Grail pc-5 Page 6

  Her unexpected presence unsettled the council. The shouting continued for a moment and then ceased as, one by one, the irate lords fell silent and an uneasy hush passed over the assembly. The girl herself seemed not to know or mind the effect of her arrival; indeed, she seemed oblivious to all save the Cymbrogi ranged before her; these she regarded with the innocent interest of a child beholding a new and fascinating game.

  She took a hesitant step forward, and then another, pausing demurely, her green eyes wide and glowing with delight. The rapt look on her face was enchantment itself.

  As I say, a moment or two passed before the council recovered its voice, and when it did, the fury that had formerly threatened Arthur now demanded to know who was this woman, and what she meant by invading the proceedings and interrupting their deliberations.

  Well, Arthur was at a loss; he looked around him for anyone who might offer an explanation. I hastened to his side, saying, 'I know this woman, lord – rather, she is known to me.'

  'Who is she?' he asked, glancing at her once more. Bedwyr leaned close to hear what I had to say.

  'I cannot say, but – '

  'Why is she here?'

  'Again, I cannot say,' I replied.

  Turning to me, Arthur grinned. 'If this passes for acquaintance with you, Gwalchavad, I wonder that you ever meet a stranger.'

  'Arthur, please,' I begged. 'I only meant that I have seen her but once before – when I rode to Urien's stronghold to summon Hwyl to the council.'

  'She is Hwyl's kinswoman, then?' wondered Arthur, stealing another glance at her.

  'No, lord,' I answered, and quickly explained how I had come upon her in the forest. 'She seemed in distress from the sun and hunger,' I said, 'so I left her in Hwyl's care. At my suggestion, he has brought her to the council to see if anyone knows who she might be.'

  'Why?' asked Bedwyr. 'Can she not speak for herself?'

  'That is the problem,' I told them. 'She is mute. She cannot speak a word.'

  Arthur nodded, and then stood, raising his hands to quiet the complaint that was threatening to overtake us once more. 'Friends!' he called. 'Calm yourselves. There is no cause for concern here. I have it that this young woman is a mute who has lost her way. I ask you now if anyone among you knows who she may be, or where her people might be found.'

  There followed a short interval wherein the noblemen and chieftains discussed the matter among themselves, and when they had done so, it emerged that no one knew her, nor did anyone know whether any clan might be missing one of its members.

  Not satisfied with this reply, Arthur appealed to them once more, asking them to search their memories. The council resented the suggestion and reacted swiftly and angrily. It was quickly established that no one, save Hwyl and his folk, had so much as set eyes on her before this day. On this, at least, they all agreed – almost as vehement in their agreement as they had been in their contention with Arthur.

  Curious, I thought, that the mere presence of the young woman should arouse such passionate denial. The assembled noblemen were fervent in their protests of ignorance. Shouts of 'She's not of our kin!' and 'Never seen the like of her!' formed the general opinion, and I was put in mind of Hwyl's brusque rejection when he had first set eyes to her.

  Looking on the maid, fair as she was and not at all displeasing in any aspect, I wondered what could provoke such ardent animosity. This, and she had not so much as breathed a word. What was it that men saw in her that frightened them so?

  Turning to Myrddin, Arthur shrugged. 'I think she is not known in these lands. What should be done with her?'

  Upon hearing the question, I glanced at the Wise Emrys, expecting his answer, and was startled by what I saw. Myrddin's countenance, formerly flintlike in the heat of the opposition against Arthur, was now transformed. Eyes wide, he stared openly, with an expression of such melancholy tenderness that I was embarrassed to see it. What is more, he seemed not to have heard Arthur speak, but continued gazing in this foolish, love-struck fashion until the Pendragon nudged him and asked again for his advice. Only then did the Emrys come to himself.

  'Do with her?' he asked, regarding Arthur with mild distaste – as if the king had blurted a stupidity. 'Let her remain with us until we find her kinsfolk, of course.'

  Arthur ordered Rhys to take the girl and deliver her into the care of some of the women. Rhys, unaccountably, grew discomfited by this simple command; he blushed crimson to the tops of his ears, and stuttered a hasty reply under his breath, begging to be spared this duty. Though he fumbled for words, his eyes pleaded most eloquently, and he even began to sweat as he stammered out his excuse. So distracted was he that Gwenhwyvar stepped in for him and said that perhaps it would be best for all if she made provision for the young woman instead.

  The Pendragon, anxious to get on with the council, readily agreed with his queen, and Gwenhwyvar stepped forth to take the girl aside. But the young woman had other ideas, for even as the queen moved from the throne, the girl started forward; she took three steps towards us. Gwenhwyvar hesitated, allowing her to approach.

  The fair stranger came nearer, but it became apparent that she was not looking at Arthur, nor the queen, nor any one of us. Her bright green eyes were firmly fastened on another. I looked around me to see who it might be: Myrddin? Bedwyr? No, neither of these. Rhys? Cai? Cador? No.

  The young woman moved nearer, and I saw that she stopped before Llenlleawg, who stood at rigid attention, spear at his shoulder, gazing into the distance above her head, as if trying mightily to ignore her. But she would not be ignored, for she put out her hand and took him boldly by the arm, as if claiming him for her own. Only then did he lower his gaze to regard her with an expression devoid of any warmth or welcome.

  'It appears she has chosen her champion,' Arthur observed dryly, 'and I cannot fault the choice.' He then called to the Irishman to lead the young woman away. Gwenhwyvar went with them, and as soon as they had gone, the council began to grind ahead once more, but more slowly this time and with less roaring and breast-beating – as if all their anger had been expended and their passions leeched away by the curious interruption.

  In the end, the noblemen were persuaded to the virtue of accepting Arthur's terms. Any lingering resistance melted away at Mercia's arrival. The Vandal prince strode at once to where Arthur sat on his camp chair, and prostrated himself at the High King's feet, stretching himself full length upon the ground, his face in the dust. The barbarian then took hold of the Pendragon's foot and placed it on his neck and lay as dead before his sovereign lord.

  Arthur then raised the barbarian to his feet and allowed him to embrace the High King like a brother. This unabashed display of submission and acceptance went some distance towards convincing the yet reluctant nobles that the Vandali were earnest in their regard for Arthur. Unwilling to be bested by barbarians in displaying loyalty to the High King, the Britons made a point of renewing their vows of allegiance, placing themselves likewise beneath the Pendragon's sovereignty.

  Arthur acclaimed them one and all. 'Rejoice, mighty chieftains,' he told them, bestowing the favour of his winning smile, 'for a great good has been born in Britain today. You have put battle and bloodshed behind you and welcomed the stranger in your midst in order that peace should obtain throughout the land. For this I commend you, and I make bold to prophesy that from this day, as the Realm of Mercia prospers, so Britain will prosper.'

  He then declared a feast in honour of the new accord, and even made a joke at his own expense, saying that any king who feasted his lords on bread and water, instead of meat and ale, was a king who risked his life in a lion's den.

  A small jest, but the noblemen laughed heartily, for by this they understood that the drought was just as hard, if not harder, on the High King as it was for them, and that he had allowed himself no greater luxury and largesse than the least of them possessed. Truly, I believe this endeared Arthur to them and bound them to him far more tightly than anything else he could have said
or done. They loved him for it, and the mistrust and hurt feelings of the day dwindled to insignificance.

  Thus, the council ended, and the noblemen departed, hailing one another loudly, and talking together as they made their way to the place of feasting. 'That was well done, Bear,' Bedwyr said, watching them go. 'You have carried the battle.'

  'Let us pray the peace endures,' Arthur replied. Rhys then called him away to attend another matter, and the others departed also, leaving me and Myrddin alone beside the empty throne.

  'A strange day,' I said, watching the others leave.

  'Yes,' Myrddin agreed absently, 'very strange indeed.'

  'I feared the council would end in bitter bloodshed; instead it ends in a feast of friends.'

  'Oh, that, yes,' muttered Myrddin, only half listening to me. 'Who would have thought it?'

  Then, without taking his leave, he simply turned and walked away. I stared after him, and as he moved slowly off, I thought I heard him speaking to himself.

  'She chose Llenlleawg,' he said, his voice hushed and oddly strained. 'A curious choice – or is it? Great Light, what does it mean?'

  EIGHT

  We did not linger in the north a moment longer than necessary. The great warband was assembled for the last time so that the Pendragon could pay tribute to their stalwart devotion and reward their sacrifice with high words – and good gold, which he shared out from the wealth of his war chest. He then dismissed them and, having seen Mercia placed on a solid footing with his neighbours, struck camp and headed south. The warriors departed in knots and clumps, so that the journey became one long leave-taking as we said farewell to our swordbrothers, sending them back to hearth and kin. I do believe Arthur embraced each one and sped him homeward with a word of gratitude and praise.

  Accordingly, we reached the southlands far fewer in number than when we rode out; only the Dragon Flight and a scant handful of the younger Cymbrogi remained to serve the High King as we came within sight of our destination, Ynys Avallach, the Isle of Avallach, a place of peace and a haven of rest.

  The great Tor rises from the surrounding marshland like a mountain rising above the clouds. Atop this mountain sits the Fisher King's palace, a huge, wall-bounded, many-chambered edifice made of honey-coloured stone; it boasts a high-vaulted great hall, large stables, and two high towers either side of its wide timber gate. A causeway connects the Tor with the nearby hill on which the abbey is built; the fields of the monks lie to the east, and to the north is the first of a multitude of low, shapely hills.

  In the evening light, the palace glows like sunstruck gold and its image is reflected in the fine lake at the foot of the Tor. Owing to his fondness for plying the waters of that lake in his small boat, Avallach is known as the Fisher King. A king he is, to be sure, but unlike any I have ever known: he is the last monarch of the Fair Folk, the last of that graceful, elegant race. He is also Myrddin's grandfather, and his daughter Charis is Myrddin's mother. To see them is to know where the Wise Emrys received his stature and regal bearing.

  Not so many days had passed since we last saw the soft southern hills, and yet the region seemed vastly changed, for what the dry, hot wind did not steal, the plague destroyed. Indeed, as we drew nearer our destination we more often passed abandoned holdings – several of which had been occupied when we first rode north. Each day of the drought drove more people off the land: some fled into the forests, where they might hunt and forage; others abandoned Britain for foreign shores.

  Even Arthur, despite his hopeful vision, looked upon the forsaken settlements with a mournful eye. He spoke little, but the gloomy expression on his face declared his mind well enough. The king held it a calamity. Bedwyr, his closest friend, tried to comfort him. 'They will come back, Bear,' he said. 'When the drought ends and the plague has run its course, they will all come back.'

  But Arthur only nodded glumly, and said, 'I pray you are right.'

  Even the sight of Ynys Avallach with the splendid Tor soaring above the placid lake failed to lift the Pendragon's spirits. Where always before it had been a pleasant, if not joyful, sight, this time it appeared to us a lonely place, steeped in dolorous airs and failing light. Though Myrddin said he was behaving like a child to take on so, Arthur paused, leaned in the saddle, and looked long upon the solitary Tor and its crowning palace.

  Finally, Myrddin grew disgusted and rode alone to alert the monks and Fair Folk of our arrival. The welcome, when we received it, more than made up for the sorrowful end to a journey begun in high spirits. Mind, I have seen the Fair Folk before, and more than most, but I am always astounded by them: it is as if the mind cannot long hold to such splendour and gradually lets the memory slip away. I know no other way to account for it. Even so, to say that each time I renew my friendship with Avallach and his folk I fall afresh under a spell of charm and grace, is to speak but half a truth. Because of Avallach and Charis, a spirit of peace abides in that place the like of which is rare in our war-rent world, God well knows.

  Then again, perhaps it is myself who, possessing a cold and wayward heart, cannot easily conceive that places such as Ynys Avallach exist. Alas, I fear I have seen too much of blood and strife, and it has corroded my soul. And yet, bright hope! In coming to the Tor, I am welcomed as a brother, and reminded of the beauty I have forgotten, and I am recalled to the pursuit of higher things.

  There is Avallach, most worthy lord, he of dark and imposing mien, a man whose nobility is proclaimed not in word and deed alone, but in every limb and sinew. He is a king whose realm, as they say, is not of this world. Arthur is a big and handsome man, but next to Avallach, even our beloved Pendragon seems but a lanky stripling of a youth, green and ungainly. The Fisher King is tall and his voice is like soft thunder falling on the ear from a friendlier clime; when he smiles it is as if the sun itself has come from behind a cloud to light the drear shadow-crowded way with dazzling warmth. Myrddin has said that Lord Avallach is the last of his kind, and I believe him; but while he endures, our wave-encompassed isle is a better place by far.

  And then… Charis: to speak of her is to demean with words what is best expressed in song; a wordless melody of the kind oft stroked on the harp in Myrddin's hand is the best description, I do believe, for when the harp strings sing and the heart sheds its weariness and rises to the eternal dance, that is what it is like to behold the Lady of the Lake. The name was Taliesin's bestowal, and it speaks to the shimmering mystery of her. She is womanly grace and all things female made rounded flesh and blessed of the fairest form. Elegance finds its meaning in her movements, and to hear her speak is to know how heaven's bright citizens address their immortal kind.

  A man of crude weapons and rough ways, I know my praise shames the object it would exalt, so I will say no more, save this: imagine the thing which holds for you a blessing of gentleness and comfort, that incites to virtue without reproof even while it soothes with beauty, and you begin to glimpse the wonder that is Charis. I am not alone in this appraisal, mind. I have it on solid authority that the first of our race to behold Charis went down on their knees in worshipful reverence to the vision they believed heaven-sent. I am not convinced they were entirely wrong.

  There are other Fair Folk, too, and I will speak of them as opportunity allows, but I would establish here how I felt upon seeing their beguiling race once again. As I say, mere moments in their welcoming presence and melancholy fell away, sorrow vanished, and the nagging anxiety that dogged our steps fled back to its dank abode.

  Our meal in the Fisher King's hall that night, though simple fare, was a feast. We went to our rest with hearts healed and whole once more. The next days were bliss to one and all, the trials and travails of the Vandal invasion were swept away, and our spirits restored in that peaceful, gentle place.

  See, now: I have said nothing in all this of Llenlleawg and the strange young woman. The omission was apurpose to set the piece in its proper place, so to speak. Rest assured, the mute young woman was with us every step of the
way, though quiet, as might be expected. Curiously, her unnatural silence contrived to draw even the slightest of attentions. I observed her effect on others whenever she was near: the eye forever stole in her direction; untethered thoughts drifted her way. Though making no demand of any kind, she yet exerted an uncanny influence and her presence loomed in our midst like a great standing stone on a silent moor.

  For her part, she seemed happy to journey with us, eating, sleeping, riding, acquiescing to her lot with grace and forbearance, as it seemed. Nor did anyone suspect Llenlleawg might be anything but happy with this arrangement. The tall Irishman was never given to complaining, true; he once fought an entire battle with a broken spearpoint in his thigh and no one knew of it until two days later, when he fainted while trying to remove the shard himself.

  He is like that – a true son of Eriu through and through, and no one who knows him at all can ever claim to know what he will do or say next. In battle, a whirlwind is more temperate and a storm-gale more serene than is our Llenlleawg. Moody and restive as the ever-shifting waves that surround his soggy homeland he may be, but I will thump the man who speaks an ill word of Llenlleawg.

  I tell this so you may know how it came about that no one spared a thought for the Irishman or his flaxen-haired companion all that long way south; Llenlleawg made no complaint, and the strange maid remained complacent the while. Nothing in the way either of them behaved aroused the slightest suspicion. Not even Myrddin, who is ever alert to the subtlest of signs and indications, found reason to express the slightest concern.

  Consequently, it was not until coming in sight of the Tor that any of us had occasion to suspect that all was not well. Llenlleawg, who might have spoken sooner, let it slip that he thought the woman bewitched. He was answering Gwenhwyvar's mild inquiry, I think, and said, 'So long as she remains in sight of me, and I of her, she is meekness itself. Yet if I leave her side but a moment, she grows so distraught that it seems a wicked cruelty.'