Pendragon

  “Then you have my complete attention,” I replied, settling myself to listen.

  Hywel leaned forward. “We have seen barbarian encampments in Druim, and along the Cait coast. Five altogether—some of them large enough for three hundred men. We came upon them abandoned, though not long so. They appear to have been in use early this summer.”

  “The Cran-Tara,” I said, nodding at this confirmation of the Gern-y-fhain’s words.

  “You know this already?” Bleddyn wondered.

  “Only that the war summons has gone out. It remains to be seen if any will answer it.”

  Hywel regarded me for a moment. “I thought to be of service to you, but it seems that you are better informed than I.”

  “There is yet something you can do, if you are willing.”

  “You have only name it, Lord Emrys.”

  “Set watch in the spring and bring word to Caer Edyn if anything follows from the Cran-Tara.”

  “It will be done, Lord Emrys.”

  “Why Caer Edyn?” Bleddyn asked when we were alone once more.

  “Because that is where I will be,” I replied. Bleddyn expressed surprise, so I explained. “The time for Bedwyr’s fostering is here, and Arthur must begin his own. I cannot praise your generosity highly enough, nor properly thank you for all you have done for Arthur.”

  “I mean to foster the lad,” protested Bleddyn.

  “And you would serve him well—of that I have no doubt,” I told him. “These last years have been good ones, but we must not grow complacent. I think we must move on now.”

  Bleddyn accepted this, but was saddened nonetheless. “My loss will be Ector’s gain,” he said. “I feared this day would come. I had hoped to hold it off a little longer.”

  “I wish it could be otherwise,” I replied. “But the world will not wait. We must move with it, or we will be left behind.”

  “I am sorry to see you go.” The king regarded me sadly.

  “You know the way to Caer Edyn,” I told him. “You have but to saddle a horse and you are there. Though it would be best if you forgot you ever heard of Arthur—at least for a while longer.”

  The next day—the last day of the Gathering—I went to our tent at dusk as the boys sat eating their supper together before a small fire Pelleas had made. Arthur welcomed me warmly, and when I had settled down beside him on the ground, he said, “You have been scarce as boar feathers, Myrddin. And you have missed most of the trials. I watched for you. Where have you been?”

  I put my arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “I have been searching here and there, and learning the condition of the Island of the Mighty. Of spears and swords and mounted drills, I have had enough.”

  “Had enough?” wondered Bedwyr. “You never ride with the warriors, Myrddin.”

  I shook my head slowly. “You are right; I have not ridden with the warband for many years. But I did once.”

  Bedwyr’s look of astonishment did not go unnoticed. “Is that so hard to believe?” I countered. “Then I will tell you something more difficult still: once I led the warband of Dyfed.”

  “Is that so?” Bedwyr was dumbfounded.

  “I believe him,” said Arthur staunchly.

  “Well, I did not come to talk about my time as a warrior, but about yours.” The boys leaned forward in anticipation. “Tomorrow the Gathering will end, and everyone will return to their homes—everyone except the four of us.”

  This was news. The boys glanced nervously at one another, and at Pelleas. What is this? What does it mean?

  “A prince must receive fostering in a king’s house.” I stated the thing squarely. “Is this not true?”

  “It is,” replied Bedwyr, giving a sharp nod of assent.

  “From time past remembering, brother lords have trained one another’s sons. This is how it should be. You two are of an age to begin your training. Therefore, your fostering has been arranged.”

  The initial excitement created by this pronouncement faded rapidly as the implications began to sink in. Bedwyr voiced his apprehension. “We will not be together, will we?”

  Again, I shook my head slowly. “No. That would not be for the best.”

  How quickly the moods of the young can change. Black gloom settled over the boys. It was as if they had been told that they must choose between them which one to sell into Saecsen slavery.

  Though it hurt me to do it, I let them live with their sadness for a moment before offering solace.

  Then, speaking softly, I said, “You will be great lords, each of you. I have seen this. What is more, you will live out your days in one another’s company. This have I seen as well.

  “Therefore, take heart. Apply yourselves to the tasks set before you and the time will pass more quickly. Soon enough you will ride together: true sword brothers. And the world will tremble at your passing.”

  This pleased them enormously. Arthur jumped to his feet, and, lacking a sword, raised his fist in the air. “Hail, brother! Let us go gladly to our new homes, since it is for our benefit.”

  Bedwyr, on his feet now, too, echoed this sentiment. “Remember,” Arthur continued, “we will meet again at next year’s Gathering.”

  “And the next after that!” cried Bedwyr. If they were pleased before, they were delighted now. “Hail, Arthur!” they cried noisily, fists in the air. “Hail, Bedwyr!”

  I rose to my feet. “Well said,” I told them. “Each year at the Gathering you shall come together to ride and feast—until the day when you will no longer be separated.”

  The next morning when the arrangements were formally explained, the boys accepted their elders’ decisions with good grace. As the camp was being struck and the first warbands began their homeward journeys, the boys lingered with one another, pledging and repledging their friendship until Bedwyr was summoned to leave.

  “I must go,” said Bedwyr, his voice trembling slightly. “I will miss you, Artos.”

  “And I will miss you, Bedwyr.”

  “Lord Ectorius has a good warband. You will do well.”

  “And Lord Ennion’s warband is second to none other. Take care to learn all you can.” Arthur clapped a hand on Bedwyr’s back.

  Bedwyr’s lower lip quivered and he threw his arms around Arthur. The two boys hugged one another for a moment, before remembering their dignity. “Fare well, Arthur,” Bedwyr said, sniffing back a tear.

  “Fare well, brother,” returned Arthur. “Until next year!”

  “Until next year!”

  Ennion departed soon after. Arthur rode to the crest of the hill that he might watch them out of sight. In a little while, I went to fetch him and found him there, watching still, although Ennion and his warband, and Bedwyr, were gone.

  “It is time, Arthur. Lord Ectorius is taking his leave now.” He made no reply. “The year will pass quickly,” I told him, mistaking his silence. “You will see Bedwyr again before you know it.”

  He turned to me, his blue eyes solemn and dark as slate. “I did not realize until just now that you and Pelleas would not be going, too. Somehow, I thought we would be together always….”

  “But we will be together,” I replied. “At least much of the time.”

  He brightened at my words. “You mean it, Myrddin? Really? What of Pelleas? Will he join us, too?”

  “Of course.”

  Arthur became suddenly thoughtful. “You said we would be lords. Did you mean me, too?”

  The uncertainty of his birth lurked behind his words: he did not know his father.

  “You have been with Myrddin a long time, lad. Have you ever known me to speak a false prophecy, or to jest in such matters?”

  My answer delighted him. Beaming, he slapped the reins across his mount’s withers and rode back down the hill, eager to begin his new life in Ectorius’ stronghold by the sea.

  I rode back, but more slowly, ashamed of myself for dodging his innocent question. As I had spoken the words they seemed true. But why did I hesitate now? Why not tell
him of my dreams for his future? Why not lay the vision before him and let him see the possibilities for himself?

  The temptation was strong, but no. No. The time was not come. He was too young yet, too young to shoulder such a burden. Once he took it up, he would carry it to the grave. Let him live free a little longer.

  4

  CAER EDYN SAT ON A BLUFF OVERLOOKING a broad expanse of shining water called Muir Giudan, an eastward-looking bay that opens onto what had come to be known as the Saecsen Sea. Lord Ectorius ruled his realm with a steady hand. Fair, generous, as ready for a feast as a fight, Ectorius was descended from a long line of Roman officers—centurions mostly, and a tribune or two as well—who had served the coastal garrisons of the eastern shores.

  Ectorius was carrying on his family’s ancestral trade: watching the sea for the dark, knife-shaped hulls of enemy ships.

  Bluff Ector served a king, however, rather than a legate; his service was for life, not the twenty years of the Roman army; and instead of Mithras of the legionaries, he worshiped the Christ of the British saints. Apart from these minor distinctions, life for Ectorius was little different from the life his Roman forefathers would have known.

  His stone-walled stronghold lay three days’ journey from the place of Gathering. It was a fine ride through the Eildon hills north and east to the sea. Arthur stayed near me all the way; not from any apprehension, I think. He merely seemed glad of familiar company. We talked about the things we had seen at the Gathering: the warriors, their skill with the various weapons, the differences in styles of fighting.

  Arthur had an eye for subtlety—a quality not usually associated with him in later times. But he could tell the difference between a squared bit and a round one in a horse’s mouth by the way the animal behaved as its rider maneuvered on the field. Or from which kind of wood a spear shaft was made by the way it sounded when struck on a shield.

  Talking to Arthur was not like talking to another boy his age. At eight, he had already acquired a wide and practical knowledge of many subjects. He could read and write good Latin, and speak it well enough to make himself understood by even the most demanding cleric.

  He also knew the craft and lore of wood and field: the various trees and shrubs and their uses; the proper herbs for simple medicines and potions; the edible wild plants and where they might be found; all the birds and animals and their habits…and much else besides.

  I was responsible for this, yes. From our earliest days with him, Pelleas and I had schooled the boy in lore of every kind, filling his head with the wonders of the world around him. And Arthur, little Arthur, took to it as he took to everything else: with a fever of passion and determination.

  In this, his breeding told. He had inherited all of Aurelius’ ardor and intensity, and Ygerna’s quick intelligence. He also had a generous portion of Uther’s dauntless tenacity—which sometimes showed itself as courage, and otherwise as blunt bullheadedness.

  He also possessed Aurelius’ curious innocence in battle: the fearless forgetting which led him to attempt and to achieve the impossible. This would, of course, come to be noticed much later. But even now he could be seen to exhibit a certain disregard for his own safety. I recognized it well, and knew its source, for I had ridden with Aurelius.

  In anyone else it would have been called carelessness. Or foolishness, more like. But it was never that. Arthur simply did not feel afraid. Daring, bravery, boldness, valor—these are qualities of overcoming fear.

  What is it, then, when there is no fear?

  As I say, we talked of the Gathering and of the year to come. I could see that Arthur was determined to make the best of his necessary exile. He liked Ectorius, and respected him as a ruler and warrior; he was eager to learn the skills Ectorius could teach him.

  At dusk on the third day, we came upon Caer Edyn, approaching from the west along a wide, winding glen. At the end of the valley we began the ascent to the bluff. The fortress stood on the bare hump of an enormous rock, overlooking the better part of the bay far below.

  Rock walls topped by a timber palisade and ringed by a great, deep ditch bore testimony to the fact that Caer Edyn had seen more than its share of Saecsen fighting—and survived.

  In the golden light of a fiery northern sunset, the stone and timber shone as bronze; solid, invincible. And although the land around the fortress appeared comfortable enough—sheltered as it was behind the high sea bluffs—I knew the northern realm climes could be harsh and unforgiving.

  Circling seabirds and the uncluttered view of the wide, empty sea made Caer Edyn appear a lonely place. Arthur felt it, too, withdrawing into himself as we climbed the narrow hill track leading to the stronghold. But any melancholy was instantly dispelled upon reaching the summit.

  “Myrddin!” Arthur motioned me to him. “Look!”

  I rode to him and we sat gazing over the long, curving swath of blue water that formed Muir Giudan. Across the bay, wooded hills, steep and dark, came down to the water’s edge. Away to the north we could see smoke from a small shoreside settlement threading into the air.

  “Peanfahel,” one of the warriors told us. He had stopped beside us to take in the view. “And beyond it there,” he said, pointing farther north and west, “that is Manau Gododdin. The Saecsen always want to settle there. We have fought in Gododdin many times, and will again.”

  The man continued on his way to the caer. Other warriors were hurrying by. “What do you think of your new home, Arthur?” I asked.

  “It suits me, I think. It is more open than Caer Tryfan—more like Caer Myrddin.” He turned in the saddle to face me. “And here I am not so far from Bedwyr. Perhaps we might see each other sometimes.”

  “Perhaps,” I allowed. “But travel to and from Rheged is still very difficult.”

  “Well, sometime…maybe…” He looked out across the bay and at the dark hills on the other side, as if he were looking at the Orcady Islands and wondering how to get there. Presently, he lifted the reins, coaxing his pony forward, and we continued on to the caer.

  Ectorius was waiting for us as we entered the stone-paved yard. “Welcome, my friends!” he called, his voice ringing off the stone. “Welcome to Caer Edyn, the last outpost of the Empire!”

  So began our long sojourn in the north.

  That first night in Caer Edyn Arthur missed Bedwyr sorely. It had been years since either of them had been without the other. He slept poorly, and woke early, finding his way to the stables to see his pony. Satisfied that all was in order, he returned and with slow steps made his way to the hall where Ectorius waited with a surprise.

  “My son, Caius!” announced Lord Ectorius with noticeable pride as he presented a sturdy, stocky youth a few years older than Arthur. The boy scowled, uncertain whether to trust us. “This is Arthur,” Ectorius told his son. “He will be living here from now on. Make him welcome, son.”

  “W-welcome, A-A-Arth-thur,” muttered Caius. Then he turned and hobbled off quickly, all but dragging his right leg behind him.

  “As a babe, the lad fell from a rock and broke his leg,” explained Ectorius gently. “The bone set poorly, so Caius has limped ever since.” His father did not mention the stutter—an affliction noticeable only when he became excited, frustrated, or, as now, anxious.

  Clearly, Ectorius hoped for the best between the boys. “It is lonely for the lad,” he explained. “They will learn a liking for one another, I think. Yes.”

  I, too, wondered how Arthur would get on with the surly Caius. But since there is no force in all the world that can make friends of two boys who do not want to be friends, I let the thing rest.

  As it happened, the matter was settled quickly enough. For later that same day, Arthur induced a most reticent Caius to show him something of the land round about the caer.

  They rode to the little shoreside settlement at Peanfahel, and on the way, Arthur learned a remarkable thing about his reluctant new friend: the boy could ride like a young god, or like the bhean sidhe of the
hollow hills, whose horses were descended from the steeds of the Everliving on the Glass Isle in the Western Sea.

  Caius had more than made up for his infirmity by learning to ride with such skill and grace that, once in the saddle, he became a wholly different person—one of those half-man–half-horse beings of the Latin books. He could coax miracles from any horse he happened to light upon; even the sorriest beast somehow performed better than its best with Caius on its back.

  As the day was warm, the two stopped in the settlement to water their horses at the ford above the shore. Some children from the place were playing nearby and when the boys rode up they gathered around and, consequently, noticed Caius’ crippled leg.

  That was all it took. Instantly, they began to taunt and jeer. “Cripple! Cripple!” they called, mocking his halting gait. They laughed loud and Caius lowered his head.

  Arthur watched for a moment, appalled. Never had he witnessed such calculated cruelty. The jeering was bad enough, but when the older boys began throwing rocks at Caius, Arthur decided the thing had gone too far.

  Balling his fists, he loosed a wild whoop and charged head down at the biggest ruffian, striking him squarely in the stomach. The startled youth fell on his back, legs kicking, with Arthur on his chest. Though the boy had three years’ advantage, Arthur’s size all but evened the contest.

  It was a short scuffle, all told. The breath driven from his lungs—and Arthur sitting on his chest so that he could not draw another—the youth, fainting, lost consciousness for a moment.

  The mocking stopped. The children looked on in astonishment. Arthur rose slowly to his feet, and, glowering with rage, demanded to know if anyone else had anything to say. No one did. The rascal came to and ran away; the rest quickly scattered. Caius and Arthur remounted and continued along the shore.

  By the time they returned to the caer later in the day they were the best of friends, and Arthur had given Caius’ name a Celtic cast. He was to be Cai ever after.