Pendragon

ONE

Dry… dry… dry. And hot. The earth cracks. The rivers wane. No cloud touches the burning sky, and the land parches beneath an unrelenting sun. Sacred springs dry up, and holy wells echo to the sound of empty vessels. There is no breath of wind or breeze to cool the land. Animals thirst; their strength fails and they fall and, falling, die.

All the while, the pestilence snakes along the lowland tracks like an unseen fog. One after another, the caers, settlements, and holdings are visited by the Yellow Ravager. Strengthened by die drought, which drives men from their homes in search of water, the pestilence steals over the land. Children cry and women mutter in fear-fretted sleep; men complain bitterly that this is Arthur's fault.

The small kings blame him and plot treason in their hearts. 'It would not be so if I held this land,' they boast. 'I would put an end to this invader and drive all sickness from our shores.'

This they say as if the Vandal were no more than a drunken shepherd and the plague his mange-bitten dog. It steals the breath from my mouth to see how swiftly men abandon the one they pledged to serve through all things to the death. But when faith fails, men abandon all that sustains them. They flee the source of their uncertainty, rushing blind into betrayal and unbelief.

Behold! The Narrow Sea is ploughed with a thousand furrows as British boats sail for Armorica. With coward hearts once-brave men put oar to water, lest the land of their birth become also the land of their death.

Well and well, their fear can be forgiven. They merely do what their faltering courage allows. Far worse – and forever unforgiven – are those who strive to use the suffering and torment of others to advance their own bloated ambitions.

There are four openly against Arthur now: Gerontius, Brastias, Ulfias, and Urien. The first two I understand. Indeed, I know them only too well! Ulfias is weak and anxious to please his bellicose neighbour; he has decided that peace with Brastias is worth more than fealty to Arthur. In that, he is much mistaken.

If only they had left the camp – but no, they stamped around poisoning the very air with their complaints, stirring up resentment at every chance, swaying the less steady with their insidious slanders. Weaker brothers listened to them and were led astray – men like Urien.

I can only wonder at Urien. His fiery enthusiasm has burned itself out; his ardour, so bright and warm in the beginning, has grown cold. This is the way of it some times, God knows: the hotter the fire the more quickly it dies. Still, I had hoped for better from Urien Rheged. Young and raw, and painfully eager to please, it is true, he yet seemed a solid enough nobleman. Given maturity and experience, he might have grown into an able and honourable lord. He would have found in Arthur a steady and generous friend.

What, I wonder, turned him against Arthur? What failing did he perceive, or, more likely, imagine? What glittering inducement did Brastias offer, what irresistible promise, to turn Urien's fire-bright loyalty to sodden ash?

Sadly, even the most sacred vows are oft forgotten before the words die in the air. Ah, let it go, meddler! There is no binding a heart that will not be bound, less yet one that honours nothing higher than itself. So be it!

This, then, is how Lugnasadh found us: plague ravaging the people and the Black Boar ruining all the land.

Like the hounds of the Wild Hunt we pursued the invader north and east, driving deeper into the many-shadowed glens. Somehow the Vandali always remained just beyond reach. They refused to fight, preferring to flee, most often travelling by night. Moving along the ridges and river valleys, they were following Albion's ancient trackways into the rich heartland.

Arthur sent swift messengers ahead along these routes to warn the settlements of the invader's approach. Even this simple task was made difficult by the fact that the wily Amilcar had divided his forces, and then divided them again. There were now no fewer than seven enemy warbands loose in the land, each under the command of a Vandal chieftain intent on driving as far inland as possible, plundering every step of the way.

Twrch Trwyth seemed well pleased to allow his piglets to scatter while he escaped north and east with the main body of the Vandal host. There must have been a purpose to this mad design, but I could not discern it.

Still, we pursued relentlessly, catching them when we could, fighting when battle was offered – but mostly arriving a day behind their latest flight. Futility dogged us and the constant sun burned us black. Provisions ran low – a persistent problem, nagging as the ache in our empty bellies – for with Londinium quarantined, we were forced to buy grain and cattle from smaller markets as far away as Eboracum, and just getting enough was as tedious as it was time-consuming. Meanwhile, the small kings took to squabbling among themselves and disputing Arthur's command.

This alone would have been the undoing of many a lesser man. But Arthur had the plague to fight as well. And that proved no less stubborn than the Black Boar.

I see Paulinus, grown haggard and gaunt in his battle against the scourge. How not? He rests little and rarely sleeps. He toils like a slave demented, teaching, organizing, making and dispensing his medicine. The shy monk has become a valiant warrior, as relentless in his own way as any of Arthur's chieftains, engaged in a fight no less fierce than any fought with Amilcar.

At first word of a settlement or holding where the plague had taken hold, that was where Paulinus wanted to be. Taking no thought for himself, he gave all to the battle, winning renown in the war against the Yellow Destroyer. Others saw his example and were inspired to follow him. So, together with a handful of brothers from Llandaff who willingly joined him in the work, he shouldered the task of fighting the plague.

But the disease, like the invader, ran far, far ahead without slackening pace. There seemed to be no way to contain or subdue either of them. Thus, when his lords began deserting him, Arthur took it hard.

'Be at ease, Bear,' Bedwyr said, trying to calm the king.

'We do not need the likes of Brastias raising hackles at every turn.'

We were gathered in the large council tent, but Arthur, angry with the wayward kings, had not summoned them. He sat with his elbows on the board, frowning, while those nearest the High King tried to lighten his gloom.

'Better to see the back of them, I say,' Cai added.

'He is right, Bear,' Cador put in. 'They took but three hundred riders with them all told.'

'Blessed Jesu, it is not the loss of a few horses I mind!' roared Arthur. 'Three have defied me to my face. How long do you think it will be before the rot sets in with the rest?'

Gwenhwyvar, bright seraph in a cool white mantle, leaned close. 'Allow me to go to my people,' she soothed. 'The Erean kings are willing. Indeed, they are eager to repay the debt they owe Britain. You need only ask.'

'It would do no harm to replace the riders and warriors we have lost,' Bedwyr argued. 'It may be that the arrival of the Irish lords will shame the weak-willed and encourage the loyal.'

'That would be no bad thing,' Gwalchavad offered, adding: 'I welcome any man who stands beside me in this fight.'

Gwenhwyvar took Arthur's right hand in both of hers. 'Why do you yet hesitate, my husband? There is neither shame nor harm in this.' She clasped his hand and pressed it earnestly as she would press her argument. 'The sooner away, the sooner returned. You will hardly know that I have gone.'

Arthur considered this. He hovered on the threshold of yielding. 'What say you, Myrddin?'

'Your wise counsellors have given you good advice,' I replied. 'Why ask me?'

'But I am asking you,' Arthur growled.

'Very well,' I said. But before I could deliver my answer, the hunting horn sounded outside – a short blast, followed by two more.

'Someone has come,' Cai said, jumping to his feet. He paused. 'Do you want me to bring them to you, Bear?'

'See who it is first,' Arthur said sourly.

Rhys' signal indicated a newcomer to the camp. Cai left and we prepared to receive our guests.

In a moment, Cai's voice called: 'Arthur, you should come out. You will want to see these visitors.'

Arthur sighed, pushed back his chair – Uther's great camp chair – and rose slowly. 'What now?' Throwing aside the tent flap, he stepped out and I followed. Cai was standing a short distance from the tent, gazing down the hill towards the stream.

Mounting the slight rise towards us was a crowd of clerics: three bishops – no less – with thirty or more monks. The bishops wore rich priestly garb: long dark robes and glittering gold ornaments; they wore soft leather boots on their feet, and carried gold-headed oak staves in their hands. Those with them, however, were arrayed more humbly in undyed wool.

'Heaven preserve us,' Gwalchavad muttered aloud. 'What are they doing here?'

'Peace, brother,' Bedwyr advised. 'It may be they have come to lend their aid against the plague. Any help in that struggle would be most welcome.'

'They do not look like men who have come to offer aid,' Gwenhwyvar observed. 'Far from it, I am thinking.'

Her womanly perception was keen as her eyesight, for the knit brows and firm mouths of those who approached suggested solemn purpose and inflexible resolution. The leading bishop thumped the ground with his crozier as if he were pummelling snakes, and those around him walked stiff-legged, with shoulders tight and chins outthrust. Another time, it might have been cause for laughter. But not this day; the Bear of Britain was in no merry mood.

Rhys moved to take his place with Arthur as the churchmen came to stand before us. I recognized none of them, nor any of their followers. Their arrival had, of course, drawn the attention of the men in camp, curious to see what these important visitors would say. Soon a hundred or more had gathered, which seemed to please the bishops. Rather than come face to face with the High King, they halted a dozen paces away – as if to force Arthur to come to them. I took this as a very bad sign.

'Hail, brothers in Christ! Hail and welcome,' Arthur called to them. 'In the name of our Great Lord Jesu, I give you good greeting.'

'Hail to you,' the foremost bishop replied. He did not deign to recognize the High King's rank-neither did he, nor any of the others, offer his king the customary kiss, much less the simple cordiality of a kindly blessing.

A better man than I, Arthur ignored the churchman's unwarranted insolence. 'You honour our rude war camp with your presence, my friends. Again, I give you good greeting in the name of our Lord and king,' he said amiably – heaping, as it were, flaming coals upon their heads.

Gwenhwyvar, not to be outdone, spoke up. 'We might have prepared a better welcome had we known you were coming,' she said sweetly. 'Still, we are not without common courtesy.' I smiled at this gentle rebuke of the bishops' bad manners. She turned to Rhys. 'Bring the welcome cup,' she commanded.

'Nay, lady,' the bishop said, holding up an imperious hand. He was a rotund man, solid as an ale vat in his long robes, his chief adornment a huge golden cross which hung around his neck on a heavy chain of gold. 'We will not share the common cup with you until we have spoken out what we have come to say.'

'Speak, then,' Bedwyr said, fairly bristling with menace at the churchmen's effrontery. 'God knows, you have succeeded in pricking our curiosity with your audacity.'

'If you think us too bold,' the bishop replied haughtily, 'then truly you are more timid men than we presumed.'

'It seems to me,' replied Cador, perfectly matching the cleric's icy tone, 'that you presume too much.' Then, before the irate bishop could respond, he changed tack. 'Ah, but forgive me,' he continued smoothly, 'perhaps you do not know who it is that addresses you with such good grace.' The young king raised his hand to Arthur and said, 'I give you Arthur ap Aurelius, King of Prydein, Celyddon, and Lloegres, Chief Dragon of the Island of the Mighty, and High King of all Britain.'

The pompous cleric almost burst at that. He glared at Cador and muttered, 'We know who it is we have come to see.'

Again Cador was ready with a choice reply. 'Then I must beg your pardon once more,' he said lightly, 'for it did seem to me you were in some doubt regarding the rank of the man you addressed. I only thought to ease the burden of your ignorance – if ignorance it was – for I did not imagine such a grave insult could be intentional.'

Realizing he was bettered, the gruff bishop inclined his head slowly. 'I thank you for your thoughtfulness,' he replied. Turning to Arthur, he said, 'If I have offended the mighty Pendragon, it is for me to beg his pardon.'

Arthur was losing patience. 'Who are you and why have you come?' he demanded bluntly.

'I am Seirol, Bishop of Lindum,' he announced grandly, 'and these are my brothers: Daroc, Bishop of Danum, and Abbot Petronius of Eboracum.' He raised his monkish staff to his fellow bishops, each in turn lifting a pale hand in the sign of peace. 'We come with representatives of our churches, as you see.' By this he meant the company of monks with them. 'We come by authority of Bishop Urbanus of Londinium, who sends this with his sign.' He produced a parchment roll bearing the bishop's sign and signature.

'You have wandered far from home, brothers,' Arthur remarked. 'Lindum is many days to the north – likewise Eboracum; and Londinium is no small distance away. The matter must be of some import, that you travel so far in such troubled times.'

'Well you know it, lord,' Seirol affirmed imperiously. 'We have braved many hardships – and this so that you would not have cause to doubt our resolve.'

'You seem most resolute to me,' Arthur answered.

Bedwyr, who sensed approaching danger, warned under his breath, 'Tread lightly, Bear.'

Bishop Seirol's nostrils flared with anger. 'I had heard of the rough ways of our great king,' he said disdainfully. 'I fully expected my share of abuse.'

'If you think us too rough,' Cai remarked, 'then truly you are more delicate men than I presumed.' Many of the onlookers laughed outright, and the churchmen shifted uneasily.

The bishop stared sullenly around. Raising his crozier slowly, he gave a sharp rap on the earth. 'Silence!' he cried. 'You ask why we have come here. I will tell you. We have come to perform our most righteous and holy duty in demanding that you, Arthur ap Aurelius, foreswear your kingship and yield the Sovereignty of Britain to another.'

'What!' The incredulous voice was Bedwyr's, but the thought was in every head. 'Arthur forsake the throne?'

'That is indeed a matter of some consequence,' Arthur remarked drily. 'Unless you are more fool than you seem, you must have sound reason for this grave suggestion. I would hear it now, churchman.'

Bishop Seirol frowned, but failing to discern whether Arthur's reply slighted him or not, he drew himself up and launched into the explanation he had prepared. Flourishing his crozier, he proclaimed, 'Since we have braved many dangers, do not think we will be easily discouraged. The land is in turmoil, and the people are hard pressed. All day long we are sore beset. Plague and owar have proved the doom of many, and the land calls out for justice.'

'We are not unmindful of these travails,' Cador assured him. 'If you da but look around, you will observe that even now you stand in a war camp at the forefront of the battle. Or did you think this was Londinium or Caer Uintan, and we were all hiding safe behind high walls?'

Bishop Daroc's anger flared. 'Your impertinence is unbecoming, Lord Cador. Oh, yes, we know you, too. You would do well to heed our indictments, who hold sway over the eternal security of your soul.'

'I had thought,' Cador responded coolly, 'that God alone held dominion over my soul. And since I have placed my trust in him, say and do what you will – I fear no mortal man."

Bishop Seirol pressed on with his attack. 'Hear me, proud king! Do you deny that the enemy overruns the land with impunity? Do you deny that the land is wasted by pestilence?'

'How,' replied Arthur slowly, 'could I deny what is perceived by even the dullest eye? You must know that I have sent messengers far and wide throughout the land with the warning.'

An expression of triumph transformed the bishop's face. He raised outspread arms and turned this way and that, exulting in his imagined victory. 'Hear me, warriors of Britain!' Seirol cried in a thunderous voice. 'These twin travails of plague and war have come upon us by the immorality of one man!' He flung a hand at Arthur and shouted, 'Arthur ap Aurelius, you stand condemned of God. Truly, the evil ravaging the land flows from your iniquity alone, and from the wickedness of your reign.'

The accusation hung in the air for a long, awful moment. Then Cai's voice cracked the stunned silence. 'Iniquity and wickedness?' he hooted in sharp derision. 'Bear, we have heard enough from this puffed-up toad. Allow me to run them out of camp with the flat of my sword.'

'By what right do you come here like this to defame the King of Britain?' demanded Gwenhwyvar tartly.

'I am the Bishop of Lindum!' Seirol cried. 'I speak for the holy Church of Christ on Earth. Since there is but one Saviour, we are united in one body. Thus, when I speak, I speak for God.'

'I am Caius ap Ectorius of Caer Edyn,' Cai spat, stepping towards the churchman, his hand on the hilt of his sword. 'I say you are an addled windbag, and I speak for every man here.'

The absurdity of Seirol's charge defied us to take it seriously. But the bishops were in dead and utter earnest. They had worked themselves up to this preposterous indictment and meant to have.their full say.

Bishop Petronius, his features convulsed in a murderous scowl, pushed forward. 'Kill us if you will,' he hissed. 'We expected no less from you. All the world shall know that we were martyred in pursuit of our duty by vicious and spiteful cut-throats.'

'Persist in speaking to your king thus,' Bedwyr warned, his voice low with menace, 'and we will not disappoint you, priest.'

'Bloodshed and murder is all you know!' charged Bishop Daroc. 'Death will not stop our voices. The truth will not be silenced! Our blood will cry calumny from the very ground!'

'Shall we put it to the test?' Gwalchavad inquired.

Arthur raised his hand. 'Peace, brothers,' he said, his tone even. He looked to Seirol. 'You have made grievous complaint against me, friend. Now I would hear your proof.'

The bishops exchanged glances and an expression akin to worry flitted across Seirol's flushed face. They had thought the charge self-evident and had not anticipated a direct challenge. So do the arrogant and self-righteous ever remain swift to observe the mote in others' eyes, while oblivious to the log in their own. They trembled now, for the first time beginning to doubt themselves.

'Well, I am waiting,' pressed Arthur. 'Where is your proof?'

'Beware, vituperous priests,' I warned, stepping forward. 'You stand in the presence of one whose honour is above reproach, but instead of praising him as you ought, you impugn him with foul slander. Woe to you, and shame! Were you men of honour you would fall on your faces and plead forgiveness for your sins. Were you true servants of Christ you would drop to your knees and beg pardon!' I shouted, and the air shivered. 'Pray mercy from the king of kings on earth who rightfully holds the rule of this land from the High King of Heaven. Kneel before him, for I tell you the truth: you stand to forfeit your worthless lives.'

No one had spoken to them like this before, and the perfidious monks gaped in horror and disbelief. Yet they were so consumed with condemnation and their own self-importance that they could not accept the truth as I spoke it.

Bishop Seirol, infuriated by my outburst, lunged forward angrily, recklessly. 'You ask for proof.' he cried. 'You ask for proof! I tell you the proof of my accusation stands beside you, O King.'

With that, the bishop lofted his cleric's staff and gazed around. With a flourish of exaggerated pomp, he levelled the crozier and pointed. I felt my blood surge within me as I prepared to meet his allegation; I would meet and answer the slandering monk, stroke for stroke. But it was not me he pointed to.

No, that unjust honour fell to Gwenhwyvar.

'Behold!' the bishop crowed. 'She stands brazen and unashamed in the sight of all. What need have I of further proof?'

Both Arthur and Gwenhwyvar were taken aback by this extraordinary outcome. The nature of the accusation escaped them. It did not escape me, however; I knew precisely what the foul churchman insinuated.

'For the love of Christ, man,' I whispered harshly, 'withdraw and say no more.'

'I will not withdraw!' Seirol exulted. He now imagined he had won his case, and made bold to pursue his victory further. 'This woman is Irish!' he said, his voice ripe with insinuation. 'She is foreign and a pagan. Your marriage to her, O King, is against God's law. As sure as you stand beside her, you stand condemned.'

Petronius, emboldened by Seirol's example, entered the dispute. 'Since the beginning of the world,' he charged, 'never was there plague in Britain – until you became king and took this pagan Irish woman for your queen.'

It was difficult to determine which he thought the worse: that Gwenhwyvar was pagan, or that she was Irish; or, indeed, that she was a woman.

Bishop Daroc thrust himself forward. 'It is the judgment of God upon us for this immoral king's crimes. God is not mocked. His laws endure forever, and his punishment is swift.'

Arthur, grave and calm, replied in a voice so even and restrained, that hearing it froze the marrow of those who knew him well. 'I am no scholar of holy writ, that I freely confess. My life is otherwise spent.'

'In bloodshed and strife is your life spent,' sneered Petronius – and was swiftly silenced by the arch of Arthur's eyebrow.

'But tell me now,' Arthur continued, raising his voice slightly, 'is it not sin to bear false witness against a brother?'

'Well you know it,' replied Seirol smugly. 'Under God's law, those stand condemned who exchange the truth for a lie.'

'And does not this selfsame law you invoke invite him who would condemn another to first present himself blameless?'

The bishop all but laughed in Arthur's face. 'Do not think to turn that great teaching to your defence,' Seirol crowed. 'I was shriven at dawn and bear no taint of sin which can be reckoned against me.'

'No?' wondered Arthur, his voice the warning rumble of thunder. 'Then hear me, impudent monk. You have sinned three times since you came into this camp. And for those sins I call you to account.'

'You dare malign a Bishop of Christ?' charged the outraged cleric. 'I have not sinned once, much less three times.'

'Liar!' roared Arthur, finally roused to the attack. He lifted a balled fist and slowly raised one finger. 'You accuse me of iniquity and wickedness, and call down the judgment of God upon me. Yet when I demand proof of these accusations, you offer none. Instead, you carry the assault to the woman God himself has given me.'

'Regarding Gwenhwyvar – ' he slowly raised a second finger – 'you call her pagan who is, like yourself, a Christian born of water – a baptism to which fact I can call to witness Charis of Ynys Avallach and Abbot Elfodd himself. And since, as you happily remind us, there is but one Saviour and all who call upon him are united in one body, you do falsely judge her and call her pagan who is in truth your sister in Christ. Thus, you twice condemn one who is innocent.'

Only then did the churchman feel the sand wash out from beneath his feet. The colour drained from his face. Those with him did not yet perceive the fatal blow, though even as they watched the stroke was falling upon their uncomprehending heads.

Arthur raised another finger. 'Lastly, you lie when you say you have no sin, for you have sinned in the sight of these many witnesses since first you began to speak. I have no doubt that you would continue adding sin to sin were I to allow you to go on speaking.'

Bishop Daroc drew himself up. 'We are not under judgment here.'

'Are you not?' demanded Arthur. 'He is ever under judgment who bears false witness against his brother. The sun has not yet reached midday and already you have, in your own words, 'exchanged truth for a lie' – and not once only, but three times. For this you stand condemned out of your own mouth.'

Alight with righteous wrath, Arthur challenged, 'What have you to say, churchman? I am listening, but I do not hear your answer. Can it be that when you have no lie in your mouth you have nothing to say?'

The chagrined bishop, having no reply to offer, glowered at Arthur, but kept his mouth firmly shut.

'Too late you show wisdom,' Arthur told him. 'Would that you had thought to exercise it sooner. As it is, you have wasted much in a long and dangerous journey to flaunt your foolishness. I am certain you could have accomplished that without setting foot beyond Lindum. Or is there yet a further purpose to your visit? Some other grievance against your king?'

Bishop Daroc could not resist flashing a brief glance in Cador's direction, thereby betraying the true essence of the priests' complaint. His ears flushed red and colour rose in his cheeks.

'So!' Understanding broke like sunrise over Arthur's countenance. 'Myrddin warned me about holy men and worldly wealth. How well he knows your kind.'

'Indeed, lord,' remarked Cador. 'You should have heard their shrieking when I suggested we had need of the golden trinkets gathering dust in their treasure chests.'

Arthur addressed the bishops with thunder in his voice. 'You have lied to your king and borne false witness against your queen – for no better reason than because I sought relief and sustenance for my men in the wealth of the church I am sworn to defend. Your selfishness and pride – that only! – brought you here, and all who have witnessed this shameful exchange now see your naked greed and poverty of spirit.' He shook his head slowly. 'You are no Christian men.

'Hear me, sons of Vipers. For your sins you will be stripped and flogged and driven from this camp. You will be conducted to Llandaff, where the holy Illtyd, true priest of Christ, will decide your punishment. Pray that he has more compassion than I, for I tell you straight I will advise him to turn you out of the church lest you bring the Blessed Jesu himself into disrepute with your pride and ungodly conceit.'

So saying, the High King reached out and lifted the gold cross and chain from around Seirol's neck. 'You will no longer need this, I think; and we can use it here to buy food and drink for hungry warriors.'

He turned away from the sputtering cleric. 'Gwalchavad! Cador! Take them to Llandaff and tell Illtyd all: charge him devise fit punishment.'

Cai watched as the odious priests were led away. 'You should have let me deal with them, Bear,' he said. 'God knows, they have already been the downfall of many.'

'Their punishment best comes at Illtyd's hand,' Arthur replied. 'For he is a holy man and they will not be able to console themselves with the secret thought that they were misunderstood or compelled unfairly by a pagan.'

He made to turn away, but Gwenhwyvar now stood before him, hands on hips, her shapely brows knit together and dark eyes ablaze. 'This matter is not ended yet, O King,' she said. 'I have been reviled for my birth in the sight of everyone here. Honour demands satisfaction.'

Suspecting a subtle trap, Arthur cocked his head to one side. 'What do you propose?' he asked warily.

'Just this: that I sail at once for Ireland and summon lords who, by the strength of their devotion, will make faithless Britons everywhere weak with envy and sick with shame to see such homage as my noble race shall offer.'

The last clouds of anger lifted then from Arthur's brow. He looked at his wife; sharp appraisal mingled with deep appreciation, and what? Gratitude? Recognition, yes. He saw in her a soul as staunch and zealous as his own, fiercely loyal and steadfast through all things and, like himself, more than a match for a handful of fallacious monks and faltering lords.

The Bear of Britain smiled and relented. 'Men of valour are ever welcome at my side,' he said, speaking loud for all to hear. 'And if the nobles of Ierne prove more loyal servants of Britain than Britain's own sons, so be it. Let those who abandon faith and fealty bear the shame of their disgrace. Wickedness and deceit have no place in my realm, and any man who embraces the truth is friend to me.'

Gwenhwyvar kissed him then, and the embrace was lauded by the throaty cheers of all who looked on. The queen sailed on the next tide with ships enough to bring the Irish back; twelve ships and men enough to crew them. At Arthur's behest, Llenlleawg and I went with her.