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THE PENDRAGWNS

OF THE ISLES

BY SEAMAS O’RI

VOLUME II

BOOK IV

BORN UNDER THE SIGN OF THE LITTLE BEAR,

THE LOVE STORY OF UTHR AND EIGYR

BOOK V

THE UPBRINGING,

THE TALE OF GYNER GRAYBEARD ABOUT HIS FOSTER-SON

BOOK VI

HARK YE UNBELIEVERS, I HAVE COME!

THE TALE OF THE SWORD IN THE STONE

BOOK VII

A LETTER TO MY DEAR WIFE

* INTRODUCTION *

Uthr Pendragwn is the Welsh spelling for the name of King Arthur's father. He received his appellation of Pendragwn meaning 'Head Dragon' from the nickname of his elder brother, Emrys Ben-Eur, known to British history as Ambrosius Aurelian. Emrys was a Romanized Celt who took up the fallen banner of his people and led them in the defense of their nation against the foreign invaders who sought their lands, wealth and lives. According to St. Gildas, Emrys was the greatest and most worthy war-leader of his day and surpassed all his successors in glory and honor. Thus, Uthr had to follow in his brother's

larger-than-life footsteps that he could to his regret never quite fill.

Unlike his noble-hearted brother, Uthr (Uther Pendragon in English) is remembered as a brutish man's man, an autocrat claiming to exercise absolute power. In legend, he even went so far as to wage a terrible war to win another man's wife by whom he eventually had Arthur. Thus, he is the Lord of Misrule, a mighty warrior ill suited to govern a great kingdom wisely; and only the statecraft of his late brother's by-blow, Emrys Myrddin the Prophet of the Goddess, could keep him from running amuck. Of course, Myrddin is the ancient Welsh name of the legendary Merlin.

The first book then is the story of Uthr's illicit love affair and the conception of the young hero to come by the most enchanting woman of the age. She is Eigyr the Unparalleled Beauty, and Myrddin would play a major role in bringing the two together in order to get a son by them whom he knew would be the young hero to come.

The second story as told by Gyner Graybeard involves the last years of Uthr Pendragwn's reign and its aftermath. At the instigation of Myrddin, the infant son of Uthr has been placed into the care of Gyner and his pious wife, Non (St. Nonna), Myrddin's maternal aunt and the mother of Dewi Sant (St. David, the patron saint of Wales). Uthr has given up his son, because Myrddin has told him he will soon die and if his son is not taken away to safety he, too, will die at the hands of those who would have Uthr's fallen scepter.

Through the eyes of this self-righteous old warrior, the events of his day and the sins of Uthr that someday are bound to be visited upon his young son are opened and examined like bloody wounds oozing with poisonous pus that corrupts the flesh. In his honesty, Gyner spares no one, for he is a simple man, faithful and true, that kind who knows not how to lie or be less than totally frank. Therefore, he is a bit of a self-admitted bore; but as the

foster-father of the young hero to come, his story is important, for it is under his tutelage that Uthr's boy will grow into manhood and become the hero whose legend will transcend time. Gyner's teachings, then, will form the bedrock from which the young hero shall spring onto center stage, which is to say in order to understand his young charge one must first understand the old warrior who will be responsible for raising him.

In the following book, the young hero to come announces his arrival to claim his birthright. Narrating his own story, he tells how stouthearted Gyner Graybeard raised him to be noble and true and how his lifelong relationship with Gyner's heroic son, Gai the Fair, was forged in fire to make an unbeatable team. Among his tales, he relates how he slays the monstrous afanc, a prehistoric creature, to gain the first step in the rite of manhood and, then, his crowning achievement of how he alone is able to draw the Sword of Power from the stone in order to ascend the royal cader of his dead father. Using this sword from the stone, he wins his first victory and with it the head of his enemy to complete by ancient custom his passage to manhood.

In this sullen land, once called the Island of the Mighty, Celtic warriors carried the Cult of the Severed Head to pitiless extents. On pagan altars in forest glens, votaries brought their grisly battle-trophies, the heads of the vanquished and live captives, to be committed to the flames as offerings to their god of war, Camulos, who gave his name to Camelot.

The Celts also had a stag cult, and the white stag prominently featured in Arthurian literature would appear to have been the totem of this particular cult that was apparently dedicated to the antlered-god Cernunnos. In Celtic mythology, Cernunnos was the consort of the moon-goddess. She oversaw the reincarnation of human souls brought to her moon for safekeeping until they could be reborn again. Thus, she ruled supreme over this cycle of rebirth, and Cernunnos served her; and as depicted on the Gundestrup Cauldron, a Celtic

artifact found in Denmark and belonging to the La Tene period of circa 100 BC, he is enthroned in the cross-legged lotus position, holding a human sacrifice in each hand, sacrifices not to him but to the goddess both he and mankind served.

Of course, Cernunnos was more to the goddess than merely her consort. In reality, he was her sacred-king; and like royal princes selected by matriarchs to be their sacred-kings, Cernunnos was also sacrificed in his time. First castrated and then cut up into pieces, he was placed into the goddess' cauldron representing her womb, cooked and reborn as a god again in the common regeneration cycle found in one form or another in the mythology of almost all Aryan tribes everywhere they went.

At Carnac in Brittany, it was Cernunnos who raised the sacred stones, the finest collection of dolmens in the entire world. His cult was so strong among the Bretons the Church canonized him as St. Cornely to win over his worshippers. Corineus, the legendary founder of Cornwall, is thought to have been the first to bring his rites to Britain, establishing his shrine on St. Michael's Mount in Mount Bay, showing how important he must have been for the Church to have replaced him with one of the four archangels. Among the Gaels of Ireland, he was known as Cromm Cruaich; and until the coming of St. Patrick, he ruled supreme over the annual sacrifices at Mag Slecht, the 'Plain of Adoration', in County Cavan, where it's said the people returned one-third of their newborn children into the god's keeping before his gold-plated idol.

Although there can be no doubt human sacrifice certainly did play a role in Cernunnos' rites, it must be remembered the Celts believed in their reincarnation under the goddess' watchful care. Thus, her consort and his cult presided over this process of furnishing souls for her protection before their rebirth; and the great nemetons where he held sway were the most sacred religious centers in all the land, because the souls of his votaries departed this world for her moon from these sites making them of extreme importance in the Celts' religious practices which unquestionably formed the core of their

culture and society.

The exact relationship of the White Stag Cult to the Cult of the Severed Head is purely a matter of speculation. A possible conjecture would indicate they were rival Celtic cults, the former representing the powers of light and the latter the powers of darkness, in the eternal struggle between good and evil and that they battled against one another for the souls of the Brotherhood of the Blessed Horn, the secret fellowship established to protect the most holy of holies, the goddess' Horn of Plenty. This horn, sometimes pictured as a cauldron and later as a grail, represents the White Goddess, the Goddess of Prosperity and Abundance. She was the Celtic as well as the universal Great Mother, and the solar gods, the powers of light, were her children, including the moon-goddess, her revered daughter.

Here, then, in the darkest, deepest recesses of this time long past, lives the secret of a man who came to stem the onrushing tide of foreign invaders. At first, his name was given to be Arthgwyr, meaning 'Bear Man'; but he eventually would become known as Arthfawr Pendragwn, the most noted sacred-king of the ancient Brythons.

Whether severed heads formed any part of the worship of Camulos, or whether Arthfawr propitiated the Celtic war-god with human sacrifices on the field of battle as had his ancestors, is not entirely proven. However, the favorite of the god for whom his own castle is named, readily won the hallowed aspect of a demigod, making his dream of magnifying the glory of the arms of Brythain all the easier due to the fear his reputation instilled in his enemies, who, indeed, might well have feared for their heads from this Celtic

sacred-king.

As the rightful bearer of the Sword of Power, Caledfwlch, later known as Excalibur, the Pendragwn of the Isles asserted his divine and indefeasible right to the dominion of the known world, in like manner as Attila the Scourge of God had previously claimed upon the acquisition of the Sword of Mars. Much in the fashion of Attila, the vehemence with which Arthfawr brandished Caledfwlch compelled the multitude to earnestly believe he and he alone could wield the sacred sword with his ever-invincible arm.

As both the cauldron and the Horn of Plenty represented the yoni of the goddess, so this sword was of itself the emblem of the god's lingam. This was the source of its power, for surely it came from the father of all the solar deities and served only his chosen vicegerent here on earth, the only one who could draw it forth from the stone, another yoni symbol of the goddess.

But the fact the Saesnaegs or Saxons were only temporarily halted in their conquest of the Island of the Mighty remains as the sole evidence of Arthfawr's existence. Indeed, the dreaded Brythonic ruler who momentarily stemmed the onrushing tide, however great he was, fell, and his people and the gods whom they worshipped were scattered like leaves driven before the wind, thus passing into the twilight borne down by the pagan sword of Woden and the hammer of Donar.

Graeme Fife has eloquently written: "Nostalgia for a lost but promised-again glorious age lingers as deep in the human heart as ever. Love may go wrong, be inconstant, be less than what it might be, yet romance does not die."[1] As Mr. Fife has written, Arthfawr's legend does in fact supply the nostalgia and romance that speaks to us, peppered by battles and glory, but by tragic love and true love most of all.

Today, it seems we need to believe in a time better than our own, a time when men were men, and women were women, a lost time, a time we might wish to return to; and maybe, we shall, for, like Jesus, Arthfawr promised to come back one day, if only we believe. Is not this belief the very heart of the nostalgia and romance alluded to by Mr. Fife?

One wonders what Arthfawr would think if he did return to this modern world. Perhaps, as in Rhonabwy's dream, he would say of us in sad disappointment: "To think that men of this kind shall come to rule this land, after those who ruled it before them."

Yes, how he might lament that the perpetuation of his memory and of his glorious deeds were left, ironically, to the seed of the subsequent races to hold sway over his Island and to writers from distant lands, some unknown in his own day. How he might blanch to learn the name of the once and future Pendragwn has become but a footnote in history, believed by most to be the name of a mythical character, or, at best, one of those half legendary, half historical men exalted only in fiction. How he might feel sorrow to discover he had left behind an acephalous nation, a draughty mausoleum, "where conquest has been misnamed empire and desolation is called peace."

The narrator of the last book in the volume is Gai the Fair, also called 'the Giant' due to his enormous stature. He is Arthfawr's elder foster-brother. Together, they unify the people of the Island of Brythain to fight against their common foe, the foreign invaders come to kill and displace them. Like his own father, Gai is a stouthearted warrior who becomes the first champion of the Order of the Round Table, founded by his little brother, Arthfawr, whom Gai continues to call by his earlier name of Arthgwyr. As Pendragwn of the Isles, Arthfawr aims to bring law and order to the realm, with Gai as his Champion of Champions.

Many years after the events have actually taken place, Gai writes a letter to his wife, telling her all about the restoration of Caer Camulos, known to us as Camelot, and about the early adventures and battles which catapulted Arthfawr to fame and glory. In this tale, Gai paints a very personal and complete picture of his beloved brother, including his faults as well as his good side, and does the same for himself, even confessing to his wife about a tragic love affair he himself had had before their marriage.

As in the entire series, the ancient names, whether Celtic or Latin, are used, because those are the names the narrators would have known. Therefore, a very useful companion book contains a Dramatis Personae and Glossary as well as a few maps. The Dramatis Personae lists all the characters, by family or other category and with family ancestries where applicable, and enclosed in brackets after the characters' names are some of the many other names by which they have been known in the medieval romances. The Dramatis Personae also contains short descriptions for each of the gods in the Celtic pantheon, explaining their individual powers and where possible giving comparisons to those Greek and/or Roman gods who might be considered as their counterparts. And for those readers desiring further information regarding people, places and things, a full Glossary of all the Celtic and Roman place-names and terms used and which might be unknown to the reader is a part of the companion book, including the aforementioned maps to help the reader locate sites, tribal territories, and other designations.

Seamas O'Ri

Miami, Florida, 2000

BOOK IV

BORN UNDER THE SIGN OF THE LITTLE BEAR,

THE LOVE STORY OF UTHR AND EIGYR

CHAPTER I

* THE PROPHET'S VISION *

Of my words herein transcribed, I haven't striven to speak of events unknown to

me firsthand, nor have I taken information from any other source, except my own

personal involvement and eye witness recollection of the occurrences making up

a part of my own life's story. Others may give a different account of these

events as they themselves remember them, but if you wish to hear the true story

from the principal participant himself, then, harken onto my words and learn

the truth from the mouth of him who knows better than anyone else what really

happened.

I am Uthr ap Bendigeid Custennin and I sit upon the cader of Bryth the

Dardan. My reign has been fraught by an accursed war, and grief, death's first

attendant, marches across my domain, wailing countless threnodies in lament of

the slain.

Fields lay fallow, orphans and widows starve to death, and carrion birds

feed on the fathers, husbands, sons and brothers who'll never come home again.

The spirit of my people is wavering. They want an end to this overlong war,

and little independent revolts against it have sprung up everywhere,

threatening to topple my hard-won imperium into the dust.

The situation is quite unhappily plain: I can't hope to retain my

subjects' respect or their obedience, since one goes hand in hand with the

other, if I can't conclude a speedy and just treaty of peace. If I fail, my

rivals for the laurels of Brythain will undoubtedly challenge me, and I could

lose the title of Pendragwn--the imperial dignity I created from my late

brother's appellation for the owrelairdship of the Brythonic Isles.

Aware of all these things, I, Uthr Pendragwn, have sought a truce to this

bitter war and, hopefully therein, to bring about a lasting and peaceful

solution. To this end, I've sent envoys to invite the belligerent High Rica of

Cernyw, Hywel map Meirchion Gadarn, to a peace conference in Caer Lludd, my

capital.

Meanwhile, I've waited with my court, preparing a lavish reception and

banquet for the parley. The old Roman edifice of stone which once housed the

governor of the Island has been decorated with festoons of delicate white

meadow-sweet, the sanguine anemones of Adonis and bladder ketmia with their

black eyes--his colours--and the cold limestone floors have been strewn with

green rushes. Scarlet cushions have been piled high upon the lounges waiting

for my expected guests. No comfort has been overlooked, and my household staff

have gathered every thinkable luxury, no matter how extravagant, to impress the

ingenuous Cernishman who'll hopefully be overwhelmed by all the blatant

ostentation.

I've even ordered the restoration of the statue of Bryth, after years of

absence, to its sacred place at the entrance to the Hall of Heroes. Bryth

founded the Island's first royal dynasty, from which Hywel's wife descends

through the female line; and since Hywel owes his position as the High Rica of

Cernyw to his wife's lineage, he should be pleased to see the likeness of her

famous ancestor returnt to its marble pedestal of honour, and crowned as I

ordered with an olive wreath denoting Bryth's apotheosis as the fish-god.

The Cornovii, the ancestral tribe of Hywel's wife, once lived in Powys and

rivalled the Gwrtheyrnians for control there, resulting in bad blood between

them. This bitter hatred led Gwrtheyrn of the Adverse Lips, during his

interregnum, to order the statue of his enemy's progenitor to be cast down.

I'm sure the restoration of Bryth's downtrodden statue will help to remind

Hywel both he and his renowned cenedl once swore allegiance to my father and

brother, and served under their standard against the Gwrtheyrnians. Such wise

statecraft is one of my many salient points, despite what Myrddin, my

Daedanlean deus ex machina, might think.

Once in my presence, few, if any, have ever resisted my comradely manner.

But none have ever successfully withstood my will and lived to tell about it

either. This time I'm determined to win Hywel's allegiance, and woe to the

headstrong Cernishman if he doesn't yield as I wish.

As my envoys, I sent Archbishop Brice of Caer Lludd, Bishop Dyfrig of

Llandaff, the four Edoridae, young Osla Gyllell Fawr, Madag and, of course,

Myrddin, my natural nephew, to head the mission. The two high churchmen, the

Edoridae, and Madag (the eldest of my many sons) have remained in Cernyw as

sureties, and Myrddin and Osla (the young son of Gwrtheyrn and Rhonwen) have

repaired to Caer Lludd with the happy news Hywel has accepted my invitation for

a peace conference.

All rejoiced at Hywel's decision and gave thanksgiving, as this might

herald the desired end of the long war and the beginning of what is hoped will

be a new time of prosperity. But in the dark of last night, I arose from bed

to see Myrddin bathed in the eerie flickering light from a raging storm, and I

know he's experienced another of his visions. He's been brooding all day and

I'm uneasy. I know only too well the ways of my nephew. He keeps secrets and

won't tell me all he knows. I fear the knowledge he's withholding may not bode

well for me or my cader.

The waiting is killing me. Hywel can't arrive too soon.

In the meantime, I must obtain through guile what Myrddin knows and is

unwilling to reveal. I've sent for him.

Hark! A knock at my door.

"Enter, Myrddin."

"Ye sent fer me, Uthr?"

Tall and slender, dressed in green-feathered robes and a black felt round

pileus on his head, Myrddin slipped into my chambers. I'm always amazed so

much thaumaturgic power rests in such a body as his. He's frail to the point

of being gaunt, whereas I'm built more like a burly bear, with a husky form

rippling with muscles from hours of military training. We make quite a

contrast from all standpoints, not just physically.

"Aye, I didst. I wan' tae talk wi' ye."

"Aboot wha'?"

"Aboot last night."

"It mizzl'd."

"I ken. I saw ye standin' in it." There was a long silence. He said

nothing. "Dae ye dae tha' of'en, Myrddin?"

"Na' of'en."

"Why, then, last night?" I asked, idly checking a familiar piece of

terrain on one of the maps on my table to see if the mapmaker had included all

the natural and man-made features of the region and shown their relative

positions and elevations. Such things are of paramount importance to military

operations, which in my occupation concerns me greatly.

"I couldst na' sleep."

"Wha' kept ye awake?"

"A headache."

"Ah!" I exclaimed, seeing that the Giant's Hedge which runs eight and half

milliaries east from the Fowey to Looe near Hywel's castellum of Dinas Dore

hadn't been included on the map. "Wadna they e'er get these thin's right?"

"Wha' is tha'?"

"Oh, nithin' fer ye tae worry aboot, Myrddin," I replied tossing the map

back down on the table and walking about my room with a casual air. "Ye ha'e

headaches when the Sight comes, dinna ye?"

"Much mair than tha'."

"Aye, I suppose ye dae. Wha' exactly happens when they pay a visit tae ye

an' gi'e ye the Sight?" I asked, emphasising the word "they" and turning about

quickly to look him straight in the face.

"Tis painful."

"Terrifyin', too?" I surmised.

"Verra."

Myrddin has the power to see with those caesious lentoid eyes of his into

the future, and his predictions have, to my knowledge, always come to pass.

But his answers to my questions were so clipped I was uncertain where we were

going with this conversation. I wanted to find out what the gods had shown him

last night, because I knew he'd seen something. Would he tell me what it was,

and if he wouldn't, did that mean his vision held an evil omen?

I remembered the night before the Battle of Wippedesfleot when he foretold

a death that would hurt me greatly. The prophecy had come to pass, exactly as

he said it would happen, which wasn't the first, nor the last time he'd

accurately foretold future events. Therefore, what he'd seen concerns me no

little bit. I had to know what it was, if for no other reason than to relieve

my mind.

"Are ye bein' deliberately evasive, Myrddin?"

He looked up sharply at me. "Dae ye think I am, Uthr?"

"I feel ye're withholdin' somethin' frae me fer some reason I dinna

understand. Wha' is it?"

He looked down at his sandals and then up at my face. "Ye're gaein' tae

ha'e a son."

I laughed uproariously. "I already ha'e plenty o' sons."

"This one will be legitimate, yer heir."

Smiling, I asked: "An' wha' daes the mither luik like?"

I knew Myrddin was and intended to remain a virgin. Such questions about

women had always embarrassed him in the past. He'd turn bright red in the face

when I teased him about the fairer sex, and I must admit I enjoy watching him

squirm, especially him.

"Beautiful an' elegant beyond yer wildest dreams," he breathed with a

wistful sigh.

Now, I truly was intrigued. "Wha's her name?"

"Ye'll ken her when ye see her, Uthr."

"How'll I ken her if I dinna ken her name?"

"Yer heart will tell ye."

"An' she'll bear me this son ye spoke o'?"

He looked at me with sympathetic eyes. "Aye, Uthr, a son shall be born as

yer rightful heir frae this union."

"There's mair tae this than ye're tellin' me, isna there, Myrddin?"

"Aiblins."

"A royal monarch hast an heir in the event o' his death sae his dynasty

may continue. Ha'e ye seen my death, Myrddin?" He actually seemed to wince,

so I knew it was true. He'd seen my death. "Tell me the truth."

"E'ery livin' thin', except the gods, mus' die, Uthr. Ye an' I are baith

mortal. We'll all die someday an' then be reborn in anither form, again an'

again, throughouten eternity."

"But ye saw my death, dinna ye?"

"Aye, Uthr, but it'll na' occur fer a few years yet."

"Then, I ha'e some time left?"

"Aye, ye dae."

"Then, the comin' o' my son spells my doom. But at least, if I'm tae die,

my line shall gae on. In a way, aiblins, tha's man's only course fer a bit o'

immorality."

"Tha' an' wha' achievements we leave behind us, the guid thin's tha'll be

remember'd an' fer which the people shall aye be thankful. Sic guid deeds

canst outlive us an' our names will be remember'd wi' fondness. Mairo'er, the

teachin's o' the ancient ones tell us our souls will be reborn again, Uthr, sae

death ne'er wins in the end. Each life well liv'd leaves behind guid

memories."

"An' there're those who're curs'd fer their bad deeds as well," I said,

thinking of myself.

"Sae true. But ye ha'e enough time left tae leave a guid mark an' balance

the scales in yer favour."

Looking back over my life and some of my less than noble acts, I thought

it would take many good deeds to balance the scales that would judge me. My

life has been far from being saintly. I've been ruthless, licentious, greedy

and extremely selfish.

The mere thought of approaching death, though, makes us recount our sins.

Then, we pray if all is forgiven and we're given just one more chance, things

will be different. They rarely are. We go on as before. Few have the inner

strength and wherewithal to change. I'm no different, I expect, from the

majority.

But Myrddin is. Perhaps, that's why I don't entirely trust him. He's so

self-righteous. And I distrust such narrow-minded moralistic fools.

I turnt back to Myrddin. "How am I tae die?"

"Frae wounds receiv'd in battle. Ye'll die a hero's death."

"When? Frae whom?"

"Uthr, tis best ye na' ken these thin's. Leave it be an' live wha' time

remains tae the fullest. Drink the cup o' life tae its dregs."

"Aiblins, ye're right."

"Guid night, Uthr."

"Guid night, Myrddin."

Slipping quietly through the door, he left me alone with my thoughts. I

couldn't sleep and tossed and turnt throughout the night. The vision of a most

beautiful and elegant woman with a babe in her arms gripped my mind and refused

to let go so I could sleep in peace. By dawn, I gave up trying, for now

another vision was reaching out to me, my brother, Emrys, Myrddin's father; and

I who didn't believe in spirits or ghosts believe in them now, as I pour a

libation to his lamented memory, for he was truly a much better man than I.

CHAPTER II

* A REQUIEM FOR THE PENDRAGWN *

Emrys Ben-Eur wasn't only my elder brother. He was my hero, too. I loved him.

When a hired assassin murdered our father twenty-eight years ago, we had

to flee the palatium for our lives, as we were marked for death as well. Emrys

took my younger brother Erbin and I by the hand and the newborn baby Emeree in his arms and led us all into the cold night. Otherwise, we'd have been killed

along with our father, because Gwrtheyrn who'd usurped the cader couldn't

afford to let us live as we were the legitimate heirs.

So, the four bairns of Bendigeid Custennin the Armorican Brython fled into

the night, knowing not where to go or whose hand would help us or cut us down.

We were just wee ones then. I stood only as tall as Emrys' waist, Erbin was

littler still, and Emeree was no more than a pythewnos old. Our dear mother

had died giving her life.

After wandering in the mountains of Cymru, Meirchion the Mighty thankfully

took us in, and we stayed awhile at his court in the Vale of Glywysing.

However, when Gwrtheyrn learnt of our whereabouts and demanded our heads, the brave Meirchion sent him four melons in a basket and whisked us away on a

galley to the safety of our uncle's court in Lesser Brythain.

Meirchion was Hywel's father, and perhaps, my brother was trying to remind

me how Meirchion had defied Gwrtheyrn who'd stolen our beloved father's cader.

If not for the loyalty of this stouthearted man, our fates would have been

sealed, too.

I don't deny I owe a debt to Meirchion that can never be fully repaid.

Indeed, I still cherish his memory. After fleeing to Lesser Brythain, he became my foster-father. He raised Hywel and I together, along with his second

son Idwr and the peerless Pellinore. We four became foster-brothers and boon

companions under brave Meirchion's ever-watchful eye.

Now, we're on opposite sides, Hywel and his brother against Pellinore and

I. How did this happen, when we were once inseparable and loved each other

more than brothers?

Only Emrys could make me feel the lose of my friends. More than this, as

I sit here alone and ponder the prophecy Myrddin related to me last night, I

can't help but recall Emrys and his last days upon this earth. That dreadful

night of his death will always be with me, plaguing my dreams, because of

another of Myrddin's haunting prophecies.

Although it came to pass but ten years ago, we all seemed so much younger

then. Emrys was in his prime, I just in my twenties, and Erbin little more

than an untried lad.

With Meirchion's help, my brother had reclaimed Father's cader and

restored our dynasty to power. For some eight years, he'd ruled wisely,

writing the Laws of the Pendragwn, a uniform code of justice outstanding for

its great wisdom and fairness in the governance of our people.

Although I personally am a dynast and proud of it, sound laws by which to

govern make good sense even to me. Emrys had bequeathed us this, along with

administrative reforms demonstrating much enlightenment given the barbarity of

our times, when savage tribes are striding across Europe, carving it up by the

dint of their bloody spathae and replacing the pax Romana with mayhem and

slaughter.

Militarily, my brother also dealt successfully with Anschis, the ealdorman

of the Eotans, restraining him and gis heathen followers on Ynys Roihin and

keeping their greedy hands from the greater prise of Cantia. We were preparing

to meet Anschis and his sons, Octha and Ebissa, again in battle. It was anno

Brythain MDLXV.

Anschis had made a daring foray out of his small island fastness where

Gwrtheyrn's noble son, Cadell II, had bottled him up ten years before and led

the Eotans as far northward as the important industrial centre of Durovernum

Cantiacorum. There, we engaged his army and drove it back in retreat to

Regulbium, which we stormed, forcing the Eotans to retire once more to their

little island. In this campaign, Emrys' two wing commanders were: Hywel,

who'd already become the High Rica of Cernyw; and the peerless Pellinore,

Meirchion's successor as the Champion of Champions.

We were all standing around a table in my brother's tent looking at maps.

A long time had passed since any of us had traversed Cantia to Ynys Roihin, and

we were sorrily unfamiliar with the terrain. What were the best vantage points

of strategic importance? Where would we fight the Eotans in the upcoming

engagement? How should we prepare our battle plan? We only knew the Eotan

name for the nearest site, Wippedesfleot, where Cadell Gwrthefyr Bendigeid slew

Wipped the Toisech when he cornered Anschis and the Eotans on the islet.

After a long discussion way into the night, we finally agreed on the

dispositions of our troops and sent the others to inform the captains. I

stepped out of the tent for a breath of fresh air. I remember it was very dark

that night, a starless black sky from the dark clouds passing overhead.

Then, for a brief moment, through a break in the cover above, I saw the

blazing red moon, the moon of the Goddess, an omen of death. I stepped

backwards averting my eyes and, pivoting around, abruptly re-entered the tent.

I didn't wish to be basked in its fiery glow. Not that I'm superstitious mind

you, but why take any chances?

"Wha' tis the matter?" Emrys asked with a laugh, pushing past me and

looking up at the red sky.

"Nithin'," I replied sheepishly, knowing he'd seen my reaction.

"'Nithin',' ye say. Well, yer face is as white as a sheet fer 'nithin'',

as though ye hadst seen a ghost or somethin'," he said, standing there

illuminated in an aureola of bright golden-red light encircling him, with the

silver dragwn upon his tunic all ablaze like a white ghost.

I finally laughed. After all, he was Emrys Ben-Eur, and Ben-Eur means

'golden head'. So, why shouldn't a ring of red-gold form about him. Even his

Roman name of Ambrosius Aurelian indicated this. Aurelian like aureola both

stem from aureus or 'golden', the colour of his long hair as well as my own.

Moreover, his appellation of Pendragwn means 'head dragwn'. So, why shouldn't

the dragwn on his chest stand out more so than any other's?

Thus, the eerie feeling I'd had passed, and I was about to answer him when

Myrddin joined us. Whilst I thought his arrival had saved me from more

embarrassment, it turnt out he'd even more distressing news.

As Myrddin stood there stammering before us, Emrys and I just looked at

one another, unable to comprehend what young Myrddin was trying to tell us. He

sounded very confused, not unlike a man who's just come out of a trance.

"Calm doon, Myrddin," Emrys said, trying to get his son to speak more

clearly. "Wha' tis the matter wi' ye?"

"I ha'e hadst a vision."

Uh, oh, I thought, here it comes.

I've always been in awe of vision seers, skeptical, too, but the Sight

isn't something to scoff at. I've seen Myrddin go into trances before and his

visions stemming from these trances have always come true. That's what scares

me. Whilst I don't pretend to understand the supernatural, I now truly believe

the will of the gods can't be ignored. They'll have their way and no mortal

can forestall the inevitable. So, like most fatalists, I roll the dice and let

them fall as they may ignoring the risks. Why worry about what we can't

control when we can only do what's in the cards for us to do? Yet, I must

confess I'm still in awe of Myrddin's powers, for I know he's connected to the

gods through the Sight they've given him.

But back then I was young and thought I could do as I willed. How foolish

we are to think we control our own destinies! This was to be my lesson.

"Wha' didst ye see?" Emrys asked.

"A death taemorrow in the battle."

"Whose death didst ye see?"

"One o' yers."

Emrys and I quickly looked at one another. "One o' ours?" he asked.

"Aye," Myrddin blurted, tears in his eyes.

Emrys placed his hand on his son's shoulder to calm him. "Which one?"

"I dinna ken," Myrddin responded, sitting down in a chair. "Twas all sae

hazy. But I saw the silver dragwn fall."

I looked to the emblem emblazoned upon my brother's tunic, the silver

dragwn of our father, and recalled how it had glowed only moments before. But

I too wore it upon my chest, which meant it could be either of us whom Myrddin

had seen in his vision.

"Ye need na' worry sae, Myrddin. We'll be alright. Ye'll see. Ye jus'

hadst a bad dream."

"Nae, sire, ye dinna understand. When I prophesi'd Gwrtheyrn's death, I

saw two dragwns fightin' in a cistvaen. One was red an' one was white. At

first, the white dragwn push'd the red one off a tent representin' our realm.

But eventually the red dragwn returnt an' defeat'd the white dragwn."

"But wha' hast tha' tae dae wi' us?"

"Dinna ye see? The colour argent o' yer dragwn is paint'd white upon yer

scutum. One o' ye is the white dragwn. This is wha' I was shown in my

vision. Ye mus' na' fight taemorrow or one o' ye will certes die as a result

o' it."

"I'll think o'er wha' ye ha'e said, Myrddin, but fer now, I think ye ought

tae get some rest."

"Aye, my laird, ifn ye say sae."

Myrddin turnt to go, much disturbed. I watched him leave and turnt

speechless to my brother.

Then, I found my voice. "Wha' shouldst we dae, Emrys?"

"We ha'e nae choice, Uthr. We dae as we plann'd. Taemorrow, we fight."

"But wha' if he's right?"

"Tis a gamble. Wouldst ye prefer tae wait anither day? But who's tae say

it wilna happen then? Nae matter how long we wait, it still couldst happen

anyway. Ye see, brither, we, indeed, ha'e nae choice. Taemorrow or the next

day or the next after tha' is all the same, an' we canna put off our destinies

fere'er. When the time comes fer the Goddess tae cut the thread o' life she's

spun fer each o' us, the thread will be cut. We ha'e nae say in the matter

wha'sae'er."

Moodily, I left my brother's tent. This was no little matter. I'd seen

Myrddin predict events before they'd happened on several occasions. Thus, I'd

every right to fear the morrow. Besides, I couldn't get the image of Emrys

standing in that aureola out of my head.

But Emrys didn't appear to be afraid. He was a fatalist. Whatever Dame

Fortune had planned for us was, as far as he was concerned, what would happen;

and nothing we could do could change it, a belief I now share.

But that notion had absolutely no appeal to me, then, especially under the

circumstances. If I'd been in Emrys' place, I'd have packed up and gone home

to live and fight another day.

But as I wasn't in his shoes, my role was to hear and obey. He alone was

our liege laird, and the burden of all decisions rested squarely upon his

shoulders, the reason, perhaps, he'd become a fatalist in the first place.

I also think there was another reason behind his philosophy. Somehow it

was all tied into Father's murder. We all had loved him so much. He'd been a

good father to us. Then, he was gone, dead, cut down by an assassin's hand.

The good die young they say. How true! First Father, then Meirchion whom I

loved nearly as much, and now I was to learn it again. So, I've become a

fatalist, too.

It rained that night, all night long. I lay sleepless till dawn, just

like last night after seeing Myrddin in the rain.

At first light, I rose and went out to check on my men. The decurions

were up and about rousing their troops. The cooks had prepared some hot gruel

to fill the mens' bellies before they went into battle. Going into battle with

a full stomach provides the energy necessary to persevere, and I never forget

to make sure my men have eaten and are thus ready to fight, a lesson I learnt

from studying the methods of the great Hannibal, one of the first truly

noteworthy geniuses of military history.

The decurions went around making certain all the men were properly armed

and attired. Seeing this, I checked myself out, too.

Over a tunic of cambric byssus and cross-gartered braccae, I wore a lorica

squamata, and an outer tunic emblazoned with the silver dragwn within a sable

escutcheon over the ermine field of Lesser Brythain. The crest of my cassis

was made of horsehair dyed red. I also wore a red abolla to cover blood

stains, greaves to protect my lower legs, caligae on my rather large feet,

spiked cestus, and a baldric held my spatha. In my left hand, I carried my

semicylindrical scutum and in the right my long pilum.

Seeing everything was proper, I shouted for my corium-clad guastrahut to

fetch my steed. He was a beauty, a Cappadocian charger all the way from

Caesarea in the east central province of the Byzantine Imperium. Such

war-horses are highly prised. Mine was as black as midnight. My guastrahut

gave me a leg up into the high-forked saddle, and once mounted, I wheeled about

and headed forward to lead my troops into formation.

According to our plan of battle, my soldiers would take up their positions

in the centre of our lines. Erbin was with me as my second in command. Hywel

had command of the right wing and Pellinore the left. With Hywel was his next

eldest brother, Idwr the Invincible. With Pellinore were his cater-cousins,

Segurant the Brown and Brunor the Brown. Emrys was to stay with the reserves

and enter the fray at the decisive moment to turn the tide in our favour. With

him was Gyner the Ecttwr of Mathtrafal.

Gyner is a prowest cnicht. Certainly no lurdane or caitiff laird is he,

nor none more worthy or wiser than Osmael's trueborn son, the reason Emrys

rightly kept him at his side. Gyner's great sire is the only Celt of whom I

know in all our history who has ever borne the appellation of Gwron, meaning

'the Hero' for the courageous manner of his death, so similar to that of

Cuchulainn, the foremost hero of Eirish legend.

In opposition to us stood the Eotans under their ealdorman and his sons

and actual battle-leaders, Octha and Ebissa. They bore axes for the most part,

some spathae and a few hastae.

Above them flew their battle flag charged with a silver stallion salient

on a field of mars. Although Anschis had respectfully adopted the horse as his

emblem, his warriors and he, having come to our shores by longboats, were far

better seafarers than horsemen. In fact, their only horses were draught

animals used to pull their waggons and ploughs. The Eotans had no horses used

as mounts for cavalry purposes as we did.

To win the day, they usually depended solely on the ferocity of their

attack on foot. But this time they'd picked the spot to wait for us; and being

more familiar with the terrain than us, they choose well for themselves. They

took up a defensive position behind a breastwork and redoubts protected by an

abatis. Anschis had obviously benefitted from the harsh lessons taught to him

in the past by Cadell in particular about cavalry tactics. By positioning his

small army behind these defences, he obviously hoped to take away this

advantage from us.

Moreover, the inlet we had to cross to reach their barricade was very

marshy at this time of year. There'd been a considerable downpour, more than

normal, and the ground had turnt into sucking goo.

When the bugles sounded the charge, I led my soldiers to the attack and

attempted to take the Eotan position by storm but was repulsed with heavy

losses. Hywel on my right and Pellinore on my left met with the same stubborn

resistance.

I learnt a great lesson in this battle. It costs three times as much to

storm a position as it takes to merely hold one. It was a lesson I was never

to forget.

The Eotans employed their striplings as slingers and a barrage of rocks

flew at us from all sides. Many of my horsemen crashed to the ground having

been struck in the face by stones.

Seeing the consternation their slingers had caused among my cavalry,

Ebissa the Aetheling led his men over the barbican and counterattacked us. His

efforts bore good results. Our first line was routed and the fleeing troops

broke in upon the second line augmenting the general panic. The third line was

pushed back into the inlet and the morass created by two streams flowing

parallel to each other.

Bogged down by our heavy armour, the ooze beneath foot caused us to sink,

and we found it just as slippery to stand and fight as it was to flee. Those

mounted like myself discovered a more pressing problem. Our horses floundered,

causing even greater havoc as riders were overturnt and trampled beneath their

own mounts. Mired in mud and imbrued with their own blood, the wounded and

those unable to extricate themselves from the morass sank beneath the slime and

were smothered to death.

Meanwhile, the men attempting to return to our side of the inlet had to

swim for it. Most perished under a shower of darts and arrows. The wounded

drowned.

Thus, the second lesson I learnt from this battle was when possible I'd

pick my own ground on which to fight and not let the enemy do it for me. But I

learnt it too late to save my men this day.

Seeing I was in grave trouble, Emrys committed our reserves and charged

into the thick of the fighting, hoping to rally my fleeing men around him and

return to the attack. Raising up in his saddle to shout at the men, he was

struck. An arrow shot by Ebissa himself pierced Emrys' throat. He fell from

his horse, and Gyner leapt to the ground and covered him with his great scutum,

bearing the image of Ercol holding aloft his mighty war club.

I cried out and charged headlong at the Aetheling, but an Eotan

foot-soldier drove his long knife into my war-horse's belly, galling him, and I

came crashing down into the weltering muck. I drove my hasta into the Eotan

and cast him aside like a little lassie's doll.

Ebissa came at me with his broadaxe. I sidestepped him and drew out my

spatha.

"Ye'll die this day, Bretar!" he shouted, swinging his axe at me.

"Na' by yer hand!" I countered, jumping out of his axe's reach.

We fought there in a muddy pool, slashing away at one another, neither

giving way. We both knew one of us would live and the other would die. There

was no alternative.

But my fervour was up greater than his. He'd mortally wounded Emrys whom

I loved more than any other living thing. I had to kill this aetheling. He

represented everything I hated with a loathing so great I had to win this fight

against him to vindicate myself and revenge my fallen brother.

Things, however, looked fairly even between this heathen and I, the

ringing of axe against spatha and spatha against axe resounding as we strove to

kill one another, each fighting with every last uncia of strength, leaving us

both staggering from the blows we each had received from the other. But my

fervour drove me on as his declined, and in the flash of one instant, I was

finally able to chop off his right arm at the elbow. When he fell to his

knees, I beheaded him with one swift stroke of my bloodstained spatha.

Grabbing his head by the hair, I lifted it aloft showing the Eotans their

Aetheling was dead. Terrified at the sight of Ebissa's severed head, his men

pulled back behind their barbican, and I withdrew the remnants of our battered

army back to our encampment.

My decurions reported we'd lost four thousand men in casualties. It had

been a terrible slaughter, and my elder brother lay mortally wounded, having

been carried from the field upon Gyner's stout scutum.

Erbin and I brought Emrys back to Caer Lludd and put him into the care of

his physician, a Gwydyl by the name of Eopa. We hoped for the best.

But, finally, the obvious became quite clear to us all, including Emrys

himself. He was dying.

Turning to me, Gyner said softly, "Time tae call the lairds fer Emrys tae

speak tae them one last time."

At Gyner's suggestion, Erbin and I ushered all the great lairds into

Emrys' room, and they surrounded his bed. As is our custom, Emrys then named

his heir.

But as he couldn't speak due to the wound in his throat, Myrddin gave him

a scroll and quill. Emrys wrote my name and, then smiling, added his

appellation of Pendragwn to Uthr. Thus, I've been from that moment, Uthr

Pendragwn.

Then, Myrddin took back the scroll and quill from his father, openly

sobbing as he did so. Emrys grasped Myrddin's other hand with one of his, I

thought at first to calm his son. But he also reached for mine and then

brought our two hands together, his meaning quite clear to everyone in the

chamber.

Having made his intentions understood by one and all, Emrys smiled one

last time at us, turnt his head and breathed his last. My beloved brother was

gone, and the sob I now heard had come from my own throat.

Erbin knelt on the floor beside the bed and wept like a child. The lairds

all bowed their heads in respect to their departed sovereign, tears running

down their ruddy faces as they stood there caps in hand, many of them members

of the renowned Ambrosiaci, his honourary bodyguard selected from among our

bravest warriors, including Gyner, Hywel, Idwr, the peerless Pellinore, Erbin

and me among others.

We took my brother to the Giants' Dance, our nation's greatest religious

centre where Myrddin is the guardian; and there, we laid Emrys Ben-Eur to

rest. Thousands upon thousands of his loyal subjects came to pay him their

last respects, for he'd ruled them wisely and with equal justice to everyone

regardless of station or title. For that, they loved and honoured him as he

deserved.

Becoming suspicious of the leeches Eopa said he had used to cleanse Emrys'

wound, Myrddin took it upon himself to investigate the matter. He searched

Eopa's room and found a missive implicating Eopa in a plot against Emrys'

life. What he did was to bleed Emrys to death. Unbeknownst to us, Eopa was

working as an agent of Pasgen and his nephew, Foirtchernn.

Pasgen is one of Gwrtheyrn's sons. Foirtchernn, the Eirish name for

Gwrtheyrn, is a son of Gwrtheyrn's daughter and Feidlimid mac Laegaire of the

Ui Neill. They wanted my brother out of the way in the hopes of returning

their dynasty to power.

I remember my anger. I personally tortured Eopa, flaying his body, until

he confessed the truth. But there was still life left in him.

"Dae ye believe in the afterlife?" I asked him. He nodded his head.

"Then, ye believe ye'll be reborn again?" Once more he nodded. "But ye ken,

o' course, ifn one is behead'd, he canna be reborn. Tha' tis sae, isna it?"

He looked at me with panic growing in his eyes, knowing, of course, what I was

going to do him.

"Naeeeeeeee!" he screamed.

Taking my long dagger out of my leather belt, I approached him, looked him

straight in the eye, and put my dagger to this throat. Whilst he continued to

scream, I sawed back and forth with the dagger until I'd cut off his head. His

eyes showed his terror, even after I held his severed head up and spit into his

face. I threw his head into the nearby brasier and watched it burn and turn

into ashes.

But Pasgen and Foirtchernn had gotten away. They fled to Hywel's court in

Cernyw, because they knew Hywel was obliged by kinship to offer them

sanctuary. As his mother, Meirchion's widow, is a Gwrtheyrnian, Hywel had no

other option but to accede to the request of his mother and her two kinsmen.

This led to the war between Hywel and me.

CHAPTER III

* THE FIRST SIGHT OF LOVE AND A COUNCIL OF WAR *

When Hywel arrived with his retinue the next morning, he came from the wilds of Cernyw driving a gilded two-wheeled quadriga drawn by horses four abreast in

the fashion of the ancient Trojans. Such an impressive sight reminded me of

our national hero, Caswallawn. The sun-god gave Caswallawn his golden essedum to defend the Island against Julius Caesar's attempts at conquest. Of course, the sun-god's essedum had the more common teams paired in tandem one behind the other. But Hywel got his point across. Now, he was defending his house against another would-be conqueror, me.

As he entered the courtyard of my palatium, Hywel held his great scutum

before him: argent, a lion rampant gules with a ducal coronet or, within a

bordure sable bezanty; the famed coat of arms of Cernyw, which I'm also

reminded he bore loyally under my brother's standard. Thinking of these things

made me long for the good old days when we were children together, playing

under the protective care of his father. Almost since we'd learnt to walk, the

four of us, Hywel, Idwr, Pellinore and I, had been playmates and bosom friends,

engaging in little mischiefs which delighted Hywel's father and enraged the

womenfolk. As young swains, we went wenching together in the taverns and other places we weren't supposed to frequent but did without our elders learning of it. Such memories of better days played upon my heartstrings, as I'm sure they

must also have done with him.

I also appreciated Hywel's wisdom in leaving behind his two kinsmen who'd

caused this war between us. Their unwelcomed presence would have kept me hard pressed in restraining Erbin and Emrys' other loyal Ambrosiaci from striking

the culprits down.

Thus, the parley began on a positive note. I received my worthy visitor

with flawless courtesy, lavishing magnificent gifts upon one and all, thus

placing myself beyond any such reproach an owrelaird may incur for lack of

munificence. Hywel swore fealty to me and paid me homage as his lawful

sovereign. Then, to insure a lasting settlement, I suggested a marriage of

state between myself and one of Hywel's female relations, the customary method

for cementing the allegiance of two powerful houses such as ours.

Another benefit to such a marital alliance would enable me to lay claim to

Cernyw itself, because the laws of inheritance there are matrilineal. Hywel

had only become the High Rica by marrying the resident heiress of Cernyw.

Therefore, if I was to marry one of his daughters or even his sister, I could

exercise a persuasive voice in Cernish internal politics and policies, far more

so than merely being the owrelaird to whom the High Rica owes his nominal

allegiance.

This would, indeed, place me in a position to maintain the peace in that

quarter of my realm, especially if my bride is a daughter of the heritrix rex,

Hywel's wife. I can only hope his three daughters have inherited their

mother's renowned beauty.

I could see, however, Hywel had no desire to bestow one of his fair

daughters or his young sister upon me, because admittedly I'm known to have

been the false lover of many women. The stories concerning the imperial

ancillae and countless bastards sired through the 'right of the laird' run

rampant and most are true.

Long before ascending the cader when my three foster-brothers and I ran

fancy free, I'd dallied with the fairer sex and have still retained a bevy of

ancillae for my pleasure. I haven't changed regarding my need for feminine

companionship, even now in my thirties, nor is it likely I ever will. Besides,

Hywel's only sister is barely fourteen and his three daughters are younger

still. Obviously, he felt inclined to give them to younger men than me.

But I sought more than a mere bride. By joining our two houses together,

I can assure--I hope--the continued ascendancy of my dynasty. The son of this

union could boast of having the blood of more royal houses flowing in his veins

than any other contender for the diadem could possibly have.

From his mother, he could claim descent from our first monarch, Bryth the

Dardan, whose blood was the same as that flowing in the Caesars. In addition,

he'd be related to the Gwrtheyrnians as Hywel's mother is a kinswoman of

theirs.

From me, he'd have the blood of the sea-god Llyr, of Bran the Blessed,

Macsen Gwledig and Cynan Meriadawc, the founder of our house in Lesser

Brythain. But most important of all, he'd inherit my diadem.

If I can conclude a proper marriage with one of Hywel's daughters or his

sister, the blood of the three most prominent dynasties would, thereby, be

brought together in my heir, a hopeful accomplishment. I believe this will put

a conclusive finish to the Cernish War and an end to the question regarding the

right of succession to the cader of Brythain. At least, it may provide a

chance for a peaceful settlement, so we can turn to more important matters.

Due to the war, foreign trade has been virtually cut off, and our local

economy is in a shambles. I need to restore order for prosperity's sake, because as any wise monarch knows this is the hallmark by which the success of his reign will be judged, and I want to leave my mark upon Brythain as being a good and wise ruler.

Of course, I can't guarantee the future of my dynasty. Kin will continue

to kill kin to win a cader. That will never cease. The intrigues of Gloyw

Gwallt Hir, the first Gwrtheyrnian, caused the deaths of his kinsmen, Custennin

III, Custens and Geraint. Gloyw's son, Cadell I, was slain fighting in battle

against his kinsmen, my father and Cousin Amlawdd mab Cynwal, the father of

Hywel's wife. Gwrtheyrn of the Adverse Lips, Cadell's son and our kinsman,

arranged the murder of my father. Gwrtheyrn and his daughter died in the

flames started by my brothers and I. Lastly, Gwrtheyrn's son and grandson

brought about the assassination of my brother, Emrys.

Remote though the chance might be, however, I still hope this marriage

will end the feud between our respective houses. Therefore, I must tenaciously

pursue the matter with Hywel, despite his obvious reluctance, and mayhap he'll

eventually succumb to the pressure brought to bear upon him.

Much of that pressure has been initiated by his own brother, Idwr the

Invincible, as well as from the peerless Pellinore. Hywel knows them well.

One is a man of great heart, a proud lion, endowed with natural intelligence

and a deep-rooted compassion for justice and goodness. The other is the

greatest living warrior, simple, direct and unrelenting in battle. Combined,

they're irresistible, and Hywel loves them both.

He himself fits somewhere between the two. Hywel is neither a savant of

worldly affairs, nor one of those who can maintain a marmoreal air of

unconcern. On the contrary, he's a man of a passionate--nay, a tempestuous—disposition. His Celtic ancestors have given him a tall, robust body—he stands nearly four and a half cubits in height--a round, firmly-held head with alert-looking eyes, an energetic mouth, and a prominent nose that belies a strong Roman influence in his heritage. He's their trueborn descendant and their hardy blood ever threatening, like the molten rock at Vesuvius' core, to erupt at the boil within Hywel's enormous chest and move him with a destructive fury equal to the volcano's at Herculaneum and Pompeii.

At the moment, he looked like a tigre in a cage, pacing to-and-fro, as though expecting any minute to find a means of escape. There is, however, no escape from Uthr Pendragwn, for I'm a man determined to have his way, regardless of the cost.

As Hywel looked down at me from his great height, he undoubtedly wondered

at the thoughts running through my equally restless mind. He watched as my

jackdaw eyes moved about surveying the scene, although one is sightless, having

been nicked by an arrow in battle. Being a blemish, this nearly eliminated me

as a possible contender for the cader, a fact Hywel knew and may have been

considering at that exact moment.

But a fire burns in the good eye with an unearthly glow that hypnotises

those who dare to gaze into its depth. Hywel shrank from my stare, not out of

fear, but possibly out of remorse. Had it not been for his mother's two

kinsmen, the circumstances between us could have been much different. Their

treachery had undoubtedly caused a great heaviness in Hywel's brave heart.

I'm sure, given his upright character, there were many times when he must

have felt the weight of that burden was too much to bear. I doubt he wished to

fight against his rightful sovereign. I know neither he or his brother, Idwr,

wanted to break the ancient taboo about fighting against one's foster-brother,

as the peerless Pellinore and I are both to them.

Quite possibly, his own sense of honour had caused him to wish for death

as by custom a noble warrior would rather die than know dishonour. Then,

perhaps, he'd be free of the guilt that must have always plagued his

thoughts. It would have been so easy for him to have killed those two

archvillains with his own hands but that wouldn't have eradicated his family's

disgrace or the shame he must have felt.

"Tis time ye've answer'd," I uttered softly, urging him to consent to the

marriage. My words reached past the towering Cernishman's sadness, breaking

the barrier between us.

"Aye, tis," he chuntered in return. But it was difficult for him to say

more.

I could tell what was running through his mind. Should he tell me if he

gave his consent and the chosen lass was later dishonoured he'd strike out

again from Cernyw with his essedarii and fight to the death? Would such a

reminder serve his purpose, or only serve to arouse my anger?

I too am proud, and had it not been for this war, the potential of

fulfilling Emrys' dreams and bringing great advancements for the Island could

possibly have been achieved. Given enough time, the accomplishment of these

dreams still rests in my hands; and whilst not the ablest man yet to sit upon

the cader of Bryth, nonetheless I have the desire. What's more, I could tell

Hywel and I might have continued our onetime close relationship, despite my

shortcomings that he apparently found somewhat objectionable.

"My three dochters are too young fer chielbearin' fer a few years, yet,"

he finally stated.

"I ken. I'll conform tae custom," I replied.

"My sister, Llysabedd, is older an' wouldst make a guid Pendragwness."

"Then, tis daen. Let us announce the tocher-band an' summon the maidens

tae partake in the celebration," I concluded.

Hywel sent his younger brother, Cynfawr II, named after my grandfather, to

bring the young lasses. Cynfawr was noticeably distraught over the news

concerning his sister's impending marriage to me and I wondered why. I could

also see Hywel still felt unsure about the match.

"Dinna worry sae, Hywel," I scoffed lightly. "I'll honour my lawful wife

as nae ither woman. Ferget the past. The son o' this marriage shall take

precedence o'er all the ithers an' be my true-born heir. This I swear tae ye.

Myrddin told me sae."

My vow and Myrddin's confirmation relieved Hywel no little bit. I'm known

for many things but never a vow-breaker. This quality combined with my

magnetic personality evokes in others a feeling of absolute trust. Even Hywel

wasn't unmoved in my presence, for I summon this feeling in everyone.

A stir among the lairds and warriors attracted Hywel's attention. The

womenfolk were coming. Leading them into the hall was Hywel's firstborn,

Gormant, a handsome lad yet to pass the test of manhood.

First his youngest two, Hel-Aine and Modron, appeared hand-in-hand, like

two child-goddesses. Modron was just a toddler and Hel-Aine only a little

older. Both were named after Celtic goddesses, which gave me pause to think no

Christian mother would so name any of her children.

As I remember it, Hel-Aine and Modron wore byssus gowns from Zazamanc as green as clover and trimmed with silver fox. Priceless pearl necklaces adorned

their slender necks and coronets of polished ivory sat upon their lovely little

heads. The plaits of their long hair, Hel-Aine's scarlet-red and Modron's

golden-blonde, hung down to their tiny waists, and their shocking eyes, the

colour of sparkling sapphires, even caused a flush to come to Myrddin's cheeks,

or so I fancied.

Around me, lairds and warriors alike surged forward with much jostling in

the hopes of eyeing the prospective heiresses of Cernyw. These two little

lasses would one day inherit great estates, and it could be expected, even at

their young ages, for them to be betrothed soon.

By chance, I turnt and caught the look on Hywel's face. He was shocked.

I found this amusing but repressed the smile I felt inwardly and assumed a

grave countenance for his benefit.

It must have surprised him greatly to realise his little lasses could

attract such amorous glances from grown men. It wasn't that he disapproved of

our age-old custom of praising and admiring young maidens when they entered a

hall. He simply hadn't been prepared, although lasses commonly become

betrothed at his daughters' ages and become primiparas by the age of fourteen

or younger. Perhaps, Hywel suddenly connected this fact with his daughters,

the thought causing him to shake his lion-like head as though he wished to

dismiss it altogether.

But the truth could be seen in the faces of the unmarried lairds and

warriors, especially Nentor of the Attacotti of Walweitha and Urien Edorides.

They vied with one another to praise the grace and charms of Hel-Aine and

Modron respectively, as the two young beauties came and bowed before me, their

sovereign laird.

Later, I saw Efrain the Wizard of Llyr Marini standing alone at one side

with a look upon his handsome face that was unmistakable. This druid high

priest was obviously visualising the fortune to be inherited through the

youngest of Hywel's daughters and lusted over the prospect of getting his

greedy hands on it.

His reaction to young Modron wasn't lost on me. I like a man who values

wealth. Sometimes they're easier to trust than do-gooders who muck things up.

But I also saw Efrain looked daggers at Urien who also wanted the lass. There

would be trouble between them in the future I thought.

Morg-Anna, the eldest of Hywel's daughters, came next. Named after the

goddess worshipped by her mother's people in Lesser Brythain, Morg-Anna strode into the hall holding her chin high and remaining aloof and disdainful of the proceedings.

She was dressed all in white ermine, which became her trademark and

appellation, 'Ermine'. The white fur contrasted beautifully with her raven-black hair piled on top of her regal head. Her high cheekbones, hollowed cheeks, slender nose with its delicate nostrils, and wide-set, coal-black eyes formed a sensuous face, but her naturally pouting lips seemed to add to her haughty demeanour and hold the greatest challenge of all. They were ruby-red,

small and compressed into an unaffected protrusion.

The men ignored her obvious disdain for them, or as in the case of Gwyar,

Urien's older brother, were whetted by it. So, the occasion had brought

together another young lass and braw warrior who'd be united no doubt in the

future.

Behind Morg-Anna my bride-to-be, the lovely Llysabedd ferch Meirchion,

sauntered like a Caesarina out on parade in her finery. She wore a purple gown

of Galazine decorated with sunbursts of spun gold, sandals studded with

Oriental amethysts, a Syrian garnet around her swan-like neck as a amulet and a

diadem enhanced by precious stones crowned her bonny head.

Red-haired Llysabedd outshone her younger nieces and all the women of the

realm (save for one as I was soon to learn) as the fiery red lustre of the full

moon outshines the light of distant stars. She was the very adornment of her

sex, and the men, especially her own brother, Cynfawr of the Elongated Ears,

stood in awe of her comeliness and envied me for my good fortune.

Cynfawr is as totally unlike his brothers as anyone can be. I've described both Hywel and Idwr as true men, and the two younger brothers, Pernehan and Bodwyn Dda, appear to be cut from the same cloth. But the one smack in the middle is a horse of a different colour, a play on words regarding the size and shape of his ears, which he always keeps, covered out of shame, like the legendary Midas with the ears of an ass. His sadistic nature and devouring

ambition mark him as a dangerous man.

I've heard the story concerning a dwarf, Frocin by name, who once gave

away Cynfawr's secret about his horse's ears, and Cynfawr had him beheaded for

it. Such a man can't be trusted and I believe his enemies' backs wouldn't be

safe with him around.

Last to appear was Hywel's wife, Eigyr the Unparalleled Beauty. Her

mother, whom I'd known and greatly admired in my youth, achieved considerable

renown in her own right. Gwen was her name, Hywel's paternal aunt and daughter

of Ceretic Gwledig of the cenedl of Cunedag the Burner. As a direct descendant

of Bryth the Dardan through her mother, Gwen became the heritrix rex of Cernyw

among other lands; and now in her twenty-third year, Eigyr reigned as Gwen's

successor.

Although we'd never met prior to this time, Eigyr and I descend from a

common ancestor. As the youngest daughter of Amlawdd Gwledig, Eigyr is fourth in descent through the cadet branch from Cynan Meriadawc, founder of the royal dynasty of Lesser Brythain; and I'm also fourth in descent from Cynan but

through the elder line.

As a result of this family connexion, her father led my father's army when

they overthrew Cadell I in the Battle of Guoloph. This victory established my

father upon the cader of Bryth the Dardan and forever endeared Amlawdd and his

house to us. Indeed, Amlawdd was the foster-father of Meirchion, my own

foster-father, and Meirchion succeeded him as the Champion of Champions. After Amlawdd's death, his worthy brother, Llwch Llawwynnawg, fought at our side to regain our father's cader. Therefore, I personally owe a great deal to Eigyr's father and uncle. Indeed, three of her elder brothers had also led the Lesser Brythons who made up their uncle's military force that came to our aid and were honoured members of the Ambrosiaci.

Before entering the Hall of Heroes, this woman acclaimed as the greatest

beauty of our times stopped and, perhaps, taking the restoration of her

ancestor's tall statue as a good omen, smiled up into the marble glare of

Bryth's stoic face. Then, she swayed seductively into the hall.

All the lairds and warriors groaned in unison when they saw her, for

lavender-eyed Eigyr with her snow-white complexion, blood-red lips and long

raven-black hair is, as her appellation implies, the most sublime woman alive

and has ever remained so. Never has a woman been made more to perfection than

this buxom, long-legged daughter of Cyprian Venus. Even the legendary beauty

of Helen of Troy and Cleopatra would have paled beside her.

As many another, I, too, was captivated by her, and I found she's justly

celebrated for her unequalled beauty. Her unbounded affability, her liveliness

and cordiality, and her unaffected kindness and generosity make her ever more

popular than even her great physical charms. She caused countless admirers to

surround her merely to bask in the sunshine of her gracious smiles.

I noticed her melodious voice sounds as sweet as a harp dextrously played,

fluidly passing from one language to the next as it suits her or the

circumstances demand by the company in which she finds herself. If Plato knew

four sorts of flattery, Eigyr knows a millenary. She's a unique specimen, a

voluptuary, a siren of sensuosity, a sultry goddess of imagined delights, and

so she played upon my mind from the very first sight of her as I'm reminded the

high druid had foretold she would when I'd first seen her as a babe in her

mother's arms. I'd thought I'd forgotten that, but now, the memory of it was

brought home to me as I saw her grown into womanhood for the first time.

She wore a white samite stola accentuating every curve of her shapely

form. I couldn't help but observe the gown was trimmed with the winter coat of

the Goddess' familiar, the hare, and wondered at its meaning as the hare isn't

normally the fur of choice amongst most burds of quality.

She also wore a magic carbuncle encircled in malachite around her elegant

neck to ward off evil spirits, and about her undulating hips an enchanted

girdle of copper. This last item guarding her womanly loins could rival the

cestus of Cupid's dam itself for its power of exciting love, and I jealously

watched as the men surrounded her on all sides to gaze at Hywel's most

beauteous wife.

Her face, more beautiful than that of Venus herself, shone radiantly and

her Junoesque figure put every other woman's to shame. I must admit the colour

of my own ruddy complexion came and went when her devastating lavender-blue

eyes looked into mine. I, who have known countless women erenow, learnt for

the first time in my life how true beauty can fire a man's heart beyond all

reason.

But sensing her husband's presence, I withstood the overwhelming urge to

carry her off right at that moment. Instead, I called for my sewer and

cupbearer to bring food and drink for my guests.

My huntsmen supplied pheasants, savoury venison, urus steaks, ducks and

brawners for our table. For fish, we had saumont from the firths of Pechtland,

gwyniad from Llyn Tegid, mullet from the Tamesis, the brilliantly coloured

wrasse also called cunner or gilthead, the herring-like pilchard the Cernishmen

like so much, and grilse having returnt from the sea to spawn for the first

time.

My cooks also served up our favourite dish, boiled pork, which my guests

ate with gusto, tossing the bones over their shoulders and onto the floor. In

addition, there were spitted steers, legs of mutton, seethed kids, maukin stew,

kail and beef, and beccaficoes filled with garden warblers to appeal to my

guests various tastes.

The cupbearers brought imported Falernum, Chian and other Levantine wines,

Aeduorum from Gaul, the rich sweet wine of Monembasia, and the amber-coloured xeres from Hispania, filling calix after calix as my guests drank their fill.

Local mulberry wine, mead, cyder, barley beer flavoured with cumin, and spicy

nut-brown ale rounded out the selection of plentiful beverages.

The wine seemed to speak to me. It was imported Falernum aurelianum

bicentum annorum, and the voice speaking in my head should have been the voice

of my brother named after the imperator, a fine general, who ruled the imperium

two centuries ago when this wine was made.

But the voice I heard was her voice, and the face I saw in the wine when I

lifted my cantharus to drink was her face. I could hear or see no other.

Myrddin had told me I'd know her when the time came. Well, it had come, and

I'd been totally caught off guard.

I especially became angry with my sewer when Eigyr objected to the maukin

stew. I scolded myself, for I should have remembered. Of course, this stew

would be offensive to Eigyr as the eating of maukin is a taboo, because the

people believe in reincarnation and say their grandmothers often return as the

Goddess' hares. Thus, to eat one, a person might be eating the flesh of his or

her own grandmother, or so it's thought.

Strangely though, the humble folk use the fur of this same animal for

their clothing, believing their grandmothers' coats will give them added warmth

and protection against evil; and remembering this, I wondered if Eigyr believed

such nonsense as her stola was adorned with the white fur of the winter hare.

It also came to mind the hare was the familiar of the Icenian reine who'd led

the great rebellion against the Romans some four centuries ago.

Out of respect for my noble quest's alluring wife, I severely upbraided the

sewer who cleared the stew away. Then, the festivities continued after a few

words of apology to the offended party.

The huge hall resounded with the laughter and din of happy people but I

was unable to eat a bite. I sat in my armed chair in the middle of the long

board, holding the cantharus brimming with that intoxicating purple wine of

Italia, occasionally sipping at toasts as expected of me.

But more than that, I felt incapable. The thought she'd bewitched me,

though, stirred me to make a feeble attempt at conversation with Hywel. At

first, my normally acute sense of statecraft kept my absorption with Eigyr from

detection. Only two at the table noticed my ever returning glance: the former

ornatrix who'd borne my bastard son, Madag, and Cynfawr of the Elongated Ears.

The gaucy limmer, whose worthless name I've forgotten, knew the meaning of

the look in my eye, because she'd seen it often before but, perhaps, never so

intense or obsessed. She realised then (and I'm sure Cynfawr did, too) I

wouldn't be put off easily in obtaining this new rival for her position in my

bed.

She turnt to Cynfawr beside her. One could see her mind working as she

wondered if Hywel perceived the Pendragwn's covetous study of his wife. The

spiteful woman, obviously, decided to act upon it ere I took a stronger

course. She spoke to Cynfawr.

"Our imperial sovereign appears tae ha'e taken a fancy tae yer brither's

wife," she said with fluttering lashes. Hywel, of course, overheard her words,

as she meant him to do.

He swiveled in his cader and directed his attention upon his wife, happily

nestling their youngest child, Modron, to her overflowing bosom. Hywel smiled

to himself. Eigyr, as innocent yet as a child herself despite her devastating

beauty, was completely unaware of my yearning for her. Hywel's wife was safe

from me for the time being but he now knew she bore watching. After all, I'm a

known lecher.

Like a game of hurley, Cynfawr took the ball the ornatrix passed to him

and ran with it. His evil mind saw the opportunity to incite dissension in the

imperial household. Such is his way. He has an appetite for wickedness and a

predilection for creating havoc for his own advantage, possibly because his

mother was one of the nine gwiddonod of Caer Lloyw, or at least, so it's said.

But my prejudice against such foul creatures doesn't make me a reliable witness

concerning Cynfawr's mother. When all is said and done, she was a

Gwrtheyrnian, and her house was and is in opposition to mine.

"Wha' a disgrace," Cynfawr said aloud to the ornatrix so others could

hear, "tha' he hast na' taken ye as his lawful wife, especially sith ye ha'e

borne him a son. Tis sic a pity yer lad, Madag, will ne'er be recognis'd as

his successor."

An evil smile broadened on Cynfawr's swarthy face. The embarrassed woman

focused her angry eyes on her plate and said no more. His barb had struck an

open wound and he hoped it would fester. Obviously, he hates me almost as much as he does his own brothers. At the time, I wondered if his dislike of me had anything to do with his sister, Llysabedd, my intended. This, indeed, is a man

of many strange jealousies.

During the feast, a chorus of young lads sang for our entertainment, and

my muscians accompanied them on their instruments. But I was so engrossed with staring at Eigyr I heard them not.

Once again Cynfawr interrupted my preoccupation with Eigyr. "My Laird

Uthr," he spoke loudly, "this singin' an' music is too dull fer my tastes. It

lacks any excitement."

"Wha' wouldst ye suggest, Cynfawr?" I asked.

"A dance by one o' our women wouldst be mair tae my likin' as it wouldst

tae many anither here."

"Verra well then," I responded; and gesturing to the ornatrix sitting

beside him, I said, "She's a guid dancer."

Cynfawr immediately placed his hand over hers keeping the woman from

rising to her feet and dancing for us. Everyone turnt their attention to

Cynfawr and the woman wondering why he was delaying her.

"Might make anither suggestion, my laird?" he asked, waiting for all

conversation to cease so everyone could hear his suggestion.

"Gae ahead," I answered, becoming somewhat irritated with him.

"Whilst I'm sure yer ornatrix is an excellent dancer, we in Cernyw ha'e

the maist beautiful dancer in all the Isles, an' she's here wi' us taenight.

Might we na' ask our reine tae honour us wi' her dance, which hast earn'd her

sae much fame."

Around the table, the men applauded Cynfawr's suggestion, as Eigyr had,

indeed, won considerable renown for her skill as a dancer. "Let it be her!"

they shouted. "Aye, we wan' tae see Eigyr dance!"

So did I. But I feared the consequences. I wasn't the only man in the

room absorbed with her beauty. Most everyone was.

Suppose her dance excited one of them beyond control and he acted upon

it. Hywel could become angry ending our parley in disaster. Yet, I still

wanted to see her dance myself. So, I turnt to Hywel and spoke to him.

"Wouldst yer wife honour us wi' this dance yer brither suggests?"

"She will," he replied, "an' ye'll see wi' yer own eyes why she's sae

acclaim'd as a dancer." Turning to his wife, he said, "Dance fer them, wife,

an' let e'ery man see I possess the maist beautiful woman in the world."

"I ha'e tae change intae my costume," she said, rising to her feet. "I'll

return shortly."

I watched the swinging motion of her heart-shaped buttocks as she left the

hall in order to put on her costume. She moved gracefully like a cat, and I

couldn't wait for her to return.

A few moments later she re-entered the hall wrapped in a long cloak. I

could see her feet were bare.

The drummers picked up the beat she set for them by clapping her hands

together over her head. It was a faster tempo than they'd previously been

playing, and some of the onlookers began to bang their cups on the tables in

time with the beat she'd established.

Her curvaceous body began to undulate beneath the cloak. She swayed

around and around, her body moving quickly in time with the music.

Every eye in the room was upon her, devouring her beauty. I could feel

myself becoming aroused from the sensuality of her dance.

Then, she dropped the cloak. Underneath, she wore the costume of a temple

dancer. The cloth of her garment was very sheer, so much so at first I thought

she was entirely naked. But her costume concealed her private parts in such a

way as to evoke excitement in her audience as is the common practice of temple

dancers.

Hers was, indeed, the dance of a love-goddess. The movements of her

fabulous body were fluid and sexual in nature.

Her long raven-black hair flayed the air as she spun about, and her

triumphant breasts, whiter than the whitest swan's feathers, bobbled freely

beneath the band of cloth tied around her chest. Her belly was bare and worked

in and out in imitation of lovemaking, and her legs and feet moved about faster

and faster as the drums beat their loudest.

The cups also banged louder on the tables, increasing the speed of her

dance. All of the men were obviously aroused, I most of all.

Her feet became a blur of motion as she began to spin about in a circle

with her arms up over her head. Her breasts stood out like firm melons on her

chest, and her hips rotated around even more provocatively than before.

The music built to a crescendo. Then, she dropped to the floor at our

feet, and the music abruptly stopped.

Eigyr rose again and bowed to her audience. The applause and shouts were

deafening. Then, she left the hall for the antechamber.

Blind and deaf to the clamour her dance had caused amongst the others, I

rose from my cader and followed her into the antechamber. She'd removed her

costume and was in the process of toweling the perspiration running down her

gorgeous body with the cloak from her dance.

When she saw me, she straightened and covered her nakedness with the

cloak. Her eyes widened in fear.

My desire for her ran rampant and destroyed all reason. As I spoke, I

tore the cloak from her grasp and clutched her heaving breasts in my hands

squeezing her firm flesh. Of all the women I'd known in my life, none ever had

a more spectacular bosom than hers.

"Come away wi' me," I implored. "Leave yer husband an' be mine fere'er."

Eigyr flew into a rage. She could hardly believe her ears. I'd begged

her to run away from Hywel like some common trollop and become my favourite.

"Unfit am I fer ye tae decently wed," she cried, "but fit I am tae paw an'

share yer sinful bed wi' my husband's sister, yer bride-tae-be, an' all those

harlots ye keep?" Brushing my hands aside, she declared, "I wouldst rather die

first!"

I was speechless. I was so sure she'd submit willingly, as so many others

have, to my winning wiles and handsome looks, especially since she'd already

been wed, bed and knew what it was all about. Her rebuke, then, bristled my

manly pride.

Covering herself with the cloak, Eigyr fled from my startled presence and

quickly returnt to Hywel's side. Relating what had transpired, her tale wasn't

received well by her husband.

"I suppose," Hywel shouted furiously and slammed his clenched fists down

upon the broad with a deafening thud, "Uthr only arrang'd this truce tae get

his filthy hands on ye. If he won Cernyw's heritrix rex, he couldst replace me

as the High Rica an', thereby, put an end tae our dispute by stealin' my wife

an' the right o' succession tha' goes wi' ye!"

He rose abruptly from his cader, which fell backwards, and glowering at

everyone, strutted from the hall like a rooster with his hen and entourage

quickly following on his heels. Those left behind looked around at one another

with sombre faces. Hywel is a formidable warrior, as all knew only too well

from the past nine years of constant warfare against him. He's a worthy son of

that great hero, Meirchion the Mighty.

Oh, Meirchion, Meirchion, how I remember you, my foster-father! When I

was but a lad, you succeeded Father's cousin, Amlawdd Gwledig, upon his death

as the mightiest warrior of the Isles. Brandishing a dreadful spatha, you

dimmed the brightness of numberless heathen cassises in burns of blood and,

like a savage lion crushing doddering lambs with violent clouts, zestily

emptied the saddles of many a mother's son. Know now, old friend, you left

sons as magnificent as you to follow in your footsteps. With but few

exceptions, my champions don't relish the prospect of meeting Hywel and his

invincible brother, Idwr, in battle again, no more than they would wish to face

you, their sire.

And I'm responsible for this catastrophe. All, then, is upon my head.

Once alone with her husband, Eigyr--her lavender-blue eyes probably

flashing like daggers in a death struggle as they'd been when we spoke--boldly

suggested they return to Cernyw at once. Hywel agreed, and after collecting

his party, he quit the imperial residence forever, knowing the day of reckoning

would be bitter.

The unforewarned flight of the Cernish cavalcade infuriated me and my

followers. No laird no matter how high has the right to quit his lawful

sovereign's residence without permission. To plot a course of action against

Hywel, I summoned my chief stalwarts and ranking lairds to the Cader Room.

They all watched silently as I mounted the seven steps leading to the

cader. Like Jupiter's own, each step is enameled with one of the colours of

the rainbow. A canopy of variegated beryl samite, embroidered with black

tridents and symbolising the sea surrounding the Isles, shrouds the dais. The

cader itself is enormous in size, made of polished black Egyptian marble, and

decorated in gold. A two-pointed oval disk of green malachite, emblazoned with

a red dragwn breathing fire, is fixed upon the backrest.

I'd chosen the red dragwn upon my ascension to replace the silver one of

my late brother. But the fish-shaped disk of malachite was Myrddin's idea.

This carbonate of copper is considered to be a local anesthetic, protection

against the evil eye and a stimulant to arouse extrasensory powers.

I don't know if all of that is true. But I do know a copper belt girdles

the loins of the holiest druid priestesses, and they can't touch base metals

like iron or bronze, only the purest metals, such as gold, silver or copper.

Looking at the disk as I prepared to sit on the cader, I was reminded

Eigyr had worn a girdle of copper, a carbuncle encircled in malachite and a

white stola trimmed with the winter fur of the moon-hare when I'd first seen

her. Could it be she's a priestess of Albion Diana?

Yet, I'd heard she'd been baptised and become a Christian, but that might

only be so, because Christianity is stronger among the Cernish aristocracy than

it is in many other places around the Island. Her conversion, then, might only

be to appease her Christian nobles whilst in private she continues to worship

the Goddess.

Such an explanation might be the reason why she'd refused me. In her

world, the curule matriarch chooses and invests her mates, not the other way

around. Thus, by my trying to force her to be mine, I'd violated everything

she believes in. This thought didn't sit well with me as I sat on the golden

ram's fleece covering the cold black marble seat--where Enys' great-grandson,

Bryth, first held sway--and contemplated my next move.

I began by complaining of Hywel's broken faith. "Wha' dae ye say upon

this matter, my lairds?" I ended after briefly describing Hywel's desertion.

As one of the members of the peace commission who returnt from Cernyw,

young Osla Big-Knife spoke first. He's Gwrtheyrn's son by the daughter of

Anschis the Eotan. Both his agnate and distaff sides are enemies of my house

and to each other as well; and therefore, being accepted in neither of his

parents' camps, he's found refuge in mine. Although he's only seen nineteen

summers, I've employed him (after testing his loyalty) to my advantage, only

this year making him penmaer of my treasury.

Of course, I knew Osla wouldn't let me down and he didn't. He got right

to the issue.

"This disgrace canna gae unpunish'd," Osla decried. "Order the fugitives

instant return, Maist Great Pendragwn, under pain o' renewin' the horrors o'

war."

As he spoke, he fingered a talisman of gold which hung from a torc around

his bull-like neck, undoubtedly thinking of the riches of Cernyw he could add

to the coffers of the treasury. I remember looking down at his coat of arms

emblazoned upon the sleeveless tunic worn over his chain mail: azure, a wyvern

sejant or. Both the fabulous creature and its colour definitely suited him.

However, Osla's suggestion met with silence. My chief martial lieutenants

stood poised with their hands resting calmly upon the hilts of their

double-edged spathae. They alone of all my champions held no fear of Hywel,

Idwr and their brothers. But these fearless men remained silent, waiting for

Erbin--my brother, the Gwledig of Dyfneint and Captain-General of the Imperial

Horse--to step forward and be heard.

Young and brash, Erbin longs for adventure and seeks it out at every

opportunity. He's impetuous to the extreme, the bravest of the brave, and

universally adored for his chivalrous qualities. Only a dozen living men in

the whole realm can outmatch my brother in feats of arms--the peerless

Pellinore, Idwr the Invincible, Pellinore's two stalwart cater-cousins

(Segurant and Brunor) who're both called 'the Brown', Gyner the Ecttwr of

Mathtrafal, the four dauntless sons of Edor ap Arguth of the Orcades (Arawn,

Gwyar, Eiddilig and Urien), Ogyrfran the Giant, Hywel, and I myself.

He wears the crest of our armigerous ancestor, Cynan Meriadawc. It's

ermine, a bordure vert charged with eight dragwns passant guardant gules,

differenced in chief with a molet for the third son.

"Brither," he said, striding to the steps of the cader, "ye an' I are the

heirs o' a great an' noble house. Our great-great-grandfeyther, Cynan

Meriadawc, found'd the Pendragwnian dynasty o' Lesser Brythain an' add'd tae

the glory o' our bluidline by marryin' Darerca, sister o' St. Padraig. Their

son, Tudwal the Urbane, after whose appellation I mysel' am nam'd, strengthen'd

an' enlarg'd the domain left tae him by his feyther; an' his son, our paternal

grandfeyther, Cynfawr, was call'd the Solomon o' Lesser Brythain fer his wisdom

an' noteworthy reign. Grandfeyther Cynfawr marri'd a dochter o' Custennin

Cerneu, who like his feyther afere him wore the imperial purple o' Roma. Thus,

our own feyther, Cynfawr's younger son, descend'd frae this royal dynasty.

Upon the advice o' Uncle Audrien, Feyther was elevat'd tae the cader upon which

ye now sit an', after a successful reign o' ten years, was assassinat'd by a

Pecht at the instigation o' Gwrtheyrn."

As he spoke, all eyes were upon him. He's a handsome young man, tall,

golden-haired and blue-eyed. His frame is muscular from continuous military

training and the women find him irresistible.

All of us understood the purpose of his preliminary outline served to

remind everyone of our royal lineage and of our forebears' great services to

the nation. As my champions listened to him continue with his speech, their

heads nodded appreciatively in agreement, for they traditionally admire

eloquence in a man as much as bravery.

"Ye, our sister an' I were forc'd tae flee wi' our elder brither, Emrys

Ben-Eur, who protect'd the three o' us as we were jus' babes. Emrys, nae mair

than a young lad himsel', shield'd ye, Emeree an' I. Wi' the aid o' the brave

Meirchion, he finally manag'd tae escape by galley frae Cernyw an' brin' us tae

the safety o' Uncle Audrien's court, where we grew up.

"Then, the day finally arriv'd when Gwrtheyrn's foolish policies an'

misrule toppl'd him frae power, an' the four o' us returnt frae our exile in

Lesser Brythain an' brought aboot the restoration o' our house as the royal

dynasty o' this our mither island. Durin' all those years, Emrys ne'er once

broke faith wi' either ye, Emeree or I. He remain'd always our scutum an'

protector, our elder brither. But Gwrtheyrn's son an' grandson paid the

assassin who tuik his life. Now, these two fiends ha'e bin gi'en sanctuary by

their kinsman, Hywel map Meirchion, who's in open rebellion against ye, his

liege laird."

Impassioned now, Erbin virtually shouted at the top of his lungs as he

addressed us all. His powerful arms swept upwards and outwards remaining

stretched out as though nailed to a cross, suddenly dropping to his sides like

the lifeless limbs of a tree.

"How canst this be?" he groaned. "How canst we let it remain tae be sae?

Ye an' I owe too much tae the memory o' Emrys Pendragwn tae allow these

impudent curs tae gae unpunish'd fer his murder. I demand satisfaction fer

Emrys' death. Nithin' less than the deaths o' his murderers will ease the pain

an' sorrow in my heart." His voice was barely a whisper when he finished.

My young brother presented a strong case, starting with our royal

ancestry, telling our own plight as children when Emrys sheltered us, and of

the Gwrtheyrnian plots against our house. Yes, he did a fairly neat job of

it. Now, I had to answer him, and every face turnt to me for that answer.

"An' I promis'd ye we wouldst ha'e our ultion," I said grave-faced from

the cader.

"Tha' pledge hasna bin fulfill'd," replied my sullen-eyed brother.

"Pasgen an' Foirtchernn still live. As fer Hywel, I bear him nae grudge, fer

he's innocent o' any wrongdaein' himsel', except protectin' his mither's

kinsmen frae our wrath. They're the guilty ones, na' him. But there canst be

nae peace betwix' Hywel an' I 'til Pasgen an' Foirtchernn lie dead at my feet.

This I swear."

"Many a propriety, e'en the Decalogue ha'e I broken, but my word, ne'er,"

I avered. "I ha'e na' fergotten my oath o' vengeance when I sought a truce wi'

Hywel. He hast only fought in defence o' his mither's kinsmen as ye say.

Couldst ye or I dae less? Nae, a guid kinsman rallies 'round his family,

whether right or wrong."

"True, Sire," Osla interjected, tugging gently at the black hairs of his

youthful beard, "but Hywel hast now violat'd the Pendragwn's law. Nae vassal

may leave his laird's house or service withouten permission an' Hywel hast daen

sae."

"Sae he hast," Eiddilig, the third of Edor's brood of brave sons and

second only to the peerless Pellinore, Idwr and Pellinore's two cousins as the

mightiest warrior in the Island, echoed with stronger force. He bears the coat

of arms of the Edoridae: or, a lion sejant affronte gules crowned or, the

dexter paw holding a spatha and in the sinister a sceptre erect proper,

differenced with a molet in chief for the third son.

I made Eiddilig the castellan of Caer Lloyw after he captured Anschis the

Eotan in single combat seven years ago and beheaded the heathen ealdorman on my orders. As the primipilaris, he's also the standard-bearer of the Pendragwn's

Guard, which replaced the Ambrosiaci as my household troops.

The Guard forms the heart and most valiant band of my army. Its members

are my hearth companions who perform the same duties as the preatorians of the

Roman imperators, the comitatus of great patrons, the Teutonic toisechs in the

service of their powerful ealdormen, or the antrustiones who guard the Frankish

kings. At the height of battle, Eiddilig Edorides always leads the Guardsmen

out of reserve and charges across the field carrying the colours forward to

decide the final outcome. The magnificent array of the brilliantly accoutred

Guard never falters and ever stands firm, like a solid wall of unyielding

stone. He inspires them so and has justifiably earned the praise and respect

of all of my champions, most especially Erbin and the peerless Pellinore, his

closest feres.

"An' it isna the first time Hywel hast broken the Pendragwn's law,"

Eiddilig concluded.

"I care na' wha' Hywel hast daen!" Erbin roared at his friend like a

wounded lion. Eiddilig looked crestfallen for having hurt Erbin in his

agreement with Osla. "Tis Pasgen who's the archsinner, along with Foirtchernn

as his accomplice. E'en, now, I ha'e heard frae those in Cernyw unshakeably

loyal tae Hywel an' Idwr, sic as Brastius Bluid-Axe an' Jordan the Portglave,

honourable men baith who were once members o' the Ambrosiaci, tha' Pasgen an'

Foirtchernn are plottin' tae raise Cynfawr tae replace Hywel as the High Rica

o' Cernyw tae further strengthen their position there, though neither Hywel or

Idwr are aware o' this conspiracy."

"Why wouldst Pasgen an' Foirtchernn betray Hywel who hast protect'd them?"

I asked.

"'Cause they were afear'd tha' durin' his negotiations wi' ye, Hywel

couldst ha'e bin oblig'd tae surrender them fer justice. Thus, by makin'

Cynfawr their puppet through marriage tae Eigyr, they figure on ha'in' less tae

fear. O' course, they wouldst ha'e tae dae somethin' aboot Idwr, too, 'cause

he wouldst stand firm wi' Hywel. Tha' devil, Pasgen, is behind all o' this,

an' hast e'en claim'd I'll someday fall tae his spatha!"

"Bah!" the peerless Pellinore, my foster-brother, thundered and all grew

silent as he approached the cader. "Tis easy tae make great boasts frae a safe

distance," he said parapharsing Aesop[2] to Erbin, whom he dearly loved.

Akhillean Pellinore and his equally dauntless cater-cousins, Segurant and

Brunor, are members of the House of Pwyll, and although they're Iberians, none

can match their ferocity in battle. They're the foremost living champions of

our day, priest-cnichts of the Order of the Beste Glatissant, called the

'Questing Beast', an ancient Iberian order following the austere way of life of

the Spartans and dedicated to their own native culture.

In distress, I look to Pellinore and his two Pwyllian kinsmen for succour,

as does the whole army. But of the three, my foster-brother is the best.

I've, therefore, honoured him more than any other warrior, whether Celt or

Iberian.

Pellinore is the llywiaudir llawur, the battle-ruler, in command of my

six-thousand-man Guard, and his cater-cousins both hold the rank of dialwr or

praefect and each leads a cohort of six hundred Guardsmen. Upon their scuta,

the colour of the legendary amaranth or undying flower, they bear the Beste

Glatissant statant proper, vulning itself. In addition, Pellinore's scutum is

differenced in chief with the label of three points argent for the eldest son.

As for Pellinore's renowned accomplishments as the greatest warrior of our

times, I can list the following as just a few of the things he has done. He has fought in over eightscore battles; slain nine-and-ninety champions in single combat; personally saved the lives of countless officers and men, sixteen maidens in distress, and seven infants from death; received three-and-twenty battle wounds, all in front and none from behind; been awarded a fourfold triumph and followed in twelve other triumphal processions through the viae of Caer Lludd; won the wreath of victory in every tournament in which he's ever participated; won more commendations and awards of honour than any other soldier; and had ten praetorships conferred upon him in as many consecutive years. He's without peer among men as Camulos is among the gods of war. But above all, he's my closest friend, always dependable and by my side.

"Will ye fight against Hywel?" I asked him, knowing I was asking a grave

thing, for Hywel is his foster-brother, too.

With a baleful gaze at Osla, for suggesting the renewal of the war,

Pellinore only said, "Aye," and nodded his fierce dark head in agreement. But

his eyes remained downcast for fear of showing anyone the pain reflected in

them.

My heart went out to him. I knew what I'd just done. I'd sealed Hywel's

fate, for like Hektor he had his Akhilleus and only one man could fulfill that

role, Pellinore. I'd just set one of my foster-brothers against another to

gain a woman. It was a terrible thing to do and I felt like some foul creature

spawned in the depths of hell. But no matter, I had to have her.

The three archbishops crossed themselves when the peerless one, a

descendant of Seosamh of Arimathaea, gave his assent; and given what I'd just

done, it seemed like blasphemy to me when I implored the aid of the Almighty to

decide the issue. As though in answer, a loud thunderbolt crackled in the

heavens; and thereupon, the three venerable fathers speedily acquiesced and

nodded in favour of the resumption of the war.

But before the lairds could take a vote, Gyner stepped forward with a reminder. "My Maist Noble Pendragwn," he began, "ere we decide the proper

course tae take in this matter, I mus' speak on behalf o' the cenedl o' Cunedag

the Flame-Bearer. Hywel, son o' Meirchion, is a respect'd member o' our

kindred.

"His father, his brither Idwr, an' he hadst serv'd loyally under Emrys'

banner, although they couldst justly claim the ancestral dynasty o' Cernyw, the

House o' Bryth, is older than yers. As their grandmither was a direct

descendant of Bryth through the female line, they, ergo, hadst a better right

tae the Pendragwnship. Then, Emrys, Erbin an' ye laud'd them wi' praise fer

recognisin' yer elder brither's claim tae the cader. Withouten their

assistance, tha' cader wadna ha'e bin won.

"Now," Gyner went on to say, "ye wish tae make war on my kinsman fer

grantin' sanctuary tae his mither's nephew an' grandnephew. I mus' honestly

say the vast majority o' my kindred wilna luik favourably upon a war against

Hywel, whom they see as ha'in' daen nae great wrong deservin' o' sic an action

on yer part. Some may verra well rally tae his cause against ye.

"If sic a possibility shouldst occur, the tide o' this terrible civil war

couldst be turnt against ye, fer my cenedl canst on its own field an army as

great as yers. Ergae, takin' intae consideration the military forces o' my

cenedl, the Gwrtheyrnians an' Hywel's own legion, a combin'd army o' superior

strength canst conceivably be muster'd against ye than is now under yer

command. But the saddest fact o' all is this unhappy state o' affairs couldst

only result frae followin' a policy I mysel' find lackin' in merit."

Erbin's face turnt bright red in anger, and before he could speak, I took

control of the floor. "Wha' will ye, Gyner, dialwr o' the cenedl o' Cunedag,

dae if my champions vote fer war?"

As I asked this question, my eyes fixed upon the brave coat of arms on his

chest. It was the coat of arms the 'Hero', his father, had once borne: sable,

a naked Ercol, torced or, holding aloft his mighty club in his dexter hand

proper.

"I'm a loyal subject o' the Pendragwn," Gyner answered, "but I wadna enjoy

fightin' against my own kinsmen in a cause I find greatly at fault. Ye yersel'

share the blame fer wha' hast befallen here. Hywel left yer service at yer

provocation, as ye, I an' everyone else here ken tae be true. He didst wha'

any o' us wouldst ha'e daen under similar circumstances, an' I personally think

he was right in daein' it."

Erbin reached for his spatha, but I rose from the cader and stepped

between him and Gyner. Gyner had only spoken the truth, and having done so in

an assembly he knew would take affront at his words, only endeared him more to

me. He's a brave and honourable man.

I was reminded what the great historian Thucydides said: "Men naturally

despise those who court them, but respect those who do not give way to them."[3]

Gyner was such a man. He alone had the courage to speak his mind, and I found

myself admiring him for it, because I came to realise Thucydides was right.

What pride can a leader have in winning respect and loyalty too easily given?

Such as that can be just as easily taken away.

"I only wan' a aye or nay answer tae this question: Will ye fight at my

side if the council votes fer war?" I asked him directly.

"I'll dae yer biddin' but na' happily if tha' is the case."

"Verra well, then, let's put it tae a vote. All those in favour say

aye." The ayes rang loud and clear. "All those opposed say nay." Gyner's was

the only voice in opposition. "The ayes ha'e it. We're at war."

As I looked around the room at my loyal lairds, I noticed for the first

time Myrddin was missing from the council meeting. I sent someone to find him

but he's nowhere to be found. He's simply disappeared, a habit of his

occurring at times when something is about to happen he doesn't like or over

which he has no control.

A fiat has been dispatched to Hywel, demanding his immediate return to my

court. But the obstinate Cernishman is defying me. In consequence, I've vowed

to drag him and his entire family--Eigyr uppermost in mind--from Dinas Dore,

their high-walled bastion within six weeks.

However, this night there's no peace for Uthr Pendragwn. Unable to sleep,

I've arisen and gone out on the balcony for some fresh air, bringing a scroll,

goose-feathered quill and ink with me, a habit I've kept up since Myrddin has

taught me to read and write.

Myrddin told me every monarch must possess these skills of reading and

writing, and since my brother, Emrys, could, I too have learnt how. Although

in all honesty, I still feel more comfortable in the saddle brandishing my

spatha than sitting at a desk with a quill in my hand. My letters look very

clumsy next to Myrddin's neat calligraphy, but I continue to practice in my

rude fashion, because I know Myrddin is right, and I must improve my writing

skills, no matter how difficult it is for me.

Around me lies my sleeping capital, and at this moment, I'm looking down

at the many rooftops below my palatium. Some are tiled in gray slate and the

others are made of thatch. They spread out in every direction, bisected by the

twisting viae and the curls of the Tamesis winding their way through the

metropolis.

The sight reminds me Bryth is said to have been the first to build a

civitas on this site nearly sixteen centuries ago. He called it New Troy.

Now, Bryth's descendants, Hywel and Eigyr, stand against me, whilst I like

Paris desire nothing more than to carry off my Helen and bring her back here to

this New Troy. But does the same fate that befell Paris and the original Troy

await me and this metropolis lying below my battlements?

I pray to the afon-goddess she will protect me and my capital caught in

the swirls of her embrace. In ancient times, the people worshipped her as a

warrior-goddess, a Celtic Minerva, who both fought in defence of her metropolis

and kept a close watch over its commerce and the arts.

CHAPTER IV

* MADNESS *

Anticipating invasion by the imperial host, Hywel has busied himself with the

defence of his realm, manning and provisioning a string of stout strongholds

across Cernyw's border with Erbin's territory of Dyfneint. Most of these

palisaded castella are newly constructed of wood, merely stockades; but some

are Roman by design, made of stone, whilst others are older hill-forts with

earthen ramparts dating back to antiquity. But all are in the process of being

refurbished and garrisoned by Cernishmen who'd rather die to a man than

surrender to me.

Reports from my scouts and spies confirm Hywel's family has meanwhile

taken refuge at the monastery of Tintagil upon a dramatic peninsula high above

a shingle beach on the Great Western Ocean. Situated some distance down

Cernyw's northern coast from the prominent headland where the Romans worshipped Ercol, Tintagil is out of my army's main line of advance. Moreover, the ford just two leagues to Tintagil's south that must be crossed to reach the

monastery is guarded by one of Hywel's strongest citadels.

By all indications, Hywel has chosen the best possible refuge for his wife

and children. I can't afford to strike at Eigyr's hiding place without exposing myself to a counterattack in the rear by my wily foe, making me almost

think he's purposefully shut Eigyr up in this remote spot in the hope I'll take

the bait.

As for Hywel himself, he's taken immediate command behind the impregnable

walls of Dinas Dore, almost ten Roman parasangs due south of Tintagil. An

imposing castellum sitting atop a forlorn precipice, Dinas Dore looks out over

the Fowey estuary on Cernyw's southern coast. Two concentric ramparts and deep ditches encompass an inner compound covering an area between two and three erwau and of two hundred and twenty feet in diameter.

At the centre is Hywel's aisled hall, the castellum's principal structure,

entered through a decorative porch. The hall isn't very large, though,

measuring no more than ninety by forty feet, and is only used as the dining

room for Hywel's chief officers as its capacity is rather minimal.

Legend tells the building of the hall was begun by Cernys, for whom the

land and people are named. He descended from Antenor, the noble charioteer

spared by the Akhaians after the fall of Troy. Migrating to the Italian coast

on the Mare Tyrrhenum, Antenor resettled his Trojan followers there, where

Bryth later found Cernys. The latter joined Bryth, and they sailed to the

Island, where Cernys founded Cernyw and became its first High Rica. He's also

credited with bringing the White Stag Cult of Cernunnos from the continent and

of building the first shrine of the antlered god on the mount in the bach off

Cernyw's far south coast. To this day, as Cernunnos is the consort of the

moon-goddess, the High Rica is the consort of the heritrix rex and only rules

through her right of inheritance.

The second heritrix rex of Cernyw was Gwendolyn, Cernys' noble daughter.

She married Lloegryn, Bryth's eldest son, but he shortly fell in love with a

hetaera at his court, by whom he had a daughter. Fearing to repudiate his wife

for as long as her father lived, Lloegryn kept his adulterous affair with his

mistress a secret. But as soon as Cernys died, he sent Gwendolyn and their

son, Madan, home to Cernyw and married the other woman. The angry Cernishmen rallied to Gwendolyn's cause, and as they say, the result is a matter of

history. Ever since their victory, the Cernishmen derisively refer to the land

of the Brythons as Lloegr after the man who'd so foolishly thought he could get

away with mistreating their noble burd and ended up paying for it with his life

and cader.

To commemorate the victory over Lloegryn, Madan built a small gabled bower

for his mother at one end of Dinas Dore's hall. Although this is the room

where the heritrix rex and her burds-in-waiting take their meals, I understand

Lloegryn's head reposes in a niche in the wall as a memento to the folly of

royal monarchs.

So, now I wonder, am I following in Lloegryn’s footsteps? Is another

Brythonic monarch to fall before Cernish arms? Wise Gyner warned me of the

possibility.

Around Hywel's hall, a ring of sturdy stone chambers have been quarried

into the inner rampart of Dinas Dore. Although these chambers abut one another

and are very small by most standards, giving no room for expansion, Hywel and

his chieftains use them for their dwellings.

Besides these rather modest living compartments, some of the chambers are

used by only the most important guests due to the limited number available for

this purpose. Under normal conditions, the inner compound contains a flowered

portico, a smokehouse, brewery, treasury, a cell for a holy man, a stable,

baths, a cowshed, mews, casements, a warren, quarters for Hywel's caethion,

and, of course, the Goddess' shrine kept by Eigyr and her daughters. Eigyr's

Christian confessor and calligrapher, Tyfriog, usually maintains an archive

within the compound as well. All of these stone chambers, like Hywel's

compartment, are built into the inner rampart giving it added support. Now, of

course, some of them have been turnt into other military uses in preparation

for a long siege. Among some of the additions are a well-stocked arsenal of

weapons and forges to make more.

Above all these chambers, a walkway goes around the inner wall. If my

troops should get past the outer rampart, the defenders can cast stones and

burning oil down on my men from above, as well as firing projectiles from

scorpions, Roman military engines with a lethal sting, mounted on the inner

rampart's walkway. If the defenders have to forsake the second rampart, the

High Rica's wooden ancestral hall in the centre of the courtyard is their last

refuge.

However, Hywel's hopes rest on the outer bulwark of his battlemented

castellum and the area between it and the inner wall. Here, he quarters his

garrison in thatch-rooft wooden barracks built into the bulwark itself. The

doors of the barracks open upon a broad cobbled thoroughfare, where the

soldiers fall into formation.

The main entrance through the outer wall is on the eastern side. An

eighteen by twenty-four foot gatehouse is strongly defended by an intricate

passageway that will make it difficult for my men to enter there without

considerable loss of life.

The thoroughfare running in a complete circuit between the two walls is

used to serve as the main sarn for the populace; and where the ends meet on the

eastern side between the main parth of the outer wall and the portal to the

inner compound, it widens into a open triangular agora, previously filled with

the hovels and roosts of venders, craftsmen and artisans. These people,

unnecessary for the defence of the castellum, have been packed off elsewhere,

and the bolstered garrison is now using the much-needed space.

Like most old agorae, however, the squalor of the peasants and their

shack-shelters had undoubtedly marred an otherwise cleanly and orderly

atmosphere; but I suspect Hywel, like lairds everywhere, had put up with it,

because he felt responsible for his people and their need to trade goods and

produce. It probably rankled his ire, though, when the riffraff amongst them

used the fosse encircling the inner wall for their refuse and bodily wastes.

The stench one encountres when crossing the ramp to the compound must still

stink to high heaven, even though the people who'd caused it are no longer

there; and if I should succeed in reaching the ramp, Hywel probably hopes I

slip and fall in.

A wise general, Hywel knows I must carry Dinas Dore before moving onto my

objective of Tintagil where he's lodged Eigyr. As already stated, if I attempt

to bypass Dinas Dore for Tintagil, he can sally forth at his will and strike my

supply trains, thereby forcing me to call a humiliating end to the campaign.

Because I'm no fool, I must take Dinas Dore or run the risk of leaving its

garrison behind to molest my rear. Knowing I'm no novice in the ways of war,

Hywel unquestionably has lain-in sufficient provisions for a long siege.

Obviously, he's no fool either.

My scouts have reported he's divested the surrounding districts of all

crops, livestock, valuables, arms and all ploughmen and milkmaids. Those he

couldn't keep at Dinas Dore have been sent south to the bivallated dun guarding

the tin mines on the border of Llewissig. In this fashion, all sustenance has

been removed beyond the reach of my army, necessitating adequate supply lines

to support my warriors, because they can't live off the land.

To further thwart my efforts, Hywel has organised several small

independent bands of partisans to hover about the outposts of my army and cut

off scouts, couriers, foraging parties and my supply trains. If I can't

successfully lay siege to his dinas, then he'll bottle my army up between it

and the bands of cerne, as the Cernish partisans are called. A clever plan but

one I should have expected of Hywel.

They say the prosecution of any war depends upon the leader's ability to

accurately predict the actions and reactions of the opposing leader and the

troops of both armies under duress. If this is true, and I believe it is,

Hywel, it would appear, is already one up on me.

One of life's great challenges is trying to fathom how people, known or

unknown to us, will react under a given set of circumstances. Some think it's

as easy as arranging chess pieces upon a giant board. But life isn't a game

played in a vacuum. It's real, and strange, seemingly insignificant

occurrences have been known to significantly alter the course of history.

I'm reminded of the old saying: "for want of a nail, the shoe was lost;

for want of a shoe, the horse was lost; for want of the horse, the rex was

lost; for want of a rex, the regnum was lost." All was lost over a trivial

overlooked nail that turnt out to be the most important thing in the life of a

rex and his realm.

Am I lost or just mad? I'm insane over that woman. The way she vexes me

with her voluptuous body and scurrilous wantonness has driven me crazy. I'm

prosecuting a war solely to win her from a loving husband whose father was my

foster-father.

I know I'm wrong but can't help myself. They'll say in my profligacy I

threw all shame and all caution to the wind over a woman. Thus, I've become my

own worst enemy and am bound by the silken chain of her enchantments, as

securely as Shimshon was to the pillars of Dagon.

One challenge facing any military leader is finding a way to remain

popular with his officers and men whilst at the same time delivering the only

acceptable result, victory. In war, there's no substitute. Success on the

field of battle engenders respect for the commander within the hearts of his

victorious men and begrudging admiration from one's enemies.

If I can't prosecute this war successfully, I'll lose everything: my

honour, my diadem and quite possibly my life. Yet, I'll bet it all on one cast

of the dice to have her, hoping beyond hope no missing nail in my destiny will

bring me down as the rex in the old story.

No, I say, such a fate doesn't await Uthr Pendragwn. I've striven all my

life for one goal and now it's mine. I'm the Brenhin of All Brythain and the

Pendragwn of the Isles, and nothing of this earth shall take what I've won with

my spatha from me.

I believe the crucible of battle turns out either men made of iron or dead

heroes. One is indicative of superior leadership and the other of failure to

obey the rudiments of war. Perhaps, this indicates I tend to look at the

results rather than the causes of things.

Caesious-eyed Myrddin, however, looks more at the causes than the

effects. He insists battles are won or lost in soldiers' minds, often well

before the battle itself is fought; and therefore, the psychological

preparation of one's army should be the first order of business of any great

general. Every soldier must be continually trained to build his confidence, as

well as his military skills. Myrddin says they go hand in hand and no victory

can be won without them. Only after the successful preparation of the men

should attributes like generalship, strategy and execution be discussed.

As I sit here in Caer Lludd anxiously waiting for the time to arrive for

beginning this campaign, I realise this is the last chance I might have to give

some thought to what Myrddin has said about the manner in which a war should be conducted, and I admit there's some merit to it. More battles, it seems, have,

indeed, been lost due to low morale than any other factor. I think Myrddin

might be right that loss of confidence in oneself, in one's leaders and in the

system can be pinpointed right back to improper training. Good training, like

the Romans used to have for their legions before they turnt to hiring

barbarians to fight for them, engenders the confidence necessary for victory in

the field, whereas ineffective training doesn't.

Thus, without proper training, only a miracle can avoid defeat. According

to Myrddin, miracles don't happen often but defeats do.

Am I headed for defeat? My men-at-arms have certainly been adequately

trained. But do they have confidence in me? Do I have confidence in myself?

Historically, more than a few bold commanders, although outnumbered and

initially outfought, have, yet, retained mastery of the field of honour. They

did so by turning the tide of battle in their favour at the precise optimum

moment when victory could only be won as a result of their own personal

valour. Through brilliant generalship in leading the decisive attack, they

broke the enemy and made them run or fall where they stood.

But sometimes I wonder if I led such a charge would my men have the

confidence in themselves and, more precisely, in me to follow? I've overheard

them talking among themselves when they thought none of their officers were

listening, and to no small degree, they blame me for the continuation of this

bitter internecine warfare that rules the land.

At night whilst walking about, I've heard one of them say to his comrades,

"A fool is ne'er turnt frae his folly."

Just now, it appears this fool's popularity is at an all-time low. My

simple subjects believe, and rightly so, that the condition of the nation is

the measure of its ruler; and perhaps, they're justified in their opinion of

me, for fewer saints have died for piety than fools for their folly, so sayeth

the fool.

Gyner was right and everybody knows it. I've gone mad over this woman and

am pursuing a terrible course to possess her. Nothing less than having her

will satisfy me. I desire her, not because she's the heiress of Cernyw and by

having her Cernyw would be mine, but because a spell has been cast over me.

Eigyr and she alone is the one driving me to pursue this course of madness, as,

indeed, a man possessed.

If the Judeo-Christian beliefs regarding the creation of the fairer sex

are correct, then perhaps, it would have been better for me if Adam's rib had

been left in place. I suspect in this Myrddin and I might find our only area

of agreement and yet maybe not, for when all is said and done he serves the

Goddess as her prophet. Then again, so it would seem does Eigyr. Is there a

connexion here or am I playing the fool again? Certainly, there could be

nothing between Eigyr and Myrddin.

Speaking of him, why isn't he here with me when I need him? I'm

troubled. I feel something tenebrous in the wind. What's he up to anyhow?

The ewes have come into milk. The elm flowers have turnt red. It's very

early spring in A.B. Fifteen Hundred and Seventy-Five.

A swarming array of veterans have gathered at Caer Lludd. Here, I've

assembled the Imperial Horse under Erbin's command as my comes stabuli and the Guard captained by Akhillean Pellinore. Erbin has three cohorts of

Gothic-style cavalry, totalling eighteen hundred spatha-wielding horsemen

riding blooded chestnut chargers. The Guard is a standard Augustan legion of

six thousand foot-soldiers divided into ten cohorts and tribuned by six

officers, Eiddilig, Segurant, Brunor, Esclabor the Sassanid, young Natanleod

and another officer recently promoted whose name I've momentarily forgotten.

The combined force of the Imperial Horse and the Guard is seventy-eight

hundred men and is the standing army of the Pendragwn, the only real

professional soldiery in the Isles. Additional units provide logistical,

engineering and ballistic support.

But this number can normally be bolstered in times of war by raw levies

and the private war-bands of the lairds of the realm. Unfortunately, the

levies lack training and are ill-equipped, and the private war-bands are ragtag

cenedlsmen typically loyal only to their respective chieftains and themselves.

Such warriors as this are better at cattle-raiding than at fighting together as

a cohesive unit in an operation of larger scale such as we're planning now.

From their homes just south of Hadrian's Wall and on Ynys Manaw,

Pellinore's brothers, Alain and Pelles, have come down the Via Medius with

Alain's heroic son, Cadwr the Courageous, always the first to join any fray.

Alain is the dux in command of what passes for a Byzantine turma of fifteen

hundred mounted hastati. But they don't know how to fight in battle from

horseback. Instead, these hastati ride to the field, dismount and fight on

foot.

As indicated, Cadwr is the best warrior serving under his revered father.

His scutum bears a lion bent over a fallen stag taken from a Roman sculpture

mounted on a stone fountain at his residence. He's an exceptionally tall man

with the dark handsome looks of his Iberian lineage. The young women virtually

swoon in his presence for he's so godlike in his beauty.

As a lad, Cadwr’s youngest uncle, Blaes the Chronicler, tutored him,

who'd also mentored Myrddin. Blaes still resides in North Ambria as the court

canghellor of his brother, Alain. So, there is a close relationship between

Alain's cenedl and my nephew, both personally and religiously.

Alain's father, Pellam, is the head of the brotherhood serving as the

guardians of the Blessed Horn, and Alain's hastati are fighting under his

father's standard whose emblem is, of course, the Blessed Horn itself. This

brotherhood is a religious cult, Celtiberian in nature, and closely connected

to Pellinore's Order of the Beste Glatissant made up of priest-cnichts serving

their Goddess. It should be remembered the peerless Pellinore is the eldest of

Pellam's sons.

My sister's husband, Bawdewyne, has arrived from Lesser Brythain with his

cataphractii being shipped over by Warok of the Venetii, who also brought the

noble Pedrawd mab Bedwyr Hael of Bajocassos and his light auxiliary cavalry.

Together, they number eighteen hundred horse-archers and scouts riding on

fleet-footed bay coursers.

Bawdewyne's cataphractii are well prepared, themselves the professional

soldiers of Lesser Brythain. So, I've little to worry about their abilities.

Pedrawd's war-band, on the other hand, is comprised of local lads from

Bajocassos and have little incentive to fight on foreign soil for a foreign

owrelaird.

Next, Gyner heads the cenedl of Cunedag. But as the result of the

dissension among them, because Hywel is their kinsman, many of Gyner's cenedl

have remained in the kintra, refusing to fight against Hywel, just as Gyner had

said they would. Thus, out of eighteen war-bands, only three have come to join

me, another nine hundred hastati under the unified command of Gyner the Ecttwr

of Mathtrafal as their dialwr, with Bicanus ap Garbaniaun and Nudd the

Alemaignian as his seconds. As these heavy infantrymen come either from Cymru or Celidon, they have little connexion to me or to my cause, and I imagine some of their number aren't altogether pleased about the possibility of fighting

against their own Cernish kinsmen. Bicanus' wife, for example, is Eigyr's

elder half-sister. Thus, although they're better warriors than most

cenedlsmen, I've grave doubts about whether their hearts are really into this,

which brings their loyalty and service to question.

Although Custennin of Celidon stayed at home, his nephew and tanist,

Congal ap Dongard, has brought three auxiliary bandae, or nine hundred

infantrymen, down the Via Pennini to my support. With him are four more of

Custennin's nephews, Bran of the Two Isles, Gwri Bright-Hair, Gwynbaude the

Emberis of the North, and Cilydd ap Celidoine II. The first three are the

younger brothers of my mother, Efwyr ferch Llenlleawc the Elder, and the latter

is her cousin as is Congal himself. Thus, I've no reason to worry about their

loyalty as I might some of the others.

Out of a nephew's love and devotion, I've leant considerable support to

Uncle Bran in helping him to establish Branwick, the southeastern praefecture

of Celidon. He holds sway there now over the Selgovae, the 'hunters' of the

great afon valley along the eastern terminus of Hadrian's Wall. Of course, my

reasons for assisting my uncle aren't totally unselfish. Branwick is the

northeast march between Brythain and Celidon giving me the stability I need on

that frontier of my realm.

Also from Celidon have come the twelve hundred spatharii of the

melanochroic Edoridae and their boon companion, Nentor. The eldest of

Eiddilig's three brothers, Arawn Silver-Tongue of Clatchard Craig, is their

genearchos. Stern-faced Gwyar Llew Lothian, who only speaks with his fierce

axe and bloody glaive, and bonny Urien, who carries a scutum bearing a black

raven, lead the way as they always have in every battle the Edoridae have ever

fought.

The four Edoridae and their friend are all close adherents to me and my

cause, having faithfully fought under my command for many years now.

Originally, the Edoridae were the sons of an impoverished younger son from the

Orcades. Being of Pechtish descent as is Nentor, their companion, they all

bear many blue tattoos on their persons. Arawn, for example, is covered with

tattoos of many fish of varying sizes seemingly swimming up his legs, arms and

both sides of his torso to his shoulders.

Lastly, from Cymru have come three powerful yerls, Sefain of Ceredigion,

the pious Ynywl of Caerdydd, and Ogyrfran the Giant, adding another cohort of

nine hundred foot-soldiers to the ranks, with Sefain, the acme of courtesy,

acting as their praefect.

Of them, Ogyrfran is the mightiest warrior and one of my closest friends.

He's a man of Ercolean strength, able to toss a caber further than any other

man, with the exception of the peerless Pellinore, of course. To Pellinore's

Akhilleus, Ogyrfran is our Telamonian Aias.

As their spiritual vicar, they also brought Bishop Dyfrig of Llandaff, who

bears a sable scutum, with two pastoral staves in saltire, or and argent, and

on a chief azure, three gold mitres. Dyfrig is a warrior-priest, with a strong

right arm. He's also Myrddin's first cousin, and although the two practice

different faiths, they are especially close collaborators on many social

issues. Their uncle was the late Archbishop of Caerleon ar Wysg and Christian

Primate of the Isles, and Myrddin has told me he saw his cousin following in

their uncle's footsteps in one of his visions.

Illtyd the Christian Soldier is the military leader of Dyfrig's forces and

one of the most renowned warriors in the Island. Although his late mother was

the eldest of Eigyr's half-sisters, his father, Bicanus ap Garbaniaun of the

cenedl of Cunedag, is one of my chief supporters. So, Illtyd has joined

Bicanus to fight for me in this campaign.

Concerning Illtyd, I might also mention his foster-father was St.

Garbanin; and therefore, he quite understandably has strong leanings toward the

Church. I actually expect Dyfrig with whom Illtyd has a close relationship

will eventually convince him to take holy orders. Though his wife Trynihid

would be the greatest loser of all if this were to happen, it would be a shame

if such a magnificant warrior should give up his fighting days and become a

peace-loving monk.

As it is, Illtyd also serves me in a personal capacity as my calligrapher

and wears the horn of the cornicularius on his cassis to denote his rank among

my staff of trusted officers. So, I too would feel his loss if he should

decide to enter a monastery, although I suspect it's inevitable as he's been

talking about founding a religious school somewhere along the southeast coast

of Cymru near Dyfrig's diocese.

Of course, I've counted on the support of Roman Catholics like Dyfrig and

Illtyd, because the Gwrtheyrnians such as Pasgen and Foirtchernn are Pelagians

and, therefore, are heretics according to the Catholics. This stain can also

be passed to Hywel through his mother who's not only a Gwrtheynian but also a

noted witch. Needless to say, I've taken advantage of this situation by

smearing the Gwrtheyrnians with their heresy and by implication including

Hywel, too. In so doing, I've endeared the Catholics to me, and they make up

the bulk of the raw levies I've enlisted in my service.

My standing army and the war-bands that have joined me give me a fighting

force of approximately fifteen thousand warriors, with another five thousand

labourers and others making up the baggage train. They include cooks,

teamsters, engineers to build field camps, bridges and siege fortifications,

and artillerymen in charge of the engines of war, such as the catapult, the

heavier onager, the crossbow-shaped ballista for hurling boulders, darts and

other missiles and battering rams for demolishing Hywel's parthion. In

addition, I have another ten thousand levies who'll serve as slingers and

archers. I can also use them as extra labourers as required.

All toll, I have a consular army of twenty thousand fighting men, plus the

untrained levies. Hopefully, that will be enough.

To oppose me in the defence of his domain, Hywel has a legion of six

thousand heavily armed Cernishmen, some partisan irregulars, and his own

levies, but he requires less within the high walls of his castella. It'll take

a greater force to stave off the bands of cerne and breach those walls in order

to achieve victory.

Hywel's ten cohorts are officered by his best fighting men. They're as

follows: Hywel's four younger brothers, Idwr the Invincible, Cynfawr of the

Elongated Ears, Pernehan the Charioteer and Bodwyn Dda; the two traitors,

Pasgen and Foirtchernn; Hywel's ally from nearby Llewissig, Meliodas map Felix; the two best tribunes of his legion, Brastius Blood-Axe and Jordan the

Portglave; and lastly, Tallwch the Pecht, the iron-flailed guardian of Hywel's

natural son, young Arthegall.

I've described Hywel and his brothers. As Meirchion's sons, they're all

able military leaders; and although I loathe Pasgen and Foirtchernn for their

part in my brother's murder, I must give the devils their due. They, too, are

fighters.

As for Hywel's other four lieutenants, I can also attest to their bravery,

as I've fought against them for nine years now. As mentioned, Hywel and Idwr

were members of the Ambrosiaci. So were Meliodas, Brastius, Jordan and

Tallwch. This fact alone speaks of the high quality of the officers under

Hywel's command. There's more to Meliodas the Handsomest of Men than his

Adonis-like looks. He's fearless in battle like the famous Roman Marcus

Antonius, the kind of warrior who strikes straight into the enemy's centre like

a bull on rampage. The other three are much like him. Brastius came from a

poor family and rose through the ranks by the dint of his battleaxe, and I've

personally seen him drive a whole century before him causing them to panic and

run for their lives. Jordan is no less a man and can often be found in

Brastius' company. Hywel's father saw their potential and promoted both of

them to tribune as a reward for their courage in battle. Lastly, Tallwch, the

son of a Pechtish rion, fights like a madman or one possessed as in the manner

of a frenzied Norse berserker. In the past, my men-at-arms have given him a

wide berth out of fear of his ferocity.

An added threat comes from the cenedl of the late Amlawdd Gwledig of Bro

Warok in Lesser Brythain. Because Eigyr is Amlawdd's daughter, her kinsmen may come to her husband's rescue. Moreover, Amlawdd's renowned brother, Llwch Llawwynnawg, is now the pencenedl of the kindred, and he's one of the most brilliant generals I've ever known. Even if the four of Eigyr's elder brothers

now living in Lesser Brythain come without Llwch, they could each bring one

thousand hastati with them. Moreover, their eldest brother rules in Ercing and

could conceivably raise an even larger force than the other four put together.

That, obviously, could very well tip the scales in Hywel's favour.

Four years ago at the request of Imperator Anthemius, the Gwrtheyrnians of

Cernywaille raised twelve thousand warriors to help stop the incursions of the

Goths of Tolosa. The Gwrtheyrnian leader or Riagath was Deiniol Drumrud,

eldest son of our old enemy Iohan Reith ap Gwrtheyrn. Imitating the earlier

exploits of Amlawdd and Llwch in defeating Euric, Deiniol marched to meet the

mightier West Gothic army; but betrayed by Arvandus, a Roman praefect, Deiniol

suffered a terrible defeat at Bourg-de-Deols, when Syagrius, the Roman governor

of Suessionum, failed to arrive in time as promised. Seriously wounded,

Deiniol nevertheless escaped and found his way to Aeduos, where he recovered at

the Abbey of Aballo. Thereafter, the Alemanni invited him to become their new

chief on the middle Rhenus.

But the important element of Deiniol's story was his ability to raise two

full legions, which gives me some concern. If the remaining Gwrtheyrnians in

Lesser Brythain can raise another such army, it could be disastrous, especially

if they throw in with their neighbours, the Amlawddians. Combined they can

conceivably muster a force as great as my own.

Of course, I've left other units strategically situated around the realm

for protection. A large contingent of infantry and cavalry is located at

Eborawc, the second civitas of the realm and seat of the northern march.

They'll impede any members of the cenedl of Cunedag from taking advantage of

the situation and enlarging their territory in the north whilst I'm busy in the

south. I've also hemmed in the sea-wolves with a string of fortified positions

and am using the Channel fleet to ward off any reinforcements from the

continent, whether to succour Hywel or the foreigners on our soil.

Unfortunately, the two western squadrons are no longer under my control.

Based out of Caerleon ar Dubr Duiu, the northern squadron is, therefore, in the

hands of that portion of the cenedl of Cunedag who'll have nothing to do with

this campaign. Gratefully, because some of their kinsmen have sided with me

under Gyner who's proven to be true to his word, they're thus far maintaining a

neutral attitude. Otherwise, I'd be hard pressed to operate on two distant

fronts at the same time.

The southern squadron is, however, another matter. Based in the Hafern

estuary, it has gone over to the Gwrtheyrnians of Caer Lloyw. Although I've

blocked the approaches to Cernyw by land, the Gwrtheryrnians can still ship the

troops of Catheyrn's sons, Cadell Ddyrnllug and Rhuddfedel Frych, from Powys to Cernyw. Thus, I must find a way to check their efforts. Catheyrn, of course,

was the son of Gwrtheyrn who fell under the banner of his brother Cadell II

fighting against Anschis the Eotan. Thus, his sons are enemies of my house and

would like nothing more than to cause me trouble.

Realising this, I've decided to give Urien, who like me belongs to the

raven totem, his first independent command and dispatched him against Caer

Lloyw, thence to Glywysing, where Hywel's father once ruled having married the

resident matriarch there. By sealing the southern coast of Cymru and denying

any ports to embark reinforcements for Hywel, I can bottle up the Hafern

squadron, thus limiting its usefulness.

As an incentive, I took Urien aside and promised him the hand of Hywel's

youngest daughter, who as the heiress of Rheged would elevate Urien to the

dignity of gwledig. This would mean a great promotion for him and secure his

future, so I'm sure he'll do his best.

I gave him three cohorts of mounted infantry for the rapid mobility which

he'll require to get the job done. As Ynwyl of Caerdydd comes from southeast

Cymru and is entirely familiar with Urien's planned theatre of operations, much

more so than Urien himself, I made him Urien's second-in-command as well as the commander of Urien's first cohort. Besides being a former member of the

Ambrosiaci, Ynwyl is also older and more stable than Urien, which should serve

Urien well. In addition, Dyfrig commands Urien's second cohort. As his

diocese is also in the area, it made sense to send him along. His Catholics

will fight all the harder against the heretical Gwrtheyrnians. I also promoted

Illtyd and gave him command of Urien's third cohort, hoping thereby to further

insure the mission's success.

My only fear is the Hafern squadron can still sail westward to Dyfed,

where the Dessi, kinsmen of the Gwrtheyrnians, could send a force to Hywel's

relief. If Urien can't stop them, I might have to defend the western coast of

Cernyw, which would drastically reduce my effectiveness in besieging Dinas Dore on the opposite shore.

If the cenedl of Amlawdd Gwledig and the Gwrtheyrnians from Cernywaille

should manage to bypass the Channel fleet and side with Hywel, I can always

strip the shore defences and bring the troops from Eborawc. But I hope I don't

have to do that, because it would leave those areas defenceless from attack,

and I'm almost certain the Saesnaegs and the cenedl of Cunedag would take

advantage of such an opportunity of being unhindered and either expand their

separate territories at my expense or carry out raids for plunder.

Thanks to Myrddin's negotiations with Nectan Morbet, the Rion of

Pechtland, I've little reason to worry about the Pechts raiding south into my

realm. Besides, Custennin ap Jonaans remained home in Celidon with the bulk of

his army to protect our northern border, and the cenedl of Cunedag will defend

their own territory in northern Cymru from the Gwydyls.

My only other concern, however, is the interjection of the Gwydyls themselves into my campaign. Although at the moment they're enmeshed in their own problems since the overthrow of the Ui Neill by Ailill Molt, Cernyw still owes Eirinn an annual tribute in return for Eirish assistance many years ago when Cernyw was under attack from Llewissig. Hywel's failure to pay the customary tribute could result in interference from the Gwydyls, which I don't need or want.

Other than that, I feel well prepared for the ensuing campaign. So, let's see what the throw of the dice will yield.

CHAPTER V

* WHILST THE BATTLE RAGES ON *

According to religious scruple, I didn't set my army in motion for Cernyw until

the moon reached its full and the sacrifices had been made in the temple. The

scouts and horse-archers lead the way as our vanguard. The main body is

composed of the infantry, heavy cavalry, levies and the baggage train. Arawn's

spatharii make up the rear guard.

The long file moves in a cloud of its own making as the caligae of my

marching veterans tramp the Roman via to the southwest along with the clanking

machines of war. The sound of their coming reverberates in every ear,

especially the war songs and patriotic hymns, which rise from century to century

into stirring chants that deafen the heavens with thunderous male voices

reminding one another of the glorious deeds of their ancestors. The men always

get caught up in the sentiment of their tribal memories instilled by such

songs. We Brythons are a hard race, but we're sentimental clods as well, with

a deep-rooted love of poetry and history transcending the norm. It glows in

their faces, those ruddy Celtic faces, and in their singing, so dear to me. I

love to listen to them chanting their little ditties and must confess I get as

caught up in it as the next bloke. They sang:

"We ha'e slain a thousand Eotans,

An' a thousand, thousand Saesnaegs;

We wan' a thousand, thousand, thousand Cernishmen."

And of me, they sang:

"Hywel has kill'd his thousand, thousand, thousand;

But Uthr has cut o' the heads o' a thousand,

Thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand;

May Uthr live a thousand, thousand years,

He who hadst slain his thousand,

Thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand!

Nobody hadst sae much o' wine as

Uthr hadst o' bluid pour'd out, a thousand,

Thousand, thousand, thousand, thousand."

We proceeded on Via Portus from Caer Lludd to Calleva Atrebatum and thence to Sorviodunum, where we picked up the Via Fossus to Erbin's principal fortress in Dyfneint. Here, we received the first good news in the campaign.

Before starting out, I had signal beacons erected starting at Dinas Powys

in Glywysing to Erbin's stronghold, with others in between at the Mount of

Frogs and the Twr of Ynys Witrin. Their purpose is to relay messages between

Urien and me, so I can receive intelligence reports regarding his progress, as

well as pass on instructions for him.

Thus far, his reports are most pleasing. Caer Lloyw has surrendered

without a fight and he's advanced into Cymru unmolested and managed to capture

the entire Hafern squadron by a surprise attack at the wharves without the loss

of a single ship. He's also done quite well in the disposition of his troops.

He left one cohort under Ynwyl at Caer Lloyw to keep the peace in that

quarter. The second under the redoubtable Dyfrig is with him at Caerleon ar

Wysg, his base of operations, and the third under Illtyd has driven as far west

as Nidum without resistance. Thus, his mission is a complete success. He's

done everything I'd asked of him and more.

This seems to be a good omen for the commencement of the campaign. But a

little ticking in the back of my head tells me things are going just too

smoothly to be real. Is it just luck? If so, Dame Fortune has a way of

throwing one a wringer.

This is my first visit to Erbin's new citadel. It sits atop a mass of

limestone two hundred and fifty feet above the surrounding countryside

enclosing a plateau approximately eighteen unlevel erwau within four heavy

ramparts. The walls are limestone blocks quarried from the hill and drystone

slabs of imported lias. The inner wall is revetted inside and out, making the

rampart about ten feet thick.

Bluebells and primroses cover the hill and nettles abound. The western

edge of the plateau offers the best view, and in good weather, there's no

trouble in seeing the signals relayed to us from the Twr, just about thirteen

milliaries to the northwest.

The main entrance is on the southwest facing toward Caer Eaxa which the

Romans called Isca Dumnoniorum. The entrance has a tower and wicker-faced

fighting platform over a sentry walk guarding the two parthion.

Two wells supply adequate water in the event of a siege. The main well is

one hundred feet below the summit near the northeast entrance between the

second and third walls, and a wishing well lies lower down on the northwest

side between the first and second walls.

Two small temples stand within the inner wall, one small oblong shrine at

the western end of the plateau for the worship of Mabon and another wooden

temple eastward near the workshop for the Christians dating back three

centuries. The latter has a nice outer vestibule and inner sanctuary.

Erbin's thatch-rooft hall is made with an infilling of wattle and daub for

the walls, and is divided into two chambers, the larger for the men and the

smaller for the women. The living quarters and kitchen are nearby, as well as

storehouses and other buildings.

My brother wined and dined us well that evening in his hall, whilst my

army encamped around the countryside for the night. Before retiring, I walked

to the highest point and looked around at the ring of campfires from the many

units of my army. I found the sight reassuring.

I only have time to scribble a few notes. We're on the march again having

departed Erbin's stronghold before dawn. As the Via Fossus is in good

condition, we should shortly reach Caer Eaxa. The weather has also cooperated,

so nothing should slow down our rapid advance.

Having just arrived at Caer Eaxa, I'll establish my northern supply depot

here, leaving my quartermasters with the responsibility of resuppling my troops

in the field. Orders have already been given to my vanguard to push on down

the Fossus to Celliwig where I anticipate we'll meet the first resistance to

our progress.

We took Celliwig by storm this afternoon, slaughtering the priestesses and

idolaters there. They'd worshipped the crone Caillech and I put an end forever

to her vile rites by pulling down her temple stone by stone until nothing was

left of it. The Christians among my troops eagrely assisted me.

I'll make Celliwig the southern terminus of my supply line. As Dinas Dore

lies to the southwest and the ford of the Afon Camel which I must cross to

reach Tintagil is to the northwest, Celliwig is perfectly located to be my base

of operations.

The monastery of Tintagil sticks out upon a wind-swept, splintered cliff

of the Cernish Sea, with a narrow causeway as its only connexion to the

mainland. One good cnicht could hold this land-bridge against my entire army.

I'm reminded of the brave Horatius Cocles of Luceria who successfully

defended the Sublician Bridge of Father Tibur against Tarquinius and the whole

Etruscan army giving the Romans time to chop it down beneath him. What a

hero! God forbid I should meet a man of his ilk at Tintagil.

But first I must take Dinas Dore, and despite all of our attempts, it

stands firm on its steep-slopped rock. Hywel even sallied out with his Cernish

legion and fought a pitched battle. During the hand-to-hand combat of this

terse engagement, Erbin spied Foirtchernn mac Feidlimid. His language was

common of the challenge ritual, often boastful and denigrating relative to

one's opponent in the style immortalised by Homer's Iliad.

"Misbegotten swine o' the devil's rib!" I heard my brother bellow above

the roar of battle.

Foirtchernn turnt in his tracks to face his vengeful foe. He too was a

passionately violent man, and Erbin's insult pricked him sorely.

"Dismount frae yer charger, son o' Custennin, an' test yer mettle against

the fabulous Foirtchernn who hadst yer brither kill'd," the caitiff Eirishman

hissed vehemently. "Ken tha' my lineage is as great as yers, tha' I sprin'

frae the House o' Niall o' the Nine Hostages, a greater ard-righ than any

monarch who hast e'er sat upon the insipid cader o' Bryth. Ken alsae tha' I

fear nae man, especially na' a baseborn knave like ye."

Erbin leapt from his war-horse, shouting for joy at Foirtchernn's

determination to fight him, and rushed headlong into the fray. Like a mountain

boulder suddenly having come loose from its moorings and plunging down a sheer precipice with such force it crushes everything in its path, so Erbin slew

dozens of Cernishmen to reach his adversary. Foirtchernn, powerful man that he

was, stood like a rock with his terrible glaive and brazen scutum, vert with a

gold harp stringed argent.

Then they met, face to face, finally and for the last time. One of them

had to die.

The clang of their scuta rang out like angry thunder and the din of their

flashing spathae attracted the attention of every warrior. Around them, all

fighting ceased, and the two armies formed a circle to watch these two mortal

enemies fight to the death.

They stood toe to toe, hacking wound upon gaping wound and splintering

scuta, cassises and cuirasses with horrible strokes. Both armies tensed with

excitement. It had to end soon, for no ordinary men could take such punishment

and survive. But the fight went on.

Then, Foirtchernn's spatha shattered, and he panicked when he saw the

useless hilt left in his hand. He turnt tail and ran from his relentless foe.

Hywel and his Cernishmen hung their heads at Foirtchernn's disgraceful display

and none would open the circle to give him a chance to flee for his life.

Behind him, like a hungry hound in full cry after a frightened stag, Erbin

followed Foirtchernn's every twist and turn. By no more than a hair's breath,

the fleet-footed runner escaped death each instant, dodging before the

keen-edged blade swiping back and forth at his heels.

Foirtchernn reproved the Cernishmen and clamoured for a weapon, but Erbin

swore a death oath for anyone who dared to produce one. The Cernishmen,

fearing Erbin's wrath and remembering Foirtchernn's role in the conspiracy to

murder Emrys Ben-Eur whom they admired, denied his plea for a weapon. So, the fateful race continued with Foirtchernn running swiftly before Erbin's dreadful

spatha.

When Erbin found a hasta stuck fast in the ground and wrenched it free,

Hywel threw his famed spatha, which the gwiddonod of Caer Lloyw had prophesied would bring about his own death, to his kinsman. Foirtchernn leapt into the air and catching the fateful spatha turnt once more to face his foe.

The duel seemed equal again, both armed once more, until Erbin hefted the

fatal hasta and cast with unerring aim. Like a reed in a mighty tailwind, the

long-shadowed hasta whistled through the air, pierced Foirtchernn's stout

scutum, then his armour and chain mail, and finally tore through his right hip

transfixing him. Mother earth groaned from the impact as he crashed to the

ground upon his back, his armour clanking about him. He was unable to flee

further.

Raising himself on an elbow, Feidlimid's son pleaded for his life. "Stay

yer hand, Erbin, a moment longer," he entreated with uplifted hand, "Listen tae

my words. Kill me if it be yer wish, as is yer right, fer ye ha'e won. But if

ye canst feel any pity fer Hywel, my kinsman, who once suffer'd much in the aid

o' yer brither, Emrys Ben-Eur, then restore me tae him an' peace shall reign in

the land once mair. This I swear. But if ye decide tae take my life, then the

deaths tha' follow are upon yer head, fer Hywel an' my kinsman wilna rest 'til

I'm aveng'd or they themselves are all kill'd. They're honour bound tae dae

sae. Spare me now an' Hywel will sue fer peace an' end the bluidshed."

Erbin's hand remained suspended in mid-air, holding his bloodstained

spatha, for Foirtchernn's words rang true. Suddenly, he saw Emrys' signet ring

which Eopa had given to Foirtchernn after killing our brother. Erbin drank in

the sight, like a ravenous vulture over a wounded bird, remembering his oath of

revenge. An ugly scowl crossed my brother's face, fierce and unrelenting as

the holocaust within him engulfed all before it, robbing him of all reason and

compassion.

"Ye beg fer clemency," he retorted in seething fury, "as ye lie at my

feet, wearin' my own brither's ring; ye, the swine who arrang'd his murder an'

bragg'd o' it, implore the mercy o' his grievin' brither? Ne'er!"

As he poured out his heart, Erbin thrust his spatha through Foirtchernn's

belly, disemboweling him. The Eirishman sank to the ground and the light of

life vanished from his terrorised eyes.

Hywel, Pasgen and their men withdrew within the walls of Dinas Dore, and

Erbin stripped Foirtchernn of his armour and Hywel's spatha. He left the

mutilated corpse to stray lammergeiers, and in short work, they left nothing

but bones for the grief-striken Hywel to bury.

In contrast to this bloodletting, it's spring. The hazel is already out,

and under hedges, violets bloom. Yellow gorse and purple heather have sprouted

across the moorland. Brocks and wily tods chase spring maukins. Grebes and

herons dive in sparkling ponds among the reeds, whilst mute swans display their

snow-white plumes, and puffins and red kites dart about in the sky. All to

prove life goes on.

Foirtchernn is dead. Erbin has half of his revenge. Yet, despite these

human events taking place, Mother Nature remains constant, and life,

ever-changing, abounds all around us.

Man can't effect Her laws or Her course. She's timeless. She's the

Mother and we're but one species among Her many creations.

This war will go on but so does life in the same way, untamed, as man

himself is untamed, so is the world in which he lives. It's a wonder.

At the very moment of Foirtchernn's death, new life came into being.

Somewhere a baby cried as it entered this world, a mother clutched it to her

bosom, and a father danced a jig whilst Foirtchernn bled out his life into the

earth beneath him.

Deep in these thoughts, I remember Myrddin having promised me a son by the

most beautiful woman in the world, and I've found her. But she isn't mine.

I'm in love and sick for want of her, this woman, who's the mirror-image of

Albion Diana herself, Brythain's Goddess of Sovereignty; and as the brenhin

must possess the Goddess in order to gain the cader, so I must win Eigyr or

die. But Dinas Dore continues to hold out, and in despair, I've fallen deathly

ill.

Erbin, somewhat mollified since gaining his revenge over Foirtchernn, is

recovering from his own wounds and can't help to bring me out of my illness.

The peerless Pellinore, wishing for peace to be made with our foster-brothers,

Hywel and Idwr, came to the imperial pavilion this morning to ask what is

troubling me.

"Eigyr hast broken my heart," I confessed, "an' unless I canst ha'e her,

I'll ne'er recover."

Pellinore's piercing black eyes narrowed in consternation. "Gawd help

us!" he thundered angrily. "Are ye tellin' me ye've continu'd this mess fer

the sake o' a mere woman?" I remained silent. "Canst this be true," he went

on in a rage, "tha' the Pendragwn o' the Isles, the Brenhin o' All Brythain an'

owrelaird o' Cymru, Celidon an' Lesser Brythain is some lovesick puppy caught

in the spell o' a rib o' the devil, anither man's wife!" When his choleric

temper abated, he groaned, "Certes, someone canst help ye." Then, with an

inkling of comprehension, he realised who was needed. "Uthr, I'll send Osla in

search o' Emrys Myrddin. Only the Prophet o' the Goddess canst help ye now.

He'll ha'e tae think o' somethin', fer I dinna ken wha' tae dae wi' ye an' yer

lovesick heart. War is all I understand an' love."

As he spoke, he clasped Hywel's spatha, that Erbin had given to him, spun

on his heel and left to find Osla. Osla rode off immediately to seek out my

nephew.

But by all reports, Myrddin has supposedly disappeared somewhere in the

mountains of Cymru. They say he has a secret cavern, a grotto like those used

by the druids, deep in the bowels of the Mother. It's his retreat from the

world of men, a dark and gloomy place for the wizard whose dreams portend

future events, and difficult to find. I hope Osla is able to discover its

whereabouts and bring Myrddin to me.

Later, I was to learn, Myrddin had actually left Caer Lludd, with a heavy

heart, before the campaign had begun. A sad dream had come to him, and since

Emrys' death, I've never doubted Myrddin's dreams, for they've aye come true.

Now, he's had another. Two lives dear to him have been thrown into the

scales to be weighed one against the other. He didn't wish to see the events

unfold and had gone to pray at my brother's tomb in the Giants' Dance.

My brother had been so brave and self-sacrificing for his people. His

loss was a great one, and although I'm now in his stead, where I'd always

wished to be, I still miss him. He was, as Erbin said, "our elder brither" and

had been a good one.

So, Myrddin had gone to his father's sepulchre to pray for guidance. But

he told me later nothing in the way of a vision came to him and his knobby

knees grew sore and tired from kneeling so long on the hard stones.

As he knelt there, weary and depressed, he heard the hoofbeats of a horse

galloping across the plain toward the tomb. He rose and looked out at the

approaching rider. Though still in the distance, Osla was recognisable from

the golden wyvern upon his azure scutum and the great size of his famous

spatha. The latter is broader than any spatha I've ever seen, except it's a

Saesnaeg single-edged blade of his mother's people.

There was no wish within Myrddin to speak to anyone, least of all with

Osla, the young son of the Eotan harlot Rhonwen, the seductress who tricked

Gwrtheyrn into betraying his own son and country. So, he thought to take

himself away, but as he considered his next move, it felt as though my

brother's spirit was reaching out and pleading with him to stay. Thus, he

remained, wondering if, indeed, his prayers had been answered after all.

Myrddin had come to the tomb dressed in the rags of a beggar and with soot

smeared upon his brow in the hopes through piety to gain the ear of him to whom

he prayed. Thus, Osla found a beggar, instead of a prophet at the sepulchre,

and looked at the beggar with a disdainful frown. A nobleman such as the

penmaer wouldn't understand such piety, and I must confess in truth I don't

either. But it became clear to Myrddin the Trickster (as he's also known) that

Osla hadn't recognised him.

"Fer whom are ye searchin'?" he inquired; but Osla, being class

prejudiced, held beggars in contempt and, therefore, just scowled in Myrddin's

direction. "Verra well," he continued, "I'll tell ye. Ye're in quest o'

Myrddin the Prophet, an' ye need luik nae further, fer I'm he." Osla flushed

red in embarrassment, for having been caught thinking himself superior as a

human being to a poor man. "Now, ye, gae tae yer laird," Myrddin growled, "an'

tell him I'll obtain Eigyr fer his pleasure, but only if Uthr will reward me as

I ask. E'en tha' will be mair tae his advantage than mine."

"The Pendragwn's munificence is great," the penmaer replied, knowing full

well the exact number of coins and trinkets in the imperial coffers. "Wi'in

reason, I'm sure he'd gi'e ye anythin' in return fer the hoyden."

"I seek nae fortune," Myrddin derided. "The preservation o' his house is

my sole concern."

"Well said," Osla responded. "I'll convey yer message tae the Pendragwn."

"As ye will, penmaer, but listen a moment longer," Myrddin beckoned

sternly. Osla leaned forward to hear his words. "In the grip o' Death, all

men are equal," Myrddin whispered into the wind.

"As ye an' the Grim One share the same feyther, I'll heed yer remonstrance

wi' equal deference," Osla retorted and, with an evil look, wheeled his huge

charger about to return to the encampment.

In a black mood from his ridicule, Osla gallupt back to the imperial

pavilion and testily relayed my nephew's message, which he'd barely finished

delivering, before Myrddin himself materialised to inform me of his plan. I

bade him welcome and the penmaer withdrew leaving us alone.

"Sire," he began, "I ken ye love Eigyr; an' if ye faithfully swear, as the

Pendragwn shouldst, tae gi'e the son whom ye'll beget ontae her intae my care,

I'll fulfill yer fondest dreams an' make her yers." I swore on the Gospel I'd

do so and then beseeched him to tell me how the feat would be accomplished.

"I'm aware o' her gravest secret, her only sin," he acknowledged, "an' taenight

it'll prove tae be her downfall tae yer desire." But he knew more than he

told.

Early on the eve of Mabon's resurrection, Myrddin reappeared at the

imperial pavilion and conducted Osla and I along a hidden path leading to the

ancient Roman causeway to Tintagil. Unknown to me at the time, Hywel saw us

leave the encampment and immediately roused the bravest chieftains of his

garrison to lead a surprise attack upon my weary army.

However, Myrddin knew. He knew all that would transpire that night but

told us nothing, absolutely nothing about it as we rode to Tintagil and Eigyr.

Upon reaching Tintagil, Myrddin proposed to disguise me as Hywel, Osla as

Brastius Blood-Axe and himself as Jordan the Portglave. By this ruse, he said

we would fool Eigyr's bodyguards and the forty or more cowled monks residing at

the monastery, and the parth would be instantly opened to us.

We stopped a short distance away and dismounted. Myrddin, wearing his

shaman's cloak of feathers, drew a circle on the ground.

"Come, Uthr, an' ye too, Osla," Myrddin began. "Enter the circle wi' me,

an' I'll call upon the dragwn o' Uffern tae send his breath tae envelope us."

"Wha' dragwn?" Osla asked, showing his fright at Myrddin's words.

"The dragwn o' Beli Mawr," Myrddin said calmly.

"Na' me," Osla blurted. "Leave me out o' this."

"We need the magic number o' three," Myrddin insisted.

"Well, I'm na' afear'd o' yer dragwn, Myrddin," I interjected and strode

into the circle. "Come, Osla!"

"Why me?" he muttered but joined us as I'd commanded.

Then, Myrddin started a strange chant in the old tongue which I don't

understand. But I was able to pick out a few names and things. Myrddin was

calling upon the dragwn of Uffern.

At first, I saw nothing. But shortly, a thin wisp of white mist, the

dragwn's so-called breath, began to rise. It grew denser and denser,

enveloping us in its mizzling shroud. When I reached out to touch it, I felt a

chill in my bones.

Then, when it surrounded us completely in its icy-cold grasp, the mist

lifted me up into the air as if some invisible hand had taken hold of me and

raised me effortlessly from the ground. I could no longer see either Myrddin

or Osla, although I heard the latter's pleas for an end to this.

Pain assailed me like I'd never felt before or since. My bones were being

stretched to the breaking point. My face ached from distortion, and once

again, Myrddin's supernatural powers made me realise how insignificant we

mortals really are in the scheme of things. As for myself, I felt like an

little insect, a speck of nothingness as compared to the vastness of the

universe, and I didn't like this feeling one bit, for it came too close to

reminding me of my own mortality.

When the mist disappeared as suddenly as it came, I fell to the ground,

landing on my feet. Turning about to my companions, I swore Osla and Myrddin

had been replaced by Brastius and Jordan. From them, I learnt I too had been

changed, at least, in form.

Without saying more, as Osla and I were in a state of shock and incapable

of putting our thoughts to words, the three of us walked in complete silence to

the vallum monasterii, a broad ditch and bank eight feet high and thirty feet

across. As Myrddin had promised, the old monk serving as the porter

immediately admitted us inside the grounds.

The tomb-shrine of St. Juliot, founder and patron saint of the monastery,

sits in the centre and acts as the nucleus of the main group of buildings,

which consist of an oratory, sacristy, treasury and guest house. Beyond these

wooden structures, terraces are quarried into the slopes of the sea-cliffs,

where the cells of the monks, a library, scriptorium, refectory and sweat-house

stand facing out to the Great Western Ocean.

Following Myrddin's directions to the letter, I said I was sleepy and

retired to the guest house. Once alone, I hurriedly undressed, leaving on only

my undershorts, and slipped into the bed prepared for me, as my nephew had told

me to do.

Myrddin, so Osla later told me, descended a steep path to the shingle

beach below where there was a cave. Osla followed him. Myrddin entered the

cave and, if one can believe Osla, lit a fire and began some more of his

strange incantations in the same foreign tongue of the ancients which Osla

didn't understand any more than me.

Knowing my nephew, however, I needn't, nor wish to guess what rites he

performed that night, except I've no doubt in my mind he worked his magic for

the realisation of what he desired; and if I got what I wanted in the bargain,

it was only because it served his end, not mine. I've never forgotten this and

have distrusted Myrddin's motives from that point on.

Meanwhile, Hywel had gallupt out of his stronghold at the head of his

brave soldiers and ran riot in the ranks of Bawdewyne's Armoricans. He

slaughtered hundreds in their sleep ere the alarm was even given, including all

of Bawdewyne's brothers.

Upon hearing the din of battle, Bawdewyne, my dear sister's husband, and

the peerless Pellinore, who happened to be dining with the good Tywyssawc Llu

or Comes Stabuli of Lesser Brythain, hastily took up arms and, gathering a

small body of men about them, led a counterattack to drive the Cernishmen back

and stop them from profaning the slain Armoricans. Bawdewyne wept as he hewed

his way through his attackers, for he knew his brothers were dead to a man.

The fury of Bawdewyne, another former member of the Ambrosiaci, was

awesome. Thirty, forty warriors fell before him, as he slashed with his

gluttonous spatha, wrecking ruin and death wherever he went. The Cernishmen

fled in terror as Bawdewyne rushed in and out, causing a sea of blood to flow

from hideous wounds.

But lion-hearted Hywel wouldn't move before Bawdewyne's approach.

Determined to meet him, he stood his ground, grumpling at Bawdewyne's success. He raised his argent scutum bearing the red lion rampant ensigned with a diadem of gold and advanced to meet his foe, once a brother-in-arms.

"Bawdewyne, I'm here," he roared. "Here stands Hywel, the slayer o' yer

kith an' kin!"

My brother-in-marriage saw red and dashed at his onetime friend. But poor

Bawdewyne was no match for the mighty Hywel. He was the superior of the two by far and he knocked Bawdewyne to the ground with a single vicious blow to his

cassis.

Akhillean Pellinore, who'd been killing more Cernishmen than even

Bawdewyne, saw the horrible stroke and stood paralised. Wha' a warrior, he

thought. Is this, then, the man I'm tae meet, Hywel the High Rica o' Cernyw?

His heart fluttered in his powerful chest, as he wondered if he was worthy of

the contest. But when he saw Hywel unlacing Bawdewyne's cassis in order to

behead him, the peerless Champion of Champions could hold back no longer.

"Hywel!" he shouted sounding like an enraged eagle screaming from the

snowcapped aerie of Yr Wyddfa.

The High Rica looked up with a grisly smile on his fierce face and jumping

to his feet pounded the pommel of his spatha upon his proud chest. The

earsplitting thunderclaps raised from Hywel's armour stopped the battle

instantly. Everyone watched as the two great heroes, like gods of old, raced

at one another.

The impact of their scuta, the lion of Cernyw versus the Beste Glatissant,

rang with deafening force, and their spathae played an unholy song. It was

fearful for those around them to see and for Myrddin, too, who saw all in his

mind's eye from the cave of Tintagil, thirty miles away.

They were bent on death, although they both respected and loved the other,

like the Eirish legend of Cuchulainn and Fergus mac Roy, who also fought to the

death, although they loved one another dearly. But Pellinore's spatha was the

better. It was Hywel's very own spatha, an equal of Fergus' Caladbolg meaning

'hard lightning'. Lightning, indeed, crackled around them from the clash of

their flashing spathae.

But recognising his own spatha in Pellinore's hands, Hywel remembered the

prophecy and shrank back. Then, with an irresistible thrust, the cnicht of the

Beste Glatissant lunged forward, driving the spatha to the hilt through Hywel's

leather and metal-ringed byrnie and into his bosom. Hywel clutched his chest

and sank to the ground.

"An' sae I perish," he lamented, "but at least, it couldst na' ha'e bin

brought aboot by a mair worthy hand."

A mournful groan retched itself through the victor's clenched teeth and

lips. "Ye once sav'd my life," Pellinore remembered aloud.

"Tis best, auld friend. I nae longer wish'd tae live," Hywel stammered as

his breath rattled in ragged gasps. "I hadst dishonour'd mysel' by protectin'

the guilty an' allowin' this terrible war tae claim sae many innocent lives."

The last thing Hywel saw were the tears streaming down Pellinore's cheeks,

and then his ghost passed from this world. "Farewell, Hywel," Pellinore wept

and clasped his dead childhood friend in his arms.

It was at this moment Cynfawr, Meirchion's third son and Hywel's brother,

cast his hasta at Pellinore. But seeing the throw, Esclabor leapt forward with

his great scutum bearing the famed Ishtar Gate purpure paled and caught the

unerring flight of the hasta upon the boss, saving Pellinore's life. Not even

this could stir the peerless one to action, for he continued to weep over the

body of his departed foster-brother.

No one dared go near, except for one. Idwr the Invincible, tears

streaking down his own face, came forward to claim his brother's body or fight

for it should Pellinore not relinquish the remains.

But Pellinore had no heart left in him. He placed Hywel's body in Idwr's

arms. The two onetime boon companions didn't speak, nor have they ever spoken

to each other since that day. Perhaps, at that sad, sad moment, the two old

friends remembered their boyhood days, when Hywel, Idwr, Pellinore and I played together under Meirchion's protective wings. But, after this event,

Pellinore's face never bore a smile again. He watched Idwr and young Arthegall

by his side sobbing for his slain father return to Dinas Dore with Hywel's body

and, then, staggered from the field under the protection of Esclabor's scutum.

With the departure of Idwr bearing the lifeless body of the High Rica of

Cernyw, the Cernish legion began to withdraw within their walls. Only eight

warriors remained to continue the fight and they rushed headlong into the ranks

of the entire imperial army as though they longed to die with their fallen

leader.

But my champions proceeded to make short work of these rash young lads.

Aunsyr the Palmer, a Christian of Uncle Bran's house, received the charge of

Cynfawr and Bodwyn Dda; but when Cynfawr deserted his brother out of jealousy and fled, Cousin Aunsyr cut young Bodwyn down with a grievous wound.

Pernehan, another of Bodwyn's brothers, came to his rescue and bestrode

his body. Like a wild she-bear making a stand against chasing hounds to

protect her cub, Pernehan took on all comers and attempted against great odds

to defend his fallen brother from further harm. He wounded Aunsyr on the arm

and forced him to retire, but a whole host of others took his place, trying to

bring down the second brother and strip them both of their armour, which bore

the royal coat-of-arms of Cernyw. Seeing young Pernehan in trouble, Tallwch

the Pecht and Meliodas of Llewissig, two former members of the renowned

Ambrosiaci, fought with honour to gain his side and, for a moment, turnt the

tide in their favour.

But then two of my best champions, Gyner the Ecttwr of Mathtrafal and

Eiddilig Edorides, entered the fray, driving Pernehan and Meliodas before

them. Suddenly, two more former members of the Ambrosiaci in the service of

Cernyw, Brastius Blood-Axe and Jordan the Portglave, joined the melee.

Brastius, bearing his famous scutum (sable, a battle-axe bendwise or, headed

argent sanglant) attacked Gyner, but they were so evenly matched no one won the

upper hand; and Jordan fought Eiddilig to a standstill.

My brother, Erbin, also came forward, searching for but one man, Pasgen ap

Gwrtheyrn, the author of this madness. When they met, the other Cernishmen

were still fighting in defence of the wounded Bodwyn.

Erbin shouted for joy. "Pasgen, here is Erbin, the slayer o' yer nephew,

Foirtchernn!"

"An' taenight ye'll greet my nephew," Pasgen retorted, flying at Erbin

with his bloodstained spatha. Before him went his warlike scutum: argent, a

lion rampant sable, collared with a chain reflexed over the back or,

differenced in the chief with a molet for the third son.

They clashed and strove against one another like young bulls in a field,

goring their enemy with flashing horns. But neither would retreat a step.

"Ken tha' tis I, Erbin ap Bendigeid Custennin, who spills yer bluid in

retribution fer my brither's foul murder!" he bellowed in his fury.

"An' ye ken tha' I, Pasgen ap Gwrtheyrn, wi' the death o' Hywel will reign

in Cernyw as the high rica, once I remove Hywel's brithers, an' then, I'll

claim Eigyr the Unparallel'd Beauty, yer kinswoman, as my bedwench. Remember tha' in the darkest depths o' Uffern, where I'm gaein' tae send ye."

In full frenzy from Pasgen's words, Erbin clutched his spatha in both

hands, lifted it high above his head, and swung it down with all his might.

The blade caught Pasgen on the left side of his neck, bore through his upper

torso, and came out under his right arm, severing him into two unequal parts.

Looking upon Pasgen's sundered corpse lying at his feet, Erbin rejoiced.

"Sae, ye wouldst ha'e sent me tae Uffern. Well, luik at ye now, ye witch's

son. Hail the dragwn in Uffern an' yer feyther fer me wi' a curse upon them

all."

Returning to camp, Erbin informed Pellinore, his two kinsmen, Segurant and

Brunor, and Pellinore's fere, Esclabor, of the fight over Bodwyn Dda. The four

heroes left Erbin in the care of my chief physician and returnt themselves to

the melee at once. Immediately seeing the honour in the fruitless but glorious

effort of the five remaining Cernishmen, they stopped the battle, ordering

their men back, and with a respectful salute of their spathae, permitted the

valiant defenders to honourably withdraw with the wounded Bodwyn. Thus ended the Battle of Dinas Dore.

By then, having grown tired, I'd fallen fast asleep far away in the guest

house at Tintagil; but suddenly, I bolted awake. A pair of soft feminine lips

were caressing me. There was a naked female in bed with me and she was rubbing her womanly breasts against my hairy chest.

Then, she began to kiss her way down my muscular torso to my aroused

loins. She slid her hand into my undershorts. I wore nothing else.

I raised my head and recognised my heart's desire. She squeezed my

throbbing manhood in her hand and extracted it from my drawers, smiling in

appreciation as she did so. I sighed in bliss as she lowered her ruby-red

lips.

I realised now why Myrddin had disguised me as Eigyr's husband. She's one

of those lucky women who enjoys the act of love. But being a nominal Christian

for the sake of a powerful minority of her subjects who come from the best of

families, she could, in her mortal life, only give herself to her lawful

husband. Otherwise, she'd be accused, convicted and sentenced to death for

adultery at the insistence of this same small coterie of influential Christian

aristocrats.

They'd like nothing more than to unmask their heritrix rex as a high

priestess of the moon-goddess and make an example of her in order to increase

the glory of Holy Mother Church in combating heresy. But their real purpose

would be to do away with the system of matrilineal inheritance in Cernyw, which

the Christian hierarchy strongly opposes; and since Eigyr is the symbol of that

system in her dominions, the Christians would love to see her fall.

Her need for sexual fulfillment, however, drives her very being as the

central reason for her existence; and like the other priestesses of the

moon-goddess, she enjoys nothing more than prolonging the sex act as long as

humanly possible. She'd been trained in the school of the Burd of the Loch at

Carbenoit, where I'm reminded Myrddin had also been schooled in the arts of

wizardry, giving me pause to wonder if there was and possibly still is a

connexion between the two of them relative to their joint worship of the

Goddess and the spread of her faith.

I felt a flow of pity for her, which was, perhaps, misplaced. If a woman

can be a perfect burd in her husband's hall as well as a sex-hungry harlot in

his bedchamber, maybe he is, indeed, a most fortunate man.

Such a woman would certainly be preferable to me, instead of one of these

cold fish whom the orthodox fathers of Roman Catholicism have taught not to

enjoy the sex act, as according to them it's only for procreation, and not for

pleasure. Indeed, who would want such a frigid or unresponsive woman, taught

and believing such nonsense, when one can have a hot-blooded feline who takes

her pleasure just like a man.

I began to envy Hywel his good fortune, for I thought this would be the

one and only time I'd ever have with her, and I'd have to live with this memory

for the rest of my life. Little did I know events having already occurred

would change my destiny forever.

Eigyr climbed upon me and lowered her womanhood down onto my turgid

organ. We engaged in intercourse. It was different with the woman on top.

I'd never done it that way erenow. She's more imaginative than I. It was also

less work for me. I just laid back and enjoyed it.

A long time later, we both lay spent and exhausted, with my scalding seed

imbedded deep in her fertile womb. Myrddin had promised there would be a son.

At dawn, Myrddin appeared, roused me and hastened me to depart. Eigyr

awoke briefly and begged me to stay with her. But I knew I had to leave or

soon be discovered.

When I left the guest-house, I spied Lent-lilies growing about St.

Juliot's shrine and, on the spur of the moment, picked a bouget, which I took

back to Eigyr. She'd fallen asleep again, so I left the flowers on the bed

beside her and being a man couldn't resist giving my sleeping love a farewell

kiss.

Eigyr sighed in her sleep, and I knew I'd love her forever, no matter

what. Even knowing, as I now do, she's a wanton druidess in the cloth of the

Lamb, I love her. I love her, despite whatever she is.

As both she and Myrddin worship the Goddess, I'm almost certain Eigyr is

quite possibly either deeply or unwittingly involved in a plot engineered by

Myrddin to produce an Antichrist to combat the spread of Christianity. Of

course, the worship of the Goddess includes the continuation of her

matriarchies, to which I'm personally opposed, therefore, making me, perhaps,

the unwittingly tool in this sordid affair, which it would be if I've correctly

guessed their conspiracy and its true purpose.

Later in the morning, Eigyr awoke with the horrible news Hywel had been

slain. The informant, the real Brastius Blood-Axe, whose downcast eyes stared

at her tiny feet for fear of looking into her face, told her husband had

died the previous night, hours before the two of us had made love. She gaped

at Brastius in disbelief.

"It canna be sae," she shrieked, taking her head in her hands and rocking

on her feet as though she was about to fall.

Brastius, a dour sober-minded man who strongly represents and believes in

the old traditions, mistakenly thought in her grief over the loss of her

husband she was going to faint and reached out with his massive hands to steady

her. "Tis all true, my burd. I'm sorry tae ha'e bin the one tae ha'e tae tell

ye."

Eigyr scarcely heard him. Her mind reeled in disbelief. "How couldst it

be?" she asked herself. I hadst only jus' slept wi' him last night.

The thought that the likeness of her husband must have been an evil

dusius, perhaps, even the archdaimon himself, greatly troubled her. Out of

fear of what might be produced from this apparent unholy union, she remained

silent, confiding her worries to no one, most especially not her chaplain,

Tyfriog, who after having been consecrated in the service of God by St.

Garbanin had become the leader of the Christian faction in Cernyw.

CHAPTER VI

* YE GREAT AND SMALL, ALL HAIL BRYTHAIN'S ROYAL HEIR! *

With the deaths of Hywel, Pasgen and Foirtchernn, the war ended. The

eleven-man council of Cernish elders, remembering Pellinore's graciousness on

the field of battle, enjoined Idwr to make peace.

There being no High Rica yet chosen to replace his slain brother, Idwr, as

the dialwr or 'war leader', was next in command but not necessarily next in the

line of succession to the Cernish cader, as whomever Eigyr, the heritrix rex,

selected as her next husband would have that right. Therefore, Idwr had

nothing to gain by continuing the war and everything to lose if he lost it.

Likewise, Erbin, Pellinore and the rest of my chieftains recommended leniency;

and over the objections of Osla, who wished to exact a heavy tribute, Idwr and

I were reconciled.

Once this was accomplished, Dyfrig made a tactful suggestion to Tyfriog,

proposing the original marital alliance planned between Cernyw and the

Pendragwn be changed. Tyfriog agreed and publicly announced Hywel's young

widow, instead of his sister, should become the Pendragwness.

My heart leapt for joy. Eigyr would be mine at last.

It was agreed Archbishop Brice as the Christian Primate, assisted by

Dyfrig and Tyfriog, would marry us thirteen days later, appropriately upon a

Aprilis morn, the time of beginnings. The wedding would take place at Caer

Lludd in the small Christian church named after Paulos of the Letters to the

Corinthians. I'd specifically chosen a Christian wedding in an attempt to

further unify my realm.

Nascent Christianity contends with two rival religions in Brythain proper,

the druidism of the Celts and the Aryan paganism of the Englo-Saesnaegs. As I

see it, the heathenism of our past, from the Tigris to the Tiber and from the

Tiber to the Tamesis, is passing out of existence; and whilst heathendom is

shrinking, Christiandom is growing by leaps and bounds.

But even so, the Church of Jesus is itself divided. On the continent, two

Christian faiths are contending one against the other for supremacy. The

Hellenic-Romans have adopted orthodox Catholicism as their universal faith,

which is nothing more than a hoax, as their leadership is irrevocably divided

between the Pope at Roma and the Patriarch of the Eastern Orthodox Church at

Caer Custennin.

Their chief rival in Europe, though, is Arianism. The Arians maintain God

consists of only Him alone and that the Son isn't God Himself. Catholicism, on

the other hand, claims the Godhead is composed of a Trinity, God, Christ and

Bath-kol, although the New Testament has absolutely no knowledge of the Trinity

or the Athanasian Creed.

Most of the Germanic tribes, such as the West goths, thus far accepting

Christianity have adopted the simpler Arian heresy. The Franks, for example,

are divided over the issue.

Among my own people, a similar division exists. The more popular

Pelagianism of the larger Celtic Church in Brythain predominates among the

peasantry, whereas the aristocracy, though smaller in number, mostly follow

Roman Catholicism.

But ever since A.B. Fourteen Hundred and Eighty-Eight, Roman Catholicism

has been on the upswing. In that year, the Roman senate decreed an end to the

worship of the gods of their forefathers replacing the old faith with Roman

Catholicism as the state religion of the Imperium. Thus, popery has grown in

strength throughout the old provinces of the Imperium, as represented by

Myrddin's cousin Dyfrig, now playing a greater and more important role in the

leadership of extending the popedom in my realm. Seeing this and recognising

the shift in the wind, I've aligned myself with the popish branch of the

Christian Church.

Part of my reason for doing so concerns the Gwrtheyrnians, my dynastic

enemies. They long ago became entrenched in the Pelagian faction. Therefore,

I chose their opposition in the Church for my own group.

But my decision wasn't based upon that alone. I also hold abiding

respect and admiration for the late pontiff, Leo. He had the audacity to face

Atzel the Scourge of God, whom we called Athsel, and to turn him away from his

purpose of sacking Roma. Such a brave priest as this is deserving of high

regard and, therefore, so also is his Church.

But I'm reminded of the Epistle of Polycarp to the Philippians. He

asserts we're promised entrance through the Parthion of Paradise if we "love

those things which He loved, abstaining from all unrighteousness, inordinate

affection, and love of money, from evil speaking, false witness, not rendering

evil for evil, or railing for railing, or striking for striking, or cursing for

cursing."

If all of this is true, then how things have changed from the inception of

the Church of God, for if we're Christians today the Apostles were heretics.

Indeed, if the Pope is Christian, then Paulos wasn't; and if the Nicean Creed

is Christian, then the Dove of Peace was just a poor Jew.

Personally, I think, if what the Son of God preached is to come true, the

faithful must ignore dogma. Peace must reign. Justice must be for all

humankind, regardless of race, colour, creed, religion, national origin,

financial or cultural background, physical condition, age, gendre, or

sexuality. Virtue and righteousness must be the source of happiness, and truth

must be the catechism to which all must adhere, for that above in Heaven

shouldn't concern us down here on earth. That above is God's business and none

of ours whilst we're still alive.

The Laird Jesus Christ had, it seems to me, but one dogma, His own divine

Sonship and the divinity of His mission. But apparently, this has been

subordinated by His latent followers, who finally coming into their own, wish

to secure their unrivalled power over others by placing greater restrictions

upon them than their Master originally sought.

Yet, I understand this thirst for power and know how to use it. Perhaps,

that's why in the final analysis I've chosen this course, because these popes

are kindred spirits. They're a patriarchal group, monarchists in their own

right, desiring and making themselves reguli here on earth.

I understand all of this only too well. I'm a patrician by birth,

monarchal by right of succession, and in favour of the rule of men over women

by the believe it's God's will. Therefore, these Roman popes and I see

eye-to-eye on all the basic issues that concern us the most.

Now, if they'll only mind their business, occupying themselves with the

spiritual world, and leave this world to me, then, we'll get along famously.

Like Him who rules above, this is my realm down below, and I'm just as jealous

of my dominions as He is of His. So, let His popes stay out of my affairs, and

I'll stay out of theirs. But when we can help one another, it would seem

prudent to do so, for we can be great allies, because we already share so much

in common, especially our philosophy, at least, as I see it.

I believe I've made the right decision in this matter, for it appears to

be the way of the future. In the final analysis, that's why I chose Archbishop

Brice the Primate to marry Eigyr and I, because he's the ranking prelate of the

Roman Catholic Church in the Island; and hopefully, this step will more firmly

bind the Church and its parishioners to the Cader, with the ascendancy of my

dynasty being secured forever and ever.

The future of my house, of course, is my chief motive here, not religious

dogma. Those issues belong to the Church and are none of my concern. My

beliefs are my own business, and I can't allow scruples to interfere with the

good of the Cader, my top priority.

Nor can I permit the matriarchal beliefs of my bride-to-be to get in my

way. I must make her understand her place is at my side as my good and devoted

wife and mother of my son who'll someday inherit my diadem. She must refrain

from any practices that might embarrass me, such as publicly professing any

beliefs different from the Church.

Just like me, of course, what she does in private is her own affair; and I

won't let anyone, even the Holy Father in Roma, to pry into her personal

business any more than I'd allow anyone to stick his nose into mine. By

shielding her from the forces of the outside world, I can keep her from harm's

way. After all she is to be my Pendragwness, and it's the duty of a loyal

husband to protect the one he loves with his life if necessary. Let it never

be said I'd do differently, for in truth I love her with all of my heart, all

of my being, and I'd never allow any harm to come to her, certainly not because

of her beliefs which might be contrary to those of the Church.

On the sun-filled morning of our wedding day, the capital lifted her

banners and ribbons in gusts of a mild wind. Bairns ran before us tossing

flower petals and the multitudes filled the windows and viae, straining their

necks to catch a glimpse of the bridal party as it passed by.

Leading the procession, trumpeters blew sonorous strains, and harpers and

lutists plucked away at their gossamer strings. Behind them came fifty

champions of the Order of Mabon, each accompanied by one hundred mounted

men-at-arms. Then, I followed, with a column of hastati behind me.

Our high-stepping coursers clip-clopped over the cobblestones and we waved

gaily at the onlookers hanging out of windows and waving back at us from the

viae. The pennons from five thousand lances fluttered in the air, and more

banners all along our route rose up high in the slight breeze. The colours

were magnificant and I loved it all. It was my wedding day and I loved my

bride more than I'd ever loved any woman before.

I was dressed in my most splendourous attire, fully armed. The people

cheered the loudest as their Divine Pendragwn passed upon my black as midnight

steed.

The cheers rose again behind me, and I knew the people were shouting their

approval for Eigyr, my bride, riding in her carrus. As planned, she would be

the last to arrive at the Church, with her young son Gormant to give her away.

My heart was bursting with happiness. It was a glorious day.

We arrived at the church, dismounted to cheers again and entered inside.

I waited nervously at the altar for my blushing bride. Like all men at times

like this, I, standing there by custom with the marriage contract in my left

hand, was no different than any other waiting for his love to arrive. My knees

shook.

When she entered the church with young Gormant at her side and strode

proudly up the aisle to stand at my side, she took my breath away. Four pure

white doves rested in her outstretched hands until she released them to fly

about within the church.

Before her walked her three daughters and young Llysabedd, too. They all

looked so darling, but nowhere as beautiful as my bride.

She wore a tunica recta of cloth-of-gold with a light woolen girdle, an

ermine-fringed mantle of royal purple, saffron slippers, ten score pearls

strung about her regal throat, and a chaplet of yellow Lent-lilies rested

easily above her burnished brow. Through her flame-like veil, I hoped to

perceive the look of love shining within the glow of her lowered lavender-blue

eyes, but I couldn't tell beyond the fulsome blush of her round cheeks with

their traditional three curls on each. There was, however, a timorous smile

gracing her bonny visage that grew and beamed with happiness as she placed her

hand in mine. Like Caswallawn, I knew I'd found my Fflur, soon to be decked in

a royal coronet of pure gold.

I wore a mighty diadem. But I scarce felt the weight of it, nor the

obressive heat early for such a spring day. Perspiration, either from the

unexpected heat or my nervousness, ran in rivulets down my back and coated my

arms and forehead. However, it was as nothing, for I was on the verge of my

destiny; and my mind soared like a flight-mad swan, knowing only the uplifting

caress of the wind which carried me up through the sky to the heavens, to

Paradise, the eventual marriage bed of my beloved, and the bliss of her bower,

a dragwn-winged vessel rising upon the ninth wave.

I scarce remember the ceremony, only the mumbling of the I dos, the kiss

afterwards and my elation. It was heaven on earth.

At my request, Llysabedd who'd expressed her desire to be wed to Meliodas

the Handsomest of Men was granted her wish. They, too, were united in holy

matrimony, although her brother, Cynfawr, opposed their nuptials. But Meliodas

whisked his bride away to Llewissig and out of Cynfawr's reach.

Eigyr's youngest lass, golden-haired Modron was promised to Urien of Gower

as we'd agreed. Thereafter, he immediately took up residence at Caerlaverock

Merse in Rheged as the Gwledig of the Novantae and charged his golden scutum

with Modron's long green sleeve from the gown he'd first seen her in, as a

replacement for his old coat-of-arms, the black raven.

The two eldest lasses were also betrothed, raven-haired Morg-Anna to

Gwyar, and red-haired Hel-Aine to Nentor. I saw to it that these two couples

were immediately married, with large estates inherited from their mother.

Gwyar took the appellation of 'Llew Lothian' designating himself as the lion of

his new domain. I elevated Nentor, the hitherto Pechtish chieftain of the

ancient people living in the Rhinns of Walweitha, to the rank of yerl and

placed his fiefdom under Urien.

By these moves, Celidon is in my power, and the northern border of

Brythain is now quite secure. Nearly as important, Eigyr's two eldest

daughters are settled in distant estates and are out of my hair.

Unfortunately, the youngest, who does nothing to hide her hatred of me, is

still living at the palatium with Eigyr and me. All of them to be sure blame

me for their father's death, but Modron is the most obvious of the lot. So,

I'll certainly be glad when she is finally old enough to marry her betrothed,

for I won't miss having her around my palatium.

Bodwyn was nursed back to health by the Burd Anglides and they have fallen

in love with each other. It has pleased me to see the love grow between the

latter two, for of all the couples they alone are sinless.

I invited Cunedag II and his kinsmen of the cenedl of Cunedag the Burner

to the wedding and all came. We made peace, too. I was glad to see Gyner

again, that proud, simple and honest dialwr of his kindred.

My marriage to Eigyr has also restored peace in my own house. The cenedl

of Amlawdd Gwledig rejoiced at our wedding and a reunification of the

descendants of Cynan Meriadawc.

Eigyr herself breathed a sigh of relief when Tyfriog returnt with my

kinsmen to Lesser Brythain. I've since heard he's founded a civitas on the

north shore named after himself. At any rate, he's no longer around to spy on

my wife and her activities.

But the most important thing of all is the first time in a decade, since

the death of my brother, Emrys, the realm is united again under one sceptre,

mine. I'm finally the true Pendragwn, though, God knows how long it will last,

for Myrddin had told me, it seems a lifetime ago, my star would be brief. But

now that I have the happiness I sought, I don't wish to be parted from it.

Moreover, with peace, perhaps, I can begin the quest I've long dreamt

about. Years ago in my youth, I'd made the friendship of two fine young men

around my age, Remus the Roman and Troiano, son of Archon Troas of Thessaly.

At the time, Remus was a tribune and would later rise to consular rank, and

Troiano was the polemarch or 'war-ruler' of Thessaly and would oneday succeed

his father as the archon.

The three of us ventured together to the Troad and the ruins of old Ilium,

and like Alisander Mawr, we envisioned ourselves in the sandals of Akhilleus,

Patroklos and Hektor striving across the Plain of Ilios. With Homer's book as

our guide, I played the role of Akhilleus, who'd known he'd die young but

gloriously and was willing to forego old age for fame and an early death. Not

even being dipped in the Afon Styx by his goddess-mother could save him from

his fate. Little did I know, then, that I was to be allotted the same end.

Time, we've so little of it. But I have dreams yet unfulfilled.

For his fight against Hektor, Akhilleus' mother gave him new armour and

weapons forged in heaven by Hephaistos, God of Fire and Metalworking. Years

ago, I wished to find them.

Now, I dream of a spatha but not any ordinary spatha. I dream of the

Spatha of Power, Lludd's own spatha; and he who possesses it holds the power

and the right to rule an imperium, for Lludd is the Brythonic Zeus or Jove, and

his spatha is one of Brythain's four high hallows.

Of course, there've been others who've had such dreams of unlimited power,

Cyrus, Xerxes, Alisander, Caesar and Atzel. So, I dream also, of a New Roma.

And why not? There're precedents for it. Others have come out of my tiny

Island to become imperators of Roma.

Between anno Brythain Twelve Hundred and Ninety-three and Fifteen Hundred

and Eleven, no less than three imperators, nine pretenders and two others of

Brythonic descent who usurped the diadem came from my Island, the most remote

province of the Roman Imperium. Only Roma itself has produced more claimants

for the purple.

Decimus Clodius Albinus was the first. Being named Caesar or junior

imperator failed to pacify his ambitions and he crossed the sea to Gaul where

he maintained the imperial dignity for four years. Eventually, he fell at the

Battle of Lugdunum by the hand of Lucius Septimus Severus Pertinax. The latter

died at Eburacum, our Eborawc, in Thirteen Hundred and Eleven after long and

painful bouts with the gout that kept him litter-bound during his campaigns

against the Pechts in the north. His two sons, Antoninus Caracalla and Geta,

were proclaimed joint imperators upon their father's death and rushed back to

Roma. Within a year, Caracalla slew his brother, but his detestable cruelties

brought about his own assassination in Thirteen Hundred and Seventeen.

During the third century of the Christian era, Bonosus, son of a Brythonic

schoolmaster, temporarily usurped the cader. His reign ended in a quick death.

Marcus Aurelius Carausius, commander of the fleet protecting the Saesnaeg

shore, was next. In Thirteen Hundred and Eighty-seven, he established the

independent sovereignty of the Island under his sceptre but lost it six years

later to his chief financial officer, Allectus, who had him killed.

Allectus continued to rule for another three years until being defeated

and slain by Asclepiodotus, the loyal praefect of Custenhys the Pale.

Custenhys came to the Island and was the second legitimate imperator to die at

Eborawc. Upon his death in Fourteen Hundred and Six, the Roman legionaries

raised his famous son, Custennin Mawr, upon their scuta, proclaiming him as his

father's successor. He eventually became the sole imperator and founded Caer

Custennin named after himself.

In Fourteen Hundred and Fifty, Magentius, who was half Brython, usurped

the cader, driving out Custennin's son, Custens I. But Magentius was himself

overthrown three years later by Custennin's last surviving son, Custenhys II.

Then, in Fourteen Hundred and Eighty-Three, Macsen Gwledig came to the

fore. He'd married a native heritrix rex, Elen, for whom Sarn Elen or Via

Helena is named, and, feeling slighted that his kinsman's son should be chosen

for the purple over himself, rose in rebellion, proclaimed himself imperator

right here in our tiny Island, crossed over to Gaul and held the entire West in

his grasp until his defeat and execution five years later.

In Fifteen Hundred and Six, Marcus and then Gratian declared for the

purple in the Island, but both were murdered by their own troops in quick

succession. Exasperated, the Brythonic legions, finally, chose Custennin the

Cernishman. Some say he was a common soldier whose name reminded his fellows of the great Custennin, so they raised him on their scuta; but the truth is he was the second son of Macsen, born to Elen in Cernyw. Following his father's

example, he stripped the Island of its military forces, crossed over to Gaul,

raised his son, Custens II, as Caesar, suffered defeat and death in Fifteen

Hundred and Eleven after his son had already met his fate the prior year as the

result of the betrayal of Geraint, his kinsman. With the demise of Custennin,

the story of Britannia ended and the story of Brythain resumed.

But the blood of Macsen and Custennin flows in my veins, as does their

unfinished dream, now mine, and I must find a way to make it come true. But

for now, I need to consolidate my power base, because of all those before me

only one was successful in his quest, Custennin Mawr. So, I must plan wisely

if I wish to be the second.

As for my champions and even those of Hywel, I created new peerages or

filled the vacancies with those who'd proven their loyalty. I elevated the

peerless Pellinore to Gwledig of Eborawc, the second civitas of the realm and

seat of the northern march of Brythain. Arawn I made commander of the Antonine Wall with the title of dux to guard against the Pechts and Eiddilig the Gwledig of Llyndissig to protect the shore along the Mor Tawch from invasion by the Saesnaegs. To Pellinore's deserving kinsman, Segurant, I gave the title of

Cnicht y Dragwn so he can fight for me in trial by combat. I also made him the

Praetor of the Guard, with Brunor the Brown as his second, and gave their

former tribunates to Brastius Blood-Axe and Jordan the Portglave. For Warok

who'd protected me at sea, I placed him in command of the imperial navy, with

orders to sink any longboat in our waters.

At my palatium, I watched my sister, the Blonde Emeree, named after

Cuchulainn's wife, nurse her husband back to health. When he was well again, I

refused to allow Bawdewyne to return to Lesser Brythain and made him my new

Tywyssawc Llu or Comes Stabuli to replace Erbin. I raised my brother to the

owrelairdship of not only Dyfneint but also Cernyw and Llewissig as well,

making Idwr and Meliodas report to him. That move placed the whole southwest,

the old Roman sector of Damnonia, under closer supervision.

The elevation of Idwr to the cader of his late brother accomplished

another of my goals. It put an end to the matrilineal right of succession in

favour of the law of primogeniture in Cernyw and, secondly, made me look

forgiving through such a princely gesture, as I could claim Cernyw myself

through my marriage to Eigyr. However, in truth, if I'd done so, it would have

reinforced the right of matrilineal inheritance, which is anathema to me.

I gave the title of comes to the fifty cnichts who attended me on the day

of my wedding as they're the most loyal of my adherents. I also plan to

establish a new order of cnichthood comprised of these same cnichts to be

called the Order of the Pendragwn. I'm only waiting for the right moment to

make the announcement.

A short time after my marriage, it became clear Eigyr was with child. I

grew alarmed at the prospect her baby could be either Hywel's or mine. Thus,

one night as we lay in bed together, I asked her who the father of the unborn

child might be. My question caused Eigyr to shake with dread. She'd expected

it, but when the question finally came, all the practiced answers to tell me

what she feared might be true fled her memory, leaving her in speechless tears.

"Dinna luik sae dismay'd," I murmured in her ear, "but tell me the truth

an' I swear I'll love ye all the mair fer it."

"The truth is I hadst lain wi' a dusius," Eigyr sobbed. "Fer certes, it

mus' ha'e bin sae. The spirit appear'd tae me in the image o' Hywel who,

unbekenn'd tae me, was already dead. Please, dinna hate me, Uthr; but I'm a

woman, an' as ye ken, I ha'e come tae enjoy lovemakin'. Sae, when the daimon

appear'd, I ga'e mysel' tae it, as I wouldst ha'e daen wi' Hywel, who afterall

was my husband; an' tha' night, I swear, this chiel was conceiv'd."

Once Eigyr completed her confession, she hid her beautiful face in her

slender hands and wept silently, for she was ashamed and afraid that I, whom

she truly loved, would send her away in revulsion. But I laughed in joy and

held my gorgeous raven-haired bride in my arms.

"Well spoken," I chortled. "Twas I who impersonat'd Hywel, sae the babe

is mine."

I then related to her the story of how Myrddin had arranged it, and she

was overjoyed to hear her husband was the real father of her unborn child. How

could a man be more lucky than I? I'm married to the most beautiful woman in

the whole realm, and she loves me, too.

Even pregnant, she's gorgeous. Her firm, triumphant breasts are as round

as ripe melons tipped with red nipples that erect into twin steeples upon those

luscious hillocks that are the pillows for my head at night. Her waist is

normally so slender I can encircle it with my hands. Her hips are rounded and

firm, the kind made for love and bearing children. Her buttocks are divine

orbs of womanly flesh that bounce so provocatively upon our bed. Her legs are

two superluscious shapely limbs that seem to go on forever and never end. The

calves are solidly rounded and her thighs are a man's dream come true.

She is, indeed, a love goddess come to life, with a sweet, heartshaped

goddess-like face. Those lavender-blue eyes and her long, raven-black hair

that cascades down all around her, framing her creamy flesh in its shimmering

lustre, are beyond compare. Her mouth is small and petulant, her nose straight

and dainty, with delicate, thin nostrils flaring from arousal; and that dusky

triangle nestling so invitingly below her smooth-as-alabaster belly with its

tiny bowl of soft, silky pink flesh cannot hide the proud arch of her mound of

Venus or the coral lips that split that lush mound and within which is

contained that raw well brimming with delight and forming a tight inner sheath

for my turgid spatha. Heaven could hold no finer treasure cave than exists

between the staunch columns of Eigyr's womanly thighs.

What delight she gives me. No other woman has ever driven me to such

heights of ecstasy. We're perfectly matched, our voluptuous natures mutually

satisfying; and as I'm the New Mars, so she's my New Venus.

As her time drew near, she was absolved and purified by Bishop Dyfrig; and

thereafter, she prepared for the birth of our baby. We ceased any mating and

waited for the joyful day to arrive.

Before the delivery, Myrddin appeared in my presence. "Sire," he began,

"ye swore on the Gospel o' yer wife's faith tha' the son borne by Eigyr tae ye

wouldst be gi'en intae my care."

"I sae swore," I acknowledged, "but he's dear tae me, Myrddin. He's my

own flesh an' bluid. How canst I sae easily gi'e him up?"

"'Cause," he whispered softly, "yer end is drawin' near, Uthr Pendragwn,

an' yer son will need ambiguity tae survive his early years. Howe'er, ken

this, Maist Noble Sovereign, the glory o' yer great house rests in the future

wi' yer son. He's destin'd tae be the greatest amherawdyr in the history o'

the Isles."

"Is my end sae near?" I asked, remembering how I'd once played the role of

Akhilleus on the plains of Troy with by friends years ago and the irony of it

now.

"Ye ha'e but two mair years tae live," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Then, the Isles shall be torn apart by dissension an' war 'til yer son emerges

supreme. Wi' his retreat to Insula Pomorum, the Isles shall be submerg'd in an

era o' darkness once again; but someday, he'll return an' peace will reign in

the land fere'er."

"Wha' shouldst be daen tae save him now?" I asked breathlessly.

"Upon his birth, he shouldst be entrust'd tae a loyal laird, an' his

identity shouldst be kept a secret 'til he's auld enough tae claim his

birthright," he responded.

"Tae whom canst I gi'e my son?"

"Gyner the Ecttwr o' Mathtrafal wouldst be the maist suitable. He's

faithful, well-tae-dae, an' his wife, my Aunt Non, hast jus' lost a chiel at

birth, sae she'll be able tae nurse yer son; an' as she's my kinswoman, I canst

visit them an' keep track o' yer son's development withouten raisin'

suspicion. Mairo'er, Non already hast two sons, Dewi by Sant ap Ceredig an'

Gai by Gyner. They canst provide companionship tae yer son as he grows up, an'

I might add Dewi is destin'd tae become the future patron saint o' Cymru, an'

his mither is a fine upstandin' example o' Christian womanhuid. Sae, yer son

will be rais'd in a Christian household, which shouldst please yer wife, as

she's a Christian alsae."

I knew Eigyr is no more than a nominal Christian for appearances sake

only. I'm equally certain Myrddin knew it, too, but was trying to conceal the

fact.

"Gyner hast aye bin trustworthy an' the maist forthright o' my cnichts;

and as he's the maist tri'd an' true o' my comites, let it be him," I

concluded, remembering Gyner's epithet of Ecttwr is Cymric for Hektor whom

Akhilleus slew before Troy. Aye, indeed, I thought to myself, who better than

the son o' Osmael the Hero.

The child was born at Padstow on Mabonsday in anno Brythain Fifteen

Hundred and Seventy-Five. He was wrapped at once in gold swaddling and, then,

enfolded in the warmth of a bear skin. I took him from the tearful

Pendragwness and gave him to Brastius Blood-Axe. My wife begged me not to take him away but I'd given my word which has never been broken for any reason. Brastius took the child away and Eigyr screamed in anguish.

My heart felt as though it would break and there was no way to comfort my

poor wife. I ran, bolting up the stairs of the wooden tower of the royal

encampment to the top and dropped to my knees.

Below, I could see him. He stood waiting at the rear postern in his

gaberlunyie's disguise. He received my son from Brastius' hands. He turnt for

a moment and looked directly up at me. He nodded once, then, turning, bore my

son away.

I looked up for a moment to the northern heavens to implore the All-Father

to look out for the fruit of my loins, but all I saw was Artio, the Great

She-Bear, her seven brightest lights in command of the entire evening sky. So,

I asked her to be the guardian angel for my son. It seemed fitting as she

points the direction to the polestar at the tail of her Little Bear,

symbolically my son, the future Pendragwn of the Isles.

As I gazed up at her, it seemed as though she gave her consent, and I

bowed my head in prayer. I prayed, not for myself, but for my son, my one true

heir. Myrddin had promised Uthr Pendragwn's strong son would be the glory of

Brythain, and I implored the gods to make it so.

I knew he'd be taken to the stout-hearted Gyner for protection in his

mountain-valley fastness. There, a laddie could become a tender-hearted

poet-dreamer, with a soul as pure as the driven snow whirling about Yr Wyddfa's

craggy screes rising high above Gyner's solitary keep on Llyn Tegid.

In such a place, my eaglet can soar above Yr Wyddfa's eyrie and grow up to

become a young man with the common sense as keen and as clear as the mountain

air he breathes. There, away from the mainstream, he'll be hidden, out of

harm's way, and under the wing of a worthy and kindly man and his doting and

generous wife. A better place couldn't be found, or better foster-parents, for

raising the once and future Pendragwn of the Isles, my son.

Prepared by

the Right Reverend Illtyd,

Abbot of Llan-Illtyd Fawr and

the Royal Biographer of Uthr Pendragwn

In anno Brythain MDLXXVI

at Caer Lludd

from the Diary of

Uthr Pendragwn,

Amherawdyr and Insularis Draco of the Great Western Ocean,

Brenhin of All Brythain and Comes Britanniae,

Owrelaird of Cymru, Celidon, Llydaw, the Outer Isles and Eirinn,

Consul and Patrician of Roma,

Basileus of the Order of the Bwrdd Hen,

Imperial Father of the Order of Mabon

BOOK V

THE UPBRINGING,

THE TALE OF GYNER GRAYBEARD ABOUT HIS FOSTER-SON

CHAPTER I

* A MABONSDAY GIFT *

Over the love of the world's most beautiful woman, the Cernish War resumed in its tenth year rather than coming to a peaceful conclusion. The woman was Eigyr, fittingly called the 'Unparalleled Beauty'; but I think of her in other terms, for the venereal enticements embodied in her curvaceous flesh caused the deaths of many good men, including her first husband, my kinsman, whom I greatly admired.

Yet, the blame can't be laid at Eigyr's feet alone. It took my imperial

laird, Uthr ap Bendigeid Custennin, to heed her siren's song and pile upon the

rocks of her shore the countless souls lost to quench the flames of his desire.

Later, in the fashion Cleopatra thought herself the 'New Isis', the

courtiers referred to Eigyr as the 'New Venus' and to Uthr as the 'New Mars'.[4] Neither title is a very good one in my way of thinking.

Cleopatra, of course, is remembered as a notorious fellatrice, more often than not the name for a harlot specialising in an art well known in ancient Aegypt, that of exciting the male reproductive organs through oral lovemaking. I’ve heard it told Cleopatra was quite infamous as a practitioner of this particular art of love, supposedly having performed it on more than ten thousand lovers, including nobles and slaves alike, and, that once she came to Rome, entertained a hundred patricians with her skills in a single night. Undoubtedly, her reputation regarding fellatio led to her being called Merichane or ‘the Gaper,’ an unsavoury Greek appellation meaning "she who gapes wide for ten thousand men,” or also either “the wide-mouthed hetaera” in Greek or “the ten-thousand mouthed concubine" in Latin. The ancients also referred to her as Cheilon or ‘Thick-Lipped,’ for the same obvious reason.

Foolishly, Eigyr tried to mimic the cow-eyed Aegyptian queen. But in truth, however, she more fittingly resembled Uriah's bride to Uthr's Dafydd, perhaps, because her first husband Uriah-like went to his grave over another man's illicit love for his beautiful wife.

But to those only knowing Eigyr as the temptress who prolonged a terrible

war, her fascinations were superficially seen as the voluptuous charms of a

beautiful demimondaine. On the contrary, I came to see she was, in fact,

Bathsheba reborn, for hers and Uthr's love, like that of the biblical couple,

couldn't be denied, despite the blood of so many shed to make it a reality.

I knew Eigyr well, for her mother was my father's sister; and her father

and mine, having been boon companions in the days of their youth, exchanged

their sons by custom for fosterage and training in the arts of war. I owe what

I am today to Eigyr's revered father, Amlawdd Gwledig, whose memory I honour

second only to that of my own father, Osmael the Hero.

I'm Gyner the Ecttwr of Mathtrafal. As a soldier, I belong to the Order

of Mabon, whose symbol is the pentacle representing generosity, kindness,

abstinence, courtesy and reverence. But my loving wife, Non, has also read to

me from the 'Guid Buik' about the teachings of her druid, Jesus Christ; and

I've become, I hope, a better man for it.

I'm most fortunate in my life for I possess the greatest treasure a man

can hope to find, a good and loving wife, who's shown me how to be at peace

with myself and thus to discover complete happiness in our love for one

another. She's to Eigyr as the steadfast Penelope was to the unfaithful

Helen. Non is the heart and soul upon whom I've built my life and I've never

regretted it.

She's taught me life rests on three pillars: on right, upheld by law; on

truth, upheld by men of honour; and on love, which lives in the heart of one

for another and, as Vergil claimed in his Eclogues, "conquers all." Without

these three prerequisites, life would be worthless, or so it seems to me. In

addition, she believes in what Aeschylus called "the three laws of most revered

righteousness" ascribed to Triptolemus, son of Celeus, namely: to honour thy

father and thy mother, to worship the gods with the fruits of the earth, and to

hurt no living creature.[5]

In comparison to my lord Uthr, I'm but a simple man, with simple tastes. I live an uncomplicated life. After all, it's the tortoise who wins the race; and I'm one of these, slow but steady and dependable as I'm said to be.

I'm a loyal liegeman, a faithful husband, a good father and, as extremely

good people often are, a rather tedious bore living by a sombre code of

ethics. So if my story appears somewhat dull, consider the man behind it.

These higher values and not the grandiose life at court or glory in battle are

at the heart of Gyner ap Osmael the Hero.

I admired my father greatly and loved him even more. Among our people, no

other man has ever been given the appellation of Gwron, meaning the 'Hero'. He

earned it for the manner of his death. Like Cuchulainn, my father died facing

his enemies under a shower of their spears, and his story is sung around every

hearth.

As the noblest and bravest example of manhood, my father believed pain to be a weakness departing the soul. He told my brothers and I that true warriors must fight pain as worthily as they do fear, for giving into pain brings only defeat and dishonour in the same way as giving into fear. So, he raised his sons to be as hard as iron, as he was; and he showed us how to die well, facing forward and fighting to the very end, just as he preached. The lesson was not lost on us, nor upon any man who knew his legend.

For a warrior to be called the equal of Osmael the Hero is considered a

great honour, and thus being his son, although it has its benefits, also brings

a constant comparison to my great sire. As a lad, I saw it in the eyes of

those about me. "Will he live up to his father?" My only answer is I've

striven to live by the commandments he gave me before his heroic end.

My father instructed me to follow in the four virtues of manhood:

prudence, justice, temperance and fortitude. It all boils down to his belief

"a man without his pride and principles is no man at all." My one great

failing in following in my father's footsteps is I'm not as tolerant of others

as I'd wish to be.

This intolerance of those who fail to live by the same standards I hold so

dear is undoubtedly at the root of the problem I have with the manner in which

Uthr made war upon a noble champion to steal his wife. Eigyr had been married

to Hywel of Gourles, the High Rica of Cernyw. I attended their royal wedding,

as both bride and groom were my cousins. Years later and with a much troubled

conscience, I fought under my liege, Uthr, against my kinsman, Hywel, who was

slain in battle by the peerless Pellinore.

Peace was made, Uthr married Eigyr, and she soon thereafter bore a son.

But the fatherhood of this bairn became a questionable issue. Was the

man-child the son of her first or her second husband? The doubt raised by this

question caused controversy over the right of succession to the cader and threw

Uthr's dynastic hopes to the four winds, because few were willing to accept the

word of the woman they called an "adulteress" that Uthr and not Hywel was the

baby's father.

On the same night as the bairn's birth in AB MDLXXV, a holy man

disguised as a beggar came to my fortress. It was Mabonsday, the holiest feast

day of the year, otherwise known as Natilis Sol by the Romans and as Christmas

in my dear wife's religion.

I was sitting at table in my great Nemetocennan hall. Festive boughs of holly, wreaths of fresh smelling pine and the druidic 'heal-all' mistletoe adorned the columns and beams in honour of the holiday season.

Beyond the ramparts lay the snow-blanketed forest, swept by a wintry blast

coming in from the Gwydylic Sea. It howled and raved across the heights of my

hill-fort like a helmwind, the kind peculiar to the district of llyns in Cumbria, as well as here, but no one cared being snug within the stone walls.

My servants heaped huge logs into the massive hearth, and the roaring fire

kept us all warm in the hall. Its smoky rafters echoed with the eloquent

strains of my bard's muse, and drinking horns brimmed with spiced ale for

wassailing. All about me, hearts were light and merry, as poetry, comradery,

song and laughter filled the evening with their gaiety, and the savoury aroma

of boiling pork rose from the black cauldron over the fire. It was a gala

occasion marking the nativities of both Mabon and the Nazarene worshipped by

the Christians.

I raised my arm in salute to my crest on the far wall, which bears upon a

sable field a naked Ercol standing torced in or, holding aloft his mighty club

in his dexter hand proper. My father took the design from a statue of Ercol in

a little shrine built and dedicated so long ago by the Romans, to whom I owe

the roof over my head. The shrine stands just outside my walls at the

southwestern tip of Llyn Tegid. My only addition to our coat-of-arms is the

black field in memory of my father.

The Hero is dead, long live the Ecttwr, I thought. But even so, my

father's shadow still stood over me. Dead and buried all these years though he

was, and despite the fact I'd risen high, he loomed like a martyred demigod

who'd never die and give me peace at last. Even though I married the heritrix

rex of the most sacred gwlad in the entire Island, Mathtrafal, Math's earthly

dominion, my father was ever present. But I was no mere sacred-ricon or

eniautes daimon like the rest. I alone bear the title of Ecttwr so named after

the Trojan hero.

Sae, feyther, gae, now, in peace, an' leave this world tae the livin', fer

the Ecttwr has replac'd the Hero as he lives nae mair.

"Bless'd is the Sun, the Great Dragwn in the Heavens, fer the fruits o'

the earth," I intoned over our feast, my eyes not leaving the crest, ere we

began to dine.

I have but two prohibitions with regard to food. First, a kid or calf may

not be boiled in the milk of its mother. The old ones thought it too cruel and

inhumane and I quite agree. Second, I won't touch the flesh of a hare, as the

old ones believed grandmothers are turnt into hares in the next life. Other

than these ancient customs, our table primed with the choicest meats,

delicacies and all manner of drink.

My drysaur came into the long vaulted hall and announced a stranger at the

parth begged shelter for the night. Given it was Mabonstide, I gave permission

for the stranger to be admitted and to join us in the grand feast prepared for

the celebration.

Much to my surprise, the drysaur said the stranger wished to see me first;

and he'd given my servant an object inside of a pouch for the purpose of

identifying himself to me, and to me alone. The drysaur passed me the pouch

which I immediately opened. I withdrew a ring, no ordinary one, for I'd seen

this particular ring many times before, and I gasped upon the realisation I

held the signet-ring of Uthr Pendragwn in my hand. I instantly recognised his

royal seal: two ravens perched one on either side of a disembodied head

bearing a crown.

Rising immediately, I left the hall and prepared to go to the main parth

where the stranger who brought Uthr's ring awaited me. I expected to be

greeted by the storm raging outside when I went out the door. Instead, I found

myself in the eye of the helmwind, a wizard's storm.

Above, a million stars filled the funnel formed in the stormy heavens; and

a large pumpkin moon added its eerie orange glow, by which I saw a lone

snow-covered figure outside the parth. He stood at the very apex of the

helmwind, disheveled, his robes blowing wildly about him as he cuddled a small

bearskin bundle in his arms.

His ghostly aspect frightened me, for by legend only a god or a great

wizard can control the forces of nature. But as I drew nearer, I heard the

faint sound of an infant crying within the howl of the helmwind encircling the

stranger.

However, the stranger was no stranger after all. I soon recognised him

and sighed in relief. He was my wife's nephew, Myrddin, whom they call 'the

Prophet of the Goddess'.

He's the High Wizard of the realm and the Emberis of the Giants' Dance,

the most sacred religious centre in all the Isles. This helmwind, then, was no

coincidence. The mightiest wizard in all the land had called it up and he

wouldn't have done so without good reason. I knew with absolute certainty a

wonder of wonders was about to unfold.

"Myrddin," I exclaimed, "wha're ye daein' out on a night like this? Come

in, come in. Ye'll catch yer death on sic a wintry night."

I had the drysaur open the parth and went out to greet my wife's nephew.

He seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, as I put my arm about his shoulder and

began to draw him inside. His mantle was nothing more than a cloak of feathers

and I could feel his thin body shivering under the protection of my arm.

"Thank ye fer yer invitation, kind Gyner, but I musna be seen here

taenight."

"Wha' naensense is this? Ye're family. Ye're aye welcome at my hearth."

"I ken. Ye're a guid an' generous man, Gyner. But I ha'e urgent business

wi' ye taenight an' it mus' be kept our secret."

"Business on this holiest o' nights?"

"Aye, Gyner, by order o' him whose ring ye ha'e in yer hand."

"Uthr, the Pendragwn, sent ye here tae me?"

"Aye, he commands ye tae accept this chiel," Myrddin said, opening the

bearskin and revealing the man-child within. "Aunt Non recently lost a chiel.

The Pendragwn wishes ye tae take this laddie as yer own tae replace the one ye

lost."

I was speechless as Myrddin placed the babe in my arms and turnt to go.

"Wait," I cried. "Whose chiel is this?"

Myrddin smiled. "'Til by mither-right he receives his name, ye may call him Arthgwyr."

Arthgwyr, I thought, that means 'bear man'. My eyes widened as I began to

understand. Uthr's sceptre is a clawed bear's paw. Indeed, one of the meanings of Uthr's name is the 'bear'.

"Is this chiel . . ."

I never got to finish my question. Myrddin cut me off.

"The man-chiel ye hold is the future glory o' Brythain. He's under the

protection o' the Great She-Bear, as he was born under the sign o' the Little

Bear, her cub. This constellation contains Arthgwyr's war-chariot wi' the

North Star at the end o' its tongue, thus proclaimin' he'll earn the highest

honours accord'd any mortal man. Ye'll raise him as yer own son. If e'er ye

need me, send the ring ye ha'e bin gi'en."

"Tis Uthr's ring," I said in awe, finally comprehending the full meaning

of what was happening.

Uthr wouldn't have sent his signet-ring along with the babe, unless he

believed the bairn was, indeed, his own begotten son and not Hywel's. But why

did Uthr give him up for someone else to raise from birth? Could this be his

way of ridding himself of the problem concerning the right of succession? If

Eigyr bore him another son, there would be no question about the second

laddie's legitimacy as there was with this one's. Had he given him away,

instead of putting him out on a kame to die as they'd have done in the old

days? As I knew, Uthr was capable of anything, but I chose to believe there

had to be a deeper reason.

"Tis by his command ye dae as I say wi' regard tae this chiel. Ne'er

ferget tha'."

"I'll dae as my liege commands, Myrddin."

"As we kent ye wouldst. Ne'er fear, Gyner. I'll aye be close at hand.

The life o' this laddie is the maist precious in the whole realm. If needs be,

ye'll gi'e yer own life tae protect his."

"I understand."

Myrddin whirled about, the feathers of his cloak rustling stiffly in the

biting cold of the helmwind. I looked down at the baby whose tiny hand had

clasped one of my fingers. When I looked up again, Myrddin had disappeared,

and so had the helmwind. Both had vanished into thin air. Had he been here at

all, I wondered? Or had it only been a vision?

I stood alone for awhile with the solid proof of Myrddin's visitation in my arms. The bairn would please Non greatly, for she'd despaired so over the

loss of her third baby, our second. I knew she'd be more than happy to take in

this infant as our own.

But I decided, perhaps unfairly, not to tell her the entire truth right away. I'd keep the real parentage of the bairn solely to myself for now, knowing, however, someday the truth would need to be revealed. But when? I had no idea. Myrddin would have to be the judge of that. Until then, I'd keep our secret as he'd instructed. I felt I had no other choice. It was, obviously, what Uthr wanted. Mine was but to obey and serve the Pendragwn as was his will.

Looking up again at the stars, I saw the seven brightest lights of Artio,

the Great She-Bear, staring down at me holding her godchild. Her eyes seemed

to twinkle, perhaps, as a sign of acknowledgement to me. I can't say for

certain, and this might sound odd coming from an old soldier like me, but I

felt a very strange feeling, as if--how can I put it?--as if her hand was

guiding the fate of us all who came into contact with her godson, for surely

this was no ordinary bairn I held in my arms.

I tell only what I felt at the time and I was absolutely certain the lad

belonged to the Goddess. I didn't know why, unless the wizard himself had

interceded on the bairn's behalf, but I knew it just the same. By legend, I

also knew the Goddess looks after her own and also after those mortals chosen

to care for her dear ones. Believing she could hear me, I swore by her name to

defend her godchild with my life as I'd promised Myrddin, and I felt her hand

rest upon my shoulder.

Such thoughts as this have been known to unnerve even the bravest of men,

especially among such a superstitious people as my own, and I'll admit I felt

much trepidation, for my life would never be the same now I'd accepted this

lad. My peaceful days in the mountains of Cymru would come to an end when it

came time to sit this bairn upon the cader of his father and I knew even then

it would take a war to do that.

I stood there a moment longer, wondering: How had Myrddin managed to come all this way on the same night the babe was born during a violent storm? There was no reasoning it. The distance from the royal camp at Padstow in Cernyw, where Uthr's son was born, to my fortress in the mountains of Cymru was far too great to travel in the blink of an eye.

But somehow the mage had done it. Stories abound about wizards being able

to perform similar feats, and I concluded Myrddin had such powers. I shivered

at my thoughts or from the cold. I couldn't tell which, but my reaction made

me realise the baby should be brought inside to the warmth of my hearth.

I turnt back through the parth into my keep and strode quickly to the

hall. Non, my beautiful wife, was seated in her place at the table beside my

empty cader. I walked straight up to her and put the bundle into her lap.

When she opened the bearskin and gold swaddling and saw the baby for the

first time, there were no words. Tears sprang from her Athene-gray eyes and

ran down her soft cheeks. She hugged the baby to her bosom and looked up at me

with love in her flashing eyes.

My heart overflowed with gladness as I watched her breastfeed the baby for

the first time. I thought there's no more beautiful sight than a woman nursing

her bairn, especially for the father. Myrddin had, indeed, given us a

blessing, the best Mabonsday present we ever received, for which we both shall

always be grateful; and with joy in my heart, I raised an emerald calix of maut

in salute to the Goddess and to welcome our foster-son into our house.

CHAPTER II

* FOUNDING THE 'AULD TABLE' *

In the month the Romans named for their war-god, Uthr convoked the first

assembly of the Island's nobility since the end of the Cernish War. This

calling out of the host constituted a meeting of the Heniuid or 'Council of

Elders', made up of Uthr's chief advisers, and also of the titled landholders.

The latter group replaced the assembly of the tribal cymry or freemen who in

olden times met to decide issues of import by vote. Nowadays, I'm afraid only

the elite have a voice in such matters, and the decisions rest solely with the

Pendragwn.

As much needed to be done to get the reunified realm back on its feet

again, everyone of note wanted to hear what Uthr planned to do. Indeed, so

many came to the assembly, the palatium's Hall of Heroes, where we gathered,

was overcrowded to the point of bursting.

Like the others, I, too, waited to hear what Uthr would have to say. The

future of the realm now rested in his hands and in his hands alone, and this

concerned us no little bit.

For my own part, I already had plenty of reasons to doubt Uthr's ability

to govern wisely. The Cernish War had cost us dearly, and the sea wolves were

knocking at our door and demanding more than just entrance. They'd come for

conquest's sake, and I wondered what the outcome of our conflicting destines

would be. How, for example, would Uthr handle these growing problems and

restore order and harmony?

Trumpets blared a flourish, and Uthr entered the milling throng of burds

and lairds with Eigyr, already pregnant again, on his arm. He received our

boisterous congratulations with a smile and a nod, obviously pleased with

himself on conceiving another bairn upon his wife so shortly after the supposed

loss of their first baby. Of course, the legitimacy of this second bairn would

be beyond question; and once again, I wondered as I stood amidst the assembled

peerage whether Uthr had, indeed, given away his firstborn by Eigyr in order to

clear the path for a second untainted bairn to continue the succession of his

dynasty upon the cader.

"I ha'e invit'd ye here fer a specific reason," he said. There was

complete silence in the hall as we waited for him to continue. "I ha'e decid'd

tae form an exclusive fellowship o' the fifty bravest champions. Only the

maist worthy heroes will gain membership in the Order o' the Pendragwn which'll

supersede all ithers in precedence as the highest order o' cnichthuid in the

realm. Henceforth, the orders o' Mabon an' the Beste Glatissant shall rank as

second an' third respectively behind the Order o' the Pendragwn. Indeed, nae

order, na' e'en Perceforest's fam'd Cnichts o' the Franc Palais, shall e'er

equal it in glory."

Everyone greeted Uthr's announcement with a cheer. Being all fighting

men, the idea of this new order appealed to our vanities. As intended, it also

cleverly served to divert our attention from the real problems facing the

realm.

"An' here's the symbol o' our fellowship," Uthr went on, pointing to a

large covered object in the centre of the hall.

When we turnt to look at it, Uthr introduced Myrddin who came forward in

his feathered cloak and antlered helm and holding a shepherd's staff in his

right hand. He stood by whatever was concealed beneath a cloth of spun gold.

Everyone wondered what lay underneath, for Uthr told us the wizard had created

it for us.

Myrddin raised his crook for attention and spoke. "Here's the physical

proof o' yer fellowship. This Table stands as the representation o' the Order

o' the Pendragwn." Myrddin drew off the gold cloth and we saw a wondrous round table with fifty places. "It'll become kenn'd as the Bwrdd Hen or the 'Auld

Table' tae differentiate yer order frae one in the future tha'll sit at this same Table when it'll be kenn'd as the 'Round Table'. Then an' now, only the greatest livin' warriors shall join the Table's fellowship."

Gazing in awe at the workmanship, I saw engravings in letters of gold

encircled the Table's outer edge. Each engraving was the name of one of the

fifty members of the Table, one being my own.

At the Table's very centre, a visica piscis of Artio, the Great She-Bear

herself, in green malachite overlooked the entire Table. Uthr's dark eyes

locked on mine and a silent message of understanding passed between us.

Myrddin had deliberately painted the Goddess in an aureola at the centre of the

Table to be a constant reminder of the future. Our purpose, then, was to hold

everything in place for that future, like a link in a long chain connecting it

altogether for the one prophesied to come.

Myrddin directed Uthr to his cader in line with the polestar at true

north. The rest of us found our seats by the name engravings on the Table.

Although Myrddin isn't a member, as he's a holy man and not a warrior,

Uthr appointed him as High Seer and Chief Adviser to the Table. Serving in

this capacity, he stands slightly behind and to the right of the cader, an

ominous position, indeed, as it showed his relationship as the guiding light of

the Table and, thereby, the realm. From this position, he announced Uthr's

title as head of the Table.

"As the highest member o' the order, Uthr Pendragwn shall bear the title

o' Basileus, which means 'the Ither Dafydd'. He'll be the Parens Patriae o'

the order. The rest o' ye shall hold the rank o' cnicht wi' the power o'

praetors."

For those who might be interested, the following is a listing of our

membership and a description of each member as I know them. I've included this

information, because it can't be found elsewhere but also because all of these

men are predestined to eventually play an important part in the life of my

foster-son.

My dear wife is writing down my words for me in A.B. Fifteen Hundred and

Eighty-Eight, eleven years after Uthr's Table was disbanded. Therefore, much

of what I'm about to tell is clouded by the passing of more than a decade and

undoubtedly enriched by an older man's memories of dear friends and worthy

enemies. Indeed, my foster-son will soon be of age to seek his father's crown,

and these men either will help him to get there or fight against him.

Consequently, this is an introduction to those major players during these long

years since the end of Uthr's reign.

Looking around the Table, everyone could see and understand the order of

precedence. The seating of each man in proximity to the cader purposefully as

I think of it now gave an inkling of future events, which I'm just as certain

Myrddin knew as he himself made the Table and arranged the seating according to what he'd foreseen.

Now, let my mind go back to that day so long ago when the first cnichts to

sit at the 'Auld Table' took their seats. With three knocks of his staff upon

the floor, Myrddin announced each member, and with each announcement, there was a prophecy.

"At Uthr's right hand sits his younger brither, Erbin, as he's

next-in-line tae the cader," Myrddin ordained.

Erbin was a headstrong young man, much admired for his bravery. In the

recent Cernish War, he personally slew the murderers of Emrys Ben-Eur in single

combat. Emrys, of course, was Uthr's and Erbin's elder brother. I knew him

well and grieved his loss. He'd been the best of us and his murder had plunged

the entire realm into discord.

"Erbin!" Myrddin said commandingly, which brought me back from my

thoughts, "yer great-grandson will someday ascend the cader long, long in the

future when the Saesnaegs will commence their final conquest o' the Island."

Oh, ho, I thought, Erbin's seed shall succeed, but wha' then aboot my

foster-son! Will he ha'e nae sons o' his own tae follow him on the cader?

As Myrddin spoke, I saw his eyes shift to the peerless Pellinore. He was

the tallest, strongest and handsomest champion in all the Isles. No one could

or can even now outmatch him in battle where he rules like a demigod. He's the

Akhilleus of our time.

As I'm the dialwr of the cenedl of Cunedag, so Pellinore holds the same

position in the House of Pwyll, his family, also called the Arimathaeans. His

aged father, Pellam, reigns as the pencenedl or 'chief of the kindred' in North

Ambria, with Alain, Pellinore's worthy brother, as coadjutor; and another

brother, Pelles, has become a renowned teacher and brehon in Ynys Manaw, as

well as the arddelwr or 'avoucher' of the cenedl.

Although Pellinore's father and brothers have declined membership in our

order, they're still highly respected lairds of the realm, being as they are

direct descendants of Pwyll, Pryderi and Seosamh of Arimathaea. Pwyll was the

Dyfeddian tywysog who exchanged places with a chief god of the Otherworld for a year and is now a judge of the dead. He was also the father of Pryderi who

jointly ruled the Otherworld with the sea-god until his death in battle against

the solar deities; and lastly, Seosamh of Arimathaea is said by the Christians

to have brought the Holy Grail to the Island where he settled and eventually

died. Coming then from such an illustrious heritage, it's little wonder

Pellinore is Uthr's Champion of Champions.

So, it came as no surprise to me when Myrddin announced: "On Uthr's left,

the peerless Pellinore, belov'd o' the war-god Camulos."

As the chief warders of the realm (Erbin in the southwest and Pellinore in

the north), they rightly held the positions of honour on either side of the

Pendragwn. I knew Erbin as, perhaps, the better spearman, but the peerless

Pellinore was and still is the greatest living champion and all-round master of

the martial arts. To this very day, he's a follower of the Beste Glatissant

(the 'Questing Beast'), an Iberian cult predating the Celtic migration to the

Island. It involves a very Spartan way of life that influences Pellinore's

every action.

"Basileus an' Cnichts!" Myrddin cried, "ken ye the Bless'd Horn, the maist

sacr'd object o' our faith, shall ha'e a triad o' keepers 'til the comin' o'

Gwalchafed the Bendigeid Atbret o' the Horn. The three Horn Keepers shall be

kenn'd as the Maim'd Ricon who'll ha'e the chastisement o' man's peace upon him

by bein' wound'd fer man's transgressions, the Fisher Ricon who'll seek tae

recapture the life spirit in the form o' a fish frae the enchant'd liquid

element, an' the Rich Fisher Ricon who first will be wound'd through the thighs

fer dootin' the Holy Horn. The first o' these will be Pellinore's feyther,

the second Pellinore's brither Pelles whose dochter will become the mither o'

Gwalchafed an' the third Pellinore hissel' whose slayin' in battle o' one o'

the Edoridae will eventually split the realm in two again."

Pellinore's face grew very sombre and serious upon hearing this prophecy.

But that was nothing compared to the consternation caused among the Edoridae

who sat facing their mortal enemy and his kin. Which one of them would

Pellinore slay?

The four powerful sons of Edor of Orkney were among the boldest of our

fellowship: I, stern-faced Arawn, laird of the battlecry, whose high-walled

citadel of Clatchard Craig stands beyond Snowdoun north of the Antonine Wall;

II, the resolute Gwyar Llew Lothian, chieftain of the Gododdin and husband of

Eigyr's eldest daughter, Morg-Anna; III, the heroic Eiddilig, slayer of Anschis

the Eotan and recently elevated to rule Llyndissig; and lastly, IV, such a fine

figure of a man, Urien of Caerlaverock Merse, whose castellum is on the north

shore of the Traetheu Trywruid. Through marriage to Eigyr's third daughter,

Modron, Urien became the Gwledig of the Novantae of Rheged, where the worship of Mabon still flourishes before all other gods.

Of the four, all still living at this time, Arawn is the chief. He's

named after the Otherworld god who exchanged places with Pwyll for a year and

like the god is silver-tongued and determined to rule a greater realm than he

now possesses.

Although Gwyar tried to laugh off Myrddin's predictions as the ravings of

a lunatic, his brothers and he were still effected by the prophet's words:

"Ye, the Edoridae, an' yer sons will embroil the entire realm in civil war an'

eventually contribute tae the fall o' the Round Table."

From this prediction, I now knew who not to trust. Myrddin was alerting

me to our enemies in the future.

Always with the Edoridae stood battle-wise Nentor of Dunragit, also

married to one of Eigyr's daughters, the second, Hel-Aine. Today, he's the

chief herdsman of the hornless black beef cattle found aplenty in the Rhinns of

Walweitha where he lives.

Looking him directly in the eye, Myrddin told Nentor: "Yer loyalty tae

the Edoridae shall cost ye yer life."

Nentor blanched white as a ghost at first, but then his blood boiled, and

he turnt red in the face. But Uthr's presence kept him from jumping to his

feet and cutting the prophet down with his sword.

Two lairdly ricons from the kames of Pechtland joined the 'Auld Table' as

original members: Custennin the Profligate of Celidon or Southern Pechtland

and Nectan Morbet of Northern Pechtland, peer of Gwydion in forethought.

Significantly, their recognition of Uthr as their owrelaird brought the entire

Island of the Mighty under the sway of one man, a feat long unheard of in our

history.

Custennin had succeeded his two elder brothers, Eugene and Dongard, on the

cader of Celidon keeping Southern Pechtland as an independent riconship from

Nectan's realm in the north, with the Antonine Wall separating their two

realms. Already ruling the Pechtish subregnums immediately north of the wall

as an absolute monarch, Nectan had subjugated the far north under his sceptre

as well.

"Custennin!" Myrddin rattled, "ye'll be assassinat'd by an irate feyther

as a result o' yer licentious behaviour," and in actuality, Custennin did die

nine years ago just as Myrddin said he would. "An' ye, Nectan, will gain

paramountcy over Celidon frae Custennin's successor who'll owe ye suzerainty;

but upon yer own demise, the partition will be renew'd," which is exactly what

happened, as Nectan died two years ago, and the two realms are separate again.

Four of Custennin's nephews, Congal ap Dongard, Cilydd ap Celidoine and

the eldest two sons of Llenlleawc the Elder, Bran of the Two Isles and Gwri

Bright-Hair, were all Table-cnichts in good standing. Bran's son, Aunsyr the

Palmer, known for his palmerages to the Holy Land, was one of our youngest

members.

Today, Congal sits on the cader of Celidon. He's a rather sober-minded

young man endowed with natural ability. He also has a tendency toward finding

peaceful solutions to hostilities. His cousins, Bran and Gwri, and Bran's

worthy son, Llenlleawc the Hibernian, are his chief and most loyal adherents,

although Llenlleawc has only just come into his own having been but a bairn

when the 'Auld' Table was founded.

Myrddin pointed to the golden emblem slipped vert on Congal's chest,

saying: "The Cnicht o' the Thistle will mould a confederation o' the four

tribes betwix' the Antonine an' Hadrian's walls, but it'll splintre after his

death, wi' the sons o' the Edoridae retainin' leadership o' all except one

tribe."

This wasn't good news to hear, for if the Edoridae gained control of

Celdion it would make matters most difficult for my foster-son, because Celdion

is a powerful state. Lying as it does between Pechtland and Brythain, it's a

crossroads of the tribes moving north or south. My own cenedl came from

there. Consequently, I had no desire to see it fall so completely into our

enemy's hands.

But I was called back from my thoughts again as Myrddin continued. He

turnt to Cilydd next. Cilydd had married Eigyr's elder half-sister,

Goleuddydd. As a brother-in-marriage of Uthr's wife, Cilydd was, of course,

bound to support the crown.

"Cilydd! O, fortunate man!" the prophet exclaimed, "yer son shall be a

greater man than ye an' shall lead the Cnichts o' the Round Table on one o'

their greatest adventures tae win the hand o' his belov'd."

I actually saw Cilydd sigh in relief. This news certainly gladdened him,

unlike some of the others sitting around the Table with glum faces.

Beside Cilydd sat the brothers, Bran and Gwri. As their late sister,

Efwyr, was Uthr's mother, they had an even stronger family connexion to him

than their cousin, Cilydd. Although no older than Uthr, Bran and Gwri were his

maternal uncles. But at the moment, these two were sweating as they awaited

what Myrddin would say.

"Bran! One o' yer sons shall feyther Gwalchafed. An' Gwri! The son

nam'd after ye shall serve at Gwalchafed's side in the greatest quest o' all

time."

I knew I had two more friends at this Table. Bran and Gwri, having no

love for the Edoridae who were their enemies, would be on our side.

As for Bran's son, Aunsyr dwells today beside the Afon Ver in Caer

Caswallawn. Being a devote Christian, he bears the Chi-Rho in an orle of

thistle as his monogram, and is endeavouring to rename his civitas after

Brythain's first Christain martyr, St. Albans.

"Aunsyr! Ken a dochter o' yers will bear an avenger fer two great cnichts

murder'd by treachery, his feyther an' his feyther's feyther."

Mair murder an' mayhem, I thought, but had no clue about its meaning.

From the cenedl of Amlawdd Gwledig, my foster-father's house, came Llwch

Llawwynnawg, Amlawdd's brother. Under him as then and now served four of his five glorious nephews, Eigyr's lion-hearted brothers, who grew up in my

father's house as I was fostered by their father. Being Eigyr's immediate kin,

there was little doubt where their loyalty lay. In the future, I felt sure

they'd support our cause.

With the exception of Eigyr's elder half-brother, Gwrfeddu, who reigns in

Ercing, the Amlawddians still make their home in Lesser Brythain. This brood

of warrior brothers trace their descent directly to Cynan Meriadawc, the famed

brother of Elen, Leader of Hosts. Of course, they're also Pendragwnians as was

their cater-cousin, Uthr.

In all the Isles, no captain-general born can equal Llwch in strategic

planning or in the tactical marshalling and manoeuvring of complicated military

formations on the field of battle. During my youth, he'd been one of my

teachers in the arts of war, and I couldn't have had a better one.

"Llwch! Like the sun ye ha'e risen in all yer golden glory blazin' yer

name across the heavens. After yer sun hast set, yer song shall be sung in

remembrance o' yer brave deeds."

I was right glad to hear this, as I have strong affections for him. His

name of Llwch Llawwynnawg, of course, is Cymraeg for Lugh Loinnbheimionach, the Eirish sun-god called Lugus by the Romans. So, Myrddin's reference to the sun was quite fitting. Even Llwch's golden-red hair, which cascades down about his sturdy shoulders makes him appear as though he's one of the sun-god's offsprings.

The four younger sons of Llwch's lamented brother are by the same mother

as Eigyr herself. The eldest of these is Gweir the Malicious in Battle, laird

of the war cry and first in battle, who bears the ermine shield of Lesser

Brythain. The next brother, Gweir Longshaft, in order to differentiate himself

from his elder brother, carries a shield ermines reversing the tinctures to

sable for the field and argent for the tailed spots, and also wields a terrible

poleax with deadly menace. The third brother is Llygadnudd Emys, a dauntless

man and like Sagitarius our finest archer. He bears an erminois shield.

Lastly, the youngest of the four is Cynwal Canhwch, who carries a pean shield

with gold tailed spots upon a sable field; but as he was yet too young, he'd

have to wait a little longer before gaining membership to our table.

"Fer Gwrfeddu the crown o' Ercing. But two o' the four shall fall

side-by-side in the greatest boar hunt sith the 'Pride o' Arcadia' slew the

infamous Calydonian boar, an' the remainin' three shall mourn their loss."

This saddened me to hear, for they were my father's foster-sons and thus

like brothers to me. I wished them no harm. But the prophet's words said

otherwise.

Joining the Amlawddians from Lesser Brythain were: Bawdewyne the

Tywyssawc Llu, married to Uthr's sister, the Blonde Emeree, one of the finest

women whom I've ever known; Warok, chief mariner of the famed seafaring Venetii

and founder of Bro Warok named after him; and the captain of the Belgae,

Pedrawd mab Bedwyr, whose father founded Bajocassos and built a great temple in honour of Belin, the sacker of Roma with his brother, Bran. These three men

earned their membership to the Table for remaining loyal to Uthr and serving

with distinction during the Cernish War.

"Fer one a brenhinship there shall be, an' the two trefs sprung frae the

ithers great metropolises shall become."

A brenhinship for Bawdewyne! Well, I liked the sound of that. He's a

good man and a friend. But which brenhindom, I wondered?

Next to Pellinore were his stalwart cater-cousins, Segurant the Brown and

Brunor the Brown, two more Pwyllians. The entire fellowship held these

remarkable cousins in such high esteem we began to refer to them as the

reincarnation of the Dioscuri. Like Polydeuces, Segurant excelled in boxing;

like Castor, Brunor distinguished himself as the finest horseman of the realm;

and like the Dioscuri, they were inseparable and fought in tandem like two

fiends out of hell. None could stand before the combined onslaught of the

Brythonic Gemini, and they could always be seen in the thickest part of battle

driving the enemy back with their great oblong shields before them. Those

shields were the colour of amaranth, so ancient a hue it predated all armourial

tinctures and since has only been borne by the priest-cnichts of the Beste

Glatissant, the order headed by their cousin, Pellinore.

"Segurant!" Myrddin chanted as though in a trance, "history shall remember

ye as the Cnicht o' the Dragwn an' the worthiest champion o' this Table.

Brunor! As a centenarian, ye'll return one day an' defeat all the Cnichts o'

the Round Table in single combat tae prove the glory o' the 'Auld Table'."

I felt I could count on them in the future. They'd go wherever Pellinore

led them.

Towering like a mighty bull amidst a grazing herd of cattle was

Pellinore's nephew, Alain's great son and heir of North Ambria, the gallant

warrior, Cadwr the Courageous. Then and now, he lives just south of Hadrian's

Wall at Corstopitum in the lowlands noted for its peeleys and rich in the wild

Cheviot bulls, the white ones introduced by the Romans for sacrifice to Mithras

and now used in the worship of Mabon. Growing up as a cowherd, his practice at

killing wolves with his rod-sling made his arm strong for casting ashen

javelins with unerring accuracy at great distances. He could out throw any

competitor in the annual games, except, of course, his peerless uncle, as well

as Erbin and the Brythonic Gemini.

"Cadwr!" Myrddin continued, "a lass tae be foster'd by ye will become the

second wife o' the Pendragwn tae come. Ye'll retire tae become a famous holy

man an' eventually conduct the young hero Gwalchafed tae court. Yer dochter

will marry Gai ap Gyner the Ecttwr o' Mathtrafal."

Both Cadwr and I looked at one another and smiled, perhaps, thinking we'd

gotten off easy compared to what we'd heard thus far. But that remained to be

seen. However, I knew he'd fight on our side.

Cernyw from whence Uthr took Eigyr was represented by its new High Rica,

Idwr the Invincible, and his three brothers, Cynfawr of the Elongated Ears, the

illustrious charioteer Pernehan (whose team of four sorrels was the best in the

Island) and Bodwyn Dda, over whose wounded body we fought so hard at the end of the Cernish War.

"Violent ends I see, betrayal an' murders maist foul!"

As Hywel, their late brother, had rebelled against Uthr, I wasn't sure

Cernyw could be counted on for my foster-son. Idwr just might repeat what his

elder brother had done.

In addition, four of Idwr's closest adherents were also enrolled in the

order. They were: Brastius Blood-Axe, Jordan the Portglave, Tallwch the Pecht

bearing a serpentine tattoo of blue woad and fleet-footed Meliodas map Felix of

Llewissig, known as the 'Handsomest of Men'.

"Four flails o' iron I see: an axe, a custodian, a man, an' a lover. The

trusty axe shall fell enemies like trees. The custodian shall bear a great

glory high upon a satin billow. The man shall ha'e nae mercy in his harden'd

heart, an' the lover shall lose tha' which he maist loves."

Of them, Brastius is the most important to me personally. After fighting

one another to a standstill in the Cernish War, we've become boon companions.

Isn't that the way of things? In our early struggle against one another, we'd

earned each other's respect and are now closer than brothers.

Leaving Cernyw, Brastius now resides just to the northwest of me at Tomen

y Mur, a former Roman station overlooking Llyn Trawsfynydd to the west. There, he breeds Cymric cobs he brought from the Vale of Teifi for pleasure riding and

hunting. Where you find one of us, the other is bound to be close at hand.

Osla Big-Knife, son of Gwrtheyrn of the Adverse Lips and Rhonwen, was also

a Table-cnicht. The product of two houses with a sordid history of treachery

and murder, Osla served as a constant reminder of their enmity for each other;

and when both his father's and mother's families barely tolerated his presence,

he despaired until Uthr gave him a position of trust as the royal penmaer.

Upon accepting Uthr's generous offer, both sides of his family disowned

him, because their houses hated Uthr's even more than each other's. However,

Uthr saw to it Osla inherited the land of the Gewissi to compensate him for his

loyalty. Claiming descent from Arviragus' wife, Claudius' daughter Genvissa,

this tribe settled at Caer Gwent, where Eudaf, the father of Elen Lwyddawg,

became their chieftain. Elen's eldest daughter, Sevira, inherited the lands of

the Gewissi from her mother, and she herself became the mother of Osla's

great-grandfather. As Gwrtheyrn's heir, Osla became the pencenedl of the tribe

and the first to bear a shield azure, a wyvern sejant or, the coat-of-arms of

the laird of Caer Gwent.

Uthr's grandfather was the son of Elen's other daughter, Gratia; and

Uthr's father was the son of Gwen, the daughter of Sevira's and Gratia's

brother, Custennin Cerneu. Consequently, strong blood-ties existed between

Uthr and Osla through the female line of the House of Eudaf. In addition,

another connexion existed through the male line. Eudaf's son, Cynan Meriadawc,

who founded the Pendragwnian dynasty and from whom Uthr was fourth in descent, was also the maternal granduncle of Osla's great-grandfather.

I suspect Uthr gave his support to Osla out of kinship. But I saw his

help as a regrettable decision, due to shortcomings I perceived in Osla's

character. Marked by a strong distrust of others and an overindulgent

awareness of his own self-importance, his aptitude and peevish nature failed to

live up to his devouring ambition. I'm reminded of one of Theognis' sayings:

"He who mistrusts most should be trusted least."[6] Such a man was Osla, lean

and pale, the hungry kind who evokes apprehensions not aroused by the fat and

sleek.

"Osla! A great house ye will found an' Saesnaeg cynings tae sit on

Saesnaeg caders shall descend frae ye, the best o' all tae be kenn'd as Ælfred. the Great!"

Saesnaegs! Our enemies! I knew it! Osla bore watching.

Two of my wife's brethren were also members of the 'Auld Table', Cynan the

Dog of Dinorben who dwelt in Denbigh where his sheep graze over moor and fell,

and the noble Dunawd Fawr, whose wife was the beauteous Deucer ferch Lleinawg.

They came from a Christian family boasting the late Primate of the Isles,

Cyngar, as their brother, and his successor as Bishop of Llandaff, their

nephew, Dyfrig (whom Myrddin predicts will succeed Cyngar as Archbishop and

Primate someday, too). Their other famous nephew is none other than Myrddin

himself.

"Cynan! A Cain an' Able shall be born tae yer house, but the guid son

shall leave a heir who'll rise up wi' two swords an' avenge his feyther's

murder. An' tae ye Dunawd a saint shall be born!"

More trouble! But it sounded as though it would end well. I certainly

hoped so, as they were my wife's kin.

Among the other Cymry were Ogyrfran the Giant, hoary-headed Ynywl of

Caerdydd and Sefain, a well-admired nobleman who owned the richest ploughland of the Cymry in the land of my cousin, St. Dogmael, south from Plinlimmon's gray breast. All served under Uthr in the Cernish War distinguishing themselves as mighty warriors.

Next to the peerless Pellinore, Ogyrfran is the tallest and strongest of

all our champions. His lion-like face makes him a man whom no one fails to

notice, and his obstinate disposition like that of Aias Telamonios is

singularly deficient in finesse.

"Ogyrfran! Ye'll ha'e two dochters by the same name, one legitimate an'

one natural. Baith shall marry the young hero yet tae come, an' he'll wear the

crown o' Brythain."

What? Was Myrddin referring to Arthgwyr? I couldn't say.

Ynywl, also known as Liconaus, rose to eminence from a depressed and

impoverished family of one of those collateral branches of the petty Glamorgan

nobility. Through marriage to the beauteous Tarsenesyde, a pious burd of

Surlusian ancestry, he's become the castellan of Caerdydd.

"Ynywl! A maist faithful dochter shall grace yer house. But hard times

are ahead fer ye, 'til the son o' a noble friend rescues ye an' marries yer

dochter."

Ynywl and I were old friends. I hoped to be able to convince him to join

our cause when the time came.

Yerl Sefain of Ceredigion, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, brought

humour and the music of his lute to our fellowship. He, too, was an old friend

of many years.

"Sefain! An Absalom shall yer dochter bear by our New Dafydd yet tae

come."

I looked at Uthr when Myrddin said this, both of us knowing Myrddin didn't

mean him but his son when he referred to "our New Dafydd yet tae come." A sad

smile creased Uthr's lips. Neither of us said anything. We didn't have to.

So, Erbin's seed would endure, and Uthr's wouldn't. An Absalom!

The last group to belong to Uthr's Table was composed of my own kinsmen

from the cenedl of Cunedag the Burner. Of the Isles' prominent families, my

own ranked second only to the House of the Pendragwns.

I've every reason to be quite proud of my heritage. My ancestry can be

traced back to the imperium of Custennin Mawr, when Tegid, a veteran with a

long and honourable record serving in the Roman legions, retired and settled in

Cantia. Hence, his Latin name was Tacitus of Cantia.

He had a son, Padarn Red-Robe or in responsible for defending the

northern walls of Britannia from Latin, Paternus Pesrutus. Padarn

followed in his father's footsteps, rising to the rank of tribune under

Fullofaudes, the Dux Limitum Britannicarum Pechtish incursions. In A.B. Fourteen Hundred and Sixty-Seven, Crimthann the Great of Eirinn having already conquered the kale-yards of Pechtland broke through the walls, and Fullofaudes fell in the fighting. Trahern Hen, the new Roman governor sent to repulse the invasion, promoted Padarn to replace Fullofaudes; and together, they defeated Crimthann and drove him out of Britannia. Today, Padarn's red robe, called the 'Abolla of Invisibility', is considered to be one of the 'Thirteen Treasures of

Brythain'.

After Padarn came his son, Edeyrn I, or in Latin Aeternus, although he's

been known as Isdernus, too. From Aeternus, the Cymry also spell his name as

Edern; and from Isdernus, the Lesser Brythons called him Yder. His primary

claim to fame is his fatherhood of Cunedag I, for whom our cenedl was named.

Cunedag's name is also spelt as Cunedda, and he bears the appellation of

'the Burner' or 'the Flame-bearer', because he maintained a perpetual fire like

the Romans used to do. In addition, he flew the old standard of the Dux

Limitum Britannicarum (the red dragwn on a field of gold) that he’d inherited

from his grandfather. The migration of the kindred from Manua Gododdin

(Lothian) to Cymru (where I live with my family today) began under this banner.

Cunedag had three sons, Coel of Aeron, St. Carannog and Ceretic Gwledig. Each achieved considerable renown in their own time.

Coel bore the agnomens of either Hen (the Auld) or Godebog (‘the Adulterous’). He was the last official dux protecting the northern walls against the Pechts, holding sway during the regnum of Uthr's father, Bendigeid Custennin the Armorican Brython.

St. Carannog, the abbot of a church at Llangrannog in Ceredigion, followed

St. Padraig to Eirinn but later returnt bearing a missive from St. Padraig to

Emrys Ben-Eur complaining about the caeth-raids of Ceretic, his brother, into

Eirinn. After delivering this communique, he went to Cernyw and founded a

religious settlement called Cernach at Crantock on the sea. Later, he visited

Lesser Brythain during my fosterage there but came back to live at Crantock

where his religious festival is celebrated on the sixteenth of Maia. Of

course, he's the patron saint of our cenedl, though still living but of great

age.

Ceretic succeeded his elder brother, Coel of Aeron, as the gwledig or 'high prince' of all the lands held by the cenedl and was elected as the very first

pencenedl, which means 'head of the kindred'. He ruled all of Brythain from

the Menai Strait to the Antonine Wall, approximately half of the entire realm

during the interregnum of Gwrtheyrn and also during the reign of Emrys Ben-Eur.

There are, now, two main branches of the cenedl of Cunedag: the descendants of Coel of Aeron and the descendants of Ceretic Gwledig. My father was a son of the latter. Thus, I'm sixth in descent from Tegid, the founder of our house, or in other words a great-grandson of his great-grandson, Cunedag I, for whom our mighty cenedl is named. To be the dialwr or 'war leader' of this powerful cenedl is, then, a great honour, and I'm proud to serve in that capacity.

Of the fifty members of Uthr's Table, ten belonged to my family, excluding

only the sons of Meirchion the Mighty (Idwr, Cynfawr, Pernehan and Bodwyn) as

they represent Cernyw. But as Meirchion was a son of Ceretic, then my family's

total membership came to fourteen, making us the largest and most powerful

contingent to belong to the 'Auld Table'.

As the head of our kindred, Cunedag II led this mighty family of cnichts.

He was the eldest son of my late grandfather, Ceretic Gwledig.

"Cunedag! Ye'll be the last great head o' yer kindred," Myrddin declared,

which came true as his death eight years ago split the cenedl asunder.

The four grandsons of Ceretic's elder brother, Coel of Aeron,

belonged to our fellowship. They were: Gwrst Ledlum and Mor, the sons of

Cenau; and Garbaniaun's sons, Dunwal Moelmut of Yeavering Bell, the lawgiver of our tribe, and Bicanus, married to Eigyr's elder sister, Riengulidd.

"Frae Cenau's sons the great house o' Rheged an' anither Myrddin shall

spring. An' frae Garbaniaun's sons, two brithers shall slay each ither by

mistake an' a Christian soldier shall behold the glory o' the Bless'd Horn."

In that Urien Edorides now ruled Rheged, it seemed from Myrddin's

prediction his house would eventually give way to Cenau's. This wasn't

unwelcomed news. As for the rest of it, I could scarcely guess.

Cunedag II's two eldest surviving sons, Ceredig of Degannwy in Gwynedd

(old Arfon) and Einiaun Girt of Caerleon ar Dubr Duiu, were members, as were

our cousins, Nudd ap Edeyrn II who bore three griffins upon his shield and

Brychan ap Anlac, the husband of Myrddin's sister. Lastly, there was me.

"Saints galore shall descend frae ye!"

As so many saints gain sainthood through martyrdom, I can only hope for

the best. But my wife warmed to the idea.

In the foregoing passages, I've attempted to outline the founding of the

Order of the Pendragwn, also known as the Bwrdd Hen or 'Auld Table'. Perhaps,

because I was younger then and more vital, I believe Uthr established the

greatest order of champions ever brought together in the history of the Isles,

although Myrddin has predicted the Round Table will be even more famous.[7]

In many respects, the adventures of the 'Auld Table' surpassed all others,

and someday, I promise, ere I get too old and can no longer remember, to pen

those great adventures for, alas, so many of my old friends are already gone

and I'd wish to tell their tales and do them justice. Though dead or dispersed

in many distant lands, they live on in my heart and memories. It's from there

I relate these true stories so they'll not be forgotten.

CHAPTER III

* THE MATTER OF ROMA *

It was decided we'd assemble on the eve of each full moon in the Hall of Heroes, there to report our deeds and the condition of our territories to Uthr. In this fashion the Order of the Pendragwn replaced the Council of Elders as Uthr's chief advisers. In his capacity as chief scribe and head of the secretariat, Illtyd (one of the finest combatants whom I've ever known either on or off the field of honour) recorded our proceedings. Unfortunately, these records were lost during the general holocaust following the end of Uthr's reign. But I've been able to rebuild his records from my own sources and memories to recreate what was lost as recounted herein.

By all accounts, Uthr had a preference for war and intrigue over the

mundane business of governing; and as the troubles grew thicker around the

cader, the more the imperial coffers were drained, especially during the

Cernish War which utterly depleted Uthr's financial resources. Despite this,

however, he remained strong with a commanding presence, brave and genial in

temper, and continued to bear the hardships of his reign with courage and

hopefulness, never ceasing to amaze me with his firm resolve to bring his late

brother's plans to fruition.

If there was one thing I could point to about Uthr that was real and true,

it would have to be his undying love and respect for Emrys and his desire to

fulfill his brother's dreams for Brythain. But he wished to do these things in

his own name, leaving his own mark that would last forever.

As history has taught us, great personal energy by a leader can inspire

the most heroic efforts in defence of liberty and justice. However, once

victorious in defeating tyranny and inequity, the energy of that same leader

can erelong evolve into bold ventures borne of the desire to amass great

treasuries. Thus, in his turn, the successful defender of national honour more

often than not becomes the would-be oppressor, replacing the old tyranny with a

new one, for he's no longer concerned with liberty and justice but with

unscrupulous schemes of self-aggrandisement at the expense of others.

His feudal neighbours or even his subjects suffer from this new tyranny.

From his neighbours, he steals land and gold. From his subjects who're less

able to defend themselves from overzealous tax collectors carrying out his

orders, he coerces more and more money to pay for his outrageous schemes. Uthr

became such a ruler but not right away.

He'd been one of the heroes in the overthrow of the evil reign of

Gwrtheyrn. But now he employed devices of refilling his treasury. He had

several choices. He could either tax his subjects to death, find means somehow

to bolster trade and increase our exports by helping our tiny manufacturing

centres to grow larger and more productive, encourage new ideas and their

development into profitable ventures, or the standard method of plunder by the

sword.

Surprisingly, at first, Uthr adopted a plan of moderation. But this only

lasted as long as Myrddin continued to manage the affairs of state from his

singular position behind the cader. However, when the day finally came when

Myrddin walked out on Uthr, which did happen, then Uthr employed his own

methods. It would be only honest to say things changed and changed for the

worse without Myrddin's presence to properly guide Uthr's course.

For as long as Myrddin remained, however, the country revived and

progressed steadily. There was a sense of security, because Myrddin insured

Uthr maintained the peace, not unlike the pax Romana of olden times. As a

result, towns like Caer Lludd, Eborawc and others grew into great cities. For

example, Myrddin helped Osla to turn his native civitas of Caer Gwent into the

textile capital of the realm whilst nearby Calleva became famous once again for

its dyes.

Myrddin put the tin mines of Cernyw into full production again. Ironworks

sprang up wherever the population centres advanced, contributing weapons,

jewelry and the necessities of life for marketing abroad as well as at home.

Our local pottery, although not as fine as imported ceramics, was cheaper and,

therefore, more abundant and more readily marketable. Furriers, weavers,

merchants in leather goods and a wide field of other products, brewers, bakers,

butchers, and artisans and guildsmen of all crafts began to prosper and expand

their industries and shops during this Brythonic peace.

Political opposition to the institution of slavery also grew, especially

among the Christians. Led by Myrddin's cousin, Bishop Dyfrig of Llandaff, the

opponents of slavery saw it as a canker eating at the heart of man. But the

caeth markets remained a highly profitable business. Despite considerable

opposition, however, Myrddin backed Dyfrig's efforts, and a number of legal

restrictions similar to Solon's Seisachtheia meaning 'shaking off of burdens'

were decreed to regulate such things as the length of bondage and the methods

of acquiring and disposing of caethion.

The maltreatment of caethion being notorious I quite agreed with Myrddin's

new laws on the matter. However, he was unable to effect any law regarding

those born into slavery, except regarding those born as a result of

concubinage, or to release war captives carried off as booty and sold into that

vile institution. I can't myself imagine living under such circumstances and

wanting to go on; but perhaps, when caethion sleep, they forget their fetters

and are free.

Obviously, I've been greatly influenced by my wife, Non, a devote

Christian, who strenuously opposes this oppressive system of making common

chattel out of our fellow human beings. It's quite disgraceful and I

personally believe we should emancipate all of our caethion.

Although I myself refuse to barter in human flesh, there are those who

do. To be honest, the majority of our nobility and wealthy merchants are

non-Christians and own caethion. Such is a fact of life hard to ignore and

impossible to deal with.

I understand Dyfrig's and Myrddin's frustrations. But the truth is, where

large profits are concerned, the powerful will look the other way, regardless

of the adverse conditions that might arise, and with a wink and a nod even

allow destructive and dangerous endeavours to continue. Why one might ask?

The answer, of course, is quite obvious. Those in power allow such unsavoury

pursuits to go unabated, because they themselves or their associates are

profiting from it in one way or another. Bribes to officials go a long way to

permit undertakings that yield substantial returns on their investments, no

matter the costs to humanity. Those offering the bribes and those receiving

them can afford to see no evil, hear no evil and speak no evil as the profits

from their nefarious enterprises roll in.

Frankly, slavery has always existed somewhere, and Myrddin's laws never

extended beyond the borders of Brythain and Cymru to combat it in those other

places. Moreover, since Uthr's death and the fragmentation of his government,

the only laws obeyed nowadays are those which each laird in his own domain

wishes to enforce. Needless to say, very few are willing to forego the riches

offered by selling their fellow human beings into slavery.

My own grandfather, Ceretic Gwledig, was a notorious caeth trader in his

day, and today most of his heirs still own or deal in caethion. I'm in a

distinct minority in my vocal opposition to this institution among my own

cenedl, let alone among the greater general population of freeborn people in

the Island. Only the Christians for the most part continue to observe the laws

Myrddin enacted a dozen years ago.

As these laws are important to understand the tenor of our times, I'll

include the following brief outline of them. First, they prohibit all future

loans or contracts in which the person of a freeborn debtor or his wife or

bairns are pledged as security. A creditor is, thereby, enjoined of any

ability to imprison, enslave or extort forced labour from a freeborn debtor.

This restricts the creditor to seeking lawful judgment in obtaining a debtor’s

property and not the person of the debtor or members of his family for overdue

claims of debt.

Another of Myrddin's decrees liberated and restored the full rights of

hundreds of debtors and their wives and bairns who'd been sold into dire

slavery under previous litigation. As a result, more poor wretches were

rescued from unnecessary misery and unspeakable brutalities.

With regard to concubinage, a common practice whereby a man takes an

ancilla for the purpose of bearing him sons, Myrddin's new laws insure if the

man recognises the offspring of the ancilla as his bairns, then, upon his

death, his sons by the ancilla share equally with the sons by the man's lawful

wife in his estate, and the ancilla is freed. But if the man doesn't recognise

his offspring by the ancilla before his death, both the ancilla and her bairns

by the man become the property of the man's lawful heirs who can keep them as

caethion or sell them as they see fit, for the status of the bairns depends

upon the free or caeth state of the mother. If the woman is a caeth, then her

unrecognised bairns are caethion, too.

However, none of these laws stop a husband or father from the outright

sale of his wife, ancilla or bairns whilst he's still alive. By custom, the

power of the head of the household over all therein is absolute, even to the

point he can sentence anyone in his house to death if he's of a mind to do so,

or to sell those under his power into a lifetime of gross bondage or indentured

service. The latter is usually a fixed term of from three to seven years

depending upon the agreement at the time the bargain is struck or the auction

held.

Myrddin also supported the end of human sacrifice by religious cults.

This wasn't a popular stand among the diehard druids, but Myrddin succeeded in

bringing the majority of his fellow priests over to his point of view. Those

who continued the terrible practice found Myrddin and his cousin, Dyfrig,

working in concert against them. Collaborating so well together, it seemed as

if they became one person with one mind on the subject; and if it wasn't for

the fact I knew them both, I might conclude one was impersonating the other as

some have since erroneously claimed.

Myrddin and Dyfrig aren't the same man. They're first cousins, my wife's

nephews, and they don't agree on all issues. For example, Myrddin is the head

of our ancestors' old faith as the Prophet of the Goddess, and Dyfrig is a

Christian bishop whose religion, then in its infancy, is predicted to sweep the

land and drive out the old faith.

Myrddin supports the old matriarchies whilst Dyfrig favours the

patriarchies of the newer times. So, one represents the past and the other the

future. In this way, they're on opposite sides of the same coin, philosophically very different, although they find much common ground to agree upon as good friends and kinsmen often do; and despite their different religious beliefs, they remain close allies.

When all is said and done, Uthr's reign, although it started off poorly,

finally recovered. Of course, the guiding light behind this recovery was

Myrddin. Shrewd, persuasive and the head of a large religious community, he

combined vigilance, temperance and dexterity with a singular dedication to the

service of his flock and the welfare of the entire realm. He worked with such

fervour and single sightedness I began to wonder if he knew he wouldn't have

enough time to get done all he wished to do.

Then, less than a year after my foster-son's birth, the news arrived the

last Roman Imperator of the West, Romulus Augustulus, had been dethroned by

Odoacer, leader of the German mercenaries in the imperial service. The

beleaguered Western Imperium passed out of existence forever with little more

than a whimper when Odoacer proclaimed himself Rex of Italia. The pax Romana was no more, an omen of what was to come in Brythain.

Although these drunken roistering Aryans undoubtedly are destroying much,

much more has actually survived. Over the years, I've come to understand what

Myrddin saw. He said conquerors are more often than not merely assimilated

into the land and people they've subdued. They admire the greater benefits of

the civilisation they've conquered or they wouldn't have bothered to conquer it

in the first place. Hence, half understanding its value, they seek to preserve

the best of it.

My own people, the Celts, being of the same Aryan stock, conquered

Brythain and made the land our own, and thus I've hopes these newcomers

ravaging Europe will eventually settle down like we ourselves did. The only

loss I can see is the impotent and decrepit regime of the imperators.

Although someone might rightly say I'm a big fish in a little pond, I

still believe the change at the top of society at long last, perhaps, will

benefit humankind, especially the less fortunate in the lower classes. The

passing of the eternal torch to a new guard is only temporarily disruptive and

civilisation goes on as before. Even a backward hillsman like myself can

understand this. We see it every day in the breeding of our livestock.

Purebreds often lack the stamina of mongrels. Thus, this change represents an

infusion of new vigourous blood needed to take the civilisation forward.

Otherwise, it grows weak and dies a lingering death like the Roman Imperium.

One day I met Myrddin for merenda in the forum at Caer Lludd. We had a

favourite thermopolium there, with a painting on the frieze over the doorway of

Ulysses rejecting Circe's potion, which appealed to Myrddin's sense of humour.

In the air, there was the aroma of oxtails being browned in olive oil and

garlic by the tavernkeeper's daughter in a large pan over the fire. At the

next table, a merchant of lesser means was dining on sliced beef tongue, boiled

the prior day and served in a sweet and sour marinade, with white raisins and

pine nuts. As for myself, I'd ordered old Horace's creation, drunken chicken.

As we sat at our usual table, I asked Myrddin, a vegetarian like the deer

of his god Cernunnos, why did the Roman system ultimately fail. Munching on a

carrot, he said there was no one reason but a combination of factors had

brought about her decline and fall over a long period of time.

"The feeble heirs o' Caesar," he stated reaching for his calix of vinum,

"were finally unable tae protect their subjects against the stream o'

barbarians who invad'd the imperium, but at the same time absurdly were

unwillin' tae trust the people wi' arms fer their own defence.

"Brythain," he said, "was one o' the first Roman provinces tae reel under

this onslaught. When the legions returnt tae the continent, we were left

defenceless an' a ripe plum fer the pickin'. The desperate pleas we sent fer

succour gaed unheed'd. Roma hadst perforce desert'd us tae our fate, 'cause

she hersel' was on the verge o' bein' sack'd by the West Goths o' Alrig.

"E'en three an' a half decades later when we cri'd fer help again, General

Aetius who command'd the Roman armies turnt his back upon us, 'cause he'd ither

mair urgent matters tae attend tae, the Turanians o' the Hungvarian chieftain,

Atzel. Aetius' victory o'er Atzel at the Battle o' the Catalaunian Plains was

in reality an Aryan victory o'er the Turanians fer the mastery o' Europe.

"This victory," Myrddin concluded, "was nae less momentous tae the fate o'

Europe than tha' o' stoppin' the Persians at Marathon. Although the records

differ, they say anywhere frae one hundred an' sixty-two thousand tae three

hundred thousand casualties were left on the field o' battle.[8] Sae, aiblins,

Aetius was right in abandonin' us."

"Aye, aiblins," I responded, "the Roman Imperium's tentative state o'

equilibrium start'd tae break doon aboot a hundred years agae, when the fierce

Asiatic Hungvari swept westward on horseback across the steppes an' fell upon

the East Goths livin' north o' the Pontus Euxinus. The East Goths recoil'd

upon the West Goths startin' them as the vanguard o' a great wave o' migration

tae escape the Hungvari who struck terror an' panic in all the Germanic tribes.

"Twas the beginnin' o' the end fer Roma," I went on, "'cause the tribes

fleein' afere the Hungvari burst in upon the Roman Imperium when twas in a

state o' decline. Her pathways hadst bin left open an' her fascinatin' riches

sae covet'd lay helpless befere the oncomin' tide of barbarians.

"The fact is Roma ne'er couldst conquer the entire wilderness, by far the

largest part o' the world, wherein barbarism was able tae thrive, gatherin'

brain an' brawn fer the final assault upon the sick Imperium. Thirty-five

years after the appearnace o' the Hungvari, Alrig leadin' his West Goths

westward finally reach'd Roma; an' when the civitas fell, Trahern's degenerate

son, now Imperator o' the West, was reliev'd tae learn twas only the civitas

tha' hadst bin sack'd. Fer at first when he'd heard the news, he fear'd his

favourite hen, also nam'd Roma, hadst di'd."

I spit with disgust on the dirt floor, unable to understand how any

monarch could value a chicken above the 'Eternal Civitas' and all its

inhabitants. Such, though, was the impotent and decrepit state of the

imperators who'd brought the Imperium so low.

It was a sunny day, warm and hazy in late autumn. We ate leisurely at our

repast and slowly sipped our vinum, watching as we did so the people coming and

going in all their gay colours. Merchants hawked their wares, the vinum

merchant waving an ivy branch at the crowd to indicate he sold vinum and the

butcher a myrtle branch as evidence of the good quality of his meat. All

around them, the forum bustled with its daily activity, as we sat there idly

discussing the fall of Roma.

"Twas the decay frae wi'in, my friend, tha' brought aboot the fall o'

Roma," I concluded, waving a chicken bone to make my point.

"There was plenty o' tha' alright. She was ripe fer the pickin'. The

intolerable weight o' arbitrary taxes levi'd tae support the decadence an'

license o' the patricians bankrupt'd the merchants, made the poor e'en mair

destitute an' dependent on public assistance, an' as a result became the seed

fer revolt frae wi'in, wha' ye call'd 'decay'. Twas nithin' mair than dry-rot

tha' sapp'd her vitals, eatin' at her innards 'til there was nithin' left but

an empty shell."[9]

"Luckily, we ha'e avoid'd tha'," I interjected.

"Nae, na' entirely. We ha'e bin fortunate sae far, 'cause o' the policies

begun by Emrys Ben-Eur, which ha'e bin recently resum'd by Uthr. But we're na'

out o' the woods by a long shot. The stability we currently enjoy is only the

result o' finally establishin' order an' one man rule. Wha'll happen tae tha'

stability if the head is remov'd an' the body is left tae fend fer itsel'

again?"

"There wouldst be chaos. The mair powerful nobles wouldst fight against

one anither fer the vacant cader. The whole country wouldst be thrown intae

disorder an' our enemies frae withouten wouldst see us as ripe fer the pickin'

again."

"Precisely, Gyner. See, ye dae understand after all."

I understood only too well. Myrddin had just described to me what our

future was to be. If I was hearing him correctly, he was telling me Uthr

hadn't long to live, and his realm would fall for the very same reasons the

Roman Imperium had fallen, because Uthr had patterned his government after that

of the Romans, thus dooming himself to the same failures.

After that, our discussion about Roma took on a subtle meaning which both

of us understood but neither voiced. In reality, we were talking about the

fall of Brythain and the pieces my foster-son would have to pick up when the

time came. Myrddin was preparing me for the future so I in turn could prepare

my charge.

"As fer Roma," he explained, "the unprecedent'd graft an' corruption

amidst those in power further aggravat'd the blight o' the remainder o' the

populace. The unfairness, cost an' time-consumin' judicial process, which at

best was only a partial administration o' justice tha' sat o'er a code o' oft

contradictory laws favourin' the rich an' powerful, contribut'd largely tae the

discontent o' the masses an' their unwillin'ness tae continue tae support, e'en

if they couldst, a system o' government gaen rotten frae top tae bottom.

"The reliance on foreign mercenaries an' conscripts fer a major portion o'

the Roman army spell'd their doom. These foreigners were suppos'd tae defend

the land an' people, but they hadst no personal attachment or regard fer either

the land or the people, outside their own financial gain. Thus, the Romans,

gaen too soft tae fight their own battles, creat'd a military force whose

soldiers were unable or unwillin' tae risk their lives fer wha' they saw as a

dyin' institution."

"How canst we prevent sic things frae happenin' here?" I asked.

"By bein' as diligent as we canst in rootin' out corruption an'

eliminatin' excessive taxation us'd tae line the purses o' those in power which

hurts the economy an' does little tae fix our problems. I ha'e ither concerns

as well."

"Sic as wha'?"

"Well, fer one thin', the pestilence."

"Ye mean this marsh fever spreadin' throughouten the continent," I

responded, having heard of this strange illness sweeping across Europe from the

east.

"Aye, fer one, an' the Goddess ken wha' ither contractible plagues yet

unkenn'd. The healin' arts ha'e na' met our needs. Hundreds o' people are

dyin' e'ery day frae lack o' proper remedies. We need better care fer the sick

an' infirm an' less costly services, sae e'eryone canst receive fair an'

appropriate treatment regardless o' their station in life or their ability tae

pay."

"Who wouldst shoulder sic a financial burden?"

"The state."

"The government canna afford tae dae tha', canst it?" I asked.

"True, it wouldst mean higher taxes. But canst we jus' stand by an' let

people die, jus' 'cause they canna reimburse the physician or hospital fer

services render'd? I think na'. We mus' be a mair carin' people than tha', or

we surely are doom'd tae the same fate as tha' o' the Roman Imperium."

"I ken ye speak the truth, Myrddin, but I doot ye'll e'er get the ha'es

tae voluntarily gi'e up a greater part o' their hard earn'd incomes tae take

care o' the ha'e-na's."

"Someday, we will, Gyner. But ye're probably right. Neither ye nor I

will likely see it in our lifetimes."

"Ye said ye hadst ither concerns as well."

"Aye, it seems the Romans were unable at the end tae grow sufficient crops

tae feed the populace. I ha'e talk'd wi' some friends who visit'd the

continent, especially libbet Italia, in the last couple o' years. Their

reports confirm this. Soil erosion apparently play'd the major role in Roma's

inability tae harvest adequate grain an' hunger became as big an enemy tae the

future o' the Imperium as the barbarians.

"This makes me think we shouldst pay mair attention tae nature's bounty

an' the guid use o' our land, sae we canst turn o'er a better world tae live in

fer the generations tae come. Aiblins, it wouldst be advisable tae set aside

certain tracts as preserves fer the future. A degree o' thoughtfulness tae

avert the exploitation, destruction an' neglect o' our natural resources dinna

seem out o' order."

"We couldst dae tha'. I agree. But there'll aye be those who'll say,

'there be abundance enough fer all'; an' therefere, there's nae need fer worry

or reason fer them tae stop wha' they're daein'. Be tha' as it may. Wha' else

concerns ye?"

"We couldst alsae dae much mair tae educate our young. Our people are

base, 'cause they're illiterate. If we wish tae progress in the future, we

mus' ha'e mair schools an' guid teachers fer our bairns. Now, we're neglectin'

them quite sorely. Only the rich canst afford tutors fer their own bairns. I

alsae think we need tae end the oral tradition o' the druids an' put tae

writin' wha' we canst sae all canst learn the sacr'd teachings."

"I agree wi' tha'. But wilna be easy."

"Like ye, I'm afear'd in the future the monks will keep all the kenledge

tae themselves jus' as the druids ha'e daen. We mus' guard against this. The

concentration o' kenledge in the hands o' the few results in tyranny. Kenledge

mus' be shar'd by all, 'cause truth only reigns under the light o' day an' na'

when tis hidden under a bushel."

"Tha' makes sense. But as ye say, the druids an' clerics wilna gi'e up

the kenledge they possess, 'cause tis the source o' their power, nor are the

patricians likely tae dae sae either as it wouldst mean grantin' eventual

equality tae the plebeians, an' this they'll na' dae. Is there anythin' else

tha' worries ye?"

"Aye, the sewage."

"Sewage?"

"Aye, our system of controllin' our waste an' debris leaves a lot tae be

desir'd. Pestilence, like the marsh fever ye mention'd earlier, breeds in our

dumps an' in cloacae an' gutters tha' lead nowhere. We're ruinin' our verra

habitat wi' slug an' waste matter tha'll seal the doom o' our world fer the

generations tae come. Ha'e ye e'er smelt the terrible stench risin' frae these

moots the high lairds ha'e built 'round their palisades?"

"Aye, the smell is outrageously foul."

"Chronic diseases breed in the like."

"Aye, ye couldst be right aboot it. But the cities produce sae much

waste, 'cause o' the concentration o' people in them, an' at present they ha'e

nae way o' controllin' their problems. As fer the fortresses o' the lairds, I

see little hope o' change there either, 'cause there're sae many croppin' up

tae protect the folks in the countryside frae the invaders an' marauders

scorchin' the land. Outside o' tha', is there anythin' else?"

"Gyner, there's sae much tae dae sometimes I jus' dinna ken where tae

begin. Like our sarns, fer instance."

"Wha' aboot them?"

"The Romans built us a fine network o' sarns. They're the verra lifelines

o' the realm connectin' us thegither. But the Romans depart'd sixty-six years

agae. Those sarns are in sad condition taeday an' need considerable repair.

We need them fer the merchants tae keep the traffic o' guids flowin' an' fer

the farmers tae get their produce tae market. Withouten guid sarns, our

economy couldst falter."

"Tha' means mair money still in taxation, Myrddin, tae rebuild the sarns

which many fear are bein' us'd by the sea-wolves tae strike inland."

"Aye, tis true. But the rich are jus' usin' the sea-wolves as an excuse

an' are gettin' away wi' murder by na' payin' their fair share, especially

those who wear crowns. Our sarns an' their defences maist be fully restor'd if

we wish tae prosper as a nation."

"Ye ha'e gi'en me much tae think aboot, Myrddin. I aye enjoy our little

get-thegithers o'er some guid food an' fine vinum."

"But sometimes my thoughts trouble ye."

I looked up at him into his piercing eyes. "Ye ha'e come tae e'en ken my

thoughts afere I speak them."

"Tha' is, 'cause I ha'e come tae understand ye sae well, auld friend."

"I'll continue tae support yer efforts, but ye ha'e develop'd a number o'

powerful enemies. Ye shouldst be on yer guard."

"I ken. Some o' the Christians wan' me out o' their way. They see

themselves as the future an' my beliefs as bein' ti'd tae our past culture,

which they wouldst jus' as soon see buri'd in the past an' fergotten. I ha'e

alsae ruffl'd the feathers o' some o' the nobility wi' my talk aboot sharin'

our national wealth on a mair equitable basis."

"True. Many fear ye, Myrddin."

"Fer my ideas or 'cause they think o' me as some kind o' evil wizard?"

"Baith."

He chuckled. "Well, at least, tha's better than bein' taken fer grant'd,

I suppose."

"But ye mus' be mair careful. I'm serious, Myrddin. This talk aboot a

redistribution o' our national wealth, sae all canst share equally in our

abundance, hast certain powerful people quite upset wi' ye. If ye arena

careful, those wi' the power will take steps tae eliminate wha' they perceive

as a threat against their estates. Ye're playin' a dangerous game wi'

serious-mind'd opponents who wouldst stop at nithin' tae silence ye. Remember

the Gracchi. They, too, attempt'd reform but paid fer it wi' their lives. I'd

watch my back if I were ye, unless ye wan' yer head tae end up on someone's

wall as a trophy."

"Aiblins, ye're right. But I canna turn away frae my beliefs."

"I'm na' askin' ye tae. I jus' dinna wan' tae see ye come tae any harm,

'cause ye're tryin' tae dae too much, too quickly. Ye ha'e tae gi'e them time

tae absorb it all."

"Unfortunately, Gyner, we're runnin' out o' time, an' it seems tae me tha'

gi'in' them time in order tae bring aboot change hast aye bin their excuse fer

na' daein' wha' they shouldst dae in the first place. They aye wan' mair time

tae study this or tha', nae matter wha' the issue is an' then nithin' gets

daen.

"How many times canst they cry 'wolf' an' get away wi' it? We need

action, na' words, an' I fer one am tir'd o' listenin' tae the same auld

naensense o'er an' o'er again.

"If these people dinna wake up an' start daein' wha' tis right fer a

change, they're gaein' tae ha'e a bluidy insurrection on their hands. Far mair

ha'e-na's exist, ye ken, than ha'es. If the masses e'er take it in their heads

tae revolt, the ha'es will droon in a sea o' their own bluid. It happen'd in

Roma. The mob rose an' toppl'd mair than one imperator."

"Sometimes ye frighten me, Myrddin."

I was, indeed, frightened by his vehemence, because I knew the masses

looked up to Myrddin as their protector; and if he ever decided to lead the

revolt he mentioned, I felt certain thousands would follow him and much blood

would be spilled, just as he'd said. He could do that, for he was a dreamer,

and dreamers are the most dangerous of men when it comes to the fulfillment of

their dreams. Some will stop at nothing, which made me wonder how far Myrddin

would go to achieve his dreams.

"At times the truth is frightenin', Gyner. But it dinna stop it frae

bein' the truth, dost it?"

"I guess na'. But my guid wife, Non, hast ither thoughts on the matter

than ye, my friend, which are alsae worthy o' consideration."

"Sic as."

"Non believes divine Providence hast direct'd the whole course o'

history. She points tae the careers o' baith Hellas an' Roma as only pavin'

the way fer the comin' o' the Master. True, Hellenic-Roman civilisation hast

gi'en us the arts an' philosophy, the cornerstones o' the intellect. But tae

Non's way o' thinkin', the mission o' Hellas was but tae arouse the mind o'

humankind an' make us capable o' expressin' an' communicatin' our thoughts, our

feelin's, our appreciation o' the arts an' sciences an' our awareness o' the

spiritual beauty God creat'd fer us."

"An' wha' aboot Roma?" Myrddin asked, leaning forward over his empty

plate.

"My wife says Roma's mission was tae brin' aboot the imperium an' spread

its jurisdiction throughouten the kenn'd world, thus creatin' a uniform system

o' laws an' the pax Romana need'd tae draw nations thegither in order tae hear

the Gospel o' Our Laird in Heaven. Withouten Roma, how couldst the Word o' God

be proclaim'd tae all the peoples o' the earth? An', aiblins, this is Roma's

greatest legacy tae humankind, tha' she provid'd the springboard fer Non's

faith an' the means tae carry His message tae all the nations under Roma's

sway."

"But isna tha' true fer ither religions as well?"

"Nae, Myrddin, I think na'. The earlier faiths hath na' sought tae extend

themselves beyond the limits o' the Roman Imperium, aiblins, they fail'd tae

recognise the britherhuid o' man. The Master insists upon this doctrine an' on

the Christain's duty tae our fellow man, tae uplift the downtrodden an' brin'

him hope o' a brighter life, na' o' this world but o' the hereafter in Paradise

by acceptin' Him as the One True God an' followin' in His Way.

"Na' e'en persecution an' death hast stopp'd the march o' the martyrs, my

friend. Nor, I reckon, will anythin' stop the missionaries spreadin' His Word

tae all the peoples inhabitin' this earth. He'll rule supreme frae land tae

land across the world. An' Roma fell, aiblins, all the reasons tha' ye ha'e

gi'en, but mayhap 'cause she was followin' in the decadent footsteps o' Egypt,

Persia an' Babylon, simply tha' she'd sunk intae the lifeless formalism where

e'erythin' is fix'd by a proscrib'd methodology sae rigid an' strict it

prohibits individual growth, social advancement an' economic progress. Through

this formalism man hadst become wise, but also stifl'd an' withouten any

upliftin' self-worth; an' accordin' tae Non, the stimuli an' religious fervour

the Hebrews bequeath'd tae the world now only abides in the followers o'

Christ."

"Dae ye truly believe this, Gyner?" Myrddin asked, with a degree of

anxiousness in his voice.

"My wife daes," I told him.

"But dae ye?"

"I think it'll be impossible tae stop, Myrddin. The auld way is dyin' wi'

each passin' generation. Certes, ye canst see this is true."

"Aye, Gyner, aye," Myrddin answered sadly. "The times are changin'. Tis

true, I'm afear'd in mair ways than one. Someday the Emberis o' the South

shall reign nae mair in this land, especially when honest men like yersel'

start tae question the authority an' the usefulness o' the gods o' our

ferefeythers. Ye may ha'e a pagan heart, Gyner, but ye alsae ha'e a Christian

soul, an' someday yer soul shall convert yer heart tae this new faith. Then,

wha' fer the auld ways? Wi' the end o' pax Romana, we ha'e truly embark'd upon

a new era."

"It couldest still brin' better times ahead, Myrddin."

"Nae, Gyner, I think na'. Rather, we ha'e enter'd a dark age. As a

youth, I was taught we live many lives."

"The ways o' the Great Mither an' the belief in reincarnation," I

remarked.

"Aye, Gyner, sae it is. Certes we mus' live many lives upon this earth

an' in many different forms afere we canst begin tae perceive wha' life is all

aboot, fer we're a stupid lot, an' we need many lives afere we canst truly see

the glory o' Her ways."

"As ye're the Prophet o' the Goddess, Myrddin, I canst see where ye

wouldst believe in sic thin's."

"Dost ye believe in one lifetime we canst see the light? Dinna it take

many lifetimes afere a soul begins tae fathom it all?"

"As I dinna ken wha' I might ha'e learnt in any prior life, it seems I

mus' learn it all o'er again, Myrddin, in this life. Sae wha' need ha'e I fer

reincarnation when naught I might ha'e learnt is pass'd on tae the next life,

exceptin' the pain an' sorrow o' it all."

"May the Goddess help ye an' Her Emberis."

I felt sorry for him as he himself is the Emberis and knows his days are

numbered in holding sway over the minds of our fellow Brythons. The old

religion of our forebears is yielding to the new, and I do really believe Non's

faith will emerge supreme. So does Myrddin, I think. Maybe that's why he

termed this new era "a dark age."

But in my heart, I believe this renewal of faith is good, although I'm

sure Myrddin wouldn't agree about the direction it's taken. However, under the

druids, everything lies in the hands of this priestly caste with such absolute

dominion over all facets of Celtic life progress has become wellnigh

impossible. A new way is needed and, perhaps, Christianity is that way. Once,

we thought the Romans had brought us the change we needed, but it wasn't so.

They failed us. Will Christianity do the same?

Now, like the Romans, our leadership has adopted many vices. They live a

life of luxury and degeneracy, whilst the vigour of our race is being exhausted

in useless wars, the peasantry downtrodden, and the realm open to strife and

easy conquest someday by these spirited invaders already on our shores and

those yet to come.

Even I, who live in my mountain fortress far off from the seat of power,

feel the disquiet growing by leaps and bounds. The Christian evangelists and

missionaries go about their work with zeal, preparing the way for the

conversion of the populace to a new way, a new order, an inevitable change, and

I feel no floodgate will hold back this oncoming tidal wave washing over the

land.

Yet, I've regrets, too. I'm unhappy to think our proud heritage will be

forgotten and no one will place any value upon it. This is at the heart of

Myrddin's fears. He loves tradition too much. He's steeped in its dogma to

the point where he can't see the harm blind adherence to these old-time tenets

is doing. I felt I had to say something to him.

"But ye musna feel sae bad, Myrddin."

"An' why na' when ye ha'e feretold the doom o' my religion?"

"'Cause in our people I see the belief in liberty an' equality our

ferebears pass'd ontae us, our love o' truth an' justice, our respect fer

womankind, an' our pride in ourselves; an' our country will gae on an' on

throughouten time, as long as there's a Brython who holds ontae these hallow'd

beliefs. An' these thin's ha'e all come doon tae us out o' our dense forests

an' frae our mountaintops by the auld ways o' our ferefeythers. These beliefs,

the maist important o' all, shall na' die, e'en if the gods dae. The Hellene

Homer wrote: 'Like leaves on trees the race o' man is found, now green in

youth, now witherin' on the ground: Anither race the followin' spring

supplies: They fall successive, an' successive rise.'"[10]

"Which, Gyner, is tae say, nae matter the change, life gaes on, fer people

are people an' tha'll ne'er change."

"Aye, Myrddin, aye, accordin' tae our auld Celtic sayin', 'til the sky

falls doon upon us an' crushes us, or the earth opens under us an' swallows us,

or the sea washes o'er us an' droons us. 'Til then, Myrddin, 'til then, fer

when there're nae mair people we'll nae longer worry aboot life or its

changes. Some ither order o' life will."

"Aiblins, Gyner, aiblins, but I think sooner than later. The end is

nearer than ye think. Darkness will follow. Then, out o' the darkness, a new

light will emerge. I ha'e prepar'd fer this as ye well ken. He'll come wi'

his own apostles tae right the auld wrongs an' brin' back the ways o' our

ferefeythers."

Of course, I knew exactly whom he meant by "a new light will emerge." He

wasn't referring to the second coming of Jesus as my wife would, but to Uthr's

rightful heir. Yet, did he mean to make him an Antichrist to combat the spread

of the new religion and support the old? Was this what Myrddin was really

after?

We paid our fare and walked back to the palatium together. But I was very

troubled. If Myrddin was right about the future, "a dark age" as he called it,

then it didn't look quite as bright and rosy as I'd hoped. There'd be a

hellish mess to clean up. I couldn't help but wonder if the "new light" would

be equal to this great task and who'd guide him. Obviously, Myrddin saw

himself as mentor to this "new light" or so I gathered. Had he not himself

planned his conception and seen to his safety? I knew he had. Yes, I above

all others knew the role Myrddin had played. Like John the Baptist, he'd

prepared the way for his young master's coming.

Back at the palatium, we met Uthr. He was in a good mood whereas I was

still pondering the meaning of my conversation with Myrddin.

"Well, wha' ha'e ye two bin up tae?" he asked.

"We jus' came frae the forum," Myrddin answered.

"How didst thin's luik? Didst the merchants appear busy?"

"Aye, Uthr, business is boomin'."

He smiled broadly. "Excellent, excellent! Didst ye hear any tidin's I

shouldst ken?"

"Nae, my laird," Myrddin said with a laugh. "People tend na' tae talk

'round me these days."

Uthr nodded his head in understanding, for many began to refer to Myrddin

as the 'Trickster' out of fear of his mantic-trances and prophetic mysticism.

"An' wha' dae ye ha'e tae say fer yersel', Gyner?" Uthr asked, diverting the

conversation from his natural nephew.

"E'erythin' is well, my liege."

"An' how's yer family?" he inquired, looking me straight in the eye with

his one good eye.

I knew what he was really asking. He desperately wanted to know about his

son without directly coming out and specifically asking for information. As

always, the palatium abounded with activity. Servants came and went, guards

stood at their posts, foreign ambassadors sought audiences, clerics busied

themselves at their appointed tasks, and lairds seeking favours from the crown

conversed in small groups here and there. So, Uthr had to be careful not to be

overheard talking about his son, or word would spread to those we didn't want

to suspect the bairn was still alive or where he might be found.

"All are daein' quite fine, Uthr. Non's son, Dewi, is studyin' fer the

priesthuid under yer wife's nephew, Illtyd. Our son, Gai, is growin' sae fast

I'm afear'd he'll be as big as Ogyrfran someday. Their mither is as vivacious

as e'er an' verra happy wi' our youngest lad, Arthgwyr."

"Aye, aye," Uthr said, grabbing my arm and turning me towards him. "Tell

me mair aboot him."

"He's a lively, braw laddie."

"Spirit'd, hey?" Uthr chortled with a gleem in his good eye.

"Aye, he's his feyther's son."

Uthr smiled, knowing my meaning. "Thank ye fer tha', Gyner. Ye mus'

brin' yer family tae court one o' these days. I wouldst like tae meet them."

"As soon as my wife is ready tae travel, I'll be only too happy tae brin'

them tae the capital. They wouldst greatly enjoy it."

"Then, dae it erelong, Gyner. But come. The ithers are awaitin' us in

the Hall o' Heroes. I ha'e call'd a meetin' o' the Table."

Together we entered the great hall to find our illustrious fellowship

engaged in animated conversation, with Sefain the Storyteller as usual

entertaining the other cnichts with one of his bawdy tales of lovers and their

trysts. The laughter soon died down, and after we took our seats at the Table,

Uthr began the meeting.

"I suppose ye ha'e all heard o' the 'Thirteen Treasures o' Brythain' at

one time or anither," Uthr commented. Our heads nodded in assent, as they were

the most prised hallows of the Island. "Well, I propose we collect the

'Thirteen Treasures' thegither an' deposit them in a safe place under the

keepin' o' a special guardian. These maist hallow'd 'Treasures' presently

languish in unsafe places where piratic sea-wolves canst possibly get their

filthy hands on them an' carry them off fere'er frae our land. It wouldst be a

disgrace if we were tae lose any o' the 'Treasures', especially if it happen'd

'cause we fail'd tae properly protect them. Wha' say ye? Shouldst we find

them an' insure their safety fer future generations?"

"Aye, aye," voices rang out in agreement.

"Then, let us make it our quest tae find an' brin' the 'Thirteen Treasures

o' Brythain' thegither fer safekeepin'."

"Here, here," the fellowship clamoured, eagre to be involved in any

adventure, which this surely would be.

"I ha'e ask'd Myrddin an' Osla tae provide us wi' some background

information on the 'Treasures' an' their last kenn'd whereaboots. Myrddin,

wha' hast yer research turnt up?"

Myrddin stepped forward with a scroll and began to address the assembly.

"A few o' the 'Thirteen Treasures o' Brythain' are readily accessible in kenn'd

locations, but fer the maist part, the ithers are either lost or in the hands

o' immortals or people unwillin' tae part wi' them."

"Couldst ye gi'e us an accountin' on an item-by-item basis?" Uthr asked.

"Aye, the 'Thirteen Treasures' include the following:

"I, Lludd's Sword o' Power, which grants the divine right o' sovereignty

tae its rightful bearer an' frae whose stroke nae one e'er escapes or recovers,

but its whereaboots is unkenn'd;

"II, the Bless'd Horn o' Ercol, itherwise kenn'd as the Cornucopia or Horn

o' Plenty, said tae ha'e bin brought tae Pechtland by Ercol's grandson an'

thence remov'd tae the Apple-Isle where tis now under the protection o' the

Burd o' the Loch an' her sisterhuid, the Horn-Maidens, an ennead o' the fairest

o' the fair;

"III, Lleu's terrible lance, Luin o' Celtchar, which sae thirsts fer human

bluid it mus' be kept asleep by steepin' its head in a powerful draught o'

pound'd poppy leaves, an' is believ'd tae be in the possession o' Pellam o'

North Ambria;

"IV, the magic Cauldron o' Afflatus once under the joint wardship o'

Manawyddan an' Pryderi in the Itherworld, dark blue in colour it is, rimm'd wi'

priceless pearls 'round its edge, gently warm'd by a peat-fire fann'd by the

breaths o' the nine gwiddonod o' Caer Lloyw, wilna cook the food o' a coward or

one forsworn, an' if the body o' a slain man is cast intae it, on the morrow

he'll rise alive again, except he wilna ha'e the power o' speech;

"V, the claw'd Hammer o' Cernunnos, us'd by the antler'd-god as his royal

sceptre an' thought tae ha'e bin brought tae the Island by Cernys who came wi'

Bryth an' settl'd in Cernyw nam'd after him;

"VI, the bejewel'd Crock o' Urddawl Ben (the 'Venerable Head') alsae

kenn'd as Uther Ben (the 'Wonderful Head'), which holds the magic talismanic

head o' Bran the Bless'd in cedar oil an' is buri'd under White Hill in Caer

Lludd, where tis said Bran's head protects the country frae foreign invaders;

"VII, the Mwys o' Gwydion is believ'd tae be hidden in the god's weir in

Ceredigion, where he catches saumont fer the table o' the ither immortals, an'

is said tae be able tae feed one hundred if the food o' one is plac'd wi'in it;

"VIII, the Golden Chariot o' Lleu, gi'en tae Caswallawn by the sun-god tae

fight against Julius Caesar when the latter fail'd in two attempts tae conquer

the Island, an' is said now tae serve as Caswallawn's coffin;

"IX, the red abolla, once belongin' tae Padarn Red-Robe, the grandfeyther

o' Cunedag the Burner, which makes the wearer invisible an' is believ'd tae be

in Celidon buri'd on the royal hill o' Din Eidyn;

"X, the Silver Dysgl o' Elen, Leader o' Hosts, which provides wha'e'er

food one wishes an' is secret'd at Segontium where Elen first met Macsen

Gwledig;

"XI, the Whetstone o' Tudwal, gi'en tae him by his uncle, St. Padraig,

whose sister, Darerca, conceiv'd Tudwal under Cynan Meriadawc, founder o' the

House o' the Pendragwns in Lesser Brythain where the whetstone now lies at

Vorigum;

"XII, Math's Gwyddbwyll Board, all made o' solid gold an' the pieces o'

sterlin' silver, which was last seen at the god's dinas in Mathtrafal; an'

"XIII, Gwydion's Livin' Harp, which controls the comin' o' the seasons in

their order when play'd by the god, an' is believ'd tae be somewhere in

Gwynedd, the realm Gwydion found'd an' nam'd after himsel'.

"These, then, are the 'Thirteen Treasures o' Brythain'. They wilna be

easy tae find an' retrieve."

"Yer lists seems quite complete," Uthr acknowledged. "Myrddin alsae

appears tae be right in sayin' our quest tae find the 'Thirteen Treasures' isna

gaein' tae be easy. I, ergae, recommend we divide intae parties o' three or

four an' each party selects one o' the 'Thirteen Treasures' tae concentrate

upon. In this way, we might ha'e a better chance o' securin' as many o' the

items as possible."

Uthr's plan of action met with the general approval of the fellowship, and

we formed into small groups, each responsible for finding one of the

'Treasures'. Uthr chose Myrddin, Osla and myself to go with him in search of

the first item on the list, Lludd's Sword of Power, which Uthr felt, if he

possessed it, would legitimise his right to reign over all the Isles.

But I was having a little trouble with something. During his reading of

the list of the 'Thirteen Treasures of Brythain', I found Myrddin had been

either forgetful or deliberately misleading, for I knew he himself already

possessed, at least, one of the 'Thirteen Treasures'.

When I'd escorted him on his diplomatic mission to Pechtland a number of

years ago, I'd seen him with the fifth item on his list. The ducalled hammer

of Cernunnos is the sceptre of the Emberis of the South and Myrddin is that

person. Had he decided not to give up the sceptre and hold onto it instead,

and if so, why? Didn't he trust Uthr's reason for collecting the 'Treasures'?

That night I slept in one of the hospitia at the palatium and rose before

dawn the next morning to start our quest as Uthr was anxious to get underway to

find the sword. I noted the Pleiades were setting in the late autumn heavens,

an ominous sign, which in antiquity marked the summons of the sacred-ricon or

his surrogate to his death by human sacrifice.

I think this may have had something to do with Uthr's urgency to locate

the sword, for in olden times he'd have been the ricon and only the possession

of the sword could have saved him from his prescribed fate. Did he feel a

similar fate awaited him and that the sword could save him from it? Was this

the reason for the rush to find the sword? If so, who had told him about this

fate?

I knew the answer. Only one man could have given him this information and

been believed, Myrddin; and as we mounted our horses and rode off, it dawned on

me maybe the knowledge of this fate spurred Uthr to give up his son for

safety's sake.

I felt a sudden chill. This was no ordinary quest we'd undertaken, nor

was this any ordinary sword.

A number of swords of historical or mythological note are held in high

esteem.[11] One of the most famous is Marmyadose. Marmyadose was the sword of Ercol. Ercol, of course, is the Celtic name of the most famous of all the

great Hellenic heroes of antiquity, Herakles, whom the Romans called Hercules.

His sword first came into the possession of Julius Caesar, and when Caesar

invaded Byrthain, he lost it fighting in single combat against Caswallawn's

brother, Nennius, who brought the sword away as his trophy stuck in his shield

but shortly died of his wounds. After the Roman conquest, Caradawc the last

defender of the Island's independence, buried Marmyadose just before his own

capture to keep it out of enemy hands.

Over three centuries later, Macsen Gwledig led a successful quest to

unearth Marmyadose, finding it near Caradawc's last stronghold, Caer Caradawc,

where Ogyrfran the Giant lives today. Then, he led his legions to the

continent and although initially successful eventually met defeat. His first

son, Gwyrthur or in Latin Flavius Victor, was executed along with him. But

Macsen's brother, Marcel, and one of his brother-in-laws, Gadeon, escaped and

returnt to the Island with Marmyadose and Macsen's two younger sons, Custennin

Cerneu and Owein.

The Cernish-born Custennin followed in his father's footsteps and also

lost his life on the continent in pursuit of the imperial crown of the West.

Owein brought the sword back to the Island after his brother's death but in

turn died in single combat at Dinas Brenhin, now in the possession of Myrddin.

However, before Myrddin got the rights to the hill-fort from Gwrtheyrn,

the latter dug up Owein's grave and carried off Marmyadose with him. When he

was killed, his son, Pasgen, inherited the sword, but hid it in a cairn in his

cantref of Gwrtheyrnion in Powys. After Pasgen's own death at the hands of

Erbin, his eldest son, Rhitta Gawr, so they say removed Marmyadose from its

hiding place and took it to his fortress.

Of the Gwrtheyrnian leaders, Rhitta and his brother, Nero, are the most

outspoken in their opposition to Uthr. But their owrelaird in Powys, Cadell

Ddyrnllug, and his brother, Rhuddfedel Frych, are even more dreaded foes, as is

Meurig, the Stater of Dyfed. Their alliance is made all the stronger as their

fathers, Pasgen, Catheyrn and Gwrthefyr Bendigeid, were brothers.

Myrddin has prophesied Rhitta Gawr shall lose the sword to a hero of the

cenedl of Cunedag the Burner. But the prophecy also says Marmyadose will be

regained by a maiden warrior of the House of Rhitta Gawr. Then, a son of the

ruling House of Cernyw shall come bearing the arms of Akhilleus, and he'll win

both the sword and the maiden. From their union shall spring a great house

known as Guarensis.

Hywel's family holds the fiefdom of Cernyw. Then, if Myrddin's prophecy

is correct, it would appear someone of Hywel's bloodline will someday come into

the possession of Marmyadose.

But as great as Marmyadose is, with an interesting history, it's nothing

compared to the sword of Lludd, known as the Sword of Power. Lludd is the

Celtic Zeus, the equivalent in many respects of Jove or Jupiter. He's the

chief god in the Celtic pantheon of solar deities; and therefore, his sword is

a divine weapon, whereas Marmyadose is merely the sword of mortal men.

Consequently, for a mortal to possess Lludd's sword would mean unlimited

prestige and power. Uthr's desire, then, to secure it was understandable.

Bearing the Sword of Power, he could instill fear in his enemies whilst raising

the morale and confidence of his own troops. This would be no mean

accomplishment.

Only one other man in recent history achieved as much. Atzel, called the

Flagellum Dei or 'Scourage of God', did something very similar to persuade his

followers to believe in him as the chosen one. He built his reputation on a

passage from the Bible, Revelation XII:V—"she brought forth a male child, one

who is to rule the nations with a rod of iron . . ."

Hence, the sword of the Roman war-god, Mars, was found and given to Atzel

who renamed it the 'Spirit of Death'. His warriors followed him with fanatic

zeal believing only his invincible arm could wield the sword of Mars. Soon all

of Europe began to believe it, too, and trembled at the mere mention of his

name.

He designated himself "Atzel, Descendant of the Great Nimrod. Nurtured in

Engaddi. By the grace of God, King of the Hungvari, the Goths, the Danskers, and the Medes. The Dread of the World."

Nimrod of the snaky-haired head was worshipped by a host of idolaters in

Babylonian times, and by claiming to be his heir, Atzel was attempting to

justify his right to the ancient kingdom predating Christ. Engaddi signifies

an oasis of palms and vines in the desert. It was the civitas of refuge, hard

by Zoar, which God spared when he destroyed the faithless with fire from

heaven. Thus, Atzel claimed to be nurtured in the wilderness at a place

prepared by God for his coming. Interestingly, he also claimed to rule all the

lands and peoples from the Medes in Persia to the Danskers in Llychlyn making his imperium larger than that of Roma at its height.

In A.B. Fifteen Hundred and Forty-Four, Atzel murdered his elder brother,

Bleda, who for the last ten years had been co-ruler of the Hungvari with him.

By this deed, similar to Romulus consecrating the foundations of Roma with the

blood of his brother, Remus, so Atzel dreamt of beginning a new cycle of

dominion here on earth, purchased by a sacrifice of equal awe and value as

Romulus'.

At the time of its founding in A.B. Three Hundred and Forty-Seven, twelve

vultures were seen flying over the seven hills of Roma. The soothsayers

interpreted the presence of 'the birds of destiny' as giving Roma twelve

centuries to endure. Thus, Atzel believed Roma would fall to him around A.B.

Fifteen Hundred and Forty-Seven, but he was defeated by Aetius four years

later, and is thought to have been murdered by a woman two years after that.

When we started out to search for the Sword of Power, only

three-and-twenty years had passed since Atzel's death; and indeed, Roma had

fallen that very same year. I wondered as we rode out that late autumn morning

if Uthr planned on reviving Atzel's dream of a new imperium to supersede Roma.

After all, Uthr descended from a line of prior claimants for the imperial

purple. He was the grandson of Gwen, daughter of Custennin Cerneu. Both

Custennin and his father, Macsen Gwledig, had proclaimed themselves as

imperators of the West after finding Marmyadose.

Then, if Uthr found the Sword of Power, could he wield it with even

greater effect than Atzel wielded the sword of Mars or his own forebears

wielded the sword of Ercol and finally make their claims a reality? I also

wondered about the bairn in my keeping. Was he the one to eventually fulfill

the dream and how would that effect my family?

My mind was troubled with these thoughts as we gallupt out of Caer Lludd

on that brisk morning. We headed southwest and, eventually as day passed into

evening, toward the setting sun where the gods of the Otherworld are said to

reside far to the west in the great sea.

CHAPTER IV

* THE ENCOUNTRE WITH THE GWIDDONOD OF CAER LLOYW *

At Calleva, Myrddin led us northwest on the old Roman sarn to Caer Lloyw in the Hafern Valley. Whilst Uthr seemed totally unperturbed about our destination, Osla and I exchanged worrisome glances, for we were riding right into the midst of Uthr's dynastic enemies, the Gwrtheyrnians. This was the very heart of their territory but there was no telling Uthr of the possible danger lurking behind every tree. He rode on without a second thought about it.

But there was much more to fear than just the Gwrtheyrnians. The ennead

gwiddonod of Caer Lloyw were no friends of ours either. They hated Myrddin,

their rival in the occult, and they also detested the Order of Mabon, which

sought to limit, or altogether destroy their hold over the minds of the

peasantry. The four of us weren't merely ordinary members of the order, but of

the highest rank. Needless to say, the gwiddonod also sided with the

Gwrtheyrnians against the Divine Pendragwns.

Riding on in silence, my apprehension grew all the more the closer we got

to Caer Lloyw, for I knew this was the chief civitas of the gwiddonod and that

many Gwrtheyrnians lived there as well. But if I'd known what Myrddin had in

mind, I'd have been even more worried. He was taking us right into the

gwiddonod's coven.

We arrived on the outskirts of Caer Lloyw well after dusk. I couldn't see

any stars out that night, for the sky was so black I couldn't see my hand

before my face. All I could hear was the trees soughing in the chilly wind.

We dismounted without saying a word at what appeared to be the entrance to

a grove. I put my hand out to tie the reins of my horse to the nearest tree.

It was an oak. An involuntary shiver went through my body. The gwiddonod met

in an druidic oak grove, where they carried out their horrifying rites,

including human sacrifice. I didn't like this place at all.

"Myrddin, where are we?" I finally found the courage to ask.

"We're at the grove o' the gwiddonod," he responded matter-of-factly.

"I kent it," Osla grumbled. "Why the devil ha'e ye brought us here?"

"Only the high priestess kens the whereaboots o' the sword," he told us.

"Wonderful," Osla chuntered sourly. "Jus' wonderful."

"Stop yer complainin', Osla," Uthr ordered. "If this is the only place

tha' canst gi'e us the answer we seek, then this is where we mus' gae."

"One thousand pardons, my liege."

"Ne'er apologise, Osla. Tis a sign o' weakness. An' right aboot now, I

ha'e the feelin' we're gaein' tae need jus' aboot all the strength we canst

muster."

"As ye say, my laird."

"Well, Myrddin," Uthr whispered, "ye better lead the way."

"Afear'd na', Uthr."

"Wha'?"

"Only one o' us canst gae in."

"Ye're jokin'."

"Na' at a time like this, Uthr."

"Really. Well, then, who's it tae be?"

"He who seeks the sword mus' brave the gwiddonod alone."

Uthr's face blanched white. I could actually see it.

"Dinna worry, Uthr, I'll gae wi' ye," I said, although my knees were

shaking.

"Nae, Gyner," he declared resolutely, "if only one o' us canst gae, then

it mus' be me."

"I'll only gae in as far as Myrddin suggests, sae I canst keep ye in sight

at all times withouten bein' seen mysel'."

"Is tha' alright, Myrddin?" Uthr asked.

"Tha' shouldst be alright, Uthr. But, Gyner, see tae it ye dinna enter

the inner circle o' the grove or all hell is liable tae break loose."

Uthr and I started into the grove, trying to make as little noise as

possible as we walked stealthily along a well-trodden path between the huge

trees with their gnarled branches. Autumn leaves carpeted the ground and

rustled in the treetops. I saw pentacles and hexagrams, the emblems of the

Goddess, carved into some of the oak trees.

Within the grove, we came to a clearing in the middle, which I assumed was

the inner circle Myrddin had mentioned. It was lit by a huge bonfire, and for

the first time, I could clearly see my surroundings.

At the exact centre of the clearing rose the largest tree of all, with old limbs spreading far out above the ground like rafters in a great hall. Carved into the trunk of the tree was the representation of a naked woman squatting with her knees apart displaying her vulva. Perhaps, this carving, which I've heard is called a sheila-na-gig, was of Caillech or Kelle, the Celtic veiled goddess of the crossroads, who corresponds to our Cerridwen in Cymru. I'm not sure.

There was also a huge cauldron rimmed with pearls held o'er a smaller fire

by wrought iron hangers. I saw shadowy shapes of figures on the ground,

apparently fanning the flames of the fire beneath the cauldron. One of them

arose and came toward us.

"Hide behind a tree an' stay out o' sight," Uthr whispered, and I

immediately concealed myself as he'd commanded.

Uthr strode boldly forward and then stopped after entering into the light

at the outer perimeter of the clearing. The approaching figure continued to

advance toward him. I peeked out from behind the tree and was shocked at what

I saw. By the flickering light of the bonfire, I saw a beautiful young woman.

I'd thought gwiddonod were all ugly. But this golden-haired woman looked

like a heavenly goddess, fairer than the fairest of the fair. Only Eigyr the

Unparalleled Beauty outshone her in loveliness.

She wore a diaphanous green silk gown with a border of refined gold that

clung to every curve of her shapely body, and as I looked closer, I could see

her garment left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Whiter than white were

her high-riding breasts, a waist so tiny a man could encircle it with his two

hands, her hips so round and full, and her legs long and shapely. The hue of

her hair was like the flower of the iris in summer, red as the tod the colour

of her clear-skinned cheeks, bluer than the bluest hyacinth her matchless eyes,

scarlet as rowan-berries her lips, and the radiance of bright mother moon shone

in her adorable face. She was a stunning beauty.

"Sae ye ha'e finally come, Uthr Pendragwn," she purred in a sultry voice.

"We ha'e bin awaitin' ye. I'm the high priestess, Blancheflor. Welcome tae

the grove o' the Gwiddonod o' Caer Lloyw."

Taking Uthr by the arm, she led him to the other figures who rose in

unison and bowed gracefully before him. From the firelight, I saw they too

were all beautiful women, instead of the toothless hags the storytellers

normally associate with witches.

I was beginning to understand the outward form of beauty doesn't

necessarily represent goodness any more than ugliness must always be a sign of

evil. What's in the heart is what truly matters.

To get a better view, I decided to climb the tree, which I managed to do

without falling and breaking my neck. I saw an oaken cader made from the stump

of a tree apparently hit by lightning. The women brought Uthr to the cader and

he sat down upon it. Then, Blancheflor, their high priestess, placed an anadem

of mistletoe upon his haughty brow.

A pretty priestess began to play upon her harp. Seven others, including

Blancheflor, formed a circle around the cauldron, and as they began to dance

around it in a anticlockwise motion, they sang a chant of some sort, but I

couldn't make out the words. It sounded as though Blancheflor and her fellow

priestesses were calling upon the powers of the Otherworld to come forth, and I

became frightened for Uthr's safety.

Suddenly, a strange procession emerged from the other side of the woods

from where I was hiding. Two youths carried a huge spear. By the light of the

bonfire, I could see the point of the spear was dripping blood. Behind the

youths came the enneadth of the beautiful priestesses bearing a large silver

salver in her dainty hands.

In the middle of the salver lay a severed head swimming in blood. It was

the head of a man.

Uthr bolted to his feet and grasped the pommel of his sword with his right

hand. The high priestess, Blancheflor, raised her hand toward him, as though

to calm his fears. Uthr removed his hand from the hilt of his sword and sat

back down again.

The priestess carrying the salver with what I assumed from tradition was

supposed to be a sacred talismanic head, the kind offered to appease the gods,

approached the cauldron. The high priestess grasped the severed head by its

hair and raised it over the boiling contents of the cauldron.

Invoking the powers of darkness in a solemn oath, she slowly lowered the

head into the viscous red broth. It must have been blood, whether animal or

human, I can't say, although I've heard stories about the red menstrual ale

brewed by gwiddonod for the ricon-making ceremony.

Once the head had been ritualistically given to the gods of the

Otherworld, another figure emerged from the far side of the grove. It was a

well-built man, rather muscular and young. He was totally naked, except for a

mask covering his head. As he neared the light of the fire, I could see he was

sexually aroused. His manhood was fully erect.

From his mask, I realised he was a stand-in for Gwyn ap Nudd, the ruler of the fairies and the black-faced Wild Huntsman whose red-eared white hounds lead his nightly search for the souls of the dead, whom he conducts to Annwn, the Otherworld. Obviously, he was the god invoked by the coven.

The gwiddonod ran to him and caressed his naked body. They also engaged

the two youths carrying the spear in a wanton display of debauchery. The scene

quickly changed into a wild orgy.

The high priestess took a ladle of the red broth from the cauldron to

Uthr. His eyes grew large as he looked directly into the ladle but he drank

from it anyway.

Then, Uthr and Blancheflor sank to the ground together, and she cried out

in pain as he penetrated her. Like a rogue bear, he roared in triumph over

her; and whilst they made love, if one could call the bestial manner in which

Uthr was taking her an act of love, I saw she bled and coated his maleness with

the red of her blood.

Suddenly, I realised what was happening. This was the ancient custom of

investiture in the old matriarchal societies. The gwiddonod of Caer Lloyw were

endowing Uthr as their new sacred laird. I wondered if the severed head

deposited in the cauldron belonged to his predecessor, the fate awaiting each

sacred-ricon when his tenure expired.

Realising Uthr wasn't now in any danger, at least, not during his

investiture by the gwiddonod, I climbed down the tree and found my way back to

the entrance, where Myrddin and Osla waited. It was still dark out, a few

hours before dawn.

I looked quizzically at Myrddin, wondering if he knew all along what was

going to occur and that's why he told Uthr to go in alone. But Myrddin said

nothing. He sat on a fallen log, eyes downcast, waiting quietly for Uthr to

return.

"What happen'd?" Osla asked. "Where's the Pendragwn?"

"He's safe," I answered and said no more to him. I joined Myrddin on the

log. "Didst ye ken wha' wouldst transpire here taenight?"

He just smiled but refused to answer. I took that to mean he'd known.

"Twas the auld matrilineal investiture," I affirmed.

"Aye, now they'll tell him where tae find the sword."

"I see."

But in my heart of hearts, I didn't approve. What if Blancheflor became

pregnant as a result of this night and had Uthr's bairn? Would that bairn

rival Arthgwyr for Uthr's cader as its conception took place during the right

of investiture giving it precedence?

"Is she as beautiful as they say?" Myrddin asked, interrupting my

thoughts.

"Blancheflor?"

"Aye, the high priestess. Each successor is chosen fer her beauty as well

as her virginity and devotion tae the Goddess, an' each high priestess of the

gwiddonod o' Caer Lloyw alsae takes the name o' Blancheflor upon her

succession."

"Oh," I rejoined, "well, aye, she's a great beauty alright, but she's nae

longer a virgin."

"Ye dinna approve o' wha' hast befallen."

"Tis hard tae believe this was the only way tae discover the whereaboots

o' the sword. A man was kill'd by those women as a sacrifice. I thought ye

were against sic thin's."

"I am. But I'm alsae a realist. Tis sometimes impossible fer people tae

break wi' tradition, e'en bad ones. An' who am I tae object? I'm na'

withouten sin. Are ye, Gyner?"

"O' course, na'."

"Then, ye shouldst na' cast stones at ithers. Luik tae yersel' first."

"Wha' ye say is true, Myrddin. But tha' dinna alter the fact a man was

murder'd here taenight, an' if we dinna dae anythin' aboot it, then we're

accomplices in the crime by our failure tae redress the wrong."

"An' wha' wouldst ye ha'e us dae, Gyner? Shouldst me march intae the

grove an' put all the gwiddonod tae the sword? How wouldst tha' set wi' the

gods? After all, the gwiddonod are now Uthr's benefactresses. They ha'e

recognis'd his right tae rule an' will tell him where tae find the sword.

Canst Uthr turn on them now fer their methods o' bein' his benefactresses? I

think na'."

"He hadst nae ferekenledge, sae tisna his fault. But ye kent, Myrddin.

I'm sure o' it. Ye kent wha' was gaein' tae happen, an' ye push'd Uthr intae

it, as well as makin' Osla an' I a party tae it, too. Tha' wasna right."

"Then, I'm tae blame. The rest o' ye are blameless."

"Merely acceptin' the blame, dinna make it right. There's nae justice in

tha'."

"It seems we're at an impasse."

"Sae it wouldst seem," I agreed, as the first rays of the rising sun broke

through the trees.

Just then, Uthr emerged from the grove. He carried Blancheflor's head by

her long golden-blonde hair. It swung back and forth dripping blood on the

ground as he approached us nonchalantly.

He threw the young woman's severed head at Myrddin's feet. Myrddin and I

stared at it aghast.

"I kill'd them all, Myrddin. The ither gwiddonod, the two youths an' the

man pretendin' tae be the god, I behead'd them all. I threw the ither heads

intae the cauldron, but I thought ye might wan' this one. She was the high

priestess."

Her beautiful face looked up at us. There was a look of supreme surprise

on it, matched, perhaps, only by that of Myrddin and myself.

"Why, Uthr, why didst ye dae this?" Myrddin implored.

"I dinna like bein' trick'd. Ne'er play sic games wi' me again, or next

time, it'll be yer head rollin' in the dirt. Tha' I swear."

Changing the subject, I asked: "Didst she tell ye where tae find the

sword?"

"Aye, I wait'd 'til she told me afere loppin' off her bonny head."

"Ye ha'e repaid her ill fer her services tae ye," Myrddin avered, picking

up her head by her long hair and walking away with it into the grove. I heard

him say: "Ye ha'e seal'd yer own doom by this act, Uthr. The gods will punish

ye fer it as ye're now the Laird o' Misrule in their eyes."

"I fear na' yer gods, Myrddin," Uthr shouted at him. "I'll hold my crown

by the exercise o' my own free will an' owe nae ither fer my destiny than I

mysel'."

CHAPTER V

* NONE BUT THE PENDRAGWN *

Myrddin didn't return to us. Tiring of waiting for him, Uthr ordered Osla and I to mount and be on our way. I wasn't to see Myrddin again until the day of Uthr's death. He never forgave Uthr for killing his benefactresses.

From Caer Lloyw, we rode south along the Hafern, until we came to a high

promontory overlooking the magnificent views of the afon valley. On top of the

promontory stands a great temple complex dedicated to Lludd built inside an

Iron Age hill-fort with a rampart defending the northeast entrance. Underneath

it lie old abandoned iron mines.

The Romans built the temple shortly after A.B. Fourteen Hundred and

Sixty-Four. A rectangular cella, sixty by eighty feet, is divided into three

small sanctuaries at one end and is surrounded by a wide corridor. The

corridor's outer wall contains seven alcoves or chapels, each fronted by a

lovely mosaic.

An elaborate bath suite fed by a water tank and conduit lies just north of

the temple. Facing it on the west side and opening onto a broad ambulatory is

a long narrow group of cubicles where patients apparently sleep overnight in

the hopes Lludd will cure them of their illnesses or wounds. Just northeast

of the temple, a one hundred and thirty by one hundred and sixty foot hostelry,

with a central courtyard, provides accommodations for palmers.

Being a rectangle and not an exact square, the temple fails to fit the

description of the famous Otherworld abode of the powers of darkness.

Blancheflor had told Uthr he must find the fortress and from within climb down

into the womb of the Mother where he'd find the sword.

In legend, I've heard the name Caer Bannawg, which means the 'square' or

'four-cornered castellum', elsewhere called Caer Pedryfan or Carbenoit (where

Myrddin was educated). In some ancient Cymric poems, it's described as a

'revolving castellum' made of 'glass' probably meaning a fort entirely

surrounded by water as water often has the appearance of glass.

Another spiral castellum belonged to the Otherworld god after whom

Bendigeidfran or Bran the Blessed was named. It was also said to be a square

enclosure containing many 'riches', as well as being a place of much 'revelry'.

At one time, Pwyll and later his son, Pryderi, lived there. One of their

'riches' was the Cauldron of Afflatus, which we wished to find, because it was

one of the 'Thirteen Treasures'.

According to Myrddin, ennead beautiful handmaidens attended the cauldron.

The number and description of this sisterhood and the cauldron matched exactly

the number and description of the gwiddonod at Caer Lloyw and their cauldron.

The immediate proximity of the coven made me wonder if the priestesses

whom Uthr beheaded were in reality this sisterhood and their cauldron the one

we wanted. If so, Myrddin was right. Uthr had made a terrible mistake and

would be punished for it by the gods, if he was the Laird of Misrule as Myrddin

said.

Lludd is worshipped as the leader of the 'Bairns of Don' and, therefore,

as an enemy of the powers of darkness. But it still isn't improbable the

gwiddonod of Caer Lloyw, witches though they were and thereby connected to the

powers of darkness, somehow became the protectresses of his sword, for they

worshipped the Three Mothers, Don, Artio and Arianrhod. The first is Lludd's

own mother, the second his mother's sister, and the third his own sister, the

moon-goddess who oversaw the gwiddonod's activities. Hence, it would appear

there was a definite connexion. Moreover, the witches had called upon Gwyn ap

Nudd, Laird of the Dead. Nudd is one of Lludd's many names; and therefore,

Gwyn, the god worshipped by the witches, is his son.

In addition, the powers of darkness are called the 'Bairns of Llyr' as the

solar deities are called the 'Bairns of Don'. Both Llyr Marini and his son,

Manawyddan, are Celtic sea-gods, and the sea is always thought to be the abode

of the Otherworld gods as the sky is the abode of the solar deities.

It's to the sea in the far west the dead are taken by Gwyn to reside with

the moon-goddess. Moreover, both Uthr and Eigyr trace their lineage from a

common ancestor, Bran the Blessed or Bendigeidfran in our language, who's also

a son of Llyr Marini and half-brother of Manawyddan. Thus, both of Arthgwyr's

parents trace their descent from the same god as do the powers of darkness,

Llyr. Could this be why the witches had agreed to invest Uthr, because of his

ancestry?

Bran also means 'raven' and the raven is thought of as the bird of death

as well as a messenger of the gods. But by lineage, Uthr belongs to the raven

totem of Bendigeidfran. Another reason why the witches might have honoured

him.

The raven is also the avicular of the Cult of the Severed Head and the

title of the first grade of the Order of Mabon. Two of Uthr's closest

companions, Ogyrfran the Giant and Urien of Rheged, belong to both the cult and

the order, and they worship the head of Bendigeidfran on White Hill, well-known

for flights of ravens circling around it.

Furthermore, the seal of Uthr's signet ring, which Myrddin gave to me and

I wear on the gold torc around my neck, shows two ravens perched one on either

side of a disembodied head bearing a crown. Could the head on Uthr's seal

represent the head of Bendigeidfran? If so, was Uthr then a member of the cult

as his favourites, Ogyrfran and Urien?

After all, his own name of Uthr Pendragwn can be translated to mean the

'Wonderful Head of the Dragwn' and may in itself connect the worship of

Bendigeidfran and the dragwn-god of the Otherworld, Beli Mawr, who's worshipped at the Beltaine on Maia Day. Of the two most often invoked titles for

Bendigeidfran's head, one is Uther Ben, which contains Uthr's name itself and

means the 'Wonderful Head'.

Does any of this have any significance? I don't know. Does it portent

anything? Again, I don't know, except it all seems to suggest a connexion

between Uthr and the powers of darkness.

Does it have any bearing on Uthr's bloody deed at the oak grove of the

gwiddonod? Possibly. Members of the Cult of the Severed Head take the heads

of their enemies. Uthr beheaded Blancheflor, all the other priestesses, the

two youths and the man filling in for Gwyn. He considered them his enemies.

In addition, those who belong to the Cult of the Severed Head oppose the

matriarchal societies of the Goddess and strive to overthrow her priestesses, a

graver explanation for Uthr's treatment of the gwiddonod.

Is that why Myrddin left us? Because he's the head of the White Stag Cult

of Cernunnos which opposes the Cult of the Severed Head. That would explain

his disappearance. He serves the Goddess, as do all the followers of

Cernunnos, the Goddess' consort.

So, if Uthr was the secret leader of the Cult of the Severed Head, it must

have come as a double shock to Myrddin, who for the first time realised just

who Uthr really was, his enemy, and that he'd been serving his enemy and doing

his bidding all along. I find it questionable, however, that Uthr could have

so successfully fooled Myrddin for so long.

Why would he bother? Perhaps, his need of Myrddin's services was so great

during those terrible earlier years between his brother's murder and the end of

the Cernish War that it precluded Uthr from taking sooner action to rid himself

of Myrddin whom he must have considered as extremely meddlesome. By casting Blancheflor's head down before Myrddin's feet, Uthr was finally declaring his

independence. It can only be described as an act of defiance, of a man coming

into his own and throwing off the shackles of his last dependency. That would

explain much.

The Order of Mabon is an exclusive male organisation, based on a military

design, and on male dominance in society. As a member, I'm aware of this but

had no idea how deep the male movement to overthrow matrilineal inheritance had gone. This experience was an eye-opener to me.

Furthermore, I've come to realise those of us, such as myself, who've

strong Christian leanings, have also been kept at arm's length by a powerful

group working within our order. It would appear the Cult of the Severed Head

is this extreme reactionary sect, and they consider the White Stag Cult with

its priests who castrate themselves in honour of the moon-goddess to be their

mortal enemies.

In time, I learnt the members of Uthr's Order of the Pendragwn bore

similar sentiments, and few, if any, regretted Myrddin's fall from power. I

saw many of them rejoice at the news, because being aristocrats they desired

favouritism for their own patrician class, whereas Myrddin espoused the reforms

and idealism of Cicero, which the high lairds considered to be rank plebeian

republicanism.

However, I'm one of those few who viewed Myrddin's departure from court as

a bad omen. He was the genius behind Uthr's success. But to be his own man,

Uthr had to get rid of him. Also, if Myrddin had remained, he undoubtedly

would have attempted to block Uthr's plans for the future and come to a violent

end as a result.

With Myrddin out of his way, Uthr was free to follow his own course. But

above all, if the Sword of Power fell into his hands, it would symbolise his

right to proceed as he wished with his plans.

Those plans included the dissolution of the various religious cults

controlled by women, which formed the bedrock of the matriarchies prevalent in

those areas where Uthr wished to extend his power, such as in the mountainous

regions of the north, west and southwest, which stood in opposition to his

rule. Then and now, these female dominated cults also continued to practice

human sacrifice, and as the Romans before Uthr used this issue as a pretext to

destroy the druids, Uthr used the same reasoning to abolish the matriarchal

cults and establish the law of primogeniture wherever and whenever he could.

I was stunned by this revelation. I'd never given Uthr credit for having

the ability to orchestrate such a lengthy deception of his intentions, for he

wasn't the kind of man who normally exhibited the self-restraint required to

win at such a game. Neither had Ercol. But he'd been largely responsible for

leading the overthrow of the female cults in Hellas.

It surely looked as though Uthr, a man similar to Ercol in many respects,

was doing the same in Brythain. But there must have been some planning behind

the scenes. The question is: who directed this stage show and for whose

benefit?

Of course, there's Osla to consider. I think he's the ferret Uthr

employed to snare the 'moon-hare' as Uthr called Myrddin in an derogatory

fashion. The moon-hare is one of the longstanding emblems of the Goddess to

whom Myrddin has dedicated his life, but it's also a timid creature, and Uthr's

meaning was clear by associating Myrddin's sometimes womanish traits with the

Goddess' familiar. His open ridicule, then, of Myrddin among his cnichts might

indicate Uthr had formulated a plan to force Myrddin out, and I think Osla

helped Uthr to accomplish this end.

Wherever Myrddin went on an official mission, Uthr sent Osla with him

apparently to act as his eyes and ears. If so, Osla bore watching as any spy

must be watched, for such men can't be trusted.

As a son of Gwrtheyrn, Osla has always had his own dreams of ultimate

power, which could threaten Arthgwyr; and in his position as Uthr's penmaer,

he gained the financial clout to make him a dangerous person, indeed. In

addition, he's the head of the powerful Gewissi of Caer Gwent; and if he was

also Uthr's spy, then he was closer to the cader than I'd foreseen. As a

result, I became suspicious of him.

Indeed, I must be just as vigilant of men like Osla today in A.B. Fifteen

Hundred and Eighty-Eight as then. Now that Uthr is gone, the high lairds are

vying for his cader; and if any of the claimants should learn Arthgwyr is

Uthr's son and rightful heir, I've no doubt attempts to remove him from their

path would follow. Thus, I must continue to keep my foster-son's identity a

secret until he's old enough to fend for himself and make good his birthright.

But that was just as true whilst Uthr lived.

In this regard, I came to a decision I knew would displease Uthr, but for

Arthgwyr's sake, I decided I must never permit the two of them to be seen

together, for I was afraid Uthr would give Arthgwyr's secret away. Then, I'd

have to deal with assassins at my door. Better to keep them separated, but if

I had to defy my Laird Uthr and refuse him access to his son, I was afraid it

would cause trouble between us.

Fortunately for me, the search for the Sword of Power and not his son was

uppermost on Uthr's mind at the moment. He needed the sword to fulfill his

plans and Eigyr was pregnant with another bairn whom Uthr hoped would be a son whose legitimacy couldn't be questioned, the other requirement to fulfill his

dreams for the future.

As I mentioned earlier, the temple of Lludd and its complex of buildings

sits atop a high promontory overlooking the Hafern valley. It lies a short

distance off the sarn coming from Caer Lloyw and can only be entered at its

northeast corner as the sheer cliffs of the promontory make it otherwise

inaccessible. A stout curtain wall guards the entrance.

When Uthr, Osla and I arrived, we were met by an aged drysaur at the

parth. "Who gaes there?" the old man asked.

"Uthr Pendragwn an' two o' his high lairds," Osla responded.

The drysaur stared in awe at us through the parth. "Laird ha'e mercy," he

murmured. "Tis the Pendragwn."

"Well, are ye gaein' tae open up, ye auld coof, or jus' keep us waitin'

out here," Osla shouted.

The drysaur hurriedly opened the parth, and led by Uthr, we rode onto the

grounds of the temple and up to the hostelry where Osla arranged lodging for

the night. Then, as we'd ridden without stopping to eat, Uthr ordered the

hosteller to prepare us a meal of roast ducks, a shoulder of mutton, cheese and

fresh baked bread that we washed down with the local bitter ale.

"Ah," Osla intoned with a burp, "now I feel better."

"Aye, indeed," I agreed.

"Now, let's find the priest in charge o' the temple," Uthr decided, "an'

see if he kens where we canst find the sword."

We rose from the table and walked to the temple. Its design and

construction reminded me once again what master builders the Romans had been.

In particular, the chapels built into the outer wall of the temple impressed me

with their beautiful mosaics.

I especially remember the little shrine to the goddess of healing,

Sequana, where we knelt to pray. Although her primary sanctuary is in Gaul at

the headwaters of the afon named after her, Sequana's worship was brought to

the Island long ago by our ancestors.

After leaving a votive offering to the goddess, we strode around the place

appreciating its architecture. Then, we entered the temple itself, where a

white-haired priest greeted us.

"May I help ye, my sons?" he asked.

"Aye, auld feyther," Uthr answered, "I'm luikin' fer yer chief priest."

"I am he," the old one replied.

"An' I'm Uthr Pendragwn."

"I ken, my laird. We were told o' yer comin'."

"Who told ye?"

"A raven brought us the news o' yer impendin' arrival an' the purpose o'

yer visit, my Laird Uthr."

Uthr raised an eyebrow. "Sae ye talk wi' ravens an' kent o' my comin' an'

why I'm here, hey?"

"Aye, Maist Noble Pendragwn, ravens are the messengers o' the gods an' the

gods ken all. Ye ha'e come tae find the Sword o' Power."

"Aye, sae I ha'e."

"I'll direct ye tae its restin' place, my laird. Then, it'll be up tae ye

alone tae retrieve the sword, if ye're destin'd tae dae sae."

"Where's the sword tae be found?"

"It lies in a small grotto o' Mither Don 'neath the ground. There's an

auld mine tunnel tha' leads tae the grotto. I'll show ye tae the entrance."

"It seems somehow too simple."

"Oh, tis far frae tha', my laird."

"Wha' dae ye mean, auld one?"

"The Sword o' Power may only be drawn forth by god's anoint'd one."

"Drawn forth?"

"Aye, my laird, tis stuck in a square flintstone block weighin' a great

deal. The strongest man alive canna pull the sword free, unless he's the

chosen one tae dae sae."

"I'm the Pendragwn sae the sword is mine by right. Tha's why nae one else

hast succeed'd afere me. Only I canst draw the Sword o' Power frae the stone."

"If Lludd hast ordain'd it tae be sae, then ye're the one; but only if he

hast decre'd yer success, canst ye achieve yer quest."

"Take me tae the sword."

"I'll take ye only as far as the entrance tae the mine. Frae there, my

laird, ye're entirely on yer own, fer I gae nae further. Yer men may accompany

ye, if ye wish. But I'm too auld tae climb doon tae the grotto o' Mither Don."

"I understand. Take us tae the entrance an' I'll retrieve the sword."

We followed the priest from the temple to the mouth of a small tunnel

leading straight down into the promontory. The Romans had probably dug it when they were mining for iron ore here. It looked quite deep to me.

"Ye shouldst be ferewarn'd some dangers await ye," the priest said.

"Wha' dangers?" Osla wanted to know.

"A dragwn, my laird, a fire-breathin' dragwn sacr'd tae Lludd's feyther,

Beli Mawr, guards the sword. We hear him rumblin' at night."

Uthr laughed out loud. "Dae ye think the Pendragwn fears sic a creature?"

"Oh, nae, my laird, I'm quite sure ye dinna. But the dragwn will amaze ye

jus' the same," the old priest asserted and, then, turnt and walked away.

The three of us looked at one another wondering what the priest had meant,

but impatient to get on with it, Uthr lit a torch and began the descent into

the darkness of mother earth, and we followed him.

It's said Don gave birth to her firstborn son, Lludd, in the grotto below,

the grotto, of course, being symbolic for her womb. Thus, in a manner of

speaking, we were penetrating the Goddess to retrieve her son's divine sword,

itself a representation of the sacred lingam of the godhead of Beli Mawr, the

father of the 'Bairns of Don'.

We'd also be fulfilling our quest when traditionally the old ricon dies

and the new one is proclaimed. As the heliacal rising of the Pleiades

announces the coming of summer, their setting in late autumn brings the Celtic

new year's eve festival of the Samhain, when the druids perform human

sacrifices to appease the gods in commemoration of the creation of the world

and the transformation of chaos into order. Customarily, one of these

sacrifices has been the sacred-ricon or his surrogate.

We use the title of dragwn (in Latin draco from the Hellenic drakon meaning 'serpent') for our royal monarch, because his tanist is the dragwnslayer. For us, dragwn has the same meaning as cyning or 'king' does for the Germanic nations. Indeed, in Cymru, our national emblem is Y Ddraig Goch, ‘The Red Dragwn’ that Uthr Pendragwn gave us and is so closely related to the legend of Myrddin the Prophet of the Goddess that some believe he himself is the red dragwn. Thus, the title of Pendragwn means the same as 'King of Kings', the imperial designation of Xerxes and Darius of Persia.

The Christians have also applied the title of King of Kings to their chief druid, Jesus, who like the sacred-ricons of old was sacrificed for the salvation of humankind. But I tend to think the Romans crucified Jesus merely because he was a political agitator fomenting public disturbances over controversial issues, and the Romans had a habit of getting rid of such agitators as a practical matter in quelling social unrest and opposition to their dictatorial rule. Therefore, Jesus' execution was a political necessity rather than a religious sacrifice, whereas the druidic sacrifices have a specific religious connexion.

The title of the sacred-ricon is also very similar to rex sacrorum and rex

sacrificulus, the ancient designations of the dignitary who oversaw the

sacrifices in old Roma. Although the Romans and Celts of today are very

different, I can imagine our ancestors must have shared much in common, so much so I could believe we came from the same primogenitor whose story has long since been lost through the ages that have past.

Strange what one thinks about whilst climbing down a dark tunnel into the

earth. As I lowered myself with my dolabra, it was dank and smelt foul like

there was a rotten corpse below.

I remembered Myrddin having told me at one time the druids used to fill

deep shafts with layers of items from our culture, including human and animal

remains, logs and artifacts between buffers of stone and ash. At the moment,

however, I just hoped there wasn't a cave-in to entomb us for eternity in the

same fashion or until we were dug up sometime way in the future to be studied

by God knows who as rare finds.

Then, all of a sudden, a flight of bats shot past us in a maddening dash

to escape to the surface. It scared the devil out of me. I detest bats.

They're so ugly and heathen-like creatures that drink blood.

When we finally reached the bottom of the shaft, we found piles of bat

droppings (the source of the foul odor I'd smelt) and several tunnels running

off in different directions. Both Osla and I looked at one another worriedly.

"We couldst get lost doon here an' ne'er find our way back tae this spot,"

he stammered, showing his apprehension.

"Nae we wadna," Uthr vowed, holding aloft the torch he'd brought down with

him. Reaching into his tunic, he removed a clew of thread. "Ha'ena ye two

e'er heard o' the legend how Theseus found his way through the Labyrinth tae

kill the Minotaur?" he asked.

Both Osla and I laughed at once. It was the laughter of two men who'd

just been relieved of their foolish fears. Uthr had thought of everything.

Reaching down, he tied the free end of the thread around a boulder lying

at our feet. Then, unraveling the thread as we went, the three of us began to

explore the mine tunnels to find the sword.

We encountred a bunch of rats scurrying about, hopefully trying to escape

our presence. At least, that's what I preferred to think.

"Luik," Uthr exclaimed at one point. He raised the torch to one of the

walls and there was a carving of a white horse in a solid piece of rock. "Tis

the white mare o' the goddess Rhiannon."

Of course, we all knew the white mare plays a significant role in the

ricon-making ceremony of our ancestors, still practiced by the Gwydyls today.

The carving would seem to be a good indication we might be nearing our goal.

"But wha' aboot the dragwn, Uthr?" Osla asked.

"Ye dinna really believe in tha' naensense, dae ye, Osla?"

"Well," he said drawing the word out at length, "I've ne'er really seen

one. But tha' dinna mean they dinna exist, daes it?"

"Dae ye believe in ghosts, too, Osla?"

"As a matter o' fact, aye, I dae. Dinna ye?"

"Guid gawd, nae," Uthr retorted and began to laugh aloud.

"Please, Uthr, dinna laugh sae loud," Osla implored.

"Why na'?"

"Nae sense in riskin' wakin' up the dragwn, if there really is one doon

here."

That only made Uthr laugh all the harder. "Osla, ye play the fool better

than my court jester."

"Uthr, tis my only hope we canst extricate ourselves frae this horrible

place withouten any o' us gettin' kill'd in the process. Thank ye."

Even I had to laugh at that one. In the cool depths of the tunnels, Osla

was sweating from fright. Uthr roared.

Abruptly, the tunnel made a sharp turn to the left and widened into a

small cavern. Uthr raised the torch higher to see, and the light reflected

back at us from a shiny object directly ahead.

The brilliance of the reflection momentarily blinded me and I had to

shield my eyes. Then, I heard Uthr howling in glee.

"I found it! I found it!" he bellowed.

Osla and I rushed forward into the cavern to see what Uthr had found. The

place reminded me of the sacred grottoes the druids customarily use for their

secret meeting places. It wasn't at all as big as I thought it would be for

the birthplace of the mightiest of the solar deities.

Uthr just stood there gawking in silence at a huge square block of

flintstone so large I doubt the three of us together could have lifted it.

Just as the old priest had told us, protruding from the top of the stone was

the most beautifully wrought sword I'd ever seen.

The pommel was made of pure gold and encrusted with precious gems. The

gleaming iron blade was embedded fast within the block of stone which bore an

inscription in ogham, the ancient Celtic alphabetic system consisting of

notches for vowels and lines for consonants usually seen on rough standing

tombstones.

"Canst ye decipher it, Osla?" Uthr asked.

"Nae, I ne'er learnt how tae read ogham."

"I canst, Uthr," I said and leaned forward running my fingertips across

the cuttings in the stone. Slowly, I translated the inscription. It had been

some time since I'd read anything in ogham, and I wished Myrddin was still with

us, for he could do it much easier and faster than I. But I managed alright.

"It says: 'Whosae'er pulleth the sword frae the stone is rightways Pendragwn

o' the Isles'."

"Aha!" Uthr chortled. "This is it."

"Well, gae ahead, my laird, pull it out," Osla prompted.

Uthr scratched his chin reflectively. "Nae, na' jus' yet, Osla. Ye try

yer hand at it first an', then ye, Gyner."

Osla and I looked at one another in puzzlement. He shrugged his shoulders

and attempted to pull the sword free. It didn't budge a bit, not even a

little, and he was really trying to pull it free.

I tried too, but with the same results. Then, Uthr took the hilt into his

right hand and with one swift wrench yanked the sword free, the grating sound

of the sword rubbing against the stone causing sparks to fly and being quite

audible as he pulled it out.

"Ye didst it, Uthr," Osla hollered.

"Well, wha' didst ye expect?" was Uthr's offhanded reply.

Then, he did the strangest thing. He put the sword back into the stone.

"Why didst ye dae tha'?" Osla wanted to know.

"Ne'er mind why," Uthr answered calmly. "Ye gae get some tackle tae hoist

baith the sword an' the stone tae the surface, an', Gyner, ye get us a wagon

tae haul our prise tae Caer Lludd."

We did as Uthr bade us, and the sword and stone were raised to the

surface. It was the Celtic new year's day, a solemn occasion filled with

prayers for the dead, which the Christians know as All Saint's Day.

During the time it took to hoist the sword and stone, I had the

opportunity to look around the grotto. I made a discovery of my own. On the

back wall, I found an ancient cave drawing. I immediately called Uthr and Osla

to come and take a look at it.

"My gawd!" Osla murmured in surprise.

We looked from the cave drawing to the coat-of-arms of the House of the

Pendragwns embossed on Uthr's breastplate. They matched exactly. It was a red

dragwn rampant breathing fire and holding the Sword of Power aloft in one

clawed paw.

As Uthr stepped forward, he slowly removed his glove and ran his

fingertips lightly across the ancient cave drawing. He was, as were Osla and

I, astounded by it.

"They're identical," he finally observed. "But how canst this be? This

drawin' mus' be hundreds o' years auld, possibly gaein' back tae the ancient

ones who liv'd here afere our ferebears e'en came tae the Island."

"It mus' be the red dragwn emblem o' Beli Mawr," Osla concluded.

"Aye," Uthr answered, rubbing his chin. "Sae this is wha' the auld

whitehair'd priest said wouldst amaze us."

"He hadst probably bin doon here hundreds o' times durin' the years he

hast serv'd at the temple," I began. "It only stands tae reason he made the

connexion betwix' yer coat-o'-arms an' the cave drawin' which is why he told us

the story aboot the dragwn guardin' the sword in the stone."

"A silly story," Osla said, "but everyone will marvel at the likeness o'

the drawin' an' Uthr's coat-o'-arms."

Uthr nodded. "I wan' this rock remov'd. Get masons tae chisel it out an'

ha'e it cart'd tae the palatium."

Of course, all was done as he ordered.

Shortly after returning to Caer Lludd, Uthr sent out a summons for all the

great nobles of the realm to assemble at the capital. The assembly was set for

the second annual feast-day for Beli Mawr (an unrestrained and licentious

festival replacing the Roman Saturnalia in Brythain).

I had meanwhile gone home to Caer Gai, my fortress on Llyn Tegid, which

I'd renamed in honour of my son. Brastius joined me there with his retinue and

together we road to the capital. But I left my family behind for safety's

sake. Of course, Brastius and I had to obey Uthr's summons, and thus we went.

Just like every year at this time, people jammed the viae of the civitas

cavorting about in a wild carnival atmosphere. Bairns and lovers pelted

passersby with flowers, thieves relieved the unwary of their purses, the crowds

from the taverns spilled out into the viae and ran riot, men carried huge

phallic symbols around the town to the amusement of the women who were free

with their favours, and vinum flowed freely from the huge amphorae provided by

Uthr to curry the good will of the masses.

I was glad I hadn't brought Non and the bairns with me, because I knew my

wife would be highly offended by the debauchery overtly displayed in the viae.

Besides, good women weren't safe under these conditions and were better off

remaining at home.

At the palatium, we found Uthr had placed the sword and stone beneath the

statue of Bryth in the Hall of Heroes. Translations of the ogham inscription

had been added in both Hellenic and Latin on opposite sides of the stone. A

bard told anyone who asked what the inscriptions meant and the old priest from

the temple of Lludd recited the history of the sword. In addition, the cave

drawing of the red dragwn rampant was on display for all to see.

Groups of murmuring nobles surrounded the artifacts clearly in awe by what

they saw and heard. Uthr kept us waiting, obviously wanting all of us to be

suitably impressed by the sword stuck in the stone and to learn what the

inscription read before making his appearance. Then, he entered the Hall of

Heroes with a very pregnant Eigyr on his arm. She was now close to delivery.

Perhaps, her condition once again served to remind those assembled of her

son who'd been sent into hiding almost exactly a year ago. Standing there, I

remembered Arthgwyr's first birthday would be in eight days time falling on the

nativities of Mabon and Jesus Christ.

"My lairds an' burds," Uthr addressed the assembly, "ye see afere ye the

sword o' Lludd thrust intae a huge block o' stone. The ancient inscription

tells us whoe'er canst draw the sword frae the stone is the legitimate ruler o'

the Island o' the Mighty. I propose all o' the nobles o' our realm take their

turn by order o' rank, wi' the sole exception tha' I'll be the last o' all tae

attempt tae pull the sword free. If nae one objects, then my brither, Erbin,

as next-in-line tae the cader after me, shall gae first."

There being no objections, the contest to pull the sword from the stone

began. First, Erbin tried and failed. After him, every laird of the realm,

including I myself, attempted it without one being able to withdraw the sword

from the stone.

Then, last of all as he'd said, Uthr grasped the hilt of the sword and

easily drew it from the stone to the awed sighs of the noblemen and their

burds. Uthr had succeeded where the rest of us hadn't, exactly as he'd

planned. It was all a show, of course, staged to demonstrate his superiority

over us. I thought it rather childish myself. But the lesson he intended was

clear.

"This proves," he said, "I'm the rightways Pendragwn o' the Isles, the

supreme owrelaird o' our realm. Is there anyone present who durst deny my

right o' sovereignty?"

No one spoke. There was absolute silence.

"Naen denies yer authority or right o' dominion, my laird, Pendragwn,"

Bishop Dyfrig of Llandaff finally pronounced. "Ye're God's anoint'd, the

chosen ruler o' the realm."

Uthr held the sword aloft for all to see. "By this sword an' by nae ither

power, I proclaim the divine right o' sovereignty as the absolute monarch o'

our realm, which includes Brythain, Cymru, Celidon, Pechtland, Lesser Brythain,

the Outer Isles an' Eirinn. All the lands held by our ferebears, the Celts an'

the Iberians, are under my sway as imperator."

So, he'd taken the first step. He'd declared himself as imperator.

The next day all the noblemen and their burds paid homage and fealty to

Uthr and the Pendragwness in the Imperial Cader Room. Uthr sat upon the black

marble cader of Bryth and Eigyr sat beside him on a smaller curule chair. One

by one the high and mighty came forward, knelt before the imperial pair and

kissed their hands.

As I watched the procession, the dragwn on the disk of malachite hanging

on the backrest of Uthr's cader caught my attention. Myrddin had made it as a

gift for Uthr during the Cernish War.

Upon the disk, Myrddin had depicted a red dragwn rampant breathing fire

and holding a sword aloft in one clawed paw. A sudden realisation took me by

complete surprise. In the most minute detail, Myrddin's dragwn was an exact

match of the dragwn in the cave drawing.

How had Myrddin been able to duplicate the drawing unless he'd seen it in

the grotto? But that meant he'd have known the whereabouts of the sword all

the time; and thus, there was absolutely no need for us to go to the grove of

the gwiddonod of Caer Lloyw, unless Myrddin had been interceding on the behave

of the Goddess to bring about the ricon-making ceremony. But to what avail?

Was this an manoeuvre to establish the paramountcy of the Goddess, which Uthr

thwarted by beheading the entire coven?

During the cena that followed in the triclinium, I learnt Myrddin had,

indeed, left Uthr's court for good. Most of the noblemen were relieved to see

him go; a sentiment, however, I didn't share.

As an Apician feast was laid before us, we reclined Roman fashion three to

a lounge, with three lounges facing a table. Personally, I found lying on

one's stomach whilst eating to be most uncomfortable, much preferring the freer

native method of sitting cross-legged to eat.

The lounges were beautiful works of art, though. Decorated with ivory,

bronze and mother of pearl, they sat on raised pedestals. Candelabras by the

hundreds and golden lamps lit the room. Delicious dishes to excite the

imagination and flatter the senses were served in course after course way into

the night. Of course, Uthr had provided gaily coloured caenateria vestis for

each of his guests to wear, including me.

Whilst trying to do my best not to drop any food on the dinner clothes

Uthr had provided and the lounge's priceless cushions, I learnt the other

members of the Order of the Pendragwn had all failed in their individual

quests, too. With the sole exception of the sword, none of the other 'Thirteen

Treasures of Brythain' had been found, although reports surfaced of a

mysterious wizard taking them away before our fellow table-cnichts arrived.

The cauldron, spear, salver and harp we'd left in the grove of the

gwiddonod of Caer Lloyw were apparently four of the 'Treasures' sought by our

fellowship. I had a bonny good idea who might have taken them, the same person

who already had the Hammer of Cernunnos, but I kept my suspicions to myself.

To be truthful, I felt a bit of unwarranted glee at the prospect. I

believed and still do to this very day no one could be a better guardian of the

'Treasures' and, therefore, said nothing to Uthr about my suspicions, nor have

I ever questioned the person whom I suspect, for I trust he'll do the right

thing in the end.

On the morning after the nativity of the Celtic sun-god and the Christian

messiah, Eigyr disappointed Uthr by bearing him a baby girl, named Angharat.

Both mother and bairn were in good health. The birth took place on the feast

day of the mating of the ruler-elect with the white mare.

CHAPTER VI

* GO TELL THE BRYTHONS *

It was now A.B. Fifteen Hundred and Seventy-Seven, and none of us knew our world was on the brink of disaster. We were living on an intoxicating illusion of ourselves, the false estimation of our might and glory fostered by Uthr. If Roma had fallen into the hands of the barbarians, what did it matter to us? We were far away, and Myrddin's self-styled "dark Age" didn't mean a thing to Uthr's table-cnichts, for we had a new star to guide us, the Divine Pendragwn, our own imperator as much a divinity as the Caesars had been.

He assembled together the greatest fleet of war-galleys ever before seen in

the Isles, exactly as many as Agamemnon had led to Troy, eleven hundred and

eighty-six sailing vessels from great triremes to biorlins, smaller lymphads

and auxiliary tenders. To man them, he raised four full consular armies of

about one hundred thousand men-at-arms in all, an amazing sight as I'd never

before seen so many soldiers in one place.[12]

To the music of pipes, clattering hooves and clanking armour, we gathered

from every corner of the realm to take part in Uthr's great expedition. The

assembly took place at Caerleon ar Wysg and Uthr marched us to the roadstead of

the Hafern where we boarded the waiting ships.

The sun was up and shone brightly upon us. Expectations were high, for we

believed none could prevail against us so long as Uthr wielded the Sword of

Power.

We weighed anchor and set out to sea. It was a balmy day and the Hafern

was calm. No one but Uthr knew our destination, a secret he kept until we were

well out to sea.

Then, he told us. Eirinn! We were to smite the Gwydyls! The crew

cheered at the news, for the Gwydyls had invaded our homeland many times and

now it was our turn to repay them in kind.

Uthr had put me in command of his flagship, a fine, two-masted war-galley.

But not being a seaman by trade, I prevailed upon Ynwyl Liconaus of Caerdydd to

become my first mate and gave him free rein to run the ship. I spent most of

my time on the quarterdeck, worrying over the stories I'd heard about the

Eirish Sea and its treacherous storms.

At first, only the sound of the oars broke the serenity of our passage.

On the horizon, a telltale haze of ill-omened mizzle enveloped the sea in a

shifting pattern of darkening gray; and as the weather grew heavy, Ynwyl ran

close-hauled upon the headwind of a turbulent rainsquall under reduced sail,

endeavouring to beat to windward.

I'd lain down to take a nap on the deck. Suddenly, I was tossed upwards

as the deck dropped out from under me. My back slammed into the hard oak

planks, and for a moment, I didn't know where I was.

Struggling to my feet, with my knees bent to withstand the surge of the

wildly pitching sea, I looked out at a wall of water coming at me. The bow

smacked over the top of a curler, plunged headlong into a trough, and then

slammed into the next curler with such force white water flew over the

quarterdeck and knocked me down.

Unfortunately, the going got rougher still, so Ynwyl ordered the sails to

be furled and made fast. The oarsmen hove her to midway across the Eirish

Sea. At that exact moment, a corbie, known as a bird of bad tidings, went

directly athwart the bow, and I could see the uneasiness it caused in the faces

of the crew.

A great helmwind (the kind I'd seen Myrddin control) raced across the sky,

drawing ink-black clouds, thunder and bolts of white-hot lightning with it.

Within moments, torrential hail poured down and swept across the decks carrying

some crewmen overboard to drown in the turbulent sea.

Looking out at Uthr's fleet, I watched as the raging wind blasted the

other ships ripping their sails to shreds and even bringing down masts and

rigging as well. In one, a large wherry we'd pressed into service, I saw

sails, splintered wood and torn line come hurtling down upon the crew, washing

men, beasts and whatever else could be torn away overboard into the violent

sea.

The high crests swelled to greater and greater heights and the troughs

seemed deeper than ever. A number of boats were broached, and others careened,

losing all hands in a welter of foam.

Aboard the flagship, we cast horses, arms and baggage over the side to

lighten our load and set as many hands as possible to bale water from the

gigantic waves breaking over us. Men shouted in panic, some prayed whilst

others broke down and cried. Fear was rife among us. We thought the gods of

darkness who control the sea sought to claim our bodies and our souls.

But I for one felt the hand of Myrddin in this helmwind and thought to

myself he was getting even with Uthr for killing his benefactresses at Caer

Lloyw. Of course, I could never prove this, but I still believe it today. As

the agent of the gods, he was carrying out their justice.

However, irascible as ever, Uthr alone remained undaunted. Like a great

brown bear, he stood up and cursed the powers of darkness. Then, he cursed the

men, kicking and pushing them back to their stations to save the ship. From

dusk to dawn, we fought the angry sea and the rising water in our holds.

When first light broke, the sea becalmed once again as though the dawn brought an end to the dark ones' ability to harm us any further. But when we looked out about us, less than half the fleet remained, and those ships still afloat had sustained considerable damage and loss of life. We stood at the rail overcome. How many of our friends had drowned during the night?

Mighty Uthr was downcast, reproaching himself for having been the author

of this disaster; however, Ynwyl and I convinced him the dark ones had caused

it all but we'd beaten them and were still alive. No explanation, though,

could suffice. The initial pride and swagger of our expeditionary force had

been brought very low. As stated in the Old Testament, "Pride goeth before

destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall."[13]

"But sae many are dead!" Uthr lamented.

He couldn't be consoled until Osla advised him to search the Eirish shore

for any survivors. Uthr brightened up at this suggestion and ordered us to

anchor and send search parties ashore to find any of our men or supplies.

I went with one of the parties, happy to plant my feet on solid ground

once more, but not so happy at the sight of destruction that met my eyes. We

found one of our beached vessels. It was Urien's. With her timbers torn away

and her naked beams stuck in the sand, she looked like the skeleton of a giant

sea beast lying on its side with its ribs exposed. No one was left aboard, nor

anything else either.

But hearing a moan from down the beach, I ran thither to find Urien still

alive. Upon seeing me, he began to babble fantastic claims about supernatural

happenings during the storm. Urien said he'd witnessed wondrous creatures--sea

monsters of fabulous size, some half man and half fish, and of strange seabirds

swimming and flying; as well as a great whirlpool sucking down ships whole; and

of other eerie visions nearly driving him insane.

I wondered what siren's song Urien had heard and whether these things he

claimed to have seen came from reality or merely his unbridled fears. Or had

Myrddin planted these visions in his mind to further frighten us? Who can

say? Certainly not I. But it's said the dead have no chimerical tales to

tell, for the gods are only hard on the living.

Out of more than a thousand ships, only three hundred survived the storm

at sea. Seventy-five thousand men had drowned, and our supplies, horses and

arms were nearly all lost. A ragtag army of twenty-five thousand virtually

unarmed soldiers were stranded on the beach in enemy territory.

But, at least, all the members of Uthr's order of table-cnichts had

managed somehow to escape the angry sea and make it safely to shore. However,

our situation was perilous to say the least.

Our location as we were to learn was near the clachan of An Rinn in Dessi

Gwydyltacht. In other words, we found ourselves right smack in the heart of

our old enemy's homeland. The ancestors of the Gwrtheyrnians came from here.

But it was a lovely spot just the same. Rugged cliffs beside a fine sandy

traeth edged the bay. In many places, the yellow of wild iris grew right down

to the water's edge. Nearby was the small seaside clachan of Aird Mhor,

meaning 'Big Point'. On a hill-slope south of Aird Mhor, the pre-Padraigian

abbot-bishop, Deaglan, had founded his monastery, the principal ecclesiastical

centre of the Dessi, the galloglach of the Righ of Mumu.

Thus, our position was a long way from our primary objectives. The

closest capital of any note sat atop an impregnable rock in Eirinn's famous

Golden Vale. This was Caiseal, a two-erwau caher, where Aengus mac Corc, Righ of Mumu, reigned.

Unfortunately, Caiseal lay about forty-three Roman miles to the

north-northwest, a good two-day march on foot over a mountain range and only

possible if we were unopposed. But we'd no idea what forces, if any, might be

encountred along the way.

We hadn't planned for our landfall to be so far south. The reigning

Ard-Righ of Eirinn was, as the chough flies, one hundred and thirty miles away

at Tara Hill to the north-northeast.

It seemed as though we had a choice of either embarking for home

immediately, acknowledging our defeat, or of scouring the countryside for food,

dry clothes and weapons, then taking our chances at facing a forewarned enemy.

Uthr being Uthr selected the latter course.

We raided the local farms, driving off cows and oxen, stealing horses,

chickens, pigs and sheep, and rounding up what grain, flour and meagre arms we

could find. Soon dressed in peasant's garb and our bellies full, we were ready

to fight, although most of the men were armed with no more than some form of

crude but moderately effective weapons.

I found myself using a three-taed leister for a spear and a butcher's

knife for a sword. Whilst Uthr still had the Sword of Power, he'd lost its

sheath, which was said to protect the wearer from loss of blood. Luckily for

me, my clothes hadn't been torn and were still serviceable after they dried.

Uthr came by a fine paenula that he wore over his armour. As for mounts, we

found ourselves astride common ploughhorses and were thankful, indeed, for

them.

Resupplied as we were, it came time to decide whether we should stay in

the south or march north and continue our original quest. Our plan had been to

defeat Ailill Molt and take the Eirish crown away from him.

In A.B. Fifteen Hundred and Sixty-One, Laegaire the Valiant was killed by

lightning, and his eldest son, Feidlimid II, succeeded him on the Eirish Lia

Fail and as leader of the Ui Neill, the dynasty begun by Laegaire's father,

Niall Neigiallach. But Feidlimid's reign was short lived. Ailill Molt mac

Dathi of Connachta, whose own father had succeeded Niall on the Lia Fail, rose

in revolt and killed Feidlimid.

Three years later, Ailill murdered his primary rival, Conal Gulban. He

was one of Laegaire's brothers and the founder of the Conallach in Tir

Conaill. The last of Niall's brave sons, Eogan, who founded his cenel in Tir

Eoghain, died of grief after hearing his brother Conal had been slain.

With their deaths, Ailill became the undisputed master of all Eirinn.

However, he continued to live in fear of the day Niall's grandsons and

great-grandsons reached maturity and gained sufficient strength to openly defy

him.

One of these great-grandsons had already been eliminated. No doubt it

pleased Ailill to learn Erbin had slain Foirtchernn, Feidlimid's son, in the

Cernish War.

Uthr hoped to meet with Lugaid, leader of the Ui Neill, and gain his

fealty in return for recognising Lugaid's claim to the ard-righship of Eirinn.

Unfortunately, having lost three-quarters of his army in the storm, Uthr was no

longer in a position to offer anyone anything, much less the crown of the

ard-righ to a man who couldn't himself unseat Ailill from power.

Besides, Lugaid was Feidlimid's brother and, therefore, the uncle of the

aforementioned Foirtchernn. Needless to say, he'd take a dim view of becoming

a tributary vassal of the brother of the man who'd slain his nephew.

Moreover, through the marriage of Lugaid's late brother to Gwrtheyrn's

daughter, Uthr's bitterest enemies had much closer ties to the Ui Neill. In

addition, the Gwrtheyrnians were Eirish themselves as they descended from

Eochaid Allmuir of the Dessi.

Given these facts, it seemed dubious Uthr could establish his paramountcy

in Eirinn through negotiating an alliance with the Ui Neill. However, he

clearly saw what Lugaid needed in order to defeat Ailill, gold and arms. So,

Uthr planned to meet with Lugaid's closest relative, the son of Erca mac Conal

Gulban; but more importantly, this man was the real mastermind behind the Ui

Neill. His name was Muirchertach.

But Muirchertach had returnt to the safety of Tir Conaill's hills, located

at the very farthest corner of the island from our present position. By land,

Ailill and Aengus of the Eoghanachta stood in our way; and by sea, we'd have to

sail halfway around Eirinn to reach Muirchertach's stronghold.

Either way, we were likely to be in for another violent storm of sorts.

But this storm was one more familiar to us. It was the storm of battle.

Knowing his men would rebel at the mere thought of setting foot back on

our ships and sailing around the entirety of the island, Uthr put our rag-tag

army in motion northward, not really wishing to engage the enemy as much as to

further loot the land in order to sustain us. But the farther the men

distanced themselves from the fleet, the more apprehensive and wary they became

about how they were ever going to get home again if the Gwydyls destroyed our

remaining ships whilst we were gone.

We followed the Blackwater upstream until it turnt westward and then

ascended the Knockmealdown range where Uthr had us build a wooden fortress

along Roman designs. Now well aware of our presence, the Gwydyls had sent out

the call to arms and were preparing in all haste to repulse the invaders, the

latter being us.

As we were in his domain, Aengus, the Righ of Mumu, marshalled his army

and marched south from Caiseal to meet us in battle. Meanwhile, his allies,

the Dessi, mustered their own army to our southeast. Thus, we were caught

between two sizable forces, both greater than our own.

Realising Aengus would probably lay siege to our mountaintop fortress,

Uthr routinely sent foraging parties out to raid the cantonside for as much

supplies as we could pillage. We filled our storage houses to bursting.

If the Romans taught us anything, it would be the building of wooden

stockades. Their legions built such structures every night during a long

march, carrying the material for the construction with them. We used the

lumber from our beached wrecks for the same purpose, Uthr having had us haul

the beams and planks up to the mountaintop with us.

The fortress' twelve-foot parapet enclosed a small plateau with abrupt

declivities on two sides that afforded additional protection from attack. Uthr

increased these defences by having the men dig a double fosse fifteen feet wide

with a square bottom around the outside of the vallum and an inner breastwork

to serve as a retrenchment in the event the enemy broke through the outer

works. High towers defended either side of the four parthion and a string of

smaller towers connected by covered bridges were built around the vallum. The

connecting bridges between the towers were higher than the vallum and

hurdle-work protected their exterior. From these bridges, a double row of

spearmen could provide added protection to the defenders standing on the vallum

by casting down a shower of hastae against any enemy attempting to scale the

vallum itself.

When the work was completed, Uthr called a council of war of his cnichts

of the Order of the Pendragwn. We met in the thatch-rooft hut we used as the

main hall for Uthr's champions. The tables were simply made, flat boards laid

over trestles, and for sitting, we had stools and common chairs purloined from

nearby farmsteads.

Uthr sat on a high-backed cader, a far cry from his great black marble

cader back in Caer Lludd and even humbler than the sella curulis of Romulus.

His shield, which we’d found washed-up on the beach, hung behind him.

"The gods ha'e bin unkind tae us," he began, his face stern and his eyes

ablaze. "We find ourselves in a pickle. Aengus is advancin' upon us frae the

north. The Dessi are tae the southeast an' threaten our fleet twenty miles

away. Wha're we tae dae? Who amongst ye wishes tae speak?"

Young Osla, now just twenty-two years of age, spoke first, expressing the

fears on every man's mind: "Maist Sovereign Laird, if we stay here, twouldst

appear we'd be trapp'd, defeat'd by superior numbers, an' enslav'd, ne'er tae

see our homes again."

"Osla, ye're right," Uthr said matter-of-factly. "But wha' tae dae is the

question."

"Brither," Erbin began, advancing to the centre of the puncheon floor.

"If we canna stay here, then let's gae out an' fight these Eirish devils."

"Ye're alsae right," Uthr responded dryly. "But which ones: the men o'

Mumu under Aengus tae our north, or the Dessi tae the southeast."

Now, it was my turn. "We mus' protect our fleet first an' fermaist. Sae

it mus' be the Dessi first o' all. Howe'er, tae keep Aengus at bay whilst we

handle the Dessi, I propose we leave a small force here in the fortress tae

make a pretense tha' tis still fully mann'd. In tha' fashion, Aengus will, I

think, be cautious gi'in' us time tae deal wi' the Dessi an' protect the

fleet."

Uthr rubbed his chin and finally smiled. "I like it. Tis a guid plan.

Meanwhile, I intend tae send riders tae the far north tae try an' reach the Ui

Neill. Twouldst be a dangerous mission fer, aiblins, two men, our best

statesman an' our best champion. Gyner an' Pellinore, will ye volunteer tae

gae?" Pellinore advanced to stand beside me and we both gave our ascent.

"Twill be a maist risky business," Uthr continued, "fer the whole o' Eirinn

lies betwix' us an' Muirchertach."

"We'll accomplish the mission, Laird Uthr," Pellinore vowed.

"The two o' ye will ha'e tae brave it alone, as I canna spare anither

man."

"We understand, my liege," I answered. "But it may alsae be better this

way, as two men might get through the enemy lines where an army canna."

"As always, Gyner, ye ha'e hit the nail on the head. Twouldst be best fer

ye tae leave as soon as possible. Ha'in' consider'd this possibility, I

believe it wouldst be best fer ye tae gae first tae Armagh an' see Erlatheus,

Padraig's successor as bishop. Remind him my great-great-grandmither was

Padraig's sister, Darerca; an' try tae enlist the aid o' my kinsman, Mel. As

one of Padraig's nephews, Mel is an influential clergyman at Armagh an' might

be able, if Erlatheus gi'es him his leave, tae help ye in yer mission tae

Muirchertach."

"As ye command, my liege," I responded and bowed.

But before the meeting was over, a stripling lad came forward and

addressed the Pendragwn: "Maist Great Owrelaird, I'm Sagra Mawr, son o' Irnac,

son o' Atzel the Scourge o' God. After the death o' my grandfeyther, the

Hunnish empire dissolv'd, an' I ha'e come tae yer realm tae earn my place in

yer service by the valour o' my arms in keepin' wi' my great heritage. I beg

yer leave tae be the shield-bearer fer these two fine cnichts, sae I might

learn frae them an' prove my mettle. I ken I'm verra young an' na' yet worthy

o' such great warriors as these, but I implore yer favour in allowin' me tae

gae wi' them if it pleaseth ye."

"Grandson o' Atzel, this is a verra dangerous mission needin' experienc'd

hands," Uthr began.

"Might I interrupt, my laird," I interjected. I watched the lad as he

earnestly pleaded with Uthr to allow him to accompany us, and I was honestly

impressed with him, for despite his smallness of size, he obviously had a proud

heart, not unlike his mighty grandsire.

"As ye wish, Gyner," Uthr replied.

"I doot sic a slip o' a laddie wouldst be much miss'd, dae ye reckon,

Laird Uthr?"

Uthr laughed. "Too true, sae if ye wan' this tywysog o' the Hungvari, ye

canst ha'e him along wi' Pellinore an' ye."

"We couldst use a shield-bearer, my liege."

"Verra well, then he may accompany ye an' perform wha'e'er tasks be ye o'

a mind tae require o' him."

The young Hungvari leapt into the air and gave out a wild hoop, causing

the other men to laugh at his boyish enthusiasm. But I was reminded of my own

sons safe in our mountain retreat back home, and perhaps because of my thoughts

of them, I interceded on behave of this youngster who was alone in the world

without a family and no elders to fend for him. So, I took pity on the lad who

after all had the blood of Atzel the Hungvar flowing in his veins. He'd be a

fighter for sure, no matter his size.

His appellation, though, was something of a pun. Mawr means the 'Great';

however, like his people, Sagra Mawr was short in stature, next to us looking

like a sapling beside giant oaks.

"We'll depart wi'in the hour, my laird," I finally told Uthr.

"Guid fortune tae ye, but tha' dame hasna luik'd well upon us recently.

Mayhaps she will now."

"Luck is a bluidy whore," Pellinore exclaimed. "I'd rather depend upon my

strong right arm an' my sword."

With those words, my two companions and I left the meeting and went to

gather our gear. We chose the three best naigs in the compound. They

certainly weren't blooded high-stepping steeds but they weren't garrans either.

Mine was a aiver so big he couldn't make more speed than a bone jarring

canter, in other words, an Eirish draught-horse; but he was strong and

reliable, and that's why I choose him. I'm rather big myself, you see, so the

matchup was right. Since our objective lay some distance away, I wanted a

mount that would last under me.

Pellinore, even larger than me, picked a huge sorrel. Following our

example, Sagra Mawr selected a big sumpter-horse but, because the animal was so

much bigger than he, fell several times trying to mount it.

Pelly started to laugh uproariously. But he stopped when the lad leapt up

high in the air like an antelope and finally landed in the saddle of his horse.

Pelly smiled and nodded his great head. "He'll dae," was all he said.

To describe the peerless Pellinore is like trying to describe an immovable

mountain. He's an Akhillean giant, near five cubits tall, with bright, intense

eyes that blaze with savage fury when his ire is aroused. Driven by his

seeming unlimited energy, he gamely participates in the most heroic quests.

Simply said, no greater cnicht has ever lived than the Beste Glatissant Seeker

bearing the amaranthine shield. He's a legend in his own time and I have the

honour to call him my friend.

A steady downpour fell with little or no let-up throughout the night.

Undeterred by the weather, we took the old trunk sarn northward, our huge

coosers plodding along making splashing sounds through the muddy puddles in our

path.

We hid our faces within hooded paenulae wishing we had lacernae and

covered our shields with hides to conceal our identities. I still had my

three-taed leister and butcher's knife, whilst Pelly carried the longest

whaler's harpoon I've ever seen. I wondered just what he thought he was going

to catch inland with it, and when the rain returnt with pelting force, I

jokingly remarked we might have to use his harpoon for a boat.

Luckily, perhaps, the inclement weather also kept the Gwydyls indoors.

This allowed us to proceed without any other hindrance than the quagmires

caused by the heavy rain.

As night drew near, we decided to find shelter; but as the Gwydyls are a

rather reticent people, especially with strangers, I didn't think anyone would

put us up for the night. Seeing the corbelled roof of a clochan up ahead,

Pelly decided we should inquire anyway.

A young and sonsy tirewoman, or so she seemed dressed up like a

burd-in-waiting, greeted us at the door; and although I could see fear in her

emerald-green eyes, she still and all relented and bade us welcome into the

outer apartment of her but and a ben. There was a nice fieldstone ingle-cheek

with a blazing fire where we hung our paenulae on pegs to dry and warmed our

chilled bones.

With nary a word, she stirred the contents of a large cauldron suspended

from a hook over a log burning in the hearth. Pelly and I sat on a bench

beside her table, and Sagra Mawr, whom we'd promptly dubbed 'Saggy', sat on the

floor.

She came over to us with a large wooden platter filled with boiled pork,

some cheese and a loaf of fresh-made bread. She also gave us three drinking

bowls brimming with creamy milk.

Young Saggy thanked the fair young lass for her kindness, and a blush

suffused her snow-white cheeks. That night, Saggy slept in the ben with the

lass, and the glad sounds of their frolicking kept us awake as we tried with

little success to get some sleep in the spense.

Early the next morning, we roused Saggy from the arms of his beloved, and

she prepared a basket of food for us to take with us on our journey northward

to find Muirchertach. After a tender leave-taking between the two young

lovers, we started out but got no further than our steeds when an Eirish cnicht

rode up, a grim and commanding figure.

Looking daggers at us, he demanded, "Ha'e ye spent the night in this here

cot?"

"We didst," Pelly answered.

"My name is Muirhalt the Tanaiste o' Mumu, an' this cailin is Orainglais,

granddochter o' Conal Crimthanni o' Oirghialla. She's the niece tae the royal

wife o' my burd's brother, Aengus, the Righ o' Mumu. Ye ha'e nae right tae be

here under the same roof wi' her o'er the night. This is a insult tae the

royal house o' Mumu tha' canst only be redress'd by mortal combat. I,

therefere, challenge ye three varmints tae a fight tae the death."

With that, he wheeled his horse about and rode a short distance away,

turnt again and waited for the first of us to accept his challenge. Pelly and

I just looked at one another and smirked at the brashness of the man.

He had no idea who we were or cared, but we knew who he was, because he

told us when he issued his challenge to two of Brythain's mightiest champions

whom he thought to be no more than rustic ploughmen riding farm animals. He

must of thought we were going to be easy prey for his lance. Was he in for a

surprise!

"Well, Gyner, dae ye wan' tae draw lots tae see who gets tae trounce this

peacock?" Pelly asked.

"Nae, Pelly, wi' tha' big harpoon o' yers it wouldst appear the advantage

is all yers. But dinna kill him, Pelly. He's the heir tae the cader o' Mumu.

Aiblins, a plum hast dropp'd intae our lap. If ye defeat him an' spare his

life, then he owes us his life, if ye get me meanin'."

"Aye, I dae. We'll brin' him straight back tae Uthr tae use as a pawn in

barterin' wi' Aengus."

"Exactly."

"All I ha'e tae dae is clip his wings a little first."

Which, of course, is exactly what Pelly did. He knocked the man backwards

clear over the tail of his horse at the very first encountre. Muirhalt crashed

to the ground, his armour clattering about him.

Pelly calmly dismounted and, striding over to Muirhalt, unlaced his helmet

and told him he'd behead him if he didn't yield. Seeing the only other

alternative to be death, Muirhalt surrendered without a further to-do.

We remounted Muirhalt and put the lass, bonny Orainglais, behind Saggy.

Her apparent delight with this arrangement became obvious to all of us as she

cleaved herself to his back quite warmly.

Thus, we returnt to Uthr with our prise. Upon our arrival, we learnt Uthr

had met the Dessi in battle, defeated them and secured the safety of our

fleet. But he was hobbling around on a wooden crutch as he'd sustained a wound

in his right foot by a poisoned spear.

During the next few days, we met with Aengus and his counsellors. Aengus

agreed to recognise Uthr as his owrelaird in return for the gold and arms Uthr

had planned to give to Muirchertach. We never did meet with the Ui Neill or

make any further attempt at military action on Eirish soil. Satisfied with

this small gain, Uthr brought us home. Months later, I learnt Orainglais bore

a son named Athsel after Saggy's grandfather, apparently the only real fruit of

our expedition to Eirinn.

No sooner had we returnt home, then Uthr fell deathly ill from the poison

in his wounded foot; and at the news, our enemies encrouched upon Brythain once more, inflicting terror and destruction. The passionate and revengeful temper of these land-poor sea-wolves, united with the guile of their diabolic race,

urged them on, tempting them to invade our lands, especially now with Uthr

lying on his deathbed.

Wild panic seized the Brythons as the black prows of the bloodthirsty

Englars and Saesnaegs snaked up the afon reaches striking inland for even

fairer game. The horrors were many: farmsteads burnt to the ground, the

menfolk slain, women carried off into slavery and degradation, babies tossed

onto spearpoints and priests slaughtered at their altars by the worshippers of

Woden. All culture, the arts, religion, and the state fell before these

heathens brandishing their swords and terrible hammers and wishing only to die

in battle so they could join their pagan gods in Valhalla.

They're bred in the frigid Northland with all of its rigours of life,

making them hardy fighters and earning them a reputation for being uncultured

brutes. They ply the Mare Suebicum in their longships, bringing home mackerel,

herring and eel to be smoked and then eaten or sold to others. They grow

carrots and cabbage in Saesnaegland, and the only thing they love more than

their sausages, fighting and women is their beer. Every burgh has its own

brewers, and when they gather together socially, they get drunk, throw plates

and smash cups, are quick to anger and flash their knives in an instant, gamble

and get involved in boisterous roughhouse and games like jumping from barrel

top to barrel top for drunken sport. In brief, they're free spirits who live

by only one basic law, kill or be killed.

By custom, their old men remain at home, whilst the surplus young and

hardy warriors, chosen annually by lot, are obliged to bid an eternal farewell

to their families and native land and set sail for victory or death in a new

country. Their collective spirit, not yet cowed by the memory of former

defeats, their belief in an afterlife in Valhalla for those heroically slain,

and the fact they've cut themselves off from their homeland propels the

Saesnaegs to freely lavish their lives in battle, rather than surrender the

glory they've won in their conquests, making them formidable foemen, indeed.

Chief among them is Aelle. Under a banner bearing six swallows, he landed

in the south with his sons, Cymen, Wlencing and Cissa, and a strong Saesnaeg

army. Erbin, Uthr's brother, attempted to stop Aelle from establishing a

beachhead but was unable to do so. Believing only the presence of Uthr himself

could bring us victory, Erbin begged his brother to come, and the Pendragwn

duly appeared in a lectica, leaving Pellinore and Cadwr in the north to protect

that flank of the realm.

The opposing forces met at the Saesnaegs' beachhead, called Cymenes ora

after Aelle's eldest son. Both armies brought no ordinary men to the

battlefield as all were the hardened veterans of many campaigns; and thus, each

side could count on no ordinary valour.

This was a do or die situation, for Aelle had burnt his longships behind

him, giving his toisechs, socmen and ceorls no choice, except victory or

death. At the first faint blush of dawn, bugles sounded the charge launching

us into battle.

A great war-cry went up as the two hosts converged with a clash of shields

and iron weapons sending a shock wave all along the lines of both armies. The

wails of the dying mingled with the vaunts of their slayers, and mother earth

ran red in a sea of blood.

Soon a cloud of reddish dust rose up and filled our nostrils with a

terrible stench. It was kicked up from the blood on the ground by the

thundering hooves of our snorting horses and the boots of the embattled ranks

of infantry.

I liken battle to the horror of a raging forest fire driven on by the

fickle winds of fate. Around me men fell like saplings in this holocaust of

our own making to the tune of strident bugles and scrannel pipes.

The melee swayed to and fro in rippling convulsions presenting a whirlpool

of changing scenes, with me somewhere in the middle. My horse suddenly

screamed wildly and wheeled in the air, impaled through the belly by a Saesnaeg

spear. We came crashing down to the ground with my charger kicking his legs

all about.

I jumped clear and slashing out with my sword killed one, then two and

more of the Saesnaegs until I was so bespattered with gore my own wife couldn't

recognise me even if she saw me face-to-face. So all-devouring was the

vehemence of my sword, I outdistanced my men-at-arms on foot and at times

seemed surrounded by more Saesnaeg horned helmets than by my own soldiers.

I knew the tide of battle swung in the balance. But I saw too many

riderless mounts coursing through the ranks of the infantry missing their

riders who'd probably been hurled to the ground and killed by those on foot.

This wasn't good, because the Saesnaegs had no horses of their own. Those were

our riderless horses.

Uthr ordered the slingers and engineers to discharge their missiles.

Darts, boulders and flights of whistling arrows darkened the sky, finding their

mark and opening great gaps in the ranks of Aelle's Saesnaegs.

They returnt our fire and now I heard the unmistakeable gurgling sound of

dying men all around me. Whole bands normally consisting of three hundred

spearmen were swallowed up and killed to a man in the frenzy of the pitched

battle.

Uthr, having risen up from his lectica to fight on foot only to be pierced

by an arrow through his left breast, valiantly continued to harry the enemy

ranks as long as the blood was still running warm from his wound. Too soon,

unable to go on, he fell in the midst of the fiercest fighting.

Segurant and Brunor, cnichts of the Beste Glatissant that they are, dashed

into the heart of the battle and fought their way to Uthr's side. Brunor the

Horseman bore Uthr from the field and Segurant the Boxer covered them with his

great shield. I cut a path through the surrounding Saesnaegs to join them and

we managed to return Uthr to his lectica.

"Where is my brither, Erbin?" Uthr beseeched us weakly.

"He's somewhere on the far flank attemptin' tae gain the Saesnaeg's rear,"

I shouted over the din.

"Ye're the senior captain here, Gyner. I entrust my sword an' the outcome

o' the battle tae the son o' Osmael the Hero," he said, tossing the sword of

Lludd into my hands.

"I'll dae my best, Uthr."

"The gods gae wi' ye, Gyner."

Then, Segurant and Brunor carried him away in the lectica. Turning to our

warriors, I showed them Uthr's sword, rallying them and instilling fresh heart

into each man. As with the hunter who sets his snarling hounds against their

prey, so my words spurred the proud Brythons on against the Saesnaegs.

Taking my place at the forefront of the attack, I had high hopes for

turning the tide of the battle in our favour. Although our army had been on

the brink of disintegration, we charged the enemy and checked their advance in

a desperate struggle. Unrelenting, our men pushed the Saesnaegs back to their

original lines, where they'd built an earthworks of stakes, rocks and dirt for

their protection.

Traversing the open ground before their position, we assailed the

makeshift rampart all along its length and engaged the defenders in

hand-to-hand fighting. There was no means for escape, no refuge save for one's

own gallantry, and no salvation for our motherland except in overthrowing the

invaders.

Despite repeated assaults and mounting causalities, we couldn't drive the

Saesnaegs from their earthworks. Even with Erbin's arrival and assumption of

command, our attempts to storm Aelle's fortified position was to no avail.

We'd fought the Saesnaegs to a standstill and nothing more could be done.

Darkness ensued and we withdrew to our camp. Erbin and I went out alone

on the battleground. Contorted bodies lay everywhere, a more enticing sight

for carrion birds than the grieving wives of those sprawled dead around us. It

was a sight to sicken men brave enough to die. Erbin and I returnt to camp

knowing we could gain no more by another day of fighting, and to add to our

misery, a heavy downpour of rain during the night turnt the ground to mush.

The next morning following the news of Uthr's worsening condition, we

broke camp and retired northward, leaving Aelle in full possession of the field

of battle and his beachhead. Having sustained losses as heavy as our own,

Aelle's forces were powerless to pursue us with any semblance of their former

tenacity, thus making it less of a victory for him than a Pyrrhic stalemate.

But Aelle was here to stay.

Erbin and I returnt to Caer Lludd, where Uthr, mortally wounded, lay

unconscious for three days and three nights. On the morning of the fourth day,

Myrddin arrived and immediately sent out a call for all the peers of the realm

to attend the Pendragwn in the Hall of Heroes. Uthr was carried into the hall

in a portable chair.

"Yer Imperial Majesty," Myrddin said softly, "tis time fer ye tae name yer

successor."

Uthr stirred and, then, spoke clearly to the assembled nobility: "I, Uthr

Pendragwn, bestow the blessin' o' divine Providence upon my son as my right an'

lawful heir, an' tis my wish when he comes o' age he'll be Pendragwn o' the

Isles an' Brenhin o' All Brythain."

So saying, Uthr rose unsteadily from his chair and taking the Sword of

Power in both hands raised it high above his head. With a mighty plunge, he

returnt the sword to the block of flintstone from whence he alone had been able

to draw it forth.

"Only he who canst pull the sword frae the stone is rightways Pendragwn o'

the Isles," Myrddin exclaimed.

That night, the Laird of Misrule died. His vanity had served only to

eventually undermine the cohesion of the island imperium his brother, Emrys

Ben-Eur, and he had built. The dismemberment of his realm was resolved among

the high lairds, much in the same fashion as the imperium of Alisander Mawr was

divided among his generals after his death in A.B. Seven Hundred and

Seventy-Seven, exactly eight hundred years before.

It seemed to me too many prophetic similarities existed between Uthr and

Alisander. Both were the single driving forces behind dispersed realms, and

when removed from the scene, lesser minds devised the division of the spoils

into smaller lots and, then, fought over their shares like vultures over a

putrid carcass. It was true in both cases.

As for Brythain, no one else had the wherewithal to hold the dispirited

realm together. It was smashed like a rotten apple falling from the highest

bough.

Uthr had been by nature a man's man, a good and loyal soldier, quick to

act, resolute in his decisions, and vigourous in his undertakings, albeit

reckless to the extreme and self-indulgent, as well as being devoid alike of

any prudence or of principles. He died at the age of thirty-five, surviving

Hywel but above two years. He'd been relatively successful in his efforts to

efface the memory of the Cernish War and its deprivations from his people.

But more importantly, he succeeded in doing the one feat no one else was

able to do: He'd pulled the sword from the stone, giving him a supreme sense

of accomplishment. He'd pursued adventure through innumerable dangers, all for

power, and by prodigious efforts had gained it at last, but all for naught, for

all he'd created disintegrated with his passing.

For seven nights after Uthr's death, a comet appeared in the heavens and

filled the skies with its eerie glow. The sun refused to shine, and missing

its life-giving warmth which rarefies the air, the fruit on the bough and the

grain on the stalk withered and died ruining the harvest later that year and

bringing famine to all the land.

We placed Uthr's body in his royal chariot draped all in black. In a

sombre ceremony, the procession left Caer Lludd for the Cloister of Emberis,

where Uthr would be laid to rest beside his elder brother, Emrys. With all the

honours due his rank, we entombed Uthr seated in his chariot with his arms, all

except the Sword of Power.

It remained stuck in the block of flintstone back at Caer Lludd to serve

as a constant reminder that the hand once able to draw forth the sword was now

gone. But the prophecy also told of another yet to come who'd someday fulfill

Uthr's dream. We awaited his coming.

Myrddin and I stood beside Erbin, Pellinore, Eiddilig, Cadwr and Brastius

Blood-Axe at the funeral. Surely, these men in particular as they were the

most loyal to Uthr must have pondered the whereabouts of the son for whom Uthr

had left his sword stuck in the stone.

But they never said, which showed their wisdom, because the mere mention

of any suspicion regarding the identity of the missing heir apparent to the

cader could very well place the lad's life in jeopardy. As I looked around at

the other great peers of the realm standing there with bowed heads, I feared

any pretenders for the crown among them might attempt to find and do away with

the rightful claimant, precisely the reason Myrddin had coerced Uthr into

giving up his son in the first place. Once again, everything Myrddin had

predicted had come to pass with frightening accuracy.

Uthr had likewise known only too well the nature of men. Once in my

presence, he'd acknowledged to Erbin there'd be terrible discord after his

death. As I remember it, that conversation occurred just days before the birth

of his son. It took place in the peristylum of the imperial palatium, with the

hermae of god-heroes surrounding us on their pedestals.

Uthr stood before the fountain watching the water rise and fall into the

basin. A sad expression crossed his dark face.

Then, he simply said: "Once the eagle is dead, the eaglet will either

soar above the weasels' fangs or fall their prey."

He idly picked a blossom from the nearby bed of exotic and colourful

flowers and threw it into the water. Silently, the three of us stood there

like statues ourselves, watching it circle around being pelted by the falling

water. There was much symbolism to it.

At the time, I gave only momentary heed to his words, having no notion his

son would shortly be placed in my care. But now, as I stood before Uthr's

grave, his words blazed like firebrands before my mind's eye, and I wondered if

Erbin remembered them as well.

Was Erbin, then, asking himself where his nephew was in hiding? But only

Myrddin or I could tell him the answer to that question and we held our tongues

as we bid Uthr a final farewell.

Thus, the two Pendragwns lay side by side. But their voices in unison

rang out as clear as day within my inner ear.

"Gae in passin' this monument an' tell the Brythons tha' here two brave

hearts lie who faithful tae her fell an' now rest content,[14] 'til the day dawns

when the red dragwn rises again frae our ashes an' bestrides the earth wi' fire

an' brimstone. Then, behold an' all hail the Pendragwn fer he's great in his

majesty, vengeance shall be his, an' woe ontae all his enemies."

This was my vision before the tomb of his father and uncle, as a sudden

downpour fell upon my hoary head. The assembly of high lairds melted away,

leaving only a handful of the faithful standing there bareheaded beside me in

the mizzle for the silicernium.

Whilst we attended Uthr's funeral, Arawn of Clatchard Craig burst into the

palatium, grievously wounded Gormant of Gourles, Eigyr's son by her first

husband. All but one of the bastard bairns sired by Uthr were murdered. The

sole survivor was the eldest, Madag, who wasn't present at the palatium as he'd

come with us to his father's funeral.

Then, having completed the slaughter, Arawn abducted Uthr's widow. Eigyr

had remained behind with her newborn bairn.

Her pleas of motherhood found no compassion in Arawn's hard heart. He

wanted her, so he carried Eigyr off to his high-walled citadel at Clatchard

Craig north of the Antonine Wall, imprisoning her in a dungeon, where he kept

her at his mercy.

Marriage by capture being an old Celtic practice, Arawn had merely revived

it to get his hands on Eigyr. True, she was the most beautiful woman in all

the Isles. But Arawn wanted her for more than her beauty. Through her, he

planned to lay claim to the vacant Pendragwnship.

When we returnt to the palatium, we gaped in shock at the carnage.

Tenderly, Idwr and Bodwyn bound the dreadful wounds of their young nephew,

Gormant, Hywel's brave son, who wept in disgrace at being unable to defend his

beloved mother. He cried out wishing he'd been killed, but his uncles and his

elder half-brother, Arthegall, calmed the young lad and assured him, just from

the look of his many wounds, he'd acquitted himself well, as he had and against

overwhelming odds. He was, indeed, a trueborn son of my cousin, Hywel.

Regaining his composure, Gormant explained what had happened, how Arawn

had broken into the palatium through the aid of Madag's mother, and with his

superior number of swordsmen set upon the honour guard, then murdered the

bairns before abducting the Pendragwness.

It was a gruesome tale, leaving us all in a rage. Erbin ordered his men

to search for the treacherous wench, Madag's mother, but my boon companion,

Brastius, and I wisely hunted through the palatium, checking the corpses, when

a keening wail brought us quickly to the newborn babe, Angharat. She was still

alive and unharmed, lying in a pool of blood beneath the butchered body of a

ancilla.

When I turnt the ancilla over, my already hardened face showed no

remorse. It was Madag's mother. She'd received a sword thrust between her

ample breasts and her face was bruised from a strong blow.

I lifted Angharat gently and both Brastius and I smiled ruefully through

our anguish. She looked so small and soft next to my dress armour the two of

us just had to feel a sense of relief.

With our help, Eigyr's brothers marched northward to rescue their sister,

only to be ambushed by Arawn and his brothers in the Celidon Woods, completely thwarting our attempt to save the beautiful Pendragwness.

Arawn tied her to a rack, stripped her naked, and visited her nightly,

brutally expending his lust for her gorgeous body. He wouldn't take no for an

answer.

Finally, Eigyr could take it no longer and surrendered herself to the will

of her captor, agreeing to marry him as he demanded. A hastily arranged

wedding ceremony ensued, and furious at the outcome, her brothers retired to

their estates in Lesser Brythain and refused to communicate with either their

sister or her new husband.

Two years later, Custennin of Celidon would be assassinated by an irate

father whose daughter Custennin had ravished. With his death, the crown of

Celidon passed to his nephew, Congal ap Dongard, who surprisingly took Arawn as his colleague.

Thus, Eigyr became the reine of Celidon; and her new husband, having laid

claim to the Pendragwnship by the old matriarchal law of taking the Pendragwn's

widow to wife, pressed his right to the vacant cader. But Arawn didn't have

the power to fulfill his dream.

Of course, under the law of primogeniture, Erbin had the best claim of all

but, wanting nothing to do with the crown, refused to accept it when those

nobles still loyal to the Pendragwnian dynasty offered his brother's crown to

him. His refusal opened the way for a whole host of pretenders like Arawn to

proclaim themselves for the purple.

I believe Erbin's decision had more to do with feelings of guilt over the

death of Hywel than anything else. He had the ability and could have taken up

the fallen reins of power after putting down his opposition, but it wasn't to

be. I saw and understood how his ethics kept him back.

Unfortunately, the various aspirants to the cader lacked Erbin's strength

of character. Even more surprisingly, none of the Gwrtheyrnians stepped

forward either. They all just seemed to wash their hands of it and continued

to defend Powys, Caer Lloyw, Dyfed and their possessions in Lesser Brythain.

Madag, Uthr's only surviving bastard, born in his father's youth, also

retired with his young son, Eliwlod, to the northwestern tip of Gower where he

built his wooden fortlet. There he raised his son, the future hero, in

relative obscurity as cockle-gatherers, driving their ponies and donkeys across

the Llanrhidian Sands to the cockle-beds of the Loughor Estuary.

The withdrawal of the heirs of the two principal rival dynasties left the

Cernish line of the House of Bryth as the last legitimate contenders of royal

blood. As High Rica of Cernyw, Idwr the Invincible headed this faction,

although his next brother, Cynfawr, did whatever he could to undermine Idwr's

position.

But few if any followed Cynfawr. At any rate, Idwr's and Cynfawr's part

in defending their mother's kinsmen who'd arranged the murder of Emrys Ben-Eur, now worshipped as a martyr by the Christians and as a divinity by the pagans, was too close in time to be completely forgiven.

As a matter of fact, most Cernishmen actually preferred either of the two

younger brothers, Pernehan the Charioteer or Bodwyn Dda, over Idwr or Cynfawr. This led to Cynfawr's mad jealousy of his younger brothers, a jealousy already revealed when Cynfawr deserted Bodwyn to be severely wounded in the last battle of the Cernish War. Such fraternal infidelity earned him the appellation of Cynfawr the Perfidious.

As long as Idwr lived, no one would acknowledge Cynfawr as the High Rica

of Cernyw, much less as the Brenhin of All Brythain; and as the younger

brothers, Pernehan and Bodwyn were just the spare tywysogion, their chances of

becoming possible claimants for the Pendragwnship were even less than Idwr's or

Cynfawr's. Also out of respect for Idwr, neither would have attempted such a

bid anyway.

Of course, Idwr's elder brother had left two sons, Arthegall and Gormant,

who could have pressed legitimate claims to eventually head the House of

Cernyw. But they were much too young at the time to have developed any

following and the younger one was still recovering from the serious wounds he'd

received trying to defend his mother. Besides, both lads adored their eldest

uncle; and when Idwr refused to declare himself for the crown, they remained

loyal to him along with Pernehan and Bodwyn.

After the leading families renounced the imperial court for their own

domains, more and more of the subordinate officers followed suit, leaving the

imperial army in the hands of less competent men. Those who remained now vie

for power, if not for the vacant cader itself.

Brythain, Cymru, Celidon and Pechtland are rudderless ships of state,

splintered into a host of petty warring dominions and ruled by quarrelling

bonnet-tyrants calling themselves reguli but who're more intent on robbery and

mayhem than law and order. As a result, the Isles are torn asunder by the

mighty noblemen as well as by their former underlings grasping for their share

of power.

With our defences down and our realm split apart, invaders continue to

come from the continent, Eirinn and Pechtland to reinforce the ranks of their

brethren already here. These land-hungry warriors bring terror and rapine with

them.

The first tribe of Northmen stepped ashore during the interregnum of

Gwrtheyrn, securing their beachhead in Cantia and moving inland unmolested

during the Cernish War. These were the Eotans, our name for the Jutes. They

came under the leadership of Anschis and settled in primitive earthen huts.

Now, under the ealdormanship of Anschis' two surviving sons, Octha and Oisc,

they took up the war-cry once again and marched to the very parthion of Caer

Lludd itself, until Eliwlod the Eagle finally arrived from Gower and slew Octha

this very year.

However, another group, the East Saesnaegs (or Ostsachsens as they call

themselves) followed in the wake of the Eotans and snatched the plains east of

Caer Lludd to the sea and from the Afon Stour in the north to the Tamesis in

the south as their new homeland. They have the brothers, Colgrin and Baldulf,

as their ealdormen, fierce warriors both, whose coat of arms (gules, three

scramaseaxes barwise proper, pommels and hilts or) has surmounted the walls of

many burning cities.

Ignoring the territory subjugated by their Saesnaeg cousins, the Englars

(Angles) vanquished the Brythons further east and north, dispossessing our

people from the Fens to the Afon Stour, where they linked up with the East

Saesnaegs. Their chieftain is Icel, who claims to be sixth in descent from

Woden.

Woden is the chief god of the Aesir, the Olympians of Nordland. Some call

him Wotan or Odin, their All-Father. He's also known as the Laird of the

Gallows, the Ill-Doer, Terrifier, One-Eye, the Raven-God, Mimir's Friend and

Fenrir's Foe, as well as Father Victory. Even Anschis of terrible memory had

claimed descent from this Woden of the sea-wolves, as all of their royal

families apparently do.

Another who claims descent from him is Aelle. He and his sons head the

South Saesnaegs (Suthsachsens) pushing northward from the south shore. One of

Uthr's former generals, Natanleod, a commoner whom the Pendragwn had seen fit

to raise to high military rank, kept Aelle momentarily in check. This barbarian, though, couldn't be restrained for long.

Eight years ago, a great change occurred in my own cenedl—my uncle,

Cunedag II, died. He'd succeeded his father, my grandfather, Ceretic ap

Cunedag I, as the pencenedl. Next-in-line to him was his eldest son, Typiann,

but he was treacherously murdered by Gafran Fradawc whose father, Dunwal Hen,

was one of my father's many brothers. This act has split the cenedl into

several rival factions, and by the way things have gone since, I doubt we'll

ever operate as a cohesive force again, thus destroying the last semblance of

power among our people against the deforciants from over the sea.

Meanwhile, drastic changes were occurring in our sister island of Eirinn,

too. Six years ago, Muirchertach mac Erca (whom Uthr unsuccessfully attempted

to meet in our ill-fated expedition to Eirinn) overthrew Ailill Molt at the

Battle of Ocha ending Ailill's reign of twenty-one years as the Ard-Righ of

Eirinn. Muirchertach supported his kinsman, Lugaid mac Laegaire, as the new

Ard-Righ, but Muirchertach remained the actual power behind the Eirish Lia Fail

and has to this day aspirations of uniting all the Brythonic Isles under his

sway.

He can recall from history his ancestor, Ard-Righ Cormac mac Art,

conquered Pechtland in A.B. Thirteen Hundred and Forty and held it for seven

years. Crimthann the Great, the predescessor of Muirchertach's great-grandfather on the Stone of Tara, repeated Cormac's conquest of Pechtland in A.B. Fourteen Hundred and Sixty-Six and overran Brythain as well. Twenty-nine years later, Muirchertach's great-grandfather, the founder of the Ui Neill, sacked Caerleol and Caerleon ar Dubr Duiu.

Indeed, large tracts of Cymru still rest in the hands of Gwydylic dynasties, such as the Dessi of Dyfed, the kinsmen of the Gwrtheyrnians of southern Powys and Caer Lloyw. There're also the Ui Liathain of Glamorgan, the Ui Briuin of Brycheiniog, and the collateral branch of the royal dynasty of Lagin in Ynys Mon.

At Muirchertach's summons, the heads of these Gwydylic houses in Cymru,

including my own kinsman, Brychan ap Anlac of the Ui Briuin, journeyed to the

Eirish captial on Tara Hill and paid homage to Lugaid as their sovereign laird. Not only that, but Muirchertach also reinstated the Cernish tribute to Eirinn, which amounts to a recognition of his sway over Cernyw, too.

Three years ago, Aelle defeated Natanleod at Mearc Pedes Burna where four

thousand Brythons fell, including their commander. From that moment onward,

Aelle has styled himself as the Bretwalda, where previously he was just one of

the Sachsenfuhrers. Now, he claims paramountcy over the rest of the Saesnaegs

who refer to our Island as Bretagne, the 'land of the Brythons'.

Two years ago, two even more important events occurred. First, Nectan

Morbet of Pechtland died. Second, Chlodwig, rex of the Salian Franks, defeated

Syagrius, the last Roman governor of Gaul. (This was the same Syagrius, son of

Aegidius, who failed to support Riagath against the West Goths in A.B. Fifteen

Hundred and Seventy.)

As a result of Nectan's death, Pechtland has been divided into five

independent states embroiled in civil war; and when they aren't fighting among

themselves, raiding parties cross over the wall to plague the Brythons in the

north. Sometimes Arawn stops them and sometimes he joins them in their raids.

By winning the Battle of Suessionum, Chlodwig put an end to Roman dominion in Gaul forever and began the unification of the Frankish tribes under one banner, thus asserting his jurisdiction over most of Gaul and thwarting the

desire of the Saesnaegs to expand at his expense. Each successive wave of

Saesnaeg freebooters to land in Brythain proves Chlodwig's constant efficiency

in diverting their efforts elsewhere. He's defeated them at every turn and

forced them to take another byroad of adventure: the sea, since he blocks them

on the land, and the seemingly pathless regions of the sea lead these lusty

pirates right to Brythain's door time after time without fail.

In the meantime, things never seem to change here in my valley. Come

spring, the farmers will assemble below my keep and drive the sheep and cattle

up the mountainsides of Mynydd Bryn-Llech and Foel y Geif to the summer

steadings. The swineherds, whistling calls to their bounding herd dogs, will

take their winter-lean sows and piglets across the forest's leaf-strewn floor

to feed upon the mast under the shade of spreading oaks. Farmers, labouring in

the fields with their ox-drawn ploughs, will see flocks of gulls blown in from

the choppy sea following behind to dive for the worms unearthed in the

furrows. The younger men will work at fixing leaks in the thatch-rooft homes

of their parents, repair fences and stone walls damaged during the winter, look

to the hives for honeycombs, restore the fishing weirs carried away by the

rising spring freshets and exercise their hunting hounds that we call helgi and

their hawks that we call hebog, all as usual. Nothing seems to change, except

the world beyond my peaceful valley.

But it's all an illusion, for I know as sure as I live and breathe all

will change someday, someday soon. Time that old thief is stealing by and will

wait for no one, as usual.

So, I sit and watch, waiting for the day when Uthr's son is grown and

ready to be told who he really is. As for now, only Myrddin and I and my good

wife, whom I've finally told, know the truth about the lad's birth.

He's growing quickly and is quite clever as lads go. He has his mother's

eyes and beauty and his father's skill at arms. Non and I love him dearly, as

much as our own bairns.

But someday soon, he'll be leaving his childhood toys behind him forever.

Non, like all mothers, wants him to have the chance to enjoy these years for as

long as he can, wishing, perhaps, he never grows up at all; and I, like all

fathers, look forward to the day he becomes a man.

Written for

Gyner ap Osmael the Hero,

the Ecttwr of Mathtrafal,

Dialwr of the Cenedl of Cunedag the Burner,

Most Noble Champion of the Order of the Bwrdd Hen of Uthr Pendragwn,

Courier of the Sun of the Order of Mabon

by His Adoring Christian Wife,

Non,

Daughter of Pabo Post Prydein ap Peblig,

Great-Granddaughter of Custennin III, Cerneu, and

Great-Great-Granddaughter of Macsen Gwledig and Elen Lwyddawg

at Caer Gai in Mathtrafal

in A.B. MDLXXXVIII

BOOK VI

HARK YE UNBELIEVERS, I HAVE COME!

THE TALE OF THE SWORD IN THE STONE

CHAPTER I

* LISTENING TO MY ELDERS *

In anno Brythain MDXCI, Aelle and his sons, Cymen, Wlencing and Cissa, landed at Selsey Bill with their band of Suthseaxans, as they call themselves, and besieged the seaport of Anderida. When it fell, they slaughtered all the inhabitants, men, women and children.

I heard the story of the massacre in the high-raftered hall of my father's

stronghold. I'd just turnt fifteen years of age on Mabonsday the previous

winter and had yet to fulfill the requirements to be counted as one of our

warriors.

"Curse the bastards!" Brastius Blood-Axe exclaimed loudly and snapped a

good applewood truncheon in two with his powerful hands.

"They jus' keep comin'," Gyner lamented, staring into a tankard of ale.

"Damn! I broke it," the axeman chuntered to himself.

"Broke wha'?"

"My truncheon," he responded with narrowed eyes and tossed the useless

pieces into the hearth. "We'll ne'er stop them, if we dinna band thegither."

Gyner Graybeard looked up at his old friend, who leant over the burning

logs to warm his hands. He smiled inwardly. With the passing years, the

axeman hadn't changed much. He still cut a commanding figure, although his

hair was as gray as Gyner's now and his belly had swelt a bit from inactivity.

"We're gettin' auld, Brastius," he finally said and sipped his ale.

The axeman grumbled something into the flames but I didn't quite hear what

he said. My boyish mind had already drifted, dreaming of the heroic tales I'd

heard these two old boon companions spin over the years. I saw myself striding

bravely across the battlefield of Anderida knee-deep in the blood of the South

Saesnaegs I'd killed in revenge for their dirty work, especially their leader,

Aelle, the Seaxanfuhrer, who styles himself as Bretwalda, an offense to every

Brython as the title means 'Ruler of the Brythons'.

"It mus' ha'e luik'd like the imperial palatium tha' day after Uthr's

funeral," Gyner mumbled.

The axeman straightened and sighed. "Aye, I think sae, too."

They looked at one another and smiled briefly. Their minds had probably

been thinking along the same lines, ofttimes as good friends seem to do.

"Twas long agae," Gyner responded, shuddering as he remembered it.

"Almaist thirteen years," Brastius reckoned, counting slowly. He never

was good at calculations and had to use his fingers.

"Remember poor Gormant wi' all his ugly wounds?"

The axeman turnt to look in my direction. "He was nae aulder than yer

youngest callan here. Amazin' how much alike they luik, almaist like

brithers."

Gyner Graybeard remained silent. But I knew Brastius told the truth. I'd

met Gormant map Hywel of Gourles last year during the Games of Mabon at the

Clochmabenstane in Rheged. He is in his late twenties now; however, we did

look very much alike, despite the difference in our years.

Although, as I recall, I resembled another lad around my own age even

more. This lad befriended me during the competition at the games and left a

lasting impression upon me. His name is Geraint, and he is the eldest son of

Erbin of Dyfneint, the sole surviving son of Bendigeid Custennin the Armorican

Brython of lamented memory. However, that is another story.

"Hast it bin tha' long?" Gyner frowned. "Almaist fourteen years an'

nearly half o' southern Brythain lost tae the sea-wolves, Powys an' Dyfed still

controll'd by the Gwrtheyrnians, large parts o' Cymru in the hands o' the

Gwydyls, Cernyw payin' tribute tae Eirinn, an' those rotten Dogheads o' Denbigh

who keep raidin' our livestock an' killin' the herdsmen." He placed his head

in his hands and said it ached from these thoughts.

I know about the Dogheads. They're the Conchind meaning 'Dogheads', a

tribe originally coming from Iberia to Eirinn and from there to Cymru. Like

their cousins, the Decangi of Gwynedd, the Dogheads are an ancient people,

aboriginal Iberians whom Herodotus called the Cunesioi, placing them west of

the Celts in the Iberian peninsula around five centuries before the birth of

Christ. Later, in the Augustan Age, Horace knew them as the Concani, still

living in Hispania as related by Herodotus. Thus, if they spent any time in

Eirinn at all, the Dogheads couldn't possibly have come to Denbigh, just

northeast of our home, much earlier than three hundred years ago. Whatever the

case, they're our mortal enemies.

"But we're relatively safe in Mathtrafal," the axeman replied, "if we

canst keep those Dogheads frae raidin' our farms an' stealin' our cattle. Tha'

is little in comparison tae the troubles elsewhere."

He was right, of course. The defenders of our land are in constant

warfare all around us.

Way to the north, the peerless Pellinore and his nephew, Cadwr the

Courageous, hold Eborawc and North Ambria respectively. These two mighty

heroes, old friends of the axeman and my father, keep the five Pechtish nations

and the four tribes of Celidon in check, that is, when those heathens aren't

fighting amongst themselves.

Far to the east, the Norse sea-wolves of Harald IV of Danaveldi cross the

Mor Tawch in their dragwn-headed prows and pillage the coastal settlements of

Llyndissig. The great warrior Eiddilig, formerly the castellan of Caer Lloyw

and later the protector of the coastline, is no longer there. He's

subsequently been invested as the yerl or 'chieftain' of the Damnonii of Ystrad

Clud at the western end of the Antonine Wall up far in the north; and in his

absence, the sea-wolves have invaded the east central shores pouring into the

midland plains in successive raids for plunder, although the fear is they may

someday come to stay.

Closer to our eastern border, Mother's brother and his eldest son oppose

the Dogheads in Denbigh, whilst Ogyrfran the Giant, another of Brastius' and

Gyner's old friends, watches the Gwrtheyrians in Powys to our southeast.

Further south, Meliodas in Llewissig, Idwr the Invincible in Cernyw, Erbin in

Dyfneint and Osla Big-Knife in Caer Gwent hold the line of old Roman forts on

the Saesnaeg shore against the sea-wolves. To the west, Father's kinsmen in

Gwynedd and Mother's other brother defending the family stronghold in Dyfed

keep the Gwydyls at bay by holding the high ground above the rocky shoreline as

a barrier against further inroads.

"But beyond the borders o' our allies, we're surround'd by enemies," Gyner

observed, "an' war is abrewin'. Brythain hast bin divid'd intae a whole host

o' independent petty dominions, instead o' remainin' unit'd. Once our Brenhin

rul'd all, na' tae mention the ither isles as well. Now, we're on the

defensive, protectin' our lands frae those who wouldst ne'er ha'e durst tae

raise their ugly heads whilst Emrys Ben-Eur an' Uthr were alive an' well."

Sitting on a stool, searching my favourite greyhound for fleas, I listened

intently to the conversation of my elders. Around me, the pack of dogs were

either scratching themselves or licking their chops after finishing the

pickings of leftover venison given to them from the table. The greyhound poked

his cold nose into my palm for attention, and I petted him affectionately. He

is the son and namesake of my childhood pet, Cafall, and just like his daddy,

he has a snow-white coat and red ears, the same colourings as Gwyn's Cwn Annwn,

the 'dogs of hell'.

"War is sweet tae beardless callans," I heard Brastius say.

"An' tae barbarians, like the Pechts, the sea-wolves an' the Dogheads,"

Gyner added.

I recalled, not too long ago, asking Mother, a devote Christian and former

nun, why God created men differently; some to be Brythons abiding in hill-forts

and walled trefydd with His Decalogue as their law, whilst others are either

savages in the wilderness who live by plunder and murder, or are bondsmen in

gross servitude. Non answered me, saying: "Life is a great mystery an' search

fer divine revelation. The Almighty Feyther in His great wisdom hast made men

as unalike as the beasts o' the field an' forest. But in the soul o' e'ery

man, unlike the lower species o' the animal world, there exists guid an' evil,

battlin' one against the ither, much like the continuous warfare betwix' the

heavenly forces an' the fallen angles."

Her words left me puzzled. I tried to picture the cosmos as an orderly

system and earth as a broken mirror of the heavens. But in my everyday life, I

expect like most people, I can't think in terms of supernatural beings

representing good and evil, as do God and Cloots.

I find it much easier to believe in God but pray to His more lenient and

less aloof saints and to fear the Devil but wear an amulet to ward off his

numerous wicked daimons who lurk in the fear-inspiring shadows of night. I

don't quite understand how the Archfiend has upset the order of nature by open

revolt against our Maker, but I've seen the ruin and death which has come about

through the lack of unity or a single guiding force in the world of men.

Like rebellious slaves killing their master and setting his household on

fire, recalcitrant lairds have on a greater scale caused wholesale destruction

and disorder throughout the Isles by heeding only their individual greed or

point of view. Instead of maintaining law and order, their lust for power has

led these petty tyrants to divvy up the realm, our household, shattering it

like a fallen earthenware calix into hundreds of shards seemingly impossible to

put back together again.

I see this unquenchable thirst for holding sway over men and things as the

cause for war, strife, infidelity, lies, murder and rapine. But most

importantly relative to the welfare of our realm and people, it has torn us

apart.

Among Mother's fellow Christians, Adam and Eve are believed to have broken

the parallelism between the human and divine spheres of cosmic harmony through

Original Sin. So, I believe these recreant spoilers and scoundrels are doing

to the Pendragwn's justice by dividing our Island into smaller warring parcels,

showing they have as much comprehension of Emrys Ben-Eur's dream for us as the

gutted innards of a wart-covered toad. This disunity I can see with a clear

eye is our undoing.

But if I've discerned correctly in this matter of great importance, my own

personal situation suffices to confuse me. At daybreak with matins, in every

orison, at vespers, and even in the mundane routines of day-to-day life, my

brother, Gai, who has a much lower level of intelligence than I, is always

given precedence and preference over me. Sometimes I wonder whether Gai's

height--he stands a good head and shoulders over me--has anything to do with

it, and I often wish I could be as tall or taller than my brother.

Not that I lack affection or yearn to come first myself all the time. No,

neither is true, for our kindly parents shower their three sons equally with

their love and affection. However, it just bewilders and occasionally annoys

me that Gai, despite the fact he continually needs to be led and Father always

expects me to do the leading whenever Gai permits it, still comes first before

God and man in our inheritance, merely because he was born a few years before

me.

Or is it because Gyner Graybeard and Non took me in when I was an infant?

They've told me I'm a foundling raised as their foster-child.

Dewi, Non's firstborn, is another case in point. Born out-of-wedlock

before Non married Gyner, my eldest brother has the calling and is presently

receiving holy orders. Thus, he'll have no share in our inheritance.

Sometimes I wonder whether Dewi's decision to enter Mother's church and,

therefore, his exclusion from our patrimony is a result of his illegitimacy.

Yet, I know Father loves Dewi as dearly as he loves Gai and me, even though

Dewi isn't his natural son, but neither am I, which begs the question. Does

Gai come first of the three of us, because he alone is Father's trueborn son?

Although the meaning behind the nature of Dewi's and my own birth alludes

me, I must thank my virtuous parents for their unswerving adherence to those

unsophisticated conveniences handed down from antiquity. They've steeped their

three young bairns deep within the holy grail of devotion to God, the

motherland, family and lastly ourselves.

Is it strange, then, that their two youngest sons, growing up under the

watchful care of such simple perfection, have drawn closer together than mere

brothers? No, not at all, for in our own way, we two stand together, well

prepared by our loving parents and the ever-loyal axeman to fight the whole

world, if such a need should arise as the tenor of the times seems likely to

dictate. In addition, we have Dewi to guide us in our spiritual devotions,

which gives us added strength.

Of course, Gai and I often disagree and fight like cats and dogs over the

littlest of things, but woe to him who dares to come between us. One would

fight to the death to protect the other, and this our parents have striven most

of all to do, forging sword-blade and hilt together to make a matchless weapon

able to defend the hearth, to go someday to Gai with the understanding he's to

provide for me.

Gyner and Non have wrought the fusion of the sword's two halves with fire

and adoration, castigating both of us together whenever just one has failed and

praising both of us at the same time when only one has earned it. Thus,

they've bound us, each seeing the other as the source of reprimands or

affection; and wishing only the latter, we find ourselves working together as

one and never giving it a second thought.

But when we were younger, neither Gai or I consciously realised what our

parents had succeeded in doing, nor how complementary we actually are. Gai,

for example, always wins our fights; and if he doesn't hit me, I always win our

arguments.

I laugh, now, when I recall how Brastius likened us to a boar and a tod.

It is true. Gai normally reacts with his physical strength before he uses his

head, something like the Hellenic hero Herakles whom we call Ercol; and whereas

I can never come near to equaling Gai in brawn, I resort to my wits to keep us

both out of trouble, similar to Theseus.

Like all lads, though, I've dreamt of conquests, fair damsels to rescue

and love, and fire-breathing dragwns to fight; but I read, too, a feat Gai only

half-heartedly attempts and has never mastered. To him, reading is solely for

cowled monks like our brother Dewi, not warriors like our idols, the peerless

Pellinore, Cadwr the Courageous, Eiddilig Edorides (who slew Anschis the

Eotan), the brave Erbin, the axeman and our father.

None of them, except for Father a little, has ever learnt to read or

write, nor ever will. They aren't inquisitive Hellenes or sophisticated

Romans. They're every inch the old-style standard bearers: proud, lusty,

strong, unpolished, and ill-schooled; and they stand like mountains of hard

flesh, bullish muscles gnarling their massive bodies like oak trees, necks

thick from exercise, powerful arms and legs, and shoulders the size of a

bear's.

I envy their muscles. Gai is like Father, a pillar of strength and

physical prowess. But I'm like Mother and Dewi, lithe as a long distance

runner, and the sheen of my skin shows like oiled beechwood perfected to a

smooth polish.

As Gyner and Brastius continued to discuss the disaster of Anderida, I

pushed to my feet, not yet fully aware of the meaning of it all. I edged

closer, my ever-faithful greyhound treading at my side. The other dogs stirred

and watched my going with their limpid eyes and then returnt to nibbling at

their fleas once more.

The axeman stood with his hands on his hips near the fireplace. A good

leather byrnie covered him from neck to waist and a tartan breacan-feile of

wool extended from there to mid-thigh and was thrown over one shoulder where it

was pinned. He wore sandals, bandaged leggings up to his knobby knees, and a

chlamys of sheepskin over his shoulders for added warmth against the cold. A

boar's-hide baldric hung from his right shoulder to his left side, where it

held the great broadaxe with which he'd earned his fame.

Behind him, oblong shields and small round ones, crossed claymores, a

cabinet filled with iron-tipped Roman javelins, ashwood pila, poleaxes and

pikes, and various battleaxes, maces and dirks decked the block granite walls.

Handy weapons make for easy minds, or so it seems. They've been taken up from

time to time to repulse raiding parties, especially the Dogheads.

Thinking of them, my mind drifted off to a day eight years ago, when I was

just seven years old.

CHAPTER II

* ANOINTMENT OF A NEW DAVID *

The axeman had been standing just where he was now, before the fireplace, when the sound of heavy footfalls rushing over the slab-stone floor came to our ears. The dogs perked up their heads just as a runner dashed into the hall, shouting that marauding Dogheads from Denbigh were pillaging and burning the farmsteads to the west in the vale of Tomen-y-Mur. The axeman cursed loudly and disappeared out the door in full haste. He was the laird of the vale.

Father jumped to his feet, slinging on his sword, and ordered the runner

to raise the garrison for battle. Whilst he fetched his pila, I grabbed his

cheek-flap helmet in my tiny hands and handed it to him. The white, red and

black tufts of horsehair topping the silver plated headpiece nodded his thanks

in my direction. Then, he dashed quickly after his old friend.

I clutched a small recurved yew tightly in my fists, and taking up a

lynx-skin quiver full of hunting arrows, I raced to the stables after the

warriors. I appeared just in time to see Gyner vault on his spear and land on

his caparisoned charger and then quickly ride away with Brastius and their

men-at-arms.

Gai, immediately thereafter, scurried passed me into the stables to his

chestnut cob and began to strap on a saddle-cloth. He was, then, all of ten

years old.

"Wha' are ye daein'?" I asked.

"I'm gaein' tae follow the warriors," he replied with a toss of his head.

"But there will be fightin'."

"I brought my anlace an' shield," Gai answered as he mounted, grasping the

white mane of his frisky cob, "an' ye ha'e yer bow an' arrows. Ye canst be my

Teucer an' I'll be Telamonian Aias. Ye canst hide behind my shield an' I'll

protect ye as ye let fly wi' yer shafts at the invaders. Come on, Arthgwyr, we

will be heroes!"

The idea pricked my fancy, and I quickly assented, hastening to my little

jet-black filly, Findabair, a two-year-old bred from our wild Cymric mountain

ponies. As I entered the stall, I spied a double-edged longknife with a

buck's-horn handle left behind by one of the warriors, and I thrust it in my

belt. Then, after saddling Findabair, I led her to the mounting block and

leapt onto the big square stone in order to climb onto my filly's back.[15]

As fast as our ponies could carry us, Gai and I gallupt off after the

warriors down the long northwest sarn following the Afon Lliw and across the

Arennings toward Brastius' stronghold. The Arennings are three summits, the

highest being Arennig Fawr with an altitude of twenty-eight hundred feet.

Gyner once took Dewi, Gai and I to the cairn at its peak for a good view of the

Yr Wyddfa range. So traversing familiar territory, we two were yet unafraid.

But just before dusk, we lost sight of the men, and dark clouds moving

above cast eerie shadows across the ground, causing us to think about finding

somewhere safe to stay for the night. Reining in our ponies, we found a covert

among some hazelwood. Blackberry brambles surrounded the thicket, and stands

of wild mountain ash, leafy oaks and fresh-smelling pines provided overhead

cover.

We decided to make camp here, and after hobbling our mounts, we pushed

through the undergrowth, a little frightened of the trackless woodland, and

searched for high grass to feed our ponies and rushes for the two of us to

sleep on. We also collected some berries and pine nuts to eat ourselves, since

we had forgotten to bring any food.

Shortly thereafter, the darkness descended upon us, engulfing the forest

in its stygian shroud. The night was filled with the scary sounds of wolves,

hoot-owls, martens, polecats, and other nameless creatures moving about through

the underbrush all around us.

These night noises brought Gai and I closer and closer together, as we

envisioned fire-breathing dragwns lurking behind every tree, slinking toward us

with their bile-coloured eyes and slobbering chops of crooked fangs. Shivering

in fear and wishing dawn would come quickly, we huddled under our horse

blankets.

My dreams, when I finally fell asleep, were neither of victory or glory on

the battlefield. I dreamt of a wicked old crone trying to push us into her

boiling cauldron to cook and eat us, and I gripped my knife, Carnwennan,

tightly in my grasp.

At first light, I awoke to find we weren't alone. Someone had built a

campfire, providing welcomed warmth in the coolness of the early morning air.

A gaunt-looking man of rather extraordinary height and dark complexion sat

on a stone beside the fire. His hair was bristly, his beard long and grown

prematurely white, and the look in his eyes was certainly of the Otherworld,

not of this.

Observing the stranger was druidically robed, the hairs at the back of my

neck immediately stood on end. With big frightened eyes, I saw he wore a

byssus ephod designed with pentacles and hexagrams, the magical symbols of a

wizard.

"Who are ye?" I asked tremulously.

"My name is Emrys Myrddin," he said, lifting a pan of cooked parritch from

the fire.

My eyes grew even larger in wonder, for I'd heard his name around my

father's hearth many times. I shook my brother awake with one hand, never

taking my eyes off of the most famous of all the wizards.

"Wha' is it?" Gai asked sleepfully, annoyed I'd roused him.

"Luik! Luik!" I said, "tis the wizard!"

Gai immediately came awake and sat bolt upright. "Who didst ye say?"

"He's Emrys Myrddin," I managed to stammer, pointing my finger in the

wizard's direction.

"There's nae reason tae be afear'd, callans. I ha'e merely cook'd some o'

Diancecht's parritch o' hazel buds, dandelion, chickweed, sorrel an' oatmeal

fer ye tae eat, as I mesel' eat nae meat, fowl or fish. This parritch will

protect ye frae catchin' a cold after bein' out in the woods all night. It

alsae protects one frae phlegm, diseases o' the stomach an' worms."

"Oh, guid," Gai cried, taking one of the proffered wooden bowls full of

hot steaming parritch; "I'm famish'd," a lifetime condition for Gai; although,

I must admit I was hungry, too.

After we finished eating, I asked Myrddin what he was doing here. "I came

tae the sacr'd spring tae pray an' leave an offerin'," he replied.

From my schooling, I knew the humble folk in particular venerate the spots

where headwaters bubble out of the earth as holy places consecrated by the

gods. Thus, spring-waters are thought to be inviolable, as cures for disease,

and can even change one's luck from bad to good. But to receive the benefits

of a spring or sacred well, votive offerings must first be made to propitiate

either the deity in whose name it is consecrated or the water sprite living

there. Certain creatures, like fish who have long been seen swimming in the

water, are believed to act as oracles able to divine omens, and other mythical

animals or spirits are thought to guard these sanctuaries against intruders.

Faithful votaries will often plant small trees nearby sacred springs or

wells and tie pieces of cloth to their branches in the hope a wish might be

granted. In time, these trees form hillside groves surrounding the sanctuaries

and making it difficult to detect their whereabouts. Among others, the oak in

Gaul, the yew in Brythain and the rowan in Eirinn are especially hallow trees.

In fact, the hills themselves become objects of worship, especially the

hollow hills, where the ancient gods or their priests are said to live deep in

underground caverns where burns or sacred tarns are known only to them and

their initiates. Among the Celts, not only springs, wells, and their holy

objects like trees and hills are venerated, but even some stones are adored as

being sacred like the famous Clochmabenstane in Rheged. It's believed to

represent Mabon's mother, the goddess Modron, and is as devotedly worshipped by

the Celidonians as the Hellenes venerate the stone Rhea gave to Cronos to

swallow in the place of baby Zeus.

Thus, Myrddin's explanation that he'd come to worship at a spring,

especially as he's a holy man, wouldn't seem out of the ordinary. However,

he's primarily known as the Guardian of the Giants' Dance far away on the

southern plains, where there are numerous sacred springs and wells. Surely, he

didn't have to come this far to find one.

But that time Gyner took us up to the cairn of Arennig Fawr, he pointed

out a crag near the mountain pass south of Yr Wyddfa, and told us the wizard

owns a dinas with a subterranean cistern there, which he supposedly visits now

and then. Of course, he could be here on one of his irregular visits to his

dinas.

Yet, I saw as a child what adults often fail to see, because they've lost

their innocence and thus the protection of the gods. I knew his presence here

had to do with me and me alone. I saw it in his brilliant piercing eyes that

never left mine. He'd deliberately sought me out. But whatever his reason for

doing so might be, I instinctively knew I'd nothing to fear whilst in the

company of this old wizard whom they call a prophet.

Furthermore, he asked us no questions, like what we were doing in the

forest all alone or where were we going. But of course, he didn't need to.

Being a wizard, he already knew the answers. This, too, I understood with that

special awareness only children possess.

When ready to go, we helped extinguish the campfire. Then, he invited us

to ride with him to a holy place some distance away; and as one doesn't ignore

the requests of one's elders, Gai and I agreed to accompany him. After all,

he's the wizard of wizards and the holiest of prophets among our people; and it

just wouldn't do, not at all, to turn down an invitation from such a venerable

personage.

So, we mounted our ponies and followed Myrddin, thankful to have survived

our first night alone in the forest and admitttedly grateful for the old one

coming along and feeding us. He hadn't lied when he said our destination was

some distance away. We traversed the Yr Wyddfa range clear to the other side,

where I'd never been before. Finally, we came to a brook in a small dale

between the mountain and the sea where a giant oak tree stood tall and

majestic.

Among the Celts, the oak tree is the most sacred of trees; and being with

the Emberis of the South, I somehow knew he'd brought us to a sanctified

place. Indeed, I'd every reason to believe we were treading on holy ground.

"Where are we, auld one?" I asked, looking about me, half expecting a

dragwn or some other guardian to arise and challenge our presence here.

"This is a verra special place," he said in a hushed voice. "We ha'e come

tae Nant y Lleu, where the Sun-God was sav'd frae death after ha'in' bin

betray'd by his wife, Blodeuwedd, an' her lover, Gronw Pebyr. Gronw pierc'd

Lleu in the side wi' a poison'd spear tae kill Him, but the Sun-God turnt

Himsel' intae an eagle an' flew away tae this verra oak tree. The gods luik'd

everywhere but couldna find Lleu. Each day a sow came tae the tree tae feed on

the flesh fallin' frae His body. Gwydion finally follow'd the sow tae the tree

an' began his Son's cure wi' the touch o' his magic wand."

Both Gai and I stood in awe of this hallowed place. The sun-god,

worshipped by the northerners as Mabon, was reborn or resurrected here after

his sacrifice in the ceremony of the sacred-ricon. We were, indeed, standing

on holy ground. This place was the Celts' holy sepulchre.

From beneath his voluminous robes, the prophet produced a golden sickle.

Reaching up to the old oak tree, he cut a sprig of golden mistletoe which he

made into a anadem.

"Come here, Arthgwyr," the old one commanded, "an' kneel doon afere me."

I obeyed him without question. Standing above me looking exceedingly tall

and thin of breadth with his white flowing beard hanging down beyond his waist,

he placed the wreath upon my young brow. Then, he scooped up water from the

brook flowing beneath the tree in his bony hands and anointed my head. I knew

no fear and looked up at him as he spoke again with his hands upraised to the

heavens.

"Wi' these holy waters an' the bless'd mistletoe once fed by the bluid an'

flesh o' Our Laird o' the E'erlastin' Sun, Lleu Llaw Gyffes, I anoint thee,

Arthgwyr, in the name o' our patroness, the Goddess Albion Diana, Lleu's

sister, who ga'e her sacr'd Island tae Bryth.

"Holy Oak, tha' grows betwix' the two banks where the Eagle came tae rest,

pray fer us; Holy Oak, tha' grows in upland ground where the Eagle bled an'

lost its flesh, pray fer us; Holy Oak, tha' grows beneath the steep spreadin'

forth yer stately an' majestic branches where Gwydion recognis'd his Son, pray

fer us. Hallelujah. Bless'd is the Sun. All hail his sister, the Moon. Long

live the Pendragwn o' the Isles."

Being but a child, I'd no idea what the prophet meant by these words; and

although what he said sounded very strange, today I remember every detail as

though it happened only yesterday. Now, I know it was the first major event of

my life I can remember, even if I didn't quite understand what had occurred at

the time. It was the beginning of a new course to take me far from my

mountaintop home.

"Now, Arthgwyr, ye mus' return tae yer foster-feyther, who hast jus'

beaten his enemies on the field o' battle. Gae tae him, my son. An' ye, too,

Gai, remember this day when the prophet anoint'd yer brither. Remember alsae

how Samuel, the prophet o' Israel, was command'd by God tae anoint na' the

elder sons o' Jesse but the youngest; an' sae this day, na' ye, the middle son,

nor yer half-brither Dewi, the eldest, but yer brither, Arthgwyr, the youngest

son, hast bin anoint'd by the will o' the gods o' yer ferefeythers."

I rose and thanked the old one for his blessing. Then, Gai and I

departed. I remember Gai remarking, "He's as crazy as a loon, tha' auld

shaman."

By the time we reached the battlefield, the fight was already over and

won. Bodies were lying where the living had taken their last stand to defend

the land; blood, gore and dead horses were heaped upon and intermingled with

the slain and discarded weapons; and the wounded and dying gasped and moaned in

their agony.

Gai and I watched as the axeman began to summarily execute the few

prisoners who'd been taken with his personal weapon of choice. The womenfolk

at one of the plundered farmhouses had been raped and, then, butchered. Gai,

although sometimes squeamish, shouted his approval as the heads rolled. I

turnt away.

It was St. Stephen's Day, the day also of the white mare sacrifice, when

the ricon-elect is elevated, in A.B. Fifteen Hundred and Eighty-Two.

CHAPTER III

* THE MAKING OF A LEGEND *

By the time I reached the age of thirteen, Gai and I roamed the forests and mountains by day and night, hunting, hawking and learning about animal lore. Although no longer afraid, we've come to respect the dangers which can be encountred. Now, we know all the trees, flowers, herbs and edibles, how to lay traps and snares, where to find hares, eagles' eggs, tods and deer, and all the sylvan secrets. We both love to go net-fishing in Llyn Tegid for gwyniad, to climb trees, and sneak into Gyner's melon garden to make off with the ripe

fruit without getting caught.

I've become the better chariot driver, dog handler, falconer and archer;

Gai excels in horsemanship, wrestling and breaking walnuts in his fists. I run

faster and imitate bird calls; Gai hurls javelins, the discus, boulders and

cabers farther than anyone and yells louder, too. I sing in a perfectly

pitched voice and know the Pater Noster by heart; Gai eats more, stands taller

and is stronger. Animals love me and I laugh joyously when I know the answer

to a riddle; swords and daggers find their way into Gai's hands and fit well.

People say my lavender-blue eyes show my thoughts flitting in them like a

thousand tadpoles in a crystal clear tarn; but Gai has always been an

unimaginative person, who views anything new or inventive with profound

distrust. These very differences have made us good and steadfast friends, as

they say opposites attract, which, in the case of Gai and I, I can bear witness

is true.

The two of us longed to prove our manhoods, which by custom takes two

things: first, we each had to hunt and kill single-handed a treacherous beast;

and second, we each had to kill and behead an enemy in battle. Going back in

time out of memory, these two tests are the way of our people for a youth to

make the rite of passage to manhood.

Undoubtedly, the Celtic tribes picked up this custom during their travels

through Europe, perhaps, from the Macedonians who once held such traditions, or

the idea could have been handed down from our Trojan or Latin ancestors. Who

knows? But originally, the beast was supposed to be a lion, possibly in the

tradition of Samson, the Hebrew strongman, whom they say killed lions with his

bare hands. However, lions don't live in the wilds of Brythain, so a wolf is

commonly substituted; and if a wolf can't be found, a boar, bull or bear will

do.

One day under lenient supervision as our parents and their gosgordd were

away attending a meeting of the cenedl of Cunedag at Caerleon ar Dubr Duiu, Gai

and I decided to embark upon a boar hunt, which we would otherwise never have

been permitted to do. It takes a pack of hounds and many strong spear thrusts

from several grown men to bring down an old tusker, but we went hunting alone,

taking only Cafall and two other hounds to run ahead of us.

Riding southwest along the forest sarn in my chariot, we passed the

majestic Cader Idris to our right and encountred a swineherd-lad some distance

further near the lower end of the Vale of Dyfi. Grunting and squealing, his

porkers and piglets wallowed in a mud hole, beneath the tall oaks, beeches and

chestnut trees which provided their feed of mast. Deciding the lad would be a

likely person to ask about any boars near within the forest, we stopped to

speak with him.

Probably thinking to rid himself of a troublesome creature, the

swineherd-lad said: "Aye, young lairds, there's a great big one nearby at Llyn

Barfog; a legendary beast he is who hast all the cotters afear'd o' him. He

stole one o' me sows."

Gai laughed and told me I could have the sow. The swineherd-lad smiled

secretively.

Sae much fer the mysterious marsh creature or some laird's sons, he

undoubtedly thought, as he watched our chariot speed away behind my team of

matchless horses.

Flickering rays of sunlight shining through the overhanging trees

maintained their silent vigil. Indeed, except for the sound of the horses'

prancing hooves and the clatter of the chariot's wheels over the ragged rocks

embedded in the blackened marshland, a hushed silence prevailed beneath the

greenwood's foliage. Only the dank odor of last autumn's drab brown leaves

carpeting the swampy ground assailed our nostrils. Mould and green moss

covered portions of the trees. I saw no sign of life, except for salamanders

scurrying over the toadstools springing about.

When the undergrowth thickened nearer the llyn, we dismounted from my

chariot and tied the horses to a birch tree. Gai and I intended to hunt the

boar on foot.

Selecting our spears, we checked the ashwood shafts for strength or flaws,

taking two each: a smaller hasta or dart for throwing and a longer and

sturdier pilum for thrusting. Gai tossed a hempen net over his shoulder and I

set loose our hounds and sounded my horn. The baying hounds took up the hated

scent and scampered through the brush on the trail of their prey with red-eared

Cafall in the lead.

Gai and I raced after the pack, shouting encouragements, leaping over

brooks and boulders, and eagrely listening for the hounds to bring the boar to

a stand. Then, the battle would be engaged in earnest, and we hoped to reach

the spot before any of our dogs got gored.

Up ahead the baying abruptly changed to a series of high-pitched yips and

staccato barks. We knew the beast had been cornered and was fighting for its

life.

"Hurry, hurry," I yelled to Gai, who'd fallen behind. "I hear the whines

o' the dogs. The boar is killin' them."

I bolted into a sudden hollow in the centre of the forest next to the

shore of the llyn and the glare of the unexpected sunlight glancing off the

water momentarily blinded me. I stopped in my tracks and the hairs on the back

of my neck bristled.

"Tis an afanc!" I exclaimed, even before I heard the legendary water

monster's cry of outrage.

Gai came up panting behind me and paused to catch his breath. "Gawd! It

mus' be, at least, twelve feet long," he finally stammered. Truly, it was as

huge as a large brown bear.

But I scarcely heard Gai. The monster before me had my full attention.

He'd already killed the other two dogs.

Grasping my long pilum, Rhongomyniad, in both hands, I crouched low and

inched forward to the attack. My limbs seemed heavy, and my throat tightened

with fear, but I eased in, stalking the gigantic afanc with care.

Its watchful light-green eyes, almost golden in colour, followed every

movement I made; and beneath its sleek coat, the afanc's muscles rippled

fluidly as the beast turnt one way and another to avoid Cafall and my jabbing

spear. Roaring insolently and with a flash of yellow-brown fur, the monster

struck, rushing on me with its large incisors bared for mortal combat.

"Luik out!" Gai screamed at me.

Seeing the afanc attack me, Cafall jumped in the way to divert it from

me. But a powerful swipe hurled my poor dog kicking through the air. Cafall

crashed at my feet, whimpered once, then lay still in death, his body open to

the bones from the monster's claws. My heart stopped, then leapt into my

throat till it nearly choked me. The beast had killed my beloved pet.

Oh, Albion Diana, I thought to myself, preserveth this yer servant now an'

I'll be yers fere'er.

But before I could take any action, the afanc flew at me. I dropped to a

knee, drove the butt of my pilum into the earth, aimed the point at the blurr,

and hoped the Goddess heard my prayer. The great beast shrieked and my pilum

snapped like a twig as the creature threw me to the ground. I thought I was

dead.

When I regained consciousness, I felt a great burden on my chest. I could

hardly breathe. The last thing I remembered was the colour of the afanc's eyes

as it neared by face.

"Ye didst it, Arthgwyr! Ye didst it!" Gai shouted and jumped up and down.

"I canna get up," I cried, half afraid the afanc was still alive. "Get it

off me."

Gai tugged and I pushed until I was able to crawl from beneath the huge

monster. We looked down at it and smiled weakly. My broken pilum had pierced

its chest and come out through the nape of the neck.

Taking a good grip on the spearhead, I drew the broken shaft through the

carcass. Then, kneeling down, I slit the afanc's underside and took its skin

and head. They were the proof of fulfilling my first quest and a warrior's

abolla and headdress would be made from them.

I buried Cafall there where he fell, the other two dogs, too. My heart

was torn between the sadness for my loss and the pride of my victory. I

remembered Cafall as a little puppy. He was my first dog, and like most lads,

I'd fond memories of my first pet of many years. I promised to return and

build a shrine to the Goddess to mark the spot, a promise I kept.[16]

After returning home, I climbed to the top of the castellum's roof and sat

alone looking at the sky above and the endless forest off in the distance. I

watched as twelve ravens came out of the clouds and circled overhead.

Down below, people mingled around the skin of the afanc basking in the sun

and listened to Gai tell how I'd slain the beast. I felt at home at last and

fell asleep on the roof as the blue sky darkened and the sun sank below the

horizon in its fiery glory.

As I slept, my legend began. The afanc of Llyn Barfog was a famous

prehistoric monster from which the much smaller beaver descends, one of the

last of its species; and as the story spread from peasant to peasant, I became

Arthgwyr of the Afanc, for it had been foretold long ago the greatest dragwn of

all would arise with the blood of this nearly extinct creature upon his spear.

CHAPTER IV

* PREPARING A PENDRAGWN *

It was, then, I decided to seek out the prophet, for I felt he alone could provide the answers to my questions, things I didn't fully understand about my own being. Perhaps as a matter of faith, I knew Emrys Myrddin held the key to unlock this riddle concerning my very origins.

Why, for example, had he anointed me, and what was its meaning? Who am

I? How did I come to be the foster-son of Gyner Graybeard and the pious Non?

Where were my real parents and who were they? Why did it appear something was

being hidden from me and when will I be old enough to be told the truth?

These questions plagued my thoughts, because I didn't know the answers;

and for my own peace of mind, I needed to. Something told me I had to know

where I came from in order to know where I was going. It is afterall hard

enough to make a future without also not knowing the past.

At the time, I was but a lad of thirteen, and it was a long way through

hostile territory to the prophet's sanctuary at the Giants' Dance. But I had

to go, regardless of the dangers to be faced journeying far from home across a

troubled land ruled by constant, bitter internecine warfare.

So, I stole away in the dead of night, like a coward, knowing my

foster-parents would have forbidden it if they'd known. I left a note to

explain why and what I had to do. I didn't want them to worry unduly. They

love me and I love them. Therefore, I wouldn't willingly hurt my

foster-parents for any reason, because they'd been so good to me, showering me

in their love and affection as if I was truly one of their own.

But there comes a time in every young foster-child's life when the need to

know about one's beginnings outweighs the caution others would ascribe.

Certainly, Gyner and Non would have counselled against the course of action I'd

decided to take. I knew that.

I also knew I couldn't face them, for I'd no desire to risk hurting their

feelings or embarrass them by asking such pointed questions which even they

might not be able to completely answer. Thus, suspecting they only knew part

of the story, I had to seek elsewhere for all I wanted to learn. Except for

the prophet, however, I knew no other to whom I could turn.

So, like an eyas hawk newly fledged, I left the nest for the first time

alone and tested my wings. For the journey, I dressed as a young warrior

should, knowing I'd need all the protection my armaments could provide.

I wore a solid gold torc about my neck, a white linen camise, coarse

breeks of wool died with greenweed, red-deer cothurni on my feet with

prick-spurs and bandaged leggings. To protect my torso, I donned my

leather-scaled corium, which Gyner had given me as a birthday present and I'd

named Wygar after the Saesnaeg smith who'd made and lost it as a battle-prise

to Gyner. My crested helmet I named Goswhit or 'Goose White', because it's

covered with the white feathers of that fowl. I draped my abolla made from the

pelt of the afanc over my shoulders and fastened it with a golden fibula. An

elk's horn for calling my hound, Cafall's son and namesake, hung from a leather

baldric worn over Wygar. Carnwennan, my dagger, which I'd carried since the

day Gai and I'd attempted to follow the menfolk into battle, was stuck in my

belt. In my right hand, I carried Rhongomyniad with a new shaft and a

swallow-tailed red pennon beneath its point. Slung over my back was my small

lindenwood roundel, Prytwen, bearing a picture of the Goddess Albion Diana and

upon my gloved left hand perched Branwen, my best peregrine falcon, to hunt

ducks and grouse for food during my journey. My yew and quiver of arrows I

wore over my shoulder and would use in defense if necessary, as well as for

bringing down small game for roasting over my campfire at evening time. I also

carried a leather palmer's costrel full of red posca looped over the pommel of

my saddle.

I rode south on my little jet-black mare, Findabair. Leathern frontlets

and trappings protected her. She's a sturdy mountain pony, surefooted and all

heart, with great adoring eyes, long of endurance and as agile and graceful as

an antelope. Of course, my speedy greyhound, Cafall II, dashed along at our

side and ran down hares for making stew in my cauldron. I led a sumpter

animal, a bay jennet named Llamrei, for my supplies and a small deerskin tent.

We crossed the steep and narrow Bwlch-y-Groes, the 'Great Pass', to

Llanymawddwy and thence to Dinas Mawddwy, the land of the Gwylliad Cochian or

'Red-haired Brigands'. There, I ran into trouble.

Three redheaded ruffians were attacking a barefoot old beggar. The beggar

wore forest-green breeks and a hooded birrus of coarse red wool all torn and

rent, and was girded with a knotted thong of sheepskin, looking much like a

wild man of the woods with a great shaggy beard.

Couching Rhongomyniad, I spurred Findabair forward and charged the

brigands, driving the point of my pilum through the shoulder of one of them.

Surprised by my attack, the other inveterate brutes scurried away with Cafall

chasing after them.

Watching them flee as I sat on my mare, I was once again reminded bullies

have no heart when someone stands up to them and refuses to give in. When

bested, they always run away, the cowards they are.

I leapt from my mare and knocked down the kneeling culprit I'd wounded

with a swat on the head from the butt of Rhongomyniad. As I turnt to see to

the old beggar, I noticed red dye on my spearbutt. It was ruan. One of my

teachers told me the ancient Celts used to dye their long hair red before going

into battle, instead of wearing helmets, so as to make themselves look more

gruesome and fearful to their enemies. Perhaps, that's where these blighters

got the idea to dye their hair red and thus became known as the Gwylliad

Cochian. But they were nothing more than common outlaws after all.

Cafall stood over the downed brigand bearing his fangs and growling. The

man was hysterical. Because Cafall resembles the hounds of the Otherworld with

his white coat and red ears, the man kept screaming I must be the Wild Huntsman

come to take his soul away to Annwn. To make him quake even more, I rather

maliciously confirmed his worst fears. After all is said and done, we're a

superstitious lot for certain, and I took some satisfaction in frightening the

wits out of the fellow by claiming to be Gwyn ap Nudd, Laird of the Dead. The

poor fellow wet his breeks, he was so scared.

Then, I helped the barefoot old beggar to his feet and dusted him off.

"Are ye alright, auld one?" I asked.

"Aye, lad, thanks tae ye."

"Well, I'll be off, then," I said and turnt to remount Findabair.

"Wait, where are ye gaein'?"

"I'm on a quest," I answered as I jumped up onto my mare.

"Wha' is the nature o' yer quest?"

"I'm gaein' tae the Giants' Dance tae speak wi' the Guardian."

"Ye mean Emrys Myrddin?"

"Why, aye, tha's who."

"Then, ye need search nae further," the old beggar responded pulling down

his hood to reveal his face to me.

It was the prophet, dressed as a beggar. "Tis ye," I said.

"Aye, Arthgwyr o' the Afanc, tis I, Emrys Myrddin. I kent ye were comin'

fer I'd dreamt it many years befere ye were born ye wouldst come on a black

horse an' save me. I decid'd tae meet ye along the way, sae ye wouldst na'

ha'e tae come sic a great an' dangerous distance tae see me."

I leapt to the ground again and we walked together for a long while. I

told him everything. It just tumbled out of me, like a torrent rushing down

over a cliff. I couldn't seem to stop babbling on and on.

He waited until I finally ran out of words. "Sae many questions," he said

with a chuckle. "But I understand. I hadst quite a few mysel' when I was a

callan, luikin' fer the answers. Sae, I dae understand an' empathise wi' ye.

Howe'er, the time is na' yet right tae tell ye all ye wan' tae ken."

"Why?" I asked.

"'Cause ye're na' ready or auld enough tae take responsible action or fer

grown-up men tae take heed o' ye."

"How auld mus' I be?"

"Tis na' entirely a matter o' age, although tha' is certes part o' it.

Maturity is a matter o' the mind, as well as the body. Physically, ye're na'

yet ready. But there's alsae the question o' yer education. Gyner Graybeard

an' my Aunt Non ha'e daen well by ye. Ye ha'e grown straight an' wise fer yer

age. Now, ye jus' need a little mair schoolin' an' some time tae finish

growin', baith mentally an' physically."

"Where mus' I gae fer this education ye speak o'?"

"Gae forth frae this place," the prophet said, "an' it shall come tae pass

ye'll meet a party o' cowl'd monks comin' doon frae on high aplayin' upon a

trigon, an' a tabour, an' a fife, an' a chorus. Amidst them will be Illtyd

the Christian Soldier, a fine teacher an' abbot, an' ye'll gae wi' him fer one

year an' a day an' learn all ye canst learn frae him in his monastery at

Llan-Illtyd Fawr.

"At the end o' tha' time, return tae the house o' yer foster-feyther,

Gyner, an' journey wi' him tae two games, the Games o' Mabon in Rheged an',

then, the Spectacles o' Lludd at our capital. By the time o' the latter, ye

shouldst be ready, an' I'll arrange it sae yer questions will be answer'd an'

those who're willin' tae listen will hear the truth."

So, I let the wounded brigand go and, obeying the prophet, journeyed south

as he directed, looking for the monks. During my search for them, I came to

Caerdydd on the Hafern, where I stayed at the house of Ynywl, one of Gyner's

old friends from their days as cnichts of the Table of Uthr Pendragwn. Ynywl

and his family, especially his little lass, Enid, an adorable, dark-eyed child,

were very kind to me. I left their house with fond farewells and crossed the

Afon Diff heading toward Illtyd's famous monastery on the Glamorgan sea-plain.

But the monks there told me their abbot had gone to another religious

settlement[17] he'd founded north of Cader Idris, the second most famous mountain

in all of Cymru. It's said whomsoever dares to spend a night alone either upon

the cader of the giant Idris, one of the 'Three Primitive Bards' and also said

to have invented the harp, or under the haunted Black Stone of Arddu upon Yr

Wyddfa will either go mad or become a bard by morning.

As I came to the north slope of the mountain, I heard the skirl of a

chorus above the other instruments. Shortly, the monks trooped down from the

summit of Cader Idris, playing a trigon, a tabour, a fife and a chorus. The

latter was being played by Illtyd himself, and so our meeting came to pass

exactly as the old prophet had foretold.

"My name is Arthgwyr o' the Afanc, son o' Gyner Graybeard the Ecttwr o'

Mathtrafal," I told him. "The Maist Reverend Emberis o' the South, Emrys

Myrddin, hast sent me tae ye fer schoolin'."

"Well, then, son o' the House o' Osmael the Hero, come wi' us," Illtyd

rejoined.

So I did. Illtyd's monastery is rightly known as having the very best

school in the entire Island. He's an excellent teacher. He also attracts the

most intelligent students, not that I was one of them. Most of his pupils are

older than me and studying for the priesthood. Some of his students had gone

on to found their own monasteries and become leaders in the Celtic Church,

including my brother, Dewi, who now lives at Mynyw in the homeland of our

maternal kinsmen. Others include: Gybi, Deiniol, Dogmael II ap Ithel, Pedrog

ap Glywys, Derfel Gadarn of Gwynedd, Pern, and Myrddin's nephew, Nectan ap

Brychan.[18]

Myrddin told me some of Illtyd's future students would include: Samson ap

Amon of Dyfed, Kentigern, Pewlin of Y Ddraig Goch, Cadwg the Wise, Gildas the Erenach, Maelor, and Cadfan, just to name a few. I made lasting friendships at Illtyd's

school, people who'd play important roles in my later years, including, of

course, Illtyd himself.

Llan-Illtyd Fawr is situated on a bluff about two hundred and fifty feet

above the sea-plain of Glamorgan, a league or two from the main sarn between

the forts of Caerdydd and Nidum. There is a farmhouse and outbuildings

surrounded by a low bank and a fosse.

The buildings are of local limestone and sandstone and grouped together

irregularly in four main ranges around a central yard covering about one and a

half erwau. Slates serve as the roofing, and the windows are actually made of

rare glass panes. The interior walls are of fine plaster, and the main rooms

at the east end of the north range have paved floors covered with mosaics.

At the west end of the L-shaped main residential area, where I lived

whilst I was at the school, is a self-contained bath block with ten rooms for

bathing. Illtyd believes cleanliness is next to godliness, so we bathed daily,

a habit I've retained.

If I learnt one thing about education at Illtyd's school, teachers must

come from those with the greatest minds in order to produce students with great

minds. Teachers of common intelligence only produce students with the lowest

ability to succeed in the world.

Thankfully for me, Illtyd is one of the very best, like the great scholars

of ancient Athenae. From him, I learnt the vast majority of the citizenry in

Hellas could read and write. But by the time history had reached its zenith

with the Roman Imperium, the average person in the Roman provinces was and is

illiterate.

In our own Island, very few scholarly centres exist, and those that do are

located at monasteries like Illtyd's catering only to their religious orders.

As a result, the vast majority of our people, including the nobility, can't

read or write, because they have nowhere to go and learn, unless they want to

become monks.

"Woe are we," Illtyd said, "fer the lose o' the greatness, the democracy

an' the literary genius o' the Athenians. An' I wonder if their like will e'er

be seen again in this poorer world withouten them."

But I did meet many great minds at Llan-Illtyd Fawr, and just listening to

them expound upon their theories was very interesting and taught me much. I

learnt Hellenic and Latin, history, geography, astronomy, arithmetic, rhetoric,

theology, philosophy and many more subjects than I can mention.

In the end, however, I left with more questions than I came. Of course,

Illtyd would have said such is the purpose of education, to stimulate the mind

to find higher values. But youthful minds, such as mine, don't always have an

appreciation of such complex thinking as that of Illtyd and his disciples. A

discourse on how many angels can sit on the top of a pin doesn't interest me.

Illtyd says I'm more pragmatic.

He's right, of course. I tend to be more practical. The idealism of my

childhood has slipped away like a cloak having fallen from my shoulders,

whereas Illtyd's other students are still searching for higher ideals. They'll

undoubtedly become saints and martyrs in the name of their high druid, Jesus

Christ. But I don't think they'd say the same about me.

But my destiny is yet to be determined, although Myrddin promised I'd soon

have the answers to my questions. Then, I'll know what to do, thanks to Illtyd

who has greatly helped to prepare me for the future.

For now, however, I returnt to the house of my father, where I was royally

welcomed, like the prodigal son finally come home. Mother prepared a feast to

rival those of Apicius. Gyner and Gai wanted to hear the details about my

sojourn at Illtyd's school. Of course, Mother wanted news about Dewi, who was,

in fact, one of my teachers before he left the monastery to found his own, Ty

Gwynd.

I couldn't tell Mother everything though, especially not how Dewi is in

love with a young lass by the name of Marian, although she also goes by

Marina. Some say she's Eirish and her father is a ferryman who lives at

Menevia, which means the 'Way of the Moon'. Dewi has been trying to convert

his hetaera and get her to accept baptism, but Marian worships the

moon-goddess, Mab, and her father with the ominous name of Finvarra ferries the

dead out to sea from Dyfed on his funeral boat. In fact, the marwysgafen, the

pagan death song sung by the bards, means the 'giving to Marian' and was, so I

am told, named after this same lass whom the Christians call Mary. Since, I've

learnt Marian is actually the daughter of Urien Edorides and Modron the Fay and

that Finvarra is actually her foster-father. It seems she came to Menevia to

study as a priestess of the Goddess.

If Mother ever came to know about Dewi's love affair she'd have a fit, so

I've told her nothing about it, respecting Dewi's right of privacy in this

matter. But I hope Mother never finds out I've kept his secret, or there'll be

hell to pay.

Fortunately, Gyner took over the conversation and told me he had an

invitation from an old friend of his, Gwri ap Llenlleawc of the Moat of Liddel,

to come to the Games of Mabon. This news came as no surprise, as Myrddin had

already foretold I'd attend the games.

Taking the old Roman sarn passing through Caerleon ar Dubr Duiu, we

stopped at a hostelry in Caerleol, which the Romans called Luguvallium in

honour of the Celtic sun-god. The area around Caerleol was known as civitas

Carvetiorum, meaning the 'province of the people of the deer', so named because

the native tribesmen were onetime members of the White Stag Cult of Cernunnos.

Outside of my experiences with Myrddin, this was to be my first exposure

to the old religion. We were heading northward to the land of Mabon, from

whence Father's people came; but although he himself had been steeped in the

ways of his ancestors, Mother had until now kept such things from Gai and I.

At the gathering of the cenedls for the games at the Clochmabenstane, we

would meet an important chieftain named Bran of the Two Isles. His brother,

Gwri, was our host, the commander of a teulu or 'war-band' of the Selgovae.

Another brother by the name of Gwynbaude would have an even more profound

effect on me. As Emberis of the North, he's the religious leader of the four

great cousinly tribes of Celidon. Father told me their late sister, Efwyr, was

the wife of Bendigeid Custennin the Armorican Brython and, of course, the

mother of the best soldiers Brythain has ever produced, Emrys Ben-Eur and Uthr

Pendragwn, both of lamented memory.

So, we would be staying at the home of a most noble gentleman, an

aristocrat with royal connexions. His stronghold sits on a prominent hill,

militarily important as it commands the sarns leading north from Caerleol. But

it's also a lovely location overlooking the beautiful wooded vale of the Afon

Liddel.

From the top of the fortress, Gai and I watched the setting of the sun.

To the west, we could see the golden hue of the sun above the blue of the

Traetheu Trywruid, to the north the pastoral scenes of Liddesdale and the

greenwood along the Esk, to the east the dark top of Birrenswork Hill once

noted for its Roman camps, and to the south the Arfderydd Knowes rising

skyward. A wealth of natural beauty surrounded us, although I still prefer my

native hills in the Yr Wyddfa range.

When Gai and I came down from the parapet, we found Gwri's brother, the

Emberis of the North, praying on his knees before a stone idol of three seated

goddesses with a fourth standing in attendance on the other three. The goddess

seated in the middle was larger than the others, and she held out her hand,

palm upwards, in the symbolic gesture of peace.

Non, being a devote Christian, had never allowed pagan statues or

teachings in our home. She even banished the statue of Ercol, who is

represented in Gyner's coat-of-arms, to a small shrine outside our fortress.

So, neither Gai or I really knew the names of the goddesses to whom

Gwynbaude was praying. I only knew about Albion Diana, because she was the

patron goddess of Bryth, the founder of our Island's first royal dynasty.

Curious, I stepped closer. Hearing me, Gwynbaude turnt around.

"Wha' dae ye want, callan?" he asked.

I replied with a question of my own. "Who are they?"

"They're the Three Mithers," he responded.

Pointing at the larger goddess in the centre, I inquired, "Who is she?"

Gwynbaude smiled, perhaps, at my ignorance, or because my interest pleased

him. "She's Don, the Great Mither. As the Goddess o' Prosperity an'

Abundance, Don rules Her children, the solar deities, frae Cader Cassiopeia,

the reason She's depict'd as sittin' an' alsae larger in size than the ither

two. She's the universal mither, equatin' tae the Romans' Mither Rhea or Magna

Mater, Cybele or Mater Turrita, an' Anna Perenna, the 'Eternal Anna', Mither o'

the Aeons."

Knowing some of these names from my Latin studies, I began to realise Don

was, indeed, a great goddess. "Is Albion Diana one o' the ithers?" I asked

innocently.

Gwynbaude chuckled softly. "Nae, my lad. Diana is call'd Artemis by the

Hellenes an' is the twin sister o' Apollo, our Lleu. But She's alsae a triple

goddess, Diana on earth, Selene in the sky, an' Hecate in the Itherworld. As

Diana, She's the white virgin Burd o' Wild Things an' Chief Huntress o' the

gods helpin' women in childbirth an' whose silver arrows bring women quick

painless death. As Selene, our Albion, or the Gwydylic Mab, She's the Goddess

o' the Moon, an' Her colour is the red o' the matron who sheds the wise lunar

bluid. As black-heart'd Hecate whom we call Caillech in Celidon, She's the

awful veil'd crone o' the dark o' the moon an' o' the crossroads rulin' o'er

evil spirits an' witches."

I wasn't exactly pleased by all he told me about my goddess whom I'd

called upon to help me when I slew the afanc, for I hadn't known about her dark

side. "Then, who're these ithers here?" I asked.

Again Gwynbaude smiled. "The second o' the Three Mithers is Artio fer

whom ye yersel' are nam'd. She's Don's sister, the Great She-Bear o' Ursa

Major, Her court, which revolves aboot the polestar in a tight circle e'ery

twenty-four hours enclosin' the Draco, royalty's emblem, within Her Table

Round. In Europe, Her great shrines are at Colonia Agrippina an' Aventicum,

the native name o' the latter city derivin' frae Her.

"The third mither is Arianrhod, whom we 'Men o' the North' call Modron,

the Celtic Aphrodite, Venus, Isis, Astarte, Freya, Virgin Myrrha, Bless'd Mary

an' Virgin Nana all in one. The women praise Her name an' pray fer Her

assistance an' intercession. In auld Gaul, the Afon Matrona is nam'd after Her

ancient title, an' Her main sanctuary is locat'd at its headwaters near

Langres, a name verra similar tae Logres, the Cernish name fer Brythain, which

yer people in Cymru call Lloegr."

"An' the fourth goddess standin' afere the ither three, who is she?"

"Epona, the white mare goddess, whom the Cymry call Rhiannon, the wife

first o' Pwyll who came tae rule the Itherworld fer a year an' second o' the

sea-god Manawyddan."

I nodded my head. I'd heard the story of Rhiannon, but I wouldn't let on

to Non I had without receiving a lecture.

Gai pulled at my sleeve. "We better be gaein' now," he said. "Mither is

expectin' us."

I turnt to go but something made me turn back to Gwynbaude. "Why didst ye

say I'm nam'd after Artio?"

"Arth means 'bear' an' gwyr means 'man'. Thus, yer name means 'bear man',

an' Artio is the Great She-Bear, yer godmither."

"Wha' mair dae ye ken aboot me?"

"I ken ye're the grandson o' my sister, Efwyr. But I canna tell ye mair

fer now, na' 'til the time comes, when my colleague, Emrys Myrddin, shall tell

ye all ye shouldst ken."

I was dumbfounded. Efwyr, as mentioned, was the mother of the great Emrys

Ben-Eur, and of Uthr Pendragwn, Erbin, and their sister, the Blonde Emeree.

May the Goddess ha'e mercy on my soul, I thought. Could it really be true

I'm the son of one of Efwyr's famous children? If this was so, no wonder the

nature of my birth had been kept a well guarded secret.

"Then, we're o' the same bluid," I murmured.

"Aye," Gwynbaude acknowledged, "yer graunie was my sister. Bran, Gwri an'

I are yer granduncles. My brithers ha'ena bin told yet who ye are but they

will when the time is right. Then, ye canst depend upon them fer support.

Tha' tis why Gyner brought ye here, sae ye couldst meet those who'll help ye in

the future. Remember tha', lad. When the time comes, call on us, an' we'll

fight at yer side."

"Naensense!" Gai exploded. "Ye're my brither, Arthgwyr. Dinna listen tae

this auld fool. Come on. We best gae afere Mither comes luikin' fer us an'

she'd be maist displeas'd tae find us in the company o' him." He said the

"him" as though it was a dirty word.

Realising Gai was undoubtedly right about Non waiting for us, I went with

him. But when I finally went to bed, I didn't sleep very much that night.

Had Gwynbaude told me the truth? And if so, which of the four was one of

my parents? In any case, I'd come closer to discovering who I really was.

If true, I was of the House of the Pendragwns, but I didn't want to think

about it, because I knew what that would mean, and the mere thought of the

possibilities frightened me, making me further realise both Myrddin and

Gwynbaude were right. The time hadn't yet arrived for me to know the complete

truth, because I was still too young to handle it.

The little bit Gwynbaude had deliberately permitted me to see was a test

to see if I was ready. I wondered whether I'd passed or failed the test.

The next morning we set out for the games. Fording the Esk a mile or more

below the Moat of Liddel, we followed Gwri northwest across a fertile plain,

the Traetheu Trywruid at our left hand. Shortly, our good host detoured south

again coming to the edge of the Traetheu Trywruid's north shore where I spied a

large megalithic boulder slumbering in an open field.

Of course, I knew what the large stone was having heard about it since

childhood, but this was the first time I actually saw it, the Clochmabenstane.

I must confess my disappointment, for it looked nothing more than a big rock in

the middle of a meadow. After all, we've plenty of boulders in the mountains

of Cymru, where I was raised. What made this one so special?

Gwynbaude started acting strange, chuntering some weird incantation,

reminding me of Emrys Myrddin, and then, he pulled a wineskin from under his

feathered cloak and began to pour its contents upon the boulder as a libation.

Gai nudged me in the ribs with his elbow and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

The liquid Gwynbaude had poured on the Clochmabenstane was as red as blood.

"Luik, tis bluid I'll wager," Gai murmured under his breath, echoing my

own thoughts.

"I ken tha'," I responded testily. "Tis bull's bluid in honour o' Mabon,

the god o' youth an' music."

"Are ye sure tis bull's bluid, Arthgwyr. Ye ken he's probably as crazy as

Myrddin, an' maybe, he us'd bluid frae a human sacrifice."

I shivered and looked intently at Gwynbaude. Would he really, I

wondered? He certainly was an eerie old duck, as I began to suspect all of

these holy men are. There he stood chanting. He wore the antlered helm of the

White Stag Cult of Cernunnos, buckskins, leather sandals and a mantle made of

bird feathers, and as I took a long look at him, Gai's nickname for Myrddin

kept coming to mind. Shaman . . . shaman repeated over and over again in my

mind.

When Gwynbaude finished, we walked our horses to a likely spot and

unpacked our gear and the pavilions, which we proceeded to set up. Late in the

day, we left our campsite and returnt to the Roman sarn heading north. Coming

to a fork, we took the right-hand route up the vale of Anu, following the

course of the afon sometimes called the Aine in honour of Mother Don. Hills

rose on either side of us, and up ahead where the Anu divides at its confluence

with the Eve-Aine and the Morfudd, a great black mass rose ominously before us

seeming to block our way. We were nearing our destination.

The black mountain rises twenty-six hundred and fifty-two feet above sea

level and stands in the middle of the Coed Celyddon, the 'Wood of Celidon'.

This wilderness is infamous for supernatural happenings.

The Celidonians say when there's a full moon the ghostly night riders

chase fast and furious across the sky following their leader, Gwyn ap Nudd, the

Wild Huntsman and Laird of the Fairies as well as of the Dead. The humble folk

believe Gwyn and his night riders seek lost souls which they take to Annwn, or

according to some accounts, to the moon itself, where the Goddess receives the

souls in her keeping.

Of course, the strange yapping of Gwyn's white, red-eared Cwn Annwn is

said to be heard leading the wild chase across the night sky; and as I

mentioned earlier, my greyhound, Cafall, matches the description of the Cwn

Annwn in every detail. Thus, his presence caused many of the Celidonians to

look suspiciously in my direction. Undoubtedly, they wondered about this lad,

Arthgwyr of the Afanc, already known for having killed a legendary beast of the

Otherworld, and now seemingly riding along with one of the Cwn Annwn at his

side.

The piercing eyes of these wild mountain people made me shiver for the

thoughts I believed I saw reflected within them. It seemed as though the

forest was pressing in closer around me, making me a part of its legend.

The sarn turnt northwestward and we came to the foot of the southwest spur

of the black mountain. Gwynbaude stopped. Then, he turnt to the right and

followed the plunging Auchencat Burn a short way up a steep gully until we came

to a bend in the burn where we dismounted. The burn continued eastward, but we

turnt up a dark rock-strewn notch in the lower western slope of the spur. It

was a narrow defile with a rill tumbling down the middle.

Rounding a turn, Gwynbaude scurried ahead over the bubbling brook to a

small spring gurgling up through the ground in a recess set back into the

hillside. He knelt down on all fours, like a forest creature, and drank deeply

from the spring.

As I approached, I saw the spring-water was rather rusty looking and was

glad I'd packed in some fresh water with me in my leather palmer's costrel.

As, in fact, it was a chalybeate spring, I figured the water would have a heavy

taste of iron, apparently true for I saw Gwynbaude's white beard was stained

red from the spring-water when he finally rose to his feet again.

From a nearby apple tree heavily ladened with ripe fruit, Gai picked a

bright red apple, but before he could so much as take a bit, Gwynbaude snatched

it sharply from his hand. Gai who loves his food overly much was quite

perturbed by Gwynbaude's action.

"Hey, I'm hungry," Gai complained.

"Dinna ye ken apples are sacr'd tae the Goddess an' this is an enchant'd

tree on holy ground. Tis the World Tree ye be pickin' yer fruit frae."

"Ye dinna really believe tha' naensense dae ye?" Gai asked.

Gwynbaude just looked at Gai as though he had to be the biggest doylt on

the face of the earth. Then, he turnt his back on him and walked away. I

followed him and we sat side-by-side near the spring.

"Afallenau an' its fruit are especially sacr'd among my people livin' here

in the Celidon Wood," he said. "Yer people in Cymru alsae believe there's a

Ynys Afallach, the 'Isle o' Apples' or Insula Pomorum, rul'd by the god

Afallach, a son o' Beli Mawr, an' his nine fairy dochters. The number nine,

Arthgwyr, refers tae a cult o' priestesses who worship the Goddess o' whom we

spoke earlier.

"Here in the north, the matriarchies still predominate, an' the tanist or

heir apparent tae the cader is select'd when the resident matriarch, call'd the

heritrix rex, gi'es him a magic apple tae signify he's bin chosen as her new

husband, the ricon-elect. Befere the marriage takes place, her newly chosen

husband gaes through the ritual matin' on the morrow followin' Mabonsday wi'

the white mare as part o' his accession. Thereafter, he rules the people an'

the land in his wife's name as the sacr'd-ricon.

"In due course, sometimes a year or longer, the sacrifice comes 'round

again, normally at the time o' the Samhain , an' the resident or curule

matriarch gi'es her husband, the sacred-ricon, a second apple, signifyin' his

death is near at hand. Then, the veil'd crone, dress'd all in black, either

slays the sacr'd-ricon hersel' or pushes the new tanist ferward tae perform the

deed. Afterwards, the deceas'd sacr'd-ricon is taken by boat tae the

apple-isle in the west, where the Burd o' the Loch restores him tae life, in

some stories tae return as the tanist, who slays his auld rival at the time o'

the next sacrifice. Sae it gaes throughouten eternity, each sacr'd-ricon bein'

sacrific'd in his turn by the tanist chosen tae replace him.

"E'en among the gods, Cernunnos, the antler'd consort o' the

Moon-Goddess, is wound'd in the thigh, symbolic fer meanin' He's castrat'd,

then dismember'd an' cook'd in a cauldron tae rise whole again. The cauldron

is symbolic fer the Great Mither's cosmic womb, the producer o' life, wisdom,

inspiration an' enlightenment, as well as the source o' the resurrection o' the

godhead an' the reincarnation o' man.

"Therefere, the sacrifice o' the sacr'd-ricon is a vital part o' the auld

religion o' yer ancestors, mirrorin' the practice o' the gods, an' thereby

maintains the harmony betwix' the divine an' worldly spheres. Although the

practices differ frae place tae place, the purpose is the same: tae provide

fer the fruitfulness o' the people, their livestock an' the land, thus the

verra well-bein' o' the whole tribe.

"Nowadays in the south, howe'er, auld women are accus'd o' witchcraft an'

droon'd or ston'd tae death fer gi'in' an apple tae a child or adult who later

becomes afflict'd wi' fits. Anither custom involvin' the fruit o' death occurs

e'ery No'ember-e'e when we bob fer apples, which harkens back tae the pagan

traditions o' the Feast o' the Dead, call'd Samhain. Now, one day later, the

Christians celebrate All Saints' Day on the Celtic new year's day, a solemn

occasion o' prayers fer the dead, which the Christians perform on the verra

next day, their All Souls' Day, when prayers are offer'd fer the souls o' the

faithful depart'd.

"Strange, isna it, how whole peoples may come an' gae an' their religions

wi' them; an' yet, certain customs are pass'd doon an' are either partially or

wholly assimilat'd by an entirely different people who happen tae occupy the

same land once held by those who originat'd these subsequently absorb'd customs

in the first place. It seems the only common factor tae baith the former an'

later inhabitants is the land itsel'. But how canst the land, a handful o'

pitiful dirt, pass on customs betwix' successive waves o' immigrants? Nae,

Arthgwyr, it canst only happen when thoughts are shar'd an' understood betwix'

the prior an' current landholders, or sae it seems tae me. But wha' dae I

ken? I'm but a child in the wilderness who hast bin privileg'd wi' the Sight

as my colleague, Emrys Myrddin."

After that, we sat there together for a long time, neither speaking. I

wondered about these sacred-ricons. Why did they willing permit themselves to

be sacrificed? If I was in their place, would I do the same? Is that what

Gwynbaude was trying to tell me, that someday I'd be a sacred-ricon? But I

heard no answers sitting there in the sanctuary, only the bubbling of the water

in the sacred spring.

In solemn procession, the all-male celebrants ascended the steep

mountainside[19] to partake in the opening ceremonies of the Celidonian harvest

festival and attending games in honour of their god, Mabon. They convened for

the amphictyonic oath of the four great cousinly tribes of Celidon on the flat

grassy summit--the very apex of what the native tribesmen believe to be the

navel of the north, the pagan Omphalos of all created things.

Looking about me, I understood why they feel this spot is the centre of

the universe. It certainly is the centre of their world. In all directions as

far as the eye can see lay the four realms of nemoral Celidon, lofty hilltops

and pleasant dales, carpeted in green forests and cut by rushing burns bringing

the life-giving waters to man, field and beast. The very proof of the holiness

of the place where we stood comes from the fact the sacred headwaters of the

north's three most primary afons, the Clud, Anu and Selgova, are all located in

the immediate vicinity with sanctuaries dedicated to their respective afon-god

or goddess.

Every Awst-eve, the men of Celidon come to this spot. Formed in serried

ranks, they stood solemn as I watched them; proud and resplendent in their

full-dress armour, swords and shields, and with tall spears whose points shone

brightly in the twilight of the sun. The conical helmets of the common

soldiers were burnished for the occasion; whereas those of the lairds mostly

bore the totemic animal of their respective cenedls, further distinguished by

the different colours and patterns of the tartan kilts and capes they wore.

These cenedlsmen were a colourful, if a bit gaudy, sight.[20]

Next to me stood Gwynbaude wearing a long flowing white robe. Knowing I

knew little about the proceedings, his explanation helped me to understand the

background behind what was happening.

"We call ourselves the Gwyr y Gogledd, the 'Men o' the North'," Gwynbaude

told me in a hushed voice so as not to disturb the proceedings. "Our

federation consists o' four tribes sharin' the territory betwix' the Antonine

an' Hadrian's walls. These walls form a protective four-corner'd enclosure in

imitation o' the abode o' the Itherworld gods. The federation calls this

enclosure Lleuddiniawn, the 'country o' the stronghold o' Lleu'.

"Lleu Llaw Gyffes, 'Light the Long-Hand'd', is the Celtic Apollo or

Mithras, the god o' light an' truth, the maist rever'd solar diety o' the

Celtic pantheon. In fact, He's sae rever'd we demur out o' respect tae e'en

speak His name. Instead, we call Him Mabon, signifyin' 'Son', an' His mither

is call'd Modron, comin' frae Her mair ancient Gallo-Celtic name o' Matrona,

meanin' the 'Matron', 'Madonna' or 'Mither'. The women o' Lleuddiniawn worship

Her, refrainin' frae callin' Her by Her true name o' Arianrhod, meanin' 'Silver

Circle', the Goddess o' Love an' Fecundity, whose castellum is, na'

surprisingly fer the Gwyr y Gogledd, the Northern Crown kenn'd as Caer

Arianrhod; an' Her Son is worshipp'd only by the men, like the Persian sun-god,

Mithras, the soldier's god call'd the 'Light o' the World'.

"Howe'er, unlike His Persian counterpart who's worshipp'd in underground

chambers call'd Mithraeums, Mabon's celebrants draw nearer tae the sun on the

highest hilltops tae sing His praise. He's the God o' Youth, Music an'

Enchantments, somewhat resemblin' Apollo, full o' grace an' beauty. He's the

Egyptian Osiris whose comin' was announc'd by the Three Wise Men. He's the

Bethlehem-born Adonis, the Son o' the Virgin Myrrha. He's the Persian Mithras

whose monogram is the labarum, pre-empt'd by the Christians as the Chi-Rho.

He's the Nazarene worshipp'd by yer mither as the Saviour. He's the Norse

Balder, slain by the mistletoe. He's the Phrygian Attis who rose again frae

the dead on the third day. He's the Messiah, the one true Saviour. He's

Mabon, the 'Light o' the Earth', whom the dull-witt'd Gwydyls call Lugh."

Of course, in Cymru, we call him by his real name of Lleu, and I knew his

story. Ever since that day Myrddin had anointed me beneath Lleu's oak tree,

I'd secretly learnt whatever I could about him, because it seemed he and his

twin sister, Albion Diana, were my special patrons among the gods.

Shortly after Gwynbaude finished telling me about Mabon, the high yerls or

'chieftains' of the fourfold division of Celidon stepped forward to greet one

another amid the clamour and war-cries of their tribesmen. These war-lairds were

hardy men in their prime, and each would before erelong play major roles in my

life.

First and foremost was the yerl of the Gododdin, called the Votadini by

the Romans, who roared the loudest when their leader raised his sheathed

broadsword to the assembly. I looked into his eyes and saw this man had no

mercy for his enemies. He was a relentless killer of men.

"Who is he?" I asked Gwynbaude in a whisper, feeling I should know who

this black-hearted man was.

"He's Gwyar Llew Lothian, whose name means 'Bloodshedder the Lion o'

Lothian'. He rules the northeastern quarter o' Celidon frae his hill-fort o'

Traprain Law. Mark him well, an' beware o' him, my young friend!"

I nodded my head and stared at the 'Lion of Lothian' committing his image

to memory and at the same time hoped I wouldn't become his enemy. But from

Gwynbaude's obvious warning about him, I knew he and I would never be friends.

Next, out strode a noble looking man, wearing a ram-horned helmet as the

emblem of his totemic animal. I felt he could be trusted, because his bearing

and demeanour were those of the kind of man who'd never break his word once

given. I instinctively knew this man was a great hero. He had the look about

him.

I glanced up at Gwynbaude, and without having to ask, he answered my

silent question. "He's Gwyar's bravest brither, Eiddilig o' Ystrad Clud, who

rules the Damnonii o' the northwest praefecture o' the tetrarchy o'

Lleuddiniawn."

The mere mention of Eiddilig's name brought a great smile to my face. I

knew all about him from the stories of Gyner and Brastius. He once ruled in

Llyndissig, which the Englars have since overrun, and now resides at the great

red lava plug o' Alclud, where the Damnonii haven't forgotten and still honour

him as the slayer of Anschis the Eotan. From what I'd heard, the head of the

first great leader of the sea-wolves is preserved in cedar oil and adorns a

niche as a battle trophy in Eiddilig's bastion atop the aerie in the middle of

the Afon Clud.

He waved to everyone and I caught his eye. He nodded kindly towards me

and I felt as though a god had acknowledged my presence.

Then, a younger man came forward and clasped the other two in his powerful

arms, and they all laughed happily. He was one of the handsomest men I'd ever

seen.

"He's Urien o' Rheged," Gwynbaude elaborated, "the younger brother o'

Gwyar an' Eiddilig. He came tae power in Rheged in the southwest uplands by

marryin' the heritrix chief, nam'd after the goddess, Modron. She's alsae the

younger sister o' Gwyar's wife, Morg-Anna. Urien's stronghold is at

Caerlaverock Merse on a mound on the north shore o' the Traetheu Trywruid, an'

his tribesmen, the Novantae, are adverse tae everythin' Roman."

The fourth and last chieftain was Gwynbaude's own brother, Bran of the Two

Isles. Whilst at the Moat of Liddel, I learnt Bran has fortresses at

Condercum, Arbeia, Din Guaryrdi, and Bremenium, plus his brother Gwri's

stronghold and another at Yeavering Bell where Dunwal Moelmut resides with his

two brave sons, one of whom is also named Bran.

Carrying his great longsword called Courechouse, he acknowledged the

cheers of his Selgovae, the 'Hunters', who live in Celidon's southeast corner

called Branwick where the mighty afon named for his tribe follows out to the

sea. I took note the three Edoridae didn't greet Bran, nor he them, and the

tribesmen other than his own remained disturbingly quiet as he joined his

fellow yerls in the centre of the ring of warriors.

"Wi' but the sole exception o' the senior roy, our name fer our

sacr'd-ricon, inheritance in Celidon is solely matrilineal," Gwynbaude

commented. "This means all property passes through the female line by

marriage, as there's nae law o' primogeniture as in yer land. Thus, the

authority o' the four yerls whom ye ha'e jus' seen introduc'd is bas'd upon

their marriages tae the resident matriarch-in-chief or her heiress o' the four

principle tribes. The tribes are further divid'd intae numerous septs which

operate in the same fashion."

At that moment, the assembly hushed, and Gwynbaude stopped speaking. The

ranks respectfully parted and way was made to emit two stalwart figures, the

roys or joint ricons, who held sway over all Celidon. When they reached the

centre of the throng, the loudest cheers of all erupted for them.

"They're Congal ap Dongard an' Arawn ap Edor," Gwynbaude said. "Congal,

the elder, hast always bin consider'd the senior roy as his is the only

hereditary title through the male line. Although Arawn is his colleague, Arawn

hast ne'er question'd Congal's pre-eminence."

From my history lessons, I'd learnt the Celts always had matriarchal

societies, until they came into contact with the Roman Imperium and

Catholicism, both of which exerted a strong influence to change to

patriarchies. In most of Brythain, this had been accomplished during the Roman

occupation. But Roman civilisation and Christianity have had little effect

upon the Gwyr y Gogledd who never bowed their heads to the Romans. Thus, the

resurgence of Celtism in these post-Roman times has without doubt limited the

persuasion of Romanisation and the Catholic Church, especially in Celidon and

even more so in Pechtland further to the north.

Illtyd told me our people saw the Romans never really cared for them.

"Roma took frae us, an' wi' the exception o' the highborn or wealthy merchants,

ne'er made the rest o' the populace feel a part o' its society, the reason fer

Roma's failure tae hold ontae Brythain an' why Roman ways ne'er took deep root

among our people."

After speaking with Gwynbaude, I could now add Illtyd's statement is

especially true among tribesmen like the Celidonians who felt less of the heel

of the oppressor than their brethren to the south. In fact, the Gwyr y Gogledd

consider the suthrons to have grown effete under the Romans.

Once more, Gwynbaude began to fill me in about some of the details

concerning the government in his homeland. "Congal maintains his

administration o'er the tetrarchy at Din Eidyn an' Snowdoun sittin' atop the

latter's majestic gray cliffs, whilst Arawn concentrates his efforts in the

march north o' the Antonine Wall creatin' a buffer zone tae protect

Lleuddiniawn frae the five Pechtish nations tae the far north, as well as frae

the piratic Danskers whose prows come 'cross the Mor Tawch. Fer this purpose,

Arawn keeps a fortifi'd stronghold at Clatchard Craig as the Anguisel or High

Chief o' the phyle o' Celtiberians north o' the Tava[21]."

Personally, I find the form of government seized upon by Congal to be one

of great interest. Despite the Celidonians hatred of everything Roman, traces

of Roman influence can be found in Congal's government.

From Illtyd, I'd learnt the chaotic third century after the birth of

Christ saw the end of the Roman principate begun by Augustus Caesar. Upon its

ashes, a new system arose, abandoning the dyarchy of the principate, where the

imperator theoretically shared the power with the senate, for an autarchy in

which the sole investiture of power actually rested with the imperator alone.

In its turn, the imperium began to dissovle until Gaius Aurelius Valerius

Diocletianus ascended the curule chair of Romulus through the extermination of

the house of his predecessor.

At first, Diocletian took a colleague and eventually added two more

subordinate Caesars, dividing the imperium into four praefectures, each ruled

by one of the tetrarchs. This system continued until Custennin Mawr finally

eliminated his fellow colleagues and ruled supreme, moving the captial of the

imperium from Roma to Caer Custennin. Since Custennin's death, however, the

imperium has basically remained divided between East and West, until the latter

of the two finally fell to the barbarians. Now, only the eastern half

survives.

But the interesting point is Congal has modified Diocletian's tetrarchy,

with chieftains as the heads of the four tribes, each ruling in his own

praefecture, and superimposed the joint reign of the imperial dignity on top.

In this fashion, he's attempting to maintain the peace between the tribes of

his 'four-cornered enclosure', the stronghold between, not so ironically, the

two Roman walls of Celidon.

It should prove interesting to see if he and his successors can keep it together. During my trip to Celidon, I learnt it takes a strong hand to control these coarse and proud cenedlsmen. They respect Congal, because he's able to discipline them. But will his successors have the wherewithal to achieve the same results?

Diocletian's were unable to do so until Custennin emerged, and although

the Roman Imperium was much larger and more difficult to manage than tiny

Celidon, the comparison still exists. Plausibly, the outcome will be the same,

for a strong and capable leader isn't always followed by another of the same

ilk. Perhaps, it will take another Custennin Mawr to rule supreme with sole

power in Celidon as well as in Brythain. As history has already taught us,

however, the bloodshed required to achieve such an end is beyond imagination.

Since I'm yet young, I'll probably live long enough to see whatever is in store

for the Celidonians, Brythons and Cymry.

Congal himself is a short showy man who much enjoys the pomp and ceremony

of his office but also fights equally well in battle. His brilliant victory over the Gwrtheyrnian general, an Irishman by the self-explanatory name of Gwytel, ably demonstrated his mastery as a strategist, giving his men reason enough to cheer him. He brought them glory

and honour through his leadership. To put it bluntly, he's the brains, and

Arawn is the brawn.

At the moment, he must have felt his heart lifted by the clamour made by

his troops shouting his name and banging their spears against their shields.

He stood there drinking it all in.

The men admired his appearance. He wore a golden helmet, torc and

breastplate, a green chlamys, a shirt of white silk, the royal kilt of his

cenedl, a claidheamh mor and golden sandals. This costume made a statement for

all to see. Congal was copying the very attire of Lleu himself, which didn't

go unnoticed. He wanted his followers to link him to the sun-god as his

vicegerent in Celidon, a ploy, of course, but an effective one among such

simple tribesmen.

His younger brother, Goran, joined him in the centre ring made by the

warriors. As is the custom, Goran had been elected in plenary session from the

agnate princeps of the royal house of Celidon as the heir apparent or tanist to

Congal. But the younger tywysog lacks his brother's sophistication, and

according to Gwynbaude, his infamous greed will undoubtedly lead to trouble

someday.

I wondered how Arawn, Congal's junior colleague, felt about Goran being

Congal's tanist. Was he jealous of him?

After Uthr's death, Arawn broke into the imperial palatium in Caer Lludd

and carried off Uthr's widow, Eigyr the Unparalleled Beauty, whom he thereafter

forced to become his wife. Arawn believed, as Uthr had forcibly taken Eigyr

from Hywel map Meirchion, he, then, as the strongest after Uthr, had the right

to take her once she'd been widowed.

Of course, Eigyr's brothers mounted a campaign to rescue her. They came

from their home at Bro Warok in Lesser Brythain under the spiritual guidance of

Pern, their bishop and kinsman, who was one of Illtyd's former students.

But their efforts ended in disaster. Arawn, supported by his three

younger brothers, the Edoridae, as well as by Nentor of Dunragit in Walweitha,

ambushed Eigyr's brothers in the Wood of Celidon and drove them all the way

back to Caerleol.

Pern took the opportunity to found a monastery known as Llanbadarn Fawr or

the 'Great Church of Paternus' in Ceredigion, the homeland of his ancestor,

Cadwr I. Cadwr was the father of the great Eudaf and grandfather of Cynan

Meridawc who founded the Pendragwnian dynasty in Lesser Brythain. Eigyr's

brothers, the Amlawddians, are a collateral branch of this dynasty, of which

Gwynbaude asserted I, too, descend. If Efwyr was, indeed, my grandmother,

then, her husband was my grandfather, and he was the great-grandson of Cynan

Meridawc through the elder line.

During the Amlawddian campaign to free their captive sister from Arawn,

Bran of the Two Isles had withheld his support from Arawn, because Uthr had

been his nephew. This caused bad blood between Arawn and Bran and between

Arawn's and Bran's kinsmen, too, as I saw earlier by the reaction when Bran was

introduced at the beginning of the ceremonies on the mountaintop.

Luckily, Congal has managed to keep the peace between his colleague and

his cousin, a testament to the respect held for him by all the Men of the

North. Otherwise, there would have been war, and the federation would have

been split asunder.

Of course, once Eigyr herself started having children by Arawn, the

hatchet was quietly buried. Moreover, as Eigyr's three eldest daughters by

Hywel were the wives of Gwyar, Urien and Nentor, little could be done about

Eigyr's own personal situation, so Bran let the matter drop, as did the

Amlawddians who returnt to their home in Lesser Brythain.

However, this cause celebre has produced the first sign of dissension in

the Celidonian federation. There is, now, what amounts to a crack in those old

Roman walls after all, and Congal's protective enclosure appears no longer

secure, henceforth subject to a smouldering feud from within, the greatest

danger of all to the peace and harmony of any realm.

Doubtless, these thoughts were on more than one mind as the opening

ceremonies began on top of their sacred mountain. Gwynbaude, the ardderwydd of

the northern amphictyony, stepped to the centre and raised his golden sickle as

a sign for silence.

No one dared speak. To offend a druid is unthinkable, but to offend the

Emberis of the North would mean instant death.

In all the Brythonic Isles, there are but seven High Druids.

Historically, the most venerable of all is the Guardian of the Giants' Dance,

because his shrine and observatory are the oldest, going back thousands of

years before the first Celt ever stepped foot on the Island of the Mighty, back

when the dark ones, the aborigines whose descendants now live in the hollow

hills, brought the massive stones and built the great henges far to the south

in the downs and also at Lough Gur, Uisnech, Emain Macha and Tara in Eirinn.

From time out of memory, the high priest who acts as the custodian of the

Omphalos of the south has held the title of Emberis, passing the sacred name

down through the millennia until the Celts came and embraced it as their own.

But then the Romans came, and they slew the Emberis and pushed down his sacred

shrine, an act of sacrilege as well as of destruction which they repeated at

the second great centre on Ynys Mon. The druids either fled or died under

Roman rule, but after the legions left the Island forever during the reign of

Custennin III, the priests returnt.

Now, Emrys Myrddin the Prophet of the Goddess is the hierarch of the

Giants' Dance, which he's rebuilding as it was before. But with Ynys Mon still

in the hands of the Gwydyls, the religious centre of the Cymry has been removed

to Iona, where Baude the Magus, uncle of the Edoridae, is the ardderwydd. Two

more High Druids reside in Eirinn, one at Tara with the Ard-Righ, and the other

at Uisnech, which the Gwydyls believe to be the Omphalos of their world. The

fifth ardderwydd is a woman, the High Priestess known as the Burd of the Loch,

who resides on Ynys Manaw. The Brehon who heads her school assists her

on Ynys Manaw, and he's Pelles, one of the peerless Pellinore's brothers. The

Pechts have a High Priest living at Burghead in the far north, and the seventh

is Gwynbaude, whose holy sanctuary is located at Lochmaben, just a few leagues

due south of the mountaintop where the four tribes of Celidon where presently

assembled to celebrate the harvest-time rites of Mabon.

Gwynbaude, the Emberis of the North, began the opening ceremonies by

reciting the histories of the four tribes and the genealogies of the roys and

chieftains. I observed this preliminary act of enumerating the genesis of the

tribes through the generations served the purpose of linking everyone present

with a common ancestry in the past, and then as the liturgical chant continued,

it linked all concerned from the historical past, forming a common bond in

understanding the present, to a future of shared goals and oneness with the

universe.

In short, his speech told each tribesman who he was, where he'd been,

where he was now, and where and with whom he was going in the future, basically

making one out of many and unifying the assembly by reminding it of its common

heritage, bonds and aspirations. These, then, are the elements of union by

which the Celidonians as a nation take their start: the community of blood and

their common language, religion, legends, festivals, mannerisms and moral

fiber.

I saw Gwynbaude's sermon as the awakening of their nationalistic spirit by

commemorating their shared roots. In so doing, I noticed the holy man placed

himself at the very vortex of the cosmogony, second only to the roys in power

and influence.

At the end of his litany, two of his younger priests, given the honourary

titles of Cautes and Cautopautes, led forward a fine white bull of the wild

herd in the Cheviots. Its great horns were decorated with mistletoe which

reportedly gives access to the Otherworld and stands as a symbol of apotheosis.

Knowing his part in the proceedings as he'd performed them many times

before, the senior roy, Congal, as the chosen of god and his vicegerent here on

earth, strode forward, naked sword in hand. With one mighty thrust, he pierced

the bull to the heart through its shoulder.

Blood splattered those nearest to the scene and the assembly roared its

approval. Congal handed his blood-stained sword to the young priests, who

finished what he began. They cut the bull up into pieces and transferred the

meat and blood to a huge black cauldron sitting over a hot peat-fire.

Congal, then, called forward the young men who'd successfully passed the

first two tests of manhood, the killing of their first boar and their first man

and returning home with the heads of each as proof of the deed and their

valour. Amid the camaraderie and playful jostling of the older men, the

initiates approached, some overly proud and some bashfully, and stood in a

line.

My brother, Gai, was one of the initiates, as he'd succeeded in his two

quests, whereas I've, yet, to accomplish the second test. Gai succeeded in

doing so last spring during a border clash with the Dogheads, when he slew

their leader, Menestyr, whose skull, much to Non's and Dewi's dissatisfaction,

now reposes in a niche at our keep.

Meanwhile, the cauldron boiled away, and when everything was ready, the

priests ladled the red brew into large drinking horns. The horns, which came

from bulls as it's believed Mabon created life from the blood of the sacred

bull, were, then, passed out to the initiates, and upon signal from the senior

roy, they downed the contents to the hoopla of the throng. The bull,

representing both courage and strength, passed on these noteworthy attributes

to those who'd imbibed his blood, for as warriors they must show contempt for

pain or death as well as reverence for the dead.

When the initiates had finished draining their horns, they shouted the age

old Celtic oath in unison: "We will keep faith unless the sky fall an' crush

us, or the earth open an' swallow us, or the sea rise an' o'erwhelm us."

Once more, the assembly roared its approval. Congal raised his hand and

silence ensued.

He spoke: "Welcome, young ravens, tae the first order o' the Gwyr y

Gogledd. Ye are now count'd men an' warriors o' yer tribe. Yer first loyalty

is tae the teule o' yer house. The first loyalty o' the teule o' yer house is

tae the chieftain o' yer cenedl. The first loyalty o' the chieftain o' yer

cenedl is tae the tiern o' yer tribe. The first loyalty o' the tiern o' yer

tribe is tae the sacr'd-ricon o' our race, an' the first loyalty o' the

sacr'd-ricon o' our race is tae Feyther Sun whom we worship an' honour here

this night. Remember yer place in this order, fer if ye break faith ye'll nae

longer be count'd as bein' part o' us, an' ye'll be fersaken fere'er. Welcome

once again an' be one wi' us."

As the assembly cheered, the older men clapped the newly created men upon

the back, making them feel welcome among them. I watched as Gyner and the

other initiates' fathers took the drinking horns from their sons. Gai beamed

with pride as Gyner hung the horn by its cord around his bull-like neck. The

other fathers did the same for their sons, too.

The horns would be kept in remembrance of this night when they made the

rite of passage and were henceforth to be considered as fellow warriors in

their septs and tribes. Symbolically, it meant the young men were now eligible

to join the older men in the hall and drink beer with them, which no mere

youth, who hadn't yet been accepted into the society of men, could do.

For an instant, I felt somewhat jealous of Gai, and saddened at the same

time. He could now join the warriors in our hall back home at night, whilst

I'd be sent off to bed with the other children. Because they're above it,

warriors don't play children's games, so Gai and I would no longer spend our

time together as we had been so fond of doing. He'd become a man and I was

still counted as a lad. Thus, for the first time in our lives, we were truly

worlds apart, and I couldn't rejoin him until I, too, had passed the last test

of manhood.

Next, one of Congals's men brought him a finely tanned leather casket.

From it, he withdrew the gwyddbwyll board made of gold and proceeded to play

the age old Celtic game with Arawn as the assembly looked on. They rolled the

dice and moved the solid silver pegs in their holes until the malevolent forces

of disorder and wickedness were checkmated, signifying the victory of the gods

of light over the powers of darkness. The symbolism was clear to everyone.

The defeat of evil by their sacred-ricon made their world, the enclosure

between the walls, safe once more. They were one with the world and the

cosmos, everything was in its proper place, and order and harmony would

continue here on earth for man and every living beast for yet another year

until they met again.

Once more, it was Gwynbaude's turn to speak. He related the eschatology

of the world, of its coming doom when the sky would fall and crush everyone,

when the earth would open and swallow all, and when the sea would rise and

overwhelm each and every creature on the face of the earth, representing a form

of the sacred triple death.

But as he spun his tale, he also told how this cleansing would finally

end, and the earth would be reborn again, fresh and pure, lush and green below

the everlasting firmament. Then, chaos would be banished forever, replaced by

eternal peace and tranquility for a new race of men in a higher order of life,

which gave hope for a brighter future when the dead who'd kept faith would also

be reborn to enjoy the fruits of this great renewal, this paradise on earth.

As I listened to his tale, I wondered in how many other cultures the same

or a similar story must be told, because more often than not hope is all any

religious leader can hold out to his flock. Hope is I think the crux of life,

for as long as it exists life can go on. When it dies, so does the reason for

being.

The ceremonies ended with Congal's closing remarks: "Tomorrow the agon

begins fer three days at the Clochmabenstane. Remember the laws o' Dunwal

Moelmut. The privilege o' sanctuary is extend'd tae all temples, cities, an'

the sarns leadin' tae them an' tae the games. All parties whether friend or

foe are welcome tae participate in the games, an' their persons an' property

are protect'd under our laws as long as they themselves obey them. Anyone

breakin' these laws is beyond the pale o' our society. Enjoy yerselves at the

sacr'd games but be mindful o' the rules o' decency an' guid sportsmanship.

Guid luck at the games."

With one last shout, the assembly dispersed. We wended our way back down

the mountainside to our pavilions, set up for our stay during the games. On

the way back, Gwynbaude gave me a fig and one to Gai, too.

"Eat this," he said, "an' ye'll be nourish'd fer the games taemorrow.

Mabon ate frae the maternal fig tree tha' stood beside the grotto where He was

born. This fruit is sacr'd tae us an' safe fer men tae eat, instead o'

apples." Gai bowed his head guiltily, remembering the incident at the sacred

well. "Tis alright, Gai," Gwynbaude asserted soothingly, "the matter o' the

apple is fergotten."

"Thank ye, Maist Reverend Emberis, I apologise fer my ignorance aboot the

apple," Gai humbly implored, much as Ercol would have done after one of his

many mistakes. "I need somethin' after doonin' tha' awful tastin' potion in

the horn."

Both Gwynbaude and I laughed as Gai took the proffered fig, and following

the holy man's instructions, we ate the figs, hoping by doing so we would have

good luck in the upcoming games.

CHAPTER V

* THE SWORD IN THE STONE *

Long before first light on Lammas Day, the crowds started to arrive and fill the hastily arranged wooden benches set up on the fields around the Clochmabenstane, the stone of the Mother. Even the branches of the trees at the edges of the fairgrounds sagged under the weight of those who sought a better view.

The air rang with the cries of peddlers selling their goods, of beer-boys,

shills and sideshow hawkers barking to passing merrymakers, of ignoble

panderers promising unequaled delights, of white-robed druids consecrating the

first loaves of the harvest festival with the labarum of their god, of vendors,

bookmakers and Carcai fortune-tellers trying to attract the attention of the

crowd, of excited children watching the jugglers and acrobats do their tricks,

and of lads running about bumping into people. Here and there, bards sang

their rhymes for the silver denarii tossed at their feet, musicians struck up

lively tunes to entertain the milling peasants, and troupes of play-actors

performed raunchy comedies from the backs of their wagons, whilst their

vagabond brethren stealthily relieved the unwary of their purses. All their

sounds mingled together into the unintelligible cacophony of a wild carnival.

It was a splendid day.

Without stop, people and teams of oxen and horses pulling their

conveyances choked the sarns heading for the fairgrounds. Dust rose in

billowed clouds along the way as they continued to stream in, hoping to find a

likely spot to view the games.

Columns of marching foot-soldiers came, too, their polished helmets and

spearheads sparkling in the noonday sun as they tramped along. When blocked

by the crowds, these soldiers pushed through to make way for their feudal

lairds, who thought they'd the right to do as they pleased.

The unarmed and poor resented such mistreatment but in fear for their

lives durst not object. Those weapons in brutal hands weren't for show. Death

came quickly and without a second thought to insolent knaves, and their wives

and daughters, if bonny, were often abused in the bargain. Despite Congal's

speech the night before about the laws of Dunwal Moelmut, no protection was

afforded the defenseless, except their abasement and prostration before their

so-called betters.

Even those in arms stood in danger. The border wars and raids having

caused long standing blood-feuds between families, cenedls and tribes, the

lairds came to the games with their men-at-arms not out of choice but out of

absolute necessity.

Amidst the long row of multi-coloured pavilions stood those of Gyner

Graybeard, the axeman and Gwri. Gai and I shared a smaller tent between

Gyner's and Brastius'.

In the same general area, other parties of noblemen and their burds came

and pitched their pavilions, many of extraordinary size. Among them our elders

eagrely hoped to find kinsmen and old friends not seen in years.

Gai and I wandered around, taking note of each great laird's shield

hanging on the pole outside the entrance of each tent. It became a game for us

to try and guess the occupant's name by deciphering the coat-of-arms borne on

his shield.

However, for one well-known amaranthine shield, we needn't guess the

laird's name at all. Every school lad knew its emblem. This particular shield

bore the Beste Glatissant, a mythical creature represented with the head of a

serpent, the body of a leopard, the buttocks of a lion, and the feet of a

hart. According to legend, the yapping of sixty hounds issues from its belly.

Of course, the Beste Glatissant isn't a real beast that can be brought to

earth. Instead, it represents a way of life, a philosophy involving the search

for perfection, obviously as illusive as is the beast itself.

The shield, as everyone knows, belongs to the peerless Pellinore, the

mightiest warrior of our times. His ancestors were Angevins[22] originally from

Iberia who came to the Island long before the Celts, eventually settling in

Dyfed. Pelly is a direct descendant of Pwyll of Dyfed who traded places with

Arawn of Annwn and ruled the Otherworld for a year. Pwyll's son, Pryderi, was

a co-ruler of the Otherworld before he was slain by Gwydion, leader of the

solar gods in their final victory over the powers of darkness. Later, when the

Arimathaean came to the Island, his blood was joined with the Pwyllians. Thus,

Pellinore justly claims descent from two of the most prodigious families in the

history of our people. Little wonder he's such a great hero and the Champion

of Champions. No one can defeat him in battle or the spectacles. In both, he

rules supreme.

We also saw Congal's colleague, Arawn, named after the Otherworld god.

With him was his enchanting wife, Eigyr the Unparalleled Beauty, whom he never

once let out of sight. He watched her so vigilantly, it almost seemed as

though the poor woman was under guard.

But I'd never seen such a Venus before. Among the people, it's said:

"E'ery young beauty mus' be judg'd by the standard o' Eigyr, e'ery face an'

form by her divine loveliness."

Many times have I heard the bards tell her story in my father's hall.

She'd known Hywel as a child, Uthr as a young woman, and now Arawn as his

captive wife. She was at that point in her life when a woman's beauty and

intellect are both at their peak.

Gai and I agreed no other woman could match her peerless beauty. Seeing

us looking at her, she smiled at me, and I felt my heart swell.

That smile is the sweetest I think I've ever seen. What a woman!

Later that evening, Eiddilig of Alclud rode in on a superb white stallion,

which lifted its hooves high in a perfect canter. The beautiful animal sprang

forward with such effortless grace that Gai and I stood perfectly still

enraptured at the sight of this magnificent courser with our national hero

riding on his back. Eiddilig's pavilion faced Gyner's, and he soon joined us

to pay his respects to my foster-parents, the axeman and Gwri.

Although Eiddilig himself is a more renowned champion than the other men,

he addressed them with respect and heart-felt affection, out of deference to

their greater years. People admire him as much for his courteousness as for

his bravery, and that, perhaps, is the real stamp of a true hero.

Of course, the exploits of Eiddilig Edorides have been told and retold

throughout the Isles: of how he alone escaped the treacherous murder by the

Cantwarans of the unarmed Brythons attending the peace negotiations at the

Cloister of Emberis; and especially of how at the Battle of Caer Conan he later

captured and beheaded the savage ealdorman of the Cantwarans who'd ordered the

murders. Needless to say, the songs sung about him picture Eiddilig more like

a demigod than a mortal man.

In truth, he stands next to the peerless Pellinore, Idwr the Invincible

and Cadwr the Courageous as a leopard beside three lions, for he's second only

to them and Pellinore's two cater cousins, the Brythonic Dioscuri, in greatness

and esteem, at least, so I think of him. I admire his straight back,

graciousness and poised manliness, and as I watched him talking with my father,

I sat up erect in my curule chair in copy of my hero's style.

The first few days of the games went by much too quickly. There were such

events as caber hurling, javelin throwing, falconry, archery, chariot racing

(my personal favourite), foot racing, wrestling, gymnastics, the discus,

pancratium, horsemanship, sword fighting, and bardic singing of paeans with a

harp, as we're a people who greatly enjoy eloquence of voice.

As can be seen, the Celtic-style games are nothing like the Roman

gladiatorial spectacles where men fight to the death for the enjoyment of the

mob. Our games are supposed to promote athletic prowess, good competition and

sportsmanship, not necessarily the morbid slaughter of human beings to please

the rabble. However, contestants have been known to die in these games, so

there is some degree of risk involved, but nothing like the that faced by the

gladiators in the Roman arenas where the killing of an opponent was the only

way for a man to save his own life.

The contestants were divided into two categories, warriors and lads, as if

we were sacred-ricons and tanists, a possibility as most of the champions in

the men's division were, indeed, sacred-ricons and the lads would grow up

someday to take their place. But for the moment, the contestants only competed

against those in their own age group.

Since I'd yet to pass my last test of manhood, I joined the lads and won

three events, the long distance race, the chariot race and archery. Gai joined

the men and surprised everyone with his excellent showing.

Although several thousand warriors participated, my brother placed seventh

overall by the morning of the final day. Only the peerless Pellinore, Segurant

the Brown, Cadwr the Courageous, Eiddilig, Brunor the Brown and Erbin were

ranked higher, and Gai actually bested Pellinore in the spear throwing event,

the only one Pellinore didn't win.

The two main events were scheduled for the last day of the games.

Swordsmanship and horsemanship are the hallmarks of a warrior's pride and

ofttimes determine his life or death. Needless to say, the importance of these

two skills drew a multitude of people to watch the best men in the Isles

compete against one another.

I was especially anxious this day, as I found myself leading the lads'

group by a very slim margin. The winner of each event received ten points and

so on down to the tenth lad who got one point. By finishing first in three

events and doing comparatively well in the others, I won a total of forty-seven

points.

But Gwyar's son, Gwalchmei, had forty-four. Although a few years younger

than me, Gwalchmei was the strongest of all in our group. He hurled the caber

farther than anyone, finished second in both the wrestling and spear throwing

events and came in third in the two foot-races.

Nor was he the only contender. Geraint of Dyfneint followed Gwalchmei by

only one point, and Alisander map Bodwyn, Bedwyr mab Pedrawd and Catwallawn ap

Einiaun Girt each had forty points. Another older lad by the name of Olesa

Oslason of Caer Gwent was also within striking distance.

If Gwalchmei won the two remaining events, I had to place second in both

to win the games by just one point. Such a probability being most unlikely as

hundreds of lads were competing, I knew I had to win, at least, one of the

events and undoubtedly place quite high in the other in order stave off my

competition and finish as the overall winner.

The steeplechase, newly imported from Lesser Brythain, was the first of

these last two events. It caused me considerable concern, because I'd learnt,

after returning home from Roma where he'd received his early schooling,

Gwalchmei had enrolled at the Hispanic riding school of Castra Exploratorum.

This was Brythain's most famous riding academy, established long ago during the

Roman occupation by Marcus Aurelius Salvius, the tribune of the First Aelian

Cohort of Hispanians (known as among the finest horsemen of their day), and

kept operating by the Celidonians who've always considered themselves as master

horsemen, too. Of course, Gwalchmei's putative father was the chieftain of one

of the four Celidonian tribes, which meant my top rival at the games was

undoubtedly a better horsemen than me.

After grooming my little black mare, Findabair, I saddled her and prepared

to ride to the tournament grounds. Gai helped me mount and gave me

encouragement, telling me it didn't matter if I won or not as long as I tried

my best. I thanked him, and he waved as he left to return to the men's

competition.

"Well, my little friend, tis jus' the two o' us now," I told my mare as we

headed to the starting line for the steeplechase.

Imagine how my spirits sank, though, when I arrived to find Gwalchmei

sitting atop a magnificent white stallion, so huge poor Findabair was dwarfed

by comparison. Gwalchmei, wearing the ram's head emblem of his fancy riding

school on his Roman cyclas, openly chuckled at my little mare who could never

match such an excellent war-horse as his; and then, the other lads appeared.

Not only Gwalchmei, but all of them rode large chargers. Geraint brought

his father's auxiliary destrier, and I cursed myself for not thinking of doing

the same. I could also tell by the way he handled his mount Dyfneint's

soft-spoken heir was a far superior horseman than any of us, with the possible

exception of Alisander of Cernyw.

I admired them both. They came from good stock. Geraint, being Erbin's

son, was a Pendragwnian, and Alisander was the son of Bodwyn the Good, renowned

for his courage and noble heart.

When red-haired Gwalchmei with his laughing green eyes made fun of my

little mare, Geraint solemnly commented she'd fare much better in the forest or

on a long hunt than their bigger horses. His statement, though made to be

factual rather than kind, endeared him to me, because it put a stop to

Gwalchmei's salty wit, as well as the laughter of his brothers and cousins who

as I was to learn always sided with him.

I wasn't the only one who esteemed Erbin's fair-haired son. Alisander

looked at Geraint with clearly the most approval and respect. I heard someone

remark Alisander favoured his uncle, the former High Rica of Cernyw, in

appearance. I don't know about that, since his uncle, Hywel, died before I was

born; but I admired Alisander just the same, and as his grandfather Meirchion's

name means 'the Horseman', I thought the handsome Cernish lad undoubtedly had

horse-racing in his blood and would do well.

The trumpet sounded, calling us to the starting line; and we took our

places, waiting for the race to begin when Fracan, the ynad from Lesser

Brythain credited with being the first to hold a steeplechase, would drop the

stripped flag he held over his head. I glanced to my right and saw Geraint

smiling at me in friendship. On the other side of him, Alisander sat astride

his courser, Boukephalos, named in honour of Alisander Mawr's great war-horse.

He wished us both good luck.

To my left, I saw a strange sight. Cynfawr of Cernyw appeared to be

offering advice to Gwalchmei, his brothers and cousins, an odd thing for

Cynfawr to do, considering Alisander is his nephew.

But I'd no time to think about it, because Fracan dropped the flag and our

horses bolted forward in a mad dash toward the first obstacle. Findabair

started late, and not wishing to wind her, I simply kept up a good pace at the

rear of the pack.

Up ahead, Gwalchmei took the lead. His white stallion leapt high over the

first obstacle, a hedge, and landed on solid ground, but as I came near and

prepared to make the jump, I heard several animals and their fallen riders

splashing in water on the other side.

"Up, Findabair," I cried, and my little mare carried me over the hedge and

the muddy ditch lying immediately beyond. As I passed overhead, I saw many

riderless horses and angry lads floundering in the muck below.

Findabair valiantly gallupt on, passing horse after horse, until I saw

Geraint's long blond hair streaming out behind him. As Findabair brought me

abreast of him, we hailed each other.

"Dinna push yer mare, Arthgwyr. Let the ithers tire their mounts first;

an' then, we'll make our move," he shouted.

"Tha's wise," I answered.

After jumping another hedge and five log fences, the pack had dwindled

down to just twelve riders. Gwalchmei led by three lengths, followed by Hywel

ap Bawdewyne, this being no surprise since Hywel's father is Lesser Brythain's

comes stabuli, which means 'Count of the Horse'. Olesa and Catwallawn were

next riding neck-in-neck. Bedwyr held onto fifth place, trailed by his

brother, Lucan. Then came Gwalchmei’s brothers, Gahariet and Agyrfran, their

cousin Mabon, and Alisander. Geraint and I brought up the rear.

Suddenly, Alisander, who'd been keeping the pace for us aboard

Boukephalos, turnt to Geraint and I. "Now!" he yelled and waved his arm

forward.

"Tis time," Geraint shouted to me.

Alisander's big war-horse bolted forward, leading the way for Geraint and

me to follow. But Gwalchmei's brothers and cousin immediately checked

Alisander's advance. They formed a tight wedge and wouldn't allow him to pass.

Alisander shouted at them to let him through but they continued to hold

him in place. He attempted to break through, driving Boukephalos between

Gahariet's and Agyrfran's mounts, and almost succeeded. But the two brothers

closed the gap quickly and began striking Alisander with their goad-whips (the

kind the Romans call a scorpio, because there's a little spur in the butt of

the handle like a scorpion's stinger that a rider uses to strike the flank of

his horse).

This breach of fair play caused my temper to flare, and as we approached

the last obstacle in the race, I manoeuvred Findabair alongside Agyrfran. As

we approached the jump, Agyrfran drew back his riding crop to strike Alisander

yet again. I reached out and grabbed the whip, causing him to lose his

balance. As Agyrfran fell from his saddle, he looked at me in shock, and then

he landed in the water ditch on the other side of the obstacle.

With Agyrfran out of the race, Alisander, Geraint and I gallupt passed

Gahariet and Mabon, but the finish line was just up ahead. Alisander's and

Geraint's chargers pulled away from Findabair but my spunky little mare

wouldn't give up. She strove with all her might, and before we crossed the

finish line, we passed Lucan, and then finally Bedwyr.

At first, I couldn't tell who'd won the race. I was afraid Alisander and

Geraint hadn't had enough time to catch up with Gwalchmei.

A few moments later, however, I saw a ring of people beginning to form

around Alisander on top of Boukephalos. They were congratulating him for his

victory, and moreover, Geraint had placed second.

Although greatly pleased to see the scowl on Gwalchmei's face, I was

puzzled by Cynfawr's obvious displeasure at the turn of events. Cynfawr looked

daggers at his nephew, Alisander, showing his unconcealed hatred, and Gwalchmei

upbraided his brothers and cousin for their failure to restrain the winner.

After walking Findabair to cool her down, I started for the arena, where

the men already began to ply their swords with haughty vigour. I wanted to

learn how Gai fared in his race. Although my brother is an excellent horseman,

we feared he'd drop in the mens' standings, as he lacked the experience to be

competing against such worthy champions, making him a little nervous the closer

he came to the last two events.

Furthermore, the standings after the horserace would be used to determine

who'd fight against whom in the arena, a very important matter, especially for

the younger men crossing swords for the first time with the great champions

entered in the contest. This worried us very much, for unlike the lads the men

used real swords, not wooden ones; and occasionally, the heat of battle

resulted in someone being killed or maimed for life.

"Arthgwyr," a voice shouted, as I pushed my way through the crowd.

"Hello, Geraint," I replied. "Congratulations on placin' second."

"'Sawnie' an' I wouldst na' ha'e gotten ahead if it hadst na' bin fer ye,"

he said.

"I tri'd tae win, too," I answered.

"Aye, o' course. Ye finish'd sixth, dinna ye?" he asked, and I replied I

had. "Well, tha's a verra guid placin', considerin' wha' yer little mare here

was up against," he said, patting Findabair on her flank. "As tis, Gwalchmei,

ye an' I are all ti'd wi' fifty-two points. 'Sawnie' has fifty, an' Olesa,

Catwallawn an' Bedwyr follow close behind. I wonder how the aediles are gaein'

tae arrange the sword fights."

"I heard Archbishop Dyfrig talkin' wi' the ither aediles an' they said the

three o' us shouldst fight one anither," I told him, as we quickly found our

seats to watch the men's event.

Geraint's father was fighting Gai, and we watched in silence. Erbin was a

renowed warrior having earned his fame in the Cernish War when he slew both

Foirtchernn and Pasgen in single combat. Thus, Geraint had less to fear from

the outcome of this match than I.

Unafraid due to his naïveté, my brother came forward protecting himself

with his shield. For the first time, Gai fought bearing his now famous

heraldic device replacing the old patronymic of our father's house with a sprig

of broom, the planta genista slipped proper. It shone brightly on his shield,

and I prayed he'd do it justice against the redoubtable Erbin. Of course, if

he lost but managed a good showing, there would be no shame in losing to such a

formidable champion.

Gai began to circle around to his left looking for a weak spot in Erbin's

defenses. With a mighty blow, Erbin struck my brother's shield with his sword,

making a great dent at the top. Aroused by this blow, Gai charged forward,

ramming Erbin's shield with his own.

Everyone was surprised as Erbin began to give ground to my brother's

superior strength. All the while, Erbin relentlessly bashed Gai's shield, but

each time he lashed out with his sword, my brother shoved Erbin backwards.

Then, Erbin stood his ground, and the old warrior and the novice faced one

another, trading furious blows, neither giving way. I saw blood running from

their armour. Beside me, I felt Geraint's growing concern. His father should

have won the match by now. But the fight went on.

The ending surprised everyone. It came in an instant, no one expecting

such a result. But from out of nowhere, Gai delivered a tremendous blow to

Erbin's helmet sending sparks flying high up into the air, and Erbin fell to

the ground senseless. Gai had knocked him unconscious and won the match.

Shortly, it was announced Gai had finished sixth overall in the games,

with Erbin right behind him in seventh place. I smiled happily, Geraint and I

both applauded the two contestants.

It was amazing, for my brother became the youngest warrior ever to finish

in the highest tier of the men's group. Of those ranked in the top ten, all

were, at least, twice Gai's age, all famous champions, and all onetime members

of Uthr's illustrious order, the 'Auld Table'. I knew my brother would be

jubilant, and of course, Gyner was extremely proud of his son.

Even the peerless Pellinore, the overall winner of the men's events, came

over and clapped Gai on his back saying my brother would someday succeed him as

the Champion of Champions, for none of Gai's peers had as strong an arm as

his. Such praise from the greatest warrior of our time had my brother soaring

like a swan enraptured by its flight. Thus, Gai's feet scarcely touched the

ground from such fulsome approval by his boyhood idol.

The top twenty-four ranked warriors were to be acknowledged at the end of

the games as the greatest champions of the Isles.[23] This was to be considered a

great honour.

The august panel of aediles sat below us, deliberating over each match

with much discussion and wagging of heads. Seven high-backed caders had been

set up for them, although the aediles numbered only six. The cader in the

middle was left vacant for an obvious reason, stirring everyone with much

speculation and gossip. Someone hoped to be installed there erelong, a visual

reminder of the underlying purpose of the games.

I, myself, thought only the peerless Pellinore could possibly draw the

sword from the stone. He'd already won the games and was recognised by

everyone as the mightiest living champion. But Geraint disagreed with me,

saying Pellinore would never become the Pendragwn.

"But how canst ye say tha'?" I asked sincerely. "The peerless Pellinore

is withouten equal among men. Nae one couldst possibly match his strength, an'

if he canna pull the sword frae the stone, who canst?"

"The Pendragwn who was promis'd," Geraint answered simply, with a smile.

I was about to question him further, but Gyner Graybeard and Brastius

Blood-Axe, wearing the fleeces given to the twenty-four honoured champions,

joined us. Their presence prohibited me, out of respect, from pursuing the

issue with Geraint, because I knew my revered father and the axeman wished for

Erbin to accept the crown and neither would think well of me if I voiced my

thoughts. So, I held my tongue and wondered why Geraint, a son of the House of

the Pendragwns and a friend I'd come to admire for his straightforwardness,

could possibly think anyone but Pellinore could draw the sword from the stone.

Of course, as Erbin's eldest son, maybe he thought he himself was the Pendragwn

to come.

As the matches continued, I noticed Gyner was watching Geraint and I

strangely. Although he said nothing, I realised his anxiety apparently centred

upon my new found friendship with Geraint. Indeed, even the axeman eyed us,

looking from Geraint to me and back to Geraint again, with a very odd

expression on his face.

Their absorption made me uneasy, for at first I couldn't understand the

reason behind their stares. But when I glanced at Geraint and our eyes met, I

suddenly knew why.

Geraint and I looked so much alike, we could have been brothers. We both

have the same small nose, pouting lips, and blond hair. Only our height and

the colour of our eyes are different. He's taller than me, and his eyes are

Athene-gray whilst mine are lavender-blue. Otherwise, we're exactly alike, and

this alikeness prompted my comprehension of another fact. I don't look at all

like my brothers, Dewi and Gai, or my father, Gyner, or any of Gyner's kinsmen.

"Aye, the Pendragwn who was promis'd," Geraint murmured softly. "Uthr's

son, my cousin, where'er he might be, will come."

I had heard, of course, about this alleged son who'd disappeared and whose

whereabouts was unknown to this very day. As I sat there beside Geraint and

thought about it, a sudden chill went up my spine, for the secret Gwynbaude had

shared with me suddenly came to mind. If what he told me was true, then, I

could be that son, which would explain why Geraint and I looked so much alike,

because we were first cousins. I trembled at the thought and tried with all my

might to put it out of my head, for if it wasn't true what was the use of

wanting it to be.

At the conclusion of the sword fights in the arena, a herald proclaimed

the list of champions as decided by the aediles. Unbeknownst at the time,

each would later play a significant role in my life.

Of them, sixteen once belonged to Uthr's 'Auld Table', two were rival

Gwrtheyrnians, and six were young warriors earning their first championships.

Of the latter group, four were sons and one a nephew of members of the 'Auld

Table', and one was an Eirishman. Thus, twenty-one of the twenty-four

finalists were either former members of the 'Auld Table' or their immediate

kin, a fine showing for the men's division.

After the herald read the list, Geraint and I rose to leave the stands and

join the other contestants for the final event in our own division. As we made

our way down the steps to the arena, a young female voice called out to me. I

looked up and saw bonny little Enid seated with her father, hoary-headed Ynywl

of Caerdydd, who'd been so kind to me only the year before when I was searching

for Illtyd.

Ynywl is a Surlusian and, like his race, is short and dark of complexion

and eye, traits Enid has inherited from him. She's surprisingly shapely for

her minute size, with a fiery temper, mysterious dark eyes, very proud,

fiercely loyal, and that kind of noble-hearted lass bred for marriage and

family.

"Hello," I shouted back and waved at her.

"Dae ye ken her?" Geraint asked, rather breathlessly.

"Why, aye, I dae. I stay'd at her feyther's house once last year.

Wouldst ye like tae meet her?" Geraint blushed from ear to ear. I had to

laugh. "Ye're na' frighten'd o' a mere slip o' a lass, are ye?"

"Nae, o' course, na'," he stammered.

"She's verra bonny, isna she?" He just nodded his head vigourously in

agreement. "Well, come on. I'll introduce ye tae her." I dragged him over to

where Enid was sitting with her father. "Hello, Ynwyl," I shouted over the

noise of the crowd.

"Well, if tisna Gyner's young callan. How are ye, Arthgwyr o' the Afanc?"

"I'm fine, my laird. This is my friend, Geraint, son o' Erbin. He wants

tae meet yer dochter, Enid." Geraint managed to stammer some words of greeting

and Enid sat there smiling prettily at him. "He's quite taken wi' her," I

added.

"Ye dinna say," Ynwyl said, eyeing young Geraint up and down as though he

was inspecting a prise bullock at a fair.

Geraint flushed bright red to his ears. "Come on, Arthgwyr. We ha'e got

tae gae. They're callin' the callans fer the last event."

Enid looked up at Geraint through her long dark eyelashes. "Dinna gae

jus' yet," she implored. "Here, take this wi' ye." She handed him her curch,

embroidered in each corner with a red apple, which reminded me of Gwynbaude's

story about the heritrix rex giving a sacred apple to the one she's chosen as

her next husband. "Wear this as a token o' my esteem."

Geraint's hand shook as he took her token and stuffed it into his cestus.

"Thank ye, fair damsel," he said and bowed. "Come on, Arthgwyr."

"Guid luck," Enid cried to his fleeing back.

The first quarterfinal match was between Geraint and Gwalchmei. "Dinna

ferget she's watchin' ye," I teased to Geraint's back as he strode out to fight

Gwalchmei. He looked back at me with a frown. But knowing she was watching

him caused Geraint to redouble his efforts, and he handily won the match by

knocking Gwalchmei, actually the stronger and under normal circumstances the

better fighter, quickly to the ground.

I won the second quarter-final match against Alisander, whom Geraint

called 'Sawnie'. But later that same afternoon, Alisander went on to defeat

Gwalchmei for third place. I learnt something rather strange about Gwalchmei

from this latter match.

I suppose this sounds rather laughable, but it appears Gwalchmei possesses

a peculiar gift from the gods. He grows stronger towards noon when the sun is

high but grows weaker as the sun wanes, much like the solar deities whose

powers increase and decrease according to the passage of the sun. And that's

how Alisander was able to beat him, because their match took place late in the

afternoon, when the sun's powers are in ebb.

I was also told Gwalchmei's putative father, Gwyar, had him set adrift in

a cask after his birth, suspecting his wife's infidelity with a page, but a

fisherman found Gwalchmei, and took him to Roma where he was raised at the

Vatican before finally returning home to be accepted by his nominal father.[24]

The Romans call him Walganus or Gualganus. In Cymraeg, his name means 'Falcon

of May'.

With the elimination of Alisander and Gwalchmei, it was Geraint and I in

the finals. The victor would become the overall winner of the lads' group in

the games.

Poor Geraint, I thought, dinna stand a chance. During the lull in the

matches, he hadn't been able to keep his eyes off Enid, and her beauty so dazed

him he couldn't seem to concentrate on what he was doing. Hope I ne'er get

tha' gaga o'er a lass, I thought to myself.

Of course, I certainly didn't remind him she was watching, like I did when

he fought Gwalchmei. I wanted to win, so I just let his lovesickness take over

and knocked him down easily for the win. He didn't even know what had hit him,

and I'm not so sure it was me in reality who won the match of, for and by

myself. Enid had everything to do with it.

When she saw him lying on the ground, she ran over to him crying out in

dismay that he might have been hurt. He just lay there and let her coo all

over him.

Sawnie came by and shook his head. "Poor wretch, dinna ken wha' he's

gettin' intae, I'm afear'd."

"Lasses!" I said as though that explained everything.

"An' wha' tis sae terrible is he's happy aboot it," Sawnie replied.

"He's jus' gaen crazy."

"Seems sae."

"Tha' will ne'er happen tae me," I asserted.

"Me either. Gawd, preserve us frae the lasses!" Sawnie vowed.

"I'd rather end up in perdition than gae through tha'."

"Me, too," he concurred.

And so we turnt and walked away, leaving poor Geraint to what our

innocence led us to believe was a horrible fate, love, that thing young lads

don't quite understand about adults. Thus, it appeared as though we'd possibly

lost our good friend forever and ever. How naive I was back then. But so we

all are for a short while.

Finally, in a joint communique, Myrddin the Prophet of the Goddess and

Dyfrig the Primate of the Isles summoned the patricians and high churchmen of

all faiths to meet at Caer Lludd, Brythain's onetime capital. The announcement

said the participants would share in an ecumenical celebration of the Passions

of Mabon the Light Everlasting and of Our Laird Jesus Christ on the Sunday

following the first Paschal Full Moon after the vernal equinox in A.B. Fifteen

Hundred and Ninety-One.

The doors of Lludd's temple and of Llan St. Paulos of the Letters to the

Corinthians were thrown open to everyone. The former is the largest place of

worship as Lludd is the city's patron god, and the latter is the smaller church

of the Catholic archdiocese. They stand side-by-side, pagan temple and

Christian church.

In their call to the faithful, the prophet and the primate plight troth

through the thaumaturgic power of the Goddess and of Holy Mother Church the

rightful heir to the Crown of Brythain and the Pendragwnship of the Isles would

be found. Many of the high lairds stopped to purify themselves at holy places

during their trek to Caer Lludd, each selfishly hoping the succession would

fall to him.

Our small cavalcade passed through Parth Lludd and paused at Non's

insistence at the church for worship. Then continuing on the main sarn through

the tournament grounds, we headed for the old royal palatium of Uthr

Pendragwn. Here, Natanleod's widow agreed to put up the members of the Order

of the Pendragwn and their families.

As we rode along, Gai and I marveled at the sights in the big city. We'd

seen a few fairly significant places before.

Gyner had taken us for short visits to some of the old Roman oppida. I

could remember the municipium of Verulamium, which the Romans built over

Caswallawn's kraal. Gyner and I walked over the tessellated pavements at

Eburacum to leave an offering of corn in the temple of the Egyptian god

Serapis. We also visited the colonia of Nervia Glevum, Lindum and Luguvallium,

and other places like Deva from which Dewi's name is derived, Ratae Coritanorum

where we tossed flowers into the afon beneath which they say Llyr is buried,

Viroconium Cornoviorum to sell our sheep, the capital of the dark-skinned

Silurians at Isca Silurum, Aquae Sulis for its famous baths, Isurium Brigantum

where we bought bread to take with us to the Games of Mabon, Sorviodunum near

the Giants' Dance and Calleva where Mother bought her dyes.

But none of these places prepared me for my first visit to Londinium, the

Roman name for Caer Lludd. It dwarfed all the others in size and grandeur.

Of course, the carnival atmosphere of the Spectacles of Lludd lent even

further splendour to the city. But on the day of our arrival, another god

ruled supreme in the city's streets.

It was the seventeenth day of Mars when the unbridled pageantry of the

festival of Padraig begins. Padraig is the Celtic god of virility and

generation in its coarser aspects, the equivalent to the Roman god Priapus.

As our cavalcade neared the palatium, we saw a huge phallus being carried

through the streets of the city by young men. A garland of flowers

representing the female reproductive organ crowned the head of the phallus,

placed there so I was told by an old maid. By evening, the entire city had

been given over to a wanton orgy.

Unfortunately, Non wouldn't allow Dewi, Gai or I out of the palatium. Her

strict Christian upbringing didn't condone such wild goings-on. So she sent us

to bed.

But Gai and I managed to slip out through the window. Let's just say the

two of us saw some of the things Non was afraid we'd see. Like all country

lads, Gai and I'd seen the matings of animals on our farm and in the wilds.

But neither of us was quite prepared for what we saw the people doing in the

city. Finding their activities to be most disturbing, we mutually agreed to

return to the palatium before Mother discovered we'd sneaked out.

But Dewi caught us climbing back into our room through the window. He'd

been waiting for us.

"Wha' ha'e ye two polecats bin up tae?" he wanted to know, acting the part

of the self-righteous elder brother, a part he knew quite well I might add.

As usual, Gai just stood there, not knowing what to do or say. I had to

think fast, or Dewi would tell Mother what we'd done, and there would be hell

to pay for it.

"Now, Dewi, ye dinna wan' me tae tell Mither aboot Marian, dae ye?" I

asked suggestively.

"Well! Well!" he stammered.

"Who's Marian?" Gai asked rather stupidly.

"Ne'er ye mind! Ne'er ye mind!" Dewi responded. "Jus' see tae it ye

dinna try a stunt like this again. Ye hear!"

Gai nodded his head. Dewi fled. I burst out laughing.

Well, well, I thought, maybe lasses are guid fer somethin' after all. The

mere mention of one's name had just gotten me out of a peck of trouble.

After matins on Good Friday, the lofty congregations of the two great

religious centres filed out into the adjoining square between the buildings,

and there were confronted by the huge block of flintstone into which Uthr

Pendragwn had thrust the sword of Lludd. The best known inscription in the

Island was engraved in letters of gold upon the stone in Hellenic, Latin and

ogham, the three most commonly used languages for writing in Brythain. Every

schoolchild knew the words by heart. It read: "Whosoever pulleth the sword

from the stone is rightways Pendragwn of the Isles."

The throng of lairds stood back and covetously stared at the hilt of the

bejeweled sword. The prophet and the primate forbade them to touch it until

after the leaders of both faiths prayed for the blessing of Providence, and

that the rightful heir to the cader should be found.

They knelt upon the ground and prayers were said. Once done, the nobles

rose to their feet again and began to rankle over who should go first.

"Tis my right tae gae first," Arawn claimed, "'cause Uthr's weeda is my

wife."

"Well, alright, then, dae it!" Erbin barked angrily at him.

Arawn gripped the hilt of the sword in his right hand and tugged. His

face turnt white and, then, from red to blue, giving it all he had, but the

sword remained embedded fast within the stone's inviolable grasp. Most

reluctantly, he gave up his place to Uthr's brother.

At the urgings of my father, the axeman and his other friends, Erbin had

come from his hill-fort in Dyfneint, the land of many sheep. Although he's of

the blood royal of the Pendragwns, he, too, failed to withdraw the sword from

the stone.

"My brither Uthr said only his son couldst draw the sword frae the stone,"

Erbin spoke aloud and backed away from the stone.

He was followed by the peerless Pellinore, and as I watched, I thought now

the sword would yield to the strength of the Champion of Champions. But

despite my belief in him, Pellinore like the two before him couldn't budge the

sword from the stone, regardless how hard he tried to free it.

"Tis impossible," he finally acknowledged. "As Erbin said, nae one but

the right born heir canst draw this sword frae the stone."

Congal, the senior roy of Celidon, came next. He's a major force in the

scheme of things but not this day. He failed as well.

"I mus' admit I canna dae it," he said with a shrug.

From Cymru, the surviving sons of Cunedag II (Osmael II, Dunawd, Rhufon,

Abloyc and Ceredig)[25] took their turns without success. After them, Bawdewyne

the Tywyssawc Llu, married to the Blonde Emeree, gave his best effort, but it

wasn't good enough. Osla the Penmaer, Gwrtheyrn's son by Anschis's scarlet

daughter, hoped with all his heart to pull the sword from the stone and regain

his father's lost cader; however, it wasn't to be, as he failed to free the

sword from the stone.

Next, came Meurig ap Cadell II, another Gwrtheyrnian, whose brave father

ruled the Island briefly before Osla's mother poisoned him, but this haughty

tywysog, the Stater of Dyfed, was no luckier than the others. After him,

Arawn's three brothers, the Edoridae, made a valiant effort, but all three

toiled in vain. Then, all the remaining forty cnichts of the Order of the

Pendragwn tried but for naught.

Even the Antaean strongman, Ogyrfran the Giant, had to admit to defeat.

"Tis mair than I canst dae," he admitted with reluctance.

From Ys, the island-civitas founded in Lesser Brythain by Cernishmen under

the Gwrtheyrnian banner, strode forth Marcel ap Iohan Reith ap Gwrtheyrn.

About twenty years ago, his elder brother, Deiniol Drumrud, became ruler of the

Alemanni on the middle Rhenus; and although Marcel had also come to rule a

great realm and was full of confidence, he couldn't budge the sword, no more

than all those who'd proceeded him.

Then, Marcel's cousin, Cadell Dyrnllug ap Catheyrn, the Ricon of Powys,

tried his luck and discovered it wasn't his destiny to free the Sword of Power

either. His brother, Rhuddfedel Frych, had no better luck. Nor did their

cousins, Pasgen's two burly sons, Rhitta Gawr of Gwrtheyrnion and Nero of

Builth.

"A curse on this sword an' stone!" Nero shouted. "My brither, cousins an'

I are the rightful heirs tae the cader!"

Oisc, the sole surviving son of Anschis, came under a flag of truce from

Cantia where he'd founded his dynasty giving it his own name, the Oiscingas.

With him were his nephews, the sons of his late brother, Octha. Oswald the

Aetheling and Osmond the Sorcerer were their names. Joining them was Oisc's

own son, Eormenric, named after the great king of the Ostrogoths who'd ruled

his nation in the fourth century after the birth of Christ until committing

suicide at the age of one hundred after losing his realm to the Hungvari.

In vain, Oisc tugged on the hilt of the sword without being able to pull

it free. "This is a trick o' the Brythons tae embarrass me!" he shouted.

Although mighty heathen warriors, none of the other members of the royal

house of the barbarian Cantwaras could do any better than their king. They all

departed in anger, agreeing with Oisc that this was a hoax.

The Saesnaegs had also sallied out of their coastal fastnesses under the

white flag and journeyed to Caer Lludd to partake in the test of the sword in

the stone. Aelle, their Bretwalda, arrived bearing a single-edged sword called

a seax from which his district of Suthseax is named.

With Aelle were his three murderous sons, Cymen, Wlencing and Cissa.

Although they'd fought our people to a standstill at Cymenes ora where Uthr

Pendragwn fell, had butchered Natanleod and his army at Mearc Pedes Burna and

had massacred the inhabitants of Anderida, they still placed a great deal of

faith in their flag of truce being honoured.

Although most of our nobles wished to kill them right there on the spot,

Myrddin and Dyfrig put a stop to any attempts on their lives. Then, over

strenuous objections, the Bretwalda and his sons were allowed to participate in

the test.

However, it didn't matter anyway, because they all failed to draw the

sword from the stone. Furious at the outcome, Aelle exclaimed, "I'm the

Bretwalda o' this whole Island, an' I recognise nae ither!"

Another barbarian, Icel of Ostaengland, approached the sword. Under his

sway, he'd united the North and South Folk, the two subdivisions of the

Englars, a people said to come from faraway Sviaveldi and who call themselves

Enskirmenn. Now occupying the land of the once proud Iceni of Boudicca,

they're our fiercest enemies; but their chieftain couldn't win the sword and,

thereby, the Crown of Brythain.

"Ken ye Brythons tha' I, Icel, am sixth in descent frae Woden; an' I'll be

yer laird an' master!"

Colgrin, ealdorman of the East Saesnaegs, and his brother, Baldulf, also

appeared under a white flag from Ostseax. But they faired no better than their

surly brethern.

"Ye'll hear frae us again," Colgrin swore as he walked stiff-backed away.

Then, came King Harald IV of Danaveldi, Malvas and Aeleus from Isslont,

Gwron Mwynfawr of the blood of King Chlodwig of the Franks, Teithfallt ap

Tewdrig II of the royal dynasty of the West Gothic kingdom of Tolosa, Sagra

Mawr ap Irnac ap Atzel the Scourge of God, and Esclabor, the Sassanid dihqan

who once saved the life of the peerless Pellinore and, thus, became his

blood-brother. All most valiant men but none could draw the sword from the

stone.

A whole host of Gwydyls sailed over from Eirinn, including the Ard-Righ,

Lugaid mac Laegaire of Tara, and the real power behind the Eirish Lia Fail,

Muirchertach mac Erca of Mide. With Muirchertach were his four brothers,

Fergus, Loarn, Aengus and Feidlimid. Eogan Bel, the Righ of Connachta, came by

himself from his rath at Inishmaine of Lough Mask, as did Aengus of Mumu,

Illan, heir to the cader of Lagin, and Muirchan of Ynys Mon, grandson of

Eurnach who'd fought Owein ap Macsen Gwledig at Dinas Brenhin. But they all

were unable to prove their worth against the sword in the stone, which resisted

them, one and all.

"Who is a better man than I?" Muirchertach asked. "Naen I think in this

land."

A watch of ten champions under Accolon of Caerleol, a magnificent

swordsman from Gaul in the service of Urien of Rheged, was set over the sword

in the stone. The prophet and primate proclaimed another opportunity to free

the sword from the stone would occur after the spectacles that Sunday. The

spectacles were to be held on the banks of the afon the Romans called the

Tamesis, within sight of St. Paulos' and the temple of Lludd.

Since this time there would be no lads' competition, I served as Gai's

scutarius, helping him to prepare and train for the major events. Shortly

after we arrived at the tournament grounds, however, I discovered I'd left

Gai's sword at the palatium. Being responsible for his armour and weapons as

is a shield-bearer's duty, to forget to bring his sword was an unpardonable

mistake, and I cursed myself for being such a fool.

In a panic, I had to find a sword and quickly, because Gai's name was

being called in the arena. He needed a sword now, immediately.

I started to run. I went, my feet seeming to know the way, as I passed

people who knew me on every side, but stopping for no one, not even those

wishing to speak with me. I'd no time for them or to listen to the boasts of

warriors.

Before me, the great temple of Lludd and the smaller Church of St. Paulos

rose higher and higher in all their adorned splendour, and I came to the square

without hesitation. I knew, now, why I'd come, for a voice, as old and

inescapable as that of Father Time himself, beckoned for me to enter the square

and take what was mine by right of birth.

Quickly, I looked about me, but I saw no one, except an ancient beggar,

who eyed me, as he leant heavily on a shepherd's crook, that kind of staff

carried by holy men. I thought it strange the honour guard was nowhere to be

seen.

"Didst ye call me, auld one?" I asked in a hesitant voice, only able to

see part of his face as a white scarf covered his head.

His withered lips moved but I heard nothing but the west wind murmuring

across the square. Then, he raised his skeletal hand and blessed me with the

sign of the cross, Mabon's or Christ's I couldn't tell.

The old one gestured with his crook. Looking in the direction he'd

indicated, I saw the sword in the stone. Oddly though, when I turnt to speak

to him again, he was gone, leaving me alone in the deserted square. I

swallowed hard and, with trembling limbs, stepped forward unsteadily.

The sword was a beauty. The head of a dragwn with red ruby eyes decorated

the golden pommel, and four more rubies shone on each side of the crossguard.

Where the crossguard met the iron blade, a dragwn passant displayed its wings.

A long pointed tail curled beneath the monster's hind legs, and a snake-like

tongue extended from its snarling maw, seemingly ready to breath fire.

Grasping the silver-laced hilt in my right hand, I pulled. Miraculously,

it moved. Then, it came free. I held the sword of the stone in my hand. It

was mine.

Sudden footsteps roused me and I turnt to see Gyner Graybeard and Gai

standing there in awe at what they beheld. Tears filled Gyner's eyes.

"We came tae luik fer ye," Gai stammered, not knowing what else to say.

Gyner walked to me slowly and stared at the Sword of Power in my hands.

"Ye pull'd it free," he declared rather than asked.

"Aye, Feyther, I didst," I replied.

Before I could reach out and clasp him, Gyner knelt before me and said:

"Then, at long last, Brythain hast found her rightful Brenhin."

Gai, too, knelt. "An' the Pendragwn o' the Isles!" he exclaimed.

I raised Gyner to his feet and hugged him with my arms. "But I'll aye be

yer son an' shall love an' honour ye as my feyther."

Gyner smiled weakly. "Then, tis time ye kent the truth."

Gyner proceeded to reveal the story of how a poor mendicant had brought a

newborn child to the main parth of his castellum fifteen years ago, and

prophesied the babe was destined for greatness. "Aye," Gyner continued, "the

beggar feretold: 'The man-chiel ye hold shall earn the highest honour o' the

realm an' is the future glory o' Brythain.' I hadst my doubts, but upon seein'

the babe was well-form'd, I decid'd tae take him in. Ye see, Arthgwyr, I ha'e

told ye tha' ye're my foster-son, but yer mither an' I rais'd ye as one o' our

own, an' the three o' ye, Dewi, Gai an' ye, are the pride an' joy o' our lives.

"Ye," he began again, "are the man-chiel brought tae me, an' as proof o'

yer heritage, I was gi'en this ring, which I ha'e e'er sith worn on the torc

aboot my neck. The ring belong'd tae Uthr Pendragwn. Tis his signet ring,

which any member o' the Order o' the Pendragwn wouldst recognise." Removing

the ring from the torc about his thick neck, he handed it to me. "It now

rightfully belongs tae ye."

I accepted the ring and slipped it on my finger. It fit as though made

for my hand.

"Feyther, dae ye ken the beggar who brought me tae yer keep?"

"Aye, twas yer mither's nephew, Emrys Myrddin the Prophet o' the Goddess,

an' he deliver'd ye untae me upon the orders o' Uthr Pendragwn hissel'."

"Didst Myrddin tell ye I'm Uthr's son?"

"Nae, he dinna, but I kent twas true."

"Then, I mus' find Myrddin, fer only he canst actually confirm the truth."

"Aye, he alone kens fer certain," Gyner agreed.

"Feyther, wha' canst ye tell me aboot the circumstances o' my birth?" I

asked, for above all I desperately wanted to know the truth at last.

Gyner nodded his head and began to unravel the threads of mystery binding

the secrets of the story, at least, as much of it as he knew. "Uthr took his

son frae his sobbin' wife, my first cousin, Eigyr the Unparallel'd Beauty, an'

ga'e the chiel tae Brastius Bluid-Axe. Upon Uthr's instructions, Brastius

brought the babe tae a beggar at the postern o' the royal camp at Padstow where

the birthin' hadst taken place. Then, the beggar, Myrddin in disguise, brought

ye tae me.

"I learnt frae the axeman tha' Uthr's son was wrapp'd in gold swaddlin'

an' a bearskin, 'cause twas a cold wintry night. When I receiv'd ye frae

Myrddin, ye were wrapp'd in gold swaddlin' an' a bearskin.

"Myrddin alsae told me ye were 'under the protection o' the Great

She-Bear, as ye were born under the sign o' her cub, the constellation

containin' the Little Wain an' the polestar.' Uthr's sceptre was a truncheon

in the shape o' a claw'd bear's paw, in imitation o' the Hammer o' Cernunnos,

Myrddin's intercessor among the gods; an' yer name, which Myrddin ga'e ye,

means 'bear man'.

"Furthermair, there's the matter of Uthr's signet ring. Uthr wouldna ha'e

sent it along wi' ye, unless ye were, indeed, his true begotten son. There

canst be nae ither explanation."

"But this isna enough tae convince the high lairds o' the realm," I

replied. "Only the word o' Myrddin canst clear this up an' there are many who

wadna e'en believe him."

"Nae matter wha' happens, yer mither an' I an' yer brithers will aye stand

by ye."

"Feyther," I cried, "ye've rais'd me as yer son, an' yer son I'll aye be."

We embraced again, and when he released me, Gai clasped me in his mighty

arms. "An' I'll aye be yer brither," he vowed.

My throat choked on my emotions as I gazed at them. "If I'm proven tae be

Uthr's rightful heir, any wish wi'in my power tae grant is yers," I promised.

"I ask nithin' fer mysel'," Gyner said, "fer I'm auld an' few years are

left tae me."

"Nae!"

"This is life, my son. The auld mus' gi'e way tae the young, like the

autumn leaves mus' fall afere the new sprouts grow in the spring. Time takes

its toll on us all, as ye someday will learn.

"But at the moment, ye mus' prepare yersel' tae rule this island regnum.

In my heart, I ken who ye are, an' eventually, ye'll win yer birthright and

reign o'er all the people, as didst yer feyther, Uthr Pendragwn, befere ye.

"When tha' time comes, remember the lessons my feyther, Osmael the Hero,

taught me an' I in turn taught ye. Gi'e alms tae the poor, shelter tae the

sick an' homeless, food an' drink tae the hungry an' thirsty, an' true faith

tae yer liegemen. Respect women at all times an' protect children; but above

all, keep yer word, an' if ye err, admit yer fault, fer those who persist in

wrongdoin' arena jus' sovereigns but evil tyrants.

"Remember alsae na' tae make promises ye canna keep, fer a refusal is

better than a promise fersaken'd. Justice an' honour, then, shouldst be the

cornerstones o' yer reign. Keep faith wi' them an' yer life will be full an'

ha'e meanin'."

"Ye speak wisely, Feyther," I said, "an' I'll dae my best tae live up tae

these standards."

"As ye mus' tae be the Pendragwn," Gyner replied, "'cause ye mus' set a

guid example fer ithers tae follow. Men only follow those whom they either

respect, love or fear. Tae create fear in yer vassals is wrong. Tis far

better tae earn their respect an' love by bein' fair an' honest wi' them.

"Remember guid sovereigns are lov'd by their people an' the memory o' sic

monarchs is cherish'd. But tyrants are hat'd an' ofttimes dethron'd."

"If the day e'er comes fer me tae rule o'er our people, I swear tae ye,

Feyther, I'll try tae be a guid laird an' dae all ye ha'e command'd me tae

dae," I vouched.

"Guid intentions an' the effort tae achieve sic noble aims, mair than all

else, are the marks o' a fine spirit. Few succeed, but tae try, at least, is

better than remainin' inert. Those who gi'e life their all an' fail canst

abide wi' their fate an' be proud, in auld age, o' their few accomplishments,

nae matter how small they might be.

"Fer e'ery venture, there's a lesson tae be learnt, but ye dinna ha'e tae

reinvent the plough[26] when it's already been daen. Thus, when ye reach a

crossroads in yer life, seek out individuals who ha'e the relative experience

in order tae gain their counsel. Show them kindness an' their answers tae yer

questions might help ye tae evade the pitfalls they encountr'd which will help

ye tae make the right decisions by avoidin' their mistakes."

"But is there nithin' I canst dae fer ye?" I asked again, looking from

Gyner to Gai.

"Keep Gai beside ye always. He's yer brither, if na' by bluid, then by

spirit.

"Ye two are like the opposite sides o' the same coin. Where ye possess a

greater an' clearer mind, Gai possesses extraordinary physical strength.

"All saw how well he didst in the last games. E'en Pellinore acknowledg'd

someday Gai will be the mightiest warrior o' the realm.

"Tis true. I believe it, fer he's my feyther's grandson, an' in his day,

there was nae braver man than my feyther. Gai takes after him. Sae fer as

long as his sword arm is the strongest in yer dominions, he'll be the rock upon

whom ye'll build the middle years o' yer reign.

"But in due time, as he'll shortly succeed Pellinore as the greatest

livin' champion, Gai shall be surpass'd in his turn by a younger an' mair able

man. Be on the luikout fer him, this younger warrior, an' place him under

Gai's tutelage, sae he canst be properly train'd tae replace Gai when the time

comes as the mainstay o' yer army in the latter years o' yer reign.

"Then, gi'e Gai an honourable post at yer court, sae he canst live out his

remainin' years wi' the respect tha' is his due. Dae this fer me an' I'll be

content."

Gyner looked shrunken and very old now. He'd given me, a virtual

foundling at his door, so much and would now accept nothing for himself in

return.

"I'll dae as ye ask, Feyther."

Gai placed his huge hand on my shoulder softly. It was a simple gesture

of an unsophisticated but lovable man; and since then, he's never been very far

from my side, just as Gyner had told us to do, so it has been for the two of

us.

CHAPTER VI

* REPUDIATION BY THE HIGH AND MIGHTY AND MY BAPTISM OF BATTLE *

Of course, it wasn't as easy as all that. The nobility weren't entirely impressed with me. To them, I was only a fifteen-year-old lad who hadn't completed the rites of passage to manhood. And the vast majority refused to recognise a beardless lad of dubious origins as their liege laird. In effect, the realm was split into three factions: one small but loyal party for me, a significant group of those undecided, and the largest party against.

The spectacles were repeated at the Beltaine and again at Pentecost with

the same results. I alone could draw the sword from the stone. But the

majority of the high lairds still refused to recognise me as the Pendragwn of

the Isles and the Brenhin of All Brythain.

Finally, they decided to hold the spectacles once again in the hopes a

candidate more worthy in their eyes than me would succeed in drawing the sword

from the stone. The spectacles were held on the highest pagan feast day of the

year. The Cymry back home in Mathtrafal call this festival Gwyl Awst or the

'August Feast', and in Eirinn, it's known as the Lugnassad or 'Lugh's

Commemoration', held in honour of the sun-god.

When once more I alone could free the sword, the masses arose and demanded

I be crowned. But with a glare of grim mockery, Gwyar Edorides expressed the

feeling of many of the great lairds when he uttered, "Nae bastard foundlin' o'

ignoble bluid shall reign as long as Lothian lives!"

At the insult, Gyner Graybeard reached for his sword, but Cadwr the

Courageous wisely restrained him, saying: "Once tha' cur wouldst ha'e fallen

like a reed in the wind afere the might o' yer sword, Gyner, but tha' day hast

pass'd, sae stay yer hand, auld friend, fer tis yer wisdom we need now. Let

Pellinore deal wi' him in due time, but na' here, fer this is sacr'd ground.

We stand on the holy soil o' the Sun-God's sanctuary, an' as a high rankin'

member o' the Order o' Mabon, ye shouldst ken nae one dare draws his sword in

anger here."

Gyner grimaced but drew back, realising Cadwr was right. The good

Archbishop Dyfrig, who'd come to bear witness to the drawing of the sword from

the stone, stood by his side and consoled him.

The Edoridae and their kith and kin were the first to turn their backs

upon me and refuse to acknowledge my claim to the cader of Uthr Pendragwn. The

Gwrtheyrnians declared their defiance and stood against me as well. Moreover,

the House of Cernyw led by Idwr the Invincible once again rose in rebellion

against the House of the Pendragwns. To make matters even worse, the one group

whom I should have been able to depend upon, the cenedl of Cunedag, was split

in three, one faction siding with their dialwr, Gyner, in my favour, another

against, and the third remaining neutral for the time being.

In addition to these four primary groups, a number of caterans took or

switched sides as they chose. They led bands of cutthroats and outlaws hiring

themselves out as mercenaries. At the moment, four of these soldiers of

fortune, Escanor the Grand, Dillus Farwawc, Brunor Without Pity, and Madag the

Bastard, sold the services of their bands to my enemies. The latter of the

four is the natural son of Uthr Pendragwn.

"Ken thee, lairds and champions, who turn thy backs on thine lawful

sovereign tha' I, Dyfrig, Archbishop an' Primate o' the Isles, execrate divine

anathema upon thee an' thine 'til thou shalt show obedience an' pay homage tae

Arthgwyr Pendragwn!" the gaunt clergyman declared, as those who wouldn't abide

with me strode away.

Unfortunately, Dyfrig's excommunication meant very little to those

departing, because, except for one or two, they were all pagans. On the other

hand, those who sided with me, following the lead of their three archbishops

who took up my cause, were, in fact, mostly Christians. Other prominent

churchmen, such as Illtyd, Dewi, Deiniol, Gybi, Pedrog, Derfel Gadarn, and

Bedwin, all joined me with their Christian flocks.

The only non-Christian religious leader to side with me was my old friend

Gwynbaude, the Emberis of the North. As he once told me would happen, his

brothers, the maternal uncles of Uthr Pendragwn, brought their men over to me.

But since the largest portion of my supporters were clergymen, the actual

number of troops I could muster in the field was rather small in comparison to

the greater armies commanded by my follow countrymen who stood in opposition to

me, not to mention the foreign invaders encroaching upon our shores. At this

point, things looked virtually hopeless.

Then, the unexpected happened. The perpetual fire kept at the sanctuary

burst and crackled into higher flames and a great ball of smoke. In the wink

of an eye, Myrddin appeared out of nowhere through the flames and into our

midst. The crowd drew back in fear and awe of the great druidically-robed

wizard. He slowly raised his arm and, pointing his finger at Erbin, began to

speak in a commanding voice.

"Yer brither, Uthr, hadst nam'd a son as his heir." Further, the high

wizard insisted, "Arthgwyr is tha' son, whom I personally brought tae Gyner on

Uthr's orders tae be rais'd 'til he couldst enforce his rightful claim tae the

cader."

Erbin didn't believe it. But his own son, Geraint, stepped forward and

spoke to him.

"Luik, Feyther," he said, standing next to me, "canst ye na' see?"

Looking from his son to me and back again, Erbin's eyes grew large as he

beheld the uncanny resemblance between his son and I. Everyone there stared in

amazement.

Then, Erbin started to nod his head yes. Now, he believed. Myrddin was,

indeed, telling the truth.

Kneeling before me, Erbin and his four sons laid their claim to the cader

aside and vowed to serve me as loyally as Erbin had served his brother, Uthr.

Immediately, a whole host of the Island's greatest champions, having refrained

from declaring themselves in my favour out of respect for Erbin, were now free

to do so. Following his lead, they paid homage and proclaimed their fealty to

me as their sovereign laird.

The first was Ogyrfran the Giant who swore his allegiance in his

thunderous voice for all to hear, attesting: "I see in ye Uthr's son!" Then,

he knelt before me and kissed my right hand, and there upon my ring finger, he

saw Uthr's signet ring, which my foster-father had given to me. His eyes grew

large. "An' here is the proof," he shouted. "Arthgwyr o' the Afanc wears his

feyther's ring! Tis Uthr's signet ring. I wouldst ken it anywhere. He's

surely Uthr's son! Myrddin hast na' li'd tae us aboot Arthgwyr's birthright."

Ogyrfran held my hand aloft for all to see the ring.

"Tis the ring!" Cadwr the Courageous bellowed, and others said so, too.

Except for one, the entire House of Pwyll, the Arimathaeans, knelt in

unison behind the heir of North Ambria, Cadwr, and swore true faith to me as

their liege laird. As I looked down upon them, I myself stared in awe at what

was happening. Here kneeling before me with their bright faces uplifted to

mine were many of my boyhood idols. And they were kneeling before me! It

boggled my mind. The only one missing was the peerless one himself, for he was

on a quest for his order.

Next, came the Amlawddians and their allies from Lesser Brythain, led by

Llwch Llawwynnawg, the younger brother of the great Amlawdd Gwledig of lamented

memory. With him were his four nephews, the royal brothers of Uthr's widow,

Eigyr the Unparalleled Beauty. At their side stood Bawdewyne the Tywyssawc

Llu, the best master of the horse in the Isles; and other former members of

Uthr's Order of the Pendragwn likewise approached me and pledged their true

faith and fidelity, including Osla the Penmaer, whom I immediately returnt to

his old post in charge of the treasury.

Lastly, Bodwyn the Good and Jordan the Portglave, in peril of their lives,

risked all, disclaimed the aims of Idwr the Invincible, their lawful laird,

whom they felt was being led astray by Cynfawr, and paid homage to me. In

gratitude, I made Jordan my swordbearer, so he didn't have to return to Cernyw

and face the treacherous Cynfawr.

But Bodwyn refused all my offers. He said it was his duty to return home

for the sake of his people. I tried to reason with him but the good man

wouldn't forsake his responsibilities.

Inwardly, I wept for him, because I knew, as did everyone else, he was

returning to certain death, and we couldn't afford to lose a man with such a

noble heart. But I couldn't hold him from his destiny, for each man must

decide his own course.

As I looked upon his son, however, I told Bodwyn he mustn't take my

boyhood friend with him. But when Bodwyn asked for my permission to depart for

home, Sawnie knelt before me, kissed my hand, and begged me to permit him to go

with his father.

As Sawnie looked into my eyes, he said, "If twas Gyner wouldst ye na' gae

wi' him?"

Of course, I would; and knowing this, I realised I couldn't stop Sawnie

any more than I could his father. Whatever destiny awaited them, it was theirs

to meet, and I felt I'd no right to say no. With deep regret, I let my young

friend go, too.

Later, I felt the loss. It was an empty feeling and I thought I'd made a

terrible mistake. I should have found a way to convince Bodwyn to remain with

me, so Sawnie could have grown up in the safety of my court. I've regretted it

ever since.

My first task was to re-establish law and order in that part of the realm

I ruled. I held sway from Dyfneint in the southwest to the praefecture of Bran

of the Two Isles in the northeast and all the lands in between. In Cymru,

Mathtrafal and parts of both Denbigh and Dyfed were loyal to me. Otherwise,

all the rest of Cymru was in revolt. Three-quarters of Celidon stood against

me. Cernyw and Llewissig were also lost to me and much of the southern coast

and the entire southeast had been wrested away long before I started my reign

by the foreign invaders or the 'sea-wolves' as we call them.

I began by making what I hoped to be the right appointments in those

offices that would administer my government. There having been no central

authority whatsoever since the death of Uthr Pendragwn thirteen years ago, the

realm had been divided into petty chieftainships, obeying only local customs

which differed from place to place and recognising no other control over their

affairs. Indeed, these chieftains spent most of their time leading raids

against one another to steal cattle and other property. Thus, my first

appointments were crucial in order to set up a proper administration and to

re-establish law and order in that part of the Island under my sway.

The most important appointment was to fill the post of Ardcangellor. As

this minister would control the Pendragwn's courts and be my chief counsellor,

I had to choose wisely. Whoever filled this vacancy would be responsible for

setting the tone for the lower courts, thereby restoring normalcy to the

judicial system and insuring equal justice for all.

After seeking the best possible advice and giving it due consideration, I

concluded only one person could perform the job of Ardcangellor in the fashion

I wanted. Remembering under the druidical system the druids judge their

people, the appointment of the Emberis or High Druid of the Giants' Dance to

this post would be in strict keeping with Celtic custom. Therefore, I asked

Myrddin to accept the heavy responsibilities and great burdens involved in this

most important post. Reluctantly, he agreed, and under his guidance, the first

steps were taken to restore law and order in the realm.

Of course, no government can be successfully run without the money

necessary to finance the measures that have to be taken. As mentioned earlier,

I reappointed Osla to his old office of Penmaer to run my treasury. He gave me

a list of the most competent individuals to be tax collectors; and after I

approved their appointments, they went about the business of refilling our

empty coffers.

Next, I returnt Bawdewyne to his old position of Tywyssawc Llu for the

purpose of reconstituting the standing army, and preparing it for the future

military campaigns that I knew were coming. He instantly set about forming a

cadre of old hands at this business of war. Chief among them was Jordan the

Portglave. By the time my enemies began to march against me, these two noble

generals and their officers had fulfilled their task and whipped together an

elite corps to form the heart of my armed forces.

In conjunction with rebuilding the army, I also had to develop a strategy

concerning how we were going to defend the realm once it came under attack from

the rebellious lairds as well as the sea-wolves. As they could launch assaults

from all quarters, Myrddin advised me to isolate them from each other, so they

couldn't fight me as a united force, which would be disastrous.

Realising this advice was sound, I dispatched Brastius Blood-Axe to the

north, in the absence of the peerless Pellinore, with orders to assume command

of all the military units there. His objective was to keep the Edoridae and

their Pechtish allies at bay behind Hadrian's Wall until I was ready to deal

with them.

I also remembered attending the opening ceremonies for the Games of Mabon,

when I'd perceived the tension between Bran and Arawn. Now, the answer became

clear. Congal's federation was disintegrating before my very eyes, with Congal

joining neither side in the dispute. He was still trying to straddle the walls

of his enclosure, but those walls were crumpling beneath his feet, and I knew

sooner or later he'd have to come to a decision and join one side or the

other. The combatants would give him no other choice.

Knowing this, I sent friendly entreaties to Congal asking him to speak

with his colleague, Arawn, in the hopes Congal could, at least, forestall the

mobilisation of the Celidonians for war. Possibly, this would be enough to

keep my enemies on the northern flank in check for the moment.

Secondly, I placed Gyner in overall command of those loyal to me in Cymru,

with orders to protect my western flank and keep the peace there. I felt

positive Gyner could block the efforts of the Gwrtheyrians and their allies to

the south of him and also of his kinsmen in Gwynedd to his north who were among

those against me.

At the same time, I sent Geraint to take charge of the old line of forts

along the Saesnaeg shore in the south. Whilst he guarded against further

expansion by the sea-wolves in that area, his father and brothers watched my

enemies in Cernyw and Llewissig to their southwest. Thus, the house of Uthr's

brave brother played the major role of maintaining order on my southern flank.

These arrangements left my eastern flank as my sole theatre of real

concern. Here, the Englars and East Saesnaegs were too close to Caer Lludd for

comfort, and I planned to deal with them first. To assist me, I enlisted the

aid of Warok of the Venetii, the chief mariner of the 'Auld Table'. I ordered

him to bring his fleet over from Lesser Brythain to stop any reinforcements

from the continent in coming to the help of the sea-wolves.

The last administrative matter of some importance was the creation of a

household staff. Remembering my promise to Gyner, I put Gai in charge of these

arrangements, and he came up with a remarkably good idea. Instead of

maintaining one royal residence as was the usual custom in Uthr's time, Gai

suggested as the entire realm needed my attention we should select a circuit of

royal residences. In this fashion, I'd be able to travel about and insure

those officials whom I appointed to run the far-flung corners of my realm were

properly administering the Pendragwn's justice.

Another benefit of having multiple demesnes is no one place would be

continuously obliged to support the upkeep and maintenance of the royal court.

Few residences outside of the old royal palatium in Caer Lludd could be

constantly used without depleting its resources. Thus, by moving in a planned

and orderly circuit from one estate to the next, none of these residences would

become impoverished by an overlong stay.

What a marvelous idea! I thought it was excellent, and we put Gai's idea

into effect as soon as feasibly possible, when good locations for my court

could be selected to complete the course of the proposed circuit. For the time

being, Caer Lludd continued to serve as the capital.

Of all of these things, however, one above the rest will undoubtedly go

down as the hallmark of my reign. Myrddin came to me and said I must develop a

philosophy that would be the inspiration of this and every age.

He told me two human forces are at work in the world in a constant duel

against one another. One is competition and the other is cooperation, and I

must harness them both and make them work in tandem, for if one exceeds the

other than the balance of human existence is distorted.

At present, he said the competition among the high and mighty is

destroying our world, and this destructive competition must be reined in and

brought under control, or all would be lost. It's the old story of promoting

might for right.

But, to tell the truth, at the beginning of my reign, I'd no idea how to

bring this about. I only knew Myrddin was correct, for in each person's heart

competition and cooperation continually duel for supremacy. But how to go

about bringing this duel under control was another matter. After all, what's

in the heart isn't necessarily controllable, is it?

"In our culture," Myrddin explained, "we think o' the eternal struggle

betwix' the solar deities an' the powers o' darkness as a cosmic image o' our

e'eryday life; howe'er, life is na' tha' simplistic. Tis far mair complex than

merely guid versus evil, 'cause many shades o' the truth abound as mair than

one side tae e'ery story canst be told.

"Each individual is willin' tae gae tae different degrees o'

competitiveness or cooperativeness in order tae gain his or her own personal

goals an' aspirations. The extent tae which ye might be willin' tae risk

e'erythin' tha' ye own or e'en yer life on the single throw o' the dice isna

necessarily the same as I might or might na' gae.

"Normal people only ha'e tae decide how far they're personally willin' tae

gae fer their own sake an' the sake o' their families. But ye ha'e tae alsae

think in terms o' wha' is in the best interest o' all yer people an' the realm.

"Emrys Ben-Eur once told me tha': 'The crown is mair important than any

one person, either ye or me, or all o' us put thegither. I ha'e tae think o'

wha' is the greater right an' follow tha' course o' action. Tha' is wha' bein'

the Pendragwn is all aboot.' He told me this at one o' those unhappy times in

my life. But I remember his words clearly, 'cause twas, then, tha' I realis'd

how truly great he was; an' in order tae fill his shoes, ye mus' understand it,

too, an' live by it as yer code o' conduct."

Myrddin's explanation has remained with me every day of my life since

then, and whenever I've reached one of those terrifying crossroads, I call to

mind a vision of him expostulating his doctrine of harnessing might for right,

or as he put it, balancing the duel between one's competitive nature and the

willingness to cooperate and get along with others for the sake of peace and

harmony.

But I must confess I know I haven't always taken the right course, because

nobody is perfect, and we all fail to do the right thing from time to time.

Our emotions get in the way of our thinking, because in the final analysis our

hearts and not our minds more often than not control our actions and,

therefore, our destinies.

Myrddin forgot to tell me that passions when red-hot cannot be bridled by

reason and sometimes friendships are lost over two friends' egos or pride.

They get in the way. Indeed.

And so all has come down to this, the eve of my first battle. Tomorrow,

at dawn, I go into combat to defend my crown, my Goddess, my realm and my

life. I'll either be victorious and become a hero or perish and be quickly

forgotten.

But tomorrow, no matter what the outcome, I'll kill for the first time.

I'm uncertain how I'll feel about that, although I'm thankful, at least, not to

be fighting against my own countrymen. We're facing the Englars and their

chieftain, Icel, in the last week of autumn in A.B. Fifteen Hundred and

Ninety-One.

Our encampment is at the debouchment of the Afon Glein, and I'm sitting in

my tent before a small table, unable to sleep and scribbling this brief account

of what may become a briefer career. Gai is here with me fast asleep as though

nothing is going to happen at first light.

But anxiety keeps me awake. How do my soldiers feel about following a

beardless youth into his first battle?

In reality, I'm no different than young Bedwyr, an untried officer

assigned to his very first command. The only difference is I'm wearing a crown

and Bedwyr is wearing the insignia of his rank as a junior officer. Outside of

that, we're identical. Neither he or I have yet to face our baptism of battle.

How, then, do soldiers feel about such untested leaders? Are they ready,

able and willing to make a stand and fight for someone they might consider no

more than a brash child, or do they hold back or lose hope and run away? Do

they obey orders or turn on their commanders when their orders cost lives? I

suppose there're as many answers as there're young officers who must brave the

enemy for the first time or even after that.

I feel I must win the respect of my men upon the field of battle by brave

deeds and win glory or die trying. There can be no other course for the lad

who'd be Pendragwn.

Yet, I've this need to know how the men feel about me. I want to know

where I stand, so I can ready myself for tomorrow's battle and calm my

jitters. Of course, Gai has no such doubts, as his snoring can attest.

His loud snores, however, aren't what's keeping me awake. It's my own

concerns, of which he obviously has none. Thank the Goddess for Gai. Gyner

was right. He's my bulwark.

Two hours ago, I put down my goose-feather pen and scroll and went outside

the tent. The guard at the entrance jumped to attention and saluted me as I

passed, banging his knuckles against his breastplate. Because I didn't wish to

be recognised again until I'd fulfilled my purpose, I picked up a discarded red

woolen sagum, the simple cloak of a soldier, and wrapped it around my

shoulders. I also put on an infantryman's conical helmet with a visor in order

to partially conceal my face. Then, picking my way through the darkness of the

night, I approached a group of older men collected around the nearest fire,

free to listen to their comments.

The men spoke in low hushed tones whilst sharing a cup of mulled wine

heated against the chill in the night air. One murmured a slur concerning the

manner of my birth, but others spoke up strongly in my defense, saying as

Uthr's rightborn son I'm the lawful heir to the Pendragwnship.

"After all," their decurion, an old veteran, reminded them, "naen ither

than the callan couldst pull the sword frae the stone, an' tha' is guid enough

fer me."

"Me, too," another agreed, "an' I'll wager the lad who kill'd the afanc

proves his claim on the field o' battle, jus' like his daddy didst. Tis in his

bluid!"

Thereafter, I wandered from campfire to campfire and heard the same. Much

relieved, I returnt to my tent and penned these last few lines before retiring

for the night. Now, I can sleep without the doubts of what destiny has in

store for me tomorrow.

But I'd only just shut my eyes when Myrddin came bursting into my tent.

He spoke of the Sight having come to him with a vision from the gods. He'd

dreamt of sacrificing a newborn calf to the Goddess and its blood had

splattered onto his clothing. Then, the Goddess herself had appeared before

him and presented her prophet with a new garment bearing the golden laurel

wreath of victory.

After telling me this, Myrddin produced the very robe he'd just described

and showed it to me. The auspices weren't just favourable, the Mother of

Mothers had herself given us the symbol of unquestioned victory.

The next morning Myrddin stood on the top of a hill with the whole army

about him. As the wind blew through his white hair and beard, the prophet

related his vision in a loud voice for everyone to hear. The soldiers cried

out demanding to see the robe.

"Here is yer proof!" Myrddin shouted.

Then, he held up the robe with the golden laurel wreath for all to see and

draped it around my shoulders. Such a good omen caused the whole army to roar

in elation, and confident of victory, my soldiers enthusiastically prepared to

meet the enemy.

Of course, it crossed my mind Myrddin could have made the robe himself and

invented the story to bolster everyone's morale. I wouldn't put it past him.

Sometimes, I think he's capable of anything to achieve what he desires.

My army was also ready to test Myrddin's new tactics. Years ago when the

prophet had gone to Pechtland as Emrys Ben-Eur's ambassador, he had the

occasion to see something he committed to memory until it could be put to good

use. He'd seen female warriors mounted on ponies with short bows practicing

together as a military unit.

When I renamed Bawdewyne as my Tywyssawc Llu, Myrddin explained to him the

importance of what he'd seen. Bawdewyne, himself a cavalryman, immediately saw

the advantage to what Myrddin was suggesting, an army of mounted bowmen.

From childhood, practically every free male Cymro and Brython is taught

the art of archery. Marksmanship is honed by shooting at targets for practice

and in local contests as well as by hunting game for the table. Myrddin simply

proposed we take this skill our men already possessed and put it to work for

us.

Of course, the principal weapons in the Celtic arsenals of war have

historically been the spear, sword and shield. But from time out of memory,

the yew and goose-feathered shaft have always been a mainstay of the peasantry,

normally drafted as light infantry during times of war.

Frankly, a good part of my army was made up of peasants, as the vast

majority of the nobility stood against me or were neutral. Thus, many of my

soldiers were more familiar with the bow and arrow than the other more

traditional weapons of war.

Because of this and also having seen the firepower and resulting

devastation caused by massed archers, Myrddin convinced my generals and I to

raise the bow and arrow to the highest level of weaponry. Moreover, he

suggested we combine this superior firepower of archery with the superior

shock-power of cavalry to create a new type of soldier, the horse-archer.

"Usin' the example o' the Hungvari, the Byzantines ha'e already develop'd

sic a soldier wi' guid effect against the Goths," Myrddin told us, "an' Uthr

us'd small units o' them in his army, too. Sith maist o' the armies we'll be

facin' consist primarily o' infantry encumber'd by heavy armour, we canst

employ the greater speed o' cavalry o'er their less mobile infantry."

"I see," I responded, nodding my head in agreement. "We canst unleash our

arrows frae a safe distance, 'cause they canna throw their spears as far, let

alone e'en bring their axes an' swords intae play. Thus, withouten comin'

intae hand-tae-hand combat, we couldst decimate their numbers. Then, wi' the

greater shock-power o' our horse-archers, we canst ride doon the survivors

usin' pila an' slashin' away at them wi' longswords frae the advantage o' a

greater height."

"Such tactics shouldst determine the final outcome in our favour,"

Bawdewyne affirmed.

"Ye're right, Bawdewyne," Myrddin concluded. "But the mobility o' our

army is maist important, 'cause Arthgwyr hast many enemies, who'll be comin' at

him frae e'ery direction. Therefere, we mus' ha'e a force tha' canst move

quickly frae one place tae anither in order tae intercept their independent

efforts. When necessary, we canst e'en ha'e our men dismount an' fight on

foot, but they'll still be able tae return tae their horses an' leave fer

where'er they're need'd next in all due speed."

Thus, the Brythonic horse-archer was born, armed with a shorter recurved

yew easier to shoot from horseback than our traditional longbows and also with

a pilum, a brace of hastae, a longsword and a smaller roundel, also easier to

use on horseback than the longer oblong shields used by the infantry. To

increase speed and so as not to tire our mounts, we abandoned the armour of

heavy infantry for that of light cavalry.

Of course, the Englars and Saesnaegs fight quite differently. Originally,

they came to the Island by sea, and with no room in their dragwn-headed

longships for horses, they're ill-experienced at fighting on horseback.

Better suited to fighting on foot, they mass their numbers with no thought

to military formations and charge wildly across the open ground to reach the

defenders of the land they hope to plunder. But I must admit these

shaggy-haired barbarians in their elk-horn helmets are hearty men and fearless

warriors. They've, indeed, justly earned the name of sea-wolves.

Knowing how the Englars fight, I placed the Afon Glein at our back, like

Hannibal did at Cannae, and let Icel think he had us trapped between his

warriors and the afon. This stratagem worked quite well.

In loose order, I'd thrown out a screening force along my front to give

the impression we were ill-prepared for an assault. Seeing us seemingly penned

in by the afon and apparently unready for an attack, Icel immediately massed

his army in the hopes of crushing us.

A loud shout came from the Englars and they charged across the field to

reach us for hand-to-hand combat. But before they got very far, a hail of

arrows from my screening force greeted them and quickly produced great gaps in

their ranks.

As the onrushing Englars drew closer, my outriders broke off at the sound

of my horn and skirted either to the right or left out of harm's way. Then,

the screening force circled back around the flanks of my army to the rear,

where they dismounted and joined the rest of my command as part of the third

line.

In preparation for this moment, I'd ordered the men to build a palisade of

pointed stakes as a defense and to dig a ditch outside the palisade all along

our front. This is what my screening force had been hiding from the Englars.

The combination of the ditch and palisade successfully thwarted the

enemy's charge, giving us the protection and time to pick our targets. Our

centre was composed entirely of dismounted horse-archers who shot their

greylag-feathered shafts into the heart of the enemy bringing them down like

sitting ducks unable to escape our arrows. The slaughter was so profound and

devastating the broken and disorderly mass of Englars soon lost heart and,

turning heel, fled, leaving us in complete possession of the field of battle.

I knew their retreat would bring them to the second afon. Before they

could recross it, we could catch up and force them into another bloody fight,

this time with their backs trapped against the afon; or if they got there first

and attempted to escape, we could riddle them with our arrows whilst they were

caught in the water. In either case, they'd pay dearly for invading our land.

Sounding the charge upon my horn, I wheeled my war-horse round and

personally led the ensuing attack. Resistless and elated, my horse-archers

rode after the Englars as they fled in rout before us.

Like a hawk stooping from on high upon its prey, I swooped down upon the

panic-stricken Englars as they ran on foot before me. I remembered the

slaughter of our unarmed nobles at the Cloister of Emberis, Natanleod's

terrible defeat at the Battle of Mearc Pedes Burna but most of all the massacre

of Anderida's inhabitants, every man, woman and child.

With spear and sword, I slew them. My war-horse, Dun Stallion, trampled

to death as many more with his hooves as we pursued them giving no quarter.

Blood and gore spattered me.

Rage took control of my mind in all its frenzy, and the ardour of battle

ruled my being. I scarcely knew what I was doing. Ironically, though, nothing

else mattered at that moment, only the killing.

Lad I went into my first battle, but lad I would never be again. I'd

learnt how easy it is to kill. It gave a sudden rush to my blood that raced

through me bringing an unquenchable fire. Only their spurting blood could put

this fire out, and as I'd once dreamt of making them pay for their crimes

against my people, so I did. But in the process, although I didn't know it

then, I paid, too, for I'd never be able to look at anything again through the

eyes of innocence.

Sensing their continued flight was futile, Icel and a hand-picked group of

his most loyal toisechs turnt to face us. The splendid array of my

horse-archers charged down upon them with me at the head. The Englars raised

their own bows and let their arrows fly. The galled horses of a whole section

of my mounted bowmen reeled and crashed to the ground throwing their riders. I

briefly heard screaming men and screaming animals around me until I rode out of

earshot.

As we plunged forward helter-skelter, we met the brandished spears of the

determined Englars whilst another group of them hurled themselves into the

melee bringing down charger after charger with their long curved scramaseaxes.

I couldn't determine how many of my riders were cut to ribbons. Those of us

who survived plunged into the wild Englars and I was flung from my horse to the

earth. Gai, with Lucan and Bedwyr fighting at his side, slew an Englar who

attempted to kill me whilst I was down, saving my life.

I jumped to my feet and found myself facing Icel himself, he who claimed

to be sixth in descent from the Englars' most powerful god, Woden, the ruler of

Valhalla. Now, fate decreed it was Icel's god against mine, or so others would

undoubtedly say, as the Pendragwns, too, claim descent from the gods, namely

our sea-god, Llyr, and his most worthy son, Bran the Blessed.

Strangely, Bran means 'raven', and the Englars often refer to Woden as the

raven-god. We were so close, yet so far apart.

Swinging a mighty hammer, Icel attacked me, but I managed to dodge the

blow and partially deflect it with my shield bearing my patroness. We danced

about flaying at one another as the battle continued to rage around us, with

Gai and his two young friends taking on the warlike toisechs.

Thankfully, this day the Celtic gods ruled supreme over Woden's

descendant. Icel went down before me. Wielding the Sword of Power with all my

might, the blade caught Icel square on the neck, and his fierce head struck the

ground with eyes staring wide open in perpetual surprise.

When his men saw his decapitated head rolling at their feet, they threw

down their arms and fled in mortal fear for their lives. They'd seen what was

unthinkable to them. Their god's descendant who led them had been beheaded by

the boy-king of their enemy. Thus, panic seized them, and they ran away

believing all was lost.

The remainder of my army, with Gai, Lucan and Bedwyr in the lead, gave

chase. Catching the fleeing toisechs wadding across the afon, they fired

volley after volley in devastating flights, killing more than reached the

safety of the opposite bank.

As I stood there pondering over Icel's headless corpse, Bawdewyne and

Jordan rode up with the reserves. Looking at the carnage around me, the

Tywyssawc Llu said: "Untri'd youth ye may ha'e come intae this battle but

tri'd an' true warrior ye leave it." He saluted me with his sword and rode

after the victorious vanguard before any of our young men foolishly crossed the

afon to give further chase.

A few moments later, Gai rode up with a big smile on his handsome face. I

was standing where I'd been, lamenting, perhaps, Bawdewyne's words, for if he

was right, I suddenly realised the joyous days of my boyhood where behind me,

and I could never return to them again. I can't say why that made me sad, but

it did. This rite of passage wasn't what I'd thought it would be.

"Luik wha' I ha'e!" Gai chortled, holding aloft Icel's severed head.

"Here is yer trophy," he shouted, tossing the head into my grasp. "Ye're now

one o' us, a proven warrior, an' yet, a callan o' only fifteen. Yer name will

ring wi' glory afere we're through, my brither." His cry of victory echoed to

the heavens.

"Thanks tae ye, Gai, I'm still alive. When I was thrown frae my horse . . ."

"Ferget it, brither mine. Someday ye'll return the favour."

Young Bedwyr, who'd also distinguished himself and like me had passed the

rites of manhood for the first time, came up leading Dun Stallion, with his

elder brother, Lucan, behind. Both had fought bravely and would earn written

commendations from me for their part in the battle. "Here is yer charger fer

ye, Arthgwyr."

Thanking him, I remounted, and the four of us rode back to camp together,

bearing Icel's talismanic head. From that moment onward, Gai, Bedwyr, Lucan

and I, have been inseparable, forming our own private brotherhood. As the

penteulu, Gai made Lucan my trullyat and Bedwyr my ceremonial cupbearer.

Thus ended the Battle of the Afon Glein, my first victory. The next

morning Bawdewyne and Jordan led our army further eastward to fight the

Englars' allies, the East Saesnaegs.

Their two ealdormen, Colgrin and Baldulf, made no attempt to bar our route

of march through their territory. We proceeded all the way to the coast

without meeting any opposition whatsoever from the East Saesnaegs.

To our complete surprise, we found they'd picked up and departed, perhaps

by ship we thought, bound for an unknown destination. The fact the East

Saesnaegs had embarked, taking their families and as much of their possessions

as they could with them, indicated the extent of fear generated by my victory

among all of the sea-wolves.

In their hasty departure, the East Saesnaegs left something most peculiar

behind, a pillar made from a roughed out tree. It stood in the middle of their

deserted hamlet.

"Wha' is this ugly-head'd thin'?" I asked Bawdewyne.

"Tha', my laird, is the column o' Irmin."

"Irmin?"

"Aye, the Saesnaegs call him Hermann an' the Romans kent him as Arminius."

"Oh," I recalled he was the hero of the Germanic peoples, the chieftain

who'd destroyed Augustus Caesar's legions in the forests on the right bank of

the Rhenvs. "Still an ugly brute, wadna ye say, Bawdewyne?"

"Truly sae, my laird."

I dismounted and approached the idol. "I wan' nae craven images o' these

heathens in my realm," I said. Taking my broadsword in both hands, I chopped

off the pillar's frightening head and pushed the remaining part of the column

down with my foot.

Thereafter, we advanced up the coast all the way to the old Roman civitas

of Camulodunum. The Romans built this walled fortress in stone upon the ruined

oppidum of Cunobelinus, our Cynobelin, at a ford of the Afon Coel Hen. A wall

and ditches secure the fort on the west whilst converging afons protect its

other three sides.

"This wouldst make a guid bastion tae guard our eastern border against

further inroads by the Englars," Bawdewyne suggested, sitting on his mount

beside me. "Sic a fortifi'd position shouldst prove indispensable in the

defense o' Caer Lludd itsel'. Besides, we need a garrison tae winter our

troops."

Nodding my head in agreement, I saw Gai riding up to us with Lucan and

Bedwyr. "Arthgwyr," he shouted, "I think we ha'e jus' sight'd yer first royal

residence. This is Caer Camulos, nam'd after the war-god himsel'. Wha' place

better tae set up yer court?"

"Verra guid, Gai. Let's ride in an' see wha' this erstwhile metropolis o'

the Romans hast tae offer."

As we entered Caer Camulos, Gai continued to tell me about the place,

saying: "Twas the verra first Roman capital o' the Island datin' back four an'

a half centuries. Except fer its destruction durin' Boudicca's Rebellion, the

vicus at the western side hast grown steadily through long habitation as a

prominent settlement o' several thousand souls, rankin' Caer Camulos as a major

civitas o' Roman times. Furthermair, the castellum sits strategically across

the sarn linkin' Caer Lludd tae the eastmost territory o' the Englars lyin' tae

our immediate north, call'd Ostaengland."

"Sae Bawdewyne hast said," I remarked. "If the Englars e'er attempt tae

strike at Caer Lludd, they canna bypass this fort withouten the fear o' bein'

attack'd in the rear. Only the reduction o' Caer Camulos wouldst enable them

tae march on Caer Lludd unmolest'd."

"Aye, Arthgwyr, tis true," Gai replied, "but jus' as importantly, we canst

alsae use this place as a base o' operations tae launch our attacks against the

Englars, fer the Roman sarns lead straight frae here intae Ostaengland."

Agreeing with Gai's assessment, I rightfully decided to make Caer Camulos

one of my primary residences in the circuit we'd talked about establishing. Of

course, it would mean maintaining a mobile court able to pick up at a moment's

notice to rotate from one site to the next as the need dictated, something like

the army I had to develop to deal with my enemies encroaching upon my realm.

Indeed, mobility, both for my court and my army, became of the utmost

importance for the governance and defense of Brythain, so much so that they

became indivisible aspects of my reign.

As time passed, we'd find other suitable locations, and Caer Camulos isn't

atypical of the other principal cities I've chosen to eventually hold my

court. Most of these residences have either a well-preserved Roman castellum

or a rebuilt one.

Surrounding Caer Camulos' castellum are great stone walls, nearly two

milliaries in circumference, eight feet thick and fifteen feet high, with the

upper three feet being the parapet. The walls enclose approximately one

hundred and eight erwau.

Inside the walls, the wealthier merchants own shops or stalls around the

four hundred by six hundred foot forum, a grand piazza serving as the

commercial and social hub of the community. Outside the western parth, the

smaller thatch-rooft shops, taverns and hovels of the poorer merchants and

peddlers form irregular rows with narrow unpaved streets. A settlement arose

here as a natural result of its proximity to the principal thoroughfare of the

district, the sarn from Caer Lludd, which enters the castellum through the

western parth.

This one hundred and seven foot wide entrance, called Parth Balkerne, has

four archways, two in the centre for the heavier traffic and narrower ones on

either side for pedestrians. Quadrant-shaped bastions flank the archways

serving as guardhouses for the security force manning the wall.

The main sarn runs from Parth Balkerne to the Roman principia or

'headquarters' at the centre of the castellum. This two hundred and fifty foot

square building with a paved courtyard and colonnaded walk dominates the

castellum. Myrddin has promised the principia will eventually house my Round

Table, where I'll meet with my champions for war councils.

Along the main sarn within the castellum, an open space measuring about

fifty feet wide divides the living quarters of my champions from the wooden

bakeries and cookhouses, thus isolating those buildings which might start a

fire. In addition, we've discovered this open space serves other useful

purposes. Troops train there, and in the event an attacking force should

breach the walls, it's the only place within the walls where we can marshal our

men and form secondary lines for our defense.

When we first came to Caer Camulos, I found the settlers had moved inside

the walls and occupied the buildings of the onetime Roman garrison. Their

leaders came out to pay their respects and find out what I wanted.

At their head was the aedile, an old bearded man, responsible for the

maintenance of all public works, who seemed hesitant to approach and needed

urging by his fellows. With him were the two duoviri, younger men, who kept

the justice, as well as the town's praetor, censor, quaestor and the decurions

who made up the ordo or town council. The remainder included the town's chief

patrons and their clients, all anxious to discover my designs for their town.

I scolded the aedile for the obvious general deterioration of the place,

words he apparently had expected to hear, hence his reluctance to come out and

greet me. Then, I had my soldiers chase the people out forcing them back into

the settlement and took control of the battlemented fort itself for my court.

The praetorium of the Roman commander, a one-storied stone structure with

a columned portico and gardens, became the royal palatium. For added defense,

Gwlyddyn the Carpenter built a wooden palisade of smooth square timber around

the palatium. Within this enclosure, he also built my primary hall, a number

of smaller wooden houses and the royal spense. Following the example of the

Romans, the spense stands alone in case of fire.

I suppose it's ironic in a way, for in the midst of this Roman castellum

we built my fair and roomy hall, Ehangwen, in the Celtic style. Its high

vaulted, thatched roof is supported by rafters on fluted pillars. Wicker

partitions divide the outer perimeter into semi-private dining cubicles where

small groups recline on animal pelts, rushes or low lounges. They face inward

toward the raised dais in the centre where I sit with my special guests. This,

of course, is all very un-Roman by design.

Hanging oil lamps provide the light for our nocturnal feasts, wooden boards

resting on supports serve as our tables, and rushes on the floor mask the

underlying debris only periodically swept out. To keep us warm in the

wintertime, attendants maintain fires in the brasiers situated along the centre

aisle.

Caethion carrying platters of roasted game and alehorns topped with foam

move among the raucous revellers. My favourite foods are roast venison hot

from the fire, buttered partan in the shell, smoked saumont, tripe soup with

lentils, calf's sweetbread baked in a pasty and stuffed pig's foot. For

entertainment, minstrels play, bards tell their tales, and jugglers and

magicians do their tricks; but for intellectual stimulation, I personally

prefer gwyddbwyll at which Myrddin is the acknowledged master, although I've

beaten him once or twice.

In my palatium, several of the floors are decorated with Roman mosaics.

For instance, the antechamber to the reception hall contains one depicting the

Judgment of Paris with the young shepherd being bribed by the three goddesses

as he tends his flock of sheep on top of Mount Ida sitting under an

overspreading olive tree.

I also have a private tiled bath, unfortunately in need of considerable

repair. But whenever I decide to marry, I'll have it fixed for my future

bride.

In the other rooms, tapestries cover the plaster walls adding another

layer of insulation against the cold and bitter drafts at night. A hypocaust

and flues under the floor also need restoration. Once they're fixed, I'll have

heat throughout the palatium.

A number of private bedchambers await my most distinguished guests, as

well as smaller rooms for their personal servants. Special houses are also

kept available within the castellum for guests of lesser rank, such as visiting

dignitaries, ecclesiastic leaders, ambassadors and the like.

My personal suite of rooms is rather Spartan by comparison. The walls are

bare, except for crossed swords and military maps. On one wall, I have a

cabinet with many partitions to hold important scrolls Myrddin has given me to

read. It seems I'm spending more and more of my time pouring over these

documents of state, mostly petitions for me to hear cases pending judgment.

Oil lamps light my room as they do in the great hall. A huge bearskin

lays on the floor, and I have a table, a pair of finely woven wicker caders and

a wooden one with my pot. The dominant piece of furniture is my bed, a massive

oaken frame that can sleep four comfortably on its mattress filled with straw.

My retainers and the young noblemen of my court live in their own houses

within the walls. Their homes are simple wooden structures adorned with rude

magnificence, according to the rank, fortune or taste of the owner. My

liegemen are haughty lairds, very jealous of their individual positions and

prerogatives; and therefore, the nearer their homes are to the palatium, the

higher the rank of the occupant, not to mention the larger the size of the

dwelling itself.

Nearby is the many-columned temple of Imperator Claudius, originally built

on the site of Cunobelinus' kraal. Since the departure of the legions from

Brythain a little over eighty years ago, the imperator's statue has been cast

down and his temple taken over by the Christians. I had the Christians removed

from the temple as they'd no legal right to keep it.

Myrddin says these Christians have no respect for other religions, or for

the property of others either. Although he might very well be right, I can't

afford to openly critise the Christians, for they make up the majority of my

supporters. As it is, they aren't at all happy with me for taking the temple

away from them, especially as I restored it to its former glory in the name of

the Goddess, my own patroness.

Besides the palatium, principia, forum and temple, several other

Roman-built buildings are still standing within the castellum. Some of them

include a ceremonial hall, drill hall, armoury, storehouses, workshop, a

hospital dedicated to Lludd, and a block of offices. Along one wall, granaries

rest on pillars. The barracks, each housing a century with a spacious suite

for the centurion, are long and narrow affairs, marked by their extreme

plainness and dreary uniformity.

Myrddin also insisted on a library and observatory for himself which I

readily provided by giving him the exclusive use of one of the towers along the

wall. It's here the famed Prophet of the Goddess studies and plans the wonders

he works which hold everyone in awe. But after one of his awful seizures, when

the Sight comes to him, he usually disappears rather mysteriously. The

peasants say he repairs to a secret cave near the tref of his birth where he's

able to recover his strength from the dark ones living in the hollow hills.

Some believe he goes to the chalk cliffs south of Caer Lludd honeycombed with

old caves long used by the druids.

Whilst with us, Myrddin took me to a tumulus on the outskirts of Caer

Camulos. "Dost ye ken who is buri'd here?" he asked.

"Nae, Myrddin, I dinna ken."

"Tis the tumulus o' one o' the wisest brenhins o' our people. Here lies

the feyther o' noble Guiderius an' the brave Arviragus."

"Cynobelin!"

"Aye, Arthgwyr, yer ancestor, Cynobelin."

I collected some wild flowers in the surrounding pasture and placed them

gently upon the raised earthen mound. This was holy ground. Cynobelin or

Cunobelinus as the Romans called him had been a great ruler. His father,

Tehvant, had been a younger brother of our greatest leader, Caswallawn, who'd

followed Bran the Blessed upon the cader. Togodumnos or Guiderius, Cynobelin's

eldest son, died fighting the Romans, and his brother, Arviragus, carried on

the struggle against our oppressors, as did Caswallawn's worthy son, Caradawc,

whose daughter Eigen, became the first female saint of Brythain.

"How dae I descend frae them?" I asked.

Myrddin smiled. "Ye're a direct descendant o' Bran the Bless'd, kinsman

o' baith Caswallawn an' Cynobelin's feyther. Cadwr o' Caernarfon trac'd his

lineage back tae Bran. His son, Eudaf, marri'd the last heiress o' the House

o' Arviragus an', thereby, became the pencenedl o' the Gewissi. This tribe was

nam'd after Arviragus' wife, Genvissa, the dochter o' Imperator Claudius.

Ye're eighth in descent frae Eudaf. Therefere, the bluid o' Bran flows in yer

veins, as well as tha' o' Arviragus an' his feyther, Cynobelin."

"Who, then, really are my parents."

"As ye ha'e bin told, Uthr an' Eigyr are yer feyther an' mither."

The next day we went to a fair at the temple of Camulos which lies outside

the city to the southwest. It was a pleasant time, and I decided we should

have an annual fair at the place and a folk festival performed in the nearby

theatre with local costumes, dancers and a chorus, musicians, playactors and

other performers to entertain the spectators.

But I'll never forget what occurred at the war-god's temple. I went there

with Myrddin, Cadwr, Gyner, Gai, Bedwyr and Lucan.

Within the temple is a crypt under the floor, symbolic of the grotto or

womb of the Great Mother.[27] I was made to kneel there before a altar, with

Lucan to my left and Bedwyr to my right.

Before the elders left us to perform our all night vigil, I remember

studying the altar. It was made of dark oak, nearly black with great age, and

crudely hand-chiseled into the shape of a grown man asleep with his knees up to

his chest lying within a circular wall representing the realm as well as the

womb of the moon-goddess.

The man was mustachioed and had a well-kept beard and long flowing hair.

He also bore a crown and was dressed in royal robes. Without doubt, he

represented a sacred-ricon.

Around the altar's outer sides, many curious designs and representations

caught my eye. I saw a old crone squatting with her legs wide open displaying

her communal vulva available for man's pleasure. On the next panel, I saw a

company of spurred riders on horseback carrying long pointed spears held

upright. A ceremonial procession showed a youth bearing a pilum dripping drops

from the head which fell into a horn held below by a maiden, and behind them

came another maiden carrying a salver upon which rested a severed head. The

old gods were there, too--antlered Cernunnos sitting crosslegged before his

cauldron; Esus bearing a sackful of coins; bearded Taranis carrying a shield

and gnarled club with his wheel representing eternal life at his feet; and

mighty Teutates, the Laird of the Tribe, holding a human sacrifice in each

hand. Finally around the base, human skulls piled upon one another served as

the altar's supports.

Then, taking their flickering tapers with them, the elders departed,

leaving us in the pitch-blackness of the grotto, and I could no longer see the

altar, nor my friends kneeling beside me. I felt very much alone.

But all night above us, I heard the muffled sound of feet crossing the

floor. I could hear the breathing of my two companions, which somehow

reassured me. I wasn't alone after all.

My body ached from lack of movement. Before me on the ground was Icel's

head from which I felt the clammy chill of death.

But I also knew the hot fever of exultation in my recently won manhood.

We were being initiated into that passage every youth dreams of. Henceforth, we

would be counted as men, but there was more.

Suddenly at dawn the next morning, flames burst forth on the altar into a

fire, which momentarily blinded me as I wasn't used to the light after having

been in the dark so long. Then, as my vision returnt to me, I saw three

white-robed figures standing before us. The one in the middle turnt around to

face my friends and I.

It was Myrddin and the other two were Cadwr and Gyner. They were our

sponsors.

Myrddin asked each of us to state his name, lineage and rank, which we

dutifully did. Then, he placed chaplets of mistletoe upon our heads and raised

a golden sickle into the air. He began to chant.

"Devote yer minds, hearts an' spirits tae the service o' the Goddess on

High, an' worship Her wi' the fruits o' the earth which She creat'd fer the

benefit o' mankind."

"Amen," we intoned.

"Protect Her sacr'd sanctuaries frae all evil-daers."

"Amen."

"Defend the Bless'd Horn o' Carbenoit, the symbol o' Her everlastin'

abundance."

"Amen."

"Honour an' obey the Burd o' the Loch as the Goddess' representative on

earth."

"Amen."

"Honour an' obey those set above ye in the Holy Britherhuid o' the Bless'd

Horn."

"Amen."

"Follow the five precepts o' the Holy Britherhuid, which are generosity,

kindness, abstinence, courtesy an' reverence. Let these be the bywords o' the

rest o' yer lives."

"Amen."

"Arise, my sons, ye're now members o' the secret Britherhuid o' the

Bless'd Horn."

Next, we offered the heads we'd brought with us to the sacred flames and

knelt once again. We prayed as the heads burnt in the patera on the altar.

"O, Albion Diana," I prayed, "as yer vicegerent in Brythain, let me rule

wisely. Let those who wilna abide wi' me see the error o' their ways an'

return tae the fold. Let me bring peace tae our Island, an' let me restore the

laws o' the Pendragwn, sae our people will ken justice at last. Finally, let

me ha'e an heir who canst carry on after me. Amen."

Whilst we were busy restoring Caer Camulos to its once great splendour,

one day the young and glamourous Llewnor, Sefain's most enchanting daughter,

came on behalf of her father who was suffering at the hands of my enemies in

Ceredigion. She overwhelmed me with her devastating loveliness, which pleased

her; and that night she gave herself to me, becoming my very first woman. I'm

afraid I take after Uthr Pendragwn when it comes to the fairer sex. I'm

thrilled by them. I didn't marry her, because I didn't love her, but she bore

me my first child, a son, named Anir.

However, I wasn't there for the birth. The spring of anno Brythain

Fifteen Hundred and Ninety-Two had come, and it was time for our next military

campaign against my enemies. I wanted to strike them this time before they

attacked me. At least, that was our plan.

Authored by

Arthgwyr Pendragwn,

Dux Bellorum of Brythain

at Caer Camulos

in anno Brythain MDXCII

BOOK VII

A LETTER TO MY DEAR WIFE

CHAPTER I

* THE REBUILDING OF CAER CAMULOS *

My Dearest Andrifedd, pursuant to your request I herein enclose the story of my life with my foster-brother in those early years before our wedding day and the building of our happy home at Dinas Gai in Goddeu. To write the life of him, who's excelled all others in life, would be presumptuous of me, and a task beyond my undertaking.

Quite honestly, Arthgwyr confounds the ages and prevents the revelation of

the real man without the trappings of his legend, for no figure in our history

is more shrouded by differing tales and obscured by worship and awe than my

brother. All the picklocks of time displaced have tried in vain to discover

the key to open the door of knowledge about him, but all have failed to divine

the truth. Contradictions abound, and those with opposing views refuse to

listen to any other voice but their own. Thus, to gain a fuller appreciation

of him in the terms of the epoch in which he lives, the truth-seeker must

explore those early years rather than the later ages of distant time, when the

true Arthgwyr has become lost within his legend.

Truthfully, no one beside himself is more familiar with those early years

than I, your devoted husband. I've stayed near at hand, because he needs me to

protect him; but I've stayed for myself, too, because I need him just as much.

My reasons for remaining at his side, then, are very simple. He's my

little brother, and I love him. After all these years, I know you, my dear

wife, have come to understand the brotherly love Arthgwyr and I feel for one

another is real and will always keep us together.

So, I find myself in a unique position. I can tell you more about

Arthgwyr than anyone alive and hope you find it interesting.

Those early years of his reign were fraught with twelve great battles. In

the first, we stopped the Englars' advance against Lindum at the mouth of the

Afon Glein, where Arthgwyr earned his manhood and the right to be called a

warrior by slaying Icel, the Englar chieftain, who claimed descent from Woden.

Arthgwyr's soldiers elevated him upon their shields in the tradition of

the Roman legionaries proclaiming a new imperator as had been done at Eborawc

for Custennin Mawr. But because the realm was still divided, we hailed him as

our dux bellorum, giving him the same powers and responsibilities as the

Romans' magister ultriusque militiae or magister militum. In time, however, he

would assume the higher dignities of Pendragwn of the Isles and Brenhin of All

Brythain. But the masses normally thought of him as their amherawdyr, our

equivalent of imperator.

Immediately after the Battle of the Afon Glein, we unearthed Caer Camulos

from its abysmal gloom and raised it to its glory for one brief shining moment

in the annals of our nation's history. It was here Arthgwyr first established

his imperial court, surrounding himself with the bright young men of the age.

Convoking a council of his champions, he laid before us his resolution to

unite the Pendragwnship under his rule. No one objected, nor wished to. For

once, we were of an unanimous accord. Brythain had been mute too long,

becoming a realm governed by discord, not by laws.

Indeed, the Island had suffered through a long era of desolation. The

voices of reason and moderation had gone unheeded, and as occurs in such bad

times, the people had lost all hope and no longer believed there'd be a bright

future. Instead, they looked back to the grandeur of the good old days,

whether good or not, in order to escape the misery of the present.

Now, as the heir presumptive of the Pendragwnship, Arthgwyr suddenly burst

upon the scene and changed all of that. He became the symbol of our renewed

hope, and we no longer needed to dream of better times in the past but focused

our attention ahead, seeing in Arthgwyr the future glory of the realm, an

attitude not uncommon to the followers of a rising star.

As a pretext for our design, my brother sent a summons to all the great

brenhins, righs, ricons, and ricas, who comprise the royal houses of the

Isles. He ordered them to attend him at Caer Camulos where they'd pay him

homage as their lawful owrelaird and promise their fealty.

But only those having previously rendered their allegiance to him as their

feudal liege obeyed his summons. As expected, the others remained at home in

defiance, refusing to acknowledge him. This gave us the excuse to go gather

them up once the weather permitted. In the meantime, we stayed snug in our

winter quarters.

Caer Camulos! Never has there been a more agreeable spot. It's the pride

of Arthgwyr's reign and rightly so.

There're other larger places, but we love Caer Camulos the best of all,

undoubtedly because Arthgwyr chose it as the first in the circuit of imperial

residences we eventually established. But that's just a superficial reason.

More to the point, the many good memories shared here have brought us back more

often to Caer Camulos than to any other place.

But the castellum wasn't a very pretty sight when we first found it. The

onetime Roman capital of Brythain had fallen into considerable disrepair. Much

of its surrounding walls had crumpled necessitating new stone to fill the

holes. Anything made of wood, like beams, parthion or other structural

materials, likely required replacing, too, as the originals had rotted away or

become wormy, and the ditches outside the walls all had to be redug.

Inside the castellum itself, many of the buildings had been vandalised,[28]

some utterly gutted, the stones of their walls having been knocked down and

their floors dug up to be taken away and reused elsewhere, necessitating

extensive repair work. Moreover, furniture, utensils and everything necessary

to set up housekeeping had to be acquired, including the procurement and proper

storage of food and supplies.

I was especially busy since my brother had appointed me as his penteulu, a

Cymric title meaning 'chief of the household'. Thus, your proud husband, Gai

the Champion of Champions, son of Gyner the Ecttwr of Mathtrafal, son of Osmael

the Hero, began his lifelong career of overseeing the help in the culina, and

Fornax became my patron.

As you know, having to put up with my work all these years, the penteulu

is the chief superintendent of all the imperial estates, responsible for

directing the activities and domestic arrangements relative to the household

staff, the Pendragwn's table and the imperial court. In addition, I manage

Arthgwyr's personal agenda, trying to anticipate his plans, schedule meetings,

make preparations, and supervise events, although Myrddin was somewhat involved

in these things as well as myself.

As part of my duties, Arthgwyr put me in charge of renovating the palatium

and other imperial apartments. In reality, though, turning Caer Camulos into a

lairdly pleasure-house wherein the great could dwell has become a never-ending

process.

Due to the extent of the destruction, Gobhan Saer, the master architect,

had to entirely remodel our quarters. Under his watchful eye, Gwlyddyn the

Carpenter, our chief builder, brought in new stone for the floors, plastered

the walls, and found new tile to replace the roofs or resorted to thatch.

In these early years, only three other officials at court were on the same

level as myself. They were Myrddin, Osla and Bawdewyne.

As the ardcanghellor, Myrddin headed the chancery and, thereby, oversaw

foreign affairs and the judicial system. His main task was to insure the

equality of justice within the realm and to keep us out of trouble with foreign

nations.

"Howe'er," as he explained to us one afternoon in the garden, "as the

realm continues tae grow, the tendency taeward a feudal state, ha'in' as its

basis the relation o' laird tae vassal wi' all land held in fee, alsae grows.

As a result, justice oft exists at the whim o' the laird an' differs frae place

tae place as each comes under the rule o' different lairds."

"Then, wha' mus' we dae tae establish equal justice fer all?" Arthgwyr

asked.

"Tae start wi', we'll create eyres, each ha'in' as its seat one o' the

imperial residences Gai hast recommend'd. We'll assign a brahudur llys an'

gostechur as a duumvirate o' the assizes tae ride each eyre tae hear appeals

tae the judical decisions render'd by the lairds."

"I dinna understand," Arthgwyr responded.

"Tis simple really," Myrddin answered, sitting on a bench under an apple

tree, as Arthgwyr and I stood by listening to him. "The duumvirates shall

check-up on the lairds, an' as the imperial court moves frae one seat tae the

next, higher appeals shall be heard by a imperial tribunal."

"Wha's an imperial tribunal?" Arthgwyr asked, walking back and forth

before Myrddin kicking an apple which had fallen from the overhanging branches

of the tree.

"The highest court in the land," Myrddin replied, "where ye'll sit in

final judgment o'er yer people."

And so it is. Arthgwyr in person or his surrogate, usually the

ardcanghellor, hears the appeals brought before them as a means of checking

upon the decisions rendered by the duumvirates. Hence, as part of Myrddin's

judicial reforms, orderly courts of assize have been put into effect to insure

the equality of justice throughout the realm.

To achieve further uniformity, Myrddin appointed Father Tolomeo,

previously the chaplain of His Holiness Pope Felix III, to copy and distribute

important precedent making cases to each eyre. In this way, the decisions and

sentences handed down in all cases are based upon a common understanding of the

law.

With Osla's reappointment as the penmaer, control was also brought back to

the treasury. Tax collectors travelling the same circuit as Myrddin's

duumvirates returnt with the gold and silver needed to finance Arthgwyr's

plans. Osla even instituted a full accounting of all revenues and

expenditures, as well as independent audits to verify the tally reported by the

maer of each imperial estate regarding the livestock, cymry, taeogion and

caethion, manors and other valuables. In the same vein, he also kept track of

the numbers of officers and men and their pay, the type or class, number and

cost of armaments and ships, and the like for our military and naval forces,

too.

As our magister equitum or senior general of cavalry, Bawdewyne held the

Cymric title of tywyssawc llu which means 'leader of the host'. In this

capacity, he oversaw the recruitment, training, arming, garrisoning,

provisioning and other logistical matters relative to Arthgwyr's standing

army. He was also responsible for the building and maintenance of our navy.

However, in the beginning, our army was nowhere near as large or well-trained

as it would become, and we virtually had no navy at all. But Bawdewyne and his

second-in-command, Jordan the Portglave, soon built an army of consular size

and a fleet of warships.

To assist the tywyssawc llu, Arthgwyr appointed four theatre commanders,

Brastius Blood-Axe in the north, Geraint along the Saesnaeg shore, Erbin in the

southwest and Father in the west. Sadly, Geraint and Erbin are no longer with

us, and Brastius and Father are retired. Now, others serve in their stead.

Under them are a strata of vassals from cnichts up to high lairds, with their

own liegemen and men-at-arms making up private comitatae which are banded

together in times of war as militia.

To this day, the champions of Arthgwyr's Round Table and a whole host of

counsellors, courtiers and hangers-on comprise the imperial court itself.

These people may come and go as it pleases Arthgwyr, but whilst in residence,

my staff serves their needs.

Needless to say, an army of servants travels with the court. Another large

body of menials is also required on a permanent basis to maintain and defend

each imperial estate, to till the soil, grow and harvest the crops, tend to the

animals, store provisions, and perform other tasks. So many jobs are necessary

to support this system, it would be impossible for one person to control every

aspect without some kind of administrative assistance. Therefore, to help me

in my duties, I've appointed a number of deputies to carry out my instructions.

With respect to our protection whilst in residence, Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr is

the drysaur, responsible for defending the main parth and for admitting and

announcing those who seek audience with Arthgwyr. Captain Albanact oversees the

guards at their posts, and Gwenwynwyn, the master-at-arms, maintains the peace

in Ehangwen, Arthgwyr's great hall where the court meets for its meals.

Three of my other chief assistants are Odyar Franc, Lucan mab Pedrawd, and

his younger brother, Bedwyr the Bold. Odyar is the dysteyn, Lucan the trullyat

and spenser, and Bedwyr the ceremonial cupbearer and his brother's helper.

As the dysteyn, Odyar is second only to me in the management of the

farmland and livestock of all the imperial demesnes. Under his direction,

Amaethon the Ploughman sees to the planting and harvesting of the grain, and

Amaethon's brother, Gofannon, is the chief blacksmith and medyt of our

favourite drink.

The use of the imperial demesnes for hunting and forestry comes under

Odyar's authority as well. Countless huntsmen, dog-handlers, fowlers,

falconers and foresters are charged with providing meat for our table and for

protecting our game, especially the imperial deer, from poachers.

In Lucan's spense and bakery, scores of cooks, bakers, serving maids,

scullions and the like scurry about at his command. With respect to

housekeeping, he also has countless chambermaids, seamstresses, laundresses,

tailors and other maids and manservants at his beck and call. In addition, he

oversees the waitingmaids, nursemaids for the children, tutors, wards of the

crown, pages, footman, craftsmen, artisans, courtesans, playactors, muscians,

singers and other liveries, menials and doxies who assist or serve him in his

duties.

In the service of Bedwyr, the vivandiere collects and delivers Amaethon's

produce, Gofannon's mead and the hunters' game for storage, winter provisions

in the horreum, amphorae of oil in the olearium, and dolia of domestic mead and

ale and imported wine in the cella vinariae. Chwimbiane, now the Burd of the

Loch, started out in this capacity after her uncle, the peerless Pellinore,

brought her to court many years ago.

Whilst wintering in Caer Camulos, Llewnor ferch Sefain arrived with a

message from her father asking for help against a giant robbing and murdering

the people in Ceredigion. As Arthgwyr wished to obtain the sword of this giant

for a cousin to fulfill a boon, he sent Bedwyr and me to aid Yerl Sefain.

On a day I'll never forget, Bedwyr and I decided to climb Plinlimmon to

get a good vantage point for overlooking the land and finding the whereabouts

of the giant. Upon reaching the summit, we sat on the beacon cairn of

Gwylathyr in the strongest wind the world has ever seen, a wizard's helmwind.

At that very same moment far away in Caer Camulos, Llewnor became

Arthgwyr's initiatress in the arts of love, and I believe in an attempt to

ensnare him a child was quickly conceived. But my brother wasn't so easily

caught. He sent the pregnant temptress away to bear her child in seclusion and

without the benefit of wedlock.

Spring! That most beautiful time of year brings the sunlight to end

winter's rule over the land. Flowers break through the earth's crust in their

thousands, filling the meadows and forming a colourful blanket delighting the

eye. The sweet perfume of renewed life permeates the air and hearts eagrely

turn to romance and love. As the symbol of these things, the springtime

maiden, Creiddyledd, is honoured on Maia Calends, when the people can go abroad

once more, no longer homebound by winter's icy blasts.

But, ironically, military campaigns also open in the spring. War and

plunder occurs. Homesteads are pillaged, caers sacked, and people killed.

Indeed, the land is laid waste and runs red with blood, giving another entirely

different meaning to spring.

Thus, spring brings the two contrasting occurrences ruling our passions.

One represents the joy and beauty Mother Nature brings and the other the

horrors and death brought by the hand of man; and yet, these contradictory

events occur simultaneously, one beside and within the other.

I confess I haven't the subtlety to make any sense of it. I'm but a man

of my times, a warrior--plain and simple--nothing more, for that is what our

era demands.

It's a savage age when any man who can't fight had better wear the tonsure

and cowl. Such is the only defense for the meek in these barbaric times. But

even then, the garb of the clergy is no guarantee of safety, for the sea-wolves

regularly murder our priests and violate our nuns.

And so that first spring at Caer Camulos was no different than any other.

We prepared for war.

To the north lay the Afon Dubglas marking the southern boundary of

Ostaengland, once part of our patrimony but now the home of the deforciants

from the sea. Wishing nothing more than to reclaim what was ours, we assembled

our army and marched north to fight the piratic Englars for the wheat fields

they'd stolen from us.

A short way inland from the afon's mouth, the swift tidal flow broadens;

and at a noticeable bend, the Dubglas forms three spurs. Between the spurs,

two flat-bottomed combes run invitingly into the hinterland. The one to the

north tends to lead away from the heart of the district. But the southern

combe runs directly into it, forking into two arms that create gentle dales of

standing grain.

At the deepest water in the bed of this southern combe, an elevated ridge,

which the Englars call Hoo Hill, rises along the north side of a covert of

alder. Beneath the ridge, the bank is steep but provides access to the best

anchorage against the afon's eagre.

To protect this anchorage for their fleet of longships, the Englars built

a hill-fort on the ridge. The steep-banked combe, the covert and the ridge all

served to protect the hill-fort from attack.

It was a fine wooden stockade, commanding all approaches as well as having

a fairly extensive prospect south over the combe and westward into the dale.

Any opposing land force had to come from these directions, enabling the

hill-fort's garrison plenty of time to spot an approaching enemy long in

advance and, thereby, to prepare for defensive action.

With such a vista of the area, it seemed impossible to employ the element

of surprise against this position. But that master schemer, Myrddin, had a

plan. Luckily for us, he was on our side, for Myrddin the Magician always had

a trick up his sleeve.

He brought us north in the dark, leading the way with Cynddylig the

Ghillie at his side. Superstitions being what they are, the men were very much

afraid. Nighttime, afterall, is when the powers of darkness rule and Otherworld

goblins can snatch away a man's soul in a breath. Therefore, crossing hostile

territory in the dead of night behind a man greatly feared caused much

grumbling in the ranks.

Finally, we came to the southern branch of the Afon Dubglas, and stretched

out before us was the Vale of the Tref of Rendles. Upon first catching glimpse

of it, our eyes widened in amazement, for the encampment of an entire tribe

sprawled across the dale, blocking our path to the palisaded fort on Hoo Hill.

"Who're they, Myrddin?" Arthgwyr asked, seated on his charger and pointing

with his truncheon at the makeshift settlement of wooden huts in the dale.

"There're sae many o' them," Arthgwyr went on, gesturing with a sweep of his

hand.

Plumes of smoke and sparks from countless fires rose upwards into the sky,

and the cold night air was filled with the smell of burning wood. We'd

expected to find nothing more than a small Englar hamlet below the hill-fort,

not an enemy encampment as large as this.

Myrddin, too, was apparently taken by surprise. It looked as though the

entire Englar nation stood before us. The shaman scratched his head in wonder.

"How didst they get all o' their people doon frae the north sae quickly

tae oppose us?" I inquired.

"Nae, tha's na' it, Gai," Myrddin finally spoke. "These people arena

Englars."

"Who're they, then?"

"Dinna ye see? Now, we ken where the East Saesnaegs gaed. These are

Colgrin's people."

"I see," Arthgwyr said as the truth of Myrddin's words dawned on him.

"Instead o' hopelessly attemptin' tae oppose our advance intae their territory

last fall after we defeat'd an' slew Icel, they withdrew here wi' their

families. In this way, they couldst join up wi' the Englars in a common effort

against us, gi'in' them a better chance o' defendin' themselves."

"Precisely," Myrddin pronounced.

"We're in fer a terse engagement, then," I put in. "Wi' their wives an'

weans at their backs, they'll fight tae the death tae protect them."

"Arthgwyr," Osla began, "we mus' attack in force now an' catch them

unawares afere their warriors canst group fer battle."

"If we ride intae their settlement in the dark, women an' babies will be

kill'd durin' the attack. I canna permit tha' tae happen."

"But, Arthgwyr, those we let live," Osla argued, "will grow up, an' our

bairns will ha'e tae fight them someday. Why na' jus' slaughter the whole

brood now an' be daen wi' them fer guid?"

"'Cause we are na' foul murderers o' innocents!" Arthgwyr snapped. "Is

tha' how ye wouldst wish us tae be remember'd? Tha' we rode doon on a sleepin'

clachan an' butcher'd e'eryone like Aelle didst at Anderida?"

"Better tha' than condemnin' our own progeny tae be murder'd at the hands

o' those we let live or are yet tae be born," Osla blurted back.

"Na' as long as I live," Arthgwyr seethed through clinched teeth. "We

encamp here fer the night an' face the enemy taemorrow in broad daylight when

men canst face one anither honourably an' let the gods decide who'll live an'

who'll die."

Osla scowled. But inwardly, I was glad, for I knew Arthgwyr had made the

right decision. As Father had taught us, true warriors must be men of honour,

or they lose all respect for life and the living. In battle, I never found

Arthgwyr wanting in either honour or courage, and I've always felt great pride

in fighting at his side. This night, he proved himself to be a man of noble

heart. He didn't attack the settlement and the innocents were spared.

Turning to Bawdewyne and Jordan, he barked his orders: "Prepare the camp,

double the sentries an' send out yer scouts tae reconnoitre the enemy

positions. I wan' tae ken the full extent o' wha' we face on the morrow an' I

alsae wan' tae ken where their longships are. If we canst, we mus' destroy

their fleet, sae they canna escape us this time. Nae campfires taenight. I

dinna wan' tae alert the Saesnaegs tae our presence."

"As ye command, my laird," the brave tywyssawc llu responded with a salute

of his fist to his breastplate.

We wheeled our horses about and returnt to the tiny army behind us. It

was a long night. Before dawn, riders returnt to our camp from scouting the

enemy's positions. Bawdewyne came to Arthgwyr's tent. Neither my brother nor I

were asleep. Myrddin was with us as we poured over the map of the area trying

to become as familiar as possible with the terrain where we'd fight the next

day.

"They ken we're here," Bawdewyne told us. "They ha'e sent reinforcements

tae the fortress on the ridge an' the remainder o' their men ha'e taken up

positions on the ither side o' the Afon Dubglas." He bent over the map and

pointed with his finger. "Here, here an' here."

"Sound the bugle an' call the men tae arms."

Bawdewyne strode from the tent, and immediately, we heard the tantara of

horn after horn as the bugler of each century picked up the call and repeated

it down the line. Hoofbeats of galloping cornicularii carrying the orders of

battle sounded throughout the camp, and men rushed to join their formations.

From a hillock overlooking the scene, I watched as our small army marched

out to do battle. Bawdewyne drew up the centre in three lines of ten centuries

per line. Each century consisted of dismounted horse-archers, formed into a

solid square approximately fifty feet across. Leaving an equal distance

between each century for manoeuvring, the centre alone extended along a front

nearly one thousand feet in length, with a depth of about six hundred feet.

To my mind, it looked something like a giant chessboard, with units of

living men making up the pieces to be played. The men stood in serried ranks,

holding shields and long spears, ready and eagre to engage the enemy.

On either flank, a banda of horse-archers sat on their war-horses,

positioned to protect the men on foot in the centre. Each of these two wings or

alae of the army was formed in files of ten and ranks of thirty, sufficient to

repel any flanking manoeuvre by the enemy.

Out front, a mounted screening force was strung in a wide arc from wing to

wing. They kept an eye on the enemy and informed us as to their movements.

In reserve, a light thema, about three thousand heavily armed

horse-archers, waited behind the centre. Two turmae of five bandae each

comprised the thema, with Arthgwyr mounted in the centre and Bedwyr, the

swiftest of men, and I at his side.

Behind the reserve, we had our various machines for hurling boulders and

an assortment of other missiles. Further back was the camp and our baggage

train.

From constant training under Bawdewyne's watchful eye, we knew the plan of

battle by heart. The screening element would advance to within the firing

range of their arrows, about four hundred feet, and let loose a volley. Then,

they'd charge to within the throwing range of their darts, nearly one hundred

feet, and each rider would cast both of his darts, wheel about and return to

either flank.

Meanwhile, the centre would advance on foot under the cover of the

screening force, whose whole purpose is to keep the enemy occupied whilst the

centre prepares its assault. When in position, the men would heave their

javelins, two per man, and the machines would also discharge flight after

flight of missiles raking great holes in our opponent's massed position. Then,

the centre will either charge or receive the enemy's charge.

In either case, the greater length of our spears normally gives us a

decided advantage over the sea-wolves, because they rely almost exclusively on

their swords and axes, which can't be brought to bear until they breach the

wall of spears facing them. Usually unable to get within striking distance

with their shorter weapons, those in the forefront fling their bodies uselessly

upon our spearpoints, hoping, as a result of their sacrifice, to enable their

brethren behind them to break through our lines and obtain the final victory.

At the precise moment when the tide of battle swings in the balance,

Arthgwyr leads the reserve of heavy cavalry into the melee to decide the

outcome in our favour. Simultaneously, the horse-archers on the flanks

encircle our foe's position via a double envelopment, first used by Hannibal at

Cannae, and strike at the enemy's rear to cut off their escape.

This basic plan usually works against the sea-wolves who aren't equally

armed or led and rarely if ever employ a mounted force. Relying on their

individual bravery, the sea-wolves seldom follow an organised battle plan other

than attacking on foot in a mass of wild rushing bodies. But this method only

has the slimmest chance of success when their numbers greatly exceed our own.

In the beginning, when the sea-wolves first invaded the Island, they were

constrained by how many longships they had to sail to our shores and how many

men could be carried in each. Then, we were able to field a full contingent of

fighting men, at least, equal in strength to theirs, if not greater. Our only

major restraint in those days was the factor of time. How much time did we

have to gather our forces, repulse their attack and drive them back into the

sea. But we had cavalry and they didn't. So, their chances of victory against

us were relatively small.

Now, however, it's a different story. They've carved out their own

territories and received reinforcements.

Today, our biggest concern is the steady stream of reinforcements coming

from the continent. If their strength continues to grow as it has in the past,

especially giving their willingness to die for Woden in order to enter

Valhalla, they could eventually prevail over us. But as long as their

population remains less than our own, we should endure.

Of course, engagements versus our own people in rebellion against Arthgwyr

was another matter entirely, for they were equally armed and led and, at that

time, were still greater in strength than we ourselves. Moreover, they had

horses, catapults and other machines, too, which the sea-wolves generally

lacked.

Realising the superiority of our numbers and arms, Colgrin drew up his

pagan horde on the opposite bank of the spat. By doing so, he took away the

advantage of our cavalry, because the afon between us was swollen from the

melting snow in the hills and the early spring rains.

If our horsemen attempted to ford the spat, they'd become easy targets for

the Saesnaeg bowmen. In addition to the heavy losses we could expect if this

course of action was pursued, the rushing water would also greatly reduce the

cavalry's speed and thereby the shock-power of our horses in crashing through

the waiting infantry, critical elements to the success of any attack on

horseback.

"Our horses canna cross here in the face o' the enemy withouten many

casualties," Arthgwyr observed, overlooking the scene from his charger.

"Especially the heavy cavalry in reserve," I added.

"True," Bawdewyne agreed.

"Bawdewyne, take the heavy cavalry westward up the afon an' find a spot

where ye canst cross o'er unmolest'd," Arthgwyr ordered. "Then, drive yer

horses as hard an' as fast as ye canst back in this direction tae come doon on

the Saesnaegs' rear. Stop fer naethin', Bawdewyne. Yer flankin' manoeuvre

mus' be quick an' decisive. I'll attack 'cross the afon wi' the infantry tae

keep the Saesnaegs busy whilst ye ride 'round their right end an' fall on their

rear.

"Ye, Jordan, take the two bandae o' horse-archers on the flanks tae the

east an' find the Saesnaeg fleet. Destroy it sae they canna escape us again.

Ha'e the archers tie fire-bundles tae the tips o' their arrows an' burn the

Saesnaeg prows where they lie at anchor."

Bawdewyne and Jordan gallupt off on their separate missions, taking with

them our reserves and the forces that had been protecting our flanks. The

infantry was all alone now.

Arthgwyr dismounted giving the reins of his horse to his shield-bearer,

Timias. The rest of us in his party followed suit.

Then, we joined the first rank of our infantry, and drawing his sword,

Arthgwyr pointed with it at the imperial banner which Bedwyr the Bold had just

unfurled. It flapped open in the breeze, and everyone could see Albion Diana,

our patron goddess, helmeted and fully armed holding aloft her invincible spear

in her dexter hand and the aegis in her sinister.

I looked up to the azure-blue sky. There wasn't a cloud in sight. It was

a beautiful spring morning in the month named for the goddess Maia, anno

Brythain Fifteen Hundred and Ninety-Two. The first day of the Battle of the

Afon Dubglas was about to begin.

My hands became sweaty, and I looked down at them holding my harpoon-like

spear, which I'd named Gaebolg meaning 'Bellows-dart' in honour of Cuchulainn's

invincible spear of the same name. Taking a firm grip on its shaft, I waited

for the command to charge.

"Fer the Goddess, the Pendragwn an' Brythain!" my brother roared

stridently.

The war-cry of the Brythons rose to a tumult. Then, we were in the water

and racing across to the other side to grapple with the Saesnaegs on the

opposite bank of the afon. The sky darkened with the flights of countless

arrows from both sides. Our engines of war unleashed even more deadly

projectiles that tore through the ranks of the enemy awaiting our charge.

A Saesnaeg arrow found its mark and pierced my left upper arm. Bedwyr

broke off the arrowhead and yanked the shaft out. We reached the bank and came

face-to-face with the pagan horde. Once again our spears were superior to

their swords and axes and we drove them before us. But they surged forward

again, nearly throwing us back into the afon.

The fracas seesawed back and forth for over two hours with neither side

achieving a clear-cut advantage. Then, Bawdewyne arrived, completing his

sweeping movement, and fell on the Saesnaegs' unsuspecting rear. Wholesale

disorder resulted. The Saesnaegs were trapped between our infantry and cavalry

and had nowhere to go.

But Colgrin and Baldulf, his brother, punched a hole through to the east

and escaped with a considerable portion of his army. We slaughtered the

remainder, giving no quarter as none was expected. Night finally descended,

ending the first day of battle.

When we awoke the next morning, we were still on the Saesnaegs' side of

the afon. But they'd changed positions. They'd formed a new line

perpendicular to the afon with their left flank protected by the bubbling

water. Their backs were to the bottom of the ridge where the Englars had their

fortress and they'd dug a wide fosse between them and us.

When we attacked, they threw torches into the fosse, which we discovered

to our misfortune was filled with timber from the covert of alders and pitch as

well. Many of our men perished in the ensuing fire and that ended the second

day of battle.

On the third day, heavy fighting ensued again, and we drove them from

their position, concentrating by design on their unprotected right flank as no

natural or manmade barrier shielded this section against attack. Step by step,

giving way only a little at a time, they retreated stubbornly up the escarpment

to the wooden stockade, resulting in heavy casualties for both sides.

By the morning of the fourth day, everyone was exhausted. But we were

equally determined to win this last day of the battle by mounting a final

assault upon the hill and taking the fortress at the top.

Unknown to us, Jordan had been unable to destroy their fleet. As a matter

of fact, the Saesnaegs had managed to load their wives and children on their

longships, and their families had escaped to the sea. Only the men remained

behind to fight, too proud to leave their Englar allies in the lurch.

We'd surrounded the hill on three sides. The fourth was protected by the

afon but the enemy had no way of escaping in that direction, we thought, as

none of their longships were to be seen.

The Englars and some of the Saesnaegs manned the fortress itself. The

remainder of the Saesnaegs were dug-in behind a mass of felled trees forming an

abatis facing us around the hill-fort. They had an excellent defensive

position, and it would cost many lives to dislodge them.

Lucan stood beside Bedwyr and me. Arthgwyr and Bawdewyne were marshalling

our forces for the charge uphill.

"Tis gaein' tae be hell tae pay fer e'ery square foot o' tha' damn'd

hill," Bedwyr mumbled under his breath between bites on a leg of mutton.

"True enough," I said with a nod leaning on Gaebolg for support. "We're

gaein' tae earn our pay this day, my friend."

To reach the barbarians at the top of the ridge, we'd have to rush up the

hill against a barrage of arrows, rocks and spears. It was an eleventh-hour

stroke of final desperation, based solely on the belief when the dux bellorum's

own army made its supreme effort nothing could stop it from accomplishing its

objective.

Jordan, who'd returnt, assembled our batteries of ballistae and

catapults. These engines of war would bombard the Saesnaegs with such a heavy

shower of missiles less than half their number would survive. Then, after

softening up the hostile lines, column after column of our foot-soldiers would

assault the hill, carry the trenches and barricades thrown up to stop our

advance, and storm the fortress at the top.

Our army, now less than six thousand strong, was arrayed all as infantry

in long battle lines, multicoloured pennants flew overhead, and as I viewed the

scene, I thought the upraised spears of our men looked like a forest of trees

as they stood there posed to engage the enemy. Officers trooped the lines

preparing their soldiers for the attack, and cornicularii dashed by with last

minute instructions. All was ready, at least, as ready as we ever would be.

Bedwyr put down the leg of mutton he'd been idly toying with and drew his

sword. Lucan took a last sip from his ascos, reminding me my mouth was dry as

well.

Arthgwyr sounded his horn to signal the attack. The men shouted and the

mad rush was on. Jordan's scream of "Away!" was heard above all the others.

The massed batteries discharged their murderous fire of projectiles toward

the crest of the ridge. So many spears, arrows, bullets and darts filled the

sky they nearly blocked out the sun. The fourth day of the Battle of the Afon

Dubglas had begun.

From behind their abatis of felled trees, the Saesnaegs answered our

flight of missiles with one of their own. Enemy bowmen shot their arrows into

the heart of our soldiers as we dashed up the hill.

Men fell all around me. But the great wave of onrushing troops couldn't

be stopped. We went on. But all along the way, more men continued to drop to

the ground, felled by hostile arrows.

Leading the attack, Arthgwyr, Lucan, Bedwyr and I jumped the trenches and

leapt over the breastworks. Our swords and spears found human sheaths as we

slashed this way and that, cutting a swath through the ranks of the enemy.

During the hand-to-hand combat, I lost sight of Arthgwyr. He was at the

very forefront of the fighting, leading the way with Illtyd the Christian

Soldier cheering on the charge. I ran as fast as I could to keep up with them.

Then, I saw a frightful thing. A Saesnaeg leapt up and, with a swish of

his battleaxe, chopped off Bedwyr's hand, the one holding Arthgwyr's banner.

Lucan grabbed his brother and yanked him back. Bedwyr caught the banner

with the one hand left to him to keep it from falling to the ground, and I

struck out with Gaebolg and its sharpened double harpoon-head decapitated the

Saesnaeg.

But I couldn't stay and see how Bedwyr was. I had to catch up to Arthgwyr

and make sure nothing happened to him. So I ran on, knowing Lucan would take

care of his brother.

Just as Father had taught me as a laddie and as I'd seen him do a hundred

times, I vaulted a stone wall using my spear. It was the last obstacle between

the fortress and us.

The area was thick with Saesnaegs, crumbling under our punishing attack

and crowding in nearer to the walls of the fortress in an ever narrowing

space. Bodies choked the ground. It was a grisly sight.

Before us, I could see the parth. It was closed, barring us from entrance

and trapping some of the enemy outside as well. These Saesnaegs clamoured for

admittance to escape our fury, but their comrades-in-arms safe within refused

to open up for them, afraid we'd also gain entrance if they did.

From on top of the walls, bowmen fired volley after volley of arrows and

bolts into both Saesnaegs and Brythons alike, because we were so intermingled

the defenders could no longer tell us apart. Besides this deadly volley of

arrows, spears and axes assailed us, too. They also threw down heavy rocks

that crushed many a head.

Arthgwyr was clearing a path to the parth with his sword, methodically

hewing down those Saesnaegs trapped outside. Illtyd, too, was busy with his

spear, and I marvelled at his skill, thinking here was the kind of abbot whom

I'd wish to have fighting at my side.

Turning, I saw we could use one of the logs from the breastworks as a

makeshift battering ram. Just then, Bawdewyne and Jordan caught up with me.

"Get tha' log," I shouted, "an' we'll batter doon the parth wi' it."

They diverted some men to lift the log and I bulled my way through the

Saesnaegs to make my stand beside Arthgwyr and Illtyd the Soldier. Together we

three pushed forward, flailing out at the enemy about us, thrashing them with

our swords and spears making way to the parth. Those carrying the log followed

behind our advance. They rammed the parth again and again.

Arthgwyr took hold of the log, too. "Ready, now, heave!" he bellowed.

The parth smashed inwards and we were through. Men poured in around us.

More of the enemy faced us inside. We fought now for possession of the

fortress.

Colgrin and Baldulf escaped out the rear postern with a party of their

followers. They fought their way down the steep escarpment at the back of the

hill to the afon.

As we followed them, I could see a longship standing by, waiting for

them. I cursed aloud. The leaders were going to escape us again.

They boarded the longship, hauled anchor and set sail. Colgrin had gotten

away and his brother had survived to harp new lais and melodies as I've heard

he was quite skilled at doing.

Plenty of fighting remained, for a number of defenders had been left

behind. There had only been one longship to take away their chieftains. The

rest had no choice but to fight or die.

We gave them no quarter. Every last one of the defenders left behind paid

for it with their lives. We killed them all. The Battle of the Afon Dubglas

was over, with each of its four days counted as a separate engagement in the

list of Arthgwyr's twelve famous battles.

Our men were elated. We'd won against stiff opposition. Bodies lay

everywhere as proof of the testiness of the struggle. Many of our own had died

or were wounded. I thought of Bedwyr. He'd lost his hand. I'd taken an arrow

in the arm.

Arthgwyr stood in the middle of the fortress and surveyed the scene of

carnage. He had a sour expression on his face. He didn't like what he saw. I

walked up to him.

"Sae many casualties," he murmured.

"Tha's war, Arthgwyr."

"But sae many, Gai. Thousands are lyin' here."

"Aye, Bedwyr lost a hand."

Arthgwyr shook his golden-haired head. "Poor Bedwyr, he's nae mair than a

mere lad."

"Jus' like ye, my brither, a lad playin' soldier."

"We may ha'e bin lads but we're naen nae longer. Taeday we were real

soldiers, Gai. Our men fought well. They ne'er waver'd, na' one bit. I'm

proud o' them. Each officer is tae receive a thousand silver denarii

prise-money an' a sestertium fer each soldier. How's yer arm?"

"I'm alright, jus' sore a little. Wha' dae we dae now?"

"Clean up the mess an' garrison this castellet. It'll be our eastern

buttress fer Caer Camulos. Along wi' mannin' Caesaromagus tae the southwest,

our capital shouldst be secure betwix' 'em."

And so it is to this very day, thanks to the string of wooden fortresses

we built, especially those along the shore to keep the sea-wolves away. One of

them I remember in particular. It's located on the headland that the Englars

call a ness due east of Hoo Hill. Before our arrival, this place was no more

than a flat shingle spit serving as a habitat for long-legged avocets, slender

marsh harriers, red shanks and broad-billed shovelers. But Bedwyr loved the

spot, perhaps, because his home of Bajocassos lies across the sea that laps the

shore. So, I built him a stockade with a log blockhouse for him to recuperate

there; and I spent many hours with him, walking along the lonely spit, admiring

the shorebirds as they went about their never-ending business of searching for

food.

CHAPTER II

* JEALOUSY OVER A WOMAN *

Bedwyr One-Hand recovered. We joked with him about whether he would be able to carry Arthgwyr's cup in one hand without spilling the contents. He swore he could. We all laughed, him the hardest of all.

He's a brave lad, and I've come to love him dearly. He's my Achates.

Shortly after his return to duty, around the time of the summer solstice,

the army was on the move again. Arthgwyr led us northward to link up with

Brastius Blood-Axe at Eborawc.

Old Brastius was the warder of the northern border with Celidon. But

three-quarters of Celidon stood in open revolt against Arthgwyr, and we'd

decided it was high time to bring them into our fold.

The trusty axeman welcomed us warmly. I was surprised, though, how much

he'd aged. His hair had gone completely silver.

Bran of the Two Isles was there also, with his two brothers, Gwri and

Gwynbaude. Of course, my dear, your father greeted us among the very first of

all, as befitting his dignity as leader of the Arimathaeans.

Wasting little time at Eborawc, we pushed northward again. Brastius'

command garrisoned Hadrian's Wall, Bran at the eastern terminus, your father in

the centre and Brastius himself headquartered at Caerleol near the western end

of the wall. To facilitate the juncture of our forces, Brastius had

concentrated as many of his men as he could free up from garrison duty at your

father's fortress of Corstopitum.

This was a wise move. Corstopitum being centrally located, troops could

be sent from there, in the event of an attack, to any spot along the wall.

Moreover, it was on our route of advance.

Unfortunately, we hadn't seen the last of the East Saesnaeg ealdormen.

Reinforced by Cheldric with troops from their motherland, Colgrin and Baldulf

stormed Eborawc in our absence.

We'd already crossed the wall and were advancing northward against the

Edoridae when we got the news about what had happened south of us. Of course,

this turn of events caused us to reverse our course and retrace our steps

southward.

The ensuing Battle of the Afon Bassus, our sixth engagement, brought us

into contact with our old adversaries, Colgrin and Baldulf, and their new ally,

Cheldric. To tell the truth, I was glad, because if we'd continued to the

north we'd have had to fight our own countrymen for the first time, which I

honestly wasn't looking forward to, especially against Eiddilig, whom I'd

admired since childhood.

After sacking Eborawc, the East Saesnaegs marched north. They thought

Arthgwyr and our army was tied up in an engagement with the Celidonians, which

if true would have left the Saesnaegs unopposed.

Colgrin wanted the rich prise of Isurium Brigantium, long ago the tribal

capital of the Brigantes and a fifty-five erwau station of the IXth Hispana

Legion. Once very prosperous, numerous mosaics, still in fine condition, give

evidence of how well Isurium Brigantium has continued to flourish even in hard

times such as these.

The Saesnaegs intended to pillage the place and return to Eborawc, but we

got there before them and occupied the fortress. Its original earthen ramparts

were given stone walls around two and a half centuries ago and angle bastions

about a century later. Protected behind these walls, we had the upper hand.

But Arthgwyr being Arthgwyr wanted to fight Colgrin on even terms. We

issued out from the fortress and quickly lined up in formation.

A terse battle followed beside the shallow afon beneath the fortress'

walls in which Colgrin was worsted. Your most noble father, Cadwr the

Courageous, and second to him Brastius Blood-Axe distinguished themselves more

than any other Brython this day. After sustaining heavy casualties, Colgrin

withdrew leaving us in possession of the field; and thus ended the Battle of

the Afon Bassus, early in the month named for the Roman gens Junii, AB

MDXCII.

Colgrin pulled back to Eborawc, and we besieged him there. To get him to

evacuate the caer, Myrddin the Trickster proposed we leave a gap in our lines

encircling the place.

His plan worked. Colgrin took the bait and funnelled his army through the

hole we'd purposefully left for his escape.

It was the time of the Matralia, the Roman festival in honor of Mater

Matuta, the Goddess of Dawn, and Myrddin reminded us our Mother in heaven was

looking down upon us this day to see if we were worthy of Her. A great cheer

rose up among the men in response to Myrddin's words.

Then, we charged down on the rear of his fleeing soldiers harrying them

all the way back to their longships, with your brave father once again in the

fore of the action driving Baldulf before him. However, Colgrin and Baldulf

made good their escape by sea, but this time they returnt to the continent for

awhile with Cheldric in tow.

But we weren't given much time for rest. Word quickly arrived the

Edoridae were attacking our friend, Bran of the Two Isles, in his praefecture

north of Hadrian's Wall. We'd left Bran to protect our rear in the event Arawn

and his brothers should decide to take advantage of our entanglement with the

Saesnaegs.

We had to go to Bran's relief, so Arthgwyr put us immediately on the old

Roman via to Corstopitum. Bran held out awaiting us in Trimontium, the Roman

station beneath the triple peaks of the Eildon Hills. His brothers, sons and

nephews were with him.

In the dead of night, Arthgwyr drew up our lines in the dense growth of

spruces massed along the ridge near the fortress. Birken, hazels and a prickly

sloe thicket contributed to our concealment.

That night, the wind seemed to sigh in the tops of the spruces, sounding

like a faraway sea lapping upon a lonely strand. The other manmade noises

which might have given away our presence to the enemy virtually sank into the

thick carpet of pine needles covering the forest's floor.

I found a private place where the conifers made a nave struck through by

the moonlight. Kneeling down, I prayed. I prayed for my safety and the safety

of those whom I loved. I also asked for the forgiveness of my sins.

On the morrow, we'd cross swords for the first time with our fellow

countrymen, a bad day for us all. Although I knew we'd be victorious, because

we'd catch them by surprise, I took no pleasure in the thought of killing our

own people, even if they had sided against my brother.

When they attacked Trimontium, the Battle of Cat Coit Celidon, the seventh

great battle, began in what the Romans called the Silva Caledoniae or the 'Wood

of the Celidonians'. It was Midsummer Day, A.B. Fifteen Hundred and

Ninety-Two.

We charged out of the woods and drove in their flank. Gaebolg ran red

with my countrymen's blood this day. But under Arawn's masterly leadership,

the Celidonians withdrew in an orderly fashion.

Eiddilig covered their retreat, standing his ground like an old boar too

proud to run away, and the men of Alclud fought well beside him. They

succeeded in prohibiting our pursuit of the others, but by remaining behind,

Eiddilig and his warriors couldn't make their own escape.

In admiration of Eiddilig's indomitable spirit and the prowess of his men,

I asked Arthgwyr to call a halt to the pitched battle. My brother blew on his

horn and the fighting stopped. Then, Arthgwyr offered Eiddilig his life in

return for his oath of allegiance.

Seeing no alternative but more needless slaughter, Eiddilig strode forward

and with a laugh surrendered his sword to Llenlleawc the Hibernian, Bran's

brave son. Unfortunately, Eiddilig felt honour bound to reject Arthgwyr's

offer of clemency, because his brothers were still opposed to Arthgwyr's

unproven claim to be Uthr's son and heir. Loathed to do it, but having no

choice in the matter, Arthgwyr ordered his imprisonment until he changed his

mind. Glifi, appointed by Arthgwyr as the turnkey of Alclud, locked Eiddilig

away in his own donjon, an ignoble fate for one of the true heroes of our land,

but the result of his own making. Bawdewyne's son, Hywel, badly wounded in the

battle, was left at Alclud to recover, with a garrison of his soldiers from

Lesser Brythain to hold the rock-top fortress for us.

Then, we marched south again to Caerleol. In our absence, Urien of Rheged

had retaken Caerleol claiming it was his by right. But we easily drove him

out, and those in his service there swore allegiance to Arthgwyr. Among them

was the young son of Do the Forester, Gilfaethwy by name, soon to become one of

Arthgwyr's most ardent supporters and another close friend.

As the summer pastoral feast of Mabon was now upon us once again, your

father invited Arthgwyr and the court to celebrate the holiday at your home.

Arthgwyr accepted in the name of the entire army and set us in motion for

Corstopitum, where you were born and raised.

Perched on a plateau overlooking the Tina, this forty erwau fortress is a

chief station in the defense of Hadrian's Wall. Built to keep the Pechts out,

the wall bisects the Island on an east-west axis for eighty-three Roman miles,

with Corstopitum located about midway on the parallel Stanegate south of the

wall. Sometime in the twelfth century AB, the fortress was mysteriously

burnt down, perhaps, as a result of the Icenian rebellion when the IXth Legion

disappeared. Later, when the Romans raised the Antonine Wall farther to the

north, they rebuilt Corstopitum as the area's principal military depot,

regarrisoning it with detachments from the VIth and XXth legions.

The streets are narrow and unpaved forming an irregular pattern, with

small shops and houses. Some of the pillared temples are quite lovely, as are

the fountain, basilica, posthouse and baths. After the departure of the

Romans, the settlement outside the fort vanished, because the settlers moved

inside, similar to the condition we'd found initially at Caer Camulos.

To celebrate our recent victories, Arthgwyr proclaimed a fair and games to

be held on the banks of the Tina. The festivities started and ended on the

ides of the months named for Julius and Augustus Caesar. With the whole army

encamped around the castellum and even more people coming in daily from the

surrounding districts, the congestion was extraordinary. But a merry time was

had by all.

Whilst there, I met you, my dear, for the very first time. As I remember,

you were just a bothersome little lass in pigtails with knobby knees and

freckles. Who'd have guessed you'd grow up to become my wife and the mother of

our two fine sons, Garanwyn and Gronosis, and our beautiful daughter, Kelemon?

For the time being, though, I'd no time for lasses, nor admittedly knew

anything about them. I might have made the rite of passage as a warrior, but

hadn't as of yet succeeded in that other rite of passage by which men also

claim their manhoods.

In fact, I didn't even understand my true feelings about Arthgwyr until a

woman of dubious reputation came between us and aroused my jealousy. Her name

was Morg-Anna.

This sultry, raven-haired love-goddess was the eldest daughter of Eigyr

the Unparalleled Beauty, and like her mother before her, the renown of her

overwhelming physical charms didn't diminish the stain of her capricious

nature. Moreover, as a high priestess of the Goddess, Morg-Anna's depravity

reportedly led her to officiate at such orgiastic nocturnal rites as human

sacrifices, outlawed in our own realm.

More importantly, this woman had to husband one of our principal enemies,

Gwyar Llew Lothian, the second of the Edoridae. He owed his investiture as

Lothian's sovereign to her and bore the title of Leudonus meaning

'Lothian-ruler' as her consort, for Morg-Anna was the heritrix rex of this

Celidonian praefecture as well as its high priestess.

During their marriage, she gave birth to four sons and four daughters, at

least, two of whom allegedly weren't fathered by Gwyar. He actually tried but

failed to have those two put to death, only serving to further smear his wife's

name.

This same woman came to Corstopitum, bearing a uncial from her mother,

Eigyr. Undoubtedly full of misgivings about entering what she could only have

thought of as being an enemy stronghold, the filial devotion of a daughter for

her mother, in a society where a mother's request is a command, brought this

dangerous woman to us.

Despite having borne several children, my impression of Gwyar's wayward

wife was of a very desirable woman in her mid-to-late twenties. She had a

curvaceous, feminine figure, marked by prominent breasts, a narrow waistline

and rounded hips, that kind of voluptuousness my brother found irresistible in

women.

However, as she was visiting the court of her husband's enemy, she kept

mostly to herself, and we first met her by accident. Whether Morg-Anna

arranged it or not I can't say.

On the eve of the high feast-day of Lleu's Celebration, Arthgwyr and I

decided to leave the everyday bustle and intrigues of the court behind and go

hunting. Although it's true Arthgwyr prefers to hunt by moonlight, with

ever-faithful Cafall and I at his side[29], we actually chose to leave late that

particular evening, because the others had already gone to bed and wouldn't

know we were missing.

How oft we sought to escape the connivances, always seeming to hang over

the court like a retched widow's pall with its wearisome gloom and blackness of

heart. In the forest, we found peace of mind, like laddies seeking the mirth

and freedom alluding them in the company of their elders.

We were so young, then, Arthgwyr only sixteen and me but three years his

senior. On the verge of finding ourselves, we weren't just slightly awed but

nearly overwhelmed by the power, ever-growing, in Arthgwyr's hands. Perhaps,

that's why we sought the forest's solitude. It was a relief.

That night, a heavy mist hovered over the lowlands, unusual for the time

of year, and strange sounds echoed in the forest as we searched for some game

without any luck at first. Eventually, though, we managed to bag a dear for

the table and hurriedly began our return to the castellum before the others

could discover our absence.

Wanting to get back before sunrise, Arthgwyr urged Findabair into a

gallop, and I followed riding Gwinam Goddwf Hir, my much larger and, therefore,

slower stallion. The sun was just about to break and the mist was thinning as

we raced through the parth of the castellum.

We rushed up the narrow staircase at the keep's rear postern, hoping to

reach our bedchambers before someone spotted us. On the way, we had to sneak

by the little anteroom of the women's gynaeconitis.

Just then, Arthgwyr collided head-on with Gwyar's bosomy wife. She gave a

sharp start and looked like a timorous white dove as her robe was made all of

winter ermine. Her face paled in fright, illuminating her coal-black eyes, and

both Arthgwyr and I were at a loss for words.

How weak an' chielish these women are tae be afear'd in the safety o'

Cadwr's keep, I thought. But wha' shouldst I say tae get us away frae here?

I only knew what the older warriors had boasted of saying to innkeepers'

wives, temple-harlots, and easy country lasses. But those words, if uttered to

Gwyar's wife, would have created a scandal, so Arthgwyr and I bowed to the

frightened woman and quickly took our leave.

That evening, your father's sewer served a banquet befitting an

imperator. During the joyous feast, Lothian's ermined heritrix rex asked

permission to present her mother's uncial to Arthgwyr, and he granted her

request.

The missive spoke of the deplorable war between Arthgwyr and the Edoridae

and ended with Eigyr's desire to meet with Arthgwyr in the hopes of finding a

peaceful solution to the conflict. Some of the lairds suspected a trap, but

Myrddin spoke up in Eigyr's defense, reminding us as Uthr's wife she'd been the

Pendragwness. Moreover, as she was now the matriarch regnant of all Celidon,

he thought her invitation was a promising step toward peace. At the time,

however, I thought I detected something in Myrddin's face that said he knew

much more than what he was telling.

After the departure of the burds for the gynaeconitis, the men sat late

over their cups, bragging from time to time, as we're wont to do, of our

conquests on and off the battlefield. There were coarse jokes, dice games, and

the like; and before the twilight closed us in the wraps of night, several

warriors collapsed drunk on the stone floor, where they remained until morning,

sleeping off their mead.

I soon noticed Arthgwyr's place was empty. He'd left the noisy hall

without my seeing him, and I decided it was time to turn in myself as the ale

I'd drunk made me feel drowsy. I'd no idea how long he'd been gone.

The din and laughter faded away behind me as I walked along the myriad of

passageways toward the circular stairwell to my bedchamber. But something was

amiss. I saw no guards outside Arthgwyr's door and I knew his cubiculum

shouldn't have been left unguarded. But before I went to find Albanact, the

captain of the guard, it only made sense to look in on Arthgwyr first to make

sure he was alright.

I was almost inside before I heard a loud passionate moan. A solitary

lamp hung from the ceiling barely lit the cubiculum, and I saw the shadows of

two people in an embrace on the far wall.

Still and witless, I stood looking into the chamber; and in the flickering

light, I could see the naked form of a woman. She was facing toward me,

thrusting and grinding her ample buttocks back into the loins of someone

standing behind her. Her lover's priapic member came between her legs, and she

clasped it with her womanly thighs as a pair of youthful hands claimed those

triumphant breasts weighting her lithe torso and squeezed them lustfully.

My drowsiness instantly left me, and my eyes adjusted to the light in the

cubiculum. I could see quite clearly now.

Breathless sighs of delight caused me to look at the woman's face, and I

immediately recognised her. It was Gwyar's wife.

She reached down with her slender hand and, taking her partner's manhood,

guided the head into the orifice of her sex. After a whisper of encouragement

from her, her lover lunged forward, penetrating her, and the high-pitched whine

of a bitch in heat escaped her gaping mouth.

Suddenly, she bent over and grasped her slender ankles in order to better

receive her young lover's assailment. The movement revealed the lad behind

her, and my mouth opened in shock. It was Arthgwyr.

In remorse, I turnt away from the adulteress and my brother, softly

creeping to my own chambers. I lay awake until near dawn thinking of what had

transpired in the next cubiculum. It was no little thing.

Morg-Anna was a royal reine, the wife of Gwyar Llew Lothian. Her husband,

although the second brother of the four Edoridae, still served as a major

driving force behind their actions. He was also a very jealous man, especially

of his wife's lovers. Thus, if Arthgwyr and Morg-Anna had been espied by

someone else, the ramifications would have been serious, indeed.

Of course, Morg-Anna came from a matriarchal state where polygamy by both

sexes is permitted. In her land, women are entitled to take as many lovers as

they wish, just like a man. But that isn't true in ours. We've different laws

concerning such matters.

In biblical times, the Romans and the Jews executed unfaithful wives by

stoning; and under the Pendragwn's law, a proven adulteress is ordered to be

burnt alive. Of course, those ancient canons as told in the Holy Scriptures

proscribed prior to the codification of our laws by Emrys Ben-Eur no longer

hold sway in Brythain, but they were the very foundation for Emyrs' code of

justice, the basic law of our land. Moreover, this capital offense had taken

place on Brythonic soil, which meant our punishment for the crime, death by

burning for the guilty woman, would be in force, even if in her own land no

such law against adultery exists.

Furthermore, if news of this affair got out, not only could the

malefactress go to the pyre, but to avenge the plight on his good name, Gwyar

would never accept peace with Arthgwyr. As long as he or his heirs lived, the

Edoridae would remain our adversaries forever.

Wha' a mess, I thought. How could he be so foolish to do this? But what

is done is done and cannot be undone. Arthgwyr had had sexual relations with

Morg-Anna, and there was no undoing that now.

But my thoughts that long night wouldn't leave me. Although no definite

proof yet existed, Myrddin claimed Arthgwyr was Uthr's son by Morg-Anna's

mother, Eigyr. If true, this meant Morg-Anna was Arthgwyr's half-sister; and

they'd, therefore, committed incest, also forbidden by canonical law.

Secondly, what if they had a child under these circumstances? That could

be disastrous to Arthgwyr, already under some criticism from the clergy for

begetting a bastard upon Sefain's voluptuous daughter.

If word of this new act of immorality got out, he risked losing the

support of the entire Celtic Church and its parishioners. That would be

disastrous, because they made up the bulk of his primary adherents, already

unhappy with him over Llewnor, now very near to giving birth to her illegitimate

child by him.

This second senseless affair, then, could drive a wedge between our own

people, and a house divided cannot win against its enemies. I came to see, as

a result of this moment of indiscretion, we stood to lose everything we'd

fought so hard to gain.

Lastly, I saw what Morg-Anna undoubtedly had in mind. By joining with the

claimant to the cader of Brythain was she not performing the age old act of

matrilineal investiture? I knew it was true. She'd merely exercised her right

under her own laws, as the high priestess and heritrix rex of Lothian, to

invest the ricon-elect. That right devolved to her as Eigyr's eldest daughter.

So, by making love with her, Arthgwyr had accepted the Goddess as his

patroness and had turnt his back on his Christian followers. I knew, like

Myrddin, he worshipped Albion Diana whose likeness he'd had emblazoned on his

banner. Hadn't he invoked her name at the Battle of the Afon Dubglas?

All suddenly became too clear to me, and I didn't like what I saw. At

that time, my own god was Ercol, leader of the Dorians in crushing the ancient

matriarchal cults of Hellas. It would seem, then, Arthgwyr and I'd come to a

parting of the ways in regard to our faiths, a large and almost overwhelming

difference in our basic thinking, which could ruin our relationship, something

neither of us would wish to happen. But wishing doesn't keep things from

occurring, even if we don't want them to.

The next morning, I paced my cubiculum. I was angry at Arthgwyr and

disgusted with him, too. How could he have risked so much for the sake of

fornicating with that royal she-bitch?

I worked myself into a rage over all the questions running through my mind

the whole night. And, yet, somehow I also wondered what it was like, for I was

myself still untried regarding the fairer sex.

As they say, I was a late bloomer in so far as women and sexual

intercourse were concerned. Like Father before me, I've waited for one good

woman to love; and now she's mine, I can't say I'm sorry for the waiting. But

that is another story for another time.

When Arthgwyr finally found me late in the afternoon, I was sitting in the

embrasure of your father's extensive archives, leafing through some palimpsest

scrolls. Piles of parchments were everywhere. The chronicles of your

granduncle, Blaes, filled the shelves on the walls. Legal documents like deeds

and court affidavits, engraved manuscripts, tablets containing genealogies

important to the Arimathaeans, stacks of cartels, maps of military campaigns,

and financial ledgers, all added to the musty smell of the place.

"Wha're ye daein'?" Arthgwyr asked with a smug look.

"Readin'," I answered curtly.

"But ye canna read, ye silly goose," he said with a superior chuckle.

Of course, he was right. I couldn't read, nor can I now with much

proficiency. I need a scrivener to take down my words.

"I canst read the names," I retorted hotly.

"Be it as ye will, Gai, but ye're stubborn o' yer mood this morn."

"I crave yer pardon," I said sullenly.

"Then, I bid ye tae pledge me a cup o' wine."

"Mine tae dae as ye command, Arthgwyr."

I rose and tossed the polyptic I'd been reviewing on the roughly hewed

trestle-bench in the centre of the chancery where Blaes wrote his chronicles

on our people and times. A gracefully designed oinochoe half filled with

hydromel sat beside an unfinished plate of fried courgettes now cold. Two

empty calices, probably left by Blaes and his amanuensis, Maistre Antoine, lay

next to the oinochoe. I poured a few mouthfuls of the honey-water into each

and, then, handed one of the calices to Arthgwyr.

"I ha'e na' the power tae turn this sweet brew, as Our Laird, intae the

red grape's heady nectar, fer I'm but a man an' unpure as all men," he said

with a sad smile. "This I learnt last night when I dreamt as a result o' my

sins the whole realm wouldst be o'errun by griffins an' serpents, an' they

wouldst only be driven out after I'd receiv'd the maist terrible o' wounds.

But I'm sure further proof o' my wrong-daein's frae time tae time will cause me

e'en deeper regret."

I said nothing to ease his mind. Perhaps, I was still mad at him, but I

was softening. Were his words not true? We're all frail creatures, erring

continually; but I could see something special in Arthgwyr. At least, he had

the courage to admit it, so I forgave him and decided not to tell him I knew of

his night of transgression.

"Sae lift yer cup, Gai, an' make yer pledge tae me, tha' I might ken

there'll be one wi' me tae the end."

"I call Heaven tae witness," I declared, "tha' I plight true faith tae ye,

the Pendragwn o' the Isles, an' tha' I'll fend fer ye as long as I'll live.

Tha's my vow."

"Then, kneel afere me, brither."

I obeyed his command, and he drew his sword, the sword from the stone, and

dubbed me thrice, saying as he did so, "An' ye'll be the first champion o' the

highest order o' warriors in the Isles, which I'll brin' thegither when I'm

finally install'd as the rightways Pendragwn." And thus the idea for the famed

order to sit at the Round Table began in earnest, and I became its first cnicht

on Lammas Day, the feast to celebrate St. Peter's imprisonment and miraculous

deliverance. So, I too felt delivered as miraculously.

However, on that same night Arthgwyr had carnal knowledge of Morg-Anna,

far away in Ceredigion, Llewnor bore Arthgwyr a son, Anir. To this very day,

I've no doubt Anir was the angry product conceived in that helmwind which blew

so strongly in Bedwyr's and my faces upon Plinlimmon, for as we were later to

learn to our great sorrow onto Arthgwyr's Dawidh an Absalom had been born.

CHAPTER III

* THE ADVENTURE OF THE WHITE HART *

To divert our gloomy thoughts about Arthgwyr's ill-fated liaison with Morg-Anna, I arranged another hunt for the Feast of Diana. This time the entire court participated.

As we entered the forest to the west of Corstopitum, the riders went their

separate ways, except for Arthgwyr and me. We stayed together, cantering along

through the woods.

Suddenly, we spied a large white hart scampering through the brush and

immediately gave chase. As mentioned, due to my own gigantic size, Gwinam

Goddwf Hir was much larger than Arthgwyr's smaller and more nimble hunter, a

black Dales pony your father gave to him as a present. Therefore, I couldn't

keep up with Arthgwyr and quickly fell behind as his sturdy hunter outdistanced

Gwinam taking Arthgwyr deeper and deeper into the forest of North Ambria in

determined pursuit of the elusive hart. I followed their trail, but farther

and farther behind.

Finally, Arthgwyr's pony became so badly winded it dropped dead beneath

him, but a passing heussawr offered to bring him a fresh mount. Meanwhile,

whilst waiting for the heussawr to return, Arthgwyr sat down by a sacred

wellhead, drank deeply of its inspirational waters and soon fell into a

troubled sleep.

In a dream, he saw himself as a white hart chasing a white hind. The hind

drew the hart further and further into the dark forest. Finally, he caught

her, and there in the deepest recesses of the forest, he mounted her.

After their mating, a hunter appeared. Arthgwyr, the hart, drew the

hunter off after him in order to save the hind. She escaped into the

underbrush, but Arthgwyr couldn't elude the hunter who wanted the head of the

white hart, because it would bring him fame and power.

According to local legend, whoever hunts down a white stag can kiss the

loveliest lass in the realm. Many have tried and failed, because so few

exist. Perhaps, due to their rarity, the white stag is a protected familiar of

the Goddess, in whose honour her prophet, Myrddin himself, had revitalised the

White Stag Cult.

In his dream, Arthgwyr, still in the form of the white hart, was being

pursued by the hunter. Looking back over his shoulder, Arthgwyr could see the

hunter. He rode a great white stallion, and he was laughing at Arthgwyr's

attempt to escape him. The sound of his laughter was harsh and cruel.

Then, Arthgwyr saw a fearful thing. Severed heads bedecked the bridle of

the hunter's horse. The heads, all of white stags, bobbed up and down as the

great white stallion gallupt after Arthgwyr. Now, Arthgwyr knew the hunter's

identity. He was Death.

Arthgwyr fled faster and faster into the forest, jumping fallen trees and

crashing through thorny thickets. Finally turning, Death was nowhere to be

seen.

Arthgwyr came to a small hidden space. The hind was there, lying on her

side. Arthgwyr watched as she delivered twin fawns, and he knew the fawns

would grow up to be mighty bucks and challenge him someday for possession of

the forest.

Before Arthgwyr's disbelieving eyes, the hind began to change form. Her

legs turnt into human legs, her body into the body of a woman, and her face

into Morg-Anna's face.

She rose to her feet and, pointing at Arthgwyr, shouted: "Kill him!"

Death suddenly appeared from behind the foliage. He knocked Arthgwyr down

and raised a huge broadaxe with a sharp cutting edge high over his head to

decapitate the white hart.

Just then, Arthgwyr was awakened from his dream by a cnicht crashing about

through the woods on foot. He was of massive proportions and seemingly of

unparalleled strength, looking much like Death himself in appearance. The

cnicht, also in disguise, asked Arthgwyr if he'd seen a white hart pass by.

"Why, aye, I ha'e, actually."

"I mus' find it ere it mates wi' a hind o' the same colourin'," the

strange cnicht averred.

"Why's tha'?" Arthgwyr asked.

"All will be lost if it daes."

"I'm afear'd ye're too late, if my dream is true."

"Tis ne'er too late, but I ha'e lost my charger an' mus' find anither

horse tae continue the chase."

"My laird, why na' abandon yer quest o' the white hart fer a year an' let

me continue the hunt fer ye?" Arthgwyr asked.

"Tha' canna be. The quest is mine, an' if I fail, the succession falls

tae the eldest son o' my bluid-brither, a Sassanid dihqan o' Persia, who once

sav'd my life."

At that moment, both the heussawr and I arrived together. Spotting the

horse the heussawr had brought for Arthgwyr, the cnicht leapt into the saddle.

"Thank ye fer the horse," he shouted.

"I couldst still challenge ye fer it," Arthgwyr cried.

"As ye will, young sire. Ye canst aye find me here beside the well. But

ye might like tae ken this is one o' my own horses afterall," he responded and

rode away quickly in pursuit of the white hart.

But I recognised his voice. The cnicht was none other than the Island's

most renowned and respected warrior long missing on a quest.

"Arthgwyr," I exclaimed, "tha' was Pelly!"

"Wha'?"

"Twas him, Pelly, the peerless Pellinore. I'm certain o' it. I

recognis'd his voice when he rode off wi' his, um, yer horse."

Arthgwyr hit himself on the side of the head. "O' course, he mention'd a

bluid-brither who was a Sassanid dihqan."

"The Sassanid dihqan canst be naen ither than Escalbor, Palamedes'

feyther, who once sav'd Pelly's life," I responded.

"He mention'd tha', too. Damn, how couldst I ha'e let him ride off like

tha'? We need his strong right arm tae help us."

Arthgwyr sat down on the stone rim of the well and began to brood. I

dismounted and joined him. After a bit, he started to tell me about the dream

and all that was troubling him.

When he finished his story, a callan younger than Arthgwyr stepped

mysteriously out of the forest. He came and stood before us.

"My laird, why are ye sae deep in thought?" the callan asked Arthgwyr.

"'Cause I'm troubl'd by wha' I ha'e seen in my dreams."

"This I already kent," he vowed, "jus' as I ken all o' yer dreams. But

dreams will change nithin'."

"How dae ye ken my dreams?" Arthgwyr asked the callan.

"'Cause I kent yer feyther, Uthr Pendragwn, an' alsae yer mither, Eigyr

the Unparallel'd Beauty. I kent her first husband Hywel, the High Rica o'

Cernyw, as well."

"Liar!" Arthgwyr railed at him. "How couldst ye, the mere lad tha' ye

are, ha'e kenn'd them? Begaen, young lair. I wan' naen o' ye."

The callan smiled a slow secret smile and disappeared into the forest. As

quickly as he'd departed, an old white-bearded grandfather arrived. He was bent

over from age and looked both kindly and wise, so Arthgwyr trusted him.

"My laird," the old one began, "why are ye sae deep in thought?"

"Fer lots o' reasons," Arthgwyr answered. "Fer instance, a callan jus'

here moments agae claim'd tae ken who my feyther an' mither were, when I mysel'

ken na' the truth o' the matter."

"An' sae he didst, young sire. The callan kent much mair than tha'. He

alsae kent ye recently tuik yer own half-sister, Morg-Anna, as yer lover, an'

tha' yer realm will fall as a result o' the twin sons whom she'll bear by ye,

Medrawt an' Llacheu by name. Baith will steal yer wife an' the first will kill

ye in battle."

"Who're ye tae tell me o' these things?"

"I'm Myrddin."

Both Arthgwyr and I were shocked to discover it was the shaman who'd

impersonated the callan and the old grandfather. But the truth to be told, I

was always wary around Myrddin the Shapeshifter. Whether he was a prophet of

the druids as some claimed, a magician as others did, or a shaman as I myself

called him, I cannot say.

His recondite skills were incomprehensible to one of my ordinary

education, and I'm not sure I ever really want to understand how or why he did

the things he did. I'm only certain of one thing, he was no charlatan. No

matter what they called him, he had the Sight and the Power, for he saw and did

more than any mere mortal possibly could, prompting my caution when around him.

After the heussawr returnt with yet another horse for Arthgwyr, we returnt

to your father's fortress. Once back, Arthgwyr called his senior councellors

together for advice about what to do about his so-called questionable birth.

They were of the unanimous opinion Arthgwyr would never be recognised as Uthr's

son until Eigyr herself named him as such.

By Celtic tradition, the mother names the parentage of her offspring.

This custom is even stronger in matriarchal societies where a child's name

comes from the first words the mother utters to the child.

The story of Pwyll of Dyfed and his wife, Rhiannon, is a good example of

this practice. As Rhiannon was unable to produce an heir for her husband after

three years of marriage, Pwyll's nobles petitioned him to take another wife.

Not wishing to abandon Rhiannon, because he loved her, Pwyll won a delay for

one year; and at the end of that time, she bore him a son. But on the night of

the baby's birth, the six women set to keep watch over Rhiannon and the baby

fell asleep; and when they awoke, the baby was gone. In fear for their lives,

the women agreed to swear Rhiannon had eaten her baby; and killing a litter of

puppies, they smeared blood on Rhiannon's face and hands and put some of the

bones by her side. With hue and cry, the women awoke the whole palatium and

accused Rhiannon of the dastardly deed of devouring her own infant son. Unable

to tell where the bones had come from and under the persistent accusations of

the women, the druids condemned Rhiannon. But because Pwyll still refused to

repudiate her, she was given a penance. For seven years, she had to sit by a

horse-block outside the parth and offer to carry all visitors into her

husband's palatium upon her back. Meanwhile, her son was found and raised by

Pwyll’s vassal Teirnyon Twrf Laint, Laird of Gwent Is Coed, and his faithful wife. But they eventually realised their foundling son, whom they'd named Gwri Wallt Euryn,

was growing up to look just like Pwyll. Checking the dates, they discovered

Rhiannon's son had disappeared on the same night they found Gwri. Of course,

being good people, Teirnyon and his wife knew they couldn't keep someone else's

child, especially as the poor mother was suffering so. Therefore, Teirnyon

took Gwri to Pwyll's court, where he related the whole story from beginning to

end to the lad's real parents. At the conclusion of his story, Rhiannon said:

"Trouble is, indeed, at an end for me, if this is true." Hence, Gwri's name

was changed to Pryderi, which means 'Trouble'.

Another Celtic tradition involves mothering Sunday, the fourth Sunday of

Lent, when a child presents a simnel-cake to his or her mother in return for

her blessing. By accepting the cake, the mother accepts the child as her own,

and the blessing confirms it.

Arthgwyr decided to go a-mothering. He would get Eigyr to recognise him

as her son, and then, hopefully he could patch his relations with her husband,

Arawn. If successful, this would end the war with the Edoridae. However, fate

momentarily intervened.

CHAPTER IV

* GWENHWYFAR, THE FIRST MEETING *

The next day word reached us that Rhitta Gawr and Nero Briacat, Pasgen's two sons, had marched northward out of their adjacent realms in Powys with an army of Gwrtheyrians and laid siege to Caer Caradawc, the keep of Ogyrfran the Giant. This was serious business, for as old rivals of the Pendragwnians the Gwrtheyrians had declared themselves against Arthgwyr; and secondly, Ogyrfran was one of our most loyal adherents. Moreover, if Rhitta and Nero succeeded in reducing Ogyrfran's castellum, we wouldn't only lose central Cymru to them, but they could claim we were too weak to stop them. That would be a far more alarming matter, because the news of their victory could attract greater support for their cause, enabling them to offer Arthgwyr a much graver challenge for the Pendragwnship than they had to date. Therefore, for both military and political reasons, we had to thwart their efforts or risk the consequences.

As Father's command at Caer Gai was the closest to Ogyrfran, Arthgwyr sent

a cornicularius ordering Father to march to Ogyrfran's aid. Unfortunately,

Father's spearmen were all on foot, which would delay their arrival.

Realising a small vanguard of horse-archers might reach Caer Caradawc

faster from Corstopitum, where our army was still encamped, Arthgwyr hastily

organised a mounted relief force under the co-direction of Myrddin and Illtyd

the Christian Soldier. Those who took part in this mission came from the small

but ever growing coterie of companions who surrounded Arthgwyr.

In keeping with tradition, Arthgwyr had collected a young and courtly

entourage as would have accompanied a tywysog. This group, made up of our best

younger champions, was very similar to the companions of Alisander Mawr before

he succeeded his father, Philip II, as the ruler of Macedon. As these young

bachelor cnichts all dined together, their fellowship became known as the Table

of the Wandering Companions.

Each of this Table's twenty-four seats is called a siege. Later, the

fifty-man Round Table superceded it in importance. But the Table of the

Wandering Companions still exists, made up of those younger cnicht-aspirants

wishing to advance to the Round Table after they've proven themselves worthy

and a vacancy occurs. Many of these bachelors-at-arms have made fine additions

to the Round Table. In fact, membership to the Table of the Wandering

Companions is virtually a prerequisite, with some notable exceptions, to being

raised to our most famous fellowship, the Order of the Round Table.

It was this first group of twenty-four, plus Arthgwyr, Myrddin and Illtyd

who gallupt fast and furious from Corstopitum southwest to Caer Caradawc in

east central Cymru. Far behind us came the main body under the command of

Bawdewyne. Jordan brought up the rear guard and baggage trains, including his

prise possessions, our engines of war. Brastius Blood-Axe, with the help of

Bran of the Two Isles and the elder Gwri, remained in the north to protect that

border from any further incursions by the Pechts or the rebellious Edoridae.

Acting as a reconnaissance in force, our small party reached Ogyrfran's

keep long before the arrival of Father's spearmen and the rest of the army

under Bawdewyne. A twenty-five foot high, oval earthwork encloses an inner

bailey of twelve erwau on the side of a hill. To the north is a nant and

beyond it about a mile is the circle of stones on Pen-y-Wern where Emrys

Ben-Eur buried his father and those slain by Anschis the Eotan at the Cloister

of Emberis.

Luckily, we came just in time to defend Ogyrfran's castellum against

Rhitta's attempt to breach the walls and capture the place. Ordering us to the

attack, Arthgwyr led his tiny war-band into hand-to-hand combat with the

Gwrtheyrians, totally routing them and saving Caer Caradawc from falling into

their hands on the day of the Vulcanalia.

A non-combatant, or so he must have been, boasted years later we'd slain

ten thousand of Rhitta's warriors in breaking the siege of Caer Caradawc. Why

even by totalling together all the fighting men on both sides, there weren't as

many as that, let alone such a great number slain. Rhitta had led no more than

a cohort from the dingles of Gwrtheyrnion, and Nero had brought an equal force

from his wells in Builth, even so a sizable combined force when one considers

few lairds could muster more than one or two bands. In all honesty, the

Gwrtheyrnians couldn't have lost more than three or four hundred in

casualties. Funny how things get blown out of proportion after the passage of

time, isn't it, my dear?

Ogyrfran, at any rate, was very thankful. But even more so was his eldest

daughter, sexdigitated Gwenhwyfar, whom you knew so well, as she was fostered

in your father's house. Of course, Arthgwyr being Arthgwyr fell madly in love

with the enchanting blue-eyed blonde, although I know, at least, two dozen

beauties at court bonnier than her, including my darling wife, one of the

fairest of all.

Anyway, Arthgwyr had Myrddin arrange for their betrothment. As part of

her dowry, Gwenhwyfar would bring a greatly prised possession to Arthgwyr's

court, the Round Table of Uthr Pendragwn, which her father had saved from

destruction during those horrible years after Uthr's death. Thus, following in

Uthr's footsteps, Arthgwyr would establish a new order, with the Round Table

serving as its symbol of unity.

Another outcome of the battle concerned the safety of our sacred ancestors

entombed on Pen-y-Wern, as well as the remains of Emrys Ben-Eur, Uthr Pendragwn

and others from the Giants' Dance and elsewhere. The tenour of the times

demanded we take precautions to protect these hallow relics before some of our

enemies dug them up and desecrated them. Of course, we didn't get to fulfill

our plan to translate these remains to a safer resting place for a few years

yet to come, but the decision was made at Caer Caradawc to do so as soon as we

possibly could. Eventually, Myrddin carried out the reinterments at Din Eidyn,

only to remove them from there for an even safer location later on. I suppose

the constant translation of our heroic slain from one gravesite to another

speaks ill of the times we were living in and what we feared might happen to

them if we didn't move them for safety's sake.

About this time, the giant Tallas of Tallaght made a raid on Cymru.

Sometime before, he'd led five longships from Llychlyn to Eirinn and become the

fylker-chieftain of Dannebrugh, the name given to the canton he'd carved out on

the Eirish seacoast opposite Ynys Mon. For centuries, the Gwydyls had plagued

the Cymry with their raids; and following in their example, Tallas thought the

time was ripe, as he believed the recent struggle between the Gwrtheyrnians and

us must have weakened our will to resist another onslaught. At the head of his

Danskers, he crossed the Gwydylic Sea in his longships and swept through the

northern half of Cymru until he came to Caer Caradawc. There, he slew one of

our cnichts right before young Gwenhwyfar and promised to raid Cymru every year

thereafter.

For his very first independent command, Arthgwyr appointed Gilfaethwy ap

Do to go after Tallas and recover the loot he'd stolen from the Cymry.

Desiring nothing more than to prove himself, young Gilfaethwy gallupt off in

hot pursuit of the Danskers.

Among the chattel Tallas was leading away in chains was a beautiful young

Valkyrie of Llychlyn; and the love of this daughter of Woden, Brunissen by

name, could only be won by the man who could overcome her captor in three

trials of strength. But Gilfaethwy knew none of this as he raced to catch up

with Tallas and his marauders.

In fact, there was only one person in all the Isles who knew the truth

about Brunissen, and the sorceress Modron the Fay was that person. Suddenly as

if in a dream, she appeared before Gilfaethwy on the sarn. In her hands, the

sorceress held a magic sword, shield and spear.

She told Do's young son to take the magic weapons and fight Tallas with

them. Gilfaethwy obeyed the sorceress, taking the three gifts she'd proffered

with him.

Before long, he caught up with the Danskers who'd come to their longships

and were stowing away the plunder they'd taken and loading their captives for

transport to Dannebrugh, where they'd be sold as caethion, the market in that

particular commodity being one of the most lucrative forms of trade then

known. Indeed, only trade with the continent in Eirish wolfhounds, woolen

bardocuculli and oysters from the waters of Brythain can bring equal wealth to

our merchants.

Coming to the crest of a nearby hill, Gilfaethwy spied the longships,

neatly beached in a row along the sandy shoreline; and as the Danskers went

about their tasks to make ready for sail, Gilfaethwy caught sight of the fair

Brunissen being mistreated by the giant. Although she came from Llychlyn as

did Tallas himself, her refusal to give in to his desires had earned her his

displeasure.

The story is that Woden had doomed his daughter to live and love as a

mortal in punishment for having defended brave men in battle whom she thought

too worthy to die by the arrows of her sister Valkyries as fated by the Norns.

Of course, these warriors were slated to become part of Woden's army in

Valhalla; and thus, Brunissen's actions had kept these Northmen from joining

the ranks of their brethren who'd someday fight alongside her father at

Ragnarok, the Destiny of the Gods. Unable, then, to lose one warrior for fear

of the consequences, Woden took away her immortality and gave her to Tallas,

with the only hope, which burnt in her heart, of being delivered if her rescuer

could pass the three tests of strength.

But all Gilfaethwy could see were the gold colour of her long braided hair

and the brilliant blue of her sparkling eyes, and that was enough to fire his

heart with love for this as of yet unknown beauty. Digging his spurs into the

flanks of his war-horse, he charged down the hill and attacked the Danskers who

raised their battleaxes and painted shields to defend themselves from

Gilfaethwy's relentless assault. But before they knew it, forty of their

number lay either dead or wounded in the sand, cut down by Gilfaethwy's arrows

and his spear as he'd ridden among them.

Seeing the slaughter caused by this Brythonic horse-archer, Tallas armed

himself and came down from his longship to fight him man-to-man. Now, Tallas,

an ever so tall giant, robust and with sure hands, was no ordinary warrior.

Woden in all his great wisdom had chosen him well as the warder for his wayward

daughter, for he was the most fearless fighter in all of Llychlyn.

"Fight me fairly on foot, Bretar! An' we two shall decide the issue

betwix' us!" he shouted at Gilfaethwy.

Eagre to oblige, Gilfaethwy leapt from the back of his horse and onto the

sand. Then, he looked up and up and up at Tallas who towered over him like a

sturdy oak above an acorn.

"Prepare tae die, Bretar!" Tallas bellowed and, crouching in a fighting

stance, began to circle around Gilfaethwy.

Feared seized Gilfaethwy's heart for but a moment. Then, he recovered.

Hefting his spear, the one the fay had given to him, he let it fly. It

rose up and up and hit Tallas in the knee. The giant howled in pain and yanked

the offending spear from his flesh.

"I'm gaein' tae make ye pay fer tha', Bretar!" he ranted.

Lifting his great axe, which would have taken the strength of twelve hardy

men to raise, Tallas brought it down with all of his might, intending to smash

poor Gilfaethwy to bits. The axe struck the boss of Gilfaethwy's shield with

such force, Gilfaethwy was knocked near senseless to the sand. But the magic

shield had held, and the wound to Tallas' knee slowed him down just enough for

Gilfaethwy to regain control of himself in the nick of time, because Tallas had

raised his foot high in the air and brought it down to squash Gilfaethwy in the

sand.

Rolling quickly away with only fractions of a second to spare, Gilfaethwy

came up with his sword in hand to face Tallas' exposed ankle. Like Hephaestus'

mechanical man who defended ancient Crete, Tallas' vital fluids were vulnerable

only in this one ankle; and when Gilfaethwy stabbed him there with the point of

his sword, Tallas wobbled about uncontrollably, the armour about him making a

grating noise not unlike the sound made by the bronze protector of Crete when

he moved.

Shrieking in agony, Tallas fell upon his back on the sand and was unable

to move. He could only speak.

"Ye ha'e kill'd me, Bretar!" he stammered.

Taking pity on the giant, Gilfaethwy tried to staunch the wound but was

unsuccessful at first, until Brunissen gave him her gown, which he used to stop

the flow of Tallas' blood. Once it became apparent Tallas would live,

Gilfaethwy turnt his attention to the captives whom he freed from their chains

and sent them on their way home.

Then, coming before the bonny Brunissen, he knelt before her and said,

"Ye, too, are free tae gae yer way, my burd."

"Ye're allowin' me tae gae?" she asked in surprise.

"Aye, my burd," he answered, still kneeling before her.

"Ye dinna intend tae ha'e yer way wi' me as yer reward fer my rescue?"

"Why nae, my burd, I'd ne'er dae sic a thin' as tha'."

To his surprise and delight, she bent over and kissed him sweetly. "Then,

ye're the man fer me, Gilfaethwy, son o' Do the Forester."

"My burd?"

"I'll be yer lawfully wedd'd wife. Tha's wha' ye want, isna it?"

"Aye!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. "Aye, I dae!"

"Dae ye ken why I'll be yer wife?"

"Nae, I dinna ken or care, 'cause I ha'e lov'd ye frae the first moment I

laid eyes upon ye."

"Well, fer yer information, ye won my heart, 'cause ye spar'd this man his

life, 'cause ye freed these poor people frae dire captivity, an' 'cause ye've

shown yer respect an' devotion tae me withouten askin' anythin' in return fer

yersel'. Tha's the mark o' a truly guid man, an' 'cause ye are sic a man, ye

pass'd the three tests o' strength, which ha'e nithin' tae dae wi' a man's

physical strength but e'erythin' tae dae wi' his moral character."

Thus, Gilfaethwy returnt to us, with Tallas as his prisoner and with the

enchanting Valkyrie as his bride, and they lived happily everafter together as

husband and wife. Indeed, Gilfaethwy was the first amongst our select group of

companions to marry; and we envied him for the grace and beauty of his life's

helpmate, spurring some of us to find our own brides if they could only be her

equal, which excited the jealousy of those who didn't live up to her standards.

The autumn equinox was now fast approaching, heralding the beginning of

the nine-day Mysteries of the Three Mothers. Since our old stomping ground

around Llyn Tegid serves as the principal site of the Mysteries, Gwenhwyfar

asked Arthgwyr to escort her there; and as the rites are celebrated by women

only, Father invited the men to stay at his nearby keep and await the return of

the womenfolk from the Mysteries.

The Mysteries of the Three Mothers involves the rape and rescue of Creiddyledd ferch Lludd, the maiden of spring, and the ensuing grief of her mother Cerridwen, the crone of Llyn Tegid, worshipped in our district as the source of all vegetation and life. Elsewhere, Cerridwen in the guise of a hen assumes the role as the goddess of the grain who refuses to attend to her duties whilst in search for her abducted daughter. The third mother is Albion Diana who sits in judgment over the proceedings as is her right, for she gave the Island of the Mighty to Bryth and his followers and thus to their heirs, we ourselves.

Of course, Arthgwyr, always the inquisitive one, had to find out what the

women really did during the Mysteries. Remembering an infamous incident during

Caesar's term as pontifex maximus, Arthgwyr thought it would be fun to dress up

as a woman and sneak in among the all-female celebrants. Caught up in

Arthgwyr's enthusiasm, Gwenhwyfar helped to disguise him.

Thus, gowned as a young maid and long hair in braids, Arthgwyr went with

Gwenhwyfar to the Mysteries. Her Pechtish-born mother, Gwythyr ferch Greidiol

Galofydd, led the troupe, with Gwenhwyfar's younger sister, Gwenhwyfach,

following behind.

Joining them was Ogyrfran's natural daughter by the wife of his penteulu,

Gwyrd of Gwent. Amazingly, this girl, born on the same day and as identical

looking as Ogyrfran's legitimate daughter, was also named Gwenhwyfar. As both

were sexdigitated, no one could tell the two Gwenhwyfars apart, except rumour

had it the legitimate one bore a blue crown tattooed on her right hip as a sign

of her royalty. I understand tattooing is a Pechtish custom, and given Gwythyr

was a royal Pecht, the true Gwenhwyfar probably inherited this custom from her

mother. (I also thought the Gwenhwyfar of ignoble blood was quite taken with

Arthgwyr, too.)

Thankfully, Arthgwyr got away with his impersonation and didn't get

caught, or there would have been a terrible scandal. He amazes me sometimes

with his antics.

After the Mysteries were over, we prepared to leave Caer Gai for Caerleon

ar Wysg, where Arthgwyr planned to take up residence for the winter months. We

bid Mother and Father farewell and Dewi, too, as he returnt to his monastery.

After reaching Caerleon ar Wysg, Arthgwyr arranged for the Primate to

solemnise his impending wedding to Gwenhwyfar in the two churches dedicated to

Julius and Aaron, Christian saints martyred at Roma during the reign of

Imperator Decius. A pagan ceremony would also be celebrated the same day at

the temple of Albion Diana in the nearby hills, where his bride would press him

to accept her Goddess over his.

But Ogyrfran had made Arthgwyr promise to put the wedding off for two

years, until Gwenhwyfar was sixteen years of age. If Gwenhwyfar's father had

known Arthgwyr better, he might not have prolonged their betrothment. Arthgwyr

wasn't the kind of man who could give up sex for any length of time.

That winter, another young woman, Llifran ferch Bran of the Two Isles,

came to Caerleon ar Wysg. She descended from royal blood on both sides of her

family. Her paternal grandfather was Llenlleawc the Elder, a royal tywysog of

the House of Celidoine, and his wife was the daughter of an Eirish righ, giving

rise to 'the Two Isles' in their son's appellation as a reference to his

parent's origins. Llifran's father had also married an Eirish colleen,

Hel-Aine, the eldest daughter of the noble Galegantis of Cnoc Aine in Mumu.

Bran's younger brother, Gwri Bright-Hair, married Hel-Aine's sister, Eve-Aine.

After their double wedding, the two young grooms brought their brides back to

Celidon and settled at Din Guaryrdi. Bran already had two natural sons, Ecttwr

of Maris and Aunsyr the Palmer. By Hel-Aine, he had two more children, a son,

called Llenlleawc the Hibernian after Bran's father, and a glamourous daughter,

Llifran.

Like many of the other young burds at court, Llifran tried her luck at

catching Arthgwyr for her husband. What she got was pregnant, obliging her to

leave court without the benefit of marriage.

By the spring of AB Fifteen Hundred and Ninety-Three, Arthgwyr had taken

three hetaerae as his mistresses, Garwen ferch Henin the Old, Gwyl ferch

Gendawd, and Indeg ferch Garwy the Tall.[30] He had Gwlyddyn the Carpenter build

them separate wooden residences within the palatium's compound at Caerleon

where Arthgwyr dallied away the hours until the weather changed and permitted

action again.

"After all," he explained offhandedly, "I ha'e two years tae wile away

awaitin' on Gwenhwyfar."

It seems word got around about Arthgwyr's idle pastimes. The clergy of

Caerleon were outraged, so much so Archbishop Dyfrig never showed his face once

at court the whole time we were in his caer. We were given the excuse he was

out of caer and couldn't be reached.

Before this time, Culhwch ap Cilydd had come to court to claim a boon from

Arthgwyr. As their mothers were sisters, Arthgwyr agreed to help Culhwch win

Olwen, a most beautiful Horn-Maiden, for his wife. For some time thereafter,

when not engaged in military campaigns to reunite the realm, we aided Culhwch

in his quest. I played a major role myself in these endeavours until near the

end when some ill-chosen words on Arthgwyr's part drove me from him.

On the night of the Maia Day feast of Beltaine of that same year, a

violent lightning storm announced Morg-Anna had given birth to twin sons, just

as Myrddin had predicted. Gwyar's grievance against Arthgwyr was now doubly

aggravated. Firstly, his wife had committed adultery as well as incest with

her own putative brother, already Gwyar's mortal enemy; and secondly, she now

presented Gwyar with twins not his own.

Twice before Gwyar had good reason to suspect his wife had borne him

children actually fathered by someone else. Firstly, there was Gwalchmei,

conceived so rumour had it as the result of Morg-Anna's intrigue with a young

Lothian guastafel at her husband's court. Subsequently, a daughter, Denw, was

also thought to be the offspring of this same guastafel, Lot or Loth by name.

I'm not sure which.

Although Lot managed to escape Gwyar's vengeance by first fleeing to

Orkney, Gwyar had the infant Gwalchmei set adrift to drown him. Rescued from

this terrible fate, the baby boy was brought to Roma where he eventually grew

to manhood.

Unable to stay away from Morg-Anna, Lot boldly returnt. This time Gwyar

actually caught them in the act together. To elude capture and certain death,

Lot jumped naked out a window, stole a corgwl, and sailed across the Mor Tawch

to Llychlyn, where years later Arthgwyr gave him a cader. As for Lot's second

child by Morg-Anna, Gwyar threw the baby Denw from the top of Traprain Law to

kill her on the rocks below and, when that failed, set her adrift, too. But

like her brother, she also survived.

With regard to the twins, Gwyar's reaction, then, was quite predictable.

The enraged cuckold ordered the twins to be set adrift, just as he'd done with

Gwalchmei and Denw, but with no more luck. When the corwgl carrying the twins

was wrecked, a yeoman named Nabur rescued and raised Medrawt, and Myrddin's

former instructress, the Burd of the Loch, saved Llacheu. So, Gwyar failed to

put an end to the twins, just as he'd failed years ago in trying to kill both

Gwalchmei and Denw.

Unfortunately, later storytellers would charge Arthgwyr for the deed of

trying to drown the twins, which I can attest was untrue. But it's hard to

influence the strongly held opinions of others, and today, the people believe

Arthgwyr to have been the guilty party, perhaps, getting some kind of pleasure

out of bringing their hero down to their own level.

When the heavy rainstorms we'd been experiencing finally ceased, dire news

arrived from both Father and Ogyrfran. They'd learnt Brychan of Talgarth and

Meurig the Stater of Dyfed had joined forces with Cadell Ddyrnllug, the

Gwrtheyrnian Ricon of Powys. With Cadell had come his brother, Rhuddfedel

Frych, and their cousins, Rhitta Gawr and Nero. As one unified command, they

were marching upon us at Caerleon ar Wysg. Furthermore, their allies in the

north, the Edoridae and Catwallawn Longhand of Gwynedd and his brother, Ewein

Whitetooth of Viroconium Cornoviorum, had also linked up and invested Caerleon

ar Dubr Duiu.

Father was particularly distressed. Brychan was the son of Father's first

cousin Anlac ap Eidyn, and Catwallawn and Ewein were the sons of Father's first

cousin Einiaun Girt ap Cunedag II. The cenedl of Cunedag the Burner was

divided in two and the factions were at war against each other. As the dialwr

or 'war-leader' of the cenedl, Father's dismay was understandable.

Gathering our own forces, we first marched against the hostile coalition

advancing on our winter headquarters. The result was a horrendous battle,

called the Battle of Guinnion, where Arthgwyr carried Diana Ever-Virgin upon

his shoulder in victory.

The battle was fought in the month following the passion of Mabon, near

the fortress of Gelligaer, a fine Roman castellum of the smaller variety.

Bawdewyne deployed our army on the broad spur of Cefn Gelligaer in the coal

mining district north of Caerphilly. This position blocked the enemy's line of

march on the old Roman via from Letavia.

We routed them by charging downhill on horseback and into their midst

before they realised what had hit them. They were totally vanquished.

Following up on this success, we engaged Brychan's infantry column in

skirmishes on the east bank of the Afon Taff at Merthyr-Tydfil and at

Talgarth. Cadell's Gwrtheyrnians quickly withdrew to their own territory in

Powys and Meurig returnt sad-faced to Dyfed in defeat.

Of them all, Brychan was the biggest loser. His second son, Cynog, the

dialwr of his army, was slain by Illtyd the Christian Soldier in single combat

and buried at Merthyr-Cynog. Moreover, two of Brychan's warlike daughters,

Tydfil and Gwen, died at Merthyr-Tydfil and Talgrath respectively. The latter

place, Brychan's own fort, fell to us; and Clydwyn, the next eldest son, led

the remnants of Brychan's army to Llangledwyn in Myrddin's home district and

resettled his people there. Brycheiniog was lost to them forever.

When Myrddin saw the bodies of his nephew and nieces, he threw himself

upon their corpses and wept bitterly. Nothing we could do could console him.

His eldest nephew and another niece, Nectan and Keyne, took the bodies of their

brother and sisters away for interment. Unfortunately, on his way home, Nectan

was accosted by robbers and beheaded.

Myrddin's relationship with his sister, always till now extremely close,

was also ruined. She blamed him personally for the deaths of her four

children, because he was the spiritual leader of the very men who'd taken three

of her children's lives which resulted in the death of the fourth.

I think Myrddin blamed himself as well. He was never the same after that.

They say he went mad and eventually became a wild hermit living naked in

the Woods of Celidon. Perhaps, it's true, a little. He certainly looked and

acted crazed when next I saw him. But then again, I'd always thought he was

something of a loon from the very first time I met him.

But don't get me wrong. I think a very thin line exists between greatness

and madness, something like walking a delicate tightrope without a net below to

catch you if you should fall. Myrddin lost his footing and the landing was

hard.

The impact smashed him to pieces, and he fled into the remotest depths of

the forest, a broken man, someday, perhaps, to mend. Given time, they say, old

wounds will heal. For his sake, I certainly hoped so; for Arthgwyr, as well,

because he depended so much on that crazy old shaman.

Well, I guess I missed him, too. He gave us a decided edge over our foes,

and without him, we lost the advantage, which admittedly we could ill afford to

lose.

One bright spot out of this was the story of Pedrog's elder brother,

Gwynllyw Filwk, son of Glywys of Glamorgan and Gwawl ferch Ceredig ap Cunedag

II. It seems Gwynllyw took a fancy to Gwladys, one of Brychan's daughters, so

he carried her off with Brychan in hot pursuit. Arthgwyr, Bedwyr and I saw it

unfold before our very eyes. At first, Arthgwyr wanted to stop Gwynllyw and

take Gwladys away for himself, but Bedwyr and I talked him out of it. After

all he was in more than enough trouble over women as it was. So, we helped

Gwynllyw to escape to his home on Snow Hill, and now he and Gwladys have a

remarkable son, Cadwg.

We'd decisively defeated our rivals in Southern Cymru; however, our other

enemies in the north were harder to beat. Catwallawn who claimed supremacy in

Northern Cymru was still at Caerleon ar Dubr Duiu with Ewein Whitetooth. The

Edoridae had gone to besiege Hywel at Alclud and attempt to win the release of

their brother, Eiddilig, imprisoned there.

In addition, the Gwrtheyrnians still roved about with a mobile force able

to support their other allies, and Rhitta Gawr went so far as to send a message

to Arthgwyr demanding his beard. Rhitta stated he planned to use it along with

those already collected from adversaries he'd killed to fringe his

paludamentum. Rhitta wrote his paludamentum "only need'd one half-grown beard

tae complete it" and Arthgwyr could yield his beard or otherwise have his whole

dominion laid to waste and himself beheaded in the bargain.[31]

Needless to say, this rather unfriendly missive when received at

Arthgwyr's court raised a bit of steam like that issuing from a boiling pot of

water held over a blazing fire. The reply sent to Rhitta was couched in

equally disquieting terms.

CHAPTER V

* THE GUARDIAN OF THE WELL AND A BLACK SABBAT AT BEALE REGARD *

Around this time, Arthgwyr's rashness resulted in the Sword of Power being broken in two. Still determined to seek out Eigyr in Arawn's high-walled citadel at Clatchard Craig, Arthgwyr removed all emblems and insignia of his imperial rank and went alone, incognito, across the land. Possibly hoping to find some adventure along the way, he was dressed as a cnicht-errant, riding his little mare, Findabair, with Cafall running by their side.

When I discovered he'd left the palatium without an escort, I cursed his

boyish recklessness and immediately summoned Bedwyr and Lucan to join me in

order to follow after him and try to keep him from danger. Impossible, you

say. Well, you're absolutely right. When it comes to getting oneself into

trouble, nobody's as good at it as Arthgwyr.

But apparently, he hadn't just packed up and left without some minimal

preparation. Before starting out after him, I learnt he'd left Bawdewyne as

regent, a wise choice. Later, I learnt he'd prearranged several other things

as well, which meant he had a plan, and I thought I knew what he was up to.

From his trail, it appeared he was heading straight for Celidon by way of

North Ambria. Contemplating what he might have in mind, I came to the

conclusion he hoped to rescue three people very dear to him.

First, he sought to find his childhood hero whose strong swordarm was

sorely missed, then his mentor and finally his mother. Pelly had been last

seen at the sacred well nearby Sewingshields in the Gaste Forest of North

Ambria. Myrddin had supposedly gone mad and roamed aimlessly about the Woods

of Celidon, just north of Pelly's last known whereabouts. Lastly, Eigyr lived

a prisoner further north on the other side of the Antonine Wall. At any rate,

my brother was definitely riding north where all three were known or thought to

be.

I can't say I blame him much. What lad of sixteen wouldn't wish to meet

his long lost mother only seen once or twice from afar? Arthgwyr had never

even had the opportunity to speak with Eigyr, much less learn the truth about

his birth from her, which she alone could tell.

Nothing unusual about his desire to meet her face to face, I'd say. But,

and this is a very big but, he'd be walking straight into the lion's den; nay,

perhaps, were better to say he'd be sticking his head right into the lion's

mouth.

If Arawn or his brothers captured Arthgwyr and discovered his identity,

his life would instantly be forfeit. Arawn claimed the Pendragwnship, because

he had Uthr's widow, the Pendragwness, to wife; and he saw Arthgwyr's death as

a means of eliminating his chief rival. Gwyar had a personal reason for hating

Arthgwyr and wanting his head on a stake, and Urien was quite displeased

himself about losing Caerleol, his largest caer, to us. Lastly, Arthgwyr had

imprisoned their brother, Eiddilig.

Under the circumstances, none of them would have allowed Arthgwyr to live

if he fell into their hands; but to get to Eigyr, Arthgwyr first had to go

through Gwyar's territory and then Arawn's, or if he attempted to circumvent

Gwyar's realm, then he had to go through Urien's and still ride into Arawn's

lair anyway. There was no other way, except by sea; and the only boat Arthgwyr

had ever sailed up until that time was a tiny corwgl on Llyn Tegid, never

having so much as put out to sea in a lymphad.

How my brother thought he could accomplish his quest without being

detected is beyond me? He wasn't disguised as a lass this time in order to get

away with it. He was riding boldly forward as a cnicht, ready to accept any

challenge by force of arms.

Beforehand, however, Arthgwyr wanted to find Pelly, his idol. My brother

must have believed Pelly was in some kind of dire trouble, which I myself also

believed, because Pelly had been absent too long now, very unlike him. If he'd

known about the battles we'd been in and known his kinsmen had taken part in

them, he'd have allowed nothing or no one to stop him from being at our side.

So, Arthgwyr was off to help Pelly if he could. At least, I certainly hoped

so, because he'd need him to fight his way through to Eigyr.

Finally, there was Myrddin to consider. He was my brother's mentor after

all, and the old shaman loved Arthgwyr like a son. Equally important, Arthgwyr

loved him like a father.

Even if he'd no reason to go for Pelly's sake or even to see his mother,

Arthgwyr was honour bound to help Myrddin get over his madness. I clearly

understood this and sympathised with his position but damned him all the same

for endangering his life and for leaving without asking me to come with him.

When Lucan, Bedwyr and I reached Eborawc, we learnt Arthgwyr had been

there ahead of us. It seems in advance of his quest Arthgwyr had written

secretly to Father asking him to join him at Brastius' keep in Eborawc.

When he told Father and Brastius his plan, thankfully, they wouldn't allow

him to continue unless the two of them accompanied him, which, of course, is

exactly what Arthgwyr had planned from the start. He wanted Father and

Brastius there when he faced Eigyr, as well as the other two whom he planned to

rescue along the way.

Father, Brastius, and Myrddin all played major roles in either Arthgwyr's

conception and/or his being brought to Father to be his foster-son. Pelly, of

course, had slain Eigyr's first husband just hours before the man was

supposedly lying with his wife when Arthgwyr was conceived.

It made sense. Arthgwyr was bringing all the pieces of the puzzle

together for the first time. Logical, perhaps, but, and again it's that same

very big but, how would this very small contingent of men get through the

Edoridae's whole army to put forth Arthgwyr's questions to Eigyr, virtually

imprisoned in the high-walled fortress of Arthgwyr's archrival for the

Pendragwnship?

Finding Arthgwyr had already left Eborawc in the company of Father and the

axeman, I decided we couldn't stay overnight, because we'd lose too much time.

Lucan, Bedwyr and I pushed on to catch up with my brother and his two

companions. We rode through the night to the next morning. It was now

Midsummer Day, a day legend ascribes as a day of magic and wonders.

Fortunately, Arthgwyr stopped at your father's castellum first before

continuing on to Pelly's well, and your father, himself able to bear witness to

the single combat between his uncle and Eigyr's first husband, was persuaded to

join their party. This little delay permitted Lucan, Bedwyr and me to finally

catch up with them.

We three rode our horses hard. Completely winded, the animals would drop

beneath us if we didn't stop soon. Luckily, we didn't have far to go, for

Pelly's well was just ahead of us. When it came into view, I saw Arthgwyr's

party was already there.

However, something very strange was going on. Arthgwyr had challenged the

Guardian of the Well to a duel, and the two of them were locked in mortal

combat, apparently for some time.

But Pelly was the guardian. "Wha' folly is this?" I asked myself.

Dusk was descending upon us and what lay before me became to my mind a

heathen Midsummer Night's dream. My eyes couldn't believe what they beheld.

Arthgwyr and Pelly continued to jump and dodge from each other's flashing

blades. They fought relentlessly splintering one another's armour, and their

blood flowed freely from many wounds. Momentarily, both collapsed from pain

and exhaustion, but rising again, the deadly duel went on.

Riding up to the others watching them, I asked, "Wha's the meanin' o'

this?"

Father turnt, sombre-faced, and looked up at me. "They're fightin' tae

the death," he said.

"But, fer God's sake, why?"

Cadwr answered: "My uncle is under an evil spell plac'd upon him by

Modron, the sorceress, an' the only way tae break the hex is fer a better

cnicht than himsel' tae defeat him in single combat."

"Are ye all mad?" I cried. "Tha's the peerless Pellinore Arthgwyr is

fightin'. We ha'e tae stop this now afere one or baith o' them is kill'd."

But as I tried to push Gwinam Goddwf Hir past the other mounts, Father

held out his hand to stop me. I looked at him as if they all were touched in

the head.

"Ye canna interfere, my son. This is fer Arthgwyr tae dae an' fer him

alone."

Speechless, I just sat there on my charger and watched the combat with

building apprehension. Using both hands to wield their swords, they hacked at

each other. Time and time again, their swords clashed, and sparks flew like

rain from the reverberating impact of blade against blade. Wound upon gaping

wound spilled scarlet blood upon the ground.

Then, the unthinkable happened. That which couldn't be broken was

broken. The Sword of Power, the weapon of the gods forged in the Otherworld,

broke in two. Its blade was shattered by Pellinore's invincible hand.

Who could have foreseen this? Not I. Not any of us.

"Now, ye'll yield tae me or perish by my hand!" Pelly declared.

"Na' sae," Arthgwyr swore in turn, springing at him; and grabbing Pelly

around the waist, he flung him to the ground.

For a moment, it actually looked like Arthgwyr had a chance of winning;

but with a sudden burst of energy, Pelly threw Arthgwyr off of him and climbed

on top. Unlacing Arthgwyr's helmet, Pelly raised his sword high above his

head.

If my brother was to be saved, it had to be done now, or it would soon be

too late. Leaping from my horse, I ran forward to try to rescue Arthgwyr.

Then, the Midsummer Night's dream began in earnest. A loud commanding

voice cried: "Hold!" Everyone immediately froze in place, unable to move a

muscle or even to speak; and a ray of light, one hundred times brighter than

the brightest moonbeam, shone down from above on the peerless Pellinore's

face. "Dae ye ken whom ye're aboot tae kill?" the voice asked.

Pellinore and only he was able to answer. The rest of us were struck

mute. "Nae," Pelly replied haltingly.

"If ye kill this lad, ye'll endanger the entire realm."

"Why?"

"He's the son o' yer onetime master, Uthr Pendragwn."

"Then, he'll ha'e my head fer layin' hands upon his imperial person, sae I

mus' kill him anyway tae save mysel'."

"Nae, he loves ye. Ye ha'e bin his idol an' hero sith he couldst walk on

his hind feet."

"But I'm the Guardian o' the Well an' am command'd tae kill all

trespassers here regardless who they might be. I mus' kill him."

"Then, ye leave me nae choice," the voice responded.

Instantly, such magical power I can only liken to a bolt of lightning

struck Pellinore with unbelievable force. At the same moment, we were all

released from whatever had held us in place. I ran forward.

"Well, hurry up," Arthgwyr cried in anguish. "Get him off o' me!"

It reminded me of that day which seemed a lifetime ago when Arthgwyr had

killed the afanc and I'd had to pull the dead creature off of him. He'd been

afraid then, too. So had I and was now again.

When I reached them, I saw what I couldn't believe. The peerless

Pellinore had been turnt into stone.

The others came rushing over, too. "My god, luik at tha'!" Father

exclaimed. "He's bin turnt tae stone."

"An' he weighs as much as a boulder," Arthgwyr howled. "Get him off o'

me!"

It took all of us to lift Pellinore and put him down next to the well.

Slowly, Arthgwyr rose to his feet.

"Are ye hurt?" I asked.

"Are ye craz'd'? Tha' madman nearly kill'd me, an' my body is cover'd wi'

wounds."

Then, the spectral voice spoke again. "Yer wounds will heal, young sire."

We all turnt in the direction of the voice. I took a step backwards, for

there before me I saw a ghostly form hovering a short distance above the

ground.

"Who're ye?" Brastius snarled, shaking his broadaxe at the spirit.

"Dae ye na' recognise me?"

I heard a quick intake of breath. It was Arthgwyr. He knew instantly.

"Myrddin, tis ye, isna it?"

"Aye, Arthgwyr, tis I, Myrddin."

"Are ye dead?" I asked.

"Nae, Gai, ye see my livin' spirit."

"Oh," I said, as though that explained anything to me. I had absolutely

no idea what in the devil he was talking about.

I walked up to him with the others, but when I reached my hand out to

touch him, he wasn't there. At least, my hand passed through his so-called

living spirit without touching anything, although the icy coldness I felt sent

chills up and down my spine.

"In order tae save the peerless Pellinore frae this grisly fate ye mus'

find the one who put him under this evil spell," Myrddin's spirit said.

"Twas Modron," Cadwr responded. "My uncle chas'd a white hart tha' led

him straight tae her an' she cast a wick'd hex o'er him in order tae make him

the sacred-ricon o' the well."

"Then, ye mus' gae tae her. She resides at a castellum which she hast

renam'd Beale Regard. Tis the auld Roman fortress o' Camboglanna jus' west a

short distance frae here. Gae there an' get frae her the secret o' how tae

release Pellinore frae her cantrip."

"I ken the place," Cadwr said, turning to us with the information. "Twas

once one o' the five-erwau milecastellets along Hadrian's Wall. Tis situat'd

on the north bank o' the Cambula. We canst be there in nae time at all, if we

ride fast."

"But wha' aboot Pellinore? Ye turnt him intae stone. Is he dead?"

Arthgwyr wanted to know of the ghost.

"Nae, he's mair whole than are ye. He'll live an' one day return tae

court wi' the woman who'll eventually cause my own entombment. When next we

meet, I'll be wi' ye in the flesh as well as in the spirit; an' if ye canst get

the secret o' Modron's spell, I'll release Pellinore frae this frozen form.

But fer now, he's better left as he is, sae he canst harm nae one else who

comes tae the well. Gae, now, an' get the witch's secret, an' I'll be here tae

meet ye upon yer return."

Wonderful, I thought, now we ha'e tae brave a witch's den. Wha' next?

Myrddin's spirit melted into the evening air as silently as it had

appeared. I looked on in wonder, nor did the manner of its departure overly

please the others. Except for Arthgwyr, they were as shakened by the

experience as me.

"Well, he'll ne'er cease tae amaze me," Gyner commented. "Reminds me o'

the time he led Uthr, Osla an' I tae the grove o' the coven o' witches at Caer

Lloyw where Uthr learnt where tae find the Sword o' Power."

"My sword!" Arthgwyr suddenly cried. He turnt about and ran back to where

the two pieces lay on the ground beside the stone that was once Pellinore. "My

Goddess, wha' dae I dae now? Tis broken! The sword o' the gods is broken!"

He lifted up the pieces to show us. "I won my crown by drawin' this sword frae

the stone. Wha' now tha' tis broken? Ha'e I lost the right tae rule, 'cause

tis nae longer whole?"

This caused no little concern among us, for Arthgwyr was right. He had,

in fact, won his cader by being the only one able to pull the sword from the

stone. This was a bad omen and we all knew it.

Gyner Graybeard, the wisest among us, spoke first: "Brin' the pieces wi'

us. All may na' be lost yet. Myrddin wouldst ha'e told us if tha' was true.

He'll fix it when we meet again. Ye'll see. Twill be alright. I promise."

Gyner's words served to soothe Arthgwyr. "Aye, aiblins, ye're right. He

didst promise tae meet us here when we returnt wi' Modron's secret aboot the

hex."

"First, we mus' see tae yer wounds, Arthgwyr," I interjected. "Twasna

exactly the smartest thin' tae take on Pelly like tha'. Nae one hast e'er

beaten him erenow."

"There's aye a first time, Gai," he responded; and they were, indeed,

prophetic words, with a special meaning, as I was to learn, for me personally.

So severe were Arthgwyr's wounds, it took three long days before he could

take to horse again. During the interval, we put our heads together and

devised a plan. Our little party just couldn't ride boldly into Modron's

castellum and hope to ride out again alive. No allies of ours lived there.

Of course, we relied heavily upon your father's knowledge of the area. He

recommended we ride to Chamot Hill lying about eleven Roman miles northwest of

the castellum. There are two hills adjacent to Chamot, the tallest of the

three, and Cadwr thought they'd make a good staging area for our endeavour. In

time, these three hills would become known as 'Arthgwyr's Seats' as we've

reused them a number of times to encamp our troops during subsequent military

campaigns in the north.

Upon our arrival, we found the small Roman fortress of Fanum Cocidi and

four peel-towers at the foot of the hills. Establishing our headquarters in

the old fort, we decided it would be prudent to send out a small scouting party

to survey the enemy's position. Over the strenuous objections of the others,

Arthgwyr decided he and I should be the ones to enter the lioness' den.

The idea of this adventure delighted Arthgwyr no end, and before leaving,

he let it be known we'd perform miracles. His words kindled in Bedwyr the

desire to come with us, for he had no wish to remain behind with the older men

whilst the two of us had all the glory. Although Bedwyr implored us to take

him along, Arthgwyr feared his missing hand would draw unwanted attention,

possibly leading to our identities being given away prematurely. Bedwyr

understood, but I knew my friend was most unhappy to be left behind.

Upon entering the lush Vale of the Cambula, my thoughts dwelt on the

beauty of our Island. Someone once told me over five thousand and five hundred

islands and aits comprise what we call the Isles, with the Island of the Mighty

being the largest and most important of all.

Its typically mild and maritime climate causes us to be physically active

people, an outdoors folk, who enjoy the moderate year-round temperatures

brought by the winds across the Great Western Ocean. This, along with the

almost daily rains, makes for good yearly harvests and, in most parts, keeps

our forests and grasslands green and ever-growing.

I think the rain and our insularity develops independent minds and,

ironically, a conservative stamp on our lives. How can any Brython not help

but follow in the footsteps of his forefathers as he sits in his favourite

alehouse sipping his brew and contemplating the whys and wherefores of the

falling mizzle? The same can be said of any Gwydyl in his local shebeen or

Celidonian tossing down his barley-bree. We aren't that different after all.

We're sons and daughters of the same race and the same clime.

Moreover, I think our very geography does more than merely nourish the

ancient differences between the hillsmen of Upper Pechtland, Celidon, Cymru and

Cernyw and the plainsmen of Brythain. The southern downs and the midland

plains are closest to invasion from the continent, and their navigable afons

make the seizure of these fertile lowlands easier, as our own forefathers,

later the Romans and more recently the Eotans, Englars and Saesnaegs have

proven beyond question.

But the situation for the Celts living in the north and west is quite

different. They aren't nearly as vulnerable, for their mountains act as

natural barriers protecting them to some extent against invasion. The

highlands of the Pechts, the Celidonian uplands, the Pennines, my native

mountains of Cymru and the hills of Cernyw all serve to reduce contact with the

successful invaders of Brythain and those yet to come.

Due to this higher degree of inaccessibility, the hillsmen are more likely

to be ignorant of the changes and novelties which come to our shore from more

progressive civilisations. So, the very mountains which protect the hillsmen

also isolate and fix them in their ancient ways.

Yes, and as a result, the hillsmen don't exactly welcome alien intruders

with open arms. No, there'd be no friendly embrace awaiting Arthgwyr and me in

Beale Regard. Of that, I was certain.

As we approached the vale, we came upon a rise. Below us, the vista

opened into a seemingly flat pastureland so beautiful we just sat there on our

mounts for a moment looking at the meadows, the orchards of fruit trees and the

afon meandering its crooked path through the dale.

"Lovely view, isna it?" a compelling voice asked us.

Both Arthgwyr and I turnt instantly and drew our swords, fearing we'd been

discovered. But it was only a very old and wretched-looking man with a long,

long white beard, sitting on a rock glancing at us. Arthgwyr and I laughed in

relief.

"Who're ye, auld one?" I asked.

"Some say I'm a soothsayer, 'cause Our Laird hast bless'd me wi' the gift

o' tellin' the future," the whitebeard replied.

"Then, tell me," I asked, "wha's tae be our destiny this day?"

"Tha's easy. Ye gae tae Beale Regard tae steal a secret frae the high

priestess," he answered through wizened lips.

My mouth opened in amazement. Then, I quickly lifted my sword prepared to

strike. It was just prudent. We couldn't afford to permit this old one to

live and hope to survive ourselves. But as I began to swing my sword, Arthgwyr

shouted at me to hold my sword.

"But why, Arthgwyr? If he lives, he endangers us."

"Nae, I say," Arthgwyr insisted. "I ha'e seen this auld one afere.

Remember I told ye aboot the whitebeard in the church courtyard the day I first

pull'd the sword frae the stone?"

"Aye, I remember. Ye said he'd point'd ye taeward the sword in the

stone."

"Aye, exactly. Well, this is the auld whitebeard. He brought me guid

luck, then. Aiblins, he will again."

"He mus' be a holy man," I concluded.

"Maist likely," Arthgwyr agreed thoughtfully, "an' if sae, he's in much

graver danger here than are we."

"Why?"

"I'll answer tha'," the old whitebeard said. "'Cause I'm a Christian, an'

the high priestess in tha' black heathen place," he went on, gesturing at Beale

Regard with his crosier, "hates those o' my faith."

Well, that did it for me. My mother, of course, is a devote Christian,

well known for her piety. I just couldn't kill him now. I lowered my sword

and returnt it to its sheath.

"Why ha'e ye come here, auld one?" Arthgwyr asked.

"Tae drive out the witch an' her diabolical followers who make a mockery

o' God in their celebration o' the Black Sabbat tae renew their allegiance tae

the devil through evil rites an' orgies."

"I follow the goddess Albion Diana mysel'," Arthgwyr told him.

"There're two sects who follow the Goddess, one believin' in guidness an'

the ither followin' the powers o' darkness. Tae which dae ye belong, young

sire?"

"I believe in the Children o' Don an' oppose the dark ones," my brother

answered.

"Then, we're allies here, aiblins, on the same mission," the old one

said. "My enemy's enemy is my friend; an' as we baith believe in might fer

right, I canst o'erluik the fact ye're a polytheist, if ye canst, at least,

respect my right tae worship the One True God as I choose."

The old one was right. I'd heard many tales about Modron, Urien's oft

estranged wife.

It was said her daughter, Ysaife, had been conceived in some primitive

fane of stone where her wicked mother had assembled her evil-minded conclave to

perform their bacchanalian rites and horrible sacrifices. A newborn baby had

been immolated over Modron's naked body, which had served as the human altar in

that fiendish ceremony, concluding in her adulterous rutting with a druidic

wizard to create her bastard daughter.

This woman was dangerous, yet young. She was a couple of years younger

than her sister, Morg-Anna, and already the mistress of hexerei and the black

arts.

Once before, Modron used her magic to embarrass Pellinore's house by seducing his brother, known for his incorruptibility and goodness, which all the more embarrassed him and his family, the very reason, of course, why Modron had deliberately chosen him in the first place for her coldhearted designs. But the fruit of this union turnt sour. She bore twins, one deformed and evil, a dwarf, and the other beautiful and good, a daughter. However, one of Morg-Anna’s sons, who hated this girl’s uncle for having slain his father in battle, maliciously seduced the young beauty after she’d gone to live with her father and robbed her of her innocence; and when her father learnt of her betrayal by yielding her virginity to this enemy of his house, he cursed his daughter so that she was turnt into a loathly carline. Thereafter, both of these unhappy children served their mother as her messengers.

"We canst help each ither," the holy man vowed. "She hates me, 'cause she

fears the Omnipotent God, Our Creator an' Satan's Heavenly Foe, as certes as

she fears Death."

"But dinna we all fear the Unseen Herald, the Grim One, who reaps men's

souls?" Arthgwyr inquired, searching the old holy man's face for the answer.

"Aye," he pronounced softly, "I ha'e oft thought he stands at the

crossroads betwix' the Author o' all things an' His jealous rival; aiblins, as

I now stand in this byway betwix' Modron an' ye."

"But which way will ye gae, auld one?"

"I'll gae where'er tis my fate tae gae, as ye will alsae."

"Then, will ye join us?"

"It sae happens it hast bin sae predestin'd an' I'll gi'e ye wha' advice

I'm permitt'd."

Arthgwyr seemed happier the holy man was coming with us, but I wasn't so

pleased. He was old, at least in his forties, and would get in our way.

"Firstly, ye musna enter the dale wi' yer sword," he told Arthgwyr; and

turning to me, he continued, "an' ye mus' leave behind yer shield an' yer

war-horse. Take nithin' tha' canst bear witness tae yer faith or identity."

"Sae be it," Arthgwyr echoed in agreement.

Giving the old one his due, I must admit he did give us good advice. If

we'd ventured forth with the sword and the shield, we'd have been instantly

recognised by our enemies.

Although the Sword of Power was broken, Arthgwyr still carried it in his

sheath; and since many men, including Modron's own, had tried and failed to

pull the sword from the stone, they'd have known its distinctive hilt and

pommel at first sight. Questions would have immediately arisen. They'd have

wanted to know how, where and when we came by the sword; and someone would

undoubtedly have recognised Arthgwyr as the lad who succeeded in drawing it

from the stone, which wouldn't have been good for us.

Unlike Arthgwyr who'd already removed all of his devices and insignia, I

hadn't, which could have caused us some difficulty, as I'd earned much renown

in recent tournaments bearing my coat of arms, the spring of broom slipped

proper, in Latin the planta genista. Identification of this emblem would have

swiftly loosed upon us the malice and enmity of Modron and her

devil-worshippers; and the possession of such a huge war-horse, like my Gwinam

Goddwf Hir, would, at the least, have raised suspicions as to our identities.

"I jus' happen tae ha'e a pack wi' me containin' auld clothes an' an

assortment o' items which'll draw less attention tae ye. Once ye change yer

attire, ye'll luik like the dalesmen o' these parts," the old one said with a

smile.

I took the pack from him and opened it. True to his word, it contained

the clothes and weapons of common dalesmen. But as I emptied the contents on

the ground, I wondered why he had them. Looking up at him quizzically, I began

to suspect he'd actually known about our coming to this place and that he'd

been deliberately awaiting our arrival, with the forethought of bringing with

him exactly what we needed to gain entrance into Modron's castellum.

These thoughts made me very suspicious. But something else made me even

more so. The old one bore a striking resemblance to of all people Myrddin

himself.

Ah ha, I said to myself, yer na' foolin' me this time, Myrddin. I ken tis

ye fer certes. But I'll play along wi' yer game.

Laughing to myself like a man who knows a secret, I found an old tartan

kilt, a leather breastplate and a very outdated bronze headpiece. I donned

them and took only my sword and one spear for weapons.

Arthgwyr had less to change since he'd started out dressed as a common

cnicht-errant in the first place. He was wearing a linen tunic which just

barely covered his narrow hips, cross-gartered breeks, and a pair of boar-hide

sandals. Among the pile of clothing, he found and drew about his shoulders a

cloak made of hides. He slipped his buck-horn hunting knife into his belt at

his left side and took up a yew and a quiver of arrows from among the pile of

things on the ground.

"Verra guid," the old one chuntered. "Now, ye baith luik like ordinary

dalesmen an' nae one will take much notice tae yer activities. There're a lot

o' dalesmen in these parts."

We rolled over the stone upon which the old one had been resting,

apparently in wait for us as I now thought. I dug a deep hole, into which we

placed our shields, Arthgwyr's sword, our fancy clothes and armour, and the

ornamental trappings of our horses. Completing our preparations, we rolled the

stone back into place to conceal what we'd decided to leave behind. Then, we

turnt out my charger, keeping only Findabair, Arthgwyr's black mare, as our

packhorse.

"But who'll we say we are?" I asked.

"We'll call ye Iag," the old one said to me, "an' ye Rywghtra," he said to

Arthgwyr, "an' ye canst call me Girfyd."

Arthgwyr laughed as though it was a good joke. "Verra guid," he chortled

with a secretive smile.

I didn't get it. There really didn't seem anything funny about it and I

wanted to know how two so-called ordinary dalesmen were going to make out with

an old man and virtually no weapons or armour. What could we possibly

accomplish as we were and how were we going to get into Modron's castellum?

"Tha's nae problem at all," the holy man replied. "I'll simply say I'm a

druid priest wi' two companions an' we're seekin' shelter fer the night. A

druid priest wadna be turnt away here. Indeed, we'll be welcom'd warmly."

So we mounted the old one, whom we now called Girfyd, on little

Findabair's sturdy back. I walked at Findabair's side, using my harpoon-like

spear, Gaebolg, as a staff; and Arthgwyr, of all things, took hold of his

mare's reins and, like a common guastrahut, led the way, with Cafall bounding

before him.

It didn't appeal to me at all having to play the part of Girfyd's

servants. I didn't like it one bit, and sensing my displeasure, Arthgwyr and

Girfyd laughed at me, the same way Arthgwyr and Myrddin used to do. Just the

same, it seemed unctuous to me the dux bellorum and his first cnicht walked on

foot like lowborn menials whilst that old goat, Girfyd, rode on horseback.

As we came down into the afon valley, we spotted the white hart. "Luik!"

Arthgwyr shouted. "I'll swear it's the same white hart Pelly an' I hadst

chas'd befere."

"Well," I began, "Cadwr didst say the white hart hadst led Pelly tae

Modron, sae why na' follow it?"

"Guid idea."

So we did, and it soon led us to the entrance of a cave, darting in ahead

of us. "I dinna like the luiks o' this," I said. "It couldst be a trap."

"Tis the cave o' Demogorgon," Girfyd told us.

"Who or wha' in Gawd's name is Demogorgon?" I asked.

"The bein' who resolv'd primeval chaos intae order. Be prepar'd tae

witness wonders."

I haven't the words to describe it, so I won't even try. Indeed, it was

the wonder of wonders. We were shown the heavens and the earth, and I saw many

things to happen in the future[32], including the bonny face of my beloved and I

together at the wedding chapel as I drew yer veil.

Finally, we reached Beale Regard. Its Roman masonry of hammer-dressed and

sawn blocks of stone and tufa looked as durable as ever. Earthen banks and an

external ditch ran along the dry-stone wall. It would be very difficult to

extract ourselves from this stronghold if discovered, and I didn't like the

looks of it at all.

To my utter amazement, the parth was opened immediately for us when Girfyd

announced himself as the High Priest of the Island of Apples. As we entered,

Girfyd explained to us in a hushed whisper the island was sacred to the

druids. It was supposed to be a paradise, a cornucopia of fragrant flowers,

crimson nuts and fruit aplenty, including its famous Afalon apples, from whence

it got its name.

But all I could remember was the time when Gwynbaude scolded me for

picking an apple from a sacred tree. The thought of Gwynbaude, Myrddin's

counterpart in Celidon, reminded me once again of the shaman himself. Was he

the old one in disguise?

As we entered the cobblestone courtyard, we stopped short in amazement.

Ahead of us, tied to stakes embedded in the ground, were our companions,

Father, Brastius, Lucan, Bedwyr and Cadwr, your father. Beside them, two more

stakes stood naked without human burdens.

"Wha's this?" Arthgwyr asked the drysaur, a dwarf who identified himself

as Malcreatiure.

"They're captives tae be burnt alive taemorrow. This is Samhain-Eve," the

dwarf answered and, then, laughed viciously. "My mither, Modron, will enjoy

their deaths, as will I, especially tha' one," he said, pointing at Cadwr.

"He's my half-brither, kenn'd fer his courage. He'll be needin' it on the

morrow." The dwarf broke off our discussion cackling crazily in black-hearted

mirth.

Arthgwyr and I exchanged nervous glances. We certainly didn't want Father

and our friends to be burnt to death, but Girfyd cautioned us to hold our

tongues with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

The dwarf, whom we now knew was Modron's ill-begotten son, guided us to

the great hall; and Capalu, Modron's cat-like familiar and rumoured lover with

the most unusual amber-coloured eyes, greeted us and led Girfyd to a high seat

of honour. Arthgwyr and I took seats at the lower benches with the younger

bachelors-at-arms.

A young lass, with long raven-black hair and of refined deportment, came

to us carrying garlands of mistletoe and a beaker of honey-flavoured mead.

Smiling prettily, she placed the garlands upon our heads and filled our earthen

calices from her beaker. One of the young warriors slapped the maid on her

lovely bottom and she doused him with mead. Everybody laughed, and I was quite

taken with the dark-haired beauty.

"Nae mistletoe, nae luck," another young warrior said to us. "The druid

hadst cut the mistletoe frae the sacr'd oak tree on the sixth day o' the moon

wi' a golden sickle, an' I was the privileg'd one tae catch the mistletoe in

the white cloth," he boasted.

"An' I help'd sacrifice the two white bulls whose horns hadst ne'er bin

bound afere," the one who'd slapped the maid on her rump bragged, mead still

dripping from his youthful beard.

Although Mother had never allowed us to participate in such heathen

practices, I knew the two young men were describing rituals of the old

religion. But not knowing much about it, we praised them highly, hoping to

conceal our ignorance. Men such as these love praise and, thereby, overlook

unwitting small errors, the likes of which we could easily make since we didn't

know their customs. So, we drank to their health and extolled their deeds.

The young handmaiden with the long raven-black hair came and sat with me,

and once again my heart went out to her. I saw she wore the iron ring of a

ancilla about her neck. But attracted as I was to her, I didn't care about her

station in life. To me, she was the most adorable lass I'd ever seen, with

gray eyes sparkling with life and dreams of a happy future. She liked me, too,

and I probably could have made love to her. The festive occasion was quickly

turning into a drunken orgy, with lovers coupling all around us. But since we

were both innocent in the ways of the flesh, we just sat there side-by-side,

embarrassed and trying not to watch the others.

Shortly, the doors to the hall opened wide, and in walked a living

dream-woman, the most sensuous, blue-eyed, golden-haired beauty whom I'd ever

seen. Even I, who'd never lain with a woman, became overwhelmed in her

presence. Her voluptuous body was made to perfection and her near nakedness

brought hoarse cries of lust from several of the warriors causing a wanton smile

to hover around her painted lips.

In my heart, I knew this gorgeous ninefold goddess came from the depths of

hell. She wore a pentacle on a chain about her neck, and I knew what the

pentacle represented. It's the sign of the underworld womb, called the apple's

core, the apple of witches as I once learnt from Gwynbaude. This woman had

evil in her heart.

"Who's she?" I asked of Yffigenia, my lovely with the dark hair and the

startling gray eyes.

Yffigenia stared with scorn at the woman. "She's Modron, Urien's wife,"

she said in a low voice, "an' there's nae mair vile witch than her. Beware!."

"Where's her husband?"

"He ne'er comes here. This is her residence away frae him, an' tis a

wick'd place where Modron an' her followers perform their diablerie as part o'

their worship o' Caillech, the dark side o' the moon.[33] I wouldst leave here

fere'er if I couldst. But I'm bound tae Modron as one o' her common chattel.

My feyther was verra poor, an' dochters bein' o' lesser value tae him than sons

who couldst help him work the land, he sold me intae Modron's service. Believe

me, ye shouldst na' remain here any longer than ye ha'e tae."

I took Yffigenia's warning to heart and remained at a distance from Modron

throughout the night. Arthgwyr, of course, didn't follow my example.

Their eyes met across the hall, and from the looks they gave each other, I

suspected Modron and Arthgwyr would come to know one another more intimately as

the evening wore on. Sometime later, the two of them disappeared together.

When Arthgwyr failed to return to the hall, I became worried about his

safety and left myself. I'd no reason to stay anyway, because Yffigenia had

excused herself when the festivities became rougher and quit the hall, leaving

me alone.

I returnt to our tiny chamber and found Arthgwyr lying on his bed of green

rushes. His self-contented smile told all, and for the first time, I thought

I'd ceased to care.

"Sae ye found yersel' a woman," I commented, knowing Arthgwyr always found

it impossible to deny his carnal nature.

"Aye, aye," he flouted trying to taunt me, but I still felt nothing.

"Wha' an insatiable hizzie!"

"Modron?" I asked with a grumble. His smugness began to irritate me, and

when it came to me his infidelities vexed me still, I grew despondent. I mus'

care too much, I thought. In his state, Arthgwyr failed to notice my silent

depression, just as well since he'd have teased me into a jealous fit. "We

mus' rescue Feyther an' our friends taenight after e'eryone is asleep.

There'll be nae chance tae arrange their escape taemorrow," I remarked.

"Aye, but Modron exhaust'd me, an' I'm aneedin' a blink o' rest afere we

save them," he responded sleepily.

"Tis too early yet tae dae anythin' anyhow. Get some sleep, Arthgwyr, an'

I'll wake ye when tis time tae gae."

He turnt his back to me and slumber came to him quickly. He slept

peacefully, as I paced the floor. My emotions conflicted within me and I

wished the real me could escape from my skin and begin to live. Who or wha' is

Gai, I wondered? I began to fear my feelings about Arthgwyr weren't normal.

A feeling of utter loss and inadequacy seized me. I had to flee the

cubiculum. I couldn't stand to be near Arthgwyr. My own dark thoughts made me

run.

This was me then; and like a wretch foul with sickness, I hastened to find

the cure. I had to prove my own manhood, now in doubt. I had to find the one

person who could possibly restore my mind and soul, the foul she-bitch herself.

But Modron wasn't in her bedchamber when I burst through the door. She

was gone, and I stared at her empty mussed bed with vacant eyes, my madness

building to distorted rage. Was she with another already? I had to have her

to prove to myself I was as much a man as Arthgwyr. Where was the slut?

I charged from her cubiculum in all my fury and raced I don't know where.

Then, in the distance somewhere outside, I heard muffled voices and headed for

the sound.

In the courtyard, I saw a group of shadowy figures disappearing through

the main parth. I only caught a mere glimpse of the people but something drew

me after them.

The figures were ghost-like, some wearing white capes and the majority

shrouded in black, as they stole silently through the foliage of a grove and up

a hill in the distance before me. But they couldn't lose me. Drawn onward, I

followed them.

Suddenly, I came to a clearing in the grove. At the far end, there

appeared to be the huge trunk of an old oak tree struck by lightning and

destroyed. The figures had gathered around the burnt column of wood. I moved

slowly forward to see what they were doing.

I spied a small crag overlooking the clearing and crawled quietly up onto

it. From my position, I could see everything happening below.

A coven of white-caped officiants led the ceremonial entrance of the high

priestess, who was hard to see in the dark as she wore a black cape that

covered her from head to foot. The only light came from a single torch stuck

at the top of the pillar of oak, toward which the officiants and their high

priestess strode seemingly with great respect.

My attention was also drawn to this shorn tree with its thick roots still

burrowed deep in old mother earth, and as I looked at it closer, I realised the

tree had been carved into some sort of roughhewn idol. Its face was ghastly,

being half human and half beast. At first, I thought it had large pointed

ears, but the light from the torch embedded in the top of the idol's head

showed what I'd thought to be ears really were horns and no ordinary horns

either. They were bull's horns, which I should have known from the start,

because all Pechts, including the Celidonians, have always held the bull as

their sacred animal.

The upper torso was human but the idol's lower quarters and legs were

definitely bull-like, too. A phallus of massive and lusty dimensions projected

lewdly in an erect state from the burly loins of this makeshift Minotaur. The

whole was a hideous creation, all stained in black.

When the procession halted before the idol, the white-caped ones solemnly

lit their rush-tapers from the torch imbedded in the head of their horned god.

This transference of light, at least to me, seemed to be symbolic in nature,

synonymous to a translation of their god's diabolical spirit to each and every

celebrant.

Next, the whole body of worshippers formed a ring about the craven image;

and led by a laughing dwarf whom I recognised as Malcreatiure, they clasped

hands and began to dance in an anticlockwise circle round and round it. Before

the horned idol stood a stone altar and, next to it, the high priestess, whose

carnal nakedness could easily be discerned in the light of the congregation's

tapers, as she held open her cape and shamelessly exposed her most private

parts to every eye.

Physically, the high priestess possessed an especially Junoesque body. A

triumphant pair of succulent breasts protruded temptingly from her proud chest

and her wanton nipples reddened into rigid lust as her anxious fingers lewdly

caressed her delectably curvaceous hips that were pumping and grinding madly.

The pentacle on the chain about her neck caught the light of the torch and

tapers as she danced and pranced lewdly before the craven idol, her shimmering,

waist-length hair of spun gold flaying the air about her from her wild

movements.

Then, she stopped in mid-motion and spoke: "O Holy Laird Hellekin, I come

tae ye as yer devot'd servant; an' if it pleaseth ye, the womb o' this yer

first chosen bride an' high priestess is e'er ready tae receive the blessing o'

yer bounty."

I, immediately, recognised her voice. The golden-haired high priestess

was none other than the she-bitch Modron, who'd just lain only a short time

before in adultery with Arthgwyr. Now, she seemed bent on cuckolding her

husband with the inanimate image of her Minotaur-like god.

She sauntered to the rear of the wooden idol and delivered a ceremonial

kiss of adoration to its roughhewn hindquarters, and within seconds thereafter,

she moved around on her knees and demonstrated her complete debasement by

performing an even more unspeakable act of depravity. Then, rising to her

feet, she mounted the horned god's phallus to receive his "blessing."

Once exhausted, Modron fell from her perch to the ground, and two female

acolytes assisted her to her feet. Her generous buttocks still quivered from

her climatic union with the wooden idol, but she recovered quickly to resume

her role as high priestess. Even after, though, her shocking blue eyes still

glowed with the look of the Hooved One in them.

"Brin' forth the sacrifice," she demanded, and two other white-robed

acolytes came forward with a naked lass wearing but a infula and walking

ackwardly between them. The dwarf carrying a small chest in his hands brought

up the rear.

At first, I didn't recognise the lass. The earthy vibrance which normally

suffused her being had dissipated to a lethargic numbness of body and spirit,

giving her bonny face an empty-minded expression of lunacy. She was a sad

sight, staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes as though drugged.

But even in this unnatural state, there was no mistaking her. The lass

was Yffigenia, and my heart pounded madly in my chest at the sight of her.

What could I do? If I risked saving her, the lives of our captive

companions and, perhaps, Arthgwyr's too would undoubtedly be lost.

The officiants led Yffigenia to the stone altar and laid her upon it. Not

a sound of protest came from her but the glassed-over look of her eyes told

what they'd done to her.

Perhaps, she wadna feel it, I thought.

As I watched, the first male, an ugly-looking, scrofulous brute, an ogre,

wearing the horned mask of his god, moved between Yffigenia's outstretched

thighs and, with one lust-filled thrust, stole her virginity. When he'd

completed his rape of her unresponsive body, he slammed a balled-up fist into

the side of her head as he expended his lust.

I could never forget that bull-like man. One by one, the other males

followed him, for to them she was only an object to be used, a hole to pillage

and plunder and fill with their vile seed.

But to me, she'd meant much more, and I wept for want of action. I wept

in shame and they violated her whilst I did nothing.

Why didn't I attempt to rescue her? I don't know for certain. Could it

be she held less meaning to me once her purity had been desecrated? Did I no

longer value her as a desirable prise, because a score or more men could say

they'd inured her newly opened womanhood with their priapic members and they'd

inundated her once virgin sanctuary with their viscid spunk before I, the one

who loved her, had ever lain with her? Could I receive such ruined goods and

keep my pride, knowing other men would boast of having soiled her and laugh at

me? Her imperfection and her shame, then, would have become my imperfection

and my shame as well; and that's what I couldn't bring myself to bear, so in my

foolish pride I let them have her and shut my eyes and covered my ears as

though blocking it out would ease my conscience. But Yffigenia, like an

ineradicable ghost, wouldn't give up her hold on my mind.

She began to shriek. The drugs, hypnosis or whatever had been used to

keep her silent and dumb had worn off, and she became fully aware of the odious

outrage being performed on her person.

Her persistent screams knifed through me, and once more I opened my eyes,

as the last man began his penetration of her blood-streaked loins. He had a

tawny mane of long hair and he wore furry gloves with long lion-like claws on

both hands; and when I saw his amber cat-like eyes, I knew who he was, Capalu,

Modron's animalistic familiar and sometimes lover. As he took her, Capalu

clawed her naked breasts, her sleek sides, her little belly and her smooth as

silk shoulders cutting her flesh which ran red with her blood.

About the altar, the unserviced females employed phallic sticks to one

another till those men who'd first taken advantage of the sacrificial victim

became aroused again and drove their rejuvenated manhoods into them in oestral

frenzy. Then, just as abruptly as it began, all movement ceased.

Modron, the high priestess, took her place at the altar and stood over

Yffigenia's battered body, facing the conclave. With malicious satisfaction,

the blonde she-bitch fingered Yffigenia's bruised and bloody thighs and the

dusky triangle of curls that nestled between them.

"O Dark One," she chanted hoarsely at her horned god, "we beg ye tae

accept the life o' this yer initiat'd handmaiden, Yffigenia, whom we cede, now,

in sacrifice tae ye, Our Laird. O Unholy One, take this offerin' o' flesh an'

bluid as our gift fer yer pleasure; an' in return, grant us our fondest

dreams."

With these words, the dwarf took a flint knife from the small chest he'd

carried to the altar and handed it to Modron. She took the knife and raised

the blade high over her head.

Then, Modron recited a couplet: "Nine powers in me combin'd, nine buds o'

plant an' tree. Long an' white are my fingers, as the ninth wave o' the sea."

In one slashing stroke, Modron plunged the knife into Yffigenia's body

between her clawed breasts. Seconds later, she held aloft a palpitating organ

dripping blood, Yffigenia's still beating heart, which she gave to the dwarf,

her son, Malcreatiure.

I could take no more. I fled, like the coward I am, from the scene and

raced down the hill until I fell in the cool water of the Cambula and vomited

on its crooked banks. I don't know how long I laid there, perhaps, hours

before I rose and returnt, grim-faced and determined, to Arthgwyr and Girfyd

who joined us.

We released our captive companions from the stakes, found arms, and with

firm resolve, I led Father and our friends up the hill to the clearing in the

grove where I'd witnessed the bacchanalia. It wasn't an easy thing for me to

do. I didn't want to return there but I knew I must.

We fell upon the druid congregation without mercy and gave no quarter,

Girfyd chief amongst us in the slaughter, his white beard bespeckled with blood

as he hacked at the devil-worshippers. Our arrows and swords found easy marks

and we slew every naked celebrant, male or female, who failed to reach the

safety of the dark woods beyond. The brutish bull-man who'd been the first to

rape Yffigenia was one of those I gutted that night, driving Gaebolg through

his stomach and ripping out his intestines. My only regret was Modron, her

cat-like familiar and the dwarf were among those who got away. But I promised

to revenge myself upon them someday. That was my solemn vow, especially

against Capalu, whom I promised to find if I had to search the whole world over

and then there'd be a day of reckoning for his foul deeds.

I looked everywhere for Yffigenia's heart but it was nowhere to be found,

so I buried her as she was after removing her caeth collar. Cursing myself, I

walked away knowing my own disgrace, taking her collar with me.

They say confession is good for the soul, so I went to Girfyd. After all,

he was a holy man of Mother's faith. I knelt before him and asked him to hear

my confession.

First, he asked me if I belonged to the faith. I told him who Mother

was. He smiled and told me he knew who I was but I didn't know who he was.

When I asked him, then, as a result of what he'd said, who he was, he told me

his true name.

"I'm the son o' yer mither's own elder sister, Efrddil. I'm Girfyd spelt

backwards, Dyfrig, Archbishop o' Caerleon ar Wysg an' Primate o' the Isles."

I stared in amazement. He was my first cousin, but I hadn't recognised

him as we'd only met face-to-face once briefly in many years during the

Spectacles of Lludd when Arthgwyr pulled the sword from the stone.

He baptised me in the Cambula to which I'd fled earlier that night and,

then, heard my confession. I've never told anyone else, especially not

Arthgwyr, because of my shame and dishonour. But to this day, I wear

Yffigenia's collar about my neck as my penance, so I'll never forget.

Mother was pleased to learn I'd accepted Jesus in my life as my one true

Saviour. And so I have. I am, as a result of that horrible night and my own

failures as a man, a devote practicing Christian, returning every Allhallows to

place white-flowered sprigs of broom upon her grave and to beg for her

forgiveness.

CHAPTER VI

* A VISIT TO THE APPLE ISLE *

I left Beale Regard a sadder but wiser man and can still remember looking over my shoulder to see the bright flames Cousin Dyfrig had lit eat up the column of oak. The horned god, Hellekin, was gone forever but so was my youth.

Strange it had happened in such a beautiful setting, but I suppose it's

true, evil can be found anywhere and within almost anyone to some degree. It's

over the forces of evilness and goodness within ourselves we each sit as

arbiter, sometimes deciding in favour of one and sometimes the other. The

stronger of us walk in the grace of goodness as our Master in the wilderness,

standing our ground against the devil's temptations; but most of us slip from

time to time. I'd done so at Beale Regard but vowed never to fail my

conscience again.

"Well," Arthgwyr yawned as we rode away from that aceldama, "I guess we

fail'd in our quest."

"How sae?" Cousin Dyfrig asked. "Didst we na' chastise the faithless

evildaers an' burn their craven idol?"

"Aye, but we dinna learn the secret o' Modron's cantrip o'er Pellinore."

"Tell me aboot it."

Arthgwyr, then, explained the whole story to the Archbishop. I listened.

He left out nothing.

"Ah ha," Cousin Dyfrig chuntered, "Tis really quite simple. Yer answer is

in the auld beheadin' contest o' Cuchulainn, champion o' the Ultonians, an' Cu

Roi, Righ o' Mumu."

My cousin the Archbishop, then, went on to tell us the story of the

beheading game. It seems Cu Roi had declared Cuchulainn to be the champion of

Eirinn but two other repudiated his decision. As a result, Cu Roi

disguising himself as a giant went to Emhain Macha, then the capital of

Cuchulainn's owrelaird, the Righ of Ulaid, and challenged Cuchulainn and the

other two champions to behead him, on the condition he could afterwards do the

same to them. Cuchulainn's two rivals accepted these terms, but when each

chopped off Cu Roi's head, the Righ of Mumu merely picked his head up and

replaced it on his shoulders; however, neither of the other two men would allow

him to take his turn at beheading them. After Cuchulainn took his turn, and

once again Cu Roi put his head back in place, unlike the others, Cuchulainn

knelt down and was prepared to offer his neck to Cu Roi's blade, whereupon the

Righ of Mumu disclosed his identity and proclaimed Cuchulainn to be the

unrivalled champion of champions.

"But how dost tha' relate tae Pellinore?" I asked.

"Tis a matter o' 'The auld order changeth, yieldin' place tae new; an' God

fulfills himsel' in many ways, lest one guid custom shouldst corrupt the

world.'"[34]

"I dinna understand," Arthgwyr replied.

"Tis really na' verra complicat'd. Ye said Pellinore's spell demand'd he

fight e'eryone comin' tae the well 'til he met a cnicht greater than himsel'.

He alsae beheads his victims. Pellinore is Cu Roi. We mus' find him a

Cuchulainn."

"An' who wouldst be silly enough tae offer up his neck tae Pelly's sword?"

Arthgwyr asked. "Certes na' I."

Who indeed? But Cousin Dyfrig knew. And so did I. There could be but

one.

When we reached the well, Pelly still rested there in stone. Myrddin

stood there, too, just as he'd promised.

"Hail, cousins! Well met," he said to Dyfrig, Arthgwyr and me.

The Archbishop leapt from his horse and my two first cousins embraced.

Looking at them together, it was difficult to tell them apart. It was as if

one held up a mirror and the other was his image.

Their mothers and mine were sisters, although mine was much younger. So,

despite the fact we're cousins, Myrddin and Dyfrig (the latter of lamented

memory these past five years) are of an age to be part of Father's generation,

instead of my own. In addition to being my first cousin, Myrddin is also

Arthgwyr's natural first cousin on the agnate side.

Father, Brastius and your father, all old friends of Myrddin, joined the

happy reunion. Physically, he looked well enough. But in his eyes, there was

another tale.

The other younger men and I stood and watched them. Myrddin finally broke

away from his well-wishers and walked over to face Arthgwyr.

"Well, my lad, wha' ha'e ye bin up tae sith last we met?" the old shaman

asked.

"Ye mean ye dinna see all?" my brother replied teasingly.

"Ye ken I didst. Ye were a rascal as aye, like the time ye join'd the

women in the Mysteries."

Arthgwyr's looked up at Myrddin in surprise. "Ye mean ye ken all aboot

tha', too?"

"O' course," Myrddin scoffed, "I see all an' ken all."

Then, they both laughed together. I thought they had a strange

relationship.

"Wha' aboot Pelly?" I asked to bring them back to the present.

"Well," Myrddin responded, "as ye're here we canst proceed."

I thought he was mocking me. But he wasn't.

"I wadna dae any o' tha' incantation naensense," he said. "I'll jus'

release him frae his bonds o' stone."

He merely waved his hands in the air, and low and behold, Pelly came back

to life. However, still in his disagreeable mood brought about by Modron's

original spell, he immediately challenged all of us to a duel.

At first, Arthgwyr stepped forward, but Myrddin waved him back. "Nae,

nae, na' ye," he said. "Him!" he went on, pointing to me.

"Gai?" Arthgwyr asked.

"Naen ither," I responded, knowing ever since Dyfrig's story about

Cuchulainn I was to be the intended one.

"Aye, him," Myrddin said. "He's yer Champion o' Champions an' the auld

mus' gi'e way tae the new."

I smiled inwardly. Myrddin had used almost the same words as Dyfrig had.

My cousins not only looked alike, they thought alike, too.

"O, Guardian o' the Well," Myrddin chanted, "this young champion accepts

yer challenge in the name o' the dux bellorum o' All Brythain." Then, he turnt

to me and waved me on. "Well, cousin, gae get him."

With a grim smile, I marched forward to fight the Guardian of the Well.

His eyes ablaze with madness, he leered at me as I approached him.

Raising his sword, he swung it at me, and I turnt aside his stroke with my

own sword. Then, we flayed at one another with our weapons, making grievous

wounds. The ringing of blade against blade rose to a crescendo, until mine

finally caught him on the neck and sliced through.

His head, severed from his body, fell to the ground. He dropped his

sword, the one with which he'd killed Hywel, the High Rica of Cernyw, so many

years ago. His body stumbled but righted itself and walked around searching

for its head with outstretched hands.

Even knowing it would happen, I still stared aghast. Pelly's hands moved

about near the ground, until they finally came into contact with his head.

Grasping the grisly object of their desire, his hands rose upwards again with

his head and refixed it in place. Pelly looked at me with a toothsome smile.

"At last," he said.

I gulped. So did everyone else. But remembering Cousin Dyfrig's story, I

hoped the same would hold true in this case. However, I knew there was no

guarantee.

"Now, tis yer turn tae lose yer head," the peerless cnicht of cnichts

croaked like a bullfrog in an unnaturally deep voice, perhaps, as the result of

just having his throat severed.

I knelt before him and bowed my head. "Then strike," I murmured.

He stepped to the side, raised his sword and brought in down with all of

his might. Thwack!

I went sailing into the dirt, thinking he had, indeed, chopped off my

head. Then, I heard his laughter, and the growing pain across my shoulder

blades became unbearable. He'd hit me in the back with the flat of his sword

sending me sprawling into the dirt.

The others rushed forward and formed a ring around us. Everyone was

laughing. The spell of the Guardian of the Well had been broken, and Pelly was

free and himself again. Damn old man almost broke my back.

I rose and stood before him. He embraced me.

"I kent it wouldst be ye," he said. "E'er sith tha' day in yer first

tournament, I kent ye wouldst succeed me some day as the Champion o'

Champions. Remember, I told ye sae, then."

Indeed, he had. Then, he gave me his sword.

"Wi' this sword, I slew my best friend. It hadst bin his afere mine, an'

afere him, it hadst bin the sword o' his feyther, Meirchion the Mighty, who

receiv'd it frae Amlawdd Gwledig, the hero o' the Battle o' Guoloph which ga'e

the crown tae Arthgwyr's grandfeyther. In his turn, Meirchion taught baith his

son, Hywel, an' I an' also Uthr, Arthgwyr's feyther, an' Hywel's brither, Idwr

the Invincible. Tis written tha' Idwr, too, shall fall by this verra sword.

Therefere, I gi'e it tae ye, 'cause I ha'e na' the heart tae kill a best friend

a second time."

I solemnly accepted his sword and handed him mine in return. Thus in that

exchange, I officially took on the responsibilities and burdens of the Champion

of Champions, meaning I'm bound by my oath of duty to defend Arthgwyr's name

and honour by monomachy against his enemies and the enemies of the realm. So,

the torch was passed from one generation to the next, but I've always known

that someday I'd be obliged to yield like Pelly to a younger man.

Nodding his head, Cousin Dyfrig smiled sadly at me. "Ye ha'e daen well,"

he said.

Arthgwyr embraced me. "Ye're the bravest o' the brave, my brither. Ye

prov'd tha' this day."

"But now, we mus' gae," Myrddin broke in, "fer our quest isna yet o'er."

"How sae, cousin?" Dyfrig asked.

"'Cause we mus' take the Sword o' Power tae be restor'd as new, an' once

daen, it'll henceforth be kenn'd as Caledfwlch."

And so our quest continued. But Cousin Dyfrig had to return to his

archdiocese and we had to leave someone in command of the northern march. As

Father's old boon companion had served in that capacity, Arthgwyr sent him back

to Eborawc, with Pellinore and your father to help him, and Father escorted the

Archbishop back to Cymru. This left only five of us to pursue our adventure,

which Thaliesin the Bard now calls Preiddeu Annwfn, our quest for the 'Spoils

of the Otherworld'.

Over the years at the ingle-cheek, I'd heard Father tell stories about

Myrddin and the 'Thirteen Treasures of Brythain'. Father believed the shaman

had rounded up and secreted the 'Treasures' in some safe place called Clas

Myrddin, that is 'Myrddin's Enclosure'. Others said he'd taken them to Ynys

Enlli, the 'Isle of the Eddies', where the saints are laid to rest.

I'd heard those old tales so many times but never really believed in

them. But after what I'd just been through, I was ready to believe in

anything, especially where Myrddin was concerned.

As a child, I'd thought Myrddin might have stored the 'Treasures' at his

mountain hideaway of Dinas Emrys. But he mustn't have thought even Dinas Emrys

was a safe enough place to deposit the 'Treasures', because we obviously weren't

heading in its direction.

When we started out, Myrddin took the Stanegate due west toward the

Traetheu Trywruid. Even I understood the meaning of that. It's said the

Otherworld lies west in the sea.

Caerleol and Caerleon ar Dubr Duiu were the chief seaports along the

coast. But Urien had retaken Caerleol again and Catwallawn held Caerleon. As

they were still our enemies at the time, we had to take every precaution not to

fall into their hands.

Along the way, Thaliesin joined us, bringing our number to six. The young

bard held lengthy discourses with Myrddin, spinning verses each in his turn to

strains of our mystical past, when our forefathers' believed in man's unity

with, and therefore his power over, all nature, animate and inanimate. Listen,

now, to Thaliesin and hear of our oneness with the universe, hear the wind and

the sea, hear the stirrings of the Celtic heart:

I have been in many shapes before I attained a congenial form.

I have been a narrow blade of a sword;

I have been a drop in the air;

I have been a shining star;

I have been a word in a book;

I have been a book in the beginning;

I have been a light in a lantern a year and a half;

I have been a bridge for passing over threescore afons;

I have journeyed as an eagle;

I have been a boat on the sea;

I have been a director in battle;

I have been a sword in the hand;

I have been a shield in fight;

I have been the string of a harp;

I have been enchanted for a year in the foam of water.

There is nothing in which I have not been.

Myrddin and Thaliesin went on for hours, reciting tercet rhymes.

Thaliesin even promised to put it all to writing in order to preserve their

songs for future generations.

But in that first poem, I also heard the story of a shapeshifter, a deity

or demigod, perhaps, like Myrddin himself. Shapeshifter or trickster, which

was he? They called him by both.

As the two poets continued to amuse one another, we followed behind them

listening to the prose they spun as we rode along. Finally, we came to a

crossroads. One sarn led to Uxellodunum and the other turnt further south to

Glannaventa, a seaport at the mouth of three afons. Myrddin led us to the

latter.

As we approached Glannaventa, I saw an old Roman fortress surrounded by

red sandstone walls. It stood on a rise guarding the mouth of the harbour.

As though Myrddin had pulled another trick out of his sleeve, a small

vessel, a biorlin, lay at anchor waiting in the harbour. The shaman smiled at

us as we neared the boat. He'd built her with his own hands and brought her

here well in advance, as though he'd known exactly why we needed a goodly boat,

as well as where and when she should be ready for us. Moreover, whilst still

in Celidon, Myrddin had arranged for Llenlleawc the Hibernian, Bran's noble

son, to proceed to Glannaventa ahead of us.

"Hail, Arthgwyr!" Llenlleawc shouted from on top of the fortress' wall.

"Llenlleawc, my friend!" Arthgwyr shouted in return.

Personally, I couldn't have been happier. Besides being our friend,

Llenlleawc also is the finest swordsman in the isles.

Sae now we are seven, I thought.

But I was in for another surprise. Myrddin had also brought a crew, a

score of Manx sailors in his service, and under Llenlleawc's direction, they'd

taken the fortress and held it for our coming. We slept there that night and

prepared for our departure by boat the next morning.

Leaving our horses behind, we boarded the biorlin, Prydwen by name, taking

only Cafall with us and some ewes. As there were eight oars, it would take

twenty-four of us to man them, leaving three of our number to serve as

helmsman, the mate to work the sail and the captain to give the orders. Of

course, Arthgwyr was the captain, I the mate and Myrddin the helmsman, because

he alone knew the whereabouts of our destination.

As Prydwen put out to sea, mizzle from the morning's rainstorm hung low

over the horizon, and nothing could be heard, except the oars dipping in the

water. The rising wind soon drove off the thinning fogbank, and we were hit by

the flying white spray of the tossing waves. Little Prydwen bounced about like

a shell caught in a coastal riptide, the conflicting currents rising and

falling relentlessly, making my stomach turn sour and feel as though it had

jumped clear up into my trembling throat. Like Father, I was never a good

sailor.

I could no longer see where we were going or where we'd been, for the

turbulent swells all around blocked my view. An occasional seabird knifed by,

beating close to the white foamy crests with seeming indifference to my plight,

pitiful landlubber that I am.

A curious seal lifted up his head to stare at us before diving beneath the

angry waves like Dylan to the safety of his underwater world. A troop of

ghostly gannets, their white black-tipped wings gliding with the tailwind,

swooped down like otherworldly spirits to inspect these wingless humans in

their tiny boat attempting to cross the angry sea. They followed in our wake

circling overhead as though they expected us to capsize at any minute and

provide them with a good laugh. For a moment, I sillily wondered if they were

the avatars of kelpies come to whisk us away into the briny deep.

As we neared our destination, many prayers having been said, the sun

finally broke through the clouds overhead, and I couldn't bear to look at the

brilliant shining water without blinding my eyes. A dark foreboding silhouette

rose steadily in the distance, and I could just make out breakers crashing on

the jutting rocks and sending salty sprays flying high into the air.

No safe beachhead could be seen, and as we drew nearer, the sharp jagged

rocks rose higher and higher to an imposing height above us. My heart stopped

beating.

As we turnt the headland, I saw a narrow strip of sand before us, a good

landing spot for Prydwen, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Our helmsman,

Myrddin, like Barinthus himself, piloted Prydwen safely to the traeth. We'd

reached our destination, Ynys Manaw.

It's a quiet island, the druidic Omphalos in the middle of a stormy loch.

That loch is the Gwydylic Sea. Myrddin had been schooled here in his youth by

the Burd of the Loch; and Arthgwyr and I began to suspect, if Myrddin left the

'Treasures' with anyone for safekeeping, it could only be in the hands of the

Burd, whom Myrddin respected above all others.

Some distance yet had to be travelled overland to reach the Burd's

castellum. We'd made landfall on the east coast at Caerwent where the Dhoo and

the Glas afons flow together, but the Burd resided at Carbenoit on a tiny ait

off the opposite shore.

Unfortunately, the square fortress guarding Caerwent had fallen into the

hands of Gwyar's men. The garrison numbered three hundred warriors, and we

could muster but twenty-seven. Half of our men fell in the ensuing battle, but

we still managed to take the place by storm. Then, marching westward, we came

to Tynwald Hill, also fortified against us and, thus, making it necessary to

seize the hill-fort before going any farther.

About thirty paces to the north of the hill lies the Giants' Grave, where

Myrddin buried the giants of Ynys Manaw long ago. Although he assured us the

quickest route to the Burd's castellum was through the central cist of the

burial mound, my superstitious nature took hold of me; and as we entered the

tunnel, I crossed myself and spent as little time as absolutely necessary in

passing through to the other side.

At Peel, we came upon a third fortress, Galoches. It's located on the

western coast where the Afon Neo flows into the sea, and once again, another

troop of Gwyar's men attempted to resist us but to no avail. Although greatly

outnumbered, we took the fortification. But of ourselves, only seven were left

alive, Arthgwyr, Myrddin, Llenlleawc, Lucan, Bedwyr, Thaliesin, and myself.

The other twenty men of our war-party had paid for their part in our quest with

their lives.

Across from Galoches lies the tiny ait named after Eirinn's patron saint.

St. Padraig came to Ynys Manaw in A.B. Fifteen Hundred and Forty-Four. Three

years later, he consecrated the island's first bishop.

Standing on the wall of Galoches, I looked over to the little ait and saw

our destination, a citadel surrounded by a curtain wall of red sandstone. This

was Ty Gwydr, 'the House of Glass', which apparently got its name from the deep

sea that gave the appearance of glass surrounding the ait. The place was also

called Clas Myrddin, or 'Myrddin's Precinct'.

The citadel had four towers, the highest being the donjon or palatium of

the Burd of the Loch. I also noticed two men in a corwgl fishing below us and

pointed them out to Arthgwyr.

Myrddin saw them, too. "Tha' wouldst be Pelles, the Fisher Brehon o'

Carbenoit. He administers the Senchus Mor, the 'Great Tradition', a collection

o' ancient law tracts, commonly call'd the Brehon Laws, which St. Padraig ga'e

tae us when he visit'd here."

"An' who's the ither wi' him?" Arthgwyr asked.

"His feyther, Pellam, head o' the Britherhuid o' the Bless'd Horn an'

destin'd tae become the Maim'd Ricon when he receives the Dolourous Stroke frae

Bran the Savage in his homeland o' North Ambria."

"Bran, ye say." I interjected. "He's a son o' Dunwal Moelmut, himsel' a

grandson o' my great-grandfeyther's brither, Coel the Auld o' Ayr."

"Aye," Arthgwyr began, "but fer the moment, Bran rests in my prison fer

ha'in' slain our cousin durin' the last tournament."

"He's destin'd tae become kenn'd as Bran o' the Two Swords an' shall kill

an' be kill'd by the man he loves best," Myrddin prophesied.

"I'm truly sorry tae hear tha'," I replied sorrowfully. "Besides bein' my

kinsmen, he's a splendid cnicht."

"He'll live long enough tae serve Arthgwyr yet."

"Why didst ye cnicht Lucan, Bedwyr an' I intae the Britherhuid o' the

Bless'd Horn?" Arthgwyr asked of Myrddin.

"'Cause this sacr'd an' ancient order is the holiest o' all, gaein' back

tae the verra first Burd o' the Loch, long afere the Celts e'er came tae the

Isles. Tis an Iberian fellowship, which Pellam heads as the auldest livin'

descendant o' Pwyll o' Dyfed whom ye may remember was once 'Head o' the

Itherworld'."

"An' its purpose?"

"Tae protect the Bless'd Horn wi' yer lives."

"Sith this is our duty, aiblins, Pellam wouldna mind ferryin' us across

tae the ait," Arthgwyr thought.

Leaving Lucan, Bedwyr, and Thaliesin behind in command of the fortress,

the rest of us went down to the water's edge, with Cafall treading behind, and

waved at the two fishermen who rowed to shore. Pellam and Myrddin embraced

each other warmly. Pellam had been Myrddin's instructor at Carbenoit, and his

son, Blaes, had been Myrddin's first mentor.

"Sae ye ha'e come at last," Pellam uttered.

"Aye."

"Is this the lad?" Pellam asked, nodding at Arthgwyr.

"Aye, tis he."

"Ah, fine lad. An' the sword?"

"Tis broken, Pellam."

"Broken, ye say?"

"I'm afear'd sae. Yer son, Pellinore, didst it."

"Ah, tha' lad, when will he e'er stop destroyin' thin's? Well, let me see

it." Arthgwyr took out the two pieces and handed them over to Pellam who

sighed shaking his head in disgust. "Um, my lad really didst a job on this, I

see. Well, come on. We'll gae o'er tae see the Burd. Only she canst fix this

mess now."

"How is the Burd? I ha'ena seen her fer years," Myrddin said.

"Mmm, ye dinna ken, then? I'm sorry tae ha'e tae tell ye this, but

Enygeus, the auld Burd o' the Loch, who taught ye as a lad di'd this past

Samhain."

I saw hurt in Pellam's eyes, and then, I remembered Pellam and Enygeus had

been the parents of Eccles, Alain, Pellinore, Pelles and Blaes among their many

children. I also remembered Yffigenia had died on Samhain, too. Samhain is

the day of human sacrifice and I wondered if the old Burd had ended her reign

as a sacred-reine.

Myrddin embraced Pellam. "I'm truly sorry, auld friend."

Pellam coughed to cover his emotions. "Tis best. She was gettin' on, ye

ken."

We got into Pellam's and Pelles' corwgl, Cafall jumping aboard first.

Llenlleawc and I took the oars and started to row to the other side.

"Who's the new Burd? Was Eccles chosen?" Myrddin asked.

"Nae, nae, she said a younger head was need'd. Personally, I wouldst ha'e

select'd my granddochter, Chwimbiane, whose feyther, Dione the Vavasor, is a

godson an' priest o' the three-form'd goddess Albion Diana, but anither sits in

the Burd's curule chair."

"Holy Mither, na' Morg-Anna or Modron?"

"Ne'er, they're beyond the pale o' decency. Nae, anither hast bin

chosen."

"Pellam, who?"

"Oh, aye, ye wouldst like tae ken, o' course. Well, I ha'e delay'd in

tellin' ye, 'cause I wasna sure how ye wouldst take it. Ye see, Emrine is the

new Burd."

"Emrys Ben-Eur's dochter!"

"Aye, ye're half-sister as it were. I was afear'd it might upset ye."

"Why, merely 'cause my sister, Gwendydd, an' I were declar'd bastards in

her favour?"

"Myrddin, Myrddin, tha' wasna her fault. She was jus' a newborn baby

then. Ye canna blame her."

"Ye're right, o' course, Pellam. I'm sorry. Tis jus' tha' Gwendydd isna

speakin' tae me right now."

"I've heard. She tuik it verra hard, losin' four o' her weans. Canna say

I blame her fer bein' sick at heart. But she'll come 'round eventually. Ye

two were extremely close tykes. She'll remember an' then ye canst patch thin's

up wi' her. Ye'll see. Ye'll see. Sae dinna fret. I ken how ye get when ye

get upset."

"I ha'e bin ha'in' a bit o' a time wi' it."

"I ken. I ken. Ye aye didst ha'e trouble wi' yer emotions. But

e'erythin' will work out in due time. Gi'e her the space she needs an' she'll

come 'round."

"I hope sae, Pellam. It hast bin a livin' hell fer me these past months."

"True, I expect. But fer now ye ha'e the opportunity tae gain a new

sister. Emrine is yer flesh an' bluid sister after all. Gi'e her a chance."

"I will."

I think I was beginning to understand Myrddin a bit more than before.

Whilst my heart went out to him, I couldn't say anything. None of us could.

We just listened in silence and let them talk on.

"Guid. Ye ha'e two young nephews an' a newborn niece, too. The lads are

Cadfan and Eliazar. Guid lads. An' her name is Pellen. They're the begettin'

o' my son, Pelles, an' they're sharin' a crib wi' anither baby whom ye might

wish tae see whilst ye're here."

"Who's tha'?"

"A lad the former Burd rescu'd frae droonin' an' brought tae our isle."

"Daes he ha'e a name?"

"Oh, aye, his name is Llacheu."

At that precise moment, the corwgl bumped into the opposite shore. We'd

reached Carbenoit, the 'Castle of the Blessed Horn'.

"Didst ye say, Llacheu?" Arthgwyr asked in a strained voice.

"Why, aye I didst, dinna I; an' ye're his feyther, arena ye, laddie?"

"Oh, brither," I mumbled under my breath, "here we gae again."

Arthgwyr and I exchanged quick glances. Llacheu! Here! And Arthgwyr

here, too! Father and newborn son together! The son prophesied to rebel

against him in the future and help bring down his cader!

We walked up to the palatium and entered the great hall. It was luxuriously appointed. Sculpted columns, with green and gold arches painted with exotic birds, held up the roof; and blue sapphires, strewn with carbuncles sparkling like the stars in the heavens, covered the ceiling, and the walls were overlaid with gold and embedded with emeralds to look like the sea. A huge brass fireplace with copper flues sat upon four pillars and the remaining space was superbly furnished with lounges, tables and caders.

The palatium was certainly far better than the wattle and daub huts of the

common people. It was also kept immaculately clean.

The gardens abounded with all manner of flowers and herbs. Long-stem

white and red roses and shrubbery with golden foliage flecked with green met my

eye.

In addition, I found a Christian church within the walls, demonstrating

the tolerance of the Burd for other religions. The church was said to have

been dedicated by Garbanin. In fact, I later met Bishop Maccul of Ynys Manaw

when I went to pray in the church and light a candle for Yffigenia. He was a

kindly, wise old man near the end of his life.

As we glanced about to become familiar with the place, our hostess,

dressed in a long flowing gown of white samite and a copper girdle, came down

the stairs to join us. She was a daughter of the gods, divinely formed and

most divinely refined in proper deportment and etiquette.

"Welcome tae my home," she said politely. "Please consider it yer own."

"Thank ye, my Burd, I'm Arthgwyr, the dux bellorum o' Brythain."

"Then, I welcome ye as family as our feythers were brithers," she replied

showing her good breeding as Arthgwyr's claim was yet proven.

Arthgwyr smiled. "I be thankin' ye fer tha', my Burd."

"Na' at all, cousin, but I see ye ha'e brought ithers wi' ye. Kindly

introduce me."

"This is my foster-brither, Gai ap Gyner the Ecttwr o' Mathtrafal, my

Champion o' Champions."

"Dear cnicht, tis a great honour tae meet the worthy grandson o' Osmael

the Hero, an' how's yer feyther?"

I did my best to give a courtly bow. But as tall as I am, I'm not well

suited to the art of it.

"Baith o' my parents are well, my Burd," I replied.

Gesturing to Llenlleawc, Arthgwyr said, "An' this is our friend,

Llenlleawc the Hibernian."

"Greetin's tae the noble son o' Bran o' the Two Isles."

Llenlleawc having a courtly manner by nature kissed the Burd's extended

hand and praised her beauty. Like most Eirishmen, he has a glib tongue and an

eye for the womenfolk.

"O' course, ye ken Pellam Gwledig an' Brehon Pelles."

"Aye," she responded sweetly, "they're baith verra dear tae me."

"Lastly, then, let me present Emrys Myrddin the Prophet o' the Goddess,

the Emberis o' the Giants' Dance an' my Burd's Pater Patrum."

"An' I think alsae my brither," she said, stepping up to Myrddin and

embracing him.

Awkwardly, he returnt the gesture. "Thank ye, sweet sister. It hast bin

some time sith last we met."

"After our feyther di'd an' Uthr tuik the cader, my mither returnt tae

Llydaw where I was rais'd 'til I was auld enough tae come here tae be tutor'd

by my predecessor, a great Burd an' regretful loss tae us all." She held out

her hand to Pellam who squeezed it affectionately. "Whilst here," she, then,

went on, "I, o' course, met Pelles who hast gi'en me three fine tykes, the

loves o' my life. Wouldst ye like tae meet yer niece an' nephews?" Myrddin

nodded his head. "Come, then, let's gae up tae the nursery."

We all followed knowing a fourth child was lying in the same crib. I

sneaked a glance at Arthgwyr's face as we mounted the stairs. He was very

sombre, and I hoped he wouldn't strangle that fourth baby right away, at least,

not in front of the Burd. We could afford to be patient before having to deal

with Llacheu.

The look on Arthgwyr's face, however, didn't forbode patience. If he had

his way, he'd deal with the matter right now. I saw his hand grip the handle

of Carnwennan, his dirk.

After entering the nursery, we saw the babies lying together in a large

crib. Overjoyed, Myrddin played with his newfound niece and nephews, who

replaced those in his heart he'd recently lost.

But something else entirely unexpected occurred. Resting his hands on the

side of the crib, Arthgwyr leaned over with malice in his heart, but the object

of his evil intentions reaching up with a tiny hand grasped Arthgwyr's imperial

seal on his ring finger, and wouldn't let go.

Arthgwyr started to laugh. "Luik at tha'," he chortled. "He's got the

grip o' a champion fer sure."

Arthgwyr's heart melted the moment the babe held onto him for dear life,

which to be sure was closer to the truth than I'd care to think about. I'm

certain what his intentions were, but actually seeing and touching one of his

sons for the very first time changed his mind. Funny thing what the

realisation of fatherhood will do. It can make a man out of a lad very

quickly.

Arthgwyr turnt to the Burd. "My Burd, I charge ye tae raise my son in

anonymity 'til he's o' age fer fosterage. Then, ye'll send him tae my brither,

Gai, sae he may be train'd tae become Gai's successor as the Champion o'

Champions."

"As ye command, cousin," the Burd yielded with a curtsey.

Well, I'd just gotten myself a godson. Like Meirchion had trained

Pellinore and Pellinore had passed the torch to me, I'd do the same with

Llacheu. The prophecy about his future was all but forgotten.

Leaving the nursery and returning downstairs, Arthgwyr showed the Sword of

Power to the Burd. She smiled as though it was nothing and, taking the pieces

of the sword, disappeared. Arthgwyr and I excused ourselves from the others to

follow her, with Cafall at our heels.

Emrine left the palatium and went down to the sea. Surprisingly, she

walked right out into the water and disappeared beneath the waves with the

broken sword clutched in her slender hands. Whilst submerged, the water above

her boiled furiously with thousands of bubbles, causing Cafall to jump back and

forth and bark at them.

Remaining below the surface for a considerable period, we feared she'd

drowned, and Arthgwyr actually started to go out after her. Then, she

re-emerged, looking no worse for it.

Emrine walked up to us from the shoreline and handed the rejoined sword

back to Arthgwyr. He took it and turnt it over and over in his hands. No sign

whatsoever could be seen of the former damage to the sword. It was as though

it had never been broken.

"This is the sword Caledfwlch," she said. "Tis the sword o' gods an'

heroes an' its scabbard prevents the wearer frae losin' bluid. Keep them baith

aye an' yer cader an' yer life will be secure."

Behind us stood Myrddin smiling. "An' which hast the greater value,

Arthgwyr, the sword or the scabbard?"

"The sword, o' course."

"Nae, ye're wrong. Tis the scabbard, 'cause as long as ye wear it ye

canna lose any bluid as the Burd said. If ye canna lose any bluid than ye

canna be kill'd in battle or by any ither violent means. Remember ne'er tae

lose it."

"I'll remember."

But, of course, he didn't.

"Come, then," Myrddin insisted, "I ha'e somethin' else tae show ye."

We followed Myrddin back to the donjon where we were joined by

Llenlleawc. Then, Myrddin led us to steps descending below.

"Where are ye takin' us, Myrddin? Is this an entrance tae the

Itherworld?" Llenlleawc asked.

Myrddin laughed. "If the Itherworld hast any treasures, then this way

leads tae the richest o' all." He took us through a door. "Behold, ten o' the

'Thirteen Treasures o' Brythain'! An' wi' the one Arthgwyr holds in his hand,

only two are missin'."

I couldn't believe what was displayed before my eyes. Just as Father had

believed all these years, Myrddin had done it! He'd actually found the

'Treasures' and brought them here for safekeeping.

We walked around the repository and touched the revered artifacts. I felt

a tingle go up my spine when I saw the red Abolla of Invisibility once owned by

Padarn, my own great-great-great-great-grandfather, and knew how much Father

would have given to be here at this moment to see and hold the robe in his

hands.

Then, I marvelled at the famous silver Dysgi of Elen Lwyddawg, ancestress

of the royal houses of Brythain. Over in one corner, I saw the Mwys of Gwydion

able to feed one hundred people at once. Resting on a shelf all by itself was

the magic whetstone St. Padraig gave to his nephew, Arthgwyr's

great-great-grandfather, Tudwal. On a chain suspended from a beam hung the

Cauldron of Afflatus, and I ran my fingertips around its rim of precious pearls

in awe of their sparkling beauty. I saw Gwydion's living harp and Math's board

game, both possessions of the gods. Lying on cloth of gold was the sceptre of

the horned-god Cernunnos, and in the middle of the vault sat the golden chariot

of Caswallawn, who'd received it from the sun-god and riding within it twice

thwarted the designs of Julius Caesar to conquer the Island.

Lastly, but certainly not least, was the Bendigeid Horn of Ercol,

overflowing with fruits and flowers. The Romans call it the Cornucopia,

claiming Ercol broke the Horn off the tutelary god of Hellas' largest afon,

who'd assumed the form of a bull to fight him over the love of a woman. In

honour of his victory, Ercol presented the Horn to the Great Mother, the

Goddess of Plenty, who adopted it as her symbol, the reason for the Horn's

great reverence as the most sacred artifact in the whole world, because it's

the Creatress' most prised possession.

Arthgwyr, too, was amazed. "Canst we take these thin's, Myrddin?"

"Yer crown is na' sae secure upon yer own head yet tae risk the

'Treasures' as well. But I'll let ye choose one. Which'll it be? Each hast

great value an' magical powers."

"Then, I choose Cernunnos' sceptre fer my own."

By accepting the sceptre of the Goddess' consort, I realised Arthgwyr was

knowingly taking on the role of her sacred-ricon. Myrddin, who as the Emberis

of the Giants' Dance and Father of the White Stag Cult led the worship of the

Goddess, took up the sceptre, which had hitherto been his own, and transferred

it to Arthgwyr. Thus, Arthgwyr became the acknowledged head of the Brotherhood

of the Blessed Horn, and Myrddin knelt before his onetime pupil to pay him

homage.

"Which two are missin'?" I asked to divert attention from what they were

doing.

"The crock o' Urddawl Ben, which holds the head o' Bendigeidfran an' is

buri'd on White Hill in Caer Lludd tae protect the Island frae foreign

invaders; an' Lleu's spear, the Luin o' Celtchar, now in North Ambria, an' will

be us'd by Bran the Savage tae maim Pellam betwix' the thighs an' cause havoc

in the land 'til Gwalchafed shall come an' cure Pellam, the Maim'd Ricon, here

at the Castellum o' the Bless'd Horn."

"Shouldst we na' stop Bran?" Arthgwyr asked.

"Ye canna stop wha' hast already bin ordain'd. Nae man canst alter his

destiny. When it comes time fer the Goddess tae cut the thread o' life, tis

cut, an' we die. Nae mair, nae less."

"I'm na' sae certain I wish tae be beholdin' tae anyone but mysel' as the

Guardian o' Brythain. I ha'e a mind tae dig up Bran's head an' brin' it here,"

Arthgwyr remarked.

"As ye will, Arthgwyr, but it wouldst be a foolish thin' tae dae," Myrddin

countered.

Of course, doing something foolish never stopped Arthgwyr. He would and

did disinter Bran's head and bring it to Myrddin's treasure vault just as he

said.

A short time later, we left Ynys Manaw with our plunder. In all, we

captured three of Gwyar's fortresses by the dint of our swords, and five more

surrendered without a fight after hearing of our success.

Of course, only seven of us survived to tell the tale, with Thaliesin's

account greatly exaggerating our deeds. But Ynys Manaw was lost to Gwyar and

became part of Arthgwyr's dominions, a great enough accomplishment without the

exaggerations.

Once home, both Arthgwyr and I went off on separate adventures. We each

had very personal matters left to attend to.

As for Arthgwyr, there was one person he was determined more than anyone

else to see. He went a-mothering finally succeeding in meeting Eigyr the

Unparalleled Beauty, and by mother-right, she gave him a new name (but I'll

always think of him as Arthgwyr). He also won the allegiance of Urien and his

vassals, broke the Edoridae's siege of Alclud and rescued Hywel.

I went to Ynys Mon where I'd heard Capalu had taken refuge with the

Gwydyls. The ruler of the island was Serach mac Muirchan, grandson of Eurnach

Hen who fought Owein ap Macsen Gwledig to the death of them both at Dinas

Brenhin, the former name of Myrddin's dinas.

At the time, the brothers Catwallawn Longhand and Ewein Whitetooth were

attempting to oust Serach from Ynys Mon and unify all of Gwynedd under their

sway. But reinforcements from Serach's father-in-law, Righ Illan of Lagin,

kept them from achieving their goal.

I decided to even up the sides a little. I joined the two brothers, and

although they knew I followed Arthgwyr, they welcomed my help as their father

and mine were first cousins and because my grandfather had died fighting on

Ynys Mon in the cause of our family.

The final battle for control of the island took place at Cerrig-y-Gwydyl

which means the 'Stones of the Gwydyls'. In single combat, I slew Serach and

won Catwallawn's eternal friendship.

Thereafter, Catwallawn went to take Aberffaw, Serach's principal seat on

the west coast of the island. But I had another matter in mind.

Suffice it to say Capalu no longer lives either. I finally caught up with

him most appropriately at Maes Osmelion, the 'Field of Osmael the Hero', my

grandfather. I made sure his death was a long and painful one.

My ultion, indeed, was sweet, and Yffigenia is finally at rest. I still

visit her grave on the anniversary of her passing to bring a sprig of broom,

long since the emblem of my coat of arms. I feel it's a most fitting bouquet

for her, as the white blossoms of broom, oak and meadowsweet had been used by

Gwydion and Math to make a wife for the sun-god. She'd meant as much to me.

From Maes Osmelion, I went to nearby Caer Gybi where the saint treated my

wounds, both without and within. I stayed with him for some little while for

religious instruction and then returnt to Arthgwyr.

Home again things went just as Myrddin had prophesied at Ynys Manaw. The

story of Bran the Savage, son of Dunwal Moelmut of Yeavering Bell, is a long

one.

One day a young noblewoman named Lile arrived at court with an enchanted

sword. Claiming to be a messenger of Arthgwyr's benefactress, the Burd of the

Loch, Lile besought us to free the sword from its scabbard. Everyone tried,

including Arthgwyr and me, but all in vain. No one could do it.

Then, Bran, released from prison to see this unusual event, approached

Lile in the courtyard and, with her permission, lightly drew the sword from the

scabbard astonishing all who witnessed the feat. Although Lile told him he

would eventually kill the man whom he loved best if he kept the sword, Bran

retained it anyway and, henceforth, became known as the Cnicht with Two Swords.

Shortly thereafter, the Burd herself appeared and demanded Bran's head

from Arthgwyr, because Bran had killed a kinsmen of hers, the cousin for whose

death Arthgwyr had imprisoned Bran. Upon hearing Emrine's demand for his head,

Bran sneaked up on her and beheaded Emrine right in front of Arthgwyr and the

whole court. As a result, Arthgwyr exiled Bran who departed from court taking

Emrine's head with him as a trophy.

To make amends for his cowardly deed, Bran, joined by his beloved brother

Belin, journeyed to Cymru and, aided by Myrddin, captured Rhitta Gawr in an

ambuscade. They brought him back as a prisoner to Arthgwyr, and my brother had

Rhitta tried and convicted as a common thief. Sentenced to death, Rhitta was

beheaded with his own sword upon the haunted Black Stone of Arddu on Yr

Wyddfa. Arthgwyr ordered his old adversary's head to be buried at Caer Gai

where we were raised, and kept his sword, Marmyadose, for a short while, until

the dead man's daughter managed to retrieve it for herself.

As Bran's reward for capturing and beheading Rhitta, Arthgwyr commuted his

sentence and welcomed him back to court. But Arthgwyr had an ulterior motive

for his leniency in forgiving Bran for murdering Emrine. The exigencies of the

moment required this expediency, for Arthgwyr planned to lead out the army

again, and he'd put the swords of Bran and his brother to good use in the name

of the realm.

Arthgwyr's ninth great victory was the Battle of the 'Caer of the Legions' from the Latin Urbs Legionis, one of the Latin names for Caerleon ar Dubr Duiu. The XXth Legion Valeria Victrix built this caer near the mouth of the seventy-mile Dubr Duiu, which flows from Llyn Tegid in my own home territory of Mathtrafal.

The fact certain gods cultivated by the Romans among our citizenry are yet

worshipped here and that some Roman structures are still standing give evidence

to the extent of the Romanisation of this caer's populace. For example, a

good-sized amphitheatre[35] is located east of the north parth, where the Romans

entertained their soldiers and the people with spectacles. The sarns are

cobbled and edged with curbstones Roman-style, and the caer is a centre of the

Cult of Mithras, which the legionaries brought to Brythain. Nemesis, the

Hellenic goddess of righteous anger, is also worshipped here, as well as the

wild boar, the emblem of the XXth Legion, which has been adopted as the family

crest of several chieftains descending from soldiers who fought in that legion.

At the moment, the 'Caer of the Legions' was in the hands of Catwallawn

Longhand and Ewein Whitetooth. After Rhitta's execution, they'd been joined by

his brother, Nero.

Their allies were still in Celidon with Brastius Blood-Axe keeping an eye

on them. Some of our best fighters were with the old axeman, including

Pellinore, Bran of the Two Isles, Gwri Bright-Hair, and their sons and nephews,

most importantly Llenlleawc, Lamorak and your father, Cadwr the Courageous.

We'd have to take Caerleon without their help.

In conjunction with our efforts, Myrddin ventured to Gwyar's camp to

forestall his march to support his allies long enough for us to storm

Caerleon. My brother, Dewi, led the charge, slaying thirty Gwyneddian cnichts

single handed. The rest of our army, with Bran, Belin and myself at the head,

forced Catwallawn and Ewein to sue for peace. Unfortunately, Nero escaped.

Personally, I was glad the fighting against my kinsmen was over, because

no joy comes from killing one's own flesh and blood. Too many female relations

keen the marwysgafen at their funerals and blame the slayer for their deaths,

as Myrddin's sister blamed him for her children's deaths.

Catwallawn and his brother were also appeased. After all, I'd helped them

win back Ynys Mon from the Gwydyls, and they were grateful for that.

Consequently, they surrendered themselves to me and asked for my intercession

on their behalf with Arthgwyr. My brother was only too glad to grant them

mercy in return for their oaths of allegiance. Shortly thereafter, Catwallawn

fell in love with Arthgwyr's own sister, Angharat; and they got married,

cementing the bond between Arthgwyr and Catwallawn.

But what I remember most about this battle actually played out on a sandy

dune miles to the north upon the sea. When the battle ended, Arthgwyr and I

looked about for our elder brother, but Dewi was nowhere to be found. Worried

that something might have happened to him, we asked our men if anyone had seen

him, and one of our legionaries told us he'd seen Dewi riding on his mule and

gave us the direction he'd gone.

Quickly, Arthgwyr and I followed his trail. We crossed the flumen Seteia

and continued northward until we spotted him sitting on a lonely dune among the

dewberries and sea holly.

Dismounting, we walked up to him and sat on either side of him. Below the

dunes, oystercatchers waded in the water along the shore. Dewi was crying, and

neither Arthgwyr or I knew what to say to our big brother.

"Taeday, I was a soldier o' God," he murmured, "an avengin' angel, smitin'

the heathens. Tis a maist awful thin' tae kill anither human bein', the maist

awful thin' in the world."

Both Arthgwyr and I put an arm about him and let him weep. Then, the

three of us rode back together.

Arthgwyr ordered a shrine to be built at Caerleon in Dewi's honour. My

elder brother had become quite a man in Cernyw. But he's dead now these

seventeen long years come the next Calends of Mars, and heartbroken at the loss

of her firstborn, Mother retired to a monastery in Lesser Brythain, where she

now rests in peace.

It wouldn't surprise me a bit that Dewi's name shall outlive mine. His

victories have more lasting significance, for they deal with souls, whereas

mine merely involve feats of arms in territorial disputes. My accomplishments

are as transitory as the boundaries I've fought over—here for the moment but

gone by tomorrow. I'll be forgotten when another takes my place and is

temporarily idolised until his prowess fails him and he too is displaced in his

turn. Such is life. Only those who make a permanent mark on people's hearts

and minds live on in the memory, as Dewi, my brother, now gone but not

forgotten, did so well.

Meanwhile, acting as Arthgwyr's legate, Myrddin had succeeded in holding

up Gwyar's advance by beguiling him with stories until it was too late to come

to the aid of his allies. This had guaranteed the Battle of the 'Caer of the

Legions' would end in our favour. Now, Myrddin told Gwyar to attack, knowing

we could whip him.

But Myrddin knew much more. Until we won at Caerleon, some doubt lingered

about the outcome of our next battle, for in his auguries Myrddin had foreseen

when Arthgwyr's and Gwyar's armies met again one of them was destined to die.

Certain now which one it was to be, he urged Gwyar to wage another pitched

battle against us.

News of our victory at Caerleon soon reached Gwyar, and realising his

predicament, he withdrew to Din Eidyn and called on Arawn, Nentor, Gafran

Fradawc and Black Brulan of Walweitha to join him there. They hastened to his

side. But Urien didn't. He remained true to Arthgwyr as he'd given his word

to do, breaking the unity of the Edoridae for the first time; and Eiddilig was

still in prison, so he couldn't help his brothers either.

Once the forces of the remaining Edoridae were united, they rode south to

link up with Idwr the Invincible. By forced marches from Cernyw, Idwr was

able to join them on the strand of the Afon Tryfrwyd within the Forest of

Bedegrayne, where a castellum lies just north of the sacred grove of

Vernemeton. Moments before the arrival of the enemy columns, Brastius managed to occupy the castellum with his troops from the northern march, and the cagey old axeman held them at bay and awaited our relief forces.

Coming east from Caeleon, we stopped momentarily at Letocetum to pray at

the temple of 'the Exalted One' of the North for victory. Then, we showed up

with the rest of our army before the castellum, and Brastius broke out to join

us. Having thus united our own forces, we fought the combined armies of the

Edoridae and Cernyw on the strand. Bedwyr above all others singly

distinguished himself in what is either called the Siege of Bedegrayne

Castellum or the Battle of the Afon Tryfrwyd, Arthgwyr's tenth great victory.

But I'll remember it most of all, for Pellinore's earlier prediction was

to come true. Idwr came face to face with his destiny, the sword which had

once been his father's and his brother's and was prophesied to kill him as it

had long ago killed his brother. I've no heart to tell of it or to boast over

his grave. Suffice it to say he died bravely at my hand. He was after all

Idwr the Invincible, a champion and a hero of the first order, and I'll always

remember him as such.

But Pelly got it only half right. It may be hard to kill a friend in

battle, but I believe it's equally hard to be responsible for the death of

someone whom one looked up to as a child. Idwr, second only to Pelly himself,

was such for me.

The other great single combat in the Battle of the Afon Tryfrwyd occurred

between Gwyar Llew Lothian and the peerless Pellinore, and the result would

have ramifications for the next generation of their two families, too.

Therefore, as it has a bearing on future events, I'll recount here what I saw

myself as I was there and witnessed what happened.

Of course, Gwyar lived up to his name, which means 'Bloodshedder the Lion

of Lothian'. He didn't die easily.

The battle had seesawed back and forth for hours without either side

gaining the advantage and being able to bring about the conclusion each

sought. Determined to turn the tide in our favour, Arthgwyr committed our

reserves, the Imperial Guardsmen, once again under the command of the peerless

Pellinore. He led them out in splendid array and charged the hostile lines.

Equally determined to repulse Pelly's charge, Gwyar counterattacked with his

cavalry, personally leading his horsemen. The clash was horrendous.

The Imperial Guard, as you know, my dear, is an infantry unit armed with

especially long spears for the express purpose of being able to withstand a

mounted charge. Gwyar's cohort of horse found the Guard's forest of spears to

be quite a galling experience.

Pelly himself speared Gwyar's courser, and when the latter fell, Pelly

split his helmet and skull with his sword, the one I'd given him in our

exchange of swords at the well in the Gaste Forest. With Gwyar's death, the

enemy deserted the field in droves, leaving their war-leader where he fell; and

seeing our advantage, Arthgwyr ordered a general assault on the fleeing foe.

The result was a bloody massacre ending the Battle of the Afon Tryfrwyd upon

the strand. The blood of our fellow countrymen flowed down the mightiest afon

of that great network of watercourses draining the central Pennines and the

Vale of Eborawc before finally emptying into the Abus. They say the waters ran

red for days thereafter.

That night, Bran of the Two Isles came to Arthgwyr's tent and informed him

that Llifran, Bran's own daughter, had given birth to twin sons, named Blamore

and Bleoberis. So now, Arthgwyr had five illegitimate sons, Anir, Medrawt,

Llacheu, Blamore and Bleoberis. Shortly, more bastards would be borne to him:

Gwydre by Hueil's sister, Gwenafwy, whom Arthgwyr ravished at her nunnery;

Cydfan and Archfedd whom Arthgwyr fathered on two of his mistresses; Arthfawr

the Little whose mother Arthgwyr raped; Rowland the Scot and his sister, Elena,

whose mother Arthgwyr seduced; Adeluf, Morgan the Black and Padraig the Red,

all bastards, too; sad little Ilinot who'd run away; the warrior-maid Melora;

Thomas of Caer Llyndsey, known as the Red Rose Cnicht, by another nun,

Angelica, whom Arthgwyr ravished, too; and the cruel maiden Gyneth by the

half-fairy, Gwendolen.

As Myrddin had prophesied they would, Pellinore, Bran and Belin, all of

whom won high commendations for their individual efforts in the engagement,

left our army on separate adventures after the battle. Only one would return

alive.

Bran set out in pursuit of Black Brulan, Pellam's brother, who'd fought

against us in our last battle. He chased Brulan to Pellam's court in North

Ambria and killed him there right in front of Pellam.

Seeing his brother slain before his very eyes, Pellam drew his sword and

started to fight Bran. During the combat that followed, Bran's sword broke in

two, and now being weaponless, he fled before Pellam. Pursued through the

castellum, Bran came upon a spear, the Luin of Celtchar, which hung suspended

over a vessel on a silver table into which the spear dripped red blood from its

white point.

Ignoring the omen of the dripping blood, Bran snatched the spear down to

defend himself, as Pellam would have slain him otherwise. Taking up the spear,

Bran delivered the Dolourous Stroke leaving Pellam with a suppurating wound

that wouldn't heal; and at the same instant, the three adjacent cantrefydd were

laid waste for twelve years.

Subsequently, Pellam retired from North Ambria leaving it to his grandson,

your brave father, and went to live with his son, Pelles, at Carbenoit.

Myrddin had prophesied someday Gwalchafed would come to Carbenoit and heal

Pellam's wound.

Meanwhile, Bran came to a crannog or a holm where it was the custom for

visiting cnichts to fight the Red Cnicht of the Island. Of course, the colour

merely referred to the dye used to redden the face of a sacred-ricon.

Accepting the role of the tanist, Bran met the Red Cnicht with the sword

Lile had given him in a duel to the death, both receiving mortal wounds, only

to learn before they died the Red Cnicht was none other than Bran's beloved

brother, Belin. Thus, Myrddin's prophecy sadly came to pass. But within their

story the seed has been planted that's prophesied to germinate into 'the Quest

of the Blessed Horn'.

Whilst Bran and Belin met there preordained destinies, Pelly concluded his

own adventure travelling as far as Carbenoit to visit his father and brother.

When he returnt, he brought the new Burd of the Loch, Chwimbiane, his sister's

daughter, to whom Myrddin promptly gave his heart although she was to love

another.

Meanwhile, having been routed by our victory at the Battle of Tryfrwyd,

Arawn, Nentor and Gafran Fradawc had returnt to Din Eidyn. But as we advanced

against them, they withdrew to the tidal estuary overlooked by the majestic

gray cliffs of lofty Snowdoun, a dolerite hill four hundred and twenty feet

above sea level.

These precipitous cliffs, the site of prehistoric and Roman forts, command

the narrowest part of the vale where it's only about half a mile wide. Looking

west from the cliffs, an octagonal mound rises in the meadowlands, upon which

was built a wooden palisaded castellum. This hill was formerly known as Mount

Agned and became the site of our eleventh victory, the final one against the

Edoridae.

During the Battle of Mount Agned, my cousins, Aircol and Merion, finally

avenged their father's murder upon the traitor, Gafran, whom they set upon and

slew as the coward wept over his fate. After the battle was over, Arthgwyr

gave an independent command to Aircol and Merion to invade Dyfed and put an end

to the Dessi dynasty ruling there. It took nearly seven years, but Aircol was

finally victorious and established his own ruling house in Dyfed; and his

brother, Merion, eventually settled in my old district of Mathtrafal and

renamed the land Merioneth after himself.

Aircol and Merion were greatly assisted by the missionaries who converted

the heathens to Christianity, thus helping to bring peace to the land. In

fact, at Towyn in Merion's cantref, Cadfan whom we'd met on Ynys Manaw built

one of his first churches with three altars dedicated to Our Blessed Burd, St.

Petrus and to himself. If she'd lived, Cadfan's mother would have liked the

way he turnt out, although Emrine might have been somewhat disturbed to learn

her son had forgiven her murderer on the grounds she herself was a heathen.

Cadfan's elder cousin, Pern, was the former Bishop of Ceredigion; and another

cousin, Tydecho, would become a missionary in Powys. But of them all, my

brother, Dewi, would convert more heathens to Christianity than any other,

travelling throughout the land to bring the word of God to his ever growing

folk. Today, they worship him as the patron saint of all Cymru.

Whilst these changes were just beginning in my homeland, Arawn finally

sued for peace at the behest of his wife who'd already recognised Arthgwyr as

her son by Uthr. Arawn sent a delegation to our camp, and we received his

envoys with full military honours, putting on a great show of pomp and ceremony

to help bring about a peaceful settlement between the antagonists.

A peace accord was finally signed, by which Arawn recognised Arthgwyr as

the Pendragwn of the Isles and the Brenhin of All Brythain. In return,

Arthgwyr named Arawn as the First Vassal of the Realm.

We buried Arawn's brother, Gwyar, in the stone rotunda or martyrion which

Carausius built near Snowdoun Castellum around A.B. Thirteen Hundred and

Ninety. This mausoleum was made of courses of ashlar blocks in imitation of

Agamemnon's beehive treasury vaults at Mykenae. Of course, rotunda

architecture has been popular since the building of Caer Custennin and the Holy

Sepulchre in Jerusalem.

I remember entering the edifice by means of an unrooft portico at the flat

crown of the dome. An arch constructed of voussoirs enclosed it. Above

the arch was a stepped-mountain symbol inscribed with a commemoration for those

slain at the Battles of the Afon Tryfrwyd and Mount Agned. When I turnt back

to look through the open eye in the dome, I saw the polestar in Arthgwyr's

Little Bear.

Inside sat a stone-block altar. But the diameter of the rotunda couldn't

have measured more than twenty feet, limiting the number of people we could fit

within the mausoleum. So, Arthgwyr decided only the immediate families of

those being entombed and the leaders of the victor's army would attend the

services. So, we laid Gwyar, Idwr and the other noble commanders who'd fought

against us to rest.

We'd high hopes this meant an end to all our troubles. It was, of course,

a false hope. We were deluded. The struggle would be renewed by the next

generation. But for a moment, there was peace.

Our nation hadn't been united under one ruler in a long time, not since

the reign of Arthgwyr's father. Now, it was. But its wounds weren't healed so

easily.

The sons of Gwyar never forgave Pellinore for killing their father, and

the blood-feud went on with Gwyar's eldest son, Gwalchmei, in the midst of it.

He came to court bearing a sanguine shield with a pentacle as his insignia.

So, I knew where he stood right from the beginning. But he was also Arthgwyr's

nephew, and my brother came to love Gwalchmei. To give the latter his due, he

loved Arthgwyr as well. Unfortunately, he hated Pelly more.

We headed south again. Trouble was brewing there, for word had come the

sea-wolves had united together to make a common stand against Arthgwyr.

The greatest of Arthgwyr's twelve victories during these early years was

the last of all, the Battle of the Rings of Mount Badon. It was fought near

the end of A.B. Fifteen Hundred and Ninety-three, at Vindocladia, a nodal point

of the old Roman network of viae.

All of our old adversaries among the sea-wolves were there. Aelle bearing

his shield with six swallows came leading his South Saesnaegs claiming

paramountcy over the others as the Bretwalda. Colgrin of the East Saesnaegs,

bearing three seaxes barwise proper on his shield, was there, as was his

brother, Baldulf, and their ally, Cheldric. From Cantia, Oisc led out the

Eotans one more time, with his standard glues, a horse salient argent,

fluttering in the wind before him.

Arthgwyr addressed the troops before the battle: "The verra name o' the

Saesnaegs is an insult tae heaven an' detest'd by guid men, fer like all

barbarians they ha'ena kept faith wi' their word. But I myself swear tae keep

faith wi' my Goddess, Albion Diana. This verra day I'll take vengeance on

these barbarians fer the bluid o' my fellow Brythons, an' I call on ye men tae

arm yerselves an' fight at my side wi' all yer strength against these heathens

frae hell! With the Goddess' help, there's nae doubt we'll be victorious!"

When Arthgwyr finished addressing our men, my cousin the Archbishop in

windblown white robes climbed to the top of the hill and shouted out in a loud,

clear voice so all could hear him: "Ye who ha'e been mark'd by the Cross o'

Jesus Christ, be e'er mindful o' the loyalty ye owe tae yer feytherland an' tae

yer kith an' kin! If yer brithers an' sisters fall like those betray'd in the

Massacre at the Cloister o' Emberis, their spirits will haunt ye fer the rest

o' yer days, unless ye dae yer best tae defend them here an' now! Suffer e'en

death if needs be, fer tis better tae die a hero's death than live a coward's

life! Remember He who di'd upon the Cross fer us all dinna disdain tae lay

doon His life fer His brithers an' sisters! Tis better tae follow in His

footsteps, fer whoe'er suffers death fer God's sake walks behind Jesus Christ

Himsel' an' shall receive absolution fer his sins! Therefere, gae forward

unflinchin'ly fer God, yer feytherland an' yer kindred, as well as fer yer own

immortal soul!"

Inspired by the old holy man's benediction, our soldiers prepared to

receive the enemy's charge behind our breastworks on the hill. They besieged

us for three days and we bravely resisted their attacks. The Saesnaegs

launched assault after assault upon us losing many of their men each time. Our

casualties were also severe but lighter than theirs as they had to charge up

hill and it's usually easier to be the defender under those circumstances.

This is exactly the reason why Arthgwyr selected our position in the first

place demonstrating considerable wisdom for such a young leader.

The time had come for us to launch our horse-archers in a counterattack

down the hill. Naturally, we knew the impetus of our cavalry rushing downhill

against mere foot-soldiers would make it far easier for us to inflict more

casualties on the enemy than they were likely to inflict on us. Of course,

this knowledge filled us with the battle-ardour for which the Cnichts of the

Round Table have become famous.

"Fer the Goddess, the Pendragwn an' Brythain!" my brother shouted waving

his famous sword in the air.

Then, Arthgwyr charged flat out down the hill with our cataphractii

breaking the enemy's stranglehold. Nine hundred and sixty Saesnaegs fell by

Arthgwyr's hand alone, including Aelle, Colgrin and Baldulf, and later your

brave father caught up with Cheldric who'd fled and slew him, too. Only

Aelle's son, Cissa, escaped, and among the Eotans, Oisc, who died five years

ago, got away with his cousin, Olesa ap Osla, and Octha's sons, Oswald the

Aetheling and Osmond the Sorcerer. But Arthgwyr and Myrddin later handled the

latter two when they rescued dear Emmeline from their clutches.[36]

Among our own losses was Cousin Edeyrn, the Cnicht of the Sparrow-hawk,

who led his jet-black troops to glory in the battle. Afterwards, he chased

three giants who'd fought against us to the Mount of Frogs. There, he fought

and killed the three giants but died himself from the wounds they inflicted

upon him. He'll be sorely missed.

I can only remember one other time Edeyrn was roughly treated, when

Geraint of lamented memory defeated him in single combat for love of the

beautiful Enid.[37] Geraint sent him to Arthgwyr, and Arthgwyr made him a Cnicht

of the Round Table. From that moment, my cousin became one of the best

champions in the Isles, winning much fame and the hand of Guenloie ferch

Guengasoain to wife. His death broke her heart.

But that same day Caw's son, Gildas, was born. Thus, we lost a great

friend in Edeyrn and gained a new one in Gildas. Life moves on.

Of all our battles in those early years, the twelfth one topped all the

others and capped Arthgwyr's reign with the laurel wreath of victory. It was

the one we'd been looking for to bring about a lasting peace.

With their leadership basically gone, wiped out in one throw of the dice,

we dealt the sea-wolves a smashing blow. They haven't been the same since,

giving us little trouble to mention, except for Osla's son, Olesa. Two years

after the battle, when a new band of Saesnaegs came in five longships, Olesa

invited them to settle in the territory of his Gewissi of Caer Gwent, and the

two peoples combined to form one tribe, now called the West Saesnaegs. They

proclaimed Olesa as the new Bretwalda to fill the vacant paramountcy of the

sea-wolves and named his son, Cerdic, as his heir apparent.

Eight years ago Cerdic led the West Saesnaegs to victory, slaughtering

five thousand Brythons. But we mustered our forces, easily beat Cerdic,

driving him back to his beachhead where the West Saesnaegs have stayed ever

since. When he retook Caer Gwent, Arthgwyr severely punished the Gewissi for

going over to the enemy. Even after the two sons by Cerdic's sister, Stuf and

Wihtgar, brought three more longships to his support four years ago, we

defeated them at Cerdicesora, and they returnt to Ynys Icht where they've

remained.

Meanwhile, we've confined Cissa to the coast where he's founded Caer Cissa

on the ruins of the old Roman fort of Noviomagus, and there he's remained

inactive. Likewise, Oisc's son, Eormenric, has been quiet in Cantia.

Hence, the cockpit of Englo-Saesnaegland is restricted to the southern

coast and in the east for now. But they're growing stronger, and I fear we'll

be hearing from them again.

Since Eigyr's recognition of Arthgwyr as her son, the Cernishmen have

taken to calling him aper Cornubiae, meaning the 'boar of Cernyw' in honour of

the fact he was conceived there. It made Arthgwyr happy at last.

Even Cynfawr the Perfidious, Idwr's successor as the High Rica of Cernyw,

came and pledged his allegiance to Arthgwyr. I can't say I like him much.

When Cynfawr's brother-in-law, Meliodas of Llewissig, eloped with the

Heritrix Rex of Celidon and left his wife behind, rumours have it Cynfawr

ravished Meliodas' wife and got her with child. Knowing that Cynfawr, her own

brother, planned to kill her before the child was born, she managed to escape

his clutches, running away into the woods. There, she bore Drystan, the famous

hawker whom I've mentioned. Unfortunately, she died. Naturally, Cynfawr

denied any wrongdoing, but personally, I don't believe it.

Years later, Arthgwyr, Bedwyr and I went out on a hog stealing raid and

tried to make off with Cynfawr's hogs. But the swineherd, none other than the

young hawker, neatly thwarted Arthgwyr's designs, earning our respect in the

process for his loyalty and skill at arms.

Freed up as it were, Arthgwyr restored order in the realm and finally was

proclaimed as the Pendragwn of the Isles by his troops at Calleva. Then, he

married Gwenhwyfar at Caerleon ar Wysg as originally planned with old Dyfrig

presiding, although there was shortly to be a problem that lasted a few years

concerning the False Gwenhwyfar, the bastard, look-alike half-sister who

impersonated Gwenhwyfar for a while before her deception was uncovered by

Myrddin.

Now, twenty-three years after our victory at the Rings of Mount Badon,

Arthgwyr decided upon our current campaign. We crossed the Channel for the

sake of his brother-in-law, Budic of Cernywaille, a descendant of Gwrtheyrn of

the Adverse Lips and Morg-Anna's new husband.

Funny, isn't it, my dear, how fate changes our lives. Now, we're fighting

to help a Gwrtheyrnian of all things.

Tewdrig ap Teithfallt ferried us over with his West Gothic fleet he'd

brought to us after Chlodwig of the Franks had defeated and slain his kinsman,

Alrig II, in the Battle of Campus Vogladensis. We've been totally victorious

in Lesser Brythain, and Arthgwyr has placed the crown upon the head of

Bawdewyne's son, Hywel, in addition to giving Budic back his caer.

He's even enfeoffed your husband with a duchy, too. Having advanced

beyond Lesser Brythain, we're presently situated in the next province, the one

Arthgwyr has given to me to act as a military march against the Franks.

Since Chlodwig's death five years ago, the Frankish dominions have been

divided into four kingdoms, each ruled by one of his sons. Tewdrig or

Theodoric, the eldest and best of this warlike brood, now reigns at Mettis.

He's also an abler soldier than his younger half-brothers, Chlodwig's sons by

Chrotechildis. Chlodomer rules at Aurelianum, Childebert at Luteciam

Parisiorum, and Chlotar at Suessionum, all within easy striking distance of

Lesser Brythain. So, Arthgwyr did well to establish a buffer zone between them

and Hywel. I only hope I'm able to keep these troublesome Frankish reguli at

bay, as they covet the land of all those around them and will do anything to

expand their individual realms.

Currently, Arthgwyr is planning a trip to Roma for a personal audience

with His Holiness Pope Hormisdas, a living saint. But the real purpose, I

suspect, is to have a parley with Tewdrig Mawr.

As we must cross the Alps on our way to Roma, Arthgwyr hopes to find a

rouge leopard that escaped from captivity and is now terrorising the Frankish

peasantry in the area. It still amazes me after all these years his thirst for

adventure has never changed.

I've some sad news to report, however. First, old Bawdewyne has turnt to

the One True God and has left us to become an anchorite and mediciner.[38] We'll

miss him. Second, Eliwlod the Eagle, Arthgwyr's nephew, is no longer with us.

You will undoubtedly hear from others, so I might as well tell you. He died in

battle. Llenlleawc avenged him.

Eliwlod has appeared to Arthgwyr in a dream as an eagle, but my heart is

still heavy with grief. We'll not see the likes of him very soon again. I'm

reminded how he slew Octha Anschison in single combat so many years ago, nine

and twenty if I remember correctly, a lifetime.

Late one night when Bedwyr and I were alone with Arthgwyr, he told us of

his dream about Eliwlod. He was still troubled by it.

"He came tae me in the guise o' an eagle an' ask’d, 'Uncle, if ye were an

eagle like me an' couldst fly faster than a racehorse couldst run, an' ye flew

like the wind o'er the farthest mountaintop tae a fair dale beyond befere

anyone else couldst possibly get there ahead o' ye, wouldst ye, 'cause ye flew

sae fast, add any time tae yer life sae ye wouldst live longer than ye

itherwise wouldst? Or wouldst the thread spun tae measure out the length o'

yer life be the same as befere? An' tell me, uncle, wouldst ye find the fair

dale any greener than yer own dale at home?'"

"How didst ye answer him?" Bedwyr asked.

"I thought long an' hard aboot wha' tae say," he replied. "Then, I

answer'd him in this way: 'I dinna ken fer certain, nephew; but I dinna see

how I couldst add mair time tae my life nae matter how fast I couldst fly, fer

when the time comes fer the thread o' my life tae be cut it'll be cut jus' the

same. As fer the dales, there're those tha' seem greener than ithers; but when

we pine fer home, naen seems greener than our own.'"

"Wha' didst he say tae tha'?" I asked.

"He said, 'Then, why fly sae fast, uncle, if it's all the same anyway?'

"I answered: 'I dinna ken, my nephew, perhaps, jus' tae get there ahead

o' the rest.'

"'But then, ye lose sight o' wha' lies in-betwix' an' miss wha' ye

shouldna miss out o' life.'

"'Aye, this true wha' ye say, but I ha'e sic a long way tae gae I need tae

fly like an eagle as fast as I canst tae dae all I wish tae dae.'

"'Be careful, uncle, fer wha' ye miss along the way might be mair

important than wha' ye find in the end.'

"Then I said: 'Understandin' is difficult tae come by, but I canna ignore

my destiny.'

"Tae which he answer'd, 'Wha' ye ignore too much ye're in danger o'

becomin'.'"

I couldn't understand all of what they said in this conversation myself.

But I'm not the swiftest of people when it comes to riddles.

But as that old shaman told me so often, time will no doubt tell us of its

meaning. God, how I miss that crusty old bird and wish he was here with us

now. We need his counsel as we'd had it in those early years. Strange how one

never knows how valuable something is until it's lost. So it has been for me

with regard to Myrddin whom I've loved calling the 'shaman'. But he's gone,

entombed alive as he himself prophesied by Chwimbiane whom he loved more than

life itself, and only she knows his whereabouts and won't tell. Yet, I still

see his blue lentoid eyes before me in my dreams.

Thus, my sweet wife, ends the story of the early years of Arthgwyr's long

reign, those years before you and I wed and about which you have oft-times asked

me to recount for you. I hope I've entertained you, my dear, in the telling.

God bless you during my absence and I hope to return from our continental

campaign and see you soon. Then, I'll personally conduct you and the children

over to see our new duchy.

So you will know, I took your votive offering to Mother's grave at her

monastery of Dirinon in Lesser Brythain as you requested in your last letter.

I know she'd have been pleased by your kind thoughtfulness.

Your devoted husband, the Andegavin, Founder of the House of the

Plantagenistans--

Transcribed from the Tironian Notes of

Father Tolomeo,

Former Chaplain to His Holiness Pope Felix III and

Amanuensis of Emrys Myrddin the Prophet of the Goddess,

Made at Andegavum

in anno Brythain MDCXVII

From the Dictation of

Gai the Champion of Champions,

Foster-Brother and Penteulu of Arthfawr Pendragwn

and First Dux of Andegavensis

-----------------------

[1] Graeme Fife, Arthur the King, Sterling Publishing Co., Inc., New York, 1991, p. 115.

[2] “It is easy to be brave from a safe distance,” Aesop (fl c 550 BC), The Wolf and the Kid.

[3] Thucydides (471-401 BC), Peloponnesian War, Book III, Paragraph 39, translated by Benjamin Jowett (1817-1892), English Greek scholar.

[4] In his book The World of Pompeii (translated by David McDougal, Edition Minerva, Geneve, 1972), Aldo Massa states: “We should recall that the worst of the Roman emperors were the most devoted followers of Isis and the most assiduous attenders at her orgies.” Here, then, Gyner is commenting in a rather unflattering fashion about the attitudes of Uthr’s court and of Uthr’s relationship with Eigyr.

[5] Refer to CELEUS and TRIADS in the GLOSSARY.

[6] Theognis (570?-490? BC), Sententiae, No. 23.

[7] Refer to BRUNOR THE BROWN in the GLOSSARY.

[8] Refer to CAMPUS CATALAUNUM in the GLOSSARY.

[9] Refer to DECLINE OF ROME in the GLOSSARY.

[10] Alexander Pope’s translation of Homer’s Iliad, Book VI, Line 181 (1715).

[11] Refer to SWORDS in the GLOSSARY.

[12] Refer to UTHR’S ARMY in the GLOSSARY.

[13] Proverbs, 16:18.

[14] An adaptation of the epitaph inscribed on the War Memorial at Southport, England.

[15] Refer to MOUNTING BLOCK and PRICK-SPUR in the GLOSSARY.

[16] Carn March Arthur, which bears the hoofprint of Arthur’s horse, lines E of Aberdyfi, the port at the mouth of the Dyfi (Dovey) River.

[17] Llanelltyd on the Afon Mawddach near its confluence with the Afon Wnion, just north of Cader Idris in Wales.

[18] Refer to ILLTYD in the GLOSSARY.

[19] Refer to HART FELL in the GLOSSARY.

[20] Marcus Terentius Varro, a Roman author (116-27 BC), when writing about the attire of the Celts, attested they “made a gaudy show.”

[21] Latin for Tay; hence, he ruled in Angus, from which the title of Anguisel may have been derived as suggested by Dr. N. L. Goodrich.

[22] From Wolfram von Eschenbach’s 13th century Parzival, where the father of Parzival (Perceval, Peredur), hence, Pellinore (called Gahmuret in Parziva), is called the Prince of Anjou, the county ruled by the Angevins.

[23] Refer to CHAMPION in the GLOSSARY.

[24] From the early 13th century French romance Enfances Gauvain, of which only two fragments (712 lines) have survived.

[25] Cunedag is said to have had eight sons. The other three were: Typiann (Tybion) who had been murdered by his first cousin Gafran Fradoc ap Dunwal Hen (Fradoc or Vradoc means ‘Traitor’); Einiann Girt (Einion Yrtl), also deceased; and Dogmael (St. Dogfael or Docavael), a churchman who out of religious scruple would not have participated as a contestant in such an event.

[26] The Plough is an English name for the Big Dipper and, thus, has a double meaning here, as the She-Bear of Ursa Major in Arthgwyr’s godmother and protectress.

[27] Most temples had a crypt or strongroom beneath the floor for the storage of valuables. In Roman fortresses, the headquarters building normally had a strongroom underneath the chapel of the standards. Indeed, Mithraeums, the typically small temples to the Persian god Mithras, were built entirely below the surface, and they existed throughout Britain from London to the wall to Caernarfon.

[28] Refer to VANDALS in the GLOSSARY.

[29] Refer to WILD HUNTSMAN in the GLOSSARY.

[30] These three women are listed as Arthur’s mistresses in Triad 57, translated by R. Bromwich in Trioedd Yns Prydein.

[31] From Triads 131 and 132 and the Iolo Manuscript, Rhitta stopped the feud between Nynniaw of Erchyng (Herefordshire) and Pebiaw of Glamorgan by taking their beards and then added others to make a mantle. In Thomas’ Tristan, he demanded Arthur’s, too.

[32] From Erasmo de Valvasone’s La Caccia.

[33] According to Cundrie’s astrological schematism in Book XV of Wolfram von Eschenbach’s early 13th century Parzival. Refer to FLOREE in the GLOSSARY.

[34] Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Morte d’Arthur (1842), Line 408.

[35] Measuring 314 by 286 feet.

[36] According to John Dryden’s King Arthur.

[37] As told in Lady Charlotte Guest’s translation of the Mabinogion in one of the added romances, Gereint, Son of Erbin, where the Welsh hero was substituted for the hero in Chretien’s earlier work, Erec et Enide. The story of Edeyrn’s death is added as an interpolator to William of Malmesbury’s early 12th century De Antinquitate Glastoniensis Ecclesiae )’Concerning the Antiquity of Glastonbury Church’). He was also the hero of the early 12th century French romance Yder, his French name, and was a secondary hero to Gawain in the early 13th century French romance Vengeance Raguidel.

[38] According to Malory’s Morte Darthur.

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