‘I must rejoice at the thought of evangelizing the Saxons,’ Emrys said piously.
‘Don’t,’ I warned him. ‘Once those priests have served Aelle’s purpose he’ll cut their throats.’
‘And afterwards cut ours,’ Cuneglas added grimly. He and Arthur had decided to make a joint visit to the King of Gwent, and Arthur now urged Emrys to join them. ‘He’ll listen to you, Bishop,’ Arthur said, ‘and if you can convince him that Dumnonia’s Christians are more threatened by the Saxons than they are by me, then he might change his mind.’
‘I shall come gladly,’ Emrys said, ‘very gladly.’
‘And at the very least,’ Cuneglas said grimly, ‘young Meurig will need to be persuaded to let my army cross his territory.’
Arthur looked alarmed. ‘He might refuse?’
‘So my informants say,’ Cuneglas said, then shrugged. ‘But if the Saxons do come, Arthur, I shall cross his territory whether he gives permission or not.’
‘Then there’ll be war between Gwent and Powys,’ Arthur noted sourly, ‘and that will help only the Sais.’ He shuddered. ‘Why did Tewdric ever give up the throne?’ Tewdric was Meu-rig’s father, and though Tewdric had been a Christian he had always led his men against the Saxons at Arthur’s side.
The last red light in the west faded. For a few moments the world was suspended between light and dark, and then the gulf swallowed us. We stood in the window, chilled by the damp wind, and watched the first stars prick through the chasms in the clouds. The waxing moon was low over the southern sea where its light was diffused around the edges of a cloud that hid the stars forming the head of the snake constellation. It was nightfall on Samain Eve and the dead were coming.
A few fires lit Durnovaria’s houses, but the country beyond was utterly black except where a shaft of moonlight silvered a patch of trees on the shoulder of a distant hill. Mai Dun was nothing but a looming shadow in the darkness, a blackness at the dead night’s black heart. The dark deepened, more stars, appeared and the moon flew wild between ragged clouds. The dead were streaming over the bridge of swords now and were here among us, though we could not see them, or hear them, but they were here, in the palace, in the streets, in every valley and town and household of Britain, while on the battlefields, where so many souls had been torn from their earthly bodies, the dead were wandering as thick as starlings. Dian was under the trees at Ermid’s Hall, and still the shadowbodies streamed across the bridge of swords to fill the isle of Britain. One day, I thought, I too would come on this night to see my children and their children and their children’s children. For all time, I thought, my soul would wander the earth each Samain Eve.
The wind calmed. The moon was again hidden by a great bank of cloud that hung above Armorica, but above us the skies were clearer. The stars, where the Gods lived, blazed in the emptiness. Culhwch had come back to the palace and he joined us at the window where we crowded to watch the night. Gwydre had returned from the town, though after a while he got bored with staring into a damp darkness and went to see his friends among the palace’s spearmen.
‘When do the rites begin?’ Arthur asked.
‘Not for a long time yet,’ I warned him. ‘The fires must burn for six hours before the ceremony starts.’
‘How does Merlin count the hours?’ Cuneglas asked.
‘In his head, Lord King,’ I answered.
The dead glided among us. The wind had dropped to nothing and the stillness made the dogs howl in the town. The stars, framed by the silver-edged clouds, seemed unnaturally bright.
And then, quite suddenly, from the dark within the night’s harsh dark, from Mai Dun’s wide walled summit, the first fire blazed and the summoning of the Gods had begun.
FOR A MOMENT THAT one flame leapt pure and bright above Mai Dun’s ramparts, then the fires spread until the wide bowl formed by the grassy banks of the fortress walls was filled with a dim and smoky light. I imagined men thrusting torches deep into the high, wide hedges, then running with the flame to carry the fire out into the central spiral or along the outer rings. The fires caught slowly at first, the flames fighting against the hissing wet timbers above them, but the heat gradually boiled away the damp and the glow of the blaze became brighter and brighter until the fire had at last gripped all that great pattern and the light flared huge and triumphant in the night. The crest of the hill was now a ridge of fire, a boiling tumult of flame above which the smoke was touched red as it churned skywards. The fires were bright enough to cast flickering shadows in Dumovaria where the streets were filled with people; some had even climbed onto rooftops to watch the distant conflagration.
‘Six hours?’ Culhwch asked me with disbelief.
‘So Merlin told me.’
Culhwch spat. ‘Six hours! I could go back to the redhead.’ But he did not move, indeed none of us moved; instead we watched that dance of flame above the hill. It was the balefire of Britain, the end of history, the summons to the Gods, and we watched it in a tense silence as though we expected to see the livid smoke torn apart by the descent of the Gods.
It was Arthur who broke the tension. ‘Food,’ he said gruffly. ‘If we have to wait six hours, then we might as well eat.’
There was small conversation during that meal, and most of what there was concerned King Meurig of Gwent and the terrible possibility that he would keep his spearmen out of the coming war. If, I kept thinking, there would be war at all, and I constantly glanced out of the window to where the flames leapt and the smoke boiled. I tried to gauge the passing of the hours, but in truth I had no idea whether one hour passed or two before the meal ended and we were once again standing beside the big open window to gaze at Mai Dun where, for the first time ever, the Treasures of Britain had been assembled. There was the Basket of Garanhir which was a willow-woven dish that might carry a loaf and some fishes, though the weave was now so ragged that any respectable woman would long ago have consigned the basket to the fire. The Horn of Bran Galed was an ox horn that was black with age and chipped at its tin-rimmed edges. The Chariot of Modron had been broken over the years and was so small that none but a child could ever ride in it, if indeed it could ever be reassembled. The Halter of Eiddyn was an ox halter of frayed rope and rusted iron rings that even the poorest peasant would hesitate to use. The Knife of Laufrodedd was blunt and broad-bladed and had a broken wooden handle, while the Whetstone of Tudwal was an abraded thing any craftsman would be ashamed to possess. The Coat of Padarn was threadbare and patched, a beggar’s garment, but still in better repair than the Cloak of Rhegadd which was supposed to grant its wearer invisibility, but which was now scarcely more than a cobweb. The Dish of Rhygenydd was a flat wooden platter cracked beyond all use, while the Throwboard of Gwenddolau was an old, warped piece of wood on which the gaming marks had worn almost clean away. The Ring of Eluned looked like a common warrior-ring, the simple metal circles that spearmen liked to make from their dead enemy’s weapons, but all of us had thrown away better-looking warrior-rings than the Ring of Eluned. Only two of the Treasures had any intrinsic value. One was the Sword of Rhydderch, Excalibur, that had been forged in the Otherworld by Gofannon himself, and the other was the Cauldron of Clyddno Eiddyn. Now all of them, the tawdry and the splendid alike, were ringed by fire to signal to their distant Gods.
The sky was still clearing, though some clouds were still heaped above the southern horizon where, as we went deeper into that night of the dead, lightning began to flicker. That lightning was the first sign of the Gods and, in fear of them, I touched the iron of Hywelbane’s hilt, but the great flashes of light were far, far away, perhaps above the distant sea or even further off above Armorica. For an hour or more the lightning raked the southern sky, but always in silence. Once a whole cloud seemed lit from within, and we all gasped and Bishop Emrys made the sign of the cross.
The distant lightning faded, leaving only the great fire raging within Mai Dun’s ramparts. It was a signal fire to cross the Gulf of Annwn, a blaze to reach in
to the darkness between the worlds. What were the dead thinking, I wondered? Was a horde of shadow-souls clustering around Mai Dun to witness the summoning of the Gods? I imagined the reflections of those flames flickering along the steel blades of the bridge of swords and maybe reaching into the Otherworld itself and I confess I was frightened. The lightning had vanished, and nothing now seemed to be happening other then the great fire’s violence, but all of us, I think, were aware that the world trembled on the brink of change.
Then, sometime in the passing of those hours, the next sign came. It was Galahad who first saw it. He crossed himself, stared out of the window as though he could not believe what he was seeing, then pointed up above the great plume of smoke that was casting a veil across the stars. ‘Do you see it?’ he asked, and we all pressed into the window to gaze upwards.
And I saw that the lights of the night sky had come.
We had all seen such lights before, though not often, but their arrival on this night was surely significant. At first there was just a shimmering blue haze in the dark, but slowly the haze strengthened and grew brighter, and a red curtain of fire joined the blue to hang like a rippled cloth among the stars. Merlin had told me that such lights were common in the far north, but these were hanging in the south, and then, gloriously, abruptly, the whole space above our heads was shot through with blue and silver and crimson cascades. We all went down into the courtyard to see better, and there we stood awestruck as the heavens glowed. From the courtyard we could no longer see the fires of Mai Dun, but their light filled the southern sky, just as the weirder lights arched gloriously above our heads.
‘Do you believe now, Bishop?’ Culhwch asked.
Emrys seemed unable to speak, but then he shuddered and touched the wooden cross hanging about his neck. ‘We have never,’ he said quietly, ‘denied the existence of other powers. It is just that we believe our God to be the only true God.’
‘And the other Gods are what?’ Cuneglas asked.
Emrys frowned, unwilling at first to answer, but honesty made him speak. ‘They are the powers of darkness, Lord King.’
‘The powers of light, surely,’ Arthur said in awe, for even Arthur was impressed. Arthur, who would prefer that the Gods never touched us at all, was seeing their power in the sky and he was filled with wonderment. ‘So what happens now?’ he asked.
He had put the question to me, but it was Bishop Emrys who answered. ‘There will be death, Lord,’ he said.
‘Death?’ Arthur asked, unsure that he had heard correctly.
Emrys had gone to stand under the arcade, as though he feared the strength of the magic that flickered and flowed so bright across the stars. ‘All religions use death, Lord,’ he said pedantically, ‘even ours believes in sacrifice. It is just that in Christianity it was the Son of God who was killed so that no one again would ever need to be knifed on an altar, but I can think of no religion that does not use death as part of its mystery. Osiris was killed,’ he suddenly realized he was speaking of Isis’s worship, the bane of Arthur’s life, and hurried on, ‘Mithras died, too, and his worship requires the death of bulls. All our Gods die, Lord,’ the Bishop said, ‘and all religions except Christianity recreate those deaths as part of their worship.’
‘We Christians have gone beyond death,’ Galahad said, ‘into life.’
‘Praise God we have,’ Emrys agreed, making the sign of the cross, ‘but Merlin has not.’ The lights in the sky were brighter now; great curtains of colours through which, like threads in a tapestry, flickers of white light streaked and dropped. ‘Death is the most powerful magic,’ the Bishop said disapprovingly. ‘A merciful God would not allow it, and our God ended it by his own Son’s death.’
‘Merlin doesn’t use death,’ Culhwch said angrily.
‘He does,’ I spoke softly. ‘Before we went to fetch the Cauldron he made a human sacrifice. He told me.’
‘Who?’ Arthur asked sharply.
‘I don’t know, Lord.’
‘He was probably telling stories,’ Culhwch said, gazing upwards, ‘he likes to do that.’
‘Or more likely he was telling the truth,’ Emrys said. ‘The old religion demanded much blood, and usually it was human. We know so little, of course, but I remember old Balise telling me that the Druids were fond of killing humans. They were usually prisoners. Some were burned alive, others put into death pits.’
‘And some escaped,’ I added softly, for I myself had been thrown into a Druid’s death pit as a small child and my escape from that horror of dying, broken bodies had led to my adoption by Merlin.
Emrys ignored my comment. ‘On other occasions, of course,’ he went on, ‘a more valuable sacrifice was required. In Elmet and Cornovia they still speak of the sacrifice made in the Black Year.’
‘What sacrifice was that?’ Arthur asked.
‘It could just be a legend,’ Emrys said, ‘for it happened too long ago for memory to be accurate.’ The Bishop was speaking about the Black Year in which the Romans had captured Ynys Mon and so torn the heart from the Druids’ religion, a dark event that had happened more than four hundred years in our past. ‘But folk in those parts still talk of King Cefydd’s sacrifice,’ Emrys continued. ‘It’s a long time since I heard the tale, but Balise always believed it. Cefydd, of course, was facing the Roman army and it seemed likely he would be overwhelmed, so he sacrificed his most valuable possession.’
‘Which was?’ Arthur demanded. He had forgotten the lights in the sky and was staring fixedly at the Bishop.
‘His son, of course. It was ever thus, Lord. Our own God sacrificed His Son, Jesus Christ, and even demanded that Abraham kill Isaac, though, of course, He relented in that desire. But Cefydd’s Druids persuaded him to kill his son. It didn’t work, of course. History records that the Romans killed Cefydd and all his army and then destroyed the Druid’s groves on Ynys Mon.’ I sensed the Bishop was tempted to add some thanks to his God for that destruction, but Emrys was no Sansum and thus was tactful enough to keep his thanks unspoken.
Arthur walked to the arcade. ‘What is happening on that hilltop, Bishop?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘I cannot possibly tell, Lord,’ Emrys said indignantly.
‘But you think there is killing?’
‘I think it is possible, Lord,’ Emrys said nervously. ‘I think it likely, even.’
‘Killing who?’ Arthur demanded, and the harshness of his voice made every man in the courtyard turn from the glory in the sky to stare at him.
‘If it is the old sacrifice, Lord, and the supreme sacrifice,’ Emrys said, ‘then it will be the son of the ruler.’
‘Gawain, son of Budic,’ I said softly, ‘and Mardoc.’
‘Mardoc?’ Arthur swung on me.
‘A child of Mordred’s,’ I answered, suddenly understanding why Merlin had asked me about Cywwyllog, and why he had taken the child to Mai Dun, and why he had treated the boy so well. Why had I not understood before? It seemed obvious now.
‘Where’s Gwydre?’ Arthur asked suddenly.
For a few heartbeats no one answered, then Galahad gestured towards the gatehouse. ‘He was with the spearmen,’ Galahad said, ‘while we had supper.’
But Gwydre was there no longer, nor was he in the room where Arthur slept when he was in Durnovaria. He was nowhere to be found, and no one recalled having seen him since dusk. Arthur utterly forgot the magical lights as he searched the palace, hunting from the cellars to the orchard, but finding no sign of his son. I was thinking about Nimue’s words to me on Mai Dun when she had encouraged me to bring Gwydre to Durnovaria, and remembering her argument with Merlin in Lindinis about who truly ruled Dumnonia, and I did not want to believe my suspicions, but could not ignore them. ‘Lord,’ I caught Arthur’s sleeve. ‘I think he’s been taken to the hill. Not by Merlin, but by Nimue.’
‘He’s not a king’s son,’ Emrys said very nervously.
‘Gwydre is the son of a ruler!’ Arthur shouted, ‘does anyone here deny that?’
No one did and suddenly no one dared say a thing. Arthur turned towards the palace. ‘Hygwydd! A sword, spear, shield, Llamrei! Quick!’
‘Lord!’ Culhwch intervened.
‘Quiet!’ Arthur shouted. He was in a fury now and it was me he vented his rage on for I had encouraged him to allow Gwydre to come to Durnovaria. ‘Did you know what was to happen?’ he asked me.
‘Of course not, Lord. I still don’t know. You think I would hurt Gwydre?’
Arthur stared grimly at me, then turned away. ‘None of you need come,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘but I am riding to Mai Dun to fetch my son.’ He strode across the courtyard to where Hygwydd, his servant, was holding Llamrei while a groom saddled her. Galahad followed him quietly.
I confess that for a few seconds I did not move. I did not want to move. I wanted the Gods to come. I wanted all our troubles to be ended by the beat of great wings and the miracle of Beli Mawr striding the earth. I wanted Merlin’s Britain.
And then I remembered Dian. Was my youngest daughter in the palace courtyard that night? Her soul must have been on the earth, for it was Samain Eve, and suddenly there were tears at my eyes as I recalled the agony of a child lost. I could not stand in Durnovaria’s palace courtyard while Gwydre died, nor while Mardoc suffered. I did not want to go to Mai Dun, but I knew I could not face Ceinwyn if I did nothing to prevent the death of a child and so I followed Arthur and Galahad.
Culhwch stopped me. ‘Gwydre is a whore’s son,’ he growled too softly for Arthur to hear.
I chose not to quarrel about the lineage of Arthur’s son. ‘If Arthur goes alone,’ I said instead, ‘he’ll be killed. There are two score of Blackshields on that hill.’
‘And if we go, we make ourselves into the enemies of Merlin,’ Culhwch warned me.
‘And if we don’t go,’ I said, ‘we make an enemy of Arthur.’
Cuneglas came to my side and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Well?’
‘I’m riding with Arthur,’ I answered. I did not want to, but I could not do otherwise. ‘Issa!’ I shouted. ‘A horse!’