As we came near the hall, she turned to me and, laying a hand on my arm, said, “I carry Uther’s child.”
“Does anyone know?”
“My serving maid. She is sworn to silence.”
“See that she keeps it.”
Ygerna nodded. She understood. “Will there be fighting?”
“Possibly. Yes, it is likely.”
“I see,” she said absently; there was something else on her mind, I could tell. She was weighing her words carefully. I waited for her to come out with it in her own time.
The sea crashed below us, restless as Ygerna’s heart. I could sense her unease. Still, I waited.
“Myrddin,” she said at last, her voice tight. “Now that Uther is dead…” Words failed her; she could not make them say what she felt. “Now that the king is gone, perhaps it would not be…”
“Yes?”
She pressed my hand and gazed earnestly at me—as if I held power to grant or withhold her heart’s desire. “The child—my son. Please, Myrddin, where is he? Is he safe? May I send for him?”
“It cannot be, Ygerna.”
“But surely now—now that Uther…”
I shook my head gently. “The danger has not diminished; in fact, with Uther’s death it has increased. Until you have delivered Uther’s child, Aurelius’ son remains the only heir.”
Ygerna dropped her head. The babe had been much on her mind and in her heart, as it would with any mother. “May I go to him?”
“That would not be wise, I fear,” I told her. “I am sorry. I wish it could be otherwise.”
“Please, just to see him—”
“Very well,” I relented, “that may be arranged. But it will take time. Arthur must be—”
“Arthur…” she whispered. “So that is what you named him.”
“Yes. Please understand, I would have acted differently, but Uther told me no name to give him. I hope you approve.”
“It is a good name. A strong name, I think.” She smiled wistfully, repeating the word to herself. “You have done well. I thank you.”
“I have taken your child from you, my lady, and you thank me. Indeed, you are a remarkable woman, Ygerna.”
She searched my face with her eyes, and apparently found what she was seeking. “You are good, Myrddin. You, above all men, have treated me as an equal. I will do whatever you tell me to do.”
“You need do nothing for the moment. Later, when the High Kingship is decided—well, we will leave tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow.”
Her smile showed the relief she felt. We entered the hall and fell to talking of other things. We dined most pleasantly and retired early. The next morning I asked for the sword and one of the dragon standards Uther had devised as the symbol of the High Kingship.
Ygerna gave them to me, saying, “Dunaut was here and wanted the sword. I would not let him have it. I told him Uther was to be buried with it.” She paused and smiled guiltily. “I am not sorry I lied.”
“It was well you did not give him the sword,” I told her. “We would have a hard time getting it back from him, I think. Indeed, we will have a difficult enough time keeping his hands off it as it is.”
“Farewell, Myrddin Emrys. Send word, if you think of it—I should like to know what happens at the king choosing.”
“Farewell, Ygerna. I will bring word myself, if I can, when it is over.”
A few days later, I turned aside at the plain above Sorviodunum and the Giant’s Dance: that great and ancient circle of stones the folk of the region call the Hanging Stones, for the way those enormous rock lintels seemed, in certain light, to float above the ground.
The circle stood by itself atop a wide, smooth hill. No one was about, nor did I expect otherwise. Cold, immense, mysterious, men left the ring alone for the most part. It reminded them that there were secrets in the Earth which they would never know, that the wonders of a previous age remained forever beyond their ken, that a superior race had lived where they lived now and that they too would one day vanish as the ring-builders and the mound-builders before them had vanished, that life in this worlds-realm was furtive and short.
A small herd of cattle grazed in the area, and a few sheep wandered bleating in the ditch around the stones. I rode in among the standing stones to the inner ring and dismounted. The twin grave mounds—one new-made, the other covered with short-cropped grass—lay side by side.
The wind moaned among the Hanging, Stones, and the bleating sheep sounded like the disembodied voices of those buried in the earthen chambers that stood away off from the great circle. Above, black crows sailed on silent wings in a white, empty sky. And it did seem, as the Hill Folk believed, that the ring marked the place where two worlds touched.
Appropriate then that here, where the worlds met, were the brother kings united: together forever. Uther would never have to leave his brother’s side, and Aurelius would never lack his brother’s care. Neither would be separated from the other anymore.
At the sight of the bare-earthed mound, I sank to my knees. And I sang:
I passed time at dawn, I slept in a purple shadow;
I was a rampart beneath bold emperors,
A cloak folded on the shoulders of two kings,
The shining arc of two lusty spears thrown down
from heaven.
In Annwfn they will sharpen the battle,
With golden deeds they will rout the everlasting
Enemy;
Seven score hundred have bowed in death before
them,
Seven score thousand will uphold them in victory.
Brave kings and true, their blood is cold,
Their song is ended.
Oh, Uther, deeply do I regret your death. We were wary friends at best, but we understood one another, I think. May it go well with you, my king, on your journey to the Otherworld. Great of Might, accept this wayward soul into your company and you will not want for a more loyal companion. For I declare to you most solemnly, King of Heaven, Other lived by the light that was in him.
May all men alive claim as much.
* * *
By the time I reached Londinium, the chase was already well along—which is to say that the crown-lusting hounds had the scent of the High Kingship in their nostrils and were hot on the trail. Dunaut, of course, with his friends Morcant and Coledac, led the pack. But there were others close behind them: Ceredigawn with the support of his kinsman Rhain of Gwynedd; Morganwg of Dumnonia and his sons; Antorius and Regulus of the south Canti; and Ogryvan of Dolgellau.
There would have been more—in fact, there would be more when those whose realms lay farther away arrived. As it was, the sparring was merely boasting and posturing, the swagger of combatants before the contest. The actual fight had not yet begun.
Bishop Urbanus, beside himself with indecision, welcomed me distractedly. “Merlinus, I am glad you have come. I tell you the truth when I say that I am at my wits’ end keeping peace between the lords. The things they say to one another,” he complained, adopting a shocked demeanor, “and in a church!”
“It will get worse before it gets better,” I warned.
“Then I do not know how it will be settled without bloodshed.” He shook his head gravely. “Still, I think it proper to conduct such important matters on consecrated ground.”
Urbanus was not as troubled as he pretended. In his heart he was pleased to have a hand in the king choosing—if only in providing a roof under which it could take place. Make no mistake, that this king choosing should take place in a church was no small thing. For it meant that the lords accepted Aurelius’ precedent; they felt comfortable with the church and were willing to allow it a place in supporting their affairs.
Although I entertained no illusions that most of those sheltering under Urbanus’ roof would just as well have gathered in a stable or a mud hut if that had been offered. Their eyes were on the crown, not the cross.
“And I do not mind telling you,” the bishop co
ntinued, “this has happened at a most inopportune time. If you have not guessed already, we are enlarging the edifice. When the masons are finished, we will have an apse joined to the basilica, and a larger transept. And there will be a proper narthex with an arched entrance like the larger churches of Gaul.”
I had noticed the building work, of course. There were piles of rubble stone scattered around the church; masons worked on wooden scaffolds, and cutters trimmed the huge blocks lying in the yard. I guessed the work had been paid for by Aurelius—for a certainty, Uther would never have given money for such a venture.
It was clear Urbanus’ fortunes were rising in the world, and he relished the ascent. Very well, allow him his big church; there was no harm in it—so long as he managed to keep a true heart and humble spirit.
The kings were not the only ones with an interest in the High Kingship. Governor Melatus had summoned some of the more powerful magistrates as well. What they thought to do, I cannot say. No doubt they saw in the gathering of the kings a chance to reclaim some small part of their dwindling power. Roman government survived only, if it survived at all, in old men’s memories and the Latin titles they wore.
Pelleas found us a place to stay—the house of a wealthy merchant named Gradlon, who traded in wine, salt, and lead, among other things, and who owned the ships that carried his goods. Gradlon was a friend of Governor Melatus and an influential man in the affairs of Londinium. I suspect that Melatus had requested that his friends make free their houses to anyone attending the king choosing, so that he could be informed as events took shape.
Gradlon, however, was a genuine host and made no secret of his allegiances, saying, “A merchant pays tribute to the man who keeps his business healthy. If it is a king, I bow the knee; if an emperor, I kiss the hem. Either way I pay taxes.” He held a chubby finger in the air for emphasis. “But I pay them gladly as long as the roads and sea routes remain open.”
The governor and magistrates held council in the governor’s palace with the intention of drafting an ultimatum to lay at the feet of Emperor Aetius: send the troops, or lose Britain’s goodwill.
Britain—in its greatest goodwill or vilest temper—had never been worth the Empire’s sweat at maintaining it. Well, for a few generations the tin and lead and corn the Britons paid had been some value to the Empire, I suppose. But this little island had cost Rome far more than it ever returned.
Now, when the rest of the Empire bled under the relentless blows of the barbarian axe, the concerns of little Britanniarum were no concern of the emperor at all. The small agonies of a flea-bitten hound in the emperor’s stable might elicit more sympathy, I considered, but could expect no more relief.
I pitied the governor and his magistrates for not realizing this.
Our future was as Britain, not Britanniarum. To think otherwise was folly. Perhaps dangerous folly at that. Reality can be most severe; it has a way of punishing those who ignore it too long.
The kings, on the other hand, were not much better. They believed, apparently, that the barbarian threat could be checked by personal aggrandizement: the greater the king, the more the Saecsen trembled.
I need not tell you what I think of such beliefs.
Well, this is how the council of kings began: deadlocked over the question of who was qualified to decide among those who fancied themselves capable of wielding Macsen Wledig’s sword. The question of how to settle that question added another stratum of animosity to the proceedings.
The only voices of reason were those of Tewdrig and Custennin. But by the time they arrived, the others were too far withdrawn behind the walls in their indefensible positions to hear. Reason, as I have said, does not avail in these situations anyway.
Each day when the kings gathered in the church to begin their debate, I went with them, biding my time. I did not speak, and no one asked me. I waited, thinking I might yet find an opportunity to help. Certainly I could expect no more than that. One chance only. I must make it count.
While I waited, I sat in my place and watched all. I searched among them, noting each one carefully—the tone of his voice, his command, wisdom, strength. I weighed all and found none the measure of Aurelius, or Uther for that matter. Lord help us, I would have settled for a Vortigern!
The most able among them was Custennin. But his kingdom was small and he was a northerner. That is to say, he lacked the near-inexhaustible wealth of the southern kings which he would need if he were to try maintaining two, or possibly three, courts and field a warband large enough to keep order in the land. And then, living so far in the north made him dubious in the south. Northerners, it was widely thought, were savages and brutes, lacking all refinement and civility. Men would never follow a king they considered little better than the barbarian.
Tewdrig, I thought, might be more likely. He possessed great wealth, enough to command the respect of the southern kings. But the Dyfed and Silures, among the oldest tribes of Britons, were also the most independent. It was doubtful that other kings would hold to Tewdrig when already they complained of Dyfed’s indifference and insularity. Also, I suspected that the High Kingship meant little to Tewdrig; it might mean more to his son, Meurig, but he was still an untried leader.
Of the others, Ceredigawn showed some promise. That his greatgrandfather was Irish might be overcome, for he was a forceful and upright ruler. But the fact that this family gained their realm by virtue of the unpopular Roman practice of planting rulers in troubled regions over the protests of those who must live with them was a lasting embarrassment. As a consequence, his people had never troubled themselves with forming alliances with other ruling houses; and so Ceredigawn, however able, was not well liked.
As the days dragged on—days of insane posturing, absurd threats, and breathtaking arrogance—it became clear to me that there could be no harmony of opinion reached among them. Lord Dunaut, of the wealthy Brigantes, succeeded in thwarting all reasonable discussion with his ludicrous demand that the next High King should support the entire warhost out of his private treasury.
Rather than maintain the warhost of Britain from a war-chest into which all the lords contributed equally, Dunaut and his friends insisted that the freedom of Britain depended upon the freedom of the High King to rule the warhost without let or hindrance from the petty kings. Otherwise, the small kings would be tempted to influence affairs by withholding tribute needed to support the warhost. “The High King will only be free,” Dunaut declared, “if he rules from his own treasury!”
This infuriated men like Eldof and Ogryvan and Ceredigawn—able leaders who nevertheless had trouble enough maintaining even their own modest warbands simply because their lands were not so well suited to the growing of grain, or the mining of gold and silver.
While it did appeal to the vanity of men like Morganwg of Dumnonia, also very wealthy and very proud, who saw in the proposition the flash of imperial purple, it did not sit well with others who might have been persuaded, but recognized and resented Dunaut’s vaunting ambition for what it was. The thought of Dunaut as High King over them, free to do as he pleased because he ruled the warhost unopposed, could not be stomached, let alone seriously supported.
Time and again the debate foundered on this point; and, until it was settled, Dunaut and his supporters would allow no other to be raised. Other voices, other issues, battered down, ignored, discouraged in a hundred different ways, fell by the way.
Resentment grew, hardened; animosity spread; hostility flourished. It began to appear as if Bishop Urbanus’ worst fears would come to bloody fruition: the next High King of Britain would only be chosen by the sharp edge of the sword.
Then something unforeseen happened. Two unsuspected allies appeared to forestall the rush to bloodshed: Ygerna, and Lot of Orcady; two whose sudden and unannounced emergence fairly startled the assembly, preoccupied as it was with thinking itself the center of all creation.
Lot ap Loth, of the tiny island fastness of the Orcades in the far north, with
his black braided locks and armbands of enameled gold, the blue, woadstained clan marks on his cheeks, and his crimson-and-black checked cloak, seemed a visitor from the Otherworld. He arrived with all the frost of a northern winter, unconcerned with the stir his coming provoked: young, high-spirited, but with such calm command that his glance unsettled kings twice his age.
The council had just reconciled itself to Lot’s presence when Ygerna appeared. With an escort of Uther’s chieftains—those who were still with her—she strode purposefully into the church, looking stern and strong and beautiful. Arrayed regally and simply, Ygerna wore a dove-grey cloak over a white mantle edged in silver; a slim golden torc encircled her throat. Every line of her body spoke eloquently of authority and reserve. Her grace and poise served a rebuke to the fatuous posing of the petty kings.
That these two should arrive so suddenly, and on the heels of one another, was perhaps more than coincidence. It was certainly uncanny in the effect it had on the council. For suddenly the mood of the assembly changed as the lords evaluated the newcomers and calculated how best to make use of these unknown quantities. No one, I am quite convinced, had given a thought to either one of them, or considered that they might have a part in the proceedings.
Indeed, in my own dealings with Ygerna I had completely overlooked the fact that as Uther’s widow she maintained the right of sitting in council. And now that she was here I experienced the momentary fear that her presence would cause the gathered kings to remember something else: Aurelius’ son. But apparently no one knew or remembered, for nothing was said. Perhaps the secret was safe after all.
As for Lot, because he lived on the rim of the world, everyone else apparently assumed that he would have no interest in the affairs of the rest of the realm. So no one had summoned him. Nevertheless, he had heard and he had come.
I confess that I did not welcome his arrival—but for reasons other than the threat of whatever claim he might make to the High Kingship. No, it was his bloodline that concerned me. Lot was the son of Loth, of course; and Loth had been the husband of Morgian.