Merlin

  There was only Morgian, rarest beauty, frozen and fatal, mistress of the sweet poison, the warm kiss of death.

  Though she ultimately meant me harm—make no mistake about that, I did not—Morgian had not come to join battle with me that day. Only, as I have said, to try her weapons and see what mine might be. I have no clear idea of what she discovered about me in that regard, although she revealed much about herself.

  But she was vain! Such vanity is rare in a human soul—being principally reserved for devils, I should think. But then, Morgian is no ordinary human, and possesses no ordinary soul.

  8

  Ganieda! What do you here, my soul?

  Ohhhh, your flesh is so white…

  Go back, go back! I cannot bear it…Please, go back.

  Drink a little water, Hawk. You thirst; you rave. Your chalybeate spring will revive you.

  Gods of stream and air, gods of hills and high places, gods of wells and water springs, gods of the crossroads, forge, and hearth…all gods, bear witness! Observe this mortal before you. What is his failing that he should suffer so? What was his sin that his torment should be unending?

  Is it that he strived too hard, reached too far, attempted too much? Tell me, I defy you!

  The gods are silent. They are mute idols with mouths of stone; there is no life in them.

  Look out upon Hart Fell…Is it day or night? Sun and stars in the sky together…It is so bright!

  * * *

  What does this mean, Wolf? Look you, and speak forth-rightly. Tell me now, what do you observe?

  Red Mars is rising in a coal black sky, yes. What does this signify? Does its fresh ruby color mean that one king is dead and there shall be another? Of course, but there are always kings and kings. Why should their decline or ascent be noticed by the heavens? Very great kings these, then. Oh, aye, very great!

  And you, fair Venus, accompanying Sol on his fiery course, what about this double ray of yours, cleaving the air like a war axe? Division, surely. The realm cloven as with the stroke of Saecsen steel.

  A king dead, a new king reigning: division. Ruin shall proceed from this, surely. Who among us is mighty enough to prevent this destruction? Who is wise enough to advise us?

  O, Taliesin, speak to your son! My father, I would hear your voice.

  What is this? The music of a harp? But no harper do I see, nor bard is there to play. Yet, I hear it—the wonderful music of the harp.

  Look, Wolf, he comes! Taliesin comes!

  See him climbing the mountain path; his blue cloak is flung over his shoulder; his staff is strong rowan; his tunic is white satin, his trousers tanned leather. He shines! I cannot look upon his face. He gleams with the glory of the Other-world. His countenance is bright to rival the light of heaven.

  Father! Speak to your wretched offspring. Give me wise counsel.

  “Behold, Mryddin, I answer your summons. I will speak to you, my son, and I will give you benefit of my wisdom. Hear then if you will, and gain all that I have learned since my journey in this worlds-realm began:

  “Praise the Great Creator, the Lord of Infinite Compassion! Honor him and perform heartfelt worship, all creatures! My own eyes have beheld him; we have walked together in paradise. And often we have observed you, Myrddin, my son; we have heard your cries and discussed your sore predicament between us, the Lord and I.

  “Fear not what will happen to you, Hawk. The King of Heaven has covered you with his hand. Even now his angels surround you; they stand ready to do your bidding. Listen to the one who knows the things of which he speaks: your life was given to you for a purpose, dearest flesh of my flesh. How should that purpose not obtain?

  “So, take heart and put away your sorrow. After a little time, there will come a hermit to this shrine of yours. Do not send him away, my son. Rather welcome him; do as he bids, and he will give you a great blessing.

  “When you have received this blessing, go out into the world again. Go back to your lands and your people; take up your staff once more. There is much work to be done, brave Myrddin. I tell you the truth, while you have lain here sunk beneath your heavy grief, Darkness has not been idle.

  “Therefore, it is time to rise up, strap steel to your hip, and helm your head with iron. It is time, Myrddin, now, before the pathways to the Kingdom are overgrown and lost. Once lost, Bright Star, they will no longer be found; even with much searching they will not be found.

  “Remember well the Kingdom of Summer, and let its light become your prow star…Let its song be a victory song on your lips…Let its glory cover you, my beautiful son…”

  No! Do not go, my father! Do not leave me alone and forlorn!

  Please, stay but a little…Taliesin!

  * * *

  He is gone, Wolf. But did you see how his face shone when he spoke to me? It was not the vision of a fevered brain. Never that. Taliesin came to me; my father spoke to me. He spoke to me, and I heard the sound of his voice.

  Yes, and I heard his stern warning.

  9

  If I am crazed, if I am mad, if I am mad…mad I am, and there is no help for Myrddin.

  But wretched as I am before all the world, I was not always the scrag of hair and bone you see shivering on filthy haunches with flies biting his nether parts. Was Myrddin ever king in Dyfed, Wolf?

  Aye, that he was…He was…He was, and nevermore will be. Wild Man of the Wood I am. Yet, while I live, the creatures of the forest hearken to me, for I am their lord.

  Let the Forest Lord speak forth his prophecy!

  No scribes attend me, no servants have I to give account of what I shall say. Pelleas, where are you, boy? Have you, even you, deserted me, Pelleas?

  Intelligent words are uttered to the winds. Wise words from the Soul of Wisdom go unheeded. Let it go, let it go. The bard’s awen will not be chained; it moves as it will, and no mortal hand may make bold to bid or restrain. Let it go, fool!

  Stir up the flames; read the glowing embers and tell us something of happiness. Great Light, in this bleak place, you know we need some kindly cheer. What is it that shines up at me from the bed of ashes?

  Behold! Ganieda dressed in fine linen, clothed with the purity of new-fallen snow. Bearer of my soul, keeper of my heart, she walks on a carpet of rose petals, a peerless maid, chaste before her lord. Her smile is as the golden sunshower, her laughter like a silver rain.

  Pray to the God who made us, Dafyd! Praise him most eloquently for the gift he has given this day. Amen, so be it!

  My marriage day was all a day of wedding should be. I have heard my grandmother speak of her marriage to Elphin, and the celebration that it was. For unlike Taliesin and Charis, who had no celebration—and likely needed none—Elphin and Rhonwyn had been wed in fine old Celtic style, and they wanted to see me wed in like manner.

  Consequently, the Cymry of Caer Cam bestowed on that gladsome day all the fire and verve of their happiness. Not that Maelwys was to be outdone—he would have hosted the celebration, but Ganieda was Custennin’s daughter and Custennin’s the feast, as was his right. Maelwys had to content himself with housing the celebrants.

  In truth, I remember little of the day. All is shadow next to the daylight of Ganieda, bright and shining star. She was never more beautiful, more graceful and serene. She was love embodied for me, I swear it; and I hope I was for her.

  On that fine day, we two stood before Dafyd in the chapel, and we gave each other the gift of rings after the Christian custom and spoke out the eternal promises that would bind our souls, as our hearts had already been bound by love—and as our bodies would be joined later that night.

  Ganieda’s black hair was brushed and shining; it hung in long braids entwined with silver thread. She wore a circlet of spring flowers, pink as a maid’s blush—they filled the wooden chapel with their fragrance. Her mantle was white, and white embroidered; on each tassel hung a tiny gold bell. Over one shoulder was draped the marriage cloak she had woven that winter: a fine expanse of imperial purple and br
ight sky blue in the cunning checked pattern of the north country; it was held by a great, gold brooch. There were golden bracelets on her wrists and bands of gold on her arms. She wore sandals of white leather on her feet.

  The most beautiful of the Fair Folk, she was a vision.

  I scarcely recall what I wore—no one took notice of me beside her; I know I took no notice of myself. In my hands I carried the slim golden torc that was my wedding gift to her. She would, after all, be a queen and should have a torc like the great queens of old.

  Dafyd, his dark robes brushed clean, his face glowing like the bride’s beside me, held up the holy text for all to see, and he pronounced the marriage rite. When he finished, we lay our joined hands on the pages of the sacred book and repeated vows to one another as Dafyd instructed, whereupon he made a prayer for us.

  In his great benevolence, Dafyd allowed Blaise to come forward and sing the joining of our souls after the manner of the bards, which he did with simple and elegant dignity. The harp was deeply appreciated by all gathered in the chapel—there is something about a harp and a true bard’s voice lifted in song that bestows great blessing on all who hear it.

  And I think it was something Taliesin would have done himself if he had lived to see his son’s wedding day.

  As the last notes of the harp faded, we left the chapel, emerging to find that the whole of Maridunum had come to see us wed, thronging the chapel yard. As soon as they saw us, they gave forth a mighty shout—led by the warriors of my warband, who acted as if they were the ones taking a queen, they were so pleased.

  But then, Ganieda could have conquered any army with charm alone; the young men of my warband were firmly under her spell, and they loved her.

  We rode back to the villa surrounded by a noisy sea of well-wishers. Between the shouted blessings of the townsmen and the singing of the warband, the far hills rang and rejoiced with the happy sound.

  Custennin had brought his cooks and stewards with him, and all the supplies they would need for the feast—including six head of fine, fat cattle on the hoof, a dozen casks of heavy mead, and some of his good heather beer. The rest—pigs, lambs, fish, mountains of potatoes and tender spring vegetables—he bought in the market at Maridunum. Maelwys kept trying to get him to accept the use of his own storcs, but other than a few spices the cooks had forgotten to bring, Custennin would not hear of it.

  Ah, we feasted well. It brings the water to my mouth to recall it. Although, at the time, my only appetite was for Ganieda. It may well have been the longest day of my life: would the sun never go down? Would the twilight never come, when I would bear Ganieda away to the sleeping place that had been prepared for us to share our first night together? I kept looking at the sky and finding it still light.

  So we sang, and the jars and cups went round, and the meat was served up, and the loaves of hot bread and the steaming vegetables and the sweetmeats. We sang some more—Blaise and his druids provided endless music on their harps—and I do not think even Taliesin could have filled that hall with a better sound.

  Oh, but Taliesin was there; he was there, Wolf, he was there. You only had to look at my mother’s face to know it: Taliesin’s spirit infused the day; his presence was a sweet fragrance everywhere. Charis had rarely appeared more fair, more radiant. Likely, she was living her own wedding day in mine.

  “Mother, are you enjoying yourself?” I asked; a needless question, for a blind man could have seen it.

  “Oh, Merlin, my Hawk, you have made me very happy.” She drew me to her and kissed me. “Ganieda is a wonderful young woman.”

  “Then you approve?”

  “How sweet of you to pretend that it mattered. But since you ask—yes, I approve. She is what every mother would have for a daughter, and as a wife for her son. No woman could ask for more.” Charis put a hand to my cheek. “You have my blessing, Merlin—a thousand times if once.”

  It was important for Charis to say this to me, since her own father’s refusal to bless her marriage is what had driven her and Taliesin away. Even though Avallach had become reconciled in the end, it had caused them both considerable pain.

  Subtle are the workings of God’s ways: if Elphin and his people had not been driven from Caer Dyvi, if the Cymry had not come to Ynys Avallach, if Charis and Taliesin had not been driven from the Isle of Apples, and if they had not come to Maridunum, and if…and if…well, then I would never have been born, and I would not have been taken by the Hill Folk, and I would never have met Ganieda, and I would not be King of Dyfed now, and this would not be my marriage day…

  * * *

  Great Light, Mover of all that is moving and at rest, be my Journey and my far Destination, be my Want and my Fulfilling, be my Sowing and my Reaping, be my glad Song and my stark Silence. Be my Sword and my strong Shield, be my Lantern and my dark Night, be my everlasting Strength and my piteous Weakness. Be my Greeting and my parting Prayer, be my bright Vision and my Blindness, be my Joy and my sharp Grief, be my sad Death and my sure Resurrection!

  * * *

  Yes, Charis loved Ganieda, a circumstance from which I derived unexpected pleasure. It was joy itself to see them together fussing over the preparations before the wedding, knowing that I was the object of devotion in their warm womanly hearts and the living link between them. May such love increase!

  They were, both of them, Faery Queens, tall of stature and elegant in every detail, perfection in movement, harmony made flesh, beauty embodied. To see them together was to catch breath and pray thanks to the Gifting God.

  Men speak foolishly of the beauty that slays, though I believe such a thing may exist. But there is also a beauty that heals, that restorcs and revives all who behold it. This is the beauty Charis and Ganieda possessed. And it greatly cheered Custennin and Maelwys to see it; those two kings glowed like men aflame with their good fortune.

  I tell you the truth, there was never a more joyous company gathered beneath one roof than gathered beneath the roof of Maelwys’ hall that wedding day.

  O Wolf, it was a fine and happy day.

  And it was a fine and enchanting night. My body was made for hers, and hers for mine. The delight of our lovemaking could have cheered whole nations, I believe. Even now the smell of clean rushes and new fleece, of beeswax candles and baking barley cakes makes my blood run bold in my veins.

  We slipped unnoticed from the feast—or perhaps by common consent the celebrants chose not to attend to our leaving—and flew to the courtyard where Pelleas had my horse saddled and ready. I took the reins from him and swung myself into the saddle, reached down for Ganieda and settled her before me in the saddle, and, with my arms around her, caught up the bundle Pelleas offered, and clattered from the courtyard.

  No one gave chase, as is the usual custom: pretending that the woman has been carried off by a rival clansman and so must be saved and avenged. It is a harmless game, but such pretense had no place in our wedding. There was about our marriage such an air of rightness and honor that merely to suggest otherwise would have made vulgar a sacred thing.

  The moon shone fair among a scattering of silver-gilt clouds. We rode to a nearby shepherd’s bothy which had been prepared the day before. It was a single-roomed hut of thick wattle-and-mud walls and a roof of deep thatch—little more than a hearth and bed place. Maelwys’ serving women had done a good job of turning the rude room into a warm and inviting chamber for a young couple’s first night. It had been swept, and swept again, the hearthstone scoured, the walls washed with lime. Fresh rushes had been cut, and fragrant heather for the bed, which was piled high with new fleeces and a coverlet of soft otter fur. Candles had been set, the hearth prepared, and bouquets of spring flowers bunched and placed around the room.

  As it was a warm night, we lit a small fire in the hearth—only enough to cook the barley bannocks which Ganieda would serve to me for our ritual first meal together. In the glimmering firelight, the shepherd’s bothy could have been a palace, and the clay bowl in which Ganieda mixed
the water and barley meal a chalice of gold. Ganieda might have been the enchantress of the wood, and I the wandering hero entrapped by my love for her.

  I sat cross-legged on the bed and watched her deft movements. When the hearthstone was hot enough, she shaped the little cakes and placed them on the stone. We did not speak all the while. It was as if we were no longer ourselves alone; no, we were all the young people who had ever loved and married, joining life to life, the latest in a living chain stretching back countless aeons to that first hearth, that first coupling. There were no words for this moment.

  The barley cakes cooked quickly, and Ganieda placed them gingerly in the gathered hem of her mantle and brought them to me. I took one, broke it, and fed her with half even as I ate half myself. She chewed solemnly and then turned to lift the cup she had poured out while the bannocks were baking.

  I held the cup to her lips while she drank, then drained the warm, sweet wine in a single gulp. Then the cup clattered to the floor and her arms were around my neck and her lips were on mine and I was tumbling backwards on the bed, Ganieda’s body full upon me, the scent of her silky skin filling my head.

  And then there was only the night and our passion, and after, the sweet deep darkness of sleep in one another’s arms.

  I woke once before morning and heard a light whistle on the breeze. I crept from the bed and looked out the door to see, outlined in the light of the sinking moon, Gwendolau astride his horse. He rode at a respectful distance, keeping watch over us through the night.

  I slipped back beneath the coverlet and into Ganieda’s embrace, and fell asleep once more to the rhythm of my wife’s soft breathing in slumber.

  10

  Deep in the black heart of Celyddon, with wolves and stags and grunting boars for company, does Myrddin abide. Is he alive or is he dead? God alone knows.

  O happy Wolf, look into the fire and tell us what you see.

  Ah, the steel men. Yes, I see them too. All in steel from helm to heel. Big men, fearless men. Bristling with spears like an ash forest. See the knotted muscles of their arms; see the quick, deadly movements of their strong hands; see the fearless thrust of their jaws. They know that this day’s light might be their last, but they are not afraid.