Arthur: Book Three of the Pendragon Cycle Page 4

  “He holds the sword!” shouted Merlin. “And that has not changed. Whoever would be king must first take the sword from Arthur’s hand. For I tell you truly, none among you will be king without it!”

  Morcant’s fists balled in his anger. As carefully as he tried to steer the issue around that fact, Merlin managed to guide it back.

  “Arthur, come here,” summoned Merlin. The young man joined the Emrys in the circle.

  “Here he is,” said Merlin, stepping away. “Who among you will be first to try?”

  Arthur stood alone in the center of the ring of kings. In the flickering light of the Christ Mass candles, holding the sword easily by the hilt, alert, resolute, unafraid, he appeared an avenging angel, eyes alight with the bright fire of righteousness.

  Clearly, anyone wishing to take the sword by force would have a fight on his hands. Fools they were, perhaps, but not fool enough to risk single combat with this unknown young warrior. Merlin’s challenge stood.

  Even so, Arthur could not demand the High Kingship outright. He had no lands, no wealth, no warband; and his supporters were too few. The issue remained in deadlock. Nothing had changed since the night before.

  But Merlin was not finished.

  4

  All that winter’s day and far into the night the kings twisted and squirmed, but Merlin held them in his iron grasp and would not let go. He became first a rock, and then a mountain in Arthur’s defense. Arthur stood equally unmoved. No power on earth could have prevailed against them…

  …just as no power on earth can make a man honor another who does not himself desire it.

  In truth, the petty kings did not desire to honor Arthur. He would have to earn their honor and their loyalty. Merlin’s great care was to make that possible.

  This he accomplished through reviving the title Dux Britanniarum, Duke of Britain—Uther’s old title, from the time when he was war leader for Aurelius—and conferring it upon Arthur.

  The council agreed to this in the end, for it saved them from having to make Arthur king outright. But once he obtained this compromise, then did Merlin sow his scheme: a warband supported by all the kings equally, for the benefit of all. A free-roving force dedicated to keeping the lands of Britain secure. Beholden to no king, supported equally by all, this roaming warband could strike wherever and whenever needed—without regard for the restrictive pacts and alliances of the petty kings.

  Since, it was reasoned, Britain faced a common enemy we would field a common warband, led by a war leader owing allegiance to no one, but serving all equally as need arose.

  This, of course, was far less readily agreed upon, for it meant that kings like Morcant and Coledac would have to give up their warring ways—else they would find themselves facing Arthur and the warband they themselves helped to support.

  Thus, making Arthur Duke of Britain enforced the peace. This was the beauty of Merlin’s plan, and also its greatest weakness. For in truth, the kings who had no intention of swearing fealty to Arthur would not support him to their own hurt.

  Other kings saw a different menace: a free-roving warband they could not rule was scarcely less dangerous than the Saecsen raiders this selfsame warband was supposed to hold at bay.

  Yet, as they had already conceded to Arthur’s becoming Dux, there was nothing they could do in the end. A war leader implied a force to command. And no one could deny the need. Arthur would be the war leader, and the warband would be raised from the pledged support of the council.

  True, it was not the High Kingship. But Merlin’s scheme gave Arthur what he needed: leave to act to win the kingship. And act he did.

  When Arthur left the church that night—cold and bright it was, and windy, the black ice shining in the white moonlight—his long legs striding, hastening him away, the Sword of Britain on his hip for good, he was no longer the young man who had entered that morning. The malice of the petty kings, their narrow spites, their biting rancor and jealousy had hardened him. But the All-Wise Spirit moves in mysterious ways: Arthur now knew them for what they were.

  In this he had the better of them, for they knew him not at all.

  * * *

  Arthur has always learned quickly. When as a boy in Ectorius’ house he labored at his Latin and numbers with Melumpus, the Gaulish tutor from the abbey at nearby Abercurny, Arthur needed only to be told a thing once and he understood it, twice and it was his forever.

  As often as not, when I came for the boys in the afternoons to ride or take weapons practice, there would be Arthur patiently explaining a word or sum to Cai while Melumpus dozed in the sun, his hands folded over his paunch. Arthur could teach as well as learn, though he always preferred doing to thinking.

  If a thing could be done, Arthur wanted to do it. If it could not be done, better still—that was the thing he wanted most to do.

  Nothing comes so vividly to mind in this regard as the time we journeyed to Gwynedd on our way to Caer Myrddin to visit Tewdrig. Ectorius and Cai were with us, and Merlin of course, along with a small escort.

  It was the summer of Arthur’s eleventh year, I believe, and there had been reports of renewed Irish raiding along the western coasts. Merlin wanted to discuss the situation with Tewdrig and Meurig, and see for himself how things stood. He had planned to go quietly alone. But once Arthur heard of it, he quickly included himself and Cai, and there was no gainsaying him. Since we could in no wise risk travelling with Arthur unprotected, it was decided that we would all make the journey together.

  All went well until we reached Yr Widdfa. Upon seeing those great cold looming mounds of slate, Arthur nearly fell off his horse in astonishment. “Look at that one! Have you ever seen a higher mountain? There is snow still on it!”

  “It is a sight indeed,” agreed Merlin.

  “Does it have a name? What is it?”

  “It does. All this is Yr Widdfa, Region of Snows.” Merlin pointed to the highest peak. “The one you are gawking at is Eryri.”

  “It is…” He searched for just the right words. “…enormous! Enormous and beautiful.” He gazed in wonder at it, filling his eyes with the sight. “Has anyone ever climbed it?”

  The question caught Merlin off guard. “I do not believe so,” he answered. “I do not think it possible.”

  That was the wrong thing to say, certainly. “Good! Then I will be the first,” Arthur declared. He meant it, too. And he meant to begin at once. With a lash of the reins, he rode toward the mountain.

  Merlin made to call him back. But Cai intervened. “Please, Lord Emrys, I would like to climb it, too.”

  “You, Cai?” Merlin turned and looked into the ruddy face. The clear green eyes held all the hope any one human creature can bear. To dash it would have been unthinkable. And Merlin saw that as much as Arthur wanted to climb the mountain, Cai wanted it more, but for a far different reason.

  “Now, Caius, you cannot—” began Ectorius.

  Merlin cut him short with a gesture. “Of course,” Merlin told him, “I think it is time this mountain was conquered. And you two are just the men to do it. Well, hurry or you will be left behind.” He waved Cai away, and the boy rode after Arthur.

  “Do you think it wise?” asked Ectorius, watching his son with some apprehension. Long had he protected his son’s lame leg—the result of an accident and a poorly set bone when Cai was first learning to ride.

  “No,” replied Merlin, “it is foolishness itself to let them go.”

  “Then why—?”

  Merlin smiled, lifting a hand to the mountain. “Because if we prevented them now they would never again risk the impossible with a whole and open heart.”

  “Is that so important?”

  “For ordinary men, no.” Merlin shook his head, watching the boys ride away. “But, Ector, we are not about making ordinary men.”

  “They could get themselves killed!”

  “Then they will die in glorious defeat,” Merlin declared. Ectorius opened his mouth to protest, but my master stop
ped him, saying, “Ector, they will die one day in any event, and we cannot prevent that. Do you not see it?”

  “No, I do not!” Ectorius showed his contempt for such an idea. “This is needless hazard.”

  “The dead are so long dead,” explained Merlin. “Better to have lived while alive, yes? Besides, if they achieve this, they will have conquered a giant; they will be invincible!”

  “If they do not?”

  “Then they will learn something about the limitations of men.”

  “A costly lesson, it seems to me,” muttered Ectorius.

  “Then it will be valued all the more. Come, be of good cheer, my friend,” coaxed Merlin. “If God and his angels stand ready to uphold them, can we do less?”

  Ectorius lapsed into a sullen silence, and we turned our horses to follow the boys, catching them up some time later in one of the high meadows beneath the looming slopes as they stood discussing the best way to begin.

  “Well? What is it to be?” asked Merlin.

  “This appears to be the best way,” answered Arthur at once. “The others are too steep. On this side we can walk a fair way up.”

  “Then get on with it,” Merlin told them, casting an eye toward the sun. “The best of the day is yours. We will make camp and await you here.”

  “He is right,” said Arthur to Cai, setting his jaw. “Let us begin.” Taking only a waterskin apiece and a couple barley loaves, they bade us farewell and began their assault on Eryri. We, in turn, began making camp and settled down to wait.

  Ectorius and some of his men went off hunting just after midday, and returned at dusk with a dozen hares and as many pheasants. The larger game they had let go since we could neither eat it, nor take it with us.

  While the men cleaned the game and made our supper, Ectorius described the wealth of game they had seen—casting his eyes now and again at the slopes of the mountain above us. At last he said, “Will they stay up there all night, do you think?”

  “I expect so,” I answered. “It is too far to come down, and they cannot have reached the top yet.”

  “I do not like thinking of them climbing up there in the dark.”

  “They are sensible enough,” I assured him. “They will stop and rest for the night.”

  “It is not their resting I am worried about.” Ectorius turned sharply and went about his chores.

  I wondered at Merlin, for he seemed not at all concerned about the enterprise. Usually, he exercised the utmost care where Arthur’s safety was concerned. A little later, as the hares and pheasants were roasting on spits over the fire, I sought him at the streamside where he was filling waterskins and watering horses. I asked him about this and he simply replied, “Be at ease, Pelleas. I see no hurt in this place.”

  “What have you seen?”

  He stopped and stood, turning his eyes back to the mountain, whose top was aflame with sunset’s crimson afterglow. He was silent for a moment, his eyes alight with the strange fire from the heights. “I have seen a mountain wearing a man’s name, and that name is Arthur.”

  We waited all through the next day, and Ectorius held his peace. But as night came on and a chill crept into the air, he stalked over to Merlin, hands on hips. “They have not returned.”

  “No, they have not,” agreed Merlin.

  “Something has happened.” He glanced uneasily up at the darkening mountainside, as if to see the boys clinging there. His mouth worked silently for a moment, then he burst forth: “Cai’s leg! Why the boy can hardly walk as it is—I should never have allowed them to go.”

  “Peace, Ector. You have no cause for worry. They will return when they have done what they can do.”

  “When they have broken their necks, you mean.”

  “I do not think that likely.”

  “More like than not!” Ectorius grumbled. But he said no more about it that night.

  The next morning the boys had still not returned, and I began to feel Ectorius’ misgiving. Might Merlin be mistaken?

  By midday Ectorius’ thin patience had worn through. He stormed silently around the camp, muttering under his breath. He respected Merlin enough not to insult him openly by insisting on going after the boys. But it was on his mind—and for all his great respect he would not wait another night.

  Merlin pretended not to notice Ectorius’ acute discomfort. He occupied himself walking the valley and gathering those herbs that could not be found further north.

  Finally, as the sun disappeared behind the rim of mountains surrounding Eryri, Ectorius decided to take matters into his own hands. He ordered four of his men to saddle their horses and made ready to begin the search.

  “Think what you are doing,” Merlin told him equably.

  “I have thought of nothing else all day!” Ectorius snapped.

  “Let be, Ector. If you go after them now, you will steal their glory; they will know you did not trust them to succeed.”

  “What if their broken bodies lie bleeding in a crevice up there? They could be dying.”

  “Then let them die like the men you hoped they would one day become!” Merlin replied. “Ector,” he soothed, “trust me just a little longer.”

  “I have trusted you altogether too long!” Ectorius cried. As deep as his love, so deep was his pain. I believe he held himself to blame for his son’s infirmity—the horse had been his own.

  “If you cannot trust me, then trust the Good God. Patience, brother. You have borne your misgiving this long, bear it but a little longer.”

  “It is a hard thing you are asking.”

  “If they have not rejoined us by dawn, you need not lead the search, Ector; I will lead it.”

  Ectorius shook his head and swore, but he accepted Merlin’s reassurance and stalked off to rescind the orders to his men.

  Dusk came on apace. I think night always comes first to the high places of the world. There were stars already winking in Heaven’s firmament, though the sky still held the day’s light, when we sat down to our supper. The men talked loudly of hunting, trying to distract their lord from his unhappy thoughts.

  Merlin heard the shout first. In truth, I believe he had been listening for it most of the day and was beginning to wonder why he had not heard it.

  He stood, holding out his hand for silence, his head cocked to one side. Neither I nor anyone else heard anything but the thin, trilling call of the pipit, or mountain lark, as they winged to their nests for the night.

  Though I knew better than to doubt him, it began to appear as if he were mistaken. The men grew restless. “It was only—” began Ectorius.

  Merlin rose, and held up a silencing hand. He stood rock-still for a long moment and then turned toward the mountain. A slow smile spread across his face. “Behold!” he said. “The conquerors return!”

  Ectorius jumped up. “Where? I do not see them!”

  “They are coming.”

  Ectorius ran forward a few steps. “I do not see them!”

  Then the shout came again. I heard it: the high, wavering “halloo” one uses in the mountains. The others were on their feet now, too—all of us straining eyes and ears into the gathering gloom.

  “It is them!” cried Ectorius. “They are coming back!”

  We did not see them until they were very close indeed, for in the dusk their clothing did not show against the darkening mountainside. When they shouted again, I made out the two forms hastening toward us.

  “Cai! Arthur!” cried Ectorius.

  In a moment they appeared, and I shall never forget the expression on their faces. For I had never seen such triumph and exultation in a human countenance before—and have seen it only once since. They were bone-weary, disheveled, but ablaze with the light of victory. They were heroes. They were gods.

  They staggered to the campfire and collapsed on the ground. Even in the firelight I could see their sunburnt cheeks and noses; Arthur’s fair skin was peeling, and Cai’s neck and brow were as red as his hair! Their clothes were dirty—torn and
ragged at knees and elbows. Their hands were raw, and there were bruises, scrapes, and scratches on their arms and legs. They appeared to have passed through walls of hawthorn and thickets of thistle along the way.

  “Get them something to drink!” ordered Ectorius, and someone hurried off to fetch the beer. The lord of Caer Edyn stared at his son, pride swelling his chest till he looked like a strutting grouse.

  I gathered food from our supper and gave it to them. Arthur took the bread and stuffed half the loaf into his mouth; Cai, too tired to eat, simply held it in his hand and stared at it.

  “Here,” said Merlin, handing them a waterskin, “drink this.”

  Cai drank, swallowing great mouthfuls at a time, and then handed the skin to Arthur, who gulped the cool stream water in noisy draughts.

  Ectorius could contain himself no longer. “Well, how did you fare, son? Did you reach the top?”

  “The top,” replied Cai reverently. “We reached the top, we did.” He turned his face to Arthur, and his eyes held the look of a man who has learned a profound and life-changing truth. “I would never have made it but for Arthur.”

  Arthur lowered the waterskin. “Never say it, brother. We climbed it together—you and I together.” He turned to the rest of us standing over him. “It was wonderful! Glorious! You should have been there, Myrddin—Pelleas!—you should have come with us. You can see from one end of the world to the other! It was—it was…wonderful.” He lapsed into silence, at a loss for words.

  “You said it was impossible,” Cai reminded Merlin. “You said no one had ever done it. Well, we did it! We climbed it all the way to the top!” He paused and added softly, turning once more to Arthur, “…He all but carried me.”

  * * *

  I have seen a mountain wearing a man’s name and that name is Arthur, Merlin had said.

  I was not to discover the full meaning of these words until many years later when bards learned of Arthur’s youthful exploits and began referring to the mountain as The Great Tomb—by which they meant he had conquered and slain the snow-topped giant.