Arthur

TEN

That night we built the fires high and lifted our voices in songs and stories of remembrance. Although no wine or mead or even ale was given out in drink, the Cymbrogi gathered in amiable throngs around the fires and filled the star-dazzled night with a richness of laughter. If the spirits of the dead know anything of the world they leave behind, I believe they would have been pleased to see how well they were loved and honoured by their friends. I went to my bed earnestly wishing that the day of my own death would be so revered.

As before, I slept that night under the stars, wrapped in a red calfskin on the ground before the Pendragon's tent. I did not rest well; something kept sleep from me. During the night I heard a stirring and woke to see the Emrys standing at the embers of the nearest fire, scowling into the dying light. I rose and went to him. 'You are troubled, Wise Emrys. What is the matter?'

He regarded me for a long moment, his face in deep shadow. I saw his eyes glinting sharp in the fireglow, as if weighing out the value of his words. At last he said, 'Dare I trust you, Aneirin?'

'Please, Emrys, if I have ever shown myself false in any way, strike me down at once.'

'Well said,' the Emrys replied, turning his eyes back to the glowing embers. 'You have earned the trust I will place in you – though perhaps you will soon wish otherwise.'

'If the burden be lightened for sharing, I will bear it, Lord.'

The Emrys drew a deep breath. 'I like not the look of Arthur's wound. It should be healing, but instead it is getting worse. I fear poison.'

The Picti sometimes smeared poison on their blades before going into battle. That would appeal to Medraut, of course. 'What is to be done, Emrys?'

Just then the flap of the Pendragon's tent opened and Gwenhwyvar stepped forth. She came quickly to stand beside the Emrys. Standing there, wrapped in her bold cloak, eyes bright, dark hair glinting, features soft in the deep fireglow, I thought that I would never see another woman so proud, so beautiful. Or so worried.

'He is fevered,' she said. 'He sleeps, but it is not a healing sleep. Myrddin, I am afraid. You must do something.'

The Emrys frowned. 'I will open the wound and bind it with herbs to draw out the poison.'» 'And then?' 'And then we shah* see.'

Gwenhwyvar returned to the tent, and the Emrys and I wrapped our cloaks around us and walked down to the stream in the valley. By the moon's bright light we gathered certain leaves and stems of plants he knew to have healing properties. Then we made our way along the stream to the shore, where the receding tide had left fresh sea-plants on the strand. Some of these we harvested as well, and then returned to the camp where the Emrys built up the fire once more.

I fetched clean water in a good iron pot and put it on the fire. When the water boiled, the Emrys carefully added some of the leaves we had obtained and in this way brewed a "healing draught. We tended the cauldron through the night and, at dawn's first light, poured the healing liquid into a bowl and carried it to the Pendragon's tent.

I confess I was shaken by the sight that met my eyes. So changed was the High King that I would not have recognized him: skin grey and damp, hair matted on his head, lips cracked and dry, the cords of his neck straining as he shivered and moaned… Even by the uncertain light of the smouldering rushlamps, I would have sworn he was not the man I knew.

Gwenhwyvar sat beside her husband, clasping his hand in hers. She stirred as we entered and I saw that her eyes were red from weeping. But I saw no tears. 'Arthur,' the Emrys said softly, kneeling beside the bedplace. 'Hear me, Arthur, I have brought you a draught.'

At these words the Pendragon opened his eyes. Those eyesf Hard and bright with fever, piercing, pain-filled. I could not endure the sight and had to look away.

The Emrys beat over Arthur and raised him up. He held the bowl to the cracked lips and gave the Pendragon to drink. Glory of glories, the potent elixir's effect was remarkable and immediate. Colour returned to the High King's face, the shivering stopped, and he relaxed as strength returned.

'Myrddin,' he said, seeing him for the first time. 'I had a dream.'

7 do nor wonder,' Myrddin replied. 'You are sick, Arthur. Your wound is poisoned; it must be opened at once and the poison drained.'

'It was a strange and marvellous dream.' Tell it to me, Arthur, while I tend your wound.' So saying, the Emrys brought out his knife, which had been honed with sandstone and sea-water. He loosened the Pendragon's mantle and drew it away from the wound.

Bitter bile rose in my mouth. The gash was swollen and purple, the edges black and suppurating. It seemed a hideous serpent winding around the High King's neck, venomous and deadly. 'Take the bowl, Aneirin,' the Emrys said sternly.

But, as I reached out my hand to take the empty bowl, Gwenhwyvar interceded gently, 'Allow me. I will hold the bowl.'

'Very well then,' replied the Emrys. 'Aneirin, bring good new rushes for the lamp. I must see what I am doing.'

I ran to the supply wain and fetched new rushes for the lamp. Bedwyr appeared at the tent, just as I returned. 'How is he?' His voice was low and secretive.

'Not well,' I replied. 'The Emrys is about to open the wound to draw off the poison.'

Bedwyr nodded and followed me into the tent. Once the new lamp was lit and burning brightly, the Emrys set to work. With small, quick strokes of the knife Myrddin laid open the festering wound. Blood and pus spurted from the swollen flesh, and trickled into the bowl.

Arthur neither winced nor cried out, enduring the agony in silence. Gwenhwyvar bit her lip and her brow beaded sweat, but she held the bow) firmly between steady hands. While Myrddin gently kneaded the long, jagged incision, Bedwyr knelt opposite the Emrys holding Arthur's right shoulder up to allow the vile ooze drain more freely. I held the rushlamp at the Pendragon's head, so that the Emry's would have the light he required. The stench of the seeping matter rising up from the bowl sickened me.

'There,' said the Emrys at last. 'You can take the bowl away.' Gwenhwyvar removed the bowl and set it aside. Myrddin took up the remaining leaves we had gathered and began applying them, one by one, along the line of • the cut. 'These will draw out the poison,' he explained. 'I will replace them in a little while. We will leave the wound uncovered until then.' 'It feels better,' Arthur said. 'I am hungry.' Bedwyr's relief spread over his face in a grin. 'You are always hungry, Bear. It is your one unfailing virtue.'

Gwenhwyvar placed a hand lightly on Arthur's forehead and stroked his brow – a gesture of such delicacy and intimacy that it filled me with longing. 'I will bring you food and wine.'

'A tittle bread, but no meat,' replied the Emrys. 'And mead – it will help him sleep.' 'I will bring it,' I said, and hurried away at once. The sun was full on the horizon, tinting the low grey clouds with the imperial purple. A cool breeze blew out of the east, and the camp had begun to stir. On the hillside I across the stream, where the Cymbrogi slept, the camp | fires had been revived and the warriors were roused to their warmth. As I passed the tents of the kings Cador stepped out, saw me, and called me to him. 'I give you good day, Aneirin,' he said. 'Is the Pendragon well?'

His question caught me unawares. I could not guess how much he knew, and knew not how much to say. 'He spent an uneasy night, lord.' I answered. Cador nodded. 'I am bringing him food.'

'Hurry on, then. I will not delay you.' He yawned and returned to his tent. From the provisions in the supply wain, I took two good loaves and filled a small jar from the mead skin. These I tucked in my cloak and hurried back to the Pendragon',s tent.

Gwenhwyvar and the Emrys stood together outside the tent talking in low tones. They stopped at my approach, and the queen received the food and went back to Arthur's side. 'Emrys,' I said, 'Cador asked after the Pendragon – '

'What did you tell him?'

'I did not know what to tell him,' I admitted. 'I said only that the Pendragon spent an uneasy night. I thought it best not to say much.' The Emrys pursed his lips. 'Did I do right?'

'Yes,' he said finally. 'But say no more to anyone who asks – at least until we see how this will go.'

I hovered near the Pendragon's tent through the day. The kings and Cymbrogi sported in the valley during the long, sun-filled day. Once, I wandered half-way down the hillside for a better view. I sat on a rock and watched their lively contests.

The sound of their laughter and cheering drifted up the hillside to the Pendragon, who awakened and called out. I hurried back to the tent to see if I was needed. No one was about, so I opened the tent flap and peered in.

The Pendragon stood in the centre of the tent, clutching the tent pole. 'Forgive me, Pendragon,' I said, 'I did not mean to intrude.'

He released the tent pole at once. 'Ah, Aneirin,' he said, his voice husky and low. 'I am thirsty.'

'I will bring the Emrys.'

'Let him rest. Bedwyr, Gwenhwyvar – let them rest. Just bring water.'

'Yes, lord,' I said, and ducked out at once. A water jar sat beside the entrance, so I grabbed it and ran down to the stream to fill it with fresh water. I plunged the mouth of the jar into the swift-running stream, then turned and raced back up the hill.

Arthur stood outside the tent, shielding his eyes against the bright sunlight as he gazed around the camp. I brought the jar and gave it to him. He lifted it to his lips and drank at once, without waiting for a cup. Thank you, Aneirin,' he said, 'I am much refreshed.' He straightened his cloak over his shoulder and, taking up his spear, Rhon, which was standing in the ground before the tent, he began to walk down the hill towards the valley where the Cymbrogi sported.

I followed, and fell in beside him. We came to the stream and started across it. One of the warriors at the edge of the field saw our approach and called out. 'The Pendragon!' he cried. 'The Pendragon comes! Hail, Pendragon!'

Immediately, a throng gathered and pressed close around him. 'We heard you were wounded, Pendragon!' someone shouted, and a dozen other voices chorused their concern in voices sharp with apprehension.

'Do I look wounded?' the High King asked. 'A touch of fever troubled my sleep. I am better now.'

Arthur began to move among his beloved Cymbrogi then, speaking to them, calling them by name, asking after their wives and families. This one he knew had a new son, that one had just married a woman from the south, another trained hounds, still others were sons of former soldiers – Arthur knew them all. Remarkable, I thought, that he should know the small concerns of each man. But this he appeared to do. And I heard in their replies to Arthur, and in the banter that accompanied their talk, enormous relief. Clearly, they had been worried for their king and were now reassured.

The Pendragon moved off in the company of his men, and soon the sport began once more. I watched for a time, then returned to my duties. I gathered firewood and refilled all the water jar's, then took a horse from the picket and rode to a nearby hilltop to cut fresh heather for the Pendragon's bedplace. As the sun touched the western hills, I returned to camp with my bundle of heather.

The Emrys was waiting for me outside the Pendragon's tent. He had the pouch of stone-carving tools in his hand, for he had been at work in the Round Table. 'Where is he?' _

I pointed to the valley. 'With the Cymbrogi. He awoke and went down to them.'

The Emrys turned, walked across the camp, and started down to the valley. Suddenly alarmed, I threw myself from the saddle and hastened after him.

Sunlight the colour of the golden honey mead filled the valley. The sky shone like molten brass, the field like emerald. We came upon Arthur sitting on stone as on a throne, his spear across his lap, eyes half-closed, a smile upon his lips. Gwenhwyvar stood beside him, her hand on his right shoulder, watching the contest before them: two riders speeding at full gallop to snatch an arm-ring from the grass with the point of a spear. She turned her head towards us and smiled, but her smile was tight and unnatural.

'Arthur,' said the Emrys softly.

The Pendragon opened his eyes and turned to greet his Wise Counsellor. 'It is a fine day, is it not?' 'Yes. How do you feel?' 'I am well.'

'When the sun sets it will grow cold. We should return to camp now.'

'But the sun is not gone yet,' said Arthur. 'Sit with me a little while.'

'Gladly,' replied the Emrys, kneeling next to him. The three of them watched the riders for some small time. The sun dipped lower and the shadows crept long. The sky paled; the brilliant colours faded. Sea-birds circled overhead, keening their mournful call to the dying day. I heard the waves tumbling on the nearby shore. The light in the valley dimmed.

The Emrys stood and touched Arthur on the arm. The Pendragon stirred – he had fallen asleep. However, he stood at Myrddin's touch, straightened himself, and called the victors of the contest to him. With good words he praised their prowess, while Gwenhwyvar presented them gifts of gemstones. When this custom had been served, Arthur bade farewell to his men and returned to camp.

At supper, we ate roast venison which some of the warriors had stalked in the nearby wood earlier in the day, and drank ale from the stocks aboard the ships. The night came on cold and damp, as the Emrys said it would, so the fires were banked high. Gwenhwyvar and Bedwyr tried on several occasions to persuade Arthur to withdraw to his tent to rest, but the Pendragon would not.

Instead, he insisted that he should remain with his lords and battlechiefs and called for a song. Myrddin Emrys at first resisted the summons, but at length consented and ordered his harp to be brought to him. 'Which of the tales of Britain would you hear, Pendragon?'

Arthur's brow wrinkled in thought as he paused, then answered, 'It is not of Britain that I would hear tonight, but of the Otherworld. A cold night, with a fresh wind blowing – on storm-tossed nights like this such tales should be told.'

'Very well,' agreed Myrddin Wledig, 'hear then, if you will, the song of Bladydd, the Blemished King.'

I wondered at this choice, for it is an obscure tale and very strange – concerning a prince with a voracious hunger for wisdom, who falls foul of an Otherworld king and is blighted and eventually destroyed by the very knowledge he sought. But the company of lords and battlechiefs loved this tale and, indeed, it was beautifully sung by the Exalted Emrys, last of the True Bards of the Island of the Mighty.

The tale grew long in its telling and when it was over Arthur bade his companions sleep well and with Gwenhwyvar on his arm, went to his tent. I stretched myself on the red calfskin next to the fire, wrapped my cloak tightly around me, and went to sleep.

In the night I heard urgent voices. I arose and saw torchlight flickering inside the Pendragon's tent. Something was wrong. My stomach tightened in alarm.

The camp was dark and no one else was about. I crept to the tent and peered inside.

Bedwyr and the Emrys were with him. Gwenhwyvar stood a little apart, her hands at her side, twisting her silken mantle in tight fists. Blood smeared her face and the front of her mantle.

'Lie still, Bear,' Bedwyr was saying. 'Let the Emrys care for you.'

'Be easy, brother,' said Arthur in a rasping voice. 'I am going to get up now. I cannot let the Cymbrogi see me here like this.'

The Emrys toiled at the wound; his hands were dripping with Arthur's blood.

'The Cymbrogi have seen you lie about before,' Bedwyr told him. 'They are well used to the sight. Be quiet, now.' 'I will not! Help me stand.' He snatched at Bedwyr's cloak

and made to pull himself up. The covering slipped from around his neck. I saw the wound and gasped.

It was a ghastly green-grey, with violet thread-like fingers stretching across the Pendragon's shoulder. The flesh along the original cut was withered, black and rotting. Arthur's neck was red and inflamed from his throat to his armpit. The wound had apparently burst in the night – the pain must have been unbearable! – and the Emrys had been called to stop the bleeding.

'I am finished,' said Myrddin at last. 'I can do nothing more here.' Bedwyr and the Emrys put their arms around Arthur's wide shoulders and raised him up.

'We have made an end of Medraut at last,' Arthur said carelessly. 'It will be a cold day in hell before anyone dares attack the Emperor of Britain again. Where is Gwenhwyyar?'

'She waits over there a little,' Myrddin Emrys told him.

'I hope she is not hurt… '

'No, she is well. Arthur,' said the Emrys, speaking in low, urgent tones, 'your wound is swollen and has broken open. I am at the end of my skill, Arthur – do you understand? I can do nothing more for you, but I know where help can be found.'

Bedwyr glanced up and saw me. He motioned me closer and gripped my shoulder hard. 'Quickly!' he said in a voice tight with dread. 'Go find Barinthus and tell him to make ready a boat.' I stepped to the tent flap and Bedwyr added, 'Aneirin – take care. No one else must know.'

Alarm and dread warring in me, I dashed away to rouse Arthur's pilot and charge him with this secret task. Barinthus was never difficult to find, for he always stayed near the ships. I hastened down the hill track, a stiff wind whipping my cloak against my legs. Rags of cloud streamed across the moon; the white-crested wavetops glinted darkly in the shifting and uncertain light.

I made directly for the lone camp fire, flickering on the shore before the dark hump of a small skin-covered tent just above the high tide mark. 'Barinthus!' I hissed amid the sough and moan of wind and waves.

He stirred and thrust his head out through the hide-covered opening, and I charged him with Bedwyr's command. He ducked back into his shelter for his lamp, and emerged wearing his bearskin. He marched into the tideflow to where his coracle was moored.

I hurried back across the beach and saw the glimmer of a guttering torch on the hill-track above me. Bedwyr and Myrddin, with Arthur sagging between them, met me as I reached the foot of the hill. Gwenhwyvar, holding a torch in one hand, and the High King's sword in the other, went before them.

'The boat is being readied,' I told Bedwyr.

'Was anyone with Barinthus?'

'He was alone. No one else knows.'

'Good.' The Emrys gazed out onto the sea. Though the wind still blew and the sea ran strong, the waves were not driven overmuch. 'It will be a rough voyage, but swift. All the better. We have a little time yet.'

'I am going to sit you down now, Arthur.' Bedwyr shifted the High King's weight.

'No – I will stand. Please, Bedwyr. Only a little longer.'

'Very well.'

'Bedwyr, my brother… '

'What is it, Bear?'

'Look to Gwenhwyvar. See that she is cared for.'

Bedwyr swallowed hard. 'Do that yourself, Bear.'

'If anything happens to me.'

'Very well…if you wish it,'Bedwyr told him, pulling the red cloak more closely around Arthur's shoulders.

The Pendragon could scarcely lift his head. His speech had grown soft, almost a whisper. 'Myrddin,' he said softly, 'I am sorry I could not be the king you wanted me to be – the Summer King.'

'You were the king God wanted. Nothing else matters.'

'I did all you ever asked of me, did I not, my father?'

'No man could have done more.'

'It was enough, was it not?'

'Arthur, my soul, it was enough,' Myrddin said softly. 'Rest you now.'

The queen stepped close and handed me the torch. She embraced her husband and held him. 'Rest your head on my shoulder,' she said, and placed her cheek against his. They stood like this for a long moment and Gwenhwyvar spoke soothing words into his ear. I did not hear what she said.

After a moment we heard a whistle. Bedwyr turned. 'It is Barinthus. The boat is ready.'

I walked ahead, holding the torch high to light the way across the stone-strewn beach to the water's edge, where Barinthus had brought the boat. He had chosen a small, stout vessel with a single mast and a heavy rudder. There was a tented covering in the centre of the craft where Arthur could rest.

I waded into the water and stood beside the boat, with the torch lifted high. The wave-chop slapped the boat and rocked it from side to side; I gripped the rail with my free hand to help steady it. Bedwyr and Myrddin made to carry Arthur to the boat, but he refused. The Pendragon of Britain strode into the water in his own strength and boarded the pitching craft.

While Barinthus busied himself with the sail, the queen fussed over Arthur, to make him comfortable beneath the canopy. At last the Emrys said, 'We must go. It will be dawn soon, and we must be well away before we are seen.'

'Let me go with you,' Gwenhwyvar pleaded.

'You are needed here, Gwenhwyvar. You and Bedwyr must buy Arthur time to heal,' Myrddin explained. 'I tell you the truth, I fear for the world if knowledge of Arthur's weakness reaches Britain's enemies. No one must know,' the Emrys said earnestly. 'See you keep the secret well.

'Tomorrow, send the lords back to their realms and the Cymbrogi back to Caer Lial. I will return here in three days and bring Arthur with me, or take you to be with him.'

Gwenhwyvar clutched at Arthur's hand. 'Have no fear," Arthur whispered. 'I go to Avallon for my healing. I will return when I am strong once more. Wait for me but a little.'

Gwenhwyvar nodded and said no more. She knelt and kissed Arthur with a lingering kiss. 'Farewell, my soul,' she whispered, and pressed the sword Caliburnus into her husband's hand.

'Bedwyr – he should have it,' Arthur protested weakly.

'Keep it,' Bedwyr replied, 'you will need it when you return.'

Gwenhwyvar kissed Arthur and laid her head against his chest. She whispered something, and he smiled – I do not know what she said. She climbed from the boat and watched as Bedwyr and I pushed it into deeper water. Once it was free of the sand, the pilot turned the bow towards the open sea and raised the sail.

The Emrys stood and called to us, 'Have no fear! Arthur will return. Keep faith, my friends. The final danger has not come. Watch for us!'

We three stood on the strand and watched the boat draw away. We watched until the small, bright point of light that was Barinthus' lamp disappeared into the cloud-wracked darkness of the sea and night. Grief, sharp as a spear-thrust, pierced my heart. For, in the mournful sigh of wind and wave, I heard the lament for the lost.

A sea-bird disturbed from his night's rest took wing above us and raised a solitary keen. Seeking some word of consolation, I said, 'If there is healing for him anywhere in this worlds-realm, he will find it in Avallon.'

Gwenhwyvar, dark eyes gleaming with unshed tears, pulled her cloak high around her shoulders, then turned away, straightened her back, and began ascending the hill track. Bedwyr stood long, gazing into the void, the restless wave-wash around his feet. I stood with him, my heart near to breaking. At last he reached out to me, took the torch from my hand, and with a mighty heave, threw it into the sea. I watched its flaming arc plunge like a star falling earthward and heard it hiss as it struck the sea and died.