Arthur pc-3 Page 5

  So we left Londinium the next morning and hastened west. Upon arriving at the Ebbw river – after more freezing nights along the track than I care to remember – Arthur rode at once to the hill fort. Like all the others in the region it was built on the crown of the highest hill in the vicinity, and offered a long view in every direction. Caer Melyn stood surrounded by a ring of smaller strongholds, a dozen in all, guarding the entrances to the valleys and the river inlets along the nearby coast.

  Directly east lay another interlocking ring of hill forts, with Caer Legionis at its centre. The Fort of the Legions stood in ruins, deserted now, worthless. But Meurig had established a stronghold on a high hill a little to the north, above the ruined Roman fortress, and this, like Caer Melyn, was also surrounded by its ring of smaller hill forts.

  The whole region was thus protected by these interlinked rings, making all of Dyfed and Siluria secure. Meurig, however, had never lived at Caer Melyn. Indeed, it had been many years since the Irish Sea Wolves had dared essay the vigilance of the southwestern British kings. Consequently the hill forts had been allowed to become overgrown and derelict from disuse. Certainly, Caer Melyn stood in need of repair: gates must be renting, ramparts rebanked, ditches redug, wall sections replaced, stores replenished…

  As Meurig had said, it would take a deal of work to make the place habitable. But, to Arthur, it was already a fortress invincible and a palace without peer.

  Caer Melyn, the Golden Fortress. It was so called for the yellow sulphur springs nearby, but Arthur saw another kind of gold shining here. He saw it as it would be, imagining himself lord of the realm.

  Nevertheless, we were forced to sleep in what was – a forlorn hilltop open to the ice-bright stars and deep winter's bone-rattling blasts. Arthur did not care. The place was his and he was master of it; he insisted on spending his first night in his own lands hi his own fortress.

  We banked the fire high and slept close to it, wrapped in our furs and cloaks. Before we slept, Arthur prevailed upon Merlin to sing a tale to mark the occasion. 'As this is the first tale sung hi my hall' – there was no hall – 'it is fitting that it be sung by the Chief Bard of the Island of the Mighty.'

  Merlin chose The Dream of Macsen Wledig, changing it just a little to include Arthur. This pleased the young Duke enormously. 'Here will I make my home,' he declared expansively. 'And from this day forth let Caer Melyn be known as the foremost court of all Britain.'

  'Of all courts past, present, and yet to come,' Merlin replied, 'this will be chief among them. It will be remembered as long as memory endures.'

  Mind, it would be some time before the ruin could be called a caer, let alone a court. On that raw wintry morn when we arose to the frost and blow, beating our arms across our chests to warm ourselves, Arthur had not so much as a hearthstone to his name.

  All he had, in fact, was Merlin's shining promise.

  That day we rode to several of the surrounding hill forts to further Arthur's inspection of his reaun. He seemed not to mind that the places were fit more for wolf and raven than for men. It was clear that Meurig's gift would exact a price of its own, but Arthur would pay, and with a song on his lips.

  As the sun started on its downward arc in the low winter sky, we turned towards Caer Myrddin to join Meurig there. We reached the stronghold as the pale green-tinted light faded from the hills. The horses' noses were covered with frost and their withers steamed as we trotted up the track to the timber-walled enclosure.

  Nothing now remained of the old villa that had stood there in the days, now long past, when young Merlin had ruled here as king with Lord Maelwys, Meurig's grandfather. Maridunum it had been in those day's. Now it was Caer Myrddin – after its most famous ruler, though he was not a king any more and had not lived there in many, many years.

  Torches already burned in the gate sconces – yellow flame in the deep blue shadows on the hard, frost-covered ground – but the gates were still open. We were expected.

  Horses stood unattended in the yard. I wondered at this, and turned to point it out to Merlin who rode beside me. But Arthur had already seen them and knew in his heart what this meant.

  'Yah!' he slapped the leather reins across his mount's flanks and galloped into the yard, hardly touching ground as he raced for the hall. Those within must have heard his cry, for as Arthur flung himself from the saddle, the door to Meurig's hall opened and a knot of men burst into the yard.

  'Arthur!'

  One of the men emerged from the throng and ran to meet him, caught Arthur up in a great bear hug. The two stood there in the pale golden torchlight from the hall, locked in a wrestler's embrace, then drew back, gripping one another's arms in the ancient greeting of kinsmen.

  'Bedwyr! You are here.'

  'Where should I be when my brother needs me?' Bedwyr grinned, shaking his head. 'Look at you… Duke of Britain, indeed!'

  'What is wrong with that?'

  'Arthur, the sight of you is earth and sky to me,' replied Bedwyr dryly. 'But if I had been there you would be a king now.'

  'How so, brother? Are you Emperor of the West, so that you can play at king-making?'

  Both laughed heartily at this exchange and they fell upon one another once more. Then Bedwyr saw us. 'Myrddin! Pelleas!' He hurried to us and hugged us both. 'You have come as well. I had not thought to find you all here. Happy I am to see you. Bright Spirits bear witness, God is wise and good!'

  'Hail, Bedwyr! You look a very prince of Rheged,' I told him. It was true. Bedwyr's dark locks were gathered in a thick braid; richly enamelled gold bands glinted at his wrists and arms; his woollen cloak was bright yellow and black, woven in the cunning checked pattern of the north; his soft leather boots painted with serpentine designs reached to his knees. In all, he appeared a Celt of old.

  'Pelleas, God be good to you, I have missed you. It has been a long time.' Indeed it had; eight years, in fact.

  'How did you come here?' asked Arthur. 'We thought you would wait until the thaw to set out.'

  'We have enjoyed the mildest of winters in the north,' Bedwyr replied. 'In consequence, we were forced to stay longer than we might have: Sea Wolves troubled us late into the season, or we might have come in the autumn.' He laughed quickly. 'But I see we have surprised even Myrddin, and that makes the wait worth while!'

  'Unexpected, perhaps' Merlin allowed. 'But I count it no surprise to greet one whose company we have so often desired. It is joy itself to see you, Bedwyr.'

  Meurig, who had been looking on, approached with torch in hand, beaming his good fortune. 'Let my hall be filled! We will have a feast of friends this glad night.'

  And so we did. Of food there was no end, and drink flowed in a ceaseless stream from jar and skin. The hall blazed with pine knot and rushlight, and the hearthfire crackled merrily, casting its ruddy glow all around. Meurig had acquired a harper of some skill, so we did not lack for music. We held forth in song and danced the old step.

  The next days were full: hunting, eating and drinking, singing, talking, laughing. Bishop Gwythelyn came from the nearby abbey at Llandaff to bless the merriment and to consecrate Arthur in his new position as protector of Britain. This was done in fine style. I see before me still the image of Arthur kneeling before the good bishop, holding the hem of Gwythelyn's undyed cloak to his lips, while the bishop lays holy hands on him.

  It was like that: one moment Arthur was the Duke of Britain, wearing the full honour and responsibility of that title, the next he was the Cymry prince, light-hearted, his laughter easy and free. It was a feast for the soul just to watch him, to be near him.

  Sweet Jesu, I cannot remember a happier time. No one enjoyed it more than did Arthur and Bedwyr, who sat together at the board laughing and talking the whole night through. And when the last lights were put out, they still sat head to head, pledging to one another their hopes and dreams for the years ahead.

  Each had so much to say to the other, so much lost time to redeem. Arthur and Bedwyr had known one ano
ther almost from birth, for Merlin and I had brought Arthur to Tewdrig's stronghold in Dyfed when Arthur was still a babe. Arthur's first years had been spent at Caer Myrddin with King Bleddyn's youngest son, Bedwyr: a slim, graceful boy, as dark as Arthur was fair. Bold shadow to Arthur's bright sun.

  The two had become constant friends: golden mead and dark wine poured into the same cup. Every day of those early years they spent together – until separated at the age of seven by the strict necessity of fosterage in different royal houses. Bedwyr had gone to live with King Ennion, his kinsman in Rheged, and Arthur to Ectorius at Caer Edyn. And except for all-too-brief occasions such as Gatherings, or the infrequent royal assembly, they had rarely seen one another. Their friendship had endured long privation, but it had endured.

  No one thought ill when the two of them rode out to inspect Arthur's lands one morning and were gone three days. Upon their return Arthur announced that the eastern portion of his lands – these included many deep, hidden valleys – would be given to the breeding of horses, and would be placed under Bedwyr's rule.

  They were already thinking far, far ahead, to the day when each horse they could provide would mean one more warrior for Britain.

  So, early in that spring the course was set which, for better or worse, would steer the Island of the Mighty through the gathering gale of war. Directly after Pentecost, work began at Caer Melyn. Seven days after Beltane, Cai arrived with the first of Arthur's war band: twenty well-trained young men chosen by Ectorius as the best north of the Wall.

  And six days after Lugnasadh, King Morcant decided to test the young Duke's mettle.

  FIVE

  Word came to Caer Melyn that Morcant was gathering his warband to ride against Bedegran and Madoc in but the latest clash of that long-standing blood feud. Arthur had only twenty men; counting himself, Cai and Bedwyr there were twenty-three. Hardly a match for Morcant's hundreds.

  Nevertheless, Arthur determined that if he allowed Morcant to succeed in cowing him through strength of superior numbers, he might as well give the Sword of Britain to the old scoundrel – and the High Kingship into the bargain.

  I was prepared to ride with him, but Merlin counselled against it. 'Stay, Pelleas. There will be other battles where we will be needed more. Let them win this first one on their own. A victory will give them courage and earn them a measure of renown in the land. Besides, I would have Morcant and his like know that Arthur is his own man.'

  That this test should come so early was not fortuitous, but Arthur was undaunted. Indeed, he welcomed it. 'That toothless old lion has roared once too often, I tell you,' he said. 'We will go and shear him for a sheep, aye?'

  With no more concern, and scarcely more preparation, the warriors rode at once to Morcant's stronghold.

  The Belgae are an old, old people whose tribal seat is at Venta Belgarum. Owing to an early peace with Rome, the Belgae established themselves pre-eminent in the region and Uintan Caestir became an important civitas. The Belgae and their city prospered and grew powerful serving the Legions. When the Legions left, the city shrank in upon itself – as all cities did – and the Belgae returned to the land and their former ways. But bits of the city still remained, and it was here that Morcant held his power.

  Caer Uintan had once possessed a public forum and a basilica. These had long ago been taken over by the lords of the Belgae for private use: the forum became a palace, the basilica a hall. For all his British blood, Lord Morcant styled himself a ruler of the Roman stamp.

  To walk into his palace was to enter again another time, now long past. A time more and more recalled – by those who had never seen it – with impossible grandeur and glory, a great golden age of order, prosperity, peace and learning.

  Certainly, Morcant revelled in such belief. He lived surrounded by objects of the past, attended by ranks of servants who maintained for him the semblance of that faded era. He lived like an emperor… but an emperor in exile from his beloved empire.

  Like Londinium, Caer Uintan boasted a rampart of stone around its perimeter. In recent years a deep ditch had been dug below the wall to make it higher still. However much it had declined from its former glory, Caer Uintan was still the fortress of a powerful king.

  But its king was not there.

  Morcant was with his warband, harrying the settlements on Madoc's borders a small distance away. By the time the rapacious lord heard about Arthur's intervention and returned to his palace, the young Duke and his few men were already manning the ramparts of Morcant's stronghold against him.

  In this Arthur showed the first glimmer of that martial genius he was to exhibit time and time again in the years to come. The manoeuvre took Morcant completely by surprise. Well, did he really expect Arthur to meet him on the field?

  Morcant's forces outnumbered Arthur's fifteen men to one. The young Duke's forces could not have withstood Morcant's in pitched combat. Though keen and determined, and lacking nothing in courage, they were green and unseasoned. And Arthur had no experience leading untried men. Indeed, young Arthur had little enough experience leading a warband of any size or description.

  Morcant hoped, I think, to belittle Arthur and defame him. He knew Arthur could not ignore the challenge, so the old lion should have expected Arthur to use what few weapons he possessed. But Morcant was the fool, truth to tell; and his foolishness had already cost the lives of more than a few good men. That folly had to be put down once for all.

  This is the way of it:

  Arthur made for Caer Uintan and found it, as he expected, virtually unprotected – such was Morcant's arrogance, he did not deem it a danger to leave his stronghold unguarded when he raided.

  'Oh, we had no trouble getting in,' Cai told me, delighting in every detail of the events he described. 'We simply rode up as if we were expected, and "What is that you say? Morcant not here? Is this any way to greet the Duke of Britain? Why, yes, go and fetch your lord. We will wait for him inside."

  'Once inside we gather everyone – it's mostly women and children anyway – and bring them to the hall. And Bedwyr tells them it is an offence to Morcant's good name if they do not receive the Duke with a feast. This throws them all in a fluster, so they scurry around preparing a feast for us. It is such confusion that no one even notices Arthur has sealed the gates.'

  Cai chuckled, savouring his tale. 'When Morcant learns that Arthur has come, back he storms to his fortress. But it is too late. The gates are secured, and the walls manned against him. He rages for the better part of a day, but the Duke will not speak to him.

  'He would scream. Oh, how he could scream! And that son of his, Cerdic, has a mouth on him as well. But Arthur would not answer them. Instead, my lord bade me deal with them. So, I called down to him from his own walls:

  '"Hail, Morcant! Hail, Cerdic! How is it that we come to you and find no one to receive us?" I ask him. "As it is, we have had to prepare our own feast of welcome."

  'And the roaring old lion answers me, he says, "By whose authority do you overrun my palace and stronghold?"

  '"By authority of the Duke of Britain," I answer, "the very same who now sits in your chair at meat." Oh, he does not like this; he does not. He calls me no end of names to prove it, and he has even more for Arthur. But I pretend to ignore him.

  "Tell me, great king," I say to him, "explain to me if you can, how it is that you have come to be locked outside your own gates at your own feast? This is a wonder I would hear told throughout all Lloegres." Well, this makes him even angrier. Up he puffs, just like an adder about to strike – but there is nothing to bite. So he begins shouting some more.

  'Cerdic is beside himself. "Come out and fight!" he cries. "Cowards! Thieves! Let us settle this with swords!" It is all he knows, you see. But again I make no reply.

  'Well, this goes on until sunset. I go to Arthur and ask if he means this to continue all night. "Yes," he tells me, "we have ridden hard and need our rest. Tell Morcant we are going to sleep now, and not to make so much noise,'" C
ai chortled at the audacity of it.

  'So back to the rampart I go and tell Morcant what the Duke has said. Does this make him happy, Pelleas? No, it does not. He screams like a pig when the knife goes in. He is all a-lather, and his men are beginning to laugh – which only makes it worse for him, you see.

  'But what does Morcant expect? So, we leave him there for the night and next morning I go to see what he is about. There he is, red-eyed and temper-twisted; I believe he spent the night in the saddle cursing! "You have given me no choice," he cries, "I have laid siege to my own stronghold." And, indeed, his men are ranged without the walls as if to keep us from escaping.

  'He thinks he is being clever with this, but when I tell Arthur what Morcant has done, Arthur only laughs and calls for someone to bring him a torch. Out into the yard we march and there the Duke sets fire to one of the storehouses. Do you believe it? Pelleas, it is God's truth I am telling!

  'And when the flames are set, says Arthur, "Now let us go and see if Morcant will speak more civilly to his servant, or whether his sharp tongue will cost him his fine palace." So that is what we do.

  'On the wall, up speaks Arthur, "Greetings, my king, I hear that you have been calling for me. Forgive me, but I have had many things on my mind, what with one thing and another." This he says as sweet as you please – the right innocent is Arthur.

  '"Do not think you can escape punishment, boy!" So bellows Morcant. "Aurelius’ bastard or no, I mean to have your head on a spike where you stand."

  'The old fool is foaming mad, and I am beginning to think we have made a grave mistake. Some of the men are clasping their swords and muttering to one another – they can be forgiven, because they do not know Arthur. Still, it is a tight place and no mistake.

  '"Is this the hospitality you are so widely renowned for?" asks Arthur. Ha! It is and well he knows it!' Cai crowed. Then, rubbing bis hands in glee, he continued, 'Well, by now smoke is starting to rise in plumes from the yard behind. Morcant sees it, and sees the torch in Arthur's hand – Arthur is still holding it, you see – and "What have you done?" the king demands. "What is burning?"