear me, Artorius! Do not go to Rome.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I cannot say it more plainly than that.”

  The Pendragon remained silent for a long moment. “Does that mean you will not go with me?”

  “Saints and angels!” sighed Bedwyr. “Of course I will go with you. How else will I prevent you from foolishly getting your head carried off by a barbarian war axe?” Bedwyr paused, and added, “But that brings to mind another matter: who will hold the realm while you are gone?”

  “I have already thought of that,” replied Arthur happily. “Gwenhwyvar is a reigning queen in her own right. She will rule in my place while I am gone.”

  “Very well,” agreed Bedwyr. “That is the first truly sensible choice you have made today. At least she will not be tempted to rush off saving any failing empires.”

  In the end, the Emrys and I, and Gwenhwyvar, along with a small bodyguard of warri
ors, stayed behind to hold the realm in Arthur’s absence. Gwenhwyvar was angry with Arthur for going—mostly because she thought that she should fight by his side rather than languish alone in Britain. She raged and stormed for a fair time about this, but when the day of leaving dawned, she bore her duty with good grace.

  Once in motion, Arthur’s preparations gathered speed. By early summer, all was in readiness and the warriors of Britain assembled—like the legionaries three hundred years before—on the banks of the River Uisc to board ships bound for Rome.

  We stayed in Caer Legionis for a few days after the ships sailed, then boarded our own ships and sailed up the western coast to the harbor at Caer Lial. I was not sorry to stay behind with the Emrys and the queen. Although I would liked to have gone to Rome just to see it, I was the least of Arthur’s warriors and could serve him better by remaining behind and looking to his interests in Britain.

  The journey to Caer Lial proved pleasant. We stopped at Avallon on the way and stayed a few days with Avallach and Charis before going on to the city. Another day’s sailing brought us safely to the harbor, and at last we were returned to the north.

  I was surprised to discover how much I had missed it. After the close-crowded city of the south, Caer Lial seemed spacious, the air fresher, the days brighter. I was glad to be at home once more and spent the next few days happily attending to affairs left untended since the winter before. Also, I made plans to ride to Caer Alclyd to visit my mother, whom I had not seen since Emperor Arthur’s coronation—and then only for a moment.

  The day I had planned to leave, I went to the stables for a mount. While the horse was being saddled, I hurried back to the palace to gather the gifts I was bringing to my family. Then I sought out the Emrys to bid him farewell, and to see if he wished to send any message with me.

  It was as I hastened down the long corridor from my chamber to the hall that I heard a cry of alarm. It came from within the palace.

  I raced to the hall, scattering all my bundles as I burst into the room and found myself face to face with Medraut.

  8

  Four warriors lay dead in pooled blood on the floor. The room was filled with Picti waving swords and clubs and spears. I was the only Briton alive to defend the queen, and I was unarmed. Medraut’s sword bit into my throat.

  “What treachery is this?” I demanded.

  “We have come to pay homage to the emperor,” replied Medraut with a sneer. “Imagine our disappointment when we discovered that he is not here to receive us.”

  Two Picti thrust spears at me from either side. I know they would have killed me in that selfsame instant if Medraut had not prevented them. “Cadw! Ymat!” he shouted in their coarse tongue. Then, to another swarthy Pict who looked to be a king, he said, “This one is more valuable to us alive. Have him bound and put with the others.”

  My wrists and knees were bound with thick leather thongs, and I was dragged through the palace and hauled into the yard. There were signs of the briefest and most futile of struggles: here and there a cluster of dead bodies, some armed, most without weapons; men cut down where they stood.

  No organized resistance had been possible. We were overcome before we could raise spear or draw sword. And those of us still alive were becoming Medraut’s hostages. The humiliation was worse than death.

  Shock and outrage coiled within me, twin serpents of revulsion. The evil of it! Vile disgrace! Vicious and wicked, Medraut had perpetrated the unthinkable.

  More than thirty of the queen’s warriors had been captured—attesting to the utter surprise with which the city had been attacked. No man, from the highest warrior to the lowest stablehand, would ever have allowed himself to be taken alive if he had weapon to hand or, failing that, a chance to swing his fists.

  The waiting warriors stood with their heads bowed in disgrace, hands bound, surrounded by Picti guards. Smoke rolled across the yard and coiled from numerous sites within the city. Shrieks and screams echoed in the distance. I was brought to stand with the other Britons, and after only a few moments saw the Emrys and the queen roughly dragged from the palace. The sight of Myrddin and Gwenhwyvar, bound and hooded, the hands of the enemy upon them, made the gorge rise in my throat. I retched and choked back bile. The tears welled up in my eyes.

  Medraut, his expression wild and fantastic, strutted forth across the yard, a big Pict battlechief on either side of him. He was no true warrior himself, so moved only in the company of warriors. In truth, he was nothing more than a cunning coward.

  Upon reaching the place where the captives waited, he uttered a sharp command in the barbarian tongue. All at once, the Picti raised blade and spear and began stabbing the hostages. Brave men fell all around me. I saw more than one sword plunged into the belly of a defenseless man, and that man fall to his death without a sound, courageous to the end. One battle-scarred veteran even seized the sword as it swung toward him and with a defiant cry thrust it through his own heart rather than allow the enemy to kill him so shamefully.

  I was struck to the ground and pinned there with the point of a spear. When the slaughter was finished, only eleven remained. Medraut saved the most important of his captives for the hostage pits: the queen, the Emrys, myself, and eight others whose lives he hoped to bargain with.

  Let him do his worst. That day I watched good men die and pledged my life to seeing Medraut’s headless corpse torn to pieces by the High King’s hounds.

  * * *

  I was thrown into a loathsome pit beneath the roots of the fortress. There with some few of the other hostages I stayed. Whether day or night, I knew it not. Where the queen was held, or what had become of the Emrys, I could not say.

  Occasionally, we were hauled from the pit and made to parade in chains before our Picti captors, who wished to boast of us before their chieftains. At one of these times I discovered that we were enjoying the hospitality of Keldrych, a powerful Picti king, who had succoured Medraut when the tyrant fled Arthur’s fosterage.

  Keldrych summoned the fierce tribes of the north to attend him in Caer Lial, there to see for themselves how he and Medraut had seized the Pendragon’s city. Word of rebellion spread like plague among the Picti, who had never loved Arthur and needed little enough encouragement to break faith with him.

  A blind man could have seen what was happening! Having stolen the queen, the traitors bargained with the lords and battlechiefs of other Picti tribes for support. And this they won.

  Curiously, the Picti, among other primitive peoples, consider the kingship of a lord to rest in his queen. The king’s wife is the living symbol of his reign. It is a belief ancient beyond reckoning, and more enduring than stone.

  For this reason, the Picti were much impressed with Medraut’s abduction of Gwenhwyvar: she was Arthur’s kingship. As Medraut possessed her, so he possessed the throne of Britain. To the Picti this was self-evident. In seizing the queen, Medraut had made himself king, and in their eyes proud Gwenhwyvar became Medraut’s wife. This treason moved the Picti as nothing else could. In treachery was Medraut the master.

  Arthur, of course, was expected to return and fight for his throne. Medraut meant to be ready. With extravagant promises and subtle deceptions he wooed the rebel kings. As the summer waxed full, the forces of the Picti gathered for war. With each day that passed, the enemy grew stronger as more and more warbands arrived in Caer Lial, summoned by Keldrych and Medraut, and emboldened by the prospect of Arthur’s defeat.

  From the wild hills of the north they came—from Sci, from Druim and Gododdin, Athfotla and Cait. They came by the hundreds, gathering together in a mighty host, separate tribes united only by their quick-kindled hatred of Arthur, and the promise of enormous wealth through plunder.

  At the riotous Lugnasadh celebration the hostages were once again dragged out to parade before the assembled battlechiefs. The sight of them nearly stole the breath from my lungs. Gathered in Arthur’s hall was an immense host of blue-painted Picti lords, each and every one a chieftain w
ith many hundreds of warriors in his keep. Never had such a host been assembled in Britain, I thought; surely the Pendragon cannot match such a force.

  To our disgrace we were made to serve our captors meat and drink and endure their crude sport as they viciously shoved us and choked us with our chains. When the riot reached its height, Medraut rose up and with much demonstration spoke to the assembled chieftains. I do not know what he said, but that night we were not returned to the hostage pits. We slept in our chains in a storeroom and the next morning were taken out into the yard.

  The hostages were herded together and, to my joy and relief, I saw that the Emrys and the queen remained unharmed. I had not seen them since the fall of Caer Lial and had feared for their safety. Although the queen was held a little apart from the rest of us, I was encouraged to see that she appeared defiant and unbowed, full of fire. By stealth I managed to creep near to the Emrys.

  “Emrys, are you well?” I asked.

  “Well enough, Aneirin,” he answered, his voice low and raw. “And you?”

  “I have not been harmed—nor have the others,” I replied. “Do you know what is happening?”

  “Arthur is returning,” the Emrys told me. “Word came to Medraut a few days ago that the High King’s fleet had been sighted. Today the battle will be joined.”

  These words heartened me, but I noticed they brought no cheer to the Wise Emrys. “But surely this is good news,” I said. “What is wrong?”

  “We have endured so much and labored so long to be undone like this,” he said, “and you ask what is wrong?”

  “Arthur will not fail.”

  The Emrys regarded me long, his golden eyes deep-shadowed with sadness. “Trust God, Aneirin. And pray that the sky does not fall upon us.”