Merlin Page 3

  What a night—rich and raucous and full! I understood that to be a king with a great hall filled with fearless companions was the finest thing a man could achieve, and I vowed that one day this fine thing would be mine.

  I did not speak to Maximus again while he stayed with Lord Elphin, though he and my grandfather talked at length the next day before the duke departed and returned to his troops waiting in the valley. I say I did not speak to him, but when his horse was brought to him and he swung up into the saddle, Maximus saw me and raised his hand slowly, touching the back of his hand to his forehead. It is a sign of honor and respect—an unusual gesture with which to favor a child. No one else saw it, nor were they meant to.

  He said farewell to my grandfather—they clasped one anothers’ arms in the way of kinsmen—and he rode away with his commanders. From atop the earthen bank outside the palisade I watched the column form up and move on through the Cam valley a short time later, following the Eagle standard.

  I never saw Maximus again. And it was to be many, many years before I finally beheld the sword and realized that it had been his sword I had seen that day. That is why Maximus had looked at me the way he did. And that is why he saluted me.

  This is where it begins:

  First there is a sword, the Sword of Britain. And the sword is Britain.

  3

  In the spring of my eleventh year, I traveled with Blaise and Hafgan to Gwynedd and Yr Widdfa, the Region of Snows, in the mountainous northwest. It was a long journey and difficult, but necessary, for Hafgan was going home to die.

  He told no one about this, as he found the prospect of leaving his people unspeakably sad. It was the leaving, not the dying, he minded; Hafgan had long ago made his peace with God, and knew death to be the narrow door to another, higher life. And though saying farewell to his kinsmen grieved him deeply, yet he yearned to see again the land of his youth before he died; so the journey became necessary.

  Elphin insisted on sending an escort; if he had not done so, Avallach surely would have. Given his own way, Hafgan would have foregone this honor; but he relented, since it was not for him that the warriors rode with us.

  There were nine in the escort, making a total of twelve in all as we made ready to set out that day not long after Beltane, the fire festival marking the beginning of spring. Hafgan and the escort had come to Ynys Avallach where Blaise and I waited, eager to be off. On the morning of our leaving, I rose early and pulled on my tunic and trousers and ran down to the courtyard to find my mother dressed in riding garb, complete with short cloak and tall riding boots, her hair braided and bound in the white leather thong of the bullring.

  She held the reins of a mist-grey stallion, and my first thought was that the horse must be for me. Hafgan stood nearby and they were talking together quietly, waiting for the others to appear. I greeted them and mentioned that I preferred my black-and-white pony instead.

  “Instead? Whatever can you mean?” Charis asked.

  “Instead of the stallion, of course.” I pointed out that I was fond of the pony and planned on riding it.

  My mother laughed and said, “You are not the only person ever to master throwing a leg over the back of a horse.”

  It was only then that I took in her appearance. “You would go too?”

  “It is time I saw the place where your father grew up,” she explained, “and besides, Hafgan has asked me and I can think of nothing I would enjoy more. We have been talking just now of stopping in Dyfed. I would like to see Maelwys and Pendaran again, and I could show you where you were born. Would you like that?”

  Whether I liked it or not, she meant to go and did. The imagined inconvenience to my notion of playing the warrior never materialized—my mother was more than a match for the rigors of the journey. We did not dawdle or slacken our pace because of her, and as the familiar landscape sparked her memory with a thousand remembrances of my father, she recalled in vivid detail those first days of their life together. I listened to her and forgot all about pretending to be a fierce battlechief.

  We crossed shining Mor Hafren and came to Caer Legionis, Fort of the Legions. The enormous fortress, like so many others in the land, long abandoned and falling into ruin, stood derelict and empty, shunned by the nearby town which still boasted a magistrate. I had never seen a Roman city before and could find nothing of advantage in its straight streets and houses crowded too close to one another. Aside from the impressive spectacle of a forum and an arena, what I could see of the town inspired little hope for the improvement of life. A city is an unnatural place.

  The country beyond was fair to look upon: smooth, lofty hills and winding glens with stone-edged sreams and wide flats of grassland ideal for grazing herds of cattle and sheep and the hardy, surefooted little horses they bred and sold in horse markets as far away as Londinium and Eboracum.

  At Maridunum—where my parents had fled after their marriage, and where I was born—our reception was warm and enthusiastic. King Pendaran considered himself something of a grandfather to both my mother and myself, and was overjoyed to see us. He clasped me heartily by both arms and said, “I held you, lad, when you were no bigger than a cabbage.” His fringe of white hair feathered in the wind, and he appeared in imminent danger of blowing away. Was this the fearsome Red Sword I had heard about?

  Maelwys, his oldest son, now ruled in Dyfed, however, and with Pendaran’s clucking approval he declared a feast upon our arrival, and the lords under him, with their retinues, crowded his hall that night.

  The lords of the Demetae and Silures were long established in the land and powerful. They had fiercely protected their independence, despite three hundred years of Roman meddling in their affairs—a feat ironically accomplished by forming early and advantageous alliances with the ruling houses of Rome itself, marrying well and wisely, and using their power to keep the emperor and his minions at a safe distance. Like a rock in the sea, they had allowed the Empire to wash over them; and now that the tide was receding, the rock stood unchanged.

  Wealthy and proud of their wealth, they lacked any hint of the vanity that so often derives from riches. Simple men, adhering to the ways of their people and resisting change, they had kept alive the true Celtic spirit of their fathers. A few might live in sprawling villas of Roman design, or wear the title of magistrate; one or another might have comfortably worn the purple, but the eyes that looked upon me in the hall that night saw the world little changed since the day of Bran the Blessed, whom they claimed had settled his tribe in these very hills.

  We sat at the high table, my mother and I, surrounded by lords and chieftains, and I began to understand what my people had lost in the Great Conspiracy when the barbarians overran the Wall and attacked settlements as far south as Eboracum, and along both coasts as well. Elphin and the Cymry prospered in the Summerlands, it is true, but were a people cut off from their past—a kind of living death to the Celt. As to that, what had my mother’s race lost when Atlantis was destroyed?

  After a long and lively meal, Blaise sang and received a gold armband from Maelwys for his song. Then a cry went up for Hafgan to sing. He accepted the harp with diffidence and took his place in the hollow square formed by the tables, strumming the harpstrings idly.

  His gaze fell on me, and he stopped strumming and beckoned me. I rose and went to him, and he placed the harp in my hands. I thought he meant for me to accompany him. “What will you sing, Chief Bard?” I asked.

  “Anything you like, little brother. Whatever you choose will be welcomed in this place.”

  Still I thought he meant me to play for him. I fingered a chord and thought. The Birds of Rhiannon? Lleu and Levelys? “What about the Dream of Arianrhod?” I asked.

  He nodded and raised his hand, stepping away to leave me in the center of the square. Shocked and confused, I stared after him. He merely inclined his head and returned to his place at Maelwys’ left hand. What he had done was unprecedented: the Archdruid, Chief Bard of the Island of the Mighty, ha
d relinquished his harp to me, an untried boy.

  I had no time to contemplate the implications of his deed—all eyes were on me, the hall hushed. I swallowed hard and marshaled my fleeing thoughts. I could not remember a word of the tale, and the pearl-inlaid harp might just as well have been an oxhide shield in my fumbling hands.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, forced my fingers to move over the impossibly-wooden strings, and opened my mouth, fully expecting to disgrace myself and Hafgan before the assembled lords when the words failed to come.

  To my great relief and surprise, the words of the song came back to me in the same instant my tongue began to move. I sang, shakily at first, but with growing confidence as I saw the song reflected on the faces of my listeners.

  The tale is a long one—I would have chosen differently had I known I would be the one to sing it. But when I finished, the gathering seemed to sit an equally long time in silence. I could hear the soft flaring of the torches and the crackle of flames in the great firepit, and I was aware of all those dark Demetae and Siluri eyes on me.

  I turned to my mother and saw a strange, rapt look on her face, her eyes glistening in the light…Tears?

  Slowly the hall came back to life, as if from a sleep of enchantment. I did not dare sing again, and no one asked me. Maelwys got to his feet and approached me. In full hearing of all present he said, “No bard has ever sung so well and truly in my hearing, save one only. Once that bard came to this house, and after hearing him sing I offered him my tore of gold. He did not take it, but gave me something instead—the name I wear today.” He smiled, remembering. “That bard was your father, Taliesin.”

  He raised his hands to his neck and removed his torc. “Now I offer the tore to you. Take it, if you will, for your song and for the memory of the one whose place you have taken this night.”

  I did not know what to think. “As my father did not accept your generous gift, it is not right that I should do so.”

  “Then tell me what you will accept, and I will give you that.” The lords of Dyfed watched me with interest.

  I looked to my mother for help, thinking to see some expression or gesture to tell me what to do. But she only gazed at me with the same wonder as the others. “Your kindness,” I began, “to my people is worth more to me than lands or gold. As it is, I remain in your debt, Lord Maelwys.”

  He smiled with great satisfaction, embraced me, and returned to his place at the board. I gave the harp to Hafgan then and walked quickly from the hall, full to bursting with thoughts and emotions and straining to contain them and make sense of them.

  Hafgan found me a little while later as I stood in the darkened courtyard, shivering, for the night was cold and I had forgotten my cloak. He gathered me under his robe, and we stood together for a long time without speaking.

  “What does it mean, Hafgan?” I said at last. “Tell me, if you can.”

  I thought he would not answer. Without turning his face from his contemplation of the star-strewn sky, Hafgan said, “Once, when I was a young man, I stood in a circle of stones and saw a great and terrible sign in the heavens: a fall of stars like a mighty fire poured out from on high.

  “Those stars were lighting your way to us, Myrddin Emrys.” He smiled at my reaction: Emrys is the divine epithet. “Do not wonder that I call you Emrys, for from now on men will begin to recognize you.”

  “You have done this, Hafgan,” I replied, my voice tight with accusation, for because of his words I felt the happiness of my childhood slipping away from me and tasted ashes in my mouth.

  “No,” he said gently, “I have done only what has been required of me, only what has been given me to do.”

  I shivered, but not with cold now. “I understand none of this,” I said miserably.

  “Perhaps not, but soon you will. It is enough for now that you accept what I tell you.”

  “What will happen, Hafgan? Do you know?”

  “Only in part. But do not worry. All will become clear to you in time. Wisdom will be given when wisdom is required, courage when courage is required. All things are given in their season.” He lapsed into silence again and I studied the heavens with him, hoping to see something that would answer the storm in my soul. I saw only the cold-orbed stars swinging through their distant courses, and I heard the night wind singing around the tiled eaves of the villa and felt the emptiness of one cut off and alone.

  Then we went inside, and I slept in the bed where I was born.

  Nothing more was said about what had taken place in Maelwys’ hall—at least, not in my presence. I have no doubt others talked of it if they talked of nothing else. It was a mercy to me not to have to answer for it.

  We left Maridunum three days later. Maelwys would have accompanied us, but affairs of court prevented him. He, like some others, had once again adopted the custom of the kings of old: ringing his lands with hillforts and moving through his realm with his retinue, holding court in one hillfort after another in circuit.

  He bade us farewell and would hear nothing from us but our promise to visit Maridunum on our return. Thus we set out once more, riding north, following the old Roman track through the rising, heathered hills.

  We saw eagles and red deer, wild pigs and foxes in abundance, a few wolves in the high places, and once a black bear. Several of the warband had brought hunting hounds, and these were given the chase so that we did not lack for fresh meat at night. The days were getting warmer; but though the sun shone bright and there was little rain, the high country remained cool. A crackling fire kept away the night chill, and a day in the saddle assured a sound sleep.

  How can I describe coming into Caer Dyvi? It was not my home—certainly I had never set eyes on those rugged hills and tree-lined valleys. But the sense of homecoming was so strong in me that I sang for joy and rode fit to break my neck up the seacliff track to the ruined settlement.

  We approached from the south on the sea side. Blaise had described the place to me in detail on the way, and I had heard my grandfather talk about it so often that I felt I knew the place as well as anyone born there. That was part of it; the other part may have been Hafgan’s pleasure at seeing his home, though for him, as for Blaise, this was tempered with sadness.

  I could feel nothing sorrowful about the place. Placed on the high promontory overlooking the estuary and the sea to the west, and surrounded by dense woods to the east and high, rocky hills to the north it seemed too peaceful a haven—like Ynys Avallach in its own way—to hold any sorrow, despite the unhappy events that had taken place there. Indeed, the jawless skull I saw half-buried in the long grass testified to the grim desperation of Caer Dyvi’s final hours. Our warrior escort was subdued, respecting the spirits of the fallen and, after a brief inspection, returned to the horses.

  The caer was uninhabited, of course, but the ribbed remains of Elphin’s great hall and sections of the timber palisade above the ditch were still standing, along with the walls and foundations of some of the stone granaries. I was surprised at how small it seemed; I suppose I was used to Caer Cam and Ynys Avallach. But that it would have been a secure and comfortable settlement, I had no doubt.

  Charis strolled among the grass-grown ruins, musing deeply on her private thoughts. I did not have the heart to intrude, even to ask what she was thinking. I knew that it had to do with my father. No doubt she was remembering something he had told her of his youth there, picturing him in it, feeling his presence.

  Hafgan, too, wished to be alone, which was plain enough to see. So I tramped around after Blaise, inspecting this place and that, listening as he rediscovered his former home. He told me stories I had never heard before, little things concerning incidents that had happened one place or another in the caer.

  “Why did no one ever return?” I asked. The country appeared perfectly peaceful and secure.

  Blaise sighed and shook his head. “Ah, there was not a man among us who did not yearn to come back—no one more than Lord Elphin.”

&n
bsp; “Then why not?”

  “That is not easy to explain.” He paused. “You have to understand that this whole region was overrun by the enemy. Not Caer Dyvi alone—the Wall, the garrisons at Caer Seiont, Luguvalium, Eboracum, everything. Never did men fight better or with more courage, but there were too many. It was death to stay.

  “The land was not secure again for nearly two years, and by the time it was safe to return…well, we had begun life anew in the south. If fleeing the lands of our fathers was difficult, and it was, returning would be nigh impossible.” He gazed around the caer fondly. “No, let the ashes rest. Someone will raise these walls one day, but not us.”

  We were silent a few moments and Blaise sighed again, then turned to me. “Would you like to see where Hafgan taught your father?” he asked, and started off before I could answer.

  We walked from the caer into the wood along an old track now overgrown with burdock and nettle, and emerged in a small clearing which had been Taliesin’s wooded bower. There was an oak stump in the center of the clearing. “Hafgan would sit here with his staff across his lap,” Blaise said, sitting down on the stump and placing his own oak staff across his lap. “Taliesin would sit at his feet.” He offered me the place at his feet, and I sat down before him.

  Blaise nodded slowly, with a frown of remembrance and mouth pulled down. “Many and many a time I came to find them so. Ah,” he sighed, “that seems so long ago now.”

  “Was this where my father had his first vision?”

  “It was, and I well remember the day. Cormach was Chief Druid then, and he had come to Caer Dyvi. He knew himself to be dying and told us so—I admit I was taken aback by his bald pronouncement, but Cormach was a blunt man. He said he was dying and wanted to see the boy Taliesin one last time before he joined the Ancient Ones.” Blaise smiled quickly, and ran his hand through his long dark hair. “He sent me off to boil cabbage for his supper.”