I suppose because he openly admired Cai’s prowess as a horseman, it never occurred to Arthur to make fun of the way he walked or spoke—something too many others did, and with disheartening regularity.
But never Arthur. And for this, Arthur was rewarded with Cai’s undying loyalty and devotion.
Cai, God bless him! He of the flame-bright hair and red-hot temper; whose pale blue eyes could darken as quickly as the summer sky above Caer Edyn with the storm’s sharp fury; whose rare smile, when he gave it, could warm the coldest heart; whose brassy voice carried like a hunting horn through the glens as it would one day rally men on the field of battle…Cai, the dauntless; Cai, the dogged, willing to strive and go on striving long after another would have given up the fight for lost.
We spent those first bright days of autumn discovering Caer Edyn and surrounding lands. Arthur made a game of it: seeing how far he could ride out of sight of the Rock, as he called it, before attempting to find his way back. Pelleas and I rode with him sometimes; more often, Cai went.
It was, he quickly learned, a strange land, full of surprises. The first was the large number of people living in the narrow, creased valleys that seamed the rugged hills. There were hundreds of these glens, each with its own small holding or settlement. We soon came to expect them: a few rock-and-turf houses; long streamside fields for rye, oats, and barley; a pen for cattle and sheep; the round hump of a stone granary; an oven or two burning wood or pungent peat. Little clumps of people were sown all through the land, separated one from the other by the high, bleak hills.
There were woodlands aplenty, as well, and the hunting was good: boar and bear, hart, deer, wild sheep and hare, and various kinds of fowl—some, like the grouse, not found in the southlands. Eagles and hawks abounded, and there were fish of endless variety from river, lake, and sea.
In short, Arthur very soon came to view Caer Edyn and its lands as something of a paradise—and certainly less a place of exile than he first expected. It would have been perfect, but for the unspeakable winter.
However we weathered it and revelled in the short, brilliant spring. In all, Caer Edyn provided a splendid home for a boy. At my prodding, Ectorius sought and secured the services of a tutor for Arthur and Cai—one of the brothers from the new-built abbey at Abercurnig. Thus the Latin resumed, as well as reading and writing, under the indulgent rule of Melumpus.
Added to this, Ectorius began instructing Arthur in kingcraft: all the skills necessary to the sustaining of a kingdom and the effective leadership of men. Weapons practice continued, growing ever more demanding as the lads’ skill increased.
Thus life settled into an easy rhythm of leisure and learning, work and play. The seasons passed and Arthur ceased longing for Bedwyr. He applied himself to his various lessons with diligence, if not fervor, becoming an able scholar.
In all, it should have been a good time for me. But I was not content. Thoughts of the Cran-Tara gnawed at me, and I could not shake them. As winter closed on us, I began to feel trapped on the rock of Caer Edyn. There were, I imagined, events taking place in the wider world—events of which I knew nothing. After years of activity, my enforced seclusion chafed me now. Day by day, I receded into myself, keeping my own counsel. And on the cold, gray days of wind and rain I paced the hall before the hearth, my mood, I fear, as cheerless as the day.
At last, it came into my mind that the small kings, led by Dunaut and Morcant, had discovered our hiding place and were even now moving against us. Although I knew Ector would receive ample warning of any enemy moving along the borders of his realm, I worried over this, and fear—irrational, yes, but potent all the same—coiled around my heart.
Pelleas watched me and worried. “Master, what is it?” he asked at last, unable to bear my stormy restlessness any longer. “Will you not speak?”
“I an suffocating here, Pelleas,” I told him bluntly.
“But Ectorius is a most generous lord, he—”
“That is not my meaning,” I snapped. “I am troubled and can get no peace. I fear, Pelleas, we have made a mistake in coming here.”
He did not doubt me; neither did he understand. “We have had no word of any disturbance in the south. I might have thought that would cheer you.”
“Far from it!” I cried. “It has only made me suspicious. Make no mistake, Dunaut and his ilk never rest. Even now they are scheming how to seize the throne—I can feel it.” I struck my chest with my fist. “I feel it and it fills me with fear.”
The fire fluttered as the wind gusted under the door. A hound beside the hearth lifted his head and looked around slowly, then lay his muzzle back on his big paws.
A chance occurrence, signifying nothing; I do not believe in omens. Still, I felt a chill touch my spine, and it seemed as if the light in the hall dimmed.
“What will you do?” Pelleas asked after a moment.
A long silence stretched between us. The wind moaned and the fire cracked, but the strange feeling did not return. An ocean wave flung upon a rock, it had receded once more.
When I made no answer, Pelleas said, “What is your fear: that the petty lords will find us here, or that they no longer care to search?”
Staring into the fire, I saw the flame-shapes shifting and colliding and it seemed to me that forces were gathering, power was massing somewhere and I must find it to direct it aright. “Both, Pelleas. And I cannot say which disturbs me more.”
His solution was simple: “Then we must go and see how matters stand in the south. I will ready horses and provisions. We will leave at daybreak.”
I shook my head slowly, and forced a smile. “How well you know me, Pelleas. But I will go alone. Your place is here. Arthur needs you.”
“Far less than he needs you,” he replied tartly. “Ectorius is most competent and able. He will discharge his duties toward Arthur with all honor—whether we remain or no.”
In truth, I did not actually care to spend a winter in the wild alone, so I relented. “Have it your way, Pelleas. We go! And may God go with us.”
5
WE LEFT CAER EDYN AS SOON AS Pelleas had satisfied himself with his preparations. Ector advised us to wait until the trails had thawed once more, but spring always comes late to the north, and I dared not wait until the snows and rains had stopped. Arthur asked to go, but was not disappointed to stay behind.
The day of leaving dawned cold and gray, and did not improve. We camped in the lee of the hill that night, rose early and continued on our way. The sky did not clear, and the wind grew biting, but the snow held off and we were able to press on, wending our slow way through the glens and over the smooth, cold hills—if more slowly than I would have liked.
Prudence demanded discretion; Arthur’s continued safety depended on my ability to keep his identity and whereabouts hidden. Secrecy was my most potent ally, but since we could not shun every settlement and holding, nor avoid every other traveler, I made myself as invisible as possible. Thus began what was to become my custom when moving about the land: I would adopt various guises to ease my passage among men: now an old man, now a youth, now a shepherd, now a beggar, now a hermit.
I would embrace humility and wear it like a cloak. Among unsuspecting men, I would hold commerce with the humble things of the world, and so pass unseen and unmarked through the Island of the Mighty. For men seldom heed the humble things that surround them; and what they do not heed, they do not hinder. In this way, we passed through the north country and into the southlands below the Wall, striking an old Roman road just south of Caer Lial. The road was still in good condition and Pelleas marveled that this should be so. “Why?” I asked him. “Did you think these paving stones would vanish with the Legions? Or that the Emperor would roll up his roads and take them back to Rome?”
“Behold!” Pelleas cried, raising a hand to the much-encroached-upon track stretching straight and narrow before us. “Our path is made smooth for us; the way is clear in the wilderness.” I smiled at his allusion. “This
suits our purpose perfectly, Emrys. We will travel more quickly, and our passing will not be marked.”
It was true, the stone-paved track remained smooth and unbroken as ever; and though shrubs, small trees, and thickets of all kinds now crowded so close as to hide it from view, the undergrowth had not obscured the road. And if other men had long ago forsaken the old roads, preferring more open trails, this same close-grown vegetation would allow us freedom in our movements. We would travel without being seen—appearing here and there when we chose, or when need arose, then disappearing once more…only to reappear somewhere else.
I had to agree, the old Roman roads seemed heaven-made for us, and I praised the Great Light for it. Often I have noticed that when a way is needed, a way appears. This is not to be wondered at, neither is it to be ignored.
We journeyed then with lighter hearts, though deprived of other human company for the most part, since we stayed away from settlements and the hearths of men, camping alone, sleeping under the naked sky at night. Occasionally, we ventured into a settlement along the way for provisions. Everywhere I listened to what men said and I weighed their words carefully, sifting all I heard for any hint of the trouble I feared.
By the time we reached the southlands, warmer weather betokened an early spring, and soon soft air soughed in new-budded trees; blossoms quickly appeared, seeding the drifting currents with sweet, heady fragrance. Water ran high; river, lake and stream swelled to overflowing. In a little while, the hillsides blushed shocking color: yellow, crimson and blue. The sun wheeled through dappled, cloud-crowded skies, and the moon steered her bright course through star-filled night.
Peace seemed to have claimed the land, but I drew no comfort from this. Indeed, the farther south we rode, the greater my anxiety grew.
“I am yet uneasy, Pelleas,” I confessed one night over the fire. “I mislike what I sense here.”
“That is no surprise,” he told me. “We would not have come this far otherwise. Perhaps it means we are nearing the end of our search.”
“Perhaps,” I allowed. “Morcant’s lands are nearby. I would give my harp to know what he is about.”
“There will be a settlement close, no doubt. Perhaps someone will tell us something.”
The next day we set out for the nearest settlement, and found one of goodly size straddling the ford of a swift-running river. A muddy track linked the two halves, whose houses were mud-and-twig thatched with reed, poorly made; but the two large cattle enclosures boasted goodly wealth.
Wearing the guise of a wandering priest—a long, shapeless robe of undyed wool which Pelleas had purchased for me at an abbey along the way, my hair in disarray, my face smudged with dirt and soot—I surveyed the place from the side of an overlooking hill. “This will do. The people here are trading cattle; they will know what is happening in the world hereabouts.”
As I approached the holding, the skin at the nape of my neck prickled to danger. I leaned close to Pelleas to tell him of my fear, but he waved me to silence and reined his horse to a halt. Rising in the saddle, he called out in a loud voice, “Is anyone here?”
We waited. No sound came from any of the dwellings. Presently, Pelleas called again. “We are waiting, and will not leave until we have watered our horses.”
I imagined sly whispers behind the mud walls around us: insinuations, quick and sharp, flung like knives at our backs.
“Perhaps we should go elsewhere,” Pelleas suggested under his breath.
“No,” I replied firmly. “We have come here in good faith, and I will not be put off.”
We waited. The horses snorted and chafed the ground impatiently.
At last, when I thought we must move on, a thick-necked man with an oaken club appeared. Stepping from the low doorway of the center house, he straightened and strode forth with a swagger.
“Greetings,” he said, more threat in the word than welcome. “We do not see many of your kind hereabouts. Travel is difficult these days.”
“Agreed,” I answered. “If need were not great, we would not trouble you for hospitality.”
“Hospitality?” The word obviously had no meaning for him. His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Pelleas feigned indifference to the man’s rudeness and swung himself down from his saddle. “We ask a little water for the animals, and for ourselves. Then we will continue on our way.”
The man bristled. “Water is all you get, mind.”
“God’s precious gift—we ask nothing else,” I replied, smiling loftily.
“Huh.” The man turned abruptly. “This way.” Pelleas gave me a dark look and fell into step behind him. I gathered the reins and led the horses. We were shown a stone trough filled by a trickle from a hillside spring through an ancient clay conduit.
Pelleas drank first, cupping water into his hands. When he finished, I bent down and drank. “Sweet the blessings of God,” I said, drying my hands on the front of my robe. “Thank you for your kindness.”
The man grunted and swung the club against his leg.
“We have been in the north,” I said, as Pelleas started watering the horses. “Whose lands are these?”
“King Madoc’s,” the man spat.
“And is he a good king?”
“There’s some as would say that—though some would say otherwise.”
“And what would you say?”
The brute before us spat again, and I thought he would not answer. But he was merely warming to his tale. “I say Madoc is a fool and a coward!”
“The man who calls his brother fool stands in danger of God’s wrath,” I reminded him. “Surely, you must have good reason for such harsh judgment.”
“Good reason right enough,” snorted the man. “I call him fool who lets another steal his lands and lifts not a hand to stop the thief! I call him coward who stands by and sees his son slaughtered and does not demand the blood price.”
“This is a serious matter. Land stolen, a prince killed: who has done these things?”
The man grimaced in disgust for my ignorance. “Who else?” he sneered. “Morcant of Belgarum, of course! Two summers ago it began, and since then it’s every holding must defend itself, for we can expect no protection from Madoc.”
I shook my head sadly. “It grieves me to hear this.”
“Ha!” barked the man scornfully. “Let your grief defend you! I mean to hold what I have.” His lips curled in an ugly sneer. “You’ve had your water, now get you gone from here. We have no use for priests.”
“I could give you a blessing—”
The man hefted the club in reply.
“So be it.” I shrugged and took the reins from Pelleas’ hand. We mounted and rode back the way we had come. Once out of sight of the place, we stopped to consider what we had learned.
“So Morcant makes war on his brother kings,” I mused. “For what purpose? A little land, a little plunder? It makes no sense.”
“Will you go to Madoc?”
“No, I can do nothing there. Morcant has set strife among his neighbors, and I would know why. As I am a priest today, we will do the priestly thing, and seek guidance from a higher power.”
The Belgae are an ancient tribe whose seat is Caer Uintan. Making peace with Rome allowed the Belgae to establish themselves in the region; old Uintan Caestir prospered and grew large serving the Legions. But the Legions were long gone now, and the city shrank in upon itself—like an overripe apple withering where it had fallen.
Like Londinium to the southeast, Caer Uintan maintained a wall of stone around its perimeter. But Caer Uintan’s vallum was never as high as Londinium’s because it was never as needed; it served as a reminder of the Belgae strength, rather than as a real defense.
So Pelleas and I were both amazed coming upon the city at dusk: the wall of Caer Uintan had grown tall indeed. And a deep ditch had been dug below the wall to make it higher still. The city of Caer Uintan was now a fortress.
The gates were already closed
and barred for the night, although the sky was still light. We halted on the narrow causeway before the gates and called to the gatesmen. We were made to wait, and then answered rudely.
The surly gatesmen were loath to admit us, but as I claimed business with the church—the church Aurelius had built for the city—they grudgingly, and with much cursing, unbound the gate and let us in, lest they fall foul of Bishop Uflwys, whose sharp wit, and sharper tongue, was renowned in the region.
“Shall we go to the church at once?” Pelleas asked as soon as we passed through the gate. The streets of the city were dark with shadows and smoke from the hearth fires beginning to glimmer behind the thick glass of narrow windows. Caer Uintan was a wealthy city still; those of its people who could maintain life in the old Roman style lived well.
“Yes, I would speak with the bishop,” I replied. “Uflwys may have a word for us.”
Bishop Uflwys was a tall, stern man of deep thoughts and hard-won convictions. It was said that those who came to Uflwys seeking God’s forgiveness for their sins and crimes left his presence much chastened, but much forgiven also. As bishop he feared neither kings on earth nor demons in hell, and he treated all men the same—that is to say: bluntly.
He had come to Caer Uintan to help build the church and stayed to guide it with a strong hand. The church, like its leader, stood aloof from the world, unadorned, bespeaking a firm and steadfast faith. I was interested in what he would say of Morcant.
The bishop received us cordially; he still held some small respect for me, it seemed, for he had loved Aurelius. Indeed, Uflwys appeared genuinely glad to see us. “Merlinus! Dear brother, I hardly know you!” He rose as we were announced and came to us holding out his arms. I met him and gripped his arms in the old Celtic greeting. “Come, come, sit with me. Are you hungry? We will eat. I have often wondered where you had gone. God bless the sight of you! Why are you dressed like a beggar?”
“Glad I am to see you, Uflwys. In truth, I did not think to come here. But now that I see you, I believe that my steps have been directed here from the first.”